#Bucky Barnes Angst

[buckymetalarm]

The breakup

A/n : I am back bitches with yet another angsty Bucky fanfic. Enjoyyy.

Summary : College Bucky and Y/n talk on phone about breaking up. As the conversation continues, Y/n realizes how much this won't work out while Bucky things about how much he does want it to work out. 2.7k

The phone rang once. Twice.

Y/n had been thinking about Bucky the whole day. Her fingers had hovered over his contact all afternoon. She's almost called him twice. Almost texted him five times. Gone through their recent conversations a bunch of times trying to analyze where and how it all went wrong. How had something that once felt so safe begun to feel like it was slowly falling apart?

Bucky picked up on the third.

“Hey,” Bucky said. His voice was low, worn out. Like he hadn’t slept well in days.

Y/N sat cross-legged on her bed, cocooned in a hoodie two sizes too big, hugging a pillow to her chest like it might hold her together. “Hey,” she replied, soft—but distant.

Silence hung between them for a second.

She cleared her throat. “How was the interview?” “Did it go okay?”

“Yeah,” he said. “It was fine. I think it went well.”

Well. Just well. She hated how vague and emotionless his response was. It hung in the air like a shrug.

“What kind of questions did they ask?” she tried again, already bracing herself for another short, cryptic response.

“Just… the usual. Strengths, weaknesses. Team situations. You know.”

“Would you take it if they offered?”

The moment the question left her mouth, her chest tightened. It had too many strings attached to it. What job would he take? Where would he go? And where would that leave them—if there even was a “them” anymore? Every simple question felt like a landmine lately.

Bucky hesitated. “I mean… yeah, probably. It’s solid. Pays okay.”

He knew how flat it sounded. But the question scared him. If she kept pulling at the thread, she might ask about the future. About them.

He didn’t have an answer—not because he didn’t care, but because his brain always led with logic. Emotions are just emotions. Logic is what rules the world. Dictates what happens. As much as he would love it to be simple, everything was a mess. He wasn't sure what's going to happen next with them.

So he stuck to the facts. Salary. Role. Location. Safe ground.

Y/N felt that pang again—the one that had been creeping in more and more lately. She was scared of asking the questions. Even more scared of what his answers might be. She shifted, the pillow pressing tighter to her chest.

She changed the subject, her voice a little lighter but still frayed. “So, did you go to Steve's place yesterday?”

It was the question she had wanted to ask all day. Not because she needed updates on his every move. But because he’d gone silent on her the whole day yesterday. They were supposed to meet. He didn’t reply. No call, no text, until hours later—just a single message: Going to Lakegrove.

“What?”

“You texted me. Said you were going to Lakegrove. I thought you meant your friend’s.”

“Oh—no,” he said, like it should’ve been obvious. “I was gonna go to a senior’s place. He’s helping me with my CV. Thought I’d get another opinion. Ended up not going.”

“Okay,” she said, but it had an edge.

It wasn’t about the senior. Or the CV. Or even Lakegrove. It was that she didn’t know. He hadn’t told her. Hadn’t thought to explain. She’d spent the whole day thinking he was too busy for her—too busy to even send a quick message. Only to find out he could have made time. Just not for her.

One line. That’s all it would’ve taken. Hey, not today. Need some time. Anything.

He noticed the shift in her tone. “Wait… You thought I went to hang out?”

“Yes,” she snapped, the word sharp with pent-up hurt. “You’ve always meant that when you say Lakegrove. How was I supposed to know this time was different?”

He paused, confused. “I didn’t think I had to spell everything out.”

And there it was again. The slow erosion. He didn’t think. Didn’t explain. Didn’t see how far she was drifting away from him, one small moment at a time.

She blinked, staring at the floor like it might offer answers. That was the thing—she hadn’t needed a paragraph. Just a line. A thought. A tiny sign that he remembered she worries too much, overthinks every silence. He used to tease her about it, gently, lovingly. So why was it so hard now to just say, Hey, can't meet today—got interview stuff at Lakegrove. Busy today. That was all. She’d spent the whole day feeling heavy and stupid for calling once and then not again—because she didn’t want to seem needy. But by now, shouldn’t he know that about her? Shouldn’t he know how silence spins in her chest like a storm?

She could have pushed. Could have asked why he didn’t think it mattered. Why he never paused to consider how his smallest actions made her question everything. But they always fought over this. The same thing. Different day. So instead, she swallowed it down, tucked the sting behind a neutral voice, and did what she always ended up doing: she shifted the spotlight back to him.

She wanted to understand him. Maybe if she just understood what he was going through, it would make all of this easier. Maybe she could hold space for him even when it felt like he wasn’t holding any for her.

She let out a breath, heavy and bitter. “I didn’t even know you were struggling,” she said quietly, voice cracking just a little. “You never said anything. I don’t know what’s going on with you anymore.”

“I’m not struggling,” Bucky mumbled, defensive now. “Just tired. Busy.”

“But you never say that,” she pressed. “You never say you’re tired or overwhelmed or stressed. You just disappear. Why can’t you say that? Why can’t you just tell me that?”

He rubbed a hand over his face, the frustration bleeding through—not at her, but at the way this conversation felt like quicksand. He didn’t get it. Why everything had to be talked through, broken down, dissected. Why it always turned into something heavier than it was. In his head, it was simple.

“It’s not that deep, Y/N. Everyone’s tired. What’s the point in complaining about it?”

There it is, she thought. The wall. The silence.

The constant feeling like I’m talking to a version of you, not the real you.

“It’s not complaining,” she whispered. “It’s sharing. It’s letting someone in. It’s saying, Hey, I’m overwhelmed. It’s trusting me enough to show me that.”

He exhaled slowly, hand now resting on the back of his neck, jaw clenched. “I didn’t think I needed to say every little thing. I’ve just been… getting through the week.”

He looked down at the floor, jaw tight, like he wanted to say something but didn’t know how.

Why did she always need him to explain it all, lay it out like a map? Why did everything have to be a conversation, a confession? Couldn’t she just see it in him—how drained he was? How this whole week had felt like he was walking a tightrope over chaos?

He didn’t want to dissect the exhaustion. He didn’t want to unravel every knot in his chest with words he wasn’t even sure how to form. He had just wanted her voice. Just wanted to hear her talk about that bizarre, beautiful little idea she’d been obsessing over lately. Her new passion project—the one she hadn’t even named yet. He’d wanted to lose himself in her excitement, let her distract him with her usual whirlwind of thoughts, her strange metaphors and her laughter and the way she made the world feel a little less unbearable.

But instead, here they were again. Picking at each other’s silence.

He hesitated, voice quieter. “Sometimes… I dunno. In a relationship, shouldn’t the other person just get it?”

Y/N blinked, tears burning behind her eyes.

That was the problem. She did get it.

She had always gotten it—more than he even realized. She knew he wasn’t the touchy-feely type. She knew he wasn’t the guy who liked late-night heart-to-hearts or her impulsive “let’s-just-drive-somewhere” ideas. She knew he hated how she called him babygirl but never once asked her to stop.

Because he’d do it anyway. For her.

If he couldn’t say it out loud, he’d show it. In the way he always brought her that overpriced chocolate she liked. In the way he sat through the entire Gilmore Girls series without complaint—pretending to hate it, but secretly rooting for Luke and Lorelai like his life depended on it. In the way he let her cover his face in lipstick kisses one lazy afternoon—because she’d seen it on a reel and decided he had to be her canvas.

In the way he’d switched their earbud tips around, holding up the mismatched pieces like a prize, telling her, “Now you’ll always have a part of me. Can’t get rid of me even if you try.”

And in the way he kissed her forehead like it was the most natural thing in the world—like loving her wasn’t something he had to try for.

They were different, sure. But somewhere in all that difference, they’d found their rhythm.

At least… they used to.

She swallowed the lump in her throat. “You haven’t seen me in two weeks. You don’t call unless I ask. You said you’d try to meet, and then just… nothing. I feel like I’m asking for too much just by wanting to know what’s going on in your life.”

And there it was. The truth she didn’t want to admit. The truth that made her feel small. Pathetic. Like she was begging.

“I didn’t mean to do that. I’m trying, Y/N. I swear I am.”

And she believed him. That was the worst part. She knew he was trying. But his version of trying didn’t look like effort anymore.

Lately, he felt too distant. Too quiet. Like someone she used to know. Like a song she once played on repeat but could barely hum the tune to anymore. A faded memory she was still trying to hold onto—fingers clinging to the echo of something that used to feel so full.

And she was so tired of being the only one holding this thing up.

She couldn’t do the heavy lifting alone anymore.

She curled the edge of the pillow tighter under her chin, biting back the words. But they wouldn’t stay down anymore. Not after all this quiet. All this almost.

“I don’t think this is working,” she said finally, voice soft. Heavy.

A tear rolled down her cheek. She swiped it away quickly, angrily. She wouldn’t cry in front of him. Not over this. Not over a man who didn’t even know she was slipping through his fingers.

Silence. One second. Two.

Bucky felt the floor give way beneath him, like the air had been knocked out of his chest. His worst fear—the one he never said out loud—was suddenly standing in front of him, staring him dead in the eye. And in the back of his mind, that cruel, familiar voice was already whispering: Told you so. It would have never worked anyways.

“No. Come on. Don’t say that,” he said, his voice cracking at the edges.

His brain short-circuited. Logic thrown out the window. It didn’t matter if it made sense or not. It was her. Y/N. His person. And he was losing her.

He didn't want this. The moment she suggested the breakup he knew he didn't want this. He didn't want to be apart. He just didn't know how to be in it without worrying about the ending.About futures where they went separate ways. About giving too much, only to lose it all. That’s what his logic warned him against. That’s what made him pull away—because loving her was the easy part. It was everything that came after that scared him.

“Bucky—”

“Let’s just meet. Please. Don’t do this over the phone.” No. He couldn’t let her go. If this is it, he isn’t breaking up with her on the call.

“Why?” she whispered. “So we can sit across from each other and pretend this isn’t falling apart?”

She knew him. Knew he wasn’t the kind to fight for something. If she said it was over, he wouldn’t argue. He’d nod, walk away, and bury the pain under more silence. So why meet? Just to make the goodbye harder?

His voice dropped. Barely audible. “I don’t know what to say, okay? I don’t know what you want me to say.”

And maybe he didn’t. But he knew he had to see her one more time. He knew it didn't make sense. He knew it was stupid. He knew if she was saying it, she had made up her mind. But he had to see her.

The silence returned, thick as smoke. Both of them still holding on to something that already felt lost.

“Tomorrow?” he said, almost pleading.

Please say yes.

Y/N didn’t know what would come of it. She didn’t know why he wanted to meet. But if this was the end, she needed to see it through.

She nodded, even though he couldn’t see. “Tomorrow.”

She ended the call.

And sat there in the quiet, tears slipping freely now, knowing one thing for certain:

She loved him. She really did.

But sometimes… Love wasn’t enough.

Part - 2

[midniqhtt]

james buchanan ‘bucky’ barnes

masterlist • marvel • 04/11/25

˚‧⁺ ･ ˖ · ୨ৎ recs five

one two three four

𑣲 how to impress a 21st century girl I @brunchable

Sam had forced Bucky to use Tinder to solve his abysmal love life. Bucky tells himself that if third time isn't a charm, he will officially give up trying to find a partner.

𑣲 i don’t want you like a best friend pt2 I @/brunchable

Bucky can't decide if the universe loves him or hates him. Maybe it loves to hate him. Maybe it's mischievous. Because he’s in love. He’s madly, deeply, painfully in love with a girl that he knows he’ll never have. Because the heavens created arguably the most perfect creature in their repertoire, dangled you in front of him for his entire life, and chose to rip you away before he had the chance to tell you how he felt.

𑣲 the best worst day ever I @jobean12-blog

You're having a shit day but then you see a dog and things start looking up...

𑣲 game night I @mugglebornmarvelite

Steve’s mandatory game night takes a turn when you and Bucky are paired up.

𑣲 bleeding heart I @mournthebird

You're his assigned nurse.

𑣲 domestic ws / soldat hcs I @/mournthebird

𑣲 cold metal I @/mournthebird

Soldat's arm gets cold. You are the solution.

𑣲 shower suds I @/mournthebird

You give Soldat his first bath out of captivity.

𑣲 silver and garnet I @/mournthebird

Soldat hurts himself a lot.

𑣲 condition I @/mournthebird

Soldat refuses to sit down, you notice he's in pain.

𑣲 gentle hand I @/mournthebird

Soldat has a panic attack.

𑣲 stained I @/mournthebird

Soldat continues to have nightmares.

𑣲 apricot toast I @/mournthebird

Soldat doesn't understand care can be without price.

𑣲 knots I @/mournthebird

You help the soldier with some self care.

𑣲 honey girl I @violentdelightsandviolentends

The Universe shows you your soulmate when it feels like you need them most. When you least expect it, you're given yours - Bucky Barnes. Your Dad's best friend. You can try to refuse it all you like; but the Universe wants what it wants. There's no denying fate.

𑣲 bucky can’t stand you I @buckyalpine

𑣲 mob!bucky I @/buckyalpine

𑣲 easy I @jaggedamethyst

life with bucky is amazing…but it’s easy to feel like you’re not enough when your relationship is a secret.

𑣲 sugar and skin pt2 pt3 pt4 I @tteotlma

Bucky’s never been sure if normalcy is something he’s cut out for. But when he meets you—a baker with a pretty smile—he starts to think maybe he could try.

𑣲 toy soldier pt2 pt3 pt4 pt5 pt6 pt7 I @vunblr

She had been the tool Hydra used to keep him operational; he, the weapon manipulated by their tendrils to execute their ambitions. Years after breaking free, fate Sam Wilson brings them together once more. Now, they must navigate the challenges of forging a connection beyond the twisted dynamic that once bound them in the past.

𑣲 to mend a soldier I @/vunblr

Pressed by a worried Sam, Bucky reluctantly agrees to try an alternative -and, if you ask him, weird- therapy program: rent-a-mom. What starts as an obligation soon turns into something far more meaningful than he ever expected.

𑣲 what if…? I @/vunblr

Bucky navigates his insecurities and guilt from his past as he grows closer to his new neighbor, a nurse.

𑣲 roots and branches pt2 pt3 pt4 I @/vunblr

Bucky has built a quiet life in the woods, content to keep the world at arm's length. But when a new neighbor moves to town, her presence ignites emotions he’s hesitant to face.

𑣲 foundations pt2 pt3 pt4 pt5 pt6 pt7 I @/vunblr

Bucky is doing his best to build a stable life for his newfound son, rescued from the guts of a Hydra facility. As he struggles with unexpected fatherhood and his own circumstances, he meets someone who slowly becomes part of their lives, establishing a connection he never saw coming.

𑣲 plump and ripe I @/vunblr

On a routine visit to the fruit shop, Bucky ends up with more than his usual goodies.

𑣲 built to last I @/vunblr

Bucky took up carpentry to keep himself busy, but didn't expect a hardware clerk to make him want more.

𑣲 touched starved I @mrsbuckybarnes1917

You accidentally walk in on Bucky touching himself when he thinks he is alone. Turns out he is thinking about you.

𑣲 a quiet escape I @thebarneschronicles

During a holiday stay at Clint Barton’s home, you’ve been desperately trying to steal a moment alone with Bucky—your super-soldier boyfriend—but the Avengers are constantly interrupting. Between Clint’s kids, Steve’s “bromantic” grocery runs, and Nat pulling Bucky into sparring sessions, it feels like you’re constantly fighting for his attention. Frustration finally boils over when you confront Bucky about your lack of privacy, only to discover he’s just as eager for some alone time as you are - and willing to do anything to get it.

𑣲 deny me I @drewbarymore

In which you feel like Bucky’s ashamed of you.

𑣲 dreamscape I @wkemeup

When Bucky falls under the spell of a Djinn, the line between fantasy and reality blurs. In order to survive, he must fight his way back to the real world - even if it costs him everything he's ever wanted.

𑣲 someone’s calling my name (and it sounds like you) I @mellowsaturns

after a mission gone wrong, bucky finds himself on the brink of unconsciousness and then you show up which causes him to reveal his true feelings

𑣲 mine I @cherrypickertheory

A new recruit joins the team, and gets a little too close to you for Bucky’s liking.

𑣲 dial tone I @atlaese

𑣲 lessons in lovemaking pt2 I @artficlly

You and Bucky Barnes go undercover as a married couple, but when a fake kiss gets too real, he unexpectedly finishes in his pants—leaving you both stunned.

𑣲 bitter I @/artficlly

Bucky doesn't do relationships, but maybe you'll be the one to change him

𑣲 his girls I @/artficlly

alpine barely tolerates anyone but bucky, so when she curls up in your lap without a second thought, the team is left reeling—especially when it leads to the not-so-subtle revelation that you and bucky have been sneaking around for months.

𑣲 loverboy I @thevillainswhore

Bucky, a lovesick, pining super soldier, vows to keep his feelings for you a secret — no matter how obvious his crush may seem. Those plans are ruined between a meddling Sam, an embarrassing fall, and a visit to the medbay with you.

𑣲 revenge sweeter than honey I @/thevillainswhore

When Bucky’s professor unfairly grades his college assignment, ruining his perfect GPA, he finds a way to get revenge — And doesn’t his sweet little wife look delicious?

𑣲 do i even have a chance? I @noceurous

you’ve found him and he was sure he didn’t have a chance

𑣲 b.b. boy I @bucky-bucket-barnes

Bucky and you have been friends ever since he arrived that rainy at the Compound. Silently pining, you’d hope he would pick on the numerous hints you dropped. It’s not until a small miscommunication happens that he confronts his feelings for you.

𑣲 hooked on you I @elysium-library

𑣲 which avenger are you destined to date I @marvelettesassemblenow

When Natasha found out about the Quiz which showed which Avenger you should date, the Avengers decided they all should take the test and go on these dates.

𑣲 your touch I @/marvelettesassemblenow

Bucky hadn’t been long at the compound when he noticed that others sought you out to calm down. So slowly he started too and had to figure out his feelings for you

𑣲 the catalyst I @aquaticmercy

In this universe, you and Bucky are happy. In other universes, it might not be that simple.

𑣲 jackass I @/aquaticmercy

Everyone is horrified that Bucky is flirting with a married woman, but then they realise there's a reason why. 

𑣲 have we met before? I @/aquaticmercy

America Chavez says that you and Bucky are together in every universe. 

𑣲 laryngitis I @skaye44

You're super talkative and your fellow agents tease you, but you don't care. You always chat up the quiet hunky super soldier who always manages to spend some time around you. One day when you can't talk due to an illness, Bucky gets concerned and seeks you out to make sure you're ok. He ends up talking to you for once.

𑣲 arm pat I @/skaye44

You go on a date with Bucky and hit it off, or so you think, but it ends weirdly. Nat steps in and gets other agents involved to send you flowers and gifts to get Bucky's attention and make him jealous for screwing up.

𑣲 stuck in the middle I @helaintoloki

you come home from work to find the last person on earth you want to see cooking dinner in your kitchen

𑣲 somethin’ stupid I @/helaintoloki

a drunken confession spoils a perfectly good evening

𑣲 everybody loves somebody I @/helaintoloki

Thrown into a blind date against his will, Bucky does his best to prepare in the days leading up to Saturday night, a feat that proves to be much more difficult than expected thanks to his neighbor across the hall.

𑣲 back to you I @/helaintoloki

Yelena’s interest in y/n forces Bucky to confront his feelings for her as the Thunderbolts take refuge in her home

𑣲 a favor I @/helaintoloki

you pretend to be Bucky’s girlfriend in order to help his campaign despite your very real feelings for him

𑣲 misunderstanding I @/helaintoloki

you accept Bucky’s invitation to attend Tony’s charity gala as his date, but your night quickly turns sour when you find out about his bet with Natasha

𑣲 40s!bucky I @/helaintoloki

after accidentally sending yourself back in time, you run into a younger version of the man you loathe only to find yourself questioning your feelings for him

𑣲 it’s been calling me I @godmadeaterribleerror

You've had these… dreams. Strange, realistic, detailed dreams of the same man, almost your whole life. But they're just dreams. You've been so sure, for so long, that they're just dreams. So sure, until you're not.

𑣲 the time thor third wheeled I @mercurial-chuckles

𑣲 option two I @nev3rfound

after nightmares continue to haunt his nights, bucky knows there’s one person left who could potentially provide some form of comfort, but is she still willing to see him after all this time?

𑣲 shut up I @fandoms-writings

𑣲 his only contact I @cjsinkythoughts

𑣲 the soldier and his mission I @magical-reid

When a trigger sends Bucky back into the grip of the Winter Soldier, he shadows you with an unyielding protectiveness that leaves the team on edge, though he doesn't harm anyone. After days of tension and careful steps, Bucky finally breaks through the icy barrier, returning to himself in a quiet, tender moment, finding solace in your presence.

𑣲 from one perfect moment pt2 I @yikesdrama

bucky’s birthday is coming up soon and you just want to do something special for him, maybe even take a time travelling trip to see his maa….

𑣲 the third wheel I @writing-for-marvel

When Bucky finally asks you out on a date, the last thing you expect is for his high school crush Connie to also have been invited.

𑣲 in too deep I @marvelstoriesepic

After Bucky calls, and you come running, you end up locked in his bathroom, trying to get rid of the evidence that something hasn’t gone well this time.

𑣲 drabble I @eufezco

𑣲 drabble I @bcksbarnes

𑣲 echos I @brokenbarnes

Bucky's worst nightmare comes true. You come back to him after taking a turn in Hydra's electric chair.

[winterbugle]

IS IT CASUAL NOW?

FWB BUCKY BARNES X F!READER

MODERN AU

TW: angst, mentions of sex, Bucky being stupid deserves its own tw.

WC: 3.5k

A/N:

Not the most gut wrenching but it’s my first time writing a mainly angst fic so pls enjoy!! This got the most votes on the poll so here it is. Tysm all for voting, the poll is still open as I post this but I haven’t finished the other highly voted for fic yet so I chose to polish this one and post it first :) Asking Buck to fix ur car should be up by Wednesday or Thursday lovelies 🫶 Happy reading (or not, this is angst after all…)

—————————————🝮★🝮—————————————

“So no real feelings or anything between you two? Really?”

“No way man, she’s just a girl who I screw on occasion”

What the fuck? Is that what he really thought?

Okay, okay. Let’s rewind, to a few months prior.

It wasn’t like you and Bucky were together, but it was complicated. A dreaded situationship, if you will. Or as you called it, total bullshit.

You’d never say that to Bucky though, it was you who initiated intimacy in the first place. Besides, it was a mutual agreement to stay friends so no one is really to blame, right?

Yeah, as if it was that easy.

It started off with a kiss. You were drunk off your asses and one glance led to lingering touches and all of a sudden, you’d woken up in his bed, regretting the shift in your friendship. Well it wasn’t a minor shift, it was an entire fucking revelation for you. Damn the guy who sang ‘it was only a kiss how did it end up like this’. Or bless him, for making the most relatable song in the history of music.

Bucky Barnes was all consuming. Like guilt, or grief, or any emotion that consumes you whole and latches itself to your skin, clawing its way into the depths of your soul. He was something so unforgettably and unforgivingly consuming.

But you’d never tell him that, no. He was scared of commitment and permanence. You were scared of temporality.

So how did you end up so wound up in each other? I guess opposites really do attract.

It was a New Year’s party when you first noticed a subtle hint of something new in his eyes. You were leaning on his arm, a martini in your hand as you laughed at Sam’s joke, glancing at Bucky. You regretted it immediately. Because he was staring at you like there was nothing else in the world that could possibly take his eyes off of you.

It wasn’t his fault, though. You were dressed like you were expected on a red carpet in your stupidly perfect form fitting silk dress and looking like heaven on earth. He found no flaws or faults in you.

You shied away from it, the weight of it hitting you like a truck going 100 miles per hour with no intention of slowing down, much less stopping.

Bucky was sober, which made it all a thousand times worse for you. You couldn’t read his mind. You couldn’t know if he was looking at you with lust or longing. Maybe both? Hopefully neither.

Then he took you home and helped you slip off your dress, wiping off your makeup and helping you to bed. But it was you who pulled his shirt and kissed him, drunkenly asking him to stay with you. Bucky insisted he go home, but your asking turned to begging and one thing after another he found himself balls deep in you and mumbling sweet nothings into your ear about how ‘fuckin’ gorgeous you looked tonight, drove me wild baby y’know that?’

Then it hit you next morning along with your hangover: What the hell had you gotten yourself into?

Maybe it was the way he looked at you when you were coming down from the high or the words he mumbled to you but you couldn’t find it in yourself to stop. It turned from a one time thing to a once-a-week thing.

Now, months later, you had come to accept that you were irreversibly in love with Bucky.

You, Bucky, Natasha, Sam, Steve and Wanda were all enjoying the warmth of the summer night, chatting on Sam’s boat in Louisiana. With a beer in hand and no thought of your phones, the last few hours were spent gossiping, drinking and the few games that you’d played.

You were sat beside Bucky who had his arm draped lazily around your shoulders as you rested into his side, nursing the beer in your hands.

It wasn’t that you didn’t like being with them, but the group couldn’t distract you from your thoughts. The ones that reminded you: Bucky wasn’t yours. Maybe in terms of intimacy and lust but he would never look at you with real love. The love that you see in movies, where the guy is in so deep and the girl is hesitant about making the move. The love that bonds you to the other’s soul and intertwines itself into your dna, becoming a part of you that you pass onto the physical manifestations of your love.

Bucky would never consider a life with you, because he was scared of permanence.

It wasn’t until Natasha asked you to help her inside that you noticed the blur of your vision. Composing yourself with clearing your throat, you stood up with a tight smile and followed her.

“You looked like you were about to bawl for a second out there, y’know”

She didn’t mean any harm by it, she was just checking up on you. Saving you from the humiliation that would come if you burst out crying. So why did it break the dam inside you and force you to the floor with tears flooding down your face? Why was it that tonight of all nights, Bucky Barnes had unknowingly moved you to tears?

“Tell me it’s not him who’s got you like this”

Wanda had come in, aware of the way your eyes glossed as you kept to yourself 5 minutes prior and decided to follow you inside.

You couldn’t choke the words out even if you tried. You couldn’t explain the way Bucky made you feel just by being himself. Natasha saw it in your eyes and Wanda felt it in the way you attached yourself to him at every gathering.

You and Bucky weren’t something that would happen. At least, it was clear to you that he wasn’t looking for that.

Crying in the bathroom of Sam’s house while the others drank beer and laughed obliviously was not an experience you would ever want to relive. It was tearing your heart from your chest.

It took less than an hour to calm down, Natasha and Wanda doing their best to easy you into calmness.

But oh how you wished you didn’t walk back out. The words you heard were the ones that did it for you. The only words that you knew would send you over the edge, grieving over the way you’d never feel the same after Bucky.

It was only the boys sat on the boat, chatting amongst themselves about god knows what.

But that wasn’t what stopped you in your tracks in the doorway. It was Steve asking Bucky about you.

“So you and her huh? You know Buck, I see the way she looks at you and I have to ask if you’re dating yet”

Sam raised his eyebrows with a chuckle, chiming in.

“Yeah Bucky c’mon man, she’s got heart eyes for you and you’re treating her like any other friend”

“Well yeah, we’re not dating”

Bucky sighed and took a swig of his beer, trying to brush off the conversation and hopefully bore the other two into another topic. Sam and Steve weren’t known for being easy though. The one thing Bucky wouldn’t do was face commitment. He never said why but it was clear that he didn’t want anything real with you, just sex.

“So no real feelings or anything between you two? Really?”

“No way man, she’s just a girl who I screw on occasion”

You had to do a double take to see it was Bucky who said those words, because at first you couldn’t- wouldn’t, believe it. Is that what Bucky really thought of you?

“Dude no way I don’t believe that”

Sam frowned, clearly not buying the way Bucky titled your relationship. It was more than just an occasional fuck and both of you knew it but neither wanted to admit it.

Because Bucky was scared of permanence and you were scared of temporality.

To a passerby, it would seem like you two would never work. Like two yins and or yangs but never yin and yang. But to you, somewhere deep down you knew that Bucky felt the same way about you. He was just better at ignoring it. Just how he seemed to ignore your obvious feelings for him. Just how he unknowingly ignored your presence as he named you his meaningless side piece. Just a ‘girl he screws on occasion’. When he feels like it. Like he has control over the relationship.

But he does have control over you, he just doesn’t know it.

Fear clawed its way into your body and snaked its way around your lungs and squeezed. Squeezed until suddenly everything was fuzzy and your head was spinning. It tore its way into your ribcage and shoved your heart into your throat and halfway out of your mouth as you were like a deer in headlights, the world- your world, crashing down around you.

Everything you thought you knew about Bucky, everything you felt, was forgotten in that moment. Your mind started to run overtime and overload with questions of betrayal and disbelief, trying to convince you that it wasn’t Bucky saying that. It was some other version of himself because he wouldn’t think about you like that… would he?

It almost made you laugh for a second. The way you had short circuited and broken right then and there in a matter of seconds at spoken words. Maybe it was laughable, how quickly Bucky tore you down and he didn’t even think twice about it. It made you think- somewhere in the back of your mind, did actions really speak louder than words? Because his words rang loud in your ears, so loud that it was a miracle there wasn’t blood dripping from them.

“So what, it’s.. ‘casual’, now?”

Steve sat back in slight surprise, his suspicion of your relationship with Bucky being flipped on its head as Bucky denied his own feelings for you. He figured a while ago that they were there- Bucky felt differently about you than he had anyone else and it bewildered Steve why he denied it. Why he denied himself the chance to be with you, the only girl who’d loved him for him. But Steve didn’t get that it scared Bucky to think about being so committed to you. Like a lot of people he had the fear of screwing it up so badly you’d never bat an eye at him after.

“I don’t know Steve. She’s nice and all but I just-”

“You’re going to lose her completely if you treat her like your side chick, you know that right?”

Bucky just went quiet, sighing and finishing his beer as he stared at the swaying water. Maybe if he went silent, it would fix itself. But then he heard movement behind him and he wished he’d spoken. He wished he’d filled the silence with something so he never heard you move. Because when he saw the way your mascara had run down your face and the shake in your hands, he knew. Knew he’d fucked up because he didn’t just keep his mouth shut and grow up. He wanted to get up and protest- ‘it wasn’t what it sounded like’. But Bucky knew it would be useless because the damage was already done and your heart was clearly already broken.

Sam mumbled an ‘oh shit’ and looked at Bucky who was frozen in place, earning a harsh jab from Steve to get up and talk to you.

But you were already gone, pulling your hood over your head and your headphones over your ears, a way of blocking out the world. Your world had already crumbled, you didn’t care about the rest of the world. It was the middle of summer but there was an unmistakable shiver that crept up your spine as Bucky’s words played on repeat, each time feeling more like a punch to the gut than the last. You hated the way he destroyed you so easily because you knew that you’d go back even if he didn’t ask you to.

Bucky Barnes was not someone you could escape. You could hide away in the darkest corners of the earth and somehow, a part of him would follow you.

He didn’t know what it was that made his heart race. Maybe it was the realisation that you were the best thing that had ever happened to him, or the way your shaking hands made his heart hurt in his chest. He didn’t care. In that moment, all he wanted to do was make it better. To fix what he’d so brutally destroyed in a matter of seconds. In the back of his mind he questioned if that was really all it took to shatter what he had with you. Bucky knew it wasn’t, he knew it wasn’t over. At least- he prayed to whatever god there might be or whatever higher power watched him in that moment- that it wasn’t over, because he didn’t know what he’d to if it was.

You told yourself that you wanted nothing to do with Bucky in that moment. Not the Bucky who’d said those words so easily about you. You wanted the Bucky who looked at you like you mattered, who held you to his chest as if you’d turn to dust if he relaxed his vice on you. The Bucky you trusted without needing to vocalise it. You placed an unspoken and unbroken trust in him. Unbroken until now.

Bucky’s grip on your wrist pulled you out of your silent hell, a gasp leaving your lips as you turned to him, forgetting about the outside world. It had all faded away into a haze aa you sobbed your way home so when the one person you couldn’t bear to look at pulled you back with an insistent look in his eye, it was fair to say it shocked you.

You had nothing to say to him. Even if you did, the words wouldn’t leave your mouth. They would liquify in your throat and suffocate you until your heart poured out past your lips with all the words you wanted to say. Maybe if you stayed silent, he would go away.

But why did both of you think that silence would bring avoidance?

“Baby ‘m sorry”

“I’m not your girlfriend.”

You sounded like someone else. As if you were somewhere else because you simply couldn’t face Bucky. He’d never felt the coldness that radiated off of you and it scared him. It was a small mistake, a name that he offered you even if he wasn’t willing to commit to it. An allusion to something more than just sex. A flicker of hope that he did feel it- the burning in your chest when he kissed you and kept his eyes shut as if trying to pause the moment and save it in his hearts memory. A prayer that those mornings- when he woke up before you and cooked you a proper breakfast with coffee, waiting until you’d finished eating to leave, would become a daily routine.

“I know- and I’m sorry. I know it’s useless to deny what I said but can I explain myself?”

Bucky was close to dropping to his knees. It was so unlike him to be desperate for you, but after what he said before you weren’t sure if the one you fell for was real, so you let him continue.

“Listen- I’m not just using you for sex, okay? I care about you more than you think but I hate how much I love you.”

“Was it casual?”

Words weren’t enough to even begin to piece your heart back together. Not when they’d mauled your very being in the same hour. Your silence and more so lack of reaction to his confession made him go on as he knew he needed to earn your trust and respect again, the only two things he knew he should never lose. And he lost both in the same sentence. Bucky took a breath- grounding himself as he knew he had to grow up and at least try to be truthful with you. He carefully took your hands in his own, giving you space and time to pull away but when you didn’t, he took it as permission to continue.

“It scares me to love you. If you saw yourself the way I see you, it’d terrify you to lose that. The first time you pulled me to your bed I didn’t regret it in the morning but I prayed to god that I’d be able to keep you. I thanked whatever grace let me be the one you let see you like that. When it kept happening I realised that I really did love you and I couldn’t bring myself to tell you I loved you because I doubted that you’d ever feel the same. I didn’t doubt your ability to love, I doubted myself. If I deserved this god sent angel. I still doubt it and I’m sure you don’t want me after what I said to Steve and Sam but I just need to to know that I have loved you, day in and day out even when you felt like no one could love you. And it’s safe to say that I always will, even if you hate me for the rest of our lives. I’ll hate me too, for making you feel this way, because we were never just ..’casual’. ”

Every word that spilled past his lips made your head spin. It made you dizzy because your world was pulling itself back up. Just as you knew, you let yourself fall back into him. Because something told you that this was the real Bucky.

No bullshit, no insecurities, no fear. Just raw, truthful emotion. Suddenly you knew that he understood how you felt.

“I can’t be casual with you Bucky. I can’t look you in the eye and honestly say I’m okay with just sex. You hate the way you love me but I love the way I love you. If you can’t love me the way I do you then- I can’t go on like this.”

It was the most honest with him you’ve ever been. It scared you, and it made you realise exactly why it scared Bucky. Even though he was putting his everything into this and pouring his heart out to you, it still lingered in the back of your mind. The fear of loss, at your own fault. The very real possibility that you could screw up the best thing that ever happened to you.

God, if anyone had an outside voice on this they’d see straight away how truly stupid the pair of you were. Both of you were terrified of the same thing and only one of you was willing to risk it. The other was in love with you and just couldn’t risk it.

How could either of you doubt that it was more than just friendship?

“I’m ready for it now, I know I should’ve been a long fucking time ago but if you’ll let me I want all of you, doll. Every bad hair day and every lazy day and every day where you want to rip my head off for being stupid. But I also want you at your best. If I can’t have you at your worst I don’t deserve you at your best- just let me earn your trust and I promise you doll I’ll make and keep you happy”

When you looked at him, that was your final answer.

You fell into him, allowing yourself to rely completely on his strength to keep you up because you simply couldn’t do it on your own. He made your knees weak and your heart grow in size- almost too big for your chest. Bucky knew at the moment that he had made a start. He’d proved to you that he loved you and now all he had to do was earn your trust and show you how much he really did love you.

Pulling you into his chest, the same way he did when he was afraid to let go in the night, he pressed a kiss to your scalp with whispers of ‘thank you’s and ‘I’m sorry’s. It was like a dream to you. Maybe it balanced between a nightmare and dream, you weren’t sure. You considered reaching down to pinch yourself and see if you woke up. Then Bucky tightened his arms around you and you knew you didn’t need to. He was real. His words were real. The world- your world, was full. The world finally made sense and the future you needed was right in front of you. It was gripping you and kissing your head and whispering its prayers of forgiveness to you. Your future had itself at your knees in promise of goodness and it saw you. He saw you.

Bucky Barnes would never be casual. Not about you. Because he was scared of temporality, just like you.

[babysbreathbabes]

fuck somehow my mind forgot about this and now I'm sobbing again shit this hits hard

Come Find Me | Bucky Barnes x Reader

I am back back back again! I have missed writing so much, I just don't have nearly the amount of time that I used to. But I'm in my last semester of school! So hopefully I'll be back on a consistent fanfic grind once I'm done :) PS: If you know what the title is referencing, you get a big hug from me.

Word Count: 13,439

Warnings: blood, talk of violence, reader injury

Bucky checked his texts every few minutes. Initially, he lied to himself about the reason behind it. He told himself he must’ve opened his conversation with you accidentally, or that he mistook an email notification for a text from you. Simple, innocent mistakes. 

Either way, he always ended up staring at your side of the conversation, hoping for a gray ellipsis to appear. 

But after a while, he could no longer deny the truth- and why would he want to? You were coming home. 

You hadn’t been gone long, and your mission was projected to be a cake walk. But he couldn’t help it; he missed you. He missed you when you went on missions, when you visited your parents out of state, when you slept in your room down the hall. Missing you was part of him now, woven into the fabric of his being. It matched the material of his soul perfectly, like he was always meant to feel this way.

He fired off a quick “let me know when you land” message and waited, hoping you’d write back soon. 

Usually, you texted him when you were headed back to the compound. It gave him a countdown to your return and something to look forward to. It also signaled to him that you were, in fact, coming home alive. Even if a bit banged up, you were well enough to shoot him a message. And that always eased his worries.

Today, however, was different. No text, no call.

It struck him as bizarre and sounded Bucky’s internal alarms. But he silenced them as best he could. He wasn’t going to let himself get worked up, not when you had a perfectly good reason for not messaging him.  

This was your first time leading a mission with a new recruit under your wing. Bucky knew you devoted your full attention to your trainee, giving him absolutely everything you had. You took this position- as well as your pupil’s safety and success- very seriously. He knew you were probably busy helping your recruit learn a swath of new things, and who was he to interrupt?

Bucky opened the log and saw your jet had been marked as ‘incoming’ only minutes ago. A sigh of relief left his chest and eased his muscles. Sure, he would’ve rather heard that information from you, but it didn’t matter. Your jet would be here soon; he had no reason to worry. 

The moment he saw that your jet was homeward bound, he lost the ability to think about anything else. He counted the minutes, the seconds. You had to be close, right? The log wouldn’t have said ‘Incoming’ if you were still hours away. 

To pass the time, he folded laundry, answered emails, reread a few chapters of The Hobbit- but he couldn’t focus. He thought of you, only you. And no matter how hard he tried to distract himself, he couldn’t hang around his room any longer. He couldn’t stand it. He needed to be there when the jet landed. He needed to meet you on the steps of the aircraft and wrap you in a bear hug. 

And there was no real harm in waiting near the hangar, was there? ‘If anything,’ he told himself, ‘It’s actually more convenient for her if I meet her there. That way, I can carry her bag- she’s probably tired.’ 

Anything to rationalize his desperate need to be near you.

He knew in his heart of hearts that you didn’t need him to carry your bag or help you off the jet. But this lie was all the convincing he needed. Without hesitation, he ditched his room and set off down the hall, your impending homecoming pulling him forward. 

It was in that moment he noticed just how far the elevator was from his room. The walk seemed to stretch on and on, the hallway growing longer with each step. And how had he never noticed how slowly the elevator moved? It slid downward at a glacial pace, toying with his patience. For such an expensive, state of the art building, the elevator moved like an ancient piece of turn of the century machinery. Bucky cursed Tony’s engineering. 

Everything seemed to add time, multiplying his moments without you. The universe liked toying with him, teasing him. And this was just another cruel joke. 

The moment the doors opened, Bucky sprang free out into the hallway. He knocked into Clint and his group of trainees and called an apology over his shoulder without stopping. He couldn’t stop, couldn’t waste time- not when you could arrive at any moment. 

His field of view narrowed into tunnel vision, only allowing for visualization of the path toward the hangar. He didn’t greet his fellow team members or allow for distraction. You were his one-track mind. That is, until something stopped him. 

“Shit, sorry, man,” your trainee, Jake, laughed as he bumped into Bucky. He took a step to the side and attempted to continue down the hall, but Bucky blocked his path. 

“Jake?” Bucky eyed a bloody gash on Jake’s eyebrow, “when did you guys get back?”

Jake gave a casual shrug and checked his phone, “I don’t know, five minutes ago?”

“Oh, okay…” Bucky reached for his phone, but found his screen void of notifications. If you landed five minutes ago with your trainee safe and sound, why didn’t you send him a message? It was out of character for you. 

“Well, where’s your partner in crime? Or crime fighting, I guess,” Bucky tried to joke, but his tone was strained. He eyed each person who came around the corner, hoping to find your face. “Did you see which way she went?”

“Nah, she’s not here,” Jake was scrolling through Instagram, only half paying attention.

Bucky’s disappointed sigh left his chest deflated, empty. “Oh, did she say where she was going? Or when she’d be back?”

Jake pulled his focus from his phone and stared at Bucky with confusion on his face. His brows pulled together, his mouth hung slightly ajar. But finally, he made sense of Bucky’s words. “OHHH, okay, my bad- I think there was a miscommunication just now.”

Bucky sighed again- this time, with relief. 

“Yeah, no, she’s not here,” Jake continued, “because she didn’t make it back.”

Bucky’s ears started ringing. 

The sharp, piercing sound blocked out voices. Footsteps on the tile. Maybe Jake was trying to speak to him, but Bucky heard only the shrill sound of shock. Seconds later, his nerves fell numb. The utter absence of sensation disconnected him from his body. He was lost in a liminal atmosphere with no stability, no purchase. His entire being was shutting down, one sense at a time.

Bucky told himself to focus, to compute what he’d heard. He did his best to make sense of Jake’s words, but to no avail. His mind simply couldn’t understand the phrase “she didn’t make it back”. The words had shed their meaning entirely and sounded foreign to Bucky as they rattled around his skull. Goosebumps rose over the surface of his skin, and a cold sweat created a sheen across his face. He feared he might get sick. 

“I- I’m sorry,” he forced himself back into his body, back to the present. “I don’t think I understand.” 

“Things got pretty hairy- this was not the easy mission they said it would be,” Jake scoffed and rolled his eyes. “It’s not fair, I definitely got a way harder assignment for my first mission than all the other new agents, and I think it’s-” 

Bucky’s glare could’ve sliced Jake in half, “get to the point.”  

“Right, um,” Jake continued, “I told her over comms that I was leaving. I gave her plenty of time to meet me at the jet, but she didn’t answer. And she never came outside.” He shrugged, “I had to leave for my own safety.”

“So, you just-” Bucky felt himself losing his grip. “You left her there? Alone?” He didn’t realize he was shouting, didn’t realize he’d drawn attention to himself- until Agent Hill showed up.

She placed a light hand on Bucky’s tense shoulder, but instantly withdrew. He was shaking, practically vibrating under her palm. “Is there a problem here, guys? I don’t want-”

“He left her behind,” was all Bucky could manage.

Maria stared at Jake in disbelief, “you did what?”

A strange mixture of rage and heartbreak seethed behind Bucky’s eyes, “You don’t just abandon your partner-”

Jake’s attitude disgusted Bucky. He was detached, irritated. He rolled his eyes like an insolent child. “Relax, man. Jesus Christ, this isn’t the army. I didn’t promise to ‘leave no man behind’ or whatever-”

Bucky had heard enough. He lifted jake by the collar of his shirt, twisting the material in his metal fist. Jake’s head sent a sickening thud resounding through the space as Bucky forced him against the nearest wall.

“What the fuck?” Jake squirmed in Bucky’s grasp, “There are casualties in the field all the time, why am I being punished for-”

Bucky released Jake at once, sending him crashing to the floor. 

His voice was quiet, hollow. “Casualties?” He swallowed hard, “Is she-”

Jake shrugged at he rubbed at the bruise forming on his neck. “I don’t know, I assume so. I didn’t stick around to find out.” 

And just like that, Bucky was gone. 

He took off down the hall, forcing himself forward as a soul-crushing panic swallowed him whole. No matter how many times he blinked, no matter how fervently he shook his head, he couldn’t rid his mind of the picture Jake painted for him. Each time he shut his eyes he saw you- alone. Your bloodied, broken body laying collapsed against a wall of a Hydra base. Your skin slick with blood. Your skin cold. Void of life. 

He moved quickly, but not quick enough. He simply couldn’t outrun the familiar feeling closing in on him. His heavy, well-worn cloak of grief wound its way across his shoulders and twisted itself around his neck. He knew the suffocating sensation all too well. It weighed him down but couldn’t dampen his pace, nothing could; not when your life hung in the balance. 

He was too well acquainted with loss by now, too familiar with mourning. There’d been a time when he wondered if he’d ever grieve again. He’d lost his family, his friends, himself- what else was there? What more could he possibly lose? But the moment he met you, he knew he’d one day mourn again. He just didn’t realize that time would come so soon. 

A startling cold prickled at his skin, his lungs refused to inflate. How much time did you have left? How long would it take him to get to you? Were you even-

Hill’s voice yanked him out of his spiral, “Barnes, hey-” She made a grab at his shoulder, but her feeble attempt was no match for Bucky’s pace. “Where are you going?”

“To get her back.” Bucky’s tone was firm, resolute. He was going to bring you home or die trying.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Hill nearly tripped over her own feet as she tried to keep up with Bucky’s long strides. “You heard what Jake said, it’s a dangerous location- more dangerous than we thought. I think it might be best to wait it out for a few days, let things calm down and then-”

Bucky turned suddenly, stopping Maria in her tracks. “I’m not just going to leave her there.”

Maria shrunk away from the fierceness in his eyes, “I know you’re upset, but she might not be-”

“I don’t care.” His gruff tone dissolved, making way for the fear he’d so desperately tried to hide. “Whether she’s alive or-” he couldn’t bring himself to voice the alternative. 

Bucky knew what it was like to be assumed dead. He knew what it was like to be left in the field. 

“She deserves to come home,” he said.

Maria couldn’t argue with him. 

“Round up as many members of the med team as you can and have them meet me in the hangar. We’re leaving in ten minutes- sooner if we can.” Bucky turned and resumed his previous path, “I’ll be in the armory.”

Bucky grabbed as much weaponry as his duffel would carry without splitting at the seams and made his way to the hangar. He hoped to find ten, maybe fifteen members of the medical team waiting for him on the jet. He wasn’t sure of your condition, didn’t know how many breaths you had left. He wanted to give you the best possible chance at surviving the onslaught you endured. 

But when he turned the corner into the hangar, he found only three scrub-clad bodies. 

“Is this it?” Bucky boarded the jet and dropped his bag to the floor. He eyed the scant amount of medical support, their uncertain expressions. His hopes of bringing you home alive dwindled.

A nurse who’d stitched Bucky up more times than he could count gave him a nervous smile. “The med bay is swamped, the team could barely afford to let us come with you.” 

Bucky didn’t want to hear it. He didn’t want excuses or rationalizations. All he wanted was to bring you home with your heart still beating. And three medical professionals, he decided, was better than none. 

The flight to your location only gave Bucky more time to worry. He obsessively checked his weaponry, hovered over the med team’s supplies. But no amount of double and triple checking could save him from the spiral. He traveled down the path of every possible “what if?”, leading him only to heartache. No matter where he searched, he couldn’t find a positive outcome. And though he didn’t want to acknowledge the odds, he knew yours were slim- impossible, even. 

And as the jet grew closer to your location, Bucky steeled himself for what he knew he’d find: you, his best friend, his reason for living, his everything- dead. Cold. Lifeless. None of the horrors he faced in the past could compare; no pain could ever be greater. Bucky knew he’d hurt for the rest of his life.

The clouds parted as the jet began its descent. Slowly, a large stone building appeared out of the fog like a monster in the horror movies you loved so much. It stood in an otherwise empty clearing, its shadow looming over the dying grass. Smoke billowed from holes in the roof, the walls. Whatever happened here was catastrophic. Disastrous. 

Bucky’s heart sat lodged in his throat as he imagined you trapped in there. Goosebumps rose over the surface of his skin as he stared at the looming structure. He had to get you out, even if he died trying.

Just before the jet touched down, an idea popped into Bucky’s head. It scaled the high walls he’d tried to erect to protect himself from thoughts of your demise and grabbed him by the throat. It was smart- brilliant, actually. He was shocked he could even think straight given the circumstances.

“FRIDAY,” Bucky called out, “is comm 1209 working?” He shoved his own comm in his ear and waited for a response. 

“Comm 1209 is on and in range,” Friday said. “Would you like me to connect you?”

He couldn’t say yes fast enough.

A few staticky clicks and pops vibrated against Bucky’s eardrum as his comm connected to yours. But he was too scared to speak. What if you didn’t answer? What if he heard you take your dying breaths? Just the thought was enough to make him sick.

He owed it to you, though, to at least try. He’d always said he’d do anything for you, that he’d risk it all for you- and he meant it every time. If reaching out to you over comms exposed him to something horrible, something traumatic and unforgettable, at least he tried. At least he attempted to keep his promise. And after everything he’d been through, what was one more life-shattering, soul-crushing nightmare?

“H- um…” Bucky swallowed the large lump obstructing his throat. “Hello?” He waited a moment, holding his breath the entire time, and tried again. “Hello?”

He waited. 

No response.

“Doll? It’s me. It’s Bucky…” 

The dead silence on the other end of the line dragged on. It seemed like his words disappeared into the air, unacknowledged. Unheard. Maybe the sound of his voice was reverberating inside your ear as you lay dying. Or maybe he was talking to your corpse.

 The thought made him nauseous.

“Please, sweetheart. If you’re there- if you’re able- just say one word. Say anything,” he pled. A long bout of silence followed.

He clenched and released his metal fist again and again, desperate to rid himself of the panic settling into his bones. He was stupid to think you survived, stupid to let himself be optimistic. He made it here as quickly as he could, but he couldn’t save you. He was too late. 

He wanted to take one of his many weapons and turn it on himself. 

But a small sound stopped him.

“Buck…”

He almost fell to his knees. At the sound of your voice, an overwhelming warmth banished the cold that infiltrated his bones. Against all odds, you were alive.

A deep sigh of relief seeped from Bucky’s lungs, “Sweetheart…” 

A hurricane of emotion rattled against the storm doors inside Bucky’s mind. He couldn’t stop thinking about the ‘almosts’. How he almost lost you, how you almost died alone in a Hydra base. But he couldn’t allow it to swallow him- not yet. There was no time for a breakdown. He needed to move, he needed to get to you. 

He shrugged off the grief that rested heavy on his shoulders and swallowed the impending sob that vibrated inside his throat. “I’m here- I’m gonna come get you. Just tell me where-”

A staunch refusal came from your end of the comm, “No- no…” You took a sharp, rattling breath, “no way.”

Bucky didn’t like the way you had to fight to get your words out. You were clearly struggling, doing everything in your power to stay on this side of consciousness. He wondered how much time you had left.

But still, there was a familiar strength to your voice. Maybe it was the adrenaline, maybe it was the renewed hope of rescue; something was keeping you alive. 

“It’s okay, sweetheart, just tell me where you are. The jet just landed. I’m gonna get you out and-”

“I said- I said no,” you breathed. “You can’t c-come in here, it’s too dangerous… we were a-ambushed.”

Even in your condition, even when Bucky was your only hope of rescue, his safety was your first thought. You’d rather die alone than put Bucky’s life at risk; the thought made his cheeks pink and filled his chest with a fuzzy warmth. But he didn’t have time to enjoy the feeling.

“If you don’t tell me where you are, I’ll just sweep the whole building,” Bucky said, using your worry against you. “That means more opportunities for me to run into Hydra operatives. More time inside the base- it’ll be way more dangerous.” He could practically see you rolling your eyes, “so it’s probably better if you just give me a direct route, don’t you think?”

Bucky smiled to himself as he envisioned you on the other end. He was certain you were arguing with yourself, cursing his rationale. 

He waited for you to come at him with a sharp retort or a sarcastic quip but heard nothing. The silence on your end of the line dragged on. And on. It lasted far too long for Bucky’s comfort. Surely, you couldn’t still be thinking about his proposition? He’d given you more than enough time to make up your mind, more than enough time to come up with a response. It was time you didn’t have. 

What if you’d fallen unconscious? What if, in those quiet moments, your soul vacated this earth?

Bucky couldn’t take it anymore. He disembarked the jet, resolving to search every inch of the base. But just as he reached the dark, unsettling building, you spoke.

“F-fifteenth floor. Northeast… northeast quadrant,” you sighed, defeated. “There’s a- a room at the end of this hall, I think it’s maybe an office?” Again, you took a long pause. The energy required to think, to speak, was energy you didn’t have. “Just f-follow the trail of blood.”

Bucky’s breath caught in his throat. He shuddered at the thought of your blood leaving a path down the stark white, sterile hallways of the base. But he didn’t have time to focus on anything other than getting you out; this was a rescue. He owed it to you to keep his head level. To focus on getting you out as quickly as he could. 

“The power is… it’s out”, you said. “You’re gonna h-have to take-” 

Bucky wanted to save you from wasting any extra energy, “The stairs. Got it.” 

And while he normally didn’t mind getting a few extra steps in, he knew the time required to climb fifteen flights of stairs would push the limits of your survival. 

But he pushed the ever-encroaching sense of doom to the side and put on a brave face for you. For himself. “Okay, I’m coming to get you,” he promised. “Stay awake, and don’t move.”

“As if I h-have a choice,” you laughed a breathy, hollow laugh. A long groan followed. 

Your pain radiated through Bucky’s chest. He didn’t want to climb stairs or scour hallways- he just wanted to be there. To instantly materialize at your side. To bring you instantaneous comfort. He lamented the super soldier serum’s lack of teleportation abilities. 

“You know what I mean, doll. Just stay awake, okay?” Bucky drew his gun and stepped inside the building. “Don’t fall asleep. Do anything you have to do- just stay awake. Can you keep talking until I get there?”

“W-what am I…” You let out a raspy exhale, “supposed to talk about?”

Bucky cleared a long hallway and found the stairwell, “Anything, just keep talking.”

Another extended silence filled the air; it nearly drove Bucky crazy. Your silences held limitless possibilities, horrifying ‘what ifs’.

“It w-wasn’t supposed to be… to be like this,” you finally said. “It wasn’t supposed to be this dangerous. This was Jake’s first mission- it wasn’t f-fair to him.” Heartache coated your every word. Even after your partner abandoned you, even after Jake forced you to suffer and bleed all alone- you still sympathized with him. Still felt sorry for him. 

Bucky felt no such thing.

“I know, doll. Keep talking, okay?”

You sighed. “We s-split up for recon… that’s when they- when they came at me.” Your next few breaths were so shallow, your lungs barely inflated; the lack of oxygen left you dizzy. A thin veil of glittering spots sparkled and danced on the edges of your periphery. “It all h-happened so fast… there were so many of them. I just- I remember pain. And I hoped Jake was okay, w-wherever he was.”

Your heart was too good for this job. For people like Jake. Bucky admired your kindness, your empathy, your selfless nature. Even in the face of pain, of death- you thought about others. You often told Bucky how unfair life had been to him, lamenting his treatment at the hands of fate. Bucky found himself doing the same for you and your kind heart.

“I called out for h-him, I needed backup… I kept asking him to come help me-” A sharp cough rattled out of your throat. 

Bucky cringed at the sound. It was the only sound in the building. He hadn’t heard anyone else. Hadn’t seen one Hydra operative- at least, not a live one. He came across their bodies every now and again but didn’t see a single living soul. He was sure they deserted after the explosion. Just like Jake. 

The destruction, however, was everywhere. Bullet casings littered the floor. Blood stained the tile floors. Fluorescent lights flickered overhead. He had to get you out of here.

“But he n-never answered. And then he told me he was leaving. He said he was- he was outside already. He gave me n-ninety seconds to meet him at the jet…” Your words were tinged with devastation, with hopelessness, with betrayal. “I tried- I did my best to make it down the stairs. But I was- I was dizzy… I was b-bleeding.” The memory stung like your fresh wounds. “I kept slipping on- on my own blood. I just c-couldn’t move fast enough. It hurt too much.”

Wrath burned inside Bucky like a raging forest fire. But his utter heartbreak doused it completely, extinguishing the rageful flames. He found himself unable to think, to breathe. It took everything in him to keep moving forward. Who could ever leave you behind like that? Who could ignore your suffering and sentence you to death without a second thought? The image of you stumbling, struggling to run for your life gutted him.

“And then- and then I heard the jet t-take off,” you sighed. “And I listened as it got farther and farther away… until it was g-gone. And I was- I was alone.”

He thought of you sitting alone in cold silence as the noise from the jet quieted. As your hope dwindled. The entire base must’ve felt like a tomb, like a massive, lonely grave meant just for you. 

Bucky almost fell to his knees. Sobs throttled the inside of his chest, begging for release. Tears burned inside his lash line. Jake didn’t just leave you behind, he marooned you without care. And in his departure, he sealed your fate. 

“I d-didn’t have a way to call for… for help. My phone was on the j-jet with jake.”

The sorrow that stained your words was all too familiar to Bucky. It was the same hopelessness that accompanied him every day that he was at Hydra. When he laid in the snow for hours upon hours after falling from the train. He never wished that kind of despondency, that kind of  misery on anyone. And knowing that you, the person who deserved it the least, experienced it for even a moment shattered him.

“I realized I… I didn’t h-have any options,” you breathed. 

A collapsed column blocked Bucky’s path as he tried to make his way from the sixth floor to the seventh. The concrete was too high, too precarious to scale. If he tried to climb it and got hurt, it would only serve to diminish your chances of survival. And he wasn’t willing to risk that. With a huff, Bucky exited the northwest stairwell in search of another route. This was a waste of time- time you didn’t have. 

He painstakingly checked every hall until he finally found another stairwell. His breathing came a little easier as he rocketed his way up the stairs, growing ever closer to you.

“So, I found this- this room. It’s quiet. It’s out of the w-way. I needed somewhere to hide. S-somewhere to…” A small crack of emotion cut through your voice, “somewhere to die.”

It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair that Jake got to return home safe and sound while you struggled to stay alive. It wasn’t fair that you had to seek out your own deathbed. Bucky wanted to scream, to break things, to spill every last drop of Jake’s blood. But he was a soldier, and this was a rescue mission.

“This seemed like as g-good a place as any,” you choked on a weak laugh. “Beats dying in the middle of a h-hallway, I guess.”

Bucky’s automatic response was to swear that you’d make it out. To promise that you weren’t going to die. But he bit his tongue. He couldn’t make those kinds of assurances. He’d do anything to bring you comfort but swearing that you’d return home alive seemed almost cruel. 

He pushed himself to move faster. He couldn’t let you die alone, especially not in this godforsaken place. As he sprinted up the last flight of stairs and ripped open the door to the fifteenth floor, he struggled to orient himself. You were in the northeast quadrant, but where was he? He searched for anything to indicate his location- but found no signage. No directory. 

Everything inside of him rattled with dread, with anxiety. Any moment now, you were going to die. You were going to take your last breath. All alone. A thick, suffocating wave of panic crashed over Bucky as he realized- you were going to die disappointed. You were going to leave this world knowing that he hadn’t gotten to you in time.

It was then that he noticed a faded arrow painted on the wall, with “NEQ” painted below it in block letters. Northeast quadrant. He was closer than he thought.

“I’m gonna be there in just a second, doll,” he said as he followed the arrows.  “I think I’m right around the corner.” 

This was just his way of making you feel better, you were sure of it. The hallways were long and winding. Each floor was a maze of its own. Even with your vague instructions, it could take him a while to find you. Still, Bucky’s words brought you comfort in the way that only he could.

“I know, I t-trust…” A metallic taste filled your mouth. A warm ooze trickled down your chin and dripped onto your chest. The warm, fuzzy feeling brought on by Bucky’s assurances faded. Of course, you knew you were in bad shape. But as blood leaked from your mouth, you wondered if these were your last moments.

Instantly, you searched for the words to say goodbye to Bucky. Time was slipping through your fingers, life draining from your body with each passing second. But before you drifted off into a never-ending sleep, you had to tell Bucky what he meant to you. You’d use all your strength, your last few breaths- whatever it took. He just had to know. 

But how does one say goodbye to a soulmate? You didn’t have the energy or capacity to make a grandiose speech. And the blood filling your mouth impeded your ability to speak. You wanted to tell bucky everything- how he comforted you, cared for you, made your life worth living. How your life revolved around him as though he were your personal sun. But nothing quite encapsulated the things you felt for him. Every word in the English language, every sonnet fell short. And the lack of oxygen getting to your brain sabotaged your phrasing.

“Buck, I think it’s… I think it’s almost t-time,” you rasped.

But just as you opened your blood-stained mouth to proclaim every feeling you ever had for him, the door flew open. Alarm coursed through your veins at the threat. Surely, a Hydra agent had stumbled upon your hiding place and was here to finish you off. The severe blood loss was no match for your training, thought. And, on instinct, you pulled your gun on the tall, dark silhouette standing in the doorway.

“Woah, hey!” Bucky raised his hands in surrender. “It’s me, it’s just me.”

At the sound of his voice, your arm fell limp. Your gun clattered to the floor. Your head lolled back against the wall. It had taken everything in you to try and protect yourself one last time. And now that your energy reserves were nearly depleted, you allowed your eyes to close.

“S-sorry…” A barely-there smile pulled at your lips. “My… my bad, Buck.”

“No, don’t be sorry, doll.” 

Bucky knelt in front of you, taking in your broken, bloodied body. He’d seen carnage before, witnessed more death than anyone should. But this, you- it was different. It hurt in places he didn’t know he had. But he didn’t let it show. Knowing you, you’d spend your last few moments comforting him, trying to make him feel better. And so, he forced a warm smile and tabled his breakdown for the moment.

“I’m actually impressed. I mean, you might be hurt, but you were ready to take me out just now,” he forced a chuckle. “That’s my girl.” His cool metallic hand brushed against your blood-stained cheek. 

And in that moment, something within you changed. Your eyes shot open. You blinked a few times before forcing your eyes shut once again. You gave your head a few good shakes. Surely, this wasn’t real- it couldn’t be. 

You opened your eyes wide once again, taking him in. “Bucky?”

With one shaking hand, you reached for him in the most pathetic attempt he’d ever seen. You were weak, dangerously so; it scared him to his core. But you were alive. 

He leaned in, meeting you in the middle, and let you stroke at his stubble for a moment.

“Yeah, I’m here,” he kissed your palm. “I’m so happy to see you.”

“You’re…” you other hand reached for him, but made it only a centimeter or two before falling into your lap. Bucky opted to take it in his. “You’re here?”

He nodded, “I could never leave you behind, sweetheart.”

He may have continued speaking after that, but you didn’t quite hear him. The emotion you’d tried so hard to swallow came bursting forward, crushing your every attempt at remaining levelheaded. Your fingers smoothed over Bucky’s cheek again and again. His name fell from your lips in what resembled a prayer. Tears rolled down your cheeks and mixed with the blood crusting over your skin. 

A soft, warm wave of peace rolled in, covering you like a well-loved quilt. The pain disappeared; the sorrow evaporated. All that remained was Bucky. This was the warm spring that followed a dark, bitter winter. The first rays of sun after a vicious storm. The first taste of home after a long time away. You let the familiar warmth of Bucky’s presence drown out the rest of the world until only you two remained.

“Sweetheart, did you hear me?” With a gentle squeeze of your hand, Bucky called you back to the present. “I need to look at your wound, okay?”

A sharp rush of pain nearly blinded you as you lifted your shirt, exposing the bloody mess. But even as Bucky appraised the gunshot wound that turned your abdomen into horror scene, you couldn’t find it in you to worry. Your hands lazily found his shoulder, his chest, his face; you just wanted to touch him. To know, without a doubt, that he was there. That he was real.

“Hey, we… we need to t-talk,” you whispered as Bucky did his best to quickly bandage your wound for transport. “I n-need to talk- to talk to you…”

Bucky nodded, “sure thing, doll. Absolutely. We can talk about whatever you want. But right now…” he returned your shirt to its rightful position and met your gaze. “Right now, I need to get you out to the jet, okay? We can talk later.”

He guided your arms around his neck, lifted you into his arms, and moved as fast as he could through the winding hallways. His quick gait set your nerves alight with pain. Every bump, every jostle had you gasping for breath. And though it was a necessary evil, the guilt still sat in Bucky’s stomach like a rock. His repeated ‘I’m sorrys’ were nearly constant, doubling with your every grimace and groan. But he couldn’t slow down, couldn’t let the time slip away; you didn’t have much left.

Between pained sounds and twisted expressions of discomfort, you said the same thing on a loop. Again and again and again, you pled with him, using energy you didn’t have. 

“We need to… to t-talk.”

“I h-have to tell you.”

“Can I talk to y-you about- about something?”

And though Bucky would’ve loved nothing more than to have a long heart to heart with you as you two often did, you weren’t strong enough. He couldn’t let you waste your finite energy on a conversation with him. And so, he responded to each of your requests with an ask of his own, begging you to save your strength. He promised that the two of you could talk tomorrow, that there was plenty of time for a conversation later. 

But ‘plenty of time’ almost seemed like an empty promise. And ‘tomorrow’ felt like a lie. Would you have a ‘later’? He didn’t know. But he didn’t want you wasting your oxygen, not when he feared it might be your last breath.

Boarding the jet with you alive in his arms almost felt like a win to Bucky. Almost. Sure, he’d gotten you out with your heart still beating, but your condition worsened by the second. And the grave looks the med team wore as Bucky gently rested you on the treatment table dug a deep pit in his stomach. 

They sprang into action, placing IVs and delivering medications. Scissors glided through your shirt and exposed your broken body to the med team. Bucky knew they’d seen their share of gnarly injuries over the years, but he swore that they recoiled at the sight of your wounds. 

With a shake of his head, Bucky refocused. He had to get you out of there- to get you home. He headed for the controls and planned to set the jet in motion. But he made it only a step toward the cockpit before a hand caught his.

“S-stay…” you whispered. “Please.”

His heart shattered. “I’m not leaving you, doll, I promise. I just have to get us in the air, okay?” With great care, he placed a kiss to your hand and set it at your side. “I’ll be back in just a minute.”

Bucky’s body operated on muscle memory alone as he initiated take off. His mind was occupied, completely and totally, by the sound of your weak voice begging him not to leave. The sound played on a loop inside his brain, cutting him deeper each time. You’d already been abandoned once today; he was certain you feared it would happen again. 

With a deep breath and a quick reset, Bucky did what he had to do. He needed to be on his A-game for you, needed to be his very best. Only a few hours ago, you’d trusted someone with your life, and they failed you. Bucky wasn’t about to do the same. He worked carefully to chart the fastest route back to the compound, opting to forego FRIDAY’s proposed path. It kept him from your side longer than he would’ve liked, but less time in the air seemed like the best option. The sooner he could get you to the med bay, with its massive, brilliant medical staff and unlimited resources, the better. 

Just as he finalized the flight plan and asked FRIDAY to notify the med bay of your impending arrival, an unsettling sound pulled his focus. It was an ominous beeping, alarming your care team of a sudden, life-threatening change. 

Gloved hands moved at lightning speed; voices yelled medical jargon back and forth. And you laid there on the table. No heartbeat. No respirations. Deathly still. 

Bucky stood on the periphery, too horrified to get any closer. 

He thought it best, of course, to stay out the med team’s way. But knew deep down it was an excuse. He was simply too terrified to lose you. If he got closer, if he saw you struggling to stay alive, all of this would suddenly become real. And he couldn’t handle that. 

“Barnes!” A nurse screamed at him, “did you hear me?”

Bucky forced himself back to the present. “No… I, um-”

“She has no pulse- get over here, we need you to do compressions!”

Bucky’s desperate need to help you, to save you, overpowered his fear. And in an instant, he was at your side. He loomed over you, his hands locked together, preparing to help resuscitate you. But once again, his fear reared its ugly head. You were already so badly injured, so weak. And he was far too strong. What if he made your condition worse? What if he-

“Come on!” The nurse yelled at him, “start compressions- now!”

He did as he was told. He pressed into your body with a measured pressure, careful not to crush your chest. But his cautious compressions didn’t cut it. The nurses instructed him to push harder. To “actually compress” your chest- and Bucky followed instructions. 

But as he did so, a sickly snapping sound exploded from your body. Bucky recoiled instantly; his face contorted in horror.

“What are you doing? Keep going!”

“I can’t- I think I broke her ribs,” Bucky shouted at the doctor. “What do I do?”

“Keep going!” The nurse yelled, “It happens- just keep going.”

Bucky broke out into a cold sweat. His stomach turned at the thought of hurting you, of causing you even more pain; you’d been through enough as it was. But he did as he was told. With each round of compressions, he swore he created new fractures. He felt every splinter, every crack as he put pressure on your chest. 

He wanted to sever every last nerve-ending in his hand; anything to rid him of the sickening sensation creeping through his palm. But if doing this saved you, it was worth the nightmares.

He watched as the two nurses provided your supplemental breaths and tended to your endlessly bleeding wound. The doctor called ‘clear’ every so often, shocking you with a defibrillator in an attempt to restore your heartbeat.

Round after round of compressions, breathing, and shocks passed by without signs of improvement. You remained lifeless, unresponsive. A syringe of epinephrine delivered straight to your chest did nothing. And Bucky felt what little hope he had slipping through the cracks in your ribs. He couldn’t believe he was about to lose you; couldn’t believe he’d have to watch you die. Hot tears blurred his vision and streaked down his cheeks. His legs went numb. At any second, he knew his knees would give out, knew he’d crumble to the floor under the crushing weight of grief.

The doctor deemed the next shock your last, and Bucky almost doubled over. 

“Come on, doll, just-” He swallowed a sob, “just stay. Stay. Do it for me, I’m begging you. Please?”

The doctor called one last “clear” and delivered your final shock, only to be met with the rhythmic beeping of your heart monitor.

“Sinus rhythm restored,” announced the nurse to Bucky’s left. She appraised the waves on your EKG and gave a nod. “She’s stable.”

After what felt like an eternity, Bucky took a breath. He stretched his tense fingers and did his best to  relax the rock-hard knots forming in his shoulders. A new crop of hope bloomed cautiously inside his chest, but he couldn’t allow it to blossom and flourish just yet. You weren’t out of the woods; there was a very real possibility that your heart might stop again. And he wasn’t sure how many times the doctor could revive you before throwing in the towel.

Less than a minute after Bucky’s cautious optimism sprouted anew, a soul crushing sight dashed it completely. A sharp gasp filled his lungs, a shudder rocked his frame. Shades of deep, dark blue bloomed under the skin of your chest. Black and purple splotches stained your sternum. Some spots were already starting to swell. He extended a hand in your direction but recoiled in an instant, fearing he’d hurt you yet again. 

“Happens all the time,” one of the nurses said with a shrug. “Believe me, broken ribs are the least of her worries.”

Somehow, her words didn’t make him feel any better. He ached to hold your hand, to sweep a gentle caress across your cheek. But he didn’t dare touch you after what he did. Every glimpse of your bruised, swollen chest sent bile rushing into his throat. 

The three dedicated members of the med team worked tirelessly for the rest of the flight. They did everything in their power to keep your condition steady, to maintain the life they worked so hard to save. It brought Bucky comfort to see them staying so close, ready to jump into action if need be.  

Bucky, like the med team, hovered. He couldn’t bring himself to leave your side. You seemed too fragile, your condition too tenuous. He counted your every breath, took stock of every beat of your heart on the monitor. Stepping away for even a second felt wrong. He needed to be there if you crashed again, if the doctor needed extra hands. He needed to be there to help.

And if you woke up, he wanted to be the first face you saw. 

But you didn’t wake. A groan here, a muscle twitch there- that was all you could spare. And though Bucky wanted nothing more than to see you open your eyes, he thanked the universe for keeping you unconscious. He knew tsunamis of pain rippled in the wings, waiting to overtake you the second you woke.

Bucky held his breath as the jet landed. Every jarring bump, every vibration, forced his heart into his throat. He feared that even the slightest impact would send you into cardiac arrest. He flicked his eyes from the rising and falling of your chest to the rhythmic flashing of your heart monitor and back again. Nothing changed, no alarms sounded. And when the jet finally stilled, Bucky breathed a deep sigh of relief. He just needed to get you to the med bay for treatment, and this whole nightmare would be over. 

He didn’t like being optimistic. It felt like a set-up, like false hope. If he told himself you’d survive and you didn’t, the fall would be that much harder, that much more devastating. 

But being realistic wasn’t any better. Telling himself that you were too far gone, that you weren’t going to make it, felt wrong. To him, it seemed like he was cursing you. Like willing your death into existence. Like begging the universe to end your life. 

And so, he opted for a neutral mantra. “She’s home,” he told himself. “She’s home. She’s home. She’s home.”

The distance to the medbay felt longer than usual. The hallways seemed to stretch on forever, the double doors to the triage center seemed to grow farther and farther away. Bucky followed your gurney closely, only allowing a few inches of space between the two of you. He couldn’t be separated from you again. He wouldn’t. He needed to be with you every second, watching over you. 

A dark cloud of impending doom loomed over his psyche. It whispered to him, telling him that if he left your side, if he let you out of his sight, you’d die. You’d be gone forever. And it would be his fault. He knew it was nonsense, that this was just his anxiety operating on overdrive. But he couldn’t shake the fear. And risking it wasn’t an option.

“No visitors past this point,” a security guard placed an arm in front of Bucky as he tried to enter the triage unit.

Bucky tried to go around the man, watching as the medical staff carried you farther out of reach. “I’m not a visitor, I’m an agent-” 

“No agents past this point, then,” the guard rolled his eyes. “Only patients and medical staff. You can have a seat over there.”

A small table sat against the wall, flanked by two chairs. It was a sad, makeshift excuse for a waiting room that operated as a device to keep people from hanging around. But bucky couldn’t be discouraged. He took a seat in one of the chairs, determined to wait there as long as he had to. He knew he’d missed a number of important phone calls by now, and probably several meetings. But he didn’t care; all that mattered was you. 

Dread circled Bucky like a buzzard as he waited. It was taking too long- why was it taking so long? How much time did the medical staff need? You were stable when the jet landed, the nurse said so. Why were there no updates? All Bucky needed was a nod, a bit of information. But he remained in the dark, wondering if you died on the operating table.

Maria found Bucky slumped in a chair with a zombie-like air about him. He was expressionless, his gaze hollow. His palms traced the same track up and down his thighs in a never-ending cycle. One look and she knew: something was very wrong.

“Hey,” she called softly, hoping not to startle him.

But Bucky didn’t respond- he didn’t even react. He just sat there, his unblinking stare burning a hole in the tile. An uneasiness enveloped Maria. She’d never seen Bucky so empty, so despondent. As she stared at him, she found herself fearing the worst. ‘Maybe he just received terrible news’ she thought. ‘Maybe he’s grieving’.

“Hey,” she tried again, nudging her foot against his. 

He came back to life with a start. A sharp inhale filled his chest, his eyes blinked wildly. But his palms never stopped moving in their endless cycle against his tactical pants. And he never actually looked at her.

“Hi…” he breathed. 

Hill took the seat opposite him. She conjured the gentlest, warmest tone she could find, “is everything okay?”

Bucky balled his hands into tight fists and stretched them out again. Maria noticed blood- your blood- crusting under his fingernails and staining his skin. But before she could get a good look, he grabbed the arms of the chair. His palms rubbed fervently against the plastic handles for a moment until they moved to his face. He ran his hands along his jaw, his spiky stubble poking into his skin.

“Barnes, what happened? Are you-”

Finally, his head snapped in her direction, “I can still feel it…”

“Feel what?”

Bucky’s head fell into his hands. He pressed his palms against his eyes and dragged them down his face. Maria watched him fall apart in slow motion. He seemed to be unraveling, one cell at a time. And when he finally spoke, shame made his words almost unintelligible. 

“She crashed on the jet…”

“Oh...” Maria did her best to keep a calm, even tone. Her concern for you vibrated in her chest, but she didn’t dare let it free- not when Bucky was moments away from a meltdown. “Is she-”

“The med team needed help. There weren’t enough of them- they needed me to do chest compressions,” Bucky said, his voice low. “And I broke- I crushed her ribs.” 

A sharp shudder rocked his entire body. Just thinking of that moment, when his too-strong hands destroyed your chest, was enough to make him sick. To scar him for life. To haunt him. Of all the horrible things he’d done in over the years, this was the worst. He gave his hands a quick shake, hoping to rid his nerve endings of the sensation.

“I felt her bones snapping under my hands,” Bucky’s words dripped with shame. “And I can still… I still feel it.”

“Okay,” Maria said gently. “Well, if she-”

“She was already in such bad shape,” Bucky swiped a tear from his cheek. “And I… I hurt her. I made it so much worse.” 

His head fell into his hands once again and did not reemerge. 

“Hey, look at me,” Maria gave his arm a gentle touch. 

Bucky only shook his head. 

“Come on, Barnes, just look at me for a second.”

Again, he refused. 

Maria abandoned her chair and sat instead on the small table. She never got this close to Bucky. Usually, she preferred to give him his space. He wasn’t the touchy-feely type- unless you were around. But he was lost in a shame spiral, adrift with no hope of return. And he needed rescuing. She placed her hands on his and gently removed them from his face. 

“You saved her life,” Maria said. “Twice. You rescued her from the base, and when the med team needed help, you came through.”

“But I-”

“Did it work?” Maria asked, her tine almost stern. “Did the chest compressions work?”

Bucky nodded. 

Maria gave him a shrug, “That’s all that matters. She can recover from a few broken ribs, but if you hadn’t been there-” 

Bucky averted his gaze as his eyes filled with tears. 

“Hey,” Maria grabbed his face, bringing his focus back to her. “If you hadn’t been there, she’d be dead.”

Maria’s words fought hard against the demeaning voice that lived inside Bucky’s head. It screamed at him, telling him that he shouldn’t believe her, that he was a monster, that he almost killed you. Usually, Bucky allowed his inner demons to run free. He listened to them without pause, believing anything and everything they told him, no matter how vile. But Maria was steadfast and unshakable in her sentiments; she truly believed what she was saying. And by some miracle, Bucky did, too.

“Thanks…” He granted her a hollow smile and a small nod. 

Hill sat in silence with him for a few hours. She didn’t try to make small talk or ask what was going on inside his head. She simply existed near him, sharing the space so that he didn’t have to be alone. She ignored important texts and sent every call to voicemail. She knew it was exactly what you’d do for him, if you were able. And she did her best to fill your shoes.

Abruptly, Bucky’s head snapped in her direction. His pulse thrummed against his skin as a new wave of anxiety crashed over him. “She kept saying…” he sighed. “She kept saying we needed to talk. She wanted to talk to me about something.”

Maria cocked her head to the side, “About what?”

He shrugged. “I told her we could talk later because there would be plenty of time,” Bucky’s words grew shaky. He found himself near tears for what felt like the millionth time that day. Guilt sucker punched him. “What if… what if there isn’t more time for us? What if that was all we were ever going to get? What if-”

“You’ll get more time,” Maria said with certainty. “The universe has a way of evening things out. You were robbed of time once; it won’t happen again. Plus, you’re deserved some fucking karmic retribution- you’re owed this.”

Bucky wondered how she could be that sure of something so ethereal. But she was steady, solid as a rock. She didn’t waver in her words or add caveats at the end. She, somehow, knew it to be true. And Bucky couldn’t help but believe her.

But when Fury called her for the eighth time, she knew quiet time was over.

“I have to go, okay? Fury can’t do anything without me, he’s hopeless.” She stood from her seat and rested a hand on Bucky’s shoulder. “Call if you need anything.”

Bucky thanked her a million times over and, for the first time, gave Maria a hug. She would never know how much her reassurances helped him. She’d pulled him from the ledge and gave him what he desperately needed: perspective.

In the hours that followed, he let her words play on a constant loop inside his mind. “If you hadn’t been there, she’d be dead,” he heard her say. “You’ll get more time.” The sickening feeling of your bones snapping under his strength never faded, and the fear of losing you still had him in a chokehold, but Maria’s words quieted his mind. 

In the sad, empty waiting room, time seemed to mutate. Some of the hours dragged, others whizzed by. Bucky wasn’t sure how long he’d been there. Was it ten hours? Or twenty? He didn’t really care. He’d wait lifetimes for you. 

He saw the security guards change shifts once, twice. It was the only thing alerting him to the passage of time, as part of him believed it was standing still. On the third shift change, they told him to go home. 

“They’ll call you if there’s an update”, said one of the guards. “It’d probably be a good idea for you to go get some sleep, or something.”

Bucky knew he looked like hell. Your blood left crimson streaks across his face and neck. And the dark circles he usually wore under his eyes were a deep shade of plum. But he couldn’t leave, he couldn’t sleep. Not when your life hung in the balance. Not when you needed him. 

A few more hours passed with no news, and Bucky found himself teetering on the edge of insanity. An angry, desperate voice bellowed inside his head. It told him to bust through the doors and find you, no matter what it took- even if it meant hurting people in the process. The gun secured to his hip and the knife strapped to his ankle became eerily attractive. His hands itched to reach for the weapons, to hold someone at gun point until they allowed him to see you. But he couldn’t to give in to the fear, to the violence. It took him years of therapy and long talks with you to stop seeing himself as a monster- and he refused to destroy the progress you helped him make. 

A doctor stepped out of the double doors and looked in Bucky’s direction, “Sergeant Barnes?”  

Bucky was on his feet before he knew what hit him. This was it. After what felt like an eternity of not knowing whether you lived or died, he was about to have an answer. Sweat dampened his palm, his brow as he stood in front of your doctor. 

He didn’t know he was even capable of this kind of fear, this kind of agony. And though he was an impossibly strong physical specimen, Bucky knew he’d never be able to lift the weight of the grief that followed your loss. He knew that, if you died, he’d spend the rest of his life dragging himself from place to place, unable to stand, unable to push back against the overwhelming, oppressive force of losing you. 

Your doctor spoke quickly and professionally about your condition, but the words turned to mush the second they reached Bucky’s brain. The combination of medical jargon and pure panic made their meanings imperceptible. But one phrase managed to cut through the fog of Bucky’s anxiety and exhaustion: “you can see her now.”

And just like that, Bucky took off. His fatigued body did its best to carry him through the halls, stumbling every now and then on the smooth tile of the hospital floors. But he didn’t dare slow down. He had to get to you. 

By the time he reached the door to your room, he found himself shaking- almost shivering- with anxiety. He knew you were alive, of course. Knew that the doctors had been successful in saving your life. But something in him doubted their handiwork. Something in him swore that if he didn’t get to you in the next half second, you’d flatline. Again. 

He could practically feel his brain rattling around inside his skull, his teeth chattered against one another. And the sharp tremors in his hands made it nearly impossible to get a grip on the door handle. Panic and frustration coursed through him as the he tried again and again to gain entry to your room with no luck. A strangled sob forced its way out of his chest and caught the attention of a nurse- one of the nurses who helped keep you alive on the jet. 

“Hey…” Her eyes drifted to Bucky’s shaking hands. “Need some help?” Before Bucky could answer, she’d abandoned the medication she was prepping, discarded her gloves, and made her way to his side.

“Here, let me.” Her soft, sympathetic tone was almost too kind; Bucky’s eyes blurred with tears. She turned the door handle and gestured for Bucky to go inside.

His “thank you” was for more than just the door. 

Bucky took a few steps inside and drew in a sharp breath; he’d never seen you in such severe condition. Over the many hours that Bucky waited for you outside, all of your bruises grew darker, more menacing. They stained your throat, your face, your arms. He didn’t even want to think about the ones on your chest- the ones he caused. Dried blood crusted in your hair and formed a path down the side of your face. It sat caked under your fingernails and rested in the creases of your palms. Thankfully, your gunshot wound was covered by gauze and concealed by your gown. But knowing it was there was enough to make Bucky sick. He, of course, witnessed and inflicted, his fair share of carnage over the years. But he knew your wound would haunt him for years to come- simply because it was yours. 

All he wanted was to be near you. To sit at your bedside and hold your hand. But he didn’t dare to get any closer. Electrodes attached a dozen wires to your chest. IVs sat lodged in the crooks of your elbows, in the backs of your hands. Machines and monitors kept track of your vitals. And who was he to disturb this fragile, vital ecosystem? What if he accidentally pulled out one of your IVs? What if he detached a wire by mistake? He’d already hurt you once today, he wasn’t about to do it again. 

He, instead, opted to stand at attention. A few feet away. For your safety. He didn’t touch you, didn’t even say your name. He simply stared at you, counting your every breath. 

An hour- or maybe two- passed by with him like this. Nurses checked on you, doctors poked their heads in. And every time, they told him he was permitted to sit by your bedside. But he just shook his head. Sure, slipping his hand into yours, being close to you- it would provide him with incomprehensible comfort. But he couldn’t, not when you were so severely injured. 

After the third hour, Bucky feared his sanity was slipping. A wicked voice lodged deep in his psyche suddenly awakened. It whispered to him, taunted him. Maybe this was all a dream. Maybe he was asleep in the waiting room. Maybe you didn’t survive. Maybe…

And he would’ve believed it, had you not snapped him out of the vicious spiral. 

“Buck?” He feared he’d never hear you voice again, but there it was. Hoarse and weak- but yours.

Bucky flew to your side. He cradled your face gingerly in his hands, completely consumed by the need to touch you, to feel you, to know that you were real. His palms laid flush against your cheeks, his thumbs sweeping over your skin. And in an instant, the sickly sensation of your snapping bones vanished.

A hurricane of tangled thoughts and emotions crashed over him. He had so much to he wanted to say, so much he wanted to confess to you. But the words refused to arrange themselves properly. Suddenly, Bucky wished he’d used his ample time in the waiting room to better organize his thoughts. He wished he’d sought out a pen and a scrap of paper and used them to plan and articulate his sentiment. But even if he’d found the supplies he needed, he wouldn’t have been able to jot a single thing down. Not with his shaking, unsteady hands.

Anxious words and broken sobs got stuck in his throat and formed a garbled, unintelligible mess as they left his mouth. But it was the best he could do. He stared at you, waiting for your response.

“I, um…” you looked at him for a long moment. The haze of head trauma, blood loss, and pain killers made you foggy. You did your best to trace your steps back through Bucky’s words, certain that your condition was the cause of your confusion. But after a significant pause, you came up empty. “Sorry, I- what?”

Bucky slid one of his hands into yours and gave a soft laugh. “Sorry. I tried to say-” He sat quiet for a moment. What had he tried to say, exactly? He wasn’t sure. With a small shake of his head, he re-rerouted. “Um, it doesn’t matter. Here, how’s this:” He cleared his throat and spoke with the sharpest pronunciation possible. “How are you feeling?”

Your laugh- Bucky’s favorite laugh- bubbled up to the surface. But regret swallowed you whole as pain shot through your head, your chest, your side. The hurt radiated through your entire being. It rendered you breathless, and left your face twisted in an agonized grimace.

Bucky didn’t like how long it took you to recover from the small chuckle you shot his way. A pang of worry shot through him.  “Don’t exert yourself, okay?” He swept a thumb across your cheek, “you don’t wanna tear your stitches or...” He cleared his throat, “aggravate any, um, broken bones.” Bones that he broke.

“No, I’m…” you squeezed your eyes shut for a long moment before opening them again. The pain slowly receded. “I’m good, I’m okay. I just- breathing is hard. I forgot how shitty it feels to have broken ribs.”

Bucky nodded. His teeth sunk into the smooth flesh of his cheek. A metallic taste coated his mouth. He didn’t want to tell you the truth. Didn’t want you to know that he was the cause of your severe pain. But you deserved to know, didn’t you? With a deep sigh, he opened his mouth, intent on telling you what really happened. But you cut him off. 

“Thank you, Buck. For coming to get me. I really thought I was…” Hot tears stung your eyes and blurred your vision. “I thought that was it for me, you know? And I just want you to know how-” you sniffed, “how grateful I am.”

Bucky left your side for only a second, retrieving a box of tissues from the counter across the room. He was back in no time and swept a tissue across your cheek to catch your tears.

“I know we always say that we have each other’s backs but you… you meant it,” you said. A small smile pulled at your lips, “thank you for meaning it.”

Bucky nodded. He did his best to keep his breathing steady, to stop himself from falling apart at the seams. He knew exactly what it felt like to be left behind, to wait for your last moments- alone. 

“I wasn’t gonna leave you there, doll. I couldn’t.” 

You gave a small nod. “Yeah, I- I wish my partner had felt the same way…” The hurt in your voice was unmistakable. It sliced though Bucky’s chest. “I didn’t think he would ever do something like that. I mean, I thought we were friends.”

The mere thought of Jake brought a familiar rage to the forefront of Bucky’s mind. He didn’t understand how anyone could be so callous, so uncaring- so indifferent to the well-being of others. The part of him that swore off unnecessary violence remained quiet as the rest of him imagined Jake’s demise. He wanted your disloyal partner to suffer. To squirm and squeal and regret that he ever left you behind. But that could wait- you were the priority.

“Yeah, I didn’t expect him to be that kind of person,” Bucky sighed, “he seemed like a stand-up guy.”

Silence filled the room as you thought over Jake’s desertion. His abandonment hurt. It stung in places you didn’t expect. You’d taken Jake under your wing and did everything in your power to be the best leader possible. All you wanted was to help him. To set him up for success. 

And after working alongside Bucky for so long, you’d forgotten that disloyalty to one’s partner was even an option. 

“He probably panicked,” you tried to rationalize. “And then once he realized what he’d done, maybe he…”

There was no rationalizing this. 

An ugly realization slithered into your mind. “After he left, I think he probably hoped I’d just die… that way I wouldn’t be able to give my side of the story.” The weight of Jake’s actions hit you like a train. Rivulets of warm tears rolled down your cheeks, only to be swept away by Bucky’s gentle hand. With a small shake of your head, you did your best to banish the feelings of abandonment and betrayal. Wallowing would only make you more miserable. And you didn’t need emotional pain on top of the physical agony that already plagued you.

“Well, joke’s on him,” you shrugged, “cause I’m still alive.” Pain radiated through your chest, bringing a grimace to your face. “Kind of.” 

Bucky didn’t understand how you could just dismiss the bad feelings. Couldn’t understand your propensity for levity. Your partner left you for dead without a second thought- and yet, you found a way to joke about it. It was something he’d always admired about you, something he wished he was capable of. 

You gave a strained laugh, “I can’t wait to see the look on Jake’s face when he finds out that I didn’t die.”

Bucky wasn’t sure what prompted him to say it. It left his mouth without his brain’s authorization.

“But you did.”

He wished to take the words back, but it was too late. They hung in the air, just out of his reach. 

“I…” you struggled to grasp Bucky’s words. “I what?”

This was not the time- or the place, or the way- to tell you the truth. But he didn’t have a choice. His clumsy words made his bed, and now he had to lie in it. 

“You, um…” Bucky didn’t want to think about what happened, let alone say it out loud. But he owed it to you to be honest. Especially after Jake had lied to you about being a trustworthy partner. Bucky scratched at the stubble on his face, ran a hand through his hair. Anything to delay the inevitable. But he couldn’t put it off for long. “Your heart stopped- you died. On the jet.”

Only one word fell from your lips, “Oh…” 

“And while I’m at it, I might as well tell you that…” Bucky took a deep inhale. He was in too deep now. And keeping this from you any longer felt like lying. “That your ribs are broken because of me.”

A quizzical look crossed your face, “what do you mean?”

“I mean… the med team was short staffed on the jet. There were only three of them. And when you crashed, it was- it was an all hands on deck situation.” He flashed back to the moment when the alarms sounded. When your EKG flatlined. A shudder ran through him. “They needed me to do chest compressions. And I- I didn’t want to hurt you, but the nurse said I wasn’t pushing hard enough to actually help you. And when I pushed harder- I broke your ribs.”

Bucky searched your face for something- anything. Anger. Fear. Betrayal. But he found nothing. Your expression was as neutral as they come. He feared that something lingered just below the surface. That once you fully processed his words, you’d erupt into a perfect storm of disgust and disappointment.

He told himself to wait silently until you made up your mind. But the outburst exploded from his lips before he could stop it. “I’m sorry- I’m so sorry, sweetheart. You know I’d never want to hurt you, I would never do anything to hurt you. But I… they told me I had to push harder. Or it wasn’t going to work. And I just wanted it to work, I wanted you to be okay, and-”

It took almost all of your strength to raise your hand and place a finger to Bucky’s lips. He fell silent.

“Buck, it’s okay.”

He tried to form a rebuttal, but you cut him off. 

“You didn’t have to rescue me, but you did. No questions asked, no hesitation. You saved my life by getting me out of there. And you saved me again by helping the med team.” Your hand drifted from Bucky’s face and landed in his palm. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Bucky didn’t say anything else. His fingers traced gentle patterns on your palm. His eyes fell downward. You could almost see the shame eating him alive from the inside.

 “Hey,” you intertwined your fingers with his. “I can handle a few broken ribs.”

“No, I- I know you can. I just…” A sad smiled flickered across his lips. “I feel terrible. You went through a lot. And I just don’t like knowing I made it worse.”

A long silence filled the room. You’d seen this side of Bucky more times than you could count. And you knew him well enough to know what followed. He was going to feel bad- terrible, actually- about this for a while. There was no accelerating the process or absolving him of his guilt. No amount of reassurances could save him from it. He just had to sit with it. One day, the weight would diminish. But it was going to take time. And that was okay. 

You gave his hand a squeeze. “I thought your voice was a hallucination, you know.”

Bucky lifted his head.

“And when you came into the room, I actually thought that was a hallucination, too.” A smile stretched across your face, “I mean, I thought I was losing my mind.”  

Bucky gave a half-hearted chuckle. He didn’t want to think about you in that room by yourself. About you struggling to tell what was real.

“But then you touched me…” You raised your hand and brushed it across your cheek, mimicking him. “And that’s when I realized that you were real- that you were there.” You fell quiet for a moment, lost in the memory of Bucky’s rescue. “It was like, in that moment, I wasn’t scared anymore. I wasn’t scared of the pain. I wasn’t scared of dying. I was just scared that…”

“What?”

“You have to promise not to laugh,” you told him with an authoritative tone. “Cause I know it’s corny, or cheesy, or whatever.”

“Sweetheart,” Bucky drew an X over his heart. “I’m not gonna laugh at you.”

You stared at him with narrowed eyes, sizing up his promise. But, of course, you knew Bucky would never tease or ridicule you about something like this. 

“Okay, fine, I um… I was scared that I’d never see you again. If I died, I mean.”

Bucky’s lungs emptied. He couldn’t remember how to breathe, how to speak. A sudden ache ripped through his heart as it splintered and shattered into a million pieces. To know that you thought of him in what you believed were your last moments somehow ripped him apart and put him back together all at once.

Your voice cracked. Tears filled your eyes. “I was afraid that we’d already run out of time. I was afraid that we weren’t going to get any more.” A few soft sobs escaped from your throat, followed by a pained groan. But you pushed passed the throbbing in your chest. “But I was so relieved. Because I got to see you one last time. It was the most intense sense of peace I’ve ever experienced.”

Bucky struggled to hold on to his composure. He felt himself crumbling, weakening under the weight of your words. 

“But then I realized- I realized I’d never get to tell you. And you kept saying we could talk later, but I didn’t know if there would be a ‘later’. And when I blacked out, I was so full of…” You shook your head ever so slightly, sending a few tears dripping onto your cheeks. “I had so much regret. Because I needed you to know.”

“To know what?” Bucky leaned in close, searching your face for any inkling, any clue. “Doll, it’s ‘later’. Tell me- whatever it is. You can tell me now, it’s-”

Your lips met his in a soft kiss. In it, everything you’d ever felt for him came rushing forward. Admiration. Longing. Lust. Obsession. Adoration. Love. 

A sting of pain jolted through you as your split lip brushed his, but you didn’t care. His hands found your face, your fingers curled into the collar of his shirt. It was always supposed to be this way. 

When the two of you finally separated, Bucky simply stared at you. He didn’t move, he didn’t speak. He wasn’t sure he knew how. 

“I love you, Buck. I’ve loved you- for so long.” A huff left your chest, “So. Long.” 

Still, Bucky remained silent. Nerves began crawling through you like vines, twisting their way through every fiber of your being. But you owed it to yourself, and to Bucky, to tell him the truth. 

“And I just… I know how you see yourself. And I know you don’t think you’re even worthy of my friendship, let alone love. But I was so anxious, cause I thought you’d never know the truth. I thought I’d die without getting to tell you. And you’d live the rest of your life thinking that you’re not worthy, that no one could ever love you. But I- I love you. I just needed you to know.”

The silence made your ears ring. Bucky’s face still wore a mask of bewilderment. And you feared you’d ruined everything. 

“You don’t have to say it back, though,” you said. “I’m not gonna stop being your friend if this is an unrequited thing.”

Finally, Bucky came back to life. He rolled his eyes and let a scoff escape his lips. He leaned in close, the tip of his nose almost brushing yours. “Unrequited? I broke every SWORD rule and policy. Abducted medical staff. Stole a jet. And went on an unauthorized mission. All to get you back. I didn’t even know if you were alive, I just- I had to bring you home.” 

He closed the small gap that remained between your face and his and granted you warm, gentle kiss that tasted like home. “I did all that- and you thought there was even a chance that I didn’t love you back?” Bucky gave a playful roll of his eyes, “you don’t know me at all, sweetheart.”

You returned his eye roll. "Well, you're a really great friend to me. And you always have been. So, I didn’t take a rescue as a proclamation of love,” you gave a strained chuckle. “I just thought-”

“I’ve loved you for…” Bucky thought back over the course of your friendship. The day you first met, the first time you helped him through a panic attack, the time he made you the ugliest cake in the world for your birthday. He saw his life in two parts: before he met you and after he met you. And he so preferred the after. 

“I don’t even know how long,” he shrugged. It was almost automatic. His feelings for you didn’t need a slow, gradual build up. They descended upon him all at once, like the world’s most beautiful avalanche.  “It’s been a long time- an embarrassing amount of time, probably,” he laughed.

“Oh, so we’re both cowards then,” you shot him a wink. “Too afraid to tell the other how we feel.”

Bucky nodded, “It seems that way…”

“But you weren’t too scared to steal a jet and run into possible gun fire?” you quipped.

“Nope. Didn’t even think about it,” he said matter-of-factly. “I just wanted to find you.”

You’d never experienced a love- a commitment- like that. It sent a rush of warmth into your cheeks and somehow eased the pain plaguing your body. You knew in your heart you would’ve done the same for Bucky without a second thought. But knowing that he was so fiercely determined to bring you home felt almost unbelievable. You had the proof, though, right there in front of you. This man, who you loved, loved you too. And loved you enough to risk his life for you. It wasn’t something you’d ever ask him to do, and you knew you’d never have to. He’d do it without hesitation. Without reservation. He’d walk through fire for you if it meant bringing you home. 

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[marvelstoriesepic]

Like he means it

Pairing: Roommate!Bucky x Reader

Summary: You can’t take another night of hearing Bucky fuck a girl who isn’t you.

Word Count: 13.6k

Warnings: Bucky is a fuckboy (but he’s still a sweetheart); lots of talk about unrequited love (but is it?); mentions of sex; crying; lots of desperation; longing; heavy confessions; feels; happy ending

Author’s Note: This is written for the lovely cinema themed writing challenge of @elixirfromthestars ♡ I had this kind of idea for a while but when I read those lyrics it somehow immediately came back to my mind and I needed to make something out of it. This is kind of inspired by your Boulevard Confessions because I loved it so much! And damn, I've already written so much about roommate!Bucky but I can’t help myself lol, I love him. Also, this got a little long, I'm sorry. Still, I hope you enjoy! ♡

Hold My Hand "Pull me close, wrap me in your aching arms. I see that you're hurtin', why'd you take so long to tell me you need me? I see that you're bleeding, you don't need to show me again. But if you decide to, I'll ride in this life with you. I won't let go 'til the end." — Lady Gaga

Masterlist

You hear the giggling before anything else.

It’s always the giggling.

And, as always, it grates on your nerves.

It carves through the air, seeps into the walls, into the floorboards, into you. It tears its way inside and scrapes its manicured nails along the rawest and most sensitive parts of you, only to bury itself deep, where you can’t simply dig it out.

Then comes the keys.

The light, metallic jingle, so careless in its melody, but so troubling in its meaning.

Then the lock turning, the click soft and yet so irrefutable.

Then the door opening.

More giggles.

His breathy chuckles.

Then the door closing.

Shoes being kicked off, one hitting the wall.

You press the pillow harder against your ears, as if you could suffocate the sound before it reaches you, as if you could bury yourself deep enough under the covers to escape what you already know is coming. But you can’t. You never can.

Your brain usually does you the favors of drowning out the parts in the hallway, knowing it will probably make your heart stop in an instant. Today, it doesn’t do you any favors and you close your eyes, accepting the sting behind them.

And then, his bedroom door.

And if all that wasn’t torture enough, it was only the easy part.

Because now is when it really starts. It’s when your throat closes up, the breath in your lungs turns heavy, thick, impossible. Because no matter how many times this has happened, no matter how many times you laid here in your bed, still, so still, waiting for the agony to stop, pretending it doesn’t happen - it never stops hurting. It never stops breaking your heart - or whatever’s left of it.

At first, there is silence. The small period where you almost dare to believe, to hope.

But then comes the moaning.

High-pitched and breathy, hinting at a pleasure that strikes you with a hammer.

Someone else. Always someone else. Someone who is not you, someone who never had to try, someone who will never know what it means to ache for him like you do.

Then, quieter, but just as devastating, Bucky’s voice. The low sound of him unraveling. The sound of something slipping from him that you will never be able to take.

And that’s what breaks you most. That’s what turns the ache into utter misery. Madness even. It’s the inescapable proof that he has something to give - something deep, something intimate - and he is giving it away. Over and over again, but never to you.

You close your eyes, as always. It doesn’t help, as always. The sounds don’t stop anyway. The images come anyway - the touches you have imagined, the way his hands would feel against your skin, the way his mouth would shape your name if you were the one beneath him. The way he might look at you, if only he could see.

But right now, you are just the ghost in the next room, curled in on yourself, ears filled with the sound of someone else living the life you always wanted.

And in the morning, or right after, when the door will open again, when the giggling will turn to goodbyes, you will still be here, where you always are. Where you always will be. Waiting. Wanting. Breaking. Wishing you could turn it off, this feeling. This unendurable and never-ending heartbreak.

And that finally makes the tears flow.

They well up before they spill over, down the slope of your cheek, gathering in the hollow beneath your nose before falling onto the pillow and wetting it like a pool.

You squeeze your eyes shut, so tightly it should hurt, so tightly it should make them stop. But they come anyway. They come despite the barricade of your willpower, despite the way your body coils tighter in on itself. They come despite the desperate war you wage against them.

They come because you have lost. Because it’s too much.

The moaning doesn’t stop, and it’s too much. It’s the middle of the night, and it’s too much. It’s the third night in a row, and it’s too much.

Bucky’s hushed voice shatters something inside of you, you didn’t know was left intact a few seconds ago.

Your breath turns sticky, only half of it making its way up your throat. The other half stays attached to the walls of your throat like honey gone rancid. It refuses to leave completely, snagging and trapping you in the awful space between breathing and choking.

Maybe if it stopped altogether, it would be easier. Maybe suffocating would be gentler than this slow and unsparing death of heartbreak.

Your hands are shaking. You bury your face into the pillow, willing it to just take you as a whole and never let you leave again. The fabric muffles the shuddering sobs, but it cannot do anything for the way your body trembles. But you know that the sounds of pleasure in the other room will tune out the sounds of your cries. The pillow is being clutched so tightly, you might tear the fabric. But it’s your heart that’s being torn into so many pieces. So what is a pillow compared to the ruin of your heart? It’s nothing.

You are alone in your grief.

The moans stop for a second - abrupt, cut off mid-breath.

Bucky’s voice comes. He says something but you don’t catch his words.

However, you do catch the displeased groan of his girl for the night. Drawn-out and petulant. Annoyed.

Bucky speaks again. Firmer, this time. Again, it’s too quiet to catch it.

And then you hear your name. It’s muffled still, but you would hear your name coming from his lips always and forever. You know the exact cadence of it shaping his mouth.

Everything in you halts. Your breaths are suspended somewhere in your throat, caught between shock and devastation.

The girl scoffs. It’s a snappy sound. Almost whiny. You would have rolled your eyes if you weren’t so troubled.

The moaning resumes. But it is quieter this time. Controlled almost. A courtesy. A mercy. But not for you. Not in the way you wish.

And it makes you know.

He asked her to keep it down. For you. He must have told her he has a roommate - you - and that they need to be mindful, that you might be trying to sleep.

Somehow, in all the infinite ways he could have cared for you, this is the one he chose. Not to love you, not to want you, but to make sure his flings don’t disrupt your sleep. As if that’s the worst of it. As if the noise is what truly keeps you up at night, and not the agonizing truth of it all.

Harshly, your teeth sink into your lip, fighting to stifle the sob that trembles on the edge of you. But again, you are losing.

Because hearing your name in the middle of something so intimate, spoken in the same breath of his pleasure, is pure anguish.

Because your name should not exist there. Not like this. Not casually sneaking into a mind occupied with pleasuring someone else.

If he were to say your name in a moment like this, it should be a soft whisper against your skin, entangled in sheets, buried in kisses that steal the air from your lungs. It should be something private, something sacred.

Not an idle afterthought. A consideration. A passing thought before he loses himself in someone else’s body. You have never heard him say any girl’s name before when sleeping with them, but hell you also don’t try to listen too closely.

You won’t talk about this. You never talk about this. When the morning comes and you meet Bucky in the kitchen for breakfast, you will not mention it. Just like you never mention the other nights. Just like you never dwell on the soft apologies he offers when they got too loud. And just like always, you will brush it off, force a brittle smile, and tell him that it’s fine.

It’s not. It never has been. And you don’t think you ever manage to make it sound like you mean it. But you are gone before Bucky can push or apologize again. Or see how deep the knife has gone.

Because he might be careful to be quiet. But he will never be careful enough to stop breaking your heart.

So what is the point?

You don’t want to do another morning like this.

You can’t do another morning like this.

Not three times in a row.

Not when the night has already taken your soul and what was precious of it, barely sewn together by the time the sun fights its way through the window.

Not when you know how it will play out. Like it has the day before. And the day before that.

The door to his room will creak open, the girl already gone. You will hear the shuffle of his bare feet against the floor, the sigh as he stretches, and the yawn that usually makes it past his lips. He never tries to stifle it.

And then, him standing there and watching you.

Disheveled. Bed hair sticking up in a mess. You never let your mind wander to how her fingers might have something to do with that. His shirt would loosely hang over his frame, probably thrown on in a hurry, collar askew, revealing a sliver of skin you shouldn’t be looking at.

That lazy and slightly flustered smile. Sleep still in the corners of his eyes, his lips, his voice, when he greets you with a scratchy morning.

Like nothing happened. Like he didn’t shatter you into a thousand unfixable pieces last night. And the night before that. And now this night.

You will do your best to greet him back without sounding pained. Focusing on making coffee. The way the steam normally curls into the air, the warmth of the mug in your hands. You will have to focus on it as if it’s the only thing keeping you upright.

And despite knowing you shouldn’t - despite hating yourself for it - you will slide a cup toward him. As you always do.

His smile would shift. Settling into something fond, something warm, something that digs its claws into your ribs and refuses to let go.

Because that’s usually the worst part. He’s always so sweet with you. Thoughtful, affectionate in ways that don’t count. In the ways that make you feel like maybe if you just hold on a little longer, if you wait just a little more, he might start feeling what you do.

But you are certain, he won’t.

Because for him, everything seems fine. For him, this will be just another morning. Another easy, comfortable start to the day. With his eyes on you and sipping his coffee, exhaling like he is finally at peace, and leaning against the counter with a lightness that always has your stomach all up in shambles.

He always makes it seem so normal. Starting conversation with you, talking to you as if nothing has changed. Like you didn’t spend the night curled in on yourself, swallowing down sobs so thick they feel like razor blades. Like you didn’t spend the night choking on the sound of him with her.

He never mentions them. Never says any of the girl’s names, not that you even know what they are. He never makes plans to see them again. Just another faceless but very loud girl. One to be forgotten.

But tomorrow night, there will be another.

Tomorrow night will be the same.

And in the morning nothing will have happened.

Only him standing there with his sleep-mussed hair and that sweet, easy smile, drinking the coffee you should have stopped making for him a long, long time ago.

You rise out of bed, not even aware of it. The cold air nips at your tear-streaked cheeks, your sheets thrown back in a mass of tangled fabric still warm from the ball your body was curled in, breaking in silence. The pillow is still wet.

Your hands move on their own, tugging on slacks, yanking a hoodie over your head as though the fabric could hide you, save you from the devastation caving a hole into your chest.

You fumble for your phone before throwing open your bedroom door.

The moans are louder again. Yanking at your resolve and laughing at the way your tears keep coming.

Your feet move faster. You don’t actually run, but it feels like running. Like fleeing. Escaping a burning building before it collapses. The living room comes into view and it’s like a cruel trick, like the universe is taunting you, because all you see are phantoms.

The coffee machine on the counter. How many times have you two stood there, still tousled with sleep, you making coffee for the both of you because Bucky burns everything. How many times did he lean on the counter, watching you with that stupid little half-smirk, pretending to judge your process but always humming in satisfaction when he took the first sip.

The bookshelf in the corner - the one you swore you could build on your own. And you tried, you really did, but the second the screwdriver slipped and you gasped out loud, Bucky was there immediately. Hands on yours, worry furrowing his brows, grumbling about your stubbornness and continuing to grumble when he passive-aggressively built it himself.

You sat cross-legged on the floor, watching him, pretending to be annoyed but secretly savoring the way he kept glancing at you, again and again, to make sure you were okay and giving you instructions as to how it’s done but throwing you a glare when you insisted on trying again.

The carpet. The same one you both collapsed onto after a night out with your friends, too tipsy to move, giggling like teenagers as you pointed at the ceiling, pretending to find constellations in the uneven paint. He named one after you. You named one after him. You fell asleep there, side by side, and when you woke up he was so close. So close.

The couch. The one he practically melted into last week when he had a fever, whining dramatically until you caved and brought him soup. He kept pulling you back when you tried to leave, pouting like a child, demanding your attention because I’m sick, doll. Can’t ignore me when I’m sick. Until you sighed and sat down, letting his head rest in your lap. He fell asleep like that. Snoring. And you didn’t have the heart to move.

And now he is in his room, tangled in her, moaning into her skin, kissing her - like it doesn’t mean anything. Like none of it ever meant anything.

Your breath is uneven, your hands shaking as you grab your shoes. The laces blur, your vision fogs, but you can’t stop.

You throw open the door to your shared apartment, barely thinking, barely breathing, only moving. It swings back into the frame with a sharp sound echoing through the hallway, louder than you had intended. But it doesn’t matter now. Because you are sure that Bucky doesn’t hear it. He doesn’t notice. He is otherwise occupied and you are utterly drained of thinking about with what.

The air outside the apartment feels different. Lighter and cooler, but it doesn’t bring relief. It’s thin and hard to pull into your lungs properly.

Natasha’s place isn’t far. Fifteen minutes on foot. You tell yourself that over and over, like a mantra, like something to grasp on.

No more moans. Lost to silence, left in a place that feels little like home right now. Still, they resonate in your skull, haunting reminders of that pain you can’t dismiss, that hurt that hangs off you like a heavy burden.

You slow your steps on the staircase and inhale deeply. It trembles on its way out.

You hate how fragile you feel. How breakable. Hate how much this affects you. How much he affects you.

But you keep walking.

Just yesterday, you talked to Natasha and she offered you to stay with her for the night, looking at you all sharp and knowing, but in her own way sympathetic. You declined. Because you thought you’d be fine. Well, you were wrong.

It’s past midnight now, completely dark, but you don’t care.

You know, Natasha will let you in. And that will have to be enough for tonight.

The city is alive even at this hour. Neon lights glow in the distance, their reflection shimmering in rain-slicked puddles that dot the cracked pavement. Somewhere across the street, there is a group of people laughing, and disappearing around a corner. A car flies past, with headlights unlocking long shadows lengthening down the sidewalk.

You focus on those things. On the shoes thumping against the pavement. The way the crisp air is somehow refreshing as it weaves through the fabric of your hoodie and stings slightly at the tear-streaked skin of your cheeks, keeping you awake and propelling you forward. Not that you need any more motivation to leave.

You wind your arms around yourself like a shield, like a last-ditch effort to keep yourself from falling apart completely.

You don’t look back.

Somewhere above you, there is a creak of a window opening.

It makes you freeze for a small second, before tightening your arms around yourself and picking up your pace.

Your stomach spins violently because fuck, you know that sound. You know the groan of that window when it moves, just a little off its hinges, just enough to make a noise you’ve heard a hundred times before. Because it’s the window of your apartment. And it makes a noise that has never felt so much like a punch to the gut.

“Y/n?”

You close your eyes.

“Y/n!”

Your name spills from his lips, laced with confusion, infused with something that makes your fingers clench around your arms.

You could ignore him. You should ignore him. Just keep walking, keep moving, pretend you didn’t hear.

But you can’t. You never can.

With a slow, dragging breath, you turn around.

Bucky is leaning over the frame, his torso reaching out the window, bare from the shoulders down. He is bathed in the hazy yellow glow of the streetlights.

His hair is messed up, brown tendrils all sticking in different directions. His brows are knitted in confusion. His lips in a frown so full of worry. And it’s just too much.

Too warm. Too intimate. Too familiar.

Your chest stutters, lurches, and swirls itself into a dozen moving shapes that hurt more than they should. Because he stands there shirtless. Shirtless. And you know why.

You swallow back your hurt, but it stays stuck in your throat and crawls right up again to make you taste it on your tongue.

You force your gaze away from staring at the curve of his collarbone, the slope of his throat, the soft lines of his skin, the hard lines of his muscles that she had her hands on just minutes ago.

“Where are you going?”

The tone highlights his concern, thick with the kind of worry that would have meant everything if it weren’t coming from him like this, not now. His voice is rough, remnants of the time already spent with that girl, but all you can hear is that damn worry in it.

As if you owe him an answer. As if he isn’t the reason your chest feels like it’s been hollowed out and left to rot.

You draw in half a breath and look away - down the street, down at your shoes, the bricks of your building. Anywhere that isn’t him.

“To Nat’s.”

It’s clipped and short. You don’t want to explain, don’t want to talk, don’t want to stand here in the night air beneath the window of the apartment you share with him like some pathetic wreck while he worries about you.

“Nat’s?” You can hear the bewilderment in his voice, the way he is trying to piece it together, the way his brain is already working overtime, scrambling to make sense of this - and you can practically feel the moment he decides he won’t let it go.

“Somethin’ happen?” His voice just won’t stop to be so perplexed, so concerned. It is softer now, but you only glance up at him briefly before averting your eyes again.

Because damn Bucky, yes, something happened. Everything happened. Every night that he brings someone home, every touch that belongs to someone else, every soft moan that isn’t meant for you.

All these moments, all these memories, every feeling left unsaid that swivels and stings and grows into what it is now - a storm inside your rib cage, a hurricane of almosts and never wills and why does it have to be like this?

But of course, you can’t say that. You won’t say that.

So you just shake your head, tighten your arms around yourself, and take a step back.

“Go back to bed, Bucky.”

Because you can’t do this right now. You won’t do this right now.

Not when you are already about to break.

“I- What?”

His voice is a little raspy, puzzled, and under any other circumstance, it might have been endearing. On a normal day, if this were some cozy Sunday morning and not the breaking stretch of midnight, you might have smiled at the sight of him like this - hair in a wild mess, eyes a little heavy from the day, bare shoulders shifting in the glow of the streets.

But this is not a Sunday morning. And nothing about this feels good or cozy or right.

You are so damn exhausted. So damn drained.

“You-” he starts again, brow furrowing deeper, but before he can get another word out, hands appear - slim fingers wrapping around the thick of his bicep, tugging, pulling, trying to drag him back inside.

Bile is pooling at the base of your throat.

She’s alone with him up there, in the space that you have spent so much time making into something warm, something filled with comfort. A space where you feel home. With him. And yet, it’s that random girl in there, laying in his bed, under his covers, in his scent, in him.

“Bucky, come on.” Her voice is thin and peevish, thick with impatience. And exhaustion you believe she has no right to feel when you are the one who has spent the time suffocating under her presence.

But Bucky doesn’t move.

His hand only grips onto the windowsill tighter, muscles in his arm locking.

And his eyes stay fixed on you.

Still searching. Still confused. Still trying to understand.

And it makes your hands clammy.

The way he looks at you like he is reaching for something just beyond his grasp, something that eludes him no matter how hard he tries to hold onto it.

He huffs out a breath that just borders on frustration when her fingers won’t stop pulling at him.

“Hold on, doll-” he calls out to you and unwinds her hands from his arm, barely sparing her a glance as he leans out the window again. There is a little something in his tone when he speaks to you again. Something like exasperation. But it’s not meant for you. “What’re you doin’ at Nat’s? Tell her it’s the middle of the goddamn night. Why would she let you walk over to her? She knows it’s not safe.”

You shake your head, already half turning away again. You just cannot do this right now.

“It’s fine. Just go back to bed, Bucky.”

“Y/n - hey. What’s wrong? What’s this about?” There it is. That softness in his voice. That concern. And it hurts. Because he doesn’t get it.

“Go. Back. To bed,” you repeat, sharper now, gritting it out between clenched teeth.

But Bucky has always been stubborn. And so infuriating. It’s like he doesn’t hear you at all.

“C’mon doll, did something happen? Talk to me,” he urges, voice gentle but he doesn’t seem to like the way you look as if you would bolt around the corner any second. His tone is coaxing in a way that makes you ache because this is what he does. This is what he has always done - pulling you in, making you feel safe, making you feel cared for, making you feel like you matter. Like he means it.

And it’s cruel. So cruel.

Because you are in love with him.

And he is standing in that window, bare-chested and rumpled from a night with another woman, while you are in slacks and a simple hoodie beneath him with your heart cracked wide open, bleeding into the pavement.

“I don’t wanna do this right now, Bucky,” you snip, voice losing patience. But you are so tired.

Bucky sighs and runs a hand through his hair, frustration growing, seeping into his voice. “You’re killin’ me here, sweetheart. Just tell me what’s goin’ on. It’s cold out, doll. You’re not even wearin’ a jacket.”

You swallow down a choked breath.

Because this is making things so much worse.

That he cares. That he is looking at you like this, like you matter, like you are his.

Like you are something he wants to figure out. And he wants to take his time with. Like he wants to fix you.

But you are not broken. You are just in love.

“Bucky,” that girl calls out again, dragging his name out, voice honey-thick and pettish. “Come on babe, let it go. Just-” She tugs at his arm again, nails skimming along his forearm. “Come back to bed.”

But he doesn’t move.

Doesn’t even glance at her.

His mouth twitches, jaw ticking as he exhales sharply through his nose, shaking her off with a firm roll of his shoulder. “Would you quit it for a sec?” His voice is edged now, tinged with a kind of terse impatience he seldom ever lets out. “Jesus, m’tryin to talk here.”

The girl huffs, clearly displeased, but Bucky doesn’t spare her another second.

But the one second he threw his head around at her was your chance. Your feet move before you can think, before you can talk yourself into staying, because if you do, if you let him pull you in, let yourself hope-

“Woah, doll, hey. Wait, I-”

His voice is frantic, stammering over its own syllables and filled with too many things your mind is too jumbled to focus on.

But it makes you stop your body in the midst of a step. And you grind down on your teeth against the frustration burning inside you.

You should keep walking. Shouldn’t have stopped.

But Bucky is leaning even further out now, his knuckles bracing against the sill, the night air tousling his hair, eyes wide and concerned, searching. One of his arms is reaching out, down to you as if he could touch you like this.

“Hold up, yeah? I’m comin’ down.”

You whip halfway back to him, brows snapping together, heart slamming against your ribs.

“No, you-”

He’s already pulling himself back inside, shaking his head as if it should be obvious. “I’m coming down,” he repeats, more insistent, more sure. Leaving no room for argument.

Your fists squeeze the fabric of your hoodie. Your stomach churns. “Bucky-” you try again. But he has already made up his mind.

“Wait there, alright?” His voice dips lower, steadier but still urgent. Resolute, as if he would run after you if you bolted down the street. “Doll. Promise me you’ll wait.”

Something in his tone, the look he is giving you, like he’s begging, almost a sweet-talking declaration. It’s catching your breath somewhere in your throat.

You could run.

You should.

You should turn right back around, disappear into the night, and leave him standing there, shirtless and confused and worried.

But you hold his gaze for just one long and heavy beat, then exhale shakily, shoulders dropping slightly.

“Okay,” you say weakly.

Bucky nods determined and taps his fingers against the windowsill, before rushing away, leaving the window wide open.

And you stand there hating yourself for waiting.

Hating yourself for hoping.

Technically, you could just leave.

Take a different route to Nat’s apartment, slip into the dark veins of the city where his voice wouldn’t reach, and let him walk out onto an empty sidewalk with his hair still tousled from another woman’s fingers and the taste of someone else’s lips still lingering on his own.

You could make him feel just a fraction of what you feel, with something hollow pressing up against his ribs when he finds nothing but cold pavement where you used to stand.

But you don’t.

You know you won’t.

Because it wouldn’t just frustrate him. It would hurt him.

And that’s the one thing you could never bring yourself to do.

Not Bucky.

Never Bucky.

You know him. The way he chews at the inside of his cheek when he’s trying not to say something reckless. The way his brows pull just a little too tight when he’s agitated but trying to play it off like he is fine. The way he folds his arms over his chest, not because he’s closed off, but because he needs something to hold onto.

You know exactly how he would react if he stepped out here and you weren’t there.

How the slight crease between his brows would deepen. How his fingers would twitch, opening and closing, like he’d missed his chance to catch you. How his lips would open and he would stare helplessly around and call your name.

And god, as much as this pain is devouring you from the inside out, pushing its way into the light but leaving you sitting in the dark, as much as your heart feels like being torn apart with unsaid words and unmet confessions - you cannot stand the thought of hurting him.

So you stay.

With feet planted on the concrete, fists clenched so hard, that your fingers start to cramp. You lift your trembling hands to your aching cheeks to hastily scrub away the fresh wave of tears surging forth downwards, willing your body to erase any evidence of your devastation.

But the more you wipe, the more it hurts.

You believe your cheeks are red from the effort of wiping so much, eyes swollen and puffy, your body trying to rebel against all of your commands.

Inhaling shakily, you force the breath down, down, down where you can pretend it doesn’t hurt so much. You angle your face slightly away from the building, hoping the dim spill of moonlight won’t betray your inner struggles.

Because the moment Bucky steps out that door, it will be the same as always.

He’ll look at you like you are his best friend. Like you are his safe place. Like you are the person he can always count on.

And you will look at him like you aren’t falling apart.

Like your heart isn’t unraveling at the seams.

Like you aren’t drowning in a love that will never be returned.

The door swings open with a force that startles you, the sound of it hitting the frame a little too sharp against the night.

Bucky storms out onto the sidewalk like he’s got something urgent to say, like the world might stop spinning if he doesn’t get to you fast enough. He doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t pause. Just moves straight to you, his steps quick, closing the space before you can change your mind about standing here. He has a crumpled shirt thrown on and it hangs a little off. But it makes you want to run so hard.

His fingers wrap around your arms, not hard, not forceful but firm.

Those warm hands on you make you want to crumble.

His breath is coming fast, chest rising and falling, like he ran down the staircase to get here as fast as possible.

His eyes are so deep, deep and blue, roaming your face with so much intensity, searching and scanning and pausing.

Shadows cast over his sharp cheekbones at the way his brows are furrowed, his lips slightly parted.

“What’s going on, doll? You been cryin’?” His voice comes out rough and he talks fast. Urgent, breaths spilling over themselves as he rushed through the words, almost tripping on them in his desperation to get them out. “Why’ve you been crying? What happened?”

His thumb twitches against the fabric of your hoodie.

You open your mouth, close it again. Your throat is dry from the sobs you tried to silence earlier. You shake your head, a knee-jerk reaction.

“I was just going to Nat’s, Bucky. Nothing happened.”

It’s a weak excuse, said in a weak voice.

And you hate how it makes Bucky’s expression shift. That tiny wounded something that crosses his features, something that shouldn’t be there, because you did wait for him, you didn’t leave, but it’s still not enough. You lied to him. And he knows it. And he’s hurt. And you hate yourself.

He shakes his head, his jaw going tight.

“No,” he murmurs, eyes never leaving you, voice so low. “That ain’t nothin’, doll. C’mon. You’re runnin’ off in the middle of the night, how could this be nothing?”

You look away. Because if you keep looking at him, him with his concern and confusion and hurt all interflowing in the pool of those blue eyes, you won’t be able to hold yourself together much longer.

You swallow hard and force yourself to breathe slowly.

The sting behind your eyes is never really leaving you.

Bucky leans in, just a little. His grip on your arms tightens, but it’s not harsh. Only insistent. Desperate for you to give him something here.

“Somethin’ up with Natasha?” His voice is gentle, like he knows this has nothing to do with her, but he has to ask anyway to go through all the possible options of what might be going on.

“No,” you croak, barely managing the word.

He softens at the sound of it, but that frown doesn’t ease.

“What’re you doing then, huh? Why’re you running off like that? S’ not safe, you know that.” His voice is soft. Almost like he’s trying to soothe a skittish animal. But the concern is wrapping around every word. “What’s got you so upset, sweetheart? Talk to me, yeah? Please?”

His voice takes on a desperate intensity. Like he’s begging you to just let him in. To make him understand.

You bite down hard on your bottom lip, willing it not to tremble, willing your face not to crumble right in front of him, but the air is too thick for your airway, making it harder and harder to breathe.

And Bucky is looking at you, like you are breaking his goddamn heart. Like you took a shot straight for it.

He is so full of worry, it looks painful, the crease of his brow always there when he’s thinking too hard, when he’s feeling too hard. His lips are still parted, like he wants to beg for an explanation, for some string of words that will make this all click into place and turn this into something fixable.

Because Bucky Barnes fixes things.

But this might be the only thing he can’t fix.

His hands on you are a contrast to the way you feel as if you’re falling apart. You hate how much you just want to collapse into it, to let yourself lean into him, let him hold you up. Because he would. You know he would. He would pull you in without hesitation, wrap his arms around you like he has done so many times before.

But you don’t want him to hold you. Don’t want him to hold you like a friend.

You want him to hold you like he means it. Like you mean something more than the sum of all the nights you spent choking on your own silence, swallowing words you could never say.

So all you can do is stay frozen, bones locked, eyes burning, heart splitting itself open in the middle of the street where he doesn’t even know he’s killing you.

“I-”

You try. You really try.

But then the door swings open again. And the sound of it alone is enough to send a bolt of ice down your spine.

Because this time it’s her walking out.

She steps out onto the sidewalk like she has every right to be a part of this moment.

Like she hasn’t spent the first part of the night in Bucky’s bed. Like she hasn’t been touched by him, kissed by him, fucked by him, wanted by him in a way that you have only ever ached for.

Like she hasn’t taken something that was never hers to have.

But it’s not yours either.

She looks so composed, too. More put together than you would have imagined. Her hair smoothed, clothes adjusted, skin glowing in a way that tells you she wasn’t just sleeping up there - she was living in something you’ve been dying for. She probably took a moment in your bathroom to check herself, to fix her lipstick, maybe even to admire herself in the mirror while you were downstairs, breaking apart.

She had the time for that.

Meanwhile, you can barely stand.

Your body is alive with magnitudes of unspoken things, suffocating. You feel like you’ve been sanded down, like a piece of wood, leaving nothing but the ache and longing and all the words you can’t say. This destruction is slow and ruthless, it doesn’t come with an explosion, but rather a slow erasure.

Like you’re being unmade. Piece by piece.

Like you were never meant to be here in the first place.

And Bucky is still looking at you.

Not at her.

You.

And maybe that should be enough. Maybe it should mean something.

But it just puts more pressure on the knife that is already turning around in your flesh.

The girl doesn’t leave and Bucky stiffens.

“Bucky,” she drawls, almost lazy, like she’s bored with this already. “Are you coming back up, or…?”

Your stomach lurches.

You feel exposed, scraped raw, like you’ve been trampled over, flattened by something massive, left behind for everyone else to step around.

Bucky lets out a slow breath through his nose. His jaw works under pressure. And then, he huffs. Annoyed. Like she’s interrupting something important.

“Go home,” he flatly tells her, his attention still on you. Not even addressing her with a name. Perhaps he doesn’t even know it.

“Seriously?” she scoffs, crossing her arms. Her eyes flick between the two of you.

Bucky exhales another breath and drops one of his arms from you to scrub it over his face, pushing through his hair. He turns toward her just a little, stance rigid.

“Yeah, seriously,” he mutters, already turning back to you. “I’ll call you a cab if you need-”

“God, you’re such a dick,” she snaps, cutting him off, rolling her eyes with an exasperated huff. “Unbelievable.”

And then she’s gone.

But so are you.

You don’t even think about it. You just move.

Your arm slips from Bucky’s loosened grip, your body already shifting, already turning, already pulling you down the sidewalk, away from him, away from this.

It’s pathetic. You know this. But you have to get away.

Your vision is a blur, the streetlights smearing into a soft, hazy glow against the wetness welling in your eyes, and no matter how much you try to breathe through it, it’s too much. Simply too much.

You’re hurting. And you need to go. Now.

But Bucky doesn’t let you.

“Woah, whoah, hey!” His voice is quick, rushed, and then he is moving, closing the space between you. And this time, he cuts you off completely, stepping right into your path, right in front of you, blocking the way like a wall. He’s so broad in front of you, and so fucking present, making it impossible to escape.

You stop so fast it almost sends you stumbling back.

His eyes flick over you so quickly, so intensely, scanning for something he doesn’t understand but is so desperate to find.

“Alright,” he exhales, low and careful, holding his arms out as if ready to stop you again if you make a run for it.

“You want me to put you in chains to keep you still?”It’s a weak and failed attempt at humor.

And it’s not funny. Not even close.

His voice is too thin, too strained, and there is something in his eyes, something tight and aching, that makes it clear he is not even trying all that hard to make his joke work.

You don’t smile. Don’t look at him. Arms still around yourself.

Bucky’s throat bobs as he swallows, as he shifts his weight, as he lets out another slow and deliberate breath. He moves so slow. As if any tiny movement of him would make you walk away from him.

“What’s going on with you, mhm?” His voice is so soft. So concerned. Brooklyn warmth and worry combined with something gentler than you can handle right now.

“What’s this - this fight-or-flight thing you got goin’ on?” he continues, tilting his head just slightly, watching you too closely, reading too much. “You’re rushing off like the damn place is on fire. The hell is that about, doll?” Still so soft. So cautious.

His eyes are on you like you are the only thing in the world that matters, like he’s trying to solve you, like if he just looks long enough, he’ll figure it out.

But if he really understood, if he really found out, everything between you would change.

And you can’t handle that. You can’t handle anything at the moment.

“Just drop it, Bucky, alright?” It comes out sharper than you mean for it to. Harsher. A little spit of venom that you hate yourself for the second it hits the air. He doesn’t deserve your attitude. But you can’t hold it back.

You see the way it lands. The way his brows pull in tighter, the way his lips press together, the way his chest rises and falls so measured. But it’s all not out of irritation. He just tries to figure out where that came from. What is happening. What has you react the way you do.

His voice is even and calm. But oh so careful. “I don’t think I will, doll.”

You look anywhere than at him and his troubled face.

Your throat tightens so fast, you have to swallow hard against it, teeth digging into the inside of your cheek as you blink up at the sky like maybe that keeps the tears from spilling over.

And Bucky watches all of that.

His expression stays soft, but his eyes are burning with something deep, something real, something that makes you feel like you might actually drown if you keep looking at them for too long.

“Y/n,” he almost whispers, and it sounds so pained. “Why are you crying, sweetheart.” He’s so gentle, so tender, so fucking careful like he’s afraid that if he pushes too hard, you’ll just break.

You shake your head, arms around yourself tightening. “I’m fine.”

Bucky makes a quiet noise in his throat, somewhere between a sigh and a scoff, something deep and disbelieving.

“See, that’s bullshit.”

You’re about to turn again, but he anticipates and gets hold of your arms.

“Look,” he sighs, heedfully taking off a hand of you to rub it down his face. “You don’t wanna talk? Fine. You wanna bite my head off cause I’m askin’? Fine. But don’t stand here and tell me you’re okay. Because I’ve got eyes, doll, and I can see that you’re not.”

You want him to stop.

You want him to turn around.

You want him to leave you here to fall apart in peace.

But he won’t.

And you don’t know what to do with that.

And you break.

No matter how hard you bite your lip, it doesn’t matter.

The tears slip and streak down your face before there is anything you can do. A sob follows. You can’t choke it down. Your shoulders shake, your breath stutters, and your face tilts towards the ground as you bring trembling hands up to wipe at your cheeks, in a futile and desperate attempt to regain composure. It’s useless.

You feel so pathetic.

Embarrassed. Ashamed that you ran off like this. That you’re standing here, crying in the middle of the night, on a sidewalk with no explanation, making a fool of yourself in front of him.

And the second your face crumbles, his does, too.

The second your breath hitches, he is moving.

Strong arms envelope you, winding tight, pulling you straight into his chest like he doesn’t even need to think about it. Not for a single second.

You let him.

Because it’s either this, or you’ll collapse down onto the asphalt.

His grip is firm, grounding, warm in a way that makes you ache even more. His hand cradles the back of your head, tucking you against him, and you feel the press of his lips there, gentle, but somehow rough.

Like your pain is his own.

“It’s okay. Shh… it’s okay,” he breathes, pained and low, the words pressed into your hair, into your skin. Making space between your ribs. “Oh, doll.” He presses you tighter to him. His hand brushes over your hair. “It’s okay.”

There is something so deep and aching in the way he talks to you, like the sound of his own voice hurts him. Like you hurt him.

His other hand moves over your back, soothingly, trying to give you some strength.

“I gotcha,” he breathes. “M’here, doll. Okay? Just breathe. Gotta breathe for me, baby. Please.”

It’s a slip. Baby. A mistake.

And it makes you cry harder.

Because it’s so soft. Gentle. Because it falls from his lips like something that’s always been there, something that’s always belonged to you.

Except it hasn’t.

It doesn’t.

Not in the way you want.

You don’t know what he calls those girls he takes home. If they get to hear him say it. Girls who have felt his hands in places you never will. Girls who have heard his voice rasp against their skin in the dark.

But you are not one of those girls.

You never will be.

And you know you will never be able to untangle that damaging wrench in your stomach.

So hearing him call you that. Baby. Like it means something. Like it’s yours. Like it hasn’t been whispered in the dim glow of your apartment, murmured against someone else’s lips, someone else’s skin, just someone else just hours ago.

It’s too hard. too cruel.

You wish it didn’t matter. You wish it didn’t rip through you the way it does, splitting you down the center, carving you open.

But it does.

Because even if it doesn’t belong to you, you still want it.

So you cry harder.

Sobs wrack through you, your chest hitching with the force of them, your hands gripping the fabric of his shirt, clumping it in your fists.

Bucky feels it and he hears it and he grips you tighter, pulls you closer.

“Hey, hey, hey,” he coos, voice just above a whisper, more desperate now. Like he’s drowning in your hurt right along with you.

“Sweetheart,” he tries again, voice strained, thick. His lips are in your hair. “Please talk to me. Make me understand, baby, please! Tell me what’s wrong.”

But you can’t.

Because what the hell would you even say?

That you’re in love with him?

That you’ve been in love with him?

That seeing him with her - hearing the sounds that bleed through the walls, the ones you’ll never be able to unhear - feels like being skinned alive?

That you want him in a way you shouldn’t?

That you want him in a way he will never want you back?

You won’t.

So instead, you just press yourself harder into his chest and squeeze your eyes shut, letting him hold you like you are something precious. Like you are his. Even if you are not.

“Help me understand here, baby. Please,” he repeats with a voice so soft, that makes him seem afraid you might break apart completely if he speaks any louder.

Maybe he’s right. Maybe you’re already in pieces at his feet, shattered beyond repair, and he just hasn’t realized it yet.

He lets you cry when you don’t answer, hand stroking up and down your back, the other soothing over your head. He whispers into your hair, words you can’t even process, just the deep cadence of him, the low rasp of his voice against your temple.

His lips move to your forehead, brushing over it. His breath is warm against your skin. You don’t have it in you to pull away, but you wish you would.

Because none of this makes it any easier.

Because his hands feel too good, too steady, too right - and it’s a lie.

Because it’s him.

And that means it hurts.

You wish he would just go and let you have your pathetic heartbreak alone.

But Bucky Barnes has never been the kind of a guy to leave things unsolved.

He pulls back just slightly after a while, just enough to get a better look at you, and when you try to duck your head, to keep him from seeing too much, he doesn’t let you.

Strong, warm fingers cradle your face, thumbs brushing over the damp skin of your cheeks, tilting your head up and forcing your gaze to his.

He looks wrecked.

His brows are drawn, lips parted, chest rising and falling unevenly. His hands tremble just a little against your skin, but his grip stays firm. Solid.

“Don’t look away, doll. Eyes on me, yeah?”

You swallow hard, jaw tight. “You just ruined your good night,” you say, the words falling out bitter, self-deprecating, stiff with something that tastes like resentment but feels like heartbreak.

Bucky’s frown deepens, his lips pressing together, eyes scanning over your face like he’s searching for something, anything that’ll make this make sense.

“The hell I did,” he scoffs, shaking his head. Confused you even brought this up. “I don’t give a shit about her. Don’t even know her name, if I’m bein’ honest.” He lets out a huffed laugh.

But you don’t.

Because somehow this makes it worse.

And you hate it.

You hate that some part of you wanted her to mean something.

Because if she meant something, if she was special, then at least this ache in your chest would have a name. A reason. A shape you could hold in trembling hands and squeeze so hard that it stops hurting at one point.

Then, at least, you could maybe finally accept that there is no hope. No reason to hold on to those feelings.

But Bucky just shrugs.

It meant nothing. It never meant anything. Not with them.

Not with the girls that come and go, the ones who pass through his nights in the same easy way the hours do - fleeting, ephemeral, touched, and forgotten.

Not with anyone. Not even with you.

You have spent so long feeling this, holding onto it, trying to keep it hidden beneath layers of friendship and longing and careful restraint. You have spent so long pretending that it is fine, that it doesn’t matter, that you can live like this - on the sidelines, just the girl in the other room, in the shadows, in the spaces between what you want and what you’re allowed to have.

And he stands here and looks you in the eyes, telling you that it is nothing. That she is nothing. That they - all of them before her, and all of them after her - are nothing.

You can barely breathe past it.

You don’t say anything.

And Bucky freezes.

His hands, where they cup your face, stop their soft, absentminded strokes. His thumbs, which had been tracing reassuring circles along your cheekbones halt. His breath catches and his eyes shift.

There is something uncertain in there.

And then, his lips part. His brows go up ever so slightly. His pupils flare.

Something settles over his expression that you don’t recognize.

Like a switch has been flipped.

Like a puzzle piece has clicked into place.

Like suddenly he is seeing something in your eyes, something like an answer, something that has been there all along.

His fingers tighten, anchoring himself. Making it seem that if he lets go, if he moves even a fraction, something will break. In him, or you, you’re not sure.

He pulls back. Not far. Just an inch. But he needs to see you better. Just enough to search your face for something he needs to know. His gaze locks onto yours and holds you there, testing something, making sure.

His voice is hushed when he talks. Breathless.

“Is that what this is about?”

It’s quiet, the way he says it. Like he’s afraid of it. Like he’s careful with it. There is disbelief on his face. Astonishment.

You shake your head too fast, too sharp, like if you deny it hard enough, it’ll erase the way he’s looking at you right now. That it’ll undo the meaning of his words and the way they sit between you. Something fragile on the verge of breaking.

“No,” you say, but it barely comes out, barely sounds convincing. Your voice is hoarse, scraped raw form holding back everything you don’t want to say. Your lungs refuse to work in sync with the rest of you. You swallow, eyes darting away, grasping for something to latch onto.

But Bucky doesn’t let you.

“Doll…” It comes like a sigh. Weightless and soft. His hands don’t drop from your face, don’t loosen, don’t give you the space you’re so desperately trying to carve out between you. If anything, his grip grows more robust. Just enough to keep you there.

“Hey. Look at me.” His tone is low, carrying the kind of warmth you’d usually like to lean into, but now all you want is to get away from it. You don’t want to meet those stormy blues.

Bucky’s thumbs are sweeping, so feather-light, over the curve of your jaw, smoothing along the damp trail of your tears, and his voice dips even lower. Softer. He is so close.

“C’mon, sweetheart. Give me somethin’ here.”

It’s not fair that he gets to call you all those sweet names like he means them. Like you mean something. Like it’s not the same word he probably called her and all those others who got to have him, even if only for a night.

“I don’t-” you try, but your voice is trembling and thick with tears, and Bucky’s gaze shadows.

“Don’t what?” he coaxes, leaning in just a little, close enough that his breath skims your skin, warm and stable in a way you aren’t. His fingers slightly move against your cheeks, as if resisting the urge to pull you closer.

You shake your head again, your hands wrapping around his wrists - not to push him away exactly, but to have something to hold onto. You have no idea what to say.

“It’s- It’s not-” Your words trip over themselves, stuck somewhere between your throat and your ribs, tangled up in everything you’ve never let yourself say.

But Bucky just watches you, unreadable things swirling in those impossibly blue eyes. Wary things. Still so damn careful.

He exhales and his hands slide down, skimming the column of your throat, settling against the curve of your neck like he’s grounding you. Holding you both together.

“Doll,” he sighs, and it’s too much.

It’s not teasing. It’s not playful. It’s not easy. Not the charming lilt he likes to throw in his tone.

It’s vulnerable. Tender. Substantial.

“You’re breakin’ my heart here.”

And that’s what has another tear slip over your lashes.

Because you’re breaking his heart?

What does that even mean?

You were the one trying to escape the heartache he caused and now he tells you it’s his heart that hurts?

“Please,” he whispers, and his voice is wrecked, gravel thick in his throat. “Just tell me, doll. Tell me what I did. Tell me so I can fix it.”

His lips stay parted, trying to find air, trying to find some kind of solid ground. There is a sheen over his eyes.

“I can’t-” Your voice cracks, but you don’t look away this time. His hands won’t let you. He won’t let you.

His eyes are pleading.

“Can’t what, sweetheart?” he urges, dipping closer, voice just a rasp of sound between you. His thumbs wipe away the new tears and he winces while doing it as if it actually causes him pain that they fell.

The streetlight flickers above. It casts shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw, the tight pull of his mouth. His fingers flex against your face.

“Is it-” he starts, then stops, then starts again, throat bobbing and voice rough and hesitant. “Is it those girls?”

A shallow gasp slips from your lips. Fractured and tripping over something unseen. Your shoulders grow stiff.

You can’t answer. You only shake your head, not in denial, not in confirmation, but in something else, something tired and so fucking done with feeling like this.

You try to pull back, try to slip free from the heat of his palms, try to turn away. Another tear drops onto the back of his hand.

Your reaction must be answer enough.

Bucky’s head, Bucky’s hands, Bucky’s eyes, Bucky’s whole body - everything is moving so much, keeping you from slipping away, reaching for you, not letting you go.

A breath. A pause. Like his brain needs an extra moment to process what this all could mean. His breath catches in his throat and you can feel the exact moment he gets it.

The exact moment he realizes.

“Shit,” he breathes, so quiet you almost miss it. His grip tightens. It grows distressed. Despairing. Keeping you from leaving his hold, although you don’t stop trying.

You sob and his hands press into your cheeks, thumbs smoothing away tears like he can erase this, like maybe if he holds you tight enough, he can go back five minutes, five months, five years, to a time before he made you feel like this.

“Shit, doll, I-” His voice breaks, gravel and regret and anguish - and something so painful - landing with every syllable.

You don’t stop trying to pull back, trying to push him away. You can’t talk. You can’t stop crying. You can’t look at him.

But Bucky is devastated. And he is desperate. And he won’t let you go.

“No, no, don’t - please, Y/n, don’t.” He runs through his words, frantically getting them out, frantically trying to make you look at him.

He reaches your face again and holds on like it’s important. Your tears won’t stop falling. A whimper falls from your lips when you realize he won’t let you leave.

Bucky panics.

His swallow seems to hurt him. Everything he does seems to hurt him.

“Oh, sweetheart - fuck, fuck, I didn’t-” He lets out a rough breath, one of his hands letting go of you to scrub over his face, pushing through his hair in frustration.

Not at you.

At himself.

“Doll, I didn’t - Jesus Christ, I didn’t know.”

It comes out hoarse, scraped down to nothing but feeling. Each word drags from his throat like sandpaper against silence. Coarse and raspy.

And then he’s shaking his head, hands sliding to your shoulders, his hold firm, his eyes darting over your face like he is trying to memorize it, searching for the right words in the curve of your lips, the glisten of your tears, the way your breathing is a single shuddering mess.

“I didn’t - fuck, I didn’t mean-”

He seems to hold back a scream.

Sucking in another sharp breath, he squeezes his eyes shut like he’s in pain, angry at himself, wanting to go back and rewrite everything, tear out every page where he made you feel like you were anything but his.

You wish you could believe it.

“Bucky-” you croak out.

“No, don’t-” His head doesn’t stop shaking. His jaw is clenched tight. Hands shaking against you. “Don’t say my name like that.”

“Like what?” Your voice is whisper-thin.

His breath shudders out, and when his eyes meet yours again, they are so earnest. Glossy with a sheen of tears.

“Like it’s over.”

Your throat closes around your next breath, never making it reach your lungs.

Because what is he saying? Nothing ever had the chance to be anything.

“I didn’t know, doll,” he whispers, voice breaking. “I swear to God, I didn’t know. You gotta believe me, I - fuck, I never wanted to hurt you. Never wanted you to feel like- I didn’t think you’d-”

He cuts himself off, voice choking.

His hands drop suddenly, like he doesn’t even deserve to hold you anymore. Like the guilt is weighing them down.

And then, unsure and hesitantly, he lifts one of them again and pauses before cupping your face, waiting for something - permission, maybe, or just a sign that you won’t pull away this time.

When you don’t, when you just keep standing there, frozen and broken and bewildered, he lets his palm settle warm against your cheek, his thumb brushing so lightly it sends a shiver down your back.

“Tell me how to fix it. Tell me I can,” he pleads, like he means it. Like he would do anything. “Tell me what to do, baby. Anything. I’d do anything. Just gotta tell me. Please,” he chokes out.

Cars roll past you. There are voices in the distance. A neon sign flickers. But none of it touches this.

This thing between you.

Bucky’s hand shakes against your cheek. His breath stirs against your skin so ragged and he leans in. His forehead presses to yours, his body curling toward you like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it, just needing to be close.

“I’m so sorry,” he gasps out. “God, I’m so fucking sorry.”

Never have you seen Bucky like this. He keeps things easy, keeps things light, and shrugs off pain like it never quite reaches him. But it does now.

It consumes him.

His fingers curl at the back of your neck, not pulling, just holding, grounding himself against you. And when you continue standing there, breath shaky, tears still trembling in your lashes, his whole body sags.

His chest heaves with a breath so deep it sounds like it’s costing him something.

“I never meant for this to happen. Please, believe me.”

His forehead presses harder to yours, seemingly trying to press his words straight into you, that maybe if he gets close enough you’ll feel how much he means them.

And you do. You just don’t know what the hell is going on.

He lets out a sound that resembles a sob. And then you feel the damp heat of a tear where his face brushes against yours.

Bucky is crying.

It breaks you. You don’t know what to do with all this pain. His and yours. Don’t know how to ever let it go.

You pull back. Just slightly. Just enough to breathe, to think, to process.

But Bucky’s whole body tenses, and his eyes squeeze shut as if he knew it was coming but it still pains him. Bracing himself for something he already knows is going to hurt. His hands drop to his sides.

And maybe that should give you some kind of satisfaction, a tiny sense of justice for the nights you spent lying awake, wondering if you meant anything to him while he had his hands on someone else.

But it doesn’t.

Because the way he is looking at you, when he cracks his eyes open again, when he meets your gaze with so much open ache, makes your chest hurt. It makes something inside of you quake.

“Bucky,” you start, but your own voice is so small, so lost. You shake your head, scanning his face, trying to piece it together, to make sense of something that refuses to fit. How the tables have turned. You just can’t seem to find the irony in it. “What are you even - I don’t - I don’t I understand.”

His throat bobs, thick and tight, and he pulls in a breath like it’s the last one he’s going to get.

“I love you.”

Your mind blanks. You flatline. Your knees go weak.

He says it like it’s the simplest thing to say. As if it is the most obvious thing in the world. But it isn’t.

Because if it was then why has he spent all those nights with those seemingly meaningless girls. Why has he let you ache for him while he touched someone else.

“I love you,” he says again, softer, trying to make sure you believe it.

But you don’t know how to.

Your lips part, but nothing comes out. You feel the words, heavy and warm and terrifying, but your body doesn’t know what to do with them. Your mind is screaming at you to run, to protect yourself, to build the walls back up before it’s too late, but your heart doesn’t listen.

Bucky’s hand trembles when it reaches for you, fingertips ghosting over your jaw, waiting, waiting, waiting for you to pull away.

You don’t and he steps closer again.

His whole body thrums as if he is scared to touch you but more scared not to. He looks at you with those red-rimmed and puffy eyes, so tremendously bare, holding onto your own eyes like he is drowning and you are the only thing keeping him afloat.

“Say something, doll,” he pleads, his voice so unsteady, that it guts you.

But what could you say?

Because love is not supposed to feel like this, to hurt like this. It isn’t supposed to feel like your heart has been split open and stitched back together all in the same breath.

But looking at him and at the way his eyes are just as pleading as his words, at the way he is breaking right in front of you - it makes you wonder if maybe it was hurting him all along, too.

“You-” you begin, voice barely more than a whisper. You have to stop, have to pull in a breath that doesn’t seem to want to settle, have to force your hands to stay at your sides instead of reaching for something - for him - that you don’t know if you can take. “But that-” Another inhale, sharp and broken. Your chest hurts. Your whole body hurts. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

Bucky exhales, long and slow and then he drops his head. Shoulders slumping, spine curling, like something inside of him, has just given out.

Guilt.

It sits heavy in his frame, in the set of his jaw, in the way his hands jerk like he wants to touch you but knows he shouldn’t.

“Yeah,” he mutters, a humorless little laugh escaping, barely more than a breath. He drags a hand down his face, through his hair, before letting it fall uselessly at his side. His voice is lower when he speaks again, raspier, weighed down by something that feels an awful lot like regret. “I know.”

You watch him, waiting. Because he owes you this. Because he cracked open something you weren’t ready for, something you tried to bury, and now you need to understand.

And Bucky must feel that. Because after a beat, after a deep, shuddering breath, he looks at you again.

“I didn’t think I could have you,” he admits, voice quiet. Cautious. The words fragile in his mouth. “Didn’t think I was allowed to even want you. To this extent, anyway.”

Air enters you unevenly, shaking on the way in like a shiver made of sound. “Bucky-”

“You’re my best friend,” he pushes on, stepping in just a fraction, like he can’t help himself. His voice is getting rougher, rawer, like something in him is unwinding too fast for him to stop it. “I didn’t wanna mess that up, y’know? Didn’t wanna lose you over somethin’ I couldn’t control.”

Something tightens in your chest. Something shifts.

“So you-” you swallow, shaking your head, trying to put it together, trying to make sense of it. “So you just went around to go get yourself other girls you can fuck?”

Bucky flinches. Actually flinches.

Gaze dropping in shame, his features form a grimace. “I tried,” he croaks out, gesturing at his chest with one hand. “Tried to stop feeling like this. Tried to move on, tried to-” He exhales sharply, tilting his head side to side, something torn playing out with the movement. “It didn’t work. Nothin’ worked. Didn’t even make it easier. But I was afraid to face it. Really face it. So I just kept going.”

It hurts.

It hurts in a way you don’t know how to hold. Don’t know how to carry.

You thought, for so long, that the way you love him, ache for him, is a one-sided agony.

But he is confessing to you, eyes red and weary, voice splintering, telling you that he’s been afraid to speak it aloud too.

That he loves you, that he tried to kill it, that he thought losing himself in someone else would somehow erase you from his mind.

Bucky’s words are a fist curling around your ribs, squeezing the air from your lungs.

It should matter. It should mean something that he’s standing in front of you, breaking apart, pleading for you to understand. Shouldn’t it be enough that he’s telling you it was always you? That no one else ever came close?

But he still touched them.

Still chose them, even if only for a meaningless night.

While you sat in your room, staring at the ceiling, wondering if you were going insane. While you clenched your fists so tight beneath your sheets at night, biting your tongue, swallowing it down, because Bucky is your friend and friends don’t ache like this.

And yet, he is telling you, showing you, he aches too.

But instead of sitting with it, instead of letting it consume him the way it consumed you, he tried to make it disappear.

He tried to fuck it away.

And now he looks at you like you are the only thing that has ever mattered, like the ground beneath his feet, is unsteady, like he is afraid you are going to bolt at any second.

You feel like the ground beneath your feet shits a fraction of an inch, not enough to send you falling, but enough to make you question if you were ever standing solid in the first place.

“But, doll, it-” he rushes forward, watching your pain, stepping into your space until there is barely anything between you. “It never meant anything. Swear to god, none of ‘em ever meant something to me.” His hands wrap around yours, squeezing, grounding, begging. “They weren’t you. Couldn’t be you. Didn’t matter how hard I tried, how many times I told myself to stop thinking about you because you’re supposed to be my best friend, but I wanted so much more than that - it didn’t matter. Nothin’ worked.”

He is struggling to force the words out, but he does. And they leave him with a catch in his voice. Faltering.

“I thought about you, sweetheart. Every fuckin’ time.” His voice turns frantic and he leans in to make it convince you. He watches your lips tremble and shakes his head quickly. “Thought about how you’d feel. How you’d sound.”

Your breath stalls.

Bucky swallows, taking a quick pause but continuing, voice growing softer. Lower. Reverent. “Tried to picture you instead. How you’d look under me, wrapped around me. So goddamn beautiful.” His voice cracks. “But it wasn’t you. And I know it was wrong, but I couldn’t help it.”

He stumbles over his words, afraid of saying too much, of pushing too far, or admitting too much - but it doesn’t stop hurting.

Even if you know it might not be fair.

But the thought of him with them, the thought of his hands gripping someone else’s skin, his lips murmuring something soft against someone else’s throat - it makes you sick.

And he sees it.

You try to blink back another wave of tears.

His hands are on your face again, thumbs swiping furiously at your damp cheeks like he can rub the hurt away.

“Please tell me I didn’t ruin this.” His voice cracks through the words, the panic breaking through. Your silence seems to suffocate him, squeezing his ribs until there is no space left for air.

“I’m so sorry, baby! I wish I could take it all back. I would.” His bottom lip trembles and he bites down on it before continuing. “Tell me I can fix this. There’s gotta be somethin’ I can do. Anything.”

You blink rapidly, vision swimming, breath hiccuping in your throat. You don’t know if there is anything to fix, if there was ever anything there, to begin with, but he is looking at you like there was. Like there is. Like it is still hanging in the air between you, waiting to be caught, waiting to be named.

And you want to catch it. To press it to your heart and cherish it.

But the wounds are fresh. Still bleeding. Still open.

The images you conjured up in your mind, him with all those girls. The sounds of him bringing one after the other home - the routine.

The giggling. The keys. The apartment door. More giggling. His chuckles. The hallway. His bedroom door. The goodbyes. The mornings.

But worst of all is that you can’t even blame him.

Because what was he supposed to do? Wait for something that was never promised? Hold out hope for something that was never offered?

You had no claim on him.

But still, you hate how he tried to fuck you out of his system. Hate that he couldn’t, that he’s standing here now, telling you it was all for nothing, that you were always in his head, in his bones, and that that somehow is supposed to make it better.

You don’t know if it does now. But you hope - you hope so dearly - that it will get better. If he’ll stick with you.

“No more girls.” The words choke out of you, weak and broken, barely a breath. But he jolts like you have screamed them.

“Never,” he breathes immediately, shaking his head as if to get rid of his own images, gripping you tighter, his thumbs pressing into your cheeks, his eyes burning through yours. “No more, baby. No one else. Not ever.”

Your breath catches, body sways.

There is a burn behind your ribs, not quite pain, but not far from it. It is something that pulses in time with your heartbeat. Too quick. Too uneven.

“Only you,” he adds, his forehead dropping to yours, noses brushing, his breath warm against your lips, his hands trembling where they hold you. “It’s only ever been you.”

Heat rises up your throat, something between nausea and electricity, a burst of too much all at once.

“I got a lot to make up for.” His tone is unraveling at the seams. But it sounds firmer now. Convicted. “I know that. I know I- fuck, I screwed this up before I even knew I had a chance. And that’s on me.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, because it’s too much - his voice, his touch, the way he is looking at you like you hung the damn moon when you’ve spent years feeling invisible to him in the way that mattered.

“I don’t wanna rush this, alright?”

You blink up at him. Your chest feels stretched too tight, as if the ribs themselves are holding onto something they shouldn’t, something too large, something too consuming.

“I don’t wanna mess this up more than I already have. I don’t wanna push or expect anythin’ from you - I just wanna do this right. For you.” His voice wavers on the last word, still scared of saying the wrong thing, scared of losing something he only just realized he had. “You understand me?”

You nod wordlessly. Almost feeling hypnotized by him. His eyes are so intense. So full.

“I’ve been waitin’ for this, hopin’ for this - Christ, I don’t even know how long.”

Your stomach flips, something curling in your stomach at the heaviness of his confession, at the realization that you weren’t alone in this. Maybe never have been.

“And now that it’s happenin’ - now that I have you, even if I don’t deserve it - I wanna take my time. I wanna make this good for you. Have to. I have to make this right,” he says, voice filled with something gravelly, rough like something barely holding together.

His fingers slide over your jaw, tracing along the column of your throat, memorizing the feel of you beneath his hands.

“And I hate-” his voice falters, eyes squeezing shut for a moment before he forces himself to look at you again. “I hate that it’s happening like this. That I hurt you first. That I didn’t see this sooner.”

“Bucky-”

He cuts you off with his eyes and a shake of his head.

“Please I- I gotta do this. Gotta say this, baby.”

You nod.

He closes his eyes again for a moment like he wants to go back and shake his past self by the shoulders, tell him to wake the hell up and stop hurting the one girl he ever cared about.

He continues, voice hoarse. “I would do anything to make this different. Better. The way you deserve.”

Your breath is shallow, not quite catching, but hovering just short of where it should be, as if your body can’t decide whether to brace itself for collapse.

You’ve spent so long breaking for him, wanting him in ways he never seemed to want you back. But now he is pouring his heart out and asking for something he already has but isn’t sure he is worthy of.

“You don’t gotta say anythin’ right now, doll,” Bucky whispers. Afraid of scaring you off. “I know I shoulda told you sooner.” He grimaces, disgusted with himself. “I shoulda known sooner. I was so fuckin’ stupid. So fuckin’ blind.”

You don’t even notice you started leaning further into him.

Bucky stares at you for a moment. You look back.

“I don’t deserve you,” he says quietly. Whispers really. He exhales shakily and you feel the breath fan along your cheeks. “But I swear to God, I will.”

You don’t weigh the hurt against the want, don’t let the war in your head talk you out of your next move.

Your hands reach up, curling into the fabric of his shirt and before he can say anything else - before he can tear himself apart further - you kiss him.

And for a split second, Bucky freezes.

Not believing this is happening, not expecting it even after everything he just told you.

But then, he exhales this soft and quivering breath against your lips, relief knocking the air out of his lungs.

One hand flies to your waist, pulling you in, the other threading into your hair. He kisses you back like he is starving, like he has been dying for this, like he can’t believe you are real and this moment is something he’s imagined a thousand times but never thought he’d get to have.

And he is so warm. So solid. His lips move against yours, soft and slow at first - savoring you, afraid to go too fast, to push too much. But when you let out a little sigh and your fingers tighten, Bucky melts, pressing in closer, enveloping you in his arms in a way that has you feeling he tries to make sure you never go anywhere else again.

He breathes you in like you are something holy, tilting your head and deepening the kiss. He is not forceful. He takes what he can get and he cherishes it. Like he said, he wants to take his time with you. It makes you fall in love with him even more.

It’s like he can’t believe you are even letting him have this. But he kisses you with a hope and a determination that this will not be the only time he gets to have this.

And when you pull back again, he rests his forehead against yours once more. You feel the way his chest rises and falls against your own, the way his breath shakes, the way his grip does not loosen at all.

“Jesus, doll,” he rasps, panting. “You tryna kill me?”

And the way he says it, the way he looks at you, so full of longing and desire and relief makes you realize that maybe he’s been suffering just as much as you have.

“I want you. It’s as simple as that. I’ve spent a great deal too much of my life already trying to convince myself that I can make do with less but I can’t. You hear me? I’m done. I’m not giving up. A life without you is not enough.”

- Beau Taplin

[mournthebird]

Broken Texture.

summary: You explore his scars.

warnings: Post!HYDRA Winter Soldier | Post!HTP and abuse | PTSD symptoms & behavior | Flashbacks of HTP | Past dehumanization | Flashbacks of SA | Physical abuse & torture

a/n: This chapter contains flashbacks of active SA and torture.

This chapter is a little heavier than what I try to write on here. I have upcoming works that delve further into the experience and trauma itself that he experiences in HYDRA, so this sort of gives a little bit of insight. I tried not go get super into the darker stuff, but I touched on it enough. One more chapter to go before this series concludes. ;; wc: 4.3k

You were having a hard time sleeping that night.

The soldier lay peacefully beside you, his body completely enveloped in the soft blankets of your bed. He had started spending his nights here some time ago, seeking comfort in your presence, and tonight appeared to be one of his better nights. The usual tension that marked his features had melted away, replaced by a serene expression you rarely witnessed. So far, his sleep remained undisturbed by the nightmares that typically plagued him.

Yet.

Try as you might, there was no denying the deepening affection that had taken root in your heart, even though you wrestled with the appropriateness of these feelings. Every rational thought told you that you shouldn't allow yourself to care for him this way. But your heart refused to listen to reason.

His striking features certainly drew you in, but it was his vulnerability that truly captured your heart. The way he naturally gravitated toward you for support and comfort, the lingering glances he cast in your direction, the unmistakable longing that seemed to radiate from him whenever you were near - it all conspired to send butterflies dancing through your stomach and set your heart racing in your chest.

You needed to keep yourself under control, fighting against every instinct that urged you forward. You wouldn't take advantage of him like this...it was not right, not when he was in such a vulnerable state. This poor man has seen horrors that would've killed most other people - unspeakable torments that haunted him day and night. He lived through a hell on earth, trapped in an endless cycle of pain and manipulation, unable to escape or get away for decades, forced to endure unspeakable treatment.

You had tried multiple times to look back on some of the released tapes once HYDRA fell apart. Your previous attempts to decode their encrypted files had been successful initially, offering glimpses into the darkness, but it seemed that SHIELD had since added multiple layers of enhanced security to the files. Despite your best efforts at bypassing their protocols, you were unable to look back at them to see the full significance of the damage done to him - perhaps that was for the best, given what little you had already uncovered.

Even with the fragments you had seen, nothing could've compared to the reality of it, nothing could've prepared you for the depth of cruelty revealed in those brief glimpses. The images haunted you ever time you looked at him, making you wonder how anyone could survive such systematic torture.

Now, all you could see were the marks of the aftermath, the countless scars that littered his body like a canvas of suffering. Angry marks that raked along his pale flesh, telling stories of countless sessions of torture - some thin and precise, others jagged and brutal, all shapes and sizes, from all kinds of causes. Each scar a moment of agony. The Winter Soldier wasn't as prized as the public thought.

Not with treatment like this - treatment that spoke of casual cruelty and complete disregard for human dignity.

Soldat shifted where he laid, gradually turning to expose his back, revealing not just the jagged, angry scar encircling his prosthetic, but old wounds across his skin. His back told a hushed tale of past violence - long scars stretched in every conceivable direction, creating a complex web of raised tissue. Some ran horizontally like fallen horizon lines, others traced vertical paths like rain trails down a window, while many more crisscrossed chaotically, weaving an intricate pattern of past pain across his flesh.

The scars varied dramatically in their severity. Most appeared as thin, silvery lines etched into his skin, while others had carved deeper channels into his flesh. Some bore evidence of more brutal injuries - wider, more ragged marks where chunks of flesh had been torn away, leaving behind irregular depressions surrounded by clusters of smaller scars, like satellite wounds orbiting larger impacts. The texture of his skin undulated between smooth and rough, each scar telling its own silent story of survival.

You found yourself fighting against an overwhelming compulsion to reach out and trace each line, each mark. Your fingertips practically buzzed with the desire to connect with his scarred skin, to follow the paths of these old wounds with the gentlest touch. A protective instinct churned, as if by touching them you could somehow verify that they were truly healed, that they weren't still causing him pain. Your hands remained at your sides, but they ached with the need to ensure these old battle marks weren't still hurting him.

Your eyes traveled down to where the blanket covered the rest of him, settling just at his waist. Scattered across his exposed skin were singular scars, each one resembling small fireworks frozen mid-burst against his flesh. One particularly deep mark caught your attention - a circular depression in the flesh of his right bicep. Though you weren't an expert in such matters, the puckered edges and distinctive shape strongly suggested a bullet wound had been the cause of it.

Without lack of better self control, you reached out to touch it. Your index finger moved slowly as it grazed over the raised tissue. The scar's texture was a contradiction - tougher than the surrounding skin yet somehow thinner, like paper that had been crumpled and smoothed out again. The sensation defied easy description, being neither entirely smooth nor rough.

The moment stretched like honey, but before your exploring touch could venture further, a cold metal hand suddenly clamped around your wrist. The grip was swift and decisive - the soldier had awoken, his steel blue eyes now fixed intently upon you through the dark curtain of his hair as he twisted to look over his shoulder. While his hold wasn't painful, it communicated an unmistakable command to cease all movement.

"I'm sorry," you began softly, your voice barely above a whisper in the tense silence, "I don't know what came over me..."

The soldier remained motionless for a moment before slowly shifting his body to face you, gradually pushing himself up from his laid position. "What were you doing...?" The question came out as a hush, his voice carrying the gentle roughness of someone recently roused from sleep. Though his tone maintained its characteristic softness and calm, there was an undercurrent of unease that made your heart clench.

The trust between you had grown steadily, becoming something substantial and meaningful, but you understood completely why he would feel unsettled waking up to unexpected touch, especially in such a vulnerable area. Your chest tightened with guilt at the thought of potentially triggering any distressing memories, and you immediately felt the need to clarify your actions, wanting to reassure him.

"I was looking at your scars, I shouldn't have touched you without your permission, I'm sorry for that." Your words came out gentle and measured as you displayed your open palm in a gesture of transparency. "I guess I never noticed just how many you had..." Your voice trailed off, heavy with the weight of what those numerous marks implied about his past.

Soldat's expression remained carefully neutral as he watched you, though you struggled to read beyond that composed exterior. His face had always been like a still lake - calm on the surface, but with depths that held countless unknowable thoughts and emotions swirling beneath.

"You were looking?" He asked, his voice wavering with uncertainty, his expression a mixture of confusion and vulnerability as he tried to understand your intentions. "Why would you...?"

"Curious, I suppose," you replied softly, choosing your words with careful deliberation. "You have so many of them...I couldn’t look away. They're like a map of everything you've endured." Your words carried the weight of honesty - raw and unfiltered. You knew he valued truth above all else, finding comfort and security in it.

His gaze drifted downward to his exposed chest, a slow, contemplative nod accompanying his movement. The scars were countless, their silvery paths weaving across his skin. They weren't confined to just his back - they spread across his chest and traced patterns down his abdomen, wrapped around his arms, and marked his legs…

Everywhere.

Not a single part of him was untouched by violence.

But sometimes...it's the invisible wounds that hurt the most.

Those were the scars that truly defined him, the invisible wounds that continued to bleed long after the physical ones had healed.

The asset's handler, the Командир, had an obsessive fascination with tools that bordered on reverence. His collection was extensive, meticulously maintained, and continuously growing.

He possessed an array of weapons, with firearms holding a special place in his heart, as a true man of the military.

But his true passion lay in implements designed for prolonged torment.

Weapons that could inflict lasting damage without the mercy of death, ones specifically crafted to extract maximum suffering from his victims while keeping them conscious and aware - those were what he cherished most, what he considered his favorites.

He liked ones he could swing; bullwhips that could slice through flesh with practiced precision, cat o' nine tails with their multiple leather strands that maximized pain across a wider area, riding crops that left distinctive welts, and whipping canes that could break skin.

The asset had become intimately acquainted with each one, forced to learn their individual characteristics through repeated exposure. When asked which implement was the most bearable, the asset remained silent - they all brought their own unique brand of agony.

Among his extensive collection, the Командир displayed a particular fondness for canes. His assortment included ones crafted from various materials - sleek fiberglass, traditional rattan, and modified cables. Each one, if used properly, could tear through flesh. He curated this collection with the dedication of a connoisseur, treating each implement as if it were a priceless artifact, maintaining and displaying them with disturbing pride.

"This is one of my better ones," he showed the asset a long, sleek cane, holding it up to catch the harsh fluorescent lighting. The object was pristine and untouched, its polished surface gleaming with an ominous promise, having never yet tasted flesh. The Командир's voice dropped to a lower register, practically purring as he spoke about the damned thing, his eyes glazing with a disturbing anticipation. "It's made from fiberglass, carefully engineered to be both flexible and durable. The craftsmanship is exquisite - made to last through countless sessions."

The asset remained perfectly still as the cane made contact with its exposed back, the cool tip tracing each pronounced ridge of its slightly protruding spine. A familiar emptiness gnawed at its insides, and its stomach released an involuntary growl that seemed deafening in the sterile silence.

The nutrition - if one could call it that - consisted of nothing but mushy, flavorless paste that slid down its throat like tepid wallpaper glue. It yearned desperately for something solid between its teeth, something with any hint of taste or texture to break the monotony of force-fed sustenance.

It couldn't remember what flavor was exactly anymore - those memories had long since been scraped away - but deep in its bones, in some primal part of its being that couldn't be wiped clean, it knew anything had to be better than the endless servings of beige paste that kept it alive but never satisfied.

The Командир roughly pressed down on its head with a calloused hand, forcing the asset forward until it collapsed onto its hands and knees in submission. An involuntary tremor ran through its entire body - the room held a penetrating chill that seemed to seep into its very bones.

While not as severe as the biting cold of the cryochamber, there was still a pervasive coldness that never truly left its body. The harsh concrete beneath offered no comfort, its damp surface making the asset's knees throb with a deep, persistent ache as they pressed against the unforgiving floor.

"Your continued refusal to eat is not only disappointing but shows a profound disrespect for everything we provide you. You display nothing but ingratitude for our care," the Командир's voice dripped with contempt. "If you persist in refusing the food we provide, we will either force the food down your throat, or deny you everything until your body is so desperate for nutrients that we feed you through tubes to keep you operational."

A cruel smile spread across the Командир's features as he towered over the kneeling asset, his eyes glinting with barely contained malicious anticipation.

"However, before we reach that point, immediate correction of this defiant behavior is required..." The sound of the cane cutting through the air as he raised it made the asset flinch involuntarily. "I believe several dozen strokes should help adjust your attitude to something more...cooperative."

The soldier blinked away the haunting memory, his breathing shallow and uneven as the images slowly faded from his mind's eye. The walls of your gentle home helped ground him in reality, though they offered little comfort.

He was safe here, tucked away in this hidden corner of the world, far from that man's reach, from all of them. Yet the very thought that his former handler was still out there somewhere, possibly searching for him, made his stomach twist and churn with a sickening intensity that threatened to overwhelm him.

"What is it?" You asked with gentle concern, your voice barely above a whisper, "Are you having a flashback? You seem distant."

He managed a slow nod, finding himself unable to form words in the aftermath of the memory. It was always like this - the darkness of night seemed to strip away his constructed defenses, leaving him raw and vulnerable. Sleep called to him, promising temporary relief from these thoughts, but he couldn't give in just yet.

His exhaustion mattered not, there was an overwhelming compulsion to respond to your question, to give you the answers you sought. Whether this urge stemmed from decades of conditioning to satisfy or genuine trust, he couldn't be certain. He pushed the thought aside, unwilling to examine it too closely.

"I was shot," Soldat finally spoke, his voice rough and quiet in the darkness. His metal fingers moved up his arm, tracing the scar tissue on his bicep where you had touched moments before. "I...I was too sloppy. Made a mistake. Let the target get a shot off before I could complete the mission."

"How about this one?" You guided your hand carefully to another prominent scar that marked his skin, positioned lower on his abdomen. It was a long, jagged scar that carved a harsh path across his flesh, starting just beneath where his ribcage ended and trailing all the way down to his navel. The raised tissue was pale against his skin, a permanent reminder etched into his flesh. He looked down at it, his throat working as he swallowed hard, watching intently as you delicately traced the length of the scar with your fingertip, following its uneven path.

"Training accident," he muttered back, his voice rough with the memory. "I lost my footing, fell out of position. Left myself wide open - a kill spot. They wanted to make sure I understood what happens when you make mistakes like that in the field." The words came slowly as he recalled how the blade had sliced into him, cutting through layers of flesh and muscle as easily as a heated blade through softened butter. It had been such a clean, effortless cut, going deeper than he'd expected.

Through the haze of shock and pain that followed, he had a distinct memory of being certain he could see his own intestines spilling out, though the fog that had settled over his mind in those moments made it difficult to separate reality from trauma-induced hallucination. Some details remained sharp while others blurred at the edges, lost to the merciful amnesia that sometimes accompanies severe injury.

He felt you touch another one on his chest, his muscles tensing slightly at the contact. "Shrapnel," he said quietly, voice rough with memory.

"Bullet," he continued, each word carrying weight.

"Burn," the word came out harder this time, like the scar tissue beneath your fingertips.

"Punishment," he whispered, the word hanging heavy in the air between you.

You paused hearing that one, your hand hovering uncertainly before carefully lifting away from his back. A sick feeling settled in your gut - you weren't stupid to his mistreatment, you had known it was severe, but hearing him categorize it so clinically as punishment made your stomach twist into knots. The horror of it lay not in the hands of enemies, but in the cruelty of those who claimed to be his allies - though that term felt like ash in your mouth.

"HYDRA did this..." you started, voice catching slightly. "I still can't understand how they'd risk hurting you, you were their most valuable member, their everything." You trailed off, remembering the heavily redacted files you'd managed to access. The fragmentary evidence had painted a chilling picture, but you knew that what you'd seen was merely the surface of an iceberg, with darker depths you could hardly imagine.

"I was not a member...I was an asset. I did not belong with the others...I was....I wasn't..." He trailed away, his voice growing distant as memories flooded back, each one a reminder of how they had systematically stripped away his humanity. Less than human, less than a dog - he was reduced to an object, a tool to be used and discarded, with no purpose beyond absolute obedience and pleasure.

"Get him down, yeah, like that. That goddamn mission took forever, I need this." The familiar, dreaded voice of one of the agents cut through the air as rough hands seized its hair, yanking back with practiced cruelty. That tender spot at the base of its skull throbbed ceaselessly, worn raw from countless similar assaults. The question of resistance had long since faded - the asset never complained, not anymore, not after what such defiance had cost. It only complied.

Over time, it mastered the art of silent submission, learning to bear their brutality without a sound.

Through experience, it discovered the precise moments when tears and pleading would satisfy their darker urges.

It studied and cataloged each man's particular preferences, adapting itself to meet their demands with the efficiency expected of a well-trained asset.

The nauseating taste of bodily fluids had become more familiar than water, each member taking their turn to force themselves upon it. They would comment with sick satisfaction on the shape of its lips when he took another cock in his throat, expressing their twisted pleasure when it choked and struggled. If it showed any sign of adapting or enduring their assault with dignity, they would only escalate and attempt to suffocate it, determined to break it further.

Though each day brought new torments, nothing in its existence could compare to its handler - the one who had taught it the true meaning of ownership.

Your eyes trailed down, catching sight of what appeared to be an intricate carving etched deep into the flesh of his buttocks. You gently guided him to lean on his side, and the marking became starkly visible in the dim light. A scarred letter had been savagely torn through his flesh, the wound clearly inflicted with deliberation. The scar tissue was raised and angry, its pinkish hue standing in stark contrast to his surrounding skin.

R.

"I've had a lot of fun with you," His voice carried a deceptively gentle purr that barely masked the dangerous undertone beneath, its handler still violently buried between its legs. The relentless, agonizing stretch of its unprepared rectum around a cock drew involuntary tears from its eyes.

"But I'm getting bored. You're far too used to this now." He frowned, his expression carrying an almost theatrical disappointment, as though he wasn't destroying the broken soldier before him through calculated torture.

"The director's gonna set off Project Insight, you don't know what that is, do you, babe?" He reached down to pat the asset's tear-stained cheek with mock affection, carefully studying how its eyes had grown dull and glassy, desperately trying to disconnect from the searing pain its handler was causing it. "Nah...not yet. You don't need to know the details anyway, you just do what you're told...like a good little dog. That's all you're good for."

Despite its relentless efforts to maintain composure, its handler exhibited an uncanny talent for escalating the torment with each passing moment, finding increasingly cruel ways to break through its conditioned defenses.

"And with everything kicking off soon...who knows what might happen. Maybe HYDRA will restructure things a bit. Maybe they'll decide they don't need you anymore, and then I can finally take you home...make you into my perfect little obedient slave. Following my every command without question...just like you've always done."

He deliberately drew the blade down its jaw with practiced precision, creating a calculated nick in the flesh. After enduring countless hours of being passed around the base like a piece of equipment, its usually steadfast resilience was beginning to crack under the weight of exhaustion.

It flinched - a tiny, almost imperceptible movement.

It never flinched.

"Oh, so there's still something left in there, hm? Good..." He flashed a predatory grin, his tone taking on an almost playful edge that made the situation even more unsettling. "You know, they might decide to ship you off somewhere else, or put you back in cryo...and I'll never get to see you again. Wouldn't that be absolutely tragic?" Its handler continued his work with the blade, letting it dance across the skin as he made precise, random cuts along the sternum, each one placed in a way that would become irritated once all its straps were secured back on its body.

"Now, how can I ensure you'll never forget exactly who you belong to..."

"Shh, sh, baby...it's just a little blood. Don't worry, I'll patch you up real nice and proper soon..." He held back a chuckle, an eager, horny chuckle that rumbled deep in his chest. His eyes traced over the figure before him with unbridled satisfaction. He couldn't deny just how utterly beautiful his little soldier looked in this state - all bloody and beaten specifically for him, those delicious whimpers and gasps escaping those trembling lips...he absolutely adored being the only one who could reduce the world's greatest assassin down to nothing but this quivering mess beneath his hands.

"I think a brand of sorts will be good enough - something to remember me by." He took the blade, turning it slowly to catch the light, before thrusting it deep into the soldier's yielding flesh - and watched as it nearly bit clean through its tongue trying to suppress any noise of pain. "Stay still for me babe...that's my good little asset. Keep...perfectly...still..."

"M-My....my handler...." He rasped, his voice trembling with barely contained terror, "He..."

"I get it." You interrupted softly, not wanting to force him to relive those memories by explaining. You reached out and pulled the thick covers up over his shivering form, creating a protective cocoon as he instinctively curled into your warmth. Your hand moved in slow, soothing strokes up and down his back, feeling the tension in his muscles and the pattern those long scars made.

The poor man was haunted by someone who could very well be dead... but that uncertainty, that lingering doubt, was perhaps the worst torture of all. You pushed the dark thoughts aside, focusing instead on the present moment. "You're safe here, alright? No more handler or men to do those things to you..." You mumbled, your chest constricting painfully as fragments of imagination painted pictures of what he must have endured.

He nodded weakly, his metal hand shakily grasping your sleep shirt like a lifeline to reality. He wasn’t a weapon right now…he was a scared, tortured man.

His breathing gradually steadied as he inhaled your scent through uneven breaths, letting the soft combination of lavender and oranges wash over him like a calming balm. After a long moment, he whispered, voice small and uncertain, "What if he's alive?"

"Then he won't find you. And if he somehow does, I'm here, and I’ll protect you." You reassured gently, pouring all your conviction into those words. His face scrunched slightly at your response, fear morphing into worried concern.

"He will hurt you..." The words came out as barely more than a breath, heavy with protective anxiety.

"Nope, I'm stronger than you think." You replied with lightness, trying to infuse some comfort into the heavy atmosphere. Your tone was warm but firm, brooking no argument. You didn't want him falling asleep with those horrible memories playing through his mind like a twisted nightmare reel.

He remained quiet after that, allowing himself to focus entirely on your gentle ministrations as you methodically worked your way up and down his back with soothing strokes. Your other hand remained buried in his hair, carefully scratching at that tender spot that had been bothering him for decades. When your nails hit a particularly sensitive area, he winced slightly. "Ow...d-don't..." He began hesitantly, pausing to swallow as he gathered the courage to voice what he truly needed in this moment of vulnerability.

He can voice himself without pain. He can voice his needs without punishment…

He can.

"...could you...rub instead? Please." His voice was barely above a whisper, the request uncertain and fearful.

"Anything you need..." You responded softly as you immediately adjusted your touch, replacing the scratching motion with gentle circular rubbing movements against his scalp.

The change brought immediate relief - no more of the rough yanking that had caused him such distress before, no more of the sharp, biting pain that had plagued him. In its place was only the comfort of your touch, creating a protective barrier between him and the darkness that had been threatening to pull him under into its depths.

He cried quietly, relief in his tears instead of pain.

Dividers by @/strangergraphics

Cover image from Pinterest. I do not claim as my own.

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[babysbreathbabes]

ok what did I literally just say it's not fair to keep doing this the doctor probs will find problems with my heart because God do I love this why is this so good it's not fair their life isn't fair ugh

this earned an immediate follow and I'm going to stalk your entire account now no take backsies

Before I Could Say It

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Synopsis: The three times Bucky almost confessed his love to you, and the one time he finally does.

Word Count: 5.9k

Warning(s): can be read as gn!reader bcs I didn't use any gender-specific words (pls advise me if this isn't true). canon divergence. no use of Y/N. use of the nicknames sugar and sweetheart. insecure thoughts. bucky feeling like he's not good enough. unrequited love (or is it?). alcohol consumption. a bit hurt/comfort. profanities. use of weaponry, including but not limited to guns and knives. depictions of violence, blood, injuries, and murder. (near) death experience. angst. fluff. open ending.

Author's Note: Hii guys. I know I should be focusing all of my energy on Faithfully Yours right now, but I had the idea for this story and just couldn't pass it up!! We have a bit of an open ending here. I wasn't planning on making a part two but I'll see what the general consensus say and will decide whether or not a part two is due from the responses. anywayy hope you enjoy this one xx don't forget to comment, like, and reblog!!

When Bucky tried to think about the beginning, his mind always drew a blank.

It had been five years since the first time destiny orchestrated your paths to cross, six if one were to count the one-year cryogenic sleep that Bucky spent in Wakanda. The Soldat met you first, back when you, Steve, Sam, and Nat fought him on that highway shoot-out that revealed his identity. After that, you were everywhere—in Bucharest with Steve to coax him out of hiding, on the tarmac battle where you went against half of your own family for his sake, and even in Wakanda, where your eyes became one of the last pairs he saw before his body succumbed to the unforgiving clutches of darkness.

And when he was finally woken up, you were there, too, waiting for him.

Since then, Bucky struggled to remember a time when you weren't there. You supervised his deprogramming in Wakanda, becoming Steve's eyes and ears while the Captain roamed the world as both a fugitive and a vigilante. When the Sokovia Accords turned void, and the scientists in Wakanda assured Bucky that his mind wasn't going to betray his heart anymore, you took him back to New York, offering solace in the form of your warmth pressing against his side on the plane ride to the States. 

Even once the two of you landed on the compound's grounds, you never strayed too far—standing between Bucky and a begrudging Tony as if you were ready to launch yourself forward should the billionaire try to do anything untoward. As if the ruthless Winter Soldier needed a human shield to prevent him from shattering into fragile little pieces.

Before Bucky knew it, his entire routine—his entire life—became you.

From your morning spar sessions in the gym, the long walks around Brooklyn in the afternoon, to the weekly movie nights that you roped him into in the name of reacquainting him with pop culture—everything in Bucky’s life started to shape and smell like you. 

It was a constant. 

You were Bucky’s new constant.

And somewhere along the way, Bucky’s little troublemaker of a heart decided, once and for all, to anchor itself to yours.

True to his fashion, Steve was the first person to notice. All of the lingering touches and longing glances, the hard-etched lines of Bucky’s countenance that seemed to soften every time you were near—they spoke of an affection beyond a mere loyalty one might harbor for their teammate. It spoke of love, one that was so unadulteratedly pure and raw that Steve was sure there was no room left in the crevices of Bucky’s heart where a piece of you didn’t reside in.

“You’ve gotta say something, Buck,” Steve said to Bucky one evening.

The two of them were standing in the convention hall of a lavish hotel deep in the heart of Manhattan, surrounded by a guestlist of people that Bucky was assured were some of the most influential figures of the twenty-first century. People tried to swarm him since the moment he entered the party, shoving business cards to his face and dropping names that Bucky knew should have meant something to him. He paid none of them any mind—not when his eyes immediately found you in that sea of ties and ball gowns, just like a moth enticed to a flame.

You were all dolled up for the night, wearing a fancy little number that screams you if only with a little bit of additional sparkles sprinkled on top. Bucky watched you move through the ocean of people, confidence oozing out of every step, a blinding smile as you received each handshake with an indisputable poise. Bucky’s head whipped towards your direction at every echo of laughter, searching for the source, drinking in your infectious glee as if it were the only way to sustain the rhythmic beating of his heart.

Bucky shifted in his feet, Steve’s unprompted advice forcing him to tear his eyes away from where you were standing by Natasha’s side. The blond beside him smiled knowingly, a teasing yet sincere tilt in his voice as he added, “You’ve gotta tell at some point, pal. Better sooner rather than later.”

The line in Bucky’s jaw ticked. He brought the glass of champagne to his lips, tipping the drink back as though the liquid stood a chance against his enhanced metabolism. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Steve rolled his eyes. “Buck.”

“Punk.”

The Captain sighed, reaching for a drink of his own. “At least ask for a dance, will you?”

Before Bucky could register what was happening, Steve had shoved Bucky forward, sending him stumbling forth towards the direction of your canorous laughter. Steve hid his amused smile behind his drink when Bucky flipped him the finger, the latter continuing his steps on wobbly feet, trying to ignore the pounding travelling up his bloodstreams.

“Hey, Bucky,” you greeted as soon as he had reached you. The smile on your face could rival the sun even on its brightest day, and Bucky prayed to every divine being in the universe that he could be on the receiving end of that smile for the rest of his days.

“Barnes.” Natasha nodded. 

“Hey, guys. What’s up?” Bucky attempted a smile, tugging at the ridiculous material of his bow tie that Tony had insisted him to wear. In fact, Tony was the one who forced Bucky to attend this whole shindig in the first place—something about showing a united front to prove to the public that there was no bad blood within the Avengers’ team. 

It was a shit ton of bullshit, in Bucky’s opinion.

But at least, the party gave him a chance to see you all dressed up to the nines.

“Nothing much.” You shrugged, tilting your head slightly to the side. “Did you need something?”

“No. I mean, I do. I was, um, wondering—” Bucky cleared his throat, “—I actually wanted to see if you’d care to join me for a dance?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Bucky saw Natasha’s eyes widen slightly. The redhead immediately scurried to the side, feigning interest in the tower of chocolate fondue just a couple of feet away.

Bucky’s heart nearly leaped out of his chest when you extended your palm towards him. “I would love to, Buck. Lead the way.”

Your fingers emitted warmth inside his hand, and for a moment, Bucky faltered. He kept his composure enough to guide you through the sea of couples on the dancefloor, willing the erratic thumping in his chest to quieten down as he pulled you flush against his body. The scent of your perfume slithered through the air, filling Bucky’s lungs, attacking each part of his senses until everything Bucky saw, heard, smelled, and felt was you.

“You look beautiful tonight, Sugar.”

The admission tumbled from his lips before Bucky had a chance to stop them, before he could thoroughly process the implications of such candor. You didn’t seem to mind, though. Instead, your persistent smile widened ever so slightly, your eyes twinkling under the glimmering lights of the chandelier hanging from the ceiling.

“Why, you look plenty dashing yourself, Bucky.” You hummed appreciatively, raking your eyes up and down Bucky’s suit-clad figure. “I must say, I was sad to see your long hair gone, but this looks great as well.”

Your fingers skimmed the hard contour of Bucky’s shoulder, leaving goosebumps on their wake, before sneaking through the short tendrils on the nape of his neck. He fought off a groan at the contact, the heavenly feeling of your fingers tugging at his hair sending shivers all throughout his body. Meanwhile, you were still smiling up at him all sweetly, completely oblivious to the rush of heat that you delivered through Bucky’s entire being.

“Sugar,” the nickname fell off Bucky’s lips in a low grunt, and for the first time that night, your composure staggered. 

Your breath hitched around a squeak when Bucky managed to tug you closer, circling his arms around your waist until there was barely room for air between both of your bodies. All around you, the world ceased to exist. The only thing that remained were your bated breaths, a raucous disruption through the electric field buzzing between where you and Bucky were pressed against one another. 

“I need to tell you something,” Bucky revealed, his voice low and sheer, stripped by unease and something akin to fear. 

Your forehead furrowed, undoubtedly sensing the trepidation shining out of the blue of Bucky’s eyes. “What’s the matter, Buck?”

Your palm landed on his stubbled cheek, and Bucky had to fight the urge to lean in, to chase more of your warmth like you were an oasis in the middle of his desert of a life. He grappled for the confession to come, for the feelings in his chest to solidify into something comprehensible. All Bucky had to do was open his mouth and seize the moment.

But just as quickly as it had arrived, the moment splintered through his fingertips.

“Good evening, everyone!”

Bucky's whole body jerked in surprise, his accusatory eyes instantly finding the MC standing on the stage at the front of the room. The music had stopped, replaced by the MC's welcoming remarks addressed towards a dozen supposedly prominent names that Bucky couldn't care less about.

“Hey, let's go find a seat,” you suggested, circling your tender fingers around Bucky's wrist before leading him through the maze of tables.

The two of you sat down just in time for Tony to deliver his opening speech as a representative of the Avengers. You glanced at Bucky in the middle of Tony's heartfelt sentiment about “shaping the future”, your hand finding Bucky's flesh one on his thigh, unaware of the kind of turmoil you have summoned from a single touch.

“You okay, Bucky?” you asked, squeezing his hand. “What was it that you wanted to tell me?”

I wanted to tell you that I love you, Bucky's heart echoed. I don't know when it started, and I don't know how, all I know is that you're every good thing that I have going on in my life.

Bucky's throat tightened.

He never ended up saying the words out loud. Instead, he smiled thinly. “It's not important, sweetheart. I'll tell you later.”

You assessed him curiously before offering him a small smile and directing your attention back towards the stage. Bucky sighed in the aftermath, feeling the wild beating of his heart settled to a normal one.

And just like that, the truth died on the tip of his tongue.

Weeks passed, and between countless briefings, missions, and reports, Bucky was forced to push all matters concerning his heart to the side. It wasn't easy, not when you occupied every facet of Bucky's otherwise monotone life. Every waking moment was a painful reminder that you were always within reach, but never close enough for him to have.

Following a successful infiltration into an illegal bio-weapon factory in the outskirts of Poland, the team had landed their jet on one of the safehouse grounds somewhere near the border of Poland and Germany. Natasha and Clint disappeared inside the house immediately upon landing, while Sam and Steve stayed on the quinjet to go over a few intels they had managed to gather from the factory.

Bucky's boots scraped softly against the grass as he crossed the distance towards the small lake just a few yards left to the safehouse. The surrounding trees rustled in the wind, a symphony of reds and oranges beneath the solemn autumn sky. On the shore of the lake, Bucky found you sitting, a rare serene look on your face as you closed your eyes to welcome the impending breeze.

“Hi, Bucky,” you greeted, eyes still shut tightly.

“How'd you know it was me, Sugar?”

“I always know when it's you.”

The moment your eyes opened, Bucky's heart stuttered in its cage. The smile you rewarded him was soft, embellished with a tenderness that a man of his repute would never deserve. He knew he should have looked away, but the selfish part of him wanted to hold your stare in place, to relish in your kindness no matter how much he believed he wasn't worthy of it.

“Come on, sit with me.”

You patted the ground next to you, and Bucky obeyed without further questions. He lowered himself on the grass, damp from the lingering chill of autumn air, and stretched his legs out. For a while, neither of you spoke, opting to enjoy the sound of water lapping lazily against the shore, a stark tranquility to the horrors you faced during the mission earlier.

The sky dimmed a tad darker as the sun ducked behind the cover of trees, leaving behind streaks of purple and gold on the horizon. Beside him, you heaved out a sigh, the remnants of sun casting your skin in an ethereal glow.

“Sometimes I wish moments like this could last forever,” you murmured.

Bucky's eyes slid towards you, studying the contours of your face like a historian would an ancient scripture. His fingers twitched, itching to feel every soft and hard edge of your features under the brush of his touch. 

You're the only thing in this world I want forever with.

The words resonated in his head and all the way down to his chest, settling like stone sinking underwater, slow and heavy. He almost said it out loud—nearly laid his heart bare for you to judge and scrutinize. But at last, he fabricated a grin and nudged his shoulder playfully to yours.

“You always get sentimental when you're tired,” he joked.

You laughed heartily at his jab, a melodic thing that wrested at every coil of Bucky's heartstrings. The two of you proceeded to watch the sunset together, the silence stretching between you, warm and comfortable. The sky burned in more explosions of hues, casting its reflection upon the lake like a dream neither of you dared to disturb. 

If Bucky were a braver man, a better man—one that wasn't weighed down by his history and remorse—maybe he would have told you. Maybe, in another life, Bucky would have charmed you at first sight, claiming you as his before the day could even end. But for now, Bucky was glad to settle for this—for sharing a quiet moment with you, and to bask in your company as though he were worthy of even a fraction of your attention.

For now, Bucky would let the four-letter word wither inside him, locked in a hidden fissure somewhere within his chest, keeping it safe from ever seeing any light of day.

Days flew by, and it was getting increasingly harder for Bucky to ignore the way his heart gravitated towards yours, to ignore the fact that you were always the first person he searched for in the morning and the last one he wanted to talk to before falling asleep. To pretend like the mere mention of your name didn't send a jolt that revived his entire being. Every single day was a battle between wish and logic—the unruly desire to make you his, and the rational reluctance of dragging you into the mess that was his life.

“This is getting ridiculous, Buck,” Steve said as he leaned back against the bar right next to Bucky, following the latter's eyesight to find you standing at the end of it. “You're just gonna avoid it forever? An eternal silent treatment? The two of you need to talk, whether you like it or not.”

Bucky inhaled a long breath, swirling the Asgardian mead in his glass without ever taking his eyes off you. It was your birthday—a joyous occasion that called for this merry yet intimate celebration with the entire team. The common room of the compound had been transformed into something warm and inviting, lit by the soft glow of string lights draped along the walls. A cake sat on the counter, half-eaten, its candles long blown out, but the remnants of your laughter from when you made your wish still lingered in the air.

From across the room, Bucky watched as Sam teased you about getting older, earning the bird-man a playful swat on his arm. Wanda handed you a small, neatly wrapped gift, and your eyes lit up in a way that made Bucky’s chest ache. He didn’t know what was in the box. He didn’t really care. All he knew was that he wanted to be the reason behind that breathtaking smile of yours.

And then, your eyes lifted.

The eye contact was fleeting. Brief. Gone by the time Bucky realized what was happening and forced his gaze away. Even then, Bucky still caught the hint of surprise as your eyes found his, replaced almost immediately by a longing that Bucky understood all too well. It clutched onto his heart, sinking its sharp nails until the life organ in his chest was bruised and brutally torn apart.

The Captain sighed. “You're being an idiot, pal.”

Bucky knew Steve was right—he was being an idiot. A coward, even. It was his own damn foolishness that had kept him avoiding you for weeks, skipping your morning spars, slipping out of any room you occupied before you could even notice his presence. All because he couldn’t handle the feelings that had taken root in his chest, the one that was growing stronger by the minute, infiltrating deeper into his system every time you so much as looked his way.

The party was still in full swing by the time Bucky decided to retire for the night, forgoing the goodbyes, heading straight to the elevator that took him back to his quarters. It was a few hours later when a clumsy knock sounded against his door, breaking through the quiet that had settled in his room.

“Sugar?”

Bucky's hand clenched around the door handle, his eyebrows knitting together at the sight of you in front of his bedroom.

“Hi, Buckyyy,” you greeted, your words slurring into uncontrollable giggles.

 Understanding dawned on Bucky's shoulders. “Sweetheart, are you drunk?”

“Am not!” You huffed, pushing past a stunned Bucky to enter the bedroom. 

You looked around for a moment, humming to yourself every time you came across a familiar token that decorated Bucky's room. There was a photo of you and him on the nightsand, a sketch of the Brooklyn Bridge courtesy of Steve hanging on the wall, and a few vinyl records stacked neatly on the shelf, gifted by various members of the team. At last, your steps halted beside the bed, and without a warning, you dove head first into the mattress, chuckling to yourself as you attempted to make snow angels with his blankets.

“This is sooo niceee,” you mused, burying youself deeper into one of Bucky's pillows. “Smells like you, Buck.”

The super soldier tried not to dwell too much on the sight of you lying on his bed, looking like you had always belonged in the same place that Bucky took his rest. A shiver ran down Bucky's spine as he closed the door behind him, his feet quiet against the carpeted floor before he took a tentative seat on the edge of the bed.

“Sugar?” Bucky took your shoulders in his grasp, turning you around until his eyes locked with yours. His heart staggered. “You wanna get back to your room? I could take you.”

His offer made you sit up in seconds, so fast that Bucky feared you might have given yourself a whiplash. He stared at you as your lips trembled, your whole body turning away from him until you were just a breadth out of his reach.

His fingers contracted in grief.

“Hey, Sugar? What's—”

“Why do you hate me?”

Silence.

Bucky's forehead creased in confusion.

“Hate you?” Bucky tasted the accusation on his tongue—the word being so foreign and farfetched from anything he could associate with you that Bucky had to wonder if he had misheard what you spoke. “Sweetheart, I don't hate you.”

“Liar.” You scoffed, scooting towards the foot of the bed, seemingly adamant to draw as much distance as possible between Bucky and yourself. “You have been avoiding me for weeks. You don't want to talk to me, or do anything with me. You hate me.”

Bucky blinked, stunned into momentary silence before shaking his head as if trying to rid himself of the sheer absurdity of your words. “That’s not true,” he murmured, his voice rough with something that sounded dangerously close to regret.

You laughed at his response—a wry, sarcastic laugh that was void of even the smallest hint of your usual warmth. “Then what other possible reason could you have for avoiding me, Bucky? Hm?” Your head turned towards him, and for the first time that night, Bucky finally saw the telltale sign of tears in your eyes, a glassy sheen that erased any remnant of the wits that Bucky had grown to know and love.

His stomach churned.

Guilt was eating at him alive. He couldn't believe that his stupidity had caused this—that he had hurt you due to his own incapability of controlling his emotions. Bucky didn't know what he was thinking when he decided that the best course of action would be to completely evade you, but he certainly didn't think that it would result in this.

With you, sitting on his bed, crying your eyes out while simultaneously breaking Bucky's heart in the process.

Bucky exhaled sharply, as if the weight of his own remorse was pressing down on his chest. He couldn't stand it—the way your shoulders quivered, the way you tried so desperately to keep your composure together as tears welled in your eyes.

"Sweetheart," he rasped, reaching for you, his fingers hesitant at first before firming in resolve. "I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry.”

You stiffened at his touch, your lips parting as if to protest, but Bucky was already pulling you into his embrace, holding you tightly against the muscular panes of his chest. His hands skimmed soothingly along your back, whispers of sweet nothings falling from his lips as he rocked you in the safety of his arms.

“I don't hate you, Sugar,” he murmured, voice shattering around the edges. “I've never hated you. How could I?”

How could I hate you when you are the only source of light I have remaining in this world? How could I hate you when loving you is the only thing about my life that I am absolutely certain of?

Your breath hitched against his shoulder, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. “Bucky—”

“Shh,” he soothed, pressing his lips to your temple in a featherlight touch. “Just let me hold you, okay?”

Slowly, he guided the both of you down onto his bed, his arms never loosening from where they were wrapped around your body. His heartbeat thumped steadily beneath your cheek, his fingers drawing lazy patterns against your back. The tension in your body melted bit by bit with each gentle word, the rise and fall of his chest lulling you into something softer—something safe.

“Don't ever do that to me again,” you warned shakily. “Promise me.”

Bucky's hold around you tightened. “I promise.”

“Good.” You sighed, exhaustion wearing down every inch of your bones. “You're my favorite person, Bucky.”

The admission pierced Bucky's chest like a lightning strike. He knew he should not have read too much into it, that the revelation was nothing more than a drunken slip of tongue that you probably would not even remember in the morning. But for now, Bucky chose to let that little detail slide, to let himself pretend that the confession had been made with more purposeful intent behind it—that the words had meant as much to you as it did to Bucky.

"Sleep, sweetheart," he whispered, his lips brushing against your forehead. "I've got you."

Since that night in his bedroom, Bucky had made a vow: he wasn't going to run anymore.

Bucky had learned his lesson. He wasn't going to let his own fears dictate his actions, nor would he allow his emotions ruin the precious friendship he had built with you over the past few years. Whatever he felt—whatever torment clawed at his chest whenever you so much as looked his way—it was his burden to bear. You didn't deserve to suffer for his cowardice, and he swore to himself that he would never let it happen again.

That thought lingered in Bucky's mind as he moved stealthily through the abandoned industrial site, gun drawn, boots scraping silently against the cracked concrete floor. The mission was straightforward: take out remaining hostiles, extract any valuable intel, and regroup. Simple. A basic in and out job that would be done just in time for dinner.

The team had split into pairs, and as fate would have it—or rather, as Steve would have it—Bucky found himself assigned to the west wing of the site alongside you. The direct channel to your comms in Bucky’s earpiece was quiet, and the super soldier took it as a good indication that your side of the mission was going smoothly. Meanwhile, he swept through his own side of hallways with methodical precision, checking every room, muttering a curt “clear” to his comms for each canvassed area. 

The air was eerie with cold and mold when Bucky entered the last remaining room in the hallway. There was nothing particularly different about this one. It was just as empty and as menacing, smelling of rat’s piss and years of abandonment, though his seasoned instinct—one sculpted from years of fighting and survival—warned him that something was amiss. His fingers tightened around his weapon almost instinctively, feeling an immediate unease venture up his spine, raising the very hair on the back of his neck.

The silence was too perfect.

Bucky’s feet skidded to a stop, turning on his heel to retrace his steps back towards the entrance.

Then, it happened.

The ambush struck like lightning on water. One second Bucky was alone, and the next, shadows had flooded the room, faceless figures in tactical gears leaping towards him at the same time. They were fast and ruthless, and even though none seemed to possess enhanced abilities, Bucky was still outnumbered. He dodged the first three attackers easily enough—disarming the blade from the first assailant’s hand, ducking out of the swinging baton of the second’s, and rolling on the floor before redirecting the third one’s bullet with the palm of his vibranium arm.

Bucky dashed out of the room into the one right across, the group of attackers still hot on his tail. He ducked behind a metal table and started opening fires at the entrance, taking out the threats before they even got the chance to enter the room. A curse fell under his breath when Bucky realized that he had worked through his rounds, scrambling to replace the ammunition as footsteps thundered into the room.

Slamming the fresh magazine in place, Bucky inhaled a gearing breath, only to be met with a sudden hush that descended through the air.

He raised his gun.

Instead of finding himself at the end of numerous gun barrels, Bucky was granted the view of bodies scattered all over the floor. The tang of iron meshed detestably with the spoor of grime, fog swirling around the edge of Bucky’s adrenaline-honed mind. When the dust finally stifled, his focus immediately zeroed in on the figure standing amidst the wreckage, rising out of the smoke like a doomsday’s salvation.

“Hi, handsome.” You smiled around a heavy exhale, a crinkle in your eye that seized the very life out of Bucky’s lungs. “Miss me?”

Bucky let out a rough breath, somewhere between relief and admiration. The grip around his weapon slackened ever so slightly, his body still thrumming with fight-and-flight, though the sight of your beautiful smile had managed to wash him with the kind of serenity that no other person could compel.

“Was wondering when you’d show up, sweetheart,” Bucky said, rising from his makeshift fortress behind the table.

“Sorry, Sarge.” You hummed, casually brushing the dust off Bucky’s shoulder as though the contact didn’t send him skyrocketing to heaven. “You know I like to keep people on their toes.”

Bucky failed to suppress his grin, nudging your shoulder as the two of you headed towards the entrance. With the hostiles neutralized, and the information uploaded to the flash drive discreetly tucked in the safety of Bucky’s inside pocket, the two of you were prepared for extraction. He redirected his comms to the main channel, alerting the other team members that the two of you were ready to wrap up and get the hell out of this dismal place.

He was barely a foot out of the door when a loud bang resonated in the air.

In a split second, Bucky sprung in retaliation, taking aim at one of the bloody assailants on the ground that had somehow taken hold of a gun, Bucky’s finger pulling at his own weapon’s trigger, assassinating him in place.

The silence that followed was deafening.

Bucky’s heart throbbed in his throat, a silent prayer on his lips at how close of a call it had almost been. His gaze took a quick scan of the pile of bodies on the floor, making sure that none of them would pull a similar stunt, only allowing his shoulders to deflate when he saw no remaining signs of life.

“Bucky?”

Your voice barely reached him, thin despite the echoic air of this dingy site, but something inside Bucky twisted the moment he heard it.

When he turned, the initial relief that had flooded his chest instantly collapsed.

You were standing there, just a breadth out of reach with your gun still tightly clutched between your fingers. But the side of your neck—God, the side of your neck—was slick with red, thick and dark as it ran in angry runnels down your skin, staining the collar of your tactical gear, pooling on your shoulder and drenching everything it touched.

Your whole body swayed.

Bucky’s heart dropped to the pit of his stomach.

“No, no, no—” he rasped as he caught you, arms winding around your frame to prevent you from hitting the floor. His knees slammed onto the cold concrete below as he cradled you against his chest, the tremble in his body betraying the steel he was supposed to be made out of.

Bucky blinked, willing this moment to splinter into a dream, willing for his body to be transported back into the comfort of his bedroom where the scene playing out in front of his eyes would be nothing more than a heinous nightmare. But as Bucky’s arms tightened around your limp figure, the awful, gut-wrenching truth settled like ice in his veins. 

This was real. 

The blood seeping through your gear wasn’t imagined. The faint hitch in your breath, the loss of color from your face, the sheer terror clawing its way up his throat—none of it was a dream.

His chest crashed.

“Hey, hey. I got you, Sugar.” His voice cracked as he pressed a palm against your wound, despairingly staunching the warmth from slipping through his fingers. But no matter how hard he was grasping, the blood just kept on flowing—too fast and too much—soaking his hands and every corner of his battered soul.

“Shit. Stay with me, sweetheart. Please,” he begged. “Steve! Nat! Somebody get here now!” he barked into his earpiece, nails digging deeper into your skin. “We need a medic! We need a—fuck—just get down here!”

You made a sound, somewhere between a gasp and a whimper, your breath warm against his cheek as you murmured, “I-It’s gonna… gonna be o-okay.”

It was a lie.

You both knew it.

And it destroyed him. 

“Don’t do that.” Bucky shook his head, his voice cracking around a choked sob. He forced a smile as he looked down at your pale face. “You always suck at lying.”

Your lips parted, the faintest ghost of a smile trying to make its way through, only to be interrupted by a wet cough that made Bucky’s chest cave in.

“Gotta stay with me, sweetheart. Please,” Bucky whimpered. “The team’s coming. Help is on the way. Just gotta hang in there a little more for me, yeah? Just a little longer. Please.”

Bucky wasn’t entirely sure to whom he was begging—whether it was you, the universe, or any higher divine power that might have heard his wretched prayer and taken pity on him. A man who had lost everything and asked for nothing, who was now asking for someone—anyone—to save the only thing in this world that made his life worth living, even if it meant having to sacrifice his soul in exchange.

Your hand reached out tentatively, shakily, gripping the strap of his tactical jacket and giving it the faintest tug. 

“Bucky,” you whispered, voice dissipating like a wisp of smoke as soon as you had uttered his name. Your eyes, glassy and unfocused, searched for his, and when they finally found him, a weak smile curved at your lips. “I love you.”

A sound tore from his throat, raw and full of despair. His forehead dropped against yours, his entire body rupturing under the weight of your words.

“I love you.” Bucky’s voice stammered. “God, I love you—I love you, sweetheart, I love you so much.” He pressed his lips against your clammy forehead, again and again, as though he could tether you here, as though his love alone could be enough to keep you from slipping away.

He should have been happy—should have felt something else other than this hollow, scorching agony. The person of his dreams, the one he had spent sleepless nights longing for, had just made the one admission that his heart had been wanting to hear, and yet, all he could do was break. His whole being perished under the weight of everything left unsaid, every moment wasted, every regret carving him open from the inside out.

He should have told you sooner.

God, he should have just told you—should have braced past his insecurities and found the courage somehow, should have showered you with every drop of love he had neatly stowed in his heart until he was shriveled and had no else to give. He should have bought you flowers everyday, let you know that you were the most beautiful person Bucky had ever met on this goddamn planet—because you deserved it.

You deserved everything.

Not this.

Not bleeding on the filthy floor of this desolate place, fighting off death that had bludgeoned its way right through your door.

“You’re gonna be okay, Sugar. We’re getting out of here, you hear me?” His breath stuttered, his grip tightening as if he could physically gather all of your fragmented pieces and mend you as new. “I’m gonna treat you so good. You’ll see. Gonna spoil you rotten like I ought to. Just—please, just hold on—”

Your fingers twitched against his chest. Your eyes fluttered.

A quivering breath left your lips before your body went completely limp.

Bucky stilled.

“Sugar?”

Nothing.

No soft inhale. No faint murmurs of response.

No squeeze of your fingers against his jacket.

Bucky’s entire world came crashing down in the blink of an eye.

“No. No, no, no, no—”

His hand cupped your face, blood smearing from his skin to yours. Bucky’s fingers trembled as he tapped your cheek, as if the action alone could keep you here, could bring you back to him. His breathing ceased, his whole body shuddering as he rocked you in his arms, your name tumbling over and over again from his lips like a prayer, like a curse, like a plea to the universe to undo everything, to give him one more chance, to take him instead.

“Come back to me,” he whispered, his face wet with the fractured shards of his heart. “Please.”

The only thing that acknowledged him was silence.

And Bucky Barnes had never hated the quiet more.

[sergeantbarnessdoll]

Hiii!🩷I have an aangsty idea if you're feeling up to it!:)))

Bucky and reader are a couple,and they are generally happy and healthy,but sometimes Bucky gets emotionally distant because he still is working on communicating his emotions.He is away on a particularly rough mission,which reminds him a lot of his time in Hydra so he neglects calling you and when he does,he is kinda cold and doesn't speak much.You know him very well,so don't take it personally,but you try to reach him and get him to open up.Bucky doesn't respond well to that.He wants to let you in,but he doesn't know how and that frustrates him.Reader is chronically ill and has to do a last minute operation,and calls to tell Bucky.However,you hear how unwell he is,and you focus on that at first,trying to get him to talk to you.This time though,he snaps,lashing his pent up frustration are you.You end up hurt by his words,and coldly hang up without telling him about the surgery.Later on you decided to send him a small text to inform him about it,so he won't get worried that you won't be responding to his calls for a few days.Bucky ignores his phone for the night but he wakes up in the morning and regrets his attitude.When he sees your text,he freaks out,feeling even more guilty.He knows you won't be able to respond,but spends the next 2 days texting you,apologizing and telling you how much he loves you.He ends up asking Steve to cover him up to leave earlier from the mission,and comes to find you.He comes to your apartment,where your best friend is keeping you company while recovering.He rushes to your bedroom and finds you sleeping.After you wake up,you end up talking about it,and get some fluffy cuddles

Working On His Emotions » Bucky Barnes/Winter Soldier

Pairings: Boyfriend!Bucky Barnes x Girlfriend!Reader

Summary: Bucky lashes out on you while he’s on the phone with you and feels bad afterwards. When he finds out you’re getting surgery, he goes home and tells you how much he loves you and apologizes to you.

Warnings: Angst, Fluff, language, Avenger!Bucky, mentions of HYDRA, crying, surgery, kissing, pet names

A/N: Thank you for the request, nonnie🩵

Written on my phone. My apologies for any mistakes.

Header made by @buck-star

GIF IS NOT MINE! Gif credit goes to the creator.

You and Bucky have been dating for a year. For as long as you known him, he’s always struggled with communicating with his emotions, but he always shows how much he loves you. The ways he shows you he loves you is, telling you how much he loves you, hugs and kisses, and flowers.

Recently, Bucky has been distant emotionally. He’s currently away on a mission. He always tries to call and text you when he can, but this time around, he’s been neglecting on doing that. If he’s not busy with the mission, then his phone is probably dead. You don’t always expect him to call and text you when he’s busy, which you understand. You got excited when he finally called you.

“Hi, baby!” You say excitedly.

“Hi, doll.” Bucky says with no emotion in his voice.

“Are you ok, Bucky?” You asked softly.

“I’m fine. Why wouldn’t I be?” He asks.

“I just want to make sure you’re ok. You know you can tell me anything.” You say, trying to get him to open up.

“I’m fine. How many times do I need to say it?” He says harshly.

You took his harsh tone as him being tired from the mission so you didn’t take it personally.

“Do you want to hear about my day?” You asked.

“You’re going to tell me anyway.” Bucky says.

You told Bucky everything about your day, starting with how much you miss him being next to you when you woke up this morning to what you’re going to make for dinner tonight. As you were talking, Bucky’s mind drifted. He was thinking about rough this mission has been and how much it reminds him of HYDRA.

“Are you still there, baby?” You asked.

“Yes.” Bucky says with annoyance in his voice.

Usually when Bucky is away on missions, he tries to tell you how much he loves and misses you and he can’t wait to come home. You did most of the talking this time. The answer he gave you were “Uh huh” each time you said something.

“Doll?” Bucky speaks up for the first time in a few minutes.

“Yes, baby.” You asked.

“I’m tired. I’m going to lay down and rest.” He says.

“Oh ok. I-” Bucky hung up before you could tell him you love him.

You didn’t take it personally. You could hear the tiredness in his voice. Bucky sighs and drops his phone on the hotel bed. He lays down and rubs his hands against his face.

“Why am I like this?” Bucky says to himself out of frustration.

Bucky hates that he’s doing this to himself and you. He wanted to tell you how much he loves and misses you, but something in him isn’t letting him and it’s frustrating him. He just wants this mission to be over with so he can go home to you.

———

Bucky hasn’t made an effort to call and text you since you and him talked on the phone, which was a couple days ago. In the same couple days, you haven’t been feeling good. At first, you assumed you were coming down with a stomach bug or something like that, but something didn’t feel right. So you went to the doctor to make sure it wasn’t anything serious, in which it is. Your doctor told you that you have to get surgery, which you don’t want to do, but you have to if you want to feel better. You called Bucky as soon as you got admitted to the hospital, but he didn’t answer. So you just kept calling him until he answered. You felt relieved when he finally answered his phone so you can tell him what’s going on with you.

“I’m busy.” Bucky says harshly.

“I know. I’ll try to make it quick.” You say.

“Whatever it is, it can wait.” He says.

“No it can’t.” You say.

“Not everything is about you, Y/N!” He snaps. “What do you not understand about the word busy? Or are you too stupid to understand that? When I say I’m busy, I’m busy. You can wait to tell me whatever you need to tell me later or when I get home. Knowing you, you’ll mostly likely talk so much that you don’t know how to shut the fuck up.” He says really harshly.

Your eyes teared up. Bucky has never talked to you like that. Everything he said hurt your feelings.

“What? You don’t have anything to say now?” Bucky says sarcastically.

You hung up on him and dropped your phone on your lap and started crying softly. Bucky rolled his eyes when you hung up on him. You decided to relax now and text him about your surgery later.

Bucky🩵: I know you’re busy so I’ll keep it short. I found out I have to get surgery and I wanted to let you know how much I love you🩵

You sent the text and sighed as you shut off your phone. Bucky groans loudly when you texted him. He didn’t bother reading the text. He decided to stay off his phone for the rest of the night and went to bed.

Bucky felt instant regret when he woke up in the morning. He didn’t mean to say those harsh words to you. He’s just frustrated with himself that he can’t communicate with his emotions. He grabbed his phone and turned it on. He seen a text from you. His eyes went wide and his heart thudded against his chest when he read it.

“N-No.” Bucky says to himself.

Over the next two days, Bucky has been blowing up your phone with apologies and how much he loves you. He couldn’t focus on the mission. The only thing on his mind is if you’re ok or not.

“Steve, I have to go home. Y/N needs me.” Bucky says.

“Is she ok?” Steve asks.

“I don’t know. Y/N texted me a couple days ago and told me she got surgery. She’s not texting me back. I need to know that she’s alive and well.” Bucky says.

Go ahead and go home. I’ll cover for you. Let me know how she is.” Steve says.

Bucky grabbed his bag from the hotel and immediately made his way home. It took him about a day for him to get home, due to how far the mission was. He went straight to your apartment. He unlocked the door with the key you gave him. Your best friend was walking out of your bedroom at the same time Bucky walked inside of your apartment.

“How is she?” Bucky asks.

“She’s in pain, but she has pain medicine and is sleeping.” Your best friend tells him.

“Why did she need to get surgery?” He asks.

“She didn’t tell you what kind of surgery she was getting?” She asks.

“No.” He says.

“She got her appendix taken out.” She tells him.

Bucky’s heart dropped to the pit of his stomach. He feels even more guilty now. If he wasn’t harsh to you on the phone, he wouldn’t known sooner and would’ve came home right away.

“I got it from here.” Bucky tells her.

“Ok. Let me know if either of you need anything.” Your best friend says before leaving.

Bucky went to your bedroom to see you sleeping peacefully. He quietly shut your bedroom door and went to the living room. He sat down on the couch and started crying softly. He feels like the most horrible boyfriend in the world. He hates himself for it. He doesn’t know how long he was crying when he heard you call out for your best friend. Bucky wipes his tears away before checking on you. You were surprised to see him when he opened your bedroom door.

“Bucky?” You asked.

“Hi, doll.” Bucky says softly.

“You didn’t need to come home.” You say.

“You worried me with your text and I wanted to see if you were ok.” He says.

“You said hurtful things to me on the phone, Bucky.” You say.

“I know. If you give me a chance, I’ll apologize.” He says.

You stared at him for a second before nodding. You sat up, leaning your back against the headboard, wincing in pain from the incision on your lower abdomen. Bucky sat down on the bed next to you.



“I am so sorry, doll. I didn’t mean to say any of those things. I was just frustrated with myself that I have a hard time with communicating with my emotions and I just took my frustration out on you and I shouldn’t have done that.” He apologizes.

“You made me cry.” You say.

“I didn’t mean to. I promise I won’t take my frustrations out on you ever again. I’ll try my best to talk out my emotions.” You can hear the sincerity in his voice. “Please don’t hate me. I love you more than anything, doll. That text made me think I was going to lose you. I can’t lose you. I don’t want to experience life without you. I’ll do anything to make it up to you.” He pleads, his voice cracking and his eyes filling with tears.

You didn’t say anything. You looked at him for a moment. You know he means every word he said from the sincerity in his voice.

“You have to learn how to be open with your emotions.” You say.

“I know. I’ll try my best to work on that.” He promises.

“Don’t get mad at me again when I’m trying to help you be more open with your emotions.” You say.

“I won’t. I promise.” He promises again.

You leaned forward just enough to put your hands on his bearded cheeks. You rubbed your thumbs over his beard while looking in his teary blue eyes. Bucky closed the rest of the distance between the two of you and kissed you passionately.

“Is there anything I can do for you, doll?” He asks softly after pulling away from your lips.

“Hold me.” You say with a smile.

“I can do that.” He smiles.

You laid down and Bucky laid down next to you. You laid your head on his chest while he wrapped his arms around you, being careful not to accidentally touch the stitches on your incision. Your fingers played with his Army dog tags while you listened to the sound of his heartbeat.

“I love you so much, babydoll.” Bucky whispers softly.

“I love you more, baby.” You whispered back.

🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵

-Bucky’s Doll

[mugglebornmarvelite]

Game Night

Paring: Avenger! Bucky Barnes x Avenger! Fem! Reader (Grumpy x Sunshine)

Summary: Steve’s mandatory game night takes a turn when you and Bucky are paired up.

Word Count: Roughly 1.4k 

Warnings: Fluff, banter, friendly competition, implied threats, destroying property (Bucky and Sam), romantic tension everyone can feel, and some overprotective Bucky because that man does not play about his sunshine.

Author’s Note: Sorry for the delay; I was helping my friend with a research project. Ugh, it feels choppy, but I hope this is to your liking, babes ;)

Navigation

Divider by: @strangergraphics

The living room buzzed with energy as the Avengers tried to recover from the chaos of their most recent mission; the munching of chips and clinking of drinks in glasses filled the space.

Peter and you were talking animatedly about the mission, with Peter recounting how he flipped mid-air, webbing a bad guy to a nearby wall.

“I mean, I swear, the guy didn’t see it coming. I was way higher up than I thought, and then BAM!” Peter dramatically mimicked the motion with his arms, sending you into fits of laughter.

“It’s honestly kind of unfair that you can just flip your way out of everything, Pete,” you teased, elbowing him.

He shrugged, all smugness. “I mean, someone’s gotta make the web-swinging look good, right?”

Before you could reply, Steve stood up from his spot, clapping his hands for attention. “Alright, team! Time for some mandatory bonding!”

A chorus of groans erupted from the group, each one from someone hoping to escape Steve’s relentless enthusiasm for ‘team-building’ nights.

“Tonight is Charades.” Steve declared.

That’s when Steve decided to assign the partners. He glanced around the room with a twinkle in his eye and paired you with Bucky, clearly anticipating the fun to come.

You gave Bucky your signature puppy dog eyes, and he looked away with a scowl as he crossed his arms over his chest, not wanting to give in and show that he was happy to be partnered with you.

“Oh, great,” Bucky muttered, rolling his eyes. “This is gonna be a disaster.”

You didn’t let his grumpiness throw you off. “Bucky, come on!” you said, plopping beside him on the couch. “We’ve got this! We’re unstoppable!”

Bucky raised an eyebrow and shot you a skeptical look. “Sure, sure. We’ll see about that.”

He didn’t seem convinced, and as Sam overheard, he couldn’t resist adding his two cents.

"Oh, this is gonna be easy," Sam declared loudly, rolling his eyes. "Grumpy Barnes can’t even smile, let alone act."

"You’re gonna regret that," Bucky shot back, his tone thick with warning. 

His words weren’t loud, but they were laced with enough warning that Sam quickly leaned back into his seat, hands raised in mock surrender.

"Okay, okay, I get it," Sam laughed, but you caught the wariness in his eyes. "But not holding my breath, this will be easy."

Then, leaning in toward you, he whispered, “If we lose to that clown, I’m never letting it go.”

You gave him an exaggerated look of disbelief, pretending to be shocked. "Who knew you cared so much about winning?"

Bucky’s lips quirked into the faintest smirk. "Don’t mess this up," he teased.

You winked at him. “You’re with me. How could we lose?”

As the game started, it quickly became clear that Bucky treated charades less like a fun group activity and more like a tactical mission. His intense focus was almost comical, but you fell into an unspoken rhythm. 

When it was your turn to act, Bucky’s sharp eyes locked onto you, and after a few gestures, he almost always guessed your clues. When it was his turn, he leaned into the ridiculousness of it all, whether miming a gorilla or pretending to be a ballerina, just to keep your laughter ringing through the room.

By the end of the game, the scoreboard showed a landslide victory in your favor. Bucky allowed himself a small, smug grin as you squealed in delight and launched yourself into his arms, wrapping your legs around his waist. 

“We’re the dream team!” you exclaimed, giggling as you clung to him.

“Yeah, yeah,” he replied, though his grip on you was secure, his metal arm effortlessly supporting you. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

Much to everyone's amusement, he carried you back to the couch, where he promptly plopped you into his lap. “You’re comfy,” you declared with a grin, making yourself home. 

Sam, clearly displeased, waved a hand in your direction. “This has to be rigged. There’s no way those two didn’t cheat.”

Natasha snorted, leaning back in her chair. “They didn’t cheat, Wilson. They’re just disgustingly in sync.”

Sam grabbed a pillow and chucked it at you. “Sync this!”

The pillow hit you square in the face, and you burst out laughing, holding it in your lap. “It’s just a pillow!”

But Bucky didn’t see it that way. His gaze turned sharp as he caught the second pillow Sam threw mid-air. “If you throw another one at her...”

Sam, of course, took that as a challenge. “What are you gonna do, Barnes?” he quipped, hurling another pillow that you easily dodged.

Bucky’s eyes narrowed. “I’ll give you a five-second head start.”

Sam’s smirk faltered. “Wait, what?”

Without a word, Bucky carefully brushed your hair out of your face, placed you gently on the couch, and stood up. The room went silent as he walked purposefully toward the hallway. 

“What’s he doing?” you asked, looking to Steve for answers.

Steve sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, hiding a smile. “He’s going to smash Redwing.”

Sam’s eyes widened in panic. 

“Barnes, you touch Redwing, I swear-” He bolted after Bucky, and the two disappeared down the hall. 

Moments later, a loud crash echoed through the compound, followed by Sam’s yelling and Bucky’s retorts.

Natasha chuckled, shaking her head as she leaned back on the couch. “This happens all the time.”

You glanced between her and Steve, bewildered. “Doesn’t anyone stop them?”

Steve shrugged. “Nope. They’ll tire themselves out eventually.”

From a distance, the team could hear the muffled sounds of Bucky and Sam bickering echoing through the compound. 

“Touch Redwing, and you’re paying for a whole new one!” Sam’s voice was laced with fear.

“Oh, don’t worry, Wilson,” Bucky shot back, his tone mockingly calm. “I’ll make sure to recycle the pieces. I hear it’s good for the environment.”

A loud thud followed as if Bucky had knocked something over or thrown something against the wall. 

“Man, what is your problem?” Sam hollered. “You act like I threw a brick at her!”

“You hit her in the face!” Bucky retorted.

“It was a pillow!” Sam defended himself. “It probably felt like a marshmallow.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Bucky countered. “You don’t throw things at her. Ever.”

Back in the living room, you stifled a laugh as Natasha shook her head in amused disbelief. “It’s always like this,” she said, smirking. “I don’t know why Sam keeps testing him.”

Steve folded his arms, looking like the exasperated dad of the group. “Because Sam likes pushing buttons. And Bucky…well, Bucky only has so much patience.”

Another crash echoed from down the hallway, followed by Sam’s yell. “Oh, come on! That wasn’t even Redwing! That was my lamp!”

“You’ve got terrible taste in decor, Wilson,” Bucky said, completely unfazed.

“YOU OWE ME A NEW LAMP!” Sam shouted.

“I did you a favor.” Bucky said dryly. “So say ‘thank you,’ it's polite.”

You couldn’t hold back your giggles any longer. “Should we...I don’t know, step in?” you asked, looking at Steve.

Steve shook his head, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Nah. Let them hash it out. Bucky’s not actually going to break Redwing. Probably.”

“Probably?” Natasha echoed. “You’re really putting a lot of faith in him.”

From the hallway, Sam yelled again. “THAT’S IT, BARNES. YOU AND ME. SPARRING MATCH TOMORROW.”

“Fine,” Bucky fired back. “But don’t be mad when I wipe the floor with you, bird brain.”

Natasha leaned over to you, her voice low. “You know he’s only this protective because it’s you, right? He doesn’t care this much when we get hit with stuff.”

You blushed, glancing down at your hands. “He’s just…looking out for me. Like a guardian.”

Natasha snorted. “Yeah, sure. Keep telling yourself that, sweetheart.”

Steve smiled knowingly but didn’t say anything. 

The sounds of Sam and Bucky’s argument gradually faded as they came back.

Sam was glaring, his hair disheveled, and he muttered under his breath about never forgiving Bucky. 

Bucky, on the other hand, was smug, like he had just won a personal victory.

Sam threw himself back down on the couch, muttering something about "not talking to Barnes for the rest of the week," to which Bucky gave a half-hearted shrug.

He sat down beside you, his arm casually draped across the back of the couch. His eyes flicked down to you, and without a word, he reached out to brush his knuckles lightly over your knee.

“You okay, sunshine?” he asked quietly, only for you to hear.

You smiled. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

Bucky’s lips quirked upward, just slightly. “Good,” he said softly. “No one messes with you. Not even Sam.”

The others shared amused looks, but neither of you paid them any mind. Bucky’s protective side made your heart flutter in a way you didn’t quite understand, and you sank further into the couch, curling into his side.

Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed!

Tags: @princess-lil-spidey @sapphirebarnes @mgchaser @sparklystarsandstrawberries @arcadia-smith @rnurse-kole @juliebluehufflepuff @sailorsenshiuranep @alexxavicry @ficcharsimp

If you'd like to be added to my taglist or just ask me, and I'll update it!

Much love x

- Maeve

[elixirfromthestars]

These two deserved a happy ending 🥺 maybe one day… 🤧

In Five Years

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Enhanced!Reader 

Summary: Bucky was having a hard time expressing his feelings about finally being free from the Winter Soldier program. To help him out, you suggested writing a letter to his future self and burying it in a time capsule to visit this moment again in the future. The plan was to open the time capsule five years from now. That was until Thanos showed up.

Word Count: 4.9k

Warning(s): Follows the ending of Infinity War (if you know you know ;-;) / canon level of violence in the MCU / major character “deaths” / angst / mentions of blood & injury & death

a/n: This fic is a submission for the love letters writing challenge being held by the lovely @pellucid-constellations​. Thank you so much for reading! ♡

✧༺♡༻∞　　∞༺♡༻✧

     “ Stop fidgeting around. You’re going to throw off the readings.” Shuri held your legs in place on the table. She wasn’t being forceful, but you knew better than to mess up any of the readings. The last person who did was pranked by Shuri for weeks. 

     “ Sorry. I just have a lot on my mind.” You explained briefly, not wanting to dive into the subject. You weren’t sure you and Shuri were alone. You didn’t want to risk the wrong person or even the right person, hearing your conversation. 

     “ He will be fine. I have been deprogramming him for months now. The Winter Soldier is a thing of the past,” her tone was definite. You tried to find comfort in her words, but you couldn’t. You wished to be there by his side right now. You knew it wasn’t your place to impose yourself on such an important matter, but you couldn’t help it. You worried about him all the time. 

     You cared for him. 

     More than you have for anyone else. 

Keep reading

[midniqhtt]

james buchanan ‘bucky’ barnes

masterlist • marvel • 04/10/25

˚‧⁺ ･ ˖ · ୨ৎ recs four

one two three five

𑣲 light I @sun-kissy

bucky meets you, his bright, new neighbour, and is instantly endeared

𑣲 bucky hcs I @/sun-kissy

𑣲 people pleaser!reader I @winterarmyy

𑣲 must be fate pt2 pt3 pt4 I @/winterarmyy

Y/N has been crossing paths with this particularly sweet alpha all day long; this must be fate right?

𑣲 sleepy heads I @/winterarmyy

That time when the reader accidentally fell asleep on a stranger’s shoulder in the subway ride home. The stranger in question, however, is none other than the former Winter Soldier, Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes.

𑣲 valley-girl charm I @rainydayathogwarts

In which reader from the 1940s knows just how to play the damsel in distress to get exactly what she wants in the modern age after coming out of the ice.

𑣲 starry eyed I @flowersforbucky

reader gets a special gift from her secret santa

𑣲 alls well that ends well to end up with you I @/flowersforbucky

bucky isn't going to let an extended mission, a severe thunderstorm, and a delayed flight ruin your first valentine's day together.

𑣲 no one does it better I @/flowersforbucky

sent on a mission with the man you never intended to fall for, you run into someone from your past who your heart has never been able to fully let go of.

𑣲 love language I @/flowersforbucky

snapshots of your relationship with bucky told through the five love languages.

𑣲 moth to a flame I @/flowersforbucky

bucky is triggered into the winter soldier during a mission and then goes MIA, until he seeks you out in the middle of the night.

𑣲 rule number one I @mrs-elsie-barnes

Bucky is happy to find you still in his bed the morning after the night before, but Steve isn't impressed.

𑣲 never again I deactivated account

natasha likes to touch bucky's dog tags and bucky, well, he just wants to know why his favorite girl isn't talking to him.

𑣲 the other guy I @seventven

pietro proves to y/n that bucky is into her by doing everything in his power to make him jealous

𑣲 voicemails to an unmanned inbox I @pellucid-constellations

When Bucky takes an argument a little too far, you take off. All he wants is for you to come back home. 

𑣲 flashing lights pt2 I @/pellucid-constellations

Bucky’s worst fears come true when he’s called to a scene. If he’s the one with the dangerous job, then why is it your life that’s hanging in the balance?

𑣲 jealous I @/pellucid-constellations

You keep talking about the owner of that new bakery and it’s rubbing Bucky the wrong way.

𑣲 five moments in time I @/pellucid-constellations

All of the moments in which Sergeant Barnes let the nurse on his unit know he’s not gonna stop trying to win her over. Even from beyond the grave.

𑣲 stay still pt 2 I @buckysknifecollection

What if your soulmate was the one person you had hurt the most?

𑣲 dog tags I @/buckysknifecollection

You are a kept prisoner by Hydra, your role is to fix Soldat’s metal arm whenever it gets damaged in a mission. You grow fond of each other and you decide to save him.

𑣲 slipping away I @kashimos-hajime

and now, he’s not your bucky anymore.

𑣲 dr. bee I @malum-forev

Bucky has quite the reputation but all it takes for him to want to change is an hour with an outspoken little Bee.

𑣲 eyes never lie I @/malum-forev

Sam and Bucky try to recruit (Y/N), Bucky's ex and a former Avenger who has left that life behind. But they realize her life has changed completely once they meet a her daughter with striking blue eyes.

𑣲 her weakness I @buckysfaveplum

you’re an enhanced individual with strong abilities and one moral code- you only fight with them when your opponent is also enhanced. during the fight with john walker, that code gets broken when bucky is hurt

𑣲 misery loves company pt2 pt3 pt4 I @shurisneakers

grumpy x grumpy drabbles

𑣲 saturn I @/shurisneakers

you die. bucky tries to bring you back (or) close to a year after you die, bucky's desperation finally finds an answer. but it may not be the one he's hoping for.

𑣲 unsolved I @/shurisneakers

Bucky doesn't even believe in the paranormal. So who the hell thought it was a good idea to stick him in a series about everything haunted for the internet's amusement? With his loose-canon of a teammate who has no concept of subtlety or any shits left to give, to make things even worse. (Buzzfeed unsolved AU)

𑣲 by the warmth of the oven I @elixirfromthestars

You are baking cookies for the Avengers holiday party when a certain super solider comes into the kitchen tipsy for the first time...

𑣲 boulevard confessions I @/elixirfromthestars

Being a third wheel to Peggy and Steve wasn't your ideal Thursday night fun. However, when they tell you Bucky is tagging along you eagerly decide to join them. That is until a third party makes its presence known.

𑣲 knock you down a peg or two I @navybrat817

Someone learns the hard way that it's a bad idea to upset Bucky's wife.

𑣲 stood up I @/navybrat817

Bucky asks you out on a date and doesn't show.

𑣲 sugar plums I @blythesarchives

The soldier has an attachment to you.

𑣲 Подарок I @/blythesarchives

You give the soldier a present for Christmas.

𑣲 limbo I @/blythesarchives

Not quite Bucky, not quite Soldat, but all yours.

𑣲 cut your hair I @/blythesarchives

You help Bucky cut his hair.

𑣲 fugitives I @/blythesarchives

While you and Bucky flee from captivity in Berlin, Bucky shows his thanks to you for always being by his side.

𑣲 just as you are I @/blythesarchives

He tries his best for Valentine's Day.

𑣲 some other guy I @espinosaurusrexex

Everything was finished: the buffet was ready with sweet goodies, people were wearing their ugliest Christmas sweaters, and the music spread Christmas spirit wherever it reached. But you were still not enjoying it as much as you should. Something was missing, but what could you have possibly forgotten?

*sorry to many writers who were tagged but can’t see their fics. this maxed out on users so i took half and adding to a new list. (and i was afraid it would max out links as well)

[scribbbbbles]

bucky bought a ring.

there’s no way he didn’t. he kept it hidden, in a small navy box tucked away behind letters from his sisters. he bought it somewhere in london — some pawn shop he didn’t remember the name of. he knew steve would say yes, even if no one else would ever know he did. in fact, he’d probably be mad bucky hadn’t got the guts to ask sooner. but bucky wanted away from all this — the blood matted into their hair, the gunpowder on their faces, the dirt in their fingernails, their ever-wet socks.

the last thing he thought of as he lay in the cold and unforgiving austrian snow, was that shiny silver band tucked away in the back of his bag back at base.

now imagine steve.

it’s 2011. everyone you’ve ever loved is dead or geriatric. you’re a national icon.

so you go to see your exhibit in the smithsonian because someone deemed a suicidal gay man dressed in stars and stripes worthy of an exhibit. you see your best friend the love of your life has his own part of it. he should be the whole damn exhibit.

then an automated voice directs you to a small glass display case in the corner. the last of sergeant barnes’ personal belongings, collected from his tent at base camp. february, 1944.

there’s a navy box with a plain, silver band to the very far left.

the notecard says something about the possibly barnes got married before he shipped out, but there was no record of it. maybe it wasn’t official.

but steve knew.

and his heart shatters.

⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆

[the-winter-spider]

Say Don't Go | Part Nine

Bucky x reader au

Word Count: 4.2k

Warnings: None, boring chapter

A/N: Im not gonna lie, I've been struggling with this story but soooooo many of yall keep asking when I'm gonna update so I just decided to sit down and lay it all out and write the rest of the fic, so here we gooo.

Im not really vibing with this fic anymore, its hard ughhh

Masterpost

--------

The fallout from that night lingered like a storm cloud over Bucky’s head. His bruised knuckles ached every time he clenched his fists, but that pain was nothing compared to the weight in his chest. Nothing compared to the feeling of walking onto campus and not seeing you waiting at your usual spot outside the library, earbuds in, lost in whatever song had caught your attention that day.

You weren’t avoiding him. No, avoiding meant there was still something to salvage. You were done with him. And that realization sat heavy in his bones.

The first day back, Bucky barely made it through practice. His head wasn’t in it, his movements sluggish, off-tempo. Coach chewed him out in front of everyone, demanding to know what the hell was wrong with him, but Bucky barely processed it. He wasn’t the only one who noticed, either.

“Yo, what is up with you?” Sam asked, tossing a towel over his shoulder as they walked out of the locker room after practice.

“Nothing,” Bucky muttered, keeping his gaze ahead, scanning the crowd in the hallway like an idiot. Like he was expecting to see you there.

Sam let out a low whistle. “Man, you’re really gonna sit here and act like I don’t know exactly what this is about? You’re looking for her.”

Bucky stiffened, but didn’t deny it.

“You fucked up,” Sam continued, like he was narrating Bucky’s entire downfall in real time. “You really fucked up and now you’re moody as shit, walking around campus like a ghost. It’s pathetic.”

Bucky finally turned his head, glaring. “Are you gonna help or just talk shit?”

“Hey, I would help,” Sam said with a smirk. “But I don’t think she wants help from me or you.”

That stung more than it should have. Because Sam was right, he usually was and he felt it, really felt it when he finally caught sight of you in the dining hall later that day.

You were sitting at a table in the corner, away from the noise, curled into yourself as you read. You weren’t alone, though. Your roommate, Wanda, was there, sitting across from you, flipping through a textbook. Wanda glanced up shooter daggers at Bucky, and if looks could kill, well he’d be dead.

Bucky’s stomach twisted uncomfortably.

He didn’t even realize he’d been staring until Sam nudged him hard in the ribs. “Don’t be an idiot,” Sam warned. “Don’t go over there and make shit worse.”

Bucky scoffed. “I wasn’t—”

“You were.”

“Whatever,” Bucky muttered, dragging a hand through his hair. He tore his eyes away from you, because seeing you wasn’t something he could deal with right now.

"Look man, everything will work out how its suppose to." Sam clapped him on the shoulder. “Come on, let’s get food before you do something stupid.”

Bucky let Sam pull him away, but even as he stood in line for food, even as his teammates laughed and talked around him, all he could think about was you.

How he’d lost you before he even really had you, and you were the first thing he ever truly wanted.

---

The campus felt different or maybe you felt different.

You used to love walking through the courtyard in the morning, headphones in, drowning out the world with your favorite playlist. Now, every step felt heavier, like you were dragging the weight of last week behind you. The whispers, the stares, they weren’t imagined. You felt them. You could hear them. It felt different then when you lost your sister, you turn out the looks of pity, of sadness, of guilt but this was different, you had never felt anything like this before.

“That’s her.”

“Did you hear what happened?”

“Can’t believe Bucky would stoop that low.”

“Bet he didn’t even enjoy himself.”

You kept your head down, gripping the straps of your backpack until your fingers ached. You weren’t naïve. You knew how things worked here. How gossip spread like wildfire, how people loved to take a tragedy and turn it into entertainment.

You just never thought you’d be the subject of it.

Wanda was waiting for you outside your first lecture hall. She was leaning against the wall, scrolling through her phone, but as soon as she saw you, her face softened with something that looked a lot like pity.

“Don’t,” you muttered before she could even say anything. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

Wanda sighed but nodded, falling into step beside you as you entered the lecture hall. “Alright. No talking. But just so you know, if anyone tries to pull some Mean Girls shit, I will make them cry.”

Despite everything, a tiny smirk tugged at your lips. “I believe you.”

The first class dragged, your mind constantly drifting, your knee bouncing beneath the desk. You felt his absence. Bucky wasn’t in this class with you, but for so long, he’d been the thing that pulled you out of your head when you got too lost in your own thoughts. His dumb jokes, his teasing comments, the way he’d pass you stupid doodles on ripped piece sitting of paper.

And now?

Now you had nothing but empty silence and the lingering ache in your chest.

After class, Wanda stuck by your side. Steve was waiting outside the hall, leaning against the railing, watching the crowd. When his eyes landed on you, he straightened immediately, something unreadable flickering across his face.

He looked guilty.

“Hey,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I, uh… I was gonna text you, but I figured I’d just wait here. Thought maybe we could grab something to eat?”

You hesitated. A week ago, that offer wouldn’t have even required thought. But now? After the things he said?

You exhaled sharply through your nose, shifting your bag higher on your shoulder. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

Steve’s jaw tightened. “Look, I know you’re upset.”

You scoffed, shaking your head. “Upset?” The word tasted wrong on your tongue. Upset didn’t begin to cover it.

Steve sighed, stepping closer. “I just wanna talk, alright? I didn’t mean for things to go the way they did.”

Your stomach twisted at the thought of Steve, your best friend, how he had stood across from you and spewed hurtful words right in your face after defending you, he acted like your pain wasn’t real. Like it didn’t matter.

You tightened your grip on the strap of your backpack. “I don’t wanna talk. I just wanna be left alone.”

Steve huffed, frustrated now. “How am I supposed to apologize if you won’t even listen?”

You flinched, the sharpness in his voice cutting deeper than you expected. “Apologizing isn’t just about saying sorry, Steve.” Your voice wavered, but you held your ground. “It’s about meaning it. And you? You didn’t give a damn about how I felt when it actually mattered.”

Something in his expression faltered.

Wanda shifted beside you, arms crossed, her presence like a shield. She hadn’t spoken, but you knew she would step in if Steve pushed too hard.

Steve let out a long breath, looking away for a second like he was trying to find the right words. When he looked back, his blue eyes were softer. “I was just trying to stick up for you.”

Your throat burned. “Stick up for me?” You let out a humorless laugh. “After everything you said? Yeah, well, I guess that worked out great for you, huh?”

Steve winced. “That’s not fair.”

You swallowed, blinking rapidly. “None of this is fair, Steve. But I’m the one who has to live with it.”

His shoulders dropped slightly, but you didn’t wait for a response. You pushed past him, the weight of the conversation settling deep in your chest.

Wanda fell into step beside you, quiet for a few beats before finally saying, “I’d call that a well-earned fuck you.”

You huffed out a breath, not quite a laugh. “I could’ve said worse.”

“Yeah,” Wanda smirked. “But I think you got the point across. So, the café? I could use a cup of something with an espresso shot.”

“Oh god, not the espresso shot,” you groaned, laughing despite yourself.

Wanda looped her arm through yours, dramatically clutching her chest. “Excuse me, I need caffeine to survive. One shot of espresso is the bare minimum. You, my dear, clearly lack appreciation for the finer things in life.”

You rolled your eyes, her warmth grounding you in a way you didn’t realize you needed. The conversation, the teasing..it almost felt normal. Almost.

Then you felt that sensation of being watched.

It slithered up your spine, settling heavy between your shoulder blades. Your laughter faded as instinct kicked in, your eyes scanning the crowd and then you saw him.

Bucky.

He was near the entrance of the dining hall, surrounded by his teammates, but he wasn’t engaged. Not even close. His body was there, but his attention, his entire focus was on you.

Your stomach twisted painfully.

He looked the same but different somehow. His hair was damp from practice, curling at the ends in a way that once would’ve made you smile. His hoodie was loose, but the tension in his shoulders was unmistakable and his face….his face was unreadable except for the weight behind his eyes.

Regret. Thick, suffocating, undeniable regret.

Your fingers curled into the fabric of your sleeve. Maybe before, that look would’ve unraveled you. Maybe before, you would’ve been tempted to take even the smallest step toward him, to offer him some kind of solace.

But regret wasn’t enough. Not after everything, you couldn't let it be enough.

You forced yourself to tear your gaze away, to keep walking, even as the heaviness of his stare followed you, searing into your back like a brand.

Wanda didn’t say anything at first. She didn’t have to. She just squeezed your arm, her silent way of letting you know she saw it too.

After a few steps, she exhaled, shaking her head. “God, he looks miserable.”

You swallowed hard, keeping your eyes straight ahead. “Good.”

Wanda glanced at you, expression unreadable for a moment before nodding. “Yeah. Good.”

But as you reached the café doors, pushing inside, the lingering burn of Bucky’s stare refused to fade.

---

By the time you made it back to your dorm, the weight of the day had settled deep into your bones.

The moment you shut the door behind you, the silence hit. Not just quiet, silence. The kind that felt alive, pressing in on all sides, wrapping around your throat like a vice.

You dropped your bag onto the floor, toeing off your shoes with little care. Wanda had gone out with some friends, promising she’d be back later, but you hadn’t wanted to go. You told her you were tired, that you just needed to breathe for a second.

You lied.

The truth was, you didn’t want to be around people. You didn’t want to pretend you were okay, or like today hadn’t drained every last ounce of energy out of you, even though today had probably been one of the easier days this week. 

You felt exhausted. Not the kind that sleep could fix, but the kind that settled in your soul and made you wonder if you’d ever really be able to shake it.

You sat down on your bed, staring blankly at the wall.

It was happening again.

That sinking, crushing feeling, like the ground beneath you was cracking, shifting, like soon there would be nothing left to stand on.

It wasn’t just about Bucky. It wasn’t just about Steve.

It was about everything.

You thought you had people. You thought you had friends. You thought, for once in your life, you weren’t completely alone.

And yet… here you were.

Alone in your room.

Alone with your thoughts.

Alone.

Your chest tightened, breath hitching as you curled in on yourself. You dug your fingers into your arms, trying to ground yourself, trying to pull yourself out of it, but it wasn’t working.

And now, on top of all that?  You have lost your best friend. Steve, who had always been in your corner, you don’t think you’ll ever be able to get past the look on his face in the locker room hallway that night, like you had betrayed him. 

Maybe you had. Maybe you should have just pretended like nothing happened because even though he said hurtful things to you, he did defend you to Bucky right? Maybe you were selfish. Maybe you were the problem. Because this wasn’t new, was it?

You’d lost people before.

You lost her.

Your sister.

The thought alone made your stomach churn, shame curling around your ribs like barbed wire. It had been years, and yet, the grief still clung to you like a second skin. You could still hear her voice sometimes, still see the way she used to look at you, like you were someone worth protecting.

But she was gone and you were still here.

Still losing people.

Maybe that was just who you were. Maybe no matter how hard you tried, you weren’t meant to have people.

Maybe you were meant to be alone.

The thought sent a sharp, splintering ache through your chest, and before you could stop it, before you could even think to fight it, you broke.

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t dramatic. It was just silent. A few shaky breaths, a few hot tears slipping down your face as you curled into yourself, pressing your forehead against your knees.

No one was here to see it anyway.

No one ever was.

---

The next day was like moving through concrete.

You barely slept, still burdened with the weight of last night that was weighing upon you like an object on your chest. You could not even count how many hours you stayed curled up there on your bed, rehashing every mistaken move, all your failures, each biting critique you'd gotten from you. When morning broke, your body felt leaden, eyes dry but aching from gazing at the ceiling for all those hours of mental thinking within your head.

Wanda was still out. She had most likely spent the night at a friend's, and you were kind of glad. You didn't know you could pretend to be okay, not on a day like this.

You stalled over dressing, not because you cared, but because you didn't. Every action was reflex, getting dressed, combing your hair, slinging your backpack over your shoulder.

Outside, campus was a cacophony. Too much.

The moment you stepped outside, you sensed it all over again. The staring. The muffled whispers of gossip. The not-so-veiled looks thrown in your direction before folks turned back to their friends with a chuckle as if your existence was another fleeting news item.

You sped up.

You weren't naive, you understood what they were talking about. Bucky. Steve. You. The whole bloody mess. It was such a car crash. Folks just couldn't resist stopping, looking, gawking.

By the time you got to your first class, your stomach was twisting up with anxiety. You wished you could just sit down, get caught up in the crowd, be incognito. But as soon as you walked into the lecture hall, your body tensed up.

Bucky was already there and he wasn't alone.

Tiffany.

She was leaning against his desk, twirling a curl of hair around her finger, her mouth pursed up in that fake, sugary smile. You knew that smile. You'd seen it a thousand times. 

And Bucky? He wasn't looking at her, not really, but he wasn't shooing her away, either. It shouldn't have stung. It shouldn't have. But it did.

Something hot and embarrassing twisted in your stomach, a knot rising up into your throat. Not because you wanted more with him than what he had given you. Not because you wished things could ever be so again.

But because it was just one more reminder that even though it had felt like everything was different, the rest of the world continued to go on as if none of that even happened.

As if you didn't even happen. You turned around and departed. You did not have anywhere to go. You simply walked. Through the courtyard, by the library, down the stairs that led nowhere in particular. You simply had to catch your breath.

The universe actually had it out for you today.

You were just trying to make it through the gory day. You'd swallowed the lump in your throat, concealed the lump in your chest, and kept moving, as if you didn't notice Bucky's stare still burning into your flesh. But Tiffany had plans.

She approached you on the library steps, that characteristic smirk twisting on her lips.

"Aww, fleeing again?" she cooed. "You really need to make this less easy."

You clenched your teeth, eyes fixed forward. You were not going to do this. Not today. But she wasn't done.

"Too bad about that photo, don't you think?" she said, mock sympathy dripping from her voice. "You were so pitiful. Practically like you didn't even realize someone was watching."

Your stomach roiled.

You had tried not to look at the picture when it first went around campus. But even if you had, you couldn't shake the sting of it. The naked embarrassment of being so exposed.

Tiffany edged closer, speaking in a lower tone like she was letting you in on some big secret.

"Strange thing is, I told Bucky precisely who took it." She tilted her head. "And you know what's so pathetic? He didn't even have the decency to inform you."

Your breath caught in your throat.

Tiffany's grin widened. "Guess he really doesn't care about you at all, huh? Probably just some fun little game, ‘sleep with Cap’s best friend’”.

Something in your chest split open.

You weren't sure what hurt you worse, that she'd taken the dumb picture to begin with, or that Bucky'd known. That he'd known and never even bothered to think of telling you about it.

Maybe that was the final proof you needed.

You didn't actually have anyone.

"Oh, look at the crybaby," Tiffany pouted mockingly. "Poor girl. Who are you gonna run to now? Stevie? Bucky?" She gave a hard, cruel laugh. "Oh, right, nobody wants you."

Your nails creased your palms. You weren't an angry person. You weren't. But God, you wanted to erase that smug expression from her face. Before you could even imagine what to say, the crack of impact split the air.

Tiffany yelped, retreating onto the ground.

Your eyes widened. In front of you, shaking out her fist, stood Natasha fucking Romanoff.

"Huh," Nat said, wiggling her fingers. "That kinda hurt."

You blinked, frozen. "Did you just—"

"Yeah." She didn't look even remotely sorry. She looked annoyed that Tiffany was still on the ground, blinking up at her in shock. "She talks too much."

Your lips opened, then shut. You were so stunned you couldn't even process it. Natasha turned to face you, eyes scanning your face, her voice softer now. "You okay?"

You hesitated. You weren't okay. Not even remotely.

Nat didn't even hesitate for an answer. She simply hooked her arm through yours and steered you off like she hadn't just punched a girl in the face.

"C'mon," she said. "Let's go."

She didn’t say much at first. Just walked you down the sidewalk, her grip steady and warm on your arm, guiding you away from the pulsing music and drunken noise of the party. It wasn’t until the street was quiet, the only sound of your breathing and the faint click of Natasha’s boots, that she finally spoke.

“I’m not gonna lie,” she muttered, glancing over at you, “been wanting to do that for a while.”

You let out a shaky breath, the adrenaline finally giving way to exhaustion. “I didn’t think you actually would.”

Natasha shrugged. “You looked like you needed it.”

That made your lips twitch. It wasn’t a smile, not really, but it was close. “I think I did.”

You walked in silence for a bit, your thoughts spinning. The cold air nipped at your cheeks, grounding you after everything that had just happened. Finally, you spoke.

“I feel stupid,” you admitted. “Letting it all get to me like that.”

Natasha gave you a look. “You were humiliated, lied to, abandoned. That’s not ‘getting to you,’ that’s being human.”

You blinked, your throat tightening. “I just thought I had people, you know? Bucky, Steve… and then it all just… blew up.”

She stopped walking, gently pulling you to a bench near the sidewalk. You both sat, the dim orange glow of the streetlights painting her face in warm light.

“They hurt you,” she said simply. “And I’m not gonna make excuses for them. What Bucky did, what he didn’t do and what Steve said? That shit sticks.”

You looked down at your hands, rubbing your palms together. “I still don’t know if I can forgive them. Even now.”

“You don’t have to forgive them,” she said quietly. “Not until you’re ready and not for their sake, for yours.”

You swallowed hard. “Steve was like my brother and Bucky… I don’t even know what he was. I thought we had something. Then it was gone before I could even understand what it was.”

Natasha’s expression softened. “What do you want now?”

“I don’t know,” you said honestly. “I want to feel like myself again. Like I can trust someone without waiting for the moment they decide I’m not worth it.”

She nodded, leaning back on the bench, eyes on the stars above. “You’ll get there. I see the way Bucky looks at you. It’s not just guilt. And Steve? He’s… Steve’s dealing with his own shit. Doesn’t mean he was right. Doesn’t mean you have to make space for him again if it still hurts.”

You rested your head on her shoulder, the warmth of her presence seeping into your bones.

“Thanks for punching her.”

Natasha smirked. “Anytime.”

---

Steve’s apartment was dark when Natasha knocked.

Not unusual. Lately, he hadn’t bothered turning on more than one lamp at a time. Just enough light to function. Everything else, the clutter, the half-eaten takeout boxes, the clothes draped over the back of a chair was left untouched. Natasha barely waited before letting herself in.

She found him on the couch, hoodie pulled over his head, knees bent, elbows resting on them like the weight of everything he was carrying might crush him if he didn’t hold himself together.

She tossed her keys onto the counter. “We need to talk.”

Steve didn’t even look up. “Is she okay?”

Natasha nodded. “Yeah she’s okay but...”

His jaw tensed. “What happened?”

Natasha crossed the room and leaned against the wall near the TV. “Tiffany ran her mouth. Again went after her. Said some things she should’ve never said. I handled it.”

Steve blinked slowly. “Handled it?”

Nat shrugged. “Put it this way, Tiffany won’t be smiling for a while.”

Steve gave a humorless huff of breath, something between a laugh and a sigh. “Good.”

A beat passed.

“She didn’t deserve that,” Steve said, voice low. “None of it.”

“No,” Natasha agreed. “She didn’t.”

Silence stretched between them, heavy and honest.

“She’s not talking to me,” Steve finally said, barely above a whisper. “Not really. Not since… the rink. And I don’t blame her.”

Natasha’s expression softened. “Give it time. It’ll work out.”

“I know,” Steve said. “It’s just… hard.”

He leaned back, rubbing his hands over his face.

“We’ve been attached at the hip since we were kids. She’s more than my best friend. She’s my person. The one constant I’ve had through everything. When I lost my mom, when things were shit at school, when I got hurt… she was always there. And I was supposed to be that for her.”

“You still can be,” Natasha said gently. “But she’s hurt, Steve. You said some things—”

“I know,” he cut in, the guilt written all over his face. “I said the exact thing I swore I never would. I used her pain against her. That night, I just, I lost it. I was so angry. At Bucky, at myself… and I took it out on her. That’s on me.”

He scrubbed his hands through his hair, the shame etched into every word. “And she trusted me. She’s been through so much, Nat. With her sister, her dad, the photo… I promised her I’d never leave, never make her feel like she had no one. And that’s exactly what I did.”

Natasha crossed the room and sat down beside him. “You’re allowed to mess up, Steve. You’re human. What matters is what you do now.”

“I miss her,” he admitted, his voice cracking just a little. “I miss just… knowing she was okay. I miss her texts. Her dumb playlists. The way she always knew when something was wrong before I even did.”

Natasha leaned her head against the back of the couch. “You’ll get there. You two? You’ve got history. Real history. She just needs space right now. To heal, to trust again.”

Steve stared at the ceiling for a long moment before finally nodding. “Yeah. You’re right.”

Nat smirked faintly. “I usually am.”

He smiled for the first time in what felt like days. “Thanks for checking in. And for… you know. Handling Tiffany.”

“Anytime,” Natasha said, standing. “You focus on cleaning up your side of the mess. I think Bucky’s actually trying on his end.”

Steve’s smile faltered, but he nodded. “Good. That’s good. I just want her to be okay. Even if it’s not with me in the picture the way it used to be.”

Natasha paused at the door. “I think she wants you there. She’s just not ready yet.”

[whtactch-dawnie]

bucky haircut headcanons bc i can’t stop thinking abt it

in my mind, bucky has had several haircuts in his life, but only a few styles that were important.

the first time he cut it was when he was drafted.

before that, it hadn’t been cut in at least a few months. not long, not like it would be later in his life, but enough. enough that boys and girls alike would run their fingers through soft brunette ringlets, because it was just long enough that it had this sort of youthful wave to it. it was nice.

and then, it was gone.

short and strict, but he kept as much as he was allowed to. there’s no room for your bangs to fall into your eyes when you’re on the front lines, y’know. and bucky didn’t necessarily like having his hair short, but it drove home a point he hadn’t been able to swallow when he was younger: sooner or later in his life, he’d have to conform. i he couldn’t always get steve out of fights, or let his hair get long and messy. at some point he’d stop having a playful boyish charm and start being seen as an immature man with no life direction.

bucky never did have to conform the way he thought he would. he didn’t leave the army and settle down, or have kids. instead he fell from a train into an infinite winter and impossibly endless pain.

his hair grew.

not that he noticed it. those years were a haze of pain and fear and anger and missions. he didn’t cut his hair. he was a soldier, not a barber. sometimes he would be deployed and notice it shorter, but that never mattered. the only thing to ever matter was completing the mission and going back to sleep and praying they wouldn’t wake him up again, but they always did.

and then he was free. his hair was messy and unkempt, but so was he. from fight after fight to the wakandans saving him, and it never occured to him he should cut his hair. it didn’t seem all that important anymore, all things considered. people these days didn’t seem to care too much either.

but when bucky was alone? when he left wakanda, when he got his own place again, when the quiet was too quiet? he needed something, he needed some sense of normalcy, some reminder that he’s still him. so bucky hacks at his hair and he grabs razors and by the time he’s done the bathroom is a fucking disaster and the sun is peaking over the horizon but his hair is short again, he looks like some ghost. he looks like sargent james barnes, he has his face but stole his smile and replaced it with frown lines long ago. he looks like he should’ve died in the 40’s.

when sam sees him, he doesn’t ask questions. they’ve got bigger things to worry about.

and it’s with sam, some several months later, when bucky is resting his head in sam’s lap and sam is carding his fingers through dark hair, that bucky feels a bit more like himself again.

“hair’s getting long,” sam might say. he’ll ask bucky if he wants it cut.

bucky will faintly wonder if sam cares, if sam has a preference in whether or not his hair is long. maybe he asks him, and maybe sam laughs gently and kisses his cheek.

so bucky grows his hair out. it’s a bit uneven, it doesn’t look the best, but it’s the best bucky’s felt in a long time. he can look in the mirror and know he is all that he was before, but he’s also everything he can be in the future, and maybe that’s okay. besides, sam seems to like tugging at his hair, and who is bucky to take that simple pleasure from his newly announced fiance?

[riamaple]

Life on Your Line (Ch. 3)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x f!Reader

Summary: Cursed to sacrifice your life to save another, you were never able to connect with others, always meant to drift before you could belong. Death was all you knew. Then, one day in Brooklyn, you saved a young man, and for some reason, you kept seeing him again. And again. And again. No matter where you went, across decades, you always found your way back to him.

He was forced to live to destroy, you were forced to die to save—bound together in ways neither of you could understand.

Warnings: Angst (with an eventual happy ending). Death and Dying. Self-Sacrifice (Immortality / Resurrection). Canon-Typical Violence / Description of Wounds. Suicidal Thoughts. Implications and References to Child Death, Suicide, Self-Destructive Behavior / Self-Harm.

< PREVIOUS CHAPTER

Word Count: 3.3k

Chapter 3: April 1960 - May 1960

April 17, 1960. 8:29 PM

I saved a man on March 17 and woke up with fire in my arm, which made it hard to write.

I was also too distracted by the fact that I’d woken up on my kitchen countertop to remember to write in the morning. My muscles were sore as hell, and my arm felt like it was going to fall off. So, no, it’s not funny that you didn’t let me wake up comfortably in my bed this time.

I’ve died in a lot of ways. Vehicle accidents, falling flower pots, random explosions. But this one was strange.

I saved the man from a cougar. Isn’t that crazy? I was hiking and came across this man. I felt the pull, pushed him out of the way, and of course, the cougar lunged at me. It dug its claws into my side and bit my right arm. The man was panicking when I got attacked, yelled at me that he was going to get some help and ran off. I don’t know if he came back or not. I was already gone.

Maybe if I’d known how dangerous hiking in these parts could be, I wouldn’t have moved to Colorado in the first place.

What a life I’m living.

<><><>

The museum lobby glowed under the bright, expensive lights, the marble floors reflecting the luxuriousness of the evening. Guests in sharp suits and elegant gowns roamed, sipping champagne as they laughed the night away. The charity event hosted by the Museum of Design attracted a diverse group of people: academics, philanthropists, politicians, and many more.

You stood at the entrance, adjusting the folds of your ocean-blue dress that worked well to blend in with the crowd. Your heels clicked softly on the staircase as you approached the doorman, who looked at you with a clipboard.

“Name?”

“Anna Gray,” you replied, your fake name easily slipping off your tongue.

Anna Gray. The historic preservation consultant who mysteriously appeared years ago, but was now often sought after by many organizations for her wide knowledge of late-19th and early-20th-century historic documents and artifacts. It was almost as if she had lived through those times.

If only they knew.

The doorman smiled as he looked up from his list. “Welcome, Ms. Gray. Please enjoy your evening.”

You thanked him and entered the room, immediately feeling overwhelmed by the crowds and noise. The lobby buzzed with laughter and words, occasionally joined with clinks of glass, while gorgeous artworks surrounded the party. You quietly made your way into the crowd, locating a few of your colleagues from your line of work.

An older woman smiled at you as you approached the crowd. “Anna! It’s been a while, hasn’t it? How’s your work with the museum lately?”

You grinned. “It’s been busy, but we’ve been making great progress on the archives.”

Conversations flowed easily after that, with you chatting with other colleagues and laughing over stories here and there. But maybe you were moving through the evening too well, like a ghost that existed amongst the living.

You were alive, but you didn’t belong in this crowd. No matter where you went or how well you tried to fit in, a part of you felt like a visitor. Present, but never connected to anyone.

You stopped trying to hold on to people ten years ago when Laura died of cancer—the kind of death even you couldn’t stop. And when Robert got married and announced his wife was pregnant, you had to step away. He knew of your curse and loved you the same, and asked you to stay, promising his family could keep your secret too.

But you said goodbye.

Because maybe you were just getting tired of asking people to lie on your behalf.

When James died, something in you snapped. You had grown bitter—not just toward death, but toward life itself, because James was the only person you were allowed to save twice, and yet he still died.

What was the point of your curse—of your ability to grant people second chances—if death would still greet them anyway? What was the point of holding strangers’ hands through the darkness if the one person who should have lived didn’t?

It felt like a punishment disguised as grace. You had foolishly believed that maybe James was different. That maybe he was a gift to you—a reward for all your decades of sacrifice.

But the world was never kind.

You still moved through your life, spoke to others kindly, and remembered to smile when necessary. But the part of you that once moved gently through the world died with James, and in its place burned a fire that raged every time you saved someone…or when you failed to.

You didn’t stop living, but you stopped expecting anything good to stay.

It didn’t help when Becca asked you one day about your morning routine.

Your skin was flawless, she had said, and you noticed how much she’d grown—a fine young woman, with men falling for her left and right.

Becca was growing up. You were not. And James was dead.

You closed Riverside Bookshop, grabbed all your journals from Henry’s, and moved to Oregon a week later.

You found a decent apartment near a cemetery and hid your journals there. You’d learned over the years that of all places, a graveyard was the safest for your history to live—no random fires, no burglary, no tampering with the dead.

You eventually moved again, jumping around the country whenever your identity had to be drastically changed. You had jumped from Oregon to Wisconsin to Colorado. There was a part of you that longed to find a place to call home, but none of the states gave off the same comforting feeling as New York. You told yourself that you’d move back there someday—you just wanted to see if you could fit in somewhere else.

You found that so far, you could not.

Letting out a small sigh, you glanced around as the atmosphere of the lobby began to feel stifling, the noise growing more unbearable in your ears. Every corner of the room was just a reminder that you were out of place, and you needed to breathe.

Putting on a polite smile, you excused yourself and quietly maneuvered your way through the crowd before ending up in one of the corridors. It was empty—thankfully—and you finally exhaled the breath you didn’t realize you were holding. You looked around the vacant place, and it took a second for you to realize that you were trespassing; guests weren’t allowed to wander off in the museum, but somehow you did. But you didn’t care.

You were alone—you always were—but it felt nice this time.

Until you heard footsteps.

You jumped, looking down the corridor and suddenly caring about your trespass. You cursed at yourself and darted into the nearest door, finding yourself in a lounge room for VIPs, decorated with leather chairs and glass vases. Pressing against the door, you sighed but quickly stiffened when you began to hear more footsteps, and they were only getting closer.

Swiftly, you spotted a closet at the far end of the room and slipped inside, pulling the door close just enough that you could still peer through the gap. Your body remained tense, hoping that whoever was coming wasn’t going to the lounge room.

Maybe it was your unlucky day because they did. Several men entered, speaking quietly at first, but their conversation soon grew louder as they shut the door.

“So, do you have it or not?”

“I have it, but it needs to be tested more before we move forward. It’s highly volatile, and I do not want any of you meddling with it before it works.”

“More tests? You told me that it’d be ready to go on the market now! Who the hell do you think you are?”

You shifted silently, trying to hear better as your mind raced. Your heart leaped when their footsteps grew closer and their arguments were loud and clear. But when they began to talk about prices, you bit your lip in anger. It was always those who had enough who wanted more; greed consumed the rich, and they desired to take and take and take. You listened to them discuss how their product would benefit them, arguing over money as if they didn’t already have enough.

Curious to see who these men were, you leaned forward to peek through the crack, but your heart dropped when you spotted the numerous bodyguards surrounding the greedy men. They were everywhere—by the doors, the windows, the archways.

You leaned back, realizing that this wasn’t a small gathering—that these men were not simply scheming for money. These men were dangerous, and if you were caught, you could…well, you couldn’t die. But something told you they were exactly the kind of people who should never find out about your curse.

You stayed still, quietly hoping for the men to leave the room, but they continued their conversation.

Then you heard a thud.

And screams.

You flinched, retreating further into the closet as you listened to the men yell, panicking over something. In the gap in the closet doors, you could see blurs of movement as suddenly the noise was accompanied by gurgling and gasps.

One of the movements was made up of black and silver clothes.

Clasping a hand over your mouth, you tried to stay quiet amid the chaos, listening to the struggles of the men die down. A heavy silence soon filled the room, but you stayed in the closet.

Tears welled up in your eyes when you started to pick up the smell of blood, so strong that it made you dizzy. You shut your eyes, hoping that the worst was over and it was just a matter of time before you could safely step out.

Something tugged at your heart.

Your eyes snapped open, a breath escaping your throat as you trembled.

No. No, not now. You couldn’t—

There couldn’t possibly be someone to save. You clenched your teeth, realizing that it must be one of those scheming men who had to be saved. It had to be, right? As much as you didn’t want it.

You could stay in the closet—let the man die. You had that choice. You always did.

But it just always felt wrong, no matter who they were. When you possessed the ability to grant people second chances, you had to use it, right?

With a shaky hand, you slowly pushed the closet door open, gagging when you finally saw all of the bodies littered around the room, decorated with knife wounds and bullet holes. You had lived through wars, disasters, and personal tragedies, but you had never seen bloodshed like this. You wiped the tears from your eyes as you scanned the room, trying to find the man you were supposed to rescue, but none of them moved. They were all dead.

A gasp on your left caught your attention.

You spun to look, noticing the secondary room that was connected by an archway. From where you were standing, you could see legs sprawled out—someone was leaning against the wall. You curled your hands into fists, silently walking to the man with dread in your stomach.

But when you made it to the archway and looked around the corner, your heart stopped.

“James—”

A bullet pierced your chest.

You crumpled to the carpeted floor with a gasp, clutching at your wound with heaves of breath. You screamed, crying at the bullet lodged in your lungs. Seizing up, you opened your eyes to look at the man.

The assassin was watching you, sitting against the wall and breathing heavily. He wore all black, and his dark hair was long, sticking to the sweat on his face.

His left arm was pure silver, and his eyes were frost-blue.

He dropped his silent pistol, the weapon clattering as his metal arm went limp. His whole body was slumping, and yet his eyes were still on you. You blinked back at him through the shock, wondering how—just how was he here? He died fifteen years ago, killed in action and mourned by his friends and family, but the dead man was now breathing. And he looked the same—not worn by time, as if the years had passed for everyone but him…and you.

You gasped before coughing up blood, curling into yourself as your vision blurred. But then you noticed that he looked away from you, staring ahead at an open briefcase on the floor. You looked up, spotting the multiple vials of purple powder and syringes that were scattered inside, but one of the vials was outside the case, broken open with remnants of dust left inside. The assassin choked out a whimper, making you look at him and finally see the same shade of purple speckled across his face.

Oh.

He gritted his teeth, raising his metal arm towards the briefcase. But he couldn’t even push off the wall before he dropped his limb again. His pupils were constricted, and his breath began to hitch, but he continued to gaze coldly at the syringes in the case. 

He was dying, but so was you. He was the one who needed help, but he shot you. He shot you after murdering every single person in the room. He was a murderer.

You couldn’t possibly save a murderer.

You glanced at the syringes again, the pain in your chest now mixed with conflict. You should be angry—annoyed if anything—that the person you had to save chose to kill you. But when you looked back at the assassin, you blinked.

Suddenly, in those frost-blue eyes, you didn’t see a murderer.

You saw the exhausted soldier who held you all those years ago, whispering apologies and comforting words as you let go of your last breath. The young man who cried for you, even though you were used to dying.

The man who made you feel like life had meaning again.

The man gasped, his chest raggedly trying to take in air.

Your hands slammed onto the carpet and you shrieked, dragging the pool of blood as you crawled. Pulling yourself towards the briefcase, you glared at the cursed vials before grabbing one of the syringes. Your body was burning, but you pushed yourself back to the assassin, your hand violently shaking as you held the syringe out to him.

His eyes narrowed, his gaze becoming cold again and flickering between you and the syringe. But finally, he pushed away his lack of trust and raised his trembling hand, the metal fingers brushing against your palm as he took the needle. You dropped your hand immediately, watching him struggle a bit before injecting the antidote into his skin. He choked out a breath, squeezing his eyes shut as his hand dropped to the floor with the empty needle. He slumped back against the wall, waiting for the antidote to take effect.

His breath began to steady as his body fought off the poison, but then he opened his eyes to stare at you. You managed to roll onto your back, lying beside him with no strength to speak or move, but you studied his face as much as he was studying yours.

His skin was immensely pale, and his hair was tangled, but beneath his eyes, there was more than just fatigue.

Pain.

You both stared at each other in the silence of the room; he was regaining life while you were losing yours.

James was alive.

You couldn’t understand how, but maybe it didn’t need to make sense. The world threw you into an unpredictable, merciless life and you had learned to live with it.

Sometimes, it was easier to accept the impossible than to fight it.

You wanted to tell the assassin this belief of yours as he tried to understand something himself, his expression unreadable as his eyes searched you. He had shot you, but you saved him in return. And why did it feel like this wasn’t the first time? Like he was stuck in a sick version of Deja Vu?

The assassin couldn’t remember his past—he was unaware that he even had a life before being HYDRA’s soldier. But he also didn’t know that despite HYDRA wiping his mind for fifteen years, it wasn’t long enough to completely erase the man beneath the surface. There was always a part of him fighting against their control.

A part of him that, for some reason, knew you.

The assassin suddenly fell to his side and slowly crawled towards you. His face was close to yours, allowing you to fully take in his face.

You noticed some faded scars around his temples.

The desire to reach for them overwhelmed you, but you couldn’t even lift a finger as the remaining light in your eyes faded. The assassin frowned, examining every little feature of your face. Then he glanced at your neck, noticing a thin chain that looked familiar to him…like he had held it before. He reached for it, pulling out the chain and the circular, silver object attached to it.

He stared at the locket for a while, but then his breath hitched. His mouth slightly opened as you finally let your eyes close.

You died, but not before you heard a whisper.

“Rose…?”

<><><>

May 22, 1960. 7:38 AM

I saw James on April 22.

There’s no way it wasn’t him.

James is alive. He’s been alive all this time, and I can’t even tell anyone. Who would believe me? How could I say I saw him when everyone in that room wound up dead? There shouldn’t have been any witnesses.

Technically, there weren't. James did kill me.

He actually killed me… I’ve never had the person I’m meant to save kill me before. First time for everything, isn’t there?

We were at the charity event for the Museum of Design. The newspaper said that the men found dead were part of an organization that spent the war filling their pockets while real men died in the trenches. They were always trying to get their hands on things they shouldn’t, like poisons and weapons and bombs.

The police did find traces of the poison in the lounge, but not the source. James must’ve taken that briefcase. I’d rather not know what he plans on doing with it.

He was wearing all black and his left arm was metallic with a red star on it. I couldn’t tell if it was a metal casing or if his arm was actually metal. There were also these scars on the sides of his head, almost like he had been burned. I…I’m not sure if I want to know what happened there.

The James I saved all those years ago wasn’t a killer. A fighter, yes, but not a stone-cold killer. There were so many men in that room, yet within 5 minutes, all of them were dead. He didn’t remember me at first, which didn’t surprise me because it had been more than 15 years since we’d last seen each other.

Or, maybe he was probably in the same position as me — confused and wondering just how the hell we were both still alive after the war, looking the same as before. I can’t explain how he hasn’t aged at all… Was he cursed too? Did he die and come back, forever ageless like me?

Did I actually give him another chance when I thought he was taken away from me us 15 years ago?

But that doesn’t explain why he’s become a killer. When I saw all of those bodies and got shot, I told myself that he’s not the James I remember. That the man who held me against his chest was not that murderer.

But then when he was dying, I swear I saw him. The way he looked at me was just enough for me to wonder if there was a trace of the man I used to know.

Then he called me Rose before I died. He called me by my He remembers that name, so that means he must remember me from the war, right?

I saved James for the 3rd time, and now I don’t know what the hell I’m supposed to do.

NEXT CHAPTER >

General Taglist! @a-century-of-sass @clemicious

Thanks for reading :)

[sergeantbarnessdoll]

Hiii! Can I please request a husband!Bucky x wife!fem!reader where Bucky, Steve, and Y/n had been best friends since childhood, and Bucky and Y/n started dating and eventually got married (they were high school sweethearts🥹). When Bucky fell off the train, Hydra came to her door, pretending to be the soldiers that worked with Bucky and asked her to come with them by lying that they’d take her to Bucky who had been “injured” in a battle. Hydra brainwashed Y/n, much like they did Bucky, injected her with the super serum and turned her into their own personal spy, taking her in and out of cryo like they did with Bucky. Much like Bucky she worked in the shadows and was trained to perfection, so even when she was sent into SHEILD to help infiltrate it, Steve never noticed or recognized her, let alone even saw her. All Steve knew (after definitely researching what happened to her after him and Bucky were gone), was that she disappeared shortly after Bucky and Steve “died” in 1945 and was never seen again. But he finds out her and Bucky are alive and brainwashed in CA: Winter Soldier, and after Bucky joins the Avengers, Steve, Sam, and Bucky all work to free Y/n 🥺 When they do however, she doesn’t remember Bucky or Steve, even after the brainwashing is broken? (Bucky and Steve would be heartbroken) And her and Bucky fall in love all over again?

Forever Sweethearts » Bucky Barnes/Winter Soldier

Pairings: Husband!40s!Bucky Barnes x Wife!Reader with Pre Serum Steve Rogers, Husband/Avenger!Bucky Barnes x Wife/Spy!Reader with Steve Rogers/Captain America, Sam Wilson/Falcon, and the Avengers

Summary: You and Bucky are high school sweethearts. HYDRA shows up as Army soldiers at your house to tell you that Bucky is injured, but in reality they brainwash you and turn you into a spy. Years later when Bucky joins the Avengers, he gets you back with Steve’s and Sam’s help, but sadly you don’t remember him. When you do, you and Bucky end up falling in love all over again.

Warnings: Fluff, Angst, language, HYDRA, brainwashing, violence, crying, kissing, pet names

A/N: Thank you for the lovely request @kpopgirlbtssvt 🩵

A/N #2: Italic texts are flashbacks.

Written on my phone. My apologies for any mistakes.

Header made by @buck-star

GIFS ARE NOT MINE! Gif credits go to the creators.

1943

You, Bucky, and Steve are childhood best friends. You three are inseparable. You guys do everything together. You and Bucky fell in love while you guys were in high school. He proposed to you the day you, Bucky, and Steve graduated from high school and you two got married that Summer.

Right now, you’re in an alley with Steve. You’re cleaning him up cause he got into a fight with a guy bigger than him.

“Stevie, I told you not to fight that guy.” You say while wiping blood off his nose.

“He wouldn’t shut up.” Steve says.

“So you resorted to violence?” You asked.

“Maybe…” He says.

You playfully rolled your eyes at your best friend and continued to clean him up.

“What happened this time?” Bucky asks as he walks in the alley.

“Stevie fought a guy bigger than him.” You tell your husband.

“I swear you like getting punched, man.” He says, looking at Steve.

“In his defense, the guy wouldn’t be quiet during the Army film.” You say.

You threw away the tissue in the trash can next to you before properly greeting your husband. You gave him a kiss on his lips.

“You look incredibly handsome in uniform.” You complimented in a flirtatiously.

“Thank you, doll.” Bucky smiles.

“Did you get your orders?” Steve asks, chiming in.

“The 107th, Sergeant James Barnes.” Bucky says.

Steve looks down and sighs sadly. He’s been trying to enlist in the 107th.

“It’s ok, Stevie.” You hugged him. “You’ll get in eventually.” You say positively.

“Thanks, Y/N.” Steve says.

“You’re welcome.” You say.

“Now, stop being sad and let’s go.” Bucky says.

“Go where?” Steve asks.

Bucky hands Steve a newspaper that says something about the Stark Expo. You looked at it too.

“Stark Expo.” Steve read aloud.

“Sounds interesting.” You say.

“That’s why we’re going, doll face.” Bucky says.

You giggled and Bucky wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you closer to him. When the three of you got to the Stark Expo, you guys decided to walk around for a little bit.

“So when do you leave?” Steve asks.

“Tomorrow.” Bucky answers.

“No. That’s too soon.” You say.

Tears filled your eyes when you realized you only have tonight to spend time with your husband before he leaves for the Army tomorrow.

“I know, doll.” Bucky pulls you into a hug. “Look at the bright side, I’ll be home before you know it.” Bucky says.

“You promise?” You asked and sniffled.

“I promise.” He promises, kissing your wedding ring.

Every time Bucky promises you something, he kisses your wedding ring, which always makes you smile.

“I love you, sweetie.” You say softly and kissed him.

“I love you too, babydoll.” Bucky says softly, kissing you back.

———

1945

Bucky has came home a few times since he’s joined the Army. You two always send each other letters, telling each other how much you two love and miss each other. You two try not let the long distance bother you guys.

You were cleaning yours and Bucky’s house to keep yourself busy when you heard a knock on the door. You stopped what you were doing to see who it is. Two Army -HYDRA- officers were on your doorstep.

“Are you Y/N Barnes?” One of them asks.

“Yes.” You answered.

“We work with your husband, Sergeant James Barnes, and we’re sorry to tell you this, but he’s been injured in battle.” The other soldier tells you.

Your heart dropped to the pit of your stomach. Your mind made you think the worst.

“How- How injured is he?” You asked.

“Enough to get him in the med bay.” The fake Army officer said.

“He asked us to pick you up and take you to him.” The other fake Army officer said.

“Yes please. Take me to my husband.” You say.

Little did you know that this was part of HYDRA’s plan after Bucky fell off the train. They’re going to take you to their base, brainwash you, inject you with the Super Soldier serum, take you in and out of the cryo chamber, and turn you into their own personal spy.

“Which one of these rooms is my husband in?” You asked as you walked through the hallway with the two HYDRA agents.

“He’s not in any of these rooms, Mrs. Barnes.” One of the HYDRA agents says.

Then where is he?” You asked.

You didn’t miss the way they exchanged looks with each other before looking at you with grins on their faces.

“Where is my husband?” You asked again.

Before you knew it, they grabbed your arms and led you to a lab. They forcefully pushed you down in a chair and strapped your arms and legs down. Then they left the lab. You tried to free yourself from the restraints, but they were too tight. That’s when a man in a suit and a man in a white lab coat walked in the lab.

“Hello, Mrs. Barnes. I’m Arnim Zola.” Zola greets you.

“Where the hell is my husband?” You asked for a third time, completely bypassing his introduction.

“He’s going to become something for our upcoming project. As for you, you’re going to become something for another one of our projects.” He explains.

Zola looks at the man in the lab coat and gave him a nod. The man in the lab coat walked over to you with an IV needle. Your eyes went wide and your heart began to pound. You wish you could break free of the restraints, but you couldn’t. The IV needle got inserted into your arm. You yelped when the needle pricked your skin. That’s when all of the pain and torture started…

———

DECEMBER 1991

HYDRA has been taking you in and out of the cryo chamber since 1945. They already brainwashed you, injected you with the Super Soldier serum, and trained you to know what a spy needs to know. Now, it’s December 1, 1991 and they took you out of the cryo and erased your memories once again.

“Ready to comply?” Your handler asks.

“Ready to comply.” You confirmed.

“We have a mission for you.” He says.

You nodded, waiting for him to tell you what the mission is.

“This is Howard and Maria Stark.” He shows you a picture of them. “We want you to follow them around for the next couple of weeks and see what information you can find out.” He explains.

“Yes, sir.” You complied.

You suited up for the mission. Your handler packed you binoculars, notebooks, and pens in a bag. They want you to take notes on what Howard and Maria are doing in those two weeks. Then you went to work.

After those two weeks, you got all of the information you needed to give to HYDRA written in the notebooks. You reported back to them and gave them the information.

“Great job, Agent Barnes. Your work here is done. Go get cleaned up.” Your handler says.

You nodded and left the room. As you were walking down the hall, you seen the Winter Soldier being dragged into one of the labs. You’ve never worked with him, but he looks familiar to you. Like you know him.

Could he be- no. Your husband died by falling off a train in 1945. At least that’s what HYDRA told you.

You were running down the street as Bucky chased you. Bucky caught up to you and grabbed you by your waist. He picked you up and spun you around, making you laugh uncontrollably. He gently put you back on your feet and pinned you against the nearest wall. He put his hands on the wall on both sides of your head.

“Why do you insist on running away from me, doll face?” Bucky asks.

“I think it’s fun when you chase me.” You answered with a playful grin.

“You’re right. It is.” He agrees and kisses you.

When the flashback ended, you felt yourself get lightheaded. You put your hand on the wall to keep yourself from falling. You weren’t sure what just happened, but you felt better after a few seconds.

———

2014

HYDRA sent you on an undercover mission to pose as an SHIELD Agent. They didn’t bother giving you a made up name for the undercover mission. They just sent to you SHIELD to spy for a little bit before they infiltrate them. Like you’re always told when you get sent on missions, you were told to keep your distance, in which you did. As you were doing your job, you seen Captain America- Steve Rogers from a distance. You furrowed your eyebrows as you looked at him. He’s the second familiar person who you came across since 1991.

“You need to stop getting into fights, Stevie.” You say as you helped clean him up.

“That guy had it coming.” Steve says.

You sighed as you continued to clean him up. Bucky walked in the bathroom a moment later.

“Did you get your ass beat again?” Bucky asks, leaning against the edge of the bathroom sink counter.

“He had it coming.” Steve says again.

“I swear you like getting punched.” Bucky says.

“No I don’t.” Steve says.

“Then why do you insist on getting into fights with people who are bigger than you?” You asked.

“I don’t know.” Steve mumbles.

You playfully rolled your eyes at your best friend.

“Alright. You’re good as new now.” You say.

“Thanks, Y/N. You’re the best.” Steve smiles.

You felt yourself get lightheaded after the flashback. You sat down in a chair before you passed out. You took a few deep breaths and took a sip of water before going back to work.

Meanwhile, Steve was doing research on you. He was curious to know what happened to you after Bucky died- fell off the train in 1945. Since he doesn’t know much about technology, he asked Natasha for help.

“Is there any particular reason why you’re researching a woman from the same time period as you?” Natasha asks curiously.

“She’s my childhood best friend. She married my best friend Bucky the Summer after we graduated from high school.” Steve tells her.

“Your childhood best friends are high school sweethearts? That’s so sweet.” She smiles.

“It is.” He smiles at the thought of it.

As Steve was researching you, he couldn’t find anything after 1945. He double and tripled check just to make sure he didn’t miss anything.

“There’s nothing on her after 1945. It’s like she disappeared.” Steve says.

“Do you think she might’ve died?” Natasha asks.

“No. Someone would told me.” He says.

———

Shortly after the fight on the helicarrier between Steve and the Winter Soldier, Bucky joined the Avengers. Bucky has been trying everything he could think of to figure out what happened to you. Steve told him that he did research on you, but couldn’t find anything on you after 1945.

“Think, Bucky. Are you sure you haven’t came across Y/N over the years?” Steve asks.

“If I came across my wife, I would’ve-” That’s when Bucky remembered something.

Two HYDRA agents were dragging the Winter Soldier to the lab to wipe his memories once again. You were walking past him at the same time he lifted his head. You two made eye contact with each other. His eyes never left yours as he was drugged past you.

“Bucky?” Steve gently shook his best friend to snap him out of his trance. “Are you ok?” He asks.

“HYDRA.” Bucky finally said. “They have my wife. I remember being dragged past her in a hallway of the HYDRA base I was kept at. Her and I didn’t recognize each other though.” He says.

Bucky’s eyes filled with tears and anger filled his veins.

“I’m going to kill them, Steve.” Bucky says, tears rolling down his cheeks.

“You have every right to kill them, Buck, but first, you need to save your wife.” Steve says softly, putting a comforting hand on his shoulder.

“Will you help me?” Bucky asks and sniffles.

“You know I will. We’ll get Sam to help us too.” Steve says.

Bucky nods and wipes his tears away. He pulled it together long enough to save you. When Bucky, Steve, and Sam got to the HYDRA base you are currently being held at, Bucky wanted to shoot the first HYDRA agent he saw, but he restrained himself.

“Do you remember what hallway you were in when you first seen her?” Steve asks.

Bucky looked around for a moment, trying to remember where the hallway is. Something sparked his memory when he looked at the hallway to the right.

“I heard her footsteps go this way.” Bucky says.

He walked down the hallway to the right with Steve following behind him. Then he came to a stop when he saw a few doors. He looked in the sliding slot of each door to see if you’re in any of the cells.

“She’s in this cell.” Bucky says, looking threw the last door slot.

He already knew that that cell door was locked so he broke off the door knob with his metal hand. You were sleeping on the wall opposite of the door. Him and Steve cautiously walked towards you. You woke up when you heard unfamiliar footsteps. Bucky and Steve froze when you sat up and turned over to face them. Bucky’s breath hitched when he saw you for the first time in years. You cautiously stood up, not taking your eyes off the two Super Soldiers.

“Y/N?” Bucky asks.

“Who the hell is Y/N?” You asked.

“Y/N, I’m your husband. Steve is right here. He’s our best friend, remember?” He says.

“No.” You shook your head. “I don’t know you guys.” You say.

“Doll, we’re high school sweethearts.” He says.

You were starting to feel overwhelmed. You managed to run past them, bumping into them as you did so. You ran through the hallways, trying to escape them. They caught up to you and Bucky tackled you to the floor. You tried to squirm free, but couldn’t.

“I’m your husband, doll.” Bucky says again.

“I’m not married.” You say.

You managed to kick Bucky off of you. You grabbed the gun out of the holster on his hip and aimed it at him. Bucky stayed on the floor, putting his hands up in surrender.

“Y/N, I want you to think about what you’re doing before you do it.” Bucky says in a calm voice.

Steve came up behind you and grabbed the gun out of your hand. You run before one of them could restrain you. You finally exited the base. You looked behind you to see if you out ran Bucky and Steve. You did. Then Sam flew down and grabbed you, catching you off guard.

“I got her.” Sam informs Bucky and Steve.

You did everything to squirm out of Sam’s hold on you, but he only held you tighter. Bucky and Steve exited the base and walked over to Sam. Sam moved you over to Bucky so now you’re in Bucky’s hold. He managed to get you on the quinjet and gently sat you down on one of the seats. You stared up at him, narrowing your eyes at him.

When you guys got to the Avengers compound, Bucky got you set up in his bedroom like the amazing husband he is. You looked around his bedroom. You’ll admit that it’s a lot nicer than the cell HYDRA put you in. You felt like you were going to go stir crazy in there so you left his bedroom and roamed around the compound. Meanwhile, Bucky was in the lounge room with Steve and Sam.

“What am I going to do if Y/N never remembers me as her husband?” Bucky asks, running his fingers through his long hair.

“She will, Buck. Just give her time.” Steve says softly.

You walked in the lounge room at the midst of their conversation. They stopped talking and turned their attention to you. Bucky stood up from his seat and walked over to you.

“Are you ok, doll? Do you need anything?” Bucky asks softly.

“I’m fine.” You mumbled. “Do any of you have a computer?” You asked.

“I have a laptop.” Sam says.

“Can I use it?” You asked.

“Sure.” Sam replies.

Sam hands you his laptop. You sat down on the couch and researched Bucky who claims is your husband and Steve who says is your childhood best friend. You researched Steve first.

“You’re Captain America.” You say, looking at Steve.

“Yes I am.” Steve confirms.

You then researched Bucky. Your eyebrows shot up at the results you got on him.

“You’re the Winter Soldier?” You asked Bucky, showing him a picture of when he was the Winter Soldier.

“Yes, but I don’t do that anymore. The man I have always been is your husband.” Bucky says.

You closed the laptop and gave it back to Sam. You walked over to Bucky, looking up at him.

“If you really are my husband, then why don’t I remember you?” You asked.

“HYDRA brainwashed you.” Bucky simply says.

Images of HYDRA brainwashing you flashes in your mind. Your breathing becomes uneven. You left the lounge and went straight to Bucky’s bedroom. You closed the door and leaned against it. You closed your eyes and tried to get your breathing under control. You’re starting to think that Bucky might be right about HYDRA brainwashing you.

———

Weeks turn into months and you still don’t remember Bucky as your husband. Bucky has tried everything he could think of to get you to remember him, but nothing works. He accidentally overwhelmed you once, but then apologized. It’s breaking Bucky’s heart that you don’t remember him. The more you say it, the more it feels like someone ripped his heart out of his chest and crushed it in their bare hands.

The only thing that’s keeping Bucky from breaking down is looking at old pictures of you two, especially the pictures from yours and his wedding day. Tears filled his eyes as he looked at the pictures. You guys were so happy. Thanks to HYDRA, all of that happiness got ripped from you two.

“Are you ok?” You asked.

“I’m fine.” Bucky says and sniffles.

You walked over to him and sat down next to him on his bed. You took a look at the pictures in the photo album he’s currently looking at.

“Who are those people?” You asked, pointing at one of yours and his wedding pictures.

“Me and you on our wedding day.” He tells you. “You looked so gorgeous in your wedding dress.” He says softly with a smile.

The more you look at the pictures, you don’t remember any of it. It makes you feel bad that you can’t remember the man you married.

“I’m sorry I can’t remember any of this.” You apologized sadly.

“Doll, you have absolutely nothing to apologize for. It’ll come to you eventually.” He says softly.

You gaze deep in Bucky’s eyes, getting lost in them. You leaned in and kissed him passionately, catching Bucky by surprise. He kissed you back. He never forgot about how soft your lips feel against his. You pulled away after a few seconds, still gazing in his eyes.

“I’m falling in love with you, Bucky.” You admitted softly.

“I’m falling in love with you too, doll.” Bucky says softly.

In that moment, you and Bucky started to rekindle the love that got ripped from you guys years ago.

———

Yours and Bucky’s love has become stronger than ever lately. It’s just as strong as it was when you two fell in love when you guys were in high school. Also, yours and his happiness has came back.

“It looks like you and Y/N are falling in love again.” Steve says.

“How can you tell?” Bucky asks.

“You have that same smile on your face like the day you asked her to be your girlfriend in high school.” Steve says.

Bucky smiles at the memory. He remembers that day perfectly.

“You want to know what will make Y/N love you even more?” Wanda says.

“Yes.” Bucky replies.

“You should buy her favorite flowers and put her wedding ring back on her finger.” She suggests.

“Y/N does love flowers, but I don’t have her wedding ring to put on her finger.” He says sadly.

“Do you think she’ll accept a ring that’s different from her original ring?” She asks.

“I don’t know. There’s only one way to find out.” He says.

Bucky thanks Wanda for the suggestion and thought about it for a while. Later that same day, Bucky did what Wanda said. He bought a bouquet of your favorite flowers and he went to a jewelry store to buy a ring. He bought one that closely resembles your original ring.

“Have you guys seen Bucky?” You asked as you walked in the lounge room.

“He had to run a couple of errands. He said he’ll be back soon.” Wanda tells you.

“Are you ok?” Steve asks softly.

“I’m fine. Thanks for asking, Stevie.” You smiled.

Steve smiles when you called him Stevie. You haven’t called him that nickname since 1943.

You decided to go outside to get some fresh air. You sat on the bench next to the door to the main entrance of the compound. Bucky came back from running his errands a moment later. You smiled when you seen him walking towards you.

“I was wondering where you were, James.” You say with a smile.

“I wanted to get you your favorite flowers.” Bucky smiles as he hands you the bouquet.

“These are pretty.” You smiled as you admired the flowers.

“I have something else for you.” He says nervously.

“What is it?” You asked curiously.

Bucky took a small velvet box out of his jacket pocket and got down on one knee. You gasped.

“I know it’s not exactly the ring I put on your finger in 1935, but I hope you like it.” He says.

Bucky opened the small box, revealing a beautiful diamond ring.

“Do you like it?” He asks.

“I love it!” You exclaimed softly.

Bucky smiles and slides the ring on your finger. He sat down next to you on the bench and kissed you passionately.

“I love you, Bucky.” You say softly.

“I love you too, doll.” Bucky almost whispers. “I’m sure your memories of us will come back soon. Till then, you have our love and happiness to help you out with it.” He says softly, pecking your lips softly.

🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵

-Bucky’s Doll