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aquaticmercy · 13 days ago

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Symptom of Life

Sequel to My Own Soul's Warning Bucky x Spirit of Suffering!reader masterlist

Summary : Bucky introduces Sam to his secret wife, who is still getting used to being in a human body.

Pairing : Bucky Barnes x reader (she/her)

Warnings/tags : Blood, violence, death, trauma, mentions of ED, SA, insecurities, sleep disorders. Slight caffeine addiction (reader loves coffee but feel free to exchange it for any caffeinated drink). Maybe a bit angsty? I know the tags look bad but ultimately it’s fluffy. (Let me know if I've missed anything)

Word count : 9k oops

Note : This fic is a sequel to My Own Soul’s Warning. Reader was the Spirit of Suffering, a former immortal entity who shows herself to people in extreme physical and emotional suffering to help ease the pain. I also really really enjoy the idea of Bucky having a secret wife. Title is inspired by the Willow song of the same name. Enjoy!

Bucky couldn’t seem to keep his hands off you, his fingers skimming along your arms, your shoulders, drifting down to hold your hand, as if touching you was the only way to convince himself you were real.

When he noticed the crimson footprints smudged into his carpet, he froze, his eyes darting down to your bare, bloodied feet.

“Oh my god, what happened to you?” He stared at the raw cuts, the bruised flesh, the delicate lines of red seeping out, soaking into the fabric. The reality of you being human—really, fully human—sank in.

For the first time, you weren’t ethereal and distant. For the first time, your human form wasn’t bound to borrowed time. You were fragile, stuck in this world like he was, prone to physical injury like he was.

Your eyes flicked to his, and with a naive curiosity, you asked, “Are feet… supposed to feel sharp?”

Was that the word people used to describe this uneasy physical feeling?

“Oh, sweetheart, no.” His mouth fell open, a breathless laugh escaping him. He couldn't help himself— even like this you were… adorable. “Let me take care of you. Come here.” He guided you to the couch, his touch gentle, brows furrowed. Moving through the drawers in his kitchen, he found his first aid kit, and crouched in front of you.

You watched, fascinated, as he opened the kit, pulling out antiseptic and gauze with practised hands, his fingers shivering as they brushed over your skin. He took your foot in his lap, so carefully as if he feared you might break.

You winced at the sting of the antiseptic, staring down as he dabbed gently. Each time he caught a flinch or a sharp inhale, he murmured, “Sorry, I’m sorry. I’ll be gentle.”

After a moment of silence, he asked, “Where did you walk from?”

You tilted your head, trying to remember the journey. You remembered reading a sign!

“I showed up in the woods near Westview… I think.”

His hands froze on your foot, his chin snapping up. “Westview? You’re telling me that you walked from a Jersey suburb all the way to Brooklyn… barefoot? In nothing but—” His eyes drifted down to the thin fabric you were wearing, the slightest hint of a smirk tugging at his mouth. “—a… what, a sheet?”

“Yes? Is that not normal?” Your lips quirked, the corners of your mouth twitching with a laugh. “People did give me strange looks.”

He stared at you, a flicker of disbelief crossing his face. All this time, you’d been wandering the earth as the Spirit of Suffering, witnessing every dark corner of human existence—yet you didn’t understand human norms?

But then he realised— that you were exactly that: an entity bound to suffering, burdened with witnessing the worst parts of humanity. You’d been drawn to agony, grief, and loss. You have probably never seen a human just… be.

Before Bucky, you’d never known what it meant to feel the gentler things: kindness, joy, the sweetness of an ordinary moment.

The beauty in simply being alive.

He couldn’t help but chuckle, shaking his head as he pulled off his Henley, handing it to you. “Here. Wear this. Just… don’t move.”

You took the clothes from him, the warmth of the fabric seeping into your skin as you pulled them on. Every movement felt new and strange.

The Henley was soft, and you savoured the scent that clung to it—something clean and faintly cedar-y, just like the woods you had appeared in.

It felt like a shield against the strange chill of your mortal skin.

Bucky settled beside you, draping a blanket over both of you. His voice was barely above a whisper. “Tell me everything.”

In the warm quiet of Bucky’s apartment that now felt vast, you let the truth spill from your lips.

You told him of Rio Vidal, of calling Death herself, of the eternity you had given away in the blink of an eye— that you will now die as he would— that your infinite existence in search of a pain has come to an end— that you were made from the same flesh and blood that he was.

As you spoke, you watched the way his eyes reflected the glow of the warm lamplight.

Perhaps it would always be this way with you— he would always have questions he couldn’t ask, that had answers he couldn’t possibly understand.

But did that really matter? The soul that had wondered all the living realms, the soul that had been the Spirit of Suffering— the mercy in all his nightmares, was now human.

You, his one true love that he was certain he couldn’t truly grasp, had shown up at his doorstep, truly alive for the first time. Not a phantom. Not a ghost. Not anymore.

Wasn’t this what he had been asking of you?

A new struggle dawned on his face— hope, disbelief, and finally a guilt that consumed his heart, sinking deeper and deeper until he could no longer tell where he started and it began.

He stayed silent, but his hand lifted, hesitating before his metal arm reached for your cheeks. His touch was gentle, careful, like he was trying to memorise the warmth of your skin, as if he had gotten too used to you leaving in the morning. “You did this…,” he said, voice rough. He didn’t finish the sentence. Couldn’t finish it.

You did this for me.

You nodded, feeling the press of tears you hadn’t realised were waiting for release. “For you,” you whispered. “But I chose this myself.”

His face twisted. Your declaration hurt, yet he held on tighter. His human fingers sliding up to your wrists, pressing into the pulse. His eyes closed, his breath uneven. “I don’t deserve this,” he murmured, voice breaking.

You reached for his jaw, guiding him to look at you. “If anyone does,” you said, brushing your thumb over his cheekbone. “It’s you.”

A gentle wave of calm radiated from you, easing his worries, allowing just enough peace to slip past his defences.

You spoke with a finality that left no room for doubt— a certainty that felt ancient, a knowledge too vast to be contained within the human mind it now occupied. You had seen humanity's darkest sorrows, touched the edges of its deepest pain. Coming from you, he knew your words were absolute.

He chuckled, a low, sweet sound that sounded like music to your ears. His fingers left your pulse and covered your hand on his face.

“You’re really here,” he whispered with a childlike wonder, nuzzling into your palm.

When you had a borrowed human form, every second felt strained, as if each breath drained you. But now, with a mortal mind to match your human body, everything felt effortless, natural. For the first time, you could feel the roughness of Bucky's stubble against your skin without the weight of eternity anchoring you.

“I am,” you said, your voice trembling, getting used to the fragile elasticity of a human vocal cord. You could feel the steady, comforting warmth of his body, his heartbeat a drumbeat against your hand on his chest.

The textures around you seemed sharper, more alive than ever before. The clarity was blinding—the rough edge of the cuts on his skin against your fingertips, the dampness of tears on his cheek. Each breath, each subtle movement of his chest under your hand, felt like a true miracle— and you’ve witnessed many miracles.

He pulled you into him then, wrapping his arms around you, utterly anchored in this mortal world. His face pressed against your hair, and you could feel the warmth of his breath against your skin, the gentle brush of his lips against your forehead. In that moment, everything felt amplified—the softness of his embrace, the steady rhythm of his heart against your own, the way his fingers traced slow patterns on your back, almost as if he were afraid you’d slip away again.

“Stay with me,” he whispered, still in disbelief.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you replied. You felt his hand slide up to cradle the back of your head, his touch gentle, protective.

—

That night, he taught you how to sleep. For eons, you'd drifted through darkness, untouched by the need for rest. You’ve watched over tormented souls throughout the night—those who woke in terror, those steeped in frustration of sleepless nights. Bucky had even been one of them.

You knew the kind of exhaustion that left people broken— but the gentle surrender of sleep, that brought refreshment and peace—that had always been beyond your reach.

So when he suggested you try it, the idea felt foreign, even decadent. That night, lying next to him, your heart thundered as the strange sensation of needing sleep washed over you, especially after the long walk that brought you to him.

As you yawned, Bucky stifled a laugh, kissing your forehead. “The adrenaline is running out,” he said.

Tiredness was as foreign as it was unsettling. He wrapped his arms around you. He whispered to you, his voice a grounding hum. The rise and fall of his chest was a tether, an anchor in this unfamiliar stillness, until, gradually, you sank into the quiet oblivion.

When you awoke, Bucky’s morning voice rang softly as he took in the wonder and surprise on your face.

“You get used to it,” he chuckled, his hand brushing through your rumpled hair. “Believe me, not every morning feels that amazing.”

But you couldn’t imagine ever feeling anything but awe at this—waking up warm and whole again, cocooned in his arms.

—

That morning, Bucky handed you a bowl of cereal, and you stared at it like a riddle you’d never known needed solving.

When you were immortal, you had only ever seen food through the lives of those who struggled with it, those who either deprived themselves or sought comfort in excess, using eating to ease their pain. So when Bucky suggested you should try eating yourself, you approached it with hesitation.

But he was patient, his eyes warm as he showed you how to hold the spoon, how to bring it to your mouth for that first tentative bite. The sweetness, the cold milk—it all flooded your senses at once, and then came the emptiness after chewing and swallowing. You laughed, amazed at how something so small could be so enchanting.

—

Then, it came for you to clean yourself.

You’d witnessed scenes like this countless times before— bathtubs filled with still, unmoving water. Often, the people you watched over leaned in ceramic bathrooms in silence, crying in solitude. Showers where people stood for hours, letting the water drown their pain. You’d seen water become a place of grief, of release, of places where bodies were found by a grieving family.

But this was different.

You gingerly stepped in the bath, watching Bucky’s face to make sure you were doing it right, but he was only smiling. He cupped some water and tossed it at you with a splash, chuckling as you jumped, surprised. The warmth felt good, and so did the way he looked at you: relaxed and teasing, no weight or judgement in his gaze.

“You’ve gotta get your hair wet too,” he said, lifting a bubble-filled hand and laughing as he blew them playfully in your direction. The bubbles floated like tiny stars before popping against your skin, and you found yourself reaching for them, a small laugh escaping your lips. You didn’t know you could laugh like this, a sound so unburdened by the infinite years you endured alone.

Soon, you started enjoying the unfamiliar joy of being simply clean.

—

One morning, he handed you a toothbrush, squeezing a minty gel onto it.

He guided your hand gently, helping you get the feel of it. The rush of cool mint, the slight sting of the paste—it was all strangely invigorating. It was a ritual he assured you would become second nature.

Mortals are so fragile! What do you mean if they don’t do this every day, a vital part of their body will fall off? You thought to yourself, before remembering that you are now one of them, too.

Each morning after that, you stood side by side in the bathroom, brushing together, and he’d watch you in the mirror, amused as you perfected the routine.

—

And now: clothes. At first, you wore whatever Bucky gave you—a worn sweater, one of his old shirts. But he soon insisted on taking you out to find your own, bringing you to a clothing store where he watched as you picked through the racks, feeling the fabrics, the textures that you haven't before.

When you were immortal, you witnessed the way mirrors could deepen the wounds of mortal insecurities. Now, you found yourself grappling with those same emotions —one that you had never possessed before.

When you put on a tight shirt in the changing room, you weren’t prepared for the way your own reflection made you hesitate. You looked at your body and wondered why it didn’t curve the same as the mannequins outside, or why your form wasn’t the same as the figures plastered on billboards.

“Do I look wrong?” you asked Bucky, frowning at your reflection. He didn’t hesitate, stepping closer to you. “Of course not,” he said. “You’re beautiful, doll.”

As you learned to process human insecurity, you also learned to laugh as you twirled in front of the mirror in clothes that were truly yours.

Still, even with your part of the closet now stocked up, he would catch you lounging in his day-old shirts from time to time.

—

Days passed with more tiny, mundane marvels. He gave you a phone to keep him updated on your whereabouts. And with that he also gave you a pair of blue light glasses, holding them carefully as he helped you slide them on.

“These’ll help,” he explained, brushing a finger over the bridge of your nose. Your eyes, so used to eternity, ached with the sharp glow of phone screens and computers.

Bucky didn’t really need them— super soldier serum and all. But you? Now, you were so devastatingly human that you crinkled your nose and rubbed your eyes when you were reading some old Latin text (which was a practically dead language) on his tablet for too long.

“Screens are terrible for your eyes,” he said. And he was right, until these glasses softened the glare. You found yourself squinting less at the blue-tinged world they showed you.

You kept them in a case wherever you went.

—

Bucky taught you how to use the subway, standing close behind you, his hand resting lightly on your back as you learned to read the maps, to listen for the names of stops. Once, you were too preoccupied with talking to each other that you ended up far from home, but he just laughed. When he noticed you were getting tired before you could even make your way home, he bought you both a cup of coffee. He then showed you how to retrace your steps, until you found your way back together.

Well, the coffee was a mistake. The smell alone was fascinating—rich, bitter, and warm. You took a sip, and the taste flooded your senses.

it tasted so… deep.

You felt the faint bite of bitterness softened by milk and sugar, an intensity of flavour you'd never known.

The jolt of caffeine made you feel vibrantly alive, so much so that when you almost got home, you insisted on going to a nearby cafe and ordering another one yourself, unable to resist. And another one. And another one. And… another one.

When night fell, though, you laid awake, heart racing. Bucky chuckled as you fidgeted beside him, amused as you tried to get comfortable in his arms. "You might want to go easy on the coffee next time, doll," he said, stroking your hair as you tossed and turned, learning the dangers of caffeine a little too late.

—

Then, there was the music.

One evening, Bucky sat beside you, scrolling through his records as you closed your eyes and let the sound spill into your eardrums. He played everything he could think of—classical, jazz, heavy rock, music from both his era and this one. You found yourself drawn to the soulful, mournful melodies, the songs heavy with longing. When you shared this with him, he chuckled softly, saying “old habits die hard,” and you had to laugh.

You didn’t have the heart to tell him that when you were drifting through the centuries, you listened as artists— Beethoven, Louis Armstrong, Janis Joplin, Lorna Wu— pouring their own pain into their music. You had stood beside them once, a witness to their pain.

—

Even laundry became an adventure. He watched as you stood in front of the washing machine, staring at it like it was some complicated puzzle. “Trust me,” he grinned, showing you how to measure the detergent. He watched as you concentrated, biting your lip as you turned the dial and pressed the start button. The hum of the machine, the warmth of freshly dried clothes—all of it enchanted you, and Bucky could hardly believe he had the chance to witness this, to be here for each discovery.

—

You were learning, too, about the cold.

One evening, the two of you wandered out under a sky swirling with frost and snowflakes. As the chill settled into your skin, you shivered—a sharp, biting sensation that was alien. You couldn’t suppress a gasp, startled by the vulnerability of this mortal form. Bucky noticed instantly, and without a word, he slipped off his jacket and draped it around your shoulders.

Then he drew you close. His arms wrapped around you, his own warmth seeping into your body. The sensation was strange—this human closeness, this press of one being against another.

It was foreign, yet it was soothing.

He felt a barrier against the cold, and for the first time, you understood what it meant to feel safe.

—

Bucky even helped you pick a name. You’d never had one before, not really. Names were for mortals, for fleeting things. But now that you were one, you needed it.

You spent hours together, turning names over like stones, tasting each one, letting the syllables sit on your tongue until something fit. The moment it did, you saw the change in Bucky’s face. Like you’d both found something you didn’t know you were looking for. It was the sound of it, your name, clicking into place, bridging a gap you didn’t realise was there until it closed.

Then he asked what last name you wanted.

"I figured it would just be Barnes," you said, shrugging as if it was no big deal.

But it was, to Bucky. Last names were such a specific social sentiment to him, and here you were, assuming it as if it was second nature.

"Do you want it to be?" he asked, sheepishly shy. He wanted you to understand that he was offering you something precious, something more than just a name.

You said "yes," and you meant it.

You had a last name now—his name. The thought twisted in your chest, both strange and achingly right.

He made it real, pulling strings the way he could. He handed you the papers, a freshly printed birth certificate, and an ID.

“It’s official,” he said, tucking them into your hand with a smile that was so warm it almost burned— a smile that felt like the heavens crafted it just for you.

—

Not long after, Bucky asked if you’d marry him.

You were both in his apartment, on the balcony after dinner when he knelt down on one knee. He held out a sapphire and diamond ring, the stone the colour of a sky just before the storm breaks— just a couple of shades shy of his eyes.

He asked if you wanted to do it tomorrow. No waiting, no grand spectacle—just the two of you, the wedding bands already prepared, sitting on his side of the night stand.

But he didn’t want to rush you. “Please say no if you want to,” he reassured, worried he might scare you off.

You’d been human only a few months, still getting used to your skin, to the sound of a heartbeat in your ears.

But you’d known him for nearly a century. You’ve met him in brief, flickering moments back when you were still a spirit, drifting across the world, pulled by the invisible threads of suffering. It had been years since you started manifesting a physical form he could touch, nearly two years since he first showed you what a wonder it was to be kissed by him.

So he just had to ask.

He’d waited so long already. Time felt thin to him since it came to his attention that he almost died— and he didn’t want to waste another second. He wasn’t sure how a former Spirit of Suffering would react to a marriage proposal, so when you said yes, his relief was tangible in every fibre of the universe around him.

—

The courthouse was quiet. There was no grand vision of romance here, and yet, as you stood beside Bucky, you felt love swell like never before, heart beating out of your ribcage.

You had watched marriages unfold for millennia, seen the concept evolve from a practical contract to a declaration of love. You had been sceptical, even baffled. Why did mortals need to bind their love with laws and vows? It seemed so restrictive, so doomed to cause pain.

And you had seen so much pain come from marriage.

You’d answered the call of those trapped in loveless unions, those whose hearts were shattered by betrayal, those left hollow by the death of a beloved. You had soothed countless souls in the aftermath of love gone wrong.

But here, in this sunlit room, you understood why they did it. Why they risked so much for a chance to promise something unbreakable, even though they knew how fragile it really was.

You, who had only ever observed human beings from the edges of their lives, were now standing at the centre of your own. Hand in hand with Bucky, you made a promise not because you had to, but because you wanted to, with a conviction that felt as new and startling as your human heartbeat.

He looked at you with a kindness he rarely let anyone else see. For the first time, the idea of marriage didn’t feel like a cage— it felt like freedom.

You repeated the officiant’s words, meaning every single thing that came out of your mouth. Bucky’s eyes never left yours, as though he was anchoring himself to you, just as you had once anchored yourself to the sorrows of the world.

“Do you take James Buchanan Barnes…” The words were ordinary, mundane. Yet when you whispered “I do,” it felt heavenly.

It wasn’t a promise for eternity—it was a promise for a single, fleeting lifetime. And that, you realised, made it all the more precious.

When he slipped the ring onto your finger, his hands were steady. It was a marker, not of ownership but of choice. It was his way of saying that he chose you, above all else, and that you chose him, despite everything you had seen and known.

The officiant gave a quiet, “You may kiss,” but you hardly heard it before Bucky’s lips met yours. His lips were soft, filled with a devotion that overwhelmed you. So you clung to him for comfort, as if this brief moment could stretch into the forever you once knew.

He called you “my wife” from then on, with a kind of reverence you weren’t used to. And you, in turn, you grew quite fond of calling him “my husband.”

—

Over the next few months, Bucky watched as you gradually found your place among humans, learning to live in the world you’d once only observed.

Tasks that had seemed simple from a distance became little puzzles, requiring patience and a quiet acceptance of limits— that you couldn’t just will something to go away anymore. Bucky would often catch sight of you across the room, fumbling slightly with things you were learning for the first time— jars, doors, and locks. Learning how to cook. Learning how to use a blender. Learning how to adjust the temperature when the heater was on.

Still, that kindness you’d carried as a spirit had followed you here, perhaps even amplified by vulnerability. He noticed it in the way you approached others, how you listened when someone spoke of their troubles.

Bucky marvelled at it, at you, amazed that this once-immortal spirit was now seeking to make sense of a body that tired and a world that didn’t stop moving.

One day, you decided to give your time to those who might need you most—signing up to volunteer at an animal shelter, a soup kitchen, a rehab centre, and a retirement home all at once. But soon enough, you came face to face with the very real limits of humanity. You no longer had infinite time or energy, and it pained you to accept that you couldn’t be everywhere at once.

You had to let go of some of your commitments, a necessary choice that broke your heart.

Sometimes, people would glance at you with a flicker of recognition, sensing that they’d seen you before. And you remembered every single one of them. But you would simply smile, saying nothing as they’d pass by.

From time to time, Bucky wondered if some hint of your old self remained in this new body. After all, you had crossed ages and realms. Something like that doesn’t just… disappear, right?

He’d notice it in the smallest ways, subtle moments that defy simple explanation. After a hard mission, when tension knotted every muscle in his shoulders, you'd step into the room, and everything seemed to shift. The pain would gently subside. His breathing would calm ever so slightly.

Or there were times he’d experience some small hurt—a papercut flipping through a book, or an ache on his side where Sam had kicked him hard during sparring. You’d look at him with concern, and the sting would fade.

Or maybe it’s the fact that ever since you’ve been sleeping next to him, his nightmares seemed quieter—sometimes even absent altogether. It was something he had almost forgotten was possible, that kind of sleep, deep and dreamless, the kind that let him wake up feeling like he’d left some of the pain behind.

He never directly asked if this was deliberate, if you could still pull on the threads of suffering. But he suspected you could, suspected that some remnant of your gift remained, woven so deeply into you that even a human body couldn’t strip it away completely.

Maybe you didn’t even notice it yourself; after all, you had spent lifetimes seeking suffering to mend. Easing pain had once been your nature, your very essence. And now, even bound by flesh, there was a grace about you, a sense that some hidden part of you still looked out for hurt souls.

—

You were still learning what it meant to feel human emotions fully, to experience anger, frustration, to process the sharp stab of indignation that came with disrespect.

So when some guy on the street cat called you, yelling something crude and graphic— an unfamiliar feeling surged in your chest. It wasn’t just anger—it was outrage, a visceral feeling that burned in a way you’d never experienced before— one that even hurt your guts.

Because you knew where this could go, you’ve witnessed it— you remembered every person you’d consoled, the countless humans you’d held in their pain after they had been touched against their will, violated, used. You recalled the sorrow, the anguish, the sense that they’ve lost themselves in the process, lost a piece of their soul to their abuser. You’ve seen it all— little girls hiding in the closet, little boys having to pretend because they thought they were less because of it, people who flinched at the sheer mention of their abuser. More often than not— it started like this.

With a “harmless” comment.

So now, faced with this man’s ugly words, you realised you could feel the anger on their behalf—and it was overwhelming.

As you fixed your gaze on the cat caller, his smirk faded. His expression twisted, almost as if something was clawing at him from the inside. He clutched at his chest, his face paling as tears began to stream down his face. He didn’t know why he was crying, didn’t understand the flood of pain, of fear, of regret that washed over him, consuming him in a way he’d never known. He was overwhelmed, bent by a will he couldn’t see but could feel pressing down on him like a ton of bricks.

And then, from somewhere behind you, you heard Bucky’s voice, low and steady. “I know he’s a dickhead, but… he’s not worth it.” His words were soft but urgent, a knife breaking through your haze of anger.

You turned to look at him, confused, and only then did you realise what you’d done. The cat caller was still crying, crumpling under a pain you hadn’t consciously intended to inflict.

You hadn’t known that you could cause suffering. Your whole existence had been spent easing it, helping others bear their burdens, guiding them toward healing.

But now, feeling human anger, you’d somehow unleashed pain on someone else.

Bucky was watching you, his gaze both gentle and concerned, trying to gauge what you were feeling.

He’d suspected that some of your powers might remain, but neither of you had known for sure, not until now.

This… this was different.

You took a deep breath, and suddenly, the man stopped crying, shaken and confused. The surge of anger receded, leaving you to grapple with a side of yourself you didn’t realise existed.

After telling the cat caller to “get the fuck away from my wife” Bucky stepped closer to you, his hand reaching out to touch your arm.

You were kind, too kind for your own good. Even though he had deserved it, you still had to face the guilt of hurting a soul for the first time in eternity.

“You didn’t know,” he said quietly.

This new side of you— perhaps the manifestation of your powers in the presence of vulnerable mortal emotions— was unsettling. You’d been a source of mercy, of solace— and yet, you realised, that compassion had come with an understanding of pain so deep it could— when fuelled by human anger— turn against others.

—

The day Bucky asked Sam if he wanted to meet you was as ordinary as any other. The two were sitting in a small diner, plates of food between them, the hum of a radio in the background. Sam had just finished telling a story about why his wingpack needed servicing again when Bucky dropped the bombshell.

“So,” Bucky said, poking at the remnants of his fries. “You want to meet my wife?”

Sam froze, his fork halfway to his mouth, expression drained. “Your what?” he asked, as if Bucky had just admitted to robbing a bank or killing a puppy.

“My wife,” Bucky repeated, casually taking another bite of his burger.

Sam lowered his fork slowly, eyes narrowing. “You have a wife?”

“Yes,” Bucky nodded. He took the ring looped around a chain by his neck from under his shirt to show him, “Do you think I’m that unlovable?”

“When did this happen?”

“A couple of months ago.”

“And I’m only just hearing about it?”

Bucky shrugged. “It’s complicated.”

Sam stared at him, his jaw slightly slack from the nuke of an information he just dropped. “Complicated?” he repeated incredulously. “Bucky, you’re not allowed to drop a bomb like ‘I have a wife’ and follow it up with ‘it’s complicated.’ What does that even mean? I didn’t even know you were dating. I didn’t even know you liked people!”

Bucky snorted, crossing his arm. “I like people.”

“Since when?”

“Since I married one.”

“Okay, I need answers.” Sam sat back in the booth, arms over his chest. “Where did you meet her? How long has this been going on? And—oh, here’s a big one—why wasn’t I invited to the wedding?”

“It wasn’t a big wedding.” Bucky sipped his soda calmly, clearly enjoying baffling Sam more than he let on. “Just us in the courthouse.”

“That’s not the point! I’m your friend.” Sam threw his hands up. “When you meet someone, you tell your friends, you invite them to the wedding. You don’t just—what—elope and then ambush me over lunch like it’s a mission briefing!”

Bucky’s smile grew wider, almost sheepish now. “You done?” he asked, and Sam glared at him.

“No, I’m not done. I have so many questions.” Sam squinted at him suspiciously. “Who is she? Is she in witness protection? A spy? What?”

Bucky shook his head. “No, she’s just… still getting used to being human.”

There was a long pause as Sam stared at him, his expression a perfect mix of disbelief and confusion. Then, with slow deliberation, he leaned forward. “Okay,” he said carefully. “So which one is she? Alien, android, or wizard?”

Bucky groaned, leaning back in his seat. “Not this again.”

“Yes, this again!” Sam said, pointing a finger at him. “You don’t think that sounds exactly like one of the big three? Alien. Android. Wizard. Take your pick.”

“She’s none of them,” Bucky insisted, though his tone wavered slightly. He frowned, thinking about the things he’d seen you do—how you could still soothe pain without realising it, how your anger had once manifested as a wave of pure suffering. That did seem a bit magical. A small doubt crept into his mind. “At least… I don’t think she is.”

“Don’t think?” Sam repeated, eyebrows shooting up. “You don’t even know?”

“Shhh,” Bucky said, noticing how Sam was getting louder and louder. People have started turning their heads, “you’re making a scene.”

“I’m allowed to make a— wait what are you writing down?”

Bucky pulled a small notebook out of his jacket pocket. He flipped to a blank page and scribbled something down. Sam leaned over the table, trying to see what he’d written.

‘Ask if wizard,’ he had written in today’s to-do list, along with ‘buy flowers’ and ‘pick up garlic.’

Sam read the list, looking back at Bucky with a mix of amusement and exasperation. “Seriously?”

Bucky shrugged, tucking the notebook away. “Gotta be thorough.”

“I don’t even know where to start.” Sam rubbed his temples. “You’ve been happier lately—I’ll give you that—but now I’m wondering if it’s because you’re in love or if your wizard wife is casting some kind of love spell on you.”

“She’s not,” Bucky said flatly. “And she’s probably not a wizard.”

“This is insane.” Sam rubbed his temple, feeling a bad headache incoming, shaking his head. “You still haven’t told me why I wasn’t invited to this magical mystery courthouse wedding.”

Bucky’s expression softened slightly, the teasing edge in his voice giving way to something more serious. “Because it’s complicated. She’s… different. She’s been through a lot. I didn’t want to overwhelm her.”

Sam blinked, taken aback by the sudden sincerity in Bucky’s voice. “Okay,” he said after a moment. “But you could’ve at least told me, man. You know I would’ve been cool about it. I’d wanna help! Picked out a suit. Give you a pep talk when you’re nervous.”

Bucky laughed. “So you would’ve been my best man?”

“Absolutely,” Sam said. “Come on! I love weddings! I would’ve danced with all the wizard aunties.”

“There were no aunties.”

“Whatever.”

They both laughed, the tension easing slightly. Sam leaned back in his chair, still shaking his head. “So when do I get to meet Mrs. Barnes?”

“Soon,” Bucky said, his grin widening. “You’re gonna like her.”

“I’d better,” Sam muttered, reaching for his drink. “Because if she does turn out to be a wizard and didn’t tell you, I’m gonna kick her magical ass.”

Bucky laughed— a genuine, deep laugh that Sam hadn’t heard in a long time. It was good to see him like this, happy and relaxed. And despite all the weirdness, Sam couldn’t help but feel curious about the woman who had managed to do the impossible—make Bucky Barnes smile so effortlessly.

—

Bucky leaned back into the couch, his arm draped lazily along the backrest as he watched you squint at your laptop. You were completely engrossed in an old Sumerian text, occasionally pausing to scroll or mutter something in an ancient language under your breath.

“Are you a wizard?” he asked suddenly, his tone teasing but curious.

You glanced up, tilting your head like you were considering it.

“No,” you finally replied, closing the laptop halfway. “If anything, I’m closer to being a witch.”

Bucky shifted closer, resting his chin in his hand as he studied you. “What’s the difference?”

“Witches are born with magic,” you explained, tucking your feet underneath you. “It’s part of who they are. Wizards—or to use the more accurate term, sorcerers—have to learn sorcery.”

Bucky pulled out his little notebook from his pocket, flipping it open. You leaned over, watching as he crossed out the last word in ‘ask if wizard’ and wrote ‘witch’ instead. He then carefully added a little tick next to it.

You laughed, resting your head against his shoulder. “Are you taking notes on me?”

“Of course,” he said, tone completely serious. “Gotta keep track of all the weird, magic wife stuff.”

You swatted his arm, but the fondness in your touch was unmistakable.

Bucky grinned, leaning back to nudge you gently with his shoulder. “How was the text? Did you crack the code?”

“Oh, it wasn’t hard,” you said with a dismissive wave— you had gotten used to all the languages ever spoken. After all, you’ve had to comfort people in their native tongue. “Humans are so funny, losing languages they invented.” You shook your head, chuckling softly.

Bucky’s laugh rumbled in his chest, “Yeah, well, we’re good at forgetting stuff.”

You gave him a knowing look but said nothing, only tucking your legs more comfortably against his.

“How was lunch with Sam?” you asked, your voice soft as you reached for his metal hand.

“Great,” Bucky said, his thumb brushing over the back of your hand absentmindedly. “Still on for meeting him tomorrow?”

You hesitated for a beat, your eyes flicking to your joined hands. “Mmhmm,” you said finally, though your voice was quieter. “I’ve met him before, you know.”

Bucky’s brow furrowed. “You have?”

You nodded, shifting to face him more fully. “Back when I was immortal. I’ve met most of your friends, actually,” you paused, giving him a wry smile, “most of your superhero friends. No offence, but you’re a tragic bunch.”

“Yeah, sounds about right.” Bucky laughed, his hand squeezing yours. “Do you think he’ll recognize you?”

“I’m not sure,” you admitted, a shy nervousness glinting in your eyes.

—

It was a bright, crisp morning when you and Bucky met up with Sam at a small café on a bustling street corner. The moment felt odd, like a page from someone else's story, but when you stepped into it, it became yours.

Bucky introduced you to Sam, his voice firm as he said the human name you had chosen. It still felt new, like the boots Bucky bought for you that were just beginning to wear in.

But the way Bucky said it, with certainty, made it feel like it had always been yours.

The three of you chose a table outside, the sunlight catching the glint of Bucky’s vibranium arm as he pulled out a chair for you. A simple gesture, but one that made Sam immediately raise an eyebrow.

“I thought he stopped being a gentleman after the 40s,” Sam quipped as he sat down with a teasing smile. “What happened to you, man?”

Before Bucky could answer, you slid into the chair with a small, knowing smile. “He married me,” you said, the lightness in your tone making Sam chuckle.

“Damn right I did.” Bucky settled into his own chair, leaning back with a smirk that made his steel-blue eyes crinkle. Sam laughed, sipping his coffee.

“The infamous Mrs. Barnes. Took him long enough to introduce us. Thought he was hiding you on purpose.”

“Don’t make me regret this,” Bucky muttered under his breath, but there was no heat in his words—just a gruff affection.

Sam ignored him, leaning forward with interest. “So, how long’s it been?”

“Three months tomorrow,” you said easily, holding up your left hand where your gold ring caught the sunlight. Bucky’s matching band gleamed on his human hand, today at least. He was always swapping it between his fingers, sometimes wearing it on a chain around his neck— still unsure if he wanted to wear it traditionally on his metal arm or on his human one because it felt closer.

“How’s the old man holding up?” Sam’s grin widened, blissfully unaware of just how long you’ve roamed this earth. “Any second thoughts yet?”

You tilted your head, only pretending to consider it. “He’s got his quirks…” you began, earning a dramatic groan from Bucky, “…but I think I’ll keep him.”

“Quirks?” Bucky asked, narrowing his eyes with mock offence, “what quirks?”

“How much time do I have to list them all off, my love?” You smiled. Bucky's heart warmed with pride— of how quickly and naturally you mastered human sarcasm, as if it was second nature.

“I like her already,” Sam said, laughing as he pat Bucky on the shoulder.

Bucky huffed, rolling his eyes, but the twitch of his lips gave him away. “Glad my suffering is so entertaining for you.”

Sam’s gaze shifted back to you, sharper now, though still friendly. For a moment, something flickered in his expression, something you couldn’t quite name—like he was trying to figure you out, to match you against a bigger puzzle piece.

—

It wasn’t until later, after you stood up to grab a second cup of coffee, that Sam’s laughter faltered mid-sentence.

Bucky had teased, “Careful on how many cups you have today, doll, or you’ll be up all night,” and you’d waved him off with a grin as you headed inside. The moment felt lighthearted, ordinary—until it wasn’t.

Sam’s words slowed, and his easy grin faded as his stare turned distant. He frowned, like he was reaching for a memory that refused to fully surface. The breeze played with the edges of the tablecloth, tousling the air around him with an uncanny calmness. When you came back into view, walking toward the table, the sunlight catching in your hair and clothes, something clicked.

He knew you.

The realisation gripped him with a bone-deep certainty. His fingers tightened around the coffee cup as fragments of a memory—fragile, but vivid — manifested his mind.

He’d been waiting for some revelation, like maybe you were from a different planet— but this recognition… it can’t be… right?

“Sam?” you asked softly, sitting back down. “Are you okay?”

He blinked, shaking his head to clear it, but the weight in his expression didn’t lift. “It’s nothing,” he said quickly, too quickly. “Just thought of something stupid.”

Bucky glanced at him, his superhuman hearing clearly picking up how he was shifting in his seat. But before he could say anything, you reached out and laid a hand on Sam’s arm. Your touch was light, grounding.

“It’s not stupid,” you said gently. “Go ahead.”

Sam hesitated, his lips working as he tried to find the words. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet, almost reluctant. “I feel like I know you. From somewhere.” He frowned, searching your face. “But that’s crazy.”

You exchanged a glance with Bucky, a knowing look: he remembers.

Sam’s sharp eyes caught the look, and his suspicions resurfaced.

“Or is it?” he pressed.

Taking a slow breath, you folded your hands in your lap. “I think you do know me,” you admitted, your voice steady but quiet. “But not like this.”

Sam tilted his head, his confusion evident. He wasn’t sure he wanted the answer.

His gaze searched yours, and then it hit him like a punch to the chest. His breath caught. “Wait,” he murmured, his voice almost breaking. “Bakhmala? The Khalid Khandil mission…” He paused, swallowing hard as his throat worked against the restraints memory. “When Riley died. I remember—” His words faltered.

The table seemed to still, the sounds of the bustling street fading into the background like a muffled echo. You could feel the weight of his grief in the space between his words.

It was the day Riley fell from the sky.

The memory rushed back. Riley spiralling down, his parachute shredded, Sam diving after him with everything he had—but it wasn’t enough. He couldn’t reach him in time. He couldn’t stop the impact.

Riley took his last breath.

Right in front of his eyes.

Sam could still feel the crushing helplessness, the raw, unbearable desperation of watching it happen, all while being powerless to change it. In the haze of grief and adrenaline, he remembered something else—someone else. A presence, just at the edges of his vision.

You.

You were there, a ripple of calm in the chaos. He hadn’t understood it at the time, thought he might have imagined you.

But now, sitting in a cafe, he met your eyes again. Now, the same calm rippled over him. It was quiet, steady, and unshakable—just like it had been back then, when he needed it most.

His eyes narrowed. “You were there?”

Your chest tightened, the pain of that moment still echoing in your now human heart. You nodded, your voice almost trembling. “I’m so sorry, Sam.”

Sam exhaled sharply, leaning back in his chair as if the confession had knocked the wind out of him. He ran a hand down his face, his expression torn between disbelief and a reluctant kind of understanding. “I thought I imagined you,” he muttered, his voice low, frayed at the edges. “Thought I was losing it.”

“Most people think I’m not real,” you said gently, leaning forward slightly, as though closing the space between you could soften the blow. “But…I’ve always been there. I was the Spirit of Suffering. My purpose was to comfort those in pain.”

Sam’s gaze lifted to yours, trying to reconcile your existence with the impossible truth you had just revealed.

A decade ago, he would’ve called bullshit on this. But since then, he learned that weirder things have been true.

For a long moment, he said nothing.

Then he turned to Bucky, his eyebrows raised, “So when you said she was ‘getting used to being human,’ this is what you meant?”

“Yeah,” he said simply.

Sam let out a long breath, dragging a hand across his collarbones. Then, after a beat, he gestured between the two of you. “Okay, so Spirit of suffering. Got it. But how in the hell did you end up with this guy?” He jabbed a thumb at Bucky, his tone hovering somewhere between bewildered and amused, trying to move on from the pain.

You couldn’t help but smile, the fondness in your expression unmistakable. The question deserved an honest answer.

You leaned back in your chair, drawing a deep breath. “I wandered the world for eons in search of sorrow to ease,” you began, “But when I found Bucky…he was different.”

Sam’s eyebrows lifted slightly, but he said nothing, letting you continue.

You hesitated, the memories threatening to overwhelm you, but you pressed on. “I saw everything they did to him— Most people would’ve crumbled under a fraction of it. I’ve seen people turn bitter, angry, and evil. He should have broken. By every measure, he should have. But he didn’t.”

Sam blinked, his expression a mix of shock and…—understanding, maybe. “So you’re telling me James Buchanan Barnes caught the attention of an ancient entity?”

“Basically,” you said with a grin.

“No big deal,” Sam shook his head slowly, disbelief colouring his tone. “Just another Tuesday night for Bucky.”

Bucky rolled his eyes.

“And then what?” He continued, “You just…introduced yourself one day?”

Your smile turned wistful as you shook your head. “About three years ago, I started borrowing time in a physical form. It took a lot of energy, but I’d meet him at night. We’d talk, sometimes for hours. That’s how we fell in love.”

“Wait,” Sam’s sharp eyes darted to Bucky, narrowing. “Is that why you always bailed on movie nights? You were sneaking off to hang out with your spirit girlfriend?”

Bucky’s smirk deepened as he leaned back, his arms crossing over his chest. “Wouldn’t you?”

Sam opened his mouth to retort but paused, considering it. After a moment, he nodded grudgingly. “Fair enough. Continue.”

You chuckled softly, but the humour faded as the memory of Bucky’s near-death surfaced.

Your hand found his under the table, your fingers curling around his. “A few months ago, Bucky was dying. I—I couldn’t let him go. So I did the only thing I could. I sacrificed my immortality to save his life. It meant giving up everything I was, but it also meant I could finally be with him. As an equal. As a human.”

Sam blinked, visibly processing this. “You gave up eternity?”

“For him?” You smiled softly, glancing at Bucky. “In a heartbeat.”

Sam leaned back, his hands thrown up in mock surrender. “Damn. I’m impressed.”

“And then,” Bucky said, his voice softer now, as he squeezed your hand, “we got married.”

Sam stared at the two of you, his expression shifting from amusement to something more earnest. He leaned forward, his elbows resting on the table. “I’ve seen some weird stuff— but this?” He shook his head. “This takes the cake. This is even weirder than the talking raccoon.”

You chuckled softly, the warmth in your chest spreading.

Slowly Sam’s expression shifted, the easy humour in his eyes replaced by something deeper. His voice dropped, steady but careful.

Whatever was on his mind, he had to say it now, before the moment passed.

“Thank you,” he said quietly, his tone filled with sincerity that left no room for doubt. “For what you did… when Riley…” He hesitated, the name lingering like a fragile thread. “I didn’t understand it then, and I’m not sure I ever will. But thank you anyway.”

Your throat tightened, but you managed a soft, reassuring smile. “You’re stronger than you realise,” you said. “I just gave you a little push.”

Sam sat back in his chair. For so long, he'd carried the weight of that day, replaying it in his mind, searching for what he could’ve done differently. But now, hearing your words, he felt something change. It wasn’t erasure—Riley’s loss would always be a deep scar to him—but it was like you’d given him permission to stop digging, stop obsessing.

You’d seen so much, and yet you were there, barely seen but steady, offering a calm he’d mistaken for his own strength.

Maybe it was.

Maybe the solace you gave him back then had become part of him.

For the first time, the memory didn’t feel so jagged. It was still painful, but now it held a bittersweet comfort. Riley’s name didn’t stick in his throat as much as it used to.

Sam let out a long breath.

“You were there,” he said again, quieter this time. “Maybe that’s why I’m still here too.”

—

You ended up talking more, understanding why Bucky liked Sam so much.

You told him how you’d recently started delving into human literature— works you’d never had the chance to indulge in before. Of course, indulging was a foreign concept to you, a novelty that you were still figuring out.

You also told him about your newfound love for coffee, though your excitement was dampened when you mentioned heading back for a third cup and being met with Bucky’s firm, no-nonsense suggestion: “Decaf this time.”

You sighed dramatically, “It just doesn’t taste the same.”

Sam raised an eyebrow, intrigued.

Bucky’s arms crossed with the hint of affection. “The first time she tried coffee, she had like six cups in a day. She jittered for hours and didn’t sleep at all. It was like watching an electric squirrel.”

Sam laughed.

When you returned with your begrudgingly decaf coffee, Sam greeted you with a wide grin, shaking his head. “Can’t believe you’re married to a spirit wizard.”

“She’s not a wizard,” Bucky corrected, his voice tinged with mock irritation. “We hashed this out last night. She’s more like a witch.”

“Okay, okay,” Sam’s grin widened, clearly enjoying himself. “Better update your notebook, then.”

You laughed, unable to resist teasing. “Oh, he has. First thing he did. He’s obsessed. Have you seen the pie charts in that thing?”

Sam’s booming laugh filled the air. “Oh, yeah. The graphs for the mission? Priceless.”

You nodded enthusiastically. “He also has pros and cons lists for everything. Everything.”

Sam turned to Bucky with mock solemnity. “You made a pros and cons list for taking a witch wife, too?”

“Actually, no.” Bucky didn’t miss a beat, his voice steady and sure. “Marrying her is the one decision I didn’t need a list for.”

Before you could react, Bucky leaned down and pressed a chaste kiss on your lips, quick but meaningful.

“Ugh,” Sam groaned dramatically, throwing his head back. “Love. Disgusting.”

The three of you shared another round of laughter, and for a moment the looming shadow of your collective pasts had been forgotten.

Bucky had been your first and only love, but now, with Sam, you were forming your first friendship. As you watched Sam tease Bucky, a warmth bloomed in your chest.

Was this what family felt like? What friendship meant?

As an immortal, you had only ever seen the broken pieces: the pain of abusive parents, the weight of generational trauma, children gone too soon, friends betrayed, lives shattered. You’d seen grief consume people—just as it had consumed Sam when he lost Riley. But now, as a mortal, you were beginning to piece together the other side of it.

For the first time, you understood why people sought connection, why they clung to each other through joy and heartbreak. This was it— the beauty of pain, a symptom of life.

-End.

Additional stories with Spirit!reader are coming! lmk if you wanna be tagged in those!

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