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the-winter-spider · 1 month ago

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Under Pressure | one

Bucky Barnes AU

Word Count: 11.6k

Warnings: Angst, swearing, depression, mental health, mentions of su!cide

A/N: I just wanna say, I have ADHD so i will always have multiple stories going at once 🤪

two

The muffled hum of life beyond your bedroom window felt like a cruel reminder of how the world kept spinning, indifferent to the weight pressing on your chest. The sun had begun its descent, streaking the sky with a melancholy palette of orange and pink. It was beautiful, you supposed, in the way things could be beautiful when they didn’t matter.

You sighed and tugged at the loose thread on the sleeve of your hoodie—Bucky’s hoodie, though you’d had it so long it might as well be yours now. It still smelled faintly of him, a mix of pine and something warm and earthy, like home. That smell was your lifeline some nights, when the storm in your head raged too fiercely to sleep.

A sharp knock rattled your apartment door, interrupting the quiet.

“Hey! Open up!” Bucky’s voice, firm but familiar, carried through the thin wood. “Don’t make me kick this door in. You know I’ll do it.”

You groaned, dragging yourself off the couch. “It’s unlocked,” you called, not loud enough to hide the exhaustion in your voice.

The door creaked open, and there he was—Bucky, your best friend since middle school. His broad frame filled the doorway, but it was his eyes, those piercing blue eyes, that caught you. They scanned you like a checklist, searching for any signs you weren’t okay. You hated how well he knew you sometimes. “Y’know, you shouldn't leave your door unlocked especially here, anyone can just come in.”

“Hi,” you mumbled, ignoring him and retreating to the couch. “What are you doing here?”

“What am I—” He stepped fully inside and shut the door, the look on his face a mix of exasperation and concern. “You haven’t answered your phone all day. Natasha’s convinced you’re dead. Steve’s ready to call the cops. I told them to chill, but…” He gestured at you, his brows knitting together. “You look like you’ve been living on this couch.”

You shrugged, avoiding his gaze. “Just tired.”

“Bullshit,” he shot back, his tone softening when you flinched. He moved to sit beside you, close enough that his knee brushed yours. “What’s going on?”

The question hung between you, heavy and unwelcome. You could feel his eyes on you, waiting, patient but unyielding. Bucky was relentless like that, never letting you retreat too far into yourself. It was part of why you loved him—or at least, why you were glad to have him in your corner.

“I’m fine, Buck,” you lied, curling your arms around your knees. “Really, just one of those days.”

Bucky didn’t respond immediately. He leaned back, stretching one arm along the back of the couch, his fingers almost grazing your shoulder. It was a casual gesture, but you knew him too well to miss the tension in his posture.

“Okay,” he said finally, his voice quieter now. “If you say you’re fine, I’ll let it go. For now. But…” He hesitated, chewing on his bottom lip like he was debating whether to say something. “You know you can talk to me, right? About anything. You don’t have to deal with this shit on your own.”

Your throat tightened, the familiar ache of wanting to believe him warring with the part of you that never could. You nodded, though, because it was easier than arguing.

“I know,” you whispered.

The room fell into silence, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Bucky didn’t push further, didn’t demand answers you couldn’t give. Instead, he stayed, his quiet presence grounding you in a way nothing else could.

After a while, he nudged your knee with his. “Wanna order pizza or something? My treat.”

You glanced at him, a small smile tugging at the corners of your lips despite yourself. “Only if I get to pick the toppings.”

He grinned, and for a moment, the storm in your head quieted.

Bucky stretched out on the couch, one arm draped lazily over the backrest as he reached for his phone. “What are we getting, then? Don’t even say pineapple, or I’m leaving.”

You rolled your eyes, the corners of your mouth tugging upward despite yourself. “Meatlovers, extra cheese.”

“Classic,” he said with a nod, punching it into the app. “It’s on the way, Should be here in like twenty.”

You stood up, brushing invisible lint off your borrowed hoodie. “I’m gonna take a quick shower,” you mumbled, tugging at the hem of your sleeve.

Bucky smirked, leaning back against the cushions. “Good, you smell.”

You shot him a glare, shoving his shoulder with just enough force to make him chuckle. “Asshole,” you muttered as you headed toward the bathroom.

“Love you too, sweetheart!” he called after you, his voice laced with humor.

The bathroom was small and dimly lit, the fluorescent bulb above the sink flickering faintly. You shut the door behind you and leaned against it for a moment, letting out a long breath. The mirror above the sink was still covered with an old towel, hastily taped over it. You didn’t want to see the evidence of last night—the cracks radiating out from where your fist had landed.

Your hand throbbed beneath the makeshift bandage you’d wrapped around it earlier, but the pain was manageable. You were just glad Bucky hadn’t noticed. Hiding it under the hoodie had been a small victory, one you clung to.

Turning the shower knob, you waited for the water to heat up. Steam began to rise, fogging up the edges of the covered mirror. As you stripped off your clothes and stepped under the hot spray, the water cascaded over you, but it didn’t wash away the heaviness that clung to your chest.

It’s happening again.

You could feel it—the familiar slide into the darkness, like slipping down a slope you couldn’t climb back up, you never could no matter how hard you tried. The kind of heaviness that made it hard to breathe, let alone function. You’d felt this way before, so many times, but this was worse. This was deeper. This time felt final.

You hadn’t told your friends about losing your job. How could you? They’d try to help, and you couldn’t bear the thought of being a burden, even to them. Too many sick days, they’d said. Too many excuses, not enough productivity. And with that, the safety net of insurance vanished. No more medication. Not that it was working, anyway. You weren’t even sure it ever had.

The water ran over your face, and you tilted your head back, letting it sting your eyes. At least you didn’t have to worry about rent. Your parents made sure of that—not out of love, but because it was easier for them than dealing with you directly. They’d never wanted a child, not really. They made that clear in a thousand ways, subtle and not-so-subtle. Dismissive words. The quiet regret in their voices when they thought you weren’t listening.

Maybe that’s where the darkness came from. Or maybe it was just in your blood. Your aunt had taken her life when you were a kid. You remembered the way people whispered about her, like it was contagious. Maybe it was.

For the first time, you felt a strange gratitude for your parents. Not for their love—they’d never offered that—but for their money. It kept the lights on, the water running, even if you didn’t deserve it.

Bucky’s voice shattered the spiral. “Pizza’s here!” he yelled from the living room, his voice muffled through the door.

You blinked, startled, and realized you were still standing under the water, your skin pruned from the heat. “Okay!” you called back, shutting off the shower. The sudden silence was deafening.

You dried off quickly, pulling on a pair of sweatpants and the same oversized hoodie. Your hand throbbed as you tucked it into the sleeve, hiding the cuts from the glass, the already bruising knuckles and the makeshift bandage. Bucky didn’t need to know. He’d only worry, and you couldn’t handle that right now.

When you emerged, he was already opening the pizza box, the smell of melted cheese and pepperoni filling the room. “Took you long enough,” he teased, glancing up at you. “You okay?”

You nodded, forcing a smile. “Yeah, just needed to rinse off.”

Bucky studied you for a moment, his sharp eyes scanning your face like they always did. But he didn’t push. Instead, he handed you a slice of pizza, the grease soaking through the paper plate. “Eat up, you look like you need it.”

“Thanks, Mom,” you said dryly, settling onto the couch beside him.

But despite the teasing, you were grateful. Grateful for the warmth of the food, the easy banter, and the way Bucky never left you alone in the quiet.

The smell of pizza filled the room, mingling with the faint scent of laundry detergent lingering on Bucky’s hoodie. You were sitting cross-legged on the couch, a slice in your hand, while Bucky leaned back, gesturing animatedly as he recounted some story about Steve.

“So then Steve—being the genius he is—decides that the best way to move this stupidly heavy shelf is to tilt it, right? And I’m like, ‘Steve, no, that’s a terrible idea.’ But does he listen? No. He ends up pinning himself between the shelf and the wall, and I swear, Nat had to stop me from laughing before we helped him.”

You gave a faint chuckle, shaking your head. Bucky’s smile widened as he nudged you with his elbow.

“Speaking of Steve,” he continued, reaching for another slice, “he said he sent you the invite to his party this weekend. You haven’t RSVP’d yet. I told him you’re obviously coming, but he says he needs you to click yes for the numbers or some shit.”

You paused, setting your pizza slice back on the plate. “I, uh, haven’t seen my phone since last night. Didn’t realize he sent it.”

Bucky rolled his eyes, dramatically exasperated. “Typical. Losing your phone in your own damn house.” He stood up, wiping his hands on his jeans. “I’ll find it for you. Probably stuffed in the couch cushions again.”

You gave a weak laugh. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“Hey, I’m just saying,” he teased, fishing between the cushions. “You’ve always been this way. Remember when you used to lose me at the mall? Or the park? Or on the street?”

You got up, heading toward your bedroom to search. “I didn’t lose you,” you called over your shoulder. “You just liked to wander.”

His laugh echoed from the living room. “Fair point. I’ll check the bathroom.”

You froze mid-step, your heart skipping a beat. You turned too quickly and hit your head on the shelf above your desk, wincing at the sharp pain. Panic surged through you as you clutched your throbbing hand tighter, trying to keep your breathing steady.

“Bucky!” you called, your voice tight.

“What?” he answered from the bathroom. “Hey, uh… why is there a towel over your mirror?”

You clenched your eyes shut, the blood rushing in your ears as you heard the unmistakable sound of tape being peeled. He’s not going to be mad. It’s Bucky. He’s not going to be mad, you repeated to yourself, your breaths coming faster now.

“Y/N?” His voice was closer now, cautious but soft. “Why is the mirror broken?”

You didn’t move, clutching your phone in your injured hand like a lifeline, your fingers trembling against the cracked case. You felt the room spin slightly as the anxiety clawed at your chest. Breathe. Focus. He’s not mad. He’s just worried.

When you finally looked up, Bucky was standing in your doorway. His gaze immediately flickered to your hand, and his eyes softened as he pieced everything together.

“Oh,” he said quietly, his voice a mix of realization and concern. “You found your phone.”

He stepped closer, his eyes dropping to the crude, bloodstained bandage wrapped around your knuckles. He froze, his expression shifting into something unreadable. “Sweets…”

You couldn’t look at him, couldn’t handle the weight of his gaze. “It’s nothing,” you whispered, your voice breaking as you clutched the phone tighter, as if it could shield you from the truth between you.

“Nothing?” His voice cracked. “This—this is not nothing.”

You didn’t respond. You couldn’t. Every word stuck in your throat, choking you. The silence stretched, heavy and oppressive, until Bucky stepped closer, his hands carefully, hesitantly reaching for yours. He didn’t take your phone away—he just held your uninjured hand gently in his, his thumb brushing over your trembling fingers.

He said your name softly, his voice steady despite the emotion wavering in it, “what happened?”

You shook your head, the tears already spilling over before you could stop them. “I—” You swallowed hard, your voice barely audible. “I didn’t mean to.”

His grip on your hand tightened slightly, grounding you. “It’s okay,” he said quickly. “It’s okay. Just talk to me, please.”

You closed your eyes, the words tumbling out in a broken rush. “It was last night. I just… I just couldn’t, my uh emotions, I couldn’t handle it. I—” You exhaled shakily. “I punched the mirror because I didn’t want to—” You stopped, biting back the rest of the sentence, the unspoken truth hanging in the air.

Bucky’s face crumpled, his hand still holding yours as if afraid to let go. “Jesus, Y/N,” he whispered. “Why didn’t you call me?”

“I didn’t want to bother you, it was like 3 in the morning Buck” you admitted, your voice raw. “You’re always fixing my messes, Buck. I didn’t want to make it worse, I’m just a mess, I’m sorry.”

“Worse?” His voice rose slightly, though it wasn’t anger—just desperation. “Y/N, you’re not a mess. You’re—” He stopped, his jaw clenching as he searched for the right words. “You’re my best friend. And I love you” His voice cracked “You don’t bother me, okay? Ever.”

You met his eyes then, your vision blurry with tears. He looked back at you with such unflinching sincerity it almost hurt.

“I can’t do this without you,” he said softly, his voice breaking. “You don’t have to handle this on your own. I’m here, we all are you gotta know that. I’ll always be here.”

The weight in your chest shifted slightly, the suffocating pressure easing just enough for you to breathe again. You nodded slowly, your voice trembling as you whispered, “Okay.”

He pulled you into a hug then, careful not to hurt your hand, and held you like he was afraid you might disappear.

Bucky’s arms wrapped around you tightly, his chin resting on the top of your head. His warmth seeped into you, grounding you in a way nothing else could. “It’s just a bump in the road,” he murmured, his voice low and soothing. “You’ve hit plenty of them before, and you’ve always gotten through. We’ve always gotten through, and I’ve got just the remedy.”

He pulled back, his blue eyes sparkling with a glint of mischief. Before you could ask what he meant, he strode over to the corner of your room where your record player sat, surrounded by a modest collection of vinyls. He thumbed through the stack, muttering to himself, “Where is it… aha.”

Your heart stuttered as the familiar static of a spinning record filled the air. And then you heard it: the unmistakable opening beat of Under Pressure.

A smile tugged at your lips before you could stop it. You turned around to see Bucky already moving, his shoulders bouncing in exaggerated rhythm. His grin was wide and goofy as he started lip-syncing Freddie Mercury’s part with gusto, his voice just slightly off-key but no less enthusiastic.

“Pressure, pushing down on me, pressing down on you…”

“Bucky, what are you doing?” you asked, though the smile was impossible to hide.

“Cheering you up, obviously,” he replied, spinning in place before striding toward you. He extended a hand dramatically as he transitioned into the next line. “No man ask for…”

“Under pressure!” you couldn’t help but join in, stepping into your part with Bowie’s deeper, sultry tone.

Bucky’s grin widened as he grabbed your good hand and spun you around. You laughed despite yourself, your heart pounding—not from the anxiety this time, but from the sheer joy of the moment. Together, you sang, danced, and twirled through the song, just like you had so many times before.

When the final notes faded into silence, the two of you were left standing face to face, breathing hard and laughing, cheeks flushed. He looked down at you, his eyes softening as he smiled. “Works like a charm every time. It’s why it’s our song.”

You didn’t respond, just let the warmth in your chest grow as you caught your breath. But before you could lose yourself in the moment, Bucky gently took your hand—the injured one—his expression shifting to something more serious.

“Alright,” he said, tugging you toward the bathroom. “Let’s take a proper look at this.”

“What are you doing?” you asked, panic creeping back into your voice.

“We’re getting a proper look at this hand, is what we’re doing,” he replied, his tone leaving no room for argument.

He guided you to sit on the closed toilet lid and opened your cabinet, pulling out the first-aid kit you barely used. His movements were quick but precise, his focus intense as he knelt in front of you. “Let me see,” he said softly.

Reluctantly, you held out your hand. He unwrapped the makeshift bandage carefully, his brow furrowing as he examined the bloody knuckles beneath. “Y/N,” he sighed, shaking his head, though there was no judgment in his voice.

“It’s fine,” you said quickly. “Really, it doesn’t even hurt that much.”

“Uh-huh,” he muttered, grabbing antiseptic and gauze. “Sure it doesn’t.” He worked quietly, cleaning the wound with a tenderness that made your chest ache.

The sting barely registered—if anything, it felt grounding, something to focus on as you came down from the high of dancing with him. The silence stretched between you, comfortable and steady, until he finally broke it.

“Are you taking your meds?” he asked, not looking up from his work.

“Of course,” you lied, the words slipping out automatically.

He glanced at you, his eyes narrowing slightly, but he didn’t push. “Okay,” he said after a beat. “Are you still seeing Dr. Jones?”

You hesitated, your gaze dropping to the floor. “I… haven’t been in a while.”

Bucky sighed again, his fingers stilling briefly before he started wrapping your hand with fresh gauze. “Maybe you should schedule an appointment,�� he suggested, his voice gentle. “I can do it for you, if you want.”

“No, it’s fine,” you said quickly. “I can do it.”

“Alright,” he said, finishing the bandage with a neat knot. He sat back on his heels, his expression soft but serious. “I know I sound like a broken record but I’m always here for you, okay? No matter what. I don’t care what I’m doing—if you need me, I’ll drop everything, Id do anything for you.”

And that was what terrified you the most: the thought of Bucky regretting you. The fear that one day, he’d look at you and finally say what you’d always told yourself—that you were a burden. That would be the thing to push you over the edge. You hated how much you relied on him, how much of your brokenness you placed on his shoulders. It’s why you fought so hard not to bother him with every little thing, even when it felt impossible to hold it all in.

Still, when he looked at you like that—steady, unwavering—it was hard not to believe him, if only for a moment. You nodded, swallowing hard against the lump in your throat. “I know.”

The sun filtered weakly through the gray clouds as you wandered through the bustling streets of New York with Natasha, the two of you weaving in and out of shops in search of outfits for Steve’s birthday party. The buzz of the city was as alive as ever, but it felt far away, muted in your mind like someone had turned down the volume on the world.

Natasha was in her element, flipping through racks of dresses and skirts, holding up pieces with a gleam in her eye. “This one’s cute, right?” she asked, twirling a hanger with a little black dress on it.

“Yeah, it’s nice,” you replied, your voice distant as you thumbed idly through a rack of jeans.

Natasha turned, narrowing her eyes at you as she hung the dress back on the rack. “Okay, you’re way too quiet. What’s up?”

“Sorry,” you mumbled, forcing a small smile. “Just… a headache.”

She tilted her head, studying you with that sharp gaze of hers, the one that always seemed to see right through you. “You’re okay, though, right?”

The words hit you harder than they should have. You hesitated, gripping the edge of a hanger as if it would steady you. What would you even say to her? No, I’m not okay. The colors are fading again, and the world feels dull and dark. Every step feels like walking through quicksand, and I can’t remember the last time I felt like myself.

But you couldn’t say that. Not to her. Not to any of them. Natasha was thriving, living the life she’d always dreamed of. She was a force of nature, juggling her job, her relationship with Steve, and somehow still managing to look flawless while doing it. Your friends were all like that—thriving, succeeding, building the futures they’d worked so hard for.

You couldn’t, wouldn’t take that away from them. Not because you were sad. Not because you were lost.

“Yeah,” you said finally, your voice steady despite the weight in your chest. “Just a headache.”

Natasha gave you a look, her lips pressing into a thin line. You knew she didn’t entirely believe you, but she let it go. “Alright,” she said slowly, grabbing a pair of sleek black heels from the shelf. “But if you want to bail on shopping and go grab a coffee or something, just say the word.”

You shook your head, mustering another smile. “I’m fine, Nat. Really. Let’s keep looking.”

She studied you for another second before nodding. “Okay. But you’re not getting out of trying stuff on,” she teased, holding up a sparkly red dress that was very much not your style.

You rolled your eyes, the faintest laugh escaping before you could stop it. “No way.”

“Come on,” she said, grinning. “It’s Steve’s party. Let’s make an impression.”

As she turned back to the rack, chatting about Steve’s plans for Friday, you let her words wash over you like white noise. You didn’t have the energy to keep up with her excitement, but you let her carry the conversation anyway. It was easier that way.

The fitting room was cramped, the air thick with the faint smell of fabric and perfume. You stepped into the first dress Natasha had handed you—a sleek black number that hung too loosely on your frame. You tugged at the straps, sighing as you opened the door.

Natasha spun around from where she was scrolling on her phone, her eyes immediately lighting up. “Okay, this is hot, but… it’s too big.” She tilted her head, studying you. “Wait, are you going to the gym again?”

You froze for half a second, your mind racing. You couldn’t tell her the truth: that eating felt like a chore most days, that you barely had the energy to make yourself a bowl of cereal, let alone go to the gym. “Uh, yeah,” you lied, forcing a smile. “A little.”

“I can tell,” she said, beaming. “But don’t go too hard, okay? You’re perfect just the way you are.” Without waiting for your response, she grabbed two smaller sizes from the rack and handed them to you. “Here, try these. I bet one of them will be perfect.”

You nodded and ducked back into the fitting room, slipping into the smaller size. The dress hugged your figure in all the right places, the soft shimmer of the fabric catching the light. For a fleeting moment, you felt pretty—maybe even beautiful—but the feeling slipped away as quickly as it had come. It wasn’t enough. It never was.

When you stepped out, Natasha’s jaw dropped. “Wow,” she breathed, clapping her hands together. “This is it, i mean you still have to try the others on because what if they're better, but this is the top contender. You’re definitely gonna blow everyone away. Maybe you’ll even find your future husband at the party.”

You let out a small laugh, shaking your head. “Yeah, right.”

She grinned, her tone turning teasing. “You never know. He might be closer than you think.”

You froze at her words, your heart skipping a beat as you glanced at her. Her expression was unreadable, but there was a knowing glint in her eye that made your stomach twist.

“Nat,” you said slowly, trying to steer the conversation away before it went anywhere dangerous. “This dress is nice, but…”

“No buts,” she interrupted, grabbing your shoulders and spinning you toward the mirror. “Look at yourself. You look gorgeous.”

You stared at your reflection, trying to see what she saw. The dress was beautiful, and it fit perfectly, but it still felt… wrong. Like it was a mask you couldn’t quite wear convincingly. You wanted to feel the confidence Natasha had, the joy that radiated from her so easily. But no matter how hard you tried, it just wasn’t there.

Natasha didn’t notice your hesitation, too busy admiring the dress. “You’re getting it either way, end of discussion.”

You smiled faintly and ducked back into the fitting room to change. As you slipped out of the dress, Natasha’s voice floated through the curtain.

“By the way, I know I’m only twenty-five, but… I think Steve might propose this year.”

You peeked out, raising an eyebrow. “You think tonight?”

“Oh, God, no!” She laughed, shaking her head. “I just mean… before the year’s over. We’ve been together since freshman year of college, and I feel like the next step is coming. You know?”

You nodded, even though the thought made your chest tighten. Natasha didn’t stop there, her voice full of excitement as she continued.

“I’ve already started planning, by the way. Mostly on Pinterest,” she admitted with a grin. “And obviously, you’re going to be my maid of honor.”

You swallowed hard, your throat dry. “Wow, Nat. That’s…so kind of you.” A lot of pressure is what you meant but didn’t say.

“Oh, please,” she said, waving a hand dismissively. “Of course its you, you’re my best friend and you know me best, I’m not one of those bridezillas. I just—” She sighed dreamily. “I’m ready, you know? Everything’s going so perfect. I’m so happy.”

She looked at you, her smile radiant. “Oh, my God, did I tell you I got promoted last week?”

“What? No!” you said, stepping out of the fitting room, now in a different dress. You pulled her into a hug. “Nat, that’s amazing. I’m so happy for you.”

“Thank you!” she said, hugging you back tightly. “Bucky said you lost your phone, and that’s why you weren’t answering. But yeah, they made me head of social! Everything just feels amazing. Life’s amazing.”

“Of course it is,” you said softly, pulling back to smile at her. “You deserve it.”

She beamed, holding up the sparkly red dress she’d chosen for herself. “Anyway, I’m totally getting this dress. Now it’s your turn, that colour washes you out, next one."

She handed you a few more options, her energy as boundless as ever. You couldn’t help but envy her, even as you forced yourself to match her excitement. When you tried on the next dress and stepped out, Natasha clapped again. “This one’s even better! You’re going to turn so many heads. I’m telling you, babe, this is your year. You’re gonna meet someone, I just know it!"

You laughed weakly. “Yeah, we’ll see.”

But as you changed back into your clothes, her earlier comment lingered in your mind. He might be closer than you think. You knew who she meant. Of course you did. But you couldn’t bring yourself to say it—or even think it for too long. Because no matter how beautiful the dress was, it wasn’t enough to make you feel whole. It wasn’t enough to make you feel worthy of someone like him.

The faint sounds of music drifted from your speakers as you stood in front of the mirror in your bedroom, adjusting the dress Natasha had insisted you buy. You ran your hands down the shimmering fabric, trying to ignore the pit in your stomach. You didn’t love it, but you didn’t hate it either. And for tonight, “not hating it” would have to be enough.

Outside, the New York cityscape buzzed with life, the faint hum of car horns and chatter filtering through your window. You glanced at your phone, which you’d finally found after last night’s chaos. A text from Sam popped up on the screen.

Sam: Be there in 5. Don’t leave me waiting in the hall, you know I hate that...Remember when you forgot about me? :-(

You smiled faintly, slipping your phone into your small clutch and double-checking your makeup. There was a knock at the door just as you spritzed on a bit of perfume. You hurried to the door, your heels clicking lightly on the wood floor.

When you opened it, Sam stood there in a sharp button-down and blazer, flashing you his trademark grin. “Well, damn. Don’t you clean up nice?”

You laughed, stepping back to let him in. “Thanks, Sam. You look pretty dapper yourself.”

He swept into your apartment, looking around with the same casual ease he always carried. “You ready to make an entrance? I promised Steve and Nat I wouldn’t let you sneak off and ditch.”

You rolled your eyes. “I’m not going to ditch.”

“Good,” he said, turning to face you. “Because I’ve got a plan to make tonight one for the books. Trust me, sweet stuff, by the end of the night, you’re gonna be grinning from ear to ear.”

The warmth in his voice was infectious, and you felt a flicker of excitement you hadn’t expected. Sam had always been like this—bright, energetic, and effortlessly fun. It was one of the reasons you’d clicked so easily in college. Back then, he’d been the life of the party, and so had you. At least, that’s what everyone thought.

You remembered the first time you’d met Sam. It was at a college house party, the kind of event where the music was loud, the air reeked of beer, and everyone seemed to be smiling a little too brightly. You’d been three drinks in, already feeling the buzz in your veins, and Sam had been across the room, making everyone laugh with one of his outrageous stories.

You’d wandered over, laughing along with the group, and somehow, the two of you ended up talking. About nothing. About everything. You were drunk, and so was he, but you connected in a way that felt effortless. For a while, the weight inside your chest lifted.

“You’re a riot,” he’d said, clinking his beer bottle against yours. “We’re gonna be best friends, I can tell.”

It had been a joke at the time, but it stuck. Drinking was an escape for both of you—his way of letting loose, your way of numbing the ache. Together, you were unstoppable, the life of every party you touched, at least back then.

Seeing Sam now, with that same bright smile, stirred something inside you. “So,” you said, grabbing your coat, “what’s the plan? Besides celebrating Steve, obviously.”

“Well,” he said, holding the door open for you, “I figured we’d pre-game a little on the way. Maybe remind everyone why we were the reigning champs of fun back in college.”

You laughed, genuinely this time. “Pretty sure I retired my crown years ago.”

“Please,” he said with a snort. “You’ve still got it. And if not, don’t worry—I’ll carry the team.”

The two of you stepped out onto the street, the cool evening air nipping at your skin. As you walked toward the subway, you felt a flicker of something you hadn’t felt in a while: anticipation.

Because if there was one thing Sam was good at, it was helping you forget. And for tonight, forgetting sounded perfect.

The buzz of the city enveloped you. The streets glowed with streetlights and neon signs, the cool air carrying the faint hum of laughter and distant music. Sam walked beside you, his hands in his pockets, a casual swagger to his step.

“So,” he said, pulling something small from his jacket pocket, “I know you’ve been stressed lately. Thought this might help.”

You glanced over and saw him holding a joint between his fingers, a smirk playing on his lips.

“Sam,” you said, raising an eyebrow. “Really?”

“Come on,” he said, stopping to light it with a quick flick of his lighter. He took a slow drag, exhaling smoke into the night air. “It’s Steve’s birthday. We’re celebrating, aren’t we? Besides, it’s only twenty or so minutes to his place. Let’s take the back roads.”

You hesitated for half a second before shrugging. “Fine, but only a little.”

“That’s my girl,” he said, passing it to you with a wink.

The two of you took a quieter side street, the world softening around the edges as the haze of the joint settled in. The conversation grew lighter, and before long, you were giggling at almost nothing. A little ended up being the whole joint.

Sam glanced at you, shaking his head with a grin. “Man, Bucky is gonna kill me.”

You raised an eyebrow, holding in another laugh. “Why?”

He took another hit before passing it back to you. “Do you not remember how mad he used to get in college when we’d get high? ‘You’re gonna get caught,’” he said in a mock-serious tone, imitating Bucky’s deep voice. “‘Do you know how much trouble you’ll be in?’ Total party pooper.”

You snorted, nearly choking on the smoke. “Oh my God, yes. Him and Stevie, always the buzzkills.”

Sam laughed, a low, easy sound. “You think they ever figured out Natasha was the one who dealt it to us?”

“Absolutely not,” you said with mock seriousness, passing the joint back to him. “That secret stays with us till the grave.”

He pointed at you with the joint. “Damn right.”

By the time you reached Steve’s apartment, your head was light, and everything seemed a little funnier than it should have been. The music was already spilling out into the hallway, the faint bass reverberating through the floor. You paused just outside the door, looking at Sam.

“Do I look stoned?” you whispered, your voice full of mock urgency.

He leaned back slightly, pretending to inspect you. “Nope. Do I?”

You mirrored his motion, squinting at him dramatically. “Nope.”

“Good,” you both said in unison before bursting into laughter.

Sam opened the door, and the warmth of the apartment hit you instantly. Steve’s place wasn’t huge—it was New York, after all—but it was bigger than most, with a cozy vibe that still somehow fit a surprising number of people. Music pulsed through the room, and the sound of chatter and laughter filled every corner.

You slipped off your coat, handing it to Sam as he found a spot for both of yours on a nearby hook. He turned back to you, already moving toward the drink table. “Alright, let’s get you something.”

You followed him through the small crowd, people offering nods and greetings as you passed. Sam handed you a drink—something fizzy and fruity—and raised his own cup. “Cheers to Steve,” he said, clinking it against yours.

“To Steve,” you agreed, taking a sip.

“Come on,” he said, nodding toward the far side of the room. “Let’s go find the others.”

The apartment was packed, a mix of Steve’s friends, colleagues, and your usual crew. You let Sam lead the way, weaving through groups of people chatting and laughing. The warm glow of string lights strung across the ceiling gave the space a cozy, celebratory feel.

Eventually, you spotted a familiar flash of red hair across the room. You nudged Sam with your elbow and pointed. “There’s Nat.”

“Let’s go,” he said, grinning as he took another sip of his drink.

As the two of you made your way over, the tension that had been weighing you down earlier seemed to lift, if only for a little while. For the first time in a long time, you felt like maybe tonight could be okay.

As you and Sam wove through the crowd, Natasha’s bright red hair came into clearer focus. Beside her stood Steve, his broad frame relaxed, one hand casually holding a drink. Next to him, Bucky stood, his focus glued to his phone, his brows furrowed as Steve said something to him. Natasha noticed you first, her eyes lighting up as she tapped Steve on the shoulder and pointed in your direction.

Steve followed her gaze, his face breaking into a grin. He nudged Bucky with his elbow, saying something you couldn’t hear. Bucky’s head snapped up, his blue eyes locking onto yours. You saw the tension in his shoulders ease as he spotted you and Sam, his phone slipping into his pocket.

When you finally reached them, Bucky’s gaze lingered on you for a beat before he asked, “What took you guys so long?”

Sam, ever the smooth talker, shrugged. “We walked.”

“You walked?” Bucky repeated, his tone laced with mild disbelief. “That’s like an hour.”

You blinked, surprised. “Was it really that long?”

Sam grinned, his voice light and teasing. “Didn’t feel that long.”

You giggled, the sound slipping out before you could stop it. “Felt like we were moving with the wind.”

Steve groaned, running a hand over his face. “Oh my God.”

Natasha laughed, her sharp eyes narrowing slightly as she looked between the two of you. “You guys are stoned.”

“No,” you said quickly, at the same time Sam said, “Yes.”

You glared at Sam as Natasha burst into laughter, while Steve just sighed like a disappointed parent. But it was Bucky’s reaction that hit hardest. His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, his expression shifting into something between worry and frustration.

Sam leaned closer, his voice low in your ear. “Oh boy, your daddy is mad at you.”

“Shut up,” you muttered, shoving his shoulder, though a small grin tugged at your lips.

“Anyway,” Sam said, stepping back, “I’m gonna go play some beer pong. You have fun over here with your parents and your cool aunt.” He nodded toward Steve, Bucky, and Natasha with a mischievous wink.

Natasha scoffed, clearly amused. “Absolutely not,” she said, grabbing Steve’s arm. “Come on, Stevie, let’s go show them how it’s done.”

“Wait!” you said, reaching out to grab Steve’s other arm. “Happy birthday, Steve.”

Steve smiled, his expression softening as he pulled you into a quick hug. “Thanks, Y/N,” he said quietly. Then, his voice dropped lower, just for you. “Please be careful, okay?”

You pulled back, confused. “What?”

But before he could answer, Natasha tugged him away, laughing as she led him toward the beer pong table. That left you standing there with Bucky, his gaze fixed on you.

He didn’t say anything for a long moment, just looked at you like he was trying to figure out what to say. His shoulders were still relaxed, but the worry in his eyes was unmistakable. You shifted under his gaze, feeling both self-conscious and relieved to see him.

“You’re mad,” you said softly, breaking the silence.

“I’m not mad,” he replied, though his tone suggested otherwise. He crossed his arms, sighing as he glanced around the room before looking back at you. “I’m just… worried.”

“Bucky, I’m fine,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady. “Really.”

His lips pressed into a thin line, his eyes scanning your face like he was trying to find something you weren’t saying. Finally, he sighed again, his shoulders relaxing further. “I’m glad you’re here,” he said, his voice quieter now. “I was worried you wouldn’t come.”

You blinked, surprised by his honesty. “Of course I came,” you said, your own voice softening. “I wouldn’t miss it.”

He nodded, his gaze lingering on you for a moment longer before he finally looked away. “Okay. Just… stay close tonight, alright?”

You nodded, unsure what else to say, as the noise of the party swelled around you. But even as the crowd moved and laughed, your focus stayed on Bucky, the knot in your chest tightening and loosening all at once, while the darkness loomed over your shoulder.

The party was in full swing, laughter and loud music filling every corner of Steve’s apartment. Drinks sloshed in plastic cups, people cheered at the beer pong table, and the warm buzz of alcohol kept everyone loose and carefree. You, Sam, and Natasha had slipped away to a quieter corner near the balcony door, passing a joint between you as you watched the chaos unfold.

Sam took a slow drag, exhaling smoke into the cool night air before chuckling. “I’m actually gonna get in trouble with your future husband for this,” he said, nodding toward Natasha.

She rolled her eyes, taking the joint from him. “Please. Steve smokes it with me.”

You gasped, your eyes wide. “What? Since when?”

Natasha grinned, holding the joint between her fingers like it was a glass of wine. “A couple of months ago. He thought it was a cigarette.”

That sent you and Sam into peals of laughter. “No, he didn’t,” you said, struggling to catch your breath.

“Oh, he absolutely did,” Natasha said, laughing along. “Took one drag and started coughing like his life depended on it. I had to explain it to him after.”

“That’s the most Steve Rogers thing I’ve ever heard,” you said, wiping at your eyes as you giggled.

Sam shook his head, still laughing. “Man, we just need to convert Bucky now.”

Natasha waved a hand dismissively. “There’s no way Bucky hasn’t smoked pot.”

“He has,” you said, shrugging when they both stared at you.

Sam raised an eyebrow. “How do you know?”

You looked down at the joint in your hand, turning it idly before taking a small drag. “He did once. In middle school. But it ended up being mixed with something… not great.. panic attack. He hasn’t touched anything since.”

“Damn,” Sam said, leaning back against the wall. “I didn’t know that.”

You nodded, the memory flickering in your mind like a distant flame. “Yeah. It was a rough weekend for him. After that, he just… swore it off. No smoking, It’s like his personal rule now.”

Natasha frowned, her usual confidence softening for a moment. “That makes sense. Poor Buck.”

The three of you fell into a comfortable silence, the joint passing between you. The sound of cheering caught your attention as Steve and Bucky won another round of beer pong, their laughter cutting through the party noise. And then, as if the universe had planned it, the unmistakable opening notes of Under Pressure began to play.

You froze for a moment, the familiar beat washing over you like a wave. Slowly, you brought the joint to your lips one last time, inhaling deeply before handing it to Natasha. She said something, but the music had already pulled you away. You heard Sam mumble, “It’s the song,” and Natasha sighed, “Oh, God,” as you stepped out onto the balcony, leaving them behind.

The cold night air hit you immediately, biting at your skin and cutting through the haze of warmth in your chest. You lay down on the balcony floor, the rough texture pressing against your back as you stared up at the inky black sky. The stars were faint, drowned out by the city lights, but you could hear the music drifting through the open windows behind you, every note clear as day.

Pressure, pushing down on me, pressing down on you…

You let the song wash over you, your body sinking into the cold concrete as if the world were swallowing you whole. The weight in your chest loosened just enough for you to take a full breath, but the sadness lingered, wrapping itself around you like a second skin.

Can’t we give ourselves one more chance?

You felt like you could disappear here. Listening to this song, knowing the people you loved were safe and warm inside, laughing and living their lives, it wouldn’t be the worst way to go. The thought made you sick, but it clung to you, stubborn and persistent.

And love dares you to care for the people on the edge of the night

Why does this always happen? you thought bitterly. You hated yourself for it—for letting your mind wander to that place when you were surrounded by nothing but love. Sam, Natasha, Steve, Bucky… they all loved you. They would do anything for you. But still, the darkness crept in, whispering lies you couldn’t silence.

And love dares you to change our way of caring about ourselves

You closed your eyes, the music continuing to play as Freddie and Bowie’s voices intertwined. For a moment, you let yourself feel the weight of the song, the way it seemed to echo everything you couldn’t say. It was bittersweet, but it was yours. Yours and Bucky’s.

This is our last dance

You lay there a while longer, letting the cold seep into your skin as you listened to the life happening just beyond the glass.

This is ourselves

The sound of the patio door sliding open—aggressively, almost slamming—pulled you out of your haze. Your eyes shot open as you instinctively sat up, startled. When you looked toward the doorway, Bucky stood there, his shoulders tense as his eyes darted around the balcony, searching. His gaze landed on you, and you saw the relief wash over him in an instant.

Under pressure

“Jesus,” he muttered, stepping out onto the balcony and sliding the door shut behind him. The music inside softened, muffled by the thick glass.

“Everything okay?” you asked hesitantly, sitting up fully now.

Bucky ran a hand through his hair, his chest rising and falling a little too quickly. “Natasha said you came out here.” He paused, his voice softening. “I was looking for you.”

You blinked, confused. “I’m fine, I just needed some air.”

He nodded, his eyes scanning you again like he was making sure you were still intact. “They played our song,” you said quietly, your voice almost a whisper.

“Yeah,” he said, his lips curving into a faint, fleeting smile. “That’s why I was trying to find you.”

“Sorry,” you murmured, glancing down at your hands. The weight of the moment pressed against your chest. “I didn’t mean to worry you.”

“Is everything okay?” you asked again, looking up at him now.

Bucky didn’t answer right away. Instead, he stepped closer, reaching a hand down to you. You hesitated for a second before taking it, his grip warm and firm as he helped you to your feet. The two of you stood there, the cold air wrapping around you, but his hand lingered just a little longer than necessary.

“Buck?,” you said softly, your brow furrowing.

He hesitated, his hands flexing at his sides as though he was wrestling with something. Finally, he swallowed hard and said, “I was worried.” His voice barely audible.

"Worried about what?” you asked, tilting your head, though you already felt the answer forming in the pit of your stomach.

His eyes flickered away from yours for a moment before coming back, the raw emotion in his gaze almost too much to bear. “That you would jump,” he said quietly, the words hitting like a freight train.

The words hit you like a physical blow, stealing the breath from your lungs. Your mind reeled, struggling to process what he’d just said. “What?” you whispered, staring at him in shock. “Bucky…”

He didn’t flinch, his eyes locked onto yours, unflinching and raw. “I was scared,” he said softly. “I couldn’t find you, and Natasha said you were out here. I know how you’ve been down lately, like before... And I—” He stopped, exhaling shakily. “I just… I couldn’t not check.”

You stared at him, speechless, the weight of his words settling deep in your chest. For a moment, all you could do was look at each other, the world around you fading into the background.

“Bucky,” you said finally, your voice trembling, “I would never do that, not with my friends right there, not at Steve’s birthday party, at his home. I would never—”

He cut you off, his gaze hardening slightly. “You mean you never would in general, right? Not just because it’s Steve’s birthday and we’re here?”

His question hit like another blow, and your mouth went dry. You couldn’t answer, couldn’t speak. You just stared at him, and he stared back, the air between you thick with unspoken fears and truths neither of you were ready to face.

Before you could say anything, a knock on the glass patio door startled you both. You turned to see Natasha waving at you from inside, her face cheerful as she gestured toward the living room. Through the glass, you could faintly hear her say, “Cake time!”

“That’s our cue,” you said softly, breaking the silence, but neither of you moved. Bucky’s eyes stayed on you, his expression unreadable. He opened his mouth to speak, but his words died on his lips.

“Y/N,” he said finally, your name heavy with meaning. But before either of you could say anything else, the door opened again.

This time, it was Sam, stepping out with his usual carefree grin. “Come on, you two,” he said, gesturing back toward the party. “It’s happy birthday time.”

The spell broke, and you finally moved, stepping past Bucky toward the door. You felt his presence close behind you as you stepped back into the warm, bustling apartment. The sounds of laughter and music swallowed you whole as Sam clapped Bucky on the shoulder.

“You good?” Sam asked him, his tone light but tinged with concern.

“Yeah,” Bucky said, his voice steady now. “I’m good.”

The two of you followed Sam into the living room, where everyone had gathered around Steve, who stood behind a table piled high with cake and candles. Natasha beamed at him, and the entire room erupted into a cheerful chorus “Happy Birthday to you, Happy birthday to you…..”

Bucky jogged up the steps to your work building, balancing a paper bag with subs and a drink tray in one hand while holding his phone to his ear with the other. The midday sun cast a warm glow over the streets, and the city buzzed with its usual energy. On the other end of the call, Steve’s voice was loud and insistent.

“Just ask her out, man,” Steve said, exasperated. “Olivia’s obviously into you.”

“I know, I know,” Bucky replied, his tone distracted as he checked his watch. “It’s just—”

“‘It’s just,’” Steve interrupted, mimicking Bucky. “If you’re not gonna man up and ask out Y/N—or, I don’t know, figure out if she feels the same way—then you need to move on. Because if you’re not willing to make a move, she’s gonna move on, Buck, and you’re gonna get left behind.”

Bucky stopped walking, rubbing the back of his neck as he considered Steve’s words. “She’s never given me any signs that she feels the same way, Steve. And she’s always saying stuff like, ‘I don’t think have the capacity to properly love anyone.’ That’s kinda her answer right there, isn’t it?”

Steve sighed, the kind that made it clear he was done having this conversation. “Stop torturing yourself. Ask out Olivia already.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Bucky muttered, clearly uncommitted. “I’ll do it.”

He ended the call as he reached your office building, pulling out his phone to text you.

Bucky: I’m here.

A minute passed, and then his phone buzzed.

You: ????

Bucky: Your office.

You: I’m home. Left early.

His brows furrowed as he read the message. He typed back quickly.

Bucky: Okay, be there in 15. I have food.

At your apartment, you froze, the panic hitting you like a freight train. He almost went into my work. He almost found out. Your hands trembled as you paced the room, glancing around at the chaos that had become your home. Dishes in the sink, laundry spilling out of the hamper, notebooks and loose papers scattered everywhere. It had been weeks since Bucky had last been over, and you’d let things slide—just like everything else in your life lately.

You moved like lightning, shoving clutter into drawers and closets, wiping down surfaces, and sweeping crumbs off the coffee table. You almost tripped over a pile of shoes, catching yourself on the edge of the couch as you cursed under your breath. By the time you checked the clock, only five minutes had passed. Good, you thought. Plenty of time.

You ran to the bathroom, splashing water on your face before quickly reapplying some concealer and lip balm. Then you threw on a fresh sweater, lit a candle, and sprayed the room with a light mist of air freshener. As you grabbed the scattered pages of a journal you’d been writing in, you shoved them into a drawer just as the knock came at the door.

“It’s unlocked!” you called out, trying to sound casual as your heart pounded.

Bucky stepped inside, frowning slightly as he looked around. “What did I say about leaving the door unlocked?”

“It wasn’t long,” you said quickly, giving him a small smile. “I just got home.”

Bucky set the bag of food on the counter, eyeing you suspiciously. “Why’d you leave early?”

You shrugged, avoiding his gaze as you grabbed plates from the cabinet. “Finished all the work I needed to do,” you said, keeping your tone light. It wasn’t a total lie, you told yourself. You just weren’t doing that work anymore.

He didn’t press the issue, though his expression lingered with curiosity. Instead, he handed you your sub. “Here,” he said. “Proof that you’re eating.”

You gave a soft laugh, but his tone wasn’t joking. You took a bite, more to appease him than anything, and he watched closely, satisfied only after you swallowed.

“Have you talked to your parents recently?” he asked, leaning against the counter.

You almost choked on your sandwich. “Come on, Bucky, you know I haven’t talked to them in years.”

“Still,” he said quietly, his gaze soft but insistent.

You nodded, swallowing hard. “I saw online that they renewed their vows. Some friends and family were there.”

“They didn’t tell you?”

“Nope.” You forced a shrug. “It’s fine. At least they’re still paying for the apartment.”

Bucky frowned, his jaw tightening, but he let it go. “What do you think about Olivia?” he asked, changing the subject.

You blinked, confused. “Olivia who?”

“The blonde from my work,” he said, tilting his head. “The one who sang Journey at the Christmas party.”

“Oh,” you said, the realization hitting. “What about her?”

“I’m thinking of asking her out,” he said, his tone casual, but his eyes searched your face for a reaction.

Your chest tightened, the words cutting deeper than you’d expected. You’d always love Bucky—always. It had always been him for you. But it was never you for him. And as much as it hurt, you wanted him to be happy, even if it wasn’t with you. If anything ever happened to you, you wanted to know he’d have someone. Someone who could give him the love you couldn’t.

“You should,” you said, forcing a bright smile. “You guys would make such a good couple. She’s super sweet, and she’s really pretty.”

Bucky stared at you, his eyes searching again, like he didn’t quite believe you. “That’s what Steve said,” he muttered.

You tilted your head. “Wait, you asked Steve first? I thought I was the number one best friend,” you teased, trying to keep your tone light.

Bucky’s face dropped, panic flashing across his features. “No, no, no, no,” he said quickly. “You are. I—”

“Bucky,” you interrupted, smiling faintly. “I’m kidding. It’s fine.”

"You'll always be my number one everything, I hope you know that."

After Bucky left, the apartment felt quieter than usual. You sat on the couch, the remains of your lunch untouched on the table in front of you. Your phone sat heavy in your hand, and on a whim, you opened a new text message and typed out a simple line.

You: Congratulations on renewing your vows.

You sent it to your mom, watching the “delivered” notification pop up. Moments later, the message shifted to “read,” but no reply came. You sighed, a bitter chuckle escaping your lips. Typical. Shaking your head, you typed the same message to your father.

This time, at least, you got a response.

Dad: Thanks.

You stared at the message for a moment before typing back.

You: Your welcome, love you.

And then nothing. The little “read” notification popped up at the bottom of your screen, and that was it. You were left on read.

A laugh bubbled out of you, hollow and sharp. Of course. It was absurd, really, how predictable it all was. The silence was deafening, and you could feel it creeping in again—that familiar darkness that sat heavy on your chest, pulling you down.

You leaned back into the couch, staring at the ceiling. The air felt heavier, the edges of the room seeming to blur as the minutes ticked by. You didn’t know how long you sat there, lost in the swirling mess of thoughts in your head, when your phone buzzed in your hand.

It was a text from Bucky.

Bucky: She said yes...... :-)

You stared at the screen, the words feeling like a slap and a balm at the same time. You had told him to ask her out. You wanted him to be happy. So why did it hurt so much?

Your thumbs hovered over the keyboard for a moment before you finally typed a reply.

You: Of course she did, It’s you, Bucky <3 Any girl would be lucky to go out with you.

You hit send, feeling the ache in your chest grow sharper. Somewhere in his office, Bucky read your message, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. But as he stared at the words, his heart twisted.

If only you felt that way about yourself, he thought. Because it wasn’t Olivia he wanted. It was you. It had always been you.

But instead of saying that, he typed back a lighthearted response, masking the weight in his chest.

Bucky: You’re gonna make my ego blow up. I don’t wanna end up with a head as big as Sam’s.

When you read his text, you managed a small laugh, even as the heaviness lingered. You typed back a simple “lol” and set the phone down, your fingers trembling slightly.

The apartment was quiet again, the only sound the faint hum of the heater kicking on. You sank further into the couch, the ache in your chest spreading as the hours stretched on. Somewhere, Bucky was moving forward, and you were still here, stuck in place, sinking deeper and deeper.

The rest of the week passed in a blur, the days melting into each other like one endless stretch of gray. Morning, afternoon, evening—it didn’t matter. You spent most of it lying in your bed or on the couch, staring at the ceiling or scrolling aimlessly through your phone. Sometimes, when the weight became unbearable, you ran a bath, sinking into the warm water until it turned ice cold, letting it numb your skin as much as it could.

You texted your friends back when they reached out, just enough to keep them from worrying. You gave vague answers, dodged invitations, always with an excuse at the ready.

Natasha: Wanna grab lunch tomorrow? Maybe hit up that new place near the park?

You: Wish I could, but I already made plans with Sam. Next time?

Sam: Movie night at mine tomorrow? You in?

You: Sorry, can’t. Nat’s got me booked for the day.

Bucky: What’re you doing this weekend? I miss you..

You: Wish I could, but I promised Nat I’d help him with something.

The lies came easily, but they still stung. You weren’t proud of them, but it was the only way to keep them at bay. The thought of facing any of them, of seeing the concern in their eyes, was too much to bear. You weren’t ready to tell them the truth. Hell, you weren’t even sure you could say it out loud.

The thoughts crept in quietly, like they always did, settling in the corners of your mind and growing until they were all you could hear. You’d been here before, countless times, but this felt different. Worse. You didn’t think you’d ever been this low.

You’d always wondered what it would be like not to feel. To let the darkness swallow you whole, to just… stop. You’d thought about it so many times, toyed with the idea in the dead of night when no one else was around. You’d even tried, once or twice.

But there was always something—or rather, someone—who pulled you back. Bucky. He’d always been there, always managed to find you just before you slipped too far. And the guilt that followed was unbearable. Knowing that your pain hurt him, that it made him worry. It made you feel selfish, even though you knew deep down that wasn’t what he would want you to feel.

But this time… this time was different. Your friends were happy. Their lives were coming together, piece by piece. Natasha had her promotion, Steve was thriving at work, Sam was always chasing his next big project, and now Bucky was moving forward, too. And more importantly they all had each other.

It should’ve made you feel worse, knowing you were the only one stuck. But instead, it comforted you in a strange, twisted way. They were happy. They were thriving. And if they were thriving, it meant they were okay. It meant they didn’t need you dragging them down.

The days eventually bled together in a monotonous cycle: waking up, lying in bed for hours, moving to the couch when you couldn’t stand the silence of your room. Sometimes you’d scroll through social media, letting the curated happiness of others wash over you in waves of apathy and bitterness. Other times, you’d stare at the ceiling, letting your mind drift to places you didn’t want it to go.

You thought about your friends, about how they’d fight for you if they knew how bad it had gotten. They’d drag you out of bed, force you into the sunlight, tell you that you were worth it, that they loved you. But the thing was, you didn’t know if you wanted to fight anymore. Not this time.

It wasn’t that you didn’t believe them. You knew they loved you. But love didn’t fix the heaviness in your chest or the static in your head. It didn’t stop the days from feeling endless, didn’t make the darkness any less suffocating.

And the worst part was, you weren’t even sure you wanted it to stop. The thought scared you, but it was the truth. Fighting felt exhausting. And maybe, just maybe, it was easier to let it win.

The warm hum of conversation and clinking glasses filled Natasha and Steve’s living room. The four of them—Natasha, Steve, Sam, and Bucky—sat around the table, laughter occasionally punctuating their lighthearted arguments about whose turn it was to grab the next round of drinks. Bucky sipped his whiskey slowly, only half-engaged in the conversation, his mind drifting elsewhere.

“Hey,” Natasha said, snapping him out of his thoughts. “When’s Y/N getting here?”

Bucky frowned, setting his glass down. “Weren’t you with her earlier today? Shouldn’t you know?”

Natasha blinked in confusion. “I haven’t seen her since Steve’s birthday party.”

Bucky froze, the words hitting him like a punch. “What?” His voice was low, the edge in it unmistakable. “That was weeks ago.”

Natasha’s brow furrowed as she looked at Steve, then Sam, before turning back to Bucky. “Yeah, I know. Every time I reach out to her, she says she’s with you or Sam, dodges my calls and everything.”

Sam, who had been leaning back lazily in his chair, straightened up. “Wait, what? She told me she’s been hanging out with you, Buck.” He shrugged casually. “I haven’t hung out with her in a while. But it’s life, right? People get busy.”

Bucky’s chest tightened as his mind raced. “She told you she was with me?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Yeah,” Sam said, confused. “Why?”

But Bucky was already up, his coat in hand, his boots being shoved on in record time.

“Where are you going?” Natasha asked, standing now, her confusion quickly morphing into concern.

Bucky paused at the door, his eyes flickering between all of them. “She’s sad again,” he said, the words coming out like a realization, heavy with dread. Without another word, he was gone, the door slamming behind him.

Bucky ran through the streets, his heart pounding in his chest. By the time he reached your apartment, he barely noticed the ache in his legs or the sting of the cold air. He pushed the door handle, and it opened easily. Unlocked again, he thought bitterly, stepping inside.

The apartment was dark, the kind of oppressive darkness that came from too much time spent with the blinds drawn. The bag of subs he’d brought over almost two weeks ago was still sitting in the exact same spot on the counter, untouched. His heart sank further as his eyes adjusted to the dim light.

He called your name his voice echoing slightly in the empty space.

A moment later, your bedroom door cracked open, and you poked your head out, your face pale and tired. “Bucky?” you said, your voice hoarse and more hostile than you intended. “What are you doing here?”

The harshness in your tone stung, but Bucky held his ground. “What are you doing?” he demanded, stepping closer. “Why are you doing this?”

You stepped out of your room fully, arms crossed over your hoodie, your posture defensive. “Doing what?”

“You know what,” he snapped, his frustration breaking through, his voice filled with emotion. “Why are you pushing us away? Why are you pushing me away? Why are you doing this again? You know I’m here for you, please let me help you.”

Your fingers played with the hem of your, his hoodie as you stared at the floor. “I’m not doing anything,” you muttered.

“Bullshit,” he said, his voice rising. “I just left Steve and Nat’s place. Guess who was there? Sam too. And guess what I found out? You’ve been lying to all of us.”

Your eyes flicked up to meet his, anger and shame swirling in your expression. “You don’t get it,” you shot back, your voice raw. “You don’t get to judge me.”

His face softened, his tone lowering. “I would never judge you,” he said firmly, taking a step closer. “You have to know that. I’m here for you, but you’re not letting me be here. You’re not letting me help you, just let me in.”

“Maybe I don’t want your help,” you snapped, your voice breaking. “Have you ever thought of that? Maybe I don’t want it.”

Bucky froze, his jaw clenching as he stared at you. The words hit him harder than he expected, and his face dropped, the hurt clear in his expression. “Are you taking your meds?” he asked quietly.

You let out a bitter laugh, a tear slipping down your cheek as you wiped it away angrily. “Meds?” you repeated, your voice dripping with sarcasm. “The meds don’t work! They’ve never worked! ”

His brows furrowed in concern. “When did you stop taking them?”

“When my insurance ran out!” you admitted, your voice sharp and full of bitterness, as frustrated tears started to spill.

Bucky stilled, the pieces falling into place. “Why did your insurance run out?” he asked carefully.

“Because I got fired months ago!” you shouted, the words exploding out of you. “I lost my job, okay? That’s why! Are you happy now?”

The room fell silent, the weight of your admission hanging heavy between you. Bucky’s face was a mix of shock and hurt, his mouth opening and closing like he didn’t know what to say.

“Leave,” you said suddenly, your voice trembling with anger and exhaustion. “Just leave me alone, Bucky. I want to be alone. I don’t want you here! I don't need you here! Just leave me the fuck alone.”

“Y/N…” he started, his voice soft, but you cut him off, yelling louder this time. “Get out!”

He stood there, frozen, the internal battle raging across his face. He knew he shouldn’t leave you—not now, not like this. But your words had cut deep, and the sheer overwhelm of it all was too much.

“Fine,” he said finally, his voice cold. “You want to be alone? Be alone.”

He turned and walked to the door, pausing only to lock it behind him before slamming it shut. The sound echoed through the empty apartment, and you stood there, the silence swallowing you whole.

It was what you wanted. But as you sank back onto the couch, the ache in your chest grew heavier, and the tears you’d been holding back finally broke free.

You didn’t want to be here anymore.

This is our last dance

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