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marvelstoriesepic · 1 month ago

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Whumpcember (day 15)

Pairing: Avenger!Bucky x Avenger!Reader

Prompt: Broken glass

Word Count: 5.4k

Warnings: slight mentions of panic attacks; crying; slight injury and blood; Bucky being a sweetheart because I love him so much

Author’s note: This got unnecessarily long somehow. Again, this was meant to be a shorty. Also, I was in my feels when I wrote this. Anyway, thank you for reading!

Masterlist | Whumpcember Masterlist

The final box of Christmas decorations thuds to the ground as you let it down with a heavy huff. You straighten up your back with a grimace, rolling your shoulders.

You might think as an Avenger, carrying a few boxes, would be an easy task. After all, you are trained to thrive under the most punishing conditions, with sharp skills and boundless stamina. But after hauling all those cartons stuffed with tinsel, garlands, and ornaments up from the storage room to the towering Christmas tree in the compound’s common area, you are left panting like you’ve just run a marathon.

It’s almost laughable. Thankfully, you are alone for now. Sam would have a field day, smug grin plastered across his face at the state you’re in.

Wanda, Natasha, and Clint meant to help you with this but they were all still glued to the desk, writing reports, but Bucky is supposed to be back from his latest mission any minute now and you wanted to do this nice thing for him at least. He did sound a little worn out on the phone earlier when he called you to tell you they were on their way back.

So perhaps decorating the Christmas tree would lift his spirit a tiny bit. It’s the first step in what you hope will be a cozy and inviting scene - something Bucky might walk into and, for once, not feel like a soldier returning from a war zone but a man coming home.

The tree is a statement, of course. Tony insisted on it. It’s so tall, it might even brush the high ceiling of the room and there is no way you’ll get some ornaments all the way up without risking your life. And Bucky would definitely not brighten up if you tried it out.

So you’ll absolutely be needing Wanda’s help sooner or later. With a flick of her wrist, she could make this whole thing a hell of a lot easier but you don’t have the time to wait until she is done writing her report.

You let your eyes roam over the many ornaments lying neatly in the box before you and one of them immediately sparks your attention. Your fingers brush against the delicate surface of the red ornament placed almost carefully beside the others.

Its glass is smooth and cool, the color a deep crimson so much more in depth than all the others. You hold it up to the light, turning it slowly, marveling at how the glow from the tree’s string lights catches on its curves and the unique and detailed pattern all across.

It’s heavier than expected, the weight surprising for something so fragile. The gold clasp at the top gleams faintly, tarnished just a little with age. A thin ribbon dangles from it, curling at the end like it has been tied and untied countless times.

There is something about it, some intangible quality that draws you in - a sense of history, of significance.

And then it happens.

The ribbon slips from your grasp, too quick for your fingers to snatch it back. If you weren’t so enamored with the beautiful piece, you would have gotten access to your reflexes a little earlier.

It’s too late now though, and you can only watch in stunned silence as the ornament tumbles to the ground, the crimson surface catching flashes of light as it falls.

It hits the hardwood floor with a sound that is both sharp and final - a crack, then a splintering.

Disappointed in yourself, you crouch down to the shattered remains. Tiny shards of glass fan out like a constellation, glinting under the glow of the tree. The ornament is no longer whole, splintered into different-sized fragments.

Annoyed that you were so stupid and careless to let this special ornament fall to its devastation, you begin to pick up the many red pieces into your palm.

It really was unique. It would have looked great on the tree-

Your movements freeze. Your heart leaps to your throat. A rush of panic claws at your chest and rises up to your ears where it floods and pounds tremendously.

Rebecca B.

It’s a name ingrained into the largest surviving piece of the glass - a faint, looping scrawl. Clearly written by hand.

Rebecca Barnes. The realization makes you weak in the knees and you fall back onto your heels, your ass hitting the floor with a thump.

This isn’t just some random ornament. This isn’t another piece of holiday cheer to hang on a tree and forget about for the rest of the year after packing it back into boxes to store it in a corner of the storage room.

This ornament belonged to Rebecca Barnes. Bucky’s sister. Something Bucky kept all these years, hidden among the other decorations like a relic of a life he’d lost long before his own had been ripped apart.

The air around you feels heavy. The smell of pine from the tree now stings in your nose. Your heart might actually have fallen along with the ornament because it too is shattered in pieces.

The shards tremble in your palm and you stare at them along with the rest still lying helplessly on the ground, as if there is actually something you can do right now to go back in time and not pick it up ever again, just to make sure.

But there is nothing you can do.

Your heart breaks even further at the thought that Bucky might have put it here deliberately. Maybe it was an attempt to move forward, to share the memory of his sister. Maybe he thought the ornament didn’t belong in some dusty package hidden away, but out in the open, a part of the holiday warmth he’s been so hesitant to feel. Maybe it was his thought of remembering her with someone else this time, instead of alone.

This would be such a huge step for him. And you would feel so proud if you weren’t on the verge of a panic attack.

Because it’s broken, divided into so many pieces. You just dropped something so carelessly that probably meant the world to Bucky. And, god, did he deserve the world. But you took it. You contorted the precious memories of his little sister. Unwillingly, of course. But that doesn’t make you feel any better right now.

You have known Bucky for a few years now. Though knowing him feels like a word too shallow for what you share. You never labeled it, both of you walking the fine line, and never crossing it.

But you see that Bucky trusts you - the kind of trust he doesn’t hand out freely. And for good reason, after all. In fact, you’re not even sure he’s ever given it to anyone else in quite the same way, not even Steve. And that’s saying something.

You see it in the small things, in the way his guarded demeanor softens when it’s just the two of you, the soft smiles that seem to be reserved for you. It’s the kind of friendship where silence doesn’t have to be filled, and words don’t have to be spoken to be understood.

He lets you sit with him on the couch in the living room on nights when his past pulls him under and doesn’t allow for him to get some shut-eye. You are usually awake yourself, sometimes just running on adrenaline after coming home from a mission and accompanying him silently. He always seems to linger out here when you are away on a mission anyway, so you usually meet him here after getting home, watching his shoulders slowly droop and his back rest more comfortably against the back of the couch.

You are the first at his bedside when his nightmares claw at his mind. You’ve seen him at his most vulnerable - shirt clinging to his sweat-soaked chest, hair plastered to his face, his breaths coming in uneven gasps as you help him fight to pull himself out of his memories.

Those nights, you never push him to talk. You don’t ask him to explain or tell you what he saw. Without a word, you would hand him a glass of water and wait while he drinks, his hands trembling so slightly it makes your stomach feel heavy every time. Sometimes you tell him to breathe with you, in and out, until the panic subsided and his shoulders stopped shaking.

You were never sure how much touch he needs in those moments so you usually stay at a small distance from him, but it seems your presence alone does wonders.

When he would be ready, he always searched your face so long and intensely, before croaking out a heavy but meaningful “Thank you.”

And his small acts of kindness always fill you with a jittery feeling that makes your knees weak and unfortunately doesn’t help at all when fighting against Natasha in the ring.

Just a few weeks ago, Bucky spent an entire Saturday afternoon fixing the squeaky hinge on your bedroom door because he heard you muttering to Wanda about how annoying it was.

He never even told you he was going to do it. You just came back to your room later that evening to find the door silent as a ghost. It took a whole week for you to find out how this happened. And it wasn’t him, who told you. It was Clint, who saw him walk around with a toolbox and a satisfied smile on his face that Clint, as he told you found a little terrifying.

Additionally, he always seems to know when you need a break during training sessions, tossing you a water bottle before you even realize how tired you are. Or he would plant himself wordlessly between you and your opponent for the day, with his arms crossed and a chastising glance at you when you’ve been fighting for hours without acknowledging the way your movements already grew sluggish and wobbly.

You are always aware when his hands linger on your shoulder a second longer after a sparring match, his metal fingers cold but careful, as if he’s memorizing the feel of you there. Or the way your stomach twists when he catches your eye across the room, and for just a moment, it’s like the rest of the world falls away. And the way he talks to you, even when people are around, his voice lower, softer, words chosen with an almost uncharacteristic care, makes you feel like you’re the only person he truly is interested in talking to. You also love the nights he shows up at your door with takeout, wordlessly handing you your favorite meal, and striding into your room to settle at the foot of your bed with a contented sigh.

Through it all, however, was always this persistent question you had. The one that molded into an ache inside your chest. Because what if? What if you took one step closer and stopped holding back? What if you risk everything you have with him now for something more?

But right now you feel like those questions don’t hold the same energy anymore. The same weight. No, they just got weightless. Pointless. Because you just ruined everything without even risking it.

You just destroyed something that can’t be fixed with glue and an apology. It can’t be fixed with you sitting with him and comforting him in the dark while his mind goes to the same cruel place like many times before.

This feels like you’ve crossed a line you can’t uncross.

The wrong line.

Shaking hands pick up the largest fragment, the soft loops of her name still visible through the fractures. The sharp ends bite into your palm like the memory of something sacred that’s been lost. You don’t feel the sting. You don’t feel the sensation of the few droplets of blood sliding over your palm where the ends nicked your skin.

The only thing you register is that this foolish mistake might actually unravel everything you’ve built with him.

He let you in, further than anyone, but that doesn’t mean he won’t push you back out if you give him a reason. And this definitely feels like a reason.

Your mind presents you with his reaction when he comes walking in here and sees what happened.

At first, there’d be nothing - just the stoic silence he uses to sink into, the kind that makes it impossible to tell what he’s thinking. But you’d see it in the smallest of things - the way his jaw tightens just enough to be noticeable, the flicker in his eyes that he’ll try to hide but won’t be able to, the stiffening of his shoulders. And then the desolation, like a tide pulling back just before it crashes. You wonder if he would say anything at all, or if the silence would hang heavy.

You swallow hard, begin to feel the sting behind your eyes, and try to force the lump in your throat down.

You’ve worked so hard to be someone he could rely on, someone he could trust in ways he hasn’t trusted anyone else in decades. You’ve sat with him, listened to him, stayed silent with him. Learned to know him so well, you even memorized the subtle shifts in his expressions, the things he won’t say but still lets you feel.

And now, here you are with broken glass in your hands and a painful feeling in your chest, terrified that this could be the moment that shatters the thing between you.

He might pull away, retreat behind those walls he’s spent years building. What if he doesn’t let you sit with him anymore. Or what if he does, but his shoulder would only grow more tense. What if he starts holding back, measuring his words, locking the parts of himself away that he once entrusted to you?

The idea of losing him - not just losing him, but losing this connection, this unspoken, almost-more-than-friendship thing that you’ve both been too afraid to name - makes your breath catch and something rise in your chest that might be bile.

A sob comes out instead.

It comes out like a wound ripped open before it could begin to heal. You press a quivering hand to your mouth, in hopes of muffling the sound, but it’s no use. More broken sobs come anyway.

You try to pull yourself together, to force the tears back, but your body feels so weak under the guilt and shame.

More parts of the broken ornament bite into your skin, red droplets welling up and sliding down your skin, pooling at the curve of your wrist, before falling soundlessly to the floor.

Pain should ground you. It should pull you out of this spiral, force you to snap back to some semblance of control. But it doesn’t. It doesn’t do anything at all.

Instinctively, your hand gives way, the pieces tumbling from your fingers and scattering across the hardwood once more.

You only sit there, frozen, your breath hitching and catching in your throat as tears streak down your face, warm and unwelcome. You can’t stop them.

You’re not supposed to be this weak. You’re not supposed to break down like this, over something so small. And yet that makes the sobs only harder to contain. Because this isn’t small - not to Bucky. And that’s the part that leaves you as shattered as the crimson glass. Perhaps as shattered as your relationship with the person you fell for as hard as the ornament fell to the ground.

It’s Rebecca. His sister. His past. His grief. It’s a tiny piece of his life that he trusted enough to bring out of hiding, to put here with the rest of the world, in the open where it could be seen. Where it could be touched. And you touched it, only to let it fall. Only to ruin it.

Shame knocks down on you so hard, you draw your knees up to your chest, curling into yourself as though you could make yourself smaller, invisible, anything but this.

You don’t even know what to do with your blood-streaked palm, only letting it hover in the air, the shallow cuts glistening under the still-glowing lights of the tree. It’s a mess. You are a mess. Curling your fingers into a fist, you wince in pain at the stinging of the cuts but you leave it like that.

Perhaps you are overreacting, sitting here on the floor in the common area of the compound with a bleeding hand and the shattered remains of Rebecca Barnes's memory, but you feel so helpless and remorseful, you can’t really think straight at the moment.

The sound of the elevator is faint, but it’s enough to reach your ears. You freeze. You just sit there, knees drawn to your chest, blood smeared across your palm, the shattered glass of the ornament glittering like broken stars on the floor.

You are tear-streaked, trembling, your chest still hitching with uneven breaths and Bucky just got home.

Those approaching footsteps are so familiar to you, you would always recognize his gate. Usually, it’s comforting, grounding to know he got home and would leave you with relief in your chest.

But there is no place for relief in your chest right now.

His footsteps sound normal, steady, perhaps a little hurried but he hasn’t reached this room yet.

You don’t look up. Instead, you bite your lip to stop the sob that threatens to escape. The shame is too sharp, cutting deeper than any piece of the ornament and making your heart bleed as well.

Maybe if you stay still, if you stay quiet, he’ll miss you somehow.

But then his steps come to an abrupt halt and you know you are screwed.

Burning tears spike once more and the sob breaks free.

“Woah, hey-” he calls out, so urgent, so worried.

Bucky is across the room in a heartbeat, dropping to his knees in front of you with a speed that catches you off guard.

“Sweetheart, hey.” It falls from his lips so softly, so worried, it nearly breaks you all over again.

Tears fall more freely at the kind of tenderness in his tone and suddenly his hand is cupping your face, thumb, and knuckles brushing the streaks of wetness from your cheeks.

But they keep coming.

“Look at me, please! Doll, look at me,” he murmurs, his voice impossibly gentle, but dripping with so much concern. His metal hand is on your face as well and he tilts it upward, guiding your gaze toward his.

His brows are drawn so deeply, lips parting slightly as he studies your face - the tear tracks, the desolation in your eyes, the shame and guilt, the trembling of your shoulders.

You can’t look at him. Can’t bear to see it. So you squeeze your eyes shut, hoping you’ll ever be able to forget that look on his face. Not when you know what’s coming. Not when you know what you have caused.

Just wait until he sees it, you think. That look will change.

“No,” he whispers, his voice so soft again, but there is a firmness in it. The pad of his flesh thumb smooths gently across your cheek again, while his metal fingers move to your hair. “Hey, no, don’t do that. It’s okay. Y/n, it’s okay!”

You shake your head quickly and try to say something, anything, but all that comes out is a choked sound, half-sob, half-breath. He doesn’t understand. He doesn’t know what he’s saying. He doesn’t know what this is about.

You want to stay hidden behind the veil of your closed eyes, safe from not seeing what you know will be there in perhaps seconds when he figures it out - disappointment, maybe anger, the grief of what you’ve broken.

“Open your eyes, sweetheart, please.”

There is something in his voice you can’t ignore. It sounds unshakable and steady, yet fragile and thick.

Slowly, reluctantly, your eyes flutter open to meet his, but when you do, you freeze.

Because he already knows.

He looks at you. Just looks, but you see he already put the pieces together. He saw the shards scattering around your knees. His expression is softer than you’ve ever seen it but he looks at you with an intensity that is new to you. There is that understanding in his eyes. But it’s so soft. So gentle.

There is no anger, no frustration, no disappointment.

There is nothing of the reaction you had feared for.

Yes, there is pain in his eyes as well. It’s unmistakable, flickering in the soft blue of his irises. But it’s not the pain you expected.

It’s not for the ornament. It’s not for what it meant.

It’s for you.

You can see it in the way his brows crease, the frown that tugs at his mouth. And the way he never once lets his gaze stray to the shards on the floor. All he looks at is you.

Bucky keeps his hands on your face, continuing to swipe over your cheeks like he’s afraid you’ll crumble if he lets go. Then, his thumbs still, resting against your cheekbones, his touch so achingly gentle that it only makes more tears fall.

“Sweetheart,” he says again, and the word cracks, quiet and uneven. He still doesn’t look angry. He still doesn’t look disappointed. He looks devastated - not for what you’ve done, but for what it’s done to you.

Your lips tremble, barely able to form words.

“It’s okay, baby. It’s okay. Come here.”

Baby definitely is a new one. It’s something he’s never called you before. But there is no time to linger on it, no chance to unpack the flutter it sparks in your stomach because he’s already pulling you toward him.

His flesh arm wraps around your body, tugging you against his chest, while his metal hand finds its place at the back of your head, cold but reassuring fingers threading through your hair.

He lets you cry against his chest. Cradles you so tightly to him, you might actually get worried about your ribs, but it feels so good. His chest rises and falls beneath your cheek, his heart is pounding. The fabric of his tactical suit presses against your skin, rough and worn from the mission he just came back from, but it grounds you to some extent.

“It’s okay. Just breathe, alright? Breathe,” he keeps whispering, exaggerating his breaths against your body to invite you to follow his lead. You try.

“I’m so sorry,” you sob, the words spilling out in a choked, broken rush as you bury your face in his chest. The tears won’t stop, soaking into the dark fabric of his suit.

“Shh,” he keeps on with his soft voice. His arm around you tightens, holding you closer, while his metal hand stays solidly at the back of your head. His fingers brush through your hair in slow, soothing motions. “Don’t be. Don’t you dare be.”

He continues murmuring to you when you try to apologize again, his voice low and warm. He talks so calmly and sure, you feel something inside of you churn.

Bucky tilts his head slightly, resting his cheek against your hair, and you feel the warmth of his breath as he talks to you.

And yet, biting guilt gnaws its way through your ribs. You feel terrible - worse than terrible - because it should be you comforting him, not the other way around.

It’s him who lost something precious, something you had broken. And here he is, holding you, brushing tears from your face, whispering words meant to stitch you back together.

But somehow, he doesn’t even seem to care. He holds you like you are the only thing that matters right now.

Remorse burrows deep, heavy, and shaming, until it pulls you back to yourself - slowly, shakily, but enough to loosen the sobs caught in your throat.

You sniff and take a breath, a real one this time, ragged but yours.

Then, you shift in his arms, gently pressing against his chest to put space between you. His hold loosens, slowly, with a hesitation that tugs at something in you. As if he is reluctant to let you go. Still, he relents.

His flesh hand slides away first, but his metal one lingers, brushing through your hair one last time before settling on your shoulder. He keeps you close, his thumb brushing absentminded sweeps across your sweater.

His gaze never strays and it’s heavy. You can’t meet his eyes for long. They’re too full of that care you don’t deserve, the care he shows you in so many small gestures all the time.

So your gaze falls to the floor, but then you freeze again.

The broken shards that had glinted so mockingly against the floor just moments ago are gone. Instead, settled carefully on the coffee table as though it had never fallen at all, is the ornament.

Whole.

It takes you a moment to process it, to trust what you’re seeing. The cracks are gone, smoothed over seamlessly. The gleaming red glass catches the light of the Christmas tree, its golden little details shining like something out of a memory, timeless and unbroken. As beautiful and aesthetic as before.

For a moment, you even wonder if your eyes are playing tricks on you, but then you notice Wanda standing at the far side of the room. Her hands lower slowly, the telltale red glow of her magic fading from her fingertips.

She doesn’t say anything, doesn’t step closer - just tilts her head slightly, offering you the faintest, knowing smile. Her eyes are warm.

God, of course. You should have thought of that. It even makes you feel a little ridiculous. You live together with people who possess supernatural abilities, powers beyond comprehension. You should have thought of Wanda. How her hands could have mended it back together in seconds.

A choked breath stumbles out of you, somewhere between relief and disbelief. Bucky follows your gaze, his brows furrowing, only to soften when he sees the ornament resting perfectly intact on the table. He stares at it for a moment.

But then he looks back at you and his sweet smile could melt any ice this winter has to offer.

His flesh hand moves a few strands of hair out of your face and tugs them tenderly behind your ear. His hand stays on your cheek. “Told you it’s okay.”

You let out a shaky breath. “I still broke it,” you say, words slipping out quietly, somberly. Your gaze remains fixed on it. Wanda seems to have slipped out again.

“Stop,” Bucky cuts in, his voice more firm than before but still gentle as always. He shakes his head, moving closer to you again, gaze fixed on you.

You feel his hand brush against yours, but then his shoulders stiffen up. He stops. His eyes catch on something and his expression shifts in an instant.

“Jesus-” His frown deepens, something like a shadow crosses his eyes. Sharp eyes lock onto the red streaks lining your palm, the cuts where the shattered glass had broken your skin.

You hadn’t even realized you were still holding onto the pain - too caught up in everything else to notice the dull throb of your hand or the sting of the scratches.

“You’re bleeding. Why didn’t you say anything?” The words are a quiet exhale, soft but weighted. There is no reprimand in his voice, no anger - only concern coloring every syllable.

His thumb ghosts over your wrist, careful not to brush against the cuts. His intense gaze flickers from your injured hand to your face, searching your expression.

“It’s not a big deal-”

“Don’t.”

Bucky shakes his head. His jaw tightens and he exhales sharply through his nose. It’s not frustration - not with you, anyway. It’s something deeper, something that seems to pain him in his chest as he studies the scratches like they’re a personal failing.

“Bucky,” you say while trying to pull your hand back from his grasp when he tilts it more toward the light to get a better look. As if he hasn’t the eyesight of a super soldier.

“Doll. Let me see.” His lips press into a thin line, the faintest hint of exasperation ghosting across his face.

The sigh you let out drags down your chest and you don’t resist when Bucky keeps cradling your bleeding hand and studies the scratches. His brow is furrowed in concentration that feels too much for something so small.

You want to tell him it’s fine, that this is nothing, but the words die before they reach your tongue.

“Let’s get you fixed up,” he says tightly, the tone of his voice all business and leaving no room for argument.

But you shake your head. It’s your fault the ornament broke in the first place. You’re aware it’s whole again, but it was in shambles just moments earlier and you cut yourself thanks to your own stupidity.

“Bucky, you just got back from a mission-” you protest, your voice quieter than you’d like.

“Not too worried about myself right now, doll,” he interrupts, his voice insistent but warm. The hint of steel beneath his words not directed at you but at the way your guilt is still in control, trying to downplay yourself.

“Come on.” He says it softer now, but before you can argue any further, he’s already moving.

Without so much as a pause, Bucky stands and scoops you up into his arms as though it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You barely have a second to process the shift, before you’re pressed securely against his chest.

“Bucky!” you exclaim, startled, your uninjured hand reaching for his shoulder to steady yourself.

“Relax, doll. I’ve got you,” he murmurs, his voice low and almost amused, though his expression remains calm, focused.

You sigh again, but there is a laugh on your breath. “Buck, I can walk. You don’t have to-”

“Not hearing it,” he says simply, almost flatly. He just continues striding along the halls with you in his arms. His steps are heavier, but you know it’s not because of your weight. He holds you like you weigh nothing at all. “You’re hurt.”

That doesn’t sound like a plausible explanation to you, since you’ve come home with way worse injuries from missions over the last months alone. But the gruffness of his voice, the one that always accompanies him when you’re injured, no matter how small - the seriousness, the concern - it shuts you up for the time being.

You let your head rest against his shoulder. He smells a little like gunpowder and dust, but you only latch onto the parts that are him and breathe them in.

“I didn’t mean to break it, Bucky,” to whisper, gaze dropping to the tightly pressed ball that is your bloody fist. “I’m so sorry.”

You feel the intake of Bucky’s breath against your body and his eyes warmly falling down on you. You don’t meet his gaze.

“You didn’t break anything, sweetheart.” His voice is like velvet, brushing so softly against your skin. So reassuringly. So profoundly gentle. “You’re okay, doll. We’re okay. I promise.” His hands curl tighter around you.

You blink, your head tilting to glance up at him, and your breath catches when you meet his gaze.

It is intense. His brows are pulled together - not with anger, but with concern. Like the only things he cares about right now are the tears that linger in your eyes and the way you’re still trying to curl in on yourself, still letting your body slightly shake with the guilt that he refuses to let you carry.

Something stirs in your belly. Something flutters, as if thousands of tiny wings brush against the walls of you, demanding to be seen. To be felt.

Because you let your mind spiral so much earlier, bracing yourself for a reaction of disappointment, frustration - that flicker of something unnameable that might pull the two of you apart.

But it still isn’t there.

Not even close.

It’s the opposite, really.

#whumpcember24 #whumpcember2024 #whumpcember day15 #marvel bucky barnes #marvel mcu #bucky marvel #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes whump #james bucky buchanan barnes #james bucky barnes #bucky fic #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes comfort #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x y/n #avenger!reader #avenger!Bucky

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underthemexicansun · 10 months ago

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Grumpy Bucky in The Falcon and The Winter Soldier.

#bucky barnes #sebastian stan #james bucky buchanan barnes #grumpy Bucky #grumpy Bucky Barnes #winter soldier #the falcon and the winter soldier #white wolf #marvel bucky barnes #recovering Bucky #marvel cinematic universe #mcu #he can look at me this way #he can call me baby girl

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destielembarker · 1 month ago

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BUCKY BARNES x READER

my everything…

Summary: Bucky comes back from the events of Thunderbolts* and you GOTTA fix his hair with some tough love.

tags: cursing, bucky barnes x reader, fluff, alpine being a lil shit, already married fic, domestic banter turned sweet, cuddles, kisses, wound dressing, no use of y/n or pronouns, DISCUSSION ABOUT ARM IN THE DAMN DISHWASHER.

notes: i know this shit is written like a 4th grader did it and i really just don’t care enough to fix it BC I NEEDED TO GET THIS DISHWASHER DISCUSSION OFF MY CHEST. plz comment!!!

Bucky has been gone for 3 months now. It isnt uncommon for him to leave for long periods of time but, definitely been hard but you picked up some extra shifts to fill the time.

Last night you heard the front door open and close and quiet footsteps approaching your room as not to wake you. Alpine, who was lying on the end of your bed, picked up her head at the noise.

He came in the bedroom and quietly dropped his bag and coat in the corner and crawled into bed behind you and wrapped his arm around your waist. Alpine crawled over, quietly sniffing out the stranger. Immediately she registered who it was and let out multiple happy chirps and head bumps on his back.

He chuckled at her eagerness.

He turned back to you, whispering in your ear, “hey.”

You’re fully awake now, “Bucky!!”

You rolled over and hugged and kissed his face. Which he happily accepted. The room was very dim. You ran your fingers through his hair. “Getting long again, huh?” You laughed.

He let out a sigh, “Yeah, let’s go back to bed. Wanna see you in the morning.”

His tone indicated he was tired so you quickly nodded and leaned your head down into his chest and fell back asleep with Alpine purring between you two.

~~~~

The next morning you woke up as you usually do, 5 AM with the morning orange glow pouring into your room and alpine screaming at your feet.

“Okay okay!” You laughed, rolling out of bed to feed her.

“I hadn’t missed that.” Bucky laughed, covering his head with the blankets.

You get up and feed the beast and return back to your bedroom to see him, propped up on some pillows rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.

You’re stopped dead in your tracks when you finally make eye contact with him, seeing what you didn’t see in the dim light last night.

“James…” You say in a quiet voice.

“Huh?” He tilts his head in confusion.

“Baby, have you looked in the mirror lately?” You laughed.

“Yeah, why?”

“Because, I love you, but that haircut has to go.” You said annoyed.

“I knew you were gonna say something.” He chuckled.

“Also where the fuck is your arm?” You said crossing your arms.

He stayed silent but you both knew the answer.

“James. Bathroom. Now.” He groaned like a child being punished but rolled out of bed in just a wife beater and some black briefs, which kinda made you less mad at him. He still got a perky little butt you loved from day one.

You followed him into the bathroom and rummaged through the drawers looking for your clippers. He assumed his position, sitting on the side of the tub.

You plugged them in and turned around to face him. Those beautiful blue eyes staring up at you like you hung the moon.

After all these years, you could never truly be mad at him. But you have to act like it so he doesn’t think you’re a pushover.

“Bug…” you say playing with the ends of his hair.

“I know. I know.” He said waving your hand away.

“Like I wouldn’t be so mad if this didn’t look like shit! It looks like you got your hair cut from a middle aged white lady!” You laughed.

“I just haven’t had time.” He says turning his head to watch Alpine push her way into the bathroom, chirping again when she saw him. “Hi my love!” He says patting his lap. She immediately runs over and leaps into his lap and nuzzling his chin.

You flick on the clippers. “She missed you…” you said in a softer tone.

“You think?” He said petting her gently as you made long strokes across his head.

Alpine swatting at the falling pieces of hair.

“Hey hey!” You say swatting the hair out of her paws and mouth. “No!”

She looks up at you confused.

“What’s that for?” Bucky said petting her back.

“James… don’t even get me started.” You say continuing to work your way around his head, more annoyed this time.

“Tell me.”

“Well, YOUR child decided it was a good idea to eat eighteen of my little hair ties while you were gone.” You say while scratching her ears.

“Okay…” he says, inquiring further.

“Okay? Well it cost me two fucking grand on emergency surgery, Buck!”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. Oh! You should be lucky I took her in the second she stopped eating.”

He laughed and looked down at her on his lap, “Did my baby girl give mommy a hard time while Daddy was gone?” She chirped and head butted his chest.

“Don’t laugh! She could have died! Look!” You say reaching over to pick her up under the arms. Her legs sway below her, exposing her belly with a dark pink scar running down her abdomen and hair clipped in a perfect square.

He reached out and grabbed her with his one arm, from your grasp, kissing her forehead. “Oh my poor baby!” He said flipping her onto her back in the crook of his arm like a baby. “She didn’t mean it.” He says looking up at you with those pleading eyes again.

Everytime you see him with that tiny white cat, you cannot help but to feel your heart swell. Just the image of this big strong man with a tiny cat cradled in his arm is enough to melt anyone’s heart.

“Okay okay, well you’re not out of the doghouse yet.” You say finishing up his hair.

“Oh yeah?” He says rocking her softly.

You flip off the clippers and grab the scissors on the counter and walk back over to him, waving the scissors in his face, and bending down to eye level.

“What the fuck did I say about putting your arm in the dishwasher? Huh?” You say grabbing his chin and standing back up straight.

“But-“ he started, trying to defend himself.

“No buts Bucky! That’s nasty!” You say putting your hands on your hips.

“How is it nasty?” He says annoyed.

“Because Buck, you go out and beat the shit out of people with the arm, getting dead guy blood and dirt all over it. Then you come home and put that shit in the same place where we put plates, which we eat off of!” You say, raising your tone again.

“Well-…” he pauses.

You bend back down and kiss his forehead. “My love, I’ve told you, if you want it cleaned, that’s not a problem. Just let me clean it. In the tub. Where I can use bleach to scrub the tub afterwards.”

“Yeah but that means you have to do extra work for me….” He says with tears in his eyes, you can tell no one has ever done this for him before.

You walk over and hug his head onto your stomach. “Bug… listen to me…”

He tilts his head upward to indicate him listening.

“That’s what marriage is about. I’m not doing this because I hate you. I’m doing this because I love you, and I love myself because I don’t wanna eat off plates with dead guy juices on it, but mostly because I love you!”

He chuckles and sniffs, turning his head to wipe his nose on his shoulder. “You sure?” He says putting the cat down onto the floor.

You pull yourself off him and kneel onto the floor in front of him, cupping his cheeks into your hands, thumbing away the stray tears. “Bucky Barnes…. I wouldn’t have taken your last name if I thought you were a burden to me. You did such a good job during the courting phase to show me the good, the bad, and the ugly… and I still said yes.”

He cracked a smile and looked up at you.

“The lengths I would go to give you everything I have… my life, my soul, my body, and everything I own. You are my everything.”

He nodded and pulled you into a warm hug. “I love you so much.” He said with a broken tone.

“I love you too, Bug.”

You spend the next few seconds of the hug rubbing your hands over his back. He winced slightly every time you touched his right side.

“Buck…” you said in a worried tone.

You pull back from the hug and lift up his tank top.

“Baby… that looks bad.” You sighed, sitting back on your heels.

He nodded slowly.

You turn around to grab the first aid kit from the bottom of the cabinet and crawl over to him.

You put some rubbing alcohol onto a cotton pad and start to slowly dab the huge cut running down his back around to his stomach. He scrunched his eyes and clenched his fist and hissed quietly.

“Shhh… I know baby. But it’s gonna get infected if you don’t let me dress it. How long ago did this happen?”

“Couple days…” he mumbled through gritted teeth.

“Did you put anything on it? Actually I don’t wanna know the answer.” You said quickly.

You continue patting the scratch, using up about half of your cotton pads that are now soaked in blood.

He’s white knuckling the side of the tub by time you’re finished.

“Can you do something for me?” You say, cleaning your mess of bloody cotton balls littering the floor.

“I guess?” He says pulling his shirt back down.

“Will you tell me about your wounds.”

He scoffs, “Why?”

“Do I have to repeat the conversation we just had?”

“… no” he muttered.

“Okay then, I don’t want you unnecessarily suffering. Period. End of story. Got it?” You say standing up and opening the bathroom door.

“Got it.”

“Now come on, I’m making you breakfast.” He chuckles and bounces up to follow you to the kitchen.

281 notes · View notes

angelremnants · 22 days ago

Text

Heat Waves l J. B. Barnes

PART ONE.⠀THROUGH THE SHIMMERING ROADS

summary : After years of manipulation by Hydra, Bucky Barnes must find his place in a world that has long moved on without him. With you, an independent and unwavering agent by his side, he reluctantly embarks on a transformative journey of recovery in Wakanda. Amid the kingdom's vibrant culture, your connection to Bucky deepens as he confronts personal demons and embrace the healing process. Bucky learns to welcome the warmth of new beginnings, understanding that even after winter's cold grip, the sun can shine through. Inspired by Heat Waves by Glass Animals.

pairing : James ''Bucky'' Barnes x f!reader

warnings : Mature (16+), slow burn, eventual romance, fluff, mild angst, hurt/comfort, mentions of PTSD, trauma recovery, themes of mental health, anxiety, mentions of mind control/brainwashing, minor violence, mild language, physical tension. Proceed with caution if you're sensitive to such material.

word count : 15.1k

author's notes : The people have voted, and a promise is a promise: here is the long awaited Bucky fic. I was originally gonna write about one of the spideys for this song, but the idea of exploiting Buck's journey in Wakanda struck me and I couldn't get it off my mind since then—though, I'm not exactly following Civil War's plot here, so beware. This is quite long, so I'm dividing the fic into two parts.

My lonely ass couldn't find anything better to do on New Year's Eve than write, so I hope that the story appeals to you and that, unlike yours truly, you're enjoying the festivities. I wish you all a happy new year to come, & Wakanda forever. <3

NEW ! — Find the continuation here.

(ao3 version)

The fluorescent lights of SHIELD headquarters buzz faintly, casting a pale glow across the sleek metallic walls of the hallway. The atmosphere is heavy, a tension so thick it seems to creep under your skin as you hurry past the agents going about their duties. They barely glance your way, but their hurried movements and hushed whispers set your nerves on edge. Something’s wrong—very wrong.

Maria Hill’s voice over the comm has been short and clipped, urgent in a way that leaves no room for questions. “Report to Briefing Room C immediately. It’s about Barnes.” There are no further details, just enough to make your heart pound as you practically sprint down the corridor, scenarios running wild through your mind. Has Bucky been injured? Is he captured again? Or worse—has he been triggered?

The doors to Briefing Room C slid open with a faint hydraulic hiss. The moment you stepped inside, the scene hit you like a punch to the gut.

The room is dimly lit, its walls lined with glowing monitors displaying various feeds and data streams. Fury stands at the far end, his broad shoulders silhouetted against the blue-green glow of a tactical screen. His expression is as unreadable as ever, but the tightness in his jaw speaks volumes. Maria Hill is at his side, her posture rigid, arms crossed as she stares at something across the room.

And then you saw him.

Bucky is seated in the middle of the room, his hands and feet restrained by glowing vibranium cuffs. His chest rises and falls rapidly, his long, dark hair obscuring part of his face. The metallic glint of his left arm reflects the light, but what strikes you most is the sheer tension radiating from him. His jaw is clenched so tightly you think his teeth might shatter, and his eyes were wild, distant, as if he were seeing something—or someone—no one else could. The moment you stepped further into the room, his head jerked toward you, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made your breath catch. For a split second, time seemed to freeze, and in that brief instant, you saw the depth of the pain and confusion that was consuming him.

“You’re just gonna let him stay like that?” you asked, your voice sharp despite the knot forming in your stomach. Fury’s eyes met yours, and you saw a flicker of uncertainty in them for the first time in a long while. It made your heart sink even further.

“It’s the only way to keep him contained,” Maria Hill replied, her voice cold but laced with an undercurrent of concern you weren’t sure you were imagining.

You took a step forward, your instincts screaming at you to do something—anything. You couldn’t just stand there and watch him suffer. But then, as if sensing your movement, Bucky’s body stiffened. His eyes flashed with panic as he struggled against his restraints.

“No,” he rasped, his voice hoarse and low. “No, please… don’t come any closer.” His breath was coming in ragged gasps now, his chest heaving as if he was suffocating.

You paused, your heart breaking at the sight of him, at the sound of his voice, so desperate and filled with fear. But you knew Bucky. You knew what he was capable of—and you knew that beneath the terror, there was still the man you trusted. The man you had once fought beside.

The room fell silent for a moment, the weight of his words hanging in the air. You could see the conflict in his eyes, the way he waged a war within himself. It was like watching someone trying to outrun their demons, knowing that they would never be fast enough.

Maria Hill’s voice cuts through the heavy silence. “Agent [Y/L/N].”

You tear your eyes away from Bucky and turn to Hill, your professional mask slipping into place. “What happened?”

Hill exchanges a glance with Fury, who gives a slight nod. “You might want to see this.”

You step closer to the monitor as Hill gestures to a technician. The screen flickers to life, displaying grainy footage from a street camera. It shows a busy city street, pedestrians weaving in and out of frame, and there, walking along the sidewalk, is Bucky.

He looked calm—serene, even—as he navigated the crowd. His leather jacket was zipped up against the wind, his gloved hands were shoved into his pockets. But then, a man appears from the edge of the frame, walking briskly toward him. You lean in, your brow furrowing as you study the stranger. There’s something off about him—his movements too deliberate, his gaze locked on Bucky with unnerving precision.

The man brushes past him, murmuring something too quiet for the audio to catch. Instantly, Bucky freezes. His entire body tenses, his head snapping to the side to follow the man. The shift is chilling. His shoulders were square, his posture rigid—almost predatory.

“No,” you whisper under your breath, your stomach twisting into knots.

The footage plays out like a nightmare. Bucky turns and closes the distance in two strides, grabbing the man by the throat and slamming him against the wall with terrifying force. The crowd scatters, screams echoing faintly in the background. The man struggles, but Bucky’s grip doesn’t falter. His expression is eerily blank—detached.

Before he can do more damage, a group of nearby S.H.I.E.L.D. agents intervenes. They move quickly, deploying stun darts that finally bring him to his knees after a brief but violent struggle. The feed ends abruptly, leaving the screen black.

You exhale shakily, your fists clenched at your sides.

“It was a Hydra operative,” Hill says, her voice as calm as ever, though her eyes betray a flicker of concern. “He used a fragment of the Winter Soldier’s trigger words. Not the full sequence, but enough to momentarily break through.”

“This wasn’t his fault,” you say firmly, your voice sharp as you turn to face them.

“No one’s saying it was,” Fury replies, stepping closer. “But this is a problem we can’t ignore. He was triggered. In public. If our agents hadn’t been nearby, this could’ve spiraled out of control.”

Your heart sank as the weight of the situation settled in. The footage, the raw power of Bucky’s reaction—it was all too familiar. Too dangerous. The fragment of the trigger words had done more than just snap him into action; it had ripped through the layers of control they’d fought so hard to establish, revealing the deadly force beneath.

You turned back to Bucky, who was still sitting motionless in his restraints, eyes hollow as if the memory of that moment played in his mind over and over. Your throat tightened as you couldn’t help but wonder—how much longer would it take before that darker side of him broke free for good?

“You said it was only a fragment,” you recalled with a tight voice and a racing mind. “How much more of that can he withstand?”

Hill’s expression was unreadable as she glanced at Fury, who looked as grim as ever. “We don’t know. But this wasn’t an isolated incident. There’s a pattern. Hydra operatives are still hunting for ways to manipulate him, to use him as a weapon again. And if they get their hands on him...” She let the implication hang in the air.

“Then we lose him,” you finished for her in a low tone.

Fury nodded once. “We can’t let that happen. Not again.”

You shake your head, your heart aching as you glance back at Bucky. He hasn’t said a word, but his silence is deafening. His shoulders are hunched, his breathing shallow, as if he’s trying to make himself smaller despite his restraints.

“This isn’t his doing,” you say quietly, your voice trembling with conviction as you turn back to Fury and Hill. “You know that.”

You gesture toward Bucky, your hands tightening into fists at your sides. “This isn’t who he is—not anymore. I’ve spent months working with him, watching him fight tooth and nail to reclaim his humanity. You don’t see the effort he puts in every single day to untangle himself from the chains Hydra left behind.”

You take a step closer to the table where Hill stands, your voice gaining strength. “He’s not the Soldier. Not even close. He’s a man who apologizes when he thinks he’s crossed a line, a man who can barely look at his reflection because he’s so haunted by what they made him do. And yet, despite all of that, he’s still here—still trying to do better.”

You then point toward the now-black monitor where the footage had played. “What you saw out there—that wasn’t him. That was a remnant, a ghost of the programming Hydra burned into him. He didn’t want that to happen. Do you have any idea how many times he’s told me he’s terrified of exactly this? Of hurting people again—of losing himself again?”

Fury remains stoic, but you don’t stop. You refuse to let them reduce Bucky to a liability.

“Do you know what it takes for him to even leave his apartment some days?” you continue, your voice breaking just slightly. “He’s had nights where he’s called me, barely able to breathe because of the nightmares. And still, he pushes forward. He goes to the market. He feeds stray cats. He shows up to his therapy sessions, even on the days he feels like a monster.”

You turn toward Bucky again, your gaze softening as you look at him. He still won’t meet your eyes, but his shoulders shift ever so slightly, as though your words are breaking through the thick wall of guilt that has wrapped itself around him.

“He’s made so much progress,” you say softly, your voice trembling with emotion. “You might not see it in this room, but I do. He’s not the same man Hydra controlled. He’s more than what they turned him into. So don’t tell me he’s a problem we need to ‘solve.’ He’s a survivor who deserves a chance to heal.”

The room falls silent again, the weight of your words settling over everyone present. Fury breaks it with a dry tone. “Well, that was one hell of a speech. If this was a courtroom, Barnes would’ve walked free five minutes ago.”

Hill smirks faintly but quickly straightens her posture. “And that’s exactly what Wakanda is offering,” she says after a moment, her voice gentler than before. “We’re not trying to punish him, Agent [Y/L/N]. We’re trying to find a permanent solution to give him the chance to live without looking over his shoulder for the rest of his life.”

You blink, momentarily caught off guard. “Wakanda?”

Hill nods, gesturing to a control panel beside her. The room dims slightly as holographic projections flicker to life above the table. A glowing map of Africa materializes, the continent's outline illuminated in soft blue light. Within seconds, the image zooms in on a secluded region encased in lush greenery and mountainous terrain, marked by golden energy fields pulsing faintly like a heartbeat.

“This,” Hill begins, motioning to the projection, “is Wakanda. Or, at least, what they allow the world to see.”

The hologram shifts again, peeling back layers of dense jungle to reveal a city hidden beneath an intricate shield of shimmering gold. Sleek towers of black and silver rise high into the sky, their designs flowing seamlessly as if the earth itself shaped them. Vibrant streaks of energy—bright blues and radiant purples—course through the city like veins, fueling what looks like hovercrafts darting silently between buildings. The architecture is a breathtaking blend of modern sophistication and traditional roots, with murals of panthers and warriors etched into the structures.

You find yourself momentarily transfixed by the beauty of it all. “This is... incredible,” you murmur, your eyes reflecting the golden glow of the projection.

Hill nodded again. “Wakanda has technology and resources far beyond anything we can dream of. Their advancements in medicine and neuroscience are decades ahead of ours. They’ve recently opened limited communication with select parties, and we’ve exchanged information for resource purposes. In those discussions, we mentioned Barnes’ situation. They’ve offered their assistance.”

The hologram changed once more, this time displaying an intricate diagram of a human brain, with glowing red nodes scattered across its surface. Lines of text and equations scrolled beside it, too fast for her to catch more than snippets: neurological interference... synaptic pathways... subliminal programming... neural erasure protocol.

Hill pointed to the red nodes. “These represent the triggers Hydra embedded into his mind. Wakanda believes they can isolate and remove them without damaging his memories. Their vibranium-based technology allows for precision on a level we can’t achieve with traditional therapy or medical intervention.”

Another image appeared: a sleek, black table in a futuristic lab, surrounded by devices that looked as though they were pulled straight from science fiction. A glowing halo-like contraption floated above the table, pulsating with faint blue light. Beside it stood a tall figure clad in flowing robes—King T’Challa, the Black Panther himself. His expression was calm yet resolute as he extended a hand, as though offering help through the projection.

You tore your gaze from the holograms and glanced at Bucky. He was staring at the images too, his expression unreadable. His jaw clenched slightly, and his hands, restrained to the chair, twitched as though resisting the urge to reach out.

“Bucky,” you said softly, stepping toward him, but his gaze remained fixed on the projection. You turned back to Hill and Fury. “They’re sure they can do it? That they can completely remove the programming?”

Hill hesitated for a moment. “No one can guarantee a hundred percent success,” she admitted. “But if anyone has the capability, it’s Wakanda. And Barnes’ situation is urgent. The alternative is keeping him in custody indefinitely, which... we know isn’t the right solution.”

You swallowed hard, your fingers tightening into fists. You turned back to the projection of Wakanda, the hope it represented mingling with the weight of what this meant for Bucky.

“They can help him,” Fury said, his tone low and steady, as though trying to reassure you. “And right now, that’s our best shot.”

You hesitated, glancing back at Bucky. “And Cap’?”

Hill and Fury exchanged a glance. Fury folded his arms and sighed. “Rogers’ tied up with another mission. Something that, frankly, only he can handle right now.”

“That’s not good enough,” you said sharply, your voice rising despite yourself. You took a step forward, your gaze steady. “Steve has been a cornerstone of Bucky’s progress. He’s more than his best friend—he’s his anchor. You’re asking him to go to Wakanda, to face this terrifyingly unknown situation, and you want to strip away the one person who’s been with him through all of it?”

Fury remained silent, his gaze unflinching, while Hill stepped in. Her tone was calm but resolute. “You’re not wrong, Agent. Rogers has been a crucial part of his progress, but that’s exactly why we need you now. You’ve been just as instrumental in helping Barnes rebuild himself. Steve can remind him of the past, but you’re the one who’s been guiding him into his newfound path.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but Hill raised a hand. “I understand your concern. Trust me, we thought about this. But we can’t afford to have Rogers split his focus right now. His mission is critical to the broader stability of our operations. He’s still dealing with the fallout from the Sokovia Accords—missions and compromises that require his full attention. We need him focused on ensuring our larger efforts stay intact.”

You frowned, your heart aching with the weight of the responsibility being placed on you. You glanced back at Bucky, who still sat in silence, his hands flexing against his restraints as though they might disappear if he tried hard enough.

“You’re asking me to fill the role of someone who’s been his family since before Hydra,” you said quietly, your voice laced with doubt. “What if I’m not enough?”

Fury spoke again, his tone unexpectedly softer. “You don’t have to be Steve. You just have to be there. And right now, that’s what he needs most.”

The lump in your throat felt almost unbearable as you turned your gaze back to Bucky. You weren’t Steve. You couldn’t be. But you couldn’t let him face this alone either.

“You’re one of his closest confidants,” Hill said simply. “And more importantly, he trusts you. If he’s going to Wakanda, you’re going with him.”

Before you could respond, the sound of metal striking metal echoed through the room. The sharp, jarring noise cut through the air, and Bucky’s metal arm slammed against the chair’s armrest with such force that the walls seemed to vibrate with it. His body was rigid, his every muscle taut, fighting against restraints that seemed like nothing more than a reminder of what he couldn’t escape. His jaw clenched, and his blue eyes burned with a cold fury that thickened the air around him.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Bucky growled, his voice low and full of frustration, as if daring anyone to challenge him. The words were barely more than a snarl.

A rush of helplessness surged inside you, but you pushed it down, steadying your breath. You took a step closer, your hands trembling slightly but not enough to stop you. You could feel the intensity of his anger radiating off him, yet you didn’t flinch. You couldn’t.

“Bucky,” you spoke, your voice cutting through the tense air, cool and deliberate, like a measured exhale after a long, heavy pause. You crouched, your movements unhurried, and the sound of your shoes on the floor felt muted in the charged atmosphere between you. You reached for his forearm, your fingers lingering above it for a heartbeat before making contact—steady and unflinching, a quiet gesture meant to ground him.

He didn’t react at first. His focus remained fixed on the metal restraints, his body rigid with tension, the edges of his breath jagged, as if each intake of air was another battle to hold back the chaos. The silence stretched between you, thick with the weight of everything unsaid.

But then, slowly, his gaze shifted, reluctant, as if the effort required to meet your eyes was a struggle. The shift in his expression was subtle—a flicker of something, an internal conflict you knew all too well. You could see the strain, the stubborn defiance buried beneath the surface of his wariness, and a deep, unspoken fear.

“James,” you said again, not a command but an invitation—an offering, as if asking him to join you in the quiet place between conflict and trust. You didn’t need to fill the silence with words. The air was thick enough with understanding, so much so that his silence spoke volumes.

His chest rose and fell unevenly, his eyes wild, full of a tension that reached past anger, into a place where self-preservation and vulnerability tangled.

You leaned in just a fraction, bringing your voice lower—closer. “This isn’t about punishment, you know. It’s just the opposite. It’s a chance, James. A real one. Wakanda has answers we don’t.”

There was a sharpness in his gaze at the mention of Wakanda, the flicker of uncertainty quickly masked by something harder. He didn’t speak, but you saw it, that tightening at the edges of his expression, the unwillingness to trust something unknown.

But you didn’t pull away. You couldn’t.

“I’ll be there,” you continued, your voice steady despite the maelstrom churning inside you. “Through all of it. I’m not going anywhere. You don’t have to face this by yourself.”

The space between you felt like a world unto itself, your words the only bridge between his resistance and the possibility of something else—something less solitary. He didn’t respond immediately, but his eyes softened in ways that didn’t require a spoken answer. The tension in his posture—so rigid just moments before—had eased, imperceptibly. It was a shift, small but real, like the first signs of a storm breaking after days of pressure.

He exhaled, the sound rough but quieter, as if the weight of the past few moments had cracked something open inside of him. It was subtle, almost too small to notice, but it was there—a shift in his breath, a loosening in the tightness of his body.

You didn’t let yourself breathe yet. It wasn’t a victory; it was progress. One step at a time.

“I’m not going to let you down,” you murmured, the words more to yourself than to him. But the truth of it hung between you, more meaningful than any promise. The smallest bit of trust had passed from him to you. And that was enough—for now.

For the first time since you had entered the room, Bucky’s posture eased, his shoulders relaxing slightly as if the burden he carried had lessened, if only for a moment. He didn’t speak again, but the silent understanding in his eyes was enough. The anger, the fear, and the uncertainty were all still there, but something in his gaze told you that he was willing to try. He was willing to trust you.

The tension in the room slowly dissipated as Fury and Hill exchanged a glance, their eyes sharp, filled with a quiet understanding. The moment hung there, charged with anticipation before Fury’s voice cut through the silence.

“You leave in 24 hours,” he said, his tone final, unyielding.

You barely had time to process his words before you noticed the subtle shift in Bucky’s demeanor. The moment the restraints were removed, his shoulders sagged slightly, as though the weight had been lightened, even if just a little. He rubbed his wrists, the red marks from the cuffs fading as he did, but his eyes never left you. The intensity of his gaze made your heart race, the silent communication louder than any words could be.

"Together," you insisted softly, your voice steady despite the emotions swirling inside you. You gave him a small smile, one that you hoped could carry the weight of everything that lay ahead.

Bucky’s gaze softened ever so slightly as he took in your words. For a brief moment, the mask he wore cracked just enough for you to see the vulnerability beneath it. He had carried so much alone for so long, always fighting battles on his own, and the idea that someone would stand by him, through everything, was still something he wasn’t sure he deserved.

But when he finally met your eyes fully, there was something new there—trust. It wasn’t much, but it was enough. And in that moment, you allowed yourself to believe that things might get better.

He nodded, slowly, almost imperceptibly, and for the first time that day, the weight on his shoulders seemed just a little lighter. The uncertainty, the fear, and the anger hadn’t gone away, but now there was hope—a flicker of it. And that was enough for you to keep moving forward, side by side, as you had always promised.

The tension in the room eased further as Fury and Hill exchanged a look, silent but understanding. The air was heavy with what was coming, but it was also filled with the possibility of healing. The first step, at least, was taken.

Bucky’s hand rested on his knee, his eyes still on you, as if testing the reality of your words. The quiet acceptance between them spoke volumes, louder than any battle cries or violent confrontations ever could. You dutifully chose to stay with him, basking in a silence speaking more than any words ever could.

Maybe, he thought, just maybe, he could have a chance to not be defined by the relics of his past and discover more about him than his broken identity.

⠀

The jet’s hum is steady, a soft vibration thrumming beneath your feet, filling the air with a quiet constancy. Outside, the world stretches out endlessly, a canvas painted with shifting colors. Golden plains give way to emerald forests, their hues blurred by the heat shimmering in waves. The sun hangs low on the horizon, casting long shadows across the cabin, where the faint glow of the dashboard monitors adds a cool blue contrast.

Inside, the tension is palpable. You sit diagonally across from Bucky, your fingers laced together as you try to focus on anything other than the heavy silence between you. The cabin’s sleek interior, all polished metal and leather, feels sterile, almost suffocating.

Bucky sits rigid, his posture tense and unyielding. His titanium arm rests on his thigh, the faint gleam of its surface catching the golden light from the window. His other hand grips the armrest tightly, his knuckles pale, the muscles in his forearm taut. He stares out the window, but his expression is far away, his eyes unfocused as if caught in a memory—or maybe a nightmare.

The heat waves outside ripple and dance, distorting the view, and for a fleeting moment, you think it mirrors what he must be feeling: a distorted reality, everything just out of reach, as though he’s swimming through a haze he can’t escape.

You finally break the silence. “Bucky,” you say softly, your voice gentle but firm.

He doesn’t move, doesn’t even blink. His jaw tightens slightly, the only sign he’s heard you.

“James,” you try again, leaning forward in your seat.

This time, his head turns, the movement slow, reluctant, as though every fiber of his being fights against acknowledging you. When his eyes meet yours, you feel your breath catch. They are turbulent, stormy—blue-gray like an ocean during a tempest, filled with anger, fear, and something even deeper: a bone-deep exhaustion that words can’t touch. For a moment, he doesn’t respond, his throat working as he swallows hard.

“What?” His voice is low and raw, like the sound of gravel scraping against stone.

"What’s in your head right now?" you ask quietly, the words almost a suggestion, as if you’re just offering him space to release what’s been bottled up. "You don’t have to explain it all at once."

He exhales sharply, shaking his head before his gaze slips back to the window. “That’s a loaded question,” he mutters. “What’s there to say? Same fight, different day. It’s all the same. I’m stuck. Like I’m running in place, but the ground’s always moving.” His voice drops, a hollow edge creeping into his words. “And now, I’m supposed to just… trust this is going to fix me?”

You take a breath, considering him for a moment. “I don’t think it’s about fixing you. It’s more about... giving you a place to stand. To breathe. Something you haven’t had in a while.”

He lets out a sharp exhale, his fingers twitching, flexing around the armrest. “Feels the same.”

You shift slightly in your seat, your gaze calm but not dismissive. “You’ve been carrying that weight for so long,” you say. “And you’re not wrong to feel it. But that’s not all you are. This? It’s a step. Not a cure, not magic. But a step. A chance for something different.”

Bucky’s lips press into a thin line, his jaw tightening as he looks at you, still skeptical. “And if it doesn’t work?”

“Then we keep moving forward,” you reply. “We don’t stop. We figure out what comes next.”

The silence between you deepens, but this time, it feels different. Like the weight of the words you haven’t yet said is finally beginning to shift. Bucky doesn’t speak, but his posture relaxes, just a little, as if he’s testing the space you’ve offered him.

“You make it sound simple,” he mutters.

“It’s not,” you admit with a quiet sincerity. “But simplicity isn’t the point. What matters is that you don’t have to carry it all on your own anymore.”

The hum of the engines fills the silence between you, a steady backdrop to your conversation. You lean back in your seat, your gaze drifting to the window. The landscape below has shifted again, the golden plains now giving way to a dense, emerald forest that stretches as far as the eye can see. You take a sip of your drink—a strawberry smoothie you’d grabbed on the way to the jet—and the sweet scent lingers in the air, subtle but unmistakable. It wafts across the cabin, reaching Bucky, whose sharp senses catch it almost immediately.

Strawberries.

It’s such a small, seemingly insignificant thing, but it hits him like a soft gust of wind, pulling him out of the maelstrom in his mind. He always associates the scent with you, a faint trace of strawberries that’s noticeable when you sit close, during those late-night talks, your presence warm and grounding. It’s not overwhelming, just... you. Sweet, fresh, and comforting.

He shifts uncomfortably, the faint scent tugging at something buried deep in his mind. For a moment, the warmth of the jet dissolves, replaced by the golden haze of a late summer afternoon in Brooklyn. He can almost hear the clatter of a bell above the door of a tiny corner bakery, the kind of place you only know about if you live in the neighborhood.

It was Steve who had dragged him there the first time, eager for a treat after a particularly grueling boxing session. The memory unfurls in fragments: the way the sunlight slanted through the windows, how the air inside was heavy with sugar and yeast, the cheerful laugh of the owner as she handed over two strawberry tarts fresh from the oven.

"Best you’ll ever have," Steve had said, his mouth full of pastry, his grin unapologetic. He’d laughed, his fingers sticky with jam as he agreed. They’d sat on the stoop outside, trading bites and talking about nothing important.

The scent in the jet now is the same—ripe, sweet, and just a little tart. It pulls at the edges of his mind, softening the sharp lines of his worry.

His grip on the armrest loosens slightly as he turns his head, his gaze finding you. You’re looking at him now, your brows drawn together with concern, your lips parting as if you’re about to say something.

“Bucky?” your voice breaks through the haze. You turn to him, concern flickering in your eyes. “You okay?”

He blinks, the memory dissolving like sugar in tea. “Yeah,” he says gruffly, clearing his throat. “Just… your drink.”

Your brows furrow, and then your lips curl into a small smile. “What, this?” You hold up the cup, the pink liquid inside sloshing slightly. “Strawberry lemonade. It’s my favorite.”

He nods, his gaze lingering on the cup before meeting yours. “It smells nice. Reminds me of something.”

Your curiosity piqued, you lean in slightly, your voice softer now. “Something good, I hope.”

For a moment, he hesitates. The words are heavy on his tongue, tied to a life that feels like it belongs to someone else. But there’s something about your presence—steady, warm, and unrelenting—that makes him feel safe enough to share.

“There was this bakery,” he begins, his voice low, almost as if he’s afraid to disturb the memory. “Back in Brooklyn. They used to make these strawberry tarts. The kind you could smell from down the block.” His lips twitch into the ghost of a smile. “Steve and I used to go there after boxing. It was stupid, really, but… it was nice.”

You don’t say anything right away, letting the moment settle between you. When you finally speak, your voice is gentle. “It’s not stupid. It’s a good memory. One worth holding onto.”

He glances at you, the corners of his mouth lifting just slightly. “Yeah. I guess it is.”

For the first time since you boarded the jet, his shoulders relax. The tension that had gripped him like a vice began to ease, the scent of strawberries still lingering in the air like a quiet promise.

“Want a sip?” you offer, holding out the cup with a playful tilt of your head.

He huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Nah. I think I’ll just enjoy the smell.”

The banter is light, but the moment carries weight, grounding you both in something fleeting yet profound.

"You know," you said, your tone lighter, "I've been reading about Wakanda. Apparently, their sunsets are supposed to be the most beautiful in the world. Vibranium makes the sky light up in colors you've never seen."

Bucky glanced at you, a faint crease forming between his brows. "You've really done your homework, haven't you?"

You smiled softly. "Someone had to. Besides, I wanted to make sure you were walking into something good. You deserve that."

His gaze softened, the tension in his shoulders easing ever so slightly. "You really believe that, don't you?"

"I do," you said, your voice steady. "You've been through hell, Bucky. But you've fought your way back every single time. That's not something everyone can do."

He turned his attention back to the window, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "Maybe," he said, his voice so quiet you almost didn't hear it.

You lapsed into silence again, but this time, it felt lighter, less suffocating. You watched him out of the corner of your eye, the way his fingers relaxed slightly, the way his breathing steadied.

As the jet began its descent, the cabin was bathed in a golden glow. Outside, the horizon was ablaze with color—deep reds and oranges melting into purples and blues, the landscape below shimmering like a dream.

"We're almost there," you announced softly, your gaze returning to the window.

"Yeah," he rasped, his voice steadier now. "Almost."

Bucky leaned forward, his gaze fixed on the view, a flicker of awe breaking through the walls he'd built around himself. "It's beautiful," he whispered, almost to himself.

Outside, the horizon blazed with color as the jet continued its journey. But inside, the small bubble of quiet understanding between you felt like its own kind of sunrise—a soft light breaking through the shadows, hinting at the possibility of brighter days ahead.

⠀

The jet's engines finally cut off as it touched down gently on the smooth landing pad. Outside, the deepening twilight bathed the landscape of Wakanda in a golden glow, and the air felt almost electric with anticipation. Bucky’s boots thudded softly on the jet’s floor as he stood, his posture rigid but his steps measured. He paused for a moment, taking in the moment—this was the first time in years that he'd stood on solid ground and not felt the familiar weight of his past suffocating him. But it was different now. Wakanda. The future. Maybe this place could offer him what he'd been searching for.

You were right behind him, your heart beating just as fast. You'd done your research and read every report you could get your hands on about Wakanda, but nothing had prepared you for the feeling of stepping onto the soil of this secretive, powerful nation. Your eyes scanned the surroundings, taking in the sleek, futuristic city that rose from the heart of lush green hills, framed by shimmering mountains. Vibranium gleamed in the sunlight, reflecting the colors of the setting sun in every direction.

As the jet’s door slid open, a cool breeze stirred the air, carrying with it the earthy scent of fresh rain and something distinctly metallic—Wakanda’s essence. It was strange, like nothing else you’d ever smelled before. It felt otherworldly, yet natural, as if the land itself was alive with energy.

Bucky stepped out first, squinting against the sudden change in light. He kept his head slightly lowered, his broad shoulders tense, but something in the way he held himself was different. As if the city—the country—held a promise, a shift he hadn’t yet fully processed but felt in his bones.

You followed, your hand brushing against the doorframe as you stepped onto the pad, your eyes now fully taking in the grandeur of the scene around you. It was surreal to be standing in a place so rich with history, so far removed from anything you'd known. You noticed Bucky was already looking around, and for the first time, the air around him felt lighter.

Before you could take more than a few steps, a procession of figures appeared before you—imposing yet welcoming. A group of highly trained Wakandan guards in their traditional attire stood tall, their presence unwavering, yet their expressions unreadable. But it was the figure at the front of the group who caught your attention.

Shuri.

She stood with an air of confidence that was immediately apparent. The sharpness in her posture and the grace with which she moved spoke volumes about her authority and presence. She wore a sleek black and gold ensemble, her hair pulled back in a series of intricate braids. There was no immediate warmth in her eyes, but there was an undeniable sharpness—a curiosity in her gaze as she looked over the newcomers.

“Pleasure to meet you, soldier,” Shuri greeted, her voice clear and full of authority, but softened by an unmistakable warmth.

Bucky gave a stiff nod in return, his jaw set, but there was a slight softening around his eyes as he regarded her. He didn’t speak right away, but his gaze shifted slightly toward the cityscape behind her, almost as if taking it all in.

Then, Shuri’s attention turned to you, and she gave a small, polite smile. “And you must be Agent [Y/L/N],” she said, her eyes scanning you with a hint of curiosity. “I trust the journey was pleasant?”

You blinked in surprise—didn’t expect such a direct greeting. You offered a smile back, albeit a bit more reserved. “Yes, it was. Thank you for the warm welcome, Your Highness.”

Shuri’s lips curled slightly. “Oh, don’t bother with stupid titles—call me Shuri. It’s not every day we have guests arrive, especially those with such… unique backgrounds.” Her words were punctuated by a sharp but knowing look at Bucky, as if she were aware of the weight he carried. “But I assure you, here, you will find more than just refuge. You’ll find purpose.”

Bucky didn’t respond right away, but you could feel the tension in his body, the flicker of recognition—of understanding—that passed between the two. It was subtle, but it was there.

“Come, we’ll get you settled in,” Shuri continued, motioning toward the waiting transport. She stepped aside as the guards parted, and the sleek vehicle hummed to life. “We’ve prepared a place for both of you to rest, but I think you’ll find Wakanda has much more to offer beyond that.”

Bucky hesitated for a moment, then gave a slight nod, stepping toward the transport. You followed, your steps light but steady. The air felt charged with the promise of what was to come—both the uncertainties and the possibilities.

The faint whir of energy around you seemed to grow as you arrived at your destination, and you found yourself mesmerized by the city in the distance. Wakanda was everything you had imagined, and yet, nothing like you had imagined. The towering structures were like nothing seen elsewhere in the world, made of materials that shimmered in the fading light, as if they were woven with the very fabric of the earth itself.

Shuri’s lips curled into a small but knowing smile. “Wakanda is a land of contradictions,” she said, stepping forward and sweeping her hand toward the city beyond. “We blend the ancient with the advanced. What you see here, what you feel, is a reflection of us: strong, proud, and unyielding.” She glanced at Bucky, her tone softening just slightly. “And you, soldier, you’ll find something here that you may not have known you were looking for.”

Bucky stiffened slightly at the mention of “something,” but you could feel the weight of the moment. You knew Bucky’s past, and the burden he carried, and you could only imagine what he was thinking as Shuri spoke.

Trying to ease the tension, you stepped closer to Bucky, your voice gentle as you spoke to him. “Hey, it’ll be alright. Just take a moment,” you told him, offering him a quiet smile. You could see the tightness in his jaw, the way his muscles were coiled, like he was preparing himself for something.

Bucky glanced at you, his face betraying the slight hesitation in his gaze, but then he nodded almost imperceptibly, the tension in his shoulders slightly easing.

Shuri noticed the exchange, and after a beat, her expression softened as she turned back to you. “Oh, but you must be tired from your trip,” she said, her tone taking on a more inviting warmth. “Wakanda’s energy can be overwhelming, especially for first-timers. Allow me to guide you to your rooms. You’ll want to rest before we get to the more… exciting parts of your stay.”

You nodded gratefully, turning to Bucky. “Let’s get settled, alright? We’ll have some time to relax and get comfortable.”

He gave you a small, almost imperceptible nod. He seemed to appreciate your presence more than he let on, though his eyes still lingered on the sprawling city as you followed Shuri.

Shuri led you down a wide path, the guards falling into step behind you, their presence a quiet but ever-present reminder of the security that Wakanda maintained. As you walked, you couldn’t help but be in awe of the blend of nature and technology that surrounded you. The city had an organic feel to it, with towering trees growing beside shimmering, metallic buildings. The contrast was striking, yet harmonious.

“You’ll be staying in one of our guest suites,” Shuri continued, her voice light, almost playful. “It’s not quite as grand as the royal chambers, but it’s comfortable enough. A place to rest your head, away from everything else.”

Bucky remained quiet, but you could see the slight tension in his shoulders beginning to ease. You kept your attention on him, making sure he felt at ease in this unfamiliar place.

“Wakanda is a place of healing,” Shuri added, glancing over her shoulder at you both. “And for you, soldier,” she said with an almost surprising directness, “this land has much to offer. But remember, healing doesn’t happen overnight. You have to allow it to.”

Bucky’s expression was unreadable, but he didn’t reply, his gaze focused forward as you approached a building that seemed to glow with an ethereal light.

“This is it,” Shuri said, gesturing toward the entrance. “Your rooms are inside. Rest for now, and when you’re ready, we’ll meet to discuss what comes next.”

As you stepped inside, you took a deep breath, watching Bucky carefully as he entered his assigned room. You could tell he was still processing everything—the enormity of being here, the unfamiliarity of the city, and perhaps the weight of his doubts. But for now, all you could do was offer a quiet, reassuring presence.

“Thank you, Shuri,” you said, offering the princess a smile. “We’ll take it from here.”

Shuri nodded, her expression softening just a touch before she turned to leave. “Of course. Take your time. Wakanda will be waiting when you're ready.”

The door closed behind you, and for the first time since you’d arrived, there was a moment of quiet. The sensation of apprehension in the air seemed to dissipate, if only slightly, as the reality of your arrival in Wakanda settled in.

⠀

You took a deep breath, letting the silence wrap around you for a moment before moving toward your suitcase. As you crouched down, unzipping it, you couldn’t help but smile a little. There was something comforting about the mundane task of unpacking, a small semblance of control amidst the uncertainty of your new surroundings.

You pulled out the first few items—clothes, toiletries—and started to sort them, placing them neatly in the drawers. You were methodical about it, folding everything just so, organizing even the smallest details. It helped you focus and keep your mind occupied, away from the unknowns of this strange new place.

Later that night, the door creaked open again while you were still folding clothes in your given wardrobe, and you looked up to find Bucky standing in the doorway. He looked like he was still adjusting to the quiet, his face creased with that familiar tension.

“Can’t sleep,” he muttered, his voice low, almost sheepish. He stood there for a moment, as if unsure what to do with himself.

You gave him a sympathetic glance and nodded toward the small couch across from your bed. "Well, I’m just unpacking. You’re welcome to hang out for a bit."

He nodded and walked over, sitting on the edge of the couch, his posture stiff. "I thought you were supposed to be making this place feel more like home," he said with a small grin, watching as you folded a shirt.

"Yeah, well, one suitcase at a time," you teased, folding a pair of pants. "Besides, we’re in Wakanda. You’re gonna have to give me more time to adjust. It’s not exactly like putting up posters of our faces and calling it 'home.'"

Bucky chuckled, leaning back on the couch with a sigh. "I don’t think they’d let me hang up any of those old SHIELD ones... You know, the ones Sam still sends me with our faces on them. Like we're supposed to be some kind of... well, I don't know, 'heroes' or something."

You let out a laugh, shaking your head. "Sam’s probably got a whole wall of them. I mean, that guy never misses an opportunity to remind us how pretty we are, huh?"

Bucky smirked, his eyes softening. "You’ve got to admit, he’s got a point."

You rolled your eyes, playfully throwing a sock at him. "Sam’s got an ego the size of the Milano. Just wait till we get back. He’ll be acting like he’s the one who saved the world every five minutes."

Bucky leaned forward, nudging your leg with his foot. "And he’ll probably do it with that ridiculous grin of his." He paused, a grin spreading across his face as he mimicked Sam’s signature cocky smile. "You know, the one that looks like he’s just won a race, but also thinks he’s won the race before anyone even started?"

You laughed harder now, imagining it. "God, yes. And don’t forget how he says, ‘This is the Falcon, signing off.’ I’m not even sure he knows how to take anything seriously."

Bucky’s expression softened at the mention of Sam. "Yeah, well, as much as he annoys me, it’s hard to imagine being stuck with anyone else. Can’t believe I’m saying this, but... he’s been a good friend. Even if he never lets up on the jokes."

You nodded, a smile tugging at your lips. "He has a weird way of making you feel like everything’s gonna be okay, even when it’s not. I think that’s why I like him... even when I wanna smack him with a pillow for talking too much."

Bucky snorted, his posture relaxing. "I think we both know Sam would take that as a compliment. He'd probably think it's an honor."

You finished folding the last of your clothes, turning to face him. "So, how are you holding up? You’re quieter than usual."

Bucky rubbed the back of his neck, his eyes flicking over to the window. "It’s just... strange, you know? This place is different. And I’m still getting used to everything."

You stepped closer, offering him a soft, understanding smile. "Yeah. It’s not exactly the city we’re used to,” you said, returning to your unpacking. “Wakanda's got a lot of energy to it, doesn’t it? It’s a lot to take in.”

He took his time to take in the room, glancing around, his gaze lingering on the walls and furniture as if trying to get used to the space. “It’s... quieter than I’m used to,” he admitted, his hands shoved into his pockets. “I thought I’d be able to sleep, but I guess my brain didn’t get the memo.”

You paused in your unpacking, glancing over at him with a wry smile. “I’m not sure ‘sleep’ is something you can just force, you know. I mean, look at me—I’m still unpacking.” You gestured to your neatly arranged drawers. “I’m practically unpacking my life here, one pair of jeans at a time.”

Bucky’s lips twitched at the corner, though his expression remained guarded. “So that’s the secret, huh? The key to surviving Wakanda? Unpack your emotions through your clothes?”

You rolled your eyes, shaking your head. “No, just the stuff. My emotions are a whole different thing.”

He leaned against the headrest of the couch, his arms crossing loosely. “I’m not sure I have the patience for all this organization.”

“Maybe not, but it helps,” you said, moving to your toiletries and setting them in the bathroom area. “You’d be surprised how something so simple can give you a little peace of mind. If only for a few minutes.”

Bucky grunted softly, looking out the window, as if the city beyond could provide the answers he was looking for. “I don’t know if peace is something I deserve.”

Your eyes softened at his words, but you didn’t look at him directly. You just kept moving your things around, neatly arranging personal care products with deliberate care. “Well, if you want my professional opinion, I think peace is something we all deserve,” you said quietly. “Even if we don’t think we’re ready for it.”

Bucky didn’t respond right away, but you could see his shoulders relax a little, the weight of his thoughts easing for just a second.

After a pause, he broke the silence with a small, rueful smile. “You’ve got a point, dove. You really do.” His voice softened a little. “Guess I just... haven’t figured out how to live in peace yet.”

You stood up, brushing your hands off on your jeans as you moved to your suitcase to grab a few more things. “It’s a work in progress, Buck’,” you said, offering him a grin. “One step at a time. Unpacking your stuff is as good a place to start as any.”

Bucky chuckled, a genuine sound this time, though it still held a trace of his usual wariness. “Maybe I’ll try it. I don’t think I’ve ever actually ‘unpacked’ before.”

You gave him a teasing look. “Well, you’re in Wakanda now. Time to learn how to take it slow.” You shrugged lightly, glancing at your suitcase. "Besides, we’ve got each other, so we’ll figure it out."

Bucky gave a small smile in return, though it was tinged with something bittersweet. "Yeah... we’ll figure it out." He paused, and then, with a mock serious tone, added, "I mean, as long as Sam doesn't pop in for a surprise visit in the middle of the night, ready to preach about how we're supposed to 'embrace the change.'"

You burst out laughing, holding your stomach. "Don’t even get me started on his 'life lessons.' The guy should really write a book: How to Be a Pain in the Ass While Pretending to Be a Therapist."

Bucky shook his head, chuckling along with you. "If he ever does, I’m not getting the first copy."

You both laughed for a moment before the room grew quiet again, the kind of comfortable silence that came with shared understanding. Bucky looked at you, his expression softening. "Thanks, dove."

You met his gaze and smiled softly, feeling the warmth between you both grow. "Anytime, Bucky. Anytime."

For a brief moment, you both stood there in comfortable silence, the hum of the city outside mingling with the soft sounds of the room. Bucky finally pushed himself off the wall, moving toward the door.

“Alright, I’m gonna try to get some rest. But if I end up staring at the ceiling all night, I might come knock on your door.”

You chuckled softly, nodding toward the bed. “I’ll be here, unpacking my life.”

As he stepped out of the room, he offered one last glance over his shoulder. “Good night,” he said, his voice quieter than before, something unspoken in the simple word.

You smiled, and for the first time since you’d arrived, the weight of the moment didn’t feel quite so heavy. Maybe Bucky would find his peace here, in his own time. Maybe you would too.

⠀

The sound of hovercrafts in the distance mingled with the hum of the city’s energy, filling the air with a futuristic melody. The capital city of Wakanda stretched out before you and Bucky—an intricate dance of nature and technology. Towering trees with glowing, bioluminescent leaves stood alongside sleek, gleaming structures made of materials that shimmered with a blue and purple hue. The holographic images that floated seamlessly in the air combined with the natural landscape in a way that felt entirely harmonious, like both elements had always been meant to coexist.

The door to the ship opened, and before you could even step out, a familiar voice rang out, filled with energy and excitement.

“Welcome to Wakanda!”

You turned, and there stood Shuri, flashing a bright, welcoming smile. She looked every bit as confident as the stories suggested. "I know it’s a lot, but you’ll get used to it. Wakanda isn’t just a city; it’s a way of life. Here, we don’t just build for the future—we build for everyone."

Your breath caught as you stepped out of the transport. The sight before you was nothing short of breathtaking. Massive trees stretched high into the sky, their roots intertwined with sleek, gleaming structures of Vibranium that rose from the earth, seamlessly blending with the natural landscape. It was like stepping into a world where technology and nature lived in perfect harmony.

Bucky, following you out of the transport, looked around with wide eyes, clearly trying to take it all in. His brow furrowed slightly, and he muttered under his breath, "I’ve heard a lot of things. Not sure I buy it."

You smiled, trying to mask your awe. "You’ll get used to it. Everything here, every piece of technology, is designed to coexist with nature."

Shuri nodded enthusiastically, practically bouncing on her heels. "Exactly! Everything you see here, from the trees to the tech, is powered by Vibranium. Not just for progress, but for balance. The future isn’t just about advancing; it’s about thriving together."

You glanced at Bucky, who seemed both impressed and confused. "Wakanda is one of the few places in the world where technology isn't just about what it can do—but how it helps everyone," you explained. "It’s all about progress and sustainability in equal measure."

“Sustainability, huh? I've seen a lot of places claim that and end up hollow promises,” he asked, his voice tinged with skepticism.

She gave him a knowing look and grinned. "Oh, we have a skeptic among us." She walked up to Bucky with a mischievous glint in her eyes. "It’s alright, soldier, we’ll get you there. You just have to trust the science."

“Yeah, I’ve heard that before. A lot of science. Not really the biggest fan here,” he gave a dry, half-smile, his voice tinged with sarcasm as he gestured to his metal arm to make a point. Bucky squinted at her, his brow furrowing deeper. "And what exactly makes you an expert in all this? You don’t even look old enough to be handing out wisdom."

Shuri raised an eyebrow. "Oh, you think I’m not old enough, huh? Maybe I don’t have the experience you do, but I've got something better—Vibranium." She held up her wrist, where a sleek device hummed softly. "A little tech I designed, just for moments like these. It’s called patience—you could use some, by the way."

You laughed at the back-and-forth. "Careful, Buckaroo. You don’t want to get on Shuri’s bad side. She might turn your arm into a really high-tech paperweight."

Bucky chuckled reluctantly, his shoulders loosening a bit. "I’m starting to think I’m going to need one of those gadgets to survive here."

"Don’t worry, we’ve got plenty," Shuri quipped. "And if you keep acting like this, you might just need a stress monitor for your recovery too."

Bucky shot her a side-eye, but there was the faintest trace of a grin on his face now. "You’re really starting to sound like a tech guru now."

Shuri shrugged dramatically. "What can I say? Genius runs in the family. You should see my brother."

You could feel Bucky's skepticism starting to crack just a little bit, but he still looked like he wasn’t entirely convinced. "I’m still not sure about all this. You’ve got tech everywhere, but does it actually work?"

"Oh, it works alright," Shuri said, practically bouncing with enthusiasm. "Everything here has been designed to help us move forward. From food to healthcare, to your recovery." She gave him a knowing glance. "That’s why you're here, remember?"

Bucky snorted. "Yeah, right. I guess we’ll see if it works."

Shuri grinned even wider. "Oh, I know it works. You’ll feel like a new man by the time we’re done." She glanced at you, then back at Bucky. "Besides, if it doesn’t work, I’ll just have to fix it. Like everything else I do." Her voice was teasing, but there was a glint of genuine pride in it.

You smirked, unable to resist joining in. "I’m almost 100% sure that their motto is 'If it ain’t broke, I’ll make it better.'"

She waved her hand dismissively. "You’re not wrong, but it’s more like, ‘If it is broke, I’ll fix it before anyone notices.’"

Bucky gave an exaggerated sigh, shaking his head with a small smile. "I can already tell this is going to be... interesting."

She wasn’t done yet, though. "Oh, it gets better. Come on, I’m taking you to see the market. If you think this is impressive, wait until you see the food. You’ll never want to leave."

"Do you sell anything that doesn’t involve turning me into a guinea pig?" he questioned, half-joking.

Shuri paused for a moment, her smile widening. "I’m pretty sure I could sell you anything, but I won’t turn you into a guinea pig... unless you ask nicely."

You groaned in mock frustration, putting your hands over your ears. "Please, no more. If you start talking about guinea pigs, I’ll never hear the end of it."

Bucky, now chuckling, nudged you lightly. "Yeah, she’s not wrong, you know. I have a feeling we’re going to be hearing about guinea pigs for the rest of our lives."

You winked at him. "As long as it keeps you laughing, I’m happy to take the hit."

Shuri led you both through the heart of the city, and you couldn’t help but be mesmerized by the way the holograms danced above the streets, integrated into the towering trees and buildings. The city itself was alive with energy—there was music floating through the air, laughter from children darting between stalls, and the soft whirr of drones hovering like curious birds overhead.

As you walked through the open market, the scents of fresh fruit and spices filled the air. Vendors proudly displayed vibrant goods—scarves and jewelry, woven baskets, carved wood, and delicacies that looked too beautiful to eat. Your stomach rumbled as you walked past a stall brimming with bright, ripe strawberries, their sweet scent almost intoxicating.

You grinned, leaning toward Bucky. “Okay, we’re getting some of those,” you said, practically grabbing his arm and tugging him over to the stall. “Trust me, you’re going to love them. Wakandan strawberries are next-level.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow, looking at you like you were a little unhinged. “Strawberries again? Seriously?”

You gave him your best ‘don’t question it’ look. “I’ve been craving these for days. And I promise, you’ll understand once you try them.” You reached out and handed him a basket filled with the plump, ripe berries.

Bucky hesitated, clearly not convinced. But when he finally took one and popped it in his mouth, you watched his expression shift from skepticism to surprise. “Alright,” he said with a slight grin, "I admit it. These are... ridiculously good."

“Told you,” you said smugly. “Strawberries are basically a cure for whatever’s bothering you. Forget about all that mood-ring nonsense.” You gave him a playful nudge, making him chuckle under his breath.

Shuri laughed from behind you. “Wakandan strawberries have a special place in everyone’s heart here. They’re like a little taste of home for all of us.”

Your group made your way through the market, sampling fruits, laughing at a few street performers, and taking in the vibrant life all around you. As much as Bucky tried to stay on guard, you could see the faintest softening in his posture. He was still unsure about letting himself go, but the relaxed pace of the market and the genuine warmth of the people around him were starting to wear down his defenses.

Finally, Shuri led you to a tech stall, where a series of gadgets were displayed—sleek, high-tech devices designed for physical recovery and mental wellness. Bucky eyed them with a raised eyebrow.

"These are wearable devices that monitor your mood and stress levels," Shuri explained, picking up a small device that looked like a high-tech bracelet. “They use Vibranium’s unique properties to help balance your energy and emotions. We’ve used them to help soldiers and citizens alike manage their mental well-being.”

Bucky stared at it, still skeptical. “What is this, a wearable therapist?”

You laughed at the remark. “More like a personal mood assistant,” you said, lifting an eyebrow. “It helps track your recovery. Think of it as a tool for healing—not just your body, but your mind too. You’ve been through a lot, Bucky. This could help.”

He glanced at the device, then back at you. “I don’t know if I need anything that tracks my stress.”

"You’ve got a lot of it, buddy,” you teased. “Look, just try it. It’ll be worth it. It’s not like they’re going to put a tracking chip in your head... yet.”

Shuri jumped in, her eyes lighting up. “You’ll love it! This thing is perfect for stress management. And we all know someone here could use a little stress relief.”

“Ha-ha,” Bucky muttered dryly, but a small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Alright, I’ll bite. But only because you two are relentless.”

The tour continued as Shuri led you both toward the final stop: a sleek, Vibranium-powered chamber nestled within the heart of the city. The walls hummed with energy, a soft, almost soothing vibration that seemed to pulse in tune with your heartbeat.

“This,” Shuri said, “is where you’ll undergo the treatment for your Hydra triggers. The Vibranium will stimulate your mind, breaking the neural connections tied to Hydra’s programming.”

Bucky glanced at the chamber, a slight wariness returning to his face. “And this is going to help?”

You stepped closer, your voice calm but firm. “Yes, Bucky. It’s cutting-edge, and it’s the best treatment available. You’re going to be okay.”

Bucky looked at you, the walls of his emotions crumbling just a little. He gave a small nod, his voice barely above a whisper. “Alright. Let’s do it.”

⠀

Wakanda’s advanced technology was beyond anything Bucky had ever experienced. Even as he stepped into the sterile, high-tech facility, he couldn’t shake the feeling of being out of place. The room was cold and sterile, yet somehow comforting in its advanced design. The walls hummed with quiet energy, their sleek metallic surfaces reflecting the soft blue glow of the Vibranium-powered technology that filled the room. It was all so very Wakandan—a perfect blend of high-tech gadgets and sleek design, wrapped in the ancient energy of the country’s prized metal.

Bucky sat in the chair at the center of the room, looking far too tense for comfort. His brow furrowed as he glanced at the odd machinery around him, a combination of devices connected by smooth, glowing wires. Shuri was at the controls, her fingers dancing across the holographic panels, eyes sparkling with excitement as she prepared for the procedure.

"Alright, white boy," Shuri said, her voice smooth and filled with anticipation, though there was an underlying seriousness to it. "This will take a few rounds to clear the Hydra programming from your mind. Don’t worry. We’ve been working on this for a while, and you’re in good hands. It’s a lot like rebooting an old computer."

Bucky glanced over at you, his face still shadowed with doubt. "Should I feel offended that you just compared me to ancient tech? You know what, don’t answer that. You’re sure this will work, right?" Bucky asked, a slight tremor in his voice. His skepticism was clear—years of Hydra’s control had made him wary of trusting anyone, even in this sanctuary of high-tech Wakanda.

You gave him a reassuring smile. "I wouldn’t let them do this if I didn’t think it would help. Besides, Shuri is the best. She knows her stuff."

Shuri flashed him a confident grin. "Of course I do. This will work, Barnes. But we may need to run a few tests, and it might take some time to fully clear out all the lingering effects of Hydra."

Bucky’s shoulders tensed at the mention of “lingering effects,” but he nodded, letting out a slow breath. "Let’s get it over with."

The machines hummed to life, and the lights dimmed as Bucky’s chair tilted back slightly. Thin, silver-like tendrils of light wrapped around his temples, their ends pressing gently against his skin. The energy was soft at first—barely noticeable—but soon the feeling intensified. Bucky's jaw clenched as he fought the discomfort, his hands gripping the chair's armrests.

Shuri’s hands moved deftly over the controls, and the room seemed to come alive with a soft, electric hum. Light from the machines shifted from a cool blue to a deeper shade of violet, and several devices surrounding Bucky powered on. Thin, silver threads of light extended from the machines, wrapping gently around his temples and wrists.

"This first round is designed to target the specific Hydra triggers in your mind," Shuri explained. "We’ll disarm them piece by piece. It’s a delicate process, but nothing we can’t handle. This won’t hurt," she reassured him, though there was a glimmer of mischievousness in her eyes. "Well, not much."

Almost immediately, the first wave hit. Bucky's eyes widened as a sharp, invasive sensation shot through his skull, sending a jolt of panic down his spine. His body went rigid, and for a moment, you saw the old soldier in him—the one who had fought through Hydra’s control and survived against all odds.

His breathing hitched as his mind began to flash with images: snow-covered landscapes, dark rooms, the heavy, cold sound of a gunshot, whispers in languages he couldn’t understand, but that sent terror through his chest. The Hydra programming wasn’t just a set of memories—it was a feeling, a trigger buried so deep in his psyche that even now, he could feel it clawing its way to the surface.

"James," you said firmly, your voice cutting through the noise. "James, focus. You’re not there anymore. You’re with us. You’re safe."

He flinched, a strangled noise escaping him as he struggled to regain control. His fingers dug deeper into the armrests, nails biting into the metal.

"Stay with me," you said again, this time with more urgency. "Take a breath. You’re safe. This isn’t real. You’ve come so far already."

Bucky’s eyes flicked to yours, a momentary flash of panic in them before he took a deep breath. His body trembled for a second, but he forced himself to center on your voice. Slowly, the images of Hydra started to fade, but they didn't disappear completely. The fear and anxiety remained just beneath the surface, faint but persistent.

Slowly, very slowly, the panic started to fade. His breath steadied, and the bright blue light around him flickered and pulsed, syncing with his heartbeat. After what felt like a century, the light dimmed, and the invasive presence in his mind faded, leaving only a dull ache where the triggers once were.

"How are you feeling?" you asked, your voice gentle but still steady.

Bucky blinked rapidly, trying to clear the fog from his head. He seemed disoriented, his expression a mix of confusion and relief. "Like... like someone just tried to tear my brain out of my skull," he muttered, his voice rough.

Shuri gave him a sympathetic glance as she adjusted the settings. "Don’t worry. We’ll make this a little easier each time. You’re doing great."

Bucky ran a hand through his hair, his eyes a little too wide, but he nodded. "Great? That felt like... like I was back in their hands for a second."

"I know," you said softly. "But that’s why we’re here. We’re making sure it stays in the past."

Shuri watched the readings carefully, her brow furrowing. "The main triggers are gone, but there’s still some residual tension in his mind. I’ll need to adjust the frequencies to target that."

You nodded. "Take your time, Shuri. He’s doing great."

As the second wave of scans began, the light around Bucky intensified. His eyes locked onto the ceiling, his hands gripping the armrest so hard that his knuckles turned white. The machine flashed bright, blue light, and his body tensed, back arching as the memory overwhelmed him. The trigger was strong this time—one of Hydra’s words in his ear, sharp and laced with command.

"It’s happening again," Bucky muttered, his voice strained. "I can’t stop it."

The faintest tremor of panic started to creep into his voice as the memories surfaced again—less distinct now, but still there, like shadows lurking in the back of his mind.

You leaned in, lightly placing a hand on his. "James, listen to me." You spoke softly but with conviction. "You are not the Winter Soldier. You’ve beaten Hydra before. You’re stronger now. They can’t control you anymore."

He blinked hard, still trembling, his eyes flickering in confusion and terror. "It’s... it’s still in me," he muttered, barely audible.

You met his gaze, locking eyes with him, forcing him to look at you. "It’s not in you anymore, Bucky. You’re free. This is just the residue. You’ve been through the worst of it, and now you’re healing. It’s not going to take hold again."

For a moment, it seemed like the weight of your words cut through the fog of fear clouding his mind. Bucky’s breathing steadied slightly as his fingers relaxed on the armrests. The sensation of fear and control began to subside, replaced by the quiet buzz of the tech doing its work. His eyes searched yours, and after a long pause, he gave a small nod, forcing himself to relax. Slowly, the machine’s light dimmed again, the invasive presence receding.

Shuri nodded from the control panel, her voice filled with approval. "We’re almost there, Barnes. A few more adjustments, and you’ll be free of this for good."

The next rounds went by much like the first, with Bucky getting progressively more used to the sensation. Each time, the light would flare up as the machine scanned for the dormant Hydra programming. The invasive memories still crept in, but they became more distant and easier to ignore as the process went on. Shuri worked her tech with precision, using pulses of energy that helped rewire Bucky’s synapses, recalibrating the damaged pathways left by Hydra. But it was clear—it wasn’t a simple fix. Even with the tech clearing his mind, it was going to take time for Bucky to fully adapt. The mental scars didn’t vanish overnight.

In between rounds, the poor soldier would let out short, sharp breaths, his gaze never staying still, his body tensing at the smallest sensation. But each time, he managed to push through, knowing you were right there, watching him, guiding him.

At last, the princess finally signaled that they were finished. The machines powered down, and Bucky’s chair slowly returned to its original position. He let out a deep breath, the tension in his muscles slowly melting away. The heavy weight that had been pressing on him seemed lighter, and though there were still shadows in his mind, they no longer felt like they could control him.

As the machine powered down for the last time, Bucky sat there, his expression weary, but the light in his eyes softer, less clouded.

"That’s it," Shuri said with a smile. "The triggers are gone. For now, anyway."

You stepped forward, placing a hand on his shoulder. "You did great. You’re in control again."

Bucky looked at you, his face tense but grateful. "Feels weird," he admitted, rubbing his temples. "It’s like I’m seeing everything for the first time again. It’s not all gone, though. It’s like the memories are still there, like... a weight."

You nodded, understanding. "It will take time, Bucky. You’re not expected to be perfect right now. We’ll help you through it."

"Alright, white boy," she said, her tone light but with an edge of focus. "Before we get to the fun stuff, we’re going to test your physical limits. Time to give you a break—how about a friendly sparring match?"

Bucky raised an eyebrow, clearly not expecting that. "You’re testing me now? After all those mind games?"

"Oh, don’t worry, you’ll survive," Shuri said, her eyes dancing with mischief. "But first, I need to see how well your body’s holding up. You know, just to make sure the mental recovery is syncing with your physical condition."

He glanced at you for a second, a slight smirk tugging at his lips. "I shouldn’t worry, right?"

You chuckled, already knowing what was coming. "Don’t let her intimidate you, old man. Just go with it."

Shuri took a step forward, motioning for Bucky to follow her as she walked toward the large training arena, a vast space made for simulations and sparring. "Now, before we get into the arm inspection," she said, flipping a holographic switch to bring up a grid-like fighting field, "I want to see what you can really do. How well is your body handling your recovery?"

Bucky raised an eyebrow. "You mean you want me to fight you?"

Shuri nodded, already cracking her knuckles. "Exactly. I’m not going easy on you, so be prepared."

You gave Bucky an encouraging grin. "Don’t worry, it’s not all about brute strength. You’ll do fine, just listen to her."

Shuri’s eyes glinted as she stepped back, preparing herself for the spar. "Come on, Soldier. Show me what you’ve got."

Bucky shifted into a defensive stance, his metal arm twitching slightly, like it was itching to do some real damage. But as soon as the simulation’s holographic lights flashed, you saw the hesitation in his movements. His years of conditioning were still there, as though he was ready to go full force at any moment, but something held him back.

You couldn't help but feel a little proud at how far he’d come, but now was the time for him to let go of his past baggage.

"Come on, Barnes," you called out from the sidelines, your voice light but encouraging. "You’re not going to be in control of yourself if you don’t just let go."

Shuri smirked at you, then turned her attention back to Bucky. "She’s right. Relax. I’m not here to test your limits to break you, just to push you. Let’s see how much you can really control."

Bucky hesitated for a second longer before lunging forward. His metal arm swung with force, but Shuri was quick, ducking under the blow and countering with a well-placed jab to his stomach. The force wasn’t enough to knock him back, but it was enough to push him off balance.

"Not bad," Shuri commented, grinning. "But you’re holding back. I know it’s there."

Bucky growled slightly, clearly frustrated, but tried to adjust. He aimed another strike at her, this time with his human arm. But Shuri was too fast again, dodging and weaving around him, her foot sweeping out from under him and sending him crashing to the floor.

You chuckled from the sidelines, unable to resist. "You’re gonna have to do better than that, old man."

Bucky groaned as he pushed himself up, a grin starting to spread across his face. "I don’t need you getting on my case too, dove."

You shrugged with a smirk, crossing your arms. "Hey, I’m just telling you how it is. You can’t fight like you’re trying to hold back all your life. Trust me, I know. You’ve got it in you."

Shuri watched, impressed by the banter. "You know, this is better than I thought it would be. You’re starting to loosen up a little. Now let’s see if you can catch me."

And with that, she was on him again, her movements like lightning as she pressed her attack. Bucky was more aware now, his body reacting faster, his movements flowing with more freedom. You could see the change, the way his rigidness slowly started to fade as he gave in to the fight. The tension in his body started to dissipate, and he was no longer fighting with the same heavy burden on his mind.

"There you go," you called out. "That’s what I’m talking about!"

Shuri was grinning now as she took a step back. "This is getting good. You’re not as slow as I thought, white boy."

Bucky was grinning too, though there was a glint of determination in his eyes. "I told you I could keep up."

You could see the way he was moving now—faster, more fluid. Each strike felt like it was coming from a man who was no longer under the weight of Hydra’s control. It was like he was finding his rhythm again, and you couldn’t help but feel a little proud of how far he’d come.

Shuri raised an eyebrow, clearly impressed. "I think you’ve earned a break. But not before we get to the real reason you’re here."

She flicked her wrist, and the holographic field shifted. A soft hum filled the air as she made her way to Bucky. "We’ll test your arm now. But remember, I’m not just checking for damage. I’m also making sure there’s no... lingering side effects."

Bucky held out his arm, now fully aware of the attention it would receive. "Yeah, yeah, go ahead."

Shuri ran her fingers over the metal, pressing certain points and watching closely as Bucky shifted slightly under her touch. She tapped a few buttons on her wristband, bringing up a scan of his arm on the nearby holographic screen.

"Everything looks good so far," she said after a moment, but then her expression turned serious. "But there’s some wear near the joints. I’m going to run a diagnostic test on the connections later—nothing to worry about for now, but we need to make sure it’s in top shape before you get back to real combat."

Bucky nodded. "I don’t need a babysitter for my arm, little girl."

"I’m not babysitting, I’m just making sure it’s running like a well-oiled machine." Shuri gave him a smirk before turning back to you. "I’d say he’s ready for more. What do you think, Sparky?"

You raised an eyebrow at the nickname, watching Bucky as he stretched, clearly still ready to go. "I think he’s ready for whatever’s next."

⠀

The diagnostic on Bucky’s arm didn't to take long, and Shuri quickly completed it. "Alright, Barnes. Now that your arm’s not going to fall off just yet," she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm as she looked him up and down, "Let’s see if your strength is actually matching up with all the talk."

Bucky rolled his eyes but grinned. "You know, I don’t want to offend my host. I might just let you win again."

Shuri shot him a look, her eyes narrowing as her stance shifted. "Please. I’m the one who invented half of this stuff, white boy. You’re not gonna get off that easy."

"Not for lack of trying," Bucky muttered, readying himself. He squared up and dropped into a more familiar stance, feeling the weight of the training and all the work he’d been putting into his recovery. Even though his body felt stronger, his mind was still in the process of catching up. The battle against the Hydra programming wasn’t a one-and-done situation—it was going to take time.

Shuri went first, her movements a blur as she darted toward him, landing a quick strike to his ribs before he could even react. Bucky stumbled, but quickly regained his balance. The momentary trigger of a past fight or memory didn’t set him off, but it did make him hesitate for just a fraction of a second.

"Come on, Soldier!" Shuri called out, her grin widening. "I thought you said you were keeping up!"

You stood off to the side, arms crossed, watching intently. "Remember to relax, she’s not gonna break." You offered him a teasing smile. "Just let loose a little. She’s just showing off."

Shuri danced around him with ease, dodging his attempts to grab hold of her. She was fast—faster than he expected—and her moves were filled with an effortless grace. It was clear she was toying with him, but Bucky wasn’t backing down. He adjusted his focus, blocking and dodging her blows with more precision, his footwork becoming more fluid as he reacted in real time.

For the first time since he’d entered the arena, Bucky felt something inside him click. He stopped thinking about every move. Instead, he allowed his instincts to take over, trusting his strength and speed rather than his muscle memory. The hesitation was gone, and he was moving like he used to, without the mental chains holding him back. He had Shuri in his sights and wasn’t going to let up.

Shuri’s expression shifted from teasing to impressed as Bucky finally landed a blow—a clean jab to her shoulder that sent her staggering back a few steps.

"Well, I’ll be damned," Shuri said, her tone more approving now. "Seems like you still have it."

Bucky smirked, his chest rising with satisfaction. "Told you I could keep up."

The two went back and forth, a fierce but playful exchange of blows, until finally, Shuri backed off and raised her hands in mock surrender. "Alright, alright. You’ve proven your point."

Bucky stood there, breathing heavily but clearly energized by the fight. You stepped up, clapping your hands together with a wide smile. "See? Wasn’t that fun?"

Bucky’s grin was infectious as he wiped a bit of sweat off his brow. "Yeah, I guess it wasn’t that bad."

Shuri turned to you, her eyes gleaming. "Alright, Sparky, your turn. Let’s see if you can catch me off guard like you did in the last match."

You raised an eyebrow, glancing at Bucky, who gave you an encouraging nod. "Well, now you’ve set the bar high. I’m not going easy on you, Shuri."

"Please," Shuri shot back, her hands up in mock defense. "You’ve been watching me fight for hours. You should be learning from the best."

Without further hesitation, you lunged forward, engaging in a playful but intense match with Shuri. The two of you danced around each other in a blur of motion, your moves swift and calculated. Despite the lighthearted nature of the spar, you could feel the tension lifting from your body with each exchange, just as Bucky had felt it earlier.

While you were engaged with Shuri, Bucky stepped to the side, wiping his hands on his pants, trying to catch his breath. It felt good to get some of the old tension out, and he could already feel a weight lifting off his chest. This wasn’t just about physical recovery; this was about reclaiming who he was before Hydra took everything from him.

As you landed a final mock hit on Shuri, the two of you paused, both out of breath but smiling. "Okay," Shuri said, raising her hands in mock defeat. "You win. For now."

Bucky chuckled and gave you an approving glance. "Not bad at all, dove."

Before you could respond, the hum of the training facility shifted, and you turned to see none other than King T’Challa himself entering, his imposing presence filling the room. He stood tall and regal, as always, his black suit glimmering in the light.

"I see I’ve missed the fun," T'Challa said, his voice smooth and commanding but laced with amusement. His gaze flickered to you and Bucky, a hint of recognition sparking in his eyes. "It’s good to see both of you adjusting to the training."

Shuri quickly approached him, a grin spreading across her face. "You’re late, brother. We were just finishing up testing the new recruits."

"Your Highness," you greeted with a respectful nod, trying to keep it casual despite the obvious presence of royalty.

Bucky shot a quick, somewhat uneasy glance at T'Challa. "Good to see you, my King." There was an awkward pause. "You know, for a king, you really get around."

T'Challa raised an eyebrow, a small smile playing at the corners of his lips. "I have to keep an eye on all things Wakanda, soldier. You know how it is." He nodded to Shuri, who was now standing by his side. "But it seems like you’ve both been testing your skills. Shuri tells me you’re adjusting well."

Bucky gave him a nod but glanced at you for a second, unsure of how to respond. "It’s... a process." He wasn’t one for small talk, but he appreciated the respect, however minimal.

Shuri couldn’t resist chiming in with a teasing grin. "Oh, he’s adjusting alright. You should’ve seen him during his first simulation—he was more stiff than an old tree trunk." She grinned at Bucky’s groan, enjoying every second of it. "But he’s getting there. Slowly but surely."

T'Challa’s expression softened as he looked at Bucky, understanding more than Shuri likely realized. "Recovery is not an easy thing." He glanced over at you. "And neither is learning to live with one’s past."

You gave him a nod, your gaze meeting Bucky’s for a second before you turned back to T'Challa. "We’re getting there, one step at a time."

T'Challa smiled approvingly. "I admire that resilience. It’s something we value here in Wakanda." Then, with a sudden shift in tone, he looked at Bucky with an intrigued glint in his eyes. "Though, I must admit, I’m curious to see how well you fare against me. A bit of friendly competition. What do you say?"

Bucky raised an eyebrow, but there was a fire behind his gaze. "You want to spar with me?" There was a hint of hesitation, but he stood tall. "Alright, but don’t say I didn’t warn you. I’m not exactly new to this whole combat thing."

You chuckled at the banter between them, feeling a slight tension lifting in the air. "Bucky’s modest, your Highness." You raised your eyebrows playfully. "He’s a bit of a pro."

T'Challa shot you a smirk. "We shall see." His eyes gleamed as he turned to Shuri. "I trust you’ll monitor the match?" His voice was both joking and confident, a reflection of his quiet authority.

Shuri, clearly amused, leaned back against a nearby pillar. "Of course. But don’t expect me to step in and save either of you."

The two warriors squared off, and the battle began. It was intense, the simulation environment adapted around them to create a variety of settings that challenged their skills. The air seemed to crackle with anticipation as Bucky and T'Challa went back and forth, exchanging blows and testing each other’s limits.

T'Challa was swift, his agility unmatched, his movements fluid and precise. Bucky, though initially stiff, was growing into the rhythm of the fight. Every time he took a hit or made a mistake, you could see the mental gears turning as he shook off the old training, not just physically but emotionally. The fight, at its core, was a way for him to break free from the grip of his past, and with every successful move, you saw more of that freedom in his eyes.

At one point, Bucky got a clean strike on him, and you couldn't help but grin. "Nice one, Bucky!" You teased, winking at him as T'Challa tried to regain his footing.

T'Challa let out a chuckle, raising an eyebrow at you. "I see you’ve got a knack for encouraging troublemakers." His tone was light, but the respect was evident in his gaze.

As the match continued, Bucky and T'Challa pushed each other to their limits, the combat becoming more than just physical—it was a test of strength, willpower, and resilience. Finally, after a long, hard-fought battle, T'Challa managed to get the upper hand, pinning Bucky to the ground.

Both men panted, sweaty and bruised, but there was no malice in T'Challa’s eyes, only a deep respect.

The king stood up and extended a hand to Bucky, pulling him to his feet. "I must admit, I did not expect that much resistance. You’ve earned my respect." He grinned, looking over at you. "And you, my friend, are no slouch either."

You laughed, wiping some sweat from your brow. "Well, someone has to keep him on his toes." You nudged Bucky playfully.

T'Challa looked at you both, a thoughtful expression on his face before he nodded. "You both are warriors in your own right." He walked over to the side of the room, where a ceremonial dagger rested on a pedestal. With a dramatic flair, he picked it up, turning back toward you and Bucky. "In recognition of your resilience and strength, I will knight you both."

Bucky’s eyes widened in surprise. "Knight us? Really?"

T'Challa nodded, his tone light but firm. "Yes, indeed. The royal family needs soldiers like you—strong, resilient, and fierce." His smile was playful, but there was a deeper meaning behind it.

You both protested, not wanting to accept the title, but T'Challa insisted with a laugh, his voice warm and commanding. "You don’t have to like it, but I’m already planning something for you two anyway."

Bucky glanced at you, then at T'Challa, and, after a beat, gave in with a grin. "Alright, alright. But don’t expect us to start calling ourselves knights or anything."

You nodded, smirking. "Yeah, we’ll stick to being not-so-humble soldiers."

T'Challa’s grin widened as he placed a hand on each of your shoulders. "Very well. But know this—you are both welcome here."

You and Bucky exchanged a look, a silent understanding passing between you. Whatever came next, it was going to be a memorable ride.

PART ONE. l NEXT PART.

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taglist : @stilleobjection — @the-fandoms-onceler — @zyra-7 .

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ne0n-garbage-angel · 9 months ago

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Natasha: I can’t do this, it’s against my moral compass. Bucky: YOUR MORAL COMPASS IS A ROULETTE WHEEL! Natasha: …Your point?

#marvel #black widow #natasha romanoff #mcu #avengers #buckynat #bucky barnes #marvel bucky barnes #the winter soldier #winterwidow #incorrect quotes #marvel incorrect quotes #incorrect marvel quotes

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hydravns · 10 months ago

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THE WINTER SOLDIER ✪

MARVEL WHAT IF (2021 - 2023)

2x02 What if Peter Quill Attacked Earth's Mightiest Heroes ?

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skj-weebmam · 14 hours ago

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I colors the sketch!

Just a quick one, like 30 min max

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miilkybnn · 7 months ago

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james buchanan barnes

#TUMBLR MADE IT SOOO CRUNCHY JUST OPEN IT #milky art #marvel bucky barnes #bucky barnes #marvel #winter soldier #james buchanan barnes #my art #this was a doodle i was trying to figure out how to draw him #him so #hem #hhuheuhfuuhdhg #everyone say thank you to my boyfriend for finally making me watch winter soldier #all i think sbout is him now.... ..#mr barnes.... mr banres.....

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reveryfics · 1 month ago

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Slow Dancing

Pairings: Bucky Barnes x male reader

Summary: it's nearly three in the morning, you and Bucky dance across the living room under the candle light as soft tunes play.

A/n: Something short and sweet. Requests open.

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

The antique grandfather clock in the hall chimed three times, its deep tones echoing through the quiet house. Moonlight, pale and ethereal, streamed through the sheer curtains, illuminating dust motes dancing in the single shaft of light. The cozy living room was bathed in the warm, flickering glow of a few strategically placed candles, casting long, dancing shadows across the worn wooden floor.

A melancholic melody, a timeless jazz tune, drifted from the old, well-worn record player perched on a vintage side table. The needle occasionally skipped, a momentary stutter in the smooth flow of the music, but the rhythm continued, a comforting heartbeat in the stillness of the night.

Bucky, his face etched with a lifetime of stories, held his husband close. Their bodies moved in perfect synchronicity, a practiced dance born from countless evenings like this. His husband, a picture of contentment, rested his head against Bucky's chest, a soft sigh escaping his lips. The steady thump of Bucky's heart, a comforting rhythm against his ear, mingled with the music, creating a lullaby of love and peace.

Bucky, his gaze fixed on the shadows playing on the walls, whispered, "Remember the day I married you? As handsome as ever."

His husband chuckled, his head still nestled against Bucky's chest. "Could say the same for you, James. Just a little less rugged." He teased, his voice a low rumble.

He loved everything about Bucky, the gruff exterior that masked a heart of gold, the way he always insisted on certain traditions, a holdover from a bygone era, a time before the war, a time before... everything. It was how Bucky showed his love, a stubborn insistence on the past, a way to cling to a semblance of normalcy in a world that had tried to shatter him.

The record skipped again, the music faltering, but they continued to dance, their movements fluid and effortless. Bucky gently dipped his husband, a slow, graceful motion, before pulling him back close. It was a ritual, this nightly dance, a cherished tradition born from the joy of their wedding day. Every weekend, without fail, they would pull out the old record, the one that had played during their first dance, and dance beneath the soft glow of candlelight, lost in the magic of the moment.

Alpine, their snow-white cat, a majestic creature, observed them from his perch atop the velvet armchair. He occasionally rubbed against their legs, a soft, furry purr rumbling in his chest.

It was a simple moment, a quiet dance under the watchful gaze of the moon, yet it held a profound beauty. A testament to their love, a reminder of the joy they had found in each other, a promise of countless more evenings like this, filled with the music of their love and the warmth of their shared memories.

#fanfic #fanfiction #mlm #queer fanfiction #third person #x male reader #xmalereader #gay #gay fanfiction #marvel #marvel bucky barnes #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x male reader #marvel x male reader

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gordanratsay · 1 month ago

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#marvel bucky barnes #bucky barnes #james bucky buchanan barnes #james buchanan barnes #the winter soldier #marvel #thunderbolts #sebastian stan

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marvelstoriesepic · 23 days ago

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Whumpcember (day 27)

Pairing: Avenger!Bucky x Avenger!Reader

Prompt: Hypothermia

Word Count: 3.3k

Warnings: vivid descriptions of hypothermia; desperate!Bucky; Hydra; slight mentions of Bucky’s past

Masterlist | Whumpcember Masterlist

Pang. Pang. Pang.

It’s almost rhythmic, the way Bucky’s metal fist hits the strong, reinforced door of the room you’re trapped in.

You stand off to the side, pressing a finger to your earpiece, trying once more to summon aid.

Only static answers you, sharp and grating, hissing in your ear. You grit your teeth.

Bucky lets out a frustrated grunt and slams his fist harder.

You step forward, intending to tell him to stop, to conserve his strength, to redirect his anger into a better plan since the door doesn’t seem to budge at all.

But then you notice it, the faintest shift in the room.

Your skin tingles at the back of your neck and underneath your tactical suit.

The air is sharper. It’s colder.

You glance up at the small vents near the ceiling and find their slotted mouths releasing thin, ghostly fog that drifts downward.

Your stomach plummets to the ground.

“Bucky,” you say, voice quieter than you intended, eyes still on the vents.

Bucky doesn’t turn, but his hits have stopped. His metal fist rests against the door. You make out his head tilting slightly, acknowledging you.

“Bucky,” you repeat, more insistent, more warningly. “Look!”

He does turn now, his eyes on you before moving up to where you are looking. His gaze narrows as the fog becomes more visible, coiling in haphazard spirals before dissipating.

He doesn’t say anything, but the way his jaw tightens, the way his body turns to solid stone says he understands.

He then takes a step toward the control panel, his metal arm flexing instinctively. “We need to figure out how to shut this down. Fast.”

But you don’t know how fast you can make it.

The room already feels smaller, the walls seeming to close in, their cold presence pressing against you. You rub your arms, trying to ward off the frost spreading in the air.

But your cheeks start to sting and your skin tightens.

You are trapped in the sterile and metallic control room of a Hydra facility.

And if that wasn’t bad enough already, it’s not just a control hub. It’s also a containment chamber, and how it looks like, designed to neutralize intruders by pumping in freezing air when someone attempts to tamper with the control systems.

And since that’s the only reason you are in here, you fell for it.

Surveillance suggested the base holds remnants of sensitive data Hydra has been safeguarding, with a high likelihood that it could detail sleeper agents or hidden cells.

Bucky and you were paired and tasked with accessing the main control room, disabling the security grid, and providing an opening for the rest of the team to neutralize the facility.

And well, that didn’t go as planned.

Hydra has always been cruelly inventive and the freezing protocol seems as effective as inhumane to you.

Bucky immediately started to react the second a low beep emitted from the console, followed by an ominous hiss as the lights overhead flickered and shifted to an emergency red glow.

And he would have made it out before the heavy door slammed shut behind you since he’d been guarding the entrance.

But only without you.

And that didn’t seem to be an option for him.

You tried again and again to call out to the team.

Though it was futile from the start.

The base’s interior is heavily shielded, preventing outside communication.

Your teammates had a backup plan to breach the outer defenses if you two went radio silent, so they wouldn’t immediately realize something was wrong until it was too late.

The frost freezes up the walls, tiny ice particles wandering along the surfaces.

The air you draw into your lungs feels sharp, like shards of ice scraping the back of your throat.

Your muscles contract, huddling inward in a futile attempt to shield themselves.

Stiff and numb fingers try to tap against the slowly freezing metal of the console, but your movements are turning clumsy.

Bucky walks over to you. He seems to hold up better than you, but you see that this situation gnaws at him. His frown is in place, his shoulders are rigid and you don’t want to know the places his mind is traveling.

After all, this is not his first encounter with Hydras frost for him.

He looks over the consoles in front of you, glancing over the wires and frozen circuits.

“I don’t think p-punching it will help.” You try to say it lightly, bringing in some humor in your situation but your voice is shaking as much as your body.

Bucky gives you a sidelong glance. “You’d be surprised how often that works,” he deadpans.

You try to laugh but it falls flat.

The icy mist tumbles through the air so innocently, making it colder and colder, and then pounces on you so piercingly intense, it makes your breaths falter.

Warmth feels so far away. Seconds are stretching.

Bucky doesn’t glance back at the console.

He is watching you with furrowed brows.

His flesh hand brushes over your arm, trying to gauge your condition.

“Hey,” he says, almost sharply, but so full of concern. “You with me?”

You nod, but it’s sluggish. Unconvincing. Your teeth chatter as you try to speak. “I’m- I’m fine.”

Bucky grits his teeth, his jaw working roughly. “Don’t lie to me.” His voice sounds thick.

He pulls you close then. His arms wrap around you with a firmness that feels protective, desperate even.

You don’t resist, wouldn’t even have the strength to, and lean into him. Your body is shaking against him, your muscles seizing violently. It drains you rapidly. You do your best to try and let the warmth of his body temperature battle against the cold settling into your skin and sinking deep and even deeper into your bones.

It crawls into your ears, turning them numb and unresponsive. Sounds seem muted, as if the chill has even frozen the air’s ability to carry them.

The temperature drops and drops so rapidly.

You feel Bucky’s head right beside yours. His breath fanning over your cheek. “Stay upright, sweetheart. Alright? Don’t sit down. Try and move your legs.”

With that order, he brushes a trembling hand against your cheek for a split second before reluctantly letting go of you and storming toward the door again with clenched fists.

Another pang sounds out as Bucky slams his fist against the steel door again, each strike reverberating through the room. His hits are more frantic than before and there is no rhythm at all.

“Come on!” he shouts, his voice cracking.

The door doesn’t budge and he lets out a guttural roar, his fist slamming against the unyielding surface one last time before turning back to you.

You really tried.

You tried to follow his orders and stay upright, perhaps move through the room and keep yourself in motion.

But your knees were so weak and you let them crumble.

With an anguished sound that might have been your name, Bucky rushes back to you, dropping to his knees.

Your head dips forward before jerking back up, fighting to stay conscious.

“No! Y/n! You’re not doing this. Stay with me.”

You try to smile but it’s weak. “I’m just- just tired,” you murmur, voice slurring.

“No,” he snaps, shaking you just enough to make you focus on him. His eyes are wide, frantic. “You don’t get to sleep, you hear me? You sleep, you die!”

He’s pressing you against him, holding you so tightly.

The cold claims your flesh and veins. Your blood feels slowed.

His flesh hand cups your cheek, his thumb brushing against your freezing skin in a way that’s almost tender, though his voice is anything but soft.

“You don’t get to do this to me,” he growls, his lips close to your ear. “You don’t.”

There has been pain. In your toes, your fingers, your ears.

But you feel it fade. And you know you should panic, because this is a terrible sign. But your mind becomes singular in its focus, so obsessed with the absence of heat, the ache of it so intense and pervasive, there is no room for much else.

Exhaustion tries to close your eyes. It weighs you down, trying to make you stop moving at all.

But you fight. You fight against your own body.

Bucky’s flesh hand trembles against you, though whether from the cold or the panic, you’re not sure.

His eyes are jumping across the room, from the control panel, to the vents, to the door, and back to you.

Bucky’s breath comes fast, visible puffs of white in the freezing air. You hear him faintly mutter to himself. Or rather curse.

All you manage is to let out a sigh. The exhale lets a tiny ghost rise before your face. But it fades too quickly. Your breathing began to slow already.

Bucky presses his forehead against yours, rocking you slightly in his lap, tightly cradled against his chest to keep you moving and give you more of his warmth. His stubble brushes against your icy skin.

You meet his eyes, but your gaze is weak.

His gaze is wild. Darting between focus and frenzy. His brows are knit together so tightly, forming deep creases that dig into his forehead like scars of desperation.

“Stick with me, alright? We’ll get outta here,” he breathes. But he barely even managed that. And it sounds more like a plea than a promise.

You nod faintly against him. Your eyes fall shut for a moment.

“No, no, no,” he croaks out, rocking you more forcefully. “Eyes on me, doll! Come on.”

Your eyelids feel frozen together but you manage to break through. Though it takes so much energy.

But looking back at Bucky’s expression might even be harder.

His lips are trembling at the corners. His eyes are glassy and so intense, shimmering with a desperation so vivid, it seems to cry out silently.

“Hold tight, sweetheart.” He swallows. “There’s gotta be something we can do. Something to stop this.”

His words are fierce, determined, but his gaze says something else entirely as he sweeps his frantic eyes across the room once again.

You’re trying your best to help, scanning the space through the haze clouding your vision, coming from the freezing mist.

You notice something. It’s barely noticeable against the frost-covered wall but the sight of it roots you in place, not from the cold this time.

Since Bucky’s arms are still pressing you to him, he feels you stiffen against his chest. But to be real, he would have noticed if you were across the room. His sharp instincts are always in tune with you, even more so in this freezing hell.

“What is it?” he demands, his voice rough with concern. His flesh fingers brush your face, coaxing your attention back to him. “You got something in mind?”

You don’t meet his eyes. Instead, you shake your head faintly. A weak denial, that falters the second you try to hold onto it.

“Doll,” he warns, his tone low, his desperation edging in. Your silence is unnerving him. “Talk to me. What is it?”

You let out a shallow breath. It’s fragile, just like you, trembling and on the verge of breaking.

Bucky’s grip on you tightens.

“C’mon, sweetheart. I really need you to talk to me.” His voice is strained. “If you’ve got an idea, tell me. Whatever it is, we’ll make it work.”

The frost crackles in the background.

You let out a sigh and nod faintly, reluctantly, toward the corner of the room. Toward the frozen console that glints from the crystals of the ice.

“If we c-can short-circuit that p-panel,” your voice is barely above a whisper, “it might s-stop the c-cold.”

Bucky’s eyes dart to the console the second you mention it, then back to your face, searching it as though he could pull the rest of the plan from your expression alone to spare you the energy to talk.

But your expression falters and his brow is furrowed so tightly it’s hard to look at.

“Okay,” he says slowly. “So what’s the problem?”

You shake your head, your body sagging further into his. He shifts to hold you better but his gaze is fixed on your face. “But-” you struggle, the word escaping you as a faint breath, lips trembling from more than just the cold, “it might fry your arm.”

“I’ll do it.”

“Bucky-”

“No,” he cuts you off, shaking his head firmly, muscles straining in his face. His flesh hand wraps around your shoulders like it could anchor you to him. “I’m being dead serious. I don’t care what happens to me. I don’t care what happens to my arm.”

Those are the words you expected to hear. And you hate them.

His voice is hard, but his gaze softens when he sees your expression. There is something determined there, but also something tender, something so soft, something unshakable that makes you want to bury deep into his chest and never leave it again.

“I’ll be fine, doll. Promise. But I have to do this.” His voice is soft. Gentle. And he lets his lips brush against your cheek.

You try to protest. Try to shake your head. A faint whimper leaves your lips.

“Don’t care what happens to me. Only care about you, doll. And I’ll get you the fuck outta here.”

His hand again cups the side of your face and holds your gaze with so much intensity, blue eyes piercing you more than the cold, it leaves you breathless.

Then, he moves into action, setting you against the wall so carefully, brushing your hair back from your face with a tenderness none of the others had ever seen him with.

“Stay with me,” he murmurs, his voice pleading. So earnest.

You do your best to give him a nod and watch as he strides toward the console.

His broad shoulders block your view for a moment, but you can see the resolution in every movement, the way his metal arm flexes as he tears away the frozen panel with one single tug.

Sparks erupt as he rips at the wires, and the sharp scent of burning metal fills the air.

All you can do is watch with your heart frozen in fear.

The console flickers violently, the room trembling slightly as the system begins to overload.

Bucky grits his teeth. His arm is sparking wildly by forcing the wires together, his entire body braced against the surging energy.

“Come on,” he mutters through clenched teeth, his voice barely audible over the crackling noise. “Come on, shut it down!”

And then, with a resounding hiss, the freezing air stops.

Bucky stumbles back. His metal arm twitches erratically.

“Bucky,” you whisper, fearing for his condition.

He only turns and crosses the room to you in a few strides, pulling you back into his arms.

Your face is pressed against his neck, his lips are by your ear.

“Told you I’ll be fine, doll,” he whispers, his voice a low rasp, thick with relief that feels like it’s been dragged from the depths of his chest. But it’s unsteady. It’s strained. There is a tremor in it that betrays him.

Because you are still so cold.

So cold in fact, it feels no longer like an invader. It becomes everything. It consumes you. It swallows your awareness. Leaving only the faintest sense of resistance. It’s so thin and fragile, you can barely remember why you’re still holding on.

His breath brushes against your temple, warm compared to the chill that has settled into your body. But it’s not enough. Not even close.

Your skin is ice beneath his touch and the tremors that whacked your body before are gone now. It’s quiet. Too quiet.

You can’t tell where your body ends and the cold begins. It’s inside you, crawling through your veins like liquid frost, winding tighter and tighter with every slow beat of your heart.

Your skin doesn’t feel like skin anymore - it feels like glass.

“Hey,” he exclaims a little louder, his flesh hand soothing over your hair in a gesture so gentle it could shatter you into a thousand frozen pieces. “You’re okay. You’re with me. We did it, doll. You did it. The others will know something went wrong. They’ll come looking for us. You just have to hold on a little longer, yeah?”

His breaths are tangled in his words, rushing in too fast or skipping beats entirely. It makes his speech uneven.

But you can’t respond.

You want to reach for him, to speak, to swim in the warmth of his voice. But it’s impossible.

You know he’s holding you. You know he has his arms wrapped around you. You know you are pressed against his chest. The erratic pounding of his heart is by your ear. The weight of your body is resting against him. But it all feels so distant, like trying to recall details of a dream that is already fading from your memory.

Each gasp you try for feels farther apart, each exhale weaker than the last, dissipating into the air like it had never existed at all.

And you know Bucky feels it. Feels the way your body is slipping into a stillness that seems to terrify him enormously.

His breath catches.

“Don’t do this,” he grounds out, voice sharp and urgent. “No. Don’t you dare do this, Y/n!”

His metal arm curls tighter around you, and the steel, usually so cold itself, feels like a furnace compared to the icy skin underneath your suit.

He shifts you in his arms, his movements sluggish and frantic. Your head lolls against his shoulder and his flesh hand is at the back of your neck, fingers threading in your hair.

You feel so heavy. So impossibly heavy. You don’t even know where your hands are. Where your toes are.

“Don’t leave me,” he pleads, his voice cracking.

But your eyelids only flutter. They’re so heavy.

Bucky’s voice is there, somewhere in the muddle of your mind, but the words don’t land right. They sound muffled, like he might speak to you from underwater. Or as though you have fallen too far away to reach him anymore.

Lips press roughly against your temple. His hands try to rub warmth into you.

“No,” he growls, the anger in his tone masking the helplessness that causes him to shake his head and shake your body with it, due to the force, as if sheer denial could change the reality in front of him. “You don’t get to check out on me. Stay with me, Y/n. Fight for me. Come on. I know you can do it. Please! I know you can fight this.”

He gasps between phrases, trying to pull oxygen into lungs that refuse to expand fully, each sound on the verge of dissolving into sobs at any moment.

He buries his face in your hair, squeezing you against him.

“Sweetheart, please,” he cries, his words a single prayer to whoever will listen, so vulnerable and laid bare in a way Bucky Barnes rarely allows himself to be.

It elicits that faint, resilient ember beneath the frost you are succumbing to and you do your best to nurture it. It burns. Just a little. So small. But it’s there. And it burns because of him - because of Bucky.

The hectic rise and fall of his chest against you, the cracks of desperation in his hold on you, the tremble in his voice when he repeats the words stay with me and please, Y/n over and over, as raw and real as the ice in your veins - they make you promise to keep trying to hold on.

And you will. For him.

#whumpcember2024 #whumpcember24 #whumpcember day27 #bucky marvel #marvel mcu #marvel bucky barnes #bucky barnes whump #whump bucky #bucky whump #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x reader angst #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes x reader #bucky fic #bucky barnes fanfiction #buckybarnes #bucky fanfic #bucky barnes angst #avenger!bucky

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