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purifiedclitoris69 · 1 month ago

Text

Statements

Pairings: Natasha Romanoff x Shield agent!reader

Summary: Assumptions are made about the relationship you have with Natasha, so you took it upon yourself to make a statement :)

Your relationship with Natasha is built on years of trust, mutual respect, and an unspoken understanding that comes from living in the shadows of espionage. You met when she first joined SHIELD, and while she was still finding her footing within the organization, you were already established as a specialist sniper—someone who worked alone, took the impossible shots, and disappeared before anyone even knew you were there.

At first, your relationship was purely professional. You recognized each other as dangerous and highly capable, but there was always a quiet pull between you. Over time, through shared missions, late-night debriefs, and the rare moments of quiet in a world full of chaos, that pull became something more. It wasn’t dramatic or rushed—it was a slow burn, a natural evolution of two people who understood each other better than most and yearned to show one another a genuine love.

Now, after almost 3 years together, your bond is unshakable. While the Avengers see you around the compound, they don’t truly know the depth of what you and Natasha have. They assume your relationship is casual, just a convenience in a life full of uncertainty. But in reality, Natasha loves you fiercely, and you love her just as much. You’re her safe place, the person she trusts with the parts of herself she doesn’t show anyone else. When the world feels too heavy, she turns to you—not for protection, because she doesn’t need it, but for the rare comfort of knowing she’s not alone.

You don’t need grand gestures or constant declarations. Your love is in the quiet moments—the way she always finds her way to you after a mission, the way you instinctively reach for her hand under the table, the way she relaxes against you when no one is watching. To the outside world, you might just be another agent who occasionally lingers at the compound. But to Natasha, you’re home.

—————————-———

Wanda was the first to recognize the depth of your relationship.

It was early—early enough that most of the team was still asleep or barely functioning. The compound was quiet, save for the soft hum of the coffee machine in the kitchen. You stood by the counter, leaning against it, eyes still heavy with sleep as you waited for the coffee to finish brewing.

Natasha, still in her sleep shorts and one of your old SHIELD t-shirts, wandered in with a yawn, her hair slightly tousled from sleep. She didn’t say anything as she approached—you felt her presence before you saw her. Without hesitation, she walked straight into your space, wrapping her arms around your waist and burying her face into your chest.

"Mm. Too early," she mumbled against you.

You huffed a quiet laugh, your hand instinctively coming up to rub slow, soothing circles on her back. "You say that every morning, but you’re always up before me."

She hummed but didn’t respond, just tightening her grip around you as if she could steal some of your warmth. You didn’t mind. In fact, moments like this were your favorite—the ones where she let her guard down, where she wasn’t the Black Widow or an Avenger, just Natasha, just yours.

Neither of you noticed Wanda standing by the doorway, frozen mid-step. She had come in for coffee but stopped in her tracks at the sight of Natasha—fierce, guarded Natasha—melted completely against you.

Wanda had always assumed your relationship was casual. Everyone had. You weren’t around often, and Natasha never entertained deep conversations about her personal life. But standing there, watching the way she clung to you, the way your hand moved over her back with the kind of practiced ease that spoke of years of familiarity, Wanda realized they had all been wrong.

This wasn’t casual. This was love—deep, unwavering, and so achingly real.

She wasn’t sure how long she stood there, but eventually, Natasha stirred, tilting her head up to look at you. "Coffee ready?"

"Almost," you murmured, brushing a strand of hair out of her face. The gesture was so gentle, so natural, that Wanda almost felt like she was intruding.

Before Natasha could move away, you leaned down, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to her forehead. "Go sit. I’ll bring you a cup."

Natasha didn’t argue, just gave you a sleepy, content smile before releasing you and making her way to the kitchen table.

Wanda finally decided to make her presence known, clearing her throat as she stepped fully into the kitchen. "Morning," she greeted, a knowing smirk tugging at her lips as she grabbed a mug and you unpromptedly filled it for her greeting her with a kind smile and filling Nat’s next, starting another pot for anyone else who might want it.

Natasha, already seated, just raised an eyebrow. "What?"

Wanda glanced between the two of you, then just shook her head, her smirk widening. "Nothing. Just... you two are cute," she blew on her coffee.

Natasha rolled her eyes, but there was no real heat behind it. Meanwhile, you simply handed Natasha her coffee before grabbing your own along with d the morning crossword, completely unfazed.

Wanda took a sip of her drink, still smiling to herself. Maybe the rest of the team had been blind to it, but now she knew the truth—Natasha Romanoff was hopelessly, completely in love.

—————————-———

The next person was Steve. You had gone on another lengthy mission; it had kept you away for weeks longer than either of you liked. You had kept in touch when you could, brief calls and cryptic messages, but it wasn’t the same. And now, finally, you were back.

Steve wasn’t looking for either of you when he entered the common room. He had just been passing through, planning to grab something from the kitchen before heading to the gym. But as soon as he stepped in, he stopped in his tracks.

The lights were dim, the soft crackle of the old record player filling the space. An oldie—something slow, something familiar. And in the center of the room, barely swaying to the rhythm, was you and Natasha.

She was pressed against you, arms loosely wrapped around your shoulders, her fingers idly playing with the hairs at the back of your neck. Your hands rested on her waist, holding her close as if you needed to feel her warmth to believe this moment had finally come after weeks of waiting.

Neither of you spoke. There was no need. The way Natasha clung to you, the way you held her like she was the only thing in the world that mattered, it said everything.

Steve had never seen her like this. Sure, he had seen her care about people, had seen her protect and fight for those she loved. But this? This was different. This was Natasha Romanoff, the Black Widow, completely at peace. Safe. Home.

He felt like he was intruding on something sacred, so he took a quiet step back, turning to leave—only to nearly bump into Bucky.

“what’s with the face?” Bucky asked, raising an eyebrow at the look on Steve’s face.

Steve exhaled, shaking his head with a slight chuckle. “Nothing, just—” He glanced over his shoulder, then looked back at Bucky. “You and Sam better stop checking Nat out so much.”

Bucky scoffed. “What? We don’t—”

Steve gave him a knowing look.

Bucky shifted. “Alright, maybe Sam does. I just—y’know, appreciate a good—”

Steve cut him off. “Don’t.”

Bucky smirked. “Okay, but why the sudden warning?”

Steve shook his head again, that small smile still lingering. “Because they’re in love. Like, really in love.”

Bucky frowned. “I mean, yeah, I figured they were serious, but—”

“No,” Steve interrupted. “Not just serious. Not just together. In love.”

Bucky studied him for a second, something unreadable passing over his expression before he nodded. “Alright,” he said simply.

Steve gave him a final glance before clapping him on the shoulder and walking off, leaving Bucky standing there, a little quieter than usual.

Because if what Steve was saying was true, then it wasn’t just Natasha they had underestimated. It was you.

—————————-———

The true statement was made in the compound gym.

The gym was alive with movement—punching bags swinging, the clatter of weights, and the rhythmic sound of fists meeting training dummies. You had just finished some shooting drills when you decided to swing by, knowing exactly where Natasha would be.

Sure enough, there she was, moving like a force of nature. Every strike was precise, every kick sharp. She was a sight to behold—dangerous, powerful, and effortlessly graceful.

Apparently, you weren’t the only one who thought so.

You noticed Sam and Bucky standing off to the side, arms crossed, observing her with a little too much focus. Eyes tracked her every movement, and while you weren’t necessarily the jealous type, and were well aware how gorgeous Natasha is; people couldn't help but be enamoured by her, however weren’t about to let this slide.

You strolled up beside them, tilting your head. "Enjoying the view?"

Bucky, to his credit, immediately raised his hands in surrender. "Hey, don’t look at me. I was admiring the technique, alright?" He nodded toward Natasha. "She’s one of the best fighters I’ve ever seen."

You eyed him for a second before nodding, accepting the explanation. Bucky was a lot of things, but he wasn’t dumb enough to cross that line.

Sam, however—

"Look, I’m just saying," Sam started, his eyes still trailing Natasha as she wiped sweat off her forehead. "It’s not my fault she moves like that. That’s a distraction."

You raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"

Sam glanced at you, then seemed to realize way too late that he had just said that to the one person who could make him regret it. "Uh—"

"You know what?" You rolled your shoulders, tossing your towel aside. "I feel like I haven’t sparred in a while. What do you say, Wilson? A little one-on-one?"

Sam hesitated, looking between you and Bucky, who just took a step back, clearly enjoying the fact that he wasn’t involved.

"You sure you wanna do this?" Sam asked, crossing his arms. "I mean, no offense, but I’ve got wings, I’ve fought aliens—"

"You��re standing here watching my girlfriend train. I just want to see how you train too." you cut in, smirking.

The room went silent for half a beat before Bucky let out a low chuckle. "Oh, this is gonna be good."

Clint grinned, nudging Wanda. "Five bucks says Sam regrets this immediately."

Natasha, who had been too focused on training to notice the exchange earlier, finally turned toward the group, eyebrow raised. "What’s going on?"

Wanda smirked. "Your sniper just challenged Sam to a sparring match because he got caught staring at you."

Natasha let out a small laugh, tossing a towel over her shoulder as she walked closer. "Oh, I have to see this."

Sam exhaled, shaking his head. "Y’all are ridiculous. But fine. Let’s do this."

You stepped onto the mat, rolling your shoulders as Sam joined you. He gave a cocky smirk. "You sure you wanna do this? I am pretty fast, you know."

You just smirked back. "We’ll see."

Steve, ever the responsible one, clapped his hands. "Alright, keep it clean."

The second Steve gave the go-ahead, you moved—fast.

Sam barely had time to react before you were already in his space, effortlessly dodging his first strike. You didn’t just block—you controlled. Every punch he threw was sidestepped. Every kick, redirected. You weren’t just fighting Sam. You were toying with him.

The smirk on his face started fading as frustration crept in. "Damn," he muttered, throwing another punch. You caught his wrist, twisting him off-balance before sweeping his legs out from under him.

Sam hit the mat with a grunt.

From the sidelines, Bucky let out a whistle. "That looked like it hurt."

Clint was grinning beside Nat.

Wanda shook her head in amusement. "He walked right into that one."

Sam groaned but pushed himself back up. "Alright, alright—lucky shot."

You didn’t respond. You just motioned for him to try again.

This time, he put more effort into his attacks, but it didn’t make a difference. Every move he made, you were already three steps ahead. You parried, countered, redirected—all with ease.

After a few more humiliating takedowns, Sam finally dropped to the mat, breathing hard, lying flat on his back. "Damn. Alright. Message received."

You crouched down beside him, grinning. "Good. Maybe next time, you’ll keep your eyes to yourself playboy"

Sam exhaled, closing his eyes. "Noted."

You stood up, offering him a hand. He took it, groaning as he got to his feet. "You really don’t like people looking at her, huh?"

You shrugged, "I know she can handle herself, I just felt like making a statement today," you smiled stepping off the mat and walking to Nat

"Possessive looks good on you," Natasha said with her signature smirk

Without a second thought, you grabbed her by the waist and kissed her—really kissed her—right in front of everyone. It was slow, deep, and left no room for doubt. Natasha, normally composed, melted into you, gripping your bicep to steady herself.

When you pulled back, she was a little breathless, a rare blush dusting her cheeks.

You smirked. "See you at dinner, love."

And with that, you walked off, leaving Natasha still catching her breath.

Clint let out a low whistle. "Damn."

Wanda smirked. "That was a statement,” Natasha throwing a towel at her, mumbling out a whatever and heading to the lockers

Bucky clapped Sam on the shoulder. "So, you still gonna stare?"

Sam rolled his eyes taking a tired seat on the bench "I hate you all."

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marvelstoriesepic · 10 days ago

Text

Small gesture, Big meaning

Pairing: Tfatws!Bucky x Shield!Reader

Summary: Sam and you prepare something for Bucky’s birthday with the little you can scrape together.

Word Count: 3k

Warnings: Sam roasting a poor muffin; Bucky being in his feels; bickering; subtle mentions of Bucky’s past

Author’s Note: Another little birthday fic because I felt like it. You might notice I'm extremely motivated to write lately. Let’s hope it stays that way. Hope you enjoy! ♡

Masterlist

“You’re putting too much faith in that sad little muffin.”

Sam is leaning against the rickety kitchen counter, arms crossed, watching with open amusement as you carefully place a candle in the center of the slightly misshapen muffin. It’s a little lumpy, a little too golden brown in some places, and has a slightly deflated top, but considering that you made it in a barely functioning oven with only the ingredients that are offered here, it looks pretty decent.

Supplies are scarce in this safe house, and baking has never been your strong suit. After all, as an agent of Shield, you don’t really have time for domestic stuff like that.

“It’s not about the muffin,” you shoot back, a little defensive. You are even a little proud of this thing, but you won’t admit that to Sam. “It’s about the thought,” you claim, adjusting the small happy birthday banner you both scrawled on torn notebook paper.

Sam hums, his smile not leaving. “Oh, the thought is loud and clear. Happy birthday, Bucky. Here’s a barely edible clump of regret.”

You narrow your eyes at his mocking tone. “Oh come on, at least I tried. You just stood there judging my culinary struggles.”

“I think you managed just fine.” His smile is so toothy. His voice so sarcastic.

Your eyes fall back to the muffin with a roll of your eyes. Sure, it looks a little rustic, but there is something satisfying about it. The last time you baked something isn’t even a memory in your mind anymore.

Your usual diet consists of protein bars and whatever passes for coffee in whatever part of the world you’re holed up in. But you made this. For Bucky.

And for something that isn’t a tactical maneuver, a recon plan, or a mission briefing, that feels like a win.

“It’s not bad.”

Sam snorts.

You throw him a glare.

For a moment, the two of you just stand there.

This isn’t just about Bucky’s birthday - it’s about reminding him that he’s seen, that someone gives a damn. That after all the decades of war, loss, and suffering, there is still something worth celebrating. Even if it’s just with Sam and you.

Sam clears his throat, shifting his weight. “He’s gonna act all grumpy about it.”

You take in a breath. “Yeah, I know. But deep down, he’ll like it.”

Sam softens.

You smile and light the candle.

The safe house you are in right now is tucked in some half-forgotten corner of Eastern Europe - somewhere off the grid but not completely abandoned.

The walls are cracked, the wood is old and worn, the air thick with dust, and the supplies minimal at best. It’s one of those places that’s good for disappearing, for catching a breath, and talking about strategy.

You three have been here for two days now.

There are only a few cans of food, stale crackers, instant coffee that tastes burned. The stove barely works just like the oven, the fridge hums as if it’s dying, and the water pressure in the tiny, rust-stained bathroom is a joke. But it’s shelter, and honestly even quite cozy, and that’s enough.

The situation with Karli and the flag smashers is getting tense. You are trying to track her movements, trying to predict her next move after the GRC camp attack in Latvia.

Bucky left a few hours ago, going after a lead - an arms deal happening at a dockside warehouse a few miles out. Maybe it’s nothing, maybe it’s something, maybe another piece of the super soldier serum still floating around in the wrong hands.

You didn’t want him to go alone and tried to make a case for joining him, but Bucky just gave you that look. The one that said he isn’t going to risk anyone else. The one that said he is used to doing things on his own, whether he likes it or not. And with Sam needing to check in with some of his own contacts, that left you here, holding things down.

So you let him go, but still checked your comms every now and then, waiting for the static to break with his voice.

He should be back soon.

Bucky has not said a thing about it being his birthday.

Not today, not yesterday, not in any of the days leading up to it.

Not that this surprised you. You expected it, honestly.

To him, a birthday does not seem to be a marker of another year lived, but rather just another date on a calendar that is too far ahead of him. Another reminder of all the years he wasn’t really there. Not as himself.

He was his usual brooding self. Still and watchful, sitting on the couch in the corner, hands clasped loosely, tapping his metal fingers against his knee in that absent way he does when his thoughts take him somewhere else.

The only real indication that he even knew his birthday was approaching was the way he got quieter. Bucky is never particularly loud to begin with. But there was a shift, a deepening of whatever burden he carried around.

You caught him staring out the window yesterday, waiting for the sky to darken, for the day to pass by unnoticed, slipping through the cracks like so many others before.

So you didn’t bring it up. Neither did Sam.

You just started planning.

Because if Bucky wasn’t going to acknowledge it, you would.

Maybe not with something big, because he wouldn’t want that, but something. Something only for you. Only for the people closest to him currently. A reminder, even if he didn’t ask for one.

Because birthdays might not matter to Bucky.

But Bucky matters to you.

The door swings open with a push that is firm but not rushed, the kind of movement that says he’s been through a thousand doors just like it, in places just like this, and expects nothing on the other side but the same four walls he left behind.

You straighten. So does Sam.

A gust of cold air follows him in, causing the candle in the muffin to flicker slightly.

Bucky steps inside, his boots scuffing against the worn floorboards, the leather of his jacket creaking faintly as he shifts, pushing the door shut behind him.

You don’t think you’re even breathing as you watch him roll his shoulders like he’s shaking off the weight of the night - like if he just moves right, he can shrug off the things he doesn’t want to carry.

“It was nothing,” he says, his voice rough, sandpapered. He is already pulling off his gloves, shoving them into his pocket. “Just a few guys moving crates. Looked like standard weapons, no serum, no Flag Smasher insignias. Could’ve been anyone.”

His tone is gruff, dismissive. Almost a little bored.

“Didn’t stick around long,” he continues, metal fingers curling at his sides. “They spotted me. One guy ran, but the rest didn’t put up much of a-”

And then he looks up.

And stops.

His shoulders tense mid-shift, his mouth still half open from words that don’t make it out. His eyes tell the whole story.

They dart from you to Sam to the muffin in your hands, the candle still burning, wax beginning to pool unevenly at the base. Then to the tiny, hand-scrawled banner you quickly shoved into Sam’s fingers to hold up.

Bucky doesn’t move.

For a long second, he just stares. Not in the way he does when he’s sizing up a threat, when he’s tracking movement in a crowded room, when he’s calculating distance and angles and exits. This is different.

His expression isn’t blank, but it’s unreadable in a way that makes you shift from one foot to the other. He doesn’t seem to know what to do with what he is seeing.

“Happy birthday, Bucky.”

The words come out light, but there is something heavy in them, and you feel that your voice is a little hesitant.

Gripping the muffin a little tighter, you suddenly feel self-conscious about how small this gesture is, how little you were able to put together. It felt like enough before. Like something meaningful. But his silence is making you uneasy.

“Happy birthday, man,” Sam echoes, voice sincere.

Bucky blinks several times, needing to catch up. His features, softened in surprise, start to pull back together, a slow crease forming between his brows. His jaw tightens, lips are still parted slightly before he presses them together, as if cutting off whatever response had almost slipped out.

His eyes continue sweeping around, from the muffin, up to you, to Sam, to the imperfect banner. Something swims beneath the blue of his eyes.

“What is this?” His voice is hoarse, like the words catch somewhere on their way out.

Like he doesn’t already know. Like he can’t believe it.

He shifts his weight, arms hanging stiffly at his sides, metal fingers flexing just slightly, one of those little tells you picked up during your time working together.

He is off balance, caught without an escape route, with no blueprints for this kind of thing. A man who has walked through fire and war and every shade of hell, and yet, somehow, this little gesture, is what catches him completely off guard.

There is something vulnerable in the way he looks at you both, something unguarded in the way his throat works around nothing, as if searching for a response but keeps coming up empty.

Because this is not something he can punch his way through or bury beneath sarcasm and brooding.

It’s just a candle and a muffin and a banner and two people standing in front of him, remembering what day it is.

And maybe that’s what gets him the most.

Bucky doesn’t look away.

He has always been one to simply stare at things, but this is getting intense.

As if the whole concept of this - of being given something without having to earn it through blood or survival - is too distant to reach for.

“Damn, man,” Sam drawls, arms crossing over his chest again. “Are you getting so old now that you forgot what a birthday is?”

You don’t know if you want to punch the man beside you in the gut with every ounce of strength you’ve got or grab his stupid face and kiss him like the world is ending. Maybe both. Probably both.

Because the bastard knows exactly what he is doing. Knows how to crack open a moment before it can become too heavy, how to make things easier for Bucky without making a big deal out of it.

And it kind of seems to work.

Bucky’s expression changes in the way his brows furrow deeper. His mouth twitches - almost a frown, almost a smile, almost something in between. Then he exhales sharply, breath hitching before rushing past his lips a little unevenly. It’s a scoff, but it’s weak, like he can’t quite summon the energy to be properly annoyed.

His eyes fall to Sam, sharp but lacking real bite. “Shut up.”

But there is no edge.

No venom. Like if he weren’t so caught off guard, if he had a little more time to settle into this strange, unfamiliar warmth creeping into the edges of the room, he might have actually had something to fire back.

He shakes his head slightly, as if trying to dismiss the moment before it can sink in too deep, before it can reach whatever part of him has spent too long convincing itself that things like that aren’t for him.

His gaze drops again to the candle. The wax drips lower, the flame wavers.

Then his eyes sweep over the lettering of the banner in Sam’s hand, reading your handwriting carefully, over and over and over again.

You offer a warm smile and hold out the muffin toward him, tilting it slightly in invitation. The candle’s flame flickers with the movement.

“You gotta blow out the candle, Bucky.”

He glances at you then, one brow arching in that familiar, dry skepticism, like he is debating whether or not to argue the point. But he doesn’t say anything, doesn’t argue, only exhales another breath that is just a little shaky.

He steps toward you, slowly, as if closing the space between you and the candle is something to be made precisely, something to be considered.

Up close, the cut of his jaw is a little tighter, the blue of his eyes shadowed but not distant. His hands flex at his sides. Maybe a part of him still expects this to be something else, something with a catch, something not meant for him.

But you keep smiling, keep waiting, Sam keeps watching and after the briefest hesitation, Bucky leans in, breath ghosting warm against the tiny flame, and blows it out.

It snuffs with a quiet puff of smoke, curling into nothing.

Sam claps his hands together once, a low, easy sound that fills the space. “There you go, old man.”

You smile, a little brighter now, something in your chest disentangling at the sight of Bucky standing there, watching the smoke, looking slightly lost, but no longer frozen.

“Did you make a wish?” you ask lightly.

Bucky huffs out a breath. It might be a laugh but it is a little unsteady.

“Sure, doll.”

There is something in the way he says it. Something softer than usual, something a little worn at the edges but genuine.

As though, just maybe, he did not even have to make a wish. Because it already came true.

The candle’s tiny smoke disappears, leaving behind only the muffin - a little too brown, a little too lopsided, but warm in your hands.

Bucky stares at it, his expression unreadable in that way only he can manage, like he is feeling something too big to let show.

Sam sighs dramatically, eyes also trained on whatever you created there.

“Man,” he mutters, shaking his head, “it looked sad before, but with the candle out it looks even sadder. Like a single, abandoned biscuit in the middle of a war zone.”

You gasp, scandalized, turning to him. “Excuse me? This is a perfectly respectable muffin.”

Sam gives you a look, then gestures vaguely toward it. “That thing looks like it’s been through some things - like it’s seen battle, lost some good men, and barely made it home.”

You clutch the muffin closer to your chest. “I will not stand here and let you disrespect my baking skills in such a way.”

“What baking skills, huh?” Sam fires back, smirking. “You found a pre-mixed bag of something that might’ve been flour and might’ve been plaster, mixed it with a prayer, and threw it in the oven. I'm just saying, if that thing had legs, it would’ve walked away out of self-preservation.”

You open your mouth, ready to retort with the sharpest, most brutal comeback you can think of, but Bucky beats you to it.

“It looks nice.”

His voice is quiet but firm, stopping your bickering.

Sam and you both turn to look at him.

Bucky hasn’t taken his eyes off the muffin. His hands are still loose at his sides, his stance still slightly hesitant. But his expression is softened.

You don’t bother to hide your triumph as you turn back to Sam. “See? Barnes thinks it looks nice.”

Sam rolls his eyes, muttering something under his breath about low standards and winter soldier pity points, but you don’t care.

Because Bucky - who didn’t mention his birthday, who never expects anything from anyone, who looks so lost in thought standing there in the poorly lighted safe house - thinks it looks nice.

And that’s more than enough.

You watch Bucky’s brow furrow slightly into something weighty, as if realizing only now, that you actually made this yourself.

His eyes shift to the uneven edges of the banner Sam is holding, to the way the lettering wobbles just slightly, as though you had to redo it a few times before settling on something half-decent.

Then his eyes move back to the muffin that has been made by hand - your hand - mixed together with the scraps you could find in the barebones safe house, baked in a temperamental oven that probably isn’t even meant for cooking anymore.

For him.

You made all this just for him.

His throat moves as he swallows hard, his lips parting slightly as if wanting to voice out something, but nothing comes up. His chest rises and falls, slower than before, as if he is trying to steady himself.

His jaw tightens just a fraction, but it doesn’t harden. It softens again slowly, and when he finally looks back up, there is something there you don’t think you have ever seen before.

A sheen over his eyes, so faint it might go unnoticed if you weren’t looking right back at him. If you weren’t watching him take this in, piece by piece, trying to figure out what to do with it.

He looks so touched.

So utterly affected by your gesture.

He spent so many of his birthdays forgotten, as someone wielded by metal and orders, to now come back to his temporary home, to his temporary family, who remembered long enough to plan a little something for him.

You don’t need to say anything.

You just glance at Sam, and he glances at you. He nods subtly, giving you a meaningful smile.

Because this matters.

Bucky releases a breath from deep within. It comes out slow, an attempt at trying to get his overwhelming emotions out, but it doesn’t seem to have worked that well.

His gaze drops for just a second, as though he needs to compose himself, before he looks back at you with something so gentle and exposed in his expression that it nearly makes you squeeze the fragile muffin in your hand to death.

This isn’t much. Just a tiny celebration in some run-down house out in nowhere.

But to him, it seems to be everything.

“After seeking to understand, it’s not the size of the action that counts. It’s the relevancy and impact of our action that makes the difference.”

- Heather R Younger

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