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the-winter-spider · 12 days ago

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Lucky | Bucky Barnes

Bucky x Movie star!Reader

Part:2/2

Word Count: 17k

Warnings: Angst, ect

A/N: Found this in my google docs when i was looking for my layout of Yours, Always, it was supposed to be a long one shot but Tumblr wont let me post a 35k fic lol so its broken up in two parts, Its not proofreading it or edited.

First Part

Masterpost

---

Bucky leads you deeper into the party. Past tall glass windows that overlook the skyline. Past agents in sleek suits, Avengers in tailored jackets, CEOs trying too hard to blend in.

You clock it all without flinching.

But Bucky can feel the faint tension in your hand, the way your fingers flex slightly in his every few steps. Like you’re trying to stay rooted. Like this, even this, is still unfamiliar ground.

“There,” he says quietly, nodding toward a corner cluster of couches.

Steve is leaning back with a drink in his hand, laughing at something Sam just said. Sam is mid-story, animated as ever, gesturing with both hands like the fate of the world hangs in his delivery and next to them, half-listening and half-smirking, is Natasha, dressed in black, her heels kicked off and tucked under the couch, one eyebrow lifted in mild amusement.

They haven’t noticed you yet, until they do. Sam spots you first and his eyes go wide. “No,” he mouths. “No way.”

Steve follows his gaze. His expression shifts slowly, surprise, then curiosity, then something warmer. Something almost like… pride?

Natasha, she doesn’t flinch. Just leans forward, tilts her head, and narrows her eyes like she’s reading a file only she’s allowed to see.

Bucky clears his throat.

“Guys,” he says, like this is any other day. “This is Y/N.”

Sam’s already halfway on his feet. “THE Y/N?” he asks, pointing. “Like… you?” You smile politely, but something about the way he says it makes you laugh, an actual, soft laugh, slipping out before you can stop it.

“Depends which one you mean,” you say.

Sam grins. “I mean the one who ruined my life in that indie film where you died at the end.”

“Ah,” you say. “Yeah, that’s me.”

“I had to lie to my therapist about how much I cried.”

You laugh again. “I cried shooting it.”

Sam turns to Bucky. “Man, you didn’t say she was cool.”

Steve stands and extends a hand. “Captain Steve Rogers. It’s a pleasure.”

You take it. “The pleasure’s mine. Big fan of your whole ‘punching Nazis’ arc.”

Steve chuckles. “Thanks, still working on the sequel.”

You’re all still standing in that gentle, easy circle when Natasha finally speaks.

“You’re prettier in person,” she says simply.

You blink, caught off guard. “Thank you?”

“It wasn’t a compliment,” Natasha replies, and smiles.

You smile back. “I like you already.”

There’s a pause and everyone laughs. Even Bucky, especially Bucky. The moment settles like it was always meant to be this way.

You’re curled into the couch now, drink in hand, laughing into the rim of your glass as Sam launches into a dramatic retelling of the time he got caught watching one of your movies on a quinjet, mid-mission.

“I swear to God, the mission brief was boring,” Sam says. “So I’m scrolling through the in-flight stuff, and boom, there you are. Staring out a rain-covered window. It was over after that.”

You grin, chin resting on your hand. “Which ones have you seen?”

“Oh, uh….The Last Goodbye,” he says, then adds immediately, “But also Glass Garden, Something in Autumn, The Moth Room, that space one, the one with the piano, what was that called?”

“Reverie,” Steve offers helpfully.

“Right! Reverie!” Sam snaps his fingers. “And Kingdom Come….And, oh, Marrow. That was dark.”

You blink. “You’ve seen all of them?”

Sam puts a hand on his chest. “Ma’am, I am emotionally invested.”

You’re still laughing when Sam says, “We actually just watched one a couple weeks ago. Me, Steve, and Buck, In The Quiet After.”

Your eyes slide to Bucky instantly, the laugh dying in your throat. “You watched it?”

Bucky clears his throat, nods. “Yeah.”

Your smile softens, eyes searching his. “What did you think?”

Bucky glances down for a second, then looks back up at you. “That you’re amazing.”

Your heart stutters behind your ribs. That word, amazing carries more weight than it should. But from him? It sounds like he means it.

Before you can say anything, Natasha leans in from the other couch, studying your lips. “What shade of red is that?” she asks casually.

You blink, caught off guard again. “Oh. Um, Monroe by Verre.”

Natasha nods, satisfied. “Figures. I use Vesper. Yours is more of a ‘kiss-me-in-the-dark-alley’ red. I like it.”

You laugh, a little breathless. “Thanks.”

Steve claps his hands once, standing. “Alright, let’s get the ladies another drink.”

Bucky looks over at you, brow raised like he’s checking in, asking without words if you’re okay to be left for a minute.

Before you can answer, Natasha waves a dismissive hand. “Relax, Barnes. I’m not gonna bite her.” She leans back. “She’s safe with me. Now go, we’re thirsty.”

You nod, smiling at him, he hesitates slightly then follows Steve toward the bar.

Sam rises too, stretching. “I’m gonna go see if I can steal one of those mini food trays. The one with the prosciutto thingies. Don’t leave me out here without carbs.”

Now you’re alone with Natasha, she doesn’t say anything at first. Just sips what's left of her drink, eyes scanning the room, lashes heavy. Without looking at you she says, “You have sad eyes.”

You blink. That catches you clean in the chest. No warning, no preparation. Just the truth, dropped like a pin in the middle of a marble floor.

You turn to her, unsure what to say. But she’s already leaning in slightly, hand gentle as it lands on your knee, warm and grounding.

“I’ve worn that look,” she says. “It’s heavy. The world thinks it’s mystery. Men think it’s glamour. But really? It’s just loneliness. The kind that lingers even when you’re smiling.”

You swallow, no words come.

Natasha doesn’t press. She just sits with you in that silence like she’s been there before. Like she knows exactly how far down it goes. She says, quieter this time, “Sometimes people need to see through you to actually see you. It’s not a weakness.”

You don’t answer. But your fingers curl slightly into the hem of your dress, and for once, the tears that prick at your lashes aren’t from exhaustion. They’re from relief, someone saw you and didn’t look away.

Steve leaned against the counter, watching Bucky out of the corner of his eye as the bartender slid two drinks their way.

“You like her,” he said, not accusing, more like just stating.

Bucky didn’t answer right away. His eyes stayed fixed across the room, on you, the way your head tilted back when you laughed at something Sam said, your hand still loosely curled around your drink.

“I care for her,” he said, voice quiet and rough. “A lot.”

Steve nodded once, like he already knew. He didn’t push.

Bucky kept watching you from where he stood, the soft curl of your smile, the way you were actually relaxed for once. The version of you no one else ever got to see. His chest ached with it, with the weight of wanting to protect something so fragile, so hidden.

Steve shifted, reaching into his blazer. “About her stalker, I know they have him but—”

Bucky turned slightly. Steve pulled out a slim folder, not thick but heavy in implication. “I’ve got the file, from when you asked before. You can take it after the party.”

Bucky nodded. “Thanks.”

Natasha approached, still barefooted and drinkless. She snatched the glass from Steve’s hand with a small smirk. “Mine,” she said, raising it toward him. Steve let it go without argument.

“I’m going to mingle,” Natasha said, glancing toward the dance floor. “Maybe scare a few billionaires.”

She turned to Bucky. “Be careful with her.”

That pulled his eyes up. “What?”

Natasha just stared. “I’m serious,” she said. “She’s about one sharp word away from crumbling.”

He bristled. “She’s stronger than you think.”

“I know she is,” Natasha replied evenly. “That’s the problem, people like her… they don’t fall apart when they should. They wait, they stack the weight until it’s too late.”

Bucky clenched his jaw.

Natasha leaned in slightly. “She’s been in survival mode so long she doesn’t know how to stop pretending. You’re the only thing I’ve seen her reach for that wasn’t scripted.”

Bucky didn’t say anything.

“Relax, Barnes,” she added with a little smirk, “I’m not questioning you. I’m warning you.”

She turned, drink in hand, and disappeared into the crowd with all the quiet confidence of someone who’s seen too much. Bucky stayed there for a second. Two drinks in hand. Just… staring.

You were across the room, sitting alone now, Sam had run off for food or a drink or who knows what. Your posture was graceful, elegant even, but now that Natasha had said it, he saw it.

The quiet twitch in your fingers. The way you kept fixing the hem of your dress, then your bracelet, then the ring on your finger, all muscle memory. Nervous energy dressed up as poise.

Sam reappeared, triumphant, holding an entire tray of tiny hors d’oeuvres like he’d just won a war. Your face lit up, really lit up. Like a kid, like a person, like someone who has been told “no” for a long time and forgot what “yes” felt like.

You laughed when he offered you one with an exaggerated bow. Then you actually ate it, it was the first real bite of food you’d had in days, you reached for another and Bucky just stood there. Watching you come alive in real time.

Steve slapped a hand on his shoulder. “Let’s go,” he said, nodding toward the couches. “Before you stare a hole through her.”

Steve was halfway through a story about how Bucky once punched a guy twice his size for stealing a kid’s lunch money, and Bucky, deadpan, fired back with a story about Steve getting his ass handed to him by a twelve-year-old with a skipping rope.

You’d laughed so hard you wiped a tear from the corner of your eye. You were still laughing when it hit you, hard, the realization of it all.

It happened so quickly, most people wouldn’t have caught it. But Bucky did, he watched your smile falter just slightly. Your eyes didn’t crinkle the same way.

You glanced around the couches, at Steve and Sam, then the whole room. The warmth between them all, the way they moved like puzzle pieces that had already figured out where they belonged.

Family and friendship. Years of love and memory and stupid inside jokes and unspoken glances.

You had none of that. No one who remembered your birthday without a calendar invite. No one who knew what your laugh sounded like when you weren’t acting. No one who would talk about the time you stayed up all night building a pillow fort or snuck out to see a concert. You didn’t have stories like that because you hadn’t had a life like that,

Your whole face dropped. Not dramatically, quietly. Like the light inside you dimmed just enough for Bucky to feel it like a punch to the ribs. He swallowed. Something twisted behind his breastbone.

He didn’t want to see your face fall ever again, not like that. Not when you’d only just started to smile for real. He cleared his throat. Before he could talk himself out of it, he stood, turned to you and did something he hadn’t done since the 1940s, since before.

“Dance with me.”

Steve’s glass paused halfway to his mouth, slowly, a grin stretched across his face, wide and warm, like he’d just watched a ghost come back to life.

“Really?” You blinked. "You wanna dance with….me?”

Bucky nodded, his voice was softer this time, low so only you could hear it. “You’re the only one I wanna dance with.””

Your expression broke into something unguarded, pure surprise wrapped in soft disbelief. You took his hand, his fingers curled around yours with so much care it made your chest ache.

He led you gently toward the open space near the center of the room, a place where the music swelled just loud enough to pull you both into something quieter.

You moved close, almost chest to chest. Muscle memory took over, he spun you once, your laugh trailing behind like stardust and pulled you back in with a grace he didn’t know he still had.

Bucky, he was smiling. Not the crooked half-lift he usually gave when he was amused or tolerating someone.

Sam stood there watching, eyes wide. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen him smile like that.”

Steve’s voice was soft. “In all the years I’ve known him… I’ve never seen that smile.”

The song changed, slower now more tender. But neither of you stepped away. You stayed in his arms, swaying like the world didn’t exist.

Your voice came barely above a whisper. “I don’t want this to end.”

His eyes glanced down at you. “It doesn’t have to, y’know.”

You looked up at him, eyes glassy. “I’ve never been this happy in my life.”

Bucky’s hands slid gently around your waist, pulling you just a little closer. “Then stay in it, with me.”

You didn’t answer, you didn’t have to. It was all in the way you looked at him like maybe you were starting to believe happiness wasn’t something made up for movies.

The night blurred at the edges, dulled by warm drinks, real laughter, and a little too much Asgardian liquor. Your hand was in his, fingers laced, and you stumbled a little in your heels when you reached the hallway. Bucky caught you without thinking, steady hands at your waist like it was instinct.

You looked up at him, cheeks flushed, eyes shining. “I’ve been thinking,” you said, voice low, thick with mischief.

He raised an eyebrow. “Yeah? About what?”

“Your lips.”

That threw him. “My… lips?”

You nodded, smiling, drunk on wine and happiness. “I’m gonna kiss them.”

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t move, just stood there, caught somewhere between surprise and anticipation.

Your hands slid up to the back of his neck, soft and sure, and then you leaned in. Pressed your mouth to his, warm and slow and a little clumsy but real. His hands rose instinctively to your face, palms bracketing your jaw like you might disappear. He kissed you back like he was afraid to break whatever spell this was.

When you pulled away, your smile was quiet, a little dazed.

“I’m gonna go lie down,” you whispered, voice light. “Before I do something really embarrassing.”

He didn’t tease. Just opened the door to his room and nodded toward the bed. “Get some rest.”

You nodded too, suddenly shy, and padded inside, kicking off your heels. You curled onto his bed like you’d been there a hundred times, back to him, arm tucked under your cheek. You didn’t say goodnight. You didn’t have to.

He didn’t watch you sleep.

He sat on the couch instead, ran a hand through his hair, and reached for the file waiting on the coffee table. The moment was still in his mouth, soft and slow and lingering, but the words on the page stole the warmth from his chest.

Elias Corrin.

He turned the page.

A series of disturbing notes, scrawled handwriting. Photos, too close, too focused. Mailroom logs. Security reports. Mental health history flagged. Prior arrests. Declared unstable. Released on condition of monitored care, care that clearly didn’t happen. A restraining order ignored. GPS trackers found on two former assistants. One note, timestamped just last week: If I can’t have her, no one will.

Bucky exhaled, slow through his nose. They said they caught him, they swore he was in custody.

But something about it didn’t sit right. Not with that last message. Not with how your shoulders still tensed when you thought no one was looking. He closed the file, thumb brushing the corner of the last page.

He looked over at you, asleep in his bed, curled into yourself like a secret and felt something quiet and sharp settle behind his ribs.

If he’d let himself believe in promises, he would’ve made one right then. Instead, he just stayed awake and kept watch.

You woke up disoriented. For a second, you thought you were home. The sheets were warm, soft. The light filtering in was gentle, not sharp like it usually was.

Your eyes caught the unfamiliar ceiling. The heavier weight of the comforter. The sound of someone breathing, slow, steady.

You sat up, blinking. There he was.

Bucky, slouched on the couch, legs stretched out, one arm tossed over the back. His metal hand was relaxed for once, not clenched like it usually was. His face was soft. Peaceful in a way you didn’t think he knew how to be, just like that, it all came rushing back, the party, the dancing, the kiss, the way you laughed like you weren’t scared of anything.

You reached for your purse and fished out your phone. It was a warzone. Dozens of missed calls, texts, emails. All from your team.

Some angry, some cruel.

Where the fuck are you.

Do you have any idea what you’ve done.

We protect you and this is how you repay us?

You think being seen with him is going to help your image?

God, you're such a dumb bitch.

Your chest tightened, not wanting to read the rest. You locked the screen and put the phone down like it might catch fire. Your fingers itched, and before you could stop yourself, you opened your browser. Typed your name.

Nothing.

No headlines, no photos, no video clips or shaky footage from partygoers. The Tower was clean, you knew it would be, but you still had a little part of you that didn’t trust it. You exhaled, the breath caught halfway up your throat.

You slid off the bed and padded into the bathroom. The makeup was still there. Smudged eyeliner, faded lipstick, glitter, clinging to your cheekbones. You leaned over the sink and turned the faucet on, cupping water in your hands and scrubbing everything away.

When you looked up at your reflection, there you were. No filters, no lashes, no red carpet armor. You left the bathroom and opened one of Bucky’s drawers. Took a pair of sweatpants that looked like they could fit two of you and a soft, worn t-shirt that smelled like him. You rolled the waistband twice and tied the drawstring tight, brushed your hair back with your fingers, and walked barefoot into the living room.

He stirred on the couch, blinking slowly.

When he looked up and saw you, no makeup, messy hair, standing in his clothes like it wasn’t the most vulnerable thing you could’ve done.

You held his gaze. “I gotta go home,” you said softly. “I’m in trouble.”

He sat up, rubbing a hand over his face. “You wanna eat first?”

You hesitated, nodded. “Sure.”

In the kitchen, Steve was flipping pancakes. Sam was leaning against the counter, drinking coffee straight from the mug. They looked up when you walked in.

You in Bucky’s shirt, sleeves past your hands. His sweatpants dragging a little at your ankles.

They both paused, didn’t say anything. Bucky followed close behind and shot them a look, sharp, silent, don’t start.

Steve smiled anyway, all soft and casual. “Hope you’re hungry.”

You slid onto a stool at the island, tucking your legs underneath you. “I don’t remember the last time I had breakfast that smelled this good,” you said quietly. You didn’t say it for sympathy. It was just true.

Steve plated pancakes, eggs, bacon. Sam pushed a glass of orange juice your way. No one made a big deal about anything. They just… let it be normal. It felt strange and kind of perfect.

After a while, after the food and the small talk and the brief moment where you forgot what waited outside, you stood, napkin in hand.

“Thank you,” you said to Steve, sincere. “For the food and….just everything.”

Steve just nodded. “Anytime.”

Bucky grabbed his keys. “Come on,” he said. “I’ll get you home.”

When you got back to your house, they were already inside. Not waiting, just there like always, like they never left. The moment the door clicked shut, the noise started.

“You disappeared.”

“You embarrassed us.”

“You know how hard we work to protect your image? And that's how you treat us?! Like garbage?”

“I’ll tell you who's garbage!”

Bucky stood just inside the entryway, jaw tight, arms crossed. He didn’t say a word.

“You don’t answer your phone for one night and we have to put out ten fires.”

“You think people won’t talk?”

“Stupid girl.”

Gina steps forward, “Enough,” she said, voice sharp. “We’ll talk about this later. In private.”

They backed off immediately, like soldiers hearing a command. Not because they respected her. But because who else was in the room with them, Bucky.

Brett handed you a clipboard, like a weapon. “New schedule.”

You glanced at it, top to bottom, packed. Your eyes hit one line. Bold.

Nude Scene — 3 Weeks.

Clipped to the back: a single sheet.

Diet Breakdown. Daily Intake. Weight Targets.

You didn’t blink. Just nodded and held the papers at your side like they didn’t burn your skin.

“Phone,” Gina said.

You pulled it from your pocket, handing it over.

Just like that they were gone, moved to the kitchen, already fighting about something else. The second the door shut behind them, Bucky looked at you.

“Why do you let them treat you like that?”

You didn’t answer right away. “It’s easier,” you said finally. “If I push back, it just gets louder.”

He stepped a little closer. “You said you didn’t want to do that scene.”

“I say a lot of things,” you muttered, eyes still on the floor. “Doesn’t mean it matters.”

He frowned. “You don’t get to say no?”

Your laugh was soft and dry, “There are a lot of things I don’t want to do,” you said. “That doesn’t mean I get a choice.”

You didn’t tell him what you gave up to be at the Tower last night. That one night of normal, dancing, pancakes, his hands on your waist, it had a cost. You made peace with it already.

“Might as well suck it up,” you added. “Right? Give the people something they apparently can’t live without, my body.”

Bucky didn’t answer. Just stared at you like he didn’t know whether to hug you or break a wall.

The door creaked open again. Leah stuck her head in. “Barnes. You can go, we don’t need you anymore today.”

Bucky’s eyes didn’t leave yours. “You gonna be okay?”

You nodded, offered him a small smile the kind of nod you give when there’s no fight left in you.

“I’ll text you,” you said.

He nodded too, he hated that he did, he hated leaving you here. He turned for the door. Leah, behind him, smirked just a little. “No, she won’t.” and then she shut the door in his face.

---

The next day, you were on set, sort of.

It wasn’t a full shoot, just screen testing. Wardrobe, lighting, a camera rigged to capture how you looked under three different kinds of studio sun.

You sat in a folding chair in the corner, hair pinned up, silk robe over a vintage slip dress, drinking lukewarm coffee while a production assistant ran cables behind you. You looked tired, but not fake-tired. The kind of tired that lived in your bones.

Bucky stood nearby, hands in his pockets, watching the swirl of controlled chaos.

“What’s this one about?” Bucky asked, nodding toward the bustle of the set.

You didn’t look up. Just took another sip of the coffee that had gone cold an hour ago.

“Some sad Hollywood star,” you said, flat.

He looked over at you.

You gave a small, half-laugh the kind that didn’t touch your eyes. “Fitting, right?”

Bucky didn’t laugh, didn’t joke. He just watched you, the way your shoulders stayed tense even when you were sitting, the way your eyes flicked across the room like you were searching for something that wasn’t there.

“She’s famous,” you added, voice quieter now. “Everyone knows her face. But no one actually knows her.”

You paused, then gave a faint shrug. “It’s called Lucky.”

Bucky didn’t say anything at first, finally under his breath: “Doesn’t sound like luck.”

Later on that week, maybe two days, maybe three, Bucky knocked on your door. Not for work, not because he had to, they gave him the day off today.

You opened it in socks and a crewneck, eyebrows raised like you weren’t expecting him.

He rubbed the back of his neck, awkward as hell, deciding after hyping himself up all day that he was just going to say it. “I was thinking,” he said, “maybe I could take you to dinner.”

You blinked. “Like…”

“Not as security,” he cut in, fast. “Just, me. Taking you out, like normal people do.” He looked nervous. “Like a date, I wanna take you on a date, it’s fine—”

He felt stupid like you might laugh, you didn’t. You smiled, that small, real one he was getting addicted to and said, “Yes.” So fast he didn’t even finish his sentence.

The place wasn’t fancy, it was barely even modern. A little hole-in-the-wall diner tucked down a side street in Brooklyn, the kind with cracked vinyl booths, fries that came in paper baskets, and a jukebox that only played songs recorded before 1975.

You wore jeans and a hoodie. Hair pulled back, no makeup and he couldn’t stop looking at you. Not because of what you were wearing. Not because of what anyone else would’ve noticed. But because this was the first time he’d seen you like this, out and about. You looked… happy. Like you were in on a secret no one else knew.

You ordered pancakes for dinner and stole fries off his plate. You told him a story about a role you almost got when you were nineteen and how you sabotaged the audition on purpose because you didn’t want to play “a girl who dies from a broken heart.”

“Ironic now,” you’d said, biting into a fry.

He didn’t argue. But he reached across the table and nudged your hand with his and when your eyes met his, something soft passed between you. Just two people trying to figure out how to breathe again.

You didn’t rush through dinner, you lingered.

The two of you talked like there wasn’t a clock in the world, about music, movies, what Coney Island used to look like before it got cleaned up. You told him about your favorite director (he hadn’t heard of them), and he told you about the first movie he ever saw in theaters before the war.

“It was a double feature,” he said. “One reel broke halfway through, so the whole audience just sat there waiting like someone died.”

You laughed. “That’s very on-brand for you.”

When the check came, he tried to pay, stubborn about it, you told him you considered this your first official fight but you let him, just this once.

The sky was already dark when you stepped outside, the street was quiet. Empty enough to feel like it belonged to you then it started to rain.

Not a downpour, just that light, misty kind of rain that clings to your lashes and makes the streetlights look like halos.

You looked up at the sky, then back at him. “Of course,” you said, smiling. “Feels fitting.”

Bucky pulled off his jacket without a word and draped it over your shoulders. It was warm from his body heat, and too big, and perfect.

He walked beside you in a black t-shirt, not caring about the cold or the rain. His hand brushed yours once, twice, until finally, he just reached over and held it.

Not tightly, not like a claim. Just enough to say I’m here and you didn’t let go, you never wanted to again.

You walked like that the whole way back. No security, noentourage. Just the city, the rain, and the two of you.

At your door, he hesitated. You stood there in his jacket, fingers curled at the sleeves, and said, “That was the best night I’ve had in… maybe ever.”

He smiled.You looked up at him, nervous suddenly, and said, “Wanna come by tomorrow?”

He blinked. “You mean, like—”

“Just come over,” you said, softer now. “I don’t have anything scheduled. No press, no meetings. I figured maybe we could… I don’t know. Be normal.”

Bucky nodded. “What time?”

“Ten,” you said. “Bring coffee.”

He smirked. “Anything but craft services?”

You grinned, stepping back toward the door. “Exactly.”

You started to turn toward the door, then paused. Looked back. “Hey, Bucky?”

He turned his head, eyes on you. “Yeah, sweetheart?”

The name hit low in your stomach. You smiled, cheeks flushing, but didn’t look away.

“I’ve been in so many movies,” you said. “Played every kind of love story… but I’ve never had a kiss in the rain before.”

He paused, just a breath then his smile deepened. It wasn’t teasing, It was soft, slow, like something old and familiar settling into place.

He stepped forward, closing the space between you. His hands found your waist, yours lifted to his chest and then he kissed you, like something out of a movie.

Not like before. This time it was deeper, wetter, with the rain clinging to your skin and your breath catching somewhere between his mouth and your heart.

When he finally pulled back, he stayed close, noses brushing, rain dripping from his lashes.

“Glad I could be your first, ” he murmured.

You smiled, barely breathing. “Hopefully my only.”

He let that linger between you. Didn’t say anything, just smiled, that quiet, just-for-you kind of smile that you were already getting addicted to.

You stepped back, still wearing his jacket, fingers trailing down his arm as you turned toward the door.

“See you tomorrow, Sarge.”

Bucky stood there after you shut the door, soaked to the bone, smiling like a man who finally had something worth getting caught in the rain for.

---

He showed up at ten on the dot. Coffee in hand. Hoodie slung on. That soft, unsure look in his eyes like he wasn’t totally convinced you hadn’t changed your mind.

You opened the door in his jacket, the same one from the last night and a messy bun that was maybe more sleep than style. Your eyes lit up at the sight of him.

“Good. You’re punctual. I like that in a man,” you teased, taking the coffee from him with both hands. “You remembered.”

“I remember everything,” Bucky said, stepping inside. “Especially when it comes with threats about craft services.”

You smiled into the lid of your coffee. “You hungry?”

He shrugged. “I could eat.”

You’d already made eggs. Just because. Toasted two slices of bread, burnt the edges on one, blamed the toaster, he didn’t care he’d eat anything you made.

He sat across from you at the kitchen island while you finished scrambling the last bit of eggs in the pan. The light streaming through the windows caught the edges of your hair. He watched it for a little too long.

After breakfast, you disappeared for a minute. When you came back, you were holding a shopping bag. A mischievous smile spread across your face.

“Wig day,” you announced.

Bucky blinked, choking on air. “Wig what?”

You reached in and pulled out a bright hot pink bob for you and a ridiculously curly blonde one for him.

He stared at it like it might bite him. “I am not wearing that.”

“Oh, you are,” you said, already pulling yours on. “We’re going incognito.”

“I already have a disguise,” he argued, gesturing to himself.

“Buck,” you said seriously, walking up to him and holding the wig just over his head. “Please, for me.”

You hit him with the full force of a pout. The kind of expression that could level buildings.

He sighed. “If you ever tell anyone—”

“Swear on my Oscar,” you said solemnly.

He gave in and twenty minutes later, the two of you were walking hand-in-hand through the Saturday morning farmers market, you in oversized sunglasses and hot pink hair, Bucky in a blonde monstrosity and didn’t even try to blend in.

You were laughing before you even made it to the first vendor.

“God, this is so freeing,” you said, grabbing two honey sticks from a basket and handing him one. “This is the most fun I’ve had in public since I was seventeen.”

“Do people even recognize you?” Bucky asked, chewing on his stick.

“Not unless they’re really looking.” You popped yours into your mouth. “You’d be surprised what a wig can do. That and not smiling for cameras.”

He smiled a little at that.

You made him buy sunflowers, a whole bunch of them and when he rolled his eyes, you shoved them into his arms and said, “For the compound, It needs color.”

“Its gray.”

“Exactly.”

You made him try a slice of fresh peach from one of the stands. He groaned, visibly impressed. “This might be the best thing I’ve ever tasted.”

You nodded, smug. “I have excellent taste, in fruit and men.”

He coughed, caught off guard, and you just kept walking like you hadn’t said anything at all.

A little boy walked by holding his mom’s hand, eyes wide. He looked up at Bucky’s wig and said, very seriously, “I like your funny hair.”

Without missing a beat, Bucky deadpanned, “Thanks, it’s natural.”

You lost it, laughed so hard you had to stop walking, one hand on your stomach, the other on Bucky’s arm for support.

“God,” you wheezed. “I think I pulled something.”

He smiled, not a small smile but the kind that showed just how old he was, wrinkles and all. He couldn't stop watching you, all teeth, all light.

“You’re ridiculous,” he said.

“You love it.”

“Maybe I do.” He whispered

You looked up at him then and for a second, it felt like a normal life. Like this wasn’t temporary. Like this was the part people forget to write about, the joy that lives in quiet places. In stupid wigs and sticky fruit fingers and hand-holding.

You walked a little closer after that and when the sun dipped behind a cloud, Bucky looked over and thought: Yeah, this is what it’s supposed to feel like.

You got back to your house with sunflowers in one hand, a bag of peaches in the other, and your wigs still barely hanging on.

Bucky tugged his off the second the door shut. You kept yours on just to make him laugh one last time before finally giving in and tossing it onto the entryway bench.

“God,” you groaned, kicking your shoes off. “We looked like walking satire.”

“You bought them,” he pointed out.

“Exactly,” you grinned, “I have no one to blame but myself.”

He set the peaches on the counter and opened the fridge, standing there like he lived here, like this wasn’t weird and it wasn’t. Not with him.

You poured two glasses of water, handed him one, and nodded toward the back patio.

“Come on,” you said.

Your backyard was ridiculous.

Big enough for events. Empty enough to echo. Most days it just sat there, silent and underused, like a stage no one had written a scene for.

But tonight you made it yours. You laid a thick blanket right in the middle of the lawn, a bottle of water and two peaches between you.

Just you two and the stars, you dropped down first, looking up, arms folded under your head.

He hesitated briefly before lowering himself beside you. The sky above was endless, crisp and clear. You sighed. “So… that one’s called ‘The Sad Actress Who Bought Too Many Wigs.’”

He turned his head. “Is it?”

You nodded solemnly. “Legend says she cried on cue and never learned to cook.”

Bucky snorted. “Sounds tragic.”

“Deeply.”

He pointed upward. “That one’s Cassiopeia. Queen of vanity, everyone thought she was prettier than the gods.”

You squinted. “Is that a compliment?”

He smirked. “No comment.”

You laughed and rolled closer to him, propping your chin on his shoulder. The warmth of his body seeped into your side. He didn’t pull away. You kept pointing, making up fake names, dumb stories about the sky.

He chimed in with the real ones. Orion, Lyra, Andromeda. He told you about them softly, like they were old friends he hadn’t seen in a long time.

Eventually, you went quiet. Your cheek was against his shoulder now. His hand rested lightly on your waist, not holding you there just being there. You could feel his heartbeat where your arm brushed his chest.

You tilted your head, voice small, tired in a different kind of way. “Do you ever think we were meant to make it here?”

He was quiet for a second. “Not until now.”

--------

They were setting up for the next shot, bright lights overhead, crew darting around like bees and Bucky had been pulled aside by one of the stunt coordinators. Something about camera angles and needing a second set of eyes.

He kept glancing over his shoulder, trying to keep you in his line of sight. You were across the stage with Leah, Brett close behind, flipping through notes and talking too fast. You were nodding along, too much, too quickl like a wind-up doll that forgot how to stop.

Then something changed. Your smile, the one you wore like armor slipped. Not all at once. Just… a flicker. A soft stutter in your face like something cracked. You said nothing, but Bucky saw it. He saw you and then you turned, walking off set. Not storming, just… gone.

Bucky’s head snapped to follow you, heart picking up. He moved to go after you, but Brett stepped in, gesturing toward a mark on the floor. “She’ll be back, don’t worry about her trust me, she’s not worth it. Just being a diva again. This always happens when she doesn’t get enough sleep.”

Leah added without looking up from her phone, “Let her wear herself out. She’ll come back ready to work, it's nothing."

Something in Bucky’s chest clenched. “She’s everything.” He spoke, giving them the coldest look he could, they rushed away.

He barely finished what he was doing, his heart racing, barely listening then ducked out. The set was a maze, allways of prop rooms, makeup trailers, walls plastered with posters from old releases and peeling tape marks from years of taped call sheets.

It took him longer than he liked. But eventually, he found your dressing room. The door was cracked, he didn’t knock but didn’t barge in either. He just stood there, quiet in the hallway, watching through the sliver.

You were sitting at the vanity, that wide, glowing mirror with the bulbs lining every edge. The kind they use in every movie to say this is what fame looks like. But you didn’t look like the girl they all talked about. You looked empty.

Eyes glassy, staring at your reflection like you didn’t recognize yourself. Your back was straight, shoulders set, trained posture. The kind they drilled into you, but your hands were shaking in your lap and then the tears started.

No noise, no breakdown. Just quiet streams falling over your cheeks like they’d been waiting all day for permission. Then your breath hitched. Once. Twice and suddenly it wasn’t quiet anymore.

You were sobbing. Body curled forward, heels digging into the rung of the stool, hand coming up to cover your mouth like you were afraid someone might hear. As if feeling was the real shame.

That’s when Bucky moved. He stepped inside, gently, not saying anything. You didn’t see him at first. Not until the door clicked shut behind him, he locked it too.

You flinched, turned, eyes red, cheeks blotchy, makeup streaked down like melted glass.

“Sorry,” you breathed, voice hoarse. “I didn’t want anyone to—” You stopped, shook your head but it was just all too much and it was Bucky. So you let it out, finally. “I don’t wanna do this anymore.”

Bucky froze, heart pinched in his chest.

You looked down at your hands like they weren’t yours. “I can’t keep doing this. I feel like I’m disappearing. Like they hollowed me out and left this thing behind and everyone keeps clapping for her but I don’t even know her, I don’t wanna be her.”

You were trembling now, but still trying to hold it in.

“They don’t care if I’m tired, or scared, or if I don’t wanna be touched. I just smile. I go where I’m told. I let them touch my hair, my face, my body and they say it’s mine, but it’s not. None of it is.” You looked up at him then.

“I don’t wanna be lucky,” you whispered. “I just wanna be okay.”

Bucky crossed the room in two steps. He didn’t grab you, he didn’t rush. He just knelt down in front of you and reached for your hands, carefully, like he was afraid to scare you off and wrapped both of his around yours.

“You don’t have to keep doing this,” he said, voice low. “Not like this, not for them.”

You looked at him, eyes swimming. “What choice do I have?”

“You have me,” he said. No hesitation.

You blinked.

He gave your hands the gentlest squeeze. “You have me.”

You stared at him, throat tight, hands trembling inside his. You wanted to say something, anything. But nothing came. Just silence and the hum of the dressing room lights above. His thumb brushed over your knuckles lightly, grounding.

“I didn’t think I would ever deserve to feel this way, ” he said quietly. “Didn’t know if I could, not after everything.”

You looked up slowly, surprised.

“I thought what I have was it, just Steve and Sam, I thought… maybe that was all I got, that this was it for me.”

“I didn’t think I deserve anything good,” he added, his voice rougher now. “Not after what I’ve done, what I’ve been.”

Your lip quivered. Not because of what he said. But because it was you he was saying it to.

“But then I met you,” he continued. “And I didn’t see it at first. Not the real you. Just the version they sell, all glam and armor. You were like… smoke. I couldn’t hold on to anything.”

You let out a soft laugh through your tears, the kind that hiccups on its way out.

He smiled gently. “But this? Right now. This you? The you that’s sitting here trying to breathe? That’s the one I want.”

You swallowed hard.

“I want this you forever or however long you’ll have me.”

You didn’t speak, couldn’t. Not with your heart beating like that, instead you took your hands out of his and tossed them around his neck and his went around your waist and you just held each other.

The doorknob jiggled, fast and impatient. Then came the banging. “Why is the door locked?”

You froze. Your body instinctively straightened. That trained tension snapping back into your spine.

Bucky pulled away, holding your face in his hands, and looked at you.“We can figure this out,” he said. “If you don’t want to do this, you don’t have to. You don’t owe them anything, you’re not a brand. You’re not a puppet, you’re a person.”

More banging.

“If you wanna stop, we stop.”

“Give me a second!” you shouted, voice cracking.

“We don’t have a second!” Leah’s voice, sharp and slicing through the wood like a blade.

You closed your eyes, inhaled. Wiped your face. “I have to finish today,” you whispered.

He hated it. God, he hated that sentence. Hated how defeated it sounded. But he understood it. He’d been there. He knew what it meant to survive one more day just to make it through the night.

So he nodded and you nodded back, he placed a kiss to the top of your head before standing up.

You turned back to the mirror, and stared at yourself like a stranger. You smoothed your hair. Blotted under your eyes, swallowed everything.

Three breaths.

You put your mask back on. Not the glamorous one, the functional one the one that let you live.

You turned to him. “Okay.”

He hesitated, then walked to the door, unlocked it. It burst open like a war zone.

“Oh my God, your makeup,” Leah groaned. “What the hell happened?”

She waved the makeup artist over like a soldier summoning backup.

Bucky didn’t say a word. He stepped back into the corner, jaw locked, watching them descend on you with powder and brushes like you were a problem to be fixed.

But you weren’t, he knew that now. You were someone trying to survive and he wasn’t going anywhere.

The sun was just starting to set when the last shot wrapped.

You stood off to the side, arms crossed, exhausted but wired the kind of tired that lives in your bones. You kept looking at the car they’d sent for you, engine humming down the block, driver waiting, door open.

But you didn’t move. Bucky walked up behind you, silent as always.

You didn’t turn, just asked, “You heading home?”

He didn’t answer, just asked. “Why?”

Youlooked at him. “I don’t really wanna go back to the house,” you admitted, voice low.

He didn’t ask why. He just nodded once, then said, “It’s movie night at the Tower.”

You blinked. “Is that code for something?”

“No, just pizza and Sam forcing everyone to watch The Mummy again.”

You stared at him.

“Do you wanna go?” he asked, more careful now. “I never go. They’ll be shocked.”

You chewed your bottom lip. “Would that be… okay?”

Bucky tilted his head, like he couldn’t believe you were actually asking. “Would that be okay?” he echoed. “Sam probably won’t even watch the movie. He’ll just stare at you the whole time.”

You laughed, shoulders relaxing. “Okay.”

He smiled, small and soft. “Okay.”

You glanced once more at the waiting car, then pulled your phone from your bag and shot off a quick text to Leah: Don’t need a ride. Going home with a friend.

Then you turned the phone off, it was the most rebellious thing you’d done in years.

Outside the studio, you followed Bucky across the parking lot. The sky now streaked with blue and gold, the city soft around the edges.

Then you saw it, the bike, his bike. You stopped walking. “You’re kidding.”

Bucky turned, confused. “What?”

“You ride a motorcycle?”

“I mean, yeah. You thought I drove a Prius?”

You laughed and it echoed in the open air.

“If you don’t want to take it I can get one of the guys to come get us,” he offered. “We can Uber—”

“No.” You were already walking toward the bike. “I’ve always wanted to go on one.”

He blinked. “Seriously?”

You nodded, already tugging his helmet from the handlebars.

“You’re gonna want to hold on tight,” he warned.

“Was planning on it.”

He handed you the helmet, watched you adjust the strap like you’d done it a thousand times, then swung his leg over the seat.

You climbed on behind him. Your arms slid around his middle like you were built to fit there.

He revved the engine, and the bike took off, smooth, fast, cutting through the night with wind in your hair and something wild in your chest.

You didn’t want the ride to end.

But it did with the Tower glowing against the skyline, warm and gold like a beacon. Bucky parked just outside and helped you off, his hand lingering just a second longer than necessary at your waist.

You walked in together still laughing at something dumb he’d said when you passed a billboard with your face on it.

The elevator dinged open, you stepped inside and the second the doors opened to the communal floor, voices carried through the hall.

“I’m not watching The Mummy again, Sam!”

“Then get your own movie night!”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “Every week,” he muttered.

You were still smiling when you stepped into the room both of you and it took about three seconds for all conversation to stop.

Sam’s mouth dropped open. Steve nearly choked on his drink. Natasha raised one eyebrow, very slowly.

Tony blinked. “Well, look who’s got himself a plus one.”

You stepped in carefully, wearing a sweatshirt two sizes too big, still Bucky’s the one you stole the first night you were on lock down, the night he got to see a glimpse of you. You looked real, you looked like you.

“Hey,” you said, shy but calm.

Sam stood up like he forgot how legs worked. “I…you…again? Is this real life?”

“She’s not a unicorn, Wilson,” Bucky muttered.

Tony clapped a hand on Bucky’s shoulder. “Proud of you, Barnes. First soul you’ve shown in seventy years.”

You smirked, cheeks flushed, and followed Bucky to the couch. Someone handed you a slice of pizza. Natasha tossed you a blanket without saying a word. You thanked her softly, when the movie started, you barely watched it.

Halfway through the second one, your legs were draped over Bucky’s lap, your head resting against his chest. His arm was around your shoulders. He wasn’t even watching or paying attention to the movie. At one point, he glanced down and found your eyes half closed.

“You can sleep,” he murmured, voice barely above the hum of the movie.

“I don’t sleep in front of people,” you mumbled, already drifting.

“’S’ just us.”

You didn’t answer because you felt safe enough to close your eyes and sleep.

You woke up in a bed that wasn’t yours. The sheets were soft. The room was quiet. Familiar, now. Too quiet for a Tower full of Avengers.

You blinked against the light seeping through the windows, sitting up slowly. Bucky’s hoodie was still wrapped around you and you definitely weren’t on the couch anymore.

You smiled to yourself, just a little, realizing he must’ve carried you in. A second later, you heard the bathroom door open, steam rolling out into the room and then he stepped out in just a towel, wrapped low. Water still dripped from his hair, sliding down his chest, his arms, every inch of him sculpted like a man made of war and time.

Your mouth dried instantly. You tried, god, you tried not to stare. But then he caught your eye and he smirked. His cheeks flushed just slightly. “Steve’s cooking,” he said, casually like he wasn’t standing there a walking Greek statue. “Do you wanna eat?”

You swallowed. “Uh…no. I mean…yes. I just…” You cleared your throat. “Yeah, yeah, I’ll eat.”

He nodded, turning back into the bathroom. “Just give me a second.”

You sat there in the quiet, heart still thudding in your chest like a traitor. When he came out, dressed in jeans and a t-shirt now, hair still damp but combed back, you stood and followed him down the hall.

The kitchen was already alive with the smell of something warm and buttery and Steve muttering to himself about how “Sam never remembers to buy enough eggs.”

You stepped in behind Bucky, barefoot, eyes still adjusting and they started clapping, Sam whistled.

You blinked. “What’s… happening?”

“You haven’t heard yet?” Natasha asked from the stool, sipping coffee with one brow raised.

You shook your head slowly. “I haven’t turned my phone back on.”

Steve gave a tight smile. “Friday?”

“Yes, Captain Rogers?” the AI chirped.

“TV on.”

The screen lit up above the counter and there you were.

Big and bold on a news segment, not a paparazzi shot, but a full-blown entertainment headline.

“—confirmed just this morning that Y/N L/N will be receiving the lifetime achievement award at this year’s Global Arts Guild ceremony…”

Clips started playing, you on red carpets, you in films. Montages of you crying, dancing, bleeding on screen every performance they could scrape together for the sake of a narrative.

Bucky looked over at you, you were still. Still watching, barely breathing. The music cut, then the anchor changed.

“But not everyone is celebrating…”

Images now of you on set arguing, looking exhausted, distraught, one clip of you snapping at someone off-screen, another where you were just… sitting, crying, not acting. They spoke over it all.

Critics questioning your mental state. Saying it was “ungrateful” to be sad when you “had everything.” Comparing you to people “with real problems.”

“Friday, turn it off,” Bucky said sharply.

The screen went black, silence rang in the room. No one said a word. You stood there, chest tight, face unreadable. Then you turned toward the stove, putting on one of your best performances. “It smells delicious.”

Steve’s expression faltered. His brows pulled together, regret softening his mouth. “I didn’t know they’d play that stuff,” he said quietly. “I just thought you’d wanna know about the award.”

You nodded once, calm and composed. “It's okay.”

He slid a plate toward you, warm and full. “It tastes even better.”

You smiled. “Thanks,” you whispered.

Steve’s hand brushed your wrist as you reached for the plate. “Of course.”

Across the kitchen, Bucky watched the way you sat down slowly at the island, fork in hand, holding yourself together like a paper bird in the rain.

He drove you home with one hand on the wheel and the other resting on his thigh, knuckles flexing like he was trying to keep himself from reaching for you.

The ride was quiet. Not awkward, just heavy. Everything that had aired that morning was still hanging between you like fog.

When he pulled up to the gate, he didn’t cut the engine right away. He looked at you. You were already unbuckling, eyes on the road ahead.

“You gonna be okay?” he asked softly.

You gave a small, practiced smile. “Of course. I’m receiving the biggest award I possibly could. I’m living the dream, remember?”

He didn’t smile. He tilted his head just a little, brows drawn together. “You can tell me.”

You blinked and then a single tear slid down your cheek.

You wiped it away quickly with your sleeve. “I just think I need to be alone for a few days. Please don’t take it personally.”

He shook his head. “No, I get it.”

You turned to open the door, but he caught your wrist gently.

“Call me if you need anything, alright?” he said. “I’ll be here in a second.”

You nodded. He pulled you in, wrapped his arms around you, not too tight, just enough. His lips pressed against your forehead, soft and grounding. He stepped back and let you go. You walked up the steps and opened the front door, turning once to look at him.

He was still there. You gave him the smallest smile, and then disappeared inside.

The moment the door shut, your knees buckled. You didn’t cry right away, you didn’t scream, you just sank.

Right there in the front entryway, curled on the cold marble floor, eyes staring at the ceiling like it might answer all the questions in your chest. You didn’t know how long you laid there.

But eventually, the silence cracked open inside you and the tears came hard and fast, your palms pressed over your face as your shoulders shook.

When it stopped, you got up slowly and went to the piano. Your fingers hovered above the keys. Then pressed down, soft at first something mournful, aching. But it shifted, the sound built, heavier, angrier, not chaotic, but alive. In the middle of it, you realized something: You didn’t want to do this anymore, not like this. You weren’t going to.

You threw on one of those stupid wigs from the market, the blonde curly one this time and sunglasses. Hoodie up, disguise solid in your opinion. You went into a cell phone store, calm as ever. “I need a new phone, new number.”

The guy barely looked up. “You switching carriers?”

“No, just my life.” You paid in cash. That night, you sat on your couch in the dark, lit by the glow of your new screen and started making calls..

You slept 6 hours that night and Saturday morning rolled around and you called a realtor first thing.

“Yes, of course we can keep it private,” she said. “Off-market, no press, no walkthroughs.”

“How soon can we list it?” you asked.

She paused. “Depends how quickly you want to move.”

“Immediately, I want it gone.”

“And where are you looking to move to?”

You smiled faintly. “Something smaller, quiet. With a porch and a real kitchen.”

Saturday afternoon, you called the director of Lucky. You hadn’t signed anything thankfully, just did the screen tests.

“I’m not taking the role,” you said, calm.

There was a beat of stunned silence. “Is this a joke?”

“Nope. Just… give it to the next girl. I hope she kills it.” You hung up before they could ask why.

Saturday night, the old phone, the one you were supposed to use wouldn’t stop ringing.

Brett. Leah. Your team. Unread texts stacked like bricks:

What are you doing.

You can’t disappear.

You are under contract. You don’t get to do this.

Call us now or else.

Responses now or we’ll walk, you need us!!

So you called them. “You don’t have to walk. I’m parting ways.”

They reminded you of your contract fees, the legal hit, the money it was always about the money.

You didn’t flinch. “Who do I send the check to?”

Sunday morning became one of your favourite days. You already felt freer, and you couldn't wait to tell Bucky. You’d heard nothing from him not because he wasn’t trying, but because he was respecting you and your space.

But Bucky was freaking out on the inside, Steve told him not to worry.

“She’s fine, Buck, she’s a tough girl.” he said, calm, sipping coffee.

But Bucky was pacing, he hadn’t slept. That’s when his phone buzzed.

Unknown number: Can you come over?

He froze, then another message: It’s me. I got a new phone. My own phone.

His chest loosened, he turned to Steve. “She texted me. She wants me to come over.”

Steve smiled behind his mug. “Then what are you still doing here?”

He got there fast, you were already waiting by the door. Your hair was cut. Still long, but no longer the red-carpet glamour length. Just to your shoulders. You were barefoot. Wearing jeans and a plain tee.

You smiled, small but sure. “Come in, Sarge.”

Bucky stepped inside, closing the door behind him slowly.

You were already in the middle of the room, arms crossed, bare feet tucked beneath you on the rug. You looked nervous, but there was something else in your eyes, something lighter.

He opened his mouth to ask what was going on, but you spun around first, your voice lifting the silence:

“So… you’re fired.”

He froze. “What?”

You were smiling but he still looked stunned. He tried to say something again, but nothing came out, just confusion.

Before he could spiral, you stepped forward, both hands reaching out to grab his. “And before you start panicking, because I can see it written all over your face,” you said, gently, “let me explain.”

You gave his hands a small squeeze and guided him toward the living room. You both sat down on the couch, and for a second, you just sat there, facing forward, fidgeting with your fingers.

Your heart was thudding, saying it made it real, saying it to him made it real, but you were ready. “I turned down the movie.”

He blinked.

You kept going. “I broke my contract with Brett, Leah and Gina, the whole team. I have a new phone, a new number, only you have it.”

He stared at you, barely breathing.

“This house is getting sold,” you continued, voice shaking slightly now. “And at the awards… I’m announcing my retirement.”

You couldn’t look at him. You stared down at your hands, picking at a loose edge of skin by your nail, trying to stay steady.

“I’m done, Bucky. I’m really done.”

There was a long pause, his voice came in low and careful. “This is what you want?”

You finally looked at him. And for the first time in a long time, your voice didn’t shake. “This is what I want.”

His eyes softened, shoulders dropping like he’d been holding his breath for months.

You smiled, smaller now, but it reached your eyes. “There’s just one more thing I want.”

He tilted his head. “What’s that?”

You smiled wider, heartbeat climbing. “You.”

Your smile grew, his did too. Without thinking, he pulled you into his lap, arms curling around your waist like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You giggled, straddling him, your hands on his shoulders, foreheads nearly touching.

“You, Bucky Barnes,” you whispered, voice thick with love, “are the greatest thing that’s ever happened to me.”

Something in him broke, not in a bad way, never in a bad way, not with you, but like a dam that had been waiting to fall, he didn’t speak but just one tear slid down his cheek.

You reached up and brushed it away.

He closed his eyes, leaned into your touch like it was the only thing holding him together.

“I’ve never…” he started, but had to stop. Reminding himself to swallow and breathe. “I’ve never had anyone say that. Not to me, not like that.”

You kissed the corner of his mouth, then again pressing your forehead to his. “You deserved to hear it, every word.”

His arms tightened around you, like he was afraid to let go. Like he’d finally been handed something he thought he’d never get and he wasn’t about to lose it.

And you? You finally felt safe, you felt free, you felt like you.

-----

Monday morning the house was still the kind of still that only came after a long week of too much noise.

Bucky woke up in the guest room. He laid there for a while, staring up at the ceiling, listening to the faint hum of something distant the fridge, maybe or the house itself breathing.

It was always like this here. Quiet, not in a peaceful way, but in a way that felt… empty. The ceilings were too high. The air too clean. No signs of life except for the woman asleep down the hall.

He sat up, bare feet hitting the hardwood. It was early. Light hadn’t fully made its way through the blinds yet, but he could see the faint glow of it creeping up over the hills through the tall windows in the hallway.

Your door was cracked open.

He padded down the hallway, moving like he had a hundred times before in a hundred different safehouses, alert, careful. But this wasn’t a mission. It was just you.

You were curled up in the middle of your massive bed, half-buried in the covers. One leg kicked out from under the sheets, hair a soft mess across the pillow. Face turned slightly toward the window.

You looked like someone who belonged to the morning. Not the cameras, not the lights, not for anyone else but him.

Just here….just you.

He didn’t come in. Just leaned against the doorway and watched for a minute, arms crossed loosely over his chest. Then you stirred.

A soft stretch, a furrow in your brow, a breath pulled in through your nose, slowly, your eyes opened. You blinked once, then again and then you smiled, slow and sleepy.

“Good morning, Sarge,” you said, voice gravelly from sleep.

It made something in his chest twist.

“Morning,” he said softly.

You yawned and rolled onto your back, your arm flopping out dramatically. “What time is it?”

“Early.”

“Too early?”

He smirked. “Little bit.”

You turned your head toward him fully now. “You watching me sleep, Barnes?”

“Maybe.”

You smiled again and tucked your hands beneath your head.

“Don’t make it weird,” you added, teasing.

He chuckled under his breath, shaking his head, and finally stepped into the room.

“You hungry?” he asked.

You made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a dying cat.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” he said, already turning back toward the kitchen.

You sat up slowly, hair wild, sheets pooled in your lap.

“Hey, Bucky?” you called after him.

He paused, looking back over his shoulder.

Your voice was soft. “Thanks for being here.”

His jaw tightened, just a little and he nodded once. “You don’t have to thank me,” he said. “I wanna be here and I’m not going anywhere.”

---

On Tuesday the sun was starting to fall, soft and gold, casting long shadows across the back patio. The heat of the day had slipped into something gentler, warm enough to still sting your skin, but lazy enough to feel like summer was finally exhaling.

You padded barefoot onto the tile, hair pulled back, sunglasses perched on your head. Bucky followed behind you slowly, his t-shirt loose, sweats hanging low on his hips. He hadn’t quite figured out how to be in a house like this, so clean, so open but with you in it, it didn’t feel so empty.

“Pool’s too quiet,” you said, glancing over your shoulder. “It’s depressing.”

You walked to the edge and dropped your towel, standing there in a black bikini that wasn’t even trying to be dramatic, just simple, flattering. You didn’t pose.

You just stood there in the sun like you belonged to it. He tried not to stare.

Tried.

You caught him anyway.

“Like what you see?” you asked, not coy, just curious, a small smirk pulling at your lips.

He didn’t look away, he didn't pretend, “Yeah,” he said simply.

You smiled wider. “Good.”

You dove in and disappeared under the water. Bucky watched the ripples spread, standing there for another beat before finally tugging off his shirt.

He didn’t say anything as he jumped in, just hit the water with a clean splash and surfaced to see you laughing.

He hadn’t heard that sound from you enough.

“You’re slow,” you called, floating on your back now.

“You cheated.”

You swam laps, you raced, you lost on purpose. You climbed up onto the edge just to cannonball in again. You teased him, splashed him, laughed when he tried to dunk you and failed.

In the deep end, you drifted toward him. The water was cool now, the sky streaked in purples and pinks. You wrapped your arms around his shoulders, let your fingers slide down his neck.

“Hey,” you whispered.

He looked at you, then you kissed him.

It wasn’t heated, you weren’t there, not yet. It was soft. Wet lips and wet skin. Your hands resting against his jaw like you were scared he might disappear.

When you pulled back, he was still looking at you like you were something he couldn’t believe was real.

After dinner and fresh clothes, you sat at the piano with a towel still around your shoulders, hair damp and curling at the ends. The living room was dim, the night coming in soft through the glass doors.

Bucky sat on the couch behind you, arms stretched across the back, fingers tapping lightly in rhythm as you played.

No lyrics, just music.

Something low and steady, with dips in all the right places. Sad, but not broken. Hopeful he liked to think or at least almost.

He closed his eyes.

When you finished, the final note hanging in the air like something unsaid, his voice came low. “Play it again.”

You didn’t hesitate, you just started from the top, you realized you would do anything for Bucky Barnes.

He sat there, still as stone, listening like he was hearing you for the first time all over again.

Wednesday morning was quiet until it wasn’t. You made the mistake of opening your laptop.

You told yourself you wouldn’t check. You told yourself it didn’t matter. But your fingers had a mind of their own, typing your name into the search bar like you were bracing for a punch.

And there it was, headline after headline, stacked like a wall you couldn’t climb over:

“Y/N L/N FIRES ENTIRE TEAM: PR STUNT OR BREAKDOWN?”

“Former Publicist Speaks Out: ‘We Couldn’t Help Her Anymore’”

“Too Much Too Fast — A Cautionary Tale.”

“Not even The Avengers can save her!”

They didn’t care about facts, they cared about drama.

You stared at the screen until the words blurred. Your throat felt tight, like it was closing in on itself. You didn’t even notice Bucky at first, not until the soft sound of ceramic on wood made you flinch.

He was standing there in the doorway with two mugs. One for him, one for you. He didn’t ask what you were reading. He didn’t need to, he could see it all over your face. He just walked over, set your coffee down without a word, and disappeared again into the other room.

You sat frozen, eyes still on the screen. Still seeing all the words: unstable, ungrateful, too much.

Then the sound of music pulled you out of the haze, the soft scratch of vinyl spinning up. Not your playlist, his.

Low, slow jazz. Ella Fitzgerald humming through the speakers like the world wasn’t trying to tear you apart.

He came back into the room and held out a hand. “Come here.”

You didn’t speak. Certainly didn’t argue, didn’t hesitate. You walked right into him like your body already knew what to do. Like this had always been the escape route you never knew you had.

His arm slid around your waist, his fingers laced with yours, and he began to sway barely moving, just shifting with the music. You let your cheek press against his chest.

The headlines were still on the screen across the room. But they felt a million miles away.

“You really know how to shut up a spiral,” you mumbled into his shirt.

“I’ve had practice,” he said.

He kissed your temple gently, like a period at the end of a sentence. “Steve told me to never type my name into any search bar.”

Your eyes fluttered closed, you hummed. “He’s smart, why he's the Captain.”

Bucky just held you tighter as the music crackled and the world faded. The silence inside your own head wasn’t heavy anymore, it was just filled with him.

---

The house smelled like citrus and sunscreen on Thursday, with hints of something sweet baking in the oven that you absolutely did not make yourself. Bucky was lighting the citronella candles out back. You were fluffing pillows on the deck furniture like it mattered. You wouldn't admit it but you were nervous, you never had anyone in your home before that wasn’t paid to be here, beside Bucky now. But even before he was paid to be here. So having Sam and Steve willingly wanting to come hang out with you, your nerves were out of control.

“They’re gonna love you,” Bucky said when he caught you anxiously smoothing out the same throw blanket for the third time. “It’s gonna be fine.”

You didn’t look at him. “They already know me.”

“I know,” he said, stepping closer, brushing your hand away so he could take over. “But I can hear your heartbeat sweetheart,”

You swallowed, remembering he was enhanced, you nodded. “Okay, yeah, right.”

You were still nervous. They showed up at 4:37pm, three minutes early, which somehow felt very Steve.

Sam walked in first, sunglasses still on, stopping in the foyer like he forgot how to speak.

“Holy shit,” he said slowly. “This place is insane.”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “Told you.”

Steve came in behind him, eyes roaming across the clean lines and open space, the floor-to-ceiling windows looking out into the backyard. “Didn’t expect this.”

You leaned against the banister, arms crossed. “What were you expecting?”

Sam shrugged, still glancing around. “I don’t know. More… velvet? Dramatic drapes? Maybe a spiral staircase.”

You snorted. “Sorry to disappoint.”

“No, no,” Sam said. “This is classy. It’s like if Restoration Hardware had a baby with a Bond villain’s hideout.”

Steve grinned, patting Sam on the shoulder. “Ignore him. It’s beautiful…It’s—”

“It's not me.” You cut him off, “They uh made me buy it, I’m selling, gonna find something more….me.”

Sam smiled, “You gotta have velvet at that place, screams you.”

By sundown, you were all out back Bucky’s arm slung comfortably around your waist, Sam mixing some kind of weirdly decent cocktails from the little bar cart you never used, Steve manning the fire pit like he’d trained for it.

“Alright,” Sam said, clapping his hands together after his first drink. “Somebody better tell me how this happened.”

“What?” you asked, smiling into your glass.

He gestured between you and Bucky. “This, you two. The world’s grumpiest man and Hollywood’s most untouchable starlet?”

You looked at Bucky. “We’re a romcom waiting to happen.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow. “You think we’re a romcom?”

“I think you’re the broody lead who doesn’t realize he’s in love until like… minute seventy-five,” you teased, glancing up at Bucky with a grin.

Steve let out a deep, genuine laugh. “That sounds about right.”

Sam leaned back in his chair, swirling the ice in his drink. “So, you excited for Saturday? Google told me you’re the youngest person to ever receive the award.”

You fidgeted with your glass, not quite meeting anyone’s eye. “I mean… I’m honored, of course. It’s huge. But I can’t wait for it to be over.”

Sam raised a brow. “Over?”

You exhaled slowly. “No more movies. No more red carpets. No more flashing lights, or interviews, or pretending to be something I’m not every day.”

There was a small pause. Sam blinked. “Wait, hold up. I think I missed a scene. What are you talking about?”

You glanced between them. “I’m retiring. I’m announcing it during the speech.”

Steve sat up straighter, eyes cutting to Bucky, then back to you. “That’s… huge.”

You nodded once. “Yeah, it is. But I’m ready. I never really wanted all of this…not in the way people think I did. I just want to breathe again.”

Sam looked honestly bummed. “Damn, you’re my favorite actress.”

You swallowed, guilt brushing the edge of your chest. “I’m sorry, Sam.”

He waved it off, even if his face still read like he’d just been told his favorite show got canceled. “Nah, it’s cool. Whatever makes you happy. But I’m gonna need you to sign every single one of my DVDs. Make ‘em collector’s items.”

You laughed, “Of course, anything for you.” Bucky squeezed your knee gently, and when you looked over, he was already looking at you.

“Anyway,” you said, holding up the bag, “who wants to roast marshmallows?”

“Hell yeah,” Sam grinned, already reaching for a stick.

You burned yours on purpose just to make Bucky eat them, because you found out two days ago that he hates them crispy.

“You’re evil,” he muttered, chewing the blackened sugar like it might kill him.

“Character building,” you said sweetly, sliding another one onto your stick.

Steve was telling a story about the first time he ever saw Bucky try to flirt, something involving a newspaper stand, a broken heel, and a pie and Sam was howling.

The fire crackled and night got softer. Your head eventually found its way to Bucky’s shoulder, your legs tucked up under you.

“You alright?” he asked quietly.

You nodded. “Yeah.”

The fire started to die down and Steve and Sam had claimed their guest rooms, you stood on the back deck with Bucky, looking out over your massive, mostly unused backyard. The air smelled like wood smoke and jasmine. You wrapped your arms around yourself, and he came up behind you, wrapping his around you too.

“This has been…” you started, then shook your head. “I don’t have the words for it, actually…”

He didn’t push. You turned in his arms, looking up at him, eyes searching his face in the low light, you swallowed heavily.

“I think I’m falling in love with you,” you said quietly. It was the first time the words left your mouth. The first time you didn’t choke on them.

Bucky didn’t flinch, he didn’t even look surprised. He just smiled, “Well,” he said, brushing your hair behind your ear, “I’ll catch you.”

Your heart stopped.

“Because I’m already there, sweetheart.”

He kissed you like he meant it this time, not rushed, not hungry, just slow and deeply. Like he wanted to memorize it, like he didn’t care about anything except the way you tasted or the way your breath caught in your throat when his hand slid up your spine.

His lips moved against yours with the kind of patience that said he wasn’t going anywhere. That you weren’t just a moment he’d lose when the lights came up.

Later, you fell asleep tangled in each other’s arms, your limbs wrapped around him like you were afraid to let go. The sheets were kicked down to your ankles, skin warm from the heat you shared. His fingers traced lazy patterns on your back until your breathing slowed, evened out.

You fit into him like the part of a story he didn’t realize was missing and now that he had you, he couldn’t imagine the ending without you in it.

-----

Friday started quiet. You were making breakfast in one of Bucky’s old t-shirts, one he claimed you stole but never actually asked for back. The sleeves hit your elbows, and the hem barely grazed your thighs. You kept dancing around the kitchen barefoot, humming along to a playlist you threw on without thinking.

Bucky was pretending to read the paper, but his eyes weren’t on the headlines, they were on you.

“Stop staring,” you teased, flipping a pancake, “it’s creepy.”

“You’re in my shirt,” he said, not bothering to look away.

You rolled your eyes. “You left it here.”

“You stole it.”

“Possession is nine-tenths of the law.”

“You know that doesn’t apply to my clothes, right?”

You turned around slowly, one brow lifted. “Are you gonna take it back?”

He just leaned back in his chair and smirked. “Not a chance.”

You spent most of the day in the pool. You dunked him once, and he swore vengeance for at least an hour after. You swore he cheated when you raced. He said you were just a sore loser. It was the kind of day that made the rest of the world feel like background noise.

At some point in the late afternoon, you collapsed into a pile of towels on a lounge chair, your hair still damp, cheeks warm from the sun.

“Everything’s gonna change tomorrow,” you murmured.

Bucky leaned over from the chair beside you. “Why do you say that?”

You looked at him, eyes soft. “Because once I say it out loud, I can’t un-say it. Y’know the retirement, the house, leaving it all behind.”

He was quiet for a second. “You’re not leaving everything.”

You swallowed. “It feels like I am.”

His hand reached over, found yours. “You’ve got me, that part isn't going anywhere.”

It was almost midnight when it shifted.

You were curled into him on the couch, both of you still wearing barely anything, skin warm from the day. You made a dumb joke about his middle name again, and he made a worse one about your acting in that one drama you hated. You pushed him, he pulled you back.

The laughter faded slower this time. Not awkward, just… softer. Like you were waiting for something.

You were already facing him, his palm against your bare thigh, thumb moving in slow, thoughtless circles. You traced a finger down his chest, eyes on the line of his jaw.

“Come here,” he whispered.

You did. Of course you did.

You kissed him first, slow and easy, mouths finding a rhythm you’d been circling for days. Weeks. Months. It wasn’t frantic, wasn’t rushed, it felt more like relief.

When he lifted you into his lap, you wrapped your legs around his waist like you’d always belonged there. His hands slid beneath the shirt you were still wearing, his shirt, his fingers grazing skin like he was memorizing it. You pulled back just far enough to look him in the eye, your forehead resting against his.

“I love you,” he said.

You froze.

It wasn’t a whisper, itt wasn’t an accident. He said it like he meant it. Like he’d been holding it in for days, maybe longer.

You smiled, eyes glassy but steady. “Say it again.”

His hand cupped your cheek. “I love you.”

You kissed him again, harder this time and everything that followed was slow. Worshipful. Hands and mouths and sighs, skin against skin, all of it quiet and deliberate. He touched you like you were something precious. You held him like he was something you’d waited a lifetime for.

There were moments when neither of you said a word, just breathing into each other’s mouths and there were others when you couldn’t stop, when you told him how safe he made you feel, how real this felt, how badly you wanted him to stay. He didn’t promise anything he couldn’t give. He just stayed.

After, you lay on your side, head on his chest, your fingers tracing slow circles over the scar near his collarbone. His hand moved lazily along your spine, down to your hip, back up again. Your legs tangled beneath the sheets.

“I could stay here forever,” you whispered, not even meaning to say it out loud.

“You could,” he said, kissing your forehead. “I’d never stop you.”

You smiled into his skin. “I love you too, you know.”

“I don’t deserve you,” he murmured.

“You deserve the world Bucky.”

---

The Saturday morning sun filters softly through the curtains, casting a warm glow across the bedroom. You stir, the familiar scent of coffee and something delicious wafting in from the kitchen. Stretching, you realize the bed beside you is empty, the sheets slightly cool where Bucky had been. A sleepy smile tugs at your lips as you sit up, the oversized shirt you borrowed from him slipping off one shoulder.

Padding barefoot into the kitchen, you find Bucky at the stove, his back to you. He’s shirtless, wearing only a pair of sweatpants that hang low on his hips, and his hair is still tousled from sleep. The sight of him, so at ease in your space, sends a flutter through your chest.

He turns as he hears you approach, a spatula in one hand and a tender smile spreading across his face.

“Morning beautiful,” he greets, his voice still husky. “Hope you’re hungry.”

You lean against the doorway, arms crossed, feigning nonchalance. “You really didn’t have to cook,” you tease, though the affection in your tone is unmistakable.

He sets the spatula down and crosses the room to you, pressing a gentle kiss to your temple. “Yes, I do,” he murmurs against your skin. “Today’s a big day.”

Your heart swells at his thoughtfulness. Together, you sit down to a breakfast of perfectly cooked eggs, golden toast, fresh strawberries, and steaming coffee. The conversation is light, filled with shared smiles and the occasional brush of hands. Despite the significance of the day ahead, there’s a comforting normalcy in this moment, a grounding calm before the impending storm of the awards ceremony.

After breakfast, you retreat to your bedroom to get ready. The absence of a glam team, stylists, and handlers is both liberating and daunting. Standing before the mirror, you take a deep breath, embracing the solitude and the authenticity it brings.

You curl your lashes, apply a subtle touch of makeup, just enough to feel like yourself, not someone they’ve painted on you. No red lipstick tonight, just soft pink. Something gentle, something you.

Then you step into the satin cream dress you chose yourself. Your favorite, because of its quiet elegance… and because it has pockets. You slip your hands into them automatically, fingers brushing over the small carved bird Bucky made for you. It’s warm from sitting on the dresser, shaped perfectly to your palm. You slide it into your pocket and let it stay there, a piece of him with you, grounding you.

You smooth the fabric over your hips, checking yourself once in the mirror. You look like… you. Not just some actress, not a product but…you.

Your phone buzzes.

You cross the room in bare feet and check it: a message from Sam, full of emojis, clapping hands, a star, a winking face, a rocket, a slice of pizza. You laugh under your breath.

Before you can respond, another message comes through. A selfie of Sam and Steve on the couch, grinning like idiots. Behind them, the awards show is already playing on the TV. There’s popcorn in Steve’s lap. Sam’s doing peace signs with both hands.

You cover your mouth with one hand, not to hide your smile but to keep from crying. You’re not used to this. The support, the friendship. Love that isn’t transactional. For so long, you thought this kind of thing didn’t exist. Now you know better.

A knock at the door pulls you out of your thoughts, it opens and Bucky’s standing there. Black suit. Crisp white shirt. Tie just slightly undone and he’s holding something, a little velvet box in one hand, something he’s not drawing attention to. His eyes lock on you and he just stops.

He stares. Takes a slow breath like he needs to restart his heart.

“You…”

His voice is rough, low, and a little stunned.

“You look beautiful.”

You feel your cheeks warm. Your pulse skips.

“I mean it,” he says, stepping into the room. “You don’t even look real. You look like… like every dream I ever had before the war.”

Your eyes flicker down, shy and soft. “You clean up alright yourself.”

He walks toward you, slow. With one hand, he lifts the box and opens it.

Inside, is a delicate gold bracelet. Simple, elegant, with a single little charm, a star. He doesn’t explain it, you just know.

“For luck,” he says.

Your fingers tremble just a little as you hold out your wrist. When he fastens it, his thumb brushes over the inside of your skin, and you feel it down to your ribs.

You whisper, “Thank you.”

He meets your eyes again. “Thank you,” he says back.

“Ready?” he asks.

You nod.

“Let’s go get your goodbye.”

Opting to forgo the chaos of the red carpet, you and Bucky slip into the venue through a side entrance. The auditorium is a sea of elegantly dressed attendees, the air thick with anticipation. Cameras flash, capturing moments that will soon flood the media. Despite the grandeur, Bucky’s hand remains a steady presence on your lower back, grounding you amidst the whirlwind.

The ceremony progresses, awards presented, speeches delivered. Each moment brings you closer to your segment. Your heart pounds, a mix of excitement and apprehension. Then, the lights dim, and a hush falls over the crowd.

The screen illuminates with your name in bold, golden letters, accompanied by a swell of orchestral music. The montage begins, a journey through your career, meticulously curated to encapsulate years of dedication and artistry.

It opens with a clip from your breakout role, a younger version of yourself delivering a line that, at the time, felt like just another script but now resonates with profound significance. The scene transitions to a red carpet moment, flashes of cameras capturing your wide-eyed wonder as you navigate the newfound fame.

Next, a montage of roles showcasing your versatility, an intense courtroom drama where your impassioned monologue left audiences spellbound; a lighthearted romantic comedy, your laughter infectious; a gritty independent film, raw and unfiltered, revealing depths of emotion you hadn’t known you possessed.

Interspersed are behind-the-scenes snippets, laughing with castmates, moments of vulnerability during rehearsals, candid interviews where your passion for the craft shines through.

The montage crescendos with a recent scene, one that garnered critical acclaim. Your character stands alone, gazing out over a vast landscape, a single tear rolling down her cheek. The camera lingers, capturing the depth of emotion in your eyes, a testament to your growth as an artist.

As the screen fades to black, the audience erupts into applause, the sound thunderous and heartfelt. You sit frozen, emotions swirling, pride, nostalgia, a tinge of sadness. Bucky’s hand finds yours, his grip firm and reassuring.

Leaning close, he whispers, “That’s you. All of it and it’s incredible, you’re incredible.”

The applause echoes through the theater like a wave, rising and rising, refusing to settle. You sit still, breath caught somewhere in your chest, your fingers laced tight with Bucky’s. His palm is warm, grounding. You glance at him for just a second, long enough to see it in his eyes, that he means every word he just whispered.

You blink forward again, lashes damp, as the lights shift on stage. The host steps back into the spotlight.

He smiles, holding a small stack of note cards that he doesn’t even glance at.

“There are careers,” he begins, “and then there are lives and every once in a while, someone comes along who blurs that line so seamlessly that you can’t tell where the performance ends and the person begins.”

The crowd quiets again. No rustling, no coughing. Just breaths, held.

“We watched her grow up on screen. We’ve seen her fall in love, lose it, rage against it. We’ve seen her die a dozen different deaths and survive all of them in the hearts of her audience. She gave us everything. Every tear, every laugh, every look that didn’t need words.”

You feel Bucky’s thumb trace a slow circle over your knuckles.

“She made it look effortless. But it wasn’t, we know that now and still, she gave, and gave, and gave. For over two decades, she has captivated the world… and tonight, we honour her for it.”

You feel your throat tighten.

“She taught us that beauty isn’t perfection. It’s honesty. It’s vulnerability and she did it all while carrying the weight of fame with the grace of someone born to do it and the soul of someone who never wanted it.”

He pauses, lets the words sink in. You swear your heart stops.

“Please join me in celebrating a once-in-a-generation talent. An artist. A survivor. A woman who changed the face of cinema… simply by being real.”

He turns toward the front row.

“Y/N L/N, recipient of this year’s Lifetime Achievement Award.”

The room erupts. Bucky stands first.

The sound swells, applause, cheers, a few people whistling. Some are already on their feet before you even move.

But Bucky doesn’t rush you. He stays right beside you as you rise, his hand slipping from yours only when you’re steady on your feet. He whispers again, just before you go: “Go take what’s yours.”

With the carved wooden bird in your pocket and his love wrapped around your shoulders like a second skin you walk toward the stage.

The stage is gold-drenched.

Warm light spills across the floor, catching the satin folds of your cream dress, the one with the hidden pockets and just enough weight to feel like armor. You stand steady, heels grounded, the carved wooden bird nestled in your hand.

The glass award gleams beside you. The room is silent now, waiting. Holding its breath.

You inhale slowly. Feel the rise and fall of your ribs. The steadying ache of what it took to get here.

“I don’t think I ever believed I’d stand here. Not because I didn’t want to but because for a long time, I didn’t believe I’d survive long enough to see it.”

A pause. Soft laughter from the crowd, unsure, uncomfortable.

You smile faintly. But it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “I’ve spent more of my life playing other people than I have playing myself and that’s the thing no one tells you about this industry if you do it long enough, you forget where the role ends and where you begin.”

Bucky hasn’t taken his eyes off you.

“I was good at pretending. I won awards for pretending. I got paid to smile, to be beautiful, to be likable. But I wasn’t any of those things. I was just… tired.”

You glance down at the bird in your hand. Curl your fingers around it.

“For a long time, I thought love wasn’t meant for people like me. Not the real kind, anyway. The kind that sees you, I mean really sees you and doesn’t run.”

Bucky’s chest tightens.

“I thought quiet meant failure. That if the cameras weren’t flashing, if the crowd wasn’t clapping, I was nothing. But then I learned something.”

You lift your head. “The quiet? It’s where everything real lives.”

“So… I’m stepping away. Tonight, I’m saying goodbye to all of it. I’m retiring. Not because I’m not grateful but because I’m ready to start living.”

Gasps and murmurs fill the arena, flashes from cameras and phones go wild.

You don’t flinch. “I’m done playing someone else’s idea of me. From here on out, I’m just gonna be me.”

The audience rises. Applause fills the room, crashing over you like thunder and you smile.

You reach for the award, fingers closing around the smooth glass.

POP.

A sound that doesn’t belong. It’s sharp and violent. The applause doesn’t stop, not at first. But your smile falters. The glass in your hand shatters and so does the world.

Your body jerks, like something pulled you backward. You stumble, a gasp ripping from your throat. Your eyes wide, disoriented.

You look down, the silk of your dress turns red, blooming like a rose from the center of your stomach. The warmth spreads fast, too fast.

The award fully slips from your hands and crashes to the stage in shards. The room turns into chaos, you barely register the screams. You only see him, Bucky. He’s already moving, another shot rings out, not at you this time, from Bucky raising his gun with no hesitation.

When he turns he sees him, Elias. He’s not in custody, he bets he never was. He’s in the back of the theater. A face twisted in obsession, mouth open in something like a smile, but it’s gone in a blink. Bucky makes sure of that, one shot. Clean. Between the eyes, Elias drops.

Bucky’s already on stage about to grab you when your knees buckle. He catches you mid-collapse, lowering you to the stage with shaking hands, already slick with blood.

“Hey. Hey. No—no, stay with me.”

He presses his hands to the wound, hard. There’s too much blood.

“Don’t do this, baby. Please. Please don’t—”

His voice cracks.

You blink up at him, eyes glassy. Your lashes tremble.

“I’m glad,” you whisper, voice a ghost. “That I got to feel something.”

Your hand reaches for his cheek, leaving a smear of blood.

He leans into your palm like it’s the only thing tethering him.

“And I’m glad I got to feel it… for you.”

“No,” he chokes. “No, no, you’re okay. You’re okay—help is coming—just stay with me—please.”

Your breath hitches.

Once.

Twice.

Your eyes don’t close dramatically. They just… soften, drift.

Your hand slips from his cheek and Bucky, he pulls you into his arms, cradling you like something sacred. People are screaming, running. But no one helps and on a stage built to honour you, surrounded by flowers and flashing lights and the echoes of everything you gave all Bucky can do is whisper your name like a prayer he knows won’t be answered.

Everything goes quiet.

The carved wooden bird falls from your pocket, landing softly in the blood.

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