#those things exist at the same time and that’s where the tension comes from

[serumandsteel]

The Shape of Silence | pt 3

series masterlist

pairing: tfatws bucky x (f) reader

summary: after Walker blows the op, the team is left scrambling to pick up the pieces. But the real damage hits later. when you finally realise that years of running from Bucky didn’t erase the feelings, only buried them deeper. now, forced into close quarters and out of excuses, you have to face him… and everything you tried to forget. that one night in Wakanda. the night that changed everything finally comes crashing back. And this time, it just might break you.

word count: 3.3k

warnings: emotional trauma, ANGSTYY, unresolved tension, swearing... light themes of SMUTT 18+

a/n: ahhhh last chapter for my mini series! thankyouu for reading... also first time writing smut so go easy on me :) taking requests for inspo for thunderbolts bucky... im feeling I want to continue to explore this little world I have made. also would love a nickname for this reader in this series...so inbox is open!

But Bucky didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

He just stared at you.

And you stared right back, bracing for whatever came next, the confrontation, the anger, the past you hadn’t outrun.

Because nothing about this was going to go the way you wanted it to.

Footsteps thundered in the distance. Sam emerged through the dust, breath ragged, gun lowered at his side.

But Bucky didn’t look away. Not when Sam stopped. Not when the cold wind bit through the warehouse’s broken walls. Not when reality finally caught up to both of you.

He looked older, lines carved deeper across his brow, stubble clinging to his jaw like rest hadn’t touched him in days. But his eyes were the same.

God, those eyes. 

Still impossibly blue. Still heavy with the weight of too many lives. But now you could see the years behind them, the grief, the healing. The hurt.

And it hit you all over again.

They were the first thing you remembered clearly from the night it all changed. The night you stopped seeing him as Bucky Barnes and started seeing him as James. Just James. Not a mission. Not a ghost. Not Steve’s responsibility.

But a person.

Three years gone. Three years of silence, of hiding and now, here you were, standing in front of the one person you tried so hard to stay away from.

Not because you didn’t care.

But because you did. Too much.

“What the hell happened?”

Sam’s voice snapped both you and Bucky out of the thoughts that had locked you in place. His eyes swept the room, landing on Walker first, who was casually brushing dirt off his shoulders like he hadn’t nearly blown the entire operation.

“You’re late,” Walker muttered.

Sam stalked closer, voice sharp. “And you’re lucky you’re still upright.”

Walker scoffed. “I took initiative. There was a window. I made a call.”

“You made a mess,” Sam snapped. “You went in loud. No backup, no coordination. You compromised the mission and almost got the rest of us killed.”

“I handled it.”

You let out a dry laugh, wiping a smear of dried blood off your hand. “Handled it? You mean the part where you charged in without a plan and I had to clean it up?”

Walker’s eyes narrowed, like he’d only just remembered you existed. “Right. Her.”

He looked you up and down like you didn’t belong. Like you were just some stray who wandered into the wrong war zone.

“Still not sure who the hell you even are,” he said. “Some off-book tagalong Sam picked up? You were real quiet until you decided to play hero.”

You stepped forward, not aggressive.  Just unflinching. “Just because you call yourself Captain America doesn’t mean you are him.”

Walker stiffened. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” you said, voice cool. Controlled. “Steve earned that title. You bought it. There’s a difference.”

Bucky flinched slightly at the name, but his eyes stayed locked on Walker.

Walker took a step toward you, jaw tight. “I don’t take orders from you.”

“Good,” you said. “Because I’m not giving any. I’m just cleaning up the wreckage.”

Sam stepped in then, placing a hand on Walker’s chest. “Back off.”

But Walker didn’t. His eyes didn’t leave yours. “She thinks she’s better than the rest of us. Walks in like she knows everything. What—everyone’s just following her lead now? Because she’s good with a gun and knows how to give orders?”

His mouth curled. “Or is it something else?”

You didn’t say a word. But Bucky did.

He moved before he could stop himself.

“Shut your mouth.”

Walker turned toward him. “Or what?”

But the look in Bucky’s eyes wasn’t something Walker could hold. Wounded. Restrained. On the verge of something worse.

“Walk away,” Bucky said through clenched teeth. “Before you say something you can’t come back from.”

Walker’s mouth twisted into something smug. “Touchy.”

Bucky’s fists clenched at his sides. He didn’t swing. Didn’t raise his voice. He just stared Walker down for one long, agonising beat. Then turned and walked away, fast and stiff, like he was barely holding himself together.

Sam watched him go, exhaling hard. He shook his head and muttered under his breath, “Goddamn.”

You didn’t follow. You didn’t trust yourself to.

Instead, you stood in the rubble of a blown mission and an even more fucked-up reunion, your pulse still hammering, hands still shaking.

Walker huffed, rolled his eyes. “I’ll find my own transport.”

“Do that,” Sam said, not even sparing him a glance.

The car rumbled steadily along the broken road. Trees blurred past. Faded signage. Empty intersections. You didn’t see any of it.

You weren’t in the car. Not really.

You were floating somewhere above it, your body moving through the motions while your mind spun off into nothing. Not out of fear. Not even shock. Just… self-preservation.

You’d seen Bucky’s face. The way he’d looked at you. The way he hadn’t looked away and it had carved something open inside you that you weren’t ready to name.

So you let the world blur. Let the silence settle around your shoulders like smoke. You stayed in that space until—

“Hey.” Sam’s voice cut through the fog like a sharp edge. You blinked. Looked over. His eyes flicked back at you in the rearview mirror, concerned but casual.

“You good?” he asked. Not pushy. Just present.

You nodded once. “Yeah. Just thinking.”

He didn’t buy it, not really. But he let it slide. For now.

A few more miles passed in silence before he spoke again. Lighter this time.

“So… you gonna tell me where the hell you’ve been, or do I gotta guess?”

You smirked faintly. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“Try me.”

You leaned your head back against the seat, eyes fixed on the blur outside the window. “Greece. Mexico. Indonesia for a hot minute. Then some nowhere town in Canada. Mostly off-grid. Nothing stable. Just... running. Always moving.”

“Running from who?” Sam asked, one brow lifting.

Your gaze shifted to meet his in the rearview mirror. “From myself, I guess. The past. The present. I don’t even know anymore.”

You hesitated, the truth dragging itself up from somewhere raw. “I just… I can’t seem to stop. Can’t settle.” The confession sat heavy in the air.

Sam let out a low whistle. “Shit.”

“Yeah.”

“You keeping tabs on us all that time?” You shrugged. “Some. Enough.”

Sam nodded, casting a glance toward Bucky beside him, then back at you. “You know he was looking for you.” His head tilted subtly in Bucky’s direction.

That landed like a punch to the chest. You didn’t answer.

Sam exhaled quietly. “Just sayin’. He never stopped.”

More silence. Then:

“I thought it’d be easier,” you said, almost to yourself. “Staying away. Keeping the mess contained. But turns out ghosts follow you no matter how far you run.”

Sam chuckled softly. “Yeah, well. We’ve all got ghosts. Some louder than others.”

You offered a quiet smile. “Yours still nagging you?”

“Only when I try to get five minutes of peace,” he muttered. “And when Torres messes with my Spotify playlist.”

That earned a small laugh from you. Genuine.

From the passenger seat, Bucky stirred slightly - just a shift of his shoulders, a flicker of something like familiarity in his profile. Then, quietly, without turning around “Still listening to that god-awful Marvin Gaye remix?”

Your head snapped up. Bucky’s tone was dry. Flat. But there was a spark there, something wry and a little too familiar. Like it slipped out before he could stop it. Sam groaned. “Oh, come on. We’re not doing this again.”

You let out a surprised laugh. “You still hate that album?” Bucky finally looked over his shoulder at you, just for a second. “Wasn’t music. It was noise.”

You rolled your eyes. “It was funk. There's a difference.”

Bucky’s mouth twitched, just slightly. It wasn’t a smile, not really. But it was close. The air didn’t feel quite so heavy after that. Still tense. Still charged. But no longer choking.

And for the first time since the dust had settled in that warehouse, you let yourself believe maybe, just maybe this wasn’t unsalvageable after all.

The car rolled to a stop outside a sleek, unassuming house nestled at the edge of a quiet, tree-lined road. It was a far cry from the last safe house Sam had tucked you away in - this actually seemed to have a functioning heating system. This place was modern, updated. It would suffice for the night.

Sam was the first to speak, his tone low as he hauled his gear from the trunk. “We’ve all got rooms. One night. Wheels up at six.”

You didn’t respond. Just nodded and shouldered your duffel, every bone in your body aching as you followed them up the steps.

Inside, the house felt too clean. Too still. The kind of quiet that wrapped around your ribs and squeezed. Soft lighting. Hardwood floors. Real furniture. Like a home built for someone who didn’t wake up from nightmares or run away from their problems.

You moved through the space like a ghost. Detached. Weightless.

Sam mumbled something about grabbing a shower and disappeared down the hall. Bucky lingered. He always did.

He stood there in the low light, jaw tight, hands in his pockets. Close enough to feel the tension rolling off him, but still keeping his distance.

“We should talk,” he said, voice quiet.

You turned halfway. Exhaustion bled through your features. “Not tonight.”

“But—”

“Please, Bucky,” you cut him off, your voice flat. “Not tonight.”

He didn’t argue. Just watched you walk away. Again.

You felt the weight of his stare on your back all the way down the hall.

You knew you owed him a conversation. Hell, you owed him a thousand of them. But not like this. Not with your heart still in your throat and your thoughts scrambled beyond recognition.

You needed to get your head straight. You needed a goddamn shower. And you needed that pounding behind your eyes to ease up before you said something you couldn’t take back.

Seeing him again today had cracked something open in you.

It wasn’t just shock. It was grief. Guilt. Longing. And something else, something heavier. The slow, dawning realisation that maybe you were the one who broke what could’ve been fixed.

You hadn’t just left. You’d disappeared. Cut the cord and never looked back, or at least tried to convince yourself you hadn’t.

And now here he was. Looking at you like you were still the same. Like maybe, if you reached back, he’d still be there.

But you weren’t sure you deserved that anymore.

You weren’t sure you could even handle the fallout of what he’d say once you finally let him speak.

You shut the bedroom door behind you and leaned against it, eyes closed. Your pulse still hadn’t calmed.

You fucked up.

And for the first time in a long time, you weren’t sure how to fix it.

Sleep never came easy anymore. But tonight, exhaustion didn’t just claim you, it dragged you under like a riptide, pulling you fast and deep into memory.

Back to Wakanda. Back to that night. The first and last night with him. The night before everything went to hell.

The night you let yourself forget. Forget the war looming at your doorstep. Forget what you’d both done. Forget the versions of yourselves that didn’t deserve this kind of softness.

You let it all fall away — and for once, you let yourself feel.

Years of tension, of glances and near-misses, of guilt and yearning, came crashing down to that single night. The one you never talk about. The one you can’t forget.

And he was there. Bucky.

Leaning in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, a thin white shirt clinging to him from the heat of the day. His hair was loose around his shoulders, wild and soft. And his eyes — God, those eyes fixed on you like you were something he still didn’t quite believe was real.

You knew this night.

You’d relived it a hundred times in your mind. Only now, in the pull of sleep, you were living it again. You’d been dancing around this for weeks. Months. Years, really.

And now you were close. Too close. Inches. Breaths. The space between you vibrated with tension, years of it, unspoken and coiled like a spring. His hand hovered near your jaw, hesitant, reverent — like touching you might make you vanish.

“I don’t want to mess this up,” he said, barely above a whisper.

You gave him a sad, crooked smile. “You already have. So have I.”

Then he touched you. Rough, warm, grounding. You leaned into his palm like your body had been waiting for this. Like you were starving and this was the first real thing you’d tasted in months.

You didn’t remember who kissed who first. Only that it felt like falling. Like drowning.

It was desperate and aching — mouths crashing together, breaths stolen between kisses. Like you both knew it wouldn’t last. Like you’d already made peace with the fallout.

But for now, in this sliver of stolen time, you let yourselves fall.

His hands cupped your face, fingers slipping into your hair. The kiss deepened, messy and gasping, his tongue sliding against yours like he wanted to consume you. You tugged at his shirt, fingers skating over the scars across his chest, and he shuddered at the contact.

“Tell me you want this,” he rasped, thumb brushing your lower lip. There was fear in his voice. Like this was hope, and hope was dangerous.

“I do,” you whispered, the words falling from your mouth like truth. “I fucking do.”

That was all it took.

He stripped you down like a man on the edge — quick, trembling hands pulling fabric from skin. You yanked him close by the belt loops of his pants, grounding yourself in the hard lines of his body. You needed more. Needed him like air.

The bed creaked as your back hit the mattress, and he followed, crawling over you like gravity had its own pull.

“Bucky,” you breathed, and something in him broke.

He kissed you harder, one hand braced beside your head, the other gripping your hip, the cold press of vibranium anchoring you to the now. When he pushed inside, it was slow, deliberate. Thick and stretching, almost too much after the ache of waiting.

You gasped, body arching. He stilled instantly.

“You okay?” he murmured, forehead pressed to yours, voice so tender it burned.

You nodded, lips brushing his. “Move. Please.”

He obeyed, hips rolling, pace steady, deep. Every thrust was weighted, like he was memorizing the shape of you from the inside. You held onto him, arms wrapped tight, legs locking around his waist like you could keep him there if you just held on hard enough.

Every movement felt like goodbye. Every kiss like a memory in the making. Like you were both pretending this didn’t have to end.

“God, you feel like fucking heaven,” he groaned into your neck. His metal fingers slipped between your legs, circling your clit with practiced, focused pressure.

Your hips jerked. “Don’t stop—please, don’t stop—”

“I won’t,” he swore, voice tight with restraint. “Not until you come. Not until you fall apart for me.”

And you did. With a cry torn from your throat, you shattered, body clenching around him, mind blank with pleasure. You came hard, every nerve lit up, and he followed with a broken sound, hips stuttering as he spilled into you.

Then he held you. Just held you.

His breath was ragged against your neck. Your fingers threaded into his hair. His weight was solid over you, grounding, safe.

Neither of you said a word. You didn’t need to.

And then, it slipped away.

The heat of his skin. The weight of his body. The sound of his breath.

Gone.

You woke with a jolt, breath catching, chest heaving like you’d just been yanked from underwater.

The sheets were damp with sweat. The room was still dark, pre-dawn light barely filtering through the safehouse blinds. Your heart was pounding.

Too far. You’d let it go too far.

That dream, no, that memory — it wasn’t supposed to last that long. You always woke up before that part. Before the way he touched you made it impossible to lie to yourself. Before the sound of his voice made your ribs ache. Before your body reminded you how much it still wanted him. Before you remembered what it felt like to love him.

Because that’s what it was. That’s what it always was. Love.

And it broke you open like it was new.

You sat up fast, pressing the heel of your hand to your chest like you could shove the feeling back down. Like you could contain it this time. Like it wouldn’t ruin everything.

But it was already too late. Three years of running. Three years of silence. And still, you’d dreamt of him.

You had to get out. Now.

You were up and moving before your thoughts could catch up, shoving gear into your bag, hands shaking. No time for a plan. No message for Sam. You couldn’t stay. Not after this. Not when the truth was so loud it hurt.

You didn’t even notice the door open.

“Where are you going?” The voice behind you froze you mid-step.

Bucky.

You turned slowly, like your limbs were moving through sand. He was in the doorway, jaw tight, eyes dark and tired. He’d clearly just woken up, but one look at your face and he was wide awake.

“I—” you started, but the words got stuck.

He took a step forward. “You were leaving.”

Silence.

You didn’t deny it.

He let out a short, bitter breath and nodded. “Of course you were.”

“Don’t,” you said softly. “Don’t do that. You don’t understand.”

“Then help me.” His voice cracked on the edges. “Because I’ve been trying to for three fucking years.”

You closed your eyes, swallowing hard. “That night… I’ve tried so hard to forget it. I thought if I stayed away long enough, if I buried it deep enough, I’d stop feeling this way.”

“And did it work?” he asked, voice quieter now. Broken.

You met his eyes. “No. It didn’t.”

He took another step, like he was afraid you might bolt. “I looked for you. I thought maybe you were dead. Or that I’d imagined it all. I thought… maybe it hadn’t meant as much to you.”

“It meant too much,” you whispered. “That’s why I ran.”

“Then stop running.” His voice dropped, soft but certain. “I’m not asking for all of it. Not right now. I just want a chance. A real one. We can start over, slow, careful. However you need.”

Your lip trembled. You shook your head once, then twice, then stopped. He stepped closer. Close enough to touch. “I still want you,” he said. “Even after everything. Especially after everything.”

You let out a shaky breath. “I don’t know how to be with you and not fall apart.” His hand hovered at your side, not touching, but close enough to feel. “Then fall apart. I’ll be here when you do.”

You closed the distance.

Not with a kiss. Not with words. Just a lean. A small tilt of your body into his, like a truce. Like surrender.

His arms came around you, tentative at first, then tighter. He held you like you might slip away again, but this time, he wasn’t letting go.

You didn’t speak. Couldn’t. But you didn’t move. And you didn’t run.

That would have to be enough, for now.

a/n: requests are open!! hope y'all enjoyed the absolute depression of a fic I wrote xx

Tag list: @inf4ntdeath @starfly-nicole @awkwardgiraffe726 @mcira @greatenthusiasttidalwave