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heydoaflip · 2 months ago

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The Doctor and The Tracker | Helmut Zemo

Zombie Apocalypse AU!

Female Original Character ('Doc') x Helmut Zemo

Summary: When an unsettling discovery forces them to abandon their fragile refuge, Doc and her group face the grim reality of survival in a world that’s always closing in. As chaos erupts, one mistake pulls her away from her friends, leaving her to confront not just the undead but a haunting glimpse of something—or someone—that defies reason. Warnings: Graphic depictions of violence, including gun use and combat with walkers. Themes of guilt, trauma, and survival in an apocalyptic setting. Intense suspense and danger, including close encounters with the undead. Brief mention of blood and injury (medical and combat-related). Word count: 11K

oo. the tracker

The fire station had seen better days. Faded red paint curled like brittle parchment, exposing the skeleton of weathered wood and rusted metal beneath. Inside, its transformation was equal parts ingenuity and desperation, the remnants of a structured world repurposed into a fragile refuge.

The main garage, once an echo chamber of sirens and hurried boots, now sat heavy with silence. Its emptiness was stark, a hollow reminder of what this place had been. The stretcher at its center, long past its prime, sagged under the weight of makeshift supplies: jars of scavenged ointments, antiseptic bottles clouded with age, and scissors dulled by overuse. Even the shelves around it seemed tired, their contents a precarious balance of necessity and neglect.

The air smelled of old smoke and mildew, with an undercurrent of something sharper—coppery, metallic. It clung to her skin, the way fear and exhaustion clung to their lives. Above, fractured sunlight trickled through a cracked skylight, streaking the dust-filled air with muted gold.

Doc perched on a battered crate, her back stiff with focus even as the weight of exhaustion tugged at her shoulders. Her fingers moved deftly over Bucky’s arm, her gloved hands carefully cleaning the wound’s edges. The jagged stump where his right arm had been was swollen but healing, though the angry redness still clinging to the skin told her the fight wasn’t over yet.

Her movements were steady, but her mind was far from calm. Every time she looked at the wound, she saw that day—his blood on her hands, her frantic breath as she tried to stop the bleeding, the way his voice, rough and broken, had told her to keep going. She had, of course. She had done what she could, and it hadn’t been enough.

"Keep it steady," she muttered, breaking the quiet but not the tension.

Bucky obeyed without complaint, his body still under her touch. His silence wasn’t unusual, but it carried a weight today that unsettled her. His blue eyes stared past her, distant and unseeing, as if retreating to a place she couldn’t reach.

The world outside had never felt so far away. The wind rattled the station’s loose window panes, a low, mournful sound that seeped into the cracks of her thoughts.

She hesitated, the cloth pausing mid-swipe as her gaze flicked to his face, "Still holding up?"

There was a pause, long enough for her words to feel like they were swallowed by the stillness of the room.

“Yeah,” he said finally, his tone clipped and unconvincing. He shifted slightly, the old chair groaning beneath him, before adding, “You don’t have to check it every day, Doc.”

The nickname made her grimace faintly, but she didn’t bother hiding it. They all called her that now, as if it was her real name. It wasn’t. It was just another thing she’d inherited from this broken world, like the ash-streaked sky and the hollow weight in her chest.

“You know exactly why I do,” she said, picking up the antiseptic with brisk, deliberate movements.

She dabbed at the wound, glancing at him as she worked. “You’re lucky to be alive, Bucky. You know that, right?”

The words hit harder than she’d meant them to, and for a moment, she regretted saying them at all.

The words hit harder than she’d intended, and for a moment, regret tugged at her. She wasn’t trying to chastise him.

He winced—not from the antiseptic, but from the weight of the truth she’d just dropped on him.

“You’ve got a hell of a bedside manner,” he muttered dryly.

A faint smile ghosted across her face, there and gone in an instant, “You want sugar-coating? Don’t avoid me when you’re in pain.”

Her eyes flicked to his face again, and she caught the tension in his jaw, the way his left hand flexed and unflexed against his knee. He was holding something back, but so was she.

“Fair,” he limited himself by saying, his expression forever stoic.

"I mean it, Bucky," she said, her voice softer now, the edges of irritation blunted by something gentler. She paused, searching for the right words but finding none, "What happened back there—"

"It wasn’t your fault," he cut in, sharp and sudden, the words slicing through her sentence.

Her hands stilled, the antiseptic-soaked cloth hovering above his skin. He still wasn’t looking at her, his gaze fixed somewhere far away, but there was something raw in his voice that made her chest tighten.

"You don’t know that," she murmured, her tone uncertain, almost fragile.

When he turned to her, his expression caught her off guard. His eyes were unflinching, filled with a heaviness that seemed to press against the walls of the room.

"I do," he said, his voice quieter now, weighted with conviction. "There’s nothing we could’ve done. And if I had to do it all again, I wouldn’t change a damn thing."

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was thick, filled with everything they wouldn’t say. The sound of wind rattling the station’s loose windows barely registered as she looked back at him, her hands falling limply into her lap.

“That’s a really stupid thing to say,” she pointed out, breaking the silence. Her tone wasn’t sharp, but it carried a weight that made Bucky glance at her. “You lost an arm, Bucky. How... How are you going to do what you do?”

The question lingered in the air, and she hated how it sounded. Not accusatory, not exactly, but laced with the kind of helpless worry she tried to keep hidden.

The wind outside scraped against the building, rattling loose window panes like an uninvited guest. Dust motes danced lazily in the fractured sunlight spilling through the cracked skylight above, their slow, aimless drift a stark contrast to the unease gnawing at her thoughts.

Bucky tilted his head slightly, his brow furrowing as if weighing her words.

“What I do?” he echoed, his voice calm but edged with something unreadable.

She swallowed, her fingers brushing against the edge of the crate as though searching for stability.

“You know exactly what I mean,” she said, quieter now, “You’re the one who keeps us safe out there. You hunt. You cover us when things go south. You’ve always been the one we can count on, and now...”

Her voice trailed off, the words catching in her throat.

And now I’ve ruined that.

The thought scraped against her, raw and unrelenting. She wanted to say it out loud, to scream it, but the weight of everything held her silent.

Instead, she looked away, her gaze drifting to the jagged streaks of gold on the floor, cast by the fractured skylight above. The light flickered slightly as a breeze stirred the dust, and for a moment, it felt like the walls were closing in.

The fire station was quiet—too quiet. The kind of quiet that left room for the wrong thoughts to creep in.

“And now you’re wondering how the hell I’m gonna manage without two hands,” Bucky said, breaking the silence. His voice was steady, almost resigned, as if he’d already resigned himself to this being his reality.

Her head snapped back toward him, her brows knitting together.

“No,” she said firmly, though not unkindly, “I’m wondering how the hell you’re going to manage when you refuse to take even five minutes to let yourself heal.”

To let me help you. It was the least she could do and, yet, he avoided her like the plague.

He leaned back in the chair, the old wood groaning faintly under his weight. The corners of his mouth quirked into a wry smile, but it didn’t touch his eyes.

“I’ll figure it out,” he said simply, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“That doesn’t bring me any comfort,” she replied, her voice barely above a whisper.

Her eyes lingered on the jagged edges of his stump, the angry redness that still clung to the skin. She could still hear the sound of that day—flesh tearing, his gritted groans of pain, and her own frantic breath as she’d scrambled to stop the bleeding. The memory was vivid, each detail burned into her mind: the sickening warmth of his blood soaking her hands, the metallic tang in the air, the way her fingers had trembled as she worked.

She’d told herself it was just adrenaline, the urgency of the moment forcing her body to keep moving. But deep down, she knew the truth. She’d been terrified. Not just for him, but for all of them. Bucky had been their anchor—the one who kept them moving, kept them alive when the world outside tried to swallow them whole. Without him, what were they supposed to do?

Her chest tightened, her breath catching for a moment as her gaze drifted to the floor.

“You’re not invincible, Bucky,” she said, quieter now, her voice cracking just slightly. “I don’t know what I’d do if...”

The words hung in her throat, too heavy to say aloud. She shook her head as if the gesture could physically push the thought away, her hands brushing against the crate as though searching for something solid to hold on to.

“If what?” he asked, his voice softer now, though his stubbornness still lingered at the edges.

“If we lost you,” she finished, the words barely audible, fragile in the quiet of the room.

Her gaze flicked back to him, and for a moment, she hesitated. She wanted to leave it at that, but the truth pressed against her chest, demanding to be spoken. If I lost you.

Bucky had been one of her first friends in this fractured world, though “friend” hardly seemed strong enough for what he was to her. He’d been a constant, the steady presence she could lean on when everything else felt like it was crumbling. He was the one who didn’t flinch when things got bad, who carried the weight when the rest of them faltered.

He’d believed in her, even when she doubted herself. When she’d stumbled through those early days of survival—making mistakes, hesitating when she couldn’t afford to—he hadn’t judged her. He’d just been there, steady and unyielding, like a pillar holding up the sky. She couldn’t bear the thought of him crumbling now.

The room felt heavier after that. The air seemed to press in around her, thick with unspoken fears and unacknowledged truths.

“You’re not gonna lose me,” Bucky said after a moment. His voice was firm, steady, but his eyes betrayed him. There were cracks in the armor, faint but undeniable.

She wanted to believe him. She needed to believe him. But the image of that day was seared into her mind, playing on a loop she couldn’t stop. If she’d been faster, better, maybe it wouldn’t have come to this. Maybe—

The sudden rattle of loose window panes snapped her out of her thoughts, the sound jolting her like a splash of cold water.

She blinked, her hand gripping the edge of the crate as if anchoring herself back to the present. The fire station felt oppressively quiet again, the faint rustle of wind outside only serving to highlight the stillness within. Her gaze flicked toward the windows, the cracked glass reflecting fragmented streaks of light onto the walls.

“You’re not gonna lose me,” he said again, softer this time, as though he could sense her spiraling. “You need to let that go, Doc.”

Her lips pressed into a thin line, but she didn’t respond right away. Letting go felt impossible. The weight of her own guilt was too familiar, too comfortable in a way she hated to admit.

Her lips pressed into a thin line. Letting go wasn’t something she knew how to do. The weight of her guilt was a constant companion, settling into the corners of her mind like the ever-present scent of old smoke and mildew clinging to the station’s walls.

Her eyes flicked toward the windows. The wind rattled the loose panes, a mournful sound that filled the gaps in their silence. Outside, the world was as lifeless as the space they now called home, its stillness punctuated by the occasional creak of the old building settling under the weight of its history.

“It’s not that easy,” she murmured, her voice so low it barely carried across the room.

Bucky didn’t respond immediately. His gaze dropped to the floor, the tension in his shoulders softening just enough to betray the exhaustion he carried. He flexed his left hand again—a restless, automatic motion that seemed to anchor him to the moment.

The silence stretched, punctuated by the faint scrape of her gloves against the crate as she adjusted her grip. She felt her thoughts start to spiral again, looping back to the same unanswerable questions. What if she’d been faster? What if she’d done something differently that day? What if—

“You heard anything yet?” Bucky’s voice broke through her thoughts, sharp but not unkind.

She blinked, the question catching her off guard. Her fingers tensed around the edge of the crate. “No,” she said, her voice steadier than she felt.

The thought of them hadn’t left her since they’d disappeared into the gray haze of the horizon. Steve had insisted it would be quick—one day there, one day back—but now every tick of the clock felt like it chipped away at her hope.

She could still see the supplies they had packed: the last of their ointments, a crumpled map covered in faded marker, and the small stash of ammo they couldn’t afford to spare. It hadn’t been enough then, and it certainly wasn’t enough now. A hollow ache settled in her chest as her mind played through worst-case scenarios: bartered goods gone wrong, the fragility of trust snapping like brittle glass, or worse, the things that prowled the world outside. They’d been gone too long.

The shelves behind her seemed to loom, mocking her with their emptiness. Supplies for one week, two at most, if they stretched them to breaking. And now, they were the only things keeping her from sinking entirely into panic.

Bucky’s jaw tightened, and he leaned forward slightly, the chair creaking beneath him, “They should’ve been back by now,” he said, the words heavy with unspoken concern.

“I know.”

The words came out sharper than she intended, and guilt immediately twisted in her chest. She exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand across her face.

“I know,” she repeated, softer this time.

Her gaze wandered back to the windows. The cracked glass caught the light, scattering fragmented streaks of gold onto the walls. She followed the patterns absently, trying to focus on them instead of the sinking feeling in her gut.

“They said it’d only be a day,” Bucky said, his voice taut.

“Maybe something slowed them down,” she replied, though the words felt hollow even as she spoke them. Her gaze didn’t leave the window. “It doesn’t mean—”

“You don’t believe that,” he interrupted, his eyes cutting to hers.

She turned to face him fully, her jaw tightening. He was right. She didn’t believe it—not really. The knot in her stomach had been twisting tighter since last night, and the longer they went without word, the harder it became to keep her worry in check.

“They’re smart,” she said finally, as if saying it aloud would make it true, “Steve wouldn’t let anything happen to them. You know that.”

The thought of them hadn’t left her since they’d disappeared into the gray haze of the horizon.

Steve had insisted it would be quick—one day there, one day back—but now every tick of the clock felt like it chipped away at her hope. She could still see the supplies they had packed: the last of their ointments, a crumpled map covered in faded marker, and the small stash of ammo they couldn’t afford to spare. It hadn’t been enough then, and it certainly wasn’t enough now.

A hollow ache settled in her chest as her mind played through worst-case scenarios: bartered goods gone wrong, the fragility of trust snapping like brittle glass, or worse, the things that prowled the world outside. They’d been gone too long. The shelves behind her seemed to loom, mocking her with their emptiness.

Supplies for one week, two at most, if they stretched them to breaking. And now, they were the only things keeping her from sinking entirely into panic.

“Steve’s smart, sure,” Bucky said, his voice hardening, “But those guys they were meeting—they’re not exactly known for playing fair.”

The traders weren’t strangers, but they weren’t friends either. Wanda’s voice echoed in her memory: calm, clinical, but sharp with unspoken warnings:

“They’ve got their own rules. Stick to the deal and walk away clean.”

Doc had wanted to ask more—who they were, what they wanted—but Vision’s grim expression had stopped her.

“We’ll be fine,” he’d said at the time, but she hadn’t missed the flicker of unease in his eyes.

Now, alone with her thoughts, she filled in the blanks they’d left open. Opportunists, Wanda had said once. People who traded in desperation. People who wouldn’t think twice about turning a deal sour if the odds tipped in their favor. The weight of their silence felt heavier now, like a storm cloud pressing against her lungs.

She didn’t know them, but she knew enough: they were exactly the kind of people who survived this world. That didn’t comfort her.

“They’ve been reliable so far,” she said, though even to her own ears, the words sounded weak.

“Reliable until they’re not,” Bucky muttered, his voice dark.

The wind rattled the panes again, louder this time. She glanced at the window, half expecting to see something lurking beyond the fractured glass. Instead, there was only the empty horizon, streaked with the dull gray light of an overcast sky.

“They’ll be fine,” she said, forcing the words out. Her voice wavered just slightly.

Bucky didn’t respond. His gaze was distant again, fixed on a spot on the floor.

“If they’re not back by tonight...” he began, his voice quieter now, “We go after them.”

Her stomach tightened. The words hung in the air, heavy with possibility.

“Bucky—”

Her gaze flicked to him. His left hand flexed unconsciously against his knee. It wasn’t that he couldn’t fight—she’d seen him take down more than she cared to remember—but there was a rawness to the way he moved now. Like a violinist playing with a broken bow, every strike carried the faintest hesitation, every block an unsteady rhythm.

The fight outside the station—the way he’d faltered for half a second—still lingered in her mind. Would Natasha or Sam even agree with such a reckless idea? They’d urge patience, wouldn’t they? But patience wasn’t something she could feel at that moment.

“I mean it, Doc,” he said, cutting her off. His tone was firm, but there was a vulnerability beneath it that caught her off guard. “We can’t just sit here and wait. Not when we don’t know what’s happening.”

Her chest tightened. She wanted to argue, to tell him they needed to stay put and think things through, but the truth was, she felt the same. The thought of waiting much longer, of sitting here in the suffocating quiet while Steve, Wanda, and Vision were out there—somewhere—was unbearable.

She exhaled shakily, trying to steady the chaos in her mind. “Okay,” she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper, “But I’m going with you.”

Bucky’s head snapped toward her, his expression hardening instantly. “No, you’re not.”

His tone was like a brick wall, but she barely registered it. Her chest burned with a heavy mix of determination and dread, a feeling that had been clawing at her since the moment Steve, Wanda, and Vision had left.

“Don’t start,” she said, her voice sharp, “I’m not sitting here while you go out there alone.”

“I won't go alone,” he countered, his brow furrowing deeply as he leaned toward her. “Sam and Natasha will go with me, they’ll agree with me and interject to join me. They can handle themselves, as I myself, you don’t need to get involved.”

Her hands clenched into fists at her sides.

“You can handle yourself?” she snapped, gesturing toward his left arm, “You’re still getting used to—”

“That doesn’t matter,” he interrupted sharply, his voice loud enough to make her flinch. His expression softened slightly, but his tone didn’t lose its edge, “I’ve been through worse. You know that.”

She knew he was right.

Doc had seen him withstand pain most people wouldn’t survive. But all she could think of was the way his body had sagged against her that day, blood spilling over her hands as she fought to keep him alive. Her breaths were shallow now, her pulse loud in her ears.

The sound of the walkers grunting from afar that day still haunted her nights.

Her mind drifted back—unbidden—to the first moments after the attack. Wanda’s screams had echoed in her ears long after the chaos had settled, a haunting soundtrack to her own failures. She could still feel the sticky warmth of Bucky’s blood as they’d tried, futilely, to stop the bleeding.

Every memory sharpened into a vivid, unbearable ache. She’d told herself over and over it hadn’t been her fault, but she didn’t believe it.

She blinked rapidly, trying to refocus.

“I can’t just sit here, Bucky,” she said, her voice trembling with frustration, “Not again. I didn’t do enough last time, and look where that got us. If something happens to them now, while I’m hiding here, I—”

“You’re not hiding,” Bucky said, his voice cutting through her words like steel, “You’re our doctor around here, we need you in one piece. They need you alive, we all do. Who else would keep Sam from trying to play hero when he’s hurt, or patch Natasha up when she refuses to admit she’s bleeding?”

Her lips twitched despite herself, but the moment passed too quickly, leaving behind only the gnawing weight in her chest. Her gaze dropped to the floor, shame coiling in her stomach. Surviving felt like an excuse. It felt like cowardice.

“You don’t understand,” she murmured.

“I do,” Bucky said, his voice calm and measured, though a flicker of pain crossed his features, “You think I don’t know what you’re feeling? That guilt? That weight? I carry it every damn day. But it doesn’t mean you throw yourself into the fire just to make it stop.”

Her breath hitched as his words struck a nerve, unearthing emotions she’d buried too deep to face. The images she’d been trying to suppress came rushing back again: Vision’s desperate attempts to shield Wanda, the way the chaos had swallowed them whole. She’d frozen at the worst moment, and she’d felt the cost of that mistake every day since.

Her shoulders sagged, the fight momentarily draining out of her.

“You’re asking me to stay behind and do nothing,” she said softly, her voice barely audible, “But I can’t, Bucky. I can’t stand the thought of—”

“Of what?” he pressed, stepping closer, his voice softer but still firm. “Of losing them? Of losing more people? You think I don’t feel that, too?”

She looked up at him sharply, her jaw tightening.

“I know you do,” she said, though the words felt thin and insubstantial. “That’s why I hope you understand me and let me go with you.”

“You think this is about permission?” he countered, his tone softening as his gaze fixed on her, “This isn’t about what you want, Doc. It’s about what we need. And what we need is for you to stop punishing yourself for something that wasn’t your fault.”

Her heart felt heavier, his words pulling her in two directions at once. She wanted to believe him, to let the truth settle into her bones, but her guilt sat heavier. Her mind spun, latching onto his words and twisting them.

The silence between them thickened, stretching into a chasm. Doc stared at the floor, her fingers twitching against her sides as her thoughts spiraled again.

She could still hear Steve’s voice, low and steady as he’d assured her they’d be back by now. She could still see Wanda’s tentative smile, Vision’s quiet nod. If she stayed here and they didn’t come back, she wouldn’t just be failing them—she’d be failing herself.

“I have to do something,” she said, her voice trembling.

“And I have to stop you from getting yourself killed,” Bucky said, his voice softer now, but no less firm.

Her lips parted to respond, the fight still bubbling at the back of her throat, but before she could speak, the sound of hurried footsteps interrupted them.

“Hey!” Sam’s voice cut through the tension, sharp and urgent.

They both turned to see him standing in the doorway, his expression tight with unease.

“Something’s wrong,” he said, glancing between them, “You need to see this. Now.”

The chill outside hit harder than expected, the wind carrying with it the faint, sour scent of decay. The fire station loomed behind them, its once-vivid red paint peeling in ragged strips, exposing the weathered wood and rusting metal beneath. Around them, the forest stretched endlessly, its skeletal trees swaying against the gray horizon like brittle fingers reaching for the sky.

Sam moved ahead of them, his pace brisk but purposeful. His jacket flapped with each gust of wind, revealing a patched-up shoulder that spoke to a lifetime of survival in a world that didn’t allow for rest. His expression was sharp, his dark eyes flicking between the treetops and the undergrowth as if expecting danger to leap out at any moment.

Doc’s breath came quick and shallow, the cold air biting at her lungs. Her boots crunched against the frost-dusted ground, the sound far too loud in the eerie quiet. She struggled to suppress the rising dread, but her thoughts swirled with growing panic.

What was wrong?

Her stomach churned as memories of past close calls clawed their way to the surface—hands grasping at her ankles, lifeless eyes staring through her as she fought tooth and nail to escape. When the problem wasn’t walkers, it was about other survivors.

The last time they had to deal with survivors who weren’t at all good still didn’t bring her any good memories.

The forest around her suddenly felt too close, the looming trees pressing in, cutting off the faint light of the overcast sky.

Ahead of them, Natasha stood on a rocky outcrop that overlooked the clearing, her figure stark against the muted greens and browns of the forest. Her hair was tied back tightly, stray strands clinging to her face from the wind.

She didn’t glance back as they approached, her sharp eyes narrowing at the horizon. Her rifle was slung over her shoulder, but her hand rested on her sidearm, fingers twitching in restless anticipation.

Sam reached her first. “Tell me this isn’t what it looks like,” he said, his voice tight.

Natasha’s lips pressed into a thin line, her eyes locked on the horizon.

“They’re closer,” she said flatly. Her voice carried an edge of worry that Doc wasn’t used to hearing. “A lot closer.”

The words hit like a stone sinking in her chest. Doc stopped a few paces behind them, her hands instinctively gripping the straps of her satchel.

“Closer?” she echoed, her voice barely above a whisper, “How close?”

Bucky stepped up beside Sam, his expression darkening as he scanned the treeline. “How close are we talking?” he asked, his voice low, measured.

Natasha exhaled slowly, the sound merging with the mournful rustling of the wind. “Close enough that we don’t have time to argue about it.”

Doc swallowed hard and turned her gaze to the treeline. At first, all she saw was the dense sprawl of trees swaying gently in the breeze. Then, movement.

Faint at first, almost imperceptible, but unmistakably unnatural. Figures staggered into view, their jerky, uneven steps disrupting the stillness. From this distance, they looked more like shadows than bodies, but the sound came next—low, guttural groans that seemed to rise from the earth itself.

Her breath caught in her throat. The walkers moved as if guided by some unseen force, their twisted forms weaving between the trees in eerie, disjointed patterns. They weren’t supposed to be here. They weren’t supposed to move like this.

“They were miles away,” she murmured, her voice trembling. “How are they already here?”

“They shouldn’t be,” Natasha replied tightly. “Two days ago, they were far enough out that we should’ve had at least a month.”

Doc’s heart raced as her thoughts spiraled. She’d studied the walkers enough to know their patterns, their sluggish movements and aimless wandering. These weren’t the same. Their pace was faster, their movements less random, almost purposeful. The idea sent a cold shiver down her spine.

“Unless they’re tracking us,” Bucky muttered grimly.

The thought hit Doc like a punch to the gut. “Tracking us? How?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Sam interjected, crossing his arms. His jaw tightened as he glanced at Natasha. “How long do we have?”

Natasha tore her gaze from the horizon to face them, her expression unreadable. “An hour,” she said, her voice clipped. “Maybe less.”

The wind picked up, howling through the rocky outcrop, carrying the walkers’ groans closer. Doc’s gaze drifted back to the treeline. She could see more of them now, their shapes growing clearer as they emerged from the forest’s shadows. Their bodies were twisted and broken, patches of skin hanging loosely from exposed muscle and bone. Some dragged limbs behind them, while others moved with an unnatural speed that made her stomach churn.

She forced herself to look away, but the sound lingered—wet, uneven footsteps against frost-covered earth, the grotesque symphony of broken jaws gnashing and guttural groans filling the air. They were closing in, a relentless tide of death that wouldn’t stop until it consumed everything in its path.

Her thoughts raced. This wasn’t supposed to happen.

Walkers didn’t move like this. They didn’t track people, didn’t organize. It didn’t make sense, and yet here they were, defying every rule she thought she understood.

“They’re moving like they know where we are,” she thought, a sickening realization clawing at the edges of her mind, “How do you fight something that learns?”

Bucky’s voice cut through the rising panic.

“Grab what you can carry,” he said sharply, his tone brooking no argument. “We’re moving. Now.”

The fire station was alive with chaos as they scrambled to gather their supplies. The sound of boots thudding against the worn wooden floors mixed with the muffled groans of walkers approaching outside. Each noise felt magnified, echoing in her ears as though the world itself was narrowing to this single point. Doc’s hands moved quickly, shoving rolls of bandages and jars of antiseptic into her satchel.

The sharp tang of alcohol mingled with the musty scent of old wood and mildew, clinging to her as much as the panic settling deep in her chest. Every item she touched seemed heavier than the last, her mind warring between what to take and what to leave behind.

Her thoughts spiraled, racing between what she needed and what she could afford to leave behind. But with every passing second, the groans outside grew louder, closer. Every creak of the building, every gust of wind that rattled the windows, made her nerves tighten further, the pressure of the outside world pushing in.

“You don’t have time for all that!” Sam’s voice barked from the garage entrance, his figure a stark silhouette against the dim gray light filtering through the open door. Beyond him, the treeline loomed, dark and unyielding, like the open mouth of a beast waiting to swallow them whole, “Just grab what you can carry!”

“I am!” Doc snapped, though her hands lingered on a box of sutures, the decision to leave it behind weighing on her like a physical blow. Her eyes darted to the shelves around her, taking in the jars, gauze rolls, and scalpels she couldn’t carry. Every piece felt vital, irreplaceable.

She tried to convince herself it would be fine—they’d find more. They had to. But the knot in her stomach told her otherwise.

Bucky stormed in, his boots striking the floor with a force that matched the tension radiating from his frame.

“Doc, we’ve got to move. Now.” His voice was low, commanding, each word clipped with urgency. His left hand flexed and unflexed unconsciously, his rifle slung tightly across his back. The sharpness in his blue eyes cut through the chaos, locking onto hers, “We don’t have time for second-guessing.”

She hesitated, her gaze flicking to a jar of precious antibiotics on the shelf. The sight of it was like a knife twisting in her gut.

“I can’t just leave this,” she murmured, her hand already reaching for it.

“You have to,” Bucky growled, grabbing her arm before she could touch it. His grip was firm, his tone leaving no room for argument, “We can’t carry everything, and you need your rifle free.”

The air outside felt even colder than it had moments ago, as if the very atmosphere was shifting with the encroaching danger. The frost-covered ground crunched beneath their boots as they bolted toward the path leading to the observatory, the sound of each footstep echoing in her ears. The wind whipped through the trees, its mournful howl filling the silence between them, as though the forest itself was mourning the loss of whatever had once lived there.

Every gust of wind seemed to tear at her skin, biting through her clothes, and mingled with the groans of walkers closing in from behind.

The scent of decay was thick in the air, a sharp metallic tang that clung to the back of her throat, heavy with the promise of what was to come. Her pulse quickened with each passing step, her eyes scanning the darkness of the forest ahead.

Doc kept her rifle close, her fingers tight around the stock, as though its familiarity was the only thing holding her steady. Her satchel bounced against her side with every hurried step, the weight of it a constant reminder of the things she had left behind—things she hadn’t had the time or space to carry. It was like a physical ache, that bag slapping against her side as if mocking her failure to prepare.

The forest around them felt alive with unseen menace. The skeletal branches above creaked and groaned in the wind, their long limbs swaying ominously, casting shifting shadows that seemed to stretch and warp like living things. The sound of leaves rustling in the breeze was sharper than it should have been, the snap of a branch too loud, too distinct, almost like a warning.

Every crack of frost beneath their boots made her flinch, every movement of the trees felt as if it might be something lurking just out of sight. Her senses were heightened, but it wasn’t enough—her heart hammered in her chest, her mind a whirlwind of chaotic thoughts.

We’re not safe. We’re not safe enough.

Then it hit her—a sudden, wrenching realization that cut through the haze of panic swirling in her mind. Her hand flew to her neck, her fingers grazing empty skin. But it wasn’t the locket. It was the antibiotics. The vial.

The thought slammed into her like a physical blow, stealing the air from her lungs. She’d left it behind—the very vials she’d been using for Bucky’s wound, the only thing keeping his infection from spreading.

The weight of that hit her harder than anything else. Panic surged through her veins, cold and unrelenting, and in that moment, her legs refused to move. How could I have forgotten it?

Her thoughts spiraled as the image of the fire station came rushing back, vivid and cruel. The counter, the medical kit, the vial of antibiotics—she could picture it exactly as she’d left it. Set aside for Bucky’s wound, ready for the next treatment. And now, still there. Waiting.

She stopped mid-step, the forest around her stretching endlessly, a blur of skeletal branches and frost-covered ground. The others pressed forward, their movements purposeful, but her feet wouldn’t obey. Something inside her refused to let go of that single image: the vial, sitting untouched, just where she had left it.

Why didn’t she pack it?

The question flickered through her mind, unspoken but persistent. There had been no reason not to. She’d been careful, deliberate with every other piece of their supplies. Yet somehow, the most important one had slipped through. A faint pang twisted her gut, unwelcome but unavoidable. Her hands clenched, as if the motion could undo the moment entirely.

She glanced up at the others, their figures moving steadily ahead. They didn’t know. They couldn’t. Their focus was forward—on the path, on safety, on what came next. But her focus wouldn’t move. It remained tethered to the fire station, the counter, the vial.

Her gaze dropped back to the frozen ground. It wasn’t far. That thought lodged itself in her mind, stubborn and insistent. If she turned now—if she ran—she could make it. She knew the risks, felt them in every hollow groan carried on the wind, but even those seemed muted next to the quiet insistence pulling her back.

The wind stung her cheeks, a sharp reminder of the urgency around her, but it wasn’t enough to snap her forward. Her legs shifted almost unconsciously, her body responding to a decision her mind hadn’t yet admitted.

“Doc!” Bucky’s voice broke through the fog of her thoughts, sharp and tight. She flinched, looking up. He’d stopped further up the path, his frame outlined against the pale sky, “We have to move!”

Her pulse quickened. Her fingers twitched at her sides.

The right thing—the safe thing—was to keep going, to trust they had done all they could, that there would be another way. But safety wasn’t what came to her now. Instead, it was the memory of Bucky sitting still as she worked on his wound, the faint tension in his jaw as he’d pretended not to feel the pain. The antiseptic had burned, but he hadn’t flinched.

The vial. The infection.

“I forgot your antibiotics, I’ll catch up with you,” she said, her voice catching in her throat. She didn’t look at them as she spoke, and didn't need to see the disbelief in their eyes, “Go to the watchtower, we are in four, it will be safe for us there as the horde passes through the forest.”

“Doc, no!” Sam called, his voice urgent but tinged with frustration, “You’ll get yourself killed!”

“I’ll be fine,” she muttered, barely hearing them anymore. Her feet were already turning, moving instinctively toward the fire station, “I’ll catch up. I promise.”

“You’re not going back there!” Bucky shouted, his voice breaking with the strain. He took a step forward, as though he might physically stop her, but Doc shook her head, her pace quickening.

She didn’t stop. She couldn’t. Not now.

Doc ignored the voices calling her name as she turned back, her feet pounding against the frozen ground. The urgency in her chest pressed down with each step. She couldn’t afford to waste any more time. The wind bit at her face as the forest around her seemed to close in, but she pushed on, determination fueling her every move.

The fire station came into view, its weathered walls grim against the cold, the door hanging open. The sight made her heart race. She could already hear the sounds of groans and shuffling feet—too many walkers closing in. She had to get in, grab the antibiotics, and get out.

No more hesitation.

As she stepped through the door, a sickly warmth met her, the stench of decay heavy in the air. Her eyes scanned the room quickly. It wasn’t overrun yet, but it was far from empty. A couple of walkers had already made their way inside—slow-moving, disoriented, gnawing at the remnants of their last victim. Their blank, dead eyes fixed on the dark corners, not yet aware of her presence.

Doc’s fingers tightened around the hilt of her knife, the cold steel offering her a brief sense of comfort. She moved quickly but cautiously, trying to avoid drawing attention to herself. The counter where she had left the antibiotics was just ahead, a faint light shining from the open window above. The sight of it—small, but so important—sent a fleeting wave of relief through her chest.

But the sound of groaning grew louder, sharper, filling the air with a sense of urgency that clawed at her throat. She could hear more of them now—shuffling closer, entering the station. The door she had come through wasn’t far behind her, and the sickening realization hit her: they were pouring in. Not a flood yet, but enough. Too many to fight if it came down to it.

She had to be quick.

Her heart thudded in her ears as she reached the counter. Her fingers grazed the familiar bottle of antibiotics, its cool surface a reminder of everything riding on this moment. She grabbed it, slamming it into her bag with shaking hands. The small moment of victory was short-lived.

The first walker noticed her then, its head jerking toward her, eyes blank and hungry.

Doc didn’t hesitate. She spun, slashing her knife across its throat. The body crumpled without a sound, the stench of blood and rot hanging in the air. She didn’t stop to think, just pushed forward, moving toward the door, but as she passed through, she saw more of them stumbling inside.

The sound of their dragging feet filled the space, their moans growing louder as they converged from all directions.

The door she had come through was barely closed when the groaning reached a new intensity. She turned sharply, her pulse spiking as she saw more walkers entering through the open door, and in that moment, a flash of movement caught her eye.

At first, it seemed like just another walker. But the way it moved—so much more fluid, less disjointed—was unsettling. Its skin was torn, flesh barely clinging to the bones, but it had the posture of something alive. Something human. A fresh, human shape, now hidden beneath the decaying skin of a walker. Its eyes locked onto hers for a fraction of a second, and something in her froze.

Was it possible?

“Hey,” she tried not to shout, “Who the fuck are you? Get out of here!”

But the sound of her own voice—loud, desperate—only drew more attention. The walkers around her snapped toward the noise, their vacant stares now focused entirely on her.

Her breathing quickened, the sound of her own heartbeat drowning out everything else. The walkers were converging now, their soulless groans blending into a grotesque harmony of hunger. The figure—the one that didn’t quite move like the others—had slipped from view, swallowed by the chaos. But its presence lingered in her mind, a sinister anomaly in a world that thrived on the bizarre.

Perhaps, she had imagined. She had imagined something that wasn’t there and would have to run faster because of such stupidity.

Doc’s grip tightened around her knife as she sidestepped a walker dragging its feet toward her. She didn’t pause. She couldn’t. Her fingers brushed the counter as she lunged forward, closing the distance to the vial. The cool glass met her palm, and she snatched it up, shoving it into her satchel. Her hands trembled as she secured the strap tightly across her chest.

There was no time to think. She turned, her boots scraping against the cracked floor, just as a walker lunged from her left. She ducked instinctively, its decayed fingers swiping through the air above her head. With a sharp jab, her blade found its mark, sinking deep into the side of its skull.

The body crumpled, but the noise of its fall only drew more attention.

She bolted for the door. More walkers were pouring in, the weight of their bodies pressing against the doorframe. Their groans echoed in the confined space, blending into a suffocating roar. One stumbled directly into her path, its teeth snapping at the air. Without slowing, she pivoted and slammed the heel of her boot into its knee, sending it toppling to the ground.

The cold wind hit her like a slap as she burst through the fire station door, the pale light of the outside world blinding her for a brief moment. She stumbled forward, her boots skidding on the frost-dusted ground, but she didn’t stop. She couldn’t. The moans behind her were growing louder, spilling into the open air with a guttural resonance that sent ice through her veins.

The treeline loomed ahead, a skeletal wall of gray and brown that swayed with the biting wind. It wasn’t safety—not really—but it was the only cover she had. Her legs burned with each step, the satchel bouncing heavily against her hip as she sprinted. The straps dug into her shoulder, the weight of the supplies inside a painful reminder of everything she’d risked to retrieve them.

Her breath tore through her lungs, harsh and ragged, pluming in short bursts against the icy air. Behind her, the cacophony of groans and dragging footsteps surged, echoing across the barren landscape. The sound clawed at her resolve, each guttural cry a reminder of how close they were. How close they always were.

She glanced back once—just once—and immediately regretted it. The walkers were pouring out of the station now, their twisted forms staggering into the open. Their flesh hung in tattered strips, their jaws slack but snapping hungrily at the air. Some crawled, their broken bodies dragging through the dirt, while others moved with a terrifying, jerky speed. Her stomach twisted at the sight, but she forced herself to look away.

Keep running. Don’t think. Just move.

The forest swallowed her whole as she plunged into the shadows of the trees, their brittle branches clawing at her jacket. The ground beneath her boots was uneven, littered with fallen twigs and patches of frost-slicked leaves that threatened to trip her with every hurried step. Her pulse thundered in her ears, louder even than the groans behind her, as though her body was trying to drown out the noise.

She pushed deeper into the forest, weaving through the skeletal trees with a frantic, unsteady rhythm. Every snap of a branch beneath her boots sounded deafening in the oppressive silence, and every rustle of leaves made her flinch, her mind conjuring images of walkers lurking just out of sight. The light filtering through the canopy was thin and pale, casting shifting shadows that danced and twisted in her peripheral vision like specters.

She stumbled, her boot catching on an exposed root, and barely managed to catch herself before hitting the ground. Her knee grazed the dirt, and a sharp pain shot up her leg, but she forced herself to keep moving. She didn’t have the luxury of stopping—not here, not now.

The terrain sloped upward as she neared the observatory, the incline forcing her legs to work harder with every step. Her breath came in shorter gasps, her muscles screaming in protest, but the sight of the tower ahead pushed her forward. It rose above the treetops like a crumbling monument to a world long gone, its once-pristine walls weathered and gray, the dome at its peak fractured but still intact.Her thoughts spiraled as she ran, the events of the day replaying in an endless loop. The fire station. The supplies. Her friends. She could still hear Steve’s voice, steady and reassuring as he’d promised they’d regroup at the observatory. "It’s high ground. Safe."

Safe. The word felt hollow now, meaningless against the reality of what she’d seen. If it was so safe, why weren’t they there? Where was Sam, Bucky and Natasha?

Looking around, Doc was sure: no one of them was there yet.

She reached the base of the tower, her chest heaving as she gripped the rusted railing of the staircase. The old metal groaned beneath her touch, the sound echoing in the stillness. For a moment, she hesitated, her gaze flicking back toward the forest. The faint sound of groans was still there, a low, distant hum that sent a shiver down her spine.

They were coming. Slowly but surely, they were coming.

Her boots clanged against the metal steps as she began to climb, each step a battle against the exhaustion threatening to drag her down. The staircase spiraled upward, the air growing colder and thinner with each turn. Dust swirled in the shafts of pale light filtering through the gaps in the tower’s walls, catching in her throat and making her cough. She gritted her teeth, forcing her legs to keep moving.

The top of the tower was just as she remembered it—wide, open, and eerily quiet. The observatory dome loomed above, its glass panels shattered and jagged, allowing the wind to whistle through unchecked. The room was empty, save for the remnants of equipment long abandoned: a rusting telescope lying on its side, a desk with drawers hanging open, and a scattering of papers so faded they were little more than fragments.

Doc’s eyes darted to every corner, every shadow, searching for any sign of her friends. But the room was still. Lifeless. She dropped the satchel onto the floor, her legs threatening to give out beneath her as the weight fell away.

She waited, standing in the center of the room as the silence pressed in. Her chest rose and fell with labored breaths, her mind racing with questions.

Why weren’t they here? Had something gone wrong? Had they even made it this far?

The questions circled in her mind, relentless and unanswerable. Her pulse hammered in her ears, and for a moment, she couldn’t tell if the sound was her heartbeat or the faint groans of the horde below. Her friends had been right there—right there—just minutes ago. She’d barely been apart from them long enough for anything to happen. They were ahead of her when she veered back toward the fire station. They had to be here. They had to.

She paced the room, her boots scuffing against the dusty floorboards. Every creak of the wood beneath her feet made her flinch, her nerves stretched thin. Her breath came in shallow bursts as she glanced toward the stairwell, half expecting to hear the echo of hurried footsteps or a voice calling her name. But there was nothing. Only the wind and the hollow groan of the old building settling under its own weight.

Minutes passed, though they felt more like hours. The emptiness of the observatory pressed down on her, heavy and suffocating, the quiet amplifying the chaotic churn of her thoughts. She moved toward the cracked window, her fingers brushing against the jagged frame as she peered outside.

Where were they? Had they been delayed by walkers? Overrun? Her mind spiraled, conjuring images she didn’t want to see: Sam cornered, Natasha until her last breath, Bucky shouting commands as he went down swinging... The scenarios played out like a cruel slideshow, each one worse than the last.

Her fingers clenched against the window frame, splinters digging into her palms. Her throat tightened, the raw ache of helplessness clawing its way up. She forced her gaze down to the clearing below, desperate for anything—a sign of movement, a clue, something.

She should’ve stayed with them. She shouldn’t have gone back for the supplies. She should’ve—

Something moved.

Her breath hitched as her gaze locked onto the clearing. At first, she thought it might have been the wind shifting the frost-covered grass, but then she saw it again—subtle, deliberate. A figure.

The person came into focus slowly, as though emerging from the haze of her scattered thoughts. They moved unevenly, their gait uneven but not aimless. One hand clutched at their side, where dark streaks of red stained their coat.

Blood.

Doc’s pulse quickened as her eyes followed their movements, taking in the bag slung over their shoulder, the way they adjusted its weight with a practiced efficiency.

Her grip on the window frame tightened. This wasn’t one of her friends, that was for sure.

She would have recognized their silhouette, their stride. But this person—whoever they were—didn’t stumble like a walker, nor did they panic like a survivor running for their life. There was something else in the way they moved. It wasn’t desperation.

It was...Calculation. Probably, he was a tracker of some kind.

She swallowed hard, her mind latching onto the details she could make out from this distance:

The bag. The blood. The deliberate, almost methodical way they navigated the clearing.

A flicker of unease sparked in her chest, followed quickly by something sharper. Anger, there was something wrong.

Her gaze dropped to the bag they carried. The stitching along its edges. The way it sagged, its contents shifting with each step. Her breath caught as realization dawned, slow and painful.

That’s ours.

Her mind snapped back to the fire station—the empty shelves, the supplies she’d fought to protect. The chaos of the walkers flooding the area. The pieces fell into place with a sharp finality that left her reeling. The strange figure she had a glimpse…

Her knees threatened to buckle, but she locked them in place, her hands shaking as they hovered near the rifle slung across her back.

This wasn’t some coincidence. This person—this stranger—had taken from her. From them. And now, they were walking away with what might have been theirs.

Her heart hammered in her chest, anger bubbling up beneath the exhaustion. She pulled the rifle from her back with trembling hands, her fingers curling around the cold metal as she raised it. Her breaths came quick and shallow, the weight of her own voice cutting through the stillness as she shouted.

“Hey!” The word ripped from her throat, raw and trembling, “Stop right there! I won’t hesitate to shoot you.”

The figure halted, their body eerily still despite the tension in her voice. Slowly, almost deliberately, they turned to face her. The movement was unnerving in its precision—not the panicked flinch of someone caught off guard, but the calm shift of someone who knew they held the upper hand.

The wind carried the faint, sickly scent of decay as the figure’s full form came into view. He wore a long coat, dark and heavy, its edges caked in mud and streaked with the dried, rust-colored smears of walker blood. The coat’s fabric hung unevenly over his lean frame, torn in places where crude patches of cloth and leather attempted to hold it together. His hands were bare, the knuckles split and red, as though they had seen far too much use against both the living and the dead.

But it was his face that gave Doc pause.

The sharp lines of his features were partially obscured by streaks of dirt and dried blood. A faint layer of stubble darkened his jawline, blending with the grime on his skin. His brown eyes were cold, unsettlingly sharp, and locked onto her with an intensity that made her pulse quicken. A smear of blood—fresh—traced the edge of his brow, disappearing into his short, neatly cut brown hair, which somehow remained untouched by the chaos that covered the rest of him.

More disturbing was the way his coat and boots glistened in places, patches of gore clinging to them as if he had waded through the carnage of walkers, not just avoided them. Thin strands of flesh—barely noticeable but sickening once seen—clung to the seams of his coat. He had blended with the dead, hiding among them, a grotesque trick that made Doc’s stomach turn.

So, he was indeed who she had spotted back there.

Even from this distance, there was an air of control about him, a calm that didn’t belong in a world where survival demanded chaos and fear. It set her on edge.

“I said stop!” she barked again, her voice trembling with anger, but her finger steadied on the trigger.

The figure tilted his head slightly, the faintest hint of curiosity flickering across his otherwise impassive face. His gaze dropped briefly to the rifle aimed at his chest before returning to her, his posture shifting as though weighing his options.

He didn’t answer her.

The wind howled through the shattered panes above, the distant groans of walkers carried with it, growing closer. Doc’s chest heaved with shallow breaths as the silence stretched between them.

Her eyes darted to the bag slung over his shoulder.

“What’s in the bag?” she demanded, her voice rising to fill the silence, “And who the hell are you?”

The man’s lips twitched faintly, not quite a smile but the ghost of something that made her skin crawl. He adjusted the bag on his shoulder, his movements slow and deliberate, as though to show he wasn’t reaching for a weapon.

“Supplies,” he said at last, his tone low and measured. His accent—a faint trace of something Eastern European—added a layer of dissonance to the single word.

Doc’s jaw tightened.

“My supplies,” she shot back, her anger bubbling to the surface, “You stole them. You brought the horde down on us.”

The man’s pout deepened the unease curling in her chest. His shrug was almost dismissive, but it was cut short by a sharp flinch, his hand twitching toward the bloodied side of his coat. Doc’s gaze flicked to the dark stain spreading there, her mind registering more of the injury even as her anger refused to abate.

“I don’t know what you are talking about,” he said evenly, his tone bordering on indifference.

Her grip on the rifle tightened, the cold metal grounding her in the face of his maddening calm.

“Don’t lie to me,” she snapped, her voice rising, “That bag—you got it from the fire station. It’s ours. You tore through our shelter and left us for dead.”

The slightest hint of amusement played across his face, though it was hard to tell if it was real or just part of the mask he seemed to wear so effortlessly.

“I did what was necessary,” he said, tilting his head slightly as he met her gaze. His tone was quiet, almost conversational, but it carried an undercurrent of steel, “You understand that, no? Survival demands... Adaptability.”

Adaptability my ass, Doc’s breath hitched as his words sank in. Stripping them of their supplies and drawing the horde straight to their door? That was adaptability?

In her world, that was called stealing.

“You put my friends in danger,” she spat, her voice trembling with barely restrained fury, “If they’re dead—”

“Then it is not because of me,” he interrupted, his voice cutting through hers like a blade.

The calm precision of his words made her falter. He didn’t raise his voice, didn’t plead or defend himself. He simply stated it, as though it were fact.

Doc’s hands shook, the rifle trembling in her grip. Her mind raced, torn between the instinct to pull the trigger and the gnawing doubt creeping in at the edges of her anger. He wasn’t wrong. The walkers were coming, and they had been closing in even before she’d reached the fire station. But that didn’t absolve him. Not when her friends were still missing.

“And why shouldn’t I shoot you right now, you fucker?”

The man’s lips pressed into a thin line, his expression sobering. He shifted slightly, his hand brushing against his wounded side as he straightened.

“Because,” he said, his tone measured, “we are both still standing here. If you shoot, it will only bring the horde's attention to us.”

Doc’s jaw clenched, her teeth grinding as the weight of his words pressed against her better judgment. He wasn’t pleading. He wasn’t begging for his life. He was stating facts, and that infuriated her even more.

Her finger hovered over the trigger, the weight of the rifle almost comforting in her hands. The logical part of her mind screamed at her to pull it—to end this before he had the chance to turn on her. But the sound of the groans in the distance, carried on the sharp winter wind, kept her grounded. He wasn’t wrong. One shot, and the horde would come straight for the tower. And with the way they were closing in, there wouldn’t be time to outrun them.

He tilted his head again, watching her with an infuriating calm, as though he could sense her internal struggle. His piercing blue-gray eyes were unflinching, almost clinical, like he was dissecting her every move.

“You are angry,” he said, his tone devoid of apology but filled with a maddening level of understanding, “That is fair. I would be too. But anger will not help you find your friends. It will not help you survive.”Doc let out a sharp, bitter laugh, the sound cracking against the tension like shattering glass.

“Don’t act like you’re doing me a favor,” she snapped, her voice trembling with the force of her frustration. “You stole from us. You put us in this position.”

“Perhaps,” he conceded with a faint nod, his voice still maddeningly even. “But I am not the reason your friends are not here. The world is cruel enough without your help in laying blame.”

Son of a bitch.

Her knuckles whitened around the rifle, her chest heaving as she fought to keep her emotions in check. The rational part of her mind screamed that every second spent talking to him was a second wasted. But the truth—raw and unforgiving—dug into her like a blade: how would she find Sam, Natasha and Bucky? She had no idea where they could have gone.

He must have noticed the slight falter in her stance because his voice softened, the sharp edge of his tone giving way to something almost persuasive.

“Think about it,” he continued, gesturing faintly to the dark stain spreading across his side. “You want to find your friends, right? I need help treating this, because I’m not a doctor myself.” He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in, “But I saw you back there taking those vials, you seem to know something or two about it. We can help each other. Or we can die here, arguing over what cannot be undone.”

Doc’s stomach churned, the truth of his words twisting like a knife in her gut.

She didn’t trust him. She couldn’t. But he was right.

Her friends could be anywhere, and the supplies she had weren’t enough to see her through on her own. Despite not trusting him, she wasn’t a tracker either, she had no clue how to find them.

Her voice was quieter when she spoke again, though it still carried the edge of her anger, “How do I know you won’t turn on me the second I patch you up?”

The flicker of a smirk tugged at his lips, though it didn’t reach his eyes.

“I could have killed you already if that were my intention,” he said simply. “But I didn’t. That should count for something, no?”

He was referring back to the fire station, when she had found him. You didn’t because it would bring the attention of the walkers to you, she dared say it out loud.

However, she got a glimpse of a dagger clinged in him. He could have easily sneaked up on her and killed her right there.

Damn.

She didn’t respond, her glare burning into him as she weighed her options. He shifted slightly, wincing as the movement pulled at his injury. Despite his calm exterior, she could see the subtle signs of pain etched into his features—the tension in his jaw, the faint sheen of sweat on his brow.

“If you kill me,” he added, his voice dropping lower, “You lose your only ally in finding them. And if I die, well, that would be my problem, I guess.”

Doc’s lips parted, a retort on the tip of her tongue, but the sound of the horde cut through her thoughts like a warning. The groans were closer now, their low, guttural chorus blending with the distant rustle of movement through the trees.

Time was slipping through her fingers, and she knew it.

She let out a sharp breath, lowering the rifle slightly but keeping it trained on him.

“Fine,” she bit out, the word heavy with reluctant resolve, “But if you even think about double-crossing me—”

“I won’t,” he interrupted, his tone clipped but sincere, “I am a man of my word.”

She didn’t know whether to laugh or scream at the audacity of his claim. A man of his word? He’d just admitted to stealing from her, to taking supplies that didn’t belong to him. But the alternative was clear. She could kill him, call the walkers down on herself, and hope to find her friends alone—or she could take the gamble.

Her hands shook as she pulled the satchel off her shoulder, the supplies inside rattling faintly.

“Climb,” she ordered, nodding toward the nearest flat surface—a weathered bench that looked as though it might collapse under his weight, “Quick, don’t worry about the wound, I will take care of it once you are up here.”

He complied without argument, though the effort was clearly taxing on him. His eyes narrowed briefly in pain as he shifted, but he moved with the grace of someone used to enduring hardship. As he climbed, his movements were slow, deliberate, clearly trying not to strain his injury further. The bench creaked under his weight, but it held, albeit barely.

“This doesn’t mean I trust you,” she muttered loudly enough for him to hear, her eyes still fixed on him.

“I would be disappointed if you did,” he replied instantly, the smirk never leaving his face. He was far too calm, too confident—something about that smugness made her blood run cold, but she couldn’t afford to focus on that now.

The wind howled through the shattered panes above them, the moans of the walkers growing louder with every passing second. The sound was unnerving, distant but unmistakably close. Her stomach churned as she tried to ignore the gnawing sense of urgency that gnawed at her from every direction.

This was a risk—a dangerous one—but it was a risk she had to take. For her friends. For herself.

She needed to find them. She needed to find Bucky. He and that injury... she couldn’t say for how long he would be okay without the antibiotics. And he couldn’t afford to wait much longer. His arm—his right arm—had been torn off, the injury severe. And without the proper care, it would only get worse.

Worse, she still had no idea where Steve, Wanda, and Vision were.

And as she wondered about all of that, she couldn’t help but feel the weight of his gaze on her, cold and calculating, as though he were already thinking five steps ahead.

Good for him, Doc thought with herself, because I always think ten steps ahead.

#helmut zemo fanfiction #marvel #mcu #helmut zemo x female original character #helmut zemo #baron zemo #marvel cinematic universe #helmut zemo x reader #zombie apocalypse #zombie apocolypse au #marvel fanfiction #mcu fanfiction #steve rogers #bucky barnes #sam wilson #natasha romanoff #wanda maximoff #vision

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justsomerandomfanfic · 2 years ago

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Never Gonna Give You Up - Helmut Zemo X Female Reader

Title: Never Gonna Give You Up

Helmut Zemo X Female Reader

Additional Characters: Bucky, Sam, Sharon (Mentioned), Steve (Mentioned), Helmut's Family (Mentioned), and other TFATWS characters (Mentioned)

Requested by @futuristicyouthvoid! (Thank you for requesting!!!)

WC: 932 (sorry if it's a bit short)

Warnings: Agent Reader, follows plot sort of, Zemo loves to dance, slight Bucky X Sam, anxiety, nervousness, german nicknames (my darling), mentions Helmut's loss of family and home, baby angst, and fluff

You entered the club of vibing people, dancing to upbeat house music. The lights were low in the nightclub, but you could tell that it was packed as all clubs tend to be. You weaved past dancers, and to the bar where you spotted Bucky and Sam, they were staring off at the dancing, as you made your way to stand beside them.

"Why'd you call me here?" You called out to Sam loudly over the music, "You know how expensive Madripoor tickets are? This better be something important because that was an eighteen-hour plane ride."

Sam shrugged, "I'll pay you back," He said. "And try to be quiet, will you? Don't want our cover blown."

You rolled your eyes, "What cover? Will you tell me why you so desperately wanted me here for then?" You asked, glancing at Bucky as he continued to stare down at the dancers.

"We're trying to find out who has been recreating the Super Soldier serum," Sam spoke in your ear, before leaning away.

You furrowed your eyebrows, "That doesn't explain the club?"

"It's Sharon's. She's helping." He answered and your jaw dropped slightly.

"Sharon? Steve's old fling? Jesus." You muttered under your breath and Bucky turned his head towards you.

"She's going to help us with intel on Nagel." He spoke, before turning back to the dancers. You furrowed your eyebrows once more, turning to Sam.

"Why is Buck staring at the dance floor? If he so desperately wants a dance partner... Why aren’t you two dancing?" You asked Sam, gesturing between him and Bucky.

Sam rolled his eyes, "Bucky doesn't want to dance. He's watching Zemo, so he doesn't get any ideas."

At his words, your eyes widened. Zemo? Your Zemo? Was here? You hadn't seen him since before the snap. You had visited him on multiple occasions before, but that was for SHIELD business. You had to interrogate the man, and it didn't help that Helmut was gorgeous. You didn't know it then but somehow you were able to melt his frozen heart, and that was saying something. Helmut had lost so much... His home, his family... He was distant towards you for so long. But, slowly, gradually, Helmut warmed up to you, and for the first time in years... He felt loved again.

And here you were, in a club, eyes wide as you stared at your Helmut from across the dance floor. He was dancing, rather... Adorably. You would've laughed if you weren't in so much shock. Sam stared at you, before placing a hand on your shoulder.

"You know him?" He asked and you ignored the man, rushing to maneuver and weave past dancers, desperate to get to Helmut as fast as you could.

Standing behind him as he fist-bumped the air, you let out a sigh. Slowly, with your bated breath, Zemo turned around and paused when his eyes locked with yours. You stared at one another, the loud music slipping away into nothingness as the world disappeared into only the two of you. Your gaze softened as you stared at Helmut, as did his. The two of you smiled, almost shyly as you gazed at each other.

Then, suddenly, Helmut was pulling you into his arms and into a deep kiss. The kiss felt like a dam had burst inside of you. You couldn't stop yourself anymore, wrapping both arms around Helmut's neck, clinging onto him desperately. Your fingers curled into his expensive shirt, tugging lightly on it as you kissed him passionately. Helmut pulled away after a moment, resting his forehead against yours as you both breathed heavily. You rested your hands on his chest, holding him tightly. You both looked at one another with soft smiles, before Helmut placed a small peck on your lips and stepped away. His cheeks reddened under the dim lights of the club, but his smile remained plastered on his face.

"Helmut... How did you get out?" You whispered gently, grabbing his hand to pull him closer.

He glanced away briefly, before looking back down at you. "James let me out."

"Bucky... Bucky let you out?" You asked skeptically, not believing this. Helmut nodded. You opened your mouth to speak but stopped yourself as Helmut spoke up.

"Not that I’m not elated to see you, my love, but why are you here?" He asked, wrapping his arms around you, holding you close to him, as the two of you swayed together on the dance floor.

"Sam called me." You mumbled into his shoulder, your grip tightening around him. He held you tighter. He knew you needed this. "He said he and Bucky needed help."

"Well," Helmut began, his hand running through your locks, "I am happy you're here. It's been a long time, meine Schatz."

You leaned away just enough to look him in the eye, "It has... And I am not letting them take you away from me again." You spoke determinedly.

His eyes flickered downwards, before looking back into your own eyes. "I know, my Schatz. I shall hope you never leave my side as well."

"I never could, Hel.” You muttered. "Now what trouble have they gotten you into?" You asked playfully as Helmut only smirked lightly, rolling his eyes. as he began to explain everything, you simply stared up at him, listening to his soft voice, hypnotic accent, and all, while holding the man you loved in your arms. You weren't going to let anyone take him away again, that was for sure. And if they tried, you would fight them tooth and nail. For Helmut.

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violetmuses · 2 years ago

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Four Course - Bucky Barnes

TITLE: Four Course - Bucky Barnes (Restaurant AU)

FANDOM: Marvel’s “Falcon and The Winter Soldier”

CHARACTER: James “Bucky” Barnes

MAIN STORYLINE: As Bucky helps a restaurant succeed, you suddenly turn heads.

Author’s Note: Hey! I couldn’t get away from one absolute brainrot. This project is also loosely inspired by “Burnt” and “The Bear.” Feedback would be greatly appreciated. Thanks so much for reading my work as always. - V. 💜

Main Masterlist

___________

2024

“You’re late, Sam. What the hell?” Clashing dishes and sizzled burners echoed all around while James continued working, already slammed.

“Watch your mouth, I just clocked in. Had to drop AJ and Cass off at school this morning too.” Sam quickly rolls his eyes. “Is Z here yet?”

“Nope.” James immediately praises the ceiling, casted in fluorescent lights that sharpened too much now.

“Thank God.” Sam pings that response, snatching one of many tickets and handing it to one server in record time. “I’m not trying to deal with his attitude yet.”

“Neither am I.” James agrees. The last few years scorched like Hell. Zemo had finally traveled stateside and opened this restaurant.

“Stop complaining. He can smell annoyance blocks away.” Joaquin warns, returning to the kitchen and still giving meal orders.

“Obviously.” James shakes his head, cooking regardless with his bare right hand.

____________

Helmut Zemo would’ve arrived during the first shift, but showing up fashionably late still made a difference in his own mind.

His limousine pulls up towards that familiar curb and one young driver almost runs around New York traffic just to aid that exit.

“Thank you.” Helmut whispers gratitude with accented English, but uses a separate door to enter the restaurant.

*****

“Shit, Come on. Zemo’s coming!” After running outside, Joaquin finds James smoking a cigarette and finally snaps, sending himself into panic.

“Where’s he now?” James stubs out the cigarette and brushes off his uniform, standing up in an effort to calm Joaquin down.

“Kitchen. Get up.” Joaquin continues, no longer messing around.

“I thought he didn't spook you anymore.” James chuckles without humor and still faces Joaquin.

“Zemo doesn’t scare me, but we got a critic today. She’s hiding through our rush at this point.” Joaquin sends out even more alarm bells.

James almost wants to choke him with his leftward metal arm.

“Why didn’t you just say that?” James almost yells out loud, but is smart to walk back inside with Joaquin trailing behind him.

___________

This restaurant leveled out in terms of quality placement, but wasn’t exactly known to be high-end.

Ambitious owner Helmut Zemo founded the location eight years back, fusing Sokovian favorites right alongside other cuisine nowadays.

The official review would be…something. Not that you would bum out this entire place, but everything felt rushed for plating. Each meal balanced onto your table without showing much love.

You wouldn’t fault the cooks, at least not yet.

***

“Is she nice?” Now, Joaquin mentions you, the critic, fighting an urge to cringe. Yet, he still helps out his coworkers. There’s no other choice.

“So far.” Zemo clears his tone, clipping the response.

“Quit chatting, you two. We gotta work and she wants dessert in the next few minutes.” Sam chimes, uniting with James as tickets keep moving in or out of the kitchen.

“Sam?” Zemo arches one leftward brow and crosses his suited arms. James and Joaquin keep working, completely ignoring this quiet square up.

“What? I’m not wrong.” Sam defends himself and silence then falls between both men. Zemo walks off.

“James, come with me.” Zemo instructs. James can’t refuse, following both Zemo and Joaquin out towards the dining room.

_________

“Here you go, Miss.” Smiling, Joaquin greets you once more and ends up gifting scrumptious cheesecake as dessert. “Hope this one makes you feel better.”

“Thank you.” You grin back and chuckle at the moment, looking forward to enjoying this slice.

James and Zemo stand at a fair distance as you turn your fork, cutting down this cake a bit more now.

“Last bite.” After different meals, from appetizers to right here, Zemo whispers, hoping that you won’t actually step away and shut this restaurant down.

Meanwhile, James’s heart races and drops all at once. In truth, he crafted every morsel that you’ve ordered.

“How’s the cake?” Joaquin smiles back at you for the millionth time.

“I need another slice.” You wipe your lips and rave, genuinely surprised.

“Yes, Ma’am.” Joaquin nods, saying farewell as you finish eating the first cake slice alone.

“Zemo?” You acknowledge Helmut at last, gesturing for this man to come closer despite this dinner rush.

“Yes?” Helmut answers quietly, using his typical brand of charm to greet you.

“Who covered my orders?” You question Zemo.

At that moment, James’s blue eyes nearly widened. Still, you look right at him, knowing that he is the main “culprit.”

“Fair enough.” James accepts that comment. You’re standing feet away from him now, privately standing outside and not viewed under Zemo’s watch.

________

“Tonight wasn’t bad,” You tell James. “The main entree that you put out could’ve been a lot better, though.”

“Glad you’re so understanding.” You nod, taking in your sight of an alleyway landscape. Horns blare from nearby traffic.

“Good to see you again.” James clears his throat, slyly referring to the past.

“Call me, Buck.” You lift your cell phone, use his nickname, and wink, heading elsewhere to leave him behind.

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whowantsnachos · 2 years ago

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Strawberry Champagne

Pairing: Helmut Zemo x Original Fem!Character (or you can insert yourself if you want)

Summary: After Madripoor, Zemo thinks Lydia should stop drinking. This is the result. (set post episode 3 FATWS)

Warnings: Swearing

Word Count: 2.4k

A/N: Lydia, my character, has like this fire magic thing that HYDRA implanted in her. She has a lot of scars because of all of the experiments and the injections, but she covered them all after she got out with different tattoos. Another thing, her hair does this thing where streaks of it will turn into like a brighter red / ginger than her regular hair color [kinda like Tonks is a good way to describe it] when her body temperature goes up. The language that is occasionally spoken is Serbian, but it’s supposed to be Sokovian, and I heard they were similar. Anyways, feedback and stuff is always accepted, given this is the first thing I wrote officially. Enjoy!

Lydia was sitting in bed, wearing an oversized Metallica hoodie with her knees close to her chest. Her dull, red hair was a mix of slightly messy and living hell. She thought about everything she had just witnessed in the past couple of hours with one arm wrapped around her legs and the other holding champagne. Lydia sat in the same position for about an hour or two, either thinking, spacing out or drinking. A sudden knock on her door made her jump in surprise.

“Yeah?”

“Can I come in?” she heard Zemo ask on the other end.

“Um, yeah, sure,” she said quietly.

He opened the door and stepped inside. He raised his eyebrows in slight shock seeing her so distraught.

“Are you alright?”

“Oh, I’m over the moon,” she said sarcastically.

“I apologize, I probably should have warned you ahead of time what we were getting into.”

“Yeah, you think? I can’t really blame you though, I should’ve expected all of that. I mean, it’s you, Sam, and Bucky, how could it have been any different? Anyway, it’s more my fault for agreeing to get into all of this shit again.”

“It’s not-”

“No, wait, that’s right! It's not my fault. It’s you three that dragged me back into this shitfest. Why am I blaming myself? I guess I agreed… regardless! Why am I the one to fix your guys’ messes, huh?”

“Ok, that’s enough champagne,” Zemo said as he grabbed the glass from her, sensing her getting mad.

“I wasn’t done with that yet,” she said sternly, reaching for the glass.

“Yes. You were.”

Lydia glared at him, and Zemo rolled his eyes out of annoyance, grabbing the champagne bottle from the side table next to her. He went into the bathroom and poured the rest of it into the sink.

“Why do you have to ruin my fun all of the time?” she asked, crossing her arms.

Zemo raised his eyebrow and said, “I’m not. I just think you would rather not have a hangover first thing in the morning.”

“How would you know? Tomorrow hasn’t happened yet,” Lydia cockily stated.

“Trust me, you wouldn’t.”

“Oh, you’re trustworthy now?”

Zemo gave her a death stare and Lydia looked down, realizing she might’ve hit a nerve.

“Sorry,” she murmured, playing with the edge of her sleeve.

Zemo softened his gaze a little and leaned on the doorway of the bathroom. He noticed the tattoos near her wrist, each one a different pattern or idea than the other.

“What are those for?”

Lydia quickly put her sleeve back down and said, “Nothing.”

Zemo titled his head to the side and narrowed his eyes at her but shrugged it off.

“Where did you find that champagne?” he asked.

“Um, I may or may not have stolen it from that club...”

Zemo’s face lit up in amusement, and he asked, “You stole two thousand dollar champagne?”

“Possibly,” Lydia said with a smirk.

“Impressive.”

“I can be spectacular sometimes.”

Zemo laughed breathly but didn’t say anything. Lydia wanted to thank him for helping her out when the shooting broke out, but she didn’t know if now would be the appropriate time or not.

Well, it couldn't hurt.

“Um, I wanted to thank you. For helping me out back there. It really means a lot to me, I mean, I know that I’m not your favorite person in the world, but-”

“What gives you that impression?” Zemo asked.

“You’re kidding me, right? You’ve shut down half of the ideas I had about how we were going to execute Madripoor, and look where we ended up!”

“I knew it better than you did.”

“Apparently not! We could’ve died, Helmut.”

“If we would have done it your way, that fate would have been met sooner.”

“You don’t know that.”

“And neither do you,” Zemo responded.

Lydia cocked her head and put her hands on her hips. Raising her eyebrows at Zemo, she went into the bathroom to grab something from under the sink. Lydia also noticed that some streaks of her hair lit up, but she hoped that he hadn’t noticed.

“What are you doing?” Zemo asked.

She answered him by holding up another bottle of champagne with a strained smile on her face as she was walking out of the bathroom. As she was about to open the bottle, Zemo grabbed it and put it on the bathroom counter. Lydia gave him a mock pouty look, and he rolled his eyes.

“You need to stop drinking, I’m serious. You giving me that look isn’t helping you,” he said.

“You sure?” she asked as she emphasized her look.

“Lydia. I’m serious.”

Her ears burned at the way that he had said her name, and she could only pray that her hair hadn’t betrayed her now.

“And,” Zemo continued, “For the record, I don’t hate you or anything like that. To be honest, you’re the only one I can stand out of the ones I’ve met.”

Lydia raised her eyebrow slightly, and he quickly added, “Not that you’re the best of the worst, it’s just, how should I put this… I guess it’s more around the lines of ‘you’re smart and they’re not.’”

“Wow, harsh,” Lydia said with an amused look on her face.

“Well, it’s true,” Zemo said with a smirk on his face.

“Well, if I’m so smart, then that means… my plan was the best.”

“Eh, I wouldn’t go that far.”

Lydia rolled her eyes playfully at him and walked back into the bathroom, but Zemo stopped her by closing the door halfway.

“Lydia,” he said with a warning tone.

Now, Lydia could see her hair quickly turn into a brighter red color, and she cursed herself in her head silently, hoping he didn’t notice, but she wouldn’t bet on it.

“Does your hair always do that?”

God damn it.

“Do what?”

“Change color like that when your name is said.”

“Um, no. Not to my knowledge, no,”

Zemo narrowed her eyes at her while his attention seemed to turn to her hair. Lydia felt slightly embarrassed by his staring, but this only led to it turning brighter again. He smiled a little and said, “It’s a nice color; it suits you.”

She could feel her face burning mainly out of embarrassment and something else she couldn’t describe. Lydia jumped a little when she felt Zemo touch her arm. She felt her skin burn up, and he said, “I apologize, but I recognize this one.”

Zemo went to touch her arm again, but before he did, he asked, “May I?”

Lydia nodded, and he lifted her sleeve, intently scanning the dragon on her forearm. He carefully traced the outline of it, and Lydia felt her skin heat up with each trail he left. The way that he was looking at her tattoo sent shivers down her spine, but surprisingly, it was a nice feeling, considering she hasn’t felt anything cool in a long time.

“Змај,” (“Zmaj,”) Zemo whispered.

“What?”

“Змаj, correct?”

Lydia nodded, and Zemo hummed, “Yeah, I remember that story. My parents used to tell me that all the time.”

“My parents weren’t into the whole legend thing, they always said it was just a bunch of lies people tell to poison our minds, but I have heard it a few select times.”

“Your parents were quite the people, huh?” He laughed.

She laughed with him and said, “Yeah, they were definitely something, alright.”

“Well,” Zemo started as his hand traced bits and pieces of her tattoos before stopping at the palm of her hand, his fingers slowly intertwining with hers. “They raised well.”

Damn you.

She felt her skin heating up with every second, but she tried to contain it as much as she could. She looked over at the bathroom mirror that was mostly covered by the door, but she could see that dozens of streaks of her hair were lit up bright orange like crazy. He glanced back at her hair, and his smirk grew.

“Does it usually change when people touch you as well?”

“A-again, not to my knowledge, no.”

Zemo hummed again and began tracing the tattoos on her other arm before grabbing her other hand and running his thumb over her wrist. He carefully moved his hands up her forearms, tracing the shapes of her tattoos more fully this time, while pulling her closer to him. Lydia’s heart picked up even faster, not that she knew how that was possible. To her, it felt like they’d been spending an eternity standing in the doorway, but at the same time, it felt like no time had passed at all.

“Lydia?”

She took a breath in, and looked up at him, asking, “Yeah?”

It wasn’t until that moment that she realized how close they were to each other. Zemo’s breath lightly fanned her face, and his hands let go of her arms, slowly wrapping them around her waist instead. Lydia swallowed discreetly from his stare, and Zemo tilted his head to the left slightly and smirked at her.

“Do I make you nervous?”

“N-no, why would you? I could beat your ass into next year if I wanted to, what would I have to be nervous about?”

“I don’t know, you tell me. I’m sure your hair doesn’t light up around other people every time you stand next to them, or they talk to you.”

He pulled her closer and leaned his head down just enough so that he was only inches away from her face.

“Unless… it’s something else that makes your hair light up whenever I'm around.”

After he said that, he backed up a little and looked at her hair. Several streaks of it were brightening up, lightly illuminating the aura around her head. He smiled and laughed lightly through his nose.

“If I remember correctly, ‘Miss Vesta’s abilities cause her physical appearance to change as well. Her hair will change into different shades if she has any sort of strong emotions, including, but not limited to: anger, stress, sadness, and attraction.’ Does that sound right?”

Lydia squinted at him in confusion, and Zemo chuckled, saying, “SHIELD’s not very good at hiding things like they think they are.”

Lydia sighed and looked to her right and then down at her feet.

“So, again, I must ask,” he started. “Lydia…”

He removed one hand from her waist and lifted her chin up to meet his gaze.

“Do I make you nervous?”

Lydia licked her lips and said, “...no.”

Zemo leaned in closer, guiding her face to his slowly. He stopped centimeters before her face, just like before, and she could smell his expensive cologne radiating off of him.

“Are you sure? Your skin is burning.”

‘Копиле.’ (‘Bastard.’)

“Maybe I shouldn’t-“

“Ох, забога.” (“Oh, for God’s sake.”)

Lydia put her hand in the back of his neck, pulled him down, and their lips met. Zemo’s grip on her waist tightened, and moved his hand from her chin to the side of her face, the extreme heat of her skin slightly burning his hand. He furrowed his brow and backed her up onto the doorway, allowing him to close any distance between them. The smell of strawberry champagne intoxicated his senses, and he couldn’t get enough of her.

Lydia could feel every part of her body start on fire, whether she knew that’s what was actually happening to her or not. Her heart felt like it skipped ten beats at once, and heat filled her chest. She felt magnetized to him, and every break for a quick breath of air filled her with a sense of longing for more. Lydia thought her knees were going to collapse from underneath her, and she was grateful for the doorway behind her. She felt ripples of chills go up her spine for the second time that day, and the sensation of his thumb grazing her cheek only made it harsher. She felt her fingers become white hot, and she quickly retracted her hand to his shoulder, not wanting to burn him. She felt every bone and muscle in her body become the same temperature, and she felt the texture of the material of his shirt change. She removed his hand from her cheek and pulled away from him, catching her breath.

“I-I’m sorry. My skin… I can’t-”

Zemo shrugged and said, “To be honest, I never liked this shirt anyways.”

“No, you don’t understand, I don’t want to hurt you.”

Zemo tilted his head and raised his eyebrows quickly. He looked down and put his hands in his pockets, taking out the pair of gloves he was wearing earlier that day and putting them on. After he did that, he put his hands up and smiled at her.

Lydia lightly laughed and said, “I appreciate the gesture, but that’s not gonna do you much good. I’ll just burn-”

Zemo cut her off by saying, “I’ll take that chance.”

He kissed her gently, not wanting to make her skin burn back up again.

A sudden knock at her door caused Lydia to jump and separate from him, turning her head towards her door.

“Lydia? We need to discuss the plan for tomorrow. Have you seen Zemo anywhere?” Bucky asked through her door.

Lydia turned back towards him with a devilish look on her face. She whispered, “Play along,” and quickly pushed him away from her, a glare forming on her face.

“Yeah, he’s trying to steal my champagne.”

Bucky opened the door to the pair glaring at each other with murderous intent.

“You mean, I’m trying to take away the champagne that you stole from the club,” Zemo quickly countered, getting the message.

“Well, it’s mine now, isn’t it?”

“Alright! Look, she can keep the champagne, it doesn’t matter,” Bucky said.

“James, that was worth probably around two thou-“

“I don’t care,” Bucky said while giving Zemo a death stare before continuing. “We don’t have time for this anyway. We have to figure out the plan for tomorrow, come on.”

He left the room, and Lydia turned towards Zemo, raised her eyebrows, and dramatically put her hand out. He rolled his eyes and took the champagne bottle off of the counter and gave it to her.

“You’re only getting this because he likes you more than me.”

“And who’s fault was that?” Lydia retorted.

Zemo gave her an annoyed look as she laughed, and they both walked out of the room.

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loki-quinn · 2 years ago

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Annoying the Winter Soldier... Part1

Link to chat bot here

#bucky x zemo #james bucky buchanan barnes #james bucky barnes #james buchanan barnes #bucky barnes #bucky x female reader #bucky x you #bucky x reader #bucky fic #marvel #the falcon and the winter solider spoilers #the falcon and the winter soldier #the winter solider smut #the winter soldier #winter soldier

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buckysdollsworld · 6 months ago

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The Adventures of Bucky Barnes and Y/n Stark | Madrippoor | Bucky's Doll

Warnings: mention of SA, language

content: praise, pet names, kidnapping

Selby walks over to you and caresses your cheek "We're going to have so much with you little mouse." Bucky was barely holding on but had to keep in character for your sake, so he glared at both Zemo and Selby. Selby signals to her guards "Take her to the back room and get her settled" They both nod getting on either side of you they grab both your arms and walk you out. The guards led you into a dimly lit room the walls were covered with many things paddles and a variety of sex toys and stuff for bondage which made your fear heighten. They lead you to a large king-size bed keeping their grip on you tight one of them lets go and grabs rope from a nearby closet you start to panic a bit so you struggle against the guard in response the guard pushes you onto the bed pinning you down. The other guard grabs your wrists tying them above your head you keep trying to fight back but are unable they are too strong. You eventually give up on fighting back both of the guards smirked noticing that you finally gave up.

✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪

Meanwhile, as Selby is with the others discussing the serum and other things Bucky can't help but feel uneasy especially now that you are gone he glances at Zemo and Zemo immediately notices "Excuse me Selby but I need to talk with my associates before we continue." Selby nods as Zemo steps toward Bucky and Sam. "We are not leaving her here" Bucky growls "Bucks right we can't just abandon Y/n" Sam agrees Zemo just gives them both an annoyed look and says "We aren't leaving her..." he pauses "At least not forever, she'll stay with Selby and her boys until the auction" "Auction? What are you talking about? What auction?" Bucky glares at Zemo, Zemo just smirks at the two of them "Oh you don't know? We just handed our little friend, Y/n over to one of the biggest sellers in Madripoor" Zemo gave a satisfied grin. Bucky got right in Zemo's face "Where are they taking her?" Bucky demanded "Oh don't worry soldier they're going to take good care of your precious doll" Zemo smirked.

✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪

Back in the dimly lit room where you were tied up, you were alone now the guards had done unspeakable things to you and then left. It didn't matter how much you cried or even screamed they just left you feeling used like you were just there for their enjoyment. You cried for what felt like hours but when you heard the door open it went silent all but the door creaking open. You hoped maybe it was Bucky coming to save you but no instead you were met with yet another stranger "Please don't hurt me, I'll be good I promise" you cried out. The stranger walked forward toward you he chuckled "Aw don't worry my dear I'm not here to hurt you, I want to help you" You looked at him not a single part of you trusted him. The man reached forward to undo the knot you flinched and his expression softened "Easy now, I'm not going to hurt you" he said it gave a small sense of reassurance but it was so confusing why would this random man be helping. He reaches out again and undoes the knots his gaze lingers a bit longer on you before backing up, just enough for you to get up. You don't move not an inch he studies your movements a moment before speaking up "Hey it's okay I know Bucky he sent me to come save you" For a moment you feel hopeful but it all falters at those last words Bucky sent me to save you. "No he didn't who are you?" you say as a demand more than a question the man chuckles "Ah a smart one I see but don't you worry my dear pet you will forget about your little friend Bucky soon"

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vunblr · 21 days ago

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To Mend a Soldier

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Warnings: 18+ (Masturbation). Slight angst. Comfort. Fluff.

Summary: Pressed by a worried Sam, Bucky reluctantly agrees to try an alternative -and, if you ask him, weird- therapy program: rent-a-mom. What starts as an obligation soon turns into something far more meaningful than he ever expected.

Word Count: About 20k.

note: Yeah… it’s a long one. This has been sitting in my folder for a while, and I couldn’t figure out where to split it, so here we are. Please don’t hate me! 😅 If you enjoy it, I’d really appreciate it if you could share or leave a comment, it means so much.

After everything he’d been through -Hydra, Zemo, Thanos, Steve’s departure, and now therapy with Dr. Raynor- Bucky still couldn’t seem to find peace. The nightmares remained, the guilt festered, and every glance he got on the street reminded him of who he used to be, not who he was trying to become. Trusting people felt impossible, and his defenses were built like steel walls.

Sam, however, refused to let him slip further into isolation. Over the past few months, he’d watched him struggle silently, shrugging off every attempt to help him open up. But The Falcon wasn’t one to give up easily.

One evening, while they were returning from a brief mission on a plane, he finally brought it up again.

“You ever thought about alternative therapy?” he asked casually, pressing a cooling bag over his shoulder.

Bucky didn’t even look up from where he was unlacing his boots. “What, like yoga?” His voice was flat and unimpressed. “I don’t bend that way.”

“No, not yoga.” Sam’s tone was patient like he was explaining something to a stubborn child. “It’s something some veterans are trying. Heard about it from a guy at the VA.”

“Right.” Bucky snorted. “Modern mumbo jumbo. What is it? Journaling? Crystals? Hugging trees?”

Sam rolled his eyes. “It’s called rent-a-mom.”

That got Bucky’s attention. His head snapped up, eyebrows furrowing in confusion. “Rent-a-what?”

“Rent-a-mom,” Sam repeated, biting back a grin at Bucky’s incredulous expression. “It’s this service where someone -usually a nice, older lady- comes to your place for a couple of hours a week. She cooks, chats, and keeps you company. Some guys use it to feel normal again, you know? A little comfort or emotional support, whatever you need, with no judgment.”

Bucky stared at him for a beat before deadpanning, “So you’re telling me to hire a prostitute.”

Sam threw his hands up in exasperation. “What is wrong with you man? No! That’s not what this is.”

“You sure? Because whatever I need, with no judgment sounds like you’re telling me to hire someone to-”

“Stop!” Sam cut him off, pointing a finger at him. “It’s not like that, okay? She works with vets all the time. You know, people like you who don’t trust anyone and think the world’s out to get them.

Bucky crossed his arms, leaning back in his seat. “Sounds like a scam.”

“It’s not a scam. I know a guy who uses her services. He says it’s the only thing that keeps him grounded some weeks. And it’s not just him. A lot of vets partaking on the program swear by it.”

Bucky grumbled under his breath, something about “modern nonsense” and “people these days.”

Sam sighed, leaning forward. “Look, man, I’m not saying it’s gonna fix all your problems. But what’s the harm in trying? One session. Worst-case scenario, you don’t like it, and you never call her again.”

Bucky shook his head. “I don’t need some stranger poking around in my life.”

“She’s not gonna poke,” Sam insisted. “She’s just there to help. And let’s be real, you could use it. You’ve been holed up in that apartment for weeks. When’s the last time you had a real conversation with someone who wasn’t me or that Raynor bitch?”

Bucky didn’t answer, just tightened his jaw.

“Exactly,” Sam said, leaning back with a smirk. “Plus, you owe me for Redwing. That little stunt you pulled last week? Yeah, I’m still mad about that.”

“Cheap shot,” Bucky muttered, glaring at the floor.

“Call it whatever you want. You’re doing this.”

After a long, heavy pause, Bucky sighed. “Fine. One session. But if this is a waste of my time, I’m blaming you.”

Sam grinned, already pulling out his phone. “You’re gonna thank me when it works. Just wait.”

----

Bucky sat on the edge of his couch, glaring at his phone like it had personally wronged him. Sam had texted him the woman’s contact information a few hours ago, with an obnoxious winky face at the end. He couldn’t tell if it was supposed to be reassuring or not but either way, it made his skin crawl.

“Just one session,” he muttered, running his hand down his face. Sam’s words echoed in his head: “It’s not what you think, man. She’s just… good at what she does. People trust her.” Trust. Bucky scoffed. That wasn’t something he handed out easily anymore, but after the Redwing incident, Sam wasn’t going to let him live it down unless he followed through. Grimacing, he tapped out a message.

Hi. This is James Barnes. Sam Wilson gave me your contact information. He said you… help people. I’m interested in setting up a session. Let me know if you’re available.

He stared at the screen for a good minute before hitting send. The second the message left his phone, he regretted it.

What the hell am I doing?

His internal spiral was interrupted by a response. That was fast.

Hi, James! Thanks for reaching out. I’d be happy to help. How does Tuesday at 5 PM sound?

He frowned. No small talk? No questions? Just… straight to the point. It wasn’t what he’d expected, but he appreciated it.

Fine, he replied, then immediately felt like a jerk. Then he added a Thanks.

----

Thursday came too quickly. Bucky paced his apartment, tidying up out of sheer nervous energy. He wasn’t sure what to expect. What was this woman going to do? Make him tea? Lecture him on proper nutrition? Sam had called her a “mom-for-hire,” but the idea still sounded absurd.

At exactly 5 PM, there was a knock at the door. Bucky froze. For a split second, he considered pretending he wasn’t home. But he sighed, ran a hand through his hair, and opened the door, noticing two things:

First, this Mom was not an older lady. Either Sam left out that critical detail, or she was some kind of evil witch who sucked the life force out of her victims to stay young.

Second, she was… nice to look at. He quickly chastised himself for the thought.

“Hi,” she said, in a warm but professional tone, like she’d done this a hundred times before. There was no hesitation in her posture, no uncertainty in her eyes. She shifted the bag on her shoulder and offered a small smile. “You must be James.”

“Bucky.” he corrected gruffly, crossing his arms and leaning slightly against the doorframe. “You’re not what I expected.”

Her smile doesn’t falter. “Let me guess. You were expecting someone older? Maybe with glasses and a knitting basket?”

Bucky raises an eyebrow, not confirming but not denying either.

She lets out a soft laugh. “I get that a lot.”

The silence stretched between them, and then he realized he was just standing there, blocking the doorway like an idiot. He stepped aside, muttering a “Come in.”

She entered the apartment, glancing around the living room as she set her bag down, taking in the stark, utilitarian setup. A couch, a small TV on a stand, and little else. The dining table was non-existent, replaced by a counter with two bar stools. “This is… cozy,” she said diplomatically, gesturing at the space.

Bucky’s lips twitched in a faint smirk. “It works.”

She hummed in response, her gaze falling to the small stack of books on the coffee table. A couple of dog-eared crime novels sat next to a remote. There wasn’t much else to indicate anyone truly lived here. No photos, no clutter, just the bare essentials.

He folded his arms again, hovering near the door as if he wasn’t sure whether to close it or bolt. “Look, I don’t need the whole... whatever it is you do. Sam talked me into this, so don’t feel like you have to stick around for too long.”

She didn’t seem fazed by his awkward brusqueness. Instead, she just nodded and set the bag down on his counter. She began unpacking a few items, ingredients, it looked like.

“So,” she said, turning to him with an easy smile. “What’s on the agenda for today? You tell me what you need, and we’ll go from there.”

What he needed? Hell if he knew.

“Uh…” He shifted uncomfortably. “I don’t… really know how this works.”

“That’s okay,” she reassured, as if this were the most normal thing in the world. “We can start small. How about I make us something warm to eat while we talk?”

Talk. Right. He could handle that. Probably. And the food didn’t sound half bad either.

“Sure,” he said, with a softer tone now. He hesitated before adding, “Thanks.”

She smiled at him again and reached into her bag, pulling out a neatly folded apron. Without hesitation, she slipped it over her summer dress, tying the strings behind her back. The casual way she moved threw him off; she already seemed at ease in his space, which was more than he could say for himself.

“Is there anything you don’t like to eat?” she asked, glancing over her shoulder as she headed toward the kitchen.

Bucky blinked at her like she’d just asked him if he believed in unicorns. “Anything I don’t like?” His eyebrows lifted, clearly baffled by the concept.

“Yes,” she replied with a small laugh, looking back at him as if to say she was serious.

He gave a short huff, leaning against the counter, his lips twitching with faint amusement. “Doll, I grew up in the Depression. You ate what you got and licked the plate clean.”

She froze mid-step, her hands moving to her hips as she turned to face him fully. “Okay, first of all, you don’t ‘doll’ your mother,” she said, her tone firm but with a playful edge. “So let’s make it clear: that won’t be a thing between us.”

His head tilted, his eyes narrowing slightly in mild surprise at her sudden, slightly commanding tone.

“And second,” she continued, crossing her arms as if daring him to argue, “we’re not in the Depression anymore. So, humor me and tell me if there’s anything you don’t like.”

The corner of his mouth twitched, the smallest hint of a smirk appearing as he quirked an eyebrow at her. She wasn’t what he’d expected. Not even close.

“Guess I’ll have to think about it,” he muttered with the faintest trace of amusement.

She rolled her eyes, tying the apron snugly around her waist. “Well, then tell me what you do like, so I can see if I can pull it off with what we’ve got.”

He hesitated, darting away his gaze as if the question required more thought than it should. Finally, he mumbled, “Potatoes?”

Her lips twitched with amusement. “Lucky for you, I brought some with me.” She nodded toward another bag she’d left near the door.

Bucky watched as she moved around his kitchen, opening cabinets and peeking into drawers. It was strange seeing someone else handle his things like they belonged there.

She moved to his fridge next, tugging it open, and froze. For a long moment, she just stared, her head tilting slightly. “Huh.”

Bucky frowned, leaning to the side to see what had caught her attention. “What?”

She stepped back, gesturing inside with a wooden spoon she’d plucked from the counter. “The two plums are fine, but that sad, dried-out lemon is holding on by a thread, and…” Her nose wrinkled as she peered at a container shoved in the back. “I don’t even want to guess what’s in that tupperware.”

He shifted as his arms crossed over his chest. “It’s probably still good.”

“Bucky.” She turned to him, one brow arched and her tone matter-of-fact. “We’re going to have to make a shopping list if these visits are going to continue. Unless you’re planning to survive off potatoes and mystery leftovers?”

His lips twitched again, but he didn’t say anything, just shrugged.

“I’ll take that as agreement,” she said, grabbing the potatoes she’d brought with her and setting them on the counter. “For now, I’ll work some magic with these and whatever’s actually edible in here.”

He smirked faintly, leaning against the counter as he watched her sort through his kitchen again with an air of efficiency like she’d done this a thousand times before.

At some point, she straightened up and caught his gaze. “You didn’t say anything yet,” she said, leaning a little on the counter. “but I assume you have questions about what I do?”

He shifted uncomfortably, scratching the back of his neck as if buying time. “Sam told me something… about cooking and talking,” he muttered hesitantly. Then he glanced away, subtly implying that he didn’t expect much beyond that.

She didn’t rush him, waiting patiently for him to finish. When he fell silent, she let out a soft chuckle and grabbed a cutting board from the counter. “I have a proper job, you know,” she said, glancing over her shoulder at him. “At a bookstore. This…” she continued, gesturing vaguely toward the room, “is just something I’ve been doing for a couple of years now. It started when a lady from the program came into the shop looking for books to read to her son before nap time.” She paused, her lips curving in a small, amused smile. “The thing is, this lady was, well… let’s just say she was quite old to have a little kid. She must have seen the look on my face because she told me about this initiative she was part of.”

Bucky tilted his head, curiosity tugging at his otherwise guarded expression. “And you signed up?”

“Eventually,” she admitted, peeling one of the potatoes with practiced ease. “I kept running into her, and she’d stop by the store to chat about how the reading sessions were going, how much her ‘kid’ enjoyed them.” She made air quotes with her fingers, smirking. “Turned out, her kid was a Vietnam vet. He was struggling with some things, and she was helping him feel more grounded.”

Bucky arched his brows.

“Exactly,” she said, laughing softly. “I thought it was strange at first, too, but the more I learned, the more I realized how much of a difference it can make for some people.” She paused, setting the peeler down and turning to fully face him, with a softer expression now. “There’s something about the kind of comfort a mother gives, something other roles just… don’t quite reach.”

Bucky tilted his head slightly, furrowing his brow.

“You’ve probably seen it,” she continued, “Soldiers in their last moments, calling for their moms. Or when they’re delirious with fever or pain, their minds go back to a time when they felt safe, protected, and cared for. It’s not about the specific person, it’s the feeling. That deep-rooted need to know someone’s there for you, no matter what.”

His jaw tightened, and his gaze dropped to the floor for a moment before flicking back to her. She didn’t miss the shift in his expression, a flicker of recognition, a shadow of memory.

“I’m not saying I’m trying to be anyone’s mother,” she added quickly, offering him a gentle smile to lighten the mood. “But sometimes people just need a little bit of that energy in their life, you know? A chance to feel… safe.”

Bucky’s mouth pressed into a thin line, stiffening briefly before he exhaled, his relaxing his shoulders just a fraction. He didn’t say anything, but the weight of her words lingered in the air between them.

He had to admit it sounded... nice. Having someone to turn to when things got… when you couldn’t breathe. When the world felt too heavy and every corner of your mind was filled with noise you couldn’t escape. But just as that thought settled in, his defenses kicked in, sharp and automatic.

He scoffed, the sound coming out a little too rough, a little too biting. “And then what? You cuddle on the couch, singing a lullaby?”

Her hands stilled, and she turned to look at him, meeting his gaze. There was no annoyance in her expression, no judgment. Just a calmness that made him feel even more off-balance.

“If that’s what you need,” she said simply, “then yes.”

For a moment, he was stunned into silence, caught off guard. There was no sarcasm, no condescension, just a sincerity that felt almost disarming.

His eyes darted away as he shifted his weight, the corners of his mouth twitched in an effort to form a response. But for once, words failed him, leaving only the quiet hum of the kitchen and the soft clatter of her returning to the potatoes.

“There are some info sheets and forms in the bag,” she said, nodding toward her tote. “If you want to read and complete them while I do this.” She gestured as she resumed working on the potatoes.

Bucky hesitated, flicking his gaze between her and the bag. “What’s the payment?” he asked gruffly, trying to keep his voice casual. “In case… in case I might be interested.”

She paused for a beat, then glanced over her shoulder with a small smile. “I don’t charge veterans,” she said simply.

He blinked, clearly taken aback. His lips parted slightly, but no words came out. Finally, he managed, “Sam didn’t… didn’t tell me that.”

“Well,” she said, setting the knife down for a moment and turning fully to face him, “to be fair, Sam told me a little about you.”

At the slight stiffness that crept into his expression, she quickly added, “Just… basic things.” She tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “I’m already working with someone who’s… retired now, and I wasn’t sure about having two ‘sons’ in the same department, so to speak.”

She hesitated, studying his face for a moment before continuing. “But when he told me who you were… I didn’t doubt it for a second. You’re a hero, you know?”

He seemed surprised by the statement, his brows knitting together as if trying to make sense of her words. His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, a faint pink dusting his cheeks. Finally, he grumbled, “Don’t know about that, but thanks.”

She smiled softly, “Don’t thank me, sweetheart. I’m just stating the obvious.” With that, she turned back to the cooking, leaving Bucky standing there, uncomfortably aware of the unexpected swell of gratitude threatening to creep past his defenses.

He then opened the tote bag and pulled out a neatly organized folder. Inside, there were several documents, each clipped together in its own section. He skimmed over the first page, a set of “basic rules” clearly outlined at the top.

His brow furrowed slightly as he read. Boundaries: He would only call her “Mama” or some other variant, never her name, an instruction that immediately made his stomach twist with both unease and an odd sense of reassurance. The point was clear: this wasn’t a friendship or anything else ambiguous. It was meant to define their dynamic firmly.

Further down, he saw a list of do’s and don’ts regarding acceptable forms of touching. The wording was straightforward but gentle, ensuring the rules were understood without feeling restrictive. A clause about privacy caught his attention: Everything discussed during their sessions would remain strictly confidential. Nothing said between them would be disclosed, ever.

He sighed and leaned against the counter, flipping to the next section. The forms included a series of questions: What would you expect from these sessions? What would you prefer not to happen? What are your favorite comforts? Least favorite?

The questions made him uncomfortable. What did he expect? Hell if he knew. What would he even put down for “favorite comforts”? He tapped the pen against the counter, unsure where to start.

When he finally glanced back at her, she was chopping the potatoes with practiced ease. “And what happens after I fill this out?” he asked, trying to sound neutral.

“Once the forms are completed and signed,” she said without turning around, “I’ll be in charge of the dynamic.” She paused, glancing at him over her shoulder with a small smile. “After all, Mama knows best.”

Her tone was light, teasing, but the words landed heavier than she might have realized. Bucky stared at the form again, feeling the faintest flicker of something he hadn’t felt in a long time. Maybe trust. Maybe just exhaustion. Either way, the weight of his pen didn’t feel as heavy anymore.

“You don’t have to sign it right now,” she said, washing her hands and wiping them on a towel. Turning back to him, she added, "Maybe wait and see how this goes first?" then, she walked toward the living room and perched on the edge of the couch patting the spot next to her. “Sit. You can tell me about your week while the potatoes cook… if you want.”

Bucky hesitated for a moment, glancing toward the couch like it might be a trap. Finally, he crossed the room, lowering himself onto the seat beside her. The couch dipped under his weight, and he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he rubbed a hand over his face. The silence hung between them, save for the faint sound of traffic through the window. After a moment, he started to bounce his knee.

She noticed the motion and glanced at him, her gaze drifting lower. That’s when it hit her, the long-sleeved henley and the glove on his hand. The room wasn’t exactly cold. In fact, with the oven going and the potatoes roasting, it was comfortably warm.

Her brows knitted together. “Bucky,” she started carefully, with a light tone, “you know by now that I knew who you were before I knocked on your door, right?”

He turned his head slightly, not quite meeting her eyes but acknowledging her words with a small grunt.

“So… don’t you want to change into something less... suffocating?” She gestured loosely at his shirt. “I mean, it’s hot in here.”

His knee stopped bouncing. He straightened slightly but didn’t respond right away. She could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw worked like he was weighing his next move.

“It’s fine,” he muttered, his voice gruff. He didn’t sound angry, just… uncertain.

“It’s not fine,” she countered gently. “You’ll overheat sitting here like that. Besides, I thought we were working on this whole... trust thing since you know… the mom thing?”

Her words hung in the air, and for a long moment, he didn’t move. Then, with a deep breath, Bucky pushed himself to his feet, heading toward the hallway. He muttered something under his breath that she didn’t catch, but the slight hunch of his shoulders told her he was uncomfortable. Still, he disappeared into the bedroom, and she heard the sound of a drawer opening.

When he returned a few minutes later, he was wearing a soft, dark gray T-shirt. He paused in the doorway, his eyes flicking to her briefly before he sat back down, this time leaning into the couch instead of perching on the edge.

“Better?” he asked, his tone dry but not harsh.

“Much better,” she replied, a smile tugging at her lips.

Bucky didn’t say anything, but his shoulders seemed to relax just a fraction. The oven timer went off in the kitchen, breaking the moment, and she stood, giving him a reassuring pat on the knee as she passed by.

As she checked the food with her back turned to him, she spoke casually, “Sam said you’ve been having a rough time lately.”

Bucky frowned, his lips pressing into a thin line. “Sam talks too much.”

Her lips quirked in a small smile, though she didn’t turn around. “He’s worried about you.”

“He doesn’t need to be,” Bucky muttered.

“Maybe not. But he is. And from what I can tell, he’s the kind of person who acts on that worry.” She glanced over her shoulder at him. “You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to. I’m not here to pry.”

Bucky’s shoulders tensed slightly, and his jaw tightened. “Then why are you here?” The question came out sharper than he intended, his voice low and clipped, but she didn’t flinch. Instead, she turned off the stove, wiped her hands on a towel, and finally faced him.

“Why am I here?” she echoed with a calm tone. “One, because you texted. And two…” She crossed the room slowly, stopping a few feet from the couch. Her gaze softened, her head tilting slightly. “Sometimes, it helps to have someone around. Someone who’s not a therapist or a friend who knows too much. Just… someone.”

For a moment, he didn’t respond. His expression was unreadable, but she could see the gears turning in his head. She approached the couch and sat down beside him, leaving just enough space to avoid crowding him but close enough to offer her quiet support.

Bucky shifted slightly, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, his fingers laced together tightly. The silence between them stretched, but it didn’t feel heavy. It felt like an invitation for him to speak if he wanted to, no pressure, no expectations.

“I didn’t mean to snap at you,” he said finally, almost in a grumble.

“I know.” Her reply was soft, almost instinctive. “It’s okay.”

His shoulders relaxed just a fraction, and for the first time that evening, he glanced at her directly. There was a hint of something vulnerable in his expression. Hesitation, perhaps.

“It’s just…” he started, his voice trailing off as he rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s been a lot lately. I don’t even know where to start.”

“Just where you feel like it, I’ll be here to listen. And if you don’t want to talk, that is fine too, one doesn’t tell everything to their mom, hm?” she assured gently.

The timer beeped from the kitchen again, cutting through the moment. She reached over, giving his forearm a brief, reassuring squeeze before standing. “Let me get that before the potatoes burn.” As she moved toward the kitchen, she glanced back at him with a small smile. “Think about it, Bucky. No rush.”

He watched her retreat, his chest feeling a little lighter, though he couldn’t quite explain why.

When she called from the kitchen, cheerfully announcing that dinner was almost ready, he found himself answering without thinking. “Smells good.”

It wasn’t much, but it was a start.

He pushed himself off the couch with a grunt and crossed the short distance to the kitchen in a few long strides. Without a word, he started opening cabinets and drawers, pulling out a couple of plates and utensils to set up at the counter.

“Oh, such a good boy!” she teased warmly.

He paused, shooting her a look over his shoulder, his expression caught somewhere between surprise and embarrassment. “It’s just the right thing to do,” he muttered gruffly, his ears tinged faintly pink.

She bit back a smile as she pulled the tray of potatoes from the oven, the aroma filling the small kitchen. As she set the tray down, she reached for the fridge and produced a small bowl of creamy dip, placing it on the counter beside the potatoes.

Bucky quirked a brow with evident curiosity.

“What?” she asked playfully. “These aren’t your Depression potatoes. They’ve got a little twist.”

He snorted softly, shaking his head. “A twist, huh?”

“Just a little sour cream, and the spices are courtesy of your kitchen,” she said, ladling the potatoes onto a serving dish with practiced ease. “Trust me, they’ll still taste like home. Just… a little fancier.”

Bucky glanced at the bowl again, his lips twitching in faint amusement. “Fancy potatoes,” he murmured, almost to himself.

“Hey,” she countered, setting the dish in the middle of the counter with a flourish. “Even tough guys like you deserve something nice now and then.”

He didn’t respond right away, but as he pulled out a stool at the counter and sat, there was a flicker of something lighter in his eyes. “Guess we’ll see if they live up to the hype.”

She handed him a fork, with a widening smile. “Challenge accepted.”

For the first time that evening, the atmosphere in the room felt less heavy. The clinking of utensils and the scent of roasted potatoes mingled with the faintest hum of unspoken understanding.

“Not bad,” Bucky admitted after his first bite, begrudging but carrying a hint of approval.

“Not bad?” she echoed, raising a brow. “I’ll take that as high praise.”

The corners of his mouth twitched upward, and for a fleeting moment, it almost looked like he might smile.

They made small talk while they ate, keeping the conversation light. She asked about the crime novels on his side table, and he asked -grudgingly- what kind of twist she had planned for the next meal, implying she might want to poison him. Despite himself, Bucky found the interaction strangely… normal. He wasn’t used to normal, but he didn’t hate it.

When they finished, he stood and began gathering the dishes. She protested at first, but he waved her off. “It’s what my Ma would have expected anyway,” he said matter-of-factly.

He’d just started scrubbing the first plate when her phone buzzed on the counter. She glanced at the screen, then at the clock, letting out a soft sigh. “Well, Buck, it seems our two hours are up.”

Bucky froze and his hand gripped the plate under the warm water. Then he nodded once. “I see…”

She leaned against the counter next to him, watching him carefully. “So, um… what do you want to do? Will you read the forms and consider starting this little journey together, or would you rather not see my face again?” She smiled softly. “Which I’d totally understand if that’s the case.”

He didn’t respond immediately, focusing instead on rinsing the plate and setting it on the drying rack. For a moment, the only sound was the rush of water and the faint hum of the fridge. It was as if he was battling with himself, his tension was visible in the way his shoulders hunched and his jaw clenched. Finally, he let out a long breath and turned to face her. His hand raked through his hair.

“I... I want this, I think,” he stated. Then, almost immediately, he added, “I can step out whenever I want, right?”

Her smile softened as she reached for his vibranium hand, her fingers resting lightly against the cool metal. “Yes, Bucky. You can step out whenever you want. No pressure, no expectations. This is for you, on your terms.”

He nodded slightly, his eyes flicking down to where her hand rested on his before shifting back to meet her gaze.

“Just take your time filling out the questionnaire, think the answers carefully” she continued, warmly but matter-of-fact. “and, whenever you’re ready, snap a picture and send it to me. No rush.”

“Okay,” he murmured, almost to himself.

“Also…” She tilted her head. “How many days a week do you want me here?”

Bucky blinked, clearly caught off guard by the question. He shifted slightly, glancing away as if considering his answer. “Uh… two, I guess?”

“Two it is,” she said with a small nod, releasing his hand and grabbing her bag from the counter. “You’re calling the shots, Buck. You just let me know if that changes.”

He didn’t respond right away, but as she slung her bag over her shoulder and made her way toward the door, he called out in a low tone. “Thanks.”

She paused, glancing back at him with a smile. “Anytime.”

As the door closed behind her, Bucky stood there for a moment, staring at the now-empty space she’d left behind.

Almost three minutes after she left, his phone buzzed on the counter, the screen lighting up with a notification. He didn’t have to check to know who it was. Sure enough, the preview of the text confirmed it: Sam. The string of emojis accompanying the message made Bucky’s scowl deepen as he stared at the screen.

🤔💪👍👵🍲

“What the hell does that even mean?” he muttered to himself, swiping the phone off the counter and locking it without reading the full message. The last thing he needed was Sam’s smug commentaries right now.

He set the phone down a little harder than necessary and decided to distract himself the only way he knew how: by scrubbing himself clean. Grabbing a towel, he headed to the bathroom, peeling off his T-shirt on the way. The promise of a hot shower sounded like the closest thing to clarity he might find tonight.

But as the water beat down on his skin, his thoughts drifted back to the folder she’d left behind. The questionnaire seemed simple on the surface, but for a man like him, answering those kinds of questions wasn’t easy.

What comforts you?

The question alone made him bristle. Comfort wasn’t something he’d thought about in decades. Comfort was… a luxury, a distraction, a weakness. At least, that’s what they always told him and he still couldn’t shake that feeling.

The thought of filling out that damn paper felt heavier than any mission he’d been assigned. He’d rather face a bullet in his leg than sit down and figure out what he wanted.

He leaned his head against the shower tiles, the warmth of the water doing little to ease the tension coiling in his chest. Maybe he’d give himself a day. Or two. Hell, maybe a week. She’d said no rush, after all.

And if he didn’t send it? Well, it wasn’t like she’d show up uninvited. He could still back out.

He turned off the water with a sharp twist, the sudden silence leaving him alone with his thoughts. Wrapping a towel around his waist, he stepped out, glancing toward the closed door of his bedroom where the folder waited.

----

It had taken Bucky two weeks to fill out the forms. Two long, painstaking weeks of sitting at his couch, pen in hand, staring at questions that felt more like traps than prompts. He’d forced himself to be thorough, thinking carefully about each subject.

What makes you feel safe? What comforts you? What do you need from me?

How do you want to be called as an endearment?

He’d tried to approach it with an open mind, though the process made him cringe more than once. Admitting what he needed -or even what he was willing to permit- felt like baring himself in a way that left him raw.

But he finished. He signed the papers, scanned them with his phone, and sent the file off with an unceremonious text:

Here. Let me know if it’s fine.

Her reply had been immediate and cheerful: Got it! Looks perfect. See you Tuesday.

----

When Tuesday came, she arrived at his building, juggling a tote bag filled with what she liked to call her “comfort supplies.” A neighbor leaving the building had held the door open for her, a kind but overly trusting gesture.

Not a very safe thing to do, she thought as she stepped inside. But I’m not going to complain.

She reached his door, knuckles rapping lightly against it. “Bucky? It’s me.”

No answer.

She frowned and knocked again, a little louder this time. “Bucky, you there?”

Still nothing.

She pulled out her phone and sent him a quick message: Hey, I’m here! A moment later, her phone buzzed with the dreaded notification: Message failed to deliver.

Her frown deepened. She tried calling, but the call went straight to voicemail. A sinking feeling settled in her chest as she pressed her ear to the door, listening intently.

Nothing. No footsteps. No muffled noises. Just silence.

She sighed, leaning back against the wall. Maybe something had come up. Maybe he’d changed his mind and didn’t know how to tell her.

She checked her watch. Twenty minutes had passed, and she still hadn’t heard a peep from him. With a reluctant shake of her head, she turned and walked toward the elevator, her footsteps echoing faintly in the quiet hallway.

-----

A couple of hours later, Bucky dragged his feet through the corridor. His nose throbbed painfully, a reminder of the last few days he’d spent dealing -again- with enhanced assholes who seemed to have gotten their hands on some variant of the serum.

The faint metallic scent of dried blood clung to him, mingling with the sweat and grime of too many hours spent in the open. His brows furrowed, eyes heavy-lidded as he scanned the hallway out of habit. That’s when he spotted it, a small bag made of cloth sitting neatly at his doorstep.

He paused, taking a moment to connect the dots through the haze of exhaustion.

Fuck.

He let out a slow, frustrated exhale, running a hand over his face and wincing as the dried cut on his cheek tugged painfully. Of course, this would happen. Of course, he’d mess this up right out of the gate.

Bending down, he picked up the bag, holding it gingerly in his hands like it might scold him. The fabric was soft and patterned with small flowers, something that felt almost absurdly out of place against his bloodstained hands and the concrete walls of the hallway.

He peeked inside, and his chest tightened. A handful of sugar babies’ packages into view, the bright yellow being a jarring contrast to the dull exhaustion weighing him down.

What were your favorite sweets as a child?

The questionnaire echoed in his head, and his stomach twisted. He hadn’t even realized he’d written those down until now.

Straightening up, he glanced down the hallway toward the elevator, tightening his grip on the bag. What kind of impression was this supposed to leave? Forgetting the session entirely, not answering the door, not even leaving a message…

He groaned, leaning back against his door and glaring down at the bag like it held all the answers to his failures.

After a long moment, he nested the bag into the crook of his arm, fumbled with his keys, and let himself into the apartment.

The silence inside was deafening. He placed the bag of candies on the counter and reached for his phone, dead as expected. He plugged it into the charger with a sigh, running a hand through his hair before peeling off his ruined clothes. The bloodstained shirt landed in a heap on the floor as he pulled his knives and gun from their holsters and set them down on the counter next to the flower-patterned bag.

The juxtaposition was almost laughable. The hard edges of his weapons, worn and familiar, sat starkly against the soft, cheerful fabric of the bag.

It didn’t feel right, to see them in the same space.

But he was too tired to care for the moment.

With a heavy sigh, Bucky leaned against the counter, lingering his gaze on the bag of candies. He reached inside and pulled out one of the packages, turning it over in his fingers like it was something fragile. For a moment, he just stood there, as the weight of the past days pressed down on him.

Finally, he tore the wrapper open, popped one caramel into his mouth, and let the sugary sweetness dissolve on his tongue. It wasn’t much. But somehow, it tasted like a small piece of something he’d forgotten he needed.

-----

It was late afternoon when her phone buzzed with a message. She picked it up from the table, brushing across the screen to read it.

Just one word: Sorry.

She stared at the message for a moment, tightening her grip on the device. Well, at least it didn’t seem like he’d changed his mind entirely. That was something.

Are you okay?

The reply didn’t come right away. The minutes stretched, and she found herself glancing at the screen every few moments. Finally, the phone buzzed again, and she read his response:

I don’t know.

Her chest ached at the honesty of those three words. Biting her lip, she typed her reply carefully.

Do you want me to come over?

The dots indicating he was typing blinked, disappeared, and then reappeared. His answer came back after what felt like an eternity.

You don’t have to.

She frowned, her thumbs flew across the keyboard.

That is not what I asked, Bucky.

Another pause. This one was longer. The late afternoon sun painted her walls in streaks of orange and gold, but she barely noticed, since her attention was fixed on the phone in her hands.

Finally, he replied.

Yes.

Her shoulders relaxed as she exhaled. Without hesitation, she grabbed her bag, slid her phone into her pocket, and headed for the door.

-----

Her gaze widened when she saw Bucky’s face as he opened the door. A nasty cut marred the already purpled skin of his cheek, his nose looked bruised, his lower lip was split, and scrapes littered his flesh arm. His expression and the slump of his shoulders only added to the picture of someone who’d been through a lot.

He must have noticed her stare because the first thing out of his mouth was, “You should see the other guys.”

She clicked her tongue in exasperation, her hand motioning firmly toward him. “Move. Let me in.”

Bucky stepped aside, his expression hovered somewhere between guilt and defiance. She entered without waiting for another invitation, her sharp eyes already scanning the room. “Did you clean the wounds?”

He shrugged nonchalantly as if it weren’t worth mentioning. “I took a shower…”

She pinched the bridge of her nose, letting out a long, deliberate sigh. “That’s not… no. That doesn’t count. Where is your first aid kit?”

He looked at her like she’d grown another head. “Doll, all this is going away in three days, tops. Courtesy of the serum.”

Her gaze snapped to his, sharp enough to freeze hell over. “Where. Is. It. And how did you just call me?”

Bucky’s mouth opened, then shut, and he swallowed audibly. “M-ma,” he mumbled, his eyes darting to the floor like a chastised child.

“That’s what I thought.” She folded her arms, with a tone that brooked no argument. “I assume you have that thing in the bathroom.”

“I told you, it’s not neces-”

That look again. He stopped mid-sentence, his shoulders slumping as he relented. “Yes.”

“Good,” she said briskly, already heading toward the bathroom without waiting for further direction. “Stay put. I’ll handle this.”

Bucky stared after her, his mouth twitching as if he wanted to argue but thought better of it. With a quiet groan, he leaned against the counter, muttering under his breath, “You should really see the other guys…”

But even as he said it, he found himself oddly relieved that she was there.

“Sit on the chair so I can see you better”, her voice came calm but firm from his side as she gestured to the single chair against the wall.

Bucky hesitated for half a second before complying, dragging the chair forward slightly and lowering himself onto it.

She knelt slightly in front of him, brushing her fingers lightly over the bruised and battered skin of his face. “This surely must hurt,” she said softly. “You don’t have to act all rough with me.”

He didn’t answer, clenching his jaw ever so slightly. Not to brush off the pain, not to admit that it hurt. He just stayed silent, with his gaze fixed somewhere beyond her shoulder.

With gentle care, she dabbed at his cheek with a cotton ball soaked in antiseptic. The sharp, chemical smell hit the air immediately, and Bucky flinched, pressing his lips into a thin line.

She paused, knitting her brows in concern. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s nothing,” he muttered, but the tightness in his voice betrayed him.

Her gaze stayed patient but unyielding. “Bucky.”

He exhaled sharply through his nose, his eyes flicking away from hers before returning. “I don’t like the smell,” he admitted, almost in a whisper.

She stilled, hovering her hand in midair. “Why?”

For a moment, he didn’t respond. His gaze grew distant, and his expression went clouded as if he were somewhere else entirely. When he finally spoke, his voice was even quieter, tinged with something raw and broken.

“Spent a lot of years smelling that shit,” he said, with words that carried too much weight. “Couldn’t drink a glass of water without a command. Couldn’t… do anything. And that smell… it was always there. Always.”

Her heart ached at the admission, but she didn’t let it show on her face. Instead, she lowered the cotton ball, letting him see her hands move it out of the way. “Okay,” she said softly. “We’ll rinse the cuts with water instead. No more of this stuff.”

He blinked, his brows furrowing slightly as he looked at her. “You don’t have to-”

“I know I don’t,” she interrupted gently. “But I’m here to help you, honey, not to make things harder.”

He swallowed, his adam’s apple bobbing as he nodded. He didn’t say anything else, but the tension in his shoulders eased just a little.

By the time she finished tending to his wounds, Bucky was leaning heavily against the chair, with drooping eyelids. The tension in his frame had loosened ever so slightly, his exhaustion was clear in the way he blinked sluggishly at the floor.

She stood and began gathering the supplies, placing them neatly back into his first aid kit. “I’m going to make you something to eat,” she said firmly, already planning a quick meal to get something nutritious in him.

“Not now,” he murmured, barely lifting his head.

She turned toward him with a frown. “Bucky, you’ve probably gone days without eating anything that isn’t complete garbage. You need-”

“I just…” His words came out with difficulty, like they were being dragged out of him. He rubbed his flesh hand over his face “I just want you close.” his voice was quieter now, almost pleading.

Her expression softened instantly. Nodding, she stepped closer, reaching for his vibranium hand. She wrapped her fingers around the cool metal and gave it a reassuring squeeze. “Come on. Let’s sit on the couch.”

She guided him the short distance toward the living room and he followed with slow, dragging steps. Once they reached the couch, she looked at him with patience. “What do you need?”

Bucky hesitated and his throat worked as if he were trying to swallow his pride. His eyes flicked to her, then away again, his mouth opening and closing like he was fighting himself. Finally, he let out a soft, almost defeated sigh.

“I… I want to lean my head on your lap, Mama,” he admitted almost shakily.

She smiled softly, not saying anything that might make him feel more self-conscious. She just nodded and sat at one end of the couch, patting her thighs gently to indicate he should lie down.

Bucky followed, his movements stiff and hesitant as he eased himself onto the couch. He stretched out his long torso, his head tentatively resting on her lap. He stayed tense for a moment, as if bracing for something, though even he wasn’t sure what.

She started running her fingers through his short hair, brushing the strands back in slow, rhythmic motions. “It’s okay,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. “You’re okay.”

The tension in his shoulders began to melt, and his breathing slowed as her fingers worked through his hair with careful, deliberate strokes. He closed his eyes, letting out a quiet sigh as his body finally surrendered to a comfort he hadn’t let himself feel in years.

-----

After two months of visits, she was surprised one day to find an old oak dining table in Bucky’s apartment. It was small but sturdy, with matching chairs tucked neatly under it. The single chair he’d once had was nowhere in sight.

She stepped closer, running her hand along the smooth wood. “This is lovely,” she said, her tone genuinely appreciative.

Bucky stood nearby, with his hands in his pockets, shifting his weight slightly. He glanced at her, then at the table, mumbling, “It was time for me to have one.”

She turned to him with a smile. “Well, it makes the place look more like a home now. You know,” she added thoughtfully, “I have a tablecloth about this size at home that I don’t use. I could bring it next time, if you’d like.”

Bucky hesitated, furrowing his brows slightly as if considering her offer. “About that…” he started, a little unsure.

She waited patiently, giving him time to express what he wanted to say.

“I want to start…” He paused, searching for the right words. “making this place more... like someone is living here.”

“Like a home?” she prompted gently.

“Y-yeah.” He looked down, scratching at the back of his neck. “Besides that hut in Wakanda… it’s been a lifetime since I had a place to… a… a home.”

Her heart ached at his admission, but she didn’t push. Instead, she stepped closer and gently rested her hand on his arm. “That sounds very hard, sweetheart.”

Bucky didn’t deny or confirm her statement, just gave a small, almost imperceptible nod.

“I was wondering…” he began, his voice steadier now. “If next time, we could schedule an earlier time to see each other. And maybe…” He hesitated, glancing at her as if bracing for her reaction. “Maybe you could come with me to help me buy some things?”

Her smile widened, her hand giving his arm a reassuring squeeze. “That sounds great, honey.” Then, she added warmly but firmly, “Just remember, this is your home. You have to choose what you think suits you.”

Her words were a reminder of the boundaries they’d set, of the balance they were working toward. Still, they carried enough warmth to let him know she’d be there for him.

After discussing the table and his plans to make the apartment feel more like a home, she glanced around the space and tilted her head thoughtfully. “You know,” she said lightly, “a good table deserves a little cleanup around it. How about we tidy up a bit?”

Bucky frowned, sweeping his gaze over the room. “It’s not that bad.”

She gave him a pointed look, walking toward a pile of mail and random odds and ends stacked on the counter. “It’s not terrible, but a little organizing wouldn’t hurt. Come on, help me out.”

He followed her reluctantly, muttering something under his breath about bossy moms.

She smirked but didn’t rise to the bait, handing him a small stack of papers. “Sort these, bills, junk, whatever doesn’t need to be here,” she instructed, already reaching for a rag to wipe down the counter.

As they worked, the task settled into an easy rhythm. She asked him about the books he’d been reading, and he surprised her by asking if she had any recommendations. It was small talk, but it felt comfortable and natural like it had been almost since the beginning.

After the living room and kitchen looked noticeably tidier, she wiped her hands on her jeans and glanced toward the hallway leading to his bedroom. Motioning toward the door, she said, “Alright, let’s check out the bedroom next.”

Bucky froze, tightening his shoulders visibly. “Bedroom’s fine,” he said quickly, the edge of reluctance in his voice was unmistakable.

She turned to him, raising an eyebrow. “I’m already on a roll, Buck. Might as well see the whole place.”

He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck as he reluctantly trailed behind her. “It’s not much to look at,” he muttered, more resigned than defiant.

“Then it won’t take long,” she quipped, throwing him a reassuring smile before disappearing through the doorway. Her brows furrowed at the sight before her. The bed was buried under a haphazard pile of boxes, and scattered clothes dotted the floor. The mattress didn’t even have sheets on it, and the faint layer of dust on the headboard told her it hadn’t been used in a while.

She turned to him, crossing her arms. “What’s going on here? Where do these boxes go?”

Bucky shifted awkwardly in the doorway, avoiding her gaze. “They’re fine where they are.”

“Bucky…” Her voice softened, concern creeping into her tone. “Where are you sleeping?”

He clenched his jaw, and after a long pause, he mumbled, “On the floor. In the living room.”

Her eyes widened. “The floor?

He nodded, his gaze fixed somewhere over her shoulder.

She stepped closer, keeping her voice calm but firm. “Why?”

His lips pressed into a thin line before he sighed, running a hand through his hair. “The bed’s too… soft.” He paused, struggling with the words. “It doesn’t feel safe,” he continued, with a low voice. “When I’m on the floor, I can feel the room. Hear things better. I… know what’s going on and can act in case something happens.” His gaze dropped to the pile of boxes on the bed. “And the bed… it’s just not right. Too soft, too confining. It feels like a trap.”

She nodded slowly, her expression a mix of understanding and quiet sadness. “That makes sense,” she said gently. “But, honey, that’s no way to live. I get why you feel that way, but you deserve to rest somewhere that doesn’t hurt your back.”

He gave her a faint shrug, the corner of his mouth pulling downward. “I’ve been doing this for a while. I’m used to it.”

“That doesn’t mean it’s good for you,” she replied, stepping closer and resting a hand lightly on his arm. “How about we start small? Let’s clear off the bed today. No pressure to use it yet, but maybe we can make it feel a little less… wrong. Less like a trap.”

He didn’t answer immediately, his eyes flicking back toward the cluttered bed. She could see the hesitation in his face, the way his fingers flexed at his sides like he was fighting an internal battle.

Finally, he nodded once, almost imperceptibly. “Alright.”

Her lips curved into a gentle smile. “Good. So, where do these boxes go?”

“Closet,” he muttered, stepping forward to help her.

Together, they cleared the bed, tucking the boxes away and folding the stray clothes. She didn’t push or prod, keeping the conversation light as they worked. She mentioned ideas for making the bed more comfortable, maybe firmer pillows or a thinner mattress topper to make it feel less suffocating.

By the time they were done, the room already looked less like a storage space and more like a place where someone could rest.

“There,” she said, dusting her hands off and turning to him. “A step in the right direction.”

Bucky stood at the edge of the bed, staring at it like it was something foreign. “Yeah,” he murmured. “I guess so.”

“You don’t have to use it right away,” she gently. “But when you’re ready, it’ll be here for you.”

He nodded again, loosening his shoulders slightly.

As they returned to the main area, she expected Bucky to suggest starting dinner, but instead, he cleared his throat awkwardly.

“Can we… sit for a bit? On the couch?”

“Of course,” she said with an easy smile, leading the way. She settled into her usual spot at one end, patting her thighs lightly.

Bucky sat and shifted, lying down until his head rested on her lap. When her fingers began threading gently through his hair, he let out a quiet exhale. They stayed like that for a while, the stillness of the apartment punctuated only by the soft rhythm of her fingers against his scalp and the occasional hum of traffic outside.

“Anything you want to talk about?” she asked softly, not wanting to break the moment but leaving the door open for him.

Bucky closed his eyes, his voice low and drowsy. “Not yet. Just this. This is… enough.”

After a while of lying on the couch, Bucky's body had grown heavier against her lap. His breathing became slower, and his voice was groggy when he finally spoke. “Hey… can we go shopping on Saturday instead of Friday?”

Her fingers stilled briefly in his hair before resuming their soothing rhythm. “Saturday?”

“Yeah…” He trailed off, blinking sluggishly up at the ceiling. “I’ve got some stuff to deal with on Friday. Nothing big. Just easier if it’s Saturday.”

She hummed thoughtfully, glancing down at him. “I can’t,” she said gently.

“Why not?” he asked, tilting his head slightly to meet her gaze.

“I have a date.”

The weight in the room shifted immediately and his body stiffened under her touch. “Like… with your other ‘son’?” he asked, the words tumbling out awkwardly before he could stop himself.

She blinked, then laughed softly. “No, Bucky. Like with a man. A real date.”

Her fingers resumed their lazy rhythm through his hair, but she could feel the way his shoulders tensed further, and his jaw clenched. He didn’t respond right away, pressing his lips into a thin line.

Sensing his unease, she chuckled. “Don’t worry. You won’t meet him, and you definitely won’t have to call him Dad.”

Bucky let out a faint huff, something caught between a snort and a sigh, but he didn’t relax. “Didn’t say I was worried,” he muttered, though his tone lacked conviction.

She smiled, brushing her fingers through his hair again with deliberate care. He closed his eyes again, letting her touch ground him as the weight of the day slowly ebbed away.

After a moment of silence, Bucky shifted slightly against her lap. His lips pressed together like he was trying to hold something back, but finally, the question slipped out. “Where… where did you meet this guy?”

Her fingers paused briefly in his hair before resuming their soothing rhythm. “At the bookstore,” she said lightly. “He comes in pretty often. We’ve had a few nice conversations over the past couple of months.”

Bucky frowned, his brows knitting together as he stared at the ceiling. “You’ve gone out with him before?”

She shook her head, smiling softly. “No, this will be the first time.”

He mulled that over, his gaze flickering with something unreadable before he glanced up at her. “So… what do you like about him?”

The question came out gruff, almost begrudging, but there was a flicker of genuine curiosity -or maybe hesitation- in his voice.

Her lips twitched with amusement as she considered the question. “Well,” she began, “he’s polite, for once. Always says hello and takes the time to ask how my day is going.”

Bucky huffed lightly, a soft sound of dismissal.

“And he’s thoughtful,” she continued. “One time, he brought me coffee because he noticed I was swamped with a shipment of books. Didn’t even stay to chat, just handed it to me and said he thought I might need it.”

“Sounds like a Boy Scout,” Bucky muttered, his tone laced with faint skepticism.

She chuckled softly, brushing her fingers lightly over his temple. “Maybe. But I like that he pays attention. He’s kind without expecting anything in return.”

Bucky stayed silent for a moment, his gaze fixed on some invisible point far away. Finally, he murmured, “So, you’re serious about him?”

She tilted her head slightly, studying him. “It’s just one date, Buck,” she said gently. “I’m not planning a wedding.” Her voice carried a reassuring warmth, softening the weight of his question. “I don’t even know if there’s anything there yet.”

“Yeah,” he said after a beat, his tone softer now, though the small frown on his face lingered. “Guess you’ll find out.”

“I guess I will,” she replied. After a pause, she added with a playful glint in her eyes, “But no matter what happens, it won’t change anything between us. You’re stuck with me, remember?”

Bucky’s lips twitched faintly, the ghost of a smile breaking through his lingering tension. “Yeah… I remember.”

Her fingers slid through his hair again with deliberate care, and the corners of his mouth relaxed, even if his eyes remained shadowed. Whatever the storm in his mind, her presence was enough to keep it at bay for now.

“Speaking of dates,” she said, lightly but curious, “you didn’t tell me how your date went with the woman from the grocery store. The one you told me about the last time we saw each other.”

Bucky shifted against her lap, suddenly looking a lot less relaxed. “I… kind of left in the middle of it,” he admitted, uncomfortable.

“Oh, you didn’t,” her eyebrows lifted in mock reproach as she tugged softly at his hair, as a playful reprimand.

He huffed, pressing his lips into a thin line. “She was… noisy,” he started, his voice tinged with frustration as he struggled to explain. “Talked too much, and it wasn’t even about anything interesting. Kept asking questions, but…” He hesitated, searching for the right words. “She didn’t actually care about the answers. Just wanted to fill the silence.”

Her fingers paused briefly, then resumed their soothing rhythm through his hair. “That sounds exhausting,” she said softly, her tone full of understanding. “But that’s not the whole reason, is it?”

Bucky swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he looked away. “She was touchy,” he said finally. “Kept leaning in, grabbing my arm, laughing like… like it was supposed to make me feel good or something.”

“Did it?” she asked gently.

“No.” His response was firm, and his hands flexed at his sides as though the memory left him uneasy. “I wasn’t comfortable with her being so close. I don’t even think she noticed. Or cared.”

She sighed softly, her touch steady as she brushed her fingers through his hair again. “You’ll find someone who gets you. Someone who’ll respect your pace and what you need.”

His lips twitched faintly, like he wanted to smile but wasn’t quite sure how. “What if there’s not?” he muttered, his voice so quiet she almost didn’t catch it.

“There will be,” she reassured him. “You just have to be patient. And picky. Nothing wrong with that.”

For a moment, he was silent, the tension in his body softening just a little under her touch. Then, almost shyly, he murmured, “Thanks… Mama.”

She smiled warmly, leaning back into the couch as her hand continued to comb gently through his hair. “Anytime, honey.”

-----

Time had a way of slipping by, and before he knew it, Bucky found himself sitting across from another date. This one wasn’t noisy or overly touchy, and the small brewery they’d chosen wasn’t bad, either. He nursed a beer in one hand, his vibranium arm hidden beneath the sleeve of his Henley, as the woman across from him laughed at something he’d said, a low, cautious laugh, but a laugh nonetheless.

Her eyes drifted to his wrist, where the dark leather bracelet he always wore peeked out from his sleeve. “I like that,” she said, nodding toward it. “The bracelet. It’s nice.”

He glanced at it, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Thanks. My mom gave it to me.”

Her expression faltered slightly, the smile on her lips growing a bit stiff. “Oh, that’s… sweet,” she said, tilting her head. “Do you, uh, live with your mom?”

Bucky furrowed his brows, looking at her like she’d just asked if the sky was purple. “No. Why?”

She shifted in her seat, her fingers toying with the edge of her glass. “Well, then you must be very… close to her. Are you the youngest son?”

“No.” His tone was sharper now, though he didn’t mean it to be. “Why?”

The woman hesitated, her fingers tightening slightly around her drink. Finally, she gestured vaguely toward him, her voice dropping as though she were trying to be delicate. “Well… you’ve brought her up a lot. And, no offense, but it’s kind of… weird for a man your age. On a date, I mean.”

Bucky froze, his beer halfway to his lips. For a moment, he said nothing, his blue gaze narrowing slightly as he processed what she’d just said. Then, slowly, he set the bottle down, and his fingers tightened slightly around the glass. A familiar sense of unease churned in his chest, accompanied by the ache of frustration.

“Right,” he said finally with an even voice, though there was a subtle edge to it. “I guess that is weird.”

The woman shifted uncomfortably, her awkward smile faltering completely. “I didn’t mean-”

“No, it’s fine,” he interrupted, leaning back in his chair. His expression was blank, his tone cool, but the tension in his shoulders betrayed him. “Thanks for pointing that out.”

For the rest of the date, the conversation limped along, each attempt at salvaging it falling flat. Bucky found himself withdrawing, offering short, polite responses but little else. The spark of curiosity or connection -if there had ever been one- had fizzled out entirely.

When the check came, he paid for their drinks, refusing her offer to split it with a quiet but firm “Don’t worry about it.”

As they stepped outside, he offered a polite goodbye, but his tone was distant, and he didn’t wait for her to respond before walking off into the night.

He didn’t bring her up that much, did he? The thought came gruffly as he trudged up the stairs to his apartment, but deep down, he already knew the answer. Should’ve just stayed home.

His gaze fell to the leather bracelet again, and he sighed, slowing his footsteps.

‘Mom’ wouldn’t have made me feel like that.

He shook his head as he entered, the faint metallic clink of keys landing in the small ceramic bowl echoed through the quiet space. His lips pressed into a thin line as his gaze lingered on it. The damn bowl she picked because I couldn’t decide. He let out a low, frustrated growl, kicking off his boots near the door and running a hand through his hair.

His nose wrinkled as a faint scent clung to him, cigarettes, from his date. She must have smoked earlier, and now it lingered in his jacket, his shirt, even his hair. His brows furrowed. He didn’t like it. The realization was sharp, irritating, and only added to his foul mood as he stripped off his clothes while walking toward the bathroom.

The shower hissed to life, steam filling the room as he stepped under the hot spray, letting the water cascade over his shoulders. He rested his palms against the tile wall, hanging his head forward, dampening his hair.

The date replayed in his head in vivid detail: her awkward comments, the tight smile when she’d tried to backpedal, the judgment laced in her words. Weird for a man your age. He gritted his teeth, his knuckles whitening against the slick tiles.

She wasn’t wrong, he did bring up Mama more than he realized. But was that a crime? She was one of the few constants in his life that didn’t feel… hollow.

The thought only made the pit in his stomach grow heavier. The way she’d looked at him like he was some awkward, broken man who couldn’t function properly… it stung.

Before he knew it, his thoughts wandered to her instead. Not the woman from the date, but the one helping him put his life back together piece by piece. The one who’d picked out that damn bowl. The one who had sat on his couch, combing her fingers through his hair when he’d been too exhausted to speak.

His breathing hitched slightly as he remembered her touch, soft and unhurried, calming him in a way no one else ever had. He could almost feel the ghost of her fingers brushing through his hair, skimming over his temple with a care he didn’t deserve.

His hand slid down his chest, trailing over the wet planes of his torso, and he exhaled shakily, furrowing his brow. He shouldn’t be thinking about her like this. It was wrong -so wrong- but his body didn’t seem to care.

His grip tightened on himself, and his head thunked lightly against the tile as a groan slipped past his lips. The hot water beat against his back, but it couldn’t drown out the traitorous images flooding his mind. Her smile, the warmth of her voice, the way she’d called him “honey” like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, his strokes becoming sharper, more desperate as if he could exorcise the feelings clawing their way to the surface. He shouldn’t be doing this, he admonished himself again. Not with Mama. Not the one person who made him feel safe.

And yet, the warmth of her imagined touch, the thought of her fingers tracing the scars on his skin or resting lightly against his jaw, was enough to push him over the edge. His release came with a choked groan, and his forehead pressed harder against the tile as his body shuddered.

For a moment, the only sound was the steady rhythm of the water and his ragged breathing.

And then the guilt hit him.

His hands clenched into fists, as his chest tightened. “What the fuck is wrong with me?” he whispered harshly, his voice cracking under the weight of his self-reproach.

He braced himself against the wall, shaking his head slightly. He felt disgusting, his stomach twisted as shame crept in his mind. She trusted him -cared for him- and this was how he repaid that?

With a low, bitter laugh, he reached for the soap, scrubbing furiously at his skin as if he could wash away the evidence of what he’d just done. But no amount of scrubbing could cleanse the storm of emotions raging inside him.

It was wrong. He was wrong. And yet, deep down, a part of him couldn’t stop wanting.

Goddammit.

-----

When Sam hinted that week about needing him for a little thing in Kuala Lumpur, Bucky didn’t hesitate. It didn’t seem like something Wilson could handle solo, and besides, a mission was the perfect way to blow off some steam. Anything to quiet the thoughts that had been clawing at the back of his mind since the date -and especially- since that shower.

He sent a quick text to Mama, keeping it short and simple, their usual code for missions.

Taking a vacation this week. Won’t make Friday.

Her reply came quickly: Take care of yourself. Don’t engage in crazy fun.

Bucky huffed softly, shaking his head as he stared at the screen. Ok, Mom, he typed back, his lips twitching faintly despite himself.

Her response came almost immediately: I mean it, Jamie.

Fuck. His jaw tightened, and he locked the phone without answering. She always had a way of cutting through him, even with a couple of words. He shoved the phone into his pocket and headed to pack, grumbling under his breath.

When Sam picked him up a day later, Bucky was already in mission mode: focused, stoic, and bracing himself for whatever chaos Wilson was about to drag him into. But despite his best efforts to push her words aside, they echoed faintly in his mind.

Take care of yourself.

He’d try. For her.

-----

Things went slightly fine the first day, if you ignored the shooting, falling from a 15-story building into a trash container, and the broken shower in the safehouse. Bucky stood shirtless in front of the cracked bathroom mirror, grimacing as he splashed cold water over his chest and shoulders. The sink barely worked, sputtering like it might give up entirely, and the dingy tiles on the walls didn’t do much to make him feel clean.

“Man, this place is a dump,” Sam said, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed.

“Better than the street,” Bucky grunted, grabbing a threadbare towel to dry off.

Sam hummed noncommittally, watching as Bucky fumbled with the faucet. “So, how’s it going with her?”

Bucky froze briefly before answering. “Things are good.”

“Glad you finally listened to me.” Sam’s voice carried just a hint of smugness. “I mean, you’re still a pain in the ass, but at least your mood’s improved a lot these past months.”

Bucky rolled his eyes, tossing the towel over his shoulder. “Yeah, yeah. You want me to thank you or something?”

“Nah,” Sam replied, grinning. “But I’ll take it as a win anyway.”

Bucky muttered something unintelligible under his breath and pushed past him, heading to the small, creaky bed in the corner of the cramped space.

That night, like most nights, sleep evaded him. He lay on his back, staring at the water-stained ceiling of the safehouse, while his mind spun with too many thoughts. Missions were supposed to clear his head, burn off the restlessness that kept him awake. But tonight, even exhaustion didn’t help.

With a frustrated sigh, he sat up and grabbed the disposable phone Sam had handed him earlier. He knew it was a bad idea, knew he should just put it away and try to rest, but his fingers moved on their own, pulling up her profile.

Her social media was usually quiet: cozy book displays from her job, pictures of the plants she was trying to keep alive, and the occasional funny meme. It was soothing, like a peek into a normal life that he could never fully touch.

But tonight, it wasn’t soothing.

His stomach dropped as he stared at the most recent photo, uploaded just a few hours ago. It was a close-up of two hands holding Sharpies, coloring a detailed mandala. One of the hands was hers, he recognized the delicate curve of her fingers, and the faint scar near her thumb. The other one was clearly male, broader and rougher.

The tags hit him like a punch to the gut:

#SoProudOfYou #AlmostAllByYourself

Bucky stared at the screen, and his chest tightened as the meaning sank in his brain.

Her other son.

It had to be him, the other veteran she worked with, the one she’d mentioned months ago. The one responsible for her being “unsure” about taking him in when Sam first approached her.

For a moment, he just sat there, staring at the floor. He could still picture the hands, the caption, the pride in her words. And it twisted in his chest, an uncomfortable, raw feeling he couldn’t shake.

He rubbed his hand over his face, groaning softly. “What the hell is wrong with me?”

It shouldn’t matter. She wasn’t his. She’d never been his, not in that way. He told himself that over and over, but the ache in his chest didn’t care. The idea of her giving someone else that same care, that same warmth, felt like a betrayal, even though he had no right to feel that way.

With a frustrated growl, Bucky tossed the phone onto the nightstand and dropped his head into his hands. For all the chaos of the mission, for all the bullets and explosions and pain, nothing had hit him harder than that damn photo.

And he hated himself for how much it hurt.

-----

The mission wrapped up in a flurry of controlled chaos. The intel had been secured, the enhanced assholes neutralized, and while Sam emerged with only a few scratches, Bucky sported a fresh bruise on his jaw and a deep gash on his forearm, not that he cared.

The flight back was quiet, the hum of the jet’s engines filling the cabin as Bucky sat slumped in one of the seats, staring a blank point in front of him. His vibranium fingers tapped rhythmically against the armrest, the only outward sign of the storm brewing in his head.

Across the aisle, Sam noticed. He always noticed.

At first, he let it be, figuring Bucky’s mood would even out once they hit the ground. But as the hours dragged on, and the Winter Sulker stayed silent, Sam couldn’t help himself.

“You’re quiet,” Sam said, leaning back in his seat.

Bucky didn’t respond, his gaze kept fixed on the clouds outside.

Sam tried again, his tone a little sharper this time. “You gonna sit there brooding the whole way, or are you gonna tell me what’s eating you?”

Still, nothing.

Sam let out a sigh, shaking his head. “Alright, fine. But let me guess: You’re pissed off because someone scratched your arm? Or wait, maybe you’re mad because someone didn’t say ‘thank you sir’ after you saved their life?”

Bucky’s fingers stilled on the armrest, tightening his jaw.

That was all the opening Sam needed. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Look, man, I’m not blind. You’ve been sulking since day one of this mission. You want to talk about it, or do I have to guess some more?”

Bucky’s head snapped toward him, his eyes narrowing. “Just drop it, Wilson.”

“See, now you’ve got me curious,” Sam said, grinning in a way that only made Bucky’s irritation spike. “What’s got the great James Buchanan Barnes in such a mood? Did Mama scold you over text?”

That did it. Bucky shot out of his seat, towering over Sam with a scowl. “I said drop it!” he barked, his voice echoed in the small cabin.

Sam didn’t flinch, didn’t move. He just stared up at Bucky. “So it is about her.”

Bucky froze, clenching his fists at his sides.

“Man, you’ve been walking around like someone kicked your dog,” Sam continued, with a softer tone. “And I don’t know what’s going on, but whatever it is, you’ve got to get it out before it eats you alive.”

Bucky exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair before sitting back down with a heavy thud. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and muttered, “It’s nothing.”

“Doesn’t look like nothing,” Sam pointed out.

“It’s fine,” Bucky snapped tiredly.

Sam watched him for a moment before sighing and leaning back. “Alright. Keep it to yourself if you want. But I’m telling you now, whatever’s got you in this mood, you better work it out before it gets worse.

Bucky didn’t answer, turning his gaze back to the blank point. The rest of the flight passed in tense silence, as the weight of Sam’s words pressed down on him more than he wanted to admit.

----

He entered his apartment, dragging his feet like every step took more effort than it should. The mission had taken more out of him than he cared to admit, though it wasn’t the physical strain, it was the weight in his chest that seemed to grow heavier every time he returned to this quiet, empty space.

He grabbed his dead phone from the counter and plugged into the charger, barely glancing at the notifications, and made his way to the bed. The mattress was thin, and the pillows hard, as she’d suggested. “A good way to transition from the floor,” she’d said, and damned if she hadn’t been right. He’d hated it at first, but now… now it felt like his.

He dropped onto it without bothering to change, his eyes closing almost as soon as his head hit the pillow. He was so tired. So fucking tired.

That night, the nightmares came back.

And the next night.

And the next.

-----

Several days later, she was pacing her living room, phone in hand, staring at the screen with her thumb hovering over the keyboard. Whatever Bucky was into, it must have been over by now. She was sure of it, or at least, she hoped so. The radio silence was starting to worry her.

He wasn’t one to check in often -God knew that- but after all these months, she’d learned his rhythms. This wasn’t like him, not entirely. Not answering her, staying quiet this long? That wasn’t just distance. That was something else.

Finally, she typed a quick, casual message:

Still at the resort, hun?

His reply came faster than she’d expected, but it was curt.

No.

Her brows furrowed. Oh, okay, she thought, frowning at the screen. Something felt off. She typed again.

Everything alright? Did you have more fun than intended?

The dots in the chat appeared, blinked, and then disappeared.

Okay, she thought, waiting. Then they blinked again. And disappeared.

Bucky, are you hurt? she finally wrote with concern.

This time, the message was read almost instantly, but no reply came.

She sighed, deepening her frown. She knew this pattern all too well. When Bucky didn’t answer, it wasn’t because he didn’t want to, it was because he didn’t know how.

“Alright, Buck,” she muttered to herself, grabbing her bag. “Time for a visit.”

This wasn’t the first time she’d done this, dropping everything to pull him out of whatever dark place he’d retreated to. He’d let her in, little by little, trusting her with parts of himself no one else saw. She’d told herself it was about helping him, being there for him in the way he needed.

But it was more than that.

The truth, the one she kept swallowing down, was that her care for him didn’t fit neatly into the boundaries of their arrangement. It wasn’t maternal, not entirely. It was something more, something deeper. She shoved the thought aside, tightening her grip on her bag. Principles, she reminded herself firmly. Getting involved with him like that would be wrong. He deserved better.

But she couldn’t stop herself from caring.

She grabbed the key off the hook by her door and headed out. Not answering the door wasn’t going to be an option this time.

Not for her.

As expected, her knocks were met with silence. She sighed with resignation and slipped the key into the lock.

The door creaked open, and she wrinkled her nose as the stale, charged air of the apartment hit her. It wasn’t the worst she’d seen it, but it was far from the neat, semi-organized space they’d worked on together. Her gaze swept the room, taking in the scattered clothes on the floor and a small pile of takeout containers on the counter.

At least he’s been eating, she thought, a small relief in the face of the mess.

The faint sound of water running led her to the source: the bathroom. The shower.

She turned her focus back to the living room, her lips pressing into a line as she slid the window open to let in some fresh air. The cool breeze offered a small reprieve from the heaviness of the space.

Spotting a roll of garbage bags near the counter, she grabbed one and started tidying up. The crumpled clothes went into a hamper, the empty takeout boxes into the bag. She wiped at the counter absently, and her mind drifted to the last time he’d gone radio silent like this.

Whatever this is, we’ll get through it, she told herself.

She was so focused on her task, that she didn’t notice when the sound of the shower stopped, or when Bucky emerged from the hallway.

He stood there, quiet and guarded, with a towel slung low around his hips. Droplets of water clung to his skin, rolling down the faint scars on his flesh arm and chest. His stare was intense and unreadable as he watched her move around his apartment as if she belonged there.

“What are you doing here?”

His voice startled her, low and edged with exhaustion. She turned sharply, the garbage bag crinkling in her hands as her eyes met his.

“Oh,” she said, recovering quickly. Her gaze flicked briefly over him before landing firmly on his face. “I knocked. You didn’t answer.” She gestured toward the bag in her hands. “Figured I’d help you out a little.”

Bucky’s lips pressed into a thin line, his eyes narrowing slightly. “I didn’t ask you to.”

“No,” she replied evenly, setting the bag down and crossing her arms. “But I wasn’t about to leave you stewing in here like this.”

His jaw worked as he shifted his weight. “I’m fine.”

She raised an skeptical eyebrow. “Yeah? Because this,” she gestured to the room, “doesn’t exactly scream ‘fine,’ Buck.”

He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his damp hair. “I didn’t ask for a lecture.”

“Good,” she shot back, her tone soft but firm. “Because I’m not giving you one. I’m here because I care about you, and you clearly need someone right now. Whether you want to admit it or not.”

For a moment, he just stared at her, and his guarded expression wavered slightly. Then, with a tired sigh, he stepped further into the room, slumping his shoulders. “You shouldn’t have come.”

“Maybe not,” she admitted with a soft gaze. “But I’m here now. So let me help.”

He didn’t respond, but the fight seemed to drain out of him. His shoulders loosened, and he dropped into a chair near the counter, fixing his gaze somewhere on the floor.

She picked up the garbage bag again, resuming her quiet cleanup. This wasn’t the first time she’d had to coax him out of his own head, and she suspected it wouldn’t be the last. But as she moved around the room, she noticed the faintest crack in his armor, proof that he was letting her in, even if he didn’t have the words to say it yet.

“So… what’s going on?” she asked, as she picked up a wrinkled pair of boxers from one of the chairs.

Bucky’s gaze flicked to the offending garment, then back to her face. He sighed heavily, running a hand through his damp hair. He was tired, tired of pretending, tired of holding back.

“I’m… jealous.” he admitted reluctantly.

She paused, her fingers tightened around the fabric before dropping it into the laundry pile. “Jealous?” she echoed, her brows furrowing. “Of who?”

His jaw tensed, and his gaze darted away before he muttered, “I saw it. The Sharpies picture.”

Her lips parted slightly in understanding. “Oh,” she said softly. “And?”

“And…” He sighed again, the frustration etched into every line of his face. “You never did that with me.”

“Coloring?” she asked, tilting her head. “I didn’t think you’d be into it, babe.”

“Not coloring,” he said sharply, running a hand through his damp hair again. Then his voice softened, but his words carried a heavy weight. “The… the picture.”

Oh.

“Well,” she started gently, “you’re not exactly a fan of social media. And you always grump when I try to take one of us.”

“It’s not that,” he said, shaking his head. His blue eyes finally met hers, raw and vulnerable in a way that made her chest tighten. “It’s… I forget sometimes that I’m not your only son.”

Oh.

He leaned back in the chair, running his hand over his face as if to hide the emotions flickering across it. “I don’t like the idea of sharing you,” he admitted, in a low, almost bitter tone.

She swallowed hard. “Well, it happens all the time,” she said cautiously, trying to keep her tone light. “Brothers usually don’t like-”

“He’s not my brother,” Bucky interrupted firmly, snapping his gaze to hers.

The air in the room shifted. His next words came softer, but they hit like a thunderclap.

“And you… you’re not my ma.”

The room seemed to still, the only sound the faint hum of the fridge in the background.

She stared at him, her pulse thrumming in her ears. “Bucky…”

“I hate it,” he said, dropping his hands to his lap as he looked at her with a mix of anger and desperation. “I hate that I look forward to seeing you more than I’ve looked forward to anything in years. I hate that I can’t stand the thought of anyone else getting what I get. And I hate that I don’t know what the hell to do about it.”

Her heart felt like it was being squeezed as she searched for the right words. “Bucky,” she said softly, leaning toward him, “this… this doesn’t have to be something you hate.”

“I know,” he said, his voice was raw and strained. “But I can’t manage my feelings toward you.”

Her breath caught, and her heart twisted painfully as she absorbed the weight of his confession. She leaned back slightly, clenching her hands together in her lap and sighed.

“Bucky,” she started softly, “this bond we’ve built… it’s compromised. It’s not what it’s supposed to be anymore. It wouldn’t be ethical for me to continue mothering you.”

His head snapped up, his blue eyes went wide and glassy with panic. The look on his face made her chest ache. He looked utterly wrecked, his lips parted as if to argue, but no words came at first.

“No,” he finally stammered, his voice shaky and uneven. “No, please. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have- I’ll stop. I’ll never bring it up again, I swear.” His breath hitched, and he shook his head as if trying to find the right words. “Just… don’t leave me, Mama.”

He reached for her hand, firmly but also trembling. His vibranium fingers brushed against her wrist, the cool metal a sharp contrast to the warmth of his touch. “I need you,” he said, his voice breaking.

Her heart shattered at the sheer desperation in his voice, in the way his thumb nervously rubbed over the back of her hand like he was afraid she might disappear if he let go.

With her free hand, she reached up and cupped his stubbled cheek, softly brushing her thumb over a scar near his jawline. His breath hitched again, and his eyes fluttered shut momentarily, as though her touch was calming him.

“This ordeal isn’t right, sweetheart,” she murmured. “It’s not fair to you. Or to me.”

“But-” His hand tightened around hers, his body leaned closer to her as though proximity alone could keep her from slipping away. “I’ll do better. I’ll keep it together. Just… please, don’t go. Don’t give up on me.”

“Bucky,” she whispered, tracing soothing circles on his cheek. “It’s not about giving up on you. It’s about what’s right. What’s healthy.”

“I don’t care about right,” he choked out, his voice trembling. “I just… I can’t lose you too.”

Her hand trembled slightly where it rested against his cheek, but she steadied herself with a deep breath.

“Bucky,” she began softly, tentative but growing steadier as she continued, “I also have feelings for you. I’ve been having them for a while now.”

His breath hitched, his wide eyes searching hers desperately, but before he could speak, she pushed forward.

“I was never going to act on it,” she said firmly. “Because it would mean taking advantage of you.”

His brows furrowed deeply, and he shook his head, rising his voice with frustration and disbelief. “I’m a grown man. You can’t take advantage of me.”

“You know that’s not true,” she countered gently but unyieldingly.“You trust me, Bucky. You let me in, more than anyone else. And that’s why we can’t do this dynamic anymore.”

Her words hit him like a physical blow. His grip on her hand tightened, and his shoulders hunched as his head dipped forward slightly. For a moment, he was silent, breathing heavily as he tried to process her words.

“No,” he murmured, shaking his head, his voice broke as he looked back up at her with unshed tears brightening his eyes. “No… Ma… you can’t just-”

“Bucky,” she said softly, cutting him off with a tenderness that nearly undid him. Her fingers brushed his cheek again, tracing soothing circles as her heart ached at the devastation written across his face. “The contract we made, the boundaries we agreed on, it doesn’t fit us anymore. I can’t keep pretending to be something I’m not.”

His breath hitched, the knot in his throat tightened as he struggled to find words. “But you’re not-” he started, voice trembling.

She shook her head gently, stopping him again. “I’m not your mom, Bucky. You said it yourself.” Her voice wavered just enough to betray the conflict she felt.

His lips parted, but no sound came as he searched her face, desperate for something -anything-that might keep her close.

“That being said…” she murmured after a beat, her thumb still brushing gently against his cheek. Her eyes softened as they searched for his. “We can try… dating. To see how and where this might go, because that’s something completely different.”

His mind blanked for a moment, as her words hit him. Dating?

The word echoed in his head, feeling too big and too small all at once. He blinked, his mouth opening slightly as he struggled to process what she’d just said. His mouth parted slightly, but no words came out, his breath caught somewhere between confusion and longing.

Dating… her?

His heart twisted, caught in the crossfire of disbelief and a yearning he’d buried for so long it felt foreign. She wasn’t pulling back. She wasn’t brushing this off or deflecting like he’d feared. Instead, she was offering something he hadn’t dared to hope for.

Does she mean it?

For so long, he’d kept his feelings locked away, hidden in the shadows of his mind where they couldn’t hurt him -or anyone else-. But now, here she was, standing in front of him, dragging those feelings into the light with words that felt both terrifying and exhilarating.

“…What?” he finally managed, the word slipping out before he could stop it. His voice was rough, strained, tangled somewhere between confusion and desperation.

Her expression didn’t falter, but there was a faint glimmer of vulnerability in her eyes, just enough to make his chest ache. “Dating, Bucky,” she repeated. “Not as your mom. Not as anyone else. Just… as us.”

Us.

His throat tightened, and his hands flexed against hers. The knot in his chest twisted painfully, caught between fear and something that felt dangerously close to relief.

Could there even be an us?

“Bucky, you’re doing the staring thing,” she said softly, her voice tinged with amusement, though her eyes remained serious as if willing him to believe her.

The corner of his mouth twitched, a faint huff of air escaped his nose as he ducked his head slightly. “Sorry,” he murmured. “I thought it was just me. You’re… sure about me?

Her thumb brushed gently along his jaw, and a small, reassuring smile tugged at her lips. “I wouldn’t be here saying this if I wasn’t sure, Buck.”

He glanced at her lips, the desire to close the space between them was almost overwhelming, but he hesitated. “You’re not… scared?”

“Of you?” she asked, tilting her head slightly. “Never.” Her smile grew just a bit, as she added, “You’re not as intimidating as you think, you know.”

That earned a faint chuckle, though it was weighed down by the uncertainty still lingering in his chest. “I just… I’m not exactly easy, you know,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’m complicated. Messed up.”

She shook her head, squeezing his hand gently. “Bucky, all these months I’ve been coming here to be with you, you’ve opened up to me in ways I don’t think you’ve done with anyone else. You’ve trusted me with parts of yourself that I know aren’t easy to share.”

Her voice softened, her thumb brushing gently over his knuckles. “I know what I’m dealing with. And I can promise you, you’re not a mess. Not to me.”

His chest tightened at her words. He exhaled slowly, his blue eyes flicking between hers as if searching for any trace of doubt but all he saw was warmth. “Then,” he began, his tone was low but went higher as he steadied himself. “Let’s-let’s go. On a date.”

Her lips twitched, and she glanced down briefly, with a playful glint dancing in her eyes. “Well, to go right now, you should probably put some clothes on first, don’t you think?”

For a moment, he blinked, caught off guard by the shift, until her words sank in. His gaze darted down to the towel wrapped loosely around his hips, and the faintest flush crept up his neck.

“I didn’t mean right now, Ma-” He caught himself, his jaw tightened as he quickly corrected, “Doll.” The word came out gruff, almost embarrassed, as he scratched the back of his neck, his eyes flicking away for a second.

Her brow arched at the slip, but she didn’t comment, though the faint smile tugging at her lips didn’t go unnoticed.

Bucky shifted slightly, rolling his shoulders, and for once, the knowledge that she wanted this too -wanted him- settled something inside him. The usual discomfort of being caught off guard wasn’t there. Instead, he felt a spark of confidence, small but growing.

She leaned back in her chair, deciding to give him the space to take the lead. Considering his old-fashioned upbringing, it felt right to let him set the tone, not just to give him control, but to help him feel steady.

“So,” she said lightly, playful but encouraging, “pick a place and a time, and we’ll see.”

He nodded slowly, flexing his fingers against his knee before leaning back slightly in his seat. The movement shifted the towel around his hips just enough to make her painfully aware of the fact that he was still half-naked.

Her eyes traced the line of his shoulders, and the slight curve of his jaw as he glanced down in thought. Then her wandering gaze dipped against her better judgment, tracing the line of his chest, the faint curve of muscle at his stomach, and the scars she’d never quite let herself linger on before.

When her eyes flicked back up to his face, his sharp blue gaze was already on her, a flicker of amusement sparking in his expression. His lips twitched into a faint smirk, “Okay,” he said, more confident now. “I’ll… figure it out.”

Her cheeks warmed faintly, and she quickly forced a smile, hoping it would cover her flustering. “Take your time, Bucky. Just not too long.”

He tipped his head slightly, and his smirk deepened with an easy confidence in his posture that was now unmistakable. “Don’t worry. I won’t.”

----

True to his word, her phone buzzed with a message a couple of days later.

Dinner? Friday at 7. That place you mentioned once, Marcellino’s.

She blinked at the screen, parting her lips in surprise. Marcellino’s? The Italian place she’d mentioned months ago, almost offhandedly, as a “bucket list” spot she’d love to visit someday? How had he even remembered?

Her thumbs hovered over the keyboard before she typed back.

Seriously? I’ve been dying to go there. How’d you manage reservations so fast?

On the other side of town, Bucky stared at her message, a faint smirk tugging at his lips as he reclined on his couch. It had been a pain finding a reservation on such short notice; apparently, Marcellino’s had been booked solid for weeks. But hacking into their system had been child’s play, a few keystrokes, some backdoor access, and voilà: table for two, Friday at 7.

She would never know, of course.

He typed back simply.

I’ve got my ways.

Her reply came quickly, punctuated with a laughing emoji.

Mysterious, huh? Alright, Bucky. I’ll see you on Friday.

Bucky exhaled slowly, setting his phone down and leaning back against the couch. A small, quiet sense of satisfaction settled in his chest. It wasn’t just the date, it was the effort, the planning, and the decision to put himself out there in a way he hadn’t in decades.

Friday couldn’t come fast enough.

----

When the cab pulled up to the curb, she spotted him immediately. He was standing just outside the restaurant, hands tucked into the pockets of his dark suit pants. His posture was relaxed, but his gaze was distracted, fixed on something across the street.

She rarely saw him out of his usual Henleys and jeans, but God help her, he cleaned up well. The suit was perfectly tailored, the dark fabric accentuating his broad shoulders and tapering at his waist. His hair, usually left to its own devices, was slicked back neatly, the sharp lines of his jawline even more striking under the glow of the streetlights.

For a second, she forgot how to breathe.

Bucky, oblivious to her arrival, shifted his weight slightly, his vibranium fingers flexing in his pocket as his flesh hand adjusted his tie. She smiled to herself, taking the opportunity to appreciate him while his guard was down. He was so effortlessly striking, yet she knew he’d put thought into it. He really wanted this to go right.

Finally, she stepped out of the cab, and her heels clicked softly against the pavement. “Hey, handsome,” she called out.

Bucky’s head snapped toward her, his distracted expression melting into something softer. His lips parted slightly, raking his gaze over her from head to toe. “Wow,” he murmured, low and rough. “You look…” He trailed off, his mouth twitching like he couldn’t find the right word.

“Good?” she offered with a smirk, stepping closer.

“Better than good,” he corrected, “Way better.”

Her cheeks warmed under his gaze, but she managed to keep her tone casual. “You’re not looking so bad yourself, Buck. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you do this sort of thing all the time.”

He huffed a small laugh, scratching the back of his neck, though the faint pink dusting his ears didn’t go unnoticed. “Guess I clean up okay.”

“Okay?” she teased, raising an eyebrow. “Try amazing.”

He ducked his head slightly, a rare but genuine smile tugging at his lips. “Thanks,” he muttered, holding out his arm. “You ready?”

She looped her hand through his, letting him lead her toward the entrance. As they stepped inside, she couldn’t help but think this was already shaping up to be the best first date she’d ever had.

The table was in a prime spot near a window overlooking the city lights. Bucky pulled out her chair smoothly, motioning for her to sit confidently, making her heart flutter.

He settled across her with fluid movements. Despite the nerves buzzing in his chest, they were the good kind of nerves, normal ones. The kind that came with wanting to impress someone without feeling like he had to prove his worth.

He already knew her.

That made everything easier. There was no need to rack his brain for icebreakers, no awkward pauses to fill, no second-guessing every little thing he said. Instead, he could focus entirely on her: the soft curve of her smile, the way her eyes sparkled in the candlelight, the way she twisted her hands together on the table when she thought he wasn’t looking.

And, maybe, on seducing her. Not aggressively, but in the easy, intentional way he remembered from a lifetime ago. A brush of his fingers here, a lingering glance there, the kind of thing that built tension without needing words.

If he was rusty, it didn’t show.

She, on the other hand, was a wreck.

Her posture was perfect, her smile warm, but underneath the table, her knees bounced faintly, betraying the swirl of emotions coursing through her. This was -and wasn’t- her Bucky.

The man sitting across from her wasn’t the grumpy, guarded man she’d coaxed out of his shell with patience and care. This Bucky was confident, deliberate. The way his piercing gaze lingered just a second too long, the faint smirk tugging at his lips when he caught her fidgeting, he wasn’t shy about letting her know she had his full attention.

And it was overwhelming. Not in a bad way -it was thrilling- but it left her feeling completely off balance.

She wasn’t in charge anymore.

The realization sent a wave of warmth through her body, leaving her acutely aware of every little detail: the way he leaned forward slightly when she spoke, the way his hand rested on the table, close enough to brush hers if she dared to reach out.

God help her, she thought faintly, swallowing hard. If this was Bucky now, she couldn’t imagine what Sergeant Barnes of the 1940s must have been like. A menace, no doubt. A walking, talking heartbreaker wrapped in charm and good manners.

Her eyes flicked up to meet his again, and he gave her a slow, knowing smile, one that sent her pulse skittering.

She tightened her grip on the edge of her napkin, trying to will herself to relax. This was Bucky. And yet, sitting across from him like this, with the weight of his attention focused entirely on her, it felt like seeing him for the first time all over again.

When the food arrived, Bucky’s face was a masterclass of self-control. His expression remained completely neutral as the waiter arranged the plates with what could only be described as an air of reverence. He nodded politely when the man finished, even offering a quiet “thank you,” though inside he was already questioning his life choices.

Once the waiter walked away, he let his eyes shift to her, raising a brow to see if she was thinking the same thing he was.

Her lips twitched, struggling to suppress a laugh as she glanced down at her plate. The elegant presentation might have fooled someone else, but all she could see was what appeared to be a tiny portion of gnocchi, barely enough to feed a toddler.

Bucky’s plate wasn’t much better: three perfectly arranged sorrentinos, sitting proudly in the center of an artfully swirled sauce. It was the most stylish and inviting minimalist plate he’d ever seen.

He glanced back up at her, his lips twitching as her shoulders shook with silent laughter.

“This…” she started, covering her mouth with her hand to muffle a giggle, “…this is it?”

Bucky huffed, leaning back in his chair as he gave his plate a long, scrutinizing look. “Guess we’re supposed to savor it,” he said dryly.

She bit her lip, trying and failing to stifle another laugh. “It seems they’re encouraging portion control.”

He scowled. “Didn’t know I’d be eating an appetizer disguised as dinner, goddammit.”

“I’m… I’m sorry! I didn’t know… they have such great feedback!” she groaned still chuckling.

“It’s my fault,” he muttered, spearing one of the sorrentinos with his fork and eyeing it as if it had personally insulted him. “For not checking the place out better.”

He couldn’t believe he��d hacked their system for this. He’d spent nearly an hour working around firewalls and reservations, all to secure a table at this supposedly renowned spot. It hadn’t even occurred to him to scout the menu or check the portion sizes.

This wouldn’t have happened to the old me, he thought bitterly, chewing slowly on his second overpriced sorrentino. His jaw tightened as the familiar ache of inadequacy crept into his chest.

She must have noticed the subtle shift in his expression because, without a word, she reached across the table and rested her hand over his.

“Bucky,” she said softly, her voice laced with gentle authority. “Don’t you dare take a ride on the self-deprecation train.”

His eyes flicked up to meet hers with surprise, before relaxing his features.

“This,” she continued, squeezing his hand lightly, “is just an anecdote. Something to laugh about later, hm? It doesn’t mean anything except that we picked a fancy place with tiny portions. That’s it.”

For a moment, he just stared at her, flexing his fingers slightly under hers. Then, reluctantly, his lips twitched into a faint smirk. “An anecdote, huh?”

“Yeah,” she said, smiling now, her thumb brushing lightly over his knuckles. “Something to tell people one day, how you bravely faced off against a plate of minimalist pasta. Now finish your last bite so we can leave and find something less fancy but more substantial,” she stated with amusement.

Bucky poked at the last piece of pasta with his fork, letting out an exaggerated sigh. “Even the breadbasket was sad,” he grumbled, as he signaled for the waiter to bring the bill.

The waiter approached, and with a politely confused expression, he noted their early departure. “Would you like to see the dessert menu, perhaps?” he offered, his tone gracious but hoping to redeem the situation.

“No, thank you,” Bucky replied smoothly, his voice polite but final. He slid his card across the table before she could even think about reaching for her wallet.

“Bucky-” she started, but he cut her off with a quick shake of his head.

“Don’t even try,” he said firmly but light enough to soften the refusal.

She huffed but didn’t argue further, leaning back in her chair as he settled the bill. Once it was taken care of, Bucky stood and offered her his hand, helping her up with ease.

As they made their way toward the exit, he placed a gentle hand on the small of her back, guiding her toward the door he opened for her.

“Such a gentleman,” she teased, as she stepped outside into the cool night air.

“Only for you, doll” he murmured, his lips twitching into the faintest smirk as he shifted slightly to shield her from a passing breeze.

She stepped beside him, automatically taking the inner spot on the sidewalk as he steered her toward it and slipped her hand easily onto his offered arm

“So,” he said after a moment, “Any ideas where we’re finding this substantial food? Or am I winging it?”

She laughed softly, squeezing his arm. “Let’s see what’s nearby. Maybe we’ll find a place with a breadbasket that doesn’t make you sad.”

“That’s a low bar,” he muttered, earning another laugh that made his chest feel lighter than it had all night.

They ended up at a small, no-frills pizza place, tucked into the corner of a quiet street. The neon sign in the window flickered faintly, and the smell of melted cheese and fresh dough hit them the moment they stepped inside.

Sliding onto the high bar stools at a tiny plastic table, they both seemed keenly aware of how out of place they looked. Her dress shimmered faintly under the fluorescent lights, and his perfectly tailored suit drew more than a few curious glances from the other patrons, who were clad in hoodies and jeans.

Bucky sat a little stiffly at first, as he glanced around. The contrast between this place and the upscale restaurant they’d just left wasn’t lost on him, but the casual atmosphere somehow felt more... right. Still, the attention made him uneasy, and he shifted slightly, brushing his vibranium hand on the edge of the table.

But then he looked at her.

She had a slice in her hand, the cheese stretching almost comically as she took a bite. Her shoulders relaxed as she chewed, and then she closed her eyes, and a soft, involuntary moan escaped her lips.

Bucky’s brows lifted slightly, locking his gaze on her as a faint flush crept up his neck. He watched her savor the bite, her fingers tapping lightly on the table to emphasize her approval.

In that moment, every awkward glance from the other patrons, every thought about his appearance or how ridiculous they looked, melted away.

All he could think about was her.

“Good?” he asked, unable to stop staring.

She opened her eyes, blinking like she’d momentarily forgotten where she was. “So good,” she said, curling her lips into a satisfied smile. “I needed this.”

“Glad I could deliver,” he teased, taking a bite of his slice after winking at her.

She shook her head with a small laugh, wiping her fingers on a napkin. “You know… I don’t get it. How did all your last dates go so bad, Bucky?”

He paused mid-bite, chewing slower as the thought crossed his mind. Maybe because I couldn’t stop bringing up my ‘mom’ in conversations like some kind of creep.

“Because they weren’t you.”

The answer came easily, effortlessly, but the way her eyes widened told him she hadn’t expected it.

Her lips parted slightly, caught off guard by the raw sincerity in his voice. For once, she was the one scrambling for words, the usual balance between them tipping in a way that made her pulse quicken. “Bucky…”

He held her gaze. “I mean it.”

She blinked, the teasing light in her eyes dimming as something warmer and softer, replaced it. Slowly, her lips curved into a small, almost shy smile, fiddling her fingers with the edge of her napkin as she tried to gather herself.

“Well,” she murmured playfully, “I guess they didn’t stand a chance, huh?”

“Not even close,” he agreed, a playful smirk tugging at his lips as he leaned back slightly on the barstool. The suit jacket he wore pulled just enough to highlight the sharp lines of his shoulders, and for a brief moment, she found herself really looking at him. The paper napkin in his hand felt absurdly out of place against the polished, confident image he presented, but somehow, it only made him more endearing.

She reached for another slice of pizza as if that would help her steady herself. She didn’t say anything, couldn’t, because what could she possibly say to that? Instead, she glanced down quickly, busying herself with her plate and hoping he didn’t notice the sudden warmth in her cheeks.

When her eyes flicked back up, he was still watching her, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. It wasn’t teasing or overconfident, just… him.

As they finished their meal, the buzz of the restaurant began to fade into the background, leaving just the two of them in their little corner of the world. Bucky leaned back, draining the last of his drink before standing and adjusting his jacket. He offered her his hand, his vibranium fingers catching the soft light. “Come on,” he said in an inviting voice.

“Where?” she asked, slipping her hand into his.

“Just… a walk,” he replied, almost tentative “Unless you’re in a hurry to call it a night.”

“Not at all.” She promptly answered as she rose to meet him.

They wandered down the sidewalk unhurriedly as the night wrapped around them. The streetlights cast long shadows, and their conversation flowed easily, punctuated by the occasional laugh or lingering glance. For a while, neither seemed to notice the passing of time. But then a cool breeze rolled in, and he felt her shiver slightly beside him.

He stopped, pressing his lips into a thin line. “Alright,” he murmured reluctantly, “I’m calling you a cab.”

She blinked, furrowing her brow . “What? Why?”

“You’re cold,” he said simply, his tone firm despite the regret in his eyes.

“I’m fine,” she argued, but the slight tremor in her voice betrayed her words.

“Doll,” he said, shaking his head with a faint smile, “you’re shivering. I’m not letting you walk around all night freezing.”

Her lips curved into a teasing smirk. “You could just lend me your jacket, you know. Like they do in the movies. Then I’d nuzzle into it because it smells like you, the usual cliché.”

He quirked an eyebrow, and his smirk widened into something distinctly playful. “You know, if you want to smell me, you can do it whenever you want.”

Her mouth fell open slightly, her cheeks burning as her witty comeback disappeared from her brain.

He chuckled, clearly pleased with her reaction, but his expression softened as he continued. “You’re shivering,” he repeated. “I’m not about to let you freeze out here.”

She folded her arms, attempting to regain her composure. “I’m really fine.”

“Trust me,” he said, pulling out his phone, “if I gave you my jacket, I’d have to carry you home. You’d drown in it.”

She let out a small huff, quirking her lips into a reluctant smile. “Fine,” she relented. “But only because I don’t want you giving me that sad, guilty look all night.”

“Guilty?” he repeated, quirking an eyebrow as he tapped at his screen.

“Yeah,” she teased, nudging him lightly. “Like you’re already blaming yourself for the weather.”

He chuckled, shaking his head as he finished ordering the cab. “Maybe a little,” he admitted, slipping his phone back into his pocket.

-----

As they waited, he guided her toward the side of the building, resting his hand instinctively on her lower back as he steered her out of the breeze.

“Thanks for tonight, Bucky,” she said softly, leaning slightly into him, guided by the warmth of his hand.

Bucky froze for half a second, as the closeness of her body sent his heart into overdrive. She tilted her head to look up at him, and she smiled, not quite shy but not entirely bold either.

For a moment, he struggled. His old-fashioned nature tugged at him, warning him to hold back, to wait. He wasn’t sure how these things worked anymore, not when it came to her. Did he ask? Did he wait for her to make the first move?

But then her gaze dipped just for a second, to his lips.

Slowly, carefully, he leaned down, giving her time to pull away.

She didn’t, parting her lips ever so slightly, and it was all the reassurance he needed.

Their lips met, and the world seemed to still. The kiss was soft, tentative, but filled with all the emotions he hadn’t known how to put into words. His vibranium hand slid gently up her upper back, steadying her, while his flesh fingers brushed the curve of her jaw.

She leaned into him, resting her hands lightly on the lapels of his suit jacket and the kiss deepened, just enough to send a pleasant warmth humming through them both before they slowly pulled back.

Her eyes fluttered open, and a small smile played at her lips as she whispered, “Took you long enough.”

He huffed out a low laugh as his hand lingered at her back. “Guess I’m a little rusty.”

“Not bad for rusty,” she teased, curling her fingers slightly against his jacket.

He sighed as he raked a hand through his hair. “You’re good for me, you know that?”

Her smile widened, and she nudged him gently. “I try.”

He bit his lip, glancing down briefly before meeting her gaze again. “Even without trying, these past months, they’ve been…” He paused, the words catching in his throat as he searched for the right way to say it.

“Good… in a way I haven’t felt in a long time. Because of you.” He managed to finish the best he could.

Her heart swelled at the raw honesty of his voice. She leaned closer, brushing her hand lightly against his chest. “You’ve done a lot of that yourself, you know,” she said softly. “You’re not giving yourself enough credit.”

“Maybe,” he said, his lips twitching into a faint, almost shy smile. “But you were there. That made all the difference.”

She smiled, her thumb brushing over the lapel of his jacket. “Well, lucky for you, I’m not going anywhere.”

“Good,” he murmured, “Because I’m not letting you.”

They just stood there, the hum of the city fading into the background. The night was cool, but the warmth between them was enough to keep the chill at bay. Finally, he tilted his head. “Ready to go?”

“No,” she pouted softly, looping her arm through his with a playful glint in her eyes.

Bucky hesitated for a fraction of a second, dipping his gaze to her lips again before he acted on impulse. His hand slid around her waist, gently pulling her closer as he leaned in.

This kiss was different, more sure, deliberate. His lips pressed against hers with a tenderness that made her knees feel weak, and she melted into him without hesitation.

When he finally pulled back, he let his lips brush against her cheek, trailing softly upward until they rested near her temple.

“Don’t make it difficult, Ma,” he teased lowly against her skin.

She let out a soft, breathy laugh, as she leaned into him. “Not my fault you’re irresistible, sweetheart.”

His lips curved into a small, lopsided smile against her temple before he sighed softly, resting his hand lightly on her lower back. With an easy motion, he guided her toward the waiting cab at the curb.

When they reached it, he opened the door for her without a word. She stepped in, pausing briefly to glance back at him. Her lips were still curved, and her warm smile made his chest ache in the best way.

“Goodnight, Bucky,” she said softly.

“Goodnight,” he murmured, a little rough around the edges. His gaze lingered on her, flexing his fingers slightly as if reluctant to let go of the door. Finally, he shut it gently, stepping back as the cab pulled away.

For a long moment, he stood there with his hands tucked into his pockets, watching as the car merged into the traffic and disappeared into the city lights. Finally, he turned slowly heading home, the faintest trace of a smile still tugging at his lips. For once, the night didn’t weigh so heavily on him, as he carried the lingering warmth of her smile and the memory of her kiss.

Dividers by @/strangergraphics

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fluff #bucky fluff #bucky barnes fic #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes x curvy!reader #bucky x curvy!reader #Bucky Barnes Comfort

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navybrat817 · 1 month ago

Text

Hold You Tight: Part 14

Pairing: Club Owner!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Fic Summary: The owner of The 107th wants you to be his girl whether you like it or not.

Part 13 | Series Masterlist | Part 15

Chapter Word Count: Over 5k

Chapter Summary: The manager of The Red Room gives you a little advice regarding your situation with Bucky.

Chapter Warnings: DARK AU, backstory, reference to stalking, hopelessness. inner turmoil, slight feels, Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?), more warnings to come.

A/N: More Hold You Tight! I realize some of this may feel like filler, but it's happening for a reason. Thank you for sticking with me! Bucky edit by the beautiful @nixakimbo . ❤️ Beta read by the lovely @whisperlullaby , but any and all mistakes are my own. Divider by the talented @firefly-graphics . Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

Ray kept a close but respectable distance as he took you to his car. It was similar to the vehicle he drove Bucky around in, but a slightly different shade of black that wasn’t as flashy. You should've spotted it sooner, but you weren’t exactly looking for it, were you?

“Have you just been driving around following me all day?” you asked once you were in the car.

“I followed you on foot, too. I’m good at blending in,” he said, giving you a sideways glance as he buckled up and made sure you were buckled up, too. There was no boasting in his statement, just truth. “It wouldn't surprise me if I’m the one asked to stay nearby when you join your friends on Saturday.”

“But perhaps if she really does want to go and you’re unable to accompany her, boss, someone could discreetly keep an eye on her.”

With his looks and massive build, he shouldn’t be able to blend in so easily. How many people paid that close attention to their surroundings though? You hadn’t before. You needed to be on guard more. And what was that going to do to your stress levels?

At least it would be Ray watching if he was asked and not one of Bucky’s other friends.

“Well, I hope watching me drink wine doesn't bore you,” you said, glancing out the window as he drove off, watching the cars and people go by. “How did you get so good at what you do?”

“Making sure you're safe doesn't bore me,” he said. Ironic considering his boss put you in danger. “And I think that’s a story for another time.”

Ray said he had been working for Bucky for a few years. You wondered just how they met. There had to be a story there. “Do you ever think about walking away from it?” you asked curiously, bringing your gaze back to him while he kept his eyes on the road. “I mean, you have a life outside of this, right?”

Did he have family? Friends? A loved one? He had to have a hobby at least. Something.

He tapped a finger on the steering wheel. “Do you think one simply walks away?”

“No, I guess not,” you replied. It was unlikely that you would ever escape, but you didn’t know how it was for people who willingly ran in circles with men like Bucky. You still had a lot to learn. “But I’d like to think there’s hope for you if that’s what you want.”

“I appreciate the hope and I don’t want you to lose that,” he said, sparing you a sad glance. “But you should place it elsewhere.”

Where exactly would you place that hope when Bucky continued to infect everything in your life?

You nodded once, feeling a bit sad for him, too. He just seemed different from the others Bucky surrounded himself with. “Sorry for the questions.”

“Don't apologize,” he said, tapping the steering wheel again. “It’s nice that you care enough to ask.”

You smiled to yourself, content to sit in silence after that. Grabbing your phone from your bag, you aimlessly scrolled through your messages and stopped at Bucky’s name. There were no new messages, but would he send something at the stroke of midnight? And if he was in a mood without you around and Ray eventually told him that Zemo introduced himself to you, what would he do?

“We’re here,” Ray said after a minute, parking his car in front of a tall, sleek building and getting out. He held up a hand to stop the valet from opening the door for you, opting to help you out himself. “This way.”

The sleek theme continued as you went into the lobby and you understood why it was called The Red Room. The color was everywhere, balanced out by a mix of black and gray and soft lighting. The nearby sofa and chairs looked high-quality, as did the art. It appeared to be an oasis of luxury and a place for a well deserved break.

You stopped Ray before you got to the desk. “How much is a room? I get paid tomorrow, but…” You had some money in savings you could transfer over to cover what was surely an expensive cost.

“You haven't checked your account today, have you?”

Taking out your phone with a furrowed brow, you quickly logged into your bank account. An embarrassing squeak came out when you saw the amount, your eyes wide as you looked between your phone and Ray. That had to be some sort of mistake. There was no way…

Bucky.

“He put money in my account?” you whispered, double checking the amount to make sure your eyes weren't deceiving you. Why did he do that? “I can't…”

“He did and he won't take it back if you try,” Ray confirmed. “Regardless of how much you now have, if my boss found out that I suggested you stay here and made you pay he’d have my head.”

“Well, what’s the point of having this money then?” you pressed.

Not that you intended to use it. Spending even a dime of it would likely encourage Bucky to give you more. Or was it a test to see if you would spend it? Would he know if you did?

Maybe, just maybe, you could get Addison and Brady a nice wedding gift.

“To make sure you're taken care of in every possible way,” he said, gesturing to you to move forward.

“Welcome to The Red Room,” a woman in a black dress smiled, Ingrid from the name on her tag. “Do you have a reservation?”

“We do not,” Ray said, sliding a card over. “And I’ll need to speak with Natalia regarding a room, please.”

“Natalia?” Ingrid’s smile didn’t slip, but a hardened look took over her eyes and you suddenly felt uncomfortable. “I’m afraid that’s-”

“It’s fine, Ingrid. I’ll be happy to take care of them.” A redhead in a similar black dress walked over, her heels echoing on the marble floor. She carried herself with grace and power and looked like she could snap your neck without breaking a sweat. So did Ingrid for that matter. “Why don’t you go on break?”

“Of course.” Ingrid’s smile was back on her face. “Enjoy your stay,” she added, gliding away.

“Raymond. Good to see you,” Natalia said, her voice warm as he gave her a nod. “You’ll have to excuse Ingrid. She gets a little protective when anyone asks for Natalia. You know you're one of the only men around who still calls me that.”

“It’s your name, is it not?” he asked, though her tag read Natasha.

“Indeed it is. Maybe one day you’ll call me Natasha,” she said, cocking an eyebrow at you. You didn’t think she was judging you, but you still felt a little self conscious under her gaze. “I wasn't supposed to meet you until later. I also expected Bucky to be with you when that happened.”

You held your breath before you remembered that Ray said the manager had worked with Bucky before. “So you know who I am,” you said. For Bucky to preach about your safety, a lot of people were aware of who you were. “Does everyone know who I am?”

The corner of her lip quirked up. “Not everyone,” she said, turning her attention to Ray. “Why is she here early? Did something happen?”

“She needs a place to stay for the night and she’s not to be disturbed. That includes my boss.”

She raised an eyebrow again. “Understood. I’ll give her suite 213 and put you just across the hall.” Her fingers flew across the keyboard before she slid the card back to Ray. “Follow me.”

“Isn’t a suite a bit much?” you asked. And for Ray to pay for that, you had to pay him back somehow.

She paused to stare at you. “All of the rooms here are nice, but the suites are a bit more spacious. It’ll give you room to breathe while you relax,” she gently spoke. “You look like you could use some rest.”

Did she know the extent of what you had gone through? You weren’t claustrophobic but with Bucky smothering you, breathing and rest didn’t come to you as easily. “I appreciate that,” you said. A spacious area would feel nice.

She nodded, pressing the elevator button. “You’re also welcome to book anything in the spa at no charge and whatever you’d like from the restaurant or room service menu is on the house.”

You gaped at her. “So because I’m Bucky’s girl, you’ll just give me these things for free?” you asked, noticing that she stood on one side of you and Ray on the other. “I mean, I’m not trying to sound ungrateful, but there’s no need for the special treatment.”

Everyone so far in Bucky’s circle fawned over you. But what had you done to earn anything? Nothing. All you did was catch the eye of a powerful man.

“Nothing in life is free. There’s a price for everything,” she said above a whisper. “And I know you’re not ungrateful. You’re just not used to it.”

You weren’t sure if you’d ever get used to it since you grew up with the belief that you had to work for what you were given. “You asked why I was here early. When exactly was I supposed to meet you?”

“Not to spoil the surprise, but Bucky booked a dinner reservation and our best suite for a romantic evening.” She gave Ray a glance, who didn’t look too pleased. “I think he plans to tell you the day of, if I had to guess.”

“Wonderful,” you muttered, a shiver running through your body. You weren't an idiot. If Bucky booked a suite for the two of you, he’d expect you to sleep with him.

“I thought you were good at keeping secrets, Natalia,” Ray uttered.

“I’m very good at keeping secrets that are actually worth keeping, Raymond,” she retorted.

“I’m glad you told me,” you said. In her defense, you asked a question and she gave you an almost direct answer. “Besides, it’s just another thing to add to the list of ‘surprises’ for today. Bucky having Ray follow me. Meeting Zemo.”

“Zemo?” She didn’t give anything away, but she gave Ray another look. This guy didn’t seem to have a lot of fans. “You met Zemo? When?”

“He introduced himself to me at the park just before we came here,” you replied.

She pursed her lips when the elevator door opened. “I can’t wait to hear how Bucky responds to that.”

Your stomach sank. You saw what he did to John after he insulted you. Zemo likely wouldn’t fare much better, but he also seemed to be a bigger player in whatever went on in the city.

“Will you let me do a sweep before she goes in?” Ray asked before Natasha could open the door.

“No one has been in this room and no one knew you were coming here, but I know you'll be chewed out if you don’t,” she said, stepping aside for him.

“You’re not planning to bug the place, are you, Ray?” You didn’t want to think he would, but you had to ask.

He didn’t look offended by the question. If anything, he seemed to understand your concern. “This is meant to be a safe haven for the rest of the day. I won’t take that from you,” he promised, shutting the door behind him. It was nice to have him somewhat on your side, even in the smallest capacity.

The hall was eerily quiet as you stood alone with the redhead. Your gaze darted back and forth, expecting Bucky to waltz in and tell you that this wasn’t a haven at all. That he’d drag you to the suite bed and do whatever he pleased.

“I’ve been told you have a kind heart,” Natasha said, bringing your attention back to her. “That’s good for Bucky.”

“Is it?” you asked, looking down the hall again.

“Relax,” she urged. “You don’t have to feel nervous here. You’re safe.”

“You work with Bucky, so I’m naturally going to feel nervous and suspicious,” you said. You wouldn’t apologize for that. “How much do you know about me?”

“A man named Jake who does security and surveillance works for both Bucky and I. When Bucky needed him for an extended period of time, I was naturally curious as to why. He gave me just enough pieces to put the puzzle together.”

“So you know I’m trapped,” you said. She had to know it wasn’t a consensual relationship.

“More or less,” she said.

“And let me guess. This Jake guy specializes in bugs and listening devices?”

“Hmm. So you know about the bugs,” she said. Bucky was all too proud to share that when you asked. “Jake does specialize in those and you might meet him at some point. If and when you do, don't blame him for doing his job, please. Not everyone gets to choose their line of work.”

“Well, I wish he would’ve stopped him,” you said. You could blame this guy, but it wouldn't do you any good. Like Natasha said, he may not have had a choice.

“If it’s any consolation, he wasn’t pleased when he realized he was helping bug an innocent person's place, but he has a sister and niece to consider,” she said, giving you a hard stare when you opened your mouth. “And before you ask because I know you’ll ask, I can’t help you.”

You tried not to get upset at her immediate denial to help. “May I ask why not?”

She sighed, toying with the delicate gold necklace around her neck. You wondered if the arrow charm was symbolic. “The women who work here… We didn’t exactly have the best upbringing and we didn’t have much freedom, even as adults. Including my sister,” she explained, a haunted look taking over her eyes momentarily. “But Bucky stepped in some time ago and helped us. Without him, I wouldn’t have been able to open this place or give us normal life. I’ll be forever in his debt for that.”

“He helped you?” you asked. Marc mentioned that he donated to the local hospital and charities, but this was something else. Was this a normal hotel or some kind of refuge?

“He did. When he isn't doing bad things, he actually does some good,” she answered, still toying with her necklace. “In all the time I’ve known him, there have only been two things I’ve ever heard him say he wants and you’re one of them. If I help take you away from him, I don’t know what he’ll do.”

“So you won’t help me, but it’s really more like you can’t,” you guessed. She was essentially in Bucky’s pocket and had to think of the women under her employment and her sister. She couldn’t put them in danger. “No one will help me.”

“Barnes isn’t the kind of man you win a fight against. It’s better for most to stay on his good side than to be his enemy,” she said, putting a hand on your shoulder when you hung your head. “Hey. I’m not telling you to just lay over and accept your new relationship for what it is, but I don’t want you to be surprised when people keep telling you ‘no’ when you ask for help.”

“Everyone just looks the other way and that isn’t…” You bit your lip to keep from screaming.

“It isn’t fair. I know,” she whispered. Her sympathy didn't make you feel better. “I won’t make excuses for him because what he has done is awful, but he isn’t entirely evil. He’s… flawed. We all are.”

Would Bucky be so flawed if people didn’t enable him or look the other way? “Do you think I’ll get used to belonging to him? I keep fighting it, but…” Doors kept getting slammed in your face in terms of help and that hope continued to fade. Was it time to accept the inevitable?

She considered your question. “I can’t say if you’ll get used to it, but there’s a careful balance between embracing a circumstance while maintaining your own boundaries. You need to find that.”

“But I have no boundaries thanks to Bucky,” you argued. He took them away.

“Maybe not now, but you could get some back down the line. He isn’t a man most people win fights against, but he’s still just a man. Use what you know about him and sway him. You have a little more power than you think.”

You thought back to the club when Jax flirted with you. Bucky worked himself up, but your touch and soft demeanor helped calm him down. “I guess I could try,” you said. It seemed easy enough, but he was so good at swinging things in his favor that you had a hard time believing you had a chance.

“And it isn’t much, but I can offer you a space here to use on occasion if you need time away from him. I know you don’t believe he’ll let you use it, but I think you can convince him and you deserve a safe haven,” she said, smiling a little when she handed you a card. “I could even have one of the girls teach you some self defense if you’re interested in any lessons.”

You turned the card over. There was only a phone number listed and a black widow spider. “I appreciate the offer, Natasha,” you said, tucking it in your bag. It wasn’t freedom, but it was something. And whatever Natasha’s full story was, your heart went out to her. “Can I ask what the second thing is?”

“Excuse me?”

“You said Bucky has only wanted two things in the time you’ve known him and I’m one of them. What’s the other thing?”

She shook her head. “That’s for him to tell you.”

Ray came out of the room a moment later. “All clear. Not that I expected anything less from you and your staff, Natalia,” he said. It earned him a small smile as she passed his room card over. “I’ll be just across the hall if you need me.”

“And you can ask for me personally if you call the desk,” Natasha added.

“I appreciate it, but I’ll be fine,” you said honestly. As long as Bucky didn't show up. “I’ll just order some wine and food, curl up in bed, and finish reading my book.” You didn’t need much else.

“Are you sure?” Ray asked.

“I’m sure,” you smiled softly. He had done enough by bringing you there. “Thank you both.”

They each gave you a sympathetic gaze as you stepped inside and shut the door behind you. The red, black, and gray theme continued in the tastefully designed suite. It was the nicest hotel room you had ever been in. Too nice for someone like you.

Setting your bag down and removing your shoes, you went right to the bedroom with your phone and book. The large bed looked comfortable and inviting. Sighing as you stretched out, you stared at the ceiling and tried to reflect on what had recently transpired.

Natasha. She couldn't directly help you and she had her reasons, but she might be a good ally. She was at least in the camp that you deserved some sense of freedom and offered you a small form of sanctuary. It was better than nothing.

Ray, you still couldn't figure him out. Like Natasha, he wouldn't directly help you. Bucky said he was loyal and didn't let emotions cloud him. He seemed to care to an extent though.

You froze when a message popped up on your phone. It wasn't from Bucky though. It was from your coworker, Kate.

“Hey, girl! You know Clark? Pretty blue eyes. Super hot. He stopped in and asked when your next shift was.”

Your stomach twisted in knots. Why was he asking? “Hey. What did you tell him?”

Kate messaged back quickly and your stomach twisted up more. “Told him you’d be in tomorrow and he looked happy until Mrs. Crandle announced that you have a boyfriend?! Girl, WHAT?! I need all the details!”

You groaned and hid your face in the pillow. Mrs. Crandle meant no harm, but this was the last thing you needed. Maybe Clark wouldn't come around after hearing that. “I’ll tell you about it during our next shift together.”

You didn't look at your phone for the rest of the afternoon. Instead, you lost yourself in the pages of the book and only took a break to order a drink and meal from the room service menu. And true to Natasha’s word, no one disturbed you. The food was left outside of the door once ready. Natasha even had a nice pair of pajamas sent up for you.

It was a quiet and relaxing rest of the day.

But as the sun went down and you got ready for bed, you held up your left hand and looked at your bare ring finger. A shuddering breath left your lungs as you imagined a ring around your finger. How happy your friends would be that you found love. How happy Bucky would be to have you tied to him forever.

Glancing at the empty side of the bed after your delicious meal, you wondered how it was going to be sleeping next to Bucky. Was he a cuddler or would he want his own space? Would he hog the covers? You would find out soon enough, wouldn't you?

But for today, he left you alone. He kept his promise. Yes, he sent Ray to watch you, but he hadn't shown up or reached out. He actually gave you some space instead of smothering you. And with you in the suite, he didn't have eyes on you.

Who knows? Maybe his mood improved and he had a good day without you. One could only hope.

“Good night, Bucky,” you whispered, closing your eyes and getting the sleep you craved.

A loud knock on the door woke you. Slowly opening your eyes with a groan, you wondered what time it was. Your body alarm clock said it was too early. Stretching, you made your way to the door and stopped when you heard raised voices outside.

“Get the hell out of my way, Natasha.”

You gasped when you heard Bucky’s voice, the quick anger rushing through you making you clench your fists. God, you knew it. You knew he’d show up.

“Don't make me put you on your ass, Barnes.” Natasha didn't sound afraid at all. What was it like to not have fear? “I’ll repeat myself in case you didn't hear me the first time: My instructions were that she wasn't to be disturbed and that includes you. So unless you're checking in, I suggest you leave. The fact that you’re even on this floor after I promised no one would bother her-”

“He was up here to speak with me,” Ray cut in.

“And I did. Now I need to see her,” Bucky said, the desperation in his voice making your heart ache.

“Boss, it’s two in the morning.”

“Exactly. You need to let her sleep. It’s the least you could do,” Natasha urged.

“I promised her the day to herself, but that day is up and I have to see that she’s okay,” Bucky argued. You were lucky he didn't knock on your door at 12:01. “I just need to see her with my own eyes.”

The bugs at your place would've given him access to whatever he wanted, but he didn't have that in the suite. It was probably driving him crazy. He sure as hell sounded out of sorts.

“Wow, an entire day. How generous.” You almost laughed at Natasha’s snark. It was appreciated. “Is this about Zemo? I know he saw her at the park, but he hasn’t been around here. We both know I’d never allow him to set foot in the door without a very good reason.”

“I still need to deal with him and he’ll be lucky if I don’t kill him with my bare hands,” Bucky growled, making you tense up.

“You have enough blood on your hands, but what’s one more body?” Natasha asked, the conversation reminding you once again that Bucky was a killer. “Look, I’m not going to disturb her and neither should you.”

“Natasha-”

“No. You played this wrong, Barnes. You could've chosen a compassionate route of courting her and eased her into this, but you intimidated her from the start and made it so she won’t ever be free of you. Maybe you're more like your father than-”

The sound of something colliding with the nearby wall made you jump back from the door, your heart thudding. It took a moment to get your bearings before you threw the door open to make sure Natasha was okay. The redhead, Ray, and Bucky all looked toward you and no one had a single mark on them. The wall beside the door, however, had a fist sized hole.

“Kotyonok,” Bucky smiled the second he saw you. He looked like he hadn't slept much. Good. Now he knew how it felt.

“What are you doing here?” you asked, not having it in you to scream, cry, or anything else. “And did you just punch a hole in the wall?”

He chuckled sheepishly, brushing off his gloved hand. “Yeah, I did that.”

He was unbelievable.

“I’m so sorry he woke you,” Natasha said, putting out an arm to stop Bucky when he stepped forward. “Back up, Barnes. You’ve seen for yourself that she’s fine.”

“Yep. I’m fine.” You gestured to yourself and yawned. “Can I please go back to sleep?”

“Can I come in for just a minute?” Bucky asked, a touch of guilt in his eyes when you narrowed yours. He was pushing his luck when all you wanted to do was go back to bed. “Please?”

“Apologize to Natasha for damaging her property,” you demanded. He had no right to do that.

“I’m sorry, Natasha,” he sincerely stated.

Natasha’s mouth parted before her cool expression took over again. “Thankfully no one else was on this floor, so you hopefully didn't disturb anyone else.”

Bucky's eyes were still on you, full of longing. “May I please come in?”

You mulled over it. Technically he still kept his promise and let you be for a day. You could be angry later that he showed up so early. For now, you needed sleep.

“Come in,” you said, surprising everyone, yourself included. “It’s fine,” you assured Natasha and Ray.

The redhead nodded after a moment and lowered her arm, but the bodyguard shot his boss a subtle glare. “You know I'll have to bill you for the damage,” Natasha told Bucky.

“I know,” he said. He could afford it.

“Thank you, Ray. Natasha. I hope you both get some rest, too,” you said, letting Bucky into the suite and shutting the door.

Bucky let out a breath as he looked you over, but didn't move any closer when you backed up. Of course he had to invade what was meant to be your haven for the night. Strangely, you weren't as nervous as usual to have him so close. “Hi.”

“Hi,” you mumbled, crossing your arms when he slipped his jacket off. “You really couldn't wait until after sunrise to see me?”

“I’m sorry. I was up late at the club and Ray said you were here and… I missed you,” he explained, his expression soft.

It was kind of nice to be missed. “I’m sure you did,” you yawned again. “King of the loopholes,” you added under your breath.

He ran a gloved hand through his hair. “And I’m sorry about Zemo. I should've known he would-”

You shook your head quickly. “Nope. Not having this talk when I'm still sleepy,” you said, heading toward the bedroom. It was too heavy of a discussion to have in the middle of the night. “Take your shoes off. We both know you aren't leaving.”

He looked surprised all over again when you looked back at him. “You’re letting me stay?” he asked, a smile on his face like you handed him a gift. “You aren't telling me to leave?”

“Stay or go, up to you, but I'm going back to sleep,” you said, curling up on the bed. “And if you sleep next to me, don't you dare let your hands wander.”

“And you’re letting me lay with you,” he said, the mattress dipping beside you. “You’re being very agreeable.”

“You’re lucky I’m choosing to be nice instead of kicking your ass or letting Natasha kick your ass for disturbing me and my sleep,” you said, tensing up when he spooned you, his arm wrapped tight around you and his breath warm against your neck. “We have some things to talk about when I wake up.”

Ray following you. Zemo. Natasha’s offer. Bucky’s mom. Your relationship.

“We can talk about whatever you want,” he whispered, nuzzling you gently as your eyes shut. “Did you miss me yesterday?”

“No,” you mumbled.

Your reply didn't stop him from chuckling. “Not even a little bit?”

You sighed. “If I say ‘yes’, will you let me sleep?”

“I will,” he answered.

“I missed you a little,” you said, snuggling further into the pillow. He placed his hand over yours and you blamed your tiredness for why you didn't tense up again. “Now sleep.”

He pressed a gentle kiss to your neck, but didn't push any further, thankfully. “Thank you for letting me hold you.”

Your heart clenched. He sounded so happy just to be around you, just to be in your space. You were his everything.

“You’re welcome,” you mumbled, drifting off not long after.

Your last thought before you fell asleep was that you hoped Bucky would behave himself.

Lovelies, I think we all knew Bucky would show up the first chance he had. What do we think of Natasha? Is she being truthful that she can't help or is she biding her time? Will Bucky behave? Love and thanks for reading! ❤️

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