qzskn13

Latest Posts by qzskn13

In case anyone is having a bad night

(The best of this post and its reblogs, but with links that work)

Here is a website where you can scroll down to all the different levels of the ocean 

Here is a website where you can see the future of the universe

Here is a website where you can press a ‘make everything okay’ button, over and over, until things really are okay

Here is a website that you can read if you feel like a burden

Here is a website where you can look at strobe illusions (TW strobe/flashing)

Here is a website where you can cut stuff up (TW blood/sh)

Here and here are websites where you can play with sand

Here is a website where you can draw with macaroni and other fun foods

Here is a website where you can paint someone’s nails

Here is a website where you can grow a garden with emojis

Here is a website with hundreds of videos of people hugging you (rightfully dubbed ‘the nicest place on the internet’ because it really is, y’all, it made me cry)

Here is a website that will take you to other useless websites

Here is a website where you can make a tiny cat play bongo drums (and other instruments!)

Here is a website to help give you gentle reminders <3

Here is a website where you can grow a tiny farm

Here is a website where you can take a bunch of scientific personality tests

Here is a website of calm rain noise

Take a breath. It’s going to be okay, I promise.

unsolved (xiv)

Summary: Bucky doesn’t even believe in the paranormal. So who the hell thought it was a good idea to stick him in a series about everything haunted for the internet’s amusement? With his loose-canon of a teammate who has no concept of subtlety or shits left to give, to make things even worse. (Buzzfeed unsolved AU)

Warnings: swearing, frustrated bucky, obnoxious reader, seasickness,

A/N: hey how are we feeling about bucky barnes being back with a fuckass bob. old man's got JOKES. im gonna kiss him.

Previous part || Series masterlist

There’s a book open on his lap but he’s not touched a single page. You’ve got a few books strewn across in different distances from you– physics, psychology, cooking. 

He’s stretched out across the floor with his legs thrown over your lap, back against one of the bookshelves. One leg has already fallen asleep since he hasn’t moved in the last two hours. The other digs its heel into your thigh every time he shifts.

You’ve got a clipboard balanced on top of his shins and a pen in your mouth.

You’re scribbling.

He watches you, warily, feeling the indents of the shelf in his back.

His phone plays the Velvet Underground at a volume just above whispering. 

But the library is warm. And you snuck a flask of something warm past the librarian, and wouldn’t tell him what exactly he was drinking but told him to trust you, and he did. 

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Nothing.”

“You have a clipboard.”

“It’s for science.”

“You’re making that face.”

“I have one face.”

“You have at least three,” he mutters, eyes drooping. “And the one you’re making is never good news.”

“I’m not,” you say, offended. “I’m just cataloguing your responses in different haunted locations.”

Bucky stares. “You’re unbelievable.”

“And thorough.” You tap the page. “Okay. Quick question. Rank these: ghost orphanage, blood motel, mirror forest, murder mansion, possessed gas station.”

He sighs and leans his head back against the books. “Too much effort.”

“C’mon. Based on vibes, then.”

“Vibes? I almost got murdered at the gas station.”

“So that’s a ten?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Silent agreement. Got it.”

He shifts his foot just enough to knock the clipboard sideways. You catch it easily.

“You’re avoiding,” you sing.

“I’m surviving,” he replies, eyes closed.

You poke his leg with your pen. “I’m just trying to map it out, Buck. There’s a pattern, I know it.”

He cracks an eye open. “And what happens once you figure it out?”

You shrug. “Then I stop dragging you into the ones that hurt. Or I keep doing it, but I bring snacks.”

His smile is slight, but his foot settles again.

You take that as a go-ahead.

“Okay,” you say, chewing the end of your pen. “Would you say your discomfort in haunted locations is more visual, auditory, or tied to–”

Bucky lifts his phone and mutes the song. The chimes disappear into silence.

You blink. “...Was that dramatic or are you helping?”

“Helping,” he says flatly. “You can’t do a field study with a soundtrack.”

You grin down at him. “God, you’re such a good test subject.”

“Don’t make it weird.”

“Too late.” You blow him a kiss. A stupid, immature, teenager-y part of him takes it to be as close to the real thing for now.

“Shouldn’t have let you bring me here.”

“I literally just said hi and you asked where we were going.” 

“Shut up,” he mutters. 

And then you return to your clipboard, tongue caught in your cheek, already mid-question again as his eyes flutter shut.

You don’t say anything for a while. Just the soft scratching of your pen, the hum of the muted light overhead, the quiet rhythm of him breathing, slower now.

You glance over.

He’s still got his eyes closed, head resting back against an old copy of Emma, mouth relaxed in a way it rarely is when he’s awake.

You’re about to poke him again with the pen when you remember something.

“Oh,” you say, like it’s nothing. “By the way. Our next case is a haunted cruise ship.”

He doesn’t open his eyes. Just lets out a low, long groan.

“That shit makes me seasick.”

You smile, soft. “Okay. Then I’ll find something else.”

He shifts slightly, still not looking at you.

“Nah,” he mumbles. “It’s fine. We’ll go.”

“You sure?”

“Mhm.”

He shifts again, lazily, until he’s rolled halfway onto his side, legs still slung over your lap, arm tucked under his head.

Settled.

You stare at him for a second longer, pen hovering uselessly above your clipboard.

Then you look down and write:

Subject may be growing fond. Possibly attached. Observe further.

And beneath that, smaller:

Also: seasick. Do not let steer boat.

“I just want to set the tone,” you say, stepping lightly onto the rusted gangway with arms wide and a dramatic spin. “For the record, even though you and her are the same age at the end of the movie, I am the Rose in this situation.” 

Bucky, standing behind you with a duffel bag slung over one shoulder, responds. “You mean doomed?”

“I mean devastatingly hot.”

He takes a cautious step onto the gangway. It groans. Loudly.

“This thing’s gonna collapse and then I’m going to be the one floating on driftwood,” he says. 

You glance back over your shoulder, grinning. “You’d let me drown?”

“I’d let you have your monologue first.”

“Wow.”

You spin again, wind tugging at your jacket, and gesture to the looming structure ahead.

The Odette rises out of the fog.

White paint peeled back to rust. Windows dark. Decks slanted just enough to make the walk a bit of a trek. 

The dock beneath you is warped and uneven, and the whole structure leans as if the water itself is trying to reclaim it.

“This is going to be a very romantic evening. I can feel it,” you tell him. “It’s giving summer romance on the waves.”

“It’s giving tetanus,” Bucky mutters, eyeing the railing. “Did you get a tetanus shot this year?”

“What’s a little tetanus in the grand scheme of things?”

“Do you ever process the things you’re saying or do you just freestyle it?”

You step through the hull door, flashlight flicking on with a warm click.

Inside, the ship is exactly what you'd hoped: creaking wood, disorienting reflections from old mirrors, the lingering scent of salt and mold and varnish.

It’s not ice cold, but it feels like it should be. No light enters in through the dusty windows. 

Bucky walks slowly beside you, metal arm brushing against yours as you move deeper into the central hall.

“This place is barely thirty miles from the city,” he says, scanning the space. “You’d think someone would’ve turned it into an Airbnb by now.”

“They tried three different times. One crew abandoned the job overnight. The other two refused to stay past sundown. Last contractor quit two hours in.”

He makes a noise in consideration. 

“Anyway,” you say, pausing beneath a crumbling art deco archway. “Here’s what we’re working with. 

"Then one night, she vanished mid-voyage. Off the coast near Long Island. Clear weather. No distress calls. She was just... gone. They found the ship the next morning, still running. No crew onboard. Like the whole ship had just stopped."

"Anyway," you continue.

“Look,” you say, “if I go missing on this shit, just tell people I vanished. Don’t ruin the mystery.”

“Noted,” he says dryly. 

You grin. 

The hallway smells like wet velvet.

You push open the next door and step into a long, narrow hallway.

“Oh, by the way, we’re staying overnight.”

There’s a pause. A long one.

“Sorry?”

“On the ship,” you say lightly, scrolling again. “Spending the night. Full investigation, sunrise exit, et cetera.”

Bucky stops walking. “That was not in the briefing.”

“What do you think is in the duffel bag you’re carrying?”

“Change of clothes because we’re on water.”

“You’re planning on swimming?”

“Considering I’m with you, I wouldn’t rule out anything.” 

You grin. “The ship’s tethered, you’re not getting thrown overboard.”

 “Right, ‘cause nothing abnormal ever happens around you.”

“We’ve talked about this. Racing heart, nervousness are signs that you’re in love with me, not paranormal activity.”

“I’m not in love with you.”

“Denial looks so hot on you babe.”

He rolls his eyes, moving ahead past you.]

"The ship's not moving. It's hardcore anchored, so you don't have to worry about the waves. I made sure."

"Joy."

"Unless, of course, the ship decides to set course with us in it. But then we'd have bigger problems than you throwing up."

"Thanks. Good to know."

The next room is a dining salon, or what’s left of one.

Long tables still bolted to the ground. Place settings eerily intact. The dust is thick.

You shine your flashlight along a stack of plates. They’re china. Real. Cracked at the edges but still arranged in neat piles.

“I got us sandwiches. Wanna eat it on that?”

“You’d be eating more dustmites than bread.” 

"Oh, word. Protein."

Bucky’s flashlight points toward a faded sign above the wall paneling. It reads: Midnight Banquet. Closed Event. Strictly Guests Only.

“Well, I feel deeply unwelcome,” he mutters.

You step closer to the table and pull back a chair. It’s heavy. Cold.

“They say the night she vanished, Odette was hosting one of her private parties. Whole thing was invite-only, super-exclusive. Her ‘farewell to the sea.’”

He rests a hand on the back of one of the chairs. It creaks beneath the pressure, but doesn’t move.

“Talk to the spirits,” you tell him. “They’re supposed to be real hospitable ‘cause it’s all waitstaff for the ultra-wealthy.” 

“I’m not talking to the air.”

“Just say ‘hi’, It’s common courtesy.”

He gives you a weathered look. You nod seriously.

He sighs, shifting the duffel bag to his other shoulder.

“Hello, demons,” he tests slowly, awkwardly. “It’s… James.”

“Who the fuck has ever called you James in your life? You immediately interject. 

“That is my name.”

“No one has ever called you James,” you scoff. “Hello spirits? His name is Bucky Barnes, also known as Bucky Barnes. And he is single and ready to be haunted.”

Bucky rolls his eyes so hard he might just see his brain, but the second he turns to retort with a glare, he falters. 

Golden, flickering, warm.

The room smells like citrus oil and perfume. It’s bright. There’s a glow to everything. Not artificial. Sunlight. Morning sunlight, thick and amber and alive.

You don’t know where it’s coming from.

There’s a polished table in the middle, partially set. Delicate china cups. A half-eaten grapefruit. Silverware placed with elegance. A folded napkin resting over someone’s chair, like they stepped away mid-brunch.

He looks at you, covered in the same rays you’ve dragged him to the roof too many times just before sunrise to see. It makes him swallow the thickness in his throat at how… radiant–

“I think we’re at brunch,” you whisper, snapping him out of it. 

There are coats slung over the back of chairs. Gloves. A handbag, its clasp slightly open. Someone’s reading glasses resting on a closed book.

Bucky doesn’t answer. He’s scanning the room like he’s expecting someone to laugh, to enter, to scold them for intruding.

It feels like somewhere nearby, someone’s telling a joke. Someone’s fixing their lipstick. Someone is about to ask you how long you’re staying and whether you’re from the city.

You walk further in. The carpet is soft under your boots.  

You rest your hand on the edge of the table. The porcelain is still warm.

Glass. Clinking, faintly. A fork brushing against a plate. A woman’s voice, low and amused. Not words. Just the tone.

You turn slowly, goosebumps crawling up your arms.

There’s no one there.

But it feels like there is.

Bucky’s still watching the room like it’s going to move on its own.

You don’t answer.

There’s a sound then. Not loud. Just a scrape, like someone pulling their chair back, ready to leave.

You both turn.

Nothing moves.

But the folded napkin is now unfolded, crumpled gently on the seat.

The grapefruit is gone.

The juice pitcher is empty.

The book on the side table is closed, a bookmark placed neatly between its pages.

You blink.

There is only rusted metal, cold dead silence and the thick smell of salt. 

Back to dust. Rot.

“Did you see–”

“Yep.” 

You glance around. 

The pale green walls half peeled and browned. Wet splotches on the ceiling. 

There’s a painting of a garden party over the fireplace, and beside it is a mirror.

Full-length. Silver-framed. Spotless.

You tilt your head at it.

Bucky walks closer, and the moment you both step in front of it, you freeze.

Because it’s you.

But not exactly.

Standing too near. Soft expressions that don’t match the faces you think you wear. A version of you that belongs here. A version of Bucky that isn’t carrying everything in his shoulders. 

Like you’re mid-conversation. Like this is familiar.

You glance at him.

He’s staring at the mirror with an unreadable expression.

“…That’s not real,” he says after a long pause.

“No shit.”

“I don’t stand like that.”

“I don’t smile like that.”

The version of you in the mirror glances up. At him.

The reflection of Bucky gives you that smile. You recognise it– it’s the one he only ever uses when he thinks no one’s looking. Sometimes it makes an appearance when you say something exceptionally stupid. 

Your stomach does something unhelpful.

“Okay,” you say too loudly, stepping back. “Well, that’s cursed.”

“Some fucking gas leak has us hallucinating here,” he adds, voice rough. “We’re leaving before we pass out.”

He slinks away, clearing his throat and blinking harshly a few times. What the fuck. 

“Got another hundred rooms and a whole night– well fuck,” you stop midway. 

“What?” he asks, trying to reconcile with what he just saw. 

“I don’t know how long we’ve been in this fucking room but it’s close to midnight,” you murmur. “Crazy.”

That’s one way of putting it. 

“Well, that was fun. I’m gonna go check if we got any of that on camera or if we just went through a cool new bonding exercise in our heads,” you say, unfazed.

Bucky thinks that the world may not be all he’s been believing all these years. 

You walk out of the room, leaving Bucky to follow. 

He turns to the mirror again.

It’s cracked.

Just once, straight down the middle.

“C’mon, we’ve gotta go check out the captain’s quarters,” you call.

“Coming,” he grunts out, exhaling slightly. 

He turns again, just out of instinct, one last time– 

She’s there.

Small. Smiling. Bright-eyed in that way only memory can exaggerate..

Standing beside him in the reflection, just for a moment. Hair tucked behind her ears. Wearing a sundress he got her with money from overtime at the docks

She mouths something.

“Leave.”

He takes half a step back. Blinks.

She’s gone.

Your voice sounds distant, asking something, but he doesn’t register what.

He turns. Doesn’t speak. Just walks out.

You walk in silence for a while.

Your boots creak against the warped floor. Bucky’s steps are quieter. Measured.

You glance sideways at him.

He’s got that look again. The one where he’s processing, but pretending he’s not.

You open your mouth. Close it again.

You stop in the middle of the corridor. He stops too, reluctantly.

Your voice drops, suddenly serious. “You saw it. The mirror. Us.”

“Did I?

He starts walking again.

“You’re being weird about this,” you say, catching up.

“I’m being normal about this,” he mutters.  

You roll your eyes. “You’re deflecting. That’s fine. That’s your thing. But I know when something rattles you.”

He snorts. “I wasn’t rattled.”

You study his face. The way his mouth is set, the way his jaw ticks every few seconds like he’s grinding through something.

You stop again.

And then you sit down. Right there in the middle of the hallway. Clipboard across your lap like a shield.

He blinks down at you.

“What are you doing.”

“Something’s wrong, Bucky.”

“Something’s always wrong.”

You pull a pen from behind your ear like it’s a sword. “You’re being weird. This isn’t just normal you-weird, this is that weird.”

He sighs.

“Alright. Paranormal scale. One to ten. Emotional impact, ten being a full snot-crying on my shoulder.”

He groans. “Put that away.”

“You’re pale.”

“That’s just my face.”

“You look seasick.”

“I am seasick.”

“From a ship that hasn’t moved since 1900s?”

He closes his eyes. “I should’ve left you in the mirror.”

“You wouldn’t. I was fake-laughing at your jokes.”

He snorts. Looks away. That one almost got him.

You make a show of writing something down. “So. You’re not talking. You’re not denying it either. Conclusion?”

“I’m tired.”

You study him for a few more moments. Bucky doesn’t change.

You glance down at the clipboard. Then, gently, you place it back in the bag.

You offer him a bottle of water instead. He takes it.

“Where’s the quarters,” he asks. 

“Straight ahead,” you oblige. 

The lantern’s been off for fifteen minutes.

Technically, it’s lights-out.

Realistically, you’re still awake.

Lying on your back, blanket pulled over your chest, eyes fixed on the water-stained ceiling, listening to the gentle scratch of pen on paper.

Bucky shifts in his sleeping bag beside you. “Are you writing again?”

“No,” you say, scribbling something else. “I’m documenting.”

He exhales through his nose. “Same thing.”

“I’m keeping a record in case we’re murdered in the night. I think that’s responsible.”

“You wrote ‘smells like seaweed’ earlier.”

“It did smell like seaweed.”

He turns his head. “What does it smell like now?”

You pause. “Unresolved tension.”

“Go to sleep.”

“I will. I’m just waiting.”

He groans. “For what?”

You tap your pen. “To see if any of the staff shows up. Captain usually goes on rounds at night.”

“There’s no ghost captain.”

“There might be. He probably wears epaulettes and appears only to emotionally complicated people.”

“My bad, tell him I say hi when you meet.”

You toss a balled-up gum wrapper in his direction. It hits his shoulder.

You glance at him. He’s lying perfectly still, like if he commits hard enough, he’ll vanish.

You turn back to your clipboard. “I think if I die, they’ll probably promote me. Make me first mate.”

“You’d be thrown overboard in five minutes.”

“I’d haunt the galley. Spill soup on your ghost boots.”

“Ghost boots.”

“Ghost boots.”

“You still haven’t told me where you got that fucking candle from.”

“Stole it from brunch.” You glance at the small tealight flickering next to your knee. “It’s ambiance.”

“You’re going to burn the ship down.”

“It’s in a dish.”

“You put it in a cup.”

“It fits perfectly.”

There’s a long pause.

“You’re insane.”

You smile to yourself. “You love it.”

“I tolerate it.”

“You love it.”

Bucky doesn’t answer.

He just rolls over, pulling the sleeping bag tighter. “Wake me up if anyone on the staff’s hot.”

You grin, still scribbling. “I’ll put that in the notes.”

The first thing he notices is the movement.

A deep, rolling sway. Not a casual creak or a groan, but a full-bodied shift.

He blinks awake.

Immediately regrets it.

His stomach lurches sideways.

The ceiling above him is doing slow, sick figure-eights.

“God–” he mutters, pressing the heel of his hand to his forehead. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

The ship rocks again, harder this time.

He grabs the edge of his sleeping bag like it’ll help. It doesn’t.

He closes his eyes, counts to five, and opens them again.

And that’s when he realizes.

The sleeping bag next to his is empty.

No candle. No clipboard.

No you.

“Jesus fucking Christ. You have to be kidding me.”

He tries to sit up and instantly regrets that too.

Something slips down from his forehead and lodges on his nose. 

He pulls it off and stares at it.

A sticky note.

You’ve written in your neatest cursive:

“Gone to investigate.

If I die, avenge me.

If I live, take me bowling.”

He stares at it.

Underneath, in all caps:

“DO NOT THROW UP IN THE CORNER. THAT’S MY SIDE.”

Then lets his head fall back against the floor with a quiet, miserable thunk.

Another lurch. The ship groans like it’s stretching awake.

He exhales through his nose. Folds the note once. Puts it in his pocket.

Then he rolls to his feet, grabbing onto walls and railings to steady himself, and sets off to find you.

_____

Bucky staggers down the corridor like a man cursed, one hand braced against the wall, the other curled around his stomach. 

The ship sways harder this time like it’s trying to shrug him off.

He swears under his breath.

He rounds a corner, stomach lurching again, and stops in the doorway of the captain’s room.

You’re there.

Grinning like a lunatic, wind in your face that doesn’t technically exist, spinning the massive ship’s wheel with both hands.

He shouts over the noise. “What the hell are you doing?”

You look over, delighted. “Steering!”

He blinks. “We’re not moving.”

You point dramatically. “We are listing to port, sir. Someone had to take control before this ship took us to fucking hell.”

The wheel creaks as you spin it again. You lean into it like it might actually do something.

“You’re making it worse,” he groans, dragging himself fully into the room. 

You glance at him. “You look awful.”

“I feel worse.”

“You’re green.”

“The room is fucking spinning.”

“I know, I’m trying to counterbalance it.”

He collapses against the nearest console like it might forgive him. The whole floor shifts again, a slow, sick tilt that makes the walls groan in protest.

You finally let go of the wheel. "Honestly, the ship started making all these weird noises and when I got up to check, it started rocking like we're in the middle of a storm. I was hoping I'd get it under control before it woke you up. Didn't want you to get sick."

The ship groans again. Still. Slower, maybe. But still wrong.

You look at him a little closer now.

“Okay, you really don’t look good.”

“I woke up alone. On a moving ship.”

“Did you throw up on my side?

“There was a note taped to my face.”

“I told you not to throw up on my side.”

“Stop talking about throwing up,” he groans. 

“Alright, Buck,” you say brightly, “your turn!”

He doesn’t even lift his head. “Absolutely not.”

You let go anyway.

The wheel creaks, spins half a turn on its own.

“Why is it still moving?” he asks sharply.

You’re already across the room. You step up onto the low ledge by the window and spread your arms slightly, windless but dramatic.

“I’m the king of the world,” you announce.

“Get down.”

The ship lists again. He lurches forward, catches himself on the wheel, and immediately regrets touching it.

You hop down lightly and clap your hands together. “Okay, okay, fine. Keep steering. I’ll figure this out..”

“I’m not steering.”

“You are steering. You’re at the wheel. That’s what it means.”

“I’m touching the wheel. That’s not consent.”

“Ghost captain would be disappointed in you.”

“Ghost captain should drive his own damn ship.”

He grips the wheel with one hand. It shifts again beneath his fingers, slow and unsteady.

The wind’s gotten worse.

The deck tilts again, hard. You catch yourself, slide a few inches toward the helm, wind slamming through the cracks in the wall.

“Okay, okay,” you pant. “I think it’s pulling to the left. Hold on, I’ll try to level it out–”

“Christ alive, hurry up.”

“I am doing my best.”

The ship lists again. He makes a noise and grips the wheel tighter.

“I hate this place,” he mutters. ”I hate ghosts. I hate ships. I hate being haunted.”

“I thought the brunch wasn’t that bad–”

“That’s not what I’m talking about. 'm talking about the dead people who've been after me for months.” He clenches his eyes shut to quell the nausea. 

The ship groans under you like it’s stretching its spine.

“What?”

Fuck.

“What do you mean dead people have been after you for months?”

He’s not looking at you. Both hands on the wheel, jaw clenched.

You stare.

He swallows. Doesn’t repeat it. But the damage is done.

You step toward him, slow. “Bucky.”

“Can you make this stop?” he says, voice as even as he can make it.

The ship groans again, loud now. Almost angry.

You plant your legs firmly on the ground. 

Your fingers dig into the palm.

Steady. Focused.

And the wind begins to slow.

Not like flipping a switch, but with a groan. 

The ship stops rolling. The tilt evens.

It doesn’t feel natural, not in the way ships normally respond to weight or wind, but it’s still. 

You breathe hard. Keep your hands where they are.

Bucky is still staring at the wheel, like it’s safer than meeting your eyes.

“Forget what I said, I’m sick,” he says, voice rough. 

You don't say anything when you look at him. 

The ship groans beneath you but this time it’s heavier.

You step to the window again, squinting out into the dark.

He doesn’t look up. He’s leaned over a console like the only thing keeping him upright is his refusal to puke in front of you.

You clear your throat. “I think we’re not in the water anymore.”

“What?”

You open the hatch. Step out into the stale wind.

He drags himself after you, reluctant and mildly green.

Outside, there’s nothing. No lapping water. No dock.

Just air. Fog. The faint shape of the coastline beneath you.

The Odette is levitating.

Bucky stares for a long moment.

“Did you lift the ship?”

“Not on purpose.”

“You anchored us into the air.”

“I was trying to keep it from swaying.”

“You took it off the ocean.”

You hold up both hands. “To be fair, it worked. I can put it–”

“Do not put it back down.”

You blink.

He slides down the wall and sits, knees pulled up, head in his hands. “If it starts moving again, I will jump off the side.”

You nod solemnly. “Understood, Captain.”

He drops his head to his knees.

You sit beside him.

For a long beat, neither of you say anything.

The air is cool, and it ruffles through his hair. You wipe stray strands away from his forehead. 

“If you bring that clipboard out, I’ll drown myself.”

“I’ll circle back later.”

“Absolutely not.”

You pat his knee. “Let me know when you’re ready to go back down.”

He just closes his eyes. “Give me five– twenty minutes.”

You barely make it through the front doors before being ambushed.

Really, Maya appears like she’s been summoned.

“Jesus Christ,” she says, stepping into the hallway. “You’re alive.”

You pause mid-step. “Statistically, we’re usually alive.”

Maya exhales like she’s been holding it in for hours. She’s in flats, an oversized blazer, and carrying two phones, both vibrating. 

She stops in front of you. Eyes bloodshot.  

“I have emailed. I have pinged. I have sent a courier, and the only response I got was an AI generated TikTok of both of you turning into swans.”

You blink. “I figured I was in trouble again.”

“And so you thought avoiding it would make it go away?”

“I try that with everything, it never works,” Bucky mutters. 

Maya closes her eyes. “You two are going to be the death of me.”

“You’ve said that before.”

“Yes. And every time I mean it more.” She opens her tablet. “Anyway, that’s not what I wanted to talk to you about, which you'd know if you opened my mail.”

“Sorry.”

She waves you off. “Your numbers are up. A lot.”

You raise an eyebrow. “How much is a lot?”

She turns the screen. “This is your traffic graph.”

You stare. “Why does it look like a heart attack?”

“Because while you test terribly with people over the age of 65, ages 13 to 55 love you. Congratulations. You are now accidentally our most valuable brand.”

Bucky falters. 

Maya continues, flipping to another screen. “Also, the poll about the code name? That thing you launched without approval?”

You nod slowly. “People had opinions.”

“They always have opinions. You know who else had opinions? Legal. Communications. Homeland Security, somehow.” She gestures broadly. “But good news for you: it worked. Your metrics are through the roof. So, as per the contract you signed– you only need enough videos to finish off the season. Then you’re out.”

You stare at her.  

“We’re out?” you repeat. 

Maya nods. “Done. No more videos. Just a few interviews here and there, and some social media.”

You glance at Bucky.

He’s still facing away, completely still. Like he’s buffering.

Maya softens a little. “Hey. This is good. Right? You guys– him especially– wanted this. You’re free.”

Still nothing from him.

You say, carefully, “Yeah. Great.”

She studies you both. Her voice gentles. “Seriously. You did good. I’m proud of you. Deeply, incredibly exhausted. But proud.”

Bucky finally turns. Looks like he’s trying to remember how language works.

“Thanks,” he says flatly.

Maya tilts her head. “Okay. That’s about the emotional range I expected.”

You smile faintly. “You should lie down.”

“Oh, I’m going to die standing up like a horse.” She steps back. “Eat something, you guys look terrible. And sign off on the new Mayday merch. We’re launching a footwear collection.”

“No promises,” you reply.

“I know,” she mutters, and walks off down the hall, muttering to herself about analytics. 

The silence returns.

You and Bucky stand there a while longer.

Finally, he says, without looking at you, “C’mon.”

Neither of you say what you’re thinking.

Bucky doesn’t know whether the sick feeling in his stomach is still from the ship or not.  

The elevator dings softly.

The doors slide open to your floor.

You’re half-asleep, half-hovering against the wall of the elevator, hoodie pulled over your head.

Bucky stands beside you, hands in his pockets.

You yawn, dragging your feet as you step out. “You look like you’re about to collapse. You don’t have to walk–”

Before you can finish the statement, he steps forward. Stubborn motherfucker. 

Follows you down the hall.

“I’ve made it to the room in one piece," you announce. "Now go sleep for a week.”

“I will.”

But he stays until you cross the threshold. Until the lights come on fully. 

Until you turn and say, a little softer, “Thanks.”

He nods just barely.

Then turns and disappears down the hall.

Bucky doesn’t even bother with the light when he gets back to his room.

The door slides shut behind him and he lets his coat hit the floor somewhere between the entrance and the bed.

He lands face down, boots still on, half a groan catching in his throat on the way down.

He lies there for a long time.

Somewhere near the pillow, Alpine lets out a soft chirp.

She steps delicately onto his back. Sits.

He doesn’t complain.

The buzz of his phone vibrates against the nightstand.

He reaches out blindly, flips it toward his face. Squints.

He closes his eyes again. Let the phone drop.  

From: mayday

You ever gonna talk about what you said on the boat?

Exhales long and heavy.

There’s a pause.

Then, from somewhere near his shoulder:

“You should talk about your sister.”

His eyes snap open.

He doesn’t move.

Just lies there.

Face still in the pillow.

He lifts his head. Slowly. Looks over his shoulder.

Alpine is still sitting there. Tail flicking gently.

Silence.

“I haven’t told anyone about her yet, if that’s what you care about.”

Bucky stares, mouth open.

Alpine licks her paw. Casually. 

“You can fucking talk?!”

THANK U TO EVERYONE WHO BOUGHT ME A KO-FI FOR THIS SILLY FIC

shoutout chapter 5. y'all thought I wouldn't do it. but i have been scheming throughout

here’s my ko-fi if you’d like to support my writing!

Next part

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unsolved (xiii)

Summary: Bucky doesn’t even believe in the paranormal. So who the hell thought it was a good idea to stick him in a series about everything haunted for the internet’s amusement? With his loose-canon of a teammate who has no concept of subtlety or shits left to give, to make things even worse. (Buzzfeed unsolved AU)

Warnings: swearing, frustrated bucky, obnoxious reader, forests, sabotaging

A/N: lmao so initially this was actually supposed to be released on Halloween last year bc it was the 13th chapter. but of course, The Horrors. so have a Halloween themed chapter in the middle of fucking April. good day to you all.

Previous part || Series masterlist

Bucky doesn’t do Halloween.

To be fair, Bucky doesn’t do most organised festive celebrations. 

But Halloween specifically, is not for him. 

He barely has energy to exist in real life, and now he has to do it with a costume? Like a little circus clown boy begging for claps?

No.

So even though the team has mostly done the most with what they can, and dressed up to celebrate the spirits of the holiday, he has chosen to stick to his usual.  

He begins to feel the guilt twirling around his stomach when he finally makes his way to the event ground. 

The whole Halloween fair felt like fall in a bottle. Rows of vendor stalls lined the main walkway, overpriced cider and hot chocolate competing for everyone’s attention. The air was thick with the scent of kettle corn, fried dough, and bonfire smoke, and at the very center of the fairground, a massive pumpkin display loomed. IT was carefully arranged, family-friendly, and absolutely begging to be destroyed. 

There were costumes everywhere. Kids sprinting between hay bales in bandages and plastic fangs, groups of teenagers posing for selfies in group outfits, couples holding hands.

It was nice. It might even begin to thaw his cold, solid heart. 

The groans and bullying that follows when he pulls up half an hour late is warranted but he holds his ground. 

Hands balled into fists, chest pushed out and sturdy, he takes his usual place next to you, bracing for impact. 

“You’re a bore,” you say without skipping a beat. “You’re like fun-antidote. Where is your costume?”

“I’m wearing a costume,” he says simply. “I’m A Guy.”

“Your costume cannot be guy. I knew this shit would happen. I had a costume delivered to you one month ago, where is it?”

“If you think I’m dressing like that Dr Seuss piece of shit, you’re deranged.” Bucky casts a look at you. 

He opened the package, saw the red stripes and closed it right back up.

“There’s no way you showed up with nothing,” Nat scoffs.

“Clint wore a full Pikachu onesie,” Wanda offers, joining the group with a powdered sugar moustache.

“That’s because Clint has no shame.” 

“I heard that,” Clint calls from somewhere. God knows where.

“You were supposed to,” Bucky fires back. 

Nat raises an eyebrow. “C’mon Buck. Not even a little face paint?”

“Do I look like a man who owns face paint,” he says dryly, glaring when he suddenly notices a little detail. “Why’s everyone looking at me? This one’s not wearing a costume either.”

He juts a thumb towards you. You narrow your eyes.

“I’m literally wearing one right now,” you say, gesturing to yourself. 

“You’re wearing a black t-shirt and combat boots,” he argues. “That’s clothes. It’s not a costume.”

“It’s a good costume,” Sam pipes up. “I get it.” 

You beam at him. “Thanks.”

Bucky glances at you, then at Sam, then back at you again.

Nat, leaning back against the table, exhales a short laugh. “Really nailed the details.”

“Right?” You glance down at your fit. 

She nods. “Very accurate.”

Bucky stares for a few more seconds, coming up short.  

Finally, he grumbles, “Whatever. Where’s the video shoot?”

“You guys are shooting a video here?” Wanda asks, tearing off a piece of funnel cake and popping it into her mouth.

“Yeah, I thought it’d be fun to go through the corn maze. Local legends say it’s haunted by the spirit of teenagers who got lost in there years ago and never returned.” You shrug. “I’m gonna attach a GoPro onto Bucky’s head and set him free in there.”

“You make me sound like a rat.”

“You’re the handsomest rat I’ve ever seen, baby. If I were a piece of cheese, would you want me?”

“Stop.”

“You’re really just gonna go in there together, huh?” Sam pipes up casually. 

Bucky looks at him weirdly, but Sam has the deeply self-satisfied smirk of a man about to be a menace.

You don’t even hesitate. “Yeah?”

“Uh-huh. Corn mazes have a history, you know? Just saying. ”

“A history,” you repeat. 

Nat, ever helpful, leans forward, resting her chin in her hand. “Classic teenage makeout spot.”

Bucky’s eye twitches.

“I wouldn’t know, I spent my teenage years blowing up buildings,” you reply. 

Wanda hums. “That’s what they all say.”

“Literally who says this.”

“You’re not missing out. It’s cold and itchy and the whole place smells like hay,” Steve chimes in, doing his best to aid the situation. 

Sam nods solemnly. “Yeah, but next thing you know, you’re lost with no cell service, standing real close, saying shit like ‘oh no, my flashlight batteries died, guess we have to huddle for warmth–””

Bucky groans. “It’s a fucking corn maze, not the catacombs. There’s no getting lost and huddling for warmth.”

Clint, appearing just in time to make this worse, tilts his head innocently. “Oh, you guys doing the Lover’s Lane?”

Bucky gestures aggressively at the fair map. “It says Field of Screams.”

“Sure can be a field of screams if this night goes well,” you add unhelpfully. 

Bucky turns to Steve, clearly expecting him to be the voice of reason.

Steve, unfortunately, is already hiding a smile behind his drink.

Bucky’s jaw clenches.

“Assholes,” he mutters.

Sam claps him on the shoulder. “Have fun in the murder corn.”

Somewhere in the distance, the haunted house’s chainsaw gag goes off, followed by delighted screaming.

Bucky adjusts the camera strapped to his head like a miner’s torch. “I thought you were going as the tennis ball from that threesome movie.”

“Costume didn’t deliver in time. So I found something better.”

“What are you supposed to be?” 

You ignore him, but there’s an amused expression on your face. “I know you think that because you’ve gotten to this point, you’ve gotten away with not having a costume. Unfortunately for you, I have come prepared.”

Before he can react, you shove a piece of fabric into his hands.

He holds it up, balled into his fist. “Is this–”

“The cape from the laughing gas group, yes.” You nod. 

“I thought I got rid of this thing, where the hell did you get it from?” He lets it unravel in all its unironed, crinkly wonder. 

“I would never let you get rid of a piece of art like this. Now look, you’ve got a solid costume.”

“I don’t need a costume.”

“Well, now you have one. Put it on.”

“No.”

“Put it on.”

“No.”

Five minutes later, he has a shitty full-length cape on as you stand at the entrance to a haunted corn maze.

The wind picks up just enough to make his cape move ominously. He elects to ignore it. 

You adjust the camera on your head, tilting it toward him.

“Well, well, well,” you narrate,. “If it isn’t the dark lord himself.”

“I hope the ghosts take you first.”

“That’s what I love about you, Buck. Always looking out for me.”

Bucky shakes his head, pulling the cape tighter around his shoulders when the wind threatens to blow it away.

The archway is wrapped in dim string lights, flickering unsteadily.

Beyond it, the corn stands tall and unmoving, the entrance swallowing the path ahead in a thick, oppressive darkness.

“Alright, you ready?” you turn to him.

He sighs. “Always.”

________

The night is alive.

The festival’s noise carries even through the thick walls of corn, muffled laughter and distant screams bleeding through the cracks, the occasional blast of music from a game booth still loud enough to reach you guys.

Teenagers run ahead, scaring their friends before the actors even get the chance.

Bucky walks beside you, hands tucked into the pocket of his cargo pants.

A breeze kicks up, rustling through the maze.

From somewhere to your right, a group of college kids run screaming out of one of the side paths, shoving each other as they trip over their own feet.

Bucky watches them, expression completely unimpressed. “They paid twenty bucks to get chased through corn by a guy in a mask.”

“We also have done that,” you remind him. 

You walk for a while in no particular direction, just following the winding, trampled-down paths. Nothing creepy has happened yet.

“I had a place like this growing up,” Bucky mutters, stepping over a stray piece of corn husk.

You glance at him. “A haunted maze?”

“A fair. Smaller than this, but same kind of deal. Seasonal. My parents used to take us before it got too cold.”

You hum. “What’d they have?”

“The usual,” Bucky says. “Rides, caramel apples, bad magic acts. There was a fortune teller I was scared of when I was a kid.”

“You were scared of a fortune teller?”

“She was fuckin’ aggressive for a woman whose entire job was pretending to read palms. I didn’t even want to do it. My parents paid ‘cause Becca begged, and then she got too scared to go near her. I got thrown in so it didn’t up being a waste of a few bucks.”

“Becca betrayed you.”

“Sold me out immediately.”

You laugh. There’s a faint smile on his face as he walks through the godforsaken corn. 

“I had a fair once,” you say.  “It wasn’t real. But they called it a festival.”

Bucky doesn’t say anything.

“There was a little town outside the facility,” you say, stepping over a raised tree root. “Once a year, they’d set up these tests. The whole thing was so weird. Gave us candy. Let us play games. Just to see if we could blend in.”

“HYDRA did something similar.”

You snort. “You guys ever do the winter carnival, or was that unique to usl?”

Bucky groans. “Always fucking Winter Wonderland or Halloweentown.”

You laugh, kicking at a loose pile of hay. “I used to steal candy.”

Bucky raises an eyebrow. “Without getting caught?”

“They probably knew,” you admit. “But they never stopped me. Maybe that was the test.”

Bucky hums, before saying gruffly. “Maybe it was just a win.”

You hold his gaze for a second. The careless upturn of his lip is enough to make you forget what nonsense you were about to say.

You wonder how much footage you’d have to edit out if it was just staring at his dumb, pretty face in silence.

A breeze shuffles the corn.

The distant scream of another maze runner echoes through the night.

It’s enough to snap you out of whatever the hell this is. 

The festival noise is still going strong, bleeding into the maze, distant music mixing with the hum of people.

You reach a split in the path. A fork in the maze, with two equally stupid-looking trails leading deeper into the field.

Bucky stops, tilting his head slightly, scanning both directions.

You, on the other hand, just pick a side based on what the vibes emanating from them were. 

“This way,” you say, already stepping toward the left.

Bucky does not move. “That’s the wrong way.”

“Excuse me?”

Bucky gestures down the right path. “That’s the way out.”

You fold your arms. “How do you know?”

“Because I do.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only answer you’re getting.”

You tilt your head. “Did you fucking map out the way to the exit?”

“No,” Bucky lies.

“That defeats the whole point of a maze.” 

“It’s called situational awareness.”

“It’s called being a control freak,” you correct.

Bucky exhales sharply. 

You gesture down the path you picked. “So what happens if I go this way?”

“You get lost.”

“Or.”

“No.”

“Or–”

“I’m not going the wrong way.”

“Fine. It appears that we have reached an impasse.” You pause, considering for a second. “I fear that our journey together ends here. Catch you on the flipside, partner.”

Bucky watches as you take a slow, exaggerated step backward down the left path.

“Are you seriously splitting us up?” he asks dryly. 

“It is not I who refuses to tread the path of integrity.” 

Bucky glares.

You take another step, arms crossed over your chest, combat boots pressed into the dirt.

He’s about to give in and follow your stupidass plan, when it suddenly clicks for him. Honestly, once he gets it, he’s embarrassed at how long it took. 

“Is your fuckin’ costume s’pposed to be me?” Bucky’s jaw drops open slightly. 

A grin breaks across your face and it’s enough of an answer for him.

“You’re fucking ridiculous.” He takes a long, hard look at your ridiculous outfit. “What is wrong with you?”

“I think I did great,” you say, pulling at the hem of your black t-shirt. “I even made sure the shade was right.”

“You think you’re hilarious.”

“I do, yeah. Now let’s get a move on.” You clap your hands. “This maze ain’t gonna solve itself.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you dressed like that.”

“Afraid people are gonna think we’re the same person?”

Bucky crosses his arms over his chest. You do the same.

“Stop.”

“I’m just existing, man.”

“You’re making fun of me.”

“Now who said that?” You narrow your eyes. “I’m dressed like the hottest person I know besides myself, you should take it as a compliment” 

Bucky mumbles something under his breath, taking a step towards the path on the right. 

“I see you’ve made your choice. The wrong one, but I respect it.” You salute.  “See you on the other side, Barnes.”

And just like that, you disappear down the path.

Bucky stands there for a few seconds in silence.

Then, grudgingly, he starts walking again, taking his route. The correct route.

The festival noise is still there, still steady.

Bucky isn’t worried.

Because, first of all, it’s a corn maze.

Second of all, he’s already sure he knows the way out. 

The first few minutes alone, he doesn’t think about it much.

He walks, eyes scanning the paths, the layout, the movement of people up ahead. 

Unfortunately with the way his brain is hardwired, It doesn’t take him long to see the pattern.

The jump scares are timed.

The actors cycle between three or four spots.

The lighting is only dim enough to be “spooky,” but there are clear emergency lanterns posted at every exit route.

All things considered, it’s shockingly easy to navigate, so he wonders what’s so haunted about it in the first place. 

By the time he reaches the third scare actor, he’s already figured out that they’re all positioned in the exact same intervals.

A few minutes later, the familiar mechanical rev of a chainsaw sounds through the corn again. 

Bucky sighs, already exhausted.

The actor jumps out from the corn, mask on, chainsaw lifted dramatically.

Bucky stares.

The actor stares back.

There’s a long, painful pause.

Bucky slips past him and keeps walking.

_______ 

“How much fuckin’ corn is there?” he mumbles by the time he hits the next split in the path.

He hasn’t heard from you in a while, which doesn’t make sese because he should have run into you at some point. He would never admit it out loud but he would rather your incessant chattering than silence.

Seemingly ten minutes into his neverending trek, he pulls out his phone to track his way back to Steve using the damn Find My Phone bullshit

No signal.

He exhales sharply. Taps the screen a few more times, holds it above his head and even rotates it a few times. 

Still nothing.

It’s annoying, sure. But beyond that, something about it feels vaguely unsettling.

 The maze wasn’t that far away from the fair. 

It wasn’t like he’d wandered into the woods. 

He should have cell service. 

He grumbles, putting his phone back into his pocket, continuing on. 

_________

The paths aren’t endless.

The entire attraction is contained within the fairgrounds, wedged between the parking lot and the hayride station, which means if he just keeps moving in a straight line, he should hit the outer edge eventually.

Or at the very least, run into a staff member making sure no dumbass teenagers try to cut through the corn and ruin the layout.

And yet he’s been walking for a while now.

No exits are showing up.

Which is annoying. Because he’s usually good at this kind of thing.

If he can navigate a city he barely recognizes, evade people trying to kill him, track movement through urban terrain with nothing but a loose trail, then he should be able to walk out of a goddamn festival attraction.

But the paths just keep twisting, folding back into each other. 

The maze stretches longer than it should.

EVen though he’d figured it out, Bucky doesn’t immediately notice it.

He’s too focused on just moving forward. Getting to the end.

But after another few turns, another five minutes of silence, it finally registers.

There hasn’t been a single scare in a while.

The last was what, ten minutes ago?

Before that, they had been stationed at every few turns, jumping out at whatever happened to wander through.

Bucky stops.

The corn doesn’t rustle the way it usually does. 

It stands tall and eerily frozen. 

Bucky tilts his head slightly and listens.

But the fairground is further away than it should be.

There’s still wind.

It's still chilly.

Like it’s been pushed back a little further with every turn he’s taken.

Which doesn’t make sense.

Bucky exhales, shaking it off, shaking it loose, refusing to acknowledge the stupid, creeping frustration in his chest.

This is fine.

He keeps moving because at some point, it has to end.

The sky is still clear.

The night is dark.

He rounds the next turn--

Agonizing minutes later, Bucky knows he should have found an exit by now.

Even if he somehow took the longest possible route, even if he completely lost track of where he was going, he should have hit the fairground again by sheer accident.

And finally, he sees something different.

A scarecrow.

Lying in the middle of the path.

It's an old, rotting, weatherworn thing that doesn’t belong in a festival attraction.

The wood is splintering at the edges. The burlap sack tied around its head is molded and sun-bleached. The hat it’s wearing is barely holding together.

And its arms, long and stiff and thin, aren’t stretched out the way scarecrows usually are, instead pressed tight against its sides.

Bucky stares at it.

A long, slow moment passes.

“What the fuck’s your deal?” he asks. 

It does not answer. Obviously. 

He stares for a few more seconds, raising his leg to step beside it and move on–

Something touches him.

His entire body locks up for half a second, reflex screaming at him to step back, to turn, to fight.

It’s barely anything.

A whisper of sensation, a brief, feather-light press against the metal of his wrist.

Not a grab. Not a push. Just contact.

And then there’s a giggle.

Soft, small sound that feels like it’s been yanked straight out of another life. 

It takes a secodn to register that his pulse is hammering now.

Because it’s been months of this. Of coming to terms with the fact that he wasn’t just imagining it.

Not from cold, clamping fear.

Something else. 

The giggle sounds again, a few feet away this time.

She’d been following him. Watching him. Waiting for a chance to get him alone and-- God, what?

What was she going to do?

His head snaps towards the sound, trying to zero in on it outside of the rustling of stems. 

When it floats by again, it’s further away. 

His feet move before his mind registers it. 

Soft peals of laughter, the same when he’d let her draw all over his sketchbooks, when he’d douse her in water from the hose, when his dad would throw her under his arm and carry her around. 

It doesn’t matter.

He rounds the corner fast, boots skidding slightly on the packed dirt.

The air is colder now than ten minutes ago, stinging his skin. Or maybe that’s just in his head.

The laughter leads him around another corner, and the weight in his chest grows more desparate.

Because if she’s there, he can tell her everything he’s been thinking of for months now.

That he’s sorry, that he’d do whatever it takes to get her to rest–

He opens his mouth to call out her name– 

He bounds down the path, heart hammering and eyes wide.

His feet skid to a halt, boots grinding into the ground when he almost collides straight into something.

Someone.

But no.

Face tucked behind a Jason Vorhees mask, fake machete resting on a shoulder.

Not her. 

“Woah,” it says, “the hell are you running from?”

Bucky stops immediately, breathless.

It doesn’t take even a second to register the voice.

In the same short second, it is gone.

The giggle. The touch on the inside of his wrist. 

It’s all gone.

And in its place, it’s you.

You’re standing like you’ve been waiting for him, mask lopsided, fake machete swinging lazily in one hand, like you just wandered in from a completely different reality. 

Fuck. He’d been sure. So sure.

But then it’s you, pulling the mask up till it rides up your forehead. 

“Look who finally showed up,” you say brightly, grinning like you haven’t been wandering the maze in abandoned slasher cosplay for god knows how long.

“I’ve been trying to find an exit for, like, half an hour. Got so bored I was about to float up and look for you from the sky.”

He doesn’t say anything, heart in his mouth.

He doesn’t smile.

He probably doesn’t even blink, head turning as he scans the area for any sign.

You cock your head at him. “...You good?”

“Yeah,” he says too fast. “Fine.”

She wasn’t here. 

You give him a look. One you’ve used before. 

He forces his hands to stay loose at his sides. Tries not to look like he’s still coming down from something. Tries not to think about the soft giggle he’d heard minutes ago, or how badly he’d wanted to find the source.

“You been in here the whole time?” he asks finally.

You nod. “Yeah. I got bored. The actors vanished a while ago. I found the mask and figured, why not.” You hold up the machete. “Also this. Very high-quality prop. Very stabby.”

He raises an eyebrow. Barely.

“I was gonna jump-scare someone, but no one’s been around.” You pause. “Except you, apparently.”

He's not entirely sure he's in the same plane of existence as you.

His gaze flicks over you again, with your mask, weapon, loose smile. Still completely unaware that he just nearly walked out of the last twenty years chasing a memory, only to find you instead.

He swallows. Pushes the feeling back down.

“Thought you said you were gonna levitate out.”

“I was!” You grin. “But then you showed up. How was your night? 

He doesn’t answer right away.

Finally he just exhales for the first time in what seems like years.

“It was fine.”

But the longer you look at him, the less sure you seem.

You study his face, squinting. “You look like you saw something.”

“Didn’t.”

You chew on that for a second, eyes still on him, before saying, “You’ve been weird, you know.”

Bucky tilts his head slightly.

“Like, not just tonight. After some of these shoots. Not all of them. Just… some.”

Bucky says nothing. He knew it wouldn't be too long before you brought this up.

You go on anyway. “At first I thought it was just your usual ‘why am I involved in this bullshit’ thing, but it’s not that. Not every time. Some of these places are different. You come back quiet.”

You shift the machete from one hand to the other. It feels stupid, suddenly.

“I haven’t said anything,” you add. “Because I figured if you didn’t want to be here, you’d say something. But you haven’t and if this kind of stuff screws with your head in some way, we can pick other places. Or we can stop the show altogether. We don’t have to keep doing this if it’s messing with you.”

You look back at him now. Direct. Steady.

Bucky doesn’t flinch.

It would be easy to lie. Easier than explaining.

So he clears his throat, looks down the path where the maze bends gently left. “Good to know.”

Something soft on his cheek tugs his face back.

He looks back at you, a small crease between his eyebrows.

You hold his face in place softly, but the look on your face is firm. "We don't have to continue the show. I'm being serious. It's not worth it if you--"

Bucky watches you trail off, but your hands don't let go of his face.

"I know," he says, voice a bit quieter, more tired.

Your gaze is intense, but he holds it. His throat constricts a bit when he swallows.

“Well. I was headed for apple dunking before this turned into a weird spiral. You coming?”

He knows you notice it.

Still, you don’t press. Just give him a small smile, search his face one last time before letting go.

“Yeah,” he says, letting out a deep exhale when you turn away from him.

“Good. I need a witness when I inevitably fight a twelve-year-old over a Fuji.”

“I will not take your side,” he manages to get out, following behind closely.

“Yeah, yeah,” you say, casting a look over your shoulder. “But you’ll reap the rewards when I win.”

Bucky opens his mouth to say something in return, but shuts up when you slip your hand into his, interlacing your fingers and giving it a short squeeze. 

His heart, poor fucking thing, probably won’t be able to handle another episode of racing tonight. 

“Come on,” you say, swinging it back and forth. “You can buy me some cider.”

Bucky says something snappy, sighs a little and tightens his grip on your hand. 

It takes a while before you finally see the fair.

You push a few stalks aside and sigh like you’ve just crossed a battlefield.

The fairground lights bleed brighter through the corn, the ambient noise getting louder with each step. 

Bucky's kept his grip on your hand, but slipped it into the pocket of his jacket because the night only gets colder.

“I can’t believe I almost had to fly over this stupid maze just to find you,” you say. “What would you have done if I hadn’t shown up?”

He shrugs. “Would’ve found a way out.”

“Oh?” you say, eyebrows lifting. “With what? Your ancient Boy Scout compass? Prayer? I was prepared to carry you out, you know.”

He snorts.

“Little rescue mission. One arm around your waist.”

He stops walking. “No.”

You blink innocently. “No?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Why not? I can fly. Kind of.”

“I would rather die in the corn than be carried out like a wet cat.”

“You’re being ridiculous. Hasn’t Steve ever gotten a ride from Tony? I don’t hear him complaining about sitting on his teammate’s back.”

“Like he’s on a fucking horse?” Bucky says, scandalized. “No?”

“You’re emotionally allergic to help.”

“I don’t need help.”

“I know,” you say, turning to grin at him again. “But I’m gonna offer it anyway. Just to annoy you.”

The stupid Jason mask is still swinging at your collar, machete tucked like a trophy at your hip. Bucky rolls his eyes but can't help a smile from slipping out.

“Anyway,” you say casually, “I’m just saying, if I hadn’t found you, you’d still be in there. They’d name the field after you eventually.”

He doesn’t respond to that, but you catch him shaking his head.

You swing the machete against your leg like a toy. “Would the team have come looking for you if I hadn’t?”

Bucky glances at you. “Eventually.”

“Eventually,” you repeat. “Cool. So like… couple of days?”

He shrugs. “Give or take.”

You nod sagely. “Okay. So if it takes you a few days to get rescued, I’m looking at what, two weeks? After someone trips over my skeleton by accident?”

He doesn’t look at you when he says, “That’s not how it works with us.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Us?”

He gestures vaguely. “The team.”

You scoff. “I literally had an entire PR team trying to erase me from the internet not too long ago.”

Bucky studies you with a sharp look for a few moments. You keep swinging the machete back and forth, one arm locked in place inside his jacket pocket.

“Do you think it was a coincidence,” he says finally, “that the week your article dropped, everyone just happened to go batshit insane?”

You blink at him. “What.”

“C’mon,” he says. “Steve makes a huge donation. Nat starts a fight on live TV. Clint breaks into a goddamn bank vault. Your story got the least coverage out of all of them.”

You frown slightly. “I thought that was just Avengers being Avengers.”

Bucky shrugs. “Nobody told anyone to do anything. They just did it loudly so you’d know whose side they were on.”

You fall silent for a moment. “Huh.”

He doesn’t push.

You don’t ask again, but you shuffle closer. He tries his level best to stay cool, and mostly succeeds.

The second you step out of the cornfield, it's like walking into a trap.

Scattered around the festival’s edge, half-lurking by the caramel apple stand and the booth selling “Blood Smoothies”, are most of the team, waiting.

Nat is nursing a cup of hot chocolate like it's vodka and watching everything with the faint smirk of someone who knew how this would end before it started.

Sam spots you first. His grin spreads instantly. 

“Generally when people disappear for a while, they show up with less clothes than before,” he calls. 

You glance at your mask and machete and Bucky tugs off the stupid cape. 

“Just in time for the main event. I was about to start placing bets.”

“On what,” Bucky mutters, already tired of this conversation.

“Whether we were getting a call from you,” Sam replies, “or the morgue.”

You shrug. “Por qué no los dos?”

Wanda drifts in with a caramel apple in one hand and a too-knowing smile at your hand in his. 

Bucky’s expression shutters instantly, mouthing. “Don’t.”

She shakes her head lightly, not saying anything. 

You’re still smiling, focused on the conversation at hand, “He got lost. I heroically rescued him. It was a very emotional journey.”

“I wasn’t lost.”

Steve finally wanders over, coffee in hand, squinting at Bucky like he's trying to decipher something.

“You good?” he asks, handing him a slice of pumpkin pie.

Bucky nods. “Fine.”

Steve looks between the two of you. Then at the mask. Then at the machete. “You two gonna go find other hauntings or are y’all done for the evening?”

“I’m going apple dunking,” you say brightly. “I’m about to ruin some middle schoolers.”

“Emotionally or physically?” Clint asks.

“Whichever’s funnier.” You shrug, nudging Bucky’s shoulder. “I’m gonna destroy some third grader and dedicate the win to you.”

"I don't know you."

You give him a bright grin, and wiggle your hand out of his to follow behind Clint.

Bucky doesn't like the sudden lack of warmth, but he finds respite in pie Steve has handed to him.

Bucky’s always liked the noise of fairs.

Not because he actually enjoys them and the overstimulation it brings, but because he can disappear into the background. Everyone's loud. Everyone's distracted. No one looks at the guy who stands still.

So that’s what he does now.

Leans against a picnic table, a second slice of pie in his hands that he hasn’t even looked at, while Steve stands beside him with a cup of something steaming and unremarkable.

It’s easy, the quiet between them. Familiar.

Which is probably why Bucky says it out loud before he thinks about it too hard.

“Do you remember PBJ?”

Steve squints. “The sandwich?”

Bucky exhales through his nose. “No. The nickname.”

Steve takes a slow sip, then looks at him again.

“Oh,” he says, softer now. “Right. What I called you and Becca."

"D'you remember why?" Bucky doesn't meet his eye.

"Wasn't it 'cause she couldn’t spell your name properly when she was little? Wrote ‘Jam’ everywhere. Used to drive you insane.”

“She got very smug about it,” Bucky mutters.

Steve laughs. “Only ‘cause you kept calling her ‘Peanut’.”

Bucky nods, tight smile on his lips.

“I’d forgotten about that,” Steve says. “God, Peanut Becca and Jam. You were so serious about it, too."

Bucky notes quietly, “She wrote ‘PBJ’ on everything. Lunchboxes. Schoolbooks. Hell, birthday cards.”

"I remember."

Steve elbows him gently. “Why’d you ask?”

They stand there a while longer.

The lights flicker in the distance.  

And there it is. That soft pang in his chest, sharp and sad and warm all at once.

Bucky hesitates. Opens his mouth to say something else–

“Gentlemen!”

You’re striding toward them with far too much confidence, holding a large, offensively purple stuffed bat in both hands like it’s a gift from a distant god.

“I bring tribute.”

You shove the bat into Bucky’s hands, grinning. “For being so brave in the cornfield. And for looking like you were about five seconds away from emotionally unloading on pie.”

The bat’s wings sparkle. Its eyes are mildly unhinged.

Bucky looks at it to you. “What is this.”

“A cherished new member of the team. And a gift to you.”

Steve’s face does something complicated behind his cup.

And for a second, Bucky just stares at the stupid plush thing in his hands, and tries to ignore the way his throat tightens.

Bucky huffs. “Thanks. It’s horrifying.”

“I know,” you say, bright as anything. “Try not to fall in love with me over it.”

He has the sick, annoying, grating feeling that it's a warning that's come too late, probably.

But he doesn’t say that.

Because you steal the rest of his pie.

And the ugly bat now rests on his bed.

here’s my ko-fi if you’d like to support my writing!

Next part

THANK U TO EVERYONE WHO BOUGHT ME A KO-FI FOR THIS SILLY FIC I FULLY EXPLODED WHEN I SAW IT

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★ "which means the part of the WS is still in me"

I'd love a fic where the Avengers are tentatively trying to accept Bucky, and he comes off as this kind of emotionless, half person that they can't really get to know or related to.

He's terrified of Hydra getting him again, though. To the point where he'd rather die than risk them getting their hands on him.

And it humanizes him enough for the others to get attached.

Something with Steve and Bucky staying in the tower while Bucky recovers, and Tony who's only letting this slide because it's Steve and even though he's very upset angryfuriousdevestated he knows deep down that Bucky is a victim in all this too.

And the others are doing well with it. Cautious but open.

They all know what happened to Bucky, part of the agreement with him staying in the tower with Steve was that all the info was available for them to see, so they knew what exactly they were getting into.

Bucky keeps to Steve's floor and doesn't interact with them too much. Sometimes with Sam, occasionally with Natasha and Clint.

He's still intimidating as hell. Even when all he does is follow Steve around and avoid meeting their eyes too often. They can tell when he enters a room, all the hair on their bodies standing on end, even though half the time they don't even hear him.

He's not allowed any weapons, and he has to be monitored by Jarvis constantly.

Sometimes he has nightmares and they can hear it even on different floors. Sometimes, someone hits one of his triggers accidentally, god there's so many and it's a toss-up between them getting attacked or him going silent and submissive in a way that makes them sick. And adds an extra layer of disgust and fury to everything that happened to him, because nothing good happens when people like the ones in Hydra get their hands on people like him.

There's still a disconnect between what they read about him and the him they see around the tower. He's controled, with the occasional episode or outburst, but overall he keeps a tight hold on his body language and doesn't speak much.

They don't doubt it happened, there are videos and recordings with the files and they still see some of them when they close their eyes.

But... it's like he's got it all shoved in a small box somewhere. He's still like a machine in a lot of ways.

That's just what he shows them, of course. They've seen some of his breakdowns when he's out in the tower with Steve, and it's different. Steve gets to see all the bad, all the fallout and aftermath, and they don't envy him.

But then Hydra comes looking for him.

And he loses it. Not in a violent, winter soldier way, but in a terrified don't let them take me god please please don't let them take me away.

Hydra has him locking up. Terrified, desperate, trying to hide himself in whoever is close enough to him, and ready to slit his own throat if it means Hydra won't get him.

And none of the Avengers are going to let that happen. Steve would kill them all, but also, they're not going to let that happen.

They're not.

And he just kind of curls into whoever is with him. Wild-eyed, shaking, completely lost in his head, and begging for them to not let Hydra get him please please please

And if he gets too upset scared or Hydra gets close enough that it actually starts to become a realy worry that they might manage to grab him, he starts begging for something so he can end it himself. They're going to get him, just kill him please please please. He can't do it again. He can't.

It takes him a long time to calm down after those. He clings to the person he was with, still not quite out of his head yet enough to realize the threat is gone and only knowing that whoever he was with kept him away from Hydra so they must be safe. He knows Steve trusts them, so Bucky trusts them.

It's unsettling to realize he also probably trusts them to end it if they need to. And with that is the horrible realization that it would be a kindness to do so, if the other option is Hydra.

They don't discuss it. No one says what they're all thinking. That they might do it. Should do it if that's the only option left.

Bucky knows what's waiting for him if Hydra gets him back. The Avengers know it, too.

It would be a mercy. For him and Steve.

They're not sure what Steve would do or what his thoughts are on it, and absolutely no one is volunteering to start that conversation with him.

It's a little terrifying to have Bucky stuck to them like that, shaking and lost in his own head. He's a monster of his own, strong and skilled, experienced, and violent. They're letting someone that could easily kill them, curl up and seek safety in them.

The truth of it is, it's ugly. All the trauma and horror and fear that they hadn't seen on him before comes out. Desperation for safety, and if not that then death, is always a heavy thing to see.

They're suppose to help people, stop the bad guys, and all that other hero stuff. They can't seem to figure out how to stop Hydra though.

They can't tell Bucky he's safe because he's not. They can't promise Hydra won't get him because they might.

They can promise Hydra won't have him for long, between the hell Steve would bring down on the whole world and the others right on his tail, but they wouldn't need a lot of time.

So, they lie sometimes. When the threat is gone and Steve's not there yet, Bucky still lost and mumbling please over and over, and they don't even know what's he's asking for anymore but they want to give it to him.

So they say Hydra won't get him. They promise that Hydra will never get him again. They promise he's safe.

They keep him close, let him cling and curl into them because he's a raw, gaping wound and they can't bring themselves to let go and expose him to the world yet.

They ignore the wet lashes against where he's curled his face into their throats or chests, petting through his hair, and keeping up reassurances and promises that they don't necessarily have the power to keep... but they all need it.

If anyone deserves to feel safe, it's this man.

And they know Steve is gone to them if Bucky goes again. The two of them are going together this time, even if it means the end.

●●●●●●●

And one time Hydra almost gets him. Steve separated from them and Hydra always knows that their best chance is seperating Steve and Bucky first and Hydra working on separating the rest of them.

It was working.

Bucky went from blind, frozen terror to a horrible, desperate hope and scrambled, managed to get his hands on one of the guns.

It was against his temple before any of them could even move towards him and the empty click it made when he pulled the trigger was louder than anything everything else happening in that moment.

They honestly thought he had managed to do it before they heard the click. A numb voice in their heads asking how the fuck they were going to tell Steve. How they were going to get over this themselves because holy shit.

They thought they were prepared for something like this. There was always a chance that something would trigger Bucky and they'd end up having to kill him, even if Steve would hate them for it and he would, but they hadn't realized how attached they'd gotten. How protective they felt over him.

There was no hesitation when he pulled the trigger and he asked them sometimes, when Hydra was too close for comfort, to just kill him rather than let Hydra get him but they always thought deep down it was just something he said because he was scared, that he didn't really mean it. But there was intent behind it. He had made it clear that if they wouldn't do it, then he would.

They don't need to tell Steve later, thank god because they don't have the words yet. He saw the gun with Bucky and if there had been a bullet in it, he knows Bucky wouldn't have wasted it by aiming at one Hydra agent out of the many there.

✨️✨️

There are so many things that could have addressed/shown with Bucky's recovering and I just wish we'd seen more of it.

If you have any fics recs, let me know~!

I'm slowly working my way through ao3 but some of the best fics I've found so far I've found through other people and the fics have like one tag on them besides the pairing, so I would never have found them on my own.

There's just so many interesting ways to explore Bucky relearning how to be a person again because it would/should have been a process.

Losing parts of yourself is such an easy thing to do.

Someone says you're stupid enough times, and then you start to wonder if you are.

Someone comments on the size of your nose enough, and then you start to think it's big.

Someone treats you like you're worthless, and then you start to think you are.

They wouldn't have treated him like a human. They wouldn't even need to break him, just treat him like a thing, and eventually, he'll start to wonder if he is.

They don't talk or listen to him because things can't talk. They ignore his questions and begging. They ignore his cries and screams.

Is he even making them? Can they hear him.

They don't worry if he bleeds. Things don't bleed.

Is he even bleeding anymore? Is it just in his head?

They don't call him by his name. Things don't have names.

What was his name again?

They don't feed him real food. Things don't get hungry.

He doesn't feel hungry anymore.

They don't have a set schedule for him. Things don't care about the passage of time.

What day is it? How long as he been here?

They don't care if he hurts. Things can't hurt.

Maybe he doesn't hurt? Maybe this is normal and he's just confused. He's always confused now.

They say maintenance and maintain and fix.

You don't do those things to people. So he's not a person, right? He can't be if that's what they're doing to him.

People have names.

Right? Did it ever have one? Even if it did, who would have used it?

No, it never had a human name. It was created, crafted.

No one worries if their gun is hungry, or if their knife is trying to communicate with them, or if their tool is tired.

Those things are not for it.

And then you've got this guy, out of nowhere, who knows you.

Who says a name and is looking at you while he says it.

He's talking to you like you can speak back, like he wants you to speak back.

And it's confusing, so confusing, because why does the man think it is a person?

It gets more confused after a few days on its own because why is it suddenly needing human maintenance?

Its stomach aches, and it knows the ache is hunger. Why does it know that?

The man finds it.

It is a relief in a way. It requires attention and repairs.

It tells the man that it is malfunctioning.

The man says that he is hurt

...but things don't hurt. It needs repair.

Healing the man says.

Things don't heal though.

It starts to shut off more.

Sleeping the man says. You need to sleep.

The bed is for people. It sleeps in the ice. If it must rest, then it rests on the floor.

The man is quiet angry and he takes a long walk.

The man is not Hydra. He gets angry when it asks about previous handlers.

It requires a handler, though, an owner. Things are not free.

So, the man must be its handler, even if he is not Hydra.

Things must be maintained, and to be maintained, they must belong to someone.

The man calls him Bucky, always says Bucky when it calls itself it.

Fine. It will answer to the name Bucky if the man requests so.

Things don't have names, and things don't want them, but Bucky is a nice name if it must have one.

The man makes it do human things.

It must eat and drink. They start small because if it eats certain things, then it malfunctions, and the man gets upset.

It must sleep, or try to, each night. There is no ice, just blankets. It is given several of them since it maintains that it must sleep on the floor. It doesn't know what to do with them. The man eventually lays them out in a way that he deems comfortable.

The blankets are... nice. Warm.

It did not know it was cold.

The man speaks to it and listens. It doesn't know what to say, it has never been given attention like this.

The man introduces other people, and it makes sure to remember them because these people seem important to the man.

Sam.

Natasha.

Tony.

And it must remember the man is called Steve.

Tony is odd.

Tony does not like it. That is fine. Things don't care if they are liked or not.

Steve and Tony argue about it on the other side of the room, but it acts like it does not hear them.

Tony wants to see all its information.

It had not knows Steve had all of its protocols and maintenance information.

Steve agrees and Tony leaves.

Tony comes back after a few days. The anger is still on him, but it's different. He looks at its arm and says it needs maintenance.

Finally.

Tony will be able to help Steve understand that it does not require human maintenance.

Tony does not tell Steve this.

He looks at it for awhile when it asks if he will help Steve understand that it is not a person.

Things don't ask questions. It should not have spoken. It is malfunctioning.

Tony goes back to the arm without answering, and that's fine. People don't talk to things. They talk at them.

Steve's human maintenance has caused it to start malfunctioning.

Tony calls it Bucky, too.

They're both terrible at this.

It keeps malfunctioning.

It keeps asking questions. Why? It can't stop itself.

It likes the blankets.

It doesn't know if it has liked things before. The blankets are soft and warm, and it likes to touch them.

It does not like cold now that it knows that it is always cold.

Steve brings it blankets often after he realizes how much it likes them.

These people touch it a lot.

Tony touches it while he does maintenance. This maintenance does not hurt, and the arm doesn't hurt malfunction as often.

Tony plays music and talks a lot. He has little robots that are strange and clearly malfunctioning, but he does not take corrective steps. Instead, he allows the malfunctions, maybe even seems to enjoy them.

Maybe it likes this... maintenance... like it likes the blanket.

The woman Natasha, that's not her name... is it? touches it. She does maintenance braids she calls them on its hair. She is confident when she touches it, but she also makes her movements clear.

Why does she do that for it? Things don't need to know what someone will do to it. It is... nice. It thinks it likes this too.

Sam touches it. He talks to it a lot, too. He is purposeful but makes sure to touch it each time he comes to visit.

He wants it to speak back. He encourages it to speak more than he wants to speak himself. He is patient, even when it is not able to make the words come out right.

It likes this... having someone listen.

They bring more people.

A man, Clint, with sharp eyes who jokes with it, tries to make it laugh.

Clint is a marksman and very skilled. He takes it with him when he goes to train. He insists they have competitions and there are no punishments when it does not perform to or exceed expectations.

Sometimes, he brings small pieces of candy for them to share, and he winks like it's a secret just between them.

Things don't smile... but it feels like something inside of it is smiling.

There's another man, Bruce, quiet and careful. Something about him gives an air of power, but he is gentle. A scientist, more than Tony, and he makes it... nervous? No, not nervous. Things don't get nervous.

The man looks over it like it is human, asking it if anything hurts like it is a person.

It tells him where it is damaged, even though it is fully operational.

If it is fully operational, then the damage does not require maintenance. It did not need to tell him. Things don't hurt.... why did it tell him where it hurt?

Thor is loud and big. He smells like rain, and it likes that. It did not know it liked the smell of rain.

Thor is not scared of it. He does not worry about a malfunction, and he seems to have no expectations on it or what it might have been.

He does not lower his voice around it, and he even does a sort of roughhousing with it at times, although Steve hovers nervously whenever that happens. He claps it on the back and calls it friend like Steve does, and is it suppose to know this man too? It doesn't remember this man.

Things don't have memories, but... sometimes, it thinks it might.

It asks Steve about them sometimes, slow and quiet, because while Steve has not hurt it for remembering or asking questions, it knows remembering was bad.

Remembering means pain. Why does it know that?

Steve tells it about them. He says it had a family, sisters, and friends. He talks about them, and about the war and the howling commandos, and... oh, it is crying.

Things do not cry. It is malfunctioning.

They all call it Bucky.

They give it maintenance like it is a person.

They like when it likes things and even look happy when it decides that it does not like things.

They do not treat it as a thing... so maybe it isn't? Maybe... he's a person.

It refers to itself as he a few days later.

Tentative, and after a pause where it was hard to get the word out, he looks up carefully through his lashes because what if he's wrong? What if this was a test and what if they wanted to get him to think this way just to take it away an-

They are happy.

Steve is very happy and he likes it when Steve is happy.

He likes it when they are all happy.

There are bad days when he does not think he is a person and thinks they're playing a terrible game with him.

They're being cruel. They have to be because he's not a person.

If he's a person, then that means he's been a person this whole time and that Hydra took that away from him.

That means...

He's not there yet. He doesn't like to talk about things like that yet. It makes his head hurt, and he doesn't like that, and it's too much. He gets upset... because he is a person and people get upset.

That is still a strange thought to him, that he's human.

He tells Steve about things he remembers. He has questions, and he's getting better at asking them without tripping over his words or stopping halfway through.

He has a bed with lots of blankets.

He has food and books and music that he likes.

He has a big marker he can write his name on things with. He's still scared all of it is going to be taken away from him, but if his name is Bucky and if he's a person, then his name on things means that those things are his.

Right? He had to ask to make sure, but they all said that was right. He likes putting his name on things.

He likes having things.

He likes to take the drawings Steve makes and always gives to him. He likes that Sam brings him little things whenever he goes somewhere. Sometimes, it's pins, or buttons or pretty pieces of paper.

He likes small screws from Tony's lab, pens Bruce leaves laying around, hair ties from Natasha, pop tart wraps that Thor drops, and the heads of arrows that Clint loses.

He likes that he's remembering more and more. He likes remembering that he's always liked things. Like dancing, and records, and laughing, and Steve.

Hydra never even really tried to figure out how to numb/relieve pain for Bucky so the first time he gets good, healthy, safe medication that actually works on on super soldiers, he's kind of overwhelmed that he doesn't hurt because he always hurts.

"Oh..." He's all wide, wet eyes and a soft, awed voice. "I didn't know you could make it go away."

He doesn't remember ever not hurting.

~~~~

And he's overwhelmed by them telling him that he should be unconscious for major surgeries, and certainly shouldn't feel during them what the fuck, because... what does that even mean? He's always awake and he always feels it.

And he's stuck on the fact that there's medication out there that will help him, actually help him and not whatever Hydra told him would help, and it doesn't make him violently sick or high as hell or anything horrible.

let's just! not comment on sebastian stan's body in thunderbolts. i mean, we could actually not talk about ANYONE'S body but. watching people call him chubby, even in a supposedly positive way, when he literally has abs you can see through his shirt, is just. wow quite odd. dude already has body dysmorphia from playing bucky how about we talk about his character and his performance, not his weight :)

Love the idea that Bucky just drops heavy shit on the others without any warning.

They're all watching some movie where a character gets a super gruesome injury or dies in this horrible way, and Bucky walks by, stops, and says, "that's not right."

They're like, "Okay? We're assuming the soldier did that to a few people?"

"No. Hydra did that to me a few times for tests." And just wanders off like he hasn't stunned them into a horrified silence.

They all turn to look at Steve and/or Sam because what the fuck.

They just shake their heads, though, and put their face in their hands because they're horrified too, but also Bucky, buddy, we've talked about this. It's great that you're remembering/processing this stuff, but it's really heavy stuff to just drop on people without warning. Even if those people are the only other people in the world who might be able to relate.

But Bucky just can't seem to wrap his head around the fact that they're upset by the idea of those things happening to him.

And maybe one time they argued with him like no that's totally an accurate portrayal of 'insert horrible thing here'.

Bucky just kind of goes dead eyed and asks them if they'll be testing it on him again or if they'll be able to tell from Hydra's notes on the last time they did 'insert horrible thing here' to him.

And they don't argue with him again.

I feel like if Hydra managed to get their hands on Bucky again, the best way for them to keep him would be to put him immediately in cryo and leave him alone for awhile. Maybe in an old base, or even somewhere kind of random.

A small handful of people know, and that's it.

They leave him there.

I feel like that would be hard to track.

No one out in the world knows where he is.

There's no gossip about Hydra getting the soldier back because no one knows they have him.

No influx of people near any known or potential Hydra bases because they stayed long enough to freeze him and then left.

No data or activity logs to find because they're not doing anything with him.

Just silence.

Princess

Summary : You fall for Bucky Barnes, the Avenger assigned as your bodyguard. When a photo of the two of you kissing leaks to the tabloids, your clients start questioning your company’s integrity.

Pairing : Bodyguard!Bucky Barnes x CEO!reader

Warnings/tags : implied sex, cursing, mutual pining, canon-typical violence, you have a dad in this one, post FATWS and pre CABNW, forced proximity-ish, slice of life fic taking place over 15-ish months.

Word Count : 16.2k oops

Notes : Hi!!! I just got home from a holiday and I’m still super jetlagged when I realised my queued posts aren't posting! I will post one fic a day until the schedule catches itself up. Will take the next couple of days to reply to all your comments, so please bear with me! Enjoy!

Day 1. 

Bucky grumbled the entire ride to your penthouse, arms crossed like a sulking teenager.

“I’m a super soldier, not a glorified babysitter,” he muttered to Sam as the Quinjet cut smoothly through the air. “I’ve fought aliens. Now I’m stuck protecting some spoiled heiress who probably throws tantrums if her latte isn’t the right milk-to-coffee ratio.”

Sam barely spared him a look, busy in whatever he was reading on his tablet. Bucky glanced over his shoulder— Sam was reading your profile. 

Apparently, someone tipped off that an assassination attempt would target you soon, and it wasn’t a threat Sam took lightly. Your father had gone to him, but still new to his Captain America mantle, Sam had government contracts to fulfill, and passed this private contract to Bucky. “First of all, you don’t know her, so maybe reserve some judgment. Second, this ‘spoiled heiress’ is the acting CEO of one of the most important cybersecurity firms in the world.”

“Acting CEO?” Bucky snorted, leaning his head back against the seat. “That’s just rich kid code for ‘daddy does all the work, and I pretend to help.’”

Sam shot him an unamused look, finally setting the tablet down. “Do you ever stop to think before you talk? This woman keeps half the world’s secrets under lock and key. If she’s taken out, it’s not just her life that’s in danger—it’s the lives of millions of people. National security, Buck. You know, the thing we’re supposed to care about?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Bucky muttered, waving his concerns off. “Doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

When Bucky finally made his way to your front door, he was… surprised. 

He convinced himself he was going to be walking into some modern-day palace. He pictured marble floors, gaudy chandeliers, and some butler answering the door for you while you lounged in designer silk pajamas, sipping champagne.

Instead, when the door swung open, his expectations shattered.

The image of a pampered heiress was gone. You were dressed in a crisp, tailored suit, a book in your hand. When you saw him, you looked with mild disinterest before you gave a curt nod.

“Ah. The babysitter,” you said dryly. It was clear that you weren’t thrilled about this arrangement, either.

Bucky blinked, caught off guard for a moment, before frowning. “I’m here to make sure you don’t get yourself killed.”

You arched a brow, unimpressed. “Right. Babysitter.” Then, without further comment, you stepped aside, gesturing for him to enter.

Bucky hesitated, his brows knitting together as he stepped into the apartment. The space was meticulously organised— modern, clean, and completely devoid of the overindulgent luxury he’d envisioned.

As he followed you into what appeared to be your home office, he stopped dead in his tracks. Your desk was a controlled chaos of monitors, blueprints, encrypted code streams, and neatly stacked documents.

You set your book down, not sparing him a glance as you continued your work.

“I told my father I didn’t need one,” you said, sliding into your chair and typing something rapidly.

Bucky could only stare, unsure of what to say. He was ready to handle a woman too busy Instagramming her designer handbags to care about anything important. He was certainly not prepared to face someone who seemed to run her empire like a general commanding an army.

On top of that, Bucky could tell you were frustrated, and honestly, who could blame you?

You had been put under mandatory house quarantine until the assassination threat passed— that’s what your security advisors had decided. Which meant you had to settle for video calls instead of in-person meetings, you had to rely on food delivery instead of doing your own damn groceries, and that you couldn’t work from your office building— you had to take calls and manage the company from your home office. Your world, once meticulously structured under your control, had suddenly shrunk to the square footage of your penthouse.

And the worst part? The only person you were allowed to interact with in person for the foreseeable future was the bodyguard who took the contract: Bucky. He didn’t even seek it out, Sam offered it to him and he reluctantly agreed. You were going to have to spend weeks alone with someone you barely knew. Maybe months. Who knew when the threat would pass?

“What were you expecting?” you asked, finally glancing up from your monitors. “A pretty princess?” you mocked, a faint smirk tugging at the corners of your lips.

He crossed his arms, furrowing his eyebrows. “You could say that,” he admitted.

“Let me guess,” you said, leaning back in your chair. “You thought I’d be… what? Lounging around, eating bonbons, and counting Daddy’s money?”

Bucky’s jaw clicked, the faintest hint of heat creeping up his neck. “Something like that.”

You chuckled, shaking your head. “Typical.” He could hear you were a bit irritated, but also a bit amused. “Let me make one thing clear, Barnes— I don’t need you here. The only reason you’re standing in my office right now is because my father insisted the assassination threat is a real threat. I think it’s bullshit. So let’s keep this simple: you do your job, and I’ll do mine.”

Bucky can help but feel a little bit of admiration. In fact, he found himself both annoyed and oddly intrigued.

“Fine by me,” he said, voice gruff.

As you turned back to your monitors, ignoring him completely, Bucky took a moment to watch you— the way your fingers flew across your keyboard, the slight furrow in your brow as you concentrated.

He’d seen it before, in Howard Stark, in Bruce Banner, in Shuri, and even perhaps, begrudgingly, in Arnim Zola. it was clear you were brilliant, maybe even intimidatingly so.

What he didn’t realise was that you were stealing glances at him too. Irritated, yes, but mostly because the so-called babysitter was annoyingly (and objectively) attractive.

Neither of you said it, but you both were two sides of the same coin: two people who were both frustrated and intrigued by each other.

Day 2.

The first day or so with Bucky was strained, a battle of selfish wills in which neither of you conceded an inch. He was curt and distant. His default expression was a scowl, and you weren’t exactly going out of your way to make him feel welcome. If he thought he could scare you with his threatening looks, he was in for a surprise. You had faced tougher opponents— CEOs, board members, government officials. Compared to them, James Buchanan Barnes was almost charming. Just… almost.

It was just so annoying that he had to live here, with you, in one of your guest bedrooms for god knows how long.

Day 3.

It was late, the kind of late that blurred the lines between night and morning. You were in your office as usual, the glow of your monitors projecting colourful shadows on the walls. That’s when Bucky’s voice startled you.

“Do you ever sleep?”

You looked over the monitors, finding him leaning against the doorway. His hair was slightly tousled, his face softened by the dim light, and he looked… annoyingly attractive.

“Do you ever stop hovering?” you glared back, though the crack in your voice hinted at exhaustion.

“Just doing my job,” he replied, his lips curving into a smug smile. He tilted his head toward your desk. “What’s keeping you up this time?”

You hesitated, glancing at the encrypted files on your screen. “Work.”

“Obviously.”

You rolled your eyes. “It’s classified.”

“Fine.” He pushed off the doorframe, stepping closer. “But you still look like you could use a break.”

His tone surprised you— it wasn’t mocking, or patronizing, it was just… genuine. For a moment, you almost let your guard down. “I’m fine.”

“Sure,” he muttered, retreating to his post in the living room. But as you turned back to your screen, you couldn’t help noticing the way he lingered in your thoughts longer than he should have.

Day 5.

The next crack in the ice came during an impromptu kitchen encounter. Bucky, ever the stoic, was rummaging through your fridge with a look of increasing disapproval (to be fair, you had given him full access to it the day before).

“Do you eat anything that isn’t green?” he asked, holding up a bottle of your favourite smoothie like it was a biohazard.

“I’m sorry,” you said, folding your arms, “I didn’t realise I needed to stock the fridge for Captain America’s sidekick.”

He turned to glare at you, but there was a spark of amusement in his eyes. “First of all, I’m not his sidekick. Second, this—” he shook the smoothie for emphasis “—cannot be good.”

“Be my guest,” you challenged, and you knew he wouldn’t turn down the challenge. 

As he lifted his brows, he twisted off the cap and took a long sip. The look of betrayal that crossed his face as he gagged was priceless.

“That made my day,” you said, trying—and failing—to suppress a laugh.

“God, that’s vile,” he muttered, rinsing his mouth under the sink. But when he turned back, he was grinning, his blue eyes adorably crinkling at the corners.

Your grin widened, and for the first time, the tension between you felt… easier.

Day 7.

By the end of the first week, Bucky had moved his post from the couch in the living room to the armchair across the room to your home office desk. You’d never admit it, but his presence was becoming a source of comfort in your day-to-day isolated life. He’d bring his coffee in the morning and sit there while you worked, making sure no one harmed you. 

This morning, as you typed furiously at your desk, you felt his eyes on you.

“Take a picture,” you said without looking up. “It’ll last longer.”

He snorted, ignoring your remark, though he didn’t know how to really respond to it without denying it. 

Week 2.

The teasing had become second nature by now. 

Over the last couple of days, Bucky started finding reasons to linger— whether it be sitting closer to you during your brief movie breaks, offering to carry things that you could definitely carry yourself, or asking questions about your job that he probably didn’t even understand.

Today, you were standing on the balcony, staring out at the glittering city lights when Bucky joined you.

“Not bad,” he said, leaning on the railing beside you.

“You mean the view?” you asked, glancing at him.

“Sure,” he replied, but his eyes weren’t glued to the skyline. They were on you.

You leaned in closer. your shoulder brushing his. The touch sent a jolt of electricity through your spine, and you swore he looked at you like he’d had, too.

“Something on your mind, Barnes?”

He smirked. “Just wondering what you’d do without me.”

“Sleep better, for one,” you quipped, though your voice was just a bit gentler than usual.

He chuckled kindly. “I think you’d miss me.”

I think so, too, you wanted to say, but kept your mouth shut. 

Week 3.

The line between professionalism and… whatever this was became increasingly blurred. You caught him watching you more often, studying you as if his days with you were numbered. It was as if he was desperately trying to memorise your face. 

You’re thought weren’t exactly innocent either. You noticed the way his shirt clung to his broad shoulders during workouts in your home gym, the way his stubble framed his face, the way he looked at you like he knew exactly what you were thinking of: him. 

This afternoon, you found yourself standing closer to him than necessary as he handed you a cup of coffee. 

“Thanks,” you said, shyer than usual.

“Anytime,” he replied, heartbeat racing in his chest.

The moment passed, but the tension didn’t.

Week 4.

Bucky had always been good at noticing patterns, that’s why he was an expert in tracking enemy movements and ambush tactics.

So, of course, he noticed your pattern, albeit in a more… innocent manner. He noticed the way you skipped meals, ran on caffeine, and buried yourself in work until exhaustion practically dragged you under. 

At first, he figured it wasn’t his problem. You were a grown woman, fully capable of making your own choices. But somewhere along the way, he started caring.

And when Bucky Barnes cared, he didn’t do it halfway.

So, on the first day of the fourth week, he placed a plate of food on your desk. You didn’t look up, just kept typing.

“What’s this?”

“Dinner.”

“I don’t have time for—”

“Then don’t leave the desk. Just eat here.” He insisted.

You finally glanced at the plate— it was Italian takeout. Nothing fancy, but definitely better than your usual liquid diet. You looked up at him. “I’m not a child, Barnes.”

“Look, you haven’t eaten a full meal in days,” He crossed his arms, metal fingers tapping against his bicep. “If you collapse, you’re gonna make my job harder.”

You sighed, glaring at him. He simply raised an eyebrow, waiting. 

“Fine,” you gave in, stabbing a fork into the food. As soon as the food entered your system, you realised how right he was. Everything hurt a little less, even when you hadn’t noticed it hurting in the first place. “You know, for someone who claims to be my bodyguard and not my babysitter, you sure act like one.”

He chuckled, leaning against the doorframe. “Just eat your damn food.”

After that, it became a thing.

At first, he made a point to bring you food just to annoy you. But the more he did it, the more he found himself relieved that you’re keeping yourself alive.

One night, he even cooked.

You walked into the kitchen for a short water break to find him at the stove with both sleeves rolled up. You crossed your arms, watching him with a smile.

“I didn’t know you could cook.”

He didn’t look up as he plated dinner for two. It wasn’t part of the job, but he found himself wanting to do it.

Month Two. 

Like clockwork, Bucky would plop a plate of food on your desk at least once a day. And you had fully accepted that you weren’t getting out of it.

So, one evening, when he placed dinner in front of you and made himself comfortable in his armchair across the room to eat his dinner, you frowned. “Why do you always eat all the way over there?”

He glanced up, mid-bite. “Because this is where I sit.”

“I mean— I know that, but,” You rolled your eyes, gesturing at the empty seat beside you. “Just sit here. Might as well.”

Bucky hesitated, eyebrows raising slightly. “Might as well?”

You shrugged, avoiding his gaze by stabbing at your food. “You’re already making sure I don’t starve. We might as well eat at the same desk. At least I’ll have…” You trailed off, suddenly a bit too self-conscious.

His lips curled into an infuriating smirk. “Company?”

You scoffed. “Sure, let’s go with that.”

Still, he pushed himself up and took the seat across from you, resting his metal forearm on the desk. The two of you ate in silence for a moment before he spoke again.

“Y’know, if you wanted a friend, you could just say so.”

You shot him a flat look. “Oh, please. If I wanted a friend, I’d get a cat.”

Bucky huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “You’d be a terrible cat owner.”

“Why?”

He took a sip of water. “You barely remember to feed yourself. The poor cat wouldn’t last a week.”

“Shut up, Barnes.”

He chuckled but didn’t argue, taking another bite.

And just like that, it became routine. Every night, he pulled up a chair at your desk, and you ate together. Somehow, it was starting to feel like the best part of your day.

One night, you finally asked a question that had been on your mind for a while. “How much of your arm is vibranium?”

Bucky froze for a second, fork hovering midair. “Why?”

You shrugged, typing something quickly before taking another bite. “Curious.”

He hesitated, then slowly set his fork down. “It’s all vibranium now. Wakandan upgrade.”

You nodded, eyes trailing over his arm, impressed. “The integration with your nervous system must be seamless for the reaction time you have.”

His lips twitched, somewhere between surprise and amusement. “Most people just ask if it’s heavy.”

You rolled your eyes. “That’s a stupid question. Weight distribution clearly isn’t an issue, considering you fight like it’s part of you.”

Bucky didn’t respond at first. Most people looked at his arm like a weapon, an extension of his failures. He knew it wasn’t Hydra anymore, but it wasn’t exactly comforting knowing it was the reason he was here, now. But you… you were looking at it like technology. He realised that it was the only language you understood.

“Oh.” He could only say.

“W-we don’t have to talk about this anymore,” you quickly backtracked, unsure how to read his response. “I know it can’t feel good to talk about your uh… your past.”

“Did… you read my file?” he finally said, voice quieter now.

You hesitated, fingers stilling on your keyboard. “… yes.”

A pang of guilt flashed across his face. “So you know everything.”

“I know what the files say,” you admitted. “Which is different from knowing you.”

Bucky tapped his metal fingers against the plate absentmindedly. “And what do they say?”

You considered your words carefully. “That Hydra turned you into an asset. That they wiped your memories, controlled you.”

He looked away. “Sounds about right.”

He didn’t like talking about this— you knew that. So, softly, you said, “That’s not who you are now.”

Bucky’s fingers twitched. He swallowed, the muscle on his neck flexing. “Sometimes it feels like it doesn’t matter.”

You leaned forward slightly, resting your elbows on the desk. “It does.”

And just like that, you realised you weren’t just tolerating each other anymore. You were understanding each other.

Month Three.

It wasn’t long before Bucky became comfortable enough to just sit next to your desk, even when you weren’t eating. At first, it was a little odd—he’d just sit there in silence, watching you with that signature stare.

“If you’re going to sit there like a guard dog, at least read something,” you said, grabbing a book from the stack on your desk and handing it to him.

Bucky took it, turning it over in his hands before reading the title. He snorted. “This is some dense reading, doll.”

You raised an eyebrow, mostly at the increasing use of pet names over the last few days. Not that you were complaining. “I thought you were a hundred years old.”

“I am.” He said. “Doesn’t mean I want to spend my day reading Advanced Cryptography and Security Protocols.”

But he read it anyway.

That became a thing, too. When you worked, Bucky sat across from you, flipping through one of your books. And that led to more conversations.

“So, explain this part to me.”“No, Bucky, I’m not giving you a lecture at midnight.”“Why not? You love hearing yourself talk.”

“Wait, this actually makes sense. The firewall acts like a shield.”“Yes, exactly! It’s kind of like—”“Like a cap’s shield being hit by a laser beam.”“I hate that that analogy works.”

Month Four.

Bucky had been through a lot in his lifetime, but nothing could’ve prepared him for the absolute terror in your voice when you screamed from your bathroom.

His blood ran cold.

The worst-case scenario flashed through his mind.

This was it. Someone had broken in. The assassination attempt must be happening now.

Bucky bolted down the hallway, his heart hammering in his chest. He didn’t even think. 

His shoulder slammed against your bathroom door, forcing it open—

Only to be met with you.

Standing there, dripping wet, wrapped in nothing but a towel.

His brain short-circuited for a solid three seconds before he snapped back to reality. His eyes darted around the room, searching for the threat. “What happened? Where are they?”

You blinked. “Where’s who?”

“The assassin!” His hands curled into fists, ready to end someone.

You just… stared at him. Then, slowly, you lifted one hand and pointed toward the corner of the bathroom.

Bucky followed your finger.

There, in the corner, sat a spider. A tiny spider.

Bucky’s eyes twitched. “You have got to be kidding me.”

You crossed your arms, holding the towel tightly around yourself. “Kill it,” you whispered.

He let out a breath, running a hand down his face. “You screamed bloody murder… for this?”

“Yes!” You gestured aggressively toward the tiny intruder. “It lunged at me.”

Bucky gave you the flattest known to man. “I’m sure it did.”

“It did!”

The spider, for its part, remained still.

With an exaggerated sigh, Bucky stepped forward, reached out, and plucked the spider off the wall with his bare hand.

You gasped. “What the—Bucky!”

He rolled his eyes, walking over to the window. “Relax.”

You backed up toward the sink, clutching your towel like it was a shield. “You touched it.”

“Uh-huh.”

“With your human hand.”

“Mmm.” He slid open the window and dipped it on the windowsill. “Crisis averted.”

You sighed dramatically. “Fuck, thank you.”

Bucky turned back around, ready to deliver some sarcastic remark—

And then his brain finally caught up with what was happening.

But what was really distracting was the fact that you were still standing there, dripping wet, wearing close to nothing. He shouldn’t be staring.

He should not be staring.

And yet, here he was, looking at the curves your skin molded. The way your collarbone peeked out just above the towel. The droplets of water trailing down—

Nope. Abort mission.

He tore his eyes away, clearing his throat. “So, just to be clear… the tough CEO of a cybersecurity empire, the woman who runs meetings with government officials like they’re her subjects… you are scared of a tiny spider?”

You scowled. “First of all, it was huge—”

“It was not.”

“—and second, yes, I am, and I don’t want to hear another word about it.”

Bucky crossed his arms. “… but it’s just a spider.”

You glared. “Get out of my bathroom, Barnes.”

And ever since then, you have been more comfortable around Bucky. To be fair, he had seen you almost naked, and to your surprise… things hadn’t gotten weird.

Well, until one night… 

You were sitting on the couch, absentmindedly flipping through channels, when Bucky joined you, his presence a quiet weight beside you.

“You ever stop working?” he asked when you noticed you were still arranging charts on your tablet, even in your downtime.

“No,” you replied, glancing at him, “what about you, do you ever think you’ll stop working?”

Bucky shrugged, “I take breaks all the time.”

“I mean,” you finally put your tablet down, “I mean… for good.”

Bucky squinted at you, “like retiring?”

You could only nod.

For once, there was no teasing in his eyes, “Maybe I should,” he finally said, “get a farm, settle down.”

You gulped when he leaned closer, his arm brushing yours.

“Sounds nice,” you whispered.

His lips curved into a faint smile. “Yeah.”

Neither of you moved for a long time. And though nothing really happened that night, you knew it was inevitable.

Then, it was mid-morning the next time anything notable happened. You were just hanging up from yet another tense phone call with your father. You tossed your phone onto your desk with a little more force than necessary and sighed, leaning back in your chair.

Bucky, who had been leaning against the doorframe with a mug of coffee in hand, raised a brow. “Rough call?”

“Oh, you have no idea,” you groaned, rubbing your temples. “My dad is impossible. He’s always checking in, double-checking, triple-checking everything I do like I’m still twelve. It’s exhausting.”

Bucky walked in and settled in the chair across from you, crossing his arms. “Sounds like he cares.”

“Yeah, well, caring is one thing,” you said, your frustration bubbling over. “This is micromanaging. He doesn’t trust me to make a single decision on my own. To him, I’m just a kid playing dress-up.”

Bucky tilted his head, sipping his coffee.

“And then,” you continued, pacing in front of your desk now, “He insists on sending a bodyguard—sorry, babysitter—like I’m some helpless damsel in distress. It’s ridiculous! I mean, It’s not like you’re bad company or anything—”

“Appreciate that,” he said dryly.

“—but it’s like he doesn’t trust me to handle myself. I’ve worked so hard, Bucky. So hard. And he still treats me like some little girl who can’t handle the real world.”

At that, Bucky chuckled and muttered under his breath, “There’s the spoiled princess I was expecting on day one.”

You froze mid-pace, narrowing your eyes at him. “What?”

“Oh, nothing,” he said innocently. “I’m not saying you’re ungrateful.” He paused, a teasing smile spreading across his face. “Or maybe… just a little.”

Your jaw dropped, sitting on your desk and looking down at him. “Excuse me?” You demanded.

“Look,” he said, shrugging, clearly enjoying himself now. “I’m just saying… People have harder lives than you, Princess. People would kill for a dad who loved them, who cared enough to be overbearing. Your dad loves you. That’s why I’m here— because he cares.”

You opened your mouth to respond with some smart-ass comments, but then closed it again. As much as you hated to admit it, he had a point. “That’s…,” you said begrudgingly, “that’s— you’re… right.”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “Glad you see it my way.”

You rolled your eyes, but a sad smile tugged at the corner of your lips. “To be fair, you’re not the worst part of this arrangement. At least I get some eye candy out of it.”

Bucky choked on his coffee, his eyes going wide. “What?”

“What?” you said nonchalantly, leaning against your desk. “I’ve got a little crush on you. No big deal.”

“Crush?” he repeated, blinking at you like he wasn’t sure he’d heard you right.

“Don’t act so surprised.” You shrugged, feigning indifference, though your heart was hammering out of yourself. It didn’t matter, right? Someone had to say it, and it might as well be you. “I know you find me attractive too. I’ve seen how you look at me.”

His mouth opened, then closed again as a deep blush spread across his cheeks. “I—uh—well—”

“You’re not subtle,” you teased, biting back a laugh at his flustered expression.

Bucky groaned, rubbing the back of his neck. “Well… fuck.”

His shyness was disarming, and you couldn’t help finding it endearing.

For a moment, you both stood there, the air between you crackling with unspoken tension. Then you sighed, breaking the silence. “But there’s nothing we could do about it anyway.”

Bucky frowned, his blush fading slightly. “Why not?”

“Oh, you know,” you said as if it was obvious. “Professionalism. My dad hired you. Technically, I’m the acting CEO, which makes you my subordinate. Power dynamics and all that. Workplace misconduct. Can’t have that, right?”

“Right,” Bucky echoed, though the reluctance in his tone was impossible to miss.

“We’re professionals,” you said, almost as if trying to convince yourself. “Right?”

“Right,” he said again.

That night, as you said good night to Bucky, you realised you were in trouble. Serious, heart-racing, palm-sweating, can’t-stop-thinking-about-him trouble. And judging by the way Bucky had looked at you, he was too.

Month five. 

You were starting to think the assassination threat was just that. A threat. 

Oh, you were proven wrong.  

One moment, you were wrapping up a phone call in your office, and the next, a muffled explosion rocked the building. The power flickered, your monitors shut off, and the emergency lights bathed the room in an eerie red glow.

Bucky was already moving, shoving you behind the massive desk as he scanned the room with quick, practiced precision.

“Stay down,” he barked, pulling his gun from its holster just as the door to your office was kicked open.

Three armed men stormed in, their faces masked, their weapons raised. 

Bucky didn’t hesitate. He fired twice, taking out the first man with a clean shot to the shoulder. The second dropped his weapon as a bullet clipped his hand, and Bucky was on him in seconds.

The third man lunged toward you.

Big mistake.

You grabbed the heavy paperweight on your desk and hurled it with surprising accuracy, catching him square in the jaw. He stumbled, and before he could recover you kicked out, your heel connecting with his knee. Perhaps you were riding on adrenaline, but that was satisfying. He collapsed with a grunt, and you didn’t hesitate to grab his dropped glock, aiming it at his chest.

“Don’t,” you warned.

The man froze, his eyes wide as Bucky turned to glance at you. “Remind me not to underestimate you,” Bucky muttered, finishing off the last of the attackers with a solid punch that left the man crumbling on the floor.

The commotion outside the office was growing louder— you could hear more shouts, and footsteps. Bucky grabbed your arm, pulling you toward the door. “We’re not done,” he said.

The rest of the fight was a blur of chaos and adrenaline. More assailants flooded the building. And even as Bucky led the charge, you managed to hold your own. While he handled the bulk of the attackers, you were able to incapacitate two of the men who had the audacity to think you couldn’t throw a punch.

When the dust finally settled, the assailants were either unconscious or restrained, their weapons scattered and useless. Sirens wailed in the distance— authorities that Bucky had alerted. 

You leaned against the wall, catching your breath as Bucky surveyed the scene. “You okay?” he asked, his voice gentle.

You nodded, managing a small smile. “Yeah. You?”

“Been through worse,” he reassured. 

Later that afternoon, you were seated on the couch, a blanket draped over your shoulders, the adrenaline finally wearing off. Bucky stood nearby, his arms crossed, his.

“So,” he said, breaking the silence. “I guess my job here is done.”

You looked at him, your chest hurting slightly at the thought of him leaving. “I guess so.”

There was an awkward pause before he cleared his throat. “If you ever need, uh, bodyguard services again—like, if you’re traveling or something—just let me know.”

That made you laugh, though there was no real humor in it. “I think I’m good, Barnes. I don’t want you working for me anymore.”

Oh. 

Oh. You didn’t want him around? What… what changed?

Were you just married to your job? Did you think he was going to become a distraction, an obstacle? 

Sadness flickered across his face—but he masked it quickly. “Right. Of course.”

You hesitated, studying him. The way he stood there, hands stuffed in his pockets, avoiding your eyes—it made your heart ache.

“Bucky,” you said softly, standing up and walking to him until you were standing just a foot away.

“Yeah?” he said, his voice quieter now.

“You know why you can’t work for me anymore, right?”

His brows furrowed. “Why?”

Instead of answering, you reached up and pulled him down, your lips pressing against his in a kiss that was sudden, intense, and utterly consuming. For a moment, he froze, caught off guard. But then his hands found your waist, pulling you closer as he kissed you back with equal passion.

When you finally broke apart, both of you were breathless. His forehead rested against yours as he stared at you, his blue eyes wide.

“That’s why,” you whispered, your voice steady despite the pounding of your heart. 

Bucky blinked, his lips parting slightly. “Right.”

“Don’t act so surprised,” you teased again, echoing your previous conversation.

“I’m not,” he said, but failed to hide the blush crawling up his neck. 

You chuckled, your fingers brushing against his jawline. “So, what do you say, Barnes? Think you can handle a spoiled princess like me?”

His hands gripped your waist a little tighter. “Pretty sure I already have.”

And when he kissed you again, he couldn’t possibly imagine letting you go. 

Month six.

After the threat had been neutralised, you were allowed out of the house again. Stepping back into your office building felt like reclaiming a piece of yourself. No longer confined to the solitude of your home, you could finally immerse yourself back into the workspace. And your office, oh how wonderful it was to have it back. 

It had always been more than just four walls and a desk to you; it was a sanctuary, a fortress. Every detail, from the sleek desk to the subtle personal touches, reflected both your meticulous nature and your need for control in a world that rarely offered it.

And dating Bucky Barnes was just the cherry on top.

Of course, by now those who worked closest to you knew about him— how could they not? He was the only one you ever allowed inside with unquestioned access. Still, they had to sign NDAs, just in case. You weren’t ready for the world to see you with him yet—not because you didn’t want to show him off, and certainly not because you were ashamed. But your relationship with Bucky was a ticking time bomb, a potential scandal waiting to happen. 

What would the world think of you, a high-profile cybersecurity CEO with government contracts spanning the globe, romantically involved with a freelance superhero with a past that made governments nervous? That would make headlines and invite scrutiny you couldn’t afford. For now, keeping your relationship under wraps was the only way to protect Bucky. 

That was why, beyond that small working circle, no one had a clue that you were dating him. Not even your father, who lived comfortably in semi-retirement a few countries away.

The first month of dating Bucky was equal parts exhilarating and intimate. There was the night he cooked a proper dinner at your place. You had laughed when he furrowed his brow in concentration as he scrolled through a recipe on his phone like it was a mission briefing. Later, he sat on your couch, fingers lazily tracing circles on your waist as you talked about nothing and everything, just being there for you as your boyfriend and not your bodyguard. 

Then there was the time he surprised you at the office late one evening. You had been drowning in reports, when he walked in with a donut and hot chocolate in hand. “Figured you needed a snack,” he had said, placing the bag on your desk.

Of course, there were the challenges, too. The first time he stayed over, he woke up before dawn, hyperventilating, fists clenched in the sheets. You just reached for his hand and whispered sweet reassurances in his ears. 

When he let out a shaky breath and laced his fingers with yours, you held on until he fell back asleep. 

He never said much about those nights, but he always held you a little tighter the next morning, as if grateful you were still there.

Month Seven. 

One particularly hectic afternoon, you sat at your desk, surrounded by stacks of reports that seemed to multiply the more you worked through them. Your brows furrowed as you scribbled notes in the margins, the pen in your hand moving with exhausted strokes. 

You didn’t hear him come in.

Bucky had a way of moving like a shadow, the ex-assassin that he was, always watching before making his presence known. This time was no different. You felt him before you saw him when you caught a faint whiff of leather and steel.

“You’re going to burn out, you know,” he murmured, his voice a rasp that sent a shiver down your spine.

“Nope,” you replied, not bothering to look up, “not today.”

But then he stepped, his fingers brushing the small of your back. And then he leaned in. Close enough for you to feel his breath against the shell of your ear.

“You work too hard,” he murmured, tone smooth as silk.

You smiled sadly, still keeping your eyes on the document in front of you. “And you don’t work hard enough.” The words were a tease. You both knew they weren’t true, it’s just that world-ending threats weren’t exactly a daily occurrence.

Bucky chuckled, that deep, rich sound that sent warmth blooming in your chest. Before you could react, Bucky spun your chair, and suddenly you were facing him.

Your pen slipped from your fingers, clattering onto the desk.

He towered over you, his hands braced on the armrests, trapping you. His blue eyes darkened, flickering between your lips and your eyes, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.

“Say that again. I dare you, Princess.”

The nickname sent a chill through your spine, though you’d never admit it. Your lips parted to reply with another half-hearted joke, but you never got the chance.

Bucky’s lips were on yours before you could think. It was slow at first, like he was teasing, testing. His fingers slid from the armrest to your jaw, tilting your face up as he deepened the kiss. And you gave in. Always. 

Your hands fisted in the fabric of his shirt, gripping tightly and pulling him closer as heat flared low in your belly. He tasted like coffee and vanilla— and it was addictive. The world outside faded, the reports forgotten, because all you could think about was the intoxicating drag of his lips against yours.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, both of you breathing hard, your lips swollen and aching for more.

“Think I’m working hard enough now?” His voice was rough against your skin.

You rolled your eyes. “Shut up and kiss me again.”

Bucky smirked that cocky, confident, and  devastatingly handsome smile of his. “Yes, ma’am.”

This time, the kiss was hungrier. His hands gripped your waist, tugging you forward until you were perched on the very edge of your chair, your knees brushing his thighs. You gasped as he took full control, tilting your head back as his tongue swept against yours in a slow stroke that had fireworks exploding low in your stomach.

Your fingers threaded through his hair, nails scraping lightly against his scalp, earning a low groan.

Somewhere in the back of your mind, logic whispered that this was your office, that the walls weren’t exactly soundproof, that anyone of your clients could walk in. But when Bucky kissed you like this, it was impossible to care.

His hand skimmed the curve of your waist, his thumb brushing the hem of your blouse. You felt his hesitation, and you answered by pulling him impossibly closer.

Month Eight.

Late nights in Bucky’s apartment became your favourite escape from the chaos of your life. It wasn’t extravagant and fine-art decorated like your penthouse, but it was him. The mismatched furniture, the slightly scuffed hardwood floors, the mud stains on the carpet, and the faint smell of aftershave made it feel lived-in.

Sure, your penthouse was bigger—modern and intimidatingly expensive—but it was cold. It was sterile, and you had made sure it stayed that way, because it was designed for hosting high-profile clients and meetings, not for unwinding. Not to make a charming mess in. Everything was neutral because it had to be. The few personal touches you’d tried to add had been swallowed by the size of the place, but Bucky’s apartment, on the other hand, felt like home.

One night, as you sat cross-legged on his couch in a pair of leggings and one of his old Henleys, you couldn’t help but let out a content sigh. 

Bucky was unpacking a greasy bag of Chinese takeout, carefully arranging the cartons on the coffee table like it was some kind of grand feast. He glanced at you sheepishly.

“Sorry it’s not… y’know, fancy,” he said, scratching the back of his neck. “Figured you were used to dating guys who paid for five-course meals or somethin’.”

Before accepting the bodyguard contract, he had done his homework on you. He’d looked into your background, your lifestyle, your friends and family, and, perhaps most frustratingly, your dating history: the it-guys, the celebrities, the athletes. He was none of those things.

He would never say it outright, but some nights, he would feel insecure about it. 

He’d fret that creeping feeling that it wasn’t enough because he spent so long being feared when your past lovers had been admired. But what he didn’t seem to understand was that, to you, he was worth so much more. He wasn’t drawn to your money or the power. He saw you for you—not for your name, not for your influence. And that made him better than every single one of your shitty exes.

You blinked, momentarily stunned. “Oh, no,” you said quickly, leaning forward and reaching for his human hand. “What are you apologising for? I love this.”

“Yeah?” he asked, a still-skeptical smile on his lips.

“Yeah,” you confirmed. “I can’t even remember the last time I felt this… normal.” You picked up one of the cartons that contained lo mein. “No cameras, no meetings, no press conferences. Just greasy takeout and…” You gestured vaguely to the room. “... you. Us. This is perfect.”

A faint blush crept up his neck as he sat beside you. “Didn’t think ‘normal’ would be high on your list of things to love, princess.”

You chuckled, scooping a bite of noodles onto your chopsticks. “You’d be surprised. The whole ‘spoiled rich girl’ thing isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Oh yeah? How so?”

You hesitated, toying with your food. “It’s like… you’re in this golden cage. Everything you do is scrutinized, and… it gets… lonely. “

Bucky nodded, almost giving you permission to go on. 

“I mean, don’t get me wrong,” you continued, “I’m grateful for… everything. I know I was born with an insane privilege. But it’s exhausting trying to live up to everyone’s expectations all the time, you know?”

“Sounds rough, Princess,” he shook his head. “Almost makes my life of alien invasions and missions sound easy.”

“Oh, shut up,” you laughed, swatting at his shoulder. “You know what I mean.”

“Hm,” he said, feeding you a little bit of sweet and sour chicken, “You’re somethin’ else, you know that?”

You leaned back slightly. “What, did you think your princess couldn’t handle a night in Brooklyn?”

“Guess I was wrong,” he shrugged, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. 

The rest of the night included sweet conversation, kisses, and laughter. You leaned against him, listening to him recount stories about his time in Brooklyn before in the 40s. He listened just as intently when you opened up about your father’s expectations, your struggles to prove yourself.

When the food was gone, you found yourself curled up in his arms, your head resting against his chest.

And to think you hated the idea of him just months ago. 

Month Nine.

It started small, of course—practical, subtle gestures you could justify as "just looking out for him." Bucky wasn’t the kind of man to ask for anything, so you had to fill in the gaps yourself. 

You bought him a new pair of waterproof boots after you noticed his old ones had a tear on their side. He grumbled and said “I didn’t need them”, but the next time it rained, there he was, thankful you did buy them.

But it didn’t stop there.

You ordered him a tactical knife after seeing it in catalogue and couldn’t resist. It was sleek, durable, and so perfectly Bucky. 

“What’s this?” he asked suspiciously when you handed it to him, like the idea of receiving gifts was still foreign to him.

“Just something I thought you’d like,” you replied, your voice light, your heart racing at his reaction.

Bucky stared at the knife for a moment, then at you, “You… you didn’t have to.”

“You deserve it,” you murmured, brushing your fingers against his.

He laughed. “You’re gonna spoil me rotten.”

You took that as a challenge.

Because once you realised how much Bucky secretly loved being cared for (despite the grumbling and insisting that it was too much), you couldn’t help yourself. You wanted him safe and comfortable. And, maybe selfishly, you wanted to see that stunned, almost vulnerable smile he had when you gave him something new.

A custom upgrade for his arm was next, complete with enhanced plating, fine-tuned joint control, and a sleek matte-black finish. You had worked together with Shuri to get it to him, making sure to give him some… personalised software upgrades in the process. When you gave it to him one evening, he stared at the box, then at you, before finally pulling you into his lap with an exasperated sigh.

“You’re gonna make me soft,” he joked, thanking you profusely with kisses afterwards.

Month Ten. 

Then there was the tactical suit.

It had taken weeks of planning, but it was worth it. You had meetings with the best designers in the industry (Luke Jacobson was an honour to work with) and came up with reinforced kevlar, adaptive camouflage, and more holsters than he probably needed. When you presented it to Bucky, you’d half-expected him to refuse it outright.

Instead, he stood frozen, stunned as he turned the suit over in his hands. “You got this? For me?”

“Who else, James?” you teased, pretending to fuss with his hair just to see him scowl. “You’re the only super-soldier boyfriend I’ve got.”

Sam caught on fast.

“So,” Sam started casually one day as they cleaned their gear. “Where’d you get the fancy new suit?”

Bucky barely looked up. “What suit?”

Sam pointed at the table. “The ones that look like they belong in a vault.”

Bucky rolled eyes, turning his attention back to his new gear. “They’re not that fancy.”

“Oh, I get it now,” Sam whistled, “You’ve got yourself a rich girlfriend, don’t you?”

Bucky glared at him, but the faint pink creeping up his neck gave him away.

“And to think,” Sam rambled on, clearly enjoying being right, “you whined about being her bodyguard for four months. Now look at you—”

“Shut up, Sam.”

The towel Bucky threw hit Sam square in the face, but it did nothing to hide the telltale blush that had spread to his ears.

The truth was, Bucky wasn’t used to anyone noticing the little things he needed, let alone going out of their way to provide for him. But the more time you spent together, the more you noticed everything. 

The worn-out gloves he wore on missions? You replaced them with a pair lined with heat-retaining tech. The ancient motorcycle helmet he refused to replace? You handed him a new, high-tech model with advanced HUD capabilities. The faint shadows under his eyes after sleepless nights? You arranged for the softest, most luxurious bedding money could buy, complete with blackout curtains for his room.

“You can’t keep buying me things,” he told you half-heartedly one evening as he tested the thermal lining of a new jacket you’d slipped into his closet.

You only shrugged. “Sure I can.”

He gave you a look, both exasperation and affection present in his eyes. “Why?”

“Because I love you, and I want you to be safe.” Your voice softened. “You’ve spent so much time fighting for everyone else, Bucky. Let someone take care of you for a change.”

He didn’t respond right away. But later that night, as you lay curled up together, he kissed the top of your head and mumbled “thank you.”

You knew he loved it—being spoiled, being cared for—even if he’d never admit it.

Month ten. 

Bucky’s version of spoiling you was less flashy but still every bit as thoughtful. Where you splurged on gifts, whisking him off on surprise weekends to private villas or showering him with new tech he insisted he didn’t need, he poured his affection into acts of service. It started small. He stocked his kitchen with your favorite coffee blend, even though he rarely drank the stuff himself. “A man can learn to make an espresso,” he’d said with a casual shrug, but the first time you saw him carefully frothing milk to perfection, you realized it was his way of saying I love you.

Then there were the notes. You’d find them tucked into your purse or slipped into your laptop bag before work, little scribbles in his tidy handwriting. Sometimes they were sweet, like “Don’t forget to take breaks.” Other times, they were cheeky: “Try not to buy another building today, Rockefeller.”

But it was in the kitchen where Bucky really poured his heart into spoiling you.

One particularly brutal day, you’d stumbled into his apartment late, your heels dangling from one hand and your bag slung over the other shoulder. You were ready to crash out but the moment you walked in, you could smell the love.

“What’s all this?” you asked, padding into the kitchen barefoot, watching as he stirred something on the stove. His broad shoulders stretched his shirt, the sight of him standing there so domestic making your heart melt.

He glanced over his shoulder, his eyes lighting up. “Dinner,” he said simply. “Figured you’d had a hell of a day.”

After dinner— a hearty stew, crusty bread he’d bought fresh, and a glass of your favorite wine—you were sprawled on his couch, your legs draped across his lap, a blanket pulled over you both, his metal thumb absentmindedly rubbing your calves. 

Month Eleven. 

On Valentine’s Day, you handed him a plain white envelope. He took it with a curious smile, but as he slid out the paper inside, his eyes went as wide as dinner plates. 

He was expecting a fancy gift card, not the paid-off deed to his apartment.

He just stared, breath hitching as his brows pulled together, disbelief etched into every line of his face.

“Doll, you didn’t—” His voice was barely above a whisper. 

“Of course I did.” You smiled, slipping onto his lap and wrapping your arms around his neck. “I love this place. It’s yours now.”

He laughed, almost nervously, fingers curled around the paper as though he didn’t really believe it. “You didn’t have to—” His voice cracked, and he couldn’t finish his sentence. “I know,” you muttered, pressing a kiss to his cheek, “But you’ve given me so much more than money could ever buy. Let me do this. Please.”

His arms tightened around you, 

“And—” you hesitated, looking into his beautiful blue eyes and wanting him to understand. “It’s not like it’s ours. It’s yours. Only your name is on that paper. No strings. No expectations. Just… peace of mind.” You nudged your nose against his. “So you never have to worry about this again.”

He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his hands curled the fabric of your shirt. “Thank you, he mumbled, “I— I love you, princess.”

You only smiled, running your fingers through his hair. “I love you too.”

Year One, Month One.

Your penthouse has become even more of a sterile workplace than ever before. It was perfect for entertaining, but never felt quite real. It wasn’t home. 

Bucky’s apartment, though—that felt more and more like capital H home.  

It was where you smelled of freshly brewed coffee in the mornings, where the couch cushions were always just a little lopsided from the way he curled up with a book, where you’d kick off your heels when you got back. It was where he pressed a kiss to your forehead after a long day at work, where grabbed your toothbrush before bed, where he made you feel like the richest woman in the world with a love that couldn’t be bought.  

Tonight, the air didn’t feel so suffocating. Bucky walked beside you through the quiet streets of Brooklyn, his gloved fingers laced with yours. 

Bucky let out a small sigh, stealing a glance at you. “You know, princess… you practically live with me already.”

You lifted your eyebrows. “Mmhmm?”

“Your shoes are by the door, your clothes are in my drawers,” he pointed out, “I can’t remember the last time we actually slept at your penthouse. Even my fridge has more of your favorite snacks than mine.”

You let out a chuckle , but he wasn’t done.

“Move in with me. Officially.” His voice was quiet but sure, and so heartbreakingly filled with hope. 

You let out a small laugh, nudging his shoulder with yours. “Bucky, we’ve only been together, what? Eight months?”  

“Almost a year,” he corrected.

“We’ve only known each other for a year, Bucky,” you pointed out. 

“So?” He turned slightly, stopping at the corner. “We spend most nights there anyway. What difference does it make?”

You hesitated. It wasn’t that you didn’t want to. God, you wanted to. But it wasn’t that simple.

“You know how this works,” you said softly. “One of these days, I’m going to get caught sneaking in and out of your place, and when that happens, it’s going to be a thing for the press. I don’t need a moving van, making it worse.”  

Bucky’s muscles tensed, but he didn’t argue. He exhaled, tilting his head with that maddening smile. “Then do it slowly. One bag at a time.”  

You laughed, shaking your head. “That’ll take forever.”  

Bucky shrugged. “I have time.”  

You stared at him for a long time, at the man who had taken your chaotic world and turned it into something worth coming home to.  

“Not now,” you said finally, “But one day.”  

He pulled you closer, pressing a kiss to your temple. “I’ll hold you to that, princess.”

Year One, Month Two.

“You’ve been working too hard,” Bucky said as he appeared in your office doorway, arms crossed, eyes locked onto you like he could see straight through the exhaustion behind your eyes.

He stepped inside, bracing his hands on the edge of your desk as he leaned in, close enough that you could smell the leather and metal.

You sighed, rubbing your temples. “If I don’t keep up, I’ll have half the world breathing down my neck.”

“They do it anyway,” Bucky scoffed, shaking his head. “That’s why you’re coming with me.”

Before you could protest, he was already dragging you out of your chair, stealing your work phone right from your grasp and slipping it into his pocket.

“Bucky—”

“Later.” He laced his fingers through yours, pulling you out of the building. You sighed, but you knew it was for the best. Bucky could tell you were slowly losing your mind in your work, and he was right— you needed a break. 

When he dragged you out, the city was alive around you, and you wouldn’t trade your hand in Bucky’s for the world. Yet, the idea of work still gnawed at you. Your free hand moved towards your pocket—only to find it empty. Your eyes flickered to Bucky’s jacket, where he’d stashed your phone, and he caught it immediately.

Without warning, he veered off-course, steering you into a dimly lit alleyway between two old brownstones. 

“Bucky, what are we—”

He didn’t let you finish.

His hands framed your face, palms cradling your jaw, his thumbs stroking over your cheekbones. His lips crashed onto yours, cutting off whatever half-hearted argument you might have had.

The kiss was slow at first. Like he needed you to feel this—his frustration, his longing, the way he missed you even when you were right beside him. 

You gripped at his shirt, fingers curling into the fabric before slipping beneath, your palms meeting the hard muscle of his abdomen. He groaned into your mouth as one of his hands slid down, skimming over your waist, gripping your hip like he was staking a claim.

Your back hit the brick wall, and his mouth traveled along your jaw to down the column of your throat, each kiss intended as a brand, a distraction, a reminder of everything you’d been neglecting in the name of work.

“Bucky,” you whispered, nails dragging along the bare skin of his back. His name had never sounded quite that desperate before—half moan, half plea—and he felt it.

“Do you ever stop?” he murmured. You barely had time to process before he kissed you again. 

He let out a quiet groan against your lips, the sound reverberating through your chest and settling low in your stomach.

His grip tightened on the curve of your bum as his teeth grazed your lower lip. You gasped, heat pooled in your core, your mind turning hazy and drunk off his taste. 

When he finally pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours, a little cocky, a little breathless. “I just couldn’t help myself,” he murmured. “You looked like you needed a distraction.” His hands hadn’t left you, his thumbs still tracing maddening circles against your skin.

“Hmm,” you sighed, eyes half-lidded with want. And you knew exactly what you wanted when you went back to your office. “You succeeded.”

He hummed in satisfaction, but suddenly, body tensed, just for a second. He tried looking to the far end of the alley and found nothing. Did he hear something? Footsteps, maybe?

“Bucky?”

It was probably nothing. Probably no one.

And yet, his arm curled around you just a little tighter.

The next day, your phone wouldn’t stop buzzing. Calls, messages, and alerts were stacking up faster than you could dismiss them. 

You didn’t realise why until you saw the news. 

Shit.

“Heiress and Assassin: Secret Romance or Conflict of Interest?”

Your breath hitched as you stared at the screen. The accompanying photo was unmistakable— Bucky kissing you in the alley, your fingers twisted in his jacket like he was the only thing that mattered to you.

The image was grainy, but it didn't matter. The damage was done.

Your assistant rushed in with a tablet in hand, her face pale.

“You need to see this.”

“I’ve already seen it,” you said, not looking up. 

The story had gone live less than an hour ago, but your company’s media monitoring team flagged its progress within minutes. 

Your desk phone rang, and you had a couple guesses on who it could be. Bucky. The PR team. The board. Government contacts who normally kept their distance unless something was on fire. Your father. Your inbox soon filled up with official statements demanding explanations, thinly veiled threats wrapped in professional language.

“The diplomatic channels are blowing up,” your lead strategist announced when you stepped into the emergency briefing. A dozen pairs of eyes locked onto you as if you alone held a gallon of water that could put out this fire.

“They’re questioning your judgment,” he continued, tapping at the stack of reports in front of him. “The optics of being involved with someone like Barnes, his past, his ties to the original Avengers, are problematic, to say the least.”

“They’re worried I’m compromising national security,” you said flatly, “Because of a kiss?”

“Because of what it represents,” he corrected. “You’re the acting CEO of the most powerful cybersecurity firm in the world. Governments trust us to protect their most sensitive data. And now they’re wondering if you’re using that position to—”

“To sell them out to the public-facing heroes?” you snapped, though you knew this scrutiny would come sooner or later. “That’s absurd. You all know me better than that.”

“It’s not about what’s true,” your PR director cut in, her sentences coming in clipped. “It’s about what looks true.”

By the time you got to Bucky’s home that night, your head was pounding, your nerves frayed from the day’s endless barrage of scrutiny. You had looked over your shoulder more times than you could count, half-expecting to see a reporter lurking in the shadows or a government agent ready to pull you in for questioning. The paranoia was sinking its teeth into you.

The second you stepped inside, you kicked off your heels and slumped onto the couch, pressing your fingers to your temples in a desperate attempt to ease the tension pooling there.

Bucky was already by your side, jaw tight as he scrolled through the headlines on his phone. The dim glow from the screen cast harsh shadows across his face, making him look every bit as dangerous as they made him out to be.

“‘Heiress Caught in Lip-Lock with Winter Soldier,’” he read aloud, his tone dripping with disdain. “Really? That’s the best they could come up with? Do these people have nothing better to write about?”

You let out a dry laugh. “It’s not just the tabloids, Buck. This is more than gossip columns and viral photos.” You sighed, dropping your head back against the armrest of the couch. “Governments are questioning whether their data is safe with me. My credibility?” You raised your hands, mimicking an explosion, “Hanging by a thread.”

Bucky set his phone down, rubbing a hand over his face before shifting to sit even closer to you. “This isn’t your fault,” he said, his voice softer now, but laced with… guilt.

“Maybe not,” you admitted, staring at a crack in the ceiling. “But it doesn’t matter. Perception is reality. And right now, the whole world thinks I’m compromised.”

Bucky cursed under his breath. His hand found yours, his vibranium fingers cool yet grounding against your skin. He held on a little too tight, like he wished he could shield you from all of this. Like he blamed himself.

“What can I do?” he asked, low and urgent.

You shook your head, a bitter laugh slipping past your lips. “Nothing. I just have to fix this.”

His grip tightened for a fraction of a second before he let out a slow breath, his frustration simmering just beneath the surface. “You shouldn’t have to fix anything,” he muttered. “They don’t get to question your loyalty because of me.”

“I know,” you said softly, turning to him, squeezing his hand. “But they do anyway.”

When he looked away, you could see it— the self-recrimination, the way he was blaming himself for this. He was the one who convinced you to go for a walk, the one who pulled you into the alleyway because he just couldn’t fucking help himself.

“This isn’t on you, Bucky,” you said gently, tilting his chin toward you. “We both knew what we were getting into.”

“Did we?” he asked. “Because I thought you wouldn’t have to pay for my past.”

God, did your heart break at the fact that perhaps the world could never truly move on, no matter how much he tried to outrun them, no matter how much he came to terms that it was not really him on the steering wheel all those years ago.

You leaned in, pressing your forehead to his, your fingers trailing his chin. “I don’t care what anyone thinks,” you whispered. “I just need to figure out how to make the rest of the world see what I see.”

He kissed you then, hands firm as they traced over your skin. You melted into him, hands sliding under his shirt and feeling the ridges of his scars and the heat of him beneath your fingertips.

Then, your phone rang. 

With a groan, you reached for it, already knowing who it was before you saw the name flashing on the screen.

Dad.

Bucky let out a quiet sigh, his forehead pressed against your shoulder for a brief second before he pulled back. You swallowed hard, bracing yourself before answering.

“Hi, Dad—”

“What the hell is going on?”

You flinched, pulling the phone slightly away from your ear.

“Dad, I—”

“I wake up this morning to my inbox exploding with concerned emails from investors and heads of state,” he barked, “And not one of them was about our new initiatives!  All I see headlines about you making out with that… that vigilante in a back alley? Are you serious?”

You pressed your fingers against your temple. “It’s not what it looks like.”

“Oh, it never is, is it?” His words dripped with disbelief. “Why didn’t I know about this? About him? What, you’ve been sneaking around behind my back? How long has this been going on?”

Bucky’s hand found yours, squeezing before letting go. He could hear your father’s raised voice even from where he sat.

“It’s not sneaking around,” you muttered, your patience fraying. “You’re just… blowing this out of proportion.”

“Oh really?” he repeated, incredulous. “I hired that man to protect you last year! And now you’re telling me you’re dating him? Do you have any idea how bad that looks?”

“Dad, please,” you groaned, frustration bubbling over. “This isn’t even about the company—”

He cut you off, his voice sharp. “If people think you’re compromised—if they think you can’t keep your personal life separate from your professional responsibilities—”

“I know, Dad!” you snapped, your voice finally matching his. “I know how bad it looks! I’ve been dealing with it all day while you sit in your fancy cabin three countries away and shout at me over the phone!”

Bucky’s fingers tightened again. 

You could hear your father exhaling through the line. “Fine,” he breathed, “lf you think you’ve got it all handled, then handle it! But I swear to God, if this relationship jeopardises our clients, our reputation, or your future—”

“It won’t!” you fired back. “And for the record, Bucky isn’t some random fling. He’s serious about me. He—”

You hesitated, only for a second, and swallowed hard. 

“He cares about me,” you finished, quieter this time. “And I care about him.”

For a while, there was only silence. When your father finally spoke again, his voice had lost some of its bite. It sounded like… Consideration.

“Is he actually serious about you?” he asked. 

Bucky could hear him clearly even when he was not shouting— courtesy of his super soldier hearing. He nodded. 

“He is,” you answered without hesitation. “I wouldn’t be here if he wasn’t.”

Then, softer, your father asked, “Then why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

You rested your elbows on your knees. “Because I knew you’d make it about the company and the board and my future when all I wanted was to keep it private. Just… for us.”

Your father sighed, and you could picture him rubbing the bridge of his nose— just like you always did.

“Look,” he said. “I’m not coming to the city to deal with it. That’s on you. But… for what it’s worth, I don’t want to see you hurt. And I don’t want to see this company—your company—take the blow, either.”

“I know,” you said softly. “And I’ll handle it. I promise.”

“Good,” he said. “Because if I hear one more thing about this in the news, I’m the one who’ll come down there to straighten it out. And I’ll start with your boyfriend.”

Bucky let out a quiet snort, shaking his head.

You couldn’t help rolling your eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Deal with it now. I got it.”

“Good.” A beat of silence. Then, softer, “I love you, kid.”

“Love you too, Dad.”

The line clicked off, leaving you in silence.

You stared at your phone for a moment, rubbing your temples. The shouting match had left you drained, but at least it was over. For now.

Bucky shifted beside you, his fingers still tangled with yours. His voice was quiet when he spoke.

“You okay?”

You turned your head to look at him, at the careful way he was studying your face. He looked guilty, like this was his fault, like he wished he could take the weight off your shoulders.

You exhaled, tilting your head until it rested against his shoulder. “I will be.”

Little didn’t you know, he didn’t really believe you would be.

Not as long as he was around. 

The morning after the scandal broke, the world felt different. It felt smaller, suffocating, as if the walls of your life had started closing in overnight.

News anchors dissected your love life like it was some kind of public crisis. 

"Heiress in a Scandalous Affair with Ex-Assassin”

"Dangerous Liaison: How a CEO’s Secret Relationship Could Threaten Her Empire"

"Should a Man with a Bloodstained Past Be This Close to Power?"

Your phone hadn’t stopped ringing. Your father’s people had practically barricaded the office, because outside, reporters swarmed like vultures.

And Bucky was quiet. Too quiet.

You caught him sitting at the edge of the bed, watching the morning news with that expression you hated—it was almost as if he already knew how this story ended. Like he’d already made up his mind that this was going to break you apart.

"They act like I’m putting a damn gun to your head," he muttered, tone rough. The news anchor was mid-sentence, debating whether your involvement with Bucky posed a national security threat. As if your relationship was an act of terrorism.

You sat beside him, barely resisting the urge to throw the remote at the screen. "They're sensationalising it. It’ll die down."

Bucky scoffed. "No, it won’t." He rubbed a hand down his face, then gestured at the TV. "They love a good villain. And princess, I was tailor-made for the role."

Year One. Month Three.

You had taken a week of leave at this point, just so you could mentally recover. 

By the time you arrived at your office after your week off, the damage control team was in full force. Half a dozen advisors, PR strategists, and corporate lawyers were waiting, some with their arms crossed, others furiously taking notes.

"We need to get ahead of this immediately," your PR officer said, clicking to the first slide of a PowerPoint labeled Mitigation Strategy like your personal life was a boardroom crisis. "We’ve already drafted potential responses, but the best option is for you to publicly distance yourself from Barnes."

You stiffened. "What? He’s my boyfriend. How would I do that?"

"An official statement clarifying that your relationship is purely professional—"

"That’s a lie."

"A necessary lie," she corrected, with the forced patience of a woman stuck in a room with a ticking time bomb. “Say… it was a misunderstanding, shift the narrative. You got too close, it was a lapse of judgement—"

"Are you serious?" You looked around the room. "You want me to pretend I was reckless and naive instead of just admitting that I love him?"

"This isn’t just about you,” your CFO sighed. “The board is already nervous. Investors are threatening to pull out. This could cost millions."

It wasn’t a threat. It was a fact. And yet, all you could think about was Bucky—sitting on your bed this morning, already bracing for the moment you’d walked away.

You swallowed hard. "I can’t do that!”

Your PR officer let out a deep breath, clearly recalibrating. "If you won’t deny it, at least don’t fuel the fire. No public outings, no statements, no contact that can be seen or reported on. We let the story fade, alright?”

When you got back that night, Bucky was sitting on the couch, looking at his phone. Not scrolling. Not texting. Just staring at the screen.

"You should… reconsider.”

You froze. "What?"

He didn’t look up. "It’d be easier for you to not be with me.”

Your heart broke. "Don’t do that."

"Do what?" His voice was bitter now. "Face reality? Come on, princess, we both know how this ends. You drop me, your life goes back to normal. Your father stops looking at you like you just burned the empire he built. You get your clean slate."

"That’s not what I want."

Bucky sighed, looking up at you with devastating pain in his blue eyes. "You say that now,” he started, "But I’ve been through this before, and it doesn’t end well. People always realise… I’m not worth all this."

Your throat tightened. "I’m not most people." It came out like a squeak.

"No, sweetheart, of course not,” he said with a sad smile, “but you have too much to lose."

You groaned, standing right in front of him, and daring him to look you in the eye. 

"Listen to me, James. I do not give a single fuck what the world thinks. I do not care about shareholders, or press conferences, or what my father expects from me." You swallowed. "I care about you. And if you think I’m going to let you walk away because you’ve decided you’re a burden, then you really don’t know me at all."

For a moment, he didn’t say anything. He wanted to believe you. He really did.

You reached for his hand. He let you.

"This doesn’t scare me," you whispered. 

Bucky closed his eyes. “Maybe it should.”

That night, something felt off.

The next week, it only got worse.

It started small—little things that weren’t so little when you pieced them together.

Bucky stopped inviting you over to stay as often. When he did, he kept his distance, claiming he was just tired. He started answering texts late, then barely at all. When you reached for his hand in public, he let go a second too soon.

At first, you convinced yourself you were imagining it. But then came the missed calls, the sad sighs, the way he looked at you— like he was preparing to say goodbye.

“You’re avoiding me,” you finally confronted him.

Bucky didn’t look up from where he was sitting on the edge of the couch, unlacing his boots. “I’m just busy.”

“That’s bullshit.” You crossed your arms. “You barely talk to me anymore. You leave before I wake up. You don’t even—” You stopped, breath catching in your throat. “You don’t even…“

You trailed off, not knowing what else to say. 

He froze for a second before he yanked his boots off and tossed them aside. “It’s not like that.”

“Then what is it, Bucky? Because from where I’m standing, it feels like you’re trying to fuck off.”

You were only met with silence. 

You stepped closer. “If this is about the media—”

“That’s exactly what this is about.” His voice was a growl. “Every article, every news cycle, every goddamn headline— your name is dragged through the dirt because of me.”

You clenched your teeth. “I don’t care—”

“Well, I do!” He rose to his feet so quickly  you took a step back. His eyes burned as he stared at you, breathing heavily. “Don’t you get it? I don’t want to be the reason your life went to shit. I don’t want to be the reason your father loses faith in you, or why the world suddenly thinks you can’t run your own goddamn company.”

“What?” You challenged, “you think leaving will fix that?”

Bucky scoffed, shaking his head. “Maybe it’ll make it easier.”

Your stomach churned with a frustration you haven’t felt in a long, long time. “Easier for who?”

“For you!”

The words hit you like a slap.

You took a deep breath, trying to steady yourself, but your chest felt too tight, too suffocated, like hellfire was clawing its way up your throat. 

“You really think I’d be better off without you?”

His eyes flickered with, his muscles twitching. “Hmm.”

Your heart dropped. “Y-you can’t do this to me.”

His eyes snapped to yours. “I’m doing this for you.”

“T-that’s— but that’s so condescending! Do you hear yourself, James?” You shouted this time, hands curling to fists at your sides.. “You think walking away makes you noble? That’s bullshit! You’re just a coward!”

His lips parted slightly, but no words came out.

“You think I don’t know what this is?” You continued, voice shaken “You hate feeling like you’re not in control, and I get that, I do, but instead of dealing with it, you’d rather run.” You swallowed. “You’d rather run from me.”

The muscles in his neck flinched. His human  fingers curled into fists.

Then—

Without another word, he grabbed his jacket, turned on his heel, and walked out the door.

He didn’t slam it. Didn’t yell. He just… left.

And that hurt worse than anything else.

The first night, you thought he needed space.

The second night, you got worried.

By the third, you were panicked.

You practically lived at his place, probably stayed over four days a week, and he rarely stayed at yours. So when he disappeared and wasn’t in either apartments, you had no idea where the hell he was. 

He wasn’t answering texts. Wasn’t picking up calls. You tried not to assume the worst, but it was hard when the worst was always a possibility.

Was he hurt? Was he drinking in one of those newly opened Asgardian bars? Was he spiraling?

You barely slept. Barely ate. You kept replaying the fight in your head, hearing your own voice, your accusations. Maybe you’d pushed too hard, been too harsh. Maybe this time, he won't come back.

Little did you know, Bucky was staying with Sam. He hadn't planned to, but to be fair, he hadn’t planned on anything. He just walked out, got in the car, and kept driving, and somehow ended up on Sam’s doorstep like a stray cat.

To his credit, Sam didn’t ask questions. He just took one look at Bucky, sighed, and let him in. 

And now, here they were— three days later, Bucky was nursing a beer on Sam’s couch, staring at the muted TV, while Sam leaned against the kitchen counter, arms crossed.

“You finally gonna tell me what happened?” Sam asked, even though he knew what happened. He saw it in the news— he just needed to hear it from Bucky. 

Bucky had a hand down his face. “Not much to tell.”

“Right.” Sam snorted. “You ghost your girl and disappear from the public eye for days in the middle of a media scandal. but there’s not much to tell?”

Bucky looked down, staring at the floor. “I needed space.”

Sam hummed. “Uh-huh. And she knows that? Or did you just decide to vanish?”

Bucky shot him a glare, but Sam wouldn’t budge. He cannot— will not— let his friend self-sabotage a relationship he clearly didn’t want to end.

Bucky muttered, “She’s better off without me.”

Sam actually laughed at that, and the sound was short and dry, like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Look, man, I get it. You think you’re doing her a favour.” Sam sighed, shaking his head. “But she chose you. Instead of trusting that choice, you’re what? Hiding out at my place and letting her deal with the media fallout on her own?”

Bucky’s grip tightened around the beer bottle. “I’m not hiding.”

“Then why are you still here?”

Bucky’s throat tightened. He had no answer to that.

“I just… I don’t want to be the reason everything falls apart for her,” Bucky sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. 

Sam shook his head. “And what if you’re the reason she holds it together?”

Bucky didn’t respond, and he didn’t know how to. Because it might actually be true

So instead, he just drank his beer, staring at the silent TV.

And then he saw own damn face, plastered across the screen.

And then there you were, giving a statement.

Sam frowned as he watched Bucky grab the remote.

“…and I cannot let the media twist this story,” you said Bucky turned the volume up mid-sentence. 

Bucky sat up straighter.

There you were— standing behind a press conference desk, cameras flashing, reporters practically foaming at the mouth for any ounce of information you would give. 

You looked exhausted, but nothing could erase that familiar determination in your eyes. 

“James Barnes is not a liability,” you continued, voice steady despite the chaos. “He’s not a danger, and he’s not the monster some of you painted him as.”

Bucky’s stomach twisted.

A reporter cut in. “So you’re confirming your relationship with Mr. Barnes?”

You didn’t even flinch.

“I’m confirming that he’s someone I trust with my life,” you shot back. 

Bucky blinked. You weren’t denying it. Weren’t distancing yourself from him.

You were standing in front of the whole damn world… defending him.

A different reporter raised his hand. “Given his history, do you really think associating with someone like Barnes is wise for your public image?”

You looked at the guy like you wanted to strangle him. “His history?” you repeated incredulously. “You mean the history where he was forced to do things against his will? The history he’s spent every damn day trying to atone, even though it wasn’t his fault?”

The room went silent.

You let out a deep breath, gripping the desk. “You all act like redemption is a myth, like some people just don’t get to have it. But Bucky Barnes is not a story. He is not a headline. He is a person. And I won’t let you write him into being a villain because it’s more convenient for you.”

Bucky only stared, heart hammering out of his ribcage. 

You were risking everything for him—your reputation, your credibility, everything.

And he’d walked out on you.

Sam let out a low whistle, glancing at Bucky with his eyebrows raised. “Still think she’s better off without you?”

Bucky swallowed hard.

The second the press conference ended, he was out the door. Sam barely had time to say goodbye.

You had stood in front of the whole damn world and defended him. You hadn’t folded under pressure, hadn’t let them tear him down just to save yourself. 

And…. he’d walked away.  

Bucky wasn’t sure how long it took to get to you. He barely remembered the drive, barely felt the drift when he pushed open your penthouse door with the key you’d given him months ago. 

Bucky expected to see you when he stepped into your penthouse— you always regrouped here after a media day. 

What he didn’t expect—was to see your father.

He hadn’t met him before, at least not in person. And if you called him in to help you cope, then it must be bad. 

The man was standing near the massive windows, looking out over the skyline, a glass of rum in one hand. The picture of composed authority, as you always made him out to be. 

The fact that he was even here instead of you meant something— Bucky just wasn’t sure what yet.

Bucky hesitated just inside the doorway, unsure if he should step in. Your father finally turned his head, looking at him.

"She must be serious about you if she gave you the keys to her place."

Bucky shut the door behind him. "Guess so."

Your father just nodded, swirling the liquor in his glass.

Bucky wasn’t sure what to call him. Sir? Felt weird— he was a hundred and ten years old, after all. First names seemed too casual. Last name felt too formal. 

"I assume you’re looking for her."

"Yeah." Bucky hesitated. "And… she’s not here.”

"If she were, I imagine you’d already be getting an earful." Your father replied. 

Bucky’s eyebrows twitch. He probably would deserve that.

Your father turned away, walking toward the bar. "Drink?”

Bucky hesitated. "No, thanks."

Your father poured himself another two fingers of rum. "Probably for the best."

The room was silent after that, and your father didn’t feel the pressure to fill that space until he put his drink down. “I hired you to protect her, Barnes." The words weren’t spoken in anger, but there was a hint of disappointment behind them. “Not to break her heart.”

Bucky took a deep breath. "I know."

"Do you?" Your father turned to face him. "Because I was at that press conference. I saw what it did to her. She stood up to the world and defended you, and you—" He exhaled sharply. "You weren’t there."

Bucky clenched his fists. "I didn’t ask her to do that."

“That’s not how she works, Barnes. You should know that by now." Your father sighed, crossing his arms across his chest. "She doesn’t respond well to media attention," he said, quieter now. "Never has. She’s been under this scrutiny since she was a kid. She knows how to handle it, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t affect her."

Bucky looked away, guilt crawling under his skin.

Your father sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. "I don’t give a damn about the headlines." His voice was firmer now. "I don’t give a damn about what the board or the investors think, or whatever bullshit the media’s spewing." He paused, his eyes locking onto Bucky’s. "I care about her."

Bucky’s throat tightened.

"Look, I’ve known her longer than anyone else,” your father continued. "and I— I know— I can tell that she loves you."

Bucky’s head snapped up.

“She wouldn’t have fought for you the way she did if she didn’t,” he said. 

“I…” Bucky swallowed hard. "I love her too."

“Prove it.” He almost snapped.

Bucky took a step back.

"Be careful with her heart, Barnes." Was the last thing he heard from your father. 

After that, Bucky went to your office. Empty.

Your favourite restaurant—nothing.

The city was huge, but he knew you well. He knew where you went when the world became too much. When you needed to be alone.

And that was how he found himself outside his own apartment, staring at the door, heart hammering against his ribs like it was trying to break free.

He felt sick.

His fingers hovered over the handle for a moment before he forced himself to knock. It was hesitant— perhaps he was afraid of what he might find on the other side.

No answer.

Bucky swallowed hard, unlocked the door and stepped inside.

And there you were.

Sitting on the couch, still wearing the same outfit from the press conference, head in your hands. He could tell you were exhausted— shoulders slumped, breaths uneven.

His heart broke.

You must’ve heard the door click shut because your head snapped up, your eyes wide and glassy.

For a good five agonizing minutes, neither of you spoke. Just stared. Until—

“You left."

When you said it, it barely came out as a whisper, but it still struck like a bullet to his temple.

Bucky swallowed against the lump in his throat, "I know."

"I defended you," you rasped. "I stood there and let the world tear into me because I thought—" You cut yourself off, chest rising and falling unevenly. "I thought we were in this together."

Bucky took a slow step forward, one after another. Then he sank to his knees in front of you, his hands resting on your thighs. "We are."

"You walked away, James." Your voice cracked. With a bitter laugh, you snapped your fingers. "Just like that. Like it was easy.

His hands curled into fists. "It wasn’t."

"Could’ve fooled me."

His teeth clenched. "I thought I was protecting you."

“Well, congratulations,” You let out a hollow laugh. "You protected me so well that I spent the last three days wondering if I meant anything to you at all."

Bucky flinched. "Don’t," he whispered, pleading, "You know that’s not true."

Your eyes locked onto his, desperate and angry. "Then why did you leave?"

"Because I thought I could make it better," he said again, as if saying it enough times would make it true. "By keeping myself out of this mess—"

"It was never a mess, Bucky!" you snapped, your tone rising. "Not to me! Not until you left!"

He shook his head, meeting your eyes with something close to desperation. "I thought—"

"Do you have any idea what it felt like to wake up and realise you were gone?" You cut him off. 

Bucky opened his mouth, but you weren’t finished.

"I don’t care if the whole damn world has an opinion about us." you whispered. You took his hand, pressed his palm flat against your chest, right over your heart. "I care that I came home to an empty bed."

Bucky’s throat tightened. "I thought—“

"Stop thinking!” You shouted. 

Bucky scoffed, shaking his head as his grip tightened on your hand. "I thought if I made it easier for you, I wouldn’t lose you forever!”

"You lost me the second you walked out that door," you spat out, but even as you said it, you knew you didn’t truly mean it.

Bucky’s breath caught, but instead of backing down, he moved forward, crowding into your space, his hands gripping your waist and holding you in place. "No." He said, almost a growl, his fingers digging into your sides. "No, I didn’t."

Before he could say anything more, your lips crashed against his.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t careful. It was desperate, brimming with anger and need and the kind of longing would never go away. He kissed you back like he was trying to prove himself, like he needed you to understand that walking away hadn’t meant he stopped wanting you. That it had killed him to.

You gasped into the kiss, and any protest you might have had dissolved the second his hands moved up your back, pulling you flush against him. His warmth, his scent, the way his breath mixed with yours—it set every nerve on fire.

"I can’t lose you," he murmured against your lips, voice trembling. He kissed you again, his hands roaming your body like he was terrified you’d disappear. "I won’t.”

Your hands threaded through his hair, tugging slightly, making him groan against your mouth. "But you left," you whispered, "You left me."

"I’m sorry," he rasped, and he meant it. His lips moving along your jaw, down to your neck, teeth scraping against your pulse. "I hated every fucking second of it."

A shudder ran through you, your nails digging into his shoulders as his hands slid lower, gripping your hips and pulling you into his lap. You straddled him without hesitation, pressing against him, feeling the way his breath stuttered as you moved.

"Then don’t do it again," you whispered, voice breaking, your forehead pressing against his.

Bucky’s hands framed your face again, forcing you to look at him. His eyes were wild, almost desperate. "Never," he swore, his thumb stroking over your cheek. "I swear on my life, never."

And then he kissed you again.

This time, it was slower— he took his time. It felt like regret, it felt like a confession. His hands were everywhere, exploring, pulling you closer like he wanted to mold you to him.

"Fuck," he breathed, forehead dropping to your shoulder, his fingers squeezing your thighs. "You have no idea how much I missed you."

You cupped his face, forcing him to look at you. "Show me."

And when his lips found yours again, when his hands started to slide under your clothes, when your bodies pressed together in a way that left no space between you—

You knew this time, he meant it.

The morning after was gentle.

Sunlight poured through the sheer curtains, warming the bed sheets.

Bucky stirred beside you, his arm draped over your waist, holding you close like he was afraid you’d slip away.

When his lips brushed lazily against your shoulder, you hummed, shifting in his arms to meet his eyes. His hair was a mess, his eyes still half-lidded. 

God, it’s only been a few days. You’ve missed him. 

“Morning,” he murmured hoarsely.

You smiled. “Morning.”

For a long moment, neither of you moved, just staring, just breathing. Then, as if reality was starting to creep back in, you sighed, tracing a fingertip along his stubble.

“We should eat,” you suggested.

Bucky groaned, tightening his grip on you. “We could stay in bed.”

You let out a quiet chuckle and pressed a quick kiss to his lips before slipping from his hold. “Let’s go get breakfast, sweetie.”

Reluctantly, Bucky let you go, watching as you stretched, grabbing the first thing you could find to throw on—one of his shirts.

He rolled out of bed and pressed a kiss to your temple, “We’d be in public, you know.”

You sighed. “I know.”

Breakfast wasn’t some Michelin-star brunch spot. It was a small café, tucked away from the busier streets, where the scent of fresh bread and coffee lingered in the air a little longer. The kind of place where no one would look twice at you if you sat there for hours, just talking, just being.

And that’s exactly what you did.

Bucky’s hand never left yours, his fingers tracing circles on your palm, his thumb absentmindedly grazing your knuckles. Every so often, he’d lean over, steal a kiss between sips of coffee.

He was here now. With you. In public. That was all that mattered.

But it wasn’t long before the cameras showed up.

They weren’t subtle. A handful of photographers across the street, lurking. 

The press had been relentless, but after your statement on Bucky yesterday, the world… was quieter.

Ever since you’d stood in front of the cameras the backlash had softened. World leaders, once eager to weigh in, had gone silent. Maybe, for the first time, they respected you. Maybe they respected Bucky, too.

But that didn’t mean the vultures were gone.

Your clients might have been reassured, but the media will always try to sensationalise the story. 

Bucky had been trying to ignore them. 

But when another camera flash went off, too close, too invasive, he snapped.

With a sharp exhale, he pushed his chair back, the legs scraping against the pavement. You barely had time to grab his wrist before he was turned marching toward the swarm of photographers lingering just across the street.

“Bucky,” you warned, but it was useless.

The reporters tensed when they saw him approach, cameras at the ready, expecting a fight— maybe even hoping for one.

And Bucky didn’t disappoint.

“Get a fucking life,” he snapped, voice rough with frustration. He gestured wildly to the table behind him, where your half-eaten breakfast sat. “We’re trying to eat like normal fucking people.”

A few photographers shuffled awkwardly, lowering their cameras, but others stood their ground.

“Mr. Barnes, the public just wants to—”

“The public can mind their damn business.” His glare could have turned them to stone. “Unless you want some asshole shoving a camera in your face every time you try to grab a coffee, I suggest you back off.”

Oh? Oh.

You heard a few more murmurs. More feet shifting. 

Then one of them had the nerve to say, “You can’t really be surprised, can you? You’re the winter soldier, and she’s—“

Bucky scoffed, cutting him off. “Fuck this.” He threw his hands in the air, turning back toward you. “They act like we just committed a goddamn crime when all we did was order fucking pancakes.”

You fought the urge to chuckle—because, God, when was he ever this pissed? His jaw was tight, shoulders squared, the restrained fury radiating off him in waves. But beneath all that anger, there was something protective in the way he positioned himself between you and the world, as if it was his job, perhaps because once… it had been.  

And he was given a second chance. He would make it up to you, no matter what.

You sighed, stepping closer and slipping your hand into his. His fingers curled around yours without hesitation, like he’d been waiting for you to reach for him.  

“Let’s go,” you said, giving his hand a squeeze.  

He didn’t argue. He just nodded once, casting his final glare at the cameras before turning on his heel and pulling you along with him.  

But as the two of you walked, you felt it—the way the usual chaos had dulled. The shutters weren’t clicking. The voices weren’t calling his name, your name, they weren’t desperate for a reaction. It was… quiet.  

You glanced back over your shoulder at the stunned crowd of photographers, their hands hesitating over their cameras, unwilling to lift them.  

An almost-wicked smile formed on your lips.  

“You know,” you murmured just loud enough for Bucky to hear, “we could give them a show.”  

And Bucky Barnes never did anything half-heartedly.  

So the second he heard the words leave your lips, he stopped right there, in the middle of the street and kissed you.  

And it wasn’t a short peck, wasn’t a brief gesture.

It was slow, it was deliberate. It was the kind that sent heat curling in your stomach and stole the breath from your lungs. It left no room for misinterpretation. 

He wasn’t just kissing you. He was claiming this moment. It made you feel untouchable, unreachable.  

And yet—not a single flash.  

Not one camera dared to snap the million-dollar shot they’d been desperate for just minutes ago.

Let them look.  

Let them talk.  

But they would never own this.  

When he finally pulled back, lips still ghosting over yours, his words were meant for you and you alone.  

“Think that’s enough for ‘em, princess?”

-end.

General Bucky Taglist :

@hotlinepanda @snflwr-vol6 @ruexj283 @2honeybees @read-just-cant

 @shanksstrawhat @mystictf @globetrotter28 @thebuckybarnesvault@average-vibe

@winchestert101 @mystictf @globetrotter28 @shanksstrawhat @scariusaquarius

@reckless007 @hextech-bros @daydreamgoddess14 @96jnie @pono-pura-vida

@buckyslove1917 @notsostrangerthing @flow33didontsmoke @qvynrand @blackbirdwitch22

@torntaltos @seventeen-x @ren-ni@iilsenewman @slayerofthevampire

@hiphip-horray @jbbucketlist @melotyy @ethereal-witch24 @samfunko @average-vibe

@lilteef @hi172826 @pklol

21st Century Shenanigans [Masterlist]

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

-Incoherent drabble/oneshot series; can all be read seperately-

Summary: Bucky discovers the 21st century with his girl and it’s basically a major fluff feast.

A/N: I love this a lot. Also the gif is not mine.

Warnings: smut and sexy times, a lot of fluff, language

***

Polaroid

Telephone

Smoke

Pill

Netflix

last update: 9th June 2020

in a world where sam and bucky live together bucky accidentally finds sam’s red yarn and push pin board in his closet with bucky’s face in the middle and then yarn going to every place sam THOUGHT bucky was at when he was searching for him in 2014-2016 and sam’s basically forgotten about it until one day he wakes up and goes into the kitchen and it’s hung up on the goddamn wall and each place is labeled with tiny sticky notes that have either a check or an x that bucky put there bc he scored how often sam was correct

I rmbr reading this for the first time and falling in love with the #darkgoldentrio trope

Fanfic Rec: The Sum of Their Parts

Rating: Mature

Archive warning: Creator Choose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Category: Gen

Characters/Pairings: No Pairings

Summary: For Teddy Lupin, Harry Potter would become a Dark Lord. For Teddy Lupin, Harry Potter would take down the Ministry or die trying. He should have known that Hermione and Ron wouldn't let him do it alone.

Read on Ao3

no trio has ever trio'd as hard as THEY trio

I hate the sound of babies crying, but I can't hate a baby. They've been here for like five minutes and approach this situation with an unhesitant attitude of "my needs are unmet and I am going to make it everybody's problem", and I respect that.

Like at this point I dont have the energy to change the direction my life is taking right now. Like God's taken the steering wheel and I'm just cruising along in the passenger seat, that's what's happening rn. Or maybe the devil's the one holding the steering wheel, idk someone's in the driver's seat. Or maybe it's a self driving car, the way my life's going it seems like a self driving car. Or maybe it's all just minutes away from crashing and burning and no one's driving the car at all and we're just headed towards an accident.

yes.

women’s bodies weren’t “made” to do anything, nature didn’t “intend” anything, no human action is “unnatural” and there is no inherent “purpose” to a human life

Switching between these every day

i still can’t believe sam and bucky canonically rolled down a hill on top of each other

if 2024 sam wilson met 2014 sam wilson i fear it would be one of the funniest things ever

2024 sam: “so yeah, we help save the world and overcome many challenges as well as become captain america and go on to inspire millions despite the odds. also steve is lowkey dead and nat sacrificed herself”

2014 sam:

2014 sam: and the guy who ripped out the steering wheel on the highway?

2024 sam: congress

★I tried to shout, "I decide", but my voice betrayed me, breaking into a whisper: "Enough"★

to be quite honest with you, daredevil born again could be 5 seasons of civilian lawyer matt murdock dealing with legal issues in the marvel universe and i'd watch every single episode with no complaint. his lawyering scenes were entertaining enough BEFORE we branched out into the wider mcu; now we have a higher capacity for matt saying ridiculous comic-book bullshit completely straight-faced in a courtroom, and i would legitimately adore just a whole played-straight legal drama show of matt defending random vigilantes. matthew murdock ace attorney or some shit

"The universe itself is deafening— black holes collide in silent vacuum, stars implode without a whisper, yet their gravity sculpts galaxies.

So too with us.

The world drowns in noise— politicians shout promises, influencers scream for attention, algorithms howl with empty trends.

But real power? It moves like starlight: soundless, relentless, rewriting destinies.

The enslaved who dug railroad tracks— not the senators who debated railroads. The nurse holding a dying hand at 3AM— not the viral thoughts-and-prayers post. The single mother working triple shifts— her silence louder than any CEO’s manifesto.

You want to know what shakes the earth? Not thunder. Not words. But the weight of a million quiet deeds, piling up like sediment until whole mountains have no choice but to rise."

"English isn't my-"

Hush now my friend, and let me read the absolute beauty of a fic that you have bestowed this world and humiliated the first English speakers with

“One day it just clicks… You realise what is important and what isn’t, you learn to care less about what other people think of you and care more about what you think of yourself. You realise how far you have come and you remember thinking that things were such a mess they’d never recover and then you smile. You smile because you’re truly proud of the person you have fought to become.”

— Unknown