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marvel-universe-of-masterlists · 6 months

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Infinitely You

Next Part

Word Count - 3.8k

Summary - In every universe you are the one person Peter Parker will always love more than anything; unfortunately, he always realizes it too late. Now that they've been granted a second chance none of them are willing to miss out on finally making things right.

// a nwh fan fiction // masterlist // send me your thoughts //

Bile stung at my throat as my stomach tied itself in a million tiny knots. Silence consumed the small space of my apartment, so thick that I worried it would seep into my lungs and suffocate me. A part of me wished that it actually would suffocate me, knowing that death would certainly be easier than dealing with the situation at hand.

My mind was reeling, struggling to actually grasp any of the information that Ned had just relayed to me. It had come out as little more than a blur of words; multiverse, string theory, multiple Peter's, villains from another world. All of those things–as complicated and confusing as they are, were somehow easier to understand than the very last thing he said, his voice just barely a whisper:

May is dead.

I forced myself to look up from the floor, my gaze immediately meeting MJ's, then shifting to Ned. Neither of them seemed to know what to do, how to even begin clawing through the tension engulfing us. I was just as lost as they were.

And when I finally allowed my eyes to drift towards Peter I felt my heart drop into my stomach. I had seen him after fights before, so I had gotten used to seeing his blood-stained skin and the purplish-tinge of forming bruises, but I hadn't gotten used to this. His eyes–those beautiful brown eyes that were always full of light, of hope–had been completely drained of life.

A sharp copper taste flooded my mouth as I dug my teeth into my bottom lip, an attempt at fighting against my own emotions as they began to bubble to the surface. Now wasn't the time to panic. It wasn't the time to grieve. I knew better than to let myself fall apart. Peter refused to let his stoic mask falter, refused to show us the true depth of what had broken inside him, but we could still see that the moment any of us allowed ourselves to crumble, Peter would come tumbling down alongside us.

"Pete." It took all the strength I had left to keep my voice from breaking, reaching out to close the gap between our bodies as my fingers brushed against his forearm. For a moment he let himself melt into the soft touch before snapping himself back into our current harsh reality, immediately recoiling.

"Don't." His voice was gruff, aiming a semi-cold glare at me. "Don't apologize. Please."

His reaction wasn't unreasonable given the circumstances, so I didn't push him, though I couldn't help but feel the sting of his rejection. Obviously I wanted to apologize, for every horrible thing that had happened to him recently, for Aunt May, for not being there. I wanted to throw my arms around him and never let him go again, never let another bad thing come close to him. But I held back, respected his request and turned my attention back to MJ and Ned.

"What do you need me to do?"

It was clear that they needed me for something. The four of us hadn't spoken in weeks, ever since MJ and Peter made their relationship official–an unfortunate circumstance that I was really regretted right now–and yet here they stood, in the middle of my crappy apartment; updating me on every horrible thing I had missed out on in the past few days. And if their presence hadn't been enough to clue me in on that, then it would have been the way MJ spoke to me. Like we were still friends.

"It's gonna take us some time to track them all down," Ned was the first to answer my question, nervously rubbing his sweaty palms against the sides of his pants, "and we're gonna need the other Peter's to help us..." He trailed off, desperately looking at MJ, urging her to finish his statement for him.

"We need you to let them stay here." MJ cut her eyes at Ned, clearly unamused that he was too scared to ask you to help them in harboring vigilantes from another universe. "It could take us a while–a week, at least–to find them and stop them." Her gaze softened when it finally met mine, our recent fight suddenly feeling like a thing of the past. "We didn't know who else to call for help."

I didn't have a chance to respond before Peter already interjected. "You don't have to say yes." He was quieter this time, his tone just a bit softer. "We don't know them. For all we know they're just as dangerous as the others that got brought here, and even if they're not I don't think shoving two random men into y/n's apartment is the safest plan."

"It's probably not the safest." I agreed with him.

I knew MJ and Ned would understand if I rejected the idea, and I could have sworn I saw the slightest hint of relief wash over Peter at the sound of my words. And he was right, regardless of whether or not these men shared a name with our Peter, we didn't actually know them. They were strangers.

"But it kind of sounds like our only plan right now." I looked back to Peter. "Since finding out that you're Spider-Man I've had to do a lot worse than play host for some alternative versions of you, ok? If it'll help then I'll do it."

I could tell that he wanted to argue my decision, wanted to convince me that it wasn't a good idea, but he stayed silent.

"There's something else." MJ shuffled her feet, suddenly unable to look at me as she just nervously glanced towards Ned. He only stepped back, as though that somehow removed him from the conversation. She shot another glare at him. "It's not really that important, but-um-when we told the other Peter's that we were gonna need your help... they kind of-sorta-seemed to... know you."

I scrunched my nose up, brows furrowed as I glanced between MJ who looked extremely uncomfortable and Peter who appeared extremely peeved at the mention of the other two. "So they know me? Like, in their worlds?"

MJ nodded, lips pressed into a thin line. "Seems like it, yeah. We didn't have time to ask a lot of questions about it-and one of them recognized my name too so it probably isn't a big deal-but you seemed to... throw them off, I guess."

"Okay." I couldn't read Peter's expression, couldn't figure out what he was thinking as he avoided looking at me–at any of us. "Well," I forced a small laugh, trying not to sound entirely freaked out by the idea of existing in some other world, "here's to hoping I'm not a complete dick in their worlds. Might make the living situation a bit awkward."

MJ and Ned appreciated the weak humor, a bit of laughter filling the room and easing the still-lingering tension. But Peter didn't laugh, didn't bother to say a single word. He stayed silent, even when they left, promising to return with the other Peter's.

I threw up in the kitchen sink the moment they left, finally letting the panic and grief wash over me in his absence.

.・゜゜・　　・゜゜・．

I managed to scrub the kitchen sink out before they arrived, getting rid of any trace that my anxiety-induced sickness had gotten the better of me. There were so many things that Peter had to worry about right now, so many things that stood in the way of him even beginning to acknowledge the trauma he had gone through in the past 48 hours–and I refused to let him pile worrying about me on top of that already massive load.

Afterwards I managed to find enough time to go in the bathroom and splash my face with cold water, trying to get rid of my flushed appearance. By the time I was finished I heard a familiar soft, rhythmic knocking at my door–thud, thud, thud-thud-thud–the one MJ always used without fail. And, for just a moment, my chest felt tight as I realized just how much I had missed hearing that knock at my door these last few weeks. But I shoved the feeling down, aware that there was too much happening right now to even begin unpacking the argument that had led to our friend group being so…broken.

I tried to shake the thoughts out of my head as I walked to the door, silently promising myself that as soon as things were squared away and everyone had been returned to the right universe that I would bring it up to them, make an effort to repair our relationships.

When I opened the door I was faced with three familiar faces and only one unfamiliar face. The confusion on my face must have been very evident due to the fact that Ned quickly spoke up.

“The other Peter didn’t wanna come.”

MJ frowned at the blunt words that did very little to clear the confusion. “He wanted to keep looking for the Goblin guy that came from his universe.” she clarified, shooting an annoyed look at Ned. “But we gave him the address.”

I didn’t actually respond to her, too focused on the way that Peter flinched at the mention of the Green Goblin. I didn’t bother reaching out to comfort him, knowing that he would just reject the advance, and so instead I just offered an apologetic smile that likely did little to make him feel better.

They walked past me to come into the apartment, the rather small room suddenly feeling a bit claustrophobic again with so many people piled into it. “So, this is Peter 3. That’s what we’re calling him to—ya know—tell them apart.” Ned motioned to the boy standing to his left, furthest away from MJ and our Peter.

The boy was quite a bit lankier than the Peter I knew, having at least a few inches over him. Truthfully, the only real similarity the two had were their names, and the realization had me letting out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding in. Sharing a house with two strange guys was already going to be a difficult and uncomfortable task, but sharing it with two people that resembled my Peter? Would have made it even more strange.

I stuck my hand out in front of my body, extending it towards the boy. He only looked at it for a moment, a sort of skeptical look washing over his features before he finally shook himself out of whatever thought had overtaken him. Hesitantly, he took my hand in his own, his grip extremely gentle. “It’s nice to meet you.” I greeted him. “I’m y/n.”

A smile tugged at his lips, one that just barely reached his eyes. “I know. Uh, I mean, they–your friends–already told me that! Your name, I mean.” You tried to hold in the giggle that threatened to spill from your lips at his rambling. Maybe he did have a bit more in common with your Peter than just their name. “Peter. Parker. Peter Parker. My name. But you already know that, don't you?”

I nodded quickly, biting my lip to contain my amusement. “Kinda, yeah.”

“Yep. Figured. The whole new universe thing has got me a bit off, so uh sorry.”

“No worries, I’m sure the whole thing’s a bit disorienting.” I tried to laugh it off, hoping that maybe it would ease some of his very apparent anxiety. After all, usually that worked with our Peter, so maybe it would help this one as well. For a moment, it seemed that I had been right, but his nervous panic rose right back to the surface when he realized that he was still holding my hand in his.

Another apology left his mouth, his hand quickly letting go of mine and moving to rest on his hip, fingers nervously rubbing at the textured fabric of his suit. I looked to MJ, noticing that she was also struggling to contain a laugh at the encounter.

“I’m going back out there. I need to keep looking.” Peter–our Peter–spoke suddenly. At first I had thought he was addressing the group, until I recognized that his eyes were glued only to me, a fact that didn’t go unnoticed by MJ. I watched the amusement drain from her face, though she quickly tried to cover it. “Can we talk first?”

“Yes.” I was too quick to chirp out an answer, too overtaken by the fact that this was the first time he had asked to speak to me since our fight to play it cool. I tried to tone down my response as best I could. “We can go to my room.”

He didn’t wait for me to lead the way, heading straight for the door without an ounce of hesitation. I was quick to follow him, though I debated on whether or not I should at least send an apologetic look in MJ’s direction, still thinking of how the color drained from her face when he asked to talk to me. But, when I looked over my shoulder in her direction, I found myself distracted as I noticed the way the other Peter’s eyes stayed glued to my form, a strange look on his face again.

“You really don’t have to do this.” Peter spoke the moment I entered my room, loud enough that everyone had to have heard him due to the fact that I just barely had time to shut the door before he started. “I know you wanna help, and MJ and Ned kinda put you in a tough spot by even asking you but seriously y/n, we can figure something else out. We don’t even know these guys!”

The heavy dark circles under his eyes already made him look absolutely exhausted, but his body language only added to it as he raked his hands through his hair, roughly pulling at the curly strands. “Well it sounds like they’re our best shot at finding these other guys, right?” He didn’t reply. “I’m not saying I’m thrilled to have some random people in my house, alright? But they've fought these guys. They’ve defeated these guys! We could use their help.”

“They killed them.” He spat the words out, his voice sounding harsher than I had ever heard it before. “I don’t know them and I don’t trust them. They can find their own place to stay, they can get a hotel or something!”

“Well, having come from a different universe and all, I’m gonna say they don’t have a lot of cash on them.”

Peter only frowned at the rebuttal.

“Look,” I sighed, trying my best to remain the calm one in this conversation. “the sooner they help you find these guys, the sooner we can get them out of here. They probably won’t even do much more than sleep here, right? They’re gonna be too busy out there doing Spidey-things!”

“Spidey-things?” Peter cocked an eyebrow at me, and I could see him trying to fight the faintest hint of a smile at the phrase.

“Yeah. Spidey-things. Ya know, jumping off buildings, slinging webs.” I jokingly held my hand out, flicking my wrist in the same way I had seen him do it so many times.

Peter didn’t bother to stop himself from chuckling at the over-exaggerated motion. The sound of his laughter made my chest swell, and I hadn’t realized just how much I had missed hearing it until now.

“I just…I don’t want anyone else to get hurt.” That sliver of joy faded from his voice as quick as it had come and that stoic mask he had been fighting to maintain finally fell, leaving only desperation. “I don’t want you to get hurt.”

The admission was purposely quieter than the previous statement and when his eyes shifted to the shut door I knew it was to keep anyone else from hearing it. I fought against the ache in my chest at the realization, taking a step forward to close the gap between us, once again placing my hand on his arm. He didn’t back away from my touch this time. “I’ll be ok.” I offered my widest grin, jokingly placing my free hand over my heart, “Jedi’s Honor.”

Peter snorted at the ridiculous phrase, shaking his head at me. “Just promise you’ll text me if anything weird happens, ok?”

“Always.”

While the worry was still very evident on his face, the reassurance seemed to ease at least a bit of the tension. A weak smile was the only thing he had left to give me before scooting past me to walk out the door. Before he could, I reached out for his hand—the one I had held so many times, though never with the sincerity I wanted. “I’ve missed you, Peter.” It sounded weaker than intended, too filled with emotion. Too sad.

He softened at the words, at the feelings that came with them. “I missed you too, y/n.”

After that exchange I let him lead the way out of my bedroom, quick on his heels, same as I had been for years. I instinctively looked at MJ, watching as she tried to mask the uneasy expression she wore as her eyes darted between Peter and I. I pretended not to notice, like I wasn’t aware of the silent questions that were running around in her head; the same questions that would run around in my own after their interactions. What were they talking about? Is he blushing? Why does he look so much happier? Those questions had always been enough to make me sick to my stomach. They were still enough to make me sick to my stomach.

“C’mon,” Peter nodded in MJ and Ned’s direction, gaining their attention and snapping MJ out of her thoughts, “I wanna make sure you guys get back home before I keep patrolling.”

MJ and Ned didn’t argue with him, both of them shuffling alongside him to the door. Peter looked between me and the other Peter, eventually settling his eyes on me, “Text me in a few hours, ok?” I only nodded, acting like I didn’t notice the way MJ’s eyes bore through my skull. And, after a few hurried goodbyes from my friends mouths, the door was pulled shut, leaving me with… this guy.

There were a few beats of awkward silence before I finally spoke, “So… Peter 3, huh? Quite a name. You go by that back home too?”

The other Peter chuckled at the question, a suit-clad hand nervously rubbing at the back of his neck. “Uh-yeah, definitely not. Luckily it’s just plain ole’ Peter Parker over there.”

“Is it ok if I just call you Parker?” I asked him, “Seems a little more effective than Peter 3. Maybe a little less dehumanizing too.”

Another laugh escaped his lips. “Yeah, yeah, of course. Parker works great. And you’re right,” he added on, “much better than being reduced to a number.”

His hand continued to rub against his neck, and I began to wonder how much longer he could keep it up before his skin would start to become raw. Even though I didn’t actually know him, I felt bad for him. It was clear that he had anxiety, which I could only imagine came from being thrown into an entirely different universe and forced to meet up with alternate versions of himself. And, to add to an already terrifying situation, he had no one here. No one from his world, except for villains that he was now being forced to stop again. It was pitiful to think about. Even more pitiful to watch that anxiety overwhelm him.

“ I only have one guest room, so I guess since you’re the first one here you get dibs on it.” I offered a grin at him, hoping to try my best to lighten the mood. “C’mon, I’ll show it to you.”

I started down the hallway, taking note of how Parker hesitated just a moment before following after me, his hand finally falling to his side. The guest room was just across the hall from my bedroom and only a little bit smaller. “I don’t really get a lot of guests so the bed’s already made-up.” I told him, waving my hand in the direction of the full-sized mattress, a light green quilt laid over the top of it. “And I can get you some extra blankets if you want.”

Parker made his way over the bed, reaching out to trace his fingers against the ear of a pink fuzzy stuffed bear that sat directly in the middle of the pillows. “Peter—my Peter—won that for me at the county fair last year.” My cheeks heated as I heard my own words leaving my mouth, “Well, not my Peter. Our Peter. Like, my universes Peter. He isn’t my anything. I mean, he is, but not like that at least! He’s my friend!”

Parker snorted a bit at my rambling, his tongue darting across his lips as he nodded along with the endless word vomit spewing from my mouth. “Got it. Your Peter, but not your Peter.”

“Exactly.”

“Not complicated at all.” He grinned at me before taking a seat next to the stuffed bear.

An awkward laugh left my mouth. “Not even a little bit.”

Parker’s grin didn’t falter as he continued to stare at me, his eyes drifting along my face. My already red cheeks darkened further at the unnecessary attention, and he seemed to notice. “Sorry. I’m not trying to stare,” He breathed, still smiling, “it’s just nice to see you look… happy, I guess.”

I cocked my head to the side at the statement, confused for a moment before remembering what MJ had told me earlier. The two Peter’s recognized my name. “I exist in your world, right?”

The smile faltered just a bit at the question, a glimmer of sadness flashing in his dark eyes. “Yeah. You do.”

“Are we friends?”

“We-uh-yeah.” He stumbled over the words, his hand once again finding the back of his neck. “Best friends.”

His unusual response immediately raised a thousand questions, but the moment my mouth fell open to begin asking them he interjected. “If it’s ok I think I’m gonna try to get some rest. That way I can head back out and help the other Peter’s keep looking for everyone.”

I bit my tongue, holding my questions back. Another time, I told myself.

“Oh, yeah, of course. You’re probably exhausted.” I spoke quickly, backing-up towards the doorway to leave. “If you decide you need those extra blankets just shout and I’ll grab them.”

Parker thanked me as he began to pull the bear closer to his body, hugging it against his chest. “G’night y/n.”

My name in his mouth took me by surprise. So familiar. So warm. I tried to ignore it.

“Goodnight, Parker.”

I pulled the door shut behind me, pressing my back against the hard surface. I took a deep breath, running my hand through my hair when I finally let it back out, questions about the multiverse still swarming my mind. As I walked across the hall to my room I pulled my phone from my pocket, clicking on Peter’s contact when I noticed a notification from him.

From: Spidey🕷️❤️

Just checking in. Everything ok??

To: Spidey🕷️❤️

Yep, all good just like I promised. Jedi’s honor.🤞

I pressed send on the text, collapsing onto my mattress and I read over his text again and again. It hadn’t even been a full thirty minutes since he left, and yet he was already checking in. He cares, I thought to myself, struggling to contain the feeling tugging at my heartstrings. He still cares.

.・゜゜・　　・゜゜・．

a/n - Hi! If you read this far, then thank you very very much! I haven't wrote in a long time, but I'm really excited for this and I've actually really enjoyed writing it. I'm already in the process of a part two, but comments or advice would be really appreciated! It's a lot easier to write when it feels like people actually want to read it haha also! For reference, I am kind of writing this as though Tobey and Andrew's Peter Parker's are around the age they were in their own movie! I will be including a name key in the next part when Tobey's!Peter is introduced, just to make things easier! Thank you so much and I would love love love any feedback!

#peter parker x reader #tom!peter x reader #tobey!peter x reader #andrew!peter x reader #mcu imagine

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marvel-universe-of-masterlists · 7 months

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every hour, every minute

Bucky Barnes x Female!Reader (35k) The tale of an ill-fated love story that spans the ages despite all odds.

Warnings: A curse word or two. War. Hydra. Grief. Time displacement. Soulmate au stuff. Mentions of sedation. Depictions of depression. Allusion to institutionalization. angst (TW: flashing/glitching gif)

Author's Note: I've been trying to execute this idea for the longest time. It turned out so much longer than I expected, but I'm so proud of the end product. I hope y'all like it too. Also, I promise, I do not hate Tony. Even if this might make it seem like I do. (This is part two, part one will be linked below.) Enjoy!

(divider by @silkholland)

Note: My work is not to be posted anywhere else on any other platforms (aside from my ao3 account)

Part One

Masterlist

The weird thing about your situation is that only one other person in your life has any idea what this experience is like. And maybe you and Steve are more alike than you’d care to admit because the first thing you decided to do was throw yourself back into the one thing that is still familiar.

Steve had managed to help get you a position at Shield, not that it was that difficult to get Nick Fury to agree. You had a good track record, and maybe you had half a chance of actually keeping Steve in line.

It was good to be back in the world in a way that still made sense. Everything else was so different, so far beyond the things you could’ve even pictured back in your day.

Moonlighting with Shield and your semi-sporadic schedule allow ample time to put the pieces together of what happened to you. Tony had been kind enough to scour his father’s archives for any files he might’ve had pertaining to your case. He found more than you would’ve been able to predict.

Turns out there was a flaw in the formula, and it reacted adversely with your body. They put you in a cryogenic state to preserve your body until they could find the fix.

And, if you know Howard as well as you think you do, you’re certain he lost a lot of sleep over trying to find the answer. But when he found it he was met with pushback when it came to trying to bring you back.

Apparently the idea of a female super soldier wasn’t one the government was on board with at the time. Which is not surprising. They’re barely on board with it now.

You’re sure that some people would harbor some level of resentment for the fact that Howard didn’t fight a little harder. You’re sure some would’ve hoped that he would’ve done everything possible in spite of the opinion of others. But somehow it’s easier to be in this position now.

It’s easier to be in the world beyond Howard’s accident and in the thick of Peggy’s decline as opposed to having to be there and watch it all happen. Living with the truth and the reality is simpler when the pain is just a matter of fact.

Howard died years ago in an “accident” with his wife, and Peggy is in a battle with her own mind. It’s heartbreaking, that much would be true no matter when you were living through it. You just feel it would’ve been harder to live through it in real time.

To have to stand at Howard’s funeral and to have been there as Peggy was starting to slip and when she was put into the home. Somehow it’s easier to deal with the heaviness of it now since it feels like it’s all said and done. The past is something that still eludes you, and you’ve been doing your research. On the world at large, on your friends who you never got to see your life with.

Tony had been a help. Despite the fact that you could tell he and his father didn’t have the best relationship, he still humored you with stories of Howard in his later years. Stories of Howard as a husband. The good moments of him as a father, and the not so good ones.

He gave you the address for his final resting place, and you make it a point to visit once a month. You leave some flowers, sometimes you sit for a while and you talk. It’s quiet, but you talk. You like to believe that maybe he can hear you. If there’s one person who could find a way to defy the confines of death, it’d be Howard Stark.

You’d also found Colonel Phillips’s grave, and you’d been sure to lay a fresh bouquet of flowers at the base of it. Your relationship with him was nothing short of difficult, but he was still an important figure of your life. Someone you probably would’ve continued to work with if you’d made different choices. But you find that you don’t regret that choice.

Not even in the times when you sit at Peggy’s bedside, when you’re both talking about some old movie. One that she’d seen on her first date with her husband, and one that you’ve since watched via classic movie channels on cable television.

But then she seems to reset, like the entire conversation never happened. Like she hadn’t just been telling stories about her life like she used to back when you were stuck in a dorm together.

She’s once again shocked by the fact that you’re there. That you’re sitting in the room and that you’ve survived. That they found a way to save you. She’ll tell you that she fought at every turn for them to finish the procedure. But they never listened. They felt she was too emotionally attached to the situation to think about it objectively.

It gets her riled up every time. It brings the nurses into the room. It’s gotten to the point that they’ve encouraged you to stop coming around due to the added stress and agitation that only worsen her condition.

So, you decided to stop coming around so often. You knew Steve had followed a similar process. He still went to see her every now and then, mostly on the days when your reality was a little too much to handle. A way to remind himself that she still lived a good life, even if he wasn’t able to be a part of it.

You wish you could say the same. You’ve done your due diligence. You’ve scanned every article and every file you have access to in the Shield database to try and find anything on what might have happened to Bucky.

Not that you’ve told Steve about that, you know what he’ll say. It’s better to wait until there’s evidence or proof that this is more than just wishful thinking.

You’ve seen the Smithsonian exhibit, you’ve gone more times than you care to admit. It’s weird, it’s like a living memorial. There’s old footage that was aired back to the people of America to give them some hope that the country’s frontman was out there fighting the good fight and that he would inevitably win the day.

But that’s not the part that you care about. You care about the few clips that have him in them. You care about his smile, and the fact that you can still hear his laugh even though the only sound being fed into the room is the droning of the narrator’s voice.

You think of the dog tags still hanging from your neck, the ones with his name etched into them that have managed to make the trip with you.

You visit the exhibit when you feel beyond hopeless. When the research and the digging doesn’t seem to be doing any good. You can’t find a single thing. There’s no evidence pointing to the idea that his fall could be classified as survivable.

You’re sure no one has really been looking. Steve’s testimony of what happened should’ve been enough. Why would he lie? But maybe he doesn’t know. He couldn’t see the end, he didn’t see the impact. He doesn’t know what happened in the snow smothered woods.

You think of his sister, the one he told you about all of those years ago on a starlit night. You looked her up fairly soon after your little wake up call. Turns out she’s still alive and coherent. So, you thought it might be nice to pay her a visit even though she had no clue who you were. At least, you thought she didn’t.

You’d walked into her room at her assisted living facility and she’d lit up at the sight of you. You knew your picture had been plastered on every major news station. You were quite the discovery and there were a good few weeks where you couldn’t set foot out of your apartment without being recognized.

But it was different with this. This wasn’t the gaze of someone who recognized you from the sad story of a major historical discovery misplaced in time. This was the look of someone who knew you for you.

Introductions were made, and she was sweet as pie just the way Bucky had described her. But she was no wallflower, she was no doormat. She had quite the mouth on her and she knew how to put her foot down.

You’d spent hours in the recliner beside her bed and just listened to her talk. Listening to her tell stories about her life to an audience who had never heard them before.

It was about two hours into the ordeal when you’d let your gaze sweep across her picture frames and your searchlight eyes came to a halt at one photo in particular.

It wasn’t in a frame, it was stuck in the bottom corner of one of the frames. A frame that held a photograph of Bucky from before his service. It had to be from high school. Maybe a dance of some kind.

He was in a suit and his hair was gelled beyond belief. It was probably prom. He looked handsome, he looked freer than you’d ever seen. He was unburdened. The fate of the world wasn’t resting on his shoulders yet. He seemed happy. He looked so young, even in comparison to the way you knew him.

But that wasn’t the part that had taken you aback. The photo in the corner, it wasn’t a big one. It was probably a four by six, and it was yellowing with age.

The edges were curling just slightly. It was well loved, proudly on display for anyone who desired to visit. It was a picture of you and Bucky, a sneaky candid that you didn’t know existed.

Your troop was no stranger to the camera, and one of you often had one in hand to document the lighter parts of the experience. This had to have been taken by Steve, it was the only way it made any sense. The only way Bucky would’ve gotten a hold of it.

It was one of the stupid games you all used to play. Sure, they’d had push up contests which you always opted out of. But there were also foot races. A mad dash towards a made up finish line. It made you feel like you’d actually managed to do something when there was very little control or victory present in life at the time.

This time was towards the end of a long, joyous night. Most of the boys were too out of it to participate in the race, but Bucky agreed to run against you. He was a little worse for wear himself, his steps were stumbling, but he was game anyway.

But he’s not an honest man, not where competition is concerned. Steve had counted you off and then they’d whistled in place of firing off a gunshot.

You were off in an instant. You still had your faculties about you so your steps were more precise. More exacting.

The finish line, one of the logs around the campfire, was in sight. You were so close you could practically taste it.

Until a pair of arms wrapped around your waist and brought you to the ground in a tackle. The race was long forgotten as you fell against Bucky’s chest.

You were disoriented for only a few seconds before sitting up and fixing him with a glare. Accusations of cheating flew that he swore were untrue, despite the damning evidence and eye witnesses.

You were quick to climb to your feet. You brushed the dirt from the end of your skirt before pointing a finger down at where he was sitting on the ground. He was leaning up on his elbows and staring at you like you hung the moon even while you were calling him a poor sport.

The camera had gone off right then. That’s the moment Steve chose to capture for the rest of time. The moment that rests in his sister’s life all these years later.

Apparently Bucky had sent it in his last letter. Apparently he’d been talking about you. She gave you the letter, and you hesitated to read it. You didn’t read it in front of her, but you held onto it beyond your visit.

You held onto it through a trip to a Shield training facility where a tribute to fallen Shield agents stood. Where you saw Bucky’s name etched into the slate, and, just a little farther down the tributary, you saw your own name staring back at you. Courtesy of one Peggy Carter.

You’re certain there was no one else who would think to honor their fallen friends like this. Dubbing you two as honorary Shield agents with a way to be remembered beyond your lifetimes. It was more sentimental than you would’ve ever given Peggy credit for.

You held onto it through his birthday. Through the anniversary of his fall. Through Rebecca’s funeral. You held onto it through everything. Well, almost everything.

Eventually you couldn’t hold out any longer. Not when Shield fell to pieces and Hydra reared its ugly head once more. Not after a fight on a Washington D.C. bridge against a man with a metal arm. Not after you watched his mask fall, and you laid eyes on a face you hadn’t seen in decades. Not when three helicarriers fell out of the sky and your friend nearly drowned in the Potomac.

So, during the near week that Steve was asleep, during one of your shifts at his bedside you opened the letter. And, with the beeping of Steve’s heart monitor as your only company, you read it.

— — —

Life after Shield isn’t as jarring as you expected. It just transitions into life with the Avengers. In the aftermath of the events in Sokovia they have a few new recruits in need of training and a good sparring partner. You’re more than happy to oblige.

It’s a relocation from D.C. to upstate New York in a compound provided by Stark Industries. It’s not to your tastes, but it’s a state of the art roof over your head that you don’t have to worry about. It comes with roommates and a sense of community. Being alone has been your default these last few years, and it’s not really an option anymore.

There’s also Steve’s crusade to track down the Winter Soldier. Which he hasn’t actually told you about, but you managed to put the pieces together pretty easily.

He’s gone on several highly classified missions with Sam and has asked you to hold down the fort by taking over his usual training responsibilities in his absence.

It wasn’t that hard to figure out what he was actually doing.

And, for once, you’re not going to push. He clearly thinks there’s a good reason to keep this to himself for the time being. So, you’re not going to be an ass and burst his bubble.

Besides, you know he won’t be able to find him. The man has been a ghost for decades. He’s known for being able to hide, especially in plain sight. If he doesn’t want to be found then he won’t be. No amount of searching or resources is going to change that.

But Steve needs to do something, and you respect that. He needs to do this to be able to feel like he isn’t just giving up. He can’t just leave him out there, he can’t sit with that on his conscience. And you can understand that. Even if you disagree with it.

Debriefing is probably the most exhausting part of your job, more than the missions themselves. Having to talk over all of your choices is just tedious, especially when it ends up being used as a case study for the trainees to learn from. It’s a lovely weight off your shoulders once you can leave the conference room table and head back to your room.

Your door clicking closed behind you is a sound that brings peace to your soul. Your shoulders finally drop as you go over to your closet and key in the combination for your safe. Pulling your gun from its holster and safely locking it away in the shadowed safe haven of your bedroom. Even when you’re not alone.

“You should know better than to sneak up on me.” You say, voice dripping with nonchalance as you unzip the top half of your suit and pull it down to reveal the tank top you’re sporting beneath it.

You pull a pair of sweats from the drawer beside you, and don’t even bother with modesty as you drag down the legs of your suit and quickly replace them with pants that allow for real mobility. That’s one thing you’ve learned to enjoy, modern clothes feel less restrictive than the way you used to dress.

You turn your head just slightly to be able to catch the glare of the moon glinting off a metal hand over in your arm chair. You also spy a gun laid on the table next to it, and you don’t even have it in you to be nervous. There’s no real threat here. Not like this. Not with him.

You’re careful with your steps, not wanting to raise his hackles any further than they may already be. You round the corner of your bed and you sit on the edge closest to him while still leaving enough space so he doesn’t feel crowded.

You know it’ll be slow going, you’re not sure he’ll even say a word. It’s not the first time this has happened. You’ve yet to breathe a word of it to Steve, figuring if Bucky wanted to see Steve he would’ve done it by now. And you’re fairly certain Tony already knows because he’s definitely shown up on the security feed.

It started about six months back. When your phone rang late one night, it was probably about four in the morning. Not that you’d actually been sleeping. It was an unknown number, probably a burner, but you didn’t hesitate to answer.

Your entire existence bordered on sketchy scenarios, who knew what would’ve been waiting for you on the other end of the line. But you just had a feeling that it’d matter if you picked up. And it did.

He didn’t say anything that night. The call was barely the blink of an eye, maybe a minute at most. And that’s being generous.

You’d said hello, and you’d waited a few seconds. Waited for some kind of response. You could barely hear him breathing, but you just knew.

You wondered how he’d gotten your number, how he’d managed to find it. But you barely had any time to think at all because he was hanging up shortly thereafter and all you had left to hang onto was dead air.

Then, about two months later, he made his first visit. He hadn’t said a thing, it’d been up to you to fill the silence. But you hadn’t spent every second talking.

You’d let yourself look him over. It was the first good look at him you’d had since that morning a few hours before the fall. His hair was longer, his eyes held a pain you couldn’t begin to understand, and his shoulders held a weight you knew he’d never be able to shed.

But all of that was less jarring than his arm. You noticed the way he tensed when your gaze lingered on it. And you know he was thinking there was a different reason behind it. That arm had caused damage and destruction. It had taken life. And all of those things are horrible, they’re life altering realizations. But that’s not the part that felt the most like a gut punch.

It’s his left arm. And where your initials used to rest on his skin now there’s vibranium. You’ve been carrying him around with you, and Hydra took you away from him. The one constant reminder of his humanity was taken, and you’ll never get to see it again.

He had been struck by the sight of his initials on your arm, though. And you’d spent one of those nights with him tracing his thumb over the letters. It was sweet, it was familiar. It made it feel like things were somehow still a little bit the same.

Usually he comes to you with his notebook. The pages are covered in flashes of memories that he’s been having. The problem is he can’t piece them together, and he can’t tell what’s real and what isn’t.

You can only do so much, you can only help so far. But you’re more than happy to. It’s a bit of an out of body experience to read the memories of you from his perspective. Sometimes it’s more than just a memory, sometimes it’s a feeling too.

And those are somewhat reassuring to hear. To know that pieces of you still find a way to stick around. To know that parts of him are still in there beyond what they did to him for all those years.

But tonight seems to be different if the sight of the letter from Rebecca unfolded on the table beside the gun is any indication. It’s your own fault, you’d left it on the bedside table last night. You’d gotten into the habit of rereading it whenever you felt low. He was curious, so he gave it a read. And you’re not sure how he might feel about what he found.

But you don’t want to push. Because right now he’s just looking at you. And there’s some bit of the way he used to look at you in his eyes. Like you’re more than just someone he can trust. It’s like meaning has truly been assigned to you. Meaning that he can’t quite comprehend. And you’re really the only person who can clarify.

Even if clarity feels a bit beyond reason right now. It feels like a trap. Remembering the past isn’t the comfort that you used to think it was when you first woke up. It feels like feeding into delusion. Dreaming of something you can never get back is a waste of time, it’s better to adjust. To suck it up and drive on.

But that’s not always the healthiest way to go about it.

He moves then, but it’s not quick. Not in the blink of an eye kind of way. It’s slow, measured. So that it doesn’t frighten you or make you flinch. His metal hand closes around the letter as gently as possible, picking it up from the wooden surface before he holds it out in your direction.

Your fingers wrap around the familiar paper, and you hold it in your lap as you look down at it. There’s a laundry list of things that he could want to know. But you figure you should start out small. You start with things that are seemingly harmless and won’t strain him too much. And if he wants to know more, maybe he’ll ask.

“Your sister gave this to me, a few years back. She said you sent it to her before, um, before your accident. It was the last letter you ever sent.” You say, and then you reach over to pull open the drawer on your bedside table. You pull out the photo that came with it and carefully hold it out in his direction. He’s hesitant to take it, but after a few seconds it’s pinched between his fingers.

“She, uh, she died about a year ago. She’s buried in a cemetery near Brooklyn. I can take you there some time, if you’d want to see her. Say goodbye.”

You hadn’t had a lot of actual, biological family that you left behind. You’ve stopped at your parents’ graves and you’ve said your goodbye. You’ve said your peace.

You’ve apologized to your mother for not giving her the life she expected. For not being the daughter she wanted. For not giving her the opportunity to be a grandmother and watch you move into that perfect life with the husband, the kids, and the white picket fence.

But it’s not really the kind of life you would’ve wanted. It would’ve made you miserable. But maybe if he’d made it back from the war. If you’d gotten the chance to go and live that perfect life with him. Maybe it wouldn’t have been so bad.

Maybe a nice house, a good marriage, and the sound of little feet clamoring down the hall could’ve been good for you. A nice, simple life. It’s something you wish you had the opportunity for now.

You’ve dreamed about it, and it always leaves your heart feeling a little hollow in your chest when you wake up. Because it’s not real. It doesn’t exist. It never will. Because even if you manage to come back from this, even if he manages to find some semblance of himself again, it will never be like that.

“The letter.” He says, and his voice is rougher than you’ve ever heard. You wonder how long it’s been since he last spoke. “I said…”

You wonder which part he’s referring to. He’d told Rebecca that there was this girl he’d fallen in love with. She was nothing like he’d expected, but he didn’t want to continue his life without her. That, once all this was over, he wanted to bring her back to Brooklyn and marry her. To have this huge ceremony and make his mother proud.

And then for the honeymoon, he wanted to take her on this great vacation. He was writing Rebecca for her help in finding a good place. Some nice beach that would offer no distractions or interruptions. He wanted to find a place where there was no stress and no responsibility. Where the world wouldn’t be weighing down on their shoulders.

He was talking about you. He told her he loved you before he’d even kissed you. He wanted that type of future with you.

He wanted the white dress and the ceremony. He wanted the kids and the house and the white picket fence. He wanted that vacation, the one you two had joked about on that first night you got to know each other.

He wanted everything. And now he’s a man who’s used to having nothing. No identity, no sense of self. He’s without most of his memories. He’s not that person anymore and neither are you. You can’t expect that even if he could remember that he’d still want any of that with you.

“You said you loved me.” You say, fiddling with the curling edge of the page. “You never told me that. Maybe you were going to, but you never got the chance.”

You’re fully convinced that he would’ve said it if he made it back. That you would’ve been able to actually hear those three words from his lips. That, if he made it back, things would’ve been great. They would’ve been perfect.

You would’ve been swept up in his arms, and a kiss would’ve been pressed to your cheek And then another to your lips. And then, in the middle of the celebratory crowd, he would’ve told you that he loved you. And it would’ve been like you were the only two people in the world despite the noise.

If he made it back all of the dominoes would’ve fallen differently. Steve wouldn’t have crashed the plane. You all would’ve been alive and well. You would’ve gone back to Brooklyn and you would’ve built a beautiful life. If it had been different. If it just could’ve been different.

“I never said it either. But I felt it. And I was going to say it, I would have said it.” You say, leaning forward just slightly enough for his dog tags to dangle in front of your chest, “I wish I said it.”

You bring your eyes back to his face only to find that he isn’t even looking at you. He’s looking at your necklace, at the tags hanging from it. He’s reaching forward, but it’s like he doesn’t even realize it. He only hesitates at the last possible second, but you don’t let him.

You reach out, albeit a little too quickly that it has him a bit spooked, and wrap your fingers around his metal wrist. You can feel him stiffen, but he seems to relax the least bit as you move his fingers to wrap around the beaded chain.

The low light catches his name etched in the metal, and you’re not sure what this means to him. You know what it meant to you then, you know that it means even more now. You have never once bothered to take them off.

They’re always close to your heart and you don’t want them anywhere else. But you’d give them up for him. If it would help, if it would spark something, you’d let them go.

“You can have them back if you-” You start, but then his eyes snap up to you and it seems like that’s the last thing he wanted to hear you say. He pulls back the least bit, but his fingers don’t drop from the chain.

“No.” He says, and you smile the smallest thing possible as you look at him. But it doesn’t last long because soon enough he’s standing from the chair. He’s slipping the gun from the table into his waistband, and then he’s heading back towards your window to leave the way he came in. But you can’t just let him go that easily.

“Am I gonna see you again?” You ask, and he stops with his hands on the window frame. He turns his head over his shoulder just slightly, but he doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t nod. He doesn’t give any real hint of an answer. And then he’s gone.

— — —

The world has never felt closer to ending than it does right now as you stand in a government office building staring at the monitor and watching as Bucky is held prisoner, restrained, in a glass box.

The world can’t seem to give anybody a break. Not a few days after your friend’s funeral, not when there’s a bombing on the day that the Sokovia Accords are meant to be ratified.

Not when two of the closest people in your life are just a few feet away, separated by glass walls, arguing like their lives depend on it.

It’s all just a little too much.

Natasha is only a few paces to your left. Her eyes are just as glued to the screen as your own, and you know that you both have the feeling that none of this is going to end well. Either way this goes it will only end in heartbreak and the dissolution of the team that has made you feel at home in this new century.

And you’ve had just about enough.

You storm into the glass room with very little care for appearances and slam your hand down on the table to grab their attention.

“Enough!” You shout, and it reverberates loudly enough that it could almost crack the glass. “Can the two of you just shut up?”

And, to their credit, they both stop. And the silence feels like an uncommon bliss for your pounding head.

“I’m tired of your little pissing contest. It doesn’t matter who’s right. You’re both right. But that does not matter right now. It matters that people are dead and they’re looking for someone to hang a sentence on. And it was not him.” You say, aggressively pointing your finger in the direction of the monitors. “And we all know it.”

You hear Tony sigh your name, and your gaze snaps to him as he looks at you with the sorriest of expressions.

“Look,” He starts, but you shake your head. You’re having none of it.

“I know what you’re going to say. And this is not wishful thinking. I know they have evidence, but we all know that can be easily fabricated. It wasn’t him. He’s not that kind of person.”

“You don’t know him anymore!” Tony shouts, looking like he regrets it as soon as he says it. “I’m sorry, but you don’t. He is not the person you knew in the war. You haven’t seen the guy in years. You don’t know if this is something he would do.”

“I do!” You argue, “I’ve been seeing him for months.” That’s enough to make a pin drop in the formerly loud room.

“What are you talking about?” Tony asks, and you watch as Steve sits up in his chair and focuses his gaze on you.

“He’s been sneaking into my room at the compound. He’s never threatened me, he’s not violent.” You say, eyes practically pleading with Tony’s to get him to believe you.

You know he has the greatest level of pull here. Natasha’s loyalty to Steve raises a red flag if she were to plead for Bucky’s freedom. And neither you nor Steve are reliable sources because of how close you are to the suspect.

Tony has no skin in the game, he has no connection to Bucky. They may believe him, they might actually give him the time of day.

“Tony.” You say, and his eyes find yours once more. “Please.”

You think you’re getting through. You think you’re making headway, like he might actually take your side on this in spite of the Accords, but then the alarms start blaring. The red light starts flashing, and your gaze snaps to the monitor where you see Bucky struggling in the cage.

“Shit.” You mutter, and then you’re taking off through the doors and down the hall. You can hear Steve’s footsteps thundering behind you.

When you finally make it down to the scene it’s all in shambles. The doors are caved in, the liaison is nowhere to be seen. Neither is Bucky. You feel him before you see him.

You’re slammed into the metal of the elevator doors and you lose your footing almost immediately. You wince slightly as your back collides with the cool tile beneath you. And then he’s towering over you, staring at you with eyes that are completely void of emotion. Eyes that are without recognition. It sends a chill through your bones.

“Bucky,” You start, as you try to push yourself up unto your hands. But the sole of his boot comes down to press on your wrist, hard, right over your tattoo. It pins you down, you're fairly certain you hear your bone snap. “Please.”

You’re moving your leg, about to try to use his weight against him, when he reaches down and wraps his hand around your neck. He pulls you up off the ground like you’re nothing more than a rag doll, like you’re weightless. And then you’re being shoved back into the wall, held in place solely by his hand on your throat.

And then he squeezes. He applies pressure and your breath is stolen within a matter of seconds. It feels like each breath is an effort and you’re practically choking on the supply that is left in your lungs. Your hands are scratching at his wrist, not that it does much against the vibranium. It doesn’t even leave a scratch.

“Buck…” He applies a little more pressure and the sound of his name dies in the back of your throat. Your hand closes around his wrist, and you try to pry his hand away from you. But it’s no use.

He applies the least bit more pressure, and your eyes are rolling back into your head. Your vision is blacking out, and then a few seconds later the pressure is lifted. His presence is beyond you, and you’re falling to the ground. Your head smacks against the tile on your way down.

— — —

The incessant beeping is what brings you back. You’re trapped in an unending black abyss because you can’t seem to muster up enough energy to pry your eyes open. Everything feels fuzzy. It’s like your fingers are static and have entirely dissolved from the rest of your body. The way they tingle is almost annoying.

Your throat is perpetually dry to the point that it’s as compromising as an itch that doesn’t go away no matter how much you scratch it. You feel the strangest tickle start to work its way up, and you clear your throat in an attempt to stop it. But the sound of it dies in the back of your throat in the most acidic way.

The feeling sinks back down into your body as your shoulders sag into the hard mattress beneath you. You groan despite yourself, and it’s only then that you hear some shuffling from the other side of the room.

Your head tilts to the right, and in the dim light of a hospital room with the curtains drawn, you spot a familiar silhouette slouched in an achy hospital chair. Whether it’s from exhaustion or annoyance, you really can’t be sure.

That same irksome tickle starts to work its way back up your throat, and you feel like maybe a good sip of water might have a shot at combating the sensation and its maddening nature.

You spot a cup of water on the table beside you, with a bendy straw at the ready, and it feels like the answer to all of your momentary prayers.

You go to reach for it, even if it feels like your arm is a stranger to the rest of your body, only to find your range of motion is rather restricted.

Your eyes drop, albeit slowly, to where your wrist hovers above the thin blanket. The peculiar part is the metal handcuffs that cage in your right wrist, and then as your gaze drifts a few millimeters further you see that it’s attached to the handrail on the side of the bed.

You tug against the restraint, figuring you can probably make quick work of its demise, only to find that it won’t budge. You know you’re a little low on energy right now, but you know you can break a damn pair of handcuffs. With the serum still surging through your body it should be a breeze. But it isn't. The cuffs are still fully intact, no matter how much you struggle.

The metal clinks against the plastic handrail with each pull, and it’s the only sound reverberating in your mind until you hear:

“Good, you’re awake.” It brings your focus back over to that little chair in the corner by the closed bathroom door. Your gaze settles on Tony and you open your mouth to speak, but the sound that comes out is the weakest thing you’ve ever heard. Your unchained hand reaches up to touch at your throat as Tony leans forward in his seat. “Yeah, the doctor said it’ll be hard to talk for a while.”

He sounds a bit remorseful at that, and you can tell his eyes are fixated solely on your neck. You wonder what it looks like. You wonder how bad the bruises are.

But you have a more pressing question. You tuck your arm away from the bed once more, and the cuffs slam against the handrail in an abrupt, and aggressive, clank. Tony drops his head with a chuckle, although it’s entirely void of humor.

“Vibranium.” He answers, like it really tells you much of anything. “I got them from Ross. And,” He says as he rises from the chair, “before you pitch a fit; no, you’re not under arrest.”

You yank your wrist from the bed one last time, it hurts like a bitch, in a demand for clarification. It’s the best you can do given the current circumstances, and you’re growing impatient. You’re sure he can tell.

“Word on the street is that your boy is going to make a break for it at the airport in two hours. Steve’s with him, and a few other strays. I needed to make sure you were accounted for, I can’t have you getting caught in the crossfire any more than you already have.”

That’s the one thing you’ve taken issue with about Tony throughout this whole Accords situation. Everything he’s doing is under the guise of protecting his people. He swears it. But it doesn’t feel like protection. It doesn’t feel like care. It feels like control, and they are not the same thing.

He may be working with the best of intentions, you’re certain he is. But good intentions tend to have bad outcomes. He thinks that he’s doing what’s right and that he knows the best way for the chips to fall. But he doesn’t. At least not this time.

Because the evidence is not enough this time around. Not for you. And, sure, you’re absolutely convinced that he believes you’re fully biased and that you wouldn’t be able to agree that Bucky is guilty out of your own sentimentalities. But it’s more than that.

You’re more objective than that. The evidence feels weak, it feels purposeful. Bucky has enough of a skill set to not get spotted so easily if he did something like that. It was too easy and that, in and of itself, is enough to leave you unconvinced.

“Tony.” You try, but it dies halfway out of your mouth. It’s brittle and it’s raspy. It doesn’t even sound like you. It’s disheartening to say the least.

He drops his head as he braces his palms against the plastic at the foot of the bed. It’s like he can feel the disappointment radiating from you. But you know that all of this is well beyond his capacity for patience.

Someone is going to get hurt no matter how you slice it. Even though he has no intention of hurting anyone, he just wants to stop them. But you know that it won’t end without a fight, and it kills you that he’s trying to keep you on the bench.

Someone has to try and keep this team together, and if you’re absent it looks like you’re taking a side. And the last thing you want is for anyone to believe that you’d ever be on the team that is hunting Bucky for sport.

“You can’t.” It seems to be the wrong thing to say if the way Tony’s hands squeeze around the railing is any indication. “They’ll kill him.”

His gaze snaps up to yours, and he seems the least bit sorry about this turn of events. You’re never one to bet on what’s going on in Tony’s head, but something in the pit of your stomach tells you that he’s just as aware of the possible fallout as you are. You think he even wishes that there’s something he could do.

This is all so far out of your realm of control that it’s sickening. You know with the charges racked up against Bucky there’s no way that he makes it out of this alive if they bring him back in. He has decades worth of deaths to atone for, and no one will be happy with just sticking him in solitary for the rest of his abnormally long life.

He’ll face lethal injection, you’re almost certain. And you’re not sure you can live with that. You’re not sure you can live with sitting in a gallery and watching through a pane of glass as he’s taken away from you. For good this time. You can’t sit there fighting to keep your eyes on him so you don’t have to watch as the last trace of him slips from your skin permanently.

If that’s how all of this plays out it will prove that the universe is crueler than you ever could’ve thought possible when you were that fifteen, going on sixteen, year old girl who would rather stare at the ceiling than sleep and possibly miss the moment the letters appeared.

You’re not sure you can take losing him again.

“You can’t let them…” You cut yourself off with a coughing fit from your aching throat, and Tony is quick to round the bed and grab the cup of water from the bedside table. He holds the cup just below your lips, and you’re grateful as you get the least bit of liquid out of the straw. It’s soothing, barely, but it’s better than nothing.

You look up as you pull your head away from the cup, and you notice how Tony can barely bring himself to meet your eye as he places it back down on the table. It feels like a stalemate. It feels like the split second before they blow the whistle to start a game of tug of war. And then it’s over, the peace is gone as quickly as it came and you’re pulling as hard as you can. You’re trying to gain leverage so you don’t end up with your ass in the dirt.

But the other team is stronger. They have an advantage. They have a greater pull. And they aren’t going to take it easy on you.

“Tony,” You say, if only for the purpose of regaining his attention, “Please.”

You’re not usually one to beg, usually you consider yourself above the idea of pleading with anyone. And you know you tried it earlier. You know that your words fell on unwilling ears just a few hours ago when you were standing with those glass walls. But you have to try.

What is love if it’s not last ditch efforts and hail marys?

“There are guards posted outside the door.” He says, gesturing weakly towards the metal door a few feet away, “They’re under the order to keep you here under any means necessary.”

Your eyes widen and you shake your head as you stare up at him. He at least has the decency to look sorry. You wonder if this was all his idea, if this level of treachery was his brain child or if it came from the likes of Secretary Ross. You’re really hoping it’s the latter.

“Please don’t give them a reason.” He fixes you with one look, and it doesn’t feel like he believes he’s punishing you. It feels like he’s begging this time around. It’s like the last thing he wants is for you to be hurt more than you already have been. So, he’s asking you to keep yourself in line. He’s asking you to be right in this exact spot when he returns.

You’re not sure you can stomach that.

“Tony.” You say, pulling against your restraints again as he starts to put some distance between himself and the bed. “Tony.” You tug once more, it’s almost rapid at this point. The clanging sound grows in its repetitive nature as you try to pull yourself from the mattress and free your hand from the shackles.

You keep calling, even once he’s beyond the doorway. Your eyes track through the blinds covering the window just beside the door, and you can see through the slats that he’s gone over to the nurse’s station.

Your voice, even in its weakened state, manages to carry enough that it’s inevitably disrupting the rest of the patients on the floor. If there even are other patients on this floor. You wouldn’t be surprised if they kept you on a restricted floor.

You can see the nurse’s slightly panicked stare flick towards your door, and a slight frown takes over her face as she nods in response to whatever Tony is saying. And you haven’t the slightest clue what he’s said, but you know that you despise the fact that this woman has acquiesced so quickly.

You know it can’t be anything good.

That much is confirmed as you watch the nurse round the counter and approach your room, although there’s a timidness to her stride as she slips in through the door and beyond the guards. You can see Tony following fairly close behind her, but he stops in the open doorway.

Your heart is pounding as she gets closer, and you focus on her for a few seconds as she fiddles with a cabinet to your left. She’s young, maybe thirty. She still seems sweet, like she hasn’t been beaten down by the world. You wonder what she’s done to get assigned to this detail.

But none of that matters when you watch her pull a syringe out of a basket and grab a little vial from the cabinet. Your heart races as you watch her fill the syringe, and then, with an unsettling calm, she turns in your direction.

“What are you doing?” You ask, trying to make yourself as small as possible. You push as far back into the bed as you can, trying anything and everything to put as much distance between you and that needle as possible.

“Your friend said you’re experiencing some discomfort.” She says, trying her best with a placating smile that does nothing but make the hair on your arms stand up.

“No.” You say, shaking your head as you push yourself back once more like a scared animal. And she just fixes you with the gentlest of glances.

“Everything is going to be just fine.” She says, and then she’s at your bedside. She’s grabbing hold of your IV as fear spikes in your heart.

“I don’t-” You start to say just as she’s pushing down the end of the syringe and the drug is pushed into the line. Your gaze swiftly moves from her to where Tony is still standing in the doorway. You’re almost certain that there are tears shining in his eyes.

Gradually, over the next few minutes, your movements slow. You stop struggling against the cuffs, and your body seems to relax into the mattress beneath you. You don’t peel your eyes from Tony, not for a while.

You’re not even sure how much time has gone by, you just know that he’s not in the doorway anymore. He’s leaning against the wall opposite your room, and he seems to be reconciling with the reality of what he’s put you through.

You hope he realizes just how vile it is.

You keep your eyes on him until you physically can’t fight off the effects of the drug anymore. It must’ve been a strong dose if the weight of your eyelids is anything to go by.

You’re struggling to keep your eyes open, it takes more effort than anything you’ve ever done in your life to try and keep them open between blinks. He’s the last thing you see before you lose the fight and your eyes finally close.

— — —

“I can’t trust my own mind. So until they figure out how to get this stuff out of my head, going back under is the best thing.”

You pull your attention from the glass tube over to the man sitting up on the exam table and your heart breaks at the sight of him. He’s a little worse for wear, but not as bad as he was when Steve brought him here. If Steve’s talents for painting a picture are still so accurate all these years later.

You’d heard about the whole ordeal. About all of the other soldiers that Zemo had unceremoniously put down, and the truth about Howard’s death. Steve told you that he gave up the Shield, and, honestly, the mere mention of Tony was enough to put you in a bad mood right now.

The worst part about it is that you understand it. He was being strategic and taking a player off the board. He knows you well enough to know that you wouldn’t have been able to just stay put. Not even those handcuffs, or the guards, would’ve been enough to hold you. You would’ve dislocated your thumb to break free, and you would’ve thought of some kind of diversion to draw the attention of the guards.

You would’ve been on the tarmac with bells on if it meant you had half a chance at keeping Bucky safe. He understands that. If it had been Pepper he would’ve been in the same state. A part of you wonders if you can really fault him if you would’ve done the same thing.

You’ve decided that, for the time being, the answer is yes. You need time to be mad about it before you can even entertain the idea of things being okay between the two of you again.

You push away from the wall and take a few steps towards the boys. You watch Bucky’s gaze center on you and a piece of you eases at the reminder that he’s still here. For the time being he is still right here with you. You can see him and talk to him, and, if you’re feeling brave, you can touch him.

“For everybody.” He finishes, and your shoulders sink as his gaze drops down to your neck.

You were smart enough to cake yourself in makeup this morning to hide any of the remaining bruising. Thankfully the expedient healing provided by the serum made it so that your bruises were faint. They were barely even there. But he’s a glutton for punishment and you knew he’d be able to find them anyway. So you made them undetectable.

Steve seems like he wants to argue, and you don’t blame him. Your skin crawls at the idea of him being put back in one of those tubes. But it’s his call, one of the few decisions he’s made for himself in over seventy years. You aren’t going to fight him on it.

That doesn’t mean it’s easy to watch him go through with it. It’s torture to stand next to Steve and watch as the lid slides up and seals him in the chamber. You actually can’t watch as the glass starts to frost.

You kick yourself for not saying something. Anything. It felt like too wide a chasm to jump, especially since his gaze had been everywhere but on you aside from the times where he couldn’t tear his focus from your neck.

The two of you linger by the chamber for a few minutes longer, almost like you’re waiting to make sure it worked. Waiting for word that he’s perfectly fine in there before you can even fathom taking a step away and leaving him like that.

Eventually you’re able to pull yourself away, and the two of you navigate the seemingly never ending halls of the Wakandan palace. The sound of your footsteps echo down the corridor with each step forward. But it fizzles out rather quickly as the both of you slow to a stop outside of a grand window overlooking gorgeous fog covered mountains.

The weight of the unspoken things between you and Steve has been on your mind for days. You can’t get over the betrayal in his eyes when you’d confessed to your rendezvous with Bucky over these last few months. You knew that you wouldn’t be able to get out of this without a little bit of explanation.

You clear your throat with the least bit of hesitation before you say:

“Thanks for bringing me here.”

Steve was responsible for your arrival in Wakanda. If he could break into a highly secure government prison in the middle of the ocean, he could break into a hospital. You don’t have any recollection of the rescue.

In fact, you hadn’t come to until you found yourself in an incredibly plush bed in the quarters of the palace. You’d found out that Secretary Ross thought it’d best to keep you comfortable. And by that he meant docile. He wanted to make sure you wouldn’t be a problem.

Clearly he doesn’t know much about you at all.

“He asked me to.” He says, crossing his arms over his chest as he leans against a pillar and fixes you with a glance that you don’t dare to meet. It feels loaded. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I wanted him to make the choice.” You say, sliding your hands into your front pockets. “He’s had so little control for most of his life, I wasn’t going to be another person to call the shots for him.”

He seems to accept that, although you can tell he’s hurt that Bucky didn’t trust him enough to come back and see him. It pains him that Bucky had been in the same place as him, separated by only a matter of walls, and he hadn’t had any idea. And it had been by design. You’re not sure the sting of that will ever really go away.

But you know that you have bigger fish to fry right now. Well, him more so than you. All you have to do is return to the states and find somewhere new to set down roots. You’re still not implicated in anything and you technically haven’t done anything illegal. As far as the government’s concerned you’ve been kidnapped by Steve Rogers.

You know him well enough to know that he didn’t bother wiping the hospital security footage for this one. If there was ever a time to give Senator Ross the finger, it was right now. He’d more than earned it with the shit that he’d put your friends through. What he’d put Bucky through.

Seeing Bucky’s name cleared, and the compassion that had been displayed by T’Challa and the Wakandans, had chipped away at the hardened bits of your heart. You’d been worried what would become of Bucky after all of this.

He’d avoided a death sentence, but only narrowly. And you’re fairly certain that he won’t be staring down the barrel of a government pardon at the end of all of this. But maybe that’s just you being pessimistic.

The only thing you can really rely on at the moment is your ability to see the worst case scenario. You’re not sure how to even break yourself of that habit because you know that it has rarely steered you in the wrong direction. And you’re not sure if anyone else is really operating with any sense of direction at the moment.

All you know is there’s always a fight and you’d be a fool to believe it’ll be different now.

“What’s next?”

— — —

A world without the Avengers seemed like a bit of a foreign concept to most people. They’d gotten used to a team of heroes who would be there to protect them when their backs were against the wall.

It had come with its own level of difficulty to let go of the team from the other side of the curtain. You used to have something to hold onto that could make the world make a little more sense, but it was gone before you really even knew it. Before you could really even learn how to miss it.

So you sat and watched as the world around you changed again. You watched as Tony threw himself into his work and you waited for any word from whatever secret location Steve, Sam, and Natasha had themselves holed up in. It felt like being pulled between two sides, even if the choice wasn’t really one you could make.

Even after what had happened in Germany. Tony had apologized. Well, he apologized in the best way he could. Even if the words “I’m sorry” never came out of his mouth. Even still, you’ve kept your distance.

You decided that if the world was changing then maybe you should change with it, but not in the ways you did before. You should change in a way that actually serves you instead of everybody else.

So you moved out of your apartment in the city as soon as your lease was up and you found a house further upstate. A house that Tony generously helped you pay for, even though you really didn’t want to take his money.

You purchased a house that was almost a century old, a relic of architecture and it felt too good to pass up. It felt like an opportunity to bring together the modern world and the world you used to live in. And it was heaven.

Shutting out the world for the first time in over five years was more relaxing than you could’ve imagined it would be. You worried it was going to be mind numbing and that you’d be itching to be right back in the field purely out of habit. But it wasn’t like that at all.

You settled into a life of grocery store runs and trips to the antique book store a few streets over. You got used to the ease of delivery for dinner and having a place that you can truly call your own.

You may have gone a little overboard when it came to the decorating. You kind of dove head first into it. Maybe it was a distraction from the way everything fell apart so fantastically, but at least it was productive.

You found yourself caring about things like wallpaper or paint. It was meant to be more than just a place to sleep. And, piece by piece, it became a home.

It slowly came together with a green velvet couch, and a fresh coat of paint, and the most comfortable mattress you’d ever slept on in your entire life. It became a place that you felt good settling into. It felt good to find out who you are within those four walls. It felt like an entirely different life than the one you’d been living for so long.

But nothing good can last forever, you’d learned that lesson a long time ago.

You’d been corresponding with Steve every now and again either through letters sent to safehouses under aliases or calls from burner phones. There was no future where the two of you weren’t keeping in touch, not after everything, but you figured it was going to just be that. It would just be you guys talking every now and then.

But of course it got more complicated than that. Because about a year after you moved into your new place three fugitives turned up at your doorstep looking for a place to sleep and lay low for a couple of days. And you weren’t going to turn them away. Although some small part of you wishes you had.

It felt like they didn’t belong there. They stood out against everything and none of them could manage to relax into the furniture and make themselves at home.

Maybe the life you’ve created can’t coexist with the one you had. Maybe you’re moving on from the things that have kept you afloat for longer than you can remember. It’s a strange thing to feel like you’ve outgrown the things that once felt like home.

It’s even stranger to feel like you’ve outgrown the people that once felt like family.

You showed Natasha to the guest room, which has been made up for months on the off chance that you’d be having visitors, and you fished a blow up mattress out of the back of your closet for Steve. Sam had been quick to claim the couch.

And you barely slept a wink that night. You tossed and turned, and contemplated giving up on the tradition entirely. You thought about heading out to the kitchen and grabbing a midnight snack, but decided against it on the likely chance you’d wake your guests.

The hours seemed to move so slowly as you stated at your ceiling with only the constant ticking of the clock to keep you company.

You wondered how long they’d be staying. You’d kept your questions to a minimum, fully convinced that the less you knew the better. It’d be one less way to incriminate yourself.

You’d grown a smidge more paranoid through life in the twenty-first century. Especially after the Accords. Some small, nagging part of you was convinced that Secretary Ross had eyes on you at all times to make sure you stayed in line. You’d seen black SUVs, with blacked out windows, every now and again. In the most innocuous parts of town.

It made even the most peaceful of days feel like a reminder of the things that could be waiting for you if you dared to step beyond your purview. The sight of one of those SUVs through the picture window could make even this lovely little home feel like a cage.

You wondered if they had eyes on you at that very moment. If they saw your guests arrive a few hours ago and if they’d already made a call to the secretary. You wondered who could be waiting on your doorstep in the morning.

It’s the perfect reason to curl further into the covers and bury your head beneath the pillows to try and block out the harsh awakening of daylight. But you know it’s pointless.

Sleep is not coming and it’s useless to even continue to try. Tossing and turning isn’t going to do anybody any good. It’s five-thirty when you crawl out of bed and you throw on some clothes. You lace up your running shoes and sneak out the back door for a chance to clear your head.

You did a lap around the neighborhood. You even stopped at a cafe a few blocks over to grab food because it had been a while since your last trip to the grocery store and you knew the offerings for breakfast would be slim to none.

You had only just gotten back, you were just putting pastries on plates and starting a pot of coffee, when a cell phone started blaring in the other room. And everything just went to shit from there.

Before you knew it you were in London saving Wanda and Vision’s skin, and then, of course, that wasn’t the end of it. You were sat in the back of the quinjet with your fingers anxiously playing at the frayed ends of the seat belt strap on the way to Wakanda.

You didn’t know much of what was going on. The details were still a little fuzzy. Steve had just stressed that there was a potential extinction level event on your hands, and really what kind of person would you be if you just sat it out and let it happen without even trying to help. You weren’t sure you’d be able to stomach the sight of yourself in the mirror if you did.

The flight was fine, aside from the gnawing pit in your stomach that only grew with each mile you traveled. You weren’t sure what you’d find once you landed. You weren’t even sure if Shuri and her team had managed to cure Bucky of Hydra’s lingering hold.

You’d corresponded with Shuri a number of times, but eventually, after long enough of no real progress, it just felt like watching hope die a slow death.

It became a little too cruel to continue checking. You were sure Steve knew, you’re absolutely certain he knows what’s going on with Bucky. You’re sure he knows if he’s still on ice or not. But you also know that if Bucky wanted you to know that then he would’ve had Steve tell you.

You’re not used to feeling like you can’t trust your friends, Steve least of all. But you just know that he’s been keeping this from you. And you can’t throw stones, you know you can’t because you kept Bucky’s visits a secret from him. You’re aware that feeling off kilter about the idea of this secrecy is hypocrisy at its finest. But you couldn’t help it.

You couldn’t help the way the hairs on your arms stand up as the jet flies straight into a wall of trees only for them to disappear at the last second as the Wakandan palace comes into view.

You unclicked your seatbelt clasp and the straps fell away as you stood and made your way towards the cockpit. You stopped when you were shoulder to shoulder with Steve and you could see the crowds of soldiers that were swarming the premises in preparation for whatever may be coming your way.

But there’s no sign of him yet.

And you know that he probably doesn’t look the way he did the last time you saw him. You know, if he’s even been brought out to thaw yet. You figure they’d recruit a great soldier for a situation like this. But you can’t even be confident in the idea of that. You won’t be until you see him. If you see him.

The jet touched down not even two minutes later, and you watched as the walkway lowered and then you were face to face with T’Challa and the Dora Milaje. You hadn’t seen him in years.

You haven’t seen him since the day when he extended great compassion and kindness in the face of his own tragedy. It was commendable. It was admirable. You’re not sure you would’ve been able to do the same if the roles were reversed.

His eyes only met yours for a second, maybe even less than that, but it felt like a little too much. You weren’t able to hold his gaze, as though some part of you was disappointed in the infrequency of your own returns to Wakanda. It had been two years and you hadn’t set foot on Wakandan soil since that first time. And you should have. You know you should have. You were a coward.

You still are. Because as much as you want to see Bucky, as much as it would settle your unsteady heart to lay eyes on him, you’re scared of what you might find. You’re scared of the state he might be in.

You’re nervous that his steps into a life in this future may be similar to yours in that they distance him from the things that confine him to the person he used to be. You fear that those memories, those people, only serve as reminders of the skeletons in his closet and the ghosts that haunt the graveyard of his heart. You worry that you’re one of them.

You’re not sure you’re ready to face all of that. It’s why, until now, you’ve made yourself scarce. It had been eighty years since the two of you were planning much of anything together. It wasn’t a life, it was barely anything. It was a vacation, and it wasn’t even real. It was the butt of a joke. It was an escape beyond the hellscape you’d been residing in for all those months. You and Bucky weren’t anything, really.

You were a matter of the cosmos. All the two of you had now was the idea that the universe believed the two of you belonged in each other's lives. But that doesn’t matter much anymore. You spot those letters on your arm at least once a day and it’s like time stops every time it happens.

It feels like waiting on something that is never going to happen. And you can’t even be mad about it because he deserves the adjustment period that you’d had. He deserves the chance to figure out what he wants his life to look like once it’s in his control. He doesn’t have any ties to you. He hasn’t had any proof of it beyond the recesses of his memory since he took that fall.

He’s just Bucky. He isn’t Sergeant Barnes and he isn’t the Winter Soldier. He’s Bucky. And he deserves the chance to figure out who that is without the weight of anyone’s expectations.

But your brain and your heart can never seem to be on the same wavelength. Because all of that, all of that logic and reasoning, seems to go out the window when you catch sight of him. When you see him looking better than you’ve seen in years. When his smile and the shine in his eyes is the closest to the man you remember than it has been in the last five years.

It’s hard to reconcile the differences. It’s difficult to keep yourself at a distance, even though you know it’s for the best. You want to be selfish, you want to be like Steve. You want to be standing right in front of Bucky and you want to wrap your arms around him. You want to give him a good long look and commit every last detail to memory, like you haven’t already done that a million times over through your memory over these last few years.

You want to take ownership of all of the moments that were stolen from you over the last eight decades. But it is neither the time nor the place. So you stay where you are. You decide to be a bystander secluded to the outskirts and you try your best to be happy with that.

You wish you hadn’t. You wish you had just taken a step forward, that you had dared to take up space when his eyes met yours. You wished you’d responded and taken the initiative to try when his eyes were practically beckoning you forward.

You wish you’d done everything differently. You wish you’d visited Wakandan more frequently. You wish you’d kept in touch with Shuri and gotten every single update to the point that you were someone she loathed hearing from. You wish you’d actually sent the letter that you’d written in the dark of a three am gloom during one of your first sleepless nights in your house.

You wish you’d grown a pair. You wish you’d done everything because now there’s no chance at all. Now you’re stuck standing in the middle of the forest, just a few paces behind where Steve sits in the dirt letting some dust slip through his fingers. Now you’re staring at the space where Bucky’s boots used to be and you’re replaying the sound of him calling for Steve on an endless loop in your brain. You’re waiting for it to take you too. Because the universe could do you that kindness, couldn’t it? Just this once, just this time around.

You’re not asking much. You’re just asking for a chance at the things that you always should have had. Because you don’t know what kind of sick and twisted destiny the universe drew out for you, but it can’t be this. This is not the epitome of the stories that you were told as a little girl who was just far too excited about the world to even dare falling asleep at a reasonable hour. It has to get better than this, it just has to.

So you wait. And you wait. And you wait some more with your head tilted to the sky in the midst of people who have all gone bone chillingly silent. And you know that it’s over. You’re not going anywhere. He left you behind, again, and there’s nothing you can do to catch up.

In a bit of a last ditch effort, as the smallest sign that there is even still a reason to have hope in the blasphemous universe, you roll up your sleeve. You let your eyes fall to your wrist and for the first time since your fifteenth year, there’s nothing there. It’s gone. He’s gone.

— — —

Five years is a long time to live with the weight of colossal failure on your shoulders. It’s a long time to try and reconcile with such egregious loss and tremendous grief. It’s not nearly long enough.

You’re fairly certain you’ll spend the rest of your life regretting everything about that day. You’ll regret not being able to stop Thanos. You’ll regret not being able to save all of the people who disappeared that day. And you’ll regret all of the pain that has been left on the people who have been left behind.

That day has been more than enough to convince you that you had been on the right track after the Accords. Disappearing was the right call. Carving out your own little piece of the world had been the right move. Trying to change it, trying to regain the person you used to be, had been useless. It had been catastrophic, in fact. It had been a waste.

Five years offered plenty of time for reflection. Not that it has always been for the better, but it has been necessary. Things are different this time around. You’ve lost a million times over in the past, you’ve lost him six ways to Sunday. But this time is different, this time feels permanent. It took a while to become agreeable to that fact, and you aren’t the only one.

There are plenty of people who are still knee deep in the denial phase of the grieving process. They’re right there with you. Even if that doesn’t mean much. Even if it only makes it feel worse that all of you have been given the short end of the stick.

It doesn’t matter, not anymore. In a situation like this the only choice is to eventually move on and adjust to the way your life is now. Even if it’s something you’ll never be able to get used to. It’s almost as jarring as waking up in Tony’s lab. It’s almost worse than that. It’s numbing. But eventually going through the motions has to turn into agency. You have to start taking control because this is starting to look like the rest of your life, and you can’t just spend the rest of eternity wallowing.

No matter how appealing it might sound. It’d be all too kind to curl up under your blankets and never peek your head back out for a sliver of the sight of the light of day. It would be easier. Surely it’d be gentler than whatever is in store for you by getting out of bed every morning and trudging in on the face of your ineptitude.

Your friends had been worried at first. They’d taken turns, shifts really, in driving up from the city to check on you. They’d been doing the grocery shopping and they’d been telling you about the things they’d been hearing from the rest of the group. The latest team gossip, if you will. It didn’t do much.

You barely even acknowledged them. And it was worrisome. You knew it was getting bad when both Steve and Tony had shown up and you could hear them bickering in the hallway about what to do with you. If they should get a professional in or to go as far as having you committed. They were all talk, you knew that much as you were laid up in your covers. Besides, it’s not like you were catatonic or anything. You still responded every now and then. You’d answered some of their calls.

You had enough of your faculties to operate the television and to send yourself into a spiral through the news tab on your phone. It just went beyond what they were used to from you.

It had only been a couple weeks. At that point you felt you were entitled to the opportunity to mourn the last eighty years of your history before you up and moved on with your life. You felt you should be allowed that kindness.

You told them that much. Although the use of the word telling was putting it too kindly. Your tone was less than sweet, but it was nothing short of genuine. Your throat was hoarse and your voice was scratchy from disuse. But it still carried over the sounds of their arguing tones, it brought both their attention to you. And it shut down whatever plans they were making.

It would have been a disservice to everything you’ve been through if you had just adopted the suck it up and drive on mentality. It would’ve been detrimental to just act as though nothing was wrong and just chug forward without a thought to everything you’ve lost.

It was unhealthy, yet your methods seemed more unhealthy on the surface level. You’re certain that the rest of them haven’t even given themselves a minute to breathe. They’ve just kept moving and have thrown themselves into anything and everything they can. They’re public figures and no one is going to be turning their help away at a time like this. No matter what the Accords might dictate.

You rejoined the world about a month and a half after the tragedy. You didn’t subscribe to the same level of public appearance as the rest of the team did. Which was fine because you’d always been categorized as a bit of a back burner Avenger. You weren’t one of the stars, you didn’t have instagram fan pages and you didn’t have people jumping down some stranger’s throat when they left a comment that even leaned towards anything less than positive.

No one was banging down your door and demanding that you show up to this public outreach opportunity. You did it anyway, you showed up as often as you could. You made yourself available. You found yourself doing work through the Stark Industries outreach programs and you also split your time through Steve’s charitable nature.

The public outcry for something from the Avengers quieted down after the first year. It was still appreciated. It was still recognized when any of you stepped up and did what any decent human being should do in a crisis like this. But it was less necessary, it was less needed. People weren’t reeling in quite the same way as they had been.

Many people were starting to accept the fact that the solution is entirely out of your hands. There’s nothing any of you can possibly do to fix it. Thanos had won. He had destroyed the stones, there was nothing any of you could do to fix it. The public seemed to come to terms with the reality of that sooner than any of you did.

It’s not like they had any part in stopping it, it’s not like any of them could really do anything to reverse it. It’s not something that should rest on their shoulders. But it’s a burden you are meant to carry. That’s what you get for going with them that morning. Even though the guilt would be worse if you hadn’t gone. You know that. You just wish there was no reason for guilt to be involved.

Eventually it proved easier to act like none of this happened in the first place. It was easier to lean the least bit into delusion and act like your life was exactly the same as it had been post Avengers dissolution. You made the decision to dive into the idea head first and create your own slice of paradise in that little house.

You had redone the renovations that you did when you initially bought the house, anything to just keep busy. Then, after about another year or so, you decided you liked having somewhere to go and something to do. So you got a job at that little antique bookstore a couple blocks over.

You learned how to knit, which is something your grandma had tried to teach you when you were young and she didn’t want to deal with the exuberant energy of a child. You’re not particularly good at it, the most you can get away with is a scarf. But most of them just end up as unfinished scraps. At least it’s something to keep your hands busy as your latest binge watch drones in the background.

You finally learned to cook. Realistically it’s still a miracle that you’d managed to dodge that part of the housewife lessons from your mother during your adolescence. But you find that you enjoy it when it’s a skill you possess beyond the sole purpose of making sure your husband doesn’t starve after a long day at work. Because God forbid a man should know how to fend for himself.

But when you’re cooking for yourself. When you’re doing it for the enjoyment and experimentation of trying out something new. And the moment when you nail a dish that you’ve relentlessly been trying to perfect is a win unlike any other. There are probably well over a hundred cook books littering the house by now. Some have managed to make the shelf, but the others, the ones that are the most well loved, have wound up in a stack just outside the kitchen doorway.

You’re still absolutely hopeless at baking. Cooking is more like improv, and baking is like math homework. You have to follow the steps to the letter and one innocent little mistake can leave you with food poisoning in the form of a sad excuse for bundt cake. It’s not pretty. It’s better when you stick to seeking out your sweets from the grocery store aisle.

You’ve caught up on practically every major pop culture moment since your freezing. Not all of them have been worth it, some of them just have not hit the spot. Others have been a rather pleasant surprise.

It’s been easier than expected to settle back into this cozy little life. There are the occasional interruptions every now and then. You’ve had Natasha stay over for the weekend more times than you can count. The first time it had been at Steve’s request, he was worried about her. He felt she needed to get out of the compound and be reminded of the parts of the world that are still hanging around. She had, unsurprisingly, been reluctant to agree. But she eventually relented.

You cooked, as you were fairly certain she hadn’t ventured away from good old fashioned takeout in a minute. It had gone well, so well that she had actually initiated the next stay over on her own without anyone else’s instigating tendencies.

There had been dinner parties here and there in which everyone in attendance tried to remain civil. Turns out they’re not very good at that. Thankfully nothing ever got broken and raised voices were brought back down rather quickly. But it still got more out of hand than you would have preferred.

Your friendships could all coexist, just as long as they weren’t forced to have to be in the same room as each other. That had been a proven disaster, so the groups invited to dinner had changed over the years. You figured it was safer that way. Calmer. And the one thing you all deserve is a little peace after everything you’ve been through.

So you committed to that ideology. You doubled down on the idea of happiness and serenity. Self sufficiency and the idea that you can make your life a happy one even if it hasn’t all gone to plan. It still feels a bit like lunacy. It feels like a child’s pipe dream, the kind that they have in an easy sleep. And when they tell their parents about it the next morning, it’s written off as being adorable.

The idea of it had been so much simpler back in the day. The execution and the reality of it were probably close to the same. True happiness seems like it will be unattainable no matter what year you’re living in. Because people seem to be their own worst enemies and it seems impossible to ever be fully happy with what you have at your fingertips.

You’re designed for greed, just like everyone else is. That doesn’t go away no matter how much you try to ignore it. So you decide to channel that greed into other avenues. You channel into building new skills and finding new hobbies.

You funnel it into the garden in your backyard. You started it in the spring of the fourth year and you’d been going strong ever since. It had been going so well that you’d actually paid for a booth at the local farmer’s market in the heat of the summer and sold some of what you’d grown. It was by no means your chosen career path, you weren’t committed enough to it for that to be your reality. But the extra pocket change has been nice.

It’s also quiet and it gives you time to not have to think about the rest of the world and everything that goes on beyond your gate and your front door. You don’t even have to think about whoever is out for a jog down the sidewalk or is driving down the street to get to the movie theater for a matinee showing.

The only thing you need to focus on is you and what you’re doing. Although, you’re not above admitting that you got distracted by the dog you rescued about six months back. He’s still a puppy, he’s still learning. And he loves attention, he absolutely eats it up. So, when you’re out in the yard, he’s never far behind. He loves to roll around in the grass, and, more often than not, he’ll stop next to you and roll over so he can get a belly rub. It’s cute. It’s an expected distraction, but it’s still cute nonetheless.

You’re planting a new set of seeds, hoping that you won’t manage to screw these ones up like you did the last batch, when your arm starts tingling. Well, it’s itchier than anything else. You assume that it’s just a bug on your arm like it has been a million times before. You pay it no mind aside from quickly slapping at the spot to hopefully get rid of whatever might be heading on a little adventure towards your shoulder.

And it goes away. The feeling dies down and you almost forget about it. Until another twenty or so minutes go by and it happens again. So you move your hand, the one that is not currently covered in dirt, and scratch at the skin above your left wrist. The feeling is more incessant this time around and it takes a bit before it goes away.

Just as you’re about to get back to work the feeling returns, but with a vengeance this time. It’s not just an itch. It’s not a buzzing nuisance that will become just mind numbing enough that you won’t even notice it after a while. It starts to sting, like your skin is starting to peel itself from your bones. It hurts like hell, and it gets you up off your knees and has you heading for the hose on the ground by the back door.

You rinse off your one hand and then dry it on the small towel you’d left on the table on the back patio. You walk towards the back door and pull your left sleeve up to get a good look at what’s happening to your arm. You nearly trip over the leg of a chair, coming to a stop in front of the kitchen window at the sight of it.

The letters are back. They look just like they never left and you can’t even begin to understand how that’s even possible. Because they would’ve told you if there was a way to fix all of this, wouldn’t they? Wouldn’t they have wanted you in on it? Wouldn’t they have wanted your help?

You lift your head with a shake as you resolve to head inside and grab your phone. You’ll just give Steve a call, and he’ll explain everything. Except, you don’t get that far. When you lift your head you spot someone standing at the end of your driveway through the picture window at the other end of the house.

Long brown hair, a bomber jacket, a somber expression. It doesn’t feel real. This can’t actually be happening.

It seems like he’s working up the nerve to take the few steps and make it to the porch. It looks like he’s trying to find the courage to knock on the door and walk into the life that you’ve created. It doesn’t last long.

It’s like he can feel someone watching him, and his gaze moves towards the window and then he spots you just like you’ve spotted him. His eyes go comically wide, and you would be smiling if you could even really process what’s going on. You take a step to your right, and then another, and before you know it you’re heading towards your gate and you’re passing over into your front yard.

He’s taken a step back off the gravel path to the door and he’s down on the cement sidewalk by your mailbox when you make it around the side of the house. He looks worried, nervous even about what you might say. About whether or not you actually want to see him. Little does he know it’s one of the only things you want.

The closer you get, the more flustered he seems to get. He’s fiddling with the fingers on his left hand as you approach and he’s searching for something to say. An explanation, maybe. You’re not quite sure. You don’t much care. Not right now.

“Steve gave me the address.” He says, and it comes out in a rush. Like it’s an exhale of breath. Like it’s something he’s been holding in that he just needs to let out into the world. You don’t say anything, and he seems to take that as a bad sign. He flounders for something else to say. “I should’ve-”

But you don’t care to hear the rest of it. Your momentum slows only slightly as you get in front of him and his eyes can’t seem to leave yours when you’re just a hair’s breadth away. Good.

You reach up, cupping his cheeks, and pull his face down to press your lips against his. Taking the words right out of his mouth.

Your entire soul is poured into that kiss, and he doesn’t seem to know how to respond. He freezes, bless his heart. His hands are dead in the air just shy of your hips. But you don’t pull away, you don’t give into the shock of it all. It takes him a few seconds, but then his hands are settling on your hips and he’s pulling you flush against him. You grin against his lips, you can’t help it.

You pull away, just barely. His forehead is pressed against yours, and you grin through your own heavy breathing. Your eyes are still closed, but you can feel his stare on your face.

“I’ve been waiting eighty years to do that again.” You finally say, and you hear him laugh. It’s a shy little thing. It’s a reminder of the man who laid out under the stars with you, the man who asked you to dance in a pub amidst the noise of drunken revelry.

“Was it as good as you were hoping for?” He asks, and you pull back just enough to be able to look at him. To see the little bit of nerves that he’s trying to hide with some hint of cockiness. You’ve missed it.

You don’t bother to answer with words, you just lean up for another kiss and he doesn’t waste a single second this time around. Your hands slip from his face and then twine around his neck. One of your hands reaches up into his hair and tangles into the brunette strands. It’s heaven.

You don’t ever want it to end. You curse the fact that you’ll eventually need to come up for air. After so long it feels criminal that something as trivial as breathing should get in the way of this moment.

But there are some plus sides to those mandatory breaks. At least it means you get to look at him. You get to take him in and you get to see how healthy he looks. The same as he looked that last day in Wakanda. He looks healthy. And despite the weight of your lifetimes, he seems happy. There’s a glint in his eyes that has you smiling back at him before you can even really help it.

You can tell that some of your neighbors have gathered on their porches and are watching the display. It’s not like you’ve been particularly shy about it. But you also find that you don’t care. Right now you don’t care about anything that isn’t Bucky Barnes.

“So,” He says, and it breaks you from your reverie as you bring your eyes back to his. “Did you ever go on that vacation?”

You laugh, you can’t help it. You watch as he grins back at you, and you shake your head with the fondest of smiles as you pull him back in for one more kiss.

#bucky barnes x reader #40s!bucky barnes x reader #borntobewondering

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marvel-universe-of-masterlists · 7 months

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to my sweetheart.

40s!bucky barnes x f!reader. [WC]

Summary: No one at his battalion knows about her, but they all see Sgt. Barnes writing the letters. Everyone wonders what does he have to say—how can so many words fit in him when he has so few to spare most of the time, but at the end of the day, all that matters is that when he receives his replies, Barnes looks happy. Glowing.

📝: This was based on this post. if you like it, reblogs and comments make all the difference. talk to me about it and i’ll adore ya. updates will be every Saturday. pay attention to the warnings in every chapter. given canon, this work will not have a happy ending, but the journey, hopefully, will be beautiful and worth it. i hope everyone enjoys it.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤread on ao3 | masterlist

→ s.w.a.l.k. (07/01) ㅤsealed with a lot of kisses — june;

→ v.e.n.i.c.e. (14/01) ㅤvery excited now i caress everywhere — july;

→ b.u.r.m.a. (21/01) ㅤbe upstairs ready my angel — august;

→ h.o.l.l.a.n.d. (28/01) ㅤhope our love lives, lasts and never dies — september;

→ i.t.a.l.y. (04/02) ㅤi trust and love you — november;

→ m.a.l.a.y.a. (11/02) ㅤmy ardent lips await your arrival — december;

→ b.e.l.f.a.s.t. (18/02) ㅤbe ever loving, faithful, and stay true — Winter Soldier's epilogue.

#usernexusnyx #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes series #40s!bucky x reader #pls tag me

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marvel-universe-of-masterlists · 11 months

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Part Of Your World ~ p.p

Pairing: Peter Parker X Mermaid!reader

synopsis: Peter meets a girl who dreams of being where the people are

chapter one: under the sea

chapter two: kiss the girl

chapter three: out of the sea

chapter four: where the people are

chapter five: coming soon

#funniest fic ever #peter parker fluff

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marvel-universe-of-masterlists · 1 year

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Typos - Masterlist

Summary: What happens when he texts the wrong number and suddenly there are memes and friendships involved.

Keep reading

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marvel-universe-of-masterlists · 1 year

Text

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marvel-universe-of-masterlists · 1 year

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unconventional methods - chapter 1

Summary: Bucky Barnes has a big problem: he is too anxious to date and too old school to enjoy porn. But he needs some kind of relief, and he needs it right now.

After getting an accidental boner during a mission, Natasha suggests him an application that seems to be exactly what he needs.

Will your content solve the problem for him? Or will it create new problems?

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader (SHIELD Agent Bucky Barnes x Adult Content Creator Reader)

Word Count: 5.7K

Warnings: 18+ NSFW MINORS DNI, sex deprivation, adult content creation, sexy lingerie, sexy photos and videos, male masturbation, self-doubt, overthinking, flirting, sexting, sending explicit content to each other, pet names, mutual masturbation, jealousy, feeling possessive (nothing toxic), hiding the real identity, no mention of y/n.

A/N: This was such a random idea but as I started to think about it, more details came to me. After a point, it became impossible not to write.

In this story, Bunny is the reader but we view most of the story from Bucky’s side so there’s no use of you during the story. We don’t know what the reader is up to, how she feels about stuff. Only as much as Bucky knows or sees. That’s why the reader is mentioned as she mostly.

>> indicates incoming messages and << indicates outgoing messages in this story.

This story is not exactly how it seems but I don’t want to spoil it by revealing things too soon. Just stick around, if you wanna know how things will turn out to be.

Again, a big thank you to @notafunkiller for helping me every step of the way. She helped me the moment I felt stuck or something felt off, beta read the whole story and turned this into a readable piece. Thanking her won’t be enough. I would literally add her as a co-writer if that was possible on Tumblr.

All work is mine, please do not repost or translate without my permission.

Every like, comment and reblog is highly appreciated. Don’t hesitate to message me or send me a question regarding the stories I write. I would love to talk about it and no, it would never bother me as long as it’s not a hate comment. They are never welcome.

Read more tag starts after the first paragraph of the story.

Bucky wasn’t sure if he should do this. He looked at the paper Natasha handed him and then back at the screen again. The internet browser was open for a while, but he couldn’t decide what to do. It felt weird to be in this position. It didn’t feel right… but why was it wrong again? She was sharing her own content: whatever she was comfortable with. They were all there for people to see if they wanted to, right? He took a deep breath, started to type the link Natasha wrote down for him, and pushed enter quickly before he changed his mind.

The page loaded quickly, but all he could see was her profile picture and the header. There was a huge subscribe button and under it, he could see how many posts she had, different subscription options, etc. He scrolled back up to look at her photos. They were not clickable, but her profile picture was her in blue lingerie and cute bunny ears, which made him smile for a second. Then he looked at the header. She was on all fours, staring directly into the camera. It was a different look. Not that “I’m trying to look sexy” look that usually turned him off when it came to porn. It felt genuine somehow. How genuine it could be under these circumstances…

He looked at her profile picture for a while, thinking what could go wrong? A lot of people were doing this, weren't they? Some people were making money, some were paying for it. It wasn't that different from buying a dirty magazine. No, actually this was better because she had all the creative control over her own content. She was the one putting it out there. If that was not consent, then what was? He quickly created an account for himself, using a new email account like Natasha suggested. He didn’t need anyone to find out about this.

The next part felt like falling into a rabbit hole because dear god… She looked gorgeous! She had some free content that didn’t show much. Different poses in different lingerie. The photos were serving their purpose, making you want to subscribe and see more… of her. So he kept looking for a while.

There was something about her that made her so much more attractive, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. He clicked next, looking at her pic in front of the mirror, with her legs wide open, but not actually showing anything. The slight smile on her face was warm and inviting. He knew he had no other option than to subscribe and see all of her content. He needed to see more.

The process didn't take long. After unlocking the special content, he just stared at the screen. How can she be real? He palmed his face, feeling nervous like he was on a first date with this attractive woman. He knew he wasn't. She was way out of his league, but he still felt nervous and intrigued while checking out all the content. There were so many different options and he didn’t know where to start.

At first, he decided to go slow and just check a couple of nude photos. The pics were in order, showing her getting rid of one piece of clothing with each new shot. It started with her fully dressed, looking super sexy: short skirt, modest cleavage, looking all cute. First, the skirt was gone, then her top, and she was left standing in her pastel pink lingerie that covered her chest completely, but it was lacy and see-through. It was fitting her like it was custom-made. He couldn’t stop himself and kept swiping, finding different concepts. His cock was pressed against his pants, aching for attention as he was unable to look away.

After spending god knows how long on her profile, Bucky finally couldn’t take it anymore. This was the point of all this, wasn’t it? Creating the need at the right time to please himself, so he wouldn’t get random erections during the missions… He unzipped himself and finally freed his cock. Still, his hands didn’t go there directly. He kept looking at her profile, discovering other features: like videos she uploaded while getting off!

“Dear god…” He gulped after seeing the thumbnail. She had a dildo in her hand. There was no way he was not going to click on this. No way!

He watched her taking her sweet time, teasing herself and, of course, the viewers, then getting really wet and adding lube on top of it before she pushed the dildo inside. The moan she let out sent a powerful jolt through his whole body. It was so beautiful and felt so fucking authentic, nothing like those fake, unrealistic porn moans. They were always a huge turn-off. This, on the other hand, was too much to handle. His cock was dripping so much precum, begging him for some attention. He couldn’t remember the last time he was this turned on. Either it never happened or it was so long ago, it doesn’t matter anymore.

He finally reached for the lube, poured a generous amount into his flesh hand, and quickly grabbed his cock.

“Fuck.” It felt so sensitive. Like he had been edged for the last hour. Maybe he had been… after all the content he went through.

His fingers were loose, moving up and down slowly while the most beautiful girl he ever laid eyes on was pleasing herself on the screen. He didn’t want this to end too soon. He wanted to take his sweet time and maybe imagine she was the one doing this to him. That was a nice image: her between his legs, looking up at him with those big eyes while she moved her hand up and down slowly, torturing him, not letting him come until she said so.

His breath shuttered at the thought, his fingers moving faster than before, like they have their own mind. His cock was grateful, but no, he didn’t want to come before the video was done. Somehow it felt like disappointing your date during your first sex.

Luckily, she started to shatter, moaning as she came on the dildo she was riding. And the noises she made immediately sent him over the edge.

“F-f-fuck,” he slurred as he started to come. It felt good, really good. He lost himself in pleasure and kept stroking until he emptied himself. Until he felt that overstimulation creeping in. That was when he noticed he closed his eyes. When he opened them back up, the video was done and the black screen with a play again button welcomed him.

Disappointment washed over him. She wasn't there with him. Even if he came before the video was done, she wouldn’t know. There was no one to disappoint. He was alone in his bedroom, jerking off to a computer screen, but in his defense, the girl was hot. Really hot.

He took a deep breath, letting himself enjoy the afterglow. That was the point of all this: enjoying small stuff like satisfaction without going through the tedious process of meeting new people. He reached for the wet wipes and cleaned himself quickly. As he clicked the exit button on the video, he saw another one. It must be old because she looked a bit younger, and her hair was a little lighter. Also, it looked like a short one so he clicked on it.

“Hey. Thank you so much for subscribing.” This was the first time he heard her voice. It was soft and calm. “I know this isn’t conventional, but I enjoy sharing content like this. Don’t judge me if you don’t wanna be judged, okay?” She winked and god, it was adorable. “I'll try to share new content every Wednesday. I hope to see you here. Feel free to message me if you like. Take care.”

If he hadn’t come thirty seconds ago, he would have gotten hard again after hearing her voice. He was glad even the super soldier serum had some limits. Before his body could recover from his intense orgasm, he closed the window and decided to go take a shower.

-------

The next week passed in a blur. There were missions, briefings, and someone’s birthday… He didn’t care whose. It was not someone from the main team, that was all he knew. He was eating his cake in the corner, minding his own business when Natasha sat next to him.

“Hey.” She tried to sound as casual as possible.

“Hey.”

“You look better.”

Bucky looked at her confused.

“Does that supposed to be a compliment, Romanoff?”

“It’s a simple statement, Barnes. It looks like you took my advice and gave yourself a break.” Bucky averted his gaze from her. “No accidental erections during missions, congrats.”

“It was one time, Natasha. One time. When will you let it go?”

“Whenever you tell me about your… experience.”

“My experience?” He looked back at her, with the same confused expression all over again.

“I wanna know if you liked her or not. I don’t need details.”

“Why do you care so much about it? She’s just a random girl.” He lied to her. She wasn’t. At least not to him. He had been checking her account anytime he got a chance. This whole week, he had been masturbating more than he ever did before. Sometimes even the thought of her was turning him on so randomly, he was starting to get worried, but at the same time, he couldn’t stop himself from checking for updates.

She was sharing content very regularly. Sometimes they were new photoshoots, and sometimes just random cute photos in pajamas. He didn’t know which content he was looking forward to the most. All he knew was he loved how genuine it felt she was.

“I’m just noisy. So tell me…”

“Yes, Natasha, I like her. She’s cute and hot, exactly what I was looking for. What do you want, a thank you?”

Bucky really had no idea how Natasha managed to hit the bull's eye when she suggested this girl to him. She was absolutely his type, so he could say thank you for this, but nothing more.

“I wouldn’t mind.”

“Thank you.” It was Natasha’s turn to feel confused because in all the time they spent together with Barnes, he never once thanked her. This was a first.

“Wow. You really like her.” She sounded proud of herself.

“Hey, Buck!” The moment Bucky heard Sam’s voice, he jumped off the couch. He didn’t want to spend another minute talking about his irrational crush with Natasha. It was pointless.

-------

As the time passed, Bucky felt like he was addicted to her content. He was checking his phone much more often than before, just to see if she shared something. He didn’t notice it until Sam pointed it out and asked if he got a girlfriend or something. He quickly denied that possibility, finding a lame excuse. He wasn’t sure if Sam bought it or not, but he definitely needed to check his phone less often.

When he came back home, he felt so tired. The whole day was full of meetings and he let himself be consumed by the details just not to think about her. It was Wednesday, which meant new content, yet he still tried to stay away from his phone.

He literally consumed every content she ever shared. There was no photo or video on her profile he didn't see. There were some he masturbated to more than once. He just wanted to take a step back and if he could manage this, he would feel less of a creep. The problem was he was home and he had nothing to do.

He tried to distract himself with food at first, and it only worked for 15 minutes. Then he took a shower, which took even less. Watching television didn’t even last more than 5 minutes, so he decided to go to sleep, but his mind kept wandering to her. He wanted to know what she shared and how she looked. Finally, he gave in and opened her profile… to see nothing. Since yesterday she shared literally nothing. That was so unlike her. She shared something every day and she never missed Wednesdays. He didn’t care about the lack of new content. It worried him that he doesn’t know if she was alright. Why wouldn’t she be? Maybe she was busy. He tried to calm himself down but falling asleep was impossible.

Then he made a promise to himself: if she won't share anything by noon the next day, he would message her. That thought calmed him down a little.

-------

The next day, Bucky forgot that he was trying to avoid checking his phone in public. His body was at work, but his mind was stuck on… her. He kept looking at her profile to see something, anything to assure himself you’re alright, but there was literally nothing. Complete silence. When it was finally noon, he had no patience left. Normally, he wouldn’t even consider sending a message, but he was just worried. And it didn’t occur to him that it was not his place to be concerned about this woman.

He opened her profile and clicked on the direct messages feature. His mind was completely blank. He had no idea what to say, looking at the screen for a couple of seconds as he trying to collect his thoughts.

“Hey.” That’s all he could come up with. How to say you are worried about someone who has no idea you even exist? It was ridiculous, but there was no way he could just wait and do nothing. “I’m sorry for bothering you. I hope you are alright. You have been absent lately. It could be something totally personal, I know that, but you never miss Wednesdays. So I wanted to check in to see if you are fine. I really hope you are.”

He took a deep breath after he pressed send. It was a long shot for sure. He didn’t really expect an answer. Maybe a seen. And that would be more than enough.

-------

An unfamiliar chime got Bucky’s attention. It surely came from his phone, but he never heard that sound before. When he took his phone out and saw the notification, his heart skipped a beat, just for a second. It was a message from her. The nervous feeling spread through his body like poison, sweat pooling on his forehead before he even clicked on it.

>> Hey, handsome. Thank you for checking in. I have been a bit busy and sick at the same time. Not the best combo. Sorry for missing the content day. I will make it up next Wednesday.

Bucky looked at the message, a bit confused. He wasn’t interested when the new content was gonna drop. He just wanted to know if she was okay. Being busy and sick at the same time didn’t look so. Content should have been the last thing she should be worried about.

<< I’m not worried about the content, darling. I just wanted to make sure you were okay.

He definitely didn’t expect her to respond this quickly, it didn’t even take a minute.

>> Really? I thought you’d miss me.

She was talking like she knew him personally. Like they have chatted before. It was weird and comforting at the same time.

<< I did miss seeing your cute little face, I’m not gonna lie, but I didn’t message you for that. Content can wait until you feel better.

>> My cute little face is a little bit unpresentable and I appreciate your concern. It’s refreshing to see someone actually cares how I am feeling instead of why I did not share anything lately.

<< I’m sure your cute little face is still the cutest thing on the face of the earth. I wouldn’t worry about being presentable.

>> Get ready for a jumpscare.

He had no idea what that meant, but the text was followed by a selfie: her, in bed, looking rather exhausted, with a messy bun, cute pajamas, and a cup of tea in her hand. Bucky quickly googled what jumpscare means and came back to the messaging screen.

<< You clearly don’t know what jumpscare means. It would be me, in a dark hallway or an alley. That’s real jumpscare. This is a cute lady who needs a bit of time to recover.

>> First darling, now cute lady. Are you sure you aren’t 60 years old?

<< Why, do you have an age limit?

>> For my content? No. << And for other stuff?

>> The answer is still no, but are you?

<< 60? No. I’m 107.

>> How do you know how to use the app at 107?

That question made Bucky laugh a little, but he chose to be honest.

<< If I don’t know something I just google it.

>> Shouldn't you be semi-dead at 107?

<< I should be fully dead yet I’m still here.

>> Your profile says 33. Why are you lying handsome?

<< Believe me, my body and soul are older than 33.

>> I kinda believe that because you are talking differently.

<< Is it why you are answering my messages?

>> That and I feel a bit lonely. Your message sounded cute. I usually end the conversation before it gets too far.

<< What’s too far for you?

>> When they start demanding private pictures or try to sext.

Bucky had to google once again what sext means, just to be sure, and it was exactly what he thought it would be.

<< But you sent them to me.

>> Just one picture. A sick selfie and you didn’t ask for it. I thought it would turn you off really badly and you would say take care and end the convo.

<< I still think you look cute.

>> I am starting to believe you might be cute as well.

-------

Bucky had no idea how things got this far with her. After that message, they were literally sending texting each other daily. Just checking in, asking random stuff, or getting to know each other. It was not the same every day. Sometimes it was just a couple of messages and dead silence. Sometimes they communicated all day, non-stop, but Bucky didn’t mind. He didn’t mind not talking to her every day. Knowing that she was okay gave him a bit of peace. Just a good morning or a good night message was enough to ease his anxiety.

>> Good morning, handsome.

That was the text he woke up to, that made him smile almost all day. Every time he remembered her calling him handsome or taking time to send a message to him, it made him happy. It made him feel different than others. He knew that was not the case. Maybe she kept talking to him because he didn’t make her uncomfortable. Maybe she talked to others too. He had no idea, but whenever he thought about her messaging someone else, he felt a faint pain in his stomach. He knew this feeling was irrational, so he avoidedto think about it as much as possible.

<< Good morning, bunny.

<< Is your favorite color pink? He randomly asked as he had been doing all week. The question came to him because he noticed she wore that color a lot.

>> No, it’s light blue. Why?

<< You wear pink a lot, that’s why I asked.

>> That’s what they like. Most men still think blue is a manly color.

<< You look divine in blue. It’s their loss really.

Her answer was a picture of her in blue lingerie. It surprised him because that photo was not on her profile. He remembered seeing this set, but not this exact photo. He kept looking at the pic for much longer than he should have. Another message woke him up from his trance.

<< I take that as you like it.

>> This photo is not on your profile.

<< No, it’s not.

>> But you feel fine sending it to me.

<< You said I look divine in blue.

>> You do. I’m just surprised you sent me a photo you didn’t share before. I’m glad you feel comfortable.

<< I’m pretty comfortable talking to you. Otherwise, I wouldn’t talk to someone whose name I don’t know.

>> I don’t know your name either, bunny.

<< You are a smart man. Most assume this is my real name.

>> Using your real name would be an unnecessary risk.

<< Is that why you don’t call me Viv?

>> Maybe. I wasn’t doing it on purpose. Why are you calling me handsome?

<< I don’t know, I never really thought about it.

>> Yeah, exactly. You don’t know what I look like but you are calling me handsome.

<< I would love to see what you look like, but I don’t wanna make you feel uncomfortable.

>> I’m sure what you are imagining is much better than the reality, bunny.

<< Why do you call me bunny?

>> Because of your profile photo. The bunny ears. You look really cute.

-------

Bucky was in the middle of debriefing. After a really long mission, he was finally back in New York. He wondered if Bunny messaged him. That was what he’d been calling her in his mind for a while and suddenly, he realized it might be too weird. Was he getting too creepy? Too comfortable? They didn’t even know each other properly. The last time they talked, she asked him why he didn’t use Viv. Maybe that was a signal for him to go for the fake name instead of his nickname.

“Barnes.” Fury’s voice brought him back to reality.

“Sorry, what did you say?”

“I asked if you want to add anything else.” His voice was firm.

“No, no. Romanoff covered it well.”

“Good. Rest for a couple of days. We will be going back to finish what we started.”

When Bucky finally reached out for his phone, Natasha was smiling in the corner.

“Does he have a secret girlfriend?” Sam asked.

“Maybe. I have no idea.” She lied.

-------

>> Good morning, old man.

>> Busy day?

>> I got a funny story to tell you, but you aren’t around.

>> Please tell me I didn’t offend you with the nickname.

>> I am messaging you a lot, aren’t I? I should leave you alone.

>> I’m sorry…

Bucky’s heart was racing as he read the messages. He should’ve warned her about not being online for a while. Instead, she thought she did something wrong. He looked at the message screen, trying tocome up with a good response to assure her that he wasn’t offended. He was an old man after all. What was there to get offended?

<< Hey. I’m sorry. I was away for work. There was no signal. I did not see your messages before.

<< Just know that you never bother me. You can message me as much as you want. Whenever you want and I will answer when I can.

<< And you know I should be the one to worry if I’m bothering you or creeping you out. Not you.

<< If you still wanna tell me that funny story, I’m here to listen, Viv.

Bucky wasn’t sure if she would reply. After all, she didn’t get a message from him for a while. Maybe he’d already lost his chance… But then his phone chimed.

>> Viv? Where did Bunny go?

>> 🐰

<< You want me to call you Bunny?

>> I got used to it.

<< Okay, Bunny. If that’s what you want.

This made him feel better. Maybe he was just overthinking. She didn’t seem to mind half of the things he was thinking about.

<< Should I get used to being called old man?

>> Does it bother you?

<< It doesn’t. I am an old man.

>> You are 33 if you didn’t lie while creating your profile.

<< Biologically, yes.

>> But you feel older, so you don’t mind.

>> I’m glad you are back.

<< I’m sorry that I didn’t warn you about work.

>> It’s okay. You don’t owe me anything.

That last message broke his heart. He knew she was right. He didn’t owe her anything, but that wasn’t the reason why he was explaining himself. He was doing it because he wanted to, and a small part of him wanted to owe her an explanation. He also wanted her to owe him an explanation. Yet he knew that wasn’t the case.

<< Is that how you feel?

>> Isn’t that how I should feel? I don’t know who you are. I don’t even know what you look like. I just know I like talking to you. If that’s the only thing you are willing to do, then it’s fine by me. I mean you could be married or engaged and I wouldn’t know. So it’s fine, you don’t have to explain yourself.

Bucky looked at the message for a while, digesting what she was saying. She was right. She had no information about who he was while he had access to her all of her content and now private messages. She was completely exposed, and he didn’t even share his name with her. Why would she trust him? Why would she owe him any explanation at all?

<< It’s James.

>> Nice to meet you, James 🐰

>> You have such a beautiful name.

-------

After he shared his name with her, something changed between them. Something subtle, but it meant a lot to Bucky. It felt like she was more open, and more curious now.

>> What are you wearing?

Bunny’s question caught him off guard. He looked at himself in panic. He was sitting on the floor, only with his boxers on, so there was no way he could tell her the truth.

<< Pajamas, you?

>> What kind of pajamas? I’m guessing old man pajamas but…I never saw an old man in old-school pajamas. Maybe you can show me.

Shit, shit, shit.

Lying to her was a huge mistake. He had no pajamas to put on. He only had a couple of pants, and henleys, and maybe three jackets. Natasha always made fun of him for wearing the same stuff over and over again. She was trying to hit a nerve so he would go buy something new, but it didn’t work, of course. Now, he wished it did.

He started to panic a little, looking around to find a solution. I could cover my body, a voice in his head said. And that’s what he did. He laid down, covered himself with his blanket, and took the picture. His face wasn’t in the frame, just the tip of his chin. Since he shaved this morning, his dimple was showing. He used his vibranium hand to take the selfie, and in this way, it looked like a normal photo.

It was too late when he noticed the fact that he laying on the floor, not in bed was visible. He cursed to himself while waiting for her answer. There was no way she wasn’t going to comment about the absence of the bed. No way.

>> I am not seeing any pajamas or your body, old man. It is that bad?

Bucky took a breath of relief. Maybe she did not even notice. After all, she wanted to see him. Maybe she didn’t even pay attention to his surroundings.

Or maybe she just didn’t want to make him uncomfortable. That thought changed his mind. He literally saw every part of her body. Sending a picture back in his boxers shouldn’t be a big deal, right? He stood up and extended his vibranium arm. The new selfie was quite similar except this time he was showing a lot of skin. Starting from the tip of his chin, he showed his upper body only. He looked at the photo before sending it: upper body and black boxers. No bare legs and no face.

>> I see no pajamas. And this body doesn't belong to an old man at all. Are you lying to me, James?🤨

He might have made a mistake by sending this picture. There was no way he could prove to her this is actually him. Especially after all that old man talk. While he was thinking about what he’s gonna do next, he got another message.

>> Cat got your tongue?

<< A bunny did actually.

>> You look good, James. Really good, but you don’t seem excited.

Her response confused him.

<< Excited?

>> Maybe you need a photo to get excited.

Before he could ask what that means, she sent him a pic of her. Definitely not professionally taken. It’s her in front of the mirror, wearing only shorts and covering her naked breasts with one of her hands while taking the picture with the other.

>> Hope this helps.

>> But if you wanna see more, you gotta share more.

<< You're very beautiful, bunny, but I hope you know this was not my intention. I was waiting for you to tell me that funny story.

Her response was another photo: a close up on her covered breasts. She looked like she was about to drop her hand and reveal it like he did not see them before.

>> I know.

>> So does this mean you're not excited? I was trying something here…

>> I can tell you the story if that’s what you’d rather do.

“Fuck…” Bucky cursed out loud. He was really good at this before. Flirting and finding the best possible response were easy back in the 40s, but it didn’t feel like that anymore. He was constantly worried about doing something wrong or creeping her out. He wanted to hear the story, but he really wanted to see her breasts too.

<< What do I have to do to see more?

>> I’ve just told you. Share more to get more.

Oh, so she wanted more photos of him, and he literally had no idea how to take flattering pictures.

>> Maybe start by showing me if the photos worked or not.

He looked down at himself and saw his rock-hard cock. How is he supposed to show her? Maybe I should mimic her photos. He touched the outline of his dick, making it a little more visible before taking a picture.

<< Is it clear enough?

>> Oh, you got really excited, didn’t you Jamie?

>> Not an old man after all.

He loudly groaned when he saw what she called him. Jamie. God! He felt a jolt of arousal the moment he read the nickname. He was sure he got even a little harder if that’s possible.

Before he could find an answer, Bunny sent him another photo. This time her palm was stretched on her breasts, fingers not hiding much anymore, but still, her tits weren’t completely visible. Yet he could see how erect her nipple was. He already had a lot of dirty thoughts: like taking her nipple into his mouth and torturing her before giving in. He just didn’t know if he should voice them or not.

<< Oh, that nipple…

>> What about it?

<< You wanna hear what I am thinking about?

>> Well, since I’m trying to tempt you here… What do you think?

<< Fuck, Bunny. You have no idea what you are doing to me.

>> I am dying to hear it though.

Instead of telling her, Bucky decided to show her. He tried to position himself in front of the camera and take a good photo of his erection. He tried a couple of different angles, but it was a dick after all. Nothing he tried seemed to make it seem more appealing in his view. When he finally sent the picture, he added a small text.

<< How about I show you instead?

>> Oh my god!

>> You were hiding that from me all this time?

>> Damn, I feel robbed.

<< Does this mean you like it, doll?

>> Oh, that’s new.

>> And I like it.

>> Maybe even better than Bunny.

>> And yes, I am actually drooling right now even with that horrible angle.

<< Horrible angle? How should I do this then? I never...

>> Do you want me to teach you, old man? Because I can.

<< I’m always open to learning new stuff. That’s the only thing you can always rely on.

>> Ohh, I love that. Open-minded, doesn’t mind taking criticism, no fragile masculinity. All very hot.

>> Try taking a picture in front of the mirror maybe. Don’t take the picture from above or too down. Try to use eye level if you aren’t particularly doing something. That works better.

Using a mirror wasn’t a good idea for him. He could imagine the photos looking better like that, but there was no way he could hide his metal arm.

So instead of positionin his camera above, he tried to level it down, showing his full length and thickness. A photo didn’t seem to work so he decided to record a short video of him playing with himself: his flesh hand going up and down slowly on his full length. He couldn’t help but let a low moan when his hand brushed against the head. Fuck, imagining her seeing this… The idea turned him on even more. He got so excited that he forgot to check the video before sending it.

>> Fuck, James.

>> Fuck fuck fuck.

>> Your voice is so fucking hot.

>> And you are so aroused. Is it all for me?

<< It’s all for you, doll.

<< This is what you do to me. All the time.

<< God, I wish you were here.

Bunny or Doll, he had no idea which one suits her better, sent a video as the response: her fingers, two of them, going in and out inside her. She was going pretty fast, indicating she had been doing this for a while, and there was a faint moaning in the background, which Bucky couldn’t get enough of. He watched the video twice before answering.

>> You are gonna be the death of me.

>> Are those fingers enough? Do you want a third one or maybe you would rather have a big dildo inside?

<< I would rather have you inside me.

After this point, everything felt like a blur. Things got out of hand, they kept exchanging photos and videos until they both got pretty powerful orgasms. Yet James found himself wanting more. So much more than she probably wanted to offer.

[Next Chapter]

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x female reader #bucky barnes smut

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