#bucky barnes western au | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

chickenfics · 2 years

Text

Scars

Relationship: Bucky Barnes x Fem!reader Western AU

Summary: Running from a past that haunts you and a future that is unsure, the last thing you wanted was to take up with a stranger. Strangers, you'd learned, are almost always more trouble than they're worth. But when dangers from the life you're trying to leave behind get too close for comfort, drastic times call for drastic measures, and the stranger you'd once feared becomes the only person you can trust -- and perhaps the only person you'd call your friend. Now you both just have to make it out alive...

Or: the western AU that nobody asked for

Word Count: 8k

A/N: This is a mature fic and is going to contain graphic depictions of violence and abuse, both physical and emotional. Reader has a brother (original character) and a backstory, but is still intended to be a self-insert rather than an OC. Content warnings will be given in the notes of every chapter, but expect most of the violence that comes with westerns (excluding any graphic depictions of sexual violence).

Let me know if you'd like to be tagged for future chapters!

Content Warning: mentioned domestic abuse, alcohol, guns, assault

Also on Ao3

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Chapter 1

The saloon was half empty, giving the dusty rays of morning light plenty of room to cast themselves onto the floor. A plank or two was crooked, pulled out of the rest of the floorboards in one bar fight or another, never fixed, even after all this time; left to meld into the landscape of the place. Dirty windows, swinging doors, a bar situated to the left of them, and tables -- rickety, the kind that make you wonder how they’re still standing, let alone supporting the average lost soul’s weight as their choice of poison mixed with the sweat on their brow and the grime on their hands.

And busted floorboards, ripped out to expose slender nails like teeth. A tripping hazard for sure, but the least a person had to worry about when entering a place like this.

Even so, at barely the crack of dawn, all the drunkards, the cowboys, and the scum of the earth -- who stumbled in to get drunk after a long day’s work and stumbled out with bourbon in their bellies and fire in their fists, an unfortunate combination for the wives or children they had waiting for them at home -- were gone; fast asleep in their beds or passed out somewhere they weren’t supposed to be.

In the early morning hours, the only people to be found in the saloon -- one you couldn’t remember the name of on account of it being too much like all the others you’d visited over the years -- were the occasional laborer stopping to get a quick, desperate pint before a long day in the sun, or a fur trapper or traveling businessman mustering the courage and strength to head out on their next journey through the wilderness.

You fell somewhere in between and outside of the two -- a wandering soul passing through towns like a ghost or a curse; not many noticed you were there, and the ones that did weren’t sure enough of what they’d seen to remember you for long.

Good. That was how you liked it. How you needed it.

Blending into the scenery had been the skill to keep you alive. Not your talent with a gun, nor the experience you'd gained over the years -- two things that he would have scoffed at had he heard you make any sort of claim on them. But you knew they were true, no matter how long he and the others had spent trying to bend you towards thinking otherwise.

You knew who you were, and you knew what you could do.

You also knew what you couldn’t do, which made you more powerful than any one of them -- them and their drunken nights fueled by wild ideas and dangerous plans breathed beneath the crackle of the fire. Them and their heavy hands, reaching further, pushing harder than you’d ever thought they….

The door to the saloon swung open and closed in a swift movement, squeaking on its old, rickety hinges. You didn’t look up from where you sat, shoulders hunched and elbowed pressed into the rough wood of the countertop. A shot glass sat unattended between your arms, and your ill-fitting goatskin coat fell past the stool you sat on. In a way, it offered its own protection; another measure to blend into the dreary brown walls.

Barely a minute passed before a hand fell onto your shoulder. You just managed to repress your flinch, redirecting it into the clench of your fists against the counter.

“What’s a pretty thing like you doin’ dressed like that? Hm, darlin’?”

Clenching your firsts wasn’t enough. You added your jaw to the mix, grinding your teeth together before lifting your arm, shouldering his hand off and downing your shot of rye in one fluid motion. It burned going down, but it felt better than his hand trying to paw its way back onto you.

“Piss off,” you threw through gritted teeth, your voice coming out harsher than usual thanks to both disuse and your disquiet.

Fear had always made you rough, just in all the wrong ways. It made your throat clog up until you couldn’t speak, your muscles clench until you couldn’t move. Fear had always been the thing to hold you in place for whatever you were scared of to have its way with you.

You were trying to fix that.

Swinging the flap of your coat aside, you thumbed the heel of your revolver, fingers grazing the grip. A threat, but one that you did not intend to act on, not because you couldn’t -- you knew damn well that you could -- but because you knew you wouldn’t need to. There were plenty of “pretty things” for a man to spend his morning with that wouldn’t threaten to shoot him where the sun didn’t shine. He wouldn’t waste his time on you, especially when you were already on your way out the door, swinging your hat onto your head and tilting it low.

The weathered rim blocked the sunrise from your face as you stepped down off the porch of the saloon. Glancing down the road of the small town -- so small it was barely worth its mark on the map -- you were greeted with sand, dusty wood, and nothing more. You were a ghost in a ghost town.

The thought could have almost made you smile. It didn’t.

Instead, you unwound your reins from the hitching post and threw them over your Palamino’s head -- a piece of stolen goods from your old life that you’d stolen again when you decided to leave that life behind.

His head jerked with a start as you woke him from his early morning dozing, but he quickly calmed himself and stood at attention, ready for another day of work. He was a level-headed thing, but with more of an attitude than even you.

“Well, Horse,” you muttered, tightening the girth before kicking your foot up into the stirrup. “Think we’ve overstayed our welcome. Let’s get the hell out of here.”

Swinging your leg around and settling easily into the saddle with a toss of your worn, faded coat, you checked that everything was cinched to the saddle and tapped your heels. Horse took off at a brisk trot, and you spun him in a circle before urging him towards the edge of town, a line just below the glowing, bright horizon.

________________________________________________________________

You’d spent the last three months moving from town to town, picking your way along the map. The longest you’d gone without seeing civilization was three weeks, and it had been both the most content and the most uneasy you'd ever felt. On one hand, you had never liked being in town -- any town -- and preferred to keep a safe distance from strangers, especially when they came in herds.

On the other hand, the only time you’d ever been alone in the wilderness was with them, back when you had been traveling with your own herd, so to speak. There had only been one time prior that you’d been alone besides now, and you didn’t think about that. Ever.

If you did, it only made you push yourself harder, traveling faster and with fewer stops, less rest, more paranoia. That’s how you had spent the first month, and Horse was still recovering from it. Hell, you were too, but you were more worried about Horse. If he fell ill or injured, you would be abandoned out on the plains with nothing but a dead horse and a rapidly closing distance between you and the past you were trying to leave behind.

So, when four weeks passed and nothing happened, you finally forced yourself to slow down. And, for the first time, you’d allowed yourself to stop at the nearest town. It had been small and meaningless, and you’d decided to stay the night. Then a faulty door lock and a drunk man had reminded you why you never trusted places like those.

You were more careful, after that, whenever you stopped for supplies. You found yourself hearing his voice in your head, all the things he’d taught you since you were children, hiding under the bed as glasses were smashed and shattered outside your shared room. Its presence never failed to fill you with a roil of nausea, as potent as it was vile, but the advice it offered was sound.

You’d always hated that about him; he knew what he was talking about, and he knew how to say it. It was all the things he did in between the words that made you run -- that had been the reason Horse was picking his way through the underbrush of a scarred, depressing forest. The plains had begun to change after two days of riding. You noticed more plant life, more shrubs and bushes, and then even a few trees. After two more days, those few trees turned into the beginnings of a forest.

In a sense, it was a relief. The canopy offered you shade from the unforgiving sun that had been pressing against the top of your head and shoulders for the last several days. The trees would offer you more protection during the nights, too; a place to make decent camp -- a welcome change from simply rolling your bedroll onto the desert floor and propping your hat over your face.

But the forest meant unforeseen dangers. Out on the plains, you could see the approach of a stranger from miles away. Sure, you couldn’t hide, but you could spot them first. But in the canopy of the forest, woven between the trees and bushes, anyone could be lurking. The chances of you seeing them before they saw you were just as likely as the alternative. You didn’t like that. It put you on edge -- or more on edge than usual.

You’d spent life on the edge since you were but fourteen. The edge was a familiar friend and a lifelong companion.

But in the pleasantly cool atmosphere of the woods, you found yourself relaxing ever so slightly. Enough that you let your feet fall from the stirrups, giving Horse a loose rein so he could comfortably navigate the rough terrain. Twisting around in your saddle, you took quick stock of your supplies; it had been almost a week since you’d passed any sign of occupied civilization, and the only evidence of life had been a run-down ranch and a few abandoned cabins.

You were almost out of grain, and though there would now be some grazing options with the sudden foliage, you estimated you had about three days before running out entirely. Slipping the map from your breast pocket, you shook it out and located the last town you’d visited. Trailing your eyes along the path you’d taken, you quickly found the clump of woods.

Reigning Horse to a halt, you let him dip his head and graze as you squinted at the frayed paper. The forest stretched on for about fifty miles, and the nearest town lay fifteen miles East beyond its edge. If you kept a brisk pace until nightfall, you suspected you could arrive by midday tomorrow.

Scanning ahead on the map, you noticed that there would be a long stretch between this town and the next. You’d need to stock up on enough supplies to last you a few weeks. Fingering the coin purse in your pocket, the ever-present knot of anxiety twisted your stomach up in knots. You had more than enough money to get you to where you were going and then some; that wasn’t why the thought of it made your chest feel heavy or your lungs feel full of cotton and sand. Shivering, you tried to shrug off the memories swarming around the inside of your head like black flies. It would do you no good to think about any of that now. It was too late -- you’d made your choice, and if you didn’t keep moving, that choice was going to kill you.

No amount of thinking would change that, so you pulled Horse’s head up and urged him forward. You wondered if he could sense it too, the need to keep moving. He probably could. Despite what the flashiest and most skilled cowboys tried to tell you, you’d always known that horses were sensitive. They were more sensitive than people sometimes, and you had seen many a horse broken by an iron rod and a ruthless fist, measures justified by the claim that it was “just an animal.”

Humans were animals, too. You wondered if that was the excuse people used when they beat people down; raped, killed, maimed. You wondered if they told themselves that they were “just animals” in order to sleep at night. You wondered if they even needed the excuse.

At the squeeze of your legs, Horse picked up his pace. You weren’t looking forward to another trip into town. The knowledge that it was necessary -- that it was coming -- sank into your gut like a river stone; smooth and cold and heavy. It melded with the lining of your stomach until everything inside you felt frigid and abiotic. But as much as you were dreading the trip, you wanted to get it done and over with. The quicker you got in and resupplied, the quicker you could be on your way -- an assured few weeks of wilderness descending like a promise of relief on the stormy churn of your future. If you told yourself you needed only to do this -- this one last thing and then you could rest -- the weight of it became a little more bearable.

So you focused on the steady footfalls of Horse and you listened carefully to the soft hum of the forest as the coolness of it soaked into your skin. The day passed almost peacefully this way, and if you were another person, perhaps you could have let yourself surrender to that peace. Perhaps you could have taken a breath.

But you weren’t. You were… you, and you just couldn’t find it in yourself to relax.

By the time the sun began to set, the filters of golden light disappearing from between the branches, replaced instead by an indigo glow, you were exhausted. You hadn’t had a good night’s sleep in a long time -- longer than just your recent journeys -- and you suspected that tonight would be no different.

Still, you were looking forward to finding a nice bit of shelter. As the darkness of the growing night spread around you like ink, you began to search for accommodations. You found them in a fallen tree, its wizened, bare branches creating half of a shelter already. All you’d need to do was drape your rain slicker across the opening and you’d be hidden from the rest of the world.

The reality of not being able to see your surroundings as clearly as out on the plains hit you square in the face, and you felt your panic rise a little from its place deep in your gut. But you shrugged it off, trying to convince yourself that if you couldn't see them, they couldn’t see you. Trying to convince yourself that they weren’t here -- they were far behind you. You had enough time; you could get one restful night of sleep without punishment.

As the last of the sun’s lingering rays dipped below the horizon, leaving the sky to blacken with the night, you dismounted, giving Horse a pat on his clammy, sweat-streaked neck. As the first stars began to blink into the sky, you pulled out your slicker and draped it along the opening. You suspected that it was going to be a cold night, despite how hot the day had been, and welcomed the extra protection from the elements.

You had just untied your bedroll when you heard the snap of a twig.

You spotted the horse first, so white that it almost glowed against the backdrop of the forest, looking so much like something out of the ghost stories you’d been told as a child that, for a moment, you almost had yourself convinced it wasn’t real.

Then you saw the man.

You scrambled for your gun, freeing it from the holster at your hip and taking a stumbling step backward -- eyes flashing down as you almost tripped over a root. In the few seconds that your gaze had been off of him, the man had pulled his own gun from beneath the clay-green poncho that covered his left side, stopping just below his hip.

He held it out, barrel pointed at you with a steady hand that seemed to mock the tremor you could feel shooting through your own body. But when you glanced down at your hand, it was just as steady as his. You swallowed hard and the man tilted his head at you.

It was hard to make him out in the dim light, and when you realized he was close enough for you to see the dark brown, almost curly hair that reached his shoulders, or the way his angular face was held in a passive stare, you felt yourself take another step back.

He was massive.

You’d crossed paths with your fair share of large men -- and women, for that matter -- but there was something about this one that had your heart clenching. His bicep looked bigger than your head, and his towering height -- paired with the fact that he was on an incline -- made him appear even bigger.

“Easy now,” he spoke, voice almost as dark as the night, but soft. You’d learned long ago not to take a soft voice and equate it with kindness. The arm pointing your revolver at him tightened, the muscles flexing, and he noticed.

“C’mon, take it easy. Wouldn’t want anyone getting hurt now…”

You felt the first tremor break through your hand. Your damn hands always gave you away. The man noticed -- you could see it clearly on his face, in the twitch of his brow.

“I’m just passin’ through,” he said, lowering his weapon almost nonchalantly, but the eyes trained on you were so piercing that they felt just as dangerous as any gun.

They were dangerous not because they were hostile or threatening, but because they were smart.

Your hands were certainly shaking now. You balled your free hand into a fist against your thigh and grit your teeth, willing the sign of weakness to stop. It would get you killed if you couldn’t stop it.

The man’s lips tugged into a small frown, and you tried not to let your breath sound ragged in your chest. He held up his hands in surrender, pistol hanging from his finger.

“Look, if you just lower your weapon, I’ll be on my way. I have no quarrel with you.”

Your vision flashed white as you heard his voice.

“C’mon, just lower the gun, Kitty. Be a good girl…”

You screwed your eyes shut for just a second to will the tears away -- you could absolutely not cry -- and tore them open, leveling the gun at the stranger with renewed vigor. He sighed.

“Goddammit -- fine,” his voice raised in volume to meet you, and there was something in it that made whatever he would say next final. “Now I’m gonna turn around and continue on my way. I get the idea you know what you’re doin’ with that thing, so if you plan on shooting me your aim best strike true the first time because I assure you, you will not get a second.”

With that, he was moving again. You retreated another frantic step and your back hit the rough edge of the tree with a hollow thump. The man halted, tilting his head at you again. You couldn’t be sure, but you thought there was curiosity there. You felt your chest constrict, fear numbing your veins, but with a click of his tongue, he led his horse forward and disappeared into the underbrush.

You watched him go, only relaxing when you could no longer hear the rustling of his feet. All at once, you felt the adrenaline flee your body. Your knees buckled and you slumped heavily against the tree, ignoring the future bruises painted on by the branches digging into your back.

You drew in a shuddering breath, letting it out in a sigh -- repeating the process a few times with the mantra you now lived by running through your head; it hadn’t been him. It hadn’t been them. That was the most important thing. You could deal with a strange, terrifying man, but you wouldn’t survive if it was them. You lifted a subconscious hand to the side of your throat, thumbing the bandana that covered it.

Knowing that you had come so close to a stranger -- and a man of that size and, if you were guessing right, skill, no less -- sent panic bubbling up into your throat. It was obvious you were making camp; what if he came back while you were sleeping? What if he had been lying and intended to return to rob you, or kill you, or worse?

The decision was made with that single thought -- that single potential threat -- and you were hastily rolling your rain slicker up and strapping it back onto your saddle bag. You’d just have to travel through the night. No matter how slow or dangerous the travel was, it was clear you couldn’t stop, just in case the man with the apparent good intentions had been lying.

And they usually were.

“Sorry bud,” you managed to whisper an apology to Horse as you swung yourself into the saddle, legs still a bit shaky. It was one of the few reactions you hadn’t been able to fix, no matter how hard you’d tried.

“No sleep tonight.”

With a barely muffled sigh, you guided your horse forward, heading in the direction that, you hoped, was opposite of the stranger, trying to forget the way his eyes had bored into you or the way his pistol had aimed so steadily at your own.

________________________________________________________________

The town wasn’t hard to find. It was bigger than the last you’d been to, containing more than just a few rows of buildings, outposts, and a church. This one had well-worn roads, a cluster of homes along the edge, and an array of shops clearly intended to sell anything a traveler might need while passing through.

You kept your hat low, bandana pulled up and over the lower half of your face. You’d removed your goat skin jacket, securing it to the back of your saddle to try and find relief from the blistering noonday heat. Buildings sat on either side of you; a bank, a schoolhouse, an inn -- your eyes scanned the porches and doorways of each of them. People passed on either side of you as well -- women in dusty, sun-bleached skirts, their hair tied up in braids or wrapped in scarves. Men on horseback rode by you in the street, some tipping their hats in disinterested greeting, others ignoring you altogether. Your face remained passive, a blank and somewhat unpleasant mask to discourage anyone from talking to you.

To your right, you caught sight of a corral, filled with what looked to be a group of fine wild horseflesh tearing about and wheeling in circles, challenging the wooden planks that held them inside. Horse pricked his ears, watching them intently. You urged him forward past the corral, stopping just outside the attached stable.

A bearded man greeted you, wiping his hands on a handkerchief before tucking it into his waistband. You dismounted, tying Horse to the nearest post, and tipped your hat in hesitant greeting. The man's eyes were warm brown and looked kind. As if sensing the discomfort you carried with you, he tucked his hands into his pockets and hunched his shoulders slightly, almost timidly.

“What can I do for you, Miss?”

“I need grain. Enough for a few weeks,” you replied, pulling your bandana down around your neck but still staying a good distance from him.

He nodded slowly and whistled in thought, eyeing up Horse.

“This the fellow you’ll be feedin’?”

“Yes sir."

“Right then,” the man replied, tilting his head. “Feed ‘im anything else? Foliage or alfalfa, anything of the sorts?”

“He grazes when he can,” you answered, shrugging. “He doesn’t need much, just enough to get him by.”

The man nodded knowingly, then gestured for you to follow him into the barn. You went as far as the double doors before stopping, but he didn’t say a word about it and reappeared a few minutes later with two burlap sacks no bigger than your saddlebag tied together securely with twine.

“This should do. You can mix it with water to stretch it a little further, make it expand so it fills ‘em up.”

You took the bags from him, nodding your thanks and inquiring as to his price. He told you, and you handed over the payment.

“Is there a… general store around here?” You reluctantly asked, your back already half turned to him with your eagerness to be on your way. Still, you figured getting directions would be quicker and less risky than wandering around town until you found what you needed.

“Yes’m there is, three buildings down that way, on your left,” he pointed in the direction you’d been heading, and you nodded.

“Thank you.”

“Yes’m. Ride safe,” he tipped an imaginary hat, and a thin smile worked its way onto your lips. His kind eyes shone a bit brighter before he turned away, heading back to the work you’d interrupted him from.

It was moments like these that reminded you not all people were a threat. It was moments like these that were dangerous because they had you aching to let your guard down, to believe that not everyone would hurt you the first chance they got. You had believed that, once -- a long time ago, when you were still a child in your father's home. Not anymore, and it was the only reason you were alive.

Shaking your head, you readjusted the cloth around your neck and tried not to let your fingers linger. You needed a clear head, and you needed to get moving so you could get the hell out of here. Grabbing Horse’s reins, you gave his neck a few soothing pats and led him forward, deciding that you’d walk to give him a break from carrying you.

The general store proved to not be far, and you made it there without eliciting a glance from any of the wandering souls that passed you by. The store was a squat, brown building situated between a tailor and what looked to be the town hall. You secured Horse to the hitching post outside and stiffly climbed the stairs, feeling the old familiar ache in your knees from hours in the saddle.

A woman, her skirts a pale blue, was standing just outside, folded umbrella in hand. She gave you a kind smile as you passed, and you managed a nod before slipping inside. The man at the desk watched you enter, eyeing you up in the way that all shopkeepers and merchants did; like he was trying to decide if you would pay or if he’d have to chase you out with a broom.

You had a dire need to resupply, so you removed your hat, running a hand over your sweat-slicked forehead before stepping up to the counter.

“What can I get for you?” The shopkeeper, a greasy-looking short man asked. He sounded like he had a cold, and he pushed his glasses up on his nose as he studied you with something like barely restrained disgust.

“A… few things,” you began, then gave him a list of supplies you were short on.

You had your stock committed to memory, going through it every night and planning out your use of it. You suspected it was a way for you to feel in control of your situation -- a desperate attempt at warding off the panic that was always threatening to consume you whole. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn’t -- but regardless, it at least meant you weren’t likely to miss or run out of anything.

The clerk raised an eyebrow at your requests, but he adjusted his glasses and began scratching things onto a yellow notepad beneath the counter. When you finished, he tore the page off and handed it to you, then turned to begin packing things away.

You scanned over the receipt with disinterest until something caught your eye.

“When did the price of cornmeal rise?” you asked. The man scoffed.

“I beg your pardon, missy?”

“You charge six cents for a pound of cornmeal,” you replied. “The last town I passed through sold it for three.”

“Well then, you had better return to the last town you passed through because here we sell it for six cents a pound,” he turned and dropped a bag onto the counter. A bag that was, apparently, worth six cents. “And you have been the first to complain about such a price.”

There was a challenge in every aspect of his demeanor, and you felt anger swell through your chest. He was cheating you and he knew there was nothing you could do to stop him besides not purchasing the items. Which he likely knew you also couldn’t do.

“Will there be a problem, or shall I continue wrapping your orders?”

You clenched your jaw, shoving your anger down, and gave a short jerk of your head.

“No problem here,” you added, voice lowering to a hum, matching his challenge in the only way you could.

Fake politeness got on your nerves. It wasn’t long ago that you would have pointed your gun at his head and taken whatever goods you wanted, but those days were behind you -- and for the better; even if you did have to pay six cents for cornmeal.

The clerk finished gathering your order, but not without several unfriendly looks in your direction. It was only when you’d gathered everything into a canvas sack that he spoke again.

“You know,” he leaned over the counter, as if the two of you were sharing some secret gossip about the lady two doors down. “You should visit the River Dog Saloon. I think you’d find it… interesting.”

There was something in his voice, in the smirk on his chapped, red lips, that made your stomach sink through the floorboards. You gave him a scowl, and unease followed you as you retreated back onto the porch.

The woman from earlier was gone, and for some reason that only made your dread grow. You were being irrational -- the vague words of some slimy store owner shouldn't have you worked up like it did. Should have you feeling that old familiar tremble of fear trying to push its way past your defenses. It shouldn’t.

Slinging your bag over the saddle, ensuring that everything was secure, you untied the reins. Giving Horse a little tug, you began your steady trek down the dust-covered road. Splotches of mud were caked along the edges, and you hopped over them, causing Horse to follow you and give a little buck of excitement. Even in your anxiety, you smiled at the animal before settling him with a firm rein and a pat.

The center of the road was drier, and you steered clear of puddles. Your boots should have been replaced months ago, and at this point, it wouldn't be long before holes were worn into the leather. You spotted the sign towards the edge of the town, swinging lazily in the stagnant afternoon breeze. A cobbler.

Slowing to a stop, you gently pushed Horse away as he tried to itch his forehead on your shoulder and stared at the building. It looked near deserted, and the distant view of shoes through the window was the only sign that it was even still in business. Glancing around, you found no one on that side of the street. A few school children, led by their teacher, walked hurriedly from one building to the next, but no one else was in sight. The saloon sat a door over, attached to the same building as the cobbler, and a bathhouse on the opposite side. Several horses were tethered to the hitching post outside, their riders presumably inside quenching their thirst or getting up to any number of other unsavory activities.

Swallowing thickly, you made up your mind; if this was going to be your last taste of civilization for a while, you should probably err on the side of caution and buy a new pair of boots now while you had the chance to.

Slinking over to the hitching post, you tied Horse loosely to it, ready to go with a quick tug in case of an emergency. Ruffling his mane absentmindedly, you headed for the nearest stairs to the porch. Your footfalls sounded too loud in your ears, but you tried to ignore it. You also tried to ignore how the town had suddenly gone quiet. That was fine, it was lunchtime for some people, anyway.

The stairs let you onto the porch directly between the saloon and the cobbler. You had just turned left, ducking to look through the grimy window, when someone grabbed you around the waist, yanking you backwards as they clamped a harsh hand over your mouth. Your scream was muffled against their palm, which covered your nose, too, cutting off your oxygen. You slammed an elbow into their gut and they winced, giving you a cruel shake before spinning around and throwing you forwards and through a doorway.

Your arms flew out to catch yourself, but they were met with a hard surface as you slammed into something. Stumbling back a step, you managed to right yourself, and there he was.

“M… Mickey?” you breathed, eyes widening as you retreated another step. You whipped around, spinning on your heels and making for the door, but you were stopped by another chest.

That’s when you recognized the person who had grabbed you.

“Red,” you flinched as the name left your mouth, a raspy whisper, and the tall, lanky man gave you one of his signature grins -- the kind that meant he was about to hurt someone. Hurt you.

“Bernie’s here, too.” You spun around at the smug voice, a smirk plastered on his face as he nodded to the woman at his right lounging against a supporting beam. Even though she wore her hat low, you would have recognized her anywhere.

“The whole gang’s here, baby sister,” Mickey drawled, taking a step towards you. You flinched but stood your ground, knowing Red was still behind you. “Well,” he tilted his head, a mocking pout twisting his lips. “Everybody ‘cept for the Twins. But you already knew that, didn't you?”

You opened your mouth, jaw working not for an answer but for air. You couldn’t breathe.

“Oh?” Mickey's voice was soft, high, and he raised a scruffy eyebrow. “What’s this now? You don’t know?”

His voice dripped malice, and in a sudden, swift motion you reached for your holster -- but before your fingers could even touch the weapon, Red was slamming into you from behind, grabbing your arm and twisting it painfully behind your back. You muffled a yelp by biting your tongue and held still as he shook you a little, just to make sure you felt the twist of your shoulders as he pinned your arms.

“You see,” Mickey continued, stepping closer. Your eyes flickered frantically around the saloon, but besides Bernie watching with a greedy, pleased expression, the rest of the customers -- of which there were only a few -- didn’t spare you a glance. Your heart sank as you realized that they were going to let him do whatever he wanted to you.

For the first time, there would be people to hear your screams and it wouldn’t even matter. Your head began to buzz, and you were barely able to hear Mickey’s words as he continued.

“When you pulled your little stunt back in Carlisle,” he grabbed your throat and, despite your efforts, you gasped. “You gave Potter and his officers a big fat chance to catch up with us. The Twins got nabbed, you see… tossed in a jail to rot,” he gave your throat a squeeze and you watched in horror as a knife appeared in his hand.

“But that’s not the point, now is it?” He asked. "The Twins, they're expendable. A useless lot. We all knew that, didn't we?" He raised his eyebrows as he looked over your shoulder to Red and then back to Bernie. She grinned wickedly at you, and you felt Red’s hips press against yours.

Suddenly, Mickey grabbed your face, jerking it up to meet his as he leaned into your ear.

“What did I tell you about running, Kitty Cat?” he whispered, low on his breath. The smell of stale tobacco and whiskey filled your nose -- so familiar you felt sick.

As he tilted his knife into your cheek, you kicked your heel back into Red’s groin. The man gave a howl, hunching forward, and you used the opportunity to throw the back of your head directly into his nose. It broke with a sickening crunch, and he stumbled aside.

Whipping around, you scrambled for the exit, but Mickey grabbed your arm and pulled you backward, throwing you into the bar. Your back hit the edge of the tabletop with a thud, pulling a pained grunt from your lungs, but none of that mattered; the things they'd do to you would hurt a lot worse.

Mickey’s hand was at your throat again, slamming your shoulders back and pinning you to the table. The impact knocked the air out of your lungs and your hat from your head. Reaching behind you, your fingers closed around the brim and you swung it forward, shoving it into his face and blinding him for a precious moment. He growled and slashed out wildly with his knife. It caught you on the shoulder, slicing deep into your collarbone. Crying out, you grit your teeth against the sting of the blade and tried to push him off of you, but he was bigger; stronger. He had always been.

Suddenly your arm was forced down onto the counter. Bernie was there, fingers digging into your skin as she held you still.

“Mickey don’t,” you cried, wincing as his fist crashed down onto the counter next to you, hard enough that you weren’t sure how he hadn’t broken bones.

“What did I tell you about beggin’? Huh?” he barked, sliding the knife up to your throat, pressing hard enough that blood began to pool along the blade. You tried to kick out at him, but he smashed his hips against your legs, holding you still.

“It seems there’s a lot you’ve forgotten, little sister,” he muttered between heaving breaths. “Suppose I’ll just have to remind you then, won’t--”

His threats were cut off as Mickey was suddenly jerked backwards by the scruff of his collar. You saw Bernie’s eyes flash wide a moment before her face twisted into a scowl, a low growl tearing up her throat as she reached forward and grabbed you by the neck, slamming your head into the table. Your head crashed once, twice, and a third time before you were able to finally free your gun from its holster.

Lifting it, you leveled your aim and fired. Bernie fell back with a hoarse yell as her hand flew to clutch at the bloom of blood spreading across her shoulder in a pattern that almost matched your own.

You kicked out hard, sending her backwards and crashing into the nearest table before spinning around and frantically searching for the boys. You found Mickey quickly. He was dragging himself up off the floor, fists raised in a fighting stance to face…

The man’s back was turned to you, but you’d recognize the poncho anywhere. A portion of his dark hair was tied back with a strip of leather, strands pulling loose in the fray and laying against his temple. A dozen thoughts flashed through your mind. Was he following you? What were the chances that he wasn’t -- that he just so happened to be here at the same time? Why was he helping you when no one else would?

But these questions would go unanswered as you watched him land another punch, catching Mickey on the side of the head and sending him crashing back to his knees. Mickey pulled a revolver from his waistband, one that was the twin to your very own weapon, and pointed it at the man. He fired it just as the stranger’s left hand shot out from beneath his poncho. You heard the sound of bullets sparking against something and then the stranger was throwing his foot into Mickey’s chest, sending him careening to the floor once more.

A surprised shout was ripped from your lungs as fingers grabbed the back of your collar. They flung you around to face Red, who you’d lost in the fight. Big mistake.

He kneed you in the gut -- payback for earlier, you supposed -- and you fell to your knees with a painful thud, doubling over as you tried not to choke on your own breath. His fingers, long and bony, grabbed you by the chin, forcing your head up to meet his eyes. They were just as cold and serpentine as you remembered them.

“Oh, we’re gonna make you pay for it this time, bitch,” he hissed, squeezing your neck until you were gasping for a breath that would never come. You grabbed his wrist with both hands, trying to pull it away, but to no avail.

It was just as your eyelids began to flutter that Red suddenly dropped like a sack of rocks, struck on the head by the butt of the stranger’s pistol.

“Come on,” he said, reaching a hand down to you. You took it without hesitation, knowing that if you didn’t leave now, they were going to kill you. Or worse. Probably worse.

The stranger hauled you to your feet -- perhaps with a little too much strength, as he had to catch you by the shoulders to prevent you from face-planting into him. You flinched -- how could you not? -- but if he noticed, he didn’t say anything, just ushered you towards the door. Walking backwards, keeping his gun trained on the room, he waited until you’d stumbled down the stairs before whipping around.

“They won’t be long,” he warned, and you didn’t need to be told twice. Grabbing Horse’s reins, you swung them over his head and pulled yourself onto his back in the same easy motion, thanking whatever gods may be that your legs hadn’t given out yet.

Blood dripped down your chest from the wound in your shoulder, but you barely noticed it as you spurred Horse forward. He leaped into a canter, stride quickly lengthening as he raced out into the road. Throwing a look over your shoulder, you squinted past the dust kicked up in your wake and watched as the first of them appeared on the porch of the saloon. Mickey -- and he was looking right at you, yelling something you were thankful you couldn’t hear. You felt your limbs begin to shake but willed the adrenaline to stay with you a little longer.

Whipping back around, reaching up to shove your hat more securely onto your head, you caught sight of a flash of white off to your left. The stranger, poncho furling out behind him, shot you a look. He brought his horse up next to yours and shouted, “Follow me,” before giving his mount a firm kick.

You weren’t thinking, you were driven only by fear as you slammed your heels into Horse, urging him to go faster. He lengthened his stride, neck stretching out as he raced after the streak of white mane and green fabric.

You hadn't been expecting them to find you so soon. How had they found you so soon?

Your chest tightened with panic, and you flicked a rein against Horse’s haunches. In a matter of seconds, you caught up with the stranger. When he noticed you in his peripheral, he pointed forward, then left; you were going to be making a sharp turn, it seemed. You nodded and he replied with a curt one of his own. Chancing another glance over your shoulder, you held your hat on as three horses swam into view through the haze of the sand and desert heat. You definitely couldn’t breathe now.

They were gaining on you steadily. You just hoped that they didn’t start shooting.

The stranger threw up a hand, signaling the preparation for the turn, and you braced yourself in the saddle, jamming your heels down and maintaining your balance.

Even though he’d prepared you, somehow you were still caught off guard when he pulled up on his horse, wheeling it in a tight spin before taking off again with a leap. You weren’t sure Horse could do that -- but he sure as hell tried. Tugging your reins back, you squeezed with your legs and pushed him in the direction of the white horse. He reared up, hind end sliding under him, and for a horrible moment you thought he might fall on top of you, but after a breath, he launched himself forward, got his front legs under him, and galloped to catch up to the stranger.

That was when you noticed why he’d led you in such a turn. Up ahead was a forest along the edge of a wide ravine. You followed the flash of white as the two horses burst into the tree line, throwing an arm in front of your face as you dodged branches. You’d hardly made it a few meters in before he pulled up, slowing his horse to an abrupt trot. Horse was quick to do the same without you even having to ask him. Your hands had begun to shake.

“Come on,” the man said again, as if you hadn’t been following him already, and turned his horse towards the cavern.

Trotting a little ways along the edge, he pulled up short and spun his horse around, then began to descend a steep, rocky slope. You felt your stomach lurch with a new anxiety now, and you anchored your legs and sat deep in the saddle as Horse picked his way downward.

The stranger's horse slid the last few feet, then picked up a brisk trot as it finally reached the ground of the cavern. The man tugged on the reins, letting his mount sidestep for a moment and allowing you to catch up before urging it forward. You followed behind, and he led you down the path until he spotted a cave and reined his horse in. With a nod and a grunt, he swung his leg behind him and dismounted.

Leaning onto Horse’s neck, you did the same. The moment your feet hit solid ground, your knees buckled and you fell. Your hands hit the stone and you yelped as pain shot through your collarbone. Horse sidestepped, jerking his head up as he snorted.

“Woah, woah,” the stranger’s voice floated into your ears. He had grabbed Horse by the bridle and was steering him away from your crumpled form. “No use trampling her after all that, buddy.” He gave Horse a gentle, surprisingly fond pat on the neck.

You took a deep breath and shakily pulled yourself to your feet.

“How ya doin’ over there?”

It took you a minute to realize the man was talking to you.

“I--” you cleared your throat. It was clogged with dust and fear. “I’m fine.”

It was a lie. You knew it, and you knew the man knew it, too.

“Uh-huh,” he replied, a wrinkle interrupting the skin between his brow as he studied you.

His eyes were blue, you realized. You hadn’t been able to see it before, in the darkness, but they were a cerulean blue.

“Let’s get these horses hidden,” he muttered, and it was almost a command.

Almost, but not quite.

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x female reader #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes fanfiction #ao3 fanfic #ao3 link #western au #bucky barnes western au

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artficlly · 10 months

Text

me & the devil (one-shot)

Wild West Marvel AU

outlaw!bucky x saloon girl!reader

The Diamondback Saloon and Hotel has always attracted bad men, and Bucky Barnes happens to be one of them.

Warnings: violence, death, wound descriptions, lots of blood and gore, mention of guns, swearing, sex worker reader, lots of talk of sex work, vague mentions of past non-con and abuse, lots of angst, sexual tension, breaking law, bank robbery, lmk if anything needs to be added.

Word Count: 11.2k (whoops)

A/N: hi! this is a pretty angsty/gorey fic I've been working on. i started this a month back while watching west world. i love westerns, rdr and all thinsg cowboy so this was so fun to write. i was thinking of maybe a part two just due to how long this got lol. sorry for any typos - not proof read.

main masterlist

It was still morning when trouble walked in. In the two months you had been working at The Diamondback Saloon and Hotel, it had taken you only days to figure out who was trouble and who wasn’t. There was an energy to them, something more clinging to their bodies than the grime and grit of the wilds. The saloon would fall into a hush, an unspoken knowing between all within. It wasn't just the guns on their person, but the way they held themselves. A swagger and a smirk, bruises on their knuckles, a twisted nose from a fight long forgotten An essence of something deeper, a whisper that hissed in warning.

That intensity screamed danger, and all those inside knew to obey it or face its wrath.

“Them boys look like trouble.” Charlotte hummed, echoing your thoughts entirely. The two of you stood leaning back against the bar, examining your new patrons. There were three of them, young and deadly. They had that energy and that intensity. With just a flick of your eyes, you could read it – fatality written into the dirt under their nails to the subtle splatter of blood along the cuff of a shirt.

“Maybe that’s reason to steer clear for once.” You muttered back to the woman, your fan fluttering as you eyed her with a frown. “The last lot didn’t even pay you.”

Danger didn’t often walk into Silverton, but when it did, it always stopped by The Diamondback for one final drink and fuck before facing the open wilds. Danger had different faces; some returned, some didn’t. The three men who now took up a table in the back were certainly new to you.

“The ride was payment enough.” Charlotte giggled as she batted her lashes. “Them boys always have a lot packing.”

You rolled your eyes with a huff. "Yeah, and half of em’ don’t even know how to use it.”

“I’ll take my chances.” Charlotte announced with one of her coy smiles you had grown to know so well. She strutted off in the direction of the group of men, hand dragging across shoulders and cleavage pronounced in her posture. The men looked at her up and down like a meal – predators and prey. You often couldn’t tell the difference between the two – who was prey and who was predator. Considering how much coin Charlotte would often fish from her corset after a day’s work, maybe she was the predator. You had learned a lot from her in your short time at The Diamondback.

After a moment of consideration, you turned to face the bar. The barkeep, Crowley, had his eyes fixed on the trio. With a tut, he returned to cleaning the glasses lined along the bar. You were barely able to hear his low voice over the piano. “I swear that girl ain’t got no fear.”

“I guess that’s what comes from workin’ in a job like this long enough.” You replied simply, abandoning your fan on the bar as you snatched up one of the clean glasses.

“I swear I seen them boys' faces on a poster up north in Rustler’s Grove.” Crowley muttered, eyeing you disapprovingly as you slid the glass in his direction. “You drinkin’ this early already?”

“Be a gentleman, won’t you?” You replied with a beam, elbows propped onto the bar. “Whiskey. The stuff from the back, not that watered-down shit for the guests.”

“Sure thing, sweetheart.” Crowley grumbled, abandoning his post to rummage around for your request. You took the brief moment to cast a glance back across the room.

Charlotte was now perched on one of the men’s laps; he had a darker complexion, and curls of dark hair were escaping from under his hat. You noted how one of his hands gripped Charlotte’s upper thigh, squeezing the exposed flesh. Her hand explored his chest as he whispered in her ear. Across the table, his two companions seemed deep in a hushed conversation, completely oblivious to the table of men eyeing them suspiciously nearby.

You ripped your eyes away, instead putting your focus on your hands, which you had clasped tightly together. You never wanted this life; you assumed no whore truly wanted this life. Instead, you all stumbled into it one way or another. A broken family, a dead husband, a lost soul – each of you had a story that led you down this path. All you could do was put on a smile and tell yourself that you liked it, pretending that you had some kind of freedom or power over your situation.

Your eyes fluttered upwards, watching Crowley through your lashes as he returned and poured the liquor into the glass. “You’re thinking too much again; all you’re gonna end up in is a whole world of pain.”

You considered his words, turning them over in your mind before speaking. “That’s what the drinks for.” You hummed with a weak smile. “No thinking if the whiskey drowns it all out.”

Crowley offered you a hollow smile, more of a grimace, as his weathered skin pulled tightly at the corners. “Damn right.”

You shot the whiskey back in one swallow, with a moment of silence following as you allowed yourself to feel the burn in your chest. It was a familiar sensation, one you had relied heavily on to get through the past two months.

“Whiskey this early? A woman after my own heart.” A deep, husky voice spoke from beside you. Trouble. There he stood. It seemed one of the trio had escaped Charlotte’s clutches; if it had been to talk to you or simply drink at the bar, you could not know. You couldn't help but notice the intensity of his gaze as it bore into you. He was taller than the other two and broader, with large shoulders and a chest that seemed to fill out his shirt in all the right places.

Your eyes quickly swept back across the room, seeing Charlotte still occupied. A few of the other girls circled nearby like vultures, searching for the coin they knew was just under their nose.

“Buy me another one, then we can talk.” You replied easily, plastering on a sickly-sweet smile. You wondered if he saw through it and whether he knew how much you hated yourself. You knew it was foolish to think so.

The man silently motioned two fingers at Crowley, and your glass was quickly refilled. You swirled the amber liquid, eyeing the man as he examined you in return. He seemed to live a rough lifestyle, with skin weathered from the sun, sand and dirt clinging to flesh and clothes alike. His knuckles were bruised and swollen, and there was a scar above his left eyebrow. Strings of brunet hair poked out from beneath his hat, paired with piercing blue eyes that seemed to penetrate your soul. The muscles in his chiseled jawline flexed as he swallowed back the liquor with a stoic look. Your tongue ran over your bottom lip as you watched his adam’s apple bob. He had a rough, handsome charm to him, despite everything telling you to run. It always seemed to be that way with troublemakers.

“How’d a girl like you end up in a place like this?” He hummed, placing his glass back on the bar. You smile at him from behind your own glass, keeping eye contact as you finish the liquor with ease. Whiskey made you comfortable, and whiskey made you fun. Most of all, it made you forget.

“How do you think most girls end up in this place, hm?” You reply boldly, watching as Charlotte ascends the stairs with her new client in tow. “Sad stories, bad stories. Every whore has a sob story; do ya really want to hear a sob story?”

“You’re new here; ‘least you weren’t around when I was last in these parts,” he chuckled in response. Another round of liquor was poured into your glass with a quick flick of the man's callused fingers.

“New…” You hum, your fingers tracing along the sticky, dark wood of the bar. The man’s attention was fixed on your every movement. “How new do you consider... new?”

“I was ‘round here about a year ago now.” His gravelly voice replied, and another shot of liquor was swallowed. Your eyes briefly danced back across the room, a table of patrons shouting over a game of poker stirring your attention. The man next to you didn’t even flinch as a glass was shattered and chairs screeched as they tumbled to the ground.

“I guess I am new.” You finally spoke, sending another perfectly empty smile in his direction. He ran his tongue over his teeth with a chuckle. “What’s your name?” You ask.

“James. But most people just call me Bucky.”

“Bucky.” You hum in thought, drinking yet another shot of the amber liquor.

“You wanna head upstairs, sweetheart?” He asks, watching as Crowley abandons his post behind the bar to clear out the poker table, the group having resorted to whipping out their guns. You ignore the chaos, shrugging with a simple smile.

“Sure thing, cowboy.” You say as you hook your arm around the back of the bar, stealing the bottle of whiskey while Crowley was distracted. Bucky followed your movements with a grin, following you up the stairs wordlessly.

—

Finding an empty room was easy; most of the girls had unspokenly claimed a room they reused throughout the day. The rooms in the Diamondback were modest, as expected for a small town. A double bed with fresh sheets, a chair next to an unused fireplace, and a dresser near the door with a bowl and pitcher of water placed atop it.

Your back was turned to Bucky, and you could hear the creak of the bed as he sat down. You dared to look up through your lashes, meeting his eye through the mirror that sat atop the dresser. Bottle of whiskey forgotten, you turn to face the rugged man. You can't help but feel a little weak in the knees under his intense gaze. A hand runs over his stubbled chin briefly before removing the worn leather hat from his head. His hair, a rich, dark brown, emerges from beneath, his hand running through the messy strands.

You step forward, carefully taking the hat from his large hands. The remnants of sand and dirt prickle your fingers as you brush the pads over the fabric. You had come to learn how much the men who frequented the Diamondback valued their hats; there was an unspoken lore or story attached to each one. With his hat delicately placed on the bedside table, you return to Bucky’s side.

With the whiskey doing its work, you smooth your hands over the dark fabric of his shirt. Your hands looked so small, delicate, and clean next to him. You found him handsome; if you were younger, you probably would’ve been intrigued or charmed by his looks as well. You knew to avoid trouble like him, but under different circumstances, at a different time?

The thoughts bubble in your mind as you seat yourself close next to him, breath fanning across his skin as you lean in. Your movements are slow and deliberate. You test his response with a quick peck of your soft lips against his before quickly closing the distance. He was so rough in comparison to you; his body was sturdy as a rock. His lips were chapped from days spent in the sun, and his stubble was coarse against your smooth skin.

His hands gripped your waist tightly, pulling you closer as you licked into his mouth. A breathless chuckle rumbled in his chest, his lips hungrily consuming yours. Your hands explored lower, feeling the defined muscles beneath the dark fabric. Your hands wrapped around his suspenders and guided them over his broad shoulders.

Bucky pulled away, his mouth instead traveling towards your neck. You tilted your head, feeling his hot breath across your skin. Squirming in his hold, your eyes fluttered shut as his lips met your ear.

“As much as I appreciate it, sweetheart, I’m just lookin’ to chat.” He breathed. You were so concentrated on his hot breath and his squeezing hands that you could not understand what he had said. You opened your eyes, heavy lidded as you gazed at him in confusion.

“To chat?” You question, your faces still pulled closely together.

“Maybe I do wanna hear your sob story, darlin’.” He hummed through a smirk. You felt heat rise in your cheeks, embarrassment flooding your system as you realized he was laughing at you. With one strong push, you wrenched yourself from his grasp with a huff.

“Don’t waste my time.” You hiss at him with a scowl, shooting to your feet.

“I’ll pay you for your time; don’t worry. I ain’t lookin’ to put you out of business.” Bucky defended himself, raising his hands in the air as if in surrender. You hesitate near the dresser.

“You want to pay to talk to me?” You question him, your skepticism clear in your tone. There were always men trying to get out of paying what they fucked; you’d seen all the different types of scams. Some would run, some would get violent, and some would promise to ‘save’ the girl from this place. You could imagine trouble like Bucky running that type of scheme, saying it was just a chat to get out of payment.

“I ain’t got many other people to talk to; why not a pretty lady?” He hummed, leaning back onto his muscled arms to view you properly.

“If you’re messin’ with me–” You began to grumble.

“I ain’t, darling. Just wanna talk.”

You stared at him for a beat, weighing your choices. Go downstairs and let another grubby man get his hands on you, or stay up here and chat with a handsome troublemaker who may or may not pay you. With a sharp exhale, you retrieve the bottle of whiskey and take a swig from it. “Fine. Alright then.”

Bucky watched your actions with an amused expression, his body language cool and collected against your outward annoyance. He reached over to his leather coat, which he had abandoned next to him on the bed, retrieving a box of cigarettes and matches.

“You have a real sad look to you.” He commented as he placed a cigarette between his lips. “Standing down by that bar like you don’t wanna be here, I bet it attracts a certain type.”

“What do you mean?” You question him as he strikes the match, taking a long drag once the cigarette is lit.

“The type of men you attract,” he begins to explain. “Type’a of men who want a girl who don’t want it. Cruel bastards, you know.”

You pause at his words, recounting all of the men you had serviced. Charlotte usually attracted the young ones, the boys who wanted a story to brag about to their friends. The men you attracted were older and quiet. They came to you, drawn in by your melancholy. The whiskey burned your chest as you took yet another swig. Memories best left buried. “And are you a cruel man?”

“No, well, some might say, but not in that way. I ain’t a mean bastard with a fantasy of being with a girl who don’t want it.”

“What type of man are you?” Your voice is low, a sense of unease crawls under your skin at his words.

“What do you think?” He asks, his body growing still. Predator and prey. A part of you enjoyed the thrill of watching him assess your every move. Another part of you was terrified, screaming that you knew trouble and should know better than to get tangled up in it.

“A dangerous one. An outlaw.” When you say those things, you mentally brace yourself for him to take offense and respond badly. Instead, to your surprise, he chuckles, eyebrows raising in delight as if you had hit the bullseye.

A gleam tugs at his lips, the chuckle catching in his chest as he takes another drag. “An outlaw, eh? What do you know about outlaws?”

“I know the type.”

“Hah. I suppose you do, workin’ in a place like this.” He comments, hands gesturing to the room around you, the cheap linen and scratched wooden floors. Somewhere down the hall, you could hear Charlotte putting on one of her shows, the paper-thin walls barely covering the moans. “Places like this breed evil; I suppose that’s why I frequent them so often.”

Your back met the dresser as Bucky stood, his frame towering above you even from a few steps away. It only took a couple strides for him to be in front of you, plucking the cigarette from his lips as he took the whiskey from your hand. Smoke engulfed your senses, and the sense of danger grew with his closeness.

Whoring was a risky line of work; like he said, saloons often bred evil. You weren’t a stranger to a man who got too aggressive, leaving bruises and blood in his wake. Bucky didn’t seem angry; he seemed amused by you, if anything. But you had to remind yourself that he was an outlaw, and most outlaws weren’t strangers to bloodshed.

“Are you… Are you gonna hurt me?” You asked, your voice weak as you pressed yourself harder into the dresser. He gave you a look and coughed a little, as if bothered by your assumption, as he downed the whiskey.

“What? No. I just wanna talk. I might be a bad man, but I ain’t the type to hurt a defenseless girl.”

You visibility deflated as he backed off a few paces, placing the whiskey next to his hat as he ran a hand through his hair with a tense expression. You exhaled a sharp breath, watching the conflict cross his face. Maybe he didn’t mean to scare you; maybe he just needed someone to talk to. You’d heard of big, bad men who couldn’t be vulnerable to anyone. They were so afraid of betrayal that they ended up isolated in a room full of people.

You could imagine Bucky like that; you almost felt sorry for the handsome man. He just wanted to talk; that couldn’t hurt, right? Your skirts swept across the creaky wood floors as you strode beside him, seating yourself between him and the bottle of whiskey. His azure eyes assessed you with a look of mild surprise.

“What… What do you want to talk about?” You finally cut into the silence.

“Why don’t you tell me about yourself? How you ended up in a place like this?” He questioned, taking a seat beside you. Your thighs bumped together through the fabric, yet you didn’t lean away. “I always see girls like you in these places – gentle women who fell off at some point. Most of the time, it ain’t even their fault. I guess that’s what happened to you, sweetheart.”

You contemplate his words, plucking the still-smoking cigarette from his lips. He doesn’t protest as you inhale the smoke, tilting your head in thought. “It ain’t a happy story.” You confess.

“Don’t need to be. Sometimes I just need a reminder that whatever god is watching over us is just as cruel as us men can be.” His arms brushed yours as he leant over, retrieving the whiskey from beside you. Careful not to exhale smoke directly in his face, you turn your head to watch out the window as you wonder where to start. The sky was so blue outside, just as blue as Bucky’s eyes. It was alluring in a deceptive way; the summer heat beat down on Silverton relentlessly. Sometimes you were glad to work inside instead of out in that brutality.

“My momma died when I was young. Cholera.” You begin, “Broke my daddy’s heart. He was a doctor, good one before momma died. I guess not being able to save her broke him. He fell into drink, gamblin', and whorin’. Barely made his appointments, so I had to help him run the office, cleanin’ up and sometimes stitchin’ up the fools that came in when he was too drunk to do it himself. Eventually he couldn’t afford to feed me no more; he could barely care for himself, let alone a child.” You pause to extinguish the last of the cigarette on the bedside table, the scorch mark joining a collection of older ones. Ghosts and memories of the place you sat in.

“So, my daddy, he sent me away to live with my uncle and aunt. They had a homestead not too far from here; my uncle and cousin were ranchers and moved cattle mostly. I liked it out there in the open; I would go ridin’ and watch the sun rise and set. My aunt would worry I would get robbed or worse, ridin’ alone out there. I was still a girl, really. I didn’t care nor really know how evil this place could be.” Bucky hummed in acknowledgement as you spoke, fingers brushing off some ash that had fallen onto your skirt.

“I would help out on the ranch too; I liked that work. It felt like real work. Good, rewarding work. I liked the animals, playing with the dogs and ridin’ the horses to move the cattle.” Your gaze pulled away from the window, instead turning your head to watch as Bucky took another long drink from the whiskey.

“Then, my uncle died. Gored by his own bull one morning, I tried to save him, but he lost too much blood. It was all so sudden, weren’t nothing we could do. My aunt, she couldn’t bear to live there no more, decided to sell the place. She said she couldn’t take me wherever she was going with my cousin. They were using the money to buy a new ranch back east and couldn’t afford to keep me on no more. She said to write to my daddy and continue working as his assistant until I found a man to marry.”

“What happened to your pa?” Bucky asked, the liquid sloshing in the bottle as he swirled it in his hands. You took a moment to shamelessly stare at the way the veins bulge over the muscles and tendons.

“Don’t know.” You finally admit with a sigh. “Never replied to my letter. Either didn’t want me back or is buried somewhere and no one thought to tell me. So I went to the nearest town to find a job; ain’t no one want to hire a woman ‘cept for in this place. I decided whorin’ was better than starvin’.”

“Real shame. I bet a sweet girl like you could’ve made it in one of those cities back east. Married some big shot, lived life comfortably in one of those fancy city manors.” Bucky hummed. You knew the type of places he was talking about – massive manors filled with staff and shiny, expensive things. Hell, you could imagine Bucky having robbed a place like that while the inhabitants were out at social evenings with the rest of the upper class.

“Maybe. I don’t think I could ever live in a city.” You confess with a shrug. “I like the open air, the emptiness of it all. I don’t get to see it much in this place, but I remember what it was like when I used to go ridin’ all those years ago.”

Bucky’s eyes trailed across your face. “I understand what you mean. I don’t stay in places long, get cold feet. I live in the open; I like traveling without being stuck in one spot.”

“How did you end up livin’ the way you do?” You ask hesitantly, watching his thoughtful expression flicker into a more somber one.

“It ain’t much of a clear story like yours. Absent pa, my momma had it rough raising us kids by herself. I got caught up in bad business, thievin’, killin’ and such. Once I got into it, I didn’t know how to get out. I made friends with similar stories; we all wanted to stay doing what we do so we could look out for each other. All of us just wanna stay out in that open; just keep headin’ west, knowin’ we’ll be buried in a place civilization has yet to meet.” His words were brief, and it was obvious to you that he had more of a connection to the outlaws he surrounded himself with than he did with his own blood.

“Don’t you ever want to settle down some day?” You ask.

“Nah. Once you got the west in your bones, you’re lost to that life.”

You consider his words in silence, drowning out the sounds of other girls working in the surrounding rooms. You understood what he meant; it felt like you hadn’t left those open plains since you first discovered them. You missed riding without a care, the wind tangling your hair as you navigated the emptiness of it all.

“Well. When you’re out there ridin’ in the empty, you’ll think of me? Some sad saloon girl who just wanted to ride out in the open?” You ask, eyes dipping behind your lashes as Bucky flashes you a genuine smile.

“‘Course, sweetheart.”

—

Bucky and his friends hung around longer than both you and the other girls expected. Men like them usually only hung around for a few days or less. From Crowley’s muttering, it seemed the law didn’t show interest in them. Either that or the boys were keeping their heads down.

Most mornings Bucky would come visit you, his two friends switching between drinking and sampling the other girls. Bucky’s eyes never seemed to stray from you, always finding you at the bar with a ‘hey sweetheart’ muttered with the scent of whiskey and leather. You started to enjoy his company, the stories and thoughts the both of you shared.

Every time he visited, he would pay, neatly stacking the coins on the dresser. He always gave double your rate, a rugged smirk and wink sent your way as he slipped out the door. You found yourself waiting and looking for him each day, lingering near the bar until he and his friends sauntered in.

Today was no different than any of your other meetings. Half a bottle of whiskey down, the two of you were talking about thoughts and worries you’d never thought to voice. The summer heat was worse than usual, and the saloon was crowded with working men slick with sweat and tempers to match the scorch outside.

You sat now perched on the windowsill; the window cracked open despite the lack of wind. With your skirts and petticoat bunched up to your thighs to fight the heat, you dangled your legs through the air nonchalantly. A cigarette hanging from your lips as you carelessly stared out at the stretch of blue skies beyond. Bucky had carefully placed his hat on the dresser; his coat peeled off as he watched you from across the room.

“Do you know what time the law go on their lunch break?” Bucky asked into the silence. Often, when a lull presented itself, the outlaw would break the quiet by questioning you about your clients or the townspeople of Sliverton.

“One o’clock, sometimes two if they’re dealin’ with trouble.” You respond easily, exhaling smoke out the window. It took you a beat to think about his question, your eyebrows drawing together. “Why?” You question.

It was an obvious conclusion to be suspicious: why was an outlaw asking about the law’s schedule? You’d noticed how Bucky’s interest often peaked at the mention of the law, the bank tellers, and sometimes even the gunsmith. You had mentioned how the manager of the bank was a cruel man, often leaving the girls with bruises. The group of you would draw lots when he came in, that or hope he would get too drunk to perform.

As for the law, they often mixed business with pleasure. During their lunch break, they would often call down the girls to the sheriff’s office to work while they drank over a game of poker. You had been invited a couple times and mentioned it to Bucky off-hand a few days ago.

“I heard some rumors about a bounty in this area, wanted to stop by when they weren’t… busy.” Bucky replied, a small amount of guilt growing in your chest at your unspoken accusation. The two of you had been open with each other these past weeks.

“A bounty?” You question. “What are you doing gettin’ involved in that business?” You look over at him. The outlaw chuckles under his breath, his callused hand sweeping through his hair as he leans back further in his seat.

“Takes an outlaw to catch an outlaw sometimes, sweetheart.”

You chew on his words for a moment, shrugging with acceptance after not much thought. You could see what he meant; only outlaws were generally cocky enough to risk their lives for coin. That, and they would probably know where another might hide, having lived in their shoes.

“You do that work often?”

“Sometimes,” he hums in reply. “Only when we’re tight for coin.”

You swing your feet down to the wooden floors, your bare skin sticky against the warm wood. Once more, heat envelops your figure as your skirts descend to your shins. Bucky watches with interest as you put out your cigarette, stalking towards where he sits.

“If you’re short, why are you out here spendin’ double on me?” You ask softly, pausing in front of him. His eyes dart upwards, examining your face with a gentle look.

“Sometimes you gotta make sacrifices for a pretty lady.”

You feel your cheeks flush at his words. Normally compliments made your skin crawl and your mouth turn sour, but Bucky had grown on you. Your hand moves towards him before you can think, resting gently on his shoulder.

“I might regret sayin’ this but… I ain’t worried about the money. I do like our chats for other reasons than the coin.” You stumble over your words, a smug smirk growing on Bucky’s face.

“Now, sweetheart, I don’t wanna be putin’ ya out of business talking to a fool like me–” Bucky doesn’t get to finish his words, much to your disappointment. Instead, you jerk back in surprise as the door is thrown open.

In the doorway stands one of Bucky’s friends; you recognized him from his time in the saloon. His face was pink from the heat, and messy blond hair poked out from under his hat. A boyish grin spread across his cracked lips. You noted how large his stature was, nearly taking up the entire door frame. His chest must have been muscled beneath his dirt-stained shirt, his forearms bulging where the fabric had been pulled back to his elbows to combat the heat.

“I see why you spend so much time here, Buck. She’s a pretty little thing, ain’t she?” Steve comments. You swallow thickly, glancing at Bucky, who sighs through his nose in annoyance. Any tenderness has left his expression, replaced with cold annoyance.

“This is Steve.” The outlaw explains to you, getting to his feet. “What is it?”

You recognized that name; Bucky had mentioned Steve over the past weeks. Steve had been one of his childhood friends who had followed him down the path of an outlaw. Bucky had told you how the two would pickpocket so they would have enough to eat. They had robbed and shot their way west; they fucked their way too, apparently. Bucky had mentioned how the two of them enjoyed their ladies, sometimes taking them at the same time in the same room.

You couldn’t help but let your mind linger on that thought as you studied the blond man. His eyes were looking you up and down eagerly, lingering on your pronounced breasts due to your corset.

“Sam… er, Sam needs to talk.” Steve finally responds, hesitant and careful with his words, as if he didn’t want you to know the true meaning behind his interruption. As you look back over at Bucky, who has crossed over to the dresser, he nods at Steve in silent understanding.

You bite your tongue as the two outlaws share an unspoken conversation, Bucky returning his precious hat to his head. As usual, you watch as he stacks double your rate on the end of the dresser, a secret, cocky smirk sent in your direction as he slips into the hallway.

“Why is he payin’ you that much? You got gold between your legs or somethin’?” Steve questions, having glanced at the pile left behind. You simply huff at him, slamming the door shut in his face. Through the door, you can hear him bellow out a laugh.

—

It was a lazy Thursday afternoon when the first shots were heard. Silverton was not unfamiliar with a bit of violence; the occasional exchange of bullets was easy to grow accustomed to. That Thursday was no different, you’d thought, that was until the bullets grew more frequent. Shots rang through the town, sending people scattering into nearby buildings or braving the streets with revolvers in hand.

That increase in sound blasting through the swelteringly hot afternoon was what made you pause. You were upstairs fixing your updo after a client. Placing the last pin between your strands, you moved to walk cautiously into the hallway. Glancing over the staircase railing, you look into the main bar area. Silence had fallen over the saloon, with chairs and tables empty as if the last patrons had fled.

Your eyes land on Charlotte, who stood next to the bar, exchanging a worried conversation with Crowley. Quickly, you glance back down the hallway, noting the girls and guests who peeked their heads from their rooms in similar morbid curiosity.

It felt wrong to linger upstairs listening to the massacre below; instead, you found yourself opting to join Charlotte and Crowley. As you descend the stairs, carefully lifting your skirts so as not to trip on them, Charlotte peaks up at you.

“Somebody’s robbin’ the bank.” She quickly explains, catching your nervous expression. A bit of relief floods your veins. As loud and violent as that could be, the robbers weren’t likely to hang around for a drink.

“Sounds like a slaughter out there.” You grumble in reply, finding your usual spot by the bar. Crowley looked mostly unphased, shining his glasses with a faint shake of his head. “You think they’re gonna get away with it?”

“Old man Billy ran by and said they ambushed the sheriff's office before they headed to the bank.” Crowley cuts in, placing the now-clean glass down. “Guessin’ there's still a few of them alive if they’re still shootin’. Pretty smart of them robbers to get them while they were on lunch break.”

A pit of dread grows in your stomach, your eyes glancing to the clock above the bar. Quarter past one.

“Were any of our girls down that way?” Charlotte asks with worry, but your focus was instead turned to the dusty road outside. You hoped, if not prayed, that if you caught a glimpse of those robbers, it would not be Bucky and his friends. You couldn’t help but feel a crawling guilt, the possibility that maybe you had been duped into giving an outlaw information. You could not handle the deaths of so many on your shoulders. You knew if your careless words had caused it, it would be squarely your fault.

“No, thank God. Law sent word they didn’t want girls today. Maybe they knew somethin’ was up.” Crowley replies, but you are hardly present in the conversation, instead shifting closer towards the window. You knew it was dangerous, but the pit of worry and guilt was growing in your stomach; you just needed confirmation.

Charlotte let out a sudden and piercing scream as one of the saloon’s windows shattered, a stray bullet richoeing and landing in one of the tables with a thud. “Get away from the windows!” she shrieks at you.

Only as your brain recognizes the danger do you move away, rigidly walking to Charlotte’s side once more. The woman grabs at your arm, beginning to tug you behind the bar as you cast one last glance out the windows.

Nausea crawls in your stomach, and bile rises in your throat as Charlotte tugs you to the floor behind the bar. Amongst the gunshots and dead bodies, you saw the group of masked figures emerge from the bank onto the streets. Just a brief moment, a glance, and your world was left spiraling as your breathing grew faster and ragged. Any other person may have looked at those figures and been oblivious, but you had spent weeks tucked away in the upstairs room with Bucky. You could recognize him even with a mask on, with his muscled form and leather hat. Bucky was out there, standing over dead bodies with a shotgun in hand. And it was all your fault.

Conversations long past swirl in your mind; how many times had Bucky shifted the topic to be about the law, the bank tellers, or the townsfolk of Silverton? How many times had he tricked you into revealing information that wasn’t supposed to go beyond your ears? So many times clients had confided in you, and you had just passed on the information like it were some inside joke between the two of you.

Charlotte flinched and trembled beside you as the gunshots and shouting grew louder. You could only stare at the clock above and spiral. Crowley remained in place, cleaning glasses with a cold expression as if he alone could ward off any evil.

Outside, the voices grew louder and angrier.

“Well, it ain’t me who shot the doctor!”

“He can’t ride like this!”

“You better be fuckin’ right about this Barnes or we’re all dead!”

Charlotte's hands dug into your arms, pulling you closer as the wooden planks of the boardwalk outside grew alive with the sound of stomping boots. Crowley’s glass cleaning paused as the saloon doors were slammed open in a hurry. Crowley’s mouth opened, meaning to speak to the men who had just stormed in. No words came out; instead, the spray of blood, chunks of flesh, and skull decorated the surrounding area as a bullet was fired directly into his skull.

Beside you, Charlotte shrieks once more as Crowley's body slumped to the floor with a hollow thud. You clamp your hand over her mouth, shushing her as you pull her closer. Your body is trembling, and bile is still stuck in your throat. You try not to focus on the way that Crowley’s brain matter had sprayed across your skin, dewy drops of crimson like a mist. You could feel the moisture, smell and taste the copper in the air. All you could do was try to keep as quiet as possible as the armed outlaws prowled only feet away.

The next thing to catch your attention is the sound of groaning and hissing, the unmistakable sound of someone in pain. Chairs and tables screech as if they are being pulled together while bullets still rain outside. You try to blindly piece the scene together in your mind, trying to understand why the outlaws had gathered here with lawmen so closely on their tail.

“They can’t hold them off for long out there. One of the law got away; we reckon he’s headed up Deadwood way to get back up.” A woman's voice shouts over the chaos.

“Where’s your girl then, Barnes? Better be worth it.” A male voice snaps. Through Charlotte's panting and the gunshots, you can hear the thunder of boots storming up the stairs.

“Someone get me some fuckin’ whiskey.” The injured man speaks through gritted teeth. Your heart beats wildly in your chest, hoping whoever goes to retrieve the liquor doesn’t spot both you and Charlotte quivering in the corner. You press your back harder against the bar, pulling Charlotte closer into your side as she lays her head across your chest while silent sobs shake her body.

“Barnes! Hurry up!” The woman shouts up the stairs in annoyance, only to be met with no reply. The gunshots outside began to slow, the law seemed to be losing this shootout.

Heavy boots fall closer, a large figure rounds the corner of the bar. To your horror, he spots the two of you immediately, and even worse, it’s Steve. You recognize him quickly, with his sunburnt cheeks and blond hair and a mask still tied around his neck. His expression was one of relief but also of worry. When you last saw him, he was all smirks and flirting. You imagined it was probably a sight to see both you and Charlotte trembling behind the bar, covered in the contents of Crowley’s skull.

“She’s here, Buck.” Steve called out, your blood turning to ice.

A few days ago, you wouldn’t have been afraid of Steve or Bucky. Foolish, you now realize. It was foolish to get so close to danger and not feel her power. You didn’t know what these outlaws wanted from you, but you weren’t going to give it easily.

Steve stepped over Crowley’s body, and you shake your head. Beside you, Charlotte began to sob loudly, her nails digging into your skin. Between her panicked breathing, you could’ve sworn she was chanting, ‘Please God, I don’t want to die.’ under her breath. The woman you had once known was gone, in complete submission to fear. No more coy smiles and soft touches; no more fearlessness in the face of dangerous men. Charlotte was terrified, and so were you.

“Don’t touch me.” You warn Steve, but he ignores your request. His large hands wrap around Charlotte’s waist, tugging her away. She let out a terrified scream, grabbing and scratching at your arms in an attempt to hold on. Steve’s arms proved stronger, finally wrenching Charlotte away and ushering her away.

Steve’s attention now turned to you, a gruff sigh leaving his nose as he noticed your defiant look. “Don’t make this harder than it needs to be, pretty girl.”

You shove his hands away, the two of you briefly struggling before Steve finally finds a grip around your waist and hoists you to your feet.

“I said don’t fuckin’ touch me!” You shout at the blond, shoving and hitting at his chest. He grumbles in annoyance, trying to grasp your arms to stop the movement. Behind you, Charlotte is making a noise somewhere behind a sob and a scream as one of the unfamiliar men drags her out from behind the bar.

You back away further from Steve, still shoving and pushing him away. Only when your back meets something warm and solid does he stop his advance. Spinning around, you stand face-to-face with Bucky. His scent is the same: leather, but this time with a dash of gunpowder. Small blood splatters decorate his skin and clothing. As he grasps your wrists to stop your struggle, you unconsciously note how his knuckles are bruised and split.

“No...” is all you manage to utter, Bucky tilting his head with a frown as tears begin to streak down your face. You had been foolish enough to trust him and his rugged, handsome looks. You had blindly answered his questions without a care for the consequences because he had been kind and mysterious. He had told you himself he was an outlaw, a bad man. Now how many lives weighed on you too? Even Crowley’s blood was on your hands, literally and metaphorically.

Bucky’s hand reached up tenderly to wipe the tears from your cheek, his frown only deepening as you flinched away from his touch.

“As touchin’ as this is, we don’t have the time for this, Barnes.” The woman’s voice from earlier spoke up. Now that you are standing, you could look over to see her. She had a wicked look, messy red hair, and a cut across her cheek. A rifle slung across her shoulder, a revolver, and a knife at her hip. She assessed you with a look of annoyance, a scowl painted across her sharp lips.

With an annoyed grunt, Bucky obliged the woman’s request. His hand wrapped around your wrist as he tugged you back onto the main floor. You tried to ignore the hole in Crowley’s face as you were forced to step over his body, your shoes slipping in the pool of slick blood gathering on the wood floors.

“What do you want? You comin’ in here to kill us all too?” You ask, your voice raspy from the tears. Charlotte lingered near the staircase, still sobbing, as a younger man growled in annoyance at the sound.

“You think I’m here to kill you after everythin’, sweetheart? No. I need your help with somethin’.” Bucky questions, sounding a bit dismayed at your sudden fear. You swallow hard, trying to contain the tears that continue to freely stream down your face.

“Crowley is dead.”

“Yeah, well, that was unfortunate.” He grumbles, displeased.

“You’re a bastard, you know that?” You snap at him.

“Yeah, yeah. I know. I need ya to stitch up my friend here.” Bucky shrugs off your insult, instead tilting his head in the direction of a bloody sight. Your body shakes with each step, and you feel as if you are only held upright by Bucky’s firm grip, guiding you to a set of tables that have been pulled together. On top lies a man, older and with greasy black hair. Blood stains his shirt, and there is an obvious bullet wound in his lower abdomen. Sweat beads line his brow, his eyebrows drawn together as he battles the pain. You stare at him speechless, watching as Steve returns from behind the bar with a bottle of whiskey.

“Here ya are, Stark.” The blond mutters, shaking his head, as the injured man eagerly chugs the liquor down. For the pain, you think. He’s drinking it for the pain. You try to attach yourself to thoughts and knowledge you recognize, distracting the noise in your brain in the hopes that your hands and legs will stop trembling. You can barely think, and Bucky wants you to stitch him up?

Charlotte’s wailing doesn’t help your case, nor does it seem to quell the tempers rising in the room. Stark speaks up between gulps of whiskey. “Someone, for the love of God, stop her wailing or shoot the damn woman!”

The younger, twitchy man makes a loud noise of agreement, revolver in hand, as he points it directly at Charlotte’s forehead. Charlotte’s sobbing becomes uncontrollable, curling in on herself as she wraps her arms around her middle in defense. Your breath comes short, and your shaking hands grip Bucky’s bicep for comfort as you watch in horror.

“Her daddy was shot–” You suddenly blurt out, capturing the attention of the younger man. “He was shot in front of her; this type’a stuff upsets her. You understand?” Your tone was desperate, near begging. You don’t know why you said it, but you hoped maybe the man would have sympathy for her. Charlotte had confided in you about nightmares once; you didn’t know who else knew about the darkness in her life. The young man stares at you for a moment, his hand running over the non-existent stubble with an irritated sigh.

“You women are so fragile.” He mutters, raising the gun and striking the metal across Charlotte’s face. You gasp involuntarily, ducking your head so your cheek is pressed against Bucky’s chest. Charlotte’s wailing finally comes to a stop; instead, she only sniffles quietly as she holds a hand to her face in shock.

“Leave it, Parker.” Steve growls, prowling across the room, placing himself between Parker and Charlotte. Parker throws his hands up in surrender, instead stalking across the room to where some of the other nameless outlaws had gathered to keep watch.

Stark growls in annoyance from the tables once more, the mixture of pain and whiskey elevating his rage. “Trust pretty boy Rogers to be a fuckin’ gentleman. I’ll shoot the bitch myself even with this bullet in me.”

“Barnes.” The red-headed woman warns, sensing the rising tension and passing time.

“What do you need to stitch him up?” Bucky pressed with questions more urgently; it was clear time was running out and stalling would end in bloodshed.

“I can’t–” You mutter over your panicked breathing.

“Your pa was a doctor.” Bucky interrupts. “You told me yourself that you used to stitch fools up when he was too drunk to do it himself.”

“It’s been years–”

“What do you need?” Bucky’s voice was more firm, demanding even. You note how the other outlaws lingered nearby, twitchy and ready to pull the trigger at any moment. If you continued to stall, you would surely die. So would Charlotte. You would just have to stitch Stark up as quickly as possible, and then danger would finally leave your home.

“Clean water, cloth, and a sewing kit too.” You gasp out. “They’re upstairs in my room; the sewing kit is in the dresser.”

“Good girl.” Mumbles to you lowly, your stomach twisting as the gravelly sound. Bucky’s gaze raises to meet Steve, who quickly bounds up the stairs to retrieve the objects.

“Must be the end of times if we’re trustin’ a whore to stitch me up.” Stark grumbles from below, you sigh heavily through your nose, trying to calm your shaking hands. Beside you, Bucky tucks a strand of your hair behind your ear, as if trying to comfort you. Somehow, it gives you the courage to breathe again.

“You’re gonna want to lay off that whiskey.” You instruct Stark with a small sniff, fishing the bottle from his grip and wiping your tear-stained face. “You don’t wanna be chuckin’ that back up with a bullet in your gut, trust me.”

Stark barks out a pained, drunken laugh in response. “Alright, little lady.” His eyes swept over to Bucky. “She always this commandin’? This why you like her in bed, Barnes?”

Bucky lets out a sound resembling a snarl, but Steve's arrival bearing the requested items muffles any retaliation. You willed your hands to stay steady as you approached Stark, who was still writhing in pain on the table. Your father had called it ‘the calm’ or even ‘God's will’ when a doctor could quieten his worries to have a steady hand while stitching. You’d never believed in his spoutings until that moment, burying the anxiety of the situation as you instead focused your attention on the injury before you.

With the bloodied shirt pulled up, you turned him slightly to inspect his back. No exit wound. A sharp sigh left your nose as you realized you’d have to dig around and find the bullet yourself and pray it hadn’t burst into more than one piece. Wetting some of the clean cloth, you use it to wipe away the blood from the skin, giving yourself a better view of the entry. Stark tenses and squirms involuntarily beneath your touch, hissing through clenched teeth.

Your eyes flicker upward toward Bucky and Steve, catching their attention. “I need help holdin’ him down; he’s not gonna stay still even if he wants to.”

Stark seems irritated by your assumptions but keeps his mouth shut. The men are quick to assist you, with two men holding down his legs while Bucky and Steve take his arms and chest. You keep your eyes downcast as you easily unlatch Stark’s belt.

“Bite.” You guide the injured man, placing the leather belt between his teeth. You’d heard stories of men biting through their own tongues, even shattering their teeth in the height of pain. Best not to take the risk.

You take the bottle of whiskey, splashing the liquor over your hands before pausing before the wound. You glance over at Stark’s face; there is a look of determination in his eye as he nods for you to proceed.

Stark’s body reacts instantly to the liquor, jerking against the hands that held him in place. His groans and screams are muffled through the belt as he bites down, his face growing red. Your hands are steady, and your fingers are nimble and quick as you blindly dig through the wound. Muscle constricts around your fingers, hot and sticky against your skin.

Your heartbeat is in your ears as you search, drowning out the muffled screaming and the puffing of the men as they use all their might to restrain Stark’s squirming and jolts. Your fingers dig deeper, and a small worry grows in your gut that maybe you might not be able to locate the bullet. Blood spills from the wound, slippery copper sliding down his side and splashing onto the tables below. Your heart is in your mouth, the screams growing worse–

Your finger brushes something solid and hard; the object is slippery and small in comparison to the muscle and organ. It takes a few tries to grasp it between your fingers, with the sleek metal proving difficult to grip.

A sharp sigh of relief leaves your body as you successfully fish it from the wound, the metal clattering to the table. Thankfully, you note that the bullet is also whole. Blood paints your skin; all you can do is wash it away with the water while Stark pants in relief.

“How much longer?” The redhead woman asks; she has moved to linger near the doors. Outside, a few men hover with guns, as if expecting more law to turn up at any moment.

“It is small; it won’t take long to stitch.” You explain, your hands remaining steady as you begin to thread one of the larger needles.

The woman nods. “Make it quick.”

You follow her demands, quickly dousing the wound once more with whiskey. Stark groans, his head lulling from the mixture of drunkenness and exhaustion. If he were one of your father’s patients, maybe you would’ve comforted him and told him it was nearly over. But you were reminded of Charlotte still sniveling by the stairs, Crowley’s head blown open, and his body still slumped behind the bar.

Empathy evades you as you dig the needle into his flesh, your mouth set into a line as you easily pull the skin together with each stitch. Stark continues to jerk and shake, his body still held steady by the outlaws who watch your movements with interest.

Within minutes, you have tied off the thread, successfully putting Stark back together again. The outlaws seem silently relieved, if not surprised, by your efficiency as you wrap one of the clean strips of cloth around his middle like a bandage.

“He will be able to ride?” Bucky asks as you turn back to the bowl of water, cleaning your bloodied hands.

“The stitches will hold as long as you don’t ride too hard.” You respond, not quite meeting his eye. “If the wound keeps bleedin’ or starts festerin’ don’t give him whiskey. You can find yarrow and greasewood herbs out in the wild; they’ll help him best.”

The redhead woman makes a sound at your words, swinging around to face you. “What does a whore know about herbs? Your doctor daddy taught you that, or ya tryna poison us?”

You pause your movements, biting your tongue at her harsh tone. “I read it in a book.” You admit sheepishly.

The room is silent before Stark surprisingly roars with laughter, clutching his wound as he wheezes with pain at the sudden movement. “A whore that can read? Now that is a treat. What’s next? You can do arithmetic?”

You ignore his quip, instead drying your hands on the remaining cloth. Your father had made sure you could read, though that was before he spiraled into an early grave. Your cousin had helped you as well, the older boy providing you with stories and adventures to consume. You missed the simplicity of those days, riding the horse and moving the cattle without a care for the real world.

You were pulled away from your thoughts as Bucky gently touched your arm, seemingly having forgotten your new-found distaste for him. You flinch away from his touch like a skittish animal, sidestepping as you quickly depart his side in favor of Charlotte’s. The woman was still crouched near the staircase, shivering, with a large bruise developing across her cheek and her lip split and bloody.

You can feel Steve hovering nearby, his expression cold as he watched you usher Charlotte to her feet. You knew his irritation wasn’t with you or Charlotte but rather with Parker, who had struck the woman.

“Is she going to be–” Steve begins to question as you guide Charlotte up the first few steps. You look back, scowling over your shoulder at the outlaw.

“Don’t.” You hiss at him, watching as he nods in meek surrender.

Charlotte is slow to walk; her footsteps are clumsy as she shivers and whimpers in your arms. The redhead woman watches the both of you with an expression of distaste. Below the men gather their wits and guns, Stark teeters in place as he gets to his feet with a cocky expression. His gaze follows the woman's, dark eyes landing on the both of you, lingering a few steps up.

“Hold on there, little lady!” Stark booms up, his words still slightly slurred from the liquor and exhaustion. Charlotte freezes in place, hands clasped rigidly on your arms. You glance back at Stark, hoping he means to just announce their departure instead of demanding your skills once more.

“There ain't no doctors out in the wild; what am I supposed to do if this wound splits open? Get one of these fools to stitch it up?” He asks, his mouth curled into a cruel smile. The outlaws shift their weight, as if they are also unsure as to where this is going.

“Find another town to terrorize?” You suggest tugging Charlotte so she is positioned behind you, hidden from their view.

“Nah…” Stark drawls, staggering a few steps, a revolver swinging on his finger. “I think… it would be easier if you just came along with us.”

“What?” Bucky and the redhead woman bark in unison before you can react. Your grip on Charlotte tightens, blocking out the bickering between the outlaws below as you tilt your head to whisper to her.

“Run.” You mutter, dragging Charlotte up the stairs behind you. You had no plan other than to escape. There was no point in fighting out the front door, instead you would have to risk climbing out one of the upstairs windows–

A shot rings out behind you, and Charlotte's body suddenly becomes a dead weight. You can feel the spray of moisture across the back of your neck, but don’t dare turn to see the sight.

“Did you really need to do that?” Steve shouts from somewhere below, the sound of unfamiliar, wicked laughter carrying up the stairs. Your heartbeat is so loud you can’t hear anything else, only the distorted voices of the outlaws below. Your mouth tastes like blood as you top the stairs, gripping the railing as you turn to race down the hallway.

A pair of hands grasp around your middle, tugging you backward. A scream, louder and more violent than any of Charlotte's, leaves your throat as you thrash in the grip, scratching and kicking as the chuckling man carries you down the stairs.

“You sure you want her, Stark? She seems like a handful.” The unfamiliar outlaw carrying you asks.

“Don’t look so pressed, Barnes. My aim’s good enough not to shoot your girl. You got a real thing for her, haven’t ya?” Parker remarks with a grin.

Sobs escape you as you struggle in the crushing grip of the outlaw, any sense of your father’s mythical ‘calm’ or ‘Gods will’ leaving your body. Animal instinct takes over; Charlotte was dead. Crowley was dead. In a blind panic, you bite down on the arm of your captor, the man yelping in pain and dropping you instantly.

Your knees bite with pain as you slam into the hard, wooden floors. After stumbling to your feet, you turn to resume your escape. Your attempt is short-lived, as you are stopped by a familiar body. Leather and gunpowder. You bury your head into his chest, exhaustion and fear taking over as you silently beg Bucky to protect you.

“See! She’s got the spirit. We’ll make an outlaw out of you yet.” Stark remarks with another cruel laugh. “And if your stitching proves useless, you can always prove your worth with what's between your legs.”

The redhead woman lets out an annoyed grumble at that, and over the cackling of the men, you hear her march out of the saloon to ready the horses.

“Come on,” Bucky mutters to you, guiding you towards the door. You dig in your feet, nausea rising as you watch the men mount their horses through the windows.

“I don’t want to.” You sobbed quietly. The brunet outlaw sighs, his movements hesitating as if he were conflicted.

“I can’t do anything to change Stark’s mind–”

“And when you deem me useless? Are you going to shoot me like Crowley, like… like Charlotte?” Your voice quivers and shakes; your vision blurred from the tears streaming down your face. You had hated this place; you had felt its evilness and oppression. But it was your home; it held your friends. You weren’t ready to leap into the unknown or trust these men who had hurt you. To trust Bucky, who had tricked and betrayed you.

“This is not how this was supposed to go.” Bucky mutters under his breath, then, without asking, scoops you over his shoulder to forcefully carry you from the building. Through sobs, you squirm, his shoulder digging into your stomach as you watch the saloon slowly be ripped away from you with each step.

“Put me down.” You gasp at him as he finally exits the building. “Bucky– Bucky please just put me down–”

The outlaw obliges, dumping you on your feet next to a horse. “Get on.” He instructs.

You shake your head, pushing at his chest. “No.”

“Get on the horse.” He demands once more, guiding you towards the horse’s side.

You begin to push him away harder, with the other outlaws watching as you sob between hitting and struggling as Bucky tries to persuade you to get on the horse. His patience seems to quickly grow thin, and the watchful eyes of his peers grow equally impatient with hateful sneers.

His hands move quickly, grasping your wrists and tugging you closer to his chest. You freeze as he lowers his head, his hat brushing your hair as he whispers in your ear.

“If you don’t get on, these boys are gonna tie you up and drag you behind. We don’t want that, do we now? So what is it, all tied up or sitting pretty, sweetheart?” His gravelly, low voice sends a shudder down your spine, your eyelids fluttering shut briefly.

“I’ll get on.” You mutter back quietly, pulling back. Bucky nods, pleased, his thumb brushing away the tears on your cheek.

“Good choice.”

With a shuddering breath, you grip the horn of the saddle, swinging your legs over to mount the horse. It had been months since you last rode, but the muscle memory remained embedded deep in your mind. Bucky was quick to mount up too, his body sliding in behind you while one of his hands lazily wrapped around your waist, reins in the other.

The band of outlaws were quick to move once everyone was situated, with fearful townsfolk peering out their windows as the herd moved past in a cloud of dust. You tried to ignore the dead bodies that lined the street, their blood staining the loose dirt. You couldn’t let your brain slip into a dark place, thinking of Crowley and Charlotte still warm in the saloon. A nauseous feeling of dread consumed your being as you noted the blood still splattering up your arms and dress, the rocking motion of the cantering horse beneath you not helping.

You found yourself leaning back into Bucky, the only sturdy thing nearby. Your head lay back against his shoulder as you looked up at the blue skies above, the heat beating down on your exposed skin.

The pace only slowed as the outlaws felt they had traveled far enough to evade any lawmen acting as backup. The heat had grown unbearable the further you drew from civilization; these wilds were not the ones you had frequented as a teen. There were no rivers, forests, or grass. There was only dirt, sand, and heat. These were what men meant when they spoke of the west, pure, untamed country.

Bucky had hardly spoken, leaving you alone in your grief and sickness. He held you steady as you silently cried. Even when you could cry no more and your eyes rolled back from the heat, he continued to hold you steady, ensuring his horse kept an even gait.

The silence was finally broken as Steve slowed his horse, falling in step with the two of you at the back of the party.

“She ain’t looking too great, Buck.” The blond commented, leaning in his saddle to inspect you closer. You shied away from his eyes, pressing closer to Bucky.

“It’s the heat.” Bucky murmured in response, his gaze fixed ahead. The redhead woman had slowed her own horse, glancing back at the interaction with interest.

“Here.” Steve says, retrieving a waterskin from the pack on his saddle. Unscrewing the top, he passes it to Bucky, who in turn offers it to you. You groan, pushing the offer away. At that moment, you’d have rather become one with the bleached bones of the desert.

Bucky huffs sharply, lifting the waterskin to your lips.

“Drink,” he commands. “You lost too much energy crying and wailing back there.”

As soon as the earthy, warm water graces your lips, a survival instinct kicks in, and you greedily take a few gulps before finding the strength to push the waterskin away. Bucky seems happy enough with the amount you have taken, passing it back to Steve.

The blond man shakes his head while screwing the top back on. “I don’t know what Stark was thinkin’ Buck; I don’t think she’s gonna make it out here.”

Bucky seems to sigh at that, giving Steve a sidelong look. “She’ll be fine.”

Steve shrugs, nudging his horse forward to catch up with the redhead woman. Through your squinted eyes, you make out the two of them exchanging some hushed words.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart. Steve don’t know what he’s talking about.” Bucky reassures you, one of his large hands patting your thigh.

“What if he’s right?” You question, your voice cracked and raspy.

“There’s no need to worry.” He says it with a hum, accompanied by a small squeeze of your thigh. “I’ll look after you, pretty lady.”

#bucky barnes #bucky fanfic #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky x y/n #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes fanfiction #marvel fic #james buchanan barnes #marvel au #marvel #cowboy au #western au

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renif · 1 month

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bucky in a cowboy au again because i genuinely love the concept.

#the winter soldier #marvel #bucky barnes #cowboy #cowboy au #art #illustration #digital fanart #mcu #western #james bucky buchanan barnes

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bucknastysbabe · 1 year

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Heyo the Bucky rdr western au has much more plot than expected. I have an old one that didn’t get much traction from Ao3 so wanted to post and see if y’all liked it! So something to tide over :)

Rating: Explicit

Tags: Derogatory language towards a woman, outlaws duh, light description of puking, rough handling, bickering bitches, sex pollen (or potion in this case), strip poker, cunnilingus, Bucky’s huge dick, dirty talk, rough pnv!sex, cream pie, pregnancy, open ending, love at first intercourse, ambiguous ending

Bayou Bonding

The boy who carried his father’s blue, blue eyes toothily smiled at you. He sat by the fire in your father’s manor, dressed in fine clothes. You named him James; after his father. He stared at the fire with a contemplative look on his face before asking, “How did you meet Daddy?” You blanched, Bucky was a sore topic around your home. A blight on one of Saint Denis’ finest families. You told the boy a watered down version of the truth, but your mind wandered back to the day.

1879, Saint Denis, LE

“Unhand me! You— you cowpoke!,” you hollered.

A gloved hand slapped over your mouth, the other wrangling you close to his body. The burly cowboy hissed, “Shut it! Howling ain’t gonna do you a damn thing.” You thrashed more, stomping a heeled foot into his foot. He grunted in pain, slinging you into the ground. Ragged ropes cut into your skin as the outlaw hogtied you. He shoved a dirty kerchief in your mouth, and hauled you up over his shoulder.

Another man, a lean blonde snickered, “Feisty one eh Buck?” The surly man cursed, “Too Fuckin’ feisty. Uppity little bitch.” You yowled behind your gag, trying to knee him in the back. The two men cautiously carried you down a back alley. Two horses waited in the murky gloom. ‘Buck’ and his smirking compatriot had plucked you from the Mayor’s party, for what you assumed was ransom. As sheriff, your daddy didn’t mix with the right people all the time.

Buck flipped you onto the back of his huge black horse, you crying out at the rough handling. The pair hopped on their horses, and off you went into the night. The movement of the galloping horse was making you sick. From what you could see they were taking you North into the swampy wasteland of Bayou Nwa. You managed to spit your gag out, but before you could speak, a rush of your dinner decided to make its appearance.

“For fuck’s sake! Tell me why Stark sent me to do this shit?,” the darker man spat. The other man laughed again, chuckling airily as you watched his bow bounced across his back. Buck rumbled, “Quit yer’ laughing Clint or she’s going on the back of ole’ Hawkeye.” Clint shut up and kept riding on.

You really wishes you could’ve taken off your corset, but one doesn’t prepare for kidnapping on horseback by dirty cowboys. The stink of the swamp started to envelop your nose as they closed into the darkness. Buck lit a lamp, you could watch it’s shadow away across the muddy ground. The pair stopped at a dilapidated dock, illuminated only by the sparse moonlight and the lamp. A dingy waited in the pitch water. Your vision swam as Buck hauled you to the boat, gently lowering you down to not disturb the boat.

You complained, “Atleast cut my feet, I’m not stupid enough to go jump in a damn gator infested swamp!”

Clint shrugged and pulled out a knife, cutting the rope after he sat down. Buck protested, “No you damn fool, what happens when we get out of the boat? Dumbass.” You rolled your eyes and muttered, “Like I’m going to either run away from heavily armed criminals.” The big man grumbled under his breath as he stepped down into the dingy. You dusted yourself off, taking a breath as you adjusted your corset. You wrinkled your nose at the smell of horse on your crinoline dress.

Buck began rowing, blue eyes scanning the misty swamp. Clint leaned back, staring up at the stars. He offhandedly asked, “So. You know your daddy is crooked? Don’t even start Barnes!” Bucky called Clint a dumbass, again. You replied, “I had a feeling. Not my business, I’m just here to look pretty and get engaged if it wasn’t for you dirty cowboys.”

“Not cowboys.”

“Outlaws,” you said in an exaggerated accent.

You crossed your arms and huffed, “Great. I really hope you two know your way around the Bayou. Then we’re all dead. Anyways how long is this ‘holding me for ransom’ to last. The entirety of the Saint Denis Police will be looking for me. Your gang must be on some hard times.”

“Shut it!,” Bucky barked.

Clint stage whispered, “We have a map. Headed to a safe house. And until he pays up, killing you has no purpose.”

You nodded solemnly, listening to the sounds of the bayou. This place had always intrigued and scared you. Your grand-mère told you stories of ghosts, pirates, the night folk and such. Although there were much more real, scary things than stories happening to you now. Clint said you weren’t in harms way but Bucky’s cold eyes frightened you.

The boat pulled up onto an old stilted house. There was a dim red lamp in the window. Bucky paddled the dingy flush to the dock, mooring with some rope. Clint stepped out first, extending a hand to you. You thanked him as the wiry blonde helped you up. Bucky trudged out last, pushing you into the shack. “Go on”, he growled.

Clint carefully slithered back into the weathered dingy. He cheerily announced, “Have fun in the swamp shack you two. Pleasure to meet you miss, Bucky doesn’t bite,” he paused, “Atleast I don’t think he does. Anyways I have to get back to the gang, see you around when the ransom is paid.”

You spluttered, “Why can’t he go? I don’t want to be stuck with this brute!”

Bucky glared at you, hands balling into fists.

Clint cackled, “Rule’s rules miss. I’d love to entertain you another time. Have a good night.”

You stomped into the shack, petulantly sitting on a weathered chair. You complained, “It smells like gator shit in here.” Bucky ignored you in favor of closing the small curtains. You watched him move. For a big man, he carried himself lightly. Maybe if he took a bath and had a trim, he’d even be attractive. Blue eyes turned on you.

You held your ground and deadpanned, “I meant it. You’re greasy and smell like horse.”

He collapsed into an ancient armchair, pulling out some gun oil. Bucky remarked, “You’re just a ray of sunshine aren’t you? Just shut up and lemme’ clean my gun. Yer’ daddy will pick you up soon and you can go back to your bubble.”

He dissembled the pistol efficiently, carefully cleaning each part. You watched him quietly, holding your tongue for everyone’s sanity. You really wanted to take off your corset, the tightness was driving you insane. You held off until your head felt light. With a weak voice you asked, “Bucky. Mister Outlaw.” Sleepy eyes turned to you, his brow quirking up in question.

“I need to take my corset off.”

“Well take it off.”

You whinged, “I need help for that you dullard! Just loosen the laces and I have the rest.” He remained stubbornly silent so you simply began to remove the outer layers of your extravagant outfit. Then you walked over to the ass and turned around. He mumbled, “Spoiled rotten. Fine, you want a plate of cheese and grapes with this madam?” Thick fingers started to loosen the corset, you taking a deep breath of air. You unlatched the front of it, now clad in your pantaloons and blouse. You breathed, “Thank you, and yes that would be delightful sir.”

Bucky gazed at your body as you were turned around, reluctantly appreciating the view. He threw his coat at you and chided, “Cover up.” With a disgusted look you put it on. The smell of leather and herbs was nice, but the stink of horse still lingered. Very warm coat too. You gawked at the filthy mattress in the corner of the shack. It was covered in stains and had a ragged blanket strewn across it. Grabbing your extensive overwear, you managed to cover the mattress and make a pillow out of your bustle pad.

“Hm. Maybe some brains under there. I know they don’t let you city girls learn much.”

You snapped, “I’ll have you know!” You stopped when you realized Bucky had made a very solid point. With a frown you crawled onto your emerald green crinoline pallet. Cuddling into the jacket you let a few tears slip. You hoped you’d be home soon and out of this mess. Your eyes began to droop as you listened to Bucky cleaning his weapons and the crackle of the small fire he started. You said a rosary in your head and drifted asleep.

You awoke to the darkness. Rain pattered against the tin roof. Bucky sat cross legged, reading a book. You prayed to the lord for sleeping safely. As you stretched and sat up he gruffly mumbled, “Mornin’.” You shot back, “Did you not sleep? Stare at me all night instead? I thought your type would take advantage of a helpless lady.” His brows furrowing made you cringe at your lack of forethought.

“Our gang might be criminals but we’re not deviants. You’d like that though, wouldn’t ya? Big scary cowboy rippin’ yer’ bodice,” Bucky smugly replied.

You remained silent, picking at your nails anxiously. The brunette licked his full bottom lip and closed his book with a soft thwip.

He stood up and handed you an open can of beans. You stared at the outlaw incredulously, eyes flicking back and forth from the gross looking food. You primly spoke, “Hate to ruin the moment but do you have an apple or crackers? I’m not eating that.”

He huffed a laugh and rifled through a satchel before tossing you an apple. Bucky busied himself with the beans, eating like it was his last meal. You stared in horror at the scene as you ate your apple. Bucky rolled his eyes as he inhaled the last scoop. You scoffed, “I need to get out of this smelly swamp shack or I’m going to feed myself to the the gators.” Bucky smirked at you, an amused look in his eyes.

“No can do, just gonna’ have to hop out of your bejeweled carriage Princess,” he chuckled.

You threw your hat at the smarmy cowpoke, which he easily caught with a surprised grin. You had to suppress your thoughts on his endearingly crooked grin. You spat, “Oh piss off, I’m not damn Cinderella! I just happen to have manners and morals !” Bucky snorted, “Not using your manners curssin’ at me and throwin’ hats in your skivvies!” You groaned in frustration, taking a particularly vicious bite of your apple.

Bucky busied himself back with his book, leaving you to boredom. So you shucked off the heavy jacket in the hot shack and rummaged around the place. Bucky raised a brow but ignored you. You found a loose floorboard and pried it open. Some strange marking in chalk lined the bottom of the space. Multiple glass jars and dried herbs littered the hidey-hole. You picked up some sort of carved charm, setting it back down carefully. A small bag of coins jingled as you inspected the sack.

It looked like some old hoodoo or voodoo practitioner lived here. You hoped it was the more spiritually benevolent voodoo. Bucky stomped over to you and bellowed, “What in fucks name are you doing?” You yelped and threw the coins at Bucky. After a breath you replied, “I got bored! Found this stuff, some swampfolk left some voodoo trinkets. The man’s face paled as fear entered his blood.

Bucky scolded, “Why would you go mess around with that cursed shit! That’s bad luck— already have enough of that!” He kicked a chair and hollered, “God dammit woman!” You cowered at his outburst, squeaking out, “Voodoo isn’t bad! Hoodoo is, that’s what the Night Folk practice. My grand-mère told me about this, these are probably just luck charms and health elixirs. Relax, you’re scaring me!”

His handsome face fell, wiping a hand over his forehead. He amended, “My bad— I don’t mess around with shit like that. You’d know better than me, now just put that stuff away. C’mon princess, we’ll play cards. I got a deck in my satchel.” While Bucky spoke, you stuffed the remaining trinkets in your underclothes. He held out a hand to help you up, you daintily taking the rough grip.

“You got any drinks?,” you drawled. You were cooking up a plan, something to give you the upper hand. Bucky turned around with a bottle of fancy rum. You awed, “Aged pirate rum, living above your means huh? Rob that off a poor citizen of Lemoyne?” The brunette growled, “You gonna drink it or what?” You waved a hand and seized the bottle. You called over your shoulder as you found some old cups, “Get the game ready, I like rummy. My brother taught me how to play when he got out of the war.”

“Got out?”

“Legs blown off.”

“Damn. Sorry ‘bout that.”

You pulled out the two vials of mystery liquid, reading the labels. They were written in creole. You only knew Parisian French so you had to guess. One said companionship and the other was something along the lines of rest. So you shrugged and poured a bit of both into his cup. You finished off the companionship one in your drink. You didn’t want the outlaw to pick up on the herbal scent.

Bucky questioned, “What’s taking you so long?” You lord smoothly, “Found some dried mint for a little flavor, a lady needs some spice.” He scoffed and crossed his arms. You smirked to yourself as you tucked the empty vials away. You brought the drinks over and handed Bucky his. As expected he sniffed the rum, but didn’t make a fuss as he took a sip. You sat down and teased, “Get ready to get your hide tanned, cowpoke.”

So you drank, and played, and drank some more. You’d beaten Bucky two times before he slammed his hand down on the table and barked, “A’right! Let’s see your hand in poker, Princess!” He grinned wildly, blue eyes sparkling. He looked handsome when he smiled, dimples popping with endearingly crooked teeth. You were trying to take it slow but you felt the effects of the alcohol. Your face was flushed and you felt loose and erratic. Bucky was also wide open, talking much more than you’d ever expected him to.

You teased, “Let’s make this fun, Mister Barnes. How about strip poker? Never seen a cowboy naked.”

He balked at your forwardness, pink lips agape in surprise. Nervousness bolted through your body before Bucky tumbled forward with guffaws. He howled in laughter, “Hah! Miss high falutin’ wants to play strip poker! Aight then, let’s play!” His flush ran down his tanned neck and up to his ears. So the game began, and you felt on top of the world.

Soon you were short of pantaloons and Bucky sat only in his pants, broad chest on display. He was quite drunk now, slurring and flirting shamelessly. You’d slowed down some but vitality thrummed through your veins. Bucky’s lusty stares were starting to make your core ache. You hadn’t felt this aroused since that visiting French Aristocrat fucked you silly a year ago.

He smirked as he dealt his hand, a straight flush. You were beat. The man leaned back, thick thighs spreading invitingly. Bucky crooned, “Get that top off princess, uh-uh no backing out you started this.” You shot back, “Fine fine, lucky day for you cowpoke. High class lady showing you her bosom.” You shucked your top off and gestured at your naked body. Bucky’s eyes visibly darkened with lust and before he spoke you cut him off, “Nah. We aren’t done yet. I want another round.”

As the last round went maddeningly on, your arousal was beginning to spike. You couldn’t pay attention as your skin felt on fire. Your cunt had soaked your thighs and the wooden chair. Your nipples, hips, and nethers throbbed and swelled up. All you could think about was getting a cock in you. Bucky fared no better, his chest was flushed with stiffened nipples. You saw his hand rubbing needily between his legs. Sweat beaded on his temples and the man looked like he was going to jump your bones.

You slurred in a rare moment of clarity, “I thin’ I drugged us.”

Bucky snarled, shoving the table aside. He stalked over to you and dropped to his knees. Worn hands gripped your thighs as he rasped, “S’that why you smell so good n’ my cocks fixin’ to pop? Dumb little rich bitch.” You mewled, rutting your hips toward his swollen lips. He groaned at the sight of your swollen folds. The brunette muttered, “To hell with it.” He dug his face between your thighs, licking a broad stripe up your slick center.

One palm held your hip as the other skated up to your swollen nipples. He plucked and tweaked at the sensitive bud. You wailed in pleasure, bucking into his mouth. His stubbly cheeks rubbed you raw in the right way. Bucky was direct with his cunnilingus, attacking your clit mercifully. He’d dip down and slurp around your leaking cunt before going back to your bud.

You yanked a fistful of his dark hair, wrapping your legs around his meaty shoulders. He moaned into your sex, “G’fuckin girl.” You babbled uselessly, writhing in pleasure. Whatever you had put in the concoction was some sort of sex potion. You’d never felt all of your nerve endings alight like this. Your lower belly was beginning to contract as Bucky suckled on your clit while he stroked your inner walls. You were so out of it you weren’t sure when he’d slipping them in. But tears were welling up as he abused that sensitive, sensitive spot.

You keened, “Heavens above! Fuck ah ah mmh!”

He grinned against your pussy and nipped down on your clit, sending you reeling. You clamped down on his shoulders, folding on top of his body as you shook with the intense spasms. You bit your lip to keep from screeching like a banshee. You held onto Bucky’s head and panted, “Need— more— fuck need your cock Bucky please not enough.”

He shakily got up, detangling you from his body. You whined at the loss, him shushing you. Bucky cooed, “Hol’ on sweetheart lemme get ya somewhere more comfortable. M’ gonna fill you right up.” You moaned in agreement, latching into his strong arms as he hauled you to the makeshift crinoline pallet. He rubbed your back, hissing, “Need that pretty pussy baby, bet it’s Fuckin’ snug. M’ fucking raring to go, gonna wreck you. Never gonna look at a city boy again.”

“Mhm, yes please, need it need it Bucky!”

Bucky ungracefully tossed you on the cot and covered yourself with that sculpted body. He snatched your lips into a quick kiss, before shoving down his jeans to reveal his cock. It was almost purple from the amount of blood flushing the organ. You whimpered and spread your legs. Bucky growled, “Yeah— spread em’ like a good slut. Gonna wreck you.” He seated himself between your plush thighs and sheathed in a quick motion.

Your mouth opened to scream but he shoved a coarse palm over your lips. You felt complete, Bucky’s girthy cock filling you to the brim. You were so wet he met little to no resistance. Without warning the brunette started up a brutal pace, fucking into you in abandon. Slick clapping noises echoed around in the light of the late afternoon. His powerful hips and thighs pistoned into your sloppy core. You sobbed at the intensity, crying Bucky’s name like a prayer.

He gasped into you neck, panting about your perfect cunt. He slid his big hands under your knees, pressing you into a ball. The new angle

had the outlaw’s blunt tip ramming into your sweet spot. You scrabbled at his back, biting and sucking at his muscular shoulders like a feral animal. Bucky let out a pained moan,

“Fucking heavenly— good little slut. Yer’ ole’ daddy gonna be wondering why you can’t walk.”

You cried harder, wondering how the man was holding it together as he drilled you into next week. A second orgasm was approaching at a breakneck pace and threw your head back in ecstasy. Bucky laved his skilled tongue up the column of your throat, gripping your thighs. You yelled, “Oh ah— ah ah Buck m’gonna come again fuck!”

“Come on n’ take it darlin’, it’s all yours,” he spit through clenched teeth. The cowboy’s pace didn’t slow any as you reached your peak. Your legs spasmed and shook as you sobbed at the overstimulation. Petting your sides, Bucky cooed, “Easy girl, I ain’t done with you yet.” You whimpered, “S’ too much please no, I can’t!”

“Yeah you can sweet thing, gonna wear you out and fill you up like the needy slut ya’ are.”

You whined pitifully, wrapping yourself around his broad scarred back. You panted into his scruffy cheek, begging for more or less you weren’t entirely sure. But Bucky kept up. The man had flipped you around like a rag doll and pushed you through two peaks before he came with a shuddering moan and shout of your name. Bucky rolled off of you with a sigh, breathing like a racehorse. He gasped, “Whatever..the fuck..you put in m’drink..a miracle.”

You were too worn out and dazed to speak so you gave a sleepy “mhmmm.” The outlaw rolled to his side, slinging an arm around your soft waist. He rubbed at your slick skin, a strangely soft look on his face. You snuggled into his body and drifted off again.

“Awe what the fuck?! Get dressed the sheriff is coming you horn dog!,” A voice voice rattled in the shack. A darker man threw Bucky’s clothes at him, grumbling about Barnes and his wandering dick. You bolted upright and slung on your clothes. Bucky was pulling up his ranch pants, cussing at the other man ‘Sam’.

“Ease off Sam— it’ll be fine!”

Sam shouted back, “Not when she looks like she’s been mauled by a leech! Idiot!”

The two bickered until you cleared your throat, loudly. You said, “If you two will stop fighting, this corset needs lacing. Then I can put on my dress with a high neck, therefore you don’t see the markings.” Sam harrumphed, “Fine. Turn around I used to lace up Sarah all the time”. Bucky pushed Sam aside and did the deed instead.

He rumbled, “You okay?”

You nodded as you turned to look at Barnes. You whispered, “More than good. If you find your way back to Saint Denis, I live in the big peach house by the Cemetery.” Bucky replied, “Will do.” He squeezed the nape of your neck before buttoning up your dress. You attempted to fix your mussed hair in a cracked half mirror but gave up with a grunt. You pecked Bucky on the cheek, Sam groaned in frustration from the doorway.

And so your father picked you back up. It was a happy reunion, and things went back to normal in Saint Denis. Until you missed your monthly cycle. Your fathers face haunted your dreams when the doctor declared you pregnant. He hissed in the carriage, “You got knocked up by that dirty criminal didn’t ya? Rapist piece of shit. I’m contacting higher ups.” You protested before your father realized, and he turned ice cold. Things in Saint Denis weren’t normal after that. You weren’t kicked out fortunately, and the boy was to be raised as a sad circumstance of your kidnapping.

Bucky didn’t come by, but he left a letter once. Saying he was changing his ways and got some land out in Canada. Your mother burned it up in the fire. You wrote a letter back, telling him to come get you and little James when everything was settled.

“Mama? So you ran with a gang before I was born?”

You blinked and snapped out of reverie. With a sad smile you cooed, “Yes James. We were free and wild! But I had to leave to take care of you. Your father will be back one day. Then we’ll be a family.” The boy grinned and cheered, “Maybe he’ll teach me how to ride a horse!”

In the night, Bucky stared at the luxurious cabin. He proudly smiled at his hard work. Only had a trip to Saint Denis to make

#western!au #rdr!au #bucky x reader #bucky barnes smut #sex pollen

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thatmexisaurusrex · 1 day

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sixteen carriages driving away

Hey, people! This is for the @sambuckylibrary’s TFATWS Anniversary Event 2024 for the prompt “Period Piece”. It's also based on the song "16 Carriages" by Beyoncé and is sort of this western train heist? I hope y'all enjoy the fic! 🥰

sixteen carriages driving away

| Pairing: SamBucky | Rated: M | WC: 3.2K |

Summary: Ex-gunslinger and acrobat Sam Wilson comes home to his ranch to find his love taken from their home. He sets out to pull a train heist to steal Bucky Barnes back.

Excerpt:

The Thunderbolt was a Pullman. The kind of train where you slept. A sleek, comfortable sort that that was quick, but didn’t give motion sickness to those on board. Filled with the finest dining, the comfiest cushions, and wealth galore. There was no luxury left off this hotel on wheels. Sam had studied this train inside and out beforehand. He knew every single carriage on this train like the back of his hand. And Sam was going to get back what was stolen. He was going to bring Bucky back home.

READ THE REST ON AO3!

#tfatwsanniversary2024 #sambucky #sam wilson #bucky barnes #sambucky fic #established relationship #western au #train heist #period piece #my fics #sixteen carriages driving away

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tllgrrl · 4 months

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Out West by @btwxsixesandsevens

Sarah Wilson/James “Bucky” Barnes, with Steve Rogers and Sam Wilson

Summary: Begins as a dream, then in Chapter 2 the actual story, back then, 1880s California.

Fictional town. Fictional past.

Everything turned just a little...

* * * * * * * * * *

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drgrlfriend · 2 years

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Fan artists are already amazing, but @aukanemin takes it to another level. Not only are their artworks gorgeous, lush, and detailed, but they are producing them in the midst of terrible conflict, power outages, and incredible uncertainty. I commissioned this work for my Winterhawk fic, Freedom's Reach, and am beyond thrilled with the result as well as the entire process. Bucky Barnes and Clint Barton were new characters for @aukanemin and they did an absolutely amazing job manifesting something that lived only in my imagination and making it ten times as beautiful in the process. 100% recommend stalking them for commissions to open up again so you can nab a masterpiece of your own. Freedom's Reach by dr_girlfriend

Summary:

Clint is about to move on when his eyes drift up to the lettering at the top of the window.

FREE PASSAGE TO THE WEST!

Clint knows that the circus folk mock him — call him too trusting, too soft-hearted — but even he knows nothing in this life comes free. The words puzzle him, and he reads them again carefully to make sure he hasn’t made a mistake.

His eyes are drawn to one posting at the very bottom corner, different from the others. This one is sun-faded and starting to yellow, curling at the corners. Clint crouches down, brow furrowing and lips moving as he sounds out the unfamiliar words.

Western Man Seeking a Husband — I am a kind and unassuming man of good financial means seeking a helpmate and companion. I have lost my arm in the service of our Union, but am otherwise free from disease. I am not particular as to looks, but am seeking an individual of equal youth and vivacity with whom I can share my affection and devotion. I am a man of quiet habits, moderate temperament, and kind disposition and would seek the same in my husband.

#winterhawk #clint barton #bucky barnes #hawkeye #the winter soldier #freedom's reach #fan art #gorgeous art #fanfiction #marvel #mcu #marvel comics #avengers #my fic #aukanemin #arranged marriage au #mail order husband au #western au #historical au

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cyberneticasset · 3 months

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Save a horse, Ride a cowboy

Uhh, brainrot took over again, had to get this outa my system. This time, it's almost a western thing but sluttier

Might shade/render or whatever but we'll seeee

#embarrassing honestly #cowboy au #western au #except not really #bucky barnes

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granatkoroleva · 1 year

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Legendary Outlaw

Pairing ⊵ Dark!Beta!Sheriff!Bucky Barnes x Outlaw!Alpha!Steve Rogers

Warnings ⊵ No Archive Warnings Apply

Rating ⊵ E

Word Count ⊵ 1.4k

Tags ⊵ AU: Wild West, Non- traditional ABO dynamics, Consensual non-consent, extreme Dubious consent, Alpha!Steve, Beta!Bucky, Knotting, Kinks, Bondage, Sexual roleplay, Power imbalance, inappropriate use of lassos, Come as lube, basically just filthy smut.

Summary ⊵ Steve is an outlaw, a good one, but an outlaw all the same. When he catches wind of a mating run in the area for Alphas to find a match, he risks more than his livelihood to participate.

What he doesn’t know is that across the valley, one crooked sheriff is counting on his attendance.

Square + Prompt Fills ⊵

Ⓞ⓶ + Hogtie | All Caps Bingo | Card # AC 1094 | All Caps Bingo Masterlist | @allcapsbingo

Ⓝ⓸ + Kink: Blindfolds | Stucky Bingo | Card # R40101 | Stucky Bingo Masterlist | @stuckybingo

Author's Note ⊵ Nothing too sinister, contrary to the theme.

Moodboard is my own | Ao3 Link | Masterlist | AO3

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chickenfics · 1 year

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Scars

Relationship: Bucky Barnes x Fem!reader - Western AU

Word Count: 8.2k

Content warning: knives, violence, death, blood, the usual

A/N: Shoutout to Jerry Miculek of 'Gun Myths with Jerry Miculek' on youtube for not only educating me on how many shots it would take to shoot a hangman's noose out, but also entertaining me with the most hilarious opening to a video I've ever seen in my life (seriously, I would recommend watching the first minute of that video just to see the Jelly Bandit)

Let me know if you'd like to be tagged for future chapters!

Also on Ao3

Previous Chapter Next Chapter Masterlist

Chapter 7

It was strange to wake up feeling warm and comfortable. You’d spent so much of your life surrounded by discomfort; ever since you could remember you’d always been traveling, sleeping in the dirt, forfeiting safety for your brother's plans to get rich. Comfort was not something you’d ever had the chance to get familiar with. That morning, you decided that maybe one day you’d like to.

As usual when in a new place, you woke up hastily. Swallowing a gasp, you blinked around, alarmed by the wall in front of you until you remembered where you were. Early morning light cast through the window, draping onto the floor like the fine silk of a dress. You could hear the faint clinking of cutlery through the walls of the inn -- no doubt your fellow travelers eating breakfast below you.

Stretching your legs out, feeling the pull on your stiff muscles, you snuggled deeper into the warm covers. God, you were so warm. The bed was like a furnace, and it was almost enough to send you back to sleep. You didn’t, though, when you felt a soft shift of fabric behind you. Bucky. And that was when you realized why it was so damn warm. He had turned onto his side while he slept. You could feel his breath against your neck, and he was close enough that his knees were brushing your thigh. The only part of him that wasn’t warm was his metal hand, which had come to rest against your back, his knuckles brushing your bare skin.

You couldn’t tell if he was still asleep. When you thought about it, you decided that he must have been, because if he was awake he would have moved away from you already, and probably apologized. You felt your heart pick up again as a wave of nostalgia washed over you, memories of so many nights waking up to someone behind you -- sometimes a stranger, or worse, someone you knew. Someone you’d have to face come the morning light. You found yourself resisting the urge to bolt out of bed.

But this was Bucky. It was just a Bucky. When he made a soft noise as he began to stir, you managed to remind yourself of that. Your life was different now. You weren’t who you used to be, were no longer surrounded by the people who had hurt you over and over again, and right now, in this bed, you were probably as safe as you’d ever been. And when you realized that, you also realized that you didn’t mind it, where you were, what was happening. You didn’t mind the warmth.

You wouldn’t have minded it lasting a little bit longer, either, but after a few brief moments, Bucky woke up. He took a deep breath, then stiffened as he likely came to the same realization you had. Then, very slowly, he rolled onto his back. He thought you were still asleep, you realized. Good -- then maybe he wouldn't apologize. You waited a little while, then stretched again and shifted to your back.

“Mornin’,” you said, smiling groggily.

“Good morning,” he replied, eyes roaming your face, searching before he forced them to take interest in the other side of the room.

You wanted to ask him if he’d slept well. You wanted to tell him that you hadn’t slept better for a damn long time, but you didn’t. Couldn’t, maybe. You weren’t fit for this sort of life -- for this domesticity. Neither was Bucky, you suspected. It felt wrong, like ill-fitting clothes. You were built for pain and discomfort. You’d spent so long surviving that you didn’t know how to have a simple conversation about something that mattered as little as how you’d slept.

“I guess we should get moving,” he said after a moment. There wasn’t a reason to -- wasn’t anything to get moving to -- but you understood that Bucky was feeling the same way you were; he didn’t know how to navigate this life of leisure, no matter how small or brief. He didn’t know what to do with a day where you weren’t heading somewhere or running from something.

Wordlessly you followed Bucky’s lead, sitting up and going about trying to find your belongings amid the mess you’d made of the room.

“You’re gonna need some new clothes,” you said, handing over Bucky’s bloodied shirt. It was the only one he had, as the few other spares were kept in his saddle, which was on Alpine, who… well. Who wasn’t here anymore.

“Oh, right. Guess so.”

In silence, you both pulled your clothes on. The water in the basin was still bloodied from last night, which prompted Bucky to venture into the rest of the house to see about getting access to a bath. He left you with the promise of being right back and the order to fire a shot if you needed him in a hurry. It was a familiar routine that made you feel more at ease, despite its nature. You waited on the edge of the bed, fiddling with your revolver until you heard a knock at the door.

“It’s me,” Bucky’s voice was faint but unmistakable through the wood. You took let out a breath.

“There are two rooms down the hall,” he said as he entered, closing the door softly behind him. “She’s having her girls get them ready for us.”

“Okay,” you replied, excited at the prospect of getting a proper bath with warm water.

After a bit of waiting, there was another knock on the door. You and Bucky looked at each other, then he moved to open it just enough to peek outside.

“We’re all ready for you,” the voice of a young woman said.

You got up from where you’d been organizing your supplies and followed Bucky out into the hall. The woman -- a pretty, gentle-looking blonde -- led you both past the stairs to the opposite end of the house. She gestured to two doors and then turned to smile at Bucky.

“For only a few cents extra we can provide more… intimate services,” she reached out to touch his chest but Bucky leaned back, nearly bumping into you. Your hand came up to steady him -- and to perhaps let him know that you were there.

“No, thank you,” he said, voice tense but still polite. He didn’t quite sound like himself. Civilization seemed to suit him as much as it suited you.

“Alright,” the woman said, somehow sounding unbothered and slightly offended all at once. With one final gesture to the doors, she disappeared down the stairs like a ghost.

“Are you okay?” you asked him.

“Hm?” he turned, his blue eyes looking far away. “Fine.” Then, “You gonna be okay in there by yourself?”

“Yes,” you replied. “Besides, I’m just one door over, and I’ve got--” you held up your revolver.

“That’s my girl. Just holler if you need me.”

You nodded, giving him what you hoped was a reassuring smile. He still seemed a bit shaken, even as you both stepped up to the doors. With one final glance at Bucky, wondering if it was just civilization or something else that was bothering him, you turned the handle. The room was steamy when you entered. A shiver ran down your spine, but it was quickly warmed by the hot air. Peeling your clothes off, you set them on the chair next to the wooden bath so they’d be close by. There was soap on a nearby table and a thin towel draped over the tub. You didn’t waste any time.

Hot water was a luxury that you had never been able to afford, but by god, you would consider selling what little you had and leaving your life on the run behind if you could bathe like this every so often. Of course, that was nothing but foolish wishing. Even if you didn’t have to keep moving, you’d never be able to afford anything like this more than once every blue moon. Which mean that you were going to take your damn time. Any thoughts of rushing evaporated the second the warm water began to work its way into your aching muscles. Your head was practically spinning, and you were sure that you could have fallen asleep and not woken up until you were as wrinkled as an old woman.

Your fingers did get pruney after a while, long after you had washed, scrubbing all the dirt away until the water turned murky. Still, you waited until it ran cold before reluctantly getting out. Now that the pleasure of it was over, the urgency returned, and you were quick to dry yourself off and pull your clothes back on. Even though they were dirty, you couldn’t deny how much better you felt now that the rest of you was clean.

Setting the towel aside, you remembered that Bucky was in the next room over. You headed for the door, rubbing the last of the dampness off the back of your neck as you peeked out into the hallway. Sitting on the floor across from your room was Bucky. He looked up when you opened the door.

“Hi,” you whispered, shivering as the cold air from the hall hit your skin.

“Hey,” he replied just as softly. You must have seemed particularly content because Bucky took one look at you and smirked. “Enjoy yourself?”

“Damn right. Didn’t you?”

“‘Course. Though, I didn’t take nearly as long as you, so....”

You scoffed, rolling your eyes, and his smirk widened into an endearingly lopsided grin. Especially endearing when his hair was wet, hanging in strands around his neck.

As you both headed back to your room, you discussed what was to be done with the day. Bucky would need more supplies, seeing as he’d lost the majority of his when Alpine ran off, and you were hoping to purchase some new clothes. You were clean, you might as well have something new to wear, too. Besides, most of what you currently owned was several years old and worn enough to show it.

One thing neither of you had discussed yet was how long you’d be staying. While there was safety where the law resided -- where there were witnesses and potential good Samaritans -- there was also danger. More people meant more risk, even if a crowd meant safety. There was a fine line between staying long enough and staying too long, and you and Bucky had yet to come to an agreement on what that was. You’d never liked towns, and you could tell that Bucky didn’t like them much, either. Still, the thought of going back out there when you knew Red and Mickey were so close…

In the end, you supposed it didn’t matter, whether you ran or hid. One of your old group was already dead, and two were close on your heels; it no longer felt like you had a chance at escape. Now you found yourself not wondering if you could outrun them but when they’d finally catch you. And when they did, you’d either have to fight or die. Sitting with that knowledge -- staying in one place, where you felt more exposed than ever -- made you feel like a rabbit caught in the middle of the plains. Birds were circling above your head and you had nowhere to go, no choice but to face whatever was coming.

So really, you wanted to get moving as soon as possible.

But you also needed to resupply. That was unavoidable, and it was something that you could control -- a problem you could take care of right now, without having to think about it. Just one step at a time, you told yourself. Just do this one thing and then keep moving forward.

By the time you and Bucky slipped out the front door, the house was practically deserted. Breakfast had been cleared away and most everyone had headed off to their duties for the day. Out in the street, people were walking or riding, and you were both silent as you remained alert. The last time you’d been in a place like this, you’d been alone, and it was easy to forget that Bucky was with you when you were so focused on your surroundings.

Stopping just outside the general store, you and Bucky put your heads together to determine what you’d need. According to him, you were close to the ferry that would take you across the river, a few days at most. Then there was just a little ways beyond that before the meeting point he and his friends had agreed upon.

“We’re gonna need to get another horse,” you suddenly remembered.

“Shit. That’s right,” Bucky turned and looked out at the street. “Alright,” he said, leaning back towards you. “I’ll take care of that and the supplies that I need. You get the food.”

“Yes sir,” you tipped your hat, and Bucky rolled his eyes, shaking his head like that would get rid of the smile on his face.

“Meet back here in an hour?”

You nodded.

“A minute longer and I’m tearing up floorboards looking for you, you hear me?”

“Okay,” you said, voice rising in defense.

“Okay,” Bucky replied, resolute, like he’d managed to decide that it would indeed be okay.

“See you in a bit,” you offered, laying a hand on his back as you stepped around him. You didn’t look back.

________________________________________________________________

There was a line inside the general store. At the desk, two men were haggling over the price of fish while a woman and her two children stood waiting just in front of you. She held the hand of her little girl, who was sucking absently at her thumb, and her other arm held a baby close to her chest. It couldn’t have been more than a few months old.

The bell above the door dinged. You tensed, tilting your ear towards the sound of heavy boots on the floor. When you looked over your shoulder you were met with a man who was much smaller than his entry had suggested. He was wiry, a dirty hat sitting crooked on his bald head. He looked at you in a way that made your skin crawl, then leaned around you to give the mother a once-over. You stepped a bit to the right, blocking them from his view, and propped your forearm casually onto the butt of your revolver. You didn’t look back at the man, but you were listening.

The customer in front of you was still haggling, this time about cabbage. You resisted the urge to roll your eyes. The baby started to cry.

“Would you shut that thing up,” the man behind you said after a moment. The woman clutched her baby closer to her chest and tried to calm it down, whispering softly to it. You, on the other hand, turned just enough to level a glare at the man.

“You got a problem?” he spat.

“Who knows, maybe I’m about to. Depends on how you decide to behave in the time it takes me to order my things and leave.”

“Is that a goddamn threat?”

“Next,” the man at the counter called. Apparently, he and the customer had come to an agreement about how much cabbage should cost. Hallelujah.

The woman stepped forward, gently pulling her daughter along with her. The child had turned around now and was looking between you and the man. Not wanting to give him an excuse, you smiled at her before gesturing with your eyes to the counter. Thankfully she understood -- or maybe she was just shy -- because she turned around and continued sucking her thumb as her mother ordered what they needed.

You took a step forward, still keeping yourself planted in the middle of the line. At least the man behind you seemed smart enough not to start a fight in the middle of the day in a general store. Idiots like him always got innocent people killed with their poor decisions and hot tempers.

The clerk and woman knew each other. That was good -- another person on her side if anything happened. They chatted softly, and the clerk gave the little girl a piece of candy. She smiled a full-cheeked grin and accepted it with a shy “thank you.” After another few minutes, the woman gathered up her packages and told her daughter to hang onto her dress so she didn’t get lost. She smiled when she passed you, nodding her head, and you wondered if she maybe knew.

“Ma’am,” you tipped your hat at her. The little girl waved with sticky fingers.

“Next,” the clerk called.

“Yeah, I need to get some--” You stopped, the breath leaving your chest in a sudden wave. Your ears seemed to have stopped working, and everything fell into a ringing silence, like you'd been dunked underwater.

On the wall behind the clerk hung various signs; the prices of goods, local news, advertisements. And wanted posters. There were a few of them, but only one caught your eye.

‘James Buchanan 'Bucky' Barnes -- wanted for robbery, arson, assault, and murder. Dead or alive.’

“Miss? Miss, are you alright?”

“Sorry, I--” you held up a hand, already walking backward towards the door. The clerk gave you a look of concern, but before he could say anything you were spinning on your heels and bursting into the road.

Stumbling out of the way of two men on horseback, you spun in a circle, trying to remember where the stables were.

“Shit,” you hissed, struggling to breathe through your panic. “Shit shit shit sh--”

There! The corral. Letting out a frantic wheeze, you took off towards the large red barn.

You found Bucky talking with the owner, surveying the horseflesh for sale. His back was to you as you approached, but of course, he heard you coming and turned around just as you grabbed his arm.

“We need to go,” you said, voice low. The man selling the horses looked between the two of you with annoyance at the interruption.

Bucky managed half of an apology as he followed after you. Sliding your hand into his, you pulled him towards the inn, keeping on the lookout for… everything. Everyone had just become a threat, and every foot of this town unsafe. It wasn’t until you were inside the boarding house that you let go of Bucky -- and it wasn’t until you were closing the door to your room that you turned to even look at him.

He looked alert but confused, eyebrows raised expectantly.

“Well? You gonna tell me what the hell’s going on?”

“Really?” you hissed. “I should be asking you the same thing.”

“What are you talking a--”

“I just saw you on a wanted poster, Bucky,” you replied, your voice still hushed even though you wanted nothing more than to yell.

Bucky blinked once.

“Shit.”

“Yeah. Shit.”

He was quiet for a long moment. You wanted to ask him why he hadn’t told you that this was a risk -- why he’d come here when there was a chance he could be recognized and arrested. Those weren’t crimes that you could bail him out of jail for, those were crimes that would earn him the noose.

“They’ll hang you, Buck,” you said, unable to keep that realization to yourself.

“I know.”

“It won’t be able to stop them--”

“I know,” he insisted, voice growing harder, but just for a moment before he sunk onto the bed. “I… should have told you.”

“I don’t care about that now,” you replied, firmly but not unkindly. “Your past is your past. I told you that when we first met and I mean it as much now as I did then. But I don’t know what to do if they arrest you.”

“They won’t.”

“Bucky,” you insisted, and you did yell, then. He looked up at you, surprised. Then he ran a hand through his hair and sighed.

“You run. If they catch me, you get the hell out of here and you don’t look back.”

“Fuck that. No -- fuck that. You think I could do that? I could just leave you to swing from the gallows like we’re -- like we’re nothing but business partners?”

“Y/N--”

“You’ve lost your goddamn mind if you could ever think that.”

“Hey,” he whispered, holding out a hand to stop you. “Just…. They haven’t caught me yet. Not yet. Which means we need to get our shit together and get out of town.”

You leveled a stare at him, suddenly wishing you had something to chuck at his head.

“You should go ahead of me.”

“Jesus Christ,” you threw your hands up, turning around to find something to actually throw.

“Would you just listen to me--”

“No. You’ve lost that privilege.”

“Y/N.”

You turned back around, raising your eyebrows at him.

“It’s not safe.”

It took you a moment to keep breathing. To not say something you’d regret.

“It’s never been safe.” When you finally said it, your voice was nothing more than a whisper. Bucky stared into your eyes for long enough that you almost forgot where you were.

“We’re wasting time,” he eventually said. He got up off the bed. “Get your things. We’ll… try to take off unnoticed. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”

At that, you scoffed. You’d never been lucky a day in your life. The only way you were getting out of this is if Bucky was at least a little bit luckier than you were.

It only took you a minute to gather your things. With Bucky close behind you, his hat tipped low, he followed you down the stairs and out onto the porch. You took a moment to look around -- thanking whatever god still cared about you that the road was relatively empty. Then you took off, moving as quickly as you could without raising suspicion. Bucky followed a few paces behind you.

In the stable, you threw your saddle on Horse, securing everything as quickly as possible.

“Hey Buck,” you called. There were a few other horses being boarded, and seeing as he was already wanted for murder, you supposed that stealing a horse wouldn’t really change much.

You pulled the girth tight, then pushed open the stall door.

“Bucky are you--” your legs went numb as you were slammed into the wall. A hand gripped the collar of your shirt and the cold metal of a gun was shoved into the back of your neck.

You barely had a chance to catch yourself, and you winced at the impact, stars exploding behind your eyes. Whoever was holding a fistful of your shirt stopped you from collapsing, and you could do nothing but listen blindly as a fight broke out behind you.

“Hey -- hey,” a rough, unfamiliar voice yelled, and suddenly you were being swung around, the barrel of the gun moving from the back of your neck to just under your jaw. “Don’t move or I put a bullet in your partner’s head.”

Bucky was standing in front of you, a man’s throat gripped in his metal hand.

“Let him go,” the man behind you said.

Bucky’s chest heaved, a dark expression in his eye that you only ever saw when he was fighting. When he looked at you though, that expression fell away. With a scowl, he let go. The man, to his credit, managed to aim his gun at Bucky’s head while coughing hoarsely. With a sinking feeling, you noticed the gold star pinned to his vest.

“Now,” the sheriff said, straightening out his collar. “You’re gonna come with me, and you’re not going to make a fuss. I really don’t want to have to shoot your lady friend, but I will if I have to.”

“She’s not a part of this,” Bucky darkly replied. “Let her go.”

“I’d love to, son,” the man said, sighing as he adjusted his aim. “But I know what you can do.”

“You want me, okay? You want me. I’ll come willingly if you just let her go.”

“Bobbie,” the sheriff said, and you felt the man behind you shift. “Go on,” he gestured with a tilt of his head, and then you were being shoved forward.

“Hey,” Bucky called, lurching forward as you stumbled, but he was met with a barrel to his temple.

“Don’t move, son, or you’re both getting an early ticket downstairs.”

You tried to turn around, tried to look at him, but the man kept you marching forward. Eventually, you heard them following behind, the sheriff making patient threats whenever Bucky looked at him the wrong way.

They threw Bucky into a holding cell in a nearby building. You expected them to do the same with you, but instead, the sheriff who’d escorted Bucky attached a manacle to your wrist, cuffing it to one of the bars in the window. They took your guns, of course, and your supplies, and it seemed that you would be collateral to keep Bucky in check. With his metal arm, he could have easily broken out of the cell, but with a gun trained at your head by the sheriff’s right-hand man, he wouldn’t dare.

They didn’t give you even a moment. You looked at Bucky and he looked back at you, and there was so much you wanted to say but how could you? Even if you had the chance, you weren’t sure you could have found the words anyway. You wanted to yell at him -- demand why he’d come here if he’d known this could have happened. You wanted to promise you wouldn’t let anything happen to him. You wanted to tell him that he wasn’t allowed to die because then what would you do?

And that was too much to think about, given the circumstances. Your mind didn’t even have the chance to process it because soon the sheriff was returning and unlocking Bucky’s cell, and you realized that you didn’t have a plan. Neither of you had a plan, and time waited for no one, least of all you. But you had to do something. Panic flared up your throat as you tried to think clearly, think rationally, figure out a way that you could get out of this even as it was all happening so fast.

They let Bucky out first. He towered a head or two over both of the men, but the sheriff’s partner still had you in his sights.

“Come on, son,” the sheriff said.

Bucky scanned the room slowly. You didn’t know what you looked like -- maybe your face was completely passive, hiding the fear you were feeling -- but Bucky looked miles calmer than you. He looked stony, like he was someone else, not the man you’d spent weeks traveling beside. But then, when he looked at you, there were parts of him that would never be unfamiliar. Parts of him you’d always know.

The sheriff led him towards the door. Then suddenly, as he passed by you, Bucky stepped sideways and grabbed you around the waist, leaning down to press a kiss to the corner of your mouth.

“Hey! Hey, get--” The sheriff dragged him back, and the second man jammed the gun into your jaw threateningly. You winced at the impact, mouth opening as you tried desperately to say something, but you could hardly breathe, let alone speak. Without a second glance at you or the men, Bucky turned and let himself be shoved outside.

With his gun pressed to the side of your head, the man uncuffed you from the pole, then refastened your binds before walking you after the others. Your breath, now that it was coming, felt too short in your lungs, but that single passing gesture had shocked some clarity into your mind.

Why had Bucky kissed you? He wouldn’t have touched you like that for nothing, even a final goodbye. There had to be something, something he’d been trying to tell you or…

You felt something sharp scrape the skin along your hips. Your eyes widened and suddenly you understood. Bucky you absolute brilliant man -- he’d stuck a pin into the waistband of your trousers. The very same pin that he used to secure his money in the lining of his clothes. The pin that would have gone unnoticed during a quick pat-down for weapons. Sucking in a breath, you twisted your arm back just enough to yank the pin from your trousers and pressed it into the palm of your hand.

They led you towards the gallows. There wasn’t a crowd -- only about half a dozen people, not counting the sheriff and his man, there to oversee the hanging. They stopped you a little ways off, back where the crowd would have stood if anyone had been there, and led Bucky forward. You watched him go, forcing the urge to call out to him back down your throat. It didn’t matter -- it would be over soon. He had given you exactly what you needed. What you both needed.

Still, watching him climb those stairs, watching the hangman’s noose close around his neck, it was taking everything in you not to panic. Everything relied on you getting control of yourself.

“James Buchanan Barnes,” the sheriff announced. They’d tied Bucky’s hands behind his back -- a final insult to the man who could have broken the ropes without effort but would not because of you. “You’re wanted for theft, assault, murder… hell, there’s quite a list here. Don’t matter, I suppose. In the name of the law, and as charged by Anthony Stark himself, I’ll take the liberties of a judge and pronounce you guilty and sentenced to hang.”

As the sheriff finished speaking, you dug the pin into the lock of your manacles. As a man approached the lever, you heard a faint click.

The floor to the gallows fell out just as you threw your elbow into your captor’s arm. His gun fired inches from your head, making your right ear ring painfully, but it wasn’t enough to stop you. Spinning around, you threw your head back into the man’s face. Your skull connected with his nose, allowing you to easily wrench the gun from his hand. Whipping around to face the gallows, you raised the revolver and fired. The bullet tore through the rope, but it wasn’t enough to sever it completely. You realized that just as the man wrapped his arm around your neck and tried to drag you to the ground.

Pulling the gun in, you pressed it to his shoulder and fired. Blood splattered onto your face and the man fell backward. You grabbed him by the front of the shirt and turned, firing another shot. This time, the rope snapped and Bucky fell to the ground. You had just enough time to see him tear the ropes from his wrists and straighten up to look for you when you heard something ping off of metal.

Ducking, you jerked the man around so he was covering the front of you. If you’d moved a second later, the bullet that lodged itself between his eyes would have been yours, instead.

“Leave her, leave her,” the sheriff yelled from the gallows. “Barnes is who he wants!”

You dropped the man in the dirt, turned around, and ran. It took everything in you not to look back, but for you and Bucky to get out of this alive, you were going to need horses.

The stable wasn’t far. You passed a few civilians on your way, but, despite the gunshots no one tried to stop you. Trusting the Bucky was doing alright on his own, you threw open the barn doors and made your way inside. Horse was where you’d left him, still tacked up and with all of your supplies. Everything was there. Now you just needed another horse.

Unwilling to waste precious time tacking one up, you grabbed the nearest bridle and searched the stalls for a mount, leading Horse behind you. He had noticed that something was amiss and was dancing anxiously, his ears pricked and nostrils flared. You heard the distant sound of gunfire; a few rapid shots, the sound of shouting, and then silence. Trying to ignore the pounding of your heart, you stepped up to a stall door.

That was when you heard it. Hoofbeats.

Horse whinnied and you looked up to see… Alpine. She was racing down the street, headed straight for the gallows. Straight for Bucky.

“Holy shit,” you said as you scrambled for the exit. As soon as you were outside you swung up into the saddle, wheeling Horse in a circle and kicking your heels into his sides. He took off, eagerly following after Alpine.

“Bucky,” you yelled as soon as you could see him. He looked up, meeting your eyes as he shoved an unconscious man onto the ground. You waved towards Alpine. When he saw her his eyes widened, but any surprise he had was driven away by the sounds of more people approaching. He’d taken out the few that had remained after his escape, including the sheriff, but the gunshots had caught the attention of the rest of the town. It was now or never.

Grabbing the saddle horn as Alpine passed him, he pulled himself onto her back, catching the stirrups and flicking his reins into her flanks. Hunching forward, you did the same. Horse leapt into a gallop. It was only when he reached the edge of town that Bucky turned, glancing over his shoulder to make sure you were following. When he saw you, he turned back around and urged Alpine faster.

The shouts of the townspeople were lost under the sound of wind rushing by your ears as you made your escape. When you chanced a look back, you saw a few men running after you, but no one was making a pursuit. You suspected that you and Bucky had already taken out most of their manpower. Taking a deep breath, you squeezed your legs around Horse and counted yourself lucky that you’d pulled this off. God, how had you pulled this off?

Maybe luck was on your side after all.

________________________________________________________________

It felt like hours before you stopped. In reality, it couldn’t have been more than one. Still, by the time Bucky slowed Alpine to a halt, both horses were drenched in sweat and breathing heavily. Bucky dismounted, giving Alpine’s neck a gentle pat. You were just as quick to follow, but the moment your feet hit the dirt you were pacing over to Bucky. He turned to meet you like he’d been expecting as much. Without thinking, you reached up and grabbed his face, tilting it to get a look at his neck. Beneath the scruff and the sunburn, an angry red line was left from the rope.

If you’d breathed at all in the last few hours, it hadn’t been enough, and now you were paying for it. Your chest heaved and your throat burned, and you just couldn’t seem to get enough air. You didn’t realize that you were shaking, too, until Bucky slid a hand up your arm and pressed his palm into the back of your hand. Taking it gently, he pulled it away from his face.

“I’m okay--” you scoffed. “Seriously, I’m fine,”

Pulling back, you turned, but at the last minute you decided that you just couldn’t walk away from him. Not now. Instead, you laid your palm against Bucky’s chest, feeling his heartbeat thrum against your skin. You stayed like that for a moment, staring at your hand and feeling him breathe -- feeling you both breathe as, gradually, the adrenaline wore off. The hearing in your right ear was shot. Everything sounded like it was coming through a tunnel -- an effect that you hoped would wear off eventually. Bucky’s shoulders lifted and fell as he tried to catch his breath same as you.

“‘Buchanan,’ huh?” you said, breaking the silence. To your surprise, Bucky exhaled a weak laugh.

“Really? That’s your takeaway?”

Then you were laughing, too. You laughed until your head ached, and then you frowned. Suddenly you were tired. Completely, utterly tired.

“It just never stops, does it?” you whispered.

Bucky grimaced, then shook his head. You could see him searching your face, and then, very slowly, he reached up to brush his thumb across your cheek. It came away red.

“I’m alright,” you said without him having to ask. Bucky nodded.

“I’m sorry for kissing you,” he suddenly said, but his thumb was still wiping the blood off of your skin and you were having a hard time thinking about anything, much less that.

“No,” you shook your head, eyebrows pinching together as he finally pulled his hand away. “It very well saved our lives.”

Bucky fell silent, nodding as he looked out across the desert, eyes squinting in the sun.

“We should keep moving,” he said eventually. It seemed like that was all you ever did. Keep moving. You took a deep breath.

The horses were just as exhausted as you were. Alpine seemed in good health, and she still had all of Bucky’s supplies strapped to her -- which was good, considering you’d had to leave behind all of your belongings. You had the townsman’s gun, and Bucky retrieved a spare pistol from his saddlebag. Any new supplies that you’d bought, though, you’d have to do without.

So much for clean clothes.

You traveled at a slow but consistent pace until night began to fall. Bucky, who’d been on the lookout for shelter, drew your attention to a large boulder. It looked promising enough, and you both agreed to investigate. When you confirmed that it was abandoned and safe, you dismounted and set up a line to tie the horses to. They both heaved great sighs as they settled down for the night. It was obvious that they were happy to be reunited. After sniffing each other and getting reacquainted, they were content to relax in one another’s company as if nothing had changed. How you wished that it were that easy.

Bucky was quiet. He was usually quiet, but tonight it was different. Tonight at least, you knew the reason. You were so exhausted that you could barely think straight, and you felt yourself nodding off before you even managed to take out your bedroll. It was unspoken between the both of you that there would be no fire tonight. Better not risk it, with not one but two enemies so close by and potentially still searching for you. Bucky found some dried beef and hard biscuits in his pack and handed a portion over to you. You accepted them silently.

Despite everything that had happened since you and Bucky had joined up together -- the men at the river, Mickey and the others, the dangers of traveling -- none had ever come as close to being fatal as what had just happened. There had been a lot of close calls in the last several weeks, but that had been by far the closest, and the bruising on Bucky’s throat was proof enough. Never in your travels had you ever considered what would happen if you lost Bucky. Of course, a part of you had always understood that there were risks -- either of you could die at any moment, but… Bucky had always seemed so powerful. So unshakable. You’d almost forgotten that he was just as human as you, metal and all.

What if things had gone differently today? What if you hadn’t managed to shoot the rope, or what if they hadn’t taken you to see the hanging? What if you’d been too slow? What if Bucky hadn’t been able to fight? There was so much that could have gone wrong, all of it ending with you having to ride on without the person who had become your partner. It was something that, you now realized, you’d never considered. You’d never thought about what you would do if Bucky died. Not until now.

How was it that you could no longer imagine life without someone you’d only just met? How strange that people can so quickly become an essential part of your life. You’d never been one to make friends -- had never gotten the chance to. You’d never been one to meet a person and decide that they were yours. Then again, you’d never had someone do the same for you. But that was exactly what had happened. Now you and Bucky had each other, and the thought of having to make the rest of this trip without him settled like a thorn between your ribs.

The stars came out, half hidden behind the over-arching rock formation. During the day, it would have provided shade. Now at night, with the steadily dropping temperature of the desert and a cold wind blowing across the sand, it provided shelter. You both laid your bedrolls along the face of the biggest boulder, as far inside its protection as you could get. It was going to be a cold night. But the wind was blowing in your favor and the rocks blocked the brunt of it -- and you and Bucky were tired enough that you suspected falling asleep wouldn’t be an issue.

Maybe you’d suspected wrong.

Bucky sat with his back against the rock, an arm draped over his knee as he stared out into the darkness. His expression was unreadable. It wasn’t the first time he’d gotten like this -- the last you could remember was when the men in the river had called him Winter Soldier. And now, in the quiet and still, you finally thought back to everything that had happened. To what the sheriff had said that had practically saved your life. “Barnes is who he wants.” When they’d been charging him they’d said a name -- something Stark. You wondered if that was the person who’d sent those men after Bucky.

There were a hundred questions you could have thought of, and yet you were unwilling to ask even a single one of them. The only reason you were here was because of the past you were running from, and it seemed that it was the same for Bucky. And you’d said it already -- his past belonged to him; it was none of your business, and you weren’t going to pry your fingers into it. Not after everything he’d done. Instead, you sat down next to him.

The rock at your back was cool. It sent a shiver through your thin clothing, and you reached over to pull your goatskin jacket around your shoulders, thankful that you’d left it on your saddle and it hadn’t been lost during the escape. You hid your arms in the sleeves and accepted the silence that was ringing in your ears. Usually, you didn’t mind when things were quiet, but this time felt different; uncomfortable. There was so much you wanted to say, but you didn’t know how. Whenever you tried to form the words, they got stuck somewhere in your chest -- no matter how you tried to arrange them, it just wasn’t right.

So, instead of even try, you let the silence carry on, wondering if Bucky was feeling the same thing you were. A few minutes passed. Then a few more.

“You’re not allowed to die,” you finally said. It seemed the one thing you could put into words -- an idea that kept repeating itself over and over in your head. Saying it out loud felt good, like breathing.

Bucky didn’t move. Neither did you. You both sat facing the plains, staring emptily at all that space.

“You hear me? You’re not allowed to die now that you’ve… now that…” Now that he’d come into your life, you wanted to say. Now that you’d gotten used to him. But both of those things felt too much like an admission, and you weren’t sure you were ready for that.

“You just can’t,” you finally said, hating how much you sounded like a petulant child.

There was silence. One of the horses snorted, shifting in their sleep. And then Bucky spoke.

“I’m sorry. I should have told you about everything with…” he stopped, swallowing his words. “I just should have told you.”

“Bucky,” you sighed. “I don’t care about that, okay? I just… It was a close call.”

“Yeah. I know.” He ran a hand over his neck. Of course he knew; you didn’t need to tell the man who’d nearly been hanged that it had been a close call.

Bucky sighed, and then he turned to look down at you.

“Tony Stark. You remember the friend that I had a falling out with? The one that could understand how my arm works,” he lifted his hand, flexing his fingers and examining the dirty metal.

“Yes,” you whispered.

“Yeah, well. A long time ago I did some bad things,” he paused. “A lot of bad things. And one of those things was… personal for him. He didn’t find out about it until later and,” Bucky shrugged. “Things didn’t go so well after that.”

While you were processing everything he was saying, you were also scouring your mind for where you’d heard that name before.

“Wait -- Tony Stark as in Stark Industries?” you asked.

“Yup,” Bucky grimaced.

“Damn…”

Stark Industries was an old company that specialized in industrialization. If a new railway was built or a new tool engineered, Stark Industries was usually behind it. Being in the banditry business, you’d heard enough about the Starks to know that you never wanted to get caught stealing their shit; it was a sure ticket to the gallows. You could only imagine what it was like knowing someone who belonged to that family -- and you definitely could not imagine what it was like having pissed them off

Then again, you didn’t have to imagine.

“How’s your neck?” you asked, having to fight the sudden urge to reach over and trace the line on his skin.

Bucky just grunted and shrugged.

“I’ll live,” he said.

“Yeah, you better, or I’ll dig up your grave and kill you myself.”

He snorted, laughing reluctantly before shaking his head. When he finally looked over at you, you were relieved to see a bit of life in his eyes. His neck, though… it didn’t look great. Like he’d said, he would live, but you suspected it would be sore for a while.

“I never did thank you. For saving my hide.”

Now it was your turn to shrug.

“No use showing up to your safe house empty-handed. That would be a little difficult to explain.”

Bucky smiled, but it looked sad.

“No,” he eventually said. “No, it wouldn’t.”

You glanced over at him, brow furrowing. As scared as you were -- as desperately as you needed to get away, to get somewhere safe -- you hadn’t thought about how Bucky might be feeling the same way. You knew he had a past to get away from, but he’d always just seemed so stoic, so used to what his life had become. But a life like his, you were sure, was easily just as hard to live as your own.

“There’s so much I don’t know about you,” you whispered, thinking aloud. Bucky’s eyes, reflecting in the soft moonlight, met yours.

“I could say the same about you, doll. You’re very mysterious.”

“What -- mysterious? I am not.”

Bucky furrowed his brow, opening his mouth in a silent, protesting gasp.

“Uh, you so are. I swear you drove me crazy that first week. I was dyin’ to know what you were hiding beneath all of that broodiness you had going on.”

“Me? What about you, with your mysterious glove and your hat pulled all low and dramatic,” you nudged your hat down and made a face, a near-perfect impersonation of him.

“There! That's exactly what I’m talking about. Broody. Do you know what it’s like to have to look at that for hours on end, every day? God, ‘s enough to drive a man mad.”

You scoffed, and then you smiled from behind your hat. After a moment, Bucky turned towards you and lifted the brim with the tip of his finger. You were surprised to find something soft, almost happy etched into the lines on his face. Your smile fell away, stomach sinking somewhere into your boots, remembering how his skin had felt against yours. But that was all he did. He traced his thumb along the brim of your hat, then pulled his hand away, staring softly into your eyes. It was like he was searching for something and finding it all at the same time, and all you could do was look back at him and breathe.

It was strange, how much easier you could breathe like this. How you suddenly felt so at ease, like the rest of the world was taking a pause from all of its endlessness long enough for you to notice the darker flecks of blue laid into the light in his eyes. And for a moment, that was enough.

“I don’t know,” you began, your voice a whisper. “I think it we’re gonna measure broodiness, I mean really, then I’m pretty sure you won.”

Bucky’s eyes fell to your smirk.

“Whatever you say, sweetheart,” he replied, voice quiet in the night.

________________________________________________________________

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