Hi, For The Bingo Thingy, Can You Use “Can You Stay?” For A Chapter 3 Of The Co-parenting Ex Husband

BUCKY BARNES BEING A SNACK™ IN THAT T-SHIRT THE FALCON AND THE WINTER SOLDIER (2021)

'til the morning comes (6/?)

steve rogers x reader (fluff and angst)

summary: you need to get some air, and see some friends.

word count: 2.3k

warnings: mentions of the death of a father, super vague mentions of MCU-typical violence/terrorism

(part 1) (part 2) (part 3) (part 4) (part 5) (part 7) (series masterlist)

 “Trouble in paradise?” Helen peers above her sunglasses, frowning.

 “What?” As if you hadn’t spent ten minutes inside the hotel bathroom washing your face with cold water, minimizing its puffiness. “No.”

 “I just thought your hot-shit husband would be the one driving you around,” she explains while you buckle your seatbelt. “He seemed really excited to pick you up last night.”

 Back then, you had expected a text to light up your phone at eleven o’clock, followed by excusing yourself from the bar. But Steve actually found you and walked to the rental car. He greeted your friends charmingly, shaking hands and joking about the late hour, but mostly he ushered you out the door to kiss you again. And again and again—

 “We’re not married,” you mutter.

 “Like, really excited.” She elbows your ribs. "Did you have sex?"

 You roll your eyes. “Can I not just wanna see my best friend?”

 Helen removes her sunglasses in time for you to spot her side-eye. “Not when she’s hungover, and late to work.” She exits the roundabout driveway and starts toward the Fairmont. “Honestly, a school night. You’ve changed.”

 At least these drinks celebrated an accomplishment. Once, you went with Joaquín because a student vomited on your favorite patterned dress and her mom had shamed you for failing to nurse her precious daughter back to health. Still, Helen’s chastisement—no matter how lighthearted—makes you squirm. “I missed you,” you tell her, “Doesn’t that count for something?”

 She checks her mirrors. “How was your art thing?”

 You haven’t given her an update yet. Your friend group had agreed to a No Work Talk policy on nights out. Though, the art festival never felt like work—so unlike the long days you spent prancing around Steve’s office, providing help where it probably wasn’t strictly needed. The event meant something to you. And to Steve, who apparently hid his creative talents from you.

 Paling in comparison to what you hid from him.

 “It was fun,” you say honestly. “It was… everything.”

 Helen gives you a sidelong look. “You don’t sound enthused.”

 You cross your arms. The festival should spark a dozen happy memories: a triumphant return to the elementary school you loved, to doing what you do best. Plus, a definite win for the campaign, the entire night brimming with your favorite people.

 Maybe twenty year’s time will allow you to forget all the bad that happened after. “I wish I could stay longer.”

 “Shut up,” Helen laughs. “I’ve never seen you so happy.”

 Your face warms, because No Work Talk inevitably meant Steve Talk. Your futile attempts to discuss Joaquín’s abrupt switch to kindergarten or Helen’s new roommate or Dane and Sersi’s next vacation all failed to overshadow the rapid questions regarding your fiancé.

 You answered them like a lovesick schoolgirl, the corners of your lips lifting as you pictured him, especially his slightly mussed hair when you reluctantly left the heat of your first real kiss.

 Now, thoughts of Steve turn sour. Nails scraped across his scalp out of frustration rather than passion. His height towering over you. The room filled with his anger, floor to ceiling.

 He made you feel small. Maybe you are, or maybe you should be.

 “It was fun while it lasted.”

 Helen interprets your shift in tone as your mind shifting to Shangqi, and the spirit inside her car lessens. Jerking a thumb toward the backseat, she explains, “I have two things of pajeon. One for him, one for Xialing.”

 You squint at the truly giant containers, crammed with steamed-up food and strapped into each seat. “You cooked?”

 Helen huffs, pulling into the Fairmont’s driveway. “Well, I bought it and then lovingly transferred it to a different container, creating the illusion that I can cook.”

 Apparently, no amount of misery can ever overpower Helen making you laugh. “You’re ridiculous.” You gently dismiss the valet driver as you unbuckle the comfort food.

 Helen doesn’t return your smile, mocking seriousness. “You realize how much takeout I eat now that you’re gone?”

 “Thanks for the ride.” You haphazardly balance the Tupperware against your torso while shutting the door. “Y'know, I can send you my recipes.”

 “Too much work.”

 “For one of the smartest people I know, you’re awful at following directions.”

 “Hey.” Helen stretches across the console. “Double checking. You sure you’re okay?”

 She needs to get to her lab. “Yeah,” you lie. “Love you.”

 “Love you.”

 You weave effortlessly through the bustle inside the Fairmont. Enough red-vested employees give you vague nods of recognition that you sneak inside the staff break room without arousing too much suspicion. There, you find Shangqi poking a vending machine, his crisp white sleeves folded to his elbows.

 “Hi,” you whisper. Then, you realize the room is empty.

 He tilts his head affectionately, flipping his soda can. “Hey, Mrs. President.”

 You wrinkle your nose, bashful at the stupid nickname. “Um…” You shove the pajeon toward him. “Helen sends her love to you and Xialing.”

 Shangqi hums. Then, he lifts the plastic from your hands, stifling any of your weak objections with a tight embrace. You shove your nose into the scratchy material of his uniform, which smells like the inside of a new car mixed with crisp laundry detergent. Reminiscent of home—or what home used to be. You mold yourself to his solid, secure body.

 You’re already sniffling. “Why didn’t you take the day off?”

 He sits at a small round table, cracking open his soda and poking the giant mass of food now in his possession. “Already, with the patronizing.”

 You fold your arms. “Sorry. I know.”

 “Maybe parking cars helps me process my emotions," he chuckles, while motioning you to grab a chair. “The lack of tips is a metaphor for my grief.”

 You place a hand over his, letting one finger trace the bumps along his scarred knuckles. “Shangqi,” you start again, “I’m really sorry.”

 He drinks his soda, his mouth forming a thin line. “It was unexpected but… bound to happen.”

 Thankfully, no foul play. His father passed in his sleep, an oddly peaceful death for such a violent person.

 Although, that side of Wenwu never revealed itself to you. Shangqi and Xialing openly disdained him, and although their tension thickened the air of his cold home, you mostly remembered an old, kind man who made you tea and inquired about your career.

 A nice girl, Shangqi relayed to you later, lightly mimicking his father’s accent.

 The nicest, you replied smugly.

 “Is there anything I can do to help?” You feel stupid asking the question, especially with the hours counting down before your flight back to New York.

 His smile returns, barely detectable, and he interlocks your fingers briefly. “I’m glad you’re here.”

 “Bothering you during your lunch break?” you tease, but your grimace keeps the mood dampened.

 He smacks the plastic lid. “I get to eat scallion pancakes for the next two weeks, thanks to you.”

 “Are you sure you’re okay?” Asking a second time usually earns you a real answer.

 Shangqi softens at your concern. “I don’t know. It’s my dad.”

 “He was intense,” you agree.

 “Not exactly the most healthy relationship I’ve ever had.”

 You bite the inside of your lip. The crack in his voice transports you back to the nights you spent at his place, the rare ones when he opened up about Wenwu. Even underneath the cover of darkness, you struggled to look Shangqi in the eye as he talked through the trauma of living under the Ten Rings’ oppressive shadow. A past he rejected without hesitation, favoring a cramped studio apartment and a low-paying job heavy with entitled customers. Something simple and uncomplicated, far from family.

 Still, you listened, both to his stories and to his heart beating steadily against your cheek, pretending—mostly for your own sanity—that throwing a leg over him and tracing patterns on his chest could protect him from the worst of it, and lull him into a sleep where thunderous nightmares wouldn't jerk him awake.

 “You’re the only one of my girlfriends to meet him.” He clears his throat, eyes going glassy at the realization. “Actually, you’ll be the only one to ever meet him.”

 “Well, I’m lucky then.”

 “You don’t have to lie,” he says bitterly. “He did some terrible things.”

 Six months into your relationship, you accepted Shangqi’s first—and extremely hesitant—dinner invitation to meet his father.

 You owed him. While your personal challenges could never eclipse his, he supported you, through frazzled weekend lesson-planning and long nights. Shangqi drove you to half a dozen art stores to find the best deal, kissed your shoulder when you cried, offered to beat up your administration when you texted him about losing your job.

 No, you didn’t owe him; it wasn’t an obligation. Rather, a privilege. To have a little bit of his pain be yours.

 “That doesn’t change the fact that he’s your father, and a part of who you are.” You nod decisively. “I got to be a part of that.”

 He sighs, a brief and shaky thing. “Thanks.”

 “But I…” You wipe away a tear. “I can’t go to the funeral.”

 “That’s alright. You’re busy.”

 The quickness of that response makes you wince. “I’m sorry, I tried, but I’m not—”

 “Hey." Shangqi takes your hand again. “S’okay.”

 “I should have answered my phone last night,” you choke out.

 “I didn’t even think you were in the city.” He shrugs. “Honestly, I kinda expected you to be asleep on the east coast.”

 You scoff. You would have preferred that. Instead, guilt calcifies inside your stomach.

 Mere months ago, you wouldn’t have so idly dismissed his name flashing on your screen. He seldom called you—never twice in a row. But you were too distracted by your friends, the drinks you shared with them, the prospect of spending the rest of that night with Steve. While you and Shanqi ended on good terms and you’d never purposely ignore him, maybe deep down you rebuffed even the possibility of something sidetracking your perfect night.

 Fucking selfish.

 “I just wanted to hear your voice,” he confesses. “I didn’t expect any more from you.”

 You shake your head, refusing his conjured-up excuses for your behavior. “I should have called back. I would’ve wanted to be there for you.”

 “You’re here now,” he urges. “Even if you are taking up my lunch break.”

 With a cheeky wink, Shangqi grabs a plate and two forks from the miniature kitchen counter. He cracks open the top container, carefully transferring a pancake and cutting it in half.

 The moment strikes you as alarmingly familiar: yet another one of the hundred meals you’ve shared, yet another time you’ve arrived with food to break up the monotony of his day. In fact, you could both name the exact Korean place where Helen got these pancakes. And if you thought about it, you could probably recite Shangqi’s regular order back to him.

 Earlier today, as you pushed through the hotel doors, the muffled yet cheery beat of Helen’s favorite pop music reached your ears, immediately relieving the burns in your heart after leaving your fiancé speechless on the hotel room floor.

 You suck in a deep breath. It’s been so long since you’ve felt at ease, among friends, your love mutual and long-lasting.

 It’ll never be this way with Steve. The realization crushes you a little.

 “I have to ask about your new guy,” Shangqi remark, offering you a sip of his drink.

 “No, you really don’t,” you mumble.

 “That happened quickly.”

 “Only because—” He wouldn’t believe the truth, if you could tell him. And if he did believe you, he’d pity you. “We should talk about you and your dad.”

 “C’mon.” He leans backward, satisfied with how flustered you seem. “Take my mind off things. Are you with him ‘cause of his money and looks? Be honest.”

 “No, Steve, he’s…”

 “He’s rich and attractive,” Shangqi supplies.

 “He’s… good to me.”

 Most of the time.

 “A very glowing review,” he says, every word drawn out in suspicion. “Not surprised though, I’d trust a politician as far as I can throw him.”

 You laugh. Steve is kinda strong, but Shangqi has mastered, like, every martial art under the sun. It wouldn’t even be a fair match. “You could throw him pretty far, I think.”

 “Not far enough.”

 You can’t finish your food with the funny feeling sloshing inside your gut. “He’s different, sometimes.”

 “Sometimes,” Shangqi repeats sadly. There’s the pity.

 “He won’t let me go to the funeral.”

 “Won’t let you?” Shangqi leans forward, his strong forearms bracing the table, the pale scars on his knuckles flexing.

 You hate this subtle macho display just like you hated Steve’s yelling. It’s not cute, this overprotectiveness, and you wish they would think to comfort you instead. “Most people don’t know, right?” you ask, deflecting. “That your dad was behind all that stuff. They've just heard of the Mandarin.”

 After a pause, he nods gravely, sitting back in his chair. “When it comes to Wenwu, most people just see a very rich and powerful man, with two kids who hated him.” His jaw ticks. “But most people doesn’t mean all people.”

 You wring your hands. “You’re right.”

 “I think your senator made the right call.” You catch the derogatory tone on Steve’s title, yet he doesn’t apply it to yours: “Future First Ladies of the United States shouldn’t be seen at a crime lord’s funeral, no matter how innocent it may seem.”

 You push your half-eaten pajeon toward him. “Yeah.”

 “I’m not voting for him though. Seems like an asshole.”

 A laugh, a real one. “That’s okay.”

 Win or lose, you don’t care. You just wanna get through this, whatever it takes.

 “Is this what you want, with him?”

 You blink. “Is it okay to say that I don’t know?”

 “You don’t have to ask if it’s okay.” Shangqi considers you for a long moment before picking at your food. “Whatever happens, you can always come home.”

— — —

masterlist

“Life is funny. If you don’t laugh, you’re in trouble.” -Taylor Hawkins

This one hurts and it’s going to take awhile to get past.

✨Sebastian Stan manspreading appreciation post✨

undrunk

summary: your friends with benefits situation with bucky takes a turn that could break your heart

pairing: frat!bucky x reader

word count: 3.6k

warnings: explicit language, consumption of alcohol, implied smut, mention of previous cheating (not bucky), reader may have a slight drinking problem, bad rebounds, one (1) game of spin the bottle, bucky is kind of a dick but also reader is kind of crazy, slightly toxic but it works out in the end, like the tiniest bit of fluff (if you squint). loosely based on undrunk by fletcher

a/n: here she is, the long awaited frat!bucky. i hope this was worth the wait, and everyone enjoys the happy ending i tried to do. if you like this please make sure to reblog and comment - i appreciate every single one!!

main masterlist ─ i no longer have a taglist but you can follow @theafterglowlibrary and turn on notifications for fic updates!

You were woken up by the click of your bedroom closing, and the soft sound of padded feet through your hallway and out the front door. You squeezed your eyes tight, willing the tears not to come as you rolled over and checked the time. 5am. At least he was consistent.

It was stupid - you were stupid - to let this happen again. Bucky had broken your heart enough times that you should know better by now. But you never learn.

You guessed you couldn’t really blame him. He had made it clear to you from the very first night that he wasn’t interested in a relationship. That it would only ever be sex. Of course, when you’re half drunk and desperate for him to just fuck you already, you agree to anything. No one could blame you for a one night mistake.

No, the real pain came from the months after. The 1am texts and the secret touches. Because with those came the silly pictures and the late night talks as he laid in your bed. With it came the desperate want for more. Even when you knew it wasn’t possible.

So you laid in bed, staring at the ceiling as the tears streamed down your face, knowing you had no one to blame but yourself.

-

Despite the ache in your chest, there was one thing you could never say no to: a party. Maybe you should learn to stay away from them, considering that’s how you ended up in Bucky’s bed in the first place, but you just couldn’t; there was nothing like the sweet release of drinking your pain away.

At the very least, you could stay away from Bucky’s frat house. Or that’s what you told yourself.

Somehow, though, you ended up in the basement of the Phi Gamma Delta house, even though you specifically told Wanda not to let you anywhere near Fiji tonight. Not after your conversation with Bucky a few days ago.

Not after he had accidentally stayed the night, and you thought it meant more. Not after you had asked him to go to breakfast and he practically sprinted for the door.

But you hadn’t seen him yet, so that was a plus. There was always a chance he had skipped out on the festivities for the night. Maybe he had gone home to Brooklyn for the weekend, or maybe he was upstairs in his room and you could just -

Your thoughts were cut off by the cheers of the group of people around you, and you turned to see Sam in the middle finishing off a handle of vodka. In your experience, that could only mean one thing.

“Let’s play spin the bottle!” Sam shouted as the last burn of the liquor coursed through him. Having no reason to say no, you made room for yourself in the circle and patiently waited your turn.

Sam gave a dramatic look around the room, before spinning the bottle with a twist of his wrist. Everyone watched as the glass slowed, anxious to see who the first person to kiss the frat president would be tonight. To your surprise, the bottle came to a slow stop on you.

You looked up with slightly panicked eyes. Even in your inebriated state, you could recognize that kissing one of Bucky’s brothers probably wasn’t the greatest idea. But then you remembered the look of absolute terror on his face at the mention of more. And Sam was moving across the circle to you, and Steve - Bucky’s best friend - wasn’t saying anything and so you came to the conclusion that you did with most things: fuck it.

When Sam’s warm lips met yours, you felt… nothing. No spark, nothing beyond acknowledging he was a good kisser. It lasted less than 10 seconds before you were pulling away and spinning the bottle yourself.

Which is how you ended up kissing half the people at the party: Peter - everyone’s favorite pledge, Natasha - your chemistry lab partner, and Scott - who you had never met before but was as funny as he was a good kisser, just to name a few.

The game continued until it dwindled down to a handful of people and you switched to another drinking game. One which you were losing terribly and it showed in your glassy eyes and drunken babble.

The last thing you remembered was the feel of strong hands on your hips, the soft plush of a mattress, and an ache between your thighs.

-

A beam of sunlight burned across your face, enunciating the raging headache you had after going to bed without Advil or an acceptable amount of water. You could have sworn you closed your blinds, but figured you must have opened them up at some point during the day before.

It wasn’t until you reached for the bottle of water you usually kept on your nightstand and grasped air instead that you realized you were, in fact, not in your own bed.

You shot up before groaning at the rush of dizziness to your head. Slowly, you blinked until the room came into focus, and assessed the damage of your night.

You were naked, so that wasn’t a good sign. You remembered sloppy kisses and hushed whispers of are you sure? And at least whoever it was was just as drunk as you were, so there was no harm done in your mind.

That was, until you realized who you had spent your drunken night with.

Broad shoulders gave way to a freckled back and narrow waist. The tuft of blond hair was a mess, like he - or you - had run hands through it, a lot. You knew there was no one else you could be, but when he rolled over, his long lashes fluttering awake, it was confirmed.

“Steve?” you hissed, still in shock. “What the fuck happened?”

At the unmistakable sound of your voice, his eyes snapped open, and he nearly fell to the floor.

“Y/N? Fuck, fuck! Bucky is gonna kill me.”

“I wouldn’t worry about that,” you scoffed, and you wanted to crush the little bit of hope that creeped into your mind. No, he had made it clear there was nothing more than sex between you. But off course he wouldn’t want his best friend to sleep with the same girl. Bro code or whatever.

God, his best friend. This was worse than Sam, who he’d only known a couple of years. This was his other half since they were practically in the womb. You couldn’t have chosen a worse rebound.

Wanting to forget the mess you had just made of your life, you quickly pulled on your clothes while Steve watched with wary eyes, though he didn’t say anything else about Bucky.

“Are you okay?” You heard Steve’s timid voice as you were about to pull open his door. The motherfucker was such a sweetheart, and you couldn’t handle crying on top of everything else right now.

You were so close to just leaving without a word; that would have been easier on everyone. But damn Steven Rogers, so charming without even trying. You walked back to his bed where he had sat watching you, and gave him a quick kiss. It was a thank you and an apology and a let’s never talk about this again all in one, and he seemed to understand.

Pressing your ear to the door, you made sure no one was in the hall before you slipped out of his room. It would be your luck if Bucky was coming out of his room across the hall at the same moment you were leaving his best friend.

Thankfully, the hall was empty, and you couldn’t hear the usual chatter that came from the frat house, so you figured they must all still be sleeping off their hangovers. You pulled out your phone and ordered an Uber, figuring your best bet was to wait outside on the steps for the few minutes it would take to pick you up. You were so engrossed in your phone you didn’t hear the clatter of plates in the kitchen or the abrupt stop of voices.

When you finally reached the bottom of the stairs, you felt eyes on you, and you looked up to see Bucky staring at you from the kitchen.

You couldn’t have predicted how much it would hurt to see his face, even after only a few days. You also couldn’t have expected the gut-wrenching feeling that came with him cooking breakfast… for someone else.

Not just anyone else, Dot, the beautiful redhead from Chi Omega that you had always been insecure about, even before Bucky.

Flashes of walking in on your ex-boyfriend buried between her thighs had you stumbling back, and Bucky could do nothing but watch as you made your way to the front door. You could even hear the snicker of Dot’s voice just before you slammed the door shut behind you.

-

The great thing about having your own apartment is you could get wine drunk every night of the week and no one was there to judge you for it.

So every night for the next week, you poured yourself a glass before you started on your homework, and were happily tipsy by the time you took a shower and fell into bed. Some may call it a problem, but they weren’t around to know.

You got so used to the feeling that by the time Thursday night rolled around and you had nothing to do but drink, you went a little overboard.

After the first glass you didn’t even bother with any etiquette, instead drinking straight from the bottle until it was empty and you were hungry. You started a pot to boil while you uncorked another bottle, and had half of that down by the time your pasta was ready to be cooked. Trying to maneuver a pot of boiling water proved to be difficult with a bottle of wine in one hand, so you tried to set it down to give yourself room to work, but ended up knocking the handle of the pot, spilling hot water across your arm in the process.

Though it stung, your pride was the thing that took the most damage as you pressed a cold washcloth to your forearm. You slid down to sit on the tiled floor, bringing the bottle with you, and only when you drained the last of the liquid did you allow yourself to feel your emotions.

It started off with silent tears, hurt from the shards of your heart, and gradually your drunken mind spiraled until all you could feel was seething anger at the way Bucky had treated you.

How were you not supposed to catch feelings after Bucky was in your bed practically every weekend?

There were even nights where he came over just to study - although you supposed those always ended in hookups too. But he called you beautiful as he pushed into you, brushing your hair from your face and leaving delicate kisses across your flesh. He made you feel more than any other reoccurring hookup. You couldn’t believe you were the only one who felt the spark that always buzzed beneath the surface of your relationship.

Letting your anger and uninhibited brain fuel you, you grasped for your phone, dialing the number you now knew by heart.

The line rang once, twice, before he picked up, and at first all you could hear was the chatter of other people. He yelled something, muffled by his hand over the speaker, before you heard the sound of a door shutting and he finally spoke.

“Hello? Y/N?” He sounded relatively sober, which did not bode well for you. It was a lot harder to argue with someone when they weren’t as drunk as you were - and that’s exactly what you were looking for.

“James Barnes, you motherfucker.” You tried to sound confident and put together, but the tell-tale of slur coated your words. “You fucking suck, dude.”

“Why are you calling me?” You could hear the agitation in his words, and that made you even angrier.

“To tell you that you’re the fucking worst, James. You need to know that. I need you to know that.”

“God, Y/N, how drunk are you?”

“I’m not -” you hiccupped, giving yourself away even more. “I’m not drunk. You’re drunk.”

“No, I’m not the one that’s wasted on a Thursday night. Jesus.” Surprisingly, you couldn’t hear any judgment in his tone - just disappointment. And maybe that hurt worse. What right did he have to be disappointed in you? You weren’t his anything.

“Don’t fucking talk to me like that. Just don’t.” Your voice wavered and you could feel the tears coming again. “How could you?”

A deep sigh, like he knew this was coming. “How could I what?”

“You could have picked anyone but her, anyone but Dot. You know how I feel about her, and you fuck her? It’s like you don’t even care about me.”

“It’s not like that -” You cut him off, not wanting to hear whatever lies he spouted.

“Don’t bullshit me. You even cooked her breakfast. I thought you didn’t do relationships, huh? Or is it just that you don’t do relationships with me?” Finally, the dam cracked and you were sobbing and you heard Bucky sigh again, like you were a nuisance, like he had better things to do.

“Listen, Y/N, I’m sorry. I’m sorry you’re hurt, that you caught feelings, that you thought there was more. But I told you from the beginning that I didn’t want a relationship. More than once.” The truth of the words stung, but he wasn't done yet. No, Bucky had to make sure every piece of your heart was irreparable. “I’m not going to keep explaining myself to you, not when you’re acting crazy like this.”

“At least your best friend doesn’t think I’m crazy. And he was a better fuck anyways.” You were grappling for any way you could hurt him the way he had hurt you but he was a brick wall.

“Goodbye, Y/N.”

Crazy. The word bounced around in your thoughts over and over, even after the call had ended. You stared at the kitchen wall, thinking about where everything had gone wrong. Where you had gone wrong.

Because this was your fault, and that was a hard pill to swallow. Bucky was right, he had been honest with you from the beginning, and you had held onto unfounded hopes.

In that moment all you could wish was to go back in time - to stop from getting drunk that first night. To stop your spitefulness and your anger. To stop from ever falling in love with him.

-

The next morning you woke up, still on the kitchen floor, with a splitting headache and dried tears coating your face.

You thanked the gods you didn’t have a class on Fridays as you stepped into the shower, feeling the ache of last night slowly wash off you. It was after that you decided, staring in the mirror at your sunken cheeks, that you would make a change. You would get your shit together.

You started with an apology to Steve, one he deserved long before now, then took the time to delete the pictures of Bucky from your phone. The ones that were private and you had kept for when you needed something to take the edge off of missing him. The thought filled you with guilt now, as you pressed delete and hoped he had done the same on his end. Then you texted your friends you had neglected the past couple months, the ones who tried to warn you and who had gotten sick of your own self sabotage.

The last thing you did was type out a text to Bucky, apologizing for your behavior, for the way you had treated him, and wishing him well. But you couldn’t bring yourself to send it, so it sat undelivered in your phone until you could finally bring yourself to delete the entire text thread.

You knew you should delete his number too, erase any temptation, but it was just something you couldn’t bring yourself to do.

The urge to text him and explain yourself took a while to go away, especially when you found out that Bucky wasn’t lying about nothing happening with Dot, that she was there because her sorority sister had needed a ride home that morning, and she just so happened to catch Bucky in the kitchen.

You beat yourself up for that one, though you knew it wouldn’t have made a difference. There was never anything more for you and Bucky, regardless of who he did or didn’t sleep with. That was the hardest part to get over.

But you did it.

You stopped going to frat parties, too, deciding that part of your life was over. You threw yourself into your studies and before you knew it, May was approaching and you were just a couple weeks from graduation.

Preparing for one last hoorah with your friends, you met Wanda at your favorite bar downtown - dressed up for the first time in a while, and drinking more than a single glass of wine with dinner since that phone call with Bucky.

Who, speak of the devil, walked in just as you were grabbing a tray of drinks off the bartop. You locked eyes, but quickly hustled back to your table as you saw him attempt to push through the crowd towards you.

You thought he had gotten the hint, because you only saw him in quick glances from across the bar after that, until you made your way to the bathroom, brushing Wanda off when she offered to come with you.

Unfortunately, there was only a single stall that was annoyingly occupied, so you leaned back against the wall and waited.

You were scrolling through Twitter, contemplating going full Maddy from euphoria and banging on the door, when you felt a presence beside you. You knew without looking up exactly who it was.

Slowly, you slipped your phone in your pocket and turned to look up at him.

He was devastating. Just as charming and handsome as you remembered, and it was a struggle for a moment to catch your breath.

“Hi,” he whispered, and you wondered if maybe he was thinking the same thing about you. You could only be so foolish to hope. “I’ve missed you.”

You felt your heart skip a beat, and you wanted to shove the feeling down but suddenly his hands were cupping your face and he was just a breath away.

“I was an idiot, to say the least, and I’m sorry it took a few months of missing you everyday to realize that.” You couldn’t believe what you were hearing. It felt like a fever dream - awful and amazing all at once. “Could you give me a chance to not be an idiot?”

What you should do was tell him no, that you had moved on, that he didn’t mean anything to you anymore.

But you had always been a terrible liar.

Instead of falling into his arms like you desperately wanted to, like the you of six months ago would have, you pressed a kiss to his cheek - a forgiveness and a dismissal all in one - and walked back to your table.

After exchanging goodbyes with your friends, you sent one last look Bucky’s way before heading home.

-

It had been a few days since you’d heard from Bucky, and it hurt more than you cared to admit.

Although you had wanted to forgive him and move on that night at the bar, a part of you held back. You wanted to make sure it wasn’t a result of him being drunk and lonely. And unfortunately it seemed your suspicions were right.

You’d spent the days since then with your phone always in arm’s reach, hoping he would call, but on the third day of nothing, you had accepted your fate.

Just as you were about to run a bath and block out the world for a little while, there was a knock at your door. Your heart jumped into your throat, but you shoved it back down along with the lingering hope that it would be Bucky on the other side.

Preparing yourself for anything, you swung the door open to the one person you wanted above all else - Bucky Barnes, weighed down with… grocery bags?

“Uh,” you weren’t quite sure what to say, and the sheepish smile on his face was one you had never seen before.

“Can I come in?” He asked, lifting up the bags. “These are pretty heavy.”

Wordlessly, you stepped aside, and he set the bags down on the counter. When you peaked inside them, you were surprised to find an array of breakfast foods. You sent him a questioning look, waiting for some sort of explanation.

“I spent the last few days thinking about how I could prove to you that I was serious. Probably have about 50 unsent texts. After everything, I thought I could start with breakfast. Low stakes, and you don’t have to decide anything right now. Just let me be here with you.”

Although you had decided the moment you saw him on your doorstep, you let him cook you breakfast. You let him open up in ways he never had before. You let yourself fall more in love with him, knowing he was doing the same with you.

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"i would like to be remembered as somebody who lived well, loved well, was a seeker and his paramount thing is he wants to help people. that's what i want."

REST IN PEACE, MATTHEW PERRY (1969-2023)

drifting (6)

[cw!bucky barnes x female!reader]

summary: bucky saves the life of a woman when she’s buried in an avalanche. faced with the possibility that his cover might be blown, bucky must keep the woman alive, and try to keep her from finding out who he is… or what he’s done.

how long can he hide?

warnings: angst. reader is hurting. bucky is an idiot* (*scared).

word count: 2.5k+

a/n: some of you called the angst coming... here it is, babes.

series masterlist

***

I’ve been compromised.

She sits on the porch, wrapped up in Bucky’s coat with the sheepskin lining, and his hat jammed over her ears. Her phone is propped up on the railing, so she can see if the notification pops up, but she can’t hold it in her hands anymore. She sent the message ten minutes ago–the chat indicated that he had seen it, but he isn’t responding. If she were out on any other mission, he would already have deployed emergency protocols and replied in seconds. He’s slacking.

But she’ll wait, because she can hardly look Bucky in the eye. He hasn’t been able to manage more than a grunt in response to her since she told him her theory about meeting in the Red Room. He just got up, put the kettle on, and smoked a cigarette in just his sweatpants and a light t-shirt. So she did the only thing she could think of (or at least the only thing that needed to happen, according to her training), and she reached out for help.

Steve was vague about what should happen if she and Bucky ever crossed paths, because that wasn’t on the agenda, so it’s not like there was some grand plan if he found out who she was working for. Usually in this case, she would take her principle out. That was so far from an option that the thought of having to kill him makes her dizzy. The frigid air helps her stay focused, but she can’t feel her fingers.

The feeling of Bucky’s hands on her face is still present on her tingling cheeks. The way he clutched at her, wordlessly begging it all not to be true.

The phone buzzes, finally. Steve is calling.

“Steve.”

“What happened?”

“He found my phone,” she admits, casually leaving out the part where he discovered it because he was in bed beside her.

“Okay. Are you safe?”

“Yes, I’m safe,” she scoffs. “He’s not a monster.”

“I’m just trying to assess–”

“I know how this works, Rogers.”

“I’m sorry it took a moment to get back to you. Fury has declared you AWOL. I just got out of a meeting—”

“Did you know?” she demands, and then she curses herself for not quelling the anger which is rapidly bubbling to the surface. The man on the other end of the phone sighs.

“--action will begin shortly for your recovery.”

“I don’t care about a fucking desertion designation–did you know that I knew him?”

“...Yes.”

She laughs wryly. “You sent me on recon knowing it might compromise us both–”

“Y/n, I sent you because you are the only person who has ever broken him out of his programming, and if he gets triggered, you’re his best chance to stay in control. I didn’t know that you didn’t remember.”

“That wasn’t in my assignment!”

“It was the worst case scenario.”

“I walked around that compound thinking I was being ridiculous. I slept with his photo next to my bed, feeling like such a creep–”

“Is he stable?”

“He is great, no thanks to you. Might never speak to me again after finding out I’ve been lying to him, but in my defense, I didn’t know how covert the lie was.”

She glances over her shoulder. Two clear blue eyes are watching her through the window. He doesn’t even try to play it off like he wasn’t listening in. She nods to the door. If he wants to listen, he might as well hear it all. She presses the speaker button as the front door opens. Bucky stands there stiffly, hands in his pockets.

“What do you remember?” Steve asks.

She sighs. “Not much. I think… I think they forced him to hurt me.”

Bucky huffs.

“That is consistent with what information Nat found.”

“I can’t believe that you sent me here without figuring out what I knew.” she peers at Bucky out of the corner of her eye. “Before I got to know him, I just thought I was feeding off your concern for him, but all this time I’ve been acting on muscle-memory–how well did I know Soldat?”

“Does he remember anything?”

“Some,” Bucky murmurs.

“Very little,” she translates. “I swear to god, Steve.”

“Is he there?”

Bucky shakes his head.

“No.”

“Alright. Just thought I heard something. Nat could be more specific–”

“I don’t want to talk to her.”

Steve takes far too long to respond. Enough time that she looks up to Bucky in panic, but he nods, like reassurance. Like he’ll tell you, just give him a second. It occurs to her then that Bucky still knows Steve, and that’s why she’s here. Isn’t it? At least in part. But she isn’t ready for the breadth of this secret which Steve has unknowingly kept from her, and when he still doesn’t answer, even after Bucky holds up his hand to stay her, she sighs.

“Steve–”

“I don’t know everything,” Cap says softly. “But you knew him better than most people. Maybe even me.”

“You’re not serious…”

“Apparently when Nat found you, you were being treated for a stab wound in your abdomen, in a small hospital outside of Bucharest. You didn’t know how you got there, but you kept asking for him. You didn’t even recognize Nat at first. All the nurses could get out of you was ‘my love.’ She didn’t suspect his identity until she found reports about the Asset breaking his programming for a top-level trainee at the Red Room. He was pulled from active service and HYDRA discontinued his involvement in the Academy, but not before he was given the order to kill the woman to whom he showed preference.”

She runs a hand over her face. “Why don’t either of us remember? Steve–I went through six months of rehabilitation and I never had one flicker of a memory. I don’t even have a scar.”

“Self-preservation? I don’t know. Maybe it was too painful.”

Bucky is nowhere to be seen when a hot tear splashes on her hand. “More painful than finding out I loved someone I don’t even remember?” she murmurs, and she prays that Bucky isn’t listening around the corner. Super-soldier hearing is a plague on this conversation, in more ways than one.

“I’m sorry. I–Nat made it seem… you weren’t even going to meet him.”

“Unless he was triggered. Which it seems like you expected. Did neither of you think about what would happen to me?” She huffs. “

“Your mission, now–”

“I’ll make sure he’s safe, but I’m not doing it to make you feel better. You compromised me. If something goes wrong, worse than both of us having to cope with this, it’s on you. Okay? Great. I’m going to go try to persuade him to eat something. Be sure to send me more information about who’s coming after me so I know whether to use the pocket knife from World War 2 that Bucky loaned me–” her voice wavers on the name she hasn’t called him the entire time she’s been here– “or a fire poker, because my pack is at the bottom of this mountain with my gun. Which of those things do you think would be best against Iron Man, or whoever Fury’s about to send?”

“I’ll have a supply pack airdropped–”

“And compromise us more? The psychological damage was generous enough, but thanks anyway. I’ll contact you once we’re safe, but… I don’t know if you’ll see me again. I can’t speak for Bucky, but. I wouldn’t blame him for disappearing, too.”

“Y/n… you have every right to be upset, but there’s reason to assume that HYDRA is still looking for him. Let me help you.”

“You think I haven’t considered that? What’s going to happen if they find us together? Or did it slip your mind that they ordered him to kill me? I said I’d keep him safe. I can’t–I can’t talk to you anymore. Leave me alone. And Steve? Tell Natalia that she broke my heart.”

She hangs up the phone and tosses the basically indestructible thing onto the wooden slats. She puts her face in her hands and screams.

“Come inside.”

She starts. Bucky is back, at her side, hand outstretched like he’s going to touch her shoulder, but he stops just short. He stares at the ground.

“Please look at me,” she whispers. “Jamie–I’m so lost, here…”

“It’s supposed to snow,” he replies. He reaches for her phone, and hands it back.

“Are you angry?”

Bucky cards a hand through his hair. “Not with you.” When he looks at her finally, his eyes are glassy. Her heart is in her throat. “Come inside,” he asks again. His silvery fingers extend to her. She sets her hand in his, and just for a moment, he squeezes. Bucky tugs her behind him, and into the house. He leads her into the kitchen, and releases her. She lays his coat and hat on the back of a chair, and then pushes herself up onto the counter; Bucky has pulled a few things from the cabinet like rice, and some dried mushrooms, and there is water gently simmering on the stovetop. He puts the rice into the water like she taught him, and fits the lid on the pot, and sets the timer on his watch. He braces his hands against the oven and sighs.

“So.”

“Yeah.” She pulls her legs to her chest, and lays her cheek on her knee. “I–should I have let you talk with him?” The question comes out before she can stop it.

Bucky shakes his head. “No.”

“Should I have kept the call private–”

“Y/n–” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Just… tell me. About your mission.”

“What it was meant to be…”

“Yes.”

“Alright. I work… with special forces most of the time,” she says, though that feels like an insufficient place to start the story. “Steve had been searching for any sign of you, after Insight. He got his pardon, so he had access to Shield’s data again, and there were rumors through the intel community that you were somewhere in the American West. But he couldn’t look into it himself without drawing Shield’s attention to you. Which is when Nat suggested… Me.” She closes her eyes, because she can’t stand to see him there, in arm’s reach, still as a statue.

“I read through about three boxes worth of files from Nat’s contacts about the Winter Soldier–mostly records of how you usually appeared when HYDRA had a new job for you, patterns of behavior. Like how often you went MIA after a job, and where they found you. Like–you would ditch your handlers on a busy train platform, and show up a hundred miles away working on a dock. Or one time, you hitched a ride on a box truck and they found you because you got into a bar fight. They always found you because something would happen, a–a fight or an accident that brought a little publicity. So. I built a profile.

“You weren’t intercepted by HYDRA after the destruction of Insight, so it was safe to assume they thought you were dead. Which meant you probably felt safe enough to go into more rural areas where people would notice you. There was a ping in Albuquerque’s small paper about a George Barnes being pulled over for driving without a license, in a stolen van, and–”

“That’s how you found me.”

She opens her eyes again, and he’s closer now, leaning his back against the counter beside her. He’s not watching her anymore, but she’d only have to breathe in a little deeper for her arm to brush against him.

“I tracked you from Santa Fe,” she confirms. “You couldn’t stay away from the draw of other people. I told Steve once, it was like you were so lonely that you wandered into a bar, only to realize that drunk men are the worst. He said that made sense, considering–well. That you often had to pull drunk bullies off of him. You stayed on my radar because you were doing the same for other strangers. I had a conversation with a bartender in Pueblo who described a tall man, blue eyes… longish brown hair… who ordered a whiskey he didn’t drink, and then took a guy down for touching a woman before the bouncer could even react.

“But then you headed into the mountains, and I could tell you were slowing down. I was days behind you, and then I saw you walking down the street in Breckenridge.”

He frowns. “Before I bought the truck.”

“Yes.”

“Hmm.”

“I put a tracker on it when you were inside the guy’s house making the deal, so that’s how… yeah. But along the way, I was doing my best to erase your trail. Technically Shield owns that truck you abandoned five miles from here.”

Bucky nods. “I… I was hallucinating.”

“Hmm?” She touches his shoulder. He flinches, but he doesn’t pull away.

“Thought I was being followed.”

Bucky leans into her. She grips his shoulder as if to say… I’m sorry for making it worse. I–I did this to you. He covers her hand with his own.

“I was going to ski down the back side of the mountain, and wait you out a while in town. I had gotten visual confirmation that you were here, and it seemed unlikely anybody else would find you out, if you stayed put. I did not know how dangerous it was to ski in the back country this time of year, given how much the temperature yo-yos. So. That’s the whole of it.”

“Other than… what you said. You had my picture.”

She bites her lip. “God. Um. Yeah, your enlistment photo. I carried it around with me like a war widow.” War widow–fuck. She presses her eyes closed. What a fucking horrible choice of words. She can’t think. Everything is cloudy. “Not remembering a thing.”

“That first time you woke me up, I was dreaming about it. What Soldat did to you. It’s the only thing I remember about it, but… I told you you were safe in the dream, that I wouldn’t hurt you. But he–I did.” He shakes his head like it might clear up his own foggy memory. “You don't remember anything else?”

“No,” she whispers. “I’m not even sure how… this–” she gestured between them– “would’ve happened in there. I was watched like a hawk.”

Bucky nods once.

“I’m sorry. For not telling you about Steve.”

He shrugs. “You were doing what you thought was right.”

“I know now, why I felt like I had to help you.”

He digests that for a moment, but what she wants is for him to respond like… I’m glad you did. I’m glad you’re here. But he doesn’t.

“You’re AWOL?”

She laughs painfully. “Yeah. Feels like I never got a chance to know what being safe felt like, it… it was supposed to be Nat who kept me safe, that was her promise to me when she brought me home. But I don’t know why I trusted her. Turns out I’ve only had one good thing which meant anything to me, and I don’t even remember. Why didn’t she tell me? God, Nat kept warning me not to let it go too far.”

She folds herself, pressing her forehead to her knees. It feels like a betrayal so deep that some little string inside her has been severed, and now she’s bleeding internally. For herself, and Natasha’s betrayal, and what happened with Bucky… in such recent history in her life, causing such ripples through her unconscious mind, and yet–with no memory to bring it into focus. She weeps.

“I wish I didn’t know,” she whispers. “I wish this was the first time I met you.”

Bucky’s hands find her shoulders, and he’s coaxing her feet down until he can stand between her knees. She curls her fingers into the front of his shirt–the very henley he loaned her when she first arrived. He doesn’t pull her closer and it feels like a rejection. Like he’s comforting her because he has a heart, and not because he wants to help her through it. This is not how he wakes her out of a bad dream. This is a stiff touch with no warmth in it. Still, she presses her forehead to his chest.

“You told him it was muscle memory.” His voice rumbles between his ribs.

“Yeah,” she laughs through thick emotion. “I just know you. I know you in a way that my body is adamant about, and I can’t explain it, it’s like this phantom pain every time I look at you, and it’s getting worse the longer I’m around you…” she trails off, forcing herself to look up at him. Her cheeks are hot, but she can’t help but babble. “Do you feel it, too? Am I crazy?”

“No.”

His eyes say otherwise. They’re glassy again, so blue that it hurts, and his mouth is twisted up like he can’t afford to say anything else or he’ll admit it. He shakes his head, and stands back from her, but she won’t let go of his shirt. Please don’t run, she pleads in her mind. I need you to help me figure out what’s real. Slowly, Bucky raises his hand and works her fingers free. He squeezes her hand. Then, he turns away.

She chokes back a rush of pain. The tears renew themselves, and she covers her mouth. She is nauseous. She pushes off the counter and runs into the bedroom–hardly making it into the washroom and kicking the door shut before her stomach heaves. She clutches the porcelain… and sobs. There’s nothing else to do but cry, because… this man who her whole body seems to reach for, who she loved in another lifetime, who every day seems to let her in a little bit more… She cries because the woman who was supposed to be her family kept this from her, and sent her on an assignment she was destined to fail. She can’t go home now, and this certainly can’t be it. The man who she’s spent two weeks with, held and been held by–he doesn’t want this. And there is a whole host of people about to come looking for them both. What is there for her, now?

And is this going to ruin The Hobbit for her? She chokes out a pained laugh at the stupid thought, wiping her mouth with a piece of tissue. She stands so she can wash her face, and she remembers her father’s words again. Not the ones about Gandalf, and powerful men. But what he said to her every night when he pulled her blankets up to her chin.

You’re loved, honey bee. By a lot of people. Everybody’s love looks a little different, but every form is good if it’s honest and kind.

She cries, and it’s all her body has left to give.

Later, her phone chimes. She checks it when the curiosity gets the best of her. It’s from Natasha, and it makes her blood go cold.

I’m sorry. I thought I was protecting you.

***

Bucky stirs the mushrooms into the rice, and takes his punishment like a stab to the stomach, as every sob of hers rips through him.

Listening to her demand answers over the phone from the only person Bucky has ever considered a friend, the pain in her voice–she was heartbroken. She was an innocent agent sent to help him, first of all. Innocent people shouldn’t get mixed up with Bucky Barnes. That’s how bad things happen.

She couldn’t be another tally he carved into the back cover of the book she loved so much.

“You’re not what I expected,” she had said, holding that book in her hands. He didn’t know that she meant it compared to the photograph she carried around, from when he was just a bright-eyed boy from Brooklyn. Bucky can’t even fathom it. It’s such a sweet thought, absolutely tainted by the way she’s been manipulated. On the other hand, the thought of her laying in a hospital begging for моя любовь… he came back to lucidity in Bucharest, while she pleaded for him. Wouldn’t he have remembered someone calling him that? Did they use that kind of language, or was their connection made from fleeting moments in that hellish school? Did she know his body the way his seemed to know hers, that first night he held her for warmth?

Wait... that's not what Steve said. He said 'my love.' From what dark corner is Bucky's brain pulling out 'моя любовь'? Shit.

He knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that he’s felt something for her before. Every fiber of his being is pulled towards her, like he breathes because she breathes. He wants to give in, and hold her while they both come to terms with the reality of their shared history. All of it, maybe even more. But if Steve is right, he was ordered to kill her, and that part of him still exists alongside the phantom pain of her. He can’t make any space in his heart for hope, knowing that it was ripped away from him before. If HYDRA took her from him once. They can do it again. Ten words, and he will be the one to kill her. Losing her again will kill him.

No more bedtime stories, or gentle touches to soothe her awake from a nightmare. No more pretending like this is something either of them were going to be able to keep.

Now that she’s healed, they have to part ways.

After this snowstorm. The weather band said to expect up to two feet. He can’t leave her unless he knows she’ll be safe. The roads are about to be even more encumbered. The only chance for a quick getaway once they’re clear is the truck five miles down the hill, like she said. If he leaves now, he strands her alone, and very likely dies himself from exposure. He sighs.

He doesn’t sleep that night, because she doesn’t come out to eat. She shuts the bedroom door, and locks it… he relieves himself outside, and he can’t help but feel like he deserves it. When she screams in her sleep, he tries to knock, to wake her up if nothing else, but she doesn’t stir from her whimpering episode. He could break the door, but then there wouldn’t be anywhere for her to go. To get away, and shield herself from him. He sits in the hallway until her voice gets hoarse, and her breathing turns soft again.

Bucky wants to be angry with her for hiding that she came on Steve Roger’s errand, but after the way she reamed Steve out, all he can muster is worry. Between three and four in the morning, he stares at the bedroom door, bouncing his knee anxiously. When was the last time you worried about another person, Barnes? And why did he tell her ‘no?’” She has that laser vision–she always sees right through him. He expects to go on about his life as if he hasn’t spent the last few weeks becoming addicted to reaching for her, and she will know, the whole time, that he is lying.

She centered him. He finally started feeling like he had some semblance of control over his mind again, all because of her. What the hell am I doing?

Protecting her, right?

And Steve… if the time comes where Bucky sees him again, as this relentless search proves is likely, he will have to answer for this. Because even though it’s best if he’s not with her, he’ll be damned if anyone gets away with hurting her. What was Steve thinking? Of all the stupid things that he had done, this was up there. Trying to find him–Bucky doesn’t want to be found, least of all by Steve Rogers. Then there’d be another person he used to care about who’d have to see what he has become. He’s spent this long trying not to think about the last time they met.

The door unlatches. Bucky jumps. She peers at him, frozen for a moment. Her eyelids are swollen from crying.

“Just getting some water. Excuse me–”

He gets up. “I’ll get it.”

“No. I–I don’t need your help. It’s okay.” She skirts around him, ducking under his arm.

Bucky follows her slowly; there’s not far to go in such a small cabin, but he jams his hands in his pockets and watches her fill a cup at the sink. She’s shaking. She must be starving. The rest of the rice is still in the pot, staying chilled on the porch. He can warm it up for her, easily.

“You should eat,” he murmurs.

“No thank you.” She knocks back the small cup’s worth of water, and refills it. She crosses towards the bedroom and he can’t help himself–Bucky reaches out and grabs her elbow. A bit of water sloshes out of the cup in her hand, but she doesn’t move to pull away. She doesn’t even look at him.

“‘M sorry. That I don’t remember.”

“Hmm. If that were true… that you’re sorry… I think you’d let yourself try, now. I don’t think it’s unreasonable to say that you’ve been acting like you feel something. But. I can see that you don’t want to. I’ll get over it.”

She isn’t angry as she says it, and that makes it twice as cutting. She’s resigned to it. When she pulls her elbow free, Bucky feels like somehow he’s made everything worse. He’s hurt her, too. And even apologizing didn’t fix it.

Why does that feel so much worse than actually putting a knife in her belly?

***

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