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"Didn’t realize falling through the floor made you louder, Barnes."

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Mutant!Female Reader

Summary: This is a slow-burn, enemies-to-lovers, tension-packed mission Bucky Barnes and a forcefield-wielding, sharp-tongued mutant Avenger. Constantly clashing in the field, the two are forced to work together on a high-stakes intel retrieval mission that spirals into disaster. When disaster strikes, grudging respect turns into unexpected connection...and maybe something deeper.

Word Count: 10k ( need to keep the slow burn going)
Warnings/tags: Sharp banter, emotional tension, enemies-to-lovers heat and y/n sarcasm, Avengers team, Avengers tower, Wolverine is the ex but he isnt in the story.

A/n: Timeline where Avengers are happy and alive. Tony not having a beef with Bucky bla bla bla. Happy timeline.

``masterlist part 2

“You’re late.”

Bucky’s voice hit your ears the same way gravel would if it spoke.

You didn’t look at him. Just kept strapping the holster to your thigh, your shield generator pulsing faintly on your wrist. “And you’re breathing. Can’t win ‘em all.”

He scoffed, stepping further into the jet hangar, dog tags tucked into the neck of his black tactical shirt like he couldn’t bear the sound of them clinking. “We should have started ten minutes ago. Protocol says we’re supposed to—”

“Do I look like I live by protocol?” you cut in, rising to your full height and facing him with a slow, deliberate lift of your brow. “We both know you love rules more than people.”

His jaw ticked. “I don’t like wasting time.”

“No, you just like wasting oxygen arguing with me.”

You brushed past him on the way to the Quinjet, shoulder knocking into his deliberately. He didn’t move, but he did mutter something under his breath in Russian. You didn’t have to know the words to catch the tone.

The tension between you had always been sharp, like walking barefoot over broken glass. From the moment you joined the team, you and Bucky had clashed—him, all grim silence and precise structure. You, the opposite. Forcefield mutant with a tactical mind but no patience for his tightly wound superiority complex.

You hated the way he acted like you were reckless. Like he was the only one who’d ever seen a battlefield, or made a hard call, or lost something that mattered.

He hated the way you smiled while hurling yourself into danger.

Or maybe he hated that he noticed when you didn’t smile at all.

Inside the jet, Sam was already buckled in, headset on, clearly choosing to stay out of it.

“Play nice, kids,” he said, not looking up from the mission feed.

“No promises,” you and Bucky said at the same time.

The mission was simple—intel retrieval, low-contact, in and out. But you knew the terrain. You knew how things could turn in a heartbeat.

And unfortunately, you also knew the mission was going to pair you and Barnes on point.

Again.

The drop site was a deserted industrial zone just outside of Berlin, cold wind slicing through the holes in the steel frameworks. You landed with a soft thud, generator humming on your wrist.

“Shields up,” Bucky said, already moving beside you.

“Say ‘please.’”

He glanced back with a deadpan expression. “Fine. Please don’t get yourself killed.”

“Aw,” you smirked. “Was that concern, Barnes?”

He grunted. “It’s concern for my own survival. If you die, I get stuck writing the report.”

You rolled your eyes and raised your hand, sending a half-dome of translucent energy ahead as you both entered the compound. The walls glowed faintly under your control, lighting the path forward.

You weren’t reckless. You were controlled. Tactical. Smart. But Bucky never gave you credit for that.

You were about to turn a corner when he stopped short, arm out.

“Tripwire.”

You hadn’t seen it. You deactivated the shield just in time as he reached up, disarming the thin filament with expert ease.

You stepped back, arms crossed. “Fine. One point for you.”

He looked over his shoulder. “Keep a tally. You’ll owe me drinks by the end of this.”

You snorted. “The day I buy you a drink is the day you say something kind to me.”

He held your gaze for a second too long.

And then said, “Your shield work’s clean.”

Your mouth opened, but nothing came out.

“Did you just—?”

“It was an observation.”

“You paid me a compliment.”

“No,” he gritted, brushing past you. “I gave you facts.”

You watched him go, annoyed by the warm twist in your stomach.

You hated him.

Absolutely, totally, irredeemably.

Didn’t you?

The building groaned above you like it remembered ghosts. Metal rusted into flaking teeth. A scent clung to the concrete—gunpowder and rot.

You and Bucky moved in near-perfect sync, despite your mutual aversion to breathing the same air. The mission was too quiet. Intel retrieval missions rarely stayed simple.

“Top floor,” you muttered, scanning the stairwell.

He nodded. “We split?”

“No,” you said immediately.

He raised a brow. “I thought you liked working alone.”

“I like not getting shot in the back because someone got cocky.”

That earned a snort. “You sure you're not projecting?”

You didn’t answer. Just shoved the stairwell door open and advanced, your shield flickering to life across your forearm with a low hum, blue light painting the walls.

The climb was slow. Silent. The kind of silence that carried tension like a wire pulled tight.

“I still think you’re too aggressive with that shield,” he said behind you.

“And I think you’re too afraid of change.”

“That’s not what your training reports say.”

“You read my reports?” You glanced over your shoulder. “Creepy.”

“Steve reads them. I review everything. You’re reckless. Emotional. You could be lethal if you learned to hold back.”

You stopped short at the top of the landing, turning to face him with a heated glare. “Funny. I am lethal. And I’ve lasted this long just fine without the Winter Soldier’s approval.”

His eyes narrowed. “Don’t call me that.”

“Why? Hit a nerve?”

The words left your mouth like venom—but you regretted them the second they landed.

A muscle twitched in his jaw. He didn’t speak. Didn’t defend himself.

Didn’t need to.

You were already suffocating under the guilt.

“Bucky, sorry about that.” you started.

He walked past you.

And you hated the way it made your chest twist. Hated that you’d gone too far. Hated that his silence felt worse than all his insults combined.

You followed him into the top-floor lab, where data servers blinked in the dark. You moved to the nearest terminal, trying to keep the burn behind your ribs down. Just focus. Download the intel. Get out. Apologize later. Or not at all.

But the second your fingers touched the console—

The lights went out.

“EMP,” Bucky said. “Backup plan. They knew we were coming.”

A crash echoed from below. Then gunfire.

A lot of it.

“Whole damn building’s waking up,” you hissed, yanking your hand back. “We need to—”

A second crash, louder—closer—and suddenly the floor cracked beneath your boots.

Bucky lunged.

You both fell.

Metal snapped, dust exploded into your lungs, and the world tilted sideways as you crashed into the lower floor. You landed hard—your shoulder slamming into the debris, pain ringing through your back like a bell.

You tried to move. Couldn’t. Trapped under a slab of ceiling.

Your shield had flickered on just before the second collapse. It held… barely.

You turned your head to find Bucky on his side, blood dripping from a shallow cut at his hairline.

“Barnes!” you shouted.

He coughed, then groaned. “Jesus. You okay?”

“Define okay.”

He looked over, assessing the damage. “Don’t move. Your left side’s pinned.”

“No shit.”

He rolled onto his stomach and crawled toward you through the rubble, muttering curses the whole way.

You hated how relieved you felt seeing him move.

He reached you, fingers brushing your wrist, checking your pulse before you could swat him away.

“Don’t go all Florence Nightingale on me,” you rasped.

“Shut up,” he said, too quietly.

His metal arm worked at the debris, slow but efficient. You winced as pressure shifted on your ribs.

“Okay?” he asked, tone clipped.

“Peachy.”

“I meant what I said upstairs,” he murmured. “You’re good. Better than good. But you don’t have to fight like the world’s trying to kill you.”

You turned your face away. “Sometimes it is.”

That hung between you like smoke—too thick, too real.

He finally got the slab off you, and you hissed as your ribs protested.

He didn’t look at you like you were weak.

He looked at you like he understood.

“Can you stand?” he asked.

“Don’t know. Never tried with a concussion and a bruised ego.”

He smirked—actually smirked—and reached out a hand. You stared at it. Then up at him.

The sarcasm was there in your voice, but the fire behind it was softening. “Is this the part where we bond over trauma and realize we’re not so different after all?”

“No,” he said. “This is the part where I carry your ass if you don’t get moving.”

You took his hand.

His grip was firm—steady—and still calloused in all the places you expected. But the way he held your hand this time wasn’t like he was bracing to yank you off a ledge or drag you out of a firefight.

It was careful.

Like he wasn’t sure if you’d let him.

Your boots scraped over broken plaster as you stood, wincing. Pain bloomed behind your ribs and in your left thigh—deep bruising, maybe a sprain. Nothing you couldn’t walk off.

“You good?” Bucky asked, voice rough but quieter now.

You nodded, though your mouth tightened against the ache. “Good enough to keep complaining.”

A low chuckle rumbled from his chest, and that—that—felt more disarming than anything else. You weren’t used to his laughter. You were used to scowls and biting remarks and the way his eyes always tracked you when he thought you weren’t looking.

But this... this version of Bucky was quieter. Raw-edged. Less guarded. He walked ahead of you, sweeping the path with his metal arm while you limped behind, keeping your shield flickering low along the sides in case of another ambush.

“You shouldn’t have taken that hit for me,” he said suddenly.

You glanced up. “Excuse me?”

“Back there. You threw the shield between me and the blast. You could’ve let me handle it.”

“I did handle it,” you shot back. “Unless you wanted your ribs rearranged.”

“I’ve taken worse.”

“And I’ve saved worse. You’re welcome.”

He stopped mid-step and turned to face you. “That’s not the point.”

You stared at him, arms folded across your chest. “Then enlighten me.”

His jaw worked for a moment. Like he couldn’t quite decide how much to say.

Then: “You’re not bulletproof.”

“Neither are you.”

“But I’ve already died once,” he said.

The words hit like a blow to the gut. You weren’t expecting him to say it. Not like that. Not with so little weight, so much resignation. It left you standing there in the dim light of the collapsed hallway, staring at a man you’d spent months claiming to hate—who had the audacity to say things like that and make it sound logical.

“Don’t,” you whispered.

He blinked. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t talk like your life is some spare part you’re okay throwing away.”

His expression shifted then—barely. Just a small twitch in his brow, a flicker of something behind his eyes.

“I’m not,” he said. “Not anymore.”

You swallowed. “Then don’t act like it.”

The silence thickened, but this time it didn’t feel like tension. It felt like something cracking. Something deeper than the fights. Deeper than the sarcasm and mission reports and snide remarks.

You looked away first.

“Stairs are this way,” you muttered, shifting your shield to light the path.

You could still feel his gaze on your back. Not sharp. Not judgmental. Just… there. Warm and watching.

You made it halfway down before he spoke again.

“You ever wonder why we fight so much?”

You exhaled slowly through your nose. “Besides the fact that you’re intolerable?”

He didn’t take the bait. Just kept walking beside you, voice low. “I think it’s easier to pick each other apart than admit we actually work well together.”

You stopped at the foot of the stairs. “We don’t work well together.”

He tilted his head. “We survived a collapsing building.”

“Barely.”

“We finish each other’s moves in combat.”

“Coincidence.”

“You threw a shield over me like your life depended on it.”

You hesitated.

“…That was instinct,” you said, but your voice had lost its usual edge.

“Exactly,” he murmured.

The silence returned. This time, it was soft.

The exit was up ahead—a breach in the wall, where cold night wind poured in from the outside.

—--

The quinjet thrummed with low vibrations. A constant hum underfoot. Quiet, controlled, and agonizingly tense.

You sat across from Bucky, ribs taped up in the back, blood still drying at your temple. You were exhausted, sore, and worst of all—aware.

Aware of his eyes.

Aware of your own stupid heartbeat that kept picking up every time your gaze flicked over to him, pretending not to.

Bucky sat there like a statue. Unreadable. His jaw was tight. His arm was resting on his knee, but his metal fingers flexed once… twice… like he wanted to break something.

And his eyes?

Locked on you like you were the next mission. And not in a good way.

You gave him a look right back, slouched into your seat with your arms folded tight over your ribs, pretending the pain didn’t stab with every breath.

“What?” you snapped, voice sharp.

He narrowed his eyes. “Just trying to figure out how someone so mouthy made it through after got pinned by concrete and limping.”

“Skill,” you replied dryly. “Or spite. Mostly spite.”

Sam, seated near the front, snorted loud enough to echo.

“Would you two just kiss and get it over with?” he asked, loud enough to make your ears burn.

You threw a crumpled gauze packet at him.

Bucky didn’t laugh—but you saw the corner of his mouth twitch.

The rest of the flight was spent in silence. If you ignored Sam humming a slow, off-key rendition of “Why Can’t We Be Friends” under his breath.

By the time the quinjet touched down at the Tower, your whole body felt like it had been rolled over by a convoy.

As the hatch hissed open, the sun above the landing pad burned bright. Too bright. You squinted against it, dragging yourself to your feet.

You swayed.

Bucky moved forward instantly. One hand wrapped firm around your elbow, the other guiding you with just enough pressure at your back. You tried to shrug him off.

Failed.

“I don’t need help.”

“You’re limping.”

“So are you.”

“Yeah, but I’m not trying to die of pride.”

You opened your mouth to snap something back when the Tower doors opened—and Steve stepped into view, Tony flanking him with a tablet in hand.

Both men stopped in their tracks.

Steve blinked.

Tony looked down, up, and sighed like it physically pained him.

“Let me guess,” Tony said flatly. “One mission. Two near-deaths. A collapsed building. And now you're leaning on each other.”

You glanced at Bucky. Too close. Too steady. Too obvious.

“This isn’t—” you started.

“Don’t explain,” Steve muttered. “I don’t want to know.”

“I do,” Sam chimed in behind you, stepping onto the platform with a grin. “Because I saw the whole flight back and that was some grade-A hate-laced sexual tension.”

You wheeled on him. “Sam.”

“What?” he shrugged. “I’m just saying, if Bucky glared any harder, he would’ve incinerated your face with heat vision.”

“She glared first,” Bucky muttered, looking away.

“Oh my god,” Steve said, dragging a hand down his face.

Tony just started walking toward the elevators. “I’ll have FRIDAY prep the medbay. And maybe the HR department, since this feels like a harassment complaint waiting to happen.”

You tried to walk forward on your own, but the pain flared in your ribs again, pulling a hiss from your teeth. Bucky caught you before you tipped, arm snaking under yours again with that same infuriating efficiency.

“You’re welcome,” he said under his breath.

“I didn’t say thank you.”

“Didn’t expect you to.”

Sam clapped his hands behind you. “God, I love this sitcom. Can’t wait for next week’s episode where they argue over whose fault the explosion was while clearly making heart eyes.”

“Still here,” you muttered as the elevator doors slid open.

“I know,” Sam grinned. “And I’m living for it.”

Steve pinched the bridge of his nose. “I should’ve left you both in Romania.”

“Next time, do,” you said flatly.

Bucky didn’t say anything—but his arm was still under yours.

—

“Three fractured ribs, a bruised lung, and a mild concussion,” Bruce said, eyes flicking over your chart as you sat stubbornly upright on the medbay cot. “So unless you’ve suddenly developed a healing factor like your ex, you’re grounded.”

You grimaced at the mention.

“Don’t say that like it’s my choice.”

Bruce offered a sympathetic half-smile, then turned to Steve. “She’s out for at least two or three weeks. No combat, no sparring, no staircases, if I’m being honest.”

“I hate this,” you muttered.

“Not as much as we do,” came Bucky’s voice from the other bed across the room.

You turned your head just enough to glare.

He looked far too comfortable propped against the pillows, still shirtless beneath the gauze bandages wrapped around his shoulder and side. The bastard had the nerve to smirk like this was all amusing.

“Didn’t realize falling through the floor made you louder, Barnes.” you shot back.

“Didn’t realize getting your ass saved made you ruder.”

You rolled your eyes, and Steve sighed.

“Alright,” he muttered. “Play nice, or I’m asking Nat to babysit the both of you.”

“Please don’t,” you and Bucky said at the same time, deadpan.

Bruce raised a brow but said nothing, excusing himself with a quiet murmur about stress readings and painkillers. Steve followed shortly after, muttering something about paperwork and damage reports. You were left with Bucky. Again.

Silence stretched between you, thick as wet concrete. The medbay lights buzzed above. Outside the glass windows, clouds rolled over the skyline.

“I’m surprised you’re not back on your feet already,” Bucky finally said, tone neutral. “Thought you mutants bounced back faster than this.”

You scoffed. “I’m not Logan. My powers don’t include regenerating half my insides.”

He paused. You caught the flicker in his eye—too fast to place, but too real to miss.

“You still talk to him?” he asked, too casually.

You blinked. “Is that… relevant?”

He shrugged. “Just asking.”

You tilted your head, watching him. “Why?”

He didn’t answer.

Typical.

You swung your legs off the cot, ignoring the twist of pain it caused. The gauze was tight around your ribs. Every breath felt like it was being filtered through a brick wall.

“I hate this,” you muttered again. “Being benched. Sitting still. Doing nothing.”

Bucky scoffed. “Then we’ve got something in common.”

You looked at him, surprised.

He gave you a half-shrug. “I hate downtime. Makes my head too loud.”

You hesitated.

“…Yeah,” you said after a moment, softer. “Same.”

Another silence fell. This one didn’t burn as much. Just sat heavy between you.

Then—

“Hey, Barnes?” you said, glancing at him as you slowly stood, testing your weight.

He lifted an eyebrow.

“You still owe me.”

He snorted. “You think I owe you?”

“You’d be buried under three floors of concrete if I hadn’t shielded us both.”

“You’re exaggerating.”

You raised a brow, pointing at your ribs. “Am I?”

He looked, and his smirk faltered. Just a little.

“…Fine,” he muttered. “What do you want? Dinner? A punch to the face? A handwritten apology?”

You leaned on the edge of the cot, smirking back. “I want you to admit I’m the better fighter.”

He snorted so hard he winced, hand flying to his ribs.

“You’re hilarious,” he grunted through clenched teeth.

You gave him a half-smile. “You didn’t say no.”

He glared.

You turned and hobbled toward the door, slow but steady.

“Try not to miss me too much, Barnes.”

“Not possible,” he muttered under his breath, too quiet for you to hear.

But his eyes followed you until the door closed behind you.

—-

You weren’t dramatic by nature. You didn’t wallow. You didn’t sulk.

But after the fifth day of staying cooped up on your side of the floor—lights dimmed, the curtains drawn, and your ribs still screaming every time you so much as breathed too hard—you were close.

Hydra base extraction or not, fractured ribs were a bitch.

No powers helped. No glowing light from your hands, no tactical shield flare, no boost to stamina. You were mutant, sure—but not the healing kind. Not like Logan. He’d have been fine in six hours, maybe less. You? You winced just turning over in bed.

So you stayed put. You did what you were told, grumbling like a grounded teenager. Left your quarters only when Bruce messaged you for a wrap change or a med scan. You slipped down the hall in silence, hoodie over your head, jaw clenched to keep from groaning out loud.

Bucky passed you in the hallway on day three.

Neither of you said a word. Just glared.

You hated how his eyes dropped immediately to your ribs, like he was checking if you were limping. Like he noticed.

He was bandaged too—shoulder mostly, maybe a bit of his side. You didn’t ask. You didn’t care.

Much.

"Barnes," you’d muttered as you passed, not stopping.

“Limp looks good on you,” he’d replied, too smoothly, not bothering to hide the smirk.

You wanted to punch him. Settled for flipping him off.

The Tower itself had never felt this cold. Your suite was pristine, too clean, like it was mocking you. The couch stayed untouched. The kitchen gathered dust. No training meant no sweat to burn off frustration. No missions meant no adrenaline. No reason to think straight.

Just pain. Bruising. And the echo of a certain super soldier’s smug voice stuck in your head.

By day five, even your ceiling seemed condescending.

You trudged out of bed sometime near dusk, ribs wrapped tight under your oversized hoodie. Every movement tugged the gauze, sent a ripple of discomfort through your side. You’d gotten good at hiding the winces, though. Even when you passed FRIDAY’s cameras.

“Miss,” FRIDAY’s voice piped up politely, “Dr. Banner said your bandage wrap should be changed tonight. Shall I let the med bay know you’re on your way?”

“No,” you muttered. “Just Bruce. Don’t tell the others.”

“As you wish.”

Your fingers hovered over the door pad. A breath in. A wince. Then you stepped into the hallway and made the short, painful trek to the elevator.

That’s when you heard it.

Bucky. Laughing.

Not a full laugh. Just a huff. One of those smug, I heard that kinds of laughs. You turned your head, slowly.

He was leaning against the hallway corner, arms crossed, same faded henley from two days ago. Eyes locked on you like he’d been waiting.

“Out of hiding, are we?”

“Don’t start,” you muttered, continuing past him.

He didn’t follow. Just spoke as you walked.

“You know, I always figured you were tougher than this.”

You stopped. Turned halfway. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just that I thought you’d be clawing at the walls by now.”

“Oh, I am.”

He grinned.

You hated that grin.

“I’m surprised you care,” you said coolly.

“I don’t,” he replied, instantly.

You nodded once, sharp. “Then stop watching me like you do.”

Silence.

His jaw twitched. You didn’t wait for a comeback. You turned and kept walking.

–

The med bay was quiet when you arrived. Bruce didn’t speak much—just changed your wraps with practiced ease, applied a light numbing salve, and gave you a tired look when you tried to brush off the bruising still blooming over your side.

“You’re healing,” he said. “But slow. Be careful.”

“Always am,” you lied.

You made your way back to your room under the weight of twilight, Tower lights casting sterile white glow down the empty hall.

When you passed the common room, Sam was there, feet on the coffee table, watching something loud on the screen.

He glanced over his shoulder.

“Hey, limpy,” he said cheerfully.

You flipped him off too.

Bucky’s laugh echoed from the kitchen behind him.

You didn’t turn around.

You shut the door to your suite with more force than necessary, kicked off your boots, and collapsed into bed like the ache was finally winning. You pressed your palm to your ribcage, let the faint warmth of your energy flicker beneath your skin—but it didn’t do much. You weren’t Logan. You weren’t indestructible.

But you were stubborn.

—

Mornings in the Tower were sacred. Or at least they used to be.

You used to enjoy them—quiet, easy, before the others filtered in and the world started demanding things from you.

But now?

Now breakfast was just another battleground.

You hobbled into the kitchen, hoodie slung low over your eyes, fingers clutching the hem like it’d hold your cracked ribs together. You were just aiming for some cereal and peace, but the universe hated you—because he was already there.

Bucky Barnes.

Seated at the island bar, black t-shirt too tight across his shoulders, coffee in hand, newspaper like he was someone’s grandpa. Of course.

You paused in the doorway. Considered backing out.

Too late.

He didn’t look up. “You limp louder than you walk. Impressive.”

You rolled your eyes. “And you breathe louder than you think. Guess we both have talents.”

He turned the page of the newspaper with exaggerated slowness. “Didn’t know mutants could catch attitude like a cold.”

“Didn’t know washed-up assassins read the Lifestyle section.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow, sipping his coffee. “Someone’s cranky.”

“Someone’s in my kitchen.”

He smirked. “Our kitchen. And I was here first.”

You gritted your teeth and reached for the cereal. The box was on the top shelf. Naturally.

You stretched, teeth clenched against the flare of pain in your side, fingertips barely brushing the cardboard when—

A metal hand appeared beside yours.

You froze.

Bucky plucked the cereal box off the shelf like it was nothing and held it out to you. Smug. Quietly victorious.

“I got it,” he said mildly.

You didn’t take it right away.

“Waiting for a thank-you?”

He leaned in slightly. “Waiting for you to admit I’m useful.”

You snatched the box from his hand. “I’d rather thank Hydra.”

“Ouch.” He winced with a mock wounded look. “That’s just rude.”

You shuffled over to the counter, pouring yourself a bowl of cereal with unnecessary force. You could feel him watching you. He was always watching you. Like you were some cryptic puzzle he hated but couldn’t stop trying to solve.

You grabbed the milk, only to find it was empty. Bone dry.

You held it up in disbelief. “Seriously?”

Bucky didn’t even look up from his coffee. “Damn. That was me.”

You blinked slowly. “You drank the last of the milk and put it back in the fridge?”

He shrugged. “Thought I’d save you the disappointment of realizing it was gone later.”

You glared at him. “You're actually insufferable.”

“Pretty sure that’s your nickname on the comms.”

You turned your back to him, rummaging through the fridge for anything that wasn’t expired or part of Steve’s health cult. Behind you, the chair creaked as Bucky leaned back.

“You know,” he drawled, “it’s been a week. Still haven’t heard you say you missed me.”

You scoffed. “I haven’t missed the smell of sweat and stubbornness, thanks.”

“I was gonna say you missed my voice,” he said lightly, “but yeah, sure. Go with that.”

You poured orange juice into the cereal just to spite him.

He watched with mild horror. “That’s disgusting.”

“You’re disgusting,” you muttered around a mouthful of citrus cornflakes.

He set his mug down, tapping it thoughtfully. “So that’s what they teach at Xavier’s now? Culinary war crimes?”

You flicked a spoonful of soggy cereal toward his arm. It missed.

He didn’t flinch.

Just smirked.

Sam strolled into the kitchen mid-standoff, blinking at the tension in the room like it was a fog he could slice through with a butter knife.

“Morning,” he said. “Y’all fighting over breakfast or trauma this time?”

“Both,” you and Bucky replied at the same time.

Sam raised his eyebrows. “Cute. Y’all are starting to sync up.”

You and Bucky simultaneously turned to glare at him.

Sam grinned like the chaos gremlin he was, grabbed a banana, and backed out of the kitchen with a low whistle.

As he disappeared, you sighed. “I hate this place.”

“Then go back to bed,” Bucky said, sipping his coffee again. “Preferably before you poison anything else.”

You carried your bowl to the far end of the bar, taking the seat furthest from him like a territory line.

“I hope your coffee tastes like betrayal.”

“I brewed yours too, sweetheart.”

You nearly choked.

You didn’t look up. Didn’t give him the satisfaction.

But you did sip the coffee.

And goddamn it, it was good.

You were halfway through the war crime you called cereal when Clint breezed into the kitchen like he hadn’t slept in days—which he probably hadn’t. His hoodie was inside out, hair doing that mess-on-purpose thing, and he beelined for the stove with the intensity of someone who knew exactly what he wanted: bacon.

“God, something smells like pettiness in here,” he mumbled, pulling a pan out of the cabinet.

“It’s them,” Sam said without looking up, nodding toward you and Bucky from where he now sat with a banana and a smug grin. “They’ve been flirting through violence again.”

“I will throw you out a window,” you muttered.

Clint raised an eyebrow. “Aww, love language. How sweet.”

Bucky groaned and stood to grab more coffee, brushing past you with just enough shoulder to make it feel like an accident.

You hissed at the contact. “You’re not cute.”

“I’m adorable,” he said without missing a beat.

The sound of toast popping broke the tension like a starter pistol.

Natasha Romanoff, in full black silk pajama pants and a cropped tank, stepped into the kitchen holding a butter knife like it was a weapon. “Are we doing this again?” she asked dryly, grabbing the toast and calmly spreading jam like she wasn’t ready to kill both of you for sport.

You didn’t answer.

Neither did Bucky.

Nat glanced between you with a sigh. “This is why I don’t date anymore.”

“You never dated,” Clint piped up from the stove. “You eliminate.”

She tilted her head. “Exactly.”

Thor stormed in next—loud, sunshiny, and shirtless, already cracking open a bottle of Asgardian mead before 9 AM.

“Good morrow, midgardians!” he boomed, grabbing a roast chicken leg from god knows where and chomping down like a Viking fresh from conquest.

You blinked. “Is that from last night?”

“It is breakfast now,” Thor said simply, then raised his drink to you. “You still walk like a wounded deer, Shield Maiden.”

“Thanks, Thor. Love you too.”

Bucky grunted. “She cracked a rib. She’s benched.”

Sam snorted. “More like grounded—too stubborn to let anyone help.”

You stared at your cereal like it personally betrayed you.

Thor chuckled. “Tis admirable. I once fought for four days straight with a broken clavicle and—”

“—no one asked,” Clint cut in, flipping bacon. “Still traumatized by the ‘hammer in the spleen’ story.”

The kitchen filled with a low buzz of overlapping conversation. Nat sipped her tea like she was watching a sitcom. Sam tossed his banana peel into the bin with a dramatic no-look shot. Clint plated bacon. Thor sat on the counter and dripped chicken grease on the floor. And right in the middle of it all, you and Bucky sat on opposite ends of the breakfast bar, silently glowering.

Every time you shifted in your seat, you felt the sharp stab in your ribs. Mutant or not, you weren’t Logan. You didn’t have a healing factor. And your ex-boyfriend (the living, brooding reminder of it) wasn’t here to carry you to the medbay or lift you with one arm like he used to.

No, you had Bucky Barnes.Who was now staring at your cereal again.

“You gonna eat that or keep torturing it?”

You took another aggressive bite. “You want a taste?”

He leaned on his elbows, smirking. “You offering, sweetheart?”

Clint choked on his bacon.

Nat closed her eyes. “I swear to God, if you two kiss in front of me, I will burn this whole kitchen down.”

“I’d let her,” you muttered.

“Same,” Bucky said.

You both glanced at each other.

A beat too long.

Sam made a low whistle. “Tension so thick, even Cap’s shield couldn’t cut it.”

“Speaking of—” Steve entered at last, in full Captain mode, eyes already squinting in disappointment. “Why does it smell like alcohol and chaos?”

“Because you left us unsupervised,” Nat replied dryly.

Steve eyed you, then Bucky. Then the awkward distance between you. Then the way your cereal was swimming in orange juice. He grimaced.

He sighed like a disappointed dad. “...I’m not cleaning up if you kill each other.”

Tony strolled in right behind him, looking too expensive for this crowd. “If you kill each other, please let it be on the balcony. At least give us a dramatic skyline.”

You dropped your spoon.

Bucky gave you a look that said don’t give them anything.

You sighed and slid your bowl away. “I’m going back to bed.”

“Need help walking, limpy?” Bucky asked, standing halfway like he might follow.

“I’d rather crawl.”

You left before anyone could see the small tug at the corner of your mouth.

Before you heard Clint whisper, “Yup, totally in denial.”

And Sam agree, “Biggest will-they-won’t-they since Ross and Rachel.”

—-

After dinner at the Tower.

The kitchen was mostly empty now, the clatter of dinner long gone, replaced with the low hum of the dishwasher and the faint sound of Stark’s playlist echoing somewhere down the hall. Dim under-lighting bathed the room in a gentle glow, shadows cast against the marble counters.

You shuffled in slow, each step a dull reminder that fractured ribs weren’t fixed with sarcasm or pride. You gripped the edge of the counter and let out a slow breath as your shoulder protested.

You hadn't meant to stay this long at the table after dinner. But the banter wore you out. You just wanted quiet now.

You opened the drawer for the painkillers and almost dropped the damn bottle.

“You know, if you waited two more minutes, I would've just brought them to your room.”

You didn’t even need to turn to know who it was. His voice was lower when it was late. Less snark, more gravel.

Bucky leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, like he’d been standing there the whole time.

“I don’t need a babysitter,” you muttered, shaking two pills into your palm.

He walked in anyway. Quiet footsteps. Calm. Like he didn’t want to startle you.

You didn’t meet his eyes.

He didn’t speak for a moment. Just filled a glass with water, then held it out to you without a word.

You hesitated. Then took it.

The pills were bitter. You didn’t wince.

“You’ve been skipping doses,” he said after a beat.

You placed the empty glass in the sink with care. “You spying on me now?”

“Tony’s got the med logs. Bruce checks them. I hear stuff.” He shrugged. “I’m nosy.”

You gave a dry laugh. “That tracks.”

He moved to the other side of the counter but didn’t sit. Just watched you like you might topple over again. Like he was waiting to catch something you wouldn’t admit to dropping.

“I’m fine,” you said. Too fast.

“You’re limping on your right side.”

You clenched your jaw. “I said I’m—”

“I know what fine looks like.” His voice was gentler now. Less push, more pull. “This ain’t it.”

Silence bloomed between you like a bruise.

The hum of the dishwasher filled it.

You leaned heavier on the counter. Your body throbbed in pulses that made your head buzz. “I’m tired, Barnes.”

He nodded, almost like he expected it.

But he didn’t move.

“Why are you even here?” you asked quietly.

He looked at you for a long moment. You didn’t look up.

Then he said, “You think I’d just let you walk around hurting without checking on you?”

You flinched. Not from pain.

From how much it sounded like someone else you used to know.

He noticed. Of course he did.

You turned your head toward the hallway, already shifting to leave. “I should get back to my floor—”

He stepped in your path—not close, just there.

“I’m not him,” Bucky said softly.

You blinked. “I didn’t say you were.”

“No, but you’re holding me at arm’s length like I might disappear just as fast.”

You swallowed thickly. “I’m not trying to—”

“Then let me help.”

It wasn’t a demand. It was almost… a plea.

He looked at you like you were something breakable. Not in the glass kind of way. In the kind that mattered. The kind someone might miss if it shattered quietly in a corner where no one looked.

The ache in your ribs reminded you to breathe.

“I’m not used to... help.”

“I noticed,” he said, one corner of his mouth twitching.

Your shoulders sagged. “You’re really bad at subtle.”

“You like that about me,” he said, smiling just a little now. “Even if you don’t wanna admit it yet.”

You looked at him. Really looked.

Tired eyes. Restless hands. Steel underneath softness.

You shook your head. “You don’t know what I like.”

But it came out soft.

And you didn’t push him away when he gently placed a hand on your lower back and guided you toward the hallway.

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s get you back to bed before Thor offers you a healing mead and breaks the rest of your ribs.”

You huffed a quiet laugh. “God. Please no.”

He walked beside you in silence after that. Not touching, not talking.

The hall outside the kitchen was dim, the world stilled into half-shadow like it was holding its breath. You didn’t speak as you walked, your footsteps slower than usual, measured by the steady throb in your side and the solid weight of Bucky’s presence beside you.

He kept his pace even with yours.

Didn’t touch you again, but didn’t leave either.

Halfway down the hall, you faltered. Sharp pain bloomed beneath your ribs like something snagged on your breath.

You stopped. Hissed quietly.

And of course, he stopped too.

“Sit,” he said, already guiding you to the long bench against the wall near the elevator. It was rarely used. Probably why he led you there.

You didn’t argue.

Your knees wobbled a little as you sat, head falling back against the cool wall. The chill helped. A little.

Bucky crouched down in front of you without a word. Elbows on his knees, hands loosely clasped. You watched him from under your lashes, sweat sticking at your hairline.

“You could’ve just gone to bed,” you muttered. “This wasn’t your problem.”

“You’re on this team,” he said flatly. “That makes it my problem.”

You scoffed lightly. “You still talk like a soldier.”

He tilted his head, eyes narrowing slightly. “You still act like getting help means you’re weak.”

You opened your mouth to snap something back. Closed it.

He caught that too. You hated that he always noticed the things you didn’t say.

“Painkillers’ll kick in soon,” he said, softer. “Should help.”

You nodded faintly. Jaw tight.

And then he asked, gently, “It always hurt like that? When you’re injured?”

The way he asked—low and careful—told you exactly what he meant.

You stared at him. “You mean being mutant?”

He didn’t flinch, but his jaw tensed.

You breathed in slow. “Not always. Depends what kind of injury. Mutant healing slows it down. Makes it messy.”

“Messy how?”

“Like… you feel better for a few hours. And then your body remembers it’s supposed to still be broken.” You gave a thin smile. “Surprise. Still hurt. Plus, my body is not in my prime years. Healing is slower than before.”

He huffed through his nose. “That sounds like hell.”

You shrugged with your good shoulder. “You learn to live with it.”

He was quiet again. Watching.

And then, “That why you don’t sleep much?”

You stilled.

He tapped his metal fingers against his knee once, twice. “You walk around at night. I hear you.”

You didn’t know what to say to that.

“You’re not the only one who doesn’t sleep,” he added, eyes lowering to his hands. “But most people don’t pace three laps around the atrium and then stand by the window like they’re waiting for something to come back.”

Your throat felt dry.

Bucky looked up, eyes softer than you expected.

“I’m not trying to make this a thing,” he said quietly. “I just… see you.”

And that, somehow, made it worse.

You weren’t used to being seen like that. Not here. Not by someone who’d spent the better part of the last few years barely tolerating your existence.

You licked your lips. “I didn’t ask for backup.”

“No, you didn’t,” he agreed. “You never do.”

That stung.

“I’m not broken.”

“I didn’t say you were.”

Your breath caught in your throat. You hated how much heat suddenly sat behind your eyes. You blamed the meds. Or the pain. Or maybe it was just years of keeping your distance coming back to bite you.

Bucky rose slowly, still watching you. Then he held out a hand.

You frowned. “What?”

“I’ll walk you the rest of the way.”

You hesitated. Then placed your hand in his.

His fingers were warm. Steady. No pressure.

Just presence.

You stood carefully. He didn’t let go until you were fully upright.

The walk back to your quarters was quieter than before, if that was even possible.

He stood by the door, not coming in. Respecting the boundary. But you didn’t go in right away either.

“Thanks,” you said, not quite looking at him.

He nodded. “You need anything, just knock. Or shout. You’re good at that.”

A small laugh escaped you, worn and weak. “Careful, Barnes. That almost sounded like you missed my yelling.”

He gave you a lopsided grin. “Don’t flatter yourself. You’re annoying as hell.”

You smirked. “Takes one to know one.”

He tapped the side of the doorframe once. “Get some sleep, firefly.”

You watched him walk down the hall, shadows swallowing his figure as he disappeared around the corner.

And for the first time in weeks… you didn’t feel like the walls were closing in.

Not yet a confession. Not even close.

But something shifted.

Small. Subtle.

And you felt it.

—-

The next morning

You’d just managed to brush your teeth and tie your hair up—painfully slow with one arm and half your torso refusing to cooperate—when the knock came.

Two short taps. A beat. Then a third, impatient one.

You huffed, already knowing.

You opened the door and there he was. James Buchanan Barnes. Ex-assassin. Nightmare in boots. Tower’s quietest pain in the ass. Holding—

“Toast?” you asked flatly, eyeing the stack on a plate balanced in his hand.

He gave a lazy shrug. “Burnt one’s yours.”

You arched a brow. “Thoughtful.”

He smirked and lifted the thermos tucked in the crook of his elbow. “Also brought coffee. Maybe. Could be jet fuel. Didn’t check.”

“Charming.”

“Some say so.”

You stepped back with a dramatic sigh. “What do you want, Barnes?”

“I just told you. Toast. Coffee. Maybe mild harassment.”

“I didn’t ask for—”

He was already stepping in.

“Good thing I’m not good at taking hints.”

You grumbled under your breath and eased yourself onto the edge of your sofa. Ribs still complained with every breath, but at least your head wasn’t spinning anymore. Progress.

Bucky followed, setting the toast on the low coffee table, then handed you the thermos like it was sacred. You took it cautiously, twisting off the lid. The scent of strong, dark roast hit you in the face.

Your eyes narrowed. “This is actually decent.”

He gave a mock-bow. “I know how not to poison people. Mostly.”

You snorted.

He leaned against the wall with crossed arms, watching you sip with that irritating half-grin that said he was definitely waiting for praise.

You didn’t give him the satisfaction. “You hovering?”

“I’m observing.”

“Same thing.”

“Nope. One’s polite. One’s creepy.” He tilted his head. “Guess which one I’m being.”

“Definitely the second.”

He chuckled. “You wound me.”

You raised a brow. “Give me a minute. Still got one good leg.”

That made him laugh, loud and unexpected. It settled weirdly warm in your chest.

“I swear,” he said, shaking his head, “you could be half-dead and still mouthing off.”

“I’m not half-dead,” you muttered, chewing on a bite of toast. “Just fractured. There’s a difference.”

“Oh, forgive me,” he drawled. “Your ex could regenerate in five minutes and you’re sitting here with heat packs and grudge issues.”

You paused mid-chew. Glared.

His grin widened. “What? I’m not wrong.”

“Keep talking and I’ll throw this toast at you.”

“Please. I survived Hydra. I can take a carbohydrate to the face.”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t hide the amused flicker at the corner of your mouth.

He saw it anyway.

Bucky pushed off the wall and walked to your small window, gaze dropping out over the city. He was quiet for a moment. Still.

“You gonna be okay for the next few days?” he asked without looking.

You blinked. “What?”

He glanced back at you. “Just… you know. Tower’s quieter during off-week. Fewer missions. Less people around. Figured I’d check.”

You studied him. “You asking if I need babysitting?”

“Just making sure you don’t get bored and try to bench press Thor’s hammer or something while healing.”

You smirked. “Flattered you think I could.”

His look was dry. “You’d try.”

He wasn’t wrong.

“Yeah,” you said, voice dropping a little. “I’ll be fine. I got books. Music. Pain meds.”

He didn’t move from the window.

You sipped the coffee. “You offering to hang around or something?”

He shrugged, casual. “Just checking in.”

You squinted. “You’re weirdly good at that lately.”

“Don’t get used to it,” he replied. “I still find you irritating.”

You raised your toast like a glass. “Cheers. Mutual feelings.”

But the warmth in your chest was still there. Tucked between caffeine and crackling sarcasm.

He didn’t stay much longer. Said something about needing to meet Sam for recon debrief, which you doubted. But he left the rest of the toast and gave you a look before going that felt like— something.

—-

You weren’t expecting anyone.

You were halfway into considering whether to risk a nap or a shower when another knock came.

Gentler this time. Measured. Familiar.

You opened the door with your good hand and blinked at the sight of Steve Rogers standing there, holding a tray with two plates balanced like some polite 1940s butler. Sandwiches, roasted chicken, and mashed potatoes, the steam still curling gently in the cool hallway air.

“Hey,” he greeted with a soft smile. “Didn’t think you’d want to sit in the mess today.”

You tilted your head. “Is this a pity visit?”

“It’s a ‘don’t let your ribcage kill you before you get real food’ visit,” he countered gently.

You stepped aside. “Come in, Cap.”

He walked in like a breeze, quiet and respectful, setting the tray down on your coffee table with care. No snide remarks, no teasing jabs. Just that solid, grounding energy he always carried—like he could anchor the whole damn building with a look if he wanted.

You eased down on the sofa with a groan, clutching your side out of reflex. Steve silently handed you the plate with the bigger sandwich.

You eyed it. “This looks suspiciously healthy.”

He smirked. “No bacon. But I had them add cheese.”

“Bold move.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was… considerate. He didn’t hover or fuss. Just picked at his food slowly, taking the seat across from you and giving you the space to breathe. Your ribs thanked him for it.

“Bucky said you gave him hell this morning,” he said finally, like a question wrapped in a chuckle.

You raised a brow. “That supposed to impress you?”

He grinned. “Not surprised. He likes to act like he doesn’t enjoy the company.”

“He brought toast and coffee.”

Steve's brows lifted. “That’s practically a love letter.”

You groaned. “Don’t start.”

He held up his hands in surrender, still smiling. “Just saying. You bring food, it means something.”

“I’m injured. I think it was just guilt.”

“Sure,” he said slowly. “Let’s go with that.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Why are you really here, Steve?”

He leaned back, sandwich halfway gone. “Because you’re stuck inside with no healing factor and too much pride to ask for help. Because Bucky can’t check on you too often without you both throwing punches with your words. And because I figured you’d actually let me sit here without trying to poison me with sarcasm.”

You swallowed a piece of chicken and squinted. “...That sounded dangerously like a compliment.”

“Maybe,” he said, sipping his water. “You’re not that hard to figure out, you know.”

“Oh really.”

“You lash out when you’re hurting. You shut doors when you’re scared. You overwork, overthink, and pick fights with Bucky because he’s the only one who dishes it back.”

You stared at him.

He shrugged. “Doesn’t take a genius. Just someone paying attention.”

You leaned back carefully, the mash doing its slow magic in your stomach. “You always play therapist when someone’s benched?”

He smiled faintly. “Only the ones who matter.”

Something caught in your throat, but you swallowed it down with water.

He didn’t push. He just finished his sandwich in peace, helped you shift the tray aside when you were done, and then quietly stood.

“You need anything—anything—you call me. Don’t make me send Thor to drag you to medbay.”

You smirked. “He’d enjoy that.”

“He would. Don’t give him the satisfaction.”

You nodded slowly, still not sure how to say thanks without it sounding weird. But he seemed to understand anyway.

Steve paused at the door, glanced back.

“He does care, you know. Even if he sucks at showing it.”

You didn’t answer. Didn’t need to.

The door clicked shut softly behind him.

You sat there, tray still warm beside you, ribs aching a little less, chest full of something you couldn’t quite name.

—

You were brushing your teeth when it happened.

Still in that same oversized hoodie, hair up in a loose knot, face scrubbed clean and the world mercifully quiet—until three knocks came. Not rhythmic this time. Not polite. Just… impatient.

You sighed. “If this is another toast-and-coffee peace offering—”

You opened the door mid-sentence.

And froze.

Bucky stood there. His black T-shirt clung to his chest, his hair slicked back. There was no tray. No sarcastic smirk. No witty jab waiting to launch.

Just eyes locked on you, blue and stormy. And something… heavy sitting behind them.

“Barnes—”

“I can’t do this anymore.”

The words landed like a punch, right between the ribs. Not the fractured ones. The deeper ones.

You blinked. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“This,” he said, motioning vaguely toward you, the door, the narrow air between your bodies. “This back and forth. You picking fights. Me giving it back. You pretending like you hate me just to keep a wall up, when I know damn well that wall’s already cracked.”

You opened your mouth to fire something back—anything—but nothing came out. His voice was hoarse. Unsteady. Not angry. Just… tired.

“You’re not the only one who can’t heal fast, y’know,” he muttered. “Just ‘cause I don’t bleed the way you do doesn’t mean I’m not wrecked underneath. But you—” He ran a hand through his wet hair, exhaling hard. “You make it worse. You make me want things I thought I didn’t get to want anymore.”

You felt your breath catch. Hard.

“I’ve been through too much to keep pretending I don’t care about you,” he added. “And you—you act like you hate me, but then you keep my coffee order in your head, and you cuss at anyone who touches me in a fight, and you stole my sweatshirt last month even though you swear I’m the last person you’d share air with.”

He took a step forward. Your fingers curled on the doorframe.

“So yeah. I care. And I’m done pretending I don’t. I don’t want toast and banter anymore. I want you.”

Silence. Thick and pulsing.

You didn’t speak. Not yet. You weren’t ready. Not because you didn’t feel it, but because the weight of hearing it aloud—raw, no shields, no armor—knocked the wind out of you in a way bullets never could.

“And I know you’ll probably say something mean now to deflect, because that’s what you do,” he added, tone softer now, almost resigned, “but I had to say it. Before I lose my nerve. Before someone else says it better.”

The weight of the words settled between you, raw and uneven, like freshly torn stitches.

Your heart was pounding.

Your ribs protested as you shifted, but you didn’t notice.

For a long second, you just stared.

“…You're a pain in the ass, Barnes.”

His voice was a low rasp. “I know.”

You leaned against the doorframe, eyes sharp but softening at the edges. “You’re serious.”

“I wish I wasn’t,” he muttered, and for once, there was no bite behind it. Just a tired truth. “Would make my life easier.”

You hesitated.

Then you stepped aside, still cradling your ribs, not looking at him.

The door clicked shut behind him with a soft finality.

Bucky stood in the middle of your room like he’d stepped into a war zone without backup—shoulders tight, expression unreadable.

You sat at the edge of the bed, trying to hide how gingerly you moved. It wasn’t the ribs this time—it was everything else. The part of you that wasn’t used to soft landings. The part that only ever learned how to brace for impact.

Bucky stayed standing for a moment. Like he didn’t want to cross a line, even now. Not after what he’d just dropped on you like live wire.

“I meant it,” he said finally, quiet but firm. “Everything I said.”

You looked at him—just looked. No jokes. No snide remarks. Just the subtle squint of disbelief in your eyes, like you were searching for cracks in his voice.

“There’s no angle here,” he added. “No mission, no slip-up, no guilt. Just… me. Telling you something I should’ve said before I realized I cared.”

Silence hung between you.

Then your voice came out lower than you meant, a rasp from something too tender to touch. “Why now?”

He stepped forward—carefully, like you were the injured one (you were), and this was hallowed ground (it was).

“Because I thought I could outrun it,” he said, crouching to your level, arms resting on his knees. “I thought… if I just pushed it down, got through another op, another mission, another fight—it’d stop. But you being benched? You in pain? Me not being able to do anything about it?”

His jaw clenched. His eyes flicked over your wrapped ribs like it physically hurt him to see.

“It gutted me,” he said, voice breaking on the edge of it. “Not because I think you’re fragile. Hell, you’ve always been tougher than me. But because I finally realized—I don’t want a world where I don’t get to check if you’re okay. Don’t get to fight with you. Laugh with you. Know you.”

Your throat tightened.

“I didn’t say anything before,” he said softly, “because I didn’t think I deserved to want something like this. You. Not after everything I’ve done. Not with what I carry.”

You leaned forward without thinking, forearms on your knees, face just a few inches from his. The ache in your ribs flared, but you ignored it.

“You think I’m clean, Barnes?” you said, voice barely above a whisper. “I’m a SHIELD asset with a mutation I don’t even like using half the time. I’ve seen my fair share of ugly. Been it, too.”

He didn’t flinch.

“That’s not what I see,” he said.

“What do you see, then?” you asked.

He didn’t hesitate. “Someone who never backs down. Someone who pushes me to be better even when I want to throttle you. Someone who sees through all the armor I put up and calls me out anyway.”

You exhaled shakily.

The silence felt different now. Heavier—but not suffocating. More like a weight shared.

“…You scare the hell out of me,” you admitted.

“Good,” he said, lips tugging in the smallest smile. “Because you scare the hell out of me, too.”

You huffed. A dry, broken kind of laugh. Then your voice softened. “You’re not saying this just because I’m stuck in bed and can’t run, right?”

“I’d say it if you were mid-air in a knife fight with a Hydra operative.”

“Don’t tempt me.”

He smiled. This time, wider.

Then carefully—like he was handling something fragile, like you were something fragile—he reached out, brushing his fingers over your hand.

“I’ll wait,” he said. “As long as it takes. I’m not going anywhere.”

You didn’t pull away.

Didn’t run.

Didn’t joke.

Just sat there. Breathing in sync with him, your hand in his.

—-

Healing took time. Not just for your ribs, but for the parts no one could wrap in gauze.

Bucky never rushed it.

He didn’t press, didn’t pry. Didn’t follow you around like a lost puppy or change how he moved when you entered a room. He still tossed sarcasm your way during training sessions, still rolled his eyes when you beat him at poker, still had the nerve to call your taste in movies garbage during group movie nights.

Which only made it worse. Or better. You hadn’t figured it out yet.

Because he wasn’t trying to win you over anymore. He already meant what he said. He was just there—quiet, steady, showing up every day, like it didn’t cost him anything.

You kept your distance. For a while.

Not cold, not cruel. Just cautious.

Because this—whatever this was—felt too important to screw up.

You weren’t used to soft. You were used to pressure, to action, to fights that ended bloody. And feelings? Feelings were a whole different battlefield.

But he never flinched when you got sharp.

Never bit back when you kept the walls up.

He let you have space… and stayed within reach.

Weeks passed. Your ribs finally stopped aching. You were cleared for the field again. Your strength returned, your mind steady. And slowly—one dry remark, one casual breakfast, one mission debrief at a time—you let yourself fall back into rhythm.

The banter between you two never stopped.

“Try not to get shot in the same spot next time,” he muttered as you returned from a solo recon op, brushing blood from your sleeve.

You smirked. “Jealous I get more attention from medical than you?”

“Oh, totally,” he deadpanned. “I live to be patched up by overworked med techs.”

“Please. You’d flirt with the heart monitor if it beeped the right way.”

Steve groaned from the corner. “Do you two ever speak like normal people?”

You and Bucky turned toward him in sync.

“What’s the fun in that?” you said together—then immediately pointed at each other in dismay.

“Stop that,” Steve muttered, walking off with a shake of his head.

You looked at Bucky. He looked at you.

Then you both laughed—quiet, but real.

—

It was another late night at the Tower.

Mission briefing in the morning, but everyone was still lounging in the common room, scattered across couches and beanbags. Tony had passed out half a bottle of wine ago. Clint was snoring against the far wall. Sam was arguing with F.R.I.D.A.Y. about the thermostat. Nat was reading, unmoving, with one eye open just in case.

You were next to Bucky.

Close.

Closer than usual.

And this time, you didn’t pull back when your shoulder touched his. When your leg rested against his. When your head dipped slightly toward his warmth.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t even shift.

He just… let it happen.

Your hand found his.

It was casual. Lazy, even. Fingers barely laced.

But he noticed.

You knew he did because he went still for half a beat. Then, slowly, he turned his palm to meet yours fully. Anchoring you there.

His thumb brushed yours once.

Nothing else was said. No glances, no jokes, no pressure.

Just that one small thing.

You exhaled. Long. Soft.

And leaned.

Not just physically. Not just against his side, warm and steady.

You leaned into what it meant.

Into the safety. The choice. The unspoken understanding that had grown and endured between two stubborn people who once couldn’t be in the same room without trying to kill each other.

Now?

You didn’t want to be anywhere else.

Not tonight and what come after. You ready for it.

should i do part 2 where the team found out they are together?

part 2

Bucky lovers Taglist:@pipo246 @ilovetaquitosmmmm @lovinqbella @hagiel29 @my-english-degree @imabsolutegarbage @lavbarnes @feynightlight @moonlessnight14 @nancybenson @putbloghere @cherrypieyourface @notsoliteraryavenger @starabellaa-reads @fanfictionecho @leysol @pollito-chicken @sflame15-blog @buckyinmyuniverse @rydbezz @katbarnes024 @differenttyphoonwerewolf @maplesyrizzup @buckysdoll85

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em1i2a3

isaacsdevil4108

Thunderbolts* (2025) dir. Jake Schreier

Behind the scenes with Lewis Pullman

em1i2a3

I don’t have anyyything to say 😭🥹

bartxnhood

deniable-masterpiece

guys i love him so badddd I NEED HIMMM

bartxnhood

dandexllions

He's the best Johnny Storm for me and no one can change my mind

madgear

smeagles

📸: Greg Pallante

madgear

do-you-have-a-flag

spaghetti

dsfault

drew starkey at the charles esten show in charleston!

urmum-lovesme

Bunny (P16)

Rafe Cameron x Maybank!Reader

summary: Struggling to keep her and JJ’s home afloat, Y/N turns to the only option that guarantees fast cash- stripping at a club on the Cut. But when Rafe Cameron catches her in the act, he sees the perfect opportunity to tighten his grip around her life.

a/n: Well well well- guess whose back. Thought I'd do a little surprise drop just for the plot BAHAHAH. Lets see, more drama obviously cause our girl cant catch a break, more domestic bunny and rafe and a little special feature for our girl Naomi cause I've missed her. I love Sarah Cameron. As the end of the series draws nearer I lowkey feel kinda emotional, I feel like nothings ever gonna beat rafe and bunny for me. 1 more chapter after this to go my loves x

warnings: allusions to sex, angst, violence (yelling/arguing) (jj pmo), mentions of past abuse (bruises ect), soft!rafe and Soft!bunny (they're so domestic)

(P1) (P2) (P3) (P4) (P5) (P6) (P7) (P8) (P9) (P10) (P11) (P12) (P13) (P14) (P15) (P16)

The soft hum of tires against the road was the only sound cutting through the silence inside the twinkie. Sarah sat up front, leaning her elbow against the open window as her fingers tapped against her thigh. Her eyes flicked between the side mirror and John B’s profile. The brunette boy’s hands were tight on the steering wheel very much mirroring the tense mood in the backseat. Pope sat beside JJ, who was slumped against the wall of the van, head resting back, his phone clutched in his hand like it was the only thing keeping him anchored. JJ’s eyes were trained on the screen, scrolling through the messages he’d sent Y/N- all left on read.

“I’m sorry I should’ve said something”

“I should’ve stopped him”

“I was just in shock”

“Come home”

“You're still my sister no matter what”

“I love you”

He blinked hard, jaw tightening as he shoved the heel of his palm against his eye, like he could push down the sting building behind it. “C’mon, man,” Pope said quietly, nudging him with his shoulder.

“You’ve been moping for two days straight.”

“I’m not moping,” JJ muttered.

“You’re definitely moping”

Keep reading

buckyseternaldoll

on command.

this is the first story from my 707 followers' milestone event 💖

Pairing: Avenger!Bucky x Medic!Reader (female)

Summary: It started with a question you didn’t realize sounded filthy: “Can you come on command?” Bucky thought you were teasing. But you were just too clinical to know better. And now? He’s going to show you exactly what happens when curiosity goes too far.

Disclaimer: 18+ (mdni!), explicit smut content, p in v, oral sex (f receiving & m receiving), fingering, dirty talk, blowjob, face-fucking themes, size kink (mild), orgasm denial, soft dom!bucky, light power play, praise kink, slight dub-con vibes via misunderstanding, medical/clinical kink themes, slow build to climax, cockwarming (implied), cum on thighs, aftercare

Word Count: 7.1k

The med-bay smelled like antiseptic and fresh laundry—too clean for a room that had known so much blood. It was a Sunday evening, quiet and uneventful, the kind of shift where silence hummed against your ears and your thoughts wandered deeper than you intended. The kind of boredom that stretched into your ribs.

Until you heard the heavy thud of combat boots echo down the hallway.

Keep reading

sunsetmade

Anonymous asked:

Request for: Rafe and Reader aren’t dating (yet) but everyone has always noticed he has an apparent soft spot for her even though she’s a pogue- she is scared because a guy is following her while she’s walking home and none of her guy friends are answering cause they are in a movie, and she happens to have rafes number for some reason and calls it being like “I’m so sorry bug you” not realizing he always wants to be her first call 🥰

sunsetmade answered:

Her Unexpected Protector

Rafe Cameron x Pouge! Reader

The night air was humidly thick, carrying the faint scent of salt and driftwood smoke. The bonfire burned tall on the beach, crackling as people circled it in loose groups. Beer bottles clinked, music hummed low from someone’s massive speaker, and the whole stretch of sand seemed alive with voices and laughter.

She lingered near the edge of the circle, her toes buried in the cool sand, a red Solo cup in her hands that was more for keeping her occupied than anything else. She wasn’t much of a drinker— the Pogues understood it—and usually no one minded. But when you were the soft-spoken one in a crowd that thrived on banter and big personalities, you learned how to blend into the background pretty well.

Except Rafe Cameron didn’t seem to let her stay there.

He was leaning against a piece of driftwood a few feet away, laughing at something Topper had said. Even from here, she could tell he wasn’t fully listening. His gaze kept flicking her way, like he was checking she was still where he’d last seen her. It wasn’t unusual at this point; it had been happening for a couple weeks now. The others had noticed too. JJ had smirked about it once, muttering under his breath to Kiara about “Cameron’s Pogue exception.”

It was strange enough for a Kook to hang around a Pogue party without looking for trouble, stranger still for it to be Rafe, whose reputation on the Cut was… complicated. But he’d been different with her from the start.

She’d first noticed it in small things—like how he never tossed a biting comment her way when he was ripping into JJ or Pope, how he’d offer her his hoodie without her asking when the wind picked up, how his voice went softer when he spoke to her. Even now, while Kelce was teasing someone about tripping over the cooler earlier, Rafe’s eyes skipped right over her like she was exempt from the joke.

Kiara wandered up beside her, bumping her shoulder. “You good? You’ve been standing here like a scarecrow for ten minutes.”

She laughed, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “I’m fine. Just tired, I guess.”

Kiara’s eyes flicked past her to where Rafe was, and one brow lifted knowingly. “Mm-hmm. Tired.”

Before she could ask what that meant, Rafe pushed away from the driftwood and headed toward them. The bonfire light painted his features in gold and shadow, his expression unreadable to anyone who didn’t know how to look past it.

“You need anything?” His voice was casual, but there was something in his gaze—searching, as if he was looking for any sign she wasn’t okay.

“I’m fine,” she said, a little too quickly. “Thanks, though.”

Rafe nodded, but didn’t move away. His hands were resting by his sides, his stance relaxed, but his attention was still anchored to her.

“Alright,” he said slowly, then tipped his head toward the fire. “Don’t stand back here all night. The wind’s colder by the water.”

Kiara bit back a grin, watching him walk back to Topper. “You seriously don’t see it, do you?”

“See what?”

Kie just shook her head, like explaining would ruin the fun.

The night stretched on —someone started passing around marshmallows, John B tried and failed to play guitar, and laughter carried out over the waves. By the time the crowd began to thin, she realized she’d have to walk home. Her place wasn’t far, maybe ten minutes tops, but she hated walking alone at night. Still, she didn’t want to bother anyone for a ride.

She slipped away quietly, figuring no one would notice anyway.

The streets were quieter off the beach, the sound of the party fading behind her. Streetlamps threw pale circles of light onto the sidewalk, and her footsteps seemed too loud in the stillness. She was halfway home when she heard it—the steady crunch of footsteps behind her.

At first she told herself it was nothing. Just someone else heading in the same direction. But when she turned down a narrower street and the steps quickened to match her pace, her heart started thudding. She didn’t recognize the man when she glanced back. He was taller, wearing a baseball cap low, his eyes shadowed, but the way he kept his distance while still following made her skin crawl. It was like she was some sort of prey.

She fumbled for her phone, her mind racing through who she could call. JJ? He’d take forever to get here. Kiara? She was probably still at the bonfire. Pope? He would probably make it into some grand learning moment.

Her thumb hovered before she realized the only person she wanted to hear on the other end was Rafe.

She hit his name without thinking.

He answered on the first ring. “Y/n?” His voice was sharp, alert, like he’d already stood up from wherever he was looking to see if she was still at the bonfire.

“Hey, um— I’m so sorry to bug you—”

“You’re not bugging me.” His voice came quick, steady. “Where are you?” She could tell he’d noticed she wasn’t in her usual spot anymore.

The firmness in his tone made her blink, nearly knocking the words right out of her. “I’m walking home, and there’s this guy—he’s been following me for a few blocks, and—”

“Stay on the phone.” There was a sudden shuffle on his end, the sound of a door slamming hard in the background. “Tell me exactly where you are.”

Her grip on the phone tightened as she gave him the street name, glancing over her shoulder to find the man still trailing her, still watching. Her pulse hammered in her ears, and she realized her hands were shaking.

“Two minutes,” Rafe said, his voice low but absolute. “You hear me? Two minutes.”

She nodded instinctively, even though he couldn’t see her, holding the phone like it was the only thing tethering her to safety. “Okay.”

The longest two minutes of her life crawled by before a set of headlights sliced through the dark, a familiar truck pulling up fast to the curb. It stopped hard, and Rafe was out before the engine had even settled, his expression carved into something cold, dangerous, and deadly focused as he closed the distance to her.

“You good?” His eyes swept over her, quick but thorough, before locking on the man who’d slowed to a stop a few yards back.

“I—yeah. I think so.”

Rafe stepped closer, the edge in his presence softening just enough for his hand to brush between her shoulder blades, soothing her. “Get in the truck.”

She hesitated, glancing past him toward the stranger. “Rafe—”

“Now, Y/n.”

The way he said it left no space for argument. She slipped into the passenger seat, heart still pounding, watching through the glass as Rafe took a measured step toward the man. His shoulders squared, and though she couldn’t hear the words, the low, sharp tone was enough to send the stranger turning on his heel and disappearing into the shadows.

When Rafe climbed back in, his jaw was still tight, his grip on the wheel white-knuckled. “You should’ve called me sooner.”

“I didn’t want to bother you,” she admitted quietly, her fingers twisting in her lap.

His eyes flicked to hers, the hardness melting into something much gentler. “You think you’re bothering me? I want to be the first person you call when something’s wrong. Always.” He reached over, his hand settling warm and solid on her thigh. Her breath caught, the heat of his touch cutting through the chill that had been clinging to her. “Okay, sweet girl?”

She swallowed, nodding. The last thing she should be thinking about right now is how that name made her feel things, but she was. “Okay.” She softly said.

Her “okay” seemed to loosen something in him, but only just. Rafe eased the truck forward, one hand on the wheel, the other still resting on her leg like he wasn’t willing to let her go just yet. Streetlights streaked across his face, highlighting the muscle ticking in his jaw.

“Did he touch you?” His tone was sharper now, like he was afraid of the answer.

She shook her head quickly. “No. He just… followed me. I didn’t know what he wanted, and I—”

“And you called me.” His lips twitched—not quite a smile, but there was relief in it. “Good.”

Silence filled the cab for a beat, thick and warm, before she glanced at him. “What did you say to him?”

Rafe smirked faintly, eyes still on the road. “Doesn’t matter. He won’t come near you again.” The way he said it sent a shiver down her spine—equal parts reassurance and promise.

By the time they pulled into her driveway, her nerves had settled, replaced with something heavier in her chest—gratitude, yes, but also the realization that Rafe Cameron had dropped everything for her without hesitation.

He killed the engine and turned toward her, finally meeting her gaze. “You’re not walking alone at night anymore. I’m not gonna let that happen.”

She bit her lip. “Rafe—”

“I’m serious. You need a ride, you call me. You’re out late, I’ll come get you. I don’t care what time it is.” His voice dipped, softer now. “You’re mine. You’re mine to look after, sweet girl. Got it?”

Her breath caught, and all she could do was nod again. “Got it.”

Satisfied, he leaned over, brushing his hand over her cheek in a touch so gentle it was almost jarring compared to the cold, dangerous edge he’d shown earlier. “Good. Now go inside. I’ll wait until you’re in.”

She reluctantly slid out of the truck, the night air cool against her flushed skin. As she reached her door, she glanced back to find him still watching, one arm draped casually over the steering wheel—but his eyes, sharp and unblinking, scanned the street like he was daring anyone to come near her again. She gave him a small wave to which he returned with a smile he only ever gave to her.

When she stepped inside and closed the door, she pressed her back against it, her heart pounding for an entirely different reason than it had ten minutes ago.