Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It happened when you were sixteen.

You hadn’t seen it coming. Why would you? Soulmates weren’t a thing by the time you were born. It was an old concept, a montage of grainy, black and white photos you might see in a museum, or the history channel if there was nothing else to watch.

The last recorded soulmate pairing happened in 1967. Ethel and Barry Manigold, from Des Moines, Iowa. You had remembered reading an article about the couple not long before, now old and gray, happy to have lived their lives together with their literal other half. Even back then, pairings had basically gone extinct, but against all odds they found each other. There had been a picture with the two of them, smiling and holding up their left wrists to display their marks, the visible manifestation of a bond that transcended space, time, or logic.

 It was a sweet story, but it marked the end of that era of human history. Experts postulated that pairings phased out with the advancement of technology. People didn’t need markings to bring them together, to fall in love and procreate. A plane ticket, a car ride, the click of a mouse could bring people together better than anything else. “Soulmate” was just a word now, a whimsical title lovers gave each other that didn’t hold any true weight. Soulmates just weren’t a thing anymore.  

And yet, it happened to you.

It was a day that was seared in your memory, one that rocked the very foundation of your life up until that point.

You were in history class, barely paying attention. You should have been since the midterm was coming up soon, but that hadn’t been your biggest concern. You were mostly concerned about the winter dance that was happening that Friday. You had already gotten a pretty dress, one that you hoped would impress Nathan Farris, who you had a big crush on.

In fact, Nathan sat directly in front of you during history. You had been watching the back of his head when Mrs. Friedman had changed slides on the projector that day, displaying a picture that would change your life forever.

“Okay, so now we’re going to talk about a turning point during the Second World War,” you heard your teacher say, your eyes still on Nathan’s thick curls. You were obsessed with the tendrils at the nape of his neck, and it was a struggle every day not to reach out and stroke them.

“During the war, the U.S. government had developed a secret super-soldier program, one that aimed to create genetically modified soldiers that were stronger and faster than the average man. Can anyone tell me the name of the first and only successful participant of this program?” Mrs. Friedman asked the class, her eyes expectant.

“Steve Rogers,” you heard Sadie Winlow call out, and you rolled your eyes, though they promptly returned to Nathan’s curls. Sadie was the biggest ass-kisser in your class, and she thought she was the smartest too, though her grades would say otherwise. You couldn’t stand her, and you figured there was hardly anyone in the entire school who could.

“Yes, Sadie,” Mrs. Friedman said, and you could tell she was stifling a sigh. “Steve Rogers is correct. He would become Captain America, and lead a group of men called the Howling Commandos. They were instrumental in the war effort, particularly when it came to Hydra, a secret division of the Nazis,” she said, clicking the slide once more.

That’s when you looked up and saw him. Not Captain America, though he was in the middle of the sepia photo displayed at the front of the room. No, your eyes landed straight on the man to the Captain’s right. He had short, dark hair, slicked back and parted at the side. His skin looked smooth and alabaster, his jawline sharp, a little dip in the middle of his chin. He looked young, perhaps only a few years older than you when the photo was taken. He was in uniform, carrying a rifle in his hand, looking off to the side at some point beyond the camera, his jaw set, his face determined.

And his eyes.

You couldn’t tell what color they were, you couldn’t even really see them too well from where you were sitting, but you were enraptured by them. Despite the look on his face, despite the surroundings and circumstances around him, his eyes looked kind and warm. Your breathing grew uneven as you continued to look at the photo, the rest of the class fading away, your teacher’s voice becoming a dim buzzing in your ear. Nothing existed at that moment but you and that man in the photo.

You didn’t know who he was, you didn’t know his name, you shouldn’t have cared, but your heart was seized by something foreign, something you couldn’t explain, and it was drawing you to this unknown man at lightning speed. It was a feeling that was beyond you; you couldn’t control it, and you were being consumed by it.

That’s why it took you so long to notice that your wrist was on fire. It was the only thing that pulled your attention away from the man in the picture. You looked down at your wrist, and it was red and angry, tiny irritated bumps dotting the skin there. You hissed when you touched it, the burning only getting worse by the moment. Tears sprang up in your eyes, and you covered your wrist with your other hand as best you could, hiding it in your lap with gritted teeth.

“Hey, you okay?”

You looked up to see Nathan looking back at you, a wrinkle between his brows, a slight pout on his lips. You opened your mouth to respond to him, but no words came out. You felt pressure build in you, like a boulder was placed on your chest, crushing against your rib cage and starving your organs of oxygen. Your eyes slid past Nathan, something that would have been impossible only minutes before, and you looked at the photo of the Howling Commandos again, at him, and you were gone.

More tears spilled onto your cheeks, not just because of your burning wrist, but because of the desperate tug you felt to the man in the photo, the searing need you had to be near him, to know him, to hear his voice, to feel his skin. But he was a photo, a flat image that could offer you nothing. It was excruciating.

“Seriously, Y/n, are you okay?” you heard Nathan say through your tears, adjusting himself in his seat so that he was facing you more fully.

You needed him, that man in the photo. You needed him, and he wasn’t there, and your heart was splitting in two.

You jolted from your desk, your chair falling behind you with a loud, rattling bang. You could barely see as you rushed through the row of desks to the classroom door, dimly hearing Mrs. Friedman calling out to you. You ran to the bathroom, past the neat line of classroom doors on either side of the hallway, and you bolted yourself in one of the cold, metal stalls. You sat on the toilet and grasped your head between your hands, trying to focus on your breathing and not the grief that was coursing through you.

You sobbed. Big, ugly, shuddering sobs that echoed against the tiled walls of the bathroom, ones that shook your whole body and rubbed your throat raw. You wrapped your arms around yourself, grasping at the fabric of your shirt and jeans, rocking back and forth, trying to ground yourself again. You felt hollow, emptier than you ever had, more alone than you ever had.  

Eventually, the sobbing stopped, reduced down to weak and wheezing breaths that came deep and slow. You felt yourself coming back from the ledge, something resembling normalcy, though you knew you were forever changed.

You sighed deeply, tilting your head back and closing your eyes, your mind piecing together what just happened as salty tears evaporated against your cheeks. You absently scratched at your wrist, and that’s when you saw it.

JBB.

Three simple letters, thin and black, rimmed with red, as if they were freshly needled onto your skin.

JBB.

You stared at the initials, you stared at them until they looked less like letters and more like undecipherable hieroglyphs. But you knew. You knew in your core what those letters meant, what they were connected to, who they were connected to.

You thought back to Ethel and Barry, that sweet picture of them with their left wrists held up to the camera, proudly displaying the three letters etched into their skin for life, the marks that brought them together against all odds.

JBB.

You didn’t know what those letters stood for, but you knew they belonged to him. The man in the photo, the man who fought alongside Captain America decades before you even existed.

You knew that you belonged to him. Somehow, through the pain still pulsing in your chest, it was a comforting thought. Somehow, you almost felt whole.

But he wasn’t there.

So where did that leave you?

Chapter Text

“A symbol to the nation. A hero to the world. The story of Captain America is one of honor, bravery, and sacrifice.”

The narrator’s deep voice seeped out of the hidden speakers overhead as you and Sadie shuffled into the newly minted exhibit with the rest of the eager tourists. It had just opened six months ago, and it was a must-see for anyone visiting Washington D.C.

The two of you walked past the large mural of the Captain that welcomed guests as they walked in, his blue eyes shining under his cowl, his hand raised in a formal salute, stars and stripes billowing behind him. If someone had told you a couple of years ago that you’d be visiting a museum exhibit dedicated to a man that was found trapped in ice for 70 years, you would have laughed in their face. But here you were, surrounded by relics that outlined the life of Captain Steven Grant Rogers, the living legend, the national treasure.  

“Denied enlistment due to poor health, Steven Rogers was chosen for a program unique in the annals of American warfare. One that would transform him into the world’s first super-soldier.”

“It’s unfair how attractive this man is,” Sadie said, shaking her head at an enlarged photo of Steve Rogers in his formal army uniform, standing around a table covered in maps along with other important people who were just as formally dressed, including Peggy Carter.

“He’s okay,” you said with a slight shrug, sneaking a finger under your left sleeve and rubbing slightly at your wrist.

Sadie looked at you incredulously. “Just ‘okay’? He’s the statue of David come to life,” she said, looking back up at the picture.

“Well, if that’s the case, then I guess the serum didn’t make everything super-sized,” you muttered. Sadie laughed and nudged you a little, both of you migrating to the next display.

If someone had told you a couple of years ago that you and Sadie would become best friends in college, you wouldn’t have just laughed in their face, they probably would have gotten a slap too. Like with most things, though, time changed you and Sadie. You hadn’t even realized you had gotten into the same college as Sadie until you ran into her at freshman orientation. Three years later, you were basically joined at the hip, all of the high school ire and drama faded into the past. You kind of regretted hating Sadie so much during those years, but you were grateful you had her now. She was funny and loyal, and she was always a comforting presence when you needed it.

You definitely needed it now. It had been Sadie’s idea to visit the Captain America exhibit. Your school had offered a trip to Washington D.C. for poli-sci majors like Sadie, but when there were a few more open seats left, she had convinced you to join her for the week-long trip. It had been mostly visiting different government buildings and hearing lectures from elected officials, but there were a few scheduled days of downtime that you and Sadie took advantage of.

She knew Washington would be like a candy store for you. You were a history major, and the nation’s capital was chock full of history. You had already been to Arlington National Cemetery to see the eternal flame at JFK’s grave, you visited the Lincoln and Washington memorials, and other iconic landmarks the National Mall had to offer.

Your sudden interest in history had surprised your parents back in high school. You used to hate that subject, and your grades had certainly reflected that. But you had good reason to want to know more about American history, with a particular focus on World War II and the 20^th century. No one else knew the reason, not even Sadie, so when you were hesitant about visiting the exhibit, she was shocked. You hadn’t wanted to raise any more suspicion, so you relented despite the pit that opened up in your gut.      

“Battle-tested, Captain America and his Howling Commandos quickly earned their stripes. Their mission: taking down Hydra, the Nazi rogue science division.”

The pit only expanded as you and Sadie reached the display of all the Howling Commandos’ uniforms, neatly arranged on faceless mannequins, lined up with the portraits of the men who had worn them all those decades ago.

There he was. Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes.

JBB.

The portrait behind his uniform resembled the photo you had seen that day in Mrs. Friedman’s class for the first time. His sharp jaw and bowed lips, and those kind, warm eyes. No matter the picture, those eyes never changed. Not that there were many photos of him you could find. There wasn’t much information about him available anywhere, but you gathered pieces where you could, scraps of a life you were bound to, but would never be a part of. Here, though, there was plenty of Bucky Barnes around, even some artifacts from the childhood he shared with Steve. An old bike, a worn cap. This was the most of him that you had ever been surrounded by, and it hurt more than anything.   

Sadie walked ahead of you, bypassing the Commandos’ display with little thought. You were stuck there, though, gazing up at the man who owned your entire heart. The man who, unlike his best friend, was very much dead. A dull ache filled your chest, one that reminded you of the unbearable loss you had to bear, the loss of something you never got to have.

“Best friends since childhood, Bucky Barnes and Steven Rogers were inseparable, on both schoolyard and battlefield. Barnes is the only Howling Commando to give his life in service to his country.”

You tore your eyes away from his portrait and walked up to a glass display not too far away that had his picture on it and a short inscription, an epitaph on a grave he was never afforded. You didn’t know the details of his death, just that it happened on a mission in Europe during the War.

You missed him. But how could you? You knew the bare minimum about this man, the one that only existed for you in the pages of historical documents. And yet, he was a burning fire in your heart, his very name etched into your skin.

At the base of the glass display was a screen, and short video snippets played out on it. The Sergeant with the Captain in uniform, looking over maps, smiling and laughing. Your breathing faltered and tears blurred your vision. This was the first time you had seen anything but a still photo of him. You watched him move, mystified by his purposeful grace, how every extension of his limbs brimmed with life and youth.

And his smile. The way his lips curved upwards and crinkled the corners of his eyes, those damn eyes. You had never seen him smile before, you realized, and the pain in your chest grew sharp and unforgiving.

Part of you wanted to hate James Buchanan Barnes. It wasn’t his fault necessarily, but you didn’t know who else to blame. Why would you have a soulmate you could never meet, never know? What cruel forces of the universe decided to toy with your life like this? You wished you were just crazy, that you just had some sort of weird obsession with this soldier from the past, but you knew that wasn’t true. Your mark was a reminder of that.

After the incident, you had tried everything to deny it, to be rid of it. You had tried to scrub it away in the shower. You tried countless creams that promised to remove dark marks from skin. You would have tried laser removal, but that would have required your parents’ permission and you didn’t want them to know. In your most drastic attempt, you had pressed your wrist against a pot of boiling water while your mother was cooking dinner and her back was turned. The burn had faded, but the letters never did.

You looked down and pulled up your left sleeve slightly. Despite the layer of foundation you had put over it that morning, you could see that the skin underneath was tinged pink, irritated and melancholy. That happened whenever you thought about him too much, like it was calling out to him even though there would never be an answer. You had become an expert at hiding your mark from other people, whether it was makeup, well-placed bracelets, or long sleeves. You didn’t want anyone to know. You could hardly believe it whenever you looked at those three letters, so you doubted anyone else would believe it either. You were scared you’d be committed to an institution, and part of you felt like maybe you should be.

No matter what, no matter how hard you fought it, James Buchanan Barnes was a part of you. You did extensive research on soulmates in the years after you had gotten your mark. You had hoped that you weren’t the only one, that maybe there were people out there like you, but nothing. You were really and truly alone.

You looked at the video screen again, at his smiling face, and it was too much. More tears spilled onto your cheeks and you placed a hand over your mouth to stifle the sob that threatened to escape. You squeezed your eyes shut and willed yourself to take a few deep breaths. When you felt composed enough, you stood a little straighter, wiping away at your cheeks, sniffling a little as you looked up to read the inscription on the glass display again.

You almost missed it.

The movement was so feather-light, you wouldn’t have noticed it unless you caught sight of the dark blue fabric in your periphery. You wiped at your eyes some more, a few stray tears escaping past your lids as you looked down to see a handkerchief being offered to you by an outstretched hand, covered in a black leather glove.

You blinked at it for a moment, surprised by the generosity of this stranger, embarrassed that someone had noticed your tiny breakdown. You gingerly took the handkerchief from the gloved hand, your mind scrambling to come up with something to say to its owner who stood just behind you. You wiped at your nose and turned, deciding that a simple ‘thank you’ would suffice, but when you looked up, the person was already gone.

You frowned, looking around at the sea of people gazing at the different displays in search of your benefactor. They were quick, whoever they were, but you knew they couldn’t have gone far. A few more moments of scouting and you were about to give up your search, when you spotted him.

You saw his retreating figure moving towards the entrance of the exhibit against the stream of tourists, and you caught his gloved hands dipping into his jacket pockets before he was swallowed up by the crowd. You stood there for a moment, your eyes following the back of his baseball cap, his dark hair peeking out from under it, just grazing his broad shoulders.

Before you could even think about it, you were following him, whoever he was. He was definitely fast, weaving effortlessly through the crowd as you pushed your way towards him, saying more than a few ‘sorry’s to the unsuspecting souls in your wake. As many steps as you took forward, he moved farther and farther away, out of your reach.

He rounded the corner of the entrance, and your heart lurched at losing sight of him. You fumbled past a few more layers of the crowd and followed him right out of the exhibit. Thankfully, the crowd thinned out in the lobby, dispersed throughout the wider space. You scanned around, looking for your mystery man, but he was nowhere in sight. An irrational panic gripped you as you rushed to the escalators that led to the rest of the museum. You stood at the top of the escalator, looking down its slope, and you saw him again, just as he was stepping off the bottom of the moving stairs and out of your line of sight.  

“Sorry. Sorry, I’m so sorry. Excuse me,” you said as apologetically as you could, pushing past the other departing guests that leisurely rode the escalator.

Each step you took was more urgent than the last, and you couldn’t understand why. You told yourself that you just wanted to return the handkerchief, to say a proper thanks, but you knew that didn’t explain why you were following this poor stranger like a maniac. You just knew you had to get to him.

You finally reached the bottom, wasting little time and forging ahead in the direction he went. You couldn’t see him yet, but you knew he had gone straight once he had gotten off the escalator, possibly toward the main exit of the museum. You walked through the seemingly endless sea of museum-goers, and you wondered if the entire population of D.C. decided to visit the Smithsonian that day. You were about to lose hope when you spotted him again, his familiar cap bobbing through the crowd.

You moved toward him as fast as you could, not even bothering to apologize to those in your path anymore. You ignored the stares you received, focused only on getting to the man in the cap. You were gaining on him, but the crowd was becoming denser as you moved on, and you knew you would lose him soon. You couldn’t let that happen.

“Hey!” you shouted at his back, hoping he could hear you, hoping that he would know you were calling for him. “Hey, you! Baseball cap!”

Even more people were staring now, but you didn’t care.

“Hey! I have your handkerchief!” you shouted, a last hail mary as he pushed further into the crowd. To your relief, you saw him falter a bit, his steps slowing. He looked to the side, and you saw his profile, a short glimpse of his sharp jaw, dotted with stubble. It looked like he was about to turn in your direction, but you didn’t get to see if he ever did.

You were sent tumbling to the floor, your foot catching on something you didn’t see. Luckily, your nose was saved from connecting with the marble floor by your right arm, which took the brunt of the fall. You didn’t think you broke anything, but there was a shooting pain that reached your shoulder that told you something might have been out of place.

“I’m sorry ma’am, are you alright?!” you heard a woman say above you. A couple of hands helped you off the ground, and you dimly registered the pain in your shoulder again, but that wasn’t your most pressing concern. You looked toward your mystery man again, but you were obstructed by the concerned-looking woman holding a toddler that had on a backpack with an attached leash. You figured that’s what you had tripped on, though the little boy looked nowhere near as remorseful as his mother.

“Are you okay?” she asked again as she smoothed her son’s hair with a gentle hand.

“I’m fine, thank you,” you said, trying to move past her, but she was insistent.

“Because I think they have a medical office here if you need it, you fell pretty hard,” she said, still standing in your way. You were losing time you didn’t have.

“I’m fine, thank you so much,” you said as politely as possible, placing a reassuring hand on her arm and swiveling past her. You heard her say something after you, but you didn’t have time for any more pleasantries.

He was gone.

You moved forward anyway, scanning the last place you saw him, but he was gone. A familiar feeling washed over you, a hollowness that took you back to a cold, metal bathroom stall in the middle of history class.

A thought entered your head. A small one, but you shook it off as quickly as it came. He’s dead, you reminded yourself. You didn’t believe in ghosts, and you knew that your mystery man was anything but. You had felt his solid hand under yours when you took his handkerchief, saw other people brush past his very solid frame.

He’s dead, you reminded yourself again as you itched your left wrist, caking foundation under your fingernails.

He’s dead.

“Oh my gosh, there you are. I was calling you, you didn’t hear your phone?” Sadie asked when you made it back up to the exhibit. She had already pilfered the gift shop, a pair of dangling shield earrings already on her ears, a bag full of souvenirs on her arm.   

“Sorry,” you said. You had said that word enough times in the span of ten minutes that it sounded like nothing now.

Sadie peered at you closely, narrowing her eyes at you. You averted her gaze, instead picking up a mug randomly that had the Howling Commandos’ insignia on it.

“I’m gonna get this, I’ll be back,” you said to her quickly, wanting to escape her inevitable interrogation. She always knew when something was wrong. It was maddening.

You stood in line, keeping your eyes on the cheap mug in your hand, focusing on your breathing to keep your tears at bay, burying naïve thoughts and nefarious hopes.

He’s dead, he’s dead, he’s dead.

Chapter Text

The final bell sounded, loud and shrill, and completely welcomed on a Friday afternoon.

Your students were quick to pack up, the sound of chairs scraping against the wooden floor and papers being shoved into backpacks drowning out the last part of your spiel about the causes of the stock market crash of 1929.

“Okay guys, don’t forget about the quiz we’re having on Wednesday, and we officially start our unit on the Great Depression on Monday!” you called out over the din, rushing to gather some papers on your desk. “And don’t forget to pick up the study guides on your way out!” you reminded them, placing the stack of guides on the corner of your desk.

You sighed as you watched most of your students rush out of the classroom without so much as a glance at the study sheets, the pile remaining neat and untouched. Being a history teacher at Midtown School of Science and Technology was no easy feat. Trying to get your students excited about the subject was like trying to get a fish to breathe air; it was nearly impossible. All of your students were smart, there was no doubt about that, but there was no denying the bored and blank stares you got during class. They weren’t concerned about the past, more enticed by innovation, invention, and the glittering prospect of the future. You couldn’t exactly blame them. There was a reason they chose to attend a school that put emphasis on STEM, but you were determined to get your students rhapsodic for history, even if it was the last thing you ever did. By the looks of it, it just might be.

“Hey Penis, you got any plans this weekend?” Flash Thompson bellowed across the classroom as the rest of the students trickled out into the hall. You winced slightly. Did this kid realize how grating his voice was?

You looked over at Peter, who seemed just as chagrined at the attention, packing up his things with a roll of his eyes. Flash was unrelenting, though, heading over to Peter’s desk and making a big show of displaying the Rolex he had gotten from his father.

“You forgot your name, Parker?” Flash said, leaning over into Peter’s personal space. You could smell the cologne that Flash drenched himself in all the way from your vantage point, so you could only imagine that poor Peter was drowning in it. “What does a dork like you do on a Friday night? Play Dungeons and Dragons?” he sniggered to himself as if he said something particularly witty.

“Flash, please,” you said, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Leave him alone.”

Fortunately, that did make him leave Peter alone. Unfortunately, that meant his attention was turned to you. He strolled up to your desk, one of his eyebrows cocked up, a wry grin twisting his mouth in what he probably supposed was a seductive look. You groaned internally. You had no clue what you did to induce the crush Flash decided he had on you this year, but you really wished you could take it back.

“I’m just joshing with the kid, Y/n,” he said as he sidled up in front of you, leaning a hand on your desk. “I don’t bite. Unless you want me to,” he said with a wink.

“First of all, it’s Ms. Y/l/n to you,” you informed him, crossing your arms across your chest. “Secondly, you’re like twelve. Get out of my face.” You would usually try to diffuse the situation diplomatically, but it was past 2:30 on a Friday afternoon, and all decorum had flown out the window by lunchtime.

“I’ll be seventeen next month, actually,” Flash replied, not one to be easily deterred. “I’m a man, and you look like you need a man.” He winked. Again.

“Really? In that case…” you said leaning forward a bit. That took Flash by surprise, both his eyebrows meeting his hairline, a glimmer of hope in his eyes, “…you should still get out of my face. I don’t date men named after camera functions.”

Flash’s shoulders deflated, and a chorus of “ooohhhs” and a punctuated “oh damn" sounded from the remaining students.

“Do you need some aloe vera for that burn, Flash?” Ned called out, fist-bumping Peter. He held out his fist to MJ but she only stared at him plainly, and he lowered his hand sheepishly.

“I’ll wear you down one day, Miss,” Flash said after he recovered, giving you one last wink before sauntering out of the classroom.

“Just make sure you wear down those notes for the quiz next week,” you shouted after him. Good lord.

Peter, Ned, and MJ made their way past your desk to the door, each of them picking up a study guide. You couldn’t help but smile at the trio. As a teacher, you tried to be as unbiased as you could with all your students, but those three had a special place in your educator’s heart. They were awkward and quiet, for sure, but they put in hard work in your class and they were the kind of students that reminded you why you wanted to teach in the first place. Peter was especially brilliant, but he didn’t seem to quite believe that yet.

You had hope that he’d realize his own potential one day soon, but lately, he seemed to be preoccupied with something in his personal life. You couldn’t miss the dark circles under his eyes, or the fact that he had landed himself in detention more times than you’d expect for a sweet kid like him. Apparently, he had been caught sneaking out of the building a few times, and in the two years you’d known him, it wasn’t like him to violate the rules like that. You figured it had something to do with everything that went down with his uncle, so you didn’t give him any further grief when you caught him nodding off in class a few times, today included.

“Peter?” you called out, and the three of them stopped in their tracks, MJ and Ned lingering by the door and Peter nervously approaching your desk. You widened your smile to let him know he wasn’t in any trouble, and he visibly relaxed a bit.

“I just wanted to check in with you,” you said, rounding your desk and sitting at the edge of it. “Is everything alright? At home, with you and May? Do you guys need anything?”

“Oh uh, no, we’re good Miss,” he stuttered a bit, adjusting his backpack on his shoulder. “Thanks for asking.”

“No problem, I’m here to help in any way, if you need it,” you assured him. You narrowed your eyes at his cheek, focusing in on the fading bruise just under his eye. He noticed and he stiffened again, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed nervously. “I would ask if Flash is responsible for that, but I don’t think he’s capable,” you said, and Peter laughed.

He reached up and rubbed at the bruise, as if that would make it go away. “No, I uh, fell. Down the stairs. While I was…getting mail, yeah, there was a wet spot that the custodian missed, and I took a tumble,” he said a little breathlessly, scratching at the back of his neck.

You pursed your lips, deciding not to push the issue. Someone needed to teach this kid how to lie better. “Well, I didn’t realize getting mail was such an extreme sport, but be careful next time, Pete. Have a good weekend,” you said, giving his shoulder a quick squeeze.

“You too, Miss,” Peter said, giving you a lopsided grin and rejoining Ned and MJ. They headed out into the hall, but MJ turned back, opening the notebook she had in her hands and tearing out a page.

“I almost forgot,” she said, placing the piece of paper on your desk. You looked down to find a nice, if not slightly exaggerated drawing of yourself. “For you.”

You blinked down at the drawing for a moment, then looked up at MJ again. “Er…thank you, Michelle. But I’m not in crisis,” you told her, your eyebrows knitting together.

She squinted her eyes at you. “Aren’t you?” she asked in a way that suggested she knew the answer to that better than you did. She nodded sagely at you before departing, leaving you to ponder…whatever it was that she was trying to convey. That girl would forever be a mystery to you.

You packed up your things and headed out into the balmy, April afternoon. You took in a deep breath, and you felt refreshed despite the exhaustion of the last week. You began walking the few blocks to the train station, double-checking your wallet to make sure you had your MetroCard. You took your time strolling along the long avenues of Midtown. You enjoyed New York City in the spring. Everything seemed so much brighter and vibrant, the entire city brimming with new hope and possibilities.

After graduation, it had been Sadie’s idea to move out to New York. She had realized she wanted nothing to do with politics, rendering her poly-sci degree null and void in favor of an entry-level job at a fashion magazine. At first, you weren’t sure, intimidated by the big city and doubtful you could find a good teaching job, but Sadie always had the best ideas, so you followed her here with little resistance. The two of you hadn’t been able to afford anything in Manhattan, but you managed to find a cozy two-bedroom in Downtown Brooklyn that was a quick subway ride away. You loved Brooklyn. It felt new and exciting, but also historic and steeped in tradition. It felt more like home than you had been expecting it to, like somehow it was where you were meant to be. You felt connected to this place, and you had a feeling it had something to do with the three letters on your left wrist.

You tried not to think about it too much. Since the incident a couple of years ago at the Smithsonian, you had been determined not to let your mark control your life. It was something you accepted, but you didn’t want it to hold you back anymore, to consume you in a way that left you splintered and scattered. James Buchanan Barnes wasn’t here, but you were, and you were going to make the most out of your life without him. That included the possibility of sharing your life with someone who wasn’t him.

Your phone vibrated as you neared the station, and your heart did a little flip. You checked the text on the screen and you couldn’t contain the smile that invaded your face.

Congrats, teach. You’re free for the next 48 hours.

His name was Will. You had met him while you were browsing the biography section of a used bookstore a couple of months ago. It took quite a few run-ins after the first for you to agree to give him your number, but he was cute and sweet and made you feel good. You had never entertained a relationship before. While you had enjoyed a few cups of coffee with him at the bookstore’s café, you hadn’t committed to an actual date with him. The last guy you had liked was Nathan from 11^th grade, and the thought of actually pursuing something romantic made your stomach churn slightly. But Will was special, and you wanted to take that leap with him.

Thank goodness. Kinda hoping to spend some of those hours with you :)

Your thumb hovered over the send button, wondering if maybe that was too forward or too corny. You didn’t know the rules for this kind of thing, and it made your pulse speed up, but you decided not to overthink it, pressing your thumb down and sending the message across cyberspace. You cringed a little, ready to hurl your phone into oncoming traffic, but the reply came sooner than you expected.

Kinda hoping the same thing :)

You bit your lip, excitement bubbling in your chest, a slight bounce creeping into your steps. It didn’t wear off by the time you got home, and Sadie was quick to point it out.

“Why do you look so giddy?” she asked from the couch as you stepped into the door, placing your keys on the small table beside it.

“I’m not giddy,” you said, failing miserably to contain your smile.

Sadie got up and met you in the kitchen, standing there with her hands on her hips as you rifled through the takeout menu drawer in search of something to eat. You avoided her gaze, smiling down at the various restaurant logos, your face warm and flushed.

“Spill. Now,” Sadie commanded. You broke at that, tipping your head back and laughing, releasing all the giddiness you were trying to hide.

“Okay, okay,” you said, trying to compose yourself, but you dissolved into another fit of giggles.

“Oh my gosh, you’re bursting, get a hold of yourself woman,” Sadie said, though she was laughing herself. “I need to hear this.”

You took a couple of deep breaths and faced her, dramatically pausing to build the suspense.

“I’m two seconds from choking you, tell me!” Sadie cried, giving your shoulders a shake.

“Alright, alright,” you said recovering from another burst of laughter. Suddenly, you grew a little sheepish, looking down at your feet and tugging at your sleeve. “I, uh, I think I’m going to go out with Will this weekend,” you said quietly, the weight of it finally settling over you.

Sadie gasped, placing a hand over her mouth. “Seriously?” she asked, her voice muffled by her fingers.

You nodded, looking up at her shyly. “I think so,” you said, uncertainty edging into your voice. You grabbed at your wrist, rubbing it gently, a wrinkle forming between your brows. The gesture didn’t go unnoticed.

“No,” Sadie said, grabbing both your hands in her own. “Y/n, this is good. This is a good thing. Will is here, he’s not,” she said gently, glancing down at your wrist. “Will makes you happy. You deserve to be happy.”

You swallowed down the lump threatening to form in your throat. When you had moved in with Sadie, it had become harder to keep your mark a secret from her. You caved one night, telling her everything over a bottle of cheap vodka and multiple pints of ice cream. To your everlasting surprise, she didn’t think you were crazy. She had remembered that day in Mrs. Friedman’s class when you ran out so abruptly, and now she knew why. It felt like a huge weight had been lifted off your shoulders, finally allowing someone else to help carry the burden you had since you were a teenager.

You sighed and nodded, squaring your shoulders again and pushing out a small grin. “You’re right. I’m just nervous, that’s all,” you said, turning back to the drawer to pick out a menu.

“Don’t be, that’s what I’m here for,” Sadie said confidently, scrolling through her phone. “In fact, I think I have the perfect thing for you to wear. Nice and slutty.”

You laughed again, shaking your head at her. You were about to tell her to keep her sluttiness to herself, when you noticed the shocked look on her face.

“Oh crap,” she whispered, her eyes glued to the screen. “Crap. Crap, crap, craaaap,” she repeated, scrolling furiously.

“What is it?” you asked, moving closer to her to get a peek at what she was looking at. She looked up at you then, her face ashen, staring at you with an intensity that made a shiver travel down your spine. “What? What happened?”

“We need to turn on the news,” she said, rushing into the living room. You followed after her, watching as she fumbled with the remote, turning on the television and finding CNN.

Images of a smoking building filled the screen, fire trucks dowsing out flames, sirens sounding somewhere off-camera. The chyron at the bottom of the screen read: UNITED NATIONS COMPLEX BOMBED.

“A bomb hidden in a news van ripped through the U.N. building in Vienna,” the somber news anchor’s voice reported over the imagery. “More than seventy people have been injured, at least twelve are dead, including Wakanda’s King T’Chaka.”

You looked over at Sadie to find her watching you, that same intense expression on her face. She reached over and grabbed your hand, squeezing tightly enough that you were concerned about your circulation. You were about to ask her if she was okay, to ask why she was staring at you like that, but what the news anchor said next explained everything.

“Officials have released a video of a suspect who they have identified as James Buchanan Barnes, The Winter Soldier, the infamous Hydra agent linked to numerous acts of terrorism and political assassinations.” Black and white security footage played, showing a man in a black coat walking into the frame. The image wasn’t too clear, but it was zoomed in, and it was unmistakable. His jawline, his brow, the shape of his nose.

It was him.

JBB.

A strangled sound escaped your throat, your body jerking back as if someone had struck you. You swayed a little, and Sadie’s hand tightened around your own. Your brain was buzzing, trying to process everything, trying to process the impossible.

How?

The anchor was all too happy to explain.

“Newly declassified documents reveal that Barnes had been in Hydra custody for seventy years, kept in suspended animation to maintain his viability. Before then, he had served alongside Steven Rogers during World War II as a Howling Commando. It was believed that he had died in the line of duty for some seven decades. So far, Captain Rogers nor the Avengers have issued any statement on the matter.”

The anchor moved onto the next item, more about the passing of the Wakandan king. You stood frozen, looking at the screen blankly, your chest rising with labored breaths.

You heard Sadie talking to you, but she sounded far away, like you were underwater. You felt numb, you felt everything, you felt like you were a scared little girl again, crying in a cold bathroom stall, confused and hurt and alone.

But he was alive. He was alive.

“Oh my gosh, Y/n!” you heard Sadie shout, but you didn’t hear anything else as your knees gave out from under you.

Everything went black.

Chapter Text

“I think she’s hungover.”

“I don’t know, I don’t think so.”

“Oh, she’s definitely hungover. Might even still be drunk.”

“But, like, is that even legal?”

“Nope, she’s getting fired by the end of the week--”

“Enough,” you half groaned, rubbing at your eyes underneath the shades you had on, despite the fact that you were indoors. Whoever invented fluorescent lights deserved to have their heads dunked in a toilet for eternity. You glared at the students who had been whispering, or at least you hoped that they could tell you were glaring at them. “I’m not drunk. I just look like crap,” you said, fixing your shirt a bit in spite of that.

One of the students scoffed. “And she thinks the sunglasses are hiding that?” they half-whispered to another.

“I’m sorry, what was that?” you asked, leaning your ear toward them. “You said you wanted detention for the rest of the month?”

The student blanched. “No, Miss. I’m shutting up now,” they said, hastily picking a book out of their backpack and opening it up to a random page.

You nodded contently, leaning back in your seat and taking a big swig of room temperature coffee from the mug on your desk. Somehow, you had gotten stuck with detention coverage for the whole week, which meant that every day after class you got to spend two hours in a dreary, windowless classroom in the basement by the gym, with a bunch of students who looked anything but remorseful for committing the indiscretions that landed them there.

You sighed audibly, placing your mug down, and your heart leaped at the winged Howling Commandos insignia printed on the side of it. You pulled out your phone, scrolling through the various news apps you had downloaded recently to see if there were any important updates. It had been about a month since the bombing in Vienna, and you lost track of how many hours of sleep you lost trying to learn as much as you could about the Winter Soldier.

That’s what they always called him, the Winter Soldier. As if that were his name, as if that’s all he was. It had turned out that he hadn’t been responsible for the bombing in Vienna, framed by some rogue Sokovian with a vendetta. Still, that hadn’t let the Soldier off the hook. Senate hearings were held to determine if he would be granted amnesty by the United States government. Those hearings were largely closed-door because of the classified nature of the offenses charged against the Soldier, but you managed to get tidbits from what was released to the public.  

As much as it hurt believing that James Buchanan Barnes was dead, it had hurt you even worse to learn what had been done to him all those years. He had been tortured, experimented on, stripped of his humanity to do the bidding of the vilest of human beings, if they could even be called human at all.

“While Mr. Barnes may have the same physical body he did in the forties, he will never be the same. The very physiology of his brain has been altered by the trauma he sustained,” one of the psychologists had stated in their testimony. He wasn’t the man in the photos anymore, he wasn’t the man you had first laid eyes on in Mrs. Friedman’s class.

You still loved him, though.

You had never let yourself use that word to describe how you felt about him before, but you couldn’t deny it anymore. You hadn’t wanted to place that label on it because it was too heavy and permanent, and he wasn’t there to love, to give or receive it. But he was here now, and you knew it more than ever before. You felt it in your bones that you loved him, and you desperately wanted him to know it. You wanted to be the balm he needed to heal, to be whatever he needed, no matter what it was, no matter how much it cost you.

You caught the tears before they slipped past the edge of the shades you had on, quickly swiping at your cheeks before any of the students noticed. You were so tired of crying. You had spent most of your adult life crying and mourning, begging on your knees in the middle of the night to anyone who would listen to bring him back to you, and now, against your wildest dreams, he was here, but you still couldn’t have him. If the universe hadn’t been laughing before, it was definitely laughing at you now.

Some of the students began to whisper again, and you rolled your eyes. Technically, they weren’t even supposed to talk during detention, but you didn’t have the energy or the care to stop them

“Does that mean you know Captain America?” you heard someone (her name was Maggie, or Margie) whisper, and your head snapped up at the mention of the star-spangled Avenger.

“Yeah, we’ve met. A bunch of times, actually,” you hear Peter whisper back. You didn’t know what landed Peter in detention this time, but he had it for the whole week. “We’re, uh, kind of friends,” he added, a hint of smugness edging into his voice.

“That’s so cool,” Maggie/Margie said dreamily, leaning towards Peter a little more.

“Uh, yeah. It’s pretty cool. He let me hold his shield,” Peter said, leaning a bit toward her as well.

MJ scoffed. “You’re still a nerd,” she said to Peter, giving Maggie (pretty sure it was Margie) a severe look that lasted a bit too long.

Peter deflated, shooting MJ a look, but Margie (nope, definitely Maggie) seemed unaffected.

“You know the Avengers, you’re so lucky, Peter. I wish I could have a Stark internship,” she said in a low, smooth tone, brushing a hand over Peter’s arm. He looked down at her hand, which lingered on his bicep, his ears and cheeks tinging pink.

“Uh, yeah…” Peter began, his trademark stuttering beginning to shine through, but he was interrupted by something, someone, loud and unwelcomed.

“Hey, Penis, why don’t you call Tony Stark to get you out of detention? Oh, that’s right, you don’t actually know him,” Flash shouted, once again laughing as if he let loose a real zinger. As smart as these kids were, they couldn’t roast anyone for their lives. He sauntered into the room, flipping the collar of the designer jacket he was wearing. You internally gagged.    

“I do know him,” Peter muttered, his flush growing even deeper. He pulled at his sleeves anxiously.

“Miss, he’s not supposed to be here,” MJ piped up, pointing towards Flash.

“I know, Michelle,” you sighed, even though you knew for a fact she wasn’t supposed to be there either. You turned toward the intruder. “Flash. Out. Now.”

“But, baby, the party’s finally here,” he said, coming up to your desk. He sat down on the edge of it, leaning in so that his cologne could choke the life out of you. “Why don’t you let me take you out after this, huh? I’ll treat you good,” he said, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively.

You stared at him for a moment, your jaw clenched, unbridled rage violently coursing through you. By some miracle, you managed to calm down after a second, letting it all out in a long exhale. You took off your shades, if only to let the dark circles under your eyes punctuate how serious you were.

“Flash,” you said, evening out your voice. “I mean this with the utmost respect possible. If you don’t get out of my face, I will take you out. With my fist. Respectfully.”

For probably the first time in his existence, Flash got the point, backing away from your desk with his hands up in surrender and heading towards the door again.

“Yes, ma’am,” he gulped before turning around and making a quick exit.

You ran a hand through your hair, rubbing the spot between your eyebrows with the other. You glanced up at the clock and you almost screamed. There was no way only 35 minutes had passed so far. You looked over at the students, each watching you warily in case you decided to drop some of your aggression onto them, too.  

“How about we call this a day?” you proposed, your exhaustion already seeping out of every syllable. “I won’t tell if you don’t,” you added, raising your eyebrows expectantly.

They were hesitant at first, unsure if you were joking or not, but once you got up and began packing up your things, they followed suit, exiting the classroom hastily as if you were going to change your mind.

MJ walked up to your desk, gently placing a piece of paper down in front of you. You were unsurprised to find another drawing of yourself, shades and all, the haggard expression on your caricature’s face matching yours exactly. MJ waited patiently while you examined her handiwork. You looked up at her and managed to grin.

“Thanks, Michelle,” you said, readily accepting the drawing. You were, without a doubt, in crisis, and weirdly enough, it was comforting to know that someone understood, if only a little. She nodded in that knowing way she had and departed the room, leaving you to marinate in your own thoughts.  

You made it home on autopilot, barely registering anything around you. You were anesthetized to the world and there was no waking up from it, resigned to a fate of wanting and never having.

“You look like death on two feet,” Sadie said when you made it home, the apartment filled with the scent of freshly delivered pizza. You grumbled something resembling a ‘hello’ and grabbed two slices, plopping down on the couch and turning on the news. At this point, you knew every anchor on CNN by name. You were even following some of them on Twitter now.

“No,” Sadie said firmly, crossing her arms and standing in between you and the screen. “You can’t keep doing this to yourself.”

“Sadie. Move. Now,” you glared at her. “Or I’ll move you.” Just how many people did you need to threaten today?

“Don’t use your teacher voice with me, you know it doesn’t work,” Sadie said, staying right where she was. She sighed, giving you a pitying look that made your nostrils flare. “You’re my best friend, I can’t keep seeing you this way.”

“What way?” you sighed, having no choice but to humor her.

“This way!” she exclaimed, gesturing vaguely to the space around you. “You’re glued to this couch, watching this T.V. to get a two-second glimpse of a 100-year-old ex-assassin at all hours of the night. You need to do something besides mope around like this.”

“And what would you have me do Sadie?” you asked bitterly, crossing your own arms. “This,” you mirrored her gesturing, “is the only way I can have him. This is all I get. This is all I’ll ever get,” you said emphatically, lifting your left arm and tugging down your sleeve. “These stupid letters, and some random news clips. That’s all I have of him, Sadie,” you told her, your voice breaking at the end.

She broke too, rounding the coffee table and sitting in front of you. “That’s not true,” she said softly, peering at your face, but you couldn’t meet her gaze. You took a bite of pizza instead, but you couldn’t even taste it.

“He’s alive, Y/n,” she continued, conviction building in her voice. “He’s alive, which means that you have a chance now, to be with him. We just have to get to him,” she said crossing her arms again, but this time with determination.

“How?” you asked, trying to control the wavering of your voice. “He’s with the Avengers, for goodness’ sake. There’s no hotline I can call. It’s not like I can just waltz into Stark Tower and--” you stopped short.

“What?” Sadie asked, looking a little more concerned than before.

Peter.

You couldn’t waltz into Stark Tower, but Peter could. He had the internship, he said he knew the Avengers, had access to them.

And he was your student.

Which meant, the only thing potentially standing in between you and the love of your life was…Penis Parker.

A thousand thoughts ran through your head, a push and pull of ideas that bordered between idiotic and ingenious. You stood and began to pace, running both hands through your hair, your nails scraping at your scalp in an effort to ground yourself.

“Okay, you’re scaring me,” Sadie said, meeting you mid-stride and grabbing your shoulders. “What’s going on in that brain of yours?” she said, gently extracting your hands from your hair.

You fought against the feeling bubbling in your chest, and it took you a moment to realize what it was. It wasn’t grief, it wasn’t pain, it wasn’t the emptiness that had become like a security blanket to you over the years.

 It was hope. Real and true hope, not based on dreams or fantasies, but grounded in tangible reality.

“Y/n? Are you okay?” Sadie asked, her brows meeting and un-meeting, her face unsure how to interpret the expression on yours.

“Yeah,” you said, nodding more to yourself than to her. “Yeah, I think so,” you tried to convince yourself. Everything hit you at once, the strength zapping out of you, your shoulders slumping. “I think I’m going to bed,” you told her, despite the fact that the sun was still out and nowhere near sinking.

Sadie looked at you, really looked at you before nodding and letting you go. You could tell she wanted to push you on it, but she always understood when you needed space. You made it to your room and you immediately collapsed onto your bed, clothes and all. You didn’t even have enough energy to change into your pajamas.

Despite that fact, your eyes remained opened, even as the night crept through your window. You stared at the ceiling and thought about your soulmate. James. Bucky. Sergeant Barnes. JBB. You never knew what to call him. James seemed so formal, but Bucky always seemed too intimate. You didn’t know him, what right did you have to call him by his nickname? He had always been an abstract in your life, even though the initials on your wrist felt like a concrete weight. Now, though, he was real. Somewhere, he was out there under the same moon and stars as you. Maybe he was lying on a bed similar to yours. Maybe he was awake too, staring at his own ceiling at the same exact moment.  

Maybe he was thinking of you.

The thought made your heart jump, and your body wanted to reject it, to remind you that happy thoughts like that didn’t belong to you. But he was out there, and you needed to try to get to him. You had to…and it all rested on the shoulders of your lanky, awkward, teenaged student.

You looked at the clock. 3:30 am. No sleep for you.

That didn’t matter, because you got up anyway, turning on the lamp above your desk and taking out a legal pad and pen. You stared at the blank page, and it felt like staring into your future. You scratched at your wrist and looked down at it, at those infuriating, beautiful, cursed, and cherished letters. You traced each one, savoring every curve and edge. You took a deep breath and began to write, taking a step closer to your forever.

Dear Captain Rogers...

Chapter Text

You were pretty sure the envelope was burning a hole through your desk. It was going to burn through your desk and set the whole school on fire, and then you’d be jobless, then homeless, and then you’d have to start selling pictures of your feet to weird, old, rich dudes who had a foot thing.

You had to give Peter the letter.

You had to.

You just couldn’t.

In the dead of night, it had seemed like a good idea, but in the harsh light of day, you felt foolish. You couldn’t seriously ask your student to deliver a letter to Captain America for you. It was stupid, it was ludicrous, it was asinine. Every time you told yourself you were going to give Peter the letter, you chickened out and you left it in your top desk drawer, just festering. Today was the last day you were covering detention, though, and it was the last day Peter had detention for the foreseeable future. This was your chance, it felt like your only chance, and you were determined to get this done.

Or not.

You kept glancing up at Peter the entire time, trying to work up the nerve, but your insides felt like jelly. What if he said no? What if he said yes? What were the chances that Steve Rogers would even entertain your story? He’d probably just write you off as some delusional fan and put your letter in a shredder. And if you couldn’t convince the Captain, then what chance did you have of convincing anyone else, including the one person who mattered most? Still, you had to try.

You glanced up at Peter one more time, and this time he caught you. His eyebrows furrowed, probably wondering why you had been staring like a creep, and you quickly looked away, busying yourself with the quizzes you had been grading (or pretending to grade while you had an existential crisis). A little while later, the detention bell rang, the signal of freedom you had come to know and appreciate for the past week, and the students began to pack up at lightning speed, ready for the weekend that was waiting for them just outside those four walls.

You couldn’t do it. You just couldn’t. You avoided looking at Peter, instead packing up your things with unsteady hands because you knew you would only watch him walk out that door without giving him the damn letter. It was for the best, anyway. It was ridiculous, you weren’t going to pull him into your nonsense. You were sure there was another way. Yeah, you’d think of another plan to gain access to the world’s most guarded man, yeah that’s right, you’ll just—

“Miss?”

You jumped, the quizzes in your hand cascading to the floor with more grace than you felt. Peter quickly stooped down to pick them up, gathering them into a neat pile and handing them over to you carefully like you were a skittish mare.

“Sorry about that, Miss. I didn’t mean to scare you like that,” Peter said sheepishly, rubbing at the back of his neck.

You laughed a little, stuffing the papers into your bag. “No, it’s okay Peter, my fault. Guess I’m just…easily spooked, is all.” You looked up at him and gave him your best teacher smile. “What can I do for you, Pete?”

He smiled back, catching a stray quiz on the desk and handing it to back you. “Uh, I just wanted to know what that acronym was again. The one that named the causes of World War I, I kind of forgot it,” he told you, adjusting the straps of his backpack.

“Oh, yes, sure,” you said, your eyes landing on the envelope that was in your bag. Do it. Do it now, you coward. “It was MANIA. Militarism, Alliances, Nationalism, Imperialism, and the Assassination of Franz Ferdinand, the Archduke of Austria-Hungary,” you told him, tearing your eyes away from the envelope and forcing yourself to look at him.

Peter nodded, mentally taking note of what you rattled off. “Thanks, Miss. Have a good weekend,” he said cheerfully, giving you a small wave before heading towards the door where MJ and Ned waited.

It was like you were watching him go in slow motion, every part of your brain screaming after him, but your mouth was unwilling to do the same. You were frozen in the worst way possible, helplessly watching your chance slip on by.  

DO IT, YOU IDIOT! DON’T LET HIM GO!

“Peter, wait!” you said, snapping out of your stupor and cringing hard at yourself. He stopped and turned, one of his eyebrows cocked expectantly. You took a deep, shaky breath and pulled out the envelope. You stared at it for a moment before you turned back to Peter, grasping for the right words to say.

“Peter, I have a mission for you,” you said, trying to sound as professional and confident as you could, even though your insides felt like jelly.

Peter’s eyes widened, and he took several steps closer to you, looking around the room even though you were the only two there. “Wait, what? Really?” he asked incredulously. “Wait, do you know Mr. Stark? Did Happy send you?” he said conspiratorially, looking at you with an intensity that made you take a couple of steps back.

“What?” you asked him, genuinely a little scared. “Happy? Is that a person?”

Peter’s face fell, and his shoulders drooped, his face coloring with embarrassment. He cleared his throat and straightened up a bit, regaining some of his composure. “Never mind. Um, uh, what can I do for you?”

You eyed him for a moment longer before regarding the envelope in your hands. With another deep breath, you held it out to him, and he grabbed it, taking a hefty chunk of your heart with it. He looked at it quizzically, then back up at you with just as much confusion.

“You know the Avengers, right?” you asked him, barely taming the quiver in your voice. “Because of your Stark internship? I heard you talking about it with Margie the other day,” you said, still eyeing the envelope.

“You mean Maggie?” he asked.

Damn. Knew it was Maggie.

“Yeah, yes,” you said, shaking your head a bit. “Maggie, her. Is it true though? Do you really know them?” you asked. Some small part of you hoped he would say no so you could take back that freaking letter and pretend none of this ever happened.

“Yeah, you could say that,” he said as nonchalantly as he could. “I run into them all the time in the tower. Iron Man, Black Widow, Captain America, the Hulk. Well, I’ve never actually seen him while he was green, but still,” he said, rambling a bit. “And Spiderman, sometimes, a little bit, occasionally. He’s kind of hard to come by, busy saving the neighborhood and all that, but he’s a cool guy. Cool dude,” he added quickly, looking around again as if he said something he shouldn’t have.

You squinted at him a little, holding back a sigh before nodding a bit. “Good, good. Um, this is going to sound weird, and you don’t need to do this if it’ll get you in trouble, but…” you took a sharp breath, “…I need you to give that letter to Captain Rogers.”

Peter’s quizzical look returned, glancing at the envelope in his hand. “Okay. What’s this about?” he asked carefully.

“It’s complicated,” you offered weakly. “It’s not some weird, obsessive fan letter,” you added, taking a guess at what he was thinking. “It’s important, Peter. Really, really important. I—I feel like my life is in your hands right now,” you said breathily, looking down at your shoes. You couldn’t believe you were actually doing this.

“Don’t worry, Miss. I’ll deliver this to Steve,” you heard Peter say, his voice uncharacteristically firm and assertive. You looked up, and his shoulders were squared and broad, his jaw set, his brow steady. He looked almost…heroic.

You dismissed that thought and smiled gratefully, and it felt like a bolder had finally, finally, lifted off your chest. “Thank you, Peter. Thank you so much.”

“No problem. Have a good weekend,” Peter said again with another wave, making his way over to MJ and Ned. The two others waved at you, and you waved back, ready to let them go, but there was one more thing.

“Aren’t you forgetting my drawing, Michelle?” you reminded her. You were racking up quite the collection, and you figured they would sell for a pretty penny if she ever became a famous artist.

To your surprise, she looked at you for a moment and shook her head. “Nah, you’re good,” was all she proclaimed, and with that, the three of them disappeared down the hall.

You stood there and thought that through. You did feel good. You felt better than you had in weeks, months, years even. You trusted that Peter would get the job done, and you would be a step closer to where you needed to be, a step closer to him. You felt light, and positive, like you could take on anything, like you could conquer the world, like the universe was finally on your side for once.

You just didn’t know how long that feeling would last.

*~*~*~*~*

Turns out, that light, happy feeling lasted about 30 minutes.

For the next week and a half after giving Peter the letter, you were a wreck. It was the only thing you could think about, and it was driving you certifiably insane. Despite the fact that Peter said he handed the letter directly to Captain Rogers, you hadn’t heard anything since. You checked the mail obsessively, to point where Sadie claimed you were having an affair with the mailman. You constantly refreshed your email, but you were only met with boring meeting reminders and pleas for extra credit. You wanted to lose hope, to throw in the towel, but there was a stubborn, immovable part of you that refused. It was a small part of you, but you had come too far, you were too close, and you weren’t ready to open Pandora’s Box and let hope go just yet. 

Thankfully, the end of the school year was on the horizon, and parent-teacher conferences were here to distract you, if only for a bit. You had a love-hate relationship with parent-teacher conferences. On the one hand, it was a chance to let parents know how well their kids were doing, and how proud they should be. On the other hand, it was a chance for irate parents to berate you for their children’s falling grades, even though no one told their kid to miss five assignments in a row. Either way, it was the perfect chance for you to focus on something other than yourself and your woes.

“Thank you so much for meeting with me Officer and Mrs. Stacy,” you told the pair as you escorted them back to your classroom door. “Gwen is an amazing student, and I know she’ll do big things.”

“We appreciate the support of teachers like you,” Officer Stacy said in his gruff voice, his mustache jumping lightly with every syllable. “She raves about your class at home. She especially enjoyed that butter cake thing you brought in a few weeks ago,” he added, chuckling a bit.

“Yes, you’ll have to share the recipe, she wouldn’t stop talking about,” Mrs. Stacy agreed eagerly.

“Oh, she’s probably exaggerating,” you said as modestly as you could. “Gooey butter cake is a Depression-era recipe that came out of Missouri, I was just trying to make things fun for the students.”

“Well, keep up the good work,” Officer Stacy beamed, shaking your hand firmly.

You tried not to pat yourself too hard on the back as they left. It was always nice feeling validated about the work you were doing. You remembered the early days after graduation when you felt like you had no clue what you were doing at the head of a classroom, but now you were becoming somewhat of an expert. It was nice to know that at least one part of your life wasn’t a complete dumpster fire.

You checked out in the hallway for any more appointments. There were no more parents waiting, and no new names were on your sign-in sheet. You weren’t too surprised. The sessions on Thursdays were known for being packed, but the Friday crowd was always thin. You decided to use the downtime to fix up your room a little, moving some books around and opening up some more windows (the Department of Ed was stingy with the air conditioning). You figured the room could use some decorating, just to add some spring cheer, so you dug into the back of your closet for some springtime posters you were sure you had. You had to reach farther than you bargained for and the cute pencil skirt you had just gotten threatened to tear, so you hiked it up to give yourself some more wiggle room, exposing a good amount of your legs in the process.

“Wow, would you look at that. A room with a view,” you heard a silky, smooth voice call out from behind you. “Gotta say, if my history teacher had sticks like those, I would have paid better attention in class.”

Your nostrils flared and you abandoned your search. You stood up straight and pulled your skirt back down, ready to tell off the jerk with the smart mouth, but when you turned to face them, you froze.

Because it was Tony Stark.

The Tony Stark.

In your classroom doorway, wearing a suit that probably cost more than your whole life.

You could only stare with your mouth agape, your brain failing to string together a logical sequence of words to say. Thankfully, the billionaire took everything in stride, strolling further into the classroom and taking stock of the place. He regarded you in an amused manner, like he was privy to a joke you would never get, but there was an underlying caution too, like he wasn’t quite sure what to make of you. You felt weirdly vulnerable under his gaze, and that didn’t help your brain from being any less broken.

“You must be Ms. Y/l/n, correct?” he asked, perching himself on the corner of your desk. “Pete had a lot of good things to say about you, I think you’ve left quite the impression on him. You’ve certainly left one on me,” he said, giving you the once over.

“What are you doing here?” you managed to say, cringing at how harsh it came out. “I mean, uh, I—I don’t think you have a child in my class,” you added quickly.

“I don’t think so either, but I did do some questionable things in the nineties, so you never know,” he said, his lips twisting into a wry grin. “Officially, we’re here to ‘vet our intern’. Unofficially, we’re here for something much more interesting,” he added, his tone taking on something serious.

“’We’re?’” you asked, considering that the two of you were alone in the room.

As if on que, Principal Morita stepped into your classroom gesturing enthusiastically, followed by none other than Captain America himself. He was a lot taller in person than you expected, and the brown leather jacket and modest plaid button up he had on did little to hide his impressive physique. He looked a little sheepish as he listened to Morita speak, as if he weren’t sure he deserved a compliment he had just received.

“It’s such an honor, I can’t say that enough Captain Rogers,” Morita said, his face alight with admiration. You almost wanted to laugh at how boyish he looked. “My grandfather told us so many stories growing up, and to meet you in person? Just an honor, sir!” he burst, practically jumping out of his skin.

“The honor is all mine,” the Captain insisted, sticking his hand out for your boss to shake. “Serving with Jim was part of the greatest experience of my life. He was a good man.”

Morita was farting sunlight at that point, grasping Captain Rogers’ hand and shaking it vigorously. “You’re always welcome here at Midtown High, sir. Any time, just say the word,” he said. “And you too, Mr. Stark,” he added, though he was still ogling the star-spangled man with a plan.

Mr. Stark shared a look with you as if you had known each other for more than five minutes, and you couldn’t help but grin back at him despite the absurdity of the entire situation. Captain Rogers managed to dislodge his hand from Morita’s grip, the two of them exchanging some final pleasantries. As he left, Morita shot you a look that screamed you better not mess this up and you had to stifle the eye roll you wanted to give in response.

“Sorry about that,” the Captain said, giving Stark a cursory glance before his eyes settled on you. Unlike his very wealthy friend, there wasn’t any hint of teasing behind his expression. He studied you from head to toe carefully, as if he couldn’t quite believe he was actually standing in front of you. You knew that look well, because it mirrored your own.

“You got my letter,” you said quietly, instinctively rubbing at your wrist through the cardigan you had on. He didn’t say anything, but his silence was answer enough, his eyes following the movements of your hands.

“Can we see it?” Mr. Stark said, though it sounded more like a command than a request.

“Tony,” the blond super-soldier said in soft warning.

“Isn’t that what we came here for, Cap?” the billionaire insisted, crossing his arms and losing the mirth he had before. Captain Rogers looked like he wanted to say something to that, but you interjected.

“It’s alright. You can see it,” you said, stepping towards them. You took a deep breath and pulled up your sleeve, exposing your wrist to the two of them. Your mark was clear as day, slightly pink as it always was these days, but the three letters stood out prominently. You heard the Captain take in a sharp breath, but Mr. Stark was less than impressed.

“How do we know this isn’t a tattoo?” he proposed, staring you down, daring you to go against his wit.

“I don’t think you would go through all this trouble if you thought it was just a tattoo,” you replied to him, but you were looking right at Captain Rogers, who was still looking at your mark. His brows were furrowed and his clear blue eyes looked contemplative, almost nostalgic. He finally dragged his gaze up to yours, searching your face for something, perhaps deceit or insanity. Whatever it was, he didn’t find it, letting out a long, relieved breath.

“When did you get this?” he asked gently, glancing down at your mark again.

“I was sixteen,” you said, barely above a whisper.

He chuckled a bit, sliding a hand across his chiseled jaw. “That’s when Bucky got his, too. Right on his birthday,” he said, smiling to himself at the mention of the memory.

Tears blurred your vision, and you held back a gasp. For some reason, the thought never occurred to you that your soulmate had a mark as well. You had never seen one in any of the pictures you saw over the years, but he had always been in uniform and you supposed he had no reason to showcase his wrist in the middle of a war. It was jarring to think he was scarred like you, that he had your name on his skin, that there was a part of you with him this whole time.

“Your middle name. What is it?” Captain Rogers asked, still caught up in the memory. You told him, and he repeated your initials back to you. You nodded in confirmation, and you were amazed at how familiar they sounded coming from him, how his lips bent around them as if he had spoken them a thousand times before.

“You know, we used to spend hours guessing your name, what those letters stood for,” he continued, giving you a small smile. “Now I know we never guessed right.”

You couldn’t say anything, and he seemed to understand why. He kept going, and all you could was listen.

“Getting a mark was like hitting the lottery, or getting struck by lightning. It was rare, even then, and Bucky hadn’t expected it. But he was so excited,” he said, melancholy etching into his voice. “He used to always say he couldn’t wait to meet you, that he’d build you a big house by a lake somewhere, and you’d have ten kids and five dogs. You were his dream, but you never showed up when we were kids.  

“Then the war hit, and we figured, maybe he’d meet you then. Maybe you’d be a nurse, or a mechanic, or a civilian somewhere near the front, but…” he paused, a shadow casting over his light features. “I thought I lost him. And after, I always wished I could’ve found you somehow, so I could tell you about him, so I could tell you how much you meant to him even though you never met. But then I went in the ice, and when I woke up…I figured I lost that chance too. But here you are. Life is funny that way, isn’t it?”

You hadn’t realized you were shaking until he placed a hand on your shoulder consolingly. You felt grateful for the weight of his hand, something that grounded you to that moment because you were scared you would float away. You had always felt alone, that there was no one on earth who could understand how you felt about a man you had never met before, a man you were separated from by time and circumstances. You should have known that the one person who would understand completely was the one person you needed the most.

You wiped at your eyes and tried your best to pull in a normal breath. You looked up at the Captain and you searched for your voice, to thank him for believing you, for telling you that you didn’t have to feel alone anymore.

“I’ve loved him since I was sixteen,” was all you could get out before you completely crumbled. You wanted to be surprised by the way he let you collapse against his chest, the way his arms wrapped around you as if you were family, but too many emotions were running through you. You just cried and cried, but he didn’t mind, rubbing small circles along your back.

“I’m sorry, Captain Rogers,” you said once you calmed down, embarrassed by the wet mark you had made on the front of his shirt.

“Please, call me Steve,” he said, giving you a reassuring squeeze. “You have no idea how nice it is to meet you, Y/n,” he added with a bright and genuine smile.

“And feel free to call me Tony,” Mr. Stark chimed in, and you were a little startled by his forgotten presence. He got off your desk and took a couple of steps toward you, narrowing his eyes at you, that same suspicion still underneath his cool exterior. “So, we know it’s not a tattoo, and that you haven’t escaped the loony bin,” he said, all business. You could imagine how he was in board meetings, how he could turn off the charm and lead a multi-billion dollar industry, move mountains and command respect. “But you do know who Barnes is though, right? What he’s done,” he asked. There was a crack in what he said, a hint of something you couldn’t place, but Steve picked up on it exactly, and they exchanged a heavy, silent glance.

“I know what he’s done,” you said, your voice steady and clear. “And I love him anyway,” you said, staring Tony right in the eye, daring him to challenge you. He stared back, and you could practically see him thinking, calculating before he nodded at you, satisfied by what he saw in you.

“It’s settled then,” Tony said, turning to Steve. “What’s the plan now, Cap? Bring ol’ Guyliner down here for show and tell?”

“No,” Steve sighed, rolling his eyes at the nickname. He looked at you and paused, considering his next words carefully. “Bucky…he’s been through a lot. He’s still working through everything, and I think it’d be best to bring this to him gently, if that’s alright,” he said, his eyes pleading with you to understand.

You nodded. “Whatever’s best for him,” you said, and you truly meant it. Steve smiled again, a grateful smile, and you couldn’t help but return it.

“Let me talk to him, and then I’ll call you,” Steve said firmly, and you understood why he was the Captain, why men like Bucky and Jim Morita were willing to follow him in the line of fire. You trusted him completely, and you hadn’t known him for a full hour. But you knew he would be true to his word, that he had your best interest at heart as well as Bucky’s.

“Of course, I’ll give you my number,” you said quickly, searching for a piece of paper to write it down on, but Tony stopped you.

“We got it, Teach,” he said with a wink, his teasing back on full display.

“How?” you asked dully, even though you kind of knew the answer. The man was a billionaire-superhero that had connections in more places than you could count and access to crazy tech. Of course he already had your number.

Tony smiled at you, flipping on a pair of shades that looked cooler than anything you owned, and sauntered out of the room, leaving you and Steve alone. The two of you looked at each other, stewing in the connection you had to each other, the love you both had for James Buchanan Barnes.

“Thank you, Steve,” you said, because there weren’t any other words in the English language that could convey what you felt.

“No, thank you,” he said, giving your shoulder a final squeeze. “I’ll call you,” he repeated as he turned towards the door. He gave you one last meaningful look and disappeared after Tony with a small nod goodbye.

You stared at the door for longer than you’d like to admit, your thoughts still swirling and percolating.

You were his dream.

And he was yours. And you closer than ever to having him.

You didn’t stop the gigantic, lopsided, and ridiculous smile that bloomed on your face. You couldn’t stop it, even if you tried. That’s how Sadie found you later at home, sitting on the couch, smiling and laughing to yourself with your phone in your hands.

“Okay, should I be worried or happy?” Sadie asked warily, taking a seat next to you. “What’s going on?”

“Sadie,” you said, turning to face her. You didn’t even know how to tell her about everything. The letter, Steve, Tony-freaking-Stark. “Sadie, I--”

Your phone rang then, the caller ID simply saying UNKNOWN NUMBER. You picked it up immediately, your gut telling you it was Steve.

“Hello?” you said, clutching your phone like your life depended on it.

“Y/n, hey. It’s Steve,” you hear him say on the other end of the line.

“Hi Steve,” you said breathlessly. Sadie was still looking at you with a confused look on her face. You smiled at her and grabbed her hand, giving it a squeeze to let her know you were okay.

“I hope you got home okay,” Steve said, his voice sounding a bit off, not as warm as it had that afternoon.

“Yeah, there wasn’t much traffic, and the trains weren’t delayed. A miracle,” you quipped, laughing a bit. You could feel the anticipation building in you, threatening to bubble over.

He laughed a little too, though that sounded off as well, strained, like he was holding something back. “That’s good. Gosh, New York traffic hasn’t changed much, has it. It’s a little comforting to know that time hasn’t touched everything,” he said.

“Yeah, I guess it is,” you said. You held the phone a little closer, waiting for what you wanted to hear.

“And the weather,” he continued, as if it were a regular Friday evening, as if his phone call wasn’t life-changing. “Springtime in New York will never get old. There was this park in Brooklyn that we used to go down to when it was really warm. The trouble we used to get into, man I could tell you a bunch of stories--”

“Steve,” you said, cold and harsh dread beginning to creep up your spine. You realized what he was doing. He was stalling. “Steve, what did he say?” you asked, your grip tightening, mildly concerned your screen would crack.

Steve’s sigh filled your ear, and that was it. You felt something shatter in you, felt the last tendrils of hope release themselves from your grasp, and you knew. You knew the next words out of Steve Rogers’ mouth would break your heart, right in two.

“I’m sorry, Y/n. He doesn’t remember you.”

Chapter Text

The person who invented yellow school busses either really hated children, or really hated teachers. Or both. The seats were uncomfortable, the seatbelts were basically just for decoration, and there was no such thing as air conditioning or heat. Heaven forbid the windows could open more than just a crack. Despite those things, you really enjoyed field trips. Any excuse to escape the four walls of the school building was good enough for you, so you endured the lumpy seats, screeching children, and the inherently hazardous driving habits that all school bus drivers seemed to have, relishing the freedom each trip had to offer.

Today was really no different from any other trip. You sat at the very front of the bus, the din of over-enthused students buzzing in your ear as you leaned your head against the window, watching as the line of trees whizzed by on either side of the bus. Tiffany, one of the ninth-grade English teachers, was sitting beside you, happily chirping away about her sister’s baby shower. You were only half listening, nodding occasionally so that it could at least seem like you were invested in what she was saying. In reality, though, you weren’t there. You were somewhere else entirely.

“Hydra…they did a lot to his mind,” Steve had said, his voice a little frantic in your ear. “He didn’t even remember me for a while, so please don’t take this personally. And it doesn’t help that he lost the mark. His arm…”

He trailed off, but you got the picture. You knew from your obsessive news surfing that Bucky had a cybernetic arm, and now you knew which one it was.

You didn’t know what to say. You didn’t know what to feel, your emotions as scattered as ever.

“He’ll remember, I know he will,” Steve insisted in the silence, and it was like he was trying to convince himself as much as he was trying to convince you. “He’s been remembering new things every day, he’ll remember this, too.”

You let out a small breath. “Okay.”

“Please don’t give up on him,” Steve pleaded, and you could hear the weariness in his voice, a pallid dejection that told you he had said those same words countless times to a countless number of people, advocating for the absolution of his best friend’s transgressions.

That broke your heart even more, the thought that the only person on Bucky’s side was Steve.

“I won’t,” you told him, and you meant it. You meant it because those three letters on your left wrist meant something, they meant everything, and you wouldn’t cast them aside so easily. You wouldn’t.

Steve sighed with relief, and it was almost contagious. Almost. “Thank you, Y/n.”

You hadn’t been able to stop thinking about that conversation with Steve. It was all you could think about for the past week. Bucky didn’t remember he had a soulmate. It wasn’t his fault, and yet it hurt in a way that you couldn’t explain. He remembered Steve, he remembered other bits of his life from before, why couldn’t he remember his mark? You own mark was something that defined you. Everything else in your life revolved around that mark, orbiting those three letters like they were the sun at the center of your universe. It wasn’t even something you could help or control. It just was. It was part of your DNA, the delicate fabric of your existence. If Bucky was your soulmate, if it had been the same way for him, why couldn’t he remember it?

He doesn’t want to remember it.

You aren’t worth remembering.

The thought pierced through your chest like a bullet, and you tried to push it away. That wasn’t fair to him, you were being selfish, you were sure of it. You had no clue what it was like to be him, to have your brain hijacked by Nazis or any of the other insidious things he had been subjected to. You had to give him the benefit of the doubt, it was only fair. All of this, everything you had been through, couldn’t have been for nothing. Still, the thought remained in the back of your mind, grating and grinding for attention, the lingering doubt you tried to snuff out.   

You were so deep in your thoughts that you barely noticed when the bus made the turn into the security gate, following a long path towards the sprawling compound. You could see the pristine and glittering “A” on its façade as the bus pulled up, and you were convinced that your heart would hammer out of your chest

Conveniently, the September Foundation had just launched an outreach program that targeted high schools nationwide to encourage students to pursue careers in STEM. As luck would have it, Midtown was selected as one of the first schools to visit the Avengers’ compound in upstate, and it was a big enough deal that local news stations decided to cover the trip. Unfortunately for you, that meant you had to be thrust into the middle of a place entirely dedicated to a group of superheroes that included your elusive soulmate, the one who didn’t even remember you existed. You had tried to weasel your way out of the trip on the fact that you weren’t technically a STEM instructor, but extra chaperones had been needed based on the number of kids going.

“Okay everyone, single file when you get outside!” Tiffany shouted as the students bounded off the bus when it parked, joining the two other busloads of Midtown students in front of the compound entrance. “And don’t forget your number groups!” She looked down at you and smiled, handing you one of the clipboards she had in her hands. “Isn’t this exciting?! I hope we get to see some of the Avengers today. I love Steve Rogers, he’s so cute. Don’t you think he’s scrumptious?” she asked, twinkling with excitement.

You nodded, giving her the best smile you could manage. You didn’t want to damper her mood with your own. “Yeah. He’s…scrumptious,” you said, wondering how the tall blond would react to that particular compliment.

Tiffany giggled some more, turning to step off the bus, thanking the driver in the process. “Oh, and you have group ten!” she called out to you over her shoulder.

You sighed and trudged after her, the dull ache in your chest pulsing in time with each of your footsteps. You scanned the crowd of kids, looking for the group with the #10 badges, silently praying that a certain, annoying, obnoxiously rich kid wasn’t—

“Did you wear that outfit just for me, Miss?” Flash said, appearing in your line of vision, wearing a badge with a big fat number 10 on it. Awesome. “You know it’s my favorite,” he said with a wink.

You looked past him to find the rest of your group, consisting of MJ, Betty, Brad, Peter, Ned, Jason, and Maggie. You walked over to them with Flash in tow, checking off their names on the clipboard Tiffany had given you.

“Alright guys, you know the deal,” you said, placing a hand on your hip. “Stay close, follow the tour guide, and don’t do anything stupid. Also, Betty,” you said, and she perked up attentively. “You have a special job today. I refuse to speak to Flash directly during this trip, so you’ll be my translator. You can start by telling him to stop staring at my ass.”

Betty blinked a couple of times, clearly stunned by the direction, but she was a bonafide teacher’s pet, ready and willing to anything if she felt it would benefit her grades somehow. She looked over at Flash sternly. “Stop staring at her ass, pervert.”

“Miss, c’mon you can’t actually ignore me like that,” Flash said, opening his arms as if he expected you to fall into them.

“Watch me,” you directed to Betty.

She turned to Flash again, crossing her arms over her chest. “Watch her,” she relayed, with the perfect amount of sass. You felt a little proud.

All of the groups, including some from other schools that had shown up, filed into the lobby, greeted by several official tour guides, one of whom had on a mic and headset. She stepped forward, waving excitedly at the sea of students before her.

“Welcome, welcome, students of New York!” she exclaimed, a bit of feedback catching at the end. She adjusted her mic and continued. “My name is Minnie, and on behalf of the September Foundation, I’d like to thank you for visiting us here at the Avengers’ Compound! Before we begin our tours, please enjoy this informational video.” With that, a large, holographic screen lit up above her, and an enlarged Pepper Potts apppeared, standing in an office that overlooked the Manhattan skyline.

“Hi, I’m Pepper Potts, CEO of Stark Industries,” the recording began, a warm smile on Pepper’s face. “It’s such an honor to welcome the young, bright, inspiring minds of tomorrow. Here at Stark Industries, we’re committed to…”

You tuned the video out after a moment, your mind wandering back to that conversation with Steve. Just as you were about to get lost in your self-deprecating thoughts, you turned to check up on your group…

And they weren’t there.

You looked around as discretely as you could, trying not to give away the fact that you just lost a gaggle of students. You began to panic, wondering if your feet were actually pretty enough to win over a sugar daddy, but soon enough you caught Ned and Betty head into a corridor a little ways off from the crowd, disappearing around the corner. You quickly followed, giving yourself no time to process their intertwined hands (when did that happen?), figuring the rest of the group wasn’t too far ahead of them. You caught up to them just as they were stepping into an elevator. You caught the doors as they slid closed, welcomed by eight pairs of wide, surprised eyes, ones that clearly hadn’t expected to get caught. You glared at each one of them individually, shaking your head slowly.

“Didn’t I tell you guys not to do anything stupid?” you asked, nudging the elevator doors to stay open.

“Peter said he could show us all the cool places that the tour guides wouldn’t show us,” Jason said quickly before pressing his lips together guiltily.

“Narc,” MJ muttered, glaring over at him. Jason shrugged, slinking back into a corner of the elevator car.

You looked over at Peter accusingly, and he cringed, scratching at the back of his head.

“I mean, Miss, it’s true,” Peter said, his eyes pleading with you. “This compound is huge, and there’s so much cool stuff to see. We were going to meet back up with you eventually,” he added, though you weren’t convinced.

You let out a huff of air, regarding the wayward group a little more gently. You couldn’t really blame them.  Who would want a basic tour when you could learn the ropes from an insider?

“Alright, I’m in,” you said finally, stepping into the elevator. They all looked like they wanted to protest, but you stood your ground. “You guys are my students, and we’re still technically on DOE time, so I’m coming with you, that’s final.”

There were a few soft groans, but they relented, making space for you in the elevator, the doors sliding closed. Flash sidled up next to you, placing a hand on your lower back, a couple of centimeters way too low for comfort.

“Glad you could come around, we’re gonna have a fun time,” he said, wriggling his eyebrows up at you. You stared at him for a moment, truly shocked at the gall this dude had, before turning towards Betty.

“If you don’t get your hand off me, you’re gonna lose it,” you told her. She nodded at you determinedly, facing Flash, a deep scowl on her face.

“If you don’t get your hand off her, you’re gonna lose it,” she repeated, matching the venom in your voice. It seemed that somehow, Flash was more scared of Betty than he was of you because he backed off immediately, huddling in the farthest corner away from her. You smiled at Betty, making a mental note of the five extra credit points she would get on her next assignment.

The ride up a few floors was smooth, the elevator only making a soft humming noise as it sped up to the destination at hand. The ding sounded, and the doors slid open to a sleek hallway that led into an open foyer which broke off into a few other corridors. Unlike the lobby downstairs, this floor was quiet, and seemed more intimate and exclusive.

“This way,” Peter beckoned, and the rest of you followed him through the foyer towards one of the corridors. The wall on the far left was completely made of glass, overlooking the Hudson River and the lush greenery that surrounded it. It was breathtaking. Clearly, Tony spared no expense when it came to his gang of supers.

Eventually, you made it down a long hallway and came across a pair of glass double doors. Peter scanned a card against the reader on the wall, and the doors opened, beckoning the rest of you to follow him. He led you into a wide open space, one that looked like a cross between a living room and an office. There was a long conference table in the middle of the room, where most of the natural light from the floor-to-ceiling windows converged. Around the perimeter were a few couches and love seats, along with some potted plants. There was a wall covered in fully-stocked bookshelves, and another door that led to who knows where. It was impressive, yet cozy at the same time, a place you might want to spend a lazy Sunday reading and sipping on tea.

“This is where the team has important meetings,” Peter said, grinning at the awe on the faces of his peers. “And they just hang out in here, too.”

Ned let out a low whistle, looking around like a kid in a candy store. “This is blowing my mind right now,” he said dreamily.

MJ shrugged. “It’s just a room,” she said casually, but you didn’t miss the subtle glint in her eyes.

“Guys, I dunno,” Betty said nervously, gripping Ned’s hand tighter. “I don’t think we should be here. We might get in trouble.”

“We’re not gonna get in trouble, Betty,” you assured her, waving away her concern. “Peter’s gonna get in trouble, but we’re not.”

“Hey,” Peter said, betrayal written all over his face.

“No one told you bring us up here,” you said with a shrug, heading over to the bookshelves. You examined the spines, all in an array of different colors and sizes. They looked old, the kind of books you might find in an independent bookstore, or a creepy murder mansion, but something was off. As real as the books seemed, none of the spines had titles or authors on them. You peered at them more closely, trying to decide if they were fake or had covers on them. You reached out for one, placing your finger on the top of the spine and pulling it towards you.

There was a loud whirring sound, and the entire section of bookcase in front of you began to turn slowly. You jumped back from it, watching in horror along with the rest of the group, waiting for what was on the other side.

“Congratulations, you found the secret door,” you heard a voice say before a familiar figure emerged from somewhere beyond the books. “It took me months to figure it out which one to pull,” Tony said, dusting off his shoulders and adjusting his sport coat. “Pete, you wanna explain what you and your army of post-pubescent minions are doing running around my compound?”

Peter flushed, pulling at his sleeves sheepishly, whatever confidence he had before dissolving. “Sorry, Mr. Stark, I just wanted to show them around, show them how cool the, uh, internship is,” he said, his shoulders lifting towards his ears. “We can get out of your hair, sir."

Tony stepped away from the bookshelf, regarding the rest of the group with the same amused weariness he had when you first met him. “No, I get it. Wanted to show off a little, flex your muscles a bit. I respect it, Pete,” he said, clapping Peter on the back a couple of times. He looked at you, his face breaking out into a genuine grin. “And how have you been, Teach?”

You smiled back at him, rolling your eyes just because Tony always seemed to deserve an eye roll. “You sure know how to make an entrance.”

Tony shrugged nonchalantly, his lips twisting into a knowing smirk. “Gotta live up to expectations.”

“You’re Tony Stark,” Flash chimed in belatedly, his stunned gaze volleying from Tony to the hand that was still on Peter’s shoulders. “You’re actually Tony Stark. You’re Iron Man!”

“Nice of you to catch up with us, young man,” Tony said, his smirk only growing. “Say, I like that jacket. It’s Prada, isn’t it?”

Flash looked like he was going to combust. “Th-thanks. Yeah, it’s Prada,” he stammered out, adjusting his collar.

Tony nodded appreciatively. “Knew it. It looks just as good on you as it did on the runway…last season.” To the rest of you, that meant nothing, but to someone rich like Flash, getting called out for wearing out of season designer wear by another rich person was a living nightmare. Flash looked down at his jacket as if had grown sentient and smacked him in the face. Tony shared a quick look with Peter before turning back to you.

“Actually, Teach, I was hoping to run into you today,” Tony explained, and you looked at him quizzically.

“You were?” you asked, and it was your turn to be suspicious. You hadn’t known the billionaire for long, but you already knew that with Tony, you just couldn’t know what to expect.

“Yes, I was. In fact, I think you and the Breakfast Club arrived at just the right time,” he said, glancing down at his watch. “Follow me, please,” he abruptly turned, heading towards the double doors Peter had led you through.

The rest of you hastily followed, walking back up the corridor that led to the foyer. You jog/walked to catch up to Tony at the head of the group, frowning over at him.

“Why do I feel like you’re about to take us on a psychedelic boat ride on a chocolate river?” you asked. Tony snorted, glancing over at Peter who had caught up by then as well.

“Clever. I can see why she’s your favorite, Pete,” he said. You looked over at Peter, surprised at the news, and he looked a little sheepish.

You placed a hand over your chest. “I’m your favorite teacher, Peter?”

Peter laughed a little, the tips of his ears coloring slightly. “Uh, yeah. You make class fun,” he said, staring down at his shoes.

“Aww, well, you’re my favorite, too,” you told him, and the two of you shared a smile.

“Hey! What about me?” Flash asked from the back of the group.

“Not in your dreams,” Ned said before you could respond. Betty nudged him in the side.

“That’s my job,” she muttered, turning to Flash. “Not in your dreams,” she repeated, sticking out her tongue.

By that time, Tony had led you all down an adjacent hallway, this one leading into another open space that looked like a cozy, fancy apartment, one equipped with a fully stocked kitchen that was currently being occupied by none other than Black Widow herself.

You had the passing thought that she was even more gorgeous in person, but there was a subtle danger to that beauty as well, like she knew how to kill you 26 ways using her body alone. She was in the middle of mixing something in a metal bowl, cookie dough from the looks of it, a dusting of flour on her cheek. She looked up at your motley crew, completely unimpressed and unaffected. She didn’t even look surprised at the sight of eight teenagers in her kitchen, resuming her mixing as if it were just another day at the compound.

“Tony. Parker,” she said by way of greeting, pouring another handful of chocolate chips into the bowl. “I hope you don’t think I’m going to share.”

“You know Black Widow, too?” Flash murmured at peter, his jaw nearly at the floor.

Peter nodded smugly. “Hey, Nat,” he said with ease, and you could see the aneurysm forming in Flash’s brain.

Tony rounded the kitchen island, reaching out to stick his finger into the bowl, but his hand was promptly smacked away. He winced, instead opting for a few stray chocolate chips that were on the counter. “Not fair, why does Bruce get all the lovin’?”

She glared at him with a look that would make the dead shiver in their graves, holding the wooden spoon she was using more like a weapon than a kitchen utensil. “Why is the toddler convention here?” she finally asked exasperatedly.

Tony popped a few more chips into his mouth. “They’re here to learn. A history lesson, of sorts. What’s the ETA for the Three Stooges?”

She looked down at the watch on her wrist, a wrinkle between her brows. “Four and a half minutes, why?” she asked, and that’s when she looked up, her eyes landing on you. Her reaction to you was not what you expected, not for someone you had never met before. She stiffened, her eyes widening slightly, unmistakable recognition flashing across her face.

“Tony, tell me you didn’t bring her here,” she said severely, glaring at him again.

“I didn’t bring her here,” Tony said, holding his hands up and crossing his fingers, but he said it in a way that indicated there was more he wasn’t saying. “Come along children, follow me,” he said, using Nat’s distraction to his advantage and swiping some dough from the bowl before heading back out the way you all came.

“Tony, she shouldn’t be here. Steve is gonna kill you,” Nat said, taking little effort to catch up with the billionaire’s brisk walk. She glanced over at you apologetically. “Sorry, I’m Nat. It’s nice to meet you, Y/n.”

“Nice to meet you, too,” you told her, deciding not to broach how exactly she knew your name. You turned to Tony. “Where are we going?” you demanded, a tingling beginning in your gut.

“You’ll see,” was all he offered you as he led the group to another set of elevators, pressing the call button a few times.

“Tony,” Nat warned again, and he turned to face her impatiently.

“Cap is gonna be fine, Romanoff. Geez, you both treat the guy like he’s a baby and not someone who literally shot a President,” he said, holding the elevator doors open when it finally arrived, beckoning the rest of you in.

The tingling only intensified, your heart beginning to speed up. You could feel anticipation building in you, but it was mixed with something else, something darker and grim.

“Tony, seriously,” you practically begged, biting at your lip. “Where are we going?”

He looked at you dead in the eye, his face passive and unreadable. “Children,” he said, turning to your students. “You look like a smart bunch. Mostly,” he said, sliding his glance over to Jason who was using a strand of hair as a piece of floss…and it definitely was not his own hair. “Who can give us a quick history of soulmate pairings?”

Your heart dropped to your stomach.

Betty’s hand shot in the air and Tony nodded at her. “Soulmate pairings are defined as two people who are biologically and/or spiritually linked to be mated for life, usually indicated by a unique mark that appears on the left wrist,” she said proudly. “Pairings largely phased out by the nineteenth century, around the height of the Industrial Revolution, so no real scientific studies have been done to trace the origin of pairings, or their exact causes,” she recited dutifully, satisfied with her own knowledge.

“And when was the last pairing recorded?” Tony asked, very deliberately avoiding your gaze.

“In 1967,” Betty continued. “Barry and Ethel Manigold. They live in Des Moines Iowa, and they’re the cutest old little couple, with the cutest little farm, ugh,” she said, placing a hand on her cheek.

“Very good young lady. And when do these pairings usually get their marks?” Tony asked as the elevator doors slid open, stepping out into a space that looked like an airplane hangar. Everyone’s footsteps echoed against the marbled floors, each sound bouncing around the cavernous space. High tech vehicles and aircrafts lined the spaced, and Tony maneuvered the group towards the hangar’s open entrance. 

“Well, ages varied, but pairs usually got their marks within a few months of each other,” Betty reported. “Barry and Ethel got their marks within days of each and met not long after. Queen Victoria famously didn’t get her mark until she had already been married to Prince Albert for five years.”

“And what if the pair had been born decades apart?” Tony asked, stopping and holding up his hand for the rest of you to do the same. He had to raise his voice slightly over the sound of an engine as one of the jets came sliding into the hangar from outside, landing with a gracefulness one wouldn’t expect from an aircraft like that.

“I—I don’t think that’s possible,” Betty shouted as the engine turned off, the gate at the back of the jet lowering slowly.

Tony finally looked at you, his gaze intense and unyielding. You felt like he was seeing right through you. “But what if it was,” he said, though it was more of a declaration than an inquiry.

You were about to say something in response to that, you weren’t exactly sure what, but you never got the chance.

“Steve, back me up, man,” you heard someone say. When you looked, you saw the voice belong to Sam Wilson, the Falcon, descending down the jet’s ramp. He was in his tactical suit, talking over his shoulder at someone. That someone turned out to be Steve, the red, white, and blue of his suit dulled by soot and debris from whatever mission they had come from, his cowl hanging loosely from his hand.  

“I dunno, Sam. You were kind of struggling back there,” Steve said, giving Sam a playfully sympathetic look.

“Come on! I had those guys!” Sam insisted gesturing widely. “Cyborg over here jumped in for no reason.”

“That’s a funny way of saying ‘thank you’ for saving your ass,” you heard someone say, still obscured within the jet.

Your heart sank into your stomach.

That voice.

It was deep, and gravely, rough around the edges, but there was a gentleness to it as well, caressing each syllable, swaddled with care. You had never heard the voice before, but your body reacted to it as if it had, taking a step forward just to be a little closer to its source.

“My ass didn’t need saving,” Sam said ruefully, crossing his arms.

“Yeah? I’m pretty sure the footage Redwing has would tell a different story,” the voice said again, and that’s when the owner of the voice stepped out of the jet.

It was him.

Him.

James Buchanan Barnes.

But this time, he wasn’t in a photograph, he wasn’t a blurry image on your television screen, he wasn’t a flimsy spectre your imagination conjured up to fill your dreams. He was real, alive, flesh and bone, right in front of you.

You always imagined what it would be like, to meet him. You never thought you’d get the chance, but it was something you thought about a lot since you got your mark. You always figured it would feel like that day in history class, this dramatic searing pain that tore through you, only worse. You remembered the tears, the shaking, the coldness you felt, and that was just from his photo. You figured if you met him in person, it would be like a thousand atom bombs going off at the same time. But it wasn’t that.

You felt warm, a good, comforting warmth, the kind of warmth you would get from a cozy sweater, or lying out on a sandy beach in the sun. You felt calm, and it was a pure calmness, like you had never been calm before this very moment in your life. It was like you were under water in the best possible way, time slowing down, stretching out this moment so you could take in every detail.

He bounded down the ramp, stopping in front of Sam and giving him a playful jostle. You couldn’t keep your eyes off him. He grinned over at Steve, the corners of his eye crinkling just a bit, mirth swimming in the blues of his irises. His hair was shorter than it had been in the glimpses you got of him in the news, and his cybernetic arm was on full display, sleek and black with veins of gold running along it.

“What’s the cast of ‘It’s a Small World’ doing here?” you vaguely heard Sam ask. “Or did your past finally catch up with you, Tony?”

James Buchanan Barnes finally looked at your group, his brows slightly furrowed, probably wondering the same thing as Sam. He carefully regarded each individual student, guarded and cautious, until his eyes landed on you.

He looked at you, and it was instantaneous. His eyes widened, and he shook his head a bit, as if he were trying to shake away a stray thought, as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing. His lips parted, but whatever he had been planning to say never made it out of his mouth. He just stared at you, and you knew. You knew he felt what you were feeling, that a missing piece in both of your lives was finally, finally, finally put into place.

Your feet took you to him of their own accord, you didn’t even realize until you were standing right in front of him. His chest rose and fell deeply, as if he had just ran a marathon. For some reason, that made you smile, the thought that he was just as breathless as you were.

“Hi,” you whispered, looking up at his face, his beautiful face. Tears filled his eyes as soon as you spoke, and his brows furrowed. It was like he still wasn’t sure if you were actually standing in front of him. One of his tears escaped, rolling down his cheek and leaving a wet trail in its wake. Your heart did somersaults.

“Bucky,” you said, and you reached up slowly, to wipe his cheek, to assure him that you were here, that you had both found home.

Just as your hand was about to make contact, he jerked away from you, gripping your wrist to keep it away from him. He looked between you and the hand he had a grip on, confused and unsure. But he composed himself, something shutting down within him, his face growing stoic, cold. He looked at you for one last moment before letting you go, turning around, and walking in the opposite direction towards the open entrance.

You stood there frozen, your brain trying to recover from the euphoria it had been steeped in only moments before. You couldn’t understand what was happening, no part of you could comprehend his retreating figure

“Wait,” you said weakly, taking a few steps forward. He didn’t turn back. You took a few more steps before picking up the pace, keeping your focus on Bucky’s back. “Wait,” you said again, your voice becoming steadier, firmer. You couldn’t help but think you had been in this position before, in the middle of D.C., in a crowded museum.

You couldn’t let him go.

You couldn’t let him leave.

“Wait!”

Hey! I have your handkerchief!

Your feet failed you again, but this time there was no toddler on a leash to blame. You just tripped, over your own shoes, over thin air, you don’t know, but your face met the floor with an unforgiving smack.

“Crap, Y/n!” Steve swam into your vision, lifting you up into a seated position, his hand cupping your chin. “Geez, you’re bleeding.”

“Go get him, I’ll take care of her,” Nat said, crouching down to you, inspecting your apparent wound. Steve hesitated, but eventually he nodded and stood up.

“Take her to the med bay, and I’ll meet you there,” he said authoritatively, turning and jogging after Bucky.

“Come on, let’s get you up,” Nat said, gently prompting you to rise. You followed her without resistance, still dazed and off-kilter.

“What just happened?” Peter asked incredulously as Nat guided you back towards the elevators.

Nat only glared at Tony, steering you away from the group. “I told you this was a bad idea,” she threw at him, and he held his hands up in surrender.

“How was I supposed to know he’d react like that?” he said, and to his credit, he did sound remorseful.

None of that mattered to you, though. All you could see was Bucky’s closed-off expression, the way he was able to shut you out and turn you away, without so much as a word.

It wasn’t supposed to be this way. In all your research, you had never come across anyone who was able to reject their soulmate. The bond was always described as strong and undeniable, something no one could resist. There was always a happy ending, always two halves of a whole converging, never to be broken apart.

But he walked away.

It wasn’t supposed to happen like this.

You and Nat must have made it to the med bay at some point, because you were somehow sitting on an exam table, someone in a lab coat fussing with supplies around you.

“Look up for me, please,” they asked, and you did. That’s when you realized the person in the lab coat was Bruce Banner.

“You’re the Hulk,” you said numbly, testing out your voice.

Dr. Banner laughed softly, gently swabbing at your nose. “Yeah, but not really. Thankfully, the, uh, Other Guy isn’t available right now. How do you feel?” he asked, tilting your chin up a little higher.

“I don’t know,” you whispered, your voice cracking a bit. Numb, empty, alone, nothing new.

“I meant physically,” Bruce said softly, stepping back from the table a little. “Any pain in your head, chest, anywhere else?”

You shook your head, and he seemed relieved, stepping back towards you and picking up a pen-like instrument.

“I’m just going to do a quick scan to check if anything is broken. You’ll see a bright beam for a second, but then it’ll be over, okay?” he said, holding up the instrument for you to see it wasn’t a threat. You nodded again, and he held it up to your face. A bright laser beam scanned over your face, and Bruce checked a tablet that was next to you on the table. He nodded, satisfied by what he saw, and he looked up at you. “You nose isn’t broken, but there is a hairline fracture. You should avoid any strenuous activities, to be on the safe side. You’ll be healed up in a couple of weeks.”

You nodded again, offering him a small grin.

“Are you okay not physically?” Nat asked, and you looked at her, just remembering her presence.

“Where are my kids?” you asked instead of answering, glancing around as if they might be hiding in the exam room somewhere.

“Tony took them back to the rest of the tour,” she said, watching you carefully. “I think the buses might have left, but we can always get a car for you.”

You didn’t say anything, rolling up your sleeve and rubbing at your mark which was an angry shade of red. Bruce gently grabbed your wrist, frowning down at it.

“Do you need something for this? I think we have some aloe vera around here,” he said, leaning in to get a better look.

“No. It usually goes away, but thank you,” you told him, resisting the urge to pull your hand away.

“Fascinating,” he murmured, completely absorbed in your mark. “I never thought I’d get to see one of these in person. There are so many unanswered questions when it comes to pairings, the marks in particular. It’s said that genetics has something to do with it, but it’s still a mystery how pairs were formed, or how the marks were able to form such a precise shape. If I could get a sample--”

“Bruce,” Nat said, raising an eyebrow at him. He cringed at himself sheepishly, and she grinned, clearly not the first time she had to remind him to pull back on his scientific mode.

“Sorry about that,” he told you, but you grinned at him too, as much as you could manage.

“It’s okay, you can take a sample. Trust me, it’s not going anywhere. I’ve tried,” you admitted, looking down at your shoes. When you chanced a glance at Bruce again, he looked sympathetic, a sad familiarity gracing his face like he too had to live with something he never asked for, something that felt like a curse.

“If you don’t mind,” he said shyly, and you held out your wrist for him again. He prepped it, sanitizing your skin with some alcohol before warning you about the sting you would feel from his instrument. It was over in no time, and he placed a bandage over your mark, only part of the J sticking out from under it.

“Steve should be here any moment,” Nat said, but you shook your head.

“I just want to go home,” you said. She looked like she wanted to argue, but she thought better of it, simply nodding and stepping to the side to call for a driver.

You barely registered the ride home, your mind thinking of nothing but Bucky’s retreating figure.

He rejected you. You might be the only person in history who was rejected by their soulmate. If you weren’t so numb, you might have laughed at the odds, maybe even called the Guinness Book, or Ripley’s Believe it or Not.

When you stepped into the apartment, Sadie was in the kitchen, whipping up what smelled like curry.

“Hey, how was the trip?” she asked, stirring the bubbling pot. She looked up at you and stopped when she saw the look on your face. She put down the spoon and walked up to you, frowning. “What happened?”

“I met him,” you managed to say, focusing on a point beyond her head.

“Him? You mean him him? Bucky?” Sadie said, her eyes widening.

You nodded, and she placed a hand over her mouth. “Holy crap. Wow, geez. What…what did he say?” she asked, even though she knew it couldn’t have gone well.

“Nothing. He said nothing,” you told her, your vision blurring with tears. You wiped them away furiously, folding you lips together, determined not to break down. “He didn’t say a word to me. He just walked away. Like I was nothing.”

Sadie was poised to say something, but you began to pace, something violent bubbling up within your chest.

You scoffed, glaring up at the ceiling, and then at the floor, and back down again. “My whole life has revolved around him. Even before my mark…I knew I was broken, I knew I wasn’t whole, that there was something I was missing. The mark just told me why I felt that way.” You paced faster, traversing the space between the kitchen and the living room vigorously. “My whole life has been spent wanting him, loving him, freaking belonging to him even though I thought he was dead. And he just walked away.”

“Wait a minute,” Sadie said, attempting to step into your path, but stepping out of the way after considering your mood. “Didn’t Steve say that he just didn’t remember?”

You stopped short to look right at her, shaking your head. “No. He knew. Maybe he didn’t remember before, but he knew when he saw me. And he still walked away. He rejected me, Sadie. If he felt even a fraction of what I felt today…he wouldn’t have walked away.” You closed your eyes, squeezing them tight, clenching and unclenching your fists, your foot tapping madly.

“Whoa, okay, you’re angry,” Sadie said, and you nodded at her in confirmation.

You gasped for breath, the vitriol and rage you were holding back literally choking you.

“Okay, do you want to break something?” Sadie asked frantically, and you nodded with everything you had. She scrambled to the cupboard, searching around until she finally emerged with a ceramic plate. “Here, break this.”

You grabbed it, bouncing it in your hand as you searched for the right place to smash it. Your eyes landed on the apartment door, and you took the opportunity, hurling the plate at it like you were back in school playing dodgeball. It shattered, bursting into white shards like a rage-induced firework. It satisfied you for a second, but it wasn’t enough. You held out your hand toward Sadie, and she rushed back to the cupboard, emerging with another plate. You threw that one too, even harder than the last, but it still wasn’t enough.

“Okay, oh gosh, we only two plates now, so, uh, here!” Sadie said, rushing from the kitchen. “A mug, we can spare a couple of those,” she said handing one to you. You nodded gratefully, poised to throw it with all your might, but she stopped you. “Wait! Sorry, that’s your Commandos mug, I thought it was one of our plain ones. Here, I’ll get another,” she said, holding her hand out for it.

You lowered it back down, turning it in your hand so that you could see the winged insignia. You stared at it, thinking of all the pain and mourning and hope you had rolled into this one symbol. How every cup of coffee you drank from that mug made you feel a little closer to the man you associated with it, brought you comfort even on your worst days, because it was a small piece of him that you had, the only piece of him you had.

Now, none of that mattered.

He walked away.

You hurled the mug at the door, and it broke into large chunks against the floor. Sadie let out a gasp, and you couldn’t blame her. For the longest time, that mug had been your most cherished possession. Not anymore.

“I’m done,” you said, staring at the broken remains. “It’s over. I’m done.”

“You don’t mean that,” Sadie said after a moment, but you shook your head weakly, all of your energy leaving you in one fell swoop. You zombie walked past her, towards your room, ready to collapse.

He walked away.

“I’m done,” you said again, opening your bedroom door. You took one last look at her, and you hardly bear the expression on her face. You stepped into your bedroom, and your door shut with a click that echoed through the hallway.

It’s done.       

Chapter Text

It was cold.

He couldn’t actually feel it, but he could tell by the gray of the sky, the flakes of white that drifted down around him, landing on his eyelashes. The wall of rocks jutting into the sky on either side him, frosted white like one of Ma’s lemon cakes.

He couldn’t feel the cold, though. He could only see it.

That wasn’t good.

He let his eyes flutter shut again, and it all came back to him in bursts and flashes.

Zola.

The train.

Steve.

Reaching and reaching for Steve, Steve getting farther and farther away.

It was cold, but he couldn’t feel it at all.

Why couldn’t he feel it?

He opened his eyes again, looking at the gray sky, the white flakes. He tried to move his head.

Nope, didn’t work.

He tried again.

Nope, again.

C’mon, Barnes, just move your neck, it’s simple, he chided himself.

He squeezed his eyes shut and concentrated all his energy on moving his thick skull.

Ma always said he had a thick skull. It didn’t seem like a compliment, but she always said it fondly enough.

Move, move, move! he screamed at himself, but he wasn’t sure if it was out loud or not.

Finally.

It was more of a slump to the side than a graceful maneuver, but he did it. He moved that thick skull.

Instead of the sky, now he was looking directly at the rocks, the sheets of ice that coated them.

He was tired. All of that energy exhausted him. Maybe he’d just take a quick nap, just for a bit, no one had to know…

He opened his eyes again. He couldn’t see the sky, but it was darker than the last time he had been awake.

How much time passed?

Minutes? Hours? Days, weeks?

He still couldn’t feel the cold.

He figured he should try to move something other than his head. Maybe he’d try lifting his hand. His eyes traveled from the rocks down to his arm—

That wasn’t right.

His arm…wasn’t right.

Red bloomed against white snow, already frozen like some macabre shaved ice. They definitely didn’t sell those at Coney Island. He knew it was a goner, his arm. It was twisted and mangled, bruised and darkened by frostbite. He wasn’t even sure if it was still attached to his body.

He couldn’t even react to it like he should. His heart didn’t race, he didn’t scream, he didn’t feel scared. He couldn’t feel anything.

Or at least he thought.

Because when his eyes traveled across his arm, over his forearm,  to his wrist, he saw it.

His mark. He saw it.

That’s when he felt the warmth. It built up in his core, radiating to the rest of him like tongues of flame. He couldn’t really tell, but he liked to think he was smiling.

He couldn’t feel the cold, but he could feel you.

He didn’t know who you were, but he still felt connected to you, wherever you were. He had lived with those three letters on his wrist for a while now, he could trace them out with his eyes closed. That’s what he did now, closed his eyes. It was easier to think of you that way.

He always thought of you.

He never had a clear picture of you in his mind. He had never wanted to have any expectations of what you would look like, or sound like. He was sure his imagination would do you no justice.

But he was sure you were beautiful.

He was sure you were kind, and warm, and loving.

You’d probably be able to make him laugh until his belly ached. You’d probably let him take you dancing, even if you weren’t the best at it.

He imagined waking up every morning, turning over and watching you sleep just a little while longer. How lucky he would be, to wake up to someone like you. He imagined coaxing you awake with soft kisses on your cheeks, your forehead, your lips. Depending on the morning, you’d laugh sleepily, or groan for him to leave you alone. Either way, he’d wrap you in his arms, run his hands through your hair, tell you how pretty you looked early in the morning.  His heart was full just at the thought.

He didn’t know who you were, but you were sunlight, bright and pure, the center of his world.

He loved you.

He couldn’t wait for you to know it.

That’s what lulled him under again, thoughts of you and your warmth. He got lost in you, in the dream, and he hardly noticed the voices around him at first.

“On vse yeshche zhiv.”

The accent was thick, harsh. Hands grabbed him, dragging him a few feet.

“Izbav'sya ot yego ruki.”

One of the men took something, maybe an ax, and brought it down on his arm, severing the last attachments it had to his body.

They continued to drag him, leaving a morbid trail of red on the pristine snow.

Go back, he said. He didn’t know if they could hear him, or if they were ignoring him.

Go back, I need her, he pleaded. He didn’t want to lose his mark.

He didn’t want to lose you.

Please, go back!

But he went unheard.

It was only then that he felt the cold.

Bucky finally breached the surface, the snow and mountains melting away, replaced by the tepid water of the compound’s Olympic-sized pool and the enormous bay windows that overlooked the sunset where the sky met the Hudson. He took in longs drags of the chlorine-tinged air, pushing his damp hair out of his face and resting his elbows at the edge of the pool, burying his face in the crook of his elbow.

He was still shivering, despite the pool being heated. He clenched and unclenched his left hand, just to make sure that he could, just to make sure something was there, even if it weren’t flesh and bone. He turned his wrist over, half expecting to see those three letters again, even though he knew they were long gone. He could still feel it though, a phantom soreness, an itch that wasn’t really there. He remembered vividly how it felt to have his mark, how irritated it would get when he let himself think about it for a bit too long, think about you for too long.

He didn’t want to think of you.

Instead, he focused on what was in front of him, what he could see, feel, and hear. It was a technique his shrink taught him when he found himself lost in between what was real and what was blurred and warped in his mind. If he could see it, feel it, and hear it, it was real. It was something he could ground himself to, a reality that was tangible and reliable. It helped his mind stay out of the dark, out of the shadows.

He could see his towel where he had left it, hanging off one of the blue and white striped deck chairs. He hopped out of the pool and grabbed it, running the plush cotton over his damp body. He felt like he was drying himself off with a cloud. Apparently, the towels here were Egyptian cotton, along with the sheets in every room. Everything here was so damn expensive, Bucky barely knew how to act most of the time. Someone needed to tell Tony there was nothing wrong with the bargain bin once in a while.

He could feel his stomach growling. He couldn’t remember the last time he ate, something his shrink (and Steve) would get on him about. Self-care is important, James, Dr. Raynor’s phantom voice nagged in his ear. He sighed deeply, giving his hair one last rub down with the cloud before walking over to the exit and tossing it into the bin by the door, pulling his t-shirt over his head. If you asked him, self-care sounded like a gimmick, but no matter how hard he tried, he never won that particular fight. He could feel the cold, hard banister of the stairs as he bounded up the steps, taking two at a time. There were elevators all around this place, but Bucky hated them. Dr. Raynor attributed his aversion to his time in captivity, in a cramped, enclosed space, but he refused to let her psychoanalyze every decision he made. He just didn’t like elevators.

He could hear the sound of his pool slippers slapping against the wooden floors as he made his way to the common area, already mentally choosing which flavor of Hot Pocket he would warm up. Nat insisted that they were garbage, but he would reckon that Hot Pockets were the best thing this century had to offer. He could hear the air conditioning kick back on, the low hum filling his ears and the hallway. He could hear Steve’s voice as he neared the kitchen, laughing about something with someone—

He could hear you.

Bucky stopped dead in his tracks.

“Geez, finals. I haven’t taken a test in years,” Steve said, and Bucky could hear him rustling through the cabinets. He was still hidden, obscured by the half wall that separated the kitchen and the sitting area.

“I dunno, Cap, I think you’re old enough to start measuring time in decades,” Bucky heard you say, your voice carrying a slight electronic twinge as it came through the speakers of Steve’s phone. You laughed. 

Bucky sucked in a sharp breath, bracing himself against the wall. He felt like someone punched him square in the chest, hard and unforgiving.   

“Haha, very funny,” Steve said sarcastically, fiddling with the coffee maker. “Do you think the kids will be able to handle all of your trick questions?”

You scoffed, a slight ruffling sound coming through from your end, like you were adjusting blankets around you. “I never use trick questions on my tests. Which, ironically, just makes them think I’m tricking them anyway.”

Bucky bit at his lip hard, hard enough to draw blood, the sticky, coppery taste invading his mouth. The reaction his entire body had to your voice was violent, needy and urgent. He tried to take in a couple of deep breaths, but it was like there wasn’t enough oxygen in the tristate area.

“Well, you’re a lot nicer than the teachers me and Buck had,” Steve said, and you took an audible breath, like you were just as breathless as Bucky was at that moment. There was a pregnant pause, Steve realizing his blunder in mentioning his old friend by name. Steve sighed, and Bucky didn’t need to look to know that he ran a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry, Y/n, I just…”

“It’s okay Steve,” you said quietly, your tone more reserved than before. You cleared your throat, some more ruffling coming through before you spoke again. “Um, well, thank you. For calling, and…checking up on me. It’s getting pretty late, and I have a couple more papers to grade so…”

“Yeah,” Steve said quickly, a mug clinking onto the counter, the scraping of plastic against marble as he picked up his phone. “Yeah, of course. It was good hearing from you, Y/n. Have a good night.”

“You too, Steve,” you said. And with that you, you were gone.

It was quiet now, nothing but the distant hum of the vents filling the space, but your voice was still ringing in Bucky’s ears. He tried to fight it, but images of you sliced through his mind, tearing through him like a blunt knife.

You had smiled at him, in the hangar that day.

He was haunted by the way you had looked at him, eyes bright and sweet and kind, far too sweet and kind. No one had looked at him like that in 70 years. No one had ever looked at him like that.

He could see you standing in front of him, he could feel your hand in his, he could hear you say his damn name. You were there, you were real, but he couldn’t reach you. He couldn’t ever reach you.

 “Had a good swim, Buck?” Steve’s voice rang out from the kitchen. Of course Steve knew he was there.  

Bucky nodded, and it took him a second to realize that he was still obscured by the wall. “Yeah,” he replied, the quiver in his voice betraying him. He squeezed his eyes shut, resting his head back against the cool drywall. He had the passing thought that he needed to figure out how to block his location from FRIDAY’s system.  

 “Good. Did you eat anything?” Steve asked, although it seemed he already knew the answer to that.

“Yeah,” Bucky repeated, his voice a little stronger than before. He didn’t feel hungry anymore, his appetite replaced by a bottomless pit in his gut.

“You’ve always been a terrible liar,” Steve said, appearing from the other side of the wall, taking a sip of his coffee. Along with alcohol, coffee did nothing for him and Steve anymore, but they both still liked the taste.

Steve regarded Bucky for a moment, a soft huff of air escaping through his nose, a small wrinkle forming between his brows. Bucky had to look away from him. He couldn’t stand the expression on his best friend’s face. There had been a time when there was nothing but admiration in Steve’s eyes when he looked at him, nothing but pride and esteem, maybe even a little envy. But that was a lifetime ago. Now when Steve looked at him, there was always a thin veil of disquietude, an expectation that something was wrong, that something was always wrong and ready to erupt at any moment. There was another thing under Steve’s gaze, something that he’d probably deny, but Bucky knew it was there.

Disappointment.

That’s what Bucky hated the most, the disappointment. Maybe it was because he felt it himself, worse than anyone else possibly could.

“How much of that did you hear?” Steve asked, taking another sip.  

“Enough,” Bucky said roughly, still not meeting Steve’s gaze.

Steve took a step closer to Bucky, closing some of the distance between them, but he couldn’t quite bridge the gap fully. “Buck…”

“We don’t have to talk about it,” Bucky said through gritted teeth, pushing off the wall and heading back towards the door.

“You need to talk to someone about what happened,” Steve pleaded, the urgency in his voice making Bucky pause.

He turned around, looking back at Steve for a long moment. Shame rolled up his spine at the worry splashed across his friend’s face. He knew Steve was trying, he knew Steve was doing his best to be understanding and available, to be there for him, but he still somehow felt out of reach, just like on that train.

Just talk to him. You used to talk to him about anything.

“That’s what my shrink is for,” Bucky said simply, turning away before he could see the hurt on Steve’s face.

“You just met your soulmate, for goodness sake,” Steve said, the hurt still making its way through his voice and to Bucky’s ears.

“I don’t have a soulmate,” Bucky whispered hoarsely, clenching his fists again. There was that sting again, the itch that was no longer really there, calling him a liar, taunting him with a promise he couldn’t have.

“She has your name on her wrist, Buck,” Steve sighed, taking a few steps forward.

“How horrible for her,” Bucky said, and he hated the bitterness in his tone, the truth of it. He cringed, wishing he could take it back because he knew he was being unfair. Steve was trying.

He couldn’t handle where this conversation was going, he didn’t want to confront what happened in that hangar. So, Bucky walked away, something he was good at, something that kept him away from people he could hurt, disappoint. He walked away and back to his room where he didn’t bother jumping into the shower, another violation of self-care he supposed. Instead he went to his bedroom and grabbed his pillow and blanket, making his way back to his living room. He dropped both onto the floor, grabbing the remote and turning on his too-fancy television, an infomercial for a non-stick pan running across the screen. He laid on his makeshift bed, staring up at the ceiling and letting the glow from the muted T.V. wash over him.

He knew he wouldn’t sleep. He didn’t want to. He was sure that if he closed his eyes, he would see your face. Your beautiful face, your smile, the sound of your voice.

You were worse than the nightmares. At least he deserved those, he could handle the horror, but he couldn’t handle you. He couldn’t handle the want, his burning desire to be yours. Worse yet, you might actually want him too, but you didn’t know. Maybe you thought you knew, but you had no clue what you were asking for, and it was best you never did, because if you did, you wouldn’t look at him like you had in the hangar. That beautiful sweet smile would be replaced by the same disappointment on Steve’s face, and that would tear him in half. He wouldn’t make it back from that.

No, the best thing he did was walk away, for you and for him, that way the dream could still be alive for both of you, instead of the harsh reality.

It was for the best, or at least that’s what he desperately told himself.

~*~*~*~

It was only a few days later that Bucky heard your voice again.

“Oh my gosh, thank you, Steve! I really didn’t want to ask, but you would make me the coolest history teacher in the world,” you said, on speakerphone again, this time in Steve’s office.

Bucky had forgotten a book in there before the hangar incident. He had planned on just leaving it, but he was up to a good part and he dared to venture out of his room to retrieve it. He hadn’t expected Steve to be around at this hour, but it was just his luck. He lurked just out of sight, close to the open door.

“No problem, anything to help the youth. They’re our future,” Steve said, a smile in his tone.

“Spoken like a true Boomer,” you said, laughing at Steve’s expense. Bucky’s heart constricted at the sound. Part of him, the part of him that had an actual brain cell, told him to turn back and go, to forget the book so he could go back to forgetting you, but he couldn’t. Your voice rooted him in place, beckoning him to stay like a Siren out in the barren sea.  

“Nice, you have jokes,” Steve said, feigning exasperation. “You might want to watch out, ‘cause I have a few jokes of my own,” he warned jovially.

“Right, sure you do, Captain Boy Scout,” you said, and even Steve couldn’t help but laugh this time, too.

Bucky was jealous. It was stupid and petty, but he was jealous of the way Steve could speak to you, the ease between the both of you even though you couldn’t have known each other too well. He used to be easy. He used to have a smooth charm that was second nature to him, that was like a second skin to him, long shed away by time and circumstances. Just the thought of trying to talk to you made his jaw slam shut.

“So, um,” you said nervously, and the muffled sounds of your fidgeting came through the phone. “How’s…how is he?” you asked, sounding forced and reluctant, like you had wrestled with the question for a while.

Steve paused, either surprised that you asked, or reluctant to answer himself. “He’s…he’s doing his best,” Steve settled on. It was safe enough. Steve looked over his shoulder right at Bucky, and it was only then that Bucky realized he had migrated into the room, leaning against the wall by the door. Steve raised his eyebrows at him expectantly, silently offering to hand over the conversation him, but Bucky shook his head, pressing his back further into the wall like it might swallow him up. He almost wished it would.

“Oh. That’s good, I guess,” you said haltingly, sounding unsure of what to say next. There was a pause as you and Steve stewed in your indecision, deciding what to say, how much to say, what shouldn’t be said, what didn’t need to be said. You let out a long huff of air through the receiver, some more fidgeting sounds accompanying you. “Well, thanks again Steve, for agreeing to come in and speak to the kids. I know next term is pretty far away but I just wanted to lock you down while I could,” you said, injecting forced enthusiasm into your voice.

“Better safe than sorry, I get it,” Steve said, his own tone dampened out a bit. “It was nice talking to you again. I hope you have a good night, Y/n.”

“You too, Steve.” A click at the other end of the line signaled your departure, and Bucky let go of the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

It was silent for a moment, both super-soldiers letting the dust from that conversion settle around them. Steve leaned back in his desk chair, swiveling around to face Bucky, a slight weariness on his face replacing the usual concern.

“Should I call her back?” Steve asked, even though he knew Bucky’s answer.

“No,” Bucky said unsurprisingly, but very surprisingly he didn’t walk away like the other day. In fact, he walked further into the room, taking a seat in one of the extra chairs by Steve’s desk. He could see his forgotten book on the small couch across the room, face down and still open to the last page he read, untouched by recent events. Bucky looked over at the phone as if he could somehow conjure up your voice again.

It was getting harder to resist you, to resist the pull you had on him. He was fighting against something ancient, something that went beyond him and all of time, but he was still fighting. He had to, because it was for the best.

“Buck, you know it’s okay that you don’t remember,” Steve said, leaning his elbow against his desk, resting his head on his fist. “You shouldn’t feel ashamed of your reaction. It would have been a lot for anyone, but maybe if you spoke to her, it would help you--”

“I lied,” Bucky admitted, looking right at Steve.

Steve blinked. “What?”

“When you asked me if I remembered my mark, before the hangar,” Bucky said, inspecting the groves of his vibranium arm, turning his hand over and looking at his bare wrist. “I lied. I never forgot about it. Not once. Every time they--” Bucky stopped short, looking away and squinting at the wall, his jaw twitching. “They couldn’t. I always remembered, even when I didn’t fully understand, those letters…her letters were always there.”

Bucky sighed, looking down at his shoes, feeling oddly light after finally admitting it out loud. It was true. No matter what Hydra threw at him, no matter how hard they tried, they could never erase his mark from his mind. Sometimes they were detached letters, something he knew but couldn’t pinpoint the significance of. Sometimes he had been out of cryo long enough for him to form an emotional attachment to those letters, strong enough for him to want to know why they were always there, in the back of his mind.

He made the mistake of asking once, when they were doing maintenance on his arm after a mission. They put him in that chair for hours, electricity coursing through him until he begged them to stop, vowing to never speak of those letters again. But they were always there, a tether to his former self, even when the Soldier was at his worst. They were always there.

Steve leaned forward, running both hands through his hair, placing his other elbow on the desk as well. He didn’t say anything, just looking at Bucky with mild consternation, waiting for him to continue.

“What are the chances, Steve?” Bucky asked, getting up and pacing a bit. “I could’ve gotten hurt in any way down in that ravine. It could have been my leg, my spine, a freaking eye. But it was my arm, Steve. The left one, the one that had my mark,” Bucky said, shaking his head. He looked over at Steve, who was still patiently waiting, clearly trying to piece together what Bucky was trying to say.

“The universe gave me that mark, and the universe took it away,” Bucky said finally, speaking the phrase that had been ricocheting through his mind since Steve had first brought up his mark. “I didn’t deserve it. I shouldn’t have had it, ever, and the universe corrected itself. I told you that I didn’t remember because I shouldn’t have a soulmate. I just…I shouldn’t,” he concluded, trying to control the lump forming in his throat.

Steve sighed deeply, rubbing a hand along his jaw. He looked at Bucky, his eyes roaming his face, pressing his lips together as if he were holding back what he actually wanted to say.

“Okay,” Steve ventured carefully, nodding his head a bit. “I get your line of thought. But then why does she have a mark? If the universe had corrected itself, why would she get a mark so many years later?” he asked, leaning back in his chair, narrowing his eyes at Bucky.

Bucky scoffed, running a hand through his own hair and shrugging up at the ceiling. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s a mistake. Maybe there’s another guy running around with the same initials, and she’s just confused,” Bucky said, and it sounded ridiculous even to his own ears.

Steve stood, going over to Bucky and placing a hand on his shoulder, giving him a sympathetic look. He sighed, looking down at the floor for a moment before looking back up at his oldest friend.

“Look,” Steve began. “Buck, I’m not going to pretend to know what you’ve been through. I can’t tell you how to feel, or what to think, but I can tell you what I know, as your friend,” he squeezed Bucky’s shoulder tight. “You’re the best man I know. And you might not believe that right now, but it’s true. In spite of everything, you’re here, and you’re trying, when anyone else would have folded and given up. You’re here, Buck. And she’s here, and it’s not a coincidence. It’s not a mistake. You just have to let yourself want this. You. No one and nothing is standing in your way anymore,” Steve said earnestly.

Bucky said nothing, staring at a point just beyond Steve’s head, dragging his teeth over his bottom lip. Steve’s words should have had an effect on him, but they didn’t. They swirled and floated around him, bouncing off of him and falling to the ground like dead weight.

The majority of people didn’t blame him for what Hydra made him do. Most people called him a victim, separated him from The Soldier, told him he was innocent. But that wasn’t true. Part of him was always there, for every mission, every target, every bullet. He remembered them all, watching from a small corner of his consciousness, a spectator in his own body. That’s what he couldn’t reconcile with. Maybe if he had just fought harder, if he had resisted just a little more, if he hadn’t been so weak…

That was something no one would understand. It was something he had to carry alone, and it was crushing. He didn’t want to crush you, too.

“I’m not saying you need to talk to her today, but at some point,” Steve continued, frowning at the look on Bucky’s face. “Give this a chance.” He hesitated before turning to his desk, grabbing a piece of paper and a pen, scribbling something down and holding it out for Bucky to take.

Bucky frowned, but he took it, glancing down at it. It was your number, a measly string of ten digits that separated him from you. A few flicks of his fingers, and he could close that small distance, but for Bucky, it felt like an impossible trek in rough terrain to a destination that no longer existed.

“Call her,” Steve said gently, nodding at the piece of paper.

“It’s not that easy,” Bucky said fruitlessly, gripping it a bit tighter.

“Maybe it is,” Steve said, pushing in his desk chair and turning off the lamp on his desk. He smiled at Bucky, a sad smile, but there was a hopefulness under it that made Bucky’s chest ache. “You never know if you don’t try.”

Bucky just nodded, pushing out the smallest of grins, trying to meet Steve halfway. He stuffed the paper in his pocket, and it felt like a lead weight, his feet dragging all the way back to his room. He stared at that piece of paper for longer than he would have liked to admit, holding it above his head, his back against the hardwood floor, his head on his pillow, the glow from his muted T.V. making the paper translucent, making the dark, black numbers stand out even more. He was pretty sure they were going to jump off the page and strangle him.

“Forgot the damn book,” Bucky muttered to no one but himself, letting the piece of paper flutter listlessly onto his face. 

Chapter Text

THURSDAY

“Alright guys, don’t forget that weekend tutoring begins this Saturday for the Regents and AP exams,” you called out as the final bell rang, the scuffling of chairs and backpacks filling the room as your students packed up. “And don’t forget to leave your homework on my desk as you leave,” you reminded them.

They obliged, a haphazard pile of papers forming on your desk as they all filed out of the room, eager for this week to finally end. You were pretty eager too, despite the fact that this was your first day back. After everything that had happened on the field trip, you had requested a few days off, and luckily, Principal Morita didn’t pry too much into why. You had spent those days buried in blankets and pints of ice cream, trying to sort out your feelings while also trying not to feel anything at all.

You wanted to feel numb again. Over the years, it had gotten so easy for you to numb yourself, to retreat into a far corner of your being and resign yourself to the fact that you would never be whole because your other half no longer existed. You wanted that feeling back because it was what you knew best, it was the security blanket that you had shrouded yourself in, but now everything was different.

James Buchanan Barnes was no longer dead. He just didn’t want you.

He was alive and real, but he didn’t want you.

Instead of the numbness you were used to, there was this sharp, grating pain in your chest, as if there was a pin lodged in one of the valves of your heart, tearing through delicate cardiac tissue with every beat. It was constant and chronic, with no signs of letting up. You didn’t want to feel this way. You wanted to be defiant, to go on with your life like nothing happened. After all, you had spent so long without him already, you were sure you could make it without him for the rest of your life. You wanted to rise above this, to hold onto that anger you had had before, to be indifferent to the man whose initials were on your wrist.

But you couldn’t.

Because as much as you wanted to deny it, you were broken. You had woken up for the past week held together by string and tape, a tower of cards that just needed one gentle gust of air to fall apart. It took everything in you to keep it together, to put on a happy face for your students. You were exhausted, and it would take a miracle for you to make it back home without collapsing in the street.

You gathered the papers on your desk with slow and deliberate movements, counting every breath to have something to focus on, to keep everything together.

 “Come on, Parker, just give me her number,” you heard Flash whine, and you didn’t even have the energy to roll your eyes.

“No, I’m not giving you Nat’s number, for the last time,” you heard Peter answer, obviously annoyed.

“Pleeeeeaaassee,” Flash whined again, followed by a thud. You looked up to see Flash literally on his knees in front of Peter, his hands clasped together in a begging gesture. “I’ll do anything, Parker. Anything you want.”

Peter sighed, frowning down at Flash and shrugging his backpack onto his shoulder. “Flash, no. I--”

“Anything, you say?” MJ chimed in, stepping up next to Peter.

Flash glared at her. “This has nothing to do with you, weirdo.”

MJ’s eyebrows raised, placing a hand on her hips, a smug look creeping onto her face. “Really? Because I have Black Widow’s number, too. Peter gave it to me for emergencies. But if you don’t want it--”

Flash hopped back up, his eyes widening, grasping one of MJ’s hands in his own. “MJ, please--”

“It’s Ms. Jones from now on,” she said coolly, plucking her hand from his grip. “And you can begin by getting me a grande Oreo Frappuccino. Extra whip. Now.”

Flash visibly gulped, nodding his head rapidly. “Yes, ma’am, Ms. Jones ma’am, coming right up,” he squeaked, hastily leaving the classroom, dropping his homework on your desk without so much as a glance in your direction. If there was one good thing that came out of that field trip, it was that you no longer had to deal with Flash’s harassment any longer. One look at Natasha Romanoff, and you were long forgotten. Silver lining, you supposed.

“You hate Starbucks, though,” Peter said, raising an eyebrow at MJ.

“Exactly,” MJ said, smirking over at him. You didn’t miss the slight blush that formed on Peter’s cheeks.

You grinned to yourself weakly, grateful that your students could provide some distraction with their antics. You were just about done packing everything up when MJ, Peter, and Ned walked up to your desk, Peter’s hands behind his back.

“Hi Miss,” Peter said with a shy smile.

“We’re glad you're back,” Ned added, swaying a little from side to side.

You smiled widely at the three of them, the grin pressing into your cheeks and into your eyes for the first time in what felt like forever.

“Thanks guys, I’m glad to be back with you all,” you said carefully, trying to keep your voice level and even, in control.

Keep it together.

“Well, uh, we felt bad about everything that happened on the trip,” MJ said sympathetically, nudging Peter a little. “So we got you something.”

With that, Peter revealed what he was holding behind him, a gorgeous bouquet of vibrant roses, all varying shades of red and pink accented with delicate Baby’s Breath. He held it out to you with a shy grin, as if he were expecting you to reject it, that same look mirrored on MJ and Ned’s faces as well.

You stared at the flowers for a moment, digging your nails into your palms. You took a shuddering breath before smiling again at the trio, desperately trying to contain the burning around your eyes and the sob lodged in the back of your throat.

“This…this was very kind of you guys,” you whispered, reaching out to grab the flowers from Peter. “Roses are actually one of my favorites,” you added, rubbing a petal between your fingertips.

“So you like it?” Ned asked eagerly.

You swallowed down the lump in your throat. You didn’t want to cry, especially not in front of your kids. You weren’t sure you’d be able to stop.

You cleared your throat. “I love it.”

All three of their faces lit up, and you circled around the desk, enveloping each of them in a tight hug. You usually saved the hugs for graduating seniors, but you were so grateful to those three little nerds that you made an exception. They happily reciprocated, and you had to bite down hard on your tongue to keep your tears at bay.

“See you tomorrow, Miss,” Peter said with a small wave, and with that, they left you alone with your bouquet.

You stared at those roses for way too long, bracing yourself against the back of your chair because of the wave of emotion that washed over you. You didn’t dare look at your wrist despite the itch you felt there, tugging your sleeve down until it reached past your thumb.

Keep it together.

The flowers made your trip home bearable. You had even got to share one of your pink roses with a little girl on the subway that couldn’t stop admiring the flowers. As soon as you stepped into the apartment, though, you deflated, barely able to keep yourself upright. You managed to jump into the shower, and after you put on your coziest pajamas and retreated into the folds of your bed. Not too long after, you heard Sadie come home, and she gently knocked on your bedroom door.

“Are you hungry?” she asked cheerily after you had told her to come in. She flopped onto your bed, bouncing a bit as she sat down next to the mound of blankets that was vaguely in the shape of your body.

“I--” you began, but she held up her hand for you to stop.

“Before you say no, I have one word for you,” she said, a dangerously sly look on her face. “Vinny’s.”

That made you sit up. “Stop.”

“Yes, right in the kitchen,” she said smugly, gesturing toward your bedroom door.

You gasped, wrestling yourself from under the covers and looking at her incredulously. “Wait. You went all the way to Vinny’s? I thought they didn’t do takeout?”

Vinny’s was a restaurant that you and Sadie had happened upon on the Upper East Side during a girl’s night out with some of your other friends. It had the best Italian food you had ever tasted in the city, but it was expensive and out of the way, so you usually saved it for special occasions, not random Thursdays.

“They don’t, but it turns out my boss had an affair with the owner, so they pulled a few strings,” Sadie said with a flip of her hair.

You were salivating already. “Did—did you get the--”

“Tiramisu?” Sadie finished for you, raising an eyebrow. “Sweetie, it’s like you think you’re talking to an amateur. Come on, before I eat it all.”

She didn’t have to tell you twice, and in no time, you were shoveling forkfuls of the best lasagna you ever tasted into your mouth. You could almost forget about everything else, the pall of the last week lifting to reveal just a little light. You were elbow-deep in espresso-soaked ladyfingers and sweet mascarpone when the evening took a turn.

“So, did it work?” Sadie asked expectantly, taking a bulging spoonful of the sweet treat.

“Huh?” you murmured, taking the last bite of your dessert.

“The food. Did it make you feel better?” Sadie asked, her brows furrowed with concern.

You grinned at her, and your heart cracked open a bit more. You felt guilty sometimes, dragging Sadie into your deep pit of despair. She was such a positive person, such a good friend, and you felt like you couldn’t say the same for yourself. You wanted to do better, be better, even though better felt so out of reach. You were about to tell her yes, that you wouldn’t have chosen anyone else to go through all this with, but your phone vibrated and when you looked down at the screen, your beloved Tiramisu threatened to make a second appearance.

UNKNOWN NUMBER flashed across your screen, and you knew exactly who it was. Sadie knew too.

“You don’t have to pick up every time,” Sadie said gently but firmly, frowning down at the small machine as if it had insulted her.

She was right, but you couldn’t help it. You had been touched when Steve had reached out to you the day after the incident at the compound. It seemed fitting that America’s Golden Boy would check to see if you were okay, but his calls were yet to stop. In fact, they had become a daily event, and while you enjoyed speaking to Steve, those phone calls were threatening to tear you apart.

Because Steve wasn’t the man you wanted to talk to. It wasn’t Steve’s voice that you wanted to hear on the other end of the line, it wasn’t Steve’s laugh that you wanted to fill your ears when you said something mildly funny. And yet, you always answered, every single time, because there was that persistent pull you felt towards James Buchanan Barnes, the pull that felt like it was embedded into every strand of your DNA. Because if you couldn’t have him, there was still a part of you, a larger part than you’d like to admit, that would take what you could get, any bit of him and his life you could hold on to. So, you’d always answer, as long as Steve called, even if it broke you.

You hated it.

Keep it together.

“You really don’t have to answer,” Sadie said again, looking straight at you. It was almost a plea, because it was Sadie, not Steve, who always saw the aftermath of his calls, the devastating blow that you always shouldered after you hung up.

You squeezed your eyes shut and took a deep breath, picking up your phone and holding it to your ear.

“Hi Steve,” you said, your voice a bit wobbly. You cleared your throat and got up, shooting Sadie a small grin to let her know you’d be okay before heading into your bedroom.

“How’d you know it was me?” he asked, the deep timbre of his voice filling your ear, sounding more playful than you felt.

You forced a smile onto your face to match his tone and sat down at the edge of your bed. “You’re just about the only blocked number that calls me on the regular. Even the spam callers aren’t that persistent.”

He laughed, and you actually had to rub at your chest to contain the pain there.

“So, uh, big day, right? Your first day back, how did that go?” Steve asked, and he sounded genuinely interested, like he would listen to every detail of your day if you wanted. Maybe if you were someone else, maybe if this were a different world, you’d be flattered and flushed that Captain America was paying such close attention to you, but reality wasn’t that simple.

You suppressed a sigh. “It went well. My kids seemed happy I was back. I was happy to see them, for sure,” you said, and you hated the forced inflection in your tone. You sounded like a used car salesman.

“Great, that’s--” Steve began, but he stopped short, and you heard some rustling and what sounded like hissing from his end. You couldn’t be sure, but you swore you heard Steve whisper something like I’m not asking her that, followed by some more hissing.

“Steve?” you asked, pressing your phone closer to your ear as if that would help you hear what was going on better.

“Yup, still here!” he said quickly, his voice rising an octave. “Uh, so uh, hey—what’s your favorite color?” he asked haltingly, though you could tell he was trying to sound as natural as possible.  

There was silence for a moment as you caught up with the sharp turn your conversation had taken. It was jarring enough to shock you out of your funk, more curious as to why he would ask such a random question.

“Oh. Well, my favorite color is probably blue,” you said cautiously, taking your phone away from your ear for a second and frowning at it as if he’d be able to see you. “Cobalt, to be exact.”

“Cool, nice, blue is a great color,” Steve said, his tone over-enthused and clipped at the same. “Uh, what about your, uh, favorite food?” he asked, clearing his throat awkwardly.

You were seriously beginning to question his mental state, but you decided to humor him again, just to see where this was headed. “I would have to say lasagna. Or mac and cheese. Or pizza. Anything with carbs and cheese, really.”

“That’s awesome, pizza is…awesome,” Steve responded, and it sounded like he said that last word through gritted teeth. There was that hissing again before he came back on the line. “So, what about—“

“Steve, are we playing 20 questions?” you deadpanned, growing just a little impatient. “Because if you’re about to ask me if I’m a virgin, I’ll punch you through the phone.”

You heard him let out a long huff of air, a mixture of a sheepish sigh and a relieved laugh. You could almost imagine him scratching at the back of his neck.

“I’m sorry, that was ridiculous,” Steve admitted, embarrassment lacing his voice. “But I figured since we talk on the phone so much, we might as well get to know each other better. Right?”

You swallowed hard, and your mouth suddenly felt like it was filled with chalk. This was your chance to put an end to all this, to put yourself out of your misery for good and try to move on with your life with whatever scraps of dignity that you had left. You had to end this. You couldn’t do this to yourself anymore. Sadie was right, you deserved better than this, and it was about time you actually listened to her.

It was your turn to clear your throat. “Yeah…Steve about that,” you said, gripping at your mattress, bracing yourself for what you needed to say. “I don’t think you should call anymore,” you rushed out, and it was like someone was trying to do origami with your heart.

Silence.

You waited for his reaction, rubbing your wrist nervously on the fabric of your pajama pants, again refusing to look down at those three letters.

“Oh,” Steve finally said, and it was hard to pinpoint what was in his tone. “Okay. Y/n, if I said or did anything to offend you, I--”

“No!” you said quickly, getting up and running your hand through your hair. “No, Steve, you’ve never made me feel uncomfortable in any way. It’s not that,” you said, taking a deep breath. You went over to your desk and sat down, pinching the bridge of your nose and desperately looking for the right words. “It’s just that…I need to move on. From everything, from what happened in the hangar, but every time you call, I get sucked right back in. Every time you call I want to ask you how he’s doing, what he’s doing, if I could talk to him, but I already know the answer. And it steals a piece of me, every time I answer the phone. I give up a piece of myself every time you call, and he doesn’t. And I’m scared that soon, I won’t have any pieces left to give, and I’ll have nothing left for myself. And I need to move on, Steve. It’s for the best. Bucky--” your voice broke at his name. “Bucky made his choice, and I have no other choice but to accept that. It’s for the best. Maybe…maybe this is how it was all supposed to turn out. And I’m okay with that,” you concluded, tilting your head back and blinking to keep unshed tears from falling. You took a deep breath and winced a little at the pin still lodged in your chest.

“Bullshit.”

You blinked, unsure if you actually heard what you had heard. “Excuse me?”

“Bullshit,” Steve said again, his voice deep and unyielding, like he was giving orders and taking names. “That’s not what you want. That’s not what either of you want.”

Your jaw hung open, still processing his resistance. “Steve. Did you hear what I just said?” you asked. You felt something rise in you, your hand slowly curling into itself, your knuckles taut and stiff.  

“I did,” Steve answered. “And I think it’s bullshit.”

“Steve…” you said in a low warning, but he barreled ahead.

 “Look, what happened in that hangar was bad, but you and Bucky can move past this,” Steve said, and he sounded confident, like he was used to being right, like he was used to telling people what to do, or how to feel, or what was best. You wanted to slap him. “You two are soulmates. Against all odds, against all time and logic, you two are soulmates, and that transcends the both of you, it’s bigger than you. It means something. What the two of you have--”

“WE HAVE NOTHING,” you shouted, and even you were startled by how your voice exploded out of you. There was another moment of silence, and all you could hear was your own breathing fill your ears.

“Me and Bucky have nothing,” you said, and this time, it came out barely above a whisper. You sounded as broken as you felt. “You didn’t feel what I felt that day. You never have, and you never will. No one will ever be able to understand that feeling. No one except Bucky, and he still walked away.” You wiped away a few hot tears that had escaped beyond your notice. “He made his choice, and now it’s time for me to make mine.”

Silence.

And in that silence, you found a semblance of strength, a shred of willpower that could fuel you forward from all this, that would help you escape. But Steve spoke again, and it all shattered.

“You said you wouldn’t give up on him.” He said it quietly. No accusation or ire, just sadness, and you felt a few more tears leave trails on your cheeks.

You sniffled, swiping at your nose with the collar of your nightshirt. “I’m not giving up on him,” you said, and you meant it. “I’m not. Because, in spite of everything, I know how strong he is. He got away from those…people, and he’s making a life for himself. He’s a good person. He’s a beautiful person, I know that in my bones, and he’s going to do so many great things, so many, and the two of you will save the world together, and they’ll hold parades in your honor and build statues for you and dedicate whole museums to you and no one will know how to thank you enough. I see that so clearly for him, and he’ll deserve it. He’ll deserve it all, and then some. So I’m not giving up on him, Steve. I’m--” your voice broke again, and you let out a sharp breath. Keep it together. “I’m just trying not to give up on myself.”

Steve let out a long breath, and it flooded through the receiver, threatening to consume you. “Y/n…”

“I don’t know who I am if I’m not mourning him,” you said, willing your voice to be stronger. “And now that I don’t need to mourn him, I need to figure out what to do next. And I can’t do that if I’m still waiting and hoping for something that won’t happen. So this is our last phone call. At least for a while. I’m sorry,” you said, but you didn’t feel as satisfied as you should have. You felt shaken, like everything was shifting around you and there was no solid ground to put your feet on.

“I understand,” Steve said, and he sounded helpless, dejected, because this was a problem he couldn’t fix, something that couldn’t be resolved with a uniform and a shield.

“Goodbye, Steve,” you whispered, and you hung up because there was nothing left to say, nothing left for you to hear.

You sat there for a moment, staring at the wall, your cheeks still tingling from salty tears. It took you a moment to realize what was wrong.

Your wrist didn’t itch.

It always felt irritated and burned when you were emotional, especially if you were emotional about him. It was like a physical barometer of your feelings, and you had grown accustomed to the itch that let you know that those three letters emblazoned on your wrist weren’t just a figment of your imagination. They were alive, and real, and meant something. They always called out to you.

But now…nothing.

You hesitated, but you finally looked down at your wrist, pulling your sleeve up to reveal your mark.

JBB.

There was no red, there was no itch. Your skin was its natural shade, and the letters were just there, not changed in any way, but they looked duller somehow, like it really was just a tattoo.

And that’s when you couldn’t keep it together. The floodgates opened, and you sobbed. You hated the sound, but you couldn’t stop, not even when Sadie slipped into your room and put her arms around you. Not even when she managed to coax you to bed, tucking you in and rubbing circles on your back, speaking consolingly. Not even when you had no more tears left to give, your body shaking with dry gasps of air.

But you held your wrist close, pressed against your cheek, sandwiched in between your head and your pillow as if you were protecting those three letters, as if they’d slip right off your skin if you didn’t keep them close. You woke up with a sore arm from sleeping on it wrong, but when you held up your wrist in the morning light, it was still there, JBB, and you felt just the smallest bit of relief.

FRIDAY      

“That’ll be $11.45, please,” the cashier said, and you did your best not to cringe. All you had ordered was a small coffee with a double chocolate brownie and the price seemed unreasonable, but after the conversation you had with Steve last night, you told yourself that you deserved to splurge a little.

 Straight after the final bell, you made your way over to your favorite book store that wasn’t too far away from your apartment. Stained Pages was a relatively new bookstore, and it definitely pandered to the hipster/starving artist types that Downtown Brooklyn housed, with its exposed brick and handwritten display signs and overpriced artisanal coffee. You didn’t care, though. Sure, it was kind of an Instagram trap for book nerds, but it was still a cozy spot to sip a hot beverage and read the books you just bought.

That’s exactly what you did, gathering your drink and snack from the counter and choosing a table in the bookstore’s café that was near the windows that overlooked the Brooklyn Promenade and a glimpse of the Manhattan skyline. You opened up your newly acquired book, sipping as you read along. It was an intentionally light book, a romance novel that would clearly end happily with the two star-crossed lovers enclosed in each other’s arms. You had chosen it as a distraction, a way to get your mind off of the heavy stuff happening in your life, but it perhaps worked too well, because it didn’t take long for your mind to wander to somewhat dangerous territory.

You had never been kissed.

If you were being honest, you wanted to know what that felt like. To kiss someone and feel their lips move against yours, to feel your skin turn hot with every touch, every kiss, every mingled breath. You wanted to feel desired, to have someone literally ache for your body to be intertwined with theirs, but it had never happened.  

And maybe that was your fault. You had never availed yourself to any guy who showed interest in you in college, you had never entertained anything beyond friendship with any man before because a part of you felt like it would be a betrayal to the three letters on your wrist. There had only been one guy who had come close and that was…

“I thought I’d run into you here at some point.”

You snapped out of your thoughts and turned towards the source of the voice, only to start choking on your own saliva.

Will.

There he was, in all his chestnut-haired, chocolate-eyed glory, standing in front of your table as if your brain had conjured him up from thin air. Good lord.

You tried to contain your coughing fit, desperately taking a sip of coffee to help you out, but it did little to squash the awkwardness and ridiculousness of the moment. Of course he was here, the universe just couldn’t give you a break. First, you lost your soulmate, and then you had to confront the cute guy you had ghosted for said soulmate in the first place. Awesome.

“You okay?” Will asked, his eyebrows knitted together. “Do you want me to get you some water…?”

You shook your head, coughing a couple of times before clearing your throat. “No, no I’m good,” you croaked, taking another sip before giving him your best smile. “Hi! Hey, how are you?” you burst, sounding way too cheerful and teacher-y. You tugged your sleeve instinctively, despite the fact that you had covered your mark in makeup that morning.

To his credit, Will smiled back, gesturing to the seat in front of you, and you nodded encouragingly at him, trying not to combust as he slid into the seat across from you, his own coffee and book in his hand. He didn’t bring up the whole ghosting thing, to your surprise. The two of you just rolled into easy conversation as if nothing had ever happened, with him telling you about the shenanigans that went on in his office, and you telling him about the hilarious things your students say. It felt nice talking to Will again. It felt fresh and light, like bedsheets that just came out of the dryer. He was separate from everything else in your life. That’s part of the reason you had liked him in the first place. He made you feel different, normal, like every crappy thing in your life was somehow smaller than it actually was. That was how a guy was supposed to make you feel, wasn’t it?

“So what are you reading?” Will asked after a bit, taking a swig of coffee and nodding over at your book, which was face down on the page you had left off at.

You shrugged sheepishly, suddenly embarrassed by your choice in trashy literature. “It’s just a silly romance novel, nothing special,” you said with another shrug, playing with a corner of the cover.

“Romance isn’t silly,” Will said, grinning at you from behind the rim of his cup, not breaking eye contact. “We all need a little romance once in a while, right?”

Your heart did a somersault, and then you immediately felt guilty, shame washing over you even though you weren’t doing anything wrong. “Yeah, I guess so,” you said quietly, feeling a bit too exposed under his gaze. It was then that you decided to rip off the band-aid. “Will, I’m sorry that I never got back to you. I didn’t mean to leave you in the lurch, it’s just that…a lot has been going on in my life, and I couldn’t…” you trailed off, not knowing how to finish.

Will shook his head, giving you a sympathetic look. “You have nothing to apologize for, I understand completely,” he said genuinely, and you felt a little grateful. He leaned in across the table some more and considered you intently. “You wanna talk about it?” he asked cautiously, and you hesitated.

Besides Sadie, there was no one in your life that you had ever spoken to about your soulmate dilemma. Even though Bucky was alive, you were still sure that people would think you were crazy, but your feelings were scattered and chaotic and you needed any advice you could get.

“Um, well, there’s this guy…” you began carefully, and Will groaned playfully.

“It’s always us. I apologize on behalf of my kind,” he said, and you laughed, tipping your head back, your shoulders shaking with mirth instead of sobs like the night before.

“It’s just that, he and I,” you continued, nervously playing with the ends of your hair. “We have this…connection, or at least I thought we did. He came into my life unexpectedly, and I was so sure that we’d just fit together. But he walked away, and I don’t know why,” you said, keeping your eyes fixed on the table. “I thought I meant more to him, but now I know I mean nothing to him.”

“You sure about that?”

You glanced up at Will, and he looked back at you with an anxious expression, like he wasn’t sure if he should say what he was thinking.

“There’s something I never got around to telling you,” he said, fidgeting with the lid of his cup. “A few years ago, around this time actually…I was ready to get married. But I left her at the altar,” he said, rushing out that last part.

Your jaw almost hit the floor.

Will glanced up at you and sighed sheepishly, and you tried your best to fix your face to something more neutral.

“I know, it’s shocking and terrible, and a huge dick move,” he continued. “But I did it. I loved her, I really truly did, but I got cold feet and nothing I did could warm them up again.” He sighed and frowned, as if he were in the midst of it all again. “I just freaked out. My parents divorced when I was a kid, and I never really had an example of what a successful marriage was supposed to be like. I convinced myself that I couldn’t do it, that I had no clue how to be a good husband, or how to be a good father…so I left. I thought I was doing her a favor.”

He was quiet for a moment, and you let what he said sink in. You would have never expected someone like Will to pull something like that. He was so kind, and open, and wonderful, and what he did was so cruel. You almost didn’t believe it.

“But I have you to thank, I guess, because not too long ago, I saw her again,” he said, and you raised both your eyebrows. He grinned and nodded in confirmation. “After I didn’t hear back from you, I decided to go patch up my pride with a couple of the guys at a bar we like, and she was there. It was painfully awkward at first, but we got to talking. And we’re still talking,” he said, a wide grin invading his face.

It was contagious, his obvious glee, and you found yourself smiling too. “So she forgave you,” you prompted, and he shrugged helplessly.

“It seems so. I was surprised she’d even give me a second look, but we’re taking things slow. One day at a time, but I’m hopeful.” Will looked at you earnestly then, completely vulnerable and honest. “Look, I don’t know your guy, I can’t tell you exactly what his motives were, but I think I understand him a little. Sometimes…sometimes people don’t walk away because they don’t care. Sometimes, it’s the exact opposite. They know just how much they can lose, and it’s terrifying. I can’t excuse or take back what I did to Mandy. I hurt her and her family, and there may not be anything I can do to fully fix it, but I’m sure as hell gonna try. I’m gonna try for the rest of my life, if she’ll let me, because it’s always been her for me. You know?”

You did know. You knew exactly because, for you, it had always been Bucky. Even when you thought he was dead, it was always him, right from that day in history class. You knew in your heart of hearts that no matter what, no matter who you tried to fill that void with, your heart would always belong to James Buchanan Barnes, in this life and the next.

You sighed deeply, running both hands through your hair and leaning your elbows on the tabletop. You gave Will a small smile.

“So you’re saying I should keep fighting for this?” you asked him ruefully.

“I’m not saying you should do anything,” he said simply, giving you a sympathetic look. “Just wait. See what happens. If it’s meant to be, it’ll be.”

“I think it’s safe to say you and Mandy are meant to be,” you said with a chuckle, and you were warmed at the huge smile on Will’s face at the mention of her name.

“Yeah,” he said sheepishly, gliding a hand over his jaw. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say we were soulmates.”

You were about to laugh at the irony of what he said, but you stopped short when you noticed him looking at a point behind you through the window with a puzzled look on his face. You turned in your chair to follow his line of sight only to find Peter standing at the window outside, looking like he got caught with his hand in the cookie jar. He waved when he saw that you had turned around, and you waved back at him.

“One of my students,” you explained to Will as Peter made his way into the store and over to your table.

“H-hi Miss. Sorry to interrupt,” Peter stammered, giving you another awkward wave.

“No bother at all, Pete,” you said, smiling up at him. “Peter, this is Will, Will this is Peter, one of my brightest pupils,” you beamed, and Will reached out to shake Peter’s hand.

“It’s nice to meet you, sir,” Peter said, holding onto Will’s hand for a bit too long.

Will gently grabbed his hand back, flexing and un-flexing his fingers as if Peter had a strong grip. “Uh, nice to meet you too. Please, call me Will,” he said with an unsure grin.

“Will,” Peter repeated, nodding over at him warily.

There was a beat where the three of you said nothing, hesitant with how the rest of this interaction should go.

You scrambled to fill in the silence. “So, Pete, what brings you over to Brooklyn?” you asked hastily.

Peter grew visibly uncomfortable, scratching at his head a little and fidgeting with the straps of his backpack. “Oh, uh, yeah, I wanted to come here actually. I heard about it online, and it seemed like a cool place to hang out. Or have a date…” he said pointedly, glancing between you and Will.

You laughed nervously, waving away Peter’s implication. “No, this isn’t—we’re friends,” you said, and you tried not to think about the absurdity of explaining your love life to one of your students.

Peter seemed relieved by your statement for some reason, nodding his head and letting out a breath as if he had been holding it. His expression softened towards Will, too. “Oh! Okay, awesome, great. Well, it was nice seeing you Miss, I’ll see you on Monday,” he said as he backed away towards the door. “It was nice meeting you again, Will,” he added over his shoulder with a wave, and he disappeared out the door and around the street corner.

You shook your head, realizing that Peter hadn’t even bothered browsing for books or getting something at the café counter, even though he had a long trek to Queens from here.

“He’s a sweet kid. A little awkward, but very sweet,” you assured Will, and he laughed.

He got up from his seat and gathered up his now empty cup and book, flashing you one last charming smile. “Well, it was nice seeing you again, Y/n. Good luck with everything,” he told you.

You gave him a small grin, sneaking a finger under your sleeve to rub at your mark. “I wish I had run into you yesterday. I think I made a mistake,” you admitted quietly. What if Steve told Bucky to forget about you? What if you had ruined any chance Bucky might have changed his mind?

Before you could get completely consumed by your doubts, Will placed a hand on your shoulder and gave you a reassuring squeeze.

“We all make mistakes,” he said sympathetically. “Just wait. That’s all you can do.”

Just wait.

You thought about that after Will left, sipping your lukewarm coffee and picking at your half-eaten brownie. You stared out of the window of the store, over at the view of the Promenade, the city skyline and the skyscrapers that stretched towards the clouds. You could just make out a portion of Stark Tower, its luminescent “A” standing out among the glittering facades, matching the one you had seen on the compound that day.

You thought about what Will said, what Steve said, about all of this being bigger than you. You didn’t know why you were Bucky’s soulmate, you didn’t know why he was yours. Maybe there wasn’t a real answer to that question, maybe you’d never understand. But you knew one thing for sure: you were made for each other. And if you had to wait, you would, because something deep down, way deep down, told you that it’d be worth it in the end.

It had to be.

You just hoped it wasn’t too late.

SATURDAY

“Hey, I got churros from the Churro Lady!” you shouted as you got into the apartment, throwing your keys down on the small table by the door and making your way to the kitchen. You put down the grease-stained brown paper bag on the counter, washing your hands in the sink and grabbing one of the cinnamon-sugar sticks out of the bag and taking a heavenly bite.

The unofficial start of summer for your neighborhood was when the food vendors came out in full swing. It was the time of year when food trucks would set up shop, from some of the best hamburgers you’ve ever tasted, to the tastiest and chewiest mochi the East Coast had to offer. It was one of the reasons you loved living in Brooklyn so much.

“Sadie?” you called out again, making your way further into the apartment when you didn’t get a response. You figured she was home. It was the weekend, and you hadn’t seen a note on the counter.

“Hey! You’re home!” Sadie exclaimed when you reached the hallway. She was standing in front of your bedroom door, leaning against it like that was the most normal spot you could find her in. She crossed her arms over her chest, giving you an over-animated smile. “How was tutoring today?” she asked, grabbing onto your doorknob and pulling, even though the door was already shut. It couldn’t get any more closed than it already was.

You narrowed your eyes at her. It wasn’t unusual for Sadie to have weird behaviors, it was something you got used to over the years, but she was acting stranger than usual.

“It was fine,” you said, taking a couple of steps closer to her. She pressed her back further into the door, her grip on the doorknob tightening. “What are you doing?”

“Pffft, nothing, don’t worry about it,” she said, again tugging at your doorknob. “So churros. Yay! Let’s go eat,” she said quickly, rushing towards you and attempting to usher you back towards the living room. You side-stepped her, throwing her a look over your shoulder as you went over to your door.

“Wait!” she called out, but you pushed your door open anyway…

And found it exactly how you left it this morning. You faced Sadie again, crossing your own arms and looking at her expectantly.

“Are you okay?” you asked her, half-expecting a tinfoil hat to appear on her head.

She peered into your room, looking around like she actually expected something to be in there. “I’m fine…” she said, but you weren’t entirely convinced.

“Good. Because only one of us is allowed to be crazy at a time, and it’s still my turn,” you said, and she laughed, shaking her head and seemingly returning to her normal self. “Come on, before I eat all the churros,” you prompted her, and the two of you headed back to the kitchen.

The rest of the afternoon was spent munching on junk food, watching even junkier reality TV shows and laughing at how staged everything was. Eventually, you called for delivery to get some proper dinner as the sun went down, and as the two of you were waiting, a commercial came on for the Netflix movie they were making about Barry and Ethel Manigold’s story.

You watched as the actors flashed across the screen, dramatic music playing, the reviews promising that it would be a love story like no other, two halves of a whole finding each other and beating the odds. You looked down at your mark, relieved to find it a little pink, and you rubbed at it consolingly. That didn’t escape Sadie’s notice.

“Are you okay?” she asked quietly, watching as you traced over your mark with your finger.

You nodded, grinning over at her, but it didn’t reach your eyes. “I just…I want him to be happy,” you whispered, your heart aching and twisting in on itself.

“You deserve to be happy too,” she said, nudging you with her foot with a smile.

You were about to respond to that, but your phone began to vibrate. You assumed it was the delivery guy, but when you looked at your screen, it said UNKNOWN NUMBER, and your heart leaped into your throat. You got up quickly, answering the call, barely letting it ring a second time.

“Steve, hi,” you said breathlessly, your pulse racing. “I’m so glad you called. Look, I’m sorry about how we left things the other day, I hope you’re not upset.”

Silence.

You looked at your screen to make sure you had actually picked up before holding your phone back to your ear.

“Steve?” you said. “Are you there?”

“It’s not Steve.”

Every muscle in your body stiffened, and you weren’t even sure you had a heartbeat anymore. You had heard that voice only once before. It was the voice that had plagued your dreams since that day in the hangar, the voice that rendered you a useless mess for the past couple of weeks, the voice that you had ached to hear since you were sixteen years old.

“It’s Bucky.”

Chapter Text

THURSDAY

Bucky heaved into the toilet, though at this point there was nothing to hurl up anymore. His stomach knotted and twisted, as if in a plea for mercy, and thankfully, this particular wave of nausea seemed to be winding down. The room was no longer spinning, and he heaved weakly a few more times, wincing at the persistent, grating pain in his head. 

The sound of his labored breaths echoed against the tile of his small bathroom. He was still on his knees, bent over the toilet, staring at the mustard-colored bile that he had managed to get out. Any remnants of food had been thrown up hours ago. He closed his eyes and lowered himself to the ground, letting his cheek rest against the cool tile, his damp and tangled hair matted to his forehead. It wasn’t much, but it provided some relief.

My name is James Buchanan Barnes.

Bucky.

Buck.

He ran it through his mind a couple of times, the mantra cutting through the pain of his migraine only a bit. The migraines came and went. They were a purging, of sorts, that his body went through when the serum just couldn’t keep up with the decades of sustained trauma his brain had gone through. Months ago, he had managed to decrypt a good amount of the Shield/Hydra files that had been released to the public over a year ago. Most of them didn’t pertain to him, but he did find some of the medical records Hydra kept for the Winter Soldier program, and if what he read was accurate, he’d be dealing with these migraines for a long while.

I’m from Brooklyn, New York.

My best friend’s name is Steve.

Was Steve.

That made a shock of pain roll through his head, and he braced himself against the cold floor as he waited for it to pass. It was always jarring when he was able to remember bits and pieces of the past, but it was even harder when he had to compare that past with what happened in D.C. He couldn’t piece together the Steve he saw in his mind with the man he pulled out of the Potomac. He couldn’t piece together the man he was beginning to remember as himself with the man he saw in the mirror, when he dared to look in a mirror. Another wave of pain tore through him.

I’m in Bucharest, Romania.

This is my apartment, my bathroom.

The supermarket five blocks down has my favorite pancake mix.

The free clinic eight blocks in the other direction ran out of pain meds a week ago.

He wasn’t too upset about the meds. They helped whenever he reached his breaking point with the pain, but he didn’t like how they made him feel. They made him feel groggy and out of it, not in control, and he wanted to hold onto whatever pieces of control he had left in his life. If he were being honest with himself, the worst part about these migraine bouts wasn’t the pain. He could grit his teeth and bear it. What he couldn’t bear was what the pain reminded him of, the harsh reality that he had to face curled up on the bathroom floor.

He was alone.

He had no one.

He couldn’t even trust his own mind.

The hardest part of remembering was the loss he felt. He had people before all this. He had a family, and friends, people he cared about, people who cared about him. A real life.

The hardest part of remembering was realizing that there were some things he could never get back. But there was an anomaly to his remembering, a glitch he called it, something he couldn’t quite understand or explain to himself.

Carefully, Bucky glanced at his arm, its silver plates reflecting the harsh fluorescent light on the ceiling. His eyes trailed along the jags and curves until they reached his wrist, hard, silver and barren.

He knew that there was something missing. He knew that there had been a mark there, three perfectly formed letters that he could still see if he closed his eyes. He did that now, pressing his cheek further against the tile, breathing through the nausea that threatened to take over again.

“Everything’s going to be okay, Bucky.”

He knew he shouldn’t do it. He knew he was playing with fire, only making things worse for himself, but he couldn’t help it. He knew those three letters in his mind belonged to her, whoever she was, whoever she had been. He remembered all the things he thought about her, the dreams he had for the two of them, the life they’d build together. He was sure he wasn’t remembering an actual person, just an idea. A dream. But it brought him solace, a peace that was so rare and so beautiful, he let himself get lost in it. He afforded himself that kindness, but only sparingly. Only when he felt his lowest.

“I’m here, Bucky. You’re gonna be okay.”

Sometimes he let his imagination run wild to the point where she felt so real. Like he could hear her, like he wasn’t alone. He could feel arms wrapped around him, a warm, delicate body pressed against his back, fingers carding through his hair.

“I’m here.”

The one thing he couldn’t understand, the one thing that perplexed him the most about those three letters was that he didn’t feel the loss he felt when it came to other memories. He didn’t feel like he had lost something, though he must have. She was probably long gone, a casualty to time, hopefully having lived a full and wonderful life. He knew rationally that she wasn’t here anymore, that Hydra made sure he lost that chance, too. But he couldn’t shake the warmth he felt when he thought about her, the dream of her.

It was dangerous, this game he played with his mind, because if he wasn’t careful, he might do something stupid like hope.

And hope wasn’t something he dealt his cards in these days.

 Hope was dead. 

But it was a beautiful dream, one that cut through the pain better than any drug he could take. He could feel himself drifting to sleep, unbothered by the prospect of nightmares.

“I’m here, Bucky. I’m here.”

“So it’s a quiet day, I see,” Dr. Raynor said in her usual tone, a convoluted mixture of condescension and concern. It was like she cared about helping people, but she wasn’t above judging them for it either.

Bucky found it infuriating.

He said nothing in response, gazing out of the large window in her office that overlooked the plaza where all of the buildings in the complex converged, watching as people milled around, going about their day under the June sun in an unaffected way. He always found it fascinating to watch people, to observe from afar how people could be in such close proximity to each other and yet be so unaware of how their lives connected, if only for a brief moment.

“Another hour of brooding and glaring out the window,” Raynor muttered. She clicked her pen and opened up that godforsaken notebook, and Bucky could hear the quick swipes of ink she made across the page as she scribbled something undoubtedly judgmental.

Bucky didn’t even have the willpower to argue against it. Instead, he tore his gaze away from the window only to glance at the clock on the wall above Raynor’s head, and down at the wristwatch he had on. He started tapping his foot unceremoniously.

“Do you have somewhere to be today, James?” Raynor asked, and there was an edge to her voice, one that told Bucky she was losing patience. They had been at this long enough for him to know how and when to push her boundaries, and he was getting close.

Bucky glanced at the wall clock again. You’d be in last period by now. He knew because Midtown had their main schedule posted on their website, and he had managed to catch the kid say that he had you for last period through all the psychobabble that came out of his mouth. You had been home for the past few days, but you had mentioned to Steve over the phone that today was your first day back and Bucky couldn’t shake the anxious feeling he had. He let out a long huff of air, which only provided further bait for Raynor to work with.

“I know that this is court-mandated therapy,” she began, dropping her pen and shutting the notebook, tilting her head at Bucky. “But that doesn’t mean you can’t make the most of it. Look, it’s either you get it all out with me on the government’s dime, or pay $400 an hour for some quack down in SoHo later on. It’s up to you,” she said plainly, raising her eyebrows expectantly.

Bucky stared back at her, his jaw set, his eyes narrowed slightly. For anyone else, that look would have been intimidating; even Steve shuddered at it when he was on the receiving end of it once or twice, but it seemed that Dr. Raynor was immune to anything that Bucky threw at her, which is why he supposed she had stuck for so long. Longer than the others they had tried to pair him with, at least.

“Is it Sam? Did he make fun of your gloves again?” she asked, grinning a little to herself. Bucky didn’t respond. “Or was it…Tony? Did the two of you finally have that long over-due talk?”

Bucky stirred a little, but he gave no answer, glancing at his watch and the wall clock again. His foot began tapping faster. Only ten more minutes until you’d be heading home.

“Captain Rogers is concerned about you,” Raynor tried, scribbling some more in that damn notebook. Bucky gave an involuntary roll of his eyes, which she chose to ignore for now. “I ran into him the other day. Apparently, we both frequent the same coffee shop on Lexington and 34^th. He didn’t tell me much, but he was concerned about recent events, how they might be affecting you. Care to elaborate?”

Bucky sighed, fiddling with his watch. Eight more minutes and you’d be done. “He doesn’t need to worry,” Bucky muttered, finally caving in.

“Oh good, he speaks,” Raynor said sarcastically, leaning back in her chair. “Only took you forty minutes. And what’s the alternative for you? Him leaving you alone forever?”

Bucky scoffed, glancing up at her with a plain expression. “No. He just doesn’t need to worry.”

Raynor sighed, crossing her legs and looking straight at Bucky. “Okay. We only have a limited amount of time together, so let me cut to the chase.”

“When don’t you do that?” Bucky muttered, but she ignored the snide remark. Six more minutes. 

“Steve cares about you,” she said, leaning forward a bit. “Sam cares about you, Natasha cares about you, even I care about you, or else I wouldn’t waste my time here watching you do the whole dark-as-the-night act you have going on. You have a whole gaggle of people who care about your well-being, but you’re hell-bent on pushing every last one of those people away. Why?”

“I don’t push people aw—”

“I’ll tell you why,” she continued, steamrolling past any of his objections. “You’re punishing yourself. Even though you’ve gotten pardoned, even though you’re getting better, even though nothing that happened in the past was your fault, you’re still punishing yourself. And you wanna know why again?”

This time Bucky knew better than to try and interject. It was no use when she was on a roll like this. Four more minutes. 

“I’ll tell you again,” she continued, crossing her arms. “It’s because pain is what you’re used to. It’s what you’ve grown to expect. After decades of torture, of abuse, of surviving by the skin of your teeth, pain has become your companion. You need it. You need it because the alternative would be to let people in, to open yourself up and be vulnerable, exposed, and you can’t handle it. It would be too much because if you do that, open yourself up, you’ll know what it’s like to be without that pain and you’re scared. You’re terrified that you’ll get used to the love, the happiness, the warmth and fuzziness. That you’ll let your guard down completely and then—” she snapped loudly. “Something will come along and take it all away again. And all you’ll be left with is the pain, and this time, it’ll be worse because you had a taste of the alternative, a taste of the greener grass on the other side. Tell me I’m wrong,” she invited, gesturing to him before crossing her arms again.

Bucky just stared at her, though he let out a shuddering breath that told her all she needed to know. Two more minutes.

Raynor shut her eyes for a moment with a small shake of her head, and something like remorse, or pity, or understanding crossed her face. She looked at Bucky again with an earnest look, and he steeled himself for what she was about to say, because he knew it would sting. The truth always stung.

“You need to let go, James,” she said softly, and Bucky almost wished she would go back to being biting and sarcastic. “You need to stop punishing yourself for what they did to you. It’s okay to let people in, it’s okay to let them care about you. It’s okay to let yourself be happy because then, what would all this be for?” she said, waving her arm around vaguely. “Why would you be here, then? What would be the point if you won’t allow yourself to be happy?” She paused, giving him time to digest those questions before hitting him with the big one: “Do you want to be happy, James?”

Yes.

The answer to that question should have been simple. One word, one syllable, simple. And yet, it lodged itself in Bucky’s throat, unwilling to budge even the tiniest bit, no matter how much he wanted to say the damn word.

Yes.

What sane person wouldn’t say yes?

But Bucky could only stare down at his watch, swallowing hard. Your day was officially done, and he had the passing thought that students would be filing out of your classroom right now, you’d be packing up your things and saying goodbyes, making your way through the streets of Manhattan. He wanted to be there with you, to make sure you got home safe, to hold your hand and listen to you gripe about how stressful finals were, but a stabbing pain in his chest jolted him out of the brief daydream, and he could only look helplessly at Dr. Raynor with his emotions as tied up as his tongue.

Raynor sighed at his silence, closing her notebook and placing it on the small table beside her. “This is part of healing, James. Forgiving yourself, letting yourself be happy, but you need to put in the work. It won’t be easy, but I know you can do it. How about this,” she perked up, and he stifled an eye roll. He knew one of her ridiculous homework assignments was coming. “For this week, I want you think of something that would make you happy. And I’m talking something big here, not just a new flavor of Hot Pockets. Something that will have you jumping for joy and singing aloud, and I want you to take one step in reaching that. Just a small step, nothing major, but a little progress is necessary. Think you can do that?” she said, and by her tone, Bucky knew he didn’t have a choice.

“Sure thing, Doc,” he said softly, and she nodded satisfactorily, making one final note in her notebook.

Bucky left her office, stepping into the slightly humid air of Downtown. The city was bustling with the coming of summer, and everything felt full of life, vigor, and color. Summer in New York was hard to beat, even back when he and Steve were kids. It used to be his favorite season, but now he could barely register it at all.

He could only think about you.

As he rode his motorcycle out of the city and back up to the compound, his thoughts could only revolve around you and what Dr. Raynor had asked him as the cityscape gave way to the trees and scenic views of upstate. 

Do you want to be happy, James?

Answering that question still felt impossible, but he knew one thing for sure, one thing without a doubt: he wanted you to be happy.

The image of your smile from that day in the hangar swan into his mind. Your eyes had been so bright and inviting, your face so radiant and open, and he knew that he would walk to the ends of the earth for you if it meant keeping that smile on your face. He wanted nothing more than for you to be happy, to be fulfilled and gratified, but he was so sure he could never be a part of that. You were pure light, you were a fresh spring in the middle of a desert, you were the calm quiet after a storm. He didn’t even really know you, but he knew that you were far better than anything he could have ever imagined. He knew it the moment he laid eyes on you, and he was sure he’d ruin you. His past wasn’t something he could just brush under the rug, it wasn’t something that could go away just because he wanted to be happy.

He was a stain on history, an insidious mark on the world.

You shaped the century, he had been told.

He had been the cause for pain and suffering that was felt the world over, and was still being felt down to this day. How could he bring you into something like that? How could he bring you into his life when it came with the blood on his hands and the darkness in his mind? He could only wonder what cruel forces of the universe would do this to you, tie you to someone like him, destine you for disappointment.

And yet…that smile had been for him.

You had said his name in such a delicate way, you had reached out to touch him, you had been the one to contact Steve with that letter even though you must have known to some extent the things he had done. He thought about the dim way you had asked for him on the phone with Steve, the way your voice broke a little, the way it made him break a little.

He wanted to believe that you wanted him, that you would welcome him with open arms and an open heart, but Raynor was right. It was too much for him, too good, and he was sure it wouldn’t last, but when Raynor had asked him to think of something that would make him really and truly happy, you were the only thing that came to mind. You were it for him. If he could have you, he knew he’d be the happiest man alive, that nothing else would matter but you and him, if only he would reach out and try.

Something sparked deep in Bucky’s chest as he parked his bike in the compound’s garage, and it continued to build as he made his way up to his quarters. It felt unfamiliar to him, like something that had laid dormant within him for many, many years, long forgotten until now. It made him breathless and heady, and as he stepped out of the cold shower he had taken in an effort to subdue it, he found himself rifling through the pile of books in his living room until he found what he was looking for: a slightly crumpled slip of paper with ten crisp numbers written out on it in Steve’s impeccable penmanship. He stared at the piece of paper for the longest time, enough for his hair to dry at the edges, a million and one thoughts ricocheting through his mind.

You were so close. You were a phone call away, and the tips of his fingers ached at the prospect.

Do you want to be happy, James?

With hands that were as unsteady as he felt, Bucky dug through the drawers in his kitchenette until he found a slip of paper and a pen. Without really thinking, he wrote down a few things, that strange and foreign feeling growing with every stroke of his pen. It was only until he was done writing that he realized what that feeling was.

Hope.

It made his heart stutter and his stomach churn, but he dared himself to lean into it, to latch onto it, to run towards and not away.

You were his soulmate.

For whatever reason, the universe had decided that you were the other half of him. You were his dream and there was the tiniest part of him that dared to think that he was your dream, too. There was the tiniest part of him that wanted to believe everything would work out.

He stared at that slip of paper again, at those ten digits, and he felt his mouth go dry, swallowing hard.

“Okay, Doc. Small steps,” he muttered to himself as he slipped your number back into the book he found it in. Maybe he wasn’t ready to call you just yet, but he knew someone who could. It would just take a little convincing.

Bucky marched out of his room and through the compound with purpose, making sure to avoid the gym area entirely because he knew that’s where Sam would be at this time of day, and he really didn’t need any ribbing from Pigeon Brain at this moment. He glanced at his watch and he made his way upstairs to the common area, knowing that Steve was undoubtedly there for his nighttime cup of coffee. Bucky steeled himself as he got to the kitchen, taking a deep breath and pushing out the friendliest grin he could muster, though he was sure it probably looked more like a grimace than anything else. He went ahead anyway, his hand curling around the piece of paper in his pocket.

Small steps. Baby steps.

“Oh, there you are,” Bucky said as casually as he could, walking across the kitchen to where Steve sat at the counter with a newspaper in hand and a mug of lukewarm coffee to go with it. Bucky leaned against the counter directly in front of his blond friend, tracing a warm finger along the cold marble. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” he added innocently enough.

Steve looked up from his newspaper, peering up at Bucky through his lashes, a deep wrinkle between his brows. He tilted his head back a little to get a better look at his friend, sighing through his nose and narrowing his eyes at the metal-armed super-soldier in front of him.

“No,” Steve said simply, returning his attention to the printed news at hand, taking a casual sip of his coffee.

Bucky cleared his throat. Keep your cool, Barnes. Don’t let him see you sweat. “No? As in you didn’t want me looking for you?” he said, keeping his tone light, a deceptively ignorant grin on his face.

Steve turned over to the sports section of the paper. “You know what I’m saying ‘no’ to.”

“I have no clue what you’re talking about, pal,” Bucky replied. Damn. He had known this would be difficult, but he was determined. Apparently, 70 years in ice hadn’t cured Steve’s unyielding stubbornness. He had to proceed carefully.

Steve glanced up for a second before turning over to the op-eds without a word.

Bucky waited, tapping his vibranium fingers against the marble countertop so that it sounded like a tiny horse was galloping across the kitchen.

He knew Steve would break. It was only a matter of time.

Bucky kept tapping, intently watching Steve’s face for a reaction. As stoic as the star-spangled man tried to keep his face, there was a slight twitch to his brow that Bucky didn’t miss. That only made him tap faster, a whole stampede of mini equines echoing against the walls. Steve’s hands gripped the newspaper tighter, the edges crinkling as he turned over to the comics wordlessly. 

Bucky tapped even faster.

Steve took a deep, strained breath, scanning the page with his jaw set.

I can do this alllll day, punk.

Tap.

Tap, tap, tap.

Taptaptaptaptaptaptaptaptaptap—

Steve slammed his hand down over Bucky’s, murder in his eyes. “I’m not calling her,” he growled, the tips of his ears slightly pink.

“But it was her first day back to work,” Bucky said calmly, managing to keep the smugness out of his tone. It was comforting to know that he still knew how to get under Steve’s skin after all these decades. “Shouldn’t you see how she coped with that?”

“I’m sure she did fine,” Steve said grudgingly, extracting his hand from Bucky’s and leaning back across the counter. He picked up the newspaper again with a snap. “She’s good at her job.”

“Wow. You’re not being a very good friend right now,” Bucky singsonged, crossing his arms across his chest and shaking his head.

Steve snorted. “To whom? Her or you?”

Bucky bristled, the plates in his metal arm whirring slightly. “Don’t be ridiculous. This is about her, not me, Steven.”

“And that’s why I gave you her number, James,” Steve retorted, taking a long drag of his coffee. “You call her. I’m not enabling you anymore.”

Bucky inhaled sharply, his nostrils flaring. “Enabling. Nice. Did you learn that word during one of those little coffee house chats you have with my shrink behind my back? Real classy, Rogers.”

Steve sighed deeply, putting the paper down again and looking directly at Bucky. “We don’t talk about you behind your back. She can’t legally disclose anything the two of you talk about, she just tells me--”

“How to keep tabs on me,” Bucky said resignedly. “FRIDAY does a pretty good job of that already, don’t you think?”

Steve just gave him a look, but denied nothing. Rationally, Bucky knew it was necessary. He knew he was practically confined to the four walls of the compound, he knew he needed to be kept under a microscope, he knew it was for the safety and betterment of others. He knew what he had been, what he still was, but somehow when it came from Steve, from his brother, it hurt.

“Everyone just wants what’s best for you,” Steve said, his shoulders deflating.

Bucky kept his eyes trained on the counter, dragging his teeth over his bottom lip. “Yeah, that’s the party line. Everyone seems to know what ‘the best’ is except for me,” he said quietly. He turned away from Steve. “Are you gonna call her, or not?”

“Buck…”

“I’m going to bed,” Bucky whispered, making his way towards the door.

“Bucky, wait,” he heard Steve say, and he paused, his back still turned. “I’ll—fine. We can call her.”

“Great!” Bucky said with a chipper smile, whipping around and tugging the piece of paper out of his pocket and laying it out on the counter. “Here’s a list of questions you should ask her. Just work them into the conversation, casually,” he said, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

Steve’s jaw hung open. “Did you—did you just guilt trip me into agreeing?”

“You make it sound so manipulative,” Bucky said, shaking his head and holding his hands up.

“It is manipulative!” Steve exclaimed, running a hand over his face. He glared up at Bucky weakly. “How long are we going to play this game?”

“What game?”

“The game where I call your soulmate and you eavesdrop like a creep,” Steve said, leaning back and crossing his arms, raising his eyebrows expectantly.

Bucky shuffled uncomfortably, shame rolling through his gut. “It’s not a game, it’s…strategy. I’m strategizing.”

“Strategizing,” Steve deadpanned. “Please. Enlighten me,” he prompted, gesturing towards Bucky.

Bucky opened and closed his mouth a couple of times, grasping for the right words. He could feel the conviction he felt before threatening to slip away, but he held onto it with a white-knuckled grip.

“I care about her,” he said haltingly, his face twisting with emotion. “I want to call her, I do. I just…” he sighed deeply, running a hand through his hair. “I just want to ease into this, ease her into this. I’m a mess, Steve,” he said, looking up at his friend with the same helpless expression he had in Dr. Raynor’s office. “And maybe, if I buy myself some time, I can be less of a mess for her. She likes you, she trusts you, and if the two of you become better friends, maybe it’d be easier for her to deal with…all of this,” Bucky concluded, gesturing vaguely towards himself and their high-tech surroundings.

Steve huffed out some air, closing the newspaper and folding it up neatly. He regarded Bucky carefully, empathy rolling over his features. Bucky knew Steve understood. The life they lived was nothing short of insane, their very existence in this century a cosmic fluke. It was hard for them to wrap their own minds around it, let alone an innocent bystander.

“You mean to tell me you weren’t already thinking of calling her?” Bucky urged, narrowing his eyes at Steve, trying to keep the pleading out of his voice.

Steve narrowed his eyes back at him for a moment before letting out a guilty sigh. “I was gonna text her later without telling you,” he admitted, and Bucky scoffed with betrayal. Steve rolled his eyes, crossing his arms, though there was a soft look on his face. “Okay, fine. I’ll call her this time, but Buck, this ‘strategizing’ needs to end with you calling her yourself. She cares about you, too,” Steve said earnestly.

“Scout’s honor,” Bucky pledged, holding up a hand.

Steve gave Bucky one last look before taking his phone out of his pocket and placing it on the counter. He was about to unlock it when he reached over and examined the piece of paper Bucky had taken out.

“Favorite color, favorite food, favorite music…” Steve muttered, squinting at the list. He looked up at Bucky with a dull expression. “You want me to ask her all this?”

Heat rose up Bucky’s neck. “It’s for a thing, okay? Just work it into the conversation somehow.”

Steve gave him a look and slid the list back over to Bucky. “No.”

“Yes.”

“Bucky, no, we’re not in the third grade.”

“Funny, I was the only one who actually had a girlfriend in the third grade. Ask her the damn questions.”

“No!”

“Yes!”

“Shut up, it’s ringing,” Steve said, putting his phone on speaker. Bucky saw your name splashed across the screen and his heart flipped violently in his chest, his palm becoming clammy and warm. You picked up on the third ring.

“Hi, Steve,” you said, your voice spilling out of the phone’s speakers.

It was almost like Bucky went under a trance when he heard your voice. The nervous energy that had been running through him before dissipated, and a calm washed over him, a warmth filling his belly and radiating to the other parts of him. He was felt calm enough that his legs threatened to turn to jelly, and he leaned against the counter for support, his gaze trained on the small device emitting your sound waves.

“How’d you know it was me?” Steve asked jovially, and Bucky still found it miraculous how easily Steve could talk and joke around with you. Even now, it was hard for his own brain to string together two words he could possibly say to you. Steve glanced at him in that Steve way of his, just to make sure he was okay. Bucky nodded at him in confirmation, biting at the corner of his bottom lip.

“You’re just about the only blocked number that calls me on the regular. Even the spam callers aren’t that persistent,” you replied, your tone equally playful, but there was something else beneath it that Bucky couldn’t quite place. The anxiousness from before started to seep in again, and he tried to brush it off, tried to tell himself that he was hearing something that wasn’t there.

Steve laughed, and if he could also sense the slight tinge in your voice, he didn’t let on. “So, uh, big day, right? Your first day back, how did that go?” Steve asked. He gave Bucky another look that said See? Happy now? Bucky simply made a colorful gesture with his vibranium finger in response.

There was a pause before you answered, as if you were carefully choosing your next words. “It went well! My kids seemed happy I was back. I was happy to see them, for sure,” you said, your voice slightly clipped. 

This time, Bucky heard the twinge loud and clear under the guise of your enthusiasm, and his heart swooped down to his stomach. Maybe your day had actually gone bad, and you just didn’t want to bother Steve with the details. Bucky wanted to know all of it, though. He would sit and listen to you recount your day second by second. He wanted to know everything about you, every little detail he could because nothing would make him happier, but you still felt so far away, tragically unattainable, and it seemed impossible to cross that distance. He looked down at the list of questions he wrote out and took a deep breath.

Small steps, baby steps.

It was clear you didn’t want to talk about work, he could sense it, so a change of topic wouldn’t hurt. Bucky shoved the piece of paper towards Steve with haste, gesturing at it wildly. 

“Great, that’s—” Steve stopped short, frowning over at Bucky and down at the list. He shook his head firmly.

“Yes, ask her,” Bucky hissed, shoving the list closer to Steve.

Steve scowled, gesturing to the phone just as wildly, pushing the list back at him.

“Do it, idiot,” Bucky hiss-whispered, pushing the list back.

“I’m not asking her any of that,” Steve hiss-whispered back, flicking the list back at Bucky.

“Will you stop being so damn stubborn and just—”

“Steve?” you said, and both super soldiers jumped, scrambling to get their composure back, even though you couldn’t see them.

“Yup, still here!” Steve said in a ridiculously high tone, leaning closer to the phone. He fumbled for the piece of paper, reading it upside down. “Uh, so uh, hey—what’s your favorite color?”

Bucky’s shoulders deflated, and he stared at Steve with wide-eyed incredulity. Steve only shrugged, pointing at the list and then at him as if to say it was your bright idea, bud. Apparently, another thing that hadn’t changed over the last nine decades was Steve’s innate ability to act horrendously awkward when it came to women at the worst possible moments. Nice.

There was a pause, one that felt like an eternity to Bucky before you answered from the other end of the line. “Oh. Well, my favorite color is probably blue. Cobalt to be exact.” The weird twinge was gone from your tone, replaced by a cautious curiosity. Bucky could at least be grateful for that.

He made a rolling gesture towards Steve, hoping it would signal him to expand on that tidbit, to salvage the conversation, but Steve gave him a face, turning the piece of paper over and squinting at it.

“Cool, nice, blue is a great color,” Steve said, shrugging over at Bucky. “Uh, what about your, uh, favorite food?”

Bucky mimed banging his head against the table, and Steve cringed apologetically. Miraculously, you gave another answer.

“I would have to say lasagna,” you said slowly, and Bucky could swear there was a hint of amusement in your voice now. Another image of your smile came to mind, and his heart swooped again. “Or mac and cheese. Or pizza. Anything with carbs and cheese, really.”

Bucky ran both hands down his face, dragging his skin until it pulled at his lower eyelids. Steve just glared at him, picking up the list with a snap.

“That’s awesome, pizza is…awesome,” Steve responded tightly, his jaw rigid, a homicidal glint in his eyes.

Bucky sighed deeply, returning the glare. “I told you to work it into conversation naturally, ya dumb Crumb,” he whisper-yelled

Steve dragged his teeth over his lower lip, giving his head a small shake as if he were biting back a smart remark. Without breaking eye contact with Bucky, he continued the interrogation. “So what about—”

“Steve, are we playing 20 questions?” you asked plainly, a little static interrupting the flow of your words. “Because if you’re about to ask me if I’m a virgin, I’ll punch you through the phone.”

With that, Bucky groaned audibly, sinking to the floor dramatically face first, splayed out like a starfish. “You doofus,” he directed up at Steve, and he didn’t even care if you heard that or not. A part of him kind of hoped you did.

Steve balled up the piece of paper and threw it at Bucky’s head with impeccable aim, and it bounced listlessly a few feet away from Bucky’s face. Bucky heard Steve laugh sheepishly from over the counter and he rolled his eyes. He made the mental note that he needed to dig up that ‘40s charm he supposedly had, and fast, because Steve was a lost cause.

“I’m sorry, that was ridiculous,” Steve admitted, embarrassment lacing his voice. “But I figured since we talk on the phone so much, we might as well get to know each other better. Right?”

There was silence from your end again, and Bucky squeezed his eyes shut hoping to wake up, because surely this train wreck of a phone call was one of his nightmares.

You cleared your throat, the sound seeming to bounce off the walls of the kitchen. “Yeah…Steve, about that. I don’t think you should call anymore.”

Bucky froze, the air around him stilling, his lungs unwilling to expand enough to take a full breath. Slowly, he rose to his knees, peeking above the edge of the counter at Steve, who had an equally frozen and stunned look on his face. Bucky dragged his gaze over to the phone on the counter, coldness dripping down his body, seeping into every pore and crippling his organs.

Steve managed to recover first, running a hand through his hair and frowning down at his phone, as if the device itself could clarify what you said. “Oh. Okay. Y/n, if I said or did anything to offend you, I—”

“No!” you said quickly, a bit of static coming through. “No, Steve, you’ve never made me feel uncomfortable in any way. It’s not that,” you said, letting out a long breath. Bucky was sure he wasn’t breathing anymore.

 “It’s just that…I need to move on,” you continued. “From everything, from what happened in the hangar, but every time you call, I get sucked right back in. Every time you call I want to ask you how he’s doing, what he’s doing, if I could talk to him, but I already know the answer. And it steals a piece of me, every time I answer the phone. I give up a piece of myself every time you call, and he doesn’t. And I’m scared that soon, I won’t have any pieces left to give, and I’ll have nothing left for myself. And I need to move on, Steve. It’s for the best. Bucky—”

You paused at his name, and in that moment, Bucky wondered if the soulmate connection the two of you had went beyond those three letters, if there was a real physical connection that went along with it because he could feel his chest tightening, he could feel the strain of your words as if he were the one being forced to say them.

“Bucky made his choice, and I have no other choice but to accept that. It’s for the best,” you said, your voice wavering, almost watery. “Maybe…maybe this is how it was all supposed to turn out. And I’m okay with that.”

There it was.

You had said it, the lurking suspicion that laid within Bucky this whole time, the confirmation that maybe, just maybe the universe had made a mistake. That maybe there was some cruel lesson to be learned from all this, a warning not to fly too close to the sun because for people like him, the only option was to fall back down to earth, and to keep on falling until there was nothing left. The disappointment he had feared from you was already here, etched into your voice, and instead of the resigned relief that Bucky had expected to feel at your rejection, a searing heat tore through his chest, threatening to tear him apart completely.   

 “Bullshit.”

Bucky tore his gaze away from the phone to Steve, startled by the frankness of his tone. Steve looked right back at him, a severe expression on his face like it was made of the hardest of stones. There was a fire behind Steve’s eyes, one Bucky remembered well. It was the same fire he saw when the scrawny blond was facing down bullies twice his size, intense and unyielding, but, more than anything, determined beyond all strength.

“Excuse me?” you asked, clearly shocked.

“Bullshit,” Steve said again, and though he was talking to you, his eyes were trained right on Bucky. “That’s not what you want. That’s not what either of you want.”

As much as Steve said it for you, Bucky knew it was for himself too. He felt something rise in him, and at the same time, he felt that hopeful feeling from before slip away. He grasped at it, clawed at it, but it was getting further and further away, replaced by something darker, something familiar, something he had come to expect since his days curled up on the floor of a crappy Romanian apartment.

“Steve. Did you hear what I just said?” you asked harshly.

“I did,” Steve answered, still looking at Bucky, his stare trying to tether him away from the darkness, back to hope. “And I think it’s bullshit.”

“Steve…”

“Look, what happened in that hangar was bad, but you and Bucky can move past this,” Steve said, his face twisted in entreaty, begging Bucky to listen to him, really listen to him. “You two are soulmates. Against all odds, against all time and logic, you two are soulmates, and that transcends the both of you, it’s bigger than you. It means something. What the two of you have--”

“WE HAVE NOTHING,” your voice boomed through the phone, and Bucky actually jumped back from the counter, his heart leaping into his throat. Even Steve looked rattled.

You took a ragged breath, and the pain in Bucky’s chest only grew. “Me and Bucky have nothing,” you said, your voice smaller this time, barely above a whisper. “You didn’t feel what I felt that day. You never have, and you never will. No one will ever be able to understand that feeling. No one except Bucky, and he still walked away. He made his choice, and now it’s time for me to make mine.”

Silence.

It was a deafening sort of silence, the kind of silence that felt tangible, like it was curling around Bucky’s throat and clogging his nostrils, ready to pull him under. He felt his world tilt on its axis, the very ground at his feet pulled from under him.

Decades. Decades had separated you from him. He had gotten his mark almost a century before you even existed, you couldn’t have been farther apart, so apart that inches and miles couldn’t suffice. And yet now, Bucky never felt so far away from you, like you really had just been a dream, and he was finally waking up.

Steve pierced the silence first. “You said you wouldn’t give up on him,” he said quietly.

You sniffled, the sound filling Bucky’s ears, bisecting his already fractured heart. “I’m not giving up on him,” you replied, your voice weighed down by emotion, and Bucky held on to every word you said, every syllable taking him apart piece by piece. “I’m not. Because, in spite of everything, I know how strong he is. He got away from those…people, and he’s making a life for himself. He’s a good person. He’s a beautiful person, I know that in my bones, and he’s going to do so many great things, so many, and the two of you will save the world together, and they’ll hold parades in your honor and build statues for you and dedicate whole museums to you and no one will know how to thank you enough. I see that so clearly for him, and he’ll deserve it. He’ll deserve it all, and then some. So I’m not giving up on him, Steve. I’m--” a small whimper escaped your throat, as if your own words were hurting you, as if you could feel Bucky’s pain running through you, or maybe he was feeling yours, he couldn’t tell. “I’m just trying not to give up on myself,” you concluded, and Bucky was gone.

Any hope, any joy he had felt had been obliterated, and he could feel himself withdrawing into that small part of his being, that one part that knew just how broken he was, the part of him that kept whatever remnants of the person he used to be, the person he yearned to be again. Steve let out a long breath and sighed your name, and Bucky retreated further into himself, willing for that familiar hard barrier to encase his heart, but he only felt raw and exposed, wan and feeble.

“I don’t know who I am if I’m not mourning him, and now that I don’t need to mourn him, I need to figure out what to do next. And I can’t do that if I’m still waiting and hoping for something that won’t happen. So this is our last phone call. At least for a while. I’m sorry,” you said with finality, a declaration that had no amendment, the final nail that was hammered in the grief that consumed him.

“I understand,” Steve said softly, and he sounded as hopeless as Bucky felt.

“Goodbye, Steve,” you said.

And you were gone.

That was it.

It felt over in a way that left Bucky feeling utterly empty. Another flash from that day in the hangar swam through his mind, and it wasn’t your smile this time. It was him, walking away, hearing you call after him.

Wait.

Wait!

But he had just kept walking. Why didn’t he turn around? Why didn’t he smile back, why didn’t he go to you, why didn’t he fall into your welcoming arms?

Why didn’t he just turn around?

“Buck,” Steve said, pulling Bucky out of his own mind just enough. It wasn’t until Bucky looked at Steve that he realized there were tears running down his face, blurring his vision until everything bled into one another.

Bucky got up, ignoring the soreness in his knees, making his way out of the kitchen and into the hallway wordlessly. Steve was hot on his trail, calling his name, but Bucky could hardly focus, trying desperately to pull in air to his lungs. Steve managed to catch up to him, grabbing onto his arm, but Bucky pushed ahead anyway.

“Bucky, we can call her back, we can fix this,” Steve said urgently, stumbling to keep pace while still gripping Bucky’s arm.

“You heard her. She’s done,” Bucky said gruffly, his vision blurring again. He hastily wiped away the tears, making the turn towards the elevators. He hated the contraptions, but he made an exception because they would be faster than the stairs, and he needed to be alone as soon as possible.

“That’s not true, and you know it,” Steve insisted. He got in front of Bucky, but Bucky pushed past him easily. “She’s just upset. If we call her back and just explain—”

“She’s done, Steve,” Bucky said, stopping short, jostling Steve back a few steps from the sudden movement. He stared Steve right in the eye. “You heard her. We have nothing,” Bucky said through gritted teeth, his throat closing in on itself. He turned again, continuing his march towards the elevators.

“She loves you,” Steve called out from where he was standing.

That made Bucky’s steps falter, and he almost had to hang onto the wall to steady himself. He just shook his head, keeping focus on the end of the hallway, his footsteps echoing in his ears.

“She loves you,” Steve said again, calmly walking after him.

Bucky shook his head again. “Stop.”

“She loves you.”

“Steve.”

“She loves you, Buck.”

“ENOUGH!”

Bucky’s fist met the wall, a shower of plaster and dust raining down over his arm. He stood there for a moment, his ragged and deep breaths rattling through his body, staring at the gaping hole he had made. Slowly, he extracted his fist, dimly registering the lacerations across his knuckles which had just begun to bleed. He opened and closed his fist a few times, allowing the sting of his wounds to ground him back to reality, out of the deep and dark waters of his own mind.

Steve approached him carefully, leaning against the wall and crossing his arms. “She does love you, Bucky,” he said softly, almost a whisper. “I saw it the moment I met her, you can hear it in her voice. But you’re hurting her by running away.”

 Bucky continued staring at the wall, the gaping hole that matched the one in the middle of his being, his knuckles beginning to burn.

“Yeah? And what do you think’s gonna happen if I don’t run?” he said, slowly looking over at Steve, the rims of his eyelids burning as badly as his fist. “I’m not who I was before, Steve. I’m not that sixteen-year-old kid who got those letters and promised to give her a house by a lake and a happy life.” He looked down at his left wrist, and the hole within him only widened. “The words are gone, but everything is still there. Everything I did, everything they taught me—trained me—to do…the instincts, the memories, the nightmares. They don’t have control over me anymore, but I barely have control over myself.”

He slowly met Steve’s gaze, unshed tears blurring the edges of his vision. “If I ever did anything to her…” he said, his voice trembling, his tongue heavy and thick with the terrible scenarios running through his mind.

Steve stepped forward, placing a hand on his shoulder and giving it a reassuring squeeze. “That’s not going to happen,” he said firmly, the wrinkle between his brows setting deeper.

“She didn’t ask for this, Steve,” Bucky whispered, broken and hollow.

“No. No she didn’t, but you didn’t ask for this either,” Steve said, sighing and giving Bucky’s shoulder one last squeeze. “Who knows why the universe put the two of you together. Nothing can explain it, but it was for a reason. And I think you owe it to her and to yourself to try and figure it out,” he said sympathetically, crossing his arms again.

Do you want to be happy, James?

Answering that question seemed impossible, but Bucky knew one thing for sure: he desperately wanted you to be happy. He needed you to be happy. He wanted to take away your pain, he would carry it on top of his own if it meant seeing your smile again, hearing your laugh, never having to hear the way your voice broke ever again.

He wanted to protect you, to shield you from anything and everything dark, to shield you from being completely consumed like he was, but the more he fought against the connection he shared with you, the more darkness seemed to surround the both of you. You were light, bright and pure, and maybe, just maybe that’s what he needed. Maybe the only way to get rid of the darkness for good was to give in and surrender himself to you, lay himself at the altar of your goodness and warmth and light, and stop questioning his lot in life.

That night, Bucky laid on his living room floor, closed his eyes, but he didn’t sleep. He didn’t have nightmares, he didn’t replay his past like a reel of film behind his eyelids.

He only thought of you.

Only you.

Chapter Text

FRIDAY

Bucky wasn’t stalking you.

He wasn’t.

He was simply assessing the situation from afar...

In a car he “borrowed” from Tony, parked a couple of blocks away from the main entrance of Midtown High, watching you talk to one of your colleagues on the steps through high-powered binoculars.

Totally not stalking. Not at all.

He watched as you listened to what your co-worker was saying, nodding your head periodically and pushing out a small grin whenever she must have said something funny. You were wearing a cardigan, despite the heat, with plain black slacks and a light-colored blouse. It wasn’t anything spectacular, but to him, you were breathtaking.

He let himself take you in from head to toe, taking in the fine details of your face; your eyes, always kind and warm, the lashes that framed them perfectly, your hair, which looked so soft and full that his fingers ached with the desire to run themselves through it. You were so incredibly beautiful, it made even the sun seem dimmer in the sky.  

He wanted to know what it would feel like to hold you.

It was a sudden thought, quick and invasive enough that he had to stop his hand from reaching for the door handle. Part of him wanted to get out, to go to you and drop to his knees and beg for forgiveness, but it didn’t feel like the right time. He didn’t know how to move forward from last night’s conversation, he didn’t know how to redeem himself, which was why he just needed to assess the situation as he was currently doing.

Not stalking. Definitely not.

He continued to stare, reading your lips whenever you said something, ready to get lost in the thought of you, when someone opened the passenger-side door, slipping into the seat beside him.

“Pretty sure Steve told you to call her, not stalk her,” Sam said blandly, lifting his chin a little to accommodate the blade that was being held against his neck. “Do you mind?” he said, glancing pointedly at the knife and back at Bucky.

Bucky sighed deeply, reluctantly withdrawing his weapon. He sheathed it and picked up the binoculars again, refocusing them on you.

“What are you doing here? And since when am I the topic of conversation for you and Steve?” he said gruffly. He must have really been losing his touch if Wilson of all people could track him down.

“Since the new season of Real Housewives ended,” Sam said, reaching over and taking the binoculars, ignoring Bucky’s protests and aligning them over his eyes to get a good look at you. “I was bored with nothing better to do, and Steve told me about the incident yesterday. I figured you’d do something dumb like this. You have a bad staring problem, perfect for stalking.”

“I’m not stalking her,” Bucky said forcefully, yanking the binoculars back. “I’m assessing the situation.”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, man,” Sam said nonchalantly, taking the binoculars again. He stared at you for a moment before humming appreciatively. “She’s pretty. You lucked out, Barnes.”

“Watch it,” Bucky warned him, but there was no real weight behind it. He couldn’t help but agree, an irrational swell of pride rising in his chest.

Sam held up a hand in surrender. “Hey, I’m not trying to make moves on your girl, I’m just saying,” he said, finally handing the binoculars back to Bucky. “So what’s our plan?”

“Our plan?” Bucky asked incredulously, turning to face Sam better.

“Yeah, what’s our plan of action? We gonna get out and go talk to her? I’ll distract her friend while you whisk her away into the sunset,” Sam said teasingly, wiggling his eyebrows a bit.

“No, see, we don’t have a plan,” Bucky informed him, gesturing his hand back and forth in the space between them. “I am dealing with this situation just fine, you need to get out of here before you find out what a vibranium knuckle sandwich tastes like.”

“Oh, you’re ‘dealing with the situation?” Sam said mockingly, doing a terrible impression of Bucky. “Because from where I’m sitting, you’re just peeping on her like a creep.”

“You know what, you have no business being—”

“Go talk to her like a normal—”

“I’m not taking advice from someone with feathers—”

“IT’S ME, PETER! PLEASE REMEMBER ME, MR. WINTER SOLDIER, SIR, DON’T SHOOT!”

Peter was halfway into the backseat with the door still open, his arms held up high and his chest heaving, staring down the barrel of the Glock pointed at his face with wide eyes. 

“Kid,” Bucky breathed out, pinching the bridge of his nose, holstering the gun again. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Why do you need a knife and a gun?” Sam asked, his mouth slightly agape.

“Shut up,” Bucky replied, making a face at him before turning back to Peter.

Peter was still breathing hard, his hands still raised over his head. “This is—I—I go to school here, dude,” he said, his voice a few octaves higher than usual. “I recognized Mr. Stark’s car and I saw the two of you in here…” he slowly lowered his arms, gently sliding the rest of the way into the backseat and shutting the car door. “What are you guys doing here? Are there bad guys? Was there a threat against the school? Should I suit up? ‘Cause I have it in my backpack,” Peter fired off, already taking off his pack.

“Okay, alright, chill Spiderling. Don’t get your webs in a twist,” Sam said, rolling his eyes. He handed Peter the binoculars and pointed in your direction through the windshield. “There are no bad guys. Hungry Eyes over here is just creeping on his soulmate.”

“Soulmate?” Peter echoed, raising the binoculars and taking a look for himself. “Hey, that’s Ms. Y/l/n. Wait a second, my history teacher is your soulmate?!” Peter exclaimed, looking over at Bucky.

Bucky just sulked and sank further into his seat, willing the earth to open up and swallow the car whole. “Yeah, she is,” he grumbled in confirmation.

“That explains what happened on the field trip,” Peter murmured thoughtfully, looking through the binoculars again. “So are you gonna go talk to her…?”

“See?” Sam said, gesturing towards Peter. “How does the kid have more sense than you?”

“You know what? Both of you, out. Now,” Bucky commanded, reaching over Sam and pushing the car door open.

Sam just closed it again, reaching for the binoculars, but Peter dodged his hand. “We’re just trying to help you, since clearly you have no clue what you’re doing.”

“I don’t need help, especially not from two idiots like you,” Bucky said, glaring over at Sam, but the winged Avenger seemed unaffected.

“The only idiot here is you. Even the kid has that little weird girl. What’s her name?” Sam said, glancing back at Peter.

Peter deflated a little, the tips of his ears turning pink. “Her name is MJ, but she’s not my girl.”

“Oh please, I see the googly eyes you make at each other when you bring those little rugrats to the tower,” Sam insisted, turning back to Bucky. “You could learn something from him.”

“That’s it,” Bucky said, reaching over again and opening the car door, attempting to physically push Sam out.

“Get your hands off me—”

“Out of the car—”

“Damn, you’re stronger than you look—”

“She’s moving! She’s on the move!” Peter exclaimed, pointing excitedly through the windshield.

Bucky grabbed the binoculars from him and put them to his face. You were, in fact, on the move, heading down the steps and away from the school building as you waved goodbye to your friend. His heart jumped, and he tossed the binoculars back to Peter, turning the keys in the ignition until the engine came to life.

“Oh my gosh, are we gonna stalk my teacher?” Peter asked, still looking through the binoculars.

“For goodness sake, we’re not—you know what, whatever. Yes, we’re stalking your teacher,” Bucky grumbled, putting the car into drive and heading in your direction.

They were careful as they followed you through the streets of Manhattan, making sure to stay a couple of blocks behind you while Peter kept an eye on your location. You walked with your headphones in, no doubt listening to music, and seemed oblivious to the fact that you were being followed. The thought scared Bucky; what if next time it wasn’t three Avengers, but actual bad guys following you because of your connection to him? He stuffed the scenario back into the corner of his subconscious and refocused on wherever it was that you were headed.

“She’s going into the subway,” Peter reported, eyes glued to the binoculars.

“Okay, do we get out and follow her?” Sam asked, already reaching for his seatbelt.

Bucky shook his head, biting at his bottom lip. “No. I don’t want to risk her seeing one of us, and finding parking will take too long,” he said, letting out an exasperated sigh.

“Wait, I have an idea! Get closer to the station,” Peter said confidently enough that Bucky followed his direction, pulling up to the station just as you were headed down the steps. Peter opened his backpack, and after typing out a few things on his phone, a small, spider-shaped drone came flying out.

“What the hell is that thing?!” Sam squeaked, pressing himself against the car door in an attempt to evade the electric creature.

“It’s my version of Redwing,” Peter chirped, lowering his window.

“Do not compare that thing to Redwing,” Sam said, disgust written all over his face as he observed the device.

Bucky pressed his lips together in an effort to hide his grin, but he lost that battle. “You’re scared of spiders? They’re so tiny,” he said, barely containing a laugh.

“Go down to Australia, see how tiny they are then,” Sam huffed, shivering a bit.  

Peter maneuvered the drone out of the car, and Bucky could see from the video feed connected to Peter’s phone that he sent it after you. It descended into the station and stealthily climbed into your bag, giving them a nice view of all the folders and papers you carried around.

“Got her. Now we know where she’s going,” Peter said, clearly proud of himself.

“Good job kid,” Bucky said, nodding appreciatively. “No wonder Stark keeps you around.”

Peter beamed so hard, he was practically vibrating. “Th-thank you, Mr. Sergeant Barnes, sir.”

They followed your location over the bridge into Brooklyn and to a cozy-looking bookshop that seemed more like a tourist trap than a local hangout. By the time they caught up to you, you were already seated at one of the shop’s large windows, overlooking the Promenade and the city skyline. Bucky parked across the street, just out of your view, though the three of them could see you perfectly as you sipped coffee and read a book.

“Okay, so what’s the plan now?” Sam said, looking at Bucky expectantly.

Bucky didn’t answer right away. He just looked at you as you read, the low afternoon sun illuminating you from behind. You looked so at peace, a stark contrast from how you sounded over the phone the night before. There was the softest grin on your face, probably because of something you read, and a lump formed in his throat, threatening to block his airway.

“We go home,” Bucky said quietly, tearing his eyes away from you and looking straight ahead.

“What?” Sam and Peter said in unison.

“We’re going home,” Bucky said again, stronger this time, turning the key and starting the engine. “We’ll take the kid back to Queens, then we’ll head home.”

Bucky placed his hand on the gearshift to put it in drive, but Sam reached over and swatted his hand away, yanking the key out of the ignition.

“There’s no way I just hauled ass to Brooklyn with the two of you just to leave after five seconds,” Sam said, and there wasn’t a hint of teasing in his tone. In fact, his eyes were fierce as they glared at Bucky, reminiscent of Steve’s the previous night. The two of them definitely hung out way too much.

“Sam—”

“No, man,” Sam said forcefully, crossing his arms. “Tell me why you want to go. We followed her across the damn city, so what happened between the school and here that made you want to just leave?”

Bucky swallowed hard, trying to resist the urge to look your way again. “She doesn’t want to talk to me, Sam,” Bucky said, his voice wobbling. He turned to look at his friend, a plea to let this go and return home, but Sam was immovable.

Sam looked at him, his eyes narrowed, and he reached over again, this time towards Bucky’s door, pulling the handle and pushing it open.

“Out of the car. Now,” Sam said, unbuckling Bucky’s seatbelt.

“You didn’t hear what she said last night,” Bucky protested. “Sam, I’ll do more harm than good—”

“Don’t you think you’ve been through enough, Buck?” Sam sighed, digging his knuckle into the space between his brows. He looked back up at Bucky, his face softer but still glaring. “Don’t you think you’ve been through enough bullshit to last 50 lifetimes? This is your chance to finally get back what was taken from you, to live a normal freaking life with the woman who loves you, the woman you clearly love too. Don’t you think you’ve had enough?”

Bucky couldn’t say anything. What Sam was saying sounded too much like the question Dr. Raynor posed, and the more it was asked of him, the harder it was to answer, especially when you were right in front of him. There was too much at stake, too much to lose, and it paralyzed him.

Sam let out a sharp breath, his frown deepening. “Get out of the car, Barnes.”

“Wilson--”

“Get out of the car, or I will and I’ll march right in there and tell her what a wuss you’re being,” Sam said, the challenge snaking across his deep brown irises. “Go ahead, call my bluff.”

The two men stared each other down, vaguely aware of Peter’s uncomfortable fidgeting in the backseat. Bucky clenched his jaw and grabbed his door handle, pulling it towards him, the door slamming with a definitive thud. Sam’s eyes went alight.

As quick as an actual falcon, Sam was out of the car, not even bothering to close his door, making his way across the street. It was like watching a terrible train wreck in slow motion, with Sam getting closer and closer to the shop, farther and farther away from the car. Bucky managed to snap out of his stupor, unbuckling himself and jetting after him. It took him no time to catch up, wrangling Sam into a sloppy half chokehold.

“Take one more step, and I’ll put my knee through your dumb robot,” Bucky threatened through gritted teeth, struggling to hold Sam back.

“His name is REDWING,” Sam grunted, swatting and pulling at Bucky’s arms to no avail.

“HEY! HEY! Everybody calm down!” Peter squealed, appearing out of nowhere, trying to break the two of them up.

“STAY OUT OF THIS,” Bucky and Sam shouted at the same time, continuing their struggle.

“Why can’t you just let this go?!” Bucky exclaimed. Sam gained the upper hand, twisting out of Bucky’s grip and attempting to manhandle him to the ground.

“Because you’re being ridiculous!” Sam shouted, managing to twist one of Bucky’s arms behind his back.

 “Guys, look—” Peter tried to say, maneuvering his body to get in between them, but they wouldn’t release each other.

“I’m trying to—gah—help you!” Sam said, pushing against Bucky’s face.

“I don’t—ow—need your help,” Bucky said, jabbing at Sam’s ribs.

Peter struggled to untangle their limbs, getting caught up in the may lay in the process. “Guys, you should really see—”

“Stay out of this, kid!” Bucky said, regaining control and getting Sam back in a headlock. “We’re going back home!”

“No, we’re not!” Sam argued, resorting to scratching at Bucky’s arm.

“Yes we are!”

“No, we’re NOT”

“YES, we are, now get back--”

“GUYS, SHUT THE HELL UP AND LOOK AT HER.”

Peter’s sharp and authoritative tone shocked Bucky and Sam long enough to allow the teen to wrangle them apart, turning both of them to face the shop windows where you were seated, but this time, you weren’t alone.

A man was seated across from you with light brown curls and eyes that matched, a smile on his face that was too friendly. Bucky couldn’t see your face from his vantage point, but your body language made it clear that you were happy to this man, relaxed, and leaning towards him a bit over the table. The man smiled some more and laughed with you like he’d known you for a while, like this wasn’t the first time the two of you had been together.

Bucky watched for a few moments, and if his heart had dropped earlier at the sight of you, it had now sawed a hole through his chest and leaped out, lying on the street waiting to be run over by a truck. Sam came up to stand next to him, placing a hand on his shoulder as if he could sense the fact that Bucky was one crack away from crumbling over completely, but Bucky still couldn’t look away. He watched as the man reached over the table and placed his hand over yours, watched as you welcomed the touch, flipping your hand over and offering your soft palm to his touch, your hands fitting together like…well like they belonged together.

It was then that he could see it, the life he had envisioned for you all those years ago. You in the beginnings of a fledgling relationship, still starry-eyed and bashful, basking in a honeymoon glow. You as a beautiful bride, surrounded by the people you loved most, ready to begin the rest of your life. You as a mother, sleep-deprived yet still tender and full of love for the child you held, your fingers dusting over soft wisps of hair and chubby cheeks. You as an old lady, a crown of gray atop your head, still kind and warm after all the years that had passed, after all the things you had done. He saw it all in a flash, like a picture reel running right before his eyes. He saw the life you deserved, filled with ups and downs, but so full of love and joy, the life he dreamed of so long ago, but it wasn’t him beside you through it all.

No, he was replaced. There was an open slot beside you, the realization that he wasn’t needed for you to live that life, even with those three letters on your wrist. You could find it all on your own without the universe’s help. 

He was replaceable, and this, the man with the brown curls and brown eyes was a reminder of that.

Bucky took a deep breath, turning to face Sam, his face devoid of emotions. “Can we go home now?” he said, the crack in his voice betraying him.

Sam shook his head slowly, crossing his arms over his chest. “You’re just gonna let Wal-Mart Ryan Reynolds have your girl?”

“I don’t have to let him do anything,” Bucky said, low and dangerous. “In case you haven’t noticed, he already has her.”

“How do you know that?” Sam said exasperatedly, teetering on desperation. “You keep making all of these assumptions, why not try getting the facts. From her,” he added, gesturing towards the shop.

Bucky shook his head, turning to face in the direction of the car. “I don’t have to argue with you,” he said beginning to walk away.

“Because you’re a coward,” Sam said matter-of-factly, shrugging his shoulders.

Bucky whirled around, stepping into Sam’s space and jabbing his chest with his hard, metal index finger. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. You have no idea—”

“Oh gosh, he spotted us. Quick, hide!” Peter squeaked, pushing both Bucky and Sam to the brick side of the building out of sight from the window, webbing them together into an uncomfortably intimate position, chest to chest with their arms basically wrapped around each other. He didn’t have enough time to hide himself, waving awkwardly towards the window, apparently having been spotted by you and Brown Curls.

“Kid, get over here,” Sam hissed, struggling against the webbing to no avail. Peter just continued to wave, throwing them a quick constipated look.

“Don’t worry, I got this,” Peter said through his toothy smile, making his way towards the front entrance.

“You most certainly do not have this, come back,” Sam hissed again, but Peter was already gone. Sam sagged a little, leaning his head back to rest against the gravely brick. “That kid webs us one more time, I’m spraying him with a big can of Raid.”

Bucky said nothing, focusing on Sam’s shoulder, his eyebrows knitted together. The way Brown Curls had touched you was still playing out in his mind, and as much as he wanted to be mad, he knew this was his doing. It’s what he wanted, wasn’t it? To save you from himself, to make you realize that somehow you got the short end of the stick and you were better off without him. He wanted you to be happy, and if Brown Curls made you happy, then that should be enough for him.

Right?

“Stop it,” Sam said, breaking through his train of thought.

“Look, I don’t know what you’re feeling, but it ain’t me,” Bucky said, still focused on the fabric of Sam’s jacket.

“No, gosh. I mean stop thinking what you’re thinking,” Sam clarified, trying and failing to get his hand free. “I don’t have to be Maximoff to know that you think she’s better off with Fake Gyllenhaal. She’s not,” he said firmly, tilting his head to force eye contact.

Bucky sighed, reluctantly looking at Sam. “How do you know that?”

“Because I know you,” Sam said, nodding over at him. “You have to be the biggest pain in my ass, Barnes. Like, the biggest, ever. But you’re a good man, Buck. And hey, maybe you don’t want to hear that, but it’s true, so we’re all gonna keep saying it until it sticks. I’ve worked with so many guys like you, guys that come home physically but their minds were left in the fight. You don’t have to fight anymore, Buck. You’re out of that mess. You’re finally home, and she’s part of that. You know it, and I know it.”

Sam was right. As much as it pained him to admit it, Sam was right most of the time. It was almost infuriating how he was able to see right through Bucky and strike to the heart of his issues, but he would also be lying to himself if he didn’t admit he was grateful for it. Sam was a good man himself, one of the best there was, and he was right, you were home for Bucky, and he desperately needed home.

“I love her, Sam,” Bucky said, and the words rolled off his tongue like butter, easy and natural with no resistance. He had never said those words out loud before, never dared to, but now that you were real and he had seen you right in front of him, he knew it more than he ever had before. “I love her so much. But I’m terrified,” he said, breathy and awestruck and relieved.

Sam just looked at him and chuckled, shaking his head. “How very human of you, Barnes,” he said with a genuine grin.

Bucky grinned back, and there was the faintest, deepest, tiniest part of himself that said Everything’s going to be okay. And there was a good chunk of him that was ready to believe it.

“Are you guys gonna kiss?”

Bucky and Sam looked over to find Peter standing there, his arms crossed with an unbelievably smug look on his face.

“If you don’t get us out of here…” Sam warned, giving the kid his best glare.

Peter swallowed hard, rushing over and taking the dissolving solution out of pocket, hastily applying it in the necessary places.

“Good news,” Peter said, helping Bucky dislodge from Sam. “I got his name. It’s Will,” he reported, dusting a few stray webs strands off of the two men.

“That’s all you have to offer?” Sam asked blandly, gesturing for Peter to stop helping, brushing a few strands off himself.

“No, actually,” Peter sniffed defensively, placing the solution back into his bag. “As a matter of fact, I found out that he’s not her boyfriend. She was pretty adamant about that,” he said proudly, the smugness creeping back onto his face.

“Alright, Hot Shot,” Sam said, narrowing his eyes at Peter. “So you went in there, got the intel, and just left? You didn’t even pretend to look for a book or get a muffin? Do you know how shady that looks?”

That brought the novice hero back down to earth, his shoulders sagging, a pout puffing out his cheeks a bit.

Sam laughed, slapping Peter on the back good-naturedly. “Thought so. You’ve got a lot to work on, kiddo,” he said, jostling Peter’s shoulders and causing one of his pack straps to slide off.

“So what do we do now?” Peter asked bitterly, adjusting the strap again.

Sam looked over at Bucky, and he gave him that same, wordless look that Steve had given him the previous night, the one that never failed to ground Bucky, to ask him if he was okay, to help him through the darkness. Those two really did hang out too much.

He nodded over at Sam, and Sam nodded back, an understanding passing between them.

“We go home,” Sam said assuredly. “Someone’s got a lot of thinking to do,” he added, quirking an eyebrow at Bucky before turning and heading back toward the car with Peter in tow.

Bucky followed them, but before he got in, he stopped and turned to look back at the shop. Brown Curls—Will—was no longer there, but you were, sitting in the same spot by the window. Your book was closed, but you were looking down at it with an intensity that he recognized all too well. It was a look that told him you had a lot of thinking to do, too.

But he was hopeful.

And he loved you.

And he would make sure you knew it.

Eventually.

SATURDAY

This is dumb.

This is really, really dumb.

This might even be creepy. And stalkerish.

Bucky stared at the door to your apartment from the other side of the hallway, his back pressed against the wall. It was a plain door, cheap metal covered over with unadorned brown paint, a brass doorknob and a peephole to match. He had been standing there for the past fifteen minutes just staring at it, yet to gather enough courage to actually go over and knock.

Just do it.

Just go over there and do it.

Raise your hand, make a fist, and hit the door. All there is to it, Barnes.

He took a tentative step forward, and then another before a wave of panic slammed him against the wall again, his feet practically digging into the floor. Finding your address had been easy enough. He had no plans or intentions to actually do anything with the information, not right away at least, but he soon found himself grabbing his keys and getting on his bike, making the long trip down into Brooklyn and to your front door. He didn’t want to run away from you anymore, not after yesterday, not when he felt the way he did for you. Still, fear kept him sealed to the wall, staring at your door as if it held the secrets to life, hoping none of your neighbors would venture into the hall and think he was a real creep. Even though he was totally acting like one.

She’s probably not home, it’s Saturday. People go out on Saturdays.

Or is that Fridays?

Pretty sure Maximoff mentioned something about brunch on Saturdays…

What the hell is brunch?

Bucky was just about to get lost in his ruminations about modern mealtime amalgamations when your door actually opened, and he jumped, his heart ricocheting around his chest.

A woman who was not you stood in the doorway, wrestling with a pizza box in one hand and a trash bag in the other, cursing under her breath. Before he had a chance to make a break for it, she glanced up and spotted him, her eyes going wide. For a moment, the two of them stood there, both speechless and frozen in place, staring at each other like they just found out they were the last two humans on earth.

“Holy crap,” she said finally, her face ashen, riddled with shock.

“Ma’am, I’m so sorry,” Bucky said carefully, holding his hands up slowly to show there was nothing in them. This wouldn’t be the first time someone had this reaction to him. While it was rare, there had been a few times in the past when Bucky would venture into the city and someone would recognize him, not as Bucky Barnes, but as the Winter Soldier, the murderous assassin who had no business ordering an egg and cheese sandwich at a bodega, or sitting peacefully on a park bench. He couldn’t blame anyone who had that reaction, it was a justifiable one. All he could do was try to assure them that he wasn’t a threat to them at that moment, try his best to put them at ease. “I’m not here to hurt you. I must have the wrong apartment, I was here to visit someone--”

“Bucky?” the woman said, her brow furrowing. That made Bucky stop short, a wrinkle forming between his own brows.

“Yeah…do we know each other?” he asked, wracking his fractured memory for any hints that he should know who this woman was.

“What? No, no we don’t know each other,” she said quickly, suddenly remembering the trash she was holding. She set the bag and the box down, looking back up at Bucky with a slightly less puzzled expression. “I’m Sadie. Sadie Winlow, Y/n’s best friend. We live together,” she clarified, pointing her thumb at the open door behind her.

Huh. A roommate. He hadn’t come across that in the little research he had done. The apartment had just been listed under your name, but he figured that was just because you had the better credit score. He relaxed, putting his hands back down, though he was still apprehensive as he returned her gaze.  

“She told you about me,” he said simply, less of a question and more of a guarded statement.

Sadie nodded slowly, her expression growing a bit weary. “I know all about you and your…connection,” she said, and Bucky didn’t miss the way her eyes flicked towards his left hand, which was covered in a leather glove. He glanced down at it himself, making a loose fist before releasing it again, that phantom itch on his wrist igniting the synthetic nerves up and down his vibranium limb. Bucky took in a sharp breath and opened his mouth to say something, anything really, but Sadie beat him to it.

“Were you here to see her?” she asked, her suspicion far less subtle this time around.

Bucky swallowed, his throat feeling dry under her scrutinous gaze. “I was,” he said reservedly, preparing for her to tell him to scram. If she knew about him, then she probably knew about the incident at the hangar, not to mention everything about his past that was sensationalized in the press. He wouldn’t blame her for being protective, for wanting her friend to have something better, someone better. He expected that, at least. What he didn’t expect was what actually came out of her mouth.

“Do you want to come in?” Sadie asked, a bit of her exterior cracking, but only a bit. “She’s not here. She had tutoring for the kids today, but you can come in and wait. If you’d like,” she said, and he was surprised by the genuineness behind the offer, the way it seemed like she wanted him to say yes.

So he did, and she ushered him into the apartment, telling him to make himself at home while she brought down the trash. He stepped inside, and he was immediately overwhelmed by the presence of you that was in every corner of the apartment he could see. There was a canvas bag perched by the door filled with papers and folders, and he figured those were probably ungraded assignments that would have you occupied for the rest of the weekend. The cardigan you had on the day before was draped over the back of the couch, folded in a messy-neat sort of way. A history textbook was on the coffee table, TEACHER’S EDITION printed in bold on the cover. There was a couple of bookcases in the corner stuffed with books from bygone eras that no doubt belonged to you, a few fashion magazines littered between them which he suspected belonged to Sadie. There were framed photos too, and he ventured over to the shelves to take a better look at them. There was one with you and Sadie on graduation day, both of you with wide smiles bisecting your faces, squinting against the sun and draped in your school’s colors. There was one that looked like the first day you moved into this apartment, a selfie taken with Sadie’s outstretched arm, the both of you sitting on the floor with wine coolers in hand, mid-laugh and surrounded by Home Depot boxes. Then there was one of just you, the sun dipping below the horizon on a beach, a Ferris wheel in the background that looked familiar. You were holding an ice cream cone that was just beginning to drip over your fingers, sunglasses perched on top of your head. You had a small grin on your face, almost shy, and the sunset behind you cast a halo around you, like you belonged to another world, ethereal and made out of light. Bucky’s breath hitched in his throat, and he picked up the picture, completely transfixed by this image of you. He almost wished he could step into that picture with you, reside there forever in a space and time that no one else could touch, just the two of you in an everlasting sunset with half-melted ice cream and humid, salty sea air sticking to your skin.

“Don’t be fooled by that one. She threw up twice that day,” Sadie’s voice rang out from behind him. Bucky jolted a little, slightly concerned that she was able to sneak up on him like that. He turned in time to catch her locking the front door again, an amused grin playing on her lips. “The Cyclone was a bit too much for us that day, especially after a few hot dogs and funnel cakes, but I think that’s all part of the Coney Island experience,” she said, going over to join him at the bookcase, glancing at the other photos there.  

“Yeah, I think so,” Bucky agreed, his own Coney Island memories swimming at the edges of his mind, images of a much smaller Steve with cotton candy the size of his head and a sheer determination to ride the coaster a third time.

Sadie looked over at the photo still in his hands, smiling softly, clearly lost in her own fond memories. She glanced up at him, and some of that hard shell fell over her features once more, though Bucky could still see through some of the cracks at its foundation.

“I should hate you,” she said frankly, crossing her arms and regarding him carefully.

“Why don’t you?” he replied, not in the least surprised by her observation. The list of reasons to hate him was probably endless.

She shrugged, turning around and heading across the living room towards the kitchen. Something told Bucky he should follow, taking one last look at your photo before setting it down and making his way over to where she was. By the time he got there, Sadie was already loading the coffee maker, two mugs on the counter beside her.

“Hate is corrosive,” she explained, spooning some grounds into the percolator. “Plus, I don’t think it would be fair to hate the guy who was brainwashed by Nazis for the better part of a century,” she added, giving him a cursory glance.

Bucky chuckled, shaking his head and taking a seat at the kitchen island. “No one would blame you if you did.”

“No one? Or just you?” she asked, starting the brew cycle and facing him, one of her eyebrows raised.

Bucky sighed, a familiar wave of shame washing over him. He didn’t know how to answer that, so he responded with a question of his own.

“Does she hate me?”

He asked quietly enough that he wasn’t sure she even heard him, too afraid of the answer to look Sadie in the eye, instead focusing on the cuff of his glove where the leather was beginning to crack. Sadie laughed, and he looked up, meeting her gaze as she shook her head at him.

“I don’t think it would be physically possible for her to hate you,” Sadie said, letting out a soft sigh. “She’s hurt. She doesn’t understand why you walked away, but she doesn’t hate you. Never has, never will,” she said, turning to head to the fridge. “Cream? Sugar?”

“Uh, neither,” Bucky said, clearing his throat and adjusting himself in his seat. He glanced around the kitchen, hoping to get a few more little glimpses of you, but he couldn’t really tell what was yours, and what you shared with Sadie. He did get a little glimpse of himself, though. On top of the refrigerator there was a mug that caught his eye. It was plain and white, save for the Howling Commandos insignia glazed onto it. It was misshapen, cracks crisscrossing along its surface, a couple of chips along its rim as if it had been broken and glued back together again. He wondered if it belonged to you, and the thought made his chest flutter, though he couldn’t pinpoint exactly what he was feeling. It was weird, seeing that little piece of his past in your apartment, a small tether you had to the Bucky he had been before, the Bucky who would have known how to make things right and sweep you off your feet.

The clink of the coffee maker pulled Bucky back into the present moment, and he watched as Sadie poured out the two cups, adding some cream and sugar to hers before returning to the island in front of him. She scooted his mug towards him and he murmured a thanks, taking a sip and humming in appreciation.

“This is really good,” he said, and she only grinned in return, taking a sip herself.

She put her mug down and peered at him again, narrowing her eyes and crossing her arms. “So, why did you walk away that day?” she asked plainly, looking straight at him, through him.

Bucky winced, though he should have known that she would ask. He opened his mouth to say something, but the words eluded him and he could only stare back at her, desperately grasping for the right thing to say and failing miserably.

“If you can’t explain it to me, how were you gonna explain it to her?” Sadie asked, turning to the fridge to take down a pack of cookies that had been resting next to the restored Commandos mug.

Bucky ran a hand through his hair, squeezing his eyes shut and scratching at the back of his neck. “I guess I hadn’t exactly thought that through,” he admitted sheepishly, wishing he hadn’t been so impulsive that morning. Or creepy.

Sadie let out an amused hum, nodding a little as she took a bite of cookie. “Try me,” she said as she offered him the pack, and he took one graciously, taking a small bite out of it and noting how well it paired with the coffee. “Why’d you walk away?” she asked again, raising her eyebrows expectantly. Bucky looked at her for a moment, suddenly feeling out of place, too big and clunky like a square peg trying to fit into a round slot.

He hesitated before answering the best way he knew how. “I don’t deserve her,” he finally said, reducing everything down to those few words that weighed down his tongue and clogged his throat.

“No, you don’t,” Sadie agreed, shrugging nonchalantly, taking another cookie from the pack. “But to be fair, I would say that for just about any man,” she added, a smirk tugging at the corner of her lips.

“But I’m not ‘any’ man,” Bucky said, dragging his lower lip between his teeth, his jaw ticking. “You know who I am. And I promise, whatever you think you know, whatever you heard about me, it’s one thousand times worse in reality. Wouldn’t you want me to walk away, if it were you?” he asked, turning the tables on her, a sort of challenge that he wasn’t sure he wanted to win.

“Huh,” Sadie noted, taking a contemplative bite of cookie, keeping her unwavering focus on him and not backing down. “Valid question. But the fact is, it isn’t me,” she said, holding up her left hand, gesturing to her bare wrist. “It’s her. Don’t you think she gets a say in all this?” she asked, returning the challenge back to him.

Bucky looked back down at his gloved hands, shame washing over him. He couldn’t argue with that, feeling even more out of place.

Sadie took a final bite of cookie, dusting off her hands before crossing her arms again, squinting over at him like she were examining a new species of organism. “I think I get it. You blame yourself, don’t you? For everything the Nazis made you do?” she asked, though she didn’t sound in need of an answer. Bucky just looked up at her, and his expression said it all. She nodded, more to herself than to him, rounding the island and taking a seat next to him. She sighed deeply, wringing her hands together, suddenly looking as unsure and unsteady as Bucky felt.

“I don’t know why, but I’m going to tell you something that I don’t really talk about. Only Y/n knows, and it was like eating glass telling her,” Sadie said, her voice wavering, but she went on, forcing herself to face Bucky and not retreat into herself. “When I was a freshman in high school, I had a boyfriend. His name was Kevin. Kevin Foxworthy,” she began, her lips twisting distastefully around the name. Bucky had the urge to tell her she didn’t need to tell him anything, that she didn’t need to relive whatever pain she had gone through, but he knew better than to interrupt her.

“He was a senior at the time,” she continued, rolling her eyes. “I should have known it was a bad idea, but…I was young and awkward, and he was gorgeous and popular and he wanted me. I couldn’t believe he wanted me, of all the girls he could have had, he chose me. He made me feel so special, like I was the only one for him. Like I was his soulmate,” she said, chuckling bitterly, gesturing to Bucky’s left hand. “Everything felt fine at first, but he insisted on keeping our relationship a secret. We only saw and spoke to each other on his terms. Everything was on his terms, and I went along with it because I wanted to be wanted. And slowly, I just kept giving myself up to him, bit by bit, until I hardly knew who I was anymore, even though there was a voice screaming in my head to get out, that it wasn’t right, that he wasn’t right. But I didn’t listen to myself, even when…” she trailed off, rushing to wipe away a tear that had traveled down her cheek. Bucky held out his hand, and she tentatively took it, squeezing it a little to ground herself.

“Even when things got worse, I didn’t listen to that voice in the back of my mind,” Sadie whispered, pushing some of her hair away from her forehead. It was then that Bucky could see the scar, faded but still there, a few centimeters above her eyebrow. He didn’t need her to elaborate any more than that. He knew who gave her that scar, and his hand tightened around hers, malice swirling in his gut for this kid he didn’t even know.

“Then it was time for him to graduate, and he just left me behind. He sent me a text, and that was it, it was over,” Sadie said, giving Bucky a watery grin, another tear traveling down her other cheek. “He left, but not before making sure that everyone at school hated me. I don’t know why he told his friends to hate me. I think it was because he liked the idea of me belonging only to him, even if he didn’t want me anymore. So he told all of these lies about me, and it was his word against mine. So for the next four years, I was Sucky Sadie, the worst kid to ever step foot in that hellscape. And that was one of the nicer nicknames they had. Even the teachers hated me. Bucky…I almost didn’t make it out of there,” Sadie said, more tears chasing each other down her face, her voice breaking down into small, breathy huffs.

Bucky squeezed her hand even harder, grabbing a napkin from the pile on the counter and handing it to her, watching as she dabbed at her eyes.

“It was my fault, though, right?” she said weakly, withdrawing her hand from his, getting up and returning to her spot standing across from him. “I should have known better. I shouldn’t have let him do that to me. I deserved what I got,” she said, a deep frown darkening her features.

Heat filled Bucky’s chest then, the same heat that would rise when anyone dared to threaten Steve, or one of his little sisters in the past. He couldn’t stand anyone going after the little guy, and Sadie blaming herself only made the heat grow angrier. It was something Bucky could never tolerate, and he wasn’t about to start now.

“It was not your fault,” Bucky said emphatically, a deep wrinkle forming between his brows. “You didn’t know any better, you were a kid. He should have known better, he was older, he was the one in control, and he betrayed your trust. You didn’t deserve a second of what that asshat put you through, you deserved better,” he said forcefully, unclenching the fist he hadn’t realized he formed.

“And so did you,” Sadie said just as forcefully, the grief sliding off her face, replaced by earnest determination. “You were brainwashed Bucky. That’s more than I can say for myself, so why are you so quick to defend me when you can’t extend the same mercy to yourself?”

All Bucky could do was stare at her, stunned into speechlessness, his mouth slightly ajar. What she said hit him like a ton of bricks, and it felt like his whole brain was being rewired for the umpteenth time. There was no rhyme or reason to it; what happened to him was terrible, but somehow he just couldn’t see it that simply, he couldn’t come to his own defense because the shame and guilt and terror consumed him every day, to the point where it felt like there was no way out for him.

But Sadie was right. If he could see the injustice of what happened to her, if he could so easily label her the victim, the survivor, then maybe one day he could make room to do the same for himself.

One day.

“Gotcha, didn’t I?” Sadie said, breaking the silence, a smug grin slowly spreading into her cheeks.

Bucky grinned back, recovering from the hit with a slight shake of his head. “You must be hanging out with my shrink,” he murmured, glaring at her playfully.

Sadie laughed, taking another cookie from the pack and munching away happily, completely satisfied with her performance. “Well, I’ve had my own fair share of therapy, so I know all their tricks,” she said, giving him a wink. She sobered up again though, taking another bite before staring him down again, warmth and empathy written all over her face. “I have my bad days. I still blame myself sometimes, I still cry about it sometimes, and I haven’t been able to have a genuine relationship with a man even though it’s been years…but I’m still here. I don’t know where he is, I don’t even care, but what I do know is that I’ve taken back what he took from me. I guess I’m telling you all this because I think you need to give Y/n the benefit of the doubt. She’s seen me at my absolute worst, and she’s still my best friend. I know you think you’re protecting her or something, but she’s a lot stronger than you think, and she can handle anything you throw at her,” Sadie said, her voice soft and lulling, full of hope. “She deserves to be happy, and I think you’re the only person who can give her that, which is the only reason I even let your ass in the door. But you know what? You deserve to be happy too,” she added, and Bucky could tell that she really, truly meant it.

Bucky could feel some of his walls crumbling down, his heart expanding and reaching out towards the dreams he had thought were impossible, dreams of you and him, two halves of whole coming together physically and cosmically after so many things kept the two of you apart. But he was still cautious, still wading into the deep end one step at a time. He could only hope that you would meet him halfway.

“Wait a second, how did you get our address anyway?” Sadie asked abruptly, crossing her arms again, tilting her head to the side.

Bucky blanched, opening and closing his mouth like a guppy, running a hand along his jaw. “I, uh—well, it wasn’t too hard to look up…” he said by way of explanation, shrugging haplessly.

Sadie pressed her lips together, a mixture of uncertainty and amusement flashing across her face. “Oh.”

“What?” Bucky asked, his palm getting even clammier inside his glove.

Sadie shook her head, shrugging a shoulder as casually as she could. “Nothing, nothing. Well, maybe it’s just that, you know…you could have called ahead before dropping by. Perhaps it would’ve been less…”

“Creepy,” Bucky finished for her, his shoulders deflating and hunching over in defeat. He knew it.

Sadie laughed, reaching over and patting him consolingly on the arm. “I was going to say ‘shocking’, but your word works too,” she said, trying her best to stifle her giggles. “It’s okay, though, maybe you can--”

The rattling of the front door made both of them whip their heads towards the sound, the unmistakable jingling of keys ringing out from the other side of the door.

“Oh gosh, she’s home early,” Sadie said, her eyes widening in horror. She turned back to Bucky who had an equally horrified look on his face, and they stared at each other for two agonizing seconds before Bucky was gone, flying down the hallway that led away from the kitchen and towards the bedrooms.

He chose the first door he came across, opening it with lightning speed and closing it behind him just as fast without any real thought. He just knew he couldn’t let you see him, not like this, not this way. He didn’t want you to feel ambushed or shocked by seeing him in your apartment after everything that had happened. He wanted everything to be right when he spoke to you, so he knew he had to form an escape plan, and fast.

“Oh my gosh, Bucky!” Sadie’s muffled whispered came from outside the door. “What are you doing?” she hissed, trying to open the door, but he pushed against it to keep her out.

“I’m hiding,” he hissed back, straining to hear if you were in the apartment yet.

 “Well good job, idiot,” Sadie said, jiggling the doorknob again, rapping on the door urgently. “That’s her room.”

Bucky’s entire body stiffened then, and he turned slowly to truly take in his surroundings. The entire room was bathed in the orange glow of the late afternoon, casting a warm haze over everything in sight. His eyes landed on your bed first, half-made and covered in quilted blankets and pillows, a soft divot in the mattress where it had learned to conform to your body. His gaze traveled along your floor, littered with a few of your shoes and a decorative rug. Your closet door was open, and a neat row of clothing peeking out, all of which were probably graced with your sweet scent. Finally, he looked over at your dresser set, more photos tucked into the mirror’s frame, various knicks and knacks and beauty products lined up on the dresser top.

Sadie jiggled the knob some more, to no avail. “You better call her, or so help me, I’ll smack you with your own metal arm,” she hissed, interrupted by the sound of the front door closing and you calling her name.

Something blue caught his eye, tucked in between a tube of moisturizer and a fragrance bottle. Bucky stepped further into the room to get a better look, careful not to disturb anything in the process. He got to the dresser, and he was able to see that the blue fabric better, a deep shade of navy bespeckled with dark green dots. Carefully, he picked it up, running his gloved fingers over the smooth silk, something dormant swelling up in his chest and mind.

The man on the glass display looked like him. He couldn’t deny it, even if he didn’t remember the last time he saw his reflection.

James Buchanan Barnes.

The three names rolled around in his head, reaching out for meaning and recognition, but finding no purchase.

The inscription was no help either, dolling out facts about this fallen soldier that was supposed to be him. He tried to force himself to feel something for those words, but he just felt blank. He only felt something when he looked down at the small screen below the display, his breath hitching at the sight of the man from the bridge, the man from the helicarriers, the man who was his mission.

“Then finish it. ‘Cuz I’m with you ‘til the end of the line.”

He remembered those words, and his head began to spin as it had on the helicarriers, his whole world dipping below the surface of the Potomac, his lungs filling with dark, rancid water, struggling against the raging current.  

He heard sniffling beside him, the sound a small beam of like that led him to air.

A woman was there, not too far away, watching the same screen as him. She was upset, something about the display causing her distress.

He continued to watch her for a moment, and bit by bit, she pulled him from the baleful depths, a surge of fresh air expanding his lungs until they cracked. He wanted to take away her pain, and he was sure he would destroy the glass display, the whole exhibit, the whole damn museum if it meant drying her tears.

He found his hand migrating to his pocket—well, the pocket of the jacket he had lifted off an unsuspecting stranger who left it on a park bench. He pulled out the handkerchief that came with it, staring at the shiny, reflective fabric before extending it towards her.

To his relief, she did stop crying, a puzzled look on her face as she glanced down at his meager offering, the only means of relief he had to offer.

She took it gingerly, her hand brushing over his delicately, and that was all he allowed himself to indulge in, that small moment of intimacy with this woman who ignited something in him, something stronger than even the man from the bridge.

He turned and walked away, farther and farther from her, and he couldn’t understand why he felt like he had left a piece of his heart in her hand instead of a piece of cloth.

“Hey, you’re home! How was tutoring today?”

Sadie’s high-pitched exclamation pulled Bucky out of the memory, startling him back to the dilemma at hand.

“It was fine. What are you doing?” he heard you answer back, your tone rightfully suspicious.

He didn’t have any more time to waste, though his chest ached at the sound of your voice. He stuffed the handkerchief into his pocket and rushed to your window, opening it without a sound, lifting himself up and out into the world outside. He clung to the brick window sill with his left hand as he shimmied your window closed with his right, just as he heard the door to your bedroom open.

He hung there for a few tormenting moments until he heard your door shut again, your and Sadie’s voices muffling further into the apartment. He sighed with relief, but that relief only lasted for a second when he looked to the side and saw that the fire escape was out of reach.

Far out of reach.

He glanced down, looking at the slab of asphalt that made up the alley beside your building, which was exactly six stories below his dangling feet. There was absolutely nothing between him and the ground, even the dumpster was a few feet off, the puffed-up garbage bags looking invitingly comfy in his current situation.

Bucky sighed, shaking his head slightly. “Not like this’ll be new for you, Barnes,” he muttered to himself, giving himself a silent three-count before letting go of the ledge, plummeting all 75 feet like dead weight. He landed square on his back, the wind being knocked out of him, a low-pitched groan seeping out of his lips. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a black stray cat, its marble eyes regarding him with a kind of bored judgment, its tail flicking a little behind it.

“Not all of us can land on our feet,” he mumbled at it, groaning as he got up and headed towards his bike.

The ride back to the compound was smooth, with little traffic for a weekend day, and unsurprisingly, his thoughts revolved around you and the handkerchief burning a hole through his pocket. By the time he got there the sun was already dipped below the horizon, the sky fading to black with a thin strip of fiery orange above the earth. As soon as he parked his bike in the garage, he went straight to Steve’s office, hoping for once that he wasn’t there. He sat down at Steve’s desk, right in front of his desk phone. He took the handkerchief out of his pocket and stared at it for the longest time, having a strange feeling that he was holding the key to everything.

He could feel it. He was on the brink, balancing on the edge looking out onto open space, and he knew if he just took one last step, he would make his way to you. Sure he’d be falling without a parachute, without a safety net, but you were worth it. You were everything to him, and he wanted to be what you needed, what you wanted.

He just needed to take that step.

“Don’t tell me you still don’t know how to use a phone.”

Bucky almost fell out of his chair when he turned to find Tony Stark standing in the doorway wearing a plain t-shirt and jeans, his arms crossed with an expression that rivaled the cat’s from earlier. He didn’t know what to say; he never really knew what to say to Tony. They had this horrible connection, this way that their pasts tangled together, converging on one fateful December night. He couldn’t understand why Tony even let him be here; he could count on his fingers how many times Tony had uttered a word in his direction since he began living in the compound, nothing but tight nods of acknowledgment thrown at each other in passing. There just wasn’t anything the two of them could say to each other, so they didn’t try. Until now, apparently.

“I know you’re probably used to the whole rotary deal, but the buttons are pretty self-explanatory,” Tony added, venturing further into the office and taking a seat on the arm of the small couch across from Bucky. “You gonna call her or not?”

Bucky hesitated, wondering if he had somehow stepped into another dimension where he hadn’t killed the billionaire’s parents. “Steve told you about this?” he asked, his voice low and quiet as if he were trying to make himself smaller somehow.

“Peter was a bit loose-lipped after he gave Cap the letter,” Tony explained, a small grin quirking the side of his mouth. “I couldn’t help but get involved. You and Teach are a cosmic anomaly, and anomalies titillate me,” he said with a straight face.

Bucky grinned at him, a pang echoing in his chest at the thought that Tony’s sense of humor matched Howard’s almost exactly. “Involved?” Bucky repeated, feeling a bit uneasy.

Tony nodded, moving from his perch on the armrest to sit on the actual cushions of the couch, crossing one leg over the other. “Who do you think set up that little field trip?”

Bucky’s eyebrows met his hairline, and Tony let out a low chuckle, running a hand along his beard. Now Bucky knew for sure he was in the twilight zone.

 “That was you?” Bucky asked, completely dumbfounded.

“Well, not entirely me,” Tony admitted, rolling his eyes, more to himself than Bucky. “The foundation was already gearing up for that outreach program, I just made sure Pete’s school was moved up on the list.”

There was a beat of silence before Bucky asked the next obvious question.

“Why?”

Tony’s exterior cracked a little, his legs bouncing a couple of times, his hands beginning to fidget like they were yearning for something to tinker with. “I’ve been asking myself that same question,” he said, sighing heavily, tapping his fist gently against the armrest. He looked up at Bucky, something unreadable in his eyes, but not altogether unfriendly.

“You know, as much as my old man loved to talk about Cap…he spoke about you, too,” Tony said, a light strain to his voice. “He always spoke about your bravery, your sacrifice. He revered the fact that you laid down your life in service to this country. I think part of him felt guilty about it, what happened to you and Rogers. You were a saint to him. And I figure a man like that…a man like that wouldn’t have been able to do what you did. Not willingly.”

Bucky looked away from Tony then, his tongue feeling heavy in his mouth. He wasn’t sure if he felt relieved at Tony’s words, or guilty, or shamed. Maybe he felt a combination of the three.

“Look,” Tony said, suddenly all business, standing up again and making his way to the door. “I shouldn’t be alive. That’s something you and I have in common. Where we differ is that I know when a second chance is biting me in the ass. This,” Tony gestured to the phone, “Her. This is your second chance. Don’t be an idiot and miss out on it.”

Bucky once again found himself stunned into silence for the second time that day, unable to express his gratefulness for what Tony said. Tony seemed to understand that, giving Bucky a genuine and warm grin along with a nod before disappearing into the hall, the sound of his footsteps faintly echoing off the walls. Bucky looked at the phone, its buttons calling out to him to be pressed. He looked down at the handkerchief, and the plates in his left arm whirred, the phantom itch he knew too well invading its synapses.

Do you want to be happy, James?

The answer was just a step away.

And he took it.

His fingers dialed your number almost automatically, the digits all but seared on his brain. It rang only twice before you picked up.

“Steve, hi. I’m so glad you called,” you said, your breathy voice filling his ear, seeping into his very bones. “Look, I’m sorry about how we left things the other day. I hope you’re not upset.”

Bucky felt like his jaw was wired shut, and he could feel a slight tremble in the hand that was holding the phone up to his ear. He couldn’t do this, he didn’t feel equipped, but he had waited too long, and he wasn’t going to waste any more time, not when it came to you.

“Steve? Are you there?” you asked, concern lacing into your tone.

“It’s not Steve,” he said finally, squeezing his eyes shut. “It’s Bucky.”

It was your turn to be silent, and the silence stretched long enough for him to believe the line might have gone dead.

“Y/n? Are you still there?” he asked, panic rising in his belly.

You took in a sharp breath of air, like you had been holding that whole time. “Y-yes. I’m here,” you said, your voice thick with emotion.

“Oh. Good. Th-that's good,” Bucky said, stumbling over his words. He cringed at himself, taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly. You were still silent, so Bucky decided to just charge on, rip off the bandage.

“I know I’m probably the last person you want to talk to, but I’d really like to talk to you,” he began, a small surge of courage propelling him forward. You were still quiet. “There’s so much I want to say, so much I need to say to you, but…I don’t want to do that over the phone. Do you—do you think you can meet me at Stark Tower tomorrow? At around noon? I can send a car to pick you up--”

“No,” you said quickly.

Bucky’s heart sank to the floor.

“I mean, not ‘no’ to meeting you, no to the car,” you clarified, sounding a little out of breath. “I can get there myself. I’d prefer it.”

Bucky had to brace himself against the desk at the wave of relief that washed over him, the tension bleeding out of his muscles, the sting of tears dancing over his eyelashes.

“Thank you,” he breathed, unable to keep the tremor out of his voice. He cleared his throat. “Thank you so much. I’ll—I’ll see you tomorrow then.”

You paused, but the silence was mingled with a fragile hope, one you both grasped onto.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Bucky,” you confirmed, and he swore there was a smile in your tone.

Yes.

The answer finally came to him, and it flowed through him violently, like the serum running through his veins.

Yes, he wanted to be happy.

He wanted you.

Yes.  

Chapter Text

Sadie insisted that you wear a dress.

You would have usually tried to protest against her fashion expertise, just to get under her skin, but you had barely gotten a half-hour of sleep the night before, so you were about as malleable as clay.

That’s how you found yourself standing in front of the bathroom mirror in a delicate pink tulle dress, a parade of sequined strawberries dappled over the skirt and bust. Apparently, Sadie had “borrowed” it from the huge closet of designer clothing the magazine had in their offices a while back, though she assured you no one would miss it.

You stared at your reflection, running your fingers over the ruffled gossamer along your collar. You weren’t sure how you were feeling. You had gone through the conversation with Bucky a thousand times in your head, replaying his tone and inflections, the way he had said your name in such a tender way.

There’s so much I need to say to you…

Those were the words that kept swirling around in your mind until they no longer resembled human language. Sure, Bucky wanted to talk to you, but that didn’t mean he would say what you wanted to hear. Maybe he was just doing this as a courtesy, a way to heal his own conscience after what happened that day in the hangar. Just because he wanted to talk, didn’t mean he wanted you.

Part of you wanted to stay home, to call the whole thing off and curl under your blankets, retreat back into the places you knew like the back of your hand. You didn’t want to get hurt again, but the other part of you, the more stubborn, idealistic part of you that was linked to the letters seared on your wrist told you that the trip might be worth it, that there could be so much more in store for you and James Buchanan Barnes, so much more than you’d ever dreamed.

Still, you couldn’t get rid of the churning of your gut, your mark angry and red and raw from all the scratching you had done during the night. You looked down at it now, those three letters that had caused you so much pain and joy and life, the letters that you had hated and resented, yet loved and cherished since you were sixteen years old. It never felt more real than it did now, that there was someone in the world that you belonged to, someone in the world that belonged to you. You had always longed for that feeling, the one that told you exactly where you fit into the grand scheme of things, where your place was in the world, and you were about to take the F train into Manhattan to find out if that feeling was beyond your reach.

There was a knock at the bathroom door, and Sadie peeked her head in, shooting a sympathetic smile over to you. “You okay?” she asked, stepping all the way into the bathroom and joining you at the mirror, adjusting your hair and the sleeves of your dress a bit.

“I think so,” you said quietly, staring at both of your reflections in the mirror. Sadie wasn’t convinced though, wrapping her arms around your shoulders and resting her head against yours, making an exaggerated pouty face in the mirror until you cracked a small grin.

“Everything’s going to be fine,” Sadie said confidently, squeezing you a bit before letting go, fixing your hair again.

“How do you know?” you asked, looking down at your mark, rubbing at it with the base of your other palm.

Sadie chuckled softly, rolling her eyes. “Let’s just say, I have it on good authority that things will go well,” she said cryptically, picking up the brush from the sink and fiddling with the edges of your hair. You frowned at her, recalling her odd behavior from yesterday, and you had a feeling her hunch had something to do with that, though she was still being tight-lipped about the whole thing. 

You sighed deeply, looking at your mirrored self, trying to piece together the myriad of emotions running through you. You dared to speak out loud the one question that had been casting a shadow over you since last night, taunting and mocking you, telling you to let go of your childish hopes and fantasies.  

“What if he walks away again?” you whispered, dread sweeping over your exposed skin. It was a possibility. He had done it once, it would be easy for him to do it again.

Sadie shook her head, making one final adjustment to your dress, grabbing both your shoulders and having you face her. “He won’t,” she said in that same assured, confident tone, her gaze unwavering. “But on the off chance he does, then he’s way dumber than we thought and you’re better off,” she added with a wink, satisfied with the silent laugh that shook your shoulders.

That’s the thought you held onto as you made your way into the city. The subway ride was uncharacteristically smooth with no delays or incidents, and before you knew it, you were standing in front of Stark Tower, your head tilted up to gaze at the imposing structure that stood out against the skyline, its only rivals the Empire State Building and One World Trade Center. You glanced at the slightly tinted glass lobby doors as other pedestrians milled around you, trying to calm down the butterflies churning your stomach.

You can do this, you told yourself, taking a deep breath.

You need to do this.    

You walked in, and you spotted him immediately. He was leaning against the security desk, his arms crossed against his chest, his legs crossed in front of him while he was talking to another man, a tall, wide, kind of intimidating figure who would have been formidable if not for his kind, doughy face.

Your heart swooped, and your steps faltered as you made your way over to the two of them. He was wearing dark washed jeans with a plain black t-shirt that hugged his muscular figure in just the right way, a pair of silver tags dangling from his neck. Both of his arms were on full display, metal mixing with flesh, and you wondered what it would feel like to have both of them wrapped around you.

You shook away the invasive thought, your heart hammering even harder as you approached. Bucky still hadn’t noticed you yet, his head slightly turned away from you, but the other man did, looking up at you with a genuine smile as if he had been expecting you, too.

“Hi, ma’am. You must be Y/n,” he said, extending a hand towards you.

It was then that Bucky turned to look at you, and his gaze rooted you in place a few feet away, your feet simply giving up all on their own. He looked at you with the same wide-eyed awe he had that first time he saw you, his lips slightly parted as he took a shuddering breath, his eyes roaming over your figure as if he were drinking you in.

You were suddenly grateful that you had let Sadie dress you this morning.

The two of you stared at one another without a word, the air heavy with all of the things you were yet to say to each other, decades of emotions crackling between you like ozone before the strike of lightning. The rest of the world blurred around you, and all you could focus on was the man in front of you, the man who had held your entire heart since you were sixteen years old.

“I’m Happy Hogan, head of security,” the other man said, breaking the silence for you and Bucky, tapping a finger on the badge hanging off his lapel. With great effort, you shifted your focus away from Bucky and over to him, reaching out for his extended hand to shake. “I’ve heard so many great things about you. Pete never shuts up about ya! We’re just gonna need to set you up with a security badge. For security purposes, of course,” Happy said, his voice lowering an octave to sound more official.

“I tried to tell him it wasn’t necessary, but he insisted,” Bucky muttered with a roll of his eyes. He grinned over at you, a small, milquetoast kind of smile, as if he were testing out the waters.

You returned the grin, dipping your toe in with him, and you could see some of the tension leave his shoulders, his smile spreading into his cheeks, the corners of his eyes just beginning to crinkle.

You shrugged a little. “I don’t mind. There are a lot of crazies in this city,” you said to Happy, and his face lit up.

Happy pointed at you and nodded at Bucky appreciatively. “I like her,” he declared, beckoning you closer to the desk.

You waited patiently as Happy helped one of the guards behind the desk set up your badge, smiling as they snapped your security photo, all the while aware of Bucky’s presence a few feet away, trying your best not to fidget under his gaze.

“Is this going to be a permanent badge or a temporary one?” the guard asked, looking right at you, her hands poised over her keyboard.

You blanched. You were sure she hadn’t meant to put you on the spot, but you had no clue how to answer her question. You didn’t know if you needed a permanent badge because you had no clue if you would ever step into this building again. You had no clue what your future with Bucky would be after today, and her simple question brought up all of your fears again, your palms beginning to sweat, the butterflies stirring up a hurricane in your gut. You looked over at Bucky, and your fear was reflected on his face, his jaw set, his Adam’s apple bobbing with a hard swallow. Maybe he was just as unsure as you. Maybe he was scared that you’d be the one to walk away. Whatever it was, you were both frozen, paralyzed by all the uncertainty and nerves that buzzed around you.

“Uh, we’ll make this temporary for now,” Happy stepped in, glancing at the two of you, showing the guard which buttons to press.

You took a grateful breath, watching as the machine churned out your badge, the guard handing it to you over the counter with a smile. You thanked her, clipping it to your collar, looking to Happy to see if there was anything else you needed to do.

He just gave you a thumbs up, motioning you to fix your badge a bit. “You’re all set, pretty lady. We got rid of the iris scan and finger prick for guests a few months ago. Boss said it was deterrent,” he explained, raising air quotes around that last word, rolling his eyes.

“Thank you, Happy,” Bucky said, stepping forward and closer to you. You could feel heat radiating off of him, his scent warm and inviting, a faint mixture of hickory and cinnamon. He looked down at you with a slightly uneasy grin, a tempest brewing in the blues of his eyes. “You ready to go?” he asked quietly, just for you to hear.

You nodded. “I am,” you told him, and you were surprised to find that you actually were ready, ready for whatever laid ahead.

You had spent your entire life defined by those three initials, his initials, and this was the defining moment. Whatever choices Bucky made today, whatever choices you made today, would set your future in motion, and you were ready to move past that day in history class, to shed the scared and confused sixteen-year-old girl in that cold bathroom stall and finally carve out your own slice of happiness in this life. 

You were ready.

“You two have fun!” Happy called after you as Bucky led you away from the lobby and to the elevators.

He stayed close as he led you along, and it was hard not to feel slightly intoxicated by his presence. When the elevator arrived, he held the doors open for you, his hand not quite touching the small of your back, but hovering close enough that you could feel it there. A dormant part of you wanted him to press his hand firmly against you, to feel the pressure of his touch on that small part of your body, but you did your best to stomp out that feeling. It was something you had read about in your fervent research on soulmate pairings; the magnetic physical connection that went along with the emotional. It was something that couldn’t be helped, as automatic as breathing air, and the close proximity of the elevator didn’t help.

You wondered if he was fighting the same feeling, if he was holding himself back as much as you were, if he felt half as much as you felt for him. The two of you were silent as you watched the floor numbers go up, the hum of the elevator filling the space between you.

Bucky cleared his throat. “You look…” he began slicing through the silence, though the words seemed to catch along the way. He cleared his throat again. “You look really beautiful,” he said, glancing at you shyly, traces of pink creeping along his neckline.

You couldn’t help the warmth that spread over you, and you bit the inside of your cheek to contain the grin that threatened to invade your face. “Thank you,” you said carefully, glancing over at him. “You don’t look so bad yourself,” you added, too satisfied with the way he ducked his head, the pink on his neck giving way to a redder shade.

The elevator stopped on one of the higher levels, the doors sliding open and releasing some of the nervous energy surrounding the both of you. He guided you past the elevators towards an open living space, surrounded by large, floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the cityscape below. You were marveling at the view when a familiar voice caught your attention.

“Dude, you really put newspapers in your shoes? Did that even help?”

You looked over to find Steve sitting on one of the couches, surrounded by none other than MJ, Ned, and Peter…

…who was hanging upside down from the ceiling, wearing a Spiderman costume.

“It added a couple of inches,” Steve responded to Ned, looking a bit miffed.

MJ scoffed, rolling her eyes. “Yeah, okay. Let’s just be grateful for the serum, big guy.” Steve glared at her, but she was unaffected.

“Guys stop,” Peter said, swinging back and forth, a devious grin on his inverted face. “He’s still sensitive about it.”

Steve’s glare turned on Peter. “Alright, let’s just remember who’s helping you brats with your homework,” he warned, holding up what you recognized as the assignment sheet for the final paper you had assigned.

“Peter?”

The four of them turned their heads, following the sound of your voice. Peter yelped, letting go of the string—web—that was holding him up, landing on his feet and attempting to cover his costume—uniform—with his hands, to no avail.

“Miss! H-hey! What are you doing here?” Peter squeaked, wrapping his arms around himself as if that would shield your view of his red suit. His face was just as red, his eyes wide and panicked.

You walked over to them, still eyeing your favorite student, who apparently moonlighted as a superhero.

“You know, I want to say I’m surprised, but I’m not,” you said slowly, crossing your arms. “This actually explains a lot.”

“Right?” MJ agreed, shaking her head at Peter. “He makes it so obvious.”

“I do not! I don’t make it obvious,” Peter insisted weakly, his cheeks puffing out in frustration.

You tilted your head back and laughed. “It’s okay, Pete. Your secret is safe with me,” you promised, making an ‘x’ with your finger over your heart. You examined the papers scattered around the group more closely, your eyes squinted with suspicion. “Are you guys seriously having Captain America help you with my final?” you asked accusingly, raising your eyebrows at all three of your students.

“We were gonna cite him in our references,” Ned said, having the decency to look a little guilty.

“There’s no rule against that, per MLA standards,” MJ added defiantly, crossing her own arms.

“Miss, he actually lived during the Great Depression,” Peter added, gesturing to Steve, who also looked like he had his tail between his legs.

You sighed, staring all four of them down until you finally broke. “Fine, I’ll allow it, as long as you cite properly. But what are you going to do next term, when we go over the Cold War, huh? He wasn’t there for any of that,” you pointed out, jerking your thumb at Steve.

“Don’t worry kid, I got your back,” Bucky chimed in from behind you. You stared at him incredulously, and he had the nerve to wink at you. “I was there for most of that. Probably caused some of it too,” he admitted with a shrug.

Steve and the kids laughed, and you bit your lip to keep from joining them, though you were fighting a losing battle.

Ned looked up at you skeptically. “So what are you up to, Miss? Here to do some…soulmate stuff?” he said conspiratorially, wiggling his eyebrows.

Steve let out a low whistle, Peter and MJ regarding you with the most shit-eating grins you had ever seen.

You ignored the heat that singed your neck and cheeks, glaring at your students, your three irredeemably nerdy but precious students. “Just make sure I see the three of you in class on Monday,” you said, turning away from them before you spontaneously combusted.

They called out their reassurances after you as Bucky led you along again, away from the group and outside onto the exposed part of the floor, overlooking the city and the East River. A breeze ran through your hair, and it almost felt like you were floating on a cloud, the grey city grid below deceptively quiet from way up high. You turned to look at Bucky, and he was already looking at you, his expression unreadable, a storm still raging behind his pupils.

“Hi,” you said, not knowing what else to say, desperate to get rid of the tension that had returned.

“Hi,” he said back quietly, looking down at his shoes. He opened his mouth a couple of times, a few false starts before he sighed deeply, reaching his hand into his pocket to pull something out, something you recognized immediately.

“So it was you,” you whispered, your pulse quickening at the sight of the blue handkerchief you were all too familiar with. “I wasn’t crazy, then.”

Bucky grinned a little, shaking his head. “No, you’re definitely not the crazy one here,” he said, running his thumb over the fabric.

You stepped forward, grasping a hanging corner of the handkerchief, frowning up at him. “Wait. How did you get this?”

Bucky cringed, scratching at the back of his neck with his free hand. “That’s a long story…” he said, sounding as cryptic as Sadie had earlier. “But I’m glad I found it. I…I think I have a bad habit of running away from you.” His voice was fractured, his blue eyes boring into yours earnestly and honestly, and you couldn’t tell if it was the altitude or him that was making it hard to take in a proper breath.

“That day in the museum…it was blur for me,” he continued, something dark passing over his features. “I didn’t know who I was. I didn’t even know my own name. I barely knew which way was up, but you…you were crystal clear. Even then, you were the only thing I could see clearly. You were the only thing that gave me a bit of hope,” he said, his voice breaking at the end.

You took in a sharp breath, but you didn’t interrupt him, waiting for him to let it all out.

Bucky shook his head, tucking his bottom lip between his teeth. “As soon as I got my mark, I wanted to give you the world. I didn’t know who you were then, but I knew that you were everything to me. You were my whole world. You owned every part of me, and I couldn’t wait to start our life together. But then the war happened. And then the train. And then Hydra. I thought I lost you a long, long time ago, and I swear, Y/n, I felt like a part of me hadn’t survived that fall,” he said, his eyes wet and shining.

You wanted to reach out to him, to comfort him, but it felt like too much, like if you made any sudden movements, everything would come tumbling down. So you waited some more, your own eyes rimming tears.

“And then there you were,” he went on, giving you a watery grin. “Standing right in front of me in that hangar like a dream. After everything, there you were, but I just couldn’t accept it. I couldn’t, because that would mean I would have to be grateful for it all. Every mission, every target, all of the blood on my hands. I’d have to be grateful, I’d have to be happy that it all happened because every last moment of the past 90 years brought me to you. Every decision I made, every decision that was made for me, led me to that moment in that hangar when I looked at you and found my whole world again. And I couldn’t accept it. I couldn’t accept that gift. I couldn’t handle it,” he said, tears finally spilling onto his cheeks.

It wasn’t until he reached up with the handkerchief to dab at your cheeks that you realized you had been crying, too. He gently wiped at your eyes and your nose, caressing your face in his hands, his thumbs smoothing over your chin. You closed your eyes at his touch, and it all felt too much, too real, too right.

“Please look at me,” he whispered, and you opened your eyes again just for your heart to feel like it was splitting in two, because you could see all of his pain written over his face, all of the torture and agony and grief that brought him to you, against all space, time, and logic. How could you be grateful for any of it, either? How could you accept this gift when it had cost him so much, when it had cost him his very humanity?

He must have followed your thoughts, because he shook his head at you, a smile breaking through the tears. “Don’t feel sorry for me, please. I’m sorry. I should have never walked away from you. I’m sorry that you thought for even a second that I didn’t want you, because I do. I’ve always wanted you, I want you more than I want to breathe, but…”

He let go of you then, taking his warmth with him, and you fought the urge to catapult yourself back into his arms. He looked at you with sorrow and regret, that same dark something passing over him again.

“I’m not—I’m not ready for you yet, Doll,” he said, and it sounded like a plea, an entreaty for you to understand. “I’m not the man you need me to be. I’m not the man you deserve, not yet. I’m a mess, more of a mess than you know, and you deserve so much better than that,” he said, letting out a long, broken sigh.  

He looked defeated, like he had failed you somehow because of his trauma, and your heart broke again. You were ready to argue with him, to tell him that he was your dream, that he was everything you needed and wanted, that he was your whole world too and nothing would ever change that, but you stopped yourself.

He wasn’t like you. You had gotten your mark, and you were left to grieve for a man you had thought was long dead, so when it turned out he wasn’t, you had been consumed by joy and hope for an ever-after that had seemed impossible before. He had started with the ever-after, getting his mark at sixteen, believing you were out there somewhere, building a life for the two of you, one that he had so believed was within his grasp. Now, it was his time to grieve, to mourn the loss of the man he once was, to mourn the dreams of a time that was long past. You were here, and he was here, but you both needed time to navigate the realities that the universe had dealt you, to sift through the tattered remains of old dreams and build a new foundation for the dreams you would have together, in this life, with nothing to separate you ever again.

You must have been silent for too long because fear was splashed across his face, his shoulders tight and braced for the rejection he thought was coming.

You smiled at him, and it felt like the first real smile of your entire life.

“Okay.”

He frowned. “What?”

You shrugged, letting out a low, breathy laugh. “Okay. I’ll wait for you,” you told him, and you truly meant it, with every fiber in your being. “I’ve been waiting for you my whole life, I can wait a little longer. No biggie.”

His frown slowly melted away, replaced by a reverent awe as he stared at you, as if he still couldn’t quite believe you were standing in front of him, real and tangible and willing to stay. And then, the clouds parted, and you were graced with his smile, a smile that lit up his entire body, his eyes an oasis in the middle of a parched desert. A smile that let you know that the two of you had finally, finally found home.

“We can be friends, can’t we? In the meantime?” you asked, and for once, you knew exactly what his answer would be.

“I would really like that. More than anything,” Bucky said, his voice heavy and gravelly with all the right emotions.

The two of you stood there for who knows how long, just smiling and being, basking in the glow of a beautiful promise. You broke the silence first.

“Can I ask you something?” you said, hesitating a little. “Something personal? I’ve always wanted to ask you this, and I never thought I’d get the chance…”

“Of course,” Bucky said, a small wrinkle forming between his brows.

You took a deep breath. “Did your parents seriously name you after the 15^th President of the United States?”

Your question was met with a stunned silence, both of you frozen in place like deer caught in headlights.

Laughter erupted from you both, ringing out loud across the balcony floor, and you were sure the whole city could hear the two of you. You doubled over, and Bucky reached out to steady you, both of his hands on your shoulders. Your laughter slowed at his touch, and a warmth spread through you, cozy and safe, his thumbs tracing small circles on your skin. You took the plunge, closing the distance between you and wrapping your arms around him, your cheek pressing against the cold metal of his dog tags, his strong and real heartbeat thrumming in your ear.

He pulled you in even closer, his left arm steady around your waist, while his right hand slipped into the hair at the nape of your neck, leaving goosebumps in its wake.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he whispered, resting his head against yours.

You breathed him in, and had the passing thought that you could stay like this forever, in his arms, even if the world around you came crashing down.

“Me too.”

T W O   Y E A R S   L A T E R

“Oh my gosh, Barnes, you’re not even looking at the camera,” Nat said, shaking her head as she looked down at the photo.

It was true, he wasn’t.

When TIME had gotten wind of your story, they had asked to do a feature on you and Bucky that coincided with the 50^th wedding anniversary of Ethel and Barry Manigold. Both of you had been hesitant at first, but with a little coaxing from Tony, the two of you found yourselves on a small farm in Des Moines, Iowa, posing for the cover of a national magazine.

They had you pose in front of the older couple’s farmhouse, cute and quaint with a wraparound porch and a swing. Ethel and Barry were sitting in front of you and Bucky on two wooden chairs that Barry had crafted himself years ago. They had on wide smiles, their eyes shining behind their glasses, their grey hair slightly tossed by the wind.

You were standing directly behind Ethel. At the behest of the photographer, you were carrying one of the Manigold’s newest lambs, a cheeky one that had decided to stick its tongue out and lick your cheek just when the shutter went off. Your eyes were squinted with mirth, your mouth slightly open with the beginnings of a laugh.

And Bucky.

Bucky was beside you, his right arm wrapped around your waist, completely ignoring the camera altogether. He was looking at you instead, and even though just his profile showed, his smile lit up the entire cover.

“Yeah, Barnes, I know you’re camera shy, but this is ridiculous,” Tony chimed in, stealing a strawberry from the bowl in Nat’s hands, ignoring her death glare.

“He wasn’t always like that,” Steve called out from the couch, flipping through his own copy of the magazine. At least a hundred copies had been delivered to the Tower. There was hardly a room around here where you couldn’t find your own face. “You couldn’t pull him away from a camera back in the day.”

“Screw you, Rogers,” Bucky replied, though he was grinning from ear to ear. His hand slipped onto your thigh under the breakfast table, and you smiled up at him, placing your own hand over his. He winked at you, and butterflies erupted in your belly, even after two whole years. He lifted your left hand, placing a couple of quick pecks on your knuckles before turning it over, leaving a lingering kiss over your mark, a shiver running up your spine.

You looked down at the cover again. All of you had your left wrists held up, even Bucky, your initials emblazoned in gold on his wrist by a diamond drill that Bruce had specially made, the late afternoon sun glinting off of the smooth dark vibranium of his arm.

A glint that matched the one reflecting off of the pretty, perfect, and pristine diamond on your left ring finger