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Bucky always knows you hate it when he leaves.
The little pout on your face and sad glint of your eyes as you cling to his waist, face buried into his chest like if you tried hard enough you could just stick to him like glue and never let go.
He wouldn't mind that, he thinks. Carrying you around next to him everywhere he went. It'd be better than this.
Anything would be better than this.
He puts on a strong face for you but deep down inside he's just as miserable about leaving as you are, maybe even more. You spend the whole day together, no farther than arms length away, always touching each other in one way or another. His hand at the small of your back, your fingers brushing between his shoulder blades, legs tangled up together under the bedsheets, skin pressed against skin as you try to remember what it's like to have a normal heart rhythm.
"Do you really have to go?" You ask, while you already know the answer something aches in you to ask again, in hopes that there's a different outcome.
He hums a confirmation into your neck, hands running up and down the sides of your waist and hips, mapping out every inch of skin until the swirls of his fingerprints have memorized every cell of your skin.
"How long will you be gone?"
"Coupla' days, three at the least, maybe five most."
You let out a pitiful whine, wrapping a leg around his waist and pulling him flush against you.
"I know baby," he murmurs into the soft spot under your ear, teeth lightly grazing the edge of your lobe. "I'll be back before you know it."
"No, you won't," you mutter, disdain laced through your words. Not for him. Never for him, just for the powers that be that take him away from you.
He doesn't answer, just kisses spot under your ear and pulls in a deep breath. He knows it just as well as you do, feels it just as much. Fear wells up in the back of your ribcage, swelling in your throat until its formed itself into a lump you can't swallow. If anything, this is part you hate the most.
The fear.
The worry.
The thought that this could be the last time you see him. It's irrational, you know that, but it doesn't stop the tears from pricking at the corners of your eyes.
Bucky feels the change instantly, his grip going vice around you as he holds you impossibly closer.
"Don't," he whispers. "Don't even think about it. You know I'll always come back."
You let out a shaky breath that trembles against his collarbone.
“That’s not something you can promise,” you murmur, and you hate how small your voice sounds. You hate that fear has teeth, that it sinks in and refuses to let go.
His hand slides up your spine, warm and steady, metal fingers splayed at the small of your back like he’s anchoring you there. Like if he holds tight enough, nothing in the world can pull you apart.
“I can promise I’ll try,” he says quietly. “Every time. For you.”
That’s the problem.
He always tries. He always throws himself headfirst into the line of fire. You’ve seen it — the recklessness disguised as bravery, the way he puts himself between danger and everyone else without a second thought. As if he doesn’t count.
As if losing him wouldn’t split you clean in two.
You pull back just enough to look at him. His forehead drops to yours automatically, noses brushing, breath shared. His blue eyes search your face like he’s memorizing it, the slope of your cheek, the way your lashes clump with unshed tears.
“You don’t get to talk like you’re disposable,” you whisper. “You don’t get to decide that everyone else is worth saving more than you.”
Something flickers across his face something close to guilt, maybe. Or understanding.
His flesh hand cups your jaw, thumb brushing beneath your eye before the tear can fall. “I’m not disposable,” he says, softer now. “Not to you.”
“Not to anyone,” you correct, because he needs to hear it.
A breath passes between you.
The fear is still there. It always will be. Loving someone who walks into gunfire for a living means making peace with that kind of terror, means swallowing it down and smiling anyway.
But right now, in the quiet hum of the room, with his heartbeat steady under your palm, you let yourself be selfish.
“Come back to me,” you whisper.
His lips press to yours—not rushed, not desperate. Slow. Certain. Like sealing a vow without speaking it aloud.
“I always do,” he murmurs against your mouth.
And when he pulls you back into his chest, you hold on like you’re trying to memorize the shape of him the weight, the warmth, the way he fits.
Just in case.
Just in case.
The phone buzzes against your nightstand just as you’re reaching to turn the lamp off.
You don’t even look at the screen before answering.
“Hey,” you breathe.
On the other end, there’s a pause filled with the faint hum of bad reception, distant city noise, something metallic clinking softly, and then his voice.
“Hey, doll.”
Every inch of you loosens.
You sink back against your pillows, dragging the phone closer to your ear like you can pull him through it. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” A beat. Softer. “Yeah. I’m at the safehouse.”
The word safe settles in your chest, even if you know it’s temporary. Even if you know “safe” for him usually just means four walls and a locked door.
You glance at the clock.
It’s late. Later than you told yourself you’d stay up.
“You should be asleep,” Bucky says, like he can see the time glowing red across your ceiling. “It’s past midnight.”
“I was about to,” you lie, though you’ve been staring at your phone for the last twenty minutes.
There’s a quiet huff of amusement. “You weren’t.”
“No,” you admit. “I wasn’t.”
You hear him move around—fabric rustling, the dull thud of boots being kicked off. He exhales, long and tired, and you can picture it perfectly: shoulders slumped, jaw shadowed with stubble, hair mussed from running his hand through it one too many times.
“You should get some sleep,” he says again, gentler this time. “Long day tomorrow.”
You roll onto your side, tucking the phone beneath your cheek. “Not yet.”
A pause.
“Why?”
Because the fear hasn’t quite left your bones yet. Because you need proof he’s still here. Because his voice is the only thing that makes the distance feel survivable.
Instead, you say softly, “I just like hearing you.”
It goes quiet on his end.
Not bad quiet.
Just… full.
“What should I say?” he asks after a moment, a little unsure, like he’s not used to being wanted for something so simple.
You smile into your pillow. “Anything. I just like the sound of it.”
You hear him shift again, probably sitting down now. Maybe at a small kitchen table. Maybe on the edge of a narrow bed in a room that doesn’t feel like his.
“Alright,” he says. “Well. Mission was simple.”
You hum, eyes already growing heavier.
“In and out. Recon first. Couple of guys on the perimeter. Nothing special.” His voice lowers a fraction, instinctively keeping details vague even over a secure line. “Training paid off. Sam would’ve been insufferable about it.”
You can hear the ghost of a smile.
“There was a shootout,” he continues, almost casually. “Not bad. Short. They weren’t as organized as they thought they were.”
Your fingers curl tighter around the phone.
“You’re okay?” you murmur.
“I’m okay.” Firmer. For you.
He clears his throat, and his voice softens again. “Found something, though.”
“Yeah?” Your words are slower now.
“Yeah. There’s this little market down the block from the safehouse. Closed when I passed it, but they had a table set up outside. Stones and little carved things. Probably for tourists.”
You picture him stopping. Brows furrowed. Hands in his pockets. Pretending he’s not interested.
“There was this smooth one,” he says. “Flat. Fits right in your palm. Kinda gray with a streak of blue through it.”
You smile sleepily. “You bought me a rock?”
He chuckles under his breath, low and warm. “Yeah. I bought you a rock.”
Silence stretches, comfortable.
“Thought you could keep it on the windowsill,” he goes on. “You know. With the plants. So when the sun hits it, that blue part might catch the light.”
Your heart does that quiet, aching thing it only ever does for him.
“I love it,” you whisper, even though you haven’t seen it yet.
“I’ll bring it home,” he says.
Home.
The word settles into you like a lullaby.
He keeps talking. About the safehouse creaky pipes. About the terrible coffee he tried to make. About how the mattress is too firm and the sheets smell like industrial detergent. About how he can’t wait to sleep in your bed instead.
Your responses get softer, and slower. Eventually just small hums of acknowledgment. On the other end, Bucky notices your breathing evens out.
There’s no more hum. No more whispered reply, just the faint, steady rhythm of you asleep. He doesn’t hang up, just lowers his voice instead.
“I’m coming home,” he murmurs, even though you won’t hear it. “Get some sleep, sweetheart.”
It’s hours later when the apartment door opens quietly.
Bucky steps inside like a shadow, duffel slung over his shoulder, movements automatic and careful. The place is dark except for the dim lamp you must’ve forgotten to switch off completely.
He finds you in the bedroom.
Still curled on your side.
Still holding the phone.
His chest tightens. You didn’t even make it under the blankets properly. One arm is tucked beneath your pillow, the other loosely cradling the phone against your cheek like it’s him.
He sets his bag down silently and kneels beside the bed. Carefully, he eases the phone from your hand and places it on the nightstand. You stir faintly, brows knitting for a second, until his fingers brush your hair back from your face.
“It’s me,” he whispers.
Your expression smooths instantly. He leans down and presses a soft kiss to your lips. Then another to your forehead. The spot just under your ear, the same place he kissed you before he left.
You sigh in your sleep.
He strips down to his t-shirt and sweats, sliding into bed behind you. The mattress dips with his weight, warm and solid and real. His arm wraps around your waist and pulls you close, exactly like he did before he left.
You instinctively scoot back into him, fitting perfectly against his chest. Your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt without waking.
Bucky exhales, nose buried in your hair.
Safe. Home.