Work Text:
It didn't start as an argument. That was the worst part of the whole situation. No one raised their voices, there was no slamming of doors. Absolutely nothing obvious happened that you could push back against or use as a foundation to build on. It was more like the path of a river, the flow of water eroding softly against the bank. Almost invisible until you looked back and saw that the course had changed the landscape completely.
That night, you were sitting on the couch. Your standard position, legs tucked under you with a book open on your lap as you snuggled under the blanket wrapped over your shoulders. The TV was on, volume low since neither of you were actually watching the random documentary that was playing.
Bucky was standing near the window. It was something he did often. Staring out into the darkness. The staring got worse when something was bothering him. So did the brooding. The book in your lap no longer had your attention as you were reading him instead. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his shoulders tense, eyes dark and stormy.
You knew him well enough, read him often enough to know what his body was saying. Everything he wasn't.
You closed the book on your lap with firmness of resolve.
"Bucky," you said softly.
He hummed in response without turning around.
You waited. Patiently, in your opinion. You tried so hard to be patient with him. Even though the words that came out of your mouth may have betrayed the fraying edges.
"You gonna tell me what’s going on with you?"
There was a pause. Not very long. Definitely not dramatically. You could at least give him the chance to answer. He deserved that much.
But the silence went on long enough to make something in your chest tighten.
"There’s nothing going on," he mumbled.
A laugh threatened to burst out of your lips. Not because it was funny, but because it was depressingly familiar.
"Cause you’ve been staring out that window for ten minutes," you answered with a small shrug, keeping your tone as even as possible. "That’s not nothing."
Finally he turned, leaning against the wall with the vibranium between him and the plaster board. He wore a look which was trying to be casual but was failing abysmally.
"I'm just thinking."
"About?"
He shrugged.
And there it was. The small dismissive gesture that indicated the conversation was over on his end.
The spark of irritation that had ignited in your chest flared, but it was being fueled by something deeper. Something older. You put down the book on the coffee table and crossed the room, blanket still wrapped over your shoulders.
"You’ve been doing that a lot lately."
"Doing what?"
"That," you gestured vaguely, feeling the pang of frustration creeping in. "Thinking… shutting down… brushing things off."
"I’m not shutting down," he replied, a slight edge in his voice.
You stopped in a foot away from him, your arms folding instinctively around your waist.
"You kinda are," you said. "You get… all quiet, you go somewhere else, and the worst part is you act like I’m imagining it."
"I didn’t say you were imagining anything," Bucky snapped.
"You didn’t have to."
The air between you shifted with the coldness in your tone and the anger in his. Subtle, but unmistakable. He straightened up, expression tightening. Always a soldier.
"I just don’t think everything needs to be a conversation," he muttered.
You blinked in surprise. "Seriously?"
"I mean it," he continued. "Sometimes I just… need a minute."
"And that minute turns into hours,” you grumbled. "Days, sometimes."
"That’s not fair."
"Why not?" you persisted. "It feels like you just disappear on me, Buck. Not physically, but… it's like you just… check out."
"I’m right here." He looked at you with a hint of exasperation.
"It’s not the same thing and you know it."
The silence between you was heavy, pressing in around you. Suffocating.
Bucky shook his head, running a hand through his hair before exhaling sharply through his teeth. "I don’t know what you want me to say."
"I want you to let me in," you said, your words coming out softly, earnest but intense.
You could see the falter in his gaze. "You are in," he insisted.
You shook your head. "No. I'm… on the outside looking in." You hesitated, looking for the least confrontational approach. "It's like you let me in when things are good, easy. But the second something's off, you pull back. Shut the door."
"That’s not—"
"It is," you cut in, quietly but firmly. "That's how it feels, and I’m tired of pretending it isn’t."
This time when he looked at you, he really looked. There was something different in his eyes now. Not anger. They looked conflicted.
"I’m trying not to drag you into my mess," he said.
The words were uttered softly, but they hit you harder than expected and for a second, you couldn't respond. Because there it was— the metaphorical line. Drawn in the figurative sand of the beach that represented your relationship. He said it with such conviction, framing the intention in a protective way. Careful, selfless event. But despite all of this, you still managed to hit the wall.
"I’m already in it, Bucky," you said, your voice quieter and all the sharper for it. "You just act like I'm not."
You could see all the muscles in his jaw clench.
"That’s not fair," he repeated, but it sounded less certain this time.
"Why not?" you asked. "You decide what I can handle… what I should know… what I don’t need to worry about. It's like I don’t get any say in it."
"I’m just tryna protect you."
"I didn’t ask for that, Buck."
The words slipped out. They landed before you had the chance to soften them and the implication hung between you in a tense silence. You watched the way his body stilled, another soldier's response.
The shift in his expression came seconds later, subtle but unmistakable.
"Right," he muttered.
Just the one word. Said without anger. No change in volume. Just one word that felt like another door slammed in your face.
You felt the change instantly, and instinctive flicker rippled through you. Had you gone too far? But pride— or maybe frustration— kept you from taking it back.
"I mean it," you added, even though your chest was starting to chest tighter and tighter. "I don’t need you deciding what's best for me."
"I’m not deciding anything," he said, his voice had becomes increasingly flatter now. "I’m just… handling my own stuff."
"And shutting me out in the process."
"I’m not shutting you out."
"Then why does it feel like you are?"
This time the silence between you stretched out for much longer. Felt much colder. He was the first to look away and that's when you knew you knew the truth. Not because he admitted it. Because he never admitted it.
"Okay," you said quietly. Resigned. Just as flat as his words had been.
"Okay?" He glanced back at you, his brows pulling together slightly.
"Yeah," you nodded, even though nothing about the conversation felt okay at all to you. "If that’s how you want to handle things."
"That’s not..."
"Not… what you’re doing?"
He didn't answer, exhaling slowly after a short pause, as if he was not choosing his words carefully.
"I just—" he started, voice measured, "maybe not everything needs to be shared straight away."
You stared at him. "Or at all."
Bucky scowled.
"Maybe that’s how people end up alone," you added. Flat. Quiet.
Neither of you spoke. The walls felt like they were closing in around you. Suffocating.
"I don’t want to fight about this," he said finally.
You felt guilty at his words. You didn't want to fight either, but you couldn't stay silent any longer.
"Then don’t shut me out," you answered with a plea.
"So don’t push me when I’m not ready," he countered.
There it was. The line drawn. Final. Solid. Impenetrable.
You swallowed down the surge of disappointment that threatened to overwhelm you.
"Fine," you said flatly.
One word. Not shouted. But carried more weight than anything else you’d said so far.
He nodded. Just once.
"Fine," he echoed.
And just like that, it was over. No resolution. No apology. Just… a line in the sand.
The next morning was no different from any other morning. But the shift between you was immediately palpable. Not dramatic… just different. The two of you move around each other carefully.
"Morning," you rasped through your morning grogginess.
"Morning," he replied softly, already climbing out of bed.
The exchange was simple. Totally neutral.
Coffee was already brewing when you made it to the kitchen and your hands brushed accidentally when you both reached for the same mug. Both of you pulled back a fraction too quickly.
"Sorry," you murmured.
"Yeah," he answered, the same detached tone he had used last night.
Nothing more. Nothing less.
By the third day, things between you seemed to have settled into their new pattern. Conversations purely functional. The care between you hadn't vanished, but the intimacy was strangely absent.
"Did you eat?"
"Yeah."
"You heading out?"
"In a minute."
"Drive safe."
Neither of you lingered. There was no intimacy or lingering touches. You had stopped reaching for him without even realizing it at first. No hand on his arm when you passed. No leaning into his space when you were both in the kitchen. No absent-minded touches that used to happen without thought.
It wasn't a conscious decision. It just… happened.
For the first few days, you considered it, but every time you looked at the sullen expression on his face and a flicker of hesitation passed through you.
What if he pulled away?
So you didn’t risk it. You couldn't. Not if you wanted to avoid aggravating the issue.
He noticed. Bucky always did. He noticed everything.
The way you sat a little further away on the couch. The way you didn't look at him for quite as long. The way you tempered your responses, measuring your every word before saying it. He told himself you needed space. That pushing you into closeness would make things worse. That you were just upset. Understandably so.
So he decided to give you space. He held back, even when every single one of his instincts screamed at him to close the distance.
By the end of the week, the silence in the apartment had spawned a life of its own. It seeped through the apartment like a poisonous mist, settling into every nook and cranny of your little world. You could both feel it— affecting the way you moved around each other, just slightly out of sync, like you were orbiting the same space but never quite aligning.
You got home late that night. Another awful day at work where one of your colleagues just got under your skin. Bucky was already home.
"Hey," he greeted you quietly.
"Hi," you offered a tired response, dropping your bag by the door and toed off your shoes.
There was a brief moment where you made eye contact and all you wanted to do was to collapse into his arms. To let him hold you until the storm inside you calmed. And just when you were ready to walk toward him, his eyes flicked away. Back down to the book he had been reading when you walked in.
You sighed quietly and shuffled into the bathroom to wash away the day's troubles instead.
The night was the worst. You still shared a bed, but somehow the space between you felt like the Grand Canyon. You lay facing your side, away from Bucky and he did the same, facing the opposite direction. There was no discussion, no argument… just a quiet, non-verbal agreement you had entered unwillingly.
You fell into a fitful sleep, plagued by dreams of work that bothered your subconscious. It was enough to make you shift in your sleep until your hand brushed his arm. You surfaced from sleep just enough to register the implication and for a second, you didn't move.
A part of you wanted to stay, to keep your hand where it was. To close the gap, even just a little. But slowly you pulled back. Carefully. You didn't want to give away too much of yourself. Not when you might not get anything back.
What you didn't know was, on the other side of the bed, a set of metal fingers curled into the sheets. Bucky was awake too. Staring at the dark wall in front of him.
The following week was rough for you. A combination of the distance between you and Bucky plus the added stress at work.
Several of your colleagues had quit suddenly and none of them would speak to you about why. It meant that a portion of their workload was reallocated to you. You groaned softly and rubbed your temples as yet another email notification flashed up on your screen.
That's when you felt a presence behind you. He leaned over your shoulder to stare at your screen. Close enough that you could feel the heat of him in your personal space. Close enough to make your shoulders tighten instinctively. Too close.
"You missed a line here," he drawled, pointing at your screen.
His tone was no different than normal. Almost friendly compared to some of your previous interactions with the man. He wasn't your direct supervisor, so you didn't usually have much to do with him, which had always been a relief since he had the reputation of being a womanizer.
You nodded, offering a terse smile and shifting slightly in your chair. "Thanks."
He didn’t move right away. Instead choosing to linger for a second longer than necessary. Then he stepped back, like nothing out of the ordinary had happened.
You exhaled slowly, barely noticing you were holding your breath. It’s fine, you told yourself. He’s just… like that. It didn't mean anything.
You didn't think to mention it at home, as much as it unsettled you. How could you? Not with the way things were with Bucky. You were in the kitchen scrolling through your emails when Bucky came in. He walked passed you and straight to the fridge to grab a bottle of cold water.
"Hey, want one?" he asked, holding a bottle out to you.
You stared at it for a second before accepting it with a soft thanks. Your chest tightened as he grabbed another bottle for himself and went to sit on the couch. Slowly you followed, sitting in the smaller armchair rather than beside him on the couch.
For a moment, you thought about telling him. You really did. It was such a simple statement. There's a guy at work who gives me the creeps. You stole a glance at him over the rim of the water bottle. He was sitting with his feet up on the coffee table, head dropped onto the back of the couch and his eyes were closed. He looked tired. Distant. Closed off in that quiet way you’d come to recognize.
The words formed in your throat.
Hey Bucky, can I—
You stopped mid-thought. Because another cut it off.
You’re not okay.
And another crowded in.
If you go to him now, it’ll look like you just want his attention.
Your grip on your phone tightened and you looked away. Your mind continued it's monologue.
If he cared, he’d notice.
The voice in your head was sharp. A little unfair, maybe. But the thought settled in uninvited. So you changed track. You wouldn't burden him with your problems. You would protect him from that.
"You want me to order dinner from the Thai place you like?" you asked, holding up your phone with the virtual menu.
"Sounds good." He smiled with a nod. Small but there.
You looked back down at your phone to place the food order, not catching the way his gaze lingered on you. He could tell there was something off. Something more than just the way the two of you had left things.
He saw the tenseness in your shoulders, noticed how you were quieter than usual. He thought about saying something. Almost did. Almost. But then the memory of that conversation came back to him. Remembered how you had pulled back. Remember the way you had said you didn't need him to decide things for you.
Don’t push me when I’m not ready. Those were his words. Ones he had carelessly thrown at you. What gave him the right to push you for honesty when he wasn't couldn't provide the same. He exhaled slowly, looking away.
She doesn’t want me right now, the small voice in his head spoke up.
Across the room, you stared at your phone a second longer, before locking the screen and setting it down. You picked up the television remote and flicked it on, staring absently at the screen lost in your own thoughts.
And just like that… both of you stayed silence. Not because neither of you cared. Not because the love between you had gone. But because somewhere along the way, both of you had started believing the same lie— that reaching out would only make things worse.
It had been a few days. Bucky had watched you from afar. He watched the way you had withdrawn. He knew you had a thick protective shell when he had started dating you. It was similar to his. But you had opened it and let him in. But now it felt like you'd closed the door and he was somehow on the outside.
He hadn't planned on coming in. But when he saw your lunch lying on the counter, it felt like he had been left the perfect olive branch on a platter. The opportunity was too good to pass up. He picked it up without overthinking his actions, already half way out of the door before the idea had time to settle.
It wasn't exactly a grand gesture. That's not who you were. Your love language was acts of service. You showed him that a thousand times over during the time he had known you. This had to be the right way to try and bridge the gap that had formed between you.
He didn't bother texting you. He figured that if you were busy, he would just drop it off and go.
The second he stepped into your office, it felt like he was in a different world. He had never really understood what you did. You had described it as data analysis, but the second you went into detail, he had to fight to stop his eyes glazing over. He thought of the way you smiled, not minding his ignorance. He sighed, you were always so patient with him.
He looked around, everything was so much busier than he expected. Phones rang incessantly, there was a low hum of conversation in the background, the buzz surrounded him as he stepped forward.
He scanned the space as he walked down the central passage way, pulling down his sleeve to cover his left hand. He didn't want to draw attention to himself in your place of work unless it was absolutely necessary.
He got to the end and scanned the open area. He spotted you almost immediately. You were at your desk, dressed exactly as he remembered when you said goodbye that morning. But something was different. It wasn't your clothes and he couldn't see your face.
His eyes shifted to the left and he took in the man standing beside you. Not just standing… leaning. Too close.
The thought landed fast. Instinctive. Ugly.
Bucky had been about to take a step forward, but his momentum slowed as something tightened low in his chest as he gaze became fixed on the man leaning into your space. He acted like he belonged there. Like it was natural. Familiar.
His teeth pressed together, jaw set at a sullen angle. Of course.
The thought came uninvited. Bitter. Because he was the one who had created the space. Added to it every time he shut down. Every time he turned away instead of letting you in. You said it yourself, you felt like you were on the outside looking in.
Maybe you’d just… stopped looking.
His mind moved quicker than his better judgment could catch up. The last few days you'd come back exhausted. Never closing the distance. Pulling back without so much as a fight. No more pushing. No more questions. Just a quiet acceptance of the space between you.
Had it been acceptance?
Or had you found something else to fill the space he left behind? Someone else.
His grip tightened slightly around the cooler bag in his hand, the plastic crinkling under the pressure of his grip. You deserved better than half-answers. Better than silence. Better than someone who disappeared on you when things got hard.
He knew that. Maybe you’d finally realized it too.
His gaze sharpened, tracking the way the man leaned in closer, his hand on your back, head dipping toward yours like he had the right. Something dark and gnarled flared in his chest. Not quite anger. Not that. It was something heavier. Colder. Too familiar.
You pushed her away, a voice in his head said, quiet and precise. What did you think was gonna happen?
Bucky took a step forward, already feeling the tension coiling through his body. He could walk away. He definitely should. Give you space, just like he’d decided. Like you deserved. Just like he kept telling himself was the right thing to do.
But his feet kept moving anyway. Like they had a mind of their own. Because if this was what he thought it was… he needed to see it up close. He needed to know.
Every subsequent step Bucky took was measured, controlled. Moving in the exact opposite way his thoughts were flowing— fast, chaotic and going in every direction he didn't care to follow. Nevertheless, his eyes stayed fixed on you and he finally started noticing something else.
The man leaned in again, speaking with his mouth close to your ear. Even with his super soldier hearing, Bucky couldn't make out his words over the low hum of the office. His fists clenched as he carefully tracked the movements of the man's hand, shifting against your back. It wasn't enough to draw attention, but enough to indicate a form of intimacy Bucky didn't want to accept.
The next step, however, changed the path of the narrative in his brain. It was your posture which gave it away. The angle of your shoulders, the way your spine was just a little too straight to say you were sitting comfortably. You weren't relaxed, you were enduring.
The man's hand moved again, to your shoulder and Bucky's jaw tightened. He was close, close enough to catch the tail end of your response to him.
"— I've got it, Brandon. Thanks."
Polite. Short. Dismissive.
But the man— Brandon— didn't move. And something cold settled deep in Bucky's chest.
Up close, what he was seeing was worse than all the things he had imagined. Not because of what things looked like on the surface, but because of everything he couldn't see, couldn't hear.
Your smile was there… technically. But it wasn't the one he knew. Even in the last week, you never smiled at him like this— thin, terse, professional. Nothing in your expression showed your usual softness and your tone was the kind you used when you were trying to end an interaction without any kind of escalation.
He was watching a stalemate. Neither you or Brandon had moved. Your fingers hovered over your keyboard and Bucky could have sworn there was a slight tremor in them.
You waited.
So did Brandon.
Your shoulders shifted subtly as you tried to create space without making it obvious. A movement most people would miss. He didn't.
It was like a switch flipped in his brain and a voice inside his brain was screaming at him: This isn't mutual. This isn't what you want.
The implications of the voice hit him hard. Sharp enough to slice through the lingering vestige of jealousy and leave something else in its wake.
Guilt.
Because he recognized that look. All too well. He knew exactly what it felt like to feel trapped in a moment. Not wanting to make it any bigger than it already was. He knew exactly what it looked like when you were trying to handle something alone. When it felt easier than asking for help.
The realization of it made him slow. Stop in his tracks entirely as a different question formed in the forefront of his mind.
Why didn’t she tell me?
His mind answered this almost immediately.
Because you haven't been telling each other anything lately.
Brandon spoke again, dipping his face lower this time. Too close. There was an ease in his actions that made Bucky's blood boil. This man clearly was too comfortable occupying a space that he hadn't been invited into.
This was the thought that made Bucky move forward. It didn't appear rushed, or aggressive. Just purposeful.
He stepped into your line of sight, your name warm and gentle as it left his lips.
Your head snapped up at the sound of his voice. He could see the flicker of emotions, one by one as they crossed your face; surprise, confusion, a brief softness which melted quickly into relief.
Then you smoothed it all away, forcing your face into something more neutral. It happened within a single heart beat. So fast that if you blinked, you would have missed it. But Bucky hadn't missed it.
He always saw you.
"Bucky?" you breathed, pushing your chair back, jumping out of your seat as you turned toward him.
Brandon straightened, his attention also shifting to Bucky's presence. His eyes flitted back and forth between the two of you, pausing to reassess, reevaluate his next move.
Bucky didn't look at him, haze focused on you entirely.
"I think you forgot this," he said, lifting the slightly crumpled lunch bag in his fist.
Your eyes dropped to the brown paper bag as recognition settled on your face.
"My lunch—" you sighed, your palm coming up to rest on your forehead. "I didn't even realize—"
"You left it on the counter. Guess you've been pretty busy and got distracted," he said quietly.
His words were simple, sounding neutral, but there was something unsaid simmering beneath them. Something that sounded suspiciously like I’ve been paying attention.
You nodded, with a small huffed out laugh, a soft flush tinging your cheeks. "Yeah. That's… one way to put it."
There was a beat of silence where Bucky noticed you didn't reach out to take your lunch from him and he wondered whether you were still worried about him or you just wanted to prolong the interaction.
In answer to his question, you glanced side ways.
"Oh— uh— this is—"
"Brandon," the man supplied easily, stepping forward toward you with a small, practiced smile. "We work together."
Bucky turned to face the man standing beside you and looked. Really looked. There was nothing overly hostile in his expression that Bucky could detect. Nothing that would draw attention to him or cause a scene. But there was something sinister in the smile plastered over his face. Something nefarious.
"Bucky," he replied, holding out his hand for Brandon to take. "We live together."
Brandon complied, his gaze briefly flicking to the bag in his hand and then back to Bucky's face. Something unreadable passed through his expression. Calculation, maybe. There was something in the way Brandon gripped his hand— a challenge. One which Bucky met easily. He squeezed back with only a fraction of his strength, but it was enough to convey his intended message. I see you.
"Well," Brandon said, pulling his hand back. Bucky didn't miss the way Brandon wiggled this fingertips behind his back to shake off the pressure of the handshake. After a moment he looked at you, tone still light, "good thing you’ve got someone looking out for you."
Brandon's words were casual, but they carried an undercurrent of a threat and Bucky pushed away the urge to rise to it. Instead, he shifted his attention back to you.
"You got everything you need?" he asked softly.
It was simple question, but it carried all the weight of the last week. Your eyes met his and for a moment, everything in the room faded way into the background. And it was just the two of you. Like it had always been. Nothing between you.
Then your breath hitched in hesitation. Just slightly. And the wall he had built felt taller than it ever had.
You nodded, answering quietly. "Yeah. I’m— I’m good."
He held your gaze a second longer. Checking. Making sure. Before he gave a small nod of his own.
"Alright."
Another pause. An opening. He could tell you felt it too. An opportunity for one of you to say more. The softness in your eyes gave him hope.
A thank you that meant more than just the lunch bag.
A question that wasn't about work.
He would take anything that bridged the space that had been sitting between you for what felt like an eternity. You glanced down first and he could tell you still needed time. You might be thankful for the interruption, but you weren't ready to step all the way back to him.
"Thanks for bringing it," you said quietly, shy even.
"Yeah," he answered. "Of course."
He let another beat of silence pass before stepping back. Not far, but just enough to give you space.
"I’ll let you get back to it?" He posed it as a question. An offer of escape should you need it.
This time when you looked at him and nodded, you gave him one of those smiles. A real one. The one he had fallen in love with. Not the ones you'd been offering in the last week. "Yeah. I— I’ll see you later."
"Later," Bucky agreed, even more gently than you, taking a step back.
As he turned to leave, he glanced at Brandon. The look was brief, but cold, measured. Not quite a challenge, more of warning. But it was enough. Because as he walked away, he noticed that Brandon didn't step back into your space, didn't lean in, didn't linger.
He looked over his shoulder at the end of the corridor, watching as you sat back down in your chair. This time there was a careful distance between you and Brandon, a noticeable shift. Subtle— but deliberate.
This time Bucky kept walking. Without looking back. He didn't need to. He had seen what he had needed to see. But things still sat heavily in his chest.
Not jealousy. Not anger. It was something more complicated than that. Because the problem was never that someone else stepped into the space between you. The problem was— he was the one who left it there in the first place.
Bucky had driven half way home before he realized that he was gripping the steering wheel so hard that he'd left a dent.
Not because of Brandon… well not only because of Brandon. But because of how you had looked.
The image wouldn't leave his head— the relief on your face when you heard his voice, saw his face. The tiny flicker of happiness that you promptly buried beneath politeness and distance. He'd spent the last week and a half convincing himself that you needed space from him. That maintaining that gap was the right thing to do.
But that wasn't what he had seen today.
What he saw today was you handling something uncomfortable. Alone. Because somewhere along the line, both of you had stopped believing that you could reach for each other. No matter what.
The realization sat like an anchor in his chest. And by the time he had reached the apartment, he felt surrounded by a new kind of silence.
Bucky dropped his keys into the bowl on a table by the door, toed off his boots and sat down at the kitchen counter, staring blankly out of the window. His hands were resting on the same spot where your lunch had been sitting only ninety minutes earlier. The same place where the two of you used to have breakfast together, where your fingers used to brush his absentmindedly. Where you would lean over and steal bites from his plate while claiming you weren't hungry.
It felt different now. Everything did. He buried his face in his hands as he let out a sharp exhale. He was tired of this. Tired of standing in the same apartment as you and feeling miles away. Tired of thinking too much and saying too little. Tired of convincing himself distance was kindness.
Because maybe it wasn’t. Maybe it was plain cowardice.
The realization washed over him leaving him with a sinking feeling.
For the last ten days, he'd told himself that the reason for your disagreement was because he was protecting you. From his moods, his memories, his mess. But standing beside you in your office today, watching as you shrank into yourself while some asshole invaded your space…
You hadn't been protected. You had been alone. And he hated that. Hated that he had been the reason for that.
The front door opened just after 4pm. Bucky looked up from the couch instinctively at the first sound of your key in the latch. You stepped inside looking exhausted— shoulders slumped over from the weight of the day. You let you bag slip from your shoulder and drop onto the table with a dull thud
"Hey," you said softly.
Not cold or distant. Just tired.
"Hey," he breathed.
Silence settled between you again, but not with the same awkwardness that had been between you. Not sharp or hostile. Just fragile. Like something was just waiting on the edge to be cracked open. You knelt down to undo your boots, wincing slightly as you straightened up.
Bucky noticed immediately.
"Long day?"
A humorless laugh escaped you. "You have no idea," you said, shuffling towards the kitchen. But something stopped you. You turned to see that Bucky was still watching you. You could see the notch in his throat bob up and down, like he had something to say.
Say something. For once, don’t let her walk away. The words ran through his brain over and over.
"Did that guy bother you again?"
You stopped dead and Bucky watched your shoulders tense instantly. Slowly you turned around to face him.
"What?"
"The guy at work," he clarified quietly. "Brandon."
Your expression shifted almost imperceptibly. A hint of surprised that morphed into something more cautious.
"He’s just…" You trailed off, searching for the right word. "Annoying."
Bucky held your gaze.
"That didn’t look like annoying to me."
He watched you for a response, but silence stretched between you again and you looked away first. And that hurt more than if you’d snapped at him.
And that was when it came to him. You genuinely weren't sure if you could trust him with this anymore. And it devastated him. He watched as you folded your arms over your chest in a protective way.
"It's not a big deal."
It would have been easy for him to give up. To drop it. It's what he would have done a few days ago. Instead he said what he saw.
"You were uncomfortable."
"I can manage."
"That's not the same thing."
Your eyes flicked back to him, narrowing with suspicion. "Why does it matter now?"
Your question landed perfectly and Bucky absorbed the full weight of it. Because you were right. And because neither of you were talking about Brandon anymore.
You were talking about the last several weeks. About every moment he saw something was wrong and stayed silent anyway. About every time you needed him and he convinced himself distance was better.
You looked exhausted suddenly. Not angry. Just worn out.
"It's just been such small things. Talking to HR just seemed like an overreaction," you admitted quietly after a moment. "Then it was just one thing after another…" you shrugged helplessly, finally admitting what you were thinking. "I didn't want to make trouble for anyone."
Bucky stared at you. Of course you didn’t. You had spent the last week folding in on yourself, making yourself smaller to avoid being a burden. The exact same thing he had been doing. The realization would’ve been funny if it wasn’t so miserable.
"You should’ve told me," he said before he could stop himself.
Your expression cracked slightly.
A sad smile touched your mouth. "You stopped… feeling like a safe place to land, Buck."
There was nothing venomous in your words, no spite. You were gentle with him— as you'd always been. And that somehow made them all the more devastating. Bucky looked down immediately, metal fingers flexing against his thigh. He nodded once.
"Yeah," he said hoarsely. "I know."
The honesty of his acceptance startled you… it startled him too. There was no hint of defensiveness, he didn't shut down. Just truth.
You swallowed hard, your posture loosening slightly as you tried to come to terms with his response— like you didn't quite know what to do with his agreement.
Bucky leaned forward slowly, his forearms braced against his knees.
"I thought… if I kept my head down and held things together on my own," he admitted quietly, staring at the floor, "then I wouldn’t drag you down with me." A humorless breath escaped him. "Guess I just ended up dragging you away instead."
The way your eyes softened at his words nearly undid him. Because even now— even after everything that had happened, even with the distance between you— you still looked at him gently, with love.
"I never needed you to be perfect," you whispered.
"I know."
"I just needed you there."
The way you said it almost broke him.
Silence fell in the apartment once more, but not the same as before. This time it wasn't avoidance, it was the feeling of long awaited honesty settling into the room for the first time in weeks. Bucky rubbed a hand across his jaw slowly before looking at you properly.
"When I saw him near you today…" His voice roughened. "For a second I thought maybe you’d found somebody else."
Your eyes widened instantly. "What?"
"I know," he muttered, already shaking his head at himself. "It was stupid."
"No, Buck—"
"I pushed you away for weeks," he interrupted softly. "You stopped reaching for me. Stopped talking to me. And I kept telling myself it was because you needed space but…" He swallowed. "I think part of me was scared you were realizing you deserved better."
The confession hung heavily between you. You stared at him like you didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
"Bucky—" you said quietly, taking an unconscious step toward him. "I don't want somebody… better."
Bucky lifted his gaze to meet yours. Tender. Unwavering.
"I want you," you said. "I just… I need you with me. Not standing ten feet away trying to protect me from yourself."
Bucky felt his face change, his feelings flowing more freely. Not fixed. Nowhere near healed. But more open. For the first time in weeks— months even— he felt hopeful. For the future. For himself.
You took another hesitant step forward.
Up close, you could see the exhaustion etched into his features. The tension in his shoulders that he carried wordlessly every single day. And you wondered how long he’d been drowning quietly while trying to make it look like swimming.
Carefully, cautiously, you reached for his hand. The metal one.
You half expected him to tense… flinch. Instead his fingers curled around yours instantly. Like a reflex. And tight enough to feel desperate.
The breath you had been holding finally made its way out of your lungs. Bucky closed his eyes, letting his forehead dip slightly, like he was more relieved than he knew how to say.
"I missed you," you admitted softly.
His thumb brushed across your knuckles.
"Missed you too, doll."
The endearment nearly made you cry.
Another thing that had been missing in the last days.
Your body was acting before you had a chance to think too hard about everything. You stepped between his knees, wrapping your arms around his shoulders. There was a split second of hesitation— a lingering fear that maybe too much distance had settled between you to bridge this easily— one then Bucky pulled you against him with both arms like he’d been holding himself back for weeks.
Maybe he had.
But then you buried your face against his neck as his hand spread across your back, warm and grounding and familiar enough to ache. You chased away the fears he has been clutching too tightly.
Neither of you spoke for a while, just holding on. Right in the middle of the living room.
Bucky released a slow shaky exhale against your shoulder.
"I’m sorry."
You closed your eyes. "I know," you murmured back.
"No," he murmured, pulling back just enough to look at you. "I need you to hear me say it." His jaw tightened slightly. "You were right. I did shut you out. And then I kept doing it because I didn’t know how to stop."
Your hands slid up to cradle his face gently, your thumbs stroking his cheek bones.
"You don’t have to do everything alone."
"Yeah." A sad smile tugged at his mouth. "Starting to figure that out."
You huffed out a watery laugh. "Bit slow for a super soldier."
"Careful," he warned softly, the faintest hint of warmth returning to his voice. "I’m emotionally vulnerable right now."
That actually pulled a real laugh from you. And the sound visibly wrecked him. Because he hadn’t heard it in weeks. Bucky rested his forehead against yours afterward, eyes closing again briefly.
"We’re okay?" he asked quietly.
You thought about it honestly. Not fixed. Not magically healed. There were still bruises between you. Still habits to unlearn. Conversations still waiting to happen. But for the first time in weeks, neither of you were walking away from them. You brushed your nose lightly against his.
"We will be."