Chapter Text
It hurt to lose Phil Coulson. Your first loss as a superhero, a supposed guardian of Earth. It lingered and settled under your skin for longer than you would have ever thought.
Though you didn’t really know him, it hurt to lose Pietro. It was probably because of how much it hurt Wanda, a girl you had known for a matter of weeks, but still loved all the same.
It hurt to lose Loki, through the echoes of Thor’s grief, rippling through you every time you looked to the God. A man shattered from loss after loss – Heimdall, his family, his home.
Then you are disintegrated by a Titan , losing five years of your life whilst your loved ones live on, and with literally a click, appearing back and forced to fit into a world that has grown without you.
It killed you to lose Nat.
It shattered what was left to watch Tony go, to watch Pepper and Morgan's heart break.
Those shattered pieces splintered and were crushed under yours and Bucky’s heel when Steve left.
God – then it was Wanda . You soul still hasn’t calmed; a chunk of your heart forever lost to live with her, wherever she now slumbers.
You swirl the glass of champagne in your hand whilst you watch Bucky, the one person you have left in this life, make yet another bad decision by trailing after Fontaine’s pet. You had talked about this at length already, though it appeared the Soldier’s mind had already been made up without consulting you. You swallow your sigh and place the glass down with a quiet clink on the passing server's tray, excusing yourself politely from the men surrounding you that you had been schmoozing with for the past hour entirely for his benefit.
It's sometime later, when Bucky is driving you home, that your head lolls back onto the window, angled to watch him, that you realise you would do anything for this man. You watch his jaw clench, and his gloved hand grip the wheel tighter. The familiar creak of leather makes the pinch of your brows disappear.
“Out with it,” he says quietly, glare still fixed on the road ahead. “If I have to listen to your brain churning for the next twenty, my arm might short-circuit.”
A smile twists your lips at that, and though he’s not looking at you, you watch tension roll off his shoulders, relax his hand. Your eyes fall to your dress, and you smooth out a small crinkle of the black silk over your thigh in thought.
“I thought we agreed getting involved in this would end up hurting.”
A small exhale comes from Bucky’s nose, and the car lurches uncomfortably fast when the green glow of the streetlight illuminates his profile.
“Something big is going to come from this, I can feel it.”
It's your turn to exhale, and it comes out sharper and louder than you wanted in the quiet of the car. He still doesn’t look at you.
“Do we want that?”
“It doesn’t matter what we want. Fontaine is dangerous. And whatever that Melinda – ”
“Mel,” you correct, eyebrow raising. “I thought you just spent the evening trying to convince her she can do good and do the right thing? Maybe she didn’t bite because you called her Melinda.”
“I didn’t call her Melinda to her face – ”
“It’s definitely something you would do without even realising. I bet you all your cereal that you called her Melinda and now she’ll never call you.”
He laughs, and everything in you glows. Your heart lifts and your stomach clenches. You start to angle your body so you can fully face him, grin stretching your mouth wide, and as you struggle with your seatbelt, he finally looks at you.
Your grin softens to a smile as he wordlessly tugs the belt for you, knuckles brushing against your chest. You know better than to unbuckle it – the number of times this man has shoved you into a seat and buckled you up himself is too high to count. You catch his hand before he can take it back, and hold it firmly, squeezing when he looks away. He squeezes back immediately, and it feels much more intentional than yours.
“You know I just worry.”
He brings your joined hands to his lips and kisses your knuckles.
“You’re not losing me to Mrs C.I.A. of all people,” he says, voice low, a promise, breath tickling your skin. He places your hands back onto your lap, nestled where your thighs meet. “And I definitely didn’t call her Melinda, so you can run to the store when I get you home and go buy me some cereal. You know my favourites.”
You roll your eyes, but fondly.
“I know your favourites,” you repeat, a line you’ve had to say so many times, voice practiced and teasing. You bring your other hand to cover the top of his. “I also know that cereal is, like, super bad for you in a morning, so – ”
“Well maybe if you finally agreed to living with me, you’d be there in a morning to make me something else – ”
“What, so I can just live and die being your cook? I know you’re from a different era, Buck, but jeez, just because I'm a woman – ”
His loud, sharp laugh cuts you off. “If you lived with me, you wouldn’t have to lift a finger, sweetheart. I just want to know you’re okay every morning.”
That light feeling in your chest returns when he looks at you again, and you close your eyes away from his beauty, his honesty. He knows the way you suffer, has seen the way your fighting has changed, the way your jaw sets and your eyes darken when you see a threat. You're slower to assess now, and quicker to engage. Sloppy , he says. Dangerous , you always reply. It makes you feel miserable to compare your hurt to his when he has hurt so much more for so much longer , but he’s never cared. Always his equal.
Your mouth opens and you’re agreeing without even hearing it.
“Okay.”
When you wake up in an incredibly modern, empty, white, boring apartment, part of you wonders if someone has finally one-upped you and managed to take you whilst sleeping.
Your bed is slightly too hard for your taste, and you rub your back absentmindedly when you leave the bedroom, eyes searching.
It's when you reach the living area, sofa pushed back against a wall facing no TV, no mirror, no artwork – that you see Bucky, one hand in his pocket, staring out at the city. Warmth settles in you at the realisation his metal arm is nowhere to be seen. He turns the second he hears you, eyes lingering at the hand at your back.
“Bed not up to scratch for the princess?”
You were already smiling sleepily at him before he spoke, but at the pet name and his tired voice, you positively beam at him.
“It’ll just take some getting used to,” you say, tone positive as you slink up beside him to look at the view. It’s your favourite time of day – too early for commuters, but just right for families, loved ones to awake to one another. The sun hangs low in the sky, a soft glow over the otherwise ugly buildings. Bucky brings an arm up and over your shoulders, bringing you to him even though you’d already shifted your legs ready to lean against him. You turn your face into his henley without hesitation. “You smell way too nice for a Thursday morning.”
He presses a kiss to the top of your head. “And you smell way too nasty for a Thursday morning. Shower is down the hall from your room, you know? The one I showed you last night on your grand tour?”
"How am I supposed to make you eggs if I'm in the shower?" you grumble, pulling away from him to peer up at his face. When your eyes finally meet, your fingers twitch at your sides, aching at the softness in his face as he looks at you. "You're not meant to be nasty to your roommates, you know. And your tour kinda sucked."
Bucky squeezes your shoulder comfortingly, his thumb pressing into your shoulder blade and rubbing gently.
"Not mean, just honest. And you're the one who just said my tour sucked. That's a little mean."
You pout at that, the weird feeling that had fallen over you like a blanket already pulled away the longer he touches you, the more time that your ears have soaking up his voice.
"Not mean, just honest." You parrot back, eyes flicking back to look at him. He wears your favourite lobsided grin.
"You can use my stuff until we go pack up your place," he says, hand finally dropping from you as he walks towards the kitchen, a persistent beep grating you the second he leaves. You turn to watch him open a cupboard, steam blasting his face when he reaches in and grabs -
"You're kidding."
Bucky blinks across the apartment at you as he connects his arm to his shoulder.
"What?"
"You wash your arm in the dishwasher?"
Your mouth goes dry when he does The Thing that is way too attractive and cool, rolling his shoulder to click his arm into place. He smiles cheekily at you, knowing you love it, and shrugs.
"How else am I meant to wash it?"
You blink. It upsets you somehow that the thing you're going to use to clean your countless novelty mugs also washes his arm.
"I'll hand wash it."
He balks at that.
"Go for your shower, stinky."