Wounded Pride

Where Were You Then?

Summary: You and a bunch of other people are moved to a new base due to the Avenger’s meddling. There, you bond more with one of your colleagues who warns you one night about what the Avengers may be up to; leaving you to sit with the weight of knowing they’re only now interested for reasons unknown.

Word Count: 2.9k+

Main Masterlist | The One You Don’t See Masterlist

You were just finishing up the day’s work when the knock came.

Not sharp, not urgent. Just a brief, polite tap on the metal frame of your open door. When you glanced up, a man in dark gray stood there. Clean uniform with no insignia you recognized, but the kind of posture that said he didn’t waste time unless it mattered.

“Can I speak with you?” He asked.

You gave a short nod and pushed your chair back. “Now’s fine.”

He stepped inside, calm but brisk, like someone used to planning six steps ahead. “We’re relocating you.”

You blinked. “Relocating?”

“It’s not disciplinary,” He clarified quickly. “Your record’s clean, your contributions are beyond solid. This is a matter of preemptive caution, for everyone.”

You straightened. “Meaning what, exactly?”

He hesitated, just a second too long.

“Details are on a need-to-know basis,” He spoke carefully. “But your transfer has been cleared. Secure transport will arrive within the next forty-eight hours. You’ll be reassigned to a secondary site more isolated and protected. Same role, just… farther from high-traffic areas.”

There was a weight to his words, one he wasn’t allowed to unpack.

Your mind jumped too easily. The Avengers? Could they have found a trail? No one here had ever said it outright, but this organization didn’t recruit former personnel from that world without reason. You didn’t ask, and he didn’t offer. But something in his tone softened when you stayed silent for too long.

“You’ve done good work here,” He said. “There are people who’ve noticed. This isn’t a punishment. It’s just… insurance.”

You nodded slowly. “Understood.”

He gave a short nod back. “You’ll receive the full transfer package in the morning. Pack light, essentials only. We’ll handle the rest.”

Then he left. Just like that. No apologies. No threats. Just… consideration. Like your presence actually meant something here, like moving you was part of protecting an asset, not brushing aside a liability.

It was strange, being treated like you mattered. Unsettling, almost.

You stared at your desk for a long time after, thoughts circling like vultures. You weren’t sure what was coming, or who was coming for that matter but this time, someone had moved you before the storm hit.

And somehow… that made all the difference.

They moved everyone at dawn.

For you, there was no drama. No armed escort. Just two people in a quiet transport vehicle, neither of whom spoke unless you did. The silence wasn’t cold, it was purposeful. Measured. Like even the air between words had been screened for unnecessary noise.

You watched the base disappear through a small, reinforced window. The trees beyond it blurred into gray-green smears. You didn’t ask where you were going. If you were meant to know, someone would’ve told you.

The transport itself took most of the day.

Surprisingly, there were no trackers, handcuffs, or weapons secured on your back. Just a sealed case of your belongings at your feet, and the weight of knowing this wasn’t just a job shift, it was a severing. A quiet severing from the last version of your life.

When you finally arrived, it wasn’t to a bunker or a prison. It was… clean. Remote, yes. Nestled in the shadow of a cold, low mountain range and shielded by layers of climate camouflage but still functional. It had a sharp-edged, efficient charm to it. Made of glass and steel, but no gloss.

Someone met you at the gate. Middle-aged, sun-weathered, and the kind of face that belonged more to ranches than espionage.

“Welcome.” He greeted, eyes kind but searching. “We’ve been expecting you.”

He didn’t offer his name, just a handshake. Firm, not too long. Genuine. You nodded once in return and stepped inside.

The interior was no different; quiet hallways, soft lighting, nothing flashy. Your new quarters were modest but well-prepared. A real bed. A desk with working equipment already logged in under your name. A few small touches that made it feel not temporary. There was also a chair pulled out. A folded set of fresh clothes. A cup and kettle beside sealed packs of tea.

Someone had gone out of their way to prepare for you.

That was new.

You didn’t unpack right away, just stood in the center of the room and let the silence fill in all the gaps the Avengers used to ignore.

Nobody here looked at you like you were an afterthought. They didn’t praise you either, but somehow that felt more honest. More grounded. You still weren’t anyone special, but you weren’t invisible.

Later, someone would bring you a meal without being asked. Even later, someone else would knock softly to ask if you needed help setting up your gear.

You weren’t sure what you’d expected when they said you were being relocated. Isolation? Containment? But not this. Not quiet competence. Not care in the form of practical support.

Still, the question lingered at the edges of your mind like a bruise that hadn’t healed right.

Why now? Why move you before anything happened?

What were they protecting you from?

Or more hauntingly, what were they protecting from you?

Regardless, you couldn’t dwell on it too much, you still had work. A job. You were still needed, wanted. Speaking of such, it was sometime past midnight when the knock came.

Two soft gentle taps, just enough to make sure you were awake, not enough to demand your attention if you weren’t. It was considerate.

You were awake, of course.

Sleep didn’t come easy anymore though. So you sat up, brushing the throw blanket from your legs, and moved to open the door.

Maren stood on the other side, still in her boots, curls pulled back in that effortless way that made her look always in motion. She had a folder tucked under one arm and a mug in the other, something warm and lightly spiced, if the smell was anything to go by.

“Sorry,” She apologized sheepishly. “I know it’s late. You can throw something at me if you want.”

You didn’t. You stepped aside.

She entered and settled into the chair near the desk with a soft sigh, setting the mug down in front of your chair. Cinnamon, you realized.

“I figured you were up,” She added, flipping open the folder on her lap. “Also figured if I stared at this mess any longer without asking someone smarter than me, I’d end up walking into a wall tomorrow.”

You arched a brow. “That happen often?”

“Oh, sure,” She replied easily, glancing at you with a lazy grin. “But this time I’d have deserved it.”

You didn’t answer, but you didn’t leave either. You sat down slowly, fingers curling around the mug. It was warm. Too warm to pretend you weren’t grateful.

Maren didn’t talk for a moment, just flipped through the schematics, frowning and murmuring something under her breath. Then:

“You ever miss it?” She asked. “The Tower. The mission boards. The forty-five emails from Stark at 2 a.m. because he was convinced everyone else had forgotten how to sleep?”

You didn’t answer right away.

She glanced up. “Sorry. I said I wouldn’t bring it up. I’m just–… curious.”

You stared into the steam curling from your mug. “I don’t miss being invisible.”

She didn’t smile at that, didn’t say “of course” or “you weren’t invisible.” Just nodded like someone who believed you.

“I used to work under people who never remembered my name,” She confessed after a moment. “I learned to smile fast, be useful, be quiet. Eventually someone told me I had a ‘pleasantly neutral presence.’” She snorted. “Didn’t know whether to thank them or cry.”

Your lips twitched, just a little. That was the thing with Maren. She didn’t really dig. She didn’t poke either. She just… dropped little stories beside you like breadcrumbs and let you decide if you wanted to follow.

You didn’t know what her role was here, not exactly. She wasn’t one of the shadowed higher-ups who briefed you through glass. She wasn’t part of security, or intel. But she had access. She came and went freely. Her badge could open more doors than yours.

And she kept coming back.

Every day, she brought something. Not always files. Sometimes it was a snack. A joke. A book she thought you’d like. Once, a scarf. “It’s ugly,” She warned you with a smirk. “But it’s warm. Don’t get sentimental.”

You’d kept it anyway.

Now, she leaned back in the chair and tapped a page in the folder. “This code, they’ve been using it to mask movement through the lower grid. I think it’s one of the Avengers’ old cloaking patterns. But I can’t break it alone. Thought maybe you’d enjoy the irony.”

You took the folder without replying and that was enough of an answer for her.

She pushed herself up a second later, stretching slightly, then moved toward the door, but paused before she left.

“…Hey,” She called softly, hand still on the frame. “If you ever get the urge to leave… walk out, disappear, whatever, I won’t stop you.”

You blinked. She turned slightly, looking at you over her shoulder. Her voice was quieter now. “I just hope someone finally deserves you enough to give you a reason to stay.”

The door closed gently behind her.

You stared at the folder in your lap. At the mug. At the silence she left behind, warm for once, not cold. And you didn’t know what scared you more:

That you were starting to truly care. Or that maybe… she already did.

In the new base, your days started earlier now.

Not because anyone made you. There were no mandatory check-ins, no shouting instructors or looming supervisors. But people noticed when you showed up early, and unlike the Tower, they actually said something about it.

Noticed you, that is.

The job was… well, it wasn’t so different, really. Coordination, data analysis, and communication relays between cells. You monitored activity across networks the Avengers didn’t know how to see, flagged inconsistencies, tracked patterns. Only this time, when you submitted a report, someone actually read it.

Once, someone even scribbled:

Brilliant work. You saved us three days. - E

On the margin of your printout in ink, as if it mattered.

It felt strange, at first. Being thanked and being seen. Even stranger was how the others treated you. They weren’t perfect. Some were gruff, standoffish, or slow to trust. But it wasn’t personal. It was how they were with everyone. You weren’t an outsider, they just weren’t the warm and fuzzy type.

Still, you found your rhythm.

There was Janek from logistics, who swore too much and brought you coffee and stale biscotti when he was grateful. There was Yara, who ran fieldwork planning and somehow always knew when you needed five minutes of silence and a desk light turned away just so to help your headaches.

And of course, there was Maren.

Her visits were less daily now, but they lingered longer. She’d still drop files or jokes or awful candy bars she pretended to love, but some days she just sat across from you, legs propped up on a nearby chair, flipping through a book or doodling in a notebook while you worked.

She never hovered, never demanded, never asked what you were thinking. But she always seemed to know when something was off.

One afternoon, when your hands had been trembling under the desk for half an hour, she passed you a pen you didn’t need and said, “You don’t have to break yourself to be useful here. That’s not the deal.”

You didn’t reply. But you held the pen a little tighter, just for the weight.

You weren’t in a cell. You weren’t being coerced. You hadn’t signed your name in blood. But somewhere between the cracked teacups, the high-security reports, the nods of appreciation, and Maren’s steady quiet, the lines had blurred.

This place, they made you feel like you mattered. And no one had ever done that before.

Still, there were nights you stared at the ceiling, palms clammy, and wondering if it was all too easy.

Too good. Too tailored. But when you thought about leaving, really leaving, your heart didn’t race with freedom. It knotted with fear. Not just fear of what they’d do, but of what it would feel like to go back to being invisible again.

The Avengers never saw you. But here, people did. Maybe that was manipulation. Maybe it wasn’t. Maybe you didn’t care.

However, you would have to figure it out sooner or later. The fact becoming more evident in your recent visit with Maren.

You weren’t expecting anyone. Most nights, you kept to your quiet rhythm. Work, rest, repeat. The corridors outside your quarters stayed empty this late, and that was how you liked it. Silence had become more of a comfort than people ever had.

So when the knock came with soft, deliberate, two even taps, you knew exactly who it was.

You didn’t speak. Just opened the door.

Maren stood there with her hands in the pockets of her jacket, shoulders relaxed but eyes too focused for this to be casual. She didn’t smile.

That alone made your chest tighten.

“Can I come in?” She asked softly.

You stepped back to let her through.

She hovered by the desk instead of sitting, gaze sweeping briefly over the files you’d abandoned and the mug still half-full beside them. It looked like any other night but she wasn’t treating it like one.

“You don’t usually stop by this late without something to drop off,” You said finally.

“I know.” She glanced at you. “Didn’t want to wait.”

That answer made something cold settle at the base of your spine.

You crossed your arms loosely, leaning back against the wall. “So don’t make me guess.”

Maren let out a breath, slow and tired. “They’re moving. The Avengers.”

You didn’t react outwardly, but your fingers curled just slightly against your sleeves.

“How close?”

“Not at the gates or anything. But they’ve started poking around. Someone pulled old records; training logs, field reports, tech inventories with your name half-scratched out of them.”

You looked away, jaw tight.

“You knew this might happen,” She said. “Didn’t you?”

You gave a soft shrug. “Eventually. I just thought they wouldn’t care enough to follow through.”

Maren didn’t deny it. “They didn’t… until now.”

She finally stepped closer, but not enough to crowd you. She wasn’t here to push. Just to deliver something real.

“I wanted you to hear it from me,” She said. “Before it’s sirens or breach codes or worse.”

You searched her expression. “Why warn me at all?”

She gave a small, tired smile. Nothing like the smirks or smiled she used when teasing you about snacks or work stuff.

“Because you’ve been more honest with me by saying nothing than most people ever are running their mouths,” She said. “Because you help, you’re there. And because even if you never told me what really happened with them, I can see it. In how careful you are, quiet, like you learned the hard way not to expect anyone to come back.”

You looked down. That last part hurt in a way you weren’t prepared for.

“And you’re not trying to stop me,” You murmured.

“No,” She said. “I’m just making sure you don’t get caught waiting for a rescue that may not happen.”

The silence stretched. Then, just as she turned to go, she paused and glanced back.

“Remember what I said… If you want to disappear, I won’t stop you. I’ll help. If you want to stay and fight, I’ll cover you. But whatever you choose, do it because you decided, not because you’re still trying to be something for people who never saw you.”

Your throat felt tight, but you nodded.

Maren didn’t say goodbye. She just touched the edge of the desk as she passed it again, a quiet habit she’d picked up, and slipped out into the hallway like she’d never been there at all.

You didn’t move for a long time once she was out of sight. Her words echoed, low and slow, like ripples spreading through still water. You sat down at your desk, fingers brushing the edge where she’d touched it last. An absent gesture, meaningless to most, but it reminded you that she saw you. Had, maybe, for longer than you wanted to admit.

But that didn’t make this choice any easier.

You’d walked away from the Avengers quietly, with barely a notice. Not because you wanted to disappear, but because they never looked hard enough to remember you were there in the first place. And yet, somehow, you weren’t gone. You were just… on the other side now.

Funny how that worked.

They’d start a war to fix a system, but not a conversation to fix a person.

You stared at the half-drunk coffee on your desk. The files a colleague had brought earlier, harmless recon work. Nothing personal, but it all now felt like a test. A choice dressed in paperwork. Stay or run. Fight or vanish.

Or wait for someone who never looked back.

You couldn’t decide tonight. Maybe not even tomorrow.

But you knew this: If the Avengers showed up, you wouldn’t be caught off guard. Not scrambling, not pleading, not waiting. You weren’t that girl anymore.

And if they asked you why?

…You still didn’t know what you’d say.

Maybe nothing at all. Maybe just:

"Where were you when I needed someone?"

Taglist: @herejustforbuckybarnes @iyskgd @torntaltos @julesandgems @maesmayhem @w-h0re @pookalicious-hq @parkerslivia @whisperingwillowxox @stell404 @wingstoyourdreams @seventeen-x @mahimagi @viktor-enjoyer @vicmc624 @msbyjackal @winchestert101 @greatenthusiasttidalwave @avivarougestan

Raccoon Negotiations

Summary: You finally get to meet a talking raccoon whom tries multiple times to bargain for your boyfriend’s metal arm. (Bucky Barnes x chaotic!reader)

Word Count: 1.3k+

A/N: Requested by @daystarpoet and @michaelfuckinglangdon which was super fun to fulfill and imagine. Happy reading!!!

Main Masterlist | Earth’s Mightiest Headache Masterlist

You were mid-bite of a bagel (untoasted, cold, probably two days old, yet still incredible) when a voice said, “You gonna eat that, or are you just giving it mouth-to-mouth?”

You froze.

Your eyes scanned the room. Empty except for Bucky, still in the hallway arguing with Stark about defensive systems. And then, sitting on the counter next to the coffee pot like he’d always belonged there, was…

A raccoon.

A small, vaguely pissed-off raccoon standing on two legs, holding what looked like a plasma rifle, wearing a jumpsuit, and staring at your bagel like it owed him rent.

You blinked.

He blinked back.

Then, with the certainty of someone who’d clearly never interacted with you before, he added: “You alright there, human? Or did you have a stroke while chewing?”

You stood up slowly, eyes wide. “You can talk.”

Rocket snorted. “Wow. You must be the brainy one around here.”

“Okay, no like- I knew there was a raccoon on the ship. Bucky told me. I just thought he was exaggerating. Or having another weird Winter Soldier-flashback dream thing.”

“Ex-cuse you,” Rocket said, leaping off the counter and stalking toward you. “I’m not just some Earth-trash mammal with a vocabulary. I’m Rocket. I’ve broken into more heavily-armed fortresses than you’ve had dumb thoughts.”

“That’s a bold claim,” You said. “Because I believe the moon is just Earth’s emotional support rock and thunder is just the sky clapping for itself.”

Rocket squinted at you. “…okay, yeah, maybe I underestimated you.”

You leaned forward slowly, eyes narrowing in awe. “You’re so small. And yet, the homicidal energy is enormous. You’re like if Bucky had fur and worse impulse control.”

“Hey-“

You turned to where Bucky had finally entered the room and was already sighing. He didn’t even look surprised. “Yeah, that’s Rocket. Rocket, this is the disaster I’m dating.”

You beamed. “He talks! He walks! He’s a death machine in a jumpsuit! I love him. This is so validating.”

Bucky rubbed his temples. “Please don’t encourage him.”

Rocket perked up immediately. “Wait… you’re dating the arm guy?”

You paused. Looked at Bucky. Then back at Rocket.

“…Yeah?”

A slow, terrifying grin spread across Rocket’s face.

“You got any plans for the arm?” He asked casually. “Like… long term?”

You tilted your head. “Other than excessive touching and probably biting it during arguments? No.”

Rocket rubbed his furry little hands together. “Because I have a few ideas. Think we could reach a business agreement? Little trade? You get, say… a box of Kree tech I may or may not have stolen, and I get to borrow the arm.”

“Borrow?” You asked. “Like, while Bucky’s still wearing it?”

“Oh no,” Rocket said gleefully. “I mean borrow in the very permanent, kind of dismember-y sense.”

Bucky crossed his arms. “You touch the arm, you lose yours.”

Rocket scoffed. “Killjoy.”

You grinned, still watching the two of them bicker like this was the most normal day of your life. Honestly, it was close. You had once gotten into an argument with Sam about the physics of penguin knees for forty-five minutes. This? This was pretty average.

Rocket narrowed his eyes. “You sure you’re not a Guardian? You’ve got the same mix of brilliant and brainless I usually work with.”

You put your hands on your hips. “You think I’d survive five minutes on your ship? Clint holds it against me that I once put a Pop-Tart in the microwave in the wrapper. I’m a walking OSHA violation.”

Rocket smirked. “I like you.”

You beamed. “I like you too, murder rat.”

“Raccoon.”

“Tomato, to-mah-to.”

Bucky, in the background, stared into the middle distance like he was reliving every bad decision that led to this exact moment.

-

While the two of you clicked in some strange way, it became increasingly exhausting when you realized Rocket was not a quitter. Not when it came to schematics, explosions, or black-market tech auctions. And certainly not when it came to Bucky Barnes’ vibranium arm.

The first time he brought it up again, you were eating spaghetti with a fork that bent mid-twirl because you'd put it in the dishwasher with an experimental metal compound. You stared at the spiraled noodle carnage with mild offense.

Rocket, perched on the back of the couch, cleared his throat. “So. Hypothetically. If someone were to give you a fully operational piece of alien tech that projects holograms and can play music through bone conduction-“

“No,” You said without looking up.

Rocket scowled. “You didn’t even let me finish!”

“You said ‘hypothetically.’ That’s code for ‘I want to take Bucky’s arm again.’”

He grumbled something in what might’ve been space-raccoon swear words.

You smiled faintly. “Also, holograms and music? Tempting, but I already built something that projects TikToks onto the wall when I whistle the opening to Phantom of the Opera.”

Rocket blinked. “…You need to be studied.”

You stuffed more spaghetti in your mouth and spoke through it, “I have been. Briefly. They sent me home with a helmet and a fidget cube. 2/10. Never again.”

The second time was more of a performance. Rocket had dragged you into a secure SHIELD hangar with a tarp over something massive.

“This,” He said dramatically, yanking the cover back, “is a rebuilt Sakaarian battle drone. She sings, flies, and makes waffles. Trade you for the arm.”

You took one look, gasped, and immediately sprinted past him.

“Oh my god! She has a toaster slot!?”

Rocket beamed. “So we have a deal?”

You turned, clutching the side of the drone with wide, reverent eyes.

“No,” You said, “but I will name her Beepie.”

Rocket’s face fell. “You’re not even gonna run this by him?”

You gave him a look. “Rocket. I love you. You’re the first talking raccoon I’ve met that wasn’t a hallucination and validated my belief that half the raccoon species are murderous. But if you think I’m trading even one bolt of Bucky’s arm, which, by the way, I have kissed more than I care to admit, then you don’t understand the depth of my insanity.”

There was a long pause. Then:

“I’ll throw in a jetpack,” Rocket muttered.

You gasped. “With adjustable altitude?”

“Yep.”

“Still no,” You said even though your answer sounded like it physically hurt you.

The third time, he got sneaky.

You were tinkering in the lab late at night, hunched over a circuit board, tongue sticking out in deep concentration, when Rocket skittered in and dropped a sleek metal glove onto your desk.

“Custom-made,” He said nonchalantly. “Enhanced dexterity. Built-in taser. Perfect for a girl with too many ideas and not enough restraint.”

You barely glanced at it.

“Rocket.”

He leaned in. “You could build anything with this. A gravity-flipping belt. Portable wormholes. A coffee maker that actually respects you. All I need is-“

“Bucky’s arm. I know. I’m not stupid.”

“Debatable.”

You gave him a tight-lipped smile and leaned in conspiratorially. “Here’s the thing, furball. That arm? Not mine to give. I didn’t build it. I didn’t earn it. I just kiss it sometimes and occasionally let it hold snacks. I love him. I’m not trading a part of him. Even for cool stuff. Even for toaster robots.”

Rocket looked genuinely surprised. “You’d really pass up a Sakaarian war-toaster… for him?”

You nodded. “Yeah. Even when he leaves wet towels on the bed. Even when he sighs like an old man every time I rewire the TV to play Jeopardy in reverse.”

There was a beat.

Rocket groaned, flopping onto the table in defeat. “You’re the worst. The absolute worst.”

You grinned and patted his head. “Thanks, murder rat.”

“Raccoon.”

Bucky appeared in the doorway then, raising a brow as he took in the scene: Rocket sulking, you cradling a vibro-glove like it was a puppy, and your very serious expression of moral superiority.

“I don’t wanna know,” He said dryly.

You beamed. “Good. Because if you did, you’d probably start sleeping with your arm chained to your chest.”

Toy Store Visit

Pairing: Stucky x little!reader [Disclaimer: Age Regression!]

Summary: You go to a toy store with a budget and pick out one new stuffie. Your caregivers gently guide you and remain patient as you carefully choose which stuffed animal or toy to bring home.

Word Count: 1.2k+

Main Masterlist

The car ride felt like forever even though in reality, it was maybe fifteen minutes, but your legs were already bouncing with excitement by the time Steve pulled into the parking lot. You were pressed up against the window, nose leaving a faint smudge on the glass, eyes wide as the bright, colorful sign of the toy store came into view. You gasped, your hands grabbing at the straps of your seatbelt.

“We there we there we there!” You chanted, voice high and bouncy in your little headspace.

Bucky chuckled from beside you, already unbuckling himself. “Yeah, peanut, we’re here. But don’t forget the rules, okay?”

Steve turned in the driver’s seat to look back at you, his tone gentle. “One toy, just one. Doesn’t matter what it is. It can be big or small but we’re sticking to one, alright, sweetheart?”

You nodded fast. “Uh-huh! One! Jus’ one. Promise!”

“Alright then,” Steve said with a smile. “Let’s go.”

You practically wiggled out of your car seat as Bucky helped undo the buckle, and you reached up for his hand without thinking. His metal fingers curled softly around yours as you stepped out onto the sidewalk, sticking close between your two caregivers. Your eyes lit up the moment the automatic doors whooshed open, rows and rows of colors, boxes, plush, and puzzles stretched out in front of you like magic.

You didn’t know where to start.

Steve leaned down and whispered in your ear, “Take your time, honey. No rush.”

So you did. You wandered down every aisle, with Bucky patiently walking beside you and Steve keeping an eye out from a few feet behind. Every so often, you’d stop and gasp while you pointed at something shiny, squeaky, or soft. You picked up a few things to study them carefully before putting them back with a quiet, “Not the one…”

Steve and Bucky never rushed you. Even when you doubled back to the same aisle three times, debating between a pink dinosaur plushie that roared when squeezed and a sensory pop-it shaped like a turtle.

“Dino roars,” You mumbled to Bucky, your bottom lip pushed out in a thinking pout. “But turtle’s got bubbles.”

He knelt beside you, his metal hand brushing your hair out of your face. “What does your heart say? Which one makes it feel warm?”

You placed both toys down carefully and looked between them, then slowly reached for something you hadn’t noticed before: a soft little stuffed jellyfish that was pale blue with velvety tentacles and sleepy embroidered eyes. You held it to your chest instantly. “This one,” You whispered, voice low and in awe. “She’s soft an’ shy like me.”

Bucky smiled gently. “Then I think she’s perfect.”

You beamed, holding her tighter. “Her name’s Bubbles,” You informed them proudly, skipping just a little as you made your way to the front register. Steve gave you a wink as he took her to scan, slipping her right back into your arms after the purchase. “Welcome to the family, Bubbles,” He teased as you giggled, cradling her like something fragile and precious.

Back in the car, snuggled in the back seat with your seatbelt carefully fastened, you stared out the window, petting Bubbles’ soft head. Bucky passed you your juice box, and Steve glanced back briefly.

“You did really good, sweetheart,” Steve said softly.

“Waited your turn, made a thoughtful choice, and you didn’t get overwhelmed,” Bucky added, a proud smile on his expression.

You looked up at them, eyes wide with sleepy pride. “Thank you f’r takin’ me.”

Steve smiled. “Always. You’re our little, this stuff matters.”

You curled into your seat, jellyfish in one arm, juice in the cup holder next to you, and a heart full and warm.

-

Back at home, the apartment had the faint scent of dinner leftovers still lingering in the air, and soft music playing in the background belonging to one of Steve’s old vinyl records humming low from the living room speaker.

You kicked your shoes off clumsily at the door, still cradling Bubbles in your arms like a fragile baby. Bucky was right behind you, taking your shoes and putting them by the door neatly, while Steve carried in your empty juice box and tossed it in the recycling with a soft chuckle.

“Alright, sweetheart,” Steve said, ruffling your hair. “Show Bubbles around. Bet she’s curious.”

You nodded seriously. “Uh-huh. She don’ know where nothin’ is.”

Bucky smiled, settling on the couch to watch you. “Well then, she’s lucky to have the best tour guide in the whole house.”

You led Bubbles around the space starting with the living room, holding her up so she could “see” the couch, the blanket basket, and your bin of toys tucked in the corner. You pressed her soft jelly legs against each thing, whispering things like, “This the squishy blankie, but sometimes I share… sometimes…” or “That’s the remote. Not ‘llowed to touch it. Papa says so.”

Then you padded down the hall to your room where a soft nightlight was already glowing along the baseboards. Your room smelled like lavender and lotion, felt like home and safety. You climbed up on the bed and sat cross-legged, settling Bubbles in your lap.

“This is home,” You whispered to her, brushing her soft fabric head. “S’our room now.”

Steve leaned in the doorway, arms crossed gently. He was watching with that patient, warm expression he always got when you were especially little. Bucky peeked in behind him with your favorite sippy cup. He walked over and handed you yours with a quiet, “Hydrate, little fish.”

You giggled at the nickname and took a careful sip before setting your drink down on the nightstand. Then you picked up your favorite blankie and tucked Bubbles under it, right beside your pillow. “She’s sleepy,” you whispered to Steve. “She gots all tired in the car.”

Steve came in and crouched down beside the bed. “Think she needs help falling asleep?”

You nodded. “Need lull’by. She scared.”

Bucky climbed in beside you, pulling you into his lap so you could watch while Steve tucked Bubbles in properly by adjusting the blanket and fluffing a little pillow under her round jelly head. Then he began to hum a soft, comforting slow rhythm that you’d heard a dozen times, usually when you were dozing against his chest or curled in bed half-asleep.

You sighed content and leaned into Bucky, thumb in your mouth now, eyelids fluttering as Steve continued.

By the time he finished, you were barely awake, still holding Bucky’s hand while your body melted into the calmness of the atmosphere. Steve kissed your forehead gently, then Bubbles’, then helped you lay down beside her.

“She’s okay now,” You mumbled, already halfway gone. “She gots us…”

“She sure does,” Bucky whispered, brushing hair back from your cheek. “Just like we got you.”

Steve flicked off the bedside lamp, and both men stayed until your breathing slowed and softened. You were wrapped in blankets and love, Bubbles tucked close, and your tiny fingers resting gently on her soft head as sleep took over.

Just like your new plush friend, you were home, safe, and loved.

Difficult Morning

Summary: You’re having a harder time waking up this morning. Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes are patient and comforting throughout. [Disclaimer: Age Regression!] Word Count: 700+

A/N: What better way to start the blog than to start the day.

The morning light is softer than usual, and the room feels like it’s spinning just a little. You can’t quite remember how you got here, but you’re already clinging to the blankets like it’s your only anchor.

Your head hurts. It’s that sort of ache that makes your eyes sting, and everything feels fuzzy and distant.

You want to stay tucked under the covers, but there’s a feeling in your chest that’s hard to ignore. Something’s wrong. You don’t know what it is, but you’re not okay.

Your breathing comes in small, uneven gasps as you curl up tighter, pressing your face into the pillow. The bed feels too big for you today.

You hear a door creak open, followed by soft footsteps. Then Bucky’s voice, gentle, “Hey, kiddo. You up?”

You want to answer, but your throat feels tight. You don’t want to talk. You don’t know how to talk. You just want to stay where it’s safe.

Steve appears, and his expression softens when he sees you, curled up with your face hidden, your hands clutching at the blanket.

“What’s wrong, sweetie?” He asks quietly. His tone is light, but you can hear the concern in it.

You can’t speak.

Bucky sits on the edge of the bed, his voice steady. “It’s okay, doll. We’re here. You just need a minute?”

You nod, but even the simple motion feels like too much. You feel so tired, like your body’s made of lead, like your thoughts are swirling too fast to catch. It all feels so overwhelming to you.

Bucky reaches out, his metal hand brushing gently against your arm. “You wanna talk about it?”

The words stick in your throat. You can’t explain why it’s so hard. You want to, but everything’s stuck inside, and it’s too much.

Steve kneels beside the bed, his hand soft on your back. “How about we get you up for some breakfast? Just pancakes, yeah? You like those, right?”

You don’t answer, but Steve’s hand stays on your back, rubbing slow circles that help ground you just a little. He doesn’t push. He just waits. You can feel Bucky’s presence beside you, steady and calm.

After a long moment, Bucky adds in softly, “We’ll take it slow, okay? No rush. You just let us know when you’re ready to move, and we’ll help you.”

You don’t know how much time passes, but eventually, your fingers uncurl from the blanket, and you feel Steve’s gentle touch on your arm, helping you sit up. It feels like your whole body is heavy, like you can’t quite hold yourself together.

“Come on, we’re gonna get you to the kitchen,” Steve says, his voice soft but firm, like a quiet promise. “Bucky, you wanna help her up while I grab the pancakes?”

Bucky gives a quiet hum of agreement, his hand reaching out to help lift you gently from the bed. He doesn’t rush, doesn’t make it feel like something’s expected of you. His arm is around your waist, his other hand steady on your back. Steve already departing the room toward the kitchen, preparing your breakfast.

You cling to him instinctively, your eyes still closed as you let him guide you through the apartment, already feeling safe against his chest.

When you get to the table, Bucky moves to set you down in your chair. However, a soft whine escapes your lips as you hold on a little tighter. He doesn’t mind though, taking a seat instead and placing you in his lap. He adjusts his hold, his voice soft as he assures you, “We’re not going anywhere, baby. We’ve got you.”

Steve places the pancakes in front of you, but you don’t feel like eating. You poke at the whipped cream, your hand unsteady, and then push a tiny piece into your mouth.

“You’re doing great,” Steve says quietly, sitting beside you. “One step at a time, okay? No pressure.”

You try to smile, but it’s small. It feels like too much. You want to speak, to say that you’re sorry or thank them, but the words just don’t come. Instead, you curl closer into Bucky’s chest, burying your face in his shirt.

“It’s okay to just be here with us, Doll,” Bucky says, kissing the top of your head. “No need to talk. We’ve got all the time in the world.”

Steve reaches over and rests a hand on your back, steady and reassuring. “We’re right here, kid. You don’t have to be big today. You’re safe with us.”

And as you sit there between them, slowly easing into their warmth and comforting words, you realize that it’s enough. You don’t need to explain. You don’t need to be big right now. You don’t need to push through it all on your own. They’re here, and that’s what matters.

Heart First, Sanity Later

Summary: You, a dangerously chaotic genius with the common sense of a soggy spoon, somehow captures the heart of Bucky Barnes. Despite the constant emotional whiplash, raccoon-related injuries, and deeply cursed inventions, Bucky finds himself falling hard… somewhere between a Capri Sun intervention robot and a vent-related rescue. (Bucky Barnes x Avengers!reader)

Disclaimer: This was based on this post I came across from @ghouljams earlier. Please let me know if you want me to remove any of the information you listed here.

Word Count: 3.4k+

A/N: I had a blast writing this and I am begging on my hands and knees that other people like this as well so I can write more of unhinged reader. Happy reading!

Main Masterlist

Bucky didn’t mean to get attached. In fact, he very specifically meant not to get attached to you.

You, with your wide smile and increasingly concerning decision-making skills. You, who walked into a briefing ten minutes late with a Slurpee, claimed you got “time-displaced,” and then flawlessly identified the year, model, and VIN of a car from a blurry photo Tony handed out. “That’s a 1972 Chevelle SS,” You’d said casually. “But the rims are from a later model. 1976, I think.”

He stared at you. Everyone did.

You slurped. “What?”

Later, Bucky watched you put your phone in the fridge, forget about it, then ask him if he’d “seen a text from 7-Eleven recently.” You didn’t even seem high. That was the worst part. You just… existed like that. All the time.

A living contradiction. A walking cosmic joke. The human version of a browser with 72 tabs open, one playing music, none labeled, and all of them about wildly different topics ranging from “theoretical wormhole stability” to “can ducks feel shame.”

And the worst part? You were insanely good at your job.

When it came to the field, you moved like you’d choreographed every punch in advance. Like your brain hit a switch and rerouted all the loose marbles into sheer precision.

But outside of that? Absolute chaos.

One time you asked if the word “colonel” was a typo because you’d only ever read it.

"Why is it spelled like 'colon-el'?” You’d asked Bucky, eating popcorn with a throwing knife for apparently no reason. “Like. You’re telling me we all just agreed to ignore the 'L'?”

He blinked slowly. “Yes.”

“Sounds fake but okay.”

He wanted to strangle you. He wanted to kiss you. He wanted to wrap you in a blanket and take you to a doctor because no one should eat four bananas and not know why their stomach hurts. (“I thought they were like… nature’s snack bars!” You’d wailed from the floor. “Why does nature lie?”)

Still, there was something undeniably magnetic about you. Something that made Bucky keep finding excuses to be around you. Something that made him bite back a smile when you declared, with utter confidence, that “Citizen Kane” was a man’s full name and you “felt bad for him growing up with that.”

Sam had to leave the room. Steve looked like he aged five years. Bucky? He just leaned back in his chair and muttered, “You’re so lucky you’re pretty.”

You beamed. “I know, right?”

And that was just the beginning.

-

Bucky knew it the moment you turned to him in the middle of a high-stakes infiltration and whispered:

“Hey. Do you think raccoons ever get embarrassed?”

He froze mid-step, crouched beside you behind a cluster of storage crates, both of you watching a Hydra compound patrol pace along the wall ahead. Guns primed. Comms live. Two minutes to breach.

You blinked at him, eyes wide and totally serious about the question in the entirely inappropriate setting.

“What?” He hissed.

You frowned thoughtfully, like he was the weird one. “They have those little hands, right? Like… what if one drops its snack in front of another raccoon. Is that, like, raccoon shame? Do they feel judged?”

Bucky stared. He wasn’t sure if he was hallucinating. It had been a long week after all.

Then you added, “Anyway, two guards approaching. They’ll pass each other in about four seconds. I can take the left. You want the one with the scar?”

You didn’t even wait for an answer. Your body vanished into the shadows, clean and calculated. Three seconds later, both guards were unconscious and being gently rolled into the bushes like unwanted pizza boxes.

Bucky just stood there, breathing. You terrified him but not in the way enemies did. No, that would be too simple. Because he could fight Hydra, take a bullet, disarm a bomb, but you?

You were something else. A walking contradiction.

You once tripped over your own shoelaces while explaining quantum theory, then beat four highly trained operatives unconscious with a clipboard. You called a Glock a “grippy lil’ pew stick” but recited the Geneva Convention word-for-word because you “liked bedtime reading.”

And tonight was no different.

By the time the mission was done, the intel recovered, and the building cleared, Bucky was sore, bruised, and fully convinced that he was doomed. Because somewhere between the absurd commentary, the flawless fighting, and the way you wiped blood from your brow and grinned at him like you weren’t covered in chaos, he felt it.

That thing. The awful, nauseating, heart-clutching feeling.

Affection.

It hit him in the middle of your post-mission debrief, which mostly consisted of you sitting on the quinjet floor, drinking chocolate milk out of a thermos and recounting the entire op like it was a cute story you were telling children.

“And then I was like, Bam! right to the neck, and he just went down like a sack of sad potatoes. Did you see that? You saw that, right, Buck? I did the thing with the kick!”

He didn’t answer. He was looking at you like you’d grown a second head or like how you were the only thing stuck in his head these days. God, you were awful.

You had two blood on your elbow and half your gear undone. You were sprawled out on the floor like a sleep-deprived gremlin, and when you looked up at him and smiled, like he was the only person in the world who mattered… He was done. Gone.

“You okay there, Grumpypants?” You asked.

“I think I might hate you,” He muttered, sitting down beside you.

You grinned, bumping his shoulder with yours. “That’s fair. I’m an acquired taste. Like oysters. Or war crimes.”

He barked a laugh before he could stop it. You looked so proud.

“I’m serious,” He said, sobering. “You’re gonna get yourself killed one day. You don’t take anything seriously.”

You just stared at him for a moment, and then, quietly, you said, “I take you seriously.”

The jet went quiet.

And Bucky sat very, very still because somehow, that hit harder than any mission ever had.

You weren’t just funny. Or weird. Or brilliant in a way that made his head hurt.

You were kind. Kind in a way he hadn’t felt in years. Like you saw through the Winter Soldier and the scowl and the kill count, and you still chose to sit beside him, sipping chocolate milk and talking about raccoon shame.

And Bucky Barnes, world-weary assassin, trauma-laden super-soldier, turned to you and realized:

He was fucked.

In love with a person who once confidently said “quinoa” was pronounced “kin-oh-ah” and didn’t believe him when he corrected you.

You looked up from your thermos. “You’re doing the staring thing again. Am I bleeding from the ear?”

“No,” Bucky said, voice low. “You’re just…”

“Sexy?” You offered helpfully.

“…Terrifying.”

You winked. “Same difference.”

And Bucky Barnes, against all logic, reason, and survival instinct, knew he was already in too deep.

-

The next mission had gone off without a hitch… at least, for everyone except Bucky.

A few cuts here, a couple of bruises there, but nothing too serious. At least, that’s what he told himself as he sat on the edge of the quinjet, feeling the burn in his shoulder from a bullet graze. But the moment you walked into the medbay with a roll of bandages in your hand, it was like everything inside him twisted in a way he couldn’t explain.

“Okay, Bucky. Time to let the master do her magic,” you said, flashing that grin of yours, the one that always made his heart do weird, involuntary things.

Bucky blinked, trying to shake the disoriented feeling. “You’re the one who got shot today. Why am I the one getting patched up?”

“Because I’m immortal,” You said matter-of-factly. “Also, I’m not bleeding anywhere you can see, so that’s a bonus.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow. “You’re immortal?”

You sat down beside him, rolling your sleeves up. “No, but I like to pretend I am. You know, like a cooler superhero.”

He winced slightly as you poked at his side. “That’s what I’m dealing with, huh?”

“You love it,” You teased, squeezing out some antiseptic onto a cotton pad.

“You’re lucky I haven’t thrown you out of a plane for this,” Bucky muttered, though he couldn’t stop the faint grin from tugging at his lips.

“Not gonna lie, I’d be mad if you did,” You admitted, gently dabbing at his side. “Also, I’d haunt you. I know how to haunt people. I’ve read a lot of books about ghosts.”

He chuckled, despite himself. “Of course you have.”

“Oh, absolutely. I even have a theory about why the Titanic sank, and it’s completely different from the official one. But I’m telling you right now, it’s not what they say.”

Bucky glanced over at you, eyebrow raised. “This I gotta hear.”

You leaned closer, lowering your voice dramatically as if revealing state secrets. “Okay, so. It wasn’t an iceberg that caused the sinking. It was actually the government trying to erase all evidence of the giant squid they were experimenting on, and they blamed it on the iceberg to cover up the real cause.”

Bucky blinked, unsure whether you were serious or not. “Wait, what?” He asked slowly.

You looked at him deadpan. “You didn’t hear the rumors? They found footage, you know. The squid was huge. It even had tentacles.”

He stared at you, speechless.

"Anyway," You continued, as if you hadn’t just suggested the world’s greatest conspiracy, "What we do know is that my bandage technique is flawless. See this?" You lifted a corner of the bandage to show him a perfect wrap around his side.

Bucky blinked. "Did you just distract me with a giant squid theory while you patched me up?"

“Absolutely.” You beamed at him. “Works every time. Just don’t tell anyone you’re in love with me because I’m not responsible for any heart attacks.”

Bucky froze, his heartbeat suddenly in his throat.

You were still so nonchalant. Still so you, so damn confident and so sure of yourself. It took everything in him not to lean in and kiss you right there.

But then, you looked up at him, and for the briefest moment, that smile of yours softened. “You’re good, Bucky,” You said quietly. “You’ve been through more shit than any of us. But you’re still here. That’s something, you know?”

His chest tightened.

“And you know what?” You continued, your voice so much softer now, like a quiet reassurance. “You don’t have to be a soldier all the time. Sometimes, you can just be Bucky.”

He swallowed, looking at you. “And what about you?”

“Oh, me? I’m a mess,” You shrugged, finally looking away, as if it was no big deal. “I’m just here to make the chaos look cute.”

Your eyes flicked back to him, that familiar teasing glint in them. “That’s my secret. You like it.”

Bucky chuckled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. He wanted to say something, wanted to admit something. That little voice in his head kept screaming at him to just say it already, but he was scared. He was scared of how deep you had burrowed under his skin, of how easy it was to forget everything else when you were around.

Instead, he just leaned forward and cupped your face, his thumb gently brushing your cheek. “You’re… something else, you know that?”

You blinked at him in surprise, your lips parted, as if trying to process the sudden shift in the air. For a moment, there was a palpable tension between the two of you, like the universe was holding its breath, waiting for one of you to do something.

But then, in your usual way, you broke it, shrugging with a grin. “I know. You’re welcome.”

Bucky’s heart did a weird flip, and for the first time in what felt like forever, he allowed himself to truly relax, just a little. He didn’t want to admit it. Not yet. Not even to himself.

But as you leaned in to finish wrapping his side, your hand brushing his skin lightly, he knew he was already in way too deep.

-

The next incident started with a toaster. Not even a cool toaster. Just a boring, silver Stark-issued kitchen appliance that you were suspiciously proud of. I You’d taken it apart and rebuilt it but “better.” No one asked you to. No one gave you permission. You just did it.

“Now it sings the SpongeBob theme when your toast is done,” You explained, beaming as you held up a slice of whole wheat like it was a golden ticket.

Bucky stared at you. “You tampered with government property.”

“Enhanced.” You corrected. “And before you ask, no, I will not apologize. This is the future.”

Then it sang. “Who lives in a pineapple under the sea?” BWEEEEEP - Toast done.

Bucky looked like he was praying for divine intervention. “You’re gonna get us all court-martialed over this.”

Two hours later, you were banned from the kitchen, which didn’t stop you from relocating to the common area with your newest project: building what you claimed was a “mousetrap but for anxiety.”

It was made of pipe cleaners, glow sticks, and what might’ve been a dismantled Roomba.

“I call her Deborah,” You said, gently stroking it. “She senses emotional instability and gives you a juice box.”

As if on cue, it whirred over to Bucky, bumped into his leg, and slowly offered him a Capri Sun.

He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “I’m not drinking that.”

“Then she thinks you’re too far gone. She’s very wise.”

Steve walked in, surveyed the scene, and simply turned around without speaking. He didn’t even ask anymore.

Later that night, Bucky caught you in the hallway attempting to climb into the ceiling with a flashlight between your teeth and a jar of pickles under your arm.

“Do I want to know?” He asked, exhausted.

You paused halfway into a vent, dropping the flashlight briefly. “Depends. Do you believe in ceiling gremlins?”

“No.”

“Then I’m doing taxes.”

He rubbed his eyes. “Please. I’m begging you. Come down.”

You stared at him for a long moment, then slowly slid back out like a raccoon emerging from a trash can. “Okay. But only because you asked nicely and not because I got stuck.”

You had absolutely gotten stuck. And the worst part? He was smitten.

Every time you did something completely absurd, which was always, he found himself watching you a little too long, smiling a little too much, wondering what the hell you were going to do next and why it made his chest ache in a weirdly pleasant way.

Even now, covered in ceiling dust and holding a pickle jar, you looked up at him with that infuriatingly endearing grin.

“You’re in love with me,” You stated confidently.

Bucky blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” You popped a pickle in your mouth. “You’ve got that look. Like a grumpy cat who accidentally cuddled someone and doesn’t want to admit it.”

“I do not look like-“

“It's okay. You don’t have to say it.” You patted his chest affectionately. “Your body language screams ‘emotionally unavailable man finds chaotic cryptid and feels things.’”

“I am not emotionally unavailable.”

“You have a go bag, Bucky.”

“…That’s standard protocol.”

“Your toothbrush is still in the packaging.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it again. You’d won. Again.

“You’re gonna kiss me one day,” You said as you walked past him, pickle jar under one arm, flashlight in your other hand. “And when you do, I’m gonna be so smug you’ll try to throw yourself off the building.”

Bucky stood there in the hall, alone, heart doing its dumb little thudding thing. He hated you. He adored you. And he was never getting that toothbrush insult out of his head.

-

When the big moment happened, It wasn’t a big mission. It wasn’t even a real mission. It was just supposed to be recon.

And yet somehow, you were sitting on the floor of a dusty, abandoned warehouse with a concussion, holding a broken walkie-talkie like it personally betrayed you.

“Okay, but in my defense,” You slurred slightly, “I didn’t know the raccoon had a knife.”

Bucky stared at you, expression unreadable, as blood dripped slowly from your temple.

“You ran into an unmarked building alone, set off three alarms, fell through a skylight, and got jumped by wildlife.”

You held up a finger. “Armed wildlife.”

He ran a hand down his face.

“I swear to God, you are one poorly timed pun away from getting locked in a broom closet until the end of time.”

You blinked up at him. “Kinky.”

He turned away so fast you could almost hear his brain blue-screen. “Jesus Christ.”

But when he looked back at you: your lip bloodied, eyes dazed, hair full of insulation from where you’d crashed through the ceiling like a chaotic Christmas angel, something in his chest snapped.

You were always like this. Impossible. Endearing. Brilliant in the most horrifying ways. A human Wikipedia article with a death wish and a spark in your eyes that made him forget, just for a second, that the world was awful.

And that spark was flickering. Just a little. And he hated it.

“You can’t keep doing this,” He began, voice tight. “You can’t keep treating your life like it’s expendable.”

You blinked slowly. “That sounds fake. I’m clearly immortal.”

“I’m serious.” He crouched in front of you, fists clenched. “You run into every situation like you’re bulletproof, and you’re not. One day, I’m not gonna be there to drag your dumbass out of a flaming building or disarm a guy who has a bazooka made of forks or- or whatever the hell today was!”

“It was a raccoon with a grudge.”

“That’s not a thing!”

You stared at him in silence for a beat, then said, very softly, “You’re worried about me.”

He froze.

“I’m always worried about you,” He said, almost too quiet to hear. “You think I wake up every day wondering what country I’ll have to fly to because you thought jumping off a roof would ‘probably be fine’ if you landed in a bush?!”

You tilted your head. “It was a very fluffy bush.”

”I love you, you absolute menace!”

Silence. You blinked. Then he blinked. Somewhere in the warehouse, a raccoon chittered menacingly.

“…You love me?” You echoed, like he’d just said he wanted to marry a zucchini.

Bucky looked like he might actually combust. “I didn’t mean to say it like that.”

“Say it like what?”

“Like I love you. Which I do. But I was gonna do it after, like… dinner. Or when you weren’t bleeding.”

“Is this why you made me tea every time I electrocuted myself?”

“Yes!”

“And why you punched that guy who called me a liability?”

“Also yes!”

“And why you didn’t kill me when I installed motion sensors in the hallway and forgot to tell anyone?”

“I almost killed you.”

You were quiet for a long moment. Then: “Okay.”

He blinked. “Okay?”

You nodded, still loopy but smiling now. “Okay. I love you too.”

He stared. “You do?”

“Yeah. I mean, why else would I let you eat the last cookie that one time? Or give Deborah full permission to follow you around and scan your emotional damage like a clingy Roomba?”

He laughed, just once, short and stunned.

You leaned forward and poked his chest with one finger. “Also, I have a very deep fondness for emotionally repressed war criminals. It’s kind of my thing.”

Bucky groaned. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet. You’re in love with me.”

“I’m regretting it deeply.”

“No you’re not.” You smiled that crooked, chaotic smile that had ruined his life in the best way.

And despite everything, the dust, the blood, the deeply traumatized raccoon now watching you both from the shadows, he leaned in and kissed you.

It was gentle. Just for a second. As if to say, Yes. You’re chaos incarnate. But you’re mine.

When he pulled back, it was silent for a moment. Both of you looking in each other’s eyes before you whispered, “Did you just kiss me in front of a knife raccoon?”

Bucky exhaled slowly, already regretting all his life choices. “God help me. I did.”

The Loop You Won’t Let Die

Summary: Bucky is fatally wounded on a mission. You rewind time again, again, and again, hundreds of times. Each loop, you lose a little more of yourself. Finally, Bucky realizes what you’ve done. (Bucky Barnes x Avengers!reader)

Disclaimer: Reader has the power to manipulate time to a limited degree. Angst. Hurt/Comfort. Death. Memory Loss. Emotional Deterioration.

Word Count: 3.5k+

A/N: I am hoping y’all will like this because I sure did. Happy reading!!! ♡

Main Masterlist | Whispers of the Gifted Masterlist

You’ve never been good at accepting the things you can't control. It’s a trait that’s followed you for as long as you can remember. From the moment you first realized your power to manipulate time, to rewind, reset, undo, you were thrilled. However, you came to realize that you held something dangerous in your hands and that it came at a cost. You were never able to rewind it all away. Not the pain, not the guilt, not the consequences.

It was supposed to be simple at first to test your power. No one expected you to use it on something so… delicate. You didn’t understand the gravity of it, not when you first rewound time to save a child who wandered too far into the street. The child's life was saved, and everything went back to normal. At least, it felt that way. But you couldn’t shake the feeling that something had been lost in the process, your ability to forget.

And then came Bucky.

The first time you met him, it was on a mission. Some joint operation between S.H.I.E.L.D. and a few of the Avengers. You’d been part of the team tasked with gathering intel from a Hydra facility that was holding someone important who had crucial information on a new weapon. The mission wasn’t supposed to be complicated. But that’s how things always go, isn't it? You weren’t prepared for the chaos.

The explosion rocked the compound, sending you flying across the ground. You were dazed, but before you could register the pain, you saw him. Bucky was already moving to shield you, taking the brunt of another blast, the force knocking him down. You'd heard the stories, seen the flashes of the Winter Soldier’s past. But this was real. This was human, a man who had been broken, rebuilt, and forgotten.

You reached him instinctively, adrenaline spiking. You felt the sharpness of his blood in the air. The metal arm, the familiar, haunted expression in his eyes; the man you had read about in the files was here, right in front of you, struggling to get up.

He looked at you, and something passed between you then. Not recognition, not understanding, but something else. An acknowledgment of something lost. A silent kind of empathy.

"Stay down," You said quickly, hands already at his side, pressing against the blood that began to spill. "I can help. Let me help."

His expression didn’t change, but he nodded, as if he knew you could. As if he knew you wouldn’t let him die here. You didn't realize how true that would become.

It wasn’t long before you began to notice things about him. It was small things at first like how he seemed to stay on the perimeter of conversations, never quite fully engaging. How he always looked like he was on the edge of a nightmare, his eyes haunted even in the quietest moments. How he never quite trusted himself, not really, not after everything Hydra had put him through.

You, too, understood that weight, though you didn’t wear it the same way. Your power, the ability to manipulate time, had long since been a burden. But you didn’t carry it in silence the way Bucky did with his past. You didn’t need to ask him why he closed off. You understood it in ways most people wouldn’t. You understood what it was like to feel broken, to have the world try to take away something fundamental from you. So, you never pushed. You stayed in the background, offering quiet support during missions, sharing small conversations where he could let his guard down a little.

But it was when you first showed him your power that things began to change.

It was during another mission that went wrong, a hostage situation where things got messy, and you were forced to make a choice. There was no way to save everyone. But you saw Bucky, standing there, his arm pinned under rubble, the enemy advancing. You felt the panic of the moment, his life slipping away in real-time. So, without thinking, you rewound it. You manipulated the timeline, reset the scene, and in an instant, the world around you shifted.

When you opened your eyes, you were back before the blast, before the rubble, before the threat. But this time, you acted. You moved faster, knew the exact sequence of events that would unfold. You saved him.

It was the first time you showed Bucky the extent of your power.

“Did you…” He was breathless, looking at you like he couldn’t quite comprehend what had just happened. His hand that had once bled from where the rubble had crushed him moments ago was normal, it was as though it had never happened. You felt him staring at you, processing the truth.

“I can rewind time,” You explained quietly, meeting his gaze. “Change things. Undo them.”

There was a beat of silence before he spoke again, voice rough and raw. “What does that mean for you?”

You had to think about it. Your ability was both a gift and a curse. You couldn’t rewind everything. Not the pain, not the way time bled into your mind. Every reset took something from you: memories, emotions, the strength to keep going. But you kept doing it. For all of them.

You were unable to provide an answer, but he didn’t need words to understand.

The relationship between you and Bucky grew slowly after that. He began to understand you in ways you didn’t even know how to explain. You never talked about the toll your power took on you, but somehow, he always seemed to know. He’d ask you about it with a careful quietness, never pushing too hard, but always aware.

It was a delicate balance. You both walked around each other’s fragility, never forcing things, but always aware that there was something unspoken between you, an understanding that transcended words. You both had scars. But he was the kind of man who never let you carry the weight alone. And you, in turn, made sure that when his nightmares got too loud, when his mind fractured from all the things Hydra had done to him, you were there.

And one day, it all fell apart.

This mission was supposed to be straightforward.

Bucky and you, side by side, infiltrating a Hydra base to disable a weapons system. Nothing the two of you couldn’t handle. He’d been in worse situations and so had you.

But there’s always that one variable, always that one thing you can’t account for. The moment when the mission goes wrong, and everything unravels in the blink of an eye.

Bucky takes the first hit.

You’re there, just a step behind, but it’s too late. The bullet hits him right in the shoulder, spinning him off balance. You hear him grunt, feel the tug of his body as he collapses to the ground. Blood, dark and heavy, stains the concrete below him, it wasn’t any ordinary bullet. His metal arm is a blur of motion as he tries to pull himself up, but it’s no use. His movements slow. His breath becomes ragged.

You don’t even think. Your heart pounds in your chest, and your mind screams. You don’t want to lose him. Not like this. Not when there’s so much more you need to say. To do. To live for.

Rewind.

The world shudders around you, pulling you back to the beginning. The mission resets. You find yourself in the same place with everything the same, but you know what’s coming. You know what you have to do.

This time, you’re faster. More prepared. You have to be.

You move ahead of Bucky, keeping your focus sharp, anticipating the angle the sniper will shoot from. The plan is simple. You’ll get to the control room first, disable the weapons system, and clear the path for him. He won’t get hurt this time.

But something goes wrong. A twist, a misstep. The shot rings out from a different angle, and Bucky is hit again, this time in the chest. He crumples to the floor with a choked gasp, blood pooling around him. His eyes lock with yours, wide with shock and pain.

“Not again,” You mutter under your breath. "Please."

Rewind.

The third time is no different. No matter how many angles you try to cover, no matter how many ways you attempt to divert the sniper’s aim, Bucky always falls. Every time, it’s the same. Every time, you lose him. And every time, you’re forced to go back. Your mind becomes a haze of timelines, of trying to change the same sequence of events that always ends the same way.

By the tenth loop, the crushing weight of the failure begins to take its toll. You can feel it in your bones, the exhaustion of it all. The tension in your muscles, the faint tremor in your hands. It doesn’t matter how many times you reset. The result is always the same.

The bullet. The blood. His body crumpling. His eyes losing their light.

Rewind.

By the thirtieth loop, you're no longer just running through the motions. You’re starting to lose yourself. Every time you reset, something is chipped away. Maybe it’s your clarity, your sanity, your sense of time, or maybe all three. You can’t remember if you’ve already tried this particular strategy or if it’s the first time. You’ve forgotten the feeling of his hands in yours when you weren’t on a mission. Forgotten the sound of his laugh.

And yet, you keep doing it. For him.

But no matter how you try, no matter how you fight, he dies again. And again. And again.

Rewind.

The fiftieth time is when you break.

You’ve tried every strategy, every variation, every distraction. You’ve shot the sniper first, thrown grenades to create chaos, tried to fight through the whole base alone, but nothing works. Every loop, the result is the same.

Bucky dies, and you’re the one who has to watch it. Over and over.

You find him in the same position again. The same injury. The same wound. His hand, trembling, reaching for you in his final moments. His voice, strained and broken as he mutters your name. The world spins, distorting in the corners of your vision. It’s too much.

“Stay with me,” You beg hopelessly, tears burning your cheeks once again.

His eyes flicker. He’s fading. You can see it in the way his chest rises more slowly. His lips barely form a smile, and it breaks your heart. "I’m sorry," He whispers. "I’m so sorry."

Rewind.

When you wake again, you’re in the same place. The mission has started over, but it feels like you’ve been doing this for a lifetime. You know exactly where you are, what you need to do. But it doesn’t matter. You’re exhausted. Broken. Every reset feels like a piece of you is being torn away.

You barely register his presence next to you. The way his arm brushes yours as you move through the base. He’s always there, always close, but you don’t look at him. Not anymore. You can’t.

This time, he dies again.

And it’s then that you finally realize something: it’s not just the mission that’s killing him. It’s you. Your power. Your need to save him, to do whatever it takes, even if it means losing yourself.

Bucky’s last breath is quieter than the others. This time, he doesn’t even speak your name. When the world shifts back again, the weight of everything crashes down on you. You can’t keep doing this. You can’t keep losing him. You’re falling apart.

He’s alive in like normal at the start of your next loop, but you can’t meet his gaze. You can’t pretend anymore. His presence is suffocating now, and you can’t stop the dread from creeping up your spine.

“Hey,” He says softly, his voice full of concern. “You good?”

No. You’re not good. You’re shattered, and the weight of his repeated death is too much to bear. You give him a short lie that you’re fine only to watch him die again later.

-

By the hundredth loop, you stop trying to fix things. You stop trying to make the perfect plan, to save him. Because each time, you lose a little more of yourself. A little more of who you were before this madness.

You’re no longer sure if you’re even human anymore. You don’t recognize the face in the mirror. The loops have become your reality. And the more you rewind, the more you forget. What’s real? What’s memory? What’s a life worth saving when you’re already so broken?

The next time Bucky dies, you don’t even speak. You just let the world crumble, knowing that you’ll try again. And again. And again.

During one of your next loops, Bucky can feel something’s wrong. He’s always been able to read people, even before everything that happened. You’re different now in the sense of being much more distant and quieter than you were a few hours ago. You still move with precision, and you still have the same sharp focus on every mission. But your eyes, those once bright eyes that shone with warmth, now carry a depth of sorrow he can’t quite place.

It’s subtle at first. The way you recoil when he touches your arm. How you don’t meet his gaze for too long. How your voice, when you do speak, trembles just enough for him to notice. He watches you. He’s seen this before. But this time, it’s different. There’s something more. Something deeper.

-

It happens after the hundred and thirtieth loop. You’ve grown so tired, so worn down that you can barely keep track of the details. It’s becoming harder to find the motivation, the drive, to reset. But you push yourself, as always, because he needs you to.

Once again, you’ve failed. Bucky is dead. Again. The blood pools around him, his breath fading into silence. His final words are a shadow in your mind, repeated over and over: “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry…”

You reset the timeline, but this time, it feels different. The world doesn’t reset as quickly. It lingers. You’re slow to stand, slow to move. The pressure in your chest is suffocating. You’ve lost track of how many times you’ve done this. But then you feel a hand on your shoulder, warm and firm. You know it’s him without looking. The touch is a relief in its familiarity, but it also makes your heart ache more than it should. You don’t want him to feel this. Not like this.

“Stop,” Bucky says quietly. His voice is low, but the command is there. It cuts through the fog in your mind.

You don’t respond. You can’t. You’re terrified of him seeing you, seeing what you’ve become, what you’re willing to do to save him. You’re terrified of the way you’re slowly losing yourself in this, and the last thing you want is for him to understand.

But he does.

“I know what you’re doing,” Bucky continues, his hand tightening on your shoulder, forcing you to face him. His gaze is sharp, the deep blue of his eyes searching yours with a depth of understanding that makes you want to collapse.

“No, you don’t,” You whisper, your voice barely audible.

“Yeah,” He says quietly, his voice breaking just a little. “I do.”

You shake your head, turning away. "You don’t get it. I… I can't lose you, Bucky. I can't-“

“Stop,” He interrupts, his voice firmer now. “Stop trying to save me.”

Your body tenses. “I have to. I can’t lose you.”

“You’re killing yourself to save me,” His voice is full of raw emotion. “You’re breaking, and you can’t keep doing this. You can’t keep doing this for me.”

“I’d rather lose myself than lose you,” You say quickly, too quickly. The words come out of you without thought, without any real sense of control. It’s all you’ve been trying to do, isn’t it? Save him at all costs. You’d sacrifice everything for him, even if it means losing yourself in the process.

But Bucky, he doesn’t want that.

“No,” He says firmly as his hand cups your cheek gently, forcing you to meet his gaze. “I won’t let you destroy yourself like this. You can’t keep trying to save me like this.”

For a long moment, you stand there, frozen. His touch grounds you, even as the weight of his words presses down on your chest. It feels like the world is spinning too fast, like everything you’ve done, everything you’ve sacrificed, is suddenly meaningless.

“Bucky,” You breathe, the tears finally coming. “I don’t know how to stop anymore. I can’t… I can’t let you go. I can’t-“

He pulls you into him, wrapping his arms around you tightly. “You’re not alone in this. You don’t have to do this by yourself. I’m here. I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere. Please… stop doing this to yourself.”

You close your eyes, feeling his heartbeat against your cheek, the steady rhythm grounding you. “I can’t… I’ve tried everything. I’ve tried to fix it. I don’t know how to stop it.”

“You don’t have to,” Bucky whispers, pressing his forehead against yours. “Let me help. You’re not alone in this. I’m not going to die again, not if I can help it. But you have to trust me. Trust us.”

The weight of his words crashes over you, and for the first time in what feels like forever, you let yourself breathe. You let yourself believe, just for a moment, that there’s another way. Another chance.

“You won’t die,” You murmur, as though testing the words on your tongue.

“I won’t die,” He affirms, his voice soft but firm. “But only if you let go of this loop. Let go of the pain. Let me be here with you.”

The silence between you two is heavy with the unspoken promise. The possibility that, maybe, there’s a way forward that doesn’t involve sacrifice, doesn’t involve losing yourself. That maybe, just maybe, you can live without having to rewind the world every time something goes wrong.

“Together?” You ask quietly.

“Together,” Bucky answers, holding you close.

And for the first time in what feels like forever, you allow yourself to believe that it’s true….

Until you don’t. Because he lied. He dies again. It was futile.

You stop counting.

Somewhere between the hundredth and thousandth reset, numbers stop meaning anything. You've tried ambushes, distractions, extraction before contact, calling in the others earlier, shielding him, shielding yourself, leaving. You've tried pretending you were never there. Tried running. Tried fighting harder. Stronger. Smarter. He always dies.

And now he knows. Bucky sees it in your eyes even before you reset. You don’t have to say it anymore. The moment things go wrong, he just looks at you, and there’s this helpless, aching resignation in his voice when he mutters, “Don’t.”

But you always do.

The loop consumes you like erosion that’s slow and invisible. You forget details. You forget whole days. You forget what smiling used to feel like. It doesn’t matter. None of it matters. As long as he lives.

Rewind.

-

This time, you're quiet when the bullet rips toward him. You don't scream his name. You don't even blink. You step in front of him.

The impact knocks the air from your lungs. Your body hits the ground before the pain registers. Heat blooms across your ribs like fire. And for some reason, Bucky manages to take out the sniper this time, the threat gone. He drops down beside you instantly.

His hands pressing into the wound, voice shaking. “No. No, no, no. Stay with me. Stay with me!”

Your mouth tastes like iron. Your fingers twitch, reaching weakly for his cheek.

“I did it,” You whisper.

His hands are covered in your blood.

“What are you talking about?” He breathes. “You’re gonna be fine. We’ll get help. You’ll be-“

“I broke the loop.” You manage a smile, cracked and fleeting. “You’re alive.”

His breath catches. He knows. Of course he knows. “You can still rewind,” He begs. “Please. One more. Just one more.”

You shake your head faintly. “No. This is the only way I could win.”

Tears slip down his face as he holds you closer, his voice growing frantic. “You can’t leave me. I don’t want this. Not like this. I’d rather die than lose you.”

You reach up, your blood-streaked hand brushing his jaw. “I’d rather lose myself than lose you.”

“You already did,” He chokes, voice breaking. “You already have, look what this did to you.”

You try to laugh, but it comes out as a wheeze. “Then let me rest now.”

“No. No-“ His arms shake as his shoulders crumble. “I love you. You don’t get to leave.”

Your fading eyes search his, and for once, they're not haunted.

“I know. That’s why I did this,” You whisper. “I love you too.”

Your hand falls and your breath stops.

And for the first time in hundreds of timelines, Bucky lives.

But in this one… You don’t.

Glitter, Gunfire, and Grape Juice

Summary: You throw yourself between a rookie and an energy blast.  Bucky panics. (Bucky Barnes x Avengers!reader)

Word Count: 1.3k+

Main Masterlist | Earth’s Mightiest Headache Masterlist

The mission was going well. Suspiciously well, which should’ve been your first red flag. Another ordinary Hydra facility with minimal guards that was unusually quiet. You were even humming as you strolled through the hallway, twirling a baton and pointing it at doors like a remote.

Behind you, Bucky muttered, “Don’t touch anything.”

You responded, “That’s exactly what someone hiding treasure would say.”

Sam sighed. “Can you at least pretend to take this seriously?”

“I am taking it seriously. That’s why I packed four granola bars and a Capri-Sun.”

Bucky grinned, despite himself. He always did when you were like this, loose-limbed and smiling. Like the world couldn’t possibly touch you, which made what happened next all the more terrifying.

It happened in the blink of an eye.

An explosion of sound coming from the energy shot from a hidden drone. It was too fast to stop, too sudden to predict. One of the rookies on the mission—a wide-eyed kid with barely two field ops under his belt froze, dead in the line of fire.

So you didn’t.

You shoved him out of the way with a grunt and took the hit square in the side. It knocked you off your feet with a sickening crack.

The kid shouted. Bucky screamed your name.

When you hit the floor, you blinked up at the ceiling like it had just betrayed you. “Oh,” You said, dazed. “That’s not ideal.”

You were bleeding, quite a lot. Bright red blooming fast across your suit, staining your hand as you pressed it to your side with a hiss. “Y’know,” You mumbled, “I don’t remember having this many organs.”

“Stay with me- hey, hey, stay with me.” Bucky was suddenly at your side, voice hoarse, pressing his hands over yours to help stem the bleeding. “You’re okay. You’re gonna be okay.”

You gave him a lazy grin, adrenaline running high. “If I die, delete my browser history and bury me with snacks. No one needs to know how often I google if raccoons can feel love.”

Bucky’s jaw clenched. “Don’t joke.”

“You love me because I joke.”

“I love you because you’re you,” He rasped. “But right now, I need you to fight and stay with me, okay?”

“Already fought,” You slurred. “I did the thing, saved the baby agent. Hero moment. I want a sticker.”

“Doll, if you die on me, I will bring you back just to yell at you.”

You laughed and winced immediately. “Hurts to laugh, write that down and it to the science books.”

The med team arrived then, Sam yelling over his comms, the rookie sobbing apologies, the chaos dimming into a kind of tunnel vision where all you could see was Bucky’s face above you. His eyes were wet and scared.

You lifted a bloody finger and tapped his nose weakly. “Boop.”

“God, you’re infuriating,” He whispered. Then he kissed your forehead with trembling lips. “Don’t leave me, okay? I don’t care how many granola bars you packed. You don’t get to check out early.”

-

A day later in the medbay, you woke up groggy and attached to enough wires to hack a satellite. You blinked blearily at the ceiling.

Bucky was there, instantly. “You’re awake.”

You looked at him then looked around. “Where’s my Capri-Sun?”

He closed his eyes like he was praying for patience. “You almost died, and that’s what you’re asking?”

“I saved a life, I bled dramatically, I deserve juice.”

He let out a shaky breath. Then, quietly, “Don’t ever do that again.”

You turned to get a good look at him. He looked wrecked honestly. Unshaven, sleepless, and red around the eyes. It’s clear he had barely left your side. “Hey,” You said softly, reaching for his hand. “I’m here.”

He held your hand like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to earth.

And for the first time, you didn’t joke. Didn’t quip. You just said, quietly, “I’d take the hit again, Buck. Every time.”

He leaned down, pressing his forehead to yours. “Don’t make me live in a world without you, alright?”

You smiled. “Deal. But next time, you bring the juice.”

-

As you had to spend more time in the medbay for recovery, you gradually grew bored. You’d never been a fan of hospital beds. They were too stiff, too white, too… beep-y.

So naturally, the first thing you did the moment you could sit up without passing out was try to climb out of one.

“Sit. Down.”

Bucky’s voice cracked like a whip across the room. He was standing by the medbay door with a takeout container in one hand and the fury of a thousand protective boyfriends in the other.

You blinked up at him. “I’m just stretching-“

“You have stitches, dumbass.”

You squinted. “You still love me though.”

He sighed and walked over, setting the food on your tray. “Unfortunately.”

You poked at the soup. “This doesn’t look like juice.”

“It’s miso. Doctor Cho said no juice until you’re off pain meds.”

You gasped like he’d personally betrayed your bloodline. “What about a popsicle?”

“You were clinically dead for twelve seconds and you want a popsicle?”

“…grape, preferably.”

Bucky pinched the bridge of his nose. “Why do I love you.”

You leaned back against the pillows, smug. “Because I am an intellectual enigma with the survival instincts of a cat in traffic.”

Before Bucky could respond, there was a knock on the door.

Enter: The Rookie.

He crept in like a kid walking into the principal’s office, holding something behind his back and looking two seconds from crying again. “H-Hey.”

You grinned. “If it isn’t the human shield I saved.”

He flinched. “I’m so sorry-“

“Hey, no. Don’t do that.” You waved your spoon like a wand. “No guilt in my presence. It was my call and I would do again.”

Bucky muttered, “Don’t say that,” but you ignored him.

The rookie stepped forward, visibly shaking, and handed you what looked like… a paper plate necklace. With glitter. It said: “#1 Chaos Hero.”

You stared at it, then at him, then back at it.

“I didn’t know what to get you and I felt awful and I don’t have clearance for flowers and this was the only glitter glue left in the break room,” He rambled. “Also it’s taped because we ran out of string.”

You put it on immediately. Bucky just stared like he was reevaluating every life decision that led him to this moment.

“This is the greatest honor I’ve ever received,” You declared.

“You’re literally wearing a paper plate.”

“From a child soldier,” You corrected.

“I’m nineteen!” The rookie said.

“Exactly,” You said.

Later on, Bucky helped you back to your quarters. The both of you were walking slow with his metal hand on your back like he was afraid you might fall apart again. You let him tuck you in, mostly because you were still high on painkillers and partially because you liked the way he fussed when he was scared.

“I mean it,” He said quietly, sitting beside you. “You can’t keep risking yourself like that. Not for people who won’t do the same.”

“They will someday. Because people pay kindness forward, especially when it costs someone else blood.” You nudged him. “Plus, you did the same for Steve a hundred times.”

“That was different.”

“It wasn’t.”

He was quiet for a long time. Then:

“I almost lost you.”

You took his hand and held it gently.

“But you didn’t.”

He leaned down and pressed a kiss to your temple. “You’re infuriating.”

“You love me.”

He sighed before whispering into your hair, “I really do.”

-

GROUP CHAT:

Tony: Who tf gave glitter glue to the interns?

Sam: The rookie made her a PAPER PLATE NECKLACE

Steve: She hasn’t taken it off in six hours.

Natasha: She told me it’s a ‘badge of honor’…

Wanda: They also threatened the vending machine for not having grape juice

Bucky: She got shot and she’s more upset about the juice

You: i saved a life AND survived a flesh wound, i earned grape juice

You: also i’m naming the scar after the rookie

Bucky: Please don’t

You: too late, buckaroo. i christen it kevin 2.0

[Bucky has left the group chat.]

Even If You Forget

Summary: After a mission gone wrong, Bucky loses all memory of his relationship with you. Though heartbroken, you patiently stay by his side, offering gentle support and quiet company. Despite the emotional distance, you hold onto the hope that someday he’ll find his way back. (Bucky Barnes x reader)

Word Count: 2.1k+

A/N: This has ANGST by the way. I absolutely adore anything to do with memories, so much potential. I might write another version of this where the reader loses her memories instead. You are responsible for the media you consume. Happy reading!

Main Masterlist | His Version

The mornings with Bucky were always slow, quiet, and warm.

His arm was usually draped over your waist by the time the sun started to creep through the blinds. He breathed a little heavier in the mornings, caught between dreams and the weight of his history. However, he never seemed to stir until you moved.

You liked it that way. It gave you time to look at him, at the faint worry lines that softened in sleep, at the longer strands of brown hair you liked to brush behind his ear, at the mouth that rarely smiled in public but had no trouble curving up for you when the world was far away.

You loved him deeply. In the way people loved after surviving something. There were scars on both of you and silences that stretched longer than they should’ve, but you understood him, and he had never once looked at you like he regretted being understood.

Your relationship had started quietly, like most things with Bucky did. It wasn’t love at first sight. It wasn’t loud declarations or stolen kisses in the rain. It was simpler. He’d sit near you during debriefings and glance over to make sure you understood the mission. He’d knock on your door late at night when he couldn’t sleep and leave a book outside if you didn’t answer. He remembered how you liked your coffee and never asked why you kept a light on when you slept.

Eventually, he started sitting a little closer. Touching your hand a little longer. Smiling a little easier. It wasn’t fast, but it was safe and real. You both needed that.

Sixteen months into the relationship, you'd moved in together into a tiny apartment, tucked above an old bookstore with creaky floors and a heater that only worked when Bucky kicked it. You painted the walls together. He helped pick out the furniture. You made him tea when his nightmares left him shaking, and he kissed your forehead when your hands trembled after bad missions.

He was never one to say I love you right away and especially not out loud. But he showed it, every single day.

And when he finally did say it, it was late at night, in the middle of an argument about laundry or groceries or something equally domestic and ridiculous when you both froze. He looked horrified that it slipped out. You looked stunned for barely a second before smiling and leaning closer to him, saying it back like it was the easiest thing in the world.

You thought nothing could take that from you.

But you were wrong.

You and Bucky had been paired up for another mission like normal to infiltrate an abandoned Hydra facility. Retrieve what remained of their stolen technology and data, destroy the rest. Bucky didn’t want you going in at first, but you reminded him that you were a trained operative, not a civilian. Besides, you worked better together anyways.

You were halfway through the facility when the alarms went off. Not an intruder alert but something else. Something that triggered deeper in the system. You split up briefly to cover more ground, and that was the last time Bucky looked at you like he knew who you were.

When you found him again twenty minutes later, he was hunched over and clutching his head near a strange, flickering device. When he raised his head, all you could see was cold, calculating eyes staring back.

Like a stranger.

And when you called his name, your voice shaking, and your hands reaching out to steady him; he backed away like you were poison.

“Who the hell are you?”

You froze in your spot. His voice wasn’t like Bucky’s. It was lower, flatter. Measured. It lacked the hesitant warmth that usually colored his words when he spoke to you. It was the voice of someone evaluating a threat.

Your hand, half-raised, trembled in the air between you.

“Bucky,” You whispered, like maybe the sound of it would crack something open. “It’s me.”

He stood slowly, the whir of his metal arm slicing through the silence. His eyes didn’t flicker with recognition. No softness. No guilt. Just analysis and caution.

You’d seen that expression before. Once. Years ago, when the Winter Soldier was still a ghost wandering about without a strip of autonomy. You definitely didn’t see this expression on the man who crawled into your bed at night and tucked a blanket around your shoulders.

But, here he was. You could feel how painfully your heart pounded in your chest.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” He said, almost to himself. He looked around, scanning the shadows like he expected enemies to crawl out of the dark. His hand hovered near the side holster at his thigh. “Who sent you?”

“No one sent me,” You said, stepping forward. “You’re-… Bucky, you’re not well. That machine, something happened. Let me help-“

“Stop,” He snapped. Your name was unfamiliar to him now. It didn’t make him pause. It didn’t register. “You’re not cleared to speak to me. I don’t know you.”

The words landed with brutal precision. You stepped back like you’d been struck. Because in a way, you had. He didn’t remember you.

The realization settled over you slowly, like frost creeping across glass. You felt your lungs tighten, your throat close. You could still see the outline of the relationship you'd built, months of laughter and late nights and slow healing, but he stood on the other side of it now, locked out.

You reached for your comm, fingers clumsy and stiff with dread as you called for backup and reported the situation.

When the team arrived, faster than you had expected, they didn’t ask many questions. You let them take over while you stood to the side, arms wrapped tightly around your chest, eyes fixed on the man who no longer knew your name.

Steve had been brought with the other agents. Miraculously, Bucky still remembered him and trusted his words to lead him to safety. He had followed Steve back to the Quinjet without hesitation. There was a time when he would have trusted you without a second thought too, but now you were just another stranger.

You sat in the back of the jet, silent and numb, your eyes never leaving his tense form. One hand was curled loosely near his chest. You remembered how he used to hold your hand that way when he slept. Like he needed to know you were real.

Now he didn’t know you at all.

Back at HQ, medical scans confirmed your worst fear. The machine had been some kind of neural disruptor, a crude prototype designed to extract and overwrite memory. Hydra tech, of course. The data was incomplete, scrambled, but the damage wasn’t.

He remembered Steve. Missions. Pieces of his past. It didn’t bring back the Winter Soldier thanks to his time in Wakanda. However, anything recent or anything soft, was gone.

You. Erased just like that.

You spent three days outside the glass of the room he stayed in, watching him rebuild his reality in pieces. He spoke little. Ate less. The team tried reintroducing him to other faces, but he flinched away from most of them. He was polite, distant, cautious. Like a soldier unsure of his orders.

Every time you entered the room, his eyes would land on you and linger. But they never softened. He never said your name, not even once.

And every night, you’d sit alone in your apartment above the bookstore, staring at the spot on the couch where he used to fall asleep during movie nights, wondering how you could miss someone who was technically still alive, just out of reach.

You never forced him to remember. You didn’t even try. Because you knew memory wasn’t something you could demand back. It wasn’t a switch you could flip or a locked door you could break down with frustration or anger. It was delicate. Fragile. Like glass edges that could cut him deeper if handled carelessly.

So instead, you became quiet. You became gentle even though visiting him wasn’t easy. Each time you entered the room, you reminded yourself to soften your eyes, to keep your voice low, calm. To be someone who he might feel safe with, even if he didn’t remember why.

“Hey,” You’d say, just like that. Simple. No pressure. No demands.

You’d bring small things like his favorite book, a picture from your last trip, or a worn jacket he’d left behind. You hoped these would speak to something buried inside him, a spark.

Some days, he’d look at you with confusion. Others, with suspicion. Sometimes, his eyes would flicker like he was searching for a ghost behind your face.

You hated that, but you never showed it. You never let him see it because you couldn’t. You remembered how lost he felt the first time you met him, before all the pieces of you and him fit together. And you knew patience was the only thread strong enough to hold you both together now.

Because you could tell he was afraid. Of you. Of himself. Of what he’d lost. And you were afraid, too. Afraid you’d never get him back. Afraid he’d forget the moments you shared, the trust you built. All the moments you shared together.

But you stayed. Every passing day, every painful visit, you stayed. Even when it hurt to see the distance in his eyes or the way his hand no longer found yours in the dark or the way his voice no longer softened when he spoke your name.

Because love wasn’t about forcing recognition or surfacing memories of what used to be. It was about waiting. Waiting until he could find you again, on his own terms.

-

In the halls of the Avengers compound, you often caught the looks of the team. Quiet glances that lingered too long before they quickly looked away. Soft expressions shadowed with pity. Sometimes, it was Tony shaking his head slightly when he thought you weren’t looking. Sometimes, Natasha’s eyes would meet yours briefly, sympathy buried beneath her usual stoic mask. Steve especially, steady as ever, gave you a small nod of understanding whenever your paths crossed.

They all knew. They knew what you were going through. They knew exactly what you had lost, but no one said it aloud. They didn’t need to after all.

You felt the weight of it, like invisible hands pressing down on your chest when you thought you were alone. The way they looked at you said, She’s holding onto someone who’s slipping away. She’s pretending to be okay, but she’s breaking.

You never asked for their pity. You never wanted it. It felt like another reminder that things were broken beyond repair. So you kept forcing yourself to keep your head high and to keep moving forward.

You showed up for briefings. You trained with the others. You made sure your smiles were steady, your voice calm. But deep within you, every step was heavy. Every breath felt borrowed. Because the truth everyone was coming to realize, no one could fix this but Bucky. And Bucky couldn’t remember you.

And as days bled into weeks, your visits with him continued. Still quiet, steady, and unyielding. But no breakthroughs. No magic moments where Bucky suddenly remembered your name or the warmth of your touch.

But slowly, you learned to be okay with that. Because sometimes, healing wasn’t about the big gestures. It was about the small ones.

A flicker of recognition in his eyes when you laughed at a joke you’d shared long ago. A twitch of hesitation before he pulled back when you offered your hand. A breath held a moment longer when you read aloud from his favorite book.

Those tiny cracks in the wall gave you hope.

One evening, as the sun dipped low, casting long shadows across the compound, you found yourself sitting beside him on the couch. No words were spoken, there was no need.

His hand, tentative and unsure, brushed against yours. You paused for a moment and didn’t dare pull away. Instead, you let your fingers intertwine slowly, grounding both of you in that fragile moment of connection.

It wasn’t the past rushing back. It wasn’t a promise of what would come. But it was something. A beginning. A chance. And sometimes, that was enough.

Because you knew this story wasn’t finished. Not yet.

And as long as you both were willing to try, maybe one day, he’d find his way back to you.

⛧⋆༺Whispers of the Gifted Masterlist༻⋆⛧

Pairing: Avengers x reader. (Mostly Bucky x reader unless requested otherwise.)

Summary: A collection of different one-shots with reader having different powers or abilities, each in their own universe.

Main Masterlist

Keys| Fluff ✿ | Angst ⛆ | Dark 𓉸 | Agere ʚɞ | Hurt/Comfort ❦

✿⛆❦ The Way He Notices - Reader with the ability to turn invisible. (Bucky Barnes x invisible!reader)

✿ In Every Form, You Still Saw Me - Reader with the ability to shapeshift. (Bucky Barnes x shapeshifter!reader)

❦ What You Can’t Heal - Reader with the power to heal. (Bucky Barnes x healer!reader)

⛆❦ The Price of Saving Until You Care - Reader has the power to transfer people’s injuries onto herself. (Bucky Barnes x Avengers!reader)

✿ Mischief Managed - Reader with the ability to talk to animals. (Bucky Barnes x Avengers!reader)

✿ Mischief Meets Alpine - Sequel to Mischief Managed. Reader with the ability to talk to animals. (Bucky Barnes x Avengers!reader)

Mischief Managed

Summary: With the power to talk to animals, your feline companion, Mischief, hates everyone at the tower except you. Therefore, when you start getting closer to Bucky, you watch as she slowly starts to trust the super soldier. However, with all things, it doesn’t go well at first. (Bucky Barnes x Avengers!reader)

Disclaimer: Reader has the power to talk to animals.

Word Count: 3k+

Main Masterlist | Whispers of the Gifted Masterlist

You never expected your strange bond with animals to shape your life so completely. From the time you were little, the voices of birds, dogs, squirrels, even ants, were a constant hum in your mind. You couldn’t explain how or why, but you understood them, and they understood you. You didn’t just hear noises or read body language. You heard words. Emotions. Stories. And most importantly, you could talk back.

At first, it was a secret. A party trick for only the most trusted friends, who usually assumed you were joking. But now, it’s just part of you. You’ve learned to filter out the constant chatter.

You’ve learned to help animals when they’re in trouble and, occasionally, when SHIELD needs it, use them for information. Sometimes, rats knew more about hidden Hydra facilities than satellites ever could.

But for all your strange gifts, you lived a relatively quiet life in the Avengers Tower. Most of the others accepted your ability with curiosity or amusement. Tony had tried to run tests on your brain, and Clint still jokingly called you “Dr. Dolittle.” You didn’t mind. Your companions whether they be feathered, furred, or scaled had always had your back. And one in particular? She guarded you like a dragon guards treasure.

Her name was Mischief. A sleek, coal-black cat with amber eyes and a resting glare that could curdle milk. You’d found her three years ago, injured and starving in an alley, snarling at rats and pigeons for scraps. She hadn’t trusted you at first, but the moment you spoke to her, really spoke, her entire posture changed. It took a few trips bringing food to her, taking things slow. And slowly, you began to realize you hadn’t just earned her trust, you’d earned her devotion.

Since then, she rarely left your side. Mischief judged everyone you interacted with, and she never hid her opinions. She Tolerated Steve. Hated Tony’s cologne. And she absolutely loathed anyone who flirted with you.

That became a problem the day Bucky Barnes moved into the Tower.

He was quiet, scarred, and carried the weight of too many ghosts behind stormy blue eyes. He barely spoke to anyone, kept to himself, and moved like someone always waiting to be attacked. You saw it the first day in how he looked at everyone sideways, how he didn’t sit with his back to a door, how he flinched when someone approached too fast.

And Mischief? She was watching him like he’d brought a knife to your front door.

She sat on the windowsill in your room, tail twitching, eyes narrowed like tiny slits of fire. He’s hiding something, Her voice was flat, echoing in your mind like dry leaves scraping across pavement. He smells like ghosts. Like regret mixed with metal and blood. I don’t like him.

You sighed, brushing a hand over her silky back. “He’s been through a lot. Be nice.”

Nice? You want nice? Find a golden retriever. I’m watching him.

You didn’t know it then, but Mischief’s “watching” would escalate. She wasn’t just wary of Bucky Barnes. She was preparing for war. And you? You were caught in the middle of a cold war between an ex-assassin with a tragic past… and your jealous cat.

It started small at first.

Bucky would pass you in the hallway, nod a quiet hello, and Mischief would hiss from your shoulder like a kettle set to boil.

You tried to explain it away as best as you could. "She’s just like that at first," You said once when Bucky raised a brow at the low growl coming from your tote bag. Mischief liked to crawl inside and travel with you unnoticed. “She doesn’t warm up easily.”

He gave a short, humorless chuckle. “Neither do I.”

You weren’t sure what drew you toward him. Maybe it was the way he always seemed almost comfortable in silence, the way he sat on the common room couch like it didn’t quite belong to him, or how he listened to conversations without ever trying to steer them. Maybe it was how he never asked you questions unless he thought the answer would matter. He was calm. Still. A rare kind of quiet you’d only ever felt around animals.

But Mischief noticed.

One night, you caught her sitting in the kitchen sink like a gargoyle, glaring at the hallway. When you asked what she was doing, she said, Waiting for the metal-armed brooder. If he comes in here again, I’ll gut the loaf of bread he likes.

Sure enough, Bucky wandered in a minute later, offered you a soft smile, and went for the exact loaf.

The next morning, it was shredded. You sighed at the sight as you went out to get a replacement.

Still, you didn’t stop spending time with him.

You started joining him in the gym after hours. The excuse given was wanting to stretch, but really, you just liked the way he relaxed when no one else was around. Sometimes you brought a dog or two in from the compound’s training fields, let them rest while you and Bucky talked. Or didn’t talk. You didn’t need to.

“I think animals like you,” You told him one evening, watching a scruffy mutt rest his head on Bucky’s knee.

He blinked down at the dog like it had just spoken fluent Russian. “That’s a first.”

He’s got soft hands, The dog murmured. I like him.

You smiled to yourself. “I think they know.”

“Know what?”

“That you’ve got a good heart.”

He looked away quickly, jaw tight. You didn’t say anything more, letting it go.

Later that night, Mischief perched on your chest like a stone weight and narrowed her eyes. You’re getting attached.

“I’m not.”

You are.

“You scratched a loaf of bread.”

It deserved it.

You sighed, having not expected that response, but then again, it was typical of her. Mischief wasn’t one to be easily appeased, and her possessiveness was notorious. But this time, she didn’t go on about it. Instead, she flicked her tail, an uncomfortable tension hanging in the air. Her voice softened, almost like a reluctant admission. You’re… different with him.

“Different?” You tilted your head, trying to understand her point.

You relax around him. You listen more. I don’t like it.

It struck a chord in you. You weren’t blind to the shift in your own behavior. With Bucky, things felt easier. Calmer. He had this way of being present and patient in a way that drew you in, as if there was a shared understanding of pain that made silences less heavy. Sure, there were times where the past still haunted him. But his company was always one you found yourself subconsciously seeking.

He didn’t demand things from you. He didn’t ask for anything you weren’t ready to give. And when you were with him, the world felt… simpler.

But Mischief’s words stung in a way you hadn’t anticipated.

“I’m not going to stop seeing him just because you don’t like it,” You murmured, feeling the weight of her gaze.

I know you won’t, She responded in a quieter tone now. But if he hurts you, I’ll bite his face off.

You chuckled softly at the absurdity of the threat. “I don’t think he’s the kind of guy who would hurt anyone… but thanks for the warning.”

Mischief gave a long, almost disappointed sigh, as if she realized there was nothing she could do to change your mind. You’ve always been good at ignoring my advice. I’ll be here, though. Watching.

And just like that, she padded off your chest and curled up on the windowsill, turning her back to you in a huff.

You didn’t feel the usual pang of guilt for not heeding her advice. Instead, you lay there, staring at the ceiling, thinking about Bucky’s quiet demeanor, his unspoken trust, and how, somehow, he made you feel less like an outsider.

But the cat was right about one thing: you were getting attached. And that was something even Mischief couldn’t stop.

Over the next few weeks, Bucky Barnes became a quiet fixture in your life. He wasn’t the kind to join in on group outings or large training sessions. He mostly kept to himself, which, in a way, you could relate to. The weight of his past was something you recognized in yourself. A type of emotional burden carried alone, pushing people away without ever intending to.

Mischief, however, now had different ideas about Bucky. She followed him around like a shadow, watching his every move, her eyes always narrowing suspiciously whenever he so much as looked in your direction.

And then came the first moment that Bucky spoke to her directly.

You were sitting in the common room, legs tucked underneath you, reading a book when Bucky entered, his usual silent demeanor drifting through the door like a storm cloud. You barely looked up, but Mischief did. She jumped down from the windowsill with a graceful thud, making her way slowly toward Bucky. He froze, eyes narrowing as she circled his feet.

"You've got a problem with me, huh?" He asked, voice low, as if speaking to a wild animal.

Mischief didn’t answer. Instead, she sat down and stared at him, her eyes unblinking, before giving a loud, unmistakable hiss.

Bucky took a slow, measured step back, unsure whether to laugh or be alarmed. “Right… definitely got a problem with me.”

You looked up from your book, feigning innocence. “She’s just… protective.” You tried not to laugh, but the cat’s blatant territorial behavior was almost too much.

“Protective?” Bucky raised an eyebrow. “Of you?”

You nodded, setting your book aside. “She doesn’t like anyone getting too close to me. Especially not new people.” You gave him a playful smile, though there was an undercurrent of caution. You had no idea what he might say next. Yeah, he’s graciously ignored her behavior the past couple of encounters. But you know that not everyone reacted well to Mischief’s… directness.

Bucky looked at Mischief, who was now sitting on the arm of the couch, staring at him with intense focus but a bit more relaxed. Like she was really assessing him now. He couldn’t seem to hide the slight tension in his shoulders, though his eyes softened just a fraction. “I’ll take her behavior as simply me being new then?” He asked with a wry grin.

You couldn’t help but chuckle. “Like I said before, she warms up to people eventually.”

“Eventually?” He turned to you, crossing his arms. “How long does that usually take?”

“A few months,” You answered, fully serious, but Mischief’s sudden purring interrupted the tension in the air. You blinked in surprise. Mischief didn’t purr for just anyone, certainly not for someone she didn’t trust who she had threatened previously.

You try not to make it a big deal, knowing maybe something changed her mind and she’s likely trying to give Bucky a chance for you. Or she’s trying to spite you. Either works.

Bucky let out a short, amused huff. “I guess I’m getting there.”

As time passed with your relationship with Bucky slowly becoming more comfortable, he started showing up more too. Helping you with groceries, joining you on the Tower’s rooftop garden, even sitting beside you when you fed a flock of sparrows that landed whenever you called. The birds adored you. One bold little sparrow even landed on Bucky’s knee once, chirped at him twice, and fluttered away.

“She says you look sad but safe,” You told him.

He stared at the spot where the bird had been. “…I’ll take it.”

You didn’t realize it back then, but Mischief had stopped watching Bucky like a threat. She still narrowed her eyes when he got too close, but the claws stayed retracted. And one morning, after Bucky fell asleep on your couch with a book resting on his chest, you walked into the room and found Mischief curled on the back of the couch above his head, keeping watch.

Don’t make this a habit, She warned, but you saw the way she rested her tail across Bucky’s shoulder like a soft little truce flag.

He didn’t wake up. But when he did, and she didn’t move, you didn’t miss the quiet surprise and the ghost of a smile on his face.

Bonus:

The Avengers had long accepted that Mischief was… a little difficult. And by “difficult,” they meant that she was impossible.

Steve tried to be friendly and charming, his warm smile and gentle hands never working when it came to earning her trust. He once tried to bribe her with tuna, only for her to leap onto the counter, knock the can on the floor, and give him a look that suggested he was the most pitiful creature to ever walk the Earth.

Tony, of course, had tried his usual route. Gifts. Expensive toys, cat condos, custom-made collars with diamond studs. Mischief had only hissed at him, her tail twitching with disdain, and turned her back on him every time he walked past. Tony had even tried to sneak in some extra treats with a drone, but Mischief had launched herself at it like a panther on a hunt, sending the drone crashing to the ground in a flurry of sparks and broken components.

Clint and Wanda were no better. Clint had tried talking to her like they were two old friends. He’d even imitated her meows, thinking he could “speak her language.” His reward was a sharp swipe to the face that left him sporting a red scratch for a week. Wanda had tried charm, offering the cat quiet moments and gentle pats. But Mischief simply stared, unblinking, until Wanda gave up, shaking her head and muttering, “She’s something else.”

A couple of the others had tried too, but failed just like the rest. They had all made their peace with it. Mischief was your cat, your problem. None of them expected to get closer to her.

So, when they found out Bucky managed to break some of her walls, it certainly drew some attention.

It wasn’t even anything spectacular at first. At first, it was just him sitting in the common room with his coffee, his book, his quiet presence that always seemed to put you at ease. You, in your usual spot, with Mischief curled at your feet.

But slowly, Bucky had started talking to her. Not in any particular way, just gentle words, a little teasing, soft hums that she might respond to. At first, they were just passing exchanges.

“You’re looking smug today,” Bucky had said, watching Mischief stretch out on the windowsill, her tail swishing slowly.

To his surprise, she’d looked at him, unimpressed, and flicked her tail toward the floor like she was dismissing him entirely. Bucky chuckled softly.

“That’s fine. I’m used to being ignored,” He’d muttered, before turning back to his book.

No one had thought much of it. Until it happened again. And again.

One afternoon, you came into the living room to find Bucky sitting cross-legged on the floor, Mischief lying across his lap. She’d never done that with anyone else. She was curled up, purring softly, and Bucky’s hand was resting just behind her ears, stroking her fur gently.

The other Avengers were lounging around, preparing for the evening’s mission debrief. Steve and Clint had been discussing logistics while Tony fiddled with a gadget, but all of them froze when they saw the scene unfolding in front of them.

Mischief, the aloof, temperamental queen of the Tower, was utterly content in Bucky’s lap.

Tony’s jaw dropped first. “Wait a minute,” He pointed at the scene. “Is that… Mischief?”

“Yeah…” Clint said, his voice a mixture of disbelief and awe. “Is she… purring?”

“I’ve never seen her so… calm,” Bruce added quietly, watching the scene. “She always runs away from us. We can’t even get close without her hissing or hiding.”

“I don’t understand,” Steve said, furrowing his brow. “What is he doing differently?”

Bucky glanced up, catching their stares. He shrugged with an easy grin. “I don’t know, she just… likes me, I guess.”

Everyone stared at him. Even Tony, who never really lacked for confidence, looked a little thrown off.

“How?” Wanda asked, her tone hesitant. “She’s never… let anyone get that close. Not even me, and I’ve tried for weeks.”

Bucky just chuckled, his hand continuing to stroke Mischief’s back. “I don’t know. Maybe she sees something in me. Or maybe I just smell like someone who doesn’t mind the silence.”

The others exchanged baffled glances. It was true. Bucky was quiet, reserved. He never pushed, never pried. Perhaps that had something to do with it. But no one could quite figure out how he’d managed to break through the barrier that had kept them all at arm’s length.

“I don’t think it’s just that,” Clint said thoughtfully, his eyes still on the cat, his fingers twitching like he was about to reach for her. “I’ve been here longer than you, man. And she’s never let anyone get that close.”

Bucky’s smile faltered for a moment, as if he was considering something deeper. “Maybe she just needed someone who didn’t expect anything from her.”

The team was silent, still watching Mischief as she stretched lazily on Bucky’s lap, a low purr vibrating the air around them. It was the first time anyone had seen her so relaxed in front of someone who wasn’t you.

Steve shook his head in disbelief. “I think we’ve just witnessed a miracle.”

Tony was already pulling out his phone. “I’m gonna start a betting pool. Bucky Barnes: Cat Whisperer. Who knew?”

Wanda chuckled softly, still a little stunned. “What did you do, Bucky? Did you offer her a deal?”

“I think she’s just decided I’m not worth the trouble,” He said, finally giving Mischief’s ears a gentle scratch that made her eyes flutter shut in contentment. “Sometimes, that’s all it takes.”

And just like that, the Avengers knew. There was something about Bucky Barnes, something quiet, something patient, that had finally cracked through the walls of the grumpy black cat that no one else had been able to breach.

Mischief had chosen him. And the rest of them? They were just going to have to deal with it.