Hello My Darlings!

i mean if you think about it, khal drogo was once jon snow’s uncle.

#this is how seo dan and gu seung joon should’ve ended in crash landing on you

2K CELEBRATION → 🎁 for @nyx4​ ↳ richard madden + inspo:

fire lines

based on a prompt for distracting work kisses.

for @myletternevercame. special thanks to @heidiamalia for the brainstorming session!

rated m.

Frank usually works through his lunch breaks.

He used to take them as far away from—well, everything—as he could, finding himself a lone edge on the roof or some corner of a vacant floor to eat his meal in relative quiet. But ever since Curt roped him into this management job, everything’s always coming to him whether he likes it or not.

And he doesn’t not like it, as it turns out.

It’s a small construction company, a kind of in-between place for hard-up vets to get work, either settling there or to steady their feet for something else that’s more suited to them. The work feels meaningful in that way. Karen had recently coerced a beat reporter from the Bulletin’s local business section into writing up a piece on them, and the glowing review brought in more and more jobs for his guys. Frank has found it surprisingly gratifying, minus all the paperwork.

So much goddamn paperwork.

He’d never pegged himself for an office space kind of guy. He prefers to be out there, in the midst of things with the others—so he spends most of his days doing just that, saving all that bureaucratic bullshit for his lunch breaks in his office trailer.

He’s heading there now, after a rougher-than-usual morning spent on some stubborn electrical wiring. He thinks of all the other kinds of work waiting for him in his trailer and groans, half-wishing he’d packed a beer with his sandwich today.

He shields his gaze from the midday sun, and then he turns, and he sees her.

Keep reading

SINNERS 2025 | dir. Ryan Coogler

Hold Your Breath (Pt 2)

pairing | post-civil!war!bucky x reader

word count | 15.8k words

summary | a year after the fallout of the sokovia accords, the avengers come out of hiding and turn to nelson & murdock for legal defense. as you work alongside them, the tension between you and bucky barnes simmers—still unresolved since the night you pulled him back from the edge in berlin.

tags | (18+), MDNI, p in v sex, clothed sex, unprotected sex, emotionally loaded sex, desperate sex, oral sex (f), tastefully filthy, post-civil war, canon divergence, legal drama (loosely interpreted), not legally accurate but emotionally accurate, slow burn, unresolved tension, friends to lovers, emotional intimacy, DAREDEVIL CROSSOVER, matt murdock being a protective menace, soft!bucky, angst/comfort, lots of lawyer stuff, don’t look too closely, minor!steve x reader

a/n | soooo many requests for a part two of this, so loosely based on this request. Enjoy folk

likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨✨

ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ — ᴘᴀʀᴛ 1

The storm had passed, but neither of you moved.

The warehouse around you was still—the creaks of its old bones quieter now, softened by the hush of early morning pressing against its walls. Somewhere beyond the steel and brick, the world kept spinning. But in here, in this makeshift room, time had slowed.

Bucky hadn’t said much since.

Not out of shame, not even guilt. Just… stillness. Like everything inside him had finally gone quiet.

You didn’t know how long you lay there. You didn’t care.

His body was still pressed to yours, skin warm, breath slow, steady now. At some point, you shifted slightly, your head tucked against his shoulder, one of his arms snug around your waist. The other lay across your back, vibranium fingers resting gently at your spine like he was afraid to let go—even in sleep.

Or whatever this was.

You didn’t know if he was fully asleep. You weren’t sure if you were, either.

You just… existed. Together.

And it was enough.

The room was dark save for the weak amber glow of an old light strip still clinging to life in the hallway. The silence wasn’t awkward. It was earned. The kind of silence that came only after something had cracked open.

Every so often, you’d shift, and his arms would tighten around you instinctively. Protective. Grounded. Like he still needed to know you were real.

You ran your fingers gently along the nape of his neck, brushing through his hair, and whispered soft things you didn’t need him to remember—just things you needed him to feel.

“I’m still here,” you breathed.

And he exhaled, long and low, his face pressing into your shoulder.

You didn’t know where your body ended and his began.

All you knew was that you were wrapped in each other, and that for the first time in what must’ve been years… he slept without fear.

────────────────────────

The soft blue wash of morning light filtered through the cracked windows as you slowly began to dress.

Your limbs moved on instinct, your body still humming with the aftermath of last night—not just the sex, but everything that came with it. The breaking. The rebuilding. The silence that wasn’t empty anymore.

His gaze was heavy—not hungry like before, but quiet, almost forlorn. Like every inch you put between you and the mattress carved a little more out of him.

You paused to pull your jeans up over your hips and glanced at him, and he was still watching.

He sat on the edge of the mattress, jeans tugged back into place but still shirtless, elbows resting on his thighs, fingers laced. He watched you like you were already gone.

You paused, gave him a soft look. “Hey.”

His eyes flicked up.

“You okay?”

He didn’t answer right away.

Just gave the smallest nod. A lie, but not one you’d call out.

You pulled your shirt over your head, not bothering to fix the buttons just yet. Bucky finally moved, reaching slowly for his own shirt, tugging it down over his chest. He moved like someone whose body felt heavier today. You didn’t push. You let the silence wrap around the both of you again.

Then—voices.

Faint, at first. Outside.

You stood instinctively, moving toward the warehouse’s main entrance, brushing your fingers against Bucky’s shoulder as you passed—just a soft press. “Be right back.”

He looked like he wanted to say something.

But he didn’t.

────────────────────────

You stepped out into the chill, pulling your shirt tighter around your body, still half-buttoned from earlier. The wind carried the rustle of boots, the clink of gear, and quiet voices—tones you recognized even before you saw the faces.

Steve.

Sam.

And not just them.

Clint Barton stood to one side, squinting against the light like he hadn't slept. Wanda lingered near him, arms crossed, her posture at ease but eyes sharp as ever. And then there was a man you didn’t recognize—nervous, fidgeting, trying too hard not to.

“Oh, great,” you said, loud enough to carry. “I thought you were retired.”

Clint grinned. “I was. Then the world wouldn’t stop spinning without me.”

You snorted.

The stranger stepped forward next, hand extended. “Hi! Uh—Scott. Scott Lang. Ant-Man.”

You blinked. “Ant… what?”

“Ant-Man,” he said again, more sheepish this time. “It’s fine, you probably haven’t—uh, it’s complicated.”

You gave a small, puzzled smile, still reaching to shake his hand as you introduced himself.

Scott blinked, “Attorney like lawyer attorney.*

You smiled faintly. “Yeah.”

Scott gave an exaggerated sigh of relief. “Oh thank god. Do you… have a card or something? I have a feeling I’m gonna need legal help after this.”

Your eyebrows lifted, but you reached into your bag and handed him one anyway.

“I like you already,” he added, tucking it into his pocket with too much care.

“Try not to get arrested, then.”

He gave a nervous laugh. “No promises.”

Steve had been watching from a few steps away. Now he moved toward you, expression tight with everything he couldn’t say. He looked tired in a way you hadn’t seen before—like the kind of tired that lived behind his eyes.

“Thanks for looking after him,” he said quietly.

You nodded. “Of course.”

But he just stood there, gaze lingering, and suddenly he looked younger somehow—less like Captain America, and more like the boy from Brooklyn you’d first met years ago.

Without thinking, you stepped forward, arms wrapping around his middle. He held you tight, his chin resting briefly against your hair.

“You sure you’re okay?” you asked, voice muffled in his jacket.

“No,” he said simply. “But I’ve got to be.”

You pulled back slowly, pressed a quick kiss to his cheek.

“Be careful, Steve. Please.”

“I always try,” he said, too lightly. Then, more sincerely, “You should go back to New York. Before this gets worse.”

Behind you, Sam appeared with his usual dry grin, clapping you on the back.

Behind you, there was a pause.

Sam wrapped an arm around your shoulders, warm and easy. “Glad to see he didn't burn the place down.”

“Really missed your charming optimism, Sam,” you said dryly.

“I’m gonna pretend that’s not sarcasm.”

“You do that.”

And then you felt it.

Eyes.

You turned—

And there he was.

Bucky stood in the doorway, fully dressed, stiff in the shoulders like he was bracing for impact. His jaw was tight, his arms stiff at his sides, as if even existing around other people took work.

But it was his eyes that struck you.

Not blank. Not lost.

Just… guarded. And something else. Something small and aching curled behind them.

The light hit him in that strange, soft way—dust curling through it like a veil between you. Like last night had been a hallucination, and now he was slowly retreating back into whatever shadows he’d crawled out of.

You stepped toward him, slow, like approaching a wounded animal. For a breath, you thought he might back away.

But he didn’t.

You stopped just short of touching, voice quiet. “I guess this is it.”

He didn’t answer.

His eyes searched yours with something close to panic—not sharp, not loud. Just quiet, restrained apprehension. Like his body knew you were leaving before his mind caught up.

And then—you moved.

Without hesitation, you stepped in and wrapped your arms around his neck.

No preface. No invitation.

Just the steady press of your cheek against his shoulder, your heartbeat open against his chest.

He froze.

Just for a second.

And then—he folded around you.

One arm slid around your waist, the other lifting to the back of your neck, his palm splayed flat against your hair. He didn’t tremble. He didn’t pull back.

He held you.

Not loosely. Not politely.

Fully. Fiercely.

As if his body knew how to stay when his mind didn’t.

Sam made a low sound, almost a whistle. “Well… ain't that something.”

Steve stood a step back, face drawn tight, watching—his eyes didn’t narrow, but they didn’t blink either.

You pulled back slowly, just enough to look up at Bucky.

“You’ll be okay,” you whispered.

Still, no words.

But his arms stayed locked around your waist.

You shifted, tried to step back.

And that’s when he grabbed you.

His arms tightened—one quick, almost frantic pulse—and before you could guess what was happening, his hand came to your jaw and he kissed you.

Right there.

In front of everyone.

You let out a small, stunned sound against his mouth, hands flattening against his chest—caught between the instinct to pull him closer and the need to stop him.

The kiss wasn’t gentle.

It was desperate.

Like he was pouring every last thing he didn’t know how to say into you. Like if he could just press hard enough, stay close enough, it might change what came next.

Eventually, you had to break it.

You pulled back, breath caught in your throat, your cheeks burning.

He looked down at you, eyes heavy and sad, lips slightly parted like he’d already regretted it—but wouldn’t take it back.

You stared at him, then past him.

And couldn’t meet Steve’s eyes.

You just… turned.

And walked away.

Every step felt like your skin didn’t fit right anymore. Like something inside you was fraying.

Because Bucky’s need wasn’t about affection. It wasn’t even about you, not really.

It was survival.

And now it sat heavy in your chest—because whatever happened last night, however real it had felt in the dark, it was suddenly too complicated in the light.

And you couldn’t help but feel like you’d taken something he wasn’t ready to give.

────────────────────────

By the time you made it back to Hell’s Kitchen, the sun had long since dipped behind the rooftops, and the office was its usual brand of organized chaos—papers stacked on every surface, the smell of burnt coffee lingering in the air, and four overworked friends pretending they weren’t a little bit in love with the mess.

You were leaning against the edge of the desk, arms crossed, scanning the top page of a police report with your glasses pushed up on your head. Foggy was pacing near the window, chewing on the cap of a pen like it owed him money. Matt sat in his chair, fingers steepled, listening as Karen flipped through another file.

“He’s claiming excessive force,” Karen said, voice even but skeptical. “But the responding officer was a foot shorter and eighty pounds lighter.”

“So,” you said, arching a brow, “a minor traffic violation turns into a broken nose and four cracked ribs, and that’s the story we’re running with?”

Matt gave a tiny shake of his head. “There’s video. Grainy, but enough to show the officer wasn’t the aggressor.”

Foggy stopped pacing, waving the pen. “Which means we either settle or poke holes in the narrative until someone blinks.”

You leaned over to grab another file, muttering, “God forbid we ever have a client who tells the truth.”

Karen snorted. “What fun would that be?”

“See, that’s why she gets paid the big bucks,” Foggy said, raising his coffee in salute. “Our legal assassin.”

You opened your mouth to say something equally smart-assed, but Karen beat you to it.

“Well, she does have experience with super soldiers.”

Your pen froze mid-note.

The room stalled, just for a second. Like the punchline hadn't landed—or maybe had landed too well.

You didn’t look up right away. Just capped your pen slowly, deliberately.

Foggy blinked. “Wait—like Captain America super soldier?”

“No,” you said calmly, still not meeting anyone’s eye. “I did not sleep with Captain America.”

Then you did look up—right at Karen, who had the decency to look stricken. You tilted your head. “That was said in confidence. Over Chinese food. And wine.”

Karen winced. “I thought Matt knew!”

“I didn’t,” Matt said quietly, not judgmental exactly, but there was a shift in the air. A subtle tightening.

Karen rushed to explain. “I thought she told you about the Bucky Barnes.”

Foggy made a small choking noise. “Wait—so, hold on. The Winter Soldier? That guy with the metal arm and murder eyes? You slept with—?”

You raised a hand. “Foggy.”

He shut his mouth with a sheepish grin.

You turned back to Matt, who hadn’t said anything else. His jaw was tight, unreadable behind those glasses. You could feel his attention like a weight.

“Just because we grew up together doesn’t mean we tell each other everything,” you said lightly, but the air had cooled.

Karen looked like she wanted to crawl under the table. Foggy was half-shocked, half-impressed.

But Matt… he didn’t say a word.

Not at first.

When he did speak, it was quiet. “You told me you were going to Berlin for a few days,” he said. “You said it was personal.”

You didn’t blink. “It was.”

He tilted his head slightly, brows drawn. “You went to help Captain America.”

You sighed through your nose, pressing your fingers to the edge of the table. “I did help Steve.”

There was a beat.

Then, without warning, his voice cut sharper than you expected.

“And in what universe did you think sleeping with an international war criminal was a smart decision?”

The room froze.

Foggy blinked. Karen stopped mid-sip of her coffee. The air between the four of you shifted so fast it was like the ground tilted.

You set your pen down carefully. “Are you serious right now?”

“I’m dead serious,” Matt said, crossing his arms. “That wasn’t just reckless—it was stupid. He’s unstable. He’s dangerous. And you—what in your right mind would make you do that?”

You scoffed, leaning forward now. “Wow. Okay. Are you shaming me, Matthew?”

“I’m trying to understand what part of this sounded okay in your head,” he snapped, voice rising just a notch. “He's a man that has just come out of severe brainwashing and you—what, thought it was a good time to sleep with him?”

Karen flinched. Foggy stood, trying to wedge a word in.

“Matt—come on, man—”

But Matt wasn’t finished.

“I knew helping Rogers was already a stretch,” he continued, ignoring the interruption. “But this? You’re a lawyer. You’ve seen what men like Barnes do in your cases. You know what it looks like when someone isn’t capable of giving consent.”

That hit you in the chest like a blow.

You stood.

“You think I don’t know that?” you snapped, voice sharp now. “You think I haven’t been thinking about that every hour since I left him?”

Karen stepped between you, hands up. “Guys—hey, hey—”

But Matt didn’t back off. “Then what were you doing? What were you thinking?”

“I was thinking,” you said, trembling now—not from sadness, but indignation—“that I’d never seen someone look more afraid to be alive. I was thinking that he needed someone to treat him like a human being for once in his goddamn life.”

Foggy stood as well, voice low but firm. “This is not the time.”

But the air was already too thick with everything that had gone unsaid for years.

Matt shook his head slowly. “He’s not your responsibility.”

“No,” you said bitterly. “But neither were you at Saint Agnes. And that never stopped me.”

Silence.

Even the hum of the old radiator seemed to hush itself.

Then the TV flickered—static for a second—before the volume kicked in. The newsroom anchor’s voice, flat and grim, broke the silence that had followed your argument with Matt.

“…former Avengers Steve Rogers and Sam Wilson are confirmed to be in hiding following a classified prison break from the Raft—a maximum-security facility designed for enhanced individuals. The prison housed members of the rogue Avengers detained after the Leipzig airport incident in Germany.”

You stiffened.

The anchor continued as footage played—blurry helicopter shots of the ocean-bound Raft. Steel, water, storm.

“Security footage has not been released to the public, but officials confirm the breakout was staged by none other than Rogers himself. The former Captain America is now considered a fugitive by the United Nations, alongside Wilson and others believed to be aiding him.”

Karen lowered her coffee slowly, frowning.

“Sources also indicate that James Buchanan Barnes—known as the Winter Soldier—was not housed at the Raft, but is considered armed and internationally wanted. Barnes was last seen with Rogers in Siberia and is now suspected to have fled with him. Their current whereabouts remain unknown.”

The words blurred.

The room receded.

Because you weren’t hearing the anchor anymore—you were hearing Steve.

“I don’t think this’ll end well.”

You had heard the resignation in his voice when he’d said it—like he was already bracing for the fallout. Like he already knew.

And now it was here.

Karen’s voice was a soft whisper beside you. “Oh God.”

You let out a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh.

Matt didn’t say anything. His jaw was still tight, and you could feel his scrutiny like a second pulse under your skin.

But he wasn’t the one you were listening for anymore.

You gathered your files and walked toward the door, brushing past them all with a quiet, “Let me know if we're filing,” before stepping out into the hallway.

Karen looked at you like she wanted to say something—but didn’t. Foggy rubbed a hand over his face, sinking down into his chair with a pained groan. “Wow. That was… hilariously bad timing.”

And Matt… just sat there.

Arms crossed.

Jaw set.

Still convinced he was right.

And not feeling any better for it.

1 Year Later

Nelson & Murdock, Hell's Kitchen — Late Morning

The debate in the cramped office was escalating fast.

“You’re missing the point,” you said flatly, flipping the case file closed. “We’re not here to do what feels morally correct. We’re here to win.”

Matt’s head tilted, his brows knitting in that quiet, exasperated way of his. “It’s not about morality. It’s about precedent. If we push this—”

You cut in, calm but curt. “We let landlords in this city get away with enough. I’m not handing them another loophole.”

Karen raised her voice gently, trying to stem the friction. “Maybe we take five—”

You turned her way. “I’m not asking for much, just once—just once—to have one of you on my side.”

Karen put her hands up. “I’m not siding with anyone!”

“Right because you're always playing referee.“

“I’m not playing anything,” she replied, shoulders tensing.

You turned to Foggy, who had been suspiciously quiet.

“Don’t even try to claim neutrality. You always back him.”

“I do not—” Foggy began, already knowing he was beat.

You held up a finger. “You backed him on the parole hearing for that mob accountant who had bodies in three boroughs. You backed him when we took on the Russian construction union—without confirming who was financing them. Hell, you backed him on the Diaz brothers appeal and that guy confessed twice.”

Foggy winced. “That was one time.”

“Three,” you corrected, “It was three times, Foggy.“

The debate had just hit a simmer when the door creaked open.

Karen froze mid-sentence. Her eyes widened. “Oh my god.”

You turned, already sensing something was off—and then your breath caught.

Four figures stepped inside. No one said a word.

Steve Rogers. Natasha Romanoff. Sam Wilson. And James Buchanan Barnes.

All stood just inside the office. Not armored. Not armed. But carrying the weight of a hundred headlines and a year of silence.

Steve stood just inside the doorway, not in the uniform, but unmistakably Captain America. His jaw was a little tighter, with a beard now, but the way he held himself—calm, decisive, eyes scanning the room with practiced awareness—hadn’t changed.

Beside him, Sam Wilson, cool and watchful. Natasha Romanoff, all composed silence and lethal grace, and now… blonde. And then—

Bucky Barnes.

Long hair tucked behind his ears, jaw shadowed with a thick beard, dressed in black. His presence was quiet but sharp—like the air changed around him. His eyes, slate blue and piercing, found yours and held there. He didn’t blink.

You didn’t meet his gaze.

You shifted focus—to Steve.

Matt, from behind the desk, tilted his head. His senses picked up the weight in the air—the loaded silence, the tightened heartbeats, the shift in everyone’s posture.

Foggy, stunned, leaned toward Matt and muttered under his breath, “Uh—Cap, The Falcon, Black Widow, and the Winter Soldier just walked into our office.”

Matt didn’t even flinch. “I figured,” he said quietly. “That’s a lot of boots.”

Steve stepped forward, voice steady. “We need counsel.”

Natasha’s eyes flicked toward you. “And we're here for your help.”

You were still standing by the table, arms folded tightly. “That’s a long way to travel for a consultation.”

“We’re trying to re-enter the world,” Steve said. “We want to do it the right way.”

Karen finally found her voice. “I thought you were fugitives.”

“We are,” Sam said, with a small shrug. “Just figured maybe it was time to try something less dramatic.”

You looked at Matt—because it was still his firm.

Matt turned his face slightly toward the sound of Steve’s voice, his expression unreadable. “With all due respect… you’re not exactly the kind of clients we’re licensed—or funded—to represent. You’re under international surveillance, and we’re a neighborhood firm in Hell’s Kitchen.”

“We’re not asking for a full legal team,” Steve said. “We’re asking for her.”

Matt’s jaw ticked subtly.

His hands folded on the desk, his expression unreadable behind his dark lenses.

“Our jurisdiction doesn’t cover what you’ve been accused of,” he said, addressing Steve directly, though his words encompassed all four fugitives. “We handle housing evictions. Police misconduct. Petty criminal defense. What you’re asking for isn’t just risky—it’s out of our league.”

Bucky hadn’t said a word since stepping inside. But you could feel his gaze—hot, weighty, locked on you like gravity. You kept your expression neutral, your eyes on Matt.

“They’re not walking into any firm uptown,” you said, arms crossed. “And every second they stay on the run, they look guiltier. You know that.”

Matt nodded slowly—measured, cautious. “Then give us a minute.”

Steve gave a slight nod in return.

Without another word, Matt motioned toward the hallway. You, Foggy, and Karen followed him into his office, the door clicking shut behind you.

────────────────────────

The second the door closed, you rounded on Matt.

“This is the part where you tell me we’re turning down Captain goddamn America?”

Matt didn’t flinch. “This isn’t just about Steve.”

“No. It’s about people who tried to do the right thing and were burned by bureaucracy.”

Matt stepped closer, voice low, deliberate. “It’s about us being a three-person law firm in Hell’s Kitchen with no security, no resources, and no international immunity. Do you have any idea what taking this case means?”

“Yes,” you snapped. “It means we actually do something that matters.”

He lifted his chin slightly. “We’d be standing against the United Nations. Against General Thaddeus Ross. Against the Sokovia Accords.”

You leaned in. “Which, by the way, are unconstitutional. Half the legal scholars in the country are already saying it.”

“And half the world signed on,” Matt countered. “Which makes it binding. These aren’t small charges. This is global policy.”

Karen stepped between you both, her palms lifted. “Okay, let’s all take a breath—”

“Karen,” you said, exasperated. “We do not need referee again.”

Foggy raised his hand, hesitant. “Not to interrupt, but… guys, I don’t think the walls are that thick.”

A beat.

Then— Sam's voice called from the other room.

“He’s right.”

You closed your eyes and sighed.

Matt dropped his voice, almost a whisper. “You’ve got history with Rogers,” Matt said evenly. “You’re not objective.”

You met his gaze, cold steel behind your eyes. “Don’t—”

“Are you doing this for them?” Matt pressed. “Or for us?”

A pause.

“For us,” you said finally. No hesitation. “Because if this firm stands for anything—if we really mean all that justice-for-the-voiceless rhetoric—then we don’t walk away when it gets hard.”

Matt stared at you. Silent.

Karen moved closer, her voice softer. “If we don’t help them… who will?”

Another silence.

Outside, the scrape of boots on the wood floor. Maybe someone pacing. Waiting.

Finally, Matt nodded once. Sharp. Decisive.

“Then we do this carefully.”

────────────────────────

The door to Matt’s office creaked open and the four of you re-emerged, expressions tight and unreadable. The air in the main room was still thick with silence, though Sam leaned casually against the wall, arms crossed, wearing a knowing grin.

“Let me guess,” he said lightly. “That was the ‘don’t take this case’ speech?”

Foggy gave a small shrug. “More like a group therapy session with legal consequences.”

Matt stepped forward, composed, and focused entirely on Steve. “There are serious risks here. For all of us. This isn’t one case. It’s two.”

He turned to the group at large, folding his hands over his midsection. “One is the Sokovia Accords. The legality of operating as enhanced individuals without government oversight. Violating international protocol, fleeing detainment, staging a breakout at a maximum security prison. That alone could get you extradited.”

He shifted slightly, his tone measured. “The second is Barnes.”

You felt it before Matt even said it.

“Everything the Winter Soldier did under Hydra’s control—assassinations, covert destabilizations, attacks on U.S. soil. That’s a separate case. Separate charges. Separate legal challenges.”

Bucky, who had remained still near the wall, barely reacted—but his jaw flexed, just slightly.

Matt continued, voice low and clinical. “Legally, emotionally, those two cases need to be separated. Treated with different strategies.”

You nodded once, slowly. “Makes sense.”

Matt turned to you, expression unreadable behind the dark lenses. “You’ll take the Sokovia case. With Karen.”

You blinked. “Matt—”

“—I’ll oversee Barnes’ case,” Matt said. “Foggy and I can manage the prep, the research, the filings.”

There was a beat. Just long enough for the subtext to land.

You knew why he’d made the call.

Because of Berlin.

You didn’t argue.

You just nodded. “Fine.”

Karen glanced between you both, clearly picking up on the tension, but said nothing.

Steve spoke up. “We trust you. All of you.”

Matt nodded once. “Then we’ll need everything. Every detail. Nothing sealed. Nothing omitted.”

Natasha, quiet until now, gave a faint, dry smile. “You’re going to be real popular in Washington.”

Matt didn’t return it. “I’m used to being unpopular.”

Your eyes flicked—briefly—to Bucky. He hadn’t moved. Hadn’t spoken. But he was still watching you.

You turned back to the team. “Alright. Let’s get to work.”

────────────────────────

Two Months Later

The old television bolted to the corner of the wall crackled with static before clearing into focus—just in time for the morning news anchor to smile with the smugness of someone who knows they’re about to deliver the most interesting story of the week.

“In a move that’s turning heads across the country—and sending the internet into overdrive—Captain America, Black Widow, and the Falcon have officially stepped out of hiding.“

You looked up from your case notes. Karen froze with her hand half-dipped into a bag of bagels. Foggy leaned in.

“Two days ago, in a move that surprised just about everyone, former Avengers Steve Rogers, Natasha Romanoff, and Sam Wilson appeared at the Federal Court of Appeals in Washington D.C., accompanied by their legal representation from—get this—a small, previously low-profile law firm operating out of Hell’s Kitchen.”

The image cut to grainy footage of you, Matt, Foggy, and Karen flanking the group like a mismatched legal cavalry.

“Nelson & Murdock, previously known for representing low-income residents and suing city contractors for asbestos violations, now finds itself at the helm of the most closely watched legal proceedings since the Accords were signed. The defendants, who include Rogers and Romanoff, are seeking to challenge the legality of the Sokovia Accords themselves…”

The anchor’s tone shifted slightly, eyes flicking to the teleprompter.

“…and yes, among them is James Buchanan Barnes, aka the Winter Soldier, whose history as a Hydra operative makes this not just a case of civil liberties—but of reckoning with war crimes. His charges, we’re told, are being handled separately by the same firm.”

The screen showed Bucky stepping out of a black SUV, flanked by Matt and you. His eyes were cast downward. Yours weren’t.

“Their lawyers declined to comment, but sources close to the case say the team has already begun mounting a complex dual defense—one tackling international law, the other psychological trauma under state-sponsored manipulation. It’s ambitious. Whether Nelson & Murdock are brilliant… or just insane? Time will tell.”

Matt muted the screen with the remote.

A beat.

No one said anything for a long moment.

“Brilliant or insane,” you murmured. “Could be both.”

Foggy popped a cold fry into his mouth. “Leaning toward insane.”

Karen smiled tightly, but her eyes were distant. “You know what this means, right? If we lose… this isn’t just bad press. It’s over. For the firm.”

You leaned back in your chair, the glow of the TV soft against your skin. “Then we don’t lose.”

────────────────────────

The hum of conversation and typing filled the small legal office, broken only by the occasional scrape of a chair or the tired sigh of someone realizing they’d reread the same sentence for the third time.

Karen sat beside you at the center table, files on the Sokovia Accords spread open like a battlefield between you. Natasha leaned against the window sill, unreadable as always, arms crossed. Sam paced behind his chair, restless energy rolling off him like heat. Steve sat back, quiet but alert, his gaze following every word exchanged like a chessboard in motion.

“Paragraph twelve, subsection four,” Karen muttered. “The clause on oversight jurisdiction contradicts itself. It mandates UN supervision but assigns implementation to national governments.”

You blew a slow breath through your nose. “That’s either an oversight or a trap. Both are bad.”

“Welcome to international policy,” Natasha drawled, not looking up.

Sam made a low noise in his throat. “Well, joke’s on them.”

From beyond the glass wall of Matt’s office, another voice filtered through—rougher, heavier. Bucky’s.

“No. I don’t remember the name. He was wearing a blue ring, I think. Target was in Warsaw. Hydra flagged them as a threat to... something.”

Foggy’s voice followed, steady but gentle. “You’re doing fine, Bucky. Just talk us through what you remember, even if it’s fragments.”

There was a beat of silence, and then Matt’s voice, calm but firm. “And the handlers? The ones who triggered you—how often did they use the code?”

“It varied,” Bucky said. “If I resisted... more.”

You glanced toward the frosted glass separating the rooms. Bucky was a vague shape on the other side, head down, broad shoulders hunched like he was trying to disappear into the chair. Matt stood opposite him, arms folded, Foggy sitting nearby with a yellow legal pad already half-filled in cramped handwriting.

“He’s been in there for two hours,” Karen said softly, reading your look.

“He’s cooperating,” Steve murmured. “But it’s not easy. I wouldn’t want to talk about it either.”

Back in your office, you flipped another page in the Accords briefing. Your fingers were starting to cramp.

“The entire structure of this thing is meant to constrain,” you muttered. “They want to turn the Avengers into government employees. And if they refuse, it’s jail. Or worse.”

“They tried that,” Sam muttered. “Didn’t work out for them.”

Karen leaned back and scrubbed a hand down her face. “We’re going in circles.”

“No,” you said, “we’re dancing around landmines.”

Another silence.

Karen stood abruptly. “Okay, this isn’t working. We’re all burned out. We need a break.”

You blinked, half in protest. “Karen—”

“You’re losing your mind over there, I’ve read the same paragraph three times, and Steve looks like he’s reconsidering all of his life choices.” She pointed at the door. “I’m declaring a recess.”

From the other end of the table, Steve raised an eyebrow. “Recess?”

“Josie’s,” she clarified. “We go, we drink, we breathe. Otherwise one of us is going to snap and file a motion to burn the Accords in front of the UN.”

Romanoff arched a sleek brow. “What’s Josie’s?”

You didn’t look up as you gathered the pages into a pile. “A dive bar two blocks from here. Sticky floors, strong drinks. A Hell’s Kitchen classic.”

Sam grinned. “Sold.”

Karen poked her head into Matt’s office. “We’re going for drinks. You’re coming. No debate.”

Matt looked up, eyebrow raised. “Karen—”

“Even you need a break,” she insisted, voice lighter but not asking. “And Foggy, if you don’t close that legal pad in the next five seconds I’m stealing it.”

Foggy blinked like he’d surfaced from a fog. “Wait, what?”

Matt sighed, then turned toward Bucky. “Do you want to come?”

Bucky didn’t answer right away. His gaze slid over to you—just for a second—then back to the floor. But he gave a quiet nod.

“Alright,” Matt said. “Josie’s it is.”

────────────────────────

The moment the eight of you stepped into Josie’s, the entire bar went still.

It was almost cinematic—the way conversation halted mid-sentence, pool cues hovered mid-shot, and every pint glass seemed to freeze just before reaching someone’s lips.

Only it wasn’t you they were looking at.

Their eyes went right past you to the four figures just behind.

The tension was immediate. You could feel it like static against your skin.

You squinted at the crowd and snapped, “What.”

It came out sharper than you meant—but effective. Just like that, everyone returned to their drinks and conversations, like they hadn’t just seen literal war criminals walk into their local dive bar.

You sighed, stepped inside, and motioned toward the back booth like it was any other Thursday night.

“Same rules apply,” you murmured over your shoulder. “No starting bar fights. No interrogating anyone mid-darts game.”

Sam let out a quiet laugh. “Wasn’t planning on it, but now I’m curious.”

“Don’t be,” Foggy muttered. “That guy with the dart tattoo takes it really seriously.”

Karen nudged him, leading the way toward the booth. “Come on, Captain America. Let’s see how you do in a place where the floor sticks and nobody salutes you.”

Steve offered a faint smile, clearly trying to pretend he didn’t just make a dozen patrons sweat through their flannel shirts. “Sounds...refreshing.”

Bucky didn’t say anything. He followed silently, but you could feel his presence behind you—like gravity. Like heat.

You settled into the booth first, flanked by Karen and Foggy. Matt slid in next, followed by Steve and Natasha on the far side. Sam pulled up a chair. Bucky remained standing a moment too long, then finally sank into the seat next to Matt—putting the maximum amount of physical space between you.

Your stomach twisted, just briefly.

You didn’t look at him.

Karen raised a hand for Josie. “Eight whiskeys. Don’t ask.”

Josie nodded from behind the bar, unfazed as ever.

“You bring a circus, I serve a circus,” she called. “Just don’t bleed on the floor.”

────────────────────────

At some point, you’d drifted. The laughter around the booth was distant now—Karen leaning into Natasha as the former recounted some mildly incriminating story, Sam egging on Steve about a round of darts he absolutely didn’t want to play. Matt was nursing his drink with that subtle tightness in his jaw he always wore in crowded spaces.

You slipped away, needing a minute, and ended up at the bar under the flickering light that buzzed like it was dying. The wood beneath your elbows was sticky, familiar. Comforting, in a weird, grimy way.

A moment later, Foggy appeared beside you, sliding his hand onto the bar as he leaned. “I come bearing a noble quest.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Let me guess. Refills?”

“Exactly.” He grinned. “Whiskey times eight. Josie’s gonna love us.”

As Josie started lining up the glasses, you glanced sideways. “How’s your case coming along?”

Foggy made a sound that was somewhere between a groan and a laugh. “Difficult. Bucky’s… not great at giving detail. He gives you one name, two dates, and then he goes quiet like he’s talking through glass.”

You nodded, unsurprised.

“But,” he added, tipping his head toward you with a knowing look, “also distracted. Like, flinch-at-the-sound-of-your-voice distracted.”

You blinked. “What?”

“I’m serious,” he said, grabbing one of the glasses, inspecting it before sliding it back down. “Anytime you walk into a room? His eyes snap to you like a moth to a flame. It’s kind of… sad, actually. Those big, quiet eyes practically begging you to look at him.”

You rolled your eyes. “That’s not true.”

“It is,” he insisted, still in that frustratingly calm Foggy way. “I thought maybe I was imagining it, but after the fifth time I caught him zoning out mid-sentence because you walked past the hallway? It’s a pattern.”

You stared ahead, lips pressing into a thin line.

“My client,” you said after a beat, “is Steve. Natasha. Sam. I work on the Sokovia side of this mess. Bucky’s—” your voice dropped, “—not my responsibility.”

“No,” Foggy said slowly, “but you are avoiding him. And don’t tell me you’re not.”

You ran a hand over your face and muttered under your breath, “If you haven’t noticed, I have a very big, very real Matt-shaped fence around me any time I’m in the same room as Barnes.”

Foggy winced sympathetically. “Yeah… he does kind of hover.”

“Hover?” you echoed with a hollow laugh. “He treats me like I’m going to spontaneously combust if I so much as sit next to the guy.”

Foggy didn’t say anything at first. Then: “You don’t look like you want to combust.”

You were about to say something—something not entirely wise, maybe—but Foggy beat you to it, glancing over your shoulder with a quiet hush.

“Cap's on his way over here,” he murmured. “And he looks like a man on a mission.”

You turned just enough to catch the tall figure weaving through the crowd, eyes set squarely on you.

Foggy grabbed six of the whiskey glasses Josie had just lined up, balancing them with both arms like a bartender with something to prove. “I’ll leave you two with these,” he said, nodding toward the final pair left on the bar, “and, uh, good luck.”

You didn’t reply—just watched as he maneuvered his way back to the table like he was handling a tray of grenades.

And then Steve slid onto the barstool next to you. Quiet. Steady.

He didn’t say anything at first, just folded his hands loosely on the bartop, his presence as familiar as it was grounding.

“Hi,” you murmured, not looking directly at him as you nursed your drink.

He gave that small, sincere smile. The one that never failed to remind you why you'd once entertained the idea of something more.

“I know this is putting a strain on you,” he said finally. His voice was low, quiet enough that only you could hear. “I just wanted to thank you—for helping us. Again.”

You scoffed lightly, your tone flippant by design. “You know I’d do anything for you, Steve.”

But you kept your eyes on your drink. It was easier that way. Easier than meeting those too-blue eyes and seeing all the history sitting inside them.

“I don’t take that lightly,” he said after a pause. “I never have.”

You didn’t respond. You didn’t need to.

The silence that settled between you wasn’t awkward—but it was full. With things neither of you had ever said out loud. With everything you’d been, everything you almost were, and everything you now couldn’t afford to be.

Steve shifted slightly. “You’ve changed.”

That caught you off guard. You turned, just enough to look at him out of the corner of your eye.

“In a good way,” he added quickly. “Stronger. Sharper.”

You snorted. “Or maybe just tired.”

He smiled, but there was a flicker of something behind it. Regret, maybe. Recognition. You didn’t ask.

“You ever think about what things might’ve looked like... if this all hadn’t happened?”

His voice was barely above a murmur, heavy with something unspoken. The kind of question that didn’t ask for an answer, not really—but still lingered between you, expectant and fragile.

You didn’t look at him right away. Just shook your head slowly, the corners of your mouth twitching in something like a sad smile.

“It probably would’ve been the same,” you said quietly. “You asking me for help... and me helping you. Without hesitation.”

Your eyes met his then—soft, sure. Unflinching.

“Just like now.”

Steve’s expression didn’t shift immediately, but something in his posture relaxed.

“Nothing more,” you added, voice gentler this time. “Nothing less.”

For a moment, he looked like he wanted to argue. That familiar Captain instinct flickering just behind his eyes—always reaching for something better, something fuller.

But he didn’t.

Because he knew you meant it.

────────────────────────

The office was unusually quiet for a Wednesday.

Karen had gone out to meet a contact. Foggy was holed up in the back with a stack of transcripts, headphones in. And Matt—Matt was gone, off doing whatever it was he did when he didn’t tell anyone where he was going.

You were at your desk, sorting through notes on the Sokovia filings, when you heard the soft shuffle of boots against hardwood.

You glanced up.

Bucky stood in the doorway, hands in his pockets, expression unreadable. Not cold—never cold—but hesitant, like he was walking into enemy territory and wasn’t sure if he’d make it out the other side.

Your heart stuttered, but you masked it with a carefully neutral look. “Need something from Foggy?”

He shook his head, slow. “No.”

You set your pen down.

The silence between you wasn’t heavy—it was brittle. Like one wrong word would crack the whole thing wide open.

Bucky took a few steps in. Close enough that you could see the faint bags under his eyes, fading but still present. A leftover from whatever truth he’d had to drag out in testimony.

His voice, when he spoke, was low. Rough around the edges like gravel. “Why won’t you talk to me?”

The question hung in the air.

You stared at him for a beat too long. You’d imagined this—this exact moment—so many times. And somehow, the real thing still knocked the air out of your lungs.

“I do talk to you,” you said, too quickly. “We’ve had conversations.”

He didn’t flinch. “Brief ones.”

You hesitated. Then stood, slowly, placing your hands on the edge of the desk like it might steady you.

“I didn’t think you wanted to,” you said finally, quietly.

“That’s not true,” Bucky said. “You know that’s not true.”

He took another step in, but didn’t crowd you. Never that.

“You used to look at me,” he said. “Back in Berlin. You saw me. Not the ghost. Not the asset. Me.”

Your throat tightened.

“I haven’t changed,” he said, a little more broken now. “Not really. But you… it’s like I became someone you’re not allowed to be alone with.”

Your mouth opened, then closed.

There it was.

The thing you’d been avoiding. Not because you didn’t want to face it—but because you already had. Night after night. Every time you saw his eyes find you across the room and forced yourself to look away.

“I didn’t want to make things harder,” you said, voice almost a whisper.

“For who?” he asked. Not angry—just quietly devastated.

You didn’t answer.

Couldn’t.

Because if you did—if you opened your mouth—you were afraid of what might come out. And there was already too much unsaid between you to risk making it worse.

Bucky took one more step closer, slow and tentative. Like a man approaching something sacred. “I need to know, did I… did I do something wrong? That night?”

Your breath caught.

Your whole body stilled.

“No,” you said, almost too fast. “No. You didn’t.”

He blinked, eyes narrowing slightly with confusion and something sharper—pain. “Then why do you look at me like it was a mistake?”

You turned away, suddenly unable to hold the weight of his gaze. Your fingers curled into fists at your sides, trying to ground yourself. But your voice cracked as you spoke.

“Because I think I made a mistake.”

You heard him shift, barely a sound, but you could feel the air change between you. “What mistake?”

“I think I… took advantage of you.”

The words hit the room like a punch. You didn’t look at him—you couldn’t. You stared at the stack of case files on your desk, eyes burning.

“You were… not okay, Bucky. You were still half-lost, barely holding on. I kissed you to stop a panic attack, not because I thought we—God, I didn’t think. I just acted. And then you kissed me back, and it felt like if I pulled away you’d shatter and—” you cut yourself off, swallowing hard. “And I let it happen. I let it go too far.”

A beat of silence.

Then another.

Then his voice, lower than you’d ever heard it. “You think that’s what that night was?”

You turned, finally.

He was looking at you like he didn’t know whether to fall apart or hold himself together.

“That night,” he said slowly, “was the first time I felt human again.”

You stared at him.

“The first time someone touched me like I wasn’t dangerous,” he continued, breath catching. “Like I wasn’t something to be handled, or feared, or fixed. You kissed me and I—” his voice broke, “—I didn’t know what it meant, or how long it would last, but I held on to it. For a year. In Wakanda. Every morning, I thought about you.”

Your heart ached.

“I don’t know what it is I feel for you,” he admitted, shoulders taut, “but it’s not infatuation. It’s not fantasy. It’s something I haven’t had in a long time. And maybe I only knew you for a day—but it was enough to remember the way you made me feel.”

He took a tentative step forward.

“You were the first thing that made me want to come back.”

Your knees nearly gave out at that.

Because this wasn’t just about guilt. Or trauma. Or old wounds.

This was about healing, too.

And somehow, heartbreakingly, he had found his in you.

You took a breath, shaky and too thin, eyes burning with the effort it took to keep yourself upright beneath the weight of his words.

Part of you wanted to say nothing. Let silence answer.

But you’d done that already. For months.

So instead, you forced yourself to speak—softly, but firmly.

“I thought what I did… that night, I thought it might’ve been selfish.”

His gaze didn’t waver. “It wasn’t.”

You looked up at him, finally meeting those steel-blue eyes that had haunted you every time you tried to sleep.

“I don’t regret it,” you whispered. “I just didn’t know if I had the right.”

Bucky exhaled, the sound low and wrecked.

“You didn’t take something from me,” he said. “You gave me something. You made me feel… wanted. Safe. I hadn’t felt that in decades.”

A beat passed. Then another. Your hand twitched at your side, like it might reach for him. You didn’t let it.

“I care about you, Bucky,” you said, so softly it barely reached the space between you. “More than I probably should.”

Hope flared in his eyes—and that’s when you took a step back.

“But right now, I’m your lawyer.”

He blinked. “No. You’re not.”

You frowned. “What?”

“Nelson and Murdock are my representation. You’re on the Avengers’ case.”

The smallest, saddest smile tugged at your lips. “Still. It’s messy.”

His eyes searched yours, quiet and patient. “I’m not asking for something now. I’m not asking for anything.”

You tilted your head. “Then what are you asking for?”

He swallowed. “That you stop looking at me like what happened between us was wrong.”

The crack in your heart widened.

And maybe you didn’t have the strength to tell him that you'd been looking at yourself that way, not him.

You nodded instead. Barely.

He stepped back. Gave you space. But didn’t stop looking at you.

And as he turned to leave the room, your eyes followed him.

────────────────────────

Josie’s bar was unusually full for a Tuesday. The crowd buzzed with quiet conversation, the low hum of sports highlights rolling on the TV behind the bar. But then the channel flickered—cutting to a breaking news graphic—and slowly, the room began to hush.

“After over a year on the run for their violation of the Sokovia Accords,” the reporter continued, “the trio was represented by a relatively unknown but fiercely competent law firm based out of Hell’s Kitchen—Nelson & Murdock.”

A round of murmured cheers rippled through the bar.

“And leading the charge,” the anchor said, “was associate attorney—” your name followed, clear and pronounced, “—whose legal argument reframed the Accords as unconstitutional under both domestic and international law. The case has since been labeled a landmark ruling on enhanced rights, government overreach, and jurisdictional ethics in conflict zones.”

A grainy clip of you outside the courthouse played next. Microphones crowded around you. Your hair pulled back, blazer sharp, your voice calm but firm under pressure.

“The Sokovia Accords were a rushed and fear-based overreach,” you were saying. “The world needs accountability, yes. But not at the cost of civil liberties, and not by punishing people for doing the right thing under the wrong rules.”

A quiet cheer went up near the bar. Someone clapped. You heard a voice—one of the long-time regulars—murmur, “That’s the one that comes in for bourbon on Thursdays, right?”

Josie herself just raised a brow from behind the bar, the closest thing she gave to a nod of approval.

“General Thaddeus Ross issued a formal response,” the anchor added, voice tight, “saying—quote—‘While I do not agree with the court’s interpretation, I respect the process. These individuals are no longer fugitives, and I trust they will now operate within a framework of accountability moving forward.’”

Muted scoffs met that.

“Yeah, sure he does,” Sam muttered under his breath, arms crossed where he sat across from you.

On screen, the reporter continued, summarizing the case’s outcome. “The general amnesty clause within the ruling ensures that enhanced individuals acting in good faith and without malicious intent will not be prosecuted under the original terms of the Accords. While some international critics have voiced concern, the decision is widely seen as a critical first step in rebuilding trust between superpowered individuals and governing bodies.”

Steve didn’t say anything, but his eyes found you—something quiet and full in them. He raised his glass. Just once.

You exhaled slowly, unsure whether it was relief or anticipation sitting heavier in your chest.

Because one case was over.

And the hardest one still waited.

────────────────────────

The holding area outside the Special Tribunal Court at Fort Meade, Maryland, was as sterile and impersonal as the military complex it belonged to—linoleum floors, harsh fluorescent lights, and the low hum of overhead ventilation.

Outside the windowless space, armed guards rotated in silence. The tribunal room itself, behind a thick blast door, waited like a judgment chamber.

You sat stiffly on a bench too narrow for comfort, legal documents fanned out over your lap. Your fingers clenched the edges of one as your eyes burned with something hot and sharp.

Matt Murdock was nowhere to be found.

He hadn’t returned calls, hadn’t shown up to prep the night before, hadn’t replied to the increasingly frantic voicemails from Foggy. And now, with less than an hour until Bucky’s final hearing—he was still missing.

Foggy entered the room like a storm cloud. “I’ve called everyone I can think of,” he said, slightly out of breath. “Nothing. He’s not answering his phone, the apartment was locked up, Karen hasn’t heard anything from him either—he’s gone, and we’re out of time.”

You stood sharply, biting back the rush of frustration rising in your chest. “He had one case,” you said. “This was supposed to be his goddamn priority.”

“Yeah, well, it’s Matt,” Foggy muttered, raking a hand through his hair.

Your eyes narrowed. “This is more than a case, Foggy. This is his life—” you gestured toward Bucky, who sat silent and watching “—and Matt just walked away from it.”

A long silence stretched between the five of you.

Bucky’s voice broke through. Quiet. “So… what now?”

Steve looked at you. So did Sam.

You stared at the stack of files on the bench. “I’ll take it.”

“You sure?” Foggy asked, already reaching for the briefing notes.

You gave him a look. “Do I look unsure?”

He swallowed. “Okay. Geneva precedents up top. Watch for prosecution's cross-exam strategy—she'll hammer your credentials hard, especially since you’re taking over so last minute.”

“Let her try,” you said under your breath.

Bucky rose slowly, his blazer stretching across his shoulders. He didn’t look at you—just toward the tribunal doors. “They’re going to call me a monster.”

You turned to face him.

“They might,” you said. “But they won’t win.”

His eyes found yours then—guarded, questioning.

“They’ll see a file, a record, a reputation,” you added. “I see a man who survived hell and still had the strength to pull himself out. That’s who I’ll fight for.”

His jaw worked slightly. And in the silence that followed, he nodded—once.

The weight of his trust settled over your shoulders, heavier than any closing argument.

You picked up your notes, spine straightening. “Let’s go win this.”

────────────────────────

The tribunal room at Fort Meade was cavernous and cold, more war room than courtroom. A long semi-circle of military and civilian officials presided behind bulletproof glass and steel.

The American flag stood behind the tribunal's emblem—flanked by the Department of Justice seal and the Department of Defense. The lighting was clinical, unforgiving, and the walls, though soundproofed, seemed to hum with silent judgment.

General Thaddeus Ross sat at the far end, half-shrouded in shadow, his arms folded and his jaw set in stone. Beside him were analysts from the CIA, a rep from Homeland Security, and the sharp-eyed lead prosecutor from the DOJ’s National Security Division—Assistant Attorney Caldwell. Her file on Barnes was a stack thick with ink and classified stamps.

The moment your group was escorted in—Bucky, Foggy, Steve, Sam, and yourself—all eyes shifted. You didn’t flinch. But you felt the air change.

Bucky didn’t look up. He hadn’t since the elevator ride down.

You took your seat at the defense table. Foggy beside you. Bucky just behind, shadowed. And for one sharp moment, you felt utterly alone at the center of this war.

The presiding military judge adjusted his mic.

“We are here to assess the culpability and legal standing of one James Buchanan Barnes, formerly known as the Winter Soldier,” he began. “This tribunal acknowledges the unique nature of this case, involving alleged international war crimes, state-sponsored coercion, and actions performed under mind control.”

Then, he nodded to Caldwell. “Prosecution.”

She rose with the kind of practiced composure that could slice through steel. Her tone was calm. Precise. Measured.

“The defense will ask you to see James Barnes as a victim,” Caldwell began, voice resonant in the mic. “They will cite brainwashing, trauma, and a corrupted past. And yes—there is undeniable evidence that Mr. Barnes suffered under Hydra.”

A pause.

“But the law is not only built on sympathy. It is built on accountability.”

She turned toward the panel. “James Barnes was a lethal asset in a global shadow war. He executed heads of state. He destroyed civilian infrastructure. He has killed American agents on American soil. His body count surpasses a hundred and known ops occurred over seven decades.”

Then, looking toward your table:

“Whatever happened to his mind—his hands did not forget how to kill. And today, we must ask whether releasing him into society is an act of mercy… or a threat to every principle we claim to defend.”

She sat.

You didn’t blink.

The judge turned to you. “Defense. You may proceed.”

You stood.

Voice calm. Clear.

“For over seventy years, James Barnes was a prisoner of war in a war he never chose. He was stripped of identity. Language. Memory. He was tortured and rebuilt into a weapon—not by choice, but by force.”

Your fingers tightened around the edge of the lectern.

“Yes, he executed missions. But he also survived unimaginable horrors. His captors used science and brutality to shatter the man he was, again and again. And yet—he clawed his way out.”

You met the tribunal’s eyes, one by one.

“He did not run. He came back. He asked for help. And this country, after failing to protect him once, now has a chance to show that it remembers what justice really is.”

You stepped back, pulse hammering in your throat. Behind you, Bucky hadn't moved—but you could feel him breathing. Steady. Listening.

The tribunal was silent.

And the battle had begun.

And after a brief recess the tribunal resumed. You reviewed the witness list as your pen tapped softly on the table. Your jaw was tight. Foggy leaned in beside you.

“You good?”

You nodded once, barely.

The tribunal called its first witness: Colonel Elias Rourke, former liaison to SHIELD, now with Homeland Security. He swore in, stiff and iron-backed in uniform. His voice was gravel.

“Colonel, you had firsthand knowledge of the Winter Soldier’s activity?” Caldwell prompted.

“I did. I was stationed in Berlin during the assassination of a NATO peace envoy. Clean kill. No surveillance footage. The only evidence was a classified SHIELD transcript pointing to a ghost operative—metal arm, cold precision. Barnes.”

You watched Bucky flinch imperceptibly. You didn’t look back.

“And what was your assessment?” Caldwell asked.

Rourke’s lips thinned. “The man was Hydra’s blade. Deadliest asset in the game. We called him ‘death in the dark.’ Didn’t miss. Didn’t stop.”

Caldwell turned, satisfied. “No further questions.”

You rose slowly. “Colonel Rourke, you served under SHIELD, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Were you aware SHIELD was compromised by Hydra at the time of your assessment?”

He hesitated.

“Yes.”

“So your data, your field reports—all possibly filtered through an organization secretly aligned with the enemy?”

Rourke bristled. “That doesn’t change the kill count.”

“No, it doesn’t. But it does change how we interpret it,” you said smoothly. “Tell me, Colonel—how do we define guilt when the evidence comes from traitors?”

The tribunal rustled. Ross's eyes darkened. Caldwell leaned back.

“No further questions,” you said.

Witness after witness passed—some military, some from European intelligence. You dismantled their claims methodically. Not denying Bucky’s past—but reframing it.

Context. Compulsion. Control.

Then came your first and only defense witness: Ayo Sekayi, General of the Dora Milaje, flown in under diplomatic neutrality. Her presence silenced the room.

Ayo took her seat, graceful and firm.

You approached.

“General Sekayi, you worked directly with Mr. Barnes in Wakanda?”

“I did.”

“And what was your primary role?”

“Deprogramming. Erasing the Soviet Hydra conditioning. The trigger words, the synaptic trauma, the enforced behaviors. We dismantled them piece by piece.”

You turned toward the tribunal. “And your conclusion?”

She looked directly at Bucky.

“James Barnes is not the Winter Soldier. Not anymore. What they built in him—we destroyed.”

Caldwell stood.

“General, can you confirm that these—‘deprogramming’ techniques—cannot be reversed or broken?”

Ayo narrowed her gaze. “Nothing in life is certain, Miss Caldwell. But I trust the work. And more importantly, I trust him.”

The prosecution rested after a tense exchange. Foggy passed you a note: You’re killing it.

But your stomach twisted.

The judge shifted in his seat. “Closing statements will begin in the next session. Tribunal adjourned until 1400 hours.”

You nodded, quietly collecting your papers. Bucky hadn’t spoken all day—but he stood when you did.

His gaze didn’t waver.

“Thank you,” he said softly.

You didn’t reply.

Not yet.

────────────────────────

The minutes before reconvening felt like a countdown to impact.

The tribunal room was heavier now. Not just because the panel of adjudicators had seen the evidence, heard the testimonies—but because they knew the weight of their decision. This wasn’t just about a man. It was about precedence. Politics. Redemption. War.

You stood at the lectern. Foggy sat beside you, calm but alert. Behind you, Bucky sat like he had the entire hearing—shoulders tight, jaw clenched, hands folded. Steve and Sam were across the room, watching, holding their breath through silence.

The presiding officer gave a nod. “Defense, your closing.”

You moved forward slowly. Let your silence stretch for two full seconds before speaking.

“James Buchanan Barnes was trained to disappear. Not just behind enemy lines—but inside himself. He was torn apart, piece by piece, rebuilt without memory or mercy. For decades, he was a weapon in human form. A ghost. A nightmare.”

You let your gaze sweep the tribunal.

“But that’s not who sits behind me today.”

Your voice softened, sharpened.

“He is not innocent. He will never claim to be. But he is not the man they made him. He is not their ghost.”

You swallowed.

“He is a man who has fought harder than most of us can comprehend to claw his way back into the light. He submitted himself to justice. He asked for this hearing. And what he’s asking for—what we’re asking for—is not exoneration without cost.”

You paused.

“We’re asking for understanding. For mercy. For recognition that justice must evolve alongside science, circumstance, and morality.”

Then, finally—

“James Barnes was a soldier. Then he was a prisoner. Then a weapon. But now—now he’s just a man, trying to find something like peace. Let’s not take that away from him.”

You stepped back.

The room was silent.

The prosecution’s closing was colder, but no less powerful. Caldwell spoke with solemn finality.

“However reformed, however rehabilitated—some weapons are too dangerous to unholster. James Barnes has been the tool of multiple regimes. Are we prepared to bet the lives of our citizens on the belief that it won’t happen again?”

She sat.

Then—nothing. Just deliberation.

Forty minutes of it.

Each tick of the wall clock pounded behind your eyes. Steve sat forward, elbows on knees. Sam paced. Foggy didn’t even pretend to read his notes.

Bucky never moved.

Then, the tribunal returned.

The presiding officer cleared his throat.

“In light of the presented evidence, the declassified testimony, and scientific evaluation…”

Your fingers curled against the edge of the table.

“…this tribunal finds James Buchanan Barnes…”

A pause.

“…not criminally liable for the acts committed while under Hydra control. Further, we acknowledge the legitimacy of his rehabilitation and no longer consider him an active threat to national or global security.”

A stunned silence followed.

But your heart didn’t lift. Not yet.

“We impose a five-year probationary review period. Mr. Barnes will remain under international observation and restricted combat engagement unless sanctioned. However, he will not face incarceration.”

A breath you didn’t know you were holding escaped your chest.

Foggy muttered, “Holy shit.”

Behind you, Steve let out a slow exhale. Sam’s shoulders dropped.

But Bucky… Bucky just sat there. Still as a statue. His eyes weren’t wide, weren’t teary. But something deep in them shifted—like a plate in the earth, tectonic and unseen.

He looked at you.

And for the first time since Berlin, you let yourself look back.

Not with guilt.

But something closer to peace.

The gavel dropped.

Court adjourned.

────────────────────────

The door to your apartment clicked shut behind you with a thud that echoed louder than expected. Your keys fell into the bowl by the entryway with a tired clatter.

The moment you slipped off your shoes, it was like your body remembered just how much weight you’d been carrying—shoulders sore, back stiff, head foggy.

The tribunal had ended just hours ago. One year’s worth of courtrooms, hearings, back-channel negotiations, UN statements, and defense strategies finally behind you. It should’ve felt victorious.

Instead, it felt like collapse.

You didn't turn on any lights. The glow from the city outside was enough—warm, amber halos from streetlamps slipping through your windows and stretching across the hardwood floor.

You moved by muscle memory, changing into an oversized shirt and sweatpants, tossing your suit into a corner without care. You’d earned at least a week of hermit-mode.

The pizza delivery guy barely warranted a word, just a tired smile and a muttered thanks. The glass of wine you poured wasn’t even your usual—it was whatever had been in your fridge long enough to gather dust on the cork.

You had just curled up on your tiny loveseat, plate in lap, wine within reach, when your phone buzzed on the kitchen counter.

Karen Page

Drinks at Josie’s to celebrate? 🍻 Foggy’s already halfway drunk. And we found Matt.

You smiled softly. Sweet, thoughtful. But it hurt a little.

Your fingers hovered for a second before you typed:

Rain check? I’m officially horizontal for the foreseeable future.

Almost immediately came a heart emoji and a "Love you, you earned it."

That small glow vanished when the screen lit again.

Matt (1 Missed Call) Matt (2 Missed Calls) Matt (3 Missed Calls)

You didn’t even have the energy to read the texts—but they stacked like an avalanche.

Matt Murdock

Call me back. Please. I didn't know Elektra would show up. I didn’t mean for it to affect the case. I never meant to hurt you. I’m sorry.

You turned the screen face-down and shoved it under a couch cushion like a bad memory.

Pizza. Wine. Couch. That was all you had space for.

And for a while—it worked. The TV murmured in the background. The bottle slowly emptied. Your shoulders lost some of their coiled tension.

Until a knock sounded at the door.

You stared at it for a full ten seconds.

Another knock. Firmer. You sighed, dragging yourself up with a muttered, “Matt, I swear to God—”

But when you looked through the peephole, your heart stuttered.

It wasn’t Matt.

It was Bucky.

James Buchanan Barnes.

Hair swept back, still slightly damp like he’d just showered. A simple navy t-shirt. Jeans. No jacket. And in his hands—

Flowers.

A small, uneven bouquet. Wildflowers. Not the kind you bought in shops. The kind you had to actually look for.

You opened the door without thinking.

When you opened it, the sound of the city filtered in faintly behind him.

Bucky looked… nervous. As in, genuinely uncertain of himself. The man who’d stood before a tribunal that morning like a stone pillar was now awkwardly holding out flowers that were slightly crumpled.

You blinked. “You’re… here.”

“Yeah.” He glanced down, cleared his throat. “I, uh… wasn’t sure if this was okay.”

You looked at the flowers.

“I didn't know what kind you liked,” he said, suddenly rambling. “So I just… picked some.”

You stared at him, the bouquet still held between you like a question.

Then, softly, “You picked these?”

His jaw flexed, faintly sheepish. “Yeah. I mean—not from someone’s yard. There’s this stand up in the Bronx. The guy there… he helped me out.” He paused. “I remembered you smelled like lavender. That night. So I made sure there was some in there.”

He hesitated.

“And now that I’m saying it out loud, it sounds a little stalker-ish.”

You didn’t say anything.

He shifted his weight. “You weren’t at Josie’s.”

“Didn’t feel like celebrating.”

“I figured.” His voice was soft. “I thought maybe… you didn’t want to be around everyone. So I came here. Just in case.”

You leaned back against the doorframe, watching him with quiet wariness.

“Why’d you bring me flowers, Bucky?”

He looked down for a second, then back at you. “Call it a thank-you gift. For my lawyer.”

A breath of a laugh escaped you, the first real one in hours. “For the last time, I’m not your lawyer. Matt and Foggy were.”

He didn’t flinch. “You were the one who argued for me. Who won my case. The one who sat across from me every time I wanted to give up.” A beat. “You always seem to be the one pulling me out when I’m sinking.”

You didn’t know what to say to that. So you didn’t. Just reached out and took the flowers from him, gently, like they might dissolve in your hands.

“Thanks,” you murmured.

He gave a quiet nod. “I’ll let you get back to your night.”

And just like that, he turned toward the hall.

You watched his retreating back, something cold curling low in your chest.

You closed the door quietly behind him.

But you didn’t move.

Not at first.

And then your body did what your heart had been screaming for since the moment you opened that damn door. You turned, ripped it back open, and stepped out into the hallway.

The hallway was dim, amber from the old light fixture flickering overhead, but you could still make out his silhouette. Shoulders hunched slightly, hands in his jacket pockets. That quiet slouch he always slipped into when he was trying to take up less space.

“Bucky—”

He was only a few steps away, but he stopped like you’d shot him.

Turned slowly, brows drawn, eyes searching yours, “Yeah?”

You exhaled, stepping into his space without hesitation, bare feet cold against the worn floorboards.

“What do you want from me?” you asked, voice low. Not demanding. Just tired. Raw.

His eyes locked on yours, steady. Like he’d been rehearsing his answer.

“Whatever you’re willing to give.”

Your breath caught. That simple. That honest.

You stepped closer, heart thudding like a drum in your ears. “What if I want you?”

That was all the warning he got before your hands cupped his face, pulling him down.

And Bucky—he melted into it.

Like he’d been waiting for that kiss since Berlin. Since your hands had once pulled him out of panic and into something like peace. Like you’d opened a door inside him he hadn’t dared approach until now.

His hands came to your waist, tentative at first, then firmer—like he needed to feel you were real.

Your fingers slipped into his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan into your mouth.

This wasn’t the desperation of before. This was a storm that had built for a year, a longing that had aged like wine, richer now, deeper. And when you pulled him back into your apartment by the front of his shirt, he followed without hesitation.

Your back hit the door before you’d even registered closing it.

Bucky’s hands were on you—your waist, your thighs, your face. Everywhere at once, like he couldn’t decide where to touch first and was terrified he’d lose you if he stopped.

His mouth found yours again in a bruising kiss, all teeth and breath and the kind of hunger that came from a year of silence and stolen glances.

You moaned into him—high, needy—and he swallowed it like he’d been starved for the sound.

Then, without a word, his hands slid beneath your thighs and lifted.

You gasped, legs instinctively wrapping around his waist as your back slammed gently against the wall. His strength was effortless—of course it was—but the way he looked at you, like you weighed nothing and everything all at once, made your stomach flip.

“God,” he rasped, pressing his forehead to yours for a breath. “You feel real.”

“I'm real,” you murmured, fingers threading through his hair, tugging him back down.

And he kissed you again, harder this time. Desperate.

You rocked your hips into his, and he groaned against your mouth—low, broken, like he was barely holding it together. The metal of his left hand braced against the wall behind your back, his right gripping your thigh so tightly you knew you’d feel it tomorrow.

He pulled back just enough to look at you—his eyes dark, pupils blown wide.

“I wanted this,” he whispered. “Since that night.”

You blinked up at him, lips parted, chest heaving. “Then take it.”

And he did.

He surged forward, grinding against you through your clothes. The friction was too much and not enough, the heat between you growing sharp and wild. Your hands clawed at his shoulders, nails dragging over the cotton of his shirt as you moved against him, meeting his thrusts with your own.

His lips moved to your neck, sucking hard enough to leave a mark. “You drive me insane,” he breathed. “Every time you walk into a room, I forget how to fucking breathe.”

You whimpered, tilting your head back to give him more. “Then don’t breathe.”

He laughed—sharp and breathless—and kissed you again like it hurt not to.

And still, the wall shook with every push of his hips.

You didn’t know who moved first—maybe it was you, maybe it was him—but suddenly your hand was sliding between you, dragging the rough line of his zipper down.

You could feel how hard he was already, straining through the fabric, and Bucky hissed through his teeth when your fingers brushed him.

“Christ,” he groaned, forehead dropping to your shoulder. “You want this here?”

Your answer was a breathless whisper at his ear: “Please.”

He growled—a deep, involuntary sound—and kissed you hard, teeth catching your bottom lip. His hands scrabbled at your sweatpants, pushing them down just enough, just enough for what mattered.

Yours were still wrapped around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back, urging him closer. Always closer.

There wasn’t time for finesse. Only need.

Only him.

You reached between you, helping him free himself, guiding him, your hands shaking. And when he slid inside, it was one motion. No hesitation. Like your bodies had been waiting for this, just this, for years.

The stretch made your head fall back against the wall with a soft cry.

“Oh, God—Bucky—”

“Shh,” he whispered, eyes locked on yours, one hand cupping your jaw while the other gripped your thigh like an anchor. “I’ve got you.”

And then he moved.

Slow at first, dragging his hips back and thrusting in again with enough force to make your breath hitch. The friction of clothes, the roughness of denim, the press of your back against the wall—it all made everything hotter, messier. You weren’t supposed to be doing this. Not here, not like this.

But it felt like coming home.

He was panting against your neck now, lips moving over your skin like he couldn’t decide whether to kiss you or devour you. His hips snapped forward harder, deeper, making you cry out and cling to him.

“Fuck,” he rasped. “You feel like—like I’ve been dreaming of you. And this is better.”

You arched into him, nails digging into his shoulders. “Don’t stop.”

“I’m not stopping,” he said, voice hoarse. “Not until you come. Not until I know you remember this every time you look at me.”

He was unraveling. You could feel it in the way his thrusts grew less controlled, how he trembled against you, how his breath turned ragged. Your own climax was building fast—too fast—but you chased it, grinding down against him as he thrust up, again and again.

When it hit, it was a wave that crashed hard, stealing your breath and your voice. You bit into his shoulder to stay quiet, and that did it for him—he gasped, buried himself deep, and came with a broken sound that might’ve been your name.

His forehead dropped to yours as the both of you shook through the aftershocks, your hands still clutching at each other like it wasn’t enough. Like it would never be enough.

The only sound in the room was your shared, panting breath.

And neither of you moved.

────────────────────────

Your back still tingled from where it had met the wall—hard, unforgiving, but so forgotten beneath the ache of Bucky's body pounding into yours just moments ago.

You barely remembered how you got to your bed. One moment, his hands were gripping your thighs, his breath hot against your neck, his voice wrecked as he whispered how good you felt around him—and now you were sprawled across soft sheets, still trembling.

You were flushed, chest rising and falling in uneven breaths, your lips swollen from his kisses and your thighs still parted, slick and sensitive from the way he just claimed you like he’d been waiting his whole life.

You were floating. Light. Feral with afterglow.

And then you saw him.

He was standing at the edge of your bed, chest rising in deep, uneven breaths. His eyes were locked on you—burning, stormy, like he wasn't quite done being wild.

His pants hung low on his hips, the fly undone, the muscles of his abdomen flexing with every breath. His metal hand was clenched at his side like he was holding back, barely.

You blinked up at him, still dazed, lips parting. “Bucky…? What are you doing?”

His jaw ticked. A muscle beneath his cheek jumped. He looked you up and down like he was trying to memorize the sight of you ruined and open for him. “I’m not finished with you yet.”

Your breath caught.

He shedded the rest of his clothes with slow, deliberate movements—like he was daring you to look away. You couldn't. You wouldn't. His body was all hard lines and shadows, the silver glint of his vibranium arm catching the low light as he crawled onto the bed.

“Did you really think one time was enough?” he murmured, eyes never leaving yours as he moved between your legs. “After how long I’ve wanted you? After what you do to me?”

You tried to answer, but your words dissolved into a gasp as he began undressing you—slowly almost reverently, his hands pulling your top over you head, his mouth brushing the newly revealed skin. He dragged your panties down your thighs, kissing each inch of your skin as he exposed it.

You whimpered as his hands pushed your legs apart, his mouth hovering just above your soaked center. He kissed the inside of your thigh, then the other, teasing, soft, then biting just enough to make you jerk.

Then he looked up at you—hair messy, pupils blown wide, lips red from earlier kisses—and said, “I need to taste you.”

And then he did.

His tongue touched you like a man possessed—like he was starved for you, like this was the only thing that would calm the storm raging inside him. The first long, slow lick made your hips jerk off the bed, a moan punching from your lungs before you could stop it. He groaned into your cunt, his hands—one metal, one flesh—gripping your thighs, holding you open, keeping you there.

“God, you taste so fucking good,” he rasped between licks, his voice muffled and desperate. “I could die like this. Right here. With you.”

He buried his face between your thighs, tongue plunging into you, then swirling up to your clit, his mouth wet and eager and relentless. He ate you out like he was drunk on you, like each moan you made was gasoline and he was the match. His metal fingers dug into your skin, grounding you, steadying you as his pace grew more frantic, more desperate.

You were already close again, still oversensitive from before, but he clearly didn't care. If anything, he was chasing that—your twitching thighs, your gasping breaths, the way your fingers tangled in his hair and yanked when it got too much.

“Come for me,” he whispered against you. “Let me feel it.”

He sucked your clit, fingers slide inside you without warning—two of them, thick and curling just right—and that was it.

You broke.

Your orgasm ripped through you like lightning, spine arching, a choked sob tearing from your throat as everything inside you contracted around him. You were shaking. Panting. Utterly wrecked.

And still, he didn't stop.

Not until you were whimpering, tugging at his hair, begging.

Only then did he pull back, lips and beard shiny with you, chest heaving, eyes wild with satisfaction.

“Fuck,” he breathed, crawling up your body, kissing your throat, your jaw, your mouth—letting you taste yourself on his tongue. “I’m never gonna get enough of you.”

Bucky stared at you like you were something sacred. Like he couldn't believe you were real. Like he was terrified this would disappear if he looked away.

His metal hand, now sleek and Wakandan-forged, cradled your cheek as his thumb swept across your skin. You leaned into the touch—there was nothing cold about it. Not anymore. Not when it was his.

He pressed his forehead to yours, breath ragged. “I didn’t think I’d ever get this again.”

“This?” you whispered, still breathless. “You mean… me?”

He nodded his head slowly. “Peace. Softness. Wanting something. Wanting you.”

You didn't say anything. You just kissed him again. Slow. Deep. Letting your lips speak all the things words couldn't. That he wasn't broken. That he wasn't just what they made him. That you saw him.

He exhaled like it was the first full breath he’s taken in years.

Then he reached down, wrapped a hand around his cock—still hard, still aching—and slid it through your slick folds. You were so wet for him, still pulsing, your thighs sticky with your own release and his from before. He groaned, the sound low and raw in his throat.

“Bucky…” you whispered, arching your hips toward him, needing him inside you again—slow this time, deep, drawn out until it’s unbearable.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured. “I need to feel you again.”

He lined himself up, one hand braced beside your head, the other gripping your hip—not to restrain, but to hold himself steady. He pushed forward, just the tip breaching you. You gasped at the stretch, and his eyes fluttered shut, jaw clenched so tight he might crack a tooth.

“Fuck… You’re still so tight,” he muttered, forehead pressed to yours again. “You feel like heaven.”

He inched in deeper, groaning as your walls clung to him, as if your body was reluctant to ever let him go. He kept his pace achingly slow, giving you time to feel every inch of him sliding inside—filling you again, this time without the rush. No frenzy. Just presence. Just him.

When he bottomed out, both of you froze.

He stayed there for a long breath, forehead against yours, breathing your air.

Then he began to move.

The rhythm was unhurried, sensual—his hips rolling in slow, deliberate thrusts. Deep and full, every stroke brushing places inside you that made your toes curl. His cock dragged against your walls like he was trying to leave an imprint, like he wanted your body to remember him.

Your fingers slid over his back, tracing the line of his spine, digging into his shoulder blades when a particularly deep thrust made you moan.

He smiled against your jaw. “Yeah… that’s it. I wanna hear you.”

He was whispering now—dirty things, soft things, things that sounded more like worship than filth.

“Feel so good wrapped around me… like you were made for me…”

“Can’t believe this is real. You—under me—letting me have you like this…”

“I’m not gonna rush this. Not when I’ve waited this long…”

And then he shifted—just slightly—and hit that perfect spot inside you that made your vision blur. You gasped, nails biting into his skin, and he groaned like he was unraveling.

He leaned back to look at you, watching your face as he moved inside you. The way your lips parted, your brows knitted, your hips lifted to meet his.

“You’re so beautiful like this,” he murmured. “So fucking beautiful.”

Your legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him deeper, keeping him close. He adjusted his angle, going deeper still, and you both moaned—low, guttural, lost in the feel of it.

The tension built again, slow and steady. Not a crashing wave this time—but a tide, rising and rising, until it’s all you could feel.

You were close. He knew it. He could feel you clenching around him, see your eyes fluttering, your moans growing more desperate.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered. “Come with me.”

And when you did—when you fell apart under him, soft and shaking, moaning his name like it was the only word you’ve ever known—he followed, hips stuttering, a strangled groan tearing from his throat as he spilled inside you for the second time that night, his body shuddering with the force of it.

He collapsed onto you gently, his weight warm, grounding. His metal arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you tight to his chest. He kissed your collarbone, your cheek, the corner of your mouth.

Neither of you spoke for a moment.

He didn’t move.

And neither did you.

Not for minutes. Maybe more.

The weight of his body on yours was grounding, not stifling—his arms wrapped around you like you were something he’d waited too long to hold, and now that he had you, he couldn’t let go.

You traced lazy, absent-minded circles over the back of his shoulder with your fingertips. Felt the faint line of the scars that connected to metal. A ridged edge from something long healed, but never really gone.

He sighed against your skin. A deep, almost trembling sound. Like the tension had finally broken loose from inside his chest.

“I keep thinking I’ll wake up in Wakanda again,” he murmured. “Like all this’ll vanish. The case, you… this.”

You turned your head toward him, your cheek brushing his. “It’s real.”

He nodded, barely.

“I didn’t think I deserved this,” he said. “Not after everything.”

You felt your throat tighten, but you didn’t speak. Just kissed the side of his head, soft and slow.

Eventually he shifted—easing onto his side beside you, never more than inches away. His arm draped over your waist, his leg still tangled with yours. His forehead pressed gently to yours as if he needed that last point of contact to stay grounded.

No space. No distance.

And still—neither of you let go.

Your fingers brushed gently along the metal of his forearm, slow and absent. The room was dim now, the only light coming from the hallway through the cracked door. His breathing had evened out, his eyes half-lidded, but you could tell he wasn’t asleep. Not yet.

“Bucky,” you murmured.

He hummed in response, barely moving.

“What are you gonna do now?”

He didn’t answer right away. You didn’t push.

Eventually, he exhaled. “I don’t know.”

You waited.

“I think Steve and Sam… they’re still going to do it. The work,” he said. “Even without the Avengers. Even without the titles. They can’t not help people.”

“And you?” you asked gently.

He turned his head, eyes meeting yours in the dark.

“I don’t think I want to fight anymore.”

There was no shame in his voice when he said it. Just exhaustion. Honesty.

You nodded, quietly. “Then don’t.”

He shifted a little closer, brushing his thumb over your hip.

“I just want to be,” he said, voice low. “Not a soldier. Not a weapon. Not someone to be fixed. Just… a person.”

Your heart tugged painfully at the simplicity of it. The longing buried in those few small words.

“Maybe,” you said after a moment, voice light but not careless, “you could stay in New York.”

Bucky didn’t respond at first. You felt him shift slightly, just enough to brush his nose against your hair.

“You’re from Brooklyn,” you added, teasing gently. “You’re practically built for rooftop fire escapes and overpriced bagels.”

That pulled a faint huff of laughter from him, the sound rumbling in his chest where it pressed against your cheek.

Then, softer—almost shyly: “I’ve taken a liking to Hell’s Kitchen.”

You smiled into the dark. “That so?”

He shifted, the tip of his nose brushing your forehead. “It’s loud, messy… smells like fried food and bad decisions most nights.”

You laughed—quiet, tired. “Accurate.”

“But it’s honest,” he added, voice softening. “People look you in the eye here. They don’t pretend not to see you.”

You swallowed, eyes on the ceiling. “Yeah. It’s rough around the edges, but it doesn’t lie to you.”

He was quiet for a beat. Then, “I need that. Somewhere that doesn’t look away when I walk by.”

You turned slightly to face him. “You don’t scare people here.”

“I used to.”

“You don’t scare me.”

His eyes found yours in the dark. There was something unguarded in them now—exhaustion, yes, but something gentler too. Something you hadn’t seen on his face since Berlin.

“Not even a little?” he asked.

You shook your head. “You’ve never scared me.”

He watched you a moment longer, like he was searching for a reason to disagree. But he didn’t find one.

The quiet was broken by the low buzz of your phone vibrating insistently from somewhere in the living room

You didn’t move. Just let out a soft groan and nuzzled further into the warmth of Bucky’s chest, tucking your face into the curve of his neck like you could block the whole world out.

“Just ignore it,” you murmured, lips brushing his skin. “It’s probably Matt. Again.”

Bucky’s hand slid slowly along your spine, his touch soft, deliberate.

“He’s been calling?”

You gave a faint nod. “And texting.”

There was a pause. Then Bucky pulled back just enough to look at you, brow furrowed.

“Texting?”

You opened one eye, smiling faintly at the confusion written across his face. “It’s a thing called voice typing, honey. Blind people use it. Revolutionary stuff.”

He huffed—quiet, but amused—and let his head fall gently back to the pillow.

“Still weird,” he mumbled. “Didn’t think he’d be that tech-savvy.”

You sighed, lifting your hand to lazily trace circles over his chest. “He’s not. Every message ends up with an accidental comma or two dozen typos.”

Bucky was quiet for a moment, his hand resting warm against your waist.

Then, almost reluctantly: “He was at Josie’s. When I left. I saw him.”

You blinked, but didn’t sit up.

“He looked… rough,” Bucky continued. “Like he’d been in a fight with a brick wall, and lost. Cuts, bruises. Said he’d been in an accident.”

You gave a small, tired laugh. “Matt’s always getting himself into accidents.”

“Does he?” Bucky asked, not pushing, just curious.

“Mmhm. Staircases, doorframes, the occasional wall,” you muttered. “Clumsy as hell.”

Bucky tilted his head slightly, lips brushing your hair. “He apologized to me. For not showing. Said he should’ve been there. That it wasn’t fair to me. Or you.“

You went quiet at that and after a moment, you sighed, resting your head more comfortably against Bucky’s chest.

“I’ll forgive him,” you said, voice softer now. “Sooner or later. I always do.”

Bucky’s hand paused on your back.

Then, carefully—like he wasn’t sure if he wanted the answer or not—Bucky asked, “You and him… were you ever a thing?”

You blinked, pulling back just enough to look at him. His tone was neutral, but you could see it in the tension around his jaw. The quiet way his eyes avoided yours for a beat too long.

Your brows pulled together. “What?”

He didn’t respond immediately, just glanced away toward the dark corner of the room like it might have the answer.

“You’ve been around us for a year,” you said, still trying to wrap your head around it. “You thought me and Matt were—”

“There’s obviously something,” he cut in, not defensive, just… honest. “There’s history.”

You watched him for a moment. Then sighed, laying your head back against his chest, cheek pressed to the space just beneath his collarbone.

“Of course there’s history,” you murmured. “We grew up together at Saint Agnes Orphanage. Sister Maggie basically drilled it into us that we were each other’s family. We were each other’s shadow for years.”

There was a pause. A breath of quiet between you.

“But,” you added, a wry smile tugging at your lips, “we’re also excellent at driving each other completely insane.”

That earned a small chuckle from him, low in his chest. His hand resumed that slow, absent stroke along your spine. But you could still feel it—that little line of worry sitting tight in his silence.

“I love him,” you said softly. “I do.”

His hand stilled again.

“But not like that. Not ever like that.”

The quiet stretched again. You thought maybe he’d fallen asleep.

Then, softly—not a question. Just a realization.

“You’re an orphan.”

You nodded slowly against his chest. “Yeah.”

There was another pause, longer this time.

His hand kept tracing that steady path along your spine. You could feel how the air around him shifted—not cold, not distant, just… deeper. Like he'd stepped into something personal without meaning to.

“Matt, Foggy, Karen…” you said softly, “they’re my only family.”

There was a pause. A soft breath between two heartbeats.

“Maybe not anymore,” Bucky said.

You stilled.

The air shifted again—warmer, somehow heavier—like the room had shrunk to only the space between you.

His hand didn’t stop its quiet movement across your back. His voice, when he spoke again, was softer. More certain.

“You were the first person to treat me like I wasn’t a machine. Like I wasn’t dangerous. You looked at me like I was still a man… even when I didn’t believe it myself.”

You didn’t move. Just listened.

“You didn’t try to fix me,” he went on. “You didn’t flinch. You didn’t pity me. You just… saw me. And that night in Berlin—when I was breaking—you didn’t pull away. You pulled me back.”

Your fingers tightened slightly against his side.

“That never left me,” he whispered.

And that’s when it slipped out—bare, breathless, and truer than anything you’d said all night.

“You make it really hard not to fall in love with you when you say things like that.”

It was barely above a whisper. But it landed heavy between you.

Bucky didn’t flinch.

He just looked at you for a long, aching moment. Eyes open. Jaw tight with something deeper than tension.

Then, quietly, like it cost him something—but he gave it freely anyway:

“Maybe that's not such a bad thing.”

You didn’t have time to respond.

Because his mouth was on yours again—slow, sure, steady. Nothing like before. This kiss didn’t burn. It settled. Deep into your chest, into the space where grief and guilt used to live. It didn’t ask for anything. It just was.

Because now, unlike that night, there was no looming mission. No stolen hours. No fight waiting outside the door.

Now, he was free.

And he had time.

All the time in the world.

With you.

I wish I could escape it🚷

The Mummy (1999) dir. Stephen Sommers

It always breaks my heart... 💔