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Alexei leaned back in the couch, gesturing broadly with a half-eaten pretzel. “So there I was, hanging from the side of the Khrunichev rocket, no harness, only my teeth and a stubborn cable—”
“Again with the rocket story?” Ava muttered, phasing a hand through the coffee table on instinct. Bob perked up, wide-eyed, as though picturing the whole scene.
Bucky barely looked up from his phone. A grin tugged at the edge of his mouth as his thumbs flew over the screen. Yelena caught it immediately. She nudged Ava’s ankle and jerked her chin at Bucky. “Did the Winter Soldier just smile?”
Ava arched a brow. “Maybe Alexei’s comedic timing has finally evolved.”
John, propped against the doorway, snorted. “Pretty sure that’d require the universe bending its own rules.”
Alexei glowered. “You Americans have no appreciation for true heroism.” When no one rose to defend him, he sighed and continued anyway. “Point is, the launch director screams, ‘you will die, Red Guardian!’ and I—”
Bucky’s phone chimed again. He angled the screen away, shoulders hitching in a short laugh before catching himself. Yelena’s eyes narrowed like a laser sight. She leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “Barnes, who’s making you look like a Golden Retriever with a new squeaky toy?”
“No one.” He tapped the screen off, expression settling into its usual guarded set. Too late—the damage was done.
Ava kicked her feet up on the table. “Is ‘no one’ some kind of new social app?”
“Or a codename?” Bob asked, genuinely curious.
John cleared his throat. “Leave him alone.”
Yelena’s gaze snapped to him. “Why so defensive, Walker? Do you know something?”
“Don’t drag me into it,” John said, folding his arms. “Some of us respect privacy.”
“Some of us are lying,” Yelena shot back. She rose and sauntered toward Bucky’s armchair. “Come on, Barnes. Two weeks living in the Watchtower, we’ve seen you brood, we’ve seen you pace, we’ve seen you out-bench the gym equipment. But a genuine smile? That’s new content. Share with the class.”
Bucky pocketed the phone and stood. “Getting coffee.” He pushed past her, metal fingers clinking softly against the mug rack as he filled one.
Ava phased through the counter to peer at him from the other side. “Is the coffee machine texting you too?”
He exhaled through a tight grin. “It’s just... a friend.”
“What kind of friend?” Yelena pressed.
“The kind who doesn’t need to be part of story time.”
Bob’s voice drifted from the couch. “Do you think they like rockets?”
“Bob,” Yelena said, “focus.”
Bob nodded, solemn. “Focusing.”
John pushed off the doorway, intercepting Yelena. “Seriously. Drop it. We’ve got enough on our plates without interrogating Bucky’s social life.”
“His social life is our plate now,” Yelena argued. “Trust is key to team cohesion.”
Bucky set his mug down with a soft clink. “I trust you, Yelena.”
She perked up. “Then tell me.”
He hesitated, thumb brushing the rim of the cup. The phone buzzed again. The grin resurfaced—small, private, and impossible to hide.
Yelena’s eyes widened. “You’re impossible.” She pointed two fingers at her own eyes, then at him. “I’m watching you, Barnes. One day, I will know.”
“Good luck,” he said, taking his coffee and heading for the exit. “Alexei, finish the rocket story without me.”
Alexei puffed out his chest. “As I was saying—”
The automatic door slid shut behind Bucky, muffling Alexei’s booming voice. In the quiet hallway, he pulled the phone back out.
You: Flight got moved again. Landing tonight after all. Can’t wait to see you.
Bucky’s shoulders softened. He leaned against the wall, thumb hovering for a beat before he typed.
Bucky: Counting the hours, doll. I’ll be there.
He stared at the message until the screen dimmed, that rare smile lingering. Then he slipped the phone away, squared his shoulders, and headed back toward the lounge—mask firmly in place, ready to fend off Yelena’s next round of questions.
---
Of course, his luck was having a meeting with Valentina he couldn’t get out of at the exact time you were landing.
You promised him it was okay, that you were going to go to the apartment and take a nice shower after spending three and a half weeks in Guinea-Bissau with only four bucket showers.
The apartment smelled faintly of bergamot and fresh paint when you stepped out of the bathroom, damp hair shoved into a towel‑turban. Your suitcase still yawned half‑open in the bedroom, shoes sticking out like protest signs after the forty‑hour trip home. You tugged one of Bucky’s sweatshirts—soft navy cotton you’d stolen months ago—over your head and padded toward the kitchen.
Keys scraped the front lock.
You froze, toothbrush still in hand, the door cracked open just wide enough for a familiar metal fingertip to tap against the frame.
“Doll?” Bucky’s voice was quiet, almost cautious.
“Bathroom’s on the left, Sergeant,” you called, grinning. “But fair warning—hot water’s depleted.”
The door swung wider. Bucky stepped inside wearing a charcoal henley rolled to his forearms and a pilled cardigan that made his shoulders look unfairly broad. The cardigan hit the floor the second he saw you.
He crossed the room in three strides, pulling you straight against his chest. His nose tucked into the damp bend of your neck. A low, shaky breath escaped him. “You’re here,” he mumbled. “You’re actually here.”
“Last time I checked.” You squeezed his waist, feeling muscle tremble under the fabric. “Thought you had a debrief.”
“I threatened to walk out if Val kept talking.” He nuzzled closer, the words muffled. “She got the hint.”
You laughed. “That might be a new record for shortest Barnes‑Fontaine meeting.”
“She shouldn’t schedule anything on your landing day.” His flesh hand slid up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing water droplets from your jaw as though they offended him. “You good? Flight okay? Anyone sneeze on you?”
“Only everyone in coach.” You tapped his chest. “I lived.”
He lifted your left hand in both of his, studying the calluses on your fingertips like they were precious intel. Then he laced your fingers with his human ones and didn’t let get, even when he tried to flip the kettle on with his metal hand without releasing yours. He misjudged the angle, and bumped the counter.
“Bucky,” you laughed, tugging gently, “two hands are useful for tea.”
“Fine.” He let you go… for half a second. Then his palm found the small of your back, guiding you nowhere in particular, just touching. “Missed you.”
“Month and a half,” you reminded. “I kept count.”
“Thirty‑nine days,” he corrected softly.
Your heart stuttered. “You counted hours too, didn’t you?”
“Two thousand. Give or take.” He swallowed, shoulders hitching as though the admission cost him. “When you were in the field and comms went dark that first week… I—”
You reached up and brushed hair from his forehead. “I’m here now. And I’m not leaving anytime soon.”
He nodded, but the tension didn’t ease. He bent suddenly, hooking an arm behind your knees and lifting you. You yelped, toothbrush clattering onto the countertop.
“James Buchanan—”
“Shush.” He settled onto the couch with you cradled sideways, both hands banded around your ribs. “Grounding exercises, remember?”
Your brows lifted. “Thought that was when you were having nightmares.”
“They’re preventative tonight.” His metal thumb tapped a light rhythm against your spine. “Body heat. Your heartbeat. Works better than any breathing drill.”
You exhaled, letting muscles uncoil. His chest expanded under your cheek with each slow inhale. After a minute his pulse evened out, but he still didn’t loosen his hold.
“I should order food,” you murmured.
“Later.”
“Brush my teeth?”
He pressed a kiss to your hair. “Mint’s overrated.”
You tilted your head back to look at him. “What about bathroom breaks?”
“I’ll escort you.” The deadpan delivery cracked you up, and the faintest smile curved his mouth—one that actually reached his eyes. “Not letting go yet, doll. I need another minute.”
“Take five. Or fifty.”
He sighed, forehead dropping gently to yours. “Gonna need more than fifty.”
“Take all night.”
A soft noise—half laugh, half relief—escaped him. The kettle clicked off behind you, steam curling upward, ignored. Outside, city traffic whooshed three stories below, but inside the apartment everything had narrowed to the weight of his arms and the solid, steady drum of two heartbeats syncing after far too many hours apart.
Bucky brushed his lips across your knuckles. “Welcome home.”
---
The bedroom was gray with winter light when your alarm buzzed. Before you could reach for the phone, Bucky’s arm tightened, hauling you the last inch across the mattress so your back fit the curve of his chest.
“Five more minutes,” he mumbled, voice sanded rough from sleep.
“You’re due at the Watchtower at nine,” you reminded, twisting enough to see him. His hair was everywhere, soft and ridiculous. “And I’ve got a briefing at the UN.”
“Virtual.” He kissed the top of your shoulder. “Can do it from here.”
You laughed. “Pretty sure Val expects you in person.”
“That’s her problem.” His grip didn’t loosen. “Could stay like this forever.”
“Barnes.” You nudged his metal fingertips where they were splayed over your stomach. “Breakfast.”
“She can brief John first.”
“John will murder you.”
“Let him try.” He pressed his face into your hair. “Smell better than flapjacks anyway.”
“Flattery isn’t protein.” You jabbed an elbow—gently—into his ribs. “Up.”
He groaned but finally released you. Sort of. He followed you down the hall like a very large, slightly sleepy puppy, his hand sliding back into yours before you’d even crossed the doorway.
---
You cracked eggs into a bowl while Bucky stood behind you, both arms caging you in against the counter while still managing to breathe down your neck.
“Need a whisk,” you said. He fetched it—without letting go—so your joined hands performed an awkward baton pass to the utensil drawer. “Buck, I need two hands.”
“Negative.” He kissed the side of your temple. “One hand’s enough. I’ll be your sous‑chef.”
“My sous‑chef usually chops, not holds hands.”
“Multitasking.” He reached around you, grabbed a spatula with his metal hand, and flipped a pancake. Terribly.
You bit a smile. “That’s the cutting board, champ.”
“Details.”
---
Laptop open on the coffee table, your UN briefing countdown read T‑23:04. You tried to review bullet points while Bucky tried to fuse himself to your side. His sweater sleeve pooled over your fingers where they stayed laced.
You nudged the trackpad with your free hand. “Can’t scroll like this.”
He scooted nearer, draped his arm across your lap. “Dictate. I’ll scroll.”
“You don’t know the acronyms.”
“Then you’ll have to brief me first.” His thumb stroked the veins at your wrist like he could memorize your pulse.
You went for stern. “James. I have to appear competent in twenty‑three minutes.”
“You’re always competent.” He lifted your hand, kissed the back of it. “I just need contact.”
“You were literally on top of me twenty minutes ago.”
“And it was great.” He kissed your knuckles again. “Just… humor me, okay?”
The quiet plea in his eyes melted whatever resolve you’d been pretending to hold. You exhaled. “Okay. But if I bomb this call—”
“I’ll hack their email and delete the recording.” The grin he flashed was boyish mischief carved onto a war‑worn face. “Relax, doll. I’ve got you.”
---
The ring lights were on, and you had a blazer shrugged over Bucky’s sweatshirt that you had borrowed. You were live with six UN security advisers, none of whom could see the six‑foot supersoldier crouched just out of frame, one hand wrapped around your ankle like a magnetic cuff.
“Current intel indicates the smuggling corridor shifted west,” you said, clicking to the next slide. Bucky’s thumb traced slow circles above your sock line. “We’ll need to re‑route surveillance assets accordingly.”
A message pinged at the top corner of your screen.
Bucky: Proud of you.
You pressed your heel lightly into his palm in reply. He squeezed once, grounding himself—and you—in the silence between your words.
---
After the call ended, you ditched your blazer and grabbed your backpack. You reached for the door handle but Bucky’s fingers hooked your belt loop.
“Walk me downstairs?” you asked.
“Farther.” He shrugged into a heavy coat, still holding you. “All the way to First Avenue.”
“That’s two blocks past the subway.”
“Exactly.” He laced your fingers again, gaze skimming your face like he expected you to disappear in a puff of smoke. “Need every extra minute.”
You brushed his sweater collar flat. “Meet me for lunch? Midtown. One o’clock.”
“Done.” He kissed you quick, chased it with another slower one like a punctuation mark he didn’t trust. “Text me when you get through security.”
“Yes, Sergeant.”
He groaned. “Why’s that hot?”
“Because you’re impossible.” You opened the door. He tightened his grip anyway, escorting you down the hall as though the space between heartbeats was hostile territory.
Halfway to the elevator, his phone buzzed.
Yelena: Barnes. Where are you? Walker’s making Bob recreate a latte art swan and it’s getting weird.
Bucky typed back with one hand.
Bucky: Running late. Focus on team cohesion exercises.
“Team cohesion,” you echoed, trying not to laugh.
He kissed your hand one last time before the elevator doors slid open. “You’re my cohesion.”
“See you at one.”
The doors closed. Through the sliver of glass, you watched him press his palm to the metal until the cab whisked you out of sight. In the cab, your phone buzzed.
Bucky: Counting minutes already.
You shook your head, smiling like an idiot all the way to work.
---
Alexei was still mid‑swan demonstration when Bucky slipped through the sliding doors. Espresso foam mottled Bob’s chin, while Yelena perched on the counter like an irritated gargoyle, phone in one hand, and an evidence board of possibilities in the other.
“There he is,” John called from the coffee machine. “Barnes, you’re officially twenty‑one minutes late.”
“Traffic,” Bucky muttered, heading straight for the fridge.
“Traffic of what?” Ava asked, phasing a spoon through her cereal. “You’re the only person I know who can hop rooftops to work.”
Yelena narrowed her eyes. “I tracked five separate rooftop cameras. None caught your signature.”
Bucky’s neck stiffened. “You’re tracking my—”
“Team cohesion,” she sing‑songed. “We covered this.”
Bob looked up. “I thought cohesion was about lattes.”
“Everything is about lattes if you do it right,” Alexei said, still sculpting foam. “Observe the curvature—”
John rolled his eyes. “Enough. Barnes, you got Val waiting.”
“Already briefed her by phone,” Bucky replied, retrieving bottled water. The collar of his cardigan smelled faintly of your shampoo and he tugged it closer. “Any actual emergencies?”
“Just boredom,” Ava said.
“And speculation,” Yelena added. “You smell like bergamot.”
Bucky froze. “I switched laundry detergent. That illegal now?”
Yelena hopped off the counter, blocking his path. “Who was the text from this morning?”
“Not your business.”
She grinned. “So it was someone.” She opened her mouth to press further, but John cut in.
“Leave it, Belova. Val wants us in the gym in ten.”
Yelena’s eyes flicked between them. “Fine. But mystery texts will be solved.”
Bucky brushed past her, metal hand flexing. “Good luck.”
---
You chose a corner booth facing the door, laptop bag tucked beneath your feet. The place smelled of rosemary focaccia and printer ink from the little receipts machine. At 12:59 exactly, the bell jingled and Bucky ducked inside wearing a black baseball cap and a gray wool sweater that might have belonged to a Norwegian fisherman in a past life.
He spotted you, exhaled relief, and crossed the room so fast the waitress startled. The cap hit the seat first, followed by Bucky, who slid in beside you instead of across. His arm settled behind your shoulders, and his fingers immediately laced with yours on the table.
“Made it with a minute to spare,” you said.
“Fifty‑four seconds,” he corrected, gaze already soft. “Missed you.”
You tilted your head. “We parted three hours ago.”
“Still counts.” He kissed your temple. “How was the briefing?”
“Half of them think increased drones will solve everything. The other half wants a task force.”
“Let me guess—the drone faction has no ground intel.”
“Bingo.”
He squeezed your hand, thumb stroking the base of your thumb. “Tell me what you really need.”
“More eyes in Dakar. And you.” You nudged his knee. “But Val would weaponize that.”
He huffed a laugh. “She already is.”
The waiter approached and Bucky ordered two grilled‑chicken salads without looking at the menu, eyes locked on you. After the waiter left, Bucky’s flesh hand rose to brush your forehead gently—a habit. You watched the knit lines of tension between his brows ease as he touched you.
“Sleep okay?” you asked.
“Better than the last thirty‑nine nights,” he said softly. “Woke up every hour just to make sure you were still there.”
“And?”
He ducked his head, almost shy. “You were. Every single time.”
You leaned in, lips brushing his ear. “Planning to disappear at lunch?”
“Try it,” he murmured. “I dare you.”
The salads arrived and Bucky lifted your fork first, twirling lettuce like pasta before offering it to your mouth. You laughed, cheeks heating.
“This is not ergonomically sound,” you said around the bite.
“Fine.” He set the fork down—only to pick up your hand again. “Needed the tactile confirmation.”
“Bucky, eat.”
He kept hold of your fingers with his metal hand and maneuvered his fork with the other, awkward but determined. You shook your head, amused, and chewed.
Across the room a teenager whispered, eyes widening at Bucky’s metal arm. Bucky clocked it, then shrugged out of the sweater sleeve to cover the vibranium. You slid closer, pressing thigh to thigh.
“Hey,” you whispered, “they’re staring at the arm, not us.”
“Doesn’t matter.” He squeezed your knee. “This is my safe zone.”
You smiled into your water glass. “Safe zone has croutons.”
“And bergamot,” he added, nose brushing your cheek. “Missed that smell in the tower. Everything there reeks of disinfectant and Alexei’s cologne.”
“He probably bathes in that stuff.”
“Trust me, he does.” Bucky took another bite, chewed, and tried to drink without relinquishing you. “I ever tell you what happened when he sprayed Ava by accident?”
“No. But it sounds riveting.”
He chuckled and told you the story. You ate, laughed, and wiped a stray breadcrumb from his beard. All the while, his grip never faltered, as though letting go would trigger another world‑ending void.
---
The elevator doors slid open with a chime. Bucky stepped out, cap tucked under his arm, expression so relaxed it looked out of place against the glass-and-steel interior. His phone vibrated before he thumb‑typed a quick reply, shoulders shaking with a silent laugh.
Ava phased through the adjacent wall, bowl of grapes in hand. “Look who’s finally smiling again.”
Bucky pocketed the phone, deadpan back in place. “Afternoon, Ava.”
“Don’t do that,” she said, falling into step beside him. “The neutral face after the happy one—it’s creepy.”
“Take it up with my face.”
They rounded the corner into the lounge. Alexei, sprawled on the sectional, tossed a foam stress ball toward the ceiling like a bored teenager. Yelena hunched over the coffee table, assembling what looked suspiciously like a color‑coded conspiracy web. John perched on a barstool, drinking black coffee straight from the pot. And Bob sat cross‑legged on the floor, building an elaborate domino maze out of coasters.
Alexei noticed Bucky first. “Hello, little comrade! Good lunch?”
“Fine.” Bucky headed for the fridge.
“Define ‘fine,’” Yelena said without looking up.
He grabbed a water bottle, cracked the seal. “Edible. Quiet.”
John’s brows rose. “That why you’re thirty minutes late?”
“Traffic,” Bucky answered. He took a long drink, then caught himself smiling again. He turned away too late—but Yelena saw.
“Aha,” she declared, pointing a red string at him like an accusation. “Mystery texter strikes again.”
Bucky capped the water. “String theory usually requires facts.”
“I have facts.” She tapped a sticky note. “Fact one: you left this morning smelling like bergamot. Fact two: you returned smelling like rosemary.”
Alexei sniffed the air theatrically. “I smell none of this.”
“Your cologne killed your nose in 1984,” she snapped. Yelena turned back to Bucky, “who serves rosemary at lunch?”
“A lot of cafés, Belova.”
“Which café?”
“Downtown.”
“Name.” She flicked the string.
“Not relevant,” he said. “What is relevant is that Val wants us in the gym at fifteen‑hundred.”
Bob accidentally toppled a coaster, setting off half the maze. “Fifteen‑hundred is three o’clock, right?”
“Yes,” Bucky answered automatically, still staring at his phone. The screen lit with a new message—the grin came back, small but unmistakable. He swiped it away and pocketed the device before Yelena could pounce.
John set the coffeepot down. “Let it go, Yelena.”
“Never,” she muttered. “Cooperation is built on transparency.”
“Trust works both ways,” John shot back, folding his arms.
Bucky ignored them, rolling his shoulders as he moved toward the corridor. “I’m hitting the range before sparring. Anyone joining?”
Ava shrugged. “Sure, I’ll watch you obliterate paper bad guys.”
Bob raised a hand. “Can I finish my dominos first?”
“Ten minutes,” Bucky said. He started down the hall. Halfway there he paused, pulled the his phone out again, and typed.
Bucky: Made it back. They’re insufferable. Text when you’re done at the embassy.
A second bubble appeared before he could lock the screen.
You: Speech in 20 min. Survive your teammates.
He smirked, slid the phone into his back pocket, and continued, metal fingers flexing like they still held yours. Life at the Watchtower suddenly felt a lot less claustrophobic.
Behind him Yelena’s voice carried down the corridor: “We’ll figure it out, Barnes!”
“Good luck,” he called over his shoulder, tone almost playful.
In the armory he set out fresh magazines, checked the sights on his pistol, and let the rhythmic clack of loading rounds drown out the team’s chatter. Every third breath he felt the phantom press of your palm against his—clean, steady, grounding. The clingy ache eased, replaced by a quiet anticipation. Fifty‑one minutes until the embassy reception ended. Fifty‑one minutes until another message, another small confirmation that you were still on the map.
He’d counted less forgiving seconds.
Bucky clicked the last magazine home and holstered the weapon. “All right,” he muttered under his breath, allowing himself one quick smile at the thought of you before the mask slid back into place. “Let’s get this over with.”
---
When he got back to the apartment, the first thing he noticed was a vinyl playing old jazz music—a record you got him for his birthday last year. The second thing was the smoke detector going off.
Bucky dropped the grocery bag and sprinted for the kitchen. You were fanning a dish towel under the screeching smoke alarm, half‑laughing, half‑coughing.
“Surprise,” you said, waving at the haze. “Dinner’s… toasty.”
He tapped the detector with his metal hand; the shriek cut off. Jazz filled the silence, soft trumpet and scratchy vinyl. Bucky’s gaze flicked from the charred skillet to the table set for two—candles, fresh flowers, a folded letter.
“You okay?” he asked, stalking closer, hands already mapping your arms for burns.
“Minor smoke inhalation, major embarrassment.” You tugged his cardigan sleeve. “Come here.”
He stepped into your space, you hooked fingers in his belt loops, and pulled him closer until his chest hit yours. His arms wrapped tight—one flesh, one vibranium—locking you in place.
“Missed you,” he murmured against your hair.
“I saw you five hours ago.”
“Too long.” He pressed his forehead to yours. “What’s all this?”
You slipped a slim envelope from your back pocket and held it between you. “Official UN notice. Two‑month leave, effective immediately.”
His eyes lit, quicksilver joy. “You’re kidding.”
“Figured we could use a stay‑cation. Or, you know, any‑where‑cation.”
He didn’t take the paper. Instead, he clasped your hand around it, sealing both of your palms between his. “Best news this apartment’s heard in years.”
“You mean besides the ‘no more bucket showers’ update?”
He chuckled, but the sound wobbled. “I thought you’d be gone again by next week.”
“Not leaving.” You squeezed once. “Val’ll have to fight me for you.”
“She can try.” He pressed a lingering kiss to your knuckles, then another to your wrist, working his way up like a man starved of contact. “What’s for dinner—besides charcoal?”
“Option A: order Thai. Option B: salvageable garlic bread if you scrape the tops.”
“Option C.” He turned off the stove, slid the skillet aside, and laced your fingers together once again. “We forget dinner, dance to Duke Ellington, and order Thai after.”
“Music first?” You arched a brow. “You, Sergeant Barnes, requesting a dance?”
He tugged you toward the living room where the record spun. “Can’t lose track of you in take‑out chaos.”
You laughed, letting him guide your hands to his shoulders. His palms found your waist, thumbs drawing slow circles through the thin cotton of your shirt. Trumpet crooned as he swayed, small steps, no real technique—just motion. You settled into the rhythm, noses brushing.
He exhaled. “Grounded.”
“Yeah?” You rested your cheek against his sweater. “How’s the altitude?”
“Perfect.” He closed his eyes, holding you a little tighter. “Don’t plan to land anytime soon.” The song faded into soft vinyl crackle, but he didn’t let go. He brushed your lips with his, slow and certain as your fingers threaded through his hair, and he melted, knees bending just enough to press you deeper into the sway. “Two months together,” he whispered. “I’m not wasting a second.”
“You’re the clingiest supersoldier on record,” you teased.
“File the report.” He captured your hand again, spinning you once before pulling you flush. “Now, about option C…”
A fresh jazz track crackled to life. Bucky smiled—the soft, private one nobody else got to see—then set his cheek against yours, heartbeat steady, grounding both of you as the city hummed beyond your windows and the smoke curled harmlessly toward the vent.
---
The blinds still cast gray stripes across the bed when you heard the closet door whisper open. Bucky moved on bare feet, trying to sneak a shirt over his head without jostling the mattress. Fail. The hem got stuck around his shoulders and he muttered something about faulty cotton.
“Morning,” you croaked, rolling toward him.
He froze halfway through the maneuver. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”
“You did.” You sat up, tugging his bunched henley down for him. “Tower day?”
“Val wants drills at eight.” He glanced at the clock like it might bargain on his behalf. “I can call in ‘emotional support leave.’”
“Pretty sure that’s not a thing.”
“Could be.” He dropped onto the edge of the bed, palm automatically finding your thigh. “Two months of you and nine‑to‑five superheroing don’t mix.”
“You’ll survive.” You stroked his jaw. “I’ll hold down the fort. Maybe fix last night’s skillet.”
His lips twitched. He leaned in, kissed you slow—until the alarm on his phone trilled. 06:45. He cursed softly against your mouth.
“You’re gonna be late,” you warned.
“Worth it.” Another kiss, then he stood, finally threading the henley right‑side‑out. “Coffee?”
“Please.”
---
The moka pot hissed. You buttered toast while Bucky hovered, hand at the small of your back even while reaching for mugs. “Barnes, I need elbow room.”
“Compromise.” He slid closer but kept his palm resting lightly against your hip. “Still counts.”
You set two travel cups on the counter. He filled them, then laced his fingers with yours while the coffee settled. “You’ll text?” he asked.
“Every hour on the hour,” you teased.
“Every half if you’re bored.” He took a breath like he might say more, but his phone buzzed again—07:05, Depart. His shoulders slumped.
You cap‑handed him his coffee. “Go save the world. I’ve got laundry.”
“Call if the detergent fights back.”
You walked him to the door. He kissed you once, stepped into the hall, then pivoted, and came back for another. And a third. Finally he groaned, resting his forehead to yours. “This separation thing is crap.”
“Bucky.”
“Yeah?”
“You’re actually going to be late.”
He huffed, gave a final squeeze, and forced himself down the corridor. You watched until the elevator doors shut, then exhaled, heart doing tiny gymnastics.
---
Yelena circled Bucky like a shark as he wrapped his fists. “You’re smiling again.”
“Drop it,” he warned.
She flicked a glance at Alexei on the treadmill. “He hasn’t seen daylight since 1987 but you, Barnes, look freshly sun‑kissed. Explain.”
“No.”
Ava leaned over the railing from the mezzanine. “He came back smelling like toast.”
John’s eyebrow shot up from the bench‑press station. “Toast?”
“Bergamot two days ago, rosemary yesterday, now toast,” Yelena listed, ticking fingers. “Either he’s dating an aromatherapist or he’s turned into a bakery.”
Bob piped up from the corner, arranging kettlebells by color. “I like bakeries.”
Bucky slid his phone into the locker, screen still lit with your recent text—Made pancakes. Missing ingredient: supersoldier. He shut the door, spinning the code. “Focus, team. Val wants sparring pairs.”
John clapped once. “Barnes with me. Maybe I can punch the perfume right out of you.”
“Bring it,” Bucky said, rolling his shoulders. He felt lighter even as he stepped onto the mat. The cling was a steady itch at his palms, but your hourly update already hovered on the horizon.
The first bell rang before John lunged. Bucky blocked, pivoted, mind half on the bout, half on the image of you in his sweatshirt icing a ruined cake you’d probably claim was “rustic.” A grin slipped and John nearly caught his chin.
“Head in the game, Barnes,” John barked.
“Working on it.” Bucky deflected another strike. “Just… motivated.”
“Must be some motivation,” Ava called.
Yelena’s conspiratorial smile widened. “Operation Mystery Texter continues.”
Bucky threw a roundhouse that sent John skidding, then shook out his wrist. “You’ll never figure it out.”
“I will.” She shot back.
“Good luck,” he said, and meant it. Because for once every secret, every code, every hidden life led to something good—someone good—waiting in a sun‑lit apartment with jazz spinning and pancakes cooling. He’d count the hours, the minutes, the seconds, until he could fold himself back into that warmth.
The bell rang again. He reset his stance, vibranium palm open, already anticipating the next contact—on the mat now, but later, when it really counted, wrapped around your fingers where it belonged.
---
Rain slicked the rusted cargo containers. Bucky crouched behind a forklift with John and Yelena while Ava scouted through the walls up ahead. Bob hovered by the jet, humming nervously.
“Target bunker’s twenty meters,” Ava’s voice crackled through comms. “Three armed. Thermal says two more in back.”
“Copy.” Bucky flexed his metal fingers round the grip of his sidearm. “Yelena, flank left. John—”
“On your six,” Walker answered.
They moved. Two steps from cover, a pipe‑bomb arced out of nowhere. Bucky shoved Yelena aside, but the homemade charge hit the forklift mast near his shoulder. The blast rippled hard—enough to rattle vibranium. The shockwave threw him into a crate; pain spider‑webbed through his right side.
“Barnes!” Yelena slid beside him, checking for holes. “You bleeding?”
“Just ringing.” He pushed upright, but his flesh shoulder protested with a nauseating crunch. He kept his voice steady. “Got it.”
John’s shield clanged as he slammed an assailant to the deck. “Cover secured. Yelena, status?”
“Barnes is hit,” she reported.
“I’m fine,” Bucky snarled, standing too fast as the world tilted. “Finish sweep.”
Ava phased through the last container and waved. “All clear. Perps zip‑tied.”
Valentina’s voice sliced in over comms. “Asset report.”
“Minor soft‑tissue injury,” Bucky answered, grinding words through clenched teeth. “Nothing med‑bay can’t patch.”
“Negative, Sergeant,” Val said. “Your vitals say otherwise. Stand down—Walker takes command. Barnes, return to base for eval.”
Bucky rolled his shoulder, white sparks burst behind his eyes. “Copy,” he bit out. “Walker, bag evidence. Yelena, back him up.”
John approached, expression tight with worry. “You’re riding home with Bob.”
“I can fly.”
“Not with that shoulder.” John kept his voice low. “Look, just… let someone take care of you for once, okay?”
Bucky glared but didn’t argue. Pain radiated in hot pulses, every beat reminded him of you waiting two boroughs away.
---
Bob settled Bucky into a jump seat, buckling him with exaggerated care. “Does it hurt like nine out of ten, or six out of ten? I need scale.”
“Seven.” Bucky hissed as the strap brushed bone. “Thanks, Bob.”
Bob nodded solemnly. “Pain is temporary, but cookies are forever. I will bake later.”
“I’ll hold you to that.” Bucky tapped his earpiece off, then thumb‑typed one‑handed.
Bucky: Took a hit. Shoulder’s out. Coming home.
Three dots appeared almost instantly. You: I’ve got ice packs and soup. ETA?
He exhaled and the ache loosened. Bucky: Wheels up now. 20 min.
Another bubble. You: Door’ll be open. No heroics on the stairs.
He allowed himself the smallest smile, then slid the phone into his pocket and let the hum of take‑off blur everything but that waiting warmth.
---
Dr. Adler snapped Bucky’s shoulder back into place with a wet pop. He didn’t flinch—much. “Ligament strain,” Adler pronounced. “Sling, ice, thirty‑six‑hour rest. No combat.”
“Copy.” Bucky tugged his jacket over the brace. “I’ll recover off‑site.”
Yelena leaned in the doorway, arms folded. “Off‑site meaning… mystery apartment?”
“None of your business.” He brushed past.
“You know secrecy only fuels my curiosity,” she called.
“Happy hunting.” He headed for the exit, clutching his slinged arm to his ribs.
---
John intercepted him at the bike rack. “Need escort?”
“Got one.” Bucky swung a leg over his old Ducati, wincing. “Thanks, though.”
John studied him. “They must be something special.”
“More than you know.” Bucky kicked the engine alive, visor down. “See you tomorrow—if Val lets me out of bed.”
“Take two days. I’ll cover.”
Bucky nodded once, throttled, and sped into the falling dusk—toward vinyl crackle, soup steam, and the only pair of hands that could make the throbbing ease faster than any med‑patch.
---
The front door was propped with a slipper just like your text promised. Bucky eased the Ducati’s helmet off with one hand, nudging the door open with his boot. Steam from soup met him in the hallway, mingling with the faint hiss of the jazz record you’d forgotten to stop.
You appeared from the kitchen in socked feet and one of his Henleys that hit mid‑thigh. “Right arm’s grounded, Sergeant.” You pointed at the sling. “No sudden heroics.”
“Was planning none.” He leaned down; you met him halfway, bracing the back of his neck as he kissed you, slow and a little shaky. The scent of rosemary shampoo—yours, not his—settled the knot in his stomach. “Missed you.”
“You’re a mess.” You thumbed a smudge of oil off his cheek. “Come sit before you keel over.”
He let you steer him to the couch. The minute he sat, his good hand found yours, fingers linking tight. You brought a heavy bowl of chicken noodle, a spoon already plunged into the broth. Bucky attempted to angle it with his left hand and winced.
“Gimme.” You settled beside him, shoulders pressed. “Open.”
He grumbled, but opened. You fed him a spoonful; he chewed, then ducked his head in embarrassment. “Feel ridiculous.”
“Rule one of dating a UN liaison on leave,” you said, scooping another bite. “We weaponize bedside manners.”
“Didn’t realize that was classified.”
“Level seven.” You smirked and offered the spoon again. “Swallow, soldier.”
He did, then tipped his forehead to yours. “Thank you.”
The phone in his pocket buzzed. He ignored it as you raised a brow. “Work?”
“Yelena tracking my GPS again, probably.” He pulled it out, and glanced at the notification: Unknown Location Request. “I’ll disable it later.”
You set the bowl down and unfolded a blanket over his lap. “Think they’ll break down the door?”
“They can try.” He pulled you closer, even with one arm out of commission. “Stay.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
He exhaled through his nose, the tension melting as you tucked into his side. His vibranium thumb stroked your knuckles in a steady pattern. The record skipped once, then slid into softer brass.
“How bad’s the pain?” you asked.
“Manageable.” He kissed your temple. “This helps.”
“Clinginess as analgesic?”
“Doctor‑approved.” He squeezed your fingers. “Don’t let go.”
“Wasn’t planning.” You hooked your ankle over his shin, completing the pretzel of limbs. “Movie?”
“Anything.” He closed his eyes, letting your heartbeat set cadence. “Pick something with zero explosions.”
“Musicals?”
He groaned but didn’t argue. You queued Singin’ in the Rain. As the opening credits rolled, his breathing evened. Ten minutes in, he drifted, forehead pressed to your hair, spoon forgotten, and soup cooling on the table.
You answered the buzzing phone once more—Yelena, again—and texted back without waking him. Bucky: Barnes is asleep. Shoulder fine. No house calls tonight.
Three dots popped, then: Yelena: Who dis?
You smirked, locked the screen, and nestled deeper under his arm. On the TV, Gene Kelly twirled an umbrella. On the couch, Bucky held your hand like the world might tilt if he loosened grip. You listened to the sync of his breaths with the horn section and decided the universe could wait until morning.
---
Valentina’s hologram flickered over the conference table. “Barnes forgot to pull last night’s telemetry. The secure drive needs courier delivery—signature required. Who’s closest?”
Ava raised a brow. “Could overnight it.”
“Not fast enough,” Valentina snapped. “Barnes has forty-eight hours downtime. He can review while he’s iron-slinging his shoulder.”
Bob’s hand went halfway up, then Yelena slapped it back down. “I’ll drop it,” she said, voice too casual. “Fresh air, chance to stretch my legs.”
John shot her a wary look. “Stretching your interrogation muscles, you mean.”
Yelena blinked innocence. “He might need soup.”
“Pretty sure he’s covered,” John muttered.
Valentina didn’t care. “Fine. You have two hours. Use the gray SUV—tracking only, no comm chatter. Out.” The projection blinked off.
Alexei clapped. “Field trip! Want company?”
“No,” Yelena answered too quickly, already pocketing the encrypted drive. She headed for the elevator. “Be back soon.”
---
Yelena adjusted her leather jacket, eyeing the apartment numbers until she found 3C. Rain pattered on the stairwell windows, muffling her footsteps. She knocked twice then leaned back, notebook ready for mental observations.
The door opened a crack. You peeked out, barefoot, drowning in an oversized navy sweater that clearly belonged to someone built like a fridge. Your hair was a post-shower tangle; steam curled past your shoulder.
“Uh… can I help you?” you asked.
Yelena’s assessment gears spun. Not a neighbor—tone was too guarded. Not a delivery driver—no handheld scanner. Definitely not a random roommate given the Rolex peeking from your sleeve, likely a gift. She smiled, just a shade predatory. “Package for Sergeant Barnes. He in?”
“He’s resting.” You tightened your grip on the door edge to stop it drifting wider. “What kind of package?”
“Classified intel.” Yelena held up the drive. “Signature required. I can come in, or you can sign for him.”
You hesitated. From the living room Bucky’s voice drifted—rough with sleep. “Everything okay, doll?”
Yelena’s eyebrows nearly left her forehead. Doll? Her grin widened. “Sounds like he’s alive.”
You cleared your throat. “James, it’s just a delivery.”
Thudding footsteps, then Bucky appeared behind you wearing gray sweats and a sling. His hair stuck up on one side. A flush climbed his neck the instant he saw Yelena. “Belova. What are you doing here?”
“Bringing homework, obviously.” She dangled the drive. “Val says you forgot to download.”
He shot a look at the sling, then at you, silently apologizing for the ambush. You squeezed his good hand in reassurance—tiny gesture, not tiny at all to Yelena’s sharp eyes. “I’ll sign,” he said curtly.
“Actually,” Yelena drawled, “protocol says the courier gets visual confirmation of the recipient’s workspace. Prevents data mishandling.”
Bucky’s jaw clenched. “Since when do you follow protocol?”
“Since this morning.” She swept past before he could object, gaze flicking over the apartment: jazz vinyl spinning, soup bowls drying on the rack, and an ice pack abandoned on the couch. She whistled. “Cozy.”
You shut the door, hugging the sweater tighter. Yelena offered the tablet for Bucky’s signature. As he signed it, she pivoted to you. “I’m Yelena. Teammate. And you must be…?”
“Y/N,” you supplied, calm but firm. “James’s partner.”
Bucky’s ears went pink. Yelena’s grin reached Cheshire levels. “Pleasure. Always nice to finally meet the classified files Val forgot to mention.” Mission satisfied, she backed toward the door. “I’ll tell the others you’re alive, Barnes. Expect… questions.”
“Tell them nothing,” he warned.
“Of course,” she teased, slipping into the hall. “My lips are sealed—mostly.”
Door closed, Bucky exhaled like he’d run ten blocks. You tapped his chest. “That went well.”
He groaned. “They’re never letting me live this down.”
You rose on your tiptoes, kissing the corner of his mouth. “Guess you’ll need extra grounding tonight.”
His hand tightened over yours. “Not letting go, doll.”
“Didn’t ask you to.”
---
Ava clicked through drone footage on the holo-wall while Bob built a domino maze on the coffee table. Alexei bench-pressed the couch again—because apparently it counted as “functional training.” And John stood at the espresso machine, timing a perfect shot.
The elevator pinged. Yelena strode out, swinging her leather jacket like a trophy.
“Mission accomplished,” she announced, dangling her empty courier bag. “Also—news flash. Bucky Barnes is not single.”
The room froze.
Alexei dropped the couch mid-rep. It thudded. “Impossible. He is brooding, therefore single.”
Bob’s eyes widened and a domino toppled. “Is she a double agent? Maybe he’s undercover dating.”
Ava leaned one shoulder against the whiteboard, marker poised. “Name.”
“Y/N,” Yelena said, savoring each syllable. “Lives with him. Wears his sweater. Very pretty. Nice toenail polish.”
John’s brow furrowed. “Hold up—Y/N? As in Y/N L/N? That name rings a bell.”
Ava uncapped the marker. “Spell it.”
John set his espresso down. “I met someone with that exact name during the Flag-Smashers operation. Helped Sam and Bucky chase Karli. Intel liaison—sharp as hell. But there’s no way it’s the same person. Barnes was hitting on her the whole time, she rolled her eyes like he was a mosquito.”
Yelena smirked. “She is now a mosquito whisperer, apparently.”
Bob tilted his head. “Maybe rolling eyes was spy code for ‘call me later.’”
Alexei pointed at Yelena. “Describe her.”
“Wet hair, smelled like shampoo, zero visible weapons. But the way she sized me up? Definitely trained.” Yelena tugged a sticky note off the conspiracy board and slapped it dead-center. “New subject: Mrs. Mystery Barnes.”
Ava scrawled Y/N? in bold letters. Underneath she drew two columns—Civilian? and Spy?—adding tally marks beneath each as Bob rattled off theories.
John folded his arms. “Look, even if it is her, there’s no guarantee they’re dating. Maybe she’s the roommate.”
“Wearing his sweater,” Yelena reminded.
“Laundry day,” John tried.
“Called him James,” she added.
Alexei let out a low whistle. “That is intimacy level eight.”
Bob flicked another domino. “So… not a spy?”
Ava tapped the marker against her chin. “Could be deep cover. We need data. John, pull the State Department file on Y/N L/N.”
John’s expression tightened. “If she is who I think, that file is classified past my clearance.”
“Then we hack it,” Yelena said, already flipping open her tablet.
“No,” John shot back. “We respect privacy until Barnes tells us otherwise.”
Yelena’s eyes glinted. “Where’s the fun in that?”
“Where’s the trust?” John countered.
Bob cleared his throat. “Could bake them welcome muffins.”
Alexei perked. “Muffins and interrogation—classic Soviet hospitality.”
Ava started a flow chart branching from your name: Possible Covers: Analyst / Assassin / Accountant. She glanced at John. “Come on, Walker. You’ve got at least level four clearance.”
John sighed, rubbing his temples. “Fine. I’ll request a redacted summary. But if Val finds out—”
Yelena snapped her fingers. “She won’t. Because we are stealthy.” She pointed at Ava. “Build the suspect board. Bob, muffins. Alexei, locate champagne. We’ll need it when Barnes admits defeat.”
John grabbed his espresso. “I’m telling you, he flirted with her and got nowhere. It cannot be the same woman.”
Yelena grinned, unsettlingly pleased. “Yet it is. And our Winter Soldier is currently cuddled on a couch with her somewhere in Brooklyn.”
Bob clapped, sending dominoes scattering. “Love mission!”
Alexei cracked his knuckles. “We assemble care package. Thunderbolts style.”
Ava scribbled a final line: Objective: Confirm Relationship Status. She capped the marker with a snap. “Operation Bergamot is a go.”
John pinched the bridge of his nose. “We need a better codename.”
“Fine,” Yelena said, eyes sparkling. “Operation Golden Retriever.”
Ava laughed, Bob cheered, and Alexei bellowed approval. John just prayed Bucky’s shoulder healed fast—he was going to need both arms to fend off this circus.
---
The jazz record had looped for the third time when the intercom buzzed. Bucky groaned, tightening his arm around your waist. “Ignore it.”
You shifted under the blanket. “Could be takeout.”
“Didn’t order any.”
Buzz. Buzz.
Bucky sighed, pushed to his feet—still slinged. He tapped the screen. “Yeah?”
Bob’s cheerful face filled the tiny monitor. “Delivery for Sergeant Barnes!”
Behind him, Yelena waved a bakery box. Alexei squeezed in, holding champagne like a trophy. Ava lurked at the edge, phone out. John stood dead-center, arms crossed, glaring at the camera as if to apologize in advance.
Bucky pinched the bridge of his nose. “Of course.”
You bit a smile. “Invite them up. Better than them camping in the hall.”
“If they scare the neighbors, it’s on them.” He buzzed the door, then turned, shoulders tense.
“Relax.” You straightened his sweater collar. “We knew this was coming.”
“Didn’t think it’d be today.” He grabbed your hand, lacing fingers. “Ground me.”
“Always.”
A rapid knock. He opened the door and five Thunderbolts piled in like an ill-timed clown car. Bob thrust the muffin box forward. “Carrot walnut, low sugar!”
Alexei brandished champagne. “For pain management!”
Yelena beamed. “Recon mission complete. Hi again, Y/N.”
John blinked twice, disbelief morphing into exasperation. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
You lifted a hand in greeting. “Hi, Walker. Shoulder doing better?”
He ignored the question, pointing at you like a prosecution exhibit. “She shot me, you know.”
Bucky didn’t let go of your hand. “You deserved it.”
John scoffed. “It was a bean-bag round—point-blank—right after I wrestled a Flag-Smasher off a truck.”
You tilted your head. “You were about to tase Sam.”
“Semantics,” John muttered, then jabbed a thumb at his ribs. “She also stabbed me in Riga. Still got the scar.”
Bucky’s smile was unapologetic. “She was being generous. Could’ve been a kidney.”
Yelena clapped like it was a reality-show twist. “So the tough UN liaison and the grouchy supersoldier are a thing. Adorable.”
Ava rolled her eyes, snagging a muffin. “I give it three days before Val adds this to our security clearance forms.”
Bob balanced a tray of paper cups. “Cranberry kombucha for everyone. Celebratory probiotics.”
Alexei tried to pop the champagne with his hands but you plucked it away. “Cork, first. Sofa, second. No glass shards.” He pouted but relented.
John shook his head. “Two years and no one noticed?”
“Three in November,” Bucky corrected, thumb stroking your knuckles.
Yelena whistled. “Barnes keeping secrets—what else is new?”
You squeezed his hand. “We kept it quiet for work reasons. Global politics, covert ops, the usual.”
Ava leaned against the fridge. “So how clingy is he, exactly?”
Bucky answered by sliding his arm around your waist, tugging you closer until your back met his chest. “Define ‘clingy.’”
Alexei laughed. “You look like octopus. Very muscled octopus.”
Bob offered a muffin. Bucky grasped it—still one-handed—then fed you the first bite while holding eye contact with the team like a dare. Crumbs dusted your lip; he wiped them with his thumb, and kissed the same spot before stepping back half an inch—no farther.
John exhaled. “Unbelievable.”
You smiled at him. “Want coffee?”
He opened his mouth, thought better, then nodded. “Please. And maybe an explanation for the knife thing.”
“Later.” Bucky guided you toward the kitchen, fingers still locked with yours. Over his shoulder he tossed, “no interrogations until I’m off medical.”
Yelena lifted her phone. “We’ll settle for pictures.”
He shot her a look that promised retaliation. She grinned wider.
In the small kitchen you filled mugs, Bucky hovering so close his sling brushed your side. Under the counter’s edge, his vibranium fingers traced calming circles on your palm—tiny grounding sparks only you could feel.
“Doing okay?” you murmured.
“Now that you’re here,” he answered, eyes soft. Then louder, to the team: “Nobody break anything. Deposit shoes by the door. Alexei, that includes boots.”
Alexei sighed but complied, unlacing loudly.
Ava sniffed the air. “Anyone else smell bergamot and smoke?”
Yelena grinned. “The scent of romance—and burnt skillet.”
John raised his mug in mock salute. “To the happy couple.”
Bucky squeezed your hand once more, holding on like the room, the day, and the world could spin as it pleased—as long as this point of contact stayed fixed.