The Outbreak Pt. 2

the outbreak pt. 2

summary: you've kinda been into therapy and turns out it worked?

pairing: bucky barnes x f!reader

words: +4k

warnings: nothing really, i think. this is actually kinda fluffly. i was in a good mood.

note: i didn't planned on publishing the second part so soon, but i had a lot of free time and a mind running wild. still didn't liked that much how this chapter turned out tho. hoping i could make another part to see what happened to my girl wanda! see you guys in the next fic, love yall. the feedback is always appreciated! thank u for reading.

(if a part 3 never appears, just know this is an open ending)

part 1, extra: 1.5

“So, how've you been doing these past few weeks?”

“You don't have to make small talk to me, Natasha. I enjoy the silence.”

“I ask genuinely. I barely even see you in the halls of the Complex. We only really talk on missions and we've had three since that happened.”

“Don't worry about me.”

“I just want to know how you're doing.”

You turned your head to look at the woman sitting next to you. The uncomfortable leather chair you two were in did nothing to appease the constant headache you'd been having these past few days. Natasha watched you with an arched eyebrow and her hands in her lap. You knew she was right, everyone was always right when it came to you. Apparently Bucky was right when he said everyone knew but you, and that spectrum extended to everyone always seemed to know how you were doing if only by the movement of your eyelids.

That's why you had begun to avoid people.

You spent more time in your room and in the Complex gym, doing research assignments for Fury that involved leaving the building, the three missions with Natasha (fully mandatory and against your will) and sometimes in the lab with Bruce when he needed someone to hold his canisters full of chemical liquids.

Fury and Bruce were the only people you tolerated lately. No funny looks, no awkward questions, no innuendo; just what they needed and goodbye.

But, that time, you did have to go out with Natasha. You weren't given the option to come on your own and it was understandable. A little bit. Even though you were trying to make amends for what you had done, not only on the mission a few months ago but also for what you had done to yourself for years, you didn't know that recovery meant you had to have a watcher on you at all times.

And what's worse, that watchman came with a bird.

“I'm fine, Nat,” you replied to her liking finally.

A short laugh from across the room caught your attention.

“Tell that to the tantrum you threw Fury so we wouldn't come with you.”

You gave Clint Barton a hard look, almost lying on the other longer couch as if he were admiring the earth from a cloud. He had one arm over his eyes which he had raised slightly to give you a mocking look, and one leg bent so that his foot was on the couch.

“I didn't throw a tantrum.”

“Fury, please, I know how to take care of myself. I don't need two bodyguards behind me all day. I'm fully capable of getting there and back on my own.”

Clint's poor imitation of your voice caused you an undercurrent of irritation, but you easily made the decision not to let it come out against him. It turns out that sometimes you could just shut up instead of exploding against others, crazy, right?

“First, I don't talk like that.”

“That's right. Lousy imitation, Clint,” Natasha had your back.

“Second, I only asked him once to let me come alone. I didn't beg him like a fool.”

“Sam told me otherwise,” Clint countered and you frowned. You felt the smile on his mouth.

“Sam's an idiot.”

“Sam's on Bucky's side,” Natasha mused.

And then, an awkward silence.

That was something you hated and still couldn't get used to. When people would say Bucky's name around you, the atmosphere would get strangely tense and suddenly everyone would go silent. It felt strange at first, but when Wanda did it you understood what was going on.

“Stop doing that,” you grumbled with a grimace. “I'm not fucking marble. I'm not going to crack from hearing his name.”

“We didn't say anything,” Natasha spoke again, her innocent little dove expression getting on your nerves.

Count to ten, Y/N, don't forget…

“You guys always go silent after you say his name like he's going to spontaneously explode. We're adults, you know? There are things to get over.”

“Wow,” you heard Clint mutter.

“Shut up, bird.”

Clint made a negative, game-like sound when you gave an incorrect answer.

“Three points off. Natasha and Clint are in the lead,” the man snorted as he rose from his position on the couch. You couldn't do more than give him another look, waiting for him to evaporate into thin air.

Natasha stirred next to you looking around at her surroundings, the dark colors of the room almost absorbing all the natural light coming through the few windows that were in the building.

“You haven't talked to him yet?”

“No.”

“Do you plan to?”

“I don't know. Maybe not.”

“Why?” Clint inquired, suddenly more interested in the subject.

“Because I don't feel like I give a s-”

Clint made the sound again.

“Two points off.”

“Clint,” Natasha reproached him with her tone of voice and the aforementioned only flashed her a smile. “It's been several weeks since you were last together. And you've had a lot of improvement-”

“That's debatable.”

“… don't you feel ready to talk to him?” Natasha questioned, completely ignoring Clint's intrusion into the conversation, again.

“I really don't know,” you admitted. “She told me I'm on the right track too, but just the thought of seeing him again after all those things he said… that I said…”

You sighed. Your gaze focused on the dark floor, a bluish-green hidden behind a black carpet with red, the most horrible carpet you had ever seen in your life.

“It scares me. I don't think I can do it.”

The woman let out an affirmative sound from her throat and the room became silent once again.

You almost let your mind begin to wander into memories, conjuring up the times when you felt like you were on top of the world when you were really about to hit rock bottom. But you quickly focused on where you were and what you were going to do there.

You were going to pick up Wanda. You had wanted to do it alone because it had been several weeks since you had last seen her. The last thing you told her was that you were going on another mission with Bucky and that you hoped it wouldn't end as badly as the argument you had that half the building heard. After that, she left.

She had made the decision to come and talk to Stephen Strange and had told you a few days before you left on what would be your last (official) field mission. She left the Complex the day after you left and all you had heard from her since then was that she was fine, that Strange hadn't locked her in a dungeon and that she was learning many things about her magic, especially how to control it to have power in things like her dreams. You still didn't know what those lucid dreams she had been having for a while had been due to, but judging from the letter you had received yesterday where she asked you to go to the Sanctum Sanctorum, it looked like she had gotten some kind of response.

When you told Fury what you were going to do, he didn't hesitate for a second to say that he would ask the Wonder Duo to accompany you. Clearly you balked, not as many times as Sam and Clint implied, but you didn't expose any more complaints to the Director's authoritative voice.

So, there you three were. Waiting for the wizards to appear from somewhere as you waited in one of the most horribly decorated rooms you'd ever seen.

“Sorry for the delay.”

The new male voice that echoed in the room startled you. You cringed and turned your head every which way until you came upon Strange's figure standing at the entrance to the room, not far from where you three were standing. Natasha and Clint remained unperturbed and you suppressed your desire to complain about the intrusion. You were the only one who hadn't heard him coming, apparently.

“Y/N!” you heard Wanda's voice.

You shot up from the uncomfortable couch the moment you saw her emerge from behind Strange's body. Quickly, you met halfway and melted into a big hug. You shifted from side to side trying to keep your strength and tears held back because of how much you had missed her.

“You look great!” was what she said to you the moment you parted.

“Don't lie to her, Wanda,” Clint exclaimed, and shortly you heard Natasha hiss in his direction.

“I've had better days.”

“I can't believe the day is here already! You have to tell me everything. What happened on the mission? What happened with Bucky?”

Again, the unpleasant silence.

“Why are you two making those faces?”

Wanda was watching the Wonder Duo right behind you and you couldn't help but let out a big exhale.

You turned to look at the only person who really gave a damn about your life.

“Thanks for everything, Strange.”

The man nodded in your direction. “It was my pleasure. Hopefully everything will be better from now on.”

Wanda waved goodbye to him as you turned around and pointed the other two people in the room toward the exit.

The other goodbyes were short and you were soon finding yourselves exiting through one of the portals opened by Strange, where you met the entrance to the Complex head on.

“Ah, magic. It makes life so much simpler,” Clint commented before starting to walk in the direction of the common room.

Natasha had the decency to bid you farewell and followed the bird's path at a tight pace.

“I thought they were going to join us,” Wanda mused, watching their figures walk away.

“No, they were just my nannies.”

“Nannies?” you saw her frown.

You watched the grimace on her face and almost have the urge to ask Sam to come give her a rundown of what had happened in the last few weeks since that last mission, but you mentally pulled back and offered a small smile to the confused woman in front of you.

“We have a lot to talk about.”

---

“Have you eaten today?”

The haze that clouded your mind slowly disappeared, your head barely registering the movements your body made to stay conscious. The soles of your shoes were too hard for your liking and you'd had to go sit down while you waited for Wanda to return. You didn't know how long it had been since that, but it seemed to be long enough for Steve Rogers to approach the cafeteria table where you were sitting with a tray containing the day's food.

“You look like you could use some of this.”

The blond gently pushed the tray until it was on your side of the table, and the smell of beef stew didn't take long to reach your lungs. It smelled good, to be honest. You looked down at the food and moved your hands to grab the silverware.

“Thank you.”

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I'm just waiting for Wanda. She went to talk to Fury.”

“I saw her coming in. She said she had a lot of things to tell.”

“She told me exactly the same thing.”

“And did you get to talk about anything before she left?”

You glanced at the fork in your left hand before looking up and meeting Steve's unconcerned face. You had learned very quickly that it wasn't too hard to get to know the captain in your position as opposed to how unreachable he looked to the rest of the population. He was a rough and tough man, but he would do things like bring lunch to a female shipmate who had a blank stare and sit down and try to chat with her.

He was good. Steve was good.

But he wasn't sneaky.

“If you want to know the verdict, talk to Strange. He's a close friend of Tony's.”

The man only sighed, his shoulders slumping in time with his breathing as if he'd been in alert mode all day.

“I didn't mean to sound so…. opportunistic.”

You rolled your eyes.

“You didn't sound opportunistic, Steve, you're just bad at trying to hide your curiosity,” you expressed with a small smile, but the man didn't look convinced by your words. “She's fine. She looks fine. She sounds fine. Whatever they had done, talked about or practiced, it surely paid off. I don't think you have anything to worry about.”

“She looked really scared before she left. You didn't see her. She asked me several times to communicate with you because she didn't know if it was a good idea to do that anymore.”

“She asked you that?”

“Yes. But the mission was very delicate, we couldn't risk it.”

You nodded in your direction, your gaze wandering back over the food.

“I just want her to be okay,” Steve mumbled and you almost missed the way his face contracted. His blue eyes found yours. “She's been through too much throughout her life and now this. It's like a joke of the universe.”

“She'll be fine. She has us. If she needs strength, she'll have plenty.”

Steve smiled, and then you took your first bite of beef stew.

You grimaced.

The blond frowned.

“Was the smell better than the taste, again?”

You nodded with your mouth full. Your hands went to the glass of water in the corner of the tray and you didn't hesitate to down the meat with all the liquid in it. You were almost never lucky enough to taste good lunches in that cafeteria.

“FRIDAY,” you heard Steve say.

“Yes, Captain.”

“Can you order a 12-inch tuna Subway on whole wheat bread with all the vegetables except the bell peppers and olives, please.”

“Right away, Captain.”

“That wasn't necessary,” you turned to the man as his gaze focused on yours.

“You can't go without eating.”

“I would have been able to place the order.”

“Mmm, really?”

“Of course! Do you think I waste the opportunity to spend Tony's money every chance I get? Even, I would have ordered more.”

“Oh, seriously?” Steve had a mischievous grin on his face and you furrowed your brow at his strange expression. “FRIDAY, make it three.”

You half-opened your lips.

“Sure thing, Captain.”

“Are you out of your mind?”

“What's with the attitude? It's Tony's money, isn't it?”

You hadn't heard that kind of boldness from Steve very often, and when it happened it was a complete event to witness. The man was a stickler, everyone knew him that way. He didn't understand the word rest and most of his free moments were only used to keep reconsidering attack strategies. Steve wasn't one to let loose and go with the flow very often, but when he did it was something to be enjoyed.

“You know he doesn't mind, right?”

And the moment was over.

“No? I thought he still hated me from lying to him about the book.”

“Uhm…” Steve fumbled over his words and you were amused at the way his features scrunched up. “He doesn't hate you. He was just angry. Besides, it's been a long time, he probably doesn't even remember that.”

“I think he's going to remember that until he dies.”

“Steve.”

You froze in place.

Abort mission. Abort mission. 911. Mayday, mayday, mayday.

Steve looked over your shoulder and then back up at you, your eyes on the embroidery of his brown jacket. You tried to keep your expression composed and sent him a smile of assurance that even you couldn't believe. But you couldn't do anything else. You couldn't break down at that moment. Besides, he would most likely ask the blonde to come with him and Steve would go. You wouldn't really have to deal with anything.

“He's really coming,” you heard Steve mutter in your direction.

Your face scrunched up in confusion, and you watched his expression of poorly disguised panic. You had told Steve only once, days ago, that you weren't ready to talk to Bucky at all. And, apparently, he had made it his problem too.

“Are you busy?”

You heard Bucky so close that a shiver ran through your body. It had been weeks since you'd last heard his voice. On that mission.

“No, I was just talking to-”

“Captain.”

But what was this, the all-call-Steve-at-once festival?

You sank back in your seat when you recognized the Director's voice. If he was there, it meant Wanda must be coming with him, and judging by the contractions in Steve's face, going from confused to incredulous to dumbfounded to flushed, your friend was most likely waving him out of there.

“A word, please,” Fury spoke again, and Steve barely let a second pass before he sprung out of his chair like a spring. He gave you a look and you could almost see the apology written in his eyes.

“Buck, I'm sorry- I mean, wait here for me.”

“What?”

“I won't be late, I promise.”

“I can wait for you in the living room…”

“No,” Steve contradicted him sharply. You caught a glimpse of his stiff expression out of the corner of your eye. “Wait for me here, can you?”

You didn't hear an answer, but you guessed it was positive when you saw Steve's face a little more relaxed. He looked back at you and barely gave you a nod before he started walking toward the exit. You turned in your seat to see him, and barely caught a glimpse of Wanda's triumphant face before she hid behind the back of a naive Fury as she saw your gaze on hers.

That woman really had no idea…

The chair Steve was occupying shifted and Bucky appeared in your field of vision. He was looking anywhere in the cafeteria before he was looking at you. And well, that was good, it gave you time to analyze what you had missed in those weeks without any communication.

He clearly looked calmer. Even though you two were forcibly put in an uncomfortable situation, he didn't seem to mind too much. He looked a little tense, you could barely make out a twitch in his jaw, but other than that he was pretty relaxed.

You didn't know how to interpret that.

The last time you had thought about seeing Bucky again (which was that very morning when Natasha brought it up) you thought that one of you would run away without even a second's notice. It seemed that the only one too scared about that reunion was you. Surely Bucky hadn't thought about it for a single moment since the last time you were face to face.

And his hair. He had cut his hair much shorter than last time. Its ends were directed to the ceiling and you could no longer mess it up if you ran your hands through it. It would rearrange itself in seconds. His eyes were still the same, clear and bright as the clear sky, his expression just as stoic and unperturbed, his body leaning slightly to one side with his hands clasped in his lap. Almost everything about him remained the same except for his hair.

And except he couldn't look you in the eye.

You looked down where the tray with the stew was still intact. You didn't have anything else to distract you with so you grabbed a vegetable and popped it in your mouth.

Turning your head away, you missed Bucky's gaze on your face analyzing the grimace of disgust you were trying to hide.

You swallowed hard and grabbed the water bottle so that it almost slipped through your hands. It was empty.

You almost threw up on yourself.

“Are you okay?”

You met his gaze and froze. His wary eyes were on your face.

“Yeah.”

“Doesn't look like that food is good.”

“Because it isn't.”

You shook your head and pushed the tray away from your personal space once and for all.

“Why don't you order something else?”

“Steve already ordered me something.”

“Oh.”

And silence.

You usually enjoyed the quiet moments, when no sound flooded the surroundings other than your own breathing and the ramblings in your head. You could really enjoy your solitude and the quiet it brought with it. But this silence didn't come with solitude, it came with tension, strain, uncertainty.

You didn't know if you felt you should say something or if you felt you should run away. If you stayed you didn't know what to say to him and if you left you didn't know under what excuse.

Bucky's light eyes met yours again after wandering his gaze for a while around the room.

“Wanda's back,” was what he said.

You nodded.

“We came with her this morning.”

“Yes, Steve told me.”

“We don't have to do this, you know.”

His neutral expression turned chaotic for a moment. Then he went back to being unflappable as if nothing.

“We don't have to do what?”

“This. Talk like it's nothing. It's awkward.”

“Ah. You find it awkward?”

You furrowed your brow at his genuine curiosity. For a moment you thought he was being sarcastic, but his eyes detailed your expression intently, waiting for an answer.

“Don't you?”

“Why should I?”

“Can you stop answering with questions, please.”

Bucky averted his gaze. He repeatedly ran his hands over his jeans.

“I'm sorry. If it makes you uncomfortable I'll keep quiet.”

“Still, you don't answer my question.”

“It's not awkward for me,” he finally said, his slightly tilted head pointed in your direction. “It's just normal small talk. Between two people.”

You hummed a nod and your head moved in sync.

“It's easier for you to pretend nothing happened.”

Bucky shook his head, attentive. He narrowed his eyes and it didn't go unnoticed the way you tensed your shoulders as the words left your mouth.

“I never said that.”

“It's just what I can glimpse.”

“What you think you see is not true. I'm not trying to feign insanity.”

“Oh, yeah. I forgot you're an expert at knowing what I think,” the words left you before you could process them and give them the proper filter, and you were sure Bucky had noticed the way your composure wavered for barely a second. If he had, he chose to ignore it.

You saw him twist his lips and lower his gaze, as if he suddenly felt distressed even though he wasn't the one who should be worried about something like that.

“You're angry.”

“And why would I be, according to you?”

“Maybe you were expecting a different reaction from me. You don't like what I'm giving you.”

You let out a laugh. “I never thought arrogant was your type.”

Bucky took in your gesture and mimicked it. Seeing a smile on his face after so long brought back images you thought you had sent far out into the ocean of your mind. Maybe you didn't feel your heart racing as it had so many times before, but you definitely felt something different from the fear and dismay that normally accompanied his memory. Even though you didn't want to accept it, you couldn't help but stretch a little towards that new sensation.

“I was joking. I have no idea why you're mad.”

The small smile on your face disappeared, and you allowed your head to wander down the paths of self-healing and self-improvement. Perhaps it was situations like these that your therapist always referred to. Stealthy confrontations that you usually used to avoid like rain, were the perfect moments to divulge a kind of self-reflection and improvement. To, perhaps, make known the emotions and thoughts you used to suppress and keep to yourself, the reason you had ended up that way to begin with. That was supposed to be what people normally did, to talk about their feelings…

So you just let it out.

“I'm not angry. I think I feel… embarrassed.”

“Embarrassed about what?” Bucky cocked his head to one side, his eyes scrutinizing your face as if trying to figure out if you were being serious or not.

“For confronting you.”

“Me?”

“Yes, Bucky. Here's to having you face me and confirming once again that you were right,” you rolled your eyes and took the moment to look anywhere in the cafeteria but into the blue eyes that wouldn't leave yours. “You were always right, I guess. No one else stood up to me like you did and I still lied to you looking you in the eye, wouldn't you feel the same way?”

The movement he made as he shrugged his shoulders drew your gaze, and met you with such a frightening familiarity that you felt old memories and feelings creeping up from the back of your mind to return to the surface. His calm gaze and tension-free body was what you had always been used to, and at that moment it was what you were seeing.

You didn't know how much you missed him until you saw it again.

“It's possible, yes.”

“The point is, knowing that doesn't make it any less complicated. In fact, it's a little harder to cope with. Being aware of the embarrassment… makes you more embarrassed.”

Bucky let out a short laugh. Your gaze didn't leave the way his corners turned up and then how his shoulders moved and his chest contracted in sync with that laugh. You hadn't noticed until that moment the change in the atmosphere around the two of you, much lighter and cozier, not at all hostile and toxic compared to the last few times you were together after the argument.

Mmm, maybe you were liking all that stuff about therapy. To be honest, up until that point you had discerned very few results, although some were quite important. Like, for example, you were able to keep your mind clear of self-destructive thoughts for longer, or that you could look at your past actions and reflect on them, determining clearly what things you were doing wrong and why it was wrong to do them. And there were many, many of them. Not just with the people around you, but more so with yourself.

However, in that moment, having Bucky in front of you and having been able to not only carry on a conversation for more than a minute with him, but also having been able to admit to him how you had felt and show true regret for what happened, you were able to understand that the change was much bigger than you had initially sized it up to be.

“It's serious. It complicates the process for me. That's why I didn't want to see you.”

He nodded without wiping the smile off his face. You could sense the understanding emanating through his gaze and, by the way he straightened his body, you knew he was going to give voice to the thoughts going through his head. Bucky usually kept his opinion of people to himself, he wasn't one to go around highlighting qualities in others unless he was asked or it was necessary for him to say so. Because of this, you could learn to tell when he was going to keep quiet about it and when he was willing to let it all out.

“Still, if it makes you feel any better, I can see you've come too far. Six months ago you wouldn't have said that to my face. I probably would have heard it from Sam who heard it from Clint when he eavesdropped on some conversation of yours with Wanda.”

You were really glad about what he just said, but…. what the fuck?

“Clint eavesdrops on our conversations?”

Bucky went blank. His features froze and the tension emanating from his body enveloped you both.

“Well… I only heard it once. Clint had said he'd upgraded the device for his hearing and was hearing three times as many things as he should. Among those things, he could hear you talking to Wanda in the next room.”

“I don't believe it.”

“There's nothing to tell you for sure that he did it again.”

“And how long ago was that?”

“Mmm, two years, I think.”

“Did he ever say anything to you?”

Bucky didn't answer for a few seconds, his gaze seemed lost in yours, with a solidity and strength too forceful for your tolerance. You suspected the answer was positive, but received the opposite.

“He only told me what had happened. He never told me if he understood anything he heard.”

“Uhm, you're good at getting out of tight spots.”

He gave you another one of those smiles that felt like home.

“I've had years to practice.”

The silence that followed his words was much more welcoming than before. You seemed to be able to move around the masses of air so freely that all the tension in your body could disappear in a gentle breeze.

“I'm sorry this was uncomfortable for you, but it was good to see you. And hearing you.”

“It wasn't that uncomfortable.”

“You're squeezing your legs under the table.”

You looked down, surprised, though you shouldn't be. Bucky had always been good at reading your body language. It was almost like it was his way of communicating. And yes, you were.

“You rocked from side to side. Your hands never stopped clenching in your lap. You were uncomfortable.”

“Still, I don't regret what I said.”

“I know.”

“Good.”

“Good.”

You had a duel of glances and you longed for that comfort you had been missing for so long. During those almost seven months of barely seeing him and not speaking to him, you had learned to appreciate the little moments in life. And you were surprised to think that before you thought you were living your life as you were doing at that moment, the present, but you were not. You learned the cruel difference between existing and living, and it wasn't hard for you to deduce why you had had such complicated moments in your life some time before.

You had never lived anything. You went through your life as a tourist and many times you weren't even in the picture. You tried so hard and constantly to convince yourself otherwise every day that it ended up tiring you out emotionally, and in the process taking everything out on the one person who tried to reach out to help you.

“Buck!” Steve's exclamation echoed throughout the cafeteria, just on time.

You turned to see him in the doorway, his raised hand gesturing for the man in front of you to follow him. Bucky stood up, but didn't leave before turning a glance at you with a warm smile worthy of summer.

“I hope to keep hearing from you more often.”

“We'll see if you're worth it.”

I need something good to read because I'm so fcking sad and mad and stressed out about the New Year and I don't even know why. I just want to get in a fckin hole and stay there until may or something. I'm so tired of everything.

CAN SOMEONE SEND ME A LIFESAVER STORY? I accept all the angst you may have, even with fluffy endings, I just want to get my head in something and forget reality and wtv. Thx u all.

the part where it gets weird (2)

summary: Bucky is trying to balance his life after making you a part of it, but there were still some walls he needed to work on

pairing: bucky barnes x f!reader

words: 4k

warnings: i think none? lmk if you think i should add one. also, English is not my first language, so sorry for any mistakes!

note: i don't know how i got the inspiration, the cunning or the desire to write again. i feel like i have a weird relationship with it but i want to overcome it but i don't allow myself to. it's very strange and i hate it. but well, i was thinking very often about the first part of this and finally i could think of something harmonious to continue it. i hope you like it and i hope tumblr will make it reach more people this time.

- part 1: how to break a routine in one year

Bucky only knew that there was some sort of event. He awoke that Sunday morning to a constant pounding on his door, insatiable and irritating, followed by a female voice that, sadly, he had come to know all too well. His young neighbour had woken up early that day with the sole purpose of making him wake up grumpy and on the wrong foot; he had barely had three hours of sleep and felt like his body had been run over several times by a tractor-trailer. Did that feel like being sick? He couldn't feel it from the serum, but he thought it was something similar to how his body felt at that moment.

Bucky came to regret several times in those two weeks that he had made the decision to let that noisy neighbour into his life. Sometimes she was helpful, but other times she was too unwelcome, and though she didn't ask questions to fill the awkward silences around his half-told life story, Bucky knew she was dying to know what was really going on when his gaze wandered somewhere in the instance. Knowing that she had this curiosity made him too uncomfortable, sometimes he couldn't even bear it, but he knew he would have to live with it until the day he decided to tell her the truth or until he cut her out of his life for good.

Bucky… Bucky considered himself a man of patience. That life he lived in the shadows left him with a lot of bad things that he was still dealing with, and he would never dare say that anything good came out of it. There was nothing but heartache and suffering, both from himself and from the people he hurt. But patience was something that had endured in him despite all these upheavals in his life. As always, it was common for him to want to control every aspect of his life, a situation that required a great deal of patience to carry out with skill and perfection.

That Sunday morning, Bucky felt his patience hanging by a thread. He had heard something about an event being held in the building that day, when he arrived in the early hours of the morning where he lived, teenagers talking about it at the reception desk. He had a slight feeling that his neighbour had something to tell him about it at that moment. He sighed in defeat.

His body shifted, settling face down, his hands settled on either side of his body. He could simply ignore her and continue with his rest… However, he stifled a grunt against the pillow and slowly made his way towards the front door.

“We're going to be late!” Bucky heard clearly as he approached the door, “Thomas is going to finish all the sandwiches,” she mumbled through her teeth and Bucky swore he could see her cross her arms as she said it.

He opened the door wide, his neighbour's eyes quickly locked on his, and her grumpy expression changed to one of joy at the sight of him. Though Bucky was not the epitome of happiness at the moment. He was sure his features were set in cement, like his frown and pursed lips.

“It's seven in the morning,” was all the man could say, still refusing to open the door entirely.

Bucky watched his neighbour grimace “I can't believe it,” her brow furrowed in disbelief, but with a hint of grace shining in her eyes.

“I texted you last night if you wanted to join me in celebrating the building's birthday,” the woman began, her body pushing Bucky aside to enter, who could do nothing but close his eyes in frustration as he stepped aside to let her pass, “You didn't reply so I took it as a positive silence.”

Bucky frowned, a few flashbacks from the night before furrowing through his memory. “You couldn't think that maybe I didn't answer because I was busy?”

“Are you busy now?”

“No.”

Damn.

“Yes,” Bucky tried to rectify.

He heard his neighbour let out a laugh, in time with her anatomy shifting in front of the kitchen in his flat.

“How long has it been since you've made dinner at home? Your dishwasher has cobwebs in it.”

“What do I need to make dinner at home for?”

The woman turned to look at him, a confused expression on her face, “To spend time with yourself?”

Bucky snorted, starting to move back to his room, that time to change, because he entirely doubted she would leave him alone now that he was inside his flat.

You watched him walk away, his shoulders squared in defence and his whole posture hostile. You already knew that Bucky was some kind of dark man, someone who was going through something but wasn't able to share it with others. You didn't blame him, not everyone was as chatty as you. You'd tell your secrets to a rock. But the point was, even though Bucky wasn't a talkative man (and you'd learned that well these past two weeks, even though you were already “friends”), you knew that somehow he needed a little human companionship. Everyone needs it, right? At least to keep from going crazy.

So you tried to give him that company often, but you were very careful not to overwhelm him. You could tell he was someone who was already used to being alone, who probably had a routine and total control over his life. Sometimes you wondered how he could hide his feelings so well and what kind of circumstances had led him to be like that. Or what kind of people…

In the distance, you heard the sliding doors of his wardrobe and the sound of hooks clanging against metal. You smiled triumphantly inside, continuing your thorough inspection of the natural habitat of the specimen in his room. You made a mental note to come over someday to help him with the grooming.

“What are we supposed to do?” You heard his voice through the masses of air. You rolled your eyes as you realised he didn't even try to pick up his phone to check your messages.

“Today marks 10 years since the opening of this building.”

“And that's my fault?”

“Let me finish,” you approached the cupboard. A stack of cereal boxes and canned food was what greeted you, “The building owners planned a breakfast, a barbecue for lunch and a big dinner in the evening for all the residents. Completely free of charge. It's a day of spending it together, in each other's company. These are things we used to take for granted, but, as you noticed, a lot has happened over the last few years.”

Bucky came out as you finished inspecting the fridge. “Now everyone wants each other's company.”

“And you want each other's company?”

“I'm just going for the food.”

Undoubtedly, you noticed Bucky crack a half-smile at your comment as he walked nimbly towards the door trying to evade your gaze. You smiled triumphantly, again.

“We've never talked about that,” you commented warningly, as you walked towards the lift after Bucky closed the door to his flat.

“We haven't talked about a lot of things, kiddo.”

“I mean the blip,” you replied bluntly, and watched him directly as he pressed the button to call the lift. He held your gaze for a few seconds.

“I disappeared, just like you. There's not much we can talk about.”

“We could share emotions.”

The lift arrived and Bucky stepped in without a word. You knew that was his way of snorting and evading a conversation without really needing to because of the same mental and emotional exhaustion that kind of talk caused him. So you didn't push. But you didn't have to try to revive the conversation either.

“Is Emmet coming?” He did it for you, surprisingly. It didn't happen very often.

You turned to look at him.

“I mentioned it to him and he said he was going to see if he could. He's got some business to take care of.”

Bucky just let out an affirmative sound, his head bobbing in time.

He was always that way, cautious when talking about your partner. You didn't really know the reason why, when he brought it up it wasn't for too long, and he also didn't feel like hearing much about things related to him or your relatively constant fights lately. That's why you stopped using him as your complaint box when you realised that he didn't really even listen to what you said. What you really thought was that he was trying to be nice; he was trying to start a conversation however he could about a topic he knew was of genuine interest to you.

It was the little details that really mattered.

The lift stopped on the first floor and the first thing Bucky noticed was the bustle of conversation among the people on the floor. Then he noticed the number of people equal to the noise that filled the room. His gaze swept quickly around the room, his classic scowl making its presence known as his neighbour rushed out of the lift to meet one of his friends from the building.

Bucky watched them from afar, his hands clasped at his sides and a look that kept people from getting too close to him. This allowed him to easily weave his way through the sea of people there.

To be honest, he was quite surprised at how many people lived in the building with him. He felt that he really only knew two, and he had met by chance about five at most, most of them in the lift. But he didn't know anyone on his floor, except for his extroverted neighbour who approached him with a plate full of sausages, chicken nuggets and a kind of ham and cheese rolled up on a wooden stick. All over the centre, a small cup with a white sauce and flashes of some green spice.

“You have to try the nuggets with this sauce, they're a delight!” you exclaimed with a smile before popping the aforementioned combo into your mouth and closing your eyes enjoying the explosion of flavours.

Luckily, before Bucky could try to refuse your offer, another of the building's inhabitants appeared to entertain you as he slipped away victoriously.

Reaching the back exit of the building, he could tell that there were still more people to be seen living in the place with him. The pool was empty, for now, but there were a considerable number of children running around it, hiding behind trees and eating together with their parents. Most of the families occupied almost every table in the building's gigantic courtyard, that Bucky could hardly find a remote one to sit at in relative peace.

He was actually surprised that he had gone so long without knowing that all those children lived in the building.

But hey, the less he knew, the better. He'd never know at what point he'd have to pack up and leave.

“You're good at sneaking out,” Bucky heard your voice approaching, and didn't even bother to turn around. He continued to scan the front, the city streets and the small shops that lined the streets nearby.

Before you sat down, you watched him. His hands were folded on the table, his posture less tense than before but still alert. You knew he had heard you, you knew more or less how to interpret his body language.

“I brought you some things I thought you might like,” you commented as you took a seat across from him, being careful not to deprive him of the view, whatever it was that captivated him so much about it.

“I didn't know there was a café there,” you heard him say as you arranged the small plates you brought on the tray. You turned to see what he mentioned, and sure enough, you saw the café you went to almost every day before you took the shuttle to work. They made the best cappuccino you'd ever tasted in the whole city.

“You've missed out on so much by being cooped up in your four walls.”

“My four walls are comfortable,” Bucky rebutted, his brow slightly furrowed, “Besides, I do go out.”

“Yeah, but you're too busy thinking about who knows what to notice the things around you. We could take a tour sometime, I know these streets well.”

“No, thanks,” he replied almost as soon as you finished speaking, as he took one of the cups of food you had brought him, “What's this?”

“Dulce de leche, I think.”

“It looks too sweet.”

“It is, but it's ultra delicious.”

“Have you tried it yet?”

“Yes, it's a recurring dish in Mrs. Mildred's kitchen. She lives on the third floor with her grandson and a little dog. She gave me a cup of the sweet stuff for my birthday last month,” you told Bucky, watching her from a distance. She was an amazing person; even with how little you had interacted with her you could tell.

“It's too sweet,” you heard Bucky say, his lips twisting into a pout. You watched him set the cup with the dulce aside, willing to turn a blind eye to it for the rest of the day.

“You definitely don't seem like the type to be a dessert fan. You should try Mrs. Maria's ham and cheese croissant. It's very fluffy, it has such a soft texture that you feel it melts in your mouth,” you commented as you approached the plate with the food you had pointed out to him, “She told me once that it's her grandfather's recipe; she told me that they don't taste as delicious as they did for him, but his children love them. And believe me, they're the best I've ever tasted.”

Bucky kept his eyes fixed on yours, for a little longer than you thought normal.

“So, you know everyone in the building?”

You smiled slightly.

“I like to think so. I know that Mrs. Sarah is a taco fanatic thanks to her husband Manuel, and that Mr. Alfred on the fifth floor hates Mrs. Mildred's dog, and that her grandson takes the little dog for a walk right around the same time Mr. Alfred goes out for his four o'clock walk. I also know Mr. and Mrs. Sawyer, they have two children, Veronica and Tom, they are big lawyers who live on the top floor of the building, the one with the biggest flats,” as you told Bucky about someone, you would discreetly point them out so he could recognise them and, strangely, it seemed like he was really paying attention to you.

“So yes,” you concluded after a while of introductions, “I know almost everyone in this building.”

“Am I excluded from that list? Because technically you do know me, we're not strangers.”

“Maybe not, but if someone asked me about you the only thing I could tell them would be your name and where you live.”

“Why would anyone ask you about me? You don't have to know everything about me to be an acquaintance.”

“You know a lot of things about me.”

“Against my will.”

“But you do.”

Bucky rolled his eyes. Little did you notice that, between your introduction and his short talk, he had finished almost every cup of food you had brought him. YYou were about to ask him if there was anything he wanted to repeat so you could bring it to him, when the crash of an object followed by an almost stony silence stole the show.

A boy had kicked a ball, which had hit Bucky's left arm.

His tension was instantaneous. You saw him go from a flaccid jelly to a stone in a matter of seconds. It seemed exaggerated to you how everyone stared at the place where you were sitting, waiting for the moment when the man would explode or something. You didn't know how, but it seemed incredible to you that Bucky had been able to deliberately ignore all the stares from the moment he came out of the lift to the moment he sat down at that table, to that moment. You had told him about the many people, mostly nobles, who lived there, but you had neglected to mention how indiscreet and gossipy the other part of the people who shared the building with you were.

You watched him warily, for his good humour had suddenly vanished. He was staring at the tray you had brought, not even showing signs of breathing.

“Trevor,” you heard a female voice in the distance, cautious and reprimanding.

You turned just barely to observe a boy, he couldn't have been older than 10, walking in the direction of the table where you were standing. You knew Bucky wasn't going to do anything, he would just stay like that until all the people dispersed, ignoring them and ignoring also his own feeling of running away, or he would wait for the right moment to leave the event and, most likely, not meet any of these people again for weeks.

You fervently hoped for the first option.

“I'm sorry, Mr. Barnes,” you heard the boy say, the ball he hit Bucky with lying under his armpit.

You noticed Bucky turn to look at the boy, a little uneasy as he realised how many eyes were on him, as if expecting him to start screaming. All he did was give the boy a nod and the kid walked away with a smile. The children's shouting resumed and the people dispersed.

Bucky barely turned to see your surprised face.

“What?”

“That boy knows you.”

“Surely.”

“How? I thought you weren't talking to anyone.”

“Maybe he saw me at some point picking up the mail.”

You frowned. You were trying to play it down, and yes, it probably wasn't that important. You didn't know why it gave you a strange uneasy feeling.

“What's the matter, don't you like not being the only one who knows my full name?”

“Ha ha, that's funny, Barnes.”

“It's no big deal, I'm not a public figure or anything.”

You nod briefly, your mind trying to forget the subject quickly. No big deal, Bucky was most likely right.

“Anyway, we were just talking about how little I know about you.”

“Mmm, I think we were talking about the food.”

“Don't do that, Bucky. At least tell me your birthday.”

The aforementioned grimaced, “For what, you want to throw me a party?”

“No,” you replied. Bucky arched an eyebrow at you and you shifted in your chair, “Maybe.”

He stared at you, perhaps weighing what the consequences of saying it would be or thinking about how to get rid of you so he could get back to his room. He let out a sigh, his shoulders slumped and his gaze lowered.

“March 10th.”

“Funny, the same day as Chuck Norris.”

“Who?”

You shook your hands and head, “Never mind. Tell me what your favorite colour is.”

“You're pushing your luck.”

“I'm just trying to get to know you.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why do you want to get to know me?”

“Why wouldn't I want to? You're my neighbour, and you're not as bitter as you want to make it seem.”

Bucky kept his gaze on yours for a few moments longer. You knew you were really pushing your luck, and while this wasn't the longest conversation you'd ever had with the man, it might be one in which you'd gone the furthest in knowing something about him, even if it wasn't so personal. Now you knew his birthday! And it was only a couple of weeks away.

Ignoring the icy expression that had taken over Bucky's face, you began to brainstorm ideas of how you could celebrate his birthday without it really being a super celebration. Bucky didn't seem like the type to celebrate with big parties… He didn't really seem like the celebrating type at all. But it doesn't hurt to have cake on the day of your birth anniversary. Thinking about a celebration made you think about people: what people did Bucky know that he liked to have attend his birthday party? Hm, in the hypothetical case there was one, of course. You barely knew the date, it was like the tip of the iceberg compared to knowing the people he surrounded himself with outside the building, apart from you.

Your lack of attention didn't allow you to notice Bucky's sudden change in attitude. He didn't know why he suddenly felt so uncomfortable out there, surrounded by all these people with cool lives and huge smiles. It was as if he felt… out of place. As if he didn't really fit into that painting that everyone was a part of on that artistic stage that was life. Including you.

Bucky didn't know what your sudden and intense interest was in knowing him. If your intentions really were genuine; if he really could trust you blindly, how could Bucky know that you were not a person sent to…?

He shook his head. Enough thoughts for today.

“You shouldn't,” Bucky's voice snapped you out of it, your gaze finally noticing his icy expression and his mouth twisted in displeasure. Seeing him like that so suddenly caused your stomach to flip. What had you done wrong?

“I think that's my decision,” despite feeling it was a completely wrong scenario, you kept your gaze steady on his.

Bucky was an enigma and you wanted to figure it out. Not as an experiment, not as a science project and not as charity, but just to deconstruct his persona and really know who the man was before society. The connection you felt with him was strange, ambiguous, but for a while you thought it was reciprocal. Maybe it was just one-sided. You're a good listener, so you've been told. Also that you talk too much, and that sometimes people prefer to let you be around them just so they don't bother you and make you think they care about you, when they're not really listening. Who's there for you when the night is darker than ever?

You didn't know if Bucky had that someone, but you knew he looked just like a person going through a very, very dark night.

His phone rang. Suddenly his attention was focused on something else as he pulled his phone out of his pocket. You watch his eyes sweep across the screen, the rush of emotions fleeting and rushing.

"Gotta go," he mutters without looking up from the screen. You felt it all happen so fast that you barely noticed when he got up from his chair.

“Okay, s-see you tomorrow,” you stammer, watching his figure walk away through the crowd without knowing if he really heard you.

Your heart felt heavy inside your chest. You felt fully aware of it pounding inside your body, your own chest closing in on itself, giving you a strange suffocating sensation you hadn't experienced before. But you couldn't stop thinking about him. What to do. How to do it. When. Where. How…

A hand on your shoulder startles you, your heart pumping wildly as you notice a woman beside you. Mrs. Sawyer, Tina Sawyer.

“I don't understand how you could get close to that man. I fear for your life every time I see you near him,” she commented graciously, as if she expected you to laugh or something.

You watched her with a frown.

“Don't talk about him like that, he's not a monster.”

Tina clicked her tongue, her hands moving in a nonchalant gesture. It made you incredibly angry that she was talking about Bucky like that, and why? She didn't even really know him.

“Relax. Just yell if you need help. The walls aren't that thick.”

“Tina, don't-”

“Ah! I remembered why I came,” the woman interrupted, a wicked grin forming on her face, “Your boyfriend's here. And he doesn't look too happy to have seen you sharing a meal with someone else.”

Amidst the masses of air, your gaze collided with Emmet's. Sadly, Tina was right. His body was leaning against a pillar of the building, right next to the door to the back exit. His scowl and his arms crossed over his chest were a clear sign of his annoyance, and for some reason, him being annoyed by that didn't give you the best of feelings.

But you sighed, tried to neutralise the look on your face and started to approach your boyfriend. You had a feeling that things were not going to get better from here.

the 5 stages of (my) life

summary: he was everything. there was no before or after him. it was just him.

pairing: bucky barnes x f!reader

words: i think 7k?

warnings: thoughts of loneliness, depersonalisation, mention of depressive symptoms, a lot of bad words at some point, implicit descriptions of sex. i wrote this to be pure angst, idk if i got it, we'll see, you'll tell me.

note: i was watching Grey's Anatomy today and a specific episode about a couple inspired me to write this. it's too inspired by that so thank you Grey's! i don't know if i got the angst i wanted, i hope i did. i actually wrote this just with suffering on my mind. anyway, hope yall like it!! (English is not my first language so sorry for any mistakes!) also, I uploaded this at half past one in the morning so I didn't have time to edit the quotation marks, but tomorrow night I'll make the text look much nicer!

thank u for reading!

You never thought things would go this far.

"I'm not going to stand here and watch you risk your life because you're incapable of expressing your feelings. I'm not worth being put through this."

"You're talking about my fucking life! Why do you want to take control of all the shit I do now? Fuck you."

"I can't believe how fucking insane you've become."

You never thought things would get worse like this.

"I gave up a lot of things for you and you know it!"

"You make it sound like I forced you to. I never asked you to give up your life for me!"

"Exactly, that's the damn problem! You've never asked me to do anything, you've never asked me to do anything, I've just done all this stuff on my own trying to cope with a relationship that's become… one-sided!"

You had heard for a long time how a great many people had said that their best relationships had started with a flame. You couldn't count on the fingers of your hands the number of times you've heard someone say that the best relationship is the one that is always alive, where they keep the flame burning.

But what if it's not a flame? What if it all started with a fire?

You'd heard a lot of things about love, about life, about attachment, but you'd never really experienced it, and you couldn't know how, with the lifestyle you led, your reactions would be when you finally had one. Although, honestly, you didn't expect to ever have one after so many disappointments and abandonments; however, there was one thing that was common about love, that you had heard everyone say: it comes when you least expect it.

But the moment came and, after that event, you considered that your life had only five stages. Only five truly remarkable things that had brought you to the eternal extreme of misery. There was nothing before, there was nothing after. There was only him.

1

You had seen that man, by far, about seven times in the last month. He had a stern look on his face, as if he was in a constant staring match with someone inside his head, or as if he was someone completely drained of emotion, who had lived and felt too much and was tired of it.

Or maybe he was just unfriendly.

Every time you went to therapy, within the last four weeks, you met that man.

The two of you always waited, sitting across from each other in the narrow hallway, trying fiercely to avoid each other's gazes. Or well, you tried not to meet his too much, sometimes it really felt too heavy. Then he would be called first and, more often than not, he would come striding out with his hands clasped. If his vibe was too strong for the session, your therapist never tried to point it out. When he left, the doctor would appear behind him with her typical half-smile calling you by your last name, even though you had asked her not to do so several times.

The other times, which were not so common, the man actually took the time to look serene. You even thought you saw him give you a nod in greeting once, but you couldn't be completely sure of that.

You had never spoken to each other, you were just two strangers who happened to be in the same place at the same time of day at certain times of the week. Still, sometimes, when his eyes met yours, you felt like you were looking into a mirror.

Anyway, you had never spoken to each other, until one day you decided to change that, just because what was the worst that could happen?

"After a while it feels like you have no reason to come, don't you think?"

The man turned his head, and it was the first time he saw you out of volition. His clear eyes moved in an almost imperceptible way, analysing something about you, your face, your clothes, your posture. He looked like a predator ready to strike, but he didn't count on you being a very, very chill gazelle.

"I don't know if you can relate, but it's been really hard for me to come these last few times. I think my only motivation is to come here to have a battle with you of who can go the longest without seeing the other for 30 minutes even though our feet are almost touching?"

You thought you heard a snort in response. Mmm, it wasn't much, but worse was nothing.

"You could just not come," he replied, more crudely than you expected, actually surprising you because you didn't expect him to even pay attention to you.

"Yes, I could," you agreed with him, your gaze drifting to the white tiles, "Anyway, I don't have someone who really cares that I'm okay."

You twisted your lips in a very conformist gesture, and dismissed your attempt at conversation as a failure. Indeed, what was the worst that could happen? That the man would think you were pitiful. But what does it matter? He is a stranger. He's the only person you see regularly besides your therapist. Why should you care that the conversation didn't work? You shouldn't expect the opposite. At some point he'll stop going, he can't be as bad as you. When you least expect it, it will just be you in that narrow hallway again.

"Therapy can be very counterproductive for people who are alone."

You looked up when the man spoke again. You didn't know if you were seeing wrong, but his gaze wasn't as hard as before. He seemed… sympathetic.

"If it makes you feel any better, you're not alone when we wait in this hallway."

You didn't answer him. You watched him as if he were a fly swatted on a wall. You didn't know what to say. What was that supposed to be? Words of support? From a stranger? And what was supposed to be a response to them? That man had flipped the table on you, catching you off guard, and that didn't make you feel very good.

You watched him even after a while in silence, when he had already looked away, his head was down and he had focused on other things. You didn't know what your scrutiny was about; you didn't know whether you were looking for a lie or a mockery, a truth or a ruse. You didn't even know what it was all about. But what does it matter anyway? He's a stranger. He's a stranger sharing that narrow corridor with you. A stranger. A stranger who gave you a few words of support. A stranger. It's a stranger. He is a person.

You shook your head, suddenly regaining your composure. You ran your hands over the fabric of your trousers several times, up and down, down and up. Constantly. About ten times.

You didn't know if it was just you, but you felt suddenly obfuscated in that corridor. As if the walls had invisible hands closing around your throat.

You didn't really know much. You only knew that after the doctor called the man, James, you would never again take the liberty of speaking to strangers as if they were acquaintances, especially those in therapy.

But your mind went blank when James stood up and, before he left, looked at you as if it was something he had planned to do. As if he really wanted to do it. As if he had intended to…

No.

No more.

2

It didn't work.

Of course, it goes without saying that it didn't work.

How could it work? You saw him at least twice a week. And you were weak. Too weak. Too weak. Extremely and potentially vulnerable to suddenly hitting people who gave you a little affection and understanding. You were vulnerable to hitting people. You were vulnerable to ending up in therapy. You were vulnerable.

So what didn't work? Trying to limit your conversations with James to looks. Over the next three weeks, he seemed to have made it his mission to try to keep you company. Did he have any idea how uncomfortable that was for you? But you weren't going to tell him, how could you? Apparently the man wasn't a grumpy, mean looks machine, he was definitely a person who was getting some therapy. He was a person who understood your situation because he had to go through it himself. He was a person. He was a stranger.

Mostly, at that moment, you remembered the conversation that had led you to be in that coffee shop. It was strange. You felt alien to yourself, to your surroundings, but you tried to keep your mind enlightened so you wouldn't freak out.

"You look different."

"We saw each other three days ago."

James twisted his lips. "That's no excuse for not noticing that you look different."

You took a deep breath.

"You really made it your business to talk about something every time we see each other. Did you get tired of me beating you in the staring duels?"

"I'm just trying to get you back in therapy."

"By harassing me with questions?"

"By turning me into a person who cares."

You frowned. The constant knot in your chest was starting to become more and more unbearable. You felt the food from that morning in your throat.

"You'll get the opposite."

James pursed his lips and held up his hands.

"Hey, are you doing anything on Saturday?"

That had been the first time. Yes. Completely out of the loop, somehow you'd agreed the first time. And maybe it wasn't as bad as you'd hoped. Or maybe it was. You had no idea. Just as you had no idea how you had ended up in the same situation for the fifth time.

Fifth time? My goodness.

"You're particularly quiet today," James' face suddenly materialised in front of you.

At what fucking point had he arrived?

"I'm always quiet."

"Not as quiet as today. Are you okay?"

"What are we doing?" you blurted out suddenly. You didn't even process the words in your head until you saw the man's face contort in confusion.

"What are we doing?" James repeated your question, "We're having coffee in a coffee shop."

"You're a top notch clown, you know that?"

The man let out a laugh, and you watched his shoulders move in time with his breaths.

"We're just sharing time. Don't freak out."

"Sharing time?"

"Yes, sharing time."

"I don't think I've shared time with someone in a long time."

"That's not bad. It's good to share time with yourself."

You twisted your lips. You stared at the bubbles in your coffee, still steaming on the table.

"I had to learn to share time with myself," you looked up to see him with his head cocked to one side, a gesture you had learned to associate with his absolute attention to your words. "You've shared time with yourself?"

James nodded.

"All the time, to tell you the truth. I can barely escape myself."

You smiled at him. The constant knot in his chest seemed to have subsided for now.

"I guess we both got to learn."

The man raised his glass of black coffee, tilting his head, "It's the hazards of the job."

Yes, that was definitely what it had to be about. The things that constantly occupied you outside of coffee shops and therapy. Of the things that occupied your head so that you didn't delve into your intrusive thoughts, even though sometimes they seemed to come alive and present themselves in the faces of the people you saw in your daily life.

Undoubtedly it must have been because of that night job. It wasn't a job you loved, it was a job you imposed on yourself to try to make yourself feel better at night when you were trying to sleep. It was a duty. It was a task you couldn't refuse. Too many people had already died for you to give up. You had nothing left.

Many people said it was the job of a vigilante; other people said it was the job of a criminal. In the end, what did it really matter as long as it left you with a clear conscience?

Your therapist knew, but you didn't know if James knew. If he was aware of it and preferred to overlook it to have coffee with you. Or if he knew and preferred to ignore it so as not to ruin things. Or if he knew and pretended he didn't so you wouldn't notice he was doing it all out of pity. Or if he didn't know.

Honestly, you didn't know which was worse.

Sometimes you thought things were better when you were just strangers in a narrow hallway. Sometimes you thought it would be better if you didn't have to make an emotional commitment to him, even though you knew you were already doing it; unconsciously you were doing it.

You had always believed that it was better to be alone. Not to have company. Not to share time with someone you could potentially lose. It was easier to get the job done when you got home and didn't have to answer a text or remember that there's someone waiting for you to text them that you got home safe and sound.

"Hey, don't overthink it."

James' voice broke your concentration. You focused your gaze on his face, suddenly feeling oblivious to the whole scenario.

"You don't have to give it a name, or even think about it. If you really, from the bottom of you, didn't want any kind of company, don't you think you wouldn't have come the first time I asked you?"

"Are you saying this is what I want?"

"I'm saying that you're a person who's used to being alone, but you don't have to be if you don't want to be."

"You're an enigma."

James smiled. "Thank you. I think the same about you."

But it was true what he'd said, you were thinking too much. One of the things your therapist kept telling you was to try to stop living in your head. Acknowledge your surroundings, feel every sensation and take in every possible smell.

It was difficult when the reason you wanted to be in your head all the time was the same reason that all your senses were perceiving at the same time.

But you tried. You felt the wood of the table and the warmth of the coffee cup, you took in the smell of caffeine and James's perfume, a little piney and citrusy, you savoured the coffee left in your mouth from the last time you took a sip. Slowly you tried to bring yourself back to that moment, to focus on your present and, sadly, to acknowledge that you were in a coffee shop with James Barnes.

It was something you constantly shied away from. To acknowledge that you spent time with him. With him. That he deliberately chose to spend his time with you. That you, intentionally, decided to spend your time with him. With the one who started out as a stranger. A person. A friend. A…

No.

3

It had been a while since you had decided to stop closing yourself off to all the possibilities life had to offer. Sometimes you didn't recognise how you got to that point, but other times you felt something close to pride for allowing yourself to go that far. And, really, it could have been one of the best or one of the worst decisions you had ever made in your life.

You spent weeks trying to deny James coming into your life, but the moment you opened the door to him, you had only gone up.

You didn't know you missed the company of a friend on sleepless nights and confessions. You didn't know you longed for the warmth of a lover until hours passed and you couldn't tear yourself away from each other. You didn't know you wasted time denying the feeling. You didn't know that you needed to take a few days off from the exhausting work you had set for yourself. You didn't even know that the work was exhausting.

When you were able to recognise all those things, you were also able to recognise that you had been living life on the edge. You were constantly exposed to everything before you met James. Exposed to danger, to death, to loneliness. You were living too fast because you felt you had no time, that at any moment you would run out of time and you wouldn't have done enough.

And then you finally decided to give yourself a break. From everything. Absolutely everything. Everything.

You moved in with James.

Yeah, definitely.

You took turns shopping. You took turns doing the dirty dishes. You took turns cleaning the flat. It felt like perfect harmony; like suddenly everything was in its place and it seemed like nothing could go wrong from that point on.

"Wait, wait!" you exclaimed with laughter. You moved your body off the bed, the peach-coloured sheet covering your body. You tried to stretch to reach for your mobile phone on the nightstand but James' hands around your waist prevented you from moving too much.

"You can answer that when we're done," the man purred, his hands straining, but not too hard, to pull you back onto the bed.

"Hold on a moment, James Barnes," you mumbled back, when you finally reached for the mobile phone and let out a triumphant laugh.

Vanessa Lennox, you read on the screen, as you felt James cling to your back.

"It's Vanessa," you told him as you unlocked the phone to check her messages.

"Vanessa texts you all the time."

"I know."

"All the time."

"That I know."

"These nights are supposed to be for us. She's not asking you out, is she?"

"No, no, she's…"

I'm in trouble. Can you come over?

"She's all right."

I can't, but I'll write to Tommy. He told me he was watching today, he must be near where you are.

"Are you sure?" you felt James' breath on the back of your neck, as his lips began to touch the most sensitive parts of your back.

"Yes…" you replied in a whisper. "She's going to be fine."

"Then stop turning your back on me," James spoke, his breath colliding against the small of your back. You arched unconsciously. "Look at me."

You inhaled air sharply, leaving the mobile phone locked to the side of the bed. You let James's hands guide your movements until you were trapped in his arms, his chest pressed against your back.

"You're bossy sometimes, has anyone ever told you that?"

"Only you, to be honest."

"Yeah, sure you have," you smiled incredulously.

You stirred until you could stand face to face with the man you shared a bed with every night. His light eyes quickly met yours, and his hands squeezed each side of your waist.

It was getting a little chilly. There were nights when you didn't know how you could stand to be so long without clothes under those sheets. It was easier for James, the weather didn't affect him as much as it did you at the moment. You shivered as a chill ran through your whole body, from the tips of your toes to the crown of your head. You pulled your body close to his, settling your head where his neck and shoulder met.

"Maybe the window is open," you heard him say.

"You know I always close the windows all over the flat before I go to bed."

"Okay, then we'd better figure out a way to get you warm."

As he finished speaking, the man moved, lowering himself from his position until his head was at the same level as yours. His eyes smiled at you as your teeth unconsciously flickered from the cold your body felt. His mouth also stretched into a smile, one of the many smiles you had learned to love. It was a very homely smile. The kind of smile that only you could see, that only you could see, that only you could see. It was a very domestic smile. It was the smile.

"Do you want me to get the other sheet?"

"No," you answered quickly. "I'm fine. We can proceed."

James let out a laugh. His eyes grew small from the flex of his cheeks as he laughed. You saw every flex and line of his face and it was like a balm to your mind.

It wasn't long before the man, in the midst of his smile and that feeling of ecstasy, brought his face close to yours and kissed you as if he hadn't kissed you in years.

Kissing James was like touching heaven. It was like being at peace after years of constant war. It was a great, vast, calm ocean. It was the absolute silence of tranquillity. It was like a great rest after years and years of travel. With his kisses you could begin to believe that you would never be alone again. With his kisses you didn't feel alone. With his kisses you believed it was possible to never be alone again. With his kisses you lost the fear of accepting him unconditionally in your life.

With his kisses, you lost the fear of loving him.

You loved the way he cradled the side of your face when he kissed you, every time, without fail. You loved the way he would start slow, soft, so tender, then fill you with passion and control your mouth without weariness or fatigue. You loved the way he then moved his hands all over your waist to the curve of your buttocks, as if he was admiring every millimetre of your skin through his touch. You loved the way he made love to you afterwards, sometimes so subtle and sometimes so out of control.

To have James was to have the best of everything at the same time.

"Are you getting up early tomorrow?" James asked as he pulled away from you. When you saw his eyes, his pupils were dilated and his breathing resembled yours: quickened and eager.

"No."

"Good."

He kissed you hard.

"Because you're not leaving this bed until Sunday."

4

James had begun to accept occasional missions that Fury gave him. You never agreed. No matter when or where they asked you, you would never have agreed to it. But clearly you couldn't just keep him in the flat until the idea was out of his head. You had thought about it a few times, but… no.

You tried to adjust to the fact that he wouldn't be around as much as before, but it was very difficult. It felt as if you had been given the most delicious candy in the whole world, left to treasure it, to savour it a little at a time, to get used to having it next to you, only to have it ripped away from you without warning, totally unprepared, leaving you to realise that everything was really out of your control. You didn't have the candy in your domain, you had been allowed to have the candy and then it was taken away from you.

"Try to concentrate," you heard Vanessa's voice.

You looked up to find her watching you from the roof of the building across the street. You felt a strong desire to rip the communicator from your ear and stomp it to dust with your boot. It was strange. It was a feeling of constant anger that you didn't know how to control. You were constantly angry except when James came to the flat.

"I'm focused."

"You better be," Tommy spoke up, "because my life depends on it."

"You shut your mouth and focus on not losing sight of the target."

"Vanessa, remind me why I agreed to do this."

"Because you're a great friend who supports absolutely everything we do."

Friend. At what point did you start to consider someone a friend? James was your friend. You thought you considered him that. Your partner. Your friend. James was your boyfriend.

"And you're totally unconditional to us."

A friend is unconditional. James is your friend. He's your partner. Friend. James is unconditional to you?

"I have to start working on my boundaries."

"No, our friend needs to start working on her temper. She doesn't get the required amount of sex a day and she's already starting to freak out."

You frowned.

"So you consider your friend's problems to boil down to sex alone?" you snapped at Vanessa, not avoiding the sour tone with which your words came out. You couldn't help but take it personally. Was that being an unconditional friend? Or being a friend?

"No," she replied quickly, "You know I didn't mean it that way. I was joking."

You hummed a nod, downplaying the words. Playing it all down. Because it didn't really matter, it was so silly to get angry about it. And it was very strange for you to get angry about it. You didn't even used to have relationships close enough to allow yourself to get angry about something they said about you. That was the big example of why you didn't do it.

"The target is moving. He's heading for the nest," Tommy spoke again, his serene tone bringing you back to the topic that was truly important. "Do you see him, Vanessa?"

"Got it."

"Good. Just move into the room towards… Wow, who's that? Who the hell's in there?"

"Damn," Vanessa mumbled.

"Wait a minute."

"We can't wait that long."

"I know," Tommy exclaimed, and from his exasperated tone you could imagine how he was running his hands through his hair repeatedly.

"What the hell do we do, Thomas?"

"I told you to wait!"

"We can't wait, dammit!"

"Wait."

"Thomas, I'm going to-"

"Hold on."

You peered through your binoculars. The large panes of glass surrounding the flat where the target was located didn't let you see much inside. The room the man was in was not as well lit, but you had gone in well prepared.

Finally you could see what the others were seeing. The man had entered the room he was supposed to enter, but there was another man in there with him. And, as far as you could see, they had made themselves comfortable. It didn't look like the other man was going to leave any time soon.

"Let's do it," you spoke, breaking the silence, giving voice to the only option they had that neither of the other two wanted to say.

"Are you insane?" Tommy exclaimed through his teeth.

"We don't have a choice. We declare it a red zone and end the mission."

"We don't even know who that man is," Vanessa interjected, her voice unsteady as she was unable to acknowledge that you were right, hesitating because you were running out of time.

"That's what the red zone is all about."

There was a moment of silence. You knew they were both considering it, the idea had been in their heads since the man entered the room, but their moral compass was much stronger than yours.

"He could be an innocent person," Tommy tried to justify not making that decision.

"How innocent can he be sitting there with the target?"

"And how do we know he's guilty?" Tommy exclaimed back.

"We're wasting more time discussing this," Vanessa spoke again, and you could breathe in her deep inhale before she said, "I think we should do it, Tommy."

The man cursed through his teeth.

You looked through the binoculars again, and both men were still inside the room.

You heard a beep on the communicator and then a steady static. Someone had changed the channel.

"I'm relieving myself as mission leader. You're in charge," it was Tommy.

"What?"

"I can't do this."

"Thomas…"

"I can't make this decision. Just… just do it."

You heard the beeping again and then it was Vanessa saying, "Thomas, what the hell are we going to do?"

"Vanessa, aim for the target," you ordered as you began to open the case next to you, just in case a situation like that arose.

"What?"

"This mission has been declared a red zone. We're going to proceed according to protocol."

The woman didn't speak again.

Nor did she say anything when you had climbed down from the rooftops and found yourselves in an alleyway in the middle of the buildings. You were waiting for Thomas, your guns already stowed in the van.

"He relieved himself," Vanessa spoke after a while, and though it sounded like she wanted to ask a question, it sounded like a statement.

"Yes."

Vanessa shook her head in an affirmative gesture. She didn't say anything else. She leaned against the concrete wall with a blank stare.

Your mobile phone rang inside the van.

"Is that Thomas?" your companion asked.

You moved closer to look at the device's screen.

James.

"No."

You took the mobile phone and moved away from the woman's figure, further down the alley. Your heart was racing, it was out of control. You had been waiting for that call for days. You had spent sleepless nights waiting for one measly message. You had taken hundreds of missions just so you wouldn't have to endure sleeping in a bed alone. You felt like your body had been frozen until that moment, until that call, and finally….

"James? Are you here yet?"

A woman called your name on the other end of the line.

"Bucky arrived a couple of hours ago."

Your feet stopped walking.

"And the mission went well?"

Silence.

A beeping and constant muttering was all that answered you on the line.

"Is James okay?"

"He's stable. He suffered some injuries. We lost communication with him in the last few days and we thought that…"

You couldn't quite remember when you had arrived at the old Avengers Complex. Your body moved automatically and your vision was so blurred that you had no idea how you could get through the crowd without bumping into someone. It was all very strange. You spent months convincing yourself that it would never happen again. Ever since James accepted those damn missions, you spent weeks trying to convince yourself that nothing would ever go wrong. That his kisses would always be there. His reunion kisses were the best, they were a wellspring of calm that washed away all the anxiety that consumed you alive during the days when you couldn't hear from him.

You had already made up your mind that it would never happen again. He promised you that it wouldn't happen, that you wouldn't have to relive that heartbreaking feeling one more time.

And he broke it.

You wanted to be relieved to see him. You wanted to be happy to know he was alive. Bruised, but alive. You wanted to hold him, to stay with him and never let him go again. But you just stood there in front of his stretcher. And he didn't try to make you come closer either. He saw it in your eyes, you knew it. He knew it.

Seeing him on that gurney made you angry. It aroused your anger that this man had broken the promise he sealed with so many kisses. You felt so much disappointment that your chest had become a bottomless void of a feeling of impersonality. You didn't want to be there. You didn't want to go through it. You preferred to think that you could overlook it. You should overlook it. Why didn't you overlook it? You could live in ignorance, pretend to be the perfect girlfriend. Everything could be easier for both of you, for you, if you just ignored all those feelings and took this situation as a normal person would.

But your knees gave way to your tears and crashed to the floor. From the corner of the room, you could see your body shake in uncontrollable weeping. You didn't know why it hurt so much, if he was alive. You didn't know the reason for the agonising pain, if he was there. And yet, your face contracted in incalculable pain. It was as if he had died on that stretcher. It was as if you had been called to come and acknowledge his corpse.

And you knew James knew, because he hadn't said anything since you arrived. He had done nothing but watch you.

There, from the corner of the room, you could see him crying with you.

He knew.

You knew it.

5

The mission was simple.

Infiltrate, seduce, accompany, lull, kill.

But simple doesn't always end easy.

Since James had returned to the flat, he had vowed never to go out on any mission again, under any circumstances. And, indeed, he was keeping that promise. He was spending as much time at home as before.

But you weren't.

Every time James tried to talk to you about that mission where he might have died, you went into a kind of shell where you shut yourself off from all communication and fled from that place to one where you felt more at ease. More in control.

You got so tired of running away that you decided to start investing that time in something that would actually pay off. You started accepting missions with Thomas more often than before.

You knew James was trying to understand you, he was trying as hard and as willing as he could. Sometimes you would arrive and there would be dinner for you in the fridge or in the microwave. Sometimes you'd see your clothes piled in a corner of the yard suddenly neatly folded and smelling decent. Sometimes you'd walk into the bedroom and find little presents on top of the nightstand, right next to your side of the bed.

You knew James was trying.

But you also knew he was getting tired.

Weeks passed since you first came in and he was waiting for you sitting on the couch. It was a very hectic night, with too many questions and not enough answers. Sometimes you arrived and the flat was lonely. Sometimes you arrived and there was no food. Sometimes you arrived and there was only screaming.

But it was easier that way. You'd already felt what it was like to almost lose him, you'd already experienced that overwhelming emotion that had been with you so much in the past, and you knew, beforehand, that if it happened with James, there was no way you'd get out of it alive, so it was easier this way.

So it was easier that way. He'd walk away on his own, you'd forget about him, and you wouldn't have to suffer if he ever died.

Die.

James would die one day.

But not a day when he was with you.

So yes, you did spend a lot of time away from home.

Maybe you really should have thought twice before deciding that this was the best option.

You knew you dreaded James' death, and the loneliness that followed his passing.

But you had no idea how panicked you would be at the thought of your own death, after meeting him.

Because you would forget him, and that would be fairly easy for you, but he wouldn't forget you. And he would suffer, much more than he was suffering since you didn't come home.

"What the hell happened?" you remembered hearing a voice.

You couldn't be too aware of your surroundings lately.

"It was a simple mission," you heard another male voice.

"It was supposed to go well. She was supposed to call us if things got complicated."

You remembered little of being in the hospital.

You remembered a lot of James sitting in an armchair next to your gurney.

You remembered a lot of his silence.

You also remembered when, some days, you were awakened by his cries and had to pretend to be asleep so as not to interfere with his suffering. Because, ever since that accident happened, ever since you could remember what happened after that, James had become wary of his feelings. He wasn't as expressive as he used to be. And you didn't have the slightest idea what to do.

You couldn't believe that before you could get to the point where you could tell how each other was doing just by listening to each other's breathing, and after that you couldn't even meet each other's eyes by accident.

You were two strangers again.

You were losing him. You knew it. Every day that you went without doing something, without talking to him, without showing a hint of remorse for what you'd done, was a day closer to being completely alone again.

And you didn't even show it, but it was painful. Seeing him shut down like that, seeing him lose the sparkle in his eyes when he looked at you, realising that he lost the will to try… knowing that you took away his will… it was all too much.

Really, you never thought things would get this bad.

"What are you doing?"

You didn't think they had gotten this bad, until one day you came to the flat and saw a suitcase in the room full of his clothes.

"I'm tired."

Those were the first words he'd spoken to you in days.

"And I don't have to put up with this anymore. So I'm leaving."

You knew it was going to happen, but for him to say it like that…

"You're leaving?"

James turned to look at you. His icy expression paralysed you.

"Are you still surprised?" he blurted out gruffly, and continued packing his clothes.

You just stood there in the doorframe, watching him move as fast as if he had a coal-fired engine in his chest. As if he couldn't wait for the moment when he could finally get out of there.

"Really…" he spoke suddenly, "You've really gone weeks, weeks, without speaking to me no matter how many times I've tried to talk to you, and you decide to do it now just because you're watching me leave? That's what I needed to do to get you to react?"

You didn't answer, you just watched him, your mind blank. He was angry. Irate, rather. And you knew he was absolutely right, but you couldn't do anything about it. You couldn't do anything about it because things were going your way. If James went away, if he went away hating you, he wouldn't suffer in the future when you died and you could forget him in peace. That was the best thing. The only good thing you could do for him: keep him away from you.

"Don't you think I deserve an explanation?"

Yes, you do.

"No."

"No?" he repeated incredulously. "I know I made a mistake. I made a mistake in accepting those missions. I told you, I did it countless times. And yet, all those countless times you chose to turn your back on me."

The man watched you, his eyes filled with pent-up emotions that he finally allowed to overflow.

"I tried to understand you. I really did. I gave you your space. I tried to do whatever you needed because I knew it was hard for you, but it was like… trying to water a cactus daily. Everything I did seemed to have the opposite effect."

You're right. You're absolutely right. I'm sorry, I was overcome with fear and panic. I got carried away. Please don't go.

"You didn't even give yourself a chance to listen to me. Not once. Do you have any idea how all that made me feel?"

Yes, you must have felt very lonely. Abandoned. Despised by me. It was my fault. I shouldn't have let it all go so far.

"Do you want me to call a taxi?"

Of all the things you longed to say, that was the only thing your mind allowed to come out of your mouth.

You saw him sketch the sternest look of disbelief you'd ever seen. But you also saw pain, extreme pain at the rejection of your words.

"Are you fucking kidding me? How can you be so cynical?" James exclaimed, his face contorted in anger and helplessness. You cringed a little at the shout but didn't move away from him as he came striding towards you in long strides. "Tell me, did you even care about me? At any point in this… relationship, was anything you gave me real?"

You half-opened your lips to answer, but could not formulate the sentences you knew would comfort his heart.

Yes, absolutely everything was real, all my love and suffering was real.

James walked away, and you didn't know if it was possible that his face could look even more downcast.

Your hands were shaking with helplessness. He was still there. You could still try to save him. Why didn't you? Why? Why? Why?

"How can you be so fucking expressionless? How can you not be in pain… for this? How?"

"You're going to be fine," the words escaped your mouth before your mind could process it.

The man turned to look at you.

"You really are…" he raised his hand and gripped it tightly, swallowing his words and turning back towards the wardrobe to start throwing his things into the suitcase.

Suddenly, he let out a scream. And then a cry.

"I swear, if you'd just tell me no, I'd stay."

He looked at you. His tear-filled eyes met yours and you knew that would be an image that would haunt you to death.

"I would stay… I really would, but… I still can't believe you are so foolish. The first thing you did when you left that hospital was to go back to another mission. How could you care so little about your life? How could you care any less that I care about your life?"

I care about my life even more since you're in it. Don't go.

"It's just work," is what you replied.

"No, no, no…" James hummed with laughter, but his face lacked grace. "I'm definitely not going to stand here just watching you risk your life because you're incapable of expressing your feelings. I'm not worth being put through this."

"It's my life, James."

"But you made me part of your life! I'm here! We're supposed to share our lives together. Why is it only about you now?"

"It's supposed to be my choices…"

"But why can't I be a part of them?" James exclaimed loudly. Your mind clouded over, and even though all you wanted to do was apologise from there until the end of time, you had too much pent up anger because of that very inability to say what you truly thought.

You're right, I am unable to express my feelings. I am sorry. Don't go away.

"You're talking about my fucking life! Why do you want to be in control of all the shit I do now? Fuck you!"

"I'm not trying to control anything, goddamn it! I just need to know…"

"No! You don't need to know anything. You don't need to know anything about me. We're here and you're packing your bag. You have no right to know anything."

James let out a snort.

"We're here and you still can't talk to me. I can't believe how bloody insane you've become."

"Just go."

Don't go.

"This is bullshit."

James finished throwing all of his clothes into the suitcase. You watched his every move, every flex of his body, every grimace on his face, every flick of his hair, how his fingers clutched at the things he took, how his scowl didn't lessen one bit. You watched and watched. It was all you could do.

You leaned against the doorframe and watched him take his anger and pain out on his clothes and his suitcase. It gave you a strange kind of feeling to see him like that, something that felt mildly familiar but you couldn't put a name to it. You wanted to turn things back. If you could turn back time you would, and every single thing that went wrong you would fix.

But would you really? Did the problem really go back to when things with James started to go wrong? The problem was you. You were the problem. You couldn't talk, you could only think, you could only repress, you could only suffer. Only you, you and you. Only you because you were alone, because you had always been alone and there was no reason to believe that could change. James lied to you, that was the reason he was leaving and you had no reason to stop him. He had to go. If he didn't want to go through that, he shouldn't have lied in the first place. If he didn't want to go through that, he shouldn't have asked you out in the first place. He shouldn't have met you. He shouldn't have spent time with you. You shouldn't have stopped him.

Stop him.

You should stop him.

James closed the suitcase.

"I did too much for this relationship. I gave up too much for both of us. I gave up everything I was for this relationship. I gave up too much for you and you know it!"

You narrowed your eyes and began to approach him in rapid strides. He towered over you by several inches, and there was a time when you loved that, but now you hated that he could see you that way. He had always seen you that way. So small…

"You say that as if I forced you. I never asked you to give up your life for me!"

"Exactly, that's the damn problem! You've never asked me to do anything, I've just done all this stuff on my own trying to cope with a relationship that's become… one-sided!"

You walked away.

"Just… leave now."

Please leave before I tie you to this flat and never let you leave again.

He wanted to say something else. You knew he wanted to say something else. It was obvious he hadn't said half the things he wanted to say. But he didn't.

He took his suitcase and left.

He really left.

He walked past you, not caring that the brush of his shoulder against yours almost made you fall. He passed you and walked straight to the exit, slamming the door hard on his way out.

He was gone. He was gone. He was finally gone. He was really gone.

Now you were alone. You were alone again. That's what you wanted, wasn't it? You'd done a lot of things in the last few months to make him go away, and he was finally gone… but then why weren't you satisfied?

Why did you want to run after him? Why did you want to go and kiss him? Why did you want to stop him and beg him to forgive you?

Who did he think he was to deserve that after what he had done?

But… what had he done?

No.

What had you done?

welcome home (1)

series summary: you woke up from a long coma with no memory of a part of your life only to be told by your teammates that you're married to the man you hated seven years ago. even though that seemed to be the only problem, as time goes on you're realizing there's a lot more history and mystery behind the accident that left you in medical care for months. blackouts, more memory loss, mistrust and a strange man who seems to be connected to everything. every day it gets harder to trust anyone around you, but you won't stop until you can finally uncover the truth behind the accident.

chapter summary: when an accident makes you forget the last seven years of your life, you're lucky to have someone like Bucky to support you in your recovery. except he's not the Bucky you remember.

pairing: bucky barnes x f!reader

words: +4k

warnings: angst. that's all.

note: this wasn't planned. at all. i had the day off and wanted to write something but nothing was coming to me enough to write another part of the outbreak or how to break a routine in one year, so i was just browsing tumblr until i saw something related to memory loss and this popped into my head. i thought i wasn't going to finish writing it but it came out more than i expected. and clearly this gives for a part two and even more, but at the moment i don't know when that will happen. also, i suck with titles, i think i'll change it later. meanwhile, i hope you enjoy it! feedback is always appreciated, thank u for the support! 💜

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Bucky was right to be scared. He was right to feel his soul leaving his body and his heart bursting with pain. He was completely right to be frightened, unsure of the future and the opportunities it had taken with it. Bucky was right to feel that his world was crumbling, that he was left with half a heart to survive for the rest of his life.

But he was also right in deciding not to show how scared he was. He could have his nerves frozen inside his body and feel his blood boiling inside his veins, his whole insides churning and messing up without any compassion, but he couldn't let that rule his life. He knew that the only solution was to cope rationally and objectively, even if he wanted to burst into tears every ten minutes.

“Okay, everything looks good for now,” Bucky heard the doctor, along with the others who were in the room.

He had been standing in the corner of the room the whole time, not moving a millimeter barely to breathe. The mood was so bleak and melancholy that he feared the sadness would rub off on him if he blinked any faster.

“So, can you discharge her now?” Tony Stark asked, his body closer to the door than any other.

“Yes, she can leave after you sign some paperwork. I'm going to need her to come back for some monthly checkups and let me know if she comes to remember anything.”

“Of course,” Steve Rogers stated.

Bucky wandered his gaze over the other two men in the room and the two women behind them, Natasha Romanoff and Carol Danvers. They all looked wary, not taking their gazes off your figure lying on the gurney after the doctor finished checking something in your eyes. He didn't like the way their bodies moved, anxious to talk, anxious to ask questions. He didn't like how Steve constantly opened and closed his hands; how Tony crossed and uncrossed his arms over his chest; how Natasha suspiciously watched the doctor every time he approached you and asked what he was doing; how Carol glared at the man every time he told them there was no news or progress. They had overwhelmed you before with so many gestures and words that the orderlies had to take them all out almost by force.

In a way, Bucky understood them. He too had been terrified at the beginning, still was to some degree, but it had been a while before they began to regulate their behavior. Bucky understood that the situation was difficult for them, as it was for him, but they also had to think about what it was like for you.

You were on the brink of death and awoke to find that about seven years of memories had been erased from your head.

Bucky had not taken it well at first. He was in a constant panic and searched the internet for all possible solutions that could make up for the mistake that was made. He was anxiously talking to Wanda trying to convince her to find something to do. He had gone to Strange almost begging him for some spell that could fix everything. He had asked the doctor a hundred times on the verge of insanity if it was possible to fix it with another surgery. It had simply been the worst news he had ever been given in his life.

Until, by some divine miracle, the rational part of his brain took control of his thoughts and emotions. That's when his “there's nothing we can do” thought came. The rest of the team was surprised when they saw him calmly walking around the Complex and going on missions, when Bucky had finally understood that he couldn't stop his life for something he couldn't fix. He had to learn to live with that and he hoped the others would too.

But no, it seemed that moment of enlightenment hadn't come to anyone but him.

They returned to the Complex after signing papers and picking up medications with the orders the doctor had given them, some pills for the eventual migraines and muscle relaxants if needed.

The trip was tense. Everyone sent you wary glances and purposely averted their gazes when they saw you watching them. Bucky could tell you were starting to get nervous. Even more, anxious.

Lacking knowledge of your family's whereabouts and that your current address was the Complex, that was where you would spend the rest of the days of your recovery -although Bucky had other options in mind-. The doctor had put his buts in, believing that being in such a tense, busy and overwhelming environment as the main Avengers facility was could hinder your process of getting better, but Tony was very specific and quick to tell him that there was a part of the Complex, a wing, that they had almost completely isolated to keep you in a safe place and away from the stress of the job. The mechanic spoke confidently about how you would be totally at ease as if the decision was entirely up to the doctor, while giving Bucky a helpless look. Finally, to please Tony, the doctor agreed to let you go spend your recovery at the Complex.

Of course, it had nothing to do with the fact that Bucky was your husband.

The doctor who treated you for almost a year, from the time you arrived injured and near death, to your subsequent surgeries and recovery, always knew that the final decision was out of his hands. It was funny to watch Tony argue his points to influence his decisions, but in the end that was not something he had any power in. His gazes always turned to Bucky, waiting for a nod or a shake.

Tony knew that too. You had invited him to the wedding because you were closer to him than Bucky, plus they had to see each other constantly for work. They weren't best buddies, but they maintained a relationship that was professional and affectionate and friendly enough to keep you satisfied. That is, until the accident. Since that day, Tony had taken a completely different stance towards Bucky and he really didn't find it strange. He hadn't even been able to speak to him since the day he had almost apologized with his knees to the floor when they had to tell Bucky that you almost died because of a mistake.

Over time, Bucky had let go of the anger along with his realization that he couldn't do anything to change the past, but it seemed to him that Tony still felt guilty about what had happened.

Bucky looked away from the road when he saw you stir in your seat as they were about to arrive at the Complex. The team tried to make small talk after several minutes of traveling in awkward silence, but it resulted in a much more tense atmosphere with everyone turning their heads to look at anything but you like fish out of water.

Bucky watched you from his position in the back of the van as you moved forward to view the Complex facilities in delight. He couldn't help but smile after spending months in constant stress, realizing that you had done the same thing the first time you had gone over ten years ago.

Carol and Natasha took it upon themselves to guide you through the isolated wing of the Complex to the room you would be staying in. Bucky stayed a few floors down along with Steve and Tony in the living room.

“How are you feeling?” Bucky heard Steve ask next to him, as Tony quietly approached the bay window.

“Fine.”

“Buck, you don't have to-”

“Really, I'm fine,” Bucky nodded, noticing Steve's incredulous look. He had to fight not to roll his eyes in disgust.

One thing the team had taken to doing constantly was treating him like a child, like someone who didn't know what he was feeling and didn't know how to control his emotions. That had been happening since the moment he accepted that he couldn't fix something that was out of his control. That you'd had an accident, you'd lost your memory, you'd forgotten him, and there was nothing he could do about it. He had tried everything, and there was nothing.

But the team thought his attitude was that he was trying to hide his feelings and, well, in part he was. He didn't deny that it still made him scared and angry to think of all the opportunities and moments that were gone along with your memory, but he was aware that showing himself that way in front of you wouldn't bring you any good. Unlike him and completely unaware of the truth, the team believed he was in denial. They believed that Bucky had been trying for months to avoid dealing with his feelings and that at any moment he would break down and suffer fighting the horrible reality.

Bucky had only responded to their unconscious attacks and questions with the truth, but it seemed the team was in more denial than he was.

“The doctor said the chances of her regaining her memory were high. Don't worry.” Steve patted Bucky on the shoulder to accompany his words, a sympathetic smile on his face.

“Steve, I'm not wor-”

“And she'll adjust well to the routine in this place. You know we'll be constantly keeping an eye on her and making sure she's okay, right?”

“I'd rather you stay away,” Bucky mumbled, his teeth grazing at the discomfort.

“What did you say?”

“Nothing.”

Bucky kept his distance at first. He wanted to first meet and see how you were adjusting to your new home and how you related to others. Besides, he was also a little nervous about talking to you. You had done it before, yes, at the hospital. You had introduced yourselves and asked him a few questions when he was around. But when Bucky finally confessed to you that he was your husband, it was as if something had disturbed the gravity around the both of you. Clearly Bucky was quick to notice that change in your behavior and began to pull away trying to give you your space and not overwhelm you, unlike others.

You had some memories with him, Bucky was sure. You had lost the memory of about seven years, and you had come to the team ten years ago. That would have been good for him and your relationship, except that in the beginning neither of you could stand the other.

That's right. You two hated each other's guts. And Bucky eternally regretted waiting until the fifth year of meeting you to make his feelings known to you. Because, at that point, all you remembered about him were his stinging comments and his cold, calculating stares. When he remembered the things he had said to you to hurt you on purpose, he would cringe and his body would tremble in rejection.

Before confessing, he had thought about the possibility of keeping everything hidden, maybe try to win your trust again and suddenly have what you had before. And maybe the Bucky of six years ago would have done that, wouldn't have hesitated to keep the truth hidden just to guide you down the path he wanted to walk. But the Bucky who was there, in year ten, couldn't look you in the eye and try to keep something in the dark. He knew it wasn't right and that lies usually backfired on the person telling them. Besides, ever since you had decided to try to have a relationship, you had made him promise never to keep anything from you, no matter how stupid or horrible it was. You had been in such a toxic relationship with him before that you only wanted to look out for each other's welfare. A relationship based on trust and communication was a good relationship.

And Bucky wanted to keep his promise, even if you couldn't remember it.

So he was keeping his space, but he was always aware of what you were doing. And that's why he noticed every time you would give him a questioning look and then pull back and focus your attention on something else when you noticed he was looking at you.

Bucky wasn't sure if it was a good or bad idea what he was doing. He could just walk up and talk to you, maybe you were willing to do that. Or you might think he was crazy for watching you from afar like he was an eagle and didn't want you near him under any circumstances. Bucky didn't know what to do, and asking the team wasn't in his options, so he just decided to do what he thought best.

One day, a couple of weeks after you returned to the Complex, Bucky met you casually. Really, casually.

He had spent a whole week in constant stress so he hadn't even been able to get near the side of the Complex where you were staying. He had been assigned an undercover mission and it had turned out to be a little more complicated than it seemed at first. There were too many fights involved in the end, but he had achieved his goal.

The day he arrived at the Complex he took a long shower and a long nap. It was the least he deserved. After waking up, he went to the kitchen to make himself a coffee because it was just getting light, when he saw you leaning on the kitchen counter.

You froze at the same time he did. Bucky wasn't expecting the first person he would meet to be you, he didn't even know you were already freely leaving your safe place, but life is full of surprises, apparently. Bucky noticed your wary gaze on him, how the cup you held in your hands had been halfway to its destination and how your body moved only to breathe.

He moved, continuing with what he had gone to do, despite feeling that captivating electricity coursing through his body and asking him to move closer to you. Moving his eyes away from yours felt like a sin and his body was almost reluctant to follow the directions in his head.

Bucky finally approached the coffee pot to notice the steaming liquid coming out of it. So, it was coffee that was in your cup.

He was a little hesitant to drink from the coffee you had made because he didn't know how you would react to his intrusion, so he decided to move to the other side of the kitchen where the drawers were and grab the first cereal to be found.

“You can have some of that coffee,” you spoke to him suddenly, resuming your movements and he could barely turn to look at you over his shoulder. “Clint did it.”

Bucky followed your eyes moving all over the instance, anywhere but on his, and even though he felt he'd had a year to prepare for this, it seemed completely insufficient: nothing would have prepared him to ever again hear your nonchalant voice directed at him the way you spoke to him before you decided to become a couple. Bucky thought that those years had been buried in the back of his head, that the situation you were going through wouldn't bring back memories he preferred to keep hidden, but thinking about doing it was easier than actually doing it.

He moved his body almost groaningly until he was back in front of the coffee pot next to you. Hearing you talking to him like that had knocked his mood to the floor. He wasn't too high either, that mission was both physically and mentally exhausting, but he was more relieved to be back at the Complex.

“I didn't see you this week,” you spoke again as Bucky thought you were about to leave the kitchen. He moved his head to look at you, his expression indescribable, you could barely describe him as dumbfounded and bewildered.

Bucky mumbled a few words before responding. “I was on a mission. Far away.”

“Mhm,” you hummed in response, and Bucky nearly melted at the sound. Even though he recognized your demeanor, because that was how you acted before when you wanted to get information out of him or when talking to someone you suspected was hiding something from you, he couldn't help but rejoice at finding little gestures that made him reminisce about the good times he had with you.

With more encouragement, Bucky poured his black coffee under the umbrella of your expectant indifference.

“How have the others been?”

He moved to stand in front of you with the cup in his hands, and could notice how subtly your shoulders slumped a little. He couldn't define whether in calm or ennui.

“It's been… complicated.”

“Are they very insistent?”

You turned your head to look at him, and Bucky nearly choked on the sip of coffee he'd taken. He thought you'd keep visually ignoring him and not turn to look at him like he was a life preserver in the middle of the ocean.

“They're horrible,” you barely whispered, your head bobbing closer in complicity. Far gone was your mask of coldness the moment you found someone to complain to about how terrifying those weeks at the Complex had been. “I feel like I can't move my hair without having someone behind me asking me if I want my hair combed for me or if I was moving it because I had a headache. Anything I do is over-analyzed and that's so…ugh, so frustrating.”

Bucky definitely didn't expect you to spew all those words in front of him, but he did understand how overwhelmed you must be and mentally berated himself for agreeing to you having visitors from the moment you arrived. His idea was that you would have time to clear your thoughts and to adjust to that new place on your own, but somehow the team managed to convince him to let them in from time to time to greet you because being alone too much all of a sudden wasn't good for your sanity.

He should have known better knowing how clingy and pushy his teammates were.

When he was around you, they behaved, but they seemed to pretty much take advantage of the times when he wasn't around to behave as they pleased.

“I hate being treated like I'm a piece of glass. I understand well what happened and its aftermath and that it affected them too much, but I can still live peacefully without needing them to do things for me. I'm not incapacitated or anything like that.”

“I understand.”

Wow, Bucky, couldn't you have said something much more interesting?

“I'm fine,” you continued speaking as Bucky noticed how your eyes were lost in the distance in the kitchen. “I really feel fine. But they're always on me like trying to convince me otherwise and talking about my memories every other time.”

Bucky furrowed his brow and suddenly felt the sting in his chest from anger. There was only so much Bucky had in life to control his temper and that was you. With anything else, Bucky was nothing but walking indifference. He didn't care about the fights the others on the team had, he didn't care about the decisions that had to be made, he didn't care about what the majority chose, he didn't care about the discussions about the rooms when they had to stay in hotels. But when it came to you, there was no stormo chaser that could withstand his tempestuous attitude.

The limit was that the others could get angry, fight and argue about whatever they felt like, but the moment that started to affect you, Bucky didn't hesitate to step up and shut them all up. That was one of the reasons he was the leader of the mission most of the time. It was easy to recognize his leadership ability, even if he tried to hide it through that window of indifference. He was very objective when it came to making tough decisions and was very capable of organizing whatever chaos had been created around him.

And, at that moment, Bucky felt he had reached his limit. He had let himself be convinced by the team to bring you here to carry out your recovery contrary to what he had thought of leaving you in the city with one of your closest friends that you remembered very well; and then he had let himself be convinced to let them invade your space when it was clear that they were not going to know how to behave around you and would overwhelm you just like they did in the hospital.

Bucky couldn't understand how he could have made such bad decisions about you. He felt he had completely failed you as your husband by not giving you a truly safe place in which to heal.

“I'll tell them not to come back,” Bucky told you after a few seconds in silence and your blank stare focused on his suddenly elated face.

“What?”

Bucky met your gaze. “This wasn't the way I wanted you to spend your recovery, and it's certainly not the way you should spend it. You should be calm, but I don't see that happening. I'm sorry.”

You watched his face, transfixed. Bucky looked quizzical for a few seconds at your dumbfounded stare and no response. His eyes moved around your face trying to figure out if he had said something wrong… until it all clicked in his head.

You didn't remember.

Yes, it seemed stupid because he'd been living with that thought all last year, but apparently he had to remind himself. For a moment, he had gotten so lost, not only in the familiarity of your ramblings and gestures, but also in the annoyance and self-reproach, that he had forgotten for a few measly minutes that you didn't remember. You didn't remember that protective side of him. You didn't remember how much he loved to sit and listen to you talk about others, good things or bad things. You didn't remember how much it made him angry when other people made you the least bit uncomfortable or angry. You didn't remember the way he showed that appreciation, that love for you.

That attitude Bucky was giving you was completely new to you. Surely it was like seeing a different person. Bucky mentally cringed at the thought that you must be thinking of him as a jerk who acted like a teenager and said hurtful things just for the fun of it.

At that moment, he would have liked to take more time when you were in the hospital to talk to you, so he could get to know you and you could see that he was different and not the same person he was six years ago. But at that time he felt so scared. Just the memory of your face contorting when he had told you he was your husband still sent shivers down his spine.

One thing he couldn't deny was that he had lived constantly, even up to that moment, in fear of rejection. When you had reacted that way that time at the hospital, Bucky had at first turned away in fear. But then he had tried to be nice to you, as if nothing had happened. However, he could tell that it was much more strange for you to see the flowers on the table in the room or to have him bring you lunch because the hospital food was so simple. It seemed that no matter what he did, that reluctant expression on your face would not go away.

Then, he stopped trying. He would only show up in your room when you were sleeping, in the daytime or at night, and when everyone gathered for the doctor's checkup. Bucky didn't know how to get back into your life and the very idea was driving him to the brink of panic again. So he tried to have that moment of enlightenment again, but all he got in response was that maybe he should continue to keep his distance.

At that point, Bucky didn't know what to do. It wasn't your fault to react that way because it wasn't what you remembered about him, that wasn't wrong. He felt again that incessant need to pull away and go back to watching over you from a distance, because the look you had given him was so similar to the others that it was scary. Too scary. The possibility that he could never get back even half of what you two had before danced around him like a taunt. The ring on his ring finger too heavy to bear.

“Thank you…? I think,” you replied at last, but without changing the quizzical look on your face.

“I'll talk to Steve,” Bucky announced, a little more impassively than he had planned, and took the cup tightly in his hands with the thought in his head to get out of the kitchen so he wouldn't keep invading your space.

He felt your gaze follow him until he was near the living room.

“Hey, wait.”

He heard your footsteps following him and planted his feet on the floor. He gave you a questioning look over his shoulder, waiting for you to say something. Bucky watched you move from side to side, shifting your weight on your legs, a clear sign of your nervousness. When you looked directly at the contents of your cup instead of his eyes as you spoke, he couldn't help a small smile.

“I'm sorry about that. It's just… This is too weird for me. I wish I could get close and talk to you because that's what my body wants, but my head keeps me alert and defensive when you're around. What I remember about you is not…”

You cocked your head and twisted your lips. Bucky thought that had been the kindest way to describe it.

“You don't have to apologize.”

“But I do have to!” you exclaimed, scowling at him. “It's been a year and you've been nothing but kind to me. You've given me space and time, unlike others-”

Bucky nodded strongly at your words.

“-but I've given you nothing in return.”

He relaxed his features, letting the tension dissipate away from his body. He momentarily pushed away his worries and negative possibilities because you stood there in front of him with such a contrite expression on your face that it caused him physical pain.

“You don't owe me anything, Y/N, okay? What I do I do because I want to, not because I'm expecting anything in return from you. If you feel like you need another week before you talk to me, that's fine, take it. If you feel it's a month, six months, a year, it doesn't matter. Take as much time as you need. Either way, anytime, you know where to find me. I'm not going anywhere.”

Bucky hadn't missed the journey of emotions that roared across your face and he was genuinely happy about it. It had been a while since he had seen you feel not only comfortable but joyful around him, that he had begun to think that those moments would only live on in his memory from now on. But, perhaps, that might not have been the case…

“Thank you, Bucky,” you murmured after sighing, and if Bucky hadn't been so attentive to you he surely would have missed it. Along with the small smile you gave him that would be enough to keep his sanity afloat for the rest of the month.

You saw him give you a small nod and then begin to walk away, leaving as the sun's rays began to appear through the living room window. A strange feeling settled in your chest, and it seemed like a turf battle was taking place between your reluctance to accept that Bucky had changed and that you two had taken your relationship four levels higher than expected, and this new feeling that was akin to hope. You could barely recognize it.

You didn't know how you were going to begin to deal with the reality that you were married to Bucky, but you suddenly felt a little less afraid to know the history of the decisions that had brought you to this point.

You remembered the wedding ring that was tucked away in your nightstand drawer and how it shone just as brightly as the one you saw on Bucky's finger. Maybe you felt a little closer to being ready to start dealing with it.

the part where it gets weird (3)

summary: you find yourself in a complicated situation that involved your feelings and a weird neighbor who seems to be avoiding you

pairing: bucky barnes x fem!reader

words: i have absolutely no idea

warnings: none? I think, maybe some descriptions of the feelings of loneliness and fear.

note: I have decided to go with the flow. on Wednesday I'll have the last exam of my semester and it is the most important one and I'm so freaking afraid of mess it up, but still I'm just gonna fill my mind with these two, and try to get good scenarios so that I can really be completely centered on these two. still, don't think that gonna happen. anyways, I hope you enjoy this part, and the Tumblr maybe lets it grow before deciding to let it die in the shadows. thank u for giving me the chance if you decide to read, I hope you have a great day and wonderful weekend! Also, English is not my first language so sorry for any mistakes!

(part 3 of how to break a routine in one year!)

Before you moved in and met Bucky Barnes, you felt you had fallen into a routine that was too monotonous.

Emmet disappeared during the blip. For a long time, you reminisced about that day, the two of you in your shared flat making dinner. There was a soft jazz tune playing that you liked to listen to when you cooked, especially on a date as special as your birthday, and even though your boyfriend wasn't that big a jazz fan, he always leaned against the doorframe leading to the kitchen to watch you move sideways, serene and happy. Really happy. You were very happy at that time, you were sure. You had the life you wanted, a partner who you loved and loved you and a great place to live with an amazing view of the city.

But then your nightmare began.

From one moment to the next, you were completely alone. You thought he had gone to the bathroom or to check his mobile phone, so you decided to continue cooking. It took you a while to react to the environment because the music didn't let you hear what was going on outside.

As time passed, you began to repress the memories you had of the moment when the mass hysteria started. There was screaming all over the building, and when you went outside, most of your neighbours were either crying their eyes out or just as static as you were. You didn't even really understand what was going on; one moment you were cooking and then you start hearing screams over the music. Your search for your boyfriend in the flat was fruitless and you decided to go out in case he had heard everything before you and had gone out first. But there was nothing for you out there.

What happened next when you returned to the flat you no longer remembered, nor the days, weeks or months that followed. You lived to work and only ordered food from home. You hadn't cooked since that fateful day and you tried to spend as little time as possible in that flat. It was considerably big, like a studio, once full of life and hope, but after a while you were unable to recognise it and the person you used to be before what happened. Most of the time you were only in the flat in the evenings, a plate of Chinese food on your lap or some foreign food while watching TV. The rest of the time, if you weren't at work, you paid for a room in a nearby hotel.

Sometimes you watched the news, but they always talked about the same thing: the collapse and recovery of the economy, investigations into the disappearance of half the population and how to bring them back, and a whole section devoted to people calling in to tell their experiences and share their feelings on national television. At other exceptional times, you went shopping. It was too sad and depressing to go out on the streets during the first few months, because everything was desolate and the few people you saw looked dead inside. When you came home with your shopping and took everything out to organise it, you realised that, time and again, you kept buying Emmet's shampoo and talcum powder. It took you a while to get out of the habit, and it was harder than you thought.

But there wasn't something there that sparked something in you and, after almost four years, you decided to sell the flat. You had already made up your mind, like everyone else, that Emmet was never coming back. That no one was coming back. And being in that place was making you wither, recently you didn't even know why you were still trying to get better. So you packed your bags and left the country. Your family and your closest friends were gone too. What better than to spend all your savings and start from scratch in another country?

You spent a year and a half in Italy when a person appeared in your living room. As confused as you were, neither of you said anything for several seconds. Then it happened again. You heard the shouting, the crying and some bad language, much more clearly than the first time, and reliving that traumatic situation didn't sit too well with you. The rest happened too quickly. You talked to the man, turned on the news, saw a whole shot of some city in the United States destroyed and as a caption: "the Avengers give us back hope".

You threw the remote control at the TV. A crack spread across the screen, you watched it furiously as the man stared at you in confusion. The faces of the Avengers who had died were flashing across the screen. You felt a ringing in your ears, too loud to hear what the reporter or the man in the room with you was saying. You moved on automatic to your room, in a matter of seconds you packed your bag and left the place. The next thing you knew, you were on a plane to the United States. You hadn't even processed what was happening, it was as if someone else was moving your body for you.

When you got to the block where you used to live, it was like a reality check. You spent the last year trying to pretend that you were fine, that you had really gotten better and moved on, but going back to that place struck a chord inside you, like a freshly opened wound. You could barely make it up the stairs to the fourth floor, your body heavy as if you were carrying a sack full of stones. Your heart was beating extremely fast when you reached the door and rang the bell.

An elderly lady opened the door for you. And though you tried, you couldn't speak. You felt suffocated and suddenly you didn't even know what you were doing there. The lady was talking, you knew she was saying something, maybe asking what you were doing there, but you couldn't even move your lips to say something.

Suddenly, you were inside the flat, but you didn't react. The lady had sat you down in her big armchair and put a cup of tea in front of you. You could see the smoke, through the air from the window it reached your face, but you couldn't feel anything. You felt numb.

The lady touched your arm and brought the cup close to your hands. It was hot. Too hot. You hissed and grabbed it by the rim. A deep silence soon came to an end. You began to think, ramble and remember. You looked at the lady as if she had all the answers, but all she told you was to drink your tea and try to calm down. It was hard, but after a few minutes you looked a bit more relaxed.

At that point, the lady told you that, if you were looking for the man who had appeared in the flat, he had left several hours ago. She told you that he hadn't said where he was going, but that he was probably in one of the makeshift shelters they had set up in the city to keep track of people who had turned up, or that he might be in a hotel or at an acquaintance's house.

You spent hours searching. You knew that Emmet had no one in this country besides you and, at this point, leaving the country for him would be complicated. It was almost two days since you started looking, in every hotel and every shelter. By the end of the second day, you finally found him. And you felt at peace, yes, you were glad that he was safe and sound, but you were not at peace yet. That same day, you were also able to communicate with your family living in Ohio; luckily, everyone was fine.

Soon after, you began to think that maybe Emmet should try to get back into the rhythm of his life on his own, because you were both living in a hotel without doing much of anything; however, when you suggested it, he suddenly seemed very scared and asked you not to leave him alone. You decided to stay and try to understand what he was going through, but after two months things were not getting any better. You were able to go back to your old job, but he was still locked in the room. You tried to help him get his life back on track, but he shut down every time you suggested going out, or trying something different. He just didn't want to.

When you realised that this was no longer healthy for him, you took his mobile phone. You knew he had been ignoring his mum's calls since he got back and you decided to call her and ask her to come over. The poor woman didn't hesitate to agree, desperate to hear from her son. She too had been missing for five years.

Needless to say, Emmet was angry with you, but only at first and, days later, he quietly accepted the fact that you wanted to move out on your own to a place closer to your work.

Emmet was left with his parents living in one of the houses they had in town and you arrived at the building where you met Bucky. It had only been a day since you had moved in and, after unpacking and organizing everything, you decided to turn on the TV. A Tony Stark news report came on in the foreground. Then you remembered what you'd been through and felt like throwing the remote at the TV again. You didn't think you would ever feel so much hatred against one person, or several people at the same time. You wanted to convince yourself that it wasn't really their fault that other intergalactic beings had problems with their planet, but with so much pent-up pain and suffering, you needed to take it out on someone or something. You never in your life thought you would say you hated the Avengers, but there you were, thinking just that.

That same night, sitting on your little balcony, you decided to have a peaceful night to yourself. You had organised the whole house with your posters, you had also called your parents again, you had prepared a dinner for yourself after so long and you had spent some time in the bathtub. Then you went out on the balcony with a cup of hot chocolate, just to watch the night.

You had been sitting in your long-overdue peace and quiet for some time when you heard the window of the balcony next door being opened. You noticed a short-haired man leaning against the railing, just looking out over the city. You guessed that this was your neighbour. You both stood there for a while before entering your respective houses, the man first before you. You thought a bit about what he looked like, you could tell he hadn't had a good night.

And well, it had been four months since that night. You still didn't feel in full control of your life, but you knew you were on the right track.

And Bucky… well, you felt he'd been avoiding you for a few days. Normally, during the week you'd run into him at least four times when you left your flat, but since what you'd talked about the day of the celebration in the building, you'd only seen him about three times in all that time. Maybe you shouldn't have been so insistent that he talk to you about his life - after all, he doesn't have to, right?

Arriving at your flat felt different with each passing day. You were getting used to the presence of the man who was silent 90% of the time, but who you knew always listened and kept in mind everything you told him. Bucky is one of billions, you were sure. He was a very honest and dedicated man, respectful, but slightly jocular, always lending a hand, even if he was hanging off the cliff. Moving to that place was one of the best things you could have done, and now you felt you could ruin a part of it by not knowing how to respect the boundaries of a person you cared about very much. Sometimes you were really surprised by that, how Bucky had become so important to you in such a short period of time.

What difference did it make if you didn't know his birthday? You mentally scolded yourself, riding up the building's lift with two bags full of freshly bought groceries and toiletries. That day officially marked four months since you had arrived. And it was also the day of your monthly shopping.

You had left in the morning (without meeting Bucky by any chance) straight to work, where you spent most of the morning busy finishing deliveries that were due the following week. At noon you finally left, walked to one of the supermarkets near the building and did your respective shopping. With a bit of hope, you bought some extra vegetables and meats to prepare something for Bucky that night, if you could see him after all this time.

The metal lift doors opened and you came face to face with a dark-haired man leaning against the door of Bucky's flat. You frowned. He glanced at you, nodded his head in greeting and said “good afternoon”. Politely, you returned the greeting and walked to the right in the direction of your flat. When you reached the door, you put your bags on the floor and started looking for your keys with more haste than usual. You wanted to get in quickly because you knew that if you stayed outside any longer, you would turn around and start a very embarrassing interrogation of this man who must definitely know Bucky. Because if not, what reason does he have to be sitting right outside his door?

As you pulled out your keys, tangled with your headphones, they fell out making a thunderous sound. It probably wasn't that loud, but within the emptiness of your head and the tension in your body, it had really sounded like a racket.

Why am I making such a fuss? He's just a friend of Bucky's… a friend… someone else who knows him… who knows things about him… who might know… where he is, or if he's okay…

“You know Bucky?” your body turned around, the keys in your hand that were about to open the door to your flat.

The man raised his head in your direction, watching you in a very peculiar way. You didn't know whether suspicious or intrigued.

“Do you know Bucky?” the man replied with another question, looking more intrigued than suspicious.

“We're neighbours,” you pointed to your flat.

“Yeah, but I mean, have you talked to him?”

“Have I talked to Bucky?” you frowned, your brain starting to work a mile a minute trying to decipher and process so many things at once, “You mean this week? Have I talked to Bucky this week? Because I haven't spoken to him this week. In fact, I think he's been ignoring me pretty much flat out and I understand that he's angry, but avoiding me isn't going to make anything go away and I've really wanted to see him so I could tell him I'm sorry for trying to meddle in his life, but I've hardly ever seen him these past two weeks, and the only times he's practically run off and I couldn't…”

At some point in your monologue, the man stood up and approached you. He tried to talk to you, but you didn't hear him because you were rambling, until you felt his hands on your shoulders.

“Calm down, kiddo. Breathe.”

You followed his instruction, but two seconds later you frowned, “I'm not a child.”

You shook your shoulders and backed away from the man, who raised his hands and took a few steps away to give you space.

“I just want to know if he's okay,” you demanded, your gaze on the wood of the floor and your heart racing, about to burst out of your throat.

“This morning he wrote to me,” the man began to tell you, and you looked up to hear his account carefully, “He told me he had some things to discuss and to come by. I hardly ever really know much about Bucky, I only find out what he wants me to know.”

You nodded in his direction, your head scheming again.

“Okay, I get it, I get it. If you're here right now, does that mean he's supposed to be coming?”

“Supposed to,” he gestured affirmatively, “I'm Sam, by the way. Sam Wilson.”

“Y/N, just Y/N,” you frowned at him, “Do I know you? Your name sounds familiar…”

“I don't think we've met, but maybe you've seen me on TV.”

“Oh, you're an actor?”

“Not exactly, I'm…”

“Sam.”

There it was. Imposing and rigorous in a way you'd never heard it before. The voice you hadn't heard for almost two weeks.

Sam turned around, and allowed you to watch Bucky stand in front of his flat door, barely inserting the key. You felt a kind of peace fill your chest, as your mind got rid of all the fog, and suddenly all you could see was the man. He was fine, he was healthy and definitely alive.

Suddenly, Bucky's friend Sam moved in his direction as he pointed at you, “You didn't tell me you had a friend.”

Bucky turned to look at you. He gave you a look that froze your chest. He had never looked at you in such a cold and ruthless and cutting way. You felt your throat close up with nervousness and you began to breathe faster.

“She's not my friend.”

Ouch. A stab to the heart would have hurt less. You stared at the man, who was struggling with the door to open it. Whatever you wanted to say to him to say hello, to let him know you were happy to see him, or that he was okay, disappeared from your mind in a matter of seconds. You felt that ringing in your ear that made you feel like you were losing oxygen. Why did Bucky Barnes make you feel so horrible and disposable?

“But you're neighbours,” Sam added, puzzled.

“So what? We're barely even acquaintances.”

“Bucky,” you spoke, your voice hanging on a thread. You didn't even know how you had found the strength to speak, but the look the man gave you when you said his name froze you from head to toe.

Finally, his door opened, and he turned to look at Sam, “Are you coming in or not?”

Sam turned to look at you, your gaze still focused on the man who ignored you like you were a crumpled piece of paper.

“Bucky,” you called back, and when he looked back at you, he didn't look as hard as before. His features had contracted a little, but he still felt reluctant to your presence, “Can we talk for a moment?”

The aforementioned looked at Sam, who shrugged his shoulders and took a few steps to the side. Bucky rolled his eyes, and focused on you once more.

“Now… now I really can't do this.”

“Please,” you leaned closer, “I know you're angry that I pushed you and made you talk about things you didn't want to, and I'm really sorry, I really am…”

“What are you talking about?” Bucky interrupted you, his brow furrowed in confusion.

His question puzzled you. You watched him, your face mimicking his in hodgepodge.

“From-from the time of the building celebration. When we were outside…”

“Ah,” Bucky seemed to remember, his head bobbing in assent, “What about it?”

“Well you-you left,” you stammered, not quite understanding the turn the conversation had taken. Bucky nodded at your words and, with a glare, urged you to continue, “And-and then, y-you've been ignoring me ever since.”

“I haven't been ignoring you,” he denied.

“What?” you blurted out between half whisper and half shout, “What do you mean, you haven't? I've barely seen you three times in the last two weeks. You sneak all over the place and you're doing that thing again of changing your departure schedule so you won't run into me!”

Bucky sighed. You noticed his shoulders slacken as he lowered his gaze.

“I haven't been ignoring you, remember I have a job? I've just been busier.”

“And my messages?”

“Ah, no,” Sam interjected, “Don't worry about that, he ignores everyone's messages.”

You shook your head, “Everyone's but mine. You always reply to me, or at least leave me in the dark. But these last few days I haven't had anything…”

“What?” Sam's voice was drowned out in a whisper.

“Y/N, we can talk about this more later. Right now I have something important to talk to Sam about.”

You crossed your arms over your chest, but said nothing. You stood watching the man who seemed to have completely softened his expression, too drastic a change to what you had seen when he arrived.

Sam approached the door, leaning out just to say goodbye, “See you later, Y/N, I hope we can all meet, another day. Preferably under different circumstances.”

“Just come on in,” Bucky nudged him with a shoulder and you couldn't help but notice his trademark black gloves.

The aforementioned stood in the doorway, his gaze focused on yours, just as you had your eyes fixed on his. He seemed to have a storm of thoughts and feelings going through his head.

“I wasn't really ignoring you, okay? It was just work. You'll be seeing more of me in a few days, okay?”

If he was trying to get an answer out of you, he definitely wasn't getting it. And you didn't really know what to say to him either. So had the last two weeks been a figment of your imagination? Was he really not ignoring you and you were just getting ideas?

Bucky clicked his tongue and looked at his watch.

“I'll write you later, okay? And we'll talk about it.”

And he gave you one last look before entering his flat and closing the door.

Needless to say, that “later” turned into several days of waiting. Within those days, you realised several things.

First. You didn't know how to handle your friendly relationship with Bucky going forward. You mean, you felt you had a good relationship before the recent events, even if you were the more talkative of the two of you, but lately you felt that distance had changed a lot of things about how you really saw Bucky. It's fine that Bucky doesn't want to talk about his life, but you felt you were in limbo just giving things away without getting anything in return. Was that selfish? Did it really make you a bad person? Sometimes you thought he was just trying to keep you out of his life, and that wasn't the best thought of all.

Second. That you had never questioned not knowing too much about his life, arguing that it was his decision when to share it with you. And yes, indeed it was, but what kind of things could be behind that curtain? Doing a short but effective investigation, you discovered that Sam Wilson was Falcon, one of the many heroes who helped fight Thanos and his army. That made you wonder too many things about Bucky: How did he meet Sam? What kind of relationship do they have? You'd come to the conclusion that they must work together, because you'd seen him a couple of other times on the floor since the first time. But what did it entail that Bucky was working with Sam Wilson? What was Bucky's real job?

And third, that maybe Bucky's recent behaviour had influenced the way you felt about him too much. In what way? You were still trying to figure that out. You hadn't felt this worried about not knowing about someone since Emmet disappeared into the blip over five years ago, and that was a lot to say. What was it, then, given that, that you really felt for Bucky? Brotherly love? Familiarity? Probably.

Yes, probably.

Day eight had arrived, after you'd gone into your flat and helped yourself to a nice plate of pasta, ready to marathon your favourite series of the moment, when you heard a soft knock on your door. You grunted under your breath, setting your plate down on the table in front of the couch you were sitting in. The mirror on the left side of the room, right where you were standing, facing the balcony, showed the full moon at its highest point. It was probably almost eleven p.m. What does anyone want at this hour?

You shuffled towards the door. You had a blanket wrapped around your shoulders and your plushest stockings brushed the floor. Your hand moved to the door handle, moving it almost lazily to open the door to see who was behind it.

“Emmet,” you muttered, your brow furrowing in time. The man in front of you gave you a half smile, almost forced, and waved back, “What are you doing here at this hour? You didn't write me that you were coming.”

“I didn't plan it, it was spontaneous. I went to do some shopping for the house and was passing by to come back, so I decided to stop for a moment,” he told you, his hands moving all over the place until they were inside the pockets of his jacket, and his body moving back and forth, from side to side, on the tips of his toes. He was terribly nervous, you knew. It was obvious. But why?

“Okay, I understand. And do you want to come in for a drink?”

“No,” he said quickly, his face suddenly getting serrated, “I'll be quick. Y/N, I think we should broke up.”

You stared into his eyes, staring into yours. You didn't say anything for several seconds. You repeated the words in your head a couple of times, thinking about what to say in response, but your mind was empty. Your mind was empty. And what was in your chest? Nothing. A strange emptiness. For a while you thought that, if the day ever came when Emmet told you he was done with you, that would be the day you would lose part of your soul and go with him; for those times when you felt he was so intrinsic to your life that the slightest thought of separation was unbearable.

Nevertheless, you just looked at him. Your expression didn't mutate for a moment, and the man in front of you frowned.

“Are you all right?”

“Yeah, sure,” you replied quickly, “I mean, I understand why you say that. We also didn't spend much time together since… you came back, and when we are together, we don't have good communication either. Five years was too long.”

“I know. And I can tell you could have left me behind, tried to move on with your life… and I don't blame you,” he quickly added the last when he noticed you were about to refute him, “a lot of people thought half the people on the planet would never come back, and probably if it had been the other way around I would have thought the same thing. I don't want you to feel you have a responsibility to me. You don't talk to me directly, but my mother is incapable of not telling me something, especially if it has to do with you. You call her almost every day.”

“Is that bad? I just want to know how you're doing.”

“I'm going to be fine, Y/N, just like you. But I'm not going to keep you with me when I know you don't feel the same way you used to.”

Mmm, so that was it.

Your lips moved, you wanted to say something to him but you didn't know what. The whole time you had been separated from Emmet since the blip, at no point did you ever think about how you really felt about your boyfriend. All you thought about was that Emmet was back, and he was your boyfriend, so you had to make sure he was okay. Because you had to, it was your obligation as his partner, wasn't it?

“You don't have to answer me, but I want you to know that we'll be fine.”

“I'm sorry,” was the only thing that came out of your mouth.

“We'll be fine,” he repeated, and with a half-smile he turned and started walking towards the stairs.

And you stood there, standing in the doorframe watching the lift. Well, it had finally happened. The relationship that had become one-sided was over and you really didn't know how to react. Until that day, Emmet was your reason for keeping your feet on the ground. When he left, you wandered all over the place without a purpose: in the flat, in the supermarkets and in your job. If you didn't have your port to land, what were you going to do?

You never thought you would become emotionally dependent on one person. But, after everything that had happened, not having something to remind you of normality made you think you were going to go crazy. If you couldn't remember who you were before those five years, how are you going to know that you're doing well? That you're on the right track?

How are you going to know that you're okay, in this new world where there's a threat around every corner, and where the chance of dying from aliens was higher than winning the lottery? You weren't ready. You really didn't feel ready to face this new world alone.

If Emmet wasn't there, then what was your normality? What was going to remind you how happy you were before it all happened and that you could be happy again with hard work and dedication? What?

That wasn't the way you planned to spend the night.

“Y/N?” you heard someone say.

Bucky.

You looked up, focusing on the man standing in front of you with a puzzled frown.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” you replied quickly, without much thought, “Yeah, I'm fine. Why?”

“You look like you've been standing there for a while.”

“Ah… yeah. I was just going to lie down.”

“Before that,” Bucky spoke up, as you moved to close the door, “can we talk for a few minutes? About what you said the other day.”

“You already told me you've been busy with your work, what else do you have to tell me?”

“You don't know what my job is.”

“And why do I need to know?” You replied curtly, defensively, which caused a confused expression on the man's face, “I'm sorry, it's just… you didn't really pick the best night for this. Can't it be tomorrow?”

Bucky shook his head in assent, “Yeah, sure, I've got tomorrow off.”

“Okay. See you tomorrow then, Buck. Go get some rest.”