complex

by chxrriesandwxne

Summary:

Valentina’s eyes glitter with satisfaction, an almost predatory gleam. “You’re a lone wolf with a thousand-yard stare and a body count that rivals a small army. It’s not charming, James—it’s terrifying. The public wants heroes they can relate to, someone they can feel safe around. We need a softer angle. Someone to hold your hand. Someone the public can root for, someone who humanizes you.” Val’s gaze, which had been fixed on Bucky with surgical precision, softens ever so slightly, morphing into something resembling… consideration.

It’s a dangerous shift. Mel feels a prickle of unease at the back of her neck. Val’s 'solutions' are rarely simple, and never without a hidden cost. When she finally says, “Someone to hold your hand,” the words hang in the air like a poisoned dart, and Mel knows, with sickening certainty, exactly where that dart is aimed.

Mel feels the shift before she sees it. The silence stretches, elongating into something suffocating. The precise, quiet click of Valentina’s pen as she caps it punctuated the room like a countdown, each second ticking away toward an unknown detonation.

Then Val turns her head—slow, deliberate, a predator making its choice—and looks directly at her.

Notes:

new fic!! comments and critiques are appreciated :)

Chapter 1

The break room coffee machine is on its last legs, hissing like a dying cat and dripping espresso at a glacial pace. Mel stands over it with her arms crossed, foot tapping, trying not to scream. She needs caffeine. She needs quiet. She needs five minutes without the incessant ping of her tablet, without the lingering scent of stale pizza from yesterday's late-night strategy session, and most of all, without the constant, low-level hum of anxiety that is Valentina Allegra de Fontaine.

“Still trusting that thing not to poison you?” comes a low, rough voice from behind her.

Mel doesn’t have to turn. “Do you harass everyone at nine in the morning, or am I just lucky?”

Bucky Barnes leans against the counter beside her, one brow raised. His hair is tied back in a loose bun, a black hoodie pushed halfway up his forearms, the vibranium one gleaming faintly under the lights. The scent of burnt coffee grounds hangs heavy in the air, a familiar aroma of early mornings and impending chaos. Mel recalls a similar morning last month when Bucky had silently offered her a protein bar after she'd skipped breakfast for an early debrief. It’s these small, almost imperceptible gestures that form the quiet truce between them. 

“You look tired.”

“Thanks,” she says flatly. “Just what every woman wants to hear before she’s had coffee.”

He smirks, barely. “You’re welcome.”

Mel finally gives up and yanks the half-filled cup out from under the machine, taking a careful sip. Burnt and bitter. She grimaces and sets it down with a sigh. Mel’s eye twitches as she stares at the slow drip. Another email from Val already? It's barely past nine, and her inbox is probably a war zone. She dreams of a world where 'efficient' isn't just a buzzword, where her skills are actually used for analysis, not for cleaning up the chaotic aftermath of Val's 'strategic' scheduling. 

“You got stuck with Val’s schedule again?” Bucky asks.

“She double-booked three ops debriefs and scheduled a meeting for me in a room that doesn’t exist,” Mel mutters. “So yeah. Either she’s slipping or she’s trying to kill me.”

“Definitely the second one,” he says without hesitation.

Mel actually smiles at that. Just a flicker.

Apart from Yelena, Bucky is the only New Avenger she really talks to. Not often. Not deeply. But enough. Enough to trade the occasional dry comment, or warning glance across a meeting table. They share a mutual disdain for Valentina’s games—and for people who didn’t know when to shut up.

“You get assigned to that Tower repair press tour next week?” she asks, sipping again even though it tastes like regret.

“God, no,” Bucky mutters. “She knows better than to put me in front of reporters. I think they’re sending Alexei. He loves the cameras.”

Mel rolls her eyes. “That tracks.”

They stand in silence for a moment. Comfortable, if not exactly warm.

Then Bucky speaks again, quieter this time. “She called me in for some meeting later today. Said it was about optics.”

Mel snorts. “She loves that word.”

“Means she’s about to say something that’ll make me want to put my head through a wall.”

Mel gives him a sidelong glance. “Maybe it’s not about you for once.”

He huffs. “Doubt it.”

She tilts her head, voice casual. “What if she’s finally giving you that desk job you keep threatening to quit for?”

He makes a face. “She’d rather chain me to a missile.”

“Also tracks.”

Bucky turns to look at her, something unreadable in his eyes. “You in the meeting too?”

Mel nods. “She didn’t say why. Just told me to bring my tablet and ‘act normal.’ Which is always promising.”

“Huh.” He looks thoughtful for a moment, then says, “Guess we’re going in together.”

Mel glances at him. “You trying to make an entrance, Barnes?”

His lips twitch. “Just making sure you don’t get assassinated before I do.”

“Touching.”

The break room door opens behind them, and one of the ops techs pokes their head in. “Valentina wants you two in the main conference room. Five minutes ago.”

Mel groans. “Of course she does.”

She grabs her tablet, steeling herself. As she walks past Bucky, she pauses.

“You really think it’s about optics?” she asks, voice a little lower now. “Not another op?”

Bucky meets her eyes. “If it was an op, she wouldn’t be this subtle.”

That makes something cold curl in her stomach.

They walk out together, side by side. They both walk into the room at the same time, Bucky opening the door for her and Mel quietly mumbling a thank you as she walks swiftly to stand next to Valentina.

The main conference room, usually a sterile box of polished glass and muted tones, feels particularly oppressive today. The air conditioning hums a low, almost predatory whine, and the faint scent of ozone from the projector mixes with the expensive, sharp aroma of Val's perfume. The polished surface of the table reflects the harsh overhead lights, creating a glare that seems to amplify the tension.

“Oh great, you two came in together!” Valentina says as she turns in her chair to see Mel and Bucky. Valentina's smile, perfectly symmetrical and just a touch too wide, doesn't quite reach her eyes. She exudes an aura of calculated charm, like a predator carefully circling its prey. The very air seems to thin in her presence, making it harder to breathe, harder to think. Mel clears her throat as she opens her tablet, stylus in hand, ready to take notes.

Bucky moves to sit beside her, arms folded over his broad chest, vibranium glinting faintly under the harsh lights. His expression is blank, a carefully constructed mask, but Mel, who has seen him in enough high-stakes debriefs, can read the subtle tells. The way the fingers of his vibranium arm, usually at rest, twitch almost imperceptibly, hinting at a suppressed desire to clench a fist. A faint tremor in the line of his jaw. He looks like a statue carved from granite, but the subtle vibrations beneath the surface suggest an imminent earthquake.

Val’s smile widens, a fraction, as she surveys them both, though her gaze lingers on Bucky. “Let’s talk about image,” she says, her voice smooth as polished stone.

Bucky doesn’t look up, his gaze fixed on some invisible point on the table. “This again.” His voice is flat, devoid of inflection, a dangerous sign.

“Yes, this again,” Val says, flipping open a sleek, black leather folder with a soft thwip of paper. “The New Avengers are polling badly in coastal cities and abysmally in rural ones. Your favorability rating, James, is hovering somewhere between ‘public menace’ and ‘shitty former congressman.’” She arches a perfectly sculpted brow, a hint of disdain in her eyes. “Which, unfortunately for our PR team, you are.”

Bucky’s jaw clenches, a muscle jumping beneath his ear. “I told you I don’t care about ratings.” The words are clipped, forced through gritted teeth.

“And I told you that I do.” Her tone sharpens, losing its veneer of pleasantry. She leans forward, resting her elbows on the table, her hands steepled. “We don’t get funding if the people don’t trust you. We don’t get missions. We don’t get a damn thing but questions from the Pentagon and redacted headlines splashed across every digital screen.” Her eyes, dark and knowing, hold his.

Mel stays quiet, a silent observer. Her job description doesn’t include intervening in clashes between Barnes and de Fontaine, especially not when the storm is gathering behind Bucky’s eyes, a tempest waiting to unleash. Mel keeps her face impassive, her stylus poised, but inside, a knot tightens in her stomach. The words 'public menace' and 'shitty former congressman' echo in her mind. It’s a ruthless assessment, but also disturbingly accurate from Val’s perspective. Still, she feels a strange prickle of indignation on Bucky’s behalf. He’s not a number on a graph; he’s… Bucky. Complex, damaged, and fiercely loyal, despite himself. This isn't fair, not really.

Val flips the folder toward them, revealing a spread of graphs and unflattering news clippings. “So. We fix the story.”

He finally looks up, his brow raised, unimpressed. “By doing what? A Vogue spread? Because I’m pretty sure the only thing that’s gonna do is give the internet more fodder for memes.”

“No,” she says smoothly, ignoring his sarcasm. “By making you less… you.”

Mel blinks. The word hangs in the air, heavy and insulting.

Bucky’s voice turns to gravel, dangerously low. “You wanna run that by me again?” His hands, previously folded, now rest on the table, fingers twitching, a silent warning.

Valentina’s eyes glitter with satisfaction, an almost predatory gleam. “You’re a lone wolf with a thousand-yard stare and a body count that rivals a small army. It’s not charming, James—it’s terrifying. The public wants heroes they can relate to, someone they can feel safe around. We need a softer angle. Someone to hold your hand. Someone the public can root for, someone who humanizes you.” Val’s gaze, which had been fixed on Bucky with surgical precision, softens ever so slightly, morphing into something resembling… consideration. It’s a dangerous shift. Mel feels a prickle of unease at the back of her neck. Val’s 'solutions' are rarely simple, and never without a hidden cost. When she finally says, “Someone to hold your hand,” the words hang in the air like a poisoned dart, and Mel knows, with sickening certainty, exactly where that dart is aimed.

Mel feels the shift before she sees it. The silence stretches, elongating into something suffocating. The precise, quiet click of Valentina’s pen as she caps it punctuated the room like a countdown, each second ticking away toward an unknown detonation.

Then Val turns her head—slow, deliberate, a predator making its choice—and looks directly at her.

Mel’s heart skips a beat, then hammers against her ribs. No. This isn't happening. This couldn't be happening. She knows that look, that calculating gaze. Mel’s world narrows to the dull roar in her ears. The word “No” rips from her throat, raw and desperate. Her chair shrieks, a protest louder than her own voice. This is beyond absurd. She's an analyst, a quiet operator, someone who thrives in the shadows of data and intelligence. She pictures the tabloids, the sneering headlines, the endless scrutiny. Her meticulously built life, her carefully guarded privacy, is about to be shredded for a PR stunt. The anger, hot and visceral, surges through her veins, swiftly followed by a chilling wave of fear. She is utterly, completely trapped. “No.” The word is out before she can process it, a desperate, automatic defense.

“You haven’t even heard the proposal,” Val said lightly, her smile unchanging, infuriatingly serene.

“I don’t need to. I’m not—” Mel stands abruptly, her chair scraping against the concrete floor with a harsh shriek. Her stylus slips from her suddenly clammy fingers and clatters to the glass table, the sound echoing loudly in the tense room. “This isn’t what I do. I’m not… public. I’m not even part of the team in that capacity. I’m an analyst. A consultant.”

“But you are,” Val says, her voice gaining a sharp edge, her eyes narrowing. “You’re in the rooms. On the flight decks. In the debriefs. You’re already part of the machine, Mel. This is just a… formal expansion of your role.”

“To fake date Bucky?” she snaps, heat rising in her cheeks, a flush of anger and humiliation. “That’s not a role, that’s—propaganda. A publicity stunt. I’m not a prop.”

“And I’m not playing along,” Bucky says, standing too, his chair pushed back with a violent screech. His voice is low and dangerous, a raw rumble in his chest. Bucky’s chair scrapes back with a force that vibrates through the floor, his frustration a palpable heat in the room. “Freedom!” he snarls, the word a bitter curse. “You chained me to a desk, stuck me with a handler, and called it freedom! Just like you called that last botched mission 'optimizing assets' when you were really just trying to get rid of a loose end!” His metal hand slams onto the table, a stark punctuation mark to his fury. “Find someone else. I’m not faking shit. Not for you, not for anyone.”

Val’s tone doesn’t change, remaining perfectly modulated, infuriatingly calm. “You’re not being asked, James. You’re being informed.”

Bucky steps closer to the table, his shoulders tense, every line of his body screaming defiance. “No. You’re telling me. Again. Just like when you stuck me on this team and told me it was ‘freedom.’ You put a leash on me and called it a new beginning.”

Valentina stands, too, finally facing him fully, her calm facade cracking just slightly. “Don’t act like you don’t benefit from this. You crave this. A purpose. A place. You don’t want to go back to being hunted, do you? Because if the public decides you’re a threat again, if those headlines start screaming for your containment, I won’t be able to protect you. Not even I can fight public opinion and political pressure indefinitely.”

“Maybe I don’t want your protection,” Bucky bites out, his voice laced with venom. He takes another step, putting himself between Val and Mel, a silent, protective barrier.

“Then maybe you shouldn’t have signed a contract with my name on the bottom, James,” Val snaps, her voice cold and final, cutting through the air like a blade. “A contract, I might add, that contains several clauses regarding conduct, image, and cooperation. Your past choices dictate your present obligations.”

Mel stares between them, her pulse hammering in her ears, a frantic drumbeat against her eardrums. The absurdity of it all is overwhelming. “This is insane. You can’t just… assign people relationships.”

Val turns her icy gaze back to her, dismissing Bucky with a flick of her eyes. “I trust you to be professional, Mel. Your file indicates a high level of discretion and adaptability.”

“That’s not what this is,” Mel says, stunned, her voice barely a whisper. “You ambushed me. You brought me in here under false pretenses.”

Val doesn’t flinch, her expression utterly devoid of remorse. “I gave you an opportunity. An opportunity to further your career, to gain unprecedented access, and to contribute to a crucial public image campaign for a valuable asset.”

Bucky laughs bitterly, a harsh, humorless sound. “She gave you a leash. Just like me.”

Valentina steps past them both, already done, already moving on to the next item on her agenda. Her dismissal is absolute. “You’ll be seen leaving together tomorrow night. Start with something simple. Dinner. Let the rumors bloom on their own. The gala is in six days—we’ll make it official then. The press will be notified to expect a ‘developing romance.’”

Neither Mel nor Bucky says anything. What is there to say? The decision is made. The trap is sprung.

At the door, Val pauses, her hand on the cold steel. For the first time, her voice softens. “You both want the world to stop seeing you as weapons. This is how you do it. Smile. Hold hands. Make them believe.”

And then she is gone. The door clicks shut with a soft, definitive sound, and the silence collapses in on them like a vacuum, sucking all the air from the room.

Mel stands frozen for a moment, then sits down hard, the glass table rattling faintly under her weight. She buries her face in her hands, elbows on the cool surface, breath shaky and shallow. Her tablet lies abandoned beside her, stylus on the floor where it had fallen. She doesn’t move to pick it up.

Across from her, Bucky starts pacing—tight, restless steps across the stark floor, his boots a quiet but relentless drumbeat. He moves like a caged animal, sharp and twitchy, like the walls are pressing in on him with every second. His hands flex at his sides, the vibranium one gleaming cold and unforgiving in the harsh light. He doesn’t look at her. Just moves.

“Unbelievable,” he mutters under his breath, barely audible. “Fucking unbelievable.”

Mel doesn’t answer. She couldn’t. Her hands press against her eyes, trying to block everything out—the fluorescent lights, the folder still splayed open on the table, the hum of blood rushing in her ears. Her pulse hasn’t slowed. Her heart is still doing laps in her chest like it’s trying to break free.

“She knew we’d say no,” Bucky says, louder now, his voice rough with disbelief and fury. “She counted on it. Made the decision anyway. It’s already in motion.”

Mel drops her hands to look at him, her eyes red-rimmed with frustration and fear. “You think I don’t know that?”

Bucky stops pacing, turning to face her fully. “Then why the hell are you already giving in?”

Her spine straightens. “Because I don’t have the luxury of burning this all down, Barnes! I don’t have an out,” her voice cracks, betraying the tremor that has started in her hands. “She owns my job, my apartment, my clearance. My entire life here. And now, apparently, my face. She can dismantle everything. I don’t have a pension or a safe house or enhanced strength or whatever the hell keeps you from caring—”

“I care,” he snaps, stepping forward. “Don’t you dare think I don’t care.”

“You have options!” she shouts, rising to her feet again, hands clenched. “You can walk away. I can’t. You saw the look in her eyes—she’ll gut my whole life if I don’t play nice.”

“Then let her try,” Bucky growls. “We fight back. We don’t just roll over.”

“And then what?” she demands, stepping into his space now, her voice sharp with panic. “You disappear into the wind and I’m left blacklisted and homeless? God, you’re so used to surviving that you don’t even care who gets caught in the blast radius!”

That lands like a slap. The words hang in the air, sharp and accusatory, and Bucky recoils as if struck. The anger, the defiance, drains from his face, replaced by a raw, naked hurt. He blinks, a flicker of something haunted in his eyes. Her words cut through the practiced shield he always wears, striking a nerve he thought long dead. Caught in the blast radius . How many times had that happened? How many times had his own chaotic life, his own desperate need for survival, inadvertently ruined others? The silence that follows is heavy, not with tension, but with the sudden, crushing weight of shared vulnerability.

Then, suddenly, he moves again—toward the table this time, reaching for the black folder Valentina had left behind.

Mel reacts before she even thought.

“No,” she snaps, slapping his hand away with a sharp smack. The sound echoed.

Bucky freezes, his hand still suspended in the air. He turns to look at her slowly, something unreadable in his eyes.

“I don’t want to see it,” she says, breath catching. “I don’t want to know how much they hate you. Or how many articles she’s tagged me in like I’m some kind of… of accessory. I don’t want to look at the numbers and know exactly what we’re being turned into.”

His expression shifted—less anger, more… hurt. Or maybe just weariness. He dropped his hand, letting it fall to his side.

Mel exhales shakily and drops back into her chair again, all the fight drained from her body in an instant. She looks up at the ceiling, like if she didn’t she might unravel completely.

“I’m sorry.” Bucky sighs. Mel blinks.

“No, I’m sorry. For snapping at you. I’m just…overwhelmed.” Mel admits.

Bucky shakes his head, then he sighs, a sound of weary resignation, and leans against the glass table, rubbing at the tension in his jaw with his flesh hand. His posture is still rigid, but some of the frantic energy had bled out of him. “If we’re gonna do this,” he says quietly, his gaze meeting hers, “we do it our way. Not hers.”

Mel swallows, a dry, painful lump in her throat. Her eyes search his, looking for a way out, a loophole, anything. All she finds is a shared resolve, a defiant spark. “What does that mean?”

“It means we set the rules. We decide what’s real. And what’s not. She wants a show, we’ll give her a show. But it’ll be our show.”

Mel tries to process the implication, the sheer audacity of it. The idea of taking control, even a sliver, feels like a lifeline. “Can we also decide how many times a day we have to hold hands?” she asks, an ounce of humor, however strained, creeping into her voice.

He gives a dry huff of a laugh, a ghost of his usual teasing smirk. “Yeah. That too. And no forced smiles. And absolutely no public declarations of undying love.”

She tries to smile back, but it falters, the weight of the situation still heavy. This is happening. An involuntary partnership, thrust upon them by a ruthless puppet master.

God help them both.

 

Chapter 2

The magazine hits the café table with a slap loud enough to turn a few heads. Mel doesn’t care. She shoves her coffee aside and stares down at the glossy cover like it has personally offended her—which, to be fair, it has.

There they are. Bucky and Mel. Frozen mid-laugh and mid-eye-roll, respectively. He looks like he belongs in a Valentine’s Day ad for leather jackets. She looks like she’s regretting every choice that has led her to this exact moment.

“From Shadow to Spotlight: Bucky Barnes Debuts Mystery Girlfriend in Midtown”

She doesn’t even need to open it. She already knows how the article will go—something about stolen glances, soft touches, and healing old wounds with the power of love.

Bucky takes one look at the photo, his grin faltering slightly. “Wow. They actually got a decent shot of me.”

Mel’s eyes narrow. “You look like a Hallmark movie lumberjack. I look like I need an escape plan.”

He shrugs, a hint of something unreadable in his eyes. “Could’ve been worse. They didn’t Photoshop your head onto a lingerie ad, so that’s… progress, I guess.”

She slaps the magazine closed. “Val published this today. Without telling me. Without a timeline. Without rules.” A cold dread settles in her stomach. This is her life, her carefully constructed, meticulously planned life, suddenly thrown into the public eye without her consent. This isn't just a PR nightmare; it’s a personal invasion.

“I mean, it is a compelling story,” he says, but his voice lacks its usual lounge-like ease, a subtle tension in his posture. “Cold war assassin meets overworked PR assistant. There’s drama. There’s longing. Honestly, I didn’t know I could laugh like that.”

“Because you weren’t. You were mid-sneeze.”

“Explains the tears.”

Mel shakes her head, rubbing her temples. “We need to set some rules before she turns this into a romance drama. I’m not having my love life written by a publicist.” No, absolutely not. Her life is already an open book for the New Avengers, but this… this is different. This is her narrative, and it isn’t some pre-approved press release.

“So,” Mel starts, flipping open a small notepad. “Rules.”

Bucky raises a brow. “Rules?”

“Yes. Ground rules. Boundaries. The kind you don’t step over just because your PR manager isn’t watching.”

He leans forward, his smile a little less crooked, more thoughtful. “You planning to keep me on a leash?”

“Don’t tempt me.” She really might. The thought is surprisingly appealing, given how chaotic his presence already makes things.

He snorts, a brief exhale of amusement, and sits back, arms folded across his chest. “Alright, what are the rules?”

Mel ticks them off with her pen. “No real kissing. Hand-holding is fine, forehead kisses if absolutely necessary. But nothing that’ll make people question the authenticity if we break up later.” She has to protect herself, protect her heart, from the inevitable complications of faking something with someone like him. He is a walking complication.

“You think kissing makes it more believable?” he asks, a subtle shift in his tone.

“I think kissing makes it complicated.”

A flicker of something passes over his face—gone in an instant. “Understood. No real kissing. What else?”

“No overnight stays.” Because the line between fake and real can blur too easily in the quiet intimacy of an apartment after dark. And honestly, the thought of him snoring is just an easy out.

He sighs. “Fine. No sleepovers unless absolutely required. For the mission.”

“No pet names in private. And don’t touch me unless it’s for show.” Because every casual touch, every whispered endearment, would chip away at her resolve. She needs to maintain professional distance, no matter how attractive he might be.

“That’s a lot of rules for something that’s supposed to look effortless.” He says it not as a complaint, but as an observation.

“Effortless is a lie,” Mel says, scribbling notes. “Effort is everything.”

Bucky watches her a moment too long, like he’s trying to solve a puzzle without all the pieces. Then he nods. “Alright. Rules are rules. You done, or should I sign something in blood?”

Mel slides a mock contract across the table, smirking. “Red ink’s fine.”

He lifts his cup in mock salute. “To logistical romance.”

She sighs, then gathers her bag. “We should get ahead of the fallout. My place is cleaner than the Tower right now—we plan further. Timeline and whatnot.”

Bucky stands, waiting for her. “Driving or walking?”

“Driving,” she mutters. “I’m not strolling through Manhattan after this thing dropped.” And risk another impromptu photoshoot? Not a chance. She needs to disappear, regroup, and then reappear on her own terms.

But as they exit the café, Mel’s worst-case scenario comes to life.

“Holy—wait, wait, are you—?” a man in his twenties, tall and vaguely sweaty, slows his pace as he passes them. His eyes dart between Mel and Bucky, then to his phone, then back up again. “No way. That’s you two, right? From the magazine?”

Mel freezes. Her stomach drops. Every fiber of her being screams to bolt, to duck behind Bucky, to vanish into thin air. This is exactly what she’d feared.

Bucky steps in without missing a beat. He slides an arm around her shoulders—light enough to be casual, firm enough to guide her—and leans in like he’s whispering something sweet, but his voice is low and direct.

“Smile a little. Touch my chest. Don’t say anything.”

She obeys without thinking, fingers curling into the leather of his jacket as she offers a tight-lipped smile in the man’s direction. Her PR instincts kick in, overriding the panic. She is a professional. She can do this. Even if her heart is thudding against her ribs like a trapped bird.

“Damn, that’s crazy,” the guy says, pulling out his phone like he might try for a picture.

Bucky turns slightly, shielding her from the lens. “Hey, appreciate it, man, but we’re off the clock.” His voice is even, polite, but carries an underlying firmness that left no room for argument.

The man looks sheepish. “Right. Yeah. Sorry. Big fan, dude. You’re a legend.”

“Thanks,” Bucky says evenly, already steering Mel toward the car. “Have a good one.”

When they are safely behind the tinted glass of the passenger seat, Mel lets out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

“That was—”

“Gonna happen again,” Bucky says, turning the key. “Next time, we plan our exits. Every single one.”

She glances at him, lips pressed in thought. He is surprisingly good at this. More than good. He is… natural. Like he’d been doing this whole life, navigating the curious stares and intrusive questions with an easy grace that she, a seasoned PR professional, finds herself envying.

“You really are good at this, huh? Handling… all of it.”

He glances at her from the corner of his eye, a faint smirk tugging at the edge of his mouth. “What, driving? Or the whole ‘keep your cool when things explode’ thing?”

She snorts softly. “Both, I guess. You made that look way too easy back there. The arm, the ‘off the clock’ line — almost like you’ve done it before.”

“More times than I care to remember,” he says with a shrug, eyes back on the road. “You get good at thinking on your feet when the alternative is getting shot at.” His voice is flat, devoid of humor, a stark reminder of his past.

Mel swallows hard, then tries to lighten the mood. “Well, I’m glad you’re on our side now. The Avengers’ PR wouldn’t survive otherwise.”

“Yeah,” Bucky replies dryly. “I imagine ‘ex-Hydra assassin turned hero’ is not the easiest headline to spin.”

Mel laughs, a little uneven but genuine. “You’ve got a point. Sometimes I think the only thing people want to hear is a good redemption story. Preferably with a happy ending.” And that is her job, isn’t it? To craft that happy ending, even if it is just for public consumption.

He taps a slow rhythm on the console, his voice low. “Redemption’s not really a story I’m used to telling. It’s more like… a daily job. Some days better than others.”

Mel shifts in her seat, studying his profile in the dim light. “Do you ever think about all of it? The past stuff, I mean. Or is it just better to keep moving?” She finds herself genuinely curious, a rare lapse in her professional detachment. There is a depth to him, a quiet struggle she can sense, even if she couldn’t fully comprehend it.

Bucky hesitates, then shakes his head. “Moving’s easier. But memories don’t disappear just because you ignore them.” His tone is thoughtful, heavy.

Her voice softens. “Must be exhausting.”

He shrugs again, a faint smile playing at his lips, a melancholic curve. “It’s what I’m built for. I’m guessing you’ve got your own ghosts to dodge.”

Mel looks out the window, the city lights casting fleeting patterns across her face. “You could say that.” Her own ghosts are less dramatic, less violent, but no less persistent. The pressure to succeed, the need to prove herself, the lingering sting of past failures. They aren’t assassins, but they haunt her just the same.

There is a beat of silence, comfortable now, filled with shared understanding instead of awkwardness.

“You ever miss it?” she asks suddenly, surprising herself.

“Miss what?” Bucky’s eyes flick to her, curious.

“The… soldier stuff. The certainty of a mission, even if it was all wrong.”

He exhales slowly, considering. “Sometimes. But I miss the people more than the mission. Steve, Sam… they kept me grounded.”

Mel smiles softly. “I can’t even imagine what that must have been like.”

“Neither could I, before I had them.”

The car slows as they near her building. Mel feels a flutter in her chest, the weight of the night pressing in again. They both exit the car, Bucky following behind Mel closely as she leads him to her apartment number.

"Well," Mel says, fumbling with her keys. "This is it. My apartment.”

She opens the door and grimaces at the sight. "It's... usually tidier. I swear." She knows she is rambling, suddenly self-conscious about her carefully organized but still lived-in space. She manages a weak smile. "Come on in." She prides herself on her order, her meticulousness. To have him see her space, even slightly disheveled, feels strangely intimate, almost vulnerable.

"Don't mind the, uh, slight chaos," she says, waving a hand vaguely at nothing in particular. Her apartment isn’t a disaster, but it certainly isn’t showroom-ready, especially with her PR work spilling onto the coffee table.

Bucky takes off his jacket, draping it over the back of a chair without a second thought. “I’m not here to judge your tidiness. I’ve got enough skeletons in my closet.” His voice is low, almost solemn.

Mel laughs softly. “Good to know. I was about to say the same.” A strange sense of ease settles over her. His casual acceptance, his own self-deprecating humor, is disarming.

“I still think we should’ve said we met at that gala six months ago,” he says, slouched on her couch. Mel sighs as she removes the cap of an expo marker and moves to the whiteboard in the front of the room, preparing to put some post-it notes. Right. Back to business. No time for comfortable silences and shared histories. This is a job.

“You glared at me the whole night.”

“That could be interpreted as intense interest,” he replies, his gaze steady.

“It was hostile.”

He shrugs slightly. “Some people are into that.”

Mel sticks a post-it on the wall that reads Soft Launch? and gives him a look. “Okay, so... we say the fake first date was at that dumpling place near the Upper East Side?”

“Too cheap. No one would believe I suggested it,” he says, a hint of his usual dry wit returning.

She pauses. “Right. You’re a classy date.” She hadn't really thought about it, but he does exude a certain old-world charm, despite the modern attire.

“I’m a romantic,” he corrected, a small, knowing smile playing on his lips.

“You’re annoying.”

“Perhaps. But effective.”

She throws a pillow at him. And instantly regrets it. This isn’t how she operates. She is composed, professional. But with him, the lines blur so easily.

“We can spin it as me introducing you to a ‘hidden gem,’ a ‘local favorite.’ Makes you seem more down-to-earth.” She makes a note.

He catches it with one hand and a flicker of genuine amusement crosses his face. “Fine. Dumpling place it is. First kiss?”

She hesitates, marker in hand. First kiss. The thought makes a peculiar warmth spread through her. Not real, of course, but the sheer performance of it. How would they stage it? What would it look like?

“Rooftop?” he offers, his gaze distant, as if picturing it. “End of the date. Real soft lighting. You looked at me, I looked at you, time slowed down...”

“Bucky.”

“What?”

“You’re romanticizing our fake relationship.”

He meets her gaze, his smile soft, almost wistful. “Someone has to make it believable, Mel. For the audience.” And in that moment, she realizes he is right. Someone has to imbue this charade with a semblance of believable emotion, and it certainly isn’t going to be her, the pragmatic PR professional.

The moment settles into something quieter, the room filled only by the low hum of the fridge and the tapping of Mel’s marker.

“Okay,” Mel says, pushing a few stray hairs from her face. “Let’s get into the logistics. What’s our cover story for how we ‘met’?”

Bucky shifts on the couch. “The gala seemed plausible enough. It’s public, high-profile.”

“Plausible, maybe,” Mel counters, marking a point on her whiteboard. “But your ‘intense interest’ came across more as ‘I might disarm you with a spork.’ We need something less… confrontational. Something that screams meet-cute, not ‘about to be assassinated.’”

He grunts. “Fair point. So, not the gala. How about a chance encounter?”

“Where? And what kind of encounter?” Mel scribbles ‘Meet Cute Idea’ on a new post-it. “We need specifics. The press will dig. They’ll want details. ‘Chance encounter’ is too vague.”

Bucky pauses, his gaze drifting to the city lights outside her window. “I… I used to like quiet places. Parks. Libraries. But that doesn’t fit the image they’re trying to build, does it?”

Mel chews on her lip. “Not exactly. They want Midtown excitement, ‘from shadow to spotlight.’ We need something relatable, but also a little aspirational. What about… a café? Like this one, but maybe a bit more upscale. Where you go for an afternoon coffee, not a tactical debrief.”

He considers it. “A café. And then?”

“And then,” Mel continues, gesturing with her pen, “we have a ‘moment.’ You spill coffee on me. Or I trip and you catch me. Something cliché, but effective.”

Bucky raises an eyebrow. “You want me to spill coffee on you?”

“It’s a classic! Creates immediate, non-threatening interaction. And then, as a gentleman, you offer to buy me a new one, and we get to talking. Small talk turns into genuine interest.” She gestures grandly. “It's all about building the narrative arc.”

He lets out a short, soft laugh. “You really are a master of this, aren’t you? Engineering emotions.”

“It’s about understanding human psychology, Barnes. What people want to believe. And right now, they want to believe the Winter Soldier found love.” She feels a familiar shield drop into place, the professional detachment that allows her to orchestrate these narratives without getting tangled in them herself. “So, café. You spill coffee. We connect. First kiss, rooftop. Romantic, soft lighting, all that jazz. We establish a pattern of private, intimate moments that aren’t too intimate.”

“Understood,” he says, his gaze steady on her, and for a fleeting moment, she feels a flicker of something she couldn't quite identify. It isn't just the professional Bucky Barnes agreeing to a PR strategy; it is something deeper.

Things quiet down after a while. The chaos of post-its fades into a comfortable silence, broken only by the occasional rustle of paper.

Bucky sits on the couch again, this time less sprawled, more thoughtful. His eyes are on the floor, brows drawn, but his shoulders have dropped—like something has been loosened.

“You know,” he says softly, “Steve used to say that. What you said earlier. ‘Effort is everything.’ He believed it. Even when no one else did.”

Mel looks up from her notes. Steve. The name hangs in the air, a phantom presence. She knows the stories, of course, the legend. But to hear Bucky speak of him, so casually, so reverently, gives the stories a new weight.

“You talk about him in the present tense.”

“Because he’s still here,” Bucky replies, like it is obvious. “Not physically. But Sam and I—we carry him. Sam especially. He’s better at the talking part. I still... default to violence.” His voice is even, a statement of fact rather than a complaint.

Mel hesitates. “Is it hard? Letting people see you now, instead of what you were?” The question is out before she can censor it. It feels too personal, too raw, but something in his openness compels her to ask.

He nods slowly. “Hydra didn’t leave me with much. Mostly... scars. In my head. Sometimes I forget I’m not a weapon anymore.”

She puts her tablet down slowly. The weight of his words settled on her. She can’t imagine, truly imagine, what that feels like. To be so fundamentally altered, to have your very identity stripped away.

“My sister used to say anger’s like fire. Hold it too long, you get burned.”

He turns to her, something unguarded flickering in his eyes.

“She still around?”

“She’s in India. Doing medicine. Helping people. I haven’t been back in years.” Her voice thins. “They don’t really get my life here. Or... this job. But my sister tries. She comes by to America every now and then.” A pang of loneliness hits her. She misses her sister, misses the easy understanding they once shared. This life, this chaotic, public, superhero-adjacent life, feels so far removed from her roots.

Bucky looks at her like he sees past the calm exterior to whatever she is hiding beneath it. “Family’s complicated.”

“Yeah,” Mel agrees, softly. “Yeah, it is.”

And for once, the quiet between them doesn’t need to be filled. It is a comfortable silence, a rare moment of shared vulnerability with someone who, just hours ago, was a stranger forced into her fake dating scheme. It is surprisingly peaceful.

She stands, almost abruptly. “I’m gonna make chai. Want some?”

He blinks. “That’s like tea, right?”

Mel grins over her shoulder as she pads to the kitchen. “The only good thing I know how to make. And it’s fantastic. Life-changing. World peace in a cup.” A small, private piece of her life, something she can offer that isn’t related to work or damage control.

“Big claim.”

“You’ll see,” she says, already pulling open the spice drawer. “Do you want biscuits with it?”

“Like... cookies?”

“Like... the proper kind. For dunking. It’s a whole experience. Three dips, blow once, then eat. Any more than three and it disintegrates. Less than three and it’s just tea-flavored cardboard.”

Bucky chuckles under his breath. “This sounds very specific. Detailed.”

“Because it is. This is sacred, Barnes.” And somehow, sharing this small, sacred ritual with him feels right. A tiny anchor in the swirling chaos.

He leans back, watching her with open amusement. “Alright. Enlighten me.”

Mel moves with muscle memory, setting water to boil, crushing cardamom and ginger, adding black tea and milk with the reverence of a ritual. The kitchen fills with warmth and spice, and for a moment it feels like the world outside doesn’t exist. No magazines, no press, no pretend relationship. Bucky moves to stand behind her, silently watching as she mixes everything in.

“Jeez, you have like 8 different spices in this little drawer itself. All I have is salt and dread.” Bucky jokes as he grabs the little spoon and sifts through the turmeric in one of the containers. Mel lets out a small laugh.

“Remind me to never eat food from you.”

“To be honest, I mostly just get takeout anyway.” Bucky shrugs.

She hands him the mug, then they both walk together to sit on the couch with the biscuits. “Okay. Three dips. Steady hands. No crumbling under pressure.”

“Sounds like a mission briefing,” he observes, but a small smile touches his lips.

“Every chai break is.”

He dips the biscuit once, twice, three times, then raised it carefully.

“Blow,” Mel instructed.

He gave her a look but obeyed, then bit into the softened edge.

His brows lifted. “Okay. That’s actually—damn. That’s really good.”

“Told you.”

Mel took a sip of her own and sighed like it was medicine. A moment of genuine peace, a small victory against the looming madness.

Bucky tilted his mug toward her. “To effort.”

She clinked hers against his. “To not crumbling under pressure.”

And again, the quiet is welcome.

***

Mel is halfway through her second coffee the next morning when Yelena dropped onto her office couch like she owned the place. Probably because, emotionally, she did.

“Morning,” Mel says, distracted, typing on her tablet. “Is this a social visit or are you here to loot the snack drawer again?”

“Both,” Yelena says cheerfully. “Also, you’re a worse liar than he is. And that’s saying something.”

Mel’s fingers froze. A cold jolt shot through her. Had Val already spread the word? Was this whole thing already a known quantity?

“Sorry?”

“You and Barnes,” Yelena says, not even bothering to lower her voice as she plucked a granola bar from the drawer. “Fake dating. Please.”

Mel stares. “I—I don’t know what you’re talking about. It's real. It's all real.” Her heart hammers. She’s usually so good at this, at maintaining a poker face, at deflecting.

Yelena unwraps the bar and takes a bite. “You blink like twelve times when you’re lying.”

“I do not.”

“You just did. Again.”

Mel sighs and leans back in her chair. “Fine. Who told you?” She was caught. Yelena always saw through her, always had. It was infuriating and, grudgingly, a little comforting.

“No one. I’m just smarter than both of you.”

“That’s not exactly a high bar.”

Yelena grins. “You really think no one’s gonna notice? You walked into the Tower together this morning looking like you’d either killed someone or made out in a broom closet.”

Mel rubs her temples. “We’re working on it. I don't think anyone is supposed to know its fake. You know, for the image. It’s supposed to be temporary.” Temporary. That was the key. A finite mission, with a clear end date. At least, that’s what she told herself.

Yelena tilts her head. “Sure, but... you have eyes, Mel. And Barnes isn’t exactly hard to look at.”

Mel gives her a pointed look. “Yes, he’s attractive. That’s not relevant.” But it was. It was absolutely relevant. Every time he looked at her, every time he casually touched her arm, a tiny, annoying spark ignited. And she hates it.

“Not even a little? You don’t get flustered when he stares too long?”

Mel tries not to blush. “It’s strictly for the media. We’re managing the optics. That’s all.” She repeats the mantra, trying to convince herself more than Yelena.

“Mmhm.” Yelena settles deeper into the couch. “You ever think about how weird it is that you’re this good at pretending? I mean, most people struggle to fake a smile, and here you are, coordinating Instagram-worthy glances like a pro.”

Mel raises a brow. “What are you trying to say?” A knot forms in her stomach. What was Yelena implying? That this charade was too easy for her? That she was too good at it?

“Nothing.” Yelena smirks. “Just that you might be better at this because it’s not all fake. You’ve got tells, Mel.”

Mel doesn’t answer right away. The words hung in the air, echoing her own unsettling thoughts. Was it truly all fake? Or was something more insidious at play, a slow, subtle shift she was too busy managing to acknowledge?

Yelena, seeing Mel’s serious expression, softens her tone slightly. She swings her legs onto the coffee table, narrowly missing a stack of press releases.

“So, new topic,” Yelena says, her voice more casual. “Did you ever figure out that thing with the faulty coffee machine in the breakroom?”

Mel perks up a little, grateful for the distraction. “Oh my god, yes! It was a clogged filter. John apparently tried to fix it with a paperclip. A paperclip, Lena.”

Yelena snorts. “Sounds about right. He once tried to unjam a grenade launcher with a chewing gum wrapper. Some people never learn.”

“Seriously,” Mel agrees, shaking her head. “Anyway, I replaced it, and now the coffee is actually drinkable. You should try it later.”

“Perhaps. Though your office coffee has always been a questionable experience,” Yelena teases. “Speaking of questionable experiences, how’s your dating app life going? Still swiping through endless photos of guys holding fish?”

Mel groans. “Don’t even get me started. It’s a wasteland out there. Everyone either looks like they belong on a ‘wanted’ poster or they’re trying too hard to be ‘quirky.’ Last night, I matched with a guy whose entire profile was just him juggling chainsaws.”

Yelena chuckles. “See? Barnes suddenly doesn’t look so bad, does he?”

“He’s literally on a fake date with me in a magazine cover right now,” Mel retortes, gesturing at the closed magazine on her desk. “My dating life has officially peaked at ‘PR stunt with a super soldier.’”

“Could be worse. Could be a real super soldier who thinks juggling chainsaws is a good first date idea,” Yelena muses. “At least Barnes is… predictable. In his own way.”

Mel leans forward, a small smile playing on her lips. “Predictably grumpy, maybe. But I did teach him about proper biscuit-dunking last night. Three dips, no more, no less.”

Yelena’s eyes widens slightly. “You got him to dunk biscuits? That’s progress, Mel. Real progress. Next, you’ll have him doing yoga.”

“Don’t push it,” Mel laughs. “One step at a time.”

“Anyway, I should go. If you need backup,” she said as she got up, “I’ve got a couple burner phones, a garage full of weapons, and a surprisingly effective plan involving a fake cruise to Malta.”

Mel blinks. “That’s oddly specific.”

“I plan for everything.”

She winks and makes her way out of Mel’s office.

Mel turns back to her tablet, but her fingers hover over the screen.

Somehow, this all feels a little more real than it was supposed to.

Chapter 3

Notes:

thanks for all the love so far!! ive got all the chapters planned out. expect updates every other day or so. love u all!

The insistent, rhythmic tap on her office door pulls Mel out of a half-doze—a state she often finds herself drifting into these days, cradled somewhere between exhaustion and overstimulation. She rubs her eyes and pushes herself upright on her chair, already bracing for whatever fresh madness lies on the other side of the door.

Mel sighs and pulls the door open. Impeccable, inscrutable, and currently standing in the hallway like a summons dressed in head-to-toe black, is Valentina. Her suit is razor-sharp, absorbing the hallway light like it is a weapon in itself. She doesn’t knock again. She doesn’t need to.

“Valentina,” she says, voice still husky from sleep. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this unscheduled visit?”

Valentina doesn’t bother with pleasantries. “Good, you’re here,” she says crisply, already brushing past Mel into the office without waiting for an invitation. “Don’t worry. I’m not here to throw you into a mission. I need you in the main conference room. Now. And tell Barnes to get his ass down there too, if he’s not already skulking around.”

Of course it is. Everything with Valentina is important. Classified, essential, time-sensitive, and usually a headache wrapped in silk.

Mel nods with practiced calm. “Understood. I’ll get him.”

Twenty minutes later, Mel sits across from Valentina in the sterile chill of the conference room. The walls are glass and steel, the long table gleaming under soft, too-white LED lights. Bucky sits beside her, silent and still, his expression unreadable.

If it weren’t for the slight sheen of sweat on his collarbone and the damp strands clinging to his temple, she’d think he just walked out of a magazine shoot. His metal arm rests easily on the table, fingers drumming a slow, thoughtful rhythm against the surface.

Valentina is perched at the head of the table like a queen behind enemy lines. Her presence fills the room before she even speaks.

She steeps her fingers. “Listen closely. Tomorrow night is the annual Celestial Gala. It’s high-profile—government officials, international dignitaries, tech moguls, and, naturally, the press. Everyone who matters will be there.”

Mel stiffens, her pulse quickening despite herself. The Celestial Gala isn’t just a party. It’s a spotlight.

Noticing Bucky and Mel’s silence, Valentina leans forward. “This is the moment. The narrative we’ve been cultivating needs reinforcement. Public reinforcement. Your relationship,” she nods between them, “needs to be seen and admired.”

Mel exchanges a quick glance with Bucky. He looks sympathetic. She feels vaguely nauseous.

“You need to be the couple,” Valentina goes on. “The dazzling romance people can’t stop whispering about. We’re selling an image here—of stability, of progress, of charm. Of normalcy, Barnes.”

Bucky scoffs softly, a sound halfway between a laugh and a curse. “What’s special about this Gala?”

Valentina smiles thinly. “Scale. This isn’t a press conference. This is mingling. Small talk. Unscripted closeness. The world watching you move together like you’re… inevitable.”

Mel winces at the word. Inevitable. Like this isn’t something temporary. Like it means something more than staged touches and strategically-timed smiles.

Valentina doesn’t notice—or she doesn’t care. “Which brings us to the next detail: wardrobe.”

Mel blinks. “I have dresses. Formal ones. I’ve gone to events before.”

“And I have suits,” he adds, voice flat. “Ones that fit.”

Valentina gives them both a patronizing little smile, folding her hands atop a sleek leather folder. “I’m sure you do. But those aren’t coordinated. They weren’t crafted by a designer with full knowledge of your narrative. This isn’t about just looking good. This is about visual symmetry. Chemistry.”

Bucky mutters something under his breath.

“You’ll be going to my tailor. Today. 2 PM. Together,” Valentina continues. “They’ve already cleared their schedule. Your measurements will be taken. Fittings adjusted. The final product will be delivered before the gala. Everything will be... flawless.”

Bucky sits forward, eyes flashing with irritation. “What, you think we can’t dress ourselves separately?”

“I think,” Valentina says, her tone suddenly colder, “that you are going to do exactly what I say because this is not about personal preference. It’s about control. About image. About making people believe that this,” she gestures between them, “is real. That you, James Barnes, are not just reformed, but human. Capable of care. Connection. Love, even.”

The word love hangs in the air like gunpowder. Bucky doesn’t react, but Mel sees his jaw lock.

She tries to speak, to smooth the tension. “So the tailor’s... been briefed on us?”

“Yes,” Valentina says, satisfied. “They know everything they need to know. They’re professionals. You’ll be in good hands.”

Mel swallows hard, feeling the tide of the inevitable rise around her. She catches Bucky’s eye again. He looks like he wants to punch something—but more than that, he looks tired. Not physically. Tired of being used and displayed.

Valentina rises from her seat. “That’s all. Be there on time. Don’t make me come find you.”

As she sweeps out of the room, the silence that follows is immediate and oppressive.

Mel lets out a long breath and slumps back in her chair. “Tailor fittings. Gala appearances. Emotional believability. This fake relationship really is a full-time job.”

Bucky doesn’t laugh, but a corner of his mouth twitches. “We should charge her overtime. Double time for 'undeniable romance' clauses.”

Mel pushes a hand through her hair, a tired laugh escaping her lips. “At this rate, we’ll need hazard pay for emotional damage.”

Bucky leans back, his metal arm resting on the table, fingers drumming a slightly faster rhythm. “She’s pushing the narrative hard. Trying to make me look like… what? A golden retriever in a suit? Someone who can actually feel something beyond tactical assessment and target acquisition.” He rubs a hand over his face, a gesture of exhaustion. “And you. The ‘light in my life’ type, I guess.”

Mel snorts. “Hardly. I’m usually the one putting out fires, not shining lights. This is just… another level of performance. We’re not just spies, we’re Hollywood actors now, apparently.” She pauses, a thought striking her. “So, strategy? What’s the game plan for not tripping over each other’s lies?”

“Keep it vague,” Bucky says, shrugging. “Smile. Nod. Let you do the talking, you’re better at the polite society routine.”

“Charming. And what about your part? Your infamous brooding intensity isn’t exactly ‘dazzling romance’.”

He gives her a dry look. “I’ll try to look less like I’m planning a hostile takeover. Maybe a few carefully placed smirks. And I’ll watch your back.”

Mel laughs. “Just don’t accidentally dislocate my shoulder when you go to ‘steady’ me, alright?”

He actually chuckles, a low, gravelly sound. “No promises. Two PM, then. Together. Joy.”

***

The tailor shop is an experience unto itself. Less a store and more a sanctuary of sartorial devotion, it exudes a reverent hush—like stepping into a temple where cloth and craftsmanship reign supreme. The air is thick with the heady scent of fine fabric: silk, wool, something faintly spiced and clean like cedarwood. It clings to the polished mahogany shelves and the velvet-upholstered benches with a kind of dignified permanence. Racks of garments—elegant to the point of intimidating—line the walls, each sheathed in crisp, protective plastic, their silhouettes ghostlike in the soft light. Antique display cases glow with curated collections of silk ties, antique cufflinks, and delicate jewelry that catch the light like whispers.

Mel feels underdressed the second she steps inside.

A petite woman emerges from the back, sharp-eyed and regal despite her diminutive frame. A tape measure hangs around her neck like a statement necklace. Her gray hair is swept into an elegant chignon, and her deep purple blazer looks like it has been tailored by the gods.

Her gaze sweeps over them once—measuring, assessing—and her smile curves with something that makes Mel’s spine stiffen. It isn’t cruel, exactly. Just… perceptive. As if she can see right through the carefully curated mask Mel wears. The self-assured posture. The brisk professionalism. The internal panic.

“Ah! The delightful couple. We’ve been expecting you. I’m Madame Estelle,” she says, and Mel doesn’t miss the twinkle in her eye as she speaks the word couple.

Mel smiles and mutters a little hello while all Bucky does is nod.

“The directive was clear,” Madame Estelle continues, already in motion, ushering them deeper into the shop. “Elegance, cohesion, and a touch of… undeniable romance.”

Mel resists the urge to groan aloud.

They are guided to separate changing rooms, though the air between them feels anything but separate. There is an odd sense of togetherness humming in the background—an invisible thread tugging at her awareness of Bucky even when she can’t see him.

Inside her dressing room, three gowns await her like royal invitations.

The first is midnight blue, sleek and simple, its beauty hidden in the way it promises to move like liquid in low lighting. The second is emerald green, shot through with shimmer that catches the air like breath. The third—the one Madame Estelle seems particularly reverent about—is a deep burgundy, the color of ripe cherries and evening wine. Lace kisses the bodice in intricate patterns, and the skirt sweeps out in a soft, effortless cascade.

“This one,” Madame Estelle says, her voice almost conspiratorial as she holds it up, “will sing on you. And it will harmonize with Mr. Barnes’s look perfectly. Mmm—yes. There is chemistry there, no?”

Mel blinks. “There’s—uh. Chemistry?”

Madame Estelle just smiles, like she already knows the punchline to a joke Mel hasn’t realized she’s telling.

Trying not to overthink it, Mel slips into the burgundy dress. The fabric is like water sliding over her skin—cool, smooth, luxurious. It fits like it has been sewn around her body in real time, hugging her waist, falling in a gentle A-line over her hips. She turns to the mirror, caught off-guard by her own reflection. Elegant, yes. But also… exposed. The neckline dips just enough to make her self-conscious, and the line of pearls down her back—delicate, exquisite—is utterly unreachable.

She fumbles with the zipper, arms twisted behind her like a contortionist, when she hears a knock. The door creaks open a fraction.

“Hey,” comes Bucky’s voice, low and uncharacteristically gentle. “You good?”

She freezes. “Uh… mostly.”

The door eases open a little more, and then he steps into view.

He isn’t fully dressed yet, no tie, no jacket, but the sight of him still makes her throat go dry. The white dress shirt fits him too well, sleeves rolled just enough to expose the clean lines of his forearms. The black trousers are tailored so sharply they practically cut the air. His hair is tousled like he’d run his hands through it, and the look in his eyes is curious—cautious, even—as he takes in the sight of her.

“Wow,” he says, and blinks. “I mean—uh. That looks… good.”

Mel bites the inside of her cheek. “Thanks. I think it’s trying to kill me, though. This zipper won’t budge.”

Bucky steps closer, his voice softer now. “You want help?”

She hesitates, but only for a moment. “Yeah. If you don’t mind.”

He crosses the short distance between them, and suddenly, everything feels smaller. Closer. The mirror reflects them back—his large frame behind hers, her hair pinned up, the dress halfway fastened. She can smell his cologne now. Not overpowering, just quietly there. Like him.

His fingers find the zipper. His metal fingers brush lightly against her spine, and she fights not to shiver.

“Sorry,” he murmurs.

“It’s fine,” she says quickly, too quickly.

Slowly, carefully, he begins to pull the zipper up. The soft clicks of pearl teeth echo in the silence like tiny heartbeats. His hand is steady, gentle, but his breath is close—close enough to stir the hair at the nape of her neck. Each inch he zips feels oddly intimate. Almost reverent.

When he reaches the top, his hands don’t fall away immediately. One lingers at her waist, the other resting lightly on her shoulder. She can feel the heat of him through the fabric. Her eyes lift to the mirror again—and he is looking at her. Not just at the dress. At her.

Their eyes meet. And for a moment, the space between them feels suspended—full of everything unspoken. Admiration. Uncertainty. Something warmer, more dangerous.

“You look…” he pauses, then shrugs slightly, a crooked smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. “You look good.”

Mel swallows. “You, too. The suit—it’s working.”

He chuckles under his breath and nods as a thank you.

The door bursts open with a flair of purpose. “Parfait!” Madame Estelle declares, sweeping into the room like a benevolent storm. “The burgundy! It brings out the fire in your eyes, my dear. And Mr. Barnes—mon dieu—the charcoal gray suits you. Your shoulders alone—” she clucks approvingly—“are a tailoring triumph.”

Mel tunes her out slightly, her focus drifting back to Bucky. He is standing off to the side now, nodding as Madame Estelle rattles off fashion decrees, but his eyes… they keep finding her in the mirror. She feels it each time like a brush of fingertips across her skin.

And as Mel tries on earrings and practices looking unbothered, one thought echoes louder than the rest: This is going to be harder than I thought.

Not just the dress. Not just the gala.

The whole damn charade.

***

The night of the gala arrives in a blur of controlled chaos and overthinking.

The tower buzzes like a backstage dressing room, a professional stylist and makeup artist orbiting her with brushes, pins, and clipped instructions. The burgundy dress—delivered that morning in a garment bag so pristine it practically exhales luxury—fits like a whispered promise. It shimmers under the apartment’s soft lights, catching gold in the lace detailing with every shift of her body. She barely recognizes herself.

Her hair is swept up in a loose knot, deliberate tendrils curling around her face. Her makeup is bolder than she is used to—sharp eyes, wine-dark lips—but it works. She looks composed. Elegant. Untouchable. Exactly how Valentina wants her to look.

But underneath, her stomach twists like thread on a spool.

When she finally steps out of the dressing room, heels echoing softly on the hardwood, Bucky is already waiting in the main room.

He stands with his back to her, studying a book on her shelf, of all things. But he turns at the sound of her steps, and his reaction is immediate—subtle, but there.

His gaze runs over her, pauses, then flicks up to meet hers. There is a flicker. Not quite shock, not quite admiration—something quieter. Something real.

“You clean up alright, Mel,” he says, voice low, almost gruff.

She smiles. Not the polished, PR-ready one she'd practiced, but something closer to herself. “Same to you, Barnes. You almost look like you belong in polite society.”

He grunts, but the corner of his mouth lifts—barely. “Don’t push it.”

They don’t say much more as they descend to the street, where a black limousine waits, long and gleaming and excessive. The driver—an older man who looks like he'd seen too many strange nights to care—opens the door with a grunt.

Inside, the space is warm and dimly lit, leather seats arranged around a low bar stocked with champagne flutes. Alexei is already sprawled across one side like he owns it, arms wide, suit rumpled in a way that somehow works. Beside him, Bob sits unusually upright, tailored to eerie precision in a dark gray suit. Across from them, John looks like someone has stuffed a football player into a penguin costume, all stiff shoulders and no idea what to do with his hands.

Ava shimmers like moonlight beside him, one long leg crossed over the other, her silver gown hugging every angle like it has been designed around her. And next to her—thank god—is Yelena.

Mel’s eyes find her instinctively. She is in black, of course, her dress sleek and severe, hair swept back in a braided crown. Her gaze flicks to Mel, then to Bucky, and her lips quirk—just a little.

“Ah! The happy couple!” Alexei booms, arms thrown wide. “Looking magnificent! Truly, romance made flesh!”

Bucky slides in beside Mel, their thighs brushing. Her skin prickles, but she doesn’t move.

“Thanks, Alexei,” Mel says, smoothing her dress with a practiced hand. “You all look… intimidatingly good.”

Ava leans forward slightly, her voice like silk drawn over glass. “That dress is exquisite, Mel. Burgundy suits you.” Her eyes slide to Bucky. “And you—well, you almost make me want to believe in tuxedos again.”

“Trying not to wrinkle it,” Bucky mutters. Yelena snorts into her drink, a small, dark smile playing on her lips.

The limo rolls through the city, the hum of the engine a low counterpoint to the easy conversation that bubbles and coils around them. Mel and Bucky keep up the act, a casual brush of her shoulder against his, the occasional shared glance that holds just enough warmth to be believable. At one point, his hand settles on her knee, just for show—but his palm is warm, and he doesn’t move it. He is a silent, unmoving presence, a subtle weight that she can lean on, a constant against the shifting currents in the car. She glances sideways, and he gives her a tiny, knowing nod. We’ve got this.

Only Yelena knows the truth, and the arched brow she gives them across the limo is both amused and dangerous. Don’t get too good at pretending , it seems to say.

“So, Barnes,” John cuts in, a wide grin spreading across his face as he nudges Bucky with his elbow. “Quite the change for you, huh? All this… glamour. Bet you’d rather be in tactical gear, wouldn’t you?” He laughs, a friendly jab.

Bucky rolls his eyes good-naturedly. “This thing’s surprisingly comfortable. And at least I don’t look like I’m about to go play a high-stakes game of Monopoly.”

John scoffs. “This suit is power. Pure… regal.”

“Pure polyester, more like,” Yelena mutters under her breath, taking a sip of champagne. John throws a crumpled napkin at her, which she expertly deflects with one hand.

Ava turns to Mel. “And Mel, how are you enjoying your new role in… all this? The public eye, the glamour?” Her smile is genuine, warm.

Mel leans into Bucky’s shoulder, laughing lightly. “Honestly, it’s a trip. My feet are already rebelling against these heels, but hey, at least the company’s good.” As if on cue, Bucky’s hand slides from her knee to the small of her back, a possessive, comforting gesture. It is automatic now, familiar. Maybe too familiar. You’re overcompensating, Barnes, she thinks, a small internal voice chiding him, but she doesn’t say it. Doesn’t move away. In fact, she leans just slightly into the touch, letting the gesture sell the story, letting the warmth of his hand anchor her.

“Oh, I’m sure it has,” Ava purrs, her gaze lingering on Bucky’s hand at Mel’s back, a hint of genuine amusement in her eyes. “He’s certainly… a presence.”

“Plenty of surprises, yes,” Mel agrees, keeping her voice light. “Always on my toes. Never a dull moment.”

“He’s good at that,” Yelena chimes in, a faint smile playing on her lips. “Keeping people on their toes. Literally, sometimes. Remember that training exercise, Barnes, when you accidentally…?”

“Hey!” Bucky cuts her off, a flush creeping up his neck. “That was one time! And you came at me with a rubber chicken, what did you expect?”

Laughter ripples through the limo. Even Bob cracks a small, almost imperceptible smile. The tension in the car, if there ever is any, dissipates into easy camaraderie.

“Speaking of unexpected things,” Ava says, “Anyone else get a call from Valentina this morning? Just a casual ‘checking in on your progress’ sort of thing?” Her tone is laced with mock innocence, but her eyes twinkle.

A collective groan goes around the limo.

“Oh, god, yes,” Mel says, rolling her eyes. “She told me to ‘lean into the narrative.’ What even is ‘the narrative?’ I think she means I should start writing fanfiction about myself.”

John snorts. “She called me at 6 AM. Six! Said my ‘enthusiasm for sartorial excellence was noted, but could be more… heartfelt.’ Whatever the hell that means.”

“I got a text,” Yelena deadpans. “It just said, ‘Smile more. XOXO, Val.’ I almost threw my phone across the room.”

“She told me my suit lacked ‘the gravitas of a truly committed professional,’” Bucky mumbles, earning another snort from Yelena. “I told her I’d consider it when she got rid of that god awful hairstyle.”

Alexei claps his hands together, roaring with laughter. “Yes! Someone finally said it! The blonde…eh…not for her.”

Bob, who has been silent for most of the ride, clears his throat. “She recommended I incorporate more ‘bold patterns’ into my wardrobe. Said my current style was ‘aggressively subtle.’” He actually looks offended.

More laughter fills the limo, a shared moment of exasperation and camaraderie. It is a good laugh, a genuine one that cuts through any lingering performance anxiety. Even in this high-stakes situation, they are still just people, still subjected to the whims of their eccentric handler.

The limo finally pulls up to the venue—an architectural marvel lit up like a palace. Cameras wait like wolves at the gate, their lenses glinting in the sudden glare.

Bucky helps her out, his hand steadying her with care, a gentle pressure at her elbow. He doesn’t rush. Just lets her take her time as flashbulbs start to explode around them like tiny firecrackers, illuminating their faces in rapid succession, capturing every angle of their carefully constructed illusion.

The red carpet is chaos. Photographers shout their names. “Mr. Barnes! Ms. Gold! Look this way! Are you in love? When did it start?”

Bucky draws her close, arm snug around her waist, fingers splayed across the fabric of her back like he owns it.

“Smile,” he murmurs, his lips brushing her temple. She does, offering a radiant, slightly teasing grin. 

They field questions, stick to vague romance tropes. Bucky talks about connection and respect. Mel jokes about shared stubbornness. It feels ridiculous. It also feels… a little too easy.

Inside, the ballroom is gilded excess. Marble columns gleam under the soft glow of crystal chandeliers that drip like frozen waterfalls. Towers of champagne flutes shimmer, their contents bubbling invitingly. The air, heavy with the scent of lilies and expensive perfume, feels thick with the combined body heat of a thousand powerful egos.

“Don’t mind if I do,” Alexei says, already making a beeline for a champagne flute tower, taking two, his eyes gleaming with mischievous delight.

John and Ava drift, smiling politely at all the guests. Yelena, however, pauses, catching Mel’s eye. She lifts her chin slightly, a silent question: You good? Mel gives a minuscule nod. Yelena smiles back and goes to explore the hall with Bob on her right.

Bucky, his hand still lightly at her back, steers her through the mingling crowd. “Valentina’s probably watching our every move. Keep it natural.”

“Oh, I can manage that much,” she teases, then lowers her voice. “Is it getting hot in here, or is it just the combined body heat of a thousand powerful egos?”

Bucky’s lips twitch. “Probably the latter. Stay close. We’re supposed to be… inseparable.”

They navigate conversations, a well-oiled machine of charming smiles and deflected personal questions. Every interaction feels like another layer of their shared performance, the narrative thickening with each feigned intimacy. Mel finds herself unconsciously leaning into Bucky, his presence a strange anchor in the glittering chaos. He, in turn, remains steady, his hand occasionally settling on her arm, or brushing her hip, just enough to convey ownership without being overtly possessive.

Their first test comes in the form of Wilson Fisk, Hell Kitchen’s beloved mayor who Bucky has tangled with in the past. A smirk plays on his lips as he looks at the two of them up and down. “Barnes, always the picture of stoicism. Never thought I’d see you playing the devoted lover. A new venture, perhaps? Or simply a desperate attempt to shore up some public sympathy after your recent… setbacks?”

He smiles, a slow, disarming curve of his lips that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Fisk,” he says, his voice dangerously calm. “Always a pleasure. Mel and I are simply enjoying each other’s company. Some things, unlike your ventures, aren’t for public consumption.” He looks at Mel, his gaze warm, possessive. Mel, catching his cue, leans subtly into him, a silent show of solidarity. Fisk, clearly thwarted in his attempt to provoke a reaction, merely offers a curt nod and moves on.

“God he’s scary,” Mel mutters as Bucky steers her in the other direction.

“You don’t know the half of it. Biggest crime lord in Hell’s Kitchen in a position of political power. But there’s no proof of it yet. The team needs to get on him soon.” Bucky explains. Mel shivers as she looks back to take another glance at the man.

As they drift towards a table laden with delicate canapés – miniature quiches, smoked salmon blinis, and glistening skewers of exotic fruit – Mel spots a familiar face. Pepper Potts. She catches Bucky’s eyes and smiles brightly before walking over. “Bucky,” she says, her voice soft as she embraces him, kissing each of his cheeks. He grins and returns the kisses, his eyes surprisingly soft and open. “It’s been a long time. You look well.” Her eyes flicker to Mel, a hint of curiosity in their depths.

“Hey, Pepper.” Bucky replies, his tone less guarded now. “It’s really nice to see you. This is Mel Gold.”

Mel offers a polite smile. “Ms. Potts.”

Pepper inclines her head. “Please, call me Pepper. I will say, I'm pretty surprised to see Bucky so publicly attached.” She raises an eyebrow playfully.

Before Mel can formulate a response, Bucky smoothly interjects, his hand settling on Mel’s arm. “Things change, Pepper. Sometimes, the unexpected becomes the most important.” He gives Mel a tender look that seems almost genuine, and she feels a blush creep up her neck. Pepper smiles and nods knowingly.

“Oh I know. Never would have thought I’d have married Tony either, but love finds its way.” Pepper says softly as she grabs Mel’s hands. Mel smiles politely back at her. Pepper turns and looks back at Bucky.

“You should stop by sometime. Morgan’s been asking about you.” Pepper says as she releases Mel’s hands.

“I’ll be sure to find the time, Pep.” Bucky smiles warmly, and Pepper nods as she excuses herself.

“She’s a lot more intimidating in person.” Mel mutters.

“Don’t be intimidated. Pepper’s gotta be the sweetest woman I know. It’s her daughter you should be afraid of.” Bucky says, and Mel lets out a small laugh right before a journalist corners them. 

“Mr. Barnes, Ms. Gold, if I may. There have been whispers… of a quick engagement? Is there any truth to the rumors?”

Mel feels her breath catch. This is new.

“We’re taking things one day at a time, just enjoying the journey.” He looks at Mel, his gaze warm, possessive. “But who knows what the future holds?”

He winks at her—a practiced, almost automatic gesture that still makes her heart do a curious flip. She mirrors his smile, nodding demurely. “Exactly. We’re just… enjoying the moment.” The journalist looks satisfied. Valentina would be pleased.

And then finally, when Mel thinks she can drop the charade, comes the stage.

When the host calls their names, Bucky’s fingers curl gently into her side, guiding her up with him.

He stands at the mic, a study in poise and contradiction—stoic soldier in a suit, war-hardened hands holding soft truths.

“It’s an honor to be here tonight,” he says, voice clear. “Supporting something that matters.” He pauses. Looks at Mel. “And to be here with someone who… makes all of this feel real.”

Her chest tightens. Real? 

“Mel’s brought a light into my life,” he continues. “A perspective I didn’t know I needed. She makes things… interesting. In the best way.”

Applause. Flashbulbs. People cooing in the crowd.

He is playing the part. But when he looks at her, something about it doesn’t feel like acting. His eyes, usually guarded, hold a surprising depth, a sincerity that seems to bypass the performance.

He steps back from the mic, taking her hand and holding it up for the cameras. Their fingers intertwined naturally, a small, unthinking gesture that seems to scream intimacy.

They escape to a quieter hallway eventually, ducking out like fugitives from their own performance.

Mel presses her back to the wall, exhaling. “That was… a lot.”

“You were good,” Bucky says. He looks exhausted, tugging at his collar.

“You too.” She runs her fingers through her hair, pulling pins free. “Almost too good.”

He shrugs, leaning against the opposite wall, facing her. “It’s just a job.”

Mel’s heart pangs, but she knows it is true. It is only for the cameras. She looks down at her hands, still feeling the ghost of his touch. “The engagement rumors, though… that was a new one. It's only been like a week since we've 'gone public'”

Bucky pushes off the wall, moving closer. “Valentina probably put that out there. Building the momentum.”

“Right,” she says, her voice small. “Building the momentum.” She meets his eyes. “You really sold it, though. The ‘light in my life’ bit.”

A faint flush creeps up his neck. “Had to make it convincing. It’s what she wanted.” He pauses, then his gaze softens, just barely. “Doesn’t mean it’s not… partially true.”

Mel blinks. “Partially true?”

He looks away, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah. This whole… charade. It’s been… different. With you.” He looks back at her, his expression unreadable, yet intense. “Less of a headache than I expected.”

She couldn’t help a small, genuine smile. “High praise, Barnes.”

“Don’t get used to it.” But his voice lacks its usual edge. He takes another step closer, their proximity making the air crackle. “Our ride’s here,” he says, voice cool, unreadable.

Mel swallows. “Right.”

The car ride back is silent. The others have stayed behind, presumably to report to Valentina. It is just the two of them, meaning they can finally drop the act.

But in the darkness, their knees touch. And neither of them moves. The city lights stream past, painting fleeting patterns on their faces, highlighting the unspoken tension that hums between them, thicker than the expensive fabric of their gala attire. It is just a job. Just a charade. But the quiet, accidental touch feels anything but.

Chapter 4

Notes:

just watched materialists holy moly chris is too good looking

The news drops like a smug little grenade in the New Avengers’ group thread, its digital shrapnel cutting through the quiet main room in the Avengers Tower.

New Avengers Press Retreat – Mandatory Attendance

Mel doesn’t need to open the message. The subject line alone is enough. “Mandatory Attendance” is Valentina’s way of saying “you’re contractually obligated to smile through the PR circus I’ve arranged.”

She angles the tablet toward Bucky, who is sprawled beside her on the lounge couch with a mug of coffee and a stack of mission reports he clearly has no intention of reading. He takes one look, scans the bullet points, and exhales—not a sigh, exactly, more like pressure being released through gritted teeth.

Location: Costa Azul Private Resort, Mexico – Because nothing screams “reformed anti-heroes” like curated beachfront optics.

Itinerary: Team Bonding, Media Q&A Sessions, Coordinated Photo Opportunities – Translation: constant surveillance under the guise of leisure.

Dress Code: Resort Casual & Tactical – A contradiction so offensive it deserves jail time.

Photographer: Discreet – Which means ever-present and lurking.

He doesn’t blow up or curse—not immediately. Just goes still, jaw flexing.

Then, dry as sandpaper: “Of course it’s mandatory. Wouldn’t want us skipping the swimsuit photo ops.”

She snorts, a sharp sound of reluctant amusement. “You in a speedo would crash the entire PR cycle.”

“Don’t tempt Val. She probably already has a rack of them waiting in the wardrobe trailer.”

Yelena tosses herself onto the couch’s armrest with a theatrical sigh and oversized sunglasses that gleam despite the lack of sun. She plucks the tablet from Mel’s hands and skims with impressive speed.

“I like it,” she announces. “You Americans don’t know how to vacation. This is normal for people who aren’t emotionally repressed and allergic to fun.”

“‘Resort Casual & Tactical,’ though?” Mel says. “Is that code for ‘bikini with combat boots’?”

Yelena smirks. “Only if you wear the matching grenade earrings.”

John leans in from behind. “Bonding time, baby! Pool, beach training, beer. Team synergy!” He claps Bucky on the back hard enough to slosh his coffee.

Bucky doesn’t react, just rebalances the cup and mutters, “Define ‘synergy.’”

“Trust falls!” John says brightly.

“Nope,” Ava says instantly from her corner. She is picking at the upholstery like she wants to dismantle it. “That phrase is banned. If I hear the words ‘trust’ and ‘fall’ in the same sentence, someone’s going off the balcony.”

Alexei wanders in, cheerful and oblivious as always. “Winter Soldier! Maybe some sun will finally give you color. You look like vampire.”

Bucky raises an eyebrow without looking up. “Sun’s not strong enough.”

“Bet you two lovebirds’ll look great on the beach,” John adds with a wink, clearly referring to Mel and Bucky. “Holding hands in front of the sunrise, doing couple’s yoga for Instagram—”

Bucky tilts his head toward Mel, very deliberately sets his coffee down, and rests his arm lightly across the back of the couch—just enough contact to sell it. It is subtle. Easy. He doesn’t even look at her while doing it.

Mel doesn’t flinch, doesn’t glance his way. Just smiles faintly and takes a slow sip of her tea like nothing has changed.

“Well,” she says lightly, “we’ll just have to look natural, won’t we?”

The faintest twitch of a smile passes over Bucky’s lips. A micro-expression. It is gone in a blink.

“This is a press retreat for New Avengers,” she adds under her breath once the others have turned away. “Why the hell am I on the guest list?”

He shifts closer to her, voice low. “Because Val wants this to be a PR retreat for us . The relationship. Not just the team. And because if she makes you stay behind, I probably skip out too.”

Before she can respond, he stands, straightens his shirt, and adds, louder this time, “Also, you’re the only one who can keep me from throwing John into the pool.”

She snorts again. “Don’t let that stop you.”

***

Costa Azul Private Resort is laughable. The type of place designed by algorithms and influencers—all whitewashed minimalism and handcrafted rustic details that look like a Pinterest board threw up.

Mel adjusts the flowy linen pants Val has insisted on. They feel like someone else’s skin. The gauzy shirt is too thin for her comfort, but apparently “approachable and elegant” means breezy and semi-transparent. She walks beside Bucky down the manicured boardwalk, trying not to let her discomfort show.

He, meanwhile, looks like a grim shadow cast on paradise: black shirt, black pants, black boots. Someone has tried to put him in “resort neutrals” and loses the fight.

Bob, trailing behind them, squints at Bucky’s all black outfit. “Did we miss a funeral?”

Ava doesn’t miss a beat. “He dresses how he feels inside.”

Mel bumps Bucky’s arm with her elbow. “It’s called brand consistency,” she murmurs, teasing but fond.

Bucky doesn’t say anything, but his hand drifts closer to hers as they walk—not touching, not quite. Just there, like a promise, or maybe a silent apology for the misery to come.

Behind them, Yelena gives an exaggerated yawn. “This place is fake paradise. Like Val took a BuzzFeed quiz on luxury and built a resort from the results.”

“Well, let’s have a look inside.” John mutters as they all walk in.

The house Valentina books for them is sleek and impersonal, all white tile and sharp corners. It screams luxury and zero warmth, like a glorified show home. It looks great in photos and lives like a waiting room for a particularly uncomfortable dental appointment. There is no comfortable nook, no worn-in armchair, nothing that invites relaxation or a sense of home. Every surface gleams, every piece of art is strategically placed for maximum impact in a wide-angle shot.

Room assignments are, predictably, a mess of tactical maneuvering and petty squabbles. Yelena and Ava claim the balcony suite before anyone else can blink, their combined glares warding off any challengers. Alexei insists he is “one with the stars” and sets up a makeshift camp outside on the sprawling terrace, complete with a ridiculously oversized sleeping bag and a small, portable telescope, baffling the resort staff. Bob and John get into a heated, surprisingly technical debate about optimal Wi-Fi signal strength and HDMI cable lengths, declaring a temporary truce over the room with the bigger TV and an ethernet port.

That leaves one room. One bed.

Mel stares at it like it is a ticking bomb, her internal alarm bells blaring. It is a king-sized bed, absurdly fluffy, adorned with what looks like a dozen throw pillows, and—to her horror—a scattering of decorative rose petals on the pristine white duvet. The picture of romantic luxury, straight out of a cheesy resort brochure, perfect for the tabloids to speculate about.

“No,” she says, the word a flat, definitive statement.

Bucky stands behind her, equally unimpressed, his expression a familiar mix of annoyance and resignation. He scans the room, then the hallway, then back to the bed. “There’s no other room. I checked.” His voice is devoid of emotion, but Mel can sense the tight coil of discomfort in him.

She opens the door again, then closes it, then opens it one more time, as if perhaps the bed has magically split in two, or a secret cot has materialized from the ceiling. It hasn’t. The rose petals seem to mock her.

“This is a trap,” she mutters, crossing her arms tightly over her chest. “She wants photos of us looking ‘in love.’ Or she wants to provoke us. Either way, it’s a trap.”

“It’s Val,” Bucky says flatly, his gaze sweeping over the offensively romantic decor. “Of course it’s a trap. Every breath she takes is a trap for the press.”

“I could just… sleep with Yelena? It wouldn’t be the first time.”

Bucky shakes his head, his gaze unwavering. “No. Too obvious. You and I are supposed to be… this.” He gestures vaguely between them, indicating the fake dating facade. “If we suddenly stop sharing a room, the group will notice. The journalists are everywhere, Mel. We can’t give them anything. And you know Alexei can’t keep secrets if it ever comes out.” He is right. Mel sighs, but nods nonetheless.

As they unpack, the sky darkens, drawing out the inevitable.

Bucky retreats to the bathroom to change, returning in a black tee and soft, dark sweatpants that somehow, inexplicably, make him look even more lethal, more contained, even in relaxation. Mel ignores the way her stomach flips, the unbidden warmth that spreads through her veins. He pauses when he sees the pillow barricade—a lopsided but determined mountain of pillows bisecting the king-sized bed. He says nothing. Just flicks off the main light, plunging the room into a dim twilight, and gets into his side, turning his back to her.

It is quiet. But not peaceful. The silence is thick, heavy, filled with everything they aren’t saying, every unspoken fear and weary thought. Mel shifts, trying to find a comfortable position, but the bed feels too big, too empty, even with Bucky just inches away. She turns once, then again, then a third time. Can’t sleep.

And then, suddenly, movement.

It isn’t a gentle shift. Bucky thrashes. Not wildly, not a frantic, panicked flailing, but with a contained, terrifying force, as if something unseen has grabbed him, pinning him down. A guttural grunt escapes his lips, a sound of raw struggle. A sharp, ragged exhale follows, like air being forced from compressed lungs. His body tenses, muscles coiling.

Then his hand shoots out, not reaching, but striking, slamming into her arm with an unexpected, brutal impact.

Mel gasps, a sharp, choked sound. She is flung backward against the headboard, the force of the blow rattling her teeth. Her heart hammers against her ribs, a frantic drum against the sudden, sharp pain blossoming on her arm. “Bucky!” The word is torn from her, a plea mixed with shock.

He bolts upright, a phantom in the dim light. His eyes are wide, vacant, unfocused, staring straight through her as if she were a ghost. He isn’t here—not really. He is trapped in the battlefield of his own mind, fighting a war only he can see.

“Hey. Hey. You’re okay. It’s me,” she says, her voice softer this time, trying to ground him. “It’s Mel. You’re in the room. You’re safe.”

It takes a full five seconds, maybe longer, for his eyes to truly register her, to snap back from wherever they’d been. The terror, the animalistic panic in his face, slowly shatters into profound, agonizing shame. His gaze drops to her arm, where the angry red mark of his impact is already rising, a stark contrast against her skin.

“Shit—I—fuck, Mel, I’m so sorry.” His voice is a raw whisper, laced with self-loathing. He scrambles backward, pulling his legs over the side of the bed, putting distance between them as if his very touch is poisonous. His hands tremble, clenching into fists, then splaying open, then clenching again. “Did I—? Did I hurt you?”

“I’m fine,” she says too quickly, pulling her arm back, rubbing it instinctively. The pain is dulling to a throb. “Just startled me.” She tries to sound casual, but she knows her voice is thin, and he knows it too. He always knows.

He gets up and paces, a caged animal, the small space of the room seeming to shrink around him. His fists are clenched, his shoulders hunched, his jaw working as if grinding invisible gears. “I thought—I was dreaming. I didn’t know it was you.” He is explaining, but also apologizing, frantically trying to articulate the horror that has gripped him.

She sits up slowly, the pillow fortress now a crumpled casualty of his nightmare. “Bucky, you don’t have to explain—”

“Yes, I do.” He stops abruptly, his back to her, then slowly turns. His eyes meet hers, and she sees the raw, exposed anguish there, the deep-seated fear. “Because I’ve hurt people before. Too many. And I promised myself I wouldn’t do that again. Not to you.”

Mel looks at him in the soft light filtering through the window—haunted, fraying at the edges, barely holding on to the carefully constructed composure he usually wears like a second skin. He looks like he is fighting a losing battle against himself. Mel gets up and tries to put a hand on his forearm, a gesture meant to comfort, but Bucky pulls away, stepping further away from her. Mel flinches, and tries to pretend like that doesn’t hurt her more than the bruise she is sporting.

“I trust you,” she says quietly, her voice unwavering, despite the pain in her arm.

“You shouldn’t,” he replies, his voice barely a breath. A broken whisper of self-condemnation.

“I do anyway.” Her conviction seems to hit him harder than any accusation could have.

He exhales shakily, a long, shuddering breath that seems to carry the weight of years. Without another word, he snatches the blanket from the crumpled pillow barrier and, avoiding her gaze entirely, bolts for the bathroom, slamming the door shut with a muffled thud.

Mel stares at the closed door, her heart still racing. The room feels colder with him gone, the silence heavier, now filled with the sound of running water behind the bathroom door. Ten minutes pass. Then twenty. Thirty. She hears the shower turn off, then the unsettling silence again. Is he just sitting in there? Huddled in the corner? What is he thinking? Is he okay? Her initial shock gives way to a surge of worry, then a flicker of anger—not at him, but at the situation, at Val, at everything that has brought them to this ridiculous resort and this impossible arrangement, the constant scrutiny of the press, exacerbating every buried fear. He has recoiled from her touch, from her comfort, as if she were the source of his terror, not the victim. The bruise on her arm throbs, a physical ache mirroring the one in her chest.

She waits, listening intently for any sound, any indication he is moving, breathing. Another fifteen minutes. The quiet is unnerving. Hesitantly, she swings her legs over the side of the bed. Her bare feet meet the cool tile floor. She pads softly to the bathroom door, raising a tentative hand to knock.

Rap. Rap . Just two soft taps.

“Bucky?” she whispers, her voice barely audible. “Are you okay in there? Can you just… let me know?”

A long pause. Then, his voice, hoarse and strained, muffled by the door: “Just leave me, Mel.” It isn’t angry, not exactly. More like a plea, a desperate need for solitude to wrestle his demons.

Her hand drops. She stands there for another minute, then turns away. The couch. He’d said he’d sleep on the couch. Is he just waiting until she gives up? She returns to the bed, pulls the covers up, but sleep is miles away now. She lies there, listening, her mind a whirlwind of concern and frustration.

After what feels like an eternity—closer to an hour, by the faint glow of her tablet—the bathroom door finally opens. There is no gentle creak, no tentative step. Just a sudden, swift rush. He is a blur of dark motion, grabbing the blanket he’d left on the floor and practically sprinting out of the room, heading straight for the living area couch. He doesn’t look at her, doesn’t say a word, just a desperate escape.

Mel feels a wave of cold disappointment wash over her. He is just going to abandon her in the bed, after… that? After she has offered comfort? She knows it isn’t malicious, but it still stings. He is clearly in a dark place. She couldn’t let him retreat completely into himself.

She gets up again, her resolve hardening like armor pulled hastily over open wounds. The wooden floor is cool beneath her feet as she pads out of the bedroom, tension coiled tight in her chest. She finds him curled up on the oversized rattan sofa in the living room, a hunched silhouette beneath the blanket. He looks impossibly small like that. Smaller than someone like him should ever look. It makes her throat ache.

“Bucky,” she says softly.

He flinches, curling tighter. “Go back to bed, Mel. I’m fine here.”

“No, you’re not.”

Her voice isn’t sharp, but it doesn’t waver. She steps closer, letting the soft lamplight cast her shadow over the edge of the couch.

He doesn’t look at her. “You shouldn’t be near me right now.”

“You’re not dangerous,” she says.

“I hurt you.” The words fall out of him, bitter and heavy, like something he’d been choking on.

“You didn’t mean to.”

“That doesn’t matter,” he snaps, finally lifting his head. His eyes find hers, wounded and glassy with guilt. “That’s not the point. I did. That’s what matters.”

She crosses her arms, anchoring herself. “So now what? You hide out here like a ghost in the walls and punish yourself until you feel like you’ve suffered enough?”

He looks away.

“I didn’t ask if you should come back,” she says, her voice low, gentler now. “I asked you to.”

“You don’t get it.”

“I do,” she says. “You think I don’t know what guilt feels like? What shame does to a person? You think I don’t carry things that eat at me when the lights are off and everything’s quiet?”

“I’m not a good person, Mel.”

“That’s bullshit.”

His eyes flash, not with anger, but with fear—raw and vulnerable. “You say that now. But you didn’t see who I used to be.”

“I’ve seen who you are now. And that’s who walked out of that room.”

He sits up, the blanket sliding off his shoulders, exposing the tight coil of muscle in his arms and jaw. “You don’t understand what it’s like to wake up every day knowing you could still hurt someone just by existing too close.”

Her chest tightens. “Then stay close, and learn how not to.”

Silence.

He stares at the floor again, at the grain of the wood like it holds answers. His hands flex in his lap, the tension in his metal fingers betraying the war raging inside.

“What if I mess it up again?” he asks finally, so quiet she almost misses it.

“Then we deal with it. Together.” Her voice softens, threading through the dark like a lifeline. “But not like this. Not with you out here punishing yourself, and me lying awake wondering if I pushed you too far.”

Another pause.

Then, with visible hesitation, he exhales a long, tremulous breath. His hands drop to his sides, defeated. Not by her—but by the truth in her voice, the kind of truth he isn’t used to being offered without an asterisk.

Still, he doesn’t move.

Mel takes one more step forward. “I’m not asking you to pretend everything’s okay. I just… I want to share the silence. Even if that’s all we can manage.”

Something in his expression cracks. His throat bobs as he swallows, hard, and finally— finally —he stands.

It isn’t graceful. He moves like someone coming down from a ledge they weren’t sure they’d survive. He follows her back to the bedroom in silence, like a shadow returning to its source.

When he lies down, it is on the very edge of the bed, careful not to touch her, leaving a gulf of space between them wide enough to drown in. And still, the air between them thrums with something quiet but alive.

“It hasn’t happened in a really long time,” his voice is a mere whisper, barely audible above the hum of the air conditioning. He is still staring up at the ceiling, his profile etched in the faint moonlight. “Not like that. Not… in so long.”

Mel turns onto her side, facing him, though she couldn’t make out his features in the dark. “The nightmares?”

He gives a small, almost imperceptible nod. “Yeah. The nightmares. I thought… I thought I was doing better. I thought they stopped. Or at least, that I’d learned to control them. To keep them contained.” His voice cracks on the last word. “Clearly not.”

“Bucky,” she begins softly, carefully. “It’s okay if they haven’t stopped completely. Trauma… it’s not a straight line. It’s not something you just ‘get over’ or ‘control’ perfectly. Recovery isn’t linear. There are good days, and there are bad days. And sometimes, something triggers it. A new environment, the stress of this whole… performance, being watched all the time, especially by the world’s media.” She gestures vaguely in the dark. “It’s a lot.”

He shifts slightly, a restless movement. “But to lash out like that. To hurt you…” His voice is laced with profound guilt. “That’s not… that’s not something I do anymore. I promised.”

“You didn’t mean to,” she says, her voice firm. “It was a dream, Bucky. A reaction. You weren’t conscious. You reacted to something in your head, not to me.” She pauses, then adds, “And I’m fine. Just a bruise. Honestly.” She knows he won’t believe it completely, but she has to try. “It doesn’t change anything, you know? My trust in you.”

He is silent for a long moment, the only sound the soft, rhythmic ocean waves outside. “You really shouldn’t,” he repeats, but this time, it sounds less like a condemnation of her judgment and more like a lament for his own perceived brokenness.

“But I do,” she insists, her voice gentle, unwavering. “And maybe… maybe that’s a good thing. Maybe it means you don’t have to carry all of it alone anymore. It’s okay to have a bad night, Bucky. It doesn’t erase all the good you’ve done, all the healing you’ve made happen. It just means… you’re human.”

He lets out a shaky breath. The air between them hums with unspoken pain. She doesn’t push, doesn’t try to comfort him physically. She simply lies there, her presence a quiet anchor in the stormy waters of his mind.

“Thanks, Mel,” he finally whispers, his voice rough with emotion.

***

Bucky wakes up before Mel and is gone by the time she wakes up.

They don’t talk about it over breakfast. Or during the next forced group photo. Or even later, when Mel discreetly puts ice on the fading bruise on her arm. But the pillow wall stays down that night, and the next. A silent testament to the fragile, unexpected bridge they have built. The fake closeness has, terrifyingly, become something undeniably real.

The days are whirlwinds of photoshoots and scheduled interviews. The resort’s main beach is transformed into an outdoor studio, with bright lights, reflectors, and a small army of fashion photographers and media assistants. They are told to pose in various “natural” settings: walking along the shore, laughing by the infinity pool, even participating in staged, light team activities. Mel finds herself constantly adjusting her posture, offering practiced smiles, and trying to look relaxed as cameras flash from every angle. John soaks it up, flexing for the lenses, while Yelena poses with an ironic detachment, often incorporating a subtle, almost imperceptible smirk. Ava stands stiffly, barely tolerating the fuss, and Alexei booms with theatrical enthusiasm whenever a camera is on him. Bob awkwardly stands to the side while photographers struggle to get him to pose in a way that doesn’t seem forced.

Bucky, however, is a block of granite. He moves through the poses with a forced stiffness, his eyes darting to every lens, every new face. The photographer, Val’s hand-picked discreet one, often has to coax him, asking for “more natural expression,” which only makes him clench his jaw harder. Mel constantly finds herself subtly guiding him, a hand on his back, a whispered instruction, trying to make their fake relationship look believable while battling his inherent aversion to being the center of attention.

“Just… lean into it a little, Buck,” Mel murmurs, nudging him gently with her elbow during a particularly awkward “candid” shot by the pool. “Look like you’re actually enjoying the sunshine, even if it’s searing your soul.”

He grunts, barely shifting, but she feels the slight give in his shoulders. “Easy for you to say.”

She snorts. “You just need to channel your inner ‘reluctant beach god.’ Think moody, mysterious, slightly annoyed by paradise.”

“So, my default setting, then,” he mutters, but a flicker of something almost amused crosses his face as the photographer clicks away.

After the photoshoot, the atmosphere shifts to the designated interview lounges. Rows of plush chairs and small tables are set up, each with a designated journalist or news crew, microphones glinting under the lights. The questions start out generic: “How’s team cohesion?” “What are your goals for the coming year?” But they quickly veer into more personal and probing territory. John handles them with confident, if occasionally verbose, answers. Ava offers clipped, precise responses that leave no room for follow-up. Yelena delights in giving cryptic, dry remarks that leave reporters scrambling for interpretation.

When it is Bucky’s turn, especially for the one-on-one interviews, he becomes even more withdrawn. He answers questions about his past with terse, almost monosyllabic replies, his gaze often drifting to a point beyond the reporter’s shoulder. A young journalist, eager to make a name for herself, presses him on his “adjustment to civilian life” and whether his “past associations” still haunt him.

“Mr. Barnes,” the journalist begins, her voice a little too eager, “many people are curious about your transition. Do the ghosts of the past still… linger? Do they affect your current work with the New Avengers?”

He flinches, his eyes hardening, and for a terrifying second, Mel thinks he might walk out. His jaw tightens, the muscles jumping. Val, who has been observing from a distance, swoops in with a dazzling, fake smile, seamlessly redirecting the conversation and subtly shielding Bucky.

“Ah, a fascinating question, young lady,” Val interjects smoothly, a hand on the journalist’s arm. “But I believe we’re focusing on the future of the New Avengers today, aren’t we? Perhaps a question about team dynamics? Ms. Gold here has some excellent insights into our collaborative spirit.” Val gestures to Mel, a silent command.

Mel plasters on a smile, launching into a practiced answer about synergy and shared goals, but her eyes are on Bucky. He remains silent, glaring at the floor, clearly fighting a battle within himself, ignoring the discreet questions being whispered his way by another journalist who has approached.

It is exhausting. Not physically, but… everything else. The constant, insidious awareness of the lens, always lurking, always capturing. The unspoken tension between teammates, a delicate truce that could shatter at any moment. And the way Bucky’s jaw tightens, the subtle stiffening of his shoulders, every time someone tries to get too close—emotionally, physically, even in photos, or with a pointed question. He is a tightly wound spring, and this forced relaxation is only winding him tighter.

She catches him once, during a brief break between a group photo and an interview segment. He is standing with his back to the wall, trying to fade into the background, sipping water with a white-knuckled grip. Then, a camera’s shutter clicks—a rapid-fire burst from a journalist too close, too intrusive, trying to get a candid shot of his metal arm. His rhythm stutters. For half a second, he isn’t on the beach, the waves lapping at their feet. He is somewhere else, a flicker of raw terror in his eyes, a phantom memory flashing across his face. He recovers quickly, but the moment is etched in Mel’s mind. A reminder of the fragile line he walks.

Later, she finds him standing barefoot on the edge of the private balcony attached to their assigned villa, hands gripping the wrought-iron railing hard enough that his knuckles are white. The sea breeze ruffles his dark hair, but he seems oblivious to it, lost in the vastness of the ocean.

“You okay?” she asks softly, stepping out beside him. She doesn’t press, doesn’t try to touch him. She knows better.

He doesn’t turn around, his voice low, almost swallowed by the sound of the waves. “Don’t like being… watched. Don’t like the questions. Don’t like the way they look at you like they’re trying to find the cracks.” He leaves the word hanging, heavy with unspoken history.

“I know,” Mel says, leaning against the railing next to him, mimicking his stance. “It’s like being under a microscope, but the slides are made of your worst memories.”

He exhales slowly, a shaky sound. “Exactly. And trying to smile through it all… it feels like lying. To them, to us.”

“It’s a performance, Bucky,” she reminds him gently. “We’re just playing the parts Val wrote for us. Doesn’t make it real. Doesn’t make us fake.”

He finally turns his head, just slightly, enough for her to see the weary lines around his eyes. “Still feels like it. Like I’m losing a piece of myself every time I have to pretend to be… this. Whatever ‘this’ is.”

She offers a small, tired smile. “I get it. But we’re doing it together. And we’ll get through it. One fake smile, one awkward interview at a time.”

He actually lets out a short, rough chuckle. “One fake smile at a time. Sounds about right.”

She doesn’t press. Just stands beside him, letting the silence do the heavy lifting, a comfortable companion in their shared unease. The sun dips below the horizon, painting the sky in fiery hues of orange and purple, but Bucky remains a silhouette against the fading light, unmoving.

“At least the view isn’t fake,” he murmurs, his voice a little softer, as the last sliver of sun vanishes. He glances over at Mel, smiling softly.

“No,” Mel agrees, looking out at the endless expanse of the ocean. “That part’s real.”

Chapter 5

Bucky is waiting outside Mel’s apartment, standing in front of his car, when Mel steps out of the building, the sound of the New York night a stark contrast to the ocean breeze that has filled her senses just days ago in Mexico. Her heels click softly against the concrete as she approaches the sleek black sedan, a fresh wave of nerves rising as Bucky opens the door for her.

His eyes flick over her slowly—taking in the green dress, the matching earrings, the way her hair curls just so around her jaw. He doesn’t say anything right away, but something in the way his gaze lingers makes her skin warm.

“You clean up alright, Barnes,” she teases as she slides into the passenger seat. Bucky gives a quiet snort and adjusts his cuffs as he steps into the driver's seat and “You too, Gold.”

She smooths her skirt and glances out the tinted window as the car pulls away from the curb. “You ready for tonight?”

Bucky shrugs, watching the city roll by. “As ready as I ever am to play dress-up and lie to rich people.”

“Mm. You know they’ll love the brooding ex-assassin thing. It makes you dangerous, but… polished. Like a Bond villain that gets therapy.”

That gets a low laugh out of him, his shoulders easing a little. “Is that what I am to you? Polished danger?”

She turns toward him, resting her elbow on the edge of the seat. “No,” she says, tone softening. “You’re just Bucky to me.”

He glances over, caught off guard for a beat. Something unreadable flickers in his expression, too quick to name, and then it is gone. “You always this nice before we walk into battle?”

“Only when I’m nervous,” she admits. “The last gala was nerve-wracking itself. I’m terrified of doing it again. And this time, it's just us going. And John, wherever he is. Why don’t you give him a ride?”

“‘Cause I don’t want to. That bastard can find his own ride.”

Mel laughs, bright and bubbly.

“But seriously, you’ll be okay. You do great last time, and you’ll do great this time too.” Bucky reassures. Mel smiles gratefully at his encouragement.

The silence stretches between them, not uncomfortable, just full. Outside, the skyline sharpens, the glittering spires of Manhattan rising around them like glass monuments to ambition. The city buzzes with a colder kind of energy than the sleepy coastal town they’ve just left. As the car slows near the venue, Mel adjusts the strap of her dress and takes a long, steadying breath.

Bucky shifts beside her, his voice low. “You know I’ve got you, right?”

She looks at him, then nods. “Yeah. I know.”

Bucky parks and steps out first to open the door for Mel.

Mel steps out shoulders back and chin high. They don’t touch, but they walk close. Valentina’s orders haven’t changed. The press needs to see them as a couple. A power couple. A tamed soldier and a sophisticated handler, reborn into New York’s glittering elite. Mel doesn’t like playing a part, but she is good at it. She forces a smile and greets the doorman like she’s done this a hundred times.

Inside, they are immediately swallowed by the crowd.

Bucky leans in close. "We doing the rounds, or are we hiding in a corner tonight?"

She tilts her head toward the bar. "Let’s get a drink first. I want to see if rich people here drink anything besides champagne."

He smirks. "You’ll be disappointed."

They reach the bar and Mel orders something obscure just to prove him wrong. He chuckles when the bartender gives her a confused look and offers her prosecco instead. As they sip their drinks and make idle conversation, a man in a gray suit approaches Bucky—older, clean-cut, a little too confident.

“Mr. Barnes,” he says, voice smooth. “I was hoping to speak with you about the Sentinels Initiative.”

Bucky sighs. “Of course.” He turns to Mel. “I won’t be long.”

She nods. “Go. Charm the donors.”

She watches him walk away, shoulders tense under the too-expensive fabric. Then she turns back to her drink, drifting toward a cushioned bench near a row of glass windows. She lets herself enjoy the view: New York glittering beneath her, a thousand tiny lights blinking like stars that get stuck.

“Hell of a view,” a voice says beside her.

She turns. A man—maybe mid-thirties, clean-shaven, in a tux that fits too well to be off-the-rack—sits beside her, holding a drink. His smile isn’t flashy. It is easy.

“Yeah,” she says cautiously. “New York cleans up nice.”

He grins. “Better from up here than down in the subway. Though that’s part of the charm, I guess. You get both the grime and the gold.”

Mel lets out a quiet laugh. “You a lifelong New Yorker, or is this imported cynicism?”

“Born in Queens,” he says, raising his glass slightly. “Left for college, came back because I miss the smell of hot garbage and bagels that taste like actual food.”

She smirks. “Respect. You know what you’re about.”

“I try. I’m Theo, by the way.”

“Mel.”

He doesn’t ask for a last name. Doesn’t ask about her connection to the Avengers. He doesn’t even glance toward the rest of the room, where she is sure Bucky still stands, probably being grilled about logistics and legacy.

“So what do you do, Mel?”

She hesitates, then says, “Project management. For a very complicated organization.”

He raises an eyebrow, amused. “That sounds like code for ‘I can’t actually tell you what I do.’”

“Pretty much,” she admits. “But I do keep a lot of high-strung people from setting each other on fire, so... it’s satisfying in its own way.” She takes a sip of her prosecco, noting how her hand still holds the glass a little too tightly. It is a habit she’s picked up from Bucky. Theo seems to notice it, his gaze lingering on her knuckles for a beat too long.

“Sounds like babysitting for adults. High-powered adults,” Theo says, a knowing glint in his eye. “Must be exhausting, keeping all those egos in check. You look like you could use a week on a deserted island.”

Mel lets out a genuine, unforced laugh, a sound that feels foreign in this gilded room. “Basically. And you’re not wrong about the island. Sometimes I feel like I’m constantly treading water.” It is a small admission, a sliver of vulnerability she rarely shows. Theo’s gaze is steady and empathetic.

They ease into conversation like it isn’t strange to be doing so at a gala full of sharks. They talk about the odd hors d’oeuvres, the way every event in New York has to have a photo booth now, the impossibility of finding good coffee above 14th Street. He listens intently when she speaks, not just waiting for his turn to talk. He asks follow-up questions, genuinely curious about her experiences.

“Have you ever been to Veselka at two in the morning?” Theo asks. “That’s when you know you’re a New Yorker.”

Mel’s eyes light up. “Yes, and I absolutely have ordered pierogi while halfway asleep and regret nothing.” The memory makes her smile, a real, unpracticed smile that reaches her eyes. This is the closest she’s felt to breathing freely all night.

He leans back slightly, smiling. “See? You pass. You look too sharp, too put-together, to be a true New Yorker.” His tone is light, playful, a clear invitation.

Mel chuckles, feeling a faint blush rise on her cheeks. “Just good tailoring, I guess.” She subtly shifts, a tiny, almost imperceptible movement that creates a fraction more space between them. She isn't entirely comfortable with the overt flirtation, but the easy banter is refreshing.

His hand rests along the back of the bench now. At some point, his fingers lightly brush her shoulder. Then her arm. It isn’t overt. More like gravity nudges things closer.

She doesn’t flinch. But she doesn’t lean in either.

“So,” Theo says, swirling the drink in his hand, his gaze still on her. “You here solo, or...?”

Mel glances across the room. Bucky is still locked in conversation, jaw set in that patient-but-annoyed way she recognizes too well. He is nodding, listening to some long-winded explanation, but his eyes keep darting around the room, always scanning. He is a sentinel, even when he is trying to look relaxed.

She gestures with her glass. “Not solo,” she says, her voice clear. “That’s my boyfriend over there.”

Theo follows her gaze. “Navy suit?” His smile softens, losing some of its playful edge. He isn't overtly flirting anymore, respecting the boundary she’s drawn.

She smiles, a little fondly, a strange mix of affection and exasperation in her chest. “Yeah. That one. James.”

“He looks intense. Military?”

“Something like that.” She sips her drink. “He is intense, but good. The kind of person who carries way too much on his shoulders, even when no one’s asking him to.” She finds herself speaking with an unexpected tenderness, almost a protectiveness, surprising herself. “He worries. About everything. About everyone. It’s hard for him to let go, even for a night like this.”

Theo studies her for a second, his expression thoughtful. “Sounds complicated. And you’re the one helping him carry it, I take it?”

“Everything worth doing is,” she says softly, her gaze still fixed on Bucky. “And yeah. Someone has to.”

Still, she is smiling. And laughing. And at ease in a way she hasn’t been in weeks. She feels seen, truly seen, not as a public figure, but as a person. And that feels dangerous, in a way she hasn’t anticipated.

***

Across the room, Bucky is trapped. He is nodding politely as Senator Thompson drones on about campaign financing, his eyes glazed over with practiced disinterest. His mind, however, is a frantic whirlwind. He’s been scanning the room constantly, a low hum of unease buzzing beneath his skin. He doesn't like these events, the crowds, the false smiles, the way people pick at you, trying to find weaknesses. He especially doesn’t like Mel being on her own.

He’s caught a glimpse of her earlier, laughing with some tall, clean-cut guy. Theo. He’s watched as Theo leans in, Mel throwing her head back in laughter. It is an innocent gesture, he knows that intellectually. But a cold knot has formed in his stomach nonetheless. He’s seen the way Mel’s eyes soften, the way her body tilts, even slightly, toward this stranger. It isn't about flirtation; it is about connection. The kind of easy, unburdened connection that he feels he can't offer her in this public facade they maintain.

His gaze flickers back to them. Theo’s hand is now resting along the back of the bench, too close to Mel. Then he sees his fingers brush her arm. A light, fleeting touch, but to Bucky, it is a spark. His pulse begins to pick up, a frantic drum against his ribs. His jaw tenses, the muscles jumping. He barely registers Senator Thompson’s voice fading into the background.

“Mr. Barnes?” the Senator prompts, a polite cough.

Bucky mumbles something noncommittal, his eyes still fixed on Mel. He sees her smile, sees the genuine warmth in it, a warmth that is rarely on display for the cameras, or even for him sometimes. He sees Theo looking at her, that soft, appreciative gaze, and a wave of something dark and possessive washes over him.

He is vaguely aware of someone else approaching his group. It is John, looking boisterous and slightly flushed, probably already a few drinks in.

“Barnes!” John claps him on the shoulder, making him flinch. “Your girl looks like she’s having fun over there! Good for her, huh? You always look like you swallowed a lemon at these things.” John gestures casually toward Mel and Theo.

The words, innocent as they are, hit Bucky like a physical blow. Your girl. And she is having fun. More fun than she’s had with him all night, perhaps. The image of Theo’s hand on her arm, her genuine laughter, the way she seems so at ease… it all coalesces into a sharp, irrational surge of anger. He isn’t just jealous; he is afraid. Afraid of being replaced, afraid of her finding genuine comfort elsewhere, away from his complicated, dark existence.

His hand, which has been loosely holding his half-empty glass of prosecco, tightens. He hears a faint crack as the delicate stem buckles under the sudden pressure. A sharp sliver of glass digs into his palm, but he barely registers the pain. All he can see is Mel, bright and vibrant, a light he feels he is extinguishing with his own darkness.

A second later, he is moving. The broken glass forgotten, the Senator and John left in his wake. He cuts a path directly towards Mel, his stride purposeful. His eyes are locked on Theo, then on Mel, a silent, growing storm in their depths.

Mel catches him walking towards her, and she smiles at the sight. Bucky does not smile back.

“Time to go,” Bucky says, his voice low, firm—and colder than steel.

Mel blinks up at him. The jazz music, the clinking of glasses, the hum of polite conversation—it all seems to vanish, replaced by the sudden, chilling weight of his presence. “What, it’s only been an hour?” Her own voice feels thin, lost.

He ignores her question, his eyes slicing past her, fixing on Theo. Theo, with his easy smile and well-tailored tux, doesn’t flinch. He stands up, extending a hand, his confidence unwavering. “You must be the infamous boyfriend Mel was talking about. James, right?”

Bucky doesn’t take it. His gaze, usually guarded, is now openly hostile, raking over Theo as if he were something vile, something Bucky has just scraped off his boots and wants to eradicate. “Yeah. And you should keep your hands to yourself.”

Theo’s eyebrows lift, a flicker of genuine surprise in his expression. His hand drops slowly. “Just being friendly.”

Bucky’s voice drops, a low growl that vibrates with contained menace. It is a warning, a threat barely veiled. “You don’t want to see what I’m like when I’m not.”

“Jesus,” Theo mutters, a shade paling beneath his tan.

“Bucky,” Mel says sharply, reaching for his arm, her fingers brushing the stiff fabric of his suit. This isn't the Bucky she knows, the one who fights his instincts. This is something darker, something unbridled.

But he is already turning away, his grip suddenly firm on her arm, his fingers digging into her bicep. Not painfully, not yet, but with an undeniable possessiveness. His voice, like thunder barely contained, cuts through the ambient noise of the gala. “We’re leaving. Now.”

He pulls her, not roughly, but with an irresistible force. Mel stumbles, her emerald dress rustling, her heels clicking a frantic rhythm on the polished floor. She doesn't have time to process, to resist. They move fast, a blur of motion through the stunned guests, Bucky’s broad back, a wall of dark navy against the golden light. As they reach the ornate exit doors, Mel risks a glance back. Theo stands there, frozen, his hand still slightly raised in that aborted handshake, staring after them, a confused, almost pitying wave goodbye.

Outside, the tension follows them like a storm cloud. The New York night is cool, but Mel feels a furious heat rising within her. Bucky’s grip is still on her arm, a branding iron.

She barely makes it down the steps to the waiting car before she explodes, her composure shattering. She tugs her arm out of his grasp. “What the hell is that?!” Her voice is a furious whisper, raw with betrayal.

He opens the car door for her, his movements stiff, his gaze fixed on some point beyond her shoulder. He doesn’t answer. The refusal to engage, to even acknowledge her, feels like another slap.

“No. No, we’re not doing that.” Her voice sharpens, rising. “You don’t get to drag me out like that and then stonewall me.”

“Get in the car.” His voice is flat, devoid of warmth, a chilling echo of his command from the previous gala.

“Not until you explain—”

“Mel.” His voice cracks. It is a raw, guttural sound, sharp with a pain she can’t quite decipher. It cuts through her anger, momentarily silencing her. She stares at him, her heart thudding, watching the muscles in his jaw tense and relax. The brief fissure in his rigid composure is enough. Reluctantly, she slides into the passenger seat, her body tense, a knot of apprehension tightening in her stomach.

He shuts the door, the sound resonating like a final, damning clap. He walks around the hood of the car, his movements stiff, almost robotic. Climbs in. Starts the engine. The roar of the engine is a harsh punctuation mark to their silence.

They drive two blocks in complete silence, the city lights streaking past. Mel watches his profile, rigid and unyielding. The silence is a living, breathing thing between them, suffocating her. She grips the seatbelt, her knuckles white. She can feel the tremor in her hands, the nervous energy humming beneath her skin. She needs him to talk. But she knows, from painful experience, that pushing him will only make him retreat further.

Then he speaks. His voice, when it comes, is low, a strained rasp that vibrates with suppressed rage.

“You let him touch you.”

Her breath catches, a sharp intake of air. The casual cruelty of the accusation stuns her. “Excuse me?”

“You let him touch you. He has his hands on you.” His tone is tight, accusatory, each word clipped. His grip on the steering wheel tightens visibly, his thumb rubs furiously against the leather.

“He brushes my arm,” she corrects, her voice incredulous. “It was a casual gesture. A normal human interaction.”

“He doesn’t have to.” The words are bitten off, definitive. His eyes, fixed on the road, are unreadable, but she can feel the heat of his anger radiating from him.

She stares at him, utterly bewildered. The absurdity of it is almost comical, if it weren’t so infuriating. “You’re seriously mad that I was having a normal conversation with someone at a gala? That’s what this is about?”

“You were laughing. With him.” The words are bitten off, each one a separate accusation.

Her voice sharpens, rising in indignation. “So? Is that against the rules now? Am I not allowed to laugh unless it’s with you?”

His head snaps towards her, his eyes blazing with a raw, possessive fury that sends a shiver down her spine. “So you looked like you wanted him.”

Mel laughs—a bitter, disbelieving sound that borders on hysterical. “You’ve got to be kidding me. You are actually kidding me right now.”

“He thought you were available.” His voice is low, laced with a barely controlled rage, as if the very thought is an affront.

“I am available,” she snaps, the words hot with indignation, aimed like a poisoned arrow. “We’re fake, remember? None of this is real. This whole charade? It’s for PR, Bucky. It’s for Val. It’s not for us. And it certainly isn’t for you to claim ownership over my interactions.”

He doesn’t respond. His jaw is tight, a muscle jumping furiously. His hands are white-knuckled on the wheel, the very veins standing out against his pale skin. He stares straight ahead, his profile rigid, unyielding.

“You think I’m some fucking prize someone can just walk off with?” she says, her voice rising, thick with wounded pride. “That I belong to you? That I’m some object you can just display and then get angry when someone else looks at it?”

“That’s not what I said.” His voice is low, almost a growl, but there is a flicker of something, a hint of desperation, beneath the anger.

“It’s what you mean.” Her voice is dangerously quiet, full of conviction.

“You don’t know what I mean.” He finally tears his gaze from the road, turning to her, his eyes dark and desperate, almost pleading.

“No,” she says, her voice rising, shaking with fury and tears. “But I sure as hell know what you say. And what I see. I see you act like a controlling, jealous asshole who doesn’t trust me to exist without your permission.”

The words hang in the suffocating air, heavy with accusation. He looks like he is battling an internal war, his features contorted with a complex mix of anger, shame, and something she can’t quite decipher.

Then he mutters, the words almost swallowed by the engine’s hum, but clear enough, chilling enough, to hit her with the force of a physical blow. “I don’t know you are so easy to impress.”

The silence after that is deafening. It isn’t just a lack of sound; it is a vacuum, sucking all the air from the car, from her lungs. The sheer casual cruelty of the insult hangs in the air, a poisonous vapor. It strips away all the layers of her anger, leaving her raw and exposed.

Mel turns. Slowly. Every muscle in her body screams in protest, but she forces herself to face him. Her voice comes out low, tight, barely above a whisper, laced with a dangerous edge. “Say that again.”

He doesn’t. Can’t. He just stares at her, his eyes wide, a sudden, stark terror replacing the anger in their depths. The full weight of his words seems to hit him, crushing him.

“You think I’m just... what?” she continues, her voice trembling with the effort to control it, though a single, hot tear escapes and tracks a path down her cheek. “Flirting with whoever looks at me for five seconds? That I smiled, so I must want him? That I’m that cheap? That disposable?” The words burn, each one a blistering accusation.

He finally looks at her, truly looks at her. Regret paints every line of his face, a stark, agonizing truth etched into his features. His eyes, usually so guarded, are wide and filled with a profound, self-loathing pain. But he doesn’t take it back. He can't. The words are out, irrevocable.

She laughs. A shattered thing, thin and reedy, devoid of any joy. It is the sound of something breaking. “I thought we were friends.” The words feel like sandpaper on her tongue, rasping, raw.

His eyes fall back to the road, unable to meet her gaze, unable to bear the weight of her shattered trust.

“I thought at least that part was real,” she continues, her voice rising, each word punctuated by a new tear. “You are real. And tonight... you dragged me out like I was something you owned, something you could control, and then—then you called me easy.” Her voice breaks on the last word, dissolving into an angry, ragged sob. The sheer violation of it all, the way he’s stripped away her agency and then demeaned her, is too much.

“Mel, I don’t—” he starts, his voice thick with desperate apology, his hand reaching out, trembling, towards her.

“Drive me home.” Her voice is firm, unyielding, a steel rod of resolve. She doesn’t want his apologies, not now. Not after that.

“Please—” His voice is a strangled plea, laced with a pain that mirrors her own. He looks utterly desperate, caught in a trap of his own making.

“Drive. Me. Home.” Her voice rises, a sharp command, leaving no room for argument, no space for him to bridge the chasm he’s just created.

He complies. The car pulls away, the remaining drive shrouded in a thick, impenetrable silence.

They don’t speak again. Not as the lights blur by. Not as the silence spreads like frost over glass, coating everything in a layer of cold, unyielding pain.

When he pulls up to her apartment building, the car barely settles before she is out of it. She doesn’t look back, doesn’t give him a chance to speak, to try again. Her heels hit the pavement with urgent taps, propelling her towards the sanctuary of her building.

He scrambles after her, the driver’s side door left ajar, his voice a desperate, pleading whisper. “Mel—”

She stops at the lobby door, her hand on the cold metal, but she doesn’t go in immediately. She turns, tears streaming down her face, her eyes blazing with a raw, profound hurt that eclipses any anger. Her voice, though breaking, is clear, cutting through the night. “You want to act like you care? Then fucking act like it. Don’t just burn everything down the moment someone else sees me.”

And then she is gone, disappearing through the doors, leaving him there. In the dark. In the silence. Alone. His shadow stretches long behind him, a stark, solitary figure against the dim glow of the city. He stands there, the weight of his actions crushing him, the silence echoing with her final, broken accusation.

She doesn’t bother to wait for the elevator. She takes the stairs two at a time, and barely flinches when she feels her ankle roll as she trips over her heel. 

“Fuck.” She mutters as she limps over to her room, fiddling in her purse for her key.

Once inside the apartment, she peels off the dress with shaking hands. Wipes her face. Sits on the couch like she might collapse into it.

Then she grabs her phone and calls Yelena.

“Come over,” she whispers. “Please.”

Yelena arrives in ten minutes. No questions asked. She brings pajamas and snacks. Mel curls into her side, still trembling.

“He dragged me out,” she whispers. “Doesn’t even look at the guy. Just sees me smiling and assumes the worst.”

Yelena strokes her hair.

“And then he doesn’t say anything. Not really. Just… nothing. Like he is angry I exist in a way he can’t control.”

Yelena hums. “He’s an idiot.”

Mel laughs wetly. “I thought we were friends. I thought—god, I don’t even know anymore. We live in this fake little world, and I let myself think it is something real underneath. But maybe that’s just me.”

Yelena pulls her closer. “Then let him figure it out on his own. You don’t owe him clarity when he gives you silence.”

Mel nods against her shoulder.

She doesn’t know what hurts more: Bucky dragging her out like she is his, or the way he lets her go without even trying to stop her. And on top of that, the subtle pain in her ankle was starting to get to her. 

Mel curls into the corner of Yelena’s couch like she is trying to disappear. Legs tucked tight, hoodie sleeves pulled down over her hands. A half-empty mug of chai steams untouched on the table, forgotten.

“He thinks I'm just some girl who’d betray him with a smile and a stranger and a goddamn drink.”

Yelena’s hand stills for a second. Then resumes.

“I don’t even do anything. He just—he looked at me like I was nothing. Like I’d embarrassed him. Like I was disposable.”

She buries her face into the pillow, voice cracking. “I don’t know it would hurt this much. It’s not even real. It’s not supposed to hurt.”

Yelena leans in, voice low and fierce. “Fake or not, you don’t get to treat someone like that and walk away clean. He fucked up. Bad.”

Mel doesn’t answer, just lets herself breathe. Shaky, uneven.

Yelena curls closer, resting her chin on Mel’s shoulder. “You’re not disposable. And you’re not easy. He’s just scared. Doesn’t mean he gets to take it out on you.”

Mel’s eyes well again. “He makes me feel like it is my fault.”

“Of course he does. That’s the coward’s move.” Yelena exhales slowly, then adds, “Want me to stab him in the thigh? Just a little?”

That gets a weak, breathy laugh.

“No stabbing,” Mel murmurs. “Not yet.”

“Fine,” Yelena sighs dramatically. “But the option stays on the table.”

They sit in silence again.

Yelena leans her head against Mel’s. “Then let him sit with guilt. You don’t owe him comfort for the fire he lit.”

Mel doesn’t speak again that night. 

***

The Tower is silent at this hour.

Bucky sits on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, hands dangling. His suit jacket is crumpled in a corner. His shirt sleeves are rolled to the elbows, collar undone like he’s tried to breathe and failed halfway through.

He hasn't turned the lights on. Just sits in the dim city glow, guilt curling cold in his gut like rot.

Mel’s face swims behind his eyes—hurt, stunned, furious. And worse: disappointed.

“You looked like you wanted him.”

He closes his eyes.

He’s said that. Let it spill out like poison. Knows it is a lie the second it leaves his mouth, and says it anyway.

A knock interrupts the silence.

He ignores it.

It comes again. Sharper. Then—

“Open the damn door, Barnes, or I swear to god I’m picking it.”

Yelena.

He sighs. Gets up. Unlocks it.

She pushes in without waiting.

She looks like a storm bottled into five feet of fury with a glare. 

“Sit,” she orders.

He does. Mostly because he doesn’t have the energy to argue.

Yelena crosses her arms, standing over him like a furious older sister.

“You want to explain what the hell that was tonight?”

He scrubs a hand down his face. “You heard.”

“I saw. I saw you drag her out like a caveman, then spit venom like she was the one who hurt you.”

“She was with some guy—”

“She was talking to someone. Like people do. Like you do.”

“I saw his hand—”

“Oh, so now we’re back in the 1940s where a woman can’t smile without someone thinking it means she’s taken? Grow the fuck up.”

He flinches. Yelena doesn’t care.

“She told you she thought you were her friend, Bucky. You made her feel safe, and then you ripped that out from under her.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“But you did it. You said she was easy to impress.”

He stares at the floor. “I was angry.”

“Then be angry with yourself,” she snaps. “Not her. Not the one person who’s been in your corner since this whole fake-dating circus started.”

“I don’t know what I was doing,” he mutters. “I just—I saw her with someone else, and it felt like something was being ripped out of my chest.”

Yelena’s voice softens a notch. “So you hurt her before she could hurt you.”

He looks up. “Yeah.”

She sits across from him now. Not gentle. But present.

“You like her.”

It isn’t a question.

He nods slowly.

Yelena sighs. “Then why are you punishing her for not knowing that?”

He blinks.

“You’ve been hiding behind this fake thing like it’s safe. But the second it starts to feel real, you panic. She doesn’t know where the line is, and neither do you, because you never told her.”

“I didn’t want to scare her off.”

“Congratulations,” she says dryly. “You did anyway.”

He rubs his chest like the ache might be something he could claw out. “I fucked up.”

“Big time.”

“I don’t know how to fix it.”

Yelena stands. “Start by not disappearing. Don’t let her think you meant it. Don’t let her think you regret her.”

He looks up at her. His voice is quiet. “You think she’ll forgive me?”

“I think she wants to,” Yelena says, softer now. “But she’s not going to beg for your apology. She’s too tired for that.”

He nods.

“She deserves better than silence,” she adds. “Don’t be that guy.”

And she leaves him there with guilt, with the silence, with the knowledge that the next move has to be his.

Chapter 6

Notes:

sorry for the last chapter lol

Mel doesn’t remember falling asleep. The screen of her tablet is still glowing beside her, a cruel beacon in the dim room, bathed in open documents and half-finished notes—some PR logistics she’s barely started, a half-typed speech that feels like a mockery of her own intentions, a string of angry edits she’s made to a press release and then, in a fit of self-loathing, meticulously deleted. Everything she had forgotten to finish before the gala. She’s curled sideways on the couch, her ankle elevated on a stack of forgotten scripts and a long-cold heating pad lying limp across it, a useless relic of a forgotten attempt at comfort.

It throbs now—a dull, relentless ache that sharpens with every pulse, like her body couldn’t decide whether it’s genuinely injured or just mad at her for pretending she isn’t. She didn’t notice the pain last night, when she was more concerned over what had happened with Bucky. Too mad to acknowledge her trip on the stairs. And now she wishes she had put an ice pack on it as soon as she noticed.

She pulls herself upright slowly, every muscle protesting, blinking against the sting behind her eyes. The digital clock on the cable box glares 8:17 AM. Her apartment lights are still on, casting a harsh, unforgiving glow on the disarray of her living room. Her phone buzzes with notifications she hasn’t checked, a constant, irritating hum that mirrors the frantic energy she’s been running on for weeks. Somewhere across the room, her voice echoes faintly through the speakers. Yelena’s voicemail, probably. Or maybe a voice memo she’s forgotten to delete. Mel flinches internally. She hates being worried about.

Mel reaches for her phone, her fingers clumsy with fatigue, and curses under her breath when it slips from her grasp, falling with a soft thud between the cushions. She shifts too fast, a sudden, desperate lunge, and pain flares in her ankle, raw and immediate, stealing her breath. Her entire body spasms, a sharp, involuntary gasp escaping her lips.

God. She’s fine. She’s fine. The mantra echoes in her head, hollow and unconvincing. Just a little pain. Just a little setback. But the truth is, it isn’t just a little pain. And it feels like a monumental setback, the final straw in a series of them.

She just… needs to get off this couch. Shower, let the hot water wash away the sticky film of exhaustion and regret. Ice the ankle again, numb the relentless throbbing. Reply to the thousand unread texts, each one a tiny demand on her already depleted reserves. And most importantly, stop replaying the damn gala in her head.

The second gala in two weeks, and she’s ruined it. Or Bucky has. Or both of them. It doesn’t matter. The point is the same: whatever they’re pretending to be, whatever this precarious, fragile thing is between them—it’s cracking under the immense weight of everything unsaid. The public smiles, the whispered pleasantries, the careful dance of proximity and distance. It’s all a performance, and last night, the curtain ripped.

Her phone buzzes again, a more insistent vibration this time.

She finally retrieves it, ignoring the tight pull in her side as she twists, a dull ache that has become a constant companion. She squints at the notifications.

2 missed calls – Yelena

Voicemail – 1 minute

Mel doesn’t bother to call back. Just sends a quick text.

Twisted my ankle. Tell Val I’m taking the day off.

The next text comes in a few minutes.

Text – Yelena

You twisted your ankle?? Why didn’t you say anything?? I told Barnes.

Mel blinks. Then reads it again, the words blurring slightly at the edges. I told Barnes. Her stomach drops. Yelena. Of course. Yelena, who sees everything, knows everything, and has no compunctions about inserting herself into Mel’s chaotic life. And Bucky. The thought of him coming here, seeing her like this, feels like an invasion.

Before she can move—before she can even think of a plausible excuse, a way to barricade herself in, to avoid this inevitable confrontation—there is a knock at the door.

One. Then two. Then four, a rapid, urgent succession that makes her heart pound against her ribs.

She freezes. Every instinct screams at her to pretend she isn't home, to let him stand there until he gives up. But then she remembers the apartment lights. Too late.

More knocking, a relentless rhythm that vibrates through the floorboards. Then, abruptly, silence. A heavy, pregnant silence that feels worse than the noise. Then—

Her phone lights up, Bucky as the caller ID. 

She hesitates, her thumb hovering over the screen. What’s the point? He’s already here. She presses accept, her voice raw, thick with sleep and irritation. “What?”

“Open the door.” His voice is low, resonant, edged with a controlled impatience that makes a shiver run down her spine.

“You don’t need to—”

“I’m already here, Mel.” There’s no room for argument, no negotiation in his tone.

Another knock. Softer this time. Almost hesitant, as if acknowledging her lingering apprehension, or perhaps his own.

Mel hobbles to the door, every step a limp masked with stubbornness, a desperate attempt to project an illusion of control she doesn’t possess. She yanks it open, the sudden movement sending a fresh jolt of pain through her ankle, and immediately regrets it.

Bucky stands there, framed by the dim light of the hallway, hood up, worry drawn across every sharp line of his face, etched into the weary set of his shoulders. His eyes, normally guarded, are wide and searching, scanning her in an instant—the flushed cheeks, the messy, tangled hair she hasn’t bothered to brush, the foot wrapped in a haphazard ace bandage and barely touching the ground. He takes it all in, every sign of her disarray, and a muscle twitches in his jaw.

“I’m fine,” she says, the words a brittle shield. Don’t look at me like that.

He doesn’t say anything. Just looks at her like she’s a house on fire and he doesn’t know where to start putting it out, or perhaps, doesn't know if he’s the one who should. The silence stretches, heavy with unspoken accusations and anxieties.

She steps back, stiff, feeling the vulnerable edges of her composure fraying. “You gonna come in, or keep looming in the hallway like a serial killer?” The attempt at humor falls flat, sounding more like a desperate snap.

He crosses the threshold slowly, deliberately, like she might tell him to leave, even now. She doesn’t. Can’t. The effort of standing is becoming too much.

His hands hover awkwardly at his sides, unsure where to put them, as he glances around her apartment, taking in the scattered papers, the half-empty teacup, the general air of exhausted chaos. “You look like you haven’t slept.” His voice is quiet, almost gentle, a stark contrast to the sharp command moments before.

Mel gives a hollow, humorless snort, a choked sound that is more air than laughter. “Yeah, I haven’t slept all night. Just managed a quick nap now though.”

He looks at her again. Really looks, his gaze unwavering, piercing through her defenses.

“You should go to bed.”

“You should go home.”

They stare at each other, locked in a silent battle of wills. Both too stubborn for their own good, too deeply entrenched in their own pain to offer an easy truce. But then she moves, a slight shift in her weight as she turns toward the couch, and winces—sharp and involuntary. The small sound, a mere breath of pain, seems to shatter the fragile standoff. He steps forward on instinct, his hand reaching out, then stopping.

“Don’t.” Her voice is tight, a warning. Don’t touch me. Don’t see this.

“You’re hurt.” His voice is rough, unyielding.

“I said I’m fine.”

Her arms fold tightly across her chest, a physical barrier. His jaw clenches, a muscle jumping beneath his skin. She wants to scream at him to stop being so damn gentle, to stop looking at her with that quiet, anguished concern. And yet, the gentleness is the only thing holding her together, the only thing preventing her from completely shattering. It’s a cruel paradox.

“Go lie down,” he says again, quieter this time, his voice softer, less demanding. “I’ll be here.”

“I don’t need a babysitter.” The words are childish, petulant, and she hates herself for them.

“You don’t get to decide that right now.” His gaze holds hers, firm and unwavering, a silent challenge that she’s too tired to meet.

She almost argues. Almost tells him to get the hell out, to leave her alone in her miserable, self-inflicted chaos. But then her ankle throbs again, a deep, resonant ache that echoes in her bones, and her eyes burn with unshed tears, and her breath shakes, a small, involuntary tremor. So instead, she just limps toward the bedroom without answering, the silence between them a heavy shroud. She doesn’t quite shut the door, leaving a sliver of light, a silent concession.

***

The apartment is too quiet once she disappears behind the wall, the sudden absence of her presence a physical ache in the air. Bucky runs a hand through his hair, the rough strands catching on his fingers, pacing the length of the kitchen like it might help him breathe, might somehow dispel the suffocating guilt that is beginning to settle deep in his chest. His heart still hasn’t slowed down, thudding a frantic rhythm against his ribs. Seeing her like that—limping, pale, pretending—has cracked something open in him, a protective instinct he hadn't known he still possessed, a fierce, desperate need to fix whatever is broken.

 

He should’ve come sooner. Should’ve called, not just waited for Yelena’s frantic texts. Should’ve known, should’ve followed her into her apartment and apologized then and there. But he’s been so wrapped up in his own anger, his own wounded pride.

Instead, he let pride dig its claws in, digging deeper with every cutting remark he'd made at the gala, every accusation, every deliberate jab meant to wound. He said things he shouldn’t have, fueled by a corrosive jealousy he refuses to acknowledge. He wanted to make her feel what he feels—disposable. Replaceable. Like a prop in some grand, sprawling story she doesn’t even want to be in, a story where she is merely a means to an end.

And all she’s done is protect herself. She hasn’t lashed out, hasn’t descended to his level. She’s just… pulled away. And then twisted her ankle trying to escape him. The thought makes him sick.

He moves into her tiny kitchen, the limited space suddenly feeling vast and empty, and stands in front of the stove like it might offer an answer, a revelation. He needs to do something. Something warm. Something kind. Something that says “I care” without making it harder than it already is, without adding more weight to the already straining silence between them. He needs to find a way to bridge the chasm he’s helped create.

He picks up her kettle, his hands still trembling slightly, and checks if there’s water in it. There isn’t. His hands shake as he fills it, the sound of the water rushing from the tap filling the oppressive quiet. He is a soldier, a strategist, a man who can disarm a bomb in seconds, but simple domesticity feels like an impossible task.

He Googles “how to make chai from scratch” like it’s a mission brief, his brow furrowed in concentration as he scrolls through recipes, trying to parse the esoteric instructions. 

Ginger. Cardamom. Cinnamon sticks. Cloves. Sugar. Black tea. Milk.

Her cupboards are a mess, a jumble of half-used spices and mismatched mugs, but he finds most of what he needs. He fumbles the quantities, guesses the ratios, his fingers clumsy. He burns his finger on the saucepan, a sharp, surprising sting that grounds him in the present. He watches three different videos just to figure out when to add the tea, a ridiculous endeavor that feels disproportionately important.

He stirs it, slowly, methodically, like it will fix something beyond just the flavor, like it could somehow mend the broken pieces of their night, of their connection.

By the time the kitchen smells like something rich and spiced, a comforting aroma that slowly begins to chase away the scent of stress, the adrenaline has drained out of him, leaving him hollowed out and profoundly weary. All that remains is guilt. A heavy, suffocating blanket of it. He’s hurt her. He’s made her feel small. And it’s all because he doesn't know how to articulate the chaotic storm of emotions raging inside him, the fear of losing her, the desperate, unacknowledged need for her presence.

***

Mel wakes up slowly, drifting back to consciousness through layers of sleep. The pain in her ankle has dulled to a manageable ache, a persistent hum rather than a sharp throb. Her throat is dry, raspy. Her whole body feels heavy, like it has given in to exhaustion too long denied.

She blinks groggily, the soft glow of the lamp washing the room in gentle amber light. The couch cushion shifts slightly beneath her, the distant clink of ceramic drawing her attention.

When she focuses, she makes her way up to the living room and settles on the couch. Bucky notices her arrival and moves to crouch in front of her, close enough that she can see the tight line of his jaw, the furrow between his brows. He holds a mug in his metal hand—cradled gently, like something fragile. 

“Made you something,” he says quietly, his voice low and raw. 

He doesn’t meet her eyes. Just holds the mug a little closer, the steam curling upward in soft tendrils. It smells familiar in a way that tugs something deep in her chest.

“You made chai?” she whispers, disbelieving. Her voice comes out thin, strained.

He nods, barely. “First time. Might be awful.”

There’s something almost shy in the way he says it—like the admission cost him something. Like he’s bracing himself for her disappointment.

Her fingers wrap around the mug, the heat seeping instantly into her palms. The ceramic is imperfect, chipped slightly at the rim, one of her mismatched favorites. It smells like home. Not perfect, but unmistakable.

She looks back at him, really looks. His sleeves are pushed up, a faint burn on one finger. His hair is mussed, like he’s run a hand through it too many times. There’s a faint dusting of flour—or probably sugar?—on his pants. And something about all of it makes her throat tighten in a completely different way.

“You… learned how to make this?” she asks softly. “Just now?”

He gives a helpless little shrug. “Google. A lot of trial and error. Three videos. Burned my finger. Your kettle's aggressive.”

She huffs a laugh, but it breaks halfway through, caught on something more fragile.

He stands and disappears for a moment, returning with a small plate. Biscuits—her favorite kind, the ones she always buys in bulk and hides in the back of the pantry like a dragon hoarding gold. He must’ve gone searching. Not for show, not for convenience—for her.

He hands her one, then places the plate between them on the coffee table. Then, wordless, he picks up a second mug for himself.

“Thought you were more of a coffee guy,” she murmurs, still stunned.

He meets her eyes finally, and something about the quiet sincerity in his gaze nearly undoes her. “Didn’t make it for me.”

She stares at him, the mug warming her hands but her chest aching with something else entirely.

This is not grand. It isn’t dramatic or public or performative. It’s quiet, clumsy kindness. It’s digging through her messy spice cabinet and fumbling boiling water and getting the ratios wrong because he wants her to feel comforted. It’s effort. Care. The kind of care she doesn’t think she’s allowed to expect from someone like him—not anymore.

She takes a sip. It isn’t perfect. A little too much clove, maybe. Not enough milk. But it’s undeniably chai. And it’s hers.

Her eyes sting suddenly. “It’s… really good,” she whispers.

He looks skeptical. “It’s not.”

“No,” she says, shaking her head, throat tightening. “It’s perfect.”

He watches her for a beat, unsure what to do with the softness in her voice.

She reaches out, fingers brushing his wrist—tentative, brief. But he stills. Looks at her like he’s felt it all the way through.

“Thank you,” she says, the words small but full. “You didn’t have to—”

“I wanted to,” he interrupts, quiet but firm. His eyes drop to his mug. “Didn’t know how to fix anything. Thought maybe… this would help.”

And it does. God, it does. More than he could know.

He sits beside her, leaving a generous gap between them, a silent acknowledgment of the emotional distance, but also a respectful boundary.

Mel leans back against the cushions, letting the warmth of the mug seep into her palms, her eyes drifting closed again. The scent fills her senses, a balm to her frayed nerves.

He clears his throat, and the sound vibrates through her, making her shift slightly, just enough to tilt her head up and look at him.

“Mel,” he begins, his voice rougher now, as if he’s dredging up words from a deep well. “About what I said at the gala… it was out of line. I was a jerk. A complete and utter jerk.” He pauses, searching for the right words. “It was selfish. And it was unfair to you. You don't deserve to be treated like that, especially not by me.”

He finally turns his head, his gaze meeting hers, and the raw honesty in his eyes makes her breath catch. “I was angry, yeah. But mostly, I was just… scared. Scared of what it meant, seeing you with someone else. Scared of how easy it was for me to react like that. It made me realize how much… how much this whole thing, us… means to me. And I messed it up.” He swallows hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. “I spent years being told I was a weapon, a tool. And sometimes, when things get messy, I revert back to that. I try to control things, or I lash out, because I don't know how to deal with… feelings.” He shakes his head, a wry, self-deprecating smile touching his lips. “Turns out, you can take out an entire Hydra cell, but navigating a conversation about emotions is a whole different beast.”

Mel manages a small, watery smile. “It’s a different kind of fight.”

He nods, his gaze unwavering. “And I fought dirty. I threw punches I shouldn’t have. And I saw you flinch, Mel. And it’s been eating at me ever since. Knowing I was the one who made you feel that way. You’re one of the strongest people I know, and I made you feel… small. I am so, so sorry.” His thumb rubs a gentle circle on her arm. “I messed up. I truly did. I was worried you wouldn't let me back in.”

She leans into his touch, the warmth from his hand a comfort. “I was worried you wouldn’t try.”

“I had to,” he says, his voice barely a whisper. “The thought of leaving you like that, knowing I was the reason you were hurting… I couldn’t do it. It was tearing me apart.” He takes a slow, deep breath, as if steeling himself. "And you know, even if we are just… friends. I want to be a better friend to you. A real one. Someone you can rely on, someone who doesn't make you feel like you have to be anything other than yourself. I want to be someone who can just be there. Without all the extra noise.”

Mel feels a knot she hadn’t realized was there loosen in her chest. “Thank you,” she whispers, the words heartfelt. “That means a lot.”

He nods, the tension in his shoulders easing noticeably.

After a long pause, filled only by the quiet hum of the refrigerator and the distant city sounds, Mel speaks again, her voice still quiet, but stronger now. “I was already on edge. The gala. The pretending. Valentina hovering like a vulture. Everyone looking at us like we’re either perfect or fake, like there’s no in-between. It’s a lot.” She shifts slightly, the weight of it all pressing down on her.

“I know.” His voice is equally quiet, an acknowledgment of her burden.

“And then I twisted my ankle storming away from you,” she mutters, a humorless chuckle escaping her, like it’s a joke, except it isn’t. “Which is—so stupid. It’s just a dumb injury. But it’s like… it tipped everything over. Everything I’ve been trying to keep together, everything I’ve been holding back. It just… spilled.” She takes another sip of the chai.

She doesn’t cry. But she looks like she could. That’s worse, somehow. A raw, exposed vulnerability that strips away all her usual defenses.

“Everything hurts right now,” she says quietly, her voice barely a whisper, brittle as glass. The words hang in the air like something sacred. Like something she hadn’t meant to say out loud, but couldn’t keep in anymore.

Bucky doesn’t speak. Just inhales once, slow and steady, then reaches for her with deliberate care.

His metal hand moves first, slow and open, palm tilted so she can see it. No sudden movements. Just the quiet offer of contact.

“Can I help?” he asks, voice low. “With the wrap. Or the ice. Whatever you’ll let me do.”

His gaze flicks up to hers—just once—then settles on her ankle again, giving her the space to decide. No pressure, no assumption. Just the offer.

She’s so tired of pretending not to need anyone. Her pride claws at the edges of her throat, begging her to say no. But his stillness undoes her—the way he waits, the way his hand hovers like he already knows she’ll say yes but needs her to be the one to do it.

A breath. Then a nod. Small. Almost imperceptible.

But it’s everything.

He moves closer, easing off the couch and down onto his knees in front of her. His body folds into the space between her knees like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

When his fingers touch her skin, she startles—not from pain, but from the intimacy of it. His touch is deliberate but gentle, two fingers bracing her calf while his other hand peels back the makeshift wrap with slow precision. His thumb brushes just beneath the swelling, and even that simple contact sends a pulse through her.

His touch is firm. Not clinical—never clinical—but careful in a way that makes her throat close.

The bandage comes off with a quiet rustle, and he frowns slightly at the mottled skin, the way her foot is starting to bruise darker. She can feel the tension in his body—his breath slowing, the subtle clench in his jaw. Guilt, sharp and unspoken.

His hands don’t stop moving. But they soften further. Thumb dragging lightly up her shin before reaching for the fresh bandage.

He works in silence, and she watches his hands move over her skin with reverence. No hesitation. Just care.

He adjusts her foot slightly, resting it on his thigh to stabilize it as he wraps it again, slower this time. She can feel the heat of him through his sweats, the rough fabric against her bare skin, grounding her.

“You’re warm,” she says, surprised by how quiet her voice has gone.

He looks up. His gaze lingers on her face. “So are you.”

When he finishes the wrap, he doesn’t pull away immediately. Instead, his hand slides gently down her calf again, fingertips brushing the inside of her ankle in a barely-there caress.

“Where’s the ice?” he asks, voice hushed.

“Freezer. Left drawer.”

He rises to his feet in one fluid motion, and even in that brief absence—those few seconds where the warmth of his touch leaves her—she misses it. Aches for it. It makes her feel ridiculous.

But then he’s back, kneeling again, pressing the cold pack gently against the curve of her ankle, holding it there with one hand while the other steadies her knee. His thumb traces over the inside of her knee without thinking, and neither of them says anything about it.

When he finally stands, she reaches for him—not desperately, just instinctively. Her fingers brush his wrist, just barely.

He pauses.

Then, slowly, he settles beside her again. Close this time. Closer than before. Their knees touch first. Then his thigh presses against hers. Then her shoulder finds his chest, and the slow breath he lets out stirs the hair near her temple.

Her mug is warm between her palms, but his body is warmer. She doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t pretend to need space.

His arm comes around her without words. Just the quiet shifting of bodies adjusting to closeness. She leans in fully, lets her cheek rest against the soft fabric of his shirt. Her free hand settles on his stomach without thinking, her fingers curling slightly into the cotton. It rises and falls beneath her touch—steady, quiet, alive.

He tightens his arm around her just slightly, his hand dragging in a slow, calming path up and down her arm. Bare skin to bare skin.

Not a kiss. Not a confession.

But she feels her chest pull tight at the gentleness of it anyway.

Mel doesn’t speak right away.

She just stays there beside him, wrapped in the warmth of the chai and the scent of ginger and cardamom that lingers in the air between them. Her body still aches, her ankle aches, but it feels more distant now—like background noise to something quieter, deeper. The kind of ache you could live with when someone is sitting close, and not looking away.

Her eyes flutter shut, but sleep doesn’t come. Her thoughts are still spinning, still crowded and tangled, but they aren’t crashing anymore. Not in the way they had been before he showed up. Not in the way they had when she was alone in this apartment and everything had felt too big.

After a long silence, Bucky speaks—quietly. “You should eat something.”

“Yeah.” Mel mumbles.

“Do you want me to make—”

“God, no.” A breath of a smile ghosted across her face. “Let’s just… order something.”

He nods, already reaching for her phone, but she’s beaten him to it.

Thai, maybe. Or that dumpling place he likes. She doesn’t care, really. It isn’t about the food.

He sits beside her in silence while she places the order, their knees barely brushing. She doesn’t move away.

When she finishes, she lets the phone slide onto the cushion between them and leans back into the pillows, eyes trained on the ceiling. Her voice is barely audible when she says, “I didn’t want you to see me like this.”

He looks at her. Really looks. Her messy hair, her tired eyes, the blanket half-fallen off her shoulder. She looks so far from the polished woman she is at galas and press briefings. But she also looks more real than she has in weeks.

“I think I needed to,” he says softly. “So I could stop pretending you’re made of steel.”

Mel doesn’t answer. Her eyes stay fixed on the ceiling, but her breathing hitched—just slightly.

The food arrives before either of them says anything else. Bucky stands to get it, quiet and efficient, not asking where things are, just moving like he’s already memorized the space. She watches him as he unpacks everything on the coffee table—containers opening with soft plastic snaps, the muted clatter of chopsticks and lids.

He hands her a box and sits down again, careful not to jostle her injured ankle.

They eat without words. Not because they don’t have anything to say, but because the silence doesn’t feel heavy anymore. It feels like space. Like safety.

Halfway through, she looks over at him, her voice quiet. “This wasn’t the night I thought we’d have.”

He meets her eyes. “Me neither.”

“I was really angry,” she says, picking at her noodles. “I’m still angry. But under that, I think I was mostly just…” Her throat closes for a second. She swallows. “Scared.”

He doesn’t interrupt.

“Not because of you. Not exactly. Just… of how easy it is to fake something so well that you can’t tell if it’s real anymore.”

Bucky sets his container down. The tension in his shoulders is subtle, but she feels it. Sees it in the way his fingers flex against the couch cushion.

“I don’t want this to be fake,” he says quietly. “Not the part where I care. Not the part where I stay.”

She blinks, the words hitting like a soft blow to the chest.

He exhales slowly. “I got scared, too. At the gala. Watching you talk to someone else like that, laughing like it didn’t cost anything. I couldn’t stop thinking… you looked like you belonged there. And I didn’t.”

She shakes her head. “That’s not true.”

He looks down, jaw tight. “It felt true.”

Mel places her container aside, untouched for minutes now. “It’s not. But I know that feeling. Of being outside something you’re supposed to be inside.”

Their eyes meet. Held.

Something shifts in the space between them.

She reaches for the remote without looking and turns on the TV—just to have something fill the background. The sound of a movie hums low in the quiet, but neither of them really watches it.

She leans into the cushions, letting her shoulder brush his. He doesn’t move away.

The quiet stretched.

Then, without thinking, without planning, she shifts closer. Rests her head against his shoulder, slow and careful, like testing a bridge that has only just been rebuilt.

Bucky freezes.

Then—he relaxes. His arm comes around her shoulders slowly, carefully, like he’s afraid she’ll change her mind. But she doesn’t.

She lets herself settle into him fully, her breath syncing with his. His shirt is soft against her cheek. She can feel his heartbeat—steady, but faster than before.

He holds her like she is something breakable. Like he doesn’t trust himself not to drop her.

But she doesn’t feel fragile in his arms. She feels still.

“This okay?” he murmurs, his voice low against the top of her head.

She nods. “Yeah.”

They don’t move again for a long time.

And when she speaks, it’s a whisper. “We don’t have to figure everything out tonight.”

“I know.”

“But I needed this.”

His hand brushes over her arm. A small, grounding motion. “Me too.”

Her eyes slip closed—not out of exhaustion this time, but ease.

Bucky’s lips brush over the top of Mel’s head, and if Mel notices, she doesn’t let it show. Only nuzzles closer to his shoulder.

Chapter 7

Notes:

sorry for the late update i got kinda lazy

The day is warmer than expected—one of those rare New York afternoons when spring finally decides to show up, crisp but sunlit, the wind tugging gently at jacket hems. 

Mel spends fifteen full minutes debating the coat. Too warm? Too stylish? Too date-y? Every fold seems to whisper, 'I'm attempting to look effortlessly cool for a fake date with an Avenger, please approve!' It's just a coat , she tells herself. A very nice, slightly-too-expensive one with pockets deep enough to bury nervous hands. She goes with it anyway—because it's technically spring, because of those blessed pockets, and because she is, apparently, a little pathetic.

She keeps one hand in the pocket now, the other hovering uselessly by her side. She isn’t nervous. Not really. Not unless you count the fact that she hasn’t looked at Bucky in the last full minute because the words “pretend to go on a date” keep echoing in her head like an off-beat metronome.

He strolls beside her, sleeves rolled up, sunglasses perched on the bridge of his nose like he isn’t recognizable from a mile away. He walks with that frustrating ease of someone who could break through a concrete wall but has mastered the art of looking completely harmless.

“Coffee?” he asks, nodding toward a little café tucked between a bodega and a plant shop.

“Yes,” she says immediately, like caffeine would ground her in something other than panic. “Please.”

The café is cozy inside, all exposed brick and mismatched mugs. She steps up to the counter, squinting at the menu, already reaching into her coat pocket. Mel eyes the barista, a young woman with a septum ring and eyes that widen with instant recognition. Here we go, Mel thinks, bracing herself. She reaches for her card, making sure her fingers are already touching the edge of the machine when Bucky's hand, surprisingly gentle, nudges hers aside. His skin is warm, a stark contrast to the cool metal she'd almost touched.

“I got it,” Bucky says casually.

Mel doesn’t move. “Nope. I’m paying. You’re the arm candy, remember?” She hasn't even thought about the implications of the "date" until this very second. Is this her date? Or their date? Her brain snags on the distinction.

Bucky raises a brow. 

But before she can tap her card, he leans in and nudges her hand aside with maddening gentleness. “Let me do one thing for the team today, Mel.”

She narrows her eyes. “You’re impossible.”

“I know.” He pays, hands her a receipt, and adds, “You’re welcome.”

While they wait, Mel takes three sugar packets from the condiments bar and tears one open. Feeling the panic bubble, she reaches for the sugar packets. One. Two. Three. It’s a nervous tic, a small, tangible act of control when everything else feels utterly out of it. She rips the first one open with unnecessary force, the crinkle of the paper a small, satisfying rebellion against the frantic drum solo her heart is playing.

Bucky gives her a look. Not judgmental—just quietly amused. His gaze lingers on her hand, a subtle observation.

“That’s your third packet,” he says, half-smiling.

“Stop judging me,” she mutters.

He bumps her shoulder lightly. “Not judging. Just learning.”

Mel turns away too quickly, her mouth twitching despite herself.

The barista—a girl with a septum ring and eyes wide enough to reveal recognition—fumbles slightly as she calls out the names on the cups.

Bucky steps forward, reaches for both drinks, and offers the girl a quick grin. “Thanks.”

Her voice cracks. “You’re welcome. I—uh—you guys look really cute together.”

Mel blinks. She feels a flush creep up her neck, hot and sudden, and she desperately avoids looking at Bucky, convinced her face is broadcasting her every flustered thought like a neon sign.

Bucky, without missing a beat, glances at Mel and loops his arm around her shoulder. “She keeps me humble.”

His arm, heavy and warm, remains looped around her shoulder, a casual, almost proprietorial gesture that sends a strange flutter through her. Mel elbows him in the ribs. “Barely.”

They step back onto the sidewalk, steaming cups in hand.

“Well,” Mel says after a beat, sipping her lavender latte. “If this doesn’t scream totally authentic couple vibes, I don’t know what does.”

Bucky grins. “You’re the one who insisted on matcha.”

“It tastes good.”

“It tastes like grass.”

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

His voice is warm. Teasing.

Mel looks away before he can catch her smirking. She shivers slightly as a colder gust of wind sweeps by. Bucky, without a word, subtly adjusts his pace, letting her walk a step closer, just out of the direct path of the breeze. A tiny, insignificant gesture, but it registers, a quiet warmth spreading through her. She notices, not for the first time, the faint lines around his eyes when he genuinely smiles, etching into the otherwise smooth skin. They are tiny maps of all the times he’d laughed, or perhaps just seen the absurdity in the world around him.

The city bustles around them—cabs honking, dogs tugging at leashes, a saxophone wailing somewhere down the block. They keep their pace casual, weaving through the crowd. People notice them, sure. They always do. Some double-take. A few whisper. But most just walk on.

Then come the fans.

A group of teenagers spots them first, barely disguising their shrieks behind their hands. One holds up her phone, mouthing Oh my God, is that them? before mustering the courage to jog over.

“Can we—sorry—can we get a picture?”

Bucky gives Mel a quick glance. You good with this?

Mel nods. “Of course.”

Phones come out like flash grenades. The group clusters around them, giggling, trying to act casual. Mel smiles, holds up a peace sign in one. Another girl asks if they are dating.

Mel chokes directly into her drink.

Bucky, infuriatingly composed, just smiles. Not a fake smile, but that genuine, mischievous quirk of his lips that always makes her wonder what he is really thinking. “No spoilers,” he says, his voice smooth, and Mel can feel the heat radiating off her face.

“You’re like… so cute together,” one girl whispers behind her hand, thinking she is being discreet.

Mel ignores it. Bucky doesn’t. He smirks.

Another fan angles her phone and hesitates. “Sorry, no offense, but could I get one with just you?”

“None taken,” Mel says easily.

But Bucky doesn’t move. “Nah,” he says, pulling her gently back into frame. “She makes me look better.”

The words hang in the air, a verbal stun grenade. Mel's breath hitches. He said what? Her brain, usually so quick with a sarcastic retort, just buffers. It isn't just the compliment, though that is jarring enough. It's the way he says it – so casual, so certain, as if it were an undeniable truth, and the quiet, almost possessive tug back into frame. Mel could short-circuit on the spot.

They take the photo. Say goodbye. Mel immediately walks faster.

“You didn’t have to say that,” she mutters.

He shrugs. “Didn’t lie.”

Down a few more blocks, past Bryant Park, Mel spots it—a tiny strip mall arcade with one of those old-school photo booths pressed between a record store and a falafel stand.

She nudges him. “Come on. We need proof of our adorable date.”

Bucky eyes it. “A photo booth?”

“What, scared?”

“I just think I should be briefed before stepping into a time machine.”

“Chicken.”

He makes a face. But as she tugs his sleeve, she notices a flicker of hesitation in his expression. For a fleeting second, his gaze flickers over the faded booth, a subtle shift in his expression. It isn't fear, exactly. More like the quiet apprehension of someone about to step into a confined space where the rules of engagement might suddenly shift. 

But he follows her in anyway.

The booth is barely big enough for one. The booth smells faintly of dusty paper and old electricity, a tight little box that instantly magnifies every sound, every breath. Their knees bump. Shoulders collide. Mel tries to keep a sliver of space between them—the kind of space meant for friends, not fake dates—but it's impossible. His thigh is right there, warm through denim. Her hair grazes his jaw when she turns. His arm, solid and warm, is practically pressed against hers, the thin material of their jackets no barrier at all.

“Ready?” she asks, trying to sound breezy.

“No,” he says flatly.

Too late. The first flash hits.

They both smile awkwardly.

Second one—she leans into him, throwing up a peace sign and laughing too loud when their heads knock together.

Third—he pulls a stupid face, and she snorts mid-blink.

And the last—

She is brushing her hair back, half-turned toward him, when he leans in suddenly and kisses her cheek.

The camera clicks.

Mel doesn’t move.

His lips are soft. Just enough pressure to register warmth. Just enough to freeze her entirely. Her body forgets how to regulate temperature. Her face goes red instantly. Red like embarrassment, or confusion. Does he do that with Yelena too? Is this just a friendly gesture?

Bucky doesn’t look at her. His arms folded loosely, gaze on the strip of photos sliding out from the machine.

“Cute,” he says. He says it so easily, so flippantly, like it’s a throwaway joke. But is it? Mel studies his profile for a fraction of a second, searching for a tell, a flicker of something beneath the easy bravado, but his expression is carefully neutral.

Mel makes a sound somewhere between a choked gasp and a squeak. “I—uh—cute?” The word feels inadequate, hollow, failing to capture the maelstrom of confusion, embarrassment, and a deeply unsettling warmth that is currently setting her insides alight.

He hands her a copy and slides out of the booth. “You coming?”

She sits there for a second too long.

What. The. Hell.

They are friends. That is the rule. That has always been the rule. Every casual touch, every playful remark, feels like another brick in a wall she hasn't realized she is building around her heart. A wall designed to keep him out, to keep her safe. But with every passing minute, it feels like the mortar is dissolving, leaving her dangerously exposed.

“Mel,” he calls over his shoulder, already halfway to the corner.

She jolts. “Yeah! Yep! Coming.”

She tucks the photos into her coat pocket like they are radioactive and jogs after him.

***

They walk a few blocks in silence.

 

Mel focuses hard on the sidewalk, counting cracks, pretending her brain isn’t short-circuiting. The photo strip feels heavy in her pocket. Her cheek still tingles from where he kissed it. The ghost of his lips on her cheek still burns, a brand mark she cannot rub away. It is supposed to be a joke, a performance. But it feels... real. Too real. And the terrifying part is, a part of her wants it to be. And worse—worse than all of it—is how normal he looks. Like nothing has happened. Like he hasn’t just kissed her and flipped the entire axis of her brain upside down.

She risks a glance up at him. He is sipping his coffee like it is any other day, sunglasses pushed back on his nose, metal arm glinting faintly in the sun.

Maybe it is just another day.

For him.

Mel exhales shakily and tries to get a grip.

They wander until the city gives them a sign—one of those old-school diners with cracked tile, a jukebox that hasn’t worked in decades, and sun-yellowed menus sticky from time and too many stories. The neon sign buzzes faintly above the door, promising warmth, mediocre coffee, and the kind of booth that lets you disappear for a while.

Bucky holds the door open with a little flourish.

Mel raises a brow. “You courting me, Barnes?”

He doesn’t even blink. “If I was, you’d know.”

She steps past him, pulse doing a little stutter anyway.

They pick a booth by the window, red leather worn soft with age. A waitress in her sixties drops two laminated menus and a glass of water with a lemon wedge that has seen better days.

Bucky scans the menu. “You strike me as a grilled cheese and tomato soup kind of person.”

Mel grins. “That a compliment or an insult?”

“It’s a read.”

“Okay, Winter Soldier,” she says, flipping her menu. “You give off… waffles at 2 p.m. energy.”

He looks up at her, amused. “Am I supposed to be offended?”

“No. Just accurate.”

They end up ordering exactly that—grilled cheese and tomato soup for her, waffles and eggs for him. He adds yet another black coffee. She gets an iced tea she doesn’t actually want, just needs something cold to hold onto.

By the time the food arrives, the edge of awkwardness has softened into something warmer. Comfortable. Almost easy.

They eat in the kind of silence that doesn’t require filling—until Bucky surprises her.

“I always wanted to work with wood,” he says, mid-sip of coffee. A flicker of something soft, almost vulnerable, crosses his features before settling back into his usual composure. “Carving. Building. Something with my hands that didn’t involve throwing people through walls.”

Mel blinks. “You build things?”

“I want to,” he says. “I’ve tried. Picked up a few things here and there. Sam gave me a sander last year. Said I needed a hobby that didn’t involve cleaning weapons.”

She smiles. “That’s kind of adorable.”

“It’s practical,” he deadpans. “And satisfying.”

“I like that. The idea of you in a shop apron. Sawdust. Whittling. Being aggressively domestic.”

He gives a slow, deliberate nod. “Very threatening, I know.”

“You ever make anything?”

“Cut a small bookshelf once. It wobbled. But it’s still standing.”

Mel leans on one elbow, chin in her hand. “There’s something kind of comforting about you doing something that doesn’t involve... survival. Like choosing to build instead of break.”

He looks at her for a moment—too long. His gaze is steady, piercing. “That’s the point.”

Her breath catches. A silent understanding passes between them, weighty and fragile.

She glances away. “I bake. When I’m stressed.”

“Cookies?”

“Muffins,” she says. “Big ones. The kind with crunchy tops and so much sugar they might violate FDA guidelines.”

Bucky looks impressed. “Ever poison anyone with them?”

She smirks. “Not yet. But I keep a batch of emergency muffins in the freezer. Just in case.”

“I could eat one right now,” he says, then adds, “But these waffles are making a strong case.”

Mel laughs, a genuine, unburdened sound, and he watches her—watches her laugh like it is something rare. Something worth memorizing. A warmth spreads through her, a soft, surprising current she doesn't want to examine too closely.

Their plates are half-empty when he asks, “Where’d you grow up?”

“Queens,” she says, sipping her tea. 

His smile is soft. “I like Queens. The people are honest.”

“Sometimes brutally.”

He shrugs. “Still better than polite liars.”

She watches him then, chewing her bottom lip. “Do you miss it?”

He pauses. “The past?”

“No. Just... normal.”

His jaw flexes, eyes drifting out the window. “Every day.”

She doesn’t say anything. Just nudges his plate with her fork. “You want the rest of my fries?”

He looks at her. Really looks. “Only if you mean it.”

“I don’t share with just anyone.”

Bucky reaches over and takes two fries, dragging them through her soup like it is the most natural thing in the world. A small, intimate gesture that makes her stomach flutter.

They talk for almost an hour. About music. Movies he hasn’t seen. The fact that he still uses a flip phone until Stark has forcibly upgraded him. She makes fun of his taste in coffee (“You like it black like your soul”), and he teases her about being the kind of person who alphabetizes her spice rack (she absolutely does).

There is no talk of fans. Or fake kisses. Or pretend dates.

It just is.

It feels like the kind of lunch you have with someone you’ve been dating for months. The kind where there is nothing to prove, only space to fill with warmth.

The check comes. He reaches for it. Mel doesn’t stop him this time.

They step back onto the street, stomachs full and conversation still lingering between them like static.

Bucky pulls his phone out to check the time.

Mel catches a glimpse of the clear case.

The photo booth strip. Their photo booth strip. Tucked into the back, folded just so. The frame where he kissed her cheek showing like it belongs there.

Her heart skips. A sharp, dizzying lurch.

He doesn’t say a word about it.

Doesn’t even notice her seeing it.

But it is there. And he has put it there.

She doesn’t know what to do with that.

Not yet.

They walk a few more blocks in silence. Companionable, but full of something that hasn’t been there before. Something soft. Heavy.

Then Bucky slows.

“What?” she asks, voice instinctively low.

He nods subtly toward the corner. “Beige coat. Guy’s been fake-tying his shoes for five minutes.”

“Paparazzi?”

“Trying to be subtle. Failing.”

“Great,” she mutters. “Just what I needed today. Emotional instability and my face on TMZ.”

Bucky doesn’t laugh. Instead, he reaches for her hand. His metal hand—smooth and steady and cool against her skin. A jolt, like she’s touched a live wire, shoots up her arm. Mel stares at it for half a second too long, her breath catching, before slipping her fingers into his. They fit. Too well. Like they are meant to be there, despite every logical argument her brain is frantically trying to construct.

His thumb brushes lightly over hers. “Just play along.”

She nods, unable to find words.

He tugs her closer, arm brushing against hers. Then closer—his hand shifting to rest gently at her waist, fingers curling into the fabric of her coat like he’s done it a hundred times before.

The city falls away for a second. Just the two of them, walking like they are something real.

Mel’s breath catches.

“What are you doing?” she asks quietly.

“Selling it,” he murmurs.

His hand is anchored at her waist.

“Do you trust me?” he asks, voice low and steady.

Her heart lunges up into her throat.

There isn’t even a pause. “Yeah.”

And then he kisses her.

Not a forehead brush. Not a cheek press. Not a PR move.

A real kiss.

Full, unhurried, tasting faintly of his coffee and something else – something uniquely him. His lips are warm, then warmer, a soft pressure that isn't demanding, but utterly persuasive. It isn't a brush, or a peck, or a performance. Her hands, which are frozen at her sides, slowly, hesitantly, lift, almost wanting to grip his jacket, but stopping short, caught in the terrifying, exhilarating choice. Right there in the middle of the sidewalk, with New York moving around them like they don’t exist.

Mel freezes. Completely.

His lips are soft. The pressure isn’t demanding. It’s careful, like he is giving her time to pull away. Like he wants her to choose it, too. He doesn't move any further, just a gentle pressure. 

But her body doesn’t move. Her lips don’t hesitate. Her brain cannot keep up.

Her whole chest aches. That kiss feels like home and everything she’s been pretending not to want.

When he pulls back, her breath stutters. Her lips tingle, humming with the lingering contact.

He doesn’t move far. Just enough to look at her again. His sunglasses have slipped down his nose, and she can see his eyes now—clear and focused and still watching her.

Like he is waiting for her to say something.

She doesn’t.

Cannot.

He clears his throat quietly and slips his sunglasses back into place, thumb rubbing absent-mindedly across her hand.

“The paparazzi's gone,” he says softly. The words, so mundane after what has just happened, feel like a jarring plunge back into reality. The paparazzi's gone. As if that explains everything, as if that erases the way his lips have felt, the desperate clench in her chest.

Mel blinks. “Oh.”

They keep walking. Slowly. Quietly. The quiet that settles between them isn't companionable anymore; it is thick with unspoken questions, with the echo of a choice made, a line irrevocably crossed.

She doesn’t let go of his hand.

The air between them is suddenly too thick. The kiss still ghosts across her mouth like a phantom. Her pulse pounds in her ears.

“Thanks for…” she begins, but the words die halfway out.

Bucky gives her a side glance. “Handling that?”

She nods mutely.

“No problem.” A pause. “Just PR, right?”

Mel’s laugh comes out brittle, tasting like ash on her tongue. “Right.”

Just PR. The words hammer into her, a cold, clinical dismissal that directly contradicts the desperate warmth still blooming in her chest. Her heart, however, is thrumming a different truth, a loud, undeniable beat that has nothing to do with public relations and everything to do with the unexpected, terrifying realization that she might have just fallen, spectacularly, for her best friend.

Sure.

She focuses on the rhythm of their steps. On the rise and fall of traffic noise. On the coffee cup in her free hand.

And still, the weight of that kiss presses into her like something unshakable.

They walk another block in silence.

***

The city noise is a dull thrum beneath Mel’s apartment window as she finally admits defeat. Sleep isn't coming. Every time she closes her eyes, she sees the flash of the camera, feels the phantom warmth of Bucky's lips on her cheek and lips

 

She needs a sounding board. Someone who understands the bizarre, high-stakes world she occasionally finds herself in. Someone who has a notoriously complicated relationship with Bucky Barnes herself.

Mel pulls on a hoodie and a pair of worn jeans, grabs her keys, and heads for the Avengers Tower. The late hour means security is minimal, a quick nod from the night guard being all she needs to get to the private residential floors. The elevator ride feels interminable, each rising floor a beat closer to confronting a truth she hasn't dared voice aloud.

The main common room is dimly lit, the sprawling New York skyline twinkling beyond the massive windows. And there, curled on one of the plush, oversized couches, is Yelena. She is meticulously cleaning a knife, the rhythmic shink-shink of the blade against a whetstone, the only sound in the vast space. She looks up, her expression unreadable, as Mel approaches.

"Mel," Yelena says, her voice flat, devoid of surprise. "To what do I owe the late-night intrusion?"

Mel sinks onto the armchair opposite her, suddenly feeling the full weight of the day’s emotional rollercoaster. “I… something happened today.”

Yelena raises a perfectly sculpted eyebrow, her hands still. “Is Barnes in trouble? Did he blow up another microwave?”

“No! God, no. It’s… it’s about him. And me. And… the date.”

Yelena snorts, a brief, sharp sound. “The pretend date for the PR, yes, I hear. Very convincing.” She gives Mel a pointed look that somehow manages to be both knowing and utterly deadpan.

Mel flushes. “It’s too convincing, Lena. He… he kissed me. In the photo booth, just a quick peck. And then later, because of the paparazzi, he… he really kissed me.” The words tumble out, fast and breathless.

Yelena stops cleaning her knife. She sets it carefully on a small side table, her gaze now fully on Mel, surprisingly soft. “And how does that make you feel, little sparrow?”

Mel buries her face in her hands, a frustrated groan escaping her. “Awful! Amazing! Confused! I don’t know! It definitely goes against the contract we signed last month. He just… he goes all quiet afterward, and then he says, ‘Just PR, right?’ and I say ‘Right,’ because what else am I supposed to say?”

Yelena leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “And what do you want it to be, Mel? Beyond ‘just PR’?”

The question hangs in the air, heavy and undeniable. Mel takes a shaky breath, the dam finally breaking. “I… I think I like him, Lena. Like, really like him. And I have for a while. But he’s Bucky, you know? And I’m just… me. And we’re friends. That’s always been the rule. And now…” She gestures helplessly.

Yelena nods slowly. “Ah, the ‘friend’ conundrum. A classic. Let me tell you something about James. He is… complicated. He does not always know what to do with good things when they come to him easily. He has spent a very long time believing he is not worthy of good things, or that they will be taken away.”

Mel chews on her lip. “But what if he just does it for the cameras? What if I’m reading too much into it because I want it to be more?”

“Perhaps,” Yelena says, picking up her knife again, but not resuming her cleaning. “But perhaps, he also knows he has the perfect excuse to do something he has wanted to do for a long time. People who are ‘just PR’ do not hesitate when asked if it is ‘just PR.’ They confirm it loudly, to avoid complications. His silence, Mel, that is your answer.” She looks at Mel, a small, almost imperceptible smile touching her lips. “He likes you too, you idiot. You think I haven’t seen the way he looks at you when he thinks no one is watching? Like you hung the moon, and then promptly decided to wear it as a very charming hat.”

Mel stares, a fragile bubble of hope expanding in her chest. “He… he does?”

“He does,” Yelena confirms, her gaze steady. “Now. What are you going to do about it?”

“I don’t know,” Mel admits, suddenly feeling a surge of nervous energy. “Talk to him? Demand an answer? Or just… pretend it didn’t happen and hope it goes away?”

Yelena scoffs. “It will not go away. These things rarely do. My advice? Be direct. James understands direct. Or, if you are feeling very bold, kiss him again. See what happens.” She winks, a rare flash of genuine amusement. “Just, perhaps, away from the paparazzi this time.”

Notes:

this was heavily influenced by the new pics of sebastian and annabelle and the little photobooth strip annabelle had in her hand

we are so close to them opening up guys. next chap!

Chapter 8

The elevator ride to Bucky’s floor feels longer than it should.

Mel stands rigid in the back corner, palms sweating inside the sleeves of her sweater, heart pounding like it doesn't trust her to stay rational. Her gaze keeps darting to the floor indicator, each number illuminating with excruciating slowness. She almost bails. Twice. She even reaches for the button once—floor sixteen, common area, anywhere else—but she doesn't press it. The weight of unspoken words presses down on her, heavier than the silence in the small space.

She has to talk to him. Get it out. Get it over with.

The kiss hasn't left her head. It’s a constant, insistent hum beneath the surface of her thoughts, a memory that keeps replaying in vivid, heart-stopping detail. She spent the whole day today just thinking of how this would play out. Yelena told her what to do yesterday, and today she’s going to tell him. The thought of admitting her feelings causes her stomach to flip. 

The elevator doors open with a soft ding, a sound that seems to echo in the sudden quiet of the pristine hallway.

Mel steps out, her movements hesitant, almost hoping he won't be home. She pauses, her breath catching, but then she sees it—the sliver of warm light spilling under the edge of his door. He is there. The moment of reprieve vanishes, replaced by a fresh wave of nerves.

She lifts her hand, knuckles brushing against the polished wood. She knocks.

It opens a second later, revealing him. He doesn't look surprised to see her, which only makes her more anxious. Just… unreadable. His expression is a carefully constructed mask, and Mel, who has spent months learning his subtle tells, finds herself searching for any flicker of emotion, any hint of what he might be thinking.

His hoodie sleeves are pushed to his elbows, revealing the strong lines of his forearms. Hair mussed, as if he’d been running his hands through it. Eyes sharp, yet somehow distant. Soft jazz plays low in the background, a gentle counterpoint to her internal turmoil. His whole place smells faintly like cedarwood and coffee, a comforting, masculine scent that is uniquely Bucky.

“Hey,” he says, his voice gentle, a stark contrast to the tumult in her chest.

“Hey,” she echoes, immediately regretting how breathless it sounds. Her voice feels thin, reedy, utterly unlike her own.

“You okay?” His eyes, though still unreadable, hold a touch of concern.

No. Not even a little. “Can I come in?”

He steps aside without hesitation, opening the door wider. “Always.” The word, simple as it is, settles a tiny tremor in her heart.

Mel crosses the threshold like it might burn her, stepping into the familiar warmth of his apartment. She stands awkwardly in the middle of his living room for a moment, staring at the couch like it is a stage and she doesn't know her lines, her mind a blank slate of panic. The words she’d rehearsed, the calm, rational explanations, have all evaporated.

Bucky sits first, slow and cautious, leaving ample space beside him. His posture is open, inviting, yet she feels a chasm between them that no amount of physical proximity could bridge. “Did Val send you here to fire me or something? You look tense.”

She lets out a weak laugh, a small, choked sound. “Not quite.”

“Sorry, I know it’s pretty late.” Mel mutters as she sits. 

“Don’t worry. I wasn’t going to go to bed for another hour or two anyway.” Bucky reassures. 

He waits. Patiently. Expectantly. The silence stretches, filled only by the soft strains of the jazz and the frantic drumming of her own heart.

Her hands twist in her lap, fingers kneading at the soft fabric of her sweater. The admission, when it finally comes, feels ripped from her. “I… I don't want to do this PR stuff anymore.”

A pause. A beat. An eternity.

Bucky blinks. It isn't a sharp reaction, not an explosion of anger or surprise, but it lands. She sees it—right there in the slight tilt of his head, the way his body goes utterly still, as if every muscle had frozen in place.

“Oh,” he says, his voice quiet, careful, infused with a hesitant concern. “Okay. If it’s too much, or if Val’s pushing—”

“No,” she cuts in, the word sharp, desperate to clarify, to make him understand. “No, it’s not that. Not because of Val. Or the media. Or the missions.” She shakes her head, her gaze fixed on her trembling hands.

She swallows, the lump in her throat making it difficult to speak. “It’s because of you.”

That does it. His eyes flick to her, fast and searching, shoulders tensing, the carefully constructed mask finally cracking.

She rushes to explain, the words tumbling out in a torrent. “Not like that. Not in a bad way. I just—” Her voice cracks, a raw, vulnerable sound. “I don't know how to do the fake thing anymore. It doesn't feel fake. Not to me. Not after yesterday. Or… maybe not ever.” The admission hangs in the air, heavy with unspoken meaning.

The silence between them turns heavy, suffocating. Mel wants to retract the words, to pull them back into the safe confines of her own mind, but it is too late. They are out there, exposed, irrevocably changing the landscape between them.

Mel laughs once, soft and awkward, mostly to herself, a desperate attempt to lighten the unbearable tension. “I don't even know if I’m making any sense. I just— God , Bucky, I like you. Okay? I do. And if I don't say it now, I’m gonna keep pretending like today didn't completely ruin my emotional stability.”

His mouth parts slightly, like he wants to say something—a protest, a confirmation, anything—but she doesn't let him. The moment for polite conversation is over.

Instead, she leans in.

She kisses him.

Soft and hesitant. Her heart pounds against her ribs, a frantic drumbeat of courage and fear. For one brief, blinding second, she feels brave. A wave of exhilarating possibility washes over her.

And then she notices it.

Oh God. His lips aren't moving.

A beat passes. Then another.

He isn't pulling away—but he isn't leaning in either.

She is frozen, lips against his, but everything in her wants to disappear. She’d ruined it. She ruined it. Why had she thought—why had she ever believed—

She pulls away instantly, horror rising like bile in her throat, burning and bitter. Her face flushes hot, a humiliating wave of shame washing over her. “Oh my God. I—shit—I’m sorry. I read that all wrong—”

“Mel—” His voice is a low rumble, but she barely registers it over the roar in her ears.

“No, I really did. That was so—God, that was embarrassing. I’m so sorry—”

“Mel.” This time, his voice is firmer, a gentle but insistent command.

“I swear I’m not trying to make things weird—”

“Mel.” His hand catches her wrist, gently, his fingers warm against her skin. His voice is steady, unwavering, cutting through her panicked apologies. “Sit back down.”

She hesitates, eyes wide and humiliated, but the quiet strength in his grip is undeniable. She sits, her whole body curling in on itself, like she could shrink into the couch and disappear, willing the floor to swallow her whole.

“I want this to be real too,” Bucky says quietly, his voice a balm to her raw nerves.

Her breath catches, lodged in her throat. 

“I do,” he continues, his thumb stroking a slow, reassuring circle on her wrist. “God, baby, there’s nothing I want more.”

Her heart soars, a sudden, dizzying ascent. 

“But,” he adds, and it crashes, shattering into a million pieces. The word is a heavy anchor, dragging her back down to earth.

He doesn't let go of her hand. That small detail, that continued connection, offers a sliver of comfort even as her world tilts.

“I’m not… I can't be the person you want.”

Mel blinks, the single word a foreign concept. “What?”

“I’m still a mess,” he says, his gaze distant, as if looking into a past she can't see. “The nightmares. The panic. The way I flinch when someone shuts a door too hard. I can't sleep through the night, Mel. I barely hold it together some days.” His voice is laced with a self-deprecation that tears at her heart.

She opens her mouth to protest, but he shakes his head, a silent plea for her to listen.

“I’m not the kind of person you deserve.”

Mel surges forward, her humiliation forgotten, replaced by a fierce protectiveness. “Don't say that. You don't get to say that.”

His jaw clenches, a muscle working beneath his skin. “But it’s true.”

“I’m not some perfect, shiny person, Bucky.” Her voice is tight with emotion.

“You’re—”

“I hit the kill switch on Yelena,” she says, her breath shaking, the confession a raw wound. “And John. And Ava. And Bob. They survived, god bless. But I still did it.” 

Bucky freezes.

Mel pushes on, driven by a desperate need to show him the truth, to strip away any illusion of her own perfection. “And I hurt Bob when he was Sentry. I physically hurt him trying to save Val, and I—” Her voice breaks, tears pricking at her eyes. “I wanted to make it stop. I wanted to do the right thing. But I almost didn't. I almost did what Val wanted.” The shame of that near-betrayal still claws at her.

Bucky’s face twists, a flash of pain in his eyes. “Mel…”

“I’m not the good person either,” she whispers, her voice barely audible. “But I came to you. That night, when Val told me to burn up that room, I called you . Because I knew it wasn't right. Because I needed you to remind me who I was, what was right.” She needed him to see her, truly see her, flaws and all, and still want her.

He is silent, his gaze fixed on her, the depth of his thoughts unreadable.

She looks down, her voice soft but firm. “And you—you didn't choose what was done to you. You were forced to hurt people. And even then, you’re trying. You’ve always tried.”

His eyes glisten, just barely, a single tear threatening to spill. It is the only visible sign of the profound impact her words are having.

Mel’s voice cracks, low and raw, infused with a deep conviction. “That matters, Bucky. That’s what makes you good.”

They sit in silence for a long moment, the quiet broken only by the soft jazz and the steady thrum of their shared presence. The air still thrums with the weight of their confessions, but something has shifted, a new understanding settling between them.

Then Bucky huffs a dry, broken laugh, a sound of both pain and reluctant amusement. “We’re more similar than I thought.”

Mel turns toward him, her hand still held gently in his. “So give me a chance.” Her voice is a desperate plea, laced with a fragile hope.

Bucky shakes his head slowly, as if the words can't reach him. “You don't know what you’re asking for, Mel.”

“I think I do.”

“No,” he says quietly, “you think I’m the guy you kiss in a photo booth and everything clicks. But that’s not me. I’m not the guy that makes things simple. I’m not soft, Mel. I’m not whole . And you—” his voice cracks just slightly, just enough to hurt—“you deserve someone who’s not… broken. Someone who sleeps through the night. Someone who doesn't wake up in a cold sweat thinking he’s back under Hydra’s thumb.”

Mel stares at him, heart splitting open at the seams. “I don't want someone, Bucky. I want you.”

He scoffs under his breath, a sound more wounded than mocking. “You say that now.”

“I say that because,” she says, sitting forward, voice trembling but steady, “when I twisted my ankle and tried to pretend I was fine, you didn't walk away. You made me chai. You made me sit. You watched a stupid documentary about sea otters just to keep me company.”

“That’s nothing.”

“It’s not,” she shoots back, firm. “It’s everything. You made me chai , Bucky. You found my kettle and figured out how to make it using some stupid YouTube videos. You burnt your finger. No one’s ever done that.”

He looks away. His fingers have stilled against her wrist.

“After the gala, when I pushed you away, you still came back. Trying to make me feel better, trying to do right by me. You think that didn't mean anything? You think I didn't notice how careful you were, how kind?”

His voice drops, ragged and low. “I didn't do those things because I thought I was allowed to want you.”

Mel blinks. “What?”

“I did them because I knew I couldn't have you. But I wanted to make your life a little easier. I thought maybe I could be good for something.”

“You already are,” she says, her voice breaking. “You’re already good for me. And the fake stuff—it never felt fake. Not to me. The coffees. The dates. Just having you around. That wasn't fake.”

He is quiet for a long time, the only sound is the soft rasp of his breath.

Mel reaches for him, her hand cupping the side of his face, tentative but sure. “So if you want to argue about whether or not you’re enough—I will. All night. I’ll fight you on it. But don't you dare act like none of this meant anything. Because it did. To me.”

His eyes close at her touch, lashes brushing against her skin as he leans into her palm.

“You make it hard to hold onto my excuses,” he murmurs.

“Good,” she says, soft but fierce. “Let them go.”

His eyes meet hers, and in their depths, she sees a flicker of something she recognizes—desire, fear, and a dawning understanding.

“Please,” she whispers, the single word an offering, a surrender.

Bucky doesn’t speak. He leans in closer, Mel’s palm still resting against the rough edge of his stubble. Their foreheads touch gently, and for a beat, they simply breathe each other in.

He exhales, slow and shaky, and she feels it ghost across her lips.

Mel’s heart pounds so loudly she’s sure he can hear it. Her fingers curl slightly against his arm—flesh and metal both—seeking something solid to anchor her. His metal arm shifts under her touch, hesitant but not pulling away, and she can feel the faint hum of its servos adjusting as if even it doesn’t know where to settle.

Their noses brush, the softest drag of skin on skin, a barely-there nudge that sends a jolt down her spine. His breath catches. Hers stutters in response.

Bucky’s hand—his flesh one—rises slowly, reverently, to tuck a stray piece of hair behind her ear. His fingertips trail along her jaw, the lightest contact, like she might vanish if he touched her too hard. She leans into it instinctively, her eyes fluttering shut, and the tiny, involuntary sound that escapes her—something between a sigh and a whimper—draws him even closer.

Mel shifts, her nose brushing his again, and her fingers tighten against the cool curve of his vibranium arm. There’s a pause—exquisite, unbearable—as if time itself holds its breath around them.

Then, finally, Bucky tilts his head.

And kisses her.

It’s not urgent. Not rushed. Just real . His lips meet hers like a question he’s been afraid to ask, a silent plea answered the second she melts into him.

Her lips part beneath his with a sigh, and Bucky drinks her in like she’s the only thing keeping him grounded. His hand slips around the back of her neck, gentle but sure, drawing her in like gravity itself has aligned for this moment. His thumb strokes her pulse point—quick and fluttering—while her fingers slide into his hair, threading through the soft strands at his nape.

The world outside them ceases to exist the moment his lips claim hers, every thought dissolving into the searing, intoxicating present. This time, there is an unshakeable resolve in his movement, a fierce gentleness that both consumes and cherishes. He bridges the distance between them with a singular purpose, his hand finding her cheek with a reverence that steals her breath. His fingers, warm and steady, seem to memorize the curve of her jaw, sending tendrils of electric heat across her skin. His mouth, a perfect counterpoint to hers, is warm, sure, without a trace of hesitation or uncertainty. There are no cameras, no prying eyes, no roaring crowd – just the profound intimacy of them, of this.

He deepens the kiss, a low groan rumbling in his chest as her mouth softens, parting beneath his. His tongue, tentative at first, then bolder, traces the soft seam of her lips before finding hers. She meets him, matching his rhythm, her hands playing with the thick hair at his nape.

A soft whimper escapes her, lost in the depths of the kiss as his free hand slides from her cheek, tracing a path down her neck, over her shoulder, finally coming to rest at the small of her back. He pulls her flush against him, her body molding to his, the solid press of his chest against her breasts sending a jolt through her. Every inch of skin where they touch ignites, a slow burn that promises more, demands everything. The subtle flex of his muscles, the hard line of his jaw against her temple as he shifts, the scent of him – something clean and undeniably masculine – fills her senses, intoxicating her.

Time ceases to exist. There is only the escalating heat, the urgent press of their bodies, the delicious give and take of their mouths. It is a language spoken not in words, but in sighs and soft moans, in the hungry tilt of heads and the desperate cling of fingers. He is a force, gentle yet commanding, and she yields to him utterly, a willing participant in this wordless, passionate conversation. He grazes her bottom lip with his teeth, a playful nip that makes her breath catch, before delving back in, plundering her mouth with a newfound intensity. It is a kiss that promises to heal, to mend, and to awaken parts of her she’d long thought dormant.

He finally pulls back, but only just enough, their foreheads still pressed together, the warm ghost of his breath mingling with hers. Their eyes remain closed, savouring the aftershocks of a moment that has irrevocably shifted their world on its axis. The silence that stretches between them is not empty, but rich with the unspoken language of two broken people finding, in each other, the missing pieces of their own hearts, now irrevocably intertwined.

“We’ll take it slow,” he murmurs, his voice a low, rough whisper against her skin. “One step at a time.”

Mel nods, eyes closed.

Her voice comes out as a whisper, full of a quiet, profound acceptance.

“Okay.”

They stay like that for a while—foreheads touching, breathing in sync, the world held at bay. Neither moves to break the moment, afraid it might vanish if disturbed. Eventually, Bucky exhales, a slow, grounding breath that seems to carry weeks—months—of tension out of his chest.

Mel feels it too. The soft, fragile collapse of something unsustainable finally letting go.

Wordlessly, he shifts, wrapping one arm around her waist and gently guiding her down with him onto the couch. She follows without hesitation, curling into his side like it is the most natural thing in the world. The blanket, half-draped over the back, is tugged down around them in lazy movements. His hand doesn't leave her.

Time passes—slow and warm and unmeasured. The kind of stillness that doesn't need filling.

Mel stays curled against him, tucked beneath the blanket, her fingers still tangled in the fabric of his hoodie like she doesn't quite trust the moment to stay if she lets go.

Bucky’s head is resting against the back of the couch, his face turned toward her. The warm glow from the floor lamp bathes him in gold and shadow. She can see every detail—his long lashes, the faint pink still dusting his lips, the quiet conflict still stirring behind his eyes.

Neither of them says anything for a while.

Until he does.

“I've wanted you since the first night we met,” Bucky murmurs, almost like it wasn't meant for her to hear.

Mel turns toward him, breath caught in her throat. “What?”

He doesn't look away. If anything, his gaze grows more intense—softer, but unwavering. “At Val’s gala. That first one. You were wearing that black dress that didn't quite fit the event. Not in the way they wanted, anyway.”

Mel flushes, her shoulders tensing. “God, I knew I looked out of place—”

“No,” he interrupts gently, his voice low, reverent. “You looked… good. So good it stopped me in my tracks. And yeah, you were out of place—but not in a bad way. Just… you didn't try to blend in like everyone else. You didn't fake it.”

Her breath catches at the quiet admiration in his tone.

“You looked nervous as hell,” he adds with a slight chuckle. “Kept glancing at the exits like you were planning your escape route. But you still stood tall. Still looked them all in the eye. Still tried. I remember thinking—she doesn't want to be here, but she came anyway. That meant something to me.”

Mel stares at him, speechless, her heart thudding unevenly.

“And yeah,” Bucky continues, a little sheepish now, a half-smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, “I was definitely flirting when I gave you my card. That wasn't, like, a professional networking move. Sure, I wanted some information about Val. But mostly, I just wanted you to call.”

She laughs—quiet but surprised. “You handed it to me and said, ‘You ever need a way out, call me.’ I thought you were threatening to kidnap me.”

“I was trying to be suave.”

“You were not.”

“I was trying,” he defends, smiling now.

Mel smiles back, but her expression softens, grows more serious. “Why didn't you say something earlier?”

He exhales slowly, eyes dropping to where their hands are still loosely clasped between them. “Because you were working with Val. Because I didn't trust myself. Because wanting something and thinking you deserve it are two different things.”

Mel is quiet.

Bucky looks up again, searching her face. “But I saw you. Even then. You didn't just look good in that dress—you looked real. And strong. And like you were trying so damn hard not to let anyone know how scared you were.”

Her throat tightens.

“And I think I fell for that,” he whispers. “Right there. Somewhere between your nervous smile and the way you held your glass like it was a shield.”

She blinks fast, tears threatening to rise again. “I felt like a fraud that night. It was the day Val told me to turn that building into a furnace.”

“You weren't a fraud,” he says. “You never were. Just made some poor decisions, not by choice. It happens to the best of us.”

The silence between them grows heavy again—but not burdensome. Just full.

Mel leans her head against his shoulder once more, and this time, he presses a kiss into her hair, slow and warm and grounding.

“Next time I wear that dress,” she murmurs, “I expect you to tell me I look good in it out loud.”

He chuckles into her hair. “Deal.”

Moments pass.

“So… what now? We tell Val? Yelena? Call a press conference?”

Mel lets out a dry, almost-laugh and presses her forehead against his collarbone. “God, can you imagine?”

“I can,” he mutters, eyes on the ceiling. “It ends with me getting thrown off the roof.”

She smiles, a small sound of amusement caught in her throat. “Only if you land on your feet.”

His thumb strokes her arm absentmindedly. “You know she’s gonna lose her mind when she finds out this isn't fake anymore.”

Mel sighs. “We never really said what it was. She just told us to sell it. We did.”

“And we overachieved.” There is something like pride in his voice, half teasing, half wonder.

Mel tilts her head back just enough to look at him. “Yelena’s gonna find out before anyone.”

“She already knows,” he says, brushing a knuckle along her cheek. “She’s been giving me looks for weeks.”

“Oh no,” Mel groans softly. “She’ll never let us live this down.”

Bucky gives a small smile.

“You know, the day we…fought after the gala, Yelena came to my floor and chewed me out.” Bucky starts and Mel groans.

“I specifically told her not to do that.”

“You know she doesn't listen. But anyway, I told her that day. That I liked you, for real.” Bucky says. Mel’s heart flutters.

“I told her I liked you yesterday,” Mel admits.

“I guess she’s the wingman in all of this, huh?” Bucky chuckles.

“Yup. So Yelena is the least of our problems. The rest of the team though...”

“They think we were real from the beginning.”

“Yeah.” She sits up a little, bracing on her elbow. “Do we… tell them it started as a lie?”

His gaze is steady. “Do you want to?”

Mel opens her mouth, then hesitates. “I don't know.”

She isn't ashamed of it. But something about unraveling the layers now—exposing how this thing began—feels like undoing the thread that is keeping it all together.

“We didn't fake everything,” she says finally. “Maybe it started that way, but... it changed. It mattered.”

“It mattered to me,” Bucky says, voice gentle but clear.

She swallows hard. “So we keep going. Together. But real.”

A small smile tugs at his mouth. “Real sounds good.”

“And we deal with Val when she finds out.”

“Oh, I’m not dealing with her,” Bucky says instantly. “That’s all you.”

Mel laughs quietly, nose brushing his shoulder. “Coward.”

“I prefer ‘survivor.’”

They fall quiet again, the warm hush settling over them like another layer of the blanket.

After a long moment, she murmurs, “We should tell Yelena. Soon.”

He nods. “She’ll want to hear it from you.”

“And the team?” she asks.

He thinks about it. “We let them keep thinking what they’ve been thinking. At least for now. It’s not a lie if it’s the truth now.”

Mel smiles, heart thudding gently.

“Do you want to stay the night? Just to sleep? It’s late.” Bucky asks as he absentmindedly moves his hand across Mel’s arm back and forth. 

“Yeah.” Mel whispers, but neither of them make any attempt to get off the couch. She simply cuddles closer to him, and Bucky holds her tighter, pulling the blanket up to engulf both of them. 

Notes:

yay

i may kick the rating up to E for the last chapter cuz i love writing smut oops

Chapter 9

Notes:

sorry for the late update im on vacation and im buuuusyyyy

The first thing Mel registers is the unfamiliar softness beneath her. Not the slightly lumpy, well-worn cushions of the Avengers Tower common room couch where they drifted off last night, entangled in blankets and the quiet hum of a late-night documentary, but something far more luxurious, far more... bed-like. Her eyes flutter open, adjusting slowly to the muted sunlight filtering through unfamiliar curtains. The scent of pine and something distinctly Bucky – clean laundry, a hint of old spice from his morning routine, and that faint metallic tang she’s come to associate with his arm – fills her nostrils. It is comforting, grounding, surprisingly intimate.

She blinks, taking in the high ceiling, the subtle, masculine decor of the room. A sturdy dark wood dresser stands against one wall, a few framed, abstract pieces of art she doesn’t quite recognize adorn another, and a simple lamp with a dark shade stands on a bedside table beside her. A low murmur of sounds drifts from somewhere else in the apartment – the soft clinking of dishes, the quiet hiss of a coffee maker, a hum that is too steady for a TV.

Then it clicks. The couch. The movie. Falling asleep. Bucky. He must have moved her.

She shifts, pushing herself up on her elbows. She is under a thick, ridiculously soft duvet, fully clothed from last night's casual wear – jeans, a soft sweater – though her jacket is folded neatly and precisely at the foot of the bed. A soft, involuntary smile touches her lips. Bucky. He must have carried her. The thought sends a warm flush through her, a mixture of surprise and profound tenderness. He is always so quietly considerate, even when he pretends to be gruff; always anticipating needs she hasn’t even voiced, making her comfort his priority. It makes her chest ache, a pleasant, full ache.

She swings her legs over the side of the bed, her bare feet meeting a plush, dark grey rug that cushions her steps. A quick glance around confirms she is indeed in Bucky’s spacious, impeccably neat bedroom. It is sparse, functional, but there is an unexpected warmth to it, perhaps because she is in it. She walks silently to the door, opens it with a soft click, and finds herself in a short hallway. The sounds are definitely coming from the kitchen.

First, though, a pit stop. She finds the bathroom easily enough, a gleaming testament to minimalist design with dark tiles and chrome fixtures. Inside, a new, still-wrapped toothbrush sits on the counter beside Bucky's own, a deep forest green. Hers is a delicate lilac, a shade she’d never picked out for herself but recognizes as distinctly her. He’d chosen it, just for her. Mel’s smile widens, a quiet ripple of joy spreading through her. He’d thought of everything, anticipating her stay, making her feel welcome. She unwraps it, brushes her teeth, enjoying the fresh mint, splashes cool water on her face, and runs her fingers through her hair, doing her best to tame the morning-after tangles with just her hands. She feels surprisingly rested, and a little bit giddy, like a wonderful secret is bubbling just beneath her skin.

Taking a deep, fortifying breath, she steps into the kitchen. Bucky stands at the stove, his broad back to her, a spatula in his hand, wrestling with something in a pan. The tantalizing, if slightly alarming, smell of sizzling eggs fills the air, mingled with the robust aroma of freshly brewed coffee. He is wearing faded charcoal sweatpants that slung low on his hips and a simple grey t-shirt, clinging to the impressive breadth of his shoulders. His hair, usually so meticulously styled, is a charmingly rumpled mess, and a focused frown of concentration is etched onto his face as he pokes and prods the contents of the pan.

It is... domestic. Terribly, wonderfully, breathtakingly domestic. Not a mission brief, not a training exercise, just... breakfast. And a warmth spreads through Mel's chest, deeper and more profound than the earlier flush. This. This must be what it is like to truly date James Buchanan Barnes. Not the super-soldier, not the haunted Winter Soldier, but just Bucky, making breakfast in his kitchen.

"Morning, sleepyhead," Bucky rumbles, without turning around, his voice a low, gravelly sound that still sends a shiver down her spine. He must have heard the subtle shift in the air as she entered, or maybe just senses her presence.

Mel leans against the doorframe, a genuine, soft smile on her face. Her arms cross loosely over her chest, enjoying the sight. "You know, for a super-soldier with enhanced senses, you're awfully quiet in the mornings. I barely heard you stirring."

He finally turns, his eyes, usually so intense and watchful, softening perceptibly when they land on her, a lazy, morning-soft look. A faint blush creeps up his neck, dusting his cheekbones. "Didn't want to wake you. You looked comfortable, sprawled out like a starfish who'd won the lottery."

"I was," she admits, pushing off the frame and walking closer, drawn by the scent of coffee and the sheer domesticity of the scene. She peers into the pan. "What's for breakfast, chef?"

"Eggs. Or what's left of 'em," he mutters, poking at a suspiciously dark, lacy-edged mass that looks less like scrambled eggs and more like abstract, burnt lace. "They're... abstract." He glances at her, a hint of defensiveness in his eyes, quickly masked by a wry grin. "Very avant-garde."

Mel giggles, a bright, unrestrained sound that makes her shoulders shake. "Abstract? Bucky, are you sure you're not trying to recreate a charcoal drawing of a burnt offering?"

"Hey!" He gives her a mock-offended look, his brow furrowing dramatically, but a slow smile is already spreading across his face, crinkling the corners of his eyes and softening his whole demeanor. "I tried! It's the thought that counts, right? And the effort. Lots of effort went into this. Plus, it's protein. Very important for super-soldiers and their... companions."

"Absolutely." She reaches out, her fingers lightly, playfully poking a piece of what might have been scrambled egg. It is surprisingly solid. "Though I'm not sure what thought went into this."

He chuckles, a low rumble that resonates through her, making her feel warm all over. "Alright, alright, you're a tough critic. I'll make coffee. Extra sweet, just how you like it. You can supervise the, uh, re-creation of breakfast and maybe find something less... abstract to accompany it." He gestures vaguely at the fridge with his chin.

They settle at the spacious kitchen island a few minutes later, two mugs of steaming, perfectly brewed coffee between them and plates holding Bucky’s eggs alongside some perfectly toasted bread and fresh fruit Mel had managed to salvage from the depths of his fridge. He'd even found some jam.

"So," Bucky begins, swirling his coffee, his gaze playful but earnest as he watches her over the rim of his mug. "Did I pass the 'carry you to bed when you fall asleep on the couch' test? No back problems, I hope? My form was impeccable, I assure you."

"Barely," Mel teases, taking a delicate bite of toast to avoid the eggs for as long as possible. "My neck is a little stiff from the dramatic, princess-like pose you apparently left me in."

He laughs, a genuine, booming sound that makes her heart happy. "Liar. You were practically purring. Sound asleep, barely stirred."

"I do not purr!" Mel protests, though her cheeks are flushed. "And there will be no 'next time' unless you learn to make actual eggs."

"You kinda do," he insists, his eyes twinkling, unrepentant. "It's cute." He leans forward, propping his chin on his hand, his eyes never leaving hers, a warm, possessive gaze that makes her breath catch. "Seriously, though. You slept okay?"

“I did,” she confirms, her voice softer now, her gaze dropping to her coffee mug before meeting his again. "I really did. It was... incredibly thoughtful. And very, very kind, Bucky. Thank you."

His smile deepens, softening his whole face, erasing the last vestiges of the Winter Soldier from his features. "Anytime, Mel. You know that. I wanted you to be comfortable." He leans back slightly, mug still in hand, his eyes never breaking contact. "You got any plans today??"

Mel blinks, caught off guard by the sudden shift in topic, a flicker of disappointment at the thought of leaving already. She'd been so content. "No, actually. I was planning to go home, do laundry, reorganize my spice rack. Wild stuff, you know. Living the dream." She tries to sound casual, but she is acutely aware of the closeness between them, the lingering scent of his coffee and his steady, comforting presence.

His lips twitch, a slow, alluring curve. "Sounds thrilling.” He pauses, looking up for a moment. “But, would you rather spend the day with me? Go out on a date, for real this time?” Bucky asks, his gaze switching between her and the eggs in front of him, shy almost.

Her eyebrows shoot up, a thrill running through her. "For real? Tonight?"

"That's what I was hoping." he shrugs, but his eyes are alight with hope, a palpable eagerness.

She meets his gaze, her own smile mirroring his, a burgeoning excitement bubbling in her chest. "Okay. Yes. I'd love that."

A triumphant grin breaks across his face, lighting up his features. "Great. I'll plan something." He looks down at his plate.

She takes a brave bite of her "abstract" egg, chews thoughtfully, then makes a face. Bucky’s lips twitch.

“That bad, huh?” Bucky says.

Mel laughs, a full, unrestrained sound. "It’s not the best. But it's cute! It means you tried. And it means I get to make breakfast next time. And probably every time after that, if you value edible food. Or your internal organs."

"Deal," he says, his smile still wide. He reaches across the island, his fingers gently, almost hesitantly, brushing against hers, a fleeting, electric contact that makes her breath catch. "Though I reserve the right to attempt toast. I'm pretty good with a toaster."

***

After breakfast, with the lingering scent of coffee and slightly burnt eggs in the air, Bucky drives Mel home so she can change. The drive is easy, comfortable silence punctuated by soft hums from the radio. He opens her car door, then gently pulls her close, a tender gesture that feels surprisingly intimate. "Just so you know," he murmurs, his thumb stroking the back of her hand, sending shivers down her arm, "I'm really looking forward to tonight. More than just dinner and dodging reporters. This feels... different."

"Me too," she whispers back, her heart doing a little flutter-kick against her ribs. "Nervous, even. In a good way, I think. Like high school all over again, but hopefully with fewer bad decisions."

He leans down, his lips finding hers in a soft, lingering kiss. It is gentle, exploratory, full of quiet promise and a hint of shared apprehension, a silent acknowledgment that this is something new, something real. "I'll pick you up at six," he says, his voice a little husky, his eyes dark with a tenderness that makes her dizzy.

Mel nods, a blissful smile on her face. As she disappears into the building, she hears his voice, a little louder, "Six, sharp! Don't be late!" and giggles, her chest tight with happiness. He is almost as excited as she is.

Inside, she immediately calls Yelena, practically bouncing. "Lena! Oh my god, Lena, you will not believe what just happened."

"Let me guess," Yelena's dry voice comes through, already amused. "Barnes finally made good on his promise and used his big strong arms to carry you to bed?"

Mel gasps, clutching the phone to her ear. "How did you know?! Are you spying on me, you menace? Do you have surveillance equipment in his apartment?"

"Please. It's Bucky. He's practically a walking rom-com trope, just with more metal and existential angst. Did he also attempt to make you breakfast?"

"He tried!" Mel bursts out, laughing so hard she has to sit down. "Oh my god, his eggs were truly awful. Like, historically bad."

"And the point of this call, besides your utter predictability?" Yelena prods.

"He asked me out! A real date! Tonight! He's picking me up at six! A proper, grown-up date, Lena!"

There is a beat of silence on Yelena's end, a rare moment of genuine surprise. "Oh. Oh. This is real then. You're actually doing it. About time, honestly. I was starting to think you two would just awkwardly circle each other forever."

"I'm actually doing it," Mel confirms, flopping onto her couch, grinning at the ceiling, feeling a giddy lightness she hasn’t experienced in years. "It feels... real. Like, really real. My stomach is doing flips."

"Good," Yelena says, a softer tone in her voice now. "You deserve it, Mel. You've been moping about forever, stuck in your comfortable little rut. Now, what are you going to wear? You need something that says 'I'm casually stunning, but also ready for whatever slightly awkward but charming secret spy shenanigans this super-soldier might spring on me, and I'm totally fine with it if he wants to tell me about his past traumas over appetizers'."

They talk for a long time, Mel recounting every detail of the morning, Yelena offering fashion advice and teasing remarks about Mel finally getting out of her own way and embracing a little risk. The conversation is exactly what she needs—a blend of excitement and grounding.

Six o'clock cannot come fast enough. After Bucky texts her to dress formally, Mel settles on a deep emerald green midi dress with simple block heels, a comfortable yet elegant choice. Her hair is styled in soft waves, and her makeup is minimal, just enough to feel polished and confident. She finds herself checking her reflection every five minutes, a nervous energy buzzing beneath her skin.

Precisely at six, a knock echoes through her apartment, making her heart leap. She takes a deep breath, smoothing the fabric of her dress, and opens the door.

Bucky stands there, impossibly handsome in dark trousers, a crisp light blue button-down, and a dark blazer. He holds a small, delicate bouquet of white roses, and looks a little nervous, a charming wrinkle between his brows. He looks... solid, dependable, and undeniably attractive.

"Wow," he breathes, his gaze sweeping over her, a genuine smile replacing the nervous one. His eyes linger on her, making her feel seen, truly seen. "You look... incredible, Mel. Seriously."

"You don't look so bad yourself, Barnes," she teases, a blush creeping up her neck, feeling her confidence bloom under his gaze. She takes the roses, inhaling their delicate scent. "These are beautiful, thank you. You really didn't have to."

"Anything for you," he says, stepping closer, his hand hovering near her elbow, a silent question in his posture. "Ready?"

"Ready," she says, her voice a little breathless, taking his offered arm. His touch is warm, reassuring.

He leads her to his usual sleek, dark sedan. "So," Mel begins as he pulls away from the curb, a small smile playing on her lips. "Where are we going??"

Bucky's lips quirk into a teasing smile, his eyes fixed on the road, but a warmth emanates from him. "It's a surprise."

"A surprise? You know I loathe surprises."

"No, you don't," he counters, a soft laugh escaping him, a deep, resonant sound. "You love them when they're good ones. Trust me. I even consulted with Sam, which was a mistake, but I recovered."

She sighs dramatically, leaning back against the comfortable leather seat. "Fine. But if it's a trap, I'm holding you personally responsible."

"Always," he says, his smile softening, a hint of something deeper in his eyes. "You can blame me for anything. That's part of the package."

He pulls into a discreet parking garage beneath a high-end restaurant, a place that exudes understated elegance. He leads her through a less-trafficked entrance, up a private elevator. The doors open onto a quiet, warmly lit hallway, hushed and intimate. A maître d' greets them, bowing slightly.

"Mr. Barnes. Ms. Gold. Your table is ready."

He leads them to glass doors that open onto a small, intimate balcony, suspended high above the city, offering a breathtaking view of the sparkling skyline. A single table for two is set with gleaming silverware and flickering candles. Soft jazz music plays faintly from hidden speakers.

"A private balcony?" Mel whispers, her eyes wide with genuine awe. "Bucky, this is... wow. You really went all out. This is incredible. How’d you get this all done in a couple of hours?" She watches him, noticing the subtle pride in his posture, the slight flush on his cheeks. He is trying, really trying.

He gives her a small, self-conscious smile, a little shy almost. "Thought it might be better. No paparazzi, no media. Just us. And less chance of me spilling something on a stranger, or accidentally denting the table with my vibranium arm."

Mel feels a surge of affection so strong it almost makes her dizzy. He thought of everything, right down to the privacy. "It's perfect. Genuinely, it's lovely. Thank you."

He pulls out her chair with a practiced ease, waiting for her to sit before taking his own. A waiter appears almost immediately, discreet and efficient.

"So," Bucky says, leaning back in his chair, the city lights reflecting in his intense blue eyes. "What do you think of my 'surprise' now? Still think it's a trap, or are you starting to believe I might actually have some romantic flair?"

"It's a very good surprise," she admits, picking up her menu, though her gaze keeps drifting to him. He chuckles and looks down at his own menu.

Mel stares at the menu like it has suddenly turned into ancient Sanskrit. Her brow furrows slightly, lips pursed, fingers tapping absently against her water glass.

Across the table, Bucky sets his menu down and tilts his head. “You good over there?”

She blinks up, a little startled. “What? Yeah. Totally. Just... you know. So many options.”

He arches a brow. “You’ve been reading the same page for five minutes. Either you’re planning a heist or you’re having a mental breakdown over pasta.”

Mel lets out a soft, sheepish laugh. “Maybe a little of both.”

He leans forward, elbows resting on the white tablecloth, gaze steady and warm. “Talk me through the dilemma.”

She groans, dropping her menu just enough to peek at him over the top. “Okay, but you’re not allowed to laugh.”

“Of course.”

“I’m trying to decide if I should get the garlic rigatoni—which I actually want—but then I’ll have, like, death breath, and you might not wanna kiss me later.”

Bucky bites down on a smile. “Go on.”

“Or,” she continues, lowering the menu slightly more, “I get the chicken with the mushroom cream sauce, which sounds fine, but I hate mushrooms. I just don’t want to be that girl who’s like ‘Oh my god, please remove the fungus, I’m delicate.’ I don't want you to think I’m high maintenance or something.”

Bucky chuckles then, warm and not mocking. He shakes his head, smiling. “Order whatever you want, Mel. If being high maintenance means knowing what you want, I’m all for it. Just means I get to learn the manual. You could order five different sauces and rearrange the tableware and I’d still be thinking about how good you look under this lighting. I’ll kiss you regardless.”

She blinks, caught off guard.

He shrugs, looking a little sheepish now, like he hadn't meant for it to come out quite that straightforward. “Added bonus if you taste like dinner.”

Mel laughs, genuine and bright. “You are so weirdly smooth when you’re nervous. It’s very confusing.”

He grins, half-shy, half-proud. “Thanks, I think.”

“You’re welcome. And fine. Garlic it is. But don’t you dare chicken out on that kiss later.”

“I won’t,” he says, eyes sparkling as he flags down the waiter. “Scout’s honor.”

Dinner is exquisite, a symphony of flavors she barely registers, so engrossed is she in the conversation. They talk about their pasts, sharing anecdotes and funny stories, the kind of things you only tell someone you're starting to really trust. Bucky recounts a disastrous mission where Sam accidentally set off a smoke bomb in a civilian bakery, causing chaos and a severe allergic reaction in a local mayor. Mel tells him about an art gallery opening that Val took her to where the main exhibit was a single, dusty potato, displayed reverently, and everyone pretended it was profound.

"A potato?" Bucky asks, his eyes wide with amusement, his brow furrowed in disbelief. "Just... a potato? Not even, like, a historically significant potato?"

"A very conceptual potato," Mel clarifies, barely suppressing a giggle at his incredulity. "It was meant to symbolize the futility of human existence or something equally pretentious. Everyone was nodding sagely, discussing its 'raw existentialism,' and I just wanted to ask if anyone had some salt and butter. Or perhaps a good gravy."

He throws his head back and laughs, a genuine, unburdened sound that makes Mel's heart swell with warmth. It is a laugh that banishes the shadows she sometimes sees in his eyes, a pure, joyous sound. This is the connection she'd been craving, the ease she hadn't realized she was missing until he brought it into her life.

When the check comes, Bucky reaches for it immediately, sliding it toward himself with practiced ease.

She hesitates for a second, then awkwardly reaches forward. “Uh—hey, wait. Should we maybe... go halves?”

Bucky looks up, confused. “Why would we do that?”

She shifts in her seat, shrugging a little too hard. “I mean, I always have. With my exes. We split everything. Keeps things clean.”

There is a beat of silence before Bucky gives a quiet snort, clearly amused. “Mel. That just makes me want to pay more.”

Her brows furrow. “Why?”

He leans back slightly, studying her with something close to fond disbelief. “Because if you were splitting tabs with guys who didn’t care enough to take you out properly, I’m definitely not letting this date go down in the same category.”

Mel flushes, unsure if she wants to protest or melt into the seat. “That’s not—I mean, they weren’t bad. It was just... modern dating.”

Bucky snorts, pulling the check a little closer to himself. “Yeah, well, maybe that’s what’s wrong with modern dating culture. Everything’s a transaction now. Everyone’s so scared to just... show they care without it being misread.”

She leans back, studying him. “And paying the bill shows you care?”

“I think it shows I wanted to be here,” he says. “And I’m not just ticking some box so I can say we went out. I didn’t fake my way through this, Mel.”

Her brow lifts. “You have paid for me before, you know. More than once.”

“That was different,” he says quickly, shaking his head. “Those were—those were fake dates. PR appearances. Logistics. We were both clocked in. I was covering a business expense.”

“Gee thanks,” Mel snorts.

“No—I mean, that’s my point.” He exhales, dragging a hand through his hair. “Those nights, we were playing parts. This? This is just... us. Which makes it worse, right? That I paid when it wasn’t even real and now I’m supposed to go halfsies when it actually means something?”

Mel blinks, momentarily thrown off by the honesty in his voice.

He adds, quieter, “Back then, I told myself I was just playing along. But I still looked forward to it. Watching you charm a crowd. Laugh at my terrible small talk in the car after. I liked those nights too much for them to be fake. And now that it's real, I’m not pretending I don’t care.”

Mel’s expression softens. Her fingers brush his wrist. “Bucky…”

Mel lets out a breath, her chest suddenly tight in the best way. “You know you’re actively messing with my feminism right now.”

Bucky gives her a deadpan look. “I fought actual Nazis, Mel. I think I’m allowed to pay for dinner without it being a political statement.”

She bursts out laughing. “Okay, fine. But next time it’s on me. Or we arm wrestle for it.”

“Deal,” he says, reaching across the table to nudge her hand. “Though I should warn you—I’m pretty good at arm wrestling.” He flexes his metal arm, hidden by the sleeve of his shirt. Mel giggles.

***

After dinner, Bucky suggests a drive. They drive through the quieter, tree-lined streets, windows down, the cool night air refreshing on her skin. The city lights blur into streaks of color, a vibrant tapestry against the dark sky. The soft hum of the engine and the quiet music on the radio create a cocoon of intimacy.

"Fancy a walk?" he asks, pulling into a small, well-lit park area, the scent of fresh-cut grass and night-blooming jasmine filling the air.

"Definitely. I could use to walk off that dessert I somehow managed to fit. I think I have a second stomach just for that tiramisu."

They stroll hand-in-hand beneath the soft glow of streetlamps. Mel notices how his fingers, strong and warm, instinctively tighten around hers every so often, a subtle reassurance. As they round a corner, Mel's eyes light up.

"Oh! Ice cream! We should get some." she tugs on his hand. "Look, they're still open!"

He looks at the brightly lit ice cream parlor, then at his watch. "Mel, it's almost ten. Didn’t you say you barely had room for the tiramisu?"

"Everyone has room for ice cream, Bucky," she counters, pulling him towards the shop, her conviction unwavering. "Come on, let's go."

He sighs, a smile playing on his lips, a look of amused exasperation on his face. "Alright, alright. But if I start doing jumping jacks at 3 AM, I'm blaming you."

They stand in line, a little out of place in their date-night clothes amidst a few teenagers and a tired-looking couple. Mel chooses a double scoop of mint chocolate chip and cookie dough. Bucky, after some deliberation, his brow furrowed in mock-seriousness as he studies the flavors, opts for a single scoop of plain vanilla.

"Vanilla?" Mel scoffs playfully as they find a bench outside, the vibrant lights of the parlor casting a warm glow on them. "Bucky, you are a super-soldier who has seen the horrors of war and traversed the globe. You've fought aliens and dodged lasers. And you pick vanilla? That's your bold choice?"

"It's a classic! And I like to know what I'm getting into," he defends, taking a bite, his expression one of stoic contentment. "No surprises here. Predictable, dependable. Just like me."

Mel dips her spoon into his vanilla, then offers him a taste of her mint chocolate chip. "Here. Expand your horizons, Buck. Live a little."

He tries it, his eyes widening slightly, a genuine look of pleasant surprise on his face. "Okay. That's... surprisingly good. But still, vanilla has its merits. It's the foundation."

They eat their ice cream, sharing bites, the simple act feeling incredibly intimate. It is domestic, mundane, and utterly perfect. The easy back-and-forth, the shared laughter over something so trivial, feels more meaningful than any grand gesture.

The rest of the walk is a blur. He nudges her with his elbow when he tries to sneak another spoonful of her mint chocolate chip, and she playfully swats his hand away, their fingers brushing. A shared glance, a silent communication passing between them, holds more meaning than any conversation they'd had all night. Their hands find each other's naturally, his strong fingers intertwining with hers, a comforting warmth spreading between their palms.

They pause beneath the soft cover of a gnarled oak tree, its branches creating a shadowy alcove away from the winding park path. The world around them is hushed—just the distant rustle of leaves and the quiet hum of night settling in. The moonlight filters through the branches, dappled and pale, brushing across her cheekbone, the curve of his jaw.

Bucky shifts, turning to face her fully. His eyes, usually so guarded, are open and searching now. He looks at her like she is something delicate, but not fragile—something worth holding carefully.

His hand, warm and a little hesitant, comes to rest on her waist. His touch is featherlight, like he is giving her every opportunity to pull away. He draws her closer by the barest inch, enough for her to feel the heat radiating from him, the slight hitch in his breath.

"Mel," he murmurs, her name a question in itself, low and reverent, like he does not want to break the quiet around them. His voice is husky, rough around the edges like he hasn't spoken in hours.

Her heart beats louder in her ears, and she feels the moment stretch—weightless and charged. His eyes flick to her lips, then back to hers, holding there. A silent is this okay?

She doesn't need to answer with words. She leans in, just slightly, a silent invitation. He takes it, his lips finding hers in a long, lingering kiss. It is slow, tender, tasting faintly of vanilla and her sweet mint chocolate chip. When they finally break apart, a soft blush creeps up her neck as their eyes meet, a silent acknowledgment of the palpable connection between them.

"You know," he says, his thumb gently stroking her waist, his voice still a low murmur, "I'm really, genuinely glad I agreed to give this a chance. And by 'this,' I mean... us. And this date. Even the potato discussion. I didn't think I'd feel this much lightness, you know?" His gaze is earnest, a touch of wonder in his eyes.

Mel's blush deepens. "I know what you mean," she admits, her voice soft, feeling the solid warmth of his body against hers, a profound contentment settling over her. "It's… good."

He chuckles softly, then leans down, his lips brushing her cheek in a tender kiss. "You're beautiful when you blush, sweetheart," he murmurs.

“Such a charmer,” Mel says, but blushes even harder nonetheless.

Finally, Bucky drives her home. Mel leans her head against the window, watching the streetlights pass, a soft, contented smile on her face. She feels Bucky's gaze on her, warm and steady, a silent anchor in the comfortable quiet.

By the time he pulls up to her apartment, Mel is half-asleep, pleasantly worn out from a perfect evening that feels both grand and wonderfully ordinary. Bucky gently nudges her awake.

"Hey, sleepyhead," he murmurs, his voice soft, full of warmth. "We're here. Unless you want to try out my couch again for a more extended nap? It's really quite comfortable."

She blinks, slowly opening her eyes, a soft sigh escaping her. “Already?”

"Yep. Time flies when you're having fun, or when you're almost asleep. Take your pick."

He walks her to her door, his arm around her waist, pulling her close for a final, lingering kiss. It tastes of vanilla and mint chocolate chip, a quiet understanding passing between them, a shared secret of joy.

"Good night, Mel," he whispers against her lips, his voice a little husky. "I had a wonderful night. More than I could have hoped for."

"I had a really good time too. Good night, Bucky," she breathes, her heart full to bursting, a lightness she hadn't felt in years swirling within her.

She watches him walk back to his car, his silhouette bathed in the soft glow of the streetlamp, then slowly enters her apartment. She doesn't bother turning on the lights, just stumbles towards her bedroom, shedding her dress as she goes. She collapses onto her bed, still feeling the ghost of his hand in hers, the warmth of his lips, the echo of his laughter.

Notes:

text me on tumblr at chxrriesandwxne !!

Chapter 10

Notes:

OK SUPER LATE UPDATE BUTTTT ITS FINISHEDDDD YAYYYY

this is just a smut filled epilogue and slight angst in the beginning ENJOYYYY

Months have passed since that first real date. The initial flutter-kicks in Mel’s stomach have settled into a steady, comforting hum. Their lives have woven together with a quiet, almost effortless grace. Mornings often begin with shared coffee at his kitchen island – Mel now the designated breakfast chef, Bucky her appreciative taste-tester. Evenings are spent curled on his couch, watching documentaries or old movies, their legs tangled beneath a shared blanket, the comfortable weight of his arm around her.

Mel loves these moments, the mundane intimacy that feels more profound than any grand gesture. She loves the way he leaves his favorite mug for her to use, the way he remembers her obscure preferences, the way his presence fills a space she hadn't realized was so empty. He is kind, attentive, fiercely protective in a way that doesn't feel stifling, but rather like a warm, encompassing shield.

But there is a quiet, persistent ache, a question that lingers beneath the surface of their comfortable domesticity. It is a pattern she has come to recognize, a subtle barrier that emerges when their physical closeness threatens to deepen. She finds herself on his lap often, during a particularly engrossing movie or a moment of shared laughter, her head resting against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. He holds her close, his arms strong and warm, his chin sometimes resting on her hair. The affection is palpable, real.

Yet, whenever her hand drifts, perhaps to the small of his back, or she leans in for a kiss that lingers a little too long, a subtle tension creeps into his frame. A barely perceptible stiffening. A slight, almost imperceptible shift away. It is never overt, never a rejection, but a quiet withdrawal, a hint she has learned to take. She pulls her hand back, breaks the kiss, pretends to adjust the blanket or reach for her coffee. He doesn't notice her quick, internal flinch, the way her heart tightens just a fraction.

She tells herself he needs time. He has been through so much. Intimacy must be terrifying after decades of trauma and control. She respects his boundaries, she does. She doesn't push. But the question persists: Does he truly want me? Or is this as far as we go? The thought is a quiet, insidious whisper in the back of her mind, a fear she tries to ignore, but it is always there, a tiny, sharp shard of doubt. She’s 30. She knows what she wants, and she knows what it feels like to be truly desired. And this... this feels like a delicate dance around an unspoken truth.

Tonight, the rain pattters softly against his bedroom window, a rhythmic lullaby. They’re curled together in his bed, the thick duvet pulled up to their chins. The lamp on the bedside table casts a warm glow, illuminating the gentle curve of his jaw, the dark sweep of his lashes. They have been kissing lazily for what feels like an eternity, soft, lingering touches that deepen slowly. His lips are warm and soft against hers, his breath a gentle caress. His hand rests on her hip, his thumb stroking a slow, hypnotic rhythm.

Mel’s heart thrums. Tonight feels different. The kisses are hotter, more insistent. A wave of longing washes over her, a need to feel more of him, to break through the unspoken barrier. Her hand, almost without conscious thought, slips from his shoulder, tracing the line of his bicep, then tentatively slides towards the hem of his t-shirt. She wants to feel the warmth of his skin, the hard muscle beneath. She wants to feel him truly respond, to meet her desire with his own.

As her fingertips brush the fabric, a sudden, almost imperceptible tension snaps through him. His body stiffens, a subtle rigidity that spreads from his core. The hand on her hip pauses, the rhythmic stroking abruptly stops. The kiss, which had been deepening, becomes still, his lips pressed against hers, but unmoving.

Mel’s breath catches. The familiar, icy wave of disappointment washes over her, sharper this time, cutting through the warmth of the moment. It is the same pattern, always the same. She freezes, her hand still hovering at his shirt hem, suddenly heavy and unwanted. The air in the room thickens, charged with unspoken emotions. She pulls her hand back, slowly, carefully, as if not to startle a skittish animal. Her eyes sting.

Without a word, she turns onto her side, away from him, pulling the duvet tighter around her shoulders, facing the wall. She blinks rapidly, trying to stem the sudden, hot tears that prick at her eyes. A quiet sob escapes her, a small, choked sound she tries to swallow, but it is too late. A single tear escapes, tracing a hot path down her temple.

Bucky’s body next to her is suddenly still, rigid. She feels his presence, a heavy silence. Then, his voice, low and laced with concern, breaks the quiet.

"Mel? What's wrong?" he asks, his hand tentatively reaching out, hovering over her back, unsure if he should touch her. His voice is rough with sleep and confusion.

She shakes her head, unable to speak, a fresh wave of tears welling up. The embarrassment is overwhelming, the raw vulnerability of her sudden emotional breakdown. She feels foolish, childish.

"Mel, please," he insists, his voice gentler, closer. She feels the bed shift as he moves closer, his hand now resting lightly on her shoulder. "Talk to me. What happened?"

The words are a struggle, a painful lump in her throat. She takes a shaky breath. "It's... it's nothing," she manages, her voice thick with unshed tears. "Just... I'm tired."

"No," he says, his voice firm, his hand now gently stroking her hair. "That's not nothing. And you're not tired. You're crying." He pauses, his voice softening even more. "Is it... is it me?"

That breaks her. She turns back, tears streaming down her face, her voice a raw whisper. "I just... I don't understand, Bucky. We do this. We get close. And then... you always pull away. Every time. And I just... I think maybe you don't want me. Not really. Not like that. Or maybe I'm... I'm just not enough." The last words are barely audible, laced with a deep, aching insecurity.

His eyes, wide and filled with a sudden anguish, meet hers. He shakes his head vehemently, his hand coming up to cup her cheek, gently wiping away a tear with his thumb. "No, baby. No. That's not true. That's never true. God, Mel, don't ever think that." His voice is laced with a desperate sincerity, a pain that mirrors her own.

He sits up, pulling her gently with him, until she is leaning against his chest, his arm wrapping around her. She feels the steady beat of his heart, the warmth of his skin through his t-shirt. He takes a deep, shuddering breath, and she feels the tension in his body, a different kind of tension now—raw, exposed.

"It's... it's not you, Mel. It's me. Always me," he begins, his voice low and strained, almost a confession. "Look, I... I haven't been with anyone like that in... a very long time. A really, really long time." He pauses, searching for the words, his gaze distant for a moment, lost in memories. "And... and my past. The things I've done. The things that were done to me. My body... it's not just mine anymore, you know? It remembers things. It reacts."

He takes another shaky breath. "And my strength. God, Mel, my strength. I'm so used to holding back, to being careful. To not breaking things. Or people." His voice drops to a whisper. "I'm terrified of hurting you. Even accidentally. Of losing control. Of... of scaring you." He buries his face in her hair, his grip on her tightening, a desperate plea in his touch. "I want you, Mel. More than you know. More than I've wanted anyone in decades. But I... I want to do it right. I want to be sure I can be gentle. That I won't... won't mess it up. That I won't hurt you."

He pulls back slightly, his eyes raw with vulnerability, searching hers. "I've been trying to take it slow, to make sure I can control it. To make sure I'm ready. And I get... I get shy. And anxious. It's not because I don't want you, sweetheart. It's because I want you so much , and I'm terrified of ruining it. Of ruining us ."

Mel looks at him, her tears slowly subsiding, replaced by a profound understanding, a deep ache of empathy. The barrier wasn't rejection; it was fear, a legacy of his past. Her hand comes up, gently cupping his jaw, her thumb stroking his stubbled cheek.

"Bucky," she whispers, her voice still a little shaky, but filled with a fierce conviction. "You don't have to be afraid of me. I trust you. Completely. I know you'd never hurt me, not intentionally, not ever. And I want you. All of you. I'm not asking you to take it slow because of me. I'm ready for whatever this is, whenever you are. Just... talk to me. Don't pull away without a word.” 

Bucky smiles softly, petting her hair as he pecks her lips softly. And then again, a little more intimately. This kiss is different. It starts soft, a reaffirmation of their trust, but quickly deepens. His lips move against hers with a newfound confidence, a hunger she feels deep in her core. His hand slides from her back, tracing a path down her side, the bare skin of her waist warm beneath his palm.

Mel’s breath hitches. She feels his body, no longer rigid, but responsive, pressing closer. Emboldened, her hand moves again, cautiously, towards the hem of his t-shirt. This time, there is no flinch, no stiffening. Instead, his muscles flex slightly under her touch as she slides her fingers beneath the soft fabric, feeling the heated skin of his back, the hard plane of his ribs.

A low groan escapes him, a sound that vibrates through her as he deepens the kiss, pulling her even closer. His free hand tangles in her hair, tilting her head, allowing for a more profound connection. Mel melts into him, relief and desire a potent combination, the warmth of his skin a revelation against her fingertips.

Mel’s hand drifts slowly upward, her fingertips tracing the hem of his shirt where it clings to his waist. She hesitates for a second, almost holding her breath, before pushing her hand beneath the fabric. Her palm slides against warm skin, rough and smooth in turns, the muscles beneath twitching instinctively at her touch.

The shirt rides up, inch by inch, until it bunches near his chest. She is focused—completely, irrevocably—on the feel of him: the heat of his skin, the way his breathing hitches slightly the higher her hand travels. But then he pulls back just a little.

Her stomach drops.

Immediately, Mel freezes, flinching like she’s overstepped. Too fast. You pushed too far, too soon. Her hand retreats slightly, fingers curling as she braces for rejection.

But Bucky doesn’t look away. His eyes stay locked on hers—steady, gentle, burning—and without a word, he reaches behind his neck and pulls his shirt off in one clean motion. It drops soundlessly to the floor.

Her breath catches.

He is bare from the waist up. Scarred and strong and utterly unguarded. The pale glow of the nearby streetlight filters through the window, casting soft shadows across the hard lines of his torso, the curve of his ribs, the deep planes of muscle that flex subtly with each breath.

Mel’s gaze softens as she takes him in. Not like he is on display—but like she’s been entrusted with something precious. Her hands return to his body, slower this time, more reverent. She starts at his chest, her fingertips trailing over the rise of his pectorals, the fine line of a healing scar near his collarbone. His skin is warm, and he gasps—barely audible—when her thumbs pass over a spot just under his sternum.

He is all contrast—unyielding muscle under sensitive skin.

Her hand shifts left, brushing the faint scars near the metal shoulder joint. She pauses there. The scars are old, healed but harsh, remnants of a thousand battles, of pain she will never fully understand. Her thumb traces the uneven edge of one, and her heart clenches.

She doesn’t say anything. Just presses a kiss to the space just below it.

Mel’s breath hitches as Bucky inhales sharply, his eyes fluttering closed for a moment as if her touch had short-circuited him. His metal fingers flex at his side, then relax. She lets her palms glide down his sides, mapping the subtle ridges of his ribs, the flutter of his breath beneath her hands. Each time she finds a spot that makes his muscles twitch or his jaw clench, she lingers, learning him by feel.

She marvels at the stark contrast between his formidable body and the gentle way he holds himself around her. He could shatter walls, yet here he is, barely breathing as she explores him like something sacred. Her fingers slip around to his back, finding old tension knotted between his shoulder blades.

His head dips, forehead brushing hers. "Mel," he whispers, his voice raw with restraint, as if her name is a lifeline. She feels the vibration in her chest, echoing down her spine.

"This okay?" Mel whispers back.

"More than okay," Bucky responds, pressing a soft kiss to the top of her head. Mel hums, then breaks away, shedding her shirt until she is in just her shorts and bra. Bucky exhales at the sight.

"God, Mel," he mutters, his lips finding her neck, hands settling on her waist. She feels his immense strength, yet it only makes her feel safer. He sucks gently, his thumbs tracing circles on her skin, and Mel tilts her head, granting him more access as a soft whimper escapes her lips.

"I want you," Mel whispers. Bucky’s lips part from her neck, his eyes locking with hers.

"Yeah?" he asks, his voice a low rumble.

"Yeah. Need you, Buck. Been needing this for so long."

Bucky lets out a shaky breath. "Fuck, baby. You have me. I’ll give it to you." He kisses her again, deeper this time, his tongue massaging hers as he pulls her closer. He undoes the drawstrings of his pajama pants, letting them fall, and Mel mirrors him with her shorts. He breaks the kiss when they are both in just their undergarments, flushed and red.

"I want you to take this at your pace, Mel. I want you to take control for a bit, guide me. I don't want to do anything you don't want me to, or move too fast. Can you do that for me?" Bucky asks, his gaze earnest. Mel nods, her heart pounding.

She kisses him again, a gentle bite on his bottom lip, as her hand travels down to his boxers. Her fingers toy with the elastic, and Bucky groans into her mouth, bucking his hips just enough for Mel to get the hint. She pushes his boxers down, watching as his cock springs up against his stomach, already red and leaking.

Her hands find the base of him, and she begins a slow, deliberate motion, moving up and down while never breaking the kiss. Bucky groans, bucking into her hand, but Mel maintains her slow, teasing pace.

"Feel good?" Mel asks, her thumb circling the sensitive tip. Bucky lets out a low, graveled groan, nodding, his lips mere centimeters from hers. Mel hums, quickening her pace, moving faster and faster. Mel looks at him, marveling at how responsive he is. His eyes shut closed tightly, his crows feet making an appearance as he continues to groan quietly. She looks down and watches as her hand struggles to fit around the entire width of his cock and licks her lip, wanting to lick the precum off of his tip.

“Can I– can I taste you?” Mel whispers, her lips close to his. Bucky visibly shudders, and he pauses for a moment. He opens his eyes, struggling to make eye contact, but he nods.

“Yeah,” Bucky whispers. “if you want.” He adds, just for good measure. Mel nods back and lets go of his cock for a minute as she pushes him to lean back on the headboard as she moves down. She meets his eyes as her lips hover a centimeter away from his cock, and she can see the black of Bucky’s pupils overpowering the blue of his iris. She licks her lips once, and strokes his cock with her hand once again before gently lowering to kiss his tip. He shudders, and she smiles as she takes his tip in her mouth.

“Oh, fuck.” Bucky whispers as she sinks down slowly, easing him down her throat. Her eyes shut close momentarily, adjusting to his size. She takes him down, inch by inch, tears springing by the sides of her eyes. Bucky watches, his hands clenched into fists by his side as he watches her take him all the way down. Mel pushes down until her lips are brushing against his pubic bone, and then swallows. Bucky lets out an obscene noise. Mel slowly bobs her head up and down, her hand moving down to cup his balls, massaging them gently.

Bucky’s hands are now clenching the sheets, and Mel notices his fingers red and veins popping on the top of his hand and forearms. Mel gently moves her right hand to grasp Bucky’s, and Bucky follows her movement. She takes his hand in hers, shaking now, and places it on top of his head, and Bucky’s breath hitches. She grabs his other hand and does the same, so they’re both rested on the top of her head, a gentle hand to guide.

Bucky swallows and allows his hands to stay there, but does not dare move to push her head down or guide her. He strokes her cheeks and pushes the tears away with his thumb as she bobs her head.

He gasps. “Fuck, baby. Your mouth. Your fucking mouth–” His words get cut off as she begins to suck, her cheeks hollowing.

Spit pools her mouth and dribbles down his cock, making it all even more messy, and Bucky groans at the obscene sight.

“Fuckin’ filthy mouth you got. So fuckin’ gorgeous.” Bucky babbles and accidentally bucks his hips up, Mel gagging softly in response. Bucky curses, his eyes snapping open. He immediately pulls out and cradles her head.

“Fuck, sorry, I’m sorry Mel. You okay?” Bucky asks, attempting to pull her up to face level, but Mel just smiles and shakes her head, wiping the spit from her chin.

“It's okay, Buck. It's okay.” Mel says as she moves back down, making eye contact with him as she takes him down, guiding his hand to push down on Mel’s head.

“Oh my god.” Bucky mutters as she lets him control his movements, pushing down on her head. He continues to struggle preventing thrusting up into her throat, and Mel notices. She smiles as she takes him down harder and faster.

She urges him to fuck into her mouth, and Bucky thrusts up slightly, almost on accident. Controlled. But refuses to grab her and fuck her mouth entirely. Mel doesn’t push either, and allows Bucky to do whatever feels right.

"Mel, you gotta—fuck—I’m gonna come, sweetheart," Bucky breathes out, his voice strained. Mel pops up for just a second, lips slick with spit and precum as she smiles.

"I want you to come, Bucky, that's the whole point," Mel giggles, her eyes sparkling. Bucky shakes his head.

"Want you to feel good too."

"Yeah?" Mel whispers. Bucky nods, sitting up slightly to allow her to take off her own bottoms. He watches every movement deliberately, licking his lips as she slides her panties off. A line of slick connects between her pussy and her panties and snaps as she pulls them off, and Bucky gulps at the sight. Mel smiles, climbing over him, kissing him breathless again. She takes his cock in her right hand, guiding it to her entrance as she licks into his mouth.

They both groan at the first contact.

"Oh fuck, you’re big," Mel mutters as the tip eases inside. Bucky lets out a shaky breath.

"'M sorry, baby. We don't have to do this," Bucky says, his metal hand finding her cheek. Mel shakes her head, a soft smile gracing her lips.

"Don't be sorry. Definitely don't be sorry. It’s a good thing, you know." She sinks a little deeper, her eyes meeting his.

"Fuck," Bucky breathes as she finally bottoms out. Mel throws her head back, a long moan escaping her lips as she feels Bucky completely inside her.

She slowly brings herself up and down, clenching around him with each movement. Bucky’s hands find her hips, not guiding her, but offering a strong, anchoring presence.

"Shit, baby, you’re so tight," Bucky whispers, leaning his head back onto the pillow, eyes closed in bliss. Mel only grins, quickening her pace on his cock.

"Do I feel good, Buck?" she asks, grinding down.

"You feel incredible, Mel. So perfect, sweetheart—fuck," Bucky moans, opening his eyes. Mel smiles down at him as she bounces, feeling his gaze drop to her tits, watching them bounce in unison with her. One of his hands releases her hip and rides up to her breast, gently playing with her nipple while she moves. Mel throws her head back, a raw moan tearing from her throat.

She can feel Bucky trying to hold back, his hips twitching, his jaw clenching as he fights for control. She knows he is trying to ensure her pleasure, trying not to hurt her. But that isn’t all she wants.

"Bucky…" Mel moans, grinding down onto his pelvis. He hums in response.

"I know you want more, Buck," Mel whispers, locking eyes with him, and Bucky’s gaze flickers for a brief moment.

"You’re perfect right now, baby, don't worry. You feel amazing," Bucky says, his voice thick. Mel shakes her head.

"It's okay, Bucky. You can take control. You’re not gonna hurt me," she insists, and Bucky’s jaw clenches as his hips accidentally give a millimeter-long thrust upwards.

"Fuck," Bucky mutters, his eyes squeezed shut.

"C’mon, Buck. You’re not gonna—ngh—you’re not gonna hurt me. Want you to… to fuck me like you mean it," Mel moans, her body begging. Bucky’s breath hitches, and he lets out a guttural groan.

"Don’t—you don't know what you're asking for, Mel," Bucky warns, his voice rough.

"Please—Bucky, I want this. I need this. I need you. Please, Buck," Mel pleads, slowing her pace, her gaze unwavering. Bucky swears under his breath before his grip on her hips tightens, and in a second, they’ve switched positions. He flips them so Mel is on her back, Bucky hovering above her, his cock still deep inside her.

"You sure, baby?" Bucky confirms, his eyes searching hers. Mel nods, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps.

"Want you like this. Please."

That was all Bucky needed to hear before he began to piston into her, raw and unrestrained. Mel moaned, loud enough for people in the other floors to hear, as he fucked into her.

“This okay, baby?” Bucky asks, slowing his pace just a little to make sure Mel was okay. Mel nodded vigorously. 

“Harder, Buck. Fuck me–oh–harder. Please–” Mel moaned. 

“You don't have to beg baby, I got you.” Bucky muttered as he fucked into her harder, with all abandon. Mel’s hands find his back and she begins to scratch at it, knowing that she’s definitely leaving marks. Her legs wrap around him, and he leans down as he fucks into her, whispering sweet nothings into her ears as he kisses her neck. 

“So beautiful like this, Mel. Doin’ so good.” He mutters as Mel’s eyes roll back. 

“You feel so good inside me, Buck.” Mel whispers. 

“Yeah? This feel good?” Bucky teases as he grinds against her, his pelvis teasing her clit. Mel moans and nods. 

“Fuck, baby, this pretty pussy’s grippin’ me so tight. Feels so incredible.” Bucky groans. Mel can’t do anything other than moan in reply. The sound of skin on skin and Bucky’s heavy breathing take up the room. She looks up at him, mouth ajar, and his face goes soft as they make eye contact. Bucky leans down to kiss her gently, with complete contrast to the hard fucking he was doing. 

He kisses down her neck, his hips not losing momentum. He grabs her legs to put them over his shoulders to get a better angle, and rams into her again, and Mel’s eyes pop wide open, a raw moan elicits her as he pistons into her g-spot. 

“Oh god, Buck.” Mel moans out. Bucky grins. 

“Hm?” Bucky teases as he continues to ram into her, right into that spot again and again. 

“Fuck– right there– ngh dont stop.” Mel moans out. 

“M’kay baby, not gonna stop. Talk to me, tell me what feels good.” Bucky says, wanting reassurance. 

“Everything. You. You feel so good. Fuck. So big, so deep.” Mel babbles, her right hand gripping his bicep with all the strength she can muster. Bucky doesn't even flinch. He kisses her cheek softly and smiles. 

His right hand moves down to where their two bodies connect and his thumb begins to lightly graze her swollen clit, and Mel visibly arches her back up and whimpers at the touch. 

“Sorry, baby, been neglecting this little thing, haven't I?" Bucky teases as he gently rubs her clit, his hips still ramming into her sweet spot. And it's all just too much for Mel at once. 

“Fuck, Bucky, buck—nghh fuck I’m gonna come. I’m gonna cum, Bucky.” Mel moans out, and that just makes Bucky rub faster and fuck harder. 

“Yeah? Come for me, Mel. Want you to come all over my cock, c'mon baby, make a mess of me.” And if the actions itself weren't enough, his words send her over the edge. She clenches around him and comes hard. Her legs wrap tightly around him, and her mouth is wide open as her pleasure releases, and Bucky’s rhythm also falters. 

“Fuck, you feel so good doll. I’m gonna come too.” Bucky stutters.

“In me. Please, Buck. Come in me.” Mel whispers, and Bucky lets out a deep groan. 

“Are you sure that’s what you want?” Bucky asks. Mel nods vigorously. 

“Please. Wanna feel you deep inside me. Wanna feel you for days. Please.” Mel begs. Bucky curses and speeds up for just a moment before letting out a raw, unrestrained moan, stopping his thrusting as he bottoms out. 

“‘M coming, doll. Fuck.” His eyes shut close tightly as he releases, and Mel can feel his heat inside her, eliciting another moan. Bucky stays still momentarily as he finishes, and his breath stutters as he slowly pulls out, and Mel whimpers at the loss of contact. Bucky moves down to kiss her deeply, his lips pressing into Mel’s feverishly. He moves down, his head at level with her pussy and watches as his seed pushes out. He looks up at her eyes, bloodshot with tears still pricking her eyes, red faced and mouth ajar. 

“Fuck, you look so beautiful like this, Mel.” Bucky whispers, and before Mel can even think of a response, Bucky’s lips are on Mel’s pussy, and she bucks her hips in response. 

“Sorry baby, You looked too good with me leaking out of you. Wanna taste us together.” Bucky whispers, and begins eating her out with purpose. His tongue licking long strides from the bottom all the way to the top, licking and tasting his own cum. Mel groans, the overstimulation aching her as she grabs his hair, pulling on it lightly. Bucky's eyes darken as he licks with vigor, wanting to swallow all of his own cum mixed with her own sweet slick. He sucks on her nub lightly, already swelling up again. 

“Fuck, Bucky.” Mel whispers, and Bucky hums in response as he continues to lap at her, not ever coming back up for air. 

He does this for minutes, not letting up until all of his cum is gone. And Mel continues to whimper and twitch, pulling on his hair and tightening her thighs around him. 

As he moves up to suck on Mel’s clit again, Mel gasps and pulls his head with more force this time. 

“M gonna come. ‘M gonna come again, Bucky, fuck.” Mel whispers. Bucky hums again his right hand finding Mel’s own and intertwines their fingers. Mel lets out an estranged moan as she releases, and Bucky laps at her for another few seconds before coming up after her release to kiss her with his own wet lips. Mel lazily kisses back, exhausted from the two orgasms. 

Mel barely registers the way her chest rises and falls, the soft tremble in her limbs, or how her fingers are still loosely tangled in the sheets. Everything feels hazy and full—her heart, her body, her mind. She blinks slowly, eyelids heavy, breath softening as she grounds herself in the warmth of Bucky.

He presses a feather-light kiss to her shoulder. “Hey,” he murmurs, voice low and rough with tenderness. “Still with me?”

She nods faintly. “Yeah. Just… floaty.”

Bucky smiles against her skin. “Good floaty?”

A sleepy hum is all she manages. He chuckles softly and pulls back just enough to look at her, brushing a few damp strands of hair away from her cheek with the backs of his fingers. His touch is careful, reverent—like she’s something fragile and precious.

“I’m gonna get a towel, okay? Just stay here. Relax.”

Mel doesn’t even try to argue. She doesn’t want to move. Not yet. The sheets are warm, the air calm, and Bucky’s presence wraps around her like something steady and safe.

He returns a moment later with a warm cloth and a glass of water, sitting beside her on the edge of the bed. “Here,” he says gently, lifting her so she can sip. She drinks slowly, his hand cradling the back of her head the whole time, thumb tracing lazy circles near her hairline.

Then, with the kind of patience that makes her throat tighten, he cleans her up—gentle, unhurried motions, eyes flicking to hers now and then to make sure she’s still okay.

“You good?” he asks softly, his fingers smoothing down her thigh.

She gives him a small, dazed smile. “Yeah. You?”

“I’m perfect,” he says, setting the towel aside and slipping under the blankets beside her. He pulls her in, close and warm, until her head rests on his bare chest. He kisses her forehead with so much tenderness it almost undoes her.

“You felt amazing,” he murmurs into her hair. “More than that—you made me feel safe. Like I could let go.”

Her fingers curl lightly against his ribs, grounding herself in him.

“I never thought I’d… want this again,” he admits. “That kind of closeness. But with you? It’s different. I’m glad you trust me.”

Mel tilts her head up, eyes searching his. He meets her gaze, open and vulnerable in a way that steals her breath.

She doesn’t hesitate. “I felt safe with you too.”

His brow furrows a little, like he’s not sure she means it—like it’s something he doesn’t think he deserves.

“You’re so gentle with me,” she says, voice soft but certain. “Always. You still flinch like Hydra’s shadow is hiding just under your skin, but Bucky… you’re not what they tried to make you.”

He doesn’t speak, but she can feel the breath catch in his chest.

“You’re still you,” she whispers. “The softest version of you. Even if you don’t always believe it.”

Her hand finds his jaw, guiding his eyes back to hers. There’s so much emotion there—so much history and ache and tenderness, too.

“I trust you,” she says. “With all of me.”

He exhales like he’s been holding that breath for years. Then he leans in and presses another kiss to her forehead—longer this time, more like a vow.

“I don’t know what I did to deserve you,” he says quietly.

She smiles, eyes half-lidded with sleep and affection. “You were you.”

He curls around her again, his vibranium arm resting gently at her waist. His thumb draws slow, soothing circles on her back.

“We’re good, Mel,” he murmurs. “You’re okay. I’m okay. And if you ever feel anything less than okay, you tell me. Always.”

“Deal,” she whispers, already halfway to sleep.

And in that soft stillness, with his heartbeat steady beneath her cheek and his arms around her like a promise, she lets herself drift—safe, held, and completely loved.

Notes:

hope you enjoyeddd