Chapter Text
Evie’s day has been long. She’s been out for hours—running errands, pretending to function, pretending that the emptiness of the apartment doesn’t follow her like a shadow. The silence left behind in Bucky’s wake still stretches thick across every room. It lingers on her skin. No matter how far she walks, she can’t outrun it.
She turns the corner toward the apartment building, her arms full of groceries and her thoughts elsewhere, when something makes her stop. Parked just outside the building is a car she’s never seen before—sleek, black, brand-new. It gleams in the afternoon light, far too polished for their quiet little block. There’s a bright red bow tied carefully across the windshield, like something out of a commercial. A note is shoved into the passenger window, wedged into the top of the closed glass.
She frowns at it but keeps walking. Inside her apartment, she pauses at the sight of a set of keys on the console table by the door, unfamiliar and brand new. She hesitates, picks them up, and then takes herself back downstairs.
She stands in front of the car for a moment before pressing the unlock button. The car responds immediately, lights flashing and tiny little sound buzzing.
Her legs carry her closer, cautious, as if the wrong movement might shatter the strange hope blooming in her chest.
She reaches the car and sees that the note has her name on it. Her fingers tremble as she yanks the letter out of the window, looking around to find no one around.
The handwriting she knows—slanted, looped, quick, unmistakably his.
Matilda is unreliable. This will be much safer.
Just one sentence. No signature. But she knows it’s Bucky.
Her old car—Matilda—has been on its last legs for months. He’d complained about it more than once, always with that deadpan concern, that protective tone. He used to check her tire pressure every time they drove anywhere. He and her dad spent hours trying to fix all the ticking time bomb issues lurking under the hood. The seatbelt that kept getting stuck – he’d replaced that. Put new wipers on without asking. He’d always offer to drive, just in case, because my reflexes are better, Evie.
Now, this.
Her throat tightens.
She pulls on the handle and it opens. The smell of new leather, a new car, hits her. She sits in the driver’s seat, behind the wheel, tears in her eyes. She presses a hand to the seat, overwhelmed by the gesture. It’s not just a gift. It’s an act of love. A quiet one. A safe one. A distant one.
He can’t bring himself to talk to her, or let himself be with her, but he still shows up in the only ways he knows how without getting too close.
She presses her forehead to the steering wheel for a moment and closes her eyes. She can feel the care in this, the quiet protectiveness in every choice—every upgrade, every small unspoken thought behind the gesture. He knows she hates driving at night because the headlights barely work. He knows her heater is temperamental, her wipers streaky.
He knows, and he’s been watching, still. The fact that she always walks and takes the subway now because she just doesn’t trust herself driving Matilda alone. Doesn’t want to break down on the side of the highway at two in the morning again or have to push her car across an intersection if she breaks down at the lights. With Bucky, she didn’t worry if the car broke down, she knew she’d always be safe. But not anymore, and he’s noticed. And he’s bought her the car he always warned he would.
She gets out of the car and locks it, carrying the keys and letter in silence, the note clutched in her hand like it might vanish if she lets go. Inside the apartment, everything is still. The groceries are dropped haphazardly on the bench where she came in before. She notices the spare keys then, also already inside her apartment, resting in the key bowl like they’ve always belonged there.
He’s been here. While she was gone. He’d let himself in and then slipped out again like a ghost.
And it’s not the first time.
She’s seen the signs—doors locked behind her she swore she hadn’t locked, a lightbulb changed after it blew when she was getting ready in the bathroom, a leaky tap suddenly fixed, a new carton of milk in the fridge when the original carton went off, leftovers of a meal he thought she’d liked cooked and put into the fridge in a plastic container.
And she’s seen him. Just out of reach. Standing across the street, leaning against the lamppost when she walks home late. Shadowing her from a distance when she’s on her morning run, always just far enough to pretend he’s not there. Loitering near the bar, and even inside the bar once to move on drunkards when some new customers refused to leave at closing. Watching her when they spar, during missions. A fresh coffee waiting for her in the morning in the Tower. And of course, the incident with the pushy man at the gala.
Always close enough to help, if she needs it. Always close enough to care.
He never really speaks. Never stays.
But he’s still watching. Still taking care of her the only way he knows how.
It shatters her. That someone can love her so fiercely and still believe he’s unworthy of being in the same room.
She sits on the couch, the paper still clutched in her hand. The silence feels different now. Not empty. Just... echoing. Like he's still there in the spaces between things. Not gone. Not really.
Just breaking his own heart to keep from breaking hers again.
There’s a strange comfort in that. Knowing he’s still out there. That even though he won’t talk to her much, won’t meet her eyes, he’s still watching, still protecting. But it also guts her. The way he lingers on the edges of her life like he’s haunting it, like he doesn’t believe he belongs in it anymore.
She holds the keys tighter, the weight of them grounding her, reminding her he’s not gone—not completely. But he’s not here either.
And as she sinks into the couch with the note still in her lap, her eyes sting with unshed tears.
He’s still looking out for her.
He just won’t let her look back.
She finds him where she knew he’d be.
Bucky sits on the fire escape outside Steve’s apartment, legs dangling off the edge, watching the city go by like it might offer him an answer if he stares long enough. He doesn't flinch when she climbs through the window behind him, swearing as her foot gets caught. Doesn’t look back, but she sees the slight twitch in his shoulders. He knows it’s her.
She stands and looks at the back of his head, brushing down the front of her dress and grateful she wore shorts underneath today.
“Bucky,” she says, voice soft, careful.
Still, he doesn’t turn around. Just mutters, “Thought you’d like it.”
Evie stays quiet for a beat, then steps forward and sits beside him, though there’s still a wide gap between their bodies. She crosses her legs and looks at him. “You can’t just drop off a car like that.”
“You needed it.”
“You still don’t understand,” she breathes, looking away in frustration.
“What?”
“I need you,” she says sharply, before she can stop herself. It spills out, all tangled and raw. “Not the car. Not a note. Not fixed locks or groceries that magically refill. I need you. And you left. And you won’t let yourself have me back when I’m desperately clawing at you to come back.”
He closes his eyes like the words hurt. “Evie…”
“It’s too much,” she says, voice catching. “The car, the watching from the shadows, the silence. You can’t give me all this care and none of you. That’s not love—it’s penance.”
His jaw tightens. “Maybe that’s all I’ve got left.”
“No.” She shakes her head, tears blurring her vision. “That’s all you think you’re allowed to give. But this—this halfway version of you—it’s killing me.”
Finally, finally, he turns to face her. And he looks terrible. Unshaven. Eyes sunken. But worse is the way he looks at her—like he wants to reach out, to pull her into his arms, but doesn’t trust himself not to ruin her all over again.
“I don’t know how to be around you without hurting you,” he says quietly. “I already have. And I can’t stop thinking about that.”
“You’re hurting me now, by doing all of this.” Her voice trembles. “You think I don’t feel it? You think I don’t still feel it every time I turn and hope I’ll see you standing in the kitchen again? Every time I go to say something and realise you’re not there to answer? I miss you. I need you. I don’t want your car or your money. Just you.”
He looks away again, his eyes shining. “I just wanted to make sure you were safe. Even if I couldn’t be the one to stay.”
“You don’t get to decide that,” she snaps. “You don’t get to love me silently from a distance and call that protecting me.”
He doesn’t respond.
“You gave me a car, Bucky,” she says, standing now, breath shaky. “But I wanted you. All of you. Not the ghost.”
And then she stands and walks away, climbing back through the open window. He hears her footsteps and then the slamming of Steve’s front door.
He doesn’t stop her.
Not this time.
He doesn’t move for a long time.
The city hums below him—car horns, distant sirens, the rush of wind between buildings—but all Bucky hears is her voice. Sharp. Shaking. Heartbroken.
He wanted to help. That’s all he ever meant to do. Fix something, anything, after tearing so much apart. But she’s right. Of course she’s right. It wasn’t a gift—it was a bandage on a wound he refuses to look at.
The door behind him creaks open—Steve again, probably—and Bucky scrubs a hand down his face before turning. But it’s empty. No one there. Just the dark hallway and the weight of regret thick in the air.
He closes his eyes and leans his head back against the brick.
He sees her—every time he closes his eyes, he sees her. Her in the soft morning light, dancing barefoot in the kitchen, curled into the corner of the couch with that ratty blanket. Her laugh. Her hands in his hair. The way she’d look at him like he was something worth staying for.
He thought he was doing the right thing. Keeping his distance. Making sure she was okay from afar. Replacing her broken-down car, fixing her locks, cooking himself dinners he knows she always liked and leaving the leftovers in her fridge, paying off her damn student loans in secret, because she always muttered about them under her breath when she didn’t think anyone was listening.
But none of that is love—not the way she needs it. Not the way he needs to give it.
Bucky rises slowly from the fire escape, limbs stiff and heavy.
He walks through the apartment, spots the keys to the new car on the bench, still gleaming silver with a thin red ribbon looped through them.
She left them.
It hits him harder than anything else.
She’s drawing the line now, like she should’ve done months ago. She’s been way too patient with him, way too understanding. He told himself he couldn’t be with her because he was dangerous. Because he was broken. But maybe the truth is uglier—maybe he’s just scared. Scared to be seen. Scared to be loved the way she loves him. Scared to be completely vulnerable. Scared to be what he was turned into when he’s struggling to piece together who he used to be.
He sits on the couch, the place where she used to curl beside him when they went to Steve’s. He picks up the blanket. Bucky grips it in his fist and presses it to his face, hiding.
He doesn’t cry. Not yet. He’s past the point of easy tears. But the ache in his chest is louder than anything he’s felt in years.
He told her no.
He told her he couldn’t.
But now all he wants is to take it back.
He pulls out his phone. His fingers hover over her name for a long time. Typing… deleting… typing again. And then, finally, he writes: I’m sorry. Not for the car. But for pretending I could walk away.
He stares at the message. Hears his heartbeat in his ears.
Then he sends it. And he waits.
She stares at the message for a long time.
I’m sorry. Not for the car. But for pretending I could walk away.
It doesn’t feel fair.
Not after weeks—months—of silence. Of him standing five paces behind her like a ghost, watching but never speaking. Of trying to be civil, trying to be friends, trying to be something other than aloof and awkward and strained. Of blank looks and cold shoulders and that damn car with the red bow sitting like a promise he never intended to keep.
Now this?
Now he decides to say something?
Her thumb hovers over the screen. She locks it. Unlocks it. Reads the message again. It’s the first thing he’s said that feels real in a long time. That feels like him. And yet, it’s not enough.
She has a horrible feeling inside her that it’s too late.
She walks into her kitchen and sets her phone down like it burns. Her heart is racing. Her head’s a mess. She wants to cry and scream and curl up under a blanket all at once.
Instead, she texts him back: You don’t get to do this now. Not after everything. You say one thing and expect what? That I just come running back?
She sends it, heart in her throat.
He sees it. The typing bubble appears. Disappears. Reappears. And then it’s gone.
Good. She doesn’t want a reply. She doesn’t even want to be here.
She’s already half-packed by the time her phone buzzes again, a different sound—her mother. Checking in. It feels like a sign. Evie’s already grabbing her bag before she even responds.
She types out a message to Bucky before she can talk herself out of it. I’m going to the farm again. I don’t know when I’ll be back. Do not come.
She considers adding more—something gentler. Something to explain the way she’s unravelling inside. But what would be the point? She doesn’t know what he wants from her. She doesn’t know what she wants from him anymore.
And then she walks out of the apartment without looking back.
Bucky stares at her message, standing motionless in the middle of Steve’s apartment.
I’m going to the farm. I don’t know when I’ll be back. Do not come.
The words hit harder than they should. He thought he was being careful. Distant. Controlled. Protecting her. But it’s not enough. He can feel the weight of it now — how his silence has been its own kind of cruelty.
“She’s leaving,” he says out loud, but only Alpine hears him.
He leans back against the counter, exhaling shakily. For a moment, he just stands there, blinking down at the message as if it might change if he stares long enough. It doesn’t.
He grabs his jacket and keys and heads out.
He finds Sam at the gym, doing reps like it’s the only thing keeping him sane. Bucky doesn’t even knock — just walks in, arms crossed, pacing the edge of the room like a caged animal.
Sam notices the look immediately, pausing mid-rep, muscles straining slightly with the weight. “Uh oh. Who died?”
“She left.”
Sam clanks the barbell into the slot and sits up. “Evie?”
“She said she’s going to her parents again. Said she doesn’t know when she’ll be back. And told me not to show up there again.”
Sam raises an eyebrow, wiping the gleam of sweat from his forehead. “And you’re surprised?”
Bucky flinches. “I— I bought her a car, Sam. I left a note. I thought…”
Sam stands, grabbing a towel. “You thought a new set of wheels would fix six months of radio silence and awkward, longing glances and uncomfortable conversations? You’ve been turning her away for months when she’s been trying so desperately to show her she wants you. C’mon, man.”
Bucky’s eyes are downcast. “I didn’t know what else to do.”
“Then say that,” Sam snaps. “Say it to her. Not through gifts or cryptic notes or watching her from a distance like some lovesick war ghost.”
Bucky sits down hard on the bench, head in his hands. “She deserves more than I can give her.”
“You’re doing that thing again,” Sam says, softer now. “The self-sabotage thing. I thought we left that behind in 2021 when you kept ghosting my texts.”
“She looked at me like I was a stranger,” Bucky whispers. “And I deserved it.”
“But you’re not a stranger to her. You’re trying to be, but you’re not. You’re not just coworkers, or just friends. You’re more than that. The problem is that you’re just scared.”
Bucky doesn’t respond.
“She still loves you, Buck. Anyone can see it. But you can’t keep punishing yourself and her indirectly, and expecting her to wait around while you do.”
“She said she didn’t know when she’d be back. S-should I go out there? To the farm?”
“I think you need to take this time,” Sam says, gripping his shoulder, “to figure your shit out. And if you get yourself sorted before she’s back, then you go out there and you tell her how you feel. And when she comes back — if she comes back — maybe this time, meet her halfway.”
Bucky nods, eyes stinging, throat tight.
He doesn’t say it out loud, but it’s already echoing in his chest. I can’t lose her for good.
The chair is stiff. The room is warm. Bucky sits with his arms crossed, shoulders hunched like he's bracing for an impact that never comes. The therapist — Dr. Dufresne a — is quiet, giving him time. She’s good at that. Waiting him out.
He hates it.
“It’s been a few weeks since our last session,” she says gently. “You said you’d think about what you wanted to talk about.”
He shrugs, staring at the floor. “There’s nothing to talk about.”
Dr. Dufresne raises an eyebrow but doesn’t press. Instead, she writes something down in her notebook. The sound of her pen scratching against paper is somehow louder than it should be.
Bucky sighs, the silence between them oppressive. He hates when she silently writes in the notebook to force him to talk.
“I hurt someone,” Bucky says eventually. His voice is low, barely more than a breath.
Dr. Dufresne pauses mid-sentence. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“She’s—” he hesitates. “She means a lot to me. And I hurt her.”
“Physically?”
He nods, barely. “Not intentionally. But I lost control. Rule number two, I know, Doc. No one gets hurt. But it was mid-night terror and I… I wasn’t really with it, you know? Half asleep, half locked in the dream. And… Well, I’m starting to think that’s all that happens when people are around me. Getting hurt.”
“You and I both know that isn’t really true, Bucky,” Anna offers patiently.
“And then I hurt her more, because I ran away. I couldn’t be the person who hurt her, so I left. And I think that hurt her a lot more. And I’ve been pushing her away for months when all she wanted was for me to come back to her. And I’ve fucked the whole thing up by trying to protect her from afar.”
Dr. Dufresne leans forward slightly. “Did she forgive you? For hurting her?”
“That’s not the point.”
“Isn’t it?”
He flinches.
“I don’t want forgiveness,” Bucky says through clenched teeth. “I don’t deserve it.”
Dr. Dufresne studies him for a long moment. “You don’t think you’re capable of love without hurting someone.”
“I know I’m not.”
“Because of what happened? Or because of who you think you are?”
He doesn’t answer. Instead, he swallows hard and looks at the window. It’s raining. It always seems to be raining when he comes here.
“We were working together, living in the Tower together. Trying but not really getting along. I was… sort of avoiding her, when I could for a while, because it made it easier. But I couldn’t live without her. I found ways to talk to her, be near her, make sure she’s okay. But… I broke the final straw and she’s left,” he says finally. “Went back to her parents’ place Upstate. Said she doesn’t know when she’s coming back.”
“And how does that make you feel?” Anna asks, patient as ever. She already knows how Bucky feels, she always does, but she needs him to say it.
“Like I broke something I can’t fix. I shouldn’t fix it, because she deserves better, but I think it’s too late anyway.”
They sit in silence for a while.
When Dr. Dufresne speaks again, it’s quieter. “Do you want her back?”
“More than anything,” he whispers. “I’ve been holding back because I know I’m not good for her, but… that selfish part of me wants her. Needs her.”
“Then you have to stop hiding behind guilt and start doing the work.”
He looks at her, finally — really looks. “That’s what Sam said.”
“Sam’s a smart man and a good friend to you, Bucky,” Anna says, blunt but not unkindly. “You should probably listen to him. We often give you the same advice.”
“I know,” Bucky whispers. “H-How do I even start?”
Dr. Dufresne offers a small smile. “By letting yourself believe you’re capable of being loved.”
He doesn’t believe her. Not yet.
But for the first time in months, he doesn’t leave the session early. He stays the whole time, listens to every bit of advice Dr Dufresne offers, and leaves with the knowledge that he has a lot of inner work to do. More healing. But this time, it’s not just for himself.
Evie’s at the farm, standing in the kitchen barefoot, the morning sun streaming through the window. A pot of coffee gurgles on the stove, and one of the farm cats is curled on the worn window seat, flicking her tail. It makes her miss Alpine.
The house smells like dust and rosemary. It’s quiet — the kind of quiet that stretches, heavy and slow, like a too-warm blanket she can’t shake off. She hasn't spoken much all week. Her parents try, but there’s only so much anyone can say when she barely knows what she’s feeling herself.
She checks her phone out of habit, not hope. Her inbox is the same as it’s been for months — silent, unread messages hanging like threads in the wind.
But this time… there’s something new.
Steve Rogers: He’s doing the work.
That’s all it says. Four words.
Evie stares at it for a long time, thumb hovering just above the screen. Her stomach twists. Her chest tightens.
He’s getting help. Doing the work. Healing himself so he can see what he’s pushing away from himself.
She reads it again, and again, as if more meaning might unfold the longer she looks.
A tremor ripples through her. Relief. Anger. Sadness. Love. Grief.
Her hand goes to her mouth like she’s trying to hold everything in — but a soft sound escapes, broken and small. Her eyes sting.
She lowers herself onto the bench slowly, knees trembling, phone clutched in her hand. The silence around her is no longer comfortable — it buzzes with everything she can’t say out loud.
She wants to text Steve back. She wants to ask why now? or how is he? or does he still love me? But she doesn’t.
Instead, she types something and stares at it for a while.
Thank you.
She sends it.
Then she looks out the window at the empty fields stretching toward the horizon and finally lets herself cry — not because she’s weak, not because she’s still broken, but because for the first time in months…
There’s the smallest flicker of something she thought she’d lost. Hope.