Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

O aquecedor do porão zumbia como se tentasse acalmar a cidade inteira. Era a segunda vez que Amélie caminhava por aquele corredor estreito — limpo o suficiente, apesar das paredes bege descascadas, do cheiro de café instantâneo e do papel velho.

Ela não tirou o cachecol, nem mesmo quando se sentou — a lã grossa ainda cheirava a fermento e canela do pão que ela havia assado naquela manhã. Ela costumava cozinhar quando precisava de algum tipo de controle. Colocar algo no forno significava que, por pelo menos quarenta minutos, o mundo seguiria suas regras.

O grupo se reuniu em uma sala com cadeiras dobráveis ​​dispostas em círculo. O tipo de círculo que dava a ilusão de que ninguém estava no centro, mas todos sabiam que estavam. Algumas pessoas se cumprimentavam como velhos amigos; outras apenas acenavam com a cabeça, com os olhos baixos. Ela pertencia ao segundo grupo.

Amélie reconheceu o homem que havia distribuído os papéis na semana anterior — um veterano de fala mansa que parecia ter deixado pedaços de si em muitas partes do mundo. Ele lhe ofereceu um sorriso gentil e acenou com a cabeça em direção à cadeira vazia ao lado de uma mulher que chorava baixinho.

Ela se sentou sem fazer barulho. Suas mãos estavam frias, mas seus dedos batiam em um ritmo suave no joelho. Do outro lado da sala, uma adolescente mexia compulsivamente em um chaveiro. Um homem idoso ajeitava os óculos sempre que alguém falava, mesmo sem estar lendo nada.

O círculo começou.

"Quem quiser compartilhar, pode fazê-lo", disse o facilitador com uma voz suave, porém firme. "Mas ninguém precisa."

Uma longa pausa se instalou.

Se perguntassem a Amélie, ela diria que o fim de ano sempre parecia um pouco fora de sintonia. Como se o mundo inteiro estivesse em clima de festa e ela tivesse perdido o ensaio. Não que ela não gostasse das festas de fim de ano — ela gostava, talvez até demais. Mas algo naquela alegria coletiva sempre a deixava um pouco desequilibrada.

Ela não era o tipo de pessoa que falava primeiro. Ou depois. Mas naquela noite, com o som abafado do metrô passando sob seus pés e o gosto de pão ainda grudado na memória, seu peito se afrouxou um pouco.

Talvez ela falasse. Não sobre tudo. Só o suficiente.

As cadeiras não formavam mais um círculo perfeito. Algumas pessoas se levantaram lentamente, outras permaneceram sentadas, como se temessem o que viria depois do "até a semana que vem". Alguém colocou uma bandeja de biscoitos em uma mesa nos fundos, e o aroma de café encheu o ambiente com uma espécie de otimismo melancólico.

Amélie permaneceu sentada por um instante, ajustando a alça da bolsa no ombro, os dedos brincando com a bainha do cachecol. E então, em meio às últimas pessoas que entravam ou saíam, ela o viu.

Um vislumbre — uma silhueta parada junto à porta, como se ponderasse se valia a pena cruzar a soleira. Agasalhado até a alma, ele usava um casaco pesado, um cachecol cinza envolvendo parte do rosto e um gorro escuro escondendo o topo da cabeça. Mas os olhos... os olhos eram difíceis de ignorar. De um tom intenso de azul.

Ele pegou um dos panfletos empilhados no canto, deu uma olhada, dobrou-o cuidadosamente e guardou-o no bolso do casaco. Ninguém o chamou. Ninguém pareceu notar sua presença, exceto Amélie, e mesmo assim, apenas porque ela prestava atenção nas bordas.

Antes que qualquer tipo de contato pudesse acontecer — um olhar, uma palavra — seu telefone vibrou em seu bolso.

Ethan: Me avise se precisar de alguma coisa! Estou na loja.

Nina: Vou levar aquela pizza do lugar perto do trabalho que a gente gosta. A noite de karaokê tem que começar na hora dessa vez!

Ela sorriu, quase involuntariamente. As notificações continuaram chegando e, quando ela olhou para cima novamente, o homem havia sumido. A porta se fechou. Nenhum vestígio, nem mesmo pegadas no chão molhado e coberto de neve.

Amelie piscou, como se estivesse tentando se agarrar a uma imagem que nunca tinha sido realmente clara, então se levantou.

"Até a próxima", disse ela a uma mulher grisalha, que lhe ofereceu um tapinha no braço em troca. Ela recusou os biscoitos com um gesto educado, ignorou o copo de plástico de café gentilmente oferecido e saiu do prédio, puxando o cachecol sobre o nariz.

Nova York parecia mais fria do que antes. O ar tinha aquele toque metálico e cortante de ferro e fumaça, típico de dias em que a neve ameaçava, mas nunca chegava. A estação de metrô ficava a poucos quarteirões de distância — ela sabia o caminho de cor.

E enquanto descia os degraus gelados, o som dos trilhos do trem ecoando à distância e uma receita mental de fondue de queijo ocupando seus pensamentos, ela não tinha ideia de que os olhos que a observavam do canto da sala ainda a seguiam em pensamento.

A sala estava quase vazia quando ele entrou. Ele não pretendia cruzar a soleira, apenas chegar perto o suficiente para ver se era real. Um grupo de apoio. Pessoas destruídas, tentando se recompor em público.

Ele sabia algo sobre pedaços quebrados.

O panfleto estava ligeiramente torto na pilha — Processando Perdas em Tempos de Reconstrução. Letras azul-claras com uma imagem genérica de mãos entrelaçadas. Ele pegou um, mais por reflexo do que por intenção, e o dobrou cuidadosamente. O papel amassado poderia revelar ansiedade. Ele não gostava de soar assim.

O ar lá dentro estava abafado e quente, carregado com o cheiro de gente cansada. Gente se esforçando. Isso o atingiu com mais força do que esperava. Antes que alguém pudesse notar, ele girou nos calcanhares e saiu.

Lá fora, o frio cortava como facas. Enfeites de Natal estavam por toda parte — nas vitrines, em árvores improvisadas em calçadas estreitas, penduradas em postes de luz, como se a cidade inteira tentasse desesperadamente se lembrar de que ainda havia luz no mundo. Ele odiava como isso fazia tudo parecer mais falso. Mais distante.

O café da esquina tinha uma placa de "ABERTO" com uma letra piscando, o que o tornava um pouco mais honesto. Ele entrou e pediu algo quente — qualquer coisa. "Chocolate amargo com chantilly", sugeriu o atendente, com um sorriso que ele não conseguiu retribuir. Ele se contentou com um café preto.

Enquanto esperava, ele avistou o reflexo dela na janela.

Cachecol grosso, casaco azul-escuro, cabelo castanho trançado, passos calmos. Ela não tinha pressa, mas também não estava enrolando. Transmitia uma certa atenção, mesmo em silêncio.

Ela não olhou para ele. Claro que não.

Mas ele ficou ali tempo suficiente para memorizar o contorno daquele momento.

Poucos minutos depois, ele desceu as escadas do metrô. O som dos trilhos, as luzes piscando, os vagões lotados de pessoas no piloto automático. Havia conforto naquele anonimato.

Ele entrou em um dos vagões mais vazios e encostou-se a um canto, segurando seu café e um pacote com uma fatia de bolo. O aroma doce e amargo se misturava ao metal e ao cheiro úmido e de neve das roupas dos passageiros.

Só depois de alguns instantes ele percebeu.

Ela também estava lá.

Sentado perto da porta oposta, pernas cruzadas, postura ligeiramente curvada, segurando um livro tão gasto que as páginas pareciam prestes a cair. Ele não conseguiu decifrar o título imediatamente, mas reconheceu a lombada.

O Grande Gatsby. Uma edição antiga. Legendas sublinhadas a lápis. Algumas palavras circuladas em tinta azul — parecia a caligrafia de um homem, firme, ligeiramente inclinada. Talvez a de um pai.

Ele tinha lido aquele livro. Mais de uma vez. Ainda se lembrava do final.

Então seguimos, barcos contra a corrente...

Ela traçou a linha com o dedo. Ela não o viu. E ele não tentou ser visto. Naquele vagão silencioso do metrô, com o mundo girando rápido demais, ele percebeu: por um momento, estavam lendo o mesmo livro. Ela com sua voz interior. Ele na memória.

E, curiosamente, nenhuma palavra parecia solitária.

A estação anunciou sua chegada com o som arrastado dos freios. Amélie fechou o livro cuidadosamente, guardando suas anotações entre as páginas como se estivesse preservando algo precioso. Quando as portas começaram a se abrir, ela se levantou, ajustou a alça da bolsa e se preparou para subir a escada familiar.

Um movimento silencioso atrás dela a fez parar.

"Ei", a voz era baixa, áspera pelo frio ou pelo desuso. Um papel dobrado entre os dedos enluvados. "Isto caiu do seu livro."

Ela se virou e pegou automaticamente.

"Ah, obrigada..." O sorriso surgiu sem esforço, educado, suave — o tipo de sorriso que ela daria a qualquer estranho no metrô. Mas seus olhos castanhos também sorriram, um reflexo genuíno do qual ela nem se dava conta.

Foi somente quando as portas do trem começaram a se fechar e o homem retornou ao seu canto tranquilo que ele percebeu.

Os olhos.

Azul. Claro demais para passar despercebido. Ela reconheceu o mesmo olhar do grupo de apoio — aquele que se demorara na soleira da porta, como se o universo tivesse colocado aqueles olhos em seu caminho duas vezes no mesmo dia só para ver se ela notaria. E, claro, ela notou tarde demais.

Ela ficou ali parada na plataforma por alguns segundos, com o bilhete nas mãos. Era uma reflexão do pai — um pensamento sobre Gatsby e o tempo, escrito na caligrafia que ela conhecia melhor que a sua.

Ela suspirou profundamente, como se estivesse sendo puxada de volta para o presente.

"Achei que você tivesse sido sequestrada", disse Ethan quando ela entrou no apartamento, obviamente tendo usado a chave reserva para entrar.

Ele estava encostado no balcão da cozinha, com um saco de papel debaixo de um braço e o celular no outro. Tênis de neve derretida no tapete da entrada. Casaco aberto. O tipo de olhar que indicava que ele já havia roubado uma fatia de pão antes mesmo de ela chegar.

"Eu só me distraí no metrô", disse Amelie, desenrolando o cachecol. "Aconteceu alguma coisa estranha... ou talvez não tenha sido nada."

“Estranho como 'Nova York é uma vila e eu vi alguém que vi ontem de novo hoje' ou estranho como 'essa cidade está me deixando paranoico'?”

“Um pouco dos dois.”

Ethan ergueu uma sobrancelha, mas não insistiu. Ela era assim mesmo: ou dizia tudo ou nada, dependendo do humor.

Em outro lugar da cidade, Bucky subiu os degraus do seu prédio com as mãos nos bolsos e o café já frio. Parou em frente à porta e hesitou.

Ela tinha olhos calmos. Castanhos, brilhantes, do tipo que sorria junto com os lábios. Quando ela dizia "obrigada", ele percebia que ela era o tipo de pessoa que dizia "obrigada" a qualquer um — mas sem displicência.

Ele ainda estava pensando nisso quando se lembrou da voz do terapeuta na última sessão:

“Você adotou… um gato?”

"Sim."

"Qual o nome dela?"

"Alpino."

Ela pareceu surpresa. Ele também.

Mas o gato não se importava com a sua presença. Aceitava seus silêncios, ignorava seus pesadelos. E, às vezes, ronronava quando se esquecia de que o mundo ainda tinha som.

Ele entrou no apartamento e foi direto para a despensa. Estava quase sem ração para gatos.

"Tudo bem, Alpine. Cuido disso amanhã", murmurou ele para a sala vazia, jogando o boné no encosto do sofá.

A gata, onde quer que estivesse, respondia com um miado que soava mais como um julgamento do que uma saudação.

James sorriu para si mesmo. Não por causa do bilhete ou do grupo de apoio. Mas porque uma estranha havia sorrido para ele com os olhos. E, por algum motivo, isso parecia importante.

Chapter Text

In Brooklyn, two apartments separated by miles—and by worlds.

In Amélie’s apartment, the night spread out in voices, laughter, and the scent of garlic sizzling in the pan. Light came from soft lamps and a string of fairy lights twined around the windows, casting a warm glow.

The walls were dotted with crooked paintings—some made by her mother, others inherited from her grandparents, and a few scavenged from garage sales. Bookshelves stood disorganized, with books stacked both vertically and horizontally, like living beings constantly in motion. On the dining table sat an unfinished puzzle, a half-empty wine bottle, and an open pizza box with just two slices left. The kitchen counter bore a dusting of flour beside a mixer still smudged with cake batter.

Ethan danced barefoot, a wine glass in hand, occasionally peeking into the oven to check on the cake. Meanwhile, Nina—her other best friend, with hair tied into two buns and opinions sharp as knives—complained about a terrible date from the previous week, stopping only when the three of them belted out the chorus of a song playing from YouTube on the TV. Amélie chuckled softly as she sliced ingredients for the bolognese. She was at ease, the kind of host who didn’t seem to try too hard but made everyone want to come back.

A place with dishes in the sink, jackets strewn about, and filled with life. Filled with soul.

In Bucky’s apartment, the light came from a single lamp in the corner of the living room. Warm, but understated. The couch was simple, the coffee table too tidy, and there was a silence that seemed to have been arranged along with the furniture.

There were no paintings—just a wall with marks where frames might once have hung. The windows looked out onto the city, but the heavy curtains were almost always drawn. A blanket lay folded with military precision in the corner of the couch, and a forgotten coffee mug sat next to the remote control.

Alpine slept atop the blanket, occasionally opening one eye as if to make sure he was still there.

Bucky sat at the kitchen counter—there was no dining table—where dinner was simple: scrambled eggs with toast and boxed orange juice. Not for lack of options, but because he still hadn’t gotten used to the ritual of cooking for himself. Food was a means, never an end.

But that night, something made him pause just a second longer as he set the pan in the sink. He remembered the brown eyes that had smiled as if there were no danger.

He raised the mug to his lips and, almost absentmindedly, murmured:

“Gatsby, huh?”

Across town, Amélie hummed quietly as she turned the cake out of the pan, her friends singing along to Enjoy the Silence.

And the world, despite everything, felt a little less broken.

“Three weeks in a row? That’s practically a commitment record, even for you!” Nina said, adjusting her earbuds as they walked side by side down the damp sidewalk.

Amélie smiled with her lips, not her eyes.

“It’s not really commitment. I think it’s more... clumsy persistence.”

Her blue coat swung open at the hips, a braid draped over one shoulder. In her left hand, the strap of her bag sagged with the weight of a thermos of tea. In the other, a dish towel cradled still-warm loaves of bread.

“But you’re bringing food now,” Nina raised a brow. “That’s practically the emotional equivalent of offering a kidney.”

“It’s just bread, Nina.”

“Bread is intimate.”

Amélie laughed.

“I just thought it might help. Not everyone likes to talk. Maybe they’ll like tea.”

“Have you started talking yet?”

“Well, I’ve tried.” She hadn’t. Amélie looked away from her friend’s gaze.

They stopped at the corner. Nina glanced at the building ahead of them and then back at her friend, assessing her.

“Text me when you’re done. Or just send an emoji, it’s fine.”

“Can it be a bread emoji?”

“Perfect. Way more efficient than words.”

They hugged briefly. Amélie crossed the street, her steps calm, as if she knew where she was going—even when she wasn’t paying attention.

Bucky was already across the street, standing in front of a store window, pretending to examine a Christmas display. There were gold ribbons, silver bells, and a plush reindeer with a perpetually cheerful expression. He hated it.

But then he saw her.

Blue coat, braided hair, that soft smile as she said goodbye to her friend. She walked away, alone now, with the quiet ease of someone moving through her own routine.

And he knew. He came back because of her.

Not for the empty chair in the support circle. Not for the flyers. For the woman with kind eyes who offered a “thank you” as if it truly meant something. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to be a reason.

Inside the room, the scent of instant coffee and disinfectant mixed with fresh bread and chamomile tea. Amélie placed everything quietly on a side table, making no fuss, as if she didn’t want to draw attention, just make it easier for whoever might need it.

Bucky entered a few minutes later, silent. He sat in the chairs furthest from the circle, hands tucked into his jacket, baseball cap still on. He was there, but with one foot out the door.

She noticed him during the meeting. The surprise was subtle, a brief narrowing of her eyes, followed by a smile that seemed to have been waiting for the right moment. She said nothing—just returned her focus to listening until it was her turn to speak.

“Sometimes, the hardest days aren’t the anniversaries or the holidays,” Amélie said, without embellishment. “They’re the ordinary days. A random Monday. When you want to tell someone something silly and realize... there’s no one to tell.”

The words came out simpler than she expected, like fresh bread. It wasn’t as hard as she thought.

“And on those days, making dinner, calling someone, baking something feels like a desperate act of trying to have a family. And then, well... I wonder if I miss the company, or them, or a little of both. I think about the times I said I wouldn’t come home for a holiday, when I chose to do something away from them—how much time did I waste?” She sighed. “And then I pick up the phone and call my friends over to my place, and that’s the only way the day doesn’t feel too empty.”

People around her responded with small gestures—a nod, a sigh, a murmured “exactly” from the second row.

Bucky just watched. How she chose her words. How they landed on others. If he had spoken, it would have sounded like a flaw. A weakness. But from her, it came as an act of generosity.

As others took turns, Bucky stayed where he was. Without sharing. Without moving. But without leaving, too.

The room was beginning to empty when Bucky stood. He thought of slipping out unnoticed, as he always did. But then he heard light footsteps behind him, and a voice he didn’t expect so close.

“You came.”

He turned, expecting something else. A comment about the bread, maybe. A quick nod. But not the direct observation, from someone who had truly noticed.

She was there with two paper cups in her hands, steam tracing fragile lines in the air between them.

“I thought no one saw, that no one—” he said, his eyes narrowing with mild surprise.

“I saw you take the flyer at the door. And later, on the subway,” Amélie answered, hesitant, as if she could still change her mind and walk the other way. “I’m not exactly sure why I’m talking to you. I don’t usually do this.”

She extended one of the cups, and he took it.

“But here I am. With too much tea. So...” A small shrug, the smile more in her eyes than her mouth.

“Thank you.”

She didn’t respond. Just nodded and stood there, beside him, both outside the circle of light.

When he removed his cap, maybe to adjust it or just out of habit, she saw his full face.

It was an instant.

A fleeting shock, more present in her gaze than in any movement. She didn’t back away. She didn’t hold her breath. She simply looked—really looked.

James Buchanan Barnes.

The Winter Soldier.

Not the clipped name from the news. Not the frozen label from headlines. But the real man, with faint dark circles and blue eyes far more human than any version the media had ever shown.

She knew. She knew about Hydra. She knew about the pardon. She knew that “knowing” was a dangerous verb, especially when it came to people.

What she didn’t know was how, now, looking at him here, his face so close and yet so distant, everything felt both more real and more impossible at once.

She didn’t say anything. She didn’t need to. He realized she had recognized him. Not from shock—there was none—but from the pause, the sudden attention, and the careful silence.

“If you want... I can help you pack up over there,” he said, not quite looking at her.

“That would be nice.” Amélie replied, still holding the cup. “Tea cools quickly when you hesitate.”

This time, the smile appeared for real. Small.

They walked side by side, between disorganized chairs and fading voices, like two strangers who, by chance, knew each other’s name—though neither had said it aloud.

Outside, the cold had finally settled. The damp sidewalk reflected the streetlights, and the city murmured its familiar end-of-day sounds—hurried footsteps, distant horns, laughter spilling from cafés.

Amélie adjusted the bag strap on her shoulder, then turned to him, balancing a red-lidded container with what was left of the bread.

“You should take some,” she said. Bucky frowned slightly, as if he might refuse out of reflex, but she continued:

“I have more at home. Too much for one person, and... well, you seem like the type to forget to eat dinner.”

There was a beat, then he accepted it, the container fitting perfectly in his hands. She noticed, seeing no trace of human skin behind the gloves.

“Thank you.”

“No problem.”

They started walking slowly, without a clear destination. It was the kind of path no one planned, but both followed.

“About what you said... in the meeting. About your parents,” he said, his voice low. “I’m sorry.”

She looked at him, surprised by the memory, then nodded.

“Thank you.” A gentle breath on her lips. “My mom was an artist. My dad, a literature professor. I grew up surrounded by canvases and books, basically.”

“And you... did you follow literature or painting?”

“In a way, literature,” she bit her lip. “I work in publishing. Editing texts before they’re published. I fix, organize, make the authors’ mess a bit more presentable to the world.”

He didn’t respond immediately. But he thought about the handwriting in the book she’d been reading on the subway. A masculine hand, firm, but with gentle curves. It was her father’s. He was sure now.

“The book you were reading on the subway. It had his notes, didn’t it?”

She met his eyes, a little surprised—not that he’d noticed, but that he remembered.

“Yes, it did.” Her voice softened, as if his recognition made the object even more intimate. “I like rereading his comments in the margins. It’s almost like hearing his voice again.”

He nodded and said nothing more.

They reached the corner, where their paths finally diverged. Bucky glanced at the subway entrance, then back at her.

"I appreciate it, but..." Amélie glanced at her phone. "I’m meeting a client for dinner. I won’t be taking the subway tonight."

For a moment, he considered offering to go with her. A brief impulse, half strange, half protective, as if her presence somehow already mattered. But he held back. She didn’t need that. Not yet. Maybe never. And he knew how to respect space.

"All right," he said. "See you at the next meeting, then."

"See you, James."

The name sounded unexpected, too intimate. But she said it naturally. And it made him smile, even if just inwardly.

She walked away, her braid swaying beneath the blue coat. He stood there for a few seconds, the warm bread container still in his hands. Then he descended the subway stairs, the memory of her smile warming him more than the tea—and with a strange wish for next Friday to come sooner.

Bucky closed the apartment door with a shoulder nudge, slowly taking off his coat. Alpine stretched on the couch, letting out a short meow—either a greeting or a demand.

"All right, I’ll get you food," he muttered, setting the bread container on the counter.
As the kibble poured into the dish, he set aside two slices of the bread she had insisted he take. He placed them in the skillet with a bit of butter, which melted into a golden whisper.

The first bite caught him off guard.

Soft. Warm. A subtle taste of herbs. Someone had cared enough to measure every detail.

“Damn good bread,” he said, almost offended, staring at the half-eaten slice. Alpine, satisfied, jumped onto the counter and meowed in apparent agreement.

While he ate, his gaze wandered around the small, tidy kitchen, and the memory of the moment returned. Her calling him by name.

See you, James.

He hadn’t introduced himself. He was sure of it. And she hadn’t seemed nervous or suspicious—just… aware. As if she knew who he was and, even so, could be polite.
It was rare. Disconcerting. Almost impossible to believe.

He took another bite, chewing slowly, and Alpine leaned her head against his arm, purring softly.

"She knew."

And, for some reason, that didn’t feel bad.

On the other side of the city, a few hours later, on Nina’s narrow apartment balcony, two glasses of wine clinked under a string of fairy lights taped to the railing. Below, Christmas lights reflected in shop windows, on cars, on hurried faces.

“Third meeting,” Nina said playfully, revisiting their phone conversation where the second-to-last message was a bread emoji. “You’re really taking this support group thing seriously.”

“I’m not even sure I know what I’m doing,” Amélie replied, hugging her knees while sitting on a pouf, her gaze lost between the buildings. “But I think… it’s good for me to listen to others. To remind myself I’m not alone.”

Nina nodded, pulling a blanket over her legs.

“And the subway guy? The one with the eyes.”

Amélie smiled, but didn’t answer immediately. She watched the movement, the blinking lights, the reflections in her glass.

“He showed up at the meeting today. And I talked to him afterward.”

“And?”

“And nothing. We just... talked.” She swirled the wine in her glass, thoughtful. “I think he’s sadder than he wants to let on.”

Nina simply watched, not interrupting.

Amélie continued, softer:

“I lost my parents five years ago. And even so, that absence has shaped me completely since then. I keep wondering… how many Christmases has he lost?”

The city kept living around them, indifferent.

Chapter Text

SIX DAYS LATER

A thin layer of snow had settled over New York City, and the world felt quieter than usual, even as some hurried through their early holiday shopping. Bucky rested his forehead against the cold window of the dark apartment. The glass reflected a blurry image back at him—the features of a man he barely recognized. Blue eyes stared back—so familiar, yet so strange.

"No one knows what it's like to be the bad man, to be the sad man, behind blue eyes."

He felt it stirring in his chest, a knot of steel and emptiness, as cold as the metal that had once replaced his arm. How many times, in the past months, had he looked at himself and pretended there was something human there? How many times had he felt the absence of himself over the past ninety years? It wasn’t just the metal arm. It was the whole—
the soldier, the shadow, the one who did the dirty work.
Too dirty to be forgotten. Even when the memories were taken, those never faded.
The world moved on while he remained behind, condemned to remember, even if no one else did.

"And no one knows what it's like to be hated, to be fated to telling only lies."

He didn’t know why, but in that moment, he thought of Hydra—of the programming, of the lie he’d lived, of the name stripped from him, of his shattered memory. Each mission was another forgetting. Each awakening, a new face, a new target.
So far from the Brooklyn kid, the big brother, the friend.
So far even from himself.
Maybe this was the truest face of PTSD: the permanent confusion between reality and past horrors. Being forced to relive them, triggered by any sound, touch, smell, or sight.

"But my dreams, they aren't as empty as my conscience seems to be.
I have hours, only lonely.
My love is vengeance that's never free."

The dreams were full of faces. Screams, pleas for mercy, voices cut off by gunfire.
He dreamt of hands reaching for him, of warmth leaving the skin.
And he always woke up alone.
Always.
The clock ticked on, the light shifted, time passed—mocking his stillness.

"No one knows what it's like to feel these feelings, like I do.
And I blame you."

There was a bitterness on his tongue.
Who did he blame?
Hydra? The handlers? Fate?
Himself?
He wanted to scream, but the sound choked before reaching his lips.
He wanted to punch the window, to see blood, to feel something other than this throbbing emptiness.

"No one bites back as hard on their anger.
None of my pain and woes can show through."

That was it, wasn’t it?
He hid.
He always had.
No one saw the compressed fury inside him, the venom that pulsed through his veins.
Inside, there was a storm, violent and wild.
He was the boat.
The Winter Soldier, the sea.
Together, the endless storm.

"But my dreams, they aren't as empty as my conscience seems to be.
I have hours, only lonely.
My love is vengeance that's never free."

And then he thought of her.
The woman in the support group, eyes downcast, voice hesitant, hands wrapped around warm tea.

He dragged a hand down his face, exhausted.
It wasn’t desire, or affection, or even love. Not yet.
It was… something.
A human reflex. A spark of life.

"My love is vengeance that’s never free."

He couldn’t ask the world for forgiveness—
not even himself.
He knew he would always live with the faces he couldn’t remember.
But maybe, just maybe, he could learn to live with his own eyes.
The blue eyes staring back at him now—eyes of a marked man who refused to die.

He stepped away from the window, sat on the floor, back to the cold wall, arms wrapped around his knees until his head dropped forward.
And he allowed himself to stay like that. In the silence.

Even Alpine didn’t come near.
The entire apartment filled only with the sound of his breathing—
and the quiet murmur of his thoughts.

That night, the Winter Soldier didn’t leave.
He stood vigil over his prisoner.

Chapter Text

The Next Day

Bucky didn’t know why he’d said her name.

Maybe because it was the only thing that still felt real — a truth that existed beyond the projections and trauma.
Amélie.
That’s how she’d introduced herself. Not to him, but during the support group circle.

And he — who couldn’t remember his own therapist’s name without checking the plaque on the door — remembered hers with irritating clarity.

“I don’t know what it means,” he confessed, eyes on his hands resting over his knees. “I just… remember the way she talks. The way she listens.”

As if she wasn’t trying to decode him.

The therapist didn’t smile. She rarely did, and that made him more comfortable. She only nodded, jotting something down, while he continued, hesitantly:

“I started reading The Great Gatsby again.”

“Why do you think you did that?”

“I think… I wanted to understand what she sees in the book. And the other day, I saw her on the subway reading it. So I wanted to see how she sees it.”

He paused. Took a deep breath.

“And also… maybe I just wanted to talk to her about something that wasn’t everything that happened.”

“You feel like you can’t talk about what happened?”

He shook his head slowly.

“I feel like that’s all I am. People look at me and that’s what they see — the Soldier, the war, the missing years. They don’t say it, but I notice. Even when they pretend not to stare.”
He clenched his fists.
“But she doesn’t. She just… sees.”

“What does she see?”

That question hung in the air for a long moment. He didn’t answer right away. The scratching of the pen had stopped.

“I think… something beyond the trauma. A person.”
His voice was low.

Bucky nodded, eyes fixed on a point somewhere across the room.

“Because if I start building something and lose it…” He stopped, swallowing the rest of the sentence like it tasted of rust. “I’ve lost everything before. Too much. I put myself back together in pieces, and some days I still wake up thinking I’m just… programming wrapped in skin.”

“And even so…”

“And even so I want to know how she sees Gatsby.”

The therapist didn’t smile. But this time, she didn’t write anything down either.

“You’re allowing yourself to feel. And to act on it.”

He gave a weak, tired laugh.

“I’m more scared now than I ever was jumping out of planes.”

“And still, you read a whole book just to have something to talk about with her.”

“Yeah.”
He looked at his hands. Studied the difference between the metal one and the flesh one.
“The world changes when someone doesn’t treat you like you’re nuclear.”

When he left therapy, the December air hit his face hard, and he seriously considered going to the meeting.
But the thought didn’t last long.
He went home.

Amélie stayed until the end of the meeting.
Poured the tea, shared the bread. Smiled and listened.
But the chair he’d occupied the last time stayed empty.

She didn’t ask about him — who would she ask?
She wasn’t sure if his presence, those blue eyes, stood out to the others as much as it had to her.
She just kept her hands busy and let her thoughts drift.

Later, she turned down Ethan’s karaoke invite.
Nina sent a picture of the dinner dishes.
She replied with a heart emoji, but didn’t show up.

Back home, in her worst lounge set, she put on some low music, washed the leftover dishes, took the clothes out of the dryer, and watered the lavender still clinging to life on the windowsill.

Alone — again — with the quiet warmth of her apartment and the muffled sound of the city beyond.

She was about to take the trash out when she heard a faint meow.
Turned her head and found a pair of alert blue eyes under the building’s stairwell.

“Hey, you…”

A small white cat with ocean-colored eyes stared back, suspicious and in need.

On the collar, a name: Alpine.

“Seriously?”

She knocked on a few doors, asked a couple of neighbors, but no one recognized her.
The cat didn’t resist her arms, melting into them with a lazy purr like she belonged there all along.

Amélie ended up bringing her inside.

“If she has an owner, we’ll deal with it tomorrow.”

She grabbed a bowl, improvised with some shredded chicken.
Alpine purred like she’d lived there for years.

Meanwhile, across the city, Bucky was crossing the sidewalk with a bag of Chinese takeout balanced on his forearm.
In his backpack, two worn copies of Gatsby — just in case he’d guessed the wrong edition Amélie had — and a notepad.
He thought maybe… he could leave one on the group meeting bench. Maybe she’d find it.

Or maybe it was just another excuse.

He’d also bought cat food sachets, a fresh pack of litter, and a scratching post the store clerk had convinced him to try.
Alpine had started accepting his presence with less disdain, even though it was clear she had chosen him — not the other way around.

But when he opened the door, the apartment was too quiet.

“Alpine?”

Nothing.

He walked through the rooms. Checked under the bed. Opened the closet.

The bathroom window was slightly ajar.

A gust of cold air sliced through his skin as he approached.

His heart sped up in an uncomfortable rhythm.

She was gone.

The cat who wasn’t even supposed to be there. The only living creature who didn’t expect him to be anything other than exactly who he was.

Bucky leaned against the wall and ran his hands over his face.

“Of course.”

That was the kind of thing that happened to him.

Bucky didn’t have a photo of Alpine.

He never thought it necessary. She was just… his cat.
But now, when he really needed to show someone what she looked like — the way her ear tips curled, her pink nose, those giant blue eyes always judging his life choices — he realized he had nothing.

Then he remembered something.

Sam.

Last time Sam had been at his place, dropping off late documents and pretending not to notice the feline presence on the couch, he did what any normal person would do: snapped a photo and sent it to Sarah, laughing about “the fluffier version of Barnes.”

He pulled out his phone, opened their chat:

Bucky: “Do you still have that photo of Alpine?”

The reply came a few minutes later, with the friend’s typical lack of subtlety:

Sam: “Did something happen??”

Bucky: “She’s gone.”

Sam: “What do you mean GONE?”

Bucky: “I left the bathroom window open. Didn’t notice.”

The photo came shortly after.
Alpine, sprawled on the couch backrest, wearing her usual look of utter boredom.

Sam: “Let me know if you need help, I’m home in the morning.”

Bucky saved the image and, for the first time in a long while, did something impulsive.

He went out.

He showed the photo around the neighborhood shops — the deli, the corner restaurant, the newspaper stand.
Some said they hadn’t seen her. Others thought maybe they’d spotted a similar cat crossing the avenue, or heading toward the courts near the subway station.

Before he realized it, he was nearly a full stop away from home.

Nothing.

No meow. No familiar glance from the shadows.

He was starting to feel ridiculous — a man nearly a century old, wandering the cold with his phone in hand and his heart pounding like he’d lost something he hadn’t known mattered until now.

He returned home.
Left the bathroom window slightly open, against all logic and all the freezing air that now made his apartment feel like a meat locker.
Put her favorite food in a little dish. Prepared the litter box.

Sat on the couch.
The Chinese food was now too cold to enjoy.

The news anchor was talking about holiday donations, shelter waitlists, some new community project.

Bucky didn’t hear any of it.

Just the sound of his own fork tapping against the takeout container, and the absence of Alpine on the couch behind him.

He went to bed late.
Body cold. Room colder still.

The only warm thing was the uninvited thought of a gentle smile holding two cups of tea.
Someone who knew his name — even without hearing it from his lips.

And somewhere out there, in that in-between space between chance and fate, Alpine was curled up on Amélie’s couch under a blanket.
Safe. At peace.
Still unaware that she belonged to someone who, by pure chance, was also searching for a place to stay.

Chapter Text

Bucky had woken up early.
If you could even call it “waking up.”

Truth was, his body had simply given up pretending it could sleep. Two hours, maybe three, caught between nightmares. Between the image of the window cracked open and the empty spot on the couch where Alpine should’ve been.

He threw on his heavy coat, pulled the beanie down over his eyebrows. Checked the photo on his phone — again — as if Alpine might somehow respond to her name or his touch. The sky was still grey, the city just beginning to stir, and the cold air had no mercy for a sleepless body.

Walk. Search. Repeat.
An alley between buildings.
A shadow behind the market.
A white blur disappearing beneath a car.

And then — the past.

Those narrow streets in another city.
The metallic smell of blood and rust.
A mission he failed.
A name he should’ve eliminated.
An object he should’ve secured.
He didn’t.
Punished.
Arm restrained. Pain. A muffled scream.

Back in New York, he stopped walking. Blinked rapidly.

Breathed in slowly — breath turning to thick fog in the frigid air.
It was just a cat. Just a cat.

But something in him knew that losing Alpine was more than that.

Meanwhile, Amélie clutched the collar in her palm.

“Alpine. Who names a cat Alpine?” Ethan laughed, but quickly added, “Okay, actually... kind of charming. But definitely out there.”

Amélie sat cross-legged on the floor, the cat curled in her lap, purring like she’d always belonged there.

“She was freezing, poor thing,” Amélie said, stroking the cat’s belly. “But she ate, and slept the whole night on my pillow. Honestly, I was tempted to keep her... but look at this collar. This cat is loved.”

She took a photo.

“What do I do? She has an owner.”

The decision came quickly. They printed flyers with Alpine’s picture, a description, Amélie’s number, and a note that the cat was safe.

They walked through the neighborhood with tape and hope.

Bucky turned the corner.
His feet ached. His heart, more.

And then he saw it.

A lamppost with the flyer.
Freshly taped, with large font and a message that began: “Found this lovely feline…”

He looked up.
And there she was — just a few meters ahead.

Amélie.
Blue coat, hair pinned to the side with a red clip.

And beside her, a tall guy with unruly hair and sharp, dark eyes. Wearing a thick sweater and a forest-green scarf, he was taping another flyer to a post.

Bucky stopped.
For a moment, he had no idea what to do.
His instincts told him to turn around.
But his body stayed.
His feet stayed.
His eyes too.

She hadn’t seen him yet.
Not yet.

His steps echoed on the damp sidewalk as he jogged closer.

The woman in the blue coat had her back to him, holding a roll of tape as she said something to the tall guy beside her. Her voice was gentle, even in her gestures. The guy looked amused, maybe a bit skeptical — chuckling as he stuck the last flyer on, a little crooked.

Bucky stopped just a few feet away. Took a breath.

She turned — and froze the moment she saw him.

“You…”

Her brown eyes widened with a mix of surprise and relief.

Bucky held up his phone with the photo in full screen. Alpine, white fur sprawled on the couch, paws in the air, little pink nose visible.

“She ran off yesterday. I went out looking… saw the flyer.”

His voice was rough, weighed down by sleepless nights and everything else that always came with it.

The guy next to her observed Bucky with a neutral expression — but behind his eyes, a quick and silent conclusion formed:

Total catch.
Cat dad, scruffy beard, broad shoulders, ridiculously blue eyes.

She’ll tell me everything later.

He gave Amélie a small nod, murmured something about having to go, then exaggeratedly mouthed:

“T-E-L-L M-E E-V-E-R-Y-T-H-I-N-G.”

And left, laughing, giving Bucky a brief wave that he returned with a nod of his chin.

Amélie still looked like she didn’t know what to do with her hands.

“Do you… wanna come up? She’s at my place. Just around the corner.”

Bucky nodded.
“Yeah. That’s okay.”

The wind whipped between the buildings, rattling one of the freshly taped flyers. She tugged her scarf closer to her neck. He walked beside her, listening as she talked about the snow, about how she found Alpine, how sweet she was, how they’d slept side by side and how she’d always wanted a cat.

The one hand Bucky had that could sweat, was definitely doing so inside his pocket.
He was nervous.

Not completely, not all at once — but the weight in his chest that never quite left had eased a little. Like Alpine had never even gone missing. Like the Winter Soldier himself had taken a quiet step back, gently nudged aside as Amélie’s presence grew beside him.

Quiet, but steady.
Light, but grounding.

And Bucky knew — with a slow, almost childlike certainty — that everything would be okay.

The door had barely clicked shut behind him when they reached the apartment, and Alpine was already at his feet.

She let out a short meow—somewhere between indignant and relieved—and shoved her body into the narrow space between Bucky’s legs, brushing against him like the previous night had just been a harmless stroll.

He crouched in the narrow entryway, opening his coat for her, and the cat curled into his chest with a purr so familiar it nearly ached.

“She missed you,” Amélie said, already unwrapped from her outer layers. She wore a black turtleneck, soft smile on her lips.

Alpine, apparently satisfied with the reunion, jumped down from his arms and strolled toward Amélie, rubbing her nose against the woman’s ankles before disappearing calmly into the living room—like the place still belonged to her.

Bucky stood slowly, eyes following the cat.

“She’s never gone missing. Not from home,” he said, his voice quiet. “Once, I lost her inside the closet, but never for this long.” He sounded like a parent trying to re-learn a growing child.

Amélie moved toward the kitchen, just off the living room. A counter hugged the wall, allowing him to see her as she pointed with a tilt of her head.

“I made coffee. It was for Ethan, but there’s some left. There’s food too, if you want.”

The warm scent of fresh coffee lingered in the air, mixed with something sweeter and lightly spiced—cinnamon and something else. Bucky hesitated for a second—he couldn’t quite remember the last time he’d eaten something that didn’t come straight from a package, maybe some of her bread—and then nodded.

“Coffee sounds perfect. Thanks.”

She smiled again, walking to the counter. Before he could say more, she opened the microwave, pulled out a small plate, and slid something inside. A minute later, the smell of cinnamon intensified.

“Do you like cinnamon rolls?” she asked, handing him the plate before he could answer.

He looked down at the pastry, then up at her. There was something too kind about it. He took a bite—it was his favorite.

“That answers that,” he said with a quiet grin.

Amélie leaned on the opposite side of the counter, holding her own mug—tea, not coffee. The apartment was quiet, except for Alpine now climbing the back of the couch like it was familiar territory.

Bucky looked around.

There was nothing luxurious about the place—but everything had a soul.

Bookshelves overflowing, many lined with colorful sticky notes, some books stacked on the floor as if they’d run out of space. Small paintings on the walls—none matching, but all intentional. A ceramic vase in the corner with dried flowers. A lamp with a fabric shade casting warm, golden light across the room. A half-finished puzzle on the dining table. An apron hanging behind the door.

“You’ve lived here long?” he asked, eyes still scanning the space. The blue in them sparked with curiosity.

“Since I was nineteen,” she replied easily. “It belonged to my grandparents. They took me in when I started college, and after the… well, after the accident. I stayed. I kept the apartment.”

He nodded, taking a sip of the coffee. Still hot. Strong. Surprisingly good.

“I don’t know how to thank you,” he said suddenly.

She shrugged, eyes dropping to her mug.

“You already did. Besides…” She glanced toward Alpine, now curled into a soft ball on the couch. “...I think she’s the one who decided she wants you around.”

He smiled, just slightly—because it was true.

Amélie took a slow sip of her tea, blowing on it first.

He picked up the rest of the cinnamon roll, took another bite, then made a face.

“This is… really good.”

“My grandmother’s recipe,” she said, sitting across from him. “I only make it when I want to impress.”

“So I’ve been promoted?”

“Still deciding,” she replied with a lopsided smile.

He drank another sip of coffee.

“Have you done your Christmas shopping yet, James?” she asked, the corner of her mouth tilting up in a near-tease. She wasn’t sure why she even asked.

He blinked. He’d forgotten how close the holiday was—despite the decorated streets, lit-up storefronts, and jingle bells looping in every store. He thought of Sam, Sarah, the kids. Maybe something small for them. But for himself… he hadn’t done Christmas shopping in decades. His last real memory was of trying to save up for a pair of stockings for his sister when he was still a teen.

“Not really,” he said. “Now that you mention it, maybe I should get something for Sam… the kids. I mean, Sam’s a coworker—friend. And his sister, her kids. They’re good people.”

“‘Good people’—interesting choice of words for the 21st century,” she said with raised brows, letting out a short laugh that made him shrug sheepishly.

He hesitated, then placed his mug on the counter and looked at her with a shy half-smile. She was already offering him another serving.

“And, technically, we haven’t been properly introduced. You can call me Bucky.”

She nodded, her smile softening.

“Okay. Bucky.”

“I’m officially Amélie,” she said, reaching out to take his hand warmly.

Bucky glanced around again—then noticed.

“You don’t have any Christmas decorations.”

She raised her eyebrows, then lowered her gaze like she was picking her words carefully.

“It’s not that I dislike it. I like the holidays. The lights, the smell of cinnamon, the cold outside.” She paused. “But… over time, it became just another day.”

He watched her, reading the slow, deliberate way her words came out.

“Are you spending it with anyone? Friends?”

She shook her head.

“No. I usually stay in. Cook something. Sometimes watch an old movie. It’s quiet.”

“What about your grandparents? You mentioned them in group once…”

She nodded slowly.

“They passed away. Two and three years after the accident. She had cancer, and he… I think it was heartbreak, honestly. I don’t think he could exist in a world where she wasn’t physically here.”

The words were plain, but Bucky felt their weight.

“I’m sorry,” he said sincerely.

“Thank you,” she murmured, not dramatizing it.

The conversation drifted to Christmas lights across the city. Amélie said she liked the over-the-top window displays and winter markets, even when they felt a little fake. Bucky admitted he was still stunned by the sheer number of inflatable reindeer.

“They look like they’re planning to take over Manhattan,” he said, as Alpine stretched across his lap like she’d always lived there.

Amélie laughed. “A holiday conspiracy. Imagine the headlines: ‘Reindeer seize control of Fifth Avenue.’”

The topic shifted to pets. He confessed, a little awkwardly, that Alpine was his first.

“I mean, technically she adopted me. Just showed up.”

“You got lucky. I always wanted a cat, but my grandparents were allergic. In college, I used to cat-sit for Ethan. Ended up with a reputation as the ‘seasonal cat aunt.’”

Bucky nodded, watching her stroke Alpine gently. He thought he could stay like that for hours, just listening. But then he glanced at the clock and hesitated.

“I… I’ve probably taken up too much of your time.”

“You literally lost a night of sleep looking for your cat. I don’t think that counts as stealing time.”

He smiled, but still stood up. Alpine followed him. Bucky gently picked her up and tucked her inside his open coat the way he’d done so many times before. She settled there, nose peeking out, perfectly content.

Before he could reach the door, Amélie rushed into the kitchen and came back with a paper bag.

“Take this. You looked genuinely impressed with the cinnamon rolls.”

He took the package like it was a precious gift.

“You’re gonna ruin my dietary standards, you know that?”

“Better ruined by sugar and cinnamon,” she said with a smirk.

“I don’t usually take bribes,” he muttered, almost smiling.

“I don’t usually offer them,” she shot back, leaning a hand on the doorframe.

He laughed—this time, really laughed. Gave her a little wave before stepping out, and somehow, the hallway felt lighter as he left, Alpine curled against his chest like a warm little sphere of fur—and something that felt suspiciously like hope.

It wasn’t until he got home, no longer in a hurry, Alpine stretching her paws out of his coat like she’d just come back from a heroic expedition, that Bucky unwrapped the cinnamon roll. The parchment paper still held a trace of that sweet smell. And folded between the loosely wrapped layers, a small note written in blue ink:

“In case you want to repeat the coffee. A.”
And a phone number on the back.

He stared at the number for a moment. Then he folded the note carefully, placed it on the nightstand, and walked quietly through the apartment, closing the window he’d left open. The sachet was still on the floor. The litter box by the window no longer made much sense—but he didn’t feel like moving anything just yet.

This time, he didn’t lie down on the floor. He climbed into bed. Alpine jumped up right after him, settled on his chest like it was her rightful place.

He stayed awake for a little while, listening to her gentle breathing.

And then, without realizing, he fell asleep.

Chapter Text

He wasn’t the kind of guy who called. Not to set up a date, not even to say thanks. But her note—with the phone number—was still folded inside his coat pocket, a little crumpled now. It had been two days since they rescued Alpine and had coffee together.

He hesitated more than once, staring at the phone screen like it might start judging his intentions. In the end, he figured ignoring her gesture would just be rude—and he’d been called a lot of things in life, but never impolite.

So he called.

No script, no idea what he’d actually say. He didn’t expect her to pick up. When she did, he went quiet for two long seconds—just enough for her to think the call had dropped.

Still, she sounded happy. And surprised.

Which, in a way, made the nerves worth it.

“Hi…?” Her voice was light, a little amused. “James?”

“Hey, Amélie. I was thinking… maybe we could grab that coffee.”

The pause on her end told him exactly what he didn’t want to hear.

“But if not, that’s fine.”

“Bucky… this week’s a mess. I’m editing a new release—super demanding client, everything last minute. I swear I want to make time, but…”

“It’s all good,” he cut in, too fast, before she could finish. “Some other day, then.”

On the other end of the line, Amélie squeezed her phone as if it could help organize the rush of thoughts. It wasn’t just guilt—though she felt it—it was that ridiculous urge to say just wait a few more days. But she wasn’t sure how that would come across. He didn’t seem like someone who pushed.

“I promise I won’t disappear,” she said in a whisper. “I really liked that morning.”

His silence wasn’t calculated. He just needed a second to understand she meant it.

“I did too,” he said at last. He hung up before any long goodbye. He didn’t want to sound resentful, but something inside him tightened. It wasn’t like Amélie had given a bad excuse—she didn’t seem like the type—but still, that stupid thought crept in: Was I being too much?

He stared at the phone afterward, like it might give him a sign. Some answer. Anything.

Instead, there was just that familiar, annoying feeling—maybe he’d called too soon. Or too late. Or maybe there was never going to be a right time.

A few days later, Sam showed up at his apartment without warning, walking in like someone who’d gotten tired of knocking and waiting.

“Brought coffee,” he announced, lifting the cup. “And I knew you wouldn’t open the door, so…”

“Alpine let you in?”

“Alpine nearly bit my finger off. But I think we’re cool now.” Sam dropped onto the couch with a sigh, watching the cat purring on the armrest. “Speaking of her… how’s the beast?”

Bucky shrugged.

“She made it. Amélie showed up right in time.”

“The same Amélie from the support group?” Sam raised an eyebrow, already smirking. “Man. This is getting serious? You’re not going all stalker-weird, are you?”

Bucky looked away and headed to the kitchen.

“I don’t even know what it’s getting,” he muttered, voice rougher than he meant. “She’s busy.”

“Busy doesn’t mean ghosting,” Sam replied, getting up. “But of course, you take it as I’m a walking burden. Ever think maybe she’s just… you know, living her life?”

“I’ve thought about it. I’ve also thought maybe I’m expecting too much.”

Sam studied him in silence for a few seconds, then nodded slowly—like someone changing the subject without actually changing it.

“Listen, there’s a game tomorrow at the pub on the corner. Joaquin’s coming too. There’ll be beer, yelling, and maybe you’ll remember you’re a socially functional human being.”

“And if I say no?”

“I show up here again, with more coffee and less patience. I’ll grab you by the collar and drag you there.” Sam grinned. “Consider that support.”

The next night, Bucky showed up at the pub like he said he would. Not because he wanted to, but because he was too tired of feeling stuck to the couch—and because Alpine gave him that feline look of contempt when he tried to talk about his anxiety.

The pub music was low, almost drowned out by scattered conversations and the occasional clink of glasses. It was a small place, all dark wood and warm lighting, with cushioned benches against the walls and a polished wood bar where Bucky sat. He arrived early. Picked a barstool, ordered a whiskey. And waited. He spun the glass between his fingers, watching the amber swirl.

Ten minutes later, a text from Sam:

Sam: “Sorry, Bucky. Emergency with the nephews. Sarah's losing it.”

Five minutes after that, Joaquin:

Joaquin: “Got called in to cover someone last-minute. Sorry, man!”

Bucky stared at the screen for a moment, then let out a sigh so deep it nearly turned into a groan. He pocketed his phone, downed half the whiskey in one go, and stared at his reflection in the glass.

He still didn’t feel free. Free of missions, orders, codes. Free of the weight of all those years he hadn’t been himself. And yet, here he was, technically “free”—but with no idea how to fill that space without commands.

“A drink, on the house, sir,” said the bartender, setting down a short glass filled with an amber cocktail with a hint of red around the rim.

Bucky frowned.
“I didn’t order this.”

“You didn’t. But she did.” The man nodded subtly toward one of the corner tables.

There she was.

Amélie. The face he’d wanted to see. He liked how she laughed low, like the whole world was just a little ridiculous. She was seated with an open notebook and a manuscript, scribbling notes while stirring a colorful drink garnished with an orange slice. When his gaze met hers, she raised her glass in a silent toast, a shadow of a smile on her lips.

Something tight in Bucky’s chest shifted—surprise, maybe, or something that felt suspiciously like hope.

He raised his glass in return, hand still hesitant, and took a sip. Sweeter than whiskey, with citrus notes and a smooth finish. He turned to the bartender.

“What is this?”

“Negroni sbagliato,” the man said, sliding a folded note toward him with a restrained smile. “A classic, but lighter.” And then, as if sharing a secret: “She said it would suit your mood.”

Bucky let out a dry laugh, a strange sound in his throat.

He glanced at Amélie again. She looked back down at her page like she hadn’t just been watching his every move. She wasn’t like the others—the people who looked at him and only saw what they thought he was. There was no pity in her gaze. Just… curiosity. Maybe even the same kind of loneliness he carried.

Bucky frowned, picked up the note. Her handwriting.

"I don’t have time in my planner, but fate always seems to make space for coincidences with you. I’m glad."

He read it twice, maybe three times. Then smiled. Slightly. Just with that part of his mouth he rarely used.

After another sip, he took a breath, picked up his glass, and walked slowly over to her table. When he stopped in front of her, his voice came out rough.

“I don’t usually take drinks from strangers. But I guess you stopped being a stranger, huh?”

Amélie looked up at him with that small smile that somehow outshone the pub’s dim lights.

“I’d say we’re almost acquaintances. We’ve had a feline rescue, broken bread, and shared a support group.”

“Then explain this,” he said, lifting the glass to indicate the drink.

She tilted her head, studying him for a moment, eyes twinkling with quiet humor.

“I thought maybe you needed something a little lighter tonight.”

The words lingered between them.

“You know I don’t get drinks,” he said, setting his glass down.

“Then we’ll start slow.” She closed her manuscript and pushed the notebook aside. “Tell me what you do get. Could be anything. A song, a book. Or just... what goes through your mind when you think about what comes next.”

He hesitated, then exhaled slowly.
“I’m… still trying to figure out what it means to be here. Now.”

She smiled softly, resting her chin on her hand.
“Me too. I mean, practically, I’m working. Just switched locations—I was tired of being locked inside.”

He nodded, and she added with a grin,
“But for now, how about another sip? Then I’ll show you how we survive nights like this. Just us and some decent drinks.”

Bucky looked at her. And for the first time in a long time, he felt like maybe… just maybe… this could be the night he started to just be James.

Amélie slid over on the cushioned bench, making room beside her.
“Want to sit here?”

He nodded, wearing that quiet smile no one saw often, and raised two fingers to the bartender for another round. He sat beside her, close enough that their shoulders nearly touched.

“So, what are you writing?” he asked, nodding toward the notebook and manuscript.

She sighed, tapping the notebook shut.
“That? Not work. Just… therapy. The manuscript’s for work. I was torn between being a critical reader or just getting things off my chest.”

He chuckled—low and rough—and she smiled in response.

“And what do you write, really?” he asked.

She looked at her drink, stirring it slowly.
“Everything. But mostly the things I can’t say. Sometimes because I don’t have the courage. Sometimes there’s just never the right moment.”

Bucky was quiet for a beat, tilting his head slightly. His chest tensed when, almost unconsciously, he reached into his jacket and brushed his fingers against the small notebook tucked there—the one Steve gave him years ago. He still carried it like a relic. A tool. A map of what not to forget.

“You write?” she asked, her voice laced with curiosity. “You don’t seem like the type. But if you did… I bet you’d be good. Not the content.” She raised an eyebrow, teasing. “Judging by your face, the content would be a disaster. But the quality? Raw. Honest.”

He let out another short laugh, this one a bit easier.
“Not sure anyone would call my notes ‘writing,’ but… yeah. Now and then.”

“Poetry?” she teased.

“No.” He smiled, a little nostalgic. “Just… lists. Things I don’t want to forget. Things I want to remember to be.”

She watched him for a long second, then leaned slightly toward him, her hair falling gently forward.

“Wanna tell me one of those things?”

Bucky hesitated, lips parting like the words might escape on their own. Then he glanced away, toward his empty glass.
“Maybe another time.”

Amélie accepted his silence like it was part of the conversation. When their new drinks arrived, she raised hers toward him.

“To the things we can’t forget.”

“And the ones we still have to figure out.” He tapped his glass against hers.

“Writing’s easy,” she said, fingers tracing the rim of her straw. “When you’ve got a bad habit of isolating. Whether because there aren’t many people around, or because…” her voice caught, softened by the alcohol and something deeper. “Well. You know. Orphan drama.”

The bitter tone didn’t quite fit her usual way of speaking. But the drink was kicking in, loosening defenses.

“Sometimes I think relying only on therapy for emotional support is depressing,” she went on, shoulders relaxing. “Leaving the session and realizing—out here, no one’s listening. No one’s curious. No one’s waiting to know how your day went.”

She spun her glass, eyes fixed on the liquid inside.
“I believe that centering yourself too much isn’t self-care—it’s just a prettier way to say you’ve built a defense mechanism.” Her voice trembled, a sad smile flashing before disappearing. “There’s a fine line between taking care of yourself and just anxiously avoiding sharing your life with someone.”

She looked at him, trying to tell if he understood—or if he was just listening. But there was something in his eyes—blue, clear, and fixed on her—that made her continue.

“Social media... it distances us more and more. It sells fake relationships.” She sighed, fingers brushing the closed manuscript. “Online connection drains me. But the problem is, ease became the norm. Fast and frictionless is always better. But we lose something crucial that way, don’t you think?” She closed her eyes for a beat, collecting her thoughts. “The slow, inconvenient texture of real life. Real connection.”

She bit her lip, then let out an awkward little laugh, eyes glassy but not yet crying.
“Maybe I sound like my grandparents. Maybe they were right. It’s the internet’s fault.” A soft laugh followed. “I don’t know… I don’t know what I’m saying. Maybe I’m drunk.”

The smile faded quickly, replaced by a quiet, vulnerable look. She raised her eyes to his, and in the depth of his blue, she saw herself—clearer than in any mirror.

In that moment, she felt truly seen. Not just heard. Not just looked at. Seen.

He was quiet, eyes studying her face like he was memorizing it—every nuance, the flush in her cheeks, the way her eyes shone with a mix of alcohol and something unspoken.

When Bucky finally leaned closer, it was subtle. Barely there. His body angled toward hers, shoulders softening. Close enough she could feel his breath and presence.

“This thing about…” he began, voice low and rough, closer than anything had been in a while, “just anxiously avoiding sharing your life with someone.”

The words felt heavy, like a thought too long kept silent. He looked at the manuscript for a moment, then back to her.

“I get it.” His voice cracked. “It’s easy… to stay stuck in that.”

His hands were resting on the table, relaxed—but his knuckles were white, like he was holding onto something invisible. He wanted to say more, maybe. But the words stuck in his throat.

And then he let out a soft, humorless laugh—just as the next moment began to unfurl.

“It’s just… sometimes it’s easier to take care of other people than ourselves.”

He wasn’t making some grand confession—just enough for her to see the cracks he carried too. And maybe, just for a moment, Amélie felt like they were standing in the exact same place—lost between the ease and the impossibility of connection, between the urge to care and the inability to be cared for.

Bucky tilted his head slightly, brushed his unshaven jaw with his metal hand, blue eyes locked on hers.

Amélie took a slow breath, gaze drifting, her fingers drumming aimlessly on the closed manuscript.
“I guess we have to keep going somehow, right? I mean… we can’t change the past, even if we don’t know which way to go from here.”

The words came out scattered, halting. She let out a small, embarrassed laugh.
“I’m doing it again... the rehearsed lines.”

Bucky’s smile was barely visible, but it was there. He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he finished his whiskey in a slow sip, never breaking eye contact. His face tilted further toward her, features softened by the pub’s low light and the amber gleam of the empty glass. He leaned in just a bit, his warm hand reaching up to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear. The gesture drew her hazel eyes back to him, now fully focused.

“Yeah… I think so,” he murmured, his voice gravelly, like he was swallowing the uncertainty with the whiskey. “Or at least that’s what people say—we have to keep going.”

Her cheekbone nearly brushed his jaw, like the space between them was meant to disappear. She felt a shiver run down her spine, and for a second, it was like the whole world had slowed down.

“I… I don’t want to say what’s appropriate. Or expected,” Amélie whispered, her voice fragile with breath. The haze of the drink made everything feel heavier, more confessional than intended.

Bucky stilled for a heartbeat, taking in every inch of her—the quickening breath, the slight tremble in her lips. Then, as if making a choice, he said softly,
“Yeah, it’s going to be okay.”

He didn’t wait. His hand cupped her jaw, thumb brushing her cheek with a tenderness that contrasted the firmness of the gesture. And with the lightest pull, he kissed her.

Open-mouthed. Intense. Wet. A kiss that stole the air between them. That made her breath falter and time dissolve. His lips traced hers with mounting urgency, teasing, tugging at her lower lip until her stomach clenched.

It wasn’t just a kiss with mouths—it was with intent. With spirit. A kiss that bared want in every breath.

Bucky felt her lips move against his in a rhythm that was both hesitant and desperate, the sweet tang of her drink still lingering in her breath. It was the kind of kiss that made his mind scream to lift her into his lap right then and there, the rest of the bar fading into insignificance.

He slid a single hand to her waist and pulled her onto him like she belonged there. Her body pressed against his, igniting a heat that sparked questions in his fingertips—what would it feel like to touch her beneath all those layers?

Amélie melted into him, legs weak, body contracting involuntarily as her fingers tangled in his soft hair. The world spun around them, and she unraveled in the warmth of his touch.

When they pulled apart, breathless and slightly dazed, Amélie let out a nervous laugh. She climbed off his lap clumsily, knees trembling, hands unsteady as she reached for her bag.
“My place… yours is closer?”

Bucky gave her a crooked smile, eyes still dark and wide in the dim light.
“Same distance as yours.”

She hesitated, then stepped closer, her eyes locked on his kiss-bruised lips.
“I want to go to yours.”

He didn’t say another word. Just left some bills on the table like a man in a hurry. He wrapped an arm around her, protective, and led her out into the cold night.

At his apartment door, Bucky’s key paused mid-air before sliding into the lock. The click echoed in the quiet between them. They stood close, physically, yet separated by all the questions they hadn’t asked.

Amélie looked up at him, her wide dark eyes full of hesitation and want. The anxiety radiated from her shoulders, in the way she bit her lip. But it wasn’t what would happen that made her anxious—it was what it meant.
“I’m sorry, Bucky,” she whispered, shrinking slightly. “I can’t. Not tonight.”

He paused with the door half-open, blue eyes on hers, breath still unsteady. But instead of frustration or disappointment, she was met with… calm. A kind of gentle silence that caught her off guard.

“It’s okay,” he said softly.

It felt so… unnatural to her. So much that the words tumbled out, as if she needed to explain the no:
“It’s not because I don’t want to. Or because I don’t get what this means. Or even the drink… It’s just— I don’t know if I want you, or just someone. And I don’t want to be careless with your feelings.”

Bucky stood still, taking in the raw honesty of her words. He could see it in her eyes—how real it was. He could almost touch the vulnerability she was offering.
“I can wait,” he started, then stopped. The word felt too heavy. He took a breath, shoulders relaxing.
“I mean… I don’t have to wait. I can just… be here.”

It cut through the tension with no pressure. No expectations.

Amélie exhaled, relief softening her features.
“Thank you,” she murmured. “I… I’m going home.”

“Can I walk you to the subway, at least?” he asked. Concern still lingered, but not overstepping.

She hesitated, then nodded.
“Yeah… just to the subway. It’s only two stops, but…” Her eyes met his, and she almost smiled. “Better than walking alone at this hour.”

Bucky walked beside her, hands in his coat pockets, their steps in sync. They didn’t say much, but his presence beside her was a kind of silence she welcomed.

Bucky entered his apartment in quiet, the door clicking shut behind him. The low light from the lamp cast a soft glow, but the space still felt sterile—neat furniture, blank walls. Alpine was curled up on the couch, asleep, blissfully unaware.

He stroked her soft fur, finding fragile comfort in the motion. His mind wandered to Amélie—to the taste of her lips, the lingering sweetness of her drink. He thought about what might’ve happened if she’d come upstairs. If this clean, quiet shelter might’ve turned warmer, more alive—with her laugh, her books, her mess, her presence.

Despite everything—despite his words—there was still a restless pull in his chest. A quiet ache for her to return. For the distance between them to shrink.

On the subway bench, Amélie sat still, her body still trembling from confusion and alcohol, which made the world slower, blurrier. The second the doors closed behind her, regret struck hard. The impulse to turn back, to run to him and say yes—I do want to stay—nearly overwhelmed her. But logic, clouded and dizzy, held her in place. She thought about how vulnerable she already was. About what she’d said. And how going back might only tangle it all more.

At home, she dropped her shoes by the door, her coat over the chair, her notebook on the table. She sat down, opened it, and let the words pour out: messy scribbles, half-formed thoughts, tangled emotions. She didn’t stop until her hands started to shake.

Then came the shower. The hot water tried to wash away the guilt and uncertainty, but nothing was enough. And in the silence of the bathroom, the tears came—uninvited, heavy, desperate. Drowning her in the confusion and loneliness she couldn’t ignore anymore.

Bucky fell asleep just before dawn, head heavy, thoughts spinning. Sleep came in short bursts, shallow and restless—like a quick plunge into darkness. And in that brief rest, he dreamed.

He dreamed of emptiness. Of a room with no doors, no windows, no furniture. Just himself, standing in the center of that sterile space. Alone. Completely, crushingly alone. The air thick and suffocating. As if he were trapped inside his own loneliness.

He woke up drenched in sweat, chest tight. The image clung to him like a shadow, even as he rose to feed Alpine and drink a glass of water.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

It was Saturday—the day Amélie and Bucky had agreed on for their date. He stood in front of the small bathroom mirror, frowning as he debated between two shirts—a sober navy blue one and a black one that looked slightly dressier. He had even bought a third option last week, just in case, but now everything looked wrong.

"Why am I nervous?" he muttered to his reflection. Alpine curled around his legs with a soft meow in response.

He ran a hand over his face, debating whether to trim his beard. He settled on cleaning up the edges. After shaving, he grabbed his phone and snapped a photo of each shirt option, sending them to Sarah without a caption. He didn’t even consider texting Sam—his friend would make endless jokes. Then he stepped into the shower.

Across town, in Amélie's apartment, the chaos was a different kind. Ethan and Nina were sitting on the couch, loudly debating what she should wear and where Bucky might take her.

“Ethan, you’re being ridiculous,” Nina said, rolling her eyes. “He’s not taking her to some five-star restaurant.”

“Still—what if it’s somewhere fancy? She needs to be ready.”

“I’m picking the place,” Amélie said from the edge of her bed, watching them like someone at a tennis match as she dried her hair. “I was thinking casual. Burgers and fries. I told you it’s not serious.”

“Not serious?” Ethan arched a brow. “Then why are you this nervous?”

“I’m not nervous!” she shot back, grabbing a skirt from the closet and tossing it onto the bed like it was her final choice. But deep down, she knew she was taking this very seriously.

At that moment, her phone buzzed. A message from Bucky.

Bucky: “I’ll pick you up.”

She sighed, trying to keep her cool—but her heart picked up pace anyway.

“You two, out of my apartment. Now. He’s on his way, I don’t want either of you snooping.” Ethan and Nina groaned as they gathered their stuff, not without kissing her cheeks several times and protesting their forced exit.

He arrived two minutes early—just enough to seem punctual without looking desperate. He was wearing shirt C, as Sarah had called it in her emoji-filled reply: “If it’s a job interview, go with A. If it’s a girl, go with C. And then tell me EVERYTHING.” He had rolled his eyes at the time, but secretly… it felt nice to have someone rooting for him.

The red tulips were a last-minute impulse, but they felt right as soon as he saw them. Bold, simple, beautiful. Like her, he thought.

The door opened before he could knock a second time, and there she was, momentarily stunned. Her hair was done, the mascara brought out the warmth of her brown eyes, and even through the nerves, a soft smile lingered on her lips.

When Bucky offered the tulips—red like the color he instinctively associated with her—he said, almost unsure, “These are for you.”

Amélie took them slowly, her fingers brushing his for a split second. The words echoed in her mind, calling back the promise of a casual date. “It’s not serious?” She wasn’t sure whether to laugh, thank him, or admit her heart was hammering in her chest.

All she managed to say, in a low, warm voice, was, “Thank you. They’re beautiful.”

Bucky smiled, just barely, nervous. “You look… amazing.”

She almost lost her balance right there, holding the flowers in one hand and trying to steady her smile. She invited him in to put the tulips in water, trying to ignore the muffled voices and laughter of her friends echoing down the hallway—they were supposed to have left, but clearly hadn’t gone far.

He stepped in, still watching her. Amélie wore a black skirt, a dark gray turtleneck coat, wine-colored lipstick. Gold hoops glinted in the Christmas lights. Her black boots tapped a quiet rhythm on the floor as she shifted slightly, disguising either the chill or her nerves.

He paused a few steps away. She smiled. And just like that, everything felt like it was starting the right way.

Once the flowers were in a vase and they were back at the door, she took a breath and looked at him, really looked at him. “Ready?”

Bucky nodded, holding the door open for her to go first.

He had planned it all in his head—the taxi, the reservation, something a little out of the ordinary, something special. Even if the dinner spot was her call, and even if he’d promised it would be casual. It was their first date. It mattered.

But when Amélie hesitated, honestly and awkwardly, saying she couldn’t handle cars, not yet—not since her parents—he didn’t push.

“Of course. Subway’s perfect,” he said with a quiet smile, trying to show it was no big deal.

On the train, he stood in front of her, hands gripping the overhead rail. She had taken the only empty seat. The bar between them was physical, but the space felt almost nonexistent. She fidgeted with her bag’s keychain, spinning a little gold charm in a loop with her thumb, nervously.

Bucky leaned down slightly, lowering his voice as the train gently swayed. “You look beautiful, you know that?”

Amélie looked up, warmth rising to her cheeks even as she gave a quiet, flustered laugh. He didn’t quite understand why every little detail about her got to him like this.

“Thank you, James,” she said, spinning one of her rings.

He was starting to really like the way she said his name.

“So… what do you want to eat?” he asked, trying to sound casual, leaning against the rail.

She laughed, still blushing, avoiding his gaze.

“Nothing too fancy, nothing expensive. A good burger, a giant strawberry milkshake maybe, and extra fries.”

He raised an eyebrow, surprised. Then a mischievous smile tugged at his lips.

“Seriously? Milkshake? I thought you were the type who only drinks tea all the time.”

“I do drink tea. But everyone deserves a milkshake once in a while,” she said, amused.

They got off at the station she’d picked and started walking side by side through the cold streets, Christmas lights blinking around them. Bucky kept one hand in his coat pocket, and then, almost accidentally, let his arm brush against hers. She didn’t pull away.

He instinctively stayed a step ahead when they crossed busy streets, and halfway through the walk, he made a joke about how out of practice he was when it came to dating.

“I think this might be my best first-date performance,” he admitted with a quiet laugh.

Amélie smiled, surprised by his charming, funny side.

“You’re doing great, Bucky.”

They reached the diner Amélie loved—nothing fancy, not too crowded, filled with the smell of fries and burgers. It had the laid-back vibe of a neighborhood classic: walls lined with vintage movie posters, softly flickering neon lights, and the irresistible scent of fried food in the air. The worn Formica tables gleamed under warm lighting, and the sound of conversation mingled with clinking glasses and an old jukebox in the corner playing 1950s hits.

He gently guided her through the room with a light touch at the small of her back. Pulled her chair out. They settled into a booth near the fogged-up window. The park outside was lit up with holiday lights. He picked up the menu, though he already knew what she’d order. He glanced over the options and asked for a bacon cheeseburger and a chocolate milkshake with cherry syrup.

It was then, hands loosely folded on the table, that Amélie asked her first real question. “I’ve read what’s in the papers, heard what people say,” she began, her voice as sincere as it was careful. “But… who were you before all that? Your family? Where were you born? What did you do in the Army? And… is it true, what the Steve Rogers Museum says? That you were a hero against the Nazis?”

Bucky lowered his gaze for a moment, hands resting on the table, then looked back at her with a small, shy smile. “I was born in Brooklyn, 1917. Son of a soldier and a housewife. Grew up with my little sister, Rebecca, until… well, life split us up.” He drew a breath, leaning one elbow on the table. “Before the Winter Soldier, before all that… I was just a sergeant in the 107th, fighting in Europe. Got captured by the Nazis and… you know the rest. Steve saved me. What’s in the museum is true. I was part of that story. But it wasn’t all heroism, you know? A lot of it was luck. Surviving took more luck than courage. Youthful stupidity helped, too.”

She listened silently, not interrupting, eyes fixed on him like she was trying to reconstruct a mental image of Bucky Barnes, circa 1943: army uniform, hair combed to the side, maybe a cigarette in hand, and that charming, golden-era grin.

But one thought kept echoing in her head like a loud siren:

He’s over ninety.

It wasn’t exactly protest.

Just… an uncomfortably mathematical realization.

“You’re…,” she blinked, doing the math, “you’re a hundred and nine?”

Her voice came out slightly high-pitched, as if she’d just realized she was drinking wine with someone who could’ve been her great-grandfather’s peer.

Bucky looked like he was holding back a laugh, raising one brow, blasé.

“Hundred and nine and some change. But I don’t look it, right?”

“No,” she said, still processing. “I mean—not physically. But now everything makes sense.”

“What does?”

“The patience. The comfortable silence. The fact that you never use emojis…” She started counting on her fingers. “You’re literally from another era. I mean, I knew that, but now it really hit me.”

“I use emojis.”

She gave him a look.

“Okay, I use one. The thumbs-up. 👍”

“Exactly.” She took a sip of wine. “You’re like… a polite senior citizen with superhero arms. And zero knee pain.”

He laughed, no longer holding it back.

“For what it’s worth, I still feel forty in my head.”

“That’s what every forty-year-old says.”

“Fair.”

She shook her head, laughing too, and then looked at him with an expression that mixed fascination, disbelief, and a certain impossible-to-hide warmth.

“Bucky… you’re a functional centenarian.”

“Best compliment I’ve ever gotten.”

“Do you still like Brooklyn?” Amélie asked, spinning her wine glass by the stem, her tone light, but curious.

Bucky raised his eyebrows, thoughtful.

“I do. It’s changed a lot. But there’s still decent pizza, people who are grumpy before 9 a.m., and a disproportionate number of old ladies who mistake me for their missing grandson.”

Amélie laughed.

“No way…”

“One of them kissed my forehead last week. And gave me a pack of Mentos. Said I looked very pale. I found it offensive, but I took the candy.”

“Given your age, maybe it was a reunion.”

“Ouch.” He placed a hand over his chest, theatrically wounded. “That was low.”

“Sorry. Happens with centenarians.”

“Functionally centenarian, if I may correct you.”

The plates were served. Bucky grabbed a fry and took a bite.

“And you? Do you like Brooklyn?”

“I do,” she said, leaning in slightly. “But it's not exactly like in the movies. I haven’t bumped into the love of my life outside a coffee shop yet.”

“You bumped into a cat.”

“Which is practically the same thing—if the cat comes with a man who buys red tulips.”

Bucky smiled, and she felt a strange warmth blossom in her chest.

“So, do you like Brooklyn now?”

“I like it more with you in it.”

He blinked, surprised. She pretended to be very focused on figuring out the proper angle to bite into her burger.

“Was that a pickup line?” he asked, trying to sound serious.

“I don’t know. Would you accept a pickup line from someone who still uses emojis?”

“Depends. Which emoji?”

“The cat one. With the heart eyes.”

“...I’d accept that.”

Amélie dipped a fry into her milkshake absentmindedly.

“What did you use to do in your free time... between trenches?”

Bucky chuckled softly.

“Free time? Wasn’t a lot, but... we played cards, wrote letters we didn’t always send, tried to find a quiet corner to breathe. I wrote a poem once. Terrible. Steve teased me for weeks.”

She smiled, genuinely surprised.

“What do you miss most about your youth?”

Bucky rested his arms on the table, more relaxed now.

“Being reckless. Laughing with Steve. Afternoons playing ball in the alley behind my house. My sister… the simplicity. Feeling like the world was still small enough to hold in my hands. Now I feel too small—too messy—for this world.”

Amélie hesitated, then asked, her eyes bright:

“What’s your favorite dessert?”

“Cinnamon rolls,” he said without missing a beat. “That’s probably why I got so obsessed with your recipe. They've always been my favorite. Since I was a kid.”

She smiled, heart doing a silly little dance.

“And your favorite book?”

Bucky paused for a moment, thoughtful.

“I think it’s The Old Man and the Sea, by Hemingway. There’s something about that old man’s lonely fight, that quiet resistance against the sea. I used to think it was about courage. Now I think it’s about acceptance.”

She took in his words. When the milkshake arrived, he tilted his head, smiling openly.

“My turn. Where were you born?”

“Beacon. Upstate New York. Too small to be famous, charming enough to miss.”

“And what did you study?”

“Literature,” she said, leaning back. “I’ve always loved reading. Fell for books too early and never looked back.”

“Favorite book?”

She sighed, hesitating as if choosing carefully.

“It’s hard to pick just one, but… A Very Easy Death, by Simone de Beauvoir.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow, intrigued.

“Heavy.”

“It is,” she laughed, agreeing. “But it’s freeing, in a way.”

She clinked her strawberry milkshake glass against his.

“I guess we’re both hopeless readers.”

He laughed and raised his own glass.

Amélie rested her chin on her hand, eyes glinting with curiosity.

“What do you like about the present?”

Bucky took his time, eyes fixed on the soft light illuminating her face. He took a dramatic breath.

“Lots of things… fresh coffee. Walking through Brooklyn. Not having to run or hide. Learning new stuff. Watching a bad movie just because I feel like it.”

He looked at her, almost shyly.

“But mostly… you.”

Her heart skipped so hard she almost lost balance.

She blinked. Then blinked again. Her mind raced like a browser with 27 tabs open.

“Was that…” she started casually, “a compliment from a near-centenarian or a vintage pickup line?”

“I think it was honest. But I can add a ‘m’lady’ if that helps.”

She laughed, hand to her chest.

“Oh God. If you do that, I’ll have to respond with a ‘Why, kind sir!’”

“Please don’t. That might trigger war flashbacks.”

She laughed again.

The moment almost slipped away, but Amélie brought it back—leaning in slightly across the candlelight, a smirk playing on her lips.

“Just for the record… if that was a pickup line—it worked.”

Bucky smiled, both surprised and pleased.

“Good. Because my backup plan involved a passionate speech about microwaves and how you don’t need to build a fire to cook anymore.”

“I still want to hear that speech.”

The night wrapped around them as they walked, Christmas lights painting a movie scene in whites and golds. Garlands and stars swayed in the wind. They walked close—close enough for Amélie to take his arm. The pace slowed when they reached a bench under a decorated tree. Amélie pulled her phone from her coat pocket, pointing at the lights.

“Can you take a photo of me here? Please?”

He took the phone, framed the shot, and clicked.

“Done.”

She blushed at the way he looked at her. She looked away, then offered gently:

“Want me to take one of you?”

He gave a sheepish smile but nodded. She stepped close, rested her head against his, and took a selfie. Bucky’s smile widened when he saw the photo.

“I like this one.”

They rode the subway home, side by side. Amélie slowly leaned her head against his shoulder, their hands meeting in a tentative, quiet touch. No words were spoken. The silence was warm.

Bucky, gaze drifting, replayed the night in his head. The way she laughed, how she looked away when trying to hide a smile—she filled a space inside him he hadn’t realized was empty.

He looked down at her hand resting lightly on his. Then ahead, at the empty seat across the train car. He remembered the first time he really saw her—Amélie, deep in The Great Gatsby, subway lights drawing soft shadows on her face. Back then, he thought he’d never see her again. Just a pretty face on a random afternoon. But now she was here. Dozing against his shoulder.

Maybe it was the milkshake. Or maybe it was just her.

When they arrived near her place, they walked together to her building. In the hallway, under the warm light, she turned to him with a faint smile.

Then she stood on tiptoe and, without overthinking it, pulled his face down to hers.

Their lips met in a kiss that was unexpected, yet inevitable.

Bucky had wanted it for so long, but never pushed, never rushed. He didn’t want to break what they had. But now—with her wrapped around him, surrendering to the impulse—he kissed her back.

His arms found her waist, drawing her in. His fingers brushed her neck, then her jawline. The metal hand pressed gently at her hip, pulling her even closer. The kiss deepened—her tongue tasting his in a way that made his whole body hum. Her scent—soft floral and earthy wood—clung to the collar of his jacket.

When they finally pulled apart, she chuckled, breath uneven.

“Good night, Barnes. I’ll be waiting for your call.”

She stepped into her apartment, leaving him at the door.

Bucky stood there for a moment, a dazed smile spreading across his face. He laughed softly and walked home, lighter than he'd felt in a long time. When he got back, he gave Alpine an extra treat, turned on the TV.

A rom-com was playing—When Harry Met Sally. He curled up on the couch, Alpine in his lap, and fell asleep with the movie still running.

Amélie, on the other hand, leaned against the door with a goofy grin. She took off her shoes, turned around—and there were the red tulips on the counter, waiting in a glass jar.

She took a picture and, without overthinking it, sent it to Bucky with a simple caption:

Ames: Thanks for tonight!

Chapter Text

Bucky woke up too early. It was still dark outside when his eyes opened against his will. He spent the next few minutes trying to convince himself to wait for a decent hour to call, but the urge was stronger. When the clock struck nine, he grabbed his phone and, after a deep breath, dialed her number.

On the other end, Amélie took a moment to answer. Her phone was buried somewhere between the pillows, and she only managed to find it after feeling a faint vibration. She saw his name on the screen and picked up, her voice still husky and lazy—but smiling:

“You actually called me.”

Bucky smiled at the sound of her voice, realizing he might’ve woken her up.

“Did I wake you?”

“No… I mean, yes, but it’s okay,” she said, shifting under the covers.

“How are you?” he asked, a little hesitant. “Did you sleep well?”

“Yeah. Better than I have in a long time.”

There was a short pause, and Bucky bit his lower lip, almost backing out of what he wanted to say.

“I... wanted to ask if you’d maybe… want to have breakfast with me, but—”

She didn’t let him finish. She tossed the blankets aside, already sitting up in bed.

“Breakfast sounds perfect, James.”

He chuckled, relieved, hearing the rustle of sheets and her footsteps on the floor.

“So, I’ll meet you there?”

“You’ll meet me here. But give me ten minutes to look human.”

“Okay,” he said, smiling wide enough for it to come through his voice. “I’m on my way.”

Amélie hung up and looked at herself in the mirror, still sleepy but smiling.

Bucky, on the other hand, dropped the phone and immediately started getting ready, still grinning.

They didn’t plan a second date—at least not officially. But over the course of that week, they saw each other three more times.

The first was on Tuesday, when Bucky showed up at the café where Amélie usually worked on edits in the mornings. He swore he was just “in the neighborhood,” but the fact that he knew her favorite table and showed up with her name spelled correctly on the coffee cup made the coincidence a little suspicious. They sat there for an hour, sharing coffee and half-baked jokes.

The second time was practically inevitable: he ran into her after her group meeting on Thursday. Amélie was still attending the sessions. He bumped into her after leaving his own therapy, which was just a block away. His excuse was that the nearest subway station was the same one her group used. They didn’t offer anything more than a casual, “Want some company?” and walked side by side.

On Friday, it was Bucky’s turn to be surprised. Coming back from a morning run, sweaty and out of breath, he nearly tripped over his own feet when he spotted a coffee cup and a paper bag with a cinnamon roll resting on his doorstep—still warm—with a note taped to it with avocado-print washi tape. Her handwriting read:

“Basic survival kit for politically rehabilitated people on cold mornings.
PS: It was my turn to show up unannounced. ;)”

He stood there for a second, laughing to himself before nudging the door open with his shoulder, carefully balancing what was clearly his breakfast.

Friday nights at Sam’s apartment were never part of Bucky’s plans.

Officially, he was there because he “needed to socialize.” Sam had said that in his usual persuasive, charismatic tone—the one he used when he wanted to talk Bucky into something. Or, in this case, drag him to a casual get-together that involved music, Mexican food, and a heated debate between Sharon and Scott over which classic literature hero would survive a zombie apocalypse the longest.

Joaquín had already made two drinks with suspicious names. Sarah was laughing barefoot on the couch while Sharon insisted that Macbeth would absolutely die early on.

Bucky was sitting with a plate of nachos balanced on his knee, paying half-attention to the conversation and the other half... somewhere else.

Or more precisely, on someone else.

Scott was gesturing dramatically with a burrito in hand.

“Okay, hear me out: not only would Hamlet survive a zombie apocalypse, he’d lead a community,” he said, like he was giving a TED Talk. “The guy’s already paranoid, trusts no one, and has razor-sharp survival instincts.”

“Hamlet?” Sharon scoffed, clearly offended. “The man couldn’t make a decision if his life depended on it—which, spoiler, it did. He’d die trying to choose between fight or flight.”

“She’s right,” Sarah said, taking a sip of wine. “Hamlet would die before the second episode even started.”

From across the room, Joaquín raised a finger like he was making a formal objection in court.

“But what if he had Yorick’s skull as a weapon? That changes the game.”

There was a beat of silence. Then, laughter.

That’s when Bucky noticed it—everyone here knew enough Shakespeare to debate zombie survival in classic fiction. Weird enough on its own. Amélie would’ve loved this conversation.

“Wait,” he said, narrowing his eyes in confusion. “Why does everyone here know this much literature?”

Sharon raised her wine glass with a smug smile.

“Because the world’s changed, Barnes. You can be a secret agent and read Virginia Woolf these days.”

Scott shrugged. “I only read Hamlet because I had nothing else to do in prison. But hey—paid off, right?”

While the conversation rolled on, Bucky slowly pulled out his phone. Sam had just come in with more drinks, and Bucky slipped out onto the balcony like he was committing a small crime. He glanced over his shoulder to make sure no one was watching, then took a breath—like he needed courage for a phone call in the year 2025—and dialed Amélie’s number.

She picked up on the second ring.

“Hello?”

“Hey,” he said, voice soft. “I… was thinking about you. Wanted to know what you’re up to.”

There was a pause on the other end. Then, laughter.

“Wait. You’re calling? Like, an actual phone call? Who even does that anymore? Are you sure you don’t want to send a sticker of a smiling pig saying ‘Hey stranger’ instead?”

He smiled.

“I like hearing your voice,” he said, not caring if it made him sound old-fashioned. “And… I was wondering if you’re free tomorrow. Thought maybe we could have our second official date.”

“Is this your idea of a formal invitation?”

“With witnesses,” he replied—just as someone approached.

“Who’s he taaaalking to?” Sam yelled from the doorway, craning his neck. Bucky rolled his eyes.

Sarah appeared next, grinning.

“He’s calling shirt girl! Five bucks says he’s sweating. Sharon, you in?”

On the line, Amélie just laughed.

“You’re calling me in the middle of a party?”

“I was kidnapped,” he replied flatly. “But seriously… will you go out with me tomorrow, or am I going to have to suffer through more rounds of social torture without an answer?”

“Tomorrow sounds perfect.” They hung up quickly, and Bucky tried not to smile—but failed miserably. When he turned back, everyone on the balcony was waiting for a reaction.

“You’re worse than SHIELD agents,” he muttered.

“Aww, look at his face—he’s smitten,” Joaquín teased, already mixing another drink just in case. Bucky’s metal arm creaked as he dropped back onto the couch, pretending to play it cool. But Sarah gave him a knowing look and murmured,

“I approve.”

He pretended not to hear. But the faint flush on his ears said it all.

The night had started to wind down. Music now played softly in the background, and while the party wasn’t over, it was mellowing out. Smaller conversations broke off around the room—on the couch, in the kitchen, leaning against walls, sharing drinks and stories.

Bucky leaned against the kitchen counter with a beer in hand, scrolling through a video Amélie had sent from karaoke night with Nina and Ethan. Sarah joined him, arms crossed, resting by his side.

“You called her tonight,” she said simply, smiling gently.

He gave a sheepish, satisfied smile back. “I did.”

“And?”

“I asked her out again. She joked no one calls to say they’re thinking about someone anymore.”

Sarah laughed and gave him a proud sibling-style shoulder nudge, then cupped her face in her hands.

“Well, you’re old-fashioned. That’s part of the charm. But…” she tilted her head slightly, more serious now. “How’d this happen?”

Bucky exhaled, took a sip before answering.

“She lost her parents during the Blip. Not because they were snapped—because someone else was. A truck driver disappeared and hit their car head-on. She was twenty-one or twenty-two.”

Sarah frowned, her eyes softening.

“That’s awful…”

“Yeah. She moved in with her grandparents after that, here in New York. Went to college nearby, but they passed not long after. Now she’s in a support group. Not the one Steve used to run—similar though. Brooklyn. Off the G line. I ran into her there, unplanned. Was on my way to therapy.”

Sarah watched him carefully, like she was connecting dots.

“And you stuck around.”

He nodded again, leaning further onto the counter.

“She’s… calm. Not in a quiet way, just—she doesn’t force anything. She just is. And when she looks at me, it doesn’t feel like she sees the Winter Soldier. Or the guy from the news. Just… me.”

Sarah smiled with her eyes. But before she could say anything, Sam walked over, catching the end of the conversation. He grabbed a beer from the fridge and stood beside them—without his usual teasing grin.

“Amélie, right?”

Bucky nodded.

“She met you on one of those broken days,” Sam said—not asking, just stating. Bucky shrugged, leaning his shoulder against the wall. The three of them stood in silence. Somewhere in the background, Scott and Joaquín were laughing about alternate endings to bad movies.

“Sometimes that’s it,” Sarah said quietly. “Two people cross paths in a weird moment, and something makes sense.”

Sam looked over, more serious now.

“And do you trust her?”

“With me? Yeah. With the things I carry? Not yet. But… I think I’ll get there.”

Sam nodded slowly, then gave him a soft slap on the shoulder.

“Then take it slow. But go.”

He stayed beside Bucky for a while, watching him in silence, like he was considering something. Then, once Sarah stepped into the living room for a drink, he asked in a lower voice,

“You still have nightmares?”

Bucky looked away, like the question had tugged him somewhere deeper. He thought about lying. Saying they were rare. But then Sarah came back with a soda and another round of nachos, standing nearby without interrupting—just listening.

He looked between them and exhaled.

“Sometimes. Not like before, but they still come. Flashes. Bits and pieces. Like the Soldier’s still lurking in some corner of my brain, waiting for an opening.”

Sarah’s fingers tightened around her can, her eyes soft with empathy. Sam didn’t say anything at first—he just nodded, quiet and steady. His attention was full.

“You don’t have to hide that,” he said simply. “Especially from someone who’s trying to be on your side.”

“I know.” Bucky rubbed a hand over his face. “It’s not shame. Just… reflex. Habit. Always on guard. Keep it all tucked away.”

“She know?” Sam asked carefully. “About the serum, the arm… what it was used for?”

Bucky nodded slowly.

“She knows I’m James Barnes. That I was the Winter Soldier. That I got political pardon. And that now I’m just… someone trying to figure it all out. She hasn’t asked for details yet. And I haven’t gone deep. But… I don’t think she’s avoiding it. Feels like she’s just waiting for the right time.”

Sam let out a short, dry laugh.

“Smart girl. You sneeze and the press calls it an international incident. She knows where she’s stepping.”

“Yeah.” Bucky gave a small, tired smile. “But even so… she doesn’t back off. Calls me. Sends coffee. Shows up at my building with a note. And… she doesn’t pity me. That might be the newest thing for me.”

Sarah, quiet until then, looked at him and said:

“It’s not new. Just rare. Maybe now you’re finally ready to recognize when someone sees all of you—not just the pieces.”

Bucky lowered his gaze, turning the bottle in his hand.

“I don’t know what this will turn into. But I don’t want to mess it up before it even starts.”

Sam smiled—easy, calm, leaving the teasing behind.

“Then don’t sabotage it. We’ll be here trying to stop you from screwing it up.” He raised his beer and clinked it against Sarah’s can, sealing a quiet team pact—for Bucky.

Chapter Text

It was mid-afternoon on a Saturday. Winter in New York looked like a storefront trying too hard to sell itself. Lights everywhere, lines outside the stores, tourists taking selfies with the smallest possible snowflake. The day was freezing, the streets alive with the movement of colorful coats and gift bags. A sweet smell of caramelized nuts floated in the air.

He walked quickly, dodging shopping bags and a guy dressed as a reindeer who reeked of cigarettes. “Jingle Bell Rock” crackled through a broken speaker. He kept going over what he was going to say, what to avoid. His dark jacket was zipped to the neck, one hand in his pocket, the metal one holding a small box of chocolates. His steps were rushed, almost anxious.

But as he turned the corner, suddenly—like his body stopped before his brain—his feet froze on the sidewalk. That. That thing right there, in front of Amélie’s familiar building, wasn’t supposed to be there.

And yet, it was.

And now he didn’t know whether to take another step or turn back.

A few feet from the door stood a man, back turned, in a dark overcoat and snow-stained boots. His posture was aggressive, leaning in too much, speaking low. Rumlow. A ghost that refused to vanish. Thinner than Bucky remembered, but still with that coiled predator’s frame. Nervous fingers pushed back dark hair. Deep-set eyes, still too alive, still too dangerous. New scars on his face. A sharp jawline.

And Amélie—frozen, shoulders tense, arms crossed in front of her body. Her expression flickered between anger and fear. Her cheeks flushed from the cold, eyes full of that kind of vibrating tension that wanted to explode and flee all at once. She couldn’t look him in the eye.

“You can’t just show up,” she was saying, voice trying to sound firm and failing slightly. “That was years ago. I don’t care what you want or need.”

Just seeing him made Bucky’s stomach twist. His hand clenched at his side, and he didn’t even try to hide it. The idiot smiled with that same smugness, like he still thought he held all the power.

Rumlow’s voice was smooth, calculated. A charming undertone barely masking the threat.

“Just a few days. It’ll be easy. You deserve a break. I’ll take care of you, you’ve been through a lot.”

Amélie shifted her feet, instinctively backing up, eyes darting away from his face.

“Brock, I said no. Leave.”

“I just want to talk. You owe me that much, don’t you? After everything—”

“I don’t owe you anything,” she snapped, louder this time. “You lied about everything. You used me. And now you show up because everyone else slammed the door in your face?”

A few neighbors had gathered discreetly across the street. A woman in a hoodie whispered something to a teenager while pretending to walk their dog, both of them watching closely.

Bucky let the box fall into his jacket pocket and crossed the street like a shadow. By the time Rumlow turned, it was too late.

The former soldier stopped beside Amélie without a word, eyes locked on Brock like every cell in his body was fighting not to explode.

“What’s this supposed to be?” Bucky asked, voice neutral. But there was something heavy beneath it. Something dangerous. Contained.

Amélie took two steps back, surprised she hadn’t noticed him arrive. She let him take the space in front of her.

Rumlow recognized him. His expression flickered—shock, then mockery.

“Soldier. Of course. Always around when I least want you to be.” He glanced between them. “She’s good at that, huh? Drawing in the saviors.”

Bucky didn’t respond. Just stood there. Still. Like he was carved out of stone.

Amélie reached out and gently touched his arm without looking away from Brock.

“He was already leaving,” she said.

“Was he?” Bucky raised an eyebrow, slowly. He didn’t turn toward her, even though every part of him wanted to. “Doesn’t look like it.”

Rumlow hesitated. And in that second, even he realized the game was over. Bucky’s presence—and the reality that Amélie wasn’t alone anymore—was enough to make him step back.

“This isn’t over, Amélie. We need to talk.”

“It ended the second you showed up at my door thinking you could still manipulate me,” she said. “Don’t ever come back. I have nothing to say to you.”

He gave her one last look, like he wanted to test the waters again, but then turned and walked away. Fast. Arrogant. The silence left behind was even heavier.

Amélie was breathing quickly. Bucky turned to her. She was clutching her scarf tightly, her whole body still tense. His own heart pounded, furious.

“You okay?”

She nodded but didn’t say anything. Her gaze was still fixed on the spot where Rumlow had stood, like the ground itself was tainted. Her lips parted, her mind clearly racing for the right words.

“Let me take you somewhere,” he said. “Doesn’t have to be a date. Just... anywhere but here.”

She nodded.

“Okay. Just—give me a second.”

While Amélie went inside, Bucky pulled out his phone, jaw tight. He typed fast.

Bucky: He showed up. Rumlow. At Amélie’s door. He’s alive. He knows her.
She’s shaken. I’m taking her out to clear her head. Will explain later.

He paused. Deleted it. Rewrote, more concise. Drier.

Bucky: Rumlow showed up. I’m with Amélie. Talk later.

Sent.

As soon as he slid the phone back into his pocket, he heard the lock click.

He turned. Amélie was locking the door with trembling fingers, phone in the other hand. She had put on a heavier coat. Without a word, Bucky held out his arm.

And she leaned into him lightly as they started walking down the street.

FLASHBACKS

She was twenty-one and still carried the kind of naivety that made her believe truth always came with badges and official acronyms.

At the time, Amélie was interning in a government affairs and public relations program. She was far too excited about the chance to work in D.C., surrounded by white concrete buildings, speeches printed on letterhead, and rushed coffee breaks with important people.

Brock showed up on the third day. “Agent Rumlow,” he introduced himself, flashing a smile that was too polished to be warm. He said he was part of a special National Security unit. She believed him — he seemed to know everything, and he spoke with the kind of tone that didn’t ask, it informed.

“You write well. Straight to the point. That’s rare around here,” he said once, looking over her shoulder during one of the early meetings.

That’s how it started. Quick lunches. Traded emails. Comments about books he never actually read, but pretended to. And compliments — careful enough to sound sincere.

She liked the feeling of being seen. Of being valued in the middle of that jungle of suits and protocol.

What she didn’t know was that she was being picked.

The second memory came back like a blur — with details that were far too sharp.

By then, she’d been living with him for two months. His trips had become more frequent. Strange phone calls in the middle of the night, names he never repeated, documents he stashed away too quickly.

One night, she found a half-open file in his email. Her name was on it.

There was no tenderness or affection in the document. Just an assessment. A psychological profile. A clinical write-up, like she was a piece being tested before being placed on the board.

“Stable. Intelligent. Clean public image. Potentially useful in social infiltration and cover scenarios. Unaware of Hydra operations. Replaceable.”

The word replaceable burned like acid.

She remembered standing there. Minutes. Maybe hours. She didn’t know.

When he came home that night, she pretended she hadn’t seen anything. And that’s when the plan to leave began.

But Rumlow had already noticed — she was starting to see too much.

It was when she tried to leave that he showed her what lived beneath the smile.

It was a Tuesday. She waited for him to leave before packing a bag. But he came back earlier than expected.

“Going somewhere?” he asked, leaning against the doorway.

“I…” She swallowed hard. “This isn’t right. I saw what you wrote. You lied about everything. About who you are.”

“Amélie…” he said, stepping closer, “I’m who you need me to be. I always have been. That doesn’t change anything.”

“It changes everything.”

He grabbed her wrist. Not hard enough to break it. Just enough to remind her that he could.

“You’re not leaving. Not yet. You know too much. People will start asking questions. And I don’t have time for questions.”

“You don’t love me,” she said, her eyes burning.

He smiled.

“I never said I did. But you’ve been useful so far. So don’t make this harder than it has to be.”

She had scars no mirror could show — and one she still saw sometimes, when she took off her shirt in front of the mirror: a low, curved line on her left rib. The mark of the end.

It wasn’t the only time he hurt her — not even the first. But that was the moment she knew she wouldn’t survive if she stayed.

They didn’t argue often. Rumlow didn’t raise his voice — he imposed. But that night, she fought back. She raised her voice. Called him a liar. A manipulator. A monster.

That was the snap that lit something cold in him.

She didn’t remember the blow clearly — only the sound of her body hitting the kitchen counter. The world spun. She felt blood soaking through her shirt. A sharp, stabbing pain that drowned out everything else.

He walked toward her. Unhurried.

“You made this happen,” he murmured.

But then the phone rang. A name on the screen: Pierce.

“I have to go,” he said, annoyed — as if she’d ruined a perfectly timed schedule.

He put the call on speaker and answered, slipping into another persona with disturbing ease. She listened to the conversation while crawling toward the bedroom.

That was all the time she had.

Just enough to grab her backup phone. To call the emergency number. Then Nina.

The hospital took care of the rest. Registered as a domestic violence victim. Name protected. Internal report. A temporary shelter — Nina’s place — while she pieced herself back together.

Two days after discharge, chaos.

The fall of S.H.I.E.L.D.

Offices evacuated. Directors vanishing. Encrypted files flooding the internet.

She remembered standing in the hallway of the old press office when she heard his name on TV — Rumlow, identified as a Hydra infiltrator. The reporter used words like “traitor,” “terrorist,” “unstable.” Amélie sat on the emergency stairwell and cried in silence. Not from grief. From relief.

He disappeared. And for a long time, she thought he was dead.

She thought she’d never see him again.

She thought no one else would ever carry that part of her story.

It haunted her — how affected, how scared she still felt after all this time.

And then — a shadow down the block. Dark coat. Steady steps. Broad shoulders. A metal arm. That steel-eyed stare.

Bucky.

Chapter Text

They walked a few blocks together as the sky began to darken behind the buildings. Amélie was typing a message to Nina when she noticed Bucky guiding her. They stopped at a crosswalk; his hand was flat on her back as he looked across the street, toward the city's indifferent rhythm. No signs of danger.

They continued to a parking garage, confident that Rumlow wasn’t following. At least, that’s what Amélie deduced from the irritated look on Bucky’s face. The sound of tires echoed in the underground level. As they entered, he pulled a set of keys from his pocket—the same ones he used for his apartment—and unlocked a sleek, imposing motorcycle.

It was a Harley Davidson Pan America 1250 ST. Elegant and classic, with a matte finish and chrome details.

Amélie stopped, raising her eyebrows in surprise.
“You never told me you had one of these. Or that you were one of those...”

Bucky just smiled, grabbing a second helmet strapped to the side and adjusting the chin strap before handing it to her.
“I don’t talk much.”

She laughed, circling the bike, and he helped her with the helmet before adjusting his own.

Minutes later, she was seated behind him, her arms cautiously wrapped around his torso. As he turned the key and the engine roared to life, she tightened her grip.

And then they took off.

The city fell behind within seconds. The breeze became wind, and the wind became relief. Amélie rested her cheek against his back.

There was only the wheels gliding over asphalt, the deep rumble of the engine, the headlights receding. At a red light, Bucky placed his gloved hand over hers on his abdomen.

The speed increased gradually. Amélie felt her body pulled back for a moment and instinctively pressed her legs against the bike, tightening her arms around him. At first, she had to focus on staying balanced—she had never ridden a motorcycle before, not even as a passenger. But soon it became a smooth swing. A harmonious flow. Her body began to follow the movements naturally.

Her hands around his waist locked together like a buckle. It was warm, solid—similar, but not identical, to the feel of his back where her fingers had once lingered during that night at the pub. Even then, when she’d hugged him impulsively, she had focused on his back, his shoulders, his arms—parts of Bucky that seemed built to protect. Now, it was his center she felt. The strong chest, the contour of muscles moving with each breath.

Sometimes, she rested her cheek on his back for just a second. It was hard to pay attention to the changing landscape around her.

Her pulse quickened. She didn’t know if it was because of the speed or the way he made her feel.

It was physical, yes—the clean scent of his skin, the leather of his jacket, the warmth seeping through the layers. But it was also the silent understanding that settled when they were together.

Bucky focused on the road, but his thoughts zigzagged like the city lights in the distance. Rumlow was still there, a shadow at the edge of memory. He didn’t want to admit it, but he had wanted to go back to that street corner and handle things the way he imagined—brutally, as violently as that man deserved. But Amélie was leaning against him now. Trusting him. He could feel her breath against his back.

The sound of the city fading, the engine growling beneath them—his heart beat faster. For her.

When they crossed the bridge, the lights multiplied like reflections on water. Amélie didn’t want to go back. She knew that. Not to the apartment, not to any place where she’d be alone. She wanted to be with him.

“If you tell me you know a place that still serves milkshakes at this hour,” she said, her voice slightly hoarse against the wind, unsure if he’d hear, “I promise I won’t return you tonight.”

Bucky smiled under his helmet, watching her rest her face against his shoulder in the mirror.
“I know a few, Ames. But maybe… I don’t want to be returned either.”

He sped up a little more.

They sat side by side at the counter of a small diner, just outside the city. Bucky’s legs were open, with her slightly nestled between them. The large milkshake glass they shared had lost some volume, but not its chill. The yellow lights were soft but still too bright for the memories Amélie brought up.

“I met him…” she began, crossing her legs and tugging her coat down as if it could shield her. “Back in college. I landed an internship in an institutional communications division. It was a government and S.H.I.E.L.D. collaboration, but I had no idea what that really meant. It seemed like the kind of opportunity that changes your life.”

She gave a humorless laugh and shook her head, staring at the corner of the table. The straw spun again.

“I was just an intern. I knew nothing. And he… he picked me. I don’t know if I was chosen or just a convenient distraction that fit the role. One day, I found some emails—about building a trustworthy image, someone who seemed ‘real.’ Dating me helped that image. And I…” she closed her eyes briefly, “I didn’t have a clue. I just thought I was being noticed by a good guy. Seen. He was kind at first. Persuasive. Made it seem like he liked me.”

The straw stopped.

“But it didn’t last long. It didn’t have to. What he wanted was a cover. Someone to smile beside him, to be seen in the right hallways. I… I think I was in love until I realized how stupid I’d been, how much I was being used.”

She pressed her lips together, her eyes darting nervously, seeking approval for saying all of it.

“But I started noticing things. Inconsistencies. Unspoken orders. The way he manipulated me, made me feel guilty for everything. When I tried to leave…”

Her hands clenched the hem of her coat. Her voice escaped.
“He hurt me. Not because he loved me or couldn’t let me go. But because I was a cover. And he still needed the façade.”

Bucky said nothing. He didn’t have to. His jaw was locked, shoulders tense. The rage built inside him. He could see it all—visualize it—and that clarity only made him feel more powerless. Each of her words added to the puzzle—dates, places, clues.

Rumlow had used her around the same time Bucky himself was still a weapon without will. When S.H.I.E.L.D. fell. While Amélie escaped, bloodied and broken, to a hospital… he had been running from himself.

“I still have a scar,” she said, finally looking at him. Her eyes were wet. “On my ribs. That was the final straw. I ran after a phone call he got, from someone named Pierce. He got angry, had to leave. I took the chance. Went straight to the hospital. They registered me as a domestic violence victim. Two days later… S.H.I.E.L.D. collapsed. And he vanished. I thought I’d never see him again. Until today.”

Silence.

Bucky still didn’t know how to breathe properly.

She looked at him again, her fingers now still.
“Sorry, it’s just… seeing him again made everything resurface. Like the ground shifted back to that version of me. I don’t even know how to exist with all of it still inside me.”

He exhaled slowly. Reached for her hand—the warm one.
“You shouldn’t have gone through any of that, Amélie.”

The sentence was short, but heavy. She could hear how he said it like he carried part of the blame, even if he hadn’t been there. She saw it in his eyes—a restrained violence, a near-primal protection.

“It was around the same time I…” he hesitated. “I was just beginning to slip free. Steve found me shortly after that. I wasn’t fully me yet, but… I was trying to remember how to be.”

She blinked, surprised.
“You?”

“I was a puppet too. For years. But under the command of the same ones who hurt you—Rumlow. Pierce. Hydra. I just… didn’t know they’d used you too.”

Now it was her who held his hand tighter. The milkshake forgotten between them. The words finally unchained from both their throats.

Bucky looked down before continuing, his voice rough, like it scraped on the way out.
“I remember the first time I realized I wasn’t a man anymore… just a code. A set of commands. A tool. They called it a mission, but it was just… programming.”

He exhaled, eyes drifting far beyond her.
“Every time I failed, hesitated… or remembered who I was… they wiped me. Erased my memories like trash. I could feel it coming—the chair. The cold metal. And the pain came even before the serum. It was like dying without dying.”

Amélie didn’t blink. Her body still, absorbing each line like pages of an old diary being read aloud.

“The worst part wasn’t the control. It was knowing, even in glimpses, that I was being controlled. That something inside me was screaming to be free, but silenced. And when they were done… I was empty. I’d look at my hands and not know whose they were. Just that there was blood on them. Always.”

He ran his metal hand over his face.

“When I escaped, it was after S.H.I.E.L.D. fell. I went to Bucharest. Not because it was safe… but because it felt quiet enough to hear myself. I bought plums every day—read somewhere they were the fruit of memory. Maybe they’d bring one back. Sometimes they did. A scent. A sound.”

He chuckled dryly. There was no pity in Amélie’s eyes. There was fire. A fierce gleam, her cheeks flushing like when she’d confronted Rumlow.

“Romania was when I started choosing. I wasn’t free. But I was trying. Until Steve and Sam found me again. I brought them into more destruction, but… somehow, I knew I didn’t want to be used again. Then the memories returned. All seventy years…”

Amélie watched him, a tight knot in her chest. He looked exhausted.

“My therapist,” he continued, with a slight brow raise, “says this is PTSD. That even free, I still carry the prison inside. That sometimes my mind and body react as if I’m still being hunted. Hurt.”

Then he looked at her. Really looked.
“I know what it’s like to try forgetting. And what it’s like to fail. Sometimes trauma doesn’t go away. But we learn to live with it. Tame it. One day at a time.”

She sipped the milkshake, perhaps to mask the emotion welling in her eyes. He didn’t say a word. Just waited. When she rested her head on his shoulder, they were no longer tools. No longer covers. No longer missions.

Bucky rested his elbows on the table, fingers around the glass nearly empty. He looked out the diner window—but it was only a reflection. What he really saw was inside. Or maybe right in front of him.

He took a deep breath.
“I don’t know if we live with trauma. Or after it.”

Amélie turned to him.

“I just said one of those pretty phrases that sound inspiring,” he added, half-smiling. “But the truth is… I’ve been trying. And it’s hard. I’m not sure it’s possible.”

He shrugged, brushing her hair gently down her back. The weight of his words didn’t lift.

“But, ironically… I’m here. Drinking milkshake with you. And that means something. Maybe this… maybe this is life.”

She bit her lip, understanding exactly what he meant. She couldn’t meet his eyes as tears slipped down her cheeks.

“I think we have to try,” he said, softer. “Sometimes, not even for us. Just because… for ourselves alone, it’s easy to fall. To forget why our life exists at all.”

He looked away for a moment, then met her eyes again.

“You saved me. Indirectly. Your curiosity about me. Your presence. Your tenderness. They make me want to stretch out time. Stay in this. In life.”

She opened her mouth to say something—but didn’t. She didn’t need to.

“I know it sounds intense,” he murmured, “but I lost seventy-something years being controlled. Used. Erased. Conditioned. I haven’t had much luck in life.”

He smiled, though his eyes remained sad.

“I think I’ve been lucky only three times. And they were all people.”

His eyes didn’t leave hers.
“Steve. Sam. And now… you.”

She reached for his hand across the table. On the outside, she was calm. Inside, she was a storm of heartbeats and vertigo.

He didn’t look away. His hands fidgeted in his lap. Gripping the hem of his coat, then his own fingers, as if he needed something physical to hold onto. But it was already spilling over.

The blue diner sign flickered in the window, casting pale light across her face.

The silence between them was heavy. Like the air before a storm.

“Can I…?” Amélie asked, her voice trembling. “Can I kiss you?”

Bucky looked up—and the answer was in his eyes long before his mouth said anything.

He leaned in first, and she met him halfway.

He slid a hand along her face, thumb brushing her cheek as he brought her closer. The stool scraped when he pulled it with his metal hand. They laughed at the noise.

Her fingers touched his forearm, following the line of his biceps to his shoulder.

The kiss was warm, firm, and urgent. Their lips tasted of shared chocolate milkshake. She melted into his chest, tilting her chin up to reach him, her hair falling around them like a curtain.

He tucked a strand behind her ear and cupped her nape, fingers tangled gently, pressing her closer.

Her hands slid up the collar of his jacket. His slipped inside her layers, finding the warm skin of her waist.

Outside, the rain began to fall lightly, tracing streaks on the glass. The neon “OPEN” sign reflected upside-down behind his back.

The restaurant’s playlist shifted. A low beat started—barely audible.

She recognized it from the first notes.

And the chorus came in like it had been waiting for this moment.

Chapter Text

The kiss wasn’t sweet.
It was hungry.

They were at the door of his apartment. Bucky pressed her against it with his whole body, one hand fumbling with the key behind her, dark blue eyes intense, like he was fighting something inside him—and losing on purpose.
Amélie didn’t pull away. She grabbed the collar of his jacket, tugging him closer, feeling the weight of a war in the tension of his chest, in hands that hovered between destruction and longing.

Fists restrained.
Orders barked in Russian.
Pain in the ribs.
Forced silence.
More pain.
You failed.

But now—kiss. Her tongue filling his mouth. His heart beating like it wanted to tear through his chest. She pulled him closer, fingers digging into his back beneath the coat. His metal hand slid up her waist, around her hip, yanking her against him. The door shut with a muffled click as Bucky kicked it closed. Her coat was still on. So were her fingers. Amélie wrapped her legs around his waist, her body arching against his in a hold that was possessive, warm, alive. He groped blindly for the counter, found the light switch. A soft lamp flickered to life behind her, lighting her face with desire—and no fear. Half-lidded eyes. Breath unsteady.

Target lost.
The child’s body on the floor. Her parents beside her.
A metallic voice.
Punishment necessary.
Needle in the skin.
Forced forgetting.

The kiss went on. He wavered between memory and now.
She cupped his face, scraping through the stubble, laughing at something indecent she whispered in his ear, making him laugh. He was there. He was real. He saw her.

His name ripped away.
Screams trapped in his throat.
No face to remember.
No touch that didn’t burn.

He forced himself to stay in the moment. Now.
The feel of her lips was different. Chaos and calm. Wrong at the right time. He bit her lip gently as she helped slide the jacket off his arms. Then Bucky pulled back, chest heaving, forehead resting on hers.
“I’m sorry…” he murmured.
Amélie ran her fingers through his hair, messing it up even more.
“For this?”
He didn’t answer. Because it wasn’t just this.
It was everything.
The past he still felt on his skin.
The future he didn’t think he deserved.
The present, with her mouth still on his.

She slid her fingers to the back of his neck, tugging him back with a firmness that made the Soldier flinch—and the man return.
He kissed her again.
He could still taste her when Amélie pulled him in tighter, her palm on his neck warm and grounding—something inside him cracked. His lips traced her jawline, moving slowly to her jaw. He nipped gently—a tease followed by the warmth of his tongue softening the sensitive skin. One hand gripped the base of her neck; firm fingers extended to her chin, tilting her face at an angle that let him admire the now bare skin where her scarf had fallen to the floor. Then, he started kissing her there, marking a path with hot, possessive kisses.

Two soldiers dragging him by the arms.
Boots clanging on cold base floors.
“He needs to be corrected.”
Harsh light of the reprogramming room.

He groaned against her mouth, low and ragged. But he didn’t pull away.
Amélie felt it—his body stiffening, the air thinning between them. She pulled back just enough to look him in the eye.
“You’re okay,” she whispered.
Bucky couldn’t say yes. But he kissed her forehead in reply. A quick gesture. Almost an apology.
She placed her hands on his face, thumbs tracing his cheekbones, eyes locked on his. It was too much. Too simple. No one ever touched him like that.
And then she kissed him again, deeper this time, their bodies flush, layers of winter clothes between skins that were burning.
Her bite on his lower lip was soft—just teasing.

Needle buried in his arm.
Cold liquid in the vein.
Memory slipping away.
His own name dissolving.

He gasped, like surfacing from freezing water.
Amélie pulled back, confused.
“James…?”
He shook his head slowly. Blinked. He was there.
Not with Hydra. Not in that cursed chair.
Here.
“I’m here.” His voice came out rougher than expected.
She slid her fingers down his chest, feeling his racing heart. Hers was too. Two storms trying not to break each other apart.
He grabbed her waist and turned her, pressing her into the wall of the living room, lifting her, his hands roaming her thighs.
He returned to her neck, kissing. Inhaling her skin—something like tea and winter. Too good. Almost dangerous.

Russian voices screaming inside the helmet.
Blood on his hands.
“Complete the mission.”

But there was no mission now.
Just her.
And him.
And the absurd idea that maybe—just maybe—there could be peace inside the war.
He buried his face in her shoulder, lips brushing skin.
“You scare me,” he murmured.
Amélie didn’t move. Her breath trembled slightly, but her hand went to his hair, stroking.
“Because I see you?”
He didn’t answer.
But he kissed her collarbone, shaking his head slowly, as if to say yes.
She tilted her face, trying to catch his profile pressed to her chest. And for a second, what she saw in his eyes made her hesitate.
It wasn’t James.
Not fully.
It was a shadow, a trace. The Soldier.
His gaze locked on something not here. Not her.
But it passed.
A flicker of memory.
His eyes refocused. His mouth parted like rediscovering air. He was back.
But she didn’t pull away. On the contrary. She placed her hand on his face and traced his eyebrow with her thumb.
“Stay,” she said. And it wasn’t a request.
He nodded. Then kissed her again, without hesitation.
His hand slid beneath her coat, pulling the fabric from her shoulders, then found the zipper on his own jacket. Winter layers came undone. Clothes falling in clumsy steps toward the couch.

Amélie fell back first, pulling him with her.
He looked at her for a moment, like memorizing the image: hair splayed across the cushions, chest rising and falling fast. Lust in her eyes—but something else too. Something tender. That hurt.
His eyes—God, his eyes. They changed. Ice blue. Then human. Then back again. An abyss and a sky.
She noticed. But didn’t look away.
As if accepting it all.
The trauma.
The need.
The man.

His hands trembled as they slid beneath her shirt, meeting warm skin at her waist. But he didn’t hesitate. He lifted her shirt slowly, goosebumps rising under his touch. He leaned in to kiss the center of her belly, then her sides, mapping her body with reverence. His gaze followed the path to the base of her breasts, fingers squeezing her waist. The bra unclasped with a soft click—her breasts exposed just long enough for him to admire before taking one into his mouth.
A moan escaped her lips.
He kissed the nipple tenderly, then with more need. As if saying, without words: mine.
She gasped, pulling his hair, needing more of him and less of the world.

Bucky pulled back just slightly, looking down at her, his voice low, hoarse, and fully present:
“Amélie…”
She looked up.
“Yes?”
“I won’t break you.”
She smiled.
“I won’t break you either.”
And he kissed her like it was true.
Like he believed it.
He pressed her down with his entire body. The kiss returned before she could speak—demanding.
It was rough. Hungry. Control.
As if taking her could keep him from being taken.
His hands found her hips, gripping tight, guiding her closer. His tongue invaded her mouth and she moaned into him. He sucked her lower lip hard, bit it with the restraint of a man on the verge—and enjoying it.
She tugged his hair, and he kissed her deeper, a possessive thrust that pulled a gasp from her. I need you here.
“Take this off,” he whispered between kisses, tugging at her pants. He didn’t wait. He pulled them off himself.
Her shirt, still bunched up, followed next—rushed, urgent. Bucky’s hands were everywhere—waist, ribs, thighs. But he kept returning to her neck. Kisses marking skin while her teeth found his shoulders and her nails etched across his back.

When she tugged his sweater, he gently pushed her against the couch, raised his arms to help. The shirt flew.
His gaze darkened again.
Not just lust.
Possession.
You’re my anchor. That was it. He clung to her like her body was the final line between the Soldier and the man.
He trailed his nose down her neck, biting hard—and for a second, a memory tore through:

Hydra men grabbing his arms,
harsh Russian orders,
pain,
needles,
restraints.

But Amélie’s moan was real. The way she arched into him. The heat. The touch.
He grabbed her thigh, lifting it onto his hip, pressing her deeper into the couch. His other arm blocked the world beside her face.
“Say it’s real,” he whispered, pressing his forehead to hers, voice rough, low.
She smiled, breathless, eyes shining.
“You’re here. I’m here. It’s real, James.”
He kissed her again—slower now. As if trying to memorize. As if she was the command to silence the voices.
I’m not his anymore.
I’m mine. I’m yours.
And every time his lips met her skin, it was a mark: Bucky. Bucky. Bucky.
Not the Soldier.
Not anymore.

He slid off her panties, then took her by the hands, guiding her to straddle his lap. He lifted her just enough to rid himself—clumsily, urgently—of the rest of his clothes. Any second his mouth wasn’t on hers, he filled with kisses—cheek, nose, chin.

She stayed open, knees wide around him, cupping his face with both hands, full of devotion. His hands roamed her back, tracing her spine to her hips, where fingers dug in with want. He reached her inner thighs—already wet—and began to tease her, making her shudder against him.
Amélie bit her lip, body twitching, eyes closed, trying to contain the moan.

With his other hand, he held her close, watching her face with hunger—every tiny reaction, every breath. When he slipped two fingers inside her, he kept going until he felt his metal hand slick and her body limp in his arms. Amélie wrapped her arms around his neck, trying to keep the kiss—but failed at the peak.
He laughed low in her ear, kissing her temple as her body trembled.

Without giving her time, he adjusted her hips, guided her back down onto him, entering her in one move.
The fit was instant. Perfect. Heat consumed them both.
Amélie gasped—a trembling moan. His came right after, deep and hoarse. He moved slowly, like studying a sensitive map: each thrust brought a new reaction, and he wanted to learn them all.
Her nails clawed his arms as he held her high, moving faster, each thrust deeper, louder. He tangled his hand in her hair, pulling back, arching her chest, kissing each breast.

Then Amélie took over—riding him hard, breaking free from his grip. He looked dizzy, kissed her lips with desperation, pleading eyes. Amélie ran a thumb over his lips, licked his cheek, scratched his back.
When they came together, neither had the mind to think about safety. He filled her. She collapsed on his chest, breathless, spent.
He did too—so light he doubted it was real.
He let himself fall back onto the couch, pulled her into a tight hug, her body on top of his.

Bucky’s skin still burned where her mouth and nails had passed.
Their clothes scattered like breadcrumbs to the couch—old, small, but it was where he pulled her when he couldn’t stay away anymore.

Every touch between them carried a weight no word could hold.
Her breathing was calm now, chest rising slowly against his.
One leg over his.
One hand resting on his stomach, fingers loose, like they were always meant to be there.
She murmured his name.
James.

Bucky turned slightly to look at her, brown strands falling across her face—and something inside him softened.
And then… she slept. On him.
Like she trusted him with her life.
He closed his eyes. Smelled her hair. Felt her weight. The heat still pulsing between them.

This was what the Soldier never had.
What could never be corrupted.
Peace.
For himself.
And, in a rare moment—too rare—he let his body fully relax.
Pulled the blanket from the edge of the couch, where Alpine used to sleep, covered them both. Held Amélie tighter.
Closed his eyes.
And slept.

Chapter Text

Amélie woke up already in the morning light and took a few seconds to register where she was, whose body was beneath hers, and why there was a blanket halfway down her bare back.

Her head rested on his chest. She squeezed her eyes shut against the light streaming in through the window. Bucky’s arm was wrapped tightly around her, the other tucked under her legs, keeping them locked in place.

She slowly lifted her gaze. From where she was, she could see the couch through the open door—the same couch she'd been on last night. At some point, Bucky must have carried her to his bed, because she didn’t remember getting there. He was still asleep, his features softer than she’d ever seen them. No tension in his shoulders, no shadows in his eyes. Just deep, steady breathing, messy hair, and the kind of warmth that pulled her in like a magnet. She breathed in his scent, nuzzling into the curve of his neck, and he shifted slightly, one hand trailing lazily down her back. Somewhere in the distance, Alpine’s purring filtered through, past the clothes strewn across the living room.

The sky outside was gray. Snow fell softly, soundless. The curtains let in the pale morning light. The only real warmth was under the covers and in his skin. It was the kind of day Amélie liked best—when the world went quiet, and everything felt smaller, gentler, more bearable.

She smiled without realizing it.

Carefully, she began to slide away, feet searching for the cold floor, trying not to make a sound. She thought about making coffee—or picking some up. She wasn’t sure what Bucky kept in his pantry or if it was too soon to be rifling through his kitchen. But before she could fully leave the bed, the arm around her waist tightened. Bucky woke like something had triggered inside him—eyes open, breath caught, body instantly alert.

She froze.

"Hey," she whispered, reaching up to cup his cheek gently, her eyes on his. "I was just gonna make some coffee."

He blinked, still processing. Then he looked around, saw where he was. Saw her.

His arms loosened, but didn’t let go completely.

“I thought you’d left,” he said, voice low and rough.

“This is your apartment.” She smiled, the corner of her mouth twitching with quiet humor. “But my wallet, phone, and clothes are currently underneath Alpine.”

Bucky closed his eyes for a second and let out a soft laugh through his nose. He still couldn’t quite believe she was here. That he’d slept. That he’d woken up with her.

She ran her fingers through his hair, slowly, instinctively.

He noticed. But said nothing.

Neither did she. Because she didn’t quite understand what it meant yet—but the gesture would linger, imprinted on his skin.

He rolled over, pulling her close for a moment longer, until Alpine’s meow reached them again. She’d arrived yesterday and he hadn’t fed her yet. The clock on the bedside table blinked a time well past when he usually got up—the cat’s first meal of the day, officially late.

Amélie only got up once Bucky let her go. She still felt the heat of him on her skin—on her legs, her ribs, her arms. The blanket slipped from her shoulders as she crossed into the living room. She returned minutes later with her hair hastily tied back, wearing nothing but panties, wool socks, and the sweater she’d had on under her coat last night.

For Bucky, the sight was almost sacred. The mundane turned intimate. Propped on his elbows, he watched her move through the room toward the kitchen, the hem of the sweater lifting slightly as she adjusted it—just enough for him to see what he hadn’t quite registered in the dark. A thin, slightly raised, faintly red scar on her ribcage. He’d felt it last night, in the dark, when their bodies found each other. At the time, he thought it was his imagination. Now he knew it wasn’t.

His mind split in two: one part tracing the shape, the other trying not to fixate. Not to ask. Not yet. Remembering what she’d said about Rumlow. I still have the scar, she’d told him.

Now, she was nudging the curtain aside with her hip, spoon in hand, placing a filter into the thermos, opening his cabinets in search of coffee grounds—with Alpine weaving between her legs.

He got up wearing only boxers, grabbed a shirt from the closet, carrying it on his shoulder, and crossed the apartment. He stopped behind her, his bare chest brushing against her back as he reached above her head for the coffee, the sugar, and a single box of jasmine tea—the same kind she drank at her place the day they picked up Alpine after her escape. He’d only used one sachet since, just to taste it. And more than once, he’d wondered if she’d ever drink that tea here, with him.

But she didn’t flinch. She simply looked up and smiled, as if this was already routine. As if he’d been there every morning, in a world where pain had never touched them.

Bucky leaned on the counter nearby, opened a drawer, and filled Alpine’s dish with kibble. Then, he pulled out bread from the cupboard, and cheese, eggs, and bacon from the fridge. He watched Amélie quietly, noting the way she stirred the coffee, humming a tune he didn’t recognize. She placed the bread slices into the toaster while he cracked the eggs into a bowl. The scent of hot coffee was already warming the space.

For a moment, he let himself imagine. A ripple in time, a fold in space. A universe where he’d never been torn from himself. A universe where she’d never been hurt by a man who didn’t know what love meant. A universe where this—this moment—was just another ordinary morning.

And maybe, he thought, in the multiverse... this was real.

Maybe, somewhere, they’d already found each other.

Maybe, somewhere, they were already home.

The phone vibrated on the counter—subtle but persistent. Two messages lit up the screen, soft and glowing in the gray morning light.

Nina: So??? How was the date? I need DETAILS or my soul will evaporate.
Ethan: Are you alive?? I need to know if I should bring flowers or call the police.

Amélie let out a soft laugh, trying not to spill the coffee as she filled his mug to the brim. Bucky, standing at the stove scrambling the eggs, watched in silence as she reacted to the messages—the restrained smile, the narrowed eyes of someone debating how much to share, the hesitant fingers unlocking the screen.

She slid the phone aside, screen down, and turned to him with a plate in her hands.

“I hope I still remember how to make good scrambled eggs,” she said, raising one brow as she set the plate down. Two thick slices of golden bread on the side.

“Don’t you cook for yourself?” she asked, filling the kettle with water for tea and handing him the mug of coffee. He sipped before setting it on the table to keep serving them both.

“I do, but mine’s more survival mode. What you make is art. That bread of yours should be illegal,” he replied, grabbing a fork and spearing a bit of egg onto a second plate.

She shrugged, laughing, and started on her own plate, sitting on the stool across from him. He smiled at the sound of her laughter as he fried the bacon, the memory of last night flashing briefly.

“Was that your brother?” he asked casually, gesturing toward the phone with a nudge of his chin. “He was with you when I came to rescue Alpine…”

“What?” She looked over her shoulder, then remembered. “Oh—no. My friends. Best friends. They wanted to make sure I survived my date with the guy with the blue eyes.”

He smiled, leaning forward, the light in his eyes growing. “And did you?”

She pretended to think. “Still deciding. Maybe I died. Maybe this is a really well-catered dream.”

Bucky raised his mug in a toast. “Then let’s make the afterlife worth it.”

“Ethan…” she began, glancing at the tea sachet while pouring herself some hot water, “has been my friend since we were five. His grandparents lived next to mine, and we’d run into each other every summer. Eventually it became a thing. One of those friendships that wasn’t a choice but ended up holding everything up. He’s like a little brother, yeah, but I’m an only child.”

Bucky nodded, sipping his coffee.

“And Nina came later,” Amélie went on, tucking one leg up to her chest. “We met in college, like, the first week. She was arguing with Ethan at a party… swear, five minutes in and I was in the middle of it. We clicked immediately. Never let go after that.”

“You’re lucky,” he said, wondering what the three of them were like together, if it was anything like Sam and Steve with him.

She looked at him, blowing on her tea.

“I really am. They’re home, too. In their own way.”

Before he could respond, the doorbell rang—followed by two firm knocks. They looked at each other. She frowned, surprised. He stood up slowly, alert, walking toward the door, put on the shirt, while she grabbed her jeans from the floor and stepped into them. His heart was already racing, instincts firing.

He moved toward the entrance with silent steps, eyes scanning the drawer near the door—where he kept a gun. He didn’t open it. Didn’t want Amélie to see. But he stood slightly to the side, body tense, senses sharp. She approached slowly, stopping by the counter, curious.

When he opened the door, Bucky only had time to sigh.

“You text me that Rumlow’s alive and then disappear?” Sam burst in like a storm. “Do you have any idea how many times I called? Sent location pins, voice notes, smoke signals—nothing. I sound like a clingy girlfriend.”

“Sam, wait, I—” Bucky began, raising his hands.

“And you thought I wouldn’t come check? I’m literally Captain America, Bucky. Because you pushed me into it. You know what that means? It means I—”

Sam froze.

Literally stopped mid-sentence.

Bucky was in boxers and a rumpled shirt. There was fresh coffee brewing, buttered bread on plates, soft eggs, and the smell of bacon in the air—and Amélie, standing beside the counter, cheeks pink, lips slightly parted in surprise.

“...am I interrupting something?” Sam finished, eyebrows slowly rising as he finally took in the scene.

“That’s what I was trying to tell you,” Bucky muttered through his teeth, eyes locked on his friend.

“Oh,” Sam said, crossing his arms. “So this is why you’ve been ‘distracted.’”

Amélie raised an eyebrow, unbothered. She took a sip of coffee and answered coolly:

“Captain.”

Sam stared at her for a beat, then turned to Bucky with a look that was half-judgment, half-pride—and then he laughed. Loudly.

Bucky closed his eyes and shook his head, hand on his hip, weight shifting. The door remained open. Just wide enough to shove Sam back out.

"I'm Amélie. Actually, he made scrambled eggs and gave me a very comfortable sweater. And yes, he went off the grid because of me, I’ll make sure he pays more attention next time."
Bucky grimaced, as if that kind of statement was completely unnecessary.

"At least someone’s managing to deal with you. Pleasure to finally meet you, Ames. I'm Sam Wilson, my reputation precedes me—unless you've heard it from him, then it's all lies."

Bucky sighed, running a hand through his hair and glancing sideways at Amélie, who was now hiding a smile behind her mug.

"Come on in, Wilson. But just so you know, there’s only jasmine tea. The coffee’s all mine."

"What?!" Sam blinked, pulling off his jacket and hanging it over his forearm as he opened the cupboard with the mugs. Amélie noticed he already knew where everything was.
"You, James Buchanan Barnes, buying jasmine tea?"

"Long story," Bucky muttered, heading into the kitchen to grab another plate and toss another slice of bread in the toaster.

Sam looked at Amélie again, as if she were the missing piece of a puzzle. And maybe she was.

"I definitely want to hear that long story."

"I’d prefer if you left."

"He’s not always this rude," Sam said, stealing half of Bucky’s coffee from his mug, while Bucky gave him the most offended glare imaginable. Then he walked off to his room to change into sweats, still grumbling.

Amélie watched him leave the kitchen with that trademark grumpy walk. The soft click of the bedroom door closing suggested he was still trying to act unaffected... not very successfully.

"Is he always like that?" Amélie asked, raising an eyebrow as she pulled a chair closer and sat again, crossing her legs on the kitchen stool.

"That? Oh, that's just charm," Sam replied with a cheeky grin, serving her some more eggs and grabbing a helping for himself.
"Or trauma. Hard to tell sometimes."

She chuckled softly, nodding.

"Probably a combo," she said, resting her elbow on the counter. "But he's trying, you know? It’s actually impressive. I haven’t made it easy—being open, I mean."

Sam nodded more seriously, picking up a strip of bacon straight from the pan with a fork. He washed his hands and dried them on the towel he threw over his shoulder.

"I noticed." He chewed, then added more quietly,
"He doesn’t talk much, but... when you came into the picture, he talked about you. It was different. Like he was scared of ruining something good."

Amélie looked away, her gaze fixed on the steam rising from her mug.

"Well, we met at a weird time." She gave a half smile. "He’s been important to me. Way more than he realizes."

Sam stared at her for a beat longer, then glanced toward the bedroom door.

"Then I’m gonna be honest with you, Amélie. If you leave… he’ll close off again. Not like before, but enough to lose himself for a while."

She bit her lip, her smile still there but now tinged with a subtle shadow in her eyes.

"If things stay the way they’ve been... I’m not planning on going anywhere."

He smiled, this time with visible relief.

Just then, the bedroom door opened and Bucky came back, now in dark sweats, hair still slightly tousled. There was something more relaxed in his posture now—though his eyes were still suspicious as he looked at the kitchen table.

"Did you two work things out or are you plotting to bury me alive?"

"Both," Sam replied casually. "And we’re still negotiating who gets Alpine."

"You two think you're funny," Bucky muttered, snatching his mug back from in front of Sam and scooping Alpine into his arms, tucking her into the front of his hoodie.

Amélie smiled at him over her shoulder.
"It’s okay, James. I already convinced your best friend I’m a positive influence."

"That’s what she says," Sam replied, already chewing another bite of toast. "But someone’s gonna have to explain this whole Rumlow thing before I call Torres and he shows up here with a backpack full of paranoia."

The name shifted the air for a beat.

Bucky stepped closer, leaning against the counter beside Amélie, his metal arm wrapping around her shoulders protectively. His jaw tightened.

"I saw him yesterday. Rumlow. At Amélie’s apartment door."

Sam stopped chewing, eyes instantly sharp.

"He was waiting for you?"

Bucky cracked his neck, slowly shook his head no—but his gaze went to Amélie, asking silently for permission to keep going. She gave him a slight nod, her shoulders still stiff, and it was her who answered:

"He didn’t know about James—about him being in my life. Brock is my ex. He was trying to coerce me... talking like I owed him a place to stay. Like leaving was a mistake. That I was putting him in danger. Said I should’ve stayed. That I owed him that much."
Her voice faltered for a moment, then steadied.
"Trying to make me doubt myself. He’s always been good at that."

Sam stayed quiet for a beat, like he was recalibrating. He looked at Amélie with an expression that was part sympathy, part understanding.

"He manipulated you?"

"He tried," Bucky answered before she could.
"And it’s no coincidence. He’s hiding from something bigger, something we’re not seeing. I thought we’d buried everything Hydra-related for good, and now—he shows up right when I—when me and Ames—"
He didn’t finish. Couldn’t, maybe.
"He wanted her to take him back. Framed it like he was looking out for her, but it was a threat. Fake concern."

"Shit…" Sam muttered, already unlocking his phone.
"That changes everything we thought we knew—if we ever knew anything for real. It’s not the clean finish Steve believed it was. I’m calling Torres now. If Rumlow’s resorting to this kind of approach, it means he hasn’t secured a cover yet. He’s exposed. And that makes him dangerous."

"And unpredictable," Bucky added, jaw clenched.

Amélie remained silent longer than before. Sam noticed—the look in her eyes was a mix of fear and rage.

"He used everything he could. Tried to make me believe I was the problem. That leaving was a mistake. But... I left. And he saw it. Saw that it doesn’t work anymore.
He can’t stand being defied."

Bucky looked at her. His hand gently tightened around her shoulder.

Sam raised his eyes from the screen.
"We’ll track him. See if he accessed a safehouse. Used a card. Transport. Anything. And if he shows up again—"

"He won’t touch her." Bucky said, firm.
"Not again."

Sam nodded, serious.
"No doubt. I’ve got your backs."

Amélie cleared her throat and pointed to the toaster.

"So... anyone want more bread, or are we turning this kitchen into a S.H.I.E.L.D. debriefing?"

Bucky let out a bitter laugh. Sam, too. The two exchanged a look.

"See?" Sam said, biting another slice.
"She’s good for you, Barnes. Keeps you balanced."

Bucky looked at her. And this time, it wasn’t just concern in his eyes. It was admiration.

"She pulls me back. Every time."

Amélie gave him a small, lopsided smile, cheeks tinged pink—and her heart just a bit steadier.

The steam from the shower still lingered in the air when Amélie appeared on her phone screen, balancing a bowl of pasta in her lap and wearing an oversized t-shirt — one that clearly wasn’t hers. Her damp hair was messily twisted up in a towel on top of her head, and her clean face showed an expression of contented exhaustion.
The screen was split between Nina — in a satin bonnet and a face mask — and Ethan, lying on his side with slightly crooked glasses from some party years ago that he’d found while cleaning his room.

“Okay, okay,” Ethan said, pointing at the camera. “Start from the top. You disappear all day and now show up like this? Wearing a borrowed shirt and with that ‘I just lived an entire spin-off’ look?”

“And eating pasta without inviting us to share,” Nina added, narrowing her eyes. “Spill it.”

Amélie smiled, sheepish.

“Breathe. I’m okay. It’s just… it was a day. A night and a day.” She twirled her fork in the pasta. “Remember the message I sent earlier? About Rumlow?”

They both went serious instantly. Nina sat up straighter, Ethan took off his glasses.

“He showed up? For real? That piece of shit,” Nina asked, her voice sharp with anger as she adjusted herself on the bed.

“At my apartment door. Yesterday.” She paused, looking into the bowl like she was searching for words in the sauce. “Using that voice. Masked as concern. Trying to talk me into staying home. Like I needed him.”

“Motherfu—” Ethan muttered, jaw tight, sharing the fury.

“But Bucky saw him.” She looked up. “He showed up right after. Literally pulled me away. We took off on his motorcycle. Yeah. Motorcycle. I didn’t even know he had one.”

“Okay, this is getting very cinematic,” Nina muttered. “Keep going.”

“We shared a milkshake. The classic kind, two straws. He said some things…” Amélie looked away, a small smile pulling at the corner of her mouth. “That kind of took me apart. Then I slept at his place. And this morning… I met Captain America.”

Silence. Two whole seconds.

“CAPTAIN AMERICA?!” Ethan practically shouted.

“WAIT, YOU SLEPT WITH HIM?!” Nina actually screamed. “You broke the celibacy! Hallelujah! Ha-lle-lu-jah!”

“James Buchanan Barnes took you on a motorcycle ride, you shared a milkshake, slept together, and you woke up with an extra Avenger in the kitchen?” Nina blinked.

Amélie laughed out loud, shaking her head. She got up with her empty bowl and walked to the kitchen sink, still wearing her earbuds. As she rinsed the dish, her voice softened.

“I felt safe. Even after everything. I think… it’s the first time in a long time I’ve let myself feel that. That someone can protect me without controlling me.”

She finished, turned off the tap, and dried her hair with the towel. Back in her room, she started packing her bag for the next day — Thursdays were her in-office days at the publishing house. She laid out her clothes, checked her phone, and returned to bed, curling up under the comforter with the lights dimmed.

“Tomorrow’s going to be intense. But in a good way, I think.”

“If he ever tries anything again—” Ethan started, his voice firm.

“I know,” she said before he could finish. “But now I have people I can count on. I have you two. I have Bucky.”

“And Captain America,” Nina added with a laugh.

“Just you two already make a half-decent team,” Amélie concluded, yawning.

“Sleep well, Mel,” Ethan smiled.

“Hope we see each other this week. There’s a party Friday. If you’re up for it, I can get us in — even your new ‘friends’,” Nina added, air-quoting the last word.

“Not sure James is the party type, but I think Sam might be. He seemed fun.” Amélie waved, ending the call. Still holding her phone, she turned off the bedside lamp. She stayed still in the dark for a moment, feeling her heartbeat — not heavy this time. Not hurting.

A soft vibration made her open her eyes.

A new notification. James.

She unlocked the screen and smiled before even opening the message.

It was a photo. Alpine, asleep on his chest, blanket pulled up to his shoulders, his face relaxed. In the background, a paused scene from the movie she’d recommended — an '80s classic with an over-the-top soundtrack and lines she knew by heart.

The caption was simple:

James: Goodnight, Ames. This movie’s weird. I think it’d be more fun with your commentary.

She laughed quietly, hugging the phone to her chest for a second before switching to the front camera. She adjusted herself on the pillow, tugging the oversized collar of the t-shirt — his, still smelling like him — and snapped a quick photo, lying down, with a soft smile and her eyes already half-closed.

Ames: You too, James. Sleep well.
Oh, this shirt is officially mine now.

She paused, fingers hovering over the keyboard.

Then she hit send, set the phone on the nightstand, and finally, closed her eyes.

Chapter Text

The days leading up to Christmas were filled with an unexpected kind of routine between Amélie and Bucky. They spoke every day — sometimes on the phone, sometimes just through messages. Nina and Ethan teased her about it (gently), and so did Sam — especially after he found out Bucky had not only already bought gifts for him, Sarah, and the kids, but was also hiding a wrapped box labeled with Amélie’s name.

Amélie, for her part, tried to stay grounded. She was working hard editing a major client’s manuscript set to release early next year, but the closer the holidays got, the harder it became to face the absence left by her parents and grandparents. The final support group meeting of the year had been tolerable — not exactly comfortable, but manageable.

It was her fifth time attending. Despite some missing faces, the group was beginning to feel less unfamiliar. The small room with its circle of chairs didn’t feel as intimidating anymore. She would fold her coat on her lap, rest her hands on top. She was more open to speaking now. It was the last session of the year, and the facilitators had brought cookies and hot chocolate. That night, when they asked if anyone wanted to share something that had been weighing heavier than usual, the room fell silent for a long time.

Amélie slowly raised her eyes.

“I… never know how to start,” she said. “So maybe I’ll just talk.”

The group shifted gently in their seats. Someone gave a slow, encouraging nod.

“I always tell the story of my parents’ accident in this really automatic way, like I was there. Like I saw everything. ‘The truck driver vanished. The car flipped. There was no time.’ That’s what I say. But the truth is I wasn’t there. I didn’t see anything. Not even their bodies.” She swallowed hard, looking down for a moment. “I just… imagined it. And over time, it became so vivid in my head that sometimes it feels like I lived it.”

Another silence followed. No one dared to fill it.

“It’s hard to give shape to something I didn’t see or hear. It’s like vapor. My parents died five years ago, but sometimes, when I hear the front door of my building, I still think it might be them. I still think I’ll hear my dad jingling his keys, or my mom complaining about traffic on the bridge.” She gave a small, humorless laugh. “I’ve never been able to get rid of their things. There are clothes, books, photos, even a pair of my mom’s reading glasses in a shoebox. And I don’t use any of it. I just keep it.”

She paused. Her legs crossed, her right hand clenched the fabric of her coat in her lap, and her left found her phone in her pocket, more out of habit than need.

“Throwing any of it away feels like betrayal. Like I’d be saying they’re not coming back. That I don’t need them anymore.” Amélie looked up again. No tears, just a raw kind of exhaustion. “And I know it doesn’t make sense. But it also does.”

The facilitator gave her a grateful, gentle look. No one spoke for a moment, honoring what had been laid bare in the air between them. Then someone else began to share, and Amélie let herself lean back in the chair, heart still racing like she’d run a marathon just for saying the truth out loud.

She was one of the last to leave, wrapped in her red scarf as she answered her phone. It was Bucky, asking if she’d seen the playlist he’d finally figured out how to make on Spotify — AJ had helped him. The days were cold, the nights even colder. But something between them was warming. And that was already a beginning.

The room was drowned in shadows. Bucky’s breathing was heavy, erratic, even in sleep. His fists clenched, his jaw locked. His skin damp with sweat.

In the dream — or the nightmare — he saw the car.
The empty street. Headlights cutting through the fog.
The turn taken too late.
The sound of metal twisting.
Glass shattering in slow motion.
Screams muffled by rising water.

He wasn’t the one driving.
But it was him.
It was the Soldier.

Dressed in black, masked. Watching from the shadows of the road.
Watching like it was just another mission.
And then… inside the car.

Seeing. Feeling.
The smell of gasoline and blood.
The steering wheel stained.

The same faces from the photo in Amélie’s apartment.
Her mother — slumped in the passenger seat, her eyes empty.
And her father — arm outstretched, reaching for something — or someone — in the back seat.
Trying to stop the inevitable.

Time stretched, cruel.
The echoes of the crash repeated again and again, a torturous whisper at the back of his mind: you did this.
Even if he didn’t know. Even if no one had ever told him.
His body remembered. His unconscious knew.
The Soldier watched.
Bucky felt.

And woke —
with a jolt, like the nightmare had hurled him back to the surface.
His heart hammered against his ribs.

He hadn’t been there when Amélie’s parents died — but the guilt was still crushing.
Alpine was already at his side, brushing against his leg, meowing softly.

In the dark, his phone vibrated. A faint glow lit the screen: a message.

Ames:
Are you awake?

Bucky looked at the time — 1:34 a.m.
And everything hurt.

He slid out of bed. Pulled on his sweatpants slowly, his fingers still stiff with tension.
The breeze outside the covers sent a chill across his damp skin.

Alpine jumped off the bed right after him, landing with a soft, graceful thud. She followed him in silence, tail high, like a little sentinel.

In the kitchen, Bucky opened the fridge. The harsh fluorescent light felt crueler than it should.
He grabbed a glass bottle and poured water with slow movements, like time had shifted pace.

He sat on the edge of the counter and looked at his phone again.
Another message from Amélie was there.

Ames:
It’s one of those nights that just drag, you know? The emptiness feels louder.
I don’t really know what I’m doing. Or why I’m doing it.
I’m so tired of everything. But if I stop… what’s left of me?

He read each word more than once. And then again.
Those letters typed in the dark formed an echo of the things he couldn’t say out loud himself.

He wanted to reply with something that could pull her back. Something that said I get it, but also stay.
It took him a few seconds — too many — before he finally typed:

Bucky:
I’m here.
Do you want me to come over?

Alpine nudged her head into his calf like she approved. He absentmindedly scratched behind her ears, still staring at the screen.

The clock read 1:42.
The apartment was quiet. The world outside slept — or pretended well.

Ames:
I do.
But I don’t know how to say that without sounding needy.
I’m leaving the door open.

He didn’t need anything more.

He set the still-wet glass in the sink.
Pulled on the closest T-shirt — one she’d tugged at the collar of before — then a sweater, grabbed his keys and a coat fit for the cold, moving with almost boyish urgency.
He went through the apartment, locking windows and refilling Alpine’s food and water bowls.

She meowed shortly, almost as if telling him he was moving too fast.
But he was already at the door, locking it behind him, taking the steps two or three at a time.

Outside, the midnight air cut like a blade.
The streets were quiet, as if even New York had agreed to pause for a while.

Her building appeared ahead, a fixed point in the chaos.
He didn’t have to ring the bell.
The door, just like she’d promised, was cracked open.
He pushed it gently.

Chapter Text

The dimness of the apartment gradually wrapped around him as Bucky stepped through the small entryway. In the living room, a blanket was half-fallen from the couch. A mug, half full, sat on the coffee table. A worn copy of The Great Gatsby, flipped upside down, clung to the edge of the cushion.

But what truly gave everything away were her eyes.

Bucky knew — just from looking — that her mind was a battlefield.

Amélie stood in the middle of the room, barefoot, wearing that pajama shirt that looked more like an oversized, worn-out band tee from the mid-90s, its edges faded. Her eyes were red. Her breath caught somewhere in her chest. She had gotten up from the couch the second she heard the door open.

She looked at him as if unsure whether to cry or apologize.

And then she walked to him.

She fell into his arms with the weight of someone who’d been holding everything in for far too long.

Bucky wrapped his arms around her with steady strength. The door closed with a soft click behind him. He knew better than to ask if she was okay. He knew the answer would either be a flood of tears or a forced, hollow "I'm fine." Because that’s what he would have done.

"I'm here," he whispered, just for her.

Neither of them let go. His metal hand slid through her brown hair, brushing it gently.

As he held her, Bucky let his eyes drift across the apartment again — signs of life scattered in the quiet mess.

She didn’t let go. Stayed curled against him, her face pressed to his chest, her arms looped tight around his waist as if keeping him there was the only thing keeping her up.

He waited.

He didn’t ask. He didn’t press. He just stayed. And maybe that was what made her start speaking.

"Sometimes… it's like this," she said, voice muffled, thick from the tears that threatened again. "These last years, I've had good days. Even happy ones, I think. But then there are others… that come out of nowhere. They seem harmless at first, but they drag. And then I start to fear they’ll turn into weeks. Months. Again."

She took a deep breath, like trying to force something out that had been stuck for too long. Her mind was unbearable.

"And when that happens... I shut down. I hide. I pull away from everyone. But there's always a moment when I... when I realize I can't do it alone anymore. That I need someone."

Bucky didn’t say anything. He just held her tighter. Her body was warm. Slightly trembling.

"After my parents died... I still had my grandparents. I still had a routine, a place. But when they passed too" — she paused, her chin trembling — "just three months apart... I think that’s when everything really sank."

She swallowed, exhaling low and tired. His fingers moved her hair from her face, twisting it loosely into a ponytail with his hand alone.

"And here I am again. With these gray, shapeless days. Losing faith in everything. Even in myself. Not always. But... today’s one of those days."

For a moment, just silence. Just breathing.

Then Amélie stepped back. Not far. Just enough to look at him. Her eyes were glassy. His were soft.

"Sorry," she whispered. "I know it’s a lot. I talk too much when I’m like this... when someone actually lets me."

She shrugged, rubbing her forearm with one hand. Bucky slowly raised his hand to her cheek.

"You don't have to apologize for feeling. Or talking. Or trusting me."

Amélie bit her lip, like holding back more words.

"I just... didn’t want to scare you."

"Amélie," he said, voice hoarse, "you don’t scare me."

She nodded slowly. Didn’t answer.

Bucky fetched her a glass of water. The kitchen light was on but soft — like the apartment, messy or not, still wanted to be gentle with her. A mug sat forgotten in the sink. An unfinished puzzle on the counter. Clean laundry stacked on a chair. Dishes piled on the microwave. Small things. But together, they screamed accumulated exhaustion.

She looked smaller than she was. Not physically — in some deeper way. Her shoulders turned inward, fists clenched, eyes hollow and dim. She hadn’t moved. Her dark circles weren’t from lack of sleep, but from too many thoughts.

Bucky gently guided her to the couch and handed her the water. Then he knelt and removed her shoes while she took timid sips, eyes locked on some invisible point.

"I feel... like I disappeared from myself," she finally said. "Like everyone moved on, and I got stuck at the point where everything broke."

He turned to her, didn’t interrupt.

"I know what I should be doing. Eating. Sleeping. Working. Socializing. But sometimes... it all feels meaningless. Just... noise. And underneath it, I’m still empty."

She let out a shaky breath, eyes wet again.

"And then the guilt comes. Because others have been through worse. Because my friends care, worry. And still, I shut down. I pull away. I feel like I’m disappointing everyone."

Bucky swallowed. It hit something familiar. A place he knew too well. That point where everything falls apart and the world keeps moving, but you’re stuck — a ghost of who you were. He’d felt absent from himself too, like walking around in a body out of habit, full of silence inside. He knew routine as anesthetic: eat, sleep, smile when necessary, complete tasks, fake normal. He’d felt guilty for not being more grateful to be alive, for having people, for knowing he was out of the worst — and still not feeling whole. Because the emptiness was old. Chronic. Treacherous.

He pulled the blanket from the back of the couch and wrapped it around her shoulders. Rested her head against his shoulder. He wasn’t good with words. But he was good at being. And right now, that was what he could offer.

His hand traced slow lines along her arm. She trembled faintly, but his warmth and the shared silence helped her settle.

Bucky looked around. He wanted to give her back what the world had taken. A safe space. A home, even if temporary. Even if it was just for tonight. Or just this version of the two of them.

He would stay until she fell asleep, if she let him. Stay until the weight of her body on his arm grew lighter. Until her shoulders dropped with sleep.

And if she wanted, he’d come back tomorrow.

Maybe he wouldn’t fix anything.

She sat quietly for a few more minutes, eyes lowered, fingers trembling over the empty glass.

"Will you... stay?" she asked, barely above a whisper, choked by effort.

He nodded, saying nothing.

She laid on her side, pulling her legs close, dragging the blanket up to her chin. Nestled into his chest, breathing deep — like his scent might fill the space inside her. One hand gripped his silently. His other arm wrapped gently around her, fingers drawing soft circles on her skin. He stayed still. Waited until her breathing slowed before even thinking of moving.

"Stay here," she murmured. "Like... here-here."

Bucky hesitated. Not out of discomfort, but out of uncertainty. Then carefully lay beside her, fitting himself into the too-small couch.

She turned away, giving him space. But deep down, she wanted the opposite.

And he knew that.

His arm slid over her, hand resting against her ribs, warm and open. Her body softened slowly, molding into his. Hips aligned. Her back against his chest.

The couch groaned under their weight, small and stiff for two adults. But that night, it held the whole world. His spine ached, feet hanging off the armrest. But he didn’t move. Just closed his eyes.

The old wall clock, probably her grandparents’, read nearly 3 a.m.

The soft sound of her uneven breathing. The stifled sob she’d buried in the crook of his neck. Her chest rose and fell in a broken rhythm, fingers gripping his jacket sleeve.

Bucky said nothing — there was nothing to say. He just held her tighter, as if his arms could contain all that was spilling out of her.

Their breathing began to sync, a rhythm born from full presence.

His hand rose to her face. Didn’t touch right away. Hovered. Then tucked damp strands of hair behind her ear, his thumb brushing her tear-stained cheek. And when she didn’t pull away, he gently turned her, cradling her partially over him, pressing his forehead to hers. His beard grazed her skin as he pulled her even closer and kissed her temple. Slow. Warm. Steady.

His thumb stroked the bone of her arm. A rhythm. A silent I’m here, still here, not going anywhere.

She inhaled, choking on emotion.

"The bed would be better," she murmured, still teary. "I just... I don’t have the strength to get there."

Gently, Bucky disentangled enough to stand. He hovered for a second, then extended his hand, offering help without pressure. When she took it, he pulled her into his arms again, carrying her as she wrapped herself around his neck.

Together, they walked toward the bedroom.

Bucky entered the small room slowly, almost hesitantly, as if invading that space was a rare privilege. The pale walls held the space like an embrace. It was small, bigger than his, but full of comfort. A full bed with heavy blankets waited for them. Old, sturdy wooden furniture. A desk against the wall, buried in papers, notebooks, books. More books stacked on the floor. Clothes scattered — a sock near the door, a shirt on a chair, jeans on the rug. Near the bed, dirty dishes had accumulated, evidence of days that contradicted the normally tidy space. Three lamps cast soft, warm light. On the dresser, jewelry boxes sat aligned. The only untouched corner of the chaos. Maybe because she hadn’t opened them since the spiral began.

There, in that room, Amélie broke down.

She cried into him like he was the only solid thing left. Like he was the only thing that couldn’t slip away. She cried as she never had before — not with Ethan, not with Nina. Never had she allowed herself to be so bare, so unguarded. She had never allowed herself to be so vulnerable, so defenseless. It was as if she let the end of the world rush into her. Let the quiet apocalypse she’d carried for five years finally flood through.

Bucky held her tight. Coat off, bare skin pressed to hers, fingers trembling, tracing small circles on her back. Slowly, her sobs quieted. Her breath calmed. And she fell asleep there, cradled in his lap.

He didn’t move. Heavy-eyed, mind restless, fitting this fragile, exhausted version of her into the memory he held. Relearning her.

When her hands slipped beneath his sweater, seeking warmth, he closed his arms around her again. Forming a cocoon.

Her breath slowed against his chest.

And eventually, sleep took him too.

Chapter Text

The next morning, still curled up together, Bucky woke up first. He was facing her, one arm wrapped around her waist, his hands resting along her back. Amélie lay on her side, her face nestled close to his neck, her breathing heavy, one hand resting on his chest.

Outside, the blizzard rattled the windows. The wind howled, shaking the curtains and covering the view with a white, hazy veil. Cold air seemed to seep through the cracks.

Bucky got up slowly, trying not to wake her. He pulled another blanket over Amélie, gathered the empty dishes by the bed, and went to the kitchen to make something warm for her. On the way, he folded the blanket that had fallen on the living room floor, gathered his shoes, and placed them by the door. He collected a mug, stacked it with the plates, cleaned up the leftover food, and loaded everything into the dishwasher—luckily, it wasn't much different from Sarah's. He also took out the trash.

When he returned to the living room and was fluffing the pillows, his eyes landed on a half-open book, facedown at the edge of the table.

It was the same edition she'd read on the subway. The one he'd recognized even before he knew her.

Bucky crouched down to pick it up. He straightened the spine carefully, fingers brushing over the worn edges of the pages. He flipped through a few, recognizing the scribbled notes in the margins. Some were from her father—strong handwriting, slightly slanted. Others were smaller, more intimate, unmistakably hers: scattered thoughts, interjections, hastily circled words. Highlighted sentences. Dangling post-its.

Between the pages, he found a folded note. Not a random bookmark. Something placed there intentionally.

He opened it.

Her father's handwriting read:

"One day, you will love someone like this. And everything will change. When it happens, I hope you let it.
Dad."

The note was next to an underlined sentence from The Great Gatsby:

"He knew that when he kissed this girl, and forever wed his unutterable visions to her perishable breath, his mind would never romp again like the mind of God."

Bucky read those words more than once. First with the recognition of a classic. Then with the weight of what they meant. Gatsby, kissing Daisy, sealed his life to hers. It was a loss of control—but also a kind of fulfillment.

It felt like overhearing a conversation between father and daughter. A conversation still alive, even after his death. As if time hadn’t managed to interrupt it.

He kept flipping through. When he reached the confrontation between Gatsby and Tom, his chest tightened. In the margin, Amélie’s tiny handwriting left comments.

A yellow post-it, next to Tom Buchanan’s name:

"Buchanan. Same last name. But unlike that Tom, mine has real blue eyes and zero toxic masculinity issues."

Bucky gave a crooked smile at the word mine.

A blue post-it, next to George Wilson:

"Wilson. Apparently, this universe never gets tired of repeating last names. Sam, judging by my impressions of you, you're safe... for now."

Beside the part where Tom calls Gatsby a fraud, she wrote:

"James may have been an involuntary killer for decades, but at least he was never an asshole on purpose."

Soon after, he saw a highlighted line from Gatsby confronting Tom about loving Daisy all along:

"I told you what's been going on," said Gatsby. "It's been going on for five years, and you didn't know."
Tom turned sharply to Daisy.
"You've been seeing this guy for five years?"
"Seeing, no," said Gatsby. "We couldn't meet. But we loved each other all that time, old sport, and you didn't know."
"Sometimes I laughed out loud—but there was no laughter in his eyes."

Above that, a yellow post-it with her words:

"If anyone here is Gatsby, it's you, Buck.
Fate threw you into my life again and again, like a coincidence I sometimes suspect was planned.
I'm glad. I'm so glad."

He flipped more pages. When he returned, he saw the name Wilson again. George. Myrtle. The shadow of Gatsby's fate thickened.

Another blue post-it:

"And Gatsby died because of someone else's love and war.
I couldn't bear that grief.
Please don't die for anything less than... don't die."

Bucky ran his finger over a pencil note beside one of the book's darker lines:

"The loneliest moment in someone's life is when they are watching their whole world fall apart, and all they can do is stare blankly."

Her note:

"I've had so many of those moments. So many.
And I thought I'd never get out."

He closed his eyes, throat tightening from a feeling he couldn't quite place. His finger traced the margin as he thought:

Reading this... it's the closest I get to reading her mind.

The apartment was silent.

He placed the bookmark back where it belonged, then looked at the slightly open door to the bedroom. She was still there. Amélie lay asleep, hair loose over the pillowcase, body curled in the corner of the bed, the bedside lamp casting an amber glow.

Bucky sat in the living room for a while, the book on his lap, his thumb idly sliding over the worn spine of the old edition he already knew by heart.

"I couldn’t help it. It’s..." he murmured to himself, turning a few more pages marked with subtle folds. Some margins carried full thoughts, as if Amélie had turned Gatsby into a diary. The pages held traces of her.

He closed the book gently and set it on the coffee table. Then headed to the kitchen to boil water for coffee and tea.

Just then, the door creaked open. Ethan walked in with the spare key in hand, carrying a grocery bag, hunched against the cold, hood pulled down to his eyebrows and scarf covering half his face. Still typing something on his phone, he used his shoulder to push the door shut. Only when he turned to close it and slipped the phone back in his pocket did he see Bucky, standing so naturally in Amélie's apartment.

The silence between them was weighted, full of questions left unspoken.

Bucky was in the kitchen. Morning light filtered through the windows, pale and diffuse from the blizzard. He had just turned on the stove and, hearing the door, his body reacted like an internal alarm had gone off. His vibranium arm tensed instinctively, shoulder muscles locking as he turned—ready to defend—until he saw the man at the door, grocery bag in hand, staring in surprise.

Ethan froze, trying to process the scene. His eyes moved from Bucky to the kitchen, then to the hallway leading to Amélie’s bedroom. The scarf hung loose around his neck as he took off the hood.

"Oh. Hey," he said, raising a hand in an awkward wave. "Sorry... I have a copy of the key. I just came to check on her. She hasn’t answered any of my messages in days."

His voice was laced with clear concern. He looked at Bucky again, like he was trying to figure him out.

Bucky exhaled through his nose and gradually relaxed. The vibranium arm lowered.

"She had a rough night. Texted me around midnight. I came over... and ended up staying."

The silence stretched a beat too long.

Ethan nodded, taking off his coat. "Sometimes she has episodes like this. Since..." he hesitated, careful not to overshare, "since her grandparents passed. It gets heavy."

"I know," Bucky said simply, hands resting on the kitchen counter.

"James, right?"

"Yeah. You must be Ethan. We met that one time, with Alpine."

Bucky walked around the counter and extended his hand for a firm shake. Ethan smiled, confirming the memory.

"Right. How is she? I'm Ethan."

"She’s good. No more escapes."

Ethan set the grocery bag on the counter and began unloading items—eggs, bread, cookies, fruit, and a package of coffee—with automatic movements.

"You making coffee?" he asked.

"Trying to," Bucky said with a faint, awkward smile. "Not sure if she has filters."

"She does. Third drawer." Ethan opened the cabinet and began searching for mugs. "It’s usually my job on weekends."

As the two moved around the kitchen, they found a clumsy rhythm. Ethan still observed Bucky out of the corner of his eye, not with hostility, but with quiet curiosity.

"You and Amélie... are you... ?"

The question hung in the air, interrupted by the kettle beginning to heat.

Bucky didn’t answer right away. He was whisking egg whites in a bowl, sleeves rolled up, his vibranium arm catching the faint light.

"I don’t know what we are yet. But last night, she needed someone. She called me. I wanted to be that person."

Ethan bit the inside of his cheek, then looked away, focusing on slicing fruit.

"She means a lot to me," he said, finally.

"She means a lot to me too," Bucky replied, without hesitation.

The sound of voices drifted from a distance. Amélie stirred slowly, as if sleep was still trying to pull her back in. Her eyes stung, her head was heavy, and her limbs felt like lead. She stayed there for a moment, trying to make sense of where she was—and why.

Little by little, the pieces of the previous night fell into place. The message to Bucky. The silent sobbing into his chest. The warmth of an embrace that had held back the end of the world.

She dragged herself to sit on the edge of the bed, bare feet touching the cold floor. The voices were clearer now—Ethan laughing about something, Bucky replying softly. The smell of fresh coffee mixed with jasmine tea made her close her eyes for a second. Her head throbbed; even though those familiar voices offered comfort, the hollowness in her chest was overwhelming. She felt drained.

At the kitchen doorway, she paused. Ethan was leaning against the counter, biting into a halved strawberry. Bucky had his back to her, tending the skillet. The table was already set with plates of omelets and bacon, and in the center sat a small stack of toast—two of them decorated with scrambled eggs for eyes and bacon strips as crooked smiles. A delicate, almost childish effort that immediately knotted her throat.

Steam rose from the kettle as Bucky dipped a jasmine tea bag into her favorite mug—the light blue one with a fine crack on the handle. Ethan noticed the gesture and raised his eyebrows, turning to look at Amélie as soon as he saw her.

"Hey, look who’s up. Sleeping Beauty." His smile was soft, teasing, but the concern behind it was unmistakable.

Amélie walked to him slowly and hugged him tightly, her face pressed against her friend’s chest.

"Sorry for disappearing like that. I…" she trailed off. She didn’t need to finish.

Ethan simply returned the hug, then gently stroked her hair.

"You don’t have to explain anything to me. Just don’t vanish without a heads-up again—or I’ll show up with more than strawberries."

She chuckled faintly, her eyes still swollen. Bucky turned in time to witness the moment. His eyes met hers, and he held out the mug.

"Jasmine tea, no sugar," he said simply.

She took the mug with both hands.

"Thank you," she murmured, sitting at the table and looking down at the smiling egg face. "Was this you?"

Bucky nodded with a slight shrug. "I tried to be creative. That was the best I could do."

The conversation remained light, avoiding the weight of the previous day without pretending it wasn’t still there. Ethan cracked jokes, Bucky answered some questions, and Amélie ate slowly—even without appetite.

The doorbell rang sharply, followed by a few short, impatient knocks.

"That has to be Nina," Ethan said, going to open the door.

She walked in covered in snow, shaking off her coat and huffing loudly.

"This is a climate disaster. Who enjoys living inside a freezer?!" She tossed her bag on the couch and revealed a giant teddy bear in her hands—half of it soaked in snow. "I brought reinforcements."

Amélie stood to hug her, wrapped in a tight and familiar embrace. Nina said nothing for a moment, just held her close, face hidden in her friend’s neck.

"I was worried," she whispered, quiet enough for only them.

"I know. Thank you for coming."

When they pulled apart, Nina wiped her nose and, acting casual, glanced toward the kitchen—where Bucky was returning from the cupboard with another plate and mug in hand.

"And this is...?" she asked in a nearly nonchalant tone, eyebrow arched in a way that made Ethan roll his eyes.

"Bucky," Ethan answered before she could dig further. "The guy who stayed with her last night. Literally. All night."

Nina looked at him, then at Amélie, then back at Bucky, and a grin spread across her face.

"And hot, right?" she murmured to her two friends, as if stating a scientific fact.

Ethan shook his head with a sigh.

"For God’s sake, Nina."

She smiled even more.

"What? I’m just telling the truth. And I’m a fan of any man who knows where the mugs are and how to make coffee."

Amélie laughed softly, the tightness in her chest loosening just a bit.

Breakfast unfolded with an easy familiarity that didn’t quite make sense—and that’s exactly why it felt right. Nina settled on the stool next to Ethan, dragging the plate Bucky had left for her with theatrical hunger, as if she hadn’t eaten since last year.

"Can someone tell the weather gods we’ve had enough ice for this century, please?" she grumbled, stacking bacon and omelet on her toast like she was building a shrine to comfort.

"Thought you loved Christmas," Ethan said, tossing a strawberry into the air and catching it with his mouth.

"I love Christmas. I’m against winter. There’s a difference." Nina replied through a full mouth, then turned to Amélie. "And you—are you eating? ‘Cause I came here to scold you, but if you’ve had half a slice of bread, I might be more inclined to go easy on you."

"I ate a bit," Amélie said, looking at the plate where the egg face smiled up at her, nearly untouched. "Bucky made art with bacon. I felt bad messing it up."

"This man is a hidden gem," Nina said, winking at Bucky, who gave a small, modest smile before pouring more coffee for Ethan.

"That’s Nina. She talks like that to everyone," Amélie murmured to him.

"I noticed," he replied, his tone more fond than critical.

Ethan set his mug on the table, watching Amélie with a gentle look.

"You know... you don’t have to say anything right now. I just wanted you to know we’re here. Like, literally here. Using spare keys and everything."

"Friendly invasion," Nina added, reaching across the table to squeeze Amélie’s hand.

Amélie smiled, then stood slowly with her tea in hand.

"Puzzle time?"

The three followed her to the dining table, where the puzzle board covered most of the surface. The pieces were sorted into small piles around an almost-finished image of an old bookstore—wooden staircases, colorful shelves, tiny cats hidden among the books.

"This has been here since the first time I came over," Bucky said, pulling out a chair. "I thought it was abandoned."

"I started it, stopped, started again..." she replied, sitting beside him. "Sometimes it’s hard to finish things."

"We’re finishing it today," Ethan declared, grabbing a stool. "Operation Cat Bookstore."

Nina went to the kitchen, grabbed a handful of cookies from one of Ethan’s bags, and came back with them in hand.

"Brain fuel. Let’s go."

The puzzle demanded silence and patience, but between pieces, laughter and random comments filled the space.

"Is this the orange cat’s nose or the corner of the red cushion?" Ethan asked, squinting.

"Cat. The cushion has texture," Nina replied without even looking.

Bucky picked up a bluish piece, turned it between his fingers, and fit it into the staircase leading to the second floor of the bookstore.

"You’ve got an eye for detail," Amélie said, watching him.

He shrugged. "I tend to notice what most people overlook."

"That explains how you spotted the doorknob piece hidden in the corner," Nina added, leaning over to fit another part of the rug.

Amélie went quiet from time to time, simply watching the three of them. The table seemed less cluttered now, as if their movement had straightened not just the puzzle pieces—but something inside her too.

Bucky noticed her gaze and, without saying a word, nudged his knee against hers under the table.

She didn’t pull away. She leaned into him, arms wrapping around one of his, resting her head on his shoulder.

Inside the apartment, the warmth was of a different kind—the warmth of familiar voices, of hands searching for shapes, of small parts falling into place one by one

Chapter Text

As soon as the last piece clicked into place in the bottom left corner of the puzzle — a small white cat perched on a stack of old books — Bucky stood up, adjusting the sleeves of his sweater. He glanced at the wall clock.

“I need to swing by home,” he said with a reluctant sigh. “But I’ll come back. Just need to check on Alpine. She’s probably meowing at furniture.”

Amélie looked up at him, her face still tired, but lighter than it had been that morning.

“Bring her. I think she’ll enjoy ignoring me on my own couch.”

He gave a crooked smile, stepping closer to gently tuck a strand of her hair behind her ear — the same way he had the night before. The gesture was instinctive, but didn’t go unnoticed by the two friends.

“I’ll be right back, Ames.”

Then he gave a brief nod to Ethan and Nina, grabbed his coat, and disappeared down the hallway, swallowed by the white blur of snowfall.

The door had barely clicked shut before a thick silence settled in the room.

For five seconds.

“AMES? AMES? DID HE GIVE YOU A NICKNAME?” Nina blurted, turning toward Amélie with wide, disbelieving eyes.

“Guys.” Amélie sighed, but she was smiling, fiddling with the puzzle box lid to avoid meeting their gazes. “No.”

“Ugh, I wish I were a cat so he’d carry me in his arms.” Nina slumped back dramatically. “And not even in a sexual way. I mean… yes, that too, but not only.”

“I felt intimidated and attracted at the same time,” Ethan added, sipping his coffee. “That never happens with men who aren’t Oscar Isaac.”

“He’s like… a sad Christmas tree from the forties that learned how to wear a hoodie,” Nina added. “And still, what a hot grandpa. We can call him a grandpa, right?”

“A traumatized Christmas tree that makes smiley bacon-and-egg faces,” Ethan pointed at the plate with his mug. “That, my friends, is the whole package.”

Amélie leaned back in her chair, hiding her face in her sleeve, laughing.

“He’s kind. He… was really kind.”

“We saw that, Mel,” Ethan said softly now. “Not just with you. He took time to explain everything to me, respected the space… And dude, he made jasmine tea. That’s elite level. Especially compared to the horrors you two usually tell me about.”

“And he clearly knows where your stuff is,” Nina added. “You don’t see that every day. The man understands your kitchen logic. I still don’t.”

“Or maybe I left too many clues,” Amélie murmured, glancing at the counter. The plate with the egg face was still untouched. “I don’t know. But he didn’t run.”

“He doesn’t seem like the running type,” Ethan said. “More like the kind who stays until the puzzle’s done. And then asks if you have another one in the drawer.”

“I do,” Amélie said, almost whispering. “A thousand pieces.”

“Perfect,” Nina grinned. “That way he’ll come back. And we can keep admiring his shoulder-to-waist ratio guilt-free.”

“You’re ridiculous,” Amélie said, still smiling. “I love you guys.”

“We love you too. But we love it even more when you smile,” Nina said, pushing the cookie tin toward her. “Eat, woman. He’s coming back. And we’ll need strength to pretend we’re normal when he walks in.”

And so they stayed — surrounded by coffee cups, cookie crumbs, and harmlessly indecent remarks — until the sound of a key in the door signaled Bucky’s return.

In the hallway, Bucky paused outside the apartment door, his bag slung over one shoulder, the zipper slightly open so Alpine could peek out. She let out a soft, restless meow. He soothed her with a light touch, but didn’t turn the knob. Not yet.

Muted laughter came from inside. He heard Ethan’s voice, then Nina’s, and finally Amélie’s.

“…I’m not saying he’s just handsome, but also kind of… attentive, you know? Like, he notices small things,” Amélie was saying. There was an embarrassed laugh in her voice, and a tenderness Bucky recognized with a tug in his chest. “Like remembering my favorite tea or the books I’m reading or what I’m afraid of. Stuff like that.”

“We already agreed he’s hot,” Nina chimed in. “But he’s got that mystery vibe… quiet, but not in a stupid way — more like he really listens. A little dangerous. A little broken. A little ‘save me.’”

“And a little ‘I’ll save you too,’” Ethan added, making Nina laugh. “Great, now I’m mentally writing fanfic.”

Bucky smiled, eyes closed for a moment. He turned the knob and stepped in. Her voice wasn’t the loudest, but it was the one he had tuned into.

He took a breath, gently patted Alpine through the opening in the bag — she gave a short, unimpressed meow, like she was saying “about time.”

The door creaked open and all heads turned. The scene was almost exactly as he’d left it: a slightly messy kitchen, dishes in the sink, coffee cooling on the counter. But now there was flour in the air, and a bowl of dough being kneaded. And Amélie, a strand of hair stuck to her cheek, smiling absentmindedly.

“Look who’s back!” Nina announced, as if hosting a game show. “The guy brought the cat.”

Alpine leapt from the bag as soon as he set it down, circling the apartment like she already owned the place. She climbed onto Amélie’s favorite chair, sniffed the blanket, and stretched out with imperial disdain.

“She’s picky,” Bucky commented, hanging his bag. “But I think she approves.”

“Just like her owner,” Ethan muttered while stirring a pan, pretending he hadn’t said anything.

Amélie smiled and wiped her hands on her apron. She looked more awake now, more present. Still with puffy eyes and tense shoulders, but here.

“We’re making gnocchi,” she explained. “Homemade. My grandma’s recipe. Nina’s on dough, Ethan’s doing sauces… I’m supervising and ruining the shape of the dumplings.”

“You’re making sad little gnocchi,” Nina said, leaning over to inspect. “But with personality.”

“They’re expressionist,” Amélie huffed, mock-offended.

“I heard you talking about me,” Bucky said casually, grabbing a towel to wipe the counter. “Before I came in. You were… praising my egg artistry?”

Everyone froze. Ethan recovered first.

“Oh that. Yeah. And your feline skills. Jasmine tea. Nothing major. Very technical.”

“Totally objective analysis,” Nina added. “Almost scientific.”

Amélie blushed to the roots.

“Of course. Very technical,” she said, eyes darting to the gnocchi in her hand. “Wanna help?”

“Sure,” he replied, already pulling up a chair beside her.

The conversation flowed easily. Bucky didn’t say much, but he observed — Ethan trying to cook while dancing, Nina singing a pop song completely off-key, Amélie wiping the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand, distracted.

The apartment was warm with the scent of food and soft laughter. The faint sound of Nina’s shower echoed in the distance, and Ethan — ever efficient — was fixing up the guest room with the care of someone who had done it many times before.

Bucky broke the silence without turning around:

“Want me to head home?”

Amélie looked up slowly.

“I was hoping you’d stay,” she said, unhurried. “Unless you’ve got somewhere to be.”

He turned off the faucet, dried his hands, and walked to her. He tilted her chin up with his thumb and forefinger, nodding slightly like he was saying of course I’m staying, before kissing her — soft.

That was when Nina reappeared, towel on her head and wrapped in a flannel robe.

“If I’d known there’d be kitchen romance, I would’ve brought popcorn.”

Amélie let out an involuntary laugh, resting her face against Bucky’s chest as he grimaced.

“I’m gonna shower,” she said, standing and leaving Alpine on the couch. Before exiting, she glanced over her shoulder, cheeks red.

In the hallway, Ethan played a soft playlist. He turned off the main lights, leaving only the warm glows — the corner lamp, the kitchen’s under-cabinet light, the soft bulb above the stove.

It was nighttime. And no one wanted to be anywhere else.

Nina was rummaging through the tea boxes in the cabinet, eyes narrowed reading the labels.

“Anyone want tea?” she asked, already setting the kettle without waiting. “I’m going for chamomile with honey, because obviously I need peace after watching you two exchange French-film looks.”

Ethan laughed, settling on a stool.

“I’ll take strawberry. And relax, Nina. That wasn’t a French film. At best, a Netflix romance.”

“You are a Netflix romance,” she shot back, grinning, arms wide like she couldn’t be proven wrong.

They dove into a lively debate over the best pop culture couple in recent years — sharp banter, niche references, and a whole lot of shared subtext. The kettle’s whistle underscored the moment.

Bucky was on the couch. The shower still running faintly in the background. He reached into his hoodie pocket for his phone, more out of habit than need.

Six missed calls. Two texts from Sam.

[Sam – 5:23 PM]
Came by your place. Where are you, Barnes?

[Sam – 6:01 PM]
You okay? Call me. I’ve got news.

Bucky frowned and replied:

[Bucky – now]
I’m good. With Amélie. What happened?

Sam’s response came fast — a file. Inside: three grainy security cam photos. The face was unmistakable. Brock Rumlow.

One image he recognized instantly: the alley next to Amélie’s building. Rumlow’s blurred figure further back.

[Sam – now]
The dead aren’t as dead as we hoped. You were right. This was taken a few days ago. Brooklyn. Close to the address you gave me for Amélie. I had Joaquin check nearby footage to track movement.

Bucky’s stomach turned. He set the phone down beside him, staring at the ceiling in a long, slow exhale.

[Bucky – now]
Yeah. That’s the side alley of Ames’s building. What’s the exact timestamp?

The shower shut off. Nina and Ethan’s laughter echoed — a soundtrack that clashed hard with the tight knot in his chest.

[Sam – now]
Three days ago. We need to talk. Soon. About what we’re gonna do.

Bucky locked the screen, breathed deep, steadying his face.
He wouldn’t let this overshadow what tonight meant.
Not yet.

The last cup of tea had been left in the sink, and the scent of brownies still lingered in the kitchen air, mingling with the soft floral soap Amélie used. Nina stretched dramatically on the couch, wrapped in a checkered blanket she’d pulled from the armchair. Ethan, already in pajamas, gathered the mugs with a final burst of energy. The friends disappeared into the guest room with playful banter and tired sighs.

In Amélie’s bedroom, the cotton bedspread was slightly rumpled, just the way Bucky remembered it from the last time he’d lain there. He stepped in quietly, closing the door behind him. Alpine purred, curled in the armchair at the foot of the bed.

Amélie emerged from the bathroom with damp hair, wearing an oversized T-shirt and soft cotton shorts. Her face was clean, her eyes brighter than they had been the night before. There was a trace of ease in her movements, as if—for now—the dark cloud hanging over her had drawn back.

Bucky, however, couldn’t shake the weight of the images Sam had sent him. He watched her — her silhouette, the way she crossed the room without rush — trying to reconcile that ease with the shadow of Rumlow and all the implications he hadn’t dared to voice yet. He walked to the window as if expecting the enemy to be lurking there, but there was nothing except the colored glow of Christmas lights.

She noticed.

“You okay?” she asked, pulling the covers back with one hand and dropping to her knees on the mattress.

He hesitated.

“I’m fine, just... tired.”
It was true — but not the whole truth.

Without hesitation, she crawled closer and cupped his face in both hands.

“You know you can tell me anything, right?”

He nodded, but before he could say anything, her lips brushed his — a soft, fleeting kiss.

And just like that, the weight, the silence, the worry... dissolved.

But he didn’t let her pull away. Instead, he drew her in — and what followed was not comfort, not impulse. It was want. He moved slowly, but with intent, guiding her until he was sitting on the edge of the bed, and she had settled onto his lap. One hand slid to the small of her back, fingers dipping under the hem of her shirt, while the other gripped her thigh. Their bodies relearned each other in a new light.

She was warmth against his chest, lavender and skin, the soft sound of her breath quickening in the narrow space between kisses.

Bucky didn’t say another word.
The world — Rumlow, the photos, the questions — all of it could wait.

The night had stretched on when the room fell into thick silence, broken only by the rhythm of their breathing. The low light cast soft shadows on the walls, outlining her figure — sprawled across the sheets, hair damp, eyes heavy with surrender.

When he entered her for the first time that night, he felt more than heat and fit — he felt trust, etched into the way she looked at him, as if every touch was a promise she finally believed in.

He guided her gently. Bucky’s hips moved with intention, deep and slow thrusts, spaced out, each one setting the pace like time itself obeyed him. And every time he pulled back — even slightly — Amélie’s hands found him again, almost desperate, sliding over his shoulders, pulling him closer in a sweet confusion of whether to moan or kiss him.

He used each of those moments to cradle her face in one hand, holding her gaze, only allowing her eyes to close when pleasure took over completely. His other hand traced the curve of her waist, gliding down the line of her abdomen until it found the old scar along her rib.

She moaned, soft and low — and a breath escaped him too. Her eyes met his, clouded like a window fogged with heat — from pleasure, yes, but also from something deeper: the daze of someone who, at last, allowed herself to be. Vulnerable, and paradoxically, safe.

Bucky moved with control, every muscle tense, focused. His metal hand slipped between her legs, circling her clit with faster strokes than his thrusts — creating a rhythm of contrast that made her muscles tighten in response.

She tried to push him away with her foot, but all it did was slow him — not stop him.

With his free hand, Bucky caught her foot, brought it to his mouth, kissed her heel, then her calf. Then, he lifted both legs over his shoulders, gripping her waist with ease and pulling her hips to meet his. He leaned over her, and the movement intensified — thrusts faster now, deeper, sliding effortlessly with how wet they both were.

Panting, he let out a breath against her ear — and it triggered an immediate response. A cascade of moans, growing louder, more erratic, until she dug her fingers into his back, legs wrapped tightly around his waist.

The pillow muffled the sounds she tried to contain between her teeth.
Bucky watched her like the world had stopped there.

She was trembling.

He leaned in, lips parted, breath ragged. His hands stayed steady, his movements now more careful — like he wanted to stretch that moment into forever. The way she clutched the sheets, gasping against the soft fabric, as if losing her breath and still needing more — it made something deep in his chest twist. Something that went far beyond desire.

And he was there.
All of him.

No shadow of the Soldier. No trace of the machine.
Just the man.
Just James Buchanan Barnes — eyes locked to hers, grounded in every movement.

With every thrust, he felt more certain: she was alive there with him — and so was he. And for that, he let go with her, in sync.

In the quiet of the room, wrapped in each other’s heat, Amélie and Bucky fell asleep almost instantly — their bodies tangled as if that were the only way possible after everything they’d shared. She was tucked against his chest, one leg draped over his, her hand still resting on his waist like she feared letting go would make him disappear.

The room smelled of jasmine tea and lavender skin. Beside the bed, Amélie’s phone buzzed once, the screen lighting up. Bucky, still half-awake, glanced over. No password preview — just Ethan’s message:

“Just try not to break the walls. The building’s old.”

He almost laughed, muffling the sound against her hair.
But Amélie didn’t stir — she was deep in sleep, breath steady and peaceful. Bucky gently slid his hand along her back, wrapped her in his arms, and reached for the blanket to cover them both.

In the morning, she’d see the message.

And she’d laugh.
A lot.

Chapter Text

During the week, their routine had settled into a rhythm that suited them both — comfortable and steady. Bucky had returned to his apartment with Alpine at the beginning of the week, but he was still always around. He spent time with Amélie between commitments, they cooked dinner together, watched movies tangled up on the couch, and fell asleep with their bodies entwined, as if it had always been that way.

When he wasn’t with her, he was tracking Rumlow with Sam and Joaquin’s help. He just hadn’t told her what he was doing — saying he was out with friends — because he didn’t want to drag her back into the shadows of her memories.

He kept up with therapy like it was still a mission — this was his last session of the year, and he knew how much healing he still had to do. His therapist noticed: “You seem more grounded. Having purpose, even a small one, can help, Barnes.” And Bucky simply nodded, his face calm as he mentioned Amélie: “It’s been good.”

Amélie, in turn, had decided to keep attending her support group, jotting down thoughts and plans for the coming year in her notebook — though she hadn’t made up her mind about the holidays yet.

Sam had invited Bucky — and by extension, Amélie — to spend Christmas with him, Sarah, and the kids. As always, there was room for one more. Nina would be visiting her parents upstate, and Ethan would be with his family in the city, but planned to be around after Christmas.

For New Year’s Eve, Sam was planning a party at his new apartment — kind of a housewarming for future social gatherings. He liked the idea of being a host. Bucky had helped him with the move and furniture assembly in the days leading up to it, and it was then that Sam extended the invitation to everyone.

Amélie was excited about the party but still unsure about Christmas. She and Bucky had picked up some special food for the morning of the 25th, and she decided she’d make the final call when the time came.

The days were cold, the nights even colder. December was drawing to a close, and with it came the promise of a new cycle.

It was December 23rd, and the apartment was wrapped in that soft quiet of winter days — the kind of silence only cold weather and the right company could offer. Warm yellow lights hung around the windows. Alpine was curled like a ball of yarn beside Bucky, who was lying sideways on the couch, sleeves pushed up, reading a worn copy of To the Lighthouse. A forgotten mug of hot chocolate was cooling on the table.

At the dining table, Amélie was focused — red pen dancing along the margins of a new manuscript from a local author. A family drama set in the 1940s. Sometimes she frowned. Sometimes she whispered compliments to the text. She was too wrapped up to notice the five missed calls from an unknown number on her screen.

The doorbell rang, slicing through the quiet so suddenly that Alpine lifted her head, ears twitching. Amélie hesitated, glancing at Bucky — who barely looked up, assuming it was Nina or Ethan. She picked up her phone, checking for any messages in the group chat. Nothing. But she saw the missed calls. No time to return them. The doorbell rang again.

She frowned. Got up, adjusting her sweatshirt over her shoulders. Walked toward the door — but didn’t open it immediately. Some instinct held her back. She looked through the peephole.

Her heart dropped.

It was Rumlow.

She opened the door just enough to slip outside into the hallway, pulling it closed behind her, keeping him out.

“What do you want?” she whispered, voice low and sharp, her entire body on edge. Her eyes swept the hallway. No one else was there.

Inside, Bucky looked up from his book. Noticed the lack of response to the bell. Noticed the silence.

He closed the book and rested it on his chest. Waited. Thirty seconds. A minute.

Something was wrong.

He sat up. Alpine jumped off the couch. Bucky stood calmly, but his shoulders were tight. He approached the door. Didn’t open it. Just leaned in — listening. His left hand, made of vibranium, closed into a reflexive fist.

On the other side, in the narrow hallway, Amélie stood between Rumlow and the door, jaw clenched.

“You shouldn’t be here,” she said. “You should never have come back.”

And then, from the other side of the door, Bucky heard the voice he’d spent half his time trying to find.

A cold, violent wave surged through his chest. Everything inside him froze.

In the hallway, the tension between Amélie and Rumlow thickened. The door behind her was her only real shield — or would’ve been, if she were inside with Bucky. But she didn’t want to involve him.

Rumlow, meanwhile, gave a half-smile that held no warmth.

“You look different, Amélie,” he said, his tone low, almost friendly — like they were old friends. “But I’d recognize that stubbornness anywhere. Always thinking you’re the smartest in the room.”

She didn’t respond.

“Not going to invite me in? Just to talk. There are things you should know. About me. About who you’re sharing your bed with now.”

It was a precision strike. And it landed. Rage and fear surged together in her chest — cold and furious.

“You should leave,” she said. Steady, though her voice trembled slightly. “Now.”

“You still think you have control?” He stepped closer, shrinking the space between them. She backed into the door.

“Think you can hide behind a little romance? He came from the same place I did. And you really think you’ve learned to pick better?” Rumlow’s mocking laugh rattled her.

Her stomach turned. Her racing heart drew dangerous parallels — between Bucky’s past and the organization Rumlow had sworn loyalty to. They had both served. But unlike Rumlow, Bucky never had a choice.

Clarity snapped into place. Logic sliced through the fog of fear.

She lifted her chin.

“You’re right,” she said, voice steady despite her pulse. “You both came from the same place. But only one of you fought to get out. And it wasn’t you.”

Her eyes didn’t waver.

“He was used. You volunteered. And that changes everything.”

He raised a hand — maybe to touch her, maybe to shove her. Amélie didn’t wait to find out. She turned to open the door, but he was faster — grabbing her arm hard, fingers digging into the skin beneath her loose sweatshirt.

She let out a quiet, pained gasp, struggling to break free.

“You never really knew how to defend yourself,” he murmured, too close. “But I can remind you what fear feels like.”

The sound that came next wasn’t a slap. Or a push.

It was the door swinging open with violent force.

Before Amélie could process what happened, Rumlow was ripped away from her — thrown like a rag doll.

One punch.

Bucky.

He stood in the doorway, chest heaving. His vibranium arm still raised. His eyes frozen in something deeper than rage.

Rumlow slammed against the far wall with a dull thud and slid to the floor.

Bucky didn’t move. Just listened.

From his sharpened hearing, he picked up the subtle click of a neighbor’s lock turning — someone who’d been peeking through the peephole and was now scrambling back. From another apartment, muffled whispering — someone on the phone with the police.

He registered it all. But didn’t look away from Rumlow.

Amélie was still against the doorframe, breathless. Her arm throbbed where Rumlow had grabbed her — but what hurt more was the fear. The memory of how much power this man used to hold over her.

Bucky stepped forward, but Amélie stopped him — grabbing his wrist.

“That’s enough,” she whispered.

He looked at her. His eyes were glowing, pupils wide and rimmed with dark blue. But he was present. Entirely there. No trace of the Soldier. Just the man. Just Bucky.

“He touched you,” he rasped.

“I know. But he’s not going to again.”

Rumlow coughed, a broken laugh escaping.

“Well… that was unexpected.”

“If you ever stand near her again,” Bucky growled, “I’ll break you in four different places and make sure no one misses you.”

Amélie pressed her forehead to his shoulder.

“Let’s go inside. Please.”

And together, they stepped back in. As the hallway lights flickered, Rumlow remained crumpled on the floor — threat inverted.

Once inside, Bucky turned again, eyes still storm-dark, like he was two seconds away from bolting after Rumlow.

But he didn’t.

Because Amélie was here. And she needed calm — not more fire.

He pulled out his phone and typed quickly to Sam:

Bucky: Rumlow showed up. Alive. Tried to touch her. I sent a message. I need you in this.

A pause. Then another:

Bucky: Told him to leave. Don’t know if he’ll try again, but he knows I’m here.

Meanwhile, Amélie stood in the center of the room, arms wrapped around herself. Silent. Just rubbing the spot where Rumlow had grabbed her. It burned. And now that the adrenaline was fading, it throbbed. She walked to the kitchen on autopilot, pulling a bag of ice from the freezer. The sound of the plastic zipper closing was too loud in the quiet.

Bucky watched her, phone still in hand.

“Do you want me to take you to the hospital?”

She shook her head slowly.

“No. It’s not... it’s not like that.” She leaned against the counter, staring at the ice pack before finally looking at him. “I just hate how much power he still has over me. I thought I was free. But he came back.” She pressed the cold bag to her arm and bit her lip. “He never really goes away. Always returns. Like a nightmare — whether he’s real or just in my head.”

Bucky closed his eyes. He knew exactly what she meant. He breathed deep. Didn’t move toward her yet. Just stood still, sorting his own emotions. He knew that feeling too well — that bitter taste of still being haunted by someone who should’ve stayed in the past.

“I understand,” he said at last, voice quiet, like speaking too loud might shatter something. Then he approached her. “This isn’t weakness, Amélie. It’s trauma. He hurt you. And when that happens, the body remembers. Even when the mind knows it’s over.”

She looked at him, sadness and anger simmering in her eyes — not at him, but at everything. For having to go through this. For still feeling it. For not being able to just shut it off.

“I hate how he twists everything,” she said. “He shows up, and no matter how much I know who I am, no matter how much I know what we have... for a few seconds, I go back to that smaller version of myself. The one who was afraid to breathe wrong.”

Bucky nodded slowly, his melancholic eyes gentle.

“Every time someone tried to activate me, even after Hydra was gone, I felt that. Like I was a button waiting to be pushed. And even though I knew I’d beaten it... the fear still came. Because the memory of control is a leash that doesn’t break easily.”

He reached out gently, massaging her cheekbones with his fingers — a gesture of someone who knew what it felt like to be invaded from the inside and wanted to offer comfort.

“You’re not alone in this,” he added. “And you’re not alone in getting out of it.”

She blinked slowly, like holding something between her lashes. Then leaned her forehead against his chest. He wrapped his arm around her — the good one — while the vibranium arm stayed tense at his side, still ready for more if needed.

“He’ll never touch you again,” he whispered. “Not while I’m here. And I will be. Until you tell me to leave. Or even after.”

Amélie let out a quiet laugh against his chest.

“You’re good at this.”

“And you’re brave,” he replied.

His phone buzzed. It was Sam.

Sam: Torres is on it. We’ll find a trail. Call me if you need anything. I’ve got you both.

Bucky slipped the phone away. Pulled her tighter.

“We’ll deal with this. However long it takes. Okay?”

She nodded. He gently took the ice pack from her, pressing it to her arm himself.

“He’ll never touch you again,” he whispered once more.

Amélie didn’t reply. She just placed a hand on the side of his face, her thumb brushing the scruff on his jaw.

He didn’t have to say it hurt him too.