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cancer-moongirl · 2 years

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Dreamscape

summary: When Bucky falls under the spell of a Djinn, the line between fantasy and reality blurs. In order to survive, he must fight his way back to the real world - even if it costs him everything he's ever wanted. pairing: bucky x reader word count: 11.1k warnings: suicidal thinking/behavior (but only within the context of forcing a dream to end, no graphic descriptions, fades to black – if you have questions, please ask!), angst with a happy ending, bucky needs to learn he’s worthy of love!! a/n: Is this based off that one Djinn episode in supernatural from like 13 years ago? Yes. Did this idea stick with me for over a decade even though I stopped watching spn after season 11? Also yes.

Bucky woke to the smell of apple pie and fragrance wafting in from the kitchen over the light hums of La Vie en Rose crackling on the radio. He straightened his back, eyes narrowing upon the lace table cloth and generational china laid neatly upon the dining table. Familiar scratches on the floorboard under his feet, chips on the edge of his plate from when he’d dropped it as a child, soft yellow wallpaper lining the room.

He blinked a few times, unable to recall how he’d ended up in his mother’s dining room.

“You doing okay there, Buck?” Steve asked from his left, chuckling as he took another bite of mashed potatoes. He was dressed in his formal military uniform – olive green overcoat, golden buttons, and a display of colorful pins against his left chest. It tugged at his broad shoulders, the fabric straining against muscle.

Bucky nodded wordlessly, though there was a strange twist in his stomach. It was as if something sat on the tip of his tongue, an idea filtering in the headspace above the clouds he couldn’t reach, sitting just beyond his fingers. He looked down and found himself dressed in the same uniform as Steve. Olive green. Golden buttons. A bright display of his service pinned to the jacket.

A sharp pain burned in his left shoulder and Bucky pressed the heel of his palm into the muscle along his collar to massage the tender tissue. A slight jolt caught him off guard when the muscle gave way and he dug his fingers against the tension, against the tissue on his shoulder. He’d been expecting resistance – a solid block preventing him from attending to the nerves under his skin – though he wasn’t sure why.

When the pain subsided, Bucky looked down to find an empty plate staring back at him where he’d assumed his meal had been. He didn’t remember what he’d eaten, but he supposed he must have enjoyed it. There was barely a crumble left behind. Still, his stomach growled.

“You boys doing alright?”

A woman walked into the living room with a frilly pink apron wrapped at her waist and wrinkles around her eyes. Bright smile on her face, she brushed her hands along her apron, flour turning the fabric white.

Bucky jolted up from his chair at the sight of her, lips parted, breath caught in his throat. He was on his feet and imagined he looked rather strange as he struggled to find his voice. It was like he was looking at a ghost.

Bucky’s mother raised an eyebrow in his direction, a laugh shared with Steve, but Bucky did not dare to tear his eyes away. His vision began to blur he longer he looked at her – his gaze transfixed upon the rosiness of her cheeks, the scruff on her favorite baby blue shoes, the faded pink of a mark on her right hand from when she’d burned the Thanksgiving turkey years ago.

His mother – truly standing just steps away from him.

She must have spotted the tears swelling in Bucky’s eyes because her smile slowly dipped into a frown. Carefully, she crossed the room to him, guided him back down into the chair and gently set a hand against his cheek. Her palm was warm to the touch and Bucky found himself leaning into it, seeking more as if he were a fevered child, as if he would never have the opportunity again.

“My sweet boy,” his mother eased, running her fingers along the short whisps of his hair. “You missed me terribly out on the front, didn’t you?”

Bucky brushed his eyes as he looked up at her. “Sorry, Ma. Been a long time, I guess.”

She nodded, a bittersweet smile through the pink stain on her lips. Bucky realized then he couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen her. It felt like decades, though he supposed time moved differently behind enemy lines.

“I thank the stars every day you came home to us,” she cooed, leaning own to press a kiss to her son’s forehead. “It is by the grace of God that the war is finally over and my son is home safe.”

Bucky narrowed his eyes, the seed of doubt sowing back into his stomach. “Over?”

“I should hope so,” came a voice emerging from the kitchen door – familiar, foreign. Peggy Carter walked into the room dressed in red and with lipstick bright enough to match. She slid into the seat next to Steve and pressed a chaste kiss to his cheek like she’d done it dozens of times before. “Considering the extravagant ceremony they threw in honor of the Howling Commandos, I think it’s safe to say you boys have done enough for your country. Retire in peace, will you?”

Bucky’s mind clouded with flashes of a party with red, white, and blue streamers, of celebration between muddied men in the trenches and cheers loud enough to drown out the soaring fighter jets above. He caught glimpses of strapping handcuffs to the wrists of a scientist with a round face and the whistle of a train as it whipped around a mountain. He could hear the sounds of his friends singing in the bar that night in victory.

The memories were distant – distorted. They had a glimmer to them that felt like a reel on a film, almost as if they were outside of himself. He shook his head, eyeing the way Steve smiled in Peggy’s direction, how she seemed to glow in return.

“It’s nice to see the two of you together,” Bucky said, happy his friend had finally worked up the courage to ask his girl for a dance. They spent enough time tip toeing around one another, Bucky was worried they might have missed their window.

“Gee thanks, Buck,” Steve chucked. “You were the best man at our wedding, you know.”

Bucky paused, brows furrowing. Sure enough, a band of gold wrapped around Steve’s ring finger, a sparkle of a humble diamond on Peggy’s. Bucky was about to object, the memory of his best friend’s wedding nowhere to be found, when the squeak of the kitchen door opened once again. This time, he did not have a chance to prepare for who walked through before his heart sank down beyond his stomach and through the hardwood floors.

“Pie’s ready!” you called cheerily, carrying the warm tin in your oven mitted hands before you set it at the center of the table.

Steve gaped at the pristine crisp layer of the crust, while Peggy praised how wonderful it smelled. Bucky couldn’t catch his breath.

You wore pins in your hair, tying it up away from your face in perfect curls that must have taken hours. The light blue of your dress cinched at your waist, flowing out around your hips and settling at your knees. It seemed... strange to see you like this, though he had trouble recalling knowing you in any other way.

The voice in the back of his head started to scream. An alarm was blaring, but Bucky shook it off.

“Darling? Are you alright?” you asked and it took Bucky a second to realize you were talking to him. He glanced over his shoulder to make sure and found nothing behind him but the tall cupboard lined with china.

You frowned, pulling up the chair beside him. A hand touched his forehead and Bucky swallowed back a sigh.

“Are you feeling feverish, sweetheart?” you eased, your hands sliding down the sides of his face, cupping at his cheeks. Bucky could hardly string a sentence together with how intently you were watching him, how intimately you touched him and held him as if it wasn’t the first time.

“I’m... I’m alright,” Bucky said, though he wasn’t sure he was convincing anyone.

You pouted, though you resigned. It was then he noticed the flash of a ring on your finger. Before he could quite stop himself, he reached for your hand, bringing it closer. The gem sparkled against the florescence of the lights; a diamond bigger than he’d ever be able to afford in his lifetime.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” you offered, admiring the ring yourself.

Bucky nodded, his throat burning. “He’s a lucky man.”

Peggy and Steve began to laugh and Bucky’s cheeks flushed red. He moved to drop your hand, but you slid in closer to him, close enough he could feel the heat of your breath on his skin.

“Lucky man, indeed,” you nodded and then, you kissed him.

Bucky jolted back, stunned, as if his heart had burst straight out of his chest.

“This creature will play to your deepest fantasies,” Tony said as he paced along the front of the conference room, file in hand. “It will construct a world you would not even dare to dream for yourself while it drains the life from your body. You must find a way to wake up before it kills you.”

“How will we even know if it’s taken us?” Natasha asked, arms folded tight over her chest. “How are we supposed to know we’re dreaming?”

Tony exhaled a tense breath. “There are some things that we know deep down could not be true. In this reality or the next.”

Bucky breaths were coming in too quickly, Tony’s words echoing in the back of his mind. He understood now his reaction to seeing his mother – a woman he never had the chance to say goodbye to, who he hadn’t seen in nearly eighty years. He understood why he didn’t share Peggys’s memories of the party for the Howling Commandos or his best friend’s wedding. Because it never happened.

It was why his perception of VE Day was so warped. He'd still been behind enemy lines.

He never apprehended Zola on the train.

He never came home to his mother with his best friend at his side.

He didn’t survive the war.

And you – you hadn’t agreed to marry him. You didn’t even belong to this time. He’d been a fool to not catch the flaw in the code the second you walked through the door; an even bigger one to not have doubted the tenderness with which you touched him, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, as if he weren’t the hollow shell of Hydra’s greatest assassin.

He scrambled out of his chair, holding up a hand defensively as he scanned the room. Nothing seemed to give way to the fantasy surrounding him. It was perfectly constructed to hold him in place, unaware, as his life was drained another world away.

Steve and Peggy rose to their feet, concerned glances between them.

“Sweetheart,” you called nervously, approaching him as if he were a frightened animal, “what’s wrong?”

Bucky shook his head, retreating a step back for each one you progressed. “This isn’t real.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You. This. Everything,” Bucky gestured to the room. “It’s in my head. The Djinn... it must have... shit. It’s not—It's not real!”

You sighed, shoulders slumping, as if he’d figured out the surprise you were meaning to tell him at the end of the dinner, as if his realization were little more than a bump in the road. When you looked at him again, it was with a renewed hope.

“It can be, if you’d like.”

Bucky narrowed his eyes on you, surprised at your response. You looked at Steve, then Peggy, and then to his mother, before you stepped to him, grabbing his hands in your own. Slowly, you guided them to your lips and pressed a kiss to his knuckles. Flesh and bone. Not a trace of metal in sight.

“Stay with us,” you eased with a purr in your tone that nearly buckled his knees. "There is a kindness in this, don’t you see? Here, you can have your family back, your time. You can live a normal life without ever looking over your shoulder. You can have me.”

Bucky stared at you – or not-you. He was having trouble convincing himself as his gaze flickered to the faded scar on your jaw line, the one he’d given you in under the control of the Winter Soldier. It hadn’t been there seconds ago; he was sure of it. You started to inch closer to him and Bucky closed his eyes in a desperate attempt to recall the last moment he saw you.

“Don’t try to be a hero, Barnes,” you chuckled, grip tight around the handle of your Glock. You peered around the corner into the adjacent hallway. Covered in decades of cobwebs and soot, it looked untouched save for the dozens of bodies Tony had found on the floor below – drained and mummified by the feral creature they were after.

“Certainly no chance of that,” Bucky retorted. It was part of your usual banter. Charming smiles and witty lines. While you laughed under your breath, Bucky could still catch the flicker of concern in your gaze, wondering about the sliver of deprecating truth in his statement. He wasn’t a hero, not by a long shot. If anything, he considered himself to be on the farthest end of that particular scale. No one seemed to know that better than you did.

“Stark wants me to check out this quadrant,” you said, eyeing the empty hall. “You’ll be okay on your own?”

Bucky laughed. “You know I’ve got a few decades on you when it comes to this stuff, right?”

You stuck out your tongue at him; a childish taunt, though it made Bucky smile in the grimmest of places. It was a victory within itself.

“Just watch your back, will you?” you argued in that playful sort of tone that made Bucky’s stomach week. “Since I can't do it for you?”

Bucky paused, admiring the sincerity past the teasing. He wasn’t sure what he’d done to deserve your kindness, but he was determined to hold onto it as long as he could manage.

“Only because you asked so nicely.”

A weight seemed to lift from your shoulders. You smiled at him and he was certain he’d never know another rainy day again.

“Good. I’ll see you in ten.”

Bucky grinned as he watched you disappear into your hall. “See you in ten.”

Bucky couldn’t shake the dread forming in his stomach. He glanced around the 1950’s dining room, wondering where he was laying in the abandoned factory. He wondered if he’d been tossed into the pile of bodies Tony found or if he’d stumbled upon something more horrific. A moment of panic flickered in his heart as he questioned whether you were laying in the dark next to him – trapped in a fantasy of your own.

“Sweetheart?” your voice called again. It was too loving, too affectionate. He should have known it was only in his head. “You don’t have to return to that world. You’ve suffered enough, my love. There are no monsters here. No Hydra. Don’t you deserve that? After all you’ve been though?”

Bucky swallowed the bile in his throat. The nerves in his shoulder began to burn.

“Stay here,” you urged again, your voice a siren’s melody. “Stay with me.”

Bucky shook his head. He’d chewed through his cheek, could feel the sting of it and the copper on his tongue. “You’re not real.”

“Does this not feel real?”

Before Bucky could realize what you were doing, you stepped into his space, your hands sliding along his cheeks, and your lips touched his cheek. He felt the pressure of it, the warmth of your breath. He felt the chill in its absence. He shuddered.

“Stay here, Bucky, where it’s safe.”

“No,” he strained, stepping back out of your hold. The disappointment on your face was enough to clench his heart. “I’m dying as we speak. That... that thing... it’s killing me.”

“Time is different here, pal,” Steve spoke up, an arm wrapped around Peggy’s shoulders. “What may be minutes out there is a lifetime here. You can grow old, Buck. You can have the life you always wanted, the life you were meant to have.”

Bucky stared helplessly at the image of his best friend. He looked so much like the Steve he knew. He bore the same blue of his eyes, the same half assured grin to his smile. He looked so impossibly real.

“Stay here, son,” his mother tried, tears swelling in her eyes. Suddenly, she was dressed in funeral black, clutching a folded flag to her chest. Bucky tore his gaze away, unable to look at her. “Please don’t leave me alone again.”

Bucky held his breath, his hands shaking as he curled them to fists. “Why are you doing this to me?”

“We’re trying to save you, sweetheart." Your hand slid down his arm, coaxing the tension from his muscle where there was once metal. Slowly, he dared to meet your eye and he wondered for a helpless moment, whether he might allow himself to fall into your trap.

“You don’t want to go back to that life, pal,” Steve sighed. “There’s nothing there for you.”

“Nothing but a life always looking over your shoulder. Scrambling to earn the trust of a nation who will never see you as anything more than the weapon Hydra created,” Peggy said, though her words were not of malice, but a reminder of the horrors he could leave behind in favor of something gentler. She paused, glancing sadly in your direction. “An unrequited love for the woman you’d trade your life for.”

Bucky closed his eyes. He couldn’t stand to look at you – the version of you he’d created in his mind. It didn’t matter that you might love him here, that he might have the life he’d been dreaming of in his own time; with his family and free of the nightmares that have plagued him for decades. None of it was real.

That wasn’t Steve. Or the Peggy he’d known only briefly in his youth.

The woman crying in the corner wasn’t his mother.

And as much as he had longed for the way in which you were currently watching him with love and affection in your gaze, Bucky would rather have his friendship with you in the real world than the imagined love of a copy constructed in his deepest fantasy.

“I have to wake up,” Bucky muttered to himself, just to remind him that he must.

He thought of his worst nightmares, of the moment that always brought him screaming back to the surface. There would be kinder ways, easier ways, but this was the most efficient. It was the air catching his foot as he walked down a flight of stairs. It was the pavement he would never hit as he fell and fell and fell—

You shared a worried glance with Steve.

Bucky lunged for the carving knife.

***

It smelled of rotten flesh.

Bucky groaned, struggling to open his eyes. The room was impossibly dark. He couldn’t see beyond his own fingertips. Beside him, a bag was hung from the ceiling connecting a line to the needle prodded into his forearm. He swallowed, though there was little to ease the sandpaper in his throat.

“Bucky!” your voice echoed down the hall. It cracked in the effort. Panicked. It wasn’t the first time you’d screamed his name. “Damn it, Bucky! Where are you!”

“M’here,” he called, though it barely escaped in a whisper. Bucky struggled to move his arm to rip the IV line from his vein, but he couldn’t so much as clench the muscle. He was paralyzed. His gaze flickered to the door – sealed shut. “Y/n...”

“Steve,” you choked out beyond the room, skidding to a stop. Your breaths were labored, like you’d been running for hours. He heard a thud against the wall, like you’d collapsed against it. “I can’t-- I can’t find him. He’s been gone too long. I’m— Oh God—I can’t—”

Bucky was certain he could only make out your voice because of his enhanced hearing, and even then, it was like you were standing above water as he drowned under the ocean currents. You were too far away. You could have run right past him and never know it.

“Here...” Bucky tried again, but he wasn’t even sure if he’d said it aloud. His fingertips reached towards the door, trembling in the effort. His back was still firm on the concrete.

“I know, I know,” you replied, likely to Steve on the coms. “We’ll find him. We have to.”

And then you were running. But the echo of your footsteps were fading down the hall. Quieter. Quieter. Until he heard nothing at all.

No. Wrong direction. No. No—come back. Come back!

Bucky used whatever strength he could manage to clench his hand around a broken stone from the concrete. He tossed it towards the wall, hoping the sound might alert someone to his presence. The thought crossed his mind only briefly as he wondered whether the Djinn itself might find him first. Though he supposed it already had.

“I’ve got something.”

Bucky held his breath. He never suspected Stark’s voice to be one to elicit relief but as he heard the iron of Tony’s knuckles tap against the outer wall, assessing the stability, the fear loosened its grip on Bucky’s chest.

“Heat signature matches Barnes’ description,” Stark continued. The mechanics of his suit were buzzing. “It’s fading. He doesn’t have much time. I’m making a door.”

Bucky prepared himself, though he couldn’t have shielded his body if he tried. The explosion was short lived, the rubble contained to the edge of the room. Only the dust of stone and a few vagrant pebbles made their way to his body.

“Got him!” Stark called into the coms. His suit was blinding against the dark of the room. He’d only made it halfway across the room before you sprinted through the opening, across the rubble, and skidded on your knees to where Bucky laid paralyzed on the floor.

“Bucky!” you cried, hovering over him, hands roaming along his body though you did not dare to touch him. It was only as he caught sight of the fear burned into your eyes that he noticed the blood coating your skin. It dripped red and angry over your suit, into your hair. It dried against your cheeks, with small streaks running from your eyes as if your tears had cleaned a path of their own.

He stared blankly at the layer of blood, shaking as his hand reached towards you though he couldn’t find the strength to lift it. He wasn’t sure you’d noticed his effort.

“Blood...?” It was all he could manage.

You shook your head rapidly, understanding him as you always did. “Not mine. I got the Djinn. Messy, but it’s over. You're safe.”

It wasn’t his safety he was worried about, but he didn’t bother correcting you. He was too busy studied the glossy reflection in your eyes, the nervous bite of your teeth over your lower lip.

“We need to get him to medical, now,” Stark urged. It wasn’t a good sign when his voice was devoid of humor.

You gathered Bucky’s hand in your own, squeezing it tight enough that he could feel the pressure of it despite the venom in his bloodstream.

“You’re going to be okay,” you told him, though it seemed more like you were trying to convince yourself. A smile pushed out onto your lips, cracking through the blood of the Djinn. You freed one of your hands only long enough to brush the hair from his eyes. Impossibly gentle. “Stay awake for me. Can you do that? I need you to try, okay?”

Bucky nodded, though he could feel himself slipping. The darkness was pulling him under quicker than he could hold on. He tried to focus on the feeling of your hands, how tightly they enveloped his own. So small in comparison. Warm.

But it was fading.

“Bucky! No, stay awake!” you cried, your voice distant. Tremored and pulsing and panicked. He could hear the inflection of fear in your voice and all he wanted to do was calm you, to tell you that it was okay, that there was nothing to be afraid of.

But the darkness claimed him before he could.

***

There was a pressure on his right arm when he woke.

Bucky stirred under thin, cotton sheets. It smelled of disinfectant, the lighting of the white room too bright to adjust as he opened his eyes. He groaned, wincing at the steady pulse of the heart monitor beside him.

When his vision finally came to, his already shallowed breath caught tight in his throat as he saw you hunched over the side of his bed, curled tight around his right arm. The edge of a plastic chair pulled up close to the bedframe barely held your weight. Your hair was sprawled over Bucky’s thigh, arms circled under his forearm as if clutching a stuffed animal to your chest.

You were still asleep, though Bucky wasn’t sure how you’d managed it in that position. He wondered how long he’d been held up in this room, how long you’d been laying watch by his side. Your skin was cleaned of the Djinn’s blood, your suit traded for leggings and a crewneck a few sizes too big for your frame.

Bucky glanced down to find himself dressed in a hoodie and grey sweatpants from his own closet. Enough time must have passed for the med team to be willing to trade the hospital gown for something more comfortable. He wondered whether it was you or Steve that made the argument to Dr. Cho.

He untucked his left hand from the blankets, lifting it just slightly in the hopes he could brush the hair from your eyes as you slept. It would be an intimate gesture; one he’d never dared before. But hoped, perhaps, it would be safe to offer while you were asleep. A gentle touch. An innocent one. Just to keep the hairs from scratching your nose.

“Buck?”

Steve was standing at the doorway, two mugs of coffee in his hands.

“Hiya, Steve.”

Slowly, the surprise on Steve’s face rose to that of relief, and he quietly made his way inside the room. Coffee was placed on the bedside table, the wafting smell of your vanilla creamer instantly easing the tension in Bucky’s muscles.

“Good to see you awake, pal,” Steve whispered, cautious not to wake you. Bucky nodded in appreciation.

“How long’s it been?” Bucky dared to ask.

As Steve sank into the chair on the left side of the bed, opposite yours, a frown pushed onto his features. He sighed, trying to find an ounce of comfort in a distinctly uncomfortable chair.

“Longer than we’d hoped.” Steve pressed his lips to the thin line, though Bucky’s supposed it was his effort to smile. He glanced over at you as you remained asleep, arms still curled around Bucky’s.

Bucky hadn’t minded when he noticed the tingling sensations or when he lost feeling in the numbness. He much preferred the ease of your comfort instead – how easily you’d fallen asleep beside him, how you found comfort in his closeness rather than revulsion.

“She hasn’t left, you know,” Steve said quietly. “I’ve only been able to drag her out long enough to shower. If she had it her way, she’d still be coated in Djinn blood. I suspect she’s only sleeping now out of pure exhaustion. Natasha’s been bringing her meals and Sam dropped off a duffle bag of books a yesterday morning. She was terrified you’d wake up alone.”

Sure enough, the evidence was clear around the room. He hadn’t noticed the cardigan draped over the chair in the corner or the blanket from your bedroom hanging on the arm rest. The latest book you’d been reading was propped open on the nightstand by his bed, a faded photograph of the team from last year’s holiday party used as the bookmark. A tray of barely touched food sat on the table.

He’d never known you to do something like this. Though he supposed he’d never been out this long before.

“We weren’t sure if you’d wake up again,” Steve admitted. “It’s been almost four days. Without the serum, you would have been dead before Tony found you. The Djinn... it’s different than what we’ve fought before. It went for your mind and... well... we know—”

“—it’s already pretty messed up to begin with,” Bucky finished, though Steve scowled at his frankness.

“I’m just glad you’re all right,” Steve said. He set a hand on Bucky’s left shoulder. Brotherly comfort. He sighed. “I should let Dr. Cho know you’re awake. She’ll want to do some tests.” He paused, glancing in your direction. “Should I give you a few minutes before I track her down?”

Bucky swallowed; his throat suddenly dry. He nodded.

The smile that graced Steve’s face did not go unnoticed. With that, he picked up his mug – black, no sugar – and left yours waiting. He gave a casual salute and headed for the door.

And then, the room was quiet again. Except for the heart monitor.

He was about to call your name when you started to shift. Your nose scrunched, eye pressing tight to avoid the inflection of florescent lights. A light groan as you turned your head, setting your forehead on Bucky’s hand. Slowly, as if it took most of your strength, you leaned back into your chair. Your hold on his arm did not waiver.

It took a moment as your eyes fluttered open before you noticed he was awake. Bucky didn’t dare say a word, his breath suddenly caught in his throat. You cracked your neck, stretched your back. A short glance to the bagel Natasha had brought, still left uneaten several hours later. She’d scold you for that, certainly.

Then, as if time itself had slowed, you looked at him.

It only took a second. A short, panicked realization that you could see the blue of his eyes, before you scrambled out of your chair. It fell on its side and you nearly tripped over it yourself as you backed up a few paces, your grip on his hand flinching back to cover your mouth.

“Bucky? You’re— You’re awake?” you gasped as if you weren’t sure whether to trust your own eyes. You were staring as if you’d seen a ghost.

“Seems that way,” Bucky chuckled lightly, pushing out a smile in hopes to ease your panic.

You wasted no time before you lunged at him. The force of it caught him off guard, but suddenly, your arms were wrapped around his shoulders, your face pressed to the crook of his neck. Bucky only realized as he finally pushed past the surprise to set his hands against your spine that you were shaking.

“We thought— I wasn’t sure if— God, Bucky you almost—”

“Hey, I’m all right. I’m okay,” Bucky quickly replied, running a hand along your back. Slow, soothing motions to draw the trembling to the surface and expel it from your body. He’d never held you like this before and he held his breath to keep his heart from jumping from his chest.

“You can’t do that again,” you mumbled, holding him tighter as if being pressed to his chest was not close enough. “I don’t know what I would have—”

“Sergeant Barnes?”

Dr. Cho stood at the edge of the room, clipboard in hand. She smiled as you reluctantly unwound yourself from around Bucky and sank into the chair next to him. It didn’t slip his notice when you reached for his hand, squeezing it tight in your own. He wondered whether you’d done that for his sake or yours.

“It’s good to see you awake,” Dr. Cho said as she stepped into the room. She wore a soft smile; a kindness of a woman who was both physician and friend. “How are you feeling?”

Bucky swallowed. He wasn’t sure how to answer that question.

“Why don’t we let Agent Y/l/n step out so we can run some tests?” Dr. Cho advised. Your grip tightened on his hand. “I’d like to talk to you about your experience with the Djinn and when you were in the dream state.”

Bucky nodded. When he turned to look at you, your muscles were taunt. You were staring at Dr. Cho, but your shoulders were squared on Bucky. Your hands nervously squeezing at his, thumb tracing at the line of his palm. It was the same mannerisms he’d caught hazed glimpses of when you’d begged him to stay awake in the factory. If he wasn’t mistaken, you appeared as if you were afraid.

“It’s all right,” Bucky told you, offering a smile. “Get some rest. I can’t imagine you slept well here. I’ll come find you when I’m cleared, okay?”

You paused, uncertain. The edge of your cheek tugged between your teeth, gnawing at the flesh. You spared a short glance in Dr. Cho’s direction before you turned back to him. Your shoulders sagged; a heavy breath pressed from your lungs. Bucky wondered about your hesitancy – what it meant that you so clearly did not want to leave his side, how you’d spent days cooped up in his hospital room waiting for him to wake up.

It wasn’t until you started to untangle your fingers from around his own, that he realized you’d still been holding his hand. Slowly, you began to stand and gathered your things around the room. You were quiet as you made your way to the door and Bucky couldn’t help the sense of dread in his stomach as he watched you leave.

But then, in the frame, you glanced over your shoulder. “Meet me on the roof?”

Bucky smiled. It was the one place he’d found respite in when he first moved to the tower. High above the city lights and the traffic below, he could stare up into the stars until he was lost into their endless abyss. You'd taken to wandering around on the roof a few times yourself when sleep was a distant friend. It was the sanctuary you’d once bonded over.

“The roof,” Bucky confirmed with a gentle nod. He didn’t know when he’d be able to get there, but he knew you’d wait for him.

***

Nightfall had swept the city before Bucky was cleared by the medical team. He didn’t bother changing or returning to his room before he set off for the back stairwell. The door, whose hinges were often stuck with disuse, was left ajar. The stairwell was colder than he remembered, though he supposed it had been some time since he’d ventured his way to the roof. Lately, he’d found midnight comfort in the kitchen by a pot of tea and the quiet murmur of the infomercial you’d fallen asleep in front of.

He tried not to think about the dream Dr. Cho had asked him to walk through again in excruciating detail. The Djinn they’d encountered was apparently not the only one SHIELD had a radar on. Several agents had fallen victim to the fantasy world within the last few weeks. None has survived. Except Bucky.

Dr. Cho was kind enough not to react when Bucky explained the obvious trigger that woke him to the fabricated natural of his reality. She simply scribbled a note on her clipboard, though it was several sentences longer than he would have expected necessary. She emphasized that he was safe, that the Djinn had been killed and he would not be subjected to that world again.

Bucky ignored the lingering feeling of disappointment.

He pushed open the door to the roof with a little extra effort from his shoulder and was met with a wave of cold air. He hissed, crossing his arms over his chest as he stepped outside.

The first thing he noticed was the strings of Christmas lights draped overhead and tied to a banister at the edge of the roof. A cardboard box marked as ‘YULETIDE OR WHATEVER’ in Stark’s handwriting sat propped up by the door. Bucky was almost certain the decorations had been taken down weeks ago.

He followed the lights, stretching a hand up to touch the bulbs. They were warm with electricity. The wind seemed to pick up as he turned the corner, though suddenly he couldn’t feel much of a breeze at all when he spotted you.

You were sitting on the edge of a blanket you’d draped out on the floor, fidgeting with your phone. The light illuminated against your skin, highlighting the lip you tucked so nervously between your teeth. A bottle of unopened wine sat on the ground beside you – two empty glasses on either side.

“Y/n?”

Your eyes snapped up, startled. A hand clutched at your chest. “Bucky!” You scrambled to your feet, quickly brushing out the lines in your clothes. “I didn’t hear you come up! How are you feeling? Did Helen clear you okay? Do you want to go inside? I know it’s a bit cold out here but I thought—”

“I’m fine,” Bucky chuckled, amused by the sudden shift in your energy. He was used to the teasing and the banter. Nervous rambling was entirely new, though he wasn’t complaining. It was endearing.

“Good, good,” you nodded, exhaling a heavy breath. You glanced out to the city lights.

“You didn’t have to do all this, you know,” Bucky added, gesturing to the lights and the bottle of wine. “I’ve spent a lot of nights up here in the dark without one of Stark’s good bottles of wine and managed just fine.”

He was teasing, but when you returned his smile, it was smaller than he’d expected. Almost forced.

“Oh, I know,” you chuckled anxiously. “I just—um, I wanted it to be different tonight.”

Bucky narrowed his eyes. “Different? Why?”

You wrung your hands and Bucky realized you’d barely met his eye since he’d approached you. It wasn’t like you to be this nervous. His heart started to pick up, his body on edge. Something was wrong. He was half prepared to take a walk around the perimeter to make sure the two of you weren’t being watched. An old habit, but a safe one.

“There’s something I’ve been wanting to tell you... and um... and I wasn’t sure how,” you explained, though Bucky wasn’t following. You’d started to pace along the open space, giving Bucky the chance to eye for listening devices while you were distracted.

“I’ve been trying to work up the courage for a while actually,” you laughed under your breath. It faded quickly in favor of something grimmer. “But then—then last week I was confronted with the possibility that I might not ever get to tell you. When you stopped responding on coms, it felt like the floor had been ripped out from under me. You were missing for almost twenty minutes. That thing has drained our agents in less than ten and when Tony found you... Bucky, I’ve never felt fear like that before.”

Bucky stilled, his attention quickly diverting from his mental reconnaissance. He watched you as you relentlessly paced, unable to meet his eye. You only spared quick glances in his direction, as if to make sure he was still there, still listening.

“I didn’t know if you would—” you clenched your jaw, unable to say it. You pushed out a tense breath, forcing yourself to stand still. Slowly, you lifted your eyes to his, a sort of relief beginning to wash through you. “But you’re okay now. You’re alive and you’re here. And I can’t let another day go by without telling you. Our jobs are dangerous. Every mission could be our last. It’s what we both signed up for, but—”

Bucky shook his head, his brows knitted together. “I’m not following.”

You pressed your lips to a smile. Carefully, you took a few steps closer to him. When your fingertips touched his own, he almost flinched. It wasn’t something you’d done before today, so easily taking his hands – hands that had killed and tortured, hands that were barely human. You did so without the slightest trace of hesitancy.

A breath filled your lungs. Then, an exhale that seemed to carry years of weight.

“I’m in love with you.”

Bucky's heart plunged as he jolted two steps back. His hands slipped out from your own, flinching back to his sides. Tremors began to shake in his right hand and he curled it to a fist, for the first time wishing more of his body were made of metal to shield the utterly human panic coursing through his veins. If he glanced down the concrete under his boots, he was nearly certain it would have pulled out from under him.

There was a short flash of hurt of your face as you studied his reaction, swallowing nervously through a lump quickly burning in your throat. Bucky tried not to notice.

“You don’t have to feel the same way,” you offered quickly, voice wavering now. “I just thought you deserved to know that someone—that I—”

“Oh God, it’s happening again.”

The words slipped out the moment they entered his thoughts. It made sense now – why you’d been so attached to him in the med wing. All the hand holding. The embraces. The sudden shift in your outward affection towards him. And now... your confession. It was as real as his mother’s dining room and the version of his friend seated at the table beside him. It was a dream. A fantasy.

He never woke up.

Fuck.

“What’s ‘happening again?’” you asked cautiously, a hand extended in his direction as if taming a frightened animal.

Bucky shook his head. He didn’t have time to explain or argue with a figment of his imagination. He didn’t want to consider how long he’d been under the Djinn's spell, whether the team would find him in time or if he’d be little more than a mummified husk by the time they discovered his body. He supposed it didn’t matter. He couldn’t stay here.

“I need to wake up,” he muttered to himself, quickly glancing around the roof for the tools at his disposal. He pushed past you, looking for a corkscrew for the wine bottle. It would be messy, but it’d be efficient. He imagined he’d wake up before it even got the tip of it to his throat. There was nothing in his memory beyond lunging for his mother’s carving knife. No pain. Not even a scratch. A simple means to an end.

It wasn’t as if he was looking to end his life. Quite the opposite, actually.

This was him fighting to survive.

“’Wake up?’ Bucky, what are you talking about?” You chased after him, grabbing a hold of his shoulders and forcing him to meet your eye. There was a panic laying within them that hadn’t been present in his mother’s dining room. Your fingers dug into his right shoulder, pressing into the muscle there. He vaguely registered the grip on his left – still metal, still solid.

“This isn’t real,” Bucky grumbled and you released him immediately. You stumbled back a few paces in shock. He had to admit that wasn't the reaction he’d been expecting. You hadn’t played these games with him last time. The desolation in your eyes seemed so real.

“You think you’re still under the Djinn’s spell.” It wasn’t a question.

Bucky swallowed. He shouldn’t be wasting time talking to you and yet— the devastation in your voice nearly buckled his knees. Knowing it would be a mistake, he forced himself to look at you anyway. Your lips were parted and trembling. Your eyes wide, pupils blown. You took a step towards him and he retreated.

“You’re not going to convince me to stay,” he warned, tearing his eyes away from you and the trembling of your lower lip. He returned back to the task at hand. “I have to get back.”

“’Back?’” You rushed after him, following on his heels as he tore apart the roof in search of a stray crowbar or an exposed wire. He picked up a rock and studied it for a moment, contemplating, before you swiped it from his hand and chucked it across the roof. “You’re already awake! Bucky, this is real!”

He groaned, unable to find a single weapon on the roof. Until he remembered he stood on the top of one of the tallest skyrises in the city. The building under his feet would serve as a weapon itself, his own body the bullet. He looked at the ledge, but it seemed even in the fantasy world you were better at anticipating his next moves than he remembered.

You jolted out in front of him, blocking his path. You held your hands up and it was only then he noticed how badly they were shaking. Violent tremors to match the rapid rise and fall of your chest. Your eyes were near black with how wide your pupil had blown.

“Bucky, stop! What are you doing?!”

“I need to wake up,” he said again, shoving his way past you. It didn’t stop you from chasing after him. As you always did.

You grabbed his hand, yanking him to a standstill, demanding he meet your eye. “What makes you so sure this isn’t real?!”

Bucky clenched his jaw. “The same way I knew the last one wasn’t real.”

“And how was that?” you challenged, the fear in your voice suddenly laced with fire. But it was smothered to smoke the second Bucky turned on his heels, stilling you in your tracks as his eyes met yours.

“You kissed me.”

He didn’t bother waiting for the fabricated look of surprise.

He yanked his hand from your grasp and turned back to the ledge.

It was easier than he expected to climb onto the railing. He wondered whether Stark or the architects had considered the height of the single barrier between surface and the open air. He steadied himself, balanced on the beam no wider than his boots. From there, Bucky could glance down and see the endless stream of blurred traffic lights in perfect reflection to the lights glimmering from the stars above. The wind was brutal against his ears.

He’d wake before he touched the ground. He might even come to the moment he stepped off.

He closed his eyes.

Ready to go home. Back to a reality that was unkind, but real.

To his best friend.

To you.

Then, a clicking sound.

“You want to jump?,” you snapped. “Fine.”

Bucky’s eyes snapped to the handcuff now secured on his wrist; its twin clasped tightly around your own.

He knew this wasn’t real and yet seeing you standing next to him, so close to the edge, only a breath away from a fall that could end your life... it crippled him. He began to wonder whether it was possible for his heart to leap straight from his chest and fall to the pavement before he had a chance to jump.

“What are you doing?” he gaped, wide eyes staring at you.

You shrugged. “If you’re so certain this world isn’t real, then it shouldn’t matter if you pull me off the roof with you.”

Bucky froze. The wind could have knocked him off the ledge in either direction. Adrenaline began to pump wildly in his veins. “That’s one hell of a bluff.”

“I know you, Bucky,” you replied, deadly calm, gazing out to the skyline and the empire state building lit bright in the distance. It was quite beautiful if it weren’t for the plunge a hundred stories less than a step away. “You might not mind risking your own life... but on the chance you’re wrong about this world, I can bet you won’t risk mine.”

“I’m not—I'm not trying to kill myself,” Bucky argued. He groaned, gazing out to the skyline and staring longingly to its abyss. “I’m trying to wake up. I’m trying to survive! Don’t you get that? This is me saving myself. I’m trying to get back home. I don’t belong here!”

A devastating moment of silence passed as you seemed to absorb his reasoning. Bucky held his breath, trying to convince himself to take the step forward anyway, before you could manage to break his will and convince him to stay. He was so painfully close to staying...

“You truly think you’re that unlovable?” you whispered under the wrestle of wind. Bucky turned to find tears spilling over your cheeks. His heart lurched. “Do you really believe the only world I could possibly love you is in a fantasy built by a monster?”

“You don’t think I want this to be real!?” Bucky shouted, the sudden rush of anger – built of a torturous longing – quickly infiltrating through his veins. “You don’t think I would have killed to have survived the war and see my ma again? To—To have grown old in the time I was supposed to and to have never heard of Hydra again? To have watched Steve marry the love of his life like he was supposed to? You don’t think I would have given anything to be the man you were going to marry? To just stay there and be happy? And now this! When everything is the same and I was almost fooled by it all... and you stand there and tell me you love me as if I haven’t dreamt of those worlds since the day I met you?!”

Bucky shook his head, tears sliding over his jaw line and spilling down a hundred stories to the pavement below. Exhaustion tugged him under, anger washing into a sorrow he couldn’t give a name to.

“You have no idea how badly I want this to be real,” Bucky choked out. “There’s a reason you’re at the center of these dreams, Y/n.”

He could hear you crying, though he did not dare to look at you. Your hand slipped into his, handcuffs chiming together, the metal links flowing against the wind. It was warm against his own, taking away the sting of the chill in favor of something kinder. You squeezed his hand.

“I don’t know how else to get home to you,” Bucky muttered, defeated. “You have to let me go.”

He could feel your eyes on him, blurred by your tears; could feel the warm pressure of your hand encasing his. Security, safety. Even if it was a delusion. How strange a monster would offer something so kind as it drained his body to a husk.

Bucky closed his eyes as you rested your forehead to his shoulder, breathing in the scent of him. Sterilized from the hospital room and still – lingering with the evergreen candle he burned in his bedroom to avoid the cold embrace of total darkness. He wondered how it were possible he could smell the pretzels and hot dogs from venders on street corners a hundred stories below.

“Bucky?” There was a renewed hope in your voice, a realization in the slight hitch of your breath. It was more painful to him than he cared to admit.

“Yeah?”

“There was something else Tony said the day of our briefing,” you began steadily, “another way to challenge the Djinn’s fantasy world. Do you remember what it was?”

He pictured Tony standing at the front of the conference room, Steve tucked in the corner behind him with his arms folded over his chest. An image of the Djinn was displayed on the monitors behind him. Bucky held back a shiver at the memory of it.

“There are some things that we know, deep down, could not be true. In this reality or the next,” Tony warned.

“Under this logic, how do we prove anything is real?” Sam scoffed, kicking his feet up onto the table. “I could be strung up in the Djinn’s layer right now and not know it. What if I don’t recognize this all-telling universal lie?”

“You’re telling me this is your fantasy world, Wilson?” Nastasha teased, winking at him from across the table. “Debrief meetings?”

“He has a point, though.” Steve pushed himself from the wall to stand beside Tony.

Tony sighed. “The fantasy is just that. A fantasy. A world where no harm can come to you. It’s why you’d wake up the same way you would in a dream if you were to die. The Djinn would not construct a world only to torture you. What would be the point in that? It wants to keep you sedated and calm... happy. It’s a dream world for a reason. The characters in it cannot hurt you.”

“So basically... draw some blood,” Natasha offered.

Tony frowned, though it curved into a slow smile as he hung his head.

“Let me prove it you,” you begged, slowly pulling yourself away from the ledge, sinking back to the safety of the roof. “Let me prove to you that this is real.”

Bucky paused, watching you from his position on the edge. He tried to force himself to take the final step off the other side, to let the air catch him in his descent, to not care what it might do to the dream-state version of the woman he loved. But his body would not allow him its reprieve, not while your fate was tied to his.

Slowly, Bucky nodded. He allowed you to ease him away from the ledge and guide him to the center of the roof, far enough away from the drop. Despite the cuffs between you, it was your grip tight on his hand that offered him a sense of security to solid ground.

Once you were certain you were as far from the edge as you could manage, you pulled the corkscrew from your pocket, eyeing him suspiciously as he tensed at the sight of it. He supposed he hadn’t given you a reason to trust him around it given how eagerly he’d scavenged the roof for a weapon just moments earlier.

“Remember what Tony said?” you asked, setting the tip of the corkscrew against his forearm in no more than a gentle scratch. “That the people the Djinn creates in your dream—”

“— can’t cause you pain. Yeah,” Bucky finished. His heart was pounding so loudly he was certain you could hear it. It hadn’t crossed his mind to test the world before he escaped from it. Why would he? He was already convinced it wasn’t real. And yet, his hand started to shake so badly, he could help but wonder whether you could feel it.

“I’ll stop the second it draws blood, okay? The absolute second, I promise,” you reassured him, not moving an inch until he met your eye again. “You’re safe with me.”

Bucky stilled. His breath held tight to his lungs.

You’re safe with me.

It was a phrase you used often. One he sought out in the dead of night when he could not drive the mad scientist from his head or the feeling of a scalpel to his bones. You’d whisper it until the cover of night with your arms encased around his shoulders and his heartbeat to your chest. He’d memorized the tone of your inflections, the cadence of your breath, until he could call upon it even when you were worlds away.

That sense of safety – of security – extended beyond the terrors plaguing his dreams. It found him sunken into the living room couch, two movies in, with a bowl of popcorn in his lap and you nestled beside him. Teasing and smiling and tossing M&Ms into his mouth until your laughter carried in echoes down the hall. Brightness extending to him even when he spent the day locked in his room and sheltering from the light. You’d reached your hand to him with eighties films and microwave popcorn and he took it willingly.

It dawned on him with the full force of a freight train that he was the first person you sought out in every room. It was your eyes he caught watching him from across the field and your bullets clearing his blind spots. His was the position you ran to when hope was crumbling and his name was the one you called when you were scared. It was his presence that eased your worry. His comfort that brough your relief.

Stolen glances. Shy smiles. Nervous habits. Moments he’d dismissed in favor of one excuse or another under the adamant truth that your love was not one he could possibly earn. But as you watched him, waiting patiently for permission to cause him merely a fraction of pain as if you might feel it yourself, Bucky remembered every moment you proved him wrong.

“Wait,” he choked out, staring at the point of the corkscrew as you quickly held it back from his skin. Bucky took in a shaken breath, slowly daring to meet your eyes. They watched him with such concern, such compassion, it nearly crumbled him. “If I had jumped—” he clamped his jaw, barely able to say it. And still, he forced the words out. “You really would have let me kill you?”

You smiled solemnly at him, your hold on the corkscrew relaxing. The hand cupped under his forearm pressed gently against his skin – your fingertips dancing over muscle like keys on a piano. Smooth movements. Tender touches. The panic slipped from his veins.

“Maybe that’s my universal truth, Bucky,” you told him simply. “In this reality or the next, I know you could never hurt me.”

Bucky nodded so slowly he wasn’t sure you saw it. He wasn’t entirely sure he believed you, not knowing what the Winter Soldier might do if he were to cross your path again. But there was a reason Bucky so often threw himself in the line of fire to protect you in the field, why he hadn’t called to you for backup when he caught the first glimpse of the Djinn after you split up. It was the same reason he couldn’t bring himself to jump while you were cuffed to his side.

You caught his eye again, ever so patient, and adjusted your hold on the corkscrew.

“You ready?” Asking permission again because you knew what it was for him to have his consent taken away.

The sharp edge of the screw hovered over his arm. Your thumb stroked against his forearm to ease his fear.

Bucky decided before the tip broke his skin that this world was his own.

He didn’t watch as you pressed the corkscrew to his skin in a short, careful line barely hard enough to scratch. He didn’t look at the tiny pebbles of blood prickled in its wake. Even as he felt the slight sting of open air on the cut, Bucky was entirely focused on you.

On the way you tugged your teeth between your lips in concentration. On the wince in your expression as you drew blood. On the sorrow in your eyes in being the one to cause him pain, if only for a moment.

The cut was already clotting when you released his hand. The corkscrew still closed tight into your grip and your eyes were focused on the center of his chest, as if you were afraid to discover whether or not he believed you.

“I’m sorry,” Bucky exhaled, sinking down to his knees. He bowed his head as the reality of what he’d nearly done crashed into him; weight crippling into his chest as if he’d been flooded by the heavy current of an Atlantic undertow. His curled his hands into his sweatpants seeking purchase, his forehead leaning to rest against your thigh to ground him. “I’m so sorry. God—I'm—”

“It’s okay. You’re okay,” you soothed, kneeling to his level. Your arms enveloped him, tugging him against your chest and he gave you no resistance. He hadn’t even noticed you had unlatched the cuff from his wrist as he began to shake in your arms, his body heaving under the weight of a choice that could have ended his life. And yours.

“I’ve got you,” you eased, fingertips tracing along his spine.

He wasn’t sure if he was ready for this to be real; to not have a chance to redo the moment he’d spent years dreaming of. But Bucky’s life had never gone according to plan. He’d spent his years free from Hydra analyzing every moment he could remember; wondering if he had made one different choice, would he have been subjected to the horrors he faced. He couldn’t change his past or what had already been done. But he could start somewhere new – somewhere he could believe that the love of a woman he adored could be real and earned and something he could be worthy to receive.

“Will you tell me again?” He could hear how broken he sounded, the whispered request to try again, to react differently this time. As you cupped the side of his face, slowly drawing his gaze to yours, he wondered whether he might have to clarify, to ask through the heat of his cheeks to hear the words he’d dismissed without a second thought.

But you began to smile and all Bucky could feel was relief.

“I’m in love with you, Bucky.”

His heart could have caved in if it weren’t soaring ten stories above. Bucky wasn’t sure how to handle the swell of unbridled affection in your gaze and the reprieve it gave him. All he could do was return your smile until it ached in his cheeks, turn his face just enough to touch his lips to the palm of your hand, and sigh.

“One more time?”

Your laughter brightened the night sky at his request and Bucky wondered how it was possible that his lifetime of pain and suffering had led him to this moment with you.

“I love you,” you laughed through glossy tears.

Bucky leaned in closer, the tip of his nose brushing yours, the heat of your breath on his lips. “Tell me every day?”

You nodded, wrapping your arms around his arm. Inching closer. Your mouth grazed his. “Until you get sick of it.”

“Not possible.”

Then, he kissed you. And he questioned how he could have ever believed this was made of anything but the tangible fabric of his reality. No dream could possibly come close. No fantasy could have predicted the way you breathed new life into his bones or how your tongue swept across his lower lip or the knots that bloomed in his stomach when you curled your fingers into his hair. His imagination wasn’t nearly clever enough or kind enough to consider how beautifully you kissed him.

When you finally pulled back, Bucky realized he was near short of breath. His lungs were burning and his chest rose quickly, but he was still eager for more. He kissed at the corner of your mouth, your cheek, your jaw, and training along your neck as you laughed enough to make him forget what he almost lost.

Bucky stilled, closing his eyes as the breeze swept chills down his spine. With his nose tucked to the crook of your neck, giving him the chance to breathe in the smell of your shampoo, he decided he would not turn his back from the roof or the barrier he’d nearly jumped from. He couldn’t keep sweeping his trauma under the rug, forgetting the moments he’d rather ignore. If he couldn’t find the strength to do it for himself, he knew he could do it for you.

He pulled back, though you kept a hand on the side of his face, gently brushing your thumb over his cheekbone.

“Do you think...” he sighed, nervous now. “If I told Sam I wanted to talk to his friend... the therapist down at the VA... do you think you could go with me?”

The relief in your smile was enough of an answer, but Bucky spoke up again before you could respond.

“Just to, um, the appointment, I mean,” he continued, his cheeks flushing red. “You don’t have to sit in or anything. I just... I might need a little push to get me to the lobby. But I’ll go. I promise. No more trying to fling myself off roofs when the woman of my dreams tell me she loves me.”

He laughed despite himself, chuckling through the awkwardness of it – the trauma of it, too – and you tried to catch your own laugh as it fought against the frown tugging it down.

“That’s not funny,” you warned, though you were smiling. Still, you softened, leaning in to press a chaste kiss against his lips. “But of course, I’ll go with you.”

“Thank you,” he murmured into another kiss. The wind began to pick up again and Bucky pulled you closer into his arms. Resting his chin on the crown of your head, he guided you down to the blanket you’d laid out on the ground hours earlier. The unopened bottle of wine stood untouched within arm's reach.

He was content to lay there with you until the morning – warm in your embrace and soothed by the gentle hum of your breaths. His fingertips traced in patterns along your spine; spirals and circles and following the lines he’d spent admiring from a distance. Then you began to stir, propping a hand up against his chest to get a better look at him.

“Woman of your dreams, huh?” you teased, a brightness returning.

Bucky chuckled. “In this reality and the next, sweetheart.”

---

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