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dreaming in june || finale

Summary: At the request of an old friend who now happens to be the new Captain America, you move to a place that only vaguely feels peaceful, to secretly protect his best friend. There you meet Bucky Barnes, your next door neighbor, who has also lived countless lives, seen a lot of things, and lost the one he loved. You have more in common than you thought.

Pairing(s): Bucky Barnes x (F) POC Enhanced Reader

Based on the Song(s): Heat Waves by Glass Animals ; Coney Island by Taylor Swift and The National

Series / AO3 / Playlist

(15/15)

Warnings: angst; strong language

Word Count: 6,680+

Author’s Note: Just you wait... xxMoni

‘I think about him—and I am whole, and I am empty.’

"I didn't know if you would want to see my face again."

His voice is now a well-rendered reminder of the past. It hits you the same way it hit you all those weeks ago when he showed up unannounced, calling you Princess and sharing the outcome of your people. Who were still deep in the Amazon somewhere—you never asked where—and since you don’t quite feel like a Princess anymore, without a kingdom or a purpose, it just doesn’t feel right to look into the faces of those who came after the people you once knew. The people who sat around you during supper, who stitched your clothing, who grieved the death of both their Princess and Prince.

You had crawled out of bed this morning, shrugging some old tracksuit on to go into work. Barbara had verbally shared her distaste about how you took a week off work without warning. She complained about how bombarded she was with shipments, files, and transport times. But you had simply ignored her, flashing your middle finger as you walked past, and settled into the routine you’ve been conducting for the past six years. Stamping, googling, filing, unpackaging—until a certain Eternal walked through your office door and spoke.

“You pissed me off, but I won’t scorn you forever,” you reply, your eyes still on your computer.

Druig hesitates near the door frame, but he ultimately shuts it behind him. He’s dressed in all black, despite the summer heat outside.

“I truly am sorry.”

“You said that already.”

Druig even hesitates with sitting in the chair. As if you’d summon one of your giant, monstrous trees and pin him against his will again. You had never seen Druig so confused and surprised, like the very knowledge that you were a mutant wasn’t enough to fully measure your powerful capabilities. But one pointed glare from you and Druig sits obediently.

“I don’t blame you for how my life turned out. I doubt knowing about mutants would have changed anything. I probably would have just been more paranoid. But I did deserve to know that my grandmother cursed me and defied the Fates.”

Druig solemnly nods. No matter how many times he apologizes, the sting will always be there. So he doesn’t do it again. Instead he asks, “How is Samuel?”

“Last I heard he was healing.”

Druig startles, but quickly fixes his face. “You haven’t been to visit him?” The hiss you let out is almost inhuman, and Druig closes his mouth. You haven’t visited because what the fuck would you say?

He took claws for you, and you gave up your heart for him. Literally. You’ve tried to relax, kill every other sound besides the noises your body naturally makes, but it was no use. You couldn’t hear your heartbeat anymore. As if turning mortal wasn’t real. Mortals had beating hearts, and yours was…

Stone.

“I will visit him when I can. When I am ready.”

Druig slowly nods, eyes wary. If he’s dissecting you, he doesn’t do much to hide it. He studies your eyes, your hair, your lips, your hands, your bouncing foot. As if he too is searching for what is now making you mortal. And similarly, he finds nothing besides flesh and bone.

This is what Druig was afraid of—there is no trace of evil in your heartlessness, but it is obvious it’s making you empty. Like Ari filled such a great part of your chest that his leaving meant half of you shutting down.

Is this how Bucky felt when Steve left? That uncomfortable, raw hollowness in the chest that hurt whenever you moved the wrong way?

“Ari looked just as I remembered him.” And he says it so brokenly, memories in his irises, and guilt combined with the redness of his cheeks.

Your fingers freeze over the keyboard. Forcing yourself to look up at him, you whisper, “Yes. He did.”

“Are you going to be okay?”

Cursed to live half empty and searching for the other piece of your heart? Not likely. But you don’t want to get into the specifics, about how this feeling resembles the one five hundred years ago. That your screams had resembled the ones five hundred years ago. That your path feels as zig-zagged, if not more, than it ever did back then.

Answering truthfully, you say, “I will be. I’ve had five hundred years to grieve without closure. Perhaps my mourning will be the slightest bit more tolerable this time.”

Perhaps. Slightest bit. Tolerable. All carefully chosen words that held no promises, but were enough.

Druig leans forward, placing his palm on the desk, face up. You stare at the lines across his flesh, the veins visible through his pale skin, the rings adorning his three center fingers. An invitation.

You bottle up all your unspoken words, all of your questions, any resentment—and curl your fingers through his. He’s warm, ancient, real. A sliver of home, and not. “If you ever need anything—anything…”

You hold onto him tighter. “Go and keep my people’s descendants safe, Druig.”

The breath he releases is one he’s been holding in since he stepped into your office. One he’s probably been holding since finding out you were still alive. That weight off his shoulders, and the realization that although he fucked up and you don’t forgive him, you still trust him enough to do what he’s been doing for the last five hundred years. After he abandoned his friends, after he crossed that damn river without his Princess and Prince, after risking his life to fight a demon alongside you—you trust him to try. Try and make it up to you.

He walks slowly to the door, his posture letting you know that he wants to say a million more things. But he shouldn’t. And maybe sometime soon, or whenever you deem fit, he’ll be able to. “I’ll be seeing you, Princess.”

With a half-hearted smile, you nod. “In all the realms."

Of course Sam senses you outside his apartment door. He’s had that camera rigged with a sensor since he moved in. Well, Bucky rigged it. You purposely set yourself in its eyesight—not quite Redwing—but camera enough.

Sam didn’t knock on your door this morning when he returned from the compound, and you didn’t bother him. The funeral didn’t count—you hadn’t even spoken to him, or looked at him, when you put Ari in the ground. Sam was standing upright, and that was enough at the time.

Selfish, selfish, but also not. You’re not even taking care of yourself. How can you check on Sam?

But Sam Wilson is your best friend, and your own sanity isn’t worth more than knowing if he’s okay.

The door opens, and Sam leans his upper body against the doorframe as he smirks. “There’s my Shortcake.”

Your breath shudders. Just the sight of him, intact, overloads your body with emotion. “Hey, Sam.”

He moves to allow you in. Ducking your chin, you enter. Shielding yourself from him, from the conversation, from the guilt. “It’s been four days,” he says. “Why the visit now?”

The apartment looks the same. Alpine stretches lazily on the couch, knocking the remote to the ground as she does so. There’s a faint scent of bacon in the air, even though it’s late in the evening. Which confuses you, because Bucky is the ‘all-day breakfast’ type of guy, not Sam.

Then you realize you don’t feel Bucky here at all.

“Because I spent the first day in bed, and the second staring at the wall. The funeral was yesterday.”

Sam nods, his mouth twisting downward as sympathy floods his face. You look away fast, uncomfortable.

You’ve lived your whole life avoiding when people casted their emotions so blatantly. Only a select few knew of your true history, and yet you always twisted some of your truths. But the looks of sympathy were always the same. The downward droop of their eyes, their mouths twisting around supportive words, their shoulders crumbling. Sympathy is an emotion that one has to endure and receive, because it’s rude to ignore. And the turn of your head is the smallest act of rudeness you commit. Because that’s allowed of you. It has to be.

You’re tired of sympathy, even if Sam has the most honorable intentions.

“You healed fast.” Small talk. Gods, you want to die. The chair creaks as you sit on it. “Are you feeling okay?”

Sam nods and sits at the head of the table. Your knees brush against his, and it takes everything within you not to shatter.

“Feels like all the other times I’ve been kicked in the stomach and sent flying. I’m lucky it wasn’t worse.”

“It was worse.”

“Yeah, Shortcake. But that’s something we’re not going to talk about again. Traumatizing as it is.”

Fiddling your thumbs, you whimper, “Why the fuck would you step in front of me? I was still Immortal. I could have survived, Sam!”

He huffs loudly, “Easy for you to say! I saw what it did to the vibranium!”

“So? I would have come back! You nearly didn’t!”

“Shortcake.” Sam reaches over to clasp your hands. They look so small as he encases them. “I did what I did. But if it was you who was gutted, then that demon would have sucked up all your blood and dragged you in the portal, right? Am I right?”

“You can’t know that,” you say, shaking your head rapidly.

“But I can theorize. And I was not. Going. To. Let. That. Happen.”

“It was a stupid fucking call, Captain.”

Sam, through the pain and hollowness in his stomach, tugs you into his chest with extreme force. You tumble into him, smacking your cheek against his breast and tangling your arms. But Sam moves to the floor with you—an anchor as you finally stutter and fall, tears flowing freely. He holds you as you crushes you, and you let him.

“It’s okay,” he whispers into the top of your head, his hot breath soothing. “You saved me. You. Saved. Me.”

Countless more sobs break free, sounds that had felt extinct these past few days. But you’re able to form them, push them from your lungs and through your throat—you’re still able to cry.

Grieving is silent, but this—

This was grief given form. You are, and always have been, grief incarnate.

“Don’t you almost die on me again,” you say, and your words are muffled in the fabric of his shirt. But Sam hears, fully expecting it, and mumbles an equally desperate “I won’t, I promise. I promise.”

It feels like eternity as you kneel on the kitchen floor, Sam holding you with everything he has. Sam breaks the silence as he asks, “What broke inside of you?”

You pull away, not meeting his eyes. With a heavy sigh, you translate your pain into words. “It felt like someone clenched their fist around my heart and then tore it through my ribcage. And I was left with this gaping hole that allowed all that cold air in. My teeth hurt, my skin dried, my neck ached.”

Sam picks you up from the floor, walking the two of you to the couch. Alpine moves to make room. You rub your chin as you continue. “The concept of soulmates was folklore to me until now. I don’t think the rip in the multiverse did anything to this Earth besides open our eyes. Hell, demons, Immortals, vampires, mates?”

Sam might not know of the word, but he damn well knows what it means to lose someone worth everything and more.

“It hurt so much five hundred years ago. The exact same way. I lost my mate twice, and I don’t know how I’m still alive.”

How is it possible for a human being to endure so much heartbreak? People have literally died from broken heart syndrome, but what of those that suffer and suffer? Do they burn out? Do they have a limit? How often and for long can a person carry such overbearing misery before their shoulders can take no more? Before their knees give out and the floor cracks beneath them?

Are some human beings built stronger than others? Because you know for a damn fact that Bucky Barnes is one of those few. Anybody else would have crumbled under Hydra control, and yet, Bucky Barnes survived. And did not lose his soul.

But the pain he carries is still present, still relevant—Does Bucky have a limit?

You shouldn’t be alive but because of your grandmother’s wish, you are. If she would have simply let you live, let you have a choice, then you would have died with Ari. The Fates wouldn’t have cursed you.

“I do,” Sam declares, dipping his head slightly so his eyes meet yours. “I don’t think this world is done with you yet. This world, and all the others. You were sent to me for a reason. You were sent to Bucky for a reason. You are our friend. And after everything that happened with Steve, I didn’t think I knew what that word meant anymore.”

“Steve Rogers was your friend.”

“Yeah, Steve Rogers was my friend. But he was also a jackass. And I understand that he was hurting, and that he wanted out. Maybe he suppressed his pain the only way he knew how, which was to go back to something he knew. I can’t answer for him, but friends don’t leave friends behind.” Sam presses his lips together before he says, “I’d jump in front of you again. I’m gonna hold Bucky’s goddamn hand when he starts having withdrawals. A lot of my friends died or left, and I’m not letting that happen again.”

“Sam…”

“When I see a person in trouble, there's this innate feeling inside me. A responsibility. But with you and Buck I know you’ll be there until—”

“Until the end of the line.”

Sam chuckles around a sniff. “Until the end of the line. It doesn’t feel like responsibility. It’s just friendship.”

You embrace him again while Alpine climbs onto your lap for an impromptu nap.

Bucky doesn’t come home that night. Or the next.

Peter Parker has decided to take Sam up on his offer and move in with him and Bucky. They purchased the pull-out couch for guests, but a third roommate will work too. Besides, Sam couldn’t turn his back on the kid who quite literally held his guts in his abdomen.

You helped Peter carry his minimal belongings up the stairs and into the apartment. Peter did his best to keep conversation limited—asking simple yes or no questions, talking about his side jobs, picking what to eat for dinner. You did your best to respond, but forming words was still tiring. Peter didn’t take it personally. In fact, he even gifted you a new plant for your own apartment. Said it was your moving-in present considering three male neighbors were going to be overwhelming for little ol’ you.

Bucky didn’t return until the weekend. Sam had assured you he was okay and not dead in a ditch somewhere. And when his word wasn’t enough, the Earth let you know.

He is okay. He does a good thing.

Whatever that meant.

A soft knock on your door at two in the morning wakes you. Feeling the floor for your slippers, you slide into them and throw a robe around your body. Fuck brushing your hair.

Your chest constricts when you see him. “Hi.”

Bucky’s lips pull thin, but it’s obvious he’s also affected by the sight of you. “Hey. Is it okay that I’m here?”

A small nod in answer. Bucky points behind you, and you let him in.

There are dark circles around his eyes and his hair is the slightest bit oily. He shrugs off his sweater and places a plastic bag on your dining table. Hugging your robe closed, you continue studying him head-to-toe until he turns back around.

“I know there isn’t anything I can say that will make this right, or make you feel better.” A small smile. “But I need to say this, and I need you to listen.”

You blink. There is so much you want to say to him. I’m sorry my heart isn’t yours yet, you had told him in Iceland. Without a pulse, how are you going to offer it to Bucky now?

Bucky interrupts your overthinking with words that make your knees tremble. “I’m not giving up on you. I fell for you and I’m not giving up. And I respect that you most likely will not be ready yet, or ever, or maybe soon—but I will wait. Because Shortcake, you are everything I’ve ever wanted and more. You see me for who I am, who I was, and who I will be. I know how you look in the mornings. I know how you look when you dance, when you brush your hair, when you cook. My heart stops when you wear that beige cardigan. I anticipate you calling me James and that’s about the weirdest thing ever. And whenever you call me Bucky, I feel as though my heart will burst. Your voice is familiar even when I’m drunk out of my mind. Your voice—your question—helped me remember my sister’s name. And when we slept together…” Bucky uses this opportunity to breathe in deeply. “It felt right. My mind was calm, my body relaxed, and I felt safe. Safe.”

A solitary tear runs down your left cheek as Bucky concludes, “You make me feel safe, Shortcake.”

“Shortcake?”

Bucky huffs a short laugh. “Someday I’m going to run out of flowers. Figured I can use that name once in a while.”

Safe. Through superpowers, demons, cults, and death—Bucky Barnes feels safe around you. With you.

Elijah had felt safe with you until you scorched those slave owners alive. The softness in his eyes had hardened when you didn’t back down. And you accepted that, because it wasn’t going to work between you and him anyway. He deserved better than a mutant with vengeance on her mind.

Joshua had felt safe with you until you broke his heart in front of those he held dear. You rejected him because it was unfair to tie him to you until he realized you didn’t age. That you never would. And you ran away before hearing him out because he truly, truly, needed to hate you. He wouldn’t have hated you if you told him why, and you couldn’t risk that.

But now, Bucky Barnes says he feels safe with you. Even after all those near-death experiences, tragic backstory, and week without speaking—Bucky Barnes feels safe with you. Like you left a permanent mark. One that he’s too headstrong to ignore or erase. Your goddamned equal.

He isn’t going to let you go. Triple the demons, multiply the heartbreak—Bucky Barnes feels safe with you and he isn’t going to let you go.

“Everything you said—” You step closer, the silk of your robe cozy against your skin. “Ditto.”

Bucky throws his head back and laughter pours out in the most wonderful display you’ve ever witnessed. He roars with it. All crinkles by the eyes, adam’s apple bobbing, smile so wide it breaks your heart. And seeing it, seeing Bucky, you smile for the first time since losing Ari. A genuine smile.

“Oh,” Bucky starts, reaching into the plastic bag he previously set on the dining table. He pulls—

“You didn’t.”

Bucky chuckles and holds out a greasy, brown paper bag filled with french fries and a separate container of Vicks vapor rub. “You said these help you heal from anything.”

“I did say that.”

“It was good advice.”

You hold the greasy bag and the medicine in both hands, looking down at them with tears in your eyes. This is too…too considerate.

“And,” Bucky continues, whispering. He pulls the next item from inside his jacket pocket.

A jewelry box.

“What—”

Bucky pops open the lid before your mind could go crazy with ideas.

What sits in the box wasn’t one of your ideas at all. At all.

Ari’s bracelet. The bracelet that was trapped behind the glass in Iceland’s museum. The bracelet they said they wouldn’t part with if you claimed Ari’s remains. It was one or the other.

“Is that…?”

Bucky carefully lifts the jade bracelet from the box and holds it out for you. You set the other items down before holding your wrist out. “Where do you think I’ve been these past two days?”

“You stole it?”

Bucky gives a good-natured roll of his eyes. “Can you technically steal something that was stolen to begin with?” He rolls the bracelet onto your wrist, where it embraces you with Ari’s figurative weight.

“For me…”

“Who else?”

You can’t believe it. You feel like if you blink, it’ll disappear. That this added weight is a figment of your imagination—and it could be considering you’re so impossibly tired. But it’s there even after you blink. And although it’s been touched by several gloved hands, no one would have dared wear it. You press your lips together, willing yourself not to cry the tears that would most likely dry out your cheeks, and blink up at Bucky.

Bucky whispers, “His love came back to you.”

Bucky releases an oomph sound when you throw yourself on him, arms wrapped around his neck and bearing down. You hold him tightly, trying to mold yourself in the curve of his body. He wraps his arms around your waist, and helps you fit.

“You committed grand theft and risked a possible diplomatic dispute for me?”

Bucky shrugs the best he can in your tight grip. “It wasn’t that hard. Snuck in at night, incapacitated the security guards, destroyed the tapes, and snatched it. Margot sent me on a private jet so I didn’t have to go through customs.”

Of course she did. Your lip twitches with amusement. “Seriously?”

“Seriously, Shortcake.”

You pull away and cup his face in your hands. That simple touch has Bucky sighing. “I’ll let you know when I’m ready for you, Bucky Barnes.”

Bucky rests his forehead against yours, nudging the tip of his nose with yours. “I’ll be right here.”

And because it’s been gnawing at him—that question—he risks it. Because he knows you’ll always love Ari until the day you die, as he will Steve. He just wants to be sure you’re in the same boat.

“Are you always going to love him?”

You brush the pads of your thumbs across his cheekbones. Your bottom lip wobbles as you say, “Yes. Sometimes I think about him in the late nights in the middle of June. When the air is too hot and the water is warm. When I hear the beat of a drum or the sound of a child’s laugh. I think about him even when I’m not thinking about him specifically. I think about his favorite foods and how I haven't eaten them since. I think about him and waterfalls and the heat of the wind when it’s nearing dusk. I think about how I can’t remember if he snored or not. I think about him and I am whole, and I am empty. I miss him.”

Your words bring tears to his eyes. Tears that are grateful and understanding.

“You?” you ask.

Bucky vaguely remembers the little noises Steve would make when his ninety-pound body would stretch first thing in the morning. He remembers the sound of charcoal meeting paper and the belly laughs Steve blessed him with every day. He remembers the look of relief Steve had when Bucky first remembered his mother’s name and when he lucked out on the newspaper-shoe detail. He remembers the giddy attitude Steve had before he returned the stones and the gut wrenching pull he experienced when Steve actually did what he said he was going to do.

But now that he thinks of it, and it breaks his heart to admit, he can’t remember the feeling of Steve’s hand in his. Was Bucky’s hand bigger, or was Steve’s? Steve had an extra heartbeat when they were kids and Bucky can’t remember the rhythm of it anymore. Did Steve ever draw him? He wants to remember these little things, and he doesn’t know if it’s because he has blocked it out or because of his mashed brains, but Bucky mourns the loss nonetheless.

Bucky Barnes will always love Steve Rogers. Just as you will always love Ari. Because no one ever lets go of their first love—people don’t have to. They were the first for a reason, whether good or bad. First loves aren’t usually meant to last forever, but it’s damn magical when they do. They burrow deep into your chest, laying their claim, and won’t ever release their grip.

Second loves, however…

Second loves knock on the door to your chest. They peek their head through, glance at the surroundings, and decide to build a home.

First loves are quick to happen. Second loves take their time.

Yet, for Bucky, it’s a mute love. One that will never be cherished, reciprocated, experienced, or spoken of, again. But the knowledge that Bucky loved once, and he loved true, allows him the opportunity to love again.

Love came back to him, a different one, back from the dead.

So he answers truthfully, with that sleepless and numbing pain found in the cracks of his heart, and says, “I will always love him. But I won’t let it control me anymore.”

He believes it, too.

Bucky turns his face to peck small kisses against your left palm. A palm that fits perfectly against his face. A touch of reassurance. As if you’re holding him steady.

Six Months Later

Racing home from work, giddy and tripping over the stairs, you nearly rip your door from its hinges and fall in the shower. You washed yourself as quickly as you could, picked your most comfortable and warm outfit for winter in New York, and brushed your teeth twice.

Six months.

It’s been six months since everything happened, and every day has proven to be a new challenge. Sometimes you’ll wake up screaming, others nights silently. You’ve lost track of how many times Bucky, Sam, and Peter have barged into your apartment to make sure you weren’t being dragged to Hell. And even though it wasn’t literal Hell, it was a Hell nonetheless.

Ari’s voice, his touch, his love—all of it coaxed you in warmth during your deep sleeps, tricking you into believing you were still underneath your shared tent. Then you would wake, and the grief would slap you with enough force to bruise.

Suffering through it proved brutal. So you’ve decided to embrace it. Instead of waking up screaming, you try to wake up gradually. During these dreams, you attempt to break through and remind yourself, “This isn’t real. But Ari was. You’ll have tomorrow’s sleep to see him again. Wake.”

Then Bucky’s words follow: I will always love him. But I won’t let it control me anymore.

Ari loved you back. And you won’t let the pain of his loss control you anymore.

You’ve eaten so many french fries these past few months. It doesn’t matter the hour—Bucky always had a bag in hand. The same treatment worked for his withdrawal episodes. And Sam had done as he promised: On the worst nights, he holds Bucky’s hand as Bucky spills his guts into the toilet while you wipe the sweat from his forehead.

Besides the bouts of rough awakenings, these past few months have been calming. No aliens, no more demons, no surprise cults. Just the normal things: Peter applying to college, Sam visiting his sister and nephews more often, Bucky visiting you at the library to help with the big shipments.

And just last week, when you were lounging on the couch in your apartment, Bucky seated on the floor between your knees, you had felt it. Some gentle tug, a string of warmth connecting you to the moment. As weird as it was, you looked away from the television and ran your hand through Bucky’s longer hair and said, “I think I’m ready.”

Bucky had stilled—Winter Soldier still—then he looked over his shoulder, warily.

“You’re certain?”

You nodded. “Let’s go old-fashioned, James. Pick me up and let’s grab a cup of coffee.”

Bucky had controlled his breathing, all of his training coming to the surface. Instead of jumping up like an excited teenager, he had simply nodded and pressed his lips together.

“Am I allowed to bring you flowers?”

You had smiled, cheeks heating. “As many as you’d like.”

Everything had to be perfect. And when you finished rolling Ari’s bracelet on your wrist the second a soft knock sounded on your door, you knew it would be.

Patting your cheeks in the mirror, you smile and nod once. You’re ready, and so goddamn excited.

Bucky holds a bouquet of lilies, a sheepish grin spreading even wider as he takes in your appearance. His hair has grown longer these last six months, reaching his chin and curling at the tips. It frames his face so nicely that it nearly makes you swoon off your feet.

“You ready for breakfast at seven in the evening?”

Biting your lip and smiling wide, you grab the flowers from him. Bucky waits for you to grab your purse, put the lilies in their water vase, and lock your apartment door.

“I still can’t believe you want to eat at a fucking Denny’s for our first date.”

You shrug, giggling. “It’s simple, crowded, and different. I figured we’d keep it true to ourselves.”

Bucky laughs, but is interrupted by Sam and Peter pulling open their apartment door with Peter exclaiming, “Don’t be so loud like you were all those months ago when you guys return, alright?”

“Aren’t you heading out tonight?” you throw back at Peter. He sticks his tongue out, proving you right.

Mouth agape, you smack the air as if you're swatting his shoulder. Sam ignores the quip and says, “Buck, you sharing your location?”

Bucky groans, “Yes, Samuel. I’m sharing my location and I promise we won’t make any detours.”

Sam hums, unconvinced until he double-checks his phone. “Still. You two be careful, alright?”

A ball of delight ignites in the pit of your stomach. “I’ll protect him, Sam.” Bucky scoffs and pushes you forward, ignoring your giggling as he sticks his tongue out at Sam over his shoulder.

The atmosphere between you four is as comfortable as ever. Sam is still his overprotective self, Peter still likes to be in everybody’s business, Bucky is still his awkward self, and you’re still along for the ride. You haven't heard anything from Druig all these months—he really is keeping his side of the bargain: the unspoken decision that if you needed him, if you wanted to speak, you would be the one to seek him out.

At least he’s honoring that.

And Maxwell, the fucker, is nowhere to be found. Not a lick of a sarcastic drop-by or even evidence that he survived his trip to Hell. You figure he did considering nothing catastrophic happened afterward.

Everything, even the walk to the restaurant around the corner, is calm.

“Did you hear that?” Bucky asks as you’re walking through the glass doors he has held open.

You pause and look at him funny. “Hear what?”

Bucky looks past you, then to the ground.

“Bucky, what?”

He chuckles, “You’re too easy.”

Snorting, you check his shoulder on the way in.

There is no wait. Sam, funnily enough, called ahead to reserve you a table in the back. He pulled rank and reserved you a table. At a fucking Denny’s.

Bucky grumbles, “Remind me to pummel him later.”

“Offended he thought ahead?”

“It’s my date. I’m the guy. He just made me look bad.”

You giggle, “Never, James. Pay for the meal and you’ll be back to my number one spot.”

“Oh, so I’m number two currently?”

You smirk as you settle into the booth, Bucky directly across. “Let’s see how this date goes, James.”

Bucky, as much as tries to deter it, shudders from your tone. Because the last time he heard you speak this way, you were halfway across the world in Iceland. The one and only time you two shared a bed. Hearing it now curls something at the base of his spine.

He’s had nothing but his hands since—on him, inside him. His thoughts are always—always—of you. And in the mornings, he shies away for a few minutes as the thoughts creep back. He feels guilty, but he wonders if you also indulge in some alone time. That gets him going again.

He’s not expecting to get lucky tonight. So he knows damn well he’ll be enjoying his hands.

The restaurant is crowded, but not to the point where Bucky feels smothered. “So,” he starts, casual as ever as he opens his menu and pretends to read it. “Where did you grow up?”

You burst out laughing, the sound so loud that the tables beside you flinch. Bucky allows you to ride it out—waiting a whole minute before you finally settle.

“Sorry,” you pant, flipping open your menu absentmindedly.

“Too personal?”

You roll your eyes humorously. “At least you didn’t ask about my age.”

It’s Bucky’s turn to cackle. “Ditto.”

The calm before a storm should be familiar by now.

Before you could sip from your seven o’clock coffee, the floor beneath you shakes. Your eyes meet Bucky’s, and before either of you can draw a weapon, a bright flash of orange light blinds you and half the restaurant. People duck beneath their tables, waitresses cower in tight corners, Bucky lunges from his seat to stand in front of you—by the time the portal completely opens, you and Bucky are the only ones standing near.

A head of curly black hair peeks out first, then the most beautiful green eyes lock with yours.

Half-lies. Maxwell is possibly one of the most beautiful men you’ve ever seen.

“Glad to know you aren’t dead!” you call from behind Bucky’s shoulder, giving Maxwell an incredulous glare.

Maxwell smirks, but it feels forced. Not at all the confident cult leader who held you against your will and performed a 360 to capture a demon. His palms open and close. His clothes are…different—medieval?

“I would have called, but…”

Bucky blinks, mouth open as he stares at the flaming portal behind Maxwell. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

If Maxwell’s offended by Bucky’s tone, he doesn’t show it. He glances around the restaurant and at all the terrified faces like he’s weighing whether to speak so openly. But he concedes, his tongue unable to restrict the words.

“When you gave up your Immortality, there were consequences.”

No.

No, no, no. You’re tired. So, fucking tired. You and Bucky were finally ready. You were ready, and this cannot be happening—

“No one has ever defied the Fates. You changed your fate—Ari changed your fate. They weren’t expecting him or your bond.” Maxwell gulps. “They’ve never had a healthy relationship with Hades and this was the last straw.”

“So you decided to open the Portal to Hell in the middle of a fucking Denny’s?”

A few customers try and fail to hide their gasps, some even cowering farther into their booths. If you hadn’t encountered such horribleness this past year, your whole life, then you guess you’d probably react the same way.

“It would have appeared regardless of where you were. And besides. I was summoned—by Hades himself.”

Now the gasps are clearly audible.

“What does he want? What could the God of the Underworld possibly want?” Bucky demands. It’s fleeting, but you catch Bucky’s metal hand punch Sam’s contact for a phone call. It wouldn’t be much of a run from around the corner, but part of you prays Sam doesn’t make it.

If Hades is going to retaliate—if he’s going to step out of that damn portal—you pray Sam isn’t here when he does.

Maxwell groans, shutting his eyes for a long while before forcing them open again. The portal flickers, the darkness within giving a few short bursts of rainbow coloring.

“Hades cannot replace the Fates unless they die. But they’ve escaped. And because it was your twist of fate that caused it…” Maxwell rolls his neck, sweat dripping from his perfect eyebrows. “Hades summons you to Hell.”

Hell.

The place you had banished that demon. The place your grandmother supposedly had some otherworldly connection to. The place standing behind Maxwell, pulsing with such strange energy it’s making you dizzy.

“Fuck that,” Bucky says, giving a forced laugh. “Tell him he’ll have to find someone else. The Fates, whatever the fuck they are, are his problem. We don’t want anything to do with you again.”

Maxwell’s face contorts painfully. Slowly, he grinds out, “I wish you had a choice.”

The restaurant doors fly open as Sam Wilson, Captain America, runs in. Minus his Captain America gear, that is. He’s even forgotten the shield. Sam Wilson came to fight with his fists. Your eyes meet his, and no matter how much pleading you try to emit, he does not yield.

“It’s their first date, man. C’mon.” Sam holds up his arms between you and Maxwell, effectively shielding you from Maxwell’s line of sight. Or the portal’s. You can’t really tell.

The portal rumbles with a disgusting groan. Maxwell mutters something along the lines of ‘the one time I don’t leave Hell willingly.’

The chairs and tables in front of you are pushed to the side by some invisible force. Customers scream, some even rushing for the exit in a stampede. Maxwell steps into the portal, hesitating with the other foot.

A harsh gust of air spits in your face—then wraps around your waist, your shoulders, your legs—and drags you toward the dark mouth of Hell.

No. Not just you. Bucky and Sam, too.

Sam grabs onto the door handle, but the lack of gravity simply lifts him up. He dangles in the air, even as Bucky rushes to lower his legs. The trees from the sidewalk planters smash through the windows and wrap around your waist, pulling you back toward them.

You turn to Maxwell, demanding a better explanation with your stare, but he gives nothing. In fact, he just stares back with pity. Pity that makes your stomach churn.

The door handle snaps, and both Sam and Bucky are thrown across the floor and to the portal. The branches scramble to catch their wrists, but they miss Sam altogether. His palms smack against the floor, swiping without purchase, until the portal completely swallows him. Bucky yells, his metal fingers clawing at the floor in deep gashes. He barely catches your hand, his last rope to this realm.

But the portal is too strong. Stronger than anything you’ve ever encountered. The full wrath of an Immortal God. Their influence, their thread, their power.

Knowing full well you aren’t going to make it, you whip your head around to the customers who stayed—either from curiosity, morbidity, or because their insides watered—and scream, “Peter Parker! Tell him Hell has us. Peter Parker, Peter Parker, Peter Parker!”

Bucky uses his last remaining drop of strength to safely wrap you against his chest, shielding your head. The branches snap.

The portal closes.

Darkness lives.

Epilogue

She knows she should have left. Should have pushed people out of the way and scrambled onto the streets, sprinting to maximize the distance between her and that supposed portal to literal Hell. She should have done a lot of things—but ultimately, she’s glad she stayed.

Peter Parker! Tell him Hell has us! Peter Parker, Peter Parker, Peter Parker!

She knows that name. It may have only been a name she learned in passing, a face that only came around every other month or so, buying random pastries and coffee like all he wanted to do with strike up conversation with her.

What are the odds it’s the same guy she’s come to anticipate?

She knows that name.

Michelle Jones knows that name.

She’s really glad she stayed.

This story is for those who have loved too much and broken themselves because of it.

TAGLIST: @cloudyfeel @wintersgirl1917 @aquariusbarnes @fandoms-writings @shirukitsune @goldylions @real-jane @mannien @sentimental-for-maneskin @dezthegeek @avengershoney @ginger-swag-rapunzel @natbarnes1917 @cutechubbybunnyy @gabewerk @howlermonkey69

Author’s Note:

OH, YOU THOUGHT THAT WAS THE END? WHY WOULD I INTRODUCE ALL THIS FANTASY AND LEAVE IT UNTOUCHED?

MY BOYS DESERVE THEIR SWORD FIGHTING, MAGIC WIELDING, AND MEDIEVAL-LIKE ADVENTURES! WE DESERVE SEXY HADES!!! WOOOOO!!!!

The sequel, “Hunting The Fates” will start in July! It will have much more smut (like...a shit ton tbh), swordfighting, and inaccurate Greek Mythology lmao.

Thank you for taking this healing journey with me. I hope I did the characters some justice. xxMoni

#Bucky Barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x poc!reader #dreaming in june series #dreaming in june #dreaming in june finale #captainsimagines #by Moni #marvel fanfiction #Bucky Barnes x female reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n

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