Chapter Text
Isabelle sat with her back against the rough bark of the oak tree, legs stretched out on the grass that tickled her bare ankles. The worn pages of Bucky’s copy of The Hobbit felt comforting between her fingers as she lost herself in Middle-earth.
The afternoon sun dappled through the leaves above, creating shifting patterns of light across the pages. She didn’t know how long she’d been reading—time seemed to slip away when she was absorbed in someone else’s world instead of her own.
The soft crunch of approaching footsteps pulled her reluctantly from Tolkien’s universe. She looked up, squinting slightly against the sunlight, to see Bucky walking toward her. His dark hair was slightly tousled, pushed back from his forehead where a light sheen of sweat glistened. His t-shirt clung to his chest in places, evidence of him and Sam ‘tossing the shield around’. The sight of him backlit by the golden afternoon sun made something flutter in her chest—a feeling she was still getting used to.
“Having fun stealing my stuff, doll?” Bucky asked, his voice warm with affection as he lowered himself to sit beside her.
Isabelle clutched the book dramatically to her chest, narrowing her eyes with exaggerated suspicion. “I prefer to think of it as ‘borrowing indefinitely,’“ she quipped, her lips quirking into the smirk that she knew drove him crazy. “It’s a victimless crime, really.”
Bucky chuckled, the sound low and rich, vibrating through the small space between them.
“Is that so?” he murmured, leaning in until his breath tickled the sensitive skin below her ear. “And what other things of mine are you planning on ‘borrowing indefinitely’?” His fingers tugged playfully at the hem of his hoodie she had stolen this morning, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners with amusement.
Isabelle turned to face him, their noses nearly touching. A dangerous impulse seized her, and before her brain could catch up with her mouth, she whispered, “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe your heart?”
The words hung in the air between them, and Isabelle immediately felt heat creep up her neck. God, that was cheesy. She cringed inwardly, fighting the urge to physically recoil from her own words.
But Bucky’s eyes softened, a mix of adoration and amusement dancing in their depths. His hand came up to cup her cheek, the pad of his thumb gently tracing her cheekbone. “Hate to break it to you, doll,” he said, his voice dropping to that low register that never failed to send shivers down her spine, “but I think you already stole that.”
Isabelle couldn’t help it—a laugh bubbled up from her chest, breaking the moment of tension. She leaned into his touch even as she rolled her eyes. “You’re such a dork,” she murmured, unable to keep the smile from her face. “A cute dork, but still a dork.”
“Yeah, but I’m your dork,” he countered, his thumb still tracing lazy patterns on her cheek. His eyes dropped briefly to her lips, then back up to meet her gaze. “And you like it.”
“Maybe,” she conceded, letting the book fall forgotten to her lap as she shifted closer. “But if you tell anyone I said something that cheesy, I’ll deny it to my dying breath. I have a reputation to maintain.”
“What reputation would that be?” Bucky asked, his voice teasing as his hand slid from her cheek to the nape of her neck. His fingers threaded through her hair, the metal of his left hand cool against her lower back where it had slipped beneath the hoodie.
“You know,” she listed, fighting to keep her expression serious despite the warmth blooming in her chest, “badass Avenger, Sick Girl, generally terrifying person.” She tilted her head slightly, leaning into his touch like a cat. “Can’t have people thinking I’m going soft.”
“Your secret’s safe with me,” Bucky promised, his smile turning mischievous as he leaned in closer. His breath was warm against her face, mingling with the earthy scent of the grass beneath them and the faint sweetness of the air. “Though I gotta say,” he continued, his gaze roaming appreciatively over her form, lingering on the way his hoodie swallowed her smaller frame, “I like seeing you in my clothes. Maybe you should ‘borrow’ them more often.”
Isabelle felt heat creep up her neck, spreading across her cheeks in a flush she couldn’t control. The intensity in his eyes made her stomach flip in that not-unpleasant way she was still getting used to.
“Oh yeah?” she replied, her voice a touch breathless. She reached up, fingers trailing along the edge of his jaw, feeling the slight stubble there. “I’ll keep that in mind.” Isabelle’s eyes flickered to his lips, and she found herself leaning forward almost unconsciously.
Their lips met in a tender kiss, sweet and unhurried. Isabelle melted into him, the book sliding from her lap onto the grass as her hands found their way to his shoulders. His skin was warm through the thin fabric of his t-shirt, muscles solid beneath her fingertips. The world around them seemed to fade away, leaving only the two of them in this perfect moment. The gentle rustle of leaves above them, the distant call of a bird, the warmth of the sun on their skin—it all blended into a backdrop for this single point of connection between them.
When they finally pulled apart, just enough to breathe, Isabelle couldn’t help the smile that tugged at her lips. “I think I like kissing you as much as you like seeing me in your clothes,” she murmured, her voice husky.
Bucky laughed, the sound rumbling through his chest where it pressed against hers. “I’d say that’s a fair assessment,” he agreed, pressing another quick kiss to her lips, then another to the corner of her mouth. His metal hand came up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, the gesture achingly tender. “Though I’m not sure which I enjoy more.”
“We could conduct a thorough investigation,” Isabelle suggested, arching an eyebrow. “You know, for science.”
“For science,” Bucky echoed solemnly, though his eyes danced with amusement. “Very important research.”
Isabelle leaned in again, her lips brushing his as she spoke. “I’ve always been dedicated to the pursuit of knowledge.”
This kiss was deeper, greedier. Bucky’s hand tightened slightly in her hair, angling her head to deepen the connection. Isabelle’s fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, holding him close as warmth spread through her body like wildfire. The taste of him made her head spin in the best possible way.
Bucky broke away first and rested his forehead against hers. Isabelle kept her eyes closed for a moment longer, committing every sensation to memory: the steady rhythm of his breathing, the gentle pressure of his hand at her waist, the mingled scent of their bodies in the afternoon sun.
“As much as I want to stay here forever,” Bucky said, a hint of regret coloring his voice, “we should probably start heading back if we want to make our flight.”
Reality crashed back in like a wave. Isabelle opened her eyes, meeting Bucky’s gaze. The world seemed sharper now, more vivid, as if the kiss had heightened all her senses.
“I guess you’re right,” she admitted reluctantly.
She cast one last longing look at the peaceful scene around them—the swaying branches of the oak tree, the glittering surface of the water in the distance, the weathered porch of the Wilson family home.
“But let’s make a deal,” she said, turning back to Bucky with newfound determination. Her fingers traced the worn spine of the book, a small anchor to this perfect moment she wasn’t ready to let go. “Next time we come to visit, we’ll spend at least one full day just like this. No missions, no emergencies, no world-saving. Just us, this tree, and maybe a few more books to ‘borrow indefinitely.’” She extended her pinky finger between them, a childish gesture that felt right somehow. “Deal?”
Bucky’s face transformed with a smile that made her breath catch—open and genuine in a way he rarely showed to others. The lines around his eyes crinkled, softening the sharp edges of his face. In moments like these, she could see glimpses of the man he must have been before HYDRA, before the ice, before everything.
“Deal,” he agreed, hooking his metal pinky with hers. The cool vibranium against her skin sent a pleasant shiver up her arm. Instead of pulling away, he used the connection to tug her closer, sealing the promise with another kiss—this one soft and quick, but no less meaningful.
As they separated, Isabelle reluctantly closed the book and tucked it under her arm. She stood up, brushing grass and bits of bark from her legs before extending her hand down to Bucky. The dappled sunlight caught in his dark hair, highlighting strands of chestnut that were usually hidden in shadow.
As he took her offered hand, she tugged playfully, making an exaggerated show of straining against his weight. Her feet dug into the soft earth as she leaned back, pretending to struggle. “Come on, old man,” she teased, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “Don’t tell me you’re too worn out from tossing that frisbee around with Sam?”
The corner of Bucky’s mouth twitched upward, a dangerous glint entering his eyes. “What did I tell you about the old man jokes, huh?” He raised one eyebrow, the challenge clear in his voice. Before she could react, he tightened his grip on her hand and pulled—not hard enough to hurt, but with enough force to throw her off balance.
Isabelle stumbled forward with a surprised “Oof!” directly into his chest. In a blink, Bucky was on his feet, scooping her up into his arms and hoisting her over his shoulder like she weighed nothing.
“James!” she squealed, the sound transforming into breathless laughter as he spun her around. Blood rushed to her head, her hair falling in a curtain around her face as she half-heartedly pounded her fists against his back. Through her laughter, she managed to gasp, “Put me down, you jerk!”
“I’m sorry, what was that?” Bucky asked innocently, spinning faster. “I couldn’t hear you over all that disrespect coming from someone currently upside down.”
“Okay, okay!” she gasped between fits of giggles, her sides beginning to ache. Her hands gripped the back of his t-shirt, feeling the solid muscle beneath. “I take it back! You’re spry as ever, Barnes! Practically a spring chicken!”
Bucky slowed his spinning but didn’t immediately set her down. Instead, he adjusted his grip, sliding one arm under her knees and cradling her against his chest in a bridal carry. The sudden change in position made her head swim pleasantly, and she found herself looking up into his face, flushed with exertion and alight with playfulness.
“That’s more like it,” he said, his voice low and warm. He pressed a kiss to her forehead, his lips lingering there for a moment longer than necessary.
Isabelle looped her arms around his neck, enjoying the solid warmth of him against her. “You know,” she murmured, “if you wanted to carry me back to the house, you could have just asked.”
“Where’s the fun in that?” Bucky replied, but he gently set her down, keeping one arm wrapped around her waist as her feet touched the grass.
As they started walking back toward the house, hand in hand with The Hobbit tucked safely under Isabelle’s arm, she felt a pang of melancholy wash over her. “I’m going to miss this place,” she admitted quietly, her thumb tracing absent patterns on the back of Bucky’s hand. “It’s so... peaceful here.”
Bucky squeezed her hand gently. “We’ll come back,” he promised. “Sam already said we’re welcome anytime.”
“Yeah, but it won’t be the same, will it?” She looked toward the horizon, where the afternoon sun hung low over the bayou. “Going back to New York means going back to reality. Back to—” She cut herself off, not wanting to name all the things waiting for them: the nightmares, the press, the constant vigilance.
“Hey,” Bucky stopped walking, turning to face her. He reached up with his metal hand, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear with surprising gentleness. “Whatever’s waiting for us in New York, we face it together. That’s the deal, right?”
Isabelle leaned into his touch, allowing herself this moment of vulnerability. “Right,” she agreed, her voice barely above a whisper. “Together.”
They made their way back to the house, the Louisiana sun warming their shoulders. As they approached the weathered porch steps, Sam emerged from the front door, screen door slapping shut behind him. His expression was neutral, but there was something purposeful in his stride.
“Hey, Isabelle,” Sam called out, his voice carrying across the yard. “Mind if we chat for a minute before you two head out?”
Isabelle felt a flutter of nervousness in her stomach—the familiar sensation that preceded difficult conversations. She glanced at Bucky, who gave her hand a reassuring squeeze before nodding encouragingly.
“I’ll go grab our bags,” Bucky said quietly, his thumb brushing across her knuckles once more before he released her hand. His eyes held a silent message: You’ve got this.
“Sure, Wilson,” she replied, trying to keep her voice steady despite the sudden apprehension that tightened her chest.
Sam jerked his head towards the porch swing, and Isabelle followed him, the old wooden boards creaking beneath their feet like a language only old houses spoke. As they sat down, the chains of the swing groaned in protest, a metallic whine that matched the tension she felt building inside her. For a moment, they simply sat in companionable silence, watching as Bucky disappeared into the house. The rhythmic creaking of the swing filled the air, punctuated by the distant call of a mockingbird and the faint shouts of Cass and AJ playing somewhere beyond the trees.
Sam cleared his throat, breaking the silence. “You know,” he began, his voice gentle but firm, “there comes a point when you’ve got to stop running and face what’s waiting for you back home.”
Isabelle tensed, her fingers gripping the edge of the swing so tightly her knuckles turned white. The peeling paint felt rough beneath her fingertips, flaking away like all her carefully constructed excuses. Her first instinct was to deflect, to make some sarcastic comment about how she wasn’t running, just taking a strategic vacation.
“I’m not—” she started, then caught herself.
No. She’d promised herself she would try to be better about this—the automatic deflection, the walls she threw up whenever someone tried to reach her.
She took a deep breath, the scent of worn wood and faded paint filling her nostrils. “Actually, no. You’re right. I know,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. “I know, and... I don’t want to anymore.” She turned to face Sam, her eyes searching his. “It’s just... it’s hard, you know? Running is like my first instinct. Has been since I was a kid.”
Sam’s expression softened, a knowing smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Trust me, I get it. Spent enough time running myself.” He shifted slightly, the swing creaking beneath them. “But avoiding them isn’t going to make things any easier.” He paused, his gaze drifting to the yard where Cass and AJ were now chasing each other with water guns, their laughter carried on the breeze. “We’re family, you and I. You’re like a sister to me. But Isabelle—” he turned back to her, his eyes serious “—you should see your own family. Morgan. Pepper. Rhodes. Happy... they all care about you.”
The mention of her family sent a pang of guilt through Isabelle’s chest, sharp and twisting like a knife. She swallowed hard, her gaze dropping to her hands, which had begun to fidget with the frayed edge of Bucky’s hoodie sleeve.
“Last time I saw Morgan, she looked at me like I was a stranger,” Isabelle said, the words feeling like gravel in her throat. “And Pepper... God, Sam—” She blinked rapidly, trying to keep the tears at bay. “It’s just... weird, you know? After everything that’s happened...”
“It will be for a bit,” Sam agreed, his voice softening. He reached out, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder, the weight solid and grounding. “But that’s okay. One step at a time, right? You don’t have to solve everything in one visit.”
Isabelle nodded, the lump in her throat making it hard to speak. She took a shaky breath, the warm Louisiana air filling her lungs, carrying with it the scent of magnolias and the faint hint of the bayou.
“What if—” she started, then stopped, the fear too raw to fully articulate. She tried again. “What if they don’t want me there? What if I just make it worse for them?”
Sam’s eyes crinkled at the corners, a mix of sympathy and gentle exasperation. “You really think you’re not wanted by your own family?” He shook his head. “Iz, they’re hurting because you’re not there, not because you might be.”
The truth of his words settled over her like a blanket—uncomfortable at first, then gradually warming. She’d been so focused on her own pain, her own fear of rejection, that she hadn’t fully considered how her absence might be its own kind of hurt for the people who loved her.
“When did you get so wise, Wilson?” she asked, a small, watery smile breaking through despite herself.
Sam grinned, the familiar cocky tilt returning to his expression. “I’ve always been this wise. You just haven’t been paying attention.” He nudged her shoulder with his. “Seriously though, Iz. They’re your family. And yeah, it might be messy and complicated and hurt like hell sometimes, but...” He paused, his eyes growing distant for a moment. “After everything we’ve been through, don’t you think we owe it to ourselves to hold onto whatever family we’ve got left?”
The screen door creaked open behind them, and Isabelle turned to see Bucky stepping onto the porch, their duffel bags slung over his shoulder. His eyes immediately found hers, a silent question in them: You okay?
She gave him a small nod, then turned back to Sam. “I’ll try,” she said quietly. “I can’t promise it’ll be pretty, but... I’ll try.”
Sam squeezed her shoulder once more before standing up. “That’s all anyone can ask for.” He glanced at his watch. “Now, you two better get going if you want to make that flight. And remember—” his voice took on a mock-stern tone, the kind he used when he was trying to mask genuine concern “—I expect regular updates. None of this disappearing for months crap anymore. That goes for both you and Mr. Magoo over there.”
Isabelle couldn’t help but laugh. The tension in her chest loosened, making room for something warmer.
“I heard that, Sam,” Bucky called out, his voice carrying a new blend of exasperation and fondness. He stood at the bottom of the porch steps, duffel bags slung over his shoulder.
“You were supposed to,” Sam shot back, his grin widening as he crossed his arms. “Those super-soldier ears aren’t just for show.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Bucky muttered, but the corner of his mouth twitched upward.
Isabelle shook her head, watching this new, yet familiar dance of their friendship—all barbs on the surface, solid ground underneath. She pushed herself up from the swing, feeling the wood warm against her palms as she stood.
“Thanks, Sam,” she said quietly, meeting his eyes. “For everything.”
Sam nodded, understanding passing between them without need for elaboration. “Anytime, Iz. That’s what families are for.”
The word ‘family’ settled in her chest like a stone dropped in still water, ripples of emotion spreading outward. She swallowed hard and nodded back.
As she descended the weathered steps, the wood creaking beneath her feet, Sam called after her: “And tell Buck if he doesn’t take good care of you, I know where he sleeps now!”
“Bold of you to assume I need taking care of, Wilson,” she tossed back over her shoulder, falling into the familiar rhythm of their banter to mask the vulnerability still raw in her chest.
Sam’s laughter followed her down the path, warm and reassuring as the afternoon sun on her back.
Isabelle made her way to Bucky’s side, looking up at him with a smile that felt genuine, if a little tender around the edges. His hair was still slightly mussed from their earlier activities under the oak tree, a few strands falling across his forehead in a way that made her fingers itch to brush them back. She drank in the sight of him—the way his t-shirt stretched across his shoulders, how his muscles flexed as he adjusted the overnight bag, the softness in his eyes that appeared only when he looked at her.
His right hand found hers, their fingers intertwining with an ease that still surprised her sometimes.
“Ready to go home?” Bucky asked, his voice pitched low enough that only she could hear. The endearment rolled off his tongue with practiced affection, but his eyes searched her face with a deeper question: Are you really okay?
Isabelle nodded, reaching for her bag with her free hand. “Yeah,” she said, her voice steadier than she expected. She squeezed his hand gently, feeling the calluses on his palm against her skin. “Let’s go home.”
Two days after returning from Sam’s place, Isabelle found herself curled up on Bucky’s couch, her socked feet tucked beneath her. The apartment smelled like the pasta they’d had for dinner—garlic and basil lingering in the air. She’d arrived a few hours ago for their dinner plans, and after some gentle persuasion that involved batting her eyelashes and promising to make breakfast tomorrow, Bucky had reluctantly agreed to watch Mr. Magoo with her after binging the first two TMNT movies.
“This is ridiculous,” Bucky had grumbled when she’d first suggested it, but there was no real heat behind his words. Just the familiar, performative resistance that made teasing him so satisfying.
Now, the TV cast flickering blue light across the darkened living room. Bucky lounged beside her, his metal arm draped casually over the back of the couch, fingers occasionally brushing against her shoulder in a way that sent pleasant shivers down her spine. His legs were stretched out in front of him, crossed at the ankles on the coffee table—a habit she’d noticed he only indulged in when truly relaxed.
On screen, Mr. Magoo bumbled his way through another misadventure, completely oblivious to the chaos he left in his wake. A particularly clever joke pulled a rare chuckle from Bucky, the sound low and warm in the quiet room. The vibration of it traveled through the couch cushions, and Isabelle found herself smiling reflexively at the sound.
Bucky glanced over, expecting to see her usual reaction—that spark of satisfaction she got whenever she coaxed a laugh from him—but instead found her gaze distant, unfocused. Her smile had faded, replaced by the slight furrow between her brows that appeared whenever she was lost in thought.
“Everything okay, doll?” he asked, his voice gentle as he shifted slightly to face her better.
Isabelle blinked, slowly turning her attention away from the TV. She hummed softly, taking a moment to process his words. “Yeah, yeah, sorry,” she said, shaking her head slightly as if to clear away cobwebs. “Just thinking.”
Bucky leaned forward as he plucked the remote from the coffee table and paused the show. Mr. Magoo’s comical expression froze mid-sentence, his exaggerated features filling the screen. Settling back into the couch, Bucky turned to face her fully, one leg bent up onto the cushion between them.
“What’s on your mind?” he asked, his eyes catching the soft light from the paused TV.
Isabelle took a deep breath, her fingers absently playing with the hem of her shirt—one of Bucky’s old Henleys that she’d claimed for herself. The fabric was worn soft from countless washes, comforting against her skin. She could feel his eyes on her, patient and steady.
“I’m going to head up to the cabin for a day or two,” she said finally, her voice quiet but steady in the stillness of the apartment. “Visit Dad’s grave, spend some time with Pepper and Morgan.”
The words hung in the air between them, heavy with all they didn’t say. This wasn’t just a casual visit—it was a step toward confronting everything she’d been running from since the battle with Thanos. Since her father died saving the universe while she’d been helpless to stop it.
Bucky’s eyes softened, a complex emotion flickering across his face—pride, concern, and a touch of sadness all mingled together. His metal arm, still draped behind her, gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze. The cool vibranium was a familiar weight, grounding her in the moment.
“How are you feeling about it?” he asked, his voice low and soothing. No platitudes, no unnecessary reassurances—just the simple question that cut straight to the heart of what mattered.
Isabelle leaned into him, drawn to his solid presence like a magnet. She shrugged, the movement small and uncertain. “Nervous, I guess,” she admitted, watching the way her fingers twisted the fabric of her shirt. “Part of me keeps thinking I should wait longer, that I’m not ready yet.” She paused, swallowing past the tightness in her throat. “But another part knows I’ll never feel completely ready. And it feels right, you know? Like it’s time.”
She looked up at him then, searching his face for understanding. Bucky had known loss—had known what it was to face ghosts that never quite stopped haunting you.
“I’m proud of you,” he said, his voice carrying a weight that made the simple words feel profound. He wrapped his arm fully around her shoulders, pulling her closer until she was tucked against his side. “Really proud.”
The sincerity in his voice made something catch in her chest. She sent him a smile—small but genuine—and cuddled closer, wrapping an arm around his torso. His heartbeat was steady under her ear, a rhythmic reminder that she wasn’t alone anymore.
They sat in companionable silence for a moment, the paused TV casting a soft glow over them. Bucky’s thumb traced absent patterns on her shoulder, each touch a small reassurance. She could feel the slight tension building in him, though. His breathing changed, just barely—a fraction deeper, a touch more deliberate. Something was weighing on him.
“Actually,” he said finally, his voice low in the quiet apartment, “I’ve been thinking too.”
“Oh?” she prompted, shifting to face him better. Her knee bumped against his thigh as she tucked one leg underneath herself.
Bucky’s metal fingers flexed against the back of the couch, the plates recalibrating with a soft whir that had become one of her favorite sounds.
“Yeah,” he said, his jaw setting with that quiet determination she’d seen before missions, before fights—the look of a man steeling himself for impact. “I’m going to go see Yori.” He paused, swallowing visibly, the movement of his throat catching the blue light. “Tell him... tell him about his son.”
The weight of those words hung between them, heavy with all they implied. Isabelle felt her breath catch. Yori Nakajima—the old man whose son had been one of the Winter Soldier’s targets. The name on Bucky’s list. The guilt he carried like a physical weight.
“Bucky,” she breathed, her voice barely above a whisper. She reached for his hand, her fingers sliding between his. “That’s... wow.” She searched his face, looking for any sign of doubt, of hesitation. “Are you sure you’re ready?”
He met her gaze steadily, something resolute settling in his expression—like tectonic plates shifting into place. “As ready as I’ll ever be.” His thumb brushed over her knuckles, a gentle back-and-forth that seemed to ground him. “Like you said, it feels like the timing is right.”
The parallel wasn’t lost on her—both of them finally turning to face the ghosts they’d been running from.
Without thinking, Isabelle shifted forward, wrapping her arms around him in a tight embrace. She pressed her face into the crook of his neck. His arms came around her immediately, one warm and one cool, both equally gentle as they pulled her closer.
“I’m so proud of you, too, James,” she murmured against his skin, feeling the steady pulse of his heartbeat against her cheek. She meant it—with every fiber of her being, she meant it. She knew what this cost him, what it took to face the consequences of actions that weren’t truly his own.
Bucky’s chest expanded with a deep breath, then rumbled with a low chuckle that she felt more than heard. His hand came up to cradle the back of her head, fingers threading through her hair with careful tenderness.
“Look at us, huh?” he said, his voice taking on that hint of Brooklyn that slipped through when his guard was down. The sound of it made something warm unfurl in her chest—a privilege to hear this echo of who he’d been before the world broke him apart and put him back together wrong. “A couple of brave idiots.”
Isabelle laughed, the sound muffled against his shoulder. The tension in the room dissipated like morning mist, replaced by something lighter, something that felt dangerously close to hope.
“The bravest,” she agreed, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes. Her lips curved into a smile that felt genuine despite the weight of their conversation. “Facing our demons head-on. What could possibly go wrong?”
Bucky snorted, his eyes crinkling at the corners in that way that made him look younger, unburdened. “Don’t jinx it, doll.”
As they separated, Isabelle’s expression grew serious once more. She kept hold of his hand, her thumb tracing the lines of his palm—battle scars and life lines and the map of a century lived hard. “Hey,” she said, her voice soft but firm. “You know you can call me if you need anything, right? Even if I’m up at the cabin.” She squeezed his hand for emphasis. “Day or night. I mean it.”
“I know,” Bucky said, his eyes softening as they met hers. Something passed between them—an understanding that went beyond words, beyond the physical space they shared. “Same goes for you.” His free hand came up to cup her cheek, the pad of his thumb brushing across her cheekbone with a gentleness that still surprised her. “Anytime.”
Isabelle leaned into his touch, allowing herself to savor the warmth of his palm against her face. She glanced at the TV screen where Mr. Magoo remained frozen mid-gesture, his cartoonish face stretched in exaggerated surprise.
“We... we don’t have to finish this,” she said, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth. She reached for the remote and clicked the power button, plunging the room into a softer darkness, illuminated only by the fading evening light filtering through the blinds.
“Hmm?” Bucky raised an eyebrow, a playful glint replacing the earlier solemnity in his eyes. “Well, what else did you have in mind?”
The shift in his tone sent a pleasant warmth spreading through her chest. This was the side of Bucky that few people got to see—the teasing, almost mischievous glimpses—the man who was slowly finding his way back to himself.
Isabelle shifted closer, her knee brushing against his thigh as she ran a finger down his chest. The cotton of his shirt was soft beneath her touch, but she could feel the solid muscle underneath, the steady rise and fall of his breathing. Her touch left a trail of warmth even through the fabric, and she felt a small thrill of satisfaction when his breath hitched slightly.
“I think you can guess...” she murmured, her voice dropping to that husky register that she knew drove him crazy. Her eyes met his, dark and intent in the dim light of the apartment. The air between them seemed to thicken, charged with anticipation.
Bucky’s pupils dilated, the blue of his irises almost swallowed by black. He groaned, a low, hungry sound that vibrated through his chest and sent a shiver racing down Isabelle’s spine. His metal hand tightened slightly at her waist. “You’re trouble, you know that?” he murmured.
“So I’ve been told,” she replied, her lips curving into a smirk that didn’t quite hide the affection warming her eyes.
In one fluid motion that showcased every bit of his enhanced strength, Bucky stood and scooped her up into his arms, cradling her against his chest as if she weighed nothing. Isabelle let out a surprised laugh that quickly melted into something warmer as his arms tightened around her. She wrapped her arms around his neck, fingers threading through the soft hair at his nape.
“Well, doll,” Bucky said, his voice dropping to that low, gravelly register that never failed to make her stomach flip pleasantly. He started toward the bedroom. His eyes never left hers, intense and full of promise. “I think I like your idea better than Mr. Magoo.”
Isabelle’s laugh was breathless as she pressed her forehead against his. “I should hope so,” she whispered against his lips, close enough to feel the warmth of his breath mingling with hers. “Otherwise, we might need to have a serious conversation about your priorities.”
Bucky’s answering chuckle rumbled through his chest, vibrating against her ribs where they were pressed together. “My priorities are exactly where they should be,” he murmured, kicking the bedroom door shut behind them with his foot.