Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Every game you were there. It was your job to be there. The Howling Commandos’ team physician. It was a coveted position, one that you’d secured with ease, much to the chagrin of many of your medical school colleagues. The opportunity to sit rink-side on every game played was the equivalent of having an all-season pass for the best hockey team around.

Skating had been your passion since you were a kid. You used to live on the ice, at the local rink in the summer and on the huge local pond when it froze over during the frigid winter months. But you were a small town girl with big dreams. That was until you were fourteen.

That’s when your life was turned completely upside down. That’s when the problems started. Your joints swelled. Your body ached. At first you thought it was from the repeated falls, but it happened when you were away from the ice too. Eventually your parents took you to see a doctor. Juvenile rheumatoid arthritis. That was what it was called. The thing that ruined your dreams of being a figure skater.

It wasn’t the pain that stopped you, it was the treatment. The medication affected everything. You gained weight, your bones became fragile and you broke several of them, but worst of all, it ruined your sleep. Over time, it stole all the joy from your life on the ice until, one day, the thought of it filled you with dread. That’s when you poured all your passion into something else. Medicine. The hours where you couldn’t sleep would find you slaving over medical texts instead. And now, here you were. Twelve years later, you were the lead physician for the World Champions on Ice.

It’s not where you’d pictured yourself. Ice hockey wasn’t something you’d ever shown any interest in before. You had imagined long hours in hospitals, even a private practice one day. But when the opportunity to join the Howling Commandos' medical staff came up, something in you stirred. Something you’d buried deep long ago.

When you filled out the application, you told yourself it was just another job. That you weren’t doing it for the ice. Or the nostalgia. Or the thrill of lacing up. But the first time you set foot on the ice again, you knew you were lying to yourself. You were early. It was a trait your father had instilled in you early in life. If you wanted to succeed, you needed to be on time. But there was no such thing as being on time. You were either early, or you were late.

The rink was empty when you arrived, and you couldn’t resist the opportunity to don your custom made official team skates and test out the ice. You glided around silently, completely unaware of the audience of one you had acquired. A pair of steel blue eyes tracked your fluid motions, filled with awe… and someone else.

Over time you got to know the players. And there were a number of repeat offenders who you got to know better than others.

First there was Jim Mortia. Goalie.

You referred to him in your head as the backbone of the team. He was calm and unshakeable in the midst of total chaos. He could read the movements of the opposing team like he was analyzing a chess board. And he had the reflexes and instincts to match. The California born Japanese man was incredibly stubborn about his own injuries— always insisting you treat everyone else first— and one of the most observant people you’d ever met. You suspected he knew more about anyone on the team, including some of the coaching staff. And sometimes… he saw more than you wanted him to.

Next came Timothy "Dum Dum" Dugan.

The mountain shaped man with his thick beard and even thicker New York accent had only one job: make the other team regret stepping on the ice. His defense only had one tactic— block the opposing team. Which wasn’t hard, his size made it near on impossible to pass him and his weight made his tackles a brutal take-down. His style was old-school, and so was his loyalty. Despite his gruff exterior, Dum Dum was surprisingly sweet and cracked jokes like his life depended on it. But you got the feeling that he would knock someone’s lights out if they so much as looked at you wrong.

Then there was Gabe Jones.

He was an excellent marksman. Opposing goalies feared his onslaught. He was cool-headed and moved like water on the ice. Sometimes, no one knew he had the puck until it was in the opposing team’s net. He was quiet in the locker room too, but when he had something to say, everyone listened. You liked Gabe. He respected people’s boundaries and was always the first to ask how you were doing instead of just listing off his complaints. He had a quiet laugh and an appreciation for jazz and sometimes you caught him humming old show tunes while icing his shoulder.

Steve Rogers was Captain.

He was the anchor of the team. Calm. Reliable. He wasn’t flashy, didn’t dazzle people with tricks up his sleeve. He was smart, clean, fierce and totally relentless. He really could do it all day. Where others might have used taunts to deter their opponents, Steve used strategy. And a moral compass that pointed north even under the worst kind of pressure. When he came in with injuries, he was polite. To a fault. Never complained. Always said thank you. He trusted you, and you trusted him right back. He was the kind of man you idealized. The kind that you’d expected to have been attracted to. Blonde hair, blue eyes. The picture of perfection.

At least that’s what you thought, until James Buchanan Barnes skated into your life.

The star of the team. Assistant captain. Media darling. He was the public face of the Commandos. Bucky skated like the rink belonged to him. So did the puck. His aim was flawless. Off the ice, he was annoyingly charming, dazzlingly handsome, exceptionally flirty and totally irresistible to man and woman alike.

He had skidded in late to practice when the coach was introducing you to the team. You remembered it like it was yesterday.

Coach Sam Wilson was half way through his pep talk. The season would be opening soon and they had games to prepare for. His voice echoed round the empty rink while the players stood around sizing you up.

“This is the new team physician,” Sam said. “She’s not here to babysit, so don’t act like children and she won’t treat you like them. You show her respect, you follow her instructions, and maybe— just maybe— you’ll spend less time in recovery and more time scoring goals.”

You offered the players a nervous smile. They were all practically double your size. A few of the players mumbled greetings, offered a reluctant wave or just nodded their acknowledgement. You felt yourself blush under fifteen pairs of eyes, all trying to figure out if you were a rookie, a hardass, or— worse— someone who didn’t get hockey.

Just as the silence was getting uncomfortable, a door slammed open behind you, making you jump.

There was the sound of skates skidding across the rink and coming to a stop with a shower of ice particles over your brand new uniform. You knew who the latecomer was without an introduction.

Bucky Barnes. The team’s star center. The hotshot. Fan favorite. King of the last-minute goals. And apparently, zero concept of punctuality.

Coach Wilson didn’t miss a beat. Without even turning his head, he barked out a question.

“Barnes! You wanna tell your teammates why you’re fifteen minutes late to the first official practice of the season?”

Bucky’s voice called out, bright and breathless, in response. “Sorry, Coach. Got held up in the lobby.”

“Held up?” Sam asked skeptically.

You turned to look at him. Helmet in hand. Perfect hair. Beautiful eyes. Signature grin which had women throwing themselves at him at every street corner. “There was a crowd. Kids, mostly. Pens and jerseys. You know how it is.” He gave an exaggerated shrug. “Didn’t have the heart to say no.”

A few of the guys chuckled appreciatively, but Sam stayed stone faced.

“You want sign autographs through playoffs, or you wanna get on the damn ice?”

“Sir, no sir,” Bucky saluted Sam, trying to keep his face serious.

“That’s it, Barnes, extra sprints for you.”

“Awww, come on, coach,” Bucky groaned. “Just wanted the kids to start the season off right, s’all.”

Sam huffed through his nose. “Skate your ass over here and make a proper apology to our new team member before I’ll have you doing sprints til you puke.”

Bucky pushed off, gliding around the rest of the team until he came to a halt right in front of you. He skated like he was born for it.

“Sorry, Coach. Won’t happen again.”

Coach Wilson grunted, unmoved.

He turned to you and gave a bow, flourishing his helmet around before looking up with the biggest, most shit-eating grin.

“And you must be our new doc.”

You waved your hand over the stitching on your jacket which spelled out medic.

“Sorry for the dramatic entrance,” he added, eyes twinkling. “Nice to have you here, Sunshine.”

You blinked in surprise. “Sunshine? Really?”

His grin widened, like this was just the reaction he was waiting for. “Suits you. All wrapped up warm and serious, shining just a little too bright for this grim bunch.”

“Thought you were the star of the team, Barnes.”

“One of many,” he pointed over at his teammates, before taking a step forward so he was only a few inches from your face. “But you, you’re THE star. Special.”

You thought your heart stopped beating right there and then. The way he looked at you, the impish sparkle in his eyes spelled trouble.

“Fifteen minutes late and you’re handing out nicknames?” you answered sarcastically, trying to regain your composure.

“Only when I’m trying to make a good first impression.”

You opened your mouth to reply— something sassy but ideally keeping it professional— but Sam beat you to it.

“Barnes,” he barked, “move.”

With one last wink, Bucky turned, pushing off and rejoining the team with that same effortless glide.

You were left standing on the edge of the rink, trying to pretend that your heart rate hadn’t just spiked in the same way it used to when you were about to try out a new figure skating routine.

No. 

You were the team’s physician. An adult. This wasn’t high school. Or a romance novel. And James Buchanan Barnes was not going to derail your career with a charming smile.

You turned back and skated to the bench. One of the ways you wanted to prepare was to examine each player’s skating technique, to help you prepare for potential injuries and ways to avoid them. But every time the men started practicing their maneuvers, your eyes were drawn to one player. Bucky.

One word still floated in your head. In his voice.

Sunshine.

Damn him. You were screwed.

Chapter Text

It didn’t take you long to find your rhythm. The team was chaotic, incredibly loud, a little rough around the edges, but they were surprisingly good company. And every single one of them showed you the utmost respect and often tried to take care of you. None of them knew about your skating background— it wasn’t something you talked about— so they frequently flanked you when you were called for on the rink to assess an injury.

It tickled you, being surrounded by these giants. It was nice to know they cared. Each of them had their own way of showing their appreciation. Dum Dum had come up with a variety of nicknames for you, Jim would often bring you cups of tea once he found out it was your go to beverage. Gabe shared with you his wide range of music, recommending his favorite tracks and the history that accompanied them. Steve was a little more reserved. Dependable and caring. He looked after his team and you were a part of it. “Need anything before I head out?” he’d always ask, like it was second nature to make sure everyone else was good before thinking of himself.

And then there was Bucky.

He was a tough nut to crack. One minute he was on the ice, laser-focused, impossible to catch, and the next he would be leaning against the squat rack in the weights room, surrounded by a gaggle of women who had somehow infiltrated the private facility and were fawning over his muscular torso.

On this particular occasion, you’d been passing by to pick up some resistance bands for a rehab assignment. The sight in front of you made you pause. One of the women— tall and blonde with a model-worthy figure— was laughing a little too loudly at something he had said. On his other side was a redhead with a high ponytail and shockingly long legs who had her hand on his bicep which he was flexing in a less than subtle manner for their benefit. You watched him murmur something in her ear, making her giggle.

You rolled your eyes at the visual. But inside your heart ached. You should have known better than to read anything into the smile he’d given you on the first day. This was the real Bucky Barnes. Flirting was probably something he did between reps. Trying to avoid drawing attention, you quietly bent down to pick up the bands you had come for and sneak out. 

You thought you’d made it; you were waddling down the hallway and were about to turn the corner and disappear down the hall when you heard the sound of footsteps behind you. Instinctively, you glanced back.

It was Bucky. He was jogging to catch up to you.

“Hey, Sunshine.”

There was that smile again. Within seconds, he was at your side. A strong arm draped casually over your shoulders and he tugged you gently into his side as he fell into step with you. The first thing you noticed was his solid presence— warm and effortless. The next thing was the scent of his cologne, subtle and devastating: something clean, masculine, and of course, disgustingly expensive.

“You always sneak around corners like that,” he asked, voice low near your ear, “or is this just a ‘running away from me’ kind of thing?” You could hear the smirk without even looking up.

“Didn’t realize I needed to schedule my exit,” you answered snarkily.

Bucky’s lips curled up further. “Not usually. But when someone sees me getting groped by gym groupies and bolts like I’ve committed a crime, I gotta assume something’s up.”

“Didn’t think you noticed I was there,” you said coldly, looking forward again. “You seemed pretty… busy.”

He hummed against your ear and his hand gave your shoulder a gentle squeeze. “You’d be surprised at what I notice, Sunshine.”

You hated the way your stomach flipped. And you did your best to ignore it.

“Besides,” he went on, not noticing the change in your expression, “I was only half-listening to what they were saying.”

“Oh? Which half?” you asked sarcastically. “The compliments or the giggling?”

“Neither,” he chuckled. I was trying to see if you’d look back.”

His words gave you pause and you wondered if he was serious. You cast him a sideways glance to see if he was serious. “Why?”

He shrugged. And in the most shameless tone, he said, “Because I like it when you look at me like you want to kill me and kiss me at the same time.”

Your eyes widened and your face burned. “I do not—” you spluttered.

“Sure you do,” he teased, pulling you a little closer. “It’s cute.”

You huffed and tried to wiggle out from under his arm, but he held you there gently. Not forceful. Just insistent.

“Come on, Sunshine. Don’t get all shy on me now,” he murmured, dropping the cocky tone and replacing it with something surprisingly sincere. “Listen— I was actually on my way to find you.”

That surprised you. “Why?”

“Team’s going out tonight. MacLaren's. Nothing wild or fancy. Just the guys, great beer and darts. Someone will probably get too drunk and hit their head.” He glanced down at you with those piercing blue eyes. “You should come.”

You raised a brow. “Me? At a team night out?”

“Yeah, you.” His thumb brushed the curve of your shoulder. It was casual enough but didn't fail to make your skin tingle. “You’re one of us now. And it’s about time you had some fun.”

For a moment you hesitated, scanning his handsome features for signs of mirth— was he teasing, or even being sarcastic? But when you looked into those dazzling blue eyes, all you found was sincerity— and was that a hint of nervousness you detected?

“I don’t know…” you started, but he cut in smoothly.

“If it helps, I promise not to flirt with anyone else tonight. Just you.”

There it was, that trademark smile. You felt your stomach do a whole somersault this time.

“Have you flirted with me before?”

His grin widened. “Sunshine, I’ve been flirting with you since the moment you skated into my life.”

You stared at him, stunned for a beat too long.

Then, before you knew it, he winked— because of course he did— and added, “Seven o’clock. Wear something you can beat me at darts in.”

And just like that, he peeled his arm off your shoulders and walked backward down the hall pointing at you with both hands then mimicking a tennis serve, as if to say that the ball was now in your court. Only when he tripped over himself did he turn around, not before tossing you one last smile over his shoulder before vanishing around the corner.

You were left standing in the middle of the corridor, clutching the resistance bands to your chest, wondering how the hell you were supposed to get any work done for the rest of the day.

Chapter Text

MacLaren’s was buzzing. The team had taken over the back half of the bar. All the players were crowded around a chaotic mix of pitchers, fries, onion rings and rows and rows of shot glasses. They had taken over at the pool tables and their laughter rang louder than the cheesy music. Dum Dum was holding court with two pool cues and zero coordination. It was shocking for a man who had such precision on the ice.

Gabe was fiddling with the jukebox, attempting to make it play something with more taste and Steve was trying to stop a couple of the rookies from gouging each other's eyes out with darts.

As soon as you entered, Jim Morita grabbed you, wanting to discuss his hydration routines. Not your idea of a good time, but you endured it for a full ten minutes before you felt a warm hand brush the small of your back.

You didn't have to turn around to know who it was.

Bucky.

Up close, under the dim lights of the bar he looked beautiful— like he’d walked off the cover of Sports Illustrated magazine. He was in the team colours— black skinny jeans (which stretched dangerously to cover his thick thighs) and navy henley (which accentuated his eyes) with his sleeves pushed up over his forearms. And there was that scent again. 

“Hey, Sunshine,” he said, his familiar grin tugging at one corner of his mouth. “Come with me?”

“Where?” You raised a brow, suspiciously. 

He leaned in, voice low in your ear but clear against the buzz of the crowd around you. “Somewhere I can actually hear you.”

Without waiting for your answer, he grabbed the empty glass from your hand and pointed toward the booths tucked away near the back of the bar. Clearly a place reserved for couples to make out. You hesitated, but Bucky had grabbed two full glasses of beer and sauntered off. So against your better judgement, you followed.

The noise from the rest of the team dulled as you walked, until you could just about make out the tune from the jukebox and the sound of distant laughter. Bucky waved you into one of the empty booths, and patted at the spot next to him. Instead of sitting beside him, you slid into the seat across from him, heart pounding in your chest for reasons you didn’t totally understand.

What was even more unnerving was as you sat down, he didn’t immediately wink at you, or crack a joke. He just watched you, with a soft smile on his face. One you hadn’t seen before.

“You look good tonight,” he said quietly, with more sincerity in his voice than you had ever heard before.

You snorted softly. “Did you just drag me away from the rest of the team to badly flirt with me in private? Ashamed of your moves, Barnes?”

He laughed, shaking his head. “Nah… well— maybe a little. But, no, not why I asked you here.”

“Then why?” You tilted your head curiously.

He leaned back, arms over the soft back of the long seat behind him and shrugged lightly.

“‘Cause I realized that you’ve been with the team for weeks now, and I still don’t actually know you,” he said, leaning forward onto the table now. “Not the med bay version, at least. Not ‘Doc Sunshine.’ I mean the real you.”

Your chest tightened, not expecting to hear that. So naturally you deflected.

“That’s because you’ve been too busy flirting with anything that moves to get to know me,” you said with a smirk, taking a sip of beer to hide the flush on your face.

Bucky ignored your snark. “The team loves you, you know that right? They used to hide their injuries until Coach threatened to bench them so they would see the last doctor. Now they’re lining up at your door.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing?”

“Jealous that I treat everyone equally? That you don’t get any special attention?”

Bucky laughed again, blue eyes sparkling bright in the darkness. “Oh I definitely get special attention.”

You scoffed. “Oh please.”

Bucky gave a slow shrug, watching you too carefully for it to be casual. “I so do. With Steve, you’re all business— tight wrap, straight lines, you're done in under a minute. But with me…” He tilted his head, mouth tugging into a smirk. “You take your time.”

“Oh please, I’m thorough with everyone.”

“Thorough, yes, just efficient,” he said, and his voice dropped a little lower. “You’re more careful with me. Like you think I might fall apart if you wrap too hard.”

You opened your mouth, then closed it again.

“And you always press your thumb right here—” He tapped the inside of his wrist, just below the bone. “Same spot, every time. I know it's not about assessing the bones, because you always do that before you start wrapping.”

He watched your expression carefully as the blush rose from your neck, covered your cheeks and tinged your ears. Your stomach flipped.

You forced a scoff, putting down your beer and trying to ignore how warm your face suddenly felt. “Maybe I’m just making sure your delicate ego stays intact.”

His smirk deepened. “So you admit you’re paying special attention to me,” he cried with delight, slapping his hands on the table 

“Don’t flatter yourself, Barnes. Maybe I’m just taking my time because I don’t trust you not to pass out from a paper cut.”

His grin widened, like he loved that you were scrambling behind all that bravado. “Uh huh. That why you always smooth the tape down twice? Real thorough of you, Sunshine.”

You rolled your eyes. “Yeah, well, maybe I have to do it that way so it shuts you up for thirty seconds. Miracle, really.”

Bucky leaned back in the booth, clearly enjoying himself. “There are far better ways that you could get me to shut up, sweetheart. This way, you just keep giving me more to talk about.”

You crossed your arms tightly because you were afraid that he would actually be able to see your heart through your chest. “Pretty sure my job description doesn’t include being your entertainment,” you answered scathingly.

He leaned in again, eyes gleaming. “Pretty sure you like doing it anyway.”

You blinked, heart thudding traitorously in response to his words.

“I—” you started, then caught yourself, mouth snapping shut.

Bucky just smirked and sat back victoriously, his gaze very much still fixed on you. It felt like he was cataloguing every one of your expressions and reactions— what made you smile, what got you flustered. Suddenly his usual rink-side antics and charm vanished. Gone was the swagger but not his smile.

“You know,” he started after a moment’s silence. “I’ve been watching you. You don’t just fix people because it’s your job— you actually care.”

You raised an eyebrow at him “Is that… an actual compliment?”

“Just an observation,” he said quietly. “You make us feel like more than slabs of meat with skates on.”

You barked out a short laugh, suddenly uncomfortable at his sincerity, deflecting his words with sarcasm.

“Don’t get all sentimental on me, Barnes. I didn’t bring enough tissues for that sorta thing.”

He smirked. “Bet you brought gauze though. What do you think we’d find in that little bag you brought?”

“You’re insufferable,” you said, shaking your head.

“And you’re smiling. I’m right, aren’t I?”

He was and you were. Shit.

He pushed himself off the back of the seat and dropped his elbows on the table, leaning across it. His voice dropped a notch in volume. “So tell me something real.”

You gave him a withering look. “Like what?” you challenged.

“Something none of the guys know. Something about you.”

This caught you off guard. Was he really interested? You couldn't think over the way your heart fluttered.

A dozen answers came to mind— easy ones, safe ones. So many things you could’ve said— you hated cardio, or that you had a weird thing for horror movies, or that you found ice cream too cold. 

But you didn’t say any of those things. Instead, you hesitated. You bit your lip and your eyes dropped to the half drink beer glass in front of you. You ran the tip of your finger over the condensation while you worked up the courage to tell him your story. The real one. 

When you glanced up again, his expression hadn't changed. His dazzling blue eyes were fixed solely on you. Not pressing, but curious. 

“It’s just…” you started slow but stopped.

He waited. No pressure. No urging. Just silent support.

“This job… it wasn’t really where I thought I’d end up,” you said finally, ending with a little laugh. “I didn’t even like hockey growing up.”

He tilted his head, eyebrows rising up in surprise. But he stayed quiet.

You shrugged lightly, fingertips drawing patterns on the side of the glass with the water droplets. 

“But I loved the ice. I always loved the ice.”

You saw a flicker of understanding in his eyes. 

“I figured as much,” he responded softly. “You don’t move like someone who’s new to it.”

You frowned. “What?”

“Your first day,” he said with a knowing smile. “I saw you on the rink, you were doing laps before anyone else showed up. The way you moved— it was beautiful.”

He paused, like he was searching for the right words.

“You weren’t just skating. You were… gliding. Like you were a part of the ice rather than being on it.”

Your chest tightened. You had no idea that anyone had been there that day, let alone watching you. But he had been. Just like he was watching you now.

It was hard to know what he was thinking, but you couldn't bring yourself to meet his gaze. So you looked away, trying to swallow the lump in your throat. 

“I used to be a figure skater,” you said quietly.

That got his full attention, but he still didn’t speak, didn't interrupt. And that's when you finally looked at him. 

“Used to have plans. The most amazing routines. The biggest dreams. I wanted to compete in the Olympics. Well, that used to be the plan before …”

“Before?” he asked gently.

“Before the arthritis started.” You forced a breath. “And then it all kind of vanished overnight.”

The weight of your revelation settled between you. Not dramatic. Just honest.

“I'm sorry,” he whispered.

“I still love the ice,” you added, as though he hadn't spoken, lost in your own reverie. “Guess I found a different way to stay on it.”

Bucky nodded slowly, letting you have a moment before he said anything.

“Funny, isn’t it? How the thing you love most can hurt you the deepest. And you still chase it anyway.”

You looked at him then— really looked— and for a second you forgot where you were. Forgot the noise of the bar, the rest of the team, the half-empty glasses in front of you.

Your chest tightened again. This version of Bucky— soft, focused— was a rare sighting. But it was the real man under all the bluster and bravado. And it terrified you and made you swoon all at once. It made you want things you couldn’t afford to want.

So you said the only thing you could think of to break the spell.

“Are you planning on sleeping with me to get out of doing recovery exercises?” 

He smirked, but it was a touch slower than usual. “Would it work?”

You grinned back, grateful for the return of the overly flirtatious banter, the familiar rhythm. “Not a chance.”

He raised his glass. “To full-contact physio then.”

You clinked yours against his. “To concussions and poor choices.”

And just like that, the moment had passed. But that feeling? It lingered.

One of the team had hollered for Bucky soon after that, demanding he come and assist with a tie break decision on the latest pool battle tournament. He flashed you a smile and a wink as he bounced off to settle the score.

You’d drifted back to the crowd after that— feeling relieved… maybe? Or a little rattled. The men had already ordered another round of shots. Dum Dum was now holding three pool cues and claiming he could play left-handed if “someone taped his right arm behind his back.” Steve was playing referee again. The music was louder. The mood, lighter.

Bucky wasn't there. You tried not to look around for him, telling yourself you didn't need to. You tried. You really did. But it was like you craved his presence, the way he made you feel. It was both thrilling and terrifying.

But when you finally glanced around, he was nowhere to be seen. Not with the team, not at the bar, not by the jukebox. You glanced back toward the booths but he wasn’t there either.

Steve sidled up beside you as you were sipping the last of your beer. And you were grateful for his calming presence. 

“Hope we haven't scared you off from any future nights out,” he said softly, nodding toward the team's rowdy antics.

“Nah,” you answer in the same tone. “Grateful that you guys asked me to join you.”

Steve gave you a warm smile. “You’re officially one of us now. Survived your first team night out.”

“It was good of Bucky to invite me.”

Suddenly, like your eyes were drawn to him, you spotted him near the door. He was leaning over someone— a woman. Now that you looked closer, you realized it was the same one who had been clinging to his bicep at the gym. 

Blonde. Snatched waist. Long legs. Perfectly done makeup with lusciously painted lips. She laughed airily at everything he said. And she held his gaze.

He reached down and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear before leaning down to whisper against it.

Your stomach flipped. Your chest felt too tight, like your ribs were being squeezed like a vice. Of course he wasn't interested in someone like you when he could have someone like her.

It felt wrong, sulking in the shadows watching them but you couldn't seem to tear yourself away.

He looked up once, eyes skimming the bar like he was searching for something. Or someone. But then without another glance backwards, he opened the door. She walked out first. He followed immediately after. He didn’t look back.

You blinked hard, dragging your gaze back to the bar, not wanting Steve to catch your eyes lingering. Taking a slow breath, you forced yourself to focus on the rest of the team.

Beside you, Steve didn’t say a word.

He didn’t mention Bucky at all. Didn’t even glance at the door. But you knew he had seen. He knew everything about his team.

He just nudged a fresh glass of beer into your hands. “This round’s on me.”

You nodded, fingers curling around the cool glass without looking at him.

“Thanks, Cap.”

He stayed beside you while your brain spiraled. 

Chapter Text

The next day after practice, the team was stoked. Riding the high energy of a perfect practice session. Morale was high even though their bodies were battered and bruised.

You were in the med bay, as always, ready to deal with the stream of grown men who would whine and wince over the smallest injuries. You were ready, running through your trial and tested recovery plans and icing regimes.

Bucky made a beeline for you the second he stepped off the ice.

You had just finished splinting a rookie’s fingers and slapped an ice pack over it before sending him on his way. Normally you would have looked up and smiled when you caught sight of him in your periphery, but today there was nothing. No smile. No acknowledgement. 

He smirked to himself. Alright, Sunshine. Let’s see how long you can ignore me.

He strolled over, wearing only his compression tee. “Morning, Sunshine,” he said, grinning, eyes soft.

You didn’t reply. You didn’t even glance up from your chart.

“Oof. Tough crowd,” he smirked, not letting your silence deter him.

He stepped closer, leaned casually on the counter next to your tray of supplies. Close enough for the scent of his aftershave mingled with sweat to drift over.

Still you said nothing.

“You lose a bet or something?” he asked with a frown. “Or is this just the vibe now?”

You finally looked up. Your face was unreadable, your voice clipped. “Do you need something strapped or are you just here to make noise?”

His eyebrows rose, caught between surprise and confusion at your tone.

“You’re in a mood today, huh?” he teased.

You turned away to hide your scowl, rifling through the tape drawer. “No mood. Just work.”

He narrowed his eyes, still grinning, but it was tighter now. “You’re not mad at me, are you?”

“Why would I be mad?” you asked, your voice still icy.

He shrugged. “Dunno. You usually call me out when I’m being a pain in the ass. Now you’re just… cold.”

You turned around with the ice pack and gestured toward the table. “Shirt off. Let’s go.”

He smirked as he tugged his shirt over his head. “If you wanted to see me naked, Sunshine, all you had to do was ask.”

A fresh purple bruise was blooming near his ribs, but you couldn't take your eyes off the smaller bruises at his neckline.

“Don’t flatter yourself, Barnes,” you snapped.

“Hard not to when I’ve got you glaring at me like that.”

You didn’t laugh. Didn’t even roll your eyes. Just slapping an ice pack against his chest, pressing a little harder than necessary into the bruised spot on his ribs.

He winced. “Shit— okay, you are mad.”

“I’m not mad,” you said, teeth gritted together. 

“Then what is this?”

You looked up, finally meeting his eyes.

“This is me being your team physician.”

His smile faltered just for a second. But only a second before he put his charming façade back on.

“You’re a lot more fun when you’re roasting me.”

You stepped back, stripping off your gloves. “You’re good to go,” you said dismissively.

“That’s it?” he asked, voice rising and octave.

“That’s it,” you answered without changing yours.

He stayed seated, staring at you as you moved across the room. Something was off— he could feel it now. You weren’t teasing him. Your warmth had vanished. You weren’t his sunshine anymore.

But instead of asking the hard question, instead of acknowledging the tension pulling between you like a taut string, he leaned back and winked at you with all the bravado he could muster.

“Well, I’ll win you over at tomorrow's game.”

You didn’t respond.

He finally slid off the table and left with a cheerful, “See you out there, Sunshine.”

As the door clicked shut behind him, you let out the breath you’d been holding with a sigh, still wondering if he knew he had shattered your heart the night before.

Bucky wandered into the locker room, the ice pack still clutched against his chest. Most of the guys were filtering out, cracking jokes or heading toward the showers.

Dum Dum passed by, towel slung over his shoulder, a protein bar already half-devoured in one hand. He stopped mid-bite, squinting at Bucky’s exposed torso.

“Jesus, Barnes,” he said around a mouthful. “You been in a fight or a porno?”

Bucky glanced down at his chest, peering at the purple crescents blooming near his collarbone.

“Damn,” Gabe muttered, stepping up behind him with a smirk, stating the obvious. “That’s not from the game.”

Jim, drying off nearby, chimed in. “I thought we agreed: no leaving visible evidence. You’re ruining the team’s illusion of professionalism.”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “I tripped,” he deadpanned with a careless shrug.

“Onto someone’s mouth?” Gabe snorted.

“Repeatedly,” Dum Dum added. “Judging by that mark, she’s either really into you or trying to eat you alive.”

Bucky just smirked proudly which got a chorus of groans and whoops from the guys still around. Dum Dum threw the wrapper of his protein bar at him.

“You’re disgusting.”

“You’re jealous,” Bucky retorted, dropping his shorts and heading into the shower.

Bucky was toweling sweat off his neck when Steve appeared beside him, arms folded, a look on his face that said this wasn’t going to be casual.

“Got a minute?”

Bucky blinked. “Yeah, sure. What's up?”

They sat side by side on the bench. And for a second, Steve said nothing. Bucky waited, rubbing the towel against his shoulder like the silence didn’t bother him.

It did.

“You wanna tell me what that was all about?” Steve asked quietly.

Bucky glanced sideways. “That was a winning practice strategy. You're welcome.”

“Cut the crap, Buck. I'm talking about last night.”

Bucky’s grin faltered.

Steve stared at him. “You just disappeared last night.”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “I left with someone. Big deal.”

“It is when you spent the whole night flirting with someone else.”

Bucky stiffened, jaw tightening. “You keeping track now?” he asked, scathingly

Steve shook his head. “No. Just... looking out for the people who get caught in your wake.”

Steve regretted it as soon as the words left his mouth, but it was too late.

“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?” Bucky said, voice going cold.

Steve raised his hands, trying to defuse. “Buck, you're my best friend, but I have a responsibility to this team. And sometimes I just think maybe you don’t see the damage.”

“Damage?” Bucky repeated, like it tasted bitter. “You think I’m damaging her?”

“No! I think…” Steve hesitated. “I think you act like none of this matters. And it does. To her. Probably more than you’re willing to admit.”

Bucky stood abruptly, like he couldn’t sit still a second longer. “You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” he shouted.

Steve followed slowly, keeping his voice low. “Maybe not. But I do know what it looks like when someone’s trying to prove their worth to someone who never gives a damn.”

Bucky froze. But Steve kept going.

“You don’t have to keep punishing yourself just to prove something to him.”

Bucky’s chest rose and fell— sharp, shallow— like Steve had physically struck him. 

“Don’t you bring him into this.”

Steve tried again, hands open. “I’m not—”

“You are!” Bucky’s voice was a low growl now. “You think just ‘cause you grew up with decent parents and a goddamn support system, you can read me like a playbook? You think I haven’t heard that shit before? ‘You’re not enough, James. You think talent’s enough? You don’t have what it takes. ’”

Steve took a step back, his heart sinking.

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

“No. I won't ever be good enough for you, either.”

He shouldered past Steve, yanking his duffel bag off the bench with an angry swipe.

“Next time, you can psychoanalyze someone who gives a shit.”

The door slammed behind him, leaving a guilty looking Steve staring after him, wondering how trying to help had made things ten times worse.

Chapter Text

You knew from the moment the puck dropped that something was off. It wasn’t the team— they were dialed in, sharp, focused. But Bucky?

Bucky was downright feral. He was playing like he had something to prove. 

Every pass, every shot was laced with something vicious. Every check hit a little too hard. Every sprint faster than normal. And every time the other team so much as breathed near Steve or Gabe, Bucky was there, shoving, growling, taking up space like he owned the whole rink.

Soon the opposing team were playing just as dirty and the game was rapidly descending into a brutal bloodbath.

Try as you might, you couldn't keep a neutral expression behind the glass. You were on the edge of your seat, fingers curled tight around the edge of your clipboard as you bit down on your bottom lip.

Half way through the first period, Bucky was checked so hard against the boards that you gasped and stood up. You stepped towards the edge of the rink, heart lodged in your throat, but ready to rush over if needed. But he jumped back up right away, shaking off the tackle like it was nothing.

But you knew it wasn't nothing. You could tell from the way he skated, the way he blinked, like he was seeing stars. Steve skated over to him and whispered something, but Bucky ignored him, skating away.

“He’s playing angry,” Jim muttered beside you, watching the ice.

You nodded, biting the inside of your mouth. “I know.”

“That’s not good.”

No. It wasn’t.

He wasn’t playing for the team tonight. He was playing for something he wouldn’t name. And all you could do was watch helplessly.

By the second period, the score was tight. 2–2. And the atmosphere was tense. Every single movement on the ice felt frantic.

Minutes before the end, Bucky broke away with the puck. Skating toward the opposing team with a gleam in his eyes that you had never seen before. There was a fire that burned bright, but it wasn't passion, no, it wasn't the love of the game fueling him. This fire burned like the ice below him.

He struck the puck as three opposing players surged towards him in an attempt to block his play. But they were too late. 

GOAL!

The arena erupted.

But that didn't stop the momentum of the players in the rink. Two of the defensemen slammed into him, shoulders slamming into his chest and sending him flying off the floor.

Bucky went down hard, hitting the ice with a thud that silenced the roar in your ears.

Your body was moving before your mind had the chance to catch up with your emotions. Kit in hand, you sped across the ice with long purposeful strikes. You tried to control your breathing and push down the bile in your throat as you shoved his teammate’s aside and dropped to your knees.

Don't be unconscious. Don't be unconscious.

As you got there, he was already trying to sit up, hands braced against the cold floor and shaking his head as if it would clear the cobwebs from his mind.

You grabbed him by the helmet to stop him moving his head.

“Hey,” you said, tone sharp but even. “Look at me.”

His eyes met yours. A little unfocused. A little glassy.

“I’m fine,” he said automatically.

“No, you’re not,” you said, gently. Your voice was warmer than it had been yesterday.

He was clutching his ribs, the bruise he already had was probably bigger now. Somehow his lip had split and his knuckles were red raw from punching someone earlier.

“You should come off.”

He didn’t move at first. Just sat there on the ice, blinking slowly, like he wasn’t sure if getting up was something he could even do.

You shifted slightly, unbuckling his helmet and taking it off. “Can you follow my finger, Buck?” you asked, moving it from side to side.

He did so without any trouble.

“Think you can get up?”g

Bucky nodded.

“Then come off the ice, Bucky. Please.”

You weren't sure if it was what you said or how you said it, but something cracked behind those brilliant blue eyes and he finally gave in. 

He nodded again, all the fight gone from his form.

You helped him to his feet. Slowly. Carefully. He winced as you looped your arm under his to keep him steady. He didn't resist. 

The arena thundered with cheers, but it all sounded distant. Muffled. Like you were both underwater. He raised his arm to the crowd before skating out with you. 

Neither of you spoke as you led him down the tunnel, skates clicking sharply against the rubber floor in the tunnel. His fingers twitched just slightly where they gripped your shoulder.

And you didn’t miss the way Steve watched the two of you go.

The moment you reached the med bay, Bucky slumped over onto the examination couch, his adrenaline levels crashing down. You approached him quietly, helping him out of his gear. Silently, you undid his laces and put guards on the blades before pulling them off his feet.

He was able to sit up enough for you to pull his jersey over his head. Then, you snapped on a pair of gloves and got to work. His ribs were a darker purple than they had been yesterday and you ran your fingers over the now faded love bites, before moving to cleaning his split lip.

Once you were done you moved back to checking his pupils — clearer now, but still a bit fogged. And for some reason it made you angry.

“How many fingers?” you asked, holding up three.

“Two,” he mumbled, then corrected himself with a small, dazed smirk. “Three. I’m kidding. I’m not concussed.”

You didn’t smile.

“You’re not funny.”

“You used to think I was,” he said, sadly.

Your hands stilled for a beat before resuming their actions, brisk and clinical.

“What the hell was that out there?” you hissed finally, pulling out tape to strap his ribs. “You cracked a rib, Bucky.”

He rolled his eyes, the smirk back in place.  He was looking more his usual but obnoxious self as time went on. “Please. I’ve had worse.”

“That’s not the point.”

You stepped between his knees, rubbing salve to the bruise below his collarbone a little harder than necessary. He hissed.

“Jesus, Sunshine, take it easy.”

“I am taking it easy,” you snapped. “Because if I wasn’t, I’d be yelling at you for acting like an idiot. For playing like you're invincible. You’re not superman, no matter how much you want the world to think you are. You break, Bucky. Just like the rest of us.”

“I didn’t know you cared so much,” he said, voice dropping into that teasing drawl.

You shoved the tape roll into his hand. “Here. You wanna be reckless? Strap your own damn ribs.”

That made him go still. But he caught your wrist before you could pull away.

“Hey.”

You didn’t look at him.

“Hey,” he said again, quieter this time. “I’m sorry.”

You swallowed, hard. “You scared me.”

There it was. The truth laid bare.

His hand softened around your wrist. “I know.”

Silence stretched between you— charged and cracking. Then he broke it.

“You gonna kiss me, Sunshine,” he murmured, “or just keep patching me up and pretending there's nothing between us?”

You looked at him, eyes locking. Then finally something snapped inside you.

The next second, your hands were in his hair, his mouth on yours, and everything else went quiet.

The kiss was messy. Desperate. The slight clash of teeth as you found a rhythm amidst the heat. The sound of you moaning against his lips was something he'd been waiting years for.

He tugged you between his legs and his hands worked under your shirt with an urgency that sent a bolt of electricity straight up your spine. You gasped as his palms slid up your back, rough and hot against your skin. In return, you dragged your fingers down his bruised chest, making him flinch and hissed through his teeth.

“Fuck, Sunshine— if you’re gonna be that mean, at least let me get my pants off first,” he growled against your lips. “Come on, shirt off.” He was already tugging the fabric over your head.

You didn’t argue. You didn’t stop to think. You let it fall to the floor as you climbed into his lap, straddling him where he sat on the exam couch. His hands gripped your hips, greedy, like he was trying to brand the shape of your body into his palms. Your mouth found him again, open and hungry.

He groaned into your mouth as you rolled your hips down over him, the friction sharp through the thin barrier of your leggings and his compression shorts. His fingers flexed, tightening on your waist as he pulled you closer, his mouth dragging down your throat.

He groaned when your nails dragged down his bruised chest, the pain making him break from the kiss.

“Thought I told you to take it easy,” he breathed.

You pressed your mouth to the bruise this time, gentler. “Maybe next time don’t scare the shit out of me on the ice, and I’ll consider being nice.”

His laugh was low and rough. “So I’ve gotta almost die to get your soft side? That right, Sunshine?”

You rocked your hips again, much slower this time, smirking as you watched his breath hitch.

“Not my fault you only respond to pain and sarcasm,” you murmured, dragging your nails up his sides, dipping and rising along the curves of each of his ribs, gentler still— but still enough to make him flinch.

“Fuck,” he hissed. “Sunshine, you’re gonna kill me. What happened to that bedside manner?”

You leaned in, lips brushing his ear. “Don’t be such a baby. I thought you were supposed to be the tough one, Barnes?”

His hands slid down to your ass, squeezing hard enough to bruise. “I am. But you keep doing that, and I’m not gonna last long enough to prove it.”

You grinned and rolled your hips again, deliberately slow. “Guess you better shut up and focus then.”

A deep, guttural sound emanated from his throat, and then his hands were in your waistband, tugging at them with an impatient insistence.

“You got any rules for your med bay?” he muttered.

You arched a brow. “Yeah. Don’t get blood on the floor. No one said anything about coming on it.”

His laugh was wicked, right before he ducked his head and bit down on the curve of your shoulder. “Jesus. You’re gonna be the fucking death of me,” he muttered before helping you off the couch.

His fingers hooked under your waistband and yanked your leggings down. You helped, kicking them off in a rush, your underwear coming right off with them.

“Fuck, look at you,” he muttered, eyes raking over your bare thighs as he leaned back slightly to take it all in, lips parted, pupils blown.

You climbed back onto his lap.

“You really gonna ride me right here?”

You leaned forward, gripping his jaw and tilting it so your mouths almost touched. “Unless you’d rather cry about your bruises and go home alone.”

His grin was downright sinful. “You know I love a little pain,” he murmured, voice rough as he pressed his forehead to yours for a beat, breath hot against your face. 

Then he leaned back and slapped your ass with a quick sting that made you jolt. “Up.”

“Why?” you frowned.

He smirked. “So I can get my damn pants off before you ruin them… or I do.”

You stood again, just long enough for him to shove his compression shorts down, groaning low in his throat as he finally freed himself. His cock slapped against his stomach, hard and already flushed.

“See?” he muttered, voice thick. “Told you you’d kill me.”

“Fuck,” you muttered under your breath as you noticed his size.

“No complaints?” he asked cockily as he saw your reaction. He grabbed your hand and pulled you back across his thighs.

You shook your head, moaning in ecstasy as he guided the head of his cock through your slick folds, teasing, dragging it through you once, twice. “Fuck, you’re wet.”

“Condom?” you asked, your voice rasping.

“Back pocket,” he grunted.

You fished it out, tearing it open and rolling it on without ceremony. He throbbed in your hands, hot against your palms despite the latex barrier.

He caught your hips, guiding you into place, his hands firm, but breath ragged. Then slowly, you sank down onto him. Your breath stuttered. The stretch was intense, but it was the fullness that hit first. It was a sweet, aching pressure that made your entire body feel alive. It started in your core, flaring out in hot little bursts all over— up your spine, across your thighs, curling behind your knees and down your toes like sparks under your skin.

Bucky let out a breathless curse, fingers flexing hard around your hips like he needed to ground himself against the pleasure. “Jesus, Sunshine…”

Your fingers dug into his shoulders, your body already rocking toward him. “Stop teasing,” you bit out.

“I’m not teasing,” he said, breath catching. “I’m savoring.”

And then he pushed your knees apart, filling you completely in one long, delicious stretch that made you gasp against his neck.

“God, Bucky—”

He groaned as your hips settled flush against his. “That’s it. Just like that. Fuck, you feel unreal. So tight.”

Slowly, you adjusted and started to move, grinding down with each roll of your hips and letting his thick length push over your slick walls. His head fell back against the wall with a soft thud, jaw clenched, hands gripping your thighs like he was stopping himself coming undone right there.

You were sure there would be marks on your skin tomorrow, but you didn't care. Instead you kept moving, moaning as you chased the high, the inevitable release. “Mmmghhh!”

“Look at you,” he groaned through gritted teeth. “Bouncing on my cock like you don’t give a fuck who hears.”

You smirked, breathless. “Maybe I don’t.”

It didn't matter, you could both hear the roar of the crowd from the stands above you and it spurred you on to move faster.

His hands shot up to your waist, guiding your rhythm, pulling you down harder. “Yeah?” he groaned. “Then take it. Fucking take it.”

Your nails raked through his hair, tugging just enough to make him swear again. He leaned forward, catching your mouth with his. The was sloppy, urgent, filthy but didn’t let up as he thrust up into you now, meeting every grind with a pussy ruining rhythm.

The table creaked beneath you, paper tearing beneath your knees. You didn’t care.

Nothing mattered but the heat, the slide, the way his cock hit just right, over and over. The familiar coiled in the bottom of your belly appeared out of nowhere, making pleasure build overwhelmingly fast as it worked its way outward in pulsing waves. Your thighs trembled under the strain, your nerves firing up like electric shocks under your skin.

Every thrust sent a ripple through your entire body, that white-hot ache filled you, curling into your toes and clenching in your fists. You cunt closed around him involuntarily and he choked out a groan, hands tightening like he was holding on for his life. The friction was maddening, delicious, just on the better side of too much, and every roll of your hips sent that fizzing heat spiraling higher.

“Shit— don’t do that. Don’t— Sunshine, I’m close—”

You bit his shoulder, hard enough to leave a mark.

“Then come,” you whispered, voice wrecked. “Come with me.”

And he did— with a low, rough growl, buried deep inside you, hips stuttering as he came, overwhelmed by your slick heat, the way your body gripped him like you were made just for him. His breath hitched, forehead pressing to your shoulder, lost in the blinding surge of release. Your walls fluttered around him, fingers digging into his shoulders like you’d never let go— and for a second, he didn’t want you to. Couldn’t imagine wanting anything else.

You stayed like that for a moment, breathing heavily, sweat coating your skin.

He finally leaned back, his smug grin returning. “Guess I don’t need full mobility to fuck you stupid.”

You rolled your eyes and climbed off, grabbing gauze and cleansing wipes like it was just another shift.

“Next time,” you said, tossing his boxers at him, “keep your pants on until after the final buzzer.”

He discarded the condom and grabbed a towel from the drawer like he’d done it before. Like this wasn’t new. You’d just finished putting on your bra when said buzzer echoed through the floors.

Shit!

You pulled your shirt back over your head in a rush, heart pounding for more reasons than you could name. Bucky was already half-dressed again, finally pulling on his compression tee like he hadn’t just had you on top of him moments before.

He caught your eye and grinned. “Gotta say… not the worst post-game treatment I’ve ever had.”

You shot him a glare. “You breathe a word of this to anyone and I’ll stitch your mouth shut.”

“That would be a damn shame, Sunshine. You'd be missing out on a real treat.”

You scowled and he raised both hands, still smug. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Suddenly the sound of footsteps down the hallway echoed in your ears. You grabbed a fresh pack of tape and moved to your desk.

Bucky stepped toward the door, hand on the knob, then paused and glanced back.

“So… is this a one-time thing, or…?”

You hesitated. Just a beat. What had you been expecting?

“No strings. No feelings. Just…” you gestured vaguely between you. “When it works. When no one else is around.”

He tilted his head like he was locking the terms into place. “That an official medical agreement?”

“Don’t push your luck, Barnes.”

He smirked. “Noted.”

And then he was gone, just as the first of the team came down the corridor, his usual easy swagger in place, like he hadn’t just rearranged every molecule in your body.

You exhaled, sat down, and pretended your pulse wasn’t still racing.

Friends with benefits.

You could do that… right?

Chapter Text

It had been a brutal winter. The cold had started early and it was the kind that seeped into your bones and stayed there. The rink was always freezing— standard for an ice rink— but this year it felt worse. Or maybe your body just wasn’t bouncing back the way it used to. Your arthritis had flared up real bad this time too. Worse than it had in years. Your meds weren’t doing enough, and it was your hands that suffered most. Swollen. Stiff. Sometimes too sore to grip a pen, let alone wrap a wrist or tape a stick.

You'd been forced to succumb to using steroids to manage your flares and it was showing in your appearance. You felt bloated and swollen all the time. But you’d gotten good at hiding it though. Or so you thought.

You were in the med bay alone when Bucky snuck in, fresh from his morning skate, hair damp and curling at the ends. He didn’t speak immediately. Just watched you, leaning against the doorframe as you struggled to twist the cap off a bottle of ibuprofen with stiff, aching fingers.

“Hey, Sunshine. Need help?” he asked, voice low and familiar.

You jumped a little, but didn’t look up, not wanting him to see your discomfort. “I’m fine.”

He stepped inside anyway, walked straight up to you, gently wrestling the bottle from your grip, and opened it like it was nothing. Then, to make matters worse, he pressed two pills into your palm and nudged a water bottle toward you.

“Fine,” he repeated, followed by a short huffed breath. “Sure.”

You hated how tender he was when you were alone like this. How easy he made it feel to lean on him. You hated it because it made you want things you weren’t supposed to want. So you swallowed the pills and said nothing. Because things were different when you weren't alone.

Now that his good deed for the day was done, you expected him to vanish, in search of the attention of his groupies. But he didn't move. Instead he waited a beat, then reached into his hoodie pocket and pulled something out— soft, navy blue, folded together.

“Here,” he said, pushing the item into your hands.

You frowned. “What’s this?”

“Compression gloves,” he said casually. “Thermal-lined. Still lets you do your doctor-y stuff without locking your fingers up.”

You blinked, caught off-guard.

“I noticed you’ve been shaking out your hands more between games,” he said. “And Jim’s guy from rehab swears by these. Figured it was worth a shot.”

You held the gloves in your lap, still speechless.

“I mean— unless you already have a pair—”

“I don’t.”

He nodded, and for a second, neither of you said anything.

“You shouldn’t have,” you said, slowly, tracing your fingers over the delicate stitching. They looked high grade— expensive. 

He just shrugged. “Probably not. Did anyway.”

You stared at the gloves, warmth blooming in your throat.

You slipped one glove on. It hugged your fingers perfectly. Warmed them instantly. You flexed your hand, and the pressure felt… good. Supportive. Easing the ache without drawing attention to it.

You swallowed around the lump forming in your throat.

“I didn’t think anyone noticed,” you murmured.

He looked at you then, really looked at you, and shrugged like it was obvious.

“I did.”

Six months into this arrangement— this no-strings, no-feelings, no-hope-of-it-ever-being-more thing— and somehow, Bucky Barnes still knew exactly how to get under your skin. And exactly how to take care of it.

Which made it infinitely harder to pretend this was just sex.

The silence between you stretched again, thick and too full of things neither of you wanted to say out loud. So instead, you slipped on the second glove— just to have something to do with your hands.

Bucky watched the way your fingers flexed in them. Something in his jaw ticked.

“They fit okay?”

You looked up. “Yeah. They’re perfect.”

The corner of his mouth tugged, soft and proud. But he didn’t leave. Didn’t say anything else. And neither did you. Because the air had shifted. Like it always did when you were alone together. The first few times, it had been easy— frantic, breathless, wordless. A way to burn off tension. But lately… lately, it always lingered too long. Held too much weight.

Just like now.

Your eyes met and stayed locked. He moved first— slow and deliberate— almost like he was giving you a chance to stop him. You didn’t. You never did.

His hand came up, brushed your cheek, the rough pad of his thumb dragging across your skin.

“You look tired.”

You huffed a breath. “Thanks,” you answered with an eye roll

He smiled. “Didn’t mean it like that.”

You tilted your head slightly. “Then how?”

He stepped in closer, breath ghosting against your skin.

“Meant you look like someone who could use a distraction.”

You swallowed hard. “And you’re volunteering?”

“Always.”

Then he kissed you.

And that was it.

Your back hit the exam table, gloves still on your hands as they tangled in his hoodie. His mouth hot, impatient against yours. Familiar and greedy. He pulled your hips right up against his with a groan so salacious that it screamed of exactly the kind of distraction he had in mind. His hands inched under your top until he had enough purchase to shove it up, baring your soft stomach to the cool air. Goosebumps erupted over your skin, but his warm palms were there to soothe them away. The callouses on them felt rough as he swept up your sides with an eerie confidence, tugging your bra out of the way with practiced ease.

“Still cold, Sunshine?” he murmured against your jaw, before taking the opportunity to graze his teeth over the skin beneath your ear.

“Not anymore.”

You clawed at his hoodie, fingers clumsy in your new gloves, desperate to get closer. The fabric bunched in your clothed fists until he took over, yanking it off in one swift, impatient pull. Before you could even catch your breath, his mouth was on your— hot and hungry— before moving down, trailing open-mouthed kisses over your chest. He bit and sucked at your skin like he couldn’t get enough, deliberately avoiding the one place you wanted him most.

You gasped and arched up into him, your hips twitching with need. Your gloved hands roamed his bare back, the velvety material dragging deliciously across his skin as you held him to you.

“Bucky…” you breathed, aching, pleading.

But he just chuckled darkly against your sternum, the sound vibrating through you like a threat. “Still wearing the gloves, huh?” he muttered, voice dark. “That’s hot.”

You laughed, breathless, tugging his waistband. “Less talking. More fucking.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

His pants hit the floor, and yours weren’t far behind. And then he was between your legs, fingers sliding through your throbbing heat, teasing, tantalizing.

“God, you’re soaked, Sunshine,” he said, eyes half-lidded as he looked up at you. “All this from just kiss and a pair of gloves?”

“You’re not that special,” you lied, following it up with a small scoff.

He grinned, sliding two fingers inside you. “I think I am.”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Moaning as you tipped your head back and rolled your hips into his hand. His fingers curled perfectly, knuckles brushing that spot that caused your breath to hitch and made you see stars.

“There’s my girl,” he murmured, mouth brushing your inner thigh. “Always so responsive for me.”

You bit your lip, trying not to give him the satisfaction of a whimper to affirm his cockiness. But it spilled out the second his mouth replaced his thick fingers. Your fingers— still gloved— curled into his damp hair, gripping as tightly as you could while he licked you with maddening precision.

He groaned against you, before flattening his tongue and dragging it upward until his lips closed around your clit. Then with a knowing glint in his eyes, he started sucking, just hard enough to make your vision blur.

“Bucky— fuck!”

You gasped, sharp and helpless. Every single nerve ending in your body felt like it was on fire. You were already trembling, your thighs straining in his grasp. That familiar tension was already curling low in your belly, getting tighter with every single suck of his lips. The absence of him where you wanted most made the ache almost unbearable. Your pussy clenched around nothing, desperate and pulsing as your hips instinctively chasing more friction.

It was maddening. The way he held you right on the edge, unraveling for him, but refused to let you fall. A ragged moan slipped from your throat before you could swallow it down. And even then he wouldn’t give in. Holding you, suspended in that delicious, torturous space between craving and release. Like he wanted to make sure you’d remember this moment. Remember him.

“That all it takes, Sunshine? Little pressure, little heat?”

“Don’t you dare stop,” you growled.

“Not planning on it,” he said, voice rough with smugness.

He took a step back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. But you could still see the results of your arousal glistening in his beard. He gazed down at you, eyes darkened and blown wide with hunger.

You barely had time to admire the taut muscles of his washboard abs, or the small tuft of hair just above the low waistband of his shorts, before he hooked his thumbs into them and dropped them to the floor in one smooth tug.

Automatically, you reached for a condom. They were stored in a secret section under the examination couch. It was almost second nature now, muscle memory from all the nights over the last six months the two of you had spent pretending this all meant nothing.

He beat you to it. His hands trembled slightly as he tore open the packet, for some reason his fingers weren't quite as steady as usual, and somehow that shook you more than anything else. He was always so sure. So cocky. Always in control.

But not tonight.

You opened your mouth— the perfect biting remark poised on your tongue, a last-minute attempt to create distance— but it died the moment he stepped between your thighs, lined up, and sank into you.

Slow… deep… deliberate… different.

Like he needed to feel every inch of you. Like he was trying to carve the memory of your body onto his.

You hissed as he filled you, spine arching off the examination couch. The stretch of him sent sparks dancing through your limbs. It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t frenzied. It was aching and intense in a way you hadn't felt before. A kind of connection that crackled between your bodies, bigger than you could name.

Bucky let out a low, ragged groan, his forehead dropping to yours as he buried himself to the hilt. Breath hot against your mouth. His hands braced on either side of you, biceps trembling under the strain, like he was barely holding himself together.

“Shit,” he hissed through his teeth. “You’re always so— fuck.”

You couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe. All you could really do was hold on. Gloves hands scrambled on his back. Legs curled around his waist. That's when he started to move.

Each thrust was deep and controlled. Like he wasn't just fucking you. It felt like he was trying to anchor himself inside you. Like if he stayed close enough, deep enough, he could forget whatever demons he’d been skating away from out on that ice.

Your ankles locked tight behind his back, holding him deeper with a breathless moan. He groaned at the shift in angle, the way you clenched around him. And the sound of it just spurred you on. His next thrust hit that perfect spot. And you cried out, arms locking around the back of his neck.

His hips settled into a rhythm that was all power and promise. Steady. Grounding. Devastatingly deliberate. Each thrust served only to stoke the heat between your thighs. Every push, every pull was a sweet and somehow punishing drag that sent electricity up your spine. Your eyes rolled backwards as his hands slid beneath you, palms flattening against your back, holding you so close that your chests were pressed flush, your sweat-slick skin sliding over each other.

“Fuck— feel so good,” he rasped against your neck, lips brushing hot against your skin. “Always do. Can’t— can’t get enough of you.”

You rocked into him, chasing every stroke, every moan, your bodies moving in perfect sync. Wet. Hot. Relentless. The friction burned in the most exquisite way and the pressure coiling in your belly got tighter with every thrust.

Heat flowed through you, reaching through your limbs. Your breath came faster and faster as he drove into you, harder and harder, chasing that edge, that high, that free fall. He needed it just as badly as you did.

“You close?” he whispered, forehead pressed to yours.

You nodded, words gone. You could barely breathe.

His thumb covered your clit. He knew exactly where to find it— the north star for every one of your trusts. Your entire body responded immediately, muscles snapping taut in reaction to the pleasure denoting behind your eyes. 

A strangled cry ripped from your throat as you clenched around him, tight and pulsing, legs trembling uncontrollably as your orgasm ripped through you, wave after blinding wave.

Bucky swore, low and completely undone as he drove into you with one last desperate thrust, letting out a deep and guttural groan as his hips jerked and he spilled into the condom. Your walls milked his release as his body collapsed on top of yours, chest heaving, head bowed and jaw slack. His eyes squeezed shut as the last of the tremors wracked through him.

Neither of you moved. A mess of muscle and flesh, panting, trembling, limbs tangled with each other. Your damp, flushed skin glistened under the harsh lighting and your heart pounded like it was trying to escape your ribs. All you could hear was the sound of your mingled breathing and the soft hum of the air conditioning system in the walls of the building.

Slowly reality crept in.

Bucky eased out of you gently, tying off the condom and tossing it in the trash like it was just another routine. You sat up slowly, tugging your shirt back over your head.

He handed you your leggings in silence. Not cold, just… neutral. Practiced.

You pulled them on, adjusting the waistband, then slipped your gloves back on like armor.

“We’re still good?” he asked after a beat.

You looked at him. That beautiful, dumb, caring idiot who got you thermal-lined compression gloves and made you come like it meant something.

“Of course,” you said. “Casual. That’s the deal, right?”

His smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Right.”

You nodded, heart thudding harder than it should.

“Thanks for the gloves, Barnes.”

“Thanks for the cardio, Doc.”

And just like always, you turned away before the truth could slip out— before he could see the part of you that didn’t want it to be just sex anymore.

Chapter Text

You caught the end of the press conference on the muted TV in the medical suite. You were finishing up your notes taking following the game. You'd stitched up one of the rookies, iced two shoulders and were currently trying not to think about the way Bucky had looked at you when he passed your end of the bench after the game.

That lingering gaze that never failed to draw you in. The half-smile like he had something to say but wouldn’t. Couldn’t.

And now his face was on screen— larger than life— sitting at the media table beside Steve. He was still half-dressed in his gear, sweaty hair flattened under a backwards cap. His jersey was peeled down to his waist, and his lucky navy compression top clung to every inch of his broad, muscular chest. Every microphone crowded in front of him like a flock of birds.

He looked good. Too good to be real. Too good to be yours. 

You unmuted the feed.

“...nights like this,” Bucky spoke, his voice a little hoarse from the shouting on the ice. “They don’t happen without the guys beside you. I might’ve finished a few plays, but someone had to make the pass, win the battle in the corner, clear the lane.” He fiddled absently with the mic with his taped-up fingers. “We all showed up. I just got lucky being the one to put it in. I’m proud of what we did tonight, but we’re already thinking about the next one.

There was a flash of cameras. A reporter asked something you couldn’t hear clearly.

He gave a lopsided smile. That smile. It stupidly made your stomach flip, no matter how many times you saw it.

“I’m not gonna lie, I think my heart stopped when I missed that first breakaway. But Coach didn’t bench me, so I guess I owe him a drink now.”

His words were met with polite laughter.

Another reporter pushed in a follow-up question. “Barnes, anything you’d like to say to fans watching at home?”

Bucky turned to the camera, looking straight into the lens as he answered. And a slight change came over him. His expression shifted. Morphed into something softer, more sincere.

“Thanks for sticking with us,” he said. “Even when we’re a mess. Even when it looks ugly. We know you're there. We feel the support, every damn game. So this win’s for you.”

The words weren't for you. You knew that. But seeing the camera focus on those brilliant blue eyes, your chest tightened anyway. 

You turned away and that's when he said it. 

“And if you’re a girl, watching this in navy gloves and cursing at my missed shot and messy tackle? Well… I’ll do better next time.”

Your breath caught. Because that… felt personal. You turned back to the TV but the camera had moved on, focusing on Steve and Sam. 

It wasn’t for you. Of course it wasn’t. All the girls had navy gloves on. Those were the team colors. They sold navy gloves in the merch stalls before every game. 

But in your mind, you still felt the ghost of that smile tug at your mouth as you clicked the TV off and turned away. Your heart was doing that annoying thing it always did whenever he was in the room, or even just on the screen.

You hadn’t planned on going. But your body seemed to have a mind of its own these days. You’d told yourself over and over you were going home. What you needed was a nice long steaming shower and to catch up on sleep, and maybe for one night to pretend that you weren't tangled up in something so impossibly one-sided with Bucky Barnes.

But here you were. Loitering outside the bar the team always celebrated at after a home game win. It was a block and a half from the arena, a half-hidden hole in the wall that was easily missed and on the back side of the arena, which stopped hoards of people flocking into it in search of a celebrity.

You could still hear the lingering rumble of traffic and inebriated fans leaving the vicinity. It was cold out, so you slipped inside, taking off your coat and clutching it tightly to your ribs.

The place was packed, full with the usual crowd— many wearing jerseys, and all of them making noise. You scanned the crowd instinctively.  It was automatic, looking for him before you even told yourself why you were really here.

It didn't take long for you to spot him.

He was still wearing the same sweaty game tee, his locks messy and damp, like he hadn't bothered to shower. He was leaning back against the bar, beer in hand and laughing at what you presumed was a joke from one of his many admirers.

They surrounded him. A ring of moony eyes and tight dresses. All in the team colors. You knew who they were. Fans. Groupies. Puck bunnies. The kind who knew exactly how to flirt with a man like Bucky Barnes, and certainly had the confidence to do it in front of everyone.

Who could blame them? You were drawn to him in exactly the same way.

He practically glowed. You couldn't tell if it was from the win, from the pub lighting or your rose colored glasses, but he looked like he was under a spotlight. And he was totally at ease there, soaking in all the attention. It's where he belonged 

Being here was a bad idea. Watching these women fawning over him was something you hated. But you were glued to your spot. Standing there a beat too long. Just enough for that gnawing ache to crawl into your chest and settle there.

And if you didn't already think that the universe hated you, it took a knife and twisted it a little more. You watched Bucky slip his hand into one woman's hand and lead her away from the crowd into the booth where the two of you often hung out.

He didn’t see you. Didn’t know you were there.

You watched as they dipped into the shadows near the stairwell that led up to the VIP booths, half-hidden behind an old jukebox. Close enough to talk. Or kiss.

Your heart plummeted into your boots. You didn’t wait to find out which. You didn't want to see it.

You turned and left like a ghost before any of the rest of the team spotted you. You were met with a freezing gust of wind and you pulled your coat back on, hugging it tighter around you. No one stopped you. No one noticed. Not even him.

Outside, the night air bit at your cheeks. You blinked fast, kept your head down and walked quickly.

You told yourself it didn’t mean anything. Just like between you, it didn't mean anything.

She was already touching him before they reached the edge of the crowd. Fingertips brushing his bicep, nails trailing lightly along the hem of his shirt like she didn’t care who saw. Bucky didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away. Just gave her the same easy smile he’d offered every single other fan tonight.

She was stunning. Undeniably. Honey-blonde waves, dark lashes, that sharp, pretty kind of face that photographers loved. She had on a fitted crop jersey— his number— and a form-fitted leather skirt that hugged her hips just right. The kind of girl who knew exactly what she was doing. And exactly what people expected from her.

He leaned against the stairwell wall and let her talk. Mostly just smiling and nodding while she recapped the events of the final period, like he hadn't lived it himself. Every sentence was sprinkled with compliments, every laugh a little too long, a little too loud, a little too forced. She kept inching closer. Brushed something off his chest that definitely didn’t need brushing. Touched his chain. Tilted her chin up like she was expecting a kiss at any second.

“You were incredible tonight,” she purred, fingers playing with the drawstring of his sweats. “You’ve gotta still be buzzing. I know I am.”

He gave her a small, polite chuckle. “Thanks. Yeah, the team’s been working hard.”

“Maybe you need help coming down.” She leaned in, voice low, her breath brushing his neck. “We could go back to your place… if you’re not too busy.”

That was the opening. The cue. He could see it in her eyes, how easy it would be. No strings. No awkwardness. Just one night. She was offering herself on a silver platter, and everyone watching would probably bet he’d take it.

But Bucky didn’t move. Didn’t smirk. Didn’t let his hand fall to her waist the way she clearly wanted. He just smiled. Gently. And shook his head.

“I appreciate it,” he said, voice softer now. “Really. But I’ve already got plans.”

She blinked. Her expression flickered for half a second. Surprise. A touch of offense, maybe. But she recovered quickly. Gave a light shrug, like she didn’t care either way.

“Your loss,” she said, tossing her hair back with a smirk that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“Maybe,” he offered politely.

She sauntered back toward the bar with a sway in her hips, already looking for her next victim.

But Bucky… Bucky just stood there. Alone. In the darkness. Hands in his pockets, gaze unfocused. Because somewhere deep down, he knew exactly where he wanted to be tonight.

And it wasn’t here.

Chapter Text

You weren’t supposed to be there.

Even the cleaning staff had gone home hours ago. The building was dark, save for the dull hum of emergency lights and the faint rattle of the old HVAC system which kept the ice solid.

Your apartment wasn't far away and you'd left your tablet behind in your office. You needed to finish up your treatment notes for your meeting with Coach Wilson the next morning.

You padded through the dim corridor, footsteps muffled by the rubber soles of your sneakers. You had snuck in through a side entrance which had unfortunately closed behind you on the way in, which meant you had to take a detour to the main exit on your way out. The cold bit through your hoodie, as you approached the corridor beside the rink, the air stinging even in this area.

Suddenly a new sound caught your ears. It was a familiar one, you heard it often enough. The scrape of blades on ice.

Your breath caught and you froze. There shouldn't be anyone else around. You hadn't seen anyone when you'd come in and no one had been scheduled to use the space until morning. Despite your fear, you crept around the corner, closer to the source of the rhythmic hiss and scrapes that echoed through the empty arena.

Anxiously, your fingers curled tightly in the pocket of your hoodie as you got closer to the gap between the stands where the team usually made their first appearance on the ice. Only when you poked your head around that final corner did you see him.

Bucky.

He was alone, out on the ice. Skating up and down the centerline. There was something different about him. Normally Bucky would glide across the ice, it was surprisingly effortless for someone his size and stature. But this was different. His shoulders were tense, and his posture looked like someone had wrapped a coil around him and he couldn’t move his arms. 

This wasn’t at all like the team’s normal warm up drills. This was something else.

He hadn’t noticed you yet and you remained concealed by the shadows, watching the way he carved the ice, the edges of his blades slicing through the silence without his usual precision.

Short puffs of breath fogged the air around him, coming out fast and uneven. Now and again, he glanced over his shoulder, like he was trying to outstake someone chasing him. 

You wondered who or what he was trying to escape. A memory, maybe? A feeling?

Unfortunately you recognized the look in his face. You knew it all too well. The determined focus which masked the internal turmoil. The need to move so you didn't have to think. The need to be alone so no one would ask if everything was alright.

Without thinking, you took a step closer and your foot slipped on the damp hallway floor and the rubber sole of your shoe squeaked loudly and caught his attention. 

His wide-eyed gaze landed on you as he turned toward the sound.

“Sunshine?” he called, peering into the shadows. His voice sounded rough, younger. His breath shuddered and his chest heaved just a little too fast for it to be normal.

You stepped out under the bright arena lights, hands still hidden in your pockets and shoulders up to your ears— embarrassed at being caught snooping.

“Didn’t mean to startle you,” you said softly.

He blinked, once, twice, like he was trying to get his eyes to focus but it wasn't working. And he didn't step off the ice. He didn't move any closer to the boards. His eyes were fixed on you, like he was trying to figure out whether or not you were real.

“I didn't think anyone else was here,” he murmured.

You offered him a smile. “Neither did I.”

He leaned forward, setting one end of his stick in the floor, letting it support some of his weight. You could see from the way his fingers surrounded it tightly and his labored breathing that he was still suffering.

Now that he had stepped directly under one of the spotlights, you could see the dark circles under his eyes. His hair was damp with sweat and clung to his forehead, the ends starting to curl. But it was the haunted look he wore, the dullness in his normally bright blue eyes that made your chest tighten. 

“What’re you doing here?” he asked.

“Forgot my tablet.” You held it up like proof of your presence.

He gave a tired laugh disguised as a small huff. “Figures. You're the most hardworking person in this building. And the only one I know who has trouble sleeping.”

You didn't reply immediately, stepping away from the safety of the rubber flooring out onto the ice. Now you were close enough that you could see the tremor in his hand, the way his fingers shook and his jaw ticked.

“You okay?” you asked in a tiny voice.

“Yeah,” he lied. “Peachy.”

You tilted your head to one side, that special way you had for him to tell him you already knew the truth. “Wanna try that again?”

His smile finally faltered and he shrugged, giving you a nonchalant answer. “Couldn't sleep. Couldn’t sit still. Figured skating would help.”

“And did it?” you asked gently.

He looked away with a sigh, staring down at his skates as though they had grown a second blade. “Not tonight.”

Silence settled around you both, as you watched him actively look anywhere but at you. Your mind frantically searched for the right thing to say.

You hesitated, then, clutching the table to your chest, you said, “Come off the ice, Bucky.”

He blinked, his face suddenly hard. “Why?”

“Because you’re spiraling,” you said, just loud enough for him to hear, even though no one else was around. “And I can’t help you from the stands.”

For a moment, he didn’t move, wearing the look of a petulant child who had been told it was time to stop playing. But after a few seconds, he slowed over, exhaling sharply and skated over to you and stepped off the ice, his skates clunking heavily on the rubber mats.

He stopped right in front of you, breathless. “You always do this?”

“So what?”

“Show up at the right time.”

You shrugged, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Not always. But I try… for you.”

Your tone was light but he caught the meaning in them, earning you a broken breath of laughter.

“I don’t know what to do with this,” he murmured, like it was the first time he truly acknowledged your place in his life. “With… with how you see me.”

You looked up at him, heart thudding, trying not to read into his words too much. “Maybe you could just let yourself be seen for once. Instead of being someone you want everyone to see.”

He flinched, it was subtle, but it was there. His eyes darted away as though he was afraid that you could actually see into the depths of his soul. Worried that you wouldn’t like what you saw.

You hesitated, then reached out— just enough to brush your fingers against the cuff of his sleeve. “Hey, can I tell you something?”

He nodded. Barely. But it was enough to get you started. You took a step backward, leaning against the wall.

“I used to do the same thing,” you said softly, nodding toward the rink. “What you were doing now. Skating. Not sleeping. Trying to outrun my own thoughts.”

Bucky watched you carefully for a second before joining you against the wall. Slowly he slid down to the floor with a small clatter as his stick fell out of his hand and he stared at the opposite wall. Now that he wasn’t looking directly at you, it was easier to keep talking. You sat down a little more gracefully and continued talking.

“After I had to stop figure— when my skating career ended, everything fell apart for me. I didn’t just lose my dream, I lost the only version of myself that I actually liked. I had no backup plan. And absolutely no idea who I was without my skates on.”

Bucky stayed silent, still while you got lost in your own past. But despite being back there in your mind, somehow it still felt like he was there next to you, giving you the courage to keep talking.

“And then in med school… it— it got worse. I kept thinking I’d fail again. That I’d screw it up just like I did the first thing I ever loved. The funny thing was I wasn’t failing, I was keeping up with everyone, and it showed in my grades. But somehow it didn’t matter. I couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t focus on the material some night. So in the winter months, when they made a rink at the shitty little community rec center down the street from my apartment, I’d go there every night. Skate for hours. Not like training or anything, just laps… up and down…” You huffed a little laugh. “Skated ‘til my legs ached and my brain finally shut up… or I was just too tired to think anymore. Or the arthritis fucked with my joints so bad that I couldn’t get out of bed. Those days weren’t fun.”

You smiled faintly now, more sardonically than out of any kind of mirth. “It was the only way I thought to feel normal. The only way I could breathe when everything else felt like it was falling apart.”

Another moment passed in silence before you continued.

“So when I saw you out there tonight?” you said, looking at him now. “It felt familiar.” You put your hand on the floor beside him, not reaching out, but just there. Just in case.

He said nothing for a long time. But then he leaned closer and it was like the cold air that surrounded you vanished. And when he spoke, it was rough and filled with suppressed emotion.

“I thought skating would burn it off. Make it go away.”

“Does it?” you asked, looking at him.

Eventually he gazed back, eyes glassy and jaw tight.

“Sometimes, yeah.”

You nodded. “But it comes back?”

“It’s worse after games. Not every time. But when it hits… it’s like my body doesn’t know the game’s over.”

“Adrenaline doesn’t know the difference between a puck drop and a panic attack,” you said flippantly.

And he let out a bitter laugh. “That’s comforting.”

“It’s not supposed to be, I guess,” you sighed. “Just… the truth.”

He fell quiet again, hands flitting around, like he didn’t quite know what to do with them. Without all the hockey gear and protective clothing on, he looked small, as he sat beside you without flexing any of his muscles. Gone was the flashy personality he showed the world, the cameras, the team, the long line of women.

“I hate this,” he muttered.

“I know.”

“I’m supposed to be the guy who has it all together. The one who doesn’t crack under the pressure. Everyone looks at me like I’m bulletproof.”

“Do you want to be?”

He didn’t answer.

So you shifted closer and said, gently, “You don’t have to be that guy around me.”

That got his attention. He turned, and for once, there was no flirtatious grin. No mask of confidence. Just exhaustion behind those blue eyes. An unexpected honesty. A question in his eyes that asked if he could really believe you. He wasn’t sure if he should keep going, but something about your presence made him keep talking.

He huffed out a breath and looked away, like he couldn’t risk the judgement he might see. Bucky’s voice was quieter— not guarded as you might expect— just small.

“He doesn’t come to the games.”

You glanced up at him in confusion. “Who?”

“My dad.”

It was said too casually to be casual. The softness and vulnerability in his tone made your heart clench. But you didn’t say anything, waiting for him to speak.

“He still watches them,” Bucky admitted after a beat, his eyes fixed on a random point out on the ice. “On TV… at home. I only know ‘cause he texts me sometimes after. If we win and I’ve played well.” He paused and his mouth twisted. “If I don’t… I don’t hear anything.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, like he was trying to stop that feeling from earlier from creeping back up his spine.

“I don’t think I was ever good enough for him. Used to tell me I was wasting my time. That I wasn’t good enough. Too slow… too small… too distracted. Said I didn’t have the right mindset to be a winner,” he scoffed. “Whatever that means.”

You stayed quiet, watching his face carefully.

“I made the fucking league.” He let out a hollow laugh. “And he still acts like it’s a fluke.”

You could feel the bitterness in his voice, but for some reason you didn’t feel like it was aimed at his father. It almost felt like he resented the fact that he let it all affect him.

“He always made sure I knew I wasn’t his idea of an athlete. Not the kind he could brag about at work or whatever.”

He paused again, his hand flexing into a fist. But the words were now crawling out of his mouth against his will.

“Sometimes I wonder if I’m still trying just so he’ll… I don’t know. Say he’s proud or some shit.” He gave another bitter huff. “Which is pathetic, right? I’m a grown man. Got a contract. Fans. Everything a guy could dream of. And it still isn’t enough to shut that voice up.”

Your chest ached for him. “It’s not pathetic,” you said, softly. “It’s human. You wanted your dad to believe in you. That’s not a weakness, Bucky.”

He didn’t answer, but the way his jaw ticked spoke volumes. Gently, you lifted your hand and laid it over his. It was barely a touch, you didn’t wrap your fingers around his in any way. Patient. Testing. He didn’t pull away. You could feel his fingers twitch under yours, like he didn’t know how to accept comfort— only that he wanted it.

He finally looked at you again. Really looked. And something in your chest shattered. There was something so raw in his gaze… unguarded… and in that still, quiet moment between you, something in the air shifted. The affection you’d both been pretending wasn’t real, pretending was just chemistry and comfort, pulsed between you like a live wire. He blinked slowly, and then gave you a faint, almost disbelieving smile.

“You always do that,” he murmured.

“Do what?”

“Say exactly the thing I didn’t know I needed to hear.”

You smiled, small and a little breathless. “Guess I’m just that good.”

His hand turned under yours, fingers curling just enough to hold on.

“Yeah,” he said, voice low and steady now. “You really are.”

The two of you sat with his revelation for a while until you realized that your ass had gone numb from the cold hard flooring.

“Hey,” you said gently, giving his hand a little squeeze. “You wanna sit somewhere that’s not freezing cold and made of rubber?”

He didn’t answer right away, just looked down at your joined hands like he wasn’t quite sure when that had happened. But slowly he nodded. It was small but it was grateful. He scrambled up quickly so he could help you up and then let you lead the way through the dim corridor to your small office.

It was much warmer than the hallway. The team always complained about how sweltering it was when they came in, but you needed the warmth to work, or your joints would protest angrily. You deposited your tablet on the desk and clicked on the small desk lamp in the corner. The light cast a soft glow around the room, making it feel more comforting than the harsh LED lighting overhead.

Bucky dropped heavily onto the couch, unstrapping his laces and pulling off the skates. He looked exhausted and not in the way that sleep would fix—but he needed rest all the same.

You grabbed a large fleecy blanket that you stored at the bottom of your supply closet. It was something that had appeared one day without any explanation. You had asked the team but no one had stepped forward to claim credit. It was meant for moments exactly like this one— long nights, late games, or painful flare-ups. You laid it across his lap.

He looked down at it, rubbing the fluffy material before looking up at you with something unreadable in his eyes. 

“You take care of everyone like this?” There was a subtle look of his mischievousness shining through as he asked the question.

You shrugged. “Only the ones who pretend they don’t need it.”

That earned the ghost of a smile. Without speaking, you curled up beside him, tugging the blanket around your legs. Your knee brushed his and he didn’t move away.

A minute passed. Then another. And that’s when you felt it— his arm slowly slipping around your shoulders. The movement was tentative at first, but when you didn’t flinch or pull away, he tugged you into his side. It was incredibly warm and you were worn out, so you let yourself sink into his side, curling into him as you rested your head against his shoulder.

A wave of peacefulness washed over the two of you. Something that didn’t happen often for either of you. Usually your moments of closeness were accompanied by a feeling of breathlessness and buzzing. This felt different. This was the sort of closeness that terrified you and yet you craved it with every fiber of your being.

His breath slowed. Yours did too. And as the minutes passed, you both started to melt into the quiet surrounding you. You didn’t speak again. Not when his head tilted to rest lightly against yours. Not when his fingers found the edge of your sleeve again and curled there. And not even when your eyes fluttered closed and you both drifted off, tucked into the corner of a too-small office couch, wrapped in one another like the rest of the world didn’t exist.

Because maybe, just for tonight— it didn’t.

Chapter Text

The Howling C’s had pulled off a rather messy, albeit hard-fought victory. You wrinkled your nose as you weaved through the team’s locker room into the back corner where there was a small supply closet for medical equipment. It smelled of sweat, adrenaline and pizza. You smiled, lingering in your concealed corner, listening to the rowdy conversations of the over-excited players.

Raucous laughter echoed from the benches as a gaggle of inebriated rookies caught your ear.

“Honestly,” one of the rookies said, obviously tipsy, “I didn’t think she’d be cool, y’know? She doesn’t look like— like someone who’d be chill around guys like us.”

Another rookie snorted. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just… I figured the team doc would be, like, I don’t know. Gym rat type. Tight scrubs. You know, Instagram hot.”

Your hand froze around a packet of gauze. You didn’t look up. You didn’t need to. Heat rose over your cheeks, burning fast and deep, blooming from shame and anger in equal measure.

Their laughter was abruptly silenced and after a beat came Bucky’s voice— surprisingly calm, low and sharp as a knife.

“Maybe shut the fuck up before you say something worse.”

You heard the rookie mutter an awkward “sorry,” but you were already closing the med kit, sliding closed the cupboard door and walking out.

The door swung shut behind you with a soft thunk. Once you were outside the locker room, the hallway was quiet. Too quiet. The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed faintly, the only sound competing with the tight, careful rhythm of your forced breathing.

You only made it half way down before stopping, leaning your back against the wall, pressing your hands flat to the cool concrete in an attempt to ground yourself. The cold made your fingers ache, and you found yourself ripping off your gloves in search of the physical pain to replace the emotional one.

You weren’t supposed to care. You knew that. But it still stung. Not because it was cruel, but because it was true. They were right, you didn't look like any of the typical stereotypes. Not a doctor. Not a skater. Nor the version of ‘attractive’ guys like that expected.

You’d fought to be here. You’d worked through every ache and flare and course of prednisone. And still… it took three seconds of a dumb comment to make you feel sixteen again. You sank down onto the floor and pulled your knees up to your chest.

Footsteps echoed behind you.

You didn’t look up.

“Hey.”

It was Bucky’s voice. Closer now.

You kept your eyes on the wall in front of you. “Don’t.”

“You okay?”

“I said don’t.”

There was another pause. Then came the soft sound of his body sliding down the wall beside you until he was sitting at your level, forearms resting on his knees.

You didn’t say anything. Neither did he. You both just sat there, surrounded by the hum of the arena above, the buzz of lights, your pulse in your ears.

Eventually, you spoke.

“You didn’t have to say anything.”

“Didn’t do it for you.”

You turned to glare at him. And he returned your gaze, unwavering. “Did it because that guy’s an idiot. Plus, if I didn’t shut it down, Steve would’ve. Or Dum Dum. Or Jim. Take your pick.”

“Still.”

“Still nothing. You don’t owe anyone ‘hot.’ You owe them ‘qualified.’ And you’ve got that in spades.”

You stared at him, eyes narrowed. “Was that a compliment, Barnes?”

“Don’t get used to it.”

“Too late.”

His mouth tilted up a little. Not quite a smile. But not a smirk, either.

You let your head fall back against the wall, eyes closed. You took a deep breath.

“I’m fine.”

“I know.”

“It was just… stupid.”

“Yeah,” he said softly. “But it wasn’t nothing.”

You opened your eyes again, tilting your head over to glance at him, if only for a second. 

There was a cut on his cheek and a bruise was already forming in his chin. He had an ice pack which lay forgotten on the floor beside him. You reached over and lifted it back into place.

“You’re a mess,” you muttered.

“Takes one to know one.”

You shook your head, but you didn’t move away from him.

“You want me to say something charming now?” he asked.

”God, no.” You rolled your eyes. 

“Good. ‘Cause I'm struggling to find the charm while I'm sat on this freezing floor. My ass is numb.”

That drew out a quiet chuckle and you got to your feet, brushing off your hands. 

“Come on,” you said, nodding toward the med bay. “I'm counting at least three new bruises I didn’t sign off on.”

“Lead the way, Sunshine.”

He followed you, matching the energy of an obedient puppy. You stood aside while he ambled in and the door clicked shut behind you both. The sounds of the team and the world outside were now muffled. Inside, everything was immediately warmer. Quieter and familiar.

Bucky hopped up onto the treatment table without being asked, wincing as he did.

“Jesus. Feels like I got hit by a pick-up.”

“You kind of did,” you said, flicking the overhead lamp on. “Twice. And then you punched it.”

“Still scored.”

“Congratulations. Here’s your prize: a black eye, a bruised shoulder, and a split cheekbone.”

He gave you a lopsided grin. “Totally worth it.”

You stepped between his knees, snapping on a pair of sterile gloves, and gently peeling back the shoulder of his jersey back to inspect the bruising. There were angry purple splotches blooming beneath his skin.

“Any pain when you breathe?” you ask, gently. 

“Only when I’m near you.”

You shot him an exasperated look.

“That was weak, even for you.”

“I’m tired,” he said, flashing you a grin before grimacing. “My good material’s reserved for when I’m shirtless and horizontal.”

“Unfortunately for you, that happens weekly.”

“Don’t pretend you don’t love it.”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t respond. Instead, you pressed your thumb just under the worst of the bruising, testing for signs of something.

He flinched. Not much. But just enough.

“Yeah,” you murmured. “You’re gonna hate the wrap.”

“Promise to kiss it better?”

“Promise to make it worse if you keep talking.”

That earned a huff of a laugh, low and warm. But he stayed still after that, letting you wrap the bandage tenderly around his chest, hands braced behind him as you moved with well-versed efficiency… mostly.

Your fingers lingered for half a second too long. Noticing the way his breathing slowed. The quiet tension in his shoulders. How he wasn’t flirting anymore. Not really.

You stepped back. “There. Done,” you concluded.

“No gold star?” he pouted.

“I’ll draw one on your forehead if you keep complaining.”

“You’d still make it look good.”

You tossed the gauze in the trash and pulled off your gloves. “You’re good to go.”

“Sure you don’t want to run a full-body assessment?” he teased. “Could take all night.”

You gave him a flat look. “You smell like beer and ego.”

He slid off the table with a soft groan, straightening slowly.

“You gonna be okay?” he asked, voice lower, less performative.

You hesitated. Just for a beat before answering. “Yeah. I’m fine.”

He nodded like he believed you. But he didn’t leave right away.

“That rookie’s a dumbass, you know.”

“I know.”

“But just so we’re clear?” He reached for the door, glanced back. “I think you’re hotter than fitted scrubs and filtered selfies combined.”

You raised an eyebrow, arms folded. “That your way of saying your standards finally improved?”

“Call it character development. Turns out I’m into women who could medically sedate me and emotionally eviscerate me— bonus points if they make it look effortless.”

He winked and your heart jumped— just slightly. You hated that it did. Hated how you felt like a high schooler with a crush. Hated that he gave you butterflies. Hated that you cared when this was all you were to him.

The room felt smaller suddenly. Bucky placed your compression gloves on the edge of the table, damp and cold from their brief stint on the floor.

“You like me in the gloves?” you asked, trying to keep your voice light.

“I like you in everything,” he said, stepping back toward you. “Or nothing. I’m not picky.”

He lingered there, fingers grazing the edge of the table like he was stalling. Like if he moved too fast, something between you might snap. Like you might break. Did he think you were too fragile for this?

You didn’t speak. Neither did he. But something in the air had shifted. The space between you buzzed, held in a state of suspension. He glanced down at your gloves. Then back at you. His voice was softer when he finally spoke.

“You shouldn’t let assholes get under your skin.”

You shrugged, eyes dropping to the floor. “Yeah. Well… can’t always control that.”

He nodded slowly, like he understood. And you realized that he did understand. Probably more than anyone else in your life ever had.

“You deserve better.”

His words were low. Steady. Like a fact. Not a compliment. Not like the charming words he normally showered over you. You looked up, expecting to see his signature grin, but there was no teasing glint in his eyes. Just a calm certainty. He stepped in close, lifting a hand to your cheek and brushing his thumb over the edge of your jaw.

And then he kissed you. Not the way he usually did. Not with the usual lust or desperation for something more. No, it was slow, soft, tender. Like it meant something more to him.

Your breath caught. You didn’t move— didn’t lean in, didn’t pull away. You just let it happen. His hand cupped your waist, resting there lightly. Not pulling. Just holding. The kiss wasn’t rushed, wasn’t desperate. And that— that was what made it more dangerous than anything the two of you had done to date.

Slowly your hands came to rest on his chest, palms sliding lightly over the taped curve of his ribs. You felt him flinch, but not from pain. No, it was from restraint. He pulled back slightly like it was the only way he trusted his self-control. But his forehead stayed close to yours. His breathing was shallow and his eyes dark, but his voice— when it came— was soft and unshaken.

“For the record?” His thumb traced your cheekbone again, featherlight in its touch. “I think you’re stunning.”

Your heart stuttered. You hated how much it meant to you. How much you wanted to believe it meant something more.

His forehead brushed against yours, and for a long second, neither of you moved.

You could’ve closed the space again. Could’ve kissed him harder. Could’ve tugged him down onto the table and given in to whatever this was building into. But—

“BUCKY!”

The shout shattered the silence like a slap. You both jolted apart just before the door slammed open and one of the rookies— red-faced and clearly tipsy— poked his head in.

“We’re doin’ shots and Wilson’s already got his shirt off— come on!” The guy blinked, eyes widening as he took in the scene in front of him. “Oh. Shit. Sorry. Didn’t mean to—uh—just—yeah. Okay.” He ducked out before you could respond, the door swinging shut behind him.

Bucky sighed through his nose, the moment splintering into something half-frustrated, half amused.

You cleared your throat. “Duty calls.”

He grinned. Crooked. Reluctant. “Apparently.”

You bent forward to grab your gloves from the edge of the table. “Guess I’d better finish up here.”

He lingered a second longer, gaze roaming over your features as if begging you to ask him to stay. But you stayed silent and he turned away, throwing one last look over his shoulder, he said, “Don’t keep me waiting too long, Sunshine.”

And just like that, he was gone.

You exhaled slowly, pressing your fingers to your lips as if to convince yourself it had really happened. But the buzz under your skin? That lingered. Long after he was gone.

Chapter Text

You didn’t even bother to text him back. Your unspoken agreement didn’t necessitate it. You made a quick trip to the shower, shaved efficiently and applied a thin layer of make-up before grabbing your coat and leaving your apartment.

You moved on autopilot, going through the motions like muscle memory. Like this was the only option you had. Because deep down, it felt like this was the only version of closeness he’d ever offer you, and you hated yourself for taking it. Hated the way your chest ached with anticipation for his texts, how your stomach flipped at the thought of his hands, his voice, his heat… even when you knew it wouldn’t last.

Somewhere along the way, sex had stopped being simple… at least for you. Somewhere along the way, you’d started craving more than what he could give. You weren’t sure when exactly it had happened, only that it was too late now. The feelings had already taken root. And no matter how often you told yourself you were fine with this arrangement— casual, convenient— you weren’t. Not really.

But still, for whatever reason, when he called, you came running. Even if it left you feeling lonelier than before. Even if every touch carved out a little more hollow inside you when you left.

It was different when you were with him. You felt like you were his whole world. And that's why you kept going back.

Bucky opened the door to his luxurious penthouse apartment. Shirtless and grinning like he’d scored the winning goal in overtime.

“You took your sweet time,” he said, stepping aside to let you in.

“You texted half an hour ago.”

“Exactly. An eternity.”

“God, you’re so needy,” you teased in an exasperated tone, dropping your bag on the floor.

He shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “Congratulations, you ruined me.”

You rolled your eyes, already toeing off your shoes by the door. “Yeah, well. You had it coming.”

“Still do, if you’re in a generous mood.” He stepped towards you, fingers skating over the waist tie of your trenchcoat.

You didn’t respond. Just stepped inside, grabbed him by the waistband of his grey sweatpants, and kissed him. Hard. He responded instantly, hands sliding up your back, under your coat, pushing it off your shoulders.

“You wearing those compression gloves?” he muttered against your mouth.

“No. Why?”

“I like how they feel when you—” He broke off with a groan as you reached between you and cupped him through the thin fabric.

“Guess you’ll have to settle for bare hands.”

“Shame,” he said, peeling off your top. “I was gonna ask real nice.”

You smirked. “That ever work for you?”

“Once or twice. Mostly when I’m naked.”

“Wow, how convenient.”

He was already guiding you toward the bedroom, his lips trailing down your neck. “Come on. Don’t pretend you’re not dying for it.”

“Me? Please.” You shoved him back onto the bed and climbed into his lap. “I’m just here to check your vitals.”

“Mmhm.” His fingers were already unfastening your bra. “Hope you brought your stethoscope.”

“Didn’t need one. You’ve been loud since the moment I walked in.”

He laughed into your mouth. “God, I missed this.”

You straddled him, palms splayed over his chest, feeling the strong muscles beneath your fingertips as he leaned back on his elbows, eyes wandered over you like you were something to be unwrapped and he couldn’t decide where to start first.

“You're staring,” you said, breathlessly amused.

“Yeah. Trying to figure out which part to bite first.”

You leaned forward, lips brushing his ear. “Dealer’s choice.”

He didn’t hesitate. There was no second guessing when it came to his mouth finding somewhere on your body to suck. He started on the curve of your neck and worked his way downwards, teeth dragging along your skin just enough to make your breath hitch. You pressed your crotch against the bulge in his sweats, rolling your hips against him and smirking when he groaned.

“Shit Sunshine, think you’re trying to kill me.”

“I’m the team physician,” you whispered, grinding slow and deliberate. “That would be against the Hippocratic oath. Technically, I’m reviving you.”

His hands slid behind your thighs, gripping tightly as he bucked up against you. “Then consider this a near-death experience.”

You kissed him hard, messy and hungry, biting his bottom lip just enough to make him chase your mouth with a frustrated growl when you pulled back. He flipped you effortlessly, pinning you under him with a practiced press of hips and thigh.

“You wearing anything under that?” he asked, dragging his fingers up your leg.

“Why ruin the surprise?”

He hummed. “God, I love when you make my job easy.”

He tugged your bottoms off in one smooth pull, tossing them aside without looking. His hand trailed up your inner thigh, warm and confident, like he’d memorized every part of you. You arched into the touch, already slick, already buzzing with needy excitement.

“You always this wet when you storm into my place uninvited?” he asked, voice husky, lips brushing just below your navel.

“You invited me,” you shot back, determined not to be so undone that you couldn’t counter his cheekiness.

“Didn’t think you’d sprint here,” he said, sliding two fingers through your folds, teasing, not yet giving you what you needed. “Next time I’ll add a disclaimer to slow you down a little.”

“Oh please, next time,” you panted, clutching at the sheets, “I’m making you wait.”

“Oh, Sunshine.” He looked up, lips hovering just above where you wanted him. “That sounded like a threat.”

Before you could think of a snappy retort, he was deliberately exhaling his hot breath all over your sensitive skin.

Your hips bucked instinctively. “Bucky—”

“Hmm?” he hummed, lips so close to you that you could feel the shape of his smirk in the heat of his breath. “Something wrong?”

“Don’t play with me,” you warned. Your breath was already shaky and your thighs had started to tremble.

“I’m not,” he said innocently.

You smirked mentally at the irony, there was nothing innocent about this mouth, or the way it moved. Down, but not close enough. He pressed a kiss to the inside of your thigh instead.

“Just admiring the view, Sunshine.”

“Admire faster,” you snapped, voice sounding wrecked.

Bucky chucked, the sound low and dark as he dragged his nose up the inside of your thigh. All the way up till he was maddeningly close to where you wanted him most. “You’re soaked.”

“Wonder why,” you bit out, fisting your hands in his sheets.

“Maybe I should take my time,” he mused, brushing the very tip of his nose against your folds. Grazing the skin with a featherlight touch. “You know, really get a read on the situation.”

“Barnes—”

He kissed you then. Just once. Slow. Firm. Excruciatingly exquisite. And all the air left your lungs.

“God,” you gasped.

“That’s more like it,” he murmured, voice thick with satisfaction as he finally settled in between your thighs. “Now hold still.”

Your breath caught the moment his mouth met you in earnest— none of the teasing now, none of the delays. Just heat, pressure, and the maddening rhythm of his tongue. Your hips jerked, while one hand flew to his hair and the other clawed at the sheets as a lightening sensation shot through you.

It was too much and not enough all at once. The drag of his lips, the way he groaned softly against you. It felt like he was enjoying this every bit as much as you were and that sent a fresh wave of heat pulsing through your bloodstream.

You could barely breathe. Could barely think.

Each flick of his tongue lit up nerves you didn’t know you still had. Every movement was deliberate, practiced, like he knew your body better than you did. Your thighs trembled, trying to close around him, but his hands were firm on your thighs, holding you open, keeping you at his mercy.

And you were. Completely. Utterly his.

There was a fluttering sensation building low in your belly. Familiar, devastating and totally inevitable. You tried to warn him, you really did. Tried to choke out a sentence, but all that came out was a gasp and his name, broken and desperate on your tongue.

“Buck—”

That was all he really needed. Not that it stopped him. If anything, he doubled down. His tongue pressed deeper, mouth claiming you completely. And you shattered completely. Everything inside you came undone, hips bucking, hands fisting tight in his luscious hair as the orgasm tore through you like a ravaging storm. It left you spent and breathless. Every muscle inside you trembled as the waves of pleasure crested and broke before slowly, achingly, they ebbed away.

He didn’t move away immediately. Staying a moment longer, lips still on you, but softer now, gentler, before pressing a final kiss to the inside of your thigh like he knew you needed to be put back together after what he’d done to you.

When he finally lifted his head, his eyes met yours— dark, intense, and far too knowing.

“You good?” he asked, voice low, rough with heat.

You couldn’t even speak. So you just nodded, chest still heaving. And somewhere, deep down inside— you hated just how much of yourself you gave away in that silence.

Your chest rose and fell as the last of the tremors of your release faded away, leaving your body feeling heavy but sated. But even in this state, you could feel him, the tension that radiated off him, the restraint was practically humming beneath his shin. He hovered over you, one arm on the bed to brace himself. His lips were swollen and glistening and his chest was heaving, his eyes never leaving your face.

You reached for him slowly, fingers trailing down his stomach, brushing over the waistband of his sweats, still clinging low on his hips. You could tell there he had nothing on beneath them, not with how well you could see him growing for you. He hissed through his teeth as your hand found him— hard and aching and already damp at the tip. There was already a dark stain on the light grey material. You stroked him lazily at first, over the top, letting him rut into your palm as your fingers tightened just slightly, coaxing a low groan from his throat.

“Jesus,” he muttered, eyes fluttering shut.

Slowly, you slid your hand under the waist band, moving lower. Your touch teasing the base before you dragged your thumb back up through the slick mess he was making of himself.

“Fuck—” His voice was rough and shaky, forehead dropped to your shoulder as you kept working him, slow and deliberate. “You’re gonna be the death of me, Sunshine.”

You didn’t answer. Just shifted slightly under him, spreading your thighs a little more as you let him press forward — the thick length of him sliding through your wet folds, dragging him through the heat and slickness he’d just pulled from you. He rutted against you gently until he was glistening with both your release and his arousal. He groaned against your softness, hips rolling in tight, shallow thrusts. Not inside you— not yet. Just grinding against you, letting your wet heat coat him, drag along him, every pass more desperate than the last.

It wasn’t just teasing anymore. There was more pressure. Friction. Need. His breath suddenly became more ragged, as his body trembled above you, the threads of his self-control fraying with every pass through your folds. You tightened your grip at the base, just enough to make him gasp.

“You’re soaked,” he rasped.

“I know,” you whispered, shifting your hips just enough to let him slide deeper through your lips, not quite where he wanted, but close enough to make him groan like it hurt. His jaw clenched and you felt it against your shoulder.

You shifted again, just enough for the blunt head of his cock to slip a little lower— still not guiding him in, but brushing where you were already sensitive. It made your breath catch and back arch.

Bucky growled low in his throat. “You keep doing that and I’m not gonna last.”

“Then don’t,” you said, voice thick. “‘m not stopping you.”

He nudged forward, slick and hard and desperate to be inside, but you pressed your hand against his hip.

Not yet.

“Sunshine…” His voice was strained, eyes nearly black as he held himself still, every muscle in his body vibrating with desire. “You’re gonna undo me, you know that, right?”

Your lips curved in something akin to a smirk, but your breath was still shallow. “Just… stay like this for a minute.”

He didn’t move. Couldn’t. Not with how tightly you were pressed together, his cock hot and heavy against your soaked folds, your thighs clamped around his hips. He rolled them again— so incredibly slow and tortuous— dragging himself through your essence, barely holding himself back from slipping inside.

You moaned softly, head falling back against the pillow.

“You feel that?” he asked, voice hoarse, his mouth near your ear. “That’s what you do to me.”

You nodded, lips parting but no sound came out.

He rolled his hips again and there it was again, another delicious grind. Not just a hint of pleasure, but the kind that makes your whole body clench. Your thighs shook from overstimulation and need all at once.

But still, he didn’t push in. And he didn’t ask to. Because you both knew how dangerously close he was to filling you completely. It wouldn’t take much. Both of you were walking on a razor's edge. The careful balance you’d achieved could tip straight into something neither of you could pretend was casual.

You closed your eyes, not daring to look at him. Not with the way your body responded to his— trembling, every nerve alight and buzzing, caught between craving and caution. His forehead dropped to your shoulder, breath ragged against your skin. He was still rocking into you— slow and shallow, sliding through your slick folds like he belonged there. And you wondered when he’d earned the right to be that close. But when it really came down to it, you let him. You let it burn.

Your fingers traced the ridges of his spine, curling at the base, your hips arching involuntarily with each glide of his cock. Not inside— not yet— but enough to keep you wanting.

“Fuck,” he whispered, like the word had been ripped from him.

You turned your head just slightly, and it was like you were possessed. The words spilled from your mouth like they were coming from someone else. Your lips caught the edge of his jaw as you purred. “I like you like this.”

“Like what?” he asked, stilling his thrusts and looking down at you.

“Desperate.”

He groaned. Half in frustration, half in something closer to surrender. “You’re evil.”

“And you love it.”

He moved in a retaliatory way, the grind rougher than before. Hungrier.

You whimpered, nails digging into his back. “I—” You started but the sound caught in your throat.

He paused and you made the mistake of looking up. He lifted his head, not to kiss you, not to taunt you, but to look at you. His eyes locked onto yours and really looked. Like he was searching for something he hadn’t dared ask for out loud. Something that went deeper than skin and heat and friction.

Your breath hitched. You froze. Because for a second, you saw it. Felt it. The weight of everything. The desire, yes, but also the longing. His gaze softened, focused, like you were the only thing in the room that made sense to him.

It undid you. Because he couldn’t mean it. Could he? He couldn’t know what that look would do to you. How it cracked you open from the inside. How it fed a hope you’d spent weeks trying to starve out. 

This wasn’t connection, you told yourself. It couldn’t be. But you felt it creeping into your soul and it ached behind your ribs. That bitter, ugly tug of truth that you’d convinced yourself wasn’t possible. Not like this.

So you squeezed your eyes shut. Tried to ride it out. To stay in the moment, not dwell on the things you knew couldn’t be. You blinked, hard, chasing away the tears that burned. Tried to swallow down the feelings that bubbled up in your throat.

“Too slow, Barnes,” you teased, pushing at his shoulder and twisting your hips. “Switch.”

He let you. Let you guide him onto his back, let you swing a leg over and settle above him. You reached between you and lined him up, sinking down in one smooth motion that pulled a low growl from his throat.

For a moment, you rode him just like that— hands on his chest, breath shallow, movements precise. Controlled. Detached. No eye contact. But then he sat up. Wrapped his arms around your waist. Pulled you close again. And that look was back— full of heat and ache and something far too close to tenderness.

You couldn’t take it. So you leaned in, and he lifted his jaw, almost like he thought you were going to kiss him. Instead you shifted again, sliding off his lap and onto your hands and knees.

“You wanna finish or not?” you asked over your shoulder, almost petulant.

Because in reality you couldn’t watch him look at you like that anymore, not when it didn’t mean anything.

He didn’t argue. Just repositioned himself on his knees behind you, ran a palm down your spine, and eased himself back inside. This time, he didn’t hold back. His rhythm was harder now, his thrusts deep and steady, hands gripping your hips pulling you into him.

You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to let it numb you. Trying to let him fuck the feelings out of you like he always did.

But they wouldn’t leave. Every time he hit that spot just right, your body jolted with pleasure— but your chest twisted tighter. Every moan that slipped from your mouth felt more like a sob. Because it still felt like too much. Too close. And somehow, not close enough. You bit your lip hard, knuckles white in the sheets, willing yourself to hold it together. But your heart was already breaking— and he didn’t even know it.

You didn’t make a sound at first— just a sharp inhale through your nose, forehead pressed to the mattress, as if you could force it all back down with one well-timed breath. But Bucky knew your body too well. He slowed. Just slightly. The steady slap of skin softened, his hand on your hip gentling like he could sense it.

“Sunshine?”

You didn’t answer.

“Did I hurt you?”

“No,” you rasped, too quickly. Too flat.

He stilled completely. You felt his hand slide up your back, warm and careful, tracing along your spine.

“Hey,” he said, quieter now. “Talk to me.”

You shook your head. Kept your face buried in the sheets.

“I’m fine,” you said, voice cracking on the lie.

He eased out of you— slow and reluctant, like part of him didn’t want to admit the shift had happened. You stayed frozen in place, but he gently coaxed you to roll over, to face him. And when your eyes finally met his, it was over. Because whatever resolve you had left crumbled under the weight of that look— worried, searching, soft. You covered your face with your hands.

“Don’t,” you whispered. “Please just— don’t look at me like that.”

He crouched beside you on the bed, a beat of silence hanging between you before he said softly, “Like what?”

“Like this means something,” you whimpered. “Like I’m more than a warm body you can call when you’re lonely or bored or—”

“Jesus, Sunshine.” His voice was laced with disbelief. “That’s what you think this is?”

You didn’t answer. Your breath came out far too fast, your chest far too tight. All of it was spilling out before you could stop it.

“I didn’t mean for this to happen,” you admitted, choking on the words. “I just— every time I tell myself I won’t come back. That I’m done. And then you text, and I… I run to you like a fucking idiot, because it’s the only time I feel close to you. And then it ends and I go home and I hate myself.”

He blinked. His mouth parted, but nothing came out. You pushed yourself upright, dragging the blanket across your chest like it could hide more than your body.

“I can’t do this anymore, Bucky,” you said, voice shaking. “I can’t keep pretending this is casual when it’s killing me.”

Bucky didn’t move at first. Just watched you like he was trying to memorize the way you came undone— not just from pleasure, but from the weight of everything you’d been holding back. And then he did something you didn’t expect. He reached for you. Not to pull you close or coax you back into bed or kiss away the tension like he could distract you from the wreckage. He just… held your hand. His fingers slid against yours, hesitant but steady, and when you didn’t pull away, he laced them together.

“I didn’t know,” he said at last. Voice low. Thick. Honest. “Sunshine, I didn’t know it was hurting you.”

You didn’t look at him. Couldn’t. You were afraid that if you did, your resolve would shatter all over again. That you would give in to him.

He let the silence stretch out for a moment. Giving you time to breathe. Before—

“You always seemed like you wanted to keep it casual,” he said finally, voice rough but oh so gentle. “So I followed your lead.”

You blinked, confused. “What? What’re you talking about?”

“I asked you out,” he said, watching your face carefully. “More than once. But every time, you turned it into a team hang. Invited everyone, changed the plan. After a while I figured… okay. She doesn’t want me. She just wants something easy…. So I gave you easy.”

Your lips parted, breath catching. “Wait… those were dates?”

He let out a dry, almost amused sounding laugh. “Yeah. They were supposed to be. Sushi night. That screening downtown. Even the stupid art gallery thing you dragged Steve to?”

“I thought you were just being nice,” you said, stunned. “I didn’t realise…”

He gave a soft shake of his head, almost smiling— but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You always made it a group thing. I figured you weren’t interested. So I thought if this was the only version where I could have you…” He gestured vaguely between your bodies. “I would take it.”

You sat in silence for a moment, reeling.

“I didn’t know,” you said quietly. “I didn’t realise they were meant to be dates.”

“I know that now,” he murmured. “But at the time? It felt like a rejection.”

“I thought… you had plans with your friends or something. That you were just— being nice. Inviting me along to prove we were… nothing more than teammates. Or friends.”

Bucky let out a sharp exhale and dragged both hands down his face. “You’re kidding. Please tell me you’re kidding.”

You winced. “I didn’t think you meant meant it. I thought you were just being polite. Making me feel like part of the team.”

“Polite?” His hands dropped, eyes narrowing in disbelief. “I practically begged you to come with me. Took me a week to plan that sushi night, and you told Sam, Sam! Who then told everyone. I was trying to flirt and you sat me between Gabe and Dum Dum like we were chaperoning a high school dance.”

You buried your face in your hands, groaning softly. “God. I didn’t know. I just— I didn’t think…”

“What?” he snapped, not harsh, but dark, dismal. Like the feeling had been buried, waiting to be let out. “Didn’t think I wanted you?”

“I didn’t think you wanted anything more than sex,” you said quietly.

The silence was loud. Broken finally by a laugh. Loud and bitter and so full of disbelief it made your stomach turn. “Jesus Christ, Sunshine.”

“What?” you asked defensively.

“You seriously thought I was just using you for a good time?”

You didn’t answer. That was answer enough.

“Do you even hear yourself? Do you know how many times I talked myself down? Told myself you weren’t interested, that I was just lucky to get even a piece of you?” His voice dropped, hoarse. “I thought you wanted this to stay casual. Every time I asked you out, you turned it into a team thing. So yeah— I stopped asking. Figured I’d take what I could get.”

“I didn’t know they were dates.”

“I know that now. But you have to understand how that felt.”

You looked at him, really looked. The tension in his jaw, the lines around his mouth, the bruised vulnerability in his voice. He wasn’t angry— he was hurt.

“I just didn’t think someone like you…” you started, faltering. “You’re— you. Bucky Barnes, the Casanova of ice hockey, the star of the team. You could have anyone. And I’m just…”

“Don’t,” he cut in. “Don’t do that.”

“I mean it.”

“So do I.” He leaned in. “You think I kept texting you ‘cause the sex was good? You think I memorized your schedule, got Coach to stock your stupid favorite almond milk in the kitchen because I was trying to be a fuckbuddy?”

You swallowed hard. “I didn’t think you… liked me like that.”

“Liked you?” His laugh was quieter now. “God, Sunshine, I fucking love you.”

You blinked, speechless at his confession.

“I kept telling myself this was all I could have. That I should just be grateful for what you gave me. But every time I touched you, I hoped it meant more. Every time you left, I hoped you’d stay.”

Your throat tightened, emotion rising fast and hot. You felt the first tear slip down before you could stop it, and he was there, brushing it away with his thumb like it physically hurt him to see it fall.

“I never meant to hurt you,” you whispered.

“You didn’t. Not really. I just wish…” He shook his head, brushing off the apology, even though it meant everything to him. “I wish I’d been clearer, said something sooner.”

“I wish I’d seen it sooner.”

Bucky’s thumb lingered on your cheek, brushing away another tear. The tenderness in his touch surprised you, it was like he wanted to feel you, every part of you, even the broken ones.

Your chest ached. But not in the way it had before. Not with grief or longing. With relief. And love.

You leaned forward first, lips brushing his lightly. He returned it just as gently, like you were fragile. Like one wrong move and you might disappear. But you weren’t. You were right here, in his arms. You were his.

His hand slid from your cheek to your jaw, thumb tracing over your bottom lip. “Still can’t believe you didn’t know I was in love with you,” he murmured, a little frown on his brow. “You’re impossible.” he finished with a pout.

You rolled your eyes, but it was fond. “I didn’t exactly see the signs.”

“Well, they were neon,” he said dryly. “Like Vegas- style bright.”

You leaned in and kissed him, capturing his lower lip between yours before you sucked lightly, as if to say yes, I know now. Yes, I’m sorry. Yes, I love you too.

He smirked against your mouth. “You thought all that flirting was just team morale?”

You kissed him again, a little longer this time, your hand curling around the back of his neck.

“I invited you to an art exhibit on my off day,” he said, giving you a look. “And you brought Steve.”

You kissed him before he could say more. Another soft press of your mouth to his, equal parts apology and affection.

He smiled against your lips, carrying on now that he had caught onto your antics. “That was supposed to be a date. I even showered twice.”

You kissed him again, slower this time, fingers threading through the short hair at the back of his neck.

“You made me a third wheel our date,” he mumbled. “Steve talked about brushstroke technique for forty-five minutes.”

Another kiss. He barely managed to keep speaking this time, his hands sliding to your hips.

“I held your coat and bought you that overpriced matcha latte. And Steve got the thank-you hug.”

You huffed a laugh and kissed the corner of his mouth.

“I sent you flowers that week,” he said, mock wounded. “You thought they were from the gallery.”

You groaned and kissed him again, cutting off the rest of his sentence.

“God, you’re lucky you’re cute,” you muttered.

“You’re lucky I’m still here,” he murmured back, voice low, hands smoothing along your thighs.

You looked into his eyes, soft with affection.

“You know I love you too, right?” you said quietly.

He froze, eyes searching yours.

“Say it again,” he whispered.

You kissed him once more. “I love you, James Bucky Barnes.”

His breath hitched. He looked wrecked in the most beautiful way. His forehead fell to yours, taking slow breaths, like he needed to stay grounded.

“Sunshine,” he whispered. “Don’t ever stop saying that.”

His hands gripped your thighs, warm and solid.  Just holding you. Steadying you.

You didn’t stop touching him. You couldn’t. Your fingers traced along his jaw, the stubble there rough beneath your fingertips. It was like you needed to make up for all the times you could have shown him.  Shown him what he meant to you. His lips brushed yours again, so softly it was barely a kiss and more like a promise.

“I love you,” you whispered again. Just to see the way his eyes fluttered shut. Just to hear the shaky breath he let out, like the words reached somewhere deeper than you rralized they could.

Bucky kissed you then, really kissed you— like he couldn’t believe he’d gone this long without doing it like this. Like he didn’t just want your mouth, he wanted your heart. Your soul. Everything you’d never imagined giving anyone else.

You climbed into his lap without another thought. Immediately, his hands slid up over your back, reverent and slow, never breaking eye contact.

“Still not over how fucking beautiful you are,” he murmured.

You blushed and shook your head. “You’re ridiculous,” you said, smiling softly.

“Ridiculously in love with you,” he corrected, leaning forward to press his lips to your jaw. Then your breast bone. Then lower. Then lower still. His hands were patient as he eased you down onto the bed again, following you, his body covering yours.

Every movement was gentle. Intimate. His hands on your waist, your ribs, your thighs. They explored your curves without urgency, like he was rediscovering you from the inside out.

When he finally pushed inside you, slow and steady, you both exhaled like you’d been holding your breath for months. Because in a way, you had.

You held onto him tightly, hands splayed across his back, your legs around his waist, and for a while, neither of you moved. You just breathed. Really feeling each other for the first time.

His forehead rested against yours again. “Okay?”

You nodded, your eyes shining up at him. “More than okay.”

Then his hips began to move. Deep, slow thrusts that weren’t about urgency or chasing release. They were about being close. Staying close. Feeling every press of his body against yours. Unspoken words, like an I missed you… or I’m sorry... and even I love you.

The room was quiet except for the sounds of your joined breaths, the faint rustle of sheets, the occasional soft moan when he hit a spot that made your toes curl. His hand found yours and laced your fingers together, pinning them above your head.

“You feel like home,” he whispered, voice barely there. “You always have.”

And when you came, it was slow and aching and beautiful, and you did it with his name on your lips, his body wrapped around yours, his mouth at your temple whispering, “I love you.”