Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Beatrice Campano had been in love with Bucky Barnes since she was eight years old. 

Of course, at the time, she had mistaken the warm, twisting feeling, and the way her ears turned a very indicative shade for scarlet every time he grinned at her—for something else entirely. 

Now, ten years later, she couldn’t be so sure exactly when it had truly started. The dreaded, hollow, stomachache-inducing realization, that what she had mistaken for annoyance was actually something far more sickening. 

Part of her felt like she’d always known, in some round about way, that it was love.

The earliest memory she had of him was a crisp early spring morning in 1932.

Her family had decided to venture out of Spanish Harlem, far from willingly, and with everything they owned in tow. 

Beatrice had mourned the loss of her neighborhood like one would mourn the loss of a limb. 

Brooklyn Heights was still New York, but it might as well have been a different world. 

Long gone were the echoes of rumba and bolero, and the ring of Spanish through the air as mothers called for their children to come inside before darkness set. 

In Brooklyn Heights, Beatrice was different. 

And being different, usually meant trouble.

The kids were crueler, pointed more boldly, laughed, mickied her accent whenever she worked up the courage to speak, and shouted as she walked past them on the street.

Despite the time that had passed, Beatrice remembered it like yesterday. Her lowered gaze and quick steps as she tried to twist her way through the gathering crowd of third-grade boys.

And then, the shove. 

The way her body, unsuspecting and unprepared, moved with the force of it, slamming straight onto the concrete. 

She still had the scar on her knee as a reminder, but that had never been the most memorable part of the day. 

It had been the few moments that followed. 

He had come out of nowhere, really.

His mussed brown hair, and sharp blue eyes. The way his suspenders rested just slightly off his shoulders.

And the swing. 

The force with which he’d grabbed the bully and shoved him aside, kicking up gravel,  dust chasing him through the air as he cowered away. 

“Why don’t you pick on someone your own size, Walker?”

Some parts were a blur. Like the in-betweens. Like the way the rest of the kids on the street must have scattered.

Because the only moment truly seared into Beatrice’s mind from that day, was how Bucky leaned down on one knee, eyes scanning over the scrape on her skin. 

“Shoot,” he’d muttered as he’d peeled off the small bandaid on his chin, and pressed it over her bloody knee. “That should do it. At least ‘til you get home.”

She hadn’t known then that Bucky already knew her. That he’d seen her walk up and down the stoop outside of his own building. That he’d watched curiously, and hushed the other boys when they’d whispered, or made remarks. 

“You’re at 27th and Piermont, aren’t you?” Bucky had mumbled, pulling Beatrice to her feet.

She’d nodded, unable to manage a single word.

“What’s your name?” 

“Beatrice.”

“I’m James. But my friends call me Bucky,” he held out his hand, and shook hers lightly. Ever the gentleman, even at the young age of ten. 

“Walker’s a punk. He gives you any lip again, you let me know.”

Too flustered, too scared, and in a great deal of pain, Beatrice stood wordless yet again as she nodded at him silently, eyes already welling. 

“Well, don’t get all misty on me now. It’s alright. I’ll walk you, what do you say? Huh? Goin’ that way anyways,” Bucky had shrugged.

They’d walked next to each other in silence, and he’d even slowed his stride to make sure she didn’t stray too far behind, injured knee and all. 

They’d been friends since that day. 

It didn’t take Beatrice long to notice, that Bucky liked to fight. 

Not because he was rowdy, but because he was sensitive. More sensitive than he ever liked to let on. He was all smiles and smooth talk, grew up to have a way with the ladies—because who could really look at him and not give him exactly what he wanted?

But his heart was bigger than it should’ve been. Sometimes Beatrice would fume at the thought of how much he could fit in that chest of his: pride, and smarts, and bravado, and love songs, and every which way to turn a girl on the dance floor.

But not her, at least not in the way she wished.

For the last ten years of her life, Bucky had lived exactly one floor above her on 27th and Piermont, their bedrooms connected by the old fire escape that would rattle each time the wind hit it. Most nights he’d climb down and tap on her window. 

They’d sit out there together, shoulders barely brushing and their legs hanging over the edge. Bucky would talk about joining the circus, and Bea would laugh at his stories about fancy red coats and tight-rope walking.

“Don’t knock it!” he’d laugh. “They get to travel. Get to see the world. Sounds good to me. Better than here, that’s for sure,” he’d scoff.

“I don’t know. Brooklyn’s not so bad,” Beatrice would sigh, giving him a soft shrug. 

“Bet I could be a lion tamer. And you could be doing all those high-air tricks in a sparkly dress. And we’d have to bring Steve along too, of course. He’d be good at tending the animals, like the horses and such…don’t you think?”

It was around that time that Beatrice had started letting herself dream up a life with him in it. One where they were far away, and by themselves. Out in the world, but never alone, because they’d have each other. 

She would always have Bucky. She knew that as sure as she knew which side the sun rose on. 

But years passed on her in silence, and despite always feeling that distressing twinge in her stomach at the sight of him with someone else on his arm, she kept quiet.

It had all started feeling like a sharp snap in her chest, something that had grown past a fleeting thought—of her hand in his, or the way his lashes might feel against her skin if their faces were ever close enough. 

The way her body froze when he’d playfully wrap his arm over her shoulder while they walked down the street.

It was her heart.

The way it fluttered, or jumped, or ached—when Bucky smiled at someone else.

The unyielding disappointment of having to remind herself that she wasn’t that girl.

She couldn’t be.

But it didn’t stop the thought from forming. Didn’t stop her from wishing. Didn’t keep her from having to swallow the lump in her throat each time she’d climb up the fire escape, to tap on his window, and find that he still hadn’t come home from his night out. 

Love, if anything, Beatrice had learned—was a sore bitch with jagged teeth. And it gnawed and gnawed, and gnawed, but just refused to kill her. 

Steve was the only one who knew. 

A week after her fifteenth birthday, he’d found her crying on the stoop of his building, a handful of blocks down, hiding away from where anyone who knew her could see. 

And even though Beatrice had never breathed so much as a word of how hollow and heavy her chest felt each time she watched another girl giggle, and bat their lashes at something Bucky had said—Steve had known. 

He’d noticed how Beatrice’s shoulders grew stiff, when she would watch Bucky and Dot at the ice cream parlor, sharing a cone. His thumb swiping along the corner of her mouth to gather the smear of vanilla custard. 

Or the way she bit the inside of her cheek, eyes near the point of welling, as Bucky held Blanche’s hand in his, fingers laced together. 

Or just how quiet Beatrice got, whenever Bucky would hold the door open for Mary, flashing her that mischievous grin that made everyone’s cheeks deepen a shade or two. 

“He’s an idiot, Bea,”  Steve had muttered, and no other words had ever been exchanged over the matter again. She’d rested her head on his scrawny shoulder, and he’d sat with her until the streetlights came on, and then he’d walked her home.

The worst nights however, were the ones when Bucky would stay out until the sun peeked over the horizon. And scared to wake his parents, he’d make his way up to her window, tapping at it impatiently—knowing she would always open it for him. 

Beatrice would stumble over herself, half-asleep, and always with a hiss in her voice.

“You always gotta show up like you own the place?”

“I do when it’s you waitin’ in there,” he’d grin, slipping quietly into her room. 

His hair windswept and a soft sheen over his skin from dancing for hours. His shirt half unbuttoned and shoes in his hand, to not make any noise against the parquet floors.

But he never slept in her bed on those nights. 

He stuck to the floor, sometimes the little chaise by the window, if it was too cold. 

At that point, she’d gotten rather good at pretending she couldn’t see the faint smear of lipstick on his collar after a night out, or smell the lingering trace of perfume on his skin.

She didn’t ask him about his dates, and he never volunteered.

It was easier that way. For her at least.

She imagined it didn’t really matter to him, at least he never acted like it did.

And when Beatrice would wake up in the morning, he was always gone.

*

Beatrice could recognize Steve anywhere, no matter how hard he tried to hide. The slight bend in his spine that made his walk uneven, the scrawny shoulders, and windswept blonde hair.

And of course, the accessory he was so rarely without—a bloody nose. 

He stepped out from behind the corner of the building, eyes widening as he saw her, and turned right back around. 

It wasn’t uncommon that he’d tried to hide away after a fight. He wasn’t supposed to be getting into trouble. But anyone who knew Steve, knew he couldn’t stay out of a brawl to save his life.

“Steve?” She turned the corner, finding him hunched on the edge of the curb like someone had hung him up and left him there to dry.

The past two weeks had been warm enough for everyone to decide on ditching their coats and cloves, and Steve sat with his knees bent, skin bruised and discolored from the countless scrapes and cuts to his skinny legs. 

His sleeve was stained with blood, and he ran it under his nose again. 

He would always have that slightly bewildered look in his eyes after a fight, like he didn’t really regret it. 

But not today. 

When Beatrice slowed her step, skirts gathered in one hand as she walked closer, Steve turned away, hiding his gaze, shoulders shuddering.

“Let me look at you, Stevie,” she sighed, already reaching for the handkerchief she kept in the small pocket her mother had sown into her dress.

“ ‘m fine,” he muttered, wiping profusely at his face. 

“Alright, so then just let me have a look at you. What happened?,” she insisted, taking a seat on the curb next to him. 

“Nothin’, ” Steve muttered, voice trembling. 

“Doesn’t look like nothin’,” she raised a challenging eyebrow. “Where’s Bucky?”

Steve let out a sharp, humorless huff. His shoulders trembled beneath his spring jacket, eyes still hiding from hers.

“Yeah,” he said under his breath, “where is Bucky.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she crossed her arms, voice slightly amused.

Silly boys. There were days they’d get into more fights with each other than other people.

“Means, I don’t know!” Steve snapped, louder now. 

His eyes finally met hers, and Beatrice saw it right away. The way tears welled, and how they threatened to fall, before he wiped at his face again. “Means he’s not exactly checking in with me these days.”

“Since when?” She blinked. 

She’d seen Steve cry before, it wasn’t the sight of his tears that unsettled her. It was the anger, rarely seen, and hot enough to blotch his cheeks red.

“Since he decided he’s got better things to do than hang around Brooklyn,” Steve shrugged.

“What are you talking about?”

“Nothing,”  Steve pushed himself a little straighter, wincing as he did. “Forget I said anything.”

“Steve.”

He dragged a hand through his hair, and for a second, regret took hold of his expression. A deep sigh left him, making him slump his shoulders, as he closed his eyes tight. 

“Shit,” he muttered, trying not to look at her. 

But it was too late.

“He’s leaving, alright?” The confession came out rough, like it had been sitting side-ways in this throat, choking him. “He’s…shipping out. Shit. I wasn’t supposed to—”

“...what?” Beatrice breathed. 

Steve’s eyes flickered to her again, eyebrows knitted with guilt as he finally let the tears fall. 

“I—I wasn’t supposed to tell you. He made me promise. Bea, you can’t say anything, alright? God, he’ll be so mad at m—”

Beatrice didn’t speak. Her eyes glazed as she felt that strange, hollow drop in her chest. Like missing a step in the dark. 

“How long?” she finally managed.

Steve swore under his breath, stumbling to his feet. Unsteady, and half-pacing, like he wanted nothing more than to take it back. “Bea, please just forget I said anything—”

“How long have you known, Steve?” she repeated, mouth suddenly dry.

“Just a couple weeks…” Steve muttered, sniffling.

He looked defeated, and smaller than she’d ever seen him—hands in his pockets and head held low.

Her hands curled at her sides, nails digging into her palms as something hot and fast spread through her chest.

“When?” she demanded.“When is he leaving?”

Steve hesitated, but as soon as he saw the fire in her eyes, he realized what was best for him.

“Soon,” he sighed. “Real soo—hey! Bea! Where are you goin? Don’t make it worse—”

But she was gone before he could finish pleading.

*

She found him exactly where she knew he would be.

Laughing. Of course he was laughing.

Leaned back against the brick outside the corner store on 27th and Clark. He had one foot kicked up behind him, a cigarette hanging loose between his lips, like he didn’t have a single care in the world.

Like nothing had changed. 

“Bucky!”

The way she roared his name made his head snap up, eyes gleaming at first—until he got a good look at her.

He barely had time to straighten, before she was on him. 

“What the hell is wrong with you? You lying, scheming—” the words broke in her throat, but she shouted anyway, hands shoving hard into his chest. 

Bucky stumbled from the blow, his expression tightened into confusion. 

“Woah—Bea, what in the world—”

“When?” she demanded, hitting him again, shoving him harder. “When were you going to tell me?”

Bucky’s face dropped, eyes darting around as he grabbed the cigarette from between his lips and chucked it onto the pavement. 

“Alright—calm down—” he tried, hands hovering over her frame. She was heaving with rage, a pink stripe sat across the bridge of her nose, the dark ringlets of her hair swayed just above her shoulders as she pushed him again. 

“Don’t tell me to calm down!” she shrieked, eyes lined with nothing but pure flames.

“Uh-oh, trouble in paradise, Barnes?” one of his friends chuckled. 

“Shut up!” Beatrice roared, pointing insults in any and every direction. 

“Bea, what are you—let’s just…” Bucky’s voice was soft, eyes even softer. He caught her wrists, trying to steady her.

And it infuriated her.

How could he possibly be this calm? 

How could he possibly be this calm about going off to war?

“Don’t—” she yanked against him, eyes welling. She was hopeless to stop it. She’d done so well, stayed so angry. 

For all of six blocks, as she’d done nothing to lessen the pit of fire in her stomach, she’d called him every name under the sun, in both English and Spanish.

But now, as she looked at his stupidly beautiful face, all she wanted to do was cry. 

“Don’t do that! Don’t pretend like you don’t know what I’m talking about.”

Bucky’s expression shifted, and it was enough for her to see realization setting in.

“...Steve told you,” he swallowed.

“Yeah. Steve told me,” she shoved  him again. “Because you didn’t.”

“I was going to—”

“When?” she cut in, voice breathy. “When, Bucky? Tomorrow? Next week? After you were already gone?”

“Hey! That’s not fair—”

“Not fair?” her hands came up again, fists closed tight as she hit him. Shoulders, chest, anywhere she could reach. “You got some nerve, talking to me about fair—” 

But she wasn’t strong enough. Not strong enough to hurt him. 

Not strong enough to watch him leave. 

Not strong enough to even bear the thought of him not coming back.

“Hey—hey!” he tightened his grip on her wrists, not rough, but firmer now. “Would you just—would you listen to me for a second?”  he pleaded.

“No!” her voice cracked, the word tearing out of her. “No, I don’t want to listen to you—”

“Bea,” he whispered, and the way her name sounded as it fell from his mouth made her dizzy with fury. “Would you keep your voice down? Come here,” he pulled her along and away from the crowd.

“Oh, now you care who hears?” she shot back, breath hitching. “Let—let go of me,” she tugged herself free. 

“Fine,” he muttered, raising his hands in surrender.

“What’s wrong with you?” she pleaded. Her voice was quieter now, but it trembled all the more for it. “How could you do something like that and not tell me?”

Her eyes glimmered with tears, with betrayal.

God, Bucky hated when she cried. 

Hated when the corners of her mouth turned downward in that sad, pouty way. Hated when her eyebrows knitted hard enough to bring out that tiny crease in the middle of her forehead.

It killed him every time.

But it didn’t change anything now. Didn’t change the way silence stretched between them. 

How his lips parted slowly, only for no words to follow.

“....right,” she scoffed. “Right. Okay.” Beatrice turned on her heel, walking away from him. 

“Christ—Bea! Hold on—”

“No, I’m sorry. This is all really my fault. Silly me, I can’t possibly understand how I got it into my head that I mattered enough for you to mention that you’re going off to war—” the clatter of her heels echoed loudly as she rushed down the street, brushing past people who turned their heads to watch them shout at each other.

“You do,” Bucky hissed, almost too fast. “You know you do.”

“Oh?” she scoffed.

“I just—I didn’t want to–” he broke off, widening his step to catch up with her.“I didn’t want to make a big deal out of this—”

“A big deal?” Beatrice exclaimed, stopping so abruptly that Bucky almost slammed into her. “You’ve signed up to go to war, Bucky,” she spat. 

He swallowed, eyes laced with that stupid look he got when he’d been caught. Half guilty, half confident—but only because he’d counted on getting away with it. 

“I didn’t want to upset you,” he sighed.

“Well…I’m upset,” Beatrice hissed, and kept walking. 

“Yeah, don’t I know it. Me and half of Manhattan. Pretty sure they heard you cursing all the way in midtown—”

“Forget it,” she spat, wiping at her face with the heel of her hand, trying to squint through her tears. 

“See, this is exactly why I didn’t want to tell you! I knew you’d get all worked up, and—”

“I said forget it. Go. Go today, for all I care. It won’t make me no difference,” she scoffed, walking faster.

“Bea—” he sighed, and it made her heart jump. Even now, it was hard not to melt at the way he spoke her name. Hard not to turn and throw herself into his arms, press her face into his chest until her tears had soaked through the thin cotton resting over his body, and ask him—beg him—not to go.

“Go,” she said quietly. It was all she could muster without breaking open. “You’ve got better things to do, right?”

“Don’t say that.”

“Why not?” her voice wavered, mean, even though she didn’t want to be. “It’s true.”

“It’s not—”

“Just go, Bucky!” she spat over her shoulder, the words hanging between them.

He didn’t move, and neither did she.

Beatrice could feel her chest tightening, terrified that he’d listen. That he’d do what she’d asked.

Why would she say that?

She didn’t want him to go, didn’t want to push him away. 

She wanted him to want to stay. To follow her and apologize and say he wouldn’t leave. That he would never do something as stupid as this.

For a second, it almost looked like he might say something.

But he didn’t.

Beatrice’s chest shuddered with a broken breath as she turned, walking away.

And this time he didn’t stop her.

*

It was, quite possibly, the longest they’d ever gone without speaking. 

Six entire days.

Six days of Beatrice turning the other way when she walked out of the building, leaving him standing on the opposite corner, eyes downturned and shoulders slumped, like he was the one that’d been hurt. 

Four days of refusing to come to the door when he’d knocked, pretending she didn’t hear the strain in his voice when he pleaded with her mother, about speaking to her—even if just for a second. 

Four days of feeling like the world had spun off its axis and was hurling towards a pit of darkness where nothing existed except for eternal uncertainty.

Beatrice sat in the stillness of her room, the weight of the night pressing in on her as she leaned out of the window.

The air was colder than it should have been for an April evening. But it wasn’t the chill of the wind that made her shiver. 

It was the thought of tomorrow. The thought of him leaving.

Her fingers traced the edge of the railing, her chest tightening when she heard the familiar creaks of the fire escape as Bucky’s feet landed softly outside his own window.

He’d been trying to catch her there for days, but each time he’d come outside, she’d gone back in. 

Slamming the window shut as hard as she could, just to make sure the point landed. 

A warning, but somehow, still a cry.

Her heart clenched when she heard the familiar scrape of metal. The fire escape groaned under his weight, and she didn’t need to turn to know he was there. She didn’t need to look at him to know that everything she wanted to say, should have said,was too afraid to say, was lodged in her throat like a thing with thorns. 

“You still not talkin’ to me?” he muttered, arms crossed as he leaned against the railing, watching her. 

Beatrice kept her eyes forward, knowing that if she looked at him, she’d be lost. 

And she’d be damned if she let Bucky Barnes win. 

“Remember that one time you got so drunk off that Polish cranberry vodka, and you were throwing up over there?” Bucky huffed, nodding toward the darkest part of the alley. 

Beatrice didn’t answer, her lips pursed tighter as she tried to blink back the tears.

It had been three summers ago, and it had been the first time she’d ever gotten drunk. It had made her so sick that she’d heaved into the trashcan for what felt like half the night, and Bucky had held her hair back while Steve paced holes into the ground, asking over and over if she was going to die. 

“It wasn’t cranberry. It was cherry,” Beatrice finally muttered, a low response that she wasn’t even sure she’d meant for him to hear.

“No way. It was cranberry,” Bucky argued, but softly.

“Trust me, I tasted it twice. Going down and coming back up. It was cherry,” she sighed. 

Bucky smiled, closing the dreaded distance between them in less than two steps.

Many years ago, they’d both been small enough to fit shoulder to shoulder in the window frame. 

But time had changed them both. 

Bucky’s shoulders were broader, his arms were stronger. His chest had widened too, and he’d outgrown her two heads worth. 

Beatrice’s body had filled out in its own way, too. The curve of her hips had grown fuller, her chest rounder. She was budding like a spring flower, her mother used to say. Dresses and skirts clung to her differently, showing off a shape that seemingly had appeared overnight, and the entire neighborhood had begun to notice. 

But Beatrice made room for him anyway, and they sat there quietly, entirely too close.

“I’m sorry, you know. I really am, Bea. I just—”

“Don’t. It doesn’t even matter anymore,” she breathed. 

Beatrice could feel his gaze on her. She could always tell when he was looking, because he so rarely did.

It felt like heat, and longing, and devastation, all at once.

He was waiting for her to say something, she knew that. But every word felt wrong.

“I don’t have a choice, Bea,” he finally said, voice soft. “What kind of man just sits back while others fight and die?”

Beatrice could feel heat surge in her chest, eyes burning as she tried to steady her breathing. 

Fight and die.

“This isn’t a street fight, Bucky,” she finally turned to face him, eyes lined with fear, “you’re not going over there to push around some jerk like…like John Walker. It’s war, Bucky. People die in war.”

He sighed, and for a moment, Beatrice thought she saw something in his eyes. Something that made him look older. A reminder that the world didn’t make any exceptions for them, and that despite how long away this moment of adulthood had felt only months ago, it was here.

And it was so final.

They weren’t kids anymore, be it for better or for worse.

“You don’t think I know that?” his voice was low, like the words had hurt him. “I can’t just sit here, Bea. I can’t. Not while other men, good men, are out there giving everything they’ve got. I have to do my part. I’m not letting other people sacrifice everything while I just stand around.”

Her hands gripped on the edge of the windowsill, knuckles white, her chest heavy. 

“I think you’re being reckless,” she whispered, voice trembling. “You can’t just…put yourself in harm’s way because you’ve got something you think you have to prove—”her heart hammered in her chest. 

It wasn’t fair, none of it was.

She wanted to scream at him, to shake some sense into him. 

But God knows she’d already tried that, and to no avail. 

“Me? Reckless? Come on,” he teased, brushing his shoulder against hers, the corners of his mouth curling into that mischievous smile he knew she couldn’t resist.

But Beatrice didn’t budge.

She stood, and took one quick step back in through the window, leaving him alone on the fire escape. 

“Bea…” he muttered, and went in after her. 

“This is a joke to you, isn’t it?” she scoffed.

Bucky’s eyes darted nervously toward her bedroom door.

“Alright…keep it down. Your father catches me in here at this hour it’ll be—”

“I don’t care,” she hissed.

Bucky’s shoulders fell, head tilted softly as he stepped closer.

“Listen. I’ll be back before you know it. I promise. Besides, I’ll get to see the world. Paris, Berlin, London…all those places we used to talk about as kids, huh? I’ll send you postcards. And pictures. I’ll write—” His hands closed around hers, pulling her closer. 

She hated herself for letting him. Hated that she counted the time between each moment he’d touched her. The brush of his knuckles, whether accidentally or on purpose. The way he’d gently press his palm to her side to guide her to the inside of the sidewalk. How he’d lean against her shoulder jokingly when he’d upset her, or gotten on her nerves. 

She could recite them all like a prayer, every moment. 

The warmth from his body was dizzying, and his hands were large, and steady, and slightly calloused from the extra shifts at the docks, and the heat of him soothed her chilled skin with each stroke, and it was all….too much but not nearly enough. 

“I don’t want a stupid post-card. I want you…”  she almost let the truth hang in the air. Almost. 

But because the look in his eyes was too devastating for her to add to it now, after all these years of enduring silently, she decided against it“...to not get blown to bits in some field in Germany—”

“Oh, don’t be so grim, Bea!  Would it kill you to have a lil’ faith in me? I promise, I’ll come back in one piece,” he grinned, rolling his eyes as he pulled her closer. He held her there, her hands softened and curled in his grip, as he pressed them to his chest. 

He was too close. 

Too close for her to think.

Too close for her to breathe. 

Beatrice swallowed, trying to ignore the way her heart thundered in her ears.

The space between them was so thin, so delicate, so filled with the scent of his skin, and the heat of his body, and the slow thudding of his heart.

Up close, like this, it became clearer than ever, that she’d never stood a chance against him.

His hair had come slightly undone, a few stray pieces brushing his forehead. The pout in his lips, inviting and tantalizing, as his heavy lidded eyes watched her. 

Blue like the summer sky. Like the patch of cloudless heaven that stretched over the Brooklyn bridge. 

Blue, like the melody in that Ted Fio Rito song she’d forgotten the name of.

Blue Moon?

Longing, and craving, and hunger, and maybe even a bit of courage—took hold of the space in her chest that had ached and shaped itself after the thought of him, since she was eight years old.

Restraint and shame both finally left her in a soft gust, a tiny collapse, before she leaned closer. 

Her lips brushed against his in a simple, fleeting kiss. 

Just enough to taste the hesitation on his lips. To feel  the way his body tensed under her touch. 

Bucky didn’t move, and Beatrice pulled back quicker than she’d leaned in, face flushed and eyes wide in shock at what she’d just done. 

“Shit—” she muttered, trying to pull out of his arms. 

“It’s—it’s okay, Bea…” he huffed. “Where you goin’? Come here a seco—Jesus. Don’t be embarrassed!”  His voice was light, soft laughter spilling from his lips as his eyes gleamed with amusement. “It’s just a kiss. We’ve done worse, haven’t we? We used to make a competition out of seeing who could flick their boogers the farthest! “ he grinned. “I mean—” Bucky swallowed. “I mean, you really should’ve seen Stevie tonight! His ugly little mug couldn't stop sniveling the entire way ho—”

“It’s not funny!” she hissed, tears already streaking her face.

Bucky’s shoulders fell as the smile faded from his mouth, the crease between his eyebrows softening.

“Hey. Bea…come on. Not you too…” Bucky’s hands closed around her face, tilting her gaze up to his own. 

His warm touch was everything she’d wished for, but it felt stained with the moment, with the realization that it was the first time he’d held her like this, only for it to possibly be the last.

“Between Steve, and my mother, and his mother, and you…I’ve had enough tears today to last me a lifetime, you know that?” he huffed, wiping at her tears as they fell.

But she didn’t speak. Didn’t have it in her to tell him another lie. That she’d be fine, that everyone would be fine—as if her entire world wouldn’t feel suspended over a black hole while he was away.

Bucky’s eyebrows furrowed, an expression she didn’t recognize washed over his face, a flicker of something deeper than comfort or concern.

Bucky swallowed hard as his thumbs brushed along the curve of her cheeks, gathering the warmth of her tears. 

Her eyes glimmered like starlight, each drop another luminescent pearl as it stained her skin, and then his. 

Her skin. 

So soft and so warm under his grip.

The faint thrumming of her pulse, quick like a hummingbird's, against his palm. 

Bucky took one trembling breath, before pressing his mouth over hers.

The soft brush of his lips made her head spin, fire roared through her chest at a speed that felt near fatal. 

She could hear own heart, or was it his? 

It was a warm, tender weight. One she couldn’t quite comprehend. The press of his mouth, and the brush of his tongue as it gently slipped along her bottom lip. 

Beatrice bit back the shaky whimper forming in her throat, fingers trembling against his chest as she felt herself coming undone. 

But before she could revel in the moment for too long, it was over. He pulled away, lips still brushing over hers, the heat of his breath warm against her kiss-bitten mouth.

“See?” he whispered, his voice quiet but steady. “Nothing to be embarrassed about.”

His grip on her felt reverent, almost possessive, as he refused to let her look away. His hand lingered on her face, thumb brushing along the curve of her mouth.

There was confusion, hesitation maybe, clouding her face. Like she wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry. 

“Nothing at all,” he huffed.

It was light, just a breath. His mouth curled into a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. 

The weight of it all sat heavily against Beatrice’s chest. Urgent, and desperate, and so fucking unfair. 

She was still, barely breathing as her eyes searched his.

Beatrice wanted to curse him for keeping her waiting. Even now, beneath the gentle brush of his hands, he made her hold her breath. Made her feel suspended, as she waited for him to decide.

As if he’d read her every thought, Bucky’s hands shifted. He drew her closer, and she could feel his breath, ragged and shallow against her skin. 

He forced the small space between them to close, as their lips met once again. 

This kiss was slower. 

Deeper. 

Beatrice had only been kissed once before. Last year behind one of the striped tents at Cony Island, by Joaqin Torres, who had always had a soft spot for her that she chose to leverage when it suited her best.

Like when she’d grown sick of watching Bucky swap spit with at least one girl from every borough. 

But she’d never been kissed like this before. 

Never been held like this. 

Never felt this warm.

His fingers curled gently into her hair, tipping her head back ever so slightly, as he kissed her deeper. 

Beatrice’s pulse softened into something different now. A certainty that, despite its unspokenness, felt loud with every beat her heart managed. 

She let herself explore the foreign feel of his body, under the thin fabric of his shirt. 

The press of him against her.

How many times she’d watched the subtle sheen on his skin, and imagined how it would feel against hers. Sticky with a palpable heat. Her hands pressed to his back, feeling each shift of the muscles beneath. 

Every wish had suddenly turned real, and Beatrice couldn’t help but to fume at the

frustrating irony. 

Ten years of longing meant to fit into the ten hours they had left.

The reality of it hung between them, thick in the air, pressing them closer as Bucky pulled her flush against him. Every movement of his lips sent sparks through her core, moisture pooling between her thighs. Warm and pulsing, as she tried not to imagine him closer than he could possibly be. 

Nearness was not enough. She wanted him inside of her. In her very bloodstream. Every thrum of her pulse whispering his name.

Impossibly tangled, and never, ever, ever apart.

What a miracle it would be. 

Her breath caught as he shifted, his hands no longer gently exploring. There was a rawness that took hold of him. A desperation in the way he moved against her, that made her head spin. 

Her body responded to him before her mind stood the faintest chance of catching up.

The room felt smaller, hotter, and completely unimportant.

Her thoughts were blurry, but she knew one thing—knew him—and she wanted it.

Their lips hadn’t parted long enough for either of them to utter a word, but it was of no concern  to her, she was sure she’d forgotten every single word in whatever language she knew anyway.

Besides, she’d be a fool to move. A fool to break the spell that held them. 

The bed where she’d spent so many nights curled away from him as he slept on her floor, rushed up behind her. Even though she didn’t remember stumbling backwards. The edge of the mattress hit the back of her knees, and Beatrice imagined that it must feel like this, to float, as he lowered her the rest of the way. 

His breath came in short bursts as he leaned over her, chest pressing against hers. The heat between them felt nearly unbearable, yet it still made her shiver. The need coiled somewhere in her belly, deep warmth and aching desire all melting together. Her body arched, pressing closer to the hard plane of his. 

Bucky’s hips rested between her thighs, hovering torturously. She could feel his every restrained thrust through the air, the small space between them charged with something forbidden. She wanted nothing more than to wrap her legs around him and pull him closer. Hoping to feel some proof of his desire pressed against her. 

But she was scared.

Scared it would make him realize what was happening. Some part of her was still sure that if he knew, if he truly knew, he wouldn’t let his lips brush so desperately against hers. Wouldn’t dip his tongue into her mouth and groan softly as she met him with her own, breathless and overcome with the mere possibility of what waited beyond one simple choice to give in.

But before she could think any further, he stopped.

Bucky pulled back just enough to look at her, his eyelids heavy and gaze soft. His eyebrows furrowed in something that looked like hesitation.

Beatrice would never know what it truly was.

Awe.

She looked nothing short of angelic laying beneath him. The soft light from outside tilted carefully through her window, stretching across her skin in a pale stream of silver. 

Her chest rose with short, shallow breaths. Lips kiss-bitten and eyes wide.

She watched him like she was waiting for something. 

Bucky’s hand brushed her cheek, thumb tracing along the softness of her skin. 

He wasn’t sure he’d be able to stop himself from leaning in again for much longer. His lips brushed gently along the curve of her jaw, a kiss so soft it made her squirm beneath him. He trailed a forbidden path along the column of her throat, mouth resting just where her pulse fluttered. 

He nibbled on the skin, teeth scraping greedily against the soft spot beneath her ear until the press of his tongue followed to soothe the bite. 

Beatrice hummed, a gentle and low sound, almost like a purr. And it was enough to send heat rushing to his core. 

His cock twitched, straining against the fabric of his pants. Begging for a release that promised itself buried somewhere deep, and warm, and wet. 

“Your parents are home,”  he reminded her, as well as himself. Voice low but rough, as the words brushed warmly over her dampened skin, where his tongue had eagerly explored.

Beatrice tried to steady herself with a deep breath, but the weight of him was heavier now, as he pressed his hips down against hers. 

She could feel the shape of him, the sharp and hard print of his cock as it pushed against the inside of her thigh.

Her entire body pulsed, thighs clenching at the thought alone, as he helplessly rutted against her.

“They–they’re asleep,” she managed, voice trembling as her fingers tried to lace their way through the fabric of his shirt.

Thin cotton that did nothing to keep the heady scent of his skin away. Smoke, and cologne, and the faint hint of man.

Bucky’s hand slipped along the side of her thigh, eyes fluttering from the rush that tore through him at the feel of her skin. 

So fucking soft beneath his hands. 

Beatrice keened into his touch, her hands tugging at whatever she could reach to pull him closer.

The ache between her legs was unbearable now, enough to make her act every way but a lady. Every way that girls did, when realizing they were the center of his full attention. 

Courage surged within her once again, and she pulled his mouth to her own.

Bucky’s kiss was tender, and slow, as his fingertips brushed over the top of her thigh, inching slowly beneath the hem of her dress. 

Just one push, and he knew the silky fabric would slip, pool at her hips and reveal the line of her underwear fully to him. 

The thought of seeing her half undressed, and indecent, and overwhelmed, was enough to make need throb violently through his cock, warmth already beading at the slit of his tip from the imagined vision alone. 

Her breath caught, quick and shallow. Chest rising and falling beneath him. But she didn’t shy away. Didn’t pull back.

She wanted him, all of him, despite the sudden awareness creeping in. 

Beatrice tried to shove away the weight of it. Of knowing that she had no idea, what waited beyond this moment. 

Her hands found the back of his neck, fingers threading into the soft hair there, as she held him close.

Everything felt alive, and raw, and slightly dangerous, and way, way too late.

Like the moment had already passed before it had started.

Bucky lowered his mouth, lips brushing against her collarbone, his breath hot along her skin as his hand followed the subtle curve of her hip. 

Trying to bite back the groan building in his chest, his fingers slipped against the small of her back and the tiny space between her body and the mattress. Holding her as she arched into him. 

Then he felt her stiffen. 

Her shoulders tight and fingers trembling lightly as they found their way back down to his chest. 

She let out a breathless, almost questioning sound, her lashes fluttering a bit too quickly.

Bucky’s eyes trailed the shape of her mouth, her lips slightly parted, and the sheen of his tongue tainting her skin. Already blushed, and hot, and pliant beneath his hands.

So willing, and so…scared.

“Bea…”  he swallowed.

“It’s fine—” she started, like she knew, before it had even hit him. Like she’d seen the gears turning while he looked at her, truly looked at her.

“Have you ever—you’ve never…shit—” the words almost caught in his throat as he spoke them.

“Bucky, it’s—it’s fine, I—”  her voice was soft, hands steadied against each side of his face as she tried to keep him there.

“...hold on, hold on,” he stumbled, pulling away a bit further. “This…this changes things—” he breathed.

“Why?”

“Because, you—you’re—“

“I’m not a little girl anymore, you know. I can decide for myself—” 

“Christ, Bea. It’s—it’s not that…” he sighed, untangling himself from her. 

Beatrice sat quickly, tugging her nightgown down over her hips, shaky hands fixing the fallen straps on her shoulders.

Her eyes were sharp, mouth curved in a softly hesitant pout.

“Then what is it?” she urged, voice colder.

Bucky could feel his heart pressing against his ribs, the lump in his throat growing. 

“Just…your first time should—it should be, I don’t know? Proper? Like…a dinner, and a picture, or something….with someone you—I don’t know, someone you’re with. Someone you care about,” he settled on the easier word. 

‘Care’.  

Because the other one was too jarring to be spoken between them. 

Yet it still hung in the air like the blade of a guillotine. As if it held the power to destroy something held together, this far, by pure delusion and reluctant restraint. 

“Is that what your first time was like? With someone you cared about?” she challenged. 

He knew the look on her face too well. 

The fire in her eyes, and that unwavering temper. Beatrice was not one to shy away from an argument, especially not with him.

Steve did always say if they couldn’t find a reason to argue, they’d make one. Which Bucky always thought was pretty rich, coming from Steve.

And despite how he would deny it to himself, each time he’d think back on this moment between them, he’d already known then as the arch in her eyebrow had grown sharper, that she would win this one.

And that he would absolutely, undoubtedly, let her.

It was the undeniable truth.

Beatrice, however, had no interest in telling him the actual truth. 

Because the truth included something far more irreversible than giving her body away. Besides, she didn’t want to spell it out for him.

She wanted him to just know. 

To get it through his thick skull, already.

“That’s different,” he muttered.

“How?”

“I don’t know…just is,” he shrugged, running a nervous hand through his hair.

“Do you not care about me, then?”

“That’s not what I mean…of course, I do. You know I do,” Bucky wasn’t sure why he felt almost genuinely hurt at her accusation.

Beatrice held his gaze, searching it like there was something buried there, that he still refused to hand over.

“Then what are you afraid of?” she asked, quieter now. She couldn’t be sure where this new found courage had come from, or how it had found her now—at the very crossing of Too Fucking Late and Never. Mere hours before he was set to head off into the uncertainty of war.

Bucky let out a breath, shaking his head like he didn’t even have an answer for himself.

“It’s not about bein’ afraid,” he muttered, though it didn’t sound convincing. 

Not even to him.

Beatrice’s brows furrowed, her shoulders tightening just slightly, like she was bracing against something he hadn’t said.

“Proper,” she echoed softly, almost scoffing under her breath. “A picture? Christ, Bucky if you’re so appalled by the thought of—”

“Come on, Bea—” he rolled his eyes. “Really? All of that—of this,” he gestured to what felt like an impossibly colossal distance between them. “And you think I’d be appalled? Look, what I do with other girls is different. It’s another type of…agreement. But you—you deserve something more—”

“Proper?” she dragged.

Bucky sighed, shrugging with defeat as he began to pace.

“I don’t want that,” she whispered, the words landing heavier than she meant them to. 

Bucky’s eyes flickered back to hers as he stilled, hands on his hips and gaze fixed in a hesitant stare.

“Well, you should. You should want—”

“I want this,” she insisted, cutting him off before he could dress it up into something else. Something easier to excuse, or walk away from.

The silence that stretched between them felt suddenly thin and fragile.

Bucky looked, for the first time in her memory, unsure of what to say next. His eyes lingered, as if trying to make sense of her. Of how certain she sounded, how steady she was, while everything in him felt like it was coming undone.

“You think I don’t know what I’m asking?” she went on, even softer now. “You think I’d be here, like this, if I didn’t?” she looked down at herself, the thin silk slip barely leaving anything to the imagination.

Bucky’s jaw tightened, his chest lifting with a shuddering breath.

“I’d be…too nervous with someone else. Uncomfortable, probably. I trust you. It would feel...less scary if—if it was us, you know?” she whispered.

His gaze dropped, like he couldn’t quite hold hers under the weight of it all.

“I’d rather it be you,” her mouth twisted into something like a hesitant smile, “than anyone else.”

Bucky huffed, something restless and frustrated took hold of his body, a hand dragging down over his face before settling at his hip again. 

“But…if you think it’s better…I could wait…” she pressed, refusing to let him hide. “One of the boys downstairs is bound to work up the nerve eventually, right?”

“Don’t,” Bucky’s voice came out sharper than he’d intended, and the lack of control made unease creep along his spine. “Don’t be so careless, Bea. Not with—with that.”

“Maybe that Torres boy,” she went on, ignoring him. “He’s always looking, isn’t he? You’ve seen him—”

“Bea,” there was a warning in how he spoke her name now, low and tight.

But she just held his gaze, unflinching. 

“Don’t say things like that,” he muttered, voice slightly strained.

“Why?” she blinked at him, slightly wide-eyed with an expression of feigned confusion. 

Bucky let out a rough breath, shaking his head again like he was trying to clear it. But this wouldn’t go away. He knew that. He could already feel it—regret, clawing at him for letting the door close on this.

He knew that he was going to lose this chance. Lose her, in this way, at this moment in their lives. 

“Dammnit Bea, you—you just had to make tonight harder than it already was, didn’t you? It’s like you have this goddamn sixth sense purely just for messing with me—” he snarled beneath his breath. 

“Harder? Like any of this has been hard for you—” she scoffed.

“It has. It is,” his voice was suddenly sharp. “You think I didn’t tell you I was signing up because I didn’t care? I didn’t know how to tell you, Bea,”  his eyes glimmered, and Beatrice couldn’t help but look at that worry line between his brows. The one she’d so shamefully noticed would soften while he slept. 

“Since when don’t you know how to tell me something? Usually I can’t get you to shut up about anything! And now, I’m supposed to believe you don’t know how to—” she growled back, feeling betrayed at the confession. They’d always told each other everything. 

“I just—” his voice softened,“fuck.” 

He looked defeated, shoulders slumped forward as he lowered himself back onto the bed. His leg brushed against hers as he sat, his hands tangled, elbows resting on his knees as he leaned forward. 

Beatrice watched the light catch on the line of his profile. The shape of his nose, the sharp line of his jaw, and the stray pieces of hair that hung over his forehead.

“...I didn't wanna think about having to say goodbye. Just…didn’t know how. With you,” he sighed, like whatever he felt couldn’t possibly be explained. 

When he turned to look at her, his eyes were drawn in something she couldn’t recognize.

Fear?

But…Bucky was never afraid?

He was the bravest person she knew.

Never hesitated, never doubted, never failed to act.

Bucky Barnes always came to the damn rescue. It was possibly his most annoying quality, aside from the fact that he was also usually right about most things.

It was the reason she still made it a point to argue with him, because she couldn’t help but to love that dumb expression on his face when she struck a nerve.

“I’m telling you how. I’m giving you the way out. Take it,” Beatrice breathed, lashes fluttering to catch the threat of tears as the overwhelm burned behind her eyes.

Pearly, and luminescent in the moonlight, Bucky reached for her face to gently wipe along her lower lashline. 

His skin was warm, and the faint calluses on his palm brushed against her cheek, reminding her of the rough nature of his hands, and his body, and how much he’d—they’d both—grown. 

Long gone were the days of scraped knees and lanky legs and not yet filled out trousers. Shoes that were too big, and dresses that needed to be pinned in more places than one. 

Bucky’s shirt clung tightly to his chest, the sleeves he’d rolled up over his shoulders hugged every angle of him, the curve of his biceps and the strong square of his chin. 

And that little dimple in the middle of it, which might’ve been the only thing that had remained exactly the same, after all these years.

Beatrice felt herself almost bursting at the seams with the need to be touched. Imagining the gentle drag of his rough hands finding their way to the softest, most hidden, most forbidden parts of her. 

“It’s not a way out,” he whispered. 

Something flashed in his eyes, then. All night he’d hesitated, and looked at her like he might be making the wrong choice. 

But now, as their eyes locked, there was nothing but determination.

This time, they collapsed into each other.

Rougher, and more urgent.

Bucky touched her, as if he couldn’t keep himself from her any longer. As if drowning in her, unable to get a hold of his own restraint. 

And maybe he wasn’t trying to get a hold of anything. Maybe he was happily watching it slip.

Beatrice let herself be drawn into him. Let his mouth coax hers open, to feel his tongue slip inside.

Soft and certain, as he swallowed her every trembling breath.

Her fingers tugged gently at the hem of his shirt, unsure yet curious as they dipped beneath, resting against his stomach.

The motion felt almost too natural, as he shifted and pressed her back against the mattress. It creaked softly, making him stop as he drew a sudden breath of alarm.

But Beatrice didn’t care about being caught. To her, the world outside of this moment had ceased to exist. And all she wanted was the warmth of him, and the weight of him, and—

His lips brushed the line of her jaw as her dress slipped under his hands, loosening, shifting. Caught somewhere between being on and off, leaving her half-covered and half-bare in a way that made her pulse stutter when his gaze dropped.

He just looked at her. 

Like he hadn’t meant to see this much, but now that he had, like he couldn’t look away.

His lips parted, as if he might speak. Might share even a hint of whatever seemed to be racing in his mind.

But nothing.

Just that look in his eyes, as he trailed along every undiscovered part of her. 

Beatrice blinked up, worried. She’d never seen an expression on his face that she couldn’t place.

Embarrassment filled her, heat creeping up her neck and warming her ears, as she covered her bare chest with her arms. Folding them gently over herself.

“No,” he breathed.“Don’t.”

Bucky’s touch was slow, and light. 

His hand slid down her arm, fingertips grazing the soft skin of her wrist, as he gently pushed them away.

“I wanna see you,”  his voice was a breath, no more than a whisper. Eyebrows knitted softly as if trying to ask without being too eager. 

Beatrice took a deep breath, letting him guide her arms down against the mattress until she was all his to see.

But the trail his eyes left was heavy. Moving from the curve of her collarbone down to where her chest rose and fell in shallow, unsteady breaths.

Her skin prickled and nipples pebbled, exposed to the cool air. 

His fingers brushed the side of her ribcage, making her shiver. Her body too aware of the friction. Too aware of the way he was moving closer.

Too aware of the way he was making her wait.

He pressed a kiss to the hollow of her throat, a soft and tender press of his lips that made her breath hitch. His mouth was warm against her skin, trailing lower, as if every inch of her body was worth discovering.

He dragged a gentle trail with his mouth, the tip of his tongue barely brushing over the curve of her breast, until he drew her nipple into his mouth.

Warmth. Heat. Something electric. Something she didn’t even have a word for.

The sensation split through her, coursing through every vein as she bit down on her tongue, trying to stay quiet.

Beatrice’s pulse raced, anticipation simmering beneath her skin, but he refused to rush.

Bucky’s fingers slid beneath the fabric of her underwear, grazing her hip, and then he stopped.

Just for a moment, giving her time to breathe.

Heat surged, deepening the blush on her cheeks. Beatrice was suddenly well beyond grateful for the darkness of the bedroom.

She didn’t know she was holding her breath, until his fingers slipped further between her legs. Until he hovered over her sensitive, swollen, throbbing clit. Until they dipped into the sticky moisture that had pooled between her folds.

Her body tensed at the first gentle touch, her breath finally slipping out of her in a sharp exhale. 

She bit down on her lip, willing herself to stay still. 

But the pressure, the feel of his hand against her, the way his fingers moved with a certainty she didn’t even understand—it was too much, it was unbearable. Her hips lifted, begging for more friction.

“sshh…easy,” Bucky murmured against her skin, his mouth grazing over the curve of her breast.

His hand moved just as slow as each kiss.

Agonozingly, torturously, tantalizing her.

Beatrice let out a soft, breathless sound. A mixture of frustration and overwhelm, before he set a steady pace. Thumb moving in tight circles against her clit, as his other fingers dragged gently through the heat between her folds.

The sound of it filled the room. 

Slippery and thick and sticky and so warm. 

She already felt close to losing herself, her body eager for more.

But Bucky’s focus was unbroken.

He kissed along the line of her ribcage, his mouth moving lower as his fingers brushed her entrance. Slightly deeper, slightly more indulgent this time.

She gasped, a quiet, trembling noise escaping her mouth. She felt her entire body thrumming with need. Each circle he drew over her clit made something deep inside of her ignite, nerves bursting with what felt like flames.

Wet. Everything was so wet.

She tilted her head up, gaze shifting down her own body to watch.

The slick trail his mouth had left over her chest and stomach, a glistening sheen in the darkness. Her heaving chest. The bulge of his hand beneath her underwear.

Moving.

Gently.

Slowly.

Her eyes fluttered, trying to follow, trying to understand what he was doing. 

But she caught only glimpses of the movement before sensation pulled her under again.

It was too much to think about.

Too much to watch.

All she could do was feel it.

Every aching, blissful second of it.

When her eyes finally flickered up, he was already staring. 

Beatrice could barely breathe under the weight of his gaze. The sharp blue of his irises, usually so inviting and charming, now just seemed raw and hungry.

Her hand reached for his wrist, guiding it as if asking for more, urging him to move faster. To give her more.

But instead, his fingers paused just shy of the place she needed him the most. 

The heat radiating from between her legs, the way her arousal had dripped and stained the soft cotton of her underwear, made it impossible to think straight.

“Bea…” he rasped, “you sure? I don’t want to rush you. Not like this.”

Bucky knew the question was necessary, despite how his own need threatened to swallow him whole.

To finish him before he could even start.

 His voice trembled with faltering restraint.

Beatrice’s chest ached with want, the air between them thick with the anticipation of her answer. 

She nodded, soft and quick. Lips parted as she drew a shaky breath, eyes flickering between where his hand was pressed and where his eyes were locked.

Bucky’s expression  softened, but there was still something burning in his gaze. He studied her, the movement of his finger slowing.

“Say it,” he murmured. “Please?”

Beatrice felt a rush of heat flood her chest. Her throat tightened, as she nodded.

“Yes,” she whispered. The word sounded small, but it felt heavy. 

Bucky’s eyes darkened, and he exhaled like he’d been holding his breath all night. His fingers dragged gently between her folds, gathering the moisture, before slowly pushing inside with ease.

Beatrice gasped at the sudden fullness, her eyebrows knitting together. The shock of it almost made her wince, the initial stretch enough to make her want to pull back.

Bucky froze, his eyes searching hers.

“You okay?” he asked, voice low and strained.

She nodded, barely able to keep herself together.

“Yeah—yeah,” she breathed.

“It’s alright. You’re doing good,” Bucky whispered, his hand settling over her chest, as he pushed her back flush against the mattress. The heat of his skin against hers felt soothing, as he stroked an attentive path up her throat, cupping her jaw gently. 

Cradling the side of her face in his palm, his thumb brushed the curve of her cheek, then her kiss-bruised lips.

“I got you. Just relax,” his words were like balm to her frayed nerves. Slowly, Beatrice exhaled, letting her body soften beneath his touch, as he curled his fingers inside of her. 

The heat built quickly, despite his slow persistence. Every press felt certain, coaxing her closer and closer to bliss. His thumb brushed gently over her clit, now pulsing from overwhelm. She felt over-sensitive, clenching around his fingers as he curled them deeper.

He swallowed every whimper that poured from her mouth, every shaky breath and mumbled plea.

Beatrice reached, blindly, for his waistband. Her fingers trembled, but her impatience felt like the face of a mountain. Growing and growing and growing. 

She tugged at his pants, pulling them down, her mouth never leaving his.

She was desperate to see all of him, and the urgency was so electric it felt nothing short of frantic.

Bucky helped in the only way he could, by gently treading where he stood, forcing the waistband down past his knees.

Beatrice hesitated, just for a second, catching her breath as her eyes darted down. 

The anticipation stretched between them, charged like the end of a live wire, before her gaze landed on him fully.

Her heart skipped a beat. 

He was…more than she’d ever imagined. 

Bucky gently slipped his hand from between her legs, tugging his shirt over his head, as if easing her into the full image of him. 

He stood before her now, exposed, his body a study in hard lines and lust.

She couldn’t have made him any different if she’d been asked to mold him with her own two hands. 

His chest still rose and fell with deep breaths, broad and defined. The faint sheen of sweat made his skin shimmer in the dim light. The lines down his stomach looked taught, drawn tight with desire. But it was what lay lower that made her pulse stutter.

His cock stood thick and eager, the skin flushed a deep shade of pink, the slit along the tip glistened with the moisture that had gathered there. 

The sight of him, so exposed, made her mouth feel dry. There was nothing soft about him. Not in the way he looked, not in the way he was making her feel—suddenly all the love that had filled her heart at the thought of him faded, taking shape into something more raw. More primal.

She’d seen him before, yes. 

She’d looked, even. 

The curve of his neck, and the thin fabric of his button downs. 

Even at the pool last summer, she’d watched the shape of his back, and how every muscle moved beneath his skin. Droplets scattered along his chest.

His dark hair slicked back as he rose from the water, as if coated in oil.

And it had made her feel something then, too. 

But this—this felt different.

Her chest tightened, fingers trembling as they brushed along his thigh, moving with the hesitation of someone who hadn’t been taught how to touch yet. Her palms brushed lightly against the defined muscle, the hairs on his legs felt soft beneath her touch.

Bucky didn’t move, his half-lidded eyes trained on her, his breath ragged yet steady.

The weight of his gaze made her stomach flip. His body laid bare in front of her, raw and real and so perfect.

She’d almost forgotten that he’d undressed her too. That she also, was nothing but flushed skin and a thundering pulse, and something so warm and wet, coating her folds with a surging impatience. 

A mix of vulnerability and desire, his hands swaying at his sides, the fingers on his left hand slick with her arousal,  as she looked up at him. She wasn’t sure if he was unable or unwilling to move.

The space between them began to feel like it could fit the entire world, and everyone in it, except for the two of them.

But Beatrice had no plans on stopping now. 

She reached out, her fingers steady as they traced the dips along his abdomen. Her eyes never left him, moving over every inch as she soaked in the sight. 

Heat and anticipation and curiosity hummed in the air between them. 

She wanted more, so much more. But in this moment, seeing him felt like a revelation. 

She wanted to touch him then. To do things she hadn’t even had the nerve to imagine, uninterrupted, in the privacy of her bedroom with the blinds drawn.

To run the soft pad of her thumb over the drop of pre-cum at the tip of his cock, and taste it. To draw him into her mouth fully. Feel the weight, the heat of his cock, as her lips stretched around the girth. To feel the ridges of every vein against her tongue. To watch, and see, how slick she left him. 

To hold her hand around the base, clenching it as tightly, as closely as her fingers could meet. To hear his shuddering breath, and look up at him, and hear him coo her name as he brushed her hair away. To feel him roll his hips forward, begging for more space as he desperately thrust himself into her throat. 

Her teeth scraped along her bottom lip at the thought, and when her gaze finally flickered to meet him again, it felt like a silent understanding between them.

Bucky didn’t need to speak, she knew what he was waiting for. 

What they were both waiting for.

Beatrice had never wanted anything so badly in her life.

Her breath caught in her throat as she reached up again, unable to stop herself. Her hands more confident, pulling him closer, her lips pressed to his.

The warmth of his body pressed against hers, as his hand found its place between her legs once again. 

Beatrice gripped his arm, nails pressing into his skin, “Bucky—” it came out slightly louder this time.

His head snapped up.

“Hey–” he breathed, almost startled, as his hand came up without thinking. Gentler than it should have been, but firm enough, as he covered her mouth, “shh…shh—” he whispered, lips brushing the lobe of her ear. His breath felt warm, and uneven, “gotta be quiet, Bea…”

But the words didn’t slow him, didn’t stop the way his hand moved. The soft brush of his fingers as they circled over her clit, letting it swell and throb, torturing her with each drag as he let the sound of her slick mix with the sound of her muffled breaths. 

It was more sure now, more focused, like he’d already learned enough to keep going.

He pressed his forehead to her shoulder, briefly, as something in him seemed to slip further out of control than he’d planned. 

“How’d you get like this, huh? This…this wet? Jesus—” he muttered, almost sheepishly to himself, eyes glancing down at his hand as it worked her closer and closer to something that felt explosive. 

He stilled for half a second, just long enough to drag his hand back, his chest rising sharply as if the air in the room wasn’t enough. 

And then, overtaken by compulsion, as he watched her moisture string between his fingers, he slipped them into his mouth. 

Beatrice’s eyes widened, instinct told her to reach out and stop him. Her hand closed around his wrist, as a soft gasp left her.

But it was too late.

She felt something rise in her chest then, knowing he’d had the same thought as her.

Wanting to taste.

Something flickered across his face. Perhaps it was surprise, although Beatrice thought  it looked like something quieter. 

But as quickly as it had appeared, it was gone, replaced with something darker and hungrier.

Bucky leaned closer, his forehead resting briefly to hers. Like he was still trying, somewhere in the back of his mind, to slow it all down. 

“Hey…” he whispered, searching her face, “look at me.”

Beatrice’s eyes flickered to his, wide and glassy. Her lips parted as she tried to catch her breath. 

She knew there was no teasing him now. No easy grin, or cocky shrug to fall back on. 

He looked nothing short of a man so determined, it might’ve even bordered on possessed.

“You tell me if I hurt you, okay? You have to tell me, Bea,” he said quietly. Far from a question, but not quite a warning.

“Is it—will it hurt?” she breathed.

“I don’t—I mean, it might. I don’t know. I’ll be careful, I promise. I don’t want to hurt you. We’ll stop if I do.”

Her fingers tightened where they rested against his skin, a small shaky nod was the only answer she managed.

Bucky’s chest pressed against hers as their eyes locked. His hand trembled as he reached to guide himself, slipping the head of his cock against her folds, spreading them gently.

She was soft, and warm, and dripping.

Beatrice’s body responded immediately, her legs parting further to make room for him. Back arching and hips rolling to the rhythm of the way he dragged himself through her thick and slippery arousal.

For one, briefly eternal moment, they just stared at each other. The weight of it all settled between them. Everything in the world had quieted to nothing but the steady thrum of their hearts, and the harsh sound of their breath.

Beatrice was suddenly, strangely aware, that they would never be able to come back from this. To undo the act of crossing this line. 

And she didn’t care.

If she was going to, by the hand of forces unknown and uncontrollable, have a last memory of him, she wanted it to be this.

Bucky’s lips barely brushed hers, the kiss soft and his breath shallow. The world shrunk to just the feel of his mouth against hers, his skin against hers, the press of his length sliding over her sensitive clit.

His fingers curled around her waist as he pressed forward, pushing inside. He moved with a slow and careful precision, making sure every inch of him was eased into her with tenderness. Doing nothing to soothe her impatience, her indulgent eagerness to feel all of him. 

To feel full with him.

The sensation of her, tight and warm, made his pulse spike. Bucky couldn’t help but hold his breath as he felt the resistance, the stretch, the way her body molded to the shape of him. He moved deeper, every push measured, careful not to press too hard, too fast.

He exhaled slowly, bracing himself as much as her, one hand brushing her cheek, trying to ground them in something softer than the rush that had gotten them here.

“You okay?” he managed, voice strained.

Beatrice nodded, eyes flickering between his gaze, and  where they were connected. 

She’d never seen anything like it before.

Every single emotion brimming in the pools of blue.

Her body opening and splitting, taking something so deeply, so slowly. The stretch stung, the pain mixing deliciously with a yet undiscovered rush of pleasure.

Bucky’s eyes held hers, wild and uncertain as he pressed forward. The slow agonizing stretch of him filling her was a sensation she could barely grasp. There was nothing gentle in the way his breath hitched, or in the way he paused as he let the tension settle between them, before slowly pushing further. 

He could feel her mold to every inch of him.

Beatrice was wrapped so tightly around him, the sound of her breathing was shallow and sharp, piercing in the quiet of the room. The bed creaked beneath them, an innocent noise that seemed too loud for the silence that hung heavily between them.

Bucky’s gaze flickered toward her bedroom door, then back to her fluttering lashes, as if he expected someone to walk in at any moment.

His eyes darted nervously, almost frantic with the need to make this moment only theirs.

Bucky’s hips pulled back, ever so slightly, before he rolled them forward again.

Beatrice gasped, her lips parting and her warm breath brushing his skin. 

“Shhh,” he whispered, almost pleading. His voice was rough, and hoarse with faltering restraint. “I–I need you to stay quiet…please, Bea—” his hand settled over her mouth again, pressing down just enough to quiet the sound of her breathing. His eyes locked with hers as he settled completely within her.

Beatrice gripped the sheets beneath her, every muscle in her body taut as she fought against the overwhelming need to make noise. She could feel tension coiling inside of her, and impossible ache building in places she had never felt before. Every inch of him, every careful movement, made her more aware of how much she was feeling.  

God, oh God.

The press of his body against hers, the heat between them, his skin, the way she fluttered around his cock.

It was all-consuming. 

Bucky’s pace was agonizing, as if he was trying to savor every second. She watched him, his face inches from hers. The tension in his jaw, and the way his hand pressed against her mouth.

He was trying to control it. Trying so hard to stay still, but his body was betraying him.

Finally, he released the quieting press of his hand over her mouth, eyes flickering to hers, “You alright?” he asked, voice strained, brushing away a strand of her hair, settling his hand against the side of her face.

Beatrice nodded, feeling the weight of his question settle into the pit of her stomach. 

“Yeah,” she breathed, her own voice barely a whisper.“Keep going.”

She hadn’t expected his eyes to go dark with hunger. Without another word, he moved again. This time, the motion more forceful, more desperate. 

But Beatrice took every inch of him as he slowly rocked into her.

Each push and pull of his hips was  a soft, controlled glide. His body pressed into her in waves, pulling out just enough before sinking in again. 

Each time she dared let out a whimper, he would gently press his hand to her mouth again. Her every exhale shuddered beneath his touch, uncontrollable whines muffled against his palm. 

The room felt too small. The air thickened with the raw, heavy weight of it all. She could barely think, her focus blurring with the feeling of him filling her. With the way his body moved against hers with a rhythm that made them both struggle to keep quiet. Skin brushing against skin. 

Bucky’s breathing grew louder, his control slipping with each thrust. His hand left her mouth, fingers brushing along her jaw before he closed the distance. His lips crashed onto hers, desperately, and she met him eagerly. Her own desire rose as he pushed into her harder. 

“Easy…” he exhaled, barely a whisper. “It’s okay…it’s okay, I got you,”  he muttered against her lips. “That’s it. Just…stay quiet for me. Please, Bea….don’t—”

But she couldn’t help it. Beatrice arched beneath him, nails digging into his shoulder as she met him with a slight shift of her hips. Eager for more. The movement broke the delicate calm, the softest gasps escaping her lips as she felt him push deeper, faster.

A wave of heat flooded through her. 

She wanted to scream. 

Wanted to let go completely. 

“Bucky—”

“I know,” he breathed, his mouth pressing gently against her temple, her cheek, anywhere he could reach. “I know…just—hold on—”

Her fingers slipped into his hair, tugging gently. The sensation of her touch sent a shiver through him.

Bucky couldn’t hold back anymore. He let go, a low groan escaping him as he moved faster, pushing deeper with each thrust. His hands gripped her thighs, holding her in place, pressing her down into the mattress as he let his desire take him. 

Moving with instinct instead of gentle care and hesitation, no longer exploring or testing, the room closed in on them. 

He pushed harder, faster, the pressure between them building to an unbearable intensity. 

Bucky knew it’d be impossible to stop now, to reel himself back in. The sight of her beneath him, their hips clashing together, the trail his tongue had left across her chest. Her swollen mouth and the sound of where they were connected, the aching, sloppy, soaking proof of how willing they’d both been to ruin it all.

Bucky’s name slipped from Beatrice’s lips, her voice a strangled whisper against his ear as release coursed through her.

She’d never felt anything like it.

Like tiny sparks of fire, starting first in her toes, and then her thighs, until it consumed her. Rippling through her body, traveling along her spine. 

Everything pulsed, and thrummed, her hearing suddenly muffled as her body contorted into his, twisting and arching at an angle she’d never known she could bend herself into.

She wanted to be closer, and further from him, all at once.

It was too much, and not enough, and—

All that tension that had gathered, and coiled, and simmered, unraveled in an instant.

Beatrice clung to him, caring even less now than before, about the noise she might make.

Bucky’s movements slowed for a moment, his breath was ragged now, chest rising and falling with whatever effort it was he fought to hold onto. 

“You’re okay. You’re okay,” he brushed a strand of hair from her forehead, his lips pressing lightly against her skin as his eyes found hers.

His hand slid down her side, feeling the soft tremor that still rippled through her body. 

“Can you hold on for me? Just—just a little longer,” his voice dropped even quieter, more pleading now as he pressed his forehead to hers. 

Beatrice was still trembling, every word had escaped her. Her breath came in quick bursts, mingling with his. She looked vulnerable in a way he hadn’t expected, and Bucky’s heart swelled with something that felt almost like a thing he didn’t dare name. Not even to himself.

Urgency took hold of his body before he could stop it, before he could anticipate it.

He shuddered, hips rutting into her at a pace that lacked any rhythm or control, every thrust shorter than the one before, as a strong, hot rope of release spilled out of him. 

His entire body hummed with the settling release, every hair standing on end and every inch sensitive to the touch. 

But Beatrice refused to let him pull away, her fingers laced gently behind his neck to press his mouth to hers. Her body chased the feel of him, even like this. Her hips shifted to meet his, greedily drawing out his orgasm, for her own pleasure.

Bucky collapsed against her breathless, a soft string of hums spilling from his mouth and into hers as his fingers tightened in the sheets beneath them.

Too much. It was too much.

Desperation and tenderness, had met somewhere halfway. Colliding into each other and fracturing into something new.

Beatrice raked her fingers through his hair, trying despite all knowledge of what awaited after this, to keep him close. To keep him still.

If he just stayed like this—if they both did—maybe time would afford them the courtesy of slowing down, just a little bit.   

Bucky didn’t speak, just let his labored breaths dampen the skin on her forehead as he pressed a kiss there.

Soft, and strangely innocent.

It felt familiar.

Like the time he’d spent his entire allowance to buy her ice cream, trying to cheer her up after Ms. Kannassis had cracked a ruler over her palm for talking back in class. 

He’d pressed a kiss to the slashes left by the wood, promising it would feel better.

She’d believed him then.

She wasn’t so sure she believed him now.

*

Beatrice had barely moved at first, her limbs still shaky, night slip half-sung over her body, hair tangled, and skin sticky. 

Her chest rose slow, eyes following the steady rise of his breaths where he lay next to her, shoulders brushing. The frantic edge of it all had settled, replaced by something softer. Something calmer.

Bucky’s skin was warm, the light from outside illuminated the line of his profile, casting him in a shadow, a mere outline. But Beatrice knew every detail. The soft bend in the bridge of his nose, the curve of his lashes, that little bump of cartilage on his left ear.

She could conjure him from memory alone, from all the time she’d spent just watching. Always close enough to see, but too far out of reach for it to actually mean anything.

The silence between them gaped  like a sinkhole beneath their feet that threatened to swallow everything.

They’d never been this quiet before.

Always eager to talk over each other. To argue. To get the last word.

But now, there didn’t seem to be anything left to say, that wouldn’t break something. 

Bucky shifted beside her, just enough for his shoulder to brush hers again, tempting her to face him. 

And she did. 

His expression was unreadable, and it was starting to worry her.

So many years of being able to pick out his every thought without as much as a shared word, and she was suddenly feeling so far from him. 

Despite being closer than ever.

His hand moved slowly, finding hers, fingers tangling and turning it over gently. 

“You alright?” he asked quietly.

Beatrice nodded, face half tucked into the sheets as she turned. “...yeah,” she murmured after a while, voice soft and distant. “I’m okay.”

The air was cool against her skin, her heart still trying to find its regular rhythm. 

“Are you?” she asked, finally managing a hesitant smile.

Bucky huffed, swallowing, trying not to focus too hard on the weight of her hand in his.

“Yeah,” he finally said. “Yeah, I’m—”

But he didn’t finish, didn’t seem to know how. 

Beatrice’s thumb brushed over his knuckles, slow and absent mindedly. They were smooth, and even in color. 

When they were growing up, they’d always been scraped. 

Always healing. Always scabbed. 

“I didn’t think it’d be like that,” she admitted.

“Like what?” Bucky turned his head slightly, eyes locking on hers.

“...like…like it’d feel like something’s over,” she breathed.

Bucky’s gaze dropped for a second, before he shifted again. This time, he came closer. His arm slid carefully around her, pulling her body to his, letting her settle her head against his shoulder.

“Hey,” he whispered, his chin brushed lightly against the top of her hair. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Make it sound like that.”

Beatrice didn’t answer. 

Because she couldn’t.

Because it did feel like that, like something had ended the second it began.

Instead, her hand curled slightly against his chest, fingers brushing soft shapes along his skin. 

The silence stretched again, filled with everything they weren’t saying. 

Of morning.

Of trains.

Of distance.

Of war.

Of lacking courage.

Of suffering in silence.

Of things neither of them could stop.

She tried not to think of the sinking feeling in her chest, the way it felt like he’d already left her behind. 

Eventually, and not for a lack of fighting on her part, Beatrice’s breathing slowed. Her body softened against his, cocooned in the safety of his arms, in the changed air of her bedroom—in a bed that would never feel the same, now that he’d been in it. 

“Will you wake me up before you go back upstairs?" she murmured, already half-way gone as she let the steady beat of his heart coax her further into tired bliss. “In case I fall asleep.”

Bucky’s lips brushed her forehead, his promise just two small, warm words. An imprint on her skin. A mark.

“Of course.”

Bucky stayed long enough to feel her fully give in to it.

Long enough for her breathing to even out.

Long enough to let himself pretend, just for a few minutes, that there wasn’t a clock ticking somewhere outside that room.

The last thing she remembered was the gentle brush of his fingertips along her arm, prickling her skin.

 *

The light was thin and pale, stretching across the ceiling in that strange and colorless way it did, right before the sun showed itself. 

It was too early for it to be morning. Too late for it to still be night. 

Beatrice stirred beneath the hollow hue of blue, her body heavy and limbs slow to answer. She didn’t open her eyes, content with just waiting, and listening.

But there was no movement beside her, no slow, drawn out, sleepy breath that mirrored her own.

No shift of the mattress. No quiet exhale. No warmth pressing against her. No—

Something small and confused threaded through her chest, her hand drifting with blind hope across the sheets. Still half-asleep and still expecting. 

But there was nothing.
She opened her eyes, finding the space beside her empty. 

It looked almost undisturbed. Like he’d been careful.

Like he hadn’t wanted to wake her. 

Beatrice didn’t move, and for a moment she thought that she might’ve forgotten how to. 

Despite the truth of the matter staring right at her, she still listened. 

Listened for anything. 

For the shuffle of his feet upstairs as he got dressed. For the familiar creaking of the floorboards as he paced. 

Sometimes, if it was quiet enough, like now. She could hear him hum, or whistle, or even mutter something to himself. 

But there was nothing. Just the low and endless static of early morning. 

Of course. 

He’d said that.

Of course.

Beatrice swallowed, her fingers curling against the sheets but gripping nothing. 

The realization settled slow, like something sinking through her ribs, and lodging there. Something she’d never be able to pick out from between her bones. 

Of course.

She almost got up then, almost swung her legs over the side of the bed, almost went to the window—

But she knew it was no use.

Instead she sank further into the mattress, staring up at the pale stretch of ceiling as the light grew a little stronger, a little clearer, unforgiving in the way it revealed everything. 

She resisted the urge to squeeze her eyes shut, to cry, to let her hand drift across the empty space beside her, tracing it. To let herself think that it might still hold him there, if she didn’t look too hard.

But it didn’t.

It was just a bed.

Just a room.

Just morning.

And Bucky was already gone.