No Matter If You Hate Tyler, You Love Tyler, You Ship Him And Wednesday, You Don’t Ship Them, You Prefer

I rmbr reading this for the first time and falling in love with the #darkgoldentrio trope

Fanfic Rec: The Sum of Their Parts

Rating: Mature

Archive warning: Creator Choose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Category: Gen

Characters/Pairings: No Pairings

Summary: For Teddy Lupin, Harry Potter would become a Dark Lord. For Teddy Lupin, Harry Potter would take down the Ministry or die trying. He should have known that Hermione and Ron wouldn't let him do it alone.

Read on Ao3

★ "which means the part of the WS is still in me"

unsolved (xiii)

Summary: Bucky doesn’t even believe in the paranormal. So who the hell thought it was a good idea to stick him in a series about everything haunted for the internet’s amusement? With his loose-canon of a teammate who has no concept of subtlety or shits left to give, to make things even worse. (Buzzfeed unsolved AU)

Warnings: swearing, frustrated bucky, obnoxious reader, forests, sabotaging

A/N: lmao so initially this was actually supposed to be released on Halloween last year bc it was the 13th chapter. but of course, The Horrors. so have a Halloween themed chapter in the middle of fucking April. good day to you all.

Previous part || Series masterlist

Bucky doesn’t do Halloween.

To be fair, Bucky doesn’t do most organised festive celebrations. 

But Halloween specifically, is not for him. 

He barely has energy to exist in real life, and now he has to do it with a costume? Like a little circus clown boy begging for claps?

No.

So even though the team has mostly done the most with what they can, and dressed up to celebrate the spirits of the holiday, he has chosen to stick to his usual.  

He begins to feel the guilt twirling around his stomach when he finally makes his way to the event ground. 

The whole Halloween fair felt like fall in a bottle. Rows of vendor stalls lined the main walkway, overpriced cider and hot chocolate competing for everyone’s attention. The air was thick with the scent of kettle corn, fried dough, and bonfire smoke, and at the very center of the fairground, a massive pumpkin display loomed. IT was carefully arranged, family-friendly, and absolutely begging to be destroyed. 

There were costumes everywhere. Kids sprinting between hay bales in bandages and plastic fangs, groups of teenagers posing for selfies in group outfits, couples holding hands.

It was nice. It might even begin to thaw his cold, solid heart. 

The groans and bullying that follows when he pulls up half an hour late is warranted but he holds his ground. 

Hands balled into fists, chest pushed out and sturdy, he takes his usual place next to you, bracing for impact. 

“You’re a bore,” you say without skipping a beat. “You’re like fun-antidote. Where is your costume?”

“I’m wearing a costume,” he says simply. “I’m A Guy.”

“Your costume cannot be guy. I knew this shit would happen. I had a costume delivered to you one month ago, where is it?”

“If you think I’m dressing like that Dr Seuss piece of shit, you’re deranged.” Bucky casts a look at you. 

He opened the package, saw the red stripes and closed it right back up.

“There’s no way you showed up with nothing,” Nat scoffs.

“Clint wore a full Pikachu onesie,” Wanda offers, joining the group with a powdered sugar moustache.

“That’s because Clint has no shame.” 

“I heard that,” Clint calls from somewhere. God knows where.

“You were supposed to,” Bucky fires back. 

Nat raises an eyebrow. “C’mon Buck. Not even a little face paint?”

“Do I look like a man who owns face paint,” he says dryly, glaring when he suddenly notices a little detail. “Why’s everyone looking at me? This one’s not wearing a costume either.”

He juts a thumb towards you. You narrow your eyes.

“I’m literally wearing one right now,” you say, gesturing to yourself. 

“You’re wearing a black t-shirt and combat boots,” he argues. “That’s clothes. It’s not a costume.”

“It’s a good costume,” Sam pipes up. “I get it.” 

You beam at him. “Thanks.”

Bucky glances at you, then at Sam, then back at you again.

Nat, leaning back against the table, exhales a short laugh. “Really nailed the details.”

“Right?” You glance down at your fit. 

She nods. “Very accurate.”

Bucky stares for a few more seconds, coming up short.  

Finally, he grumbles, “Whatever. Where’s the video shoot?”

“You guys are shooting a video here?” Wanda asks, tearing off a piece of funnel cake and popping it into her mouth.

“Yeah, I thought it’d be fun to go through the corn maze. Local legends say it’s haunted by the spirit of teenagers who got lost in there years ago and never returned.” You shrug. “I’m gonna attach a GoPro onto Bucky’s head and set him free in there.”

“You make me sound like a rat.”

“You’re the handsomest rat I’ve ever seen, baby. If I were a piece of cheese, would you want me?”

“Stop.”

“You’re really just gonna go in there together, huh?” Sam pipes up casually. 

Bucky looks at him weirdly, but Sam has the deeply self-satisfied smirk of a man about to be a menace.

You don’t even hesitate. “Yeah?”

“Uh-huh. Corn mazes have a history, you know? Just saying. ”

“A history,” you repeat. 

Nat, ever helpful, leans forward, resting her chin in her hand. “Classic teenage makeout spot.”

Bucky’s eye twitches.

“I wouldn’t know, I spent my teenage years blowing up buildings,” you reply. 

Wanda hums. “That’s what they all say.”

“Literally who says this.”

“You’re not missing out. It’s cold and itchy and the whole place smells like hay,” Steve chimes in, doing his best to aid the situation. 

Sam nods solemnly. “Yeah, but next thing you know, you’re lost with no cell service, standing real close, saying shit like ‘oh no, my flashlight batteries died, guess we have to huddle for warmth–””

Bucky groans. “It’s a fucking corn maze, not the catacombs. There’s no getting lost and huddling for warmth.”

Clint, appearing just in time to make this worse, tilts his head innocently. “Oh, you guys doing the Lover’s Lane?”

Bucky gestures aggressively at the fair map. “It says Field of Screams.”

“Sure can be a field of screams if this night goes well,” you add unhelpfully. 

Bucky turns to Steve, clearly expecting him to be the voice of reason.

Steve, unfortunately, is already hiding a smile behind his drink.

Bucky’s jaw clenches.

“Assholes,” he mutters.

Sam claps him on the shoulder. “Have fun in the murder corn.”

Somewhere in the distance, the haunted house’s chainsaw gag goes off, followed by delighted screaming.

Bucky adjusts the camera strapped to his head like a miner’s torch. “I thought you were going as the tennis ball from that threesome movie.”

“Costume didn’t deliver in time. So I found something better.”

“What are you supposed to be?” 

You ignore him, but there’s an amused expression on your face. “I know you think that because you’ve gotten to this point, you’ve gotten away with not having a costume. Unfortunately for you, I have come prepared.”

Before he can react, you shove a piece of fabric into his hands.

He holds it up, balled into his fist. “Is this–”

“The cape from the laughing gas group, yes.” You nod. 

“I thought I got rid of this thing, where the hell did you get it from?” He lets it unravel in all its unironed, crinkly wonder. 

“I would never let you get rid of a piece of art like this. Now look, you’ve got a solid costume.”

“I don’t need a costume.”

“Well, now you have one. Put it on.”

“No.”

“Put it on.”

“No.”

Five minutes later, he has a shitty full-length cape on as you stand at the entrance to a haunted corn maze.

The wind picks up just enough to make his cape move ominously. He elects to ignore it. 

You adjust the camera on your head, tilting it toward him.

“Well, well, well,” you narrate,. “If it isn’t the dark lord himself.”

“I hope the ghosts take you first.”

“That’s what I love about you, Buck. Always looking out for me.”

Bucky shakes his head, pulling the cape tighter around his shoulders when the wind threatens to blow it away.

The archway is wrapped in dim string lights, flickering unsteadily.

Beyond it, the corn stands tall and unmoving, the entrance swallowing the path ahead in a thick, oppressive darkness.

“Alright, you ready?” you turn to him.

He sighs. “Always.”

________

The night is alive.

The festival’s noise carries even through the thick walls of corn, muffled laughter and distant screams bleeding through the cracks, the occasional blast of music from a game booth still loud enough to reach you guys.

Teenagers run ahead, scaring their friends before the actors even get the chance.

Bucky walks beside you, hands tucked into the pocket of his cargo pants.

A breeze kicks up, rustling through the maze.

From somewhere to your right, a group of college kids run screaming out of one of the side paths, shoving each other as they trip over their own feet.

Bucky watches them, expression completely unimpressed. “They paid twenty bucks to get chased through corn by a guy in a mask.”

“We also have done that,” you remind him. 

You walk for a while in no particular direction, just following the winding, trampled-down paths. Nothing creepy has happened yet.

“I had a place like this growing up,” Bucky mutters, stepping over a stray piece of corn husk.

You glance at him. “A haunted maze?”

“A fair. Smaller than this, but same kind of deal. Seasonal. My parents used to take us before it got too cold.”

You hum. “What’d they have?”

“The usual,” Bucky says. “Rides, caramel apples, bad magic acts. There was a fortune teller I was scared of when I was a kid.”

“You were scared of a fortune teller?”

“She was fuckin’ aggressive for a woman whose entire job was pretending to read palms. I didn’t even want to do it. My parents paid ‘cause Becca begged, and then she got too scared to go near her. I got thrown in so it didn’t up being a waste of a few bucks.”

“Becca betrayed you.”

“Sold me out immediately.”

You laugh. There’s a faint smile on his face as he walks through the godforsaken corn. 

“I had a fair once,” you say.  “It wasn’t real. But they called it a festival.”

Bucky doesn’t say anything.

“There was a little town outside the facility,” you say, stepping over a raised tree root. “Once a year, they’d set up these tests. The whole thing was so weird. Gave us candy. Let us play games. Just to see if we could blend in.”

“HYDRA did something similar.”

You snort. “You guys ever do the winter carnival, or was that unique to usl?”

Bucky groans. “Always fucking Winter Wonderland or Halloweentown.”

You laugh, kicking at a loose pile of hay. “I used to steal candy.”

Bucky raises an eyebrow. “Without getting caught?”

“They probably knew,” you admit. “But they never stopped me. Maybe that was the test.”

Bucky hums, before saying gruffly. “Maybe it was just a win.”

You hold his gaze for a second. The careless upturn of his lip is enough to make you forget what nonsense you were about to say.

You wonder how much footage you’d have to edit out if it was just staring at his dumb, pretty face in silence.

A breeze shuffles the corn.

The distant scream of another maze runner echoes through the night.

It’s enough to snap you out of whatever the hell this is. 

The festival noise is still going strong, bleeding into the maze, distant music mixing with the hum of people.

You reach a split in the path. A fork in the maze, with two equally stupid-looking trails leading deeper into the field.

Bucky stops, tilting his head slightly, scanning both directions.

You, on the other hand, just pick a side based on what the vibes emanating from them were. 

“This way,” you say, already stepping toward the left.

Bucky does not move. “That’s the wrong way.”

“Excuse me?”

Bucky gestures down the right path. “That’s the way out.”

You fold your arms. “How do you know?”

“Because I do.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only answer you’re getting.”

You tilt your head. “Did you fucking map out the way to the exit?”

“No,” Bucky lies.

“That defeats the whole point of a maze.” 

“It’s called situational awareness.”

“It’s called being a control freak,” you correct.

Bucky exhales sharply. 

You gesture down the path you picked. “So what happens if I go this way?”

“You get lost.”

“Or.”

“No.”

“Or–”

“I’m not going the wrong way.”

“Fine. It appears that we have reached an impasse.” You pause, considering for a second. “I fear that our journey together ends here. Catch you on the flipside, partner.”

Bucky watches as you take a slow, exaggerated step backward down the left path.

“Are you seriously splitting us up?” he asks dryly. 

“It is not I who refuses to tread the path of integrity.” 

Bucky glares.

You take another step, arms crossed over your chest, combat boots pressed into the dirt.

He’s about to give in and follow your stupidass plan, when it suddenly clicks for him. Honestly, once he gets it, he’s embarrassed at how long it took. 

“Is your fuckin’ costume s’pposed to be me?” Bucky’s jaw drops open slightly. 

A grin breaks across your face and it’s enough of an answer for him.

“You’re fucking ridiculous.” He takes a long, hard look at your ridiculous outfit. “What is wrong with you?”

“I think I did great,” you say, pulling at the hem of your black t-shirt. “I even made sure the shade was right.”

“You think you’re hilarious.”

“I do, yeah. Now let’s get a move on.” You clap your hands. “This maze ain’t gonna solve itself.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you dressed like that.”

“Afraid people are gonna think we’re the same person?”

Bucky crosses his arms over his chest. You do the same.

“Stop.”

“I’m just existing, man.”

“You’re making fun of me.”

“Now who said that?” You narrow your eyes. “I’m dressed like the hottest person I know besides myself, you should take it as a compliment” 

Bucky mumbles something under his breath, taking a step towards the path on the right. 

“I see you’ve made your choice. The wrong one, but I respect it.” You salute.  “See you on the other side, Barnes.”

And just like that, you disappear down the path.

Bucky stands there for a few seconds in silence.

Then, grudgingly, he starts walking again, taking his route. The correct route.

The festival noise is still there, still steady.

Bucky isn’t worried.

Because, first of all, it’s a corn maze.

Second of all, he’s already sure he knows the way out. 

The first few minutes alone, he doesn’t think about it much.

He walks, eyes scanning the paths, the layout, the movement of people up ahead. 

Unfortunately with the way his brain is hardwired, It doesn’t take him long to see the pattern.

The jump scares are timed.

The actors cycle between three or four spots.

The lighting is only dim enough to be “spooky,” but there are clear emergency lanterns posted at every exit route.

All things considered, it’s shockingly easy to navigate, so he wonders what’s so haunted about it in the first place. 

By the time he reaches the third scare actor, he’s already figured out that they’re all positioned in the exact same intervals.

A few minutes later, the familiar mechanical rev of a chainsaw sounds through the corn again. 

Bucky sighs, already exhausted.

The actor jumps out from the corn, mask on, chainsaw lifted dramatically.

Bucky stares.

The actor stares back.

There’s a long, painful pause.

Bucky slips past him and keeps walking.

_______ 

“How much fuckin’ corn is there?” he mumbles by the time he hits the next split in the path.

He hasn’t heard from you in a while, which doesn’t make sese because he should have run into you at some point. He would never admit it out loud but he would rather your incessant chattering than silence.

Seemingly ten minutes into his neverending trek, he pulls out his phone to track his way back to Steve using the damn Find My Phone bullshit

No signal.

He exhales sharply. Taps the screen a few more times, holds it above his head and even rotates it a few times. 

Still nothing.

It’s annoying, sure. But beyond that, something about it feels vaguely unsettling.

 The maze wasn’t that far away from the fair. 

It wasn’t like he’d wandered into the woods. 

He should have cell service. 

He grumbles, putting his phone back into his pocket, continuing on. 

_________

The paths aren’t endless.

The entire attraction is contained within the fairgrounds, wedged between the parking lot and the hayride station, which means if he just keeps moving in a straight line, he should hit the outer edge eventually.

Or at the very least, run into a staff member making sure no dumbass teenagers try to cut through the corn and ruin the layout.

And yet he’s been walking for a while now.

No exits are showing up.

Which is annoying. Because he’s usually good at this kind of thing.

If he can navigate a city he barely recognizes, evade people trying to kill him, track movement through urban terrain with nothing but a loose trail, then he should be able to walk out of a goddamn festival attraction.

But the paths just keep twisting, folding back into each other. 

The maze stretches longer than it should.

EVen though he’d figured it out, Bucky doesn’t immediately notice it.

He’s too focused on just moving forward. Getting to the end.

But after another few turns, another five minutes of silence, it finally registers.

There hasn’t been a single scare in a while.

The last was what, ten minutes ago?

Before that, they had been stationed at every few turns, jumping out at whatever happened to wander through.

Bucky stops.

The corn doesn’t rustle the way it usually does. 

It stands tall and eerily frozen. 

Bucky tilts his head slightly and listens.

But the fairground is further away than it should be.

There’s still wind.

It's still chilly.

Like it’s been pushed back a little further with every turn he’s taken.

Which doesn’t make sense.

Bucky exhales, shaking it off, shaking it loose, refusing to acknowledge the stupid, creeping frustration in his chest.

This is fine.

He keeps moving because at some point, it has to end.

The sky is still clear.

The night is dark.

He rounds the next turn--

Agonizing minutes later, Bucky knows he should have found an exit by now.

Even if he somehow took the longest possible route, even if he completely lost track of where he was going, he should have hit the fairground again by sheer accident.

And finally, he sees something different.

A scarecrow.

Lying in the middle of the path.

It's an old, rotting, weatherworn thing that doesn’t belong in a festival attraction.

The wood is splintering at the edges. The burlap sack tied around its head is molded and sun-bleached. The hat it’s wearing is barely holding together.

And its arms, long and stiff and thin, aren’t stretched out the way scarecrows usually are, instead pressed tight against its sides.

Bucky stares at it.

A long, slow moment passes.

“What the fuck’s your deal?” he asks. 

It does not answer. Obviously. 

He stares for a few more seconds, raising his leg to step beside it and move on–

Something touches him.

His entire body locks up for half a second, reflex screaming at him to step back, to turn, to fight.

It’s barely anything.

A whisper of sensation, a brief, feather-light press against the metal of his wrist.

Not a grab. Not a push. Just contact.

And then there’s a giggle.

Soft, small sound that feels like it’s been yanked straight out of another life. 

It takes a secodn to register that his pulse is hammering now.

Because it’s been months of this. Of coming to terms with the fact that he wasn’t just imagining it.

Not from cold, clamping fear.

Something else. 

The giggle sounds again, a few feet away this time.

She’d been following him. Watching him. Waiting for a chance to get him alone and-- God, what?

What was she going to do?

His head snaps towards the sound, trying to zero in on it outside of the rustling of stems. 

When it floats by again, it’s further away. 

His feet move before his mind registers it. 

Soft peals of laughter, the same when he’d let her draw all over his sketchbooks, when he’d douse her in water from the hose, when his dad would throw her under his arm and carry her around. 

It doesn’t matter.

He rounds the corner fast, boots skidding slightly on the packed dirt.

The air is colder now than ten minutes ago, stinging his skin. Or maybe that’s just in his head.

The laughter leads him around another corner, and the weight in his chest grows more desparate.

Because if she’s there, he can tell her everything he’s been thinking of for months now.

That he’s sorry, that he’d do whatever it takes to get her to rest–

He opens his mouth to call out her name– 

He bounds down the path, heart hammering and eyes wide.

His feet skid to a halt, boots grinding into the ground when he almost collides straight into something.

Someone.

But no.

Face tucked behind a Jason Vorhees mask, fake machete resting on a shoulder.

Not her. 

“Woah,” it says, “the hell are you running from?”

Bucky stops immediately, breathless.

It doesn’t take even a second to register the voice.

In the same short second, it is gone.

The giggle. The touch on the inside of his wrist. 

It’s all gone.

And in its place, it’s you.

You’re standing like you’ve been waiting for him, mask lopsided, fake machete swinging lazily in one hand, like you just wandered in from a completely different reality. 

Fuck. He’d been sure. So sure.

But then it’s you, pulling the mask up till it rides up your forehead. 

“Look who finally showed up,” you say brightly, grinning like you haven’t been wandering the maze in abandoned slasher cosplay for god knows how long.

“I’ve been trying to find an exit for, like, half an hour. Got so bored I was about to float up and look for you from the sky.”

He doesn’t say anything, heart in his mouth.

He doesn’t smile.

He probably doesn’t even blink, head turning as he scans the area for any sign.

You cock your head at him. “...You good?”

“Yeah,” he says too fast. “Fine.”

She wasn’t here. 

You give him a look. One you’ve used before. 

He forces his hands to stay loose at his sides. Tries not to look like he’s still coming down from something. Tries not to think about the soft giggle he’d heard minutes ago, or how badly he’d wanted to find the source.

“You been in here the whole time?” he asks finally.

You nod. “Yeah. I got bored. The actors vanished a while ago. I found the mask and figured, why not.” You hold up the machete. “Also this. Very high-quality prop. Very stabby.”

He raises an eyebrow. Barely.

“I was gonna jump-scare someone, but no one’s been around.” You pause. “Except you, apparently.”

He's not entirely sure he's in the same plane of existence as you.

His gaze flicks over you again, with your mask, weapon, loose smile. Still completely unaware that he just nearly walked out of the last twenty years chasing a memory, only to find you instead.

He swallows. Pushes the feeling back down.

“Thought you said you were gonna levitate out.”

“I was!” You grin. “But then you showed up. How was your night? 

He doesn’t answer right away.

Finally he just exhales for the first time in what seems like years.

“It was fine.”

But the longer you look at him, the less sure you seem.

You study his face, squinting. “You look like you saw something.”

“Didn’t.”

You chew on that for a second, eyes still on him, before saying, “You’ve been weird, you know.”

Bucky tilts his head slightly.

“Like, not just tonight. After some of these shoots. Not all of them. Just… some.”

Bucky says nothing. He knew it wouldn't be too long before you brought this up.

You go on anyway. “At first I thought it was just your usual ‘why am I involved in this bullshit’ thing, but it’s not that. Not every time. Some of these places are different. You come back quiet.”

You shift the machete from one hand to the other. It feels stupid, suddenly.

“I haven’t said anything,” you add. “Because I figured if you didn’t want to be here, you’d say something. But you haven’t and if this kind of stuff screws with your head in some way, we can pick other places. Or we can stop the show altogether. We don’t have to keep doing this if it’s messing with you.”

You look back at him now. Direct. Steady.

Bucky doesn’t flinch.

It would be easy to lie. Easier than explaining.

So he clears his throat, looks down the path where the maze bends gently left. “Good to know.”

Something soft on his cheek tugs his face back.

He looks back at you, a small crease between his eyebrows.

You hold his face in place softly, but the look on your face is firm. "We don't have to continue the show. I'm being serious. It's not worth it if you--"

Bucky watches you trail off, but your hands don't let go of his face.

"I know," he says, voice a bit quieter, more tired.

Your gaze is intense, but he holds it. His throat constricts a bit when he swallows.

“Well. I was headed for apple dunking before this turned into a weird spiral. You coming?”

He knows you notice it.

Still, you don’t press. Just give him a small smile, search his face one last time before letting go.

“Yeah,” he says, letting out a deep exhale when you turn away from him.

“Good. I need a witness when I inevitably fight a twelve-year-old over a Fuji.”

“I will not take your side,” he manages to get out, following behind closely.

“Yeah, yeah,” you say, casting a look over your shoulder. “But you’ll reap the rewards when I win.”

Bucky opens his mouth to say something in return, but shuts up when you slip your hand into his, interlacing your fingers and giving it a short squeeze. 

His heart, poor fucking thing, probably won’t be able to handle another episode of racing tonight. 

“Come on,” you say, swinging it back and forth. “You can buy me some cider.”

Bucky says something snappy, sighs a little and tightens his grip on your hand. 

It takes a while before you finally see the fair.

You push a few stalks aside and sigh like you’ve just crossed a battlefield.

The fairground lights bleed brighter through the corn, the ambient noise getting louder with each step. 

Bucky's kept his grip on your hand, but slipped it into the pocket of his jacket because the night only gets colder.

“I can’t believe I almost had to fly over this stupid maze just to find you,” you say. “What would you have done if I hadn’t shown up?”

He shrugs. “Would’ve found a way out.”

“Oh?” you say, eyebrows lifting. “With what? Your ancient Boy Scout compass? Prayer? I was prepared to carry you out, you know.”

He snorts.

“Little rescue mission. One arm around your waist.”

He stops walking. “No.”

You blink innocently. “No?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Why not? I can fly. Kind of.”

“I would rather die in the corn than be carried out like a wet cat.”

“You’re being ridiculous. Hasn’t Steve ever gotten a ride from Tony? I don’t hear him complaining about sitting on his teammate’s back.”

“Like he’s on a fucking horse?” Bucky says, scandalized. “No?”

“You’re emotionally allergic to help.”

“I don’t need help.”

“I know,” you say, turning to grin at him again. “But I’m gonna offer it anyway. Just to annoy you.”

The stupid Jason mask is still swinging at your collar, machete tucked like a trophy at your hip. Bucky rolls his eyes but can't help a smile from slipping out.

“Anyway,” you say casually, “I’m just saying, if I hadn’t found you, you’d still be in there. They’d name the field after you eventually.”

He doesn’t respond to that, but you catch him shaking his head.

You swing the machete against your leg like a toy. “Would the team have come looking for you if I hadn’t?”

Bucky glances at you. “Eventually.”

“Eventually,” you repeat. “Cool. So like… couple of days?”

He shrugs. “Give or take.”

You nod sagely. “Okay. So if it takes you a few days to get rescued, I’m looking at what, two weeks? After someone trips over my skeleton by accident?”

He doesn’t look at you when he says, “That’s not how it works with us.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Us?”

He gestures vaguely. “The team.”

You scoff. “I literally had an entire PR team trying to erase me from the internet not too long ago.”

Bucky studies you with a sharp look for a few moments. You keep swinging the machete back and forth, one arm locked in place inside his jacket pocket.

“Do you think it was a coincidence,” he says finally, “that the week your article dropped, everyone just happened to go batshit insane?”

You blink at him. “What.”

“C’mon,” he says. “Steve makes a huge donation. Nat starts a fight on live TV. Clint breaks into a goddamn bank vault. Your story got the least coverage out of all of them.”

You frown slightly. “I thought that was just Avengers being Avengers.”

Bucky shrugs. “Nobody told anyone to do anything. They just did it loudly so you’d know whose side they were on.”

You fall silent for a moment. “Huh.”

He doesn’t push.

You don’t ask again, but you shuffle closer. He tries his level best to stay cool, and mostly succeeds.

The second you step out of the cornfield, it's like walking into a trap.

Scattered around the festival’s edge, half-lurking by the caramel apple stand and the booth selling “Blood Smoothies”, are most of the team, waiting.

Nat is nursing a cup of hot chocolate like it's vodka and watching everything with the faint smirk of someone who knew how this would end before it started.

Sam spots you first. His grin spreads instantly. 

“Generally when people disappear for a while, they show up with less clothes than before,” he calls. 

You glance at your mask and machete and Bucky tugs off the stupid cape. 

“Just in time for the main event. I was about to start placing bets.”

“On what,” Bucky mutters, already tired of this conversation.

“Whether we were getting a call from you,” Sam replies, “or the morgue.”

You shrug. “Por qué no los dos?”

Wanda drifts in with a caramel apple in one hand and a too-knowing smile at your hand in his. 

Bucky’s expression shutters instantly, mouthing. “Don’t.”

She shakes her head lightly, not saying anything. 

You’re still smiling, focused on the conversation at hand, “He got lost. I heroically rescued him. It was a very emotional journey.”

“I wasn’t lost.”

Steve finally wanders over, coffee in hand, squinting at Bucky like he's trying to decipher something.

“You good?” he asks, handing him a slice of pumpkin pie.

Bucky nods. “Fine.”

Steve looks between the two of you. Then at the mask. Then at the machete. “You two gonna go find other hauntings or are y’all done for the evening?”

“I’m going apple dunking,” you say brightly. “I’m about to ruin some middle schoolers.”

“Emotionally or physically?” Clint asks.

“Whichever’s funnier.” You shrug, nudging Bucky’s shoulder. “I’m gonna destroy some third grader and dedicate the win to you.”

"I don't know you."

You give him a bright grin, and wiggle your hand out of his to follow behind Clint.

Bucky doesn't like the sudden lack of warmth, but he finds respite in pie Steve has handed to him.

Bucky’s always liked the noise of fairs.

Not because he actually enjoys them and the overstimulation it brings, but because he can disappear into the background. Everyone's loud. Everyone's distracted. No one looks at the guy who stands still.

So that’s what he does now.

Leans against a picnic table, a second slice of pie in his hands that he hasn’t even looked at, while Steve stands beside him with a cup of something steaming and unremarkable.

It’s easy, the quiet between them. Familiar.

Which is probably why Bucky says it out loud before he thinks about it too hard.

“Do you remember PBJ?”

Steve squints. “The sandwich?”

Bucky exhales through his nose. “No. The nickname.”

Steve takes a slow sip, then looks at him again.

“Oh,” he says, softer now. “Right. What I called you and Becca."

"D'you remember why?" Bucky doesn't meet his eye.

"Wasn't it 'cause she couldn’t spell your name properly when she was little? Wrote ‘Jam’ everywhere. Used to drive you insane.”

“She got very smug about it,” Bucky mutters.

Steve laughs. “Only ‘cause you kept calling her ‘Peanut’.”

Bucky nods, tight smile on his lips.

“I’d forgotten about that,” Steve says. “God, Peanut Becca and Jam. You were so serious about it, too."

Bucky notes quietly, “She wrote ‘PBJ’ on everything. Lunchboxes. Schoolbooks. Hell, birthday cards.”

"I remember."

Steve elbows him gently. “Why’d you ask?”

They stand there a while longer.

The lights flicker in the distance.  

And there it is. That soft pang in his chest, sharp and sad and warm all at once.

Bucky hesitates. Opens his mouth to say something else–

“Gentlemen!”

You’re striding toward them with far too much confidence, holding a large, offensively purple stuffed bat in both hands like it’s a gift from a distant god.

“I bring tribute.”

You shove the bat into Bucky’s hands, grinning. “For being so brave in the cornfield. And for looking like you were about five seconds away from emotionally unloading on pie.”

The bat’s wings sparkle. Its eyes are mildly unhinged.

Bucky looks at it to you. “What is this.”

“A cherished new member of the team. And a gift to you.”

Steve’s face does something complicated behind his cup.

And for a second, Bucky just stares at the stupid plush thing in his hands, and tries to ignore the way his throat tightens.

Bucky huffs. “Thanks. It’s horrifying.”

“I know,” you say, bright as anything. “Try not to fall in love with me over it.”

He has the sick, annoying, grating feeling that it's a warning that's come too late, probably.

But he doesn’t say that.

Because you steal the rest of his pie.

And the ugly bat now rests on his bed.

here’s my ko-fi if you’d like to support my writing!

Next part

THANK U TO EVERYONE WHO BOUGHT ME A KO-FI FOR THIS SILLY FIC I FULLY EXPLODED WHEN I SAW IT

to know when this fic updates, please follow @shurisneakersupdates and turn on post notifications! it’s the only way tumblr will let me have a taglist and i don’t post there at all except for fics </3

no trio has ever trio'd as hard as THEY trio

yes.

I hate the sound of babies crying, but I can't hate a baby. They've been here for like five minutes and approach this situation with an unhesitant attitude of "my needs are unmet and I am going to make it everybody's problem", and I respect that.

"English isn't my-"

Hush now my friend, and let me read the absolute beauty of a fic that you have bestowed this world and humiliated the first English speakers with

Love the idea that Bucky just drops heavy shit on the others without any warning.

They're all watching some movie where a character gets a super gruesome injury or dies in this horrible way, and Bucky walks by, stops, and says, "that's not right."

They're like, "Okay? We're assuming the soldier did that to a few people?"

"No. Hydra did that to me a few times for tests." And just wanders off like he hasn't stunned them into a horrified silence.

They all turn to look at Steve and/or Sam because what the fuck.

They just shake their heads, though, and put their face in their hands because they're horrified too, but also Bucky, buddy, we've talked about this. It's great that you're remembering/processing this stuff, but it's really heavy stuff to just drop on people without warning. Even if those people are the only other people in the world who might be able to relate.

But Bucky just can't seem to wrap his head around the fact that they're upset by the idea of those things happening to him.

And maybe one time they argued with him like no that's totally an accurate portrayal of 'insert horrible thing here'.

Bucky just kind of goes dead eyed and asks them if they'll be testing it on him again or if they'll be able to tell from Hydra's notes on the last time they did 'insert horrible thing here' to him.

And they don't argue with him again.

"The universe itself is deafening— black holes collide in silent vacuum, stars implode without a whisper, yet their gravity sculpts galaxies.

So too with us.

The world drowns in noise— politicians shout promises, influencers scream for attention, algorithms howl with empty trends.

But real power? It moves like starlight: soundless, relentless, rewriting destinies.

The enslaved who dug railroad tracks— not the senators who debated railroads. The nurse holding a dying hand at 3AM— not the viral thoughts-and-prayers post. The single mother working triple shifts— her silence louder than any CEO’s manifesto.

You want to know what shakes the earth? Not thunder. Not words. But the weight of a million quiet deeds, piling up like sediment until whole mountains have no choice but to rise."

---

“One day it just clicks… You realise what is important and what isn’t, you learn to care less about what other people think of you and care more about what you think of yourself. You realise how far you have come and you remember thinking that things were such a mess they’d never recover and then you smile. You smile because you’re truly proud of the person you have fought to become.”

— Unknown