There's Just So Many Interesting Ways To Explore Bucky Relearning How To Be A Person Again Because It

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.

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I feel like if Hydra managed to get their hands on Bucky again, the best way for them to keep him would be to put him immediately in cryo and leave him alone for awhile. Maybe in an old base, or even somewhere kind of random.

A small handful of people know, and that's it.

They leave him there.

I feel like that would be hard to track.

No one out in the world knows where he is.

There's no gossip about Hydra getting the soldier back because no one knows they have him.

No influx of people near any known or potential Hydra bases because they stayed long enough to freeze him and then left.

No data or activity logs to find because they're not doing anything with him.

Just silence.

In case anyone is having a bad night

(The best of this post and its reblogs, but with links that work)

Here is a website where you can scroll down to all the different levels of the ocean 

Here is a website where you can see the future of the universe

Here is a website where you can press a ‘make everything okay’ button, over and over, until things really are okay

Here is a website that you can read if you feel like a burden

Here is a website where you can look at strobe illusions (TW strobe/flashing)

Here is a website where you can cut stuff up (TW blood/sh)

Here and here are websites where you can play with sand

Here is a website where you can draw with macaroni and other fun foods

Here is a website where you can paint someone’s nails

Here is a website where you can grow a garden with emojis

Here is a website with hundreds of videos of people hugging you (rightfully dubbed ‘the nicest place on the internet’ because it really is, y’all, it made me cry)

Here is a website that will take you to other useless websites

Here is a website where you can make a tiny cat play bongo drums (and other instruments!)

Here is a website to help give you gentle reminders <3

Here is a website where you can grow a tiny farm

Here is a website where you can take a bunch of scientific personality tests

Here is a website of calm rain noise

Take a breath. It’s going to be okay, I promise.

Hydra never even really tried to figure out how to numb/relieve pain for Bucky so the first time he gets good, healthy, safe medication that actually works on on super soldiers, he's kind of overwhelmed that he doesn't hurt because he always hurts.

"Oh..." He's all wide, wet eyes and a soft, awed voice. "I didn't know you could make it go away."

He doesn't remember ever not hurting.

~~~~

And he's overwhelmed by them telling him that he should be unconscious for major surgeries, and certainly shouldn't feel during them what the fuck, because... what does that even mean? He's always awake and he always feels it.

And he's stuck on the fact that there's medication out there that will help him, actually help him and not whatever Hydra told him would help, and it doesn't make him violently sick or high as hell or anything horrible.

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

let's just! not comment on sebastian stan's body in thunderbolts. i mean, we could actually not talk about ANYONE'S body but. watching people call him chubby, even in a supposedly positive way, when he literally has abs you can see through his shirt, is just. wow quite odd. dude already has body dysmorphia from playing bucky how about we talk about his character and his performance, not his weight :)

to be quite honest with you, daredevil born again could be 5 seasons of civilian lawyer matt murdock dealing with legal issues in the marvel universe and i'd watch every single episode with no complaint. his lawyering scenes were entertaining enough BEFORE we branched out into the wider mcu; now we have a higher capacity for matt saying ridiculous comic-book bullshit completely straight-faced in a courtroom, and i would legitimately adore just a whole played-straight legal drama show of matt defending random vigilantes. matthew murdock ace attorney or some shit

unsolved (xiv)

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, seasickness,

A/N: hey how are we feeling about bucky barnes being back with a fuckass bob. old man's got JOKES. im gonna kiss him.

Previous part || Series masterlist

There’s a book open on his lap but he’s not touched a single page. You’ve got a few books strewn across in different distances from you– physics, psychology, cooking. 

He’s stretched out across the floor with his legs thrown over your lap, back against one of the bookshelves. One leg has already fallen asleep since he hasn’t moved in the last two hours. The other digs its heel into your thigh every time he shifts.

You’ve got a clipboard balanced on top of his shins and a pen in your mouth.

You’re scribbling.

He watches you, warily, feeling the indents of the shelf in his back.

His phone plays the Velvet Underground at a volume just above whispering. 

But the library is warm. And you snuck a flask of something warm past the librarian, and wouldn’t tell him what exactly he was drinking but told him to trust you, and he did. 

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Nothing.”

“You have a clipboard.”

“It’s for science.”

“You’re making that face.”

“I have one face.”

“You have at least three,” he mutters, eyes drooping. “And the one you’re making is never good news.”

“I’m not,” you say, offended. “I’m just cataloguing your responses in different haunted locations.”

Bucky stares. “You’re unbelievable.”

“And thorough.” You tap the page. “Okay. Quick question. Rank these: ghost orphanage, blood motel, mirror forest, murder mansion, possessed gas station.”

He sighs and leans his head back against the books. “Too much effort.”

“C’mon. Based on vibes, then.”

“Vibes? I almost got murdered at the gas station.”

“So that’s a ten?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Silent agreement. Got it.”

He shifts his foot just enough to knock the clipboard sideways. You catch it easily.

“You’re avoiding,” you sing.

“I’m surviving,” he replies, eyes closed.

You poke his leg with your pen. “I’m just trying to map it out, Buck. There’s a pattern, I know it.”

He cracks an eye open. “And what happens once you figure it out?”

You shrug. “Then I stop dragging you into the ones that hurt. Or I keep doing it, but I bring snacks.”

His smile is slight, but his foot settles again.

You take that as a go-ahead.

“Okay,” you say, chewing the end of your pen. “Would you say your discomfort in haunted locations is more visual, auditory, or tied to–”

Bucky lifts his phone and mutes the song. The chimes disappear into silence.

You blink. “...Was that dramatic or are you helping?”

“Helping,” he says flatly. “You can’t do a field study with a soundtrack.”

You grin down at him. “God, you’re such a good test subject.”

“Don’t make it weird.”

“Too late.” You blow him a kiss. A stupid, immature, teenager-y part of him takes it to be as close to the real thing for now.

“Shouldn’t have let you bring me here.”

“I literally just said hi and you asked where we were going.” 

“Shut up,” he mutters. 

And then you return to your clipboard, tongue caught in your cheek, already mid-question again as his eyes flutter shut.

You don’t say anything for a while. Just the soft scratching of your pen, the hum of the muted light overhead, the quiet rhythm of him breathing, slower now.

You glance over.

He’s still got his eyes closed, head resting back against an old copy of Emma, mouth relaxed in a way it rarely is when he’s awake.

You’re about to poke him again with the pen when you remember something.

“Oh,” you say, like it’s nothing. “By the way. Our next case is a haunted cruise ship.”

He doesn’t open his eyes. Just lets out a low, long groan.

“That shit makes me seasick.”

You smile, soft. “Okay. Then I’ll find something else.”

He shifts slightly, still not looking at you.

“Nah,” he mumbles. “It’s fine. We’ll go.”

“You sure?”

“Mhm.”

He shifts again, lazily, until he’s rolled halfway onto his side, legs still slung over your lap, arm tucked under his head.

Settled.

You stare at him for a second longer, pen hovering uselessly above your clipboard.

Then you look down and write:

Subject may be growing fond. Possibly attached. Observe further.

And beneath that, smaller:

Also: seasick. Do not let steer boat.

“I just want to set the tone,” you say, stepping lightly onto the rusted gangway with arms wide and a dramatic spin. “For the record, even though you and her are the same age at the end of the movie, I am the Rose in this situation.” 

Bucky, standing behind you with a duffel bag slung over one shoulder, responds. “You mean doomed?”

“I mean devastatingly hot.”

He takes a cautious step onto the gangway. It groans. Loudly.

“This thing’s gonna collapse and then I’m going to be the one floating on driftwood,” he says. 

You glance back over your shoulder, grinning. “You’d let me drown?”

“I’d let you have your monologue first.”

“Wow.”

You spin again, wind tugging at your jacket, and gesture to the looming structure ahead.

The Odette rises out of the fog.

White paint peeled back to rust. Windows dark. Decks slanted just enough to make the walk a bit of a trek. 

The dock beneath you is warped and uneven, and the whole structure leans as if the water itself is trying to reclaim it.

“This is going to be a very romantic evening. I can feel it,” you tell him. “It’s giving summer romance on the waves.”

“It’s giving tetanus,” Bucky mutters, eyeing the railing. “Did you get a tetanus shot this year?”

“What’s a little tetanus in the grand scheme of things?”

“Do you ever process the things you’re saying or do you just freestyle it?”

You step through the hull door, flashlight flicking on with a warm click.

Inside, the ship is exactly what you'd hoped: creaking wood, disorienting reflections from old mirrors, the lingering scent of salt and mold and varnish.

It’s not ice cold, but it feels like it should be. No light enters in through the dusty windows. 

Bucky walks slowly beside you, metal arm brushing against yours as you move deeper into the central hall.

“This place is barely thirty miles from the city,” he says, scanning the space. “You’d think someone would’ve turned it into an Airbnb by now.”

“They tried three different times. One crew abandoned the job overnight. The other two refused to stay past sundown. Last contractor quit two hours in.”

He makes a noise in consideration. 

“Anyway,” you say, pausing beneath a crumbling art deco archway. “Here’s what we’re working with. 

"Then one night, she vanished mid-voyage. Off the coast near Long Island. Clear weather. No distress calls. She was just... gone. They found the ship the next morning, still running. No crew onboard. Like the whole ship had just stopped."

"Anyway," you continue.

“Look,” you say, “if I go missing on this shit, just tell people I vanished. Don’t ruin the mystery.”

“Noted,” he says dryly. 

You grin. 

The hallway smells like wet velvet.

You push open the next door and step into a long, narrow hallway.

“Oh, by the way, we’re staying overnight.”

There’s a pause. A long one.

“Sorry?”

“On the ship,” you say lightly, scrolling again. “Spending the night. Full investigation, sunrise exit, et cetera.”

Bucky stops walking. “That was not in the briefing.”

“What do you think is in the duffel bag you’re carrying?”

“Change of clothes because we’re on water.”

“You’re planning on swimming?”

“Considering I’m with you, I wouldn’t rule out anything.” 

You grin. “The ship’s tethered, you’re not getting thrown overboard.”

 “Right, ‘cause nothing abnormal ever happens around you.”

“We’ve talked about this. Racing heart, nervousness are signs that you’re in love with me, not paranormal activity.”

“I’m not in love with you.”

“Denial looks so hot on you babe.”

He rolls his eyes, moving ahead past you.]

"The ship's not moving. It's hardcore anchored, so you don't have to worry about the waves. I made sure."

"Joy."

"Unless, of course, the ship decides to set course with us in it. But then we'd have bigger problems than you throwing up."

"Thanks. Good to know."

The next room is a dining salon, or what’s left of one.

Long tables still bolted to the ground. Place settings eerily intact. The dust is thick.

You shine your flashlight along a stack of plates. They’re china. Real. Cracked at the edges but still arranged in neat piles.

“I got us sandwiches. Wanna eat it on that?”

“You’d be eating more dustmites than bread.” 

"Oh, word. Protein."

Bucky’s flashlight points toward a faded sign above the wall paneling. It reads: Midnight Banquet. Closed Event. Strictly Guests Only.

“Well, I feel deeply unwelcome,” he mutters.

You step closer to the table and pull back a chair. It’s heavy. Cold.

“They say the night she vanished, Odette was hosting one of her private parties. Whole thing was invite-only, super-exclusive. Her ‘farewell to the sea.’”

He rests a hand on the back of one of the chairs. It creaks beneath the pressure, but doesn’t move.

“Talk to the spirits,” you tell him. “They’re supposed to be real hospitable ‘cause it’s all waitstaff for the ultra-wealthy.” 

“I’m not talking to the air.”

“Just say ‘hi’, It’s common courtesy.”

He gives you a weathered look. You nod seriously.

He sighs, shifting the duffel bag to his other shoulder.

“Hello, demons,” he tests slowly, awkwardly. “It’s… James.”

“Who the fuck has ever called you James in your life? You immediately interject. 

“That is my name.”

“No one has ever called you James,” you scoff. “Hello spirits? His name is Bucky Barnes, also known as Bucky Barnes. And he is single and ready to be haunted.”

Bucky rolls his eyes so hard he might just see his brain, but the second he turns to retort with a glare, he falters. 

Golden, flickering, warm.

The room smells like citrus oil and perfume. It’s bright. There’s a glow to everything. Not artificial. Sunlight. Morning sunlight, thick and amber and alive.

You don’t know where it’s coming from.

There’s a polished table in the middle, partially set. Delicate china cups. A half-eaten grapefruit. Silverware placed with elegance. A folded napkin resting over someone’s chair, like they stepped away mid-brunch.

He looks at you, covered in the same rays you’ve dragged him to the roof too many times just before sunrise to see. It makes him swallow the thickness in his throat at how… radiant–

“I think we’re at brunch,” you whisper, snapping him out of it. 

There are coats slung over the back of chairs. Gloves. A handbag, its clasp slightly open. Someone’s reading glasses resting on a closed book.

Bucky doesn’t answer. He’s scanning the room like he’s expecting someone to laugh, to enter, to scold them for intruding.

It feels like somewhere nearby, someone’s telling a joke. Someone’s fixing their lipstick. Someone is about to ask you how long you’re staying and whether you’re from the city.

You walk further in. The carpet is soft under your boots.  

You rest your hand on the edge of the table. The porcelain is still warm.

Glass. Clinking, faintly. A fork brushing against a plate. A woman’s voice, low and amused. Not words. Just the tone.

You turn slowly, goosebumps crawling up your arms.

There’s no one there.

But it feels like there is.

Bucky’s still watching the room like it’s going to move on its own.

You don’t answer.

There’s a sound then. Not loud. Just a scrape, like someone pulling their chair back, ready to leave.

You both turn.

Nothing moves.

But the folded napkin is now unfolded, crumpled gently on the seat.

The grapefruit is gone.

The juice pitcher is empty.

The book on the side table is closed, a bookmark placed neatly between its pages.

You blink.

There is only rusted metal, cold dead silence and the thick smell of salt. 

Back to dust. Rot.

“Did you see–”

“Yep.” 

You glance around. 

The pale green walls half peeled and browned. Wet splotches on the ceiling. 

There’s a painting of a garden party over the fireplace, and beside it is a mirror.

Full-length. Silver-framed. Spotless.

You tilt your head at it.

Bucky walks closer, and the moment you both step in front of it, you freeze.

Because it’s you.

But not exactly.

Standing too near. Soft expressions that don’t match the faces you think you wear. A version of you that belongs here. A version of Bucky that isn’t carrying everything in his shoulders. 

Like you’re mid-conversation. Like this is familiar.

You glance at him.

He’s staring at the mirror with an unreadable expression.

“…That’s not real,” he says after a long pause.

“No shit.”

“I don’t stand like that.”

“I don’t smile like that.”

The version of you in the mirror glances up. At him.

The reflection of Bucky gives you that smile. You recognise it– it’s the one he only ever uses when he thinks no one’s looking. Sometimes it makes an appearance when you say something exceptionally stupid. 

Your stomach does something unhelpful.

“Okay,” you say too loudly, stepping back. “Well, that’s cursed.”

“Some fucking gas leak has us hallucinating here,” he adds, voice rough. “We’re leaving before we pass out.”

He slinks away, clearing his throat and blinking harshly a few times. What the fuck. 

“Got another hundred rooms and a whole night– well fuck,” you stop midway. 

“What?” he asks, trying to reconcile with what he just saw. 

“I don’t know how long we’ve been in this fucking room but it’s close to midnight,” you murmur. “Crazy.”

That’s one way of putting it. 

“Well, that was fun. I’m gonna go check if we got any of that on camera or if we just went through a cool new bonding exercise in our heads,” you say, unfazed.

Bucky thinks that the world may not be all he’s been believing all these years. 

You walk out of the room, leaving Bucky to follow. 

He turns to the mirror again.

It’s cracked.

Just once, straight down the middle.

“C’mon, we’ve gotta go check out the captain’s quarters,” you call.

“Coming,” he grunts out, exhaling slightly. 

He turns again, just out of instinct, one last time– 

She’s there.

Small. Smiling. Bright-eyed in that way only memory can exaggerate..

Standing beside him in the reflection, just for a moment. Hair tucked behind her ears. Wearing a sundress he got her with money from overtime at the docks

She mouths something.

“Leave.”

He takes half a step back. Blinks.

She’s gone.

Your voice sounds distant, asking something, but he doesn’t register what.

He turns. Doesn’t speak. Just walks out.

You walk in silence for a while.

Your boots creak against the warped floor. Bucky’s steps are quieter. Measured.

You glance sideways at him.

He’s got that look again. The one where he’s processing, but pretending he’s not.

You open your mouth. Close it again.

You stop in the middle of the corridor. He stops too, reluctantly.

Your voice drops, suddenly serious. “You saw it. The mirror. Us.”

“Did I?

He starts walking again.

“You’re being weird about this,” you say, catching up.

“I’m being normal about this,” he mutters.  

You roll your eyes. “You’re deflecting. That’s fine. That’s your thing. But I know when something rattles you.”

He snorts. “I wasn’t rattled.”

You study his face. The way his mouth is set, the way his jaw ticks every few seconds like he’s grinding through something.

You stop again.

And then you sit down. Right there in the middle of the hallway. Clipboard across your lap like a shield.

He blinks down at you.

“What are you doing.”

“Something’s wrong, Bucky.”

“Something’s always wrong.”

You pull a pen from behind your ear like it’s a sword. “You’re being weird. This isn’t just normal you-weird, this is that weird.”

He sighs.

“Alright. Paranormal scale. One to ten. Emotional impact, ten being a full snot-crying on my shoulder.”

He groans. “Put that away.”

“You’re pale.”

“That’s just my face.”

“You look seasick.”

“I am seasick.”

“From a ship that hasn’t moved since 1900s?”

He closes his eyes. “I should’ve left you in the mirror.”

“You wouldn’t. I was fake-laughing at your jokes.”

He snorts. Looks away. That one almost got him.

You make a show of writing something down. “So. You’re not talking. You’re not denying it either. Conclusion?”

“I’m tired.”

You study him for a few more moments. Bucky doesn’t change.

You glance down at the clipboard. Then, gently, you place it back in the bag.

You offer him a bottle of water instead. He takes it.

“Where’s the quarters,” he asks. 

“Straight ahead,” you oblige. 

The lantern’s been off for fifteen minutes.

Technically, it’s lights-out.

Realistically, you’re still awake.

Lying on your back, blanket pulled over your chest, eyes fixed on the water-stained ceiling, listening to the gentle scratch of pen on paper.

Bucky shifts in his sleeping bag beside you. “Are you writing again?”

“No,” you say, scribbling something else. “I’m documenting.”

He exhales through his nose. “Same thing.”

“I’m keeping a record in case we’re murdered in the night. I think that’s responsible.”

“You wrote ‘smells like seaweed’ earlier.”

“It did smell like seaweed.”

He turns his head. “What does it smell like now?”

You pause. “Unresolved tension.”

“Go to sleep.”

“I will. I’m just waiting.”

He groans. “For what?”

You tap your pen. “To see if any of the staff shows up. Captain usually goes on rounds at night.”

“There’s no ghost captain.”

“There might be. He probably wears epaulettes and appears only to emotionally complicated people.”

“My bad, tell him I say hi when you meet.”

You toss a balled-up gum wrapper in his direction. It hits his shoulder.

You glance at him. He’s lying perfectly still, like if he commits hard enough, he’ll vanish.

You turn back to your clipboard. “I think if I die, they’ll probably promote me. Make me first mate.”

“You’d be thrown overboard in five minutes.”

“I’d haunt the galley. Spill soup on your ghost boots.”

“Ghost boots.”

“Ghost boots.”

“You still haven’t told me where you got that fucking candle from.”

“Stole it from brunch.” You glance at the small tealight flickering next to your knee. “It’s ambiance.”

“You’re going to burn the ship down.”

“It’s in a dish.”

“You put it in a cup.”

“It fits perfectly.”

There’s a long pause.

“You’re insane.”

You smile to yourself. “You love it.”

“I tolerate it.”

“You love it.”

Bucky doesn’t answer.

He just rolls over, pulling the sleeping bag tighter. “Wake me up if anyone on the staff’s hot.”

You grin, still scribbling. “I’ll put that in the notes.”

The first thing he notices is the movement.

A deep, rolling sway. Not a casual creak or a groan, but a full-bodied shift.

He blinks awake.

Immediately regrets it.

His stomach lurches sideways.

The ceiling above him is doing slow, sick figure-eights.

“God–” he mutters, pressing the heel of his hand to his forehead. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

The ship rocks again, harder this time.

He grabs the edge of his sleeping bag like it’ll help. It doesn’t.

He closes his eyes, counts to five, and opens them again.

And that’s when he realizes.

The sleeping bag next to his is empty.

No candle. No clipboard.

No you.

“Jesus fucking Christ. You have to be kidding me.”

He tries to sit up and instantly regrets that too.

Something slips down from his forehead and lodges on his nose. 

He pulls it off and stares at it.

A sticky note.

You’ve written in your neatest cursive:

“Gone to investigate.

If I die, avenge me.

If I live, take me bowling.”

He stares at it.

Underneath, in all caps:

“DO NOT THROW UP IN THE CORNER. THAT’S MY SIDE.”

Then lets his head fall back against the floor with a quiet, miserable thunk.

Another lurch. The ship groans like it’s stretching awake.

He exhales through his nose. Folds the note once. Puts it in his pocket.

Then he rolls to his feet, grabbing onto walls and railings to steady himself, and sets off to find you.

_____

Bucky staggers down the corridor like a man cursed, one hand braced against the wall, the other curled around his stomach. 

The ship sways harder this time like it’s trying to shrug him off.

He swears under his breath.

He rounds a corner, stomach lurching again, and stops in the doorway of the captain’s room.

You’re there.

Grinning like a lunatic, wind in your face that doesn’t technically exist, spinning the massive ship’s wheel with both hands.

He shouts over the noise. “What the hell are you doing?”

You look over, delighted. “Steering!”

He blinks. “We’re not moving.”

You point dramatically. “We are listing to port, sir. Someone had to take control before this ship took us to fucking hell.”

The wheel creaks as you spin it again. You lean into it like it might actually do something.

“You’re making it worse,” he groans, dragging himself fully into the room. 

You glance at him. “You look awful.”

“I feel worse.”

“You’re green.”

“The room is fucking spinning.”

“I know, I’m trying to counterbalance it.”

He collapses against the nearest console like it might forgive him. The whole floor shifts again, a slow, sick tilt that makes the walls groan in protest.

You finally let go of the wheel. "Honestly, the ship started making all these weird noises and when I got up to check, it started rocking like we're in the middle of a storm. I was hoping I'd get it under control before it woke you up. Didn't want you to get sick."

The ship groans again. Still. Slower, maybe. But still wrong.

You look at him a little closer now.

“Okay, you really don’t look good.”

“I woke up alone. On a moving ship.”

“Did you throw up on my side?

“There was a note taped to my face.”

“I told you not to throw up on my side.”

“Stop talking about throwing up,” he groans. 

“Alright, Buck,” you say brightly, “your turn!”

He doesn’t even lift his head. “Absolutely not.”

You let go anyway.

The wheel creaks, spins half a turn on its own.

“Why is it still moving?” he asks sharply.

You’re already across the room. You step up onto the low ledge by the window and spread your arms slightly, windless but dramatic.

“I’m the king of the world,” you announce.

“Get down.”

The ship lists again. He lurches forward, catches himself on the wheel, and immediately regrets touching it.

You hop down lightly and clap your hands together. “Okay, okay, fine. Keep steering. I’ll figure this out..”

“I’m not steering.”

“You are steering. You’re at the wheel. That’s what it means.”

“I’m touching the wheel. That’s not consent.”

“Ghost captain would be disappointed in you.”

“Ghost captain should drive his own damn ship.”

He grips the wheel with one hand. It shifts again beneath his fingers, slow and unsteady.

The wind’s gotten worse.

The deck tilts again, hard. You catch yourself, slide a few inches toward the helm, wind slamming through the cracks in the wall.

“Okay, okay,” you pant. “I think it’s pulling to the left. Hold on, I’ll try to level it out–”

“Christ alive, hurry up.”

“I am doing my best.”

The ship lists again. He makes a noise and grips the wheel tighter.

“I hate this place,” he mutters. ”I hate ghosts. I hate ships. I hate being haunted.”

“I thought the brunch wasn’t that bad–”

“That’s not what I’m talking about. 'm talking about the dead people who've been after me for months.” He clenches his eyes shut to quell the nausea. 

The ship groans under you like it’s stretching its spine.

“What?”

Fuck.

“What do you mean dead people have been after you for months?”

He’s not looking at you. Both hands on the wheel, jaw clenched.

You stare.

He swallows. Doesn’t repeat it. But the damage is done.

You step toward him, slow. “Bucky.”

“Can you make this stop?” he says, voice as even as he can make it.

The ship groans again, loud now. Almost angry.

You plant your legs firmly on the ground. 

Your fingers dig into the palm.

Steady. Focused.

And the wind begins to slow.

Not like flipping a switch, but with a groan. 

The ship stops rolling. The tilt evens.

It doesn’t feel natural, not in the way ships normally respond to weight or wind, but it’s still. 

You breathe hard. Keep your hands where they are.

Bucky is still staring at the wheel, like it’s safer than meeting your eyes.

“Forget what I said, I’m sick,” he says, voice rough. 

You don't say anything when you look at him. 

The ship groans beneath you but this time it’s heavier.

You step to the window again, squinting out into the dark.

He doesn’t look up. He’s leaned over a console like the only thing keeping him upright is his refusal to puke in front of you.

You clear your throat. “I think we’re not in the water anymore.”

“What?”

You open the hatch. Step out into the stale wind.

He drags himself after you, reluctant and mildly green.

Outside, there’s nothing. No lapping water. No dock.

Just air. Fog. The faint shape of the coastline beneath you.

The Odette is levitating.

Bucky stares for a long moment.

“Did you lift the ship?”

“Not on purpose.”

“You anchored us into the air.”

“I was trying to keep it from swaying.”

“You took it off the ocean.”

You hold up both hands. “To be fair, it worked. I can put it–”

“Do not put it back down.”

You blink.

He slides down the wall and sits, knees pulled up, head in his hands. “If it starts moving again, I will jump off the side.”

You nod solemnly. “Understood, Captain.”

He drops his head to his knees.

You sit beside him.

For a long beat, neither of you say anything.

The air is cool, and it ruffles through his hair. You wipe stray strands away from his forehead. 

“If you bring that clipboard out, I’ll drown myself.”

“I’ll circle back later.”

“Absolutely not.”

You pat his knee. “Let me know when you’re ready to go back down.”

He just closes his eyes. “Give me five– twenty minutes.”

You barely make it through the front doors before being ambushed.

Really, Maya appears like she’s been summoned.

“Jesus Christ,” she says, stepping into the hallway. “You’re alive.”

You pause mid-step. “Statistically, we’re usually alive.”

Maya exhales like she’s been holding it in for hours. She’s in flats, an oversized blazer, and carrying two phones, both vibrating. 

She stops in front of you. Eyes bloodshot.  

“I have emailed. I have pinged. I have sent a courier, and the only response I got was an AI generated TikTok of both of you turning into swans.”

You blink. “I figured I was in trouble again.”

“And so you thought avoiding it would make it go away?”

“I try that with everything, it never works,” Bucky mutters. 

Maya closes her eyes. “You two are going to be the death of me.”

“You’ve said that before.”

“Yes. And every time I mean it more.” She opens her tablet. “Anyway, that’s not what I wanted to talk to you about, which you'd know if you opened my mail.”

“Sorry.”

She waves you off. “Your numbers are up. A lot.”

You raise an eyebrow. “How much is a lot?”

She turns the screen. “This is your traffic graph.”

You stare. “Why does it look like a heart attack?”

“Because while you test terribly with people over the age of 65, ages 13 to 55 love you. Congratulations. You are now accidentally our most valuable brand.”

Bucky falters. 

Maya continues, flipping to another screen. “Also, the poll about the code name? That thing you launched without approval?”

You nod slowly. “People had opinions.”

“They always have opinions. You know who else had opinions? Legal. Communications. Homeland Security, somehow.” She gestures broadly. “But good news for you: it worked. Your metrics are through the roof. So, as per the contract you signed– you only need enough videos to finish off the season. Then you’re out.”

You stare at her.  

“We’re out?” you repeat. 

Maya nods. “Done. No more videos. Just a few interviews here and there, and some social media.”

You glance at Bucky.

He’s still facing away, completely still. Like he’s buffering.

Maya softens a little. “Hey. This is good. Right? You guys– him especially– wanted this. You’re free.”

Still nothing from him.

You say, carefully, “Yeah. Great.”

She studies you both. Her voice gentles. “Seriously. You did good. I’m proud of you. Deeply, incredibly exhausted. But proud.”

Bucky finally turns. Looks like he’s trying to remember how language works.

“Thanks,” he says flatly.

Maya tilts her head. “Okay. That’s about the emotional range I expected.”

You smile faintly. “You should lie down.”

“Oh, I’m going to die standing up like a horse.” She steps back. “Eat something, you guys look terrible. And sign off on the new Mayday merch. We’re launching a footwear collection.”

“No promises,” you reply.

“I know,” she mutters, and walks off down the hall, muttering to herself about analytics. 

The silence returns.

You and Bucky stand there a while longer.

Finally, he says, without looking at you, “C’mon.”

Neither of you say what you’re thinking.

Bucky doesn’t know whether the sick feeling in his stomach is still from the ship or not.  

The elevator dings softly.

The doors slide open to your floor.

You’re half-asleep, half-hovering against the wall of the elevator, hoodie pulled over your head.

Bucky stands beside you, hands in his pockets.

You yawn, dragging your feet as you step out. “You look like you’re about to collapse. You don’t have to walk–”

Before you can finish the statement, he steps forward. Stubborn motherfucker. 

Follows you down the hall.

“I’ve made it to the room in one piece," you announce. "Now go sleep for a week.”

“I will.”

But he stays until you cross the threshold. Until the lights come on fully. 

Until you turn and say, a little softer, “Thanks.”

He nods just barely.

Then turns and disappears down the hall.

Bucky doesn’t even bother with the light when he gets back to his room.

The door slides shut behind him and he lets his coat hit the floor somewhere between the entrance and the bed.

He lands face down, boots still on, half a groan catching in his throat on the way down.

He lies there for a long time.

Somewhere near the pillow, Alpine lets out a soft chirp.

She steps delicately onto his back. Sits.

He doesn’t complain.

The buzz of his phone vibrates against the nightstand.

He reaches out blindly, flips it toward his face. Squints.

He closes his eyes again. Let the phone drop.  

From: mayday

You ever gonna talk about what you said on the boat?

Exhales long and heavy.

There’s a pause.

Then, from somewhere near his shoulder:

“You should talk about your sister.”

His eyes snap open.

He doesn’t move.

Just lies there.

Face still in the pillow.

He lifts his head. Slowly. Looks over his shoulder.

Alpine is still sitting there. Tail flicking gently.

Silence.

“I haven’t told anyone about her yet, if that’s what you care about.”

Bucky stares, mouth open.

Alpine licks her paw. Casually. 

“You can fucking talk?!”

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