In Case Anyone Is Having A Bad Night

“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

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

I'd love a fic where the Avengers are tentatively trying to accept Bucky, and he comes off as this kind of emotionless, half person that they can't really get to know or related to.

He's terrified of Hydra getting him again, though. To the point where he'd rather die than risk them getting their hands on him.

And it humanizes him enough for the others to get attached.

Something with Steve and Bucky staying in the tower while Bucky recovers, and Tony who's only letting this slide because it's Steve and even though he's very upset angryfuriousdevestated he knows deep down that Bucky is a victim in all this too.

And the others are doing well with it. Cautious but open.

They all know what happened to Bucky, part of the agreement with him staying in the tower with Steve was that all the info was available for them to see, so they knew what exactly they were getting into.

Bucky keeps to Steve's floor and doesn't interact with them too much. Sometimes with Sam, occasionally with Natasha and Clint.

He's still intimidating as hell. Even when all he does is follow Steve around and avoid meeting their eyes too often. They can tell when he enters a room, all the hair on their bodies standing on end, even though half the time they don't even hear him.

He's not allowed any weapons, and he has to be monitored by Jarvis constantly.

Sometimes he has nightmares and they can hear it even on different floors. Sometimes, someone hits one of his triggers accidentally, god there's so many and it's a toss-up between them getting attacked or him going silent and submissive in a way that makes them sick. And adds an extra layer of disgust and fury to everything that happened to him, because nothing good happens when people like the ones in Hydra get their hands on people like him.

There's still a disconnect between what they read about him and the him they see around the tower. He's controled, with the occasional episode or outburst, but overall he keeps a tight hold on his body language and doesn't speak much.

They don't doubt it happened, there are videos and recordings with the files and they still see some of them when they close their eyes.

But... it's like he's got it all shoved in a small box somewhere. He's still like a machine in a lot of ways.

That's just what he shows them, of course. They've seen some of his breakdowns when he's out in the tower with Steve, and it's different. Steve gets to see all the bad, all the fallout and aftermath, and they don't envy him.

But then Hydra comes looking for him.

And he loses it. Not in a violent, winter soldier way, but in a terrified don't let them take me god please please don't let them take me away.

Hydra has him locking up. Terrified, desperate, trying to hide himself in whoever is close enough to him, and ready to slit his own throat if it means Hydra won't get him.

And none of the Avengers are going to let that happen. Steve would kill them all, but also, they're not going to let that happen.

They're not.

And he just kind of curls into whoever is with him. Wild-eyed, shaking, completely lost in his head, and begging for them to not let Hydra get him please please please

And if he gets too upset scared or Hydra gets close enough that it actually starts to become a realy worry that they might manage to grab him, he starts begging for something so he can end it himself. They're going to get him, just kill him please please please. He can't do it again. He can't.

It takes him a long time to calm down after those. He clings to the person he was with, still not quite out of his head yet enough to realize the threat is gone and only knowing that whoever he was with kept him away from Hydra so they must be safe. He knows Steve trusts them, so Bucky trusts them.

It's unsettling to realize he also probably trusts them to end it if they need to. And with that is the horrible realization that it would be a kindness to do so, if the other option is Hydra.

They don't discuss it. No one says what they're all thinking. That they might do it. Should do it if that's the only option left.

Bucky knows what's waiting for him if Hydra gets him back. The Avengers know it, too.

It would be a mercy. For him and Steve.

They're not sure what Steve would do or what his thoughts are on it, and absolutely no one is volunteering to start that conversation with him.

It's a little terrifying to have Bucky stuck to them like that, shaking and lost in his own head. He's a monster of his own, strong and skilled, experienced, and violent. They're letting someone that could easily kill them, curl up and seek safety in them.

The truth of it is, it's ugly. All the trauma and horror and fear that they hadn't seen on him before comes out. Desperation for safety, and if not that then death, is always a heavy thing to see.

They're suppose to help people, stop the bad guys, and all that other hero stuff. They can't seem to figure out how to stop Hydra though.

They can't tell Bucky he's safe because he's not. They can't promise Hydra won't get him because they might.

They can promise Hydra won't have him for long, between the hell Steve would bring down on the whole world and the others right on his tail, but they wouldn't need a lot of time.

So, they lie sometimes. When the threat is gone and Steve's not there yet, Bucky still lost and mumbling please over and over, and they don't even know what's he's asking for anymore but they want to give it to him.

So they say Hydra won't get him. They promise that Hydra will never get him again. They promise he's safe.

They keep him close, let him cling and curl into them because he's a raw, gaping wound and they can't bring themselves to let go and expose him to the world yet.

They ignore the wet lashes against where he's curled his face into their throats or chests, petting through his hair, and keeping up reassurances and promises that they don't necessarily have the power to keep... but they all need it.

If anyone deserves to feel safe, it's this man.

And they know Steve is gone to them if Bucky goes again. The two of them are going together this time, even if it means the end.

●●●●●●●

And one time Hydra almost gets him. Steve separated from them and Hydra always knows that their best chance is seperating Steve and Bucky first and Hydra working on separating the rest of them.

It was working.

Bucky went from blind, frozen terror to a horrible, desperate hope and scrambled, managed to get his hands on one of the guns.

It was against his temple before any of them could even move towards him and the empty click it made when he pulled the trigger was louder than anything everything else happening in that moment.

They honestly thought he had managed to do it before they heard the click. A numb voice in their heads asking how the fuck they were going to tell Steve. How they were going to get over this themselves because holy shit.

They thought they were prepared for something like this. There was always a chance that something would trigger Bucky and they'd end up having to kill him, even if Steve would hate them for it and he would, but they hadn't realized how attached they'd gotten. How protective they felt over him.

There was no hesitation when he pulled the trigger and he asked them sometimes, when Hydra was too close for comfort, to just kill him rather than let Hydra get him but they always thought deep down it was just something he said because he was scared, that he didn't really mean it. But there was intent behind it. He had made it clear that if they wouldn't do it, then he would.

They don't need to tell Steve later, thank god because they don't have the words yet. He saw the gun with Bucky and if there had been a bullet in it, he knows Bucky wouldn't have wasted it by aiming at one Hydra agent out of the many there.

✨️✨️

There are so many things that could have addressed/shown with Bucky's recovering and I just wish we'd seen more of it.

If you have any fics recs, let me know~!

I'm slowly working my way through ao3 but some of the best fics I've found so far I've found through other people and the fics have like one tag on them besides the pairing, so I would never have found them on my own.

Like at this point I dont have the energy to change the direction my life is taking right now. Like God's taken the steering wheel and I'm just cruising along in the passenger seat, that's what's happening rn. Or maybe the devil's the one holding the steering wheel, idk someone's in the driver's seat. Or maybe it's a self driving car, the way my life's going it seems like a self driving car. Or maybe it's all just minutes away from crashing and burning and no one's driving the car at all and we're just headed towards an accident.

---

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.

There's just so many interesting ways to explore Bucky relearning how to be a person again because it would/should have been a process.

Losing parts of yourself is such an easy thing to do.

Someone says you're stupid enough times, and then you start to wonder if you are.

Someone comments on the size of your nose enough, and then you start to think it's big.

Someone treats you like you're worthless, and then you start to think you are.

They wouldn't have treated him like a human. They wouldn't even need to break him, just treat him like a thing, and eventually, he'll start to wonder if he is.

They don't talk or listen to him because things can't talk. They ignore his questions and begging. They ignore his cries and screams.

Is he even making them? Can they hear him.

They don't worry if he bleeds. Things don't bleed.

Is he even bleeding anymore? Is it just in his head?

They don't call him by his name. Things don't have names.

What was his name again?

They don't feed him real food. Things don't get hungry.

He doesn't feel hungry anymore.

They don't have a set schedule for him. Things don't care about the passage of time.

What day is it? How long as he been here?

They don't care if he hurts. Things can't hurt.

Maybe he doesn't hurt? Maybe this is normal and he's just confused. He's always confused now.

They say maintenance and maintain and fix.

You don't do those things to people. So he's not a person, right? He can't be if that's what they're doing to him.

People have names.

Right? Did it ever have one? Even if it did, who would have used it?

No, it never had a human name. It was created, crafted.

No one worries if their gun is hungry, or if their knife is trying to communicate with them, or if their tool is tired.

Those things are not for it.

And then you've got this guy, out of nowhere, who knows you.

Who says a name and is looking at you while he says it.

He's talking to you like you can speak back, like he wants you to speak back.

And it's confusing, so confusing, because why does the man think it is a person?

It gets more confused after a few days on its own because why is it suddenly needing human maintenance?

Its stomach aches, and it knows the ache is hunger. Why does it know that?

The man finds it.

It is a relief in a way. It requires attention and repairs.

It tells the man that it is malfunctioning.

The man says that he is hurt

...but things don't hurt. It needs repair.

Healing the man says.

Things don't heal though.

It starts to shut off more.

Sleeping the man says. You need to sleep.

The bed is for people. It sleeps in the ice. If it must rest, then it rests on the floor.

The man is quiet angry and he takes a long walk.

The man is not Hydra. He gets angry when it asks about previous handlers.

It requires a handler, though, an owner. Things are not free.

So, the man must be its handler, even if he is not Hydra.

Things must be maintained, and to be maintained, they must belong to someone.

The man calls him Bucky, always says Bucky when it calls itself it.

Fine. It will answer to the name Bucky if the man requests so.

Things don't have names, and things don't want them, but Bucky is a nice name if it must have one.

The man makes it do human things.

It must eat and drink. They start small because if it eats certain things, then it malfunctions, and the man gets upset.

It must sleep, or try to, each night. There is no ice, just blankets. It is given several of them since it maintains that it must sleep on the floor. It doesn't know what to do with them. The man eventually lays them out in a way that he deems comfortable.

The blankets are... nice. Warm.

It did not know it was cold.

The man speaks to it and listens. It doesn't know what to say, it has never been given attention like this.

The man introduces other people, and it makes sure to remember them because these people seem important to the man.

Sam.

Natasha.

Tony.

And it must remember the man is called Steve.

Tony is odd.

Tony does not like it. That is fine. Things don't care if they are liked or not.

Steve and Tony argue about it on the other side of the room, but it acts like it does not hear them.

Tony wants to see all its information.

It had not knows Steve had all of its protocols and maintenance information.

Steve agrees and Tony leaves.

Tony comes back after a few days. The anger is still on him, but it's different. He looks at its arm and says it needs maintenance.

Finally.

Tony will be able to help Steve understand that it does not require human maintenance.

Tony does not tell Steve this.

He looks at it for awhile when it asks if he will help Steve understand that it is not a person.

Things don't ask questions. It should not have spoken. It is malfunctioning.

Tony goes back to the arm without answering, and that's fine. People don't talk to things. They talk at them.

Steve's human maintenance has caused it to start malfunctioning.

Tony calls it Bucky, too.

They're both terrible at this.

It keeps malfunctioning.

It keeps asking questions. Why? It can't stop itself.

It likes the blankets.

It doesn't know if it has liked things before. The blankets are soft and warm, and it likes to touch them.

It does not like cold now that it knows that it is always cold.

Steve brings it blankets often after he realizes how much it likes them.

These people touch it a lot.

Tony touches it while he does maintenance. This maintenance does not hurt, and the arm doesn't hurt malfunction as often.

Tony plays music and talks a lot. He has little robots that are strange and clearly malfunctioning, but he does not take corrective steps. Instead, he allows the malfunctions, maybe even seems to enjoy them.

Maybe it likes this... maintenance... like it likes the blanket.

The woman Natasha, that's not her name... is it? touches it. She does maintenance braids she calls them on its hair. She is confident when she touches it, but she also makes her movements clear.

Why does she do that for it? Things don't need to know what someone will do to it. It is... nice. It thinks it likes this too.

Sam touches it. He talks to it a lot, too. He is purposeful but makes sure to touch it each time he comes to visit.

He wants it to speak back. He encourages it to speak more than he wants to speak himself. He is patient, even when it is not able to make the words come out right.

It likes this... having someone listen.

They bring more people.

A man, Clint, with sharp eyes who jokes with it, tries to make it laugh.

Clint is a marksman and very skilled. He takes it with him when he goes to train. He insists they have competitions and there are no punishments when it does not perform to or exceed expectations.

Sometimes, he brings small pieces of candy for them to share, and he winks like it's a secret just between them.

Things don't smile... but it feels like something inside of it is smiling.

There's another man, Bruce, quiet and careful. Something about him gives an air of power, but he is gentle. A scientist, more than Tony, and he makes it... nervous? No, not nervous. Things don't get nervous.

The man looks over it like it is human, asking it if anything hurts like it is a person.

It tells him where it is damaged, even though it is fully operational.

If it is fully operational, then the damage does not require maintenance. It did not need to tell him. Things don't hurt.... why did it tell him where it hurt?

Thor is loud and big. He smells like rain, and it likes that. It did not know it liked the smell of rain.

Thor is not scared of it. He does not worry about a malfunction, and he seems to have no expectations on it or what it might have been.

He does not lower his voice around it, and he even does a sort of roughhousing with it at times, although Steve hovers nervously whenever that happens. He claps it on the back and calls it friend like Steve does, and is it suppose to know this man too? It doesn't remember this man.

Things don't have memories, but... sometimes, it thinks it might.

It asks Steve about them sometimes, slow and quiet, because while Steve has not hurt it for remembering or asking questions, it knows remembering was bad.

Remembering means pain. Why does it know that?

Steve tells it about them. He says it had a family, sisters, and friends. He talks about them, and about the war and the howling commandos, and... oh, it is crying.

Things do not cry. It is malfunctioning.

They all call it Bucky.

They give it maintenance like it is a person.

They like when it likes things and even look happy when it decides that it does not like things.

They do not treat it as a thing... so maybe it isn't? Maybe... he's a person.

It refers to itself as he a few days later.

Tentative, and after a pause where it was hard to get the word out, he looks up carefully through his lashes because what if he's wrong? What if this was a test and what if they wanted to get him to think this way just to take it away an-

They are happy.

Steve is very happy and he likes it when Steve is happy.

He likes it when they are all happy.

There are bad days when he does not think he is a person and thinks they're playing a terrible game with him.

They're being cruel. They have to be because he's not a person.

If he's a person, then that means he's been a person this whole time and that Hydra took that away from him.

That means...

He's not there yet. He doesn't like to talk about things like that yet. It makes his head hurt, and he doesn't like that, and it's too much. He gets upset... because he is a person and people get upset.

That is still a strange thought to him, that he's human.

He tells Steve about things he remembers. He has questions, and he's getting better at asking them without tripping over his words or stopping halfway through.

He has a bed with lots of blankets.

He has food and books and music that he likes.

He has a big marker he can write his name on things with. He's still scared all of it is going to be taken away from him, but if his name is Bucky and if he's a person, then his name on things means that those things are his.

Right? He had to ask to make sure, but they all said that was right. He likes putting his name on things.

He likes having things.

He likes to take the drawings Steve makes and always gives to him. He likes that Sam brings him little things whenever he goes somewhere. Sometimes, it's pins, or buttons or pretty pieces of paper.

He likes small screws from Tony's lab, pens Bruce leaves laying around, hair ties from Natasha, pop tart wraps that Thor drops, and the heads of arrows that Clint loses.

He likes that he's remembering more and more. He likes remembering that he's always liked things. Like dancing, and records, and laughing, and Steve.

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.

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"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