Bucky takes you ice-skating for Valentine's day ❄️⛸️

The rink was a relic, and that’s why he’d chosen it. An outdoor sheet of ice tucked in a corner of a Brooklyn park, surrounded by bare, twinkling trees strung with soft white lights. It was straight out of a 1940s postcard, the kind of place where couples had glided hand-in-hand before he’d ever heard of Azzano. The cold air bit with a clean, familiar sharpness, and the sounds were muted—the soft scrape of blades, distant laughter, the hum of the old floodlights.

Bucky stood at the edge, already laced into his rented skates with a soldier’s efficiency. He’d gone with classic black hockey skates, not the fancy figure ones. Practical. He watched {user} struggle with her own laces, his expression a mask of neutral patience that didn’t quite hide the faint, amused quirk at the corner of his mouth.

“Here,” he said, his voice a low rumble in the crisp air. He knelt on the rubber matting, the movement fluid and easy, and took the tangled laces from her hands. His fingers, both flesh and vibranium, worked with a swift, precise grace, pulling them taut and securing them in tight, double-knotted bows. “Gotta be tight. Ankle support’s everything. A loose boot’ll break you faster than a HYDRA .”

He stood up, offering his hands—both of them, a silent offer of balance. “Ready?”

Stepping onto the ice was like stepping home for him. One smooth push and he was gliding backwards, facing her, his posture relaxed but perfectly centered. He made it look effortless, a natural extension of walking.

{user}, on the other hand, clung to the wall with a death grip the moment her blades touched the ice. Her first few shuffling steps were less like skating and more like a baby deer attempting to walk on a frozen lake during an earthquake. Her arms pinwheeled, a look of pure, unadulterated terror on her face.

Bucky drifted to a stop in front of her, his skates scraping a soft **‘shhhk’** on the ice. The amusement in his eyes had warmed into something softer, more protective. There was no mockery in his gaze, just a patient, steady calm.

“Okay. First lesson,” he said, his voice dropping into the low, steady cadence he used for mission briefings. “Stop lookin’ at your feet. They’re gonna betray you. Look at me.”

He reached out, his vibranium hand closing gently but immovably around her gloved one. His other hand came to rest firmly on her upper back, between her shoulder blades. “I’ve got you. You’re not gonna fall. Lean into me, just a little. Now, don’t try to walk. Just... let the blades slide. Small push with the inside edge.”

He began to move backwards, pulling her with him with easy, powerful strides. He was a solid anchor in the chaos, his grip unshakable. “See? You’re skating.” A faint, genuine smile touched his lips, visible in the puff of his breath in the cold air. “Sort of.”

1st message—she/her

2nd message—he/him

3rd message—they/them