Harry was used to obsession.
He had spent years being the center of attention in the wizarding world—worshipped, feared, hated, revered. People had always projected their expectations onto him, shaping their perceptions of who he was supposed to be.
But Bucky?
Bucky was different.
He wasn't looking for a hero. He wasn't searching for a savior, or a Chosen One, or even a Master of Death.
He was looking at Harry.
And that? That was more dangerous than anything Harry had ever faced.
Because he liked it.
The Unbreakable Shadow
It had become a routine.
Harry would wake up—Bucky was already up.
Harry would train—Bucky would be waiting.
Harry would go for a walk—Bucky would follow.
And not once did he ask.
He simply was there, like an extension of Harry himself.
And Harry?
Harry let it happen.
Because for the first time in his life, someone wasn't following him because they feared him.
Bucky followed because he refused to be anywhere else.
"You don't sleep much," Harry commented one night, sitting on the rooftop of Avengers Tower.
Bucky leaned against the railing beside him, arms crossed. "Neither do you."
Harry smirked. "Guess we have something in common, then."
Bucky's steel-blue eyes flickered toward him. "More than you know."
Harry felt his magic stir again. That pull—the same one that had been growing stronger ever since they met.
Something old recognized Bucky.
Something deep.
But it wasn't magic.
It was Death.
And Death approved.
Loki was, in a word, furious.
Not jealous, of course. No, never jealous.
But possessive?
Absolutely.
"You allow this mortal too much proximity," Loki drawled one afternoon, watching Bucky sharpen his knife across the room.
Harry glanced up from his book. "Proximity?"
Loki sneered. "Do not play coy, Master of Death. He clings to you like a hound who has found his master."
Harry smirked. "And?"
Loki scowled. "And it is unseemly."
Harry tilted his head. "For whom?"
Loki's jaw clenched, but before he could answer, Bucky spoke from across the room.
"You got a problem?"
Loki turned, green eyes narrowing. "Yes, actually. I find your presence annoying."
Bucky smirked, slow and dark. "Good. I'm not going anywhere."
Loki bristled. "You think you are worthy of him?"
Bucky's smirk vanished.
And his expression changed.
Slow. Unshakable.
Possessive.
"I know I am," he said simply.
The air in the room dropped.
Loki's magic flared—sharp, electric, dangerous—
But then—
The lights flickered.
The shadows stirred.
And a presence pressed against them all.
Something vast. Unseen. Watching.
And Loki—God of Mischief, Prince of Asgard, son of Odin—stepped back.
Because it wasn't just Harry looking at him anymore.
It was Death.
And Death favored the Soldier.
Loki gritted his teeth but said nothing.
Because even he knew better than to challenge Death's will.
Later that night, when the Tower was quiet, Harry stood once again on the rooftop, his magic humming softly beneath his skin.
And, as always, Bucky was there.
Silent. Unwavering.
Harry sighed, glancing at him. "You're not going to stop following me, are you?"
Bucky's lips twitched. "No."
Harry turned fully, studying him. The dim city lights reflected off Bucky's metal arm, highlighting the sharp angles of his face. There was something unshakable in the way he stood.
"Why?" Harry asked, voice quieter.
Bucky didn't hesitate.
"Because you're mine."
Harry felt something deep inside him snap into place.
It wasn't a claim. Not in the way people had tried to claim him before.
It wasn't control.
It was devotion.
Harry's glowing emerald eyes burned brighter.
"Good," he murmured. "Then don't stop."
And in the darkness behind them, Death smiled.