Chapter Text
Bucky Barnes, for all intents and purposes, is edgy.
His SHIELD salary is definitely enough to afford him a simple beanie, gloves even if he’s that eager. His long hair, though a spectacle in itself, isn’t as good at keeping away the cold as he claims it to be.
It’s a personal choice, a fashion statement even, to be roaming the streets in a long flimsy t-shirt that does nothing to accentuate his broad shoulders, and tactical pants that look a little too comfortable.
It’s cold. He says he likes it, to appease his blond-haired best friend who insisted that he wear a cardigan at least. He won’t like it in a while, but he would never admit it.
The bike ride to the other side of town for a minor mission takes longer than he expected. The wind rushing by gets his adrenaline racing.
Official missions are long and gruelling, and oftentimes not fun. But it gives him a purpose.
It’s easy, therefore, to find him brooding when he’s not on one.
No one wants their room to be on the receiving end of Bucky’s stress-cleaning sessions. His baking is more appreciated.
So when there’s news of a small time villain creating havoc again, it made sense that he volunteered to go sort it out. No one else wanted the job. They’d all been at it before.
SHIELD didn’t seem particularly bothered either.
“It’s not that serious, Barnes.”
“I’m going.”
“Just stop her from doing whatever dumb plan she has today. She seems to have a new one every week.”
“Can I-”
“This is not an assassination mission.”
“Fine. Can I-”
“No.”
“Fine.”
He didn’t know what to expect. He had an idea of how they should be. Smaller villains tended to be more aggressive, vicious to prove their point. They were here to stay.
He wears his regular gear. Enough knives to make a butcher look away in shame, and guns including, but not limited to, his biceps.
He finally pulls the bike to a stop a few metres away, leaving it out of reach in case things got too out of hand. He didn’t want to have to walk back to the Tower, and his friends, as much as they loved him, would never go out of their way to pick him up. Little shits.
The address is a dingy, plain concrete house near an old construction site. It was flat and felt more like an afterthought than an actual building. It looked more like an abandoned Walmart than an actual villain lair.
The only entrance is the door in the front. He counts to three, lifting his leg to kick it down.
It falls down ungracefully, loud and creaky like it was bound to the doorframe by rust.
The only light source inside is a green light. All the way at the other end on an elevated platform is a desk and a chair facing away from him. He can’t see much other than that.
Someone’s laughter comes back loud and booming. He raises his gun, feet apart in a defensive stance.
“I’ve been expecti-” the voice pauses mid-sentence- “Did you just kick down my door?”
He looks behind him to where the wooden piece is on the floor. He certainly did.
He can finally see you as you stand up, green light illuminating your face. You reach over to the side, pressing a few switches.
He squints when all the lights turn on, pulling the both of you from darkness.
“Dude!” you cry out, face twisting into what only could be described as a mix of horror and disdain. “What’d you do that for?”
He doesn’t say anything but he doesn’t lower his gun either.
“You’re an Avenger, just fuckin’ pick the lock or something. This is expensive!”
He only watches as you whine, looking beyond him at your now demolished entrance. You take a few steps closer, jumping down from the elevated platform.
“Insurance isn’t going to cover this.” You drag your palm across your fist before extending it towards him. “Pay up.”
He wasn’t sure if he heard you right.
“What?” he finally asked, voice gruff.
“All you superheroes go around, destroying walls and cars in the name of world peace like you own the damn thing. Not today, bitch boy. Pay up.”
He doesn’t have his wallet with him. He didn’t expect to need it.
“I’m supposed to be stopping you.”
“You can do that once you pay for my door.”
You sound resolute, unshaken. A little annoyed. There’s what appears to be a gun in your hand, although it’s unlike any weapon he’s seen before.
“What’s your plan?” Bucky looks at your hand. Your stare follows his. You lift the thing up and he tenses.
“I was going to freeze some jerk but now my plan is to get you cancelled on Twitter.”
“Why?” his eyebrows knit together in confusion.
“Local superhero destroys property of tax paying citizen for no good reason.”
“I mean-” he shakes his head, discarding what you’re saying, “-why were you going to freeze someone?”
“Because I wanted to. But you’ve ruined the mood now, so that won’t happen.”
He blinks, lowering his weapon when he realises you weren’t making any attempt to move. “What’s your ulterior motive?”
“Nothing! I just wanted to mildly inconvenience that stupid fuck for being such a prick.”
He doesn’t know what to say.
“Is that the freeze ray?” Bucky asks instead, raising his gun when he realises there’s a very real chance he could end up like his best friend.
“You got a problem with it?” You hold it up carelessly.
“I can’t let you use that.”
“That’s all you’re going to do?” you huff, “Is this what you call an intervention? This is so boring.”
“Give me the freeze ray and no one has to get hurt.”
“No one was going to get hurt in the first place, genius. All this does is slow him down for 5 minutes so he misses the subway.”
There’s nothing technically that evil about what you’re doing. He doesn’t even know how you ended up on SHIELD’s radar. He gets why no one was particularly driven to take this seriously.
“And for fuck’s sake put that gun away. You’re not scaring me.”
He doesn’t oblige, even though something tugs at him, telling him that you’re speaking the truth.
“Here, take the stupid thing.” You don’t bother waiting for his response, bending over and sliding the gun towards his feet. “I’ll find another way to get back at that dickhead.”
It hits his boot with a small thud. He looks down. Its design is ridiculously comical, like you ripped it straight out of a kid’s TV show.
“Next time, bring some drama. Wear a cape or something.” You wave him off. “Now get out of my lair. I need to fix the door.”
“You don’t have another one of these lying around, do you?”
“Why, do your friends want one too?” The glare you give him is dangerous. He doesn’t react to it. “No, it’s limited edition. I don’t build the same thing twice.”
“You have others?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know, weather boy?” A smile grows on your face, dropping as quickly as it arrives. “SHIELD will tell you if I do. Now leave.”
Bucky looks at the freeze ray in his hand. He supposes his job is done. He was told to stop you, but you didn’t seem to have any inclination to go on with your plan.
“You can ask them if you want, they know about me.” You roll your eyes. “Go ahead, call them.”
He doesn’t want to take a chance. As odd as the situation is, it’s still novel and he isn’t quite sure how to deal with it.
He tucks your weapon under his arm, pressing his phone to his ear.
“Yes, Sergeant Barnes?” Maria’s voice is crisp as ever.
“I confiscated a… freeze ray.” He feels ridiculous even saying it. “But I’m going to bring her in to SHIELD headquarter-”
“That won’t be necessary.”
“But we can’t trust-”
“We’ve been keeping tabs on her for a while. She’s more or less harmless. You can take the rest of the night off, Sergeant.”
He cuts the call, not entirely at ease with the smug, expectant look on your face.
Still, he couldn’t disobey direct orders.
“I’m gonna… go.” He mentions towards the gaping hole in the wall.
“That would be ideal, yes.” You nod, crossing your arm over your chest.
“Okay.” He hesitates, but finally takes a step backwards. He peeks over his shoulder as he leaves, but finds you swivelled away from him again.
He steps back outside. The cold greets him again like an old friend. The weight of his weapons feels stupidly embarrassing now.
It’s a long drive back to the Tower. He keeps replaying the entire story in his mind. He’s unsure of whether he made the right call, but no one else really seemed to care.
He had seen weirder things. It came with the gig.
He leaves it at that.
“How’d it go?” Steve asks him when he walks into the living room.
“T’was fine,” he answers, toying with the stupid device he took from you. Maybe he would test it on Clint. He had been getting annoying lately. Breathing too much in Bucky’s general direction.
A part of him feels guilty for his carelessness towards your building. The other part is just bewildered.
That night he looks up the cost it takes to replace a door, making a mental note to draw some money from the ATM soon.
Chapter Text
It’s roughly a week before he sees you next.
Right on time too, according to the briefings he had received. Once a week you’d come up with your next batshit crazy idea and someone would be sent to make sure you didn’t execute it.
It was more of a babysitting gig than anything. Most people would do one, maybe two assignments before asking to not be sent again.
He was not most people. He volunteers to go again. His afternoon is relatively free and he’s bored.
Also, and more importantly, he needs to get out of the house before Sam finds out what he did.
“You’ll find her near the Statue of Liberty.”
“How do we know?”
“Oh, she tells us.”
“…she tells us where to find her?”
“Most times, yes. She says it’s time efficient.”
Absurd. He thinks you’re absurd.
Bucky finds you in line to board the ferry. You’re dressed to the nines like an obnoxious tourist, even though you were a local, topped with binoculars and a bucket hat.
On an unrelated note, he thinks that maybe the mission today is to kill you for daring to wear sandals with socks like a suburban dad. A shudder runs through his body when he sees it.
He’s wearing all black and a baseball cap. Somehow he’s standing out more than you are.
He boards the ferry behind you, keeping a close eye on all your movements. You take your place near the railing, a seat near the front of the boat.
His phone rings. He answers it, expecting Sam to screech at him for painting Redwing neon pink again. He should have known it was coming after he shoved Bucky off the quinjet before he had time to strap his parachute on properly.
“I thought I told you to bring a cape.”
He quickly looks up at you but you’re not facing him. You have your phone held up to your ear, however.
“How did you get this number?” he asks icily.
“I knew you’d show up again.” Your head tilts to look at the statue in the distance. “Also, thanks for the door money, but I’m not sure I appreciate how you think the least creepy way to give someone money is to drop it off anonymously at their doorstep.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.” He swiftly gets up, stalking over to where you’re sitting. He was advised not to do anything aggressive. Advised was a flexible word.
“Because I wasn’t going to answer it.” You look up at his figure looming over you. “Oh, hey.”
The phone is still pressed to the side of your face even though he’s right beside you. He cuts the call, shoving it back into his pocket.
“Allow me to introduce my pl-”
“What are you doing here?” He cuts to the chase.
You send him a glare. “I was going to say it before you told me to. And sit down before everyone thinks you’re going to kill me.”
“Why are you going there?” He doesn’t have time for this, he thinks. He has important things to do. Like watching the reruns of Masterchef Junior.
He sits in the seat beside you.
“Look at us.” You grin at him. “Me with the evilest outfit I could think of, you with your… Addams Family cosplay. We’re like, two peas in a po-”
“Start explaining,” he interjects.
You roll your eyes. “I’m going to shrink the Statue of Liberty and use it as a keychain.”
“What?” It’s probably the most benign plan he’s ever heard in his life.
“I’m kidding.” Oh, good. “I’m not using it as a keychain, I’m taking it to class.” Nevermind.
“What?” He finds himself repeating his previous question.
“I’m shrinking all the statues I can find. I want to use it in my classroom to teach the kids.”
“You’re… a teacher?” He blinks.
“You got a problem with that?” You look offended, to say the least.
“No.” It’s not what he would peg your occupation as. He didn’t think you had one at all. “How are you planning on shrinking it?”
You rummage through the ugliest fanny pack he has ever had the misfortune of seeing. You pull out a small ring box, complete with a bow tied neatly on top.
“I was saving this for our third anniversary, but-” you offer him a nervous laugh.
His stony expression doesn’t change, not even a blink.
“Fine, Jesus, you’re no fun,” you huff, dropping the emotional act when he doesn’t look amused.
You flip open the lid. Inside there are a few small disks. It looks familiar, he realises.
“Your friend Ant-Boy didn’t file a patent, so I just took his whole shtick.” He wants to defend Scott’s honour; it’s Ant-Man not boy. He doesn’t. He’s too transfixed on what you have in your hand.
“Pym particles.”
“The diet version.” You pick up one of them carefully. “A ripoff, but effective. Just gotta attach it to the thing I want to shrink and give it a few minutes.”
“You’re going to steal the Statue of Liberty,” he says, frankly a little taken aback that you were serious.
“Would you relax? I’ll put it back.”
“That’s not the point,” he damn near exclaims. “You can’t take away the Statue of Liberty just because you feel like it.”
“I literally can.” You point to the chips in your hand. “That’s the point of this, keep up.”
He feels exasperated. He didn’t sign up for this when he became an Avenger.
“Give me the box.” He makes a grab for it but you yank it away from his reach.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
“I don’t have time for this.” His reruns would begin in an hour.
“That’s my problem, because…” you trail off.
He rolls his eyes, makes a grab at the box again. His tactic is different this time. He stealthily pins one of your arms down so that you’re basically incapacitated.
“Hey! Stop that.” You fumble against his reach, shoving him with your elbow.
“Just give me the thing and we can all go home for the day,” he huffs, unfazed by your squirming.
“No! Over my dead bod-”
He doesn’t immediately notice what goes wrong in the scuffle.
Until you look at the ground near your feet. A disk lay there, undisturbed.
“Is that-” All of a sudden, either he’s getting taller or the ceiling of the boat is getting lower.
“Oops,” you say, not remorseful in the slightest.
“Are we going to-”
“I’d give it five minutes max.”
Great. He was stuck on a boat that was beginning to shrink. The other passengers were either oblivious or ignorant to seats that were starting to become too small for them, but Bucky’s heightened senses and extreme reflexes made it hard to skip.
He nudges the piece of tech with his foot. Maybe he can kick it off the boat.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” you warn solemnly. He wants to disagree but doesn’t know enough about the device to dispute you.
“Fix this,” he hisses, panic slightly rising. His fingers find their way to his phone to send out an emergency text requesting backup and mass evacuation.
“I think it’s a rather lovely day for a swim, don’t you?” You stare dreamily at the waves that were inching closer up the boat.
Or you were inching closer to the water. Technicalities were frivolous.
“There are other people on this boat.”
“River’s big enough for all of us, I reckon.”
“Fix it.”
“Or what?” There’s a wicked gleam in your eye. “We both know I have the upper hand here.”
“Or I call the entirety of the Avengers here and haul your ass to prison.”
“Will they bring snacks?”
You’re insufferable. You know it. But you also are the fastest way to get out of this situation and right now, he didn’t want to be responsible for a shipwreck simulation.
“Fine. Tell me what you want.”
“I like soy chips.”
“Soy chi-” He nearly throws his hands up in frustration. “You know what I’m talking about.”
“I want one historical artifact so I can impress the kids. They think I’m the cool teacher and I want to keep that reputation alive.”
“What makes you think I can arrange for that?”
“You’ve been alive since goddamn dinosaurs roamed this earth, I’m sure you have some connections.” You pause to assess his face. “You know, you don’t look a day over 29. Dermatologists must hate yo-”
“I’ll get you an artifact, now fix the fuckin’ boat.”
“You promise?” You grin brightly.
He stares at you. You are unyielding.
The boat’s uncomfortably small and people are beginning to take notice. Worried murmurs fill the air behind him.
“Yes.”
“Okay.” You shrug simply.
You kneel over, picking up the chip from the ground. You do nothing else for two minutes, instead turning away from him to look at the Statue of Liberty that was coming closer.
It takes him a while to realise that half his body isn’t hanging off his chair anymore. The ceiling is moving further and further away from the top of his head.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” He wants to strangle you.
Why did he listen to you when all of this would have been over the minute he kicked it off the ship.
“You can drop it off at my lair on Monday and pick it up on Friday.” You gather your belongings, leaving him steaming behind you. “Nice talkin’ to ya, Sergeant.”
You step over him, flashing him a quick smile before walking off the boat with the rest of the tourists as if nothing had just taken place. When he looks down, the stupid ring box is on his lap.
He sits there, unmoving, eyes fixed on the container.
The ferry conductor asks if he’s going to get off the boat.
He simply shakes his head.
Chapter Text
It’s Sunday.
He’s already asked Steve if he has any spare shields lying around. One deadpan look later he knows that he doesn’t.
The only other historical artifact he knows is Steve himself.
And even Bucky knows he won’t take too kindly to being carried over his shoulder to be exhibited in front of kids. Again.
He settles on a gun he borrowed from the museum.
Stealing was a strong word to use, considering that he owned the gun prior to it being showcased there. But he wasn’t going to give it back for a long time and nothing else fit.
It’s not his most prized possession. It’s definitely a possession.
Shockingly, and much to everyone’s surprise, he doesn’t like remembering the war a lot. The people sure, but the war? Not so much. Astonishing, he knows.
The gun itself has rust decorating it. He remembers the dent on the grip, how exactly it got there and how many teeth it knocked out of the other guy’s mouth. Bucky always got creative with his weapon usage when he ran out of ammo.
He shrugs and stuffs it haphazardly into his back pocket. It’s unloaded, who gave a shit.
The drive to your lair was a little shorter this time. It was early morning, so hopefully, you wouldn’t be there. He stops right in front of the door, now repaired, and drops the gun off there on the doorstep.
No note, no context, just left it at the doorway. If you wanted to know its significance or who it was even from, you’d have to figure it out yourself.
You weren’t the only one who could be annoying.
He’s too dignified to admit how much joy it gave him to be petty.
The week drags on. He goes back to Italy for a two-day mission.
Places like Italy or Romania become second nature to him. He even has restaurants he likes. They don’t particularly like him back, but that was still debatable.
The owners know by now not to question it when he drags himself in at night for a bowl of tagliatelle.
He’s friends with the old woman who runs one of them. Customers think he’s terrifying, hunched over in the corner, nearly dozing off over his meal but she thinks he’s sweet. He doesn’t talk much, is only occasionally drenched in blood but he leaves a good tip. She couldn’t ask for much more.
Friday eventually has him back at your headquarters. He knocks this time.
“Who is it?” A deep voice asks from the intercom above him. It sounds deeply filtered and straight out of a Saw movie.
“Give me back my gun.” He squints at the camera.
“Oh, it’s you again.” The filter switches off almost immediately, your voice taking over.
The door swings open automatically. Definitely a tech upgrade.
He steps in and immediately forgets it was broad daylight outside. It’s dark again with the exception of the green beam light right in the front.
“Y’know Barnes, you’re horrible at behaving like a normal human being.” You sound far off. He can pinpoint you to being at the front of the room but it takes a while for him to adjust.
Not another sound comes from you again. He’s starting to wonder you were waiting for a response to his statement.
“Hi,” you whisper right into his ear and thank God for the control he has over his reflexes because he would have punted you all the way to Jupiter by now.
“What is wrong with you?” He pushes you away and you laugh but abruptly cut it short.
“What’s wrong with me? You’re the one who left a wad of cash on my front door one week and a gun the next,” you say accusatorially. “I thought the fuckin’ mob was after me.”
Okay, maybe he should have tied a ribbon. Written a card. Left a text. He had your number anyway, as completely stupid as it sounded.
“I’m sure you give them enough reason to.”
“Not yet.” You’re far away again. He wonders how you’re doing it. “Next year, maybe. They seem sexier than you lot anyway. More interesting.”
“Give me my gun.” He hasn’t even been there 5 minutes and he’s already tired of your bullshit.
“Here, I took the liberty of loading it for you. Catch.”
“Don’t throw a loa-” Something whizzes past his face and hits the wall beside him. He flinches. “Are you crazy?”
“Relax, I was kidding. Wow, your reflexes suck.”
He narrows his eyes, trying to locate his gun. It’s too dark and you weren’t helping with your stupid green spotlight.
He just pulls out his phone from his pocket and shines a flashlight around to find it. The only thing he can see is a box on the ground a few feet away from him.
“Cheater! Turn that off.” He’s ruining the vibe, he knows.
Good.
He ignores you, picking it up. It doesn’t stop him from frowning at the cover that adorns it.
It's gift wrapped in the ugliest shade of yellow he had ever seen, complete with red hearts printed on it. The only redeemable quality worth noting is that the gun was well protected inside.
“That’s how you gift someone something,” you whisper into his ear again. He flips around, swatting at you furiously. “You don’t just leave it on their doorway like a threat.”
“I hate you,” he grumbles.
“Uh, yeah, I sure hope you do,” you say it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Otherwise what’s the point of this?”
“There is no this,” Bucky emphasises in return. He suddenly thinks of a reason. “Someone else is going to get assigned to you from next week onwards.”
“What?” The lights switch on immediately. “Why?”
It’s a quick decision, fuelled by the assault your gift wrap committed on his eyes.
”I’m not interested in playing this stupid game with you.” The lights blind him temporarily. He hates when you do this.
“But I had so many plans for us!” The disheartenment is clear in your voice.
A very, very, very small part of him wonders if maybe he should change his mind.
“Find someone new to test it on.” He spins around on his heel, making his way to the door. “The mob, maybe. They’re sexier than us lot.”
It was too small for him to care.
“Traitor!” you yell like a battle cry, dramatic and completely unnecessary.
He rolls his eyes, reaching for the door handle.
“Bucky wait a second.”
He turns to you at the mention of his name.
“Before you leave-” You pull out a small remote and press it.
He doesn’t know what to expect, but it certainly wasn’t booming laughter echoing through the speakers. A very loud orchestral arrangement of sinister music blasts through the room.
It stops abruptly after a few seconds.
“I just wanted to play my theme song while you left,” you call out. “You can go now.”
He scoffs, shaking his head as he pulled open the door and stalked out.
“I’ll win you back, baby! Mark my words!” He hears loud and clear. “The song might have a banjo solo the next time you’re here. Maybe some mumble rap.”
He pretends like he didn’t hear the last part.
He looks down at the box in his hands. He scoffs, peeling off the lid and picking the gun out.
It made the world uglier by just existing. The more he squinted at it, the more he realised you had customised it considering that every heart had ‘JBB’ printed inside it.
He stuffs the gun into his back pocket, discarding the container and its gift wrap on your driveway.
He didn’t get paid enough for this.
Chapter Text
He spends the weekend doing nothing. It’s supposed to be relaxing. He finds it nauseatingly boring.
“No mini mission this week?” Steve asks him from across the couch.
They’re supposed to be catching up on Star Wars but two prequels in and Bucky could feel himself lose his sanity. Anyone could present him with a random assortment of alphabets, call it a Star Wars species and he would have no reason not to believe them.
It’s not like he doesn’t like space. It’s just that he’s had enough of it and everything and everyone who came from it for the foreseeable future.
“No. Someone else is taking care of it.”
“Didn’t you volunteer for this?”
“I pulled myself out of the case.”
“I thought you were having fun.”
Bucky’s head slowly turns to look at him. “Why would you think that?”
“I don’t know,” Steve shrugged. “Looked like you were.”
Well, he wasn’t. He likes it here at home, glued to the TV. Popcorn beside him, sweatpants on. Refreshing, calming, slow, mundane, and Jesus Christ, so fucking boring-
His spiralling is interrupted by the dinging of the elevator to the common floor. No one was allowed up there unless it was extremely urgent. Guests were barely allowed into the Tower as it was.
It reveals the receptionist from downstairs, Marie. She’s always a little reserved, a little shy. But Bucky had seen her chew and spit out trespassers or anyone who dared to get on her nerve. He adores her.
“Hey, Marie,” Steve says while Bucky sends her a friendly wave in greeting. “What’s wrong?”
“There’s a hostage situation downtown,” she informs them.
“Okay…” Steve drawls, waiting for a reason why this was an Avengers level threat.
“They’ve asked for Mr. Barnes by name.” She makes a mention towards him.
Bucky sits up straight. Bits of popcorn fall off his chest.
“What?”
“They said, and I quote-” she looks down at her notepad. “‘Tell that grumpy motherfucker that I’m waiting for him and that he’s not getting out of this so easily because we have come too far.’ End quote. They’ve also told me to include a kissing emoji. And a skull.”
Steve and he look at each other.
“Well?” Steve prods.
Bucky sighs and gets up to go get ready.
The entrance of Chuck E. Cheese is more crowded than he’d ever seen. He wasn’t even sure he’d seen people in the store before. If there were, they probably only came up till his waist.
There are a few journalists, a few policemen standing together outside. Whispers of confusion and curiosity reigned free.
Bucky gently pushes his way to the front. He gets a nod from a police officer who opens the door for him after a quick briefing.
The place is darker than it usually would be. A trademark, it seemed. The blinds are drawn shut and most of the light is coming through whatever sneaks in through the crack.
“Hey, Barnes.” Your voice is muffled by a mask that looks suspiciously like it was made out of classroom craft supplies.
There’s a person in a loose chokehold in your hand with a gun pressed against his head. Once again it looks straight out of a cartoon, purple with round disks lining its barrel.
“What’s all this now?” He gestures around monotonously.
“A hostage situation. Didn’t you get the memo?”
“Got that part down, genius,” he bites back. “But why?”
“Fucker kept harassing me when I was walkin’ down the street.”
The guy’s helpless gaze met Bucky.
“Catcalling me, stalking me.” You tighten the grip you have on him. “Call me darlin’ one more time, you son of a bitch. I dare you.”
He wasn’t impressed with his pleading eyes. He kinda felt like he deserved it.
“Why’d you do it here?” The bright colours were starting to give him a heading. “And where are the staff?”
“It’s symbolic, Bucky,” you emphasise, “He deserves to be among other rat bastards.”
Of course.
“The staff?” he asks again.
“Gave them thirty bucks and told them to leave. I’m not a monster.”
“Right.” He doesn’t bother refuting you. “Why’d you call me here?”
“Dunno.” You shrug. “Thought it’d be fun. You having fun yet?”
You shake the guy you’re holding. He gives a small whimper.
Bucky doesn’t want to stop you. He had chugged enough Respect Juice in his lifetime to know that this guy probably deserved a threat or two.
Hell, he’d even help but you were more than capable of handling this on your own.
“Listen,” he sighed. “As much as I’m sure he deserves it, this is technically illegal and I’m required to stop you.”
“Sorry sarge, I thought you weren’t interested in playing this stupid game with me,” you mock, voice dropping to imitate him.
“I’m not.” It wasn’t entirely true. One Saturday with Jar Jar Binks had convinced him otherwise.
“Okay, so before you leave, do me a favour and call Hawkeye. I hear he looks mighty fine when he’s annoyed.”
His face involuntarily scrunched up. You were going to replace him with Clint? Clint?
He probably took it more as an insult than he should have.
“I’m not doing that.” Bless his foul-mouthed friend, but he was a little shit who was too sarcastic for his own good. At least twice a week he’d say something stupid to Bucky and then take out his hearing aids when he tried to argue back.
“You’re leavin’ me with no options here,” you groaned, using your thumb to flip a switch. The gun looks like it powered up, lights along the side turning red.
If he let you have this, it’d be a bad look for the Avengers.
New York man dies in Chuck E. Cheese lone hostage situation, unable to be saved by same superhero who tried to fight Thanos with a machine gun.
“Tell ya what,” he says instead, “If you kill him, there won’t even be a slight chance that you’ll see me again.”
Your grip on the gun falters.
“If I let him go…”
“I might consider coming back next week.” He’s trying to spin it, make it look like he’s the one with the upper hand here. “But you gotta let him go.”
You search his face for any signs of dishonesty.
“Let him go or you’ll never see me again.” It sounds too much like Clint’s arguments with his dog who brought a live squirrel into the house.
“Fine,” you relent, a glint in your eye. “but say goodbye to this fuckface.”
Before Bucky can open his mouth to shout in protest, you pull the trigger. The man clenches his eyes shut, face red.
He expects blood to be splatter across his face.
Nothing happens.
A barrage of bubbles floats into the room.
“I meant it literally,” you say, pushing him off you. “Say goodbye. He’s leaving.”
The man stumbles to the ground and Bucky doesn’t make any attempt to catch him. He scrambles to his knees, picking himself up and scurrying out the door to a hoard of reporters.
The door shuts behind him with the chime of a bell.
“You’re annoying,” Bucky states, giving a small sigh.
“I’m well aware of that.” You pull off the mask, wiping the sweat off your brow.
“Where is the agent assigned to your case?”
“Dunno. Last I saw he was crying on the driveway of my lair. I just figured he’d pick himself up later so I left him there.”
Bucky’s nose twitches.
“You weren’t actually going to kill him, were you.” He shrugs with his shoulder towards the door. It wasn’t a question, more a statement. He knew you wouldn’t.
“I could have.”
“But you weren’t going to,” he repeats.
“No,” you admit. “I wasn’t. But I’m glad to see you showed up.”
“You held someone hostage as leverage.”
“No, no. I held someone hostage and then asked to see you. They were completely unrelated.”
“You’re evil.”
“You jumped to conclusions,” you point out. “Would you like a trampoline next time? Maybe a pogo stick, you clown?”
He has a very real gun in his holster. His very real metal death arm aches to use it.
“No one else agreed to come,” he deflects.
“We both know that’s a lie. You were going to come back anyway.” You stuff the bubble gun back into the bag. “I’m deliciously irresistible.”
“I beg to differ.”
“Then beg.” You give him a smirk and he rolls his eyes. “Don’t worry, you win this round, sarge.”
He doesn’t say anything. He watches you remove your heist gear, revealing normal civilian clothes underneath.
You walk casually to the kitchen, intending to leave through the back door.
“But I can’t say I lost either.” You send him a wink before swiftly pushing open the door and leaving him behind.
He only watches you leave.
It doesn’t hit him until a few seconds later that he let a criminal out of his hands when there were several policemen and journalists outside.
He entertains the idea of chasing you down and handing you over.
It takes him only a few seconds to decide that if they wanted you, they’d have to try themselves.
Chapter Text
He dislikes the subway.
Other than his other valid reason to have disdain for trains, the subway is dark, it’s shady and he’s sure he’s seen rodents fight to the death here on several occasions.
Still, he’s following you down the stairs of the station, watching as you whistle along to the song blasting through your headphones. There’s a backpack swung over your shoulders, hands stuffed into the pocket of your hoodie and converse doing a skip every now and then. There’s a bandana that’s tied across your face, acting as a mask to hide your identity.
He realises that you’re dressed like a commuter. Were you going to dress the part every single time?
You walk along with the crowd. He follows, a few feet away.
Until you stop. He abruptly stops too, leading someone to walk right into him.
“Watch it, dumbass,” they hiss with the courage of someone who has no idea who he is. He ignores them.
He looks on as you dig around your backpack and pull out a roll of paper. A poster, he realises soon when you peel off a layer from the back and press it to the wall.
Was it legal to put up posters in the subway? He wasn’t quite sure.
He observes as you turn around and continue down the path. He waits a few seconds before trailing up to the poster.
Volunteers needed!
If you’re interested in being turned into a ghost for a couple of hours, this is your chance! Should be okay with being on camera so that we can make money off of taped paranormal sightings.
Paid opportunity. You get to pick your outfit. Randos don’t apply.
He yanks the poster of the wall before continuing down the same place you did.
He finds another poster along the way. He doesn’t hesitate in pulling it down. You were advocating to kill people.
He knows he’s going in the right direction because more posters creep up along the wall.
The both of you are on the platform by now but to him, something changes about the placement of the posters. They were growing in frequency, the distance between them decreasing as they were situated close to each other.
He pauses in front of the next one, hand hovering over the paper.
All it reads is ‘STOP’.
He furrows his eyebrow, pulling it down before peering over at the next one.
‘TAKING’, is all that it says.
It doesn’t take him very long to make his way through all the posters in the hallway.
‘THESE’
‘DOWN’
The train’s arrived by now but a quick scan over the crowd and he knows that you haven’t entered. That, and he knew that you were too dramatic to leave without a trace or a small conversation with him.
‘DICKHEAD’
Tasteful, he thinks.
“It took effort to make them, stop ruining it,” you whine from the end of the hallway. It’s empty, given that rush hour was over a while ago.
Even though the mask covers half your face, it’s obvious that there is mischief etched under it. The twinkle in your eye is telling.
“You’re literally killing people.” He holds up the poster. Not the ‘dickhead’ one. He pockets that for later.
He knows there are a few minutes before the next train arrives and more people flood the station. The eccentricity of today lay in the lighting from the incandescent lamps and acoustics of the platform. It made his voice echo like a movie scene.
“I very much am not,” you huff.
“You’re turning them into ghosts. That’s what a murderer does,” he says pointedly.
“Well, only if you keep saying it like that. You’re making me look bad.” You cross your arms across your chest. “What are you, Fox News?”
A scurry next to him earns his attention. Two rats nibble at a piece of fallen food. He wonders when they’ll starting brawling.
“Explain this.” He waves the poster around. He isn’t taking it too lightly he hopes. If it’s actual murder then it’s going to be an issue.
You pull out a black cylinder, slightly bigger than a pen. He can’t really see any more details, but you hold onto it like a wand.
“I’m turning them into ghosts. I’ll post videos of them doing stupid shit. I get famous and then boom, cash money.” You rub your index finger and thumb together. “I’ll give you a share if you volunteer.”
“You’re not explaining the death part.”
He can feel it. You’re about to start derailing.
“Winter Soldier, the ghost story. Literally.” You grin, yanking down the mask from your face to prove it. It pools around your neck. “That’s so funny, c’mon, it’d be amazing.”
It’s been years since he’s heard that. Never in this context.
“No,” he says sternly, “and I’m going to have to bring you in if you’re going to kill people.”
The rats were ignoring everything that was going down like the hardened criminals that they were. They had probably seen worse. He can’t stop paying attention to them.
“I’m not killing them, bro.” You raise your hands in exclamation. “I’m just moving some molecules around, some frequency shit. They’re alive, just ghosts.”
He’s always been one for science. Straight As throughout high school, attended science conventions as a hobby, alive even at 100 through some mad experimentation, definitely seen some weird shit during his lifetime.
But this doesn’t make sense.
“No,” he repeats. “Give me the thing.”
“Fine, I’ll show you.” You roll your eyes. “Since you have absolutely no faith in me.”
He does a quick review of his surroundings.
No one’s around, which is good.
But that just leaves him in front of you, which is bad.
“Don’t you even thin-” he starts, muscles tensing as he shifts into a defensive stance.
You whip out the little pen thing from beside you but before he can react you turn around and duck.
The click of a button releases a bright light, small but intensely stronger than the fluorescents in the station.
He reels back, feet carrying him away from where you’re crouched. His eyes quickly look down at his body.
Nothing’s changed.
He lifts his hand to check, runs it over his face. Still alive. He thinks.
“Behold,” you declare, “Ghost rat.”
He looks to where you’re pointing. The two rats from earlier were still nibbling on their food but something was off about them.
He could see the faint outline of the tiles on the wall behind them, almost like they were... translucent.
You aimed at the rats, not him. He doesn’t know whether to feel relieved or annoyed at the fake threat.
He watches as they move. They don’t look hurt or injured.
“Cool, huh?” you say smugly.
He can’t stop staring at them.
“Bring them back.”
“They’re fine, look how abstract it is.”
“Bring back the rats.” He can’t believe this is what his life has come to.
Bucky Barnes, Rodent Protector.
You aren’t fazed by his indifference, instead wonder filled eyes gaze at the animals. “Astral mice, sarge. Embrace the miracle of modern science.”
“You killed them.”
“They’re alive, they’re just ghosts.” You raise a finger to point. “Look, they’re still eating. Biological functions are still taking place.”
Which was true. But still. He doesn’t know what is going on.
“Bring them back to... non-ghost alive.”
“You sure you don’t want one? That one kinda looks like you.” One hardened glare after you realise the answer. “Jeez, alright then.”
You dig through your bag before pulling out a matte black replica of your current invention.
“Sexy colours, right?” You hold them up. “I modelled them after your arm.”
He looks down. Sure enough the gold and black matched his cybernetic limb. It was oddly flattering.
“Say thank you, Y/N, for letting me be your muse-”
“Un-ghost the rats.”
“Ungrateful,” you narrow your eyes at him.
Still, you comply with his demands, ducking down to their level again.
A click of the button, a bright light and the rats are back to normal. Non-transparent normal.
“Okay, give me that.” He takes a step towards you.
“Nuh uh.” You pull your arm back. His mouth twitches at your response; what are you, five?
The black one is stuffed back into your bag but you wave around the gold like a threat.
He sighs, making a pass for it. In a second his arm is twisted and shoved against his back, forcing him to spin so that he’s facing away from you. His eyes widen.
What the fuck?
“Now we’re having a good time,” you whisper into this ear.
He swiftly turns around, grabbing your wrist to rotate his own out of your grip.
“Since when can you fight?” he asks.
“Are we getting to know each other now?” You raise your leg to give him a semi gentle kick in the side, using his momentary distraction in blocking it to give him a knock on the head with your free hand. “This is so romantic, sarge.”
There’s a low rumble in the distance and he knows the train would soon start pulling into the station. It was still a distance away, but his heightened senses warned him that it wouldn’t take much time.
He groans. How much longer would he have to go at this?
He could easily win this fight and he knew it. But something in him itched, pulled him back from doing it.
He blocks another attempt at his head. “Stop that.”
You grin. “You know what’d be fun?”
He knows you’d reply even if he didn’t encourage it. The lights from the train light up the tunnel around the corner.
“This.” You don’t give him a second to recover before you flick your wrist away from him.
The device flies out of your hand and right onto the track. The both of you watch, you in glee, he in horror, as the train runs right over it, unleashing the brightest light he had ever seen. His eyes shut instinctively before it blinds him.
He forces himself to pry open his eyelids, look at the damage caused.
The train, sure enough, is translucent. He can see the posters on the other side of the platform through the carriage, through various people holding onto the poles for support or seated on the seats.
“Ghost train!” you cheer. He’s mortified.
“Fuck no,” he mumbles, yanking the backpack off your shoulder. He rummages through it, looking for the gold version.
“You lookin’ for this?” you ask nonchalantly, holding it up in your hand like it isn’t the solution to stopping a bunch of ghosts from wandering around New York.
“Turn them back.” He gives you a chance.
“Do it yourself, coward.” You grin, holding it above your head. The train is going to stop and he needs everyone to be alive and non-ghost before they leave.
He doesn’t wait this time, instead turning to you. The thing is still held in your grip above your head. He rolls his eyes, doing a quick assessment before grabbing your free hand, tugging you closer and plucking the device out of your hand before you have the opportunity to retract it.
“Great, now figure out which button to press.” You’re dangerously close to him. He can feel your hoodie brush against his tactical jacket. “Also if you wanted to be all pressed up against me, you could have just asked.”
He furrows his eyebrows, letting go of you as you give a loud laugh. He looks down at the device. It has several buttons, littering up and down the side. Each look the same.
The train’s slowing down.
“They’re both the same device; this version is not a magical solution to the other one. If you press the wrong button then both of us are going to be fucked.”
The last carriage is getting closer.
“Say I win this round and I’ll fix it.”
There’s a gleam in your eye. He knew this was exactly what you wanted.
He wishes he was as stubborn as Steve, just run through each button until the right one worked.
“You win this one.” He hands it back. He wasn’t like Steve and judging by the number of items the idiot jumped out of planes without a parachute on a daily basis, Bucky was glad about it. At least Bucky did it sporadically.
“Yay, two each for the both of us, then,” you say, taking it from him and twisting, eyes running down the sides. “Close your eyes, old man, or else your cataract’s gonna get worse.”
Right as the train pulls to a stop, you press down on the button before throwing it and the blinding light that emanates from it. It lands on the top of the train right as the doors open.
The passengers start stepping out. Some of them are looking at their hands and legs in a little disbelief, most just push through the crowd to leave.
He can’t see through them. It’s a good sign.
He turns to look at you but you’re not there. Instead, the weight of the small device weighs down in his pocket.
The sound of a thud on glass draws his attention.
He looks up at the train. The window of the carriage in front of him has a bit of fog on it. You trace a heart in the condensation and blow him a kiss before pulling your mask back on.
The train starts moving, leaving him alone in the platform again with your invention.
He lets out an exhale, wandering outside to grab a sandwich before waiting to catch the next train to go home.
Later in the evening, he catches hold of a bit of tape and the ‘Dickhead’ poster finds a place on Sam’s door.
He doesn’t appreciate it.
So now it’s tucked away in the shelf of Bucky’s bedside table along with a freeze ray, a ghost-inator, and some discount Pym Particles.
Chapter Text
Your place or mine? ;)
He stares at the text.
The right answer is mine. See you at the lair.
“Y’all are dating now?” Clint peeks over his shoulder.
“Fuck no,” Bucky says indignantly. “God forbid.”
“Okay, man,” he retracts, giving Bucky space to turn around and face him. “What do you want to call your mini dates then?”
“Missions,” Bucky corrects him.
“No one wants to go on a mission. You volunteered to go back there.”
“It’s for the good of the tristate area.”
“I bet.” The snort he lets out contradicts his words. “Whole world is depending on you, Barnes. Go save them from the treachery of your crush.”
“Enemy.”
“Girlfriend.”
“Mortal nemesis.” Bucky narrows his eyes at him. “Go further, I dare you.”
“What are you gonna do? Choke me? Punch me with your metal arm?” Clint cranes his neck. “Bring it, big boy. I’m not scared of some kinky shit.”
He hates living here.
The door is left open for him.
This time, even though the lair is still illuminated by the green light out in the front, there’s a minor change. Sunlight streams in through a skylight in the roof.
There’s a ladder there, leaning against the rim. It gives him an entrance to the roof, which, judging by the lack of any other presence in the lab, is where he’s supposed to go.
As he gets closer he notices there’s a note on one of the rungs.
‘Evil’ with an arrow pointing upwards.
He rolls his eyes, discarding it on the floor before swiftly scaling the steps.
“Ah, Mr. Barnes,” he hears your voice call out even before his head pops up above the surface. “We’ve been expecting you.”
He pauses, looking around. “Who’s with you?”
Because other than the gigantic machine pointed up towards the sky, there’s only you with a visor and sunglasses. The best way he can describe its design was that it was shaped like a pine cone, had a large antenna pointed towards the sky, two handlebars near its base to manoeuvre it with a large button in between them.
“Just imagine I have my henchmen with me,” you urge. “I’m on a budget, man, I can’t afford them yet. Maybe when my cloning machine finally works-”
He doesn’t answer.
“It’s a James Bond reference,” you add when he doesn’t show any signs of answering.
“Haven’t watched it yet.” Bucky shrugs. “We’re doing Star Trek right now.”
“You’re done with Star Wars?” you, receiving a nod in confirmation. “Nice. You’d find the spy shit ridiculous anyway, it’s way below your level.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” He makes a mental note to add the Bond movies to the list.
“Speaking of stars,” you begin, gesturing to the machine. “I’m going to harness the power of the sun.”
“For what?” He doesn’t bother asking how, he already knows you’ve figured out something.
“There’s a science exhibition and my team’s stupid solar car experiment isn’t working and I need it for them to win.”
“So build a better one.”
“No, ours is the best and if Jeff and his stupid baking soda volcano beat us then we’re going to have a murder on our hands.”
“Your hands,” he emphasises. He has nothing to do with this.
“I said what I said, boy.” You glare at him. “This is our problem now.”
“How much power are you taking?” If it’s insignificant enough, it wouldn’t matter much. He thinks.
“The whole thing.”
He laughs. He stops when you don’t.
“You’re taking all the energy of the sun to power your shitty science model.”
“Your face is a shitty science model,” you mimic him in a higher-pitched voice. “I will do anything to win.”
He wonders which grade kid you stole that insult from was in. There’s no way they were anything older than 13. He could use it on Steve, maybe.
“Everyone on Earth will die.” He feels the need to remind you, even though there was no way it was actually going to take place. Eat shit, Clint. This superseded the tristate area.
“Not for eight minutes.” You look at your watch. “And, if Jeff dies then I win by default.”
“You’ll die too,” he points out.
“I’ll die a winner.” You nod seriously as if that makes it better.
He’s not that worried. Experience tells him that you’re not a mass murderer willingly.
“You’ll die an idiot.”
“Only if you don’t stop me.” Your lips curve into a smile. “And how will you when I do this?”
You yank the machine to point towards him and slam the button. His hand reflectively pulls in front of him to defend himself. Something hits him with enough force to send him skidding backwards slightly.
He removes his hand carefully from in front of him, looking at you.
Something feels off.
“You just-”
The knives strapped to his thighs suddenly feel heavier.
“Took your powers?” you finish his thought. “Yeah.”
He feels his body tip towards his left. He’s suddenly very aware of the weight of the arm. Had it been this heavy all this while?
“You’ve barely changed,” you noted, “You’re just regular Bucky but like, 20% less beef.”
After all, he was a boxer when he was a teen. One of the best men the Howling Commandos had even before the serum.
His shoulder feels heavier though. And somehow he thinks he’s sensing things a little less. He can’t really hear the faint buzzing of the generator downstairs anymore.
“Yep, that’s real muscle.” He turns when you poke at his shoulder. He doesn’t know when you got there. “You’re like a modern day Schwarzenegger. Grade A beefcake.”
He can’t see the construction site near the horizon as clearly as he used to.
Something about this situation makes him feel like he’s going to have a midlife crisis, even though he’s overshot the age by a huge number. No one has a midlife crisis at 106.
“Now that we’ve established that this works,” you say, back near the machine again. When did you walk there? “Let’s show this bitch that I’m the brightest star allowed in this solar system.”
He shakes his head to jolt himself awake, shoves aside his mental dysfunction and breaks out into a sprint when you pull the device down to aim it at the sky.
He latches onto the side, using his left hand to pull himself up, straddling the machine.
“Excuse me,” you exclaim like it’s a minor inconvenience and he feels the machine sway wildly under him. “You’re weighing it down, get off my inator.”
You’re shooting recklessly, trying to shake him off. It’s not dissimilar to the mechanical bull Natasha made him ride during a mission down south so she could win money off placing bets on him. They had lobster that night.
He reaches down to its side, hoping to feel maybe a panel he can rip off. He finds nothing.
He hopes none of the rays are actually hitting anything. It’s a little harder to stay on than he’d imagined it would be, and he thinks that maybe this wasn’t the best plan.
He changes his mind in a split second, swinging himself over so that he can climb the underside of the machine like a monkey bar. He feels like a fucking insect. How was Peter not mortally embarrassed?
He factors in the fact that his hands are getting clammier and his grip is slipping faster than usual. Also, he can taste his lunch at the back of his throat.
“Motherfucker,” Bucky curses when his hand slips, leaving him to hold on only by his metal arm.
“You okay?” you call out, not giving him a second to recover unless he really needed it.
He lets out a grunt, swinging his arm up and catching hold of the antenna, yanking it down and towards the machine itself. He pulls himself up so that he’s straddling the machine again.
One more shot and-
“Very smart, Barnes,” you say dryly, letting go of the handles.
He sends you a sly grin before sliding down the barrel, kicking the large button with his heel right before he jumps off.
The beam shoots out, instantly meeting with metal. The device automatically gives a mechanical groan before powering down, turning off altogether.
“I hate you,” you huff, before noting his paleness. “D’you want some water? An IV maybe?”
He dismisses it with a wave of his hand, inhaling heavily to catch his breath.
He’s tired, more so than he would have been under any normal circumstance. He feels a little dizzy, a little disoriented.
“Don’t worry, your magic powers will be back in a few minutes or so.” You examine the bent antenna, pressing the button and sighing when it stands there lifelessly. “Once Jeff wins, I’ll send the dry cleaning receipt to you. You can pay to get the tear stains out of the kids’ outfits.”
“Your tears or theirs?” He’s relieved about the powers returning, he thinks.
“Both, bitch.” Your eyebrow quirks at his retort. Clearly, he had more energy in him than people realised; his brain seemed to be working fine. He was stronger than you thought. Good for him.
“You’re smart. You’ll figure something out.” He lets out a final exhale before standing up a little straighter.
“Thanks. It’d be better if you asked your billionaire tech genius to send us something, but okay.”
“It’s a middle school science exhibition. Make a potato battery or something.”
You tsk-tsk. “No points for creativity, Mr. Barnes.”
It creeps into his mind without warning. He wonders if he actually wanted the powers back. Wonders what his life could be if he maybe retired, settled down. For the brief time he feels like his pre-war self, he starts to think like his pre-war self.
“I’m not the one who’s about to lose to a baking soda volcano,” he finds time to respond, however.
“Your face is a baking soda volcano.” You narrow your eyes at him. “I will not lose.”
“You’re running out of time. Chop chop.”
But the thought hits him. Who is Bucky without his super-soldier serum? If he doesn’t have his powers then he can’t think of what use he is to the Avengers.
Who the hell is Bucky if he can’t provide a service to others? How else does he make up for being himself?
His, what he’s now deemed, afterlife crisis is starting to look more apparent.
He compartmentalises and stores it away in a box. He’ll bring it up with his therapist later.
“I’m going to win and then you’ll be sorry you weren’t a part of it because you didn’t let me steal the sun.”
“If you win, I’ll still be glad I didn’t let you.” He climbs back down the ladder, feeling the ache in his muscles reduce with every passing minute.
True to your word, his powers do return a while later.
And while he’s watching Avatar: The Last Airbender with Peter in the living room two days later, his phone beeps with a text.
It’s a picture of a blue first place ribbon next to a toy car that looks like it’s powered by a potato battery. Beside it is an out of focus middle finger that is aimed at him.
Congratulations, he texts back. Told you potato batteries always win.
Your face always wins, he receives in return. He can’t tell if you’re insulting or flirting with him.
He just shuts his phone off and goes back to watching the show.
Chapter Text
Bucky can’t stop staring at the mirror.
He wishes it was for narcissistic purposes. He had enough reason for it to be. His age may be a hundred but he had the youthful exuberance of a very drained sixty year old.
But no, it wasn’t because of the steel cut jawline or thousand gigawatt smile.
After last week’s mini-spiral, he does what almost half the videos on TikTok warn him not to do.
He got a haircut.
Everyone’s reaction stopped him from following it up with an ear piercing, but he can’t confidently say he didn’t at least consider it once. Maybe a neck tattoo.
He pulls at a lock of hair. It’s not even longer than his finger.
What did he do-
“It’s just a haircut, man,” he says to no one in particular, almost like he’s trying to reassure himself.
He runs his hands through his hair. It takes lesser time than he was used to.
Steve had told him he looked good. But then again, Steve wore a fugly costume 90% of the time, what did he know?
Clint acknowledged it and didn’t outright call him ugly, which he supposed was a compliment. Wanda simply smiled at him.
“FRIDAY?” he reaches out.
“Yes, Sergeant Barnes?” comes the automated reply.
“How are you?” It took him some getting used to her, given that she was constantly listening to everything, and in general seemed to go against the universal idea of privacy.
But his therapist told him he needed to form friendships.
She didn’t mention it had to be human ones.
“As good as ever. Is there anything I can help you with?”
He wants to ask her what she thinks of his hair until he realises fashion advice from a faceless AI is a new low for him. Maybe ‘Do you think I should crawl into a pit and die?’ would be more appropriate.
“Never mind,” he dismisses instead. “Any messages for today?”
“A reminder to buy a harder bed because you can’t keep sleeping on the floor.” Ah, that was on Sam’s recommendation three months ago, but he wasn’t going to stop any time soon. “And a text from a contact named Nuisance saying to meet them at the attached location in thirty minutes.”
“Where is the location?”
“The local sports centre.”
“Isn’t that closed today?”
If he had to go out in public looking like this, maybe he could wear a cap and sunglasses and no one would recognise him. Unfortunately, as he was reminded several times before by anyone with an iota of common sense, it was a stupid disguise.
Beanie it was, then. Bare minimum.
“It is, yes.” Fewer citizens to worry about.
“Okay.” He hesitates in front of the mirror again, adjusting the hat on his head. “Thank you, FRIDAY.”
“You’re welcome, Sergeant.”
He stares at the little tuft of hair at the front that refused to stay down no matter how much he shoved it back.
“Come on, man,” he exhales in slight despair. “Whatever.”
____
The lock of the door leading to the pool is easy enough to pick. He can see how you got in without a hitch even though it was closed.
The deck around the pool was absolutely drenched in water. No one was using it, there was no reason for water to splash out unless it was deliberately kept like this.
He catches sight of you easily, being that you’re the only two people there. You were standing at the end of the hall, head ducked as you scrolled through your phone.
The door closes behind him with a soft thud.
You don’t look up from your mobile when you start talking, “What do you think 6 year olds like?”
Because James Barnes, carbon dated to 1917 and therefore certified young person, would definitely know the answer to this question.
“I don’t know. Lego?”
“Just how much money do you think a teacher makes-”
You stopped mid-sentence, finally lifting your head to catch his eye. He stares back at you, steps faltering when you don’t move.
"Who are you?" you squinted.
What
"It's me," Bucky says, tugging off the dumb beanie and using it to gesture vaguely towards himself. Fuck, he shouldn’t have worn it, it was ridiculous anyway-
"You sound like him..." You narrow your eyes. “You don't look like him.”
Great
He rolls his eyes before putting on a mock scowl. Can't have Bucky Barnes without a sense of eternal disgruntlement.
"Oh hey, that is you." You grin. "You got a haircut."
“I did.” He suddenly feels the awkwardness increase. His fingers fidget with the beanie.
“Nice.” You nod in acknowledgement.
He wants to hit himself at the words that just spill out before he could think about it. “You hate it.”
“I never said that,” you snort. “And since when does my opinion matter?”
“It doesn’t.” But now he wants to know what you think since he didn’t trust anyone else to tell him honestly.
“Must cut down on time in the shower, huh?”
It did.
He shrugs. He shoves the beanie into his back pocket.
“Was it a crisis haircut?” How did you kno- “Are you going to get bangs next time?”
“Shut up,” he says lamely, a dull burn in his cheeks.
“I know a place where you can get hair dye for cheap. Not technically FDA approved, but I think purple streaks are a good place to start-”
“What are we doing here?” he interrupts, sighing.
“Skinny dipping. Take off your shirt, Barnes.”
“Funny,” he says dryly, eyeing your shoes when you straighten up.
Ice skates.
“Fine, pants then.” You don’t make any effort to move from your end so he does, walking closer to you.
“What are those for?” He doesn’t hide the annoyance from his voice when he points at your feet.
“Oh, these?” You look down at them. “Yeah, I’m going to freeze the pool.”
That seems... mild compared to the shit show you wanted to do last time.
“For?” He halts where he is.
“’M gonna take my friends ice skating.”
“Is that all?” He wants to make a comment about the fact that you have friends but bites it back.
“Today is just a trial run. Tomorrow I’m gonna go freeze the East River.” There it is.
“The East River is not your personal ice skating rink.”
“Not yet it isn’t.” You lift up a middle finger.
It was too early for you to flip him off, even by your standards.
He raises an eyebrow.
Your face scrunches in confusion. You follow his gaze to your finger. “Oh yeah, no, that’s a freeze ring.”
Only then he notices a ring around the finger. From where he was standing he could make out the blue stone that adorned it.
“Joy.” He rolls up the sleeves of his black bomber jacket. “Let’s get this done with, then.”
“No no, wait.” You hold up your hand and he complies, having nothing to lose anyway. You pull out your phone and press a few buttons before shoving it back into your bag and tossing it aside.
The soft sounds of a piano start playing from a boombox near the corner of the room. A child starts singing following a series of knocks.
His eyebrows furrow. “What the fuck is this?”
“The Frozen soundtrack.” You beam at him. “I thought it was fitting.”
He doesn’t know what that is and at this point, he’s too afraid to ask. He can vaguely make out the lyrics being about a snowman but he isn’t too concerned.
He takes one step forward. You immediately point your fist at the ground in front of him, forcing him to jump back when a blast hits right in front of his shoes. Suddenly he gets why the floor is covered in water.
It sounds like a series of cracks as the water starts freezing over, a layer of ice now separating him and you.
"You ready?” The mischief was woven in your voice as the blasts continued throughout the deck, effectively turning the entire floor into ice.
Bucky takes a step tentatively forward. Not bad. He takes another. Okay.
The third one is when shit starts to hit the fan. His hands shoot out to hold onto his balance when his footing slips from beneath him.
His Nike sneakers aren’t used to snow. They’re used to well manicured lawns and pavement trips to Starbucks and marble floors of the compound. Not swimming pool decks covered in ice.
He can hear you singing in the distance and every time he looks up you’re a little further away, making sure every inch of space is frozen.
It takes him a while to get over the initial fear of breaking his skull and just move forward swiftly with short steps. A goddamn penguin is what he looked like.
“There you go, you’re getting it,” you chirp as you whiz past him. He reaches out to grab at you, only to miss by an inch. He staggers, arms flapping wildly to regain his stability.
He hears crackling beside him. He gets a second or two to watch ice crystals spread through the water before turning it completely solid. You step onto the now frozen pool, testing your weight with one leg before cautiously getting on.
A triumphant smile emerges on your face. “Awesome.”
He manages to press himself against the wall as a form of support.
There is no point to this whole thing. He knows this. It’s been well over 6 weeks and there is genuinely no point to this.
He realises it again when he moves from side to side, body erupting into a waddle.
Why is he doing this. He doesn’t get paid extra. He doesn’t get any kind of compensation. All he gets is more wisecracking geniuses, embarrassment and the mortifying ordeal of getting caught imitating a penguin.
The song changes to a woman singing about doing something for the first time, forcing him to pay attention to it. He hears something about ballroom and balls and tunes right back out.
Bucky manages to find his way to the actual pool since that’s where you’re twirling around, opting to land on his mental arm in case things go wrong. He takes a sliding step forward, followed by another. Maybe he can do this.
“If a 200 pound super soldier can stand on this, I suppose it’s strong enough,” you muse, watching him slip and slide as he tries to invent makeshift ice skating.
Unfortunately, his method doesn’t have any brakes, so while he’s too busy trying to move forward, there’s no way to actually stop. He finds this out very soon when he almost launches himself off the edge of the pool.
Something yanks him backwards and back onto the ice.
“Honestly, this is utterly useless since you can’t really do anything but it’s the most fun I’ve had all week,” you admit when he goes sliding towards the middle, arms flailing.
“You had to pick fuckin’ ice of all things.” He thinks that maybe he’s getting a hang of this. He can definitely move faster than what he was doing like, 10 minutes ago. It’s not like you were going anywhere, anyway.
“I like to keep things spicy.”
He stays where he is to glare at you. You mouth the words to the song, watching his every move whenever it interested you.
Okay, change of plan; a temporary distraction till he figures out how to actually get the ring from you. He settles on skating towards the edge of the rink slowly, taking a step off, slipping almost immediately when his foot comes in contact with the deck.
“Where are you going?” you yell over the music initially but immediately break into song when it ends in a crescendo.
He takes a knee, lifting his metal arm up before driving it into the ground. It shatters magnificently, leaving small shards of ice at his disposal.
He picks up one of them, waiting for you to complete your dumb twirl. He takes aim, and-
“Ouch, what the fuck?” You stop your off-key singing to rub your shoulder where the ice hit you.
He wordlessly picks up another piece to throw at you, hitting you squarely in the leg.
“Stop that!”
He may not be able to move as fast but he can definitely throw.
“Give me the ring,” he commands, stretching his arm behind his back before releasing another piece to hit your forearm.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” There’s nowhere you can skate to avoid his stupidly good marksmanship.
“You gotta do what you gotta do.” He shrugs, breaking another patch of ice to replenish his ammo. “Hand over the ring.”
“Over my dead body,” you shriek when a particularly big piece lands next to your feet. You knew he missed that shot on purpose.
“I feel like I’m finally acting my age,” he says casually, finding your darting about in order to avoid him more fun than he initially thought. “Can’t throw pebbles at meddling kids so this is the next best option. Thanks.”
“If you acted your age you’d be in a casket, Barnes,” you hissed, finding that skating in zig zags helped your cause, but not by much. “I’d be- you bitch- I’d be more than happy to help you get there.”
You raise your arm, ready to send another blast to freeze the water that was starting to melt around him, hopefully, keep him where he was if it froze around him.
He flinches. You notice immediately, hand dropping slightly when you realise what it looked like.
“I’m not gonna freeze you,” you say, softer than you intended. From what you knew, he had enough and more experience with that and you weren’t going to contribute to it.
He swallows thickly, giving himself a little shake of his head as if to jolt him out of his train of thought.
Another piece of ice hits you in the leg. You let out a string of curses at him.
“The more ice you make, the more I have to throw at you, Y/N.” He waits for you to regain your balance when you nearly take a stumble.
“Shut up, you’re so immature.”
“Remind me whose plan this was again?” No point waiting for you to regain your balance when you fall over only a few seconds later.
He gathers a few shards in his beanie, tucking it into his belt like a little makeshift rucksack just in case before venturing out on the main rink again.
It’s more difficult for you to stand without railings to guide you, giving him enough and more time to make his way towards you, staggering and skidding.
Both of you looked ridiculous.
“Stay away, fiend.”
“Ring first.” He holds his hand out in front of you. He even considered pulling you up if you just made things easier.
Next thing he knows he’s on his ass on the ice beside you.
“I hate you,” he groans, watching as you inch away from him on your knees.
He doesn’t really have any other options so he shoves aside the humiliation and gets on his knees, using his arms to drag him along the ice.
“For the love of Christ, none of us are winning here. Just give me the ring.”
The bitch from the soundtrack sings about letting it go but he won’t.
“Never,” you shout, sliding away from him as fast as possible.
You make use of the fact that the top layer of ice is starting to melt, using the ring to freeze it again. His knees and fingers get stuck as the water freezes over but he has super strength. It barely takes him a second to free himself.
“Great,” he huffs, just settling down on the ice, ignoring the sting of cold that was spreading through his limbs. Running after you wasn’t going to work; he needed a way to get the ring.
“You won last time, I’m not letting you win again.”
“Are we seriously keeping score?” He watches as you scramble towards the edge.
“No one likes a loser, Bucky.” You use the pool stair railings to pull yourself up.
“Explain why you have friends then.” He can’t help himself this time.
“Hardy har har.” You roll your eyes.
He doesn’t make an effort to move. Instead, when you take a step back into the rink, he raises his arm and pummels it into the ice, just to annoy you.
The ground damn near shakes, pushing you dangerously towards losing your balance again.
“Are you crazy?” Your arm shoots out in front of you to keep you from falling headfirst.
“No.” He does it again. This time there’s a crack in the ice. “I’m just very tired.”
“If the ice breaks we’re both gonna be underwater, you moron!”
“Fine by me.” He shrugs. “Freeze it again. I’ll just find different ways to ruin it for you.”
You glare at him. He raises his arm above his head again.
“Fine! Fine, stop.” You eye him as he lowers his arm.
He reaches for his stash of ice pieces from earlier, throwing one at your shoulder again.
“Boy, I swear if you don’t stop doing that-” you duck when another one comes at you. You had no idea he could be this annoying.
It suddenly hits him, like a lightbulb going off in his brain. He wipes his hands off on his jacket, getting on all fours before slowly managing to pick himself up again.
He looks at you, tilting his head slightly like he was studying you.
“What?” you ask suspiciously, eyeing as he starts inching closer towards you. “What are you thinking?”
It’s like watching a newborn deer stumble its way through the world, albeit more gracefully, until he starts picking up speed. The motherfucker was going to mow you down.
The skates are useful but not so much when an extremely determined bumbling oaf is barrelling towards you, his speed beginning to match yours even without equipment.
You don’t know why you’re running, you don’t know why he’s chasing after you but when you see the end of the pool you take a sharp left only to have him knock right into you, sending you both sprawling.
You land half on top of him, breaking your fall but it doesn’t stop the very loud groan that escapes your mouth. He’s already in the process of sitting up straight, giving you less time to analyse what just happened.
“What the fuck was that for?” you speak through gritted teeth. “Fuckin’ acting like the both of us have free healthcare.”
“You refused to give up.”
“So your plan was to tackle me like a quarterback?” You threw your hands up.
“One part of it.” He drags himself to the edge, away from you.
“There's more to your monkey brained plan?” He doesn’t look at you. The ice around the pool has more or less melted, letting him gain proper footing on the floor before he stands up.
“Oh, yeah.” He turns to you. “The other’s a trick I stole from Stark.”
Bucky holds up the ring. Your jaw slightly drops, eyes searching your finger for the now missing piece of tech.
“Suppose that’s two points for me?”
You’re impressed. You also want to stab him. So you do the next best thing.
“When I imagined you holding a ring in front of me, the circumstances were very different,” you comment.
“Bye, Y/N.” He spins on his heel, not even giving you a second’s worth of reaction. You found it amusing.
He heads towards the door, clothes all wet. He empties out melted ice water from his beanie before stuffing it into his pocket. Just when he’s about to leave, you remember something.
Do you mean it genuinely or just because it has an effect on him?
“Just for the record, Barnes, about your hair-” you call out, earning his attention from over his shoulder. “I think you look really good either way.”
The world may never know.
You swear you can see the corners of his lips quirk upwards before he turns around again.
He slips on a block of ice, cursing and clenching onto the door to keep him upright, quickly yanking it open and leaving before he has a chance to embarrass himself further.
Smooth.
Chapter Text
He doesn’t expect to see you on TV.
In jail maybe, for something scandalous and completely unnecessary, but not TV.
But there you are, a signboard waving around furiously in your hand, voice in protest against the demolition of the community centre. You’re flipping the board back and forth to alternate between the messages you’ve scrawled on the cardboard.
You were among a few protesting, but clearly the loudest.
He thinks that maybe he has the weekend off if you’re too busy fighting big corporations. He’d send his support even.
Until he zeroes in on the sign when it flips over, finally reading what it says.
You better get your ass here, sarge
And so he does.
Half the crowd had dipped by the time he arrived. You were there, still the loudest, but he couldn’t help but notice the lack of people as compared to an hour or two ago on TV. He supposed that justice could wait as long as it took to get lunch from the nearest café.
“I can’t stop you from protesting, y’know.” He’s a little wary of approaching your raging self.
“Oh, hey Barnes. You got my message.” You break away for a second to scream a bunch of obscenities at the gigantic glass building before turning to him. “You wouldn’t be able to.”
“What’s your dumb plan then?”
“First of all, it’s not dumb. It’s stupid. Put some respect on my technological genius.” You held up a finger. “Second of all, it’s not here.”
“Where is it?”
“At the construction site.” You point down the road. “Come on.”
Right along the way, you stop to chant another slogan. He waves his arm around meekly in support. He did, after all, have to stand up for what was right, but if his publicist saw him here she’d have an aneurysm.
The construction site isn’t very far off. It’s adjacent to the community centre, which he assumes they’re going to tear down to make more space for whatever shitty commercial building was going to take its place.
There are already a few excavators and dozers there but no one to man them since it was lunch time. What garners his attention is the small silver plate that’s on the floor a few feet ahead in the direction you’re walking towards.
“Here.” You stop once it nears. “The plan.”
“Am I supposed to know what this is?” He lightly kicked at it, earning a smack on the arm from you.
“Stop that,” you scolded, “and look at it. It’s not hard to figure out.”
He narrows his eyes. There’s a small u-shaped piece of metal in the middle of the plate. “That’s a magnet.”
“Exactly.” You clapped your hands together in excitement. “The world’s strongest electromagnet.”
He looks around. The only possibly magnetic things are the cranes and excavators around him.
“You’re going to... stop the machines from moving ahead?” he hesitates in his deduction.
“Yep. Can’t tear anything down if they can’t get to it first.”
Bucky looks down.
“Does this thing even work?” He toes at it again. “It’s kinda small.”
“It works beautifully, stop kicking at it, you demon-”
“What happens if I step on it, huh?” He knows this would get on your nerves wonderfully. He raises his leg. “Do I get to go home for the day?”
“You’re such a little shit,” you whine, reaching for your back pocket. “Stop bullying my invention.”
“’m gonna squish it like a bug.” He’s only half kidding about that part. “I’m gonna-”
Before he can finish his sentence something yanks him down hard. His head nearly hits the ground before his right arm shoots out to break his fall.
"Woah there, don't go falling for me as yet.”
“What the fu-” he begins, eyes locking on his metal arm that was pressed flat against the earth.
“I told you it works,” you say smugly. “Try crushing it now, Barnes. If you can even get off the floor.”
He tugs his hand but it’s firmly attached to the thing. No matter how or where he’s applying the effort, his limb refuses to move. He’s stuck.
“Turn it off,” he sighs. “You made your point.”
“No. Stay there.”
“Y/N, shut up and turn this off,” he groans, trying to find a better position rather than chin down on the ground.
“Lay there and rot. You deserve it for underestimating me.” You huff.
“I wasn’t underestimating you, Jesus Christ.” He really was planning to just step on it, but he had complete faith that it worked.
When he doesn’t receive a reply, his gaze follows yours. Suddenly the crane looks a lot closer than it initially did. Awesome.
“Those are moving towards me.” He picks up on the low groan and creak of metal.
“Yeah, they are.” You nod, one hand on your hip, watching them.
He didn’t think that getting crushed under construction equipment would be how his day went.
“Not my problem,” you decide finally after a bout of silence.
Now that simply wouldn’t do.
Death was definitely a problem, but what was more important was that he was going to get a dust allergy from the mud. He could already feel the blocked nose and temperature incoming.
“Are you really going to waste this on me? Don’t you have a demolition to stop?” He manages to twist his body so that he’s lying on his back.
“Good point,” you squint into the distance at the whirring of the heavy machinery. Their owners wouldn’t be happy to find them missing from their original spot. “But I still can’t help you out.”
“You’re willing to sacrifice your-”
“I can’t help you out because I don’t have an off switch. Yet,” you add the last part in a hurry.
“Then when the fuck were you planning to build one?” He sits up, leaning on his elbow. The cranes weren’t a mini object on the horizon now; the closer they got, the faster they were starting to move towards him.
“I don’t know, after they agreed not to take down the building?”
He could just detach his arm and come back for it later he but had no guarantee that you would stop here for the day or that the vibranium could withstand all that pressure.
“You better make a switch right now and get me out of this, I don’t care how.”
“Yeah, yeah,” you grumbled, bending to assess how badly he was stuck. “You know, this thing runs really deep into the earth. It’d take forever to dig back up and then get you back to my lab and then build a switch.”
“How long?” He didn’t have a lot of time, clearly, but even generally he didn’t have the whole day to waste. He had a mission the next day. He had to put the fear of death into some Russians and bring some pirozhki back for Nat.
“I don’t know,” you furrowed your eyebrows. “Too long for my schedule anyway, I have class prep to do.”
“Motherfucke- that thing’s like twenty feet away.” He’s worried about how you don’t look fazed at all when he points at the stupid machine.
He’s about to volunteer to detach his arm when he realises it’s definitely less than twenty feet now. He had a backup just in case. It didn’t move as smoothly, but who could tell the difference when a couple of tons of pressure was aiming for your face, and hell, if he explained his circumstances of the destruction of his arm to T’Challa-
“Okay, fine.” You reach into your backpack to grab something that looked like a wristwatch. It matched the one already around your hand.
You reach over and clasp it around his hand before turning a dial on the side.
“You ready?” you ask, ignoring the large crane that was starting to charge towards you.
“For what?” he replies, looking down at it. He can barely hear you over the sound of the whining of machinery.
“Teleportation, baby.” You send him a big grin before slamming down on his watch.
“Huh-” His voice cuts off immediately.
If there’s anything that can be said about teleportation, it’s that he feels like every atom in his entire body violently splits to float around briefly before suddenly rejoining again.
The ground beneath him feels different, and it takes him a second to realise that he was on the floor of your lair.
“What the fu-”
“Hello,” your voice comes from above him.
“You can teleport.” It’s not difficult for him to look at you now without the sun in his face. His arm is still stuck to the magnet but since the giant rod it was attached to was no longer deep in the ground, he could lift the entire apparatus up relatively easily.
“What, like it’s hard?” You discarded your bag on the floor. “You good? Takes a while to get used to.”
He gives you a grunt in acknowledgement, shaking his arm to see if he had any luck. It didn’t budge.
“Come on, take a seat.” You gesture to a lab chair you’ve pulled up for him on the raised platform at the front of the room. He realises that this is the first time he’s properly seen what’s actually inside your lair.
There are various buttons that do God knows what, drawers and cabinets painted black, several computer screens and gigantic pillars of glass on either side of the set up that encapsulate some green bubbling liquid. There’s a giant television set up against the wall, divided into several screens.
“Whaddya think?” You do a small swoop of your arm to show off the place.
“Gamer,” he says simply, testing his luck.
“What did you just say to me?” you recoil instantly, disgust on your face.
“It’s a gamer set up.” He points a finger at the TV screen. He was told by Shuri to use it as an insult, but he wasn’t exactly sure why. It just felt appropriate.
“Take that back right now.” You raise a finger accusatorially at him.
“No.” He was sticking with it even though he had no idea what exactly the context was.
“Fuck your arm,” you announce, throwing your hands up in surrender.
“Fuck your demolition then,” he replies simply, getting up from his place on the chair to leave with the thing still attached to him.
He takes one step ahead before your voice rings out.
“Sit down, drama queen,” your voice calls from behind him. “God, you’re annoying.”
“You’re infuriating.”
“I’m the best part of your week,” you fire back, ”and also your only way out of this. Now sit down.”
He didn’t even need the second warning, he was already on the chair the first time around.
“I’m not going to build a switch to turn this off. It’d take too long,” you examine the piece of equipment with more gentleness than he was expecting, “I’m going to remove it instead. It’s gonna take a while, so you better get comfortable.”
“I’m not.”
“That’s so sad,” you say without any indication of wanting to help.
He rolls his eyes.
You pull up next to him, welding glasses covering your face and the tool in your hand.
He turns away when you start, making sure his face is not directly within its trajectory.
He makes himself busy by looking around some more. There are details you’ve put into the place, materials that are non-flammable made up most of the architecture. It’s dramatic, sure, but somehow the designs and colours seemed to go together. It did look sinister, he’d give you props for that.
The space was quite big. It occurs to him only then that that’s how you manage to sneak up on him so often in the past. Everything clicked. Fucking teleportation.
“So,” your voice was raised to speak over the noise. “How’s it going?”
He decidedly doesn’t answer. His position is more than enough.
“Right.” You clear your throat.
He takes to counting the tiles on the floor, figuring out how many were there from the raised platform to the wall of the entrance.
“Not how you imagined your day to go, huh?” you continued despite his lack of response. “But some might say it’s a privilege to be spending the day with a cool, mad scie-”
“Are you going to keep talking?” he interrupts, losing his count on the floor.
“Yeah, duh,” you say like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “You got anything better to do?”
He didn’t.
“What’s it like living with a bunch of superheroes?” You change course. He’s not sure if he’s really allowed to disclose top secret information. “I assume there’s a lot of protein shakes, talcum powder for the chafing-”
Then again, how much damage could you do by knowing that Steve preferred pancakes over waffles?
“It’s quiet,” he says. “Most of the time.”
“Save all your smart talking for the battlefield, huh?”
He doesn’t reply. It’s quiet around the Tower. A lot of their energy goes towards missions and recuperating once they’re back.
“You go on missions a lot?”
“I can’t tell you that.”
“Boo, you whore,” you say with mock disappointment.
He got that reference.
“What’s your favourite food then?”
He scrunches his eyebrows.
“What?” The welding stops for a second while you look at him. “Don’t tell me that’s classified too.”
It’s not, he’s just never thought about it.
“I don’t know,” he murmurs, “Pasta?”
“Vague, but I’ll take it.”
He used to boil a lot of pasta, from what he could remember of his days in hiding. Cheap and bought in bulk before he saved up enough to buy things like fruits. A lot of the times the amount of sauce he had access to was enough for maybe seasoning, not a whole component on its own.
It’s one of the perks of being a free man in the 21st century he thinks, a steaming bowl of fettuccini drenched in sauce and garlic bread on the side.
“What do you do in your downtime?”
“Nothing.” Well, he considers it to be a pass time and doing nothing is a full time gig. It takes effort to do nothing. He even has days dedicated to doing nothing, as suggested to him by his therapist.
“Really?” You sound a little surprised, although it’s hard to make out when you’re already speaking a lot louder than usual. “No shining your penny collection? No software update for this thing?” You tap at his arm.
There really isn’t anything. Truth be told, he thinks he’s the most boring guy in the Tower. He sticks to himself, has a few succulents that he adores and occasionally watches trashy television. So then why are you so interested in him?
“You’re obsessed with me,” he says pointedly. “Why?”
You give a short laugh. “I think it’s the blue eyes, sarge, they’re really popping today. Gotta say, I’m loving this colour on you. Is it different from the black you wore last week? And from the one from the week before that?”
He looks down at his dark t-shirt and utility pants. He had other clothes but those were reserved for things that were not this.
“Or maybe it’s the grumpiness, I don’t know. I love it when someone shows absolutely no interest in me. Very sexy of you.” Oh jeez, you were going to continue. “Hell, maybe it’s the thighs-”
“Okay,” he interjects, feeling the need to count the tiles more than ever. He equates the heat in his neck from the welding going on beside him.
The loudness of your laughter is clearer than the sound of metal on metal when you tug a large piece of the invention off. Things were moving fast. He could get back home to his Star Trek marathon and forget this day ever happened.
“You know, you’re more interesting than you think,” you pipe up casually.
He doesn’t expect this and therefore he supposes he can’t stop the curiosity from enveloping his face. He hasn’t told you anything about himself, so then the inference you reached came out of nowhere.
Apparently, you take notice of the confusion on his face, even though he can’t see through the giant welding mask, because you let out a chuckle.
“Oh, come on, really? You have no idea?” you ask lightly, pausing to see if he offers anything other than silence. “You’ve come back almost every week even though you know it’s a waste of your time, you always keep your promises and I know for a fact that if you wanted to stop me once and for all, you could have. But you’re not.”
He doesn’t realise you’ve stopped welding until you start again. Good, it gives him an excuse not to have to look at you after that.
Frankly, he’s a little stunned.
You’re not looking at him, he can tell from his peripheral vision. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you have a small crush on me.”
At that, he’s forced to roll his eyes out of instinct. Thankfully you do know better.
A few screws out later, another piece comes out. You inform him that’s it’s going to get trickier from there since the circuit was a little more intricate, a lot more time than the original few pieces. He can see his Star Trek marathon fade away in the distance.
You ask him a few more questions. Some he answers with silence, others maybe a tidbit here and there.
“How’s dating now compared to the forties?”
“Strange.” He purses his lips in thought. “One guy asked for a gym date. Didn’t know that was a thing.”
“How’d that turn out?” you laugh.
“He didn’t ask for a second one.” His Bumble matches with girls somehow had gone down since he cut his hair, but he’s not too bothered. Not like there was a huge shortage.
He likes cats, thinks the worst merchandise that they make is the stupid baseball card with his face on it, and doesn’t have social media for the sake of his sanity. He’s seen the thirst tweets.
Clearly, he’s revealed his deepest, darkest secrets. Utterly classified material. But he doesn’t know anything about you other than your name, number, address, where you teach, what your hobby is-
“You, uh-” he hesitates, “You got a favourite food?”
Your hands hold still to hover above what they’re working on. You fight back a smile. “Sure do.”
He asks a few more questions. Shuts up when he feels his social battery drain. That’s enough for the next month, he thinks.
The sun’s dipped down beyond the horizon by the time majority of the work is completed. Both of you have taken a few breaks to fight the feeling of stiffness that was creeping into your joints.
You scoff and tell him you’re not planning to poison him when he denies the offer of a soda. He doesn’t deter in his decision.
“How much to go?” He has a mission tomorrow that he’d really like to get some sleep in before. Waking up at 3am to get ready was the worst part of the job.
“Basically done.” You roll your chair back, rotating your shoulder and stretching your fingers. “There’s just this little part that I can’t access from this angle. How good are you at hanging upside down like a bat?”
Fuck it, he sighs to himself, it was almost finished anyway.
Bucky stands up, tilting his neck to the side slightly before pulling at a small latch under his arm, one so tiny that you’d never make out was even there unless you knew it existed. The arm releases from his shoulder with a small click.
He offers it to you, a piece of your magnet still attached to it.
Your eyes are slightly wide. He raises his eyebrows.
You don’t say anything, just accept it and flip it to a position you were comfortable with. It takes only a minute or two for the sound of the last piece hitting the floor to reverberate through the hall.
You give a small cheer. He lets out a tiny exhale in equal parts fatigue and relief.
“So,” you drawl, handing his arm back to him, “you could have just done that the whole time.”
He doesn’t reply, just slides it back onto his shoulder.
“You had the option of leaving your arm here and coming back later to get it.”
He gives it a few shakes, opens and clenches his fist shut a few times to make sure everything is working.
“You wanted to talk to me.”
He gives you a deadpan look. “I was distracting you.”
“Bullshit,” you laugh.
“Believe what you must.” He shrugs, turning around. “My job here is done regardless.”
“Oh, I believe alright,” you call out from behind him as he walks towards the entrance of your lair. “I believe you’re a sneaky bastard, Bucky Barnes.”
He doesn’t stop himself from smiling at the overdramatic gasp you give when he flips you a middle finger. From the metal arm, too.
Chapter 9: Additional Scene #1
Chapter Text
Bucky returns only two weeks later. His mission lasted longer than expected and all he wants is to lie down and sleep for forty eight hours straight.
“FRIDAY?” he mumbles, kicking off his shoes. His jacket had already been discarded by his bedroom door when he walked in.
“Yes, Sergeant Barnes?”
“How are ya?” He doesn’t miss a beat in asking, even though he’s exhausted.
“As good as ever. Did you have a successful mission?”
“If by successful you mean one sprained limb instead of two, then yeah.” He wasn’t really cribbing. His ankle was already starting to heal anyway and it was worth the roundhouse kick to a Nazi’s face. “Do I have anything scheduled for this weekend?”
“You have a meeting on your calendar scheduled for this Saturday.”
“Could you send a text to Y/N and ask if we can push it to the next day?” His muscles feel sore and God, he could definitely use a hot shower but all of that becomes secondary the minute he feels the sheets under him.
“Would you like me to reschedule the other one as well?”
“What’s that?” He opens one eye in confusion. “There’s another one?”
“It’s on Sunday. You’ve labelled it ‘date’.”
Ah, fuck.
“Would you like me to change it?” FRIDAY never sounds like she’s judging him, which is nice. It also reminds him about how she, as an AI, can’t judge him, which is a rude wake-up call to how he doesn’t have friends.
“No,” his voice is muffled against the pillow, “no, let it be. Where is it again?”
“You’ve only specified diner, Sergeant Barnes.”
Public space, daytime, plenty of escape routes. Good on his less delirious self for selecting a diner.
“Thanks, FRIDAY.” Now that he’s a little more relaxed, he can feel himself slip in and out of consciousness.
“One last thing,“ her automated voice commands his attention again. "Y/N replied. She says sure and to take care.”
“Yay.” Not even a second later he’s out like a light.
____
“Did you bring me any souvenirs?” Is the first thing he hears as he marches into your lair.
“What could I possibly get you?”
“A postcard, a t-shirt.” You don’t look up from your tinkering.
“Decapitated finger, used bullets,” he continues, “cement blocks.”
“Ew.” You snap the lid shut on the thing you’re working on, spinning around on your chair. "That’s not nearly romantic enough.”
“That’s all you’re going to get from a Russian underground bunker.” He does a mini jog up the stairs of the platform to where you are.
“Does the finger have a ring at lea- oh hello?” You raise an eyebrow at the sight of him. “You look different.”
He peers down. The outfit was still all black. As always.
“Not your clothes, dummy,” you interrupt, making him look back at you. “Your face. What’d you do?”
He unconsciously raises a hand to his cheek.
“Did you wash your face? Is that it?” you squint at him. “Has it been a few months since the last time?”
“Wow, you’re so funny,” he drawls sarcastically. “Top tier comedian right there.”
“No wait, it’s the beard.” You snap your fingers in realisation, completely ignoring his comment. “You trimmed it.”
“So what if I did?” He leans on your table.
“You going somewhere?” you ask, elastic snapping against your hands as you remove your gloves.
“It’s none of your busi-”
“Hold on a second.” A sly smile begins to make its way onto your face. “Are you going on a date, Bucky Barnes?”
His comeback dies down in his throat. That didn’t take you very long for you to figure out.
“I’m right, aren’t I?” You look smug, to say the least.
“Shut up.” A ray of light glistening distracts him. He traces it to the thing you were working on earlier.
“Where are you guys going?” You cross your arm across your chest, a small smirk on your face.
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” It’s a silver box, engraved intricately with swirls that, when he observes carefully, looks like a skull. Wow, terrifying.
“I’m literally asking you.”
“What are those?” He shifts the conversation towards a more productive angle instead.
“Evil in a box and some other stuff.” You shrug offhandedly. “Is it a lunch date or just coffee?”
“Like Pandora’s Box?”
“A discount version, sure,” you confirmed impatiently. “Stop changing the topic, listen to me.”
He tilts his head, waiting for you to continue.
“Do you need a chaperone?” The sincerity in your voice for such a bullshit question has him scoffing.
“Good God- no, I do not need a chaperone. I’m 106 years old, I can go out unsupervised.” He reaches over and plucks the box off your table.
“Sir, you’re a geriatric.“
“What are those?” He points to a few ray odd ray guns.
“Minor stuff you don’t have to worry about right now.”
He shakes the box in his hand. “What’s gonna happen if I open this?”
“Very bad things,” you whispered ominously before your volume returns to normal. “How’d you meet this person? Online?”
“She’s Natasha’s friend.” He turns the box over, seeing a small latch at the side. “What bad things?”
“Bad luck and misery. Don’t play with it, it’s dangerous.” You pull the box away from him. “Aw, is it a blind date?”
“Why do you care so much?” he shoots back, tugging the box back towards him.
“Just lookin’ out for you, Bucko,” you huff, adjusting your grip on your device. “Need to keep my favourite senior citizen safe.”
“I have a vibranium arm.” Whose force he could use to grab the box once and for all, but wasn’t. “I think I’ll be fine.”
“What if she has one too, huh? Then what?”
“She doesn’t.” As far as he knows, he’s the only one alive with a metal appendage made out of the strongest metal in the world. That could very well change by tomorrow but he’s keeping the title for now.
“But what if she does? I swear to- stop trying to take the box!” You pull a little more forcefully, but he doesn’t relent.
“I want this to get over before this evening.”
“What time’s your date?”
“Why do you care?” He’s sure anyone who saw the dumb tug-of-war you both were playing would just automatically assume he was an absolute manchild, not an Avenger.
“Because.” You don’t explain further. “Tell me what time your date is, you weirdo.”
“Five o’clock, now let go.”
“Fine,” you say, suddenly loosening your grip. Clearly, it doesn’t make much of a difference since he isn’t struggling to keep his balance from the sudden loss of force.
“Fine.” He clears his throat, straightening up.
You don’t say anything. He doesn’t either.
A putrid smell creeps into his nose, one all too similar to spoiled milk and decaying seaweed. He has to physically stop himself from gagging.
“Have a good day.” You smile and lean far back. Too far. It looks like you’re almost going to fall out of the chair.
Through the tears that are threatening to line his eyelids, he looks down at the box whose latch you somehow managed to lift, leaving the box open.
“What the fuck is this?” He coughs, swatting at the air in front of him to clear it.
“I told you; bad luck in a box.”
“You can’t scientifically create bad luck, that’s bullshit.” He tosses the box back onto your table. You watch it slide past you, not making any effort to stop it. “What is it really?”
“I’m not lying.” You pull open a drawer, brandishing a small table fan that you set down beside you. “If you open it, you’re going to have terrible luck for the day.”
He glowers at you when you turn the fan on, forcing the fumes back towards him.
“Besides, that’s all I was doing today.” You kick your feet up. “So you can leave now.”
He doesn’t care if you’re lying about not having anything else to do today. You could burn down the world if you wanted to but he needs to take a stupid shower. Again.
“You’re the fuckin’ worst.” He tries airing out his shirt, hoping that the smell would dissipate as soon as possible.
“Have fun on your date, sarge!” you encourage him as he stalks out of the lair. “Remember to wrap it befo-”
He turns it into a sprint before you can finish.
____
Six hours later and he’s absolutely convinced he fucked up.
He isn’t used to having his weekends free.
He realises that this is the first time in months that he’s actually stepped out of the Tower for something that wasn’t directly mission-related. He should probably get some air. Touch some grass. See the sun.
His shirt thankfully manages to rid itself of the odour from the dumb box so he didn’t have to go take a shower. With nothing much planned and a few hours to spare, he heads to the coffee shop instead.
It’s a small place, bustling and alive with a crowd of people. They have a little bookshelf that usually is full of books donated by patrons, free for anyone to read.
The barista smiles at him. The coffee costs more than his high school education. He awkwardly smiles back.
He’s not a regular, but they’ve seen him enough times to know that he usually asks for black coffee in a to-go cup, later adding a sugar or two according to his own taste. They’re nice to him, occasionally throwing in a cookie or something on the house. He can’t tell if it’s because of the Avenger status or the sizeable tip he leaves.
He picks up a random book from the shelf, fully intending not to read it but to just sit there and think. The book acted as a shield for his resting bitch face, resting murder face and his resting rage face. More often than not, a good combination of the three.
He sets the coffee down at the corner table he manages to nab in a quick second, along with the two sachets of sugar.
“Is this seat taken?” Someone asks from beside him. He earnestly shakes his head in a ‘no’, gesturing for them to take it.
They give him a quick thanks and drag the chair away from his table.
He does a quick overlook of the book he picked up.
The Princess Diaries by Meg Cabot.
Well, now he’s too anxious to put it back. YA fiction it is.
He reaches for the sugar while glossing over the summary. He reaches a little further when it doesn’t come to his hand immediately, blindly running his fingers across the table.
Bucky peeks over the book, eyebrows knitting together when he notices that they’re missing.
He was sure he picked it up.
He looks underneath the table. It wasn’t there, neither under his seat. Strange, but okay. He picks up the book and the cup, walking back to the station to grab two sugars.
This time he makes sure to tuck it into his pocket, double-checking before going back to his table.
Which was now occupied. He wanted to groan.
His mind automatically reverts back to the box from that morning.
“Come on,” he scoffs quietly to himself. It was a coincidence. “Get yourself together.”
“A seat at the counter just cleared up,” the barista from earlier offers when she sees him standing in the middle of the store.
See? Good luck.
He shoots her a grateful look, venturing over to the barstool to take his place. It’s not the most comfortable, but then again, he wasn’t planning to stay there for very long.
He empties the sugar into the coffee, stirring slowly before opening a random page in the book.
He takes a long sip, ignoring how hot the drink was.
He chokes immediately. Because either he was losing his mind or his order had somehow got switched from ‘no sugar’ to ‘diabetes in a cup’.
He takes another small sip and his face immediately twists in disgust. Definitely too sweet. The sweetener he added only made it worse.
He catches the eye of the barista. She looks on in concern.
“Is everything okay?”
Fuck.
He’s not one to make a scene. He just wants to live as imperceptibly as he could.
“Yep.” The sweetness sticks to the back of his throat. “All good.”
He just closes his eyes and downs the rest of it without thinking twice, trying to hide the grimace in his face. He gives her a weak thumbs up. She doesn’t look convinced.
He leaves the shop soon after, hands shoved in his pocket. Maybe he could go sit by the lake at Central Park, watch the clouds. It reminded Bucky of the lake in front of his hut in Wakanda and the hours he’d sit in front of it, feet dipped into the water as his goats fed. He misses it.
He makes a sharp turn at a corner, still thinking about his options when his ankle abruptly twists under him.
He stumbles rather ungracefully, almost hitting the ground, but manages to save himself through the newly built up immunity he has towards falling thanks to all his encounters with you.
His gaze lands on his hardcore combat boots. Their laces had come undone.
Now he just knew that was horseshit. He always double knots them; they had never loosened in the past before.
The box.
He shoves the thought out of his head, crouching down to tie them again. He tugs on them to make sure they’re secure before standing up again.
Central Park is a few blocks away but he’s glad he didn’t bring his bike. The weather was rather nice and the wind in his hair felt good.
He wanders around the park for a while, looking for the lake. He pauses at a board with a map of the park on it, assessing how far it was.
Once he’s ascertained which path to go towards, he turns on his heel to go.
He fucking trips again.
“Are you serious?” he says furiously under his breath. “Cut it out.”
He’s half-convinced that he should tie it around his ankle like a sexy lace-up set of heels. He ties a triple knot this time, glares at it until he’s sure it’s fine and checks to see if anyone saw him humiliate himself.
Only a person on a nearby bench who looked like they were passed out drunk, given that their hoodie and sunglasses clad self was slumped over.
No witnesses. No ‘You won’t BELIEVE what the Winter Soldier did! Critics say it’s his biggest blunder yet!’ articles the next day on social media.
He manages to make it to the lake in one piece and no more falls, partly because he keeps his eyes fixed on his shoes to ensure no fuckery occurs.
There are a few people rowing and plenty of others lining the bank at scattered locations. There’s a mom and her kid at the place he ends up. She sends him a small smile in greeting and he returns the favour.
There’s a secluded bench that he takes a place on, letting out a small sigh. If he ignores the traffic and the skateboarders and the people in general, it’s actually kind of peaceful.
There are geese and their little goslings swimming around the water close to the shore. Maybe he should have brought some birdseed. Or kale.
The kid beside him is busy fashioning something out of leaves, only occasionally erupting into giggles when it doesn’t pan out. His mom watches him fondly, pointing at twigs he could use. Everything seems kind of picture-perfect and his body automatically relaxes, easing further into the seat and closing his eyes for a second.
Until there’s a large splash and loud distressed honking. He whips his head around to find the same kid staring straight ahead at the goose with a wide grin. His mother curses quietly, picking herself up off the ground and grabbing his hand, half chastising him for throwing something at an animal and half urging him to walk faster.
The goose turns to Bucky. With no one else to blame for the sudden attack, it logically launches itself at him. His smile drops.
He gets up in a rush. The dumb bird nearly comes for his head, but he deflects with his metal arm.
“I didn’t even do anything.” He swats at it swiftly, trying not to cause any real damage. The goose, understandably, does not speak English.
He flinches when one of them bites at his knee. He can punt it to the sun but he doesn’t want to.
“Stop that.” He sticks his hand out to shove the stupid thing away, retreating back to the road. “Jesus, why are you so aggressive?”
Among the barrage of feathers showering on him, he prays his damn shoelace doesn’t unravel as he shields his head with one arm, the other fending himself while he moves hurriedly away.
The goose honks angrily at him. He scowls at it, not exactly pleased with the reminder that these fucking overgrown ducks were constantly bloodthirsty.
It doesn’t leave him alone till he’s significantly away from where he was sitting. He wants to call it profanity but that’d probably piss it off more.
The box and its effects were definitely starting to feel real.
Fuck it, no more day out for him. The best plan he can think of is to just go to the diner he’s supposed to meet his date at.
The waiter greets him with a courteous nod, which Bucky can only imagine was the best he could muster when a dishevelled 200-pound man walks in covered in goose feathers and irritation.
He won’t admit that he’s too scared to eat lunch at this point because he can’t rule out food poisoning. He spends the next two hours on his phone playing Fruit Ninja and plucking feathers that accented his all-black outfit.
Several glasses of water later and a second before he’s about to beat his high score, someone taps on his shoulder, breaking him out of his concentration.
Motherfu-
He clenches his eye shut, inhaling deeply before turning around.
“James?”
“Hey, yeah, that’s me.” Bucky almost falls over the table with how fast he stands up, clearly underestimating his size. “Leah?”
“Hi.” She smiles and he finds himself smiling nervously along with her.
“Hi.” He steps out to pull out her chair for her and she laughs. "Nice to meet you.”
“How long have you been waiting here?” she asks while setting down her bag.
“Around ten minutes.” He clears his throat to hopefully hide the fact that he was lying through his teeth.
“Just give me a second, I need to tell my friend I reached,” Leah pulls out her phone and he nods.
“Another glass of water for you?” The waiter seems less enthusiastic about Bucky’s 8th refill.
“Yes,” he answers, hoping he doesn’t call him out on it, “please.”
“You must be really dehydrated.“
Bucky turns to look at him slowly. “I like the taste.”
He can’t really blame the guy. Bucky’s been there for hours without ordering anything solid, just leaching off their free water and complimentary bread basket.
“So, James.” She tosses her phone back into her bag, leaning forward on her palms easily. “Tell me about yourself.”
He had rehearsed this a million times. He could do this.
“I, uh,-”
“Menu?” Okay, so someone clearly had a vendetta against him.
“Thank you.” She takes it with a smile.
His morning debacle with the coffee flashes through his mind. Suddenly the idea of a diner didn’t seem so smart.
However, she’s already placed her order and George is standing beside him expectantly, daring him to ask for another glass of water, so he places his usual order and hopes that your stupid bad luck thing wore off.
He quickly learns that his date is laid back, and it isn’t hard to fall into a rhythm with her even though she’s the one asking most of the questions.
“How’d you meet Nat?” Is his attempt at one.
“She used to come in for lunch every week at the place I work.” Leah leans back in her chair. “She can really handle her alcohol.”
He’d be worried about Nat day drinking if he didn’t know about her complete inability to get drunk. She might as well have been downing glasses of lemonade.
“Yeah, she’s-” Intimidating, scary, cool “-really something.”
“She mentioned that you like movies.” He definitely spends a lot of time watching them. “You got any recommendations?”
It’s easier to figure out how different things are or how much he missed out over the years through them. He’s glad he sat out the early 2000s, judging by their fashion sense and hairstyles.
He’s watched several movies over the past few months, a few of them critically acclaimed and others who were just there for the cult following.
But now everything goes blank and the only thing that he can remember are the biopics made about Steve that were somehow hilarious for gifting him the mental image of Freddie Prinze Jr. dressed in the stars and stripes, and highly distressing for the number of historical inaccuracies. Contrary to popular belief, Stevie did not, in fact, consider running for president after he took up the shield, nor did he start his own bar chain.
He can’t name Oh Captain, My Captain starring Channing Tatum as his favourite movie on his first date and hope to make a good first impression.
“Despicable Me was kinda fun.” He wants to kill himself. “I mean, it’s the last one I saw.”
Her face twists in mild disgust, but he can tell it isn’t ill-intentioned. “It’s a good movie, but God, that just gave me some intense flashbacks to my aunt’s Facebook page. Don’t think I can look at a minion ever again.”
He sniggers with her. He doesn’t know what the context is.
He’s a little awkward, and he can definitely tell he isn’t the most open book but she laughs at some of his attempts at jokes. There’s a distinct discomfort he has lingering at the back of his mind prodding at him, telling him over and over again that he isn’t ready for something like this. A warning bell, asking him to leave as soon as possible because he was in a dangerous situation.
He remembers what his therapist told him about breathing and remembering that the resources he had available were greater than his anxiety and he tries to get out of his head. It takes a few minutes of acting like he’s fine but he manages to do it.
Other than the one time he scalds his tongue on the coffee but played it off with a pained smile, shoving down thoughts of your stupid invention, things actually went okay.
It was nice, even though they decided by the end that it was better if they both gelled together better as friends. It lifts the strange fear he feels and he can hear Dr. Mendoza say she’s proud of him for taking this step before spending three hours psychoanalysing why they decided to stay platonic.
Bucky promises to visit her sushi shop with Nat soon and she says a bottle of sake awaits him for a drinking game. He doesn’t have the heart to tell her that Nat and he share the same tolerance for alcohol.
He makes sure to leave George a tip. A big one. It’s the first time he sees the guy smile the entire evening.
He’s waving goodbye to Leah outside and he thinks that maybe it was a good end to the day and that things actually turned out fine.
Until he turns around to leave, only to have someone walk straight into him with an iced tea.
The cold comes as a bit of a shock, making him jump slightly. He stares at his shirt, using his fingertips to pull it away from his body.
The person melts into a series of apologies immediately, offering to dry clean his shirt but Bucky just forces a shake of his head and says it’s okay even though he can feel the sugar making the shirt stick to his chest. Goose feathers and iced tea. Was there anything else that would like to attach itself to him?
His fists clench and his teeth grit and he has to physically control himself from sprinting to your lair because God knows what else is in store for him and he didn’t want to add in any way.
The door to the lair is locked. Fuckin’ brilliant.
When no one answers after minutes worth of waiting, he fishes for his phone and realises that maybe two hours of Fruit Ninja was not the best idea, especially on a phone known for having shitty battery life.
There’s roughly 2 percent left. By the time he opens his app to give you a call, his phone screen goes black.
He groans. He’s desperate at this point and under any other normal circumstances, he would have never, ever considered doing this.
But ten minutes later he’s outside your apartment building. You’re aware that he has your address; no doubt that it was in the SHIELD file he had gotten, and he knows that you know but it was still weird.
The buzzer has your last name listed next to it. He’s sure that he’ll break it if he keeps pressing it at this rate but he really needs you to let him in.
“Who the fu-” your voice comes through the intercom.
“I’m sorry for showing up like this, my phone died and I couldn’t reach you,” He breathes out as soon as he hears you. “But I need you to fix this.”
When he doesn’t hear a reply, he wonders if the thing actually worked. He’s about to start pressing it again-
“Bucky?” You sound a little surprised to hear him. “You’re at my house. Why are you at my house?”
“I need you to fix whatever this is.”
“What are you- fine, I’m buzzing you in,” your voice, initially confused soon trails off into something more dismissive.
There’s a soft click from the door, allowing him to push it open. The elevator is already on the same floor as him so he just uses that.
The elevator goes up a floor or two. His feet tap restlessly against the carpeted floor.
The lights turn off and everything comes to a standstill. His foot stops tapping.
He should have known. He should have fucking known.
Thirty seconds pass. He’s still in pitch darkness with the elevator showing no signs of moving.
In fact, he’s resigned to his fate. He sits down on the ground, only one step away from completely laying down and hoping someone finds his body here someday.
It’s six minutes of plain silence. He might as well get comfortable if he’s going to get stuck here for the rest of his life. Did he change his will? Does he even have a will?
There’s finally a whir. He thinks that maybe he’s going to plummet to his doom as the perfect end to this day, but then the light switches on and it starts moving upward.
It stops at the floor with a ding. He doesn’t get off the ground, only eyes the door wearily. With his luck, it wouldn’t open.
But it does and within a second he’s on his feet, scrambling to get out before it changes its mind.
He remembers your door number, basically charging down the hall to get to it.
The door is white and the paint is starting to chip off it. The handle itself is dented in a few places and he wonders if it was your fault or someone else’s.
His knocks are rapid, agitated even. He doesn’t stop until he hears your loud shouts telling him to cut it out.
“What the hell were you doing, trying to break down my door?” It swings open, revealing you in your pajamas. “Haven’t you done that already? And where were you, I’ve been waiting for like, ten minutes.”
He honestly feels bad for showing up uninvited and highly flustered. He can’t imagine it’s a pretty sight either. "This bad luck shit- fix it. My whole day’s been fucked up.”
“What are you-” Your eyebrows knit together in confusion, taking in his appearance.
It takes you a second to realise what he’s talking about but when you do, your face settles.
“How was your date?” You lean against the door frame, arms crossed over your chest.
“Really,” He glowered at you, “that’s what you care about?”
“Yes.” You nod. “Did you have fun?”
He hesitates. “I guess?”
“Was she nice?”
“Yeah.” Where was this going.
“Good, I’m happy for you.” The smile on your face is genuine. “Look at you go, Casanova.”
“We agreed to be just friends, but that’s not the point here. Y/N,” he whines. “I have a mission next week, I can’t afford to fuck up. My whole day was off and I don’t want it to carry over.”
“Your whole day?” you questioned, standing up instead of leaning against the wall. “Buck-”
“Just fix it.”
“Okay.” You lift your hand up, extending it towards his face.
He waits for you to do something.
You flick him on the forehead.
“There,” you declare, going back to your previous position. “you’re cured.”
What.
He says exactly what he’s thinking.
You laugh. “Dude. I was fucking with you.”
Huh?
“Well, actually maybe just like, three things and then I got bored.”
He’s confused.
“You know,” you begin when he doesn’t reply, “taking the sugar packets, switching your coffee order when you were looking under the table, took your place when you left, the shoelaces.”
“The shoelaces?”
“Yeah.” You nod. “That’s the other ray gun you saw this morning. Unties your shoelaces. I stopped after that because I thought you figured it out.”
His face scrunches in puzzlement.
“I mean, you looked right at me and told me to cut it out.”
He racks his brain about what you could possibly be talking about before it hits him. The hungover person on the goddamn bench in the park.
“You were the one in the hoodie and sunglasses.”
“I just followed the Avengers’ code of disguise.” You shrug. “Turns out it kinda works. Also teleportation. So helpful.”
He forgot about the teleportation. That’s why you could do all of it so fast without him noticing you were even there.
“What about the fucking geese?”
You pause for a second. “The geese?”
“And the elevator.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” The confusion on your face is apparent. “What geese and elevator? I have no idea what you’re saying right now.”
“Everything’s been a mess today,” he grumbles. “I don’t know what’s real or not.”
“I swear I had nothing to do with it other than what I mentioned.” There’s indignation on your features that quickly gives way to delight. “Holy shit, did I just accidentally invent portable bad luck?”
“Okay-” his palm finds its way to his forehead in exasperation, “-then what the hell was the smell?”
“What smell- oh, the one from the box?”
He nods briskly.
“Secretions Magnifique.” You snorted. “It’s a perfume. The worst rated one I could find.”
“Perfume?”
“With notes of milk, seaweed and sandalwood.”
“It wasn’t an inator?”
“No, it wasn- did you get vibe checked by a goose at the park?” You stifle a laugh when you notice a stray feather on his thigh.
“What does that even mean?” he asks in despair.
“I can see why it attacked you. You got bad juju.” You raise an eyebrow. “Maybe if you stop staring so much-”
“So I just have shit luck.” Is that a fucking relief or even worse?
“Well,” you begin but decide not to continue.
Even with all the irritability masking it, you could see that he genuinely was just not having a good time.
“Wait here a second.”
You leave him at the door. He shifts his balance and sighs, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. He still had to walk back to the Tower. Maybe he could grab a slice of pizza along the way since he skipped lunch.
“Okay, here.” You return with a large glass of water. He only looks at it. “It’s just water, I promise. You look like you ran a marathon.”
He takes it from you sceptically, pushing away the urge to sniff at it. It’s gone within a few gulps.
You wait until he’s finished to point at his arm. He draws his eyebrows together, but you only curl your index finger and beckon for him to give you his hand.
He reluctantly extends it towards you.
“Don’t laugh,” you warn him, taking his metal arm. “This usually helps me.”
You tie a small bracelet around his wrist. It has a few beads, which he realises represent the colours of the solar system.
“Keep that for good luck.” You pat it gently after securing it. “I think you just had a bad day; those don’t last very long. Do you want to charge your phone before you leave?”
“Uh-” The bracelet’s pretty, the colours shine against the dark vibranium. “-no, I’m good. I’ll just leave.”
“Okay. Anything else I can help you with or will you be fine?”
He narrows his eyes. “You’re being suspiciously nice.”
“I’m not evil all the time.” You huff. “My hours are in the morning.”
“Okay.”
“Okay.”
“Okay,” he says again. “I’m gonna go then.”
“See you next week.” You give him a little wave. “I’d say break a leg on your mission but knowing your situation…”
He scoffs. “Thanks.”
You make a move to close the door when starts walking down the hallway towards the exit.
He adjusts the beads slightly so he can see them better. The Earth one has glitter in it. He thinks it’s cute.
“Bucky.”
He turns around.
There’s a hint of a smile on your face.
“Take the stairs.”
He doesn’t have to be told twice.
Chapter 10: Chapter 9
Chapter Text
Hot single in your area! 😈 Find your solemate!
Somehow it bypasses Bucky’s spam folder and is in his primary email. SHIELD tech is too advanced to let fake mails like this reach him and this doesn’t make sense. Unless it was one of the stupid dating websites he signed up for.
Leaving aside the obvious typo in the subject, he clicks on it, hoping it doesn’t unleash a virus onto his computer.
He’s instead greeted with a poorly Photoshopped picture of you at a bar with a martini in your hand. He doesn’t have to look too hard to see that the martini is, in fact, an emoji. Off to a terrible start already.
Right beside it is an even worse image, an imitation of an early Internet chat box.
Harbinger of Doom just sent you a message!
Come to the empty lot near lair. Bring goggles. 😩💦
Decline/Accept
He wants to strangle you.
______
“Why did you curse my eyes so early in the morning?” He spots you at the top of the lair, speaking loudly so that it hopefully reached you.
“What?” you yell back down instead. “If you’re saying something, I can’t hear you.”
He rolls his eyes. He pulls his phone from his pocket and presses on your contact.
He watches the look of confusion morph into one of slight surprise when you reach into your pocket and pull out your call.
“Don’t ever send an image like that to me again,” he says directly.
“If that one image is too much for you, how will we ever make our sex tape?”
His mouth opens and shuts like goddamn fish.
He can hear your laughter even without the phone.
“First of all- stop laughing- first of all, a sex tape is never going to happen. Second of all, I have a debriefing to go to, we need to make this quick.”
He holds up a finger when he sees you begin to say something. By the look of trouble painted all over your face, he knows it’s going to be a dumb innuendo.
“Thirdly, why are you standing there?”
“I watched The Last Airbender,” you say once your cackling dies down.
“I like that show.” He did. Peter sometimes watched it when he came over and Bucky more often than not joined in.
“I know, you told me.”
Oh.
“Okay, what now?”
“Put your goggles on.” You take one step towards the ledge.
“What are you doing?” The goggles don’t do anything to shield him from the sun, considering that they’re not tinted. Maybe he could invest in those.
You send him a smile, taking a step further. His walk towards the building turns into a jog, then a sprint when you’re basically standing on the edge.
You spread your arms out like Jesus Christ himself before flinging yourself off the building. His stomach drops.
His phone falls to the ground, discarded to the side as he sprints to break your landing.
It never comes.
Instead, a gust of wind smacks him in the face, forcing him a few steps backwards.
“I am now an air bender.” your eyes shone. “Kind of.”
Just like that, the show was ruined.
He wipes the dust on from his glasses that he now understands why you made him wear. Considerate, for a person who nearly just gave him a heart attack.
“Why.” It’s not even a question, just a statement.
“You know how the Tower has a giant ‘A’ on the side?”
He stares at you.
“I‘m gonna spray paint ‘asshole’ on the side of it.”
Pepper would not like that.
“That’s not even evil.”
“Yeah, but it’d annoy your super friends,” You do a flip midair, testing out the repulsors that were tied around your palms, “and I’m the voice of the people.”
You’re too high for him to reach. He doesn’t have his tools, or anything useful on him considering that he never had to use them before. He couldn’t even launch himself at you from the side of the building because you’d just move out of the way. He could jump really high but it would just have the same consequence.
He could talk and keep you distracted but that worked once, it wouldn’t again. At least not for long.
Fuck, he really had only one option.
He leaves you to do your somersaults and turns, walking over to where he dropped his phone. It’s an upgrade from the brick he was using a while ago, but not a high-end Stark model. A smartphone, but barely.
He sighs, punching in the number and holding it up to his ear.
“Who are you calling?” you yell from above him.
“Go back to your shitty aerobics,” he yells back.
You pause for a second. “Was that a fucking pun, James Bar-”
The dial tone ends when someone picks up. He diverts his attention back to the call.
“Hey man, I-
“No.”
“You didn’t even let me finish.”
“It’s probably something stupid,” Sam doesn’t even sound annoyed, just uninterested.
“I need your wings.”
“I was right. Bye.”
It was a long shot anyway.
“Fuckin’ hold on a second.” He sees you disintegrate a concrete block by having it drop from the air. “You come here and fix this, then. She’s air bending now.”
“…like Avatar?” Sam unsurprisingly got the reference.
Peter’s interests were usually shared by everyone in the Tower, just because they had to compensate for the teasing he had to endure. It led to a lot of geeky documentaries and occasional musicals. Bucky wouldn’t be caught dead humming songs from Thoroughly Modern Millie under his breath.
“Yeah.”
“You want me to come and fight your girlfriend,” he says slowly.
“She’s not my girlfriend,” Bucky urges, “and yes, I need help. Can’t exactly reach her when she’s twenty feet above me.”
“We have a briefing in 30 minutes. Why did you even go there today?”
He doesn’t know how to answer that. Just looks up at you smacking one of the repulsors against your thigh when it sputters for a second. It’s tradition.
“Well?” Bucky ignores his question.
“Fine,” Sam’s voice is distant for a second as he agrees. “Clint’s asking if he can come too.”
“Fuck no.” One of them was more than enough and Sam was way better at negotiation.
He hears a faint profanity from who he assumed was Clint before the call cuts.
He takes a seat on the ground and waits.
“You’re not going to make any effort to stop me?” You have your arms pressed to your side, palms pointed downwards to keep you afloat.
“I could just throw things at you again.” He makes a mention of the small pebbles.
“I will fuck you up if you even try,” you warn. He lifts his arms in surrender. “So that’s it. You’re just going to sit there.”
“To be honest, I couldn’t care less if you painted the building,” he says with the least amount of interest he could muster, not that that was very hard.
“Do you not like your team?”
“I do.” He isn’t lying. “But they’re little shits.”
“I can draw a couple of dicks on their window, no problem,” you say offhandedly.
He looks up at you through his fingers. “That won’t be required.”
Although it was appreciated.
“Cool, so then I’m gonna go.” You make a mention of the utility belt on your waist. He looks at the many spray cans that decorate it.
“What colour are you going with?” he interrupts quickly. Fuckin’ Sam. What was the point of wings if he couldn’t get here in 2 minutes?
“Red, probably.” You look down. “I got purple and white just in case.”
“Building’s dark, red is good.”
“You really don’t care, do you?” You lower yourself down to the ground, a few feet ahead of him. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing.” For fucks’ sake, Sam. “You really don’t like superheroes, do you?”
“I don’t have anything against them.”
“Then why do you do this every week?”
This was wading into personal territory and he did not like it.
“Well.” Your eyebrows knit together. “Because I want to. It’s fun.”
“No other reason?”
“Do I need to have another reason?” You push your palm downwards, sending you back up into the air. “Can’t I just be evil because I want to?”
“Sure,” he says. He’s heard worse reasons. “Why not?”
“Besides, if you think I don’t like superheroes then you should meet Jake.”
“Who’s Jake?” He hadn’t ever heard you mention him before because he’d remember if you had.
“My roommate.”
“I didn’t see him when I came over.”
“That’s because we’re not conjoined at the hip.” It takes you a second to stabilise. “Besides, he grabbed the water while I got the bracelet but he refused to come say hi.”
Bucky looked down at his wrist. It was still there. He found himself fidgeting with it more often than not.
“He hates superheroes?”
“He has a valid reason.” Your eyes widen in worry when your head suddenly dips.
“What is it?” He knows the height at which you’re at isn’t very dangerous but if need be, he’s close by.
“Come find out.” Your eyes shone mischievously. “But yeah, no reason for me to be evil.”
“Not even a tragic backstory?”
“None. But if you want it, I can give you one, Barnes.” You test the waters, seeing how long you can lie horizontally. “Can’t promise you’ll like it though.”
“Try me.” He has time to kill. He’s a good listener.
“Well, it all started with my family- a troop of gorillas.” You flip over to lie on your back. “They practically raised me, they did. Until my gorilla mother died and I was all but consumed by grief and-”
“Your mother was a gorilla?” He entertains the notion.
“Or was it my father?” you ask thoughtfully. “I don’t know, I don’t remember. Anyway, I met a-”
“Just to clarify, none of this is real, right?” he interjects.
You stare at him. He stares at you.
“Bucky, that’s the plot of Tarzan,” you say slowly, “or at least whatever I remember of it… which I’m beginning to realise isn’t much.”
“Just clarifying.” He leans back again.
“Anyway so then when my mother, the deer-”
“Gorilla.”
“Whatever. Was killed, I escaped to some place-”
“Where?”
“Somewhere. And I stayed with these seven men-”
“Why seven?” He actually remembers watching this movie with his sister when it came out. An early memory, a bit faded. He remembers how long he saved up for the ticket.
“Because character development. And then I realised the reason my life was so weird was because there was a rat controlling me by pulling on my hair-”
“What the fuc-”
“If you ask any more questions, I’m going to stop.”
Bucky blinks at you. “So that’s your backstory.”
“Raw and uncut, baby.”
“Just to get this straight, your mother, the gorilla deer-”
“Witch.”
“Huh?”
“She was a witch who stole my hair.”
“Wha-”
He’s interrupted by the giant shadow cast by something that flies overhead.
Fucking finally.
He doesn’t even have to look up. Sam does a small glide to the ground, landing gracefully beside him.
Bucky finds you speechless but straightened up from your earlier posture.
“Buck,” Sam greets him.
“Sam,” he says in return, getting up from his place.
A grin spreads across your face. “Mr. Sam Wilson. No way.”
“You’re Y/N, I’m assuming?” Sam offers, posture relaxed. He clearly wasn’t here to fight.
“The one and only.” You tear your eyes away from Sam to glare at Bucky. “Barnes, if you had told me we were expecting guests, I would have dressed better.”
Bucky furrows his eyebrows in suspicion at you. You’d dress up for Sam.
You dressed up like a suburban tourist dad for him. He was feeling the offence incoming.
“Can’t count on him to be useful in any situation.” Alright, he did not call Sam just to have the both of you team up against him.
“Normally I’d agree with you but he did just invite you here, so…” you trail off, looking at Sam expectantly.
What the shit.
Sam smirks. Bucky switches rapidly back and forth between the both of you.
“I see why Buck keeps coming back every week.” It doesn’t take long for him to catch on, enlisting a feeling of triumph from you.
“I can’t see why he doesn’t just stay at home every day if this is the view.” You gesture to him.
This is not what Bucky wanted.
“Okay,” Bucky interrupts, “what is going on here?”
“Pure chemistry, I’d say.” You’re half tempted to bite your lip to seal the deal.
“I agree.” Sam just nods, completely and utterly serious.
You think that you’ll give him a gift basket just for playing along despite meeting you for the first time at that moment.
“Get a room.” Bucky rolls his eyes.
“Maybe we will.” You tap your finger against your lip in thought. “How do you feel about Indian food, Sam?”
“Very positively.”
Bucky grits his teeth. “If you’re not planning to spray paint the Tower, can you just hand over the repulsers so we can go home for the day?”
You let out a small tsk in disapproval. “See what I have to deal with?”
“Can’t imagine how you do it every weekend,” Sam says dryly, not wasting a second in replying.
“Hello?” Bucky waves his arm around. “She’s the villain here.”
“Your face is the villain here.” You tear your eyes away from Sam only to glare at him. “He won’t even wear a cape. Why am I the only one who brings their A-Game every week?”
“Sam just get the damn-”
“You should wear a cape, man.” Bucky’s absolutely sure that even Sam knows it’s a ridiculous idea.
“I’m not wearing a fuckin’ cape,” he grumbles.
“What are your thoughts on swords, then?” Your finger finds a place under your chin in deep contemplation. “You’d look great with a sword.”
Bucky buries his face in his palms. “Sam, for the love of God.”
“Okay, alright.” Sam finally gives in with a small chuckle. He runs a few steps to get a small head start before launching himself into the air, whizzing past your levitating figure. He does a neat little flip midair before matching your height.
Showoff.
“How difficult are you gonna make this, Wilson?” you ask, a smirk on your face.
“Jesus Christ.” Bucky exhales, looking at the both of you through his goggles.
“What’s your play here?” Sam calls out loudly.
“Was gonna spray paint ‘asshole’ on the side of the Tower.”
“After the ‘A’?”
“After the ‘A’,” you confirm.
“Now that’s too small,” Sam tutted. “You gotta think bigger. Paint the whole Tower.”
“Sam!” Bucky looks horrified.
“Hmm.” You look like you’re considering it. “Don’t have enough paint for that though.”
“You’re an evil genius, right?” Sam casts a small glance at Bucky. “At least that’s what he tells me.”
“You talk about me?” You grin at the disgruntled man on the ground.
“I don’t,” he mutters, shaking his head. A lie.
“Yeah, so build something,” Sam points out. “Get some more paint. I’ll even tell you the best vantage points to spill it.”
“No, he won’t,” Bucky shouts from below.
“He’s just cranky because he didn’t get his prune juice this morning, ignore him,” Sam dismisses him.
Prune juice? He was a young 100, not ancient.
“What’s your favourite colour, Falcon?”
“I like red.”
As annoyed as Bucky is right now, he stores that away in his memory for later. He also knows Sam loves seafood and a good pair of shoes.
“A couple of gallons of red paint it is, then.” You lower yourself to the ground, Sam slowly follows suit until he lands beside Bucky.
“You know we can’t let you go without taking those, right?” Bucky tilts his head towards your invention.
You narrow your eyes at him. He doesn’t budge.
“I’ll tell ya what,” Sam pipes in instead. “I’ll keep them until you finish getting the paint and once you’re done, we’ll make an evening out of vandalising the Tower.”
Bucky may not enjoy his company all that much but he admires Sam’s diplomacy. Of course, you would never make it this easy while reasoning with him.
“That a promise, Mr. Wilson?” You raise your eyebrow at him questioningly but are already in the process of removing the things from your hand.
“Wouldn’t ever lie to you, doll.” He holds up his hand in a mock swear.
You walk towards Bucky and him, rotating your wrists to get rid of the soreness. “Bold claim for a man who met me ten minutes ago.”
“Feels like it’s been longer.” He sends you a wink and you can’t stop the laugh the escapes from you finally.
Bucky holds his hand out for the gadgets. You shrink away from him with a click of your tongue.
“Technically, he takes this round.” You send a nod towards Sam, dropping off the repulsors into his hand. “So he gets it.”
Bucky rolls his eyes.
“You gonna keep ‘em safe?” you ask Sam, this time a little more earnestly.
“Guard it with my life,” he says seriously, pressing his lips together in a line to avoid smiling.
“You’re both ridiculous,” Bucky cuts in.
“You’re going to be late.” Sam tucks the devices into his pocket safely. “You know how Steve gets when people walk in on his speeches. Do you even have a ride?”
“Got the motorcycle.”
“See you there.” Sam nods.
“Save me a place,” Bucky says to him.
“No.” He doesn’t even hesitate. “Y/N. It was a pleasure.”
“Still holding you to that evening, Sam.” You send him a smile.
“I’m countin’ on it.” He gives you a small three finger salute before taking off, leaving you staring after his retracting figure.
When the dust settles, Bucky awkwardly clears his throat. “Right. So that was that.”
“Dude,” you let out an exhale. “he’s so hot.”
He murmurs something unintelligible. It vaguely sounds like a series of threats but mostly a list of complaints.
“Don’t you have a meeting to get to?” You turn your attention back to him.
“Yeah.”
“Aren’t you going to be late?” You glance at the clock on your phone.
“I’ll just tell them I was on a mission.” Well, sort of. “Besides, what are they gonna do? Kick me out?”
“Fair enough.” You shrug. “Have a safe ride back.”
From what he knows of you and Sam, the both of you were kidding around. But he could never be too sure. He can’t even ask if you were serious about the entire thing because it’s none of his business.
Were the implications of having his mortal nemesis and other mortal nemesis date important enough to overrule that?
“Are you planning to skip your meeting, or?” you ask when he remains freezes in his spot, eyes glazed over like he’s thinking about something. “Because if you are, I know this great Thai place-”
“Don’t do that again,” he says instead, shaking his head to jolt him out of his thoughts.
“What?”
“Flinging yourself off roofs like that.”
“Why?” Because it scared the hell out of him, for one.
“Just don’t.”
“Oh please, like you’ve never done dangerous shit like that before.” You narrow your eyes at him, reading his face. “Are you telling me you care about me?”
“No.” His nose twitches. “Just don’t throw yourself off buildings when I’m around.”
“What about when you’re not?”
“As long as I’m not there to witness it.” He shrugs, spinning on his heel to leave. Technically he preferred if you didn’t do things like that at all.
“Fine. I’ll just have my clone try out all the dangerous stuff for me.”
He stops in his tracks. “You have a clone?”
“Well,” You squint, “no. But I’m working on it.”
He scoffs, shaking his head. “Bye Y/N.”
“You know, it sounds an awful lot like you’re saying we’re friends.” Your whole demeanour changes and he already knows what’s coming.
“I never said that,” he argues vehemently. “All I said was that I can’t have your murder on my hands.”
“Thus implying that we’re friends. In a fucked up, enemies kind of way.” You positively beam at him. “Aw, Barnes, that’s adorable.”
Adorable? Adorable?
“I hate you.”
“I love you, too, bestie,” you gush, dumb grin on your face. “I’ll make us friendship rings next time. What are your thoughts on matching tattoos?”
He wants to cry.
______
By the time Sam walks into the meeting room, the session’s already begun. He shoots an apologetic look to a monologuing Steve before taking his place at the nearest chair available.
Something sharp pokes his thigh. His wings are off and in the backpack beside him, but then he remembers your little inventions that were still in his pocket.
He tries not to make much of a noise while he pulls them out, giving them a look over to make sure they’re not broken.
“Watcha got there, Big Bird?” Tony asks lowly from beside him.
“Something that Barnes’ enemy made.” Sam holds it up slightly.
“The one he’s been rendezvousing around town with every weekend?”
“That’s her.” He’s about to put it in his backpack when Tony stops him.
“Pass that here for a second.” He recognises it immediately for what it is, interest piqued.
Sam hands one of them over while he puts the other back in the bag. It’s a metallic circle, not bigger than Tony’s palm, with a thick leather strap to tie it around your palm.
“She made this?”
“Why don’t you ask him?” Sam mentions towards Bucky who silently slips into the conference room, standing in the corner near the potted plant since there were no more chairs left.
“The balance has gotta be off on this thing,” he mutters to himself, wholly ignoring the brooding man standing in the corner like a Christmas tree.
“She seemed to be manoeuvring it fine,” Sam catches the eye of a lower ranking agent who makes the mistake of glaring at him for talking while the meeting was going on. A few seconds later the agent hastily looks away and doesn’t turn around for the rest of the hour.
“Could be better.” He uses a much more intricate model for his suits, although this isn’t even half-bad for a homemade version. “Do you know how long she took to make this?”
“Buck says she comes up with a new one every week, so I’m guessing that long.”
It had a few glitches but it was incredibly refined for a week’s worth of work.
“Interesting.” He gives it a quick overlook before handing it back to Sam who drops it into the bag.
He casts a swift glance at Bucky, noting how he wasn’t even paying attention to the meeting but rather to whatever he had tied around his metal wrist, fidgeting with it with his thumb.
Tony has an idea.
And that was generally bad news.
Chapter 11: Chapter 10
Chapter Text
“As you know, we have a busy week ahead of us.”
Coffees line the conference room table, pens click against the stacks of paper that settle in front of various agents and the smell of deodorant mixed with post-training sweat lingers at the back of the room like a disgusting witch concoction.
“The annual parade is coming up and since there are a few security threats, SHIELD has been asked to step in. Therefore, all of you will be working security this week, possibly even at the parade.” Murmurs broke out in the room the minute this was said; mostly from first year field agents who were way too excited to have earpieces and fingerless gloves.
Bucky, on the other hand, doesn’t think much of it. They’ve dealt with threats before, most were declared empty the minute it got out that SHIELD or the Avengers were involved. It’s the 12th one that year.
“That’s only if we don’t catch it first,” Steve continued. “Our first priority is precaution. The tech and analytics teams are working on it. However, if you see anything suspicious, bring it up with Director Fury. He’s going to be around to make sure we’re not overlooking anything. Do you have any questions?”
More whispers erupted at the mention of Fury’s name. Wait till they realise he lives up to his name when they accidentally manage to set him off just by existing incorrectly.
Bucky smirks at the thought.
“You can leave then.” Steve straightens up as chairs shuffle against the carpeted floor, over twenty people leaving the room.
“And remember, if you see an eagle today, be sure to stand there and thank it on behalf of Steve for its service. Freedom! Liberty! And whatever else,” Tony calls out from the corner of the room, earning a sigh from the captain. Others only snicker as they close the door behind them.
“Thanks.” Steve stares at him stone-faced, bemused at the symbolism that had been bestowed upon him.
“Gotta keep the patriotism high.” The only ones that remain are the official team. Bucky thinks that he should have left with the other agents but apparently, it was rude and not a good show of team spirit.
“How serious is this threat anyway?” Clint has his head face down on the table, hand holding his to-go coffee cup so it doesn’t fall over.
“We’re not sure.” Steve finally takes a seat on the chair in front of him. “It’s the biggest event we’ve had this year, wouldn’t put it past them.”
“If it’s those Welsh kids again, I’m gonna punch a hole through their house this time,” Clint warns, voice muffled through the furniture.
“It’s not them, we checked.” Nat had her leg up on the armrest of Clint’s chair. “Tech team’s been working overtime to figure it out.”
“You have anything that could help?” Sam sends a nod towards Tony.
“I got a few things but it’d take a while to put it together.”
“Didn’t you learn quantum physics in a night?” Wanda’s picking apart a cookie into pieces, chewing slowly.
“Thermodynamic astrophysics,” he corrects her. “Quantum science took lesser.”
Bucky scoffs slightly at the brag, eyes still trained on the table in front of him. Maybe if he made no noise, they would forget he’s here.
“Yeah, so this should be a piece’a cake.”
“If your cake was somehow made out of a highly specified tracker that somehow doesn’t violate the data privacy of the entire world while analysing millions of terabytes worth of information, then yeah. A piece of it.”
“What he means to say-” Bruce interjects, “-is that we’re trying. It’s just taking longer than usual.”
“Well, the parade’s this Sunday. Think it’ll be done by then?”
“Hey FRIDAY,” Tony crosses his arm over his chest. “How many hours have I slept this week?”
“Three and a half, boss.”
“How much more will I be getting?”
“From previous experience, about six.”
“Yeah, we can get it done.” Tony looks back at Steve.
“Ask someone on the tech team to help you out.” Everyone was well aware of Tony’s bad coping mechanisms and how futile it was to get him to change his mind about it, but they still tried.
“They’re too busy.” Bruce pressed his lips into a straight line.
Bucky tunes out at this point. If he could help, he would have reluctantly chimed in by now, but he couldn’t.
“So what now?” Sam rips Clint’s doughnut into two, keeping one half for himself while leaving the other to the latter who still hadn’t lifted his head up from the table.
“I actually asked Fury if I could call in an external to come help,” Tony pipes up.
“And he agreed?” Nat raised an eyebrow.
“After he realised I wasn’t going to leave his office until he said yes.” He pulled out his phone, rapidly typing out a message before hitting send. “It didn’t take too long.”
“Do we know this person?” Steve asks a little suspiciously.
“Well-” Bruce sneaks a glance at the broody man on the chair, “-kinda.”
Everyone can tell Bucky isn’t paying attention by the way he’s glaring holes into the plant. He doesn’t mean to, it just so happens that it looks like he wants to kill it. Nobody tends to bother him during meetings, knowing well and fully that he did not care.
“You’re about to.” Tony jumps up, making his way to the door to pull it open.
Bucky perks up. An open door means they can leave, right? He can go watch The Bachelor? He’s not sure what everyone was talking about, but if the meeting was over he could go ask Wanda who was always kind enough to help.
“Our newest recruit,” the billionaire announces, quickly adding the next part, “on a trial basis.”
Bucky looks at the door.
His jaw drops open.
“No,” he says loudly, posture immediately stiff as a plank.
“Hello to you too, Barnes.” You roll your eyes before sending a small wave to everyone else. “Hey everyone.”
“What are you doing here?” He looks like he’s seething.
“Don’t tell me you forgot about our date.” You cross your arms over your chest in defiance. “You told me 3 o’clock, you player.”
“What is she doing here?” He whips to Steve for an answer.
“Hey Y/N,” Sam greets with a smile on his face before Steve can reply.
“Sam Wilson, good to see you again.” You grin.
“Right back at ya, sugar.”
Wanda looks amused, Clint finally lifts his head off the table at the mention of your name while Nat takes her feet off his armrest, and Steve’s body relaxes when he realises what’s going on.
“Okay.” Tony claps his hand. Bucky shoots daggers at him. “As you all know, this is Y/N. She’s going to working with us this week.”
“This is ridi- how did you even find out about her?”
“Aside from the fact that she’s all you talk about?” Clint snorts. Bucky shifts his glare to him. It was bullshit and an exaggeration and Clint was going to get a shoe up his ass very soon.
Your grin only grows bigger.
“We saw one of the repulsors she made some time ago,” Bruce answers his question like the sane person that he is. “Tony’s had her in mind for a while.”
“Repulsors? How on ear-” Bucky connects two and two together before turning to Sam. “You. You got her this job.”
“Sam’s my best wingman.” You send him a small heart made from your hands. Whether the pun was intentional or not, no one would know.
“Don’t look at me, I had nothing to do with this idea.” Sam raised his hands to brush off the blame.
“You’re a villain,” he points out loudly.
“I’m a saint.” You raise your hand to your heart in mock offence. “I have done nothing wrong in my life, ever.”
“Listen, Robocop,” Tony interrupts your conversation, bringing the attention back to him, “I cleared it with Fury. He’s the boss here.”
“Fury doesn’t know-”
“What don’t I know?” The atmosphere of the room changes the minute he saunters in.
With an eyepatch on his face, gaze sharp and a long black coat, Nick Fury puts Bucky’s dark outfits to shame. Not like he was competing.
Bucky doesn’t continue his sentence. Nick’s imposing presence loomed at the doorway, putting a stop to the ridiculous arguments that were beginning to boil. Instead, he looks at you, only to find your attention trained on the man of the hour.
“Nicholas,” you half cheer from where you had shifted to in the middle of all the commotion.
Nicholas?
Nicholas?
No one had ever called him Nicholas.
“Y/L/N,” Nick addresses in return. “Been a while.”
“You haven’t come to the lair in months, Nick.” You pout at him. “I even sent you an invite.”
Bucky furrows his eyebrows. Since when are you on such good terms with Fury? Since when was anyone on good terms with Fury?
“It must have gotten lost in the mail,” he fires back, “Or maybe it’s because I just happen to be the busiest man in the damn country. Take your pick.”
You roll your eyes, muttering something under your breath, but the good-natured smile on your face shows that you didn’t take any of his passive- or straight up- aggressiveness to heart.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t realise I was interrupting your little tea time.” He looks around the rest of the room with an edge in his voice. “Don’t you all have work to do?”
“We do,” Tony interrupts, holding up his hand before pointing to Bruce and you. “Everyone else just sorta sits around and looks pretty.”
“I’m gonna go talk to the organisers, see what spots are most vulnerable.” Steve stands up. “You coming?”
“Yep,” Sam responds, flicking Clint’s shoulder to drag him along. “Come on, man. When was the last time you took a shower?”
“I’ll go see what the kids are up to in training. They’re probably flying off the handle right now.” Natasha brushes off crumbs from her lap. “Barnes, you in?”
Bucky silently shakes his head, eyes focused on you as you introduce yourself to every Avenger who walks out of the room, sharing a small fist bump with Sam.
“I’ll do it,” Wanda volunteers instead, finally leaving behind only the Science Bros, you and Bucky in the room with Fury.
“I’ll give you a tour of the lab.” Tony beckons and you nod, following him. “New eyepatch, Fury? Prada, I assume?”
“Stark,” Nick says curtly.
Bucky stares after you, arms still folded across his chest.
“Any problem, Sergeant?”
Other than the fact that his arch nemesis was now working with his friends, no, not really. But that did seem like a pretty big one.
“No,” Bucky mumbles instead, getting up from his place finally.
Apparently, no one else was worried about the possibly lethal combination of you and Stark, even with Banner there to dilute it.
Fine.
Guess he just has to observe you the whole week.
Well, half a week. It was Wednesday.
He observes inconspicuously over the rim of his coffee cup. He has a newspaper spread in front of him at Bruce’s table.
It’s not suspicious. He’s been there multiple times to sit in silence with the scientist who occasionally tinkers with something while engaging Bucky in tidbits of conversation. He finds it calming, refreshing even
Today he has an agenda. Everyone knows about it too.
“You know he’s staring at you, right?” Bruce looks up briefly from the giant blueprint laid in front of the group.
Tony had been dragged away to get a proper meal into him after he stayed up for 36 hours straight with caffeine keeping his system running.
“He has a tendency to do that.” You’re looking over the plan the three of you had come up with the day before. There were certain changes to be made in terms of efficiency. “Turns out if you annoy him, he stares harder.”
“We’ve heard about the inventions. Inators, he calls them?”
“Yeah,” you point out something on the sheet, drawing a circle around it to come back to later, “only good things I hope?”
“He doesn’t really talk much.” Bruce writes down a small comment against your arrow mark. “But if he hated them, he’d have a lot to say. So I’d take it as a compliment.”
“Would it annoy him if I did?”
“Probably.”
“I’ll take it as a compliment, then. Pass me the ruler?” You draw a line connecting two pieces.
Bucky’s ability to lip read is excellent but he refuses to do it, for privacy purposes. He knew that SHIELD had pulled some strings and had another teacher substituting for your classes the whole week since your other option was to come only after school hours. Anything else about this plan was murky.
“You gonna sit there all day?” Tony looks over his shoulder, following his line of sight.
“I’ve done it before.” He continues to look over the newspaper at you with your finger extended at something on the blueprint as you explained something to Bruce.
“You look like- how do I say this nicely.” He wasn’t going to. “A fuckin’ stalker.”
“I’m supposed to stop her from doing anything evil.”
“Sure.” Tony snorts. “That’s what this is. Should I get you a fedora and sunglasses while we’re at it?”
Of course Stark wouldn’t care; he brought you into this project. It was pretty much impossible to get him to agree with Bucky.
Bucky just narrows his eyes and continues his observation.
The menu of the cafeteria keeps changing. They like to keep things interesting.
Every time they do, Bucky spends too long staring at the menu, trying to figure out what exactly is familiar enough to order. Vietnamese week had him eating pho the entire duration it stayed.
“You plannin’ on eating anytime this century, sarge?” He recognises your voice immediately.
He knows what time your break is and he knows that you generally eat lunch in the cafeteria with the science team. Generally, the three of you pour over solutions and debate points all through the meal, and he spends the time getting acquainted with his new, lowkey Instagram account.
He blocks the Bucky Barnes hashtag the minute he gets an account again. God save his eyes from people asking him to break their back like a glow-stick. However, one afternoon of accidentally watching three cat videos has led to his entire explore page being taken over by them and he’s been trying for three days to get it to stop.
“Just trying to-” he tilts his head. “-understand what I’m reading.”
“Not a big fan of Greek food?” You join him in looking at the menu.
“Never really had the chance to try.” Tony and Bruce don’t seem to be in the room, probably pushing aside their meal to work on it as they’ve often done.
“Ah.” You already had your order in mind but you wait there.
Two minutes later he’s still staring at the menu. He can feel your presence next to him, unmoving. It unnerves him.
“Why are you still standing here?” He cranes his neck to look at you.
“I’m just seeing how long it takes for you to order.” You shrug. “So far it’s been five minutes and forty six seconds. Forty eight now.”
“Go away.” The concept of someone standing beside him, waiting for him to do something reminded him far too much of him trying to bag his stuff at the grocery counter rapidly while other customers waited to pay.
“Six minutes and thirty seconds. This is just sad now.”
“Your face is sad.” It was pathetic that he had now resorted to this.
It earned a laugh from you.
As entertaining as it was to be able to get on his nerves by just standing silently next to him, you finally ask, “Do you want a recommendation?”
He eyes you wearily. “You gonna give me food poisoning?”
“Not today, no.” You shake your head slightly. “Maybe tomorrow.”
He stares a little longer. You remain unshaken in your offer.
“Fine.” He sighs, stepping aside.
You tell him that since it’s his first time, you’d get him something basic. He thought it made sense.
He argued with you when you ended up paying for the both of you, only shutting up when you told him he’s holding up the line and that he could pay you back later. It doesn’t stop his incessant mumble complaining.
He ends up with gyros at his table and you sitting opposite him with your meal. He asks where the Science Bros are. You tell him it’s Science Hoes now, as christened by Tony, and that they’re in the lab.
“So?” You look at him eagerly.
“What?”
“How is it?” you urge, nodding at him.
He takes a cautious bite, really taking his time with it to annoy your impatient ass.
“Well?” You raise your eyebrow at him.
“It’s-” he pauses, looking down at his food. “-good.”
“Aha.” You lean back victoriously. “Knew it.”
He likes it. He also knows that this is probably going to be the only thing he orders for the next week unless you had planned otherwise.
“You’re not eating?” He gestures to your untouched tray.
“Taking it up to the lab. Got a few things to work on and we’re already behind.” You gather up your stuff and get up.
“Uh-” he pauses from practically inhaling the entire thing. He was already halfway done with it. “-thanks.”
“No problem. You wink at him. “Try figuring out what’s wrong with it.”
You turn on your heel to leave, taking your order with you. He can see your shoulders bobbing with silent laughter.
He stares down at his plate, swallowing slowly.
He pokes at it with a fork, lifting up the leftovers to check if there’s anything underneath. Nothing.
He checks to see if his limbs are still intact or his face was a different colour. Nope.
His stomach twists in worry about what’s going to happen. He still has a bit left but he pushes the tray aside.
The rest of the day he spends supervising you has you occasionally catching his eye, only to laugh. It only freaks him out more.
It takes eight hours of waiting and self induced tests later to realise there was nothing wrong with it. You were just playing with him.
He’s surprised to find you in the rec room when he strolls in with Sam, given that you haven’t taken a break all day.
You don’t share the same surprise… almost like you expected him.
“How long have you been waiting for me?” he immediately asks.
“I wasn’t here for you.” You raise an eyebrow at him. “Heard that Wilson was makin’ an appearance here soon so I stopped by to get a good look at him.”
“Take a picture, it’ll last longer.” Sam laughs, inserting a dollar into the machine and punching in the code for what he wanted.
"Gladly. Strike a pose, would you?” You grin, raising your phone.
“Maybe when I’m not covered in sweat.” Sam counter offers and you accept with a thumbs up.
“You going to the parade, Sam?” You toy with the can in your hands.
“I’ll be working security, so probably.”
“Sarge?” You take a swig of your drink.
“Huh?” He snaps back into the conversation, putting a stop to the mental list of reasons he was making of why you could be here at the same time as him. He knew your schedule, it wouldn’t be very hard for you to figure out his.
“You coming to the parade on Sunday?” you ask again.
“I guess.”
You wince.
“What?” he asks instantly, curiosity making him a lot sloppier than usual.
“It’s just- you wear so much black.” You gesture to his current getup to prove your point. ”I feel like all the bright colours would vaporise you if you looked at them.”
He doesn’t look amused.
“You know, like Prince Philip.”
“I think I’ll be fine.” He gives you a sarcastic smile.
“You comin’ Buck?” Sam laughs, unwrapping the bar he bought from the machine.
“You go ahead, I’ll catch up,” Bucky says offhandedly, still glaring at you innocently drinking your soda.
Sam chews absentmindedly on his protein bar as he walks out, amused at the situation Bucky pulled himself into.
“What’d you do?” Bucky asks, studying your body language.
“I bought a soda.” You lift the can to prove your point. “And now I’m drinking it.”
“Why are you waiting for me?”
“I thought I’d return the favour,” you point out. “I’m supervising you.”
“Don’t.” He walks to the vending machine, pulling out his wallet for some loose change. There was a Snickers bar he had been craving since morning that he bought every alternate day. Small joys.
“Why? I have the time.” You take a sip, setting it down with a clang.
“You’re only here for this week.” Bucky counted the coins he had. He’d use a dollar but he was trying to get rid of the jingling in his pocket that made him sound like a fucking clown when he walked.
“Actually,” you begin innocuously, “Tony offered me a full-time position.”
Bucky’s movements stop, hunched over the money in his palm.
“What?”
“Yeah.” You nod seriously. “A full nine-to-five as a researcher here.”
“And you’re taking it.” He shakes himself out of the minor shock to assess the damage.
“I don’t know. I got a lot of things to consider.” The chair scrapes against the tiled floor as you stand up. “But maybe you should get used to seeing me a lot more around here.”
He punches in the code for his Snickers. The row whirs forward slowly.
“See you at the lab.” He hears you discard the empty can in the trash before exiting.
He waits patiently for his bar to drop while his mind internally screams about the consequences of having you work here. You wouldn’t be evil anymore. Unless you were here to steal secrets from the Tower. On the pro side, his weekend would be free again. On the con side, his weekend would be free again.
His bar stops right at the edge of the row. He waits for it to fall over. It doesn’t.
He shakes the machine, suppressing the primal urge to beat the shit out of it when the damn bar refuses to fall.
He punches in a few random buttons hoping that at least it would give his money back.
The little monitor instead flashes a new message across the screen.
‘Have a good day, sarge <3’
Motherfucker.
Captain America looks less daunting up close, you realise. But he is still a very large man with very large shoulders. You know at least four people who would like to scale him like a tree, not that you’d ever tell him.
“Hey, Y/N.” He sends you a small smile when you walk into the room for a mid-week update. A clipboard in your hand, report attached and a few stationery items in case some points needed to be noted done, you look professional and ready.
“Afternoon, Captain.” Tony saves a seat for you and Bruce beside him since you’re on the same project. You almost miss the fact that Bucky isn’t in the room.
He walks in a few minutes late; tall, dark and brooding, immediately bringing the excitement in the room down by 40% by just existing.
Bucky surveys the room before catching your eye. He picks up his chair with ease and drags it over to where you are, sitting right beside you, ignoring the small cry of protest from an agent whose view he now obstructed. Everyone else just silently shifted over.
“Clingy much?” you whisper at him, eyes still trained on Steve who had waited till everyone was seated to continue.
“I’m supposed t’be keeping an eye on you,” he rebuffs in a hush.
“Well, you’re late. What if I went rogue, huh?”
“Therapy ran overtime,” he mumbles.
“Oh.” You blink. “How was it?”
“Same old.”
“You good?”
He refrains from answering when Steve starts addressing the room but yes, he was fine. He sends you a nod to confirm.
“This is just a usual checking in. We’ve received all your reports, but just to keep everyone on the same page-”
Bucky logs out mentally. He knows what his job is, he’ll probably lead a division of the security team or join the mission to neutralise the threat in case they find it first. Either way, he’ll figure it out without having to listen to an intern nervously stammer their way through their team’s report.
On the other hand, you’re not listening either. You were until you saw Bucky’s eyes glaze over while glowering at the window, assuming that he had stopped paying attention when his gaze doesn’t shift.
You should be listening. You’re new here and you should know what’s going on because any bits of detail are crucial to the working of your system.
Instead, you rip out a sticky note and discreetly place it on the back of Bucky’s metal arm. He doesn’t notice.
You bite your lip to stop yourself from smiling. More post-its from your pile of stationery make their way onto the vibranium, shades of pink, purple, green and yellow decorating his arm like a bulletin board.
You’re about to contemplate sticking one on his shoulder blade when he whips around to look at you. You freeze, hand in the air with a sticky note. He looks down at his arm, a scoff escaping him in disbelief.
“Are you serious?” He twists his arm to check the extent of how far you’ve gone. “What are you, six?”
“How’d it take you so long to notice?” You watch as he tugs them off one by one, counting to see how many you had managed to get on there.
“It’s impossible not to zone out in these shitty meetings,” he mumbles, pulling off the last one, crumpling all of them into a ball to throw at you. You skilfully avoid them.
“Don’t you feel pressure or heat or anything here?” You poke at his metal arm.
“No.” He clenches and releases the fist. “It can block bullets though.”
You snort. “Bet that’s a popular line in bed.”
He rolls his eyes. “I mean, it helps that I can’t feel anything. Sometimes,” he adds the last part as an afterthought.
“Like when you’re blocking bullets.”
“Especially then.” He nods.
“Would you ever want to?” you ask casually. “Like if you got the choice, would you prefer having feeling in that arm?”
“I don’t know.” He’s thought about it, but it doesn’t seem feasible in his line of work. He’d like it, though, to feel sand slipping through his fingers and the comforter under his palm. “Maybe when I’m retired.”
“Aren’t you well past that age?”
“Shut up.” He rolls his eyes. “And pay attention. You’re next.”
“So you are listening.” True to his word, Steve asks about what’s going on with your team. “Traitor.”
Tony shoots off about how you only had to test it out on a small batch first to see if you could acquire the targeted data without compromising anything else. You chime in about a few specifics, and Bruce more or less just confirms what you both are saying, only stopping to let them know that you’d be finished in a day or two.
Steve nods, moving on to the next committee.
“Did I get a good grade?” you whisper when you lean back again.
“B minus at best.”
“Fuck you, dude. I was great,” you protested. “It’s definitely worth a gold sticker.”
Someone shushes you sharply. You apologise quietly, whacking Bucky’s metal arm when you see a dumb smirk on his face.
He narrows his eyes at you.
You try sticking another post-it on him.
You’re only here for a week. That’s what he’s been told. Over six times, actually, after which he’s been told to go away the next time he asked.
No one’s brought up the job offer so he asks Tony if it was true and all he gets is a dismissive ‘yeah, whatever’. Besides, you haven’t told him if you accepted or denied it yet so isn’t sure if this entire thing is set in stone, per se.
So then why do you have a giant box of your belongings that you’re lugging around the lab, looking to set down?
And why does Tony allow you a table right in the centre of the lab for everyone to see as soon as they walk in?
There are a gazillion trinkets, picture frames and obnoxiously bright stationery that stands out against the dull minimalism of the lab.
“Every single one of these is a fire hazard,” he reports, standing over your desk.
You give him a side glance before reaching over to the side of your desk, pulling up a fire extinguisher and setting it on the table in front of him. “I came prepared, bitch boy.”
He doesn’t dignify that with a response. He chooses to look at what exactly you’ve brought with you because it’s a lot.
There are small cards with ‘thank you!’ sprawled on them in uneven lettering, bits and pieces of paper with small cartoons on them, little clay models and other miniature trophies with ‘you’re the best!’ under it.
“Your students gave you these?” He can’t remember the last time he gave his teacher anything other than a headache.
“Sometimes they learn or communicate better when they have something to keep their hands busy.” There’s a certain fondness in your voice that he isn’t used to hearing. “I end up with a lot of doodles and craft.”
“’s nice of them.” He can tell that this means a lot to you. He hasn’t seen it before.
He thinks the little decorations are adorable and maybe he’d keep another fire extinguisher on hand, just in case.
Until you start pulling out a set of framed photos and his smile drops.
Several collages of Bucky in flower crowns, him with terribly edited backgrounds of beaches and mountains, a photo of him laughing with ‘Live, Laugh, Love’ next to it in an italicised font.
“What the fuck,” he states, grabbing one of them.
You stifle a laugh, pulling out several more to place along your table.
“Where did you fucking get these?” He starts pulling them off the table one by one.
“I don’t think you know how much the internet is obsessed with you.” You set an especially large one of him in a Hello Kitty bowtie right in the centre. He doesn’t miss the star shaped frame you chose for this.
“What is wrong with you?” He swipes that up immediately, looking for a place to discard, possibly burn these pictures. “Why do you even have these?”
“It’s imperative that people know we’re friends.” You bite your lip, bringing out the last thing to annoy him.
“What is that?” A teddy bear with a blue jacket and a grey felt arm stared into his soul.
“A Bucky bear.” Don’t laugh, don’t laugh, don’t laugh. “Limited edition.”
He snatches it along with the fifteen other picture frames, thinly veiled distress and mostly disgust on his face.
“I hate you.”
“But I love you.” You lift the small heart shaped locket you hung on one of the pictures of your class.
You use both your hands to click it open for him, watching his face morph into one of disbelief.
Bucky my beloved, it read on the right with a small picture of him on the left looking intensely disgruntled. He doesn’t bother asking where you found that specific picture of him outside a Burger King at 3am.
He doesn’t even make an effort to take it away this time. He knows that you’ll simply bring up more and more until you drove him crazy.
“You still have to see the Avengers calendar.” You reach for the inside. “I changed all the pictures to you, it looks great-”
He turns around and leaves before you get a chance to flip open the pages.
He wanders around, looking for the best disposal area he can find. He knows there’s a giant fireplace in the common room in the Tower, and for that, he’d have to go up a couple of floors.
He steps into the elevator, chin pressing down on the several picture frames in his hands to prevent them from falling over.
No one sees him carrying a couple of fan edited pictures and merchandise of him. Which was good.
Unfortunately, the doors ding open on the next floor and his best friend steps on with possibly the worst timing ever.
“Buck?” Steve sounds confused. He should be, considering the sight.
Bucky shimmies slightly to get a better grip on his belongings. “Steven.”
Steve glances at what he’s holding.
“Is this,” Steve pauses, trying to frame his words correctly to sound as supportive as possible, “a therapy thing?”
“No.”
Steve waits for a further explanation.
“It’s Y/N’s,” he elucidates. Steve’s eyebrows furrow.
“Why are there so many pictures of you?” He looks at the content in his hands a little closer. “And a bear.”
“She’s evil. And I hate her.”
“Alright.” It doesn’t answer his question but his friend looks irked enough.
The elevator dings to the common room floor.
Bucky turns on his heel to head toward the place to set all the pictures on fire. He saves the picture frames to give back to you though, he’s sure those cost money. But he makes sure every last square inch of the picture with several hearts around his portrait burns to ash.
Bucky knows that by the time Saturday afternoon rolls around, the three of you would have been working for thirty hours straight, scrambling to get the last minute details done.
You’re still at it but he can tell through the adrenaline of the upcoming deadline that you’re exhausted.
Now he’s grouchy but he’s not an asshole. He’s already done two coffee runs for the team and brought you food when you didn’t show up for lunch. He mumbles something and dismisses it when you call out a ‘thank you’ his way. He considers it a debt repaid for the gyros.
He’s still keeping an eye on you but along with an emergency box of doughnuts for any sugar rushes that may be needed and bottles of water that he occasionally leaves at the corner of the table for you three to subconsciously keep yourself hydrated.
“Are you sure we checked it?”
“Yes.” Bruce nods.
“Double checked it?”
“Yes.”
“Triple checked it.”
“Yes.”
You look satisfied enough to move on to the next item. “Pass me the welding torch for a second.”
Bucky has a book in front of him that he hasn’t moved beyond the second page of. He’s more interested in seeing who collapses from burnout first. He has the infirmary on speed dial.
After another hour or so Tony holds up a silver tablet, roughly the same size as a smartphone, examining it from all sides.
“That’s it,” he states. “The final product.”
You exhale lightly.
“We should name it.” You have your hands on your hips, looking down at it in wonder. Maybe the zero hours of sleep was finally kicking in because you couldn’t believe you were finally done.
“You got any suggestions?” Tony asks.
To be frank, no, you didn’t.
“No.”
“Okay, we’ll do that later.” Tony sets it down, not sounding too disappointed. “F.R.I.D.A.Y, tell the team to get down here, please.”
“Yes, boss.”
Bucky jumps off his chair to join you in the lab, leaving the book behind.
It only takes a few moments for the others to join. Fury and Steve walk in together, already engaged in conversation.
“Greetings.” You clap your hands together. “We did it. We think.”
“We think?” Nick raises an eyebrow.
“We know,” Bruce clarifies quickly, stepping in. “We’re positive it works. We tested it out.”
Tony pulls up the holograph of F.R.I.D.AY’s system, sliding the tablet to the middle of the table.
“Is it secured under FRIDAY’s core?”
“Locked and loaded.” Tony hits the table lightly to signify that it was safe.
“I think we’re ready,” Bruce confirms.
“We better be, or else half the country is suddenly going to lose their internet connection,” you say under your breath.
“What?” Bucky’s eyebrows knit together.
“Nothing,” you beamed, “Okay F.R.I.D.A.Y., run sequence, global parameter.”
“Running sequence,” F.R.I.D.A.Y. parrots.
There was no going back now.
From what Bucky can see, Tony looks fairly confident but you have your bottom lip caged between your teeth, chewing on it nervously.
There are several hundreds of photographs popping up and disappearing within a minute. Everything looks like it’s going according to plan.
The giant holograph of the AI dims. Your face drops when F.R.I.D.A.Y. seems to sputter to a halt.
No one breathes.
In the midst of the tension, Clint mutters if they should play some background music. It’s followed by a swift ‘ow’ when Natasha flicks him in the shoulder.
You could hear a pin drop.
It suddenly picks back up again, running faster than the last time and the sigh everyone collectively heaves is almost comical.
It runs for a few seconds more before a list of names suddenly pop up accompanied by a series of photographs and geo locations.
“Sequence complete. Six names detected, zero encroachment on public or private databases,” F.R.I.D.A.Y. broadcasted. “Location determined to be Holland. Exact coordinates are computed into the quinjet.”
You let out a small cheer, looping your arm around Bruce, squeezing him in a half hug. He has a smile on his face, dropping his head as he laughs slightly.
“How dangerous are they?” Tony, however, continues to ask.
“A few prior convictions and a series of similar threats. Danger level determined to be at approximately five out of ten.”
“That’s not bad,” Steve commented. “Looks like we don’t need the full team there.”
“Romanoff, Barton, Wilson, Rogers can go ahead and take care of that,” Nick finally spoke up. “Everyone else is working security tomorrow, just in case anyone else decides that terrorism is on their fuckin’ to-do list for the day.”
“Buck, assemble a team and go over strategy for tomorrow,” Steve adds on. “Everyone else go suit up, wheels up in thirty minutes.”
“Fuckin’ Holland,” Sam scoffs, shaking his head. “Of all the places.”
“What do you have against Holland?” Nat asks as they leave together.
“Just don’t like ‘em.” Their voices grow faint the further they get.
“Hey.” A small greeting from behind you has you turning around.
Wanda stands in front of you and you have to ignore the fact that the most powerful being on Earth is talking to you.
“Hey,” you say back.
“I just wanted to say congratulations. You did a great job.” Bits and pieces of her accent poked out. She didn’t seem like she was putting in the effort to cover it up as opposed to the press interviews you had heard a few years ago.
“Thank you.” You smile. “T’was a team effort.”
“Well, we owe you one anyway,” Steve joins the conversation, leaving aside Tony who was still talking to Bruce.
“I wish I was humble enough to turn it down but I’m not.” You laugh. “It’s nice to have an arsenal of superheroes at my disposal.”
Steve looks like he’s going to respond but his attention is drawn towards F.R.I.D.A.Y.’s announcement that the quinjet was ready to go. He shoots you an apologetic look but you sign for him to go on, you’d meet with him later.
You watch as he claps Tony on the back, telling him to go get some sleep and something with more nutritional value than a pizza pocket in him, nodding at Bruce before taking leave.
“Y/L/N,” Nick stands beside you, looking ahead at the conversations being had as Steve tugs Clint along with him.
“Nicky,” you tease.
“I know at least seven underground prisons I can put you in if anyone hears you calling me that,” he says stoically.
“We all know you won’t get rid of me.” You shake your head. “Who’s gonna send you a Christmas card then, huh?”
He simply shakes his head, jutting his hand out and offering a handshake. “Not sure anyone here could handle another day of a highly caffeinated, sleep-deprived Stark.”
“Just say ‘thanks’, Nick, geez.” You roll your eyes.
Bucky watches the entire interaction unfurl; only the body language, not employing the lip-reading ability.
“You’re welcome.” You let go of his hand, a devilish look on your face. “You know what I want in return.”
Nick gives you a long, hard stare that could probably melt through Steve’s shield before turning around to leave.
But Bucky doesn’t miss the subtle high-five he gives you while walking out, unbeknownst to anyone else, bringing the biggest grin to your face.
He makes it a point to ask you what the fuck kind of leverage you have over the man for him to play favourites with you.
You finally collapse at your desk, letting out a loud exhale. You clench your eyes shut, your body finally melting into your chair. You look exhausted.
He’s not sure how to help. You don’t seem like you have the energy to tell him.
Bucky leaves a doughnut and water bottle on the table in front of you before shuffling out of the room quietly.
He’s certain that he’s spent far too long in Bruce’s lab this week. He liked the man as much as the next guy, but he probably wouldn’t come down there for the foreseeable future.
You’re at your assigned desk, reading light illuminating the space. Thankfully you’ve cleared up most of your stuff from the table, leaving no more liabilities to fall over in case he walked into the desk.
“So you’re done for the week.” His voice surprises you. You were scrolling through your phone, slightly hunched over.
“It appears so.” You put your phone down, swivelling the chair to look at him.
“How’d it go?” He leans against your table, making sure he isn’t using his full weight.
“Well, I slept for fifteen hours straight, so…” you leave him to connect the dots. He’s done the same several times.
“You’re probably gonna need more,” he says, mostly from his own experience, “I’ll see you tomorrow then?”
“Actually-” you reach beside your table and lug your gigantic box of belongings onto the table with a loud thud, “-you won’t.”
He looks at the box that was nearly overflowing with its contents, the majority of the space being taken up by empty picture frames. “I thought you said Tony offered you a job.”
“He did,” you confirm. “I didn’t accept.”
“Why?” He watches you shift through a few things, adjusting it so that it wouldn’t fall over.
“This whole thing- it’s cool and all, but it’s not what I want to do.” You shrug. “I like teaching. I miss my class.”
He gaze lands on one of the thank you notes sticking out from the corner of the box. “Ah.”
“Back to school from tomorrow.”
“And evil on the weekends?” he prods, dropping a pen into the heap of stationery.
“Obviously.” You give him a lopsided smile. “Where else am I gonna use all this brilliance?”
You point to your head. He lets out a small exhale in the form of a laugh.
“Speaking of-” You look like you just remembered something.
You rummage through your backpack and pull out a small container, handing it to him.
“What’s this?” He turns it over, looking for any hidden clues. “Are you proposing again, because I’ve said no-”
“I’m not proposing,” you interrupt, “yet.”
He gives you a deadpan look.
“Open it,” you urge, and he complies.
Two small squares sit side-by-side. They’re slick black, barely bigger than the face of a dice.
“You put one of them here-” You tap on his bicep “-and the other here.” You tap his shoulder, a few inches below his clavicle.
“What does it do?” He thinks it’s like Nat’s little taser things, a nifty little tool that he could use on missions.
“It, uh-” you hesitate “-it allows you to feel sensation in your metal arm. Heat, pressure, texture.”
His breath hitches in his throat. He doesn’t mean for it to happen, it just does.
“You said that sometimes you’re glad you couldn’t because of the bullets and stuff. They’re detachable, so just take them off when you go on missions and wherever it is you Spandex ambassadors go.” You scoff slightly.
He can’t remember the last time he felt something soft with that arm or used it for something that wasn’t directly related to his job.
“I’m not messing with what the Wakandans gave you. It’s the most advanced piece of tech out there.” You shrug. “But if you ever want to feel it when someone attaches sticky notes to your arm, this could work. Just thought it’d be nice to have an option.”
He can’t decipher what he’s feeling right now. He looks up at you, only to catch you eyeing him cautiously, assessing his reaction. When you notice he’s looking at you, a nervous smile makes its way onto your face.
His stomach does a flip.
“Thank you,” he says quietly.
“Don’t mention it.” You sound a little relieved, picking up the box that he’s pretty sure weighed a ton what with all his memorabilia in it. “See you next week.”
He doesn’t know how to explain what it means to him.
Instead, he shoves his hands into his pockets. “What are you doing later?”
“Nothing.” You pause. “Why?”
“Are you gonna watch the parade?”
“Yeah, probably.” You shift your weight to your other leg to compensate for the box.
“Want some company?”
“Aren’t you heading a security division?” You have to consciously hide the bewilderment from your voice.
“Yeah. The place I’m stationed just so happens to have a good look into the street,” he explains, toying with the bracelet on his wrist. “Can’t really promise that I’ll be paying attention to it or that I’d even be there the whole time but for the most part…” he trails off.
“Uh-” You force yourself to shove aside your surprise at his determination, “yeah, sure. That’d be cool.”
He nods. “Okay. See you there.”
“See you,” you murmur as you walk to the elevator.
He opens the tiny container to look at the small chips. They’re still there, silently like they don’t change his world just by existing.
Gosh.
Chapter 12: Chapter 11
Chapter Text
Bucky thought that with all the technological advancements the world had made in terms of vaccines and mobile phones, ancient practices would be left behind in the past, where they belong.
So when a letter arrives in the official Avengers mailbox, addressed to him, it’s a bit jarring. There’s a wax seal, picture perfect calligraphy and faded edges; a full blast from the past.
Valorous m'rning James,
We shalt meeteth on our regular day at mine own lair, at 11:30am. Doth not beest late.
Bringeth me a presenteth. Or taketh off thy shirt.
With a heart full of misprise,
Thy sup'rvillain.
He ignores the thinly veiled threat in the first line and the clear flirtation in the third to last. The latter is harder to dismiss, but still.
He wonders if SHIELD has anything to do with the lair you’ve acquired for yourself. After the last conversation about your workplace, he did a little research. For the safety of humankind.
It’s a little different than what he was expecting. A lot more usage of the words ‘holistic development' and ‘practical learning’ that he’d ever seen. Then again, the world post-Snap was different.
The lair door is closed to visitors, so gives three knocks and waits patiently.
“Who is it?” Your voice floats through the intercom.
Bucky looks up at the camera. “It’s me.”
“Sarge?” The door swings open a few seconds ago. “You’re here.”
It takes a moment for him to realise you’re not in your usual get-up. Still in your pajamas, as a matter of fact. Strange, but probably a costume for whatever shit you had going on that day.
“Got your letter.” He holds it up as proof, waving it around slightly.
Your eyes squint in confusion before it suddenly hits you.
“Shit, I forgot I sent that.” You facepalm. “I mailed it, like, two weeks ago.”
The more he takes in your appearance, the more apparent it becomes that something wasn’t quite right.
There was a little crease between your eyebrows that didn’t look like they were going anytime soon, the slump of your shoulders and the missing liveliness-
“You okay?” he asks a little awkwardly, gruffer than he wants to sound.
You shift your balance to lean against the door frame. “I’m a little stressed.”
Clearly, if the circles under your eyes were any kind of indication.
"Anything wrong?” He didn’t want to pry but he didn’t want to ignore it all together either.
“A lot of missing class prep. The parade thing kinda set me back, I got a lot to make up for.”
His lips press together in a straight line. “I thought someone was covering for you.”
You half-nod. “Turns out they weren’t that great. The kids didn’t learn much so I’m doing it again but class starts tomorrow and I have a lot to cover because I also have to do my current prep on top of last week’s, and I’m also covering someone else’s classes because she’s out sick, and there’s the stupid play coming up so I have prop work to do-”
You cut yourself off with a small smile. “Sorry, I’m rambling.”
He hasn’t seen you this… serious ever. He doesn’t like it very much.
“Why aren’t you at home?”
“Didn’t wanna disturb my roommate.” You scratch the back of your neck awkwardly. “Also it leaves a big mess and Jake doesn’t want the cat to accidentally eat a roll of tape or something.”
You have a cat, apparently. Every day he learns something new about you.
“Can we reschedule?” you ask, a little embarrassed at the entire situation. “Promise I’ll kick your ass next week?”
“Yeah, sure.” He doesn’t have a problem with that, it’s more the fatigue he can see rolling off your body in waves.
“See you later then.” The corner of your lips quirk upwards in a smile, ready to get back to hours worth of arts and craft and God knows what else.
Okay, Barnes, you have the whole day to yourself. What plans can you-
“Listen,” he blurts out before he can think about what he’s going to say.
At the same instance, you open and shut your mouth immediately, instead indicating for him to go on with a flick of your wrist.
“Do you-” This is not a life or death situation, idiot. “-do you want some help?”
You bite your lip. You were in no place to turn down any additional help. “You sure?”
“I got the time.” Not like he has anywhere to be, anyway.
“Making flashcards seems a bit below your pay grade.”
Bucky simply dismisses it with a rise and drop of his shoulders.
“Well, okay. If you’re sure.” You push the door open to let him in.
He nods in confirmation.
Sure enough, the lair is an absolute mess. There’s cardboard, craft paper and markers strewn all over the floor among other things, a laptop half open with a few energy drinks beside it and empty wrappers of food long gone.
“How long have you been at this?” The lair looks less like an evil headquarter and more like an arts and craft section at the local mall.
”Couple of hours.”
”How long is a couple?” he presses, eyes narrowed.
”About six,” you say sheepishly. “Not counting yesterday.”
No wonder you were exhausted.
He simply picks up an uncapped Sharpie that lay near his feet.
”Where do I start?"
You can tell Bucky Barnes is a man of precision, accuracy and efficiency by the fact that he never misses a shot, but more importantly, the way he cuts his cardboard.
He made sure each one was the same size, not even a quarter of an inch off. He wouldn’t have given a shit if it was something he was doing on his own. He probably wouldn’t have even used a bright orange boxcutter, instead relying on his brute force. But these were for someone else, and therefore it was important to make sure they all lined up perfectly.
He was gonna make sure that these were the best fucking props the school would ever see or at least die trying.
You, on the other hand, were working on lesson plans and a few presentations to use in class. You occasionally lifted your head to look at what he was doing, finding the look of utter focus on his face a bit amusing.
“How many of these do we need?” he asks, looking at the stack of ones he had already finished.
“As many as you can get out of those three sheets.” You point beside him. “Let me know if you need any help.”
“Got it.” He leans over to pull them closer to where he was sitting with his feet crossed on the floor.
You were on a plush armchair, one whose backrest rose high enough to know that it was your version of a villain’s throne. You had offered him the seat but he chose the ground, citing that there was more space to work. You didn’t expect anyone else to stay that long in your lair, let alone do DIY craft on your floor, hence the lack of seating.
“How’s the day job going?” You don’t look up from your screen and he doesn’t from his measuring either.
“Same as always.”
“No new missions?”
“Not right now.” Classified information, he has to remind himself.
“You haven’t brought me souvenirs yet.” There’s no telling if you’re serious or not. Your focus still remained fixed on the laptop. “I’m pretty sure the letter mentioned that too.”
“I told you,” he begins, dividing the cardboard into squares with a ruler, “there’s nothing there.”
“Nick brought me a pencil once, so I know you’re lying.”
That piqued his interest, serving as a reminder. He had been meaning to ask for a while, ever since the parade fiasco.
“You and Fury are friends.” He didn’t know how else to describe the relationship the both of you had, considering that he had never seen the man act like that with anyone else. “How’d that happen?”
“Actually, I think he just picked it up from his table,” you deflect, tone reminiscent. “I don’t think he genuinely bought me a gift.”
“Okay, fine, but how does he not hate you?” he tries to urge you back on track.
“Man, all you superheroes do is hurt me.” You sigh, still hung up on the falsified gift.
“You’re not gonna answer, are you?”
“I have very secret secrets too, Mr. Barnes.” You wiggle your eyebrows.
He pauses. “Fair enough.”
He wasn’t going to push it. He goes back to his cardboard, painstakingly making sure every cut is in line.
“I send him a casserole every year for Thanksgiving,” you broke in all of a sudden.
Bucky just hums in acknowledgement, not buying the obvious bullshit.
There’s a silence that follows as your fingers click against the keyboard, typing something down. He tries not to disturb you, working as nimbly as he can on his own.
His metal arm makes it easier to work longer, given that it doesn’t strain his muscles. He hasn’t tried the little Feel Squares, a name he found inscribed inside the box, that you gave him yet. He doesn’t know how long it will take him to.
“I invent things for the division he manages,” you pipe up, unprompted.
He looks at you in brief surprise, not really expecting to hear from you again, before what you say registers. You look serious enough to know that you’re not kidding this time.
“You’re-” The gears in his brain turn. “You’re a SHIELD agent?”
“No.” Your nose twitches slightly. “I’m a teacher.”
“But you’re also a SHIELD agent.”
“Yeah, I’m making this presentation right now for your next mission in Lithuania,” you shoot back instead. “Those Nazi bastards will never know what hit them. Do you think adding WordArt causes extra damage?”
He doesn’t pay attention to your retort. “Fine, are you technically on their payroll?”
“Lead technology consultant,” you clarify. The light from your laptop illuminates your face in series of colours one after the other, currently settling on red.
“What about your evil shit?” He sets the boxcutter down beside him. “They’re okay with you being a nuisance?”
“Yeah, as long as they get a blueprint of all my plans.” You shrug. “Generally they use those for their own inventions after tweaking it a little bit and making it look cooler. A lot more neon lights in their versions.”
This arrangement was one of the strangest he’d ever heard.
“Huh,” he states, crossing his arms. “How’d they find out about you?”
“Same way they find out about all of you.”
“They tracked you down?” Or blew up their director’s car with a missile launcher, in Bucky’s case.
“No, I created a wormhole by mistake and they were at my door in an hour. They were going to take me in for messing with intergalactic legalities but-” You pause for a second, cursing under your breath at the stupid software that fucked up the entire document when you shifted an image. “I started nitpicking their primitive tech and told them I’d send them some new ideas if they let me go.”
“And they listened to you?”
“Do you know how annoying I can be?” He does. “Took, like, two hours to walk out of there with a new job.”
“What about Fury?”
“I’ve worked with him a bunch of times,” you say nonchalantly. “Why else do you think he agreed to let Tony bring me in so quickly? He was going to call me anyway.”
Tony should probably not hear about that. He thought he had all the leverage in that situation.
“Why do they call you a villain then?” He specifically remembers the briefing he was given. “If you work with them.”
“You have a lot of questions, sarge. I think this is the most I’ve ever heard you talk,” you observe, voice offhanded.
He can’t even dispute that; it was true. Just- the thought of you being a part of SHIELD was absurd.
“It was a part of my contract. They don’t classify me as a world-destroying threat, just a minor one, for now. Can’t really take that off the record once it’s on there.” You squint at the screen. “They assign me an agent to make sure things don’t go overboard, but they keep me around. They realised two or three years ago that I don’t need to be under constant supervision, only partial.”
Totally harmless. Except for when you were going to steal the power of the sun.
“He gave you a high five,” Bucky brings up instead. A very reluctant one, but Fury did give you a high five.
“You saw that?” you ask, a small smile on your face. “Don’t let him know. He’ll have you eliminated.”
“He hasn’t done that with anyone else.”
“It’s what I get in return when I do him favours,” you explain casually. “I wormed my way into his life. Just like how I’m doing to your heart. And soon your bed.”
He rolls his eyes. “You’re not a villain.”
“Am too,” you defend. “You’re here to stop me.”
“There’s nothing to stop.” He makes a mention towards the cardboard. “You’re not even evil.”
“Take that back or else I’ll steal the declaration of Independence next week,” you mutter, attention divided again. “I’ll tell them you helped me do it.”
“My arch-nemesis is a theatre kid.” Bucky shakes his head in disbelief.
The laptop slams shut dramatically. He looks up.
“Now that’s just hurtful,” you say straightly. “If I’m a theatre kid then you’re president of the goth club.”
He scoffs, going back to cutting cardboard.
Unlike last time, he takes you up on your offer of a soda. It’s been an hour and a half and he’s shifted to calligraphy. It takes him a while to get used to it, given that it wasn’t part of his existing skillset.
But numbering pieces of coloured paper is more fun than he’d like to admit.
"How’d the parade go?” You’re typing away on your laptop, working on a presentation for now. “No security issues?”
“No, it went fine,” He’s more focused on carefully controlling each flick of his wrist to make sure there are no stray lines.
“Oh, cool,” you say offhandedly. “Did you have fun?”
He spent most of the event trying to coordinate a team of over a hundred agents covering multiple city blocks, so he didn’t get to see a whole lot of the actual parade.
He did eventually find you at some point, but even that was short lived. The giant cotton candy you shoved into his hand and the quick picture you snapped of him holding it in his official work outfit was one of the only instances he actually talked to you, and half of it was spent in him threatening you not to post that anywhere online. Other times he just stood beside you in silence for a few moments before intercepting another message on his comm.
He did try his best though, a subtle way of expressing his gratitude.
“Kinda.” The vibe was positive, people looked like they were having a good time. “Not exactly my idea of it, but t'was nice.”
“Yeah? What is your idea of fun then?” you inquire. “From what I see, when you’re not on missions you’re here, and I can’t imagine this is very fun for you.”
He looks at the stacks of paper he had already completed. He actually was not hating this.
”I told you, nothing,” he maintained his automatic response. It wasn’t like his answer had changed drastically over the course of a few months.
”Okay.” You don’t bother arguing with him, instead, returning your focus to the sources you were citing.
He lets it sit for a second, mind already cringing about how disinterested he sounded. He wasn’t, he just doesn’t talk about himself much. His therapist’s voice rings in his head again about letting himself be seen and breaking down walls.
“Cook.”
“Huh?” Your eyes dart up to his for a second.
“I cook.” His excessive stress baking and the lack of appreciation for it had led him here in the first place, in search of a new way to spend his waking hours.
“What do you cook?” Generic question, best not to go into details before he shuts down again.
“Stuff.” It’s embarrassing enough to admit it to someone who wasn’t on the team anyway. “’m not very good at it.”
He does not divulge the fact that he could make a killer lasagna, given that he wouldn’t stop making batches of it until he perfected it.
“You should let me be the judge of that.” Your face is completely neutral but he’s come to realise the signs of when you’re going to hit on him. “Make me dinner on our date.”
There it is.
“What’s the best meal you’ve ever had?” You sigh at the document when it fucks up again. “Keep in mind, it’s not necessarily your favourite food. Also could be something you made.”
His eyebrows crease when he tries to remember, pinpoint an exact one. Flashes of hot dog vans, a neighbour in Romania who gave him a batch of cookies once when she made extra, his first bite of pizza from Sam’s favourite place downtown, the cupcakes he made once for Wanda’s birthday.
It gets overwhelming abruptly, beginning to feel a little suffocating in his head.
“Don’t know,” he croaks out, not explaining further.
You don’t test it, noticing the shift in his tone.
He curses when his Sharpie slips in his grip, drawing a bold line across the piece of paper. Fuckin’ hell.
You tell him it’s okay.
He picks up another piece wordlessly.
“I swear to- Barnes, I will murder you if you don’t put that down.”
“I know how to use this,” he insists. The glue on and around his hands says otherwise.
“You need the skill to be able to glue two sticks together and you clearly don’t have it.”
“I was a trained assassin, I know how to use guns-”
“Who did you have to assassinate with a glue gun, Bucky?” Prying him away from the hot glue gun was probably the most laborious task you had done all day. “You’re going to burn yourself, you moron.”
“Your glue gun is weak,” he says objectively. The man had managed to stick his fingers together once already and various other objects to the floor.
Was it out of petty revenge after you took it away from him once? A possibility he would vehemently deny it till the day of his death. This was his vengeance.
“I’m going to kill you.” You exhale in indignation. “My glue gun isn’t used to being handled by an idiot with a death grip metal arm.”
“Yeah, it’s generally handled by an idiot without a death grip metal arm.” He rolls his eyes.
You’re not even trying to be subtle when you take a step over to grab the rest of the glue sticks, shoving it behind your back on the couch.
“We’re out of glue sticks,” you say monotonously.
He glares at you and your determination not to budge from your decision.
Until he has another brilliant idea.
“I’m going to tape this together.” He stretches his arm to pick up the roll that lay a few feet away from him.
“Put down the tape or so help me God-”
The giant wall of screens had its use, but for now, a couple of them were on to function as a mini theatre of sorts. However, the biggest downfall was the movie you had conned him into streaming. You were absolutely resolute that it was important for his cultural expansion.
“I hate this,” he says, not even five minutes into The Kissing Booth.
“You’re gonna love the rest of it.” It had been the longest half an hour, forcing Bucky to, first of all, stop arranging the sketch pens and crayons colour-wise, and then second, convince him to eat something.
“What do you want to eat?” you asked for the tenth time, one hand on your hip and one hand holding your phone.
“I don’t eat food,” he stated, hoping that it’d end the conversation there.
You pressed your mouth into a thin line. “What do you want then, motor oil? Spare car parts?”
“I don’t eat,” he corrected instead.
You didn’t look impressed.
“I’m getting you pasta,” you decided finally, pulling up the app to order, remembering what he said about it being his preferred choice a while ago.
He opened his mouth to protest but a quick stern look from you and he shut it.
“I didn’t bring my wallet.”
“You pay for our next date.” You don’t cast him a second glance. “I like very expensive wine and cheap burgers.”
“All of them are fuckin’ annoying.” He can’t tear his eyes away from the train wreck going on in front of him. “Who is that?”
“He’s one of the leads, he’s been here for half the movie already.” You snort, lap acting like support for your cartons of food.
“This is more painful than whatever the soviets did to me.” He takes a swig of his water and mentally wishes he conjure up a Jesus moment where it turns into vodka.
“I’ll let Netflix know.” The both of you were leaning against the entrance wall, a considerable distance away from the screen. Your speakers were well placed throughout the lair to let the sound reverberate like a normal movie hall. All in all, it was a pretty good system that he had to give you kudos for.
“How much longer does this go on for?” He pulls out his phone, switching it on momentarily to check the clock.
“You know, there’s a sequel.” Good God why. “Also there’s an hour to go and we’re not moving till this is done.”
An hour? What could they possibly be doing for an hour?
“You are pure evil,” he mumbles, pushing around his leftover pasta. You had gotten him two, knowing his metabolism would have him starving by the time the food arrived.
“All it took was one showing of The Kissing Booth for you to take back what you said this morning.” Your eyes light up. “You’re easier to convince than I thought.”
Someone in the movie says something stupid again. Someone else gets mad again. Bucky feels like he’s going to start disassociating soon.
“Isn’t there any other way of spending an hour?” He nearly groans at the borderline abusive lead. “I’m gonna have a brain haemorrhage if that piece of shit opens his mouth one more time.”
“You’re telling me you wouldn’t spend the last hour of your life watching shitty rom-coms with your best friend?” You lean over to nudge his shoulder.
“No, I wouldn’t.” He glowers at you. “And you’re not my best friend.” Especially not after this.
“Oh right, yeah, my bad,” you backtrack fairly quickly. “I’m the love of your life.”
He shifts further away from where you’re sitting. He hears you laugh.
He’s nearly out of garlic bread, which is upsetting, to say the least. Maybe he could make a batch when he got home.
Speaking of which, he should probably leave, seeing as how he had spent well over four hours there already.
“What would you do if had one hour to live?” you inquire out of the blue, interrupting his train of thought. “Besides watching The Kissing Booth 2 with me, which we’re definitely going to do one day.”
A lot of big questions that day. He can’t say much, considering that he was the one who started the whole thing.
Bucky sighs, taking another bite, chewing on it mindlessly.
”What would you do?” he asks in return after a while.
”I don’t know actually.” You shrug. “Maybe lie down on some grass with the people that I actually like. Talk about nothing, but probably have the last thing I say be something cursed so that they’re forced to remember me forever.”
”No creating wormholes?” The light from the movie dances off the cervices of your face but you aren’t looking at him.
”Nah.” You laugh gently. “I think I do enough of that every other day.”
The movie fades into background noise, becoming easier to ignore now that he’s not actively thinking about it.
“We were in South Dakota for a stealth op once.” He pokes at the cherry tomato rolling around in the carton. “Stark’s suit was basically non-functional, Barton’s arm was four kinds of fucked up. Wanda was the only one who relatively fine.”
“What about you?”
“Hmm?” he breathes, breaking out of his memory.
“Were you fine?” you repeat, eyes no longer glued to the screen.
“Needed a few stitches, nothing major.” If he recalls correctly. “But team morale wasn’t the highest.”
He remembers that the wisecracks and witty one-liners weren’t landing that well that night. And once they stopped, things got all the worse.
“We were waiting for F.R.I.D.A.Y. to send over a new quinjet. It was 3am and everyone was whinin’ and being little shits and somehow Wanda managed to get us to this small doughnut shop a couple of miles away. Didn’t take a lotta talkin’ to convince him to stay open for a little longer.”
“Best damn meal I’ve ever eaten in my life. Doughnuts and stale coffee.” There’s a wisp of a smile on his face that you take a liking to. It looks good on him. “We had too much muck on us to be sitting inside and there were maybe five seats outdoors that everyone wanted to put their equipment on. We compromised and I just sat on the stairs outside the shop by myself.”
That was nice of him, you think. Or maybe non-confrontational.
“So if I had one hour to live, I’d probably want to spend it there. T'was nice. Quiet.”
“That’s-” strangely beautiful, a deeper insight than you thought you’d get from him? You don’t complete the sentence. “How often do you go there?”
“Haven’t been back since then.” He shrugs. “Never found the time. I don’t even think I’ve eaten a doughnut that good since then.”
"Well I mean-” you gesture around vaguely. “-there’s a Dunkin store a few blocks down. It’s not the same, but I’m sure could DoorDash some doughnuts. Try ‘em out.”
He actually laughs at that, freely and louder than an exhale.
It’s probably the first you’ve ever seen him do it. It’s cute.
"Maybe some other time.”
“You made me watch that stupid movie. I deserve that glue gun.”
“You are not getting it,” you shot back.
“I did my best work with that,” he argues, arms crossed over his chest.
“You glued my chair to the ground on purpose.” You threw your hands up in exasperation. “How did you even fucking get that close without me seeing?”
He smirks but neglects to answer your question. “Give me the glue gun.”
“You don’t even have the fuckin’ sticks, I hid them,” you say pointedly.
He reaches behind to his back pocket and pulls out a stash of glue gun sticks. Your jaw drops.
“How did you-”
“Your tape sucks, I want the glue gun.” He eyes it in your hand. Just because he didn’t use all his available skillset on you doesn’t mean he didn’t have them.
“My tape has stars on them, you-” The tape was pretty but it was useless, the adhesive barely clung onto anything.
“Glue gun,” he interrupts, annoyingly persistent.
“No-”
“Glue gun.”
“I will carve your heart out of your chest and eat it like a mango, James.”
Bucky blinks at you. "Jesus Christ.”
You look surprised yourself. “That was aggressive.” He nearly cracks up.
“Where did that come from?” He pulls his lips into a straight line in an effort not to.
“Sorry.” You sigh. “I shouldn’t have said that. Take the stupid gun.”
You toss it at him and he catches it with ease.
He stops for a second, tilting the gun towards you. “It was creative.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Oh? Did it turn you on? Is that a kink?”
“Forget I ever said anything.”
He thinks he’s done the most he can today. He cut, copied, coloured, stuck his way through nearly eight hours of work.
He was clicking through your presentation with one hand, the other being used to keep his body upright as he sat on the floor.
You were running through your lesson plan for the week, legs thrown over the armrests of your villain couch. He refused to sit on it out of moral principle and his loyalty towards the good side.
He remembers some of the concepts you’re teaching about, either from his own school or information he picked up over the years. Things were radically different and he didn’t expect any less, but it still struck him how different his education was.
“You put a lot of effort into these classes,” he notes, changing to the next slide.
“Makes it fun for everyone.” There’s a pencil tucked behind your ear to mark any changes. “They think I’m cool, I gotta keep that going.”
“What would they say about the evil side job?”
“Doubt they’d care that much,” you reckoned offhandedly. “Besides, who cares what you do outside the classroom if you put memes in your presentation?”
Right as you say it he comes across something that vaguely looks like a cartoon mouse leaning against a wall for support with tears in its eyes.
“Am I supposed to know what that means?” He stares at it, flipping the laptop to show you.
You lift your neck for a second to look at it. “Not without context."
He nods, flipping it back towards him.
He’s seen a few of them. He’s liked a few of them, but the majority don’t make sense. Peter calls them surreal memes.
He thinks he’s getting better at filtering his content on his Instagram. It had finally shifted from cats to German architecture which he, admittedly, didn’t know much about, but it was definitely easier to explain. Occasionally a surreal meme would show up and he’d spend 5 minutes trying to deconstruct the meaning behind it.
”Have you always wanted to teach?”
“Yeah.” You don’t even hesitate in answering.
“Why?”
“It’s just one of those jobs where you can see yourself making a difference every day.” You shift in your place, pulling your legs up to get more comfortable. “Most people don’t realise how important is as a kid to know that someone older is rooting for you.”
He can make out how tired you are by the way your replies get shorter, less detailed. There was still a stack of papers beside you with scripts that had parts that needed to be scratched out or highlighted. He had done a few of them before you said he had done more than enough already.
“Why’d you ask?” you questioned, his sudden interest in your life a bit unusual.
Well.
“It’s important to you.” He shrugs simply, mouth moving faster than his brain.
When he doesn’t receive a reply he glances up through his eyelashes to see if he somehow pushed a boundary he wasn’t supposed to.
You’re looking at him over your file, a soft smile on your face.
He quickly shifts his gaze back down before you can make a dumb joke at his expense. It doesn’t come, but technology has never looked more appealing to him at that moment.
The presentations themselves are pretty interesting. No wonder you spent so long on them. He thinks the little animation segues are strange but not in a bad way.
He’s about to ask you what the meme of a rabbit in a tuxedo means when he swiftly stops himself.
You’re asleep, curled up on the couch with the file clutched close to you.
He takes it as his sign to leave.
He gets up silently, pulling off bits of tape that stuck itself onto his body over the day. He steps over pieces of discarded material, turning to make sure you’re still asleep when something catches his eye.
The pile of scripts lay unfinished beside you. He pulled his lower lip between his teeth.
He didn’t want to overstep, but he also knew that that was an hour more of work minimum and you didn’t look like you were in any state to sit do that now.
Fuck it.
Bucky quietly makes his way over to the pile to pick it up, reverting back to his original position on the floor with his back to you. Privacy, or something resembling it at least.
He does his best not to wake you, keeping the noise of rustling papers the lowest he could.
It’s easy to fall into a rhythm and soon he doesn’t require a reference either. He just knows what to erase and what to highlight.
Mundane tasks like this give him time to think. His mind floats from subject to subject, not lingering too long on anything specific. It’s calming. Maybe a new coping mechanism.
You turn over on the couch. He freezes mid page turn, waiting to see if you’d wake up. When you don’t, he continues with his work.
He thinks it was a good day. A productive one, at the minimum. He didn’t really have anything to show that he stopped an evil scheme of yours other than a head full of repressed memories of possibly the worst movie he had seen in months. He thinks that counts as the most heinous thing you’ve ever done.
He’s more than halfway through the pile when the lights in the lair switch on by themselves. He squints at the sudden exposure, shielding his eyes from the light.
The clock on his phone tells him it’s close to 9pm. He has a few scripts to go and then he’d sneak out of there, probably send you a text to make sure you got home-
“Bucky?” Your groggy voice calls out from behind him.
He flinches, placing the bundle down. “’m sorry, was I too loud?”
“No, no it was the light. They turn on if it gets dark outside.” You sit up straight, stretching your neck to get rid of the soreness. “What are you doing?”
“Just finishing up some stuff.” He turns around, slowly pushing the stack of scripts in front of him.
“Are those the-” your eyes blink rapidly to adjust to what you’re seeing.
“Yeah.” He scratches the back of his head.
“Oh.” The gesture involuntarily makes you feel a certain way. Something weirdly warm. “Thank you.”
“I thought you could use some sleep.” He pushes himself off the ground when he sees you looking at him with an emotion he can’t quite put his finger on, not wanting to overstay his welcome. “‘m gonna go.”
“Wait, I’ll walk you to the door.” You hop off the couch, shaking your legs to get rid of the pins and needles.
He obliges, waiting as you jog up to him. There are only a few metres to the exit but you insisted on being chivalrous. It also gives you ample chance for a few more pickup lines.
”Sorry for sticking around this long, wasn’t really much use after lunch.” He inwardly cringes, forcing a stoic face to refrain from showing it physically.
“You were,” you rebuked, “and I was gonna ask you to stay anyway, you just beat me to it.”
"You’re probably gonna need a new glue gun,” he avoids replying to your comment.
“Probably.” You snort. “You know, you’re fun to hang out with sometimes, sarge. You should hang out here more often.”
”I’ll start working on the art skills.” He thinks it’s easier to go back and forth with you now, less guarded than he initially was when he first met you.
”Or maybe, we can just watch a movie and eat trash takeout,” you suggest instead. “No work involved.”
His mouth clamps shut, finding it a little difficult to come to terms with the fact that he didn’t have to offer a service for you to spend time around him. No saving the world or making flashcards. Just his generally disgruntled self.
“Okay,” he says simply. “Get some rest. I’ll see you next week.”
“Thank you,” It comes out a little softer than you intend, “for today. I owe you big time.”
He considers it even, actually. “Don’t mention it.”
“Now bring that same glue gun energy to our date.” You switch back within the blink of an eye. “You get real cute when you’re possessive.”
He scoffs, spinning around on his heel. “You’re a pest.”
You watch him hastily leave, laughter erupting from your chest and the same warmth from earlier not showing signs of leaving anytime soon.
in case you want a translation of the letter she sent him in the beginning :)
Chapter 13: Chapter 12
Chapter Text
“Mr. Barnes,” you announce when he opens the door to let himself in.
He raises his hand in a small wave, strolling across the floor to where you were standing.
“You are-” You check the watch on your wrist, “-ten minutes late.”
“Tragic,” he replies dryly.
“Imagine if I didn’t wait for you and started my plan anyway. Total world annihilation.” You’re standing on the platform, lugging a heavy table on wheels and an old timey TV with you.
“The world hasn’t ended yet, I’d say it’s fine.” He makes his way to the base of the stairs, waiting for you to reach the top before he helps.
“How was therapy?” you question, one hand on the TV to support it.
“Like always.” He shrugs, lifting the whole set-up and placing it on the ground. “She told me I need to chill out.”
“I’d say she’s right.”
“Yeah, well-” He uses his metal arm to help you pull the table along. “I think she has her hands full with the other nine hundred problems I have.”
Once you guide it to the centre of the room, he lets go of it and takes a step back.
“Boom.”
“This TV is older than | am.” He knocks the top of it, a hollow metal sound resounding through.
“That's impossible,” you drawl obnoxiously. “You're, like, a billion years old.”
“I’m a gazillion, so watch your mouth,” he warns in mock seriousness. “What are you doing with this?”
“One second.” You hold up a finger, sorting out your priorities. “Your hair's getting long again.”
He raises an eyebrow. “That's what happens when it grows over time.”
“You look like a prince.” His hair fell to his ear by now and you figured the haircut did him well because the volume in his tresses was lively.
Bucky pulls at it slightly, eying a lock. “That a bad thing?”
“No.” He looked nice. “I like it.”
“Okay.” He pushes back a smile, nodding slightly.
Really nice.
“I think I will hit on you obnoxiously today.”
He exhales, pressing his lips together in a straight line. “When do you not?”
“Anyway,” you begin again, keeping a hand on the TV. “I saw your reaction to Netflix’s best movie last time-”
His face falls. “We’re not watching the sequel.”
“Hush.” You raise a finger in warning. “There’s no point in watching The Kissing Booth 2-”
“We finally agree on something,” he deadpans. “Who woulda thought?”
“-when you can live it.” You raise the remote in triumph. “Behold, the Television Transporter... inator.”
“That’s the name?” He looks unimpressed, rightfully so. You had given him names like The Air Morphomatic Inator before. This was nothing.
“I’m workshopping it,” you urge him to move on. “I built it in a hurry for us.”
“Is this thing even safe?” He taps at the glass.
“We’re gonna find out,” you mumble before raising your voice again. “You ever looked at a Hallmark movie and think, ‘gosh, I wish I was in that small, vaguely terrifying town!’”
“No.”
“When you’re watching a sci-fi movie and think, “jeez, I wish I was the one getting probed by that alien!”
“No.”
“When you’re watching erotica and-”
“No,” he interrupts before you complete your obscene thought.
“Well, today’s your lucky day.” You clap your hands together in excitement. “Because you can do all of that.”
“Why are you advertising this to me?” His feeling of suspiciousness rises with every second. “What is this, a pitch meeting?”
“I thought I’d make it fun.” You pouted. “Monologuing is so two weeks ago.”
He doesn’t reply.
“Also, I didn’t exactly get to test this out so...” you trail off. “And it technically only runs TV shows for now. If you want, we can do this next week after I do a few test runs with my clones.”
He had a mission next weekend, followed by a fundraiser event and even though he would definitely rather spend it here, he doesn’t really have the time.
“What if something goes wrong?” he asks, just in case.
“I swear I’ll pull the plug,” you promise. “No pun intended.”
That’s enough for him.
“Guess ‘m gonna have to destroy it before it’s fully functional.” He’s still feeling the adrenaline spike from the compliment you gave him earlier. Might as well make use of it.
You grin at his spontaneity. “Anyway, here’s the evil part-”
“Oh, joy.”
“You’re mouthy today, Barnes.” You take a pause. “I like it. Keeping things spicy.”
“Just doing my part.” He shakes his head, owing it to the unusual sense of confidence compared to what he had when he initially walked in “Go on, the evil part is?”
“They get thrown into any show across all networks or streaming platforms.” The smile on your face is nothing short of sinister. “If they’re especially bad, they’re going straight to Riverdale.”
“You can control it?”
“Well,” you pause, “no, not yet. But I’ll get there.”
Bucky just continues anyway. “And who are you planning to send?”
“For a start, it’d be that asshole Jeff from work.” Ah yes, he remembers Jeff. Baking soda volcano guy. “He’s gonna know the epic highs and lows of high school football.”
He brushes it off as a reference he doesn’t get yet.
“After that, anyone who’s inconvenienced me ever.” You spread your arms out. “And then the whole tri-state area.”
There’s a loud booming sound throughout the lair, similar to a dun dun dun in every superhero movie ever.
Bucky waits for it to subside before continuing, “How long did it take you to do that?”
“An embarrassing amount of time,” you admit, dropping your hands to your side again. “But it’s cool, right?”
“Sure.”
“You know it is.”
“Move on.”
“Right, so taking over the tri-state area, blah blah, end of the world as we know it-”
“What if I pull the plug?” He points to the cable connecting it to the socket.
“You wouldn’t.”
He stares at you. “You know I would.”
“Yeah, you would,” you huff. “Which is why it’s just for show. It doesn’t actually do anything.”
“What if I punch a hole through it?”
“Why is that your first resort?” you whine. “There’s only one way to stop it and it’s the remote I made.”
“That remote?” He looks at the one in your hand and you nod.
“We get two minutes per channel, so that’s fun,” you explain, walking towards the TV. “You can pick your character but since you don’t know most of them, it’s gonna be even better. Kinda wanna see you as Luke from Gilmore Girls.”
“Great,” he drags the word sarcastically. “And what about you?”
“I’m always the main character, baby, everywhere I go.” You give him a mischievous grin, raising the remote over your head. “See you there.”
He watched you in amusement as you press the ‘on’ button before falling straight into the TV set.
The world goes dark.
**
When you open your eyes again, you’re in front of a wooden door, an entrance to the large grey building.
The remote’s not in your hand. There’s a slight moment of panic before you feel the strain of a sling bag on your shoulder. You rummage haphazardly through the contents, finally letting out a breath of relief when you find the remote under a bunch of pens and other knick-knacks.
You push the doors open, and take a step into the establishment, almost immediately greeted by the sight of Bucky standing at the bar. Behind the bar, actually.
There’s a towel thrown over his shoulder, a blue flannel adorning his body and a half-empty bottle of tequila in his hand.
The doorbell tinging alerts him to your presence.
“Y/N.”
“James,” you reciprocate, making your way over to the barstools. “You’re bartending.”
He motions at his state. “Apparently I am.”
Where had you seen this particular bar before? With its u-shaped counter and solid wooden furniture, a TV mounted at the apex of the alcohol shelf. The old jukebox in the corner is a hint, a bit of nostalgia but it’s ultimately the curved booths that are the key.
“New Girl.” You twist your body around. “We’re in New Girl. And so that makes you...”
“A fucking bartender,” he repeats. “What am I doing here?”
Nick goddamn Miller.
A grin curves upwards on your face. “I’d like an Old Fashioned.”
“No.” Bucky shakes his head, placing the bottle of tequila far away from your immediate reach.
“The most complicated drink you have, then, barkeep,” you declare, settling in and making yourself more comfortable on the stool.
Bucky dips below the counter before rising again. He drops a water bottle in front of you. “No.”
“C’mon,” you urge. “I’m a teacher, I’m basically your Jessica Day.”
“I don’t know who that is.” Bore. That wasn’t going to keep you from having fun. “What’s happening? Why am I wearing this... thing?”
He picks at the faded flannel that had a few holes near its hem. Definitely a Nick Miller shirt.
“You’re in character, Bucko.” You watch as he pulls the towel away from his shoulder and drops it on the floor. “I can totally see why you picked this guy.”
“I didn’t pick him-”
“Constantly irritated, the personality of an old man, in love with a teacher.” You sigh dreamily. “One and the same.”
“I didn’t sign up for ComicCon today,” he interrupts, looking for the slab to lift so he could make his way over to you.
“How do you know what ComicCon is?” You follow his movements, one leg on the floor in case you had to make a run for it.
He doesn’t reply, focusing on lifting the counter so he can get it done with. The countertop doesn’t budge. He tries to jump over it but something that feels like a forcefield repulses him backwards, preventing him from doing so.
“Why can’t I get out of here?”
“Plot demands that you stay there.” You take a sip innocently, pulling your seat a few feet away from the counter. “Nick Miller never crosses the bar. It’s a whole thing.”
He turns around, exposing his back to you as he tries to scout for another way.
“What else can’t I do here?”
“I don’t know,” you admit, taking a look around for any sort of clue. “I guess we’ll find out.”
“How am I supposed to fix this then?” He rolls his eyes. He had a few ways but they were semi-violent and for international criminals, not you.
“Get me drunk and maybe I’ll let you steal the remote.” You bat your eyelashes at him. “We can even play spin the bottle.”
Bucky stares at you long and hard before reaching over and grabbing his previously discarded bottle of tequila.
“I was kidding.” You snort. “You gotta try harder than getting me drunk. Although, I’m still up for the spin the bottle.”
“You're serious about the hitting on me thing.” He looks at you in slight disdain.
“I would never joke about that,” you swear, turning the cap on your water bottle before jumping off. “Anyway, see you soon.”
“Where are you going?” His eyebrows pull low.
You look down at your watch before glancing up at him again.
“Channel’s changing.” You stick your finger up and he follows where you’re pointing.
The bar starts fading into a field of static, bringing the familiar white noise from your past along with it before everything goes black.
You look around, finding nothing but yourself in the vast expanse of the void. Existential.
Nice.
In the brief seconds you get to yourself, you think about how you didn’t get a choice in which character you got to play but you wondered if he did. If he was choosing on purpose to play someone reluctantly in love with you- well, the feeling you had in your stomach was one that you were going to equate to butterflies.
**
When the world suddenly snaps back into colour, you’re not upright.
You’re sitting in the driver’s seat with your hands on the steering wheel, foot on the pedal.
There’s a Creedence Clearwater Revival song playing softly on the radio of the sleek, black muscle car you’re driving.
“What the-” You look down at your clothes, running your hand over your jacket, patting yourself down. “A lumberjack? Why am I playing a lumberjack?”
There were so many layers, at least three from what you could make out. A t-shirt, an overshirt and a jacket on top of that. No wonder the AC was on full blast, it was absolutely scorching.
“Keep your eyes on the fuckin’ road!” A voice yells from behind you, yanking the steering wheel away from the series of blaring honks and bright lights that almost blind you. A truck passes by, its driver sticking his head out the window to curse at you.
“Mr. Barnes, what are you doing back there?” You ignore the possible life and death situation that might have occurred a few seconds ago since it was irrelevant by now. “Am I your chauffeur?”
“Fuck if I know.” You look at him through the rearview mirror.
Besides the scowl on his face, his hair was parted down the side, he wore a white button-up, a tie and a black blazer but the most damning piece of evidence:
A beige trench coat.
Your mind races to put it together before the fucking car and the woodcutter attire suddenly make sense.
“Oh, my God.” It’s a little concerning how hard you laugh. “Shit, are you supposed to be Castiel?”
“Who?” He glared at you from the rearview mirror.
“Fuck, that means I’m Dean.” You glance down at your outfit again. “Is Supernatural still going on?”
“Eyes on the road,” he barks again from his seat. Supernatural? He’d definitely heard of the show, even seen a few out of context Reels on Instagram.
“Yeah, yeah.” You roll your eyes. “Because this show is known for permanently killing off characters. You die and come back, like, every five minutes.” Ah, so just like his friends in real life.
“Give me the remote” He leans forward in the space between the passenger and driver’s seat. “I’m already sick of this.”
A screech of the tires follows your jerking of the steering wheel to the right, throwing him to the backseat as the car lurched to the other lane.
“I’m in control here, Bucko,” you chortle, giving him a once over to make sure he was fine. “Plus the remote’s not in my pocket, I can’t feel it.
You couldn’t feel it when you ran your hands down your jacket. The lack of command you had over where the remote landed was definitely a glitch you hadn’t considered, but made a mental note of.
“Then where is it?” He checks to see if it’s maybe in his pocket. No such luck. “Your inator is a mess.”
“You’re my angel boyfriend, you’re supposed to be nice to me.” You watch his movements to see what he was up to. “Did you pick your character on purpose?”
“I’m not your boyfriend.” He rolls his eyes, checking the backseat and under the cushion to see if it was anywhere there.
“Yet.” You grin at him. “And judging by the show, you won’t ever be but we can make it happen in real life.”
“No,” he denies simply, leaning forward to open the glove compartment when he realised it wasn’t at the back. “And I didn’t pick my character.”
“At all?”
He grunts in affirmation, hand jutting out to keep his balance as he checked under your seat.
“That’s weird, I made sure it was programmed to let you do that.” Your tongue pushed against your cheek in contemplation. “Huh.”
Guess there were more glitches than you thought.
You swerve the car again and he’s worried that the passenger’s side headrest might just snap under the grip of his metal arm.
“Even then, you know, I don’t think it’s fate that we’re playing two people in love for the second time,” you sing as if you didn’t pull the car onto a different lane and back within a second. “We’re meant to be.”
“Stop doing that,” he hisses, straightening himself again from where he was pressed against the door.
“Doing what?”
“Driving like a maniac,” he fires, grabbing hold of both the headrests this time.
“Oh, so you’re fine with the flirting?” Your lips curve upwards into a smile.
“Couldn’t stop that even if I tried, now could I?” he mumbles sardonically, eyeing the road ahead for any possible reason for you to swerve into the other lane. There’s a car in the distance, a guarantee that you won’t repeat your behaviour. Hopefully.
“I would if you wanted me to.” You catch his gaze in the mirror. “You just have to say the word.”
He looks at your reflection, realising that you were dead serious about it too, no hint of a joke on your face.
“Move,” he commands instead, climbing into the front seat, ungracefully shoving your head in the process.
He supposes that was answer enough.
There’s no denying the little smile that makes its way onto your face which you drop immediately in favour of indignation when he clumsily lands beside you.
“There’s no point in getting the remote, Bucky,” you protest, pushing him away with one hand. “We could rather be making history on this show by dating. I already know you’re in love with me so this should be easy.”
“Jesus Christ,” he grumbles, the tips of his ears turning pink as he reached over to the glove compartment. You waste no opportunity, clearly.
“We have like 3 seconds left.” You scoff, looking for a second at your watch. “Where are we going next on the list of shows that never end? The Walking Dead? Grey’s Anatomy?”
Just as he opens the compartment the trees outside melt into grey, the white noise making a return as the car disappears from under you.
You wonder if he’s in his little void too when your world goes dark.
**
You blink rapidly to adjust to the sunlight beating down on you with the mid-noon heat.
You’re on what looks like large farmland. Dirt caked your limbs and you had the rattiest clothes on, ones that clearly hadn’t seen the washing machine in a while.
“Ugh.” Sweat dripped from your forehead to your chin and you wiped it off with your forearm.
“Let’s keep it moving people.” You wouldn’t mistake his voice for anyone else, no matter how far away he was from you.
Bucky had a bomber jacket on, a rifle pressed to his side and mud streaked across his face as he hustles a group of people down a path leading to a mansion.
And though he’s hurrying and seems like he’s in a state of worry, judging by the constant glances he gives over his shoulder, what really catches your attention is the stupid fucking sheriff’s hat he has on his head.
“Sarge!” you call out, waving your hands over your head to catch his attention. You’re a considerable distance down the road away from him, somehow isolated from the rest of the group.
You can see him mouth a ‘what the’ before stalking towards you.
The dumb thing on his head looks even more ridiculous up close.
“Now I know you wouldn’t choose to wear that.” You stifle a laugh, hands on your hips as you gave him a once over. “But from the neck down, you look really hot.”
He looks at you blankly. “The Walkers are coming.”
“What wa- oh, is that where we are?” you squint, doing a survey of your surroundings. “The fuckin’ Walking Dead?”
“Keep your volume down and get inside,” he hisses, pointing to the house down the path.
“I was kidding about the shows that didn’t end.” You pay no attention to him, instead, a little scoff escaping you in disbelief. “I didn’t think we’d actually show up here, what the fuck?”
“They’re coming.”
“Would you relax? None of this is going to matter in a minute. Aren’t there supposed to be zombies?” You shield your eyes from the sun as you stand on your toes to try and see beyond the horizon. “I don’t know who I’m supposed to be playing but let’s makeout anyway.”
He doesn’t curse or groan at your stupid attempt to hit on him.
Instead, he freezes for a second, eyes trailing over your shoulder.
“What?” You follow his line of sight, craning your body to do so.
Your ears picked up the sound of several leaves cracking under heavy feet, low groans and strangled cries nearing in the distance.
“Oh, there they are. Hello.” You watched the herd of dead people stumble their way towards you with a vengeance. “This is so stupid. They walk, like, one mile an hour. We’ll be gone by then-”
The next thing you hear is a gun cocking before a bullet whizzes past your head and lodges itself into the head of the Walker nearest to you.
“Bucky, holy shit, don’t do that.” You press your hand to your chest to calm down the racing heartbeat. “Give me a warning at least.”
“Who the hell is Bucky?” He frowns, loading more bullets into the gun.
“What do you mean who’s Bucky?” Your eyebrows knit together. “What kinda dialogue is that?”
“I don’t know who you are but you need to leave,” he demands, raising the stupid rifle again. “Get back to the house.”
“Why, so you can trap me and steal the remote? Ha no, nice try.” You narrow your eyes. “This is changing in thirty seconds.”
“What remote?” He cocks the gun again.
He fires another shot behind you and you yelp, jumping slightly. “Motherfucker, stop doing that! Is this supposed to be revenge for the dumb car thing?”
“What’s changing?” He catches your gaze, a serious question posed on his lips.
“The channel.” You mentioned around. “You know, we shift to another one in twenty seconds. You’re supposed to find the remote?”
Speaking of which, you had no idea where it was. You didn’t consider outfits without a pocket to be a possibility but apparently, the television world did, and the remote was probably sprawled somewhere on the grass.
Or maybe it was under Bucky’s ridiculous hat.
You snickered at the thought.
“What are you talking about?” The confusion on his face is evident as he lowers the gun.
You frown. “What do you mean, what am I talking about?”
He doesn’t answer instead shouting a quick “Run!” before firing a shot behind you.
The static returns again, the white noise drowning out the cries of the undead for two seconds before it stops again.
The world changes to black but the frown on your face remains.
Was he fucking with you or was this genuinely a glitch in the system?
**
You’re indoors this time. The room is messy, filled to the brim with a bunch of knick knacks all around you. The ventilation is poor, none of the stained glass windows an inlet for fresh air.
There’s a can of God knows what in your hand and a Bible in front of you on the table where you’re seated.
“What’s with all the alcohol?” you scoff, lifting the can to inspect it. “I told you, it’s not gonna work.”
He clears his throat and you look to your left.
Oh fuck.
He was dressed in a black clergy shirt with a clerical colour, his prince hair slightly messy, and the same can as yours in his hand. You don’t even need to think to be able to recognise who he’s supposed to be.
Jesus.
“You’re the hot- I mean cool- priest,” you mumble, unable to tear your eyes away from him. “From Fleabag.”
“A cool priest?” He laughs and holy shit, you’ve never seen anything more attractive on a person before. “No, I’m a big reader with no friends.”
He knew the dialogue? You didn’t know he watched the show.
“Uh huh.” You think you say that. You may be staring too hard at the smile on his face to actually formulate words.
“Are you a cool person?” Bucky asks instead, raising the can to his lips to take a swig.
Was this his plan? To fluster you enough to surrender?
“The coolest.” That was definitely not the dialogue from the show but who cares at this point.
Hell, his plan may just be working.
“Oh, the coolest?” The expression on his face is so easy, so content that you wonder why you don’t see it more often. He looks amused and gosh, real pretty when he smiled like that. “What makes you the coolest person?”
He should not look that good. He should not look that good.
“Um-” you shake your head, snapping yourself out of it.
“Are you okay?” There’s a crease that appears between his eyebrows in concern.
You cannot crush on a priest. Fuck that, you cannot crush on Bucky as a priest.
“Uh huh.” You nod, looking for the can in front of you to give you a reason not to stare at his stupid face. “You’re really playing into this character, aren’t you? I almost believe you could be a priest.”
“I’m glad it’s believable.” He gives a slightly confused laugh, “considering, you know, it’s my job.”
“Right,” you deadpan. “You’re totally not trying to seduce me into giving you the remote. Well, it didn’t work in Walking Dead, and it’s not going to work now, no matter how hot you look.”
He raises an eyebrow, not knowing how to respond. “Thank you?”
There was a minute left. Exactly how long had you been staring at him?
“Actually, I’m not sure where it is.” You shuffle around in your seat to look for it, somewhat of a distraction. “Did you see it fall anywhere when we showed up here?”
“Where what is?”
“The remote.” You check under your chair, but it isn’t there.
When you come back up, the intensity with which he’s looking at you causes your stomach to flutter. Fuckin’ hell.
“I have to be honest, I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He leans forward again, leaning his weight on his elbows.
“That’s real subtle, Buck.” You snort, a sort of uneasiness spreading within you. “You're a good actor.”
He doesn’t respond but the smile on his face does falter a bit.
A second of silence passes by when neither of you say anything.
Fifteen seconds to go, a voice in your head reminds you.
He doesn’t make any effort to say anything, only waiting for your next move.
Stop staring at him.
“I need to ask you something and I need you to be serious.” You clear your throat, lips pressing together.
“Go ahead.” He nods, listening intently.
“Are you fucking around or is something actually wrong?”
There’s a beat of silence between you both.
Bucky tilts his head in confusion. “I'm afraid I don’t get your reference?”
Something was definitely up.
Five seconds.
“Where’s the fucking remote?” you discard any other objective you had, focusing on finding your exit out of that show. Maybe the glitch would work itself out if you turned the whole system on and off.
“Why are you so interested in searching for this remote?” He tries to get off his chair to come to your aid even though he has no idea what was going on, but something tugs him back down, forcing him to sit there. Fucking plot convenience.
“This is no fun if you’re not actively getting annoyed,” you whine. “And it’s sad because you look really cute when you’re happy.”
“Thank you?” he asks again but you don’t look at him when the void returns, sighing instead as you rest your hand on your knees.
**
This time, the second you open your eyes you’re on the prowl for the dumb gadget.
He’s in front of you with possibly the worst combination of clothes that day. His denim sherpa jacket, grey-black flannel and maroon t-shirt just didn’t sit right on him.
Your eyes trail upwards, finding all his hair, but a side swoop in the front, pushed under a beanie. You scoff. He looked like an amalgamation of every grown man Netflix tries to pass off as a teenager.
“Who on earth put you in that fugly beanie?” You look around. “Actually, I don’t care. Help me find the remote.”
You pulled up chairs and boxes off the floor, nose twitching in disdain at the state of the dingy room you were in. The utter lack of proper lighting made it more difficult for you.
“In case you haven’t noticed-” he starts from above.
You freeze, countless memes and edits flooding into your head as soon as the words leave his mouth.
“Oh, my God.” Your eyes widen, knowing immediately what you were about to listen to.
“I’m weird. I’m a weirdo-” he says, completely seriously, a little faster than how he usually talked.
“No. Nope. Nuh uh.” You scramble for the remote, find it a few feet away from you under a recliner.
“I don’t fit in. And I don’t want to fit in-” He lifts his hands to his mouth, thinking about what he wanted to say.
“This is literally the worst case scenario, fuck.” You hold your finger up to him. “Bucky, shut up or you’re gonna have trauma for the rest of your life.”
“Have you ever seen me without this stupid hat on?” People actually got paid to write this shit.
“And he said it,” you mumble, pressing any fucking button that would take you away from Riverdale and hopefully give you time to figure out what was going on.
“That’s weird-” this overgrown variant of Jughead continued, much to your despair.
“Shut up.” You click the button to jump to the next channel, sighing in relief when the static noise drowns out the last part of his monologue.
The void is welcoming this time.
**
This world is very distinctly different, a huge contrast from the earlier alternatives.
“You have got to be shitting me.” Your jaw drops. “A fuckin’ cartoon?”
Wherever you were, it shared too many similar elements with your lab to not be someone’s evil headquarters. And it was all animated, things that you weren’t going to use that episode duller and blended into the background.
At least the ventilation was good. It was an open balcony building, possibly on the highest floor, broad daylight.
You flip your hand over and over again, the 2D rendering not giving you anything other than two sides. At least it confirmed that you weren’t just seeing things.
You look down at yourself. There was a lab coat over your black turtleneck and green pants fitted on your waist. Where had you seen this outfit before?
Someone crashes through a window that logically shouldn’t have even been there, doing a tuck and roll before sticking their superhero landing.
“Who the fuck-”
Even he was in 2D. His face was covered by the shadow of his fedora, giving you no way of looking at his expression.
“A secret agent?” you ask in confusion, words spilling out of your mouth against your will.
Shit, were you losing control too?
He rolls his eyes before ripping off the left sleeve of his shirt, his metal arm on full display.
“Bucky Barnes the secret agent?!” Your mouth moves on instinct before you slap a hand over it. Of course it was Bucky, who else would it fucking be?
You halt for a second.
Okay, why did he look hot as a cartoon character?
His black camo pants and full sleeve t-shirt hugged him nicely, exaggerated dimensions of his body showcased under the cloth. Generally, everything about him was the same as usual except the brown fedora perched on his head.
“Fuck no, are we supposed to be in Phineas and Ferb?”
He stares at you silently, analysing your body language in anticipation of your next move.
“Are you the fucking platypus?” Your jaw drops open in disbelief. “You’re, like, Agent B?”
He opens his mouth to say something but you hold up a finger. You’re not sure you could emotionally handle him chattering his teeth like the actual creature.
“That makes me the German scientist guy.” You look around the lab that was decorated in shades of purple. “This relationship doesn’t even make sense. How are we related to this?”
You peer at him, only to find him unmoving.
“Well, don’t just stand there.” You straighten your spine from the hunchback assigned to you. “Help me find the remote so we can go home.”
His brows were pulled into a scowl, body rigid.
“Wow, fine. I see why you got assigned him now,” you mumble, surveying the several countertops around you. “The resemblance is uncanny.”
It finally catches your eye, a couple of meters away, in brighter and sharper colours than anything else. You loved the cartoon world for this nifty little detail.
You stalk towards it, bending over to grab it off the floor.
Something harsh knocks it out of your grip. You look up to see Bucky right in front of you, hand blocking yours.
“Oh, this is ridiculous.” You roll your eyes. “So now the plot lets you fight me?”
He only lowers his head in challenge.
“This is completely unnecessary.” You bend over to try again.
His forearm shoots out to block yours, your other hand grabbing onto his to pull it away from you. You could fight him, you had enough training to do so, but you had no idea how long this could go on for.
“You’re not going to let me win.” And there were thirty seconds to go.
He shakes his head.
“And if I don’t, we’re both going to keep going at this forever,” you voice to yourself, thinking over all the options.
You look at him one more time in his little costume and stupid tiny hat before deciding.
You do a sweep with your leg, kicking the remote towards him.
“Fine. Pick it up.” You gesture.
Bucky doesn’t move, suspicion turning his eyes to slits.
“I’m not kidding, pick it up. I’m not gonna fight you,” you insist. “I promise.”
That seems to be enough for him, even in this world, as he crouches down slowly to pick it up, never once breaking eye contact with you.
“Go back to your little agency and tell them you won.” You shoo him, German accent suddenly slipping into your sentence. “Go on then.”
He takes a single step back to judge your reaction. When you don’t make a move to stop him he turns around to leave, only occasionally glancing at you over his shoulder.
Five.
Four.
Three.
Two.
One.
“Zero,” you whisper as soon as the static returns, the loud white noise immediately accompanying it.
He looks up in bewilderment and you take advantage of his momentary confusion, launching yourself onto his back, leaving him staggering.
“Hello.” You whisper into his ear, leaving him no time to whip around and look at you.
His hands automatically move to pull you off him but you slam the off switch on the remote still in his grip. You jump off his back, not before pulling the gadget out of his hand.
The world swirls and twists like a damn washing machine, forcefully throwing you in and out of new characters and scenes rapidly.
“Identity theft is not a joke!” You watch from the reception.
The both of you are on an orange couch in a coffee shop, a plate of food on his lap.
“I am the devil!” you yell at Bucky who shakes his head, scoffing in disbelief.
You’re staring at a series of alphabets on the wall painted rustically in black, Christmas lights strung across them.
“I can bring you in warm, or I can bring you in cold.” What was with the knight’s helmet on his head?
A diner counter with him serving you coffee, hair tucked away in a backwards baseball cap.
“Fine, make me your villain,” he leans back, eyes dark.
You’re in a high tech control room with orange accents, staring at several screens.
“Cool, cool, cool. No doubt, no doubt, no doubt.”
Hundreds of outfits and dialogues from shows whiz past you within a second until you’re suddenly sucked out of the TV set and into the real world.
You blink swiftly to get rid of the stupid dots floating around your eyes but act in a hurry, throwing the remote on the ground and crushing it under your foot.
“Y/N?”
“Hey, sarge.” You take a few steps back, breathing heavily.
“What just happened?” Bucky squints at you.
“Well-” You’re just glad he’s back to himself. ”-I think you kicked my ass.”
“I destroyed the remote.” He rubs at his eyes, gaze flitting down to where the pieces lay on the ground in front of him. “I don’t remember doing that.”
“Good, it’ll save me the embarrassment,” you cover up, straightening out the clothes you were wearing from that morning. “If it helps, you looked damn good while doing it.”
He only hums and you finally feel yourself calm down. “We done for the day?”
“Think so.” You needed a drink. Or maybe a teen magazine quiz to determine whether you only found Bucky hot or you found Bucky hot.
“See you next week then.”
“Unless you wanna stay here and play spin the bottle,” you propose casually, shoving the TV off the table to the ground. Never again.
Bucky snorts before turning on his heel to leave. You exhale slightly.
“We’re not at that episode,” he calls out without turning around, “yet.”
Your jaw drops. “Are you flirting with me?”
Chapter 14: Chapter 13
Chapter Text
Who the fuck kidnaps a villain in this day and age?
Saturday started normally enough.
Nat kicked Bucky’s ass in training, evening the score to 120 and 120. He blames it on the lack of sleep. She tells him that it’s his fault he stayed up late to binge watch 911 Lone Star.
He still thinks it was worth it.
The team’s sunshine and rainbows that morning. Someone had cooked up a batch of pancakes and fresh orange juice. Someone else burnt the bacon but left to feed his dog before anyone could complain.
Nat opened up the newspaper. Different sections went to different people until Bucky got stuck with the entertainment section. Fun, considering that he doesn’t even recognise half the names. He’d have to pretend to be interested until the next rotation.
He watches the orange juice levitate in front of him from the corner of his eye and just assumes that Wanda’s getting a refill even though she could have just asked him to pass it. He smells the next batch of bacon burning and figures that Clint is back.
Sam’s beside him, annoying him about how long it takes for him to read about which new celebrity relationship just ended and Bucky retaliates by reading even slower. Fuck you.
He’s on his second stack of pancakes absolutely drenched in maple syrup when the doors to the elevator open and Marie steps out, laptop in her hand.
An instant chorus of hello’s and invitations to have some charred bacon resound through the table. She politely declines them with a small smile, instead, opening her laptop and placing it in front of Bucky without further ado.
He looks at her questioningly, slowly swallowing whatever was in his mouth.
“An email for you.” She tuts her head towards it. “It has a video attachment of your friend.”
Bucky has plans to not watch the video in front of everyone, given that the content could range anywhere from you reading out fanfiction about him to a deep fake of him singing a Whitney Houston song.
Both of which you have done before and would do again, without any hesitation.
“Aren’t you gonna watch it?” Wanda asks from across the table.
He slowly shakes his head no, cutting his stack into smaller pieces.
“If what’s in it is real, it’s important,” Marie stresses.
“What’s in it?” he inquires instead, hoping that the team would stop staring at him. If Marie was implying strongly that he needed to watch then something was wrong.
“Just watch it, man.” Sam’s statement has everyone agreeing with him. Bucky can’t refuse now, and if the team makes fun of him for the next month about how he looks good belting Greatest Love of All, he’s going to personally assassinate you.
He clicks on the email, noticing it came from a throwaway address. Probably untraceable, if the cards are played right.
The video opens to grainy footage, which is stupid considering modern technological advancements. If this is one more of your stupid LARPing sessions, it could definitely wait till after lunch.
But, he instantly recognises your silhouette strapped to a chair and suddenly the room feels very cold around him. His hand automatically clutches onto a bead from the bracelet you gave him that still remained tied to his left arm more often than not.
“Speak,” someone commands off camera.
“About what?” You sound annoyed, exasperated even.
“Why you’re here.”
“I’m here because you have unaddressed feelings of childhood insecurity.”
“I warned you to take this seriously.”
Bucky’s eyes widen slightly but his body relaxes the minute he reads the situation.
The team’s crowded around him, he can feel it. His attention remains on the screen in front of him.
“Who even are you sending this to?” You don’t sound the least bit threatened. “My roommate’s not at home but my cat is and I don’t think she’d care.”
”You’ve made a complete joke out of villains everywhere. Fraternising with the enemies, the Avengers,” he spits the name with so much vitriol. “You’ve erased what it’s like to be truly evil. Turned us into a laughing stock.”
“If it takes one person to undermine your whole movement then maybe it wasn’t strong enough to begin with.” You look at someone outside the lens, face scrunching in distaste. “Also your costume’s ugly.”
“F.R.I.D.A.Y., can you trace this voice?” Bucky asks, receiving an immediate confirmation. “Figure out who it is.”
“On it.”
“Tell them. Tell them we are a serious threat and are to be feared.”
“No,” you say resolutely. “You’re an overgrown manchild. Go watch Teletubbies or something.”
“She does not give a shit,” Clint marvels at the situation, a piece of half-eaten burnt toast between his fingers.
You didn’t. And if he knew you in the slightest, which he prided himself on at this point, you already had six different ways of getting out of there.
“She knows she’s going to be fine,” Bucky murmurs, returning back to take a bite of his pancakes. “She’s probably still there just to irritate him.”
He zeroes in on your wrist to see if the teleportation watch was still there but no, your wrists are bare. Guess you forgot.
“You have to.”
“Why?”
“Because that’s how a real villain does it.”
“A real villain- what are you, gatekeeping the villain community?” You scoff. “You sound like a fuckin’ incel.”
“Just send them a message,” the guy bellows, hitting a table.
“She’s going to frustrate them to death.” An accurate observation, Sam.
“Okay, jeez, fine.”
Bucky just knows that you rolled your eyes at that moment.
He had faith in you, or in your abilities at the very least. While every wisecrack could possibly inch you closer towards harm, you probably wouldn’t be making them unless you felt completely secure in your situation.
“Help, I’m totally kidnapped and in danger. Save me because I can’t do it myself. This man is too powerful and strong and so scary.”
“Do you think she has a strategy?”
“Definitely.”
“You’re not worried, James?” Wanda asks curiously. “I thought she was your friend.”
“She is my friend.” He reaches over to take the jug of orange from across the table. “That’s why I’m not worried.”
“Are you going to fight the Avengers?” you interrupt his endless tirade. “Because that’s a stupid plan. You get how that’s a stupid plan, right?”
“Let them come. I’m prepared.”
“With what? A stick you found outside? A Nerf gun? Man, you’ve tied my hands with fuckin’ zip ties, you can’t be serious-”
“Shut up,” he roared and the stand shakes slightly from where he stamps his feet. “Our army is enough.”
“Wow,” you exhale. “I wish I had your confidence, I really do. I want to study you under a microscope.”
“I have reinforcements.” It sounds like he turns to the camera to address it directly. “This is a warning. Your friends have an hour to find you or things are gonna turn ugly. This is what real evil looks like.”
“Evil dresses in a dollar store Speedo, apparently.” The man pays you no heed, instead, picking up the camera. “Hey, sarge, if you’re watching this, don’t bother. I’m fine, it’s not even the real me-”
The camera cuts to black.
“When was this video sent?” Nat looks at Marie, eyebrows drawn together.
“About ten minutes ago.”
Bucky clicks out of the email, determined to get at least half his breakfast in him before he left to see what’s up with your situation. A notification pops up immediately.
[email protected] just sent you an email.
A video attachment.
“We got another one,” Bucky informs the team, drawing their attention back to the screen from the informal conversation that had erupted between them about what they could do.
This time, there’s a subject line included.
Attack on the Clone.
"Ain’t that a Star Wars movie?” he asks, craning his neck to look at Clint.
“That’s Attack of the Clones,” Sam corrects. “Probably autocorrect.”
Bucky narrowed his eyes in suspicion at him, jaw sliding outward before falling back into place. Enough times had Sam called him Fucky in the group chat and gotten away with it for him not to be wary.
“Or a code,” Wanda suggests, too many crime thrillers read and podcasts listened in her spare time. She occasionally brought them over to Self Care Saturday, introducing him to the world of true crime as a bit of light content while they snacked on chocolate chip cookies he baked. “Like the Zodiac.”
“For what?” Bucky peers over at her.
“All I remember from that movie is them rolling around a field together,” Clint mutters. “Maybe that’s how you’re supposed to save her.”
“I’m not saving anyone. Look at her, she’s fine.” Is he the only one who saw it?
When he’s met with sceptical looks and no other useful suggestions, he presses play on the video.
This time it’s clearer footage. It hardly takes him a second to ascertain where
it was.
“That’s her lair.” It showed the pathway leading up to the flat concrete building, exactly where the intercom should be.
There was a black Sedan parked haphazardly outside, engine still on judging by the sound of the radio blasting an AC/DC song.
Within a few seconds, someone drags you from the entrance of the lair to the car, despite your very clear protests and opposition, shoving you inside before it takes off in full speed, tires screeching.
“F.R.I.D.A.Y., track the car from that video. Check all the CCTV and surveillance footage from around the area that you can find,” Bucky commands, taking a sip of orange juice.
“Why would they send us that?” Clint pipes up. “They make their email untraceable but send us a video of the fuckin’ abduction itself?”
“I don’t know.” Bucky shakes his head, setting his glass down. “She probably convinced them to.”
It was an unusual scenario, he realised that. But his eyebrows lower in contemplation, his lip caged between his lip before a thought suddenly occurs to him. A laugh in disbelief almost escapes his throat ad he pushes it down with some freshly cut strawberries.
“And they listened?”
“I don’t think you realise how annoying she can be.” He knows, though. He knows. “Bet they regret it, though. I should tell them to keep her for a little longer.”
“Voice recognition registers voice to someone named Chad, better known by his alias Soul Crusher. Surveillance footage places the car about thirty minutes away. Exact location sent to your phone GPS.”
Soul Crusher. That was worse than Dr. Strange.
“I can make that fifteen.” Bucky shrugs, setting down his fork and knife. If his hunch is right, the team didn’t really have to get involved. “See you guys later.”
“Do you want any of us coming with you?” Wanda gestures to the crowd at hand.
“I got it.” He pushes away from the table, depositing his plate in the sink, dropping an extra piece of bacon on the ground for Clint’s dog. “She’ll be alright.”
They watch him trail out of the room briskly, heading up to his room to change.
“Is it just me or is he too casual about this?” Clint continues staring long after he leaves.
“Both of them are weirdos.” Nat pulls open the newspaper again, going back to the sport’s section. “Who knows what goes in their heads.”
“Can confirm that not a lot goes on in his.”
Without Bucky to retaliate or grumble, a Steve walking into the room, sweaty and shiny after training becomes the new subject of jokes that morning.
For the first time in months, he’s had to bring a weapon or two along with him. Two revolvers and a couple of knives kept out of plain view. He wouldn’t need more than that anyway.
True to his word, it takes only fifteen minutes to get there, thirteen if he didn’t stop for the chain of ducks that crossed the street.
He’s also dressed in a little more leather than he usually reserves for your meetings. A jacket that brings to act as a windbreaker and tightly laced up combat boots make him look like he either stepped off a runway, or more menacing than usual depending on who was looking.
The GPS points him to an old warehouse near a more subdued part of the city. It was abandoned by the looks of it, and had been for a while judging by the lack of upkeep. Prime real estate.
He pulls off his helmet, hanging it on the handlebar along with his backpack before kicking the stand into place. The bike’s a few metres away just in case they decide to blow something up.
Bucky looks up at the warehouse, assessing the most damage he could do to it if at all it was needed. That thing could barely stand on its own, a grenade would absolutely decimate it. That wasn’t good news for you.
He sighs once before putting on his death glare, straightening out his shoulders into a stature that screams stone-cold, and pushes the door open, gun raised.
A mini-army of people ranging from their early twenties to late thirties stood guard at the entrance, all with rifles pointed at him. He counts fifteen, maybe eighteen.
“Oh, hell no,” a voice erupts from the back, followed by the sound of his gun being thrown to the ground. “No one told me that he was coming.”
Bucky raises an eyebrow, his death glare not shifting and Glock not lowering.
“I’m out.” The same guy raises his hands up to show he meant no harm, slowly brushing past Bucky as he squeezed out of the building.
“You got five seconds to leave before I shut this door,” Bucky gives the rest of them an ultimatum. Not like there was a point anyway. SHIELD was sending down some people to account for the one day rise in new morons.
They all looked at each other, swallowing thickly before raising their weapons.
“I hope he’s giving you good insurance.” The second he finishes his sentence they all cry out in what sounds like a fucking war chant, launching themselves at him.
“They’re here.” Someone presses his ear to the door as if the gunshots and screaming weren’t enough.
“Brilliant. We’re ready.” Chad picks up the knife, running his finger along the sharp end. You try to see if you can use your Twitter-ordained powers of manifestation for a paper cut.
“How much are you asking them for?” You put forth a query instead when it disappointingly doesn’t work.
“Asking who for what?” Chad stops his dumb intimidation tactic for a second.
“You know,” you insist like it was obvious, “my ransom. How much did you ask them to pay?”
“We didn’t-” He looks around at the other people in the room for confirmation. “-we didn’t ask for any.”
“Because I’m invaluable?” Your head droops to the side in mock flattery. “Aw, you guys.”
“We didn’t think of it,” someone from the corner behind you speaks up, coming to the aid of their boss.
“Now that’s just rude.” You tut, shifting maybe an inch or two in your bounds to try and get more comfortable. “Leaving aside your lack of preparation, let’s just assume he bursts in here, desperate and ready to bargain. How much would you ask for?”
“Three million,” Chad says confidently, gathering a nod and sounds of agreement from everyone else.
“Are you serious?” Your jaw drops, a scoff escaping you. “That’s all?”
His self-assurance falters a little bit, you can see it under his 5 Minutes Craft mask.
“Three mill-” You stop mid-sentence. “With this wiring? Ridiculous. Make it ten, I demand it.”
“We’ll ask for fifteen mil,” Chad proposes, his teammates agreeing again, a little more delighted than last time.
“Ask for thirty, you coward,” you argued. “Thirty million and a jet.”
“You’re not worth that much.” The dipshit diagonal to you pipes up with his unwanted and, frankly, useless opinion.
“And you are?” You whip around the best you can. “Henchman number four?”
“Megedagik,” he informs, standing up a little taller now that he was given some importance. “It means ‘killer of many’.”
“Did you just say your name was Mega Dick?”
“Megedagik,” he corrects.
You stare at him hard before turning away. “Alright, other than Mega Dick here, does anyo-”
A knife lands right next to your feet, driven at least an inch into the ground. You look up at the guy you managed to piss off within four sentences, his face now a beet red.
“These are brand new, asshole,” you barked, shaking your shoes around. “You’re gonna pay if there’s even a scratch on it.”
“Permission to kill her?” Meg growls, casting a side eye at Chad.
The boss man looks at you thoughtfully, assessing the repercussions of what might happen. You raise an eyebrow.
“Slow and painful,” he settles.
A small smirk makes its way onto your face.
“Title of your sex tape,” you quip as the man in the corner storms towards you.
It’s all a flurry, really. A bunch of inexperienced newcomers versus one of the most skilled assassins the world had ever seen? Ten minutes tops.
Bucky doesn’t do any serious damage. A couple of broken bones but only out of necessity, a lot of concussions, and maybe a bullet wound, or three, here and there.
Most of the time he spends thinking about things that have absolutely nothing to do with what was going on. He forgot to take his laundry out of the machine. There was a biscotti recipe he had been procrastinating on trying. His succulents needed watering but he could do that once he was back. Was he wearing his good combat pants or was it the pair that had a hole in the pocket?
His left hand thrust outwards to shove someone away while he stuck his right hand into his pocket to check if it had frayed away. The person he pushed slams into a wall with a loud groan and no, his pants didn’t have a hole in them.
He stops to take a breather, assess what was going on. There are bodies scattered all around, mostly writhing in pain from minor injuries. Someone very bravely stands up, hands posed in front of him in a regular fighting stance.
“You sure about this?” Bucky asks, reaching for one of the concealed knives he hadn’t had a chance of using yet. It twirls rather nimbly between his fingers for something so dangerous, the hilt finally landing in his palm for a sturdy grip.
The man takes one look at the knife before sitting right back down on the ground.
“Good choice,” his voice drops to an octave lower than his self-esteem. He’s tired of this old routine but it works like a neat little party trick, often getting him the result he wanted. “Where?”
A few fingers point down the hall to the only room whose door was closed.
He makes sure to step over everyone who was lying along the way, ears tuned in to even the smallest of noises just in case one of them decided to attack him from the back. It doesn’t come.
He doesn’t bother creeping down the hallway. With all the ruckus that just went on outside, he’s pretty sure it’s obvious that they had an intruder.
Bucky kicks in the large steel door with ease, given that it was barely hanging on its hinges. His gun’s raised, muscles tight, and senses on high alert for any immediate threats.
It lands with a large thud, reverberating through the room. He’s reminded of your first meeting with him.
There’s a chair in the middle of the room with a person tied to it by a mixture of rope and tape. Others found themselves slithering around on the floor in a similar fashion, trying to get out of their bondages.
“Hey, James,” you call out, drawing his attention to you. You were sitting atop a table, legs swinging back and forth without a care in the world, a blade in your hand.
“You okay?” He tucks the gun into his waistband when he realises that none of the henchmen are going to be going anywhere soon.
“All good.” You hop off the table with a little spring in your step. “Did you bring your bike? I need a ride back to the lair. I think I left the TV on when I was, you know, getting kidnapped.”
“You coulda teleported back home before all of this even happened.” Bucky does a quick assessment of your body to make sure there weren’t any bruises or anything of the sort. “Avoided the whole thing.”
“Don’t have the watch with me.” Odd, since he knows you consider it one of your essentials but it just fuels his theory further. “Besides, if I just quit before we started, they’d keep messing with me over and over again.”
“Do you want me to punch someone’s face in?” He glances around the room at the ones wiggling about on the floor like fucking worms. “I’d be happy to.”
“Nah, I got a few in myself.” You rotate your wrist, other hand still holding onto the knife. “You know what, maybe I’ll have another go.”
He simply makes a noise in acknowledgement before he places a hand on the hem of your shirt, gently reeling you back. “I think you fixed ‘em up real good. That’s enough for today.”
“Fine but only ‘cause you said so.” You huff, looking past him and at the weirdos on the ground. “You hear that? This man just saved your life. Say ‘thank you’.”
A muffled chorus of what sounded like appreciation echoed through the room. Bucky awkwardly looks around.
“Damn right.” You walk over to the guy in charge of the whole event, bending down to his level. “If you ever try to fuck with us again…”
You stare straight into his eyes, unblinking. You hold up the knife to his Adam’s apple. Chad doesn’t dare to move other than the thick swallow.
You raise your finger and flick him in the forehead. “Get a better costume.”
The corner of Bucky’s lip quirks upward.
“Let’s go, sarge,” you announce, standing upright again and making a motion to follow you. “D’you have an extra helmet I could use?”
“Yeah.” He had brought one along in his bag, assuming that you’d need one once he noticed the watch was missing in the footage.
“Yay.”
The only storage space on his bike was under his seat and it’s just enough for an extra revolver. Clint asked him if it was his way of flirting with someone, give ‘em a quick spin around the city and then show them his gun. If looks could kill, Clint would be 7 feet under.
“You sure you wanna ride it, though?” He cringes immediately when he realises what it sounds like, waiting for you to smack the innuendo in his face. “We could wait for SHIELD.”
“Don’t really have another choice, Bucky,” you say absentmindedly, strolling out the room as you tossed the knife behind you.
He frowns at your indifference but turns around for a second to look at Chad. The man in question looks back viciously, his grandeur from that morning basically deflated and left to die along with his reputation.
“Might wanna reconsider the name,” Bucky remarks, doing a quick sweep of the area once more. “Soul Crusher.”
He waits until both of you are outside the cell and the door is shut on the ringleader and his circus clowns, handlebar twisted out of place so that they don’t escape for the time being.
“One second,” he calls, touch gently lingering on your forearm to stop you without even thinking twice about it. A famously uncharacteristic move for him.
“Hm?” You don’t even look like you notice his action.
“You sure you’re good?” he asks seriously, actual concern slipping through the question. “Do you need medical assistance?”
“They couldn’t hurt me anyway.” There’s something strange about the way you say it, almost assuredly. “I’m good.”
“Okay,” he concedes, his hand darting back when he realises it was still on your arm. His eyebrows furrow when he realises how instinctively he had reached out in the first place. He didn’t touch anyone, ever.
“What are we gonna do about them?” you inquire, stepping over someone on the floor to get to the exit.
“Marie told Agent Hill. They’re sending someone over.”
“They’re sending SHIELD for these wannabes?” Someone groans in protest from somewhere and you elect to ignore them. “Ew.”
“Just to make sure confidential information isn’t compromised in any way.” There’s a large bang that comes from the room they just left. Maybe one of them shot their teammate by accident. They were more than capable of doing it.
“I would never,” you exacted a little more solemnly, pushing the door open with your elbow to let the sunlight flood in.
“I know.” He doesn’t realise how dark it was in the warehouse until he steps out into the noon sun. “I’m pretty sure this is more about the fact that you were abducted.”
“For me?” The smile doesn’t quite reach your eyes the way he kinda likes. Something definitely felt off. “I love being class favourite.”
He doesn’t reply, a small grunt as he twists the handle of the warehouse door upwards, effectively jamming it.
“Can I drive?” You bat your eyelashes at him innocently, disregarding the loud screaming that came from inside as those less injured probably regrouped for a last ditch attempt.
“No,” he doesn’t hesitate in replying, handing you a helmet and buckling his own securely.
“But I just got kidnapped,” you complained, watching him swing a leg over the bike and straddle it. Okay then.
“All the more reason for you not to drive right now.” He mentions for you to get on, squinting at the warehouse a few feet away.
“Fine, but next time I’m driving,” you grumble, climbing on the back.
“Do you even know how to?” His head is tilted to look at you from the corner of his eye, voice heavier on account of the obstruction on his face.
The door starts shaking violently and he knows for a fact that it won’t hold up for much longer. Some of those who he had knocked out probably had been shaken awake again for manpower.
“I can learn.” You take a pause, mischief seeping into your next words. “You can teach me.”
“No.” He didn’t exactly practise what was considered safe, law abiding driving. He just got from one point to another and that’s all he cared about.
“Then I’ll do it myself.” You sound determined. “I’m going to leave a note for us in the lair.”
“You do that.” He revs the engine when something solid hits the metal door. As guessed, their usage of props to push it down faster was coming into play. “Now, can you hold on to something? We need to go.”
If only those idiots just realised that the windows covered by newspapers were right there, ready to be broken.
“Only if you promise to let me drive next time,” you say defiantly, drawing this whole ordeal out.
“Whatever,” he urges. “I promise. Now can we go?”
“Wait for it…” There’s a devilish smile on your face. “One.”
There’s a loud creak as the door finally gives way.
“Two.” The same people you left tied up in the room burst out, almost stumbling over each other in the process.
“Three,” he completes it on his own, not waiting for you to finish because God knows how long you’d stretch it out just for the drama.
Your excited screech of laughter as he narrowly misses a rod that gets thrown at him like a fucking javelin temporarily distracts him from the brain freeze he gets when your arms wind around his waist to hold yourself in place.
There’s angry screaming and bullets that whiz past in an attempt to get him to stop but a swift turn around a corner, pulling the both of you out of their sight is enough to get rid of them.
“We should get a few weapons and go back,” you yell over the wind rushing by, barely audible.
“You do that in your own free time,” he shouts in response, yanking you through narrower lanes and less popular streets.
“Maybe I will, you bore.”
Still, you shut up for the rest of the ride, only grumbling when he stops the bike to tell you that no, you cannot let go just because you want to throw your hands in the air like in the movies.
You hop off when he finally pulls up on the street outside your lair, adrenaline still pumping through your veins. He waits patiently as you unbuckle the helmet, switching off the engine.
“You gonna drop me off at my door too, now?” You snicker, fingers pulling off the helmet.
He looks at you for a second before dropping the kickstand into place and dismounting from the motorcycle.
“I was kidding.” You laugh, handing him your headgear that he shoves into his backpack.
“You’re pretty capable of gettin’ abducted along the way.” An absurd notion, considering it’s a short path from the road to the door.
“Oh, how chivalrous.” You let him tag along anyway, for his peace of mind.
“My ma didn’t expect any less.” A couple of sharp lessons from Winifred Barnes and Bucky was nothing short of a damn angel.
You knock on the door three times, crossing your arms over your chest as you waited.
“Aren’t you the one with the key?” Bucky questions, one hand on his waist.
The door swung open in the middle of his sentence revealing… you.
Another you.
“Nah, she has it.” Ex-Kidnapped-You raises your head in acknowledgement at Doorway-You.
“Ah.” He fucking knew it. An unnatural sense of smugness blossoms in his chest.
“Hey,” the both of you said at the same time.
Doorway-You looked way more relaxed, a little less grimy and dishevelled but exactly the same.
“Buck, I see you met my other half,” the you from the doorway greets him. “Or other whole, actually.”
“Sure did.” He sends a glance at Ex-Kidnapped-You.
“You can go on in. Big first day, huh?” Doorway-You refers to the you beside him.
“You wouldn’t believe,” Ex-Kidnaped-You mutters, pushing past the entrance and disappearing inside.
“She gonna be okay?” His gaze trails after your clone.
“Oh yeah, just needs to recharge.” You turn around to make sure she’s fine. “She’s made of some pretty strong carbon, technically almost indestructible.”
No wonder ‘you’ said they couldn’t hurt you.
“Heya, sarge.” You draw his attention back to you. “Always good to see you.”
“Can’t really say the same about you.”
“Ever the emotional repressor, Mr Barnes. I like this little leather show you got going, did ya wear it just for me?”
He shifts his balance to his other foot, feet slightly wide apart. “Take it that the clone machine finally worked?”
“I was in the middle of celebrating.” You sigh, recalling the events of that morning. “Teleported home for a second to get some champagne and when I came back she was gone.”
“Irresponsible.” He tsks, head shaking in disappointment.
“Sorry I didn’t take amateur kidnappers into account for my risk factor analysis, Bucky,” you shoot back, pressing on his name for added annoyance. “Anyway, I did the responsible thing. I sent all the evidence I had to you guys.”
“Real clever.” Bucky looks at you in dry amusement. “Attack on the clone? Really?”
“Hey, always make time for a good pun.” You finger gun, lopsided grin on your face. “Did the team like it?”
“They thought it was a typo.” Or a code. He really had Wanda to thank for his big revelation. “Your video didn’t help either.”
“Don’t tell me they couldn’t make out it was me.” You laugh, crossing your arms over your chest.
He doesn’t reply, pursing his lip inwards in sympathy, but more so to conceal a smile.
The happiness drops from your face slowly, horror taking its place. “Don’t tell me they couldn’t make out it was me.”
“Good job, your machine worked,” he adds helpfully.
“C’mon, there were so many differences,” you whine, the success of your endeavour the last thing on your mind.
“That is your literal clone,” he points out, only to see you- clone you- walk into the giant box in the corner of the room, bright green light emanating from it like a xerox machine.
“How could they not tell the original apart from a copy?” You look genuinely offended. Insane. “Not even Sam?”
“Guess you’re not unique enough.” A rise and fall of his shoulders signify his attitude towards this whole thing. “Think I like your copy better, too, actually.”
“You’re so mean.” You puff in disbelief. “I’m 100% original. How many mad scientist teachers do you know?”
“Two.”
“I don’t mean now, that’s not even the-” You poke at his rock hard chest. “You are so much more annoying than when I first met you.”
He thinks it’s good relationship development.
“I have to deal with you every weekend.” He watches your finger drop from his chest. “Picked it up along the way.”
“Boo hoo, talking like you don’t have deep, deep feelings for me.” You roll your eyes. “I see right through you, Bucky Barnes.”
“Can you see the part that couldn’t give less of a shit?” He gestures to himself. “It’s all of it.”
“You think you’re such a comedian, huh?” You narrow your eyebrows. “How did you know she was a fake then, huh?”
Busted.
“Probably ‘cause you didn’t talk as much today,” he dodges. “Actually had some peace of mind for a change.”
“You knew before you got there, you liar.” You push past his fabrications. “You figured it out before everyone else.”
“You literally put it in the title.”
“Yeah, but the rest of the team saw it too.”
“Rest of the team didn’t know you were building a goddamn clone machine for months.”
“You remembered that?” You pulled away, palm over your heart. “Oh, sarge, you paid attention to me.”
His nose twitches.
“You said it, like, eight hundred times.” He could use both his hands to count the number of references you had offhandedly made in the last three weeks alone.
“Why’d you go save me when you knew it wasn’t real?” you continue to challenge relentlessly, knowing fully well that he was fibbing.
“Because you fuckin’ peer pressured me. Had the whole team around me when you sent your little video during breakfast.”
“Just admit it,” you coo, ignoring all his justifications. “You noticed it was fake me right away but showed up anyway because you’re wildly in love with me.”
“No,” he says stiffly.
“No as in you won’t admit it you have a crush on me, or no as in you didn’t know it was fake me?”
There was no winning this.
“Good day to you.” He pulls the motorcycle helmet on to hide the expression that plain as day screamed the former of your two options.
“Also,” you bring up indignantly, “she even got to ride the fucking bike and I’ve been asking to drive it for months now!”
“We-” he chooses his words carefully. “-compromised.”
“Oh, you did?” Your voice lowers at the newfound information, interest piqued. “I’m gonna hold you to that then, whatever it is.”
“Doesn’t count.”
“Absolutely does,” you huff. “A promise is legally binding. Blue’s Clues taught me that.”
“Bye, Y/N.”
“You’re my knight in leathery armour,” you swoon, switching sides immediately, “Kinda.”
“See you next week,” he says in farewell, determined to leave before you made it worse. “Try not to get killed by then.”
“Why, so you can do it yourself? Protective much?” You pull him back when he starts walking away, laughing slightly. “Wait a second, you weirdo.”
He sighs, staying put anyway, arms crossed impatiently over his chest.
You pull out the pen tucked behind your ear and slowly tap him twice on each shoulder in a makeshift knighting ceremony. “For your sacrifice.”
He rolls his eyes at the ludicrousness, tongue clicking against the roof of his mouth.
You ignore his lack of enthusiasm, pressing your fingertips to your lips in a small kiss and then to his nose, given that it was the only part of his face you had access to.
“That was for your bravery.” You grin brightly at him and he sure as hell is glad he’s wearing the stupid helmet because he can feel his cheeks light up a bright crimson.
“Thanks.” His voice sounds gruffer than a second ago. He clears his throat.
“Now you’re my knight in leathery armour,” you fawn, nearly falling over yourself dramatically. “Let’s ride into the sunset together. I love you.”
“You’re ridiculous,” he calls out over his shoulder, turning away to return to his bike. “I despise you.”
“But you don’t.”
He really didn’t.
Chapter 15: Additional Scene #2
Chapter Text
He probably shouldn’t be even awake right now.
But he was.
With a vengeance.
Over fifty hours of a recon mission paired with the additional stakeout due to people not doing their jobs correctly made sure it was a very long two weeks.
The last stretch had been a bit of an adrenaline rush, a lot of explosions and walking away like a badass even though the combination of heat and leather had him sweating buckets. He hopes that the same high would keep him going for at least another few hours before he crashed for the next three days.
“Buck, you’re gonna be exhausted by the time we reach. Can’t you push it to tomorrow?” Steve tries his level best to reason with him, knowing that Bucky in particular had volunteered for a lot of the mission assignments when others were too tired or occupied to pursue it.
“She’s busy tomorrow. School’s got some dance planning committee happening.” Whatever your inator was, he could punch a hole through it and be done for the day. “It’ll be 20 minutes tops.”
“No point arguing with him, Cap. He’s whipped.” Clint’s kinda delirious. He’s almost fallen over twice already, Bucky’s metal arm being the only thing that stopped it from happening. Maybe Clint’s head deserved to hit the floor a couple of times after that comment.
“Shut up.” He fiddles with the solar system bracelet around his wrist, shoving all the beads to one side before thumbing them back. Not a very convincing argument but the same adrenaline is starting to wear off faster than could conserve. “I’m not.”
“Just go on Tuesday or something. ’s not like you wait for the weekend to see her anymore,” Clint throws in a rebuttal much to his annoyance. “Didn’t you meet her after school that day?”
“She said she was going to hypnotise some birds to go shit on someone.” Fuckin’ Jeff.
“Yeah, but then you walked her home afterwards.”
“It was a part of the negotiation.” A trade off, even.
He wonders if the thread that linked all the beads would ever wear out with how much he played around with it, but so far it showed no signs of giving away.
“Negotiation, date, whatever you wanna call it. The point still stands.”
“It’s your fourth mission this month, bud,” Steve interrupts before Bucky’s glare burns holes into Clint’s face. “You need to relax.”
The quinjet takes a sharp turn and Bucky feels like he’s gonna throw up. Motion sickness was a rarity, only showing up in cases where his body was on the verge of crumbling due to fatigue.
He takes a swig of water, shoving down any signs of distress. “Swear on Barton’s life, I'll take a break after this.”
“Motherfucker, I know you’re lying.” Clint whips around in his seat. “Take it back right now. You’re gonna get me killed.”
“Maybe you deserve it,” Bucky quips back calmly.
“That’s fair.” Clint pauses. “But I’ll take you with me, Jimmy.”
Bucky scowls at the nickname. He absolutely loathes it, which gives this piece of shit all the more reason to use it.
“Can you both shut up?” Nat groans from her seat, doing everyone a favour.
“Whose side are you on, Tasha?” Her blonde and begrudgingly admitted best friend asks.
“Whoever pushes you out of this plane in the next five minutes, Clinton.” She smiles sweetly at him but it drops abruptly. “Steve, just let him go, he’s a big boy now. But you’re finding your own way home, Barnes. I’m not picking you up again.”
She picked him up twice a long time ago and one of them was when you called her over to thank her and return the microchip she got you from the lab.
Back then he knew that the team kept in contact with you occasionally, but not to the point where he had to wait half an hour for Nat to stop telling you about the tech behind her photostatic veils so he could finally go home.
“You guys are great,” Bucky mumbles sarcastically, getting up to go punch in the new coordinates. “Best fuckin’ friends a fella could ask for.”
They still have a long way to go. Bits of conversation takes place, but a two week long mission tends to drain the life out of even enhanced human beings so it’s mostly quiet. The longer he sits idly, the longer the weariness sets in. He could take a walk but he’s not sure he could make an entire lap.
Clint's head droops as he slips in and out of sleep again. Bucky considers letting him hit the cold, hard ground in an act of revenge.
In the end, he sticks his arm out again, pushing him back into his seat.
Steve lowers the jet for him at the street outside your lair, enough for him to jump out and not lie on the ground in pain. Still, it takes him a little longer to stop the dizzying when he lands, before he rolling his shoulders and walks to the door.
The lair’s lit up in shades of yellow and red for a change. Even the pillars with the bubbling liquid were a flaming orange to match whatever theme you had going on.
You were in the smack middle, dressed like a completely authentic firefighter.
“You’re back!” you cheer when he opens the door. You follow it up with a quick clearing of your throat, dropping your voice lower to sound more serious. “You’re back.”
He can’t think of anything to say so he just walks to the middle of the lair, a few feet away from the raised platform. His backpack is still with him, a few grimy and tattered clothes, empty guns inside and other essentials inside. But there’s a separate paper bag that he’s holding in his hand.
“I got you something,” he informs to the best of his ability, holding it up. He wonders if you even heard it, considering how coarse his words had sounded.
“What is it?” You jump down from the platform to meet him midway.
“Open it.” He extends it forward.
He’s a little nervous when you pull out a t-shirt from the bag, ‘I love Philippines’ printed against the plain black, the love represented by a bright red heart.
“You bought me a souvenir.” Your eyes widen when you twist it around to look at the words.
“Yeah.” Could he sit down for a few minutes, maybe? Your chair looks real nice. “There’s some chocolate in there if you want.”
“You’re so cute, oh my God.” You hold it up against you, checking out the fit.
He can feel himself smiling but he isn’t exactly sure if he is.
“Thanks, sarge.” You half consider wearing it right now but you don’t want to ruin it with what you have planned. “I love it.”
Bucky gives you a thumbs up, arm dropping to his side when it takes more energy than it should.
“Did you come here right after a mission?” You notice the beads of perspiration lining his forehead. “Is that why you’re all sweaty?”
He just ‘mhm’s in response. He didn’t even notice how hot he was feeling.
He forces himself to pay attention when your fingers wave in front of his face.
“You okay?” You’re a step closer than he remembers you being a second ago. “You look kinda pale.”
“’m fine.” It feels like gravel scraping against his throat. “What d’ya have planned for today?”
You look entirely unconvinced. “Aren’t you supposed to be hibernating right now?”
“Nah.” Did he land 2 minutes ago or two hours ago? How long has he even been here? “Slept on the jet.”
Accidentally, before snapping awake thirty seconds later when turbulence hit.
“Okay,” you say hesitantly. “If you say so.”
You march back to the platform. He lets the backpack fall to the ground, exhaling in relief at the sudden weight off his shoulder. He walks over to leave it by the wall, well out of the way so that neither of you trip.
You stretch your arms out and declare something about subverting expectations and turning things into water so you could float giant paper boats but he only catches bits and pieces of it. He supposes the subverting expectations had to do with the theme of the lair and your costume.
“Where, uh-” If you had mentioned it and he wasn’t paying attention, this was going to be embarrassing, “-where is this... thing?”
“You’ll have to find it.” You grin. “A little game.”
He blinks rapidly, the words taking some time to register in his brain.
“It’s here somewhere?” He looks around, the bright colours bringing on the early signs of a migraine.
"You will never-" you begin to cackle but pause mid-sentence, "Bucky, are you sure you're fine?"
He nods with a slight wince, beckoning for you to go on. His shoulder pressed against the concrete for support, centring his balance accordingly.
"It’s around here.” You sound more disinterested, instead, eyes trained on him in worry. “But there’s this whole ‘floor is lava’ thing going on, it’s gonna get a little crazy.”
“Ah.” Jesus, had it been over sixty hours since he’d been awake? What fucking day of the week was it?
“Listen, can I get you something? Do you want some water or-”
His legs nearly buckle under him in a flash.
"Can we just take 5?" He slides to the ground along the wall, leaning on his palm to stay upright.
"Shit, Buck." You immediately leap off your platform to get to him. “What’s happening to you?”
“‘m fine,” he groans, trying to push himself up again.
“Clearly you’re not.” You drop to your knees by him to get a picture of what exactly was wrong.
"I have super healing.” He clenches his eyes shut. “I'll be fine, just- just give me a minute."
"You're sick, James.” He can feel your hand press against his forehead, a welcome coolness against the heat. “You're burning up."
Alright. Maybe he isn’t that fine.
“I’m callin’ Hill.” You dig around your firefighter’s outfit for your phone. “This is why we don't see each other until you've gotten some rest, Bucky. We could have just rescheduled.”
His eyes blow open, hand reaching out to grab your wrist. "No, no.”
“What?” you ask, eyebrows furrowing.
He shakes his head. “Don't take me back there. They won't let me go on missions."
"Well, they shouldn't, not if things like this are going to happen," you bite back, finger hovering over the contact.
"Please,” he pleads, "Please. I don’t know how else to make up for it.”
“Make up for what?” Your determination falters.
“Everything.” His eyes close again. “Don’t call them.”
“Fuckin’ hell,” you breathe out. “How do I help you, sweetheart, you gotta tell me.”
You check his temperature again, biting your lip to quell what feels a lot like rising fear because panicking wouldn’t help the situation. His skin burns under yours.
“Just leave your hand there,” he says under his breath. The ground was cold, God, he wanted to lie down. “Feels nice.”
Sleep looks like she’s finally catching up with him, a race that she inevitably always won. She’s a sneaky one.
He doesn’t try to resist this time, letting it consume him.
Something under him is plush, soft. It’s not dissimilar to the seats in the common room.
He can barely rotate his body, every muscle feels like it's on the verge of tearing and fuck, he's barely conscious but he manages to pry his eyes open.
“Easy there, Buck." It's you, even though he's moving in and out of consciousness he can tell it's you.
The room's too bright. The world's too bright. The panic builds in his chest.
"Where am I?" His words come out slurred, eyes squinting painfully.
“My couch," you sound gentle, calming. "You're safe. Go back to sleep."
Okay. He trusts you.
He passes out before his head hits the pillow.
Bucky doesn't dream. He has nightmares, yeah, but those had begun to lessen in frequency after he started working on them a few months ago.
This isn't a nightmare.
It's a dark, navy blue sky, pristine white ground and a mist swirling around with the strong wind. He swears he can feel the cool droplets collecting on every inch of him. He doesn't feel nervous... just strange.
It’s uncharted territory.
There’s not a lot going on otherwise.
He takes a step forward, and another, and another when nothing happens. It’s a slow walk against the low howl of the draft, but it looks like there’s no one around for miles.
He stands still for a second. Lets the world move around him.
He’s alone anyway.
“Bucky.” He jerks awake again, hastily pulled away from the nothingness. “Slow down. Breathe. It’s me.”
“How long have I been out?” he croaks out. It feels like five minutes between since he shut his eyes.
“About two hours.” He hears a clink as you set a tray down on the table beside him. “Sorry for waking you up. Just thought you needed some water.”
He can’t lift his head up. It’s bordering on humiliating. “I can’t-”
“Got you a straw,” you break in gently. “But I’m gonna need you to take these for your fever. You’re still burning up pretty bad.”
Something pokes at the corner of his mouth. He figures you’re holding up the glass for him. The straw’s helpful, and hell, you were right. His throat was absolutely parched and the water sliding down feels like a respite but he can’t get more than a few sips in.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t-” he begins in a long series of apologies to come, hoping the throbbing in his head would go away.
“Get some rest, Buck.” You knew that if he started he wouldn’t ever stop. “We’ll talk about this later.”
There’s the sound of a light switch clicking and he’s left in silence for a few seconds.
He should have just gone home. He should have listened.
But he wanted to give you the t-shirt.
He’s been walking for what seemed like hours now.
The inky dark horizon seems endless, the white ground crunches under his feet.
Is this what fever dreams were really like?
Or is this what his normal dreams are like? He can’t really remember the last one he had.
He doesn’t know what he’s headed towards but something in him tells him not to stop. There’s an unspoken destination to get to.
“Where are you going?” A voice asks from around him. No matter how ominous it was, it doesn’t seem to unnerve him.
“‘m not sure,” he admits, his pace not faltering.
It doesn’t ask anything further so he keeps treading.
It’s a minute before something catches his eye. A light appears in the distance. His heart lifts.
Something warm. Inviting.
Fire?
The closer he gets, the clearer it becomes that it is a fireplace. It stands alone out there, several logs of wood accompanying it with an axe leaning against them.
The flame’s dull.
He gets to work.
His forehead feels cool. He thinks that either his dream was had transcended into reality or he’s sweat right through his shirt and condensation was working wonders.
His hand shifts up to wipe at his skin. It comes in contact with cloth instead and it takes him a moment to realise that it was a wet hand towel laid across his forehead.
He hasn’t been like this in years. He sure remembers laying soaked handkerchiefs on Steve a lot when they were boys, nights of flu and stomach bugs keeping Bucky up in palpable fear until his friend’s fever broke in the early hours of the morning. He can’t recall the last time someone had done it for him.
He can hear you tinkering with something in the other room. His senses seemed like they were gradually making a comeback, but along with them came the most excruciating headache.
A small groan escapes him when he tries to flip over, hands flying to his temple to try and relieve some of the pressure. The serum was good most of the time. But for all the epic moments of energy and healing it gave him, the inevitable lows crashed down just as hard.
But a headache was good. If this was the worst he had been feeling all day, then he knew from experience that it was going to be over soon.
“Where does it hurt?” He didn’t even notice that you had stopped building whatever you were, now crouching a few feet away from the couch.
“My fuckin’ head.” He turns over to press his face against the sofa cushion, hoping that the darkness would help in some way.
He can feel your fingers run through his hair, pushing it away from where it stuck to his face. His teeth unclench slightly, just for a second, before another wave hits him.
He begs to go back under.
It’s snow, he realises. The white ground is snow.
“Why don’t you sit down for a while?” it cajoled again. The voice doesn’t have a physical form but he can feel it follow him around like a little friend.
“Can’t.” He’s been hacking away at the wood for too long now, using the bits to keep the flame going, keep it alive before it dies out on him.
“Can’t or won’t?”
He leans against the hilt of the axe, breathing heavily. He’s exhausted.
“Won’t.” His voice is quieter, eyes downcast.
The wind doesn’t give up around him. It hugs him like a blanket, adding to what could easily turn into misery.
“What do you think is going to happen if you keep cutting wood?”
Warmth. Something to break the monotony of the blue around him. Maybe the heat would invite someone to sit with. Redemption.
“I don’t know.” He brings the tool down hard on another block, breaking it into half before he throws it into the fireplace.
“You’re not seeing what you’ve already created,” it points out delicately. “Wait for a second, watch the fire.”
He wipes his brow, taking a step back. His muscles were aching, shortness of breath finally catching up to him.
If it gives up on him, he’d have to work twice as hard.
But the fire continues to crackle, seconds, moments, even minutes later. Just as bright.
Has it always been burning?
“Yes, it has.” It reads his mind.
At what point did it stop mattering how much he added to it to keep it alive?
“A long time ago.” It didn’t make sense. “So then why are you working so hard towards it when it’s already here?”
Something is kneading on his head. It’s foreign and should definitely set off alarm bells but it's nice. It feels good.
"Hey, B." You’re on a single seat couch adjacent to his, welding gloves on your hand. Do you ever take a break? “You look better.”
"Hi." He reaches up, coming in contact with metal this time. "What's on my head?"
"Synthesised Message Inducer."
A message inducer?
"What messages were you sending me?" Is that why his dream was so fucking weird?
"Well- none," you confess. "I read the label wrong. Turns out it’s a massage inducer. Don't know what evil I can do with that but it’s helpful.”
No wonder.
"You mentioned a headache before you passed out again so I just thought that-" you gesture to it with a flick of your hand. "Is it making you uncomfortable? I wasn't sure-"
"It feels good,” he murmurs, trying his best to straighten up. "Thank you."
“You look less pale.” You smile, although it looks strained. “You hungry?”
“Don’t think so.”
“There’s some Gatorade on the table. Saltines too, if you can stomach it.”
He knows he should eat. His metabolism needs it.
You push yourself off your couch to go sit beside him. He sits up straight, back leaning heavily against the couch when you land next to him.
He takes three out of the bowl of saltines you offer him. Breaking it into little pieces, he pops a few in his mouth, chewing slowly. A quick sip of Gatorade washes it down for momentary satisfaction but he knows it won’t be nearly enough to fill the hunger that will eventually hit him the minute he’s a little healthier. His body’s energy was being entirely spent in fixing him up.
“Steve called, by the way.” Of course, he did. Mother.
“Did you pick up?” He twists the cap back onto the bottle.
“Let it ring all the way through.” You take it from him and leave it on the floor beside the couch, lifting your legs to keep onto the table.
“He’ll call back later.”
“I think it’ll be fun to reject Steve Rogers’ call.”
Oh, it definitely is. Gets him all riled up.
“How you feeling?” You sneak a glance at him.
“Better than this morning.” An hour more and he’d be good to go.
You nod, looking down at your lap. "You scared the shit out of me, you know.”
"I'm sorry." Guilt. It’s guilt that might just eat him alive. “Really.”
“I know what you’re thinking.” You wave it off. "Don’t. I'm just glad you're okay."
There’s a beat of silence where he’s not quite sure what to say. There’s a certain tension that hangs in the air between you both. He can feel the drowsiness creep on him again.
“But you need to tell the team, James,” you say softly. “You need to talk to someone.”
He doesn’t react too much. He knew it would come up eventually.
Bucky exhales uneasily. “I know.”
“Will you?”
The million-dollar question. He doesn’t want to lie and tell you that he absolutely will because he doesn’t know.
His head cautiously rests on your shoulder. You don’t hesitate for a moment before shifting to make him more comfortable, leaning your cheek on his hair.
“I’m gonna pick up next time Rogers calls.”
“Yeah?”
“Gonna tell him you got held up on our date.” He feels your chest rise and fall with a small laugh. He smiles against your shoulder.
“They’ll get on my ass.”
“You should get bullied, it’s good for character development.”
Some date.
He can’t even stay awake longer than five minutes at a time.
He’s still cutting the wood fervently, throwing blocks upon blocks into the fire to keep it alive, keep him alive.
“You know you don’t have to keep doing this, James,” it’s being a voice of reason but he can’t afford to listen to it. “You’re not gonna find something new that you don’t already have.”
“What do I have?” he asks desperately, planting his feet in the ground, hand gripping the axe tightly.
“You know what.”
He does. “Don’t say it.”
“Accepta-”
“No.”
“That’s going to keep burning.” It’s true. “You’re just going to kill yourself trying to keep it.”
He has to earn it. He has to do something to be worthy of what it was giving him because if it knew the kinds of things he’s done, things he has to make up for- it’d extinguish a long time ago.
“You don’t.”
“I do.” No matter how long he stays still, it shows no sign of flickering.
“The fire’s still alive.” It’s calm despite how frantic he was turning. “You don’t have to work to keep it.”
“I’m useless here,” he says defeatedly against its insistence. “I don’t deserve it.”
“Maybe you don’t.” It still stings even though he knew it. “But maybe you do. Either way, it’s giving it to you, no strings attached.”
He lifts his axe over his shoulder again, ready to bring it down. Why does he deserve it when he has nothing to give in return?
“You don’t have to offer a service to have worth.”
He halts, body frozen. His chest constricts almost painfully.
“Sit down for a while,” its command is kind, almost caring. “Let it come to you.”
“Fuck,” it escapes him like a small prayer.
The axe drops to the ground. He shakily takes a seat.
He doesn’t cut more wood or fan the flame or scour for gasoline. He doesn’t do anything.
And yet the fire keeps burning.
It’s a kitten.
On his chest.
Bucky stares right at it and it unflinchingly stares back.
He’s not really sure if he’s still dreaming or not.
He hesitatingly uses a finger to scratch behind its ear.
“Hello,” he whispers. It leans into his touch, pressing itself against his palm. “Where’d you come from?”
"You're awa- ah, jeez, I'm sorry." You walk into the room, finally changed into an oversized cardigan and out of your lab coat, "She's clingy."
"It's okay." He likes it. “This is your cat?”
“Yeah. Finally, about time you two met.”
He folds his legs to give you space on the couch. You sit next to him, a cup of something warm in your hands. There’s music playing softly through the apartment, tracks definitely from the 80s. He recognises some of them from the playlists Sam had been sending to catch him up.
“You look good as new.” His temperature had gone down a while ago and his headache had subsided after thirty more minutes of sleep and an Aspirin.
“Feel normal.” Praise be to the serum. “Think it’s over.”
“You need some more water?”
“I’m good.” He’s fucking starving, though. “What have you been up to all day?”
“School stuff.” You relax into the seat. “Inators to kick your ass when you’re not unconscious on my couch.”
“Winter Formal prep?” He flinches when the cat digs her claws into his chest but it doesn’t hurt that bad, arching her back before snuggling back.
“Yeah. Turns out I’m chaperoning.” The cynicism in your tone has him believing that maybe it’s not your activity of choice. “Yay.”
“When is it?”
“Pretty soon. The planning committee’s all excited.” You take a sip out of your mug. “I get one day to recuperate.”
Maybe he should leave you alone for the next few weeks. Maybe a month. Possibly forever.
“I’m sorry,” he says for the umpteenth time that day but at least now he’s properly conscious.
“I know you are.” You don’t sound mad at him. “You don’t need to be. What are frenemies for?”
He lingers a little longer on the word, reevaluating what exactly this thing was at this point.
“Plus you brought me a present.” You gesture to yourself and he realises only then that you actually have the shirt on. “That makes it pretty even, I think.”
“You sure?”
You know it’s an unspoken way of asking if you want him to get out and never come back, judging by the way his lip was caged between his teeth.
“Absolutely.” You finish whatever you’re drinking, leaving it on the coffee table. “And you fixed my generator last time you were at the lair so, you know, an eternal debt or something.”
Well, it nearly electrocuted you and him so it’s not like it was a difficult choice to make.
“I think she likes you.” You raise your eyebrows at the cat who had dozed off on his chest a while ago when he wasn’t paying attention. “Traitor.”
“She has good taste.” He didn’t think he was a cat person, having grown up with his neighbour’s dogs and the human equivalent of a spunky Golden Retriever.
“She has terrible taste. Unless she likes me, then she’s basically Gordon Ramsay.”
“You keep telling yourself that.” He retracts his hand back to his side, fully intending not to disturb her. He probably wouldn’t be able to move from that position for the next few hours out of compulsion.
The ease slowly returning to your conversation takes off some of the edge he was feeling.
“Something feels wrong about today.” He stares off to the side, turning his face to the wall.
“Aside from me having to use all my Grey’s Anatomy knowledge on you?” You snicker. “Web MD told me you had Pneumococcal Meningitis.”
“No. I don’t think you’ve said enough bullshit for today.” There’s a certain quota that’s been set.
“I did, you just weren’t awake to hear any of it.” There’s a smile on your face finally and the relief he feels is immeasurable. “Told you all my hopes and dreams.”
“Yeah?” He raises an eyebrow, head inclined ever so slightly to look at you. “What’d that include?”
“To start, I’d like a pony.” You pull your knees up to your chest, circling your arms around it. “Then a private island.”
“You’re startin’ small.” The corner of his lip tugs upwards. “Real humble.”
“You know me, queen of humility and all that.” You brush his comment aside. “But you know what‘s actually wrong?”
He hums in curiosity.
“I haven’t hit on you all day.”
Ah.
“‘M sure it’s hurtin’ pretty bad,” he says in amusement.
“You have no idea.” You sigh loudly. “How else will you know about my undying love for you?”
“Get it out of your system then.” Months ago he wouldn’t have even dreamed of encouraging this behaviour, but here he was.
“Don’t think you can handle it, buddy,” you tease, eyes crinkling.
“Why, because I have a fever?” He smiles playfully. “Just means I’m hotter than usual.”
You press your lips into a straight line to avoid smiling back. “Mr Barnes, are you flirting with yourself?”
“So what if I am?”
“That’s my job, sir.” You huff. “You gonna have me unemployed now?”
Begrudgingly, he thinks you do your job very well, so no, he’s probably not going to.
He shakes his head slowly instead, stopping when he feels the movement send a shot of pain up his neck. Certainly slept the wrong way.
There’s a faint spell of victory on your face. “You hungry? Been a while since you ate anything.”
“Kinda.” His stomach lining was going to digest itself but he’d never tell you that.
You’re about to open your mouth and tell him that he was a wholeass snack and you were starving when the front door’s doorknob jiggles.
The key turns, finally pushing open and accompanied by a voice that can only be described as peeved.
“Y/N, did you forget the fuckin- oh mother of God.” Some guy covers his eyes instantly, retracting back to the doorway. “You coulda warned me you had a guy here. Is he clothed?”
“Unfortunately, he is.”
“Sir, are you clothed?” he asks aloud instead, ignoring your cry of betrayal.
“Uh, yeah.” Bucky clears his throat awkwardly. “I am.”
“You have no faith in me, Jake,” you grumble, not even meeting his gaze in greeting.
“Fuck off, Y/N,” he replies like it’s a habit, peeking through his fingers to look at who was in the living room.
Oh, this was Jake. Roommate Jake that you’ve mentioned to him a few times before, mostly in complaints.
Roommate Jake’s eyes squint in an effort to discern who was on the couch.
“Anyway come meet-”
“I see.” Recognition finally settles on his face, paving way for immediate displeasure.
“This is Sergeant Ba-”
“I know who he is,” he says dryly. “Why is there a superhero in our apartment? Nice to meet you, by the way.”
Bucky simply waves in acknowledgement, feeling pretty helpless. He tries to sit up straight but the cat simply latches onto him, dragging herself further up his chest and settling there.
“We’re having a sleepover.” You nudge Bucky’s knee with your elbow. “We just did each other’s nails. Do you wanna join?”
“I’ll pass, thanks,” he retorts curtly. “I’m gonna go change. Make sure we still have a home by the time I return.”
Oof.
“Left you some pasta in the microwave,” you call out, face scrunched in anticipation.
Jake stops down the hall. “You didn’t do the laundry today, did you?”
“The pasta is really good,” you say alternatively.
“Again, fuck you,” he reiterates before a door opens and closes. “I’m gonna have you evicted.”
There’s a stupidly big grin on your face when you turn back to Bucky. “I was just fuckin’ with him, I did the laundry.”
“He hates me,” Bucky states, pulling you out of your self-induced haze of pettiness.
“Ah ah, correction; he doesn’t hate you,” you emphasise, wagging a finger. “He hates all of you. The entire team.”
Bucky’s nose crinkles.
“Don’t look so confused, I warned you about this a while ago.”
He vaguely remembers you telling him to come find out the reason.
“Why?” If it was an anti-superhero agenda, it wouldn’t be the first time Bucky had encountered one of them.
“He has one of the worst jobs in the city.” You smirk. “He works in insurance.”
Oh.
“Every time aliens destroy New York, he works overtime.”
Oh.
“‘Hi, thank you so much for calling Gold Star Insurance, how may I help you? Oh, Shmulk used your car as a landing pad?’' you mimic, hand pressed to your ear like a phone. “‘Yes, we can set you up with a claim. Lemme just transfer you real quick to-’”
“I don’t sound like that.” Jake’s voice carries over from the kitchen.
“No one said this was you,” you fire back, rolling your eyes. “God, Jake, the world doesn’t revolve around you.”
“It will once I change the locks on all our doors, Y/N.” His voice is muffled as he opens the fridge, burrowing his head inside. “Did you finish my fucking yoghurt?”
It’s like your ears perk up the way you whirl around to the direction he was. “Admit you ate my cereal, bitch.”
“I don’t even like your shitty cereal,” he shouts back, shutting the fridge door. “You ate my damn yoghurt. I’m adding it to your rent for this month.”
“Fuck your yoghurt.” You sound a little too proud for someone who supposedly didn’t have anything to do with it.
There’s silence until he pokes around the corner, phone in his hand.
“Did you eat dinner?” Jake asks normally.
“No. You ordering?” The way your tone shifts almost gives Bucky whiplash.
“Yeah. Pizza?”
“Sounds good. I’ll pay.”
“Nah, I got it. You paid last time.” He punches in the number. “Sergeant Barnes, would you like some pizza?”
“No, I-” He’s well overstayed his welcome. He probably has a few therapist appointments to make, a few missions to cancel from his schedule.
“Yes, he would,” you interrupt. “Order another large please, Jakey.”
“Cool.” He walks away, speaking into the phone.
“Get dessert,” you yell after him.
He shouts a muffled agreement back.
“Hope you like pepperoni.” You return your attention to Bucky. “That’s his default for people he doesn’t know.”
“Uh, yeah.” He doesn’t quite know what to say after all that. “He seems nice.”
“He’s an asshole.” Your eyes shine in excitement. “I love him.”
The cat paws at his chest, demanding the attention Bucky hadn’t been giving her all this while. He scratches her back again before she goes back to sleep.
“Sergeant Barnes, are you injured?” Jake walks back into the room. “Did one of her dumb machines do this?”
“He’s fine.” You shoot a look towards Bucky who nods in confirmation. “And my machines aren’t dumb, they’re stupid.”
"Is he going to die on our couch?" Jake turns to him. "Are you going to die on our couch?"
"No, he isn't," you say, a tick of annoyance in your voice.
“I really am fine,” Bucky adds on, switching between you and him.
"We could get court-martialed, you know."
"We'll just go on the run." Your eyes shine. "You and me, living it up as criminals. We'll even bring Fondant."
He looks at you in disdain. "We're taking the cat with us?"
"You love her, shut up."
“She sheds everywhere.”
"Your cat's name is Fondant?" Bucky dares to speak up in the middle of whatever this was.
"Among others." Jake sighs. "It was Vaseline this morning, Daisy yesterday and probably will be something stupid like Q-Tip tonight."
You let out an ‘ooh’ in excitement. "Q-Tip is a good one, Jake."
"That was an insult, not a suggestion," he shoots back. "You can't even decide on a name."
"You call her Airpod.”
“She’s small and white and I can never find her anywhere.”
“That's the worst name. What if I went around calling you Shit Stain, huh? Because that’s what you are,” you accuse, adoration highlighting your face when you look at her. "We need a good name, something worthy of her."
"Sergeant Barnes, since you're here would you like to weigh in on the situation?"
Not really. But he's starting to take a liking towards the little thing that was fast asleep on his chest.
“You can just call me Bucky,” he says instead, figuring that since he was crashing on your shared couch, Jake could at least get nickname privileges.
“You know what, you’re right,” you start, ignoring his white flag. “Bucko here should pick a name.”
“Uh-” Bucky didn’t know this was still the topic of discussion, considering how fast the both of you had been bickering back and forth.
“Stop pestering him,” Jake carped.
“Let him speak, bro, holy shit,” you exclaim, throwing your hand up in a ‘what the hell?’.
“Like you’re going to actually use it. Don’t get his hopes up too high.”
“Maybe I will.” You scowl at Jake, giving Bucky a smile. “No pressure sarge, it can’t be worse than Airpod.”
It can if Bucky tries hard enough.
Jake was right, though, it is tiny and white. Snowball was too common, Frostbite was too violent and you had already used Daisy once-
“How about Alpine?” He scratches under its chin. She turns her head up in contentment.
“Alpine,” you test how it feels on your tongue. “Alpine.”
“It can be something else, I don’t know-”
“I like it.” Something about it feels right. “I really do.”
“A normal fucking name. Hallelujah.” Jake crosses his arms across his chest. “If you change it now I’m getting a dog.”
“Nice one, sarge.” You pet her back, grinning when she leans into you.
“Glad to be of service.” Your fingers brush against his for a second and he freezes. He doesn’t even think you notice the mini contact, already busy in firing off a new insult at your roommate.
“Sergeant Barnes, in case you need to kill her at any point, I can tell you her schedule.” Jake glares at you.
“He already has my schedule, so you can eat shit.” You flip him off. “He and I are besties.”
Bucky still has the certificate you mailed him about your promotion from strangers to best friends. It was definitely tacky, but he appreciated the gift card you sent along with it.
An hour later he’s stuffed with so many carbs, his mother would be proud. His diet doesn’t usually consist of copious amounts of pizza but fuck it, he probably needs the energy for the lecture he was going to receive later on.
His lips taste like strawberries from the chapstick you forced him to use, his hair tied back in a little bun because the cat wouldn’t stop playing with it and he’s about halfway through listening to a conversation about why insurance workers had it harder than lawyers while living in a city full of superheroes.
“They get to sit up there in their fancy little air-conditioned rooms but we’re doing all the groundwork,“ Jake rants, eyes still trained on the rerun of an old football match playing on the TV.
“Right,” Bucky acknowledges. It’s not like he has any say in this, he wasn’t the one cleaning up the mess. He had spent his fair share of hours helping cleaners clear up debris and discarded alien rubble from Avengers battlegrounds but he certainly should start investing more time into it.
“And don’t even get me started on the fuckin’ landlords-”
“Is he still talking?” you interject, rounding the corner from your visit to the kitchen to get some water.
“I’m sorry I’m more interesting than you,” he shoots back without a break. “Anyway, as I was saying-”
You had a glass in one hand Bucky’s phone in the other, a constant stream of buzzing drawing his attention to it. He already knew what it was.
“Shut up for once in your life, Jake. Bucky, catch.” You toss his phone at him and he catches it with one hand. “Your phone’s been blowing up Mr. Steal Your Girl. Who are you cheating on me with?”
He unlocks it to find his notifications drowned by a series of texts. He ignores the ones from Steve and Sam’s number is still blocked, so that leaves him with only one option.
From Clint
steve’s trying to convince sam to send redwing after you lol
From Clint
i told him he should check in with every morgue in the city
From Clint
ok he spent half an hour doing it lmao where are you
From Clint
if you’re alive can you get me some pringles on the way home
From Clint
sour cream and onion
From Clint
nat told me i shouldn’t have said that. my bad.
From Clint
*when you’re alive can you get me some pringles on the way home
From Bucky
no
From Clint
i’m telling steve you died on a bridge
Bucky locks his phone again, shoving it into his pocket. “I think I should go.”
“Aw, already? You can take Jake’s bedroom if you want,” you offer earnestly. “He can sleep on the asphalt.”
“We have a guest bedroom.” Jake rolls his eyes. “And you can stay over if you need to, Sergeant.”
“Nah, I think Steve might end up here soon if I don’t let him know I’m alright.” The man needed to get laid. It had been too long.
“Well, why don’t you just tell him you’re fine?” Jake is logical, his suggestion reasonable.
Bucky stops to really think about his answer for a moment.
“It’s funnier.”
Bucky tries to lift Alpine off his lap and onto the couch so she can continue her nap. She opens her eyes briefly before arching her back and jumping off him without so much as a second glance back. Is this what feeling used is like?
“It was nice meeting you.” Your roommate holds out his hand and Bucky takes it firmly, shaking it and responding in kind. “You should visit again. Could use some reinforcements against this crackhead.”
“No one likes you,” you respond, handing Bucky his backpack. “Go add some numbers or cry in a corner or something.”
Jake sends a middle finger and a sarcastic smile your way before disappearing into the kitchen to get the garbage bags.
“Can’t keep America’s Golden Boy waiting.” You hand Bucky his backpack on the way out.
“He’s anything but America’s Boy.” Bucky scoffs, opening the door and stepping out, “Punk’s broken just about every law under the sun. Not exactly patriotic of him.”
“A rebel with a cause.” A lightbulb goes off in your head. “I know someone who might like that.”
“You’re plannin’ on setting Steve up?” It was probably about damn time. “Good luck.”
“He’s gonna need it, not me.” Your lips upturn in a smirk. “Speaking of your teammates, who’s picking you up?”
“I’ll probably walk.” He inhales deeply, lips pressing inward in a line. “Could use some air.”
“Are you serious?”
He looks at you quizzically. “Yeah.”
“All you superheroes and your lone wolf complexes,” you say under your breath, digging around your cardigan pocket for something.
You ask for his hand. He gives it to you, slightly confused.
“You’re crazy if you think you’re walking home after all that.” You tug his metal arm up slightly to get a better grip on it.
When your eyes fall on the galaxy bracelet he still has around his wrist, your gaze softens almost immediately. “You kept this?”
Bucky clears his throat, feeling the heat creep into his face. “Steve’s not the only one who needs luck.”
“Sure isn’t,” you agree, moving the bracelet down gently before snapping a new contraption around his hand.
It’s designed to look like a digital watch but he knows exactly what it is.
“Thought you never made two of the same thing.” He stares at the teleportation device that fits snugly around his wrist.
“Yeah, well, your clone getting kidnapped can really change a person,” you murmur. “Made two after the whole thing just in case, but you should have it.”
“Y/N-” he begins, ready to argue.
“I want you to have it,” you interrupt. “Could be helpful on missions. Late night booty calls too, makes the commute less.”
Like he was getting a ton of those on a regular basis.
“I’ll return it next weekend,” he promises, clutching his backpack a little tighter.
“No, you won’t.” You shake your head. “This store doesn’t accept returns.”
He opens his mouth to argue.
“If anything comes out of there that isn’t ‘Y/N you’re the love of my life, please be my girlfriend’, don't even bother,” you warn seriously.
He shuts his mouth again.
You weren’t going to let him have his way, your stubbornness taking the front seat. It’s slightly infuriating, but he supposes that came with the gig.
“Thank you,” he says, voice quiet, “for everything.”
“Don’t mention it,” you make a callback to what he said to you months ago. “You glued popsicle sticks together for three hours, ‘tis the least I could do.”
“Still.”
You can tell it’s something he isn’t used to doing, judging by how serious he was.
“Don’t go all soft on me, Barnes.” You punch his shoulder playfully. “Could even say it’s an evil scheme in itself, making sure your frenemy is fine enough to get their ass handed to them next time.”
“Friends.”
“What?” you ask, not sure if you heard him right.
“We’re friends,” he repeats.
It shouldn’t make your stomach flutter but it does and it’s despicable.
“Give me two more weeks and we’ll add ‘with benefits’ as a suffix.” Using humour as a way to cope with the sudden surge of your heartbeat maybe isn’t the best way to go about things.
“It’s gonna take a lot longer than that.” He counters, buckling the strap of his backpack across his sternum.
“But you’re not denying that it can happen.” A grin spreads across your face. “It’s just gonna take some time.”
He stops his movements, hand still on the watch as he adjusts the coordinates. “Sure. Whatever you say.”
“Bucky Barnes, you are playing hard to get.” You laugh and he smiles wide and free.
“You gotta put in the work.” Not much, judging by the way he’s looking at you.
“I will wear you down someday,” you swear. “You will admit that you have feelings for me.”
He purses his lips out in contemplation. “Good luck.”
“Thanks.” You snort. “Get home safe. And get some sleep.”
“Bye Y/N.” He takes a moment longer to linger on you before pressing down on the watch, blipping out of your view.
You let out an exhale, eyes dropping to the area he was standing just a minute ago.
What a day.
“He your boyfriend?” Jake asks, handing you a bag as you shut the door behind you.
“What? No,” you mumble to yourself, arms crossed over your chest.
“I know you. You don’t just give your inventions away to just anyone,” he continues even when you push past him, “and you especially don’t make stuff twice for them unless they’re Director Fury.”
“I didn’t make that watch for him.” You couldn’t exactly hand out freeze rays and air bending tools to random people. They’d have to have insight into what you were doing in the first place and the only people from your citizen life were T and Jake.
“You’re a terrible liar.” He scoffs. “I saw the blueprint on the table. You built that shit today.”
“They just happened to be there.” You pick up a pizza box, shoving it into the trash. “I was editing a prototype.”
“Y/N, I love you occasionally but you’re full of shit.”
“Beginning to doubt the first part, J.” You hand him the used glasses to take to the sink.
“Look me in the eye and tell me you’ve never built him anything before this.”
You spin on your heel to face him, staring him straight in the eye.
He waits. Your mouth opens to say something before closing it again.
“Your face is ugly.” You press the bag full of garbage into his hand. “Why do you even care so much?”
“Because I’m one of your only two friends, you loser.”
“I have more than two friends.” You huff. “Alpine.”
“Alpine is a cat.”
“Alpine is my best friend and I love her.”
“She is a cat,” he repeats. “Listen- shut up, that cat doesn’t love you- I don’t want anything to happen to you. Your life is fucking weird as it is, just wanna make sure his heart’s in the right place.”
You had already been kinda kidnapped once, what’s the worst that could happen?
You don’t tell Jake that, though. He’d send out a search group the next time you were late.
“He’s good.” You sigh, hand resting on your hip. “And nothing’s going on between us anyway so you got nothing to worry about.”
“Like you don’t have the biggest crush on him.” He swings the bag over his shoulder. “Just because I just choose to ignore you on purpose doesn’t mean I’m ignorant.”
“Yeah, well, I have a crush on someone new every week so your point is invalid.” You put your hands on your waist. “Stop being so mean to me or else I’ll fall in love with you too.”
“God, no. Go back to whatever hole you crawled out of.” His face twists in disgust as he exits the room.
“You’re comin’ with me, boy,” you reminded him. “Alpine too.”
“Just for the record,” Jake’s voice resonates through the apartment, “I probably hate him the least out of all of them.”
You let out a small laugh. “Yeah, I figured.”
Chapter 16: Chapter 14
Chapter Text
Snickerdoodles and sheet masks.
That’s how Saturdays should be spent.
He’s in his favourite pair of sweatpants, a white t-shirt hugging his broad shoulders while a pomegranate scented mask cools his pores or something.
There’s a Dolly Parton playlist that they’re making their way through, a new chapter to explore in his reintegration. A cup of red wine only adds to the whole experience of lounging about the common room on Self-Care Saturdays.
“Werewolves or vampires?” Wanda asks, eyes hidden under cucumbers.
Bucky knew this question was coming the minute they finished Twilight, a movie series she had him swearing up and down that he’d watch with her since no one else had the patience for it. Clint did, but who voluntarily wanted to spend time around him.
“I don’t know.” He thinks it’s a testament to his strength and the power of friendship that he got through all five of them. “What d’you think?”
“Vampires.” She rolls her finger in the air in a loop. “Obviously.”
Fair enough.
“Werewolves,” he tests.
“Yeah, I could see that. You look like a werewolf guy.”
He assumes the self-isolation he imposes on himself has something to do with it. Maybe the broodiness too. Hell, maybe it’s the number of times he’s been caught walking around the Tower shirtless at 3am looking for a sandwich.
“Edward or Jacob?”
“Charlie and Rosalie,” he says without much thought.
“Right answer.” Wanda smiles, apples of her cheeks pushing the slices up her face.
She introduced him to the concept of a good skincare routine, a blessing and necessity considering the amount of damage sunburns have dealt him.
He repays her patience towards his questions about toners by baking the recipes she pins to her secret Pinterest board. Occasionally Sam or Nat join in when they see them lazing about with plates of peanut butter cookies and homemade hair masks, but most of the time it’s just a ritual that Wanda and he invest time into.
“Did Vision ever finish that sweater he was making?” The Android guy tried to partake in as many activities as Wanda picked up, his little way of expressing support.
“He did,” she says, removing the cucumbers from her eyes to look at Bucky, ”and then he made two more, a scarf, three pairs of gloves and a hat.”
“Y’all plannin’ a trip to Alaska sometime soon?”
“He got excited.” She breaks a cookie into a few pieces, a habit she picked up from a character of a sitcom she watched once. “It was sweet.”
Indeed it was. Bucky was happy for her.
“I could use it in Siberia on Monday,” she proposes as an afterthought.
“You’re gonna need a lot more than that.” He knows from experience about the harshness of its winters that made him forget the sun was ever a thing.
“I’m sure he can make a dozen sweaters by tonight,” she humours. “We can make you one too, if you’d like.”
“Maybe next time.“
“You’re not coming?” She looks at him.
He shakes his head, careful to make sure the mask stays on.
“Oh.” She turns back again. “Good for you.”
He supposes so. It still itches at him, and he very nearly marched into Steve’s room every night for the past few weeks to tell him to put him back on the roster, but he didn’t.
Wanda’s already a couple of glasses of wine in. Bucky’s had some too, but it’s more so for the company. He couldn’t really get drunk on anything other than the liquor Thor sometimes brought around. Its taste always changed depending on whatever mood he was in, but its flavour was always a little too otherworldly to place a finger on. How else could he explain what cigarette smoke and strawberry ice cream mixed with a hint of etherealness felt like on his tongue?
Here You Come Again ends, To Know Him Is to Love Him begins. It’s a pretty heavy contrast between both the songs and he can only imagine the shift in Wanda’s questions that would soon follow. He had been through this before, he knew what was going to happen.
“Do you want to talk about the curse of immortality,” she asks, “or Oscar Isaac?”
Bucky raises an eyebrow, making sure it’s exaggerated enough that she can see it under the mask.
“He’s beautiful,” she contributes further.
He simply raises his glass in silent agreement, before downing the rest of its contents in one gulp and picking up another cookie.
He can discern three people singing in the song, but other than Dolly Parton, he can’t quite place the other two. He’d check them out later, if he remembered.
Wanda hums. “You know, I always thought there were two ways of looking at this song.”
He lifts an eye open, edging her to continue. He wasn’t paying too much attention to the lyrics, only catching the specific ones that were repeated throughout the song. It just so happened to be the name of the song, so that’s what he’s basing this conversation off of.
“The first is that meeting someone is all you need to love them.” She holds up a finger in count. “Which is nice, it’s cute, but the second one I like better.”
“What is it?” He chews slowly, considering the ramifications of increasing the cinnamon next time he makes this recipe.
“That you love someone if you really know them.” She breaks off another piece into her mouth. “That takes effort.”
His lips quirk downward in thought, mulling it over. God forbid he loves Sam just because he knew his favourite Austen novel or Starbucks order.
He could dwell on this later, Google the lyrics and see for himself.
He holds a cookie up. “Do you think these need more cinnamon?”
“I think they’re perfect.”
He doesn’t really believe her, Shuri taught him that things could and should always be improved. Speaking of whom, it’d been a while since he had video called her. Last time she told him to stop holding the phone so goddamn close to his face, he pulled it closer on purpose.
“That what Vis and you have?” he enquires, “The second one?”
“I think so.” There’s a fondness in her tone when she talks about him.
That’s a nice thought.
It’s a bit quieter from then on till the song ends, only Wanda’s soft singing breaking the bouts of silence.
Until his phone vibrates loudly on the table. It was eleven-thirty at night, there was only one person on Earth who would be texting him at this hour and she was supposed to be occupied.
But alas.
From Y/N
Buck I know I told you I wasn’t going to kill anyone
From Y/N
But shit I think I actually might
His eyebrows quirk up in amusement.
From Bucky
aren’t you at the dance?
From Y/N
That got over a while ago, we’re cleaning up right now and I think I’m going to stab this guy with this spork I found on the ground
From Bucky
you’re at school. i’m not coming there
From Y/N
First of all, we’re not at school, we’re at that hall near the deli
From Y/N
Secondly, there’s basically no one here, coward. Show up and I’ll give you some spiked punch
From Bucky
is this your evil scheme for the weekend?
From Y/N
Does homicide count as an evil scheme?
From Bucky
be there in an hour
From Y/N
this man’s blood will flow through the streets at midnight
From Bucky
be there in thirty
“Gotta go.” He lets out a small grunt as he pushes himself off the couch.
“Out?” Wanda graces him with a peer through both her eyes.
“Yeah.” He peels off the facemask, folding it and placing it into the cover to discard. “You gonna be okay?”
“Yes,” she confirms. “Vis is going to find me soon, anyway.”
“I’ll let him know you’re here if I see him.” Bucky sends her a three finger wave. “See you around.”
“We’re doing mimosas next time,” she pipes up, breaking another cookie in half. “Also, tell Y/N I said hi.”
He breathes out a small laugh, turning on his heel to walk out.
HIs bedroom is meticulously tidy. Given that every time he almost stormed into Steve’s room was controlled by a spur-of-the-moment micro cleaning session, he could basically see his face on his floor.
A quick shower later, he steps out of the bathroom with a towel around his waist and the upcoming frustration of deciding what to wear. He knows that other teachers are going to be there and it’s a slightly more formal evening, so his safest bet was a button up shirt.
He pulls open the drawer, actions faltering when he comes face to face with it.
The box is there, tucked away with formal shirts he barely has the opportunity to use. The box, the one you gave him months ago.
He runs through the same old debates in his head, his stare remaining on it for longer than usual. He forgot that was there, given that the last time he wanted to try it on he got only one chip on him before hurriedly putting it back. It wasn’t that he wasn’t ready… he just wasn’t ready.
Just do it, man.
He opens the box slowly, eyes falling on the small squares that rested on the cushion.
Now’s as good a time as ever. He blames it on the sugar rush in his system that’s there just long enough to give him a little more courage than usual before it metabolised. Do it quick and fast, the bandaid way of dealing with things.
He gingerly places on his collarbone, hesitating for a second at the second one.
What do you have to lose, Barnes?
Not much. But he had everything to gain, and that was only a slightly more terrifying thought.
Nevertheless, he winces before letting the second square drop onto his bicep, inhaling sharply when it attaches itself like a magnet.
He waits.
Nothing.
He feels nothing.
Bucky curls his arm hoping that it would initiate some sort of wake up mode. When no shift occurs, he lets it fall back to his side.
He sighs, staring at its reflection in the mirror. Perhaps it needed a few minutes to charge up, like solar energy or something.
Or perhaps it just wasn’t meant to be.
Either way, he doesn’t have time to sit and work on this. He slips on a white button up over it, the first one he gets his hands on. His skin looks amazing, a combined effect of all the sleep he was getting and his new sunscreen. His hair is slightly slicked back, towel dried from the shower.
He looks at himself again, eyes following the path from his clavicle to his bicep.
Another notification from you saying that you were going to kick the ladder the man was standing on and he hurriedly turns off all the lights before grabbing his helmet.
He elects to take his bike. An afternoon of teleporting back and forth to fuck with Steve’s laundry had the battery of the watch entirely drained, giving him no choice but to leave it behind to charge.
The hall opposite the deli is a common spot for schools to use for dances and other seminars. He leaves his ride at the parking space around the back. There’s another motorcycle parked there, and just one glance at it proves that it is undeniably cooler than his. Whatever, at least his has a cool scratch from the time he almost skid into a pole.
There’s a blue carpet running from the entrance through the corridor. He follows the trail of blue landscape spotlights and occasional balloons down the hall and to the right, ending up at a push door. It opens up to a fairly large room.
Unlike the pathway outside lit up in blue, the coloured lights are off inside the hall, instead leaving the whole place lit up like a school gymnasium. Lots of cloth draped over the walls, snowflake cutouts, fairy lights- the place actually looks pretty.
There are several round tables on one side of the room, chairs lining the circumference. There’s a pile of boxes in the centre, labelled with the names of different decorations.
“Bucky, hi.” His eyes snap up to meet yours.
“Hi.”
You look a little too excited to see him, setting down a box, dusting your hands off as you skip over, “You came.”
“Yeah, ‘course.” He lets the door shut behind him, it closes with a soft click.
“You look good.” If this bastard showed up like this every weekend to stop you, there would be some hope left for humanity. “Like, really good.”
“Thanks.” His face eases into a half-smile. “You, uh, look real good too.”
You’re a little more dressed up than usual. It’s a change from the usual costumes and occasional pajamas but he’s not complaining.
“Thanks.” It would be wise to stop staring at the smile on his face but you never really considered wisdom an important facet of someone’s personality. “I mean, it’s no Ninja Turtle costume but…”
“I like it,” he all but blurts out. He wants to think he’s more dignified than that.
He clears his throat after a beat of silence, breaking eye contact with you to assess the place. “You guys still cleaning up?”
“Yeah, someone’s got the hall booked for tomorrow so we gotta take it all down tonight. It’s mostly just T and I.” A search for the gym teacher whose self-announced break had started almost thirty minutes ago and the music teacher who vanished without a trace was unsuccessful. “And Jeff.”
You inclined your head in his general direction, already finding him staring at you.
“Fuckin’ Jeff?” Annoying, homemade volcano Jeff?
“Fuckin’ Jeff,” you confirm, sending the man in question a fake laugh when he waves at you with a smirk from over at the food counter. “Asshole’s been annoying this whole evening.”
“What’d he do?” Bucky gives him a nod in acknowledgement when he catches his eye.
“What hasn’t he done?” you jeer, your smile dropping the minute Jeff reciprocates it. “Have half a mind to strangle him with that cord over there.”
“Stabbing wasn’t enough?”
“Not nearly.” Your eyes narrow, shooting daggers at his figure as he slowly saunters a step towards the table. “You know, you should go over there and threaten him.”
“I’m not doing that.”
Jeff raises a bottle of water in cheers to you, ignoring Bucky’s presence altogether. A bold man, confident. Undeserved, but still.
“Actually, that’s a great idea,” you say out loud to yourself. “That outta knock some sense into him. Let’s go, sarge, get that sexy murder glare on.”
“He’s not done anything.” Bucky was bound by rules, both professional and moral.
“Coward.” There’s a pile of bags near the entrance, one he recognises as yours and confirmed when you walk over to pick up.
“I’m not going to get into a fistfight, if that’s what you’re looking for.”
“Of course not. You’d win in like, 5 seconds. There’s no fun in that.” You shuffle through the contents of your bag. “Okay, watch this.”
You wait until Jeff raises the bottle to his lips again, ready to take a long gulp, which, in his mind, looks mighty seductive.
There’s a small ‘pew’- not from the device itself but from you providing the sound effect- and Jeff instantly spits the water back, hand clawing at his mouth furiously.
“What did you do?” He watches you discreetly shove something back into your bag and zip it close.
“Poisoned him,” you say nonchalantly.
“Great.” He watches the man cough. “Now what did you actually do?”
“Taste changer inator.” Your eyes gleam. “He just learnt what it’d be like to drink petrol.”
“For Christ’s sake,” Bucky murmurs, “Why’d you bring an inator to a high school dance?”
“For him.” You watch him leave the water bottle on the table where he picked it up from. Disgusting. “It’s not like he actually drank petrol. Maybe I should do that next time.”
“You know the drill.” Bucky looks at you, arm outstretched. “Hand it over.”
“Still think it was worth it.” The delight on your face doesn’t cease as you open your bag again.
“What else you got in there?” Best to get rid of any more potentially dangerous inventions before the evening progresses.
“My phone, earphones, bandaids, safety pins, pain relievers, stuff like that for any fashion disasters.” You give him the tiny ray gun before zipping it closed.
He holds it up to inspect it and you hiss at him, yanking his sleeve to keep the gun down before Jeff sees. It’d be difficult to, considering that he was a fair distance away from you but you didn’t want to take any chances.
Bucky stares at you. You stare right back, arms crossed over your chest.
“I don’t have more inators, if that’s what you’re implying.”
He only raises a single eyebrow sceptically. You don’t back down, holding his glare pretty evenly.
The only other sound in the background is the distant popping of balloons and ripping down of decorations taped to the wall but he tunes them out.
Neither of you moves. He could almost hear you brea-
"Are we gonna kiss or what?”
He blinks, recoiling slightly.
“Ha,” you say smugly, pulling back in victory. “I win.”
“Pathetic.” He shoves the gadget into his pocket to get rid of later. By getting rid of, he means keep it in the shelf dedicated to the rest of the stuff he’s managed to pick up over the course of several months.
“All’s fair in love.” You pat his arm.
“And war,” he adds an important part conveniently missing from your statement.
"God, at least buy me dinner first.”
He rolls his eyes.
Maybe he fuckin’ woul-
“Y/N,” someone calling out to you has both of you turning at the same time. “You were supposed to bring that stupid ladder over ten minutes ago.”
“T! C’mere, I want you to meet someone.” You nudge him to turn around, the last conversation seemingly forgotten. “This is Bucky. Bucky, this is T.”
She has long, dark hair, a couple of ear piercings, and an all-black fit to match. He had no idea how she was working with heels that high on.
“Hold on.” The click of her boots comes to a halt as she stops in her tracks. “This is who you’ve been hanging out with?”
“Yes, we’re basically married.” You bump his shoulder with yours. “Didn’t you receive the invitation?”
Her face remains stoic. “When you said you invited someone who worked in security, I was thinking Paul Blart Mall Cop.”
“He does work in security.”
“Y/N, this is an Avenger.”
“That is security,” you specify further when she doesn’t budge, “World security.”
Bucky looks between the both of you awkwardly. Technically you weren’t wrong.
“Shuor er bachha,” she curses under her breath before putting on a cool smile. “Hey.”
Bucky snickers at the insult, leaving you to glare at him. He makes it a point to ignore you.
“Hey.” He holds his hand out for a shake. “I’m Bucky.”
“Nice to meet you, call me T.” She reciprocates, gripping his hand firmly before looking at you with thinly veiled annoyance. “Can you come help? It’s twelve and I hate that I’m not as drunk as I should be.”
“You can always drink the punch.” You point to where Jeff was still working at a snail’s pace. You had done half his work for him to get him to go home, but clearly, he intended to hang around way longer.
“And be within 5 feet of that creep? Fuck no, unless he’s looking for another concussion.” She only spares him a glance for a second before turning back to you. “Look, I don’t really care what you’re up to but just stack the chairs while you’re at it. I’ll take the decorations out front.”
“You sure you don’t want help?” you inquire and she gives you a quick shake of her head. Fiercely independent as always.
You watch as she pushes the doors open, not before raising her hand high and flipping Jeff the middle finger in the process for no apparent reason.
“You-” you poke Bucky’s chest. You were a little shocked he understood the insult given that your friend’s favourite pastime was to insult people to their faces in a language they didn’t get, let alone have heard of. “Since when do you know Bangla?”
“T’was pretty similar to Hindi.” Some things were just universal. Like insults.
“Of course you speak Hindi,” you mumble. To be fair, he knew over thirty languages. It helped in his old line of work to be able to blend in.
“She’s cool.” He figured that the motorcycle parked out front is probably hers.
“You passed her first impression test and I didn’t.” You’re still talking to yourself. “How is that possible?”
“Test?”
“She thought I was lame for two years,” you exclaim, “Do you know how hard it is to get in her books, not even counting her good books?”
“You’re still lame.” That’s the only thing he picks up from that entire rant.
“Yeah, but she’s accepted it now,” you brush it off, “but you- you just waltz in here with your multilingualism and helmet hair and do it within three minutes. I hate you.”
“Feeling’s mutual.”
“Whatever,” you huff, arms crossed over your chest. “You think Steve would be able to handle her?”
“Steve?” Bucky can’t help but laugh. “Our Steve?”
“She’s all mysterious and cool, teaches biology and does bungee jumping.” The way you talk about her with a wonder-filled voice has him realising you were completely serious. “Steve is… Steve. Good ol’ Brooklyn boy, bungee jumping but without the safety harness.”
“This is who you were talking about last time?” He distinctly remembers when you said Steve would need good luck. “You’re gonna set him with T?”
“I thought it’d be cute.” You grin, beckoning him to follow you towards the tables, dropping your bag close to them. “Opposites attract and all that.”
“I guess,” he ventures. Steve was doing more miserably than Bucky in terms of dates. A change of pace would do him good, drag him out of his incessant need to work.
“I’ll text you her number.” You tug the tablecloth off, folding it and dropping it into a box. “Look at us, matchmaking buddies.”
“You’re the one doing this, not me,” he opposes, electing to lift up the chairs and place them on top of each other. “If this goes downhill I’m taking no responsibility.”
“Nonsense, we’re married so it’s a joint liability.” You work in the direction opposite to him, placing chairs on top of each other until he meets you in the middle to combine your stack and his.
“Didn’t know we were married in the first place.” At least that was one of his life goals crossed off the list.
“Figured I should shoot for the moon.” The grin from earlier doesn’t fade. “That way I warm you up to the idea of dating me if it doesn’t work.”
“Strong game plan.” He wonders if the Feel Squares would charge up with a certain amount of work. They were still securely attached to his shoulder, not showing any signs of slipping off.
“You don’t have to help, y’know.” You finish folding another tablecloth, picking up discarded wrappers to throw into the trash. “I just called you to hang out.”
“For the record, I’m here to stop you from murdering that man.” Chair stacking isn’t that much work. He could even skip arm day tomorrow. “This is a part of that.”
“Pulling balloons off the wall but within official capacity only.” He and you both know he’s bluffing but it’s fun to riff off of. “They teach you that at SHIELD?”
“Got a whole course on it and everythin’.”
There’s something almost domestic about the whole situation. It’s hard for him to trace it back to where exactly it started since it felt more like a gradual shift.
Maybe it was the day those months ago when he stayed over for class prep or maybe it was when you got pulled into Board Game Night by Sam when he finally invited you to vandalise the Tower. Two hours later, your plan of spray painting the logo was long discarded as you teamed up with Nat to wreck everyone in Pictionary.
“How far can you throw this and how good is your aim?” You hold a half empty water bottle out to him.
“Pretty okay.” He takes aim, chucking it at the trashcan left in the corner of the room. It sails by and goes in without a hitch.
“Nice.” You whistle, scouring for more empty bottles for him to throw.
“How’d the evening go?” He joins you in your quest, launching them as you found them.
“As you’d expect.” You hand him the last one you could see. “Had to pull a couple of them apart because of the grinding, but it went alright for the most part. It’s always fun to see them all dressed up and nervous.”
“Sounds exhausting.” It’s a little disappointing when he runs out of things to throw but it was fun while it lasted.
“It will be when it finally kicks in tomorrow,” you groan, hand on your hip. “Been on my feet for like, five hours now.”
He mentions towards the many tables. “Then you should sit. I can do the rest of ‘em.”
“I can’t ask you to do that.” You laugh, stopping when he doesn’t.
“Good thing you’re not askin’.” He picks up a chair. “Go sit.”
You stare at him. He stares back.
“Are you sure?” You bite your lip because, on one hand, your feet were killing you but on the other, you felt guilty for dragging him into this. It wasn’t even his mess to clean up.
He drops the same chair in front of you instead of asking, raising an eyebrow expectantly.
“So bossy,” you mumble, taking your place. “Maybe if you-”
“Do not make a sex joke.”
You raise your hands guiltily. “Damn, I’ve become predictable.”
“That a bad thing?” He assesses his surroundings, doing a headcount and judgment of the seating placements.
“Gotta keep things interesting, Barnes.” You watch him figure out a pattern to minimise the amount of time it would take to stack chairs. “Or else you’re gonna get bored of me.”
“Doubt that’s possible when you show up in a beekeeper’s outfit once a month.”
Your simple drops. “First of all, that was a hazmat suit.”
“Didn’t look like it.”
“Second of all-” you begin but your gaze shifts beyond him to the guy in the corner staring at the both of you. “Ah, jeez, he’s back.”
“Y/N, sweets!” Jeff waves at you. “Why dontcha come on over and help me out with these streamers, honey?”
“Go back to your mothership, Jeff.” You cup your hands over your mouth to really put your point across even though you were clearly audible.
“We can go together, baby,” He pops a balloon in his hand. “Plenty o’room.”
“Is he always like this?” Bucky asks, watching the whole interaction unfold. This seemed like it was reason enough.
“Ever since I joined.” You roll your eyes. “He’s got tenure, so T and I have to make do with inators and insults.”
“Ah.” Bucky’s mouth stretches thin in dissatisfaction. “Still want me to go talk to him?”
“I was kidding.” You give him the middle finger over Bucky’s shoulder. “Doubt that’s gonna change anything, but you can have a go at it. He’s a sleazebag through and through.”
“No harm in trying.” He looks at you in confirmation and you shrug.
He stalks towards him, slow and deliberate. He unbuttons his sleeves and rolls them up till his elbows, making his way toward the man who’s looking at him with a fair amount of cockiness.
“Don’t tell me you’re her boyfriend or somethin’.” Jeff smirk doesn’t relent, instead squaring up his shoulders to look taller.
“Hi.” Bucky raises his left arm in a wave, unaffected by the man’s attempt at looking menacing. “We haven’t met. You’re Jeff, right?”
The light from the ceiling reflects off the dark vibranium and the man pales almost immediately.
“Um- hi,” Jeff stammers, a half-assed attempt at pretending like he has no idea who this man was. “Heard you saying your name was Bucky.”
“Sergeant Barnes,” he corrects gravely, muscle in his jaw tightening.
“Sorry, sir- Sergeant Barnes.” Jeff catches himself mid-sentence.
“See you around, then.” He makes sure the man catches a glimpse of the whirring metal plates in his arm. “Jeff.”
“Y-yeah. See you around.” Jeff turns on his heel quickly, yanking down snowflake cutouts much faster than he was before the conversation.
Bucky returns to his original job of folding tablecloths and stacking chairs without another word.
“Is that all?” you push when he doesn’t say anything. “What’d you say to him?”
“I said hi.”
“You were supposed to scare the shit out of him.” You appreciated how he left the sleeves still rolled up. Something about it made him look sinfully handsome.
“Don’t think he’ll be bothering you any time soon.” Bucky shoots a glance towards the man who immediately looks away.
“Huh.” You sound pleasantly surprised at how quick the whole conversation was. “Interesting.”
“But just in case…” Bucky trails off, turning around. “Hey, Jeff. You missed one.”
He points out a balloon in the far corner of the wall, stretching his arm far enough to have the sleeve gather around his elbow. Jeff silently scurries over to get rid of it.
“‘Said hi’, my ass.” You snort when it hits you exactly what he’d done. “You put the fear of God into that man.”
“I didn’t do anything.” Bucky looks rather enthusiastic to have found another bottle to throw into the trash across the hall.
“You threatened him by proxy.”
“No such thing.” He pulls the box off tablecloths along with him as he makes his way through every table, working while conversing with you.
“Shush, this is my toxic high school boyfriend moment.” You sigh dreamily, resting your chin on your palm. “Now tell me you’re going to get a tattoo of my name on your back.”
“Thought you said we were married.” He peers at you from the corner of his eye.
“Oh, so you agree with that.” You tilt your head back. “Rather old fashioned of you to agree with marriage but not dating, James.”
“Keep talkin’ and I’m gonna bring a chaperone next time we meet,” he retorts. “Back in my day…”
He begins but doesn’t continue when you laugh. You look tired, yes, but the particular spark in your eye hasn’t quit yet. It’s a wonder how.
“How was your Saturday night going before this?”
“Finally finished Twilight.”
“A man of culture.” You look impressed. “Bet you’re a werewolf guy.”
“Why is everyone saying that?” It comes off a little exasperated.
“Dunno.” Your head leans to the side. “Feels like you are.”
You shift your attention when someone awkwardly taps on the table a few feet away from you.
“Ms Y/L/N, I’m gonna head out now.” There’s a considerable lack of Jeff’s typical arrogance; the man looked like he had shrunk into himself. “Took care of all the wall decorations, they’re in the boxes there. If you leave the stuff by the door, John says he’ll bring his truck round in the morning and take it back to school.”
A quick glance around proves that he genuinely had taken them down as fast as possible, walls bare from any fairy lights or cardboard cutouts.
“See you Monday, Mr Richardson,” you say curtly. Not like he deserved that either.
The man just nods, sending one last look at Bucky before exiting briskly, taking his bag with him.
“That’s the first time he’s ever called me that.” You go slack jawed. “You’re a fucking miracle worker.”
Bucky simply conceals a smile. The arm wasn’t what he had ever planned for, yes, but he accepted it as a part of him a long time ago. He might as well put it to some use.
“Wait till T hears about this.” You brushed your palms together like a cartoon. “She’s been dying to do something to him since the last time she punched him in the nose.”
He’s starting to see why you wanted to set her and Steve up. Not entirely, but he was getting there.
“What’s your favourite colour?” you pose a question randomly.
He thinks about it for a second before settling on, “Blue.”
“Awesome.” You hop off your chair, walking past him.
“Where are you going?” He stacks the last of the chairs on top of each other, shoving the newly created rows out of the way and towards the wall.
“I’m running away.” You saunter over to the food table. “I’m gonna find my calling.”
“Have fun.” He pushes the tables to the side too, intending on going back to drop the box of tablecloths in the centre pile of decorations, only to spin around and come face to face with you.
“Hi.” You hold up a cupcake, blue frosting piped on the top. “A token of gratitude.”
“Oh.” He lets the box down on the ground gently to take the cupcake from you. He breaks it in half nimbly, handing a piece to you. Plenty of experience in dividing up food when he came from a team as large as his. “Appreciated.”
You stand beside him, leaning lightly against the tables.
“I have a feeling they’re spiked too.” Your nose scrunches. “Not sure how, though.”
“Pretty sure I could name a couple of ways.” It’s almost all sugar, from the actual cake to the sprinkles on top. Way too much glucose for one evening. But it’s good and he likes it.
“Yeah, bet you were the one doing it back in the day.” You nudge his side with your elbow. “All this law-abiding shit is just an act.”
He doesn’t deny it.
“Barely remember our school dances,” he comments, looking at the hall that was basically cleared out. “I think we only had prom, actually.”
“Did you go?” You finish off your piece. It’d been a couple of hours and you hadn’t had anything solid, who cared.
“Wasn’t really my thing,” he gives you a side smile. “Was more for the kids whose dads had money. Stevie and I went to the movies instead, got trashed afterwards.”
“Sounds like a way better time,” you chime in, wiping your fingers on a napkin.
“It was.” He still remembers stumbling over his feet, trying to get his ranting and raving best friend into his apartment silently amidst his own uncontrollable laughter. “His mum just about whooped his ass when he couldn’t shake off the hangover the next day.”
You breathe out a small laugh. “What about you?”
“Talked my way out of it.” The smile on his face is blinding, a real thing of beauty. “Swore up and down it would never happen again.”
“A charmer,” you tease. “Poor Steve.”
“Yeah, well.” He chuckles. “I’d say he turned out alright.”
“That’s one way to put it.”
The doors to the hall push open rather loudly, drawing your attention away from Bucky
“Outside’s all done,” T announces, balancing two large containers in her arms.
“Oh, cool. You can just leave it by the door, they’ll clear it in the morning.” You point to the wall beside her.
“I saw Jeff leaving a while ago.” She drops it down carefully, stretching her arms to relieve the soreness. “He didn’t even tell me my ass looked good.”
“Bucky fucked him up big time.” You clap him on his back.
“I did not,” he denies immediately.
“And I’ll tell you your ass looks good, you don’t need him,” you continue, ignoring the man’s protest.
“I know it does.” Her lips upturn in a smile. “Maya and John didn’t come back, did they?”
“Nah.” You squint, not realising how long ago the other two faculty members had just fucked off without a word. “Do you want a cupcake?”
“No, I managed to score some stuff for free from the vending machine.” She does a 360 of the place, looking satisfied by the time she finished. “You done?”
“Just gotta take care of the leftovers.” You point with your thumb at the buffet table. “Don’t you have rock climbing in a couple of hours?”
“Four and a half,” she grumbles, picking up her bag from where she had left it against the wall. “Pottery after that.”
“Shouldn’t you have been in bed a long time ago?”
“I’ve done worse shit on lesser hours of sleep.” She gives you a pointed look, a sort of ‘you-know-exactly-what-I’m-talking-about’ kind.
“Go.” You snicker because you do know what she’s implying. “Give my love to Charles.”
“He’s asking when you’re gonna give his belay device back.” T pulls on a leather jacket, zipping it up as a safety against the wind.
Not any time soon. That story concluded when Bucky snapped your plan of lassoing the moon in half.
“Tell him I’ll send him a gift card.” You smile sheepishly. “Or that I’ll fix his computer.”
She shakes her head, lips pulling into a half-smile“You’re gonna get me kicked out of there. Again.”
“I’ll build you your own rock climbing set,” you vow. “I’ll make it realistic as fuck, get a couple of bears and everything.”
“Take me to an actual mountain instead.” She gives Bucky a small wave. “Catch you later, Barnes.”
“You know I can do that,” you call out behind her. “Just say the word.”
She laughs. “Turn off the lights behind you.”
“Hey, T.” You had one last thing to check before she leaves. “What do you think of Steve Rogers?”
She pauses. “He’s cute.”
“Knew it,” you say under your breath. “Drive home safe.”
T gives you a thumbs up before pushing open the doors and walking out.
“Her bike’s cooler than mine,” Bucky pipes up once she leaves.
“She’s cooler than you in general.”
Couldn’t argue with that.
“You want another cupcake?”
He turns it down with a slight shake of his head. Half of his share was still in his hand, left to complete after he stopped out of courtesy when your friend walked in.
“Picking up where we left off.” You take a step so you’re standing in front of him. “You didn’t get your full prom experience.”
“No.” He pops the last bit of cupcake into his mouth. “Wouldn’t say I got any prom experience.”
“Right,” you say casually. “Let’s do it now, then.”
He stops mid-cleaning of frosting from his metal fingers. “Huh?”
“You wanna dance?”
“Uh-”
“It’ll be fun.” You have your hand outstretched. “Promise I’ll step on your toes.”
“You’re supposed to not do that.”
You only wink at him, offer hanging in the air.
“Consider it my evil plot for the evening,” you propose to make it less daunting. “Within official capacity only.”
“There’s no music.” He has no idea what else he could reply. He’s not turning you down, per se, just… uncertain.
“Easy.” You reach into your bag, pulling out a set of wireless earphones he remembers you mentioning earlier along with your phone. “Airpods are useless, made my own.”
You hold one out for him and he takes it, hesitantly putting it into his ear.
You scroll through your phone, adjusting the volume before pressing play on something.
“What’s this?”
“A themed playlist.” You grin at him, one that tells him you know exactly what you’re doing. “It’s called ‘Slow Dancing With Your Enemy’.”
“And you had this ready to go.” He pushes himself away from the table, tossing the napkin behind him. Hopefully, the strongest metal on earth was also non-stick.
“Well,” You take two steps back, holding out your hand to him, “what use is having a nemesis if you’re not going to dramatically dance with them at least once?”
“This is for world-saving business only,” he emphasizes, pausing in front of you.
“Would never think otherwise,” you swear.
He sighs, taking hold of your hand, letting you lead him to the centre of the floor, a small smile on his face when you turn away from him.
“We gotta stay clear of the trash.” The many boxes worth of decor and garbage were still there at the centre of the floor, waiting to be shifted to the entrance.
“How romantic,” he deadpans.
“That’s what makes this so special, sarge.”
You finally stop at a spot, shifting your grip to clasp his hand better. He, however, stands there like a a fucking tree until you roll your eyes, placing your other hand on his shoulder.
“You fine?” you inquire, ignoring the song that had just started playing after the first got over.
“I should be askin’ you that,” he says gruffly, finally placing a hand on your waist. You let out a small exhale at the contact, putting on a sly smile instead.
“You remember how to dance or do we have to go through that now too? I got the WikiHow page bookmarked.”
He doesn’t look too amused. “Think I remember just fine.”
One at a time, he has to remind himself as he finally takes one step forward, your body taking a second before automatically falling in time with him as he takes another.
Fucking hell, he was dancing.
Sort of.
The tempo of the song playing in one ear is moving much faster than the both are, but you don’t seem to mind and so he doesn’t either. Not like any of this is making sense right now.
He’s breathing a little heavily, still trying to get used to what’s taking place in real time while also remembering what he learnt over 70 years ago.
“There you go.” There’s still an arm’s length worth of distance in between the both of you but this is still probably the closest you’ve been.
“This tune’s for ballroom dancing.”
“So?” You raise an eyebrow.
“We’re slow dancing.”
“Ah, who gives a shit.” Two steps back, don’t step on his toes even though you promised to.
“What exactly am I stopping here?” He has to remind himself to talk or else he’s going to clam up again. He can’t recall the last time he danced with someone in this century, if at all.
And so every tiny detail sears into his memory like it’s made of hot iron and he thinks if this is a memory that decides to brand itself on his brain for him to pull up at odd hours of the night then fuck, it’s a pretty darn good one.
“A murderous rage?” you suggest, only occasionally looking down to make sure you both don’t tumble into the decorations.
“They’d never believe that,” he rebukes immediately, pulling you along gently as he sways from side to side.
“Why not?” You pout. “I’m definitely murderous rage material.”
“Not when you send customised birthday cards to the team.” The music’s all classical pieces, some he remembers from Nat’s collection and others from galas held at the Tower. “Wanda says hi, by the way.”
“You babysitted Alpine last weekend and you’re still scary as shit,” you point out, and rightfully so. “And tell Wanda I said hi back.”
“That’s different.” And he didn’t babysit, he just volunteered to look after her for the day when Jake was out camping and you were busy with decorations. He and her chilled together on the couch until Tony had a fit about shedding on his very expensive Italian furniture.
He wouldn’t mind doing it again, either. She was good company.
You pay attention to how his pace was steadily beginning to match the tempo of the piece, guiding you along a little easier task now that he had gotten the hang of it. It didn’t make the smell of his cologne any less addictive or little crease of focus between his eyes any less endearing.
“Have you been getting enough sleep?” You change the topic to avoid tripping over your own two feet due to lack of attention.
“I have.” He had told you the same thing every time you asked since that day.
“And none of it’s with me.”
“Figure you have a plan ready for that, too.” One step, two steps back.
“I’ll let you know when it’s time.”
“‘M sure you will.”
“Have you told the team yet?” you ask, bit more consciously. “About the mission stuff.”
“I told Steve.” Not exactly what his feelings were towards the whole thing because he was still dealing with them clawing at him from the inside, but, “Said I’d be taking some time off. Doubled my time at therapy.”
“Bucky, that’s great.” Your eyes light up.
“It’s not vacation time, though. Got one coming up two weeks from now.” But he was trying. He had been journaling a lot more, meditation was helpful. Small things went a long way.
“Still,” you urge. “That’s huge. I’m really happy for you.”
He presses his lips together in a tight smile, for once forcing himself not to freeze up and instead just let the warmth seep into his veins.
He had a long way to go but at least he was starting somewhere.
“You’re actually pretty good at this,” you admit, looking down at your feet as he took two steps forward again, adding a minor twist to it so you weren’t just moving back and forth the same place. Some weird hybrid the both of you have come up with at the moment but it works.
“Told you I remember.” A gift from his past self, he considers it, a little good luck for the future.
“Okay, now spin Mr Barnes,” you half command-half giggle, holding your hand up the highest it could go.
He scoffs and yes, the movement is a little stiff and reluctant but he does it anyway, pulling off one rotation before returning back to his position.
“‘M supposed to twirl you around.” Bucky catches hold of you again, but this time closer than before owing to the momentum, his hand pressing into your lower back instead.
“When have we ever followed the rules?” You force yourself not to care about the fact that now he was basically right in front, almost pressing up to you.
“Speak for yourself.” He hears the song change, shifting into something slower but just as dramatic. “I’m a fuckin’ saint.”
You have to remind yourself that your hand has to land on his shoulder again, and you do so, but this time it hits something different. You can tell it isn’t a part of his arm, given that it was a completely different material and was almost like it was jutting out.
Until the dimensions and position hit you.
“Are you wearing the Feel Squares?” You look up at him, mouth slightly agape.
“Mhm.” He hopes you won’t ask further.
“Do they work alright?” The delight on your face is so golden he feels like a giant dick knowing that he was about to ruin it.
He bites his lip.
The smile on your face falters and he wants to kick himself. “They don’t?”
“Sorry.” He feels a compulsion to say it.
“That doesn’t seem right.” Your eyebrows knit together in thought. “Where have you placed them?”
He lets go of you for a second to point at his clavicle and then to his bicep.
“Ah, no wonder.” Relief floods your features and the edges of your lips turn upwards. “May I?”
When he nods, beckoning you to go ahead you let go of him momentarily to have your fingers gently trace along his shirt until you find where he’s misplaced it. He keeps his eyes trained on the look of concentration on your face rather than focus on your touch trailing across his shoulder.
A small adjustment, moving it two inches below where it originally sat on his collarbone and something jolts up his arm. His head snaps to his left at the shock.
“That should do it.” You take a step back, music still playing through one ear although you’re wholly ignoring it.
He lifts his arm up slowly, lightly curling his fists. It still moved the same, looked the same- nothing seemed out of the ordinary.
“Go on, try it out,” you encourage. “Lemme know if it still isn’t working.”
Bucky turns to you at the sound of your voice, eyes switching between looking at you and his appendage.
He holds his hand out.
“Wha-” You tilt your head in confusion until it dawns on you. “Are you sure?”
He only extends it forward in response. It’s a choice he’s making.
You give him your hand a little cautiously, in case he wants to change his mind.
The minute yours touches his, he takes in a sharp breath because it’s warm against the metal.
“Oh,” he says, emotions he’s felt before and others he’s not even sure have names racing through his body because he can feel how lightly you’re touching him. He can feel.
“How is it?” You’re observing him, he can tell, to make sure he isn’t going to fall off the wagon. And hell, the last time he felt these kinds of things he probably would have, who fuckin’ knew because all he can think about right now is the shirt sleeve that's bundled up at his elbow and the stickiness of the cupcake frosting that’s coating his fingers.
He takes a shaky breath, a bid to calm himself.
“Soft.”
He timidly intertwines your fingers and you let him, realising that this moment had a deeper significance to him than you initially thought.
“You okay?” you ask quietly.
He wordlessly nods, eyes fixated on your hand laced with his.
You, on the other hand, try not to think too much about how the first thing he willingly felt is your skin against his, because this was about him and his new world.
“Sorry, I- uh.” He clears his throat, “-got a little-”
“It’s fine,” your voice is steady, reassuring. “Take all the time you need.”
“It’s, uh-” He swallows, gaze intense. “I know I don’t always tell ya that I appreciate it, but-”
“You do.”
“I don’t.” He breaks his stare momentarily to look at you. “Not enough.”
“Yeah, you do.” Your eyes soften when you realise he genuinely has no clue. “You’re always doing things for me, Buck. That’s plenty.”
Just because his way of showing gratitude was different from yours doesn’t mean it was any less important. If you wanted to count the number of acts he’d done for you in the last two weeks alone you’d need a calculator.
“This is-” He holds his hand up, but doesn’t continue.
You give him a tight smile. “Intense, huh?”
He chuckles nervously, nodding along.
“You have the rest of forever to get used to it.” You watch him register that it was his, that he had time.
“Yeah.” He runs his hand through his hair, messing it up slightly. “Guess I do.”
“That’s the last of them.” You look at the last of the boxes piled up near the door, dusting your hands off. “I think we did a great job.”
“Sure did.” The hall’s exactly the way it was pre-decoration, pristine and ready to use the next day.
“I can’t thank you enough.” You jiggle the lock once more to make sure it was secure, pocketing the key to drop off later since it was nearly 2am in the morning and there was no one around. “Seriously, you didn’t have to do this.”
“I wanted to.” And it turned out to be a rather productive evening in the end, but he would have probably thought the same even if he was only cleaning up the place for three hours straight.
“You wanted to help me clean up a hall at midnight on a Saturday?” You snort. “Tell me more about your interests.”
“One of them is stopping local mad scientist teachers from murder,” he says, stone-faced. “It’s a pretty important one.”
“Yeah?” You bat your eyelashes. “You saying you’re interested in me now?”
He runs his tongue along his inner lower lip, breathing out a laugh in incredulity. “Every single time.”
“That’s one of my interests.” He hands you your backpack and you swing it across your shoulder. “And Bob Ross told me I should always practice my interests.”
“Pretty sure Bob Ross was talking about fuckin’ painting.” He scoffs. “Not trying to get with ex-assassins.”
“You are a work of art, Bucky Barnes.” You press your hand to his chest. “A real masterpi-”
“Alright,” he interrupts, face already flushed enough from the evening. “Shouldn’t you be getting home?”
“Probably should.” You check your phone for the time. “Jake’s gonna be fuckin’ pissed when I wake him up to open the door for me.”
“Don’t you have a key?”
“I do.”
Okay then.
“Not like I’m getting much sleep anyway, I gotta return this thing in the morning.” You pat your pocket.
“Surprised they don’t have someone here to supervise.” Bucky’s eyes scale the building.
“It’s a close knit community.” You shrug. “They trust us.”
Fair enough.
He’s watching you rock back and forth on the ball of your feet in an attempt to generate some heat. It’s cold outside, only amplified by the fact that it’s the early hours of the morning but he feels content.
“Y/N, this thing.” He raises his left shoulder and drops it. “It means more to me than you know.”
“The trash?” you deflect awkwardly.
He looks at you, slightly exasperated. “You know what I mean.”
You do, but you don’t know how else to explain to him that it’s fine and that he deserves it and it was honestly a kind of honour to be able to be a part of the whole moment.
“Yeah,” you mumble, more so to yourself. “Don’t overthink this.”
“Overthink what?” His eyebrows knit together.
You wrap your arms around his neck, tugging him flush against you.
For all the grit and harshness he projected outward like the werewolf guy he was, Bucky Barnes was surprisingly good at it.
“Are we hugging?” he asks after a second of silence.
“Shut up.” Your voice is muffled against the nape of his neck.
“Alright.” He doesn’t say anything further, true to his word.
You stay there for a moment before letting your body relax, almost pulling away until he tightens his grip around you and pulls you a little closer, eliciting a little sigh from you as little sparks of electricity go through you.
When he finally lets go, the cold that takes his place doesn’t seem to matter as much anymore. It’s dangerous how much of an effect this man had.
“Okay.” You clear your throat, patting his forearm. “Off you go then.”
“You gonna get home safe?” He shoves his hands into his pockets.
You tap your watch. “Always.”
“See you next week, then.”
“Good night, Sergeant Barnes.” You give him a mock salute, earning a laugh in return.
The instant he turns away from you to head towards the parking lot, his brain launches into a very long string of curses at him, having him flinch involuntarily.
Fuckin’ ask her, it shouts unnecessarily rudely at him.
Ah, shit.
“Wait,” he calls out.
You look up instantly. “We forgetting something?”
“Uh-” he scratches the back of his head. “Need to ask ya something.”
You swear your heart stops beating for a second.
“Yeah?”
It’s like he’s moving in slow motion and you just want to put him on 2x and get the damn words out of his mou-
“What’s T actually short for?” he asks finally. “Steve’s gonna want to know.”
“Oh.” You blink. “Tanya.”
“Okay.”
“Okay,” you repeat. “That it?”
He nods.
“Catch you next week, Buck.” You wave, hint of a smirk on your face. “You better bring your a-game, we have big plans.”
“We’ll see.” He sends you a lopsided smile before he hops off the last step, vanishing into the night.
A little additional scene:
“Wanda told me you left self care night.” Steve looks up from his book.
He knew that Steve would be awake. The man’s sleeping schedule was just as fucked up as his best friend’s. They shared a floor, it wasn’t that uncommon to catch him channel surfing or reading old books from the library when things were a little too much at 3am.
“Had some stuff to take care of.” He stops fidgeting with the ray gun for a minute to answer him.
“Did you have fun?” Steve doesn’t reserve any judgement in his voice.
“I guess.” Bucky’s still processing the feeling of the wind against his arm and the bike handle in his grip for the first time. “Also, I’m sending you something.”
“What?”
Bucky pulls out his phone, typing in a quick text, before keeping it back in his pocket.
When his notification bell chimes, Steve lifts his own cell.
“Whose number is this?” He peers up at his best friend.
“Just text her.” Bucky walks into his bedroom without much explanation.
Steve looks at the number again and back at the room where his best friend disappeared into.
Bucky pops his head out a few seconds later. “You need to get a life.”
“You first,” Steve retorts.
“I’ll work on it,” Bucky retreats back into his room, shutting the door finally, “but text her.”
Steve glances at the number again before saving it on his phone.
Chapter 17: Additional Scene #3
Chapter Text
“Steve.”
“No.”
“Steve,” Bucky is on the verge of pleading. “C’mon, man.”
“I can’t take you off the mission, Buck.”
“Just next week, I swear.” Bucky puts his hand up in an oath. “I’ll make up for it.”
“There’s no one who can do it next week,” Steve maintains, even though he sounds mildly apologetic.
“Clint can.”
“Clint’s had two concussions and broke his arm”
“That sounds like a personal problem.”
Steve just arches his brows, unimpressed. Bucky sighs, shooting off a quick ‘sorry’ under his breath.
Was he really, though?
The elevator sounds off a ding on their floor, doors opening. FRIDAY greets the both of them as usual, receiving one back in unison.
“You’ve never bailed like this before.” Steve presses the button for the basement. “What’s going on?”
“She’s got this evil convention happening in town next week that she’s been dying to go to,” Bucky explains, chin tilted up to watch the numbers flashing on the little monitor as the elevator descended. “I said I’d be there.”
“An evil convention,” Steve repeats, although it’s not too far-fetched of an idea.
“She’s barely evil, who cares.” He waves it off quickly. “Just let her buy some merch.”
“Why are you going?”
The truth was that it sounded like fun. What you read off the pamphlet managed to excite the little nerd who lived in the corner of his mind.
But as a superhero and chosen good-doer, he couldn’t exactly say that, so-
“Assessing potential threats. I said I’d go undercover,” he bullshits, but not entirely untruthful. “Also those weirdos who kidnapped her might be there, so it’s technically SHIELD business too.”
The elevator comes to a stop at the common room floor.
Bucky rolls his eyes instinctively when the doors open to a cast-wearing, dark bruise around one eye-having Clint. He grins toothily at them through a busted lip.
No one had any idea how he got them. He wasn’t even on a mission; just showed up one day with unexplained injuries and a bottle of tequila.
“Look, it’s fuckin’ Blackeye,” Bucky quips, making space for him.
“It’s still Hawkeye, you dickhead.” Clint purposely takes another step back, forcing Bucky into the corner.
“No one cares.”
“Bet I’m still a better shot than you, Jim.”
“Lotta talk for someone who can’t even hold a gun straight.” Bucky’s eyes dart towards his cast. Dark squiggles decorated it. Clint called them drawings. Bucky called them ugly.
Clint struggles against the plaster, clamping down on his lip in concentration. It takes a while before Bucky realises he’s trying to flip him the middle finger. He fails and Bucky’s smugness makes a return.
“Today’s Valentine’s Day,” Steve points out, shifting the conversation before one of them ended up getting thrown down the elevator shaft.
“Yeah, the six thousand flowers in the living room gave that away,” Clint wasn’t wrong. Bucky could smell the hydrangeas for at least three floors.
“At least Tony’s doing something. What are your plans for today?”
“Thought I’d take Tasha out. There’s this new underground fighting ring that opened downtown, she’d love it.”
No one comments. It’s all blank stares and dead silence.
Clint scoffs. “Like you two have never done anything illegal in your lives.”
“What about you?” Steve turns to his best friend, hoping he had a saner, less criminal idea.
“World saving.” Bucky’s eyes dart up to the ceiling again, body now set against the railing.
“What about after that?”
Greasy pizza and the Terminator movies because the stupid team wouldn’t stop calling him that.
Bucky just raises his shoulders and drops it carelessly.
“Now that’s just sad,” Clint states and Bucky’s jaw grinds. “You haven’t been on a date since what, the Cold War?”
“I’m a little rusty on which year it was,” he says dryly. “Guess I’ll just have to ask your mom-”
“Alright,” Steve interrupts.
Clint stifles a laugh. Bucky does the same with a smile.
The eighty or so floors are a disadvantage when you’re stuck in a metal box with an idiot who didn’t care much for his safety, and Clint.
“How come you ain’t asked her out yet?” The latter asks.
“Who?” Bucky peers up from the floor.
“You’re about as dumb as you look if you need me to explain who I’m talkin’ about, Barnes.”
“Heard you only got two concussions, Barton. We can make it three.”
Steve sighs.
“Ask her out,” Clint continues relentlessly like it was his business in the first place.
“No.” Maybe he would have thought of doing it, but now that someone was telling him to do it, he wasn’t going to. Out of spite.
“You’ve been seeing her every week for nearly a year,” he rattles on without any regard for his life. “You have no other friends, you don’t have anything resembling a social life.”
“I have friends.”
“Oh, yeah? Who?”
“The team,” Bucky says, a tick in his voice.
“That’s funny.” Clint snickers. “We’re bein’ serious, Barnes, quit playing around.”
Asshole.
“Whose floor is this?” Steve is grateful when it opens to the common room and its newly established flower garden.
“Mine, Cap.” Clint takes a step forward. “I’ll let you know if you have to come bail us out at any point tonight.”
“You’re on your own, Barton.” The corner of Steve’s mouth curls upwards in amusement.
Clint lifts one shoulder in a half shrug before the door closes on him.
“He’s not wrong, you know.” Steve shoots a glance at Bucky.
“He literally always is,” Bucky deadpans. “There is not one situation in which he is even remotely correct.”
Steve pauses. “Fair.”
Bucky hooks his thumbs into the pocket of his jeans, choosing to remain in the corner even though there was ample space to move around. “Where are you taking T?”
“I have no idea,” Steve admits, glancing up. “She planned this one out.”
“Ah.”
Bucky had lost track of the number of times Steve had met with her in the last two months. Every second day he’d creep out of the tower, bashful when he came back to questions and relentless teasing about the newest pictures circulating Twitter. Turns out you were right. T kept him on his toes and somehow, it was exactly the guy needed.
“How was your date last week?” Steve pulls out of memory instead. Bucky had hoped it had withered and died, but no such luck.
“T’was okay.” For the most part, whenever the guy managed to tear his eyes away from his phone to even look at him. “I don’t think I’ll be seein’ him again.”
“Didn’t you go on a second date with the other one? Jem?”
“In love with her best friend.” She was nice, though. “Kicked my ass at bowling too.”
Steve gives a small exhale in exchange for a laugh. “You’re clearly not interested, so why do you keep going?”
Bucky doesn’t know. He established long ago that dates weren’t his thing, the idea of meeting a stranger and just hitting it off wouldn’t work with someone as heavy a background as him. His trust just didn’t function that way.
“Ask her out,” Steve says again when he doesn’t answer.
“Steve.”
“Don’t bother lying to me. You’re fuckin’ terrible at it.”
Maybe it was time to get new friends. A hundred-odd years and counting seemed too long to have someone around.
“She’s evil,” he protests weakly.
The captain snorts. “Convenient.”
“Hold on.” Bucky has a revelation at the same time the elevator doors open with the same ding. “You can replace me.”
He’s got him there.
“I’m busy.”
“No, you’re not. You have nothing scheduled.” Bucky narrows his eyes. “You willin’ to let your best friend walk into the jaws of death with a bunch of people who don’t care about him?”
Steve claps him on his back. “Absolutely.”
A few years ago that would have worked.
“Punk,” Bucky mumbles.
“Jerk,” Steve replies on instinct. Bucky smirks. “If it wasn’t next week, I’d have done it, but I got a dinner reservation.”
“Can’t you have dinner once you’re back?” At the entrance of the garage, he can see the silhouette of a bike and its owner straddling it. “‘S not like the restaurant’s going anywhere.”
“I can’t cancel this one, Buck. Sorta important,” his friend doesn’t explain more but Bucky doesn’t bother asking either since T soon comes into view.
“Hey, Bucky.” She hands Steve a helmet.
“Hey T.” Bucky comes to a stop a few feet away. “How’s it going?”
“Pretty good.” T waits for Steve to climb on behind her. He does so, but not before giving her a small kiss on the cheek. “Thanks for lending me your nunchucks. Absolutely killed at the party.”
“Don’t mention it.” He sends her a smile. “Make sure he’s home early, he starts feelin’ drowsy at six. Old people problems.”
“We’re the same age, asshole,” Steve states and T just chuckles.
“Duly noted.” She starts the engine. “See you around.”
“Think about what I said,” Steve calls out, pulling his helmet over his head and buckling it.
Bucky presses his lips together. “No.”
He doesn’t have time to see Steve react when T pulls out of the garage.
The lair’s lit up in pink. As it should be.
If he looks closely, the giant glass pillars have heart-shaped bubbles floating through them, which physically should be impossible but he stopped questioning all this months ago. If you wanted heart shaped bubbles, you were going to get heart shaped bubbles.
“Y/N,” he says simply, hand holding onto his backpack. There was a stop he had to make before he landed up here, making him a little later than usual. “How long have you been up there?”
“Irrelevant,” you shout from atop the rising circular stage in the centre of the room. “Did you wear red on purpose today?”
He looks down at his henley and jeans. “Sure.”
“I can’t believe you’re in costume and I’m not.” Your jaw drops.
He’s about to comment on how this isn’t a costume but you clap twice and the lights go off. A spotlight shines down on you. Even your outfit’s different- a bright sequin jacket and ruffles and things he doesn’t even know the names of.
You look like a whole Elton John concert.
“Mr Barnes.” There’s a small head mic near your mouth. “Pick a number from 1 to 3.”
“For what?” He halts near the base of the stage so you can hear him better.
You grin, arms spread wide. “I’m about to serenade you.”
“Please don’t.” He likes the bright pink glasses you’ve got on. He kind of wants a pair.
“It’s imperative that I do,” you insist. “I found this great song by Outkast that you’d fuckin’ hate.”
“I’m sure you did.” He holds out his hand. “But if you sing to me, I’m leaving.”
“Bore.” You give in rather quickly, using his grip as balance to hop off the stage. “Won’t even let me seduce you on the most romantic day of the year.”
You clap twice and all the lights return back to normal, the spotlight disappearing.
“You sure ‘bout that?” He raises an eyebrow. “All this glitter’s really working for you.”
“You got a sparkle fetish, Barnes?” Still, you shrug off the waistcoat lined with rhinestones. “All this flirting and you still won’t make out with me behind the church.”
“I was raised properly.”
“Bullshit.” You pull the top hat off your head. “I’ll get you there someday.”
“You can try.”
You applaud two more times. This time when the lights turn off and on again, you’re back in your civilian clothes, a notably substantial lack of feathers and sequins.
“Also, spill it,” Bucky adds as an afterthought, trailing behind you as you take the steps up to the platform where the cabinets and TV screens were.
“Spill what?”
“Where T’s taking Steve.”
“Bucky Barnes, you are a gossip.” You chortle and he just smiles. “What’s next on the old man schedule, Bingo Night?”
“Show some respect, you’re talkin’ to the three-time district champ here,” he bites back.
“The ladies at the retirement home must throw themselves at you.”
“Yeah, got a date lined up with one of ‘em right after this.”
“When’s it gonna be my turn, huh?” you huff playfully. “T’s taking him white water rafting, and then they’re getting ice cream.”
Cute.
“Did y’know they aren’t official yet?” You lean against the table for a casual conversation in the middle of evil-doing.
“He hasn’t asked already?” Hypocrite. Every single piece of advice and learning Bucky had given Steve 80 years ago was useless. The man had no game.
What a loser.
“No, not yet.” You pull out a box by its handles. “She isn’t making a move because she doesn’t want to make him uncomfortable, so it’s really in his court now.”
It suddenly occurs to him why next week’s dinner may be such a huge, un-cancellable thing. Interesting.
Bucky lifts his head towards you instead. “What’s the plan for today?”
You hit the table lightly, pushing yourself off it. “You know Fury, right?”
“No.”
“Okay, so Fury’s not authorising one of my plans-” You put aside his sarcasm “-and so I can’t build my inator.”
“I don’t remember that ever stopping you in the past.” The incident with the giant raccoons drunk on crab apples is one that pops up in his mind.
“True, but I miss him. He’s been ignoring my calls,” you whine. “I even tweeted at the SHIELD Twitter handle and they blocked me.”
Bucky’s not surprised.
“So, I’m going to convince him.” You spin around to yank open a drawer, announcing loudly, “Behold!”
There’s a series of arrows, at least ten, in a box. Shades of pink, red and orange, with feathery ends and shafts engraved with small little swirls.
“You’re gonna hunt him,” he says casually.
“No, Jesus Christ.” You scoff, reeling back. “Cupid’s Arrows. I’m gonna get him to fall in love with me for three minutes so he’ll authorise my plan to make a Disintegrator-inator.”
“These make someone fall in love with you?” He watches you pick up one of the obnoxious little buggers.
“More like an intense crush, not love,” you elucidate, jutting your lip out in thought, “and it doesn’t hurt, just kinda dissolves the minute it makes contact with skin. Point is, he’ll be so enamoured that he’ll let me build whatever I want.”
“Right.” He gives a short nod. “I could break ‘em right now and make sure you don’t.”
“You always say this, but you never do.” You hold an arrow out like a sword. “Some might say you secretly like these plans.”
He plucks it out of your hand and snaps it in half like a twig. “Some might be morons.”
You gasp, pulling the box away from him. He pulls it back.
There’s a glaring match incoming, he can feel it. Memories of the last time he argued with you over a box resurfaces, so he promptly puts an end to it before it even begins, retracting his hand.
“Ain’t really your thing, though,” he comments. “Is it?”
You click your tongue. “You know me too well. I’m asking for a replacement.”
Like you’d be able to live with that decision for even a day.
“I wasn’t actually going to use it. Isn’t really ethical.” You look at them. “But they’re pretty.”
He gives a small sound in agreement, picking one up to examine it. “They’re working models?”
“I’d never bring you fakes, baby. They’re as real as my love for you.” You grin when he rolls his eyes at you. He flicks his wrist back and forth slowly, testing the stiffness. “They’re very strong, Bucky, don’t.”
“You’re the only person here.” They were actually pretty well made, from what knowledge he had of archery.
“Yeah, and if that hits me then I’ll be in love with myself,” you say like it’s obvious. “What are you gonna do once you have to compete for my love?”
“Given how fucking obsessed you are with me, I don’t think it’ll be too much of a fight.” He pricks the tip of his finger, ignoring your yelp.
You were right, the second it touches his skin it wastes away into a pile of glitter that vanishes before it reaches the ground.
You grimace, watching him through one open eye for a reaction.
He raises an eyebrow, flipping his hand back and forth. The world still turns but nothing feels out of the ordinary.
Bucky looks at you. “I don’t think it works.”
“Idiot.” You let out a breath, dragging the box away from him again but this time he doesn’t contest it. He was a workplace hazard if you had ever seen one. “That just confirms my other theory.”
“What theory?” His eyebrows pull together as another thought crosses his mind swiftly.
“That you-” you poke his chest. Rock hard pecs are more of a strain on your finger than any part of him. “-don’t have a heart.”
“Thanks.” It comes out a bit distant, more focused on the fact that he has a different theory altogether.
“Moving on,” you announce, halting when he looks at you questioningly. “What, you think I was going to stop there?”
He didn’t.
“Go on.”
“You know that bar downtown-” You gesture with your finger in its general direction “-the one that’s whole shtick is being rude to your face?”
“No?” He tries jogging his memory to see if anything comes up.
“Yeah, well, you enter the premises and they call you a bitch,” you say. “So that’s that.”
Great.
“The world’s gotten nicer,” he grunts. “What about it?”
“They have this Valentine’s Day deal going. If they think you’re cute, they’ll give you free drinks for the evening.” It’s endearing, he thinks, how excited you look. “They’re known for turning everyone down for the past few years, it’s supposed to be a real humbling experience.”
“You could use a few of those.” Bucky nods in approval.
“Anyway,” you ignore his comment, speaking loudly. “I thought of the most brilliant plan.”
He presumes the glow that emanates from the next box you pull out from the drawer has something to do with it.
“So I did my research.” You have one hand paused on the rim for suspense. “Really dug into the whole ‘Love is blind’ concept.”
Bucky waits for you to continue.
“Yeah, so blah, blah, science stuff. Essentially, they’ll only have a vague idea of what we look like, but they’re gonna love it.” This seems like too much effort for some stupid bar. “And then we get free drinks.”
“What’s that, a glowstick?” He makes a mention to the light.
“Behold,” you exclaim for the second time that day, “a halo-disguise-inator.”
It’s a large ring, just slightly bigger than your hand. It isn’t as bright as he expected it to be, but you toss it up into the air and almost instantly it fixes itself a few inches above your head, seemingly just floating.
“I’m not wearin’ that,” he remarks instantly. Maybe if it were the sunglasses he’d have a different opinion.
“Why not?” You pout. “I made you one in pink.”
“Feel like I’m in Vegas. You look like a neon sign.”
Your eyebrows scrunch together. “You have no sense of drama.”
“Maybe a billboard.” He tilts his head. “Do you think you’ll attract moths?”
“I hate you so much,” you groan. “It doesn’t attract insects, you motherfucker.”
“You got wings to go with this?” he puts forth seriously. “How about a bow?”
“I do have a bow.” You glare at him. “I made it for the arrows but my aim is shit.”
“You got the whole ‘fit then.” Bucky crosses his arms over his chest. “But other than makin’ eyes bleed, this isn’t evil.”
“Ah.” You click your tongue against the roof of your mouth, wagging a finger. “Trickery and illusion.”
He has to control the urge to equate you with Thor’s brother, but reminding you about Loki would just bring up the whole cape conversation and he just didn’t have the energy to argue with you about that again.
“You’re supposed to think I look great.” You sigh, tweaking the position of the lightbulb-substitute hanging over your head. “Bet your serum has something to do with this.”
He opens his mouth to awkwardly contest this, only to have you cut him off.
“C’mon, we gotta get there before rush hour,” you urge, gesturing for him to hurry up.
“Why do I have to come?” The idea of an overcrowded place with people being pricks to him is usually what he calls home.
“You think I’m going to be seen day-drinking alone?” You narrow your eyes at him. “Fuck no. We’re both going.”
“I can’t get drunk.” You knew that, but he still reiterates it.
“You can have a Piña colada anyway.” That’s an offer that sounds good enough not to refuse. “Apparently they make the best ones in town.”
Bucky swings his bag over his shoulder. “What if your plan doesn’t work?”
“If worst comes to worst-” You point to the box of arrows “-we still have those.”
He reaches over and snaps another one.
You whack his arm. He grins.
The bar’s clearly one of the trendier ones on the block, its reputation preceding it. Regardless of the fact that it was one in the afternoon, a line was starting to form. Bucky had no doubt it would only grow further as the day went on.
“No one’s talkin’ to each other,” he observes, the line eerily devoid of life. Most of them were just peering into their phones.
“If they think you’re single, you have a better chance.” You count how many people are left in front of you. “People’ve been trying to cheat the system for years. Everyone’s got a strategy.”
“This is so stupid,” he mumbles. “Don’t tell me we’re doing the same thing.”
“I wouldn’t leave you unsupervised on your first visit, Bucko.” You link your arm with his and pull him to the back of the line. “Plus, someone has to avenge you if you get insulted.”
“Considerate.” He shifts his bag to the other shoulder to leave your hand around his elbow.
Within a minute there were already people lined up behind him. Some in large boisterous groups, following your example, but mostly unpaired.
“You gotta sell it,” you say, shielding your eyes from the sun. He’s not sure what use that has, considering that the stupid halo was shining directly above your head and just filled in whatever the sun couldn’t reach.
“Sell what?” Bucky looks at you.
“That you’re dying to get a free drink.”
“What, it’s not written on my face?” He stares ahead, emotionless.
“That plant looks more excited than you.” You point at the shrub.
He plasters a fake smile on and a thumbs up. “Please give us a drink.”
“You’re horrendous.”
“You’re annoying.” His gaze shifts beyond you. “Line’s moving.”
“If we don’t get one, it’s your fault.” You turn away with an air of indignation. His fake smile gives way to a genuine one.
“I’ll buy you a juice box.”
“Fuck your juice box,” you declare. “I want two.”
Bucky waits for the second your attention is away from him before doing a quick swipe for the halo on top of your head. He swiftly shoves it behind his back and into his pocket, away from your view.
“Let’s do this.” You smile sinisterly, rolling your neck and cracking your knuckles.
He snorts. “You gonna punch them?”
“Shut up and wish us luck.”
He does, all while biting back a laugh as you walk up to the desk out front.
“Hey there,” you greet the burly bouncer and the lady receptionist with a hard stare.
“Fuck you.”
“Alright.”
His face twists. Even though you’ve warned him of what to expect, it’s still jarring.
They took a long, hard look at him. He stares back, devoid of any apprehensions.
They shift their glare to you, and you, with all your experience thanks to the man next to you, glare right back.
They write down something on a piece of cardboard before tearing it out of the book and handing it to you, mentioning for you both to go in.
“Thanks.” You smile widely at them before yanking him towards the door in a hurry. “And fuck you too.”
He doesn’t even get a chance to say it back to them before he’s thrust into disco lights and the smell of booze.
“What the hell,” you state the minute the door closes behind you.
“What?” He has to blink to adjust to the change in his surroundings.
“They just-” you point to the stupid ticket that he hasn’t looked at yet. “How the hell?”
In the semi-dim lighting, he can make out a messily scribbled ‘One Free Drink’ on the torn piece of paper.
“Would you look at that,” he says. “Congratulations.”
“Congratulations to you. Fuckin’ pretty boy privilege.”
“Or Avenger,” he points out, “and they didn’t just look at me.”
“You’re obscenely beautiful, stop underselling yourself,” you mutter.
He has nothing to say to that, instead follows behind you till you pull up at the bar and hop on a stool.
“One Piña colada, please.” He slides the ticket to the bartender who quickly glances over it before doing a double-take.
“That’s a first,” the guy comments, eyebrows raising as he checks out the both of you before turning around to make the drink anyway.
“Good choice.” You spin in your barstool to face him.
“I was told that’s what I’d get.” He has to talk a little louder to make sure you can hear him over the remixes of 80s power ballads that were blasting.
“It’s what they’re known for.” Your fingers make a swipe above your head to get rid of the halo. Instead, you come up empty handed.
You frown, swatting around more widely, only glancing up when you hit nothing.
“Oh yeah, sorry.” Bucky suddenly remembers, stretching his legs and reaching into his back pocket to pull it out. “You dropped this.”
“Do you never take a break?” You gape at him, taking back the halo from him. “Even on Valentine’s Day?”
“Justice never sleeps,” he says, mock seriously and deeply.
“Will justice sleep with me?”
“Jesus Christ.” He can hear your laugh as he chooses to look anywhere else but your face.
A live band has their equipment out for soundcheck, their poster on a canvas beside them informing him that they were to begin in half an hour. He wonders if they’re any good, considering that he can tell from a five mile radius that the bassist looks absolutely hammered out of his mind.
“Okay.” Bucky leans against his elbow, returning his attention to you. “Now what?”
“Well-” you look around at the half filled establishment“-I don’t know. That’s all I had planned.”
He wants to facepalm. You look at him sheepishly.
“Piña Colada.” The bartender drops it in front of Bucky, complete with a little umbrella and a twisty straw.
“Thanks.” He gives a tightlipped smile to the guy.
“Anythin’ else I can get ya?” He throws the towel over his shoulder, leaning forward on the counter.
“A beer,” Bucky adds before sliding the fancier glass over to you.
“Comin’ up.”
You finally catch Bucky’s eye even after he tries to vehemently avoid it. “Did you just buy me a drink?”
“It was free,” he denies, lifting his beer bottle to his mouth.
“Right.” You grin, twirling the umbrella around with your fingers. “No other reason.”
“None at all.”
In a completely preceded turn of events, Bucky was right. The band was utter trash and the set is abandoned midway after a loud, weed-induced confession of unrequited love to someone who apparently didn’t even show up.
It’s painfully silent for a minute before the loud chatter of the patrons resumes and the bassist stumbles off stage, still muttering half-baked apologies to his fellow band members who just furiously follow suit.
There’s a game of darts Bucky has an unfair advantage at, but it quickly works itself out when people start drunkenly placing bets on him. He has to pull back a few shots before people get too suspicious, but it’s the most undefeated he’s felt in a while.
“Fucking come on,” his latest opponent yells loudly, the crowd around them erupting into laughter.
“Just pay up, man.” His friends each had had a turn at getting their ass kicked by Bucky. At this point, they were taking part for the hell of it.
The money charitably goes towards more wings and fries and drinks, even towards the ones who proudly challenged him and lost. It’s a pretty good time.
“Swear to God, Barnes, we should start a game of beer pong right now.” You’re bouncing on the balls of your feet, a wild smile on your face and a gleam in your eyes. He loves it. “We’d make a fortune.”
“We’ll get thrown out.” He laughs, face red from all the claps on the backs and cheers he had received after defeating what was probably the tenth person that afternoon. “That bouncer’s been eyein’ us all afternoon.”
“We got nothing to lose,” you call out in return. There’s no way you’re tipsy, he’s sure of it. You had stopped after the first drink, more interested in his sudden rise to fame at the joint and his subsequent reaction to it.
“Not a good look for Earth’s mightiest heroes.”
“Fine,” you relent, taking a seat at the bar again. You toss him a water bottle and he catches it with one hand. “Hydrate or die-drate, bar boy.”
He waves at a group that shouts their goodbyes at him at varying levels of noise, before turning back to you.
“Hi,” you say, giddiness expressing itself on your face.
“Hey.” He nods, twisting the cap back into place and placing it on the table. “You done profiting off me?”
“You loved it,” you retort, fingers tracing the bar in emphasis. “I always betted on you winning.”
“You were cheating.”
“You stole my halo.”
Touché.
“Say, ain’t it time for your hot date, Mr Barnes?”
“Actually, retirement home’s got their annual chess tournament going on.” He shrugs, dejection weighing down on his shoulders. “So no, she bailed on me.”
“Not the chess tournament. How could she?” You press a hand to your heart. “If it helps, in this game of chess, you’re the only king I care about.”
“It doesn’t, but thanks.” He declines the bartender’s offer for another beer. If it weren’t for the serum flowing through his veins, he’d probably have alcohol poisoning by now. “Where’s your hot date?”
“Right here.” You wink at him obnoxiously and he rolls his eyes. “I don’t have one. Turns out Justin Baldoni wasn’t free.”
“Sucks to be him,” Bucky says.
“I’ll drink to that.” You lift your water bottle in cheers. He only bumps against it with his hand considering that he didn’t have one.
“D’you think they’re done with river rafting yet?” Bucky looks out at the bar that had only gotten more crowded since the both of you had arrived. Someone had thrown up on the pool table. Not ideal.
“Pretty sure.” You check your watch. “It’s evening, they should be.”
He knew he’d been there a few hours but the thought that it was evening hadn’t even occurred to him.
“You gotta go?” You lean your chin on your palm. “We only just got here, like, twenty hours ago.”
He breathes out a small laugh. “I think we’ve stayed too long.”
“I’m going to need you to stop being right.” You shake a finger at him.
Bucky notices the bouncer who had slowly inched closer and closer over the day. “Swear to God that guy’s gonna kick us to the curb.”
“You can charm him like you did with the lady at the front desk.”
“Solid plan.”
It takes another bottle of water and three more songs before it becomes truly pathetic. It hit only when you looked around and realised no one who had been there originally when you arrived still remained.
“Okay, Barnes.” You straighten up, shaking the laziness that had started to settle into your shoulders. “Any last words before we end Valentine’s Day sad and alone?”
He thinks for a second before resolutely saying, “Fuck chess.”
“Wise.” You hum in agreement. “And that conclu-”
“Wait,” he interrupts for a change, unzipping his backpack, “before I forget.”
You let out a noise in annoyance. “If you’re going to offer me batteries again for the stupid halo thing, I’m reminding you that it’s solar powered-”
He holds out a single rose and a tiny box. Your mouth shuts as quickly as it opened.
“Happy Valentine’s Day.” There’s a small smile on his face that he can’t quite conceal.
“Oh,” you say dumbly, taking it from him at the pace of a snail. “But I didn’t get to serenade you.”
“Let’s keep it that way.”
“Okay.”
The rose is sort of squished down from how much the bag’s been shifting around all day and there’s a few petals that were missing but it was still just as lovely. The box has a small ribbon on it, slightly loose and out of shape but who cares.
You pry open the lid slowly.
There’s an adorable little bracelet in there, with a charm attached. Even in the shitty lighting, with the disco ball shine hitting just right occasionally, you can make out it’s a tiny ray gun.
“Figured since you gave me this-” he trails off, shaking his wrist to jingle the solar system bracelet. How he still had it, you had no idea. Probably more important to ask why he still had it.
“It’s beautiful.” You look up at him, biting your lip. “Thank you.”
He gives you a half smile- tight, embarrassed and slightly lopsided but stupidly cute all the same. Maybe you wanna kiss him.
Stop staring at his face.
‘Well, then he should stop staring back,’ your inner monologue argues.
But he doesn’t, not for a while at least, so finally, you clear your throat and tear your eyes away.
Your gaze lands on the abandoned stage with all its instruments and equipment still lying there. Bucky can almost hear the gears in your head turning.
“Fuck no,” his reply is immediate, the minute you turn to him with mischief written all over your face.
“Fuck yes.” You hop off the barstool to make your way over to the stage, the flower and box placed gently on the counter in front of him for safekeeping.
“Y/N, no.”
“Y/N, yes.” You laugh loudly. It has him a little starstruck. “Evil will win today, Bucky Barnes.”
“Shit,” he swears under his breath when you jump on stage, grabbing hold of the mic. He buries his face in his hands.
Evil wins by singing Happy Valentine’s Day by Outkast.
Evil also gets the both of you kicked out of there.
Bucky returns later that evening only to find Clint in the dining room with another concussion and Natasha with a sigh of exasperation in the form of an explanation. Still, her cheeks are dusted pink and Clint’s not dead, so he can imagine that whatever shit they got up to, they had a good day.
The hydrangeas are more or less shifted to Tony’s floor for him to deal with alone. The common room and the elevator ride up to his floor still smells of them, though. He has no doubt that the smell was going to persist for the next week at least.
Steve’s room is left slightly ajar. Bucky pauses in front of it for a second before knocking, head ducked as he waits for a response.
“Come in,” his best friend calls back.
“Hey.” Bucky pushes the door open but does not move past the doorway. “Got a minute?”
“Buck.” Steve sits up straight on his bed. “When’d you get back?”
“Just now.” He crosses his arms over his chest. “You?”
“Half an hour ago.” Steve lowers the volume of whatever movie he was watching.
“Nerd.”
Steve’s face pulls into a smirk. “You said you didn’t have a date.”
“I didn’t.”
“We’re gonna need a new bar of soap for all the shit that comes out of your mouth.”
“Fuck right off, Rogers.” Bucky chuckles. “You’re one to talk.”
Steve presses his lips together in an admission of guilt.
“D’you have a good time?”
“Yeah.” The look on Steve’s face is soft. “I did.”
Bucky nods to himself, intending on leaving his friend to whatever daydream he was about to lose himself in as he had been doing rather frequently.
“You’re off next week’s mission, by the way.”
Bucky stops in his tracks. “Why?”
“I said I’d take it.” Steve raises the volume on the TV back to what it was. “Go hang out at your convention.”
“What about T?”
“I’ll meet her after that.” He shrugs. “Not a big deal.”
Bucky’s eyebrows knit together before he exhales slightly, pushing open the door and letting himself into the room without permission.
“Put me back on the roster, Steven.” Bucky takes a place on the bed, kicking off his shoes.
“What about your EvilCon?” Steve shuffles to make room for him.
“I can barely handle one of them, imagine a whole room.” Bucky blows out a breath, crossing his arms behind his head. “Don’t cancel your reservation.”
“You sure?” Steve looks unsure. “It’s just a dinner, I can reschedule.”
Bucky has a good idea of why the reservation next week was so important to Steve. Hell if he was going to get in the way of that.
Bucky rolls his eyes. “You’re such a drama queen. Don’t. ”
“If you say so.”
There’s silence other than the TV playing what he realises is Notting Hill. Probably a lineup of iconic romcoms was going to follow.
“This was your plan all along, wasn’t it?” Bucky pipes up after a moment.
Steve hides a sly smile.
Chapter 18: Chapter 15
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Bucky is no stranger to hiding.
He spent what he’d consider, a large fraction of his life in shadows, dilapidated structures, and dreary apartments.
And though years ago, if you asked, he would say that his only wish is one day to stop running, those experiences serve as training for this precise moment.
“Sergeant Barnes, the team is looking for you.”
“Not now, FRIDAY,” he mumbles, back pressed against the cool wall.
“They insist it’s urgent.”
“Pretty sure it’s fuckin’ not.” When the coast is clear he steps into the room, eyes still gauging his surroundings to make sure no one sneaks up on him. “Just tell ‘em I’m not home-- and keep the volume down, would ya?”
“Noted.”
Weekends don’t really serve as a break since their unusual job has them working unusual hours. It’s 9pm and he’s already successfully avoided them for most of the day, slipping out of his room only when he knows neither of them are around. If he’s careful, then maybe he can stay away for the next two hours until it was absolutely nece-
In a second, the hair on his neck stands upright. His senses kick into high alert, but he doesn’t turn around.
“Hey there, James.”
He should have known she’d find a way.
“Natasha,” he replies stiffly, nonchalantly making his way to the fridge.
She pushes it shut with one hand before he gets the chance to open it fully. “You’ve got everyone all worked up.”
“Have I?” He keeps his breath composed, only looking at the top of the fridge in slight exasperation. “Didn’t notice.”
“I doubt you would. You’ve been MIA all day.” She props herself onto the kitchen counter with ease, leaning her weight against her palms. “Why is that?”
“You don’t need me to tell you why, Nat.” He makes an attempt to open the fridge again since her hands seemed occupied. She doesn’t stop him.
“I don’t,” she concedes, “but that doesn't mean I won’t ask.”
“Can’t invite me if you don’t see me.” He grabs Sam’s cranberry juice, the one he keeps as a backup for when he ran out of his usual orange juice. Bucky would know, he was the one who usually finished it.
“Invite you to what?” Nat raises an eyebrow.
He looks at her wryly. “Whatever gala Tony’s hosting.”
“What makes you think there’s a gala?”
“The fact that there was one this time, last year,” Bucky realises fairly quickly there’s no end to this conversation, “and February, and December, and November, and September-”
“I see your point,” she cuts in before he starts listing out every single gala, luncheon, ball and themed party that had been hosted in the months leading up to today.
“So then you can see why I’m avoiding it.” The thought of mildly irking Sam by finishing his backup doesn’t seem like a priority anymore. “Do me a favour? Don’t tell them you saw me.”
“если ты так говоришь,” it slips out easily between the both of them, phrases and occasional sentences in the language, ”Stay out of the corridor. They’re on their way back.”
“ты всегда был моим любимцем.” He flashes her a small smile before disappearing down the opposite direction.
Nat shakes her head in affection, before grabbing the bottle he left behind. Sam would have to do with water.
“Sergeant Barnes,” FRIDAY whispers to him.
“Yeah?” he whispers back. It’s ridiculous, he can’t imagine what the whole situation appears like to someone who has no context.
“You missed a call.” He appreciates how dedicated the AI is to keeping him a secret, resorting to even dropping her volume.
“From whom?”
“Villain-ish.” Even the elevator doors close softer than usual.
His phone had been on silent the entire day so as to not give his location away when he lurked behind sofas and filing cabinets.
It takes him a minute before he calls back, only once he’s in the confines of his bedroom with the door closed behind him and window opened for an escape plan.
“James,” you greet, slightly exclamatory.
“Y/N,” he replies steadily, but it’s a relief to hear your voice. “What did you do?”
“Why do I have to do something for me to call you? Why can’t we just talk?”
“I haven’t heard from you all weekend.” Nat was the first conversation he’d had the whole day. Other than FRIDAY, but his therapist didn’t look entirely convinced when he called her his friend, no matter how sentient the AI was. “Thought I finally got rid of you.”
“Did you miss me?” Your voice comes back faint.
“No.” He rolls his eyes. Maybe. “What’s up? Aren’t you supposed to be prepping for class?”
“I am, I was.” You rattle something noisily while talking. “But then I got distracted-- ah, fuck.”
“What?” He stares at the balcony and at the sky that had long gone dark for any clue of his inevitable fate to come.
“I’m, uh-” you pause to truly make sure what you were going to say was right “-stuck.”
“Stuck... how?” The crease between his eyebrows makes an appearance.
“I’m stuck in a place I’m not supposed to be,” you say cryptically, voice faint.
“Where’s Jake?” Honest to God, if this was one of your stupid jokes, he’d hang up right now.
“At home.”
“Then where are you?”
There’s a moment of silence before you laugh nervously. “Take a guess.”
“The lair?”
“Mount Rushmore.”
He waits for you to tell him you’re kidding. There’s deafening silence.
“Mount Rushmore,” Bucky repeats.
“Yeah.”
“How the fuck would I have guessed that?” He drags his palm across his face.
“Jedi mind tricks or something. You look like Luke Skywalker, anyway.” A twig cracks under your foot. “I’m actually stuck, though. Teleportation watch ran out of juice.”
“You don’t keep that thing charged?” He sneaks a glance at his own one that was left on the dresser.
“Sure I do, but I don’t really travel to Mount Rushmore every day,” you sing, not bothered in the least that you were a few states away. “So no, I didn’t expect it to run out.”
“What’s your plan?”
You don’t reply but he can almost hear the smile that begins to curve onto your face through the phone.
It takes a second to hit him. “No.”
“C’mon, do me a solid,” you whine.
“I’m not coming to pick you up.”
“You’re the only one with another watch and I know for a fact that you’re doing nothing right now.”
He almost considers checking to see if you’re secretly stowed away somewhere in his room but he knows you wouldn’t do something that creepy. “What if I am?”
“You wouldn’t have called back so soon.”
“Sergeant Barnes, sorry to interrupt,” FRIDAY announces softly.
He pulls the phone away from his ear and covers the mic. “What’s wrong?”
“Sam is on his way up here. Tony’s with him, too.”
Fuck.
“Stay where you are,” he commands and you let out a small cheer. “Send me the coordinates.”
“Already done.”
His phone vibrates with a text message.
At the same instant, a knock on the door makes him whip around.
“Bucky,” Sam calls out. “We know you’re in there. I can sense your shitty vibes from a mile away.”
He makes a quick grab at whatever he sees on his dresser; keys, Swiss army knife and a packet of M&Ms he snuck up to his room for sustenance and the watch.
“Sergeant Barnes isn’t here at the moment.” God bless FRIDAY for even trying.
“I can’t believe you’ve got my own AI lying to me, Barnes.” Tony scoffs. “FRI, I think I’m going to switch over to Alexa.”
“Shut up, Tony,” Sam butts in. “Bucky, open up. It’s about today-”
Bucky rapidly tunes in the coordinates before slamming down on the watch, just as the door clicks open.
“Jesus fuck, you nearly scared the life outta me.”
Bucky winces, putting a momentary pause on whatever was going on to deal with the effects of teleportation over a long distance. A couple of months in and it was getting better, but it still gave him a slight headache every time he had to do it.
“Are you wearing sweatpants?” you ask.
He shakes his nausea away with a small exhale before taking in his surroundings.
It’s acres and acres of steep canyons and spires. Dust under his sneakers that are clearly not meant for hiking and more importantly, no ugly carved heads on stolen land in sight, no matter which direction he turns.
“This is not Mount Rushmore,” Bucky says in greeting instead.
“That’s because this is a National Park.” You point at his outfit. “Why are you in sweatpants? Did I wake you up or something?”
“You didn’t exactly give me time to change,” he mumbles, looking around at the land that seemed to stretch on endlessly.
“I didn’t expect you to show up in three minutes,” you retort in your defence.
“Why’d you say you were at the stupid mountain?”
“It was the nearest landmark I could find,” you dismiss, trudging past him to where your backpack lay on the ground. “You found me anyway, who cares?”
“That’s-” He’s going to say that that wasn’t the point, but he doesn’t bother. “What are you doing out here anyway?”
“C’mere.” You curl your fingers to beckon him over.
“You gonna kill me?”
“Obviously.” You smile before pointing up at the sky. “What do you see?”
Bucky’s eyes flit up. “The moon.”
“Right.” You nod in confirmation. “I’m going to carve your face on the moon.”
His stare lands back on you immediately. He can’t tell if you’re being serious enough.
“It’s a token of love,” you add, “to the rest of the world, I mean. Your face is a thing of beauty.”
His face is blank.
“I’m kidding.”
“Are you?” he asks wearily. He knows you’re batshit enough to do it.
“Sorta.” You quickly flip around to point to the sky. “I’m projecting your face up there.”
“For what?”
“If you looked up at the moon and saw someone stare back, it’d scare the shit out of you.” You’re not wrong. “I even picked the most bitch-stare picture of you I could find, look.”
You stick out your phone and he only glances at it for a second, but it's enough for him to recognise it from the time you made him watch those stupid biographical movies about Steve with you after he mistakenly mentioned it in passing. Colin Firth had done a half-decent job but still… Steve didn't launch into as many poetic tirades as they thought he did.
“You couldn’t do this from New York?” He changes the topic instead, knowing there was no use arguing about the choice of picture. He’d much rather not have his face up there at all, thanks.
“I was scouting for locations and I got stuck here.” You huff, looking around. “And no, the security guy had a problem with me climbing the Empire State Building.”
“There is an elevator,” he stresses.
“And?” You cross your arms over your chest. “What about it?”
Bucky turns back to the sky, exhaling deeply. Why even bother?
“Where is it?” he asks.
You bend over and pull a telescope out of your bag.
“Think of it as a giant laser pointer.” You hold it up. “Except the moon is a wall and human beings are cats that are going to get the worst surprise of their life.”
“That’s a terrible metaphor.”
“You got anything better, Shakespeare?”
No, he didn’t.
“Okay, let’s do this.” He pulls one of the Feel Squares off his bicep and tucks it into his pocket to make sure it doesn't fall off.
“Wait!” you cry out and he reels back. “What’s near your foot?”
He follows your line of sight only to find nothing out of the ordinary. There’s a patch of dirt on his converse, but nothing worth shrieking for.
“The hell are you looking at?” Bucky pulls his attention off the ground and back to you.
Except you weren’t there.
He twists his body to scour the area. No sign of you anywhere. It was like you were never there at all.
“What the fuck…” he trails off. “Where’d you go?”
The only sounds around him are of the insects buzzing and an occasional draft.
“Alright, I’m going hom-”
“Boo,” you whisper into his ear suddenly.
“What the fuck,” he says louder, taking a step away.
“Invisibility blanket, bitch!” You’re already a few feet away from him by the time he ascertains the direction your voice was coming from.
Bucky mumbles something incomprehensible under his breath before gathering himself again with a new plan.
“Do you remember the last time we did this?”
“Can’t really forget,” he comments, looking straight ahead. “You threw a gun at me.”
“Unloaded.”
“You threw a gun at me.”
“It was gift wrapped.” You’re closer. “And, you didn’t appreciate the wrapper half as much as you should have.”
“Still don’t.” His head follows his peripheral vision ever so slightly. “It was fuckin’ hideous.”
“Maybe I’ll use it again, then. Maybe I’ll make a t-shirt out of it, how about that?”
“You bring that thing anywhere near me-” There’s a wisp of a breath near him that his ear catches onto “-and I’ll dismantle your stupid chair.”
“You built me that chair, clown,” you retaliate, a little further away again. “You’re gonna throw away four hours of crying over IKEA because you don’t like the gift wrap I chose for your gun?”
“If I remember correctly, I wasn’t the one who was crying.”
“Yes, you were. You just couldn’t see me through your tears.”
Bucky sighs deeply, standing still.
A draft of wind blows past. He hears the insects again.
He suddenly whips around and grabs a tuft of the cloth, sending you almost stumbling. His other hand shoots out to stabilize you before you hit the ground.
“How the fuck did you-”
“I can sense your shitty vibes from a mile away,” he recites from earlier that evening, letting go of you when he was sure you weren’t going to fall over. “Projector. Give it.”
Your eyes narrow, dropping the inator into his open palm. “My vibes are immaculate, how dare you.”
“Not enough, clearly.” He watches you trudge past him to your backpack again. “Are we done? We going home now?”
“Not so fast,” you announce. “I have a plan B.”
He watches you pull something tiny out; he can’t really tell what it is until you toss it onto the ground and it blows up to form a regular table.
Bucky drops the blanket on the ground near his feet where it lands as a heap of red fabric. “Does it involve my face?”
“As a matter of fact-” you pull a laptop out and place it on your new furniture “-it does.”
“Why.” It’s definitely more of a statement than a question.
“We’ve been through this already, you are very pretty.” You flip open the laptop. “Okay, since you fucked up my international plan, we’re going local. Any guesses?”
Bucky stares at you blankly.
“Here’s a clue,” you start, “It’s in New York. The team-”
“It’s fuckin’ Times Square, isn’t it?” he cuts you off.
You whistle. “You’re on a roll tonight.”
He really wishes he wasn’t.
“Anyway, here’s an artistic rendition of what it might look like.” You flip the laptop around and turn the brightness up as he takes a few steps closer.
On the illuminated screen, he can see a very poorly drawn MS Paint version of Times Square. Cartoon panels and digital billboards were completed with stick figures to represent him.
“For fuck’s sake,” he groans, making a halfhearted attempt to grab the device.
You swipe it away swiftly. “Gotta try harder, Bucky.”
“I don’t wanna fight you.” He hopes it softens your drive even by just a little bit.
“Then don’t.” You click something and a giant red button shows up on the screen. “All of a sudden you care about stopping me.”
“All of a sudden you want to broadcast my face to the world,” he fires back, “and I’ve always stopped you. It’s my job.”
“Um-” you hold your finger up “-no. I’m still keeping track and we’re almost tied.”
“Your math is wrong.”
“My math is fine,” you press, finger hovering over the mouse. “You’re only three points ahead of me.”
Time to make it four, he guesses.
Bucky breathes out. “Y/N,” he starts, rolling his shoulders. “I’m really sorry for what I'm about to do.”
You turn to him, brows pulled together. “Wha-”
The speed at which it happened was admirable, actually. Within a second, his arm was pulled behind his back before it went cleanly through the screen. There’s barely even a noise.
You’re just left staring at the hole in the middle of the computer where your MS Paint drawing was.
“Did you just-”
“I promise I’ll replace it,” he says quickly.
“You fucking better.” You look at him incredulously. “And, you better redraw my plan too, I put a lot of effort into that.”
That he couldn’t promise.
“Whatever.” You clear your throat and shake out your limbs. “Fortunately, I am prepared.”
Bucky rolls his eyes as you reach into your bag and pull out another laptop, an exact duplicate.
“How many things do you have in that damn bag?”
“It’s an endless space.” You stick your leg in there to prove your point, holding onto the table for support. “Like I said, I’m prepared.”
“You’re really doing this.” His voice comes out tired.
“Plan B, part 2.” Bucky rotates his neck and you spring away from him like a feral cat. “If you punch a hole through this I will end your life.”
He holds his hand up in surrender. “What if I just throw it?”
“Same result.” You glare at him. “This time, you’re going to actually work for it.”
He raises an eyebrow.
“I’m gonna give you a riddle,” you explain, holding out the laptop to him sceptically. “The password is the answer to that riddle. If you get it wrong three times, Times Square gets lit up within 30 seconds.”
He takes it slowly. “What’s the riddle?”
“Hold on-” Your body stretches as you reach deep into your pockets.
Bucky waits, taking the time to observe the laptop from all sides, weighing the pros and cons of just throwing it across the badlands.
“Two trains are moving towards each other at 25 and 42 miles an hour. The wind velocity is on the right side of the old man’s shower,” you read out from a piece of paper. “Neither the chicken, nor the egg was first to the cage. How old is the reindeer’s age?”
“What… the fuck?” His face twists. The pros were definitely looking better.
“You heard me.” You rumple up the piece of paper and stuff it back into your pocket. “Get to solving.”
“Solving what?” He follows you as you spread the invisibility blanket out wide.
“The riddle, Bucky, gosh.” You take a seat on the ground and pull out your phone. “Chop chop, you only have sixty minutes. If you even think of doin’ anything stupid, it’s going to light up Times Square.”
“This is a bullshit question,” he murmurs, “and now there’s a goddamn timer.”
“If you look carefully, you’ll find the answer.”
“There is no answer.”
“You’re just wasting time now.” You raise your eyebrows at the laptop. “Maybe if you solve the first two lines, I’ll give you a clue. As a treat.”
He glowers at you.
You avoid his eye, looking into your phone instead.
“You got anywhere else to be, Bucky Barnes?” you ask, fingers clicking against your keypad.
Not really.
Actually, he realises, the longer he stayed out here the better it was for him. He had plenty of time to kill.
He grumbles something under his breath but sits down with his legs crossed under him.
“D’you have a pen and paper?”
About thirty minutes in and he’s just resorted to drawing lines on the notebook and crossing it off, like a convict drawing on the walls of a prison.
“Did you know-” You pop another one of the M&Ms he had brought as a snack with him into your mouth “-T almost missed a flight once because she got distracted by M&M world at the airport.”
He hums, lips pressed inward in a straight line. “Sure that wasn’t you?”
“Not this time, no.” You continue scrolling through social media. “But I was on call with her while she did it, so I may have had something to do with it.
“Responsible.”
“Thanks, I try.” You lock your phone and put it down. “I like how you used to bring weapons and now you just bring snacks.”
“Had a feelin’ I’d be here a while,” he says, crossing off another set of lines. He grabbed it accidentally, but you didn’t need to know that. There’s also a Swiss army knife with him, which technically is a weapon, but that wasn’t relevant either.
“How’s the riddle going?”
Bucky looks up at you unamused. “Great.”
“You know what would help?” You shake the pack in front of him and he takes a few. “More riddles. Get you all warmed up.”
“Help who, exactly?”
“That doesn’t matter, we’re all friends here.” You dust off your hands. “Alright, first one. Where do young trees go to learn?”
He stays silent. Even the damn crickets were louder than him.
“Elementree school.” You wait for a reaction. He simply shakes his head in disappointment. “Fine, what’s worse than finding a worm in your apple?”
“Getting stabbed.”
“No. Heathen.”
“Where are you getting these?” A hint of a smile plays at his lips. “They’re shit.”
“Fuck me for working with kids, I guess.” You scoff. “What do you call a fancy goldfish?”
There's a pause in waiting for a reply that inevitably never comes.
“Sofishticated.”
Bucky snorts. “That’s terrible.”
“It’s brilliant.”
“It was the worst one yet.”
“Shut up and eat your M&Ms.” You throw one at him and he just dodges it with a smirk.
There are only ten minutes to go but he couldn’t be less interested. Once he got to five hundred lines, drawn and crossed off, he had found inner peace and had instead switched over to something more productive.
“What on earth are you drawing?”
Bucky pulls it away to look at what he’d absentmindedly been doodling.
“Is that my concept art for your Times Square takeover?” You lean over to look at the notebook.
“Figured I’d get started on the whole thing.” He shrugs. “It’s even worse than the original.”
“Nonsense, look at that-” You squint at the paper due to the lack of lighting “-thing.”
“That’s a hot dog cart.”
“I can totally see that,” you agree, biting your lip to hide a smile. “Is that supposed to be me?”
You point at the stick figure on the street with animated eyebrows stilted downwards in an angry smile.
“Can’t have my suffering if you’re not there to cause it.” He taps at it with his pencil. “I took some creative liberty.”
“It’s very tasteful. You got talent.”
“Steve’s the artist, not me.”
“Steve couldn’t beat this even if he tried.” You huff. “Look at that little dog there. He’s adorable.”
“That’s a fire hydrant.”
“I’m trying to support you and you’re making this so hard.”
Bucky laughs, tearing out the page and handing it to you. “Here’s your replacement.”
You fold it gently and put it aside. Maybe he’d see it in a frame the next time he came around.
“You got two minutes to go if it matters anymore.” You look at your phone's clock.
“Alright, fine.”
“Fine what?”
“What does it mean?” he relents. “What’s the answer?”
“That’s very philosophical, Bucky.” You evade his question with another stupid joke. “I think the answer to everything-”
“To the riddle.”
You press your lips together into a straight line. “I don’t know. It doesn’t mean anything. I just threw together a few random sentences.”
“Fuckin’ knew it.” It’s a good thing he didn’t bother wasting any energy on it. “Am I going to end up on the screens or not?”
A guilty smile pulls onto your face. “No.”
“Yeah, thought so,” Bucky says, eyes narrow but not out of malice. “We’re leaving. Get your stuff.”
“I’m sorry.” You laugh. “Swear I had a good reason.”
“That’d be new.” He shuts the laptop down with three seconds to go.
“Let me make it up to you,” you offer, swatting around for your phone.
“Save it for when it’s not the middle of the night.” He watches you type something rapidly before a quick flash of panic runs over your face. “What now?”
“I, uh-” You shove the phone back into your pocket “-forgot I had a presentation to make for tomorrow.”
“It’s not too late.” Only eleven o'clock. He knows for a fact that you stay up longer than that on account of the memes he receives at ungodly hours of the morning.
“Wait, I gotta make it up to you,” you complain, laughing as you pull yourself off the ground to follow him.
He hands you the laptop. “You gotta make a presentation.”
“Get the table, would you?” You walk along the side to reach for your bag instead.
Bucky scrunches his nose up at the new piece of tech. The Feel Square finds a way back onto his bicep as he runs his hand under the steel to see if there was a button. When he can’t find one, he bends his head to check if he missed one.
“Why are you feeling up my table, Barnes?” Your voice comes from beside him.
“I’m not fee-” he scoffs, bolting upright and geared up to argue.
Instead, he stops in his tracks, eyes landing on what you have in your grip.
"Happy birthday." You hold up a cardboard box with a circular logo on it. "It is your birthday, right? In fifty-three minutes?"
He only blinks, a little stunned. “Yeah.”
"You didn't think I forgot, did you?" You narrow your eyes at him.
"Didn't think you knew."
"Why wouldn't I?"
Bucky doesn't really have an answer for that. He chooses to zero in on the logo of the box as an alternative.
"Is that-"
"The little doughnut shop you told me about in South Dakota?" You look at the bag. “Of course not.”
"How'd you find it?" He swallows thickly.
“Just searched ‘Avengers doughnuts coffee midnight’ until I found someone who posted about it a while ago on Reddit. Honey’s, right?"
"Yeah." He nods, a little stunned. "Yeah, it was Honey’s."
"By the way, they don't have stairs anymore,” you add in quickly while handing the box over, “so we couldn't have sat there. They remodelled, but, you know, there's plenty of stairs around the city. Or you can go eat it at home or something. Tower stairs. Does the Tower have stairs?"
Bucky purses his lips, walking past you.
He plants himself back down on the blanket.
You let out a small laugh.
He inclines his head, beckoning to the space beside him. You don’t see a reason to deny him, letting the backpack drop to the ground near the blanket.
“Is this why you came here?” Bucky opens the box while you sit down beside him. The smell of fried bread is intoxicating, even against the dry dust of the land around him.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” you state. “I just wanted to have a midnight escapade with you.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time.” He holds it open, offering a doughnut to you.
You take it gladly. “Yeah, just surprised you stuck it out this long.”
He had his reasons.
“The whole moon, Times Square thing-” He waves a doughnut around before biting down on it “-guess that was part of this?”
The doughnut’s just as good as he remembers them, fuck, probably even better now that he didn’t have bruised ribs to worry about. The moon even looks better when he’s not looking at it through lids half-closed from exhaustion.
“Someone told me PDA was one of your top five favourite things in the world.”
“Top three.” Bucky snorts. “Right next to grease and motor oil.”
He loathes coming in contact with either of those two substances because of the sheer amount of effort it took to clean it up properly. It’s why he tries to keep his bike at minimal damage so that he doesn’t have to ever work with them.
“Well, I know what we’re doing next year.”
He’s sure the powdered sugar leaves traces behind on his stubble, and the combinations of M&Ms and this was more sugar than he could handle and he’s almost certain that your fingers are brushing against his metal ones on the ground as you lean your weight against your hand. He can feel them there.
It comes pretty damn close to beating the original.
You exhale out a laugh. "You're hiding from the team, aren't you?”
No point in denying it now.
"Pretty sure there's a gala waiting for me back home," he says thoughtfully. "I've been avoiding it all day."
As much as he thinks they like him and want to celebrate him, he would rather not have been the recipient of that much attention launching him into another year of his centenarian existence.
“They tell you they’re holding one?”
“No, not really.” Bucky shakes his head. “But last birthday eve I spent three hours at a party before I realised it was for me.”
“Three hours?”
“Only realised when they brought out the fuckin’ cake.” He scoffs at the memory and the wide eyed mortification caught on camera. “The year before that they dragged me out of bed at midnight for a surprise ball drop. Figured they’d do something equally wild this year.”
“You’re such a team player. They’re waiting for you and you’re out here in a different state with cold doughnuts.”
“I’ll show up,” he protests, “eventually.”
“You have about forty minutes left until the fireworks.” You check your watch. “Or do you think they’d get a plane to write your name in the sky?”
“Wouldn’t put it past them.” If they did, he was leaving the country. He ran for five years, he could do it for another eighty, no problem. “If you don’t see me for the next month, you’ll know the reason.”
A snicker from your end. “Speaking of a vacation-”
You reach over and into your bag to pull out a few rolled-up tubes of paper.
Buckys looks at it, before back up at you. “What’s this?”
“My next few blueprints.” You let them fall in between the both of you “Go on, destroy any one of them. It’ll get you a free weekend off.”
Ah.
Bucky wipes his hands on his sweatpants before picking one of them up. He can feel you watching him from the corner of his eye as he scans through them, observing every detail down to the bolt.
He raises an eyebrow at a few of the choices you’ve presented him with. “You’re really going to make a clone army after what happened last time?”
“I need reinforcements if I need to take over the Tri-State Area.”
“Do you also need a-” he pulls the blueprint closer to read the title “-a Snap-and-a-Soda-Can-Appears-In-Your-Hand-inator?”
“Soda cans can cause serious damage if you throw ‘em really hard,” you insist, cleaning off your hands on a napkin.
“Who are you planning to throw them at?” The paper rustles as he lowers it to look at you.
“Undecided. I got a list of possibilities.”
His lips pull down in a mix of ‘fair enough’ and ‘whatever’.
“Not to influence your decision,” you say slowly, “but I’m gonna be real upset if you end up picking my Panini Transmutator-inator.”
Bucky makes a noise in acknowledgement, reshuffling the prints to pull up that plan in specific, much to your chagrin. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
There’s a lot of thought and effort that’s gone into them. It gives him more appreciation than he already held for your ability to churn them out weekly, let alone even come up with the ideas for them. It’s cool. You’re cool.
He spends a minute more perusing the outlines before he rolls them up and places them back in the casing.
“Which one?”
“None.” He hands it back to you carefully.“Lookin’ forward to kicking your ass next week.”
You peer at the undestroyed plans, a dull burn creeping up your neck. “Now this is just cheesy.”
He shrugs. “You did this to yourself.”
“Just say you love our interactions and go.”
Never.
“You want another one?” he asks, pushing the box towards you.
“Nah, I think I’ve had enough for today.” You gather your blueprints up and toss them back into the backpack where they came from. “Besides, your team’s waiting for you. I’ve kept you here long enough.”
“You should come too.” He carefully closes the lid, knowing that the minute he got home they’d disappear forever. “You can see my soul leave my body in real-time.”
“I would, but I have stuff I’ve been procrastinating on.” You chuckle. “I’ll just ask Nat to take a video.”
“You actually have a presentation to finish?” Of all the things that turn out to be true about this evening.
“Unfortunately.” You sigh, getting up for the last time. “I got work tomorrow, too.”
“Sure you can’t stop by?” He crosses his arms over his knees.
“Not today.” All the laptops, notebooks, and stationary go right back into the eternal void of your backpack. “But you better be prepared for the most outrageous party of the year next time.”
Of course.
“It’s gonna be great.”
Somehow, Bucky doesn’t doubt it.
He feels you press a soft kiss to his cheek.
“Happy birthday, Bucky Barnes,” you whisper, a small smile on your face.
He clears his throat bashfully, head ducking. “Thanks.”
“You fucking idiot.” Is the first thing he hears when he gets back. “We’ve been sitting here for hours.”
Turns out there wasn't a huge party planned.
“He’s lying.” Someone shoves Clint real quick. “We only finished, like, ten minutes ago.”
Turns out all the team did was to get together and make the most disastrously beautiful cake that was bordering on inedible. He thinks the icing is supposed to spell out his name but it’s melted off the top already along with the rest of the frosting.
“No gala?” Bucky asks, more of a precaution than anything.
“No gala,” Nat confirms.
“Maybe one-” Tony raises his finger and lowers it the second everyone turns to him in warning “-I’m shitting you. Swear to God, your humour’s inversely proportional to your fuckin’ age.”
The most dangerous part of the evening turned out to be when they slapped a candle on the biohazard of a cake anyway and refused to let him leave until they sang four variations of 'Happy Birthday'. Thor’s the loudest - Bucky’s flattered that he actually showed up- and it’s clear the team’s already a few glasses in even before his arrival, judging by the absolute butchering of the tune.
Regardless of how embarrassing the whole ordeal was, they had realised a subdued, lowkey party is all he could ever ask for.
Just how he imagined it going, the doughnuts prove to be more popular than he is that night and so he’s left with the team’s disaster creation for his share of sugar. There’s somehow an unnatural amount of salt in a certain part, and it’s when he decides he needs to get a glass of water.
He finds Nat alone in the kitchen, pulling two glasses out of the cabinet. Probably for her stupid boyfriend who just tripped over the coffee table.
“Why do I have a feeling this was your doing?” Bucky waits for her to move out of the way before reaching up to get himself a glass.
“Everyone helped.” The corner of her lips pulls up in the tiniest smile. “Y/N too.”
His eyebrows could probably touch his hairline “She knew?”
"We told her we'd need a couple of hours to bake a cake that's edible." Nat pokes at a particularly wet part. “I don’t think it was enough.”
”Why weren’t one of those idiots-” he points a thumb backwards at the group that had melted into a shouting match over control of the AUX cord “-in charge of keepin’ me busy?”
“You don’t need me to tell you why, Bucky,” she says teasingly, holding one of the glasses under the sink to fill
“I don’t,” he confesses because, yes, he knows why.
It’s the weirdest sense of deja vu, even though the same conversation happened that very evening.
“You’ve worked with SHIELD the longest, haven’t you?”
“Actually, that’d be Clint.” She holds the second glass under the running tap.
“Don’t know who that is,” he cuts in.
She raises an eyebrow in amusement. “What do you want?”
“Generally speaking,” he says slowly, a little uncertainly, “what’s the protocol if you wanna- uh- date someone who works for SHIELD?”
She bites back a grin lest he retreats back into whatever shell he managed to crawl out of for a few seconds. “I’ve never asked.”
“You and Barton?”
“Can’t break rules if you don’t know about ‘em.”
Bucky exhales a laugh. “Don’t think that’s how this works.”
“Yeah, well-” she finally lets a smile on her face “-what are they gonna do, fire me?”
She’d already told the government to fuck off once, she would have no problem doing it to the highest security organisation in the world. But Bucky wasn’t Nat, and he’s already been on everyone’s radar for the last 10 years. Suffice to say, he’s had his share of breaking laws he didn’t even know existed.
“If you’re that worried, just ask Nick.” Nat holds out a glass, one that he didn’t even realise when she filled for him. “If he says no, just do it anyway.”
“That’s your solution?”
“Advice.” Nat looks over at the team when Sza starts blasting over the speakers. “I think we should go back.”
“Probably should.” Bucky’s fingers tap against the counter rhythmically.
She gives him a small nod before picking up a glass to take with her.
“ты всегда был моим любимцем.”
Nat smiles. “I know.”
Hours of beer and actual Asgardian liquor later he finally sneaks away to his room, bits of frosting smeared on his cheek.
The instant his door closes behind him with a click, his hand struggles with his phone to make a call. He finds it a little harder to hold a plate and push open the balcony door for some fresh air but somehow he manages. World’s best assassin.
“You knew,” he states the second you pick up, “about this thing.”
“For a bunch of superheroes, y’all have really shitty timing.” There’s the sound of papers shuffling around in the background. “I thought I’d drop off a fresh batch of doughnuts at your place, and then Nat calls and asks if I can keep you out of the house for a while. Had to go from New York to South Dakota to New York and back to South Dakota.”
“That why your watch ran out?” He balances the phone between his shoulder and ear as he slides along the wall to the ground. The tile’s cold but he doesn’t mind.
“Nah, I had plenty o’charge left. I just needed an excuse to get you there.” You sound a little embarrassed to admit. “The stupid invisibility blanket was supposed to buy us some time. Fuck you, by the way.”
He grins, cutting a piece of cake off with his fork.
“Aren’t you supposed to be at a party?”
“They’re all drunk.”
“You’re a terrible host.”
“You’re a liar,” he says through a full mouth.
“It’s called a surprise, dumbass,” you throw back but follow it up with a laugh. He smiles, head dropping clumsily.
“You should’ve come. They made cake."
“It’s a school night.”
“It’s Sunday.”
“Which means it’s Monday tomorrow.”
“You’ve never rebelled?”
“You are a bad influence.”
Bucky raises an eyebrow. “Which one of us is the evil one again?”
"You want me to answer that?" He can see the tongue in cheek smile through the phone. "Your memory’s getting worse already, what's gonna happen when you don't remember me in a week?"
"You're kinda hard to forget, sweetheart,” he fires back. "Gettin' sick of it, really."
"How sick are we talking here?" you continue challengingly. "If you're running a temperature then maybe you should take off your shirt."
"Come here and maybe I will."
There's a long silence before you ask, "Christ, are you actually flirting with me?"
He takes another bite of the cake and lifts his shoulder in a shrug you won't see.
You laugh again. It’s fuckin’ great. “How much have you had to drink, Bucky?”
“A li’l,” he admits. “Thor got the good stuff.”
“Twenty minutes into your birthday and you’re already drunk.” You snort. “Great start to 107? 120?”
“Who’s keepin’ track anyway?” Probably the government. He can’t really remember how old he is at the moment. "Just call it an even 200."
“If it helps, you don’t look a day over 150.”
He hums, prodding at his food. There were still lumps of unmixed sugar and little burnt bits in the corners. Every bite he discovered a new flavour. It’s brilliant.
A pencil taps against wood in the background when your voice comes back gentle. “Did you have a good time?”
He looks up. Lights glimmered back at him.
“Yeah,” he says, quietly. “I did.”
With a slice of cake in his hand and a look into the city from his balcony, he thinks that maybe this is the best birthday he's had in a long time.
Notes:
Translation:
“если ты так говоришь” - “If you say so.”
“ты всегда был моим любимцем.” - “You have always been my favourite.”
Chapter 19: Chapter 16
Chapter Text
For what was considered the world’s largest security organisation, S.H.I.E.L.D. spent an inordinate amount of effort into picking the worst possible waiting room music of all time.
If Bucky heard the same damn one-hit-wonder jingle he had been hearing for the past three hours, he was going to throw his phone across the room. He knew the tune by heart, could hum it in his sleep and hell, if you gave him a piano he’d probably be able to recreate it note for note.
“Good morning, you’ve reached S.H.I.E.L.D. How may I help you today?”
“Linda, it’s me.”
“Sergeant Barnes,” she sighs with the fatigue of a woman who had dealt with too much from him in the past week, “Director Fury isn’t in yet.”
Bucky pinches the bridge of his nose, turning his chin up to the sky in thinly veiled frustration. “Did he tell you to tell me that?”
“That’s classified information, sir.”
“Linda,” he repeats her name, hoping it’d help him bypass at least eight security protocols, “I’m just gonna call again. Neither of us want that.”
It strikes a chord. Probably not because he said her name but because this was the third time that day he was calling.
Linda says slowly, “He told me to tell you to leave him alone.”
“I would if he just answered me,” he mumbles. “Tell him it’s important.”
“I did.”
“Tell him it’s really important.”
“I did.”
Fury, you son of a bitch.
“Have a good day, Linda.”
“You too, Sergeant.”
Bucky’s screen opens back up to the last place he left off an hour ago. You were no stranger to this man leaving you on ‘read’, more often than not because you’ve said something stupid.
From Villain(ish)
Your place or mine? ;)
A few things haven’t changed, clearly. The message was a damn throwback; he can remember the vivid details of the last time it happened too.
To Villain(ish)
mine
But a few things have changed.
He can see the chat bubble appear and disappear several times. It brings a smug smirk to his face.
From Villain(ish)
Stop it, you’re not supposed to flirt back
To Villain(ish)
then stop hitting on me
From Villain(ish)
Never
From Villain(ish)
See you at my place ;)
From Villain(ish)
The lair. I mean the lair.
From Villain(ish)
Unless…
To Villain(ish)
no
From Villain(ish)
Fine, lair it is
“Y/N, the stupid light at the front’s blinking again,” Bucky calls out as he walks through the entrance, after spending nearly five minutes trying to figure out what’s wrong with it. “What’d you break now?”
What doesn’t surprise him is how the lair’s decked out today. There are several giant slabs of varying heights and widths, pristine white in colour. It’s arranged randomly on the ground like some sort of a maze or labyrinth.
“Hey, Bucky,” T waves from the raised platform at the end of the hall.
He lifts his gaze up to see you waving too, but your body was mostly hidden by the gigantic inator lying smack middle of the stage.
“T.” That’s what surprises him a little, however. “What are you both up to?”
“School’s out.” You pop your head out from behind the machine to grin, clapping your hands together. “Time for evil.”
Bucky’s nose scrunches. “What is this, an obstacle course?”
“No, it’s-” T opens her mouth to explain but you frantically wave your hand around to shush her.
“Don’t ruin it, I have a whole speech ready,” you cut her off with a small whine. “T’s here to assist me in taking you down today.”
“What leverage does she have on you?” Bucky asks her directly. T was the sensible one, he knows that for a fact.
“I said I’d pick her plans up from the store if she stopped me from flinging myself off a cliff,” T explains with a sigh.
“T’s cousin’s getting married, she needs to buy a lehenga.” You smile at her in excitement. T doesn’t look half as thrilled.
“I was just supposed to drop off some blueprints.” She looks at you in disdain. “I’ve been here for two hours.”
“It’s been two hours of non-stop fun.” You nudge her arm.
“We’re very different people.”
“Fine, whatever.” You huff. “But Jake’s here to help me.”
“She’s full of shit, Sergeant Barnes,” Jake pipes up from behind a large block somewhere towards the right side of the room. “Said I’d get out of cleaning for a week if I helped her put these stupid things up.”
“Hey, Jake,” Bucky calls out, wondering if his voice would carry over to where he was.
“You guys are the worst,” you say under your breath. “I’m taking back all the incentives I offered.”
“I’ll fuckin’ sue you if I have to,” your roommate responds, instead, very loudly. “You’re on dish duty, I’m not doing anything.”
“You’re not doing anyone either, asshole,” you fire back. “No wonder you’re so fucking uptight all the time.”
“Like you’re one to talk.”
“Can you both shut up.” T doesn't even put in the effort to ask. “Pack it up, Jake, we’re leaving.”
“Hold on, I’m coming.” Bucky hears a toolbox close shut before the guy emerges. “You better watch out, Y/N. I have a feeling one of these might accidentally fall on you. I hope no one’s left a few nails loose, just in case.”
“Don’t let the door hit you on the way out, Jake-ass.” You smile bitterly. “That’s if your massive fucking head lets you go through it in the first place.”
“Children, children, you’re both pretty.” T claps her hands loudly. “Can I please go home now?”
In a split second, her action sets off the loudest orchestral dun dun dun in the lair, massive enough to have the slabs themselves vibrating. It accompanies a heavy string of curses from the four of you after having scared you to half to death.
"Mother of God,” Bucky mutters. “I thought you had that thing removed.”
“So did I. '' You have one hand pressed against your chest to control your heart rate. “Maybe that’s why the light’s going off in the front again.”
“I’m never coming back here.” Jake shakes his head, following T to the door.
“No one’s asking you to, you fuck,” you shout to his back. “Remember to feed Alpine.”
“Remember to fuck off,” he returns, instead, keeping his eyes trained on Bucky as he approached the door. “Sergeant Barnes, always a pleasure.”
“Likewise.”
“Also, I think you left your beanie at the apartment the last time you came over.”
“That’s my beanie now, Bucky, you can’t have it back.” You lift your hand above your head to grab his attention. “Finders keepers.”
Fair enough.
“I was supposed to tell you something.” T pauses as she walks past him.
“Dinner at your place this Friday,” Bucky suggests. As if her boyfriend would let him forget it.
“That.” She snaps her finger in realization. “Jake you’re invited, too.”
“Is Dexter’s Lab back there coming too?” Your roommate points back at you with his thumb.
“I’m her best friend, you imbecile.”
“In that case, I’m not-” Jake begins but T just shoves him out the exit.
The door closes noisily, leaving you both in only a second of silence before you skip down the platform. Bucky watches you snap a cardboard party hat on your head and a grin on your face as you meet him midway.
“Bucky Barnes.” There’s also a little birthday horn-kazoo type thing in your hand. He isn’t really sure what they’re called other than the ‘thing you find under your couch a month after your party’.
“Nemesis,” he replies casually, a smile on his face.
“Husband,” you chortle, stopping a few feet in front of him. “Are you aware what day it is?”
“Saturday.”
You raise a finger to your hat pointedly. “No, genius.”
“It ain’t your birthday, I know that.” He arches an eyebrow. “Is it Alpine’s?”
“It’s our year-iversary.” You blow the kazoo. It unrolls too damn long and almost hits him in the face. “365 days since you kicked down my door like an absolute primate.”
“Oh.” He blinks. Had it been a fucking year already?
“You forgot, didn’t you?”
Bucky rubs the back of his head sheepishly, and mouths off a quick apology. He was better with names and faces.
“It’s fine, I know you're not one for dates,” you say quickly, throwing a folded party hat at him which he grabs deftly. "Explains why you've never asked me on one."
He was working on it.
Or at least he could, if the guy he needed to talk to just picked up the fucking phone-
"I’m kidding,” you emphasize when he seems to zone out. You might have been, but he wasn’t. “Before I try to kill you today, I thought we’d celebrate one year of you and I fucking shit up together.”
One year somehow felt a lot longer and shorter at the same time.
“So, I made a compilation of our greatest hits.” You pull a remote out of your lab coat pocket. “Added a background track and everythin’.”
“Where’d you get the footage?” he asks finally, playing with the string of the cardboard hat. He wasn’t entirely sure it’d fit his head, but maybe it didn’t need to be secured.
“Many, many places.” A smile curves onto your face slowly. “You’ll see.”
With that, you spin around to the TV sets and click a button on the remote.
Nothing turns on.
A small frown appears on your face as you press it with your index finger again. No change.
“Excuse me,” you say to the remote, pressing the button down even harder. It doesn’t budge.
Finally, you resort to the tried and tested method of slamming the back of it against your palm a few times to get it to work again. Big mistake.
The excruciatingly loud soundtrack blasts through the lair again, leaving the slabs rocking again.
“Are you fucking ki-” You jump for the second time, swearing loudly at the speakers.
Bucky’s too busy peering at the now ruined party hat in his hand, crumpled by the force of his hand clamping down on it. “You need to switch that thing off right no-”
“I didn’t turn it on in the first pla-”
A deafening bang from the entrance cuts him off. The world’s just full of loud noises today, wasn’t it.
Both of you turn your heads towards the door simultaneously.
Another large thud against it has the metal trembling in its frame.
“Is that another defect or what?”
“No, I have no idea what it is.” Your eyebrows furrow together. “Maybe that’s why the light’s on.”
“Is your lair going to self-destruct-”
The loudest bang so far and what sounds suspiciously like a gunshot finally has it click in his head.
“Someone’s trying to break down your door,” he observes helpfully.
“How would you kno- oh, I forgot you have plenty of experience with that.” You send him a momentary glare but he doesn’t seem too invested in that.
“Stay here,” he instructs, squaring his shoulders and slowly making his way to the entrance.
“It might be the kidnappers again, Bucky, they’ve been saying they’re gonna make a return soon,” you call out. “If it is, tell ‘em to fuck off.”
“What?” He stops, hand resting on the doorknob. “Since when have they been sayin’ that?”
“We’ll talk about that later,” you insist, shooing him towards the door. “If you get hurt, I’m gonna kill you.”
Bucky rolls his eyes with a smile. It drops from his face abruptly when the door quakes again but this time, he’s swift to yank it open the instant the intruder slams against it.
The person on the other end nearly stumbles forward but Bucky pushes the door close again, effectively shoving him back to his place, leaving it a quarter of a way open.
He springs to his feet with a gun raised but Bucky’s metal arm reaches out and clasps around the barrel tightly. Even if he shoots, it’s no match against the strongest metal on earth.
“Who the hell are you?” Bucky’s voice is gruff.
“Who the hell- Sergeant Barnes?” The guy’s eyebrows furrow. His light blond hair is pulled away from his face, bright blue eyes attentive and quick to do a scan of the man holding onto his weapon.
“Who are you?” Bucky asks again, voice sharp.
“Agent 7.” The man doesn’t lower his gun. “I’ve been assigned to this case.”
“Say what now?” you cut in, immediately dissipating the tension in the air.
“Think you have the wrong address, I’m working this,” Bucky continues on, flesh hand behind the doorway furiously gesturing for you to stay back.
The guy shakes his head, shoulders relaxing slightly. “Direct orders from above, Sergeant. Got them this mornin’.”
“Does S.H.I.E.L.D. tell everyone to kick down doors? Is that, like, an essential part of hiring?” you begin, disregarding the glare that Bucky swiftly sends your way. “No, I’m serious. Why do you guys keep trying to break in like that?”
“Who gave you your orders?” Bucky asks sternly.
“Director Fury.”
Nicholas, you son of a bitch.
“So now I have two agents fighting over me?” You take a step forward. He can only imagine how massive of an ego fuel this would be.
“Fighting you, not fighting over you,” Agent 7 feels the need to point out, “and, I think it’s one of us. Sergeant Barnes, they said they sent you an email.”
Bucky whips out his phone and opens his app faster than he probably ever had before, metal hand still covering the gun.
From: [email protected]
New agent has been assigned to case no. 26102002. You are hereby instructed not to interact with the subject in any professional capacity.
“Hold on now,” Bucky looks up at the newbie after reading the stupid email thrice. “This is the first time I’m hearing of-”
“Am I really this popular?” you ask, wonder in your voice.
“Stop it, you’re not,” Bucky holds his hand out to prevent you from moving forward, enhanced hearing picking up your footsteps.
“I feel like I’m in a fanfic.”
“Do you require assistance, Sergeant?” The agent asks, looking over Bucky’s shoulder at you through the partly opened door.
“Elderly assistance, maybe.” You snort.
“No, I don’t.”
“I was just in the middle of trying to kill him, Agent.”
For the love of God.
“What?” Newbie asks Bucky.
“You’re welcome to join if you want,” you say, suddenly popping up over Bucky’s shoulder.
The man snaps his weapon back up and towards your face in an instant and you disappear behind Bucky again.
“Fuckin’ hell- put that gun away, 7.” Bucky shoves the barrel of the gun down. “Didn’t they brief you about this already?”
“Not really. I was just told to stop her from doing whatever she’s doing.”
“Yeah, well, she’s harmless.” Bucky releases his grip on the gun, instead, inverting and holding out his hand out for the weapon. “So we don’t really need any ammunition.”
“Hey!” you call out, offended.
“Hand over the gun, Agent,” Bucky repeats. “You can check with S.H.I.E.L.D. but they’re just going to tell you the same thing.”
The man stares intently at Bucky for a moment before making a judgement.
In the end, he hesitatingly complies and Bucky tosses the gun to the floor, kicking it far away from anyone’s immediate reach.
“What’s going on here?” Agent 7 inquires when Bucky finally steps aside to let him in.
“Extreme paintball!” you cheer. “Except if you get hit, you, y’know, disintegrate.”
“A disintegrator?” His voice raises a few decibels.
“Inator,” you add, completely unhelpfully. “Do you have another weapon, Agent?”
“I got a couple’a knives.” He glances down at his utility belt.
“That won’t do,” you tut disapprovingly. “I’m too good for that.”
“No, you’re not,” Bucky interrupts, turning to the agent again. “No, she’s not. Don’t use knives either.”
“I don’t take opinions from strangers.” You huff, crossing your arms over your chest.
Bucky halts his next move of asking the agent to hand over his knives.
“What’d you say?” He narrows his eyes at you.
“This man right here, Agent 11-” you point at the person in question.
“Agent 7,” Newbie pipes up.
“Agent 7,” you correct yourself, “is the man assigned to my case. I have no clue who you are.”
“Hilarious,” he says dryly. “Agent, I’m pretty sure this is a mistake. I’ll sort this out with S.H.I.E.L.D., but-”
“Hey, 7.” Agent looks up to see you a few feet away by the screens, pulling open one of the drawers. “Catch.”
You hurl a Nerf gun at him at full speed, whistling when he catches it with one hand even with the lack of time he had to react.
“How’d she get there so fast?” He looks at Bucky who just dismisses it out of hand in exasperation.
“I’ll make it easy for ya. Hit me with a dart and you win.” You jog a few steps over to the machine and grab onto the handlebars. “Alright, dude, you ready?”
Agent 7 looks at Bucky, knowing he could pull rank if he wanted to.
Bucky just sighs and mentions for him to go ahead. Guy had a job to do, he knew that. He wouldn’t come in the way of that.
“Just… avoid,” s the only advice he can offer.
The second his sentence leaves his mouth, there’s a loud whir of a machine and incoming zap before a slab reduces to a pile of ashes on the floor.
Agent 7 springs into action, sprinting behind the closest block. If Bucky was guessing, he’d say the guy intended to weave his way to the front methodically.
Bucky, however, stays rooted to his spot with a new purpose in mind. He pulls his phone out of his jeans again, dialling in a number he may as well have on speed dial at this point.
“I can see you hiding, agent,” you shout, firing at the block the guy had barely managed to shift from. “You’re gonna have to try harder.”
Novice.
Agent 7 does a quick sidestep, releasing a dart quickly. It narrowly misses your arm and you laugh, yanking the inator to cover your exposed side.
“Nice one,” you exclaim over the pew pews. “Pretty good shot you got there, 7.”
Hey now, since when were you on a complimentary basis with the guy you met ten minutes ago?
There’s a click from the other end of his call. Bucky’s attention snaps back to his phone.
“Linda, I swear if Fury-”
“Sergeant Barnes?” She doesn’t even sound surprised anymore.
“Don’t put me on ho-”
“Hold please, Sergeant.”
“For fuck’s sake,” he lets out in frustration when the dumb tune starts ringing again.
“Watch out, Sergeant Barnes.” Agent 7 does a tuck and roll in front of him.
Bucky only watches the man travel by his feet, still remaining unmoving from his spot.
“Yeah, watch out, Sergeant Burns,” you call out. “Agent 7, do you wanna be my new best friend?”
Bucky rolls his eyes.
“That’s unlawful, ma’am.” He fires a shot behind you. You yelp and duck.
That was the same damn issue Bucky had, which Nick could just resolve if he picks up the damn phone-
“I had a friend once.” You launch a shot and it nearly hits Bucky who still doesn’t shift from his place in the middle of the floor. “He was sent to stop me too, real grouch.”
“Quit talkin’ about me like I’m dead,” he says loudly.
“Sometimes I can still hear his voice,” you continue speaking. “I think his name was Jinky or something. Can’t remember.”
“Step away from the weapon, ma’am.”
“Agent, if you stick around long enough, I’ll make us a greatest hits compilation on our anniversary.” You ignore Agent 7.
Bucky scoffs, loud enough for you to hear him. “Real mature.”
“Sorry, John, did you say something?” you yell. “Can’t hear you over the sound of my new best friend running for his life.”
“We are legally not allowed to be friends, ma’am,” Agent 7 repeats in vain, pressing throwing himself to the wall for a second to get out of the way.
“Now I know that’s bullshit because my ex-friend Jones Bones and I were basically married.”
Jones fuckin’ Bones.
“Sergeant Barnes, are we allowed to be friends?” 7 asks, half-panting and wide-eyed.
“I suggest you focus on your work, Agent,” he says, tone wry.
“Don’t listen to him, bestie.” You pull his attention back to you. “You and I till the end.”
Bucky hears someone say something over the phone, and he plugs one finger into his ear to listen in.
“Linda, I don’t need to speak to Fury-”
“We hope you’re still with us! We’ll have you connected in a short while!” the automated voice says enthusiastically.
“Think fast, Agent!” Is followed by the sound of your ray hitting a giant slab in the middle of the room before it eviscerates into dust.
“Motherfucker,” Bucky curses at the voice recording.
The call returns back to the one-hit-wonder lobby music. Like that morning, Bucky wants to throw his phone at the wall.
He turns to the Agent who had landed right behind a slab only to have it disintegrate right before his eyes. He turns white as a ghost.
“You okay?” You lower the ray for a second in concern.
Agent 7 swallows thickly and nods.
“I think you scared the shit outta him.” Bucky looks at him.
“What’d you say, Barry?”
“Oh, fuck you.”
You grin before standing on your tiptoes to look for Agent 7 who had crawled his way to another block in the corner of the room.
“Agent 7, if you need a break you should let me know. I got some Gatorade.”
“You never asked me if I wanted Gatorade,” Bucky protests against the absolute injustice of it all.
“Hey, blondie,” you call out, “if you can hear anyone talk, just tell them I literally pulled out a ring box the second time we met.”
Bucky can see Agent 7’s leg disappear in a quick second behind a block. Poor guy had no idea what he was walking into today.
“There was no ring in the box.”
“Oh, sorry, getting picky now, are we, Becky?”
Bucky rolls his eyes.
“Hello,” the phone chirps again.
His eyes focus on the ground again as he presses it tighter to his ear.
“Jesus, hold on a se-”
“All our lines seem to be busy. We’ll connect you-”
“Okay, that’s enough,” Bucky mutters under his breath before hanging up the call and shoving his phone back into his pocket.
Hands on his hips, he does a quick survey of his surroundings. Most of the slabs were gone. He had the Agent’s location pinned down because of the shadow cast on the ground in front of him. You had taken a quick break to disintegrate the clock on the wall, just for the hell of it.
Bucky sighs before lifting his hands.
Two loud claps and the fucking orchestral theme quakes through the lair.
“Fucking Christ,” you almost screech, letting go of the inator as you stagger back.
He calmly saunters to where the Agent was on the ground, blinking at what just happened. Bucky offers him his grip, pulling him to his feet.
He presses his finger to his lips, mentioning for him to be quiet before raising his hands up again.
“Agent 7, that stranger is a terrible-”
Bucky claps one more time, louder than the last and the remaining slabs shake violently in their place as the dun dun dun goes off again.
“Stop fucking doing that, holy shit!”
“Wait here for a second,” Bucky instructs, “then go up the side. Along the wall, under the speaker in the right corner is the plug point. Just sever the wire.”
Agent 7 nods in a daze, before sneaking off according to Bucky’s instructions, trying his best to hide behind whatever giant obstacle blocks were still remaining.
Bucky steps out, palms raised in surrender. He looks at you up on the platform where you were still standing, hand on your knees as you bent forward to slow your heart rate.
“You gonna shoot me, sweetheart?” Bucky asks, a small smirk on his face as he casually makes his way up to you.
“I might,” you huff, tugging the inator towards him weakly. “You betrayed me.”
“I thought we didn’t know each other.”
“And you just confirmed that,” you mumble. “Traitor.”
He jogs up the stairs, and you twist your body to look at him, leaning on your inator with a reluctant smile on your face that’s only reserved for his idiocy.
“You okay?”
“I hate you,” you say instead.
“Feeling’s mutual.” His lips curve upwards. “Go easy on him, it’s his first day on the job.”
“Yeah, yeah,” you grumble. “Agent, you’re gonna need to get a sharper knife next time.”
Bucky looks over your shoulder only to see Agent 7 freeze for a second before starting sawing at the cable faster.
“You sure there’s gonna be a next time?” He returns his attention back to you.
“Well, you got fired from my case so I don’t see why not.” You cross your arms over your chest. “Right on our year-iversary too.”
“I didn’t get fired,” he says, disgruntled. “Pretty sure it’s a fuckin’ mistake.”
“Maybe we just aren’t meant to be,” you sigh heavily, before turning around. “You done yet, Agent?”
“Yes, ma’am.” 7 stands up straight, tucking his knife into the sheath on his thigh.
“You can leave for the day.”
An awkward silence soon follows. Agent 7 sets his gaze on the disintegrator, a crease between his eyebrows like he’s doing mental calculations.
“Just leave it, I’ll send it to HQ later,” you put the guy out of his confusion.
He doesn’t look entirely convinced, shooting a glance at Bucky who just reaffirms your statement with a nod.
“You can tell ‘em you completed the assignment.” Bucky feels sorry for him. He didn’t have to deal with a makeshift obstacle course and a disintegrator ray the day he met you; only sardonic remarks and meme references he got several months later.
“Sergeant Barnes. Ma’am,” he acknowledges before timidly turning on his heel to leave.
He occasionally throws glances back on his way out to see if you had any other plans he might not be privy to, but you just stand still, watching him with a raised eyebrow.
Agent 7 picks up his gun from the corner of the room before pulling open the door.
Bucky can see the Agent’s phone in his hand as he threw one last look back at you both. In the second before he shuts the door behind him, he raises his phone up to his ear to call who Bucky had no doubt was S.H.I.E.L.D.
“Your best friend’s gone,” Bucky notes.
“How? He’s right here.” You give him a big smile, nudging his foot with yours.
“Oh, so now we’re friends again.” He raises his eyebrows.
“Did we ever stop?”
He shakes his head, giving a small laugh in disbelief. “One year of this shit, huh?”
“I don’t think it counts as a year if he technically stopped me this time.” You click your tongue. “Such a shame, you were at the finish line too.”
“I don’t think he did anything.” Which was sort of true. To his credit, he did manage to keep you distracted enough for Bucky to make a useless call.
“Agent 11-”
“7.”
“Agent 7 was a worthy opponent,” you drawl.
“Right.”
“He was resourceful-” you count on your fingers as you go along- “smart. Totally cute.”
Bucky scoffs out a laugh. “Yeah, that sure helped.”
“It did, distracted me an’ everything.” You tug your arms across your chest defiantly. “I missed a few shots ‘cause I got lost in his baby blues.”
“Uh-huh.”
“You were just too busy being jealous to see it.”
Bucky narrows his eyes at that, entirely unamused.
“What, no clap back?” You snort when he doesn’t respond.
His eyebrow twitches involuntarily.
“Hold on- were you actually jealous?”
You’re holding back a laugh, he can tell. He, on the other hand, is not.
“You were, weren’t you?”
He doesn’t respond again.
Instead, when you finally meet his gaze, it’s so intense you wonder if you made a mistake asking. You can’t find it in yourself to look away.
Bucky takes a step towards you. He never breaks eye contact.
He leans in, agonizingly slow, only inches away from your face. Your breath hitches when his eyes flit downwards.
“No,” he whispers near your ear, voice a few octaves lower. His word tickles your skin, leaving goosebumps in their wake.
He hears you inhale sharply, and he pulls back with a smirk.
“You are-” you stammer, feeling the heat grow spread through your face- “that was completely unnecessary, Benjamin.”
He considers it payback for the several, several teleportation stunts you’ve pulled with him.
“Call me whatever you want.” He takes a step back. “Still doesn’t prove your point.”
Almost like it’s an in-built instinct, the only thing that tumbles out of your mouth is,
“How about I call you mine?”
You cringe. He, however, doesn’t flinch.
“Call me whatever you want,” he repeats, quietly and with a shrug.
You tilt your head at him, eyebrows slightly knitted together. He presses his lips in a straight line, trying to read your expression. The air’s shifted again and he feels strangely squirmish.
A small smile appears on your face. “How about Brick?”
Bucky had had enough.
With the undiluted purpose of man on a mission, he marches straight through the glass doors of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s headquarters in New York.
He stops only to press the button of the elevator, and taps his foot the entire ride at the stupid jingle that had annoyingly been playing on his mind the entire time over here.
He waits for others to exit before punching in the code, letting the system run a biometric and fingerprint scan to grant him access to the topmost floor of the building; a privilege only allowed for a certain set of people. That privilege would probably be stripped away after the stunt he was planning to pull.
“Fury,” Bucky says determinedly, pushing open the door with one hand and striding in.
“Shoulda known you’d show up here eventually.” The man spins around in his chair. “You’ve called my office twenty fuckin’ times in the last two days. She’s clearly had an influence on you.”
Maybe what he called persistence, others called irritation.
He was starting to understand your whole niche a little clearer now.
“Who is Agent 7 and why is he assigned to my case?”
Fury leans forward. “Ain’t that what you wanted?”
“I never asked for a reassignment,” he argues, not bothering to take a seat. “I’ve never even heard of this kid, who is he?”
“7 is one of our top recruits. If you have a problem with him, take it up with Hiring on the fourth floor. Now, if that’s it, stop fucking calling me-”
“That’s not what I called,” Bucky says brazenly. “I had a question.”
Nick’s face shows no change.
“It’s, uh-” Whatever vigour Bucky had when he marched into his office was gone. “It’s about this thing-”
He pauses. Opens his mouth and shuts it again, trying to frame the words correctly.
“Mother of God, it’s like listening to a fourteen year old,” Nick cuts him off. “I know what you wanted to ask. Romanoff asked me the same thing a few days ago.”
“She did?” Bucky clears his throat awkwardly, the potted plants in the corner of the office suddenly looking a lot more interesting.
“She didn’t say it was for you but it don’t take a genius to figure out that’s why you’ve been blowing up my fucking phone.” It’s not fair that Fury picked up Nat’s call just because she’s one of the only people he trusted in the world. “Did you a damn favour, too. You couldn’t even get through one sentence-”
“Alright,” he interrupts, feeling the familiar signs of embarrassment set in, “then why’d you take me off this assignment?”
“So that you don’t have professional obligations towards this,” he says slowly like Bucky’s stupid, which he probably is.
It takes him a second of plain staring before it hits him that it’s a favour. His moral dilemma about asking out someone he’s supposed to stop would be solved.
Still, Bucky is brave and Bucky is an idiot who likes to push his luck in the face of imminent death.
“What if I wanna continue this mission and do the other thing? At the same time?” A conflict of interest, for one.
“The line you’re treadin’ is pretty thin, Barnes,” Nick says, his glare still strong. Bucky’s not sure he’s blinked the entire time he’s been here.
Regardless of whether S.H.I.E.L.D. agreed or not, he was going to eventually do it.
He would rather not have to go through the legal system. Again.
“But, you're not violating any rules.” Nick leans back at last. “She’s still a consultant for us. Her contract just says we need someone to keep her in check so she doesn’t go buck wild, and you seem to be doing that just fine.”
“So, it’s not-” Bucky gestures around vaguely- “illegal?”
“No,” Nick says curtly. “It’s not. She’s not our enemy.”
The relief he feels is only second to the annoying bit of happiness that’s threatening to take over him like wildfire.
“So, it’s all good?” he asks, every word sounding more stupid than the last.
“You hunt aliens on a daily basis, you think I give a shit about who you’re dating?” Nick finally fires back. “Do whatever you want, Barnes.”
He expects half a lecture on not fucking up, or endearing citizens, or compromising but it never comes. Suppose Fury has more faith in him than he thought.
That’s all?
Motherfucker.
“Fury,” he says in a goodbye.
“Barnes.” The reply is immediate.
Bucky nods once seriously before stalking out the same way he came, albeit more awkwardly.
The ride down is a lot more quiet, given that he can’t really focus on the irritating song that’s playing. Instead, his face is turned towards the floor, a hundred different scenarios running through his head concerning a very specific topic.
However, before he leaves, he still has something to complete.
“Linda,” Bucky leans against the receptionist table.
The redhead looks up from her computer, no shift in her expression when she realises who it is. If anything, it only takes a turn for the worst. It’s well deserved.
“Sergeant Barnes, how good to see you,” she says dully. “Director Fury is-”
“I met him,” Bucky cuts in softly before she has to go through the ordeal of explaining the same thing again. “I’m sorry. Thank you for your patience.”
“That’s funny.” Her eyebrows pull together. “I was just going to say that he finally left you a message.”
She rips a sticky note off the telephone and holds it out to him to take.
Bucky silently complies in confusion.
‘Do anything stupid and I have at least six ways to have you killed within the hour.’
He doesn’t doubt it.
Chapter 20: Chapter 17
Chapter Text
“Alright, let’s keep this short,” Tony instructs, his fingers clenched into a fist. “Barnes, you’re covering Rogers. If you see him, you take him down on sight.”
“Copy that.”
Sam points to the right side of the floor plan. “That’s our blindspot. We need someone stationed there.”
“I’ll do it,” Nat volunteers, feet kicked back onto another chair, easy and confident. “Should be easy enough. It’s dark, they won’t see us there.”
“If you see Barton, you shoot. No favouritism.” Tony’s eyes are unforgiving- they don’t have a lot of time to prepare.
Luckily, her answer comes back smoothly. “He’s going down first.”
“Is Vision on our side?” Bucky glances up at the team huddled around the round table, hair pulled back into a low bun and away from his face to eliminate as many distractions as possible. The low hum of the air conditioner, however, he can’t escape.
“He is, but I don’t think he’s really invested.”
“Why?” Nat asks, leaning forward on her elbows, gaze strong. “Is it because Wanda’s on Steve's side?”
“Says he doesn’t want to harm anyone.”
Sam doesn’t look too happy with the revelation. “Does he understand the concept of laser tag?”
“He does, but the guy’s worried his actual laser eyes are gonna act up if he gets too excited.” Tony gives a long drawn exhale. “I don’t wanna pay for the damages to the arena again.”
The bi-annual laser tag night tended to get... intense.
Tony’s had to pay to remodel the place a few times over already; the only reason they’re not banned so far. For all the complaining he did, no one knows why he was the one who fervently kept the tradition going then.
“You can put him in the corner or something,” Sam suggests. “Like a Christmas Tree. He’s got the colours for it too.”
“Vision moves to the corner.” Tony drags the Top Hat piece from the shared Monopoly board to the corner of the chart. “Barnes, you should flirt with the guy at the front desk, get him to disable their guns for a while.”
“I did that last time.”
“And it worked like a charm,” Tony says, fingers entwined with each other as he looks at him expectantly. “Do it again.”
“No.” For the record, Bucky thought the guy was really cute. Hell, they even went out for dinner once after Clint managed to create a human-sized hole in one of the arena walls. “He’s in a relationship now.”
“Fine, then we need a new strategy.” The blueprint of the arena had a bunch of scribbles on it of possible vantage points, a few Monopoly pieces to represent team members. Bucky’s been stuck as the thimble for the last one hour and he fucking hates it.
The Tower cafeteria was more or less empty, providing them a good meeting spot for their strategic sessions. Steve’s team took up the common room like the hoarders that they were, establishing their rule over the room as early as four in the morning. It’s not like they were planning the entire day; it was pure pettiness and spite, forcing everyone else to find another place to meet.
But Steve’s team probably didn’t track down the contractor and bribe them to get the floorplan of the building. Steve’s stupid team was probably drinking tea and watching Jeopardy like the old fucks that they were.
Steve should have been the thimble.
“What about Wanda?” Sam brings up a new point. “She’s annoyingly good at this.”
“Yeah, she has the whole glowy thing going on, it’s confusing-”
There’s a loud crash from beside them- table hitting chairs, the clang of metal against tiled floors.
“Spy!” Tony whips around, fury in his eyes. “Instant disqualifica-”
Except it’s not a spy.
You kick a chair away from yourself in an attempt to detangle your body from the cafeteria furniture, stepping ungracefully over the gigantic mess you managed to create within the ten seconds you were there.
Bucky’s not even surprised.
“Fuckin’ there you are. Finally.” You huff out a breath before plastering a smile on your face. “Hey, guys.”
Sam and Nat just wave, while Tony doesn’t move.
“Hey,” Bucky says. “What’re you doing here?”
“Are you busy?”
“Not really.” He takes a peek at the more or less finished battle plan, knowing that on the day, all this nonsense would be forgotten in exchange for unbridled chaos. Still, Tony pays and therefore everyone indulges him. “Why?”
“D’you wanna go do something?”
“Do what?”
“You’ll see.” The grin on your face is telling. “Wanna go?”
He does a quick survey of the table’s occupants, finding only nods of affirmation. “Give me ten.”
“Cool. See you.” Your form vanishes following a small wave.
Bucky returns back to the plan as if nothing happened, finishing off the little drawing he was making of Steve, complete with his stupid frisbee in the centre of the room.
You reappear approximately four seconds later, looking slightly embarrassed.
“I forgot to tell you where we were going."
"You can just text me," he reminds you without even giving you a glance.
"Yeah, okay, bye.” Before you take your leave this time, you turn to the others and shoot them finger guns. “Looking good, guys"
“You too, Y/N,” Nat calls out. You blow her a kiss and disappear.
Bucky taps on the blueprint. “Sam’s taking the left, I’ll cover Steve. Nat can do whatever she wants.”
“Hold on-” Tony holds up a finger, all interest in his Athenian war strategy currently lost.
“I’ll take Wanda if you handle Clint,” Nat offers and Sam agrees. “Stark?”
“Whatever.” Tony stares at where you were just a second ago. “Does anyone wanna tell me how she was able to bypass six layers of security?”
“Oh, she can teleport.” Bucky stretches his arms above his head to get rid of the soreness.
“She can what?”
He knocks over the thimble with a unique sort of annoyance before letting out a, "Yeah.”
“She can fuckin’ teleport and no one thought it’d be useful for us?” Tony asks the remaining members, all of whom don’t really have an answer. “Climate change’s still a thing, think about our carbon footprint.”
Bucky pushes himself away from the table, chair scraping against the ground. "Catch you guys later.”
Nat’s feet shift to occupy Bucky’s chair. “Everything we use runs on sustainable energy. This table is biodegradable.”
“Think about the foot, Natalia.”
Just a regular old Wednesday.
Bucky shoves his hands further into his leather jacket, doing a brisk walk to catch up to you at the entrance of the parking lot. The whole affair is a fair distance away from actual civilization, but he knows why you’ve brought him here.
Your backpack’s pulled over your shoulder as usual, and you’re looking down at your phone until you hear his heavy footsteps approach.
“You made it.” Your eyes light up, tucking your phone into your pocket.
“I did.”
You stick your hand out for a handshake. Bucky looks at you incredulously.
“Colleague.”
He knows it’s a joke, he can’t really explain the things you did sometimes. But he notices the bracelet he gave you strung across your wrist as you jut your hand out further, it pulls an unnatural twinge of happiness from deep within his stomach.
“Fellow associate.“ He shakes the outstretched palm firmly. “I brought the motorcycle. Now, will you explain why?”
“Nothing, it’s just been a while since I’ve seen that beauty,” you coo, dropping his hand, “and the live thirst trap of you on it.”
“Coulda just asked for a picture.”
“Why would I do that when I could just have the real thing?”
Touche.
“Is there a reason we’re just standing around a parking lot?” he asks, scouring the land that was filled with vehicles for as far as he could see.
“Yeah, thought it’d be fun to look at bumper stickers.” You throw a nod towards a car. “That one there says ‘Caution, this vehicle makes frequent stops at your mom’s house’.”
“Interesting.”
You look back at him with a smile playing at your lips. “The circus is in town and they built a fair around it.”
“I didn’t know your family was visiting.”
Your jaw drops. “You callin’ me a clown, Mr Barnes?”
“I’m sorry.” He stifles a laugh.
“You should be, that was mean.” Still, you gesture for him to walk with you.
“Thought you’d be used to it by now.”
“Clearly I’m not.” You huff. “Which means you should be seeing me a lot more.”
“Weekends not enough for you?”
“Never,” you drag out. “That’s for work.”
“We’ve spent time outside of that,” he points out. “Pretty sure there was no inator two weeks ago at the bowling alley.”
“Did you think I got six strikes in a row just because I’m good at bowling?”
No, he didn’t. He called you a cheater right after the first one. “I’m talkin’ about ‘taking over the tristate area’, ‘ending the world' inators.”
“Oh yeah, none of those,” you agree. “Guess we do spend time outside of work.”
“And that’s not enough either?”
“Never,” you drawl again, “because you’re totally hot.”
Bucky’s laugh is airy.
“What?” You look at him teasingly. “You are.”
The corner of his eye catches your movement. “If you told me a year ago that I’d be hanging out with you outside of work, I’d call bullshit.”
“Was it my charm that wore you down?”
“You were never the problem in the first place.”
It’s a little confusing to you. “Then what was?”
“I don’t know.” Bucky pauses. “Never thought anyone would wanna do that.”
He knows the silence is your way of giving him space; passing the ball to his court in case he wanted to talk. He can only hope he doesn’t come off as a pick-me-boy, or whatever else that specific brand of people he’s seen YouTube compilations of are.
“I don’t know,” he repeats, the phrase his crutch. “You know that day when you were trying to take the sun or whatever?”
“Harness the power of the sun.”
“That.” Bucky nods. “And you zapped me with that thing and I lost my powers for like, ten minutes?”
“Yeah,” you say slowly and more like a question, unsure of what that stupid plan from well over a year ago had to do with this.
He gives you a half-smile. “Couldn’t stop thinking about how if I don’t have them, I don’t have anything. No real reason for me to be around.”
There’s a moment of quiet as you process what he just said. He wonders if he worded it right since he didn’t really bring this up with anyone other than his therapist, and he was always so calculated with her.
“Bucky, I'm so sorry.” Your eyes soften. It’s like a blow to your gut.
“You got nothin’ to be sorry for, wasn’t your fault,” he dismisses the notion immediately, making sure to look you in the eye as he did it. “It’d been there for a while. Just realised it that day.”
“Still.” You bite your lip. “I didn't know you felt like that.”
“I don’t. Not anymore.” Bucky shrugs. “At least not as much. Therapy helps.”
“You still going twice a week?”
“For now.” He sends you a quick glance. “Have a feeling it’s gonna go down soon.”
“Oh?”
Bucky simply nods. Things were good; had been for a while now. It’s clearer in his head now that it has been in months.
“Doc says hanging out with you helped,” he puts forth, staring straight ahead because it’s difficult to meet your eye at the moment, “a lot. I think that too.”
It’s met with a distinct lack of response that he knows isn’t a negative sign. It’s contemplative, thoughtful- he knows it well enough by now.
“I don’t know if you remember,” you begin, looking at him, “when I said that if I had one hour to live, I’d lie with my friends on grass or some shit.”
Bucky does, clear as day.
"I'm very selective about who’s invited."
"Yeah?" He raises an eyebrow.
"So the only people there is the cashier from my grocery store, the cast of Twilight, T, Jake, Alpine, every single person who's ever appeared on an MTV show, the One Direction boys and the man who once tried to sell me illegal CDs in the subway."
"Small list," he notes.
"Yeah." You nudge his shoulder. "You're there too."
He gives a short exhale in the form of a laugh, a faint smile on his face. “Good to know.”
The evening’s slipping into dark and the smell of sugary confectioneries is getting stronger. There’s a shift in the atmosphere with the bright orange lights casting a glow in the air and excited chattering in the distance. It makes his heart swell.
“I’m really proud of you, Buck.” It’s sincere, kind and said while looking him straight in the eye. His stomach does a little twist.
“Thank you,” he says softly.
You link your elbow with his, pulling him closer. His hands are still tucked deep into his pockets, keeping his arm steady enough to support yours.
“Okay, back to our regularly scheduled flirting,” you announce, tearing your eyes away from the flyer at the entrance. “Superpowers or not, I’d still pick you to take home.”
Bucky smiles widely. “To the circus?”
“You dick.” You laugh loudly. “Yes, to the circus.”
The grounds are crowded and the whole event just lifts with joy. It reminds him of summers at Coney Island, and more recently, the team’s outing to Six Flags.
“What’s the plan for this evening?”
“No plan, just vibes.”
“Bullshit.” He laughs.
“Maybe there’s one plan,” you test. “But, for now, it’s irrelevant.”
“You’re not gonna tell me, are you?”
“Nah,” you say, “unless you want me to tell you now, you can confiscate the stuff and we go back home.”
He thinks it over for a second. Pretends to, more like, just for the sake of it because you and him both know he’s in too deep now.
“Do you think they sell orange soda?”
Unsurprisingly, any game which requires Bucky to use a gun is an instant win, regardless of how many churros he has in one hand while doing it. The record so far is three.
Every stuffed animal makes its way into the void of your backpack for safekeeping. Till now there’s a wolf, an alligator, a dog and two ducks at your behest.
However, and as much as he hates to admit it, the only thing he can’t seem to figure out is the fucking claw machine.
A good fifteen minutes has already been spent at it while Bucky tries to win a stupid cat. Not because he has any particular inclination towards it, but the fact that he grew up with siblings makes his competitive spirit jump out a little higher this time. He will get that shitty stuffed animal even if his life depends on it.
“Move it an inch,” you encourage, holding onto his churros for him, only occasionally taking a bite, “or else we’re gonna be here all night, Buck.”
“Better tell Jake not to wait up,” he mumbles, trying to calculate the trajectory of the claw’s drop and the distance between the cat and him for reasons.
“Jake’s at yoga camp or something.” You dip it into the chocolate, taking another bite. “So you should definitely come over. You can move in for three weeks, I’ll even throw out his stuff for you.”
“I got a mission,” he says distantly, eyes focused on the stuffed cat in the corner of the glass cage. “Leavin’ this Sunday.”
“When are you coming back?”
“In two weeks.”
“How do I live without you for two weeks, honey?”
“I’m sure you'll manage, darling,” he dishes right back, hearing you bark out a laugh.
Bucky only lifts his head to make sure that there’s no line forming behind him. Other than the two people that had been staring at the machine for a while waiting their turn, there seems to be no one. The other console was free, but this one clearly had the bigger and better prizes so no wonder they were hellbent on staying here. Sucks to be them, the night was still young and Bucky had an incredible amount of determination.
“Move it an inch,” you advise again through a mouth full of fried dough.
“You’ve been saying that for the last ten minutes.” His body towers over the tiny console.
“Because I’m right. Your aim’s always a little bit off.”
“My aim’s fine, this game’s rigged.” He drops the claw again, watching with extreme optimism as the claw drops onto the cat.
By the miracle of God himself, it’s lifted up by its ear, making its way to the drop-
Before it falls again.
Bucky curses loudly in an exciting mix of Russian and English.
“Move,” you announce, dusting your hands off. “Let the expert show you how it’s done.”
He sighs, taking a step back.
“I’m gonna be mad if you get this,” he says playfully, relenting.
“Yeah?” You hand him the churro. “What animal do you want?”
He scans through the available toys, finally using the churro as a pointer. “That bear.”
“I’m gonna win three, just to piss you off.”
“That’s impossible.”
“Watch me.” The mischief in your face makes a return. “If I win, what do I get?”
“A stuffed animal.”
“That’s for you. I need an incentive.”
“First win, then we’ll see.”
“Why?” You raise an eyebrow. “You got somethin’ in mind already?”
Yeah. Another churro from the food truck near the entrance. Maybe a date. Possibly another duck plushy.
“You’ll just have to see,” he replies, pointing to the machine. “Go on.”
“I love a good tale of suspense.” You crack your knuckles before inserting a coin into the machine and positioning yourself. A lot of theatrics just for a claw game that you were inevitably going to lose.
Bucky spends the few minutes before the blow to your ego looking for the next thing to do.
There was still one of those strength tester games where he’d have to hit hard enough to ring a bell, but he’s pretty sure he can’t get away with winning a game like that and not draw attention to himself. The roller coaster was an option, the actual circus too. More churros- God, they were fucking addictive.
While turning, he catches sight of the guys still waiting in line for their turn again, considering sending them an apologetic stare. They look away immediately, just as Bucky faces them.
His eyebrows knit together.
“Do they look familiar to you?” Bucky squints at the pair who were now forcing a laugh between themselves in an attempt to throw off suspicion.
“Who?” You bite your lip, edging the controller a bit to the left.
“The guys standing there, ten o’clock.” He turns back to the machine, the hair at the back of his neck standing upright. His senses automatically switch to high alert.
“You trynna distract me, Barnes?” You keep your eyes trained on the claw’s shadow. “You can try but there’s no way I’m not winning.”
“No, I’m serious.” Bucky doesn’t back down from their stare, running through a list of faces for a possible name. “They’ve been watching us for a while now.”
You finally pull your eyes away from the bear and towards the guys Bucky was holding a steadfast gaze with. They give up on their act of subtlety, instead, going eerily silent.
“You know ‘em?”
“Oh, he’s one of the guys who kidnapped me.”
“What?” Bucky watches the both of them press a phone to their ear, speaking hurriedly into it. Backup, definitely.
“Both of them are, actually,” you say on closer inspection.
No wonder they looked familiar. The last time he saw them, they were withering on the floor of the room you were locked in.
“I’m gonna go deal with them before this gets outta hand.” He was having fun, there was no reason the evening should be ruined by those assholes.
“No, don’t.” You pull him back by the sleeve of his jacket. “Whole gang’s here, by the looks of it.”
In a second you were proven right. More and more people started showing up pretty rapidly, banding together to form a group of adults dressed as the cast of The Matrix. The both of you were definitely outnumbered, but Bucky’s dealt with worse. The only issue was the crowd of bystanders that would serve as collateral damage.
Their leader, a guy Bucky doesn’t even remember, stands right at the front. His one hand finds its way into his pocket and he keeps it posed there.
“This is ridiculous.” Bucky rolls his eyes at the absurdity of the whole situation. “We’ve done this once, we can do it again.”
“We should run,” you say casually.
“Why?” He peers at you.
“They have one of those kill-rays or something.”
“What?”
“They brought a kill-ray. Death-ray, whatever,” you explain. “We actually might have a very real chance of dying.”
“What?”
“I’m evil but I’m not a fuckin’ piece of shit.” You don’t look at all impressed. “Death-rays are so violent, and for what?”
“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” he mutters.
“I’m very serious.” You look straight ahead to where one of them shouts a signal. “Look, he’s holding it up right now. If this thing works the way they want it to, and I’m not sure it does, then-”
There’s a large zap before the machine right next to you disappears, leaving a large empty space on the ground.
“My fuckin’ claw machine!” you cry out. “I was so close to winning, you assholes-”
Bucky, however, doesn’t wait for another shot. He grabs hold of your backpack and pulls you behind the remaining claw machine before breaking out into a run.
“How do you know it’s a death-ray?” Bucky shouts, hearing them yell instructions at each other; various ways to get you.
“I’ve seen those plans before-” you’re cut off with a yelp as their ray hits a large stuffed kangaroo hanging on display outside a game stall, only inches away from your face. “I don’t think it actually-”
“Over there!” You hear one of them in the distance.
You don’t get time to assess how far they are before Bucky points to a large grey building, “In there.”
You comply, keeping your head low and pushing your way through anyone in your way before jumping straight in.
Reflections of yourself from what seems like all sides hit you in the face, forcing you to falter in your footsteps. The House of Mirrors was probably not the best place to hide.
“You’ve gotta be shittin’ me.” Bucky has the same thought as you.
“Don’t run,” you tell him, holding your hand out to feel for mirrors in front of you as you walk as fast as you can alongside him. “Sometimes they just use glass to confuse you.”
“Wasn’t plannin’ to.” His eyes search the ceilings and floors where the large mirrors were attached, looking for a tell in the way they were arranged. There was yellow tape along the glass, so maybe if they-
Bucky walks straight into you, paused in front of a mirror. You don’t budge, clearly enamoured by whatever’s captured your attention.
“Look, my face is all weird.” You grin, pointing to one of the misshapen ones. Sure enough, your reflection was stretched long and wide, the smile on your face all distorted.
“Still look great,” he comments, prodding at you to continue walking. His face didn’t look much different from yours either.
“Aw, thanks,” you coo. “You do too. Look at us, power couple.”
“Keep it moving, Y/N,” he urges, with an exasperated smile, fully intending to just get out of there and hide in a more secure location.
For a second you’re distracted enough to forget your situation. “D’you wanna take a pic-”
You’re rudely reminded of it a second later through a series of screams and incomprehensible dialogue. You hurriedly pick up the pace, using your arm in front of you as a guide, only occasionally running into a mirror with a small ‘oof’.
The exit signs were starting to increase in frequency. “Almost there-”
“Found them!” One of them yells.
Bucky’s brisk walking shifts into a jog, “We need to get out-”
Not even a second later his body comes to a grinding halt, stomach dropping.
The gang glares back at him. No one moves until their leader pushes through the members to make his way to the front. They part like the Red Sea.
“We meet again,” he snarls, low and menacing, gun held up to his chest.
“Yo,” you say.
Bucky holds a hand out in front of you. You resist the urge to give him a high-five, knowing that as funny as it’d be for you, he was in no mood to joke.
“I got this, we’re fine,” you whisper, letting your fingers rest gently on the small of his back to ground him. “I’m gonna talk to them, and then we’re gonna get out of here.”
Bucky looks at you, a crease between his eyebrows. You want nothing more than to smooth it away.
He reluctantly lets his hand fall, eyes trained on you.
The group watches you intently as you take a bold step forward. You scan through them, unfazed until your sight finally zeroes in on their leader.
“Hold on, I remember you.” You narrow your eyes. His ears perk up. “You’re Mega Dick.”
“Megedagik,” he roars, immediately resorting back to his heavy breathing from all the running they just did.
“Calm down, dude.” You roll your eyes. “You weren’t in charge the last time I saw you. Where’s Chad?”
“That’s because I rose through the ranks.” He puffs out his chest. “I duelled and fought-”
“Chad quit after the whole showdown in the warehouse,” one of the ones in the back pipes up. “S.H.I.E.L.D. roughed him up real bad.”
“Oh no,” you say empathetically. “Must have been tough, new management and all.”
“Yeah, took a while to get the band back-” the guy doesn’t continue as someone whacks him over the head rather loudly to get him to shut up.
“So, you’re like-” You turn your attention back to their leader, wiggling a finger at him “-in charge now?“
“Yes, and I’m gonna-” Megedagik takes a step towards you.
“What’s your team name?” you interrupt.
“What?” He pauses, eyebrows knitting together.
“What’s your team name? Your evil organisation name,” you clarify. “I know you weebs have one. What is it?”
“Obsidian Crew,” your oversharer from before prompts up again. Someone says his name- Nico- to get him to stop, but he soldiers on. “What’s yours?”
“Hey, what’s our team name?” You twist your head towards Bucky who just looks back at you in confusion, clearly dragged away from whatever train of thought he was following.
“We don’t have…” he trails off.
You hum. “What’s the last show you watched?”
“Brooklyn Nine-Nine.”
You spin around to face them. “Team Sex Tape, bitch!”
“No.” Bucky’s eyes nearly bug out of his head.
“Fine, Team Dumbass.”
His lips turn downward in a ‘fair enough’.
“We don’t car-”
“Is that a death ray?” You return to your conversation with the guy in charge.
“We’re not really sure what it does,” Nico says from the back. “We just found the blueprints off the internet.”
“How are you so sure it works, then?” you challenge. “What if it just sends people to Jersey?”
Horrifying, Bucky thinks. A fate worse than death.
“It might, actually-”
Megedagik just exhales deeply, eyes rolling so hard you could see the whites.
“Dude, you’re gonna get us fired,” his partner whispers furiously.
“Sorry, bro.” Nico doesn’t sound like he cares too much. Bucky knows you just found your newest talking point.
“Mr Dick, your employees don’t sound very happy,” you quip. “Is the allowance not good, or-”
Bossman charges full speed towards you with a battle cry.
Bucky damn near pushes you, forcing you to start running. Behind him, you hear a large thunk as they run straight into the mirror they were too stupid to realise was there.
“I told you we’d be fine.” You laugh as he navigates you out the exit cleverly, clearly having figured out the structure of the building like the smartass that he was.
“We are not fine, we are very not fine,” he murmurs, taking a sudden turn into the crowd forming outside the circus to try and lose them.
People either jump out of the way or are rather uncomfortably pushed aside as Bucky weaves through the audience in a desperate attempt to find a decent place to call for backup.
“What’s our plan here?” he shouts, forcing you to keep your eyes on him so he doesn’t lose sight of you.
“To run,” you call back unhelpfully, apologizing in a rush to a woman you bump shoulders with.
“After that!”
“We haven’t gotten to that part ye-” You stop dead in your tracks, dragging him back with impressive force. “Wait, wait, wait!”
He skids to a halt, eyes wide. “What?”
“Bear,” you say excitedly, pointing at the shelf over the rows of stuffed animals at the milk bottle game. “I wanna try.”
“Are you kidding me,” he hisses.
“Absolutely not.” You’re already halfway through handing the money over to the game operator who slides three balls over at you. “I got this, hold on. My chance to win this for you.”
“They’re still in pursuit.” He knows for a fact that the dumb game is rigged. He can see remnants of tape and chipped wood on the table and either way, the stall owner looks slimy enough.
“I am in pursuit-” You hold a ball with one eye closed in aim “-of this bear.”
“Just give me that.” He grabs two of the three balls off the table.
With speed, accuracy and strength that no human should possibly possess, he knocks down two of the battle pyramids clean off the shelf.
Bucky turns to you. “Throw it,” he says impatiently.
“Uh, you can have it.” You hand the last one to him. “If you miss, it’s gonna be embarrassing for both of us.”
But he doesn’t, and in between whipping around and looking for a sign of where they are, he points out the stupid bear from the line-up.
The shop owner moves much too slowly for his liking, and by the time you’ve gotten the stuffed animal of your choice, he can see them round the corner and end up a few stalls away from you.
“Y/N.”
“Coming, coming.” He agonizingly watches you zip the backpack closed, swing it across your shoulder and clear your throat before bursting into a sprint.
He struggles to pull his phone out of his pocket while he’s running, forcing him to re-evaluate whether switching from tactical clothing to jeans and t-shirts for these outings was really the best choice he could have made. At least he’d have a stun gun or something hidden away on the other thing.
“Buck,” you call loudly.
“No more games,” he shouts, looking at you in warning.
You grin.
In a quick second, you take a sharp turn and yank him into a tiny space, illuminated by a single light bulb.
“Fuckin’ hell,” he groans when you drag the curtain shut and push him down on the tiny seat.
“Would you look at that?” you gush. “We’re in a photo booth.”
Bucky’s too busy dialling Hill’s number to care about whatever shit you were up to. “Keep your volume down.”
“Sergeant Barnes-” She picks up immediately, knowing that never calls her line directly without good reason.
“Code six,” he cuts her off mid-greeting. “Case number 8475. Hill, I thought we dealt with these idiots months ago.”
There’s a flash of light from beside him and he glances over only for a second to make sure you’re okay before turning his attention to the ceiling of the booth to look for any openings.
“Where are you?”
Another bright flash of light and he can hear you laugh. His mind goes into overdrive.
“The fair downtown.” He pulls the curtain back slightly to see where the people chasing both of you were.
Bucky watches one of them run past and he pulls the curtain shut again, swiftly retreating. There’s no curtain on your side, just the wall. He's glad you’re not directly exposed to danger right now.
His gaze is in the middle of travelling from the wall to you when the third flash goes off. He frowns at the little screen in front of him.
“Get them out of there, too many civilians,” she directs. “We’ll send someone down.”
The fourth burst of light catches him by surprise while he’s looking directly at the screen, leaving him blinking furiously.
Bucky feels you nudge his side.
“Sergeant Barnes?”
“Uh, yeah.” He closes his eyes to get rid of the spots that are dancing in front of his vision.
“Get out on the east side. Take that road, stay clear of any residential areas.”
“Noted.” Bucky hangs up, shoving the phone back into his pocket. They were instructions he already knew; he just needed to let them know he might require backup.
“What’d she say?”
“You need to leave.” His voice is serious with no hint of the humour or lightness that had been there all evening.
“Like hell I’m leaving you.” You scoff. He opens his mouth to protest but you just cut him off. “Don’t even start with that self-sacrificial bullshit now, you know I’m not going to listen. What’s the actual plan?”
He rolls his eyes, mumbling a whole lot to himself before saying, “We need to lead them away from here.”
“Are we working together now?” you ask as he pulls the curtain back again. “That’s so exciting for us.”
“We are not.” The path is clear, or so he thinks. Them wearing black trench coats made them easier to spot. “This is not a mission. You’re leaving the first chance you get.”
“Fine, then the least we could do is kiss.” You peek over his body to check the coast too. “Like in the movies, right before we race off into danger.”
“The only thing we’re doing right now is running.” Bucky turns back to compose himself, planning a route out in his mind.
“Fine, we’ll talk about this later.”
Whether it was the adrenaline of the evening so far or the possibility of death looming over your heads, he takes a moment to really stop for a second.
The light bulb casts a shadow over your face and there are beads of sweat lining your skin, but he still thinks you look beautiful. His eyes run over your entire face for any sign of injury or distress. Nothing of the sort, just an excited face looking back at him questioningly.
“You ready?” he asks, voice surprisingly soft.
“As ready as I’ll ever be, partner.”
Bucky’s lips upturn in a small smile. “Let’s go.”
The pit stop proves to be useful. It’s easier to navigate when the both of you are not running around with the directional sensibility of a headless chicken.
He knows for a fact that they’re all over the place and that both of you trying to blend into the crowd is not really possible when people are leaping away from you, leaving a trail of gasps and angry complaints, but he hopes for a clear road to the parking lot.
“You know what’s a good place to hide?” you ask with a grin. “The ferris wheel.”
“No,” he says immediately, pointing to the right. You follow without a question, and the path takes you behind a row of food trucks.
“Why?” you whine. “Is it because you’re scared of being with me for too long in one of the most cliche romantic setups ever? Not like we didn’t just do that.”
“There are no exits, we’re in open air, the booth is unstable, and it moves too slowly,” he lists off, head turning to see if anyone was following you. His pace drops by the tiniest bit, just so that he always has your back covered.
“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” you dismiss. “Murder shmurder. Just say you don’t want us to kiss and go.”
He sends you a side-eye. “Now when did I say that?”
You’re only left to gape at him as the border of the fair comes into view, a thin barbed wire fence separating the attendees from the rest of the city.
You know for a fact that he plotted this route to specifically avoid people, since no one really strays this far out, leaving it the least populated area of the entire event.
“Okay, once we get to the parking lot, you’re gonna leave,” Bucky instructs. “I’ll get them away from here unt-”
Something whizzes past his ear and hits the fence, leaving a gaping hole in its wake. You pull him back harshly, heart jumping to your mouth.
“Not so fast!” One of them yells from behind you, but you pay no heed to it.
“You okay?” you ask Bucky quietly. He nods, giving you a tight smile in reassurance before turning around slowly.
“You didn’t think we would let you get away so easily, did you?”
As if that was the plan anyway. Losers.
“You really wanna get involved with S.H.I.E.L.D. again?” Bucky questions as they surround you, leaving no room to escape unless he ploughs through them. “They let you off easy last time.”
“Easy?” Megadigik guffaws, loud and obnoxious. “They ruined our fucking lives.”
“You kidnapped me, asshole,” you call out. “In case you forgot, that’s illegal.”
He turns to face you. “You weren’t even worth it.”
You scoff, offended. “Take that back right now.”
“You will pay,” Megadigik bellows, raising the gun high.
“Fuck you,” you spit, specks of blood landing on the ground in front of you.
Nothing moves for a second.
“Why are you bleeding?” The leader looks at his comrades. “None of us have touched you yet.”
“Yeah, exactly. What the fuck?” Bucky voices out loudly. “Where is this coming from?”
“Just let me do my thing,” you insist, pulling out a napkin to dab at your mouth. It was probably the same one you got from the churro lady.
“You’ve been with me the entire evening, when’d you get hurt?” Bucky takes a step towards you.
“I’m not hurt, oh, my God,” you exclaim, throwing your hands forward. “Can’t a girl cough up some fake blood every once and a while?”
“It’s not real?” Nico, the only valid henchman ever, asks in wonder. “That’s so cool.”
You beam at him. “I know right? It’s this little switch-”
Bucky lets out a singular cough in disbelief. “You’re-”
“Yeah, yeah, annoying. I know, we get the drill.” You wave, cutting Bucky off.
“I wasn’t gonna say annoying.”
“You certainly weren’t going to say ‘love of my life’, were you?” you fire back.
“Maybe I was, how would you know?” he argues.
A green light hits the fence behind you violently.
You yelp and duck, dragging Bucky down with you. “Motherfucker.”
“Shut up, the both of you!”
“Don’t you tell him to shut up!” you exclaim. “Only I get to do that.”
“I don’t care,” Megedagik rages.
“Maybe don’t try to piss off the guy who has a death gun in his hand,” Bucky murmurs, tugging you back slightly.
“He’s pissing me off.”
“Do you have a death ray in your hand?” he presses. “Then stop trying to get us killed.”
“It’s not a death- ugh, fine” You roll your eyes. “Since you would rather take his side than mine-”
Without any warning, an explosive sound rings through the air. A thick cloud of blue smoke stings eyes that respond too slowly to it. In the middle of it are shouts of confusion and gagging.
“Run, run, run, run.” You shove at Bucky from behind. His training kicks in as he backhands a henchman out of the way before grabbing onto your hand and breaking out into a sprint.
“Where the fuck did that come from?” he yells, pulling you along as fast as he could.
You lift your hand and shake your wrist to prove your point. The little gift he gave you on Valentine’s day rattles against your skin.
“You turned the fuckin’ thing into an inator?” Fuck, it’s insane how much he likes you.
“Obviously,” you shout. “You know, maybe we should be Team Bracelet.”
“Shut up and run.” He wants to laugh.
“Bracelet Bitches.” You have no reservations about it, however. “Look, there’s a Whack-a-Mole over there, let’s-”
“Y/N.” Never mind, he takes back everything he thought a few seconds ago. He dislikes you very much.
“Bucky,” you say back mockingly. “Don’t let them distract you from the fact that we can destroy every stall here. We still have to hit the rides-”
“We are leaving.”
“But my rollercoaster,” you complain, your list of priorities very well sorted.
“Just build one.”
“What am I, eight?” You sound like the mere thought of it is silly. “And, where do you propose I build one? In my backyard?”
“Wouldn’t be the worst thing you’ve done.” Definitely wouldn’t.
Regardless of your carnival fun regrettably slipping through your fingers, you sprint towards the open parking lot, dodging in between cars and other automobiles to throw them off your trail
It takes a whole minute before you end up at his bike which he managed to park as far away as possible. It was like he knew it’d make your life harder, like the nemesis he was.
“Jesus fuck, we’re never doing that again,” you wheeze, bending over slightly.
“We gotta go.” He leans beside your body to check how far behind they were. “The longer they stay here, the more dangerous it is for everyone else.”
“They’re so irritating,” you groan. “Just leave it up to S.H.I.E.L.D., we’re out of here. Where’s your teleportation watch?”
Bucky returns his attention to you. “What?”
“Your teleportation watch,” you repeat.
“Why would I bring my fucking teleportation watch when I have my bike?” he retorts. “Where’s yours?”
You smile brightly. “Why would I bring my teleportation watch when you brought your bike?”
He doesn’t know whether he wants to kill you or kiss you.
“Also-” You lift up your hand which still had his metal fingers clasped around it. “You plannin’ on letting go? Or are we just gonna hold hands for the rest of the night?”
“Like you’d have a problem with that.” He rolls his eyes.
“I wouldn’t,” you say, “but I need both of ‘em for this next part.”
You hold up your free hand, jingling the keys to his bike.
“How did you-” His eyes widen.
“Get on,” you instruct.
“When did you get my fucking-” Bucky’s question never completes as blue dust-covered buffoons point at you from across the parking lot, yelling obscenities. Like an r-rated Smurfs.
“We’ll argue about that later,” you urge. “Get on the bike.”
“You are not driving.”
Your gasp is accusatory. “You said I could drive!”
“To your clone.”
“It’s the same thing, it counts. ” You look behind to where they were now running towards you. “And we’re in a time crunch here, so let’s go.”
They were getting awfully close. “Do you even know how to drive?”
“Fuck yes.” Your eyes gleam. “I actually got the stupid license just to prove that I could.”
“You have the license here? Right now?” His eyebrows furrow. “Why would you-”
“Get on the bike, Bucky,” you say loudly.
He can hear the sliding of a van door shut before headlights turn on in the distance. Their ride sputters to life.
Still, he’s not one to break a promise, especially to you or your clone. “If we die, it’s on you.”
“At least we die together, lover.” You press your palm to his cheek. His heart flutters annoyingly.
A ray hits the pole beside you and it instantly disintegrates. “Okay, but get on right now, we gotta go.”
“We’re so fucked,” he says under his breath, but he straddles it anyway, not before pulling the helmet down on your head and tightening the strap.
“Have some faith, dude.” You rev the engine loud enough to be heard across the city.
“We’re gonna die.”
“We’re gonna survive.” You smile deviously. “Team Dumbass always does.”
There is no goddamn natural progression with you. The bike lurches forward and into a speed so high he’s sure that there are skid marks left behind on the tar from the tires.
The bike flies out the parking lot and down the road, an insane amount of balance for something running that fast.
“Holy fucking shit,” Bucky isn’t sure you can hear him until your laugh reverberates through the wind.
He is so glad the road is deserted as the van pulls up behind you, loud and filled with irresponsible morons with too many resources.
“Slow down,” he yells, holding on for dear life.
“They’re right behind us,” you yell back, looking over your shoulder. Someone had half their body out the passenger side window with the gun pointed at you.
“Eyes on the damn road!” The way his adrenaline is pumping right now has him wondering if he’s going to go into cardiac arrest. 107 is too young to die of a heart attack.
A ray hits the road ahead of you and you swerve to avoid it. He doesn’t know where you picked the stupid trick up from, but you change the bike’s path from linear into random zig-zags, making it all the more difficult to hit you.
“Where the fuck is S.H.I.E.L.D.?”
“I don’t know.” If they were going to be fucking dramatic and erupt from the ground or something like they usually do, Bucky’s handing in his resignation the next day.
A telephone pole off the side of the road disappears with a bright green light. Even if it was death, it wasn’t good.
“We need to get rid of that stupid death ray.” Bucky looks behind him.
The amount of commotion- instructions, curses, shouts as the vehicle jumps every speedbump- there’s a lot of noise coming from that one singular van. He can see your new buddy Nico at the wheel, struggling to keep up with instructions. Clearly, he was the muscle of the group and didn’t look like really wanted to be there.
“It’s not a death gun,” you say rather uselessly.
“I don’t want to test that.”
“The guy said they didn’t know what it did.”
“How does that matter?”
“I’m telling you, that thing is-” You stop talking for a second before tugging the bike to the left again, narrowly avoiding a blast. “Okay, listen. There’s something right at the front of my bag. Grab it.”
“What?” Bucky chokes on the draft hitting him in the face. “I’m not using your evil shit.”
“Do you have another idea, James?” He can hear you roll your eyes. “Put your morality aside for a second, no one’s gonna see you.”
He groans inwardly, every decision he made that led up to this point flashing before his eyes. Ultimately pulls open the zipper, one hand struggling to reach into your bag while also keep himself on the bike. He finally grabs hold of something unfamiliar after shuffling through three hundred different stuffed toys and possibly his remaining churro.
“Did you find it?”
Bucky whips it out, immediately staring at it like something was fundamentally wrong. And he wasn’t wrong, there was something terribly underwhelming about the contraption in his hand.
“This is a fuckin’ hand mirror.”
“Yeah, that’s the one.”
“Y/N, they have a death ray and we have a mirror.” Maybe he wants to cry.
“Mighty observant of you.” You hit a speedbump and he nearly drops the stupid mirror to grab onto the bike. “Do you trust me?”
“Obviously,” he exclaims, gently veering your head to the side to narrowly miss a ray.
“Great, then when they shoot next, I’m gonna need you to make sure it reflects off the glass and right back at them,” you explain loudly, your zig zags getting noticeably less steep in preparation. “Hope you’re good at geometry, king.”
“Not half bad,” Bucky mumbles to himself. He never expected to thank his stars for the days he spent eons ago trying to impress his math teacher’s daughter, but here he is.
He shoots off a quick prayer to whoever may be listening in at that moment that you do not manage to injure yourself in the few seconds he turns around, before pivoting his body.
He calls out a quick ‘hey!’ and waits for them to shift their aim towards him, his body lifting off the seat slightly.
“Just shoot him!” His ears pick up Megadigik’s scream as the guy leaning half out the window pulls the trigger.
It’s like the ray barrels towards him in slow motion, a bright green light head straight for his chest.
In a split second, he yanks his hand up and winces. The zap hits the mirror almost blindingly, a sharp screech soon following before there’s silence. Is this how it ends?
“Nice one!” you holler.
He pries an eye open slowly, taking in the empty road behind him. He lets out a breath he didn’t realise he was holding.
“Why didn’t we do that earlier?!” He swiftly reverts back to his original position, keeping the mirror on hand just in case they came back or something.
“Because we needed all of them in one place and now was the only time,” you explain. The pace of the motorcycle gradually slows now that you were confident there was no one around.
Bucky looks at the apparatus in his hand, flipping it back and forth to assess the damage done on it before horror slowly dawns on him.
“I’m evil now.”
“This is your hero decay arc, baby.” You laugh maniacally. “You’ve joined us on the dark side.”
“Fuck no,” he mutters, shoving it back into your bag quickly.
“I’m gonna lodge a formal complaint. ‘Avenger goes rogue, uses’-”
A loud whir of mechanical wings and a beam of light shining down brightly on you forces you to look up. If an alien abduction was to ever take place in your life, it might as well be now. Things were already so goddamn weird.
“Right on fuckin’ time,” Bucky says under his breath as S.H.I.E.L.D.’s helicopter hovers overhead.
It takes a good forty minutes of talking to S.H.I.E.L.D. agents, recounting everything that happened that evening and Bucky promising to file a complete mission report before they agree to take a proper statement from you only tomorrow after a good night’s rest.
You tell them they should check New Jersey for any sightings of a clown car. They say they’ll look into that as soon as possible. You also tell them that their director is going to be receiving a very strongly worded email and no holiday card this year. They don’t have a reply to that.
Once they finally depart, it takes another fifteen minutes of an argument with Bucky to finally convince you to switch places with him. His logic of ‘after escaping literal death rays and kidnappers today, I’m not going to let your shitty rash driving be the thing that ends the both of us’, was pretty solid.
He takes the most convoluted path to your apartment, making sure that there’s absolutely no one following you for miles. You accuse him of just wanting to drive you around like some mobster. He ignores you, predictably so. The only sound that comes from him is a small sigh when you lean your head against his back, shuffling closer.
When he finally pulls up in front of your building, it takes several other minutes of surveying your street, all neighbouring apartments and their roofs before he finally lets you dismount. He politely offers his hand for support and you take it.
“S.H.I.E.L.D's stationing an agent here tonight to keep watch,” he informs you, watching you hop off.
“Dramatic.”
“Necessary.”
“You gonna let go?” you ask for the second time that evening, holding up your arm.
His metal hand latches loosely onto your little finger. The solar system bracelet is a nice contrast to your thin inator charm.
“No,” he says simply.
“Fair enough.” You fight a smile, instead choosing to lightly swing it back and forth. “So… fun evening, huh?”
Bucky looks at you dryly. “It was definitely something.”
“Good thing you brought the bike.” You wiggle your eyebrows.
“Sure was-” he starts but falters mid-sentence as another unwittingly thought crosses his mind. “Wait a minute.”
“What?”
“Did you- did you have that all planned out?”
“Did I what?”
“Too many fuckin’ coincidences.” He narrows his eyes. “You knew they were coming, didn’t you?”
You gawk at him. “How are you so sure I did?”
“You didn’t even look surprised to see them. Why would you come here if you knew they were after you?”
“They’ve been threatening me for weeks, how would I know they’re showing up today?” you complain. “On a weekday too. It’s technically off hours.”
“Then why’d you have that mirror on hand?” He points to your backpack.
“Because I’m very prepared, Bucky, I’ve been carrying it around all week,” you defend yourself, although his suspicions were definitely valid.
“How’d you know what to build, huh?”
A faint smile appears and leaves your face. “Maybe someone spied on their lair and knew exactly what they were building. Maybe someone even managed to tweak their blueprint to make sure it wasn’t dangerous.”
“You did what?” he asks in utter disbelief.
“I said someone, not me.”
“We almost got killed.”
“No, we almost got sent to Jersey. I even tried telling you but we kept getting interrupted.”
Bucky wants to facepalm so hard. “What the hell was your plan?”
“Well, at the moment it was run-” You hold up your finger as you list them off- “convince you to give me the motorcycle, get rid of them. I think I got all of it.”
“Then what were you talking about at the beginning? The one plan you had?”
“To get you to let me drive,” you emphasize. “It’s why I brought the stupid license along too. For proof that I learnt how to.”
Bucky stares at you. “You’re insane.”
“Now that’s an exaggeration.” You scoff. “I was completely prepared.”
“And what if I didn’t bring the bike? Then what?”
“Then I’d deal with it.” You shrug. “What’s the worst that could happen? We end up in New Jersey.”
“So, there was no plan.”
“There was a plan.” You cross your arms over your chest. “Made it up as we went along, but definitely a plan.”
He stares at you.
“I genuinely didn’t think they’d show up today,” you swear honestly. “If I did, I wouldn't have gone to such a public place. I wouldn’t put you in mortal danger unless it was me causing it.”
Reassuring.
“I’m getting you a security detail,” he grunts. “For the rest of your life.”
You let out a small ‘ooh’. “If you’re my bodyguard then we can have that whole illegal romance thing going.”
“I’m not going to be your bodyguard.”
“You suck.” You pull your backpack off your shoulders. “You won’t even admit you had a good time.”
“We almost died.”
“We wouldn’t. C’mon, grumps, it was fun, and look-” you fish the four-panel photograph you took at the booth out of your pocket “-a memento of the time you actively disregarded your job to save my life.”
“That’s not-” he begins but realises it’s of no use.
“Here, you can have half.” You tear it carefully down the middle and hand it to him.
He supposes it’s the better half of the strip. It’s not like he’s smiling or anything- he looks more agitated and distracted than he ever has- but you’re grinning from ear to ear in the ones he’s been handed. It’ll do.
“And hey- look at all the animals we won.” You pulled out an alligator. “D’you want one?”
“No.”
“Here, have the duck.” You toss it at him. “Look at it, it’s adorable. It’s my favourite.”
Bucky catches it with one hand. It looks back at him with beady eyes. His previous experience with ducks and geese or anything alike has been less than positive, but this may just make up for it.
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” You look pleased with yourself. “Does this make us partners now?”
“Absolutely not.”
“T’was worth a shot.” You pause. “I think I like you better as my enemy anyway.”
It brings a smile to his face that he tries very hard to get rid of. “Enemies don’t buy each other churros.”
“Maybe it was poisoned.”
“You ate it too.”
“So maybe we do die together tonight, lover,” you fawn. “What if that’s been my plan all along?”
“It’s a stupid plan.” He shakes his head, breathing out slightly. “You’re ridiculous.”
“You love it.”
Bucky passes the duck back and forth between his hands like a baseball. “You got any other shit planned for this week?”
“No, today was special. Last week didn’t count because we were interrupted.” You swing the backpack over your shoulder again. “You have the rest of this week off, Sergeant.”
He wonders how Agent 7 was coping after his first and last day with you. He genuinely hopes the kid’s assigned to something more lowkey, he deserves it.
"In that case,” he brings up, “can I see you this Saturday?"
"You always do, doofus."
"No," he says calmly, “I mean like a date.”
Even though the duck is tossed cleanly between his hands, his palm has never been clammier. The spike in his heartbeat is not a reaction that he anticipated and is one that he is wholly unprepared for after years of dormancy.
"Oh." You blink, taken aback. "Oh."
He rubs the back of his neck, feeling the heat travel to his face. The duck stays in his metal hand, plush under his fingers like a stress toy. If he squeezes it any harder, it’s going to explode.
"I knew it." A shit-eating grin grows on your face. "I knew you had a crush on me."
It’s not like he tried very hard to hide it. It’s barely like he tried at all.
"I don't have crushes," he says gruffly.
"Right, of course." The smile never leaves your face. "You are, in fact, too cool to have crushes on people."
Bucky simply nods. You haven't given him an answer yet and he's starting to worry. His gut twists uncomfortably.
"So-” You boldly take a step forward. He stays rooted in his spot against the bike. "Would it bother you if I did this?"
You drag a finger down his jawline slowly. He swallows thickly.
He doesn't stop you when you caress the side of his face tenderly, giving in to his impulse of leaning into your touch.
Your thumb swipes across his lips. His knees nearly buckle.
“You had a bit of sugar there, sarge,” you whisper. “Must be the poisonous churros.”
You pull away your hand, turning around to leave without another word. It takes him a second to pull himself back to reality.
“Now that’s just evil," he groans. His voice betrays him, much lower than what it was a second ago.
Your head turns at the sound, giving him a small laugh. "Pick me up at 7."
Chapter 21: Chapter 18
Chapter Text
This was quite possibly the biggest, stupidest decision he had ever made and hoo boy, was that list hard to top.
“Wanda-” Bucky shuts his eyes tightly, pressing his fingers to his temples to alleviate his growing stress headache -”what the fuck are we doing?”
“Planning a date.” She pops a piece of caramel popcorn into her mouth, considerably less stressed. Why would she be? She didn’t have a date in less than 10 hours that she was grossly unprepared for.
“No, I mean-” he begins but it just ends in an exhale. “What the fuck am I doing?”
“Growing a stress ulcer.”
Entirely unhelpful, thanks.
“What’s got you so worked up? Do you regret asking her out?” She rattles the bowl in front of him. He turns it down with a quick sigh.
“Fuck no.” His answer comes back immediately.
“Okay, if that’s not the problem, then this is something we can solve.” Wanda brushes off her hands, setting the pencil down before sitting upright. “Look at the list.”
Bucky bolts up. “Don’t read out the list.”
“Skydiving?” she questions when he's too late to stop her, eyebrows knitted together. “When did we add skydiving?”
“After an escape room and dinner at that waterfront place.” He groans, voice drowned out by the pillow pressed against his face.
“There’s also pottery lessons.”
He doesn't even remember writing that.
“Wanda, what was I thinking?”
“Too much.” She hums, still pouring over the bullet points. “Stop overthinking this. You know what she’d like, you’re just freaking out.”
“I don’t know anything at this point," he mumbles to himself.
“Okay, how about we remove things she won’t like?” Wanda suggests, quiet scratches against paper as she begins to strike out multiple options. “We can start with fishing.”
“We wrote fishing?” Bucky lifts his head off the pillow to frown.
“And Walmart.”
“For what?”
“I don’t know, it just says Walmart.”
He wants to die.
“Shoulda just left this up to her, she’s the creative one,” he grumbles. Bucky’s just the muscle. The next time you asked him out jokingly he should have agreed and gone with it.
But here he was with fucking Walmart on his list.
“Just ask her then,” Wanda’s face is sympathetic, given that it's hours since they've been at this, “or maybe her friend. It’d narrow things down.”
“That’s a terrible idea,” he says instantly. “Where’s my phone?”
She tosses it towards him before picking up her popcorn again.
He doesn't even have to fully unlock his phone to see a string of texts populating his notification bar, frown growing deeper with each one.
From T
Just in case she doesn’t decide to tell you: she’s at Mercy West General
From Villain(ish)
Whatever T’s saying, ignore it
From T
She’s at the ER
From Villain(ish)
I’m fine
From Villain(ish)
Sort of
From T
She needs constant adult supervision
From Villain(ish)
See you at 7 for our date
“How the fuck,” Bucky says the second he finds you in the emergency room, talking animatedly with your best friend.
“I can explain-” you begin, holding your hands up.
“She was building, it backfired, she got her leg fucked up,” T does it instead, disappointment clear as day on her face as she stands beside your bed with her arms across her chest.
“First of all, it’s a sprain.” You roll your eyes. “Second of all, it didn’t backfire. I tripped.”
“On what?”
You look like struggling to control yourself. “While… while I was falling for yo-”
“Don’t finish that sentence,” Bucky cuts in, saving you the trouble.
“Some cable that was just lying around." Your expression turns half-mad, which isn't a look he sees very often. “It usually never happens.”
Bucky stares at you. “Why do I find that so hard to believe?”
“You’re not supposed to be bullying me, I’m hurt.” You glare back at him. "I'm in a hospital and everything."
“You should get bullied.”
“I can feel my sprain physically getting worse," you deadpan. “Ow.”
Bucky rolls his eyes. “What’d the doc say?”
“Ice it, don’t strain and meds,” T pipes up before you have a chance to make things worse.
“I’ll be back on my feet in no time," you offer in condolence. "Like a sexy kangaroo or something.”
“I’m gonna get your prescription and then you’re going straight home." T ignores you with ease. After many years, her ability to fine-tune her ears against most of the garbage that came from you is a valuable skill.
“But I already have an inator in mind.”
She rolls her eyes and grabs the piece of paper left beside you.
“Don’t,” she warns before turning on her heel and leaving in search of the pharmacy.
“Will you drop me off at the lair?” You peer up at Bucky hopefully.
“No.”
“Traitor.” You huff. “I’ve left all the lights on, my electricity bill’s gonna be-”
“I’ll take care of it.”
“Damn it," you swear. "Okay, I'm out of excuses. You can relax now."
Bucky lets his arms fall to his sides, a small smile taking over his face.
“You couldn’t not invent for one day?” he asks, gently sitting down on the bed.
"I was nervous," you mumble, eyes downcast. "Tried to keep myself distracted."
His gaze softens. It helped, in a strange sort of way, to know that it wasn't just him.
"You're an idiot."
"I'm well aware of that."
Bucky slips his fingers over yours. “Hurts bad?”
“Not so much now.” You swing the bandaged foot lightly as if to prove your point.
He watches you do it, wondering how long till you hit your leg on the bedpost. “Sexy kangaroo, huh?”
“You into that kinda thing?”
“You shouldn’t be allowed to talk.”
You crack a smile and it's easy to tell that you’re in slight disarray. He wonders if the pain’s already gotten to your head. Wonders if he should maybe cancel his mission tomorrow, even though practically he knows it isn't possible.
“Of all the damn days-” you start in mild annoyance. He lets out a small laugh. “I’m serious. And now you’re running off for two weeks to save the world while I die alone.”
Bucky raises an eyebrow. “You have Jake and the cat.”
“Alpine doesn’t care about me.” You fiddle with Bucky’s fingers lightly. “Jake’s still at yoga camp. I'm pretty sure he accidentally joined a cult, so we can say goodbye to that story.”
Bucky hums lightly. “What flowers d’you want at your funeral?”
It elicits a chuckle from you. “Fuck you.”
You rock your leg again. The bedpost looks awfully close this time around, but he makes no comment.
“‘S okay.” You bump his shoulder with yours. “We can always reschedule for when you’re back.”
He just gives a distant noise in acknowledgement.
“Once you’re all bruised up, we can pretend like we’re in one of those boxing movies.” Your eyes gleam. “You stumble into my apartment with blood on your knuckles.”
“I have super healing.”
“I tend to your wounds, we share a moment.”
“Why would I come to your apartment when I have a med bay at the Tower?”
“Because of romance.”
“Do you have any medical experience?” Bucky scoffs. “And I don’t do romance.”
“Bold claim coming from you while we’re literally sharing a bed right now.”
“That’s not the sa-” he blows a breath out. “Jesus Christ, even when you’re injured you won’t give up.”
The place smells like disinfectant. He’s almost too used to it. The sting of alcohol doesn’t even burn anymore.
“Stop swinging your leg around so much, you’re gonna hit something,” he says finally.
You don’t break your intense gaze with him as you swing it harder. He rolls his eyes.
“If I die before you’re back, would you speak at my memorial?”
He flicks your shoulder. “Stop being morbid.”
You laugh. “I’m serious. I need you to go up there and look like you’ve been cryin’ for days.”
“No.”
“Fine, then at least stand far away with an umbrella, sunglasses and a trench coat. We can make it look like I died under mysterious circumstances.”
“That I can do.”
“Great, it’s settled then.” You grin at him. “I’m gonna look so cool.”
“Right.” He snorts.
“Teamwork, bestie.”
“Glad I could help.”
Your leg hits the bedpost with a resounding clang.
Bucky tries and fails to hide a laugh when you curse loudly, his only saving grace being that he had the common decency to not say that he told you so.
Either way, he knows he has to prepare to deal with your whining for the next ten minutes till T came back.
But your head drops onto his shoulder, and he’s pretty sure he doesn’t mind if you bitch and blame for all eternity as long as you stayed like that.
Turns out there’s only so much inventing and watching trash TV can get you on a night that was destined to be a lot more interesting.
Your anti-gravity boot... inator definitely enables you to move around a lot easier- no pain if its military-grade protective material and insulated padding prevent you from feeling anything you could possibly bump into.
The only downside was that its balance was still definitely off. The anti-gravity part aided in making sure you weren’t exerting too much pressure on it as you hopped around, but the stupid thing kept rising like a helium balloon. Still, it wasn’t too bad for a few hours worth of effort.
With nothing much to do and all candy demolished, Alpine goes through a series of costume changes. She isn’t too bothered, God knows she’s put up with worse. The little assistant looks like she enjoys some of them.
The group chat, in a great show of solidarity, rates each outfit out of ten. Her as a wizard is unsurprisingly the highest scoring one of the night. Bucky, however, picks her little cowboy costume as his choice.
You almost consider wearing the stupid, makeshift cast you’ve conjured up that evening and dragging him along on a new adventure, just for the hell of it.
You even go as far as sending him a text, asking him what he’s up to before you show up outside his bedroom.
He sends you a picture of his half-packed backpack. A granola bar sits unfinished on top of it.
Fuckin’ superheroes.
You never thought it’d come to this... but maybe it was time to start the cheese business. Plan B. The backup.
From what you knew, Drusselsteinien Limburger took 58 years to age. No better time than the present-
A knock on the door drags you out of your boredom induced near-crisis.
You hobble over to it, almost immediately your arms wildly and grabbing onto the nearest bookshelf to keep yourself from falling over. You shove your foot down before pulling it open, braving a grin and smoothing out your clothes.
“Hey, Agent J,” you greet calmly as if the last minute or two didn’t just happen. “What’s up?”
“Just checking if everything is alright, miss,” Agent J says courteously. You know for a fact that his name is Jordan- it’s easy to get to know anyone after offering them lunch three times in a vain effort to gain any kind of company. Out of politeness, you still refer to him as Agent.
“Everything’s all good. Did you grab a bite to eat?” You’re about to ask the first out of many times if he would like a slice of pizza and to watch Project Runway.
“My shift ends in thirty minutes.” He casts a glance at his watch. “I’ll get some food then.”
“Okay.” You nod, “but if you need anything, you can always ask.”
He flashes you a quick smile and excuses himself.
There goes that plan.
S.H.I.E.L.D.’s appointed security detail was… proficient at what they did. Constant patrol, regular check in’s- any time there was so much as a car that drove down the street twice, details were noted down.
The clown brigade didn’t get too far, unfortunately. Last you heard they were detained for questioning in SHIELD’s Jersey unit. Which probably meant it was the last you were gonna see of Nico.
Poor guy. He deserved better.
You’re back to trying to walk and failing miserably at it in an attempt to make it to your bedroom.
It barely takes a minute for you to stumble magnificently. With the grace of a newborn deer, your one leg goes up the air and hand sticks out to break your fall, dragging down a vase with you.
You cringe as it crashes noisily to the floor, meanwhile your body stuck in a half-split.
You’re only thankful it’s not Jake’s stupid fruit bowl. You’d rather break your other foot than have to hear his shriek when he realises his Home Depot masterpiece had disappeared in the few days he wasn’t here.
There’s a knock on the door again. Not even halfway through your journey, you’re forced to turn around and tend to it before Agent J breaks it down in a desperate attempt to save you from yourself.
“Hello again.” You smile easily, opening the door only as much would allow your head to show through.
“Did you hear that noise?” Agent J tries not to peek over your shoulder, even though you can’t quite see through his dark glasses.
Behind the door, you force your leg down again. “My fault, I just tripped over something.”
Look, it wasn’t like you weren’t able to protect yourself. You were fully prepared. Extra prepared, in fact, for any intruders. It’s just that he was catching you at your less fine moments.
“Are you okay?”
“Yes, I am. Thank you.” You cast him a grateful look. “I’ll let you know if there’s an issue.”
Agent J hesitantly takes a step back, eyes flickering behind you. You wait for him to turn around before shutting the door as gently as you could, trying not to rouse any more suspicions.
“Okay,” you say under your breath. “It’s just a few feet away. You got this.”
You gingerly limp over to the cupboard, holding onto anything sturdy along the way to ensure you make it there in one piece.
It’s more or less successful- only one photo frame lost in the process- and you pull out a broom and your vacuum. The latter of the two was a bright yellow, accented in purple and handheld, cartoonishly large letters branding its name on the side.
Probably the best EvilCon purchase you’d ever made, second only to the laser pointer for Alpine.
The smile on your face is devilish when it roars to life with an obnoxiously loud ‘pew’ sound. You point it towards the mess on the floor, proper due process be damned, and watch it suck the glass towards it.
The glass rattles around in its body rather delightfully the joy soon gives way to a string of curses when you realise what any loud, unnatural sound from your house invited these days.
You give it three seconds before there’s a knock on the door.
“Fucking-” you mumble to yourself before dragging yourself to the door.
With a defeated sigh, you begin, “Agent J, I promise-”
“Heard there’s been suspicious noises reported here tonight. Thought I’d come check it out.”
Oh.
You blink. “Bucky.”
“Hi,” he says. “What’s up?”
“Hi,” you’re a little dazed but you lean against the doorframe. “A little too early to be stumblin’ into my apartment with blood on your knuckles. Don’t even have the supplies yet.”
“I’ll just leave then.” He gestures backwards with his shoulder.
You take note of the large paper bags he managed to balance in his arms, leaning his chin over them to look at you. Fuck, he looked adorable.
You smile wide, shoving your foot down. “I didn’t know you were showing up here.”
“Yeah, neither did I, but then you went and broke your foot.”
“Sprained, and I’ll have it fixed by next week.” You cross your arms over your chest. “I’m inventing as we speak.”
“What, a Fix-Your-Foot-inator?” He lifts an eyebrow. “Or a cure for your dumbass disease?”
“Rude.”
Bucky raises the bags up. “Can I come in?”
“No, you’re staying out there tonight. Hope you brought a sleeping bag,” you say, moving aside to make space for him, pressing your cast foot firmly only the ground and using it to pivot.
“Yeah, yeah.” He stops for a second to look you up and down before walking in. “You look real pretty.”
The heat that spread through your face was annoyingly intense. “You into painkiller-high chic now?”
“Nah, just you in general.” This motherfucker’s gradual increase in smoothness was unprecedented. “Why do you have your leg in the air?”
You follow his line of sight, landing on your foot that was suspended off the ground like a damn burlesque dancer.
“Oh, you know. The usual.” You don’t bother explaining any further, forcing your leg down and locking the door behind you as you tried to follow him as normally as possible. “What’s with all the groceries? We finally moving in together?“
“I’m pretty sure you were the one who told me I should cook for you.” He sets the bag down on the kitchen counter. “It ain’t expensive wine and cheap burgers but I figured it’d do. But I got those too, just in case.”
He points to the bag where the logo of a fast-food company presses against the plastic.
“Mr Barnes,” you pipe up, a dopey smile on your face, “you are a closeted romantic.”
He scoffs. “Yeah, right.”
You hobble your way over to where he was, almost falling over but not quite. “How do I help?”
“You don’t. I’m cooking.”
You figure the safest bet you have right now is to hop onto the kitchen counter as he begins to unload things carefully from the bag. A lot of vegetables, bread, pasta sheets- the man was actually well prepared.
“I wanna help.”
“Just sit there.” He glances up at you. “You’re hurt and dyin’, remember?”
“Boo.” You cross your leg over your cast to keep it from rising.
Bucky does a quick survey of his surroundings before setting his eyes on something.
He drops Jake’s fruit bowl right beside you.
“You’re in charge of keeping that safe.”
Maybe you should have broken that shit after all.
You scoff out a laugh. “You’re terrible.”
“You’re a liability.” His eyes have the familiar glint that let you know he’s not being serious. “And no inators this evening. Don’t wanna be responsible for a house fire.”
“None,” you swear, leaning on your hands for support and pressing your foot down harder. “I thought you were supposed to be packing.”
“I’ll finish it tomorrow.” He does a quick recount of everything he’s laid out so far on your counter.
“I could have just shown up at your place. Would have been easier for you.” Would have been a trip and a half for you but he didn’t have to know that.
“I considered that,” he divulges, “but the team’s being annoying. Wouldn’t leave the Tower so I changed plans and shifted here.”
“You’re telling me they wouldn’t evacuate their house for you to cook your date dinner?” You snort. “Pretty selfish of them, if you ask me.”
“Couldn’t agree more.” He lets a smile slip past his lips. It leaves you a little star-struck.
“On a more serious note,” your voice is more solemn, “shouldn’t you be resting? Aren’t you leaving tomorrow?”
Bucky hums. “Who cares?”
“I do,” you press. “You need energy.”
“D’you like lasagna?” he asks, looking up at you.
“Yeah, but-”
“Garlic bread?”
“Buck-”
“What?”
“I’m not kidding, you don’t have to do all this.” You press your lips together in a straight line. “We could just wait till you’re back.”
“I think we’ve waited long enough.” He shrugs. “So unless you want me out of your house, is that a ‘yes’ on the garlic bread?”
A smile makes its way onto your face. “Fuckin’ love garlic bread.”
“Good.” Bucky nods. “Your foot’s in the air again.”
You shove it back down.
Once he’s done a headcount and made sure everything he needs is there, he locks his phone and sets it back in his pocket.
He opens his mouth to ask you something, only to find you staring at him intently and with a slight crease between your boy like you’re contemplating something really hard.
“You good?”
It snaps you out of your internal debate of trying to decide what you like better- the navy blue sweater he has on that looks sinfully good on him or the little apron he’s secured around his waist.
“Never been better,” you reply honestly.
“Okay.” The corner of his mouth quirks upward. “Where are your knives?”
“What, you didn’t bring your own?” You point them out, watching him tie his hair into a little bun. You want to cry, really.
“Those aren’t exactly used for vegetables.”
“Knife is knife.”
Bucky looks at you in dry amusement. “Smart.”
“Top of my class.” You watch him pull one of the knives out by its hilt, his sweater sleeves pull up to his elbows. The plates in his metal arm shift silently.
Balancing it on his finger, the knife stays perfectly straight, not tilted towards any side.
“Show off.”
“Force of habit.” Bucky shrugs, doing a little flip before catching it firmly.
“Show off.”
“Yeah, okay, that was.” He chuckles, and you’re about to join in with another teasing remark until you remember something.
Your smile drops.
Fuck.
“Chopping board’s over there,” you say quickly, “and put that knife down before you hurt yourself.”
He looks at you in surprise. “The knife?”
You know how ridiculous it sounds. One of the best assassins in the world, who you had on more than one occasion caught throwing, juggling and flipping blades like they were made of rubber as a way to pass time.
“Yes, the knife,” you insist regardless.
“I can handle a knife,” he says slowly, deliberately, like a reminder.
Not when it turns into a fucking sword if he presses the wrong button, he can’t.
“My knives are special.” You tap the counter. “Official rules state that we do not move while holding knives in this kitchen.”
He stares at you, trying to gauge your reaction. You stare back, cracking a smile in hopes that he’d take it as a dumb joke and just go with it.
In an unlikely moment of victory, he complies, and you know it’s because under the rock hard exterior and abs, he is a kind soul.
He leaves the knife next to you, albeit while looking at you like you’ve grown three heads. That you can deal with. Accidental stabbing, you can’t.
You wait until he walks over to the cutting board. It only gives you a few seconds to grab the knife he set down, swiftly pressing down on the three rivets securing the handle to the blade in a pattern only you were aware of. You sigh when a soft click comes through.
“Somethin’ wrong?”
“Nothing.” You flash him a quick smile. “Just checking to see if it was clean.”
You hold out the knife gingerly and he takes it. You watch it closely, hoping that it doesn’t blow up into a sword, possibly driving a hole through your kitchen wall.
“Good grip,” he notes.
“It’s custom made,” you say weakly.
How are you supposed to think in advance when he’s standing in your kitchen looking like a domestic husband with no frown for once.
True to his word, he definitely can handle a knife- and he’s surprisingly adept at cutting vegetables with it too. Not like you’d expect any less from him.
“Did you get through to Jake finally?”
“Oh, yeah.” You watch him shove the chopped ones all to one side before moving on to the others. “He called me a moron, and then said he’s on his way back.”
“I guess he’s joining in then,” Bucky says, a hint of humour in his voice. “I’ll make extra.”
“Obviously. You’re the third wheel here.” However, the idea of dating Jake isn’t one that you can stomach for too long leading to a quick shudder. “No, I told him to stay where he was and that I’d be fine.”
“He okay with that?” Despite the tumultuous conversations you shared with the guy, he cared deeply about whether you lived or died. Under dire circumstances, he would even so far as to call you an acquaintance.
“I told him I wouldn’t let him in the apartment.” You shrug. “He doesn’t get a lot of time off, he shouldn’t have to come back just because of a little sprain.”
Bucky’s gaze shifts between your cast and you. “How long till it heals?”
“Doc says three weeks, but with my intellect, I’d say a week and a half.”
He stops cutting for a moment, shoulders still hunched over the board. You look at him in slight confusion.
“You’re gonna do something stupid and I’m not gonna know about it till I’m back,” he mumbles.
“Nonsense, I save all the stupid for when I’m with you.” You grin. “Say, what are your thoughts on paper cuts?”
“Not a fan.”
“Great, I have my next idea.”
“Papercut Inator?” he asks, raising an eyebrow. “Seems mild.”
“Can’t go big all the time, Bucky. I have a budget, you know.”
“And you spend it all on confetti guns.”
“That’s important.”
He hums but says nothing further. “Skillet?”
“There.” You point to the cabinet it rests in.
He picks it up, pausing for a second before holding it up in front of you.
“You got a problem with me using this or…” he trails off, “because I’m pretty sure I can handle a pan.”
It takes a quick second to wonder whether you’ve actually fucked with the pan or not before deciding on a probably not.
“We’re gonna have to wait and see.”
Thankfully, things are fine for a while. Non-lethal, at the very least.
The potential death trap you’ve set out is quickly evaded by switching out a few salt shakers and spice jars when he’s not looking to prevent potential explosions.
Everything smells pretty darn great, and in an impressive show of skills, he’s not burnt anything yet.
“Geez, you weren’t kidding about the whole cooking stuff, huh?”
“Don’t do it often.” He looks down at the garlic butter he’s spreading on the loaf. “‘S more of a coping mechanism than anything.”
“How good are you at baking?” Your foot hits the counter lightly when you shove it down again. It was getting harder to remember that it had a tendency to float.
“Stop swinging your leg,” he says absentmindedly. “I’m okay at it.”
You have to remember to keep your leg crossed over it, even if it was getting sore.
“What if I call you the next time the school has a bake sale?”
“I’m not selling cookies at your school.”
“Fine, you bake and I’ll sell ‘em.” You wiggle your eyebrows.
You hear a small crash in the background. He quirks an eyebrow at it before you dismiss it as probably being Alpine. Things like that were normal around here; it’d be weirder if there wasn’t an unexplained noise every once and a while.
“You’re gonna exploit me for your bake sale?”
“We’ll split the profit.”
“I’m putting in all the work.”
“It takes a good face to market, and I got the best face.”
He doesn’t put forth an opposing argument, instead, turning around to grab something else from his ingredients.
There’s another crash, and fortunately, he elects to ignore it.
Unfortunately for you, the unmistakable whir of wheels accompanies it in the distance and dread instantly fills your stomach when you’re hit with the realisation of what the source actually is.
It enters the room, slowly and sticking to the wall like the trained little menace it was.
Your intruder preventer droid stares up at you with pixelated heart eyes. It looks fucking adorable but you wave your hand around furiously to get it to go away.
The blasphemous thing takes it as a sign to enter, almost immediately bumping into the trashcan in the corner of the room. You internally scream.
“Hey!” you call out to Bucky, startling him with the sudden rise in volume.
“Why are you yelling?” he asks, slightly baffled.
To mask the fucking noise of the droid beeping while it backed up like a garbage truck, what else-
“I’m just so excited you’re here,” you cover up pathetically, giving him a wide-toothed smile, more nervous than anything.
His eyebrows furrow. “You’re bein’ weirder than usual.”
“Ah, well, you know-” you wave your hand around vaguely. “Pain meds or something.”
He doesn’t look entirely convinced, lips pursued inwards and eyes alight in barely-there humour. “Mhm.”
The intruder droid rolls up behind him curiously, scaling his size with a scan.
“D’you want some grapes?” you ask hastily, reaching for them from Jake’s bowl because tragically, they are the only weapons you have on hand.
The swords weren’t exactly subtle and you didn’t want to kill a perfectly good droid before you had to. It was cute. Sometimes it sang ABBA.
Bucky glances towards the bowl of fruit. “I’m good.”
“Your pasta’s done.” You point to the pot of boiling water, not actually sure if it was, but hell it’d been there long enough.
He wipes at his brow and goes to tend to that, and you take advantage of his momentary distraction to launch a grape at the droid.
It veers backwards, turning around and shooting out a laser to eliminate the threat. You wanted to cheer at the fact that it worked rather well, but you genuinely wish it didn’t right now.
“Was this always the idea?” Hopefully, if you could keep his attention on you, he’d miss the stupid bot. “Ending up at my place on our first night out?”
“Nah, was probably gonna go with a trapeze class.”
“That’s more of a third date kinda thing.” You throw another piece but it misses, bouncing off on the floor somewhere. A second and a third shot similarly doesn’t reach the target.
It tilts its head up at Bucky.
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
The droid wouldn’t do much damage but you knew for a fact that Bucky appreciated having both his ankles intact for his job.
You curse at it, kicking your anti-gravity cast in its direction.
“Jesus, Y/N, you’re gonna make your sprain worse,” he groans, stopping his layering of the sauce and sheets alternatively.
You snap your head up. “Did you hear someone at the door?”
The suddenness of the topic change works to distract him temporarily. “I don’t think so.”
“I’m pretty sure it’s Agent J.” You keep your eyes on him despite the fact that you can see the droid steadily advance towards him from the corner of your eye. “He usually knocks to check if I’m okay.”
“Are you?” he asks, eyebrows furrowed. “Those painkillers gettin’ to you?”
“I’m all good, Buck.” You look past him to the stupid droid, hoping it runs into a stray grape along the way. “But could you tell him that? He’s probably just here to let me know his shift’s done.”
The concern is apparent on his face but he drags out a slow ‘okay’, setting the glass dish away from the edge of the counter. The bot, by a miracle, runs into the same trash can as before, leaving it completely unnoticed by Bucky as. he walks out of the kitchen.
The second he's out of sight, you jump off the counter, one strong step towards the stupid droid. Anything more than that and your date would find you sprawled on the floor.
“Intruder detected. Attack.” Its default message rings.
“No intruder.” You want to cry at how cute its little voice is but instead you put it on silent.
“There’s no one here.” You hear Bucky gently close the door. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Swear I am, I think it’s just the meds.” In a flash, you scoop it up by its head before pulling open the oven door and throwing it inside.
You hop back onto the counter, settling back in your position and regain your breathing. The droid bangs against the door. You kick it with your foot.
“Do you want me to get our doc to take a look at you?” Bucky’s voice gets louder as he gets closer.
“Nope.” You swing your legs casually as he reappears. “Unless your doc has a cure for my dumbass disease.”
“That’s incurable.” He stops in his path, eyes slowly dropping down. “There are grapes on the floor.”
“Huh,” you say stupidly, “guess there are. Musta dropped them.”
He narrows his eyes at you. You smile back awkwardly.
“You need sleep,” he says, lifting up the glass dish to place it in the oven. “You’re eating dinner and that’s it for today.”
You nod lazily before it suddenly hits you.
"No, wait!" You grab his face, kicking your foot against the oven door to keep it shut. You can feel the droid push at the door in an attempt to get out.
Bucky freezes, looking at you slightly wide-eyed. "...what?"
Your eyes flicker down for just a second and it's like time slows down. You instinctively brush his cheekbone with your thumb and his breath hitches.
"You, uh-" you swallow the lump in your throat. “You're very pretty."
"Thank you?" He blinks.
There’s a thick silence that ensues. Bucky’s chest rises and falls steadily, grip on the glass dish tightening. The laugh lines around his eyes were more prominent up close.
“Yeah." You let go of his face slowly, clearing your throat when you feel the droid give up. “Those steel blue eyes let you know where home is.”
He snorts, recovering rather quickly. “Alright.”
“It's my safe place,” you continue, trying to get rid of the image out of him so close to your face out of your mind.
“You done?”
“Not yet.” You grin. “I’ll put it in the oven, you go open the wine. We got plenty more to go.”
“You’re not supposed to be on your feet.”
It’s late in the evening and you’ve had damn near enough of your Home Alone style traps, and it shows when you say, “Trust me when I say it’s easier for both of us if I just help with this one thing.”
He looks at you sceptically. You bat your eyelashes innocently in return.
“Fuckin’ knew I shoulda bought two bottles.” He leaves the tray on the countertop, taking the plates and cutlery with him.
You breathe out a little sigh once he’s out of the way before hopping off the counter and yanking open the oven door.
The droid launches itself past you with pent up ferocity and you tug it backwards.
“Bad droid,” you whisper. “Bad, bad droid.”
“Attack,” it says robotically. “Intruder detected. Attack.”
“Not him.” You fumble for the kill switch as it struggled against your grip. “Why don’t you ever do this to Jake?”
“Intruder detected. Attack.”
“What’d you say?” Bucky calls out from the dining table.
“Timer’s at twenty minutes, right?” you deflect loudly.
“Intruder voice detected.”
“Shut up, please.” You finally push the button, watching it die down in your hands. “Don’t ruin this for me.”
“Yeah, twenty minutes.”
“Okay.” You open the nearest cabinet and shove it inside carelessly, hoping it stays there without any more drama.
It sputters in defiance. You gave a sharp thud against the door with your hand and it doesn’t make any more noise, at least not for the time being.
“You good?” Bucky appears at the doorway, his apron now swung over his shoulder like a towel.
“Perfect.” You smile up at him, smoothly sliding the dish into the oven like nothing happened. “If this recipe works, it’s because I was so good at setting the timer.”
There’s a serving of the most amazing smelling lasagna, probably the best-looking garlic bread you’d ever seen and a good bottle of wine on the coffee table in front of your couch. Bucky was busy scrolling through Netflix for a movie to watch, occasionally stopping to ask for your input.
And though this was probably the most ideal situation, given the circumstances, you can’t stop glancing towards the kitchen for any new surprises that may come your way.
“Did you forget something there?” Bucky asks after you look over his shoulder for the tenth time.
“No, no,” you mumble. “Just checkin’ to see if Alpine’s alright.”
“I thought she went to bed.” She did, after scarfing down the little treat Bucky bought for her. You told him he spoiled her. He brandished another treat from his pocket in retaliation.
“Thought I heard her walkin’ about.”
“You know,” he says casually, pausing at the ‘horror’ section of the catalogue, “your murder bot’s not gonna get out of that cabinet.”
“You don’t know that yet-” you say distractedly before reeling back. “Wait, what murder bot?”
“The one that’s been rolling around the kitchen all evening.” Bucky raises an eyebrow. “Almost stepped on it a few times.”
“You fuckin’ knew?” Your jaw drops unceremoniously.
“I’m a stealth agent. I’ve been trained for decades.” He snorts. “And you’re terrible at being subtle. If you were even trying.”
Guess you weren’t.
Your nose scrunches up. “You said no inators.”
“I didn’t think you’d take it that seriously.” Bucky rolls his eyes.
“I dunno.” You shrug. “Figured we deserved a night off from them.”
He looks at you from the corner of his eye. “Listen, you like them. They’re important to you.” He looks ahead again. “You know I wouldn’t ask you to do that.”
“We’re a package deal.”
“I’m aware.”
You conceal a smile. “A closeted romantic.”
“Shut up.” He grunts, exhaling out a laugh shortly after. “Pick a damn movie.”
You were already on a different tangent, the whole evening replaying in your head viscerally.
“I spent so long trying to stop that thing from getting rid of your ankles,” you whine. “Do you even care about your ankles?”
“Kinda, yeah.”
“And my cast won’t stop floating and the knives are swords.” Maybe you should get rid of a few of them. It seemed like overkill. “What would I have done if you stabbed yourself?”
Bucky shakes his head at you in disbelief. “How the fuck do you live here?”
“They’re not always around. I just work around them, usually,” you mumble. “Woulda evil-proofed the apartment if I knew you were showing up.”
Bucky points to a handheld inator that’s propped up against the corner of the room, a bright yellow in colour and accentuated in purple. “What’s that?”
“Oh, that’s just a vacuum cleaner.” You forgot to put it away after the earlier fiasco.
He looks at you, unamused.
“I’m not kidding.” You laugh. “I swear, it makes a ‘pew pew’ sound and everythin’ but it’s just a regular vacuum cleaner. I could show you if you want.”
The one thing he thinks could be a weapon and it turns out not to be.
“What are we watching?” He reverts his attention back to something he could predict.
“I don’t know.” You watch him flip through channels. “We started watching Breaking Bad the last time you were here.”
“There’s been more than enough drugs for one night.”
“Fair point,” you concede. “The rest of this date’s just us scrolling through Netflix’s catalogue.”
“Who said this was a date? This is for security purposes.”
To be fair, he forgot it was a date. It just seemed like any other day of hanging out with you which, he now supposes, were mini-dates. Turns out Clint was right about one thing after all, even though it was months ago.
“You’re in too deep, buddy.” You shuffle closer to him. “Security or not, you’re here eating dinner with me.”
“I’m here on duty.”
“Fine, answer me this.” You sit up straight, twisting your body to look at him. “You’re supposed to do your duty.”
He waits for you to continue, nodding slowly.
“And if I’m your duty,” you begin, “then you should be doing me.”
He stares at you. “Pick a damn movie.”
“Sure.” You flop back, a little too easily.
He’s this close to asking how you agreed that easily.
Until he notices a sinister smile on your face and he already dreads what you’re about to start playing.
The wine glass was discarded a long time ago, the bottle finding its way into his grip halfway through the movie along with a prayer that he could get drunk again. He had the same reaction the first time around, too.
Your anti-gravity military grade cast came off 15 minutes into the movie after it blocked his view. He insisted you keep it on, more for his sanity than anything. You immediately took threw it off, leaving only the bandage around it.
“Wish I could actually get drunk,” he mumbles. “Get this shit-for-brains movie out of my head.”
“Kissing Booth 2-” you start but he already starts protesting “-is amazing. It’s got two guys.”
“They look the same.”
“And what’s the problem with that?”
“They’re both idiots.”
“You just don’t get it.”
By the time the credits start rolling, Bucky wants to commit arson.
“Never again,” he announces. “I’m never watching a movie with you again.”
“But the third one-”
“Never again,” he repeats, more determination in his voice than earlier.
“How are you fine with horror movies and not this?”
“I don’t mind good ones, this is just garbage,” he argues. “Horror movies are fine, I see worse shit on a daily basis.”
“New plan, listen to this.” You hold up a finger. “So kiss me if I’m wrong, but-”
“Okay.”
You blink at him. “You didn’t even let me finish.”
He shrugs, looking you straight in the eye. “Heard what I had to.”
Whatever reply you have dies down in your throat.
You bite your lip when his stare doesn’t shift.
The doorbell drags you out of it.
Both of your heads snap towards the door.
Bucky lets out a small noise as he pushes himself off the couch. “You expecting anyone?”
“Yeah, my boyfriend.” You shake your head to get yourself under control, before getting up yourself to follow him.
“I’ll warm up the leftovers.”
The door opens to another agent, dressed in all black from head to toe, including night-vision goggles. It reminds you of the time when that was all Bucky wore to meet you, his blue sweater a stark contrast to what used to be.
“Hey, Agent P.” You give him a smile.
“Ma’am.” He nods. “Just a regular reporting and check-in.”
“Everything’s good here.” You steal a glance at Bucky.
“You know what to do if you need any assistance.”
“Scream bloody murder and bust out the ol’ baseball bat.”
He doesn’t move a muscle.
“And hit the safety switch y’all gave me twice,” you murmur in a follow-up. “Have a safe patrol.”
“Thank you.” He sends Bucky a curt acknowledgement before turning on his heel and leaving.
Bucky doesn’t bother closing the door behind him, instead, watching him leave. “Your boyfriend didn’t take any leftovers.”
“Ah, it’s okay. He’ll be back.” You cross your arms over your chest.
He leans against the door frame with a small smile. “It’s late.”
“Uh-huh.” If Agent P was here for his shift, it meant that it was close to midnight.
“I should get going.”
“Guess you do.”
“Gotta pack,” he feels like he should explain even though he doesn’t really need to.
“Those guns aren’t gonna pack themselves.” You tap his bicep.
“Terrible.”
“I aim to please.”
Bucky laughs, and maybe you wanna tug him by the collar of his stupid sweater and kiss him against the door.
“I had a good time,” you admit rather.
“Me too.” It was just as chaotic as he imagined it would be.
“What time are you leaving tomorrow?”
“Don’t know.” He exhales, hooking his thumbs into the pocket of his jeans. “Depends on what time Barton wakes up from his hangover.”
“Don’t miss me too much,” you tease, face falling into an easy smirk.
“No chance.” He scoffs. Maybe the sweltering heat of Qatar would be enough of a distraction.
“Liar.”
“Some fuckin’ peace and quiet for two weeks.”
“You’re annoying,” It’s definitely an inside joke at this point, “and I hate you.”
“Feeling’s mutual.”
Still, there’s a bright smile on his face and the makings of an evening well spent in his eyes. You love it.
Bucky takes a calm step towards you.
You take a step right back.
“If you whisper in my ear again, I will attack you,” you warn from experience, “sprained foot and all.”
Bucky laughs. “No, not this time.”
Instead, his lips are warm against your cheek. He lets it linger there for a slow second before pulling back, and you find it hard to stop smiling.
“You should get some rest,” he says softly, returning back to his original place at the doorway.
“Mhm.” As much as you hate it, there’s a small sense of disappointment, even though the heat that spread through your face screamed otherwise.
“I know what you’re thinkin’.”
You look at him, mouth quirking upwards.
“Not like this.” He gives you a half-smile. “Maybe next time, when you’re not jacked up on meds.”
You could live with that.
Chapter 22: Chapter 19
Chapter Text
“That thing’s going to explode.”
“Huh?”
“That thing’s about to go nuclear. We just poisoned the entire city.”
“What?”
“Can someone please explain why there’s Nicki Minaj playing through the comms right now?”
“It was Barnes’ turn to pick the music.”
In the middle of elbowing a guy in the face, Bucky smirks.
“You have no clue what’s comin’ up,” Steve grunts as he backhands someone with the shield, effectively earning a nose bleed at the very least.
Steve knows. Steve’s heard Bucky’s music taste jump erratically all over the place, from decade to decade and genre to genre. He’s had to listen to it all through the walls of their shared floor. If anything, he’s only grateful that Bucky’s out of his early 00s phase because if he had to hear Black Eyed Peas one more time at 3am, he’d consider jumping from his balcony.
“Can you stop screaming? I can’t-” Bucky sends a guy flying across the room and into a pile of debris -“hear the song.”
“Is that Neil Diamond?” Nat’s question mixes in with the sound of the keyboard clicking. Her job had finished a while ago but she stuck around to extract beyond what was required of her.
“Oh, fuck yeah, I love this song,” comes back Clint’s voice from the basement.
Sweet Caroline changes a second later.
A scoff follows. “Fuck you, Jimothy.”
He doesn’t get to complain much once Megan Thee Stallion starts. Bucky can’t tell if it’s because he likes the new tune -he does have the choreography to it memorised- or because there’s a sudden explosion from his side. Either way, it’s distinctly Clint Barton.
Steve dropkicks someone in the stomach before engaging in a completely unnecessary full-body flip, slamming the shield into their chest and sending them sprawling.
Bucky raises an eyebrow. ”Again with the drama, Steven.”
Steve send him a middle finger in response. Bucky grins.
“Is Barton still alive?” Nat asks casually.
Someone shrieks and Steve turns around just in time to pull his shield up in time to avoid a cinder block to his face.
In other words: he’s busy.
Bucky sighs. “I’ll check.”
He nonchalantly strolls over to the staircase, grabbing onto the creaky railing before throwing himself off it. Efficient, and easy.
He lands on his two feet, as agile as a cat, not bothering to hide as he surveyed the room.
Arrows stick out of every wall in the room, some on the ceilings in angles that shouldn’t logically be possible. Bullet holes riddle the wooden table acting as a barricade, minutes away from giving away.
“Hey, jackass,” Bucky calls out, drawing attention to himself. “You still alive?”
“Oh, Jesus, it’s you again.” An arrow knocks the gun out of the hand of one of the gunmen. “Why are you so obsessed with me?”
There are shouts as the new set of commands come in, an already chaotic room descending into complete mayhem at the arrival of the newest member.
“He’s alive-” Bucky grunts, yanking one of the snipers away with unsurprising ease and decking him in the face -”not for long if you ask me.”
“Good thing no one’s asking you, Jimmy.”
“I could let you die right here, Clinton Francis.”
Clint lets out a steady groan, arm reaching over the table to fire a shot that pins a man to the wall. “Don’t call me that, asshole. You sound like my mother.”
Bucky knows. Which is why as soon as he found out it got on the guy’s nerves, it became part of his daily vernacular.
An arrow whizzes past Bucky’s ear and lodges itself in the shoulder of a guy aiming a gun at him. The song changes to something by N’Sync and Clint never once looks up from the table.
“You’re welcome.” His voice is only partly audible, its cause owed to Justin Timberlake and broken furniture.
“Hey, Nat.” Bucky presses his finger to his comms and uses his knee to ram someone into a wall and keep them there. “как сильно ты скучаешь по нему, если бы я оставил его здесь?”
Her laugh comes back lightly, unaccompanied by any solid answer.
“What’d you say to my girlfriend, dickhead?” Clint’s head finally makes an appearance from behind the barrier.
“That she’s too good for you.”
“Joke’s on you, we already knew that.”
Bucky doesn’t look very happy or interested, but he holds a hand out for Clint. He takes it, pulling himself up and landing on his feet with a little spring in his step.
“Barnes.”
“Barton.”
Clint blows out an exhale. “You wanna date me so bad, it’s incredible.”
Bucky drops his hand faster than the speed of light.
“Is he trying to jump your bones again, James?” Nat’s voice floats through the comms but gradually gets louder as she walks down the stairs to the basement they found themselves in.
“When is he not?”
“It’s the depression beard. I love a caveman,” Clint adds to make it worse, walking over to Nat and giving her a quick kiss on the temple.
Bucky unconsciously runs his fingers over his stubble. “It’s not a depression beard.”
“We all know why he’s so upset.” Clint shakes his head. “Clingy bastard. It’s only been two weeks.”
Bucky’s nose twitches.
There’s a loud clang of metal as Steve lands the exact same way Bucky does, except on his knee and his shield pressed into the ground. Drama queen.
“We done here?” Steve stands up straight, strapping his shield to his back.
“Seems like it,” Nat answers. “Good job, boys. Finished two days ahead of schedule.”
“Yeah, someone was in a hurry.” Clint shoots a hard look towards Bucky.
Oh, if looks could kill, Clint’s funeral planning would be well underway by now.
Bucky glances around at the agents littering the floor, varying degrees of knocked out and otherwise. “You guys know we have to go back upstairs, right? Why’d we all gather here?”
There is no answer to that. Sometimes, no one in the room had the singular brain cell that bounced between them.
It’s a good mix of awkward and content silence, occasional groan from someone on the floor and Vanessa Carlton through the comms.
“So…” Bucky clears his throat. “Can we go home now?”
Steve raises an eyebrow at him in amusement. “We sure can.”
“Thank God,” he mutters, tucking the gun into his holster and smoothing his hair back.
The playlist continues on as they walk back up the stairs only sort of sheepishly, switching to another tune.
“Hey, Neil Diamond’s back on,” Clint cheers.
The song changes a second later.
Bucky makes sure to take a shower and sleep this time before showing up to the lair. It had become an official rule and he know for a fact that you’d turn him away and send him right back if so dared to show up directly after a mission.
There’s an agent loitering around the front, kicking a stone and humming to himself.
The second he notices Bucky the pebble is discarded, arms pull to his side and he stands in attention.
“Good morning, Sergeant Barnes.”
“Agent,” he says in greeting. “You can take a break until the next shift comes in. I’ll handle it from here.”
Bucky’s superiority in the hierarchy of orders at S.H.I.E.L.D. was well established, so the agent only gives a nod and a short sigh in relief before taking off.
He notices the lack of sound coming from the lair, a strange detail considering that it was a Saturday and he knows there’s usually maniacal laughing playing from a recording or exaggerated construction noises.
The door automatically opens to let him in. The lights are all on, the pillars are still filled with liquid that’s shifted colours to bright lime green, there’s the general mess on the floor.
And there’s a dragon.
A large, mechanical dragon with a body that spanned the entire length of the room, flaming red with a mouth hanging open.
Two weeks and this is what he comes back to.
Slowly scanning through the junk on the floor, he comes to realise that the usual junk on the floor isn’t exactly spare parts and candy wrappers- it’s spare parts, candy wrappers and medieval helmets, swords and other robes strewn carelessly.
Your body lies draped across the high-rise villain chair, an arm shielding your eyes from the lights. He can tell you’re wearing something akin to armour, a spear hugged across your sleeping form like a replacement teddy bear.
“Y/N?”
In an instant, you jump up, eyes groggy but the weapon pointed straight towards him. Your reflexes had definitely developed over the months he’d known you.
“Whomst’ve?” is all you say.
“Thought I left my mission behind twenty hours ago,” he mumbles. “Why do you have a spear?”
It takes a moment for you to adjust, your grip on the fake spear surprisingly strong for some woken up from a deep, deep nap.
“Bucky?” You blink, finally lowering your weapon of choice. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“What do you think I’m doing here?” He drops the little gift bag on the armrest of your chair. Another charm to add to the bracelet, another postcard to the collection.
“Is that really you or am I just sleep-deprived again?” You poke at his chest.
The tip of your cardboard spear bends. He doesn’t break eye contact with you.
It’s enough proof for you.
“Fuck, I thought you were comin’ back day after tomorrow.” You stifle a yawn, before giving him a grin. “Hey.”
The corner of his lips automatically quirks up. “Hey.”
“How was the mission?” You set the spear down, not that it was of much help.
It wasn’t like you needed any; the agent posted outside was generally enough. Fury had you shifted to a priority caller in his list- that came with its own set of rules as to what constituted an emergency and most of it was extraterrestrial based- so you were technically one of the most well-protected people on the planet at the moment.
“The usual.”
“Broke a few bones, kicked some ass?” you suggest and he nods. “Not enough clearly. Shame on you, go kick some more.”
“Thanks, sweetheart. I feel real welcome.”
“How are you back so early?” You laugh, straightening out your clothes and reaching over to pick up the cup sitting on the floor. “Why are you back so early? Did something happen?”
“Maybe I just wanted to see you.”
“Nuh-uh.” You take a sip, wagging your finger at him. “None of that flirting business until I’ve woken up fully. I need to commit it to memory.”
Fair enough.
“Nothing happened, we finished early s’all.” Bucky shrugs. “How long have you been here?”
“A few hours. Got bored and just…” you trail off, gesturing to the armchair. “World’s best nap.”
“What happened to your cast?”
You glance down at your foot. “Told you I’d fix it.”
“Doesn’t hurt anymore?”
“Nope.” You shake it around loosely. “Jake made me get it checked out too. It’s all good.”
Oh, right; Jake had returned from his cult vacation. He remembers it from the unexplained video of Alpine you sent him a few days into his mission. Speaking of which, he still has no idea what he was supposed to be watching.
“‘m glad you’re back, Buck,” you say as if on cue, “Only problem is that I got nothin’ for you to stop yet.”
As if on cue, there’s a loud mechanical whine from the dragon. He honestly forgot it was even there.
“Y/N.”
“Bucky.” You take a louder, uncouth sip of your drink, looking at him innocently.
“Whatcha got there?”
“A smoothie?” You hold up your cup and swirl it around.
He doesn’t laugh at your joke, face resting like it’s made of stone.
“Fine.” You place the cup on the ground again before spinning to face it. “That would be a dragon.”
“Right.” He nods. “Why?”
“World Book Day’s coming up.” Your eyes light up, your usual energy setting in at the mention of your job. “They wanted to do something Arthurian related.”
“King Arthur fought a dragon?” He squints at it and the gold plated fangs.
“Not everyone fights each other, Bucky,” you drag out. “Sometimes the real treasure is the dragons we befriend along the way.”
He raises an eyebrow.
“I’m actually supposed to be building two dragons but I thought I’d just clone the other one and then colour it white.” Your shoulders rise and fall. “They’re gonna fight each other.”
“Why do you have a spear then?”
“Because I’m playing some of the townspeople who are scared, or something.” You make a mention of the different costumes lying all around the lair. “And also the king, the Wisemen, and Merlin and-”
“You’re gonna play all the roles?”
“Yeah, I thought I’d do this time watch thing where I slow time to do a costume change. The kids are gonna love it.”
“Right.” It does sound cool. Just… larger than life. “And then what happens with this?”
“I don’t know, figured I’d set them loose over the city. Burn shit down, freak out some conspiracy theorists.”
There it is. That he can deal with.
His face twists. “You can’t take a firebreathing dragon to school.”
“Uh, yes, I can.” You jut your jaw out like it’s a stupid thought. “Paid the moving guys and everything.”
“First of all, it’s fuckin’ dangerous and the sch- stop it, I don’t care if you have a fire extinguisher. It’s too small. Either shrink the dragon or it’s going nowhere.”
“Shrink the dra- to what, a lizard?” You huff. “I’m not changing it. You should have brought it up earlier.”
“When would I fuckin’ do that? I was on a mission.”
“That sounds like a personal problem.” You roll your eyes. “I’m gonna blame you, this is your fault now.”
He scoffs. “My fault?”
You shake your head to conceal a smile. “Yeah, what am I supposed to do if you’re not there to tell me I can’t do something and then I proceed to do it anyway? It grounds me.”
“That argument doesn’t even make sense, you never tell me your plans in the fir-” Bucky abruptly cuts himself off.
“You were saying?” You smile widely.
“Nothing,” he says, staring ahead at the dragon. He knows by now that all you’re gonna do is say more stupid, illogical things that’d make him want to slam his head against the wall in frustration. “Go on.”
“Aw, man. Thought that’d go on for longer.” You sigh. “Whatever, the point I was getting to is that maybe I could use some company here when you’re not around.”
“Like a partner?”
“I was thinkin’ lower,” you muse. “I put out applications for henchmen.”
“Yeah?” He looks at you out of the corner of his eye. “Where? Craigslist?”
“No, Tinder.” You rest one hand on your hip. “I just sent out flyers, I’ve gotten a few responses already.”
It’s not a half-bad thought. If he thinks of it as an assistant job rather than an evil minion then he can even grow to like the idea.
“They any good?”
“Well-” you pause, trying to frame it as politely as possible- “no, they’re shit.”
“Right.”
“It’s just-” you wave your arm around. “Look at that. I need pizzazz. I need someone with flair.”
“I’ll call Elton John.”
“Shut up. Anyway, I did find one person.”
Bucky waits for you to continue but you instead turn to him slowly, a grin that doesn’t quite reach your eyes.
“Oh, you’re gonna be so mad.”
He stares back at you. “What did you do?”
The smile is all teeth and nervousness. “You remember my man Nico?”
“…Nico from the Obsidian Crew?”
“That’s the one.” You chuckle anxiously. “Yeah, I sent him an application form.”
“You did what?” His voice raises involuntarily but he quickly lowers the volume back down.
“I have reasons!” You hold your hands up defensively. “He’s a himbo, and you know how much I love a himbo.”
“That’s not a valid reason,” he argues, eyebrows knitted together, “that’s barely a reason.”
“It’d be a total Yzma and Kronk situation.”
“Yzma dies in the end.”
You reel back. “No, she doesn’t, what the fuck?”
“I don’t know, I slept through most of it,” he grumbles, waving his hand around dismissively.
“That’s why you don’t understand. Himbos are the most valuable members of our society.”
“You’re not hiring a guy who almost killed you.”
“He didn’t-”
“Sent you to Jersey, whatever.”
“He’s a good-”
“He’s a villain’s villain-”
“And he looked genuinely interested-”
“That’s, like, evil squared-”
“I don’t even know if he’s going to accept-”
“He’s in detainment-”
“Okay look, look.” You grab his shoulders gently. “I’ll let you interview him. Threaten him. Whatever.”
Bucky looks at you like he’s aged a thousand years in the span of six minutes, all weathered and weary. “I was right.”
“About what?” You let go of his shoulders and he doesn’t like the immediate lack of warmth that sets in on his arms.
“I leave you alone for two weeks and you make the worst decision I’ve ever heard.”
You bite back a smile. “It’s a superpower, really.”
He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose and clenching his eyes shut. “Why are you doing this?”
“S.H.I.E.L.D. took a chance on me all those years ago. Changed my life.” You shrug. “Just wanna pass that on to someone, that’s all.”
Bucky takes a moment to register your words. You don’t attempt to provide any further justification, and it wasn’t like you needed to.
“You’re the worst villain out there.”
“Look at my fire breathing dragon and tell me that again, you motherfucker.”
“You can’t be a supervillain if you’re fundamentally a good person,” he says dryly.
“I can multitask,” you mumble, crossing your arms over your chest, “and thank you.”
“That’s not multitasking, that’s being the one thing you’re not supposed to be.”
The dragon lets out a large mechanical groan and you shush it. Its head tilts downwards with a whine.
“That thing breathes fire?” He mentions towards it with a pull of his shoulder.
“Flies too.” You eye him up and down, not ignoring the sudden change in topic. “Just haven’t finished it yet.”
He gives a short nod, hooking his thumbs into his belt hooks, his regular nervous habit. He doesn’t say anything further, lip caged between his teeth as he diverted his attention to the contraption.
“Listen. I know you’re totally not worried about me, and definitely don’t care whether it’s safe-” you give him a half-smile in reassurance “-but I promise it’ll be fine. Besides, what’s some guy gonna have on a supersoldier, huh?”
His mouth forms a straight line. “Jus’ don’t want you to get hurt.”
“Hey, now. We’ve long established that you and I are invincible.” You spread your arms wide, retracting them when he doesn’t share the same enthusiasm. “I’ll obliterate him on the spot.”
Bucky lets out an exhale.
“I’ll let you obliterate him on the spot.”
At that, there’s the tiniest smile on his face.
“You’re reckless. And annoying.”
“Thanks, Bucky.”
“C’mon,” he says, “I’ll help you fix this up and then you can try to kill me.”
Hand pressed to your heart, you ask, “You’re gonna build an inator with me?”
“Maybe.”
“Wait, really?”
“Joined the dark side already, remember?” He covers two steps in a large stride on his way up onto the platform. “Got nothin’ to lose.”
“As hot as that’d be, I’m gonna need you to stay on your goody-two-shoes side for the sake of this relationship.”
He scoffs lightly, throwing a look at you over his shoulder as he stops a few feet away from the dragon.
“I’m not a goody-two-shoes.”
“You’re a ray of fuckin’ sunshine.” You walk over to the drawers, pulling them open and grabbing something. “Glaring at me ain’t gonna change my mind, Buck.”
He drops it, instead, scanning the tail-end of the dragon laying curled up uniformly against the platform floor. “What do we have to do?”
“A lot of welding. Gear changes,” you explain, voice stopping a few feet behind him. “Hold on, take these before we start.”
He pivots to look at you. "Take what?”
“I know you don’t like grease on your metal arm, it’s harder to clean.” You toss it carelessly at him. “Made you some gloves.”
Bucky catches it before it hits him in his face. It’s similar to Kevlar but not exactly, a shade lighter than navy and smells like jasmine. A new feeling arises from deep within his chest.
He shifts between looking at the gloves to you now standing beside him, assessing the situation with the dragon.
“They’re blue.”
“You said it was your favourite colour,” you say offhandedly.
Bucky doesn’t know why he remembers it now, literal months later.
He didn’t get at the time, in the common room when Wanda told him.
To know is to love.
"What?” you ask, turning to look at him, “Did you change your favourite colour overnight? You’re supposed to give me a 3-day notice, you know.”
He gets it now.
“Hey.” Bucky shoves the gloves in his back pocket. “You awake yet?”
Your breath hitches in your throat. “Very.”
“Good,” he says before he cradles your face with his hands and presses his lips to yours.
If he didn’t get it earlier, he definitely gets it now.
The way his heart jolts is almost embarrassing. He gets one chance and he fucking takes it, kissing you breathless.
Every curse word he knows runs through his mind in pure electricity, because shit, you drive him up the damn wall but fuck, if he doesn’t love it more than life itself.
He can’t fathom any reason to pull away but even supersoldiers need oxygen. Fuckin’ stupid, if you ask him.
When he does, there’s an exhale on your end and he finds you looking at him, eyes widened.
“‘Bout damn time,” you breathe out, lips slightly swollen. He traces his thumb across your cheekbone.
“Yeah,” he replies, gaze scouring your face for any kind of way to anchor him. “‘Bout damn time.”
And then your hands tug him closer again and his lips find yours again, body moving on autopilot until you’re pressed up against the tabletop.
His hands swipe around blindly to shove things aside, hoisting you up so that he can stand between your legs because fucking hell, he just needs to be closer. Closer to you, closer to this, closer to-
“God, you’re so fuckin’ messy,” he grumbles, pulling away for a second to look at the newly created chaos on the floor.
“Woulda cleaned if you’d given me a warning.” You laugh, carefree and indignantly and he presses another kiss to your mouth with a dumb smile of his own. He can’t be bothered to hide it anymore.
The ground feels like it’s slipping from beneath his feet, he’d be nervous about the feeling of falling but he’s been doing it for a while and it feels good. It’s dizzying and he likes it.
“Wait, something’s stabbing me,” you mumble against his lips and he breathes out a chuckle, “Fuck, really should clean this place more often.”
He does another sweep with his arm to eliminate the unreasonable number of highlighters that pollute the table.
Until his palm hits something.
The gigantic pillars behind him let out a low rumble.
It’s almost painful to pull away from you but the liquid inside bubbles with an angry intensity he’s never witnessed before.
“What’s happening?” he asks, out of breath, head turned away behind him.
“Fuck,” you curse under your breath.
“Why’s it doing that?” In all his time at the lair, he can’t recall a single time when it acted the way it was. It’s always been a constant, almost welcoming presence but not now.
“That thing’s going to go explode.”
“Huh?” His mind’s spinning too much to really make sense of what you’re saying.
“Buck, that thing’s about to go nuclear. We just poisoned the entire city.”
By the time it finally registers, his jaw goes slack.
“What?” he exclaims, his body straightening up swiftly.
Of all the fucking times to manage to screw shit up, this had to be his top-
“I’m kidding.” You snort. “That’s basically a glorified lava lamp.”
Fucking-
He turns to glare at you and you can’t help but laugh loudly at the look on his face. For how much power his eyes held, his hair’s standing up in all directions and his cheeks are tinted pink.
“You are unbelievable,” he groans.
“But you like me.” You grin, reaching out to smoothen back his tresses.
“You’re such a fuckin’ liar.”
“Yeah, but you like me,” you repeat, smile never wavering.
He stares at you. You stare back at him.
The glower he wears cracks, his resolve giving way to a small disbelieving laugh.
“Yeah.” Bucky presses a kiss to your cheek, dropping his head into the crook of your neck. “Unfortunately I do.”
“No takebacks.”
“Wasn’t plannin’ on it.“
Chapter 23: Epilogue
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
It was a fine day.
A good day, even, to watch your lair descend into complete chaos after your plan to take over the tri-state area with an army of clones fails.
Not to mention the unperformed musical number.
It smacks Bucky in the face right as he enters– an ocean of teal shades and a chorus of his name squawked at him like the seagulls from Finding Nemo. If he wasn’t so damn used to it, he would have maybe had a faint blush at the occasional “you’re pretty” thrown in there.
In greeting, he presses his lips into a thin line. A rather pathetic excuse for a smile, if you could even call it that.
“Well, hello. What an unexpected surprise.” One of the voices is agreeably louder than the others, and so he diverts his eyes to the circular platform raised from the floor. “And by unexpected I mean completely expected.”
“Y/N.” He ignores the multitude of ‘yeah?’s to zero in on you in the centre.
“Bucky.”
He can tell it’s the original– not because of the ultramarine tuxedo you have on, accessorised with a sparkly dance cane and definitely more feathers than should ever be on something that’s not a bird– but because of the additional top hat. No one else in the crowd had one.
“Clone army? You serious?”
“You can’t blame me, Bucky.” You throw him a wide-toothed grin, eyes still hidden behind the masquerade mask you’ve got covering half your face. “I gave you the chance to destroy the blueprint and you never took it, so now we have to deal with it.”
“Deal with what?”
“Us taking over the tri-state idea,” you say, bringing your foot down loudly on the metal platform.
Scarily in sync and in a manner that leaves him speculating how long you had to practise this, your doppelgangers do the same before falling into the first position of a dance number.
He winces. Hands in the air, no one else moves.
“Where’s Nico?”
“He said he was gonna get ribbons to tie around everyone’s wrist so we can differentiate between the orignal and the copies.”
Bucky stares at you.
“Wouldn’t it be easier to just tie one around your wrist?” he asks slowly.
You blink at him, arms lowering. “He was excited so I gave him twenty dollars, leave me alone.”
“You’re the only one with a hat,” Bucky continues emphasizing.
“You’re the only one with a hat,” you mock, voice high pitched and muffled. “Stop focusing on the technicalities, you killjoy.”
“There is not a single person in this lair who thinks.”
“And that includes you.”
Rightfully, he walked straight into that one. If he tried hard enough, he could place the blame for the profound loss of his critical thinking ability on hanging out with you.
“You don’t deserve our performance.” You sigh dramatically.
“Thank God,” he deadpans.
All of a sudden it’s his one, lone metallic middle finger against an army of white-gloved middle fingers challenging him.
“Can you please finish with… whatever this is.” He checks his watch. “We got somewhere to be.”
“A hot date?” You lean forward on your palms, bodyweight precariously balanced on the cane.
“You wish.”
“I do, actually,” everyone echoes back at him. He wonders if they’re only programmed to hit him with insults and pick up lines.
A smile slips past his otherwise well-maintained, time tested facade of annoyance. “Get it over with.”
“Alright, everyone. Just as we practised.” You straighten out your spine, arm holding the cane high in the air with your head tilted to the sky. “One, two, three–”
“Attack,” your clones say in unison.
“What?” You look down quickly. “No, not that. The other one.”
They look up at you. “Unclear chain of commands.”
“Not Battle Plan #3, execute Dance Routine #2.”
They look at each other. Bucky, too, watches them look at each other.
“Unclear chain of commands.” They tilt their head up at you.
“What the hell is unclear about-”
“Executing Battle Plan #3.”
“For fuck’s sake,” you curse, crouching to leap down from the platform. “Not Battle Plan #3.”
“Confirmation received. Battle Plan #3 in motion.”
“I said not-” You land gracefully on the ground, already in a defensive stance.
Hot, he thinks. Not a good time to let you know, however.
“Abort Battle Plan #3.”
“Plan set in action.” They march eerily into straight lines, easily at least two hundred of them populating the lair. “Clownproof Protocol activated.”
“Oh, my God, you idiots– deactivate Clownproof Protocol.”
But they’ve shifted positions already. Backs stiff as a cardboard and eyes a nice, bright red that doesn’t go well at all with the shade of blue they’re dressed in.
“No,” their voice, robotic and gravelly, is a sharp contrast from before.
Right.
“Hmm,” he notes, unsurprised and unimpressed. “Your clones are malfunctioning, sweetheart.”
“I can see that.” You grit your teeth, spinning around to watch them as they reach behind their backs.
“Should do something about it.”
“Ya think?” you shout when they swiftly brandish their weapons.
“I do, yeah.”
Long cylinders tubes of foam and small tubes of translucent material.
He doesn’t have to spend too long racking his brains on what they as they hold up the smaller sticks. A beat passes before a crack sound reverberates through the lair, neon colours of blue, green, pink, and yellow bright in your palms.
The lair goes dark.
There’s a long silence before–
“Are you kidding me?”
Bucky doesn’t wait for the collective, loud battle cry to finish before he calmly makes his way to the corner of the room to stand.
“Your plan was to take over the tri-state area using pool noodles and glow sticks?” he snorts, vaguely making out your silhouette through the flashes of pink and purple on your face.
“This was for the fucking dance number,” you seethe, top hat giving away your location like a lighthouse. “Everyone stop it. I swear to God if you even breathe at the espresso machine, I’ll–”
Bucky checks his phone. Two texts from Steve that he leaves on read and a video from Clint on the group chat that he doesn’t even open.
He can hear the chaos upholding in front of him. Pool noodles fly across the crowd, glowsticks thrown up in the air and down before getting kicked around the floor. More of a fucking rave than an actual plan gone wrong.
“We got an hour left.” He locks his phone and slips it back in his pockets. “D’you think you’ll be done by then?”
“You can help, y’know.” You duck under a pool noodle being flung at you.
“I’m not gonna fight you, Y/N.”
"Bucky, baby, these are my evil clones.”
"I’m not gonna hit your clone,” he argues back from his place in front of the wall. “Make them not look like you or something. Maybe then I’ll help.”
“That’s very sweet, and you’re adorable.” You jump to land a dropkick against your carbon copy, whipping around to glare at him. “But I hate you.”
It’s almost on instinct that the exact opposite nearly slips out of him, but he bites it back. Considering that he hadn’t ever said it to you before, saying it in the middle of a clone battle with yourself didn’t seem like the most opportune moment. He’s been holding onto it for weeks, a little more time wouldn’t hurt, would it?
“I know,” he says instead, crossing his arms over his chest again. “Pay attention. You’re behind you.”
You swing around, kicking the feet out from under a clone. The sharp clang of metal on the tiles of your floor is reassuring.
The lair door swings open. All activity comes to a halt when the darkness temporarily lifts.
Someone stands at the doorway, light casting a halo around his broad figure.
“Hey boss,” your new assistant says cheerfully. “And boss, and boss, and boss, and boss–”
“Hey Nico,” you cut in from the middle. “Hit the reverse button on the clone machine, please.”
And the glowsticks resume flying through the air.
“Yes, ma’am.” He salutes, veering through the crowd with soft ‘excuse me’ and ‘coming through’s. The little cloth bag he carries when he goes shopping finds itself tied to his belt, for safekeeping in case things get too ugly.
Nico was ridiculously tall, easily towering over all the clones. His shirt is about two sizes too small and the seashell necklace he kept around his neck because it reminded him of his home and his mom looked like tiny beads in comparison.
Despite Bucky’s initial cynicism, the guy seemed to fit in rather well at the lair. He was clearly just as fascinated as you were with the wacky tech ideas, doing his part by taking on all the heavy lifting which previously was managed by you and your several levitation rays.
“I couldn’t find enough colours for two hundred people so I just picked up some coffee for us and Christmas lights,” he informs loudly, letting out a small ‘oof’ is courtesy when one of you thump his chest with a pool noodle.
Not to forget, Bucky also appreciated how Nico’s spring cleaning got rid of years’ worth of junk from the lair, the new windows he had you blow into the walls to allow in more sunlight because he believed it helped productivity and the fact that the furniture always smelled of lavender.
“That’s great, buddy.” You struggle against one of them in a swordfight and Bucky briefly considers stepping in until you deftly disarm them, flipping them over your shoulder before springing up. “Did you get the Tekton set?”
“No, they were all out.” He takes a large leap to the raised stage at the end of the hall, the floor vibrating where he lands momentarily. “But I got some new screwdrivers because I broke them last week.”
“Broke them? I thought you lost them.” You throw him a glance in the middle of shoving a clone aside.
“No, that was the previous previous set. I broke the ones we got after that.”
And the guy apparently had an aversion to screwdrivers, it looked like.
“How did you break vibranium sc-”
“Wrap it up, Y/N, we gotta go.” Bucky reminds over all the noise, back still very much pressed against the wall.
“Oh, hey Sergeant Barnes!” Nico calls out, ducking to avoid a glowstick thrown at him. “I didn’t see you there.”
“Afternoon, Nico.”
“Would you want some coffee?” he asks politely.
“I’m good, thanks.”
“I only brought two cups but you can have mine. Or maybe if we mix it together we can form one mega drink–”
“Nico, the switch,” you intervene.
“Sorry, boss.” He hurriedly turns back to the machine, gently picking one of your clones up and setting them aside like they were made of nothing. Maybe he could be an Avenger.
“It’s okay.” You let out a noise of irritation when someone thunks you on the head with a glowstick. “Any day now.”
“Um-” Nico’s eyes dart over the control panel. “Which one’s the button again?”
“The big red one that says ‘reverse switch’, probably.”
“That’s-” he pauses. “That’s not here.”
“What d’you mean that’s not there?” Your arms hold back the attack of a noodle. “Check the emergency panel.”
“Okay.” He momentarily disappears behind the gigantic box until his voice comes back muffled. “It says we need a password.”
“A password?”
Bucky sends a text to Steve that they might be late.
“What the fuck is th- okay, fuck that. Just hit any switch that’s not green.”
“Gotcha.” He waddles back to the front, shaking his fingers out. “Is yellow okay?”
“Any colour, Nico,” you whine.
“You got it, boss.” He slams his palm down on the button.
Bucky can feel the giant wave that runs through the lair, the hair on his arm standing straight.
Mechanical groans and the noises his laptop makes when it powers down soon follow as the red eyes return back to normal. Instead of just falling over, which he’s sure would haunt his nightmares for days, every clone just plops themselves down on the ground, crossing their legs and sitting as he remembers he did in middle school.
“Yay.” You lean against the railing for support, breathing heavily.
“You did it, boss.” Nico gives you a large thumbs up. “It all went according to plan.”
“Sure it did.” You nod. “Definitely. That was the plan.”
Bucky scoffs out a laugh, pushing himself off the wall and making his way to you. He makes sure to flip the switch on his way to you, bringing light back into the lair.
“Why-” you hold up a finger, still trying to catch your breath “-why did we put a password on the emergency panel?”
“Because, uh-” Nico gestures towards Bucky in what felt like an apology.
Bucky looks back at him strangely.
“It was to stop him,” he adds. “No offence, Sergeant B.”
“None taken,” Bucky reassures because it was literally his job.
“Fine, whatever.” You ignore the whole exchange, dragging yourself to behind the machine. “What’s the password?”
“I dunno.” Nico scratches the back of his head. “Did you try ‘password’?”
Your head pops around to stare at him unblinkingly. “Our password is ‘password’?”
“No, wait.” He snaps his fingers in a moment of realisation. “I think maybe it’s one two three.”
Bucky nods along, mouth pursed inward. It seemed pretty on-brand.
“It’s not working.” You glance up at Nico.
“One two three four.”
He can hear the chime of the keypad as you punch in the numbers, mumbling to yourself.
“You’ve gotta be shi- why did that work?” You throw your hands up when there’s a woosh of air following a small click. “Who decided that?”
Nico shrugs. “We didn’t. It just came with the system.”
“The system?”
“You guys don’t change the default password?” Bucky’s eyebrows furrow. “Even I do that and I’m six hundred years o-”
“Okay,” you interrupt, pulling off the panel and letting it fall to the floor with a clang. “No more password-based stuff, Nico, make a note of that.”
“Noted.” He pulls out a tiny little book, scribbling in it with the pencil attached before flipping it closed.
A second later the machine whirs to life, blue light emanating from it. The sounds of a generator overpower what he’s sure is Bye Bye Bye by *NSync playing through the speakers.
Each of the clones gets up, dust their blue suits off before obediently lining up in a queue. He can hear them shoot compliments at each other, either for the wrinkled suit or the glowsticks in their pockets.
“See you later.” You give them a small wave. “Or not.”
“Bye,” Nico says to the first person who walks through the door and disappears. “See you. Nice meeting you. See you around. Bye–”
With the determination of a person too polite to be alive, he makes sure to bid farewell to every person who walks through the machine.
Your eyebrows upturn at him but you say nothing.
“Hey,” Bucky says, stealing your attention. “Did you have fun?”
“Loads.” You wipe the sweat off your brow, ditching your post to come stand in front of him. “You ever been in a battle against yourself? Should try it sometime.”
“No, only one of us can be the designated idiot at a time.” He presses a kiss to your forehead. “You good?”
“It’s your turn next week.” You let out an exhale before giving him a bright smile. “All good.”
“Told Steve we’re gonna be late.”
“Oh, good. I need a shower.” You scrunch up your nose, picking at your suit. “Maybe a nap. How about we don’t go?”
“Sure, if you’re the one to break the news.”
“Coward.” You poke at his chest. “Fine, but we’re taking the bike.”
“Why would we need to take the bike if you’re gonna cancel?”
“Because-” you open your mouth to begin, only to be cut off by a sound of utter distress from across the platform.
From the side, you see Nico standing over his espresso machine that lay in pieces on the floor.
You look at Bucky. He already knows what you’re gonna say.
He shakes his head. “Just go.”
“It’ll only take twenty minutes.” You flash him a smile. “You’re my favourite person in this room. Maybe even this street.”
“Yeah, yeah.” It nearly escapes him again, the words hanging at the top of his tongue. Shouldn’t be this easy to say, should it? “Go on. He looks like he’s about to cry.”
You blow him a kiss before stalking towards Nico, placing a hand on his shoulder. The smile he gives you doesn’t quite reach his eyes, and you gently dismiss his insistence that it’s okay before bending down to assess the damage.
Bucky lets out an exhale before pulling out his phone to hit play on the video Clint sent at least two days ago.
“You did what?”
Bucky crosses his arms over his chest. “Stop being dramatic.”
“I’m being dramatic?” you scoff. “You bought a house.”
“So?”
“I was gone for twenty fucking seconds and you bought a house without telling me.”
He rolls his eyes. “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t think it was necessary–”
“Not necessary? We’re together and you’re-”
“Guys,” T interrupts. “It’s just Monopoly.”
Steve nods from his place on the couch.
“T, he bought a house without telling me.” You turn to her immediately, voice shrill in complain.
“It’s a fucking board game.” Bucky leans back. “It’s your fault you left.”
“To get your thirsty ass some apple juice, you loser.”
“Did I a-”
“I don’t even buy apple juice. Where did you get that?” T points to the glass in front of you, half full.
“I have resources.” You cryptically count the fake currency in your hands, glancing at the board in front of you for your properties.
“Are they allowed to team up?” Steve’s voice is low when he asks his girlfriend.
“No.” T narrows her eyes at you slipping Bucky a wad of cash, an unnaturally high sum.
“She just gave him cash.”
Bucky silently takes it, looking his best friend right in the eye. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Right.” You clear your throat, getting up from your place and pretend to dust yourself off. “I’m going to the kitchen for some orange juice–”
“I don’t have orange juice.”
“Does anyone want some?” You place your hands on your hips. When you get a round of declinations in return, you nod. “Alrighty. Be right back.”
“No more chips, we need to get dinner,” T calls out. “You won’t find any, but still.”
“Yes, ma’am.” You throw her a salute before marching on to your quest.
Bucky counts the money he has left. It’s a few seconds of silence as it dawns on him that he has more money than he realised initially. The obscene amount he had procured made no sense, even if he counted the amount you’ve been slipping him all evening.
“I’ll be back.” He pushes himself off the couch, shoving the bills into his pocket for security while he investigated.
In hushed tones from what he left behind, he hears, “They’re strategizing. It’s a team meeting.”
The reply, however, comes back at a normal volume. “It’s literally just a board game, what is wrong with you people?”
“You’re doing what she told you not to, aren’t you?” Bucky finds you amidst a kitchen full of half-open shelves.
“I’m definitely not looking for chips.” Your head was tilted up as you scoured T’s cabinets for her extra stash you know she kept hidden. “Would never do that.”
“Sure you’re not.” He leans his weight against the counter, watching you blindly reach about the space. “Check behind the cereal box.”
“Checked.”
“Check inside the cereal box.”
“Oooh,” you exclaim, pulling the box out and flipping open the cardboard lid. “Only an evil genius would know that. What are you not telling me, Barnes?”
“I live with like, thirty people. You learn to hide things.” He watches you pull out a brand new packet of nachos stealthily. “Are you actually mad at me?”
“Fuck no,” you respond immediately. “I’m just gonna use my public meltdown to our advantage. Throw ‘em off their rhythm, they’ll never see us coming.”
Which reminds him, “We’re not on the same team, I don’t know why you keep giving me money.”
“You’re my sugar ba-”
“Stop,” he interrupts.
You grin at him, tearing open the packet gently. “I’m embezzling funds and stashing them at your bank. Some of the notes are from my game back home.”
“You brought your own currency?”
“Sure did,” you sing. “You’re my fall-man. You’re going to take the blame-”
”No, get your illegal money out of my bank, what the fuck?”
“Go to jail-”
“I refuse.”
“And then I’m going to bust you out of there and then we’ll live on an island or something.” You shake the bag gently, well out of her earshot, shuffling the chips toward you.
“No.”
“Go team, I’m so proud of us.” You pop a nacho in your mouth and smile at him widely.
He shakes his head, reaching into the bag you hold out for him. “Not a team.”
“Hold on now, what happened to Team Dumbass? Bracelet Bitches my beloved?”
“It died when you tried to get me sent to jail for money laundering and tax fraud.”
“If that’s all it takes to break us apart then it wasn’t that strong in the first place.” You sigh, placing a hand on his chest before retracting it quickly to shove it into the bag again.
But it has been. Strong, he means, for months now. He would never be able to say it out loud but he’s pretty sure it’s the most content, happy even, he’s been in nearly a hundred years. Also, it’s the most absurd mix of distress and fun he’s ever chosen to be subjected to.
“Steve thinks we’re strategizing in here.” He hums.
“I already have a strategy.” You stand close enough beside him to have your elbows touching. You’ve found that likes some sort of physical contact, no matter how small it may be.
“S’ppose it involves me.”
“Obviously. Maybe if you didn’t betray me then I’d tell you what it was.”
He scoffs. “It was one house that I bought with my own non-illegal currency.”
“Without telling me,” you reiterate. “And all your currency is illegal, I’ve been swiping it out the whole evening.”
His eyebrows cinch together at this new piece of information but he doesn’t pursue it further.
Instead, he takes another chip. Counts the number of tiles between the countertops on both sides of the room. Revels in the feeling of your skin grazing against his metal arm.
He hears you reach into the bag, snapping his mind out of the little trip it was taking.
“Hypothetically, in real life,” Bucky begins, breaking the momentary silence, “if I ever did buy a house-”
The smile drops from your face instantly. “Did you actually-”
“No,” he adds quickly. “Hypothetically. In the future. Not now.”
You eye him skeptically, all other movements put on halt for that brief period.
“I didn’t buy a fucking house, I swear.”
You press back a smile at his degree of seriousness, feeling relief flood into your system. “Go on.”
“You’d be open to that?” Bucky looks at you out the corner of his eye.
“Sure.” You shrug casually and he lets out a short breath he didn’t realise he was holding. “But I got some hypothetical conditions.”
“Course you do,” he mumbles.
“Number one,” you announce, holding your hand up with a chip pinched together between your fingers, “No can openers.”
“Okay, hypothetical plan cancelled,” he says immediately.
“No can openers, I’m serious.” Your laugh is short, teasing.
“It’s the first thing we’d hypothetically get.” He rolls his eyes. “You call me over every time you need me to open one.”
“Because those pieces of shit are hard. And I just call you over to see your face.”
He knows.
“And your arms. They look great while you do it.”
Okay, moving on.
“Second–” You do it before he can “–Jake.”
“What about him?”
“Hypothetically, he’s gonna be happy that I moved out and I can’t have that.”
Bucky quirks an eyebrow.
“Let’s fake my death.”
A little too dramatic, he thinks.
“Give him something to be sad about.” You grin. If he knows you, then he knows there are at least three plans already formulating in your head.
“He won’t be,” he reminds.
“You’re right, he won’t.” The smile vanishes slowly, narrowed eyes taking its place. “Fine, then fuck Jake. He can starve after he realises I’m the one who restocks his stupid yoghurt.”
Bucky’s pretty sure Jake knows. It’s also why your roommate buys your favourite pasta sauce even though just the mere sight of it makes him want to, in his words, projectile vomit.
But remembering Jake brings up another detail.
“What about Alpine?”
“Alpine 2.0.” Your answer comes back startlingly fast. “I’ll clone her.”
“We’ve already seen what happens to your clones.”
“Just because a few of them went rogue-”
“We’re not cloning Alpine.”
“Fine.” You huff. “I’m pretty sure Jake’s more attached to A.N.K.L.E.S. now anyway.”
“The murder Roomba?” Bucky picks up nacho. Dinner wouldn’t be an issue for him, his metabolism was much higher than the average human’s.
“It’s not a fucking Roomba, it’s a droid and its name is A.N.K.L.E.S.”
Bucky scorns. “Since when?”
“Since forever. The A stands for ABBA and the rest I don’t know yet.” You pop a chip into your mouth. “Either way, I don’t think he’d care much.”
“Okay, so hypothetically we get Alpine.” Bucky chews slowly, thoughtfully. “She gets a room.”
“Alpine gets two rooms. One for the day and one for the night.”
“The cat doesn’t need two rooms.”
“She deserves two rooms.”
“No, she doesn’t.”
“You feed her enough to need two rooms.”
“Shut up, she’s a growing cat,” he murmurs. He just pinned a new recipe to try out for her on his Pinterest board.
“She’s grown.”
“Alpine can pay rent if she wants two rooms.”
“Jerk. Don’t subject my cat to capitalism.” You take a pause. “Cat-pitalism.
He stares at you. “Hypothetical plan cancelled.”
“Third,” you continue regardless, “I’m gonna fill the entire place with traps and fake doors and shit, it’s gonna be so cool.”
He gets vivid flashbacks to pen swords and almost-mushroom clouds. His nose twitches.
Bucky pushes himself off the counter’s edge to get some water. “You get one room to invent and none of it ever leaves that space.”
“How do I take it to lair then?”
“Figure it out.”
“What if you sneak into the room and steal the plan and ruin my inator?”
He had an all-access pass to the lair and it had never happened before. There was no reason to believe he was going to start now.
Still, he kisses your cheek on his way past you. “Figure it out.”
“Okay, well then hypothetically I’m gonna build a portal in one of the rooms.”
“I will burn your hypothetical portal to the ground.”
“You can’t do that, I have a hypothetical force shield.”
“Your force shield has a hypothetical battery that I’m gonna remove.”
“That was one time.”
“One room to invent on the weekends and you use your teleporting shit to get it to the lair.” Bucky’s been here enough for dinner parties and game nights to know where T keeps her all her dishes.
“Okay, new hypothetical plan,” you say as he holds his glass out under the tap. “I’m gonna build a lair in our garage.”
“Garage?” In this economy? Fuck no.
“Fine, dungeon, then.” Your eyes shine. “We’re gonna stay in a castle.”
He shuts the tap off. “You’re gonna stay there alone.”
You continue excitedly, “A big, dark castle and you will never see me again because there’s gonna be so many rooms.”
“Great. Let me know when you’re moving,” he says dryly. “Gotta move all your stuff out of the Tower.”
“Yeah, lemme call a moving van for my fucking toothbrush.”
“Your other stuff.” The water disappears in a few strong gulps. The glass, he decides, can be the alibi he needs for being there, just in case T comes at you for stealing from her stash. If he was going to jail for money laundering, you could go for theft.
“What other stuff?” You squint.
“Y’know…” he trails off when he realises you very much don’t know, setting the glass down. “Your inators and stuff.”
Your head tilts inquisitively. “Thought those go to S.H.I.E.L.D..”
“Well, yeah. They’re supposed to.” Bucky shoves his hands in his pocket. “I don’t know, just had a feeling you’d want ‘em back one day.”
“Wait, so you kept them?” You fight the smile that threatens to spread across your face. “Since when?”
“Freeze gun, I think.”
“Wasn’t that– wait–” Your eyebrows knit together before your jaw drops. “Wasn’t that the first time we met?”
“Don’t remember.” Yes, he does. Yes, it was.
”You’ve had a crush on me since our first meeting?”
“No.”
“Oh my God, you’ve had a crush on me since our first meeting.”
He drags his palm across his face. “They’re getting recycled first thing tomorrow.”
“Not before I see them first.” You jump up with a renewed interest in this conversation. “Where even are they? The storage? On a ship?”
“My room.”
“I’ve been to your room, I’ve never seen my inators around.”
“You’ve seen the shelf,” he argues, crossing his arms over his chest.
“You mean that fucking drawer in the corner?” You cross your arms too, in retaliation. “The one you’ve stuck together with tape?”
“Why do you think it’s like that? I ran out of fuckin’ space, it’s too full.”
“I didn’t know it had my inators, I thought it was just like that.”
“You thought it’s barely hanging together because it was just like that?”
“Like owner, like cabinet.” You laugh when he rolls his eyes at you. “I’m kidding. Here, have a chip.”
“No,” he says as he takes the one you’re offering. “Hypothetical plan cancelled.”
“Okay,” you move on. “So in our castle, there’s gotta be at least one hypothetical room for all our friends.”
“Right, so that’s zero rooms for you then,” Bucky notes.
“We’re literally in my best friend’s kitchen right now.”
“Ask her if she feels the same.”
“T,” you call out and he gives a short exhale in disbelief. “Are you my best friend?”
Her voice comes back loud and clear. “No.”
“See? She loves me.” You turn to Bucky.
“You’re missing a few steps there.”
“No, I think I got all of them.” You nod. “T, Jake, Alpine and her three rooms.”
“Oh, so Alpine gets three rooms now.”
“Yeah, duh.”
He’d disagree but Alpine really was the royalty in this house. It was only time till she took over the entire house. The Tower had been claimed months ago anyway.
“Fine. But then hypothetically, if we’re doing this then you need to do it properly.” Bucky pauses. “Castle’s gotta be all-black.”
You reel back. “It certainly does not.”
“Black walls, black furniture–”
“Pink walls. Blue furniture.”
“…black cushions. Black curtains–”
“Yellow cushions. Purple curtains.”
“No garlic, no mirrors–” he continues to list out.
“We’re not vampires, Bucky. The castle has to look like a Barbie dreamhouse or I’m not staying.”
“I guess it’s just me and Alpine then.”
“You’re going to steal my child and stay in a castle that I made without me.”
Bucky’s lips press inward. “Yeah, sounds ‘bout right.”
“Bitch. I’ll leave all my inators in every room. They will be the first thing you see in the morning and the last thing you’ll see at night.”
“…black kitchen. Black floor–” he continues in revenge.
“Alpine’s going to get four rooms. Morning, afternoon, evening, night.”
“Black doors. Black bed. Black can-opener–”
“No can-openers.”
“Black wardrobe. Black–”
“I will evict yo–” You stop abruptly. “Why are we arguing about this?”
It’s not like you ever needed a solid reason before.
“Let’s just build a treehouse and stay there,” you propose instead.
“Deal.” He holds his hand out for a handshake, which you grab firmly.
“You guys done in there?” Steve calls out. “Neither of us wanna check if you’re fine, so please just get out.”
Bucky rolls his eyes, dropping your hand.
You gesture to the bag of chips. “D’you think I should take this out th-”
“Hide.”
“Good call.” You stash it back in the cabinet for later. Not in the cereal box, since it was your bag now.
You can tell game night’s gonna go on for longer, given that your plan to bankrupt Steve so hard he’d never be able to play the game again without tearing up had still not been put into action.
“Get your money out of my bank.”
“We’ll see.” You grin, cupping his cheeks and giving him a quick kiss before taking a step past him. Only, he tugs you back for one more, just a little longer than the last. It’s nice that it still leaves him feeling things in his stomach he refuses to put a name to.
You hum as you pull away with a small smile. “Wait three minutes before showing up so people don’t think we came together.”
Bucky’s eyebrows furrow. “What the fuck even are you talking about?”
“Actually, you know what? I think it’s time we let them know we’re-” you drop your volume “-official.”
He stares at you. “We’ve been together for months.”
“Shhh, they’ll hear you.”
“There’s nothing to hide.”
“Yeah, only ‘cause we’ll tell them.” You roll your eyes.
“They already fucking kn-” he shuts his mouth. “I’m not gonna do this again. Stay here if you want, I’m leaving.”
“You’re just gonna ditch me? Traitor.” You change stances immediately.
“You just s–” For the love of God. “–you’re insufferable.”
You stifle a laugh. “Go on, say it.”
“Say what?” he asks wearily.
“Say, 'God I hate you’, or something like that.”
He should say it. It’s tradition, and you’re waiting there, arms crossed across your chest. There’s a mock glare on your face but a twinkle in your eye.
“I love you,” he says instead.
It’s a second before your face pulls into the biggest smile he’s seen.
Notes:
hey guys! that's the official end for this series. thank you so much for sticking with this little nonsense fic over the few months it's been going-- your comments have been so lovely and it genuinely meant the world to me <3
you can find me on tumblr (@shurisneakers). we've written a few mini one-offs for this series called harmless mini drabbles. or maybe you can come say hi. i’d love to hear your favourite parts or characters or anything you wanna talk about, it’s always so fun :)
thank you again, i am so grateful.
-ari