Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The ship bunks are a nightmare. Narrow, stiff, barely even beds.
And there’s only two.

Sam already claimed top bunk—a victory he achieved hours ago, before exhaustion set in and rational decision-making ceased.

And now? He’s fully committed to pretending you and Bucky do not exist. Earplugs in, music on, blanket cocooned up to his chin.
He is so far out of this situation, it’s almost insulting.

Which leaves you and Bucky staring at the bottom bunk.
A moment. You glance at each other—you sprint

"NO—"
Bucky lands first, sprawled out like a goddamn starfish, taking up every inch of space on what should have been your bed.
You come crashing onto him just a second later, a quick tangle of limbs before you roll to the floor with a thud.

"No. No. No."
You refuse to accept this reality.
Instead, you grab his arm, his shoulder, his stupidly solid frame, attempting to shove, yank, roll him off—

Nothing.
Bucky does not budge. Doesn’t even acknowledge the effort.

And you? You’re left a little too breathless a little less composed and a lot more aware of how hot his temperature runs which is something you frankly didn’t need to know — you didn’t.

"Move."
"Already settled."
"Not my problem."
"Not mine either."

An exasperated sound leaves your lips before you press your full weight against him, shifting, pushing, trying every possible angle— well, almost
Still. Nothing.
He’s a brick wall of muscle and stubbornness.

You collapse in frustration, but refuse to surrender.
Fine. We try Bargaining.

"We take turns."
"Nope." And this time, you swear you saw him smirk. Just for a second.

"Why not?!"
"Because you’ll pass out and ‘forget’ to switch."
"That was one time!"
His left eyebrow seems to disagree with your statement.

Okay. Fair.
"You can wake me—" you plead, voice a little too desperate now, "by any means necessary."
You realize your mistake immediately.
Bucky finally cracks an eye open, slow, lazy, amused.
He lets you sit with it. Lets your own words marinate for just a second too long before closing his eyes again.

"Nice try." —Damn him
You exhale sharply—pure frustration, pure suffering.
This isn’t even about sleep for him.
He doesn’t even need to sleep like a normal, sane person.
He's just doing this to torture you. And he's enjoying himself way more than he would ever admit.


Fine.
Last resort.

You shift just enough, grabbing the edge of the bed. Making a show of moving. Slowly.

Bucky’s eyes snap open immediately.
"What are you doing?"
"Sleeping up top."

"With Sam?" and you swear his voice hitches up just a little.
"Yes! At least he has the decency not to manspread like his life depends on it.

Bucky’s brow twitches. You can see him processing, debating, calculating.

You step up onto the ladder and you can almost taste your victory.

A second.
That does it. 

Bucky exhales—pure suffering.
"You’re not bunking with Sam." — You're not. You both know it.
No more options.

"I’m not sleeping in a chair!" Your voice betrays just how close you are to losing it "I am tired."
For a second, you think he’s going to ignore you again—like he did the rest of your shenanigans.

But then— He moves. 
Grumbling, he shifts against the wall, legs stretching forward, his thighs brushing against yours as he props his feet on the now mysteriously unbolted metal chair.

You blink.
"There," he mutters, as if this is some great, unbearable sacrifice.

It’s not much.
But it’s something.
A compromise.

And you take it, curling up in the ridiculous half of the bed he so graciously left you— tucked against the wall, the insufferable heat of him taking up far too much space. You tell yourself it’s fine. You tell yourself you won —or at the very least it's a tie.

But you fall asleep thinking about the way he moved just enough to let you stay, still a little too close for comfort.

Chapter Text

Bucky does not move.

"Remind me—" he says, so deadpan it’s painful, "why you pulled me in here?"
His solid frame takes up most of the tight airplane bathroom.
There’s too little space, too much heat, and you’ve lost any patience you had for his pointless objections.

—Honestly. He’s old enough to know better than to break your mental flow.

"You! Forgot to remind me it’s Steve’s birthday!" you hiss. "We’ve got one hour to figure out a present! Once we reach LaGuardia, the window of opportunity is closed. And I refuse to be the one who has to look at his puppy eyes when he tells us it’s not a big deal. This is mission critical."

A beat.
Bucky blinks, adjusting awkwardly as you both try—and fail—to exist in the same six square feet of space.

"And we couldn’t discuss this outside because…?"


"Superhearing!" you snap, gesturing vaguely toward the front of the plane.
"Why’d you think I picked the restroom at the back—keep up, Barnes!"

Another shuffle.
A warm hand brushes your hip.
You freeze.

Push awareness to the back of your brain and keep talking—faster now.

"So I’m thinking a bottle of something from duty free—" "
Impersonal"

"Okay, but we gotta work with what we have. Is he a gin man?"

More shifting.
Bucky exhales through gritted teeth.
"Scotch."

A pause.
Then, with so much exasperation it could level a city:
"And this—" he gestures vaguely to you, to himself, to the absurdly tight quarters—"this is your first answer to that problem? You couldn't just pass me a note or something?"

You wave him off.
—He has a point.
But you’ve taken this too far to back down now.

"Talking helps me think, and you interrupting is not helping”—nor is the way his firm body shifts forward, forcing you to retreat onto the sink.

Bucky doesn’t answer.
Because he is staring at you.
Taking some very deep breaths.

Because somehow—and you do not know how—he is now standing fully between your thighs, your back against the vanity, while you are fighting the heat creeping up your neck. And losing.

You cannot think about this.
You will not think about this.

"So,"—you continue, because if you stop, then you have to acknowledge it, and that is not happening today—"if we pair it with a teddy bear… too cheesy or the kind of cheesy that makes Steve’s left eye tear up?"

Bucky looks at you.
Really looks at you.
Like he’s contemplating murder.

—Fuck. This was a terrible idea.

"Okay. No teddy bear! Just—give me a sec. It will come to me. Then we can get out!" you bite back.

He’s about to nod, but then— Bucky’s expression shifts.
Eyebrows shooting up.

"What?"

He leans in slightly.
Eyes narrowing, focused like he just realized something deeply, catastrophically important.


"Oh, I am not leaving this bathroom," he mutters, voice low. Too low. Your fingers grip the sink.

"—Why?" Your voice breaks a little.

He tilts his head. "
Because—" he exhales, "we’ve been in here for a while—"

A pause.
Tension so thick you could stab it.


"So what!" you snap. "Can’t two people just go to the bathroom for a cha—" oh. shit.

A beat of silence.
A horrible, sinking, too-late realization.
Bucky just stares.

And you can almost hear Sam’s voice in the back of your head, saying something about you joining the mile-high club.

You exhale, fingers pressing your temples, mentally preparing for the worst.
Why do you keep having the worst ideas?
Why does he never stop you?

"We are never living this down," you breathe out.

And he is smirking.
Which is absolutely useless in this situation.

Chapter Text

The safety driving course is so ridiculous it's offensive.

By the tenth loop, you swear even the plywood cutout of the civilian is mocking you.

And Barnes?
He's being damn difficult.

"Your last turn was sloppy, - his deadpan, insufferable voice cuts through the comms in your helmet. - Again."

You breathe in. Breathe out. In. Out.
Because if you don’t, you are going to throw him off this damn bike.

And maybe that’s why he has both hands on the passenger grab handle.
Not because he needs to—not at this kindergarten-speed crawl—but because he knows your temper a little too well by now.

Fine. Let’s do this. One more time.

You lean into the first turn, then the second, breeze through the silly red cones, brake at the stop sign, and check both sides—head turning in an exaggerated way because you know he’s going to ask you to do it again if you don’t.

You send a mental fuck-you to the civilian cutout, and another one to Clint, sitting on the bleachers with the dreaded driving report and the smug satisfaction of a man who knows trouble is brewing.

Final turn. Smooth. Clean.
You ease off the throttle, let the engine settle, exhale sharply. This is it.

"We good?"

"Again!"

"You've got to be fucking kidding me."
"I'm not the one who crashed the last bike and needs to retrain."

"You know I can drive!" you bite back, leg shaking in annoyance. "
They were shooting at me—it was a calculated risk."

No answer. Typical.

"Even Steve signed me off. Can't you just sign the damn form and be done with this?"
Still no answer. —Damn him.

You turn just enough to see his helmet in your peripheral vision.


"Barnes! I am right here!"
"And this is where you'll stay until I'm satisfied with your level of accuracy."

…He did not just say that.
Breathe.
Don't do it. Don't do it. Don't do it.

Too late.

You kick the bike stand a little too hard, rev the engine a little too soon.
The gate is open.

Don't do it. Don't do it.

But the bike is already speeding out into the private streets of the military compound.

"You sure about this?" His voice is so unbothered he's practically asking for it.
You roll the throttle wide open.
The rear tyre grips the asphalt in the most satisfying way.

Your first turn is so sharp, if it had been anyone else, they’d be falling off the bike—but nothing.
Another sharp turn.
A loud cuss from a military truck in the distance.
The bike pushes smooth.

You let it run. Then—sharp halt. Near the landing strip.

*"Got it out of your system? Can we go back now?" —oh damn him!

You really shouldn't. But there's a smirk on your face as you let the gas go, Bucky’s thighs gripping the bike harder, coasting the strip like you’re playing chicken with the planes:

You exhale feeling weightless.
He leans forward, follows your lead as you ease into a turn.
Too warm. Even through all the damn layers.
Why does his temperature always run so hot?

But you don’t let yourself think about it. —About him.
The road is open. And the exit gate is clear...

You could push on. Take the highway. Say hi to the ocean.
Something tells you he wouldn't stop you.
He hasn’t tried so far.
You could make a day of it.

But you've cooled down enough by now to know you're pushing your luck.
You roll off the throttle, shifting down to a smoother pace.

You feel the warmth linger as his body pulls back slowly. Breath catching.

You ease through the driving course gate and stop. Heart still drumming.


"Welcome back." Clint's got a grin that is asking for a punch.
Barnes is off the bike like it burns. Hand reaching for the clipboard.

"Oh, I already signed off." Clint chuckles.
"...And you couldn't say that sooner?" You bite back exasperated —Honestly. These people.

Barnes is out of the gate.
No words. No reaction.
Just gone, walking very quickly away from this conversation.

"Might want to take the bike to get checked out"
"I did NOT hit anything!" You are not ready for another fight, but - damn - if they don’t ease on the crash jokes you will murder someone.

Clint bites down a laugh, then tilts his pen, pointing behind you. To the hand-shaped dent in the back handle.

You breathe out through a grin.
—Worth it.

Chapter Text

You march through the rec room, eyes locked on the object of your loathing.

Barnes.
Leaning with his back against the table.
Mug in one hand. Spoon in the other.
The picture of bloody contentment.

"I cannot believe you," you hiss, coming to a sharp stop in front of him.
"Tell me you did not eat the last scoop of my mint chocolate chip ice cream."

"I didn’t," he deadpans.
Then—Slowly. Deliberately. He licks his spoon.

Your blood boils.
"Oh, you are messing with the wrong person!"

You lunge for the mug. Which—technically—is his. But should be yours.
Except it’s now dangling in the air above you.
Too high. Damn his superhuman reflexes and long muscular arms.

"I cannot believe you would take someone's ice cream! I labeled it!"
You huff, struggling to yank his arm down in pure rage and frustration.
"You don’t even like chocolate chip!!"

He doesn’t even look at you. Completely unbothered.

Then—smirking. Just slightly.
And slowly—so slowly—he brings the spoon back to his lips.

You grit your teeth. Breath catching.
"You have got to be fucking kidding me."

There’s only one logical course of action at this point.

You climb him.

A shuffle.
Some cussing—from you.
Some annoyed grunting —from him.
An almost fall.
And a silent agreement that you will never tell anyone where your left hand slipped.

And that’s exactly how Banner finds you when he enters.

You—half hanging from Bucky’s outstretched arm.
Face flushed. Breath uneven.

Bucky.
Unbothered.
Not even a bead of sweat.

"...Should I come back another time?" Banner hesitates.
He’s tempted to ask. He knows better.

Instead, he lifts a bag in his hands.
"I’m just gonna put this in the fridge for you," he says.

Pulls out a shiny new container of your ice cream.
"I was working late and… I saw your label after I’d already eaten the last scoop. Sorry ‘bout that."

You stare.
Open your mouth.
Close it.
Contemplate your life decisions.

Banner retreats silently.

You turn to Bucky.
"And you couldn’t tell me?!"

"I did."

And the damn smirk on his face makes you loathe him all over again.

Chapter Text

Bucky is staring.

At this point, you're seriously starting to wonder if the man just has a very limited range of facial expressions or if you're the lucky one who gets to interpret the difference between his “What the fuck are you doing now?“ stare and his “I'm keeping my eyes on you” glare.

It’s the first one. Definitely the first one.

But you are not in the mood for a fight. Not today.
You've got more important things to worry about than Mr. Broody-and-I-Know-It.

You are on a recovery mission —a private one
"Are you going to just stand there, or are you going to make yourself useful and give me a boost?"

He exhales, equal parts reluctance and certainty that whatever you’re about to do is going to get him in trouble.

Normally? He might be right.
Not today. You are focused and calm —well, mostly.

You watch as he settles with his back against the wall. Still reluctant.
Then he leans forward slightly, hands forming a stepping stool for your right foot.

"Oh, relax—" you huff. "I just need to get my phone."

His grip tightens slightly as you plant a hand on his shoulder, stepping into him with a small bounce and reaching up—steadying yourself against his body.

"In an air vent," he mutters, not even bothering to phrase it as a question.

"Mmm-hmm," you confirm, unscrewing the vent cover carefully.

"Why am I even surprised?"

"It’s not so bad," you shrug, fingers working at the screws. "Last time, Nat left it outside the third-floor meeting room. Those windows are bolted. Took me a full day and at least three favors to get it back—stand still, I almost have it."

His grip shifts again.
You feel his arm tense slightly around your legs.
His body heat presses against the back of your thighs.

Which is… odd.

You glance down suspiciously.
He’s just standing there, holding you steady, face turned away.
Tip of his ears… suspiciously red.

You should probably investigate.
You are tempted to investigate.
But—phone first.

You stretch forward, feeling around inside the vent.
Something’s there. You can almost reach it… just a little—bit—more—
Damn.

Another stretch. Bucky’s hold wobbles slightly.
"Geez—stand still!"

You grasp it.
Another inch. Almost there—

The second your fingers close around the phone, something shifts.
The weight balance tips.
And suddenly— you are falling

Not the floor.
Solid arms.
Warm arms.
Unreasonably comfortable arms.

And then—
Your phone slams painfully into your face.

"You gonna tell me why Nat’s hiding your phone?"
Bucky’s holding an ice pack to the bruise blooming on your cheekbone.

Oh.
"It’s just a preventative measure," you mumble, biting your lip.

A beat.
"To prevent what?"

You hesitate.
…Well. No way out of it now.

"To stop me from sending inappropriate messages after we go out for drinks."

He stares.

Shellshock? Nope.
Aggravated confusion? Mmm… nope.
Curious fluster? --Bingo.

New facial expression unlocked.

And that small satisfaction is enough to distract you from the fact that he’s leaning in.
Eyes narrowing slightly. Voice lower. A little too low.

”Who are you trying -not- to text?"

Oh. Oh.
You push his stupid face back with your palm, your own cheeks probably too warm from the bruise—Yes. That’s what we’re going with.

" "Oh—I’m not telling you."

Chapter Text

"Do you have your ticket ready?"

You peek into the office, Bucky’s back turned to you.
And immediately, you know.
Something is wrong.
Even before you hear him grunt, "Just a minute."

Oh.
He’s standing stiff, hands at his sides, like he really wants to throttle something but can’t.
A pose he generally reserves for you.

—Of course.
This makes complete sense.
The king of unbothered. The master of the silent glare.
Has finally met his match.

There it is.
The printer.

And not just any printer.
One of Stark’s AI-assisted, button-free, voice-command abominations.
Staring him down.
Paper jammed. A subtle red light pulsing. Taunting.

You bite the inside of your cheek to hold back a laugh—so hard.
Oh, You could say anything.
Anything would push him to the edge.

But an opportunity like this? It requires careful planning. Precise application of pressure.

You quirk an eyebrow. Test the waters.
"You know you can just go paperless and use the app, right?"

No answer.
Perfect.

"Have you aligned the pa—"
"Yes, I’ve aligned the paper!"

"And you checked the ink?"
He turns to you at that. Sharp. Lethal.

"What do you think?"
There’s pure, bottled fury behind those eyes. Waiting.

You pause.
Then you go for the ridiculous.
"Have you checked if it’s plugged in?"

You’re beaming inside.
The vein in his temple has started to pulse.
He turns back to the printer. Muscles tight. Jaw locked.

Easy now… easy…
"Maybe it’s the Wi-Fi."

"Ya think?!"
The low growl is all you need.

Critical mass.
Push more, and he might actually attack.

Time for a strategic retreat.
You pout, voice sweet with just the barest hint of tease.
"I was just trying to help…"

He exhales sharply.
Looks up again—right at you.
And then his eyes narrow.

"Did you do this?"
Your breath catches.
His voice is too measured.

This? You? The audacity!
I mean, sure, you love pushing his buttons, but memorizing Stark’s AI maintenance override codes just to wreak havoc later?
That would be immature.
And so much work.

…You’re absolutely adding it to your to-do list.
But right now? You need to look innocent —you ARE innocent. well… mostly

"Me?" you gasp, hand to chest.
"How dare you."

He just stares.
Suspicious. Unwavering.
And then—a slow, grounding breath.
Like he knows he’s spiralling.
Like he knows you’d never admit anything anyway.

His voice drops, rough and even.
"You should really learn when to walk away."

A pause.
A slow, intentional shift in his stance.

"One of these days," he murmurs, voice low—low enough to feel.
"You’re gonna find yourself with your back against the wall, in so much trouble."

The way he says it.
Something settles in your stomach—too low. Too warm.
Your breath catches for just a second.

Because there’s a fleeting thought in the back of your brain about backs and walls - and so much trouble - that you refuse to acknowledge. And it’s not what he meant but now it’s there.

He’s still staring.

And then—

You swallow.

"Maybe you should turn the printer off and turn it back on again."

He closes his eyes.
Fist clenches.
Punch lands hard on the side of the printer.

A beep.
Then—
The printer spits out his damn paper.

He sends a murderous glare at the infernal machine, which now sports an unmistakable dent.

And you?
You follow his advice.
Turn. Walk yourself out.
Before he says—or does—something else you won’t know how to handle.

Chapter Text

You messed up. Bad.

It was a stupid—stupid mistake.

You should’ve known better.
You should’ve waited.
You should’ve stopped.

And now Steve has an angry gash on his left shoulder blade from hauling your sorry ass out of that mess.

And you...
You have been staring at the pitiful selection of vending machine snacks for half the night—

With a pain lodged in your throat.
With no idea what to do with your hands.
And you don't care if Nat says it could have happened to anyone, that he'll be fine—he’s Steve.
You know it’s not fine.

"You gonna pick something?"
His low voice - quiet - cuts right through the fog in your brain.

Barnes.
He's going to stare you down—hard—and tell you the truth.
That you're a reckless idiot. A pain in the ass. Too much trouble for anyone to handle.
That this is all on you.

You dread the words. But some part of you wants —needs to hear them.

You turn, eyes low, ready for the verbal beating.
But nothing comes.
And maybe that’s worse.

Because now you’re looking up. And all you see is blue.
No storm. No anger.
Just something you can’t name.

"Truce"

One word.
And the damn breaks.

You can’t stop the tears fogging your vision, the sobs shaking your chest, your hands gripping his shirt.
And he doesn’t stop you.
Doesn’t stop his arms from pulling you in, doesn’t stop holding you close, sounds muffled against his chest.

There are no comforting words, or empty reassurances, or those patronizing shushes that make you want to punch someone.

Just warmth.
Steady. Unyielding.

Just there.

No pressure to leave.
So you let yourself stay. Until the tears finally run out and your chest stops shaking.

And you know your face is puffy and red, and you’ve probably left a pitiful, tear-stained patch on his shirt, but he doesn’t mention it.
Just lets you slowly lean back, leaving his arms.

There’s a shuffle of awkward silence—the kind where you’re too tired to think of a joke. Too drained to say anything at all.

Then, as if it’s the most normal thing to say after someone has been snotting all over you, he just says.
*"Want a milkshake?"*

You blink.
…yes, you do— Something cold to soothe the scratch in your throat left behind by all that voiceless screaming.

"Come on" he doesn’t need to hear your answer, just leads you to the car.

The fresh air wakes your last two neurons just enough for an attempt at humor.
“You know they deliver… there’s an app and everything"

He huffs at you. The first glare of the day.
And you find yourself biting down a hiccup of a laugh.

You burrow yourself in your hoodie, sinking into the seat, feeling just a little too cold.
Watching the lights pass by through the passenger window.
Listening to the clipped order of a single milkshake at the drive-through.

And your chest slowly —suddenly— realizes that this was exactly what you needed.

Chapter Text

"Since when are we letting her back at game night?"
Clint barely gets the words out before Natasha’s elbow connects with his ribs.

"She cheats!" he mutters, rubbing his side.

"You're a sore loser, Barton."
Not your best comeback. Not even close.
And once again, you’re painfully aware—you’re not well.
Not yet.

Still too close to the guilt and the raw feelings from the past couple of days.
It hasn’t escaped you that they’ve all been checking in more than usual.
Even Barnes—which is new.

And this? Game night?
It’s just another attempt to get you out of your room and back to yourself.

Even if there are only five of you here—the rest are off on some mission in a location you can barely pronounce. Too bad. You could have used Stark’s banter to lighten the mood.

But you let Sam pull you to the table.
You take the drink Clint slides your way.
You smile at Nat’s joke.

And when you glance back at Bucky—
Still in the corner, still quiet, still watching—
There’s something guarded in his expression.

Concern, maybe. But only if you know what to look for.
Because to the untrained eye, every one of his expressions reads murder stare.

You let those thoughts distract you too long.
And now?
You missed your chance to complain when Sam picked the one game you’re actively horrible at.

Nat goes first, some obscure writer on her forehead.
She guesses it in three questions.

"You’ve got to play the player, not the game."
She clicks your glass with a mischievous smile.
She’s too good. Always is. To the point where you’ve all collectively decided to ignore her score.

Next up—Sam.
"Am I Keanu Reeves?"
It takes him eight questions, but he gets there.

Clint is the wildcard. Always.
And somehow? He guesses Marge Simpson in five.
(You're still trying to figure out how.)

Bucky?
He folds when the second round of drinks kicks in and Clint starts lying through his teeth instead of giving him straight answers.

Natasha looks visibly unimpressed—which makes you giggle.
Not because of the cheating.
Because she would’ve guessed it anyway.

And then it’s your turn.
Sam scribbles a name, presses it onto your forehead a little too hard.

Okay. Play the player, not the game.

Eyes on Sam—three drinks in.
You have a sneaking suspicion he’s throwing you a curveball.

"Am I someone I would actually know?"

• Nat: "Yes."
• Clint: "No."
• Sam: "Define know."

Oh.
Someone from the team, then.
Definitely.

"Am I a man?"
Even Clint nods this time—unimpressed that you went for an easy question instead of one of his usual, convoluted, half-drunk riddles.

You turn to Bucky.
He’s not really playing anymore.
Just watching the window, lost in thought.

"Am I attractive?"

• Nat: "Yes."
• Sam: "Yes."
• Clint: "No."

Which immediately starts a debate.

• "He’s objectively handsome," Sam insists.
• "A type, maybe. Objectively handsome? You are way off."
• "Would she find him objectively handsome? Because she’s the one asking—"
• "And we know she likes him."

Oh.
The window watch ends abruptly.
You feel Bucky’s gaze flick toward you.
There’s a second—just one—where your eyes meet.

He squints.
Trying to read the handwriting on your forehead.
And whatever he sees?
He does not look happy about it.

You’re not sure what that means.
But you are much more worried about what Sam just said.

Someone they know you like.

—Oh no.
No, no, no.
You hide behind your drink, praying Sam and Clint are tipsy enough not to notice the color creeping up your neck

Nat?
That was a lost battle before it even started.

She saw the look.
And now she’s lounging back in her chair, wearing an insufferable, knowing smirk that dares you to contradict her.

"Having fun?" you mutter.
"Best game night ever." She sips a little too happily from her straw.

Clint pulls you back into the game.
"Do you have it yet?"

If you don’t guess in two questions, he wins.
And he is going to be insufferable.

Maybe you’re wrong. Maybe you don’t have Bucky’s name written on your forehead.
But then you look at Sam.
At the way he’s grinning like an idiot.

And suddenly, you know.
This is an inside joke.
And you are the punchline.

Okay. More specific questions.
But not too specific.
Because if you’re wrong?
They’ll know where your mind went.
Where it keeps going.

Oh.
This is bad.
And Nat is just smiling like all that’s missing is popcorn.

"Is sarcasm a big part of my communication?"
(It’s that or murder stares.)

A definite yes from everyone.
And a curious glance from Bucky.
You hope he can’t read what’s happening in your brain.

(Right now, it’s just a long chorus of NOs.)

What now?
What could you possibly ask?

• The broody look with the deep soulsearching stare (oh no)
• The tragic backstory? (God knows most of you have one.)
• The metal arm—

It’s out before you can stop it.

"Am I… mechanically enhanced?"

WHAT.
WHAT.
WHAT SORT OF QUESTION IS THAT.

Your cerebral cortex has officially malfunctioned.
And you will gladly perish from it.
Because every single person at the table nods.

And Bucky—
Bucky is staring at you like he just had some kind of revelation.

Abort. Abort. Abort.

"So, ready to guess who you are?"
Sam looks at you expectantly.

You cannot say his name.
You refuse to say his name.

RETREAT. RETREAT. RETREAT.

Clint is right.
You are not above resorting to cheating.
So you lean forward innocently, acting a little more tipsy than you actually are—
Flip your hair.

And let the note gently slide off your forehead, onto the table.
Oops.
"My bad."

You glance down.
And nearly die on the spot.
Because it doesn’t say Bucky Barnes

It says Tony Stark.

“You were so close! But not enough for the win.”
Clint seems—thank god—completely oblivious to the tragedy that just unfolded at this table.
Too busy gloating.

Sam’s just disappointed you didn’t get it.
And somehow, that makes it worse.

You don’t know what Bucky is doing.
Because you refuse to look up.

"I need another drink."
You mouth it to Nat.

She slides a glass your way—
But not before slipping a hand into your pocket, stealing your phone and leaning in with a grin.
"Better keep this somewhere safe tonight."

Chapter Text

It’s so late, but you’re still there.
Cards scattered across the table from the aftermath of game night.
Except everyone else is gone.
Except you. And him.

And you are desperately trying to prove you’re not that tipsy.
Walking an imaginary straight line at the far end of the rec room, laughing so hard it’s almost painful.

"That’s not what straight looks like, sweetheart."
Gosh—when did his voice get so warm?

"I am parallel to the wall! See?! It’s a straight line. It counts!"
You bite back a giddy grin.
Because this—him actually playing along with your ridiculousness— It’s the stuff of wildest dreams.

"Yeah, you would not pass a sobriety test."

You gasp. Mock offense.

"Wanna bet?"
The words are out before you can stop them.

And there’s a teasing quality to your voice that makes him pause.
Just for a second. Barely wetting his lower lip.
Then— "Okay. You’re on."

And now you’re walking heel-to-toe, arms out like a tightrope walker, trying not to trip, touching your nose five times —Barely managing, if we’re being honest.

But it’s the next one that kills you.

Because he steps in close, all intense and steady,
"Alright. One-leg stand. Thirty seconds."
He smirks—just slightly—like he already knows exactly what’s going to happen…

Oh. Oh, you’re so screwed.

Because all you want to do— Is fall forward. Fall hard.
And let him catch you.
So tempting.

But you are not losing a bet—not even this one.
So you count. And you wait.

Breathing in, slow, because if you don’t—you’re lost.
And when thirty hits, you step back against the wall.

"See? Sober enough!" you grin, biting your lip.

His eyes follow. "Yeah, I see."

A pause— A moment that feels unreal.
Like slow motion—but faster.

Your hand moves without thinking, fingers curling into the belt loop of his jeans.
Pulling him in.
And he lets you.
No resistance.

Just the heat of his presence, caging you in.
His breath close to your lips, slow. Waiting.

"What do I win?" you murmur, breathless.

"What do you want?" molten gravel

—What don’t you want?

There’s a beat.
A moment where you could still hold back.
Still go back to normal.

But he’s close. And warm.
And normal is overrated.
So you tug him closer.

Lips. Tentative, but firm.
A sharp inhale—not yours.
Fingers find their way to your lower back, pressing, grounding—
Heat, steady and unyielding.

Your breath catches.
Resolve—cracking.
Then—breaking.

Because when he tilts his head, deepens the kiss—
When his grip tightens, pulls you flush against him—

Everything shifts.
Slow turns into urgent.
Firm turns into desperate.
And all you can do is hold on—

His name leaves your lips like a plea.

And then— Buzz.

A sharp, insistent alarm and reality rips back into focus.
You groan, rolling over, burying your face into the pillow as the worst headache of your life breaks through the dreamy haze.

Your body is too warm.
And the dream— the vivid, delicious, unforgiving dream— Lingers.

What. Just. Happened.
You absolutely did not just have a dream—that kind of dream—about him.

You don’t even like him.
Your body firmly disagrees.

Oh. Oh, this is bad.
This is so, so bad.

And your impulsive, half-dazed brain, is begging you to reach for your phone and do something about it.

Not there.
A long, slow sigh. —thank God

Nat has your phone. buried it somewhere.
saved you from yourself.

Because you were seconds away from making a bad situation so much worse.

Chapter Text

"Where is it?"

Nat raises a brow.
"Honestly? You’re losing your touch."

You don’t even try to deny it.
Anyone could see you’re jittery, on edge, a mess.

"Yeah, I know." You exhale sharply. "Sorry to ruin your fun, but I need my phone."

You pray she doesn’t push—not today.
Because you are not ready to unpack the meaning of dreams or any of the things that happened during Game Night.

Nope.
Doomscrolling. That’s the answer.
Curling under the covers, erasing your own existence for a few hours.

Nat tilts her head, watching you, then nods.
"Basement electrical box."

A beat.
Wait.

"The black one?"
"Yes."

Oh. No.

"I already checked there."
"Maybe it fell back."
"It’s a neon pink phone, Nat! I would have seen it—"

Oh. No.
Your eyes shut.
Hand dragging down your face.
That sinking feeling settles low in your stomach.
Pulling a full-body shiver.

You know.

Even before you hear footsteps.
Before you see him walking down the corridor—casual. A little swagger.

And there it is.

A flash of neon pink.
Peeking from the back pocket of his jeans.

You absolute moron.
You gave him all the clues. All the ammunition.
And now—now he has your phone.
Your phone.

"Is that—?"
Nat doesn't finish the sentence.
Just tilts her head, a ghost of a smirk forming as you both track Bucky’s perfectly infuriating exit toward the rec room.

This is bad.
You snag Nat’s arm, dragging her with you, stopping just around the corner.
Because there’s still a chance—a very small chance—that he has a completely different neon pink object in his pocket.

But then—

He leans forward.
Henley rising.
A flash of skin—
Heat creeping up your neck
And the unmistakable shape of your phone.

Nat’s eyes linger on the object of your desire.
"Yeah, that’s your phone."

You groan. Another mental image to erase from your hard drive.
Look away.

Because why?
Of all the days he could have chosen for this stupid stunt—why today?

"Maybe he found it and wants to give it back."

You level Nat with a stare.
A sharp, scathing, deathly stare.
"This is clearly a trap."

And without thinking—
You grab her again.
Drag her behind the couch for Round 2 of your tactical recon.

She’s looking at you like you’re losing your marbles—fair.

"Why does it have to be a trap?" There’s a teasing quality to her voice. "It could be—"
"—A personal attack." You grit your teeth.

She tries again. "I was thinking more of a—"
"—A big, big mistake." You sigh.

"Yes, but also—"
A firm hand presses over your mouth.
"Sweetheart, that's a message"

You yank her hand off. Stare hard.
"A message?" You peek out from behind the couch. Bad idea.
Nat nods pointedly at your stolen property.

"Honestly, Nat—what type of message is that supposed to send?"

Clint’s groggy, hangover voice rumbles from the couch—way too loud.
"Come and get it! In my pants!"

You barely have time to duck for cover before Bucky turns.
Gosh, you can almost imagine him smirking, because there is no way in hell he hasn’t heard that—thanks for nothing, Clint.

But Nat is still trying to talk sense into you.
"Just get out. Walk straight and ask for it back."

Never.
"I can’t."

"Why not? What’s the worst thing that can happen?"

And it’s frustrating.
Because she doesn't get it.
The person who’s probably the closest to you doesn’t seem to get that if you did.

If you asked—
You’d be admitting defeat.
And that is just not happening.
Not today.

Today, you fight!
And steal back what is rightfully yours.

Chapter Text

This is not going to be easy.
But you’ve prepared for this.

Months of shenanigans and years of terrible decisions have shaped you into the person you are today—someone who is about to attempt to pickpocket a supersoldier and get away with it.

—Shit.

You need a really good plan. So how do you wanna do this?

The Logical Choice?
Wait for him to take a shower. Sneak into his room and reclaim your stolen property.

—But do you really want to risk a face-off in enemy territory with a 76% chance of lethal wardrobe malfunctions? You picture the scenario for a moment too long.

Scratch that. New Plan.

Stealth?
Absolutely out of the question. Not just because he’s—well. Him.
But because he knows you’re coming.

He’s practically inviting you to try and steal your phone back. Strutting around the compound with a neon pink phone in his back pocket, oblivious—almost proud—of the stares he’s getting from the Marines.

Seduction?
—Pause.
Maybe
No.
No. That’s never going to work.

Pass.

Distraction?
Now we’re talking!

But he’ll be expecting something from you.
It needs to come from someone else. Someone he wouldn’t suspect.
Someone who still owes you a favor after eating the last of your ice cream that one time.

"I don’t think this is a good idea..."

"Oh, come on, Banner! I promise—"

"Do I even want to ask?"

"Nope! Plausible deniability. Just ask him to lift that very heavy piece of machinery with both hands, okay?"

"And then?"

"And then you run."

"And if he catches up to me?"

"Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that. He’ll know it was me right away."

Banner just stares at you. Like he’s genuinely baffled by how you’re still alive.

"Can’t you just—ask him for your phone ba—"

"—Again! No. Not an option."
Why does everyone keep saying that?!

But you don’t let his huffs of exasperation distract you from the mission.

You visualize everything.

• Your phone.
• The tight pocket of his jeans.
• The escape route.
• The decoys and traps you left along the way—because Bucky is fast, and you only have one shot. and there’s a 97% chance he’ll still be able to catch you.

And before you can second-guess yourself or think of plan B—
You hear his voice.
Banner’s awkward request for help.
You hold your breath.

Your fingers itch.
One last step—
And then—

It’s a blur.

Your fingers snatch the phone.
His back tenses. His arms lower.
And you are sprinting.

A loud thud of metal. Heavy footsteps.
Heart in your throat, lungs burning, you jump over the crates, weave between the shipping containers, slide out of the secondary door.
Almost there—

—A hand wraps around your wrist.
Tugging you off course.

The cool wall hits your back as his breath syncs with yours.
A warm open hand pinning your wrist above your head.
His thumb sliding slow over the thrumming of your pulse
Your body restless against the steady hold of his.

Heat.

You wait for a line that doesn’t come.
Because this is where he’s supposed to say "Nice try." Or "This the best you got?"
But he doesn’t.
He’s just silent.
Just staring.

And that’s when you make your biggest mistake.
You look up.

And you couldn’t look away if you tried.
Because he’s staring at you like this was the plan all along.
Like this is exactly where he needed to be.
Like he was just waiting for you to pull the craziest of stunts just to get him here.
Alone.

There’s a smirk that feels like a promise, like the memory of a touch that hasn’t even happened yet.
Everything else falling into the distance.

And there’s no way out.
Except through him.

You swallow hard.

And that’s —apparently— the choice your lizard brain makes.
Because before you can stop yourself—

You step into him.
Body pushing against the heat.
Chest pressing flush against his.
Wrist slipping free.
A low exhale from him.

One hot breath.
Then your lips brush his.

Once. Fast.

Like the air is charged with static.
Leaving you buzzing.
And him—frozen.

More—says your heart
Run— your brain wins

You blink.

Your legs pull you away. And he doesn't follow.

Chapter Text

Awake.
Your room is dark. Breathing laboured. Hand reaching with nothing to touch but cold cotton.

And then it hits.
A deep ache spreading from deep inside your chest to every inch of your skin.
Legs restlessly shaking under the covers.

…Why did you have to ruin Everything?!

“Can we talk?” your phone is typing before you can stop it.
And Natasha - bless her - is in your room with a hot mug before you can dig an even deeper grave for yourself.

She doesn’t tell you you look like shit.
She doesn’t have to.

"I don’t know how to fix this."
Your lower lip trembles.

Because it was just a peck. Not even a kiss. Just a shot at nothing.

But now— Now, he’s not just giving you the silent treatment.
Not just avoiding you like his life depends on it.
He asked to be moved to a different sub-team —Officially.

Like you’d ever be this reckless in the field. But the consequences keep hitting like a punch to the gut.

And the loneliness… It’s scratching at the back of your throat, waiting—begging—for you to cry it out.

There’s a hug—not nearly warm enough, but trying to be.
"What happened, sweety?"

"I kissed him. He froze."
The memory is etched into your brain.
The whole inaction of it.
And the worst part - him - not following. Not even reaching.

No—not the worst part. The worst is this.
The silence. So definitive.

And you’d give anything to be back to the petty arguments.
Hell, you’d take mildly annoyed conversation over this—this nothing.
A stare. You don’t even get that anymore.

You push back. Eyes to the ceiling.
Pricking at the corners, barely holding the flood.
You swallow.

"What do I do?"
"Please. Please talk to him. Clear the air."

You bite your lip. Defeated.
Pushing back the memory of the last of a long list of corridor chases—
Trying to catch up to him. Turning the corner to dust.

You turn your phone toward Natasha.
A string of messages. Ranging from clipped, teasing, to desperate can-we-talks.
All left on read.

"I think this speaks loud enough"
And that’s when the patting on your back starts, the slow back and forth of her hand, the soft shush when that one sob leaves your lips.

You wrestle out of her arms, frustrated.
Because as much as she’s trying—
it’s not him.
Not what you want. Not what you need.

You jump up, legs restless.
Like even the air in the room is too much. Too heavy. Pressing down on your lungs.

“I can’t stay here anymore”
”Yeah, let’s get out”

You walk out the door, out the gate, past the parking lot.
Fresh air hitting your face.

His car is there, but you are not in it.
Not there with the windows down just looking at the night pass by.
Your throat feels raspy. Like it’s craving something cool.

You swallow back the memory. And all that could have been.
And that’s the moment —you break.

Chapter Text

The meeting room door snaps open.
And he’s out.
First one out of the door, followed by a slow shuffle of people you couldn’t name if you tried.

You slump back into the chair, alone
That’s it.
Your last debrief in the same team.
The last chance to try and talk.
Gone.

You press your palms into tired eyes.
So this is it.
Isn’t it?

You tried calling. texting. following.
Heck you even had Nat forward a message from you.
No answer—

Your breath tightens in your ribs.
But your brain still doesn’t know how to process.
How quickly you went from being close to being—nothing.

Because you thought—
He—

—Fuck! He was playing with you too. He was chasing you back!
And it hurts to even think about it now.

Did you imagine it?
The way he was looking at you?
The stares, the smirks, the way he used to linger just a second too long…

His touch…?
The slow way his thumb traced your skin.
Did you imagine that too?

Your breath hitches.

No…
No.
It was real.

Your hand slams down onto the table.
And you’re standing now.

Shoving the chair back, stepping into the corridor, chasing —one last time.
Because you need to know.
Because it matters.
This. You, Him. It matters.

He’s already ahead—dark henley, broad back, familiar gait.
His shoulders tense, but he doesn’t turn.
He speeds up. Steps into an elevator.

And you?
You sprint.

Your foot catching the door just in time, forcing an angry beep from the elevator.
Lethal determination in your face, strong enough to make the only other passenger decide to exit.

And now— You’re alone.
Facing each other.
As the elevator doors slowly close you in.

He reaches for the panel— but you’re already there.

His jaw tightens.
”Open the door” Speaken loud enough for the AI to hear.

But once again, probably for the last time, he underestimated you.

You step closer.
Your voice clear. Sharp. Unshaken. "
System check. Run diagnostic. Hold transit until test completion."

His breath tightens.
Eyes narrowing on you.
Like he doesn’t expect it to work—but knows better than to feel safe.

The elevator beeps.
[Maintenance check initiated. Please remain inside the cabin. Estimated wait time: 32 minutes.]

Locked in.

---

For a moment you almost taste victory.
A little shiver runs down your spine.
Like you didn’t just kidnap Bucky Barnes in an elevator.
This is insane.

—Shit

He shakes his head.
A long, slow exhale. Then—his eyes drag back up.
Meeting yours with a tired, exasperated look you’ve never seen before.

Not cold.
Just bone tired.

"What the hell do you think you’re doing?"
Low. Bothered. Bitter.

"Last-ditch attempt to talk to you, apparently."

"And say what?"
He bites back.

"Ask—” Your gaze locks with his. Steady. Determined. "Why."

A muscle in his jaw ticks. 
"Why what?"

Your breath catches.
"Why, you went from holding me against a wall—to not even looking me in the eyes anymore."

That gets him.
Gaze narrows.
Hurt? Why?

But his eyes drop back to the floor. —Damn it.

You step closer. 
"What did I do wrong?"

"Nothing."

"Bullshit!"
Your voice rises. Louder than you intend.

But time is ticking.
And when your 30 minutes run out—that’s it.
No second chances. Not now. Not ever.
So you push

"What did I do?"
And this time, it’s pleading.

His eyes snap back to you.
Deep as the ocean.

"You ran—"
A breath. Then— "You fucking bolted out of there."

And his hurt hits you full force.
Because he’s right.
You ran.

But it’s what he says next - barely above a whisper - that destroys you.
”—Like you were scared of me”**

You feel it slam into your chest.
His biggest fear wrapped into a sentence.

You swallow, eyes burning.
Because what do you say to that?

That you panicked?
That you were scared — Yes — but not of him.
Never of him.

That’s not going to fix what you broke.

"Happy now? Can I go?"
He’s reaching for the panel now. Clicking it in repeat.
Considering if he should force the damn door open.

"Please… — your voice is so low, so quiet, for a second, you think he didn’t hear it — don’t leave." 

But— He stops.
His fingers curl away from the panel.

"We can’t keep doing this."
He rakes his finger through his hair. Tired. Final.

You exhale, unsteady. 
"You’re right"

Because this isn’t just about the kiss. It’s Everything —all the words you left unsaid, all the choices you should have handled differently, all the moments you let slip through your fingers, all the times you knew you should have stopped and didn’t.

And for the first time—you let yourself feel it.
Your chest cracks open.
And the words just—spill.

“Why do I always fuck everything up? I just want to go back—back on the bike, you holding on. Because I never feel more alive than when you're there. to catch me….” ”I don’t know why I ran. I wanted to stay. I wanted to be there. I’ve wanted to be there for a while. I’m just—”

A breath.
A sharp frustrated inhale.

“I’m an impulsive mess who doesn’t know how to stop, and you… yeah. You scare me. But not—”

You huff out in exasperation, because there are no words to say it, not right. ”
You look at me like you see me. Like I’m not too much. Like— maybe I’m just enough. Like you could hold me if I stay"

Silence.

You turn.
And he’s here.

Watching.
Taking in everything.

Your voice.
Your unsteady breath.
The way your eyes burn.

And there’s a question in his eyes.

Your hand moves, slow. Scared.
You let him see it.
The hesitant way you’re reaching for his jaw.

A moment.
Fingers lightly brushing his stubble.

And your heart is pounding.
Too late? Too soon? Too much?

You close your eyes, lean forward—and pray he catches.

Lips meet lips.
Slow. Warm. A tentative inhale.

Hope.

Because he’s still here.
And so you dare.

You pull him in.
Fingers digging in his shirt.
His hands find your hips.
Pressing in, firm, certain.

A smile melting into another.
A breath—caught, lost.
Hands more desperate, now.
Like the heat just caught up with you both

Tilting your head, holding him in, lips inviting him deeper.
Your body against his, leaving no room for anything that isn’t him.

— [System initiating…]

You stare up mid-kiss. Startled.
The elevator is moving again.
Bucky is straightening up.

No.
Damn.
—Focus.

"Run diagnostic. Level two—fuck—what was it?
System check. Run level two diagnostic. Hold transit until test completion."

A moment of silence.
— then the beep

[Maintenance check level 2 initiated. Please remain inside the cabin. Estimated wait time: 46 minutes.]

And Bucky is laughing—head tipped back, breathless, wrecked.
You? you’ve never felt more alive.

"Where do you think you’re going? “ your voice is hoarse pulling him in by the collar ”I’m not done with you yet."

He smirks, leans in.
And you are lost.

Chapter Text

You open his door with your keycard.
Still riding on a high, all smug satisfaction.

Because you know he had to fill out a very long, very official form for this.
Because you know someone had to approve it—possibly Steve—and you just know the words “Are you absolutely sure about this, Bucky?” were in there somewhere.
Because he knows that the amount of trouble you can cause with this? Exponentially higher.

But you have a rule now.
No more than one big shenanigan per week.

You have broken it. Twice.
Elevator ambushes? A cornerstone of your apology strategy.
Steve does not take the elevator anymore.

And you are already plotting your next move when something stops you dead in your tracks.

A shirtless Bucky.
Back to you. Eyes on the open closet.

And you know.
Trouble just found you first.

"What are you doing there, babe?"
You try for subtle teasing.
Attempt failed.

He doesn’t turn, but you can see from the way he’s pulling back his shoulders that he knows.

"You don’t know where my favorite shirt could be, do you?"
Oh.
He knows.

Time for a plan.

Distraction?
Could tell him he looks good without.
He does. So good.
But he’s been way too cocky lately.

Seduction?
Now that is a lovely way to spend an afternoon.
But you have plans.
Later.

Denial and concealment?
Bingo.

So you steady your voice.
"Which shirt?"

And very slowly, very carefully, you zip your hoodie up all the way.

He turns—

Blue eyes on yours.
Then down.
To where the top button of his charcoal grey henley is still peeking out.

—Oops.

Eyes lock back with yours.
A beat.

Then—you run.

Out of his room. Into the corridor.

Past Natasha’s raised eyebrow.
Past Steve’s pitiful attempt to ignore you both.
Past Clint and Sam—already betting on what kind of disaster you’re up to this time.

Into the kitchen. Breathless.
Circling around the island, so there’s at least something blocking his way.

"I can’t believe you thought it would be a good idea to steal it,"
He teases, taking measured steps around the island.
One step right for every step left you take.

"Steal it? I won it fair and square—it’s a spoil of war, and I am not giving it back."

"Oh, I’m not asking. I’m taking."

Your breath hitches as he almost catches you, fingertips grazing your side before you twist away, laughing.

That was close.

"You can’t take it!" you bite back.
"Why not?"

You skid to a stop. His smirk grows.

Seduction initiated.
"Because I’m wearing nothing under it."

Bucky cusses. Low. Rough.
You sidestep, thinking you have the upper hand—

Then the world tilts.
A squeal rips from your throat as you’re suddenly hoisted into the air, slung effortlessly over his shoulder like a sack of stolen goods.

Firm grip. Solid hold.
Absolute certainty in his stride as he carries you straight down the hall.

You squirm.
"Put me down this instant!"

His arm tightens.
You can feel the chuckle in his chest, deep and smug.

—Oh, this man.

"Please, Bucky…" you try, voice dipping into something sweeter, teasing.
"You’re supposed to say it looks good on me and let me keep it."

A hum.
A deliberate pause.
Then—

"You can’t keep it." His voice is lower now.
"You look good in it, sweetheart, but it’s mine."

A beat.
A smirk you can’t see but know is there.

"Besides, I like you better without."

—The End.