Archive of Our Own ^beta

The mission had gone sideways. John hadn't just fumbled. He'd dropped the whole damn ball, tripped over it, and landed in a pile of self-loathing.

The rest of the team didnt say anything. And somehow that was the worst thing they could've done.

He sat alone at the bar, elbows on the counter, still in his suit. His knuckled were bruised from punching a wall he'll pretends was part of training when asked.

Bucky walked in, silent as always. He grabbed two beers from the mini fridge behind the bar, uncapping one and sliding it to John.

"You wanna talk about it?" Bucky asked.

"No."

"Alright." A pause. "Arm wrestle?"

John blinked, finally looking up at him. "What?"

Bucky was already rolling up his sleeve—the left one, the metal one— as he leaned against the bar opposite of John.

“You heard me.”

“You’re seriously challenging me to an arm wrestle with the vibranium arm?”

“Yep.”

John scoffed, but the ghost of a smirk tugged at his mouth. “You trying to humiliate me?”

Bucky shrugged. “You said you didn’t want to talk. This is the next best thing.”

He set his elbow on the bartop with a solid clunk, palm open. Waiting.

John stared for a second, then sighed and mirrored him.

Their hands clasped. The cold metal of Bucky’s palm pressed against John’s calloused one. John braced himself. Took a breath.

"Go," Bucky said.

For a second, Bucky’s arm didn’t move. Then… it gave. Slowly. Dramatic grunts and all. Bucky placed a hand on his upper arm, grimacing.

And then John slammed Bucky's arm down. Victory.

He stared, stunned.

Bucky shook out his hand with exaggerated pain. “Ow. Damn. You been lifting tanks on your days off?”

John blinked at the point of contact like it might disappear if he looked away. The clang of vibranium against bartop still echoed in his skull.

“…You let me win,” he said.

Bucky raised his brows, flexing the fingers on his left hand like they needed stretching. “That’s a big accusation.”

John gave him a look. “C’mon. You didn’t even brace your shoulder.”

"I did so."

“You made that.. face you make when you’re pretending something’s heavy.”

“That’s just my face,” Bucky said flatly, and took a sip of his beer.

A beat passed. John reached for his own bottle, took a long drink, let the fizz and silence settle over him. The victory–fake or not– sat warm in his chest.

"...Thanks."

“For losing?” Bucky said with a smirk.

“Yeah.” John laughed. "For losing."