⋆. 𐙚 rin˚

That I’m bored. You bored? Wanna cause problems? look.

You raise one eyebrow. He raises two. You narrow your left eye dramatically for no reason at all. He squints like he suddenly forgot how to see. Sam, unfortunately in the middle of pouring coffee, mutters, “Oh hell. Not this again.”

John turns, confused. “What? They’re just… staring.”

“Oh buddy,” Sam sighs. “You’re about to have a bad day.”

Because Bucky decides this is the moment to start whatever bit he thinks you’re doing—lifting both hands slowly like he’s conducting an orchestra, then pointing at you, then at the fridge, then back at you.

You have absolutely no idea what this means.

So naturally, you pretend you do.

You flick your fingers twice—like jazz hands but menacing—then tap your forearm, then mime placing something gently on the counter.

Bucky’s eyes widen like you’ve just delivered the most profound psychic message of your marriage.

Walker looks between the two of you. “Are you—are you guys telepathic or something?”

You and Bucky answer at the exact same time: “Yes.” “No.”

Which only makes it worse.

Sam groans into his mug because he knows you’re about to double down, and both of you, in your infinite immaturity, absolutely commit.

Bucky nods gravely. “We trained for years.”

You nod back with equal severity. “Ancient Wakandan bonding ritual.”

Bucky blinks twice—slowly—which you assume means go bigger, so you raise your hand dramatically and swipe it through the air like you’re cutting through invisible fabric.

John flinches.

You are delighted.

Meanwhile, Bucky continues his totally-improvised, makes-no-sense gestures. He holds up three fingers. Then one. Then wiggles his thumb like it’s trying to escape his hand. You respond by tracing a circle in the air and pointing at the toaster like it holds the secrets of the universe.

Somehow, you and Bucky stay in perfect rhythm. Every gesture he makes, you answer confidently—even though neither of you knows what the hell you’re agreeing to.

To be honest, you're just riffing at this point.

It’s performance art.

Walker steps back uneasily. “Sam, are you seeing this?”

“Oh, I see it,” Sam says. “I’ve been seeing it for months. Therapy starts at ten if you want in.”

Bucky slams his vibranium palm flat against the counter, startling everyone. “It is done.”

You nod solemnly. “The pact is sealed.”

Walker stares. “What pact? With who?”

You shrug casually. “Wouldn’t you like to know, Captain.”

Bucky snorts. Sam chokes on his coffee. Walker looks one second away from spiraling.

But then—because the universe loves you—you and Bucky reach for the same bowl at the same time, pause, and share a look that accidentally syncs your next fake-psychic sentence perfectly.

Bucky: “Two hours.” You: “The extraction begins.”

Walker makes a strangled noise. “Extraction of WHAT?!”

“Can’t say,” Bucky says, poking his temple like he’s checking for WiFi. “Private channel.”

You nod, tapping your forehead like you’re turning up the volume. “Encrypted.”

Walker looks visibly alarmed. “Sam, what extraction? Are they planning something? Are we compromised?”

Sam waves him off. “We’re only compromised because you asked them a question.”

And that’s when you strike.

You turn your back to the guys, whisper loudly, “Initiate phase four,” and slam the cabinet shut.

There is no phase one through three.

There will be no phase five.

But John Walker jumps like you’ve just armed a bomb.

Bucky, bless him, plays along instantly. “Phase four?! You’re sure?”

You spin dramatically. “It’s time, James.”

Sam mutters, “Jesus, here we go.”

Walker’s face contorts. “What does phase four do?”

You and Bucky both shrug at exactly the same time.

You honestly don’t know.

He doesn’t either.

But that doesn’t matter.

What matters is the way Walker’s eye twitches as he tries to decode absolute nonsense coming from two people who are stone-faced serious while making gestures that belong in an interpretive dance competition.

Bucky lifts his hand again, makes what could only be described as “crab claw motions,” and you answer with a gentle circular wave like you’re blessing the kitchen with chaos energy.

Walker decides this is the breaking point. “Okay, that’s it. I’m telling Fury—something weird is going on.”

“Tell him what?” Bucky asks, leaning forward. “That me and my wife just think at each other sometimes?”

Sam: “You guys don’t think at each other.”

You and Bucky together, perfectly timed: “We absolutely do.”

Walker sputters. “Then what were you just saying?!”

And here, the two of you lock eyes—deeply, lovingly, mutually idiotic—and without missing a beat, you answer in perfect harmony:

“Lunch.”

Walker looks like he wants to scream.

Sam is wheezing.

You and Bucky high-five under the counter.

But Walker hasn’t fully learned yet.

Later that day, he passes you both in the hallway. Bucky lifts a hand—wiggles two fingers, makes a circle, taps his chest twice. You haven’t the faintest clue what that’s intended to be, but you raise an eyebrow, tap your own shoulder, and hum approvingly like he’s shared a brilliant battle plan.

Walker trips over his own feet trying to interpret it.

Your marriage? Strong.

Your communication? Absolutely nonexistent.

Your dedication to fucking with John Walker?