iwritefanfictionsnottragedies

You’d been staring at the same line of text for so long that the words had lost all meaning. The document glowed back at you, a sterile white void broken only by your own typing errors and the occasional sigh from Foggy Nelson.

Nelson, Murdock & Page had gone quiet hours ago, the kind of late night quiet that only came after a case had finally been wrung dry. The printers were off. The phones were silent. Karen had packed up and gone home, promising to bring bagels in the morning if anyone was still alive by then.

But you stayed. 

You’d been working on the same thing for weeks, chasing down information from people who never answered their phones, arguing with the police about all the red tape you have to go through to get what you need. It was the kind that started off simple, but mutated into your own personal bureaucratic hell. Now, as you clicked “send” on what was hopefully your last e-mail about this case, the room tilted in a slow, unpleasant wave.

You blinked hard, rubbed at your temples. The letters swam on your screen.

“Hey.”

Foggy’s voice broke through the fog (pun absolutely intended). When you looked up, he was standing in his office doorway, jacket over one arm, his tie loosened.

“You’re still here,” he said, like it wasn’t obvious. “Aren’t you finally done? You can go home, you know.”

“Just wrapping things up,” you said, forcing your tone bright. The kind of chipper that sounded a lot like lying.

He squinted at you, with that lawyerly squint that could pick apart an alibi before you’d even opened your mouth.

“You look like you’ve been beaten with a briefcase,” he said finally. “When’s the last time you slept?”

“I’m fine.”

“Bullshit.”

You huffed a laugh. “Language, Counselor.”

“Don’t deflect.” He walked closer, the floorboards creaking under his shoes. “Seriously. You’re pale. You’ve got this weird glassy eyed thing going on.”

“Maybe I’m just glowing with professional satisfaction,” you muttered, turning back to your screen. But then a small, embarrassing sniffle betrayed you.

Foggy paused. “Ah,” he said, softly triumphant. “There it is.”

“There what is?”

“The sniffle. The ‘I swear I’m fine but I’ve been running on caffeine and spite for three weeks’ sniffle.”

You rolled your eyes. “You’re being dramatic.”

He set his jacket on the back of a chair. “Let me feel your forehead.”

“What? No, you don’t need to–”

But he was already walking around your desk. You leaned back slightly in your chair, heart skipping once when he stopped right in front of you.

From this angle, you had to tilt your chin up to meet his gaze. His eyes were soft behind his glasses, and you suddenly became very aware of how close he was. Close enough to smell the faint trace of his cologne, the soap he used.

His palm came to rest lightly against your forehead. The touch was careful, almost reverent.

You should’ve felt silly, because you were an adult and adults didn’t get forehead fever checks. But the moment stretched out. His thumb brushing lightly near your temple, his eyes narrowing in quiet concern.

It lingered just a second too long. Then he pulled back, clearing his throat and adjusting his glasses like he needed something to do with his hands.

“Yeah,” he said. “That’s a fever.”

“Fantastic.” You slumped in your chair. “I finally finish the case that’s been killing me for three weeks, and now I get to die for real.”

He chuckled. “That’s probably why you’re sick, you know. Stress trashes your immune system. It’s like, scientific.”

“So you’re saying this is all my fault.”

“I’m saying your body’s staging a coup.”

You groaned. “Great. So what am I supposed to do about it, Dr. Nelson?”

He shrugged, grabbing his jacket again. “Simple. You’re going to go home, curl up on your couch, and rest.”

You blinked. “That’s your grand medical advice?”

“Nope,” he said, smiling faintly. “You’re also going to wait forty five minutes.”

“Wait for what?”

“You’ll see.”

“Foggy, please tell me you are aware that I’m not going to feel better in forty five minutes.”

“Oh, I’m aware.” He started toward the door, looking back at you over his shoulder with that maddening little smirk of his, the one that usually preceded either something really thoughtful or really stupid. “Just… wait. Forty five minutes.”

And with that, he left.

You watched the door swing shut behind him, the echo of his voice lingering in the quiet office, and for the first time all week, you felt the smallest flicker of something that wasn’t exhaustion: curiosity. But yes, also, exhaustion.

Whatever he was planning, you had forty five minutes to find out.

By the time you got home, your body had officially called it quits.

The ache behind your eyes had settled into something dull and throbbing. Your throat hurt, your nose was threatening mutiny, and the fever that Foggy had so smugly diagnosed in the office was now making its grand debut.

You kicked off your shoes, changed into sweatpants, and collapsed on the couch with a blanket and a box of tissues. Within minutes, you had fully assumed the position: half buried, half delirious, wrapped in a blanket cocoon.

You weren’t sure how long you’d been lying there, but it definitely felt like more than forty five minutes when you finally heard the knock.

You groaned. “Coming,” you croaked, dragging yourself upright.

When you opened the door, there stood Foggy Nelson, a little flushed from the climb to your third floor walkup, hair damp from weather outside, several grocery bags hooked over each arm.

“Okay,” he said, a little breathless, “go get back on the couch. Reassume whatever sad little sick person position you were in before I interrupted.”

You blinked at him, sniffling, and glanced over at your clock. “You weren’t kidding about the forty five minutes.”

“Nope,” he said cheerfully, already stepping inside. “Now, go on. Couch. Blanket burrito. Stat.”

You didn’t even argue. Your body was too tired, and honestly, you didn’t have the energy to pretend you weren’t secretly happy to see him. So you shuffled back to the couch, wrapped yourself up again, and watched as he set the grocery bags down on the kitchen table like a man about to perform a very important operation.

One by one, he started unpacking them.

“Soup,” he announced, placing down the first container. Then another. And another. By the fifth one, you started counting under your breath.

“You bought six soups?”

He glanced over, sheepish. “I mean, yeah. Maybe seven. I lost count between delis.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, though it came out weak and a little wheezy.

He was arranging them like he was building a soup pyramid. “I didn’t know which one you’d like, and I didn’t want to get it wrong, so I got a few. You know. Just in case.”

“Foggy, this is–”

“Hold that thought.” He pulled out a small paper bag next, setting it beside the soups. “Medications. I don’t know if you’re allergic to anything, so I kind of grabbed everything in the cold and flu aisle. There’s DayQuil, NyQuil, Tylenol, ibuprofen, cough drops, that weird honey lemon tea that claims to ‘soothe your soul.’”

You blinked at him. “You raided a pharmacy.”

“Technically a bodega,” he said, as if that made it better. “Also,” He reached into one of the remaining bags and pulled out a pair of socks. They were ridiculously fluffy. Bright yellow. The kind of thing you’d buy for someone who desperately needed comfort and maybe a little joy. “These looked cozy.”

Your heart twisted so sharply it almost hurt.

“And,” he said, producing one final bag with a triumphant grin, “a double feature.” He held up two DVD cases: The Sandlot and The Little Rascals. “Comfort classics. I brought them from my place because, you know, Netflix can’t be trusted to have taste.”

You just stared at him.

The table behind him looked like a care package had thrown up all over it. Soup containers, boxes of medicine, a pair of fuzzy socks sitting like a crown jewel among them. And Foggy stood there, looking suddenly unsure, rubbing the back of his neck like maybe he was second guessing the whole thing.

“I might’ve… overdone it,” he said. “It’s just, I didn’t know what kind of soup you liked, and I didn’t want to get it wrong, and I figured, worst case, there’s soup for the next few days for lunch. And, uh, the meds, better safe than sorry, right? And the socks… I mean, who doesn’t love socks?”

He trailed off.

You could feel something swelling in your chest. Not something from the fever, not the exhaustion, but something else entirely.

“Foggy,” you started softly, “this is–”

“Don’t say I didn’t have to,” he interrupted again, stepping closer, his voice gentle but firm. “Because yeah, you could take care of yourself. You always do. But that’s kind of the problem.”

You blinked.

He gestured vaguely toward the pile of soup. “You’re sick because you’ve been burning yourself out. It only makes sense that you shouldn’t have to keep burning yourself out by taking care of a sick person. Even if that sick person is you.”

You opened your mouth, but he raised a finger, smiling faintly. “Shush. Doctor’s orders.”

That got another laugh out of you, hoarse and warm.

He smiled wider, and for a second, standing in your little kitchen with his tie crooked and his cheeks pink from the cold, Foggy Nelson looked like exactly what you needed tonight.

You hadn’t realized how long it had been since someone took care of you, until Foggy Nelson was standing in your kitchen narrating the impromptu soup lineup like he was hosting The Great British Broth-Off.

“Alright, contestant number one,” he said, holding up the first container. “Matzo ball. Classic, dependable. Then we’ve got chicken noodle, which has cured more colds than modern medicine. I feel like it's the obvious front runner, but also maybe too predictable? We’ve got minestrone, which feels like the wild card, and tomato basil. Bold, confident, possibly too confident. And then we have the mystery soup, whose contents are… honestly, a little terrifying.”

You smiled faintly from your cocoon on the couch, voice scratchy but amused. “And what about that one?” You pointed to the last container.

“Potato,” he said. “Comfort food incarnate. The warm hug of soups.”

“That one,” you said immediately.

“Excellent choice.” He grinned and headed for your kitchen, rolling up his sleeves like this was about to be a serious operation.

You watched him move, methodical but relaxed, humming quietly to himself as he searched for bowls and spoons. The scent of warm potato soup soon filled your small apartment, buttery and rich and impossibly comforting.

When he came back, he had two steaming bowls balanced in his hands.

“I got you the bigger one,” he said. “Perks of being the patient.”

You accepted it with a weak laugh and a murmured, “Thank you.”

He sat beside you, careful to give you space but still close enough that the couch cushion dipped slightly under his weight. For a few minutes, the only sounds were spoons clinking and the soft hum of the radiator. The soup was exactly what you hadn’t known you needed. Thick, savory, grounding.

Halfway through your bowl, a shiver rippled through you. You didn’t even realize how visible it was until you felt his eyes on you.

“Cold?”

“Ugh” you started, teeth chattering a little, “Fever chills. I hate this part.”

He frowned, setting down his bowl immediately. “Hang on.”

Before you could protest, he stood and crossed the room, grabbing the extra blanket draped over the back of the couch. When he came back, he didn’t just hand it to you. He unfolded it carefully and wrapped it around your shoulders, tucking it gently under your chin like it was the most natural thing in the world to do.

You blinked up at him, heart squeezing.

“Better?” he asked softly.

You nodded. “Yeah. Thanks.”

“Good,” he said, sitting back down. “Because I’m not above making you wear both socks and the blanket as a cape if it’ll help.”

That made you laugh, or at least, the tired, raspy version of a laugh that your voice could manage.

You both finished your soups in companionable quiet, and when you handed him your empty bowl, he took it without a word and carried it to the sink.

A few minutes later, he was crouched in front of your TV stand, sorting through the stack of DVDs he’d brought like a man on a mission.

“Alright,” he said, holding up the cases. “You get your pick: The Sandlot or The Little Rascals. Both cinematic masterpieces, both guaranteed to reduce any adult human to nostalgic mush.”

You smiled weakly. “The Sandlot. It’s been forever.”

“Excellent choice,” he said again, sliding the disc into the player with ceremonial gravitas.

While the opening credits started to roll, you turned your attention to the pharmaceutical haul he’d left on the coffee table. There she was: NyQuil. Old reliable.

You picked it up, poured the syrupy green liquid into the tiny plastic cup, and tossed it back like a shot. “Cheers,” you said, wincing at the taste.

“You’re so brave,” he said, in a mock solemn tone.

You set the bottle down, shuffled back to the couch, and sank into the cushions again. This time, Foggy joined you.

He didn’t crowd you, he just sat near enough that you could feel his warmth radiating through the space between you, the kind of warmth that felt steadier than any blanket.

On the screen, the familiar chaos of The Sandlot began to play. On your couch, the fever started to loosen its grip, the medicine already softening the edges of the ache in your body.

And for the first time in days, or more realistically weeks, you let yourself rest.

The Sandlot had always been a comfort movie for you. The warm summer colors, kids with scraped knees and boundless confidence, the sound of laughter echoing from old baseball fields. But somewhere around the scene where Smalls meets Benny, the edges of the world started to blur.

The NyQuil hit fast.

Your eyelids felt heavy, your body melting deeper into the couch. The fever had dulled to a slow throb, replaced by a strange kind of weightless calm, like floating just under the surface of sleep.

Beside you, Foggy was still watching the movie, his expression relaxed, the flickering light of the TV casting soft shadows across his face. You’d never really looked at him like this. Not in the quiet, not without the buffer of work or sarcasm or caffeine.

He looked gentle. Not just kind, but gentle in that rare way that makes you feel like someone could hold your heart in their hands and not drop it.

You shifted, the blanket slipping a little off your shoulder. Before you could reach for it, he noticed.

“Hey,” he murmured, his voice low, careful not to break the calm. “You’re losing your cape, woman.”

He reached out, tugging the blanket back into place and smoothing it over you, his knuckles grazing your collarbone in the process. The touch was nothing, casual, fleeting, but it set off a quiet flutter under your ribs.

“Thanks,” you whispered, voice rough with sleep.

He smiled. “Anytime.”

For a few minutes, you just watched him instead of the movie. The soft focus of your fever and the haze from the Nyquil made everything feel dreamlike. The flicker of the TV, the hum of the radiator, the faint sound of traffic below your window.

And Foggy.

The man who bought six soups because he didn’t want to pick wrong. Who climbed three flights of stairs with his arms full of groceries and nostalgia movies. Who was now sitting next to you like it was the most natural thing in the world, his presence filled every inch of the small apartment.

You felt yourself tilt toward him before you realized you were moving. It wasn’t intentional, your body just knew where it wanted to go. Your head found the curve of his shoulder, and the warmth of him was instant and grounding.

He froze for a moment, caught between surprise and… something else. Then he let out a soft breath and shifted slightly, just enough to make it easier for you to rest there.

His arm came up, slow and hesitant, resting lightly along the back of the couch. Not quite around you, but close enough that you could feel the ghost of contact against your back.

“You comfortable?” he asked quietly.

“Mhm.”

He smiled, a small exhale of a laugh. “Good.”

The movie kept playing, but neither of you were really watching anymore. The silence that settled between you wasn’t awkward, but warm, and full of unsaid things.

He glanced down at you once or twice, watching the way your eyes fluttered shut and your breathing evened out. You looked peaceful. Exhausted, flushed from the fever, but peaceful in a way he hadn’t seen you in weeks.

Foggy let himself lean back into the couch, the faint weight of your head against his shoulder anchoring him there.

It struck him then, that caring for someone like this, really caring, wasn’t the same as offering help at the office or showing up for a friend. It was quieter, deeper. Something that settled into the bones.

He’d always known he cared about you. But sitting there in the soft glow of the TV, your breath warm against his sleeve, he realized this was something else entirely.

You shifted in your sleep, your forehead brushing against his neck, and he closed his eyes, just for a second, to steady the rush that came with it.

When the credits rolled, Foggy didn’t move.

You were asleep on his shoulder, and for now, that felt like exactly where you both were supposed to be.

When you woke up, your first thought was that your neck didn’t hurt nearly as much as it should have after sleeping on the couch.

Your second thought was that something smelled amazing.

Blinking through the haze of sleep and lingering fever, you lifted your head. The blanket was pulled up around you neatly, tucked in with far more care than you remembered managing the night before.

You pushed yourself up and glanced around the room. Morning light streamed through the blinds, soft and golden. The TV was off. The coffee table had been tidied, the soup containers stacked, the medications lined up like a tiny pharmacy storefront.

And there, in your kitchen, wearing the same wrinkled shirt as last night and humming under his breath, was Foggy Nelson, making coffee.

“Oh my god, it’s alive,” he said without turning around. “I was gonna make pancakes, but then I realized you have absolutely nothing that resembles food in your kitchen except seasonings, milk, and now… soup.”

You croaked out a laugh, voice still scratchy. “That sounds about right.”

He turned, holding up a mug. “Coffee or tea?”

“Tea, please.”

He nodded solemnly. “One tea for the invalid.”

You grinned weakly, wrapping the blanket tighter around yourself as he brought you the mug. His tie was still askew, hair a little wild. He looked like he’d gotten even less sleep than you had, but there was an easy smile on his face all the same.

“You stayed,” you said softly.

He shrugged, sitting down beside you again. “Didn’t seem right to leave you alone while you were delirious and potentially about to dissolve into a puddle of NyQuil.”

“Oh, don’t be dramatic!”

He raised an eyebrow. “You were mumbling the lyrics to Beez In The Trap in your sleep, my dude.”

You groaned, burying your face in the blanket. “Oh my god.”

“Yeah. I didn’t even record it. You’re welcome”

You peeked up at him, smiling despite yourself. “Guess I owe you one.”

“Nah,” he said, leaning back with a little shrug. “Just glad you’re feeling better.”

And you were. Still congested and achy, but lighter somehow. Like the weight that had been pressing on your chest for weeks had finally eased up.

He checked his watch and sighed. “I should head back to the office. Matt’s gonna start thinking I ran off to join the Peace Corps.”

You followed him to the door, still wrapped in the blanket like a robe.

“Thank you again,” you said, voice soft. “It was… really good having you here. I’ve got it from here, I promise. You’ve got me set up really well.”

He nodded, giving you that warm little half smile that always managed to disarm you. “Okay.”

He reached for the doorknob, then hesitated, just for a beat.

“But,” he added, glancing back at you, “let me know when you’re feeling better. You know. Less snotty.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “Uh… sure. But what for?”

The corner of his mouth quirked upward, a flicker of shyness in his eyes.

“Because I think I want to kiss you.”

The words hung there, soft and sure, settling into the air between you.

You stared at him, your heart doing something traitorous in your chest, another flutter that had nothing to do with being sick.

“Okay,” you said, smiling despite the heat in your cheeks. “Deal. When I’m less snotty.”

“Good,” he said, grinning now, that easy, dimpled grin that could melt steel.

He opened the door, pausing just long enough to add, “Rest up, okay? Doctor’s orders.”

And then he was gone, the faint echo of his laughter trailing down the hallway.

You closed the door, leaned your forehead against it, and smiled to yourself.

Morning found you at the coffee machine, hair tied up messily, sleeves pushed to your elbows. You looked tired but calm. Bucky told himself that was a good sign, it seemed like a normal morning. Maybe he hadn’t made an absolute fool of himself only hours ago, when he kicked Joaquin out of the tower.

Except it wasn’t a normal morning. Because when he walked in, the air went razor thin.

You didn’t look up at first, just stirred your coffee. He hovered by the fridge a second too long before clearing his throat. “Morning.”

“Morning.” Your tone was flat. Controlled. You didn’t look at him.

He nodded once, more to himself than to you. “About last night–”

“Don’t.” You turned then, eyes meeting his, calm but cool. “You made yourself pretty clear.”

That stung more than it should have.

“I was just–”

“Doing your job, right? Security protocol. Sure.” You smiled, small and brittle. “No hard feelings.”

There were definitely hard feelings. He could feel every one of them, pressing against his ribs.

“Right,” he said finally, voice quieter than he meant it to be. “Good.”

You knew better than to say anything more than that. You needed a little bit of time to process what happened. Those short, clipped, bullshit responses were all that you could manage until your coffee had a chance to make its way through your system.

You left the room, and as you walked past him the faint scent of your perfume hit him like a punch. For a second, he almost said your name, to stop you, so that he could attempt to explain himself again. Almost. But you didn’t stop, and he didn’t chase.

The rest of the day crawled.

You buried yourself in reports, typing with unnecessary force. Every few minutes, your mind wandered back to that look in his eyes when he said Torres’ name, the way his jaw clenched, the sharp edge to his voice. It hadn’t been professionalism. It had been… possession?

And worse yet, you’d liked it.

The realization sat hot, violent, and stupid in your chest.

The way that he’d looked at you wasn’t anger so much as it was the loss of control. 

And if there was one thing Bucky Barnes clearly hated, it was losing control.

By lunch, you’d decided something quietly, privately. If he wanted to pretend to be unaffected by you, fine. But if he lost control once, you could make him lose control again.

Maybe it was time to push.

Meanwhile, Bucky was trying very hard not to think. About anything.

He spent three extra hours in the gym, until the punching bag split at the seam and the air smelled like repressed emotion and sweat. Every hit was a word he hadn’t said. Every exhale was your name forced back down his throat.

When he finally stopped, chest heaving, he stared at the shredded punching bag and muttered, “You’re really handling this well, huh?”

He didn’t know what you’d decided yet. That you were determined to break his resolve.

But he could feel it. He could feel that he was being roped into a game that he was destined to lose. 

He wasn’t even sure if he wanted to win. What was the prize? Loneliness? Continued celibacy?

You, however, had decided that the prize on the line was worth taking drastic measures for.

You were already stretched out on the rooftop, reclined on a towel with sunglasses perched low on your nose, the world soft and hazy through the morning light. The hum of the city was distant beneath you. Your phone played something lazy and low, the kind of music meant for doing absolutely nothing.

The next morning was bright and heavy, delivering the kind of heat and humidity that clung to your skin before the day had even started. This was the kind of weather that reminded you that the sun is, in fact, a massive ball of fire in the sky.

You’d meant to sleep in, but the sun had found you through your bedroom curtains and beckoned you outside anyway.

By the time Bucky pushed open the roof access door, you’d settled into that slow warmth that made your limbs feel like honey. You didn’t see him right away, but you heard the door creak, the heavy footfalls across the ground, too deliberate to be casual.

He stopped short when he spotted you.

You could feel his shadow before you heard his voice. “You’re going to melt into the helipad.”

You tipped your sunglasses down just enough to look at him over the edge. “It’s called sunbathing, Barnes. Some of us have hobbies.”

That earned the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. “I mean it, you’re gonna fry.”

“Worth it,” you said easily, stretching one leg a little further into the light. “Did you come out here to give me a lecture on UV safety?” 

Still, his gaze caught and stayed, on the long line of your bare legs, the way your bikini strap rested against sunkissed skin, the faint sheen of sweat on your shoulders. He cleared his throat. “I actually came here to make sure you weren’t too close to the helipad. But yeah, you should use more sunscreen.”

You smiled up at him. “You volunteering?”

He froze. It would’ve been funny if it weren’t so satisfying. The little hitch in his breath, the way his hand flexed at his side like he didn’t know what to do with it.

“I mean,” He glanced toward the bottle, then back at you. “You’ll burn if you don’t.”

You turned your head slightly on the towel, giving him an amused look. “Then maybe you should help.”

It was a dare. You both knew it.

For a long moment, he didn’t move. Then, slowly, like he was stepping into a trap he knew you’d set, he came closer.

You handed him the bottle without a word. He took it, shaking his head faintly, but his jaw was tight. “Where?”

You let out a hum, thoughtful, and rolled over onto your stomach. “Back. Shoulders. Whatever looks like I can’t reach on my own.”

He knelt beside you, the metal of his arm glinting in the sun. The world felt very still all of a sudden. You heard the soft click of the bottle cap, the faint sound of lotion being squeezed into his palm.

Then his touch. The cold contact from his metal hand was such a sharp contrast to your hot skin that it sent goosebumps across your limbs as he spread the sunscreen over your skin.

He was careful. Too careful. Each motion was deliberate, controlled, as if he was terrified of doing something wrong.

“Don’t be so shy,” you murmured, eyes still closed. “You don’t want to be responsible for a sunburn, Bucky.”

He made a quiet sound, half laugh, half exhale. “You’re doin’ this on purpose.”

You smiled faintly. “Maybe.”

He hesitated then, his hands stilling against your shoulder blades. The air shifted, something charged threading between you. When you lifted and turned your head just enough to meet his eyes, he froze.

“That’s enough,” he said quietly.

You didn’t move. “Is it?”

A long moment stretched out between you, the sunlight heavy on your skin, the smell of sunscreen and heat thick in the air.

He dropped his hands first, sitting back, pulse visible in his throat.

You reached for your sunglasses again, sliding them up as if nothing had happened. “Thanks, Barnes. A real gentleman.”

He didn’t answer. Just pushed to his feet, muttering something under his breath as he turned toward the door, the metal of his arm flashing once in the light before it disappeared.

When he was gone, you smiled, small, secret, victorious.

Round one: yours.

Bucky was off his game.

John noticed first.

“Hey, Grandpa,” John called from across the mat. “Do you plan on actually hitting something today, or we just… vibing?”

Bucky grunted and threw another half hearted punch at the punching bag. It landed with a dull thunk. Not satisfying. Not even close.

He reset his stance, tried again. Missed the timing. Again.

“Jesus,” John muttered, walking over. “You seem tired. Stayed up late watching M*A*S*H* again?”

Bucky didn’t answer. Mostly because the image in his head wasn’t his TV screen, it was his hand spreading sunscreen across your back like he had every right to touch you there.

He’d barely been able to look at you when he left. It felt too dangerous, too easy to do something foolish. He was stupid enough to give in to your request for help, and it wouldn’t have been much of a jump for him to be stupid enough to lean down and kiss the skin on your shoulder just to see if it was as soft as it looked.

He tightened his gloves instead. “I’m fine.”

John arched a brow. “Yeah? Tell that to your stance. You’re squared up like a highschooler about to fight in the cafeteria.”

Bucky exhaled, low and sharp. “Just distracted.”

“That’s one word for it.”

John folded his arms, studying him. “Sundress season getting the best of you?”

Bucky shot him a look. “What?”

John smirked. “Come on, Bucky. You think I don’t notice? You go stiff every time she walks in the room, it’s like you’re approaching a landmine.”

“Drop it.”

John didn’t. Of course he didn’t.

“You know what your problem is?” he said, circling the mat. “You keep pretending you don’t want what you want. You act like that makes you noble or something.”

Bucky glared. “Not your business.”

“It is when you start throwing punches like a rookie,” John shot back. “You can’t fight against threats to humanity and your own dick at the same time. Pick one.”

Bucky ripped off his gloves, dropped them on the mat, and stalked toward the water cooler. The plastic crinkled under his grip as he filled a cup, hand flexing around it like he could wring the memory out.

He could still smell the sunscreen.

Still hear you saying, Is it? in that quiet, challenging voice, the one that made his pulse jump even when you were just teasing.

He’d spent years training himself not to react. To keep everything locked down and contained. But with you, it was like every piece of armor he’d built started cracking from the inside.

John’s voice broke through his thoughts. “You’re gonna have to talk to her eventually.”

“Not gonna happen.”

“Sure,” John said, skeptical. “Keep telling yourself that. But I’ll be honest, I don’t think you’re the one in control, here.”

He showered after drills, letting the water pound against the back of his neck until it was almost scalding.

When he closed his eyes, he saw you again. The sunlight, the warmth, your fingers on his skin.

He hated how clear the memory was. He hated even more that he didn’t want it to fade.

By the time he’d gotten dressed and headed for the elevator, the tower felt too quiet. The kind of quiet that pressed at the edges of his nerves. He told himself he wasn’t looking for you, he was just going about his day, same as always.

Still, he found you.

In the living room, most of the lights were off, leaving just a low amber glow from the lamps. It was late enough that even Yelena had called it a night, and the silence had that heavy, end-of-day stillness that felt almost private.

You were there, curled up on the couch. The TV was still playing, the sound low, flickering light washing over your face in slow pulses. Some old movie in black and white, the kind you liked because nobody ever raised their voice in it.

You’d fallen asleep halfway through, one hand tucked under your cheek, the other dangling off the couch.

For a second, he just stood there.

He told himself he’d just turn off the screen. Maybe toss a blanket over you and call it a night. That was it. He could handle that.

He crouched beside the couch, reaching for the throw blanket draped across the back. The fabric slipped through his fingers as he leaned in, careful not to wake you.

The blanket had barely touched your shoulder when your hand came up and closed around his wrist, still half asleep, eyes barely open

“Stay,” you murmured.

Just that. One word.

Soft, barely a whisper.

And then your eyes fluttered shut again, trusting, like you already knew he would.

For a long moment, he didn’t move. His pulse stumbled, breath caught somewhere between his ribs. He could’ve pulled away. Should’ve. But he didn’t.

Instead, he sank down onto the couch, slow, quiet, until he was sitting beside you.

You shifted in your sleep, turning toward him, the movement small and instinctive. Then your head landed on his thigh, and that was it, you were gone again, breathing even and steady as you slept.

He froze.

He’d faced fire, gunfire, entire armies, but this? This was what undid him. The weight of you against him, light and warm and unguarded.

For a while, he just sat there, staring forward at the TV without actually seeing it. His hand hovered uncertainly in the air, fingers twitching once, twice, and then gave in.

He brushed a lock of hair away from your face.

You didn’t stir.

The soft light caught on your lashes, the slow rise and fall of your chest. You looked… peaceful.

He let himself look. Really look. Just for a minute. The faint crease between your brows, your long eyelashes, the shape of your mouth.

And for that fleeting, reckless moment, he let the thought in.

What it would be like to bend down and kiss you. To wake up to this, every morning. To stop pretending he didn’t want you.

It hit him hard enough to steal his breath.

He swallowed, forced himself back. The ache of it was too much. Too dangerous.

Carefully, he slid his hand under your head, easing you off his lap and onto a pillow. You sighed, a small sound that almost made him stop again.

But he didn’t.

He stood, pulled the blanket up over your shoulder, and let his hand rest there for half a second longer than he should have.

Then he turned and walked away.

His chest felt too tight, his throat dry.

Halfway down the hall, he stopped, pressing the heel of his hand against his eyes.

He wasn’t fooling himself anymore.

He was losing.

And the worst part wasn’t that he wanted you.

It was that he’d stopped wanting to win.

The night was still, the kind of quiet that only came after too many hours of work and too much adrenaline.

Mission done. Team half drunk, half asleep. The Watchtower lights had gone low, and the air outside carried the faint scent of the ever-so-tempting Halal Guys cart on the sidewalk far below you.

You’d slipped out to the deck hours after the noise had died down. The hot tub’s steam curled into the dark, the hum of the jets low and steady. It wasn’t about relaxing, not really. You just couldn’t sit still in your room. Couldn’t stop thinking.

The water was hot enough to sting at first, then soften, until your muscles started to unwind and your thoughts blurred around the edges.

You heard him before you saw him.

Boots on the deck. A low sigh. The scrape of his hand along the railing as he passed.

You suppressed a smile at the opportunity that presented itself.

“You’re really gonna walk past without saying hi?”

He stopped, frozen midstep.

When he turned to face you, the deck lights caught his figure just enough: black T-shirt, hair damp from a shower, that permanent crease between his brows.

“I came out here for fresh air. Didn’t think you’d still be up,” he said.

“Couldn’t sleep.”

He hesitated. “You got slammed pretty hard in that drop zone. You should be resting.”

You tilted your head, lazy smile. “You should be less bossy.”

He huffed. “You got thrown out of a plane.”

You laughed. “And stuck the landing. Mostly.”

That earned you a small smile from him.

You gestured toward the water. “Get in here, grumpy. Sit. The water’s nice.”

He gave you a look, half amusement, half warning. “I’ll pass.”

“Right,” you said, settling back, arms resting along the rim of the tub. “Forgot. You’re allergic to fun.”

He rolled his eyes but didn’t move.

You raised a brow. “What’s the worst that can happen, Barnes? You relax for once?”

That earned a quiet exhale, half laugh, half surrender. He peeled off his shirt and stepped in like a man marching to his own execution. The water sloshed as he sank across from you, muscles flexing against the heat.

“Happy?” he muttered.

“Delighted,” you said, and you were.

For a while, it was quiet. Steam, moonlight, the soft hum of the jets. You sipped your drink, watching him out of the corner of your eye, the way he leaned back, metal arm propped on the rim, eyes half lidded but alert, as they always were.

Then you said, “You know, I’ve noticed something about you.”

He didn’t look up. “Have you?”

“Mhm.” You swirled your finger through the water, casual. “You can’t say no to me.”

His eyes flicked up then, slow and assessing. “That right?”

You smiled, small and knowing. “I think so. You're welcome to prove me wrong.”

The challenge hung there between you, sinking like heat into the air. You kept a strong poker face, avoiding showing your cards. You waited a beat before you let your foot drift under the water until it brushed against his knee.

The contact was featherlight. Barely there. But it landed like a spark.

He didn’t move at first. Just stared at you, eyes darker now, unreadable.

You moved your foot higher, toes teasing up his inner thigh.

Then his hand shot forward under the water, catching your ankle.

You gasped in surprise, quiet and sharp.

He pulled your leg forward, settling it on his lap. The water rippled around the movement, slow and deliberate. His thumb traced the line of your ankle, up to the curve of your calf.

His voice dropped low. “Oh, I can say no.”

You didn’t speak. Couldn’t. You just watched him, heartbeat pulsing in your throat, breath catching every time his thumb moved.

It wasn’t rough, what he was doing. Just controlled, teasing, and dangerous. 

“But you never do.” you murmured.

His eyes met yours. For a long moment, neither of you blinked.

Then he smiled, slow and almost cruel in how soft it was. “I don’t? Okay, watch this.”

He let go.

Your foot slipped back into the water as he stood, droplets streaming down his arms, his chest. The deck lights caught the metal of his hand, the curve of his jaw.

He didn’t look back as he stepped out of the tub, grabbed his towel, and slung it over his shoulder.

You stayed where you were, breathing hard, pulse hammering, the water suddenly too hot.

He was gone before you found words.

And for a while, all you could do was stare at the spot where he’d been, steam curling in the air, your leg still tingling where his hand had been.

Okay.

Round two: his.

Sleep didn’t come easy that week.

You’d stopped pretending to try. Every time you closed your eyes, you saw the deck lights on his shoulders, the water sliding down the curve of his throat, the look in his eyes right before he walked away.

You’d won, technically. He’d left first, but it hadn’t felt like much of a victory. It had felt like a free fall.

The tension between you hadn’t broken; it had thickened. Turned quieter, heavier. You could feel it in the air whenever he was near, that awareness threading under every word, every sideways glance.

And you kept feeding it. Small things.

Standing too close in the kitchen. A hand brushing his when you passed the coffee mug. A smile held a heartbeat too long.

He never called you on it. Never told you to stop. He just looked. That sharp, unreadable look that made your stomach flip. Then walked away again.

You told yourself it was just a game. A fun little push and pull.

But Ava cornered you in the gym one night, towel slung around her shoulders, eyes knowing.

“I’m worried you’re playing with fire,” she said, matter of fact.

You arched a brow. “You’re gonna have to be more specific than that.”

She smirked. “Barnes. You know he’s halfway to combustion, right?”

You opened your mouth, then shut it again. “He’s fine.”

“Fine,” Ava echoed, mock-thoughtful. “Is that what we’re calling whatever that hot tub thing was?”

You froze mid-step. “You heard about that?”

“Everyone heard about that,” she said, grinning. “You forget this place has cameras? Security caught the whole ‘watch this’ exit. Half the team’s still recovering.”

You groaned. “Oh, God.”

“Relax,” she said, waving it off. “No one’s judging. I’m just saying… don’t play with your food. You’re torturing the poor man.”

You stared at her. “I’m not–”

“Sure you are.” She shrugged. “You’re both into each other. But instead of being direct, you’re both circling each other like it’s a sparring match. Someone’s gonna break something eventually.”

A slow, reluctant smile pulled at your mouth. “Maybe that’s the point.”

Ava’s brows lifted. “You want him to break first, don’t you?”

You didn’t answer right away.

Because yeah. You did.

You wanted him to lose control. Just like that moment when he kicked Joaquin out of the tower, when he let his jealousy slip.

Ava rolled her eyes. “You’re hopeless.”

“Not as hopeless as Bucky,” you said, and turned back to the bag, landing a clean hit that echoed through the empty gym.

Bucky wasn’t sleeping well that week either.

He’d spent the last three nights lying awake, staring at the ceiling, replaying that moment in the hot tub over and over.

Your voice.

Your foot against his thigh.

The feel of your skin when he caught your ankle.

He’d meant to scare you off. Remind you that he could say no. But the second his hand closed around you, something had snapped loose inside him, something he’d been holding down for too long.

And the part that bothered him most wasn’t that he’d given in, just a bit, when he touched you.

It was how much he hadn’t wanted to stop.

That night he’d left the deck with his pulse still racing, his hands still shaking. He’d stood in the hall for a full minute after the door shut, trying to breathe like a normal person.

It hadn’t helped.

Now he kept catching himself watching you again, on missions, in the kitchen, in the halls. His treacherous eyes always found you before his brain caught up.

Every time you smiled at him, he felt it like a punch.

He couldn’t keep doing this halfway. 

Couldn’t keep pretending he didn’t want it, didn’t want you.

Something had to give.

Option A: He’d end it, cut the cord, go cold, walk away before this thing between you burned both of you down.

Option B: He’d give in.

And God help him, he was starting to wonder which one would hurt less.

Another late night. The hum of the fridge filled the space, the only sound besides the soft whisper of silk when you shifted your weight against the counter.

You told yourself you were just hungry. That’s why you were in the kitchen, barefoot, in your pink silk robe, spooning peanut butter straight from the jar like some harmless little insomniac.

But you knew exactly what you were doing.

You’d seen what time it was. You knew when he’d be back.

He always came in late from his rides, the bike’s engine rumbling through the loading bay, boots heavy on the tile announcing his arrival.

And you knew what you looked like in this robe.

Soft. Bare. Dangerous.

You could practically still feel the ghost of his hand around your ankle in the hot tub. The way his thumb had dragged across your skin like he wanted to memorize the shape of you, the way his eyes had darkened right before he’d proved to you that he can say no.

You’d let him. Then.

But tonight, you weren’t feeling patient.

So you leaned against the counter, robe slipping just enough off one shoulder, spoon poised halfway to your lips, and waited.

The sound of the garage door closing reached you first.

Then the heavy thud of his boots in the hall.

You swallowed hard.

Heart stuttering like it hadn’t gotten the memo that this was the plan.

When he appeared in the doorway, it hit you how big he looked there, leather jacket open, hair a little messy from the wind, jaw tight from the battle he’d been fighting with himself all week. The one you’d thrown him into.

He didn’t see you at first. He was halfway through the room before he did.

Then he froze.

His eyes found you, and the air changed.

“Hey,” you said, maybe a little bit too innocently. Like your pulse wasn’t in your throat. “Didn’t think you’d be back yet.”

His gaze swept over you once, slow and unhurried in a way that he never allowed himself to, and something in your stomach dropped.

“What are you doing up?” His voice was rough, tired, low.

You lifted the spoon a little. “Couldn’t sleep. Also there’s nothing more sacred to me than a late night spoonful of peanut butter.”

He huffed a small sound, almost a laugh, but it didn’t reach his eyes. He turned toward the fridge, like maybe he could outrun the sight of you in silk.

“You should go to bed,” he muttered.

“Maybe I will.” You tilted your head, let your voice soften. “You hungry?”

That got him.

His jaw flexed. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

He looked at you then, really looked, and you saw it: the exhaustion, the restraint, the want.

“You know what.”

You shrugged, feigning innocence. “Just trying to be nice.”

“You’re trying to drive me insane.”

You smiled. “Maybe.”

He set his helmet on the counter with a dull thunk, like the weight of it was the only thing keeping his hands busy.

“I told you,” he said quietly, stepping closer. “I can say no.”

“Then say it.”

His eyes flicked down at your bare legs, up to the hem of the robe, and then to your mouth.

He didn’t say no.

Instead, he exhaled, long and shaky, and closed the distance between you in three slow steps.

Your breath caught.

When his hand came up, metal fingers brushed your jaw, thumb dragging across your lip. His gaze followed the motion.

You didn’t move.

“You keep testing me,” he murmured.

“You keep failing.”

“Fair enough. You want to see what it looks like when I stop trying?”

You swallowed. “Please.”

He went still. You could feel the shift in the air, the moment the last of his restraint snapped.

Then he kissed you.

Not careful. Not testing. Starved.

The kind of kiss that stripped weeks of restraint down to bare instinct. The kind that made your knees buckle and your thoughts scatter like glass.

You gasped against his mouth, and he caught you, arm around your waist, dragging you closer until your back hit the counter.

The revered peanut butter spoon clattered to the floor.

He kissed you again, deeper this time, hands grasping at the curves of your body through silk. 

When he finally broke the kiss, his forehead pressed to yours, both of you breathing hard.

“This is a bad idea,” he said, voice rough enough to scrape.

“Probably,” you whispered. “You gonna stop?”

A beat.

Then, quiet: “No.”

He was kissing you again.

And this time, he didn’t run away.

The counter bit into your back, but you didn’t care. Not with Bucky’s hands moving through your robe, one metal, one flesh, both staking their claim. His mouth devoured yours, lips bruising, tongue plunging deep, like he’d been starving for you. He pulled back, just enough to let you see the raw hunger in his eyes, black, feral, pupils blown wide with want.

You weren’t letting him slip away this time.

“Bucky,” you murmured, lips grazing the rough stubble of his jaw, your voice thick with need. “Take me to my room. Now.”

His grip on your hips tightened, fingers digging into soft flesh, a low growl rumbling from his chest that vibrated straight to your core. His gaze raked over you, the silk slipping off your shoulder just a touch, your legs bare, every curve a blatant invitation, and for a heartbeat, you thought he’d pull the brakes.

But then his metal fingers curled around your wrist, cool and unyielding, and he tugged you toward the hall. The tower was dead quiet, the hum of the fridge fading as you moved, barefoot, pulse hammering. His boots hit the tile hard, each step a ticking time bomb.

You quietly pushed your door open, pulling him inside. The click of it shutting felt louder than a gunshot, and you silently hoped no one down the hall heard it.

There he was again, in your room, surrounded by scattered books, the faint linger of your perfume, the soft glow of lamplight. This time it didn’t feel as much like he was on a dangerous battlefield, dodging the temptation, because he’d already become a casualty to Sundress Season and lost the war.

You didn’t give him much time to overthink it.

You stepped closer, the robe sliding further, barely clinging to your shoulder. His eyes followed, ravenous, drinking in the swell of your breasts, the curve of your hips, the promise of bare skin. “You’re staring,” you teased, voice low, dripping with challenge, your lips curling into a smirk that dared him to act.

“You’re making it hard not to,” he shot back, voice rough, low enough to send a shiver through you.

You smiled, slow and deliberate, and closed the distance between you. “Good.”

His hands were on you before you could draw another breath, yanking you against him, his body hard and unyielding as his mouth crashed into yours; teeth clashing, tongues tangling in a messy, desperate dance. You clawed at his jacket, shoving it off his shoulders until it hit the floor with a heavy thud, your fingers greedy for more. His shirt followed, your nails scraping over the hard planes of his chest, tracing scars and muscle, the heat of his skin under your touch.

He backed you toward the bed, each step deliberate, predatory, and when your knees hit the edge, you sank down, dragging him with you. The mattress groaned under his weight, and for a moment, you just stared. His chest heaving, the air crackling with so much want it felt like it could ignite.

“Bucky,” you said, voice low but steady, reaching for him, fingers brushing the rough stubble along his jaw. He caught your hand, lips grazing your palm, then your wrist, then the sensitive skin of your inner arm. A slow, torturous path that made your breath hitch and your cunt throb.

“You sure?” he asked, voice hoarse, eyes searching yours like he was almost expecting you to pull back.

You didn’t. Instead, you leaned up, catching his lips in a kiss that was heat and want, your fingers tangling in his hair. “I’ve been sure,” you murmured against his mouth. “Stop asking.”

His laugh was low, raw, and then his hands were under the silk, sliding up your thighs, shoving the robe aside until it was nothing but a puddle on the floor. You gasped at the cool brush of his metal fingers against your bare skin, the contrast sending a jolt through you. He froze, like he thought he’d gone too far, but you grabbed his wrist, guiding his hand higher, letting the cool metal brush the slick heat between your legs exactly where you were aching for it.

The last of his restraint snapped. His mouth found your throat, lips and teeth grazing, biting, sucking hard enough to leave marks as he pressed himself closer, the weight of him pinning you to the bed. Your hands roamed his back, nails raking over skin, earning a guttural groan that vibrated against your skin. He tugged at your panties, and you lifted your hips, letting him drag the damp fabric down your legs, the cool air hitting your soaked folds a sharp contrast to the fire building inside you.

His jeans were next, the denim catching on his feet as you both fumbled, frantic, to shove them off. When he settled over you, bare skin on bare skin, the hard, hot length of him pressed against your thigh made your head spin, your body arching instinctively toward him. His metal hand gripped your thigh, spreading you wide, and you moaned, loud and shameless, as his fingers brushed your clit, teasing until you were writhing.

“Bucky,” you gasped, and he stilled, his eyes locking on yours, dark and intense, like he was memorizing the way you looked, flushed, desperate, and dripping for him. “Please.”

He didn’t make you beg again. His fingers found you first, slow and deliberate, teasing until you were gasping, clutching at his shoulders, your hips rocking against his hand as his thumb circled your clit. His mouth followed, lips closing over your nipple, tongue flicking, teeth grazing, then trailing lower, kissing a scorching path down your stomach until his tongue replaced his fingers, lapping at your cunt with a hunger that made your vision blur. He devoured you, slow licks alternating with quick flicks, sucking your clit until your thighs clamped around his head, your hands fisting in his hair as you ground against his face.

You were trembling, teetering on the edge, your body wound tight, every nerve screaming as his tongue worked you relentlessly, making you shudder. Your hips rocked harder, chasing the heat of his mouth, the wet slide of his tongue driving you wild. “Bucky,” you moaned, voice breaking, nails digging into his scalp as the pressure built. He groaned against you, the vibration sending a jolt through your core, and when his metal fingers curled inside you, stroking that perfect spot, you shattered. Pleasure crashed over you, sharp and blinding, your cunt pulsing around his fingers, thighs shaking as you came hard against his mouth, his name a broken cry spilling from your lips.

He didn’t stop, licking you through every aftershock, drawing out the waves until you were a trembling mess, gasping, oversensitive, your hands tugging weakly at his hair. Only then did he crawl up, claiming your mouth in a kiss that tasted of you, raw, filthy, intoxicating. His lips were slick, his stubble scraping your chin, and you moaned into him, still dazed, your body humming in the afterglow.

“Fuck, doll,” he growled, voice rough with want, his cock pressing hard against your thigh, thick and throbbing. “You taste so fucking good.”

You panted, half-laughing, half-wrecked, your fingers trailing down his chest, grazing the scars, the heat of him grounding you. “My turn,” you murmured, voice thick with intent, but he shook his head, a smug grin tugging at his lips.

“Not yet,” he rasped, shifting to settle between your thighs, the heavy drag of his cock through your soaked folds sending a fresh shiver through you. “I need to be inside you.”

He shifted, settling between your thighs, slow and deliberate, you both groaned, the sound raw, unguarded. “Fuck, you’re so wet,” he muttered, voice breaking, his metal hand gripping your hip as he teased your entrance with the tip, slow, deliberate, making you whimper.

He thrust in, hard and deep, filling you in one brutal stroke that stole your breath, your body arching off the bed as the pleasure tore through you. “Fuck,” he growled, jaw clenched, his cock throbbing inside you, stretching your cunt so perfectly it bordered on pain. 

He moved, slow at first, each thrust a deliberate drag of thick cock against soaked walls. His forehead dropped to your shoulder, breath hot and ragged against your skin. “Couldn’t do it anymore,” he rasped, voice dripping with lust. “Couldn’t stay away from you. You kept setting me up, like a fucking trap, like you were begging for this. You drive me fucking insane.”

You moaned, half laughing, half wrecked. “Good, that was the plan.”

He groaned, hips snapping harder, faster, fucking you into the mattress with a rhythm that was all raw need. His metal hand slid under your ass, lifting you, angling you so every thrust hit deeper, the obscene slide of his cock against your walls making you clench tighter. “You like this, don’t you?” he panted, voice rough with strain. “You want to come all over my cock?”

“Yes Bucky!,” you gasped, nails raking down his back, leaving marks you knew he’d feel later. “Please don’t stop.”

His mouth crashed into yours, messy and desperate, teeth dragging over your lip as his pace turned punishing, each thrust slamming you into the bed, the headboard rattling with the force of it. His flesh hand slipped between you, fingers finding your clit, rubbing tight, relentless circles until you were shaking, pleasure coiling tighter, hotter, ready to snap.

You shattered, pleasure crashing over you like a tidal wave, your cunt pulsing around him, milking him as you cried out his name, body trembling with the intensity of it. He followed, a moan tearing from his throat as he buried himself deep, hips jerking as he spilled inside you, hot and thick, his grip on your hip bruising as he rode it out.

For a moment, the world was reduced to nothing but your ragged breaths, your heartbeats crashing together, your bodies tangled and slick with sweat. He collapsed beside you, pulling you against his chest, his metal arm draping over your waist, cool against your flushed skin.

“You okay?” he asked, voice soft, a little raw, like he wasn’t sure what came next.

You tilted your head, meeting his eyes, a lazy, sated smile curving your lips. “More than okay.”

He huffed a laugh, brushing damp hair from your face, his touch gentle now. “Good.”

You propped yourself up on one elbow, tracing a lazy finger along the sharp line of his jaw, feeling the prickle of stubble under your touch. The light from the city’s skyline came through the window, catching the flecks of blue in his gaze, and a slow, mischievous smile curled your lips. 

“You know,” you murmured, voice sleepy but teasing. “I meant what I said before. You’re so pretty.”

He groaned, but there was a smile in it, warm and unguarded. “Yeah, yeah. I look even prettier with you in my arms.”

You laughed, a low, throaty sound, as he tugged you closer, your bare skin pressed against the hard planes of his chest. The city’s neon glow cast shadows that danced across his face, sharpening the edge of his jaw. His metal arm stayed draped over your waist, cool and possessive, grounding you in the moment. His breathing started to slow, as if he might fall asleep. 

“Don’t get too comfortable,” you murmured, lips brushing his collarbone, your voice a teasing challenge. “I don't think I'm done with you yet.”

You were halfway down the hall when you stopped, chewing your lip as an idea began to form. Then you backtracked, padding back toward the kitchen doorway where Bucky was still hunched over his coffee like it was going to offer him some sage advice on how to keep it together.

“Hey, Bucky?”

His head snapped up, quicker than you expected, blue eyes sharp for half a second before softening when they landed on you. 

“Yeah?” His voice was gruff, a little too careful.

You shifted your mug in your hands. “Could you check something for me? The sink in my bathroom’s making this weird dripping noise. I think it’s leaking under the cabinet or something, but I don’t really know what I’m looking at.”

From the refrigerator, John piped up immediately, deadpan: “I usually skip this part of the porn, but if you’re invested in the plot, that’s cool.”

“John,” you groaned, heat rushing to your face.

Bucky muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like ‘asshole’, then pushed back from the table. “I’ll take care of it.”

Your room always looked different from the rest of the Watchtower. Where the others’ spaces were relatively bare-bones, practical, yours was…lived in. Soft throw pillows on the bed, candles on the dresser, a string of lights. This was a safe haven for you.

For Bucky, it was a minefield.

In the living room, the training facility, on missions, he could distract himself from you. With great effort, he could throw his attention into something else. Idle hands are the devil’s playthings, as the saying goes. But there, walking through your room, there was no escaping you in the details of his surroundings.

The room smelled of vanilla lotion and the perfume that always lingered in the air when you walked by. 

His eyes caught on the stack of books next to your bed, many of which looked dog eared and thoroughly read; he almost asked what your favorite book was, but he held his tongue and kept moving. 

He noticed your jewelry dish filled with little rings and earrings, delicate and colorful; it was a sharp contrast to the nightstand drawer beside his bed, where he unceremoniously stored his dog tags.

Then, as he entered the bathroom, the floral patterned silk robe that hung from a hook caught his eye. He tried not to picture you in it.

When he reached the bathroom sink, he let out a deep breath that he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

He crouched by the sink, tugging open the cabinet, grateful for the excuse to focus on the pipes instead of the way the hem of your sundress floated as you shifted from foot to foot beside him. His broad shoulders filled the narrow space, the faded black shirt he wore pulling tight across his back every time he reached forward.

You caught yourself watching the way his veins stood out along his forearm as his right hand worked at the connection.

“You’re a lifesaver,” you said, your voice warm with gratitude even before he finished. “I was starting to think I’d have to call maintenance or something.”

“It’s just a loose connection.” His voice came out tighter than he meant, gravelly and low, like he’d been caught doing something intimate instead of fixing a leak. He cleared his throat. “Nothing major.”

You leaned slightly against the doorframe with your arms crossed, giving him enough space to work without crowding him, but your gaze refused to wander from him. He was always good looking, that much was obvious, but there was something especially magnetic about watching him here: sleeves pushed up his forearms, jaw set in quiet concentration, metal arm glinting in the dim light. Maybe John’s earlier joke had gotten to your head. Or maybe it was just that Bucky Barnes, crouched in your bathroom fixing your sink, was the most dangerously attractive thing you’d seen all week.

“Wow,” you said, smirking. “Today is a good day for women with daddy issues, huh?”

Bucky froze. Oh no. Oh no no no. His hand tightened around the wrench like it was a life preserver. Do not respond. This is just a sink. Keep your eyes on the pipes. But he did look up at you, and you were grinning, totally casual, like it was the funniest thing you’d said all day. His throat tightened, jaw set. Uh oh.

His lack of response or laughter left you feeling a little exposed. “JOKING. I don’t mean… just, you know. Men who fix things, save the day, that kind of thing.”

A few rushed twists, a test run with the tap, and the drip stopped. He wiped his hands on a rag, straightening. “There. Shouldn’t give you trouble anymore.”

Your face lit up like he had just rewired the whole tower. “Oh my god, thank you!”

You actually clapped your hands once, delighted, and the sound did something to his chest he refused to acknowledge.

Bucky forced himself to stand still, hands loose at his sides, while internally he buzzed. He shouldn’t enjoy this so much. Being useful to you in this strangely domestic way. The way you looked at him like he hung the moon when all he’d done was turn a wrench a few times. But the truth gnawed at him: he kind of loved it.

“Anytime,” he said finally, low.

“Careful, I might start bugging you to fix everything around here,” you teased, but your smile was soft, genuine.

You can bug me all you want, he thought before snapping his gaze to the door. Out loud, he only managed, “Guess I’ll get out of your way.”

You tilted your head, still smiling as you walked him out. “Don’t be silly, you’re always welcome in here.”

He bit down hard on the inside of his cheek at that. Didn’t trust himself to answer, just gave a curt nod before escaping back into the hallway.

Behind him, he heard you hum a little tune, cheerful again now that the drip was gone.

And Bucky? He walked away with hands jammed in his pockets, muttering to himself like a man who had just narrowly survived an ambush.

The next couple of days slipped by in the usual rhythm, training, briefings, bickering. Bucky kept his head down, mostly. He told himself he was fine. Normal. Totally unaffected by the fact that every time you crossed his path, his brain short circuited like an old radio struggling to catch a signal. Like a goddamn teenager. 

He had it completely under control, until he very much did not.

He passed by your room on his way down the hall, intending to head for the gym, when he noticed the door cracked open. Warm light spilled into the corridor, carrying with it that faint vanilla scent that always clung to your space. He should’ve kept walking. He knew he should’ve.

Instead, his traitorous eyes caught a glimpse of you.

You were perched cross legged on your bed, wearing a loose t-shirt and soft shorts, with a tiny row of nail polish bottles lined up beside you. Your tongue peeked out at the corner of your mouth in concentration as you dragged the brush carefully over your fingernail.

Bucky froze.

Nope. Keep walking.

But he didn’t. He stood there like an idiot, heartbeat hammering, watching the slow glide of color over your nails. The delicate curve of your fingers. The way your bare legs shifted as you reached for another bottle, soft skin catching the ambient light. You didn’t even notice him at first, which he was thankful for because he looked like someone who’d just forgotten how to breathe.

When you finally did glance up, your face lit up. “Oh! Hey, Bucky.”

Busted.

He cleared his throat, instantly hating how rough it sounded. “Uh. Hey.”

“You need something?” you asked, tilting your head, brush still poised over your hand.

He should’ve said no. Should’ve made up some excuse about heading to the gym. Instead, he heard himself mutter, “What’re you doin’?”

You held up your hand with a grin, wiggling wet painted fingers. “Painting my nails. Can’t remember the last time I actually sat down and did this, so I figured, why not?”

Bucky nodded too quickly. “Looks… nice.” His voice cracked on “nice”. Christ.

You smiled, then patted the bed beside you. “C’mere. Keep me company. I’ll be bored to death waiting for these to dry.”

You were sure he’d say no, but you had to ask.

And just like that, Bucky Barnes, super soldier, ex-assassin, man who could stare down death itself without blinking, found himself sitting stiffly on the edge of your bed, every nerve in his body screaming don’t be stupid as the smell of nail polish wrapped around him.

You leaned forward again, steadying your hand with practiced care, and he tried not to watch too closely. But god help him, he did. Every stroke looked intimate. Every shift of your legs, every brush of hair against your cheek, hit him like a sucker punch.

He told himself he was just being polite, just keeping you company. But the truth pressed hard against his ribs, undeniable. He thought you were devastatingly beautiful. And the worst part? You had no idea.

Bucky stayed on the edge of your bed longer than he’d intended. You didn’t seem to mind his silence, focused on your nails while humming some tune under your breath. The sound of it filled the room, warm and easy.

He needed something to do with his hands before he lost his mind. So after a few moments, he pulled the paperback he’d been carrying from his back pocket and rested it open on his knee. The words steadied him, gave him an anchor, even if his ears were still tuned to the soft sound of you breathing beside him.

You noticed, of course. “Oh!” you leaned over slightly, eyes narrowing at the book. “I didn't know that you like to read.”

His jaw worked as he tried to play it casual. “Sometimes.”

“Sometimes?” you echoed with mock disbelief. “I mean, apparently you carry a book around in your pocket like it’s a wallet.”

That tugged the corner of his mouth, just a little. “Doesn’t hurt to be prepared.”

You shifted, careful not to smudge your nails, and smiled at him. “I never knew that about you, that’s actually really cool. I mean, there’s nothing hotter than a man who reads.”

The words hit him square in the gut. He glanced up sharply, but you weren’t even looking at him, you were blowing lightly across your fingers, focused on the polish. Casual. Teasing.

You kept going, breezy as ever. “My sister and I have this rule, right? If a guy takes you home and there are no books in his place, you leave. Immediately. Not worth your time.”

Bucky’s throat tightened. “Huh.”

“You’d pass that test, though,” you added with a grin, tipping your chin toward the paperback in his hands.

He made a sound in his chest, something noncommittal, and ducked back to his page before he could say something he’d regret. His pulse felt ridiculous in his ears. 

Nothing hotter than a man who reads. Jesus.

Time passed like that, your nails drying in the lamplight, his eyes pretending to stay glued to the page while his focus drifted again and again toward you. Until finally you flexed your fingers and wiggled them at him, pleased. “Dry. Mission accomplished.”

He shut the book with a quiet thud and pushed himself up from the mattress before he did something stupid, like stay. “Goodnight.”

Your smile was soft, unbothered. “Goodnight, Bucky.”

He nodded once and escaped into the hallway, book tight in his grip, muttering under his breath like a man who’d just survived a skirmish he had no business walking into.

The call came at 12:43 a.m. Bucky had just started to drift, boots off, shirt discarded on the chair, when his phone buzzed across the nightstand.

“Buckyyyy,” your voice sang through the speaker, bright, drawn out, just a little bit slurred. Definitely tipsy.

He scrubbed a hand down his face, exasperated. “Where are you?”

“At that bar, the one with the bad mozzarella sticks. But don’t worry, I’m fine! Totally fine. Just maybe I can’t drive.”

He was already pulling his boots back on, jaw tight. “Stay put. I’ll come get you.”

You dropped your phone, accidentally ending the call. He sighed, knowing that he was in for a long and difficult night.

By the time he found you, you were perched on a barstool, phone clutched in both hands like a lifeline, legs swinging idly. The second you spotted him, your face lit up.

“My hero!” you declared, gesturing in his general direction.

Bucky winced. “Jesus, you’re loud.” He caught you by the elbow, guiding you off the stool before you could make a scene. “C’mon.”

You went willingly, still grinning up at him like he’d just dragged you out of a burning building instead of a dive bar.

On the drive back, you refused to shut up. Karaoke contests, spilled drinks, how you’d sung Love Shack with a stranger who had “a surprisingly good falsetto” despite there being no falsetto part in the song.

Then, too casually, you dropped it: “Oh! And this guy asked for my number. I gave it to him.”

Bucky’s grip on the wheel went white knuckled. “Isn’t it kind of dangerous giving your number to someone you just met?”

“He’s a friend of a friend of a friend,” you said, nodding sagely, eyes sparkling in the passing streetlights. “So I’m like… eighty three percent sure he’s not a serial killer.”

He cut you a sharp look. “Eighty three?”

“Pretty solid odds if you ask me,” you chirped.

He muttered under his breath, “Yeah, excellent odds.” and pressed harder on the gas.

Back at the Watchtower, you shrugged off your jacket, leaving it on the floor in the hallway. Then you flopped onto the couch, not willing to hold yourself up any longer.

“Bucky,” you whined, tugging at the stubborn ankle strap of your high heel. “Help.”

He should’ve walked away. Should’ve told you to sleep it off.

But he can’t say no to you.

Instead, he kneeled down in front of you, big hands working at the buckle. He could feel your gaze on him, hot and unrelenting.

When he got the second heel off, you exhaled like you’d been holding your breath. And before he could stand up, your fingers were on his jaw; warm, soft, clumsy but deliberate.

“You’re pretty,” you murmured.

His head jerked up. “What?”

“You’re so pretty.” Your thumb brushed his cheekbone, feather-light. “Like, gorgeous. Has anyone ever told you that?”

He froze, still on his knees. Every muscle locked, pulse roaring in his ears.

And then you leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his cheek, sloppy, off center, but lingering.

Bucky shot to his feet like he’d been burned, laughing nervously under his breath, short and sharp. “You’re drunk, kid. Maybe stop talking.”

But you weren’t done. Your smile turned soft, conspiratorial. “Me being drunk doesn’t make you any less the prettiest man I’ve ever seen.”

He raked a hand through his hair, groaning. “Christ.”

He sat down, despite knowing that he should’ve kept standing. You immediately shifted closer to him, your knee brushing against his thigh.

“I mean it! I saw pictures of you in the forties,” you whispered like it was a secret. “Sergeant Barnes? He could definitely get it.”

His head whipped toward you. “Okay, that’s… enough–”

“And ex-Congressman Barnes?” you added, grin wicked now and you leaned closer, slurring your words as they spilled out, “Grumpy, moody… but he could still totally get it. I actually think the metal arm is really, really–”

“Alright, bedtime.” He bolted upright like the couch was on fire.

You flopped onto your back, hair spilling over the cushions, sing-song sweet: “Goodnight, Bucky.”

He retreated down the hall, shut his bedroom door harder than he meant to, and pressed his forehead against the wood.

Jesus Christ. You’re holding yourself together with duct tape and she’s drunk on a couch calling you pretty. Get yourself together.

Over the next few days, you both pretended that night never happened. But you both remembered it; your hands on his face, him on his knees looking up at you, and the way that he bolted out of the room. 

You were mortified at your drunken shenanigans, and you felt like Bucky had made his feelings on the matter clear enough. So you tried to distract yourself, and redirect your interest to someone you might have a chance with.

You planned to keep it to yourself for as long as you were able to. Which, of course, wasn’t very long.

Because Ava caught you smiling at your phone.

You were curled up on the couch in leggings and an oversized hoodie, absently twirling your hair, lips curved in that little grin that made your whole face glow. Ava, perched on the armrest with her usual suspicious scowl, leaned over.

“Alright, who’s got you making that face?”

You jerked, tucking the phone closer to your chest. “What face?”

“The I’m-texting-a-boy face,” Ava deadpanned.

Bucky, who had been sitting at the dining table cleaning a pistol, froze mid-motion. His hand stalled on the slide, his jaw tightening. He wasn’t listening… except he was, completely.

“It’s nothing,” you said, cheeks pink.

“Mmhmm.” Ava arched a brow. “Nothing has a name?”

You hesitated, then mumbled, “Joaquin.”

Ava’s head tilted. “The Falcon kid?”

Bucky’s head shot up before he could stop himself. “Who?”

You glanced over, startled. “Joaquin Torres.”

The name hit him like a sucker punch. Of course. Young, shiny, clean record. Someone who hadn’t spent decades as Hydra’s weapon, someone who wasn’t a centenarian. Awesome.

Bob, sprawled in a beanbag, chimed in, “Is this, like… a date?”

You bit your lip, smiling sheepishly. “I mean… he asked me out for a drink.”

Alexei called out from the kitchen, “Is like Romeo and Juliet but with the Avengers and New Avengerz! Very romantic.”

Before Bucky could stop himself, the words were out. “Romeo and Juliet were together for less than a week and then they killed themselves.”

Everyone stared at him.

“That’s… I mean, you are not wrong, I guess.” Yelena said slowly.

Bucky muttered, “Very romantic,” mocking Alexei in a Russian accent, then shoved the pistol back together with a snap and stalked off toward his room.

That night, you came back from a date with Joaquin, cheeks flushed, laughter still on your lips. 

He was sweet, funny, and easygoing. He didn’t brood in the corners or glare at anyone else who made you smile, and that was nice.

He followed you into the Tower, hand brushing yours as you guided him down the hall. You were giggling, whispering about how you didn’t want to wake the others. His hand slid to the small of your back as you reached your bedroom door.

And then a voice cut through the dim hallway like a gunshot.

“Torres.”

You froze.

Joaquin straightened instantly, a polite smile across his face. “Sergeant Barnes.”

Bucky stood at the other end of the hall, arms crossed, eyes hard. “It’s late. Time to head home.”

“Actually,” you began, heat rising in your cheeks, “we were just–”

“Heading home,” Bucky repeated, tone leaving no room for argument.

Joaquin shifted, clearly reading the tension. “It’s fine. I’ll call you.” He gave you an apologetic smile before retreating.

You stood there, jaw clenched, as Bucky’s eyes bored into you.

“What the hell, Buck?” you hissed once Joaquin was gone. “You cockblocked me!”

“Kid, you don’t bring strangers into the Watchtower,” he snapped.

“He’s not a stranger–”

“He’s got no security clearance in this tower,” Bucky cut in, voice sharp. “You think I’m letting him walk through here without–”

“This isn’t about security,” you shot back. “This is about you acting–”

You stopped, breathless, realizing what you were about to say. His jaw tightened.

Jealous. Suddenly, so many things started to make sense to you; maybe Bucky wasn’t as grumpy and quiet as he seemed. Maybe he was just trying to control himself around you.

The silence crackled. His gaze dropped, just for a moment, to your mouth. And that was the moment that confirmed it for you.

You stepped back, breaking the moment, needing time to think about this newfound discovery. “Forget it.”