lisa

You blinked down slowly, the world swimming into focus in patches of white and blue. Hospital room, beeping machines, and— oh.

There was a man sitting beside your bed. A really really pretty man. Dark hair, sharp jaw, shoulders that looked like they were personally crafted by Michelangelo. And his eyes, of the most ridiculous shade of blue you've ever seen.

"Hi," you breathed, the word slurring slightly. "Are you real?"

The pretty man's lips twitched into a smile. "Yeah, sweetheart, I'm real. How you feeling?"

"Floaty," you admitted, trying to lift your hand but it felt like it weighted a thousand pounds. "Everything's… soft. Are you a nurse? You're the prettiest nurse I've ever seen."

He laughed and the sound made your fuzzy brain light up. "I'm not a nurse, baby. I'm Bucky, your boyfriend."

You squinted at him suspiciously. "No."

"No?"

"No," you said firmly. "Because if you were my boyfriend I'd definitely remember. I would remember so hard you'd be all I ever thought about. I'd be insufferable about it."

"You're insufferable about it," he said, grinning now. He reached out and took your hands, his thumb stroking over your knuckles. One hand was warm, the other was cool metal. "You literally have a folder on your phone called 'Bucky being pretty' with like three hundred photos in it."

Your eyes went wide. "I do?"

"Yes, you do."

"…can I see?"

"After you're more awake." He was trying so hard not to laugh. "The nurse said you'd be loopy for a bit."

"I'm not loopy," you insisted, then immediately contradicted yourself by reaching up to poke his face. "You're loopy. Your face is loopy. Too pretty, not fair." Your finger booped his nose. "Boop."

Bucky caught your hand before you could poke him again, pressing a kiss to your palm. The gesture was so tender it made your drugged heart skip. "You tell me that a lot."

"Well, it is true." You tried to sit up and failed spectacularly. Bucky immediately stood up, his hands gentle as he helped adjust your pillows. "Woah, you're really tall too. How tall are you? Like eight feet?"

"Just six feet, baby."

"That's so many feet." You grabbed at his jacket as he tried to sit back down. "Wait, come back. I need to look at you more."

"I'm right here." But he stayed standing, letting you stare up at him with unbashed wonder.

"Your eyes are blue," you announced, like you'd discovered something groundbreaking.

"They are."

"Like… aggresively blue. Who gave you permission to have eyes that blue? That's illegal, you should be arrested." You gasped suddenly. "Wait, are you a criminal? Is that why you're in the hospital? Are you on the run?"

"I'm not on the run, I'm here because my girlfriend had surgery and I wanted to take care of her and make sure she was okay."

You processed this slowly, then after a minute of silence, you said: "Your girlfriend is so lucky."

"Yeah?" His smile was soft, affectionate in a way that made your chest warm even through the drug haze.

"Yeah. I hope she knows how lucky she is, if I had a boyfriend that looked like you—" you sighed dreamily. "I'd never let you leave, I'd just stare at you all day. I'd cancel plans, I'd call in sick to work 'sorry, can't come in, too busy looking at my boyfriend's face."

Bucky actually had to cover his mouth to hide his laughter. "That so?"

"Mmhmm…" You tried to focus on him but everything kept going a little fuzzy at the edged. "What's your girlfriend like? Is she pretty? She's probably pretty, you seem like you have good taste."

"She's beautiful," he said quietly. "Smartest person I know, funny, brave as hell, a little reckless sometimes, which gives me heart attacks. But yeah, she's pretty perfect."

Your drugged brain felt emotions about this that you couldn't quite name. "Wow, you really love her."

"More than anything."

"That's…" your eyes were getting misty. "That's so nice, everyone should be loved like that. I wanna be loved like that." You looked up at him with the saddest eyes. "Do you think anyone will ever love me like that?"

Bucky's expression did something complicated. He sat back down on the edge of your bed, taking both of your hands in his. "Baby… sweetheart, I'm talking about you. You're my girlfriend."

You blinked slowly. "…I am?"

"Yes."

"But…" You looked down at your hands, then back up at his face. "But you're so pretty."

"So are you."

"And nice, you seem really nice."

"You're nicer."

"And you have good hair." You reached up to touch it and he let you, patient as a saint while your clumsy fingers carded through the strands."It's so soft, do you condition? What's your routine? I need your routine."

"You bought me the conditioner," he said, amused. "You did a whole presentation about hair care."

"I did?" You perked up. "Was it good? Did I use a PowerPoint?"

"It was very thorough, had charts and everything."

"Past me is so smart." Your hand dropped from his hair to his face, cupping his cheek. Your thumb traced his cheekbone, then down to his jaw. "You have a really good bone structure, like… really good. Are you a model?"

"Not a model."

"You should be, you'd be great at it. You'd just stand there being pretty and everyone would throw money at you." You gasped dramatically. "Do you even have a job?"

"I'm an Avenger."

Your jaw dropped. "Like… the superheroes?"

"Yep."

"Oh my god, you're a superhero! A pretty superhero." You looked at him with renewed awe. "What's your power? Is it being pretty? Because that should count."

He was fully grinning now. "I've got a vibranium arm. Super soldier serum."

"Can I see the arm?"

Bucky glanced at the door, then shrugged off his jacket and rolled up his sleeve, revealing the black and gold vibranium arm. Your drugged gasp was deeply gratifying.

"That's so cool!" You grabbed at it, running your fingers over the plates. "It's pretty. You're pretty. Everything about you it's pretty… do you sparkle in the sunlight?"

"That's vampires, baby."

"Are you a vampire?"

"No."

"Are you sure? Because you look like you could be a vampire. A really hot vampire." You squinted at him. "Smile, let me see your teeth."

He humored you, smiling wide. You peered at his teeth very seriously. "Okay not a vampire, just a regular pretty person." You seemed satisfied with his conclusion. "Can I tell you a secret?"

"Always."

You leaned in conspiratorially, nearly falling out of the bed. Bucky caught you easily, steadying you. "I think I have a crush on you."

"Do you now?"

"The biggest crush. An embarrassing crush." You bit your lip. "But you have a girlfriend so I shouldn't be saying this… that's not good etiquette, I apologize." You tried to look serious. "I respect your relationship, even though I'm dying inside.

"Noted," he was shaking with silent laughter now. "What if I told you that you're the girlfriend?"

"Then I'd say you're lying because there's no way—" you gestured vaguely at him. "—that someone who looks like that would date someone like me."

"And what's someone like you?"

"You know, regular, average… not a superhero. Probably have weird hobbies." You paused. "Do I have weird hobbies?"

"I don't thinks is weird, but you enjoy collecting vintage objects—"

"See? Boring."

"I think it's cute."

You stared at him. "Okay, but if we're actually dating—which I still don't believe—but IF we are, then I need to know some things…"

"Shoot."

"Have I kissed you?"

"Many times."

Your hand flew to your mouth. "Oh my god."

"Just yesterday you kissed me goodbye like five times because you kept forgetting things and having to come back inside."

"What else? What else have we done? Have we—" You lowered your voice to a whisper. "—held hands?"

"We live together."

The machine monitoring your heart started beeping faster. "We what?"

"We share an apartment… have for three months now. We meal prep on Sundays—"

"That's so domestic!" You clutched his hand tighter. "Oh my god, am I living my dream? Is this real life?"

"Very real life."

"Prove it. Tell me something only my boyfriend would know."

Bucky thought for a moment, his smile going soft. "You talk in your sleep, usually about work, but sometimes you just say random stuff. Last week you had a full conversation whether cats understand democracy. You also steal all the blankets and I have to burrito wrap you to get any covers. And when you're really tired, you make me play with your hair until you fall asleep."

Your eyes were getting watery again. "That sounds nice."

"It is nice, the best part of my day."

"Even the blanket stealing?"

"Even that."

A nurse peeked in, smiling at the scene. "How's our patient doing?"

"She's very high," Bucky said.

"I'm in love," you corrected, squeezing his hand. "With him, this pretty man. He says he's my boyfriend but I think he might be a hallucination because he's too perfect."

The nurse laughed. "He's been here since they brought you in, hasn't left your side."

"Really?" You looked up at Bucky with wonder.

"Really," he confirmed.

The nursed checked your vitals, adjusted your IV and gave you some ice chips to suck on. "The anesthesia should wear off in another hour or so. You'll probably be pretty tired though."

After she left, you went back to staring at Bucky. "Can I ask you a question?"

"Anything."

"If we're dating, can I kiss you?"

His smile could've powered the sun. "You don't have to ask for permission, sweetheart. But maybe wait until you're a little less loopy?"

"What if I forget? What if the drugs wear off and I forget that I'm allowed to kiss you and I just pine forever?"

"Then I'll remind you. Like I do every morning."

"Every morning," you repeated dreamily. "We have mornings together. Plural mornings."

"So many mornings." You yawned suddenly, the exhaustion hitting you. Bucky stood and adjusted your bed so you could lie back more comfortably. "Get some rest, baby."

"Will you stay?"

"I'm not going anywhere."

"Promise?"

"Promise." He settled back into the chair, but kept hold of your hand.

"Bucky?"

"Yeah?"

"When I wake up and I'm not high anymore, will you still be this pretty?"

He brought your joined hands up and kissed your knuckles, his eyes crinkling with tat smile you'd apparently been cataloging in a folder for months. "Guess you'll have to wait and see."

"Can't wait," you mumbled, eyes already drifting closed. "Gonna wake up with the prettiest boyfriend in the world."

"Get some sleep, sweetheart."

"Okay, but just so you know—" you forced your eyes open one more time to look at him. "—if we really are dating, then I'm the luckiest person alive."

"Funny, I was thinking the same thing."

You fell asleep with his hand in yours, the steady beep of the monitors, and a smile on your face.

Two hours later.

You woke up slowly, the fog clearing from your brain. Everything came back in pieces—the surgery, the recovery room, and oh god, Bucky. Your boyfriend Bucky. Who you'd apparently hit on while high.

He was still there, slouched in the in the uncomfortable hospital chair, scrolling through his phone. When he noticed you were awake, his whole face lit up.

"Hey," he said softly. "Welcome back, how you feeling?"

"Mortified," you croaked. "Please tell me I didn't say anything too embarrassing."

His grin was evil. "Define too embarrassing."

"Bucky—"

"You told me I should be arrested for having blue eyes. You asked if I sparkled in the sunlight. You said you had a crush on me and then apologized because you didn't want to disrespect my relationship."

You covered your face with both hands. "Oh my god."

"Oh and you called my face 'loopy'". He was definitely laughing now. "And you said you'd call in sick to work just to stare at me all day."

"I hate you."

"No you don't. You love me, you told me so multiple times, very emphatically." He stood and came to bed, gently pulling your hands away from your face. "For the record, I recorded about five minutes of it."

"You what?!"

"For posterity." His eyes were sparkling with mischief. "And for the next time you try to say I'm not pretty."

"I didn't—I don't—" You couldn't even form a defense. "You are pretty."

"So you keep telling me." He leaned down and kissed your forehead, then your nose, then your lips. "Feeling better?"

"Physically, yes. Emotionally, destroyed."

"Well the good news is the surgery went great. The bad news is I'm definitely showing that video at our wedding."

"Bucky!"

You don’t think about it too much when you’re exhausted, your muscles ache and your head is still catching up to the fact that the mission is over, that you made it out, that tomorrow you’ll be back at the Tower like nothing happened.

The shower helps. Hot water, steady and grounding, washing away the dust and tension and the lingering weight of everything that could have gone wrong. So by the time you step out, wrapped in a towel, the world feels quieter.

You push the bathroom door open just to see Bucky sitting on the edge of the bed, sleeves rolled up, hair still slightly damp with sweat, looking just as wrecked as you feel.

His eyes lift and stop in a pause that lasts half a second too long before he looks away again, like he didn’t just take in the sight of you standing there, fresh from the shower, skin still warm.

You pretend not to notice.

“Bathroom’s free,” you say, stepping further into the room.

He clears his throat, nodding once. “Yeah. Thanks.”

You move around him easily, like this is normal. Like sharing space like this doesn’t feel charged in a way you don’t want to name.

“Mission could’ve gone worse,” you say, pulling on something comfortable.

“Could’ve gone a lot worse,” he agrees. “You okay?”

You glance back at him and catch him watching you. Not intensely but more like he is checking.

You nod. “Yeah. Just tired.”

Something in his expression softens.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Same.”

There’s a moment that lingers just a little too long, before he stands, grabbing his things.

“I’ll be quick.”

The bathroom door closes behind him and you get ready for bed on autopilot —simple, routine, familiar. Something to ground yourself while your mind drifts in directions it probably shouldn’t. Like the fact that there’s only one bed.

By the time the shower shuts off, you’re already under the covers, lights dimmed, the world narrowed down to soft sheets and the distant hum of the city outside.

The bathroom door opens and you hear him moving around, drying off, getting ready. You glance over at him, with his hair damp now, falling slightly into his face, t-shirt loose and movements slower, He seems more relaxed, like the tension has finally started to leave him. Then he bends down, and grabs a pillow.

You blink. “Bucky.”

He pauses, glancing up. “Yeah?”

You push yourself up on one elbow, frowning slightly. “What are you doing?”

He gestures vaguely to the floor. “Gonna sleep down here.”

You stare at him. For a second. Then two seconds.

“…What?”

He shrugs, like it’s obvious. “It’s fine. I’ve done worse.”

You sit up fully now, incredulous. “There’s a whole bed right there.”

He hesitates just a little.

“Yeah, I know. I just—” He shifts, rubbing the back of his neck. “Didn’t wanna… you know. Take up space.”

Something in your chest tightens.

“Bucky,” you say, softer now, but firm. “It’s a king-sized bed.”

“I know.”

“There’s more than enough room.”

“I don’t wanna bother you.”

You stare at him. At the hesitation. At the way he’s already half-convinced himself the floor is the better option.

“You’re not bothering me,” you say.

He doesn’t move.

You sigh, shifting over, pulling the covers back a little more pointedly. “Get on the bed.”

That makes him huff a quiet, almost amused breath. “You sure?”

“Yes. I wouldn’t say it if I wasn’t.”

That’s what finally makes him nod slowly, like he’s still not entirely convinced, but willing to trust you anyway.

The pillows are set back where they belong and the mattress dips slightly as he settles on the other side.

There’s enough space between you to be respectful but suddenly the room feels smaller.

“Thanks,” he says quietly.

You glance over.

His eyes are already closed, flesh arm tucked under his head, like he’s trying to fall asleep before this can become something bigger than it is.

“Yeah,” you murmur.

The room settles into quiet.

You try to sleep —you really do— but it’s impossible not to notice Bucky right there, close enough that both of you are aware of it. The mattress dips slightly when he shifts and you feel it every time.

You turn onto your side, facing away but it doesn’t help because you can feel the warmth of him at your back, radiating heat through the small distance like a second blanket you didn’t ask for but don’t want to move away from.

You swallow, trying to relax. But you can’t stop thinking about how it would be so easy to close that space. Just enough to rest your head against his chest. Just enough to feel that steady, grounding rhythm you know is there.

A minute, or maybe more, passes.

“You okay?”

Your eyes open. You stare into the dark.

“Yeah,” you murmur. “I’m fine.”

A pause. “Okay.”

Silence again, and this time you almost drift. Almost.

“…You cold?”

You blink and turn your head slightly. Bucky’s not even looking at you directly. He’s just… there. Awake.

“No,” you say, a little more awake now. “I’m good.”

“Alright.”

Another pause. You close your eyes again.

“…Do you need more space?”

You huff quietly this time, not even bothering to hide it. “Buck. I’m fine.”

A beat.

“…Okay.”

You shift slightly, turning onto your other side now, directly facing him. Which you realize a second too late that it might’ve been a mistake.

Because now you can see him even in the low light. He’s so close. He’s close enough that your knee brushes his accidental. Neither of you move.

You become hyper-aware of everything. His heat. His size. The way he takes up space even when he’s trying not to.

Your hand shifts against the mattress and bumps into his. His fingers twitch and go still.

“…You sure you’re okay?” he asks again, softer this time.

You turn fully this time, squinting at him in the dark.

“Okay, what’s going on?”

“Nothing,” he says too quickly.

You stare. “You’ve asked me if I’m okay like five times.”

“I just—” he stops, exhales, running a hand through his hair. “I don’t want you uncomfortable.”

Something in your chest softens instantly.

“You’re not making me uncomfortable,” you say.

He studies your face, like he’s trying to make sure that’s true. You tilt your head, then —deliberately— let your tone turn lighter.

“Honestly,” you add, “this kinda feels like a sleepover.”

He frowns slightly. “A what?”

You stare at him. “…A sleepover.”

“I know what it is,” he says. “Just— never had one.”

You freeze. “What?”

He shrugs, like that’s a completely normal thing to say.

“Didn’t really do that growing up. Well… the closest thing I got was staying up with Steve when he was sick.”

You sit up straighter, genuinely offended now. “That does not count.”

He almost smiles. “It’s the closest I got.”

“No,” you say firmly. “No, absolutely not. That’s tragic, actually.”

He lets out a quiet huff of amusement.

You point at him like you’ve made a decision. “We are fixing that.”

His eyebrow lifts slightly. “…Fixing it?”

“Yes.” You settle back against the headboard, crossing your arms like this is now official. “We are having a proper sleepover.”

There’s something softer in his expression now. Curiosity and amusement.

“And what does that involve?” he asks.

You grin. “No one actually sleeps.”

You do in fact not end up sleeping, not even close. Because once you decide it’s a sleepover you commit.

You start it by talking about easy things. Mission debriefs that slowly turn into side comments, then into stories, then into memories neither of you planned on sharing. The kind of conversation that only happens when it’s late, when the world is quiet, when there’s nothing left to hide behind.

Then you raid the minibar like it personally offended you.

“Stark can afford it,” you say, already grabbing whatever you can find.

Bucky just watches, amused, leaning back against the headboard like this is the most ridiculous thing he’s seen all day.

“You’re gonna get us in trouble,” he mutters.

“Please,” you scoff, tossing something his way. “We save the world on a weekly basis. We’ve earned overpriced snacks.”

He catches it easily. Of course he does.

And somewhere along the way a movie starts playing, but neither of you are really watching it. You’re sitting too close now and your shoulder brushes his every now and then. Sometimes it’s longer than it needs to, but neither of you moves away.

The conversation never really stops, it just softens, and at some point it turns quieter and more playful. Then he says something —something teasing, something just annoying enough— and you narrow your eyes.

“Oh, you’re really funny tonight, huh?”

There’s a hint of a smirk on his face. “Just saying.”

That does it. You grab a pillow and hit him.

He blinks at you.

“…Really?”

You grin. “Sleepover rules.”

There’s a pause where he just looks at you before he reaches for a pillow.

“Oh, alright.”

And just like that, it escalates.

You’re laughing almost immediately, because Bucky’s faster and stronger. Every swing is controlled, but still he barely has to try. It is unfair. Completely unfair.

“Hey—!” you protest, blocking another hit. “You’re cheating!”

“I’m not cheating,” he says, clearly entertained.

“You’re a super soldier, that counts as cheating!”

That earns a real laugh out of him.

You lunge forward, trying to finally get the upper hand but he catches you easily and the momentum turns against you in a second.

Suddenly you’re on your back. The mattress dips hard beneath you, breath knocked out just enough to make your chest rise faster. And Bucky’s above you. One knee on either side, caging you in without even trying. Your wrists caught in his metal hand, pinned gently —but firmly— above your head.

You freeze. The pillow is gone, and the laughter has faded. Now there’s only this. The closeness. The heat of him. The way his breath is just slightly uneven now. His grip isn't tight, it's more like he’s holding, waiting.

Your heart pounds and you swallow.

“Cheating,” you manage, voice a little thinner than intended.

That makes him smirk, slowly and dangerously.

“You started it,” he says.

Your heart kicks harder.

“Yeah, well,” you try, shifting slightly beneath him. It’s just testing, not really trying to get free. “Didn’t expect you to take it this seriously.”

His grip tightens enough to make your breath catch.

“Oh, I’m not,” he murmurs, and the way he says it —low, close— does something to you.

You tug lightly against his hold, but he doesn’t let you.

“Let go,” you say, softer now.

He tilts his head slightly. “Or what?”

Your pulse is loud in your ears.

“You scared I’ll win?” you try, forcing a hint of your earlier teasing back into your voice.

That earns a quiet huff, that is half amusement, half something else.

“You’re not winning this,” he says.

And then he leans in, close enough that you can feel his breath on your lips.

“Still think this is a game?” he murmurs.

Your throat goes dry.

“…No,” you admit.

Something in Bucky’s expression shifts, like that was the only answer he was waiting for.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, voice lower now. “Didn’t think so.”

And then he’s kissing you.

It feels like everything at once. Like all the tension from earlier —the glances, the almost touches, the space that felt too small and too big at the same time—crashes into this one moment.

His hand comes up instinctively, finding your side, pulling you closer like he doesn’t want even an inch left between you. Your fingers curl into his shirt, gripping, grounding, needing him closer in a way you don’t even try to hide now.

The kiss deepens; slow at first, then not slow at all. Like neither of you knows how to pace this. Like neither of you wants to.

Your hands move without thinking, up and across, learning the shape of him through fabric, mapping warmth and muscle and the solid presence of him that you’ve been hyper-aware of all night.

He exhales softly against your mouth —something between a breath and a reaction— and it only makes everything sharper. His grip tightens, not rough, but certain, like he’s done holding back.

You shift beneath him, closer until there’s no space left to close, no distance left to pretend.

When you finally pull back, it’s not far. Your foreheads are almost touching. Breath uneven, lips still brushing, like neither of you can quite let go even for that.

For a second, neither of you says anything. Then a quiet, almost disbelieving huff of laughter leaves him.

“…We probably shouldn’t have done that,” he murmurs. But the words feel thin, unconvincing to both of you.

You let out a quiet breath that almost sounds like a laugh. “Yeah… Probably not.”

But your eyes don’t leave his mouth and his don’t leave yours.

You swallow.

“Could just—pretend it didn’t happen,” you offer weakly.

That earns you a look.

“Do you want to?” he asks.

And that’s the problem, because you don’t. Not even a little.

“I don’t,” you admit.

Something shifts in his expression again. Relief, maybe, or something deeper than that.

“Me neither,” he murmurs.

And you’re kissing him again, but his time there’s no hesitation.

His hand finds you more easily now, like he’s already learned where to go, what feels right. Yours do the same.

Time blurs after that. The movie keeps playing somewhere in the background, long forgotten. The snacks are left untouched. And the careful space between you is completely gone.

At some point, you lose track of who moved first, who pulled who closer, how you ended up tangled instead of just side by side. But neither of you stop.

Every time you pull back, it’s only for a second long enough to breathe before leaning back in again.

The night stretches, and somewhere between the quiet laughter, the soft “we shouldn’t” that neither of you listens to, and the way neither of you even tries to go back to sleep, it becomes very clear no one is getting any rest tonight.