Loki's Iron Throne

Over fifty hours of a recon mission paired with the additional stakeout due to people not doing their jobs correctly made sure it was a very long two weeks.

The last stretch had been a bit of an adrenaline rush, a lot of explosions and walking away like a badass even though the combination of heat and leather had him sweating buckets. He hopes that the same high would keep him going for at least another few hours before he crashed for the next three days.

“Buck, you’re gonna be exhausted by the time we reach. Can’t you push it to tomorrow?” Steve tries his level best to reason with him, knowing that Bucky in particular had volunteered for a lot of the mission assignments when others were too tired or occupied to pursue it.

“She’s busy tomorrow. School’s got some dance planning committee happening.” Whatever your inator was, he could punch a hole through it and be done for the day. “It’ll be 20 minutes tops.”

“No point arguing with him, Cap. He’s whipped.” Clint’s kinda delirious. He’s almost fallen over twice already, Bucky’s metal arm being the only thing that stopped it from happening. Maybe Clint’s head deserved to hit the floor a couple of times after that comment.

“Shut up.” He fiddles with the solar system bracelet around his wrist, shoving all the beads to one side before thumbing them back. Not a very convincing argument but the same adrenaline is starting to wear off faster than could conserve. “I’m not.”

“Just go on Tuesday or something. ’s not like you wait for the weekend to see her anymore,” Clint throws in a rebuttal much to his annoyance. “Didn’t you meet her after school that day?”

“She said she was going to hypnotise some birds to go shit on someone.” Fuckin’ Jeff.

“Yeah, but then you walked her home afterwards.”

“It was a part of the negotiation.” A trade off, even.

He wonders if the thread that linked all the beads would ever wear out with how much he played around with it, but so far it showed no signs of giving away.

“Negotiation, date, whatever you wanna call it. The point still stands.”

“It’s your fourth mission this month, bud,” Steve interrupts before Bucky’s glare burns holes into Clint’s face. “You need to relax.”

The quinjet takes a sharp turn and Bucky feels like he’s gonna throw up. Motion sickness was a rarity, only showing up in cases where his body was on the verge of crumbling due to fatigue.

He takes a swig of water, shoving down any signs of distress. “Swear on Barton’s life, I'll take a break after this.”

“Motherfucker, I know you’re lying.” Clint whips around in his seat. “Take it back right now. You’re gonna get me killed.”

“Maybe you deserve it,” Bucky quips back calmly.

“That’s fair.” Clint pauses. “But I’ll take you with me, Jimmy.”

Bucky scowls at the nickname. He absolutely loathes it, which gives this piece of shit all the more reason to use it.

“Can you both shut up?” Nat groans from her seat, doing everyone a favour.

“Whose side are you on, Tasha?” Her blonde and begrudgingly admitted best friend asks.

“Whoever pushes you out of this plane in the next five minutes, Clinton.” She smiles sweetly at him but it drops abruptly. “Steve, just let him go, he’s a big boy now. But you’re finding your own way home, Barnes. I’m not picking you up again.”

She picked him up twice a long time ago and one of them was when you called her over to thank her and return the microchip she got you from the lab.

Back then he knew that the team kept in contact with you occasionally, but not to the point where he had to wait half an hour for Nat to stop telling you about the tech behind her photostatic veils so he could finally go home.

“You guys are great,” Bucky mumbles sarcastically, getting up to go punch in the new coordinates. “Best fuckin’ friends a fella could ask for.”

They still have a long way to go. Bits of conversation takes place, but a two week long mission tends to drain the life out of even enhanced human beings so it’s mostly quiet. The longer he sits idly, the longer the weariness sets in. He could take a walk but he’s not sure he could make an entire lap.

Clint's head droops as he slips in and out of sleep again. Bucky considers letting him hit the cold, hard ground in an act of revenge.

In the end, he sticks his arm out again, pushing him back into his seat.

Steve lowers the jet for him at the street outside your lair, enough for him to jump out and not lie on the ground in pain. Still, it takes him a little longer to stop the dizzying when he lands, before he rolling his shoulders and walks to the door.

The lair’s lit up in shades of yellow and red for a change. Even the pillars with the bubbling liquid were a flaming orange to match whatever theme you had going on.

You were in the smack middle, dressed like a completely authentic firefighter.

“You’re back!” you cheer when he opens the door. You follow it up with a quick clearing of your throat, dropping your voice lower to sound more serious. “You’re back.”

He can’t think of anything to say so he just walks to the middle of the lair, a few feet away from the raised platform. His backpack is still with him, a few grimy and tattered clothes, empty guns inside and other essentials inside. But there’s a separate paper bag that he’s holding in his hand.

“I got you something,” he informs to the best of his ability, holding it up. He wonders if you even heard it, considering how coarse his words had sounded.

“What is it?” You jump down from the platform to meet him midway.

“Open it.” He extends it forward.

He’s a little nervous when you pull out a t-shirt from the bag, ‘I love Philippines’ printed against the plain black, the love represented by a bright red heart.

“You bought me a souvenir.” Your eyes widen when you twist it around to look at the words.

“Yeah.” Could he sit down for a few minutes, maybe? Your chair looks real nice. “There’s some chocolate in there if you want.”

“You’re so cute, oh my God.” You hold it up against you, checking out the fit.

He can feel himself smiling but he isn’t exactly sure if he is.

“Thanks, sarge.” You half consider wearing it right now but you don’t want to ruin it with what you have planned. “I love it.”

Bucky gives you a thumbs up, arm dropping to his side when it takes more energy than it should.

“Did you come here right after a mission?” You notice the beads of perspiration lining his forehead. “Is that why you’re all sweaty?”

He just ‘mhm’s in response. He didn’t even notice how hot he was feeling.

He forces himself to pay attention when your fingers wave in front of his face.

“You okay?” You’re a step closer than he remembers you being a second ago. “You look kinda pale.”

“’m fine.” It feels like gravel scraping against his throat. “What d’ya have planned for today?”

You look entirely unconvinced. “Aren’t you supposed to be hibernating right now?”

“Nah.” Did he land 2 minutes ago or two hours ago? How long has he even been here? “Slept on the jet.”

Accidentally, before snapping awake thirty seconds later when turbulence hit.

“Okay,” you say hesitantly. “If you say so.”

You march back to the platform. He lets the backpack fall to the ground, exhaling in relief at the sudden weight off his shoulder. He walks over to leave it by the wall, well out of the way so that neither of you trip.

You stretch your arms out and declare something about subverting expectations and turning things into water so you could float giant paper boats but he only catches bits and pieces of it. He supposes the subverting expectations had to do with the theme of the lair and your costume.

“Where, uh-” If you had mentioned it and he wasn’t paying attention, this was going to be embarrassing, “-where is this... thing?”

“You’ll have to find it.” You grin. “A little game.”

He blinks rapidly, the words taking some time to register in his brain.

“It’s here somewhere?” He looks around, the bright colours bringing on the early signs of a migraine.

"You will never-" you begin to cackle but pause mid-sentence, "Bucky, are you sure you're fine?"

He nods with a slight wince, beckoning for you to go on. His shoulder pressed against the concrete for support, centring his balance accordingly.

"It’s around here.” You sound more disinterested, instead, eyes trained on him in worry. “But there’s this whole ‘floor is lava’ thing going on, it’s gonna get a little crazy.”

“Ah.” Jesus, had it been over sixty hours since he’d been awake? What fucking day of the week was it?

“Listen, can I get you something? Do you want some water or-”

His legs nearly buckle under him in a flash.

"Can we just take 5?" He slides to the ground along the wall, leaning on his palm to stay upright.

"Shit, Buck." You immediately leap off your platform to get to him. “What’s happening to you?”

“‘m fine,” he groans, trying to push himself up again.

“Clearly you’re not.” You drop to your knees by him to get a picture of what exactly was wrong.

"I have super healing.” He clenches his eyes shut. “I'll be fine, just- just give me a minute."

"You're sick, James.” He can feel your hand press against his forehead, a welcome coolness against the heat. “You're burning up."

Alright. Maybe he isn’t that fine.

“I’m callin’ Hill.” You dig around your firefighter’s outfit for your phone. “This is why we don't see each other until you've gotten some rest, Bucky. We could have just rescheduled.”

His eyes blow open, hand reaching out to grab your wrist. "No, no.”

“What?” you ask, eyebrows furrowing.

He shakes his head. “Don't take me back there. They won't let me go on missions."

"Well, they shouldn't, not if things like this are going to happen," you bite back, finger hovering over the contact.

"Please,” he pleads, "Please. I don’t know how else to make up for it.”

“Make up for what?” Your determination falters.

“Everything.” His eyes close again. “Don’t call them.”

“Fuckin’ hell,” you breathe out. “How do I help you, sweetheart, you gotta tell me.”

You check his temperature again, biting your lip to quell what feels a lot like rising fear because panicking wouldn’t help the situation. His skin burns under yours.

“Just leave your hand there,” he says under his breath. The ground was cold, God, he wanted to lie down. “Feels nice.”

Sleep looks like she’s finally catching up with him, a race that she inevitably always won. She’s a sneaky one.

He doesn’t try to resist this time, letting it consume him.

Something under him is plush, soft. It’s not dissimilar to the seats in the common room.

He can barely rotate his body, every muscle feels like it's on the verge of tearing and fuck, he's barely conscious but he manages to pry his eyes open.

“Easy there, Buck." It's you, even though he's moving in and out of consciousness he can tell it's you.

The room's too bright. The world's too bright. The panic builds in his chest.

"Where am I?" His words come out slurred, eyes squinting painfully.

“My couch," you sound gentle, calming. "You're safe. Go back to sleep."

Okay. He trusts you.

He passes out before his head hits the pillow.

Bucky doesn't dream. He has nightmares, yeah, but those had begun to lessen in frequency after he started working on them a few months ago.

This isn't a nightmare.

It's a dark, navy blue sky, pristine white ground and a mist swirling around with the strong wind. He swears he can feel the cool droplets collecting on every inch of him. He doesn't feel nervous... just strange.

It’s uncharted territory.

There’s not a lot going on otherwise.

He takes a step forward, and another, and another when nothing happens. It’s a slow walk against the low howl of the draft, but it looks like there’s no one around for miles.

He stands still for a second. Lets the world move around him.

He’s alone anyway.

“Bucky.” He jerks awake again, hastily pulled away from the nothingness. “Slow down. Breathe. It’s me.”

“How long have I been out?” he croaks out. It feels like five minutes between since he shut his eyes.

“About two hours.” He hears a clink as you set a tray down on the table beside him. “Sorry for waking you up. Just thought you needed some water.”

He can’t lift his head up. It’s bordering on humiliating. “I can’t-”

“Got you a straw,” you break in gently. “But I’m gonna need you to take these for your fever. You’re still burning up pretty bad.”

Something pokes at the corner of his mouth. He figures you’re holding up the glass for him. The straw’s helpful, and hell, you were right. His throat was absolutely parched and the water sliding down feels like a respite but he can’t get more than a few sips in.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t-” he begins in a long series of apologies to come, hoping the throbbing in his head would go away.

“Get some rest, Buck.” You knew that if he started he wouldn’t ever stop. “We’ll talk about this later.”

There’s the sound of a light switch clicking and he’s left in silence for a few seconds.

He should have just gone home. He should have listened.

But he wanted to give you the t-shirt.

He’s been walking for what seemed like hours now.

The inky dark horizon seems endless, the white ground crunches under his feet.

Is this what fever dreams were really like?

Or is this what his normal dreams are like? He can’t really remember the last one he had.

He doesn’t know what he’s headed towards but something in him tells him not to stop. There’s an unspoken destination to get to.

“Where are you going?” A voice asks from around him. No matter how ominous it was, it doesn’t seem to unnerve him.

“‘m not sure,” he admits, his pace not faltering.

It doesn’t ask anything further so he keeps treading.

It’s a minute before something catches his eye. A light appears in the distance. His heart lifts.

Something warm. Inviting.

Fire?

The closer he gets, the clearer it becomes that it is a fireplace. It stands alone out there, several logs of wood accompanying it with an axe leaning against them.

The flame’s dull.

He gets to work.

His forehead feels cool. He thinks that either his dream was had transcended into reality or he’s sweat right through his shirt and condensation was working wonders.

His hand shifts up to wipe at his skin. It comes in contact with cloth instead and it takes him a moment to realise that it was a wet hand towel laid across his forehead.

He hasn’t been like this in years. He sure remembers laying soaked handkerchiefs on Steve a lot when they were boys, nights of flu and stomach bugs keeping Bucky up in palpable fear until his friend’s fever broke in the early hours of the morning. He can’t recall the last time someone had done it for him.

He can hear you tinkering with something in the other room. His senses seemed like they were gradually making a comeback, but along with them came the most excruciating headache.

A small groan escapes him when he tries to flip over, hands flying to his temple to try and relieve some of the pressure. The serum was good most of the time. But for all the epic moments of energy and healing it gave him, the inevitable lows crashed down just as hard.

But a headache was good. If this was the worst he had been feeling all day, then he knew from experience that it was going to be over soon.

“Where does it hurt?” He didn’t even notice that you had stopped building whatever you were, now crouching a few feet away from the couch.

“My fuckin’ head.” He turns over to press his face against the sofa cushion, hoping that the darkness would help in some way.

He can feel your fingers run through his hair, pushing it away from where it stuck to his face. His teeth unclench slightly, just for a second, before another wave hits him.

He begs to go back under.

It’s snow, he realises. The white ground is snow.

“Why don’t you sit down for a while?” it cajoled again. The voice doesn’t have a physical form but he can feel it follow him around like a little friend.

“Can’t.” He’s been hacking away at the wood for too long now, using the bits to keep the flame going, keep it alive before it dies out on him.

“Can’t or won’t?”

He leans against the hilt of the axe, breathing heavily. He’s exhausted.

“Won’t.” His voice is quieter, eyes downcast.

The wind doesn’t give up around him. It hugs him like a blanket, adding to what could easily turn into misery.

“What do you think is going to happen if you keep cutting wood?”

Warmth. Something to break the monotony of the blue around him. Maybe the heat would invite someone to sit with. Redemption.

“I don’t know.” He brings the tool down hard on another block, breaking it into half before he throws it into the fireplace.

“You’re not seeing what you’ve already created,” it points out delicately. “Wait for a second, watch the fire.”

He wipes his brow, taking a step back. His muscles were aching, shortness of breath finally catching up to him.

If it gives up on him, he’d have to work twice as hard.

But the fire continues to crackle, seconds, moments, even minutes later. Just as bright.  

Has it always been burning?

“Yes, it has.” It reads his mind.

At what point did it stop mattering how much he added to it to keep it alive?

“A long time ago.” It didn’t make sense. “So then why are you working so hard towards it when it’s already here?”

Something is kneading on his head. It’s foreign and should definitely set off alarm bells but it's nice. It feels good.

"Hey, B." You’re on a single seat couch adjacent to his, welding gloves on your hand. Do you ever take a break? “You look better.”

"Hi." He reaches up, coming in contact with metal this time. "What's on my head?"

"Synthesised Message Inducer."

A message inducer?

"What messages were you sending me?" Is that why his dream was so fucking weird?

"Well- none," you confess. "I read the label wrong. Turns out it’s a massage inducer. Don't know what evil I can do with that but it’s helpful.”

No wonder.

"You mentioned a headache before you passed out again so I just thought that-" you gesture to it with a flick of your hand. "Is it making you uncomfortable? I wasn't sure-"

"It feels good,” he murmurs, trying his best to straighten up. "Thank you."

“You look less pale.” You smile, although it looks strained. “You hungry?”

“Don’t think so.”

“There’s some Gatorade on the table. Saltines too, if you can stomach it.”

He knows he should eat. His metabolism needs it.

You push yourself off your couch to go sit beside him. He sits up straight, back leaning heavily against the couch when you land next to him.

He takes three out of the bowl of saltines you offer him. Breaking it into little pieces, he pops a few in his mouth, chewing slowly. A quick sip of Gatorade washes it down for momentary satisfaction but he knows it won’t be nearly enough to fill the hunger that will eventually hit him the minute he’s a little healthier. His body’s energy was being entirely spent in fixing him up.

“Steve called, by the way.” Of course, he did. Mother.

“Did you pick up?” He twists the cap back onto the bottle.

“Let it ring all the way through.” You take it from him and leave it on the floor beside the couch, lifting your legs to keep onto the table.

“He’ll call back later.”

“I think it’ll be fun to reject Steve Rogers’ call.”

Oh, it definitely is. Gets him all riled up.

“How you feeling?” You sneak a glance at him.

“Better than this morning.” An hour more and he’d be good to go.

You nod, looking down at your lap. "You scared the shit out of me, you know.”

"I'm sorry." Guilt. It’s guilt that might just eat him alive. “Really.”

“I know what you’re thinking.”  You wave it off. "Don’t. I'm just glad you're okay."

There’s a beat of silence where he’s not quite sure what to say. There’s a certain tension that hangs in the air between you both. He can feel the drowsiness creep on him again.

“But you need to tell the team, James,” you say softly. “You need to talk to someone.”

He doesn’t react too much. He knew it would come up eventually.

Bucky exhales uneasily. “I know.”

“Will you?”

The million-dollar question. He doesn’t want to lie and tell you that he absolutely will because he doesn’t know.

His head cautiously rests on your shoulder. You don’t hesitate for a moment before shifting to make him more comfortable, leaning your cheek on his hair.

“I’m gonna pick up next time Rogers calls.”

“Yeah?”

“Gonna tell him you got held up on our date.” He feels your chest rise and fall with a small laugh. He smiles against your shoulder.

“They’ll get on my ass.”

“You should get bullied, it’s good for character development.”

Some date.

He can’t even stay awake longer than five minutes at a time.

He’s still cutting the wood fervently, throwing blocks upon blocks into the fire to keep it alive, keep him alive.

“You know you don’t have to keep doing this, James,” it’s being a voice of reason but he can’t afford to listen to it. “You’re not gonna find something new that you don’t already have.”

“What do I have?” he asks desperately, planting his feet in the ground, hand gripping the axe tightly.

“You know what.”

He does. “Don’t say it.”

“Accepta-”

“No.”

“That’s going to keep burning.” It’s true. “You’re just going to kill yourself trying to keep it.”

He has to earn it. He has to do something to be worthy of what it was giving him because if it knew the kinds of things he’s done, things he has to make up for- it’d extinguish a long time ago.

“You don’t.”

“I do.” No matter how long he stays still, it shows no sign of flickering.

“The fire’s still alive.” It’s calm despite how frantic he was turning. “You don’t have to work to keep it.”

“I’m useless here,” he says defeatedly against its insistence. “I don’t deserve it.”

“Maybe you don’t.” It still stings even though he knew it. “But maybe you do. Either way, it’s giving it to you, no strings attached.”

He lifts his axe over his shoulder again, ready to bring it down. Why does he deserve it when he has nothing to give in return?

“You don’t have to offer a service to have worth.”

He halts, body frozen. His chest constricts almost painfully.

“Sit down for a while,” its command is kind, almost caring. “Let it come to you.”

“Fuck,” it escapes him like a small prayer.

The axe drops to the ground. He shakily takes a seat.

He doesn’t cut more wood or fan the flame or scour for gasoline. He doesn’t do anything.

And yet the fire keeps burning.

It’s a kitten.

On his chest.

Bucky stares right at it and it unflinchingly stares back.

He’s not really sure if he’s still dreaming or not.

He hesitatingly uses a finger to scratch behind its ear.

“Hello,” he whispers. It leans into his touch, pressing itself against his palm. “Where’d you come from?”

"You're awa- ah, jeez, I'm sorry." You walk into the room, finally changed into an oversized cardigan and out of your lab coat, "She's clingy."

"It's okay." He likes it. “This is your cat?”

“Yeah. Finally, about time you two met.”

He folds his legs to give you space on the couch. You sit next to him, a cup of something warm in your hands. There’s music playing softly through the apartment, tracks definitely from the 80s. He recognises some of them from the playlists Sam had been sending to catch him up.

“You look good as new.” His temperature had gone down a while ago and his headache had subsided after thirty more minutes of sleep and an Aspirin.

“Feel normal.” Praise be to the serum. “Think it’s over.”

“You need some more water?”

“I’m good.” He’s fucking starving, though. “What have you been up to all day?”

“School stuff.” You relax into the seat. “Inators to kick your ass when you’re not unconscious on my couch.”

“Winter Formal prep?” He flinches when the cat digs her claws into his chest but it doesn’t hurt that bad, arching her back before snuggling back.

“Yeah. Turns out I’m chaperoning.” The cynicism in your tone has him believing that maybe it’s not your activity of choice. “Yay.”

“When is it?”

“Pretty soon. The planning committee’s all excited.” You take a sip out of your mug. “I get one day to recuperate.”

Maybe he should leave you alone for the next few weeks. Maybe a month. Possibly forever.

“I’m sorry,” he says for the umpteenth time that day but at least now he’s properly conscious.

“I know you are.” You don’t sound mad at him. “You don’t need to be. What are frenemies for?”

He lingers a little longer on the word, reevaluating what exactly this thing was at this point.

“Plus you brought me a present.” You gesture to yourself and he realises only then that you actually have the shirt on. “That makes it pretty even, I think.”

“You sure?”

You know it’s an unspoken way of asking if you want him to get out and never come back, judging by the way his lip was caged between his teeth.

“Absolutely.” You finish whatever you’re drinking, leaving it on the coffee table. “And you fixed my generator last time you were at the lair so, you know, an eternal debt or something.”

Well, it nearly electrocuted you and him so it’s not like it was a difficult choice to make.

“I think she likes you.” You raise your eyebrows at the cat who had dozed off on his chest a while ago when he wasn’t paying attention. “Traitor.”

“She has good taste.” He didn’t think he was a cat person, having grown up with his neighbour’s dogs and the human equivalent of a spunky Golden Retriever.

“She has terrible taste. Unless she likes me, then she’s basically Gordon Ramsay.”

“You keep telling yourself that.” He retracts his hand back to his side, fully intending not to disturb her. He probably wouldn’t be able to move from that position for the next few hours out of compulsion.

The ease slowly returning to your conversation takes off some of the edge he was feeling.

“Something feels wrong about today.” He stares off to the side, turning his face to the wall.

“Aside from me having to use all my Grey’s Anatomy knowledge on you?” You snicker. “Web MD told me you had Pneumococcal Meningitis.”

“No. I don’t think you’ve said enough bullshit for today.” There’s a certain quota that’s been set.

“I did, you just weren’t awake to hear any of it.” There’s a smile on your face finally and the relief he feels is immeasurable. “Told you all my hopes and dreams.”

“Yeah?” He raises an eyebrow, head inclined ever so slightly to look at you. “What’d that include?”

“To start, I’d like a pony.” You pull your knees up to your chest, circling your arms around it. “Then a private island.”

“You’re startin’ small.” The corner of his lip tugs upwards. “Real humble.”

“You know me, queen of humility and all that.” You brush his comment aside. “But you know what‘s actually wrong?”

He hums in curiosity.

“I haven’t hit on you all day.”

Ah.

“‘M sure it’s hurtin’ pretty bad,” he says in amusement.

“You have no idea.” You sigh loudly. “How else will you know about my undying love for you?”

“Get it out of your system then.” Months ago he wouldn’t have even dreamed of encouraging this behaviour, but here he was.

“Don’t think you can handle it, buddy,” you tease, eyes crinkling.

“Why, because I have a fever?” He smiles playfully. “Just means I’m hotter than usual.”

You press your lips into a straight line to avoid smiling back. “Mr Barnes, are you flirting with yourself?”

“So what if I am?”

“That’s my job, sir.” You huff. “You gonna have me unemployed now?”

Begrudgingly, he thinks you do your job very well, so no, he’s probably not going to.

He shakes his head slowly instead, stopping when he feels the movement send a shot of pain up his neck. Certainly slept the wrong way.

There’s a faint spell of victory on your face. “You hungry? Been a while since you ate anything.”

“Kinda.” His stomach lining was going to digest itself but he’d never tell you that.

You’re about to open your mouth and tell him that he was a wholeass snack and you were starving when the front door’s doorknob jiggles.

The key turns, finally pushing open and accompanied by a voice that can only be described as peeved.

“Y/N, did you forget the fuckin- oh mother of God.” Some guy covers his eyes instantly, retracting back to the doorway. “You coulda warned me you had a guy here. Is he clothed?”

“Unfortunately, he is.”

“Sir, are you clothed?” he asks aloud instead, ignoring your cry of betrayal.

“Uh, yeah.” Bucky clears his throat awkwardly. “I am.”

“You have no faith in me, Jake,” you grumble, not even meeting his gaze in greeting.

“Fuck off, Y/N,” he replies like it’s a habit, peeking through his fingers to look at who was in the living room.

Oh, this was Jake. Roommate Jake that you’ve mentioned to him a few times before, mostly in complaints.

Roommate Jake’s eyes squint in an effort to discern who was on the couch.

“Anyway come meet-”

“I see.” Recognition finally settles on his face, paving way for immediate displeasure.

“This is Sergeant Ba-”

“I know who he is,” he says dryly. “Why is there a superhero in our apartment? Nice to meet you, by the way.”

Bucky simply waves in acknowledgement, feeling pretty helpless. He tries to sit up straight but the cat simply latches onto him, dragging herself further up his chest and settling there.

“We’re having a sleepover.” You nudge Bucky’s knee with your elbow. “We just did each other’s nails. Do you wanna join?”

“I’ll pass, thanks,” he retorts curtly. “I’m gonna go change. Make sure we still have a home by the time I return.”

Oof.

“Left you some pasta in the microwave,” you call out, face scrunched in anticipation.

Jake stops down the hall. “You didn’t do the laundry today, did you?”

“The pasta is really good,” you say alternatively.

“Again, fuck you,” he reiterates before a door opens and closes. “I’m gonna have you evicted.”

There’s a stupidly big grin on your face when you turn back to Bucky. “I was just fuckin’ with him, I did the laundry.”

“He hates me,” Bucky states, pulling you out of your self-induced haze of pettiness.

“Ah ah, correction; he doesn’t hate you,” you emphasise, wagging a finger. “He hates all of you. The entire team.”

Bucky’s nose crinkles.

“Don’t look so confused, I warned you about this a while ago.”

He vaguely remembers you telling him to come find out the reason.

“Why?” If it was an anti-superhero agenda, it wouldn’t be the first time Bucky had encountered one of them.

“He has one of the worst jobs in the city.” You smirk. “He works in insurance.”

Oh.

“Every time aliens destroy New York, he works overtime.”

Oh.

“‘Hi, thank you so much for calling Gold Star Insurance, how may I help you? Oh, Shmulk used your car as a landing pad?’' you mimic, hand pressed to your ear like a phone. “‘Yes, we can set you up with a claim. Lemme just transfer you real quick to-’”

“I don’t sound like that.” Jake’s voice carries over from the kitchen.

“No one said this was you,” you fire back, rolling your eyes. “God, Jake, the world doesn’t revolve around you.”

“It will once I change the locks on all our doors, Y/N.” His voice is muffled as he opens the fridge, burrowing his head inside. “Did you finish my fucking yoghurt?”

It’s like your ears perk up the way you whirl around to the direction he was. “Admit you ate my cereal, bitch.”

“I don’t even like your shitty cereal,” he shouts back, shutting the fridge door. “You ate my damn yoghurt. I’m adding it to your rent for this month.”

“Fuck your yoghurt.” You sound a little too proud for someone who supposedly didn’t have anything to do with it.

There’s silence until he pokes around the corner, phone in his hand.

“Did you eat dinner?” Jake asks normally.

“No. You ordering?” The way your tone shifts almost gives Bucky whiplash.

“Yeah. Pizza?”

“Sounds good. I’ll pay.”

“Nah, I got it. You paid last time.” He punches in the number. “Sergeant Barnes, would you like some pizza?”

“No, I-” He’s well overstayed his welcome. He probably has a few therapist appointments to make, a few missions to cancel from his schedule.

“Yes, he would,” you interrupt. “Order another large please, Jakey.”

“Cool.” He walks away, speaking into the phone.

“Get dessert,” you yell after him.

He shouts a muffled agreement back.

“Hope you like pepperoni.” You return your attention to Bucky. “That’s his default for people he doesn’t know.”

“Uh, yeah.” He doesn’t quite know what to say after all that. “He seems nice.”

“He’s an asshole.” Your eyes shine in excitement. “I love him.”

The cat paws at his chest, demanding the attention Bucky hadn’t been giving her all this while. He scratches her back again before she goes back to sleep.

“Sergeant Barnes, are you injured?” Jake walks back into the room. “Did one of her dumb machines do this?”

“He’s fine.” You shoot a look towards Bucky who nods in confirmation. “And my machines aren’t dumb, they’re stupid.”

"Is he going to die on our couch?" Jake turns to him. "Are you going to die on our couch?"

"No, he isn't," you say, a tick of annoyance in your voice.

“I really am fine,” Bucky adds on, switching between you and him.

"We could get court-martialed, you know."

"We'll just go on the run." Your eyes shine. "You and me, living it up as criminals. We'll even bring Fondant."

He looks at you in disdain. "We're taking the cat with us?"

"You love her, shut up."

“She sheds everywhere.”

"Your cat's name is Fondant?" Bucky dares to speak up in the middle of whatever this was.

"Among others." Jake sighs. "It was Vaseline this morning, Daisy yesterday and probably will be something stupid like Q-Tip tonight."

You let out an ‘ooh’ in excitement. "Q-Tip is a good one, Jake."

"That was an insult, not a suggestion," he shoots back. "You can't even decide on a name."

"You call her Airpod.”

“She’s small and white and I can never find her anywhere.”

“That's the worst name. What if I went around calling you Shit Stain, huh? Because that’s what you are,” you accuse, adoration highlighting your face when you look at her. "We need a good name, something worthy of her."

"Sergeant Barnes, since you're here would you like to weigh in on the situation?"

Not really. But he's starting to take a liking towards the little thing that was fast asleep on his chest. 

“You can just call me Bucky,” he says instead, figuring that since he was crashing on your shared couch, Jake could at least get nickname privileges.

“You know what, you’re right,” you start, ignoring his white flag. “Bucko here should pick a name.”

“Uh-” Bucky didn’t know this was still the topic of discussion, considering how fast the both of you had been bickering back and forth.

“Stop pestering him,” Jake carped.

“Let him speak, bro, holy shit,” you exclaim, throwing your hand up in a ‘what the hell?’.

“Like you’re going to actually use it. Don’t get his hopes up too high.”

“Maybe I will.” You scowl at Jake, giving Bucky a smile. “No pressure sarge, it can’t be worse than Airpod.”

It can if Bucky tries hard enough.

Jake was right, though, it is tiny and white. Snowball was too common, Frostbite was too violent and you had already used Daisy once-

“How about Alpine?” He scratches under its chin. She turns her head up in contentment.

“Alpine,” you test how it feels on your tongue. “Alpine.”

“It can be something else, I don’t know-”

“I like it.” Something about it feels right. “I really do.”

“A normal fucking name. Hallelujah.” Jake crosses his arms across his chest. “If you change it now I’m getting a dog.”

“Nice one, sarge.” You pet her back, grinning when she leans into you.

“Glad to be of service.” Your fingers brush against his for a second and he freezes. He doesn’t even think you notice the mini contact, already busy in firing off a new insult at your roommate.

“Sergeant Barnes, in case you need to kill her at any point, I can tell you her schedule.” Jake glares at you.

“He already has my schedule, so you can eat shit.” You flip him off. “He and I are besties.”

Bucky still has the certificate you mailed him about your promotion from strangers to best friends. It was definitely tacky, but he appreciated the gift card you sent along with it.

An hour later he’s stuffed with so many carbs, his mother would be proud. His diet doesn’t usually consist of copious amounts of pizza but fuck it, he probably needs the energy for the lecture he was going to receive later on.

His lips taste like strawberries from the chapstick you forced him to use, his hair tied back in a little bun because the cat wouldn’t stop playing with it and he’s about halfway through listening to a conversation about why insurance workers had it harder than lawyers while living in a city full of superheroes.

“They get to sit up there in their fancy little air-conditioned rooms but we’re doing all the groundwork,“ Jake rants, eyes still trained on the rerun of an old football match playing on the TV.

“Right,” Bucky acknowledges. It’s not like he has any say in this, he wasn’t the one cleaning up the mess. He had spent his fair share of hours helping cleaners clear up debris and discarded alien rubble from Avengers battlegrounds but he certainly should start investing more time into it. 

“And don’t even get me started on the fuckin’ landlords-”

“Is he still talking?” you interject, rounding the corner from your visit to the kitchen to get some water.

“I’m sorry I’m more interesting than you,” he shoots back without a break. “Anyway, as I was saying-”

You had a glass in one hand Bucky’s phone in the other, a constant stream of buzzing drawing his attention to it. He already knew what it was. 

“Shut up for once in your life, Jake. Bucky, catch.” You toss his phone at him and he catches it with one hand. “Your phone’s been blowing up Mr. Steal Your Girl. Who are you cheating on me with?”

He unlocks it to find his notifications drowned by a series of texts. He ignores the ones from Steve and Sam’s number is still blocked, so that leaves him with only one option.

From Clint

steve’s trying to convince sam to send redwing after you lol

From Clint

i told him he should check in with every morgue in the city

From Clint

ok he spent half an hour doing it lmao where are you

From Clint

if you’re alive can you get me some pringles on the way home

From Clint

sour cream and onion

From Clint

nat told me i shouldn’t have said that. my bad.

From Clint

*when you’re alive can you get me some pringles on the way home

From Bucky

no

From Clint

i’m telling steve you died on a bridge

Bucky locks his phone again, shoving it into his pocket. “I think I should go.”

“Aw, already? You can take Jake’s bedroom if you want,” you offer earnestly. “He can sleep on the asphalt.”

“We have a guest bedroom.” Jake rolls his eyes. “And you can stay over if you need to, Sergeant.”

“Nah, I think Steve might end up here soon if I don’t let him know I’m alright.” The man needed to get laid. It had been too long.

“Well, why don’t you just tell him you’re fine?” Jake is logical, his suggestion reasonable.

Bucky stops to really think about his answer for a moment. 

“It’s funnier.”

Bucky tries to lift Alpine off his lap and onto the couch so she can continue her nap. She opens her eyes briefly before arching her back and jumping off him without so much as a second glance back. Is this what feeling used is like?

“It was nice meeting you.” Your roommate holds out his hand and Bucky takes it firmly, shaking it and responding in kind. “You should visit again. Could use some reinforcements against this crackhead.”

“No one likes you,” you respond, handing Bucky his backpack. “Go add some numbers or cry in a corner or something.”

Jake sends a middle finger and a sarcastic smile your way before disappearing into the kitchen to get the garbage bags.

“Can’t keep America’s Golden Boy waiting.” You hand Bucky his backpack on the way out. 

“He’s anything but America’s Boy.” Bucky scoffs, opening the door and stepping out, “Punk’s broken just about every law under the sun. Not exactly patriotic of him.”

“A rebel with a cause.” A lightbulb goes off in your head. “I know someone who might like that.”

“You’re plannin’ on setting Steve up?” It was probably about damn time. “Good luck.”

“He’s gonna need it, not me.” Your lips upturn in a smirk. “Speaking of your teammates, who’s picking you up?”

“I’ll probably walk.” He inhales deeply, lips pressing inward in a line. “Could use some air.”

“Are you serious?”

He looks at you quizzically. “Yeah.”

“All you superheroes and your lone wolf complexes,” you say under your breath, digging around your cardigan pocket for something.

You ask for his hand. He gives it to you, slightly confused.

“You’re crazy if you think you’re walking home after all that.” You tug his metal arm up slightly to get a better grip on it. 

When your eyes fall on the galaxy bracelet he still has around his wrist, your gaze softens almost immediately. “You kept this?”

Bucky clears his throat, feeling the heat creep into his face. “Steve’s not the only one who needs luck.”

“Sure isn’t,” you agree, moving the bracelet down gently before snapping a new contraption around his hand.

It’s designed to look like a digital watch but he knows exactly what it is.

“Thought you never made two of the same thing.” He stares at the teleportation device that fits snugly around his wrist.

“Yeah, well, your clone getting kidnapped can really change a person,” you murmur. “Made two after the whole thing just in case, but you should have it.”

“Y/N-” he begins, ready to argue.

“I want you to have it,” you interrupt. “Could be helpful on missions. Late night booty calls too, makes the commute less.”

Like he was getting a ton of those on a regular basis.

“I’ll return it next weekend,” he promises, clutching his backpack a little tighter.

“No, you won’t.” You shake your head. “This store doesn’t accept returns.”

He opens his mouth to argue.

“If anything comes out of there that isn’t ‘Y/N you’re the love of my life, please be my girlfriend’, don't even bother,” you warn seriously. 

He shuts his mouth again.

You weren’t going to let him have his way, your stubbornness taking the front seat. It’s slightly infuriating, but he supposes that came with the gig. 

“Thank you,” he says, voice quiet, “for everything.”

“Don’t mention it,” you make a callback to what he said to you months ago. “You glued popsicle sticks together for three hours, ‘tis the least I could do.”

“Still.”

You can tell it’s something he isn’t used to doing, judging by how serious he was. 

“Don’t go all soft on me, Barnes.” You punch his shoulder playfully. “Could even say it’s an evil scheme in itself, making sure your frenemy is fine enough to get their ass handed to them next time.”

“Friends.”

“What?” you ask, not sure if you heard him right.

“We’re friends,” he repeats.

It shouldn’t make your stomach flutter but it does and it’s despicable. 

“Give me two more weeks and we’ll add ‘with benefits’ as a suffix.” Using humour as a way to cope with the sudden surge of your heartbeat maybe isn’t the best way to go about things.

“It’s gonna take a lot longer than that.” He counters, buckling the strap of his backpack across his sternum.

“But you’re not denying that it can happen.” A grin spreads across your face. “It’s just gonna take some time.”

He stops his movements, hand still on the watch as he adjusts the coordinates. “Sure. Whatever you say.”

“Bucky Barnes, you are playing hard to get.” You laugh and he smiles wide and free.

“You gotta put in the work.” Not much, judging by the way he’s looking at you.

“I will wear you down someday,” you swear. “You will admit that you have feelings for me.”

He purses his lips out in contemplation. “Good luck.”

“Thanks.” You snort. “Get home safe. And get some sleep.”

“Bye Y/N.” He takes a moment longer to linger on you before pressing down on the watch, blipping out of your view.

You let out an exhale, eyes dropping to the area he was standing just a minute ago.

What a day.

“He your boyfriend?” Jake asks, handing you a bag as you shut the door behind you.

“What? No,” you mumble to yourself, arms crossed over your chest.

“I know you. You don’t just give your inventions away to just anyone,” he continues even when you push past him, “and you especially don’t make stuff twice for them unless they’re Director Fury.”

“I didn’t make that watch for him.” You couldn’t exactly hand out freeze rays and air bending tools to random people. They’d have to have insight into what you were doing in the first place and the only people from your citizen life were T and Jake.

“You’re a terrible liar.” He scoffs. “I saw the blueprint on the table. You built that shit today.”

“They just happened to be there.” You pick up a pizza box, shoving it into the trash. “I was editing a prototype.”

“Y/N, I love you occasionally but you’re full of shit.”

“Beginning to doubt the first part, J.” You hand him the used glasses to take to the sink.

“Look me in the eye and tell me you’ve never built him anything before this.”

You spin on your heel to face him, staring him straight in the eye.

He waits. Your mouth opens to say something before closing it again.

“Your face is ugly.” You press the bag full of garbage into his hand. “Why do you even care so much?”

“Because I’m one of your only two friends, you loser.”

“I have more than two friends.” You huff. “Alpine.”

“Alpine is a cat.”

“Alpine is my best friend and I love her.”

“She is a cat,” he repeats. “Listen- shut up, that cat doesn’t love you- I don’t want anything to happen to you. Your life is fucking weird as it is, just wanna make sure his heart’s in the right place.”

You had already been kinda kidnapped once, what’s the worst that could happen?

You don’t tell Jake that, though. He’d send out a search group the next time you were late.

“He’s good.” You sigh, hand resting on your hip. “And nothing’s going on between us anyway so you got nothing to worry about.”

“Like you don’t have the biggest crush on him.” He swings the bag over his shoulder. “Just because I just choose to ignore you on purpose doesn’t mean I’m ignorant.”

“Yeah, well, I have a crush on someone new every week so your point is invalid.” You put your hands on your waist. “Stop being so mean to me or else I’ll fall in love with you too.”

“God, no. Go back to whatever hole you crawled out of.” His face twists in disgust as he exits the room. 

“You’re comin’ with me, boy,” you reminded him. “Alpine too.”

“Just for the record,” Jake’s voice resonates through the apartment, “I probably hate him the least out of all of them.”

You let out a small laugh. “Yeah, I figured.”

all proceeds to my ko-fi go towards me trying to get a life or at least some doughnuts <3 (and fix my really fucked up phone)

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