ִֶָ࣪☾. gloom ⊹ ࣪˖

“Your whimsy!”

“Doll, I don’t—”

“You’re tellin’ me you don’t have ONE trinket? This is unacceptable.”

It’s the first time you’d seen Bucky’s room—having come to lend him a book when you noticed there was not a single sign that the room was occupied, aside from the slightly crumpled sheets and the wrappers from his protein bars in the bin beside him. You stand in the doorway with your hands on your hips, entirely exasperated at the sight before you.

In the year he'd known you, Bucky had become used to your dramatics—exclaiming like someone had taken the thing you love most when your favourite cereal was finished or groaning loudly like your whole day was ruined at the training time being moved by thirty minutes.

“Bucky, you don’t even have a lamp— what do you—?” You sigh, moving further into the room. His bed is pushed into one corner of the room and your eyes catch on the single blanket laid out on the floor. The walls are completely bare, the shelves sit empty and the overhead light casts a harsh glow over the room, making it look less like a bedroom and more like a lab.

Bucky tenses—a tiny shift that no-one else would have noticed but you’d spent every day with Bucky since he arrived at the tower. You’d taken the time to learn him. To understand him in a way no-one else did.

You knew the distant look he’d get when he was stuck in a memory. You knew when he needed space and when he needed you to push back. You knew the permanent crease he held between his brows, and you especially knew the way it’d soften and turn into smile lines when you’d make him laugh.

Your voice softens then.

“You don’t have anything to make the place yours?”

“M’used to it doll.”

Your heart tugs painfully at that. The thought of him alone and cold in a room—a cell more like, with nothing but his memories for company.

You look at him then, eyes focused on his—the soft, uncertain look peeking out between his usual stares. You move closer to him, taking his hand in yours and he pulls away slightly. You know the hesitation doesn’t mean he doesn’t want it—crave it really. Just that his body is still learning touch. Still learning what’s safe. Still learning you.

“Just because you’re used to it, doesn’t mean you have to be.”

Bucky inhales sharply, looking anywhere but you, getting uncomfortable in that way he usually does when you read him too easily, when you say things others are too afraid to.

You don’t let it throw you—instead tugging on his hand gently, bringing his focus back to you.

“Let’s go shopping. There’s a few thrift stores close to here I like to go to that I think you might like.”

“Doll, I really don’t want to…” His voice trails off as he notices the look on your face—soft and half-pleading, and he sighs, running a hand down his face before brushing his hair back and standing with a grumble.

“Fine, let’s go, you can take me to ONE thrift store and we’re just goin’ to have a quick—”

Bucky’s still rambling on but you’ve stopped listening, already jumping up and down in excitement, tugging at his hand and squealing.

“—and we’re not stoppin’ for coffee either.”

~ 25 mins later ~

You walk into the thrift store you frequent on your days off, hot coffee in hand, giving Bucky a small smirk as you sip. He shakes his head in disbelief.

God, the effect you have on him.

Bucky takes it all in—the vastness of the store taking him by surprise.

The sides of the store are lined in bookshelves, carrying everything from children’s books, knitting patterns, vintage magazines, novels with the covers worn back, old records, cds, dvds, cassettes and board games.

There’s rows and rows of old tables, scattered with various items—a doll from the 1950s, jewellery stands filled with bangles, necklaces and bracelets, the soft light from the various lamps around the room glinting off the jewels.

Bucky turns to you, brow furrowed.

“M’not buying anything, you know that right?”

“That’s okay, we can just have a look.” You shrug, moving further into the store, trying your best to not scare him off now that he’d agreed to come.

Bucky gives a solemn nod, like it’s decided, already zoning out as he carelessly rustles through the items on the table closest to him. You dawdle along the clothes racks, eyeing out a jacket that looks about your size.

Of course, you’re not in full thrifting mode, still carefully keeping an eye on Bucky as he takes maybe three more steps into the store—arms crossed over his chest, feigning disinterest as something on the shelf clearly catches his eye.

He looks over at you, and you give him a small smile, nodding towards the shelves with encouragement. He softens ever so slightly, arms uncrossing and wandering into the store. You smile into your coffee when you see him pick up an elephant carved from wood and place it back down.

“Doll, come over here.” Bucky’s a few tables down from you, gesturing you over to him.

He’s holding a brooch in his hand—nothing too fancy—a small blue and green floral thing. You raise your eyebrows at him, questioning.

“This brooch— it um—” Bucky looks at you, eyes welling with tears as he tries hard to control his wavering voice.

“—it looks exactly like one my ma used to wear. Same design. Same colors— I—”

He turns it over in his hand, studying every detail. The tiny glass beads, the tarnished gold metal, the pin slightly bent out of shape at the back. You place your hand on his upper arm, smiling up at him.

“Get it.”

Bucky turns to you, startled—almost like he forgot you were there—lost in the memory of his mother’s hands gently working the brooch, pinning it to her dress on Sunday mornings.

He shakes his head as if to shake off the memory, placing the pin back down and wiping his nose with the back of his sleeve.

“What? No—I don’t— I don’t need it, I was just saying—” He’s already turning away when you squeeze his arm, bringing his attention to you.

“Bucky listen to me. It’s okay to want things. It’s okay to find meaning in small things. You’re allowed to want Bucky.”

The words hit him somewhere deeper than just this moment.

He nods slowly before picking the brooch back up, flipping it in his metal hand a few more times, thumb brushing over the top and hands it to you wordlessly.

You smile, placing it gently into your basket, careful not to break it and give him a solemn nod.

He returns it with a smile.

It’s easier after that.

He notices a few old records with names he recognises and tucks them away with a smile. An old record player, a copy of The Hobbit, vintage magazines, knitting patterns that reminded him of his mom.

He calls you over to him again when he finds a lego set of a working helicopter and your heart warms at the excitement in his voice.

You pick up a couple things for him too—fairy lights, a desk lamp, another lego set and a couple more records you think he might like.

Bucky’s flipping through a photo album when you approach him. You can’t help but smile when you see the photo he’s looking at. It’s in black and white — two teenagers eating ice-cream, the boy smiling at the girl and tucking a piece of her hair behind her ear. It’s dated June 4th 1937.

“Do you think we would have been friends if we met back then?”

Bucky looks at you—really looks at you and you don’t fully understand the look in his eyes. But it’s the same one he gives you when you bring him coffee in the morning. Or the one he gives when you’re on a mission—loud bangs, debris flying and you turn to him before anyone else.

“I think—I think I’d be lucky to find you in any lifetime.”

Your heart skips a beat, face warming at his words and you have to bite down on your lip to stop your eyes from welling with tears.

“Me too Buck, me too.”

“Ready to go?” You swing your basket on your wrist, nodding your head in the direction of the checkout.

Bucky nods and follows, still looking back at the armchairs along the wall and you make a mental note to bring him back another time.

“What’s that book?”

“Oh I don’t know, some rom-com.”

You nod, tilting your head slightly, narrowing your eyes at the title.

The Love Hypothesis

Not something you thought he’d pick but you’re not about to question what he’s buying when he’s finally letting himself buy things.

He sighs before you get a chance to let a word out, opening the front cover of the book and showing you the small hand-written inscription.

Becca’s ♡

“Your sister?”

“I know it’s not hers but I—” He trails off, letting out a shaky breath.

“I know Buck.” You place your hand on his arm, warm and reassuring and he gives you a small smile before avoiding your eyes.

“Alright, let’s go pay for our stuff then.”

“You can just leave the bags there.” Bucky nods towards his desk, placing the record player and the burgers you’d picked up on the way on the table.

“Okay…orrr I could help you set everything up. We could have a movie night. Eat our burgers.” You suggest softly, not expecting the slow nod he gives.

You smile up at him, warmth blooming in your chest at the sight of him setting up the record player on his desk, moving it side to side until he’s happy with the positioning.

The two of you move around the room in perfect tandem—Bucky setting the books and records on the shelves, you making a small display of the lego sets and placing the brooch carefully in front.

You turn to ask Bucky how he likes it and stop mid-breath, biting your lip and trying not to laugh at the 6 foot super soldier fumbling with fairy lights—swearing under his breath, one end of the wire tangled around his metal arm.

“Here, let me.” You giggle softly, reaching for the wire, untangling it from his arm.

“Something funny?”

“No,” you lie, voice entirely too amused, still holding back a laugh.

You pull on the end, draping it across the back of his bed when Bucky lets out a frustrated huff and this time you can’t help the laugh that escapes.

Bucky turns to you, glaring, but there’s no real bite to it, and soon he’s laughing too, running a hand down his face like the day had worn him out.

He glances over at you—cross-legged on his bed, grinning up at him, the glow from the fairy lights framing your face.

Bucky thinks you’ve never looked more beautiful.

The air in the room grows thicker and you can almost hear your heartbeat outside of your chest—Bucky’s eyes boring into yours—so bright and blue and beautiful.

“Thank you for today doll, I’m—”

He pauses to look around the room, his heart so full it aches.

You care.

Not just about if he’s eaten or if he’s been keeping up with his medical checks and his therapy, not just about how he was on a mission or if he might be injured. But about him and whether or not he’s happy—if he feels at home.

Bucky hadn’t felt home in over 80 years, but here—with you smiling at him like there’s nowhere you’d rather be—he feels like maybe he could.

“Of course Buck.”

He’s still looking around the room in disbelief. It’s then you realise the reason he never put anything in his room. He didn’t believe he’d be staying here, that this would last, that he could have a home here—because when you’ve spent your life running, and all you’ve known is survival, how do you accept softness and stability without it feeling like a threat?

You stand slowly, taking his hand in yours and press your forehead to his gently. Bucky’s eyes flutter closed, taking a shaky breath.

“Doll, I don’t know if I’m—”

“S’okay Buck. Don’t need to be. M’not going anywhere.”

He gives you a soft look like he doesn’t fully believe it, but like he might start to soon.

You pull his arms around your waist, not breaking eye contact. His fingers flex against the small of your back, still unsure—almost like he’s expecting you to pull away. You wrap your arms gently around his shoulders, placing your head onto his shoulder. Softly but not hesitant—never hesitant. You feel his body shudder slightly, a subtle tense of muscles before he leans into it—into you.

And for the first time—in the softness of the fairy lights and the warmth of all the small things—Bucky Barnes lets himself be held.

"No, no — " he waves a hand, "that was the right call." He says decisively, as he is absolutely not going to elaborate on why. You let it go. You get to the shooting range.

"He asked me to go," you say, "and I went, and it was — actually fine, it was genuinely fine, I had a good time." You pause. "But he kept smiling."

"Smiling," Steve repeats.

"Every time he hit a target, which was every time. Just — " you make a vague gesture, " — this small, private smile, like he was really pleased with himself, and I couldn't tell if he was showing off or warning me or — " you stop. "Is this a competition thing? Did I accidentally start a competition?"

Steve opens his mouth, glances briefly over your shoulder, and closes it again. When he looks back at you his expression has been carefully reset to something warm and unhurried. It would’ve been more convincing if you hadn't just watched him do it in real time.

"It's not a competition thing," he says.

"Then what is the smile?"

Across the gym, Bucky has not moved in four minutes.

He'd come in for a workout, that had been the plan. The plan had been going fine until he'd seen you cross the floor toward Steve with the specific purposeful energy. Looks like you had something serious to say. So, now the plan is on hold indefinitely because you are talking to Steve, who’s listening with his head tilted and his full attention.

All the while, Bucky’s standing next to the punching bag he has not touched once with his arms crossed and an expression that Sam would later describe, generously, as a little intense.

He can’t exactly hear much from here, so he's not eavesdropping or anything. He just hasn't left yet. That's all.

He's simply still here, in this spot, not doing anything, watching Steve say something that makes you frown slightly and tilt your head. He’s feeling something in his chest that he doesn't have a clean name for but sits somewhere between that should be me you're talking to and Steve, you better not be saying anything.

Steve glances over at him, pensive. Bucky does not alter his expression. Steve looks away.

"Honestly," Steve says, with the measured tone of a man picking his words like he's crossing a frozen lake, "that's just— that's just how he looks sometimes. When he' — " another flicker over your shoulder, barely a second, just his eyes, and then back to you, and he looks for a moment like a man sending a very urgent telegram with his face, "— when he's comfortable. That's a comfortable expression for him."

"He looked like he was winning something."

"He— " Steve stops, exhales largely. "He was probably just having a good time."

"Steve."

"I genuinely believe that to be true," he says, and he does, technically, believe that to be true, which is why he's able to maintain eye contact while saying it.

He glances over your shoulder again, just for a fraction of a second, and whatever he sees there makes something in his jaw tighten. He looks back at you immediately. Smiles. It's a very good smile. He's been doing this a long time, you’re getting worried for Steve here.

"So the staring," you say. "Eleven incidents. That's just— comfort?"

"Bucky's had a— " Steve pauses, seems to reconsider the entire sentence, and rebuilds it from scratch. "He's still working on how he is around people. Around certain people especially." He nods slightly, just once, like he's making a point. You're not sure what the point is. "Sometimes that looks different than you'd expect."

"It looks like surveillance."

"It's not surveillance."

"How would you know?"

"Because I know him," Steve says, with a patience that is very slightly strained at the edges now, "and I'm telling you it's not surveillance." He glances over your shoulder for the third time and this time doesn't quite manage to get his expression back in order before he turns to you again. There it is — just for a second — something that looks almost like a man trying not to visibly panic.

You know that look. You've seen it on people right before they tell you something is directly behind you.

The gym feels very quiet all of a sudden.

"Steve," you say slowly.

"Mm," says Steve.

"He's right behind me, isn't he?"

Steve says nothing. His expression says everything. You do not turn around.

# fic inspo:

The Staring Problem

 Avengers Tower, various locations, two weeks running.

You've been keeping a mental list with the grim focus of someone building a legal case, and it's up to eleven incidents. The evidence is circumstantial but it is consistent.

At this point you're less interested in understanding it than in figuring out at what number you escalate to Fury.

It starts at the coffee machine. You reach for the pot and when you look up he's already looking at you. Not glancing, looking — with an expression that gives you absolutely nothing to work with. You say good morning and Bucky says nothing. You take your coffee and leave at a quicker pace that is definitely not a jog.

It happens in the elevator, the common room, and even in the hallway outside the training floor. Always the same: you look up and he's there, already watching, and he never looks away first. You've started taking the stairs.

You run through the list of possible offenses. You were loud in the kitchen once. You accidentally used his mug, but you washed it? You beat his time on the obstacle course three weeks ago, but surely that's not, surely he's not still—

You mention it to Natasha, very casually, purely as a logistical concern for your continued survival. She looks at you for a long moment, says "hm," and walks away. It’s somehow the least reassuring response she could have given.

He is, for the record, not thinking about any of your eleven incidents. He is thinking about the way you laugh when you think no one's listening, and it's been living in his head for three days, and he has absolutely no idea what to do about that.

The Rifle 

Pre-mission briefing, loading bay, five minutes before wheels up

You're running through your gear check with a focus that has nothing to do with the gear and everything to do with the fact that Bucky has been watching you for two weeks and you are no closer to understanding why.

Especially when he appears at your left shoulder without sound and holds out his rifle like that's something people do.

You take it, obviously you do. You don't know what else to do. He gives a single nod and walks away to the quinjet like he hasn't just handed you something that costs more than your apartment and is probably also somehow an heirloom.

You hold it for the entire mission like it's a live grenade. You make every shot count. You are not going to be the person who scratched Bucky Barnes' rifle and lived to tell about it.

Your shots are, objectively, incredible. You don't register that at the time because you are too busy being careful.

He watches your form from across the ridge with an expression nobody else would clock as anything. Sam clocks it, filing it away.

You hand it back after debrief, two-handed, like returning something sacred. He takes it one-handed, casual, and there's something around his eyes that might be — you don't finish that thought. You go to your debrief, trying not to seem scared shitless.

"We Should Shoot Together"

Post-mission corridor, still in tactical gear, he has clearly been waiting

You're tired in the specific way that comes from twelve hours of sustained adrenaline, and you want a shower and about eight hours of not thinking about anything, which is why it's particularly unfortunate timing when Bucky falls into step beside you. He’s got that calm, unhurried energy of someone who has made a decision and is simply waiting for the moment to be right.

He stops walking. You stop walking. He looks at you with the full weight of his complete attention and says, completely evenly: "Your shots were incredible out there."

You say thank you and mean it and wait for the other shoe.

"Use my rifle next time." You think about the last time. You think about how carefully you held it. So, you wonder if your performance didn't meet the standard and this is somehow a test.

"We should shoot together." He says it like it's a normal sentence, like those words in that order constitute a fun activity and not what your nervous system has just interpreted them as — a proposal, a hunt, prey selected.

He turns and walks away. And here is the thing, the thing that keeps you up later: he's smiling. Small, private, to himself. The smile of a man who just executed a plan perfectly.

He has, in his own assessment, just asked you out. It went great. You are currently reconsidering whether your go-bag is packed.

The Smile

Common room, the morning after Sam and Steve got involved

You have faced things that scared you — real things, things with actual stakes — and come out fine, which is why it's genuinely surprising that you're standing in the kitchen at eight in the morning holding a piece of toast and feeling, for reasons you cannot immediately articulate, like something is deeply wrong.

Sam and Steve, well-meaning and catastrophic in equal measure, pulled him aside the previous evening. The conversation reportedly involved the phrase "just smile more, it makes you seem approachable." Steve demonstrated, while Sam refined it. Bucky practiced in the mirror with the focused intensity he applies to everything.

He comes in, sees you, and then — and you will think about this for a long time — he smiles. At you. Directly at you. It is the most deliberate, considered, technically-executed smile you have ever seen on a human face. There are too many teeth. The eyes are not involved. It lasts exactly three seconds too long.

You put down your toast.

He holds it for another beat, nods once like a mission objective completed, and leaves. You hear Steve in the hallway say "how'd it go" and Bucky say "good" with complete sincerity.

You are still standing there when Natasha comes in. She looks at your face and says "what happened." You don't have the words yet.

Twenty minutes later — you're still in the kitchen, the toast long forgotten — he comes back for something and doesn't see you around the corner. Someone says something from the hallway and he laughs, actually laughs, and then this smile, this real one, quiet and a little crooked and completely unguarded, just sits on his face for a moment before he schools it back.

He doesn't know you saw it. You don't know what to do with the fact that you did. You look down at your coffee. Something has shifted and you can't quite name it yet. You're not scared anymore; that's the problem.