Morally Gray Side Character

At least you have that.

Or so you think. Steve knows how you would act, what you would do if you knew that he knew.

"Yes, you are, sweet dove." A slow smirk creeps up his face, and he revs the engine once, twice.

Your fingers dig into his firm abs and it takes everything in him not to speed to his house, carry you to his bed and show you real pleasure, make you feel so good, love you so thoroughly you won't be able to even think about shying away from him again.

But until you're ready for that, ready for him, he's going to keep his thoughts and hands to himself. Steve looks down the road, enjoying the feel of your arms wrapped around him and while he can think of a better way to have you wrapped around him, he’s going to take whatever you give him. 

His hands settle on your hips, your eyes opening briefly before his mouth his against your ear.

“Before you say a word,” he starts. “I’m sorry, baby.”

Your eyes meet his, the music still swirling around you both when you bare your teeth at him, spinning away from him before you grab his hand.

He lets you lead him away from the dance floor and down a darkened hallway. It smells like stale beer and discarded cigarettes but it barely registers when you push him up against the wall, his back hitting it with a soft thud.

“You think you can just ignore me?” You snarl, your hands on his chest, pressing hard. “I came here without you and I can leave without you.”

He knows you could.

He says nothing, watching your chest rise and fall with adrenaline. You’re pissed and he hates that it’s his fault but he loves seeing you like this.

“I should go back out there and find the next guy I see and -”

He turns you so quickly that you’re breathless, your back hitting the wall as his hand cradles your head so it doesn’t hit the wall.

“Say it,” he warns. “Next guy you see and what?”

You tilt your head up defiantly.

”I’ll…”

You’re bluffing and he knows it. His free hand cradles your jaw, enough for you to look him right into his eyes.

”And then I’d come after you. That’s what you want, right? To be seen,” he says, his lips brushing against yours. “To be cherished.”

You swallow.

”Maybe,” you whisper. “I thought I had it once.”

He kisses you then, not gentle, not soft. 

Possessive.

When he breaks the kiss, you look up at him, your fingers still holding onto his shirt.

“You wanna come home?” he asks. “Be mine again? For good this time?”

He lifts your hand to his mouth, kissing your knuckles.

”And you can take out your frustrations on me.”

You bite your lip.

”Promise?” you ask.

It was always a subconscious act, just a physical tick, a little thing he did without realizing it or even feeling it. His lips would part and the tip of his deliciously pink tongue would slip out to glide across the bottom, leaving a quickly fading sheen behind. Sometimes it was a little peek of tongue, but other times, he’d draw his bottom lip back in and bite down, hold it there for the barest of seconds, and then let it pop back out. Those extended licks, those tender bites were reserved for when he was staring at something he wanted. When he was starved to death, needing a thick, juicy bite of a perfectly mid-rare burger slathered in ketchup and cheese. 

Or, more often than not, when he was looking at her.

The lick was desire. The bite was lust. 

His breath would pause for a split second while he bit down, imagining all the ways he wanted her, all the places he needed to put his lips. 

Of course, he’d never get a chance to taste her. She’d only ever rolled her eyes at his flirtatious quips, his cocky winks, his lingering gaze. He’d never get to know what her mouth felt like against his cheek, what her body felt like rolling against him like a blessed wave on an arid shore.

Y/N had always loved his lips. Loved the perfect curves, the stiff peaks beneath a shadowy beginnings of a mustache, the supple valley of his bottom lip. Loved the deep lines that creased the ruddy flesh when they were over-dry, when he’d licked his lips one too many times and cracked the skin. 

He was forever licking his lips and it drove her nearly insane. She longed to feel them on her skin, and she spent too much time staring off into the void, imagining how they would feel against her mouth, her stomach, her thighs. Would they be as soft as they looked? Would the cracked, hard spots scrape down her body with intoxicating gentleness, leaving imperceptible marks behind? Would she be able to stand it?

Sadly, she knew she’d never find out. He seemed to have eyes for everyone else in the world but her. There was no way his playful flirting and passive touches hid a true attraction. They were friends forever and never more.

And that was her curse: to stare until doomsday at the most beautiful man with the most incredible mouth ever created, with no hope of ever kissing him. 

The night was nearly as bland as the ugly beige motel room they were trapped in. There was a moon, just barely, but it was hidden behind a water tower with peeling white paint and giant block letters proclaiming the name of a town that was hardly populated enough to call itself one. No stars could be seen despite the darkness, all stuck behind gray clouds that threatened rain but never delivered. The air was dry, stale. Little wind could be felt outside as even the birds had given up flapping their feathers for the night. 

Held hostage by a mountain of police files that had never been digitized because of laziness and budget constraints, Dean and Y/N languished in boredom while thumbing through page after page of yellow carbonless-copy sheets. 

“I may die here.” 

Dean looked up from his pages as Y/N sighed, feeling sorry for herself and her life choices. He smiled. She was too adorable when she pouted. Made him want to scoop her up and-

“Did you hear me?” she said, waving a hand at him from across the table. “I’m dying here.” 

He blinked away the fantasy and licked his lips quickly. “I heard you. Sadly, I’m right there with you.” With a huff, he tossed the open police file on the desk and leaned back in his seat. The front legs lifted off the thin carpet and the chair teetered back as he stretched his arms up high. 

Y/N’s gaze was instantly drawn to the skin that appeared as the bottom of his gray Henley rode up. She melted at the sight of the soft, paler skin of his stomach, the hint of a light brown happy trail, the black elastic hem of his boxers. Her mouth watered thinking about sliding her hand into his jeans and-

“I need a drink!” 

Dean slammed his hand down on the table and Y/N jumped, torn from her wicked thoughts. She rolled her eyes. 

“We’re out.”

His forehead scrunched up in concern. “No way. That’s impossible.” 

She sighed and sat back. “It’s true. Bone dry.”

He leaned in, begging her with pathetic green eyes and a trembling bottom lip. “Really?” 

She mirrored his pose, crossing her hands in her lap and closing in. “Really.” 

They stayed there a moment too long, eyes locked, hearts connecting as they sped up slightly. 

She blinked slowly, and he exhaled long and smooth, wishing he could kiss each eye closed as he lay her back on a mountain of pillows. 

He puckered his lips ever so gently and she pulled in a deep breath, wanting more than anything to feel that pucker against her own; to drag her nails down his back as he carried her to bed. 

A horn outside cracked the silence of the night, and the friends tore their gazes away. Y/N cleared her throat and went back to her file, trying to refocus her lust-blurred eyes on Martha Pennington’s sixty-year-old autopsy report. 

Dean smacked his dry lips as he sat back with his own file, fidgeting with the age-dulled corner of the paper with annoying and quick flicks of his index finger. 

Each snap crackled the paper and tickled Y/N’s ear. It was becoming impossible to concentrate with him sitting so close and looking for something to do with his long, thick fingers.

“This is so boring,” he groaned, flicking the paper again. 

Y/N rolled her shoulders and readjusted herself. They had work to do. “Stop it.”

Dean’s brows lifted. “Stop what?” He flicked the corner once more. 

“That. It’s annoying.”

“Sorry.” 

Paper quieted, they went back to work, barely skimming the handwritten reports before giving up and letting their eyes wander. 

Dean honed in on her cheek for a bit. She was leaning on her left hand and her knuckles dented the soft of her cheek, bunching it up beautifully. It was such an ordinary thing, but he couldn’t look away. He wanted her to lean on his hand. He wanted to feel the softness against his fingers. 

Not finding any mention of the beasts they were hunting, Y/N chucked Martha’s folder to the floor and reached for another. 

Luckily, Dean had pried his eyes away in time and she didn’t catch him staring.

She did, however, catch the way he kicked his right foot up and rested it on the table’s pedestal. His knee was pushed up high and he slid down a bit in the seat, looking relaxed despite the tension in his shoulders. The new folder lay in wait while her attention was snagged. She wanted to hop into his lap and push herself down on that knee; find out what it felt like to have those old, threadworn jeans pressed up into her sensitive flesh.   

“Fuck.” 

Her curse lifted Dean’s eyes and she quickly looked away, sure he had noticed the drool at the corner of her mouth. 

“What’s that?” he asked, voice untroubled and soft. 

She balked. “Just- it’s- I don’t know. It’s really hot in here, and this is boring.” 

He nodded in agreement and looked longingly at the empty whiskey bottle on the bedside table. He swallowed dryly and licked his lips. 

“I’m parched.” 

Y/N turned her head to join him in willing the bottle to refill itself, somehow hoping their combined Jedi powers could revive the booze. 

It didn’t work. 

“And this is a dry county,” she lamented. 

“Fucking Puritans.”

She laughed. “I think it was the Protestants that did that…” 

He rolled his eyes. “Does it matter? I’m dying of thirst.” 

“Have some water.” 

“Ew. No.” 

The look she gave him made his stomach twirl in the best way. Annoyance and a hint of a smirk played well on her pretty face, and Dean felt his cheeks burn. She was so sweet and kind, but that hard look she got when anyone crossed her, or, more often when he annoyed her, was too much. It was devastatingly sexy and he couldn’t figure out why. It was as if all of her energy, all of her soul was churning away inside and only able to slip out with that look. He wanted to crawl deep inside of her and feel that hidden fire, pull it out and bathe in it like tropical sunshine. His jeans were growing tight as he thought about another way he wanted to crawl deep inside of her, and without realizing it, his tongue shot out and swept across his mouth. 

Y/N’s eyes fell to the action as he pulled in his plump bottom lip between his teeth, denting it beautifully. She squirmed as a unique sort of shiver crawled down her spine. The kind she got whenever she saw him stepping out of the shower naked but for a towel slung low around his hips; the kind of chill she got whenever he grabbed her hand, her arm, her waist. Running from monsters was terribly difficult when the object of your desire was pulling you from one fire and shoving you headfirst into another. 

Dazed and lost in the erotic zoetrope in his mind, Dean unconsciously licked his lips again. It was slower this time, wetter. 

Y/N couldn’t look away, couldn’t even breathe for a moment. 

When her lungs burned, she bit the inside of her cheek to clear her head and calm down. 

“Will you stop doing that!”

Dean shook himself, casting away all of his dirty ideas in light of her yell. “I’m not doing anything!” 

With his lips parted in confusion, she saw his tongue jut out and she grit her teeth. 

“That! You’re licking your damned lips too much!” 

“Too much?” He sat back, blinking in awe of her statement. “What does that even mean?” 

Her mind was racing. She couldn’t tell him the truth: that each swipe of his tongue made her body flood with desire. So, she took a calming breath and tried to smile. 

“It’s not good for your lips. It dries them out.” 

Dean laughed softly and crossed his arms. He leaned back and narrowed his eyes at her. “That’s stupid. They’re wet. Look-” 

She tried to steel herself, but it was too late. Dean dragged his thick, pink tongue dramatically over his lips and she clenched her thighs tight as the light glinted on the wetness left behind. 

“See? Wet.” 

Feeling a blush on her cheeks and in other regions, she quickly shook her head. “No, Dean. It’s wet for a second and then it dries right up. Saliva dries your skin out. That’s why your lips are always chapped.” 

He failed to hold in a grin and relaxed in his seat, both feet falling to the ground. “How do you know my lips are always chapped?” 

“Because…” Again, there was no good answer, so she stood up and walked across the room to her bag sitting patiently on the far bed. “...You’re always licking them. You lick, so they get chapped. They’re chapped, so you lick.” After a quick dig through her Mary Poppins-designed cross-body sack, she emerged with a small, golden tube of lip balm. 

Dean was quick to turn around so she wouldn’t notice he’d been staring at her ass. He loved those pyjama shorts far more than he should, and spent so many nights dreaming of pulling those little shorts off with his teeth and-

“Here.” 

Y/N was suddenly at his side, standing above him with a white-capped cylinder in her outstretched hand. 

“What’s that?” he asked, glaring at it. 

“Lip balm.” She shook it at him, but he didn’t move to take it. “Put it on.” 

Dean scoffed. “I’m not putting lipstick on.” 

Annoyed, she popped a hip, distracting him. 

“It’s not lipstick. It’s clear. Put it on.” Giving up, she tossed it at his chest. 

His nostrils flared and dimples popped above his lips. She loved those stupid dimples so much. She wanted to touch them, kiss them-

“I’m not putting on some frufru, Lipsmackers cotton candy, teeny bopper shit.” 

He tossed it back, hitting her in the stomach. 

“OK, ‘90s much? It’s not frufru. It’s honey-flavored. It’s beeswax and it’s healthy! Put it on!” 

The tube flew back at his chest. 

“No!”

Another trip across the space between them, nearly falling into her tank top and landing in her cleavage. 

She surrounded it with a tight fist. “You can’t keep licking your lips, they’re gonna crack and bleed.”

Defiant and deeply engrossed in their ridiculous fight, he turned his nose up at her. “I don’t care. Let them… bleed.” 

The lengths to which he went to over-annunciate each letter in the word tugged at something deep inside and Y/N lunged at him, whether from lust or anger, she couldn’t decide. 

There was a brief, playful struggle. Y/N uncapped the lip balm and targeted his lips, while Dean countered with flailing arms and carefully calibrated swats at her hands. 

Somehow, she ended up stradling hips, and his face became momentarily buried in her tits. 

When he realized where he was, Dean gave up the struggle and relaxed. He sat back and gave in to fate, trying to keep his cool while Y/N grinned victoriously. 

“Ha! Gotcha!” Her focus was wavering as her position in his lap became clear. She could feel the hard zipper of his jeans pressing into her thigh, the buckle of his belt pushing against her covered clit. She held her breath, waiting for him to push her off. 

Friends didn’t straddle each other. 

Friends didn’t breathe so heavily. 

Friends didn’t lick their lips while staring into each other’s eyes. 

Y/N shook her head a little just to clear it and centered herself. “OK. Hold still.” 

Dean couldn’t move even if he wanted to. He was stuck there, pinned down by the girl of his dreams. He had no will to move, no desire to do anything but run his hands slowly up her thighs, cup her ass, kiss her neck.

He tipped his head back and relaxed his lips. 

“Well, if you’re gonna do it,” he sighed, “get on with it.” 

Y/N let out a slow breath and stared down at him. He was momentarily at ease, his green eyes dark and hazy, his body submissive and relaxed. His mouth was parted gently, and the tempting opening was begging for her tongue. 

She resisted an unsolicited kiss and got to work. With a shy smile, she focused hard on his lips and softly pressed the wax to the corner of his mouth. He flinched only slightly and relaxed even deeper as she began to swipe the balm across his top lip. She could feel his breath on her hand and the warmth spread up her arm and settled in her chest. She wanted to feel it all over her, to know that he was breathing her in. 

Dean refused to let himself blink lest he miss a second. He was fixated on the slits her eyes had become while she painted his lips with honey, with the way her lashes bounced gently as she worked. She was so focused, so intense, that it made him want to hold his breath so as not to disturb her, but it was impossible. When he did breathe in, his mind flooded with the clawing sweet scent of honey mixed with whatever magic was forever on her skin. She smelled like a warm mid-west breeze beating his cheeks as he pushed 90 on the highway. 

Top lip done and hand beginning to shake, Y/N paused for a moment and sat back to pretend to admire her work. The movement made him tense up beneath her and she swore she could feel his cock twitch. 

“Not too bad, is it?” she asked, adjusting her hips slightly, preparing to lean back in. 

Dean swallowed hard and his hands hovered over her thighs. He needed to touch her, to dig his fingers into her softness, but he wouldn’t dare assume such a thing. 

“Not too bad,” he whispered. “It feels nice.” 

The tip of his tongue seemed desperate to sneak out and Y/N clocked it, aching as it pressed against his front teeth, blocked. Heat flowed through her body as she pressed on. Gently, she touched the left corner of his mouth. He let out a slow stream of air and she melted a bit inside. 

“It does. Told ya.” 

Her smirk worked on him like a drug and Dean felt his entire body tingle with desire. He could barely stand it, and the fact that she kept squirming in his lap was making things worse. 

Y/N drew the wax across his voluptuous bottom lip and her pussy clenched. The feel of his erection pressing up into her, the closeness, the heat, the way his mouth yielded to her touch…

“Feels… so good,” Dean breathed, his heart kicking up speed as she finished her task. 

His cock was full and hard, trapped by denim against his left leg. Y/N pushed down gently and his mouth went slack again. 

Sitting back, she capped the stick and tossed it onto the bed behind them. The motion shoved her tits back into Dean’s face and he let out a noise that she’d never forget: a muted moan that shot straight to her clit. When she sat back, she let her arms settle on his shoulders, daring to chance it. She knew he wasn’t hard because of Burt’s lip balm. 

“See?” she whispered, victorious and soaked. “You do like it.” 

He let out another moan, but it was longer and slower this time. He pressed his lips together and slid them side to side, enjoying the slickness. 

“Yeah, I do,” he admitted. “But not the lipstick.” 

Y/N sucked in a quick little breath and bit down into the corner of her lip. The look in her eyes, the heat between her thighs, it was driving him insane. Tempting fate, he set his hands on her hips and squeezed gently. He knew she wasn’t still sitting in his lap to prove a point. 

She wanted it just as much. 

She wanted him. 

Before he could make a real move, Y/N dipped down and kissed him hard. 

It was strange, as if she had rushed it just to do it, to make sure she could get it out of the way once and for all before he shoved her aside. 

He would never, ever shove her aside. 

Dean’s fingers tightened on her hip and Y/N felt a surge of lust. She lay her hand on his cheek and marveled at how much he seemed to love it. His eyes softly closed, his lips opened, puckered, searched for hers. 

She let him have it, slower this time, more full of her desire. She licked at his honey-stained lips and he hummed deep in his chest. 

“Fuck…” 

Sitting back, she pushed herself down on his cock. “We don’t have to if you don’t want-”

Green eyes went wide and his hands slid up her sides. “Oh, I want…” 

Y/N grinned like an idiot and dove back in, kissing him with all the months of pining and fantasy she had behind it. She’d wanted it forever, and to her amazement, he kissed her back. He pushed at her tongue with his, sucked on her bottom lip, bit down gently until she moaned. 

She rocked her hips steadily, grinding down on him while his hands dared to tease her tits. He plucked at her nipples through the thin tank top, twisting lightly to make her shudder. Every touch made her shift in some way and he was loving every second. 

“God, Dean, you feel so good…” She moaned into his ear and licked at his pulse; she kissed the stubble on his jaw and dragged her fingers through his short hair. Her pussy was throbbing and rubbing down on his erection was little relief, but it felt good. It felt right. And every move she made pulled out the most incredible noises from him. He would moan deep in the back of his throat, whimper behind a halted breath, growl and gasp her name. It was stunning. 

Dean was trembling, barely able to hold on while she rode him faster. She wouldn’t stop kissing him, wouldn’t stop scraping her nails lightly over his scalp, or panting secret curses against his neck. He wrapped his arms around her back and she straightened up, pushing her tits back into his face. He bit down on her shirt and pushed it down so he could lock his lips around a nipple. He sucked and she cried out. She shook and he-

Y/N felt him stiffen beneath him, his entire body going into a stone-like shock. It was only a moment, but the stunted breath his sucked in and the wide eyed expression told her everything. 

She bit her lip and sat back, gently lowering herself onto his lap. “You didn’t seriously…?”

Dean closed his eyes, ashamed. “Yep.”

She didn’t know what to say, but she definitely felt a wet spot that was not hers. “You just…?”

He nodded. “Yep.”

“Does that mean…?”

“Quite probably.” 

It had been amazing, but Y/N was slightly disappointed. More frustrated than disappointed, but they were both mixing inside of her and it was hard to pick one. 

She swallowed hard and tried to keep her voice light. “So, we’re done here?

The embarrassment quickly faded when he opened his eyes and saw her there. It was like a dream come true, and he refused to let it end prematurely. 

“Oh, fuck no.”

Arms sliding tight around her, Dean stood up from the chair and carried her with him. Her legs wrapped around his middle and she let out the most adorable yelp he’d ever heard. She clawed at his shoulders, holding on, terrified that he’d drop her. 

“I got you,” he whispered.

She knew he did. His arms were strong, and oddly, she’d never felt safer. 

The distance across the room was short and Dean fell with her onto the amazingly soft motel bed. She squirmed into place as he settled next to her, one hand crooked beneath his head, the other gliding slowly down her body. She lay back and reached for him, guiding his beautiful, forever-chapped lips to hers. They were perfect in every way. He was perfect. 

While they kissed, his hand explored. It passed over every curve, every ticklish place, every sensual spot that made her exhales sound like begging. 

She was quaking under his touch and her pussy pathetically clenched around nothing. She was going insane. 

“Please…” 

She grabbed his hand and tugged it downwards, desperate to guide his fingers into her shorts. 

Dean let her move it, but stopped short of breaching the fabric barrier. 

She whined. “Please, Dean…” 

He licked his lips and smirked. “As much as I’m dying hearing you beg… We gotta take this slow.”

“But-” She gawked up at him, forehead scrunching in annoyance. 

She looked amazing. 

“But you just- That’s not fair…”

Dean crushed her with a kiss, blocking the rest of her complaints. Slyly, he shifted to slot his knee between her legs. She gasped against his lips. 

“I didn’t say you weren’t gonna come,” he teased, slowly pushing his leg up against her aching cunt. “Just… one good turn and all that…”

Another protest of unfair practices flashed through her head but it was soon erased as he began to rock up into her. He kissed her hard, tweaked her nipple, rubbed his thick thigh against her. 

“Fuck me…” 

Dean rolled against her harder. 

“Next time,” he promised. “Right now I wanna see how big of a mess you can make like this.”

“Oh, like you did?” she quipped. 

Green eyes sparkled, wet lips curled. “Just shut up and enjoy.”

A hard press and a rolling swirl of his knee sent her eyes rolling back, and her jaw dropped in a silent cry. Dean licked deep into her mouth and she clawed at his shoulders, finally finding the momentum to move with him. She rode his thigh, trembling as the thick muscle tensed hard against her. 

When she let go, it was magical. 

Dean held his breath while she came, refusing to make a noise, look away, or miss a second of it. He felt the wetness soak into his jeans and Y/N went limp beneath him. It was beautiful. 

In a haze, she went back to kissing him. She couldn’t let him go, not after all this time. He lay back and she ran her hands down his chest, traced the line of his jaw, plucked at his gorgeous lips. 

“You’re so beautiful,” she whispered, holding her fingers against his mouth, amazed that he wasn’t shying away. 

He kissed her fingertips and pulled her close to rest against his chest. She could hear his heartbeat slowing down with her own; content for the first time in a long while. 

“This is… crazy,” he said with a soft laugh. 

“Is it?” 

“Yeah, I feel… it feels… amazing.” 

Y/N’s heart nearly burst and she hugged him tighter, snuggled closer. “It does, doesn’t it?”

Dean sighed. “It does. This lip balm is awesome.” 

Lightly offended, Y/N sprang up and gawked, ready to punch some sense into him.

“Kidding!” His laugh was beautiful; the hand he pressed gently against her cheek was warm and caring. He licked his perfect lips and grinned. “This…” His thumb swept over the apple of her cheek. “With you…” His smile softened and his voice calmed. “It's awesome.”

Y/N sighed happily and leaned in close, letting her lips lightly brush his. She still had to tease him a bit, they were still friends. 

“Yeah,” she agreed. “But the lip balm is good too.” 

"Oh c'mon, dance with me!" "I'm just fine with my drink, thanks, Trouble," Bucky chuckled as he raised his glass to her. He'd never admit that seeing her so lighthearted was captivating.

The world tonight was quiet and had given the team a rare night off. Trouble was a little drunk after asking F.R.I.D.A.Y. to make her one too many bourbon old fashioneds on a mostly empty stomach. The alcohol had dulled her inhibitions enough that she'd been bouncing around the room to pop music for the past half hour and didn't even care when Tony had made an off handed remark about it. "Pleeeeaaaase?" she begged with a pout. Trouble grabbed his hand and tried to pull him to his feet, but of course he didn't budge. Bucky took another sip of his drink to try and hide his amusement as she tugged and pouted at the former assassin. While it had taken the others a while to trust him, Trouble had never appeared to have that issue. He'd begrudgingly become her friend, and over the years began seeking her out on his own. This was a fact that she was secretly proud of. "Alright, fine, but never make that sound again," he relented, wincing at her pitiful whine. She practically squealed in response, bouncing on the balls of her feet a couple of times before turning her back to him, glancing over her shoulder as she began moving to the music. "Do you hear yourself? You can be downright scary and punch Hydra agents in the face, but then so…" Bucky almost said adorable but caught himself before continuing, "This. Which is scary in it's own right." The closeness unlocked a new fear: he wasn’t sure he remembered how to dance. The last time had probably been 1945. He froze with his glass still in hand. "Okay, I haven't danced in a very long time and-" Trouble whipped around with a grin. "C'mere old man," she teased. "I'll help you. I doubt dancing has changed all that much, you just sway to the music." She grabbed his hands before swiveling her hips, and with a quick spin her back was flush against his chest without letting go. The tension radiated off him, his body unmoving despite her attempts to guide him. Worried that he would change his mind and go back to nursing his drink in the corner by himself, an idea quickly came together in her mind. Trouble unclasped his hands and turned back to face him before announcing, "Ok, I'll ease you into it. Do you see my phone anywhere?" Her phone? Bucky glanced around in confusion, handing it to her the moment he spied it. "Ease me into it how exactly?" She didn't answer, but her fingers flew over the screen as she searched for something. Soon the opening lyrics of "You Make Me Feel So Young" came over the speaker. Bucky raised an unamused eyebrow and shot her a look. "Sorry, I had to! The intrusive thoughts had won," she giggled before turning the song to a pop jazz cover of "Fly Me To The Moon," and stepped up to him. Bucky just laughed at her apology and set his drink down. "You absolutely are not sorry."

"Maybe not."

Bucky couldn't help but notice how her eyes sparkled with mischief. "Brat."

"You have no idea." Shit, Trouble cursed her alcohol-soaked brain as she hoped to god that he didn't hear or didn't know what she had meant. At the same time, she realized she was enjoying him joke around with her and smile. It made it easier to picture him prior to the war and really brought Steve's stories of him being a troublemaking scamp to life. It was such a stark contrast to his usually stoic demeanor.

Gentleman that he was, he let the comment slide. But he knew what she had meant, and that knowledge awakened something he'd long thought dead. Images surged unbidden, relentless.

Trouble's voice filtered through his thoughts and snapped him back to reality. "Bucky? Are you alright?" Her brow was furrowed in concern. The little V-shaped crease between her brows appeared, the one he always  noticed. It was her biggest tell for frustration.

"Hm? Uh, yeah, I'm fine."

"I can pick a different song." She began looking through her phone without waiting for a reply.