Pandas ^•^

His arms were wrapped around your waist, keeping you anchored on beneath him, and every few seconds he nuzzled deeper as if trying to merge into your skin. His stubble scraped deliciously against the softness of your cleavage, his lips ghosting little kisses, little nibbles, little sucking pulls that made you shiver.

“Doll…” he murmured, voice muffled, “don’t stop…”

You continued carding your fingers through his hair, slow strokes that made his lashes flutter. He hummed like a cat against you, squeezing your hips as he inhaled your scent, kissing lazily along the swell of your breasts.

Warm. Heavy. Content.

Bucky Barnes was in heaven.

And nothing. absolutely nothing, was allowed to disturb this sacred ritual.

Which is why the universe decided to cause chaos.

Your phone buzzed on the table, Bucky ignored it and obviously sucking a mark, was his silent way of warning you to ignore it too.

Then his phone rang.

Bucky growled, the sound vibrated against your skin.

Then it rang again.

And he froze, “someone wants to die!” he muttered darkly into your cleavage.

You giggled softly, “Bubba, just check who it is.”

“No.” He squeezed your thighs possessively. “Meditating.”

The phone rang again.

Bucky lifted his head one inch, eyes narrowing murderously at the offending device across the room, which was on the coffee table, then dropped his face right back into your boobs with a frustrated huff.

Then it rang AGAIN.

“Oh for fuck sake!” He grabbed the phone blindly, slapped it on speaker, tossed it on the cushion next to him, and immediately buried himself back between your breasts.

“Buck?” Steve’s voice came through, cheerful, innocent and oblivious.

You bit your lip.

Bucky, however, had reached a level of annoyance few could survive.

His voice came out muffled, low, vibrating against your skin, because he refused to lift his head, “What.”

Steve paused. “you sound weird. Everything okay?”

Bucky groaned into your breasts, “I am meditating, Rogers.”

You slapped a hand over your mouth to keep from laughing.

Steve, sweet innocent Steve, asked, “Meditating on what?”

Bucky lifted his head, just enough to stare murder at the phone, then slowly, deliberately, nestled himself back against your cleavage and spoke with the most menacing calm, “On. My. Wife’s. Tits.”

You choked on air.

Steve made a sound so strangled it could have been a dying bird. “WHAT???”

“You heard me,” Bucky snapped, kissing one breast, letting his lips drag while he continued speaking. “You interrupted my peace. My quiet. My spiritual center.”

“Bucky!!!”

“I had my face,” he continued, licking a path over your skin, “like this…” as if he could see, then he gave another kiss, wet and slow “right here, minding my business. And you decided to call me!”

Steve was wheezing or probably getting an attack, “You could’ve… just ignored it!”

“I DID ignore it. But it KEPT ringing. And now my concentration is RUINED.”

You felt him pout into your cleavage.

Steve sounded like he wanted to evaporate, definitely having an attack, “I didn’t know you were meditating like that!”

“I meditate like this EVERY DAY at this time,” Bucky said, affronted. “I’ve told you not to call me between two and three.”

“You never said why!”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Steve.” Bucky lifted his head, glaring. “Did you need a calendar invite entitled ‘Bucky’s Daily Boob Time’ with a description and pictures?”

You squeaked Bucky!”

He smirked and went right back to kissing you.

“Why can’t you meditate like a normal person?”

“This is normal.”

Steve had gone silent. Possibly catatonic or the attack took him.

“Rogers?” Bucky asked, “You dead?”

“I… I’m still here…” Steve croaked.

“Good. Because I’m not done.!” Bucky squeezed your breast for emphasis while glaring at the phone. “Listen carefully. If you EVER interrupt my meditation again, I swear on everything I love, I will come to your apartment, drag you outside, and staple your phone to the top of the Avengers Tower!”

You snorted, “Bubba…”

“I’m sorry Doll, but am I being unreasonable?” he asked dramatically, head still buried in your cleavage. “Am I not allowed to protect the sanctity of our holy ritual? Am I not allowed to worship in peace?”

Steve whimpered, “Bucky, please stop talking.”

“No. You’re gonna hear all of it since you ruined my session.” He kissed the curve of your breast again, slow and sinful. “Do you know what I was doing before you called?”

Steve screamed, “NO, AND I DON’T WANT TO…”

“I was right between her tits!”

“BUCKY!!!”

“Hands roaming everywhere, mouth all over her…”

“OH MY GOD!”

“And you destroyed the vibe.”

“END THE CALL, END THE CALL!!!”

You reached for the phone, laughing uncontrollably, but Bucky grabbed your wrist.

“Don’t you dare…” he said darkly. “He needs to learn.”

Steve was begging for mercy, “Please. PLEASE. I get it. I’ll never…never again…just stop!”

Bucky hummed thoughtfully, “Alright. Apology accepted.”

“THANK GOD.”

“Now hang up.”

“Oh, I will, trust me…”

“Not yet!” Bucky said.

“BUCK, PLEASE…”

Bucky smirked wickedly, leaned in, and sucked your nipple hard.

You gasped.

Steve shrieked and hung up as fast as possible.

Silence.

You stared at Bucky, he stared back, smug, proud, horny, and absolutely unapologetic.

“Bubba…” You tried to hold in a laugh. “You traumatized Steve.”

“Good.” He pulled you closer, hands sliding up your back. “He interrupted my meditation. There must be consequences.”

You kissed his forehead. “You’re unbelievable.”

He nestled right back into your cleavage like it was his custom-made pillow. “I believe in maintaining spiritual balance, Doll.”

“And that balance involves?”

“Your boobs!” he said instantly. “Always your boobs.”

You chuckled, stroking his hair. “So your mind is at peace now?”

He tipped his head back, blue eyes gleaming with sinful affection. “Not yet.”

Before you could ask what he meant, he fixed your position on the couch, lowering himself between your thighs, face nuzzling your chest again, but now with intent.

“Bucky…” you breathed.

“Shh…” he whispered, lips trailing down your sternum. “Meditation continues.”

You laughed breathlessly, “You’re impossible.”

He grinned against your skin, “I’m your problem. Forever.”

“I happily accept.”

And Bucky Barnes resumed worshipping you, thoroughly, slowly, passionately, determined to reclaim every second Steve had stolen from him.

Taglist- @blackhawkfanatic @ordelixx @sapphirebarnes @ilovetaquitosmmmm

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@pattiemac1 @lovely-geek @hzdhrtss

The first two are self-explanatory, but the third is a wild card you never expected. He came home with it at the start of the summer and never looked back, carefully tending to it night and day with an intense devotion that had you feeling more than a little jealous. Hours went into polishing the chrome details and treating the leather seats. He drove it as if he was transporting the Ark of the Covenant. Sometimes you’d even catch him in the garage, just admiring it in quiet awe before bed.

You didn’t even know Bucky was into vintage cars, having just suffered through his year-long crazed motorcycle phase, but there’s no disputing it now. He acts like the cherry-red convertible is his first born child.

So it’s no surprise to you when Bucky announces he’s going to give the car a wash on a particularly steamy July day. You’re fanning yourself with a magazine while sitting next to the open window, hoping for an improbable breeze to cool your flushed skin. Bucky, with his super serum regulatory system, looks frustratingly comfortable for the number on the thermometer, although he’s swapped his usual dark t-shirt and jeans for a white tank top and loose-fitting shorts. It’d make you stop and stare if you weren’t on the brink of a heat-induced psychosis.

“Most people stay out of the sun when it’s this hot,” you grumble, watching as he dons a pair of shades.

“I’m not most people,” he replies with a toothy grin.

“Don’t I know it,” you sigh, pressing a glass of ice water to your neck.

“Wanna help?”

You wave your hand at him. “No thanks. I prefer not to have heat stroke today. I’ll just be in here, enjoying the show.”

His smile grows smug. “Tips are always appreciated.”

“Better make it worth my while, then.”

He chuckles before stepping out into the burning heat of the summer afternoon. You watch from the window as he backs the convertible down the driveway until it’s directly in your line of sight. From the glance he throws your way, you know it was intentional. You’re not complaining.

Bucky gathers his supplies carefully, methodically laying them out in front of the car: bucket, rags, soap and sponges. The hose is last, and like the tease he is, he takes his sweet time uncoiling it much like a cowboy does with his lasso. The muscles in his shoulders ripple with every motion, his vibranium arm glinting in the sun, until the hose is laid out exactly how he wants it and he’s ready to begin. When he disappears around the corner to turn on the water, you realize your nose is almost pressed up against the glass. And is that drool you feel on your chin?

The worst part is that he isn’t even trying. And he’s only just started.

You wave the magazine faster.

When he returns, Bucky carefully soaks the trunk of the car with a gentle stream of water. Then he pours the soap into the bucket, bending over to mix until it’s overflowing with suds. It’s crazy that you can see every muscle in his back flex through his tank top, but again, you’re not complaining.

Bucky swipes the sponge over the wet car and begins cleaning it to perfection. He starts with the bumper, dark shades slipping down his nose, and works his way up until he’s leaning over the trunk. Once he’s satisfied that he got every inch, he pulls back, blessing you with the sight of a very wet and see-through shirt. The magazine slips from your grasp as you gaze upon his carved chest and sharp abdominals, the dark nipples poking through the fabric.

You’re out of your chair and opening the door before you realize that you’ve left the safety of the shaded living room.

Bucky looks up as soon as he hears your footsteps on the driveway, bubbles dripping down his hand. “Am I about to be tipped?”

You roll your eyes. “Nice try. I guess I’m…here to help.”

“Something change your mind?” he asks with a smirk, and you swear he flexes his abs.

“Oh, please. I only came out because I know the hose water’s cold and that’s better than melting inside.”

He gestures to it. “It’s all yours.”

You shoot him a look before picking up the hose and moving to the front of the car. The water trickles out onto the hood, and you eagerly stick your hand under it. The temperature is crisp against your skin; you swipe across the back of your neck, then your collarbone. The trails of water leave goosebumps in their wake as they drip past your neckline, but it’s the best you’ve felt since you woke up this morning to the sticky heat of another concerningly hot day. You add a handful to your face for good measure, then — blinking through the drips — your eyes find Bucky.

As predicted, he’s watching closely, with that familiar hungry undertone to his stare. With or without intention — you’re not sure yet — this has become a standoff, a game of who can wind up the other more.

Once upon a time you’d say it’d be crazy to be turned on from something as normal as washing a car, but with Bucky, you’ve learned that nothing’s off the table.

Sucking his teeth, your boyfriend turns back to his sponge, reverently cleaning the brake lights with unwavering focus. You fight down a smile and grab the other sponge.

The two of you quietly wash the car, the relentless sun baking your exposed skin. You’re regretting not putting on sunscreen, but settle for splashing your arms and legs every so often with the hose to help with the burn. From the corner of your eye, you can see Bucky turning away pointedly each time, shoulders tense, and it gives you an irrational sense of pride. Looks like you’re the one putting on the show now.

The more you buff the car, the more you begin to appreciate its cherry-red body, the luminescent sparkles hidden in its depths, the reflection of the metallic accents. It truly is a beautiful convertible, and you can’t help but feel oddly powerful every time you sit in the passenger seat when Bucky takes you for joy rides around town. There’s a possessive feeling in your chest as you make it shine, like for the first time you feel able to claim it as much as yours as it is Bucky’s by giving it the million-dollar treatment. You’re starting to understand his obsession.

Once the front is cleaned, you start down the side, carefully washing the fenders until they gleam. You must have gotten lost in the motions of it because you nearly jump from your crouched position when a shadow falls over you.

Bucky’s made his way up the same side until he’s met you in the middle. His sponge knocks into yours, spraying soap and bubbles over your arm and on your shirt. You grunt.

“You did that on purpose,” you mutter with a sideways look.

“No I didn’t, you’re in my way,” he mutters back, rubbing vigorously at an invisible spot. More suds fly off the sponge, coating your shorts this time.

“Bucky!”

“What?”

“You’re getting me wet!”

He grins, not taking his eyes off the place his sponge cleans. “Well, that’s nothing new.”

You grit your teeth, even though you can taste the truth of his words on your tongue, can feel the truth of his words beyond the soap and water. But you’re not losing this war.

Without thinking, you grab the hose off the ground next to you, flick the nozzle to ‘spray’ with your thumb, and point it at your boyfriend. And then you pull the trigger.

A jet of water hits him directly in the side, catching him by surprise and sending him straight onto his ass. You make sure to aim for his shorts, quickly drenching them until they stick to him like a second skin, and the wake of it soaks his shirt as an unplanned — yet happy — consequence. Bucky puts his metal hand up to stave off the water getting into his face.

“Hey, hey, hey!”

You let go of the trigger, your smile smug, and stand over him. There’s no denying that he looks positively humbled, the image of a drowned kitten with his big blue eyes blinking up at you in disbelief. You drop the hose and cross your arms in triumph.

“Now who’s wet?” you ask sweetly.

Bucky wipes off the excess water from his eyes. They flash at you in warning. “Oh, it’ll be you, doll.”

He springs up with super human speed, and you have only half a second to jump out of his grasp and scamper around to the other side of the car. “Bucky,” you warn, using the convertible as a barrier. “Don’t you dare.”

He stalks around the hood, forcing you to retreat to the trunk, a wickedness in his tight smirk. “You started it, baby, don’t back down now.”

You gulp, knowing you can’t run circles around this car forever; Bucky’s jumped greater lengths than the Mustang, after all. You take another step but almost trip on a rag left on the ground. Instinct takes over and you grab it blindly — it’s soaked and heavy in your hand before you launch it at him. It’s safe to say the both of you are wildly surprised when it hits its mark, landing directly in the middle of Bucky’s already wet chest with a loud smack.

His eyes burn into yours when it drops to the ground. “Now you’re really getting it.”

You shriek when he takes off, coming around the side of the car and scooping up the hose as he goes. The ice cold water hits your back and nearly knocks the breath out of you, but you keep running until you’ve swapped places around the car. The assault stops just in time to prevent any water from getting inside, and you take the opportunity to crouch out of sight against the front bumper, chest heaving.

“This isn’t a fair fight and you know it!” you call out. Bucky laughs in response.

“Fair? You’ve gotten most of the hits, sweetheart.”

“Put the hose down, Bucky — for the sake of the car.”

A pause as Bucky considers. “Nuh-uh. You just want me to put it down so you can have it.”

“Fuck,” you whisper, eyes squeezing shut. So much for that ploy.

Your ears strain for the sounds of Bucky moving, but all you can hear is the buzzing of summer bugs and that indescribable high-pitched whine that comes with intense heat. Despite the game, your heart thuds against your chest. You love Bucky more than anything, but you’d be the biggest idiot to ever forget that he was once the scariest ghost story told in the darkest corners of the world. His past is made up of secrecy, silence and impossible kill shots. You couldn’t think of a worse opponent to go up against.

Just then, the hairs on the back of your neck stand up, and you look over in time to see the nozzle of the hose stick out around the corner. You dive, the spray hitting your bare feet as you take cover on the other side of the car.

You hear Bucky laugh again. “Natasha would be impressed if she could see you right now.”

A breathless smile snakes across your face as you crawl towards the back of the convertible. “Maybe you’ve finally met your match, Barnes.”

He groans. “Don’t say that, it only makes me want you more.”

“If you drill me with that hose, that’ll be the only thing you’re drilling tonight.”

“That’s a lie if I’ve ever heard one.”

You dare to peek over the top of the car. Bucky seems to have taken inspiration from your stealth moves and is using the car as shelter. You glance under it to find his feet somewhere on the side, near the hood. Your eyes land on his forgotten sponge, sitting just within reach next to his half-filled bucket of soapy water. As quietly as you can, you grab the sponge and toss it over your head. You hear it hit the ground on the other side of the car from him, and what follows is the scrape of gravel as he slides over to investigate the sound. Your window of opportunity opens.

Moving on silent feet, you pick up the bucket, trying desperately not to let the water splash, and follow behind Bucky. You see him poke his head around the front of the car, and then you pounce.

The bucket is turned upside down over his head, drenching him from head to toe. He gasps and sputters, whipping around to see you dancing out of reach so not even the hose can get to you.

“I win!” you declare.

“Says who?!” he demands, standing up. The water runs off him in rivulets, a sudsy wet spot growing rapidly where he just sat.

“Says me — you’re completely soaked and I’m still dry,” you answer with a smile, hand on your hip.

He narrows his eyes at you before peeling his wet shirt off his body, letting it hit the ground without fanfare; he pushes his slick hair out of his eyes, and your mouth goes suddenly, yet predictably, dry. Bucky notices the way you’ve gone still and a slow smile works its way across his face.

“Come here,” he murmurs.

“No,” you say immediately.

“Come here, I wanna congratulate you on your win.”

“Bucky—“

“Baby, just one hug, that’s all I want.”

And then he’s taking off after you across the driveway, through the front yard and around the large oak tree. You squeal every time he comes close enough to swipe at your shirt. You know he could easily catch up to you, but Bucky’s always liked the chase.

“No, please—“ you beg, legs burning as you make a break for the front door.

But that’s when you feel two arms, one warm and one cold, snake around your waist. You’re lifted off the ground and spun around, tucked against a hard, wet chest that soaks through your tank top. Bucky buries his drenched face into your neck, pressing hot kisses there as his hold on you tightens. Your shrieks quickly melt into giggles as his large body folds over yours, his lips continuing to attack every inch of you that they can reach while your clothes begin to dampen against his skin.

“Gotcha,” he says in your ear. You smile, fighting weakly against him.

“Buckyyyy…”

“Now what did you say earlier? Something about drilling you?”

Your laughter carries across the yard. The sun beats down on the half-washed car. Bucky’s prized possession is momentarily forgotten as he carries you into the house, more than ready to remind you what his real prized possession is.

sammy speaks: hi! this was short and sweet and probably trash but I wanted to make sure I got it out there before July ended :) I have missed you all sm!!!! I’m so sorry that I haven’t gotten to the latest comments, reblogs and asks about at your back door, but I will get to them soon, I promise. and I have soooooo many fics by other incredible authors to catch up on too ugh!!!!!! summer is always so crazy for me and I may have underestimated how much free time I actually have to write, but I’m hoping to get something else out next week, so stay tuned!

The shop door clicks shut and locks behind you, the only sounds left the hum of the fridge and the faint jazz playing low on the radio. Bucky crowds you back slow until your hips bump the workbench, hands resting heavy on your waist—grease smudges still on his forearms, dark eyes burning bright.

“Quit pretending you needed an oil change,” he rumbles, thumb brushing hard over your hip bone. “You just wanted me to get my hands on you, didn’t you? Come in here every week, batting those pretty eyes…”

Before you can tease back, he hooks his fingers into your jeans and yanks them down your legs in one sharp tug, tossing them aside. He lifts you onto the bench before getting between your knees, pushes your thighs wide, and groans low in his throat when he sees you.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, dragging his palms up your bare legs, squeezing soft skin hard. “So wet already and I haven’t even touched you properly. Desperate little thing, aren’t you?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer. He leans in, presses a slow, hot kiss to your clit where you needed him most, it makes you gasp loud and sharp. He teases first—light licks, gentle nips, blowing cool air over sensitive skin just to make you jolt and whimper.

“Bucky—please—stop teasing—”

“Shh,” he hums against you, then laps slow and deep, making your hands fly to his hair. “You take what I give you. You’ve been craving this all month—begging for it without even saying a word. So you take it. And you tell me how good my mouth feels on you.”

He sucks hard, and slides one thick finger deep inside you, curling it just right. Your head falls back, knocking against the metal shelf. “So good—feels so fucking good—”

“Good.” He adds a second finger, stretching you slow, pumping them deep while his tongue works you over. “You like my fingers filling you up? Like how I know exactly what makes you shake? So tight for me—so perfect.” He pulls back just enough to let you breathe, then pushes his fingers deeper, faster, making you cry out. “Beg for more. Beg me to make you come like this.”

“Please—please Bucky—make me come—”

When you’re right on the edge, he pulls his fingers out completely, leaving you empty and whining. He stands up, grinning dark and wicked before he sucks his fingers clean.

“Not yet,” he teases, gripping your thighs and dragging you right to the edge of the workbench. “Gonna make you take all of me first.”

He undoes his belt, shoves his jeans down, and lines himself up—then pauses, rubbing the tip slow against you, making you arch and grind your hips forward. “You want it? Want me to fill you up? Want me to fuck you stupid right here on my workbench?”

“God—yes—please—” you frantically nod looking down between your bodies, he was holding his hard dick in one hand slowly pumping it, the sheer size of it making you chew your lip in anticipation.

He spits on it spreading the saliva before finally pushes inside in one long, smooth stroke, groaning loud when you take every inch of him. “Fuck—so tight—.” He sets a slow, teasing pace at first, pulling almost all the way out before slamming deep again, making the tools rattle around you. “Talk to me, tell me how it feels. Tell me how much better I am than anything you’ve ever had.”

“Better—so much better—the biggest—thickest i've ever had—”

“That’s right.” He grips your hips harder, picks up speed—rough, deep thrusts that knock the breath right out of you. “You love being a little slut getting fucked in my shop? Love knowing I’ve had my hands on engines all day and now I’m using them to ruin you?”

He leans in, kissing you deep and messy, tasting like you. “Such a good girl—taking me so well. Look at you—falling apart for me. You gonna come for me? Gonna come all over my cock?”

“Y-yes—yes—Bucky—”

“Then do it. Come for me now.”

He rubs tight circles on your clit, thrusts deep and steady, and praises you soft and filthy all the way—until you unravel, screaming his name, clinging to his shoulders like he’s the only solid thing in the world. He follows seconds later, groaning your name into your neck, holding you so close there’s no space left between you.

It started small, the way these things always do.

You'd been in the common room with your laptop, half-buried in a debrief report, when Torres had knocked on the doorframe — one of the junior analysts, the one with the laugh that carried.

He said something that made you look up and grin. The two of you went back and forth for a minute. Easy, familiar.

Bucky had come in for coffee and ended up standing at the machine holding his mug, not quite tracking the conversation, because he'd stopped listening somewhere around the grin.

Torres left, you went back to your laptop. Bucky looked at the wall for a moment, then drank his coffee and left.

Three days later Torres made you laugh in the hallway and Bucky, walking past, felt something grit in his back teeth. He went to the gym for an hour and came back considerably calmer and considered the matter closed.

It wasn't, mind you, it had just began.

The yoghurt happened in week two.

There was a specific brand — plain, full fat, blue lid — that Bucky had claimed by right of consistent purchase and the unspoken agreement of people who understood compound kitchen politics.

One per week with the Thursday delivery, his. Everyone knew. Clint had taken one in March and, best believe, he almost created a Civil War 2 in the damn kitchen.

Eventually, it required Steve's direct intervention.

You took the last one on a Wednesday.

He watched you do it. You were mid-conversation on the phone, reaching into the fridge on autopilot, pulled it out and put it in your bag, while walking out. Bucky stood at the counter and said nothing. He watched you go. He looked at the empty space in the fridge, then closed it.

That was the whole scene. He didn't say anything. He didn't yell or bark. He just closed the fridge and stood there for a moment doing some kind of internal accounting that didn't produce a result he recognised,. Then he made his coffee and left.

He didn't get another yoghurt that week. He kept meaning to and then not.

The armoury was week three.

You'd been running a gear check before a solo job — low stakes, couple hours — and Bucky had come in for something and ended up staying, the way he sometimes did with you.

It was easy between the two of you, had been for a while, the kind of comfortable that didn't need filling. You'd picked up his tactical knife by mistake, the one from the third shelf, and turned it over in your hand.

"That's really well balanced. What's the make?"

He told you. You nodded, interested, turned it over once more, and handed it back grip-first with the care of someone who knew what they were holding. He took it and you went back to your own kit. That was that.

Except he looked at the knife for a second after, something he wouldn't have been able to explain. You just held his knife. He weighted it in his palm. He's indirectly holding your hand, heavens abov-

When you headed out he said be careful out loud, which he didn't usually do — he usually just thought it.

"Always am," you said, over your shoulder.

He stood in the armoury after you'd gone and looked at the third shelf for longer than was strictly necessary before he remembered what he'd come in for.

The coffee settled into routine so gradually that neither of you remarked on it.

You took yours with regular milk and one sugar, whatever was hot. He'd noted it the way he noted most things — automatically, no decision made. One morning you came into the kitchen still half-asleep and there was already a mug waiting near where you usually sat. Bucky was across the room reading something and didn't look up. Nonchalant.

"That for me?"

"Mhm."

You wrapped both hands around it and made a sound that was mostly gratitude and he turned a page.

It happened the next morning, and the one after. Within a week it was simply part of the kitchen's logic, like the table being where it was, and you'd stopped questioning it. He'd stopped noticing he was doing it, which was maybe the same thing.

What he didn't know — what he had no way of knowing — was that you'd started doing your own version of it. Small things, quiet things.

You'd found out he went quiet in rooms that were too loud and started angling debrief seating without making it obvious. You'd remembered offhand that he liked the documentaries with no narration, just footage, and you'd put one on twice during late nights in the common room without announcing why. You kept track of which missions left him tired in the specific way versus the other specific way and adjusted accordingly.

You didn't think of it as anything; it was just attention. He was someone worth paying attention to.

The billboard was an accident.

They were coming back from a recon run, you in the pilot seat, Bucky reviewing kit in the co-pilot chair.

You'd banked slightly coming into the city and the skyline had opened up through the windscreen at the right angle. The Battlefront billboard on 43rd — the one with the battle sequence across the whole face of the building — caught the late light and sat there being enormous and extremely visible.

Bucky looked at it for a second too long.

"You've looked at that one before," you said.

He recalibrated. "Checking the airspace."

"It's a movie billboard."

"I'm aware of what it is."

You glanced at him sideways, then back at the instruments, and let it go. He went back to the kit check with the focused energy of someone who had not just been caught staring at a film advertisement like a kid with his face against a shop window.

The billboard was on 43rd and the film was out in three weeks. These were facts. He had noted them for no particular reason.

You had also noted them. For also no particular reason.

The friends thing was its own category and Bucky was navigating it very badly while appearing to navigate it completely normally, which required significant effort.

You had people outside the compound — of course you did, you were the kind of person people collected around.

On Friday evenings sometimes one of them would show up at the front entrance and you'd light up, grab your jacket and go. Perfectly normal. He knew this. It had never been his business.

It became relevant anyway, against his wishes.

There was one in particular. Civilian, easy smile, the kind of hug that meant years. You left with them three Fridays running and came back the next morning relaxed, all happy. You told Sam about it at the kitchen table. Bucky made coffee at the counter and thought about nothing.

He had a relatively detailed mental file on this person assembled entirely from things you'd said in rooms he happened to be in. Their job, their rough schedule, a restaurant on 5th you'd mentioned once.

He hadn't built this file deliberately. The information had simply arrived and he hadn't thrown it out, which was probably something he should examine, but examining it would require admitting jealousy existed, so.

He thought about asking Thor if there was a people-relocating spell. Distance-based, nothing harmful, just geography.

Thor didn't have one. He'd looked genuinely sorry, which Bucky hadn't expected. Then he clapped him on the shoulder with the force of someone who'd forgotten how much force they had and said something about yearning that Bucky hadn't fully followed but had sat with for the rest of the day.

Sam said no killing (☹️), which Bucky hadn't brought up, which meant Sam had clocked the Thor conversation. Nothing in this building was private. He was aware of this. He was fine, he was being nonchalant and normal.

The quinjet rotation put the two of you on the northern run together — four hours total, two up and two back, recon stop in the middle — and Bucky had been in the hangar early doing the pre-flight alone because he always did and because it gave him something concrete to do.

You came up the ramp with your kit and the coffee you'd made yourself — he'd left the same on the counter an hour ago and you'd taken both. You handed his over without ceremony, before settling into the co-pilot seat.

"Morning."

"Morning."

The engines caught and the city dropped away in the early grey light and neither of you felt the need to fill it. That was still one of his favourite things, if he was being honest with himself, which he mostly wasn't.

The quiet you two made together sat differently than other quiet. Less like absence and more like something actual.

The run itself was clean. Forty minutes on the ground, nothing complicated, back in the air by noon. Coming home you passed the thermos between you without discussing it and you handled the southern corridor while he managed comms and the city grew ahead of them in the afternoon.

About twenty minutes out, completely casually, eyes on the instruments, you said:

"You like me, don't you?"

Bucky looked at the windscreen. He ran through several responses, none of which were usable. He thought about the yoghurt; the knife; forty-something mornings of coffee; the billboard on 43rd; and a civilian with an easy smile.

"I suppose I do," he said. His voice cracked horrendously on do, but he kept his eyes forward.

You nodded, like he'd read out a coordinate. "I was thinking we could stop by mine after debrief, y'know watch that Battlefront movie." A small pause. "And cuddle or whatever."

The jet lurched.

Four degrees of variance, recovered immediately, completely under control.

From the back of the aircraft there was the distant sound of something sliding and at least one person grabbing a handhold, but Bucky was already level again, eyes on the horizon, ears warm.

"Yeah," he said. "Okay."

He reached back and knocked on the cockpit door twice. It opened. Sam's face appeared, then Steve's just behind him, both wearing the carefully neutral expressions of people who had been listening to every word through a very thin door.

Bucky looked at them.

"You guys are not invited," he said.

He shut the door.

A beat of silence from the back. Then Sam's voice, muffled: "He didn't even let us respond."

"No," Steve agreed.

"Thor wasn't even going to say anything."

"I was going to say something," Thor said.

You made a small pleased sound and went back to your instruments.

Bucky sat with yeah okay for a moment — the most understated thing he'd said in his life, sitting on top of five weeks of accumulated everything.

He banked the jet.

Not a course adjustment, but a very strong decision. The kind of turn that doesn't ask permission, that comes from somewhere below conscious thought, that hit the whole aircraft sideways like the jet itself had opinions about where it was going.

Everything in the back went with it — loose kit, the thermos, Sam by the sound of it, and then a very specific sound that had no business coming from someone who could fly unaided through open space, which meant Thor had also gone somewhere.

From behind the cockpit door: "BARNES —"

He levelled out, setting the new heading. Your building was eleven minutes out.

"You don't have my address," you said.

"I know where it is," he said.

You looked at him for a long moment. He looked at the heading with the composure of a man who had absolutely nothing to explain.

Bucky had walked past the building a handful of times, which was reconnaissance in the general sense and nothing specific.

"Okay," you said.

Behind the door, something — or someone — hit the left panel. Then the right.

Then there was a long silence that meant everyone back there was braced and had decided bracing was now their permanent condition for the remainder of the flight.

Bucky thought about the couch. Thought about cuddle or whatever. He caught an air pocket that dropped them six feet minimum.

The sounds from the back had stopped being words entirely.

He was flying. He was perfectly fine. The building was nine minutes out and he knew the floor and he was — fine. Completely.

He looked at you once, just your profile, lower lip caught between your teeth on the instruments, completely unbothered by all of it. His heart jumped so inconveniently that the jet lurched again before he caught it.

"JAMES."

Level, horizon, and eight minutes.

He was fine.

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