#a8c

Bucky shrugs and takes the empty party popper from you. He turns it over and shakes it, disappointed when more confetti doesn’t fall out. After all, he’d purchased the ones from Target just for the extra confetti. “We have consciously uncoupled.”

“That term refers to divorce,” Wanda says as she picks the confetti out of the popcorn and lets it fall to the floor. When she looks up, her expression is equal parts exasperation and amusement. “And, as far as I know, you two were never married.” 

Natasha, fingers combing through her hair, frowns. “I actually forgot you were even dating.”

“Yeah, so did she,” Bucky says as he jabs his elbow into your ribs with a snort. “We didn’t want you guys finding out from somewhere else.” 

“Like where?” Sam asks. He scoots over to let you sit beside him, eyes narrowed at Bucky who falls into his usual spot— the worn barcalounger you’d begged him not to bring when he moved in. “You think they’d send out a campus-wide alert that you two broke up? Or that E! News would be reporting it after they talk about whichever Kardashian is having another baby?” 

That steals Wanda’s attention from the popcorn bowl. “Speaking of, how is one of them always pregnant?” 

There’s a fair amount of indistinct chatter to answer Wanda’s question, but it is all loudly interrupted with a simple: “Does this mean Bucky is moving out?” 

It seems that everyone turns to look at Steve simultaneously. Squeaks of leather as you all shift around, the click of a bowl being placed on the wooden table. 

He understands the question in all of your gazes, and shrugs with a sigh of defeat. “They’re probably just genetically very fertile— Kris has had, like, eighteen children herself. Now, does Bucky have to find a place?” 

Then all eyes slide to you. Your eyebrows furrow and your nose wrinkles. The absolute picture of disbelief. It has Bucky fighting a smile. “Why would he need to do that?” 

“Living with an ex is hard,” Sam replies. He sets his hand on yours and gives your fingers a light squeeze. It’s meant to be comforting, but it isn’t necessary. “It’d make sense if you couldn’t—”

“Bucky moved in a while before we started dating,” you tell them, each word said in an imploring tone. “He still has his bedroom, I still have mine. Besides, we didn’t break-up because we can’t stand being around each other.” 

“Then why did you break-up?” 

The inquiry is directed at Bucky, who everyone shifts to face. The piercing attention draws a light blush over the bridge of his nose and at the highpoints of his cheeks. You hold back a soft laugh. “We’re just better as friends. The romantic compatibility wasn’t there.” 

“Romantic compatibility, conscious uncoupling,” Natasha repeats with a surprised laugh. “Does this man have a Goop membership, or something?” 

Despite your own laughter, you nod at Bucky. “He’s right, though. It just— Something was missing.” 

As inarticulate as it is, it’s the truth. There was nothing wrong with your relationship, at least at first glance. You kissed each other hello— when you remembered— and you kissed each other goodbye— when you remembered. 

But you often forgot— you usually forgot. Which might be explanation enough as to why the two of you didn’t last. 

— 

“Was the sex bad?” 

You nearly choke on the sip of wine you’d taken. Glancing at the boys in the living room to confirm they were blissfully unaware of Wanda in the kitchen, you set your glass onto the counter and narrow your eyes at her. “You should increase your volume the next time you ask something like that.” 

“It couldn’t have been too bad,” Natasha says from the barstool beside Wanda’s, still frowning. She’d managed to remove every piece of confetti from her hair and it now sits in a small pile next to her glass. “You two weren’t exactly virgins when you met.” 

Your answering smile is sarcastic. “Hilarious. The sex wasn’t bad. He’s— He’s good at it.” 

“Yeah, that was convincing,” Natasha snorts into her glass as she takes a sip. “For his sake, I hope none of us let it slip that Barnes’ dick is trash.” 

“It isn’t trash! Okay.” You wiggle a finger at Wanda. “You. Imagine having sex with Steve.”

Her nose immediately wrinkles, her scowl instantaneous. “Understood. But then why date in the first place?” 

“Remember the night my ‘friends’ from high school were in the city?” 

The smile Natasha wore due to your finger quotes gives way to a deep grimace. “The night that girl with the bad bleach job pranced around here showing her ring off? I wish I could forget.” 

You nod. “All night, she kept telling me someone might be out there for me. That I probably won’t be too late, that some people end up alone and it’s okay. Like I’m tofu and she’s apple pie.” 

“You lost me with that one.”

“Like I’m an acquired taste and she’s universally appealing.” 

You smile when they laugh to themselves, but shake your head seconds later. “I don’t care if I end up alone. I’ll be fine either way. It’s just the insinuation that I’ll fail if I try to find someone. Like it’s prom all over again.” 

“D’you punch her teeth in? Can I punch her teeth in?”

You roll your eyes at Natasha. “I drank my weight in whatever bullshit wine she’s stupid enough to pay for, texted Bucky to pick me up, and fucked him on the couch to make myself feel better.” 

Her features twist in disgust. “The couch we all sit on?”

— 

While Sam yells at the television as if the New York Giants can hear his admonishments and advice, Steve sits back against the sofa cushions. His sigh is heavy and pointed, meant to draw attention, but it fails. 

So he places his feet on the coffee table. He crosses his legs at the ankle. And he glares. 

An unsuccessful moment later, he speaks. “I’m not gonna let you crash on my couch.” 

Unable to stop himself, Bucky smiles but otherwise focuses on the game. “That’s a fun psychic premonition. Do you read palms, too?” 

Steve attempts to look more threatening and narrows his eyes to slits. The blue is icy, menacing. 

However the elephant cushion he’s clutching to his chest? Not helping his cause. “So she dumped you because you’re a pain in the ass? Is that it?”

“She dumped me because I’m too good in bed and it was starting to become too much for her.” 

Sam pauses the game just to join Steve in looking at Bucky skeptically. 

He just rolls his eyes. “No one dumped anyone. We both decided we’re better as friends.” 

“S’usually a lie when people say that,” Steve remarks. He sticks his tongue out when Bucky narrows his eyes in offense. 

“It isn’t this time.” 

Sam, wearing a sly smile as he turns his attention back to the game, asks the next question: “Were there tears?” 

“She was stone cold.” Grinning as he holds his bottle of beer to his lips, he adds jokingly, “I cried like a baby, though.” 

Sam hums. “Not surprised. You fuckin’ sobbed at Inside Out.”

“Oh, so you didn’t cry when Bing Bong said ‘Take her to the moon for me’?” Bucky cocks an eyebrow. “What, are you a fuckin’ monster, Wilson?” 

The grinding of Steve’s teeth is almost audible, his irritation painfully evident when he tosses the cushion aside. 

Yet he still straightens it to make sure the elephant is sitting up straight, trunk pointed to the ceiling. 

“I’m being serious, Buck. Living with an ex... It’s touchy and awkward. How are you gonna feel when she’s got some guy over?” 

“The same way she’ll feel when I’ve got some girl over,” the answer is said with ease. “Hell, I’ll give her a condom if she needs one.” 

“And your feelings just turned themselves off?” 

His shrug is a bit reluctant, the smile he offers Steve hesitant. “Hers did.”

—

Hours pass before it’s just you and Bucky in the apartment. 

Natasha and Wanda leave first to get enough sleep before their eight-AM class, and Steve only manages to coax Sam off the couch once he has watched the game highlights and coverage twice over. You think you might scream if you ever hear the SportsCenter theme again.

Leaning against the door after it shuts behind Steve and Sam, you offer Bucky a sleepy smile as he rummages through the refrigerator. Judging by his sour expression, there’s nothing good to eat. “That was easier than I thought.” 

“Yeah, I’m real glad I read that ‘Telling the Children about the Divorce’ article for it.” He slams the fridge shut. There is desperation in his voice when he asks, “Are you hungry, too?” 

Dish rag tossed in his direction, you flip the faucet on to wet each glass. “When am I not hungry, Bucky?” 

“Are you more willing to pay for pizza or Thai?” 

“S’too late for Thai.” You set a washed glass atop the counter and get started on soaping up the next one. “We’ll get Thai when it’s your turn to pay.”

Three glasses sit on the counter before Bucky sets his phone down and begins drying them. He peers over at you with attempted tact.

But, to his dismay, you smile and meet his blue eyes with a playful glare. “What?” 

“Steve’s dead-set on me moving out.” 

Your frown is immediate. You stop scrubbing the popcorn bowl for a moment. “Do you want to move out?” 

His reply is instant. He stops drying a glass for a moment. “No. Do you want me to move out?” 

“No.” You resume scrubbing. “I can’t live here with anyone else.” 

Chewing on the inside of his cheek to avoid a grin, Bucky nods. He decides to change the subject and bumps his hip against yours. “Sam thought we were gonna tell everyone we got engaged.”

Startled laughter and you hand Bucky the washed bowl, switching the tap off and leaning your hip against the counter’s edge. “After, like, four months of dating? No wonder he looked so terrified.” 

“Should’ve played it off that way just to see what they’d say,” he muses as you help him put the dishes away. “Tasha would’ve hosted an intervention for you.” 

You hum in agreement. “Steve would’ve definitely called your mother.” 

“Would Wanda faint or is that too dramatic?” 

“She was ready to faint when I told her we had sex on the couch.” 

Eyebrows raised, he watches as you walk to the living room and fall into that exact couch with exaggerated relief. “You told her that?” 

Another hum. “Nat almost threw up.” 

“At the thought of us having sex in our own home?” he snorts, adding in a deadpan tone, “Oh, the horror.” 

Bucky collapses onto the couch beside you and smiles when you drop your head onto his shoulder. He toys with the stray pieces of confetti littered over the cushions. “Went all the way to Target for the more expensive poppers and they had even less confetti than the Party City ones.”

“Just because something costs more doesn’t mean it’s better.” 

He gasps playfully. “We have a genius in our midst. Someone please embroider everything she says onto pillows.” 

“Yeah and I’ll use those pillows to smother you in your sleep.” You lift your head and set your chin on his shoulder instead. You try to glare, but his smile is contagious. “I know where you live, Barnes.” 

“You won’t for long if Steve has it his way.” 

“If the world operated according to Steve’s wishes, we’d all be required, by law, to eat Pop-Tarts for breakfast and wear shirts two sizes too small.” 

--

When you see Bucky standing on top of the toilet. Towel wrapped haphazardly around his waist, chestnut hair dripping, his blue eyes wild. He’s also pale as a ghost, but his fearful expression takes only seconds to shift into one of confusion. 

One which matches yours. “You’re not being murdered?” 

“No!” he shouts back to meet your volume. He points at the glass wall enclosing the shower, finger shaking. “There’s a fucking spider in there!” 

Your teeth grit again. But this time in anger. “You shrieked like someone was beheading you over a spider?” 

Seconds later, you gasp dramatically as you ask, “You woke me up from a nap over a spider?” 

He at least has the decency to be sheepish. “S’a big spider.”

“You’re six-feet tall and have, like, 185 pounds on that spider.” 

“Size doesn’t matter. I raise you the poisonous spiders of Australia.” 

Nodding, you hold out your forearm to help Bucky off the toilet seat. You grunt at the weight of him. 

Maybe 185 is a stingy estimation. 

“Okay, I see your poisonous spiders of Australia and raise you ‘we’re in New fucking York, Bucky.’” 

Standing on the floor now, he winces when you use the back of your hand to slap his bicep. “There are poisonous spiders in New York, too, okay? We’re all afraid of something.” 

Silence as you regard him, a sigh as you concede. “Okay.” You ignore his victorious smile. “I’ll take care of it. Can you just turn the water off, please?” 

“And get close to that thing again?” he demands, outrage clear in his voice. He tries to keep his towel in place with one hand as he gesticulates with the other. “No! You do it.” 

“My clothes will get wet and I’m not in the mood to strip for you right now.” 

He smiles at that. “S’not like I haven’t seen it all before.”

“Yeah? You wanna make ‘we’ve fucked before’ jokes right now? When the fate of you ever using this bathroom again is in my hands?” 

An almost pathetic whimper and he relents with hands held up in surrender. He approaches the shower slowly and, with a scowl, reaches for the knob once, twice, three times before finally gripping it and turning it to the left. 

Once the steady stream of water is reduced to mere drops, Bucky stands back and sends you a glare. “Happy?” 

“Elated.” You set your weapons on the counter and rip off two sheets of paper towel. 

“Kill it quickly.” 

“I’m not gonna kill it.” 

He snorts as he stands leant against the doorframe. “What, are you gonna adopt it as the apartment pet?” 

“No, funny guy. I’m gonna let it go on the balcony.” 

“What if it comes back in?” 

“Then we’ll get the Five Families together and let the Mafia handle it.” 

When you finally spot the thick, quarter-sized spider, you inhale through your nose and step into the shower stall slowly. You brace yourself with one hand wrapped around the edge of the glass wall. Your features are pinched.

Bucky grins at the sight. “You scared, baby?” 

A sarcastic bark of laughter, and you crack one eye open. You almost convince him. “Please.” 

It takes little coaxing for the brown spider to crawl onto the paper towel and you immediately fold each side of it closed. There’s a soft scratch of the spider’s legs against the paper walls, more felt than heard, and you forcefully choke back vomit. 

You bump into Bucky as you race out of the bathroom, his towel very nearly slipping from his fingers, and don’t slow your steps until you’re across the living room and have pushed the balcony doors open. 

Carefully, you unfold one side of the makeshift cocoon and squeal quietly to yourself as the spider stumbles into a flower box attached to the metal rail. It quickly scurries behind a wilting tulip and you make a mental note to water the plants more.

“You were coming to protect me with this?” 

Bucky, now dressed in a t-shirt and a pair of navy blue sweatpants, is holding the penis vase when you turn. He stands at a safe distance, shielded by the door, and has the nerve to wear a shit-eating grin. “You know there’s a baseball bat behind the couch, right?” 

“Now I do.”

“I also gave you pepper spray when you enrolled in that nine PM lecture,” he adds as you walk through the door and right past him. He places the vase back on its shelf and nods his head toward the kitchen. “There are knives right there, too.” 

You pick up the bag of Doritos, confirm that it is indeed empty, and frown. “Disgusting. I’d never stab someone.” 

“Even if they were murdering me like you thought?” He takes the bag from you and balls it up to throw in the trash. He wants to open the refrigerator but knows the groceries he forgot to buy won’t magically appear on the shelves. 

“Knives are such a cliché, everyone uses knives. He’d see it coming.” You grin at Bucky through the explanation from your favorite corner of the couch and he stills behind the kitchen counter. “The key is throwing him off his rhythm. Penis vase serves that purpose.” 

He laughs, albeit a bit oddly, rolling his eyes as he opens the Notes app on his phone. And he draws a blank. “What, uh— What foods do you like?” 

“Excuse me?” 

“Do you have any favorite foods?”

He’s met with silence. 

He decides to explain. Sort of. “Like, what do you want to eat most of the time? What is it that you crave? Food-wise,” he adds with a cocked eyebrow. “What is it you know how to make that you enjoy eating? Are you acting out of lunacy again and dieting for no fuckin’ reason?” 

Seconds go by and you have yet to answer. He looks up from his phone and answers the question over your features with, “Just out of curiosity.” 

“Not because you have zero idea what to buy from the store?”

“Can’t a guy wonder what his friend, ex-girlfriend, and roommate is eating these days? Just for fun? To bond?” 

Your eyes narrow into a glare. “Not when that guy is you and it’s your turn to go grocery shopping. I thought I gave you a list a few days ago.” 

“You yell random items at me on your way out the door for class and I’m expected to remember it all?” 

“You yelled your feelings at me constantly and I was expected to remember it all,” you return as you rise from the couch and draw closer to him only to sit in one of the barstools at the counter. You watch as he opens his Notes application again and stare as he struggles to come up with anything. “Green apples, white peaches, red bell peppers, yellow onions. Don’t look at me like that. The colors are important.”

“Yeah, yeah. What are you doing for dinner? Might take me some time to decipher colors at the store.” 

Chin propped up on your palm, you slide his phone over and ignore his expression of protest to add eggs, sourdough bread, avocados, pre-cut mushrooms, celery, hummus, whatever pasta is shaped like a spiral, tortilla chips, oat milk, any flavor of microwave popcorn Wanda won’t finish, and for God’s sake, you fucking wreck, buy your own gum for once to the grocery list.

“S’okay. I’m not really hungry anyway.”

“You’re always hungry.”

You gasp in offense with a small, contradictory smile. “How dare you? That’s not something you say to a lady.”

He smiles sarcastically before rolling his eyes. “If you need me to rush so you can make something, I will.” 

“Too tired to make anything. Also just too untalented to.” 

“Come with me, then. We can stop somewhere on the way back.” He sees you begin to refuse and cuts you off with a quick, “I’ll pay.” 

“If you think you paying for my food is incentive enough for me to put on human pants and walk out that door,” you begin, pointing at the door, “then you’re absolutely correct. Give me a second to put jeans on.” 

You hear Bucky’s chuckle as you walk into your room, tossing away that pair of fleece pants your mother had begged you to burn to ash the last time you’d seen her and replacing them with a pair of jeans your mother had also begged you to burn to ash. “How do you feel about Sam and Nat?” 

“About Sam, negatively. About Tasha, positively.” He’s patting the pockets of his sweats and tossing couch cushions every which way to look under them, hair in disarray, when you hop into the room with only your right boot on. In a mumbled, barely present voice, he adds, “So I guess that balances out to feeling neutral about them together.”

Slipping on and zipping up your left boot, you cock an eyebrow at the elephant throw pillow which is sent smacking against your ankles. “Have you lost something?” 

He doesn’t look up from the sofa as he replies, “Keys. Where the shit are my fucking keys?” 

“D’you check the cabinet closest to the fridge?” 

“Why the fuck—” 

You sigh and begin to set the cushions back where they belong, placing the elephant gingerly at the center of the couch. “Just check.” 

Bucky’s grumbles as he passes by, his scoffs of disbelief, and sighs of annoyance are ignored until you hear his every noise abruptly end as he stares at the cabinet he is now standing before. 

“Find ‘em?” 

There are equal parts shock, fear, and exasperation over his features. He slams the cabinet shut. “You’re a witch, aren’t you? Some kind of freaky, all knowing witch?” 

“Yes. Do you have your wallet?” 

A pat on each of his pockets, then one against his ass— despite not having a pocket there. He bares his teeth for a moment. “You wanna tell me where that is, too?” 

“Can I get three guesses this time?” 

“Two,” he states, leaning against the counter. “Impress me.” 

“First of all, I couldn’t give half a shit about impressing you.” Bucky snorts at that. “It’s either in the freezer—” 

He opens the freezer and the next thing you hear is a loud, “Ha! Whoo! You’re wrong!” 

“I have another guess.” 

He visibly deflates, smug smile wiped clean. “Yeah, yeah. Go on.” 

“Counter of your bathroom, in the pocket of whatever jeans you wore to class.” 

You run a few steps behind his long strides to the bathroom and stand in the doorway as he fishes through the pile of dirty clothes beside the sink. 

He thinks he might hate the smile you’re wearing when he pulls his wallet from the depths of denim, but he can’t bring himself to hate it— he feels quite the opposite about it, actually. It’s worth the inevitable gloating and the crazy accurate interpretation of a celebratory dance you saw a football player you can’t remember the name of do after a touchdown. 

You’re laughing when he brushes past you to walk to the door and grin as you pass him so he can lock it behind you. “What would you do without me, Buck?” 

He honestly doesn’t know. 

— 

Your laughter captures Bucky’s attention. Delighted, excited, and entirely too loud. 

He’s been nursing a red Solo cup of lukewarm supermarket-brand cola for about two hours now. 

It’s disgusting. Watered-down now that the ice has melted, but still too sweet and a little flat. He would’ve liked to cut it with the bitterness of anything alcoholic, but he can’t. 

He’s designated driver tonight, after all. The miserable result of a miserable coin toss. 

He’d suggested thumb wrestling— but you weren’t having it. Something about his thumb being far larger than yours, giving him an unfair advantage. Almost as if you’d known he’d chosen thumb wrestling for that precise reason. 

So he’s spent the night pouting. 

Complaining. 

Glowering at anyone that dares to make conversation with him. 

Because he hates the cheap soda Steve buys. He hates the sticky counters Sam waits hours to wipe down. And he hates hearing underclassmen talk about how hot you are when your ping pong ball skates over the rim of one of Natasha’s cups. 

But he smiles at the sound of your laughter. At the way you grin, all smug and victorious. It lights up otherwise glossy eyes, drunken giggles growing clumsy as Natasha frowns down at a cup matching his. 

“You gotta drink it down, babe!” You lean your hip against the plastic table set up in the kitchen and purse your lips when Natasha fishes the beer-soaked ball from her cup to toss at your shoulder. “Poor sportsmanship is unbecoming on you.” 

Natasha rolls green eyes over the top of the cup, chugging its contents easily. “Just like cockiness is on you.” 

“Let’s not lie to ourselves, Nat.” Natasha is already struggling against a smile. “We all know cockiness is dead sexy on me.” 

Beside Bucky, Sam laughs. He raises his hands in innocence and surrender when Natasha shoots him a glare. “Not pickin’ sides, that was just funny.” 

“You’re not picking your girlfriend’s side automatically?” is Bucky’s question asked in a voice exaggeratedly naïve. He grins lopsidedly as he takes a sip of soda only to retch as it goes down. “That’s brave.”

You watch as Natasha pitches her next shot over the rim of one of four remaining cups. You send Bucky a smile as you retrieve it. “Bucky was always on my side when we were together.”

His devious smile is like a secret between the two of you. He hums in agreement. “Blindly.” 

“Loyally.” You hold the cup at your lips, stomach and cheeks warm from three hours of generous beer and mixed drink helpings. Your next swallow goes down with a shudder.

“I’d root against myself for her.” 

“S’more pathetic than loyal,” Sam snorts only to earn a squeak of indignation and an empty cup to the chest in response. Despite purported offense, he chuckles at your delighted laughter and quickly sobers to point a stern finger. “Makin’ a mess of my kitchen like this. Rogers’ll kill you.”

In challenge, you cock an eyebrow. “He’ll kill you first when he sees all the candy missing from his secret stash.” 

“Barnes ate all that.” 

Bucky’s stomach flips at the way you tilt your head and narrow your eyes, at the soft flutter of your eyelashes, the promise in your voice when you say, “Blind loyalty, Sammy. That isn’t the story I’ll tell Steve.” 

“You aren’t even dating anymore.” 

You wave a dismissive hand. “I’ll always be on Bucky’s side. Plus if I go down, I’m taking you with me.”

Pointedly at a glowering Sam, Bucky tears the wrapper of a fun-size Twix bar and takes as big a bite as the small bar will allow. 

There’s caramel in his teeth and smug satisfaction in his eyes as he stuffs the gold foil into the pocket of Sam’s bomber jacket, laughing when the latter slaps his hand away. 

What feels like a lifetime passes and Bucky waits until you’ve completed a second game— this time defeated by a furious and candy-less Steve— to Irish goodbye. 

It’s his signature. 

He hasn’t said a proper goodbye to anyone in years.

Your drunkenness, however, foils his plan. You insist on pressing kisses to the forehead of each of your friends— lingering a bit longer for Sam just to earn a snort from Natasha— and you tap the fishbowl housing a temperamental turquoise Betta fish named Marcel twice as you couldn’t just exclude Marcel and hurt his feelings. You even leave them with an ominous, “I hope we will all meet again.”  

He lets you climb onto his back when you stumble out of his car to your building, tripping over the four-inch block heel of your boots, and soon the elevator stall is filled with your humming. Unintelligible, entirely out of tune. And you swing your legs. Dysrhythmic, offbeat. 

He smiles when you set your chin upon the crown of his head, his hold on you tightening as the metallic doors slide open on the eighth floor. He feels the deep breath you take against his back, his attention drawn away from the short walk down the hall when your feather-like fingertips trace his jaw. 

Nails skimming over the bristly hairs of his stubbly beard to the hidden divot in his chin, you— already flush against him— attempt to push yourself even closer. And huff in disappointment when you’re unable to. 

You feel him come to a stop. “Sweetheart?” 

A short hum, this time in question. 

“I gotta unlock the door.” 

You open your eyes slowly, blink away some of the drowsiness. You think offhandedly that the pale yellow door could use a fresh coat of paint. “I’ll do it.” You hold out a hand and wiggle your fingers. “Keys?” 

“In my left pocket.” He chuckles when your right hand slides down the incorrect side. “Other left.” 

You heave a deep sigh, your other hand slipping into his left pocket to feel around. The jingle of keys is muted by your triumphant shout, fingers sorting through the bundle of steel to find the one semi-coated in bright pink nail polish. You decide that should be repainted first lest the two of you mix up your keys again.

Bucky watches as you attempt to stretch enough to reach the doorknob, jolting each time you urge yourself forward. He grins when you whimper pathetically. “You can ask me to move closer.” 

The arm still wrapped around his neck tightens a bit and you press your cheek to the roughness of his. You strain toward the door once more in stubborn perseverance, then knock your heels against the side of his thighs. He laughs at the growl in his ear.

“Ask me verbally. I’m not a horse.” 

“Got the name of one,” you mumble, crossing your ankles at his waist as he grips you harder. “Longer you stand there refusing to move, the longer you have-ta hold me up.” 

“Been lifting with Steve. I’m content to stand here all night.”

“What, trying to get that post-breakup revenge body?” 

“Gotta do something to fill all my new free time.” 

A hiccup punctuates your giggles and Bucky feels you straighten before leaning back ever so slightly. 

Suddenly, you jerk forward with all of your might, sending Bucky lurching to the door. He has to remove a hand from your legs to steady himself against the wall, breath shallow and heart in his ears when he notices he’s only centimeters from smashing into the wood. “Hey!” 

You, still holding on, shush him as you slip the key into the brass latch, whispering, “Our neighbors are sleeping.”

Once you’re able to throw the door open and Bucky walks inside, you detangle your ankles and leap to the floor as the lights flicker on. You laugh when your knees very nearly buckle, fingers gripping the edge of the kitchen counter under a wave of lightheadedness. Your stomach flips and every trace of humor fades. “Yikes.” 

Bucky, halfway through removing the leather jacket he’d worn over a black hoodie, watches as you lay your torso across the counter. He smiles when you press your cheek to the cool marble, his laughter mingling with the groans that leave your lips. 

Your muffled grumble sounds vaguely like, “Oh, shut up.”

His steps are slow and quiet. He offers you an apologetic smile when you startle at his touch, brushing stray strands of hair from your shut eyes. He wrinkles his nose at your answering scowl, watching as glassy eyes still filled with such potent brightness narrow in an attempt at intimidation. “Need a lift to your bathroom?” 

You shake your head. Propping yourself up onto your forearms, you nod toward your room. “It’ll be too shaky. Maybe just guide me there?” 

His fingers lace through yours and he tugs you upright. He doesn’t mind supporting the weight of you, doesn’t care that he has to dodge the books and shoes you’ve left littered over your bedroom floor. 

Your bathroom light is switched on and you pull away from Bucky to take quick, stuttering steps to the toilet. He winces to himself when you fall to your knees, your trembling hands clamoring to push the seat cover up. 

As you feel that maybe your stomach has turned itself inside out, Bucky gathers your hair in one hand and holds you close to his chest with the other— just in case you need the support. Until then, though, he rubs comforting circles which warm you even through the satin fabric of your shirt. 

“Twix and beer are a horrible combination coming up,” you remark, voice rough, minutes later. You’re seated against him once you’ve thoroughly emptied your system, head falling back onto his shoulder. “That last game of beer pong was a mistake.”

He feels your breath wash over his skin and, despite how perfectly okay he would be with sitting there for hours, turns his head away. “Sweetheart, I want to be here for you but— but I can’t when your breath smells like that.” 

Stunned pause, and you burst into laughter. Tired hands are used as leverage and you stand, boots long ago removed and thrown aside. You send him a smile over your shoulder and roll your eyes but face the sink as he grins dopily back. “You’re weak, Barnes.” 

He meets your playful gaze in the mirror and, at the sight of pooled dried mascara underlining your eyes and the thin layer of sweat spread over the bridge of your nose, he forces himself to take a steadying breath. “You have no idea. Hungry?” 

Loading your toothbrush with translucent paste, you shrug. “Maybe.” 

“Grilled cheese or pancakes?” 

“If I say both, will you judge me?” 

“I just held your hair back while you threw up a keg’s worth of beer and you’re afraid I’ll start to judge you now?” 

You smile as you scrub your teeth in rapid strokes. “There was some vodka in there, too.”

Shoulder leant against the doorframe, his eyes are alight. “My mistake. Anything else you’d like while I’m at it?” 

“Some ibuprofen?” you ask after spitting the foam from your mouth. “I’m all out here.” 

A frown of consideration, and he nods. “Will that be all?” 

“Yes, I believe it will be.” Before he can walk out, you call his name. “What would I do without you?” 

He honestly hopes you’ll never have to find out.

--

Wanda looks between the two of you as you laugh and Bucky scowls, her dark brows furrowed. “What? Did you spill or something?” 

Still laughing despite a soft wince, you take hold of Bucky’s hand when he pinches your side in retaliation. You struggle as he tries to break from your grasp. “We were on the Q train and some guy threw his cigarette butt—” you’re cut off by your loud squeak when Bucky manages to slip his hand out of yours and pinches your side again. He then takes your bag of peaches for himself. “Bucky!” 

He takes a slice out in a pointed fashion, his bite purposefully obnoxious. Mouth full, he continues for you. “He threw his cigarette butt into my coffee.” 

Giggling at the way Bucky holds the bag above his head when you attempt to reach for it, Wanda asks, “Like on purpose?” 

You jump twice only for Bucky to swing the bag to the left then the right, just out of reach. He smiles at the effort deepening your frown, the warmth of your frustration welcome against the blasting air conditioning. 

You pout and cross your arms over your chest after one last attempt.

He groans preemptively. 

He knows that look. He hates that look. 

“You could’ve just asked for the peaches. I would’ve given them to you,” you— your voice breaking and lilting in sadness as you look at him through your eyelashes— say. You try not to smile at Wanda’s exasperated laughter and Bucky’s arm slowly lowering, and instead continue pouting. “I guess it’s okay.” 

Bucky blinks. He looks to Wanda, his eyes wide, then back at you. With the knowledge of a two-year friendship and four month romantic relationship, he knows you’re fucking with him. But it’s the look— pouty glossed lips, gazing through mascaraed lashes, eyes puppy-wide. It tightens and tears something in his chest. Every single goddamn time. 

He fights the urge to take you in his arms and immediately thrusts the plastic bag in your direction. His voice is almost a whimper as he says, “Please just take it. Never look at me like that again.”

“He’s so easy, isn’t he?” you ask Wanda, grinning as you take a bite of a slice and pat Bucky’s cheek with your free hand. You ignore his frown. “Also, yes, the Q train guy did it on purpose. He said, ‘Got a little something for you, pretty boy’ and threw it in. Then he winked at me and Bucky almost decked him right there at Canal Street station.”

Though he’s still focused on quelling what his ego has deemed sympathy heartache, Bucky nods in confirmation. “Yeah, he fucked up my coffee then tried to hit on my girlfriend right in front of me.” 

“You were a protective boyfriend so I’m surprised he made it out alive,” Wanda comments as she checks her phone and your attention drifts when the door opens so more students from the upcoming lecture can slowly trickle in. 

Wanda shrugs when she looks up to see Bucky’s slightly confused expression. “Not overly. Nicely. Concerned for her safety, always looking out for her, having her back.” 

“She’s right,” you add absentmindedly as you look at the analog clock bolted to the wall behind her. “When does your lecture start?” 

“Two or three minutes,” he replies after glancing at the clock himself. “See you at home?” 

“Actually,” your voice trails, teeth worrying at your bottom lip, in thought. “I’m gonna stay.” 

“For my econ lecture?” 

“I want to talk to you and Wanda’s going to the library, right?” When Wanda nods, you continue, “I also don’t want to deal with the subway alone at rush hour.”

With a wave to Wanda, you turn back to Bucky and wag your eyebrows playfully. “Show me where you sit.”

In the three weeks that he has been attending economics lecture, it has never been Bucky’s favorite class. The subject matter is dense and dull, half of the students are over-eager freshmen, and the professor assigns far too much reading for a class he’s taking as a G.E.. 

But, as you fall into a chair toward the center of the hall beside his aisle seat, it’s brighter. Today, he doesn’t mind the group of girls that giggle about sorority gossip and the water polo jock whining about his GPA requirement. 

He snorts when you pull your laptop from your bag and set it on the collapsable desk. “You gonna take notes?” 

“I need to look the part. Can’t let the professor think I’m just here to talk to you.”

“I’m not being evicted, am I?”

“Not quite yet.” You open the bookmark folder in your browser labeled CLOTHES FOR FALL. “Forget the words as soon as they leave my mouth, okay? I just miss you. We’re never at the apartment at the same time.”

He smiles. “Wow, you? Admitting that you miss me? Am I dying?”

“Didn’t I tell you to forget the words?” despite your tone, your lips are struggling against a smile. “But, no, you aren’t dying. I might be, though. Explains why I’d admit something like that.”

As the professor— a short man with thinning brown hair and a matching sweater— steps behind his podium, you look over the room. You’re visibly dissatisfied with what you see. “Is everyone here, like, twelve years old?” 

“It’s mostly underclassmen.” 

“See? This is what happens when you don’t listen to your beautiful roommate slash ex-girlfriend when she tells you to finish your G.E.’s over the summer.” 

“I was too busy with you this summer.” 

“Yeah? Am I that much of a handful?” 

“Sweetheart, you’d be surprised how much more I get done these days.” 

Your laughter inspires a bit of his own, the two of you pulling your feet toward yourselves as one of Bucky’s classmates— the only other upperclassman who he usually sits beside— attempts to pass through. He sends you a smile as he takes the seat at your other side. 

He leans in when the professor begins lecturing, PowerPoint presentation projected over the canvas screen, but not so close that you feel uncomfortable— just enough to whisper audibly.  “You took my seat.”

“Don’t make me say ‘I don’t see your name on it’ like some bad 90’s bully.” 

A bright smile wrinkles otherwise incredibly smooth mahogany skin. He holds his hand out for you to take. “T’Challa. You just add this class?” 

You tell him your name and cock an eyebrow, giving his large hand a single shake. “Do you know everyone who’s been in this class from the start?” 

“No, but I think I’d remember you.”

Bucky holds his breath when you pause and the tip of his pen slips to carve a stray mark into his notebook when you laugh. He narrows his eyes at the screen as you whisper-yell, “You didn’t just say that! Oh, that’s so bad. I thought you’d be better than that.” 

“It wasn’t so bad,” T’Challa grins. He has yet to type any notes onto his Word document while Bucky has copied every word on each slide verbatim. Both have retained absolutely no information. “It’ll grow on you.” 

“Doubt it. But I appreciate the confidence.” 

He leans over again, elbows on your shared armrest to look at your laptop screen. He sighs playfully. “Are you shopping? Come on now. You gotta pay attention.” 

“What about you, huh?” You shove T’Challa back onto his side, laughing hard enough to earn a glare from the bespeckled freshman seated in front of you— Bucky offers the kid a shrug. “Get outta here. You’re actually enrolled in this class.”

“What, you’re not? Who chooses to sit in on an econ class?” 

You giggle and Bucky misspells “achievement.” “I wanted to spend time with someone.” 

“But we just met.” 

“Jesus, you’re terrible. You must be a student athlete.” 

A dark eyebrow lifts. “How’d you guess that?” 

“Well, for one, I’m incredibly intuitive.” You, without turning to face him, pinch Bucky’s arm when he snorts. “Secondly, all student athletes are full of themselves. And, third, you’re wearing your soccer team hoodie.” 

T’Challa looks down at his deep purple sweatshirt and laughs. “Not sure if I should be offended or embarrassed.” 

“I’d be both if I were in your place.”

Bucky wants to drown out the giggles and whispers to his left, the rumbles of T’Challa’s deep voice and the soft lilt of yours. But the professor is too monotone and the material is too dry. 

And it isn’t like he’s jealous. He truly isn’t. 

It’s a different emotion entirely. A confusing one. One which, while outlined in an altruistic happiness at the sight of your any joy, feels achingly close to heartbreak all over again.

— 

The glow from dim overhead bulbs and icicle string lights bounces off the bottle cap rendition of Starry Night and illuminates tin ceiling tiles, the reflected flecks cast against the dark brick walls and slowly filling walnut hued wood tables like glitter. One wall is covered entirely with napkin self-portraits and landscapes, still life and crayon impressionist renditions of Raju behind the bar. 

You’re sure it’ll take some sifting to reach the last drawing you took your time to add to the cluttered gallery and you’re sure Bucky is thankful for that fact. He hadn’t enjoyed your interpretation of his flushed drunken features done entirely in the firetruck red lipstick you’d found at the bottom of your bag. 

But that hadn’t stopped you from smearing a bit of the gaudy color onto your lips and pressing a kiss to the drawing and the subject himself, giggling when he’d mumbled something about telling his girlfriend that you’d just attempted to defile him. 

You pass the wall without an attempt at excavation and follow the sound of Sam’s voice pitched lower than usual. He emparts what seems like instructions and encouragement, his head downturned as he stands beside a seated Bucky. Steve sits on Bucky’s other side but stops listening and periodically nodding as you grow closer. 

“Why does it look like the three of you are scheming?” 

Sam’s head snaps up. His brown eyes are wide. Caught in the headlights of your curious smile and cocked eyebrow. 

He allows silence to pass through for an awkward beat, punctuated by the release of a breath he’d been holding, his eyes on you again after he’d glanced at Bucky and Steve helplessly. “Fuck, I’m not sure what to say here.” 

“You can tell her,” Bucky says with a roll of his eyes, more storm grey than blue in the limited lighting. He smiles at you in greeting as you take the stool beside Steve’s. “We agreed we wouldn’t mind.” 

You nod instantly. “Yeah, we did.”

Steve snorts into his beer bottle as he takes a long sip. “You don’t even know what he’s referring to.”

“Well, whatever it is, if Bucky says we agreed we wouldn’t mind then we agreed we wouldn’t mind.” A bottle matching Steve’s is placed before you. You nod your thanks to Raju as he pops the cap with a soft metallic clink. “Besides, I can put two and two together. At the bar. Giving Bucky what looks like an inspirational speech. He’s wearing his ‘look at me’ jeans.” 

“I’ll ask,” Sam says when Steve casts him a bemused look. He looks at you then, lips curved a barely contained smile even as he peers at Bucky. “His ‘look at me’ jeans?” 

“The jeans that make his ass look like a ripe peach.” Your giggles, in response to the incredulous looks you receive, is laced through the cracking of a peanut shell between your fingertips. You toss the unshelled peanut into your mouth and snort. “Don’t look at me like that just for appreciating a nice ass. Not when I was told someone wanted to bounce a quarter off mine.”

A tense pause before Steve smacks a fist against Bucky’s shoulder. His outraged expression doesn’t falter even as Bucky winces. All the while Sam roars in laughter. “What the hell, man? You told her?” 

“I tell her everything,” is Bucky’s mumbled reply. He drains what’s left of his beer. “You said that freshman year and I told her a month ago. The statute of limitations had run out.”

Steve scoffs, shakes his head. Thoroughly unimpressed with the two of you as you exchange chuckles and small smiles. “Whatever, jerk. See if I keep your secrets next time.” 

“Who you gonna tell?” Sam asks as he smashes an empty shell under his quarter-empty bottle of beer. “Your left hand when you’re pretending it’s someone else?” 

The tips of Steve’s ears turn red almost immediately, the sip he’d just taken a choking hazard. He narrows icy blue eyes at a smirking Sam and a laughing Bucky, excusing you from the bulk of his frustration even as you hide your laughter miserably. “Dead to me, both of you.” 

A snort from Bucky. “Okay, drama queen.” 

Steve turns to you. More annoyed than scandalized now. “I see why you dumped him.” 

“Didn’t dump him.” You set your elbow on the bar, ignoring the way your sweater sticks to the counter, and rest your chin on your palm. “You know, I never thought I’d see the day when Bucky needs help getting laid.” 

“I’m reformed,” Bucky mumbles, fingernails picking at the paper label on his bottle as he smiles to himself. “Not really lookin’ to just get laid.” 

“Yeah? What are you looking to do?” 

He shrugs. “Maybe go on a date or something. Meet someone nice I can actually talk to.”

You pause, peanut shell halfway cracked under the heel of your palm. You feel your playful smile grow a bit tight. “That’s new. What brought that on?” 

“Well, you did.” 

You crush the shell so the crumbled pieces litter the wooden counter. Using your fingernail, you split a peanut into equal halves, then jagged quarters. You resist the urge to scoff at the reflection in your bottle and lift an eyebrow at Bucky when you look up again. “What’d I do?”

He shrugs. His smile is small. “I liked what we had. It wasn’t what I’m used to. I liked being able to have a conversation and a closeness in addition to… everything else.” 

Sam looks between the two of you and you’re afraid he might read too much into the way your lips have fallen into a frown, the way the grip on your drink has tightened. Instead, he asks as he takes a sip, “In addition to the sex?” 

“Obviously in addition to the sex,” Bucky says as he fixes Sam with a plain expression, eyes narrowed. “I was trying to keep this conversation ‘safe for work.’” 

“Yeah, that went out the window when Sam made the masturbation joke,” Steve notes. He asks Raju for another drink and chubby fingers place a matching bottle before him. “I think the change is nice. No more of this nonsense hook-up culture today’s generation is so overtaken by.” 

Your brow furrows. “Uh, Gramps?” You only wait until Steve meets your gaze to continue. He’s already scowling. “You’re a part of today’s generation.” 

“Steve is one of those people,” Sam begins. “You know, the ‘I’m not like other girls’ kinda people.” 

Bucky nods. “He’s just waiting to grow into his personality.” 

You hum in agreement next. “Until it’s socially acceptable to be the way he is.” 

“I’m sorry.” Steve holds his hands up. “No one informed me today was going to be devoted to roasting me.”

There’s laughter and the insults none of you really mean ensue even as Natasha walks in, the bar now slightly fuller, nearly an hour later. She joins in seamlessly, picking up on the latest thing about Steve you’ve all targeted with just a minute of silent observation. She picks up on something else, though— something she doesn’t bring up until the two of you have retired to a corner booth away from the new crowd of patrons screaming drink orders at a never-flustered, ever-calm Raju. 

She stares first. Green eyes set in a contemplative glare, lips in a neutral line. Her fingers lay casually over the rim of her tall, narrow glass. You pay her no mind, however. Your gaze is fixed on Bucky as he walks toward a small group of girls you think you might have seen on campus. “This is killing you.” 

“What, drinking?” you ask without so much as a glance in her direction. You’d switched out beer for something a bit stronger but have yet to take a sip of it, a rum and coke watered down now by melting ice. You tear your eyes from Bucky, with noticeable hesitation and dissatisfaction, when a short brunette with springy curls giggles at what he’s just said to her. “You’re drinking, too.” 

The glare becomes disbelieving. She watches as your stare returns to Bucky and you absentmindedly stir your straw through your drink. “We both know I’m not talking about drinking.” 

A questioning hum. You avert your eyes when the brunette and Bucky begin to laugh again.

“How are you doing with Bucky?” 

“Like, as roommates? Fine. He could check the mail every so often.” 

Natasha sighs your name. There’s an undercurrent of frustration cutting through her tone. “Are we going to spend this night acting oblivious?” 

“Oblivious to what?” you laugh in a bit of surprise. You withhold a shudder of disgust as you take a sip of your drink. 

She rolls her eyes, enunciating her words carefully as she asks, “How are you doing with Bucky flirting with that sorority girl over there?” 

You follow her nod and only let your eyes linger on them for a second. The straw bends in between your fingers and you shrug. “I’m doing okay with it.” 

“You’re okay with him flirting with her right in front of you?” 

“Yes, Nat.” 

She watches as you twist the straw, but nods. “Okay.” 

Snorting with an eye roll of your own, you shake your head. “You couldn’t sound less convinced if you tried.” 

“Because I’m not convinced.” She sits back against the booth. “It has to bother you a little that Barnes is trying to get laid fifty feet away from you.” 

“Didn’t you hear? He isn’t trying to get laid. He wants someone he can talk to, and date, and have closeness with.”

“Wow. Looks like someone’s maturing,” her voice remains utterly unimpressed. 

There’s a silent beat as you look at them again. Bucky’s smile seems to reflect and brighten every light in the bar, slate blue eyes meeting yours for just a moment. “I think I’m happy for him.” 

“You think you’re happy for him?” 

It’s quiet again as you sit back as well. Teeth worrying at your bottom lip, you nod. “I kind of owe it to him, don’t I? To let him flirt with people in front of me and tell me how he’s looking for a relationship rather than just sex.” 

“Why would you owe that to him?” 

“You know that guy from the soccer team I’ve been talking to?” You wait until she nods to continue. “He asked for my number when Bucky was, like, ten feet away.”

“Yikes. But you didn’t actively seek him out.”

“No, I didn’t. But even if T’Challa hadn’t asked for my number, I’d still owe him. I mean, I was the shittiest girlfriend you can imagine,” you tell her with a sad smile. “I did everything wrong.”

Her eyes widen ever so slightly. “You didn’t… You didn’t che—” 

“No! God, no. I didn’t cheat on him. I could never even entertain the idea,” you say quickly, hands held up in innocence. “I just— I was detached, and aloof, and I didn’t value him at all. I made jokes about us dating but platonically, I would leave his room in the middle of the night to go back to mine. I thought kissing him each time I left the apartment was too mushy and telling him how much I fucking adored him would make me too sappy.” 

“There’s nothing wrong with being a little sappy.” 

Your nose wrinkles. “I know. But he’s my best friend. I can’t lose my best friend because I’m too emotionally constipated to be in a functional romantic relationship and too selfish to end it all before someone gets too hurt.” 

She sets her hand on yours when your voice breaks and offers you a playful smile when you look at her. “And here I thought I was your best friend.”

Wet laughter, and your head lolls back against the booth cushion. “Best friend is not a person. It’s a tier.” You hear his laughter over the commotion of the bar and sigh. “I’m over it and I’m happy for him. He should be happy. Even if it’s with fucking Connie from freshman year sociology.” 

Natasha’s hand comes down on the table and rattles her glass and yours, smiling to herself when you jump. “That’s how I know her! Fuckin’ Connie with the stink eye.” 

“She’s been into him since then, you know?” You laugh when Natasha offers you an incredulous expression. “Yeah, she got hammered at one of Sam’s parties and told me. I lived in fear of her wrath after Bucky and I got together.”

“She’d destroy you. The smaller ones go for the eyes and you’re all talk.” 

“Oh, I’m fully aware of that.” 

--