#bucky fluff

inside, bucky is absolutely grinning.

he can feel it — the split of his own face, the warmth pulling at the corners of his mouth, the heat he's totally certain has reached his ears. his heart's beating briskly with no tactical justification. he is beaming.

there's a blush climbing his neck right now, he's sure of it — that deep red he could never hide in Brooklyn and he never tried to. smiling came easy once, and blushing was just the price of it.

mind you, his face is doing nothing. complete blank slate.

this is the part nobody really talked about, post-hydra, post-war, post-all of it. not the arm, nor the memory gaps, but this specific thing. the tedious aftermath of a body trained into stillness so completely, for so long, that it stopped asking for permission. his emotions and his face are on different systems, unfortunately.

internally, bucky is a disaster. externally, he's standing with his hands at the height the rifle used to be, looking directly at you.

you turn and find him so. your expression runs through several things in quick succession.

"you good?" one of the staff asks.

"yeah," bucky says, staring deep at you only.

he is smiling and he knows this. he can feel it from the inside with the specific realness of it, the stretch too. he waits for your eyes to find it on his face.

your eyes find nothing.

"you dropped your gun," you say slowly.

"i know."

he picks up his rifle, setting it on the rack. his hands need something to do. the blush is so there, you don't get it. he can feel the heat of it sitting just beneath — loyal and completely useless.

you're looking at him like you're trying to decipher what the situation is itself.

bucky is so happy right now, he's actually over the moon and he would like you to know that.

"should i — are you —"

"I'm great," he says.

he means this entirely. you had said girlfriend like it was the most natural word in the world, like you'd reached for it and it had just been there waiting. you'd said to a stranger in passing — soft, warm, unexpected.

choosing to trust the feeling, he knows he's smiling.

"james," you close the distance with a careful voice — the one that means i'm not alarmed but i could be. "hey, you with me?"

"yes."

"your face is —"

"my face is perfectly fine."

his face is, demonstrably, plain. not cold — you'd know cold, you'd be more alarmed — but still. just unreadable. he's aware of this and can't correct it in real time. but, somewhere behind it, he's having the best moment he's had all week.

"honey," you try, "did i say something wrong?"

"no."

the maintenance crew find reasons to be elsewhere, good instincts.

"because you look —"

"i'm fine," he says, all level and even, but it gives you nothing. what he means is: i've been feeling giddy for the past ten minutes and i understand you can't see it, but i need you to know that it's there. you're so gorgeous, i love you- oh is that too early? never mind, you're my love.

what he means is girlfriend landed somewhere soft and he'd like to keep it, if you're going keep saying it like that — natural, sweet, like the word was always his.

bucky's eyes, which have their own separate glaring problem, do what his face won't. too much of him still in there, pressed up close against the glass, giving him away the only way it knows how.

you go quiet, he watches you find it, find him.

"steak place closes at ten," he says.

"... yeah."

"we should go."

hand at the base of your back, his thumb finding the notch of your spine, and he steers you out.

on the walk back, you try it again — casual, sideways, like you're testing something. my girlfriend. to no one really, just out into the air.

bucky misses a step. he almost fell in the steep gap between the hangar and platform. but, never mind that, inside he's sparking up, so warm down to somewhere in his heart he'd stopped expecting anything to reach.

$ tag @twentytomidnight @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger @froggibus @elarapheonix @rosemint-tea @hisokamywaifu

$ join taglist

The second time, he brings it up sideways.

"You get good ones today?" he asks, later, cleaning his rifle with the kind of focus that means he isn't actually thinking about his rifle.

"Some."

"Of the Captain?"

"Some of those too."

He glances at you like he's doing math. You go back to your film log and don't help him with it.

By the fourth time it stops being subtle, mostly because he starts finding excuses to be near you when you've got the camera out.

He’s leaning over your shoulder under the guise of checking the light, angling himself into whatever frame you're setting up until you have to physically nudge him with your elbow to get him out of it. Which defeats the entire purpose, since half your rolls now have Bucky cropped at the edge of every photo like a stray thumb.

"You're in my shot," you tell him, not for the first time.

"I'm helpin'."

"You're not."

He grins like that's the correct answer.

It's Dum Dum who says it out loud, which is somehow worse than if Bucky had figured it out himself. They're passing your contact sheets around the fire one night, the ones you'd printed back at base and never quite gotten around to filing.

Dum Dum holds one up — Bucky mid-laugh, head tipped back, off to the side of a frame that's supposedly about morale on the front lines — and says, "Sarge, they've got a whole gallery of just you," and cackles like it's the funniest thing that's happened all war.

You don't deny it. There's no version of denying it that doesn't sound worse than the truth.

Bucky goes very still in a particular way.

It’s like his whole body just hit a wall it didn't see coming, and then he laughs it off too loud and changes the subject to something about the rations. You let him, because you can see the exact moment it lands behind his eyes. Plus, you're not cruel enough to make him sit in it in front of everyone.

He waits until the fire's burned down and the rest of the squad's peeled off to sleep or pretend to.

It's just you and him and Dernier's terrible homemade liquor. It’s the same recipe that smells like it could strip paint — Bucky's been sipping like it's punishing him for something.

"So," he says at first simply.

He's got the tin cup turned in his hands, not drinking, just turning it. For a man who talks for a living he's suddenly having real trouble finding the next word.

You wait. You're good at waiting — it's half the job, sitting behind the lens until the actual moment arrives instead of the one you expected.

"The pictures," he tries again, and stops.

You watch something in him short out completely — the cocky tilt of his shoulders trying to hold and failing, colour climbing up his neck in a way no amount of nonchalance is going to cover.

He opens his mouth like he's got a whole speech loaded and what comes out instead is: "Why me?"

You could make him work for it. Some evil, self-preserving part of you wants to. Instead you just shrug, easy, like it costs you nothing, even though it costs you a little.

"There's enough cameras on the Captain."

It should be a joke. It sounds like one going out.

But Bucky's face does something complicated when it lands — like he's trying to file it under bit and it won't fit, like some part of him already knew and hearing it said plain just confirmed the math he'd been too chicken to finish.

He opens his mouth, then sharply closes it.

Pride hits him first, fast, his chin lifting before he can stop it. Of course, look at this handsome face. Then the crash — mouth open, nothing there, hand to the back of his neck. You want pictures of me?

You watch, unhurried, camera loose in your lap because for once you're not interested in capturing this. You just want to see it happen with your own eyes.

"...Oh," he finally says. One syllable, and it costs him visibly more than the whole sentence before it.

Then he grabs Dernier's cup and drains what's left of the moonshine in one go, throat working, eyes watering instantly. Even Steve — six feet away, half-asleep against his own pack — cracks an eye open and goes a quite pale just from the smell of it.

Bucky doesn't say anything else. He sits there coughing, eyes streaming, ears red clean past the collar, looking like a man who just survived something far more dangerous than the front.

You lift the camera and take the picture anyway.

this is how ur sneaky self is looking btw bc of the goddamn flashbulbs

$ tag @twentytomidnight @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger @froggibus

“So you would need to use your com link to inform the team that you landed…”

God, those lips of theirs looked so soft… “Mr Barnes?” Those cold eyes only drew him in more- oh, they were glaring right at him now; it would be so easy to get lost in those icy pools-” Mr Barnes. Are you listening?” You set the mission folder down with a strong thud, now standing in front of a very much dazed Bucky with a lovesick look on his face. “U-Uhm.” he clears his throat in an attempt to save the awkward silence that now stretched on “Yes, of course…um… something about com-links and landing.” He flashed a charming smile in your direction, although the uncaring look in your eyes and slight frown of disappointment on your face made it slip a little. You held your gaze for a while as he took this chance to admire those mesmerising eyes of yours.

“Fury will be expecting a full mission report by the end of the mission day.” You said monotonously, sliding the heavy mission folder towards him, “I believe you need this more than I do, Mr Barnes.” “Bucky is fine.” He smiled warmly. “ As I was saying, you’ll need it more than I do, Mr Barnes.” Your heels clicked as you walked away without another word. “Oh, you wound me so, doll,” Bucky whispered to himself as he flipped through the mission folder, trying and failing to suppress the incoming grin at the thought of sharing another mission with you. He didn’t know what drew him in so intensely; was it the cold eyes? The stern and assertive demeanour? Or was it the way you glared at him that tugged, no, absolutely ripped at his heartstrings? Bucky wasn’t dumb; he knew you weren’t fond of him, or anyone, for that matter, especially Stark, who got on your nerves so much he almost rivalled Bucky, almost. But something just wouldn’t let him let you go; he was ready to launch himself at any and every chance for even just a millisecond of your attention. Even if the only reactions he got from his smiles or jokes were a glare or a “Mr Barnes”, he’d take it. 

It was smothering, all that attention Mr Barnes was throwing at you. You started noticing the first time you had locked eyes with him on a mission, his warm demeanour towards you bordering on a human space heater, absolutely suffocating. His icy blue eyes gaze at you as if you had hung the stars and shown him what love truly was; you’re pretty sure he’d get on his knees if you even just thought about it. You didn’t understand the appeal to him; you tried to keep it professional, just like you did with everyone else, “Mr Barnes,” and minimised unnecessary interactions. He proved to make that extremely challenging, though, every morning, your favourite drink was made exactly how you liked it. How did he know the exact way you liked it? Please don’t ask; he’s definitely not been watching you this whole time, expectantly waiting for your reaction like an excited puppy. During missions, he always managed to have your back even though you didn’t need him to. Sometimes, you would turn around and almost run into him. “Just sticking close” was always his excuse. 

It was 3 a.m., and Bucky couldn’t shake the image of your cold gaze glaring right into his own, even if he wanted to. The gym seemed to be his only solution for his restlessness; training was the only thing that could temporarily take his mind off you. His heavy boots echoed through the halls as a sigh escaped him. The light was on in the training room, not a rare sight in the tower; people were usually up at odd hours for whatever reason. Mostly Stevie in the gym at this time, though, Bucky smiled, pushing the door open “Hey, Stevie-” He stopped in his tracks, being met by your alert gaze snapping to the sudden intrusion.  “Mr Barnes.” You said, simply acknowledging his presence before going back to the punching bag. He felt a slow heat creeping up the back of his neck. Oh God, he had just called you Stevie… Your gaze didn’t linger on him as you didn’t give the punching bag any mercy. The sight stirred something in Bucky, the ripple of your forearms, and beads of sweat starting to form above your brow. He tried not to stare, he really did, but it was hard when you were in the same room as him, looking as perfect as usual. It was mesmerising, really. Your form was perfect, your senses sharper than the edge of a knife, eyes locked onto the target like a hawk. “Spar with me?” Bucky asked before he could stop himself, a light flush dusting his cheeks as your gaze lifted to meet his almost nervous eyes. He was expecting a “No, Mr Barnes,” or maybe even only a shake of your head.

“Sure.” You said with a soft pant from your training, “I won’t go easy on you, just so you know, Mr Barnes.” You wiped the sweat off your brow, holding his gaze. Speaking of his gaze, it held the most passion anyone has given you in forever. You held the gaze with your usual coldness. “Don’t worry, doll. Never need to go easy on me; I can handle it.” Bucky sighed, the nickname escaping his lips. “We’ll see about that, Mr Barnes.” You replied coolly, raising an eyebrow at the nickname but not questioning. Bucky's eyes flicker with realisation, a blush creeping up,  and he looks away to pull himself back together. 

He pulled his punches- well, he always did when it came to you; it’s not like he couldn’t take the hits, and as much as it embarrassed him to admit it, he didn’t mind it much when you were holding the practice mock knife over his throat while pinning him down. Your eyes darted to him. You had seen that look before; it was the gaze of someone who wholeheartedly believed the sun rose and set on you, like you were the heart of the universe, his universe. You smirked internally to yourself; as stoic as you were, the urge to just tease him still lingered. Wouldn’t it hurt, right? Just a little something to keep him on his toes, you told yourself as you leaned down slowly “Too slow, Mr Barnes, I hope this isn’t going to be your performance on the mission.” You said tauntingly. Bucky’s ears turned red in disbelief at your words: “I-of course not!” He chuckled, “Just hard to actually bring myself to hit you.” He muttered the last part, " You climbed off of him, reaching for your water as you felt his eyes almost burning into your form. 

The mission day came quickly. After suiting up and getting into your tactical gear, you headed down to the kitchen for a quick lunch. That was until you collided with something that felt close, adjacent to a brick wall- Bucky’s chest. “Whoa! Sorry about that, agent. Didn’t see you coming.” He helped you up with a grin on his face “Must be destiny, you know I was just going to go find you.” He held out a zip-lock plastic bag with a sandwich in it. “Thought I’d might as well since I was in the kitchen.” “ You didn’t have to.” “But I wanted to.” “You really didn’t need to. I can pack my own lunches.” “You were already so busy with the mission prep.” Bucky finished, insistent on stuffing the sandwich into your hands. The trip to the mission site was silent except for the low hum of the jet engine. It was only you and Bucky on this mission. Steve said it was for efficiency, but you suspected he was attempting to give his best friend a hand. Bucky’s stares were painfully obvious even if he tried to hide them; they seemed to always trail back to your form, that stray strand of hair that escaped, your gaze that flicked out to the window occasionally, the tapping of your foot when the turbulence made you slightly uneasy. He wanted to reach out and take your hand in his so badly, to tell you that the turbulence would be fine, among other things. As the jet opened its

 Rear hatch, Bucky handed you a parachute before you could even think about getting one, offering you a warm smile that greatly contrasted the freezing temperatures harshly blowing into the jet. You muttered a thanks as you strapped it on, checking your gear one last time before jumping out of the jet, Bucky following closely behind you. The objective was simple: land in the snowy plains, find the abandoned Hydra base, infiltrate, extract information, and destroy what was left of it. You landed successfully in the soft cushioning of the snowy plains, Bucky, a few feet away from you. The thick snow made it hard to navigate, and you reluctantly took Bucky’s hand as he helped you up. Thankfully, the Hydra base wasn’t too far away, the thick and rusted padlock suggesting that it was an older branch and had been untouched for quite a while, only being visited by the merciless weather and harsh grasp of the years that had passed. To your dismay, it wasn’t any less cold in the base than outside, although the steel doors did block out most of the freezing winds. Bucky took the lead, as he usually did when you had missions together, taking it upon himself to try and protect you. It was a primitive Hydra lab at best, left abandoned before anything was packed up. You let out a strong sigh when seeing those old computers and bins of file folders. “I’ll deal with the computers; you can sort through the folders, Mr Barnes.” You said monotonously. “Don't touch anything,” you warned Bucky lowly. Bucky lifted both hands in surrender, the corners of his mouth tugging upward despite your warning. “Wouldn't dream of it”. The promise lasted all of twelve seconds. The moment you crouched beside one of the dusty terminals, a loud metallic clang echoed through the room. Your eyes closed for a brief second before you slowly turned your head. Bucky stood perfectly still beside a fall pipe, looking almost offended that Gravity had betrayed him. “...it rolled”, you said at last, your voice carrying that familiar disappointed edge. “I gave you one instruction.” A sheepish grin spread across his face. “Technically, I didn’t touch it on purpose.” Your expression didn't change. Somehow, that made his grin widen.

You exhaled through your nose, already turning back towards the computer terminal. “If we survive this mission, it’ll be despite your best efforts.” Bucky places a hand over his chest. “That almost sounded like concern”. “It wasn't.” “Could have fooled me” Before you could deliver another dry remark, the old monitor flickered to life beneath your fingertips. Folders of faded Hydra files were scattered across the cracked screen, accompanied by the low whir of an ancient hard drive struggling to wake after years of neglect and frost. The playful atmosphere disappeared almost instantly. Your shoulders squared, every trace of the bickering gone as you focused on decrypting and downloading the files. Bucky noticed the shift immediately. Without another word, he moved to the doorway, his posture switched to something far more familiar, a soldier standing guard. His eyes swept the dark corridors while his metal fingers rested tightly against the rifle slung across his chest. Even in silence, he found himself glancing back every few moments, just to make sure you were still there.

Your fingers danced across the worn keyboard, the glow of the monitor reflecting faintly in your eyes as files slowly began to decrypt. “Almost there,” you murmured, more to yourself than to Bucky. Behind you, the silence stretched just long enough for him to relax- until the faint crunch of boots and the strong aroma of gunpowder lingered somewhere deeper in the facility. His expression hardened in an instant. “We've got company,” He said quietly. You didn't look away from the screen. “How many?” Bucky leaned just enough to glance into the corridor. “At least four, maybe more.” A beat of silence passed before you answered with the same calm tone you always used. “Buy me two minutes.” Bucky couldn't help the small smile that slipped onto his face despite the situation, no hesitation, no panic,  just complete confidence that he could handle it. “Anything for you,” he muttered under his breath before stepping into the hallway, his footsteps disappearing into the darkness as the first alarm finally roared to life throughout the abandoned base. He moved with that cold precision you had only seen on missions, the muscle memory of the Winter Soldier coming to life and flowing through his veins. One, two, three and the last shot echoed throughout the frigid base; muffled thuds hit the ground without any sort of struggle. Bucky marched back into the room, “All taken care of.” He smiled warmly, contrasting the acts that had just commenced a few seconds ago. A rare and faint smile graced your lips, catching Bucky off guard “Thanks, Barnes.” It slipped out absentmindedly from your mouth, surprising even you as you cocked an eyebrow at your own words. Bucky was in a very good mood for the rest of the mission, bounding along beside you as you two rendezvoused with the Quinjet.  

The silence inside the aircraft was heavy, not with the tension of the mission, but with the sudden jarring shift in Bucky's demeanour. He moved with a lightness that seemed entirely out of place for a man who, only moments ago, had been a terrifying force of nature. As the ramp hissed shut, sealing out the harsh winds of the extraction zone, he leaned against the bulkhead, his metal arm casting the dim interior light with a dull, rhythmic light. He didn't look away from you, his gaze lingering with a curiosity that felt almost heavy. “You don't say that often”, he murmured, his voice dropping to a low, gravely register that echoed in the small space. “The Barnes part, usually, it's Mr Barnes or just nothing at all” You busied yourself with your gear, unbuckling your harness with fingers that felt less steady than they had during the mission. The adrenaline was receding, leaving behind a strange annoyance. You looked up, meeting his eyes, and found that warmth had not faded; it had deepened into something more intense, more personal. “Don’t take it personally,” you countered. He stepped closer, his presence suddenly dominating the small cabin, and for a fleeting second, the mission felt like a lifetime ago. He reached out to steady a piece of loose equipment near your shoulder, his fingers brushing your tactical vest, “Then I suppose I'm guilty." Your eyes narrowed at him as you grabbed his wrist and shoved it away from your equipment, “Personal space, Mr Barnes,” you said clearly, getting annoyed.

“Yes, agent,” he said and moved back to sit down, still watching you with those eyes filled with hope. The same hope you always felt like to crush between your thighs, him right between your legs. “Get it together. What am I thinking?!” you think to yourself and look away from Bucky, refusing to mentally acknowledge whatever that was.

A while later, you were in your quarters, a mission successful, the debrief finished. But fuck, all you could think about was bucky. James fucking Barnes. God, that name irritated you badly, but fuck, you could not get it out of your mind. Why was he always just following you around, like a mutt? You scoff to yourself, a sound that almost sounds like a laugh. Something about the way he looks at you with hope and that lovesick smile makes something sinister stir in you. You just want to wipe it off and break that hope in his eyes. The thought of that sends shivers down to your core. You lie back on your mattress, the cool sheets doing nothing to soothe the heat blossoming under your skin. You rolled onto your side, propping your head up with one hand as a slow, wicked smirk pulled at your lips. The urge to test his limits, to see exactly how much control you held over his fragile mind, was entirely too tempting to resist it. It wouldn't hurt to toy with him a little; after all, he practically begged for it. You reach for your phone on the nightstand, typing out a brief message: My quarters. Now.

It took less than three minutes; a soft, hesitant knock brushed against your door. You didn't stand up. Instead, you draped yourself across the pillows in a posture of deliberate, relaxed authority.  “Come in”, you called out, keeping your voice low, almost bored. The door slid open, and Bucky stepped inside. He has already showered, dressed in a soft, faded grey henley that clings to his broad shoulders, his vibranium arm gleaming under the dim overhead lights of your room. The moment his eyes landed on you, that familiar, hopeful expression softened his features. It was a look of pure, unadulterated devotion- the lovesick smile of a man who believed he finally found a safe haven. It made your stomach twist with a dark, delicious thrill. You wanted to ruin it. “You called, doll?” Bucky murmured, stepping further into the room, though he kept a respectful distance. His metal fingers twitch slightly at his side. "Close the door, James," you commanded softly, using his first name, something you never do, just to watch the subtle shiver it sent through his frame. He obeyed instantly, the door clicking shut behind him. The room suddenly felt much smaller, thick with an unspoken tension. “Sit,” you said, gesturing to the floor right beside the edge of your bed. Bucky blinked, a flash of confusion crossing his eyes, but the hesitation was gone in a heartbeat. He sank to his knees, his large frame folding easily onto the cold floor. He looked up at you, his chin resting near your mattress, completely vulnerable. You reached out, your fingers slowly tangling into his dark, damp hair. Bucky let out a soft, shaky sigh, leaning his head into your palm like a dog craving a touch. “You did well on the mission today,” you murmured, your thumb outlining the sharp line of his jaw, feeling the rough scratch of his stubble. Your eyes glance at his lips deliberately, suggestively. He involuntarily leans closer. Your thumb traces his lips sensually, as you lean down closer, your breath hitting his face. His lips tremble at the slight contact; they part slightly as his breath hitches, his pupils dilating at the mere breath. Something swirled within you; your thumb slipped into his mouth involuntarily. A soft sound escapes Bucky's mouth, his tongue twirling against your thumb slightly before you pull away slowly, putting your thumb in your mouth, as you pull away and mutter “You taste sweet”. A pink tint covers Bucky's cheeks. “Y/N… he barely whispers” “Yes, Bucky?” you whisper, your voice sweet. As you look into his eyes. Bucky stays motionless, words jumbled, heart racing. He leans close, on the verge of kissing you, but you pull away in time and pat his cheek and say. “I want those mission reports on my desk before tomorrow; you're dismissed, Mr Barnes”. You say. The softness in your voice is replaced with the same monotone. You stand up and leave your room, going to the mess to grab dinner to end the night with, leaving a stunned Bucky. You don’t glance back.

Bucky returned to his quarters. He was hot and bothered, his tongue twisted, not knowing what even happened, but god you looked attractive, more attractive than you ever have been. It stirred Bucky more. He wanted to press his soft lips against yours, he wanted you to dominate him, He wouldn't even mind if you treated him like a puppy, at least he would be your puppy. His shirt felt tight, and so did his pants. The room felt smaller, and his breathing was deep and heavy. His eyes carried a certain lustful haze to them as his hands snaked down his body sinfully. 

The next few weeks, he's noticed how something has changed between you, if it was any more possible, you grew distant. It ached his heart; he missed you, even your glares and your cold remarks. That night was surreal. He still remembers it like it was yesterday. He noticed how you avoided eye contact. That wasn't something you did.You had always been the one to hold his gaze without wavering, forcing him to look away first. It had always been him, not you. Now, your eyes drifted past him as though he were another stranger in the hallway. He didn't understand. You didn't mutter sarcastic comments under your breath anymore. You didn't throw playful taunts his way. You didn't glare at him over morning coffee. You simply…stopped. And somehow, your silence hurt far more than any argument ever could. Bucky tried talking to you. A quiet "Morning." A hesitant "You okay?" Nothing. You walked past him as if he hadn't spoken at all. Every unanswered word chipped away at him until hurt curdled into frustration.

By the time lunch ended, he'd had enough. He caught up to you as you headed back toward your quarters. His hand closed around your wrist, firm but not painful, pulling you into an empty corridor tucked away from wandering eyes. The door closed shut behind you. You looked up."...Y/N."His voice cracked despite himself. "What is it with you ignoring me?" he asked, searching your face. "Why are you ignoring me? Just...talk to me. "Your expression remained unreadable. Mr Barnes," you replied coldly, tugging your wrist free, "I have work to do. Not fix your pathetic excuse for feelings." The words landed like a punch. Something inside him snapped ."Feelings aren't pathetic," he shot back, his voice echoing off the metal walls. "The fact that you won't let yourself feel anything is pathetic." Your eyes narrowed; he'd hit a nerve. A dangerous one. "So that's what you think?" you murmured. Bucky didn't back down. "I think you're pushing everyone away before they get the chance to leave first. "Your jaw clenched."I think you're terrified of caring." Another step closer. "I think you've convinced yourself that being alone is easier than admitting someone matters to you."Enough.""I think you're lying to yourself every time you pretend you don't-"Before he could finish, you grabbed the front of his shirt. In one swift movement, you spun him around, slamming him against the wall with enough force to rattle the metal panels. His breath caught. Your forearm pinned against his chest, your face inches from his. "You think you know me?" you hissed, every word dripping with restrained fury. "You think you've got me figured out because you can read a few expressions?" Bucky didn't struggle. He simply stared at you. Really stared. Your breathing was uneven. Your hands trembled despite how tightly they held him. Your eyes...They weren't angry. They were exhausted. Hurt. "You don't know what it's like," you whispered, your voice finally cracking. "To let someone in...only for them to become another thing you lose." The confession hung between you. Your grip loosened. "I'd rather people hate me," you admitted quietly, "than give them the chance to matter." Bucky's expression softened instantly. The anger drained from his face, replaced with something infinitely gentler."...Is that what this was?" he asked softly. "You were trying to push me away?" You looked down, unable to answer. A bitter laugh escaped you. "You should've just left me alone." “No." His response was immediate. Firm. He slowly lifted a hand, giving you every chance to pull away. Instead, his fingers gently rested against yours where they still clutched his shirt. "I'm not leaving because you decided to build another wall. "Your throat tightened." You make me so damn angry," you muttered. A tiny smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "I know.” "I hate how you always see through me." "I know." "I hate that I wanted you to chase me." "I know."

The words barely left your mouth before he closed the distance between you. Not out of impulse. Not out of desperation, slowly. Giving you every opportunity to stop him. Instead, your grip shifted from his shirt to the back of his neck. Your forehead rested against his for a fleeting second. Then you kissed him. It wasn't perfect. It wasn't graceful. It was months of fear, frustration, longing, and relief colliding all at once. When you finally pulled away, your forehead remained against his."...You are unbelievably irritating," you mumbled. Bucky chuckled softly.