#bucky teasing reader

Working with the Winter Soldier was supposed to be a career-defining moment.

You were the Avengers’ lead medical specialist—trusted to patch up wounds, assess injuries, and quietly observe from behind glass. You never expected to be placed on personal watch. But when James Buchanan Barnes was brought in, recovering from Hydra’s grip and his fractured past, everything changed.

It had been about a month now. You were tracking both his physical recovery and psychological stability, reporting closely to Steve and Natasha, and checking in daily. He was doing well—faster than expected. But there were still moments where his stare lingered too long on shadows, where his reactions flinched too sharply.

That’s why you were currently standing in your office above the training floor, watching him spar with Steve through the reinforced window.

He was fighting without his metal arm today—at your request.

You needed to see how he coped without it. Whether the muscle memory of the Winter Soldier kicked in… or if he was just a man defending himself. So far, he was holding his own. You made a note of it, fingers tapping at your tablet.

The match ended with Steve giving him a pat on the back. Bucky gave a breathless nod, walking over to the bench where his arm rested.

And then he did it.

In one fluid, practiced motion, Bucky grabbed the prosthetic by the bicep, swung it smoothly around his back, and locked it into place on his shoulder with a solid click.

Your knees went a little weak.

You had no business reacting like that, but the grace, the confidence in the motion—it did something. You swallowed thickly, heart skipping as you shifted your weight.

“You good, Doc?”

A voice behind you. You jumped.

Natasha stood leaning against your office doorway, arms crossed and smirking knowingly.

“I’m fine,” you said a little too fast, “I’m fine”

Nat’s eyes glinted. “Uh huh.” She looked through the glass toward the gym. “Might want to sit down next time. Just in case he really turns on the charm.”

You blinked at her, mouth slightly open.

With a teasing wink, she turned and walked away, leaving you pink-faced and flustered.

You looked back down to the gym—just in time to see Bucky glancing up at your window.

He caught your gaze and offered a little wave before toweling off and heading for the water dispenser.

You sighed and sank into your chair, rubbing your temples. Five minutes. That’s how long you had before he came upstairs for his post-session evaluation.

Spinning slowly in your chair, you pulled up his file and glanced at his photo.

You are a professional. You are not allowed to be affected by sharp jaws or broad shoulders or perfect goddamn eye contact.

Another sigh. You opened a new report and began typing your observations, noting stamina, coordination, emotional stability, restraint.

Just as you hit “Save,” a knock echoed on the door.

Right on schedule.

“Hey, Doc,” Bucky greeted as he stepped inside like he owned the place. He perched on the edge of your desk without waiting for permission, towel still around his neck, his dark hair damp with sweat.

“So,” he said, plucking a stress ball off your desk and giving it a squeeze, “I heard I’m more dangerous off the field than on it.”

You froze, blinking at your screen.

Your gaze flickered to him—only for a second—before returning to the monitor.

“And whom have you heard this from, Mr. Barnes?” you asked evenly.

He shrugged, still fiddling with the stress ball like it didn’t look like he was flexing on purpose. “Y’know. Words go around. Some redheads whisper things. And apparently… someone’s been a little distracted by my moves.”

Your brow arched. “Mr. Barnes, I’m concerned about your recovery, not your choreography. I should hope you understand I am strictly professional. Everything I do is for your health and safety.”

You stood, grabbing a stack of papers and aligning them neatly with a few taps on the desk before stapling them. A nice distraction.

But when you looked up, he was still staring at you with that maddeningly soft, amused expression.

“You sure you’re not secretly impressed, Doc?” he asked with a lazy smirk.

Your cheeks warmed. You turned quickly, walking over to the file cabinet.

“I see you’ve been making steady progress,” you said curtly, filing away the report. “Although I may have to keep you under observation longer if you keep imagining things. Hallucinations are rarely a sign of good mental health.”

You shut the drawer firmly and walked past him toward the door, trying to keep your voice level.

“Please excuse me, Mr. Barnes. I need caffeine.”

⸻

Coffee in hand, you returned ten minutes later, still trying to shake off the heat in your face. You pushed open your office door, half-prepping your next report in your head—until something shifted in the corner of your eye.

You flinched.

“Jesus Christ, Buck— Mr. Barnes,” you gasped, hand over your chest. “I thought you’d left. What are you still doing here?”

He didn’t turn. Still facing your wall calendar.

“Hey Doc,” he said casually, “you’re free Tuesday night, right?”

You raised a brow, stepping around him to place your coffee on your desk. “Why do you ask?”

He looked over his shoulder at you, and there it was again—that smile. Soft. Sweet. Completely unfair.

“I’ve got tickets to a new exhibition,” he said. “But I’m gonna look real lonely if I don’t have a date.”

You rolled your eyes and scoffed. “This isn’t the 1940s, Mr. Barnes. People go alone all the time.”

He spun around and walked toward you with quiet determination, like a man on a mission.

Before you could say a word, he gently—so gently—lifted your chin with his fingertips. His touch was barely there, but it was enough to stop time.

“One night,” he murmured. “I promise it’ll be worth it. I’ll make it worth your time.”

Your breath caught. You stared at him, trying to muster some kind of resistance. Anything.

But your heart was already pounding in your ears.

You cleared your throat and stepped away, brushing invisible lint off your sleeve.

“I suppose it wouldn’t hurt,” you said, focusing very intently on your coffee cup. “I’ll be attending for medical purposes, of course.”

You walked briskly back behind your desk. “If that’s all, Mr. Barnes, you may leave. I’m quite busy.”

He chuckled lowly, clearly enjoying himself. He made it to the door, hand on the handle, then glanced back with a grin that could only be described as smug.

“I’ll pick you up at 6:30.”

Then he slipped out, the door clicking shut behind him.

You sat in stunned silence.

And then leaned back slowly in your chair, hands over your face as your heart thudded against your ribs.