#precognition

At first, he hated it. You’d finish his sentences before he even opened his mouth:

“You're going to say we should sweep left instead of right.” “What the hell-“ “I know. You hate that.”

He scowled at you for a solid two weeks straight. But then came the mission in Prague, when a bullet meant for his temple missed by a fraction because you shoved him sideways exactly one second before it hit. After that, his scowl softened into something else. Something wary. Something curious.

"How did you know?" He’d asked that night in the safehouse, a whisper between the click of his metal fingers unbuckling his gear.

You looked him straight in the eye. “I always know.”

You didn’t mean to flirt. That was the problem with precognition. Sometimes you said things you hadn’t decided to say yet.

Bucky started testing you after that. He’d toss questions at you when your back was turned. “What am I thinking right now?” “What number am I holding up?” “What color shirt is Steve going to wear tomorrow?” You were right every single time.

Eventually, he stopped testing and started playing.

He’d make dramatic predictions just to throw you off. "I bet I’m going to trip over that table."

“Nope, you’re going to stub your toe on the leg and then swear under your breath like a cartoon villain.”

Which he did. Twice. You caught him smiling after the second time.

Somewhere between missions and late-night kitchen raids, you began orbiting each other like clockwork. He’d brew two mugs of coffee without asking if you wanted one. You’d hand him his forgotten gloves before he remembered them. He’d mutter, “You already knew I’d forget, didn’t you?” and you’d just shrug, sipping your drink like you weren’t smug about it.

The Avengers noticed. Steve raised an eyebrow at your synchronized movements. Sam teased Bucky mercilessly. Natasha didn’t say anything, just gave you a knowing smirk that said she’d been right all along.

The thing about seeing the future is, you never get surprised. Not really.

But Bucky managed it.

It happened on a Tuesday. You were both holed up in a quiet corner of the compound, a storm pelting the windows. You were curled up with a book pretending to read, and Bucky was tinkering with his knife. You saw the future as easily as breathing. The next page. His next move. The way he’d stretch, then ask if you were cold. You prepared to tell him you were fine before he said anything.

But he didn’t follow the script.

Instead, he reached into his pocket and held something out. A crumpled slip of paper. It was a fortune cookie message, the cheap kind from the takeout place a few blocks away.

“Surprises are the universe’s way of making sure you’re paying attention.”

You blinked.

“You didn’t see that coming, did you?” He asked, eyes crinkling at the corners.

Your mouth opened, but no words came out. For once, your foresight had gone quiet. No flashes. No hints.

Bucky chuckled. “Finally caught you off guard.”

And you realized, he’d been trying to surprise you this whole time. To prove he could. Not to annoy you. But to know you, in a way you couldn’t predict.

You looked at him then, really looked. The way his hair fell into his eyes. The tension in his shoulders as he waited for your reaction. The hope he was trying not to show.

You smiled, slow and genuine.

“I didn’t see that coming,” You admitted.

He grinned back. “Good. Maybe I’ll keep you guessing.”

And for the first time in a long, long while, you hoped he would.

After that night, Bucky made it a thing. A challenge. A game neither of you officially acknowledged but one you both played with increasing intensity.

“I bet you think I’m going to grab the left mug,” He’d say the next morning, hand hovering indecisively between two identical coffee cups.

“You already decided on the right one three seconds ago,” You’d reply, not even looking up.

“Damn.”

The rules were simple: he tried to surprise you. You tried to stay unshaken. It was fun and harmless. At first. But then came the curveballs. You walked into the training room one afternoon and found the lights dimmed, the floor cleared, and Bucky standing dead center with a smug expression.

“What’s this?” You asked.

He tossed something underhand at you. A soft, rolled-up T-shirt. Your T-shirt. “Figured you’d want to change before I beat your ass in hand-to-hand.”

You caught the shirt easily. “You really think I didn’t see this ambush coming?”

He grinned. “Oh, I knew you saw it. Doesn’t mean I won’t win.”

You sparred for half an hour, laughter echoing off the walls. You dodged every feint, every fake-out but there were moments when he moved unpredictably. Sloppy on purpose. Lazy where he should’ve been sharp. You were reading him, but he was adapting.

By the end of it, you were both breathless, flushed, your back against the mat with his weight braced above you, metal arm warm against your ribs. He was close enough to kiss. Close enough that the future went blurry.

You expected him to pull away but he didn’t.

Instead, he leaned in and whispered, “Didn’t see that one, did you?”

Your heart stuttered. “No, not this time.”

But he didn’t kiss you, not yet. That bastard just smirked, rolled off, and offered a hand to pull you up.

The game? Still on. And it only escalated from there.

Sticky notes started appearing around your room: “Bet you can’t guess what I’ll cook tonight.” “Wrong sock color. Check again.” “Don’t look in the third drawer unless you want to scream.” (You did. It was a glitter bomb. He laughed for ten minutes.)

He started carrying around coins, flipping them when you least expected it. “Heads or tails?” He’d ask, already knowing you’d call it right. But then he’d switch coins on you mid-flip. Or not flip at all. Or throw it across the room and say, “Plot twist.”

He lived to frustrate you and he loved when you slipped.

The game became your language. Your dance.

You pretended not to know when he would brush your hand in the hallway. You pretended not to see the moment he’d glance at your lips and look away. And eventually, you started bending the truth. Saying you “weren’t sure” even when you were. Letting him win.

Because sometimes, it was nice not knowing.

One night, you found a note slipped under your door: “Meet me on the roof. No peeking ahead.”

The stars were out when you arrived, cold air kissing your skin. Bucky was already there, leaning against the railing, arms crossed, watching the city lights twinkle below.

You stood beside him in silence.

“I had a vision,” You said softly after a moment. “About tonight.”

He looked sideways at you, wary but amused. “Oh yeah? How’s it end?”

You smiled. “That depends.”

He leaned a little closer. “On what?”

“On whether you finally kiss me, or if you chicken out again.”

He chuckled, low and warm. “I thought I was supposed to surprise you.”

You shrugged. “You still can.”

He hesitated but not for long. The kiss was unhurried. Intentional. Less about passion, more about proving something. That even if you saw every move, every possible path, this choice was still his. And he was choosing you.

When he pulled back, he searched your eyes.

“Did I get you?” He whispered.

You nodded, breath catching. “Yeah. You got me.”

“Good,” He smiled. “Because I’ve got at least ten more moves planned and I bet you won’t see half of them coming.”

You laughed, head against his chest, and let the future fade for once just enough to stay in this moment.