“I love my job. I love children,” you chanted like a woman in denial, dropping your bag with a dramatic thud and tossing your keys into the key bowl. “Children are the future. Children are angels. I’m so happy to be a teacher.” 

You beelined to the kitchen with the desperation of someone searching for the meaning of life… or carbs. From the dining table, Sam didn’t look up from his laptop. “Gremlins got you good, huh?” 

You collapsed into the seat next to him with a groan, eyes already locked on Steve, who was at the stove stirring a pot of pasta. You stomach growled loudly in betrayal. 

“Some genius parent handed out cupcakes during the honor roll assembly,” you grumbled. “Two for each kid. They were completely sugar-high and feral. One of them tried to bite me.” 

Steve paused mid-stir, glancing over his shoulder. “Tried to bite you…?” 

“I wish I was joking.” 

A few seconds later, Bucky strolled in, took one look at you, and wrinkled his nose. 

“Jesus. What happened to you?” 

You didn’t even look up. “Good to see you too, Barnes.” 

“No, seriously,” he said, grabbing a drink from the fridge. “You look like you were in the Crayola Factory trenches.”

“I was,” you replied without missing a beat. “Five-year-olds were the enemy. All sugar-crazed. There were no survivors.” 

He leaned against the counter beside Steve, taking a sip while eyeing the smudge on your sweater.. “Is that… paint?” 

“It’s a fashion statement.” 

Bucky raised an eyebrow, challenging you like the little shit that he was. “You sure you’re qualified to be shaping the youth of America?” 

You shot him a tired glare and let out a heavy sigh. Sometimes you genuinely wondered if he picked arguments just for the fun of it. He always managed to slip in an annoyingly well-timed jab and he was so good at it that you couldn’t help but want to fight with him. At this point, the two of you had turned mutual antagonizing into some kind of sport. A strange, ongoing game of who could out-snark the other first.

 “You committed war crimes,” you retorted dryly, raising a brow at him and anticipating his next move. 

He lifted his drink in salute, a grin ghosted the corner in his lips before he smoothed it out into a nonchalant line.  “Touché.”

Sam bursted into fits of laughter, closing his laptop shut. “Man down. I repeat, man down.” 

Steve just chuckled and reached for the whiteboard marker on the fridge. The dry-erase scoreboard titled Verbal Assassinations now read: 

You: 6 | Bucky: 4

“You’re falling behind, Buck.” Steve said lightly. “Might want to sharpen yourself up a bit.” 

Bucky didn’t miss a beat. “Your pasta’s boiling over, smartass.” 

Steve spun around quickly. Behind him, his pasta was, indeed, boiling over and creating a mess on the stove. 

“Ah, shit—!”

“Language!” Sam called out with mock horror, biting back a grin. Steve turned around briefly to glare at him, but it wasn’t threatening enough to stop the chorus of laughter that was about to erupt from both you and Sam. 

The two of you burst into laughter and you finally felt some of the tension from your day begin to ease. 

——

Later on in the evening, you padded out of your room for your usual loft closing ritual that included double-checking if the door was locked, starting the dishwasher, and doing a final sweep of the living room. You were humming to yourself as you drew the blinds, but then your eyes graced the sight of someone’s bare ass, followed by their very flaccid dick.

Needless to say, you screamed bloody murder. 

“OH MY GOD!”

Your scream was gutteral, the type that came from your diaphragm while your soul left your body. You screamed again, louder and somehow more horrified. 

Within seconds, Bucky burst into the living room shirtless, eyes wild, a throwing knife in each hand. “Where is he?!” He demanded as he frantically scanned the room. 

From upstairs, doors slammed open. Sam practically flew down the stairs in plaid pajama pants with a gun, while Steve trailed behind him in a white tank top and American flag boxers, holding his shield like he was ready for combat. They looked like as if they were just called into a last minute mission with no prior preparation. 

“Talk to me, what happened?!” Bucky barked, standing in front of you with his knives drawn. 

“HE’S NAKED!” You shrieked, eyes squeezed shut and one hand flailing as you blindly pointed toward the window. 

A beat of silence passed before Bucky blinked at you, slowly lowering his knives to his side as his worry morphed into confusion. “Wait, what…?”

“There’s a very naked man across the street in the next building,” you explained, nearly breathless. “He’s just standing there. Dick out. Watching Golden Girls while eating a sandwich. I saw everything. Everything.” 

Sam immediately relaxed, lowering his gun with an easy grin. “Oh, that’s just Naked Norman.” 

You turned to him like he’d grown a second head. “I’m sorry—just?!”

Steve dropped his shield on the carpet and scratched the back of his neck. “Yeah, he’s harmless. Usually starts around 9:30. He was out of town for a few weeks, but looks like he’s back.” 

“He tends to watch either Golden Girls or House Hunters while completely nude,” Sam added like this was common knowledge. “Fridays are usually his boldest.” 

Bucky grunted and headed back toward his room, tossing his knives onto the kitchen counter. “You’ll get used to it.” 

“You’ll get used to it?!” you repeated, still stunned. “I just saw a stranger’s dick in high definition, and you want me to get used to it?”

Sam rolled his eyes playfully. “Please. Like you’ve never seen a dick before.” 

You glared at him, unamused. “Not while I’m closing the damn blinds!” 

Steve chuckled and gestured for you to sit on the couch. “Come on. You’re in shock. Sit.” 

You plopped onto the couch with a thousand-yard stare. Steve followed, wrapping an arm around you and gently patting your shoulder like he was consoling a war survivor. “I’ll make you a note on the whiteboard every Friday. ‘Beware: Norman’s Golden Hour’.” 

“I’m never opening the windows again,” you mumbled, resting your head against his shoulder. 

Sam, now placing his gun on the coffee table as if it was just some remote, flopped down beside you. “This just the beginning. You’ll come to find that we have real weirdos living around us.” 

Steve nodded toward the window. “Two windows to the left of Naked Norman is who we call 'Pilates assassin'. We’re about 82% sure she’s a retired black widow.” 

“She moves just like Natasha,” Sam said. “She’s graceful and lethal. No one’s that bendy for no reason.” 

“Oh, and then there’s the Murder Couple. They’re on the floor below Norman,” Sam continued casually. “They argue every Thursday. Like threats-to-kill-each-other level arguments.” 

You blinked at them and shook your head in utter disbelief. “You people are insane. This is like… bordering on stalker behavior.” 

“I need something to do on my day off,” Sam argued like being the head of Brooklyn’s unofficial neighborhood watch was a reasonable hobby. “This is perfectly normal.” 

Steve nodded solemnly, shooting Sam a look of understanding. “I only join him because I’m a supportive friend.” 

There was a short pause. 

“And also,” he added with a reluctant shrug, speaking as if he hated himself a little bit for admitting. “It’s kind of wildly entertaining.” 

You couldn’t help but chuckle in disbelief. You could picture it now: Sam and Steve hunched by the window like nosy old ladies, sipping coffee and narrating neighborhood drama like it was a daytime soap opera. 

“And I’m the one who gets shit on for taking up knitting,” you said dryly, eyeing Sam in particular. He was always the first one to tease you about things like a particularly annoying sibling. “At least I don’t spy on unsuspecting civilians.” 

“You’re missing out,” Sam sing-songed while shrugging at you. 

You push yourself up from the couch, still half-amused and half-horrified as you started walking back to your room. You wanted to escape before they dragged you into an unsolicited deep dive about everyone in a two-block radius. 

“You should join us sometime!” Sam called after you. “Bring your knitting, maybe you can knit Naked Norman some clothes.” 

You paused in the hallway, turned just enough to shake your head, and pointed a finger. “If I catch you two spying on the neighbors, I’m boarding off the windows. Permanently.” 

“Little too late for that,” Steve grinned. “We have a file on each of them.”

You groaned, disappearing into your room. “I live with strange men.” 

Behind you, their laughter echoed through the loft. 

——

You were sprawled on your bed, phone on speaker beside you as Sébastien’s voice filled the room. What started as a lighthearted decision to entertain a rebound had slowly evolved into… something. Something a little more complicated than what it was supposed to be. At first, you chalked your attraction up to the French accent. He had this smooth, lilting kind of voice that made even mundane things sound poetic and you were simply… just a girl. Now, weeks in, you were starting to admit it wasn’t just the accent. 

You still hadn’t met in person. S.H.I.E.L.D had him tied up with a mountain of assignments and missions that always seemed just urgent enough to delay a date, but despite it all, he never missed a call, a morning check-in, and even mid-day texts that made you smile in the middle of kindergarten insanity. It was new, unfamiliar territory, but strangely comforting. It was nice just to have someone outside the chaos of the loft and Natasha’s relentless scheming. 

“Okay, so tell me,” Sébastien said, his all too familiar French lilt oozing through the speaker. “How was your day? Tell me everything.” 

You shifted on the bed, one hand propped behind your head. “Today was literally crazy, I can’t make this up,” you said, launching into a rundown of the day: the honor roll assembly from hell, the cupcake sugar craze, and the finger-painting disaster. 

Through it all, he listened intently. He laughed at the right moments, asked follow-up questions, and even gasped dramatically when you told him one of your students bit a crayon in half out of pure emotion. It wasn’t lost to you how rare that was. He made you feel like your life, your work, and your stories mattered. Natasha insisted that was just basic decency, the bare minimum, but even Adam couldn’t manage to give you that. 

“So yeah,” you finished, smiling at the ceiling, “long story short, five year olds are a danger to society.” 

Sébastien chuckled through the phone, warm and infectious. “It sounds like you survived a war.” 

You grinned, letting Sébastien’s laughter fill in the quiet momentarily. “I know, I know,” you said, flopping your head dramatically onto your pillow. “Honestly, I deserve a medal.” 

“And… what are your plans this weekend, mon ange?” he asked, his voice dropping just enough to make your stomach flutter. 

You smiled at the ceiling, your cheeks slightly hurting at how much you’ve been grinning. “Nonexistent. I’m free all weekend.” 

“Perfect,” Sébastien replied, his accent curling around the word smoothly. “Because I’ll be in town and I’d very much like to take you on a proper date.” 

You practically lit up. “Oh really?” you teased, already kicking your legs like a pathetic teenager. “You sure Nick Fury won’t drop out of a helicopter mid-dinner to assign you another top secret mission?” 

“Non,” Sébastien chuckled. “This time, I made sure I’m off-duty. I even told Fury I had diplomatic obligations.” 

You were just about to respond with something appropriately flirty when—

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Three sharp, thoroughly annoyed knocks echoed through your wall. 

“What was that?” Sébastien asked. 

“Nothing important,” you said quickly, rolling your eyes. “Hold on one sec.” 

You muted your phone and glared at the drywall that bordered your room and Bucky’s. When he tapped the wall again, you got up with a dramatic sigh and stomped toward the shared wall. 

You knocked back equally as hard. “What do you want, Barnes?” you hissed through the wall. “I’m not even being loud.” 

His muffled voice came through immediately. “Yes, you are. It’s giving me second hand embarrassment. I’m trying to watch The Godfather in peace.” 

You rolled your eyes so hard that you were surprised they didn’t detach from your head. “I didn’t realize your 87th rewatch of moody mob men took priority over me just living my life.” 

“Phone-flirting with French James Bond is what you call living your life?” He called back, his tone smug and perfectly annoying, like he took amusement in making fun of you. “That’s… depressing.” 

“Sorry you’ve never experienced joy and whimsy in your life, grandpa,” you scoffed, grabbing a random sock on the floor and chucking it at the wall like it would go through and hit him. 

“I’ve experienced plenty of joy,” he replied, as if he were deeply offended. You could practically see his smirk stretching across his stupid face through the wall. “I just don’t count flirting with discount Napoleon Bonaparte as one of them.” 

You scoffed so loudly that you were sure Sam and Steve would ask about it tomorrow. “Napoleon Bonaparte? Really? That’s the best you’ve got? Dig deeper, Barnes.” 

There was a brief pause before he fired back with renewed confidence. “Alright then. Quasimodo? Remy from Ratatouille? Lumière, if he smoked a pack of Marlboros a day?” 

You let out an offended gasp, your jaw dropping. “Go. To. Hell.”

“I’m already there,” he replied with a dramatic sigh, far too pleased with himself. “Saved you a seat, too. Thought we could make it a double feature.” 

You groaned and flopped dramatically onto your bed. “You stay in your cave with your broody mobsters and leave Sébastien and I alone.” 

“As you wish,” he called back. “But when Frenchy breaks your heart with a tragic monologue and a cigarette flick, don’t say I didn’t warn you.” 

You rolled onto your side, glaring at the wall. “I hope The Godfather dies.” 

“He already did,” Bucky shot back without missing a beat. “You’d know that if you appreciated cinema.”

“Ugh!” 

“Say ‘bonjour’ to your rebound for me!” 

You yanked your pillow over your face and and let out a muffled scream before unmuting your phone. 

“Sorry,” you said sweetly to Sébastien, your voice dripping with sarcasm. “We have a rat problem.” 

You made sure to emphasize the word loud and clear. On cue, from the other side, you heard Bucky scoff followed by something that might’ve been a laugh if he was capable of expressing joy like a normal person. 

“Do you want me to call an exterminator for you tomorrow morning?” Sébastien asked, his tone completely sincere, like he genuinely wanted to help you. 

“No, it’s alright,” you replied sweetly, “I’ll just exterminate him in his sleep.” 

A soft thud hit the wall, like Bucky had thrown something in protest, but he didn’t say a word. 

You considered it a win. 

——

The sunlight seeping through your window dragged you reluctantly out of sleep. Groaning, you reached for your phone on the nightstand to check the time, only to spot three unread messages from Sam and Steve in the loft group chat as well as the usual morning message from Sébastien.

You tossed your phone onto the bed, groaning into your pillow like it particularly pained you to ask anything from Bucky Barnes. 

Do I really need water? You thought miserably. Maybe you didn’t, maybe you could stay in bed and let dehydration take you out. Your tombstone could read: 

Here lies [Your Full Name]. Died because Bucky Barnes is an insufferable shopping partner. 

Reluctantly, you tugged yourself out of bed and rummaged through your closet, pulling together the first thing you deemed acceptable to wear for a quick Whole Foods run. After brushing your hair and making yourself look a little more awake, you found yourself standing outside Bucky’s door, psyching yourself up like you were about to face a firing squad. 

You paced the hallway about two times, grimacing at the thought of waking him up. He usually didn’t rise from the dead till about 11:00 am and he wasn’t particularly a morning person. 

Just knock. It’s not that hard, you told yourself as you raised a fist toward the door. Unfortunately, it swung open before you even touched it. 

Bucky stood there like he’d been waiting to catch you in the act. He leaned against the doorframe wearing that scowl of his while he crossed his arms. “What are you doing?” he asked, his tone flat but somehow still managing to sound accusatory.  

You paused for a moment, momentarily caught off-guard. “I was just going to ask if you wanted to go to Whole Foods—”

“I know. Saw the texts.” His voice was annoyingly casual, like this was the most obvious thing in the world. 

You stared at him incredulously. “Then why are you asking me what I’m doing?” 

“I wanted to see if you’d actually come over here and ask me,” he said with a faint smirk, brushing past you like he hadn’t just admitted to being the world’s most irritating man alive. 

“You’re fucking kidding.” You responded, jaw dropping slightly at how he managed to already be annoying at nine-thirty in the morning. He was already halfway to the bathroom when you spun around, hands on your hips. “Okay, so will you go or not?” 

“Say please,” he tossed over his shoulder, the corners of his mouth twitching like he was fighting a grin. 

Your eye twitched, and you let out an indignant scoff. “You’re being a child.” 

“I’m just tryin’ to teach you some manners,” he said as he disappeared into the bathroom but you could practically feel the smugness dripping from his tone. 

You groaned in irritation, the sound echoing through the near-empty loft. “Why are you like this?” 

“Like what?” he asked smoothly, the sound of running water turning on as he brushed his teeth. “I’m not being anything,” he added, his words muffled by toothpaste bubbles. 

“Yes, you are,” you shot back, leaning against the bathroom doorframe with your arms crossed, patience wearing thinner by the second. “You’re being insufferable.” 

A low laugh rumbled from him, bouncing off the bathroom tiles. “Just put your shoes on.” 

A reluctant smile tugged at your lips, though you were grateful he wasn’t there to see it. “...Wait, so that’s a yes?” 

“Put your shoes on,” he repeated, opening the bathroom door with a raised eyebrow. “Before I change my mind.” 

You rolled your eyes but didn’t argue, slipping into your sneakers as he trailed behind you. 

Fine. 

He could be smug all he wanted like the little shit that he was. As long as he was the one hauling two 24-packs of water up four flights of stairs, you could deal with it. 

——

The car ride to Whole Foods was mostly quiet.

Well, quiet as it could be with you and Bucky in the same space… until the inevitable battle over the car’s sound system began. He was insistent on playing his Kings of Leon CD (because of course he still uses CDs. It was like he took his time to catch up with the present) while you lobbied to plug your phone into the aux cord. 

“It’s my car,” he said flatly, hand hovering over the stereo trying to block you from doing anything. 

“And I want to keep my sanity,” you countered. “I don’t want to listen to Sex on Fire for the umpteenth time. You need to broaden your musical horizons.”

“My car, my rules,” he said with a shrug, the smugness practically dripping from his voice. “Also, it’s a classic and it’s better than whatever whiny pop crap you’ve got queued up on that phone.”

You glared at him, clutching your phone to your chest like he had insulted your entire bloodline. “Excuse me?! Phoebe Bridgers is not whiny.” 

After a few rounds of mutual verbal attacks over each other’s music taste, you finally relented. It was his car, after all. Still you couldn’t help the surprise you felt about Bucky Barnes being a Kings of Leon guy. You had pegged him as the type to brood exclusively to 1940s war time jazz or Frank Sinatra, but imagining him staring moodily out a window while Use Somebody played in the background felt… weirdly fitting. 

When he finally found street parking (parallel parking like a cocky asshole, of course), you both hopped out of the car. The two of you split up almost immediately after entering Whole Foods, which was something you thanked the universe for. Spending time with Bucky alone, without Sam and Steve as buffers, was like willingly choosing to torture yourself. To be frank, Bucky was about ten times more insufferable when left unchecked and If you had to spend another ten minutes with him without a break, you were going to probably commit grocery store homicide. 

But of course, your moment of peace didn’t last. He had found you while you were in the pasta aisle. 

“Homemade pasta is better than this boxed garbage, you know,” a voice drawled at your side, making you jump so hard you almost dropped the box of rigatoni you were holding. 

You clutched the box tightly in your hand and glared at him. “Jesus Christ, what is wrong with you? You can’t sneak up on people like that.” 

He observed the boxed pasta options without sparing you a glance though the corners of his mouth twitched. “Force of habit.” 

“Un-force it,” you snapped, turning your attention back to the shelves.

He picked up a box of rigatoni and half-heartedly read through the ingredients with an unimpressed look. “I’m just saying, real pasta’s better.” 

“You weren’t complaining when Steve made pasta last night.” 

“Doesn’t mean I don’t prefer homemade.” 

“You don’t even cook,” you argued, throwing him a skeptical look. 

“I can cook,” he countered easily with a casual shrug. 

“Can you now?” you said, crossing your arms and tilting your head at him. “Why don’t you ever make food for everyone then?” 

“Don’t have time,” He replied simply, like that was a perfectly reasonable excuse. 

You let out a short, unbelieving laugh. “You don’t have time? Oh, really?” You arched your brow at him. “You literally do nothing all day besides when you decide to help the Avengers. Which is rare, by the way. Other than that, you live off years of military backpay and brood around the loft like a sad ghoul.”  

He fully smirked as if it was amusing that he knew something you didn’t. “Wow. You pay attention, huh?” He replied, his tone laced with heavy sarcasm. 

You scoffed, flinging a box of rigatoni into your cart. “Please. You’re hard to ignore. Like a really itchy rash.” 

He shook his head and picked up the boxes of pasta in your cart to put it back on the shelf. “I’m doing you a favor, you’re welcome.” 

You snatched the box from his hand. “Oh my god, are you seriously going to put those back? These are mine—”

“Y/N? Is that you?” 

The voice made your blood run cold. You froze, your heart plummeting straight into your ass as you turned around and saw Adam standing there. He looked exactly the same as you remembered, he still carried that infuriating look of superiority that made your skin crawl. 

“A-Adam…?” you croaked, the name tasting bitter in your tongue. In your shock, the box of pasta slipped from your hand. Bucky caught it immediately without missing a beat, his gaze immediately cutting to the man in front of you. You didn’t have to look at him to know that Bucky’s scowl was firmly locked as if he’d just identified a new target. You’ve never mentioned Adam much around him, but you were pretty sure Sam and Steve had painted him a vivid enough picture. 

“Oh wow…” Adam’s eyes dragged over you as if he was surprised you hadn’t dissolved into dust without him. “You look… you look good. How are you?” 

The condescension dripped from his voice and something ugly started bubbling in your chest. Only he would have the audacity to talk to you like he hadn’t broken a heart and treated you like something disposable. It was especially infuriating how he spoke as if you two were just old friends bumping into each other after some time. 

“Thanks,” you said flatly, turning back to the pasta shelves and pretending to read the labels just to avoid wanting to throw a box of pasta at his head. You silently prayed to every higher power that he’d take the hint and vanish. But of course, Adam wasn’t the sharpest. He wasn’t exactly known for his intelligence… or subtlety. 

Before you could gesture at Bucky to leave, another voice chimed in. 

“Babe? Who’s this?” 

You looked up, startled, as a tall woman appeared at Adam’s side. She was effortlessly beautiful in that e-commerce model type of way, with her perfectly straightened hair and bright smile. You didn’t miss the diamond ring in her hand that practically blinded you as she tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear. 

“This is Chloe, my fiancée,” Adam said, puffing up his chest just enough to make you want to commit arson. “Chloe, this is Y/N. We used to—”

“—Be neighbors,” you blurted out before he could finish, your fake smile tightening to the point of physical pain. Internally, your brain was turning in on itself—Fiancée?! He’s engaged?! That no good piece of shit bastard is engaged and we’ve only been broken up for a few months?! What fucking spell did he put on her to agree to this load of shit?—but on the outside, you were perfectly composed, except for the fact that your cheeks were starting to hurt by how hard you were smiling. 

“Congrats on the… you know… engagement thing… That’s cool,” You said, voice dangerously calm as your tight smile remained.

“Awww, thanks! We’re so happy,” Chloe said sweetly, beaming at you. “Oh, and I remember you now. Adam’s mentioned you a couple of times. You’re the teacher right? That’s admirable!” 

Admirable. You resisted the urge to ball up your fists. You weren’t sure if she was being condescending or if she was genuinely complimenting you. You felt Bucky shift beside you, and before you could stop yourself, the panic and pride in your brain collided, and the words tumbled out: 

“Thanks,” you muttered before gesturing at Bucky without looking at him and praying he’d play along. “This is my boyfriend, Bucky.” 

There was a pause. A long, agonizing beat of silence as you braced for him to throw you under the bus. To your utter surprise, Bucky slipped into the role with ease. His arm slid around your waist like that wasn’t the first time he’d done that, and his expression was equally bored and smug as if he’d been waiting for an excuse to mess with you.

“Boyfriend,” Bucky repeated smoothly, with a faint, too-casual smile. “James. You can call me James.” He stuck his hand out to Adam, his metal fingers glinting under the bright fluorescent lights. 

Adam hesitated, clearly unnerved, before reaching out and shaking his hand. Bucky didn’t let up, gripping just tight enough to make Adam wince. “Good to meet you, Buck—uh, James,” Adam muttered, voice cracking halfway through as his confidence shrunk by the second. 

Bucky didn’t even bother acknowledging Chloe. 

“He’s very handsome,” Chloe said cheerfully, giving you a conspiratorial wink that made you want to throw up. Then something seemed to click in her head. She paused, her gaze narrowing on Bucky’s face. “Wait…aren’t you—”

“—a mechanic,” Bucky cut her off smoothly, squeezing your hip just a little. “I fix cars and motorcycles… mostly motorcycles. It’s what I do.” 

You choked on a laugh and disguised it as a cough, biting the inside of your cheek to keep your expression neutral. Adam’s face, however, twitched like he’d bitten into something sour.  

“So…” Adam cleared his throat, glancing between the two of you like he was trying to make sense of this new information. “You two, uh… seem close.” 

“Yup,” Bucky said, popping the ‘p’ just to be extra insufferable. “I would hope so, we’ve been together for about two months now.” He shot you a sideways glance that said, you’re lucky I’m good at lying.

You shot back a stiff, panicked smile that screamed, I’ll buy whatever crap you want if you keep this up.

Chloe, blissfully unaware of the tension, clasped her hands together and beamed. “You guys are such a cute couple!” 

You forced a laugh and, in a panic, you leaned into him enough to make your act look convincing. “We get that a lot,” you said, your voice a pitch too high to believable. 

Bucky’s lips twitched like he was two seconds away from openly laughing at you, but to his credit, he kept his face in that perfectly stoic Winter Soldier mode. You could practically feel his amusement radiating off him, especially when Adam tried to mimic Bucky by draping an awkward arm around Chloe’s waist, like he was competing in a boyfriend-off with him. 

“Well, it was nice seeing you,” Adam said, his throat bobbing like he was swallowing his own discomfort. “I’ll… uh… see you guys around.” 

Over my dead fucking body. 

“Definitely,” you gritted out with the fakest smile known to man, your cheek muscles straining from the force.

When Adam and Chloe finally disappeared down the aisle, you instantly shoved yourself out of Bucky’s grip like you’d been holding a live wire. He did the same, rotating his shoulder as if shaking off the contact. 

“I should start charging for my acting skills,” Bucky said, wiping his hand down the sleek metal of his arm like touching you somehow dirtied it. The smirk on his face, though, gave him away. 

You narrowed your eyes, pointing an accusatory box of rigatoni at his chest. “Oh fuck off, Barnes. I panicked, okay? It was either fake a boyfriend or cry and set this entire store on fire with Adam inside it.”

“Hmmm.” He tilted his head, studying you with irritating smugness. “You really sold it, though. Might wanna keep me around for when we run into him again. Maybe I’ll start calling you sweetheart just for consistency, you know?

Your face heated so fast you could’ve sworn it was visible. “Barnes,” you warned, tightening your grip on the box of pasta. “I will throw this rigatoni at your head.” 

“Go ahead,” he said with a lazy grin, taking the box from your hand and placing it into your cart. “I’ll just catch it like I catch everything.” 

——

Back at the loft, you and Bucky unpacked the groceries you’ve bought in silence. The car ride back home had been the same, quiet and heavy like the air was thick enough to choke on. It was as if Bucky had noticed the shift in your mood long before you’d even fully processed it yourself.

You had spent the entire drive with your phone in hand, thumbs working furiously as you did a quick, shameful deep dive on Chloe. Of course, because life was a cruel asshole, you found her. She was the woman, the one Adam cheated with. The one he apparently deemed worthy enough to propose to while your six years together got swept under the rug like it never meant anything. What stung wasn’t just that he moved on, it was that he didn’t even wince when he saw you. There was no shame, no discomfort. Just smug happiness, standing there with his perfect fiancée like he hadn’t obliterated your life and made you start all over.

“You’re quiet,” Bucky muttered finally, breaking the silence as he shoved a jug of milk into the fridge. His tone was casual, but his eyes flicked toward your briefly, sharp as ever. “Thought you’d be on a rampage by now, shit talking him like there was no tomorrow.” 

You let out a humorless laugh, more a huff than anything. “Yeah, well, I’m full of surprises,” you said, tossing a bag of chips onto the counter with a little too much force.

Bucky stiffened like someone just handed him a live grenade and told him to ‘just relax’. Comforting people wasn’t his thing, usually Sam and Steve would’ve swooped in by now, saying all the right words while he got to stay quiet in the background. This time though, he was alone, and if his expression was anything to go by, he was way out of his depth. 

“Are you… okay…?” he asked, voice cautious like he was testing whether that was the right question to ask someone who was clearly upset. His brow furrowed, his face caught somewhere between discomfort and mild panic. If you weren’t so busy being emotional, you probably would’ve laughed at how awkward he was being. 

“Yeah, I’m good,” you said quickly, sparing him from whatever painful attempt at empathy he was about to make. You forced a light tone, though your voice wobbled slightly. “Besides, I’ve got a date with Sébastien tonight, so technically I’m winning here.” 

Bucky’s lip twitched, and he visibly relaxed as soon as the conversation shifted into safer, verbal sparring territory. “Ah, Gaston’s finally taking you on a real date, huh?” he teased. “What happened, did he finally realize that face-calling someone doesn’t count as a date?” 

“It’s FaceTime you idiot,” you corrected with an exaggerated eye roll. “You really are a thousand years old.”

“I’m actually a hundred and seven years old, thank you very much,” Bucky said smugly, crossing his arms like he’d just won an argument. 

You rolled your eyes again, exasperated at his attempt to irritate you. “And yet you still can’t figure out FaceTime.” 

Before Bucky could come up with a snarky comeback, the loft’s rarely used doorbell chimed. The sound was so foreign that you both froze, exchanging confused looks. 

“I’ll get it,” you volunteered, already heading toward the entryway. Curiously, you looked through the peephole and were met with the sight of a sweet-looking old man who looked like he stepped straight out of a classic BBC period drama. 

You cracked the door open with a friendly smile. “Hello, how can I help you sir?” 

“Oh! Hello, dear,” the old man replied, his posh English accent cutting crisply through the hallway air. He looked utterly stunned, blinking at you like he’d stumbled into the wrong dimension. “Well, this is unexpected. I see one of the lads in this flat finally brought a lady home. Tell me, which one is yours? Is it the blond one? He’s polite, I like him. I’m not too keen on the other two—one’s far too loud, and the other one looks like he’s never smiled a day in his life.” 

You stood there, blinking in absolute shock as his words sank in. 

Which one is yours? 

“Um… what?” you said, eloquently, because your brain had clearly decided to stop functioning. 

Before you could figure out what to say, you felt a presence behind you. “Welcome back, Mr. Hall,” Bucky said flatly, like he’d just bitten into a lemon. His tone wasn’t rude exactly, but it wasn’t warm either. “How was London?” 

“Oh, still standing, thank you for asking,” Mr. Hall replied, leaning on his cane and giving Bucky a shrewd once-over. “Still scowling, I see. What’s it going to take to turn that face into something less terrifying? A lottery win? A hug? Perhaps a girlfriend?” 

You slapped a hand over your mouth to stifle the laugh that immediately bubbled up. The way Bucky’s head snapped toward you, icy glare and all, was enough to make your shoulders shake with silent laughter. You grabbed his forearm to steady yourself, biting down hard on your lip because you were seconds away from losing it. 

Unfortunately, Mr. Hall registered that gesture very differently. His eyes flicked to your hand on Bucky’s arm, and his entire face lit up like he’d just uncovered the greatest neighborhood gossip of the century. 

“Oh I see,” Mr. Hall said with a wide, knowing grin. “This one’s yours, isn’t he?” he asked, his voice practically bubbling with delight. 

You stumbled over your words, immediately pulling your hand back like his arm had electrocuted you. “What? No he’s—”

“This is splendid news,” Mr. Hall interrupted, waving his hand dismissively like your visible discomfort only confirmed his theory. “Oh, don’t be shy! Broody types like him are always the best ones. Bit of patience and they’ll follow you around like an old loyal dog.” 

Your mouth fell open, completely stunned, while Bucky’s jaw tightened beside you like he was five seconds away from slamming the door in the man’s face. 

“Mr. Hall, I think you’ve got the wrong idea—” you tried, visibly flushed now. 

“It’s Harold, love. Do call me Harold,” he cut in with a wink, completely ignoring your protest. 

Bucky cleared his throat, stepping forward before you could malfunction further. “Something you need, Mr. Hall, or did you just come here to interrogate us?” Bucky asked dryly, clearly trying to shut the conversation down before it spiraled further into derangement.

“Yes, yes, of course,” Mr. Hall said, thumping his cane against the floor like he’d just remembered his purpose. “Would you be a dear and fetch my luggage from downstairs? I’m not as sprightly as I used to be, you know.” 

He gave you a warm smile, then turned on his heel with the expectation that Bucky would follow like a valet. Somehow, to your complete surprise, Bucky actually did, but not without throwing a deeply annoyed glance your way first. 

You stood by the doorway, still stunned from the whole exchange. That had to be the strangest and somehow most entertaining conversation you’d had all day. As you closed the door to the loft, you began to realize just how true Sam and Steve’s warnings were about the people in your neighborhood. When Bucky returned several minutes later, he immediately locked the door behind him like he was sealing a bunker from the outside world. 

“Who was that?” you asked, still wide-eyed in disbelief. “And why did you just let him assume that we’re…?” you winced, unable to say the word. 

“Harold Hall. He lives across from us,” Bucky muttered, kicking off his boots and dropping them into the rack with a loud thud. “Once he makes up his mind about something, that’s it. Doesn’t matter what you say. I’ve been the neighborhood felon, a KGB spy, and now, apparently, your boyfriend.” 

You burst out laughing, unable to contain the giggles you’ve been suppressing since Mr. Hall opened his mouth to start the Bucky hate train. “Doesn’t sound like he likes you very much,” you teased. 

“He hates Sam too, but he really hates me,” Bucky replied, shooting a look toward the door like he was expecting Harold to reappear. “He loves Steve and now you. Congratulations on your new British grandfather.”

“Nice,” you grinned. “I’ve always wanted a judgemental old man with a cane and unsolicited opinions.” 

WIthout a word, Bucky pulled something from his jacket pocket and casually tossed it your way. You barely caught it and blinked in surprise. It was a small tin of tea, pale blue with Princess Diana’s face plastered on the front and framed by soft floral patterns. It was a type of souvenir you would find in a small gift shop in London, regal and deeply British. 

“He said it’s a ‘welcome gift for being one of the only tolerable people in this entire building,’” Bucky deadpanned, already heading toward the kitchen. 

You stared at the tin, beaming at how unexpectedly sweet it was. “This is the fanciest gift I’ve ever received,” you muttered fondly, inspecting the tin before following Bucky to the kitchen to place it in the mug cabinet like it was fine china. “I’m saving this for a special occasion.” 

“Like what?” Bucky said as he grabbed a snack from the fridge. “Your knighting ceremony?” 

“No,” you replied sweetly, closing the cabinet. “The day I push you down the stairs and get away with it.” 

Bucky narrowed his eyes, unimpressed. “Just make sure you give Harold a heads up. He’ll want front row seats and a cup of tea.” 

With that, he turned and disappeared down the hallway, leaving you and your murderous thoughts in the kitchen.

——

Toward the evening, the loft was peaceful in a way that felt unsettling. Saturdays were never this quiet. By now, Sam would’ve been sprawled on your bed offering unsolicited advice and outfit critiques. Steve would’ve been perched in the armchair by the window, rattling off safety tips like he was sending you off to prom instead of a dinner date. The silence, once a comfort, now felt unfamiliar. 

After pinning your hair up, you smoothed down the dress you’ve picked for the night. It was a simple navy blue dress that was mid-length and fit you just right. You had steamed it twice, but you still found yourself fussing with invisible wrinkles. With one last check in the mirror, you stepped out of your room, the soft click of your heels echoing against the hardwood floor. 

Bucky was slouched on the couch, legs kicked up on the coffee table, lazily flipping through your worn copy of Moby Dick like he had nothing better to do. He had mocked your choices in literature numerous times, yet you’ve caught him reading from your collection on the shared bookshelf more times than you could count. You never said anything, just filed it away with quiet satisfaction.

He looked completely relaxed until you walked in.

“What do you think?” you asked, doing a quick twirl, though your face betrayed your nerves. “We’re going to a seafood place in Williamsburg. Is it too much?” 

Bucky didn’t answer immediately, he blinked once, slowly, and then lowered the book onto his lap. His eyes swept over you, going up, down, and back again. His expression was unreadable and for the briefest flicker of a moment, something in his face shifted… but then it was gone. 

He leaned back lazily against the couch, grabbing the book again with exaggerated disinterest. “Are you seriously asking me that?” he replied, voice flat, like you’d just asked him to comment on nail polish. “I wear the same five Henleys on rotation.” 

You let out a frustrated sigh. “That’s true, but you’re a man, which means you know what other men like. Just help me—I’m freaking out and Natasha’s off the grid with Sam and Steve.” 

He didn’t even flinch at your plea. He simply flipped the page and muttered. “Why do you even care what Le Chiffre thinks anyway?”

“You lost me there,” you countered, raising a brow.

“French Bond villain,” he replied as if you should already know what he was talking about. “You know…slick hair, smug grin. The works.”

“Are you ever going to run out of French characters to call him other than his actual name?” You asked, fussing with your dress again in the mirror by the entryway. 

“Nope,” he replied, popping the ‘p’ as he folded the corner of the page and sat up with a sigh that said fine, I’ll help. Kind of. 

“Look, it’s dinner, not a coronation. You’ll be fine.” He added flatly before cracking the book open again, eyes scanning lazily on the page without focus. It was subtle, but he glanced at you every few seconds. 

“You’re so helpful,” you muttered, scooping up your clutch off the coffee table and grabbing Steve’s jacket from the hook by the door. Everyone had worn it at some point, it was practically communal. 

“Is he picking you up?” Bucky asked, tone carefully casual, his eyes locked on the book now like he hadn’t just spoken. 

“No. I’m meeting him there.” You smoothed down your dress one last time, inspecting a nonexistent wrinkle before grabbing your keys. 

Bucky hummed in response, a noncommittal noise that sat somewhere between I figured and I don’t care. The worst part was, you couldn’t tell which one. 

You clenched your jaw and resisted the urge to start something. Picking a fight with Bucky right now would only make him smug, and worse, he might actually win. 

“Bye, I’m going,” you called as you reached for the door. “Don’t wait up. If I’m lucky I might be sleeping at his place tonight.” You threw in a wink for good measure, channeling your annoyance into fake confidence to make your nerves less intense.

“Don’t care. Wasn’t going to,” he called back, barely lifting a hand in your direction like he was swatting a fly. 

You were halfway down the hall when you heard your name. Bucky said it loud enough that it made you jump, glancing over your shoulder with dread and half expecting Mr. Hall to come shuffling out to weigh in with unsolicited commentary. 

“What?” you asked, spinning around. “Did I forget something?” 

Bucky jogged up to you, something clutched tightly in his hand. He looked… unsure, like he wasn’t used to doing this part. Still, he held it out without a word.

It was a small switchblade. 

“Just in case,” he mumbled, shoving it into your palm before you could even open your mouth to protest. 

“Oh…” 

You stared at the blade, then up at him. Your nerves softened into something unspoken. “Thanks but… I don’t really—“

“The neck is the quickest way,” he interrupted, tapping his jugular with two fingers, giving you an impromptu lesson in murdering someone in cold blood. His expression didn’t change, it was deadpan as always. You didn’t know if it was endearing or terrifying. 

“Good to know,” you said, half-laughing and half-concerned as you slipped the blade into the inside pocket of Steve’s jacket. You then turned away, walking with a strange flutter in your chest and a switchblade in your pocket courtesy of the grump who definitely didn’t care. 

—-

You sat in the restaurant for about thirty-five minutes before finally deciding to call it. There was only so long you could pretend to be cool about it before your ego took a nosedive. You’d call his phone a few times, each one met with the same soulless, robotic voice: 

I’m sorry, but the person you’re trying to reach is not available. At the tone, please leave a message or hang up. 

You left two voicemails and a few carefully worded texts, trying your best not to sound desperate or disappointed. You kept it breezy, but every word felt like you were swallowing glass. Now that you were thinking about it, it was weird. He hadn’t texted since his usual good morning message. You hadn’t thought about it much earlier and just assumed he was busy. Now, you were starting to realize that you should’ve questioned it. You should’ve seen the silence coming. 

You paid the bill for your single, lonely glass of Pinot Noir and left the restaurant before the waitress could hit you with that well-meaning but soul-crushing ‘are you okay?’ look.

When you walked into the loft, the lights were slightly dim, and everything was quiet. Bucky was sitting on the couch in his usual position, slouched up in the corner with his legs kicked up. He was still reading Moby Dick and was now almost halfway through the book when you came back.

“That was fast,” he muttered without looking up. “Either you got bored and ditched him or—“

“He ditched me,” you cut in, sharper than intended. 

You were trying to sound unaffected, but your voice cracked just enough to betray you. You kicked off your heels with a little more force than necessary and sank down onto the other end of the couch. A deep frown tugged at your face, and you didn’t bother hiding it. You braced for the teasing, for his smug, sarcastic comment about some obscure French character or some rendition of I told you so. 

But it didn’t come. 

Bucky didn’t say a word, didn’t even smirk or gloat. He just flipped another page, slower this time, like he was giving you space to mope without making a show of it. 

“It’s so annoying,” you grumbled, arms crossing tightly over your chest. “He was supposed to be a stupid rebound and then I went and started caring like an idiot.” 

You let out a bitter laugh, sinking deeper into the couch cushions. “Now I’m out thirty bucks for a glass of overpriced wine, humiliated, and on top of that—I’m fucking starving.” 

Bucky glanced up from the book, studying you for a beat like he was mentally calculating the damage.

“Wanna get pizza?” he asked, voice low and nonchalant like what he offered wasn’t a peace treaty dressed up as a suggestion. His expression was unreadable, but his tone softened ever so slightly. “Pretty sure there’s a place still open that won’t charge you thirty bucks to be disappointed.” 

You tilted your head toward him, a smile tugging at the corner of your lips despite yourself. 

“Only if I get to pick the toppings.”

He closed the book and rolled his eyes. “No olives.” 

You fully grinned. “Deal.” 

Hanging out with Bucky willingly wasn’t nearly as bad as you thought it’d be. Sure, he wasn’t as animated as Sam or as chatty as Steve, but there was something oddly comforting about the way he was just… there. He let you talk without cutting in for once with some snarky remark or a half-baked solution. He just listened and stayed quiet while you dumped every tangled thought and frustration onto the pavement between bites of greasy pizza. 

“I think Adam cursed me or something,” you muttered through a mouthful of crust, your voice thick with exhaustion and cheese. “Like… I don’t know…? Hexed my dating life out of pure spite and assholery. This is all his fault and honestly? I wish him nothing but the worst. Like, tire popping out in the middle of the freeway level of worst. Is that bitter?”

Next to you, Bucky gave a noncommittal shrug, chewing on his slice like he didn’t particularly care either way but knew he had to say something.

“Kind of,” he replied, dry as ever. “But you’re… allowed to be bitter. And pissed. And annoyed.” 

You stared at him for a beat, surprised by the quiet validation. Then you nodded slowly, taking another bite. “Yeah. Damn right,” you said, mouth full again. “I am allowed to feel all those things. Thank you for your profound emotional insight. I see that government-mandated therapy is working.” 

He shook his head, smirking faintly without looking at you. “You’re the only one benefiting. I still think it’s full of shit.” 

You chuckled. “Seriously though,” you added, nudging his shoulder lightly. “You’re not the worst to hang out with.” 

“Yeah? Don’t forget to leave a five-star review on Yelp,” he replied, deadpan as always. You could swear his shoulder stayed just a little closer to yours after that. 

You were about to throw out another jab when you caught the way his eyes narrowed, gaze fixed on something in the distance. 

“Huh,” Bucky muttered, setting his paper plate aside and sipping his soda. “Norman actually has clothes on.”

You followed his line of sight and squinted. Sure enough, across the street, your infamous naked neighbor was fully dressed. And not just that. 

“He’s got a girl with him,” you said blinking like your brain was short-circuiting. “Great,” you grumbled, bitterly chomping on a bite of pizza like it was the one that wronged you. “Even Naked Norman has a fucking date. I’m losing to a man whose ass has been showcased to the whole neighborhood.” 

Bucky hummed in vague agreement, eyes still on the scene. “That’s his neighbor. Lives two windows to the left.” 

You turned to him slowly. “Wait. No way.” 

“Huh?”

“No fucking way. Is that Pilates Assassin?” 

“You know about Pilates Assassin?” he asked, squinting at you in disbelief. “You stalk people with Sam and Steve too?”

“No. I’m not a stalker,” you defended though your excitement was already bubbling. “They’re the stalkers. I just listen to their findings.” 

You both leaned forward on the bench a the same time, shamelessly observing the neighborhood’s newest scandal-in-the-making. 

“Ohmygod,” you whispered with a grin. “I cannot believe Naked Norman is dating Pilates Assassin. This is monumental news. I have to tell Sam and Steve immediately.” You pulled out your phone to snap a quick photo, ignoring the part of your brain that told you this was morally questionable.

Bucky gave you a look of amused disapproval. “You’re so weird.” 

You shrugged, eyes still locked on the spectacle. “And yet here you are hanging out with me.”

He didn’t argue, he simply leaned back and finished his slice without a peep. 

——

When you and Bucky got back to the loft, you barely had the door open before you were greeted by a very intense and very disheveled trio: Sam, Steve, and Natasha, still fully suited up in Stark gear. They looked like they’d just leapt out of the Quinjet and ran straight home without stopping to change. 

You gawked at them, blinking slowly to make sure you weren’t seeing things. You’d never seen them in full Avengers mode up close, only on TV or in newspapers by the Daily Bugle. It was like watching superheroes step out of a magazine cover… except they were covered in grime and blood. 

“You guys could’ve at least changed before coming home,” you started to say. “You’re dripping blood and—”

Before you could finish, all three of them rushed forward and wrapped you in the tightest, most suffocating group hug you’d ever been subjected to. You made a startled sound as Sam and Steve’s biceps crushed both of your shoulders and Natasha’s tactical harness jabbed at your ribs.

“Guys—air,” you wheezed, squirming to escape. “I. Can’t. Breathe. Just. A. Civilian—”

“You were gonna die,” Sam blurted dramatically.

“Sébastien’s an arms dealer,” Steve added in a rush. 

“With ties to the French mafia,” Natasha chimed in, equally breathless. “He was planning to use you as leverage. We intercepted him and then we—uh—took care of it.” 

“Waitwaitwait, what?” You gawked at them, still half-pinned in their aggressively apologetic group hug. “Took care of it how?”

Natasha was the first to break away, waving a glove hand like the details were irrelevant. “He’s not your problem anymore.”

You broke away from Sam and Steve and settled on the couch. Natasha dropped onto the couch beside you and wrapped an arm around your shoulders. “I’m sorry,” she murmured, guilt bleeding into her voice as she rested her head against yours with a sigh. 

You didn’t say anything. You just leaned into her, your cheek brushing against her hair, and let out a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. It wasn’t like she could’ve known. Sébastien had been slick enough to infiltrate S.H.I.E.L.D., no one would’ve known. 

You wanted to open your mouth to speak, but your brain had short-circuited somewhere between arms dealer and French mafia. So instead, you turned your head to the side and saw Bucky standing in the corner with the most ‘I fucking knew it’ expression on his face

“Wasn’t even that far off when I called him Le Chiffre,” Bucky muttered, crossing his arms with far too much satisfaction.

You turned away and blink at the dirt-speckled rug, your body slowly realizing that you had narrowly avoided being kidnapped by a knock-off Bond villain. “I… I need to process this.” 

“Yeah, you do,” Bucky replied flatly, already moving past the trio and into the kitchen like this was just another normal night. “I’ll get the tea. The British kind saved for special occasions.” He said smugly and you had to fight the urge to chuck the copy of Moby Dick at him that he left on the coffee table. 

Sam was pacing now, and Steve looked like he wanted to file a full incident report. Natasha was now leaning toward the coffee table, rummaging through your clutch for evidence like she was still on the clock. 

“I almost met up with a guy who sells rocket launchers,” you said numbly, brain melting at the realization. 

“And launders money,” Natasha added as she stood up and held out Sébastien’s burner phone like a prize.

“Awesome,” you breathed. “That’s awesome for me.” 

You stared blankly ahead, trying to process the absolute spiral your night had taken. Honestly, it could’ve been worse. He could’ve shown up to the date and whisked you off to a villa in the French countryside before selling you to one of his clients. 

Small victories. 

Bucky walked over and joined the group in the living room, wordless as ever. He handed you the promised cup of tea without ceremony, and you took a long sip. It was so hot that you were sure it burned your tongue, but you were too far numb to care. 

With a sigh that came from the very pit of your tired soul, you slumped back against the couch. “I’m never dating again,” you declared, utterly defeated. 

Bucky settled onto the far end of the couch next to Sam, who was giving you that sad, pitiful look like you were a wounded animal he wasn’t sure how to help. 

“Twenty bucks says you find another questionable character within the month,” Bucky said, sipping his own tea, face smug as ever. 

You didn’t even hesitate. You picked up Moby Dick from the coffee table and hurled it at him with all the strength of someone teetering on the edge. 

And of course. 

Of course. 

He caught it.

——————————————————————————————————

End notes:

Literally Bucky throughout this whole chapter

guys I’m sorry for not updating fast enough and for the long wait!!! I finally broke free from my writer’s block so let’s see how long this lasts.

I'm editing this AGAIN on tumblr so im sorry for the rebloggers... yall probably have different versions my bad