#ssb2020

Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy: Chapter 13 (Bucky Barnes x Reader) -- Nose Kisses

The Good Doctor (General) -- Dr. Abraham Erskine

DOTSPF: Chapter 1 (Bucky Barnes x Reader) -- Amnesia

DOTSPF: Chapter 6 (Bucky Barnes x Reader) -- Fake Dating

DOTSPF: Chapter 7 (Bucky Barnes x Reader) -- Hawkeye

DOTSPF: Chapter 11 (Bucky Barnes x Reader) -- “We may not be perfect but the safest hands are still our own.”

Accidents Happen (Bucky Barnes x Reader) -- Blind Date

Time Travel Hijinks (Bucky Barnes x Reader) -- Time Travel

DOTSPF: Chapter 5 (Bucky Barnes x Reader) -- Interacting with kids

DOTSPF: Chapter 8 (Bucky Barnes x Reader) -- Redwing

White Feathers and Melting Wax (Sam Wilson x Bucky Barnes) -- Mutual Pining

DOTSPF: Chapter 14 (Bucky Barnes x Reader) -- Love Confessions

The Greater Good (Sam Wilson x Bucky Barnes) -- Free Space

DOTSPF: Chapter 3 (Bucky Barnes x Reader) -- Bucky’s Safehouse

DOTSPF: Chapter 2 (Bucky Barnes x Reader) -- Car Accident

Bloody Hands (General) -- “Hey! Pick on someone your own size.”

Hidden Mischief (Bucky Barnes x Reader) -- Laughing during sex

DOTSPF: Chapter 12 (Bucky Barnes x Reader) -- “I’m turning into you. It’s like a horrible dream.”

Ache and Burn (Bucky Barnes x Reader) -- Filming themselves having sex

DOTSPF: Chapter 4 (Bucky Barnes x Reader) -- “They’re on the roof. I’m compromised.”

DOTSPF: Chapter 10 (Bucky Barnes x Reader) -- T’Challa

DOTSPF: Chapter 9 (Bucky Barnes x Reader) -- Gunshot Wound

Angel Love (Sam Wilson x Reader) -- Hallicarrier

Fly Home (General) -- Sam’s Wings

He turns his head to place a kiss on her head. “Hey, you,” he says into the quiet of the Wakandan sunrise.

“Good morning,” she answers, and leans to kiss his cheek, and he agrees. It is a good morning.

Wakanda has been a safe haven for Bucky and the non-compliant Avengers, in addition to the woman he has fallen for after his life-changing flight from Bucharest, for the past several months. They have, despite all resistance, started to settle, in each their own borrowed spaces. Steve and Sam rent a terrace house on the outskirts of the city, and she has an apartment nearby.

Bucky is the furthest from the royal palace, closest to the forest. He likes it that way. Initially, it was just to be permitted some peace of mind, away from the sounds of the city centre, and with a menial task in tending to goats, but when T’Challa offered a change of location, he politely declined.

He has made home of his little hut, now, and the goats are bigger, are more comfortable around him, too. They like her, as well, and she often gives the little ones the nose kisses they’re so fond of and accepts a few in return.

He’s rather fond of her kisses, too, even if they are given shyly and with some hesitance. Something stirs in his stomach at the memory of that first kiss, when he walked her back to her apartment after she showed him the first of the Star Wars films. Not chronologically, she keeps reminding him. They’ve made their way through the franchise since, but he has to admit he missed significant bits because he found other things to do during the movie. Like kiss her.

“Penny for your thoughts?” She asks, and he is, once again, amused at how opportune she is. Her timing is like nobody else’s. She appeared in Bucharest when he needed a friendly face, a stranger’s smile. She caught the newspapers and the accusations before he did and helped him escape, always knew just what to say. She woke up after taking a bullet to the stomach when he was floundering in conversation with Steve. Perfect timing.

“I was thinking about kissing you.”

She lifts her head off his shoulder, and he misses the gentle pressure, the light warmth. The new arm is far better than the other one. It isn’t as powerful, because he asked that Princess Shuri not design it as a weapon, and it detects warmth and pressure in as close a manner as Wakandan tech was capable of replicating. “Were you thinking about kissing me in general or about kissing me right now?” She asks with that glint in his eye that he lov-

“Both,” Bucky answers, nervous now. He’s never told her. Never fully understood the magnitude of his feeling until now, and it’s washing over him like a tidal wave. He loves her.

It isn’t like they portray in the movies or the books. No ton of bricks drops on him as the understanding dawns the way the sun rises. But it is a statement that feels strangely plain, laid bare in his healing mind like a given fact of existence.

A smirk, like she is seeing into his mind. “Any reason why?”

At any other time, Bucky would quip quit fishin’ for compliments, but now, he says, “Because I love you.” It’s said like it is a fact of the world, clear for all to see. And he imagines it is, too, with the way he looks at her. He’s surprised she’s surprised. Until she isn’t any longer, but her hand is reaching for his hair and her lips are inches from his.

Her smile is warm and burning with joy, and it is hard to accept that it is for him, right now. She sits on a stool, while he sits on the bed, and watches a baby goat bump against her knees, until she lifts a hand to pet it. The goat rubs its head deeper into her palm, and she leans down to place a kiss on the little animal’s snout. Bucky’s chest heats, and so do his cheeks.

“How are you feeling, Bucky?” She asks, as she continues to pet the baby goat. It is relishing the attention, and Bucky is feeling distinctly uncomfortable under the full force of her affectionate smile.

He tries to smile back, clears his throat. “I’m good. Really good.”

“Glad to hear it,” she answers, and then, pausing, looking away, and in a softer voice: “I missed you.”

“Thanks,” Bucky says, trying not to think of what that means. He knows he likes her more than he has any right to. What remains to be seen is how he handles that, and right now, while she is sitting in his hut so warm, a source of light, he is struggling to rationalize his restraints. So he asks, “What did you do while I was sleepin’?”

She shrugs. “Tried to weasel some intelligence out of Sam. I introduced Steve to Star Wars. You’re next,” and Bucky imagines taking her out the way he used to take out girls a long time ago. Dark cinema halls afforded by saving all the money that wasn’t spent on Steve, small hands in his, red kisses on cheeks, sneaking longer ones on street corners. He wants that, or whatever variant of it he can be permitted with you now.

The realization jolts him. It sets something quaking in his stomach, and he watches as she takes him in with brazen, unafraid eyes. That fierce scrutiny, that unabashed observation is what must make her so damn good at her job. Not that she has the chance to practice those skills right now.

On the other hand, Bucky does have the chance to practice reclaiming himself now that his head is rid of what Hydra put in it, and he starts by talking to someone he wants to get to know better, so he takes a chance and winks. “Look forward to it.”

And the answering smirk and accompanying glimmer in her eyes is worth that leap of faith. The goat bumps her legs again and she leans down to kiss it on the nose, but the goat manages to lick her nose, before she can. She giggles and then laughs, and soon, Bucky is laughing, too.

-----

Dusk is on the horizon when she leaves, and he walks her to the edge of his little field, stands at the gate in his red robe and watches as she rolls forward on the balls of her feet. Bucky thinks she might be nervous. For what, he can’t imagine.

She isn’t saying anything, so Bucky starts, “Thanks for checking up on me.”

“Of course,” she replies, surprised, as though it is a given that she would be concerned about his wellbeing. Her lips are soft and plump and it is taking everything in Bucky to supress this newfound courage that is telling him to go with the flow and kiss her.

“I was serious about that movie,” Bucky tells her, and her eyes widen, offended that he would think she wasn’t being serious.

“Be ready at seven tomorrow night, then. I’ll pick you up,” she says, the anxiety from before gone in the wind with the mention of a movie. This is easy. Living, without fear for becoming something you’re not. Living, rather than just surviving.

Quite the contrary. Bucky kisses you sweetly, clutching your face in his large hands, metal smooth on one side and gun- and knife-roughened palm on the other. You shiver as the gold ridges in his vibranium hand catch on your skin and graze the line of your jaw, and take a moment to breathe, saying, “Bucky? What are we doing here?”

He nuzzles into you, nose grazing the soft stretch of skin below your ear, placing a gentle kiss on your neck. It’s too dark to see him, but you trace the outline of his face with shaking fingertips. “Isn’t it obvious, angel?” He asks, his hot breath hitting your skin. “I’m seducing you?”

“All this effort for little ol’ me?” You murmur in a gasp as his teeth find the hollow of your throat, where he bites hard enough to make you keen, but soft enough that he won’t leave a mark. In response, he walks you backward into a shelf.

Your sweatshirt is taken off with hasty movements, and you tug at the hem of his sweater in sharp motions. When he doesn’t break away from placing wet kisses over the tops of your breasts, you use that super strength that got you recruited to tear it off. He pauses. You can imaging his gaze on yours but can’t see it, and you’re worried for a second until he hoists you up and puts you in a shelf.

Bottles of what you think are cleaning liquids go toppling, and you freeze with Bucky’s hands on your waist and his on your shoulders. There are voices outside, in the hallway. Bucky is close enough that you can see the cerulean glow of his petrified eyes in the light filtering in from under the locked door. That’s when you lose it.

It starts with a giggle that you try to tamp down behind bitten lips, and then by kissing away the worry, but soon you are shaking with laughter, and have to bury your face in his shoulder, breathing in the sweat-salt scent of your boyfriend, until he is smiling into the crook of your neck, too.

Outside, Nat is saying, “Did you hear that?”

“It’s probably nothing,” Sam says, privy to their secret and you can hear the strain of desperation in his voice. He really isn’t much of a spy, but Nat decides to leave it be, and soon, they’re gone.

Bucky recovers first, trailing his tongue from the top of your bra to just below your jaw, while his hand makes short work of your jeans and removes them to trail up your inner thigh. You’re still delirious from the fear of near-discovery when he covers your lips with his, and you form a smile against his mouth as his hands find your underwear.

“Bucky,” you murmur, smile leaving your face to be replaced by a muted moan as his thumb strokes over your clit and he gently works one thick finger inside your velvet folds. You’re soaking wet and he’s barely gotten started, now moving his finger inside of you with slow thrusts that have you arching towards him.

He takes a break from exploring your mouth to groan into your neck, hard against your inner thigh and trying to be patient and gentle. “Easy, darlin’. Don’t want the others to know we’re in here, do you?”

So you stifle the next moan in his mouth by leaning to kiss him, mouths bumping clumsily in the dark and then latching on. His skin is tight and strong under your fingers, and you trace the joint between metal and flesh on his left shoulder with a delicate caress. He shudders and gives you another finger, opening you up to him, not that you need much more of his work. You’re ready.

His pants come off with quick flicks off your wrists and as he steps out of them, he bumps into a broom – how does Tony design a hypermodern superhero complex and still need physical brooms? – and it falls to the ground with a clatter.

But you’re in too much of a hurry to care, and Bucky rips off your underwear with a strong tug, pulls you closer and then works his cock into you slowly, until he is buried in you, to the hilt. The feeling is magnanimous, and you hold him close to you, your arms around his shoulders in an intimate embrace, breathing into his ear.

He smells like sweat and your perfume and his cologne, and you breathe him in deep, then roll forward, and he growls. Pulls out until just the tip is in you and then pushes forward to bury himself in you again, and you gasp, your hands finding a home in his hair, drawing all the hair out of the bun he had it tied in previously.

“Shhh, baby,” he urges again, saying, “Can’t have the others runnin’ in here.” And then there’s a pause, and his voice drops into a wicked whisper. “Or is that what you want? You want everyone to know how good I love you, is that it, baby doll?” The words are muttered sharply into your shoulder, accompanied by deep, rolling thrusts that build the ache in your belly until you are a writhing mass of want, as he keeps talking. “If that’s what you want, I’ll give it to you, honey. You won’t walk right for days and they’ll all know,” he murmurs.

His hands finds your clit again and your walls flutter around him. Bucky is big and you are so full, so sensitive, you can feel every ridge and vein graze your walls as you roll forward in tandem with his thrusts.

The finger on your clit moves in sharp circles and your toes curl where your feet are locked behind his back as he thrusts. The pace becomes frenzied as he gets closer to release and the fireworks waiting behind your eyelids explode, the dark growing white hot as you come around him, feeling him swell inside you before he comes, too, in fast, shallow thrusts, emptying himself inside of you.

Peppering kisses across his shoulders, you breathe deep and slow, willing your heartrate to return to normal while your fingertips seek out his wrists to feel his pulse slow. He twists his hand to catch yours, and your fingers intertwine.

The air smells like cleaning supplies and sex.

Someone tries the door handle.

You and Bucky let go of each other’s hands but stay close, still bare to the skin and thrumming with electric fire.

You go lower, drawing out the moment with fingertips grazing down his chest and he opens his eyes when he can no longer feel your breath against his skin. That will soon change, as well. His combat pants are removed with swift tugs of your hands and before he knows it, you are cupping him, stroking him over his underwear and he is struggling to speak, to breathe right, with the battle adrenaline still in his veins.

There is a smudge of blood on his cheek and he looks as beautiful as ever, light glimmering like diamonds on his skin, and he is so, so gorgeous. His eyes are dark, sweet depths of love, and they close when you take off the last layer preventing you from getting to his skin.

Sam Wilson looks at you like he might die if you don’t get your mouth on him right now, his chest heaving and lips red from your prior attentions, so you lean forward and take his tip into your mouth. Already leaking, seeping desire, the taste is salty-sweet, and your swirl your tongue around him, dragging it up the slit, and he bucks forward, but you hold him back by the hips.

The sound he releases is a growling protest, and to make up for the restriction, you guide his hands to your head. He holds you tenderly, your winged lover, thumbs at your temples and fingertips stroking a feather-soft symphony against your cheeks, so you take him in deeper, hollow your cheeks, tuck a thumb in a fist tightly to suppress the gag that him hitting the back of your throat would otherwise elicit.

Sam sighs heavy into the empty air, and the air rushes past outside the windows, where there is blue sky and only the cotton clouds to watch the show you are putting on. The weight of Sam is thick on your tongue, and you move up and down, raise a hand to roll his balls in one hand, and bring the other between your thighs to relieve some tension under your tactical gear. The hallicarrier thrums below you.

He tastes brilliant, and the memories of smoke in your lungs and ash in the air when they building you were in began burning soon disappears in favor of this treat you are being given. Your man tastes good, and he gives it to you just as well, and your eyes close to relish it when Sam talks, his voice ragged.

“No, honey. I want to see your eyes,” he says, tight with the strain of not giving in to the pleasure you want him to succumb to. That won’t do. You want him to free himself, you want him to feel the same ecstasy, that drop of his stomach that you know he experiences while soaring in the sky.

Right now, you are soaring, high on the joy you are giving your partner, and your movements intensify, trying to take him further, the ache in your jaw growing stronger. You work with fervor, and Sam moans, thrusts his hips forward and spills into your mouth, bittersweet salt and honey-dew thick.

You swallow it all down and then remove him from your mouth, now oversensitive and softening. He smiles down at you, breathless, and pulls you up by the hands. Sam keeps a hold of them as you lean forward, and places a tender kiss on a knuckle on each hand. You lean against him, and he kisses you gently, softly, and you sway in the Captain’s bedroom in the hallicarrier, as it continues to its destination.

That’s why he doesn’t flee when the maître d’ guides you to the table, although your shock is written all over your face. Instead, he stands, as he was raised to, takes your hand and plants a kiss on the back of it, and pulls out your chair as though this is all normal. He’s glad the restaurant isn’t too formal, because he fears he might have suffocated in a tie. As it is, he loosens the top button on his button down, folds his hands atop the table, and watches you adjust the neck of your dress.

The silence is stunning. Before either of you can break it – not that there was much chance of that happen quickly as neither of you could come up with anything to say – a waiter approaches, with menus in hand and an offer for drinks. You ask for water, and so does Bucky.

The air trembles with anticipation. You watch Bucky with hooded eyes, and he works up the courage to speak. “How do you know Clint?” He manages.

“Sokovia,” is your simple answer, and you continue to scrutinize himself, until he figures, he might as well address the elephant in the room.

“I had no idea Clint was going to set me up with you,” Bucky says nervously.

You laugh drily. “That’s why it’s called a blind date, honey,” you joke, and Bucky thinks you’re flirting.

You wink at him and he gulps nervously. “You can leave, if you want,” he says, and you smile, baring teeth.

“If I leave, I’m taking you with me. I haven’t forgotten last time,” you tell him, and the memories flood Bucky’s mind. Suddenly, all he can think of is that borrowed bed in Kiev, and how much he misses the warmth of you on him, and then he is standing, looking at you with a fiery gaze that you return in equal measure with a deceptively relaxed smile. The years have changed you enough that you are comfortable playing like this. He, however, is no.

“Bathroom,” Bucky says, and heads for the back of restaurant, hoping you’ll follow. Two minutes later, you round the hallway to the restrooms, and he grabs your hand, heading to the men’s room.

It’s empty, thank God, and soon, you’re in a cubicle, and Bucky fumbles to lock the door as your mouth finds his under the glaring yellow lights. He wishes he had a bed to take you to, the way he did in Kiev, but he thinks he’ll make up for it. He remembers laying in that bed later that night, your scent still clinging to the pillows, wishing he had kissed you a little longer, had relished the taste of you a little more.

In the cubicle, he resolves to do that now. He cradles your face tenderly, pressing you into the wall, glad to be in a corner stall, feeling every inch of your perfect warmth against him, and he kisses you the way he couldn’t back in Ukraine. The way he didn’t know how to, because all he wanted was to feel warm, and he was just in a hurry to find that heat of pleasure for you and for him before you left like all the good things he couldn’t remember.

He’s a different man now. Still wears rings – an onyx band, criss-crossed with silver in a snakeskin pattern rests on his right ring finger – but they’re no longer a desperate attempt to give himself something that Hydra wouldn’t. Everything he does is his own, no longer driven by spite or against something bad, but rather for something good.

You are also something good, arching into his touch, your hands finding their way into Bucky’s shorter hair as you open your mouth to him. The taste of you is electrifying, peppermint sharp and sweet, and Bucky explores it like a man starved. He kisses like it is the last thing he’ll ever do, and the only thing he’ll ever do, taking his time, tongue laving over yours and lips pressing and lifting, gentle but intense all at once.

Bucky loves kissing, and he really, really likes the taste of you, and he wants to see if the other parts he remembers are just as good as they are in his broken brain. He’s a little more whole now, a little more holy, but his sacred hands shudder as the leave your jaw to hold your waist and he kisses his way down your neck.

Your collarbone is sweaty and soon spit-slicked as he bites a mark into place just below where your dress will cover, while you nibble at his ear lobe and gasp a crescendo into his ears.

His bent knees buckle to kneel at your feet, and your hands find his hair again. Bucky lifts your dress and then freezes. The door to the bathroom has just opened. Someone enters, and your eyes lock with Bucky’s in hilarious horror as the person uses the urinal, the sink, and then leaves.

Bucky’s head tips forward to your stomach as he huffs a sigh of relief against your bare skin, dress still hoisted and held at your waist by his hands. When you giggle, the sound is suppressed behind your hand, until Bucky looks up to meet your eyes and you laugh at his raised eyebrows and the unamused set of his lips.

You don’t stop laughing, so he decides to do something about it. Turns out, placing sharp kisses and small bites on the insides of your thighs is a good way to turn that laughter into a shaking gasp, a small moan. You bite these sounds back to the best of your ability but Bucky is relentless, seeking the haven between your thighs with a fierce mouth.

He’s cautious about his stubble, in a manner he didn’t have the foresight to be before, but you seem to enjoy it, arching your hips towards him with encouraging sounds. Bucky finds himself a bit braver for it. “You like that, sweetheart? I’ll give it to you, make you feel good,” he murmurs lowly, hoisting one of your legs over his shoulder and opening you up to him.

Your folds are covered in arousal, and Bucky looks up to find that you have closed your eyes and leaned your head back and are biting your lip in a desperate effort to keep silent and still, and on any other occasion, he would’ve tried to loosen you up, get you to release those inhibitions, had wanted you to let out the sounds of ecstasy, but lamentably, this is not the place for that.

So he traces your opening with a finger, and watches you buck towards it, before slipping it in and then taking your clit into his mouth. His cock is hard in his jeans, and he wants you so bad, but he’ll have you somewhere much better than a restaurant bathroom, soon. Right now, all he wants is to show you even a trace of the pleasure you gave him that morning several years ago. He wants to show he’s capable of more than lusting after you once that urge has been sated, and he wants to show you he dreamt of you and your smile for months, and that you have haunted him for so long.

Your desperate movements increase in frequency and Bucky increases the pace of his hand so you are coming with a muted gasp, a swallowed moan, your arousal on Bucky’s tongue, leaving his hand and his mouth slick and sweet with the taste of you.

You are quivering when he kisses your trembling body, and when he stands again, you take his hand and lick your juices from his fingers. He surges forward to grind himself against you as you kiss the back of his knuckles, your smoldering eyes meeting his.

So now, they are all hunched over the breakfast nook, the gigantic dinner table, the kitchen island and counters, decorating their own cookies. Bucky, having completed half a dozen Mrs. Clauses, watches you from across the kitchen island. He leans over it, chin resting on his elbows and eyes fixated on the three-dimensional structure you are coating with deep blue icing.

You have been explaining the premise of the TARDIS and its owner for the umpteenth time since he’s known you, your face mostly hidden behind the TARDIS you have built out of gingerbread. Tony’s skepticism at your ability to make it from scratch faded away when it came out of the oven. It’s standing now, and you are considering whether or not to dry it quicker with a blow dryer as you apply icing to the last wall.

“So, he doesn’t die,” Bucky prods, and he sees the edges of your eyebrows lower slightly.

“She. She’s a woman now,” you correct, straightening up when you’re done. “The Doctor regenerates into a new body.”

“Like James Bond,” he ventures, and you nod. Not lifting his head from where it is resting atop his folded arms, he watches you raise your arms high.

Having decided to let the TARDIS dry naturally, you turn to a trio of bow-tie shaped cookies and reach for a pack of red icing “Yeah, except they don’t acknowledge that the body changes as the actor does in the Bond movies. In Doctor Who, we see the Doctor transform.”

Bucky nods, squinting when a lock of hair, having slipped out of his bun, falls in front of his eyes – his hands are comfortable and warm and he can’t be bothered to tuck it back into place. “And she travels in that box you’re making.”

“It’s a telephone booth, except it’s actually a time machine that the Doctor travels in disguised as a telephone booth,” you reply, making quick work of the cookies. Peter has finished his spiders and is watching the conversation with interest while Nat sneaks some red hourglass designs onto his cookies.

The concept of the time machine really does intrigue Bucky, because he grew up a fan of these futuristic concepts. The Stark Expo is one of his favorite memories, if the unfortunate weight of being shipped off the next day wasn’t on his shoulders the whole time. “That’s so cool.”

You look up from the last bow-tie, and squint at him, and he imagines it’s because cool just isn’t enough to describe the wondrous phenomenon that is Doctor Who. One thing that he loves about you is how passionate you are about all that you love. You don’t do anything half-heartedly, no matter what the issue at hand is, whether it’s a hobby like Doctor Who, or in regard to your job as senior mechanic after Tony retired from that post. You’ll repair and upgrade the Avengers quinjet with as much enthusiasm as you give your favorite show. Any job done by you is done thoroughly.

The same applies to introduce Bucky to this show. “Okay, I think the problem is that you haven’t actually seen the show. You need to watch it. It’s no fun if I’m just explaining it.” You tell him, reaching across the kitchen island to push the loose strand of hair back on Bucky’s head. A chill goes through his spine when your fingertips graze his scalp, and he sits up, then crosses his arms.

The wish to lean over and plant a kiss on your icing-red lips is strong, but he isn’t one for PDA, even if every person in the room knows you’re together. That affection is for your eyes only. So instead, he crosses his arms and tilts his head, questioning, “You want me to catch up on a 57-year-old show. How many episodes is that?” Because, he loves you, but he doesn’t know if that devotion extends to watching 57 years’ worth of Time Lord hijinks.

“I don’t have the patience to find you the old cassettes of the original, so we’ll just have to get you started on the rebooted version. The show stopped airing for a while and then was rebooted in 2005, with the 9th Doctor,” you answer, gleeful, and pull up the holographic TV embedded in the kitchen table. The people sitting at the table – Steve, Rhodey, and Pepper – all groan with annoyance, while Sam and Nat look on, amused and anticipating Bucky’s reaction.

Peter and Tony, both fans, are gleeful, whereas Clint, crouched on the floor beside Lucky and Morgan to keep them from gobbling all the cookies, is bored.

“Who’s the Doctor right now?” Bucky asks.

“Jodie Whittaker plays the 13th Doctor,” Peter informs as you find the correct season.

When the poster comes up for the first season of the reboot, he asks, “And who’s this?” A question that is, of course, fairly pointless, as Bucky is still unfamiliar with most modern actors.

“Chris Eccleston. He’s amazing,” you say, as if you don’t think they’re all amazing. In the short time that you have been together, Bucky has gathered that you are a massive sci-fi fan. This is visible in the glow on your face as the episode starts, and your smile widens.

When you sit down, you are humming the theme tune under your breath, telling your other teammates to shhhhh. Pepper and Steve have resumed talking shop, albeit quietly, while Rhodey is slipping Morgan her fourth cookie under the table.