#stan

✦ Pairing: husband!bucky barnes x wife!reader ✦ Genre: fluff, domestic married life, comedy, soft angst turned mush ✦ Summary: newlyweds you and Bucky get into your first dumb fight, and you decide to ignore him. He doesn’t take it well.

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You weren’t even sure what started it. Something small, something stupid. You’d been married less than six months, and it wasn’t even a fight so much as a flare of stubbornness that lit up between the two of you.

“You never listen,” you’d muttered, folding your arms after he rolled his eyes about how you loaded the dishwasher.

“Because you do it the wrong way,” he’d said with this infuriating shrug, like it was fact, not opinion.

And that was that. You stopped talking to him.

Bucky noticed immediately. At first, he thought you were joking. When you turned your head in silence as he leaned down to kiss your cheek, he blinked, confused.

“Uh… doll?”

Nothing.

“Sweetheart, c’mon, what is this?”

Still nothing.

It wasn’t until you walked right past him without a glance, grabbing your phone and curling up on the couch like he wasn’t even in the room, that realization dawned.

“Oh, you’ve got to be kiddin’ me,” he muttered under his breath. “She’s givin’ me the silent treatment.”

The Winter Soldier, feared assassin, man who’d survived wars and Hydra’s torture chambers, could take a bullet without blinking but his wife not talking to him? That, apparently, was his breaking point.

The first hour, he hovered “You’re really not gonna talk to me?” he asked, leaning over the couch. “Over a dishwasher?”

Nothing.

“Doll, I fought Nazis. I fought aliens. You think I’m afraid of a little silence? Hah.”

The way he checked your face every thirty seconds gave him away.

The second hour, he started bribing you “Hey, uh, I ordered Thai food. Extra spring rolls. For you.”

You nodded thanks to the delivery guy, not to Bucky.

He narrowed his eyes. “Okay. That’s how we’re playin’ this.”

The third hour, he upped the dramatics.

You found him in the kitchen, standing with a bouquet of sunflowers he’d somehow gotten delivered. He held them like a man making a last plea.

“Look, I panicked,” he admitted, pushing the flowers toward you. “They didn’t have roses, and I thought maybe sunflowers are brighter, and you love bright things, and I love you, so—”

You took the flowers, set them in water, and walked away. Without a word.

“Jesus Christ,” he groaned, dragging a hand down his face.

By dinner, he was a wreck.

You were scrolling your phone at the table, eating calmly. He hadn’t touched his plate. He just sat there, chin in his hand, staring at you like a kicked puppy.

“Sweetheart,” he said softly, like the word itself might save him. “Please. Just yell at me or somethin’. Don’t just… not talk. I can’t—” He broke off, sighing. “I can’t stand it.”

You raised an eyebrow but stayed silent.

That night, when you went to bed, you half expected him to sulk on the couch. But when you slid under the covers, you felt the mattress dip, then a heavy arm wrap around your waist.

“Not lettin’ you sleep without me,” he mumbled against your neck. “Not happenin’.”

You didn’t push him away. But you didn’t answer either.

He groaned dramatically, tightening his hold. “Doll, this is torture. Actual torture. You could stab me and it’d hurt less. Say somethin’. Anything. Please.”

Still, you stayed quiet.

The next morning, you woke up to a surprise.

Coffee brewed, pancakes on the table, bacon crisped just right. Bucky stood there in an apron that read “Kiss the Cook,” holding a mug out toward you.

“I googled ‘how to apologize to your wife after being a stubborn jackass,’” he confessed sheepishly. “This was step three. Step four was jewelry, but I thought maybe that was overkill.”

You bit back a smile, taking the coffee without a word.

Bucky’s eyes widened like he might actually die on the spot. “You’re killin’ me here. I’m not kiddin’, sweetheart, I’m losin’ years off my life. Just tell me I’m an idiot. Tell me you hate me. Tell me the sky is blue. I don’t care what it is, just—say something.”

You let the silence stretch, sipping your coffee with exaggerated calm.

Finally, his jaw set, and he stomped over, grabbing your face in both hands.

“Fine. You wanna play hardball? Then listen up.” His voice cracked just slightly. “I can’t stand when you’re mad at me. I hate it. It makes me feel like I can’t breathe. You don’t talk to me, and it’s like I’m right back where I used to be—alone. And I can’t—” He stopped, swallowing hard. “I can’t go back to that. Not with you. So if I gotta beg, if I gotta crawl, if I gotta spend every day provin’ I’ll never take you for granted—I’ll do it. But don’t shut me out, sweetheart. Please.”

You blinked up at him, stunned by the rawness in his voice.

And then, finally, you smiled. “You’re ridiculous.”

Bucky froze. Then his face broke into the brightest grin you’d ever seen. “She speaks!”

“You are ridiculous,” you repeated, smacking his chest lightly. “Flowers, pancakes, puppy eyes? All because I didn’t talk to you for one day?”

“One day too long,” he said seriously, before crushing you into his chest. “Don’t ever do that again. My heart can’t take it.”

“You’re such a drama queen,” you teased, laughing into his shirt.

“Drama king,” he corrected smugly, pressing kisses all over your face. “Mr. Barnes, drama king, husband of the year whatever you wanna call me, doll, I’ll take it, as long as you’re talkin’ to me again.”

You rolled your eyes, but your smile gave you away. And when he kissed you again, soft and slow and so very Bucky, you decided maybe next time you’d let him win an argument faster.

After all, watching your super-soldier husband unravel like that? Kind of adorable.

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💌 tagged babies under the cut 💌