#widow! reader

The voice landed just behind him, low and casual, but it cut through him like a wire snap.

Bucky didn’t flinch. The old reflexes had dulled under the weight of years and missions and too many lives lived with his back to the wall. But he did close his eyes, slow and deliberate, like someone had tossed a brick at the back of his skull and he was giving himself a second to absorb the impact.

He exhaled quietly through his nose, then cracked the cold brew open with a sharp snap. He didn’t look over.

“Christ, Yelena,” he muttered, tone dry. “Do you have to sneak up on people?”

“Not people. Just you,” she said, shifting into view as she leaned her hip against the counter. Her arms were crossed and her smirk was fully loaded. “You brood better when ambushed.”

Bucky took a sip. The coffee was bitter. Sharp. Burned all the way down. He didn’t like it, but he didn’t spit it out either. Some things were easier to accept than change. Hell, maybe that was just muscle memory, too: drinking what you don’t want, feeling what you don’t act on.

“I’m not brooding,” he said, voice low.

Yelena raised a brow. “Sure. You always stand in communal kitchen at eight in the morning, staring longingly at people while holding coffee you do not like. Totally normal behavior.”

His jaw flexed but he didn’t rise to the bait. Instead he kept his eyes fixed on the scratched rim of the aluminum can.

“Are you done?”

“No. Not even close,” she said, her voice tipping with mock innocence. She tilted her chin in your direction, where you still stood across the room, laughing with Alexei. “You gonna tell her?”

He said nothing. The silence stretched, heavy but familiar.

“Right,” Yelena continued, unbothered. “Of course not. Why risk it when you can suffer silent in corner? Very healthy strategy.”

“It’s not like that,” he said.

And it wasn’t, not really. It wasn’t about fear, he just knew better. He knew all the things he was and all the things he wasn’t. He knew the way his history walked into every room before he did. You deserved peace. Something easy.

“It is exactly like that,” Yelena replied, her voice sharp with amusement. “You act like looking at her too long will collapse timeline.”

He shot her a sidelong glance, dry. “You done now?”

“Almost,” she said, clearly enjoying herself. “She is still single, by the way. In case you were waiting on official mission report.”

His answer came before he could think better of it.

“I know.”

Yelena blinked. A flash of real surprise crossed her face before the grin returned, curling at the corners of her mouth like she’d just uncovered a classified file.

“So you have been paying attention.”

Bucky berated himself silently for the slip, but his silence spoke volumes.

“And,” she added, too casually, like tossing a grenade with the pin still in, “she likes you.”

That made him pause just enough for his grip to tighten minutely on the can. Something sharp and unsteady flickered low in his chest. It was almost like hope, but felt older and more brittle.

He didn’t look up. He kept his eyes on the table, the rim of the can, the way condensation had already started to bead on the metal.

“You don’t know that.”

“I do,” she said simply. “I am observant. And nosy. Lethal combo.”

“You think you know.”

“I know I know.” Her voice dropped just slightly, losing some of its teasing edge. “You really think she does not notice when you look at her like she is sunlight and you have lived underground for last decade?”

He stayed quiet, because the accuracy of her statement struck him. That’s exactly what it felt like. It wasn’t anything as simple as lust or even longing. It was a bone-deep ache of warmth, held just out of reach. He was a man half-frozen who didn’t dare step into the sun, afraid it would burn or disappear.

“You could try, you know,” Yelena said gently. “Something new. Like... hope.”

He looked at her then, neither annoyed nor amused. In fact, he felt just a little bit grateful for the encouragement in a quiet way he didn’t know how to say.

She winked. “Just a thought.”

Then she turned and left, disappearing down the hallway with the lazy swagger of someone who’d just finished her part of a mission and left him holding the mess.

Bucky stood there, the cold can sweating in his hand. The fridge still buzzed. Someone’s footsteps echoed in the corridor. The coffee still tasted like shit.

And then you looked up, like you’d felt the shift in the air.

Your eyes met his and you smiled, soft and easy.

He felt a fuse light somewhere deep in his chest again, low and stupid and warm… and maybe a little dangerous, too.

Maybe.

Maybe this year... he could try.

*****

It started with a simple goal: Don’t make a fool of yourself.

That was it. One rule, one manageable objective. For a brief, naïve moment, it had felt achievable and logical. Keep his head down, do something small and quiet that didn’t draw attention or require too many words. He’d survived wars, brainwashing, and government-sanctioned messes with worse odds than this.

But now Bucky sat in the Watchtower common room, shoulders tense, spine rigid, watching his dignity unravel under harsh fluorescent lighting. And that goal was already in tatters.

The room smelled faintly of burnt coffee and industrial cleaner, the furniture worn in from constant use. It was supposed to be a neutral space, a place to decompress. Instead, it felt like an interrogation room with couches.

Yelena Belova had unsurprisingly invited herself into his plans. She had a gift for sniffing out emotional vulnerability and poking at it until something happened. John Walker, on the other hand, had gotten involved by accident. Or maybe fate had a sick sense of humor. He’d overheard Bucky muttering to himself in the kitchen, latched onto the word Valentine, and declared himself part of “Operation Old Man Valentine” before Bucky could shut him down.

So here they were.

Yelena lounged on the couch across from him, tossing grapes into her mouth like popcorn at a movie. Walker sat beside her, sprawled out with confidence.

“So,” Yelena began, voice bright with impending disaster, “what is Big Plan?”

Bucky narrowed his eyes. “Don’t say it like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like it’s a hit job.”

She shrugged, utterly unfazed. “It kind of is a hit job.”

John grinned, boots thudding onto the coffee table. “Yeah, you’re hitting her… with romance.”

Yelena’s face twisted in immediate disgust. “That was vile. Don’t ever say that again.”

John lifted his hands in surrender. “I’m just trying to help, Belova.”

“Try harder.”

Bucky let his head drop into his hands, fingers pressing into his temples. The familiar pressure grounded him and kept the spiral at bay. “This was a mistake,” he muttered.

“No,” Yelena said quickly, leaning forward now, all teasing replaced by focus. “No, do not do that. You like her. She likes you. You just need gesture. Something simple. Old-fashioned.” She smirked. “Like you.”

He shot her a sidelong look. “Thanks.”

“Wasn’t a compliment.”

He rolled his eyes and exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. The words felt heavier out loud, like admitting them gave them too much power. “I was thinking… maybe flowers. Nothing dramatic. Just… simple.”

John nodded immediately. “Flowers are solid. Real Valentine’s stuff.”

Yelena tilted her head, considering. “Hm. Safe. Maybe too safe.”

Bucky looked away, jaw tightening. Safe had kept him alive most of his life. Safe was familiar. Safe didn’t break things or people. But it also didn’t feel like enough, and that scared him more than he wanted to admit.

He sighed. This was what he got for trying.

Clearing his throat, he spoke more quietly, like the idea might bolt if he said it too loudly. “I thought maybe… I could cook something.”

Yelena froze mid-grape.

John’s eyebrows climbed.

“I can cook,” Bucky added, a little too quickly.

Yelena leaned forward, eyes narrowing with surgical precision. “Your fridge has one sad peanut butter jar and expired protein shakes. Cook what, exactly?”

He looked between them, expression flat, voice steady by force of will. “I can follow a recipe.”

“Debatable,” Yelena muttered.

He let out a slow breath, surprised he’d made it that far without bailing. Then, quieter still, like he was testing the words for landmines: “And then maybe… I ask her to be my valentine.”

They stared at him.

“That’s it?” John asked.

Bucky stiffened, shoulders squaring on instinct. “What do you mean, that’s it?”

Yelena picked up where John left off, relentless. “I mean, what are you going to say? You can not just throw lasagna at her and grunt.”

John snapped his fingers. “Do a poem. Girls love poetry.”

Bucky pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes closing. “Absolutely not.”

“Oh, come on,” John whined. “It doesn’t even have to rhyme.”

“I said no,” Bucky muttered, pushing to his feet before they could pile on. “I’m ordering flowers.”

“Make sure they are not weak,” Yelena called after him. “Nothing that says ‘please love me despite sad man energy.’”

He paused in the doorway, turning slowly. “That’s exactly the energy I have.”

Yelena smiled, unrepentant. “Yes. Hide that.”

He left to the sound of their laughter echoing behind him.

The next hour found Bucky hunched over his laptop at his desk in his room, scowling at an online flower shop like it had personally insulted his lineage.

There were too many options, too many colors, too many meanings he didn’t understand or trust. Red felt loud and demanding. White was sterile and funeral-adjacent (or wedding, which was somehow worse). Yellow meant friendship, apparently, which felt like the opposite of the point. Blue didn’t even look real.

He muttered to himself under his breath, fingers hovering over the trackpad like he was planning a breach.

“Okay. Classic roses,” he said quietly. “Safe. Red’s too much. White’s weird. Pink is…”

He stopped.

Soft.

Not weak, but gentle. Not flashy, but quiet. You’d notice pink roses because they were there, steady and warm. Kind of like—

You.

He stared at the screen longer than necessary, chest tight, pulse ticking loud in his ears. He clicked out of the page, then immediately reopened it and ordered the pink roses before he could overthink himself into paralysis.

After that, he bookmarked a lasagna recipe. From scratch.

It felt reckless. Stupid, even.

It also felt like the bravest thing he’d tried to do in a long time.

*****

Bucky woke up unreasonably early on Valentine’s Day.

He woke up with a tight chest and the sense that he’d already failed something important, even though nothing had technically happened yet. The digital clock on his nightstand glowed an accusing 5:12AM He lay there for a moment, staring at the ceiling, listening to the quiet hum of the building.

He knew sleep wasn’t happening again today.

So he got up, showered, and stood in front of the mirror longer than he wanted to admit. He’d combed his hair once. Then again. He shaved with careful, methodical strokes like it required absolute precision. He even sprayed cologne, one quick press, because that felt like the right amount of effort.

The scent bloomed around him, sharp and expensive and very wrong. It was too much, too intentional, and he stared at his reflection like it might tell him how to undo it.

“Great,” he muttered. “I smell like a midlife crisis.”

He cracked the windows open despite the cold, pacing the length of the room while the winter air crept in, cutting through the cloying scent. His vibrainium arm hummed faintly as he moved, a familiar counterpoint to the restless energy crawling under his skin.

On his dresser sat the flowers.

Or rather, what remained of them.

The pink roses had looked fine last night. They were soft, gentle, and hopeful. He’d placed them carefully in a glass vase, adjusted the stems, even Googled how much water they needed. He’d gone to bed thinking, Okay. This part is handled.

Now they looked like they’d spent the night in a bar fight and lost.

Bucky stopped short in front of the dresser and his stomach dropped. “No, no, no—” he murmured, leaning in closer.

The petals were curling inward, edges browned and brittle. The leaves drooped like they’d given up any semblance of effort. When he touched one bloom, a petal slid off and landed silently on the wood.

He stared at it, horrified. “Come on,” he groaned, carefully lifting the flowers out of the vase one by one. “I just bought you.”

They wilted further in his hands, pathetic and uncooperative. He’d handled explosives that were more stable than this.

From the doorway came a voice, entirely too awake.

“They are dead,” Yelena said cheerfully. “Like your dreams.”

He turned to find her leaning against the frame, sipping coffee like this was the highlight of her morning. Her hair was a mess, her chin-length locks tangled without care, and she was wearing socks with cartoon dogs on them, grinning, oblivious creatures who clearly had no romantic anxieties.

“Did you do something to them?” Bucky asked, narrowing his eyes.

She gasped, scandalized. “You think I would sabotage sad little romantic quest?”

“Yes.”

She considered that. “Okay, fair. But not this time.”

He looked back at the flowers, jaw tight.

“I can’t give her these,” he said quietly. “She’ll think I ripped them out of a trash bin.”

“True,” Yelena agreed immediately, already tapping away at her phone. “John knows a florist. I will send him.”

Bucky stiffened. “John—? No. Absolutely not. I don’t trust John to order coffee, let alone flowers.”

“You shouldn’t,” she said brightly. “But he is already on way.”

He stared at her, deadpan. “It’s eight in the morning.”

“I woke him at six,” she replied without a hint of remorse. “We are all hands on deck for you.”

Something warm and uncomfortable twisted in his chest. He didn’t say anything for a moment, just stood there with dead flowers in his hands and a knot of nerves tightening behind his ribs. Part of him wanted to tell her to stop, that this was ridiculous, that he didn’t need help.

Another part, quieter, older, and more honest, felt something dangerously close to gratitude.

He wasn’t used to people stepping in and caring enough to make it their problem. It made him uneasy in the way kindness always did, like he didn’t quite know where to put it or whether he deserved it.

“Thanks,” he muttered finally, the word rough and understated.

Yelena glanced at him over the rim of her cup, catching it anyway. Her smile softened a fraction.

“Don’t be sentimental,” she said. “It is alarming.”

He huffed a weak breath, shaking his head. The entire situation was utterly mortifying, but also, he now somehow less alone than he’d been when he woke up.

He set the ruined bouquet back on the dresser, bracing himself for whatever came next.

*****

Bucky stood in the kitchen, surrounded by absolute carnage.

It looked like a crime scene. One he’d intentionally caused.

Noodles clung to the counter like they’d tried to escape and failed. Sauce was splattered in places he didn’t remember reaching: up the backsplash, along the cabinet handles, streaked across the edge of the sink. Ricotta had achieved a level of mobility he hadn’t thought possible. It was on his pants, his elbow, and somehow the wall. He stared at it like it might explain itself.

The lasagna was supposed to bake at 375 degrees for forty-five minutes.

Instead, he’d managed to burn the cheesy top into something resembling roofing material, leave the center cold and semi-liquid, and, just to really commit, he set off the smoke alarm.

The kitchen still smelled faintly of char and regret.

“What the hell is that smell?”

Bucky didn’t turn around. John Walker walked in holding a bouquet the size of a small shrub.

It was not pink roses.

It was white lilies, too white and much too funeral-adjacent, and something green and plasticky that looked like it belonged in a dentist’s office. The whole thing was wrapped in crinkled gold foil, like it had been assembled in a panic.

Bucky stared at the bouquet. Then he stared at John.

“Did you rob a funeral,” he said flatly, voice stripped of all hope, “or was this an intentional choice?”

John beamed, clearly proud. “You’re welcome.”

“You had one job.”

“It’s Valentine’s Day,” John defended. “They were all out of pink. And red. And roses. I panicked.”

From behind him, Yelena peeked into the kitchen. Her expression shifted instantly.

“Oh no.”

Bucky dropped his forehead onto the countertop. The cool surface pressed against his skin, grounding him in the reality that this was, in fact, happening.

“Hey,” John said, frowning now. “This is salvageable.”

Bucky didn’t lift his head. “How.”

“I can help you write a card,” John offered, undeterred. “Roses are red, violets are—”

“Don’t finish that sentence,” Bucky muttered.

“…Fine.”

By 4PM, the lasagna, after multiple attempts, had been officially declared a health hazard. The smoke alarm had been silenced, but the shame of defeat lingered. Both flower arrangements sat wilted and accusatory in the trash. The card John had written (‘You make me feel like a Monday morning with purpose’) had been torn in half. Twice. Then crumpled, like it deserved.

Bucky sat on the couch, elbows on his knees, head in his hands.

The common room was quiet now. Afternoon light slanted through the windows, catching dust in the air, time moving forward without waiting for him to get his shit together.

“I should just leave it,” he muttered. “Pretend today isn’t a thing.”

“No,” Yelena said immediately. She dropped onto the couch beside him and kicked her boots up on the coffee table like she owned the place. “You do not give up now. You want her. She wants you.”

He laughed softly, bitter and exhausted. “She’s not gonna want anything to do with me after this. I’ve managed to screw up every possible part of this day. I can’t cook. I can’t plan. I can’t even order flowers without it turning into a disaster.”

“You suck at planning Valentine’s Day,” Yelena corrected, elbowing him gently. “Which is different. You don’t need ridiculous performance. Be honest. Be you. Just… less panicky.”

He looked at her, doubt heavy in his chest. She shrugged, unbothered.

“She will say yes. I promise.”

“You’re really sure about that?”

“I was trained as child to read people,” she said dryly. “I know.”

He didn’t really believe her. Hope didn’t come easy to him, not after everything he’d been through. Hope was dangerous. It led to disappointment, to loss, and to the quiet confirmation that he should have known better.

Still, he didn’t get up and leave. Even as afternoon slipped toward evening. Even as the clock ticked forward with no backup plan, no gifts, no lasagna, and definitely no Valentine.

But by the time dusk settled in, heavy and blue against the windows, the weight of it pressed down on him hard.

Maybe this was the sign he should’ve listened to all along.

He was too old for this, too set in his ways, too quiet, and too scarred up on the inside and out. He carried too much history: names, faces, and things he couldn’t undo stacked high in his rearview. And the future? That was still a question mark: missions, job instability, a life that never stayed still long enough to promise anything.

You deserved someone easy. Someone who didn’t treat affection like unexploded ordnance.

Maybe he was better off not starting something he couldn’t finish.

He was just about ready to stand up, grab his jacket, and disappear into the cold. He could let this whole thing pass like a bad dream, when, at exactly 6:48PM, you walked into the common area.

He felt the shift before he saw you. His chest tightened, focus snapping sharp like a rifle sight locking in when you looked at him.

“Hey, Bucky,” you said casually, like you weren’t the axis his entire day had spun around. “Can you help me with something? Down in the armory?”

He blinked and then nodded, like his body remembered how to function before his brain caught up.

“Yeah,” he said. “’Course.”

He stood up, legs moving without thought, heart starting to beat a little harder.

You smiled and turned to lead the way.

And just like that, the night wasn’t over yet.

*****

You had rehearsed this in your head at least a hundred times, but none of those versions involved your hands shaking.

The walk to the armory was quiet. Not awkward or tense, but suspended, like the air itself was waiting to see what was going to happen. Your boots echoed softly against the concrete floor, the familiar corridors of the Watchtower stretching ahead in pale fluorescent light. You kept your shoulders loose, your expression casual, pretending you couldn’t feel Bucky Barnes following half a step behind you. And pretending your pulse wasn’t doing something embarrassing.

You liked him. You’d liked him for a while now, in that careful, private way you’d learned to guard. It wasn’t something you talked about. It wasn’t something you advertised. But it was there every time he walked into a room, quiet, steady, and impossible to ignore.

Your eyes had a habit of finding him before you meant them to. The broad line of his shoulders. The solid build of his chest beneath a worn T-shirt. The strength in his arms, metal and flesh, the easy power in the way he moved like he didn’t even realize how capable he was. And there was something softer, too, that he tried to hide. It was an old-fashioned gentleness that slipped through in small moments: the way he held doors, the way he listened more than he spoke, the way he remembered things other people forgot.

You didn’t know if he liked you back.

You hoped, of course. God, you hoped.

But hoping and knowing were two very different things.

Behind you, Bucky didn’t say a word. He just followed, patient and dependable, like he always was. You wondered if he could hear your heart beating out of your chest. You wondered if he noticed how carefully you were breathing.

When you reached the armory, you pressed your palm to the scanner and the heavy door hissed open. Cool air greeted you: metal and oil and the faint smell of cleaned weapons. The overhead lights flickered to life, bathing the room in a soft blue glow.

You stepped inside first and he followed. The door whispered shut behind him.

“Hey,” you said, turning to face him with what you hoped looked like confidence. “Don’t freak out.”

Immediately you regretted it. Great opener, you thought. Historically, that phrase has a perfect track record of calming people down.

Bucky’s brow creased just a little. “That usually means I should freak out.”

You chuckled nervously, “Maybe a little,” you admitted.

You crossed to your locker, fingers suddenly clumsy as you punched in the code. The metal door popped open and you reached inside, pulling out the long, slim leather sheath you’d hidden there last week.

Your stomach flipped.

You walked back to him, holding it carefully in both hands.

“Here,” you said, trying to sound steadier than you felt. “Happy Valentine’s Day.”

He stared at it, and then at you.

“What?”

“Just… take it out.”

Slowly, almost cautiously, he unlatched the sheath and froze.

The blade caught the light all at once: Damascus steel, rippling with layered patterns like smoke trapped beneath glass. The handle was marbled red resin, deep and rich, swirled like wine and dark ink. Near the spine of the blade was a small, deliberate cutout of a tiny heart, subtle enough to be tasteful, obvious enough to mean something.

He didn’t speak.

He just looked at it.

“You got this,” he said finally, voice quiet, “for me?”

“Yeah.” You shifted your weight, suddenly shy. “I ordered it last month. I figured… you’re not really a chocolates-and-teddy-bears kind of guy.”

His eyes lifted to yours, and something in them softened.

“So I thought I’d get you something you’d actually like,” you continued. “Practical. Lethal. Romantic.”

And just like that the truth was sitting between you.

You swallowed. “I’ve kind of liked you for a while, Bucky,” you said, the words coming out softer than you planned. “So… I was wondering. Will you be my Valentine?”

For a moment, he just stared. His mouth opened, closed, and he let out a stunned laugh, really half-wheeze. “You…” he breathed. “You’re kidding me.”

Your stomach dropped straight through the floor.

Oh no.

Oh no, no, no, no.

Heat rushed to your face so fast you thought you might actually pass out. Embarrassment crashed over you in one brutal wave.

He was laughing. He was actually laughing.

Yelena had been wrong. Spectacularly, catastrophically wrong. You’d misread everything: the glances, the kindness, the way he always seemed to drift closer to you in rooms full of people. You’d just handed him a knife like some lovesick idiot and asked him to be your Valentine like you were in middle school.

Cool. Great. Perfect.

You were going to have to leave the team. Change your name. Move to Romania. Take up goat farming. Something quiet and far away where you’d never have to look him in the eye again—

“No—hey, no,” Bucky said quickly, stepping closer, clearly seeing how ashen you’d become. “That’s not—I’m not laughing at you, I swear,” he went on, running a hand down his face like he couldn’t believe any of this was real. “I’ve been trying to ask you all day.”

Your brain stalled. “What?”

“I ordered flowers,” he said. “They died. I tried to make lasagna and almost burned the building down. John showed up with funeral lilies. Yelena’s been making fun of me for forty-eight hours straight. I’ve been trying to do this right and completely screwing it up.”

He looked down at the knife again, shaking his head in disbelief.

“And you show up with this.” Another small laugh, softer this time. “This is so much cooler than anything I had planned.”

Relief flooded through you so hard your knees went weak.

“You tried to make lasagna?” you asked, a smile breaking through despite yourself.

“From scratch,” he groaned. “Do you have any idea how hard béchamel sauce is?”

You stepped a little closer. “So… is that a yes?”

His gaze lifted to yours, and the uncertainty there faded into something warm and sure.

“Yes,” he said quietly. “I want to be your Valentine. And I want you to be mine.”

Your breath caught. “You do?” you asked, suddenly shy all over again.

He nodded. His hand came up slowly, like he was giving you time to change your mind, until his palm cupped your cheek, warm, careful, and a little uncertain.

“Can I take you out?” he murmured. “On a real date. Soon. One that doesn’t end in smoke alarms or emergency flower missions. Just… me and you.”

You smiled. “Sounds perfect.”

Then his lips were descending toward yours.

At first it was soft, hesitant, almost cautious, like both of you were afraid to push too far. His lips brushed yours gently, testing, asking permission. You answered by leaning in, by letting your hand settle against his chest, feeling the steady thud of his heart beneath your fingers.

The kiss deepened, slow and warm, all the quiet wanting between you finally given permission to breathe. You didn’t rush. He didn’t hurry. The two of you were just finding your way to something you’d been circling for months.

The armory lights buzzed overhead. Somewhere far above, life in the Watchtower went on, but down here, in the cool metal quiet, the world felt small and safe and entirely yours.

He pulled back just enough to speak, his smiling lips still brushing yours.

“…You really got me a Valentine’s knife.”

“Yup,” you grinned. “You gonna take it on missions and think of me when you use it?”

“Absolutely,” he said.

And kissed you again.

He couldn’t help his smile.

“My girlfriend got me this for Valentine’s Day,” he told the man conversationally.

The thug blinked. “What?”

The man lunged anyway, as brave as he was stupid.

Bucky stepped in close and dragged the blade in a controlled, precise slash across the guy’s upper arm, shallow enough to avoid anything vital, deep enough to make a point. Fabric split and blood welled.

“Isn’t she great?” Bucky continued calmly, pivoting behind him and nudging him forward with the flat of the blade. “Look at that pattern. Damascus steel. It’s got this perfect balance—”

The thug howled and tried to spin away. Bucky adjusted his grip without looking.

“—weight distribution’s unreal,” he finished, slicing cleanly through the man’s grip on the crushed pipe and sending it clattering across the concrete. “Feels like it wants to land exactly where I put it.”

The guy staggered backward, clutching his arm, staring at the knife instead of the man holding it.

Behind Bucky, Sam landed hard, boots skidding.

“Why are there so many of them?” Sam demanded, breathless.

“Probably a convention,” Bucky said dryly.

The wounded thug made a stupid decision and bolted toward the loading bay door.

Bucky tilted his head slightly as he watched him go.

“Oh,” he told Sam. “You should see how this does at range.”

And he shifted his weight, arm already moving.

The throw wasn’t dramatic, just a smooth extension from the shoulder, a controlled release from his fingers.

The blade spun once, end over end, the warehouse lights flashing along the layered steel, and it hit with a thick, meaty thud.

The thug shrieked mid-stride as the knife buried itself in the back of his shoulder, just below the scapula. Momentum carried him forward another step before he stumbled, crashed into a pallet of boxed auto parts, and collapsed, swearing, in a clatter of cardboard.

Bucky exhaled softly.

“See?” he said, mostly to himself.

Behind him, someone grabbed at his jacket. Bucky pivoted without looking and drove his elbow backward into a sternum. Air whooshed out of lungs. He hooked his boot behind the man’s ankle and dropped him hard to the floor.

Sam flew past in a blur of red and silver, wings snapping out to clothesline two attackers at once. One of them ricocheted into a stack of crates that burst open in a spill of packing foam.

“Focus!” Sam barked.

“I am focused,” Bucky replied evenly.

He stepped over the groaning man at his feet and walked toward the downed runner.

The thug was on his side, clawing uselessly at the knife lodged in his shoulder. Blood seeped around the red resin handle, darkening the shine. The heart-shaped cutout near the base of the blade was visible against his torn jacket.

Bucky crouched beside him.

Up close, he smiled at the precision of the placement. Clean entry, with no unnecessary damage. He felt a quiet, satisfied warmth in his chest that had nothing to do with combat.

“And it works really well as a throwing knife,” he informed the man.

The thug stared at him over his shoulder like he’d lost his mind.

“You—you’re a psycho—”

Bucky wrapped his flesh hand around the handle.

“You know what I love?” he continued, voice calm, almost reflective. “She didn’t even hesitate. Saw it. Said, ‘That’s a Bucky knife, and gave it to me for Valentine’s Day.’”

He braced a hand against the man’s shoulder. The thug made a panicked noise and Bucky pulled the blade free in one smooth motion. The man screamed.

Bucky inspected the steel briefly. The Damascus pattern was unmarred. The edge still clean. He wiped it carefully on the thug’s jacket with deliberate, almost tender attention.

“My girl knows me so well,” he said with pride.

Something whistled past his ear.

Bucky leaned sideways as a crowbar narrowly missed his head and sparked against concrete. He rose fluidly from his crouch, pivoting into the new attacker’s space.

Behind him, Sam groaned.

“Dude,” Sam called out, wing snapping open to deflect a flying wrench. “Again with that knife?”

Bucky didn’t look away from the man advancing on him.

“Of course with this knife,” he said with a smile.

The crowbar came down again.

Bucky stepped inside the swing, too close for leverage, and drove his metal fist into the man’s ribs. He felt something give under the impact. The guy folded with a choked gasp.

Bucky caught him by the collar before he hit the ground and, almost absentmindedly, hooked the blade through the man’s jacket sleeve, slicing fabric to tangle his arms.

“You’re making it weird,” Sam said.

Sam landed beside him hard enough to crack concrete, wings flaring out to shield them both as two men opened fire from the catwalk above. Bullets pinged and screamed against vibranium.

Bucky leaned slightly to peer around one wing.

“It’s not weird,” he replied. “It’s a thoughtful gift.”

He flicked his wrist and sent the knife spinning once in his palm, not flashy, just habit, then lunged forward as Sam retracted his wing.

They moved in a practiced rhythm. Sam vaulted upward, wings out gaining height, while Bucky charged the base of the metal stairs.

A thug tried to block him.

Bucky slashed across the man’s thigh just enough to drop him.

“I’m just saying,” Sam continued from above, voice strained as he grappled with someone on the railing, “you’ve brought it up every single mission since February.”

Bucky mounted the steps two at a time. Another attacker swung a chain at his head. He caught it with his metal hand, yanked the man forward, and drove his forehead into the guy’s nose. Cartilage crunched.

“That’s because,” Bucky said evenly, shoving the reeling man into the stairwell wall, “it continues to be relevant.”

He reached the catwalk level just as Sam kicked one gunman backward over the railing. The man crashed into a stack of crates below in a splintering roar.

Sam stopped for a second, staring at Bucky.

“You stabbed a guy and gave him a product review.”

Bucky advanced on the last shooter. The man’s hands shook. The muzzle wavered.

“It has excellent balance,” Bucky said over his shoulder, stepping closer.

The man fired.

Bucky deflected the gun upward with his metal hand. The shot burst into the ceiling. In the same motion, Bucky drove the knife hand forward and pinned the man’s sleeve to the wooden support beam behind him.

The blade sank deep into the timber.

The shooter froze, breath stuttering, arm trapped.

Bucky leaned in slightly.

“And the grip,” he added, looking at the red resin handle, “is ergonomic.”

Below them, Sam made a strangled noise that was both laugh and despair.

“Dude.”

Bucky twisted the knife free from the wood and stepped back as the man slumped, defeated more by terror than injury.

Sam landed beside him, wings folding in with a metallic shudder.

“Again?” Sam demanded. “We’re doing this again?”

Bucky wiped a smear of blood from the flat of the blade with his thumb, inspecting the steel like a man checking the alignment on a watch.

“Yes,” he said simply.

And across the warehouse floor, two more men hesitated, clearly reconsidering their life choices. One of them charged anyway.

Bucky stepped off the catwalk railing and dropped the ten feet to the concrete below. He landed in a crouch, heels up and knees bending to absorb the impact.

The charging man swung a desperate hook.

Bucky caught the wrist mid-air and twisted, turning the momentum into a sharp pivot. The man yelped as Bucky guided him past, then nudged him down with the heel of his palm between the shoulder blades. The guy sprawled face-first with a slap of skin on concrete.

Behind him, Sam descended in a controlled glide and slammed into the final attacker, driving him back into a stack of barrels. One burst open, rolling across the floor with a hollow clang.

“Listen,” Sam said, grappling the man’s arm behind his back, “I’m happy for you. I am. I like her. She’s great for you. But—”

He grunted as he picked the guy up.

Bucky hauled his own opponent upright by the collar and pressed the flat of the Damascus blade against the man’s throat, not cutting, just in threat. The heart-shaped cutout hovered inches from his skin.

“But what?” Bucky asked.

Sam wrenched his thug’s arm a little higher and the man squealed.

“But this is a tactical operation,” Sam continued. “Not a couples’ showcase.”

Bucky’s brows furrowed in disagreement. “It can be both.”

The man in front of him swallowed hard, mystified, not quite understanding what kind of men would have a conversation like this during a knife-and-gun fight.

Bucky didn’t look away from the knife as he spoke again. “I might not use another knife until I die.”

Sam just stared at him. “That is not normal,” he said flatly.

Bucky considered that for exactly half a second.

“Unless,” he added, casually shifting his grip as the thug tried to inch away, “she gets me another one.”

He tapped the red handle lightly against the man’s collarbone.

“Ooh,” he said, a spark of genuine interest lighting his tone, “if she gets me another, I could have one in each hand.”

There was a pause. Sam looked at him, then at the knife, then back at him.

“You are insufferable,” he declared.

But his mouth betrayed him, the corner twitching upward before he caught it.

Bucky inspected the edge once more, thumb brushing over the Damascus ripples.

“Still sharp,” he smiled, satisfied.

Sam folded his wings with a metallic snap.

“You’re texting her about this later, aren’t you?”

Bucky slid the knife back into its sheath at his hip. “Already drafted it in my head,” he said.

Sam stared at him as Bucky stepped over a groaning thug toward the exit. “You mentally drafted a text mid-fight?”

Bucky adjusted his jacket, expression perfectly calm. “What, you never multitasked before?”