Summary: you fix bucky’s boo-boos with goofy bandaids.
Warnings: language (this reader curses like a sailor)
a/n: i’ve had this done for a month but didn’t think to post it until now because i wanted to tweak things. this is a part of the nursery rhyme one-shots and comes after little bo peep but you don’t need to read that if you don’t want. just know reader is pepper’s adopted sister and she’s a teacher and you’re all set tbh. if it feels a bit disjointed from the previous 2 it’s just because these are not chapters but separate one shots and the last 2 were to establish character.
also, let’s all try to be better about reblogging fics. writers spend a lot of time trying to put out content and, while we do write for ourselves, we post so the writing is seen and shared. so do that, bbys. i’m trying to be better about it, too, since 3 extra seconds to reblog something and maybe add a comment isn’t much of an imposition. especially when it can make someone’s whole day.
Take-out containers. Six of them, stacked in two piles of three. Four made of compostable plastic, two of thin cardboard. You’re forced to consolidate them to a single pile, held by one of your hands as you struggle to open the door with the other.
You’ve asked FRIDAY to keep the lights low. Keep things discrete and quiet. No need to awaken tired Avengers. Especially at such a late hour. Especially after a mission. Especially when they would be audience to your shame.
A teacher. A sweet first grade teacher with stickers pasted to your hands and smudged Crayola marker ink across your fingers like permanent tattoos. A pair of flower-shaped, or animal-shaped, or planet-shaped earrings clasped to your earlobes on any given day. Color-coded folders, notebooks, and binders in your bag. Organized.
Your quarters have been a mess since the third day of your residence in the Tower. Your clothes carpet the hardwood floor of the expansive closet, blankets like dunes on the bed. Books you’ve read eight times over and books you aren’t able to start form towers of their own on the desk, pens and pencils scattered over the surface like debris after a demolition.
You’re sure to show Pepper and Tony your face enough to avoid doorstep visits, spend enough time with Sam in his room or in the common spaces to quell his need for socialization with a non-super and your need for socialization with a non-child.
Steve optically dreads— but internally loves— your company and advice in the kitchen on his culinary endeavors and dating life, you’ve even begun workouts with Natasha which she seems to enjoy and you cherish.
Bucky keeps mostly to himself. You’ll run into each other and exchange pleasantries, trade smiles at dinner and across the gym. He’ll sometimes brew an extra mug of coffee in the morning so there’s enough for you and sit with you and Sam while you watch movies or binge shows on Netflix. It’s more than enough contact for him. You wouldn’t even be surprised to learn he was entirely tired of you.
In all, no one feels the need to come to your door and that, therefore, keeps your sloppy truth an absolute secret.
You shut the door behind you and tip-toe down the hall. Only Wanda and Steve live on the same floor as you, but Tony once told you super-soldier hearing amplifies light steps to an elephant tread— something about a prank with Dum-E gone horribly wrong as a result. So you barely breathe and balance on the balls of your feet, even down the staircase leading to the kitchen.
You hold the containers off to the side, eyes on the stairs to make sure you don’t trip. A little less than graceful when you stumble. Even less so when you nearly slip from the last step and the topmost container clatters to the floor.
“Motherfucker,” you hiss. It’s a muted thump, cardboard falling against tile, when the second container falls and your voice is a whisper as you continue with a, “Fucking fuck. FRIDAY, raise the goddamn, fucking stupid, shithead lights a little.”
There’s a rustling a few feet away, a soft chuckle and an even softer wince. Noises you barely register even as the lights come up less than ten percent.
Bucky, from his seat at the kitchen island, watches as you look up to the ceiling, kneeling. You’ve got an apology in your features. “Thank you, FRI. You’re amazing. An angel.”
You snort to yourself, “An AI-ngel.”
Immediately, you frown. Scowl in disappointment and self-loathing. “That was terrible, I’m sorry. Keep up the good work, FRI. I’m gonna go fuck myself.”
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