thinking about leon half asleep on the couch with his reading glasses sliding down his nose and one hand absently rubbing circles into your ankle just because some part of him needs to know you're still there
bucky barnes having a mental breakdown over his child asking for a tarantula for their birthday/christmas and having to deliver on the gift😂
Bucky Barnes has faced down gods, ghosts, and the worst parts of his own past.
None of that—none of it—prepared him for this.
“…a tarantula.”
You’re trying not to laugh. You really are. You deserve some kind of medal for the way you’re holding your face together right now, lips pressed tight, eyes watering just a little from the effort.
Across the kitchen island, Bucky looks like he’s just been informed of his own imminent demise.
“A—” he starts again, blinking hard, like maybe the word will change if he says it enough times. “A tarantula.”
Your daughter—sweet, bright, sunshine incarnate—nods enthusiastically from her seat, chin propped in her hands, kicking her feet against the stool.
“Yeah! They’re so cute, Daddy. And fuzzy.”
Fuzzy.
Bucky physically recoils.
You lose it for half a second, turning away under the guise of grabbing a glass of water, shoulders shaking as you silently laugh into the cabinet.
“She said fuzzy,” you manage, voice only slightly betraying you.
Bucky whips his head toward you, betrayal written all over his face. “You are not helping.”
“I’m helping emotionally,” you say, deadpan. “For her.”
“For her?” he repeats, voice climbing. “You’re laughing at me.”
“I am absolutely laughing at you.”
Your daughter frowns slightly, looking between the two of you. “Why are you being weird? It’s just a spider.”
Bucky stares at her like she’s speaking another language. “Just a—baby, that thing is the size of my hand.”
“Exactly!” she says, delighted. “Isn’t that cool?”
“No,” he says immediately. “No, it is not.”
You lean against the counter, watching this unfold like it’s the best sitcom you’ve ever seen.
Your husband, former assassin, super soldier, man who once ripped a car door off with his bare hands, is currently being psychologically dismantled by a third grader who wants a pet spider.
“Bucky,” you say gently, which is code for I’m about to make this worse, “it is her birthday. It’s a big one.”
He looks at you slowly. Narrowly.
“You’re on her side.”
“I’m on the side of joy,” you correct. “And education. And…arachnid appreciation.”
“I’m going to throw up.”
Your daughter gasps. “You promised I could pick anything!”
And there it is—the kicker.
Bucky had, in a moment of parental weakness and love, told her she could choose any present she wanted this year.
Any.
Thing.
He drags a hand down his face, looking like he regrets every decision that has ever led him to this exact moment.
“I thought you’d say, like…a bike,” he mutters. “Or a doll. Or a—something normal.”
“She is normal,” you say, nudging his arm. “She just has range.”
“I don’t want range,” he groans. “I want…goldfish.”
---
Three days later, you’re standing in a specialty pet store, and Bucky looks like he’s preparing for battle.
His shoulders are tense, jaw tight, eyes darting around like something might leap at him from every corner.
Your daughter, meanwhile, is practically vibrating with excitement, clutching his hand and dragging him toward a row of glass enclosures.
“Daddy, look! That one’s name is Cinnamon!”
Bucky stops dead in his tracks.
“I don’t want to know its name,” he says flatly.
“It already has one,” she insists.
“I reject it.”
You snort, crossing your arms as you lean against a display, fully entertained.
A store employee—far too cheerful for this situation—approaches, smiling brightly. “Looking for anything in particular?”
Your daughter beams. “A tarantula!”
Bucky makes a strangled noise.
The employee nods like this is completely normal. “Great choice. They’re actually very low maintenance.”
“Low maintenance,” Bucky repeats faintly, like he’s trying to convince himself this is survivable.
“They don’t need much handling,” the employee continues.
“Good,” Bucky blurts. “Great. Love that. No handling. Perfect.”
“They can live up to 20 years, though—”
Bucky freezes.
“Twenty,” he echoes, horror dawning.
You absolutely lose it this time, doubling over with laughter as he turns to you, wide-eyed.
“Twenty years?” he demands. “You didn’t tell me this was a long-term commitment.”
“It’s a pet,” you say, wiping your eyes. “What did you think, it expires in a week?”
“I thought maybe—” he gestures helplessly, “—shorter.”
Your daughter tugs on his sleeve. “Please, Daddy? I’ll take really good care of it. I promise.”
And that’s it.
That’s the moment he caves.
Because for all his dramatics, all his very real and very visible distress, there is nothing Bucky Barnes wouldn’t do for that little girl.
He exhales slowly, shoulders dropping.
“…fine,” he says.
She squeals, launching herself at him, arms wrapping around his waist.
“Thank you thank you thank you!”
He stiffens for half a second, then melts, wrapping his arms around her, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.
“You’re lucky I love you,” he mutters.
“I know!”
---
The ride home is…tense.
The terrarium sits in the backseat, carefully secured, your daughter talking to it nonstop like it’s already her best friend.
“Hi, Cinnamon. I’m your mom now.”
Bucky grips the steering wheel like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.
“Is it…moving?” he asks quietly.
You glance back. “Yes.”
He inhales sharply.
“Don’t tell me that.”
“You asked.”
“I didn’t want the truth.”
You reach over, squeezing his thigh, trying—failing—to be sympathetic.
“You’re doing great, babe.”
“I fought a war,” he says weakly. “I did not sign up for this.”
---
That night, you find him standing in the doorway of your daughter’s room, arms crossed, staring at the terrarium from a safe distance.
She’s asleep, curled up under her blankets, peaceful and happy.
The spider—Cinnamon—is…existing.
Bucky looks deeply unsettled.
“You gonna stand guard all night?” you ask, leaning against the frame beside him.
“Yes,” he says immediately.
You grin. “In case it makes a break for it?”
“In case it even thinks about it.”
You laugh softly, slipping your hand into his.
“You did good,” you tell him. “She’s gonna remember this forever.”
He glances down at you, some of the tension easing out of his expression.
“…yeah?”
“Yeah.”
He looks back at your daughter, then at the tank, then back at you.
“…I still hate it.”
“I know.”
“But she loves it.”
You squeeze his hand. “That’s kind of the point.”
He sighs, leaning his head lightly against yours.
“…if it gets out,” he says, voice low, serious, “we’re moving.”
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