Small Things (Bucky Barnes x Reader)
Masterlist —- Bucky Barnes
Summary: Bucky spends Valetines with you
Requested: @natashasdaisy
Bucky Barnes forgot Valentine’s Day the way he forgot most civilian holidays—slowly, stubbornly, until it smacked him square in the chest like a memory he didn’t realize he still carried.
It started with the street. Brooklyn in the early evening smelled of exhaust, coffee from a corner café, and the faint hint of winter in the air. He slowed when he saw the bodega ahead, its window crammed with pink and red paper hearts, balloons bobbing against the glass as though alive, a crooked sign promising LAST-MINUTE LOVE. For a moment, he froze, chest tightening.
He didn’t hate the holiday. He had hated a lot of things in his life, but this—this wasn’t one of them. Valentine’s Day reminded him of the other version of the world he’d once thought was simple: candy bought with spare change, awkward handwritten notes folded too many times, dances in gymnasiums that smelled of floor wax and perfume, shy glances across a room. Back then, love was quiet. Small. Something you could carry in one hand.
He exhaled slowly and stepped inside the bodega.
The bell over the door jingled as he entered, drawing a glance from the clerk who quickly went back to scrolling his phone. Bucky didn’t notice. His attention was fully on the Valentine’s aisle. Cards leaned into each other in loud declarations and jokes he didn’t understand.
He picked one up, turned it in his hands, then set it back down. Another—too cartoonish. Another—too glittery. One he read and thought might be sincere, but it felt too performative for what he wanted to give. He remembered the carnations he’d debated buying years ago. Roses felt like a show. He wanted quiet. He wanted honest.
Finally, near the back of the rack, he saw it.
Thick cardstock. Deep red, not shiny. No pictures. No jokes. Just two words, pressed neatly into the front:
Bucky held it in his hands for a long moment, thumb brushing over the letters. Present tense. Not a promise, not a performance. Just a truth.
“Yeah,” he muttered quietly. “That’s it.”
He tucked it into the basket carefully, almost reverently, then moved to the chocolates. He read every label, ruled out flavors he knew you didn’t like, made sure it was something simple but thoughtful. Dark chocolate, nothing too fancy, nothing too cheap. Something that said I was thinking of you.
At the counter, the clerk rang him up without comment. Bucky left with the bag tucked under his arm, breathing in the winter air as he walked home. He thought of you already: the small smile when you opened the card, the way you’d tease him for choosing the simplest chocolates.
By the time he reached your building, his boots made soft thuds against the stairs, careful and measured. He knocked once. Not too loud.
You opened the door, hair loose, wearing his hoodie, and the warmth of the apartment hit him immediately. Music drifted from the kitchen, food sizzling somewhere in the background. Your expression softened when you saw him standing there, bag in hand.
“Hey,” he replied, letting the word carry all the things he didn’t need to say.
He stepped inside, shrugging off his jacket, hanging it up with practiced efficiency. “You didn’t have to bring anything,” you said, glancing at the bag.
“I know,” he said simply. “Still wanted to.”
The card first. Then the chocolates. No speech, no ceremony. You opened the card, eyes scanning the letters, and he watched from the corner of his vision. The small, real smile that tugged at your lips made his chest tighten in a way that was almost steadying.
“This is very you,” you said softly.
“Good,” he replied, and meant it.
Dinner was simple, nothing extravagant. You cooked, he helped—chopping vegetables, stirring sauce, bumping into each other occasionally in the narrow space of the kitchen. The conversation was small, intimate. The day’s frustrations, fleeting victories, small complaints that might otherwise be unremarkable. He listened quietly, nodding, leaning slightly closer to hear every word.
“I appreciate you telling me this stuff,” he said at one point. “Your day, I mean.”
You looked up, a little surprised.
“Yeah. It matters to me,” he clarified.
Not dramatic, not sappy. Just true.
After dinner, you moved to the couch naturally, letting him settle beside you. The blanket he draped over both of you fell perfectly across your legs. He adjusted his metal arm carefully around your shoulders, thumb brushing against your arm in absent, protective rhythms. You handed him the remote and picked the movie. Something familiar, easy, nothing demanding, nothing tragic.
As the movie played, conversation drifted in and out naturally. You told him about small frustrations, he listened. He mentioned his morning with Sam, joking lightly about accountability and PT, but there was no tension—just camaraderie.
“Tomorrow,” you asked mid-scene, “what are you doing?”
“PT,” he said. “Sam’s dragging me. Then probably just… chill. Maybe coffee. Groceries. You?”
“Work, then errands. Coffee sounds better,” you said.
He smirked, thumb brushing your arm. “I’ll take that as a plan.”
Bucky leaned back on the couch, your head resting lightly against his shoulder. The movie continued in the background, but he wasn’t really watching it. His attention was on you. On the quiet rhythm of your breathing, the way your fingers absently traced patterns on the blanket, the soft smile that tugged at the corners of your lips when something in the movie made you laugh.
He thought about all the little things he loved about you, the ones that didn’t make sense on paper but made everything else feel sharper and brighter. How patient you were, even when he was stiff or distracted. How you noticed the smallest details—like the way he liked his coffee black, or the brand of dark chocolate he preferred—without him ever having to point it out. How your laughter wasn’t loud or forced, but carried across a room and made him feel lighter, like he could actually exhale.
He remembered how you never asked him to be someone he wasn’t. Not anymore. You accepted the parts he didn’t like about himself—the quiet brooding, the metal arm, the things he could never erase—and you still chose him. Every day. That choice wasn’t flashy, but it was steady, and it hit harder than any grand gesture he could ever make.
He tightened his arm slightly around you—not constricting, just holding, like an unspoken promise. He loved your stubbornness, the way you pushed him to try things he wouldn’t have chosen on his own. Loved the softness behind your strength, how you could hold your own in the world and still let yourself be cared for.
“You’re quiet tonight,” you murmured, looking up at him, eyes half-focused on the screen.
“Just… thinking,” he said, a small grin tugging at his lips. “About… stuff.
“Stuff?” you teased lightly.
“Yeah,” he admitted. “You. This. All of it.” He tapped his thumb gently against your arm. “I like it. I like you. I mean… you. Not just tonight, but…” He trailed off, shrugging slightly, awkwardly. “Always.”
You smiled, leaning a little closer, and the wordless understanding between you made his chest tighten in the way it always did around you—warm, steady, quiet, grounding.
They stayed like that for the rest of the night, the movie running in the background but mostly forgotten. He listened to you talk in soft, meandering ways, about small things that mattered to you—plans for tomorrow, a silly moment at work, a random thought that caught your attention. He replied in quiet interjections, jokes, or observations, but mostly he just listened, letting your words fill the space between them.
Bucky thought again about how rare this was for him. How rare it was to feel completely at ease, to let someone in without fear, without holding back. He liked that you didn’t demand perfection, didn’t need grand gestures. That you chose him for who he was, in the small moments and the quiet ones.
Valentine’s Day wasn’t about candy or cards, not really. It was about being here. Being present. Being allowed to love, and be loved, in a way that didn’t have to be proven.
And for Bucky Barnes, who had spent so much of his life untethered, wandering through chaos and danger, that was everything.
