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merry crush-mas! 𖠰𖥧˚

bucky barnes x reader, 4.7k

james buchanan barnes still hasn’t warmed up to you, and you don’t know why. funny how the coldest season of the year is when the winter soldier starts thawing… or: bucky has a crush and doesn’t know how to handle it.

🎄 WARNINGS/TAGS: my first ever tower fic!!!, everyone is alive au, canon typical violence, references to other fandoms, mentions of alcohol consumption but no intoxication

🎁 READER WARNINGS/TAGS: afab!reader, reader is part of SHIELD/avengers, reader is able-bodied and has hair

🎅 AUTHOR'S NOTE: this is dedicated to @firingstars!!! when i drew your name for this fic exchange i was so damn happyyyyy (insert the jumping cat here) yari you've been such a great friend. you are welcoming and kind on the get-go and i am so grateful for you—not just because of the things you do for our community, but also for who you are and the joy you bring us ❤️❤️❤️

ALSO you're a genie ass with the wishlist and i hope i did it justice! here are the things i tried to include: bucky doesn’t know how to be romantic anymore and has a violent crush on you; partners in crime; neighbors and enemies to lovers (not quite, but i tried sprinkling it a bit 🥀)

i love you to bits princess, i hope your holiday season is everything you want it to be!!! mwah 💋

thank you @iamthatonefangirl for organizing ily! <3

The air hisses.

The Quinjet bridge lowers, metal whirring to meet the ground with a thud. Cool breeze and colorless sky rush to flood your senses while you and the rest pour out of the deck: soldiers, high-strung, knots slowly untangling as you free yourselves from a sealed space.

The reality of a mission accomplished only sinks at the sight of the Avengers compound.

“Great job out there,” Natasha pipes up from behind you, footsteps gaining until you’re walking side by side. “That control room must’ve been, what, six hostiles? All packing?”

“Seven.” You fiddle with the thumb drive, the mother lode of that sweep. A small thing with big secrets that cost so many bodies.

Well. At least they were bad bodies.

“Didn’t know you were counting.”

“Only because someone else is,” the redhead replies.

He merges in the trek towards the base, seamlessly catching up to Nat and you. You glance at the handsome shadow wrapped in black leather and Wakandan steel.

James Buchanan Barnes.

A man to the team, a mystery to you.

For one second, it’s quiet except for three pairs of boots on tarmac. Then Nat cocks her brow and Bucky reluctantly coughs out the answer to a question not asked for with words.

“Ten.”

She lets out a dry laugh. “You win.”

“What’s the prize?” you ask.

“Bragging rights, obviously,” Nat volleys.

You click your tongue. “That arm is basically a cheat code.”

Sam enters stage right, smiling at you as he takes his visors off.

“'Y’all are acting like Legolas and Gimli.”

How sweet; he’s picked a reference Bucky can understand. Bucky, whose face scrunches up like he had a taste of lime.

“…What?”

“You know, the two dudes from Lord of the Rings?” you offer playfully—like he never made it clear he read The Hobbit before it was cool.

He shoots you a deadpan look, bluest eyes drawling yeah, no shit. You bite back a small grin.

“I mean, all that friendly competition?” Sam again. “Sickening, but kinda cute.”

At this point Nat falls back to speak to one of SHIELD’s, probably something to do with the mission manifest. Now it’s just the Falcon and the Winter Soldier to your right and left—the angel and devil on your shoulder.

Or is it the devil and his other devil friend with a staring problem?

“For the record, he’s Gimli, right?” you tease, thumb pointing at Bucky. Sam barks out a laugh so free, you feel the fight fading further into the past.

Bucky’s reply proves he’s the flattest argumentator in the world.

“Gimli’s a great character.”

“Who asked a lady to give him a strand of her hair,” you quip.

“Way to take it out of context, doll.”

The nickname lands on you with the weight of an uppercut that’s not entirely unpleasant. Sam holds up both hands in the air like it’s a stick-up.

“Hey, I’mma take myself out of this conversation.”

“You started it.”

It’s both your voice and Bucky’s. Same syllables, same time.

You freeze: it’s dangerous how a little coincidence like that can trigger a powerful stutter in your chest.

But then someone calls out your name right as you enter the shade of concrete structures—Agent Hill—and you’re pulled right out of the moment.

“See you boys later,” your feet sidetrack from the shared path, grateful for a chance to escape. You wave the drive in your hand. “Hell hath no fury like Fury with encrypted secrets.”

The Falcon gives you an easy salute, while Bucky just stares and puts his hands in his pockets.

As you follow Hill to a different part of the compound, you miss the look in Bucky’s eyes.

Sam doesn’t.

“Ten?” he starts, a handsome grin on his face. “You’re overcompensating back there, and it’s not hard to figure out what for.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Bucky murmurs.

A hard clap slaps Bucky’s back. He doesn’t lurch, just blinks slowly at the best thorn-on-his-side he calls a friend. Annoyance with a touch of don’t you even dare think about it, and a hidden not now.

“Whatever, lover boy. Just don’t get hurt tryna impress her.”

Then Sam’s gone, probably off to bother Steve about how the mission went without a Captain to order the team around. How his old buddy Bucky swung too hard at too many bad guys for a dame.

Don’t get hurt. Bucky contemplates those words and the impossibility of it.

There’s no way it won’t hurt. It’s called a crush for a reason.

A slow-crawling loading bar floods the screen’s pixels. The program runs its course while your mind does the same, tired eyes shifting to a point in the green beyond glass walls.

The mission is done and dusted, but you’re still unsettled.

Why is Bucky like that around you? He’s fine with the rest of the team: Steve, Nat, and Sam most of all. Doesn’t talk much, but friendly enough to take a joke.

With you?

It’s quick ducks out of whatever room you step in. Jaws lock the moment you get paired up for a recon. Missions are laced with a rivalrous undertone: he gets to the scene faster, hits a little meaner. Afterwards, on the jet or in the debrief, his tone is still clipped, voice low.

Like the red zone is a radius centered around you.

As much as you don’t want it to bother you, it kind of does. Especially after you’ve seen him with the others.

He bickers quietly with Tony. Makes small talk with Wanda about Eastern European tea blends. One time, you saw him and Nat train together at the gym, fighting on the mat. Limbs sweaty, chests heaving. She puts him in a headlock with her thighs and he chokes out a laugh.

Stop, you scream to yourself, rapidly blinking away the poisonous, vaguely green thought.

That’s an emotion you have no clearance to.

You desperately grab your focus by the neck, dragging it back on the screen.

Still 24%.

Can’t this stupid program work any faster? It needs to stop giving you time to spiral.

Because you’re thinking about how it’s not the age gap—he’s literally a century old—and it most certainly isn’t the gender gap, either.

Running a hand through your hair, you sigh.

Some people you meet in life just rubs you the wrong way. This is completely normal and happens from time to time—except this time, you’re the one that he has a problem with.

It triggers too many thoughts for your tastes. Thoughts that don’t have anywhere to go, like did I do something wrong?, or should I not have compared him to Gimli?

But answering those questions is like decrypting a code with the wrong key: misleading and dangerous.

Which is why you do what you’ve always done.

Blame it on the hormones, use your job as a distraction, and try not to think about whether you’d be so bothered if this were about any other guy.

The latter is the hardest to do, because it just so happens that this particular guy shares a wall with you.

It’s early November and Bucky is stewing under his skin.

The compound quarters are private enough, but it doesn’t help quell the heat that comes from having you as a neighbor.

Because he bumps into you in the hallway while you wear nothing but shorts and an oversized tee, eating spring rolls from a plastic plate. You’d say “want some?” and he’s suddenly working up a sweat despite the 40-degree weather.

He’s seen you in skin-tight tac suits, soundless when you move. Backless dresses and stilettos at some glittery gala. You’re more than beautiful enough to ruin him without touch, and yet pajamas are his downfall.

It doesn’t take much to admit he’s attracted to you. Not out loud, at least.

The first thing that ensnared him was your voice during movie nights he got coerced into joining. Whispered jokes that made Natasha snort. Then he heard your laugh next, twinkling and sweet, at which his mind’s eye conjured your sleep shirt and shorts. Errant imagination twisted that innocent laugh into another sound that’s just as ecstatic—

That made him grit his teeth and adjust the way he sat. For the first time after everything that’s happened to him, he remembered what teenagehood felt like.

Ever the disciplined soldier, he pushed those thoughts away every time.

They get worse after each shove.

The more things he unearths about you, the more endeared and damned he is. You rain bullets to the layers of polycarbonate and glass around his heart. The hit that made a crack was the first time he saw you fix a strand of hair behind your ear.

It was during a brief. A far-from-private event, with five other pairs of eyes in the room. Instead of paying attention to Steve or the open packet in front of him, he was busy being jealous of your fingers for being allowed to touch. Busy schooling his own hand to not twitch in impatience and curiosity—because what would your hair feel like, could he please find out?

He was dangerously close to reaching over and doing it for you.

So yes, he’ll take the blame for not knowing how to act around you.

Because you exist and he can feel himself be physically pulled into your orbit. Feet point to wherever you stand. Eyes follow you like he’s on an assignment. Hands curl into fists, holding back how much they want to say hello to your waist.

Like right now.

You saunter into the lounge, making a beeline towards the water dispenser for a glass. Heads are turned, and of course they are: you’re in a nice dress, light makeup, and kitten heels. That outfit on you is the perfect balance between professionalism and playfulness, more devastating to him than the sin that is your exposed back in ballroom lighting.

“Going out, pretty?”

Of course it’s Nat who says that, all sultry voice and bold words.

You look back, still filling up that tall glass with water. Strange, because you’re a tall glass of water—

“Yeah, actually,” you say, tone light, but the confirmation sinks like a weight in his stomach.

Sam’s eyebrows scrunch from his spot on the couch. “Like, out out.”

“Uh-huh. Out out.”

Nat’s lips curl into a smirk. “Hinge or Tinder?”

You scoff out your offense. “Doesn’t matter. He was funny, and he didn’t send a single dick pic in our one week of talking.”

“Whoa whoa whoa, miss ma’am,” here comes Sam’s big-brotherly crash-out, “first of all, you been talking to a guy without telling us, and now you’re going out on a date with him… just because he didn’t send you a dick pic??”

“I don’t know if I’d call it a date, Sam,” you reply from behind the rim. Where Bucky should feel reassurance, he feels the beginnings of dread. Because what is it if it’s not a date? A one-night-stand?

Sam’s hand on Bucky’s shoulder snaps him out of it.

“Bar’s real low these days, huh, Buck?”

Bucky’s blue eyes watch as you blink back at him, which is when he realizes he’s sitting on the common room couch, cleaning a fucking dagger on a Friday night.

Call him a lethal loser.

“Uh, yeah,” is his unintelligent reply, glancing back down onto the black blade in his grip.

But damn your gravity, because he can’t resist looking up at you again.

You shoot him a small smile, then shift your gaze to Sam and Nat as you exit.

“I’ll let you guys know if he’s a dick.”

“You’ll let us know about his dick?” Nat calls out, feigning care about what’s on the television. Sam cackles. Bucky gets the urge to stab his thigh.

“You heard me!” Your voice trails outside and disappears. So does your form.

Just like that, you’re no longer in his periphery, out of reach despite sleeping in the room next to his. Off to go on a not-date with some guy who was ‘funny’ and ‘didn’t send you dick pics’.

That can’t be all it takes for you to say yes. He can be funny, can’t he? In his own, uh, unique way?

He can feel his friend’s eyes are on him without looking. Can sense the teasing lace the air like lightning before it strikes. The way he sandblocks the knife is a silent response, too-forceful scrapes sounding like unspoken threats.

The blade is already more than clean.

“Careful, buddy, that’s sharp,” Sam says.

It is sharp—the weapon he’s tending to, but also that sensation in his chest when you leave. He gets it now, why it’s so frustrating when you are or aren’t around.

Because he’s fought so hard to belong again, but you make him feel different just by existing.

You’d think criminals would give themselves a break as the calendar inches closer to Christmas, but maybe this is their version of a holiday rush.

Heightened hostility means more missions. You get paired with Bucky on a bunch of them.

Underneath the cold and cruel December, something brews whenever the two of you are together.

Like last week at that repurposed HYDRA base in the outskirts of Minsk (good to know the villains are into reduce-reuse-recycle). The two of you spent seventy seconds bickering into the public comms about the plan for a possible shootout… while said possible shootout was already happening.

“I said I’d handle the three on the right!” he barked between shots.

“They were right there! Did you want me to ask for permission?!” you shouted, firing a round at another enemy agent.

They replied with the barrel of an assault rifle.

You ducked behind a concrete wall, parallel to where Bucky took cover, eyes wide. Casings of ricocheted bullets clinked noisily onto the floor.

Then at the quiet reload, Bucky huffed, rounded the corner, and bled his gun dry.

After the smoke lifted, he stared at you like he wanted you to admit his plan was better.

You murmured a quiet “thank you” to placate his spirits. He let the matter go immediately.

The brush of his fingers when he passes a spare magazine to you felt illegal. That hitch in your heartbeat wasn’t just adrenaline. You felt his gaze like touch when he gave you a once-over, nodded at the low “you good?” like it didn’t trip up your breathing.

Diverging professional tactics and… whatever this is aside, you and Bucky made a good team. Enough for you to be made an independent unit.

Which naturally meant more bonding time.

Said bonding time?

Being locked in a barehanded brawl inside of a ship container, out of all places (don’t ask), five people above its usual capacity of zero. Three of them are men out to deliver a death that’s more humiliating than the kind brought by a gun. More painful, too, judging by the bodybuilder frame one of them sported.

Two of them are you and Bucky. Lucky for you, your partner’s strength probably evens out the match.

It’s a blur of movement inside a 9×9 feet box. Of course the largest guy lunges at you, ready to fracture ribs and break a skull like it’s a football game. You roll to the side just in time. A disc flies from your right wrist to his chest, then bright blue flashes in the dark interior as the thug’s form spasms with a yell.

You use the sting to time the twist you deliver to his arm, a strong yank at an impossible angle till it cracks! and he yells in pain.

Then a hit to the back of his neck and he chokes on his own breath, before collapsing to the ground with a loud thud.

You make a mental note to thank Natasha for lending you that nifty taser.

The two other men crowd Bucky, but he dodges as if he’s read their movements in today’s papers. He ducks from a punch swung behind him, then bobs up to hit the one in front of him square on the face. There’s a loud oof followed by weight hitting the steel floor, echoing like a punctuation.

That guy doesn’t get back up. Probably won’t for a while.

“Does your man know what you do for work?” Bucky asks out of the blue, eyes focused on the last villain standing. This one’s a little harder to read, skirting and circling with speed that reminds him of boxing rings. Wilier than the musclehead whose arm you broke.

“It’s implied,” you answer, zip-tying Bucky’s most recent casualty that’s groaning on the floor, half-conscious. You try not to let the surprise show—why would your mission partner ask about this, and why now?

“And he’s not my man.”

A swift hook lands on Bucky’s side—the bad guy got him, but he doesn’t flinch. Because he uses it as leverage, hand gripping the offending wrist to thwack a mean uppercut—vibranium versus jaw. Jaw loses with a loud crack.

But the opponent still stands. Your soldier evades a counter-attack, backs up into a smooth weave, still finding the time to speak.

“Did he finally send you a dick pic?”

Your hands frantically dig into the pockets of the fallen ones, searching for the mission objective.

“Worse,” you pant, “he ghosted me.”

Something about that shifts the fight. It was all tiptoed advances—until Bucky swipes at the man’s ankle before sending a decisive jab across the face. It sounds like a broken nose. Dark red drips on the ground where the man’s form slumps, motionless.

Your fingers find the outline of a keycard inside a leather jacket. The not-musclehead had it. You fish it out.

At last, the three stooges are out of commission.

Now it’s just you and Bucky, chest heaving.

“Feels bad fighting for a guy’s attention, so I didn’t do it,” you declare, handing him the keycard.

His warm fingers brush yours when he takes it. “Between fighting for him or fighting him, he should be grateful either way.”

You laugh on the walk towards heavy-duty swing doors, pretending the air isn’t charged with leftover electricity from the taser.

He watches your back like he’s ready to punch and thank the man that was stupid enough to leave you alone.

The Christmas party at Stark Tower is an excuse to dress up and get drunk—Tony’s words, not yours. Designed to be lavish to the point of hedonism just because he can, and he’s him. You’d think the billionaire holds a secret grudge for skipping frat life at MIT.

There’s an open bar with mystery shots: if you’re lucky, you get the one laced with Asgardian mead. A part of the penthouse got turned into a dance floor with a DJ in one corner. You see agents willingly put their arms up in the air, surrendering to sensual basslines. There’s chatter from the sofas and laughs from upstairs. Stories told and traded.

After an hour of non-stop socializing, you slip out to the balcony for some fresh air. As fresh as the twenty-fourth of December can get, at least—it’s freezing, but at least that sobers you up quick. You’re no longer half-tipsy on fancy cocktail.

The city looks so alive underneath you.

White-gold lights twinkle, almost a perfect reflection of the decorations inside the Tower. If you listen closely, you can hear the honks of traffic. From here, you witness New York’s pulse, lives streaming in transit. The bigger picture looks beautiful.

You hear footsteps behind you, then the sliding glass door closes.

He joins you on the balcony.

“What are you running away from?” you ask before you even turn to see him.

When you do, your feet freeze.

You’re not a blind woman. Bucky always looks good, but tonight he looks even better.

The suit is a deep navy instead of his usual black, which in and of itself is a miracle. Then there’s everything else: the top button of his shirt is undone, revealing hints of a silver ball chain from which you know his dog tags dangle; his hair moving in the slight breeze. Generous warm light from the party spills from behind him, creating a soft halo around his outline.

“They’re playing truth-or-dare poker,” he announces, voice quiet.

“What even is that?”

Bucky shrugs. “Not sure. Don’t really care about… whatever’s happening inside there.”

He looks straight at you when he answers, and you swear your mind makes up the rest of that sentence. What about what’s happening out here? That and the gaze nearly flusters you, so you peek at the scene past him.

“Thor’s topless,” you note. “So it’s just strip poker?”

“I want to say he got dared, but knowing Thor...”

You can’t help but smile, leaning against the railing. Something to anchor your spine to, despite the risk a thousand-foot fall to the bone crush.

“You’re not joining him?”

Bucky smiles back. “A man should know when to be humble.”

Maybe it’s the self-deprecating look in his eyes. Or the alcohol that’s loosened your knots. Or the pretty Christmas lights in the background. A secret part of you wants to ask if he looks at you the way you look at him. Instead, you force out something that’s less dangerous while still being entirely honest, wrapped in an attempt at cool.

“You sure? I’ve seen you—you’re not half bad.”

He looks down, still smiling.

“You saw me topless with a six-inch gash on my right rib.”

“What doesn’t kill you makes you hotter, or whatever,” you grin in response.

Then he chuckles. You do too.

A gust blows and you’re too late to mask the shiver that wracks you. The next thing you know, he’s shedding his jacket. You feel the wool twill warm your shoulders and back.

“Wouldn’t want you to get sick,” he says, giving you a once-over.

You’re made aware of two things: your dress of choice, and the tips of his shoes pointing right at yours, close enough to touch.

“Thank you,” is the response you manage to muster. “You’re gonna be okay like that?”

It’s just him and his dress shirt now. You watch him roll the sleeves up.

“I’m used to the cold.”

Those blue eyes are on you again. You recognize the look as one of remembrance: he wears it when studying codes and control panels.

You’ve never been on the receiving end.

He breaks the silence first.

“You look... really beautiful.”

His voice, low and husky, joins his jacket in wrapping around you. You find yourself warming up.

“You don’t look so bad yourself,” you offer. It’s meant to sound light. Instead, you sound lost.

Standing in front of him without targets to neutralize feels like being compromised. Letting him see you in a party makes you feel naked—and you’ve worn less around him.

You swear his hand was about to do something when your name is called. Both your heads snap to the source at the same time. It’s Tony Stark.

“Inside, lovebirds. Chop chop!” Tony’s voice is muffled by glass.

“He sounds like a prissy headmaster,” you murmur.

Bucky wipes something—or nothing—off his nose. “Don’t want to anger the host.”

The two of you walk inside, mourning a lost moment. The air shifts when the doors slide open, cold on your back, warm on your face as you reenter the threshold of riches.

Something whirs mechanically overhead. You and Bucky look up at the same time.

It’s a mistletoe, real and red-ribboned, hanging from the most unnecessarily automated extension that makes itself known from a hidden compartment in the wall above the door. A traditional decoration made robotic.

“How’d that get there?” you ask, too calm for the speeding rhythm of your heartbeat.

“This room is booby-trapped with mistletoes in eighteen other locations. A project I started especially for you.”

Tony replies from the truth-or-dare couches, swirling his glass of vice. In that vicinity are people who look too pleased and not at all surprised at the turn of events.

Nat looks like a cat that got the cream, while Steve and Sam wear smug smiles. There’s a childlike glee in Thor’s eyes and a bit of secondhand embarrassment in Banner’s. Hill and Barton are at the open bar a few feet behind, watching the scene like it’s a late night show.

“You can run but you can’t hiiide,” Tony sings.

Bucky calls out. You can’t tell if he’s playful or serious.

“You’re clinically insane, Stark.”

Tony smirks back.

“Crazy recognizes crazy, baby.”

You ignore the way your heart’s rhythm snags when Bucky looks back at you. A mile-long list of ways to escape this run through your mind, all of them either downright offensive or completely revealing of the emotions you don’t want to admit you have.

You settle for a route that’ll break the least amount of hearts but devastate yours—something polite and forgettable.

Leaning in, you press a soft kiss on Bucky’s cheek.

His cologne wafts more than his jacket around your shoulders allowed. Blue eyes are already watching as you pull back, your movements so slow it’s almost imperceptible.

Or is it time that chooses to slow itself down? God knows the relativity of it is made worse whenever you’re together.

Your whisper is quiet enough to stop you from saying more, loud enough for only him to hear.

“Merry Christmas, Bucky.”

He hears your heel clack once on marble floors. The sound echoes, almost ominous, like a death knell to something that wasn’t given a chance to bloom. You’re walking away again.

You keep doing that. It hurts every time.

But something takes a hold of his gut, the place below where pain flares. It’s a sensation that reminds him of war and the brace before impact, but stronger. More purposeful.

Something like determination.

He doesn’t let you take two steps before catching your wrist in his grip, almost yanking you back into place. There’s a gentle pull. Your eyes widen, feet spinning back to him. His gravity cancels your centrifuge. Then he steadies you with a hand on your waist—oh, so that’s how you fit, like home—before he leans.

The kiss is deep.

“Mm—”

He traps you in his grip. You can’t run, but most importantly, you don’t want to.

You don’t want anything else but this.

When your body relaxes into Bucky’s and your eyes close, whoops and hollers fill the room. The sounds fade away, as does the grip on your wrist. That hand moves to cup your jaw, slanting his face over yours. You slip a hand onto his chest.

The slotting of a perfect puzzle piece.

He’s all you see when you part. The party doesn’t exist. At least not now.

“So,” you whisper, still breathing his air, “how long have you wanted to do that?”

“Too long,” he murmurs back.

His fingers and yours tangle, half warm, half vibranium.

“Gotta thank Santa for granting my wish this year,” he smiles.

The admission makes you blush—you’re his Christmas wish. His nose bumps yours. There are obnoxious oohs that you try to block out: you can berate Thor and Tony later. Your voice finds itself again.

“I kind of thought you didn’t like me.”

“Only didn’t like how clueless I was around you.”

“The ‘friendly competition’ wasn’t exactly clueless.”

Bucky studies your face, his own looking slightly sheepish.

“I just wanted to keep you safe,” he replies. “You have any idea how terrifying it is to watch you run into a room with guns waiting on the other side of the door?”

A thrill of hope and you feel the worth of the wait pay itself off.

“Like you don’t throw yourself into the fire,” you chide. It comes out loving.

He doesn’t respond. Only watches your eyelids flutter, blue eyes tracking every shift in your expression. You blink like you’re still processing reality, lips parted as if you’re slowly waking up from a daydream. Everything else is a low buzz in the background. The whisper between your lips is a confirmation.

“You kissed me.”

“I did,” he nods, “and not just because it’s tradition.”

“Kiss her again, tin man!”

The two of you ignore Sam’s bellow from fifteen feet away.

“Need more convincing?” Bucky smiles. You nod once, already looking at his lips.

Then he kisses you again.

As your eyes close, you vaguely hear Natasha saying “you owe me twenty dollars, Rogers” in the background. The party bursts into celebration, while you find stillness between his lips, steadiness with your hands on his chest.

His fingers fix your hair, tucking the strands behind one ear.

Finally.

(what if this was my only christmassy fic. what then. 😭) bucky barnes masterlist · main masterlist

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