There's a lot of stuff that counts as dystopian about modern society, but one of the smaller yet insidious things I've noticed recently is the rise of companies whose entire marketing strategy is to convince you you're a burden to your friends and families.
I'm talking about that one dog watching/walking service that has a whole commercial implying that your family members secretly hate you for asking them to watch your dog to the point it counts as a modern social faux pas.
And there's this moving service commercial that I think someone else referenced in a big tweet that says something along the line of "Real adults don't ask their friends to help them move."
Like fuck that, man. You're supposed to want to watch your friends' pets, and you're supposed to want to help your friends move, and you're supposed to cook for people when they're sick, and you're supposed to show up to check on friends you haven't heard from in awhile, and you're supposed to remember your friend needs a large frying pan when you find one cheap at the thrift store and bring it to them.
One of the reasons the younger generations are so miserable and lonely is because the rise of technology and the concurrent pushing of this rhetoric that all effort is a major inconvenience, and asking someone to put in effort for you therefore makes you an inconvenience has conditioned them not to seek community.
And because they've never experienced it, they don't know that's what's missing. It's a vicious cycle because when you're depressed from lack of community, finding the energy to put in effort for other people is a lot harder than getting quick dopamine hits from scrolling on social media or watching Netflix. Then you encounter the further issue that our media glorifies romantic love to the exclusion of all else, so most of the young people I know who are lonely jump to "Well I just need a girlfriend/boyfriend/partner," and that sets up rough relationships because one person is expected to fill the void of a dozen or more friends and neighbors.
So please believe me: If you're lonely, try volunteering somewhere in the community. Try going to events around your interests. Try talking to local shop owners. Bake something and surprise a friend with it. Search for nearby clubs or intramural sports teams. There are companies literally capitalizing on subtlely encouraging you NOT to do these things. We've reached the point where helping your friend move is an anticapitalist act.
Ran into a full-grown adult last week who was earnestly arguing that you shouldn't tell your partner about "bad things" from your past (eg, having a bad relationship with your parents, having been sexually assaulted, having been food insecure etc) because "That's what a therapist is for, why would you expect an untrained person to be able to handle hearing that?!" And it made me want to fucking die.
As we know, Steve had vision problems and was colorblind before serum. We don't know what specific form of the condition he had, but we can guess he had trouble with green and red, maybe even worse. That's not entirely important. What matters is that Steve only truly saw Bucky after receiving the serum. He saw him clearly, precisely, finally discerning the true color of his skin, his hair, his eyesâŠ
Bucky might have been dirty, unkempt, unshaven, pulled straight from hell, but I bet Steve had never seen anything more beautiful, because Steve saw Bucky after several months apart, Steve saw Bucky alive, Steve saw him for real.
james buchanan barnes still hasnât warmed up to you, and you donât know why. funny how the coldest season of the year is when the winter soldier starts thawingâŠ
or: bucky has a crush and doesnât know how to handle it.
đ 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
đ READER WARNINGS/TAGS: afab!reader, reader is part of SHIELD/avengers, reader is able-bodied and has hair
đ 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 youânot just because of the things you do for our community, but also for who you are and the joy you bring us â€ïžâ€ïžâ€ïž
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 doesnât 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 đ„)
i love you to bits princess, i hope your holiday season is everything you want it to be!!! mwah đ
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.
âGreat job out there,â Natasha pipes up from behind you, footsteps gaining until youâre walking side by side. âThat control room mustâve been, what, six hostiles? All packing?â
âSeven.â 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.
âDidnât know you were counting.â
âOnly because someone else is,â 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, itâs 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.
âTen.â
She lets out a dry laugh. âYou win.â
âWhatâs the prize?â you ask.
âBragging rights, obviously,â Nat volleys.
You click your tongue. âThat arm is basically a cheat code.â
Sam enters stage right, smiling at you as he takes his visors off.
â'Yâall are acting like Legolas and Gimli.â
How sweet; heâs picked a reference Bucky can understand. Bucky, whose face scrunches up like he had a taste of lime.
ââŠWhat?â
âYou know, the two dudes from Lord of the Rings?â you offer playfullyâlike 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.
âI mean, all that friendly competition?â Sam again. âSickening, but kinda cute.â
At this point Nat falls back to speak to one of SHIELDâs, probably something to do with the mission manifest. Now itâs just the Falcon and the Winter Soldier to your right and leftâthe angel and devil on your shoulder.
Or is it the devil and his other devil friend with a staring problem?
âFor the record, heâs Gimli, right?â you tease, thumb pointing at Bucky. Sam barks out a laugh so free, you feel the fight fading further into the past.
Buckyâs reply proves heâs the flattest argumentator in the world.
âGimliâs a great character.â
âWho asked a lady to give him a strand of her hair,â you quip.
âWay to take it out of context, doll.â
The nickname lands on you with the weight of an uppercut thatâs not entirely unpleasant. Sam holds up both hands in the air like itâs a stick-up.
âHey, Iâmma take myself out of this conversation.â
âYou started it.â
Itâs both your voice and Buckyâs. Same syllables, same time.
You freeze: itâs 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 structuresâAgent Hillâand youâre pulled right out of the moment.
âSee you boys later,â your feet sidetrack from the shared path, grateful for a chance to escape. You wave the drive in your hand. âHell hath no fury like Fury with encrypted secrets.â
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 Buckyâs eyes.
Sam doesnât.
âTen?â he starts, a handsome grin on his face. âYouâre overcompensating back there, and itâs not hard to figure out what for.â
âI donât know what youâre talking about,â Bucky murmurs.
A hard clap slaps Buckyâs back. He doesnât lurch, just blinks slowly at the best thorn-on-his-side he calls a friend. Annoyance with a touch of donât you even dare think about it, and a hidden not now.
âWhatever, lover boy. Just donât get hurt tryna impress her.â
Then Samâs 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.
Donât get hurt. Bucky contemplates those words and the impossibility of it.
Thereâs no way it wonât hurt. Itâs called a crush for a reason.
A slow-crawling loading bar floods the screenâs 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 youâre still unsettled.
Why is Bucky like that around you? Heâs fine with the rest of the team: Steve, Nat, and Sam most of all. Doesnât talk much, but friendly enough to take a joke.
With you?
Itâs 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 donât want it to bother you, it kind of does. Especially after youâve 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.
Thatâs an emotion you have no clearance to.
You desperately grab your focus by the neck, dragging it back on the screen.
Still 24%.
Canât this stupid program work any faster? It needs to stop giving you time to spiral.
Because youâre thinking about how itâs not the age gapâheâs literally a century oldâand it most certainly isnât 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 timeâexcept this time, youâre the one that he has a problem with.
It triggers too many thoughts for your tastes. Thoughts that donât 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 youâve always done.
Blame it on the hormones, use your job as a distraction, and try not to think about whether youâd 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.
Itâs early November and Bucky is stewing under his skin.
The compound quarters are private enough, but it doesnât 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. Youâd say âwant some?â and heâs suddenly working up a sweat despite the 40-degree weather.
Heâs seen you in skin-tight tac suits, soundless when you move. Backless dresses and stilettos at some glittery gala. Youâre more than beautiful enough to ruin him without touch, and yet pajamas are his downfall.
It doesnât take much to admit heâs 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 mindâs eye conjured your sleep shirt and shorts. Errant imagination twisted that innocent laugh into another sound thatâs just as ecstaticâ
That made him grit his teeth and adjust the way he sat. For the first time after everything thatâs 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 curiosityâbecause 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, heâll 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 heâs 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: youâre 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.
âGoing out, pretty?â
Of course itâs Nat who says that, all sultry voice and bold words.
You look back, still filling up that tall glass with water. Strange, because youâre a tall glass of waterâ
âYeah, actually,â you say, tone light, but the confirmation sinks like a weight in his stomach.
Samâs eyebrows scrunch from his spot on the couch. âLike, out out.â
âUh-huh. Out out.â
Natâs lips curl into a smirk. âHinge or Tinder?â
You scoff out your offense. âDoesnât matter. He was funny, and he didnât send a single dick pic in our one week of talking.â
âWhoa whoa whoa, miss maâam,â here comes Samâs big-brotherly crash-out, âfirst of all, you been talking to a guy without telling us, and now youâre going out on a date with him⊠just because he didnât send you a dick pic??â
âI donât know if Iâd call it a date, Sam,â you reply from behind the rim. Where Bucky should feel reassurance, he feels the beginnings of dread. Because what is it if itâs not a date? A one-night-stand?
Samâs hand on Buckyâs shoulder snaps him out of it.
âBarâs real low these days, huh, Buck?â
Buckyâs blue eyes watch as you blink back at him, which is when he realizes heâs sitting on the common room couch, cleaning a fucking dagger on a Friday night.
Call him a lethal loser.
âUh, yeah,â is his unintelligent reply, glancing back down onto the black blade in his grip.
But damn your gravity, because he canât resist looking up at you again.
You shoot him a small smile, then shift your gaze to Sam and Nat as you exit.
âIâll let you guys know if heâs a dick.â
âYouâll let us know about his dick?â Nat calls out, feigning care about whatâs on the television. Sam cackles. Bucky gets the urge to stab his thigh.
âYou heard me!â Your voice trails outside and disappears. So does your form.
Just like that, youâre 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 âfunnyâ and âdidnât send you dick picsâ.
That canât be all it takes for you to say yes. He can be funny, canât he? In his own, uh, unique way?
He can feel his friendâs 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.
âCareful, buddy, thatâs sharp,â Sam says.
It is sharpâthe weapon heâs tending to, but also that sensation in his chest when you leave. He gets it now, why itâs so frustrating when you are or arenât around.
Because heâs fought so hard to belong again, but you make him feel different just by existing.
Youâd 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.
âI said Iâd handle the three on the right!â he barked between shots.
âThey were right there! Did you want me to ask for permission?!â 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 âthank youâ 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 wasnât just adrenaline. You felt his gaze like touch when he gave you a once-over, nodded at the low âyou good?â like it didnât 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 (donât ask), five people above its usual capacity of zero. Three of them are men out to deliver a death thatâs 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 partnerâs strength probably evens out the match.
Itâs a blur of movement inside a 9Ă9 feet box. Of course the largest guy lunges at you, ready to fracture ribs and break a skull like itâs 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 thugâs 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 heâs read their movements in todayâs papers. He ducks from a punch swung behind him, then bobs up to hit the one in front of him square on the face. Thereâs a loud oof followed by weight hitting the steel floor, echoing like a punctuation.
That guy doesnât get back up. Probably wonât for a while.
âDoes your man know what you do for work?â Bucky asks out of the blue, eyes focused on the last villain standing. This oneâs a little harder to read, skirting and circling with speed that reminds him of boxing rings. Wilier than the musclehead whose arm you broke.
âItâs implied,â you answer, zip-tying Buckyâs most recent casualty thatâs groaning on the floor, half-conscious. You try not to let the surprise showâwhy would your mission partner ask about this, and why now?
âAnd heâs not my man.â
A swift hook lands on Buckyâs sideâthe bad guy got him, but he doesnât flinch. Because he uses it as leverage, hand gripping the offending wrist to thwack a mean uppercutâvibranium 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.
âDid he finally send you a dick pic?â
Your hands frantically dig into the pockets of the fallen ones, searching for the mission objective.
âWorse,â you pant, âhe ghosted me.â
Something about that shifts the fight. It was all tiptoed advancesâuntil Bucky swipes at the manâs ankle before sending a decisive jab across the face. It sounds like a broken nose. Dark red drips on the ground where the manâs 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 itâs just you and Bucky, chest heaving.
âFeels bad fighting for a guyâs attention, so I didnât do it,â you declare, handing him the keycard.
His warm fingers brush yours when he takes it. âBetween fighting for him or fighting him, he should be grateful either way.â
You laugh on the walk towards heavy-duty swing doors, pretending the air isnât charged with leftover electricity from the taser.
He watches your back like heâs 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 drunkâTonyâs words, not yours. Designed to be lavish to the point of hedonism just because he can, and heâs him. Youâd think the billionaire holds a secret grudge for skipping frat life at MIT.
Thereâs an open bar with mystery shots: if youâre 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. Thereâs 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 leastâitâs freezing, but at least that sobers you up quick. Youâre 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 Yorkâs 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.
âWhat are you running away from?â you ask before you even turn to see him.
When you do, your feet freeze.
Youâre 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 thereâs 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.
âTheyâre playing truth-or-dare poker,â he announces, voice quiet.
He looks straight at you when he answers, and you swear your mind makes up the rest of that sentence. What about whatâs happening out here? That and the gaze nearly flusters you, so you peek at the scene past him.
âThorâs topless,â you note. âSo itâs just strip poker?â
âI want to say he got dared, but knowing Thor...â
You canât help but smile, leaning against the railing. Something to anchor your spine to, despite the risk a thousand-foot fall to the bone crush.
âYouâre not joining him?â
Bucky smiles back. âA man should know when to be humble.â
Maybe itâs the self-deprecating look in his eyes. Or the alcohol thatâs 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 thatâs less dangerous while still being entirely honest, wrapped in an attempt at cool.
âYou sure? Iâve seen youâyouâre not half bad.â
He looks down, still smiling.
âYou saw me topless with a six-inch gash on my right rib.â
âWhat doesnât kill you makes you hotter, or whatever,â you grin in response.
Then he chuckles. You do too.
A gust blows and youâre too late to mask the shiver that wracks you. The next thing you know, heâs shedding his jacket. You feel the wool twill warm your shoulders and back.
âWouldnât want you to get sick,â he says, giving you a once-over.
Youâre made aware of two things: your dress of choice, and the tips of his shoes pointing right at yours, close enough to touch.
âThank you,â is the response you manage to muster. âYouâre gonna be okay like that?â
Itâs just him and his dress shirt now. You watch him roll the sleeves up.
âIâm used to the cold.â
Those blue eyes are on you again. You recognize the look as one of remembrance: he wears it when studying codes and control panels.
Youâve never been on the receiving end.
He breaks the silence first.
âYou look... really beautiful.â
His voice, low and husky, joins his jacket in wrapping around you. You find yourself warming up.
âYou donât look so bad yourself,â you offer. Itâs 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 nakedâand youâve 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. Itâs Tony Stark.
âInside, lovebirds. Chop chop!â Tonyâs voice is muffled by glass.
âHe sounds like a prissy headmaster,â you murmur.
Bucky wipes somethingâor nothingâoff his nose. âDonât want to anger the host.â
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.
Itâs 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.
âHowâd that get there?â you ask, too calm for the speeding rhythm of your heartbeat.
âThis room is booby-trapped with mistletoes in eighteen other locations. A project I started especially for you.â
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. Thereâs a childlike glee in Thorâs eyes and a bit of secondhand embarrassment in Bannerâs. Hill and Barton are at the open bar a few feet behind, watching the scene like itâs a late night show.
âYou can run but you canât hiiide,â Tony sings.
Bucky calls out. You canât tell if heâs playful or serious.
âYouâre clinically insane, Stark.â
Tony smirks back.
âCrazy recognizes crazy, baby.â
You ignore the way your heartâs 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 donât want to admit you have.
You settle for a route thatâll break the least amount of hearts but devastate yoursâsomething polite and forgettable.
Leaning in, you press a soft kiss on Buckyâs 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 itâs almost imperceptible.
Or is it time that chooses to slow itself down? God knows the relativity of it is made worse whenever youâre together.
Your whisper is quiet enough to stop you from saying more, loud enough for only him to hear.
âMerry Christmas, Bucky.â
He hears your heel clack once on marble floors. The sound echoes, almost ominous, like a death knell to something that wasnât given a chance to bloom. Youâre 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. Itâs a sensation that reminds him of war and the brace before impact, but stronger. More purposeful.
Something like determination.
He doesnât let you take two steps before catching your wrist in his grip, almost yanking you back into place. Thereâs 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 waistâoh, so thatâs how you fit, like homeâbefore he leans.
The kiss is deep.
âMmââ
He traps you in his grip. You canât run, but most importantly, you donât want to.
You donât want anything else but this.
When your body relaxes into Buckyâs 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.
Heâs all you see when you part. The party doesnât exist. At least not now.
âSo,â you whisper, still breathing his air, âhow long have you wanted to do that?â
âToo long,â he murmurs back.
His fingers and yours tangle, half warm, half vibranium.
âGotta thank Santa for granting my wish this year,â he smiles.
The admission makes you blushâyouâre 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.
âI kind of thought you didnât like me.â
âOnly didnât like how clueless I was around you.â
Bucky studies your face, his own looking slightly sheepish.
âI just wanted to keep you safe,â he replies. âYou have any idea how terrifying it is to watch you run into a room with guns waiting on the other side of the door?â
A thrill of hope and you feel the worth of the wait pay itself off.
âLike you donât throw yourself into the fire,â you chide. It comes out loving.
He doesnât respond. Only watches your eyelids flutter, blue eyes tracking every shift in your expression. You blink like youâre still processing reality, lips parted as if youâre slowly waking up from a daydream. Everything else is a low buzz in the background. The whisper between your lips is a confirmation.
âYou kissed me.â
âI did,â he nods, âand not just because itâs tradition.â
âKiss her again, tin man!â
The two of you ignore Samâs bellow from fifteen feet away.
âNeed more convincing?â Bucky smiles. You nod once, already looking at his lips.
Then he kisses you again.
As your eyes close, you vaguely hear Natasha saying âyou owe me twenty dollars, Rogersâ 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. đ)
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