coffee, cereal, and secrets
Bucky Barnes x assistant!reader
word count: 11.4k
summary: Just a regular day in the life of a team that’s part superhero, part mess—coffee spills, cereal battles, awkward library encounters, and maybe a little romance.
warnings: Mentions of past trauma, mild physical training mishaps, sarcasm overload, borderline chaos, intense feels, and unexpected smooches. Handle with humor and snacks.
a/n: Inspired by this tiktok 'cause it appeared on my fyp and I couldn't help but imagine how nice it would be to have a life like that. Enjoy your reading 💕
──xoxo, madds ᡣ𐭩
Barnes & Noble, NYC – 11:50am
The bookstore smelled like freshly printed pages mixed with cheap drip coffee—honestly, the kind that kinda sucks but somehow feels comforting, like a hug from a broke college roommate. Outside, New York was its usual disaster: horns blasting, people power-walking like the apocalypse was on sale, not even glancing up from their phones. But inside that Barnes & Noble? It felt like a bunker from all the madness.
Bob wandered between the shelves with that same clumsy energy that made him, well, Bob. His boots hit the floor heavy, like he wasn’t a Thunderbolt but some random dude who just clocked out from a factory shift. Jacket wrinkled, hair a total mess—basically, not hero material. Still, his face had that “kid lost in Toys ‘R’ Us” expression.
“I dunno which one to pick…” he muttered, brushing his fingers along the spine of some hardcore military history book, while holding a sci-fi paperback in his other hand. He looked like he was solving world peace.
You walked up, hugging your bag to your chest.
"Uh, ever think about… grabbing both?”
Bob blinked at you, like you’d just invented fire.
"Wait… I can do that?”
You couldn’t help but laugh. That goofy innocence was exactly why hanging around him was so damn easy. Among the Thunderbolts, where everyone carried scars, trauma, and enough baggage to sink a ship, Bob was… different. Sure, he had his own demons, but with you, he chilled out. Like he finally wasn’t being treated as some loaded weapon but as what he really was: a dude who sometimes just wanted to read a good book.
“Of course you can. You deserve a couple guilty pleasures, don’t ya think?”
Bob nodded so hard it was like he’d discovered religion. A nervous laugh slipped out.
“You’re right. Nobody’s ever told me that before.”
The two of you strolled together to another aisle. Every time he picked up a book, he asked what you thought, and even though half the titles weren’t remotely your style, you still read the blurbs and made some smart comment. That’s all he wanted—someone to actually listen.
Then, outta nowhere, he froze in front of the graphic novels section. His voice dropped.
“Sometimes I feel like… like I don’t really fit in with them.”
You knew exactly who he meant.
“With the Thunderbolts?” you asked softly.
Bob’s gaze hit the floor, like he was waiting for you to laugh.
“Yeah. Yelena’s laser-focused, Ava barely talks, Alexei… well, he never shuts up. And Bucky’s got that whole silent-leader vibe that makes me feel… small.”
You set a hand gently on his arm.
“Bob, you’re just as important as any of them. They might not say it out loud, but they trust you. They know you’ve got their back.”
He swallowed hard, eyes shining like those words were worth more than every book in the store.
“Thanks. You always know what to say.”
Your cheeks warmed, though you were used to his raw honesty by now. When you both hit the register, Bob insisted on paying for your coffee—his own clumsy way of saying thanks.
From where you stood by the exit, you watched him carefully cradle his new books like treasure. Big, awkward, and with a heart way too soft for the “killer” label the world slapped on him. Maybe, you thought, that’s what kept the Thunderbolts running: between all the broken pieces, there were still people like Bob—and people like you—reminding everyone they were human.
As you stepped out into the noise of New York, Bob clutched the bag tight, almost smiling.
“Today’s been a good day.”
You smiled back.
“Yeah, Bob. It really has.”
Neither of you said it out loud, but both knew—those tiny moments? They were the glue holding the Thunderbolts together.
Watchtower Gym – 1:32pm
The training hall lit up under harsh white lights, the air buzzing with the sound of gloves being strapped on. Yelena Belova was already there when you showed up, ponytail high, eyes sharp as hell. She looked you up and down like she was running numbers on how fast you’d drop in a real fight.
“You’re late,” she said, tossing you a water bottle that nearly slipped through your hands.
“It’s two minutes,” you shot back, trying to sound chill.
“Two minutes on a mission equals a bullet in your head.”
You scoffed but didn’t argue. Yelena had that uncanny mix of friend and terrifying drill sergeant.
You hit the mats, and she started explaining some move to counter a grab from behind. You’d studied it the night before, bingeing martial arts forums and tutorial videos, hoping to surprise her.
When she lunged at you, you copied the steps exactly: hip twist, elbow pressure, shove forward. Shockingly, it worked—Yelena hit the floor with a groan that melted into a crooked grin.
“Well damn, assistant,” she said, climbing back up. “Guess you actually study.”
Pride lit your chest.
“Someone’s gotta keep you on your toes.”
She let out a laugh—rare, and sharp like glass but real.
“I like you. Most people are scared of me.”
“I’m scared of you too,” you admitted, making her laugh harder.
Training cranked up a notch. Every time you screwed up, Yelena corrected you hard—sometimes shoving you down to prove a point. But when you nailed a move, she tapped your shoulder with approval.
“You’re better than you look,” she said mid-session. “Not a soldier, but you’ve got what most lack: patience to learn.”
“And you’ve got zero patience to teach,” you teased.
She smacked a towel into your face.
By the end you were drenched in sweat, muscles screaming, but your head buzzing with adrenaline. Yelena collapsed onto the mat next to you, chugging water.
Her tone softened.
“When they told us we were getting an assistant, I thought you’d be useless. Just another civilian with no clue.”
You waited for the sarcastic punchline. It never came.
“I was wrong. You’re useful. And not just for coffee runs. You remind us… we can have something close to a normal life.”
Silence stretched before you whispered:
“Thanks, Lena.”
She shrugged like it meant nothing.
“Don’t get used to it. Tomorrow I’m tossing you across the mat again.”
Both of you laughed, and for the first time, you realized your bond with Yelena wasn’t just training—it was trust.
When you left, still catching your breath, you spotted Bucky in the hallway. Your eyes met, sparks buzzing in your chest. Yelena clocked it instantly.
“Subtle,” she muttered with a smirk before walking off.
Your heart flipped. Maybe you weren’t as stealthy as you thought.
Watchtower Gym – 3:35pm
The gym was dead silent except for the ceiling fans humming overhead. Your session with Yelena had barely ended, and already your body was on strike. But across the room sat Ava Starr—Ghost—curled on a bench, hood down, sweat-soaked shirt clinging to her, eyes glued to the floor. Fingers twitching, breath uneven. You’d seen this before: on the edge.
You drew a steadying breath and approached with a soft smile.
“Hey, Ava… we’re done for today. Wanna start therapy now?”
She looked up, eyes sharp and tired.
“I don’t need babysitting.”
“It’s not babysitting,” you said, sitting across from her and pulling out the ice pack you’d prepped. “It’s making sure you don’t wake up tomorrow feeling like death.”
For a second, you thought she’d brush you off. But she sighed and extended her arm.
You placed the ice on her shoulder, working around it gently. At first, she was stiff, like she didn’t trust a single touch. Slowly, she softened.
“Where do you even learn this stuff?” she asked as you rolled a foam stick down her back.
“Internet’s a miracle,” you chuckled. “I stay up way too late watching physio vids.”
Ava’s lips twitched—barely a smile, but there.
“Seriously?”
“Dead serious. I just want everyone okay… especially you.”
She closed her eyes, letting the roller do its magic. The room sank into quiet, just her breathing steadying out.
Then her voice broke the silence.
“When I was a kid, nobody touched me without hurting me. Pain was all I knew.”
She paused, chest rising.
“It’s weird… letting someone touch me without bracing for it.”
Your chest ached. You pressed your hand firm on her arm.
“With me? You’ll never have to expect pain.”
Her eyes snapped open, surprised at your steady tone. And for once, the steel in her stare cracked into gratitude.
When you switched to the massage gun, Ava tensed again, then melted, letting out a low groan that almost sounded like a laugh.
“That feels… stupid good.”
“Told ya,” you said proudly.
She rolled her shoulders afterward, frowning in disbelief.
“Doesn’t hurt as bad.”
“That’s the point.” You winked.
At the door, she hesitated before murmuring:
“Thanks.”
One word. From Ava, that was a damn novel.
Cereal Company HQ – 6:30pm
The conference room was stuffed with executives in overpriced suits and fake smiles. In the middle of them sat Alexei Shostakov—Red Guardian—like a grizzly bear in a tea party. Huge, sweaty, and hyped beyond belief.
“Wheaties!” he boomed, slamming a fist on the table and splashing water everywhere. “Cereal of champions. And I AM champion!”
The execs exchanged horrified looks. You, seated beside him with a folder of notes, jumped in fast.
“What Mr. Shostakov means is that his image embodies strength and endurance—perfect for your brand.”
Alexei pointed at you proudly.
“Exactly! She say it better.”
One exec coughed.
“Uh… sure. But what makes you a strong role model for our target audience?”
Alexei puffed up.
“Because I am Red Guardian! Russian legend! What kid wouldn’t wanna be me?”
Silence. You bit your lip, scrambling.
“Besides his heroic career, Alexei connects with people authentically. His story inspires resilience.”
The Russian nodded so hard the mic nearly toppled.
“Yes! And I eat more cereal boxes than all of you. Want proof?”
“No, no, no,” you hissed, grabbing his arm before he challenged them to an eating contest.
He frowned, then burst into booming laughter.
“Joking! Maybe…”
The meeting rolled on, you spinning his nonsense into marketing gold. At one point, he whipped out a Red Guardian action figure and plopped it on the table.
“Limited edition! Very valuable!”
You buried your face in your hands to hide your laugh.
By the end, shockingly, the execs seemed convinced. One shook his hand.
“Alright, Mr. Shostakov. We’re moving forward with the campaign.”
Alexei looked at you like you’d just won the World Cup for him. Outside the room, he scooped you up in a bear hug.
“We did it, dorogaya! Unstoppable team!”
“Don’t call me that in front of everyone.”
“Why not? It sounds cute!”
You just shook your head, smiling. Impossible to stay mad at him. His chaos somehow worked. That was the Thunderbolts’ magic—total dysfunction that still came together.
From down the hall, Yelena leaned against a wall, smirking at the scene. She knew. This wasn’t just a team. It was family.
Contemporary Art Museum – 7:27pm
The museum was nearly empty that night. Outside, New York was roaring like always, but inside, a quiet reverence wrapped around you both, like stepping into a bubble that didn’t exist anywhere else.
Bucky walked beside you, hands buried in his jacket pockets, eyes scanning each sculpture and painting like he was seeing them for the first time. To most, he was the Winter Soldier, ex-assassin, Thunderbolt who could scare anyone in a heartbeat. To you, he was James Buchanan Barnes: a guy still amazed by small details, the way light hit an oil painting, the way a carved face seemed almost alive.
“Never thought I’d like this,” he murmured, stopping in front of an impressionist painting. “Steve always wanted to come here when we were kids, and I tagged along. Pretended I was bored… but really, I liked it.”
You leaned in slightly.
“And now… still pretending?”
He chuckled, a low, rough sound.
“Not with you. With you, I don’t have to fake anything.”
Your cheeks flushed. That was the magic of Bucky: rough around everyone else, but with you, he let down the walls.
You moved into a nearly empty gallery, a massive snowy landscape painting hanging on the wall. Bucky’s eyes lingered on it like he was remembering Brooklyn winters, times that felt a lifetime away.
“What’re you thinking about?” you asked softly.
“Everything that was lost… and everything still left.” His gaze flicked to you, the air charged in a way that made your chest tighten.
Your fingers brushed his, testing the waters. He didn’t pull away. Instead, he intertwined his hand with yours, firm, sure.
“You know everyone’s suspicious,” he whispered.
“Suspicious of what?” you tried, voice innocent but your smile betrayed you.
“Us.” His lips curved into a crooked grin. “We’re not as sneaky as we think.”
You laughed, keeping your voice low.
“Well, as long as we don’t get caught in the act…”
He raised an eyebrow, leaning closer.
“Is that a challenge?”
Your heart skipped.
“Maybe.”
The silence was heavy with glances and half-smiles. Finally, Bucky pressed you gently against a wall, covering you from view, lips on yours.
The kiss started soft, tentative, then deepened, urgent. Your hands gripped his jacket; he held you close like he’d never let go.
For a moment, the world vanished. Just you two and the certainty that this wasn’t a mistake, despite the past, despite the team, despite everything.
When you broke apart, both breathless, smiling like teenagers caught doing something reckless:
“We’re definitely gonna get caught,” you whispered.
“Let ’em try,” Bucky replied, kissing you again, quick, as if the world could disappear at any second.
The date carried on through silent corridors, stifled laughter, quiet conversations in front of art you barely noticed. By the time you left the museum, the city greeted you with its usual chaos, but nothing could shatter your bubble.
Bucky took your hand for the ride to the bike. No one else looked, no one suspected. Or at least, that’s what you thought.
Back at the tower, everything was unusually quiet. Late. You were sure everyone was asleep. Walking down the carpeted hallways, laughing in whispers, still floating from the date, Bucky gently cornered you against the wall, kissing you again. Laughter mixed with the kisses, lips colliding mid-chuckle.
“Shhh,” you whispered, but you were the first to laugh.
“You started it,” he said, that crooked grin you loved.
A sudden crash cut through the moment: something hit the floor. Both of you froze, heads turning at the same time.
In the dim hall, Bob stood there, eyes wide, jaw dropped, like he’d seen a ghost.
The silence was deafening.
You and Bucky were still pressed together, caught mid-laugh, mid-kiss. Bob blinked, took a slow step toward the fallen object: a half-open cereal box.
Your heart raced. You were certain he could hear it pounding.
“Bob…” you whispered, voice barely a thread.
He looked up, still stunned, and at that moment, you knew the secret was out.
