little miss home-renter
long drabble: your frustration with your dad's best friend constantly showing up in your life takes an unexpected turn when you're forced to call him for help building your bed at midnight.
pairing: dbf! bucky barnes x reader
tags: fluff, romcom, enemies to lovers... kinda, steve is literally daddy, 1.6k words.
you don't even get the chance to open the door before you hear them bickering, their voices carrying through the hallway like they own the damn building.
"back straight, steve," bucky's voice rings clear as a bell. "you're gonna pull something, old man."
"i'm carrying the lighter box," your dad retorts.
"yeah, because i let you," bucky shoots back, the smirk evident in his voice even through solid wood.
you sigh so hard you might've bruised a rib.
every. damn. time. you invite your dad over, bucky shows up too. like he's glued to your father's side, surgically attached or bound by an oath made in blood. it's like they've never outgrown their glory days, still thick as thieves, cracking jokes and throwing their backs out for fun. you get it, veteran loyalty, lifelong friendship, whatever. but sometimes, you just want your dad. not... bucky.
especially not when you're in sweatpants with a coffee stain on the knee and a ratty college shirt you've had since freshman year. and especially not when bucky looks like he walked off a mechanic calendar—tight black shirt stretching across his chest, jeans that hug in all the right places, that metal arm flexing under cardboard weight like he's deliberately putting on a show.
you pretend not to notice. you're getting good at that.
the door finally swings open, revealing your dad's beaming face and bucky's imposing figure right behind him, box balanced effortlessly on one shoulder like it weighs nothing. the sunlight catches on his metal arm, and you have to squint just to look at him.
"there she is!" your dad exclaims, placing his significantly smaller box down to wrap you in a bear hug. "my little homeowner."
"it's a rental, dad," you mumble into his shoulder, but you're smiling despite yourself.
over his shoulder, your eyes meet bucky's. he gives you that infuriating half-smile, the one that makes you want to either slap him or…
you push that thought away so fast you almost give yourself whiplash.
the move goes fast, too fast. you barely get a word in before the couch is already set against the wall, your boxes stacked alphabetically (thanks, bucky, you controlling jerk), and your dad's cracking open beers like he just fought a war instead of carrying a microwave.
"to new beginnings," your dad toasts, raising his bottle.
"and to actual furniture," bucky adds, eyeing your mismatched thrift store decor with amusement dancing in his eyes.
you try not to scowl when bucky ruffles your hair like you're still twelve and says, "proud of you, kid. all grown-up and everything."
you bat his hand away with more force than necessary.
"i could've done it without you guys," you insist, chin raised slightly in defiance.
your dad snorts so hard beer almost comes out his nose. "sure, pumpkin."
bucky doesn't say anything, but his eyes say everything, skepticism mixed with something softer that you refuse to analyze.
they leave an hour later, your dad promising to bring extra tupperware because you can't live on takeout forever, bucky making a joke about your fridge being stocked with "fermented oat milk and nothing else."
"i have condiments too, asshole," you mutter.
"ketchup packets don't count as a food group," he fires back without missing a beat.
you flip them both off behind the door once it closes.
the first few hours alone are glorious. quiet. yours.
you open boxes. hang photos. light candles that smell like "urban rainstorm" and "financial stability." you blast music no one can tell you to turn down.
but then you make the mistake of tackling the bedframe.
four pieces in, you realize the screws don't match the holes. seven pieces in, one of the slats breaks with a crack that sounds suspiciously like laughter. ten pieces in, you're sweating and breathing heavily and considering just sleeping on the damn floor forever. you lie there for a full minute, sprawled among wooden planks and screws, trying to will the bedframe to finish itself through sheer female independence.
it doesn't.
you groan. you curse. you dramatically fling an allen wrench across the room like it's personally betrayed your lineage.
then you reach for your phone.
your thumb hovers over your dad's contact, but something makes you scroll down to the "b" section instead.
it's 12:41 am when you open the door, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion, hair tied back in a messy bun, wearing mismatched socks and the expression of someone who has swallowed a gallon of pride and is still choking on it.
bucky leans on the frame, toolbox in one hand, unreadable smirk on his face. he's still in the same clothes from earlier, but somehow he looks even better in the dim hallway light. it's patently unfair.
"you look like you've been through war," he says, stepping in without waiting for an invitation.
"i hate furniture," you mutter, closing the door behind him. "it's a capitalist conspiracy."
"i told you to wait till tomorrow." his voice is low, amused but not mocking.
"you said that, but you also laughed when i said i'd build it myself."
he shrugs, bending down to examine the wreckage that was supposed to be your bed. "and i was right. you built a modern art installation. could probably sell it for thousands."
you glare, arms crossed over your chest. "less talking. more fixing."
to your surprise, he doesn't say much after that, he just works. efficient. calm. occasionally giving you little instructions like you're his assistant and not the one who dragged him out of bed past midnight.
"hold this."
"hand me that phillips head."
"not that one, the other one."
"no, not—jesus, do you know what a phillips head looks like?"
you sit back at some point, watching him. the way his brows furrow in concentration. the steady pace of his hands, metal and flesh both equally gentle with the wood. the flex of his back muscles under his shirt as he leans forward to tighten a screw. it's annoying, how naturally capable he is. like he was built for these kinds of moments. like he was meant to be there, in your apartment, fixing the things you couldn't.
you cross your arms. "why are you always with him?"
he doesn't look up. "with who?"
"my dad. you never come without him. doesn't it get old? being his... sidekick or something?"
he lets out a quiet breath. almost a laugh. tight and amused. "he's my best friend."
"i know. but still. it's like he can't go anywhere without you. i invite him for dinner and boom—there's bucky. i call him for help, there's bucky. i move out, and who's lifting my couch? bucky."
this time, he pauses. looks up. his blue eyes lock onto yours, searching for something. his expression is unreadable, but something in it makes your breath catch.
"you mad about that?" he asks quietly.
you blink, suddenly unsure. "no. i just... notice."
something shifts in the silence between you. he nods once, like he understands more than you're saying, and goes back to work. his movements seem different now—more deliberate, careful, like he's thinking about something else entirely.
it's 2:07 am when the bedframe finally stands tall and smug in the middle of your room, a testament to his skill and your failure.
"built like a tank," bucky says, brushing his hands together, metal glinting under your cheap overhead light. "you'll sleep like a queen."
you give it a test push. it doesn't creak. not even a wobble. of course it doesn't.
he's walking toward the door, toolbox in hand, when you stop him.
"wait."
he turns, one eyebrow raised in question.
you try not to look too hopeful, too eager. "i baked cookies earlier. i was gonna give them to dad but... you want some? as a thank you."
his brow rises higher, and there's the faintest twitch of a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. "you baked?"
"yes, barnes, i can bake," you snap, defensive. "i'm not completely useless."
"never said you were."
he accepts one like it's an offering from another realm, bites into it cautiously as if expecting it to bite back. chews. Nods.
"these are actually good," he says, genuine surprise in his voice.
you cross your arms, trying to look offended but secretly pleased. "wow. you sound shocked."
he licks a crumb from his thumb, throws you a look over his shoulder that makes your stomach do something complicated. "you finally did something on your own. i'm proud."
you hurl a pillow at him. he catches it midair with his metal hand, reflexes sharp as ever.
smirking. always smirking. like he knows something you don't.
"thanks," you say, softer this time. "for coming over. at midnight. you didn't have to."
he studies you for a moment. "yeah, i did."
something in his tone makes you look up, really look at him. for a second, you think you see something in his eyes— beyond the teasing, it was warm and genuine and it makes your heart skip.
but then he's moving toward the door again, and the moment evaporates like it was never there.
"next time," he says, pausing with his hand on the doorknob, "just call me first. not after you've demolished half the furniture."
"there won't be a next time," you lie, and both of you know it.
he just shakes his head, that infuriating half-smile back in place. "night, brat."
you watch him leave, metal arm glinting under the kitchen light, and wonder if he knows he's the one thing you wouldn't mind your dad bringing around all the time.
maybe someday you'll tell him.
but not tonight.
tonight, you sleep on a perfectly built bed, stomach full of cookies, and the faint scent of his cologne still hanging in the air.
you're independent. kind of. but you're not stupid.
you know who you'll call next time, too.
