A tense mission debrief leaves Bucky snapping in frustration — and his words hit Reader harder than he intended. Taking it literally, she pulls away, leaving him scrambling to explain he hadn’t meant it the way it sounded. Later that night, still wanting to make it up to her, Bucky shows up with a small, worn compass he found in a shop, a quiet reminder of how much she grounds him. Misunderstandings are mended, apologies are given, and the night ends in the safety of his arms.
The conference room felt like it was shrinking with every word Fury threw across the table.
The mission had gone bad — not terrible, but messy enough to leave everyone tense. The air smelled faintly of coffee and ozone, the hum of the overhead lights just a little too loud. You sat across from Bucky, trying to keep your voice even while explaining why you’d made the call to pull back.
You’d thought he’d understand. He always did.
But somewhere between Fury’s sharp questions and Sam’s quiet interjections, you caught the moment Bucky’s jaw locked. His metal fingers tapped once, twice, then stopped entirely. His gaze cut to you — too sharp, too cold — and he snapped.
“You know what? Just… don’t talk to me right now.”
It wasn’t shouted. It wasn’t cruel in tone. But it was final.
Your stomach dropped like you’d been pushed off a cliff.
You went quiet instantly, throat tightening around anything you might have said.
You nodded, once, small, like the good soldier you were trying to be — and didn’t say another word through the rest of the debrief.
By the time the meeting ended, you were already halfway out the door, your bag slung over your shoulder and your steps a little too fast. You didn’t hear him calling your name at first. Didn’t see the way he was pushing through people to catch up.
He finally got to you in the hallway, grabbing your arm gently.
“Hey—hey, doll, wait a second—”
You shook your head, not trusting your voice, and tried to pull away. He stepped in front of you instead, eyes searching your face.
“Look, about what I said—”
“You don’t have to explain,” you said quickly, trying to keep your tone light. “You don’t want me to talk to you right now. Got it. I’ll give you space.”
The way you said it — calm, matter-of-fact, like you were reading orders — made something twist painfully in his chest.
“Sweetheart, no. That’s not—” He dragged a hand through his hair, frustrated with himself. “I didn’t mean it like that. I was—hell, I was pissed at the whole damn situation, not at you. I was just… I don’t know. Overloaded. And I said something stupid.”
You just blinked at him, still unsure if this was damage control or truth.
He stepped closer, voice softer now. “I never want you to think I don’t want to hear from you. Even when I’m being an ass. Especially then.”
There was an earnestness in his eyes that you couldn’t ignore. The kind that stripped away any soldier’s mask he usually wore.
“You sure?” you asked quietly. “Because it felt like you meant it.”
“I’m sure,” he said without hesitation. His metal hand came up, hesitant, before resting lightly on your jaw. “I meant—‘give me a second before I say something worse’—not ‘I don’t want you around.’ You’re the one person I do want around. Always.”
And with that, the knot in your chest finally loosened, just enough for you to exhale.
That Night
You were curled up on the couch that evening, a blanket pulled over your legs and the TV droning in the background — though you weren’t really watching. Your brain was still looping through the moment at the debrief like a scratched record. You knew Bucky had explained himself, and you’d believed him… mostly. But part of you still carried the weight of his tone.
The knock on your door was soft.
When you opened it, Bucky was standing there in a hoodie and his old leather jacket, hair a little wind-tousled, and hands in his pockets like a kid who’d been caught sneaking in past curfew.
“I know it’s late,” he started, “but I couldn’t stop thinking about earlier. And, uh… I got you something.”
You frowned in surprise as he pulled something from his pocket — a small, beat-up metal keychain shaped like a little compass. The brass was worn, the face scratched, but the needle still spun freely.
“It’s nothing fancy,” he said quickly, almost nervous. “I found it at that antique shop down the street from HQ. Reminded me of you.”
You turned it over in your palm, the weight of it small but grounding. “A compass?”
He gave a lopsided shrug, stepping closer. “You’re… the person who keeps me pointed in the right direction. Even when I’m losing it.” His voice dipped softer. “Especially when I’m losing it.”
The sincerity in his eyes left no room for the sting of earlier. Your chest warmed, the knot from the afternoon loosening all the way this time.
You smiled faintly, brushing your thumb over the compass before looking back at him. “You could’ve just texted that, you know.”
“Yeah,” he said, returning the smile. “But then I wouldn’t get to see you smile like that.”
You set the compass on the coffee table, stepping into his arms without another word. He wrapped you up instantly, holding on longer than necessary — and you didn’t let go first.
