C's corner: Just a soft little one shot to give me a break from the smut.
WARNINGS: fluff, mutual pining, awkward flirting, first kiss, mild mission violence, gunfire, brief mentions of Bucky’s time in hiding, Romanian used as a flirting weapon, Sam Wilson being nosy.
✍🏽WC: 3.6K+
SUMMARY: You survive gunfire without a problem. Bucky speaking Romanian? That's a different story.
The mission goes sideways in the least dramatic way possible. Not with explosions. Not with betrayal. Not with a villain monologuing in a warehouse with poor lighting and worse ventilation.
No, the mission goes sideways because James Buchanan Barnes opens his mouth and speaks Romanian.
That's it. That's the whole catastrophe.
You're crouched behind a concrete barrier in Bucharest, rain dripping from the edge of your jacket, earpiece crackling softly as Sam mutters something about the target moving south. The alley smells like wet stone, old cigarettes, and the kind of diesel fumes that make your lungs feel personally insulted.
Bucky is beside you, calm as ever, eyes tracking every shadow. He has his rifle tucked close, his hair damp at the ends, his jaw set in that unfairly sharp way that usually makes you annoyed because nobody should look that composed while being shot at.
You're fine, totally fine. Professional, even.
Then a door bangs open at the far end of the alley. A frightened older man stumbles out, hands raised, speaking too quickly for you to catch anything beyond the panic in his voice.
You tense, but Bucky steps forward before you can.
He lowers his weapon and then he says, low and steady, "Nu vă mișcați. Suntem aici să vă ajutăm."
The man freezes.
You also freeze. Not because of danger. Not because of strategy. Because Bucky's voice has gone soft and rough around the Romanian words, all warm gravel and velvet-shadowed consonants, and your brain immediately drops every file labeled mission protocol into a trash fire.
You blink.
What was that?
The man answers, still frantic. Bucky nods, listening, rain sliding down the side of his face. He responds again, smoother this time, a little faster.
"Înțeleg. Dar trebuie să intrați înapoi. Este periculos afară."
Your mouth goes dry, actually dry. Like your body has decided hydration is no longer compatible with the moment.
Sam's voice crackles through comms. "Everything good down there?"
Bucky glances your way.
You look at the wall. The wall is safe. The wall isn't speaking Romanian.
"We're good," Bucky says.
In English, a tragedy. A mercy.
The man hurries back inside. Bucky steps beside you again, brow furrowing when he catches your expression. "You okay?"
"Yes," you say too quickly.
His eyes narrow.
You nod with violent enthusiasm. "Mission. Great. Love those. Big fan."
Bucky stares at you.
You stare at the wall harder.
From the comms, Sam says, "Why did that sound weird?"
"It didn't," you snap.
"It did," Sam says. "It sounded like your soul tripped."
"My soul is agile."
Bucky tilts his head slightly. "You sure you're okay?"
You make the mistake of looking at him.
He's still damp from the rain. His lashes are wet. His mouth is set in a concerned little line. His voice is normal again, but your traitorous brain has already bookmarked the Romanian version of him.
"I'm perfect," you say.
"You don't look perfect."
"I look incredible."
Sam hums. "That part's true."
"Focus," Bucky mutters.
You nearly fold in half.
Because he mutters it under his breath, annoyed and fond, and for one horrifying second you think he might mutter something else in Romanian if the universe is feeling cruel.
Thankfully, the target chooses that exact moment to bolt from the building across the street. Gunfire cracks. The mission resumes. You throw yourself into it with the desperation of a woman fleeing not bullets, but feelings.
By the time the target is secured and you're back at the safehouse, you have made a decision. You're going to avoid Bucky Barnes until your body stops being ridiculous. This is mature This is tactical. This is self-preservation. It lasts eleven minutes.
"You're avoiding me," Bucky says.
You nearly drop your water bottle.
He's standing in the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, black Henley clinging to him in a way that feels frankly unnecessary. His hair is still damp from his shower, pushed back from his face. He looks domestic and dangerous, which should be illegal in every country you operate in.
"I'm not," you say.
His eyebrows lift. "You walked out of the room when I walked in."
You twist the cap off your water bottle and take a sip, except you're nervous, so you choke on it immediately.
Bucky steps forward. "You okay?"
You wave him off while coughing. "Fine. Water attacked me."
His mouth twitches.
You point toward the hallway. "I have to go do something."
"What?"
"Inventory."
"We already did inventory."
"Emotional inventory."
You flee.
The second you reach the living room, Sam looks up from the couch. "You look like you just saw a ghost."
"Worse," you whisper. "A bilingual man."
Sam slowly lowers his phone. His grin blooms like a terrible sunrise. "No."
"Don't."
"He spoke Romanian, didn't he?"
You glare at him. "Don't make this a thing."
"Oh, it's already a thing. It entered wearing boots and kicked the door down."
You throw a pillow at his head. He catches it. Unfortunately, Sam Wilson has reflexes and no respect for your suffering.
From the hallway, Bucky calls, "You two fighting?"
"No," Sam says, grinning at you. "She's just emotionally compromised."
You hiss, "I will put salt in your coffee."
Bucky appears in the doorway. "Compromised how?"
"No way," you say. "Absolutely not."
Sam stands, pats Bucky on the shoulder, and says, "Man, good luck." Then he leaves.
Traitor.
Bucky looks more concerned now.
You feel bad immediately.
That's the problem with Bucky. He can look like a thundercloud given human form, but the second he thinks he's hurt someone, all the storm drains out of him.
He steps closer, cautious. "Did I do something?"
Your panic skids to a stop. "What?"
"Earlier. After the alley, you got weird."
"I'm always weird."
"Different weird."
"That's rude."
"That's accurate."
You should laugh, normally you would. But his face is too serious. His eyes are too careful. He's watching you like he's already bracing for a hit, and the whole ridiculous situation folds in on itself inside your chest.
You weren't trying to hurt him. You were just trying not to combust.
"No," you say softly. "You didn't do anything wrong."
His shoulders don't relax. "Then why are you avoiding me?"
You look away. Terrible decision. There's a window beside him, and in the dark glass you can see his reflection watching you. There's no escape. There's only Bucky Barnes and your own poor life choices. "I'm not avoiding you because I'm mad," you mumble.
His head tilts. "Then why?"
You say nothing.
He waits. Bucky Barnes has many talents. Patience is one of the worst ones.
You sigh so deeply it may alter the pressure in the room. "Because," you say, "during the mission, you spoke Romanian."
His brow furrows.
You continue, each word dragging itself out like a prisoner. "And apparently my brain decided that was attractive enough to become a medical problem."
Silence.
The safehouse creaks around you. Rain taps the windows.
Bucky blinks. Once, then twice. Then his lips part slightly. "That's why?"
You cover your face. "Please don't make me repeat it."
"You've been running away from me because I spoke Romanian?"
"When you say it like that, it sounds stupid."
"It sounds..." He pauses.
You peek between your fingers.
Bucky is smiling. Small and stunned and soft at the edges, like you've handed him something fragile and unexpected. "It sounds kind of nice," he says.
You drop your hands. "Don't be sweet. I'm humiliated."
"I'm not being sweet."
"You're absolutely being sweet. Your face is doing the thing."
"What thing?"
"The dangerously tender thing."
His smile widens.
You point at him. "Stop that."
"Stop what?"
"Having a face."
He laughs then. Quiet and rough and warm, and it goes straight through you like a match struck in a dark room. "You're unbelievable," he says.
"I'm suffering."
"I can see that."
"No, you can't. You're the cause."
His expression changes. A tiny flicker. An idea landing.
You know it's bad before he says anything.
He takes one slow step closer.
Your spine hits the counter.
He's not crowding you, not really. There's space between you. Enough space to run if your dignity had legs. But he's close enough that you can see the amusement in his eyes.
Then he says, very softly, "Îmi pare rău."
Your knees nearly file a formal complaint. You grab the counter behind you. "That was deliberate."
"It means I'm sorry."
"You're not."
"No," he admits. "Not really."
"Barnes."
"Da?"
You make a strangled noise.
He looks delighted. Bucky Barnes, former Winter Soldier, current pain in your entire existence, looks absolutely delighted.
"You're enjoying this," you accuse.
"A little."
"You were worried five seconds ago."
"I'm adaptable."
"You're evil."
His gaze drops briefly to your mouth, then returns to your eyes.
The room gets very quiet. Not awkward quiet. Not dangerous quiet. Something softer. Something with teeth hidden under its tongue.
"I didn't know," he says.
"Know what?"
"That you liked hearing me speak Romanian."
"I didn't either. It attacked me in real time."
His smile settles into something warmer. "I used it a lot when I was hiding here."
That pulls you gently out of your embarrassment. Your hands loosen on the counter. "Yeah?"
He nods. "Had to. Groceries, rent, staying unnoticed. It helped."
There's an ache beneath the words, old and quiet. Bucharest wasn't just a city to him. It was survival. It was stolen peace. It was a tiny apartment, notebooks, plums in a market bag, and looking over his shoulder every day.
You soften. "I didn't mean to make it weird," you say.
"You didn't."
"I ran from you."
"That part was weird."
"Thank you."
"But not bad."
His metal hand rests on the counter beside you. Not touching, just there. An offer, a question without words.
Your fingers twitch.
Then, because apparently you have decided to continue making brave and foolish choices, you set your hand over his.
His eyes flick down. The smile fades, but only because something gentler replaces it. "You could've just told me," he says.
"You underestimate how embarrassing it is to look a man in the face and say, 'Hey, the way you told a civilian to go inside made me forget how knees work.'"
He huffs a laugh. "You liked that part?"
"Don't fish for compliments."
"I'm not."
"You are. You're standing there with your big sad blue eyes and your stupid tactical shoulders fishing."
"Tactical shoulders?"
"They're classified."
His thumb moves over your knuckles. Slow and careful. "Stai aici," he murmurs.
Your stomach flips. "What does that mean?"
"Stay here."
"See, that's the problem."
"What?"
"You can't just say things like that in that voice."
His eyes warm. "What voice?"
"The voice."
"I only have one voice."
"You absolutely do not. You have mission voice. Grumpy old man voice. I'm-going-to-pretend-I-don't-care-but-I-do voice. And now Romanian voice, which needs a warning label."
Bucky leans a little closer. "Should I stop?"
You swallow. You could say yes. He would. That's the worst part. He would stop immediately, no teasing, no pushing, no disappointment. Bucky would step back and never use it against you again.
But your heart is pounding, and his thumb is still moving over your knuckles, and he's looking at you like maybe this silly, flustered confession means more to him than you realized.
"No," you say quietly. "Just... maybe don't surprise me with it during missions unless you want me to get shot."
His face goes serious instantly. "Not funny."
"It was a little funny."
"No."
You squeeze his hand. "Okay. Not funny."
He exhales through his nose, gaze dropping again. "You scared me earlier," he admits. "Thought I crossed a line somehow."
Your chest pinches. "Bucky."
He shakes his head like he's brushing off the vulnerability, but you catch it anyway. "I know. I just..."
You step closer this time.
His eyes lift.
"I wasn't avoiding you because of anything bad," you say. "I was avoiding you because I like you, and my brain has the survival instinct of a spoon."
His mouth curves. "You like me?"
You stare at him.
He stares back.
"You know what," you say, "I take it back."
"No, you don't."
"I do. I like Sam now."
"Sam snores."
"So do you."
"I do not."
"You absolutely do. Quietly. Like a haunted lawn mower."
Bucky's face does something complicated. "Haunted lawn mower?"
"Emotionally complex machinery."
He laughs again, and this time you don't try to hide how much you like it. His hand turns under yours, fingers sliding between your fingers.
Your breath catches.
Outside, the rain keeps tapping the windows. Somewhere down the hall, Sam is probably pretending not to listen and absolutely listening with his whole nosy chest.
Bucky looks at your joined hands. Then at you. "Pot să te sărut?"
Your brain blanks. "Translation," you whisper.
His voice softens, dropping low enough that it almost disappears beneath the rain outside. "Can I kiss you?"
Your answer comes out embarrassingly fast. "Yes."
Something in his expression melts.
The corner of his mouth lifts into the smallest smile, equal parts relieved and disbelieving, like he'd been hoping for that answer but hadn't let himself expect it.
He gives you one last chance to change your mind. He doesn't rush. His flesh hand rises slowly, warm fingertips brushing your cheek with such care it sends a shiver racing down your spine. His thumb lingers just beneath your eye before tucking an escaped strand of hair behind your ear.
His forehead rests lightly against yours. "Still okay?" he murmurs.
You nod, smiling before you can stop yourself. "More than okay."
His breath catches in the smallest, quietest way. Then he closes the distance.
The first brush of his lips is impossibly gentle. It's less a kiss and more a question. As though he's memorizing the feeling instead of trying to deepen it.
You lean into him instinctively, your hand finding the front of his Henley, fingers curling into the fabric.
That's all the encouragement he needs.
The kiss deepens only slightly, still unhurried, still impossibly tender. His hand cups your cheek while the other settles lightly at your waist, holding you like you're something precious instead of something fragile.
Time seems to loosen its grip.
There's only the warmth of his lips, the steady beat of his heart beneath your fingertips, and the quiet realization that after everything he's survived, Bucky Barnes kisses like someone who's grateful he finally gets to.
When he finally pulls away, he doesn't go far. His forehead rests against yours again, both of you smiling without meaning to.
You keep your eyes closed for a second, breathing him in.
Then from somewhere behind the wall, Sam yells, "Finally!"
You both freeze.
Your eyes snap open.
Bucky closes his eyes like a man begging for strength from several gods at once.
You shout, "Wilson, I swear to God!"
"I've been emotionally invested for months!"
Bucky groans.
You bury your face in his chest, laughing so hard your shoulders shake.
His arms come around you automatically, holding you close. You feel his laugh rumble against your cheek.
"Months?" you whisper.
"Apparently."
"You knew?"
"No," he says. "I hoped."
Your laughter softens. You lift your head and he's looking at you with that tender face again, the one you told him to stop doing. He doesn't stop. Not even a little. "You hoped?" you ask.
Bucky brushes a damp strand of hair away from your temple. "Yeah."
You try not to melt. You fail with dignity. "Well," you say, "that's inconvenient."
"Why?"
"Because now I'm going to be unbearable."
His mouth twitches. "Now?"
You gasp. "Rude."
"Accurate," he says again.
You poke his chest. "Say one more thing in Romanian and see what happens."
His eyebrows lift. There's a challenge in his eyes now. A tiny spark. A flicker of playful danger.
You regret everything immediately.
He dips his head, lips brushing the shell of your ear as he murmurs, "Ești frumoasă."
Your entire skeleton tries to leave. You shove at his chest with both hands. "Nope. Absolutely not. Too powerful. Banned."
He laughs, catching your wrists gently. "You asked."
"I didn't understand the consequences."
"That means you're beautiful."
"I know what it means now, Barnes. The damage is done."
His smile goes so soft it almost hurts. "Good."
You narrow your eyes. "You're going to be a menace about this, aren't you?"
"Maybe."
"Bucky."
"Do you want me to stop?"
There it's again. The real question beneath the teasing.
You settle. Your fingers curl lightly around his wrists. "No," you say. "Just don't use it for evil."
He pretends to think about that. "Define evil."
"Making me walk into furniture."
His mouth twitches.
"Making me forget I'm armed."
A nod.
"Making me agree to things before my brain comes back online."
His expression turns innocent in a way that should terrify governments. "I would never."
"You absolutely would."
"Maybe a little."
You shake your head, smiling despite yourself.
Then Sam appears in the doorway with a bag of chips. "Are we done being emotionally constipated in here?"
Bucky turns his head slowly.
Sam pauses mid-crunch.
You step in front of Bucky, holding up one hand. "No murder in the safehouse."
Sam points at you. "Thank you."
Bucky mutters something under his breath in Romanian.
You slap a hand over your face. "That one sounded mean."
"It was."
Sam squints. "Was it about me?"
"Yes," Bucky says.
"Fair."
You look between them.
The warmth in your chest unfurls, ridiculous and bright. You had spent half the day dodging Bucky like he was a live wire, and now he's standing close enough that his hand keeps brushing yours, smiling like he has just discovered a new way to make your life difficult.
Which he has... unfortunately.
"You know," Sam says, "this explains a lot."
"No, it doesn't," you say.
"It explains the time he said your name during training and you dropped your knife."
Bucky looks at you.
You glare at Sam. "That knife was slippery."
"It was dry."
"Emotionally slippery."
Bucky's smile grows.
Sam grins. "Or the time he caught you staring, and you walked straight into the safehouse door."
You groan.
Bucky blinks. "That was because of me?"
"The door came out of nowhere."
Sam deadpans, "It's been attached to the wall for six months."
You point at the door. "Leave."
Sam holds up both hands, chips and all. "Fine. But for the record, this is great. Weird, but great."
He backs out of the room. Then pops his head back in. "Also, Barnes, please speak Romanian responsibly. She has bones made of soup."
You grab a spoon from the counter and throw it. Sam disappears before it hits the wall.
Bucky is laughing again.
You turn on him. "Don't encourage him."
"I didn't say anything."
"Your face did."
"My face has been accused of a lot today."
"And found guilty."
He reaches for you again, slower this time, giving you space to step away. His arms settle around your waist. "You gonna keep avoiding me?" he asks.
You pretend to consider it. "Depends."
"On?"
"Whether you're going to keep ambushing me with sexy vocabulary."
His cheeks tint pink, just enough.
Your entire mood lifts. "Oh," you say. "That got you?"
"No."
"It did."
"No."
"Bucky Barnes, are you blushing?"
He looks away.
You gasp softly. "You are."
"Drop it."
"Absolutely not. This is my emotional compensation."
He grumbles something again in Romanian.
You point at him. "Translation."
His eyes flick back to yours. A beat passes. Then he says, quieter, "I said you're trouble."
Your smile softens before you can stop it. "Yeah?"
His thumb traces a small line at your waist. "Yeah."
You rise onto your toes and kiss him again, quick and sweet. When you pull back, his eyes are half-lidded, expression dazed in a way that does marvelous things for your ego.
"Look at that," you whisper. "Romanian isn't the only weapon here."
Bucky's laugh comes out low. He tucks you closer. "Guess not."
You rest your cheek against his chest, listening to the steady beat beneath.
For a moment, neither of you says anything. The safehouse is still cold. The rain is still falling. There's a mission report waiting, a target to transfer, a world full of sharp edges waiting outside the walls.
But Bucky's arms are warm around you. His chin rests lightly against your hair and when he murmurs, almost too softly to hear, "Rămâi cu mine," you don't need the translation right away.
You feel it in the way he holds you.
Stay with me.
You smile against his shirt. "I think I'm going to need you to keep translating."
His eyebrows lift. "Forever?"
You look up at him. "Seems like the safest option."
His smile softens into something almost impossibly fond. "I can do that."
He kisses your forehead.
A quiet settles over the room, comfortable enough that neither of you feels the need to fill it.
Then Sam's voice drifts in from the hallway. "So... should I download Duolingo or am I just going to be excluded from conversations now?"
You laugh.
Bucky kisses your temple again. "I vote excluded."
C’s corner: This fic is loosely inspired by Mean Girls by KATSEYE, because sometimes the internet can feel like a glitter-covered battlefield where people forget there’s an actual person behind the screen. So if you’ve ever been belittled, picked apart, talked down to, or made to feel small by someone online, please know you’re not alone. Their words do not get to decide your worth. Their bitterness does not get to dim you. Keep shining like the queen you are. Fix your crown, take up space, and remember that you were never too much. They were just too small to hold all that light. 👑✨
WARNINGS: online hate, hate comments, cyberbullying, mean girl behavior, insecurity, self-doubt, reader feeling belittled, loss of appetite mentioned, emotional distress, crying, hurt/comfort, soft angst, protective Bucky Barnes, Thunderbolts found family being emotionally nosy.
✍🏽WC: 5K+
SUMMARY: You’re the Thunderbolts’ sunshine behind the camera, always capturing the team’s softer, chaotic moments for the public. But when cruel comments start tearing you down, your usual spark begins to fade, and Bucky is the first one to notice. What starts as quiet concern turns into soft comfort, found family protection, and feelings Bucky can’t keep hiding anymore.
The Thunderbolts were not easy to photograph. That was the polite way of saying it.
The honest way was that trying to make the team look approachable for the public was like trying to put a sweater on a raccoon with diplomatic immunity.
“Do not make me look friendly,” she warned from the couch, arms folded, legs crossed, expression flat enough to iron shirts on.
You lowered your phone. “You’re literally holding a juice box.”
“This is for intimidation.”
“It has a cartoon penguin on it.”
“Exactly. Nobody expects violence from penguin.”
Across the room, John Walker was attempting to look heroic near the window, which would’ve worked better if Alexei hadn’t been standing behind him with two thumbs up and a grin wide enough to qualify as federal infrastructure.
“Move,” John said without looking back.
“I am making you look powerful,” Alexei said.
“You’re making me look adopted.”
Bob drifted past in the background, holding a bowl of cereal at three in the afternoon, completely unaware he was about to become a blurry cryptid in another official Thunderbolts post.
Ava, sitting at the kitchen island, glanced up from her coffee. “You know you don’t have to post us every day, right?”
“Yes, I do,” you said, framing the shot. “The public needs to know you’re more than government-funded property damage.”
Bucky, who had been leaning quietly against the far wall with his arms crossed, lifted his brows.
You pointed at him. “You especially.”
“I don’t do property damage.”
“Barnes, you ripped a car door off last week.”
“It was locked.”
“That’s still not how doors work.”
His mouth twitched.
Not a full smile. Bucky Barnes didn’t give those away for free. His smiles had a waiting list, references required, possibly a background check. But you’d gotten good at catching the small ones. The corner of his mouth. The faint crease near his eyes. The little duck of his head when he tried to hide amusement and failed by half an inch.
You took the picture before he could stop you.
Bucky saw the phone go up and sighed. “Delete it.”
“No.”
“Please delete it.”
“No. You look broody and expensive.”
“I look tired.”
“You always look tired. This one has dimension.”
Yelena leaned over to look at your screen. “Post it. Caption should be, ‘Man allergic to joy survives another day.’”
Bucky pointed at her. “Don’t help.”
“I am helping the brand.”
The brand, according to Valentina Allegra de Fontaine, needed softening. The team had too much baggage, too much blood on their boots, too many government meetings where people said words like optics and rehabilitation while avoiding eye contact with the people they were talking about.
That was where you came in.
You weren’t a soldier. You weren’t enhanced. You weren’t a spy, assassin, super-soldier, disgraced captain, ghost, god-adjacent being, or whatever category Bob fell into depending on the hour.
You were PR.
Which meant you spent your days following the Thunderbolts around with a phone, a camera, a tablet, and the constant exhausted hope that nobody committed a crime before lunch.
And you loved it.
You loved the chaos. The noise. The accidental tenderness hiding under all the sharp edges. You loved showing people the little things. Yelena labeling everyone’s leftovers with increasingly specific threats. John making coffee exactly how everyone liked it but pretending he only did it because he was already there. Alexei falling asleep during movie night with his mouth open. Ava fixing the flickering hallway light because maintenance had taken too long. Bob leaving sticky notes on the fridge that just said things like, “Good morning. Sorry if I floated.”
And Bucky.
Bucky standing slightly outside the frame, always pretending he didn’t want to be included. Bucky holding doors open with his metal hand because he forgot he was doing it. Bucky looking at you when you laughed. Bucky watching you with a quiet focus that made your stomach trip over itself and land face-first in a field of wildflowers.
You told yourself it was harmless. A tiny little crush. A barely-there, totally manageable, definitely-not-consuming-your-entire-nervous-system crush.
Then one day you posted a picture of the team after a briefing.
It wasn’t even special.
John was mid-rant about scheduling. Yelena was stealing one of his fries. Alexei was wearing sunglasses indoors. Ava was half in frame, unimpressed as always. Bob had somehow ended up with three napkins stuck to his sleeve.
Bucky was behind you. Not really posing. Not really smiling. Just standing close enough that his shoulder almost touched yours, his eyes angled down toward you instead of the camera.
You didn’t even notice until after you posted it.
The internet did.
At first, the comments were normal. Cute. Funny.
A few people calling the team unhinged. A few people asking if Yelena’s jacket was thrifted. Someone demanding John drop his arm workout. Someone asking whether Alexei was single, which made you shut your phone off for twelve full seconds to recover.
Then the other comments started.
Not all at once. Just one here. One there. Tiny little knives wrapped in pink ribbon.
Why is she always in the pics?
She’s trying so hard to be one of them.
Does she actually do anything or just follow them around?
The way she’s standing near Bucky is embarrassing.
Some girls will do anything for attention.
You stared at the screen, smile fading before you even realized it was gone.
You told yourself not to care. You knew better. You worked in PR. You knew comment sections were little haunted forests where logic went to die wearing glitter lip gloss.
Still, your thumb moved. You kept reading.
She’s not even pretty enough to be acting like that.
Bucky would never.
Imagine being that desperate.
The words sank under your skin before you could stop them.
You turned off notifications. Then turned them back on. Then checked again. More comments. More usernames with cute profile pictures and cruel little hearts in their bios.
Girls with glossy hair and sharp opinions. Girls who didn’t know you. Girls who had never seen you coax Bob through a panic spiral, never watched you sit with Yelena in silence after a nightmare, never helped John fix a statement after an interview went sideways, never noticed Bucky leaving the room when cameras got too close.
They didn’t know you. But they knew exactly where to cut.
By dinner, you weren’t hungry.
By the next morning, you wore a hoodie and kept the hood up.
By the end of the week, you stopped putting yourself in pictures entirely. You stayed behind the camera. That was where you belonged anyway. At least, that was what the comments kept telling you.
The team noticed in pieces.
John noticed when you stopped stealing fries from his plate.
“Okay,” he said one afternoon, narrowing his eyes at you across the kitchen. “Who are you and what have you done with our tiny snack criminal?”
You forced a smile. “I’m just not hungry.”
He frowned like he wanted to argue with your entire digestive system.
Ava noticed when you stopped humming while editing.
“You’re quiet,” she said from the couch.
“Busy.”
“You’re never too busy to make that little victory noise when you fix lighting.”
“I don’t make a victory noise.”
“You absolutely do.”
Bob noticed when you didn’t laugh at the sticky note he left on your laptop that said, “You are doing a good job. Unless this is not your laptop. In that case, sorry.”
Yelena noticed because Yelena noticed everything. She watched you delete a draft three times, then leaned against your desk. “Who needs stabbing?”
You blinked up at her. “What?”
“You are sad. Someone caused this. I am offering solutions.”
“No stabbing.”
“Fine. Psychological warfare.”
“No.”
“Mild haunting?”
“Yelena.”
She held up both hands. “You are impossible to support.”
You laughed a little. It sounded wrong. Thin. Temporary. Paper pretending to be glass.
Bucky noticed that too. He noticed everything about you, apparently.
You found that out late on Thursday night, sitting alone in the media room with your laptop open and your untouched tea cooling beside you.
Everyone else had gone to bed. Or wherever people like the Thunderbolts went after midnight. Possibly vents. Possibly rooftops. Possibly government-mandated emotional containment chambers.
You were editing a new post. No faces this time. Just a picture of the conference table after a briefing. Coffee cups. Notebooks. A sunbeam across the polished wood.
Safe. Boring. Empty enough that nobody could accuse you of wanting attention.
You stared at the caption box until the words blurred.
Then a voice came from the doorway. “You’ve been hiding.”
Your fingers froze over the keyboard.
Bucky stood there in a black shirt and sweatpants, hair loose around his face, metal hand catching the dull light from the hall. He looked soft around the edges, sleep-warm and tired, but his eyes were awake.
“I’m working,” you said.
“You always work.” He stepped inside. “You don’t always disappear.”
“I’m not disappearing.”
“You haven’t posted yourself in eight days.”
You swallowed.
Bucky took another step closer. “You stopped taking pictures with us,” he said quietly. “You stopped eating lunch in the kitchen. You stopped making fun of Walker’s tactical pants.”
You tried for a smile. “That last one was personal growth.”
“No.” He pulled out the chair beside you and sat, turning toward you. “That was a warning sign.”
Your throat tightened.
It was ridiculous. You knew it was ridiculous. You were grown. You had survived worse than strangers on the internet. You’d handled crisis statements, hostile press, mission leaks, Valentina before coffee.
But something about Bucky noticing made all your careful stitching come loose.
“I’m fine,” you said.
His eyes softened.
You hated that.
Not because it was bad, but because it was kind. Because he didn’t look unconvinced in a dismissive way. He looked patient. Like he already knew the lie had thorns, and he was willing to wait until you stopped gripping it.
“Who said something?” he asked.
You looked down at your laptop. “Nobody.”
“Doll.”
That did it. One word, low and gentle, and your eyes burned. You pressed your lips together hard.
Bucky’s posture changed instantly. Not dramatic. Not panicked. Just focused, every piece of him shifting toward you like you’d become the only signal in the room.
“Hey,” he said softly. “Talk to me.”
You gave a small, miserable laugh. “It’s stupid.”
“I’ll decide that.”
“Bucky.”
“I’ve got a lot of experience with stupid.” His mouth twitched, but his voice stayed careful. “Try me.”
You stared at the screen. The post was still open. You hadn’t meant to click the comments again, but there they were, stacked beneath the picture from last week like mold blooming on something clean.
You turned the laptop toward him before you could talk yourself out of it.
Bucky read.
You watched his face change.
It didn’t twist into anger right away. That would’ve been easier. Louder. Something you could push back against.
Instead, he went very still. Winter still. The kind of still that made the room feel suddenly aware of him.
His jaw tightened. He scrolled once. Then again. Then he stopped.
You reached for the laptop. “Don’t.”
He let you close it.
For a second, neither of you said anything.
Then Bucky exhaled through his nose. “Those are children with Wi-Fi and no home training.”
A laugh broke out of you before you could stop it. It cracked halfway through.
Bucky’s expression softened again, and somehow that was worse.
“I know I shouldn’t care,” you said quickly. “I know that. I tell the team not to care about this stuff all the time. I literally build public strategy around ignoring noise, but then it’s about me and suddenly I’m twelve years old again wondering if I’m too much or not enough or standing wrong or smiling wrong or breathing in a way that looks desperate.”
Your voice shook. You looked away, embarrassed.
“I just wanted people to see you guys the way I do,” you whispered. “That’s all. I didn’t think they’d look at me and decide I was the problem.”
Bucky was quiet for a long moment. Then he said, “You’re not the problem.”
Your eyes stayed on your hands. “You don’t know that.”
“I do.”
“You’re biased.”
“Extremely,” he said.
That pulled your gaze back to him.
His face was calm, but there was something naked in his honesty. Something that made your heart trip again, softer this time, less wildflower field and more candle flame in a dark room.
Bucky leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. “You know what I see when you’re around us?” he asked.
You shook your head.
“I see Walker stop talking like he’s on a podium. I see Yelena let somebody take pictures of her without threatening murder every five seconds. I see Ava stay in the room longer. I see Bob smile more. I see Alexei try harder to be gentle.” His gaze held yours. “And I see myself wanting to be where you are.”
Your breath caught.
Bucky glanced down, almost shy for half a second, before looking back at you. "So no,” he said. “You’re not desperate for standing near me. I’m usually the one finding excuses to stand near you.”
The room went quiet. Your pulse was suddenly everywhere. Throat. Wrists. Fingertips. The hollow behind your ribs.
“That’s not funny,” you whispered.
“I’m not being funny.”
Your eyes searched his.
Bucky didn’t look away.
He looked nervous, though. That undid you a little. The great James Buchanan Barnes, former Winter Soldier, current professional brooder, sitting beside you at midnight looking like your answer could crack him open.
“You like me?” you asked.
His mouth lifted faintly. “That what you got from that?”
“I’m in a fragile emotional state. Be direct.”
That made him smile for real. Small, but real.
“Yes,” he said. “I like you.”
Your heart flopped over like a fainting couch actress. “Oh.”
“You don’t have to say anything back right now.”
“I like you too,” you blurted.
His eyes widened a fraction.
You looked horrified with yourself. "I mean, obviously. Terribly. Annoyingly. I’ve been very normal about it.”
“Have you?”
“No.”
His smile warmed, and something inside you loosened so quickly it almost hurt.
Then the comments came crawling back.
Your smile faded. “But they’re going to keep saying things,” you said.
Bucky’s expression settled. "Probably.”
You laughed weakly. “Comforting.”
“I’m not gonna lie to you.” He reached out slowly, giving you enough time to pull away. When you didn’t, he covered your hand with his. His right hand. Warm. Calloused. Careful. “People like that don’t stop because they find truth. They stop when they get bored. Or when they find someone else to bite.”
Your fingers curled under his. “So what am I supposed to do?”
“Don’t hand them the keys to your life.”
You swallowed.
Bucky looked at your closed laptop.
“You taught us that publicity isn’t the same thing as permission,” he said. “You get to decide what people see. You get to decide what they don’t. But don’t erase yourself because some mean girls got loud in a comment section.”
The phrase stung.
Mean girls.
It sounded so small. Almost childish. But cruelty didn’t need to be big to bruise. Sometimes it wore lip gloss and heart emojis and knew exactly how to make a person fold inward.
You looked down at your joined hands. His thumb brushed once over your knuckles. Soft. Barely there.
“I don’t want everyone to know,” you said.
“They won’t.”
“I don’t want Yelena to go hunting.”
“She might.”
“Bucky.”
“I’ll talk her down to light intimidation.”
Despite yourself, you laughed.
He looked pleased, like that one tiny sound had been worth digging for.
Then he squeezed your hand. "Come on.”
“Where?”
“Kitchen.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“I know.” He stood, still holding your hand. “You’re gonna sit there while I make toast badly.”
You blinked. “Badly?”
“I’m trying to set expectations.”
“You’re over a hundred years old and can’t make toast?”
“I can make toast. I said badly because last time I used the toaster, it smoked.”
“Bucky, that’s not making toast. That’s starting a tiny appliance rebellion.”
He tugged gently until you stood. “Good. Insult me more. You’re coming back online.”
You followed him into the kitchen, wrapped in your oversized hoodie and the leftover ache of a bad week. Bucky moved around the cabinets like he knew where everything was because of course he did. He pretended not to care about domestic spaces, but he learned them. Memorized them. The coffee mugs, the tea you liked, the snacks Bob panic-bought, the bowl Yelena always stole.
He put bread in the toaster with theatrical suspicion.
You sat on the counter.
“That thing has personally wronged me,” he said.
“It’s a toaster.”
The toast popped up two minutes later, slightly too dark on one edge.
Bucky looked at it.
You looked at him.
He sighed. “Don’t start.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Your face did.”
“My face has freedom of speech.”
He buttered the toast, added cinnamon sugar from the container John claimed nobody knew about, then handed you a plate.
You took a bite. It was fine. A little burnt. A little too sweet. Perfect in the way midnight food could be perfect when someone made it because they noticed you hadn’t eaten.
Bucky leaned against the opposite counter, watching you with a careful softness that made your chest ache again.
“What?” you asked around a small bite.
“Nothing.”
“That’s a very intense nothing.”
“I missed you,” he said.
The words landed gently, but your breath still caught. “I was here.”
“No,” Bucky said. “You were around.”
Your eyes burned again. You looked down at your toast. “I didn’t know anyone would notice.”
“I noticed first day.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
“Thought maybe you needed space.” He paused. “Then you gave Walker your fries and I knew it was serious.”
You snorted. “Medical emergency.”
“Near fatal.”
You sat there together in the kitchen, eating toast under the low light while the tower slept around you.
At least, you thought it slept. Until the fridge opened.
You and Bucky both turned.
Yelena stood there in pajama pants, holding a spoon. She looked at your joined hands.
Because at some point, Bucky had reached for you again. Because at some point, you had let him.
Yelena’s eyes narrowed. "Finally,” she said.
Your face went hot. “Go away.”
“No. I am getting yogurt.” She grabbed a cup from the fridge, then pointed the spoon at Bucky. “If you make her sad, I’ll put you in the wall.”
Bucky nodded solemnly. “Fair.”
“And if internet gremlins make her sad again, I would like names.”
“No names,” you said.
Yelena looked offended. “You’re very controlling about my hobbies.”
“Your hobbies are crimes.”
“Some are misdemeanors.” She left with her yogurt, muttering in Russian.
Bucky watched her go. Then he looked back at you. “You okay?”
You nodded, but it wasn’t entirely true.
He seemed to know. “Come here,” he said quietly.
You slid off the counter.
He opened his arms, giving you a choice.
You stepped into him.
Bucky held you carefully at first, like you were made of cracked porcelain and stubbornness. Then your hands fisted in the back of his shirt, and he tightened his arms around you.
Solid. Warm. Real.
His chin rested lightly on top of your head.
You closed your eyes.
For the first time in days, your body unclenched.
“I hate that they got to me,” you whispered into his chest.
“I know.”
“I hate that I believed them.”
“I know.”
“I hate that I stopped being myself.”
Bucky’s hand moved slowly up and down your back. "You’re still yourself,” he said. “You just got quiet for a minute.”
That made the tears come.
Not dramatic, no cinematic sobbing. Just a few hot tears against his shirt while he held you in the quiet kitchen, one hand on your back, the other cradling the back of your head.
He didn’t tell you to stop crying. He didn’t tell you they didn’t matter. He just stayed. That was the thing about Bucky. He didn’t always know what to say, but he knew how to stay.
Eventually, you pulled back and wiped your face with your sleeve. “I’m sorry.”
His brows drew together. “For what?”
“Crying on you.”
“Doll, I’ve been shot at by aliens.”
“That doesn’t make my tears less gross.”
“They’re very polite tears.”
You laughed wetly.
Bucky smiled again, and this time he didn’t hide it.
The next morning, you woke up to chaos. Not regular Thunderbolts chaos. Organized chaos. Which was worse.
You came into the common room to find John standing in front of a whiteboard with the words OPERATION COMMENT SECTION written across it in aggressive blue marker.
Ava sat at the table with coffee.
Bob looked concerned.
Alexei wore a blazer over his pajamas.
Yelena was sharpening a knife with no clear reason to be doing that in a PR meeting.
Bucky stood near the window, looking deeply guilty.
You stopped in the doorway. “No.”
John held up a hand. “Before you say anything, this is a measured response.”
“Nothing about this room says measured.”
Alexei nodded gravely. “We are defending honor.”
“My honor does not need a war room.”
Yelena lifted the knife. “Agree to disagree.”
“Put that down.”
She did not.
You turned to Bucky. “You told them?”
Bucky winced. “Not exactly.”
Ava raised her hand. “I figured it out.”
“Yelena eavesdropped,” John added.
“I gathered intelligence,” Yelena corrected.
“Bob saw you crying,” Ava said gently.
Bob gave you an apologetic little wave. “I didn’t mean to. I was trying to find cereal.”
“And I,” Alexei announced, “felt disturbance in little family.”
You blinked. The room blurred slightly. Not from hurt this time. From something warmer.
“Oh,” you said softly.
John cleared his throat, suddenly awkward. “Look, we’re not gonna make it worse. We know you know this stuff better than we do.”
“That has never stopped any of you before.”
“Correct. Growth is happening.” He tapped the whiteboard. “But we thought maybe today’s post could be about you.”
Your stomach dropped. “No.”
“Not like that,” Ava said. “Not forced.”
“Absolutely not,” you said again.
Bucky stepped forward. “Not your face if you don’t want,” he said. “Not your name. Nothing you don’t approve.”
You looked around. They were all watching you.
Even Yelena, knife lowered now.
Bucky continued, “But maybe people should know the team doesn’t happen without you.”
Your throat tightened.
John scratched the back of his neck. “I was thinking a behind-the-scenes post. Your desk. The camera. Some of the pictures you’ve taken. Caption about the person who keeps us from looking like a felony lineup.”
“That’s actually not terrible,” you said.
John pointed at you. “Thank you.”
“Don’t ruin it.”
He lowered his hand.
Alexei leaned forward. “Can I say you are tiny brave captain of image machine?”
“No.”
“But it is true.”
“You may not say that publicly.”
He looked devastated.
Yelena slid a paper toward you.
You glanced down. It was a handwritten caption draft.
The first line read: Our PR person is scarier than us.
You looked at her.
She shrugged. “Compliment.”
Your lips trembled. Then, somehow, you started laughing. Not the fake laugh you’d been wearing all week. A real one. Messy. Bright. Yours.
The room seemed to breathe again.
Bucky’s eyes stayed on you, soft and relieved.
You spent the next hour building the post with them.
No pictures of your face.
Just your camera strap on the table. Your color-coded folders. A shot of your hand holding a marker beside the whiteboard. A carousel of photos you’d taken over the last few months, each one catching the team in moments no official press photographer ever could.
Yelena asleep with Lucky the pizza dog’s head in her lap.
John burning pancakes while insisting the smoke alarm was too sensitive.
Ava laughing at something Bob had said, blurry because you’d taken the picture too fast.
Alexei crying during a nature documentary.
Bucky standing in the doorway with a mug in his hand, smiling at someone outside the frame.
You.
He had been smiling at you.
You stared at the picture for too long.
Bucky leaned beside you. “Use it.”
Your cheeks warmed. “It’s a good photo.”
“Not why I said it.”
You looked up.
He was close. Close enough that his shoulder brushed yours.
“Why did you say it?” you asked.
“Because that’s how I look at you.” His voice dropped. “And I’m tired of pretending I don’t.”
The room behind you went suspiciously silent. Very suspiciously.
You turned.
Every Thunderbolt suddenly became fascinated by something else.
John studied the ceiling.
Ava looked into her empty coffee cup.
Bob pretended to read a napkin.
Alexei covered his face with both hands, delighted.
Yelena whispered, “Kiss, kiss, kiss.”
“Yelena,” Bucky warned.
“What? I am boosting engagement.”
You covered your face. “I hate all of you.”
“No, you don’t,” Ava said.
You didn’t. That was the problem. You loved them.
This strange, dangerous, badly adjusted group of people who had somehow become your favorite place to land.
The post went up at noon.
The caption was simple.
Behind every mission, interview, briefing, and public disaster we barely survive, there’s someone making sure the world sees more than the damage. Today’s post is for the person behind the camera.
John insisted on adding: Also, she keeps us from looking like a felony lineup.
You let him.
Alexei was allowed one comment from the official account.
He wrote: TINY BRAVE CAPTAIN OF IMAGE MACHINE.
You regretted many things immediately.
The comments came fast.
Most were kind. Some were funny.
Some people recognized your work. Some thanked you for showing the human side of the team. Some said the photos made the Thunderbolts feel less untouchable. Less frightening.
And, of course, a few mean comments still slipped through.
Because the internet was the internet.
But this time, before the words could sink their claws into you, Bucky sat beside you on the couch and took your phone gently from your hand.
“Break,” he said.
“I have to monitor engagement.”
“You’ve monitored enough.”
“That’s my job.”
He set the phone on the coffee table, then slid it out of reach with two fingers.
“Your job gets boundaries today.”
You stared at him. “Did you just PR my PR?”
“Maybe.”
“That was hot.”
He froze.
You froze.
Across the room, John made a strangled noise.
Yelena slowly lowered her book.
Ava whispered, “Incredible.”
Your face burned hotter than a server room fire.
Bucky recovered first. He leaned closer, eyes bright with quiet amusement. “Yeah?”
You covered your face. “No.”
“No?”
“Yes.”
“Which one?”
“I’m walking into traffic.”
He laughed. Bucky Barnes laughed, warm and low and almost surprised by itself.
Then his fingers circled your wrist gently, pulling your hands away from your face.
“Don’t hide,” he murmured.
Your breath caught.
The room faded a little.
Still there, unfortunately, because the Thunderbolts had the collective subtlety of a marching band in a library.
But softer around the edges.
Bucky’s thumb brushed the inside of your wrist.
“You don’t have to be happy all the time,” he said. “You know that, right?”
You swallowed. “I don’t?”
“No.” His eyes moved over your face. “You’re allowed to have bad days. Quiet days. Angry days. Days where you don’t sparkle for anybody.”
Your chest tightened.
“But don’t let people who don’t know you convince you the sparkle was fake.”
You stared at him. “That was very poetic for a man who fights appliances.”
His mouth twitched. “I contain multitudes.”
“You contain burnt toast.”
“And affection.”
Your heart stumbled.
He looked nervous again.
You loved that too.
“So much affection,” he added quietly, “that it’s getting inconvenient.”
Your voice softened. “For who?”
“Everybody, apparently.”
“Finally,” Yelena muttered.
Bucky didn’t look away from you. “Mostly me,” he said.
You reached for him before courage could abandon you. Just your fingers at first, touching the edge of his sleeve. Then his hand.
Then you leaned in.
Bucky met you halfway.
The kiss was soft. Careful. Sweet in a way that made your ribs ache.
Not dramatic. Not movie-perfect. No swelling music. No rain against the windows. Just Bucky’s hand at your cheek, his thumb gentle near your jaw, his breath catching like he’d wanted this longer than he knew what to do with.
Behind you, Alexei made a sound that was suspiciously close to a sob.
John whispered, “Do we clap?”
“No,” Ava hissed.
Bob clapped once.
Yelena threw a pillow at him.
You pulled back laughing against Bucky’s mouth.
He smiled at you, real and unguarded, and for a second the ugly comments felt far away. Still out there, maybe. Still buzzing somewhere beyond the walls.
But they weren’t in the room.
In the room, there was Bucky.
There was his hand holding yours.
There was Yelena threatening to delete the internet.
There was John pretending he wasn’t emotional.
There was Ava smiling into her coffee.
There was Bob apologizing to the pillow.
There was Alexei declaring that love had saved public relations.
And there was you.
Not behind the camera. Not erased. Not too much. Not desperate. Not whatever strangers had tried to make you believe.
Just you.
A little bruised. A little brighter. Still here.
Bucky leaned close, his lips brushing your temple. “Post whatever you want,” he whispered. “Hide whenever you need. But don’t disappear on me again, okay?”
You looked up at him.
His eyes held yours, blue and steady.
You squeezed his hand. “Okay.”
Yelena raised her phone from across the room.
You pointed at her immediately. “Don’t you dare.”
She paused.
Bucky turned slowly.
Yelena lowered the phone with the expression of someone making a great personal sacrifice. “Fine,” she said. “But for the record, this would’ve healed the nation.”
You laughed, tucking yourself against Bucky’s side.
He wrapped an arm around you like it belonged there.
Maybe it did.
Maybe tomorrow there would be more comments. Maybe next week you’d have another bad day. Maybe the world would always have girls with pretty profile pictures and sharp little teeth.
But tonight, Bucky’s thumb moved lazily over your shoulder.
Tonight, the team argued over whether your first couple photo should be tasteful or “deeply humiliating for brand authenticity.”
Tonight, your phone stayed face down on the table.
And for the first time all week, you didn’t reach for it. You reached for Bucky instead. He was already reaching back.
C's corner: Hi loves, I was listening to Summertime by MCR and this little one shot came to mind. Hope you like it. Also, thank you to all my new followers and everyone else who reads and likes my fics. I appreciate everyone single one of you 🫶🏽✨🤗
WARNINGS: fluff, mutual pining, soft first kiss, Bucky being emotionally constipated but trying his best, light teasing, Sam being nosy, brief mentions of Bucky’s past trauma/winters/darkness, romantic tension, golden-hour yearning, cherry popsicle thoughts that get a little too distracting for one super soldier. ☀️
✍🏽WC: 1.7K+
SUMMARY: Bucky Barnes has spent too long expecting warmth to disappear, until one summer evening, one shared look, and one soft first kiss make him believe some things are allowed to stay.
Bucky Barnes noticed things.
He noticed exits before he noticed wallpaper. Noticed footsteps before faces. Noticed when someone’s smile didn’t reach their eyes, when a hand lingered too close to a pocket, when silence changed shape in a room.
And lately, he noticed you.
It was becoming a problem.
He noticed the way you tied your hair up when the heat got unbearable, twisting it off your neck with one hand while holding your drink in the other. He noticed how you always hummed along to songs before you remembered the lyrics. He noticed that when you laughed too hard, you leaned forward like your joy was too big to keep upright.
Worst of all, he noticed that you looked for him.
In crowded rooms. Across Sam’s backyard. Through the steam rising off the grill and the buzz of cicadas in the trees. Your eyes would find his, quick and bright, then flick away like you had not meant to get caught.
But Bucky always caught it because he had been looking too.
Tonight was no different.
The summer air hung warm and honey-thick around Sam’s place, the kind of heat that made everyone lazy and loud. Someone had dragged a speaker out onto the porch. Music spilled into the yard, all electric longing and restless devotion, a song made for open windows and reckless hearts.
You were barefoot in the grass.
That was the first thing Bucky noticed.
Not the fireflies blinking near the fence. Not Sam arguing with Sarah over whether he had burned the burgers. Not Joaquin trying to balance three paper plates on one arm.
You.
Barefoot. Laughing. Holding a melting popsicle between your fingers, your lips stained cherry red.
Bucky forgot how to breathe for half a second. Which was stupid. He had seen worse things than a pretty mouth in July.
Still.
His brain went quiet in a way it rarely did, all the static softening into one clear thought.
There you are.
You looked up then, as if you had heard him.
Across the yard, your smile changed.
It was small at first. Just the corner of your mouth lifting. Then it grew warmer, private in a way that made Bucky’s chest feel too tight beneath his shirt.
He looked away.
Coward.
“Man,” Sam said beside him, flipping a spatula in his hand. “You are pathetic.”
Bucky’s eyes narrowed. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.”
“I’m standing here.”
“Exactly. Standing. Brooding. Making tragic little eyes across my yard.”
“I don’t make tragic little eyes.”
Sam snorted. “You make museum-quality tragic little eyes.”
Bucky took the beer from Sam’s hand and drank from it out of spite.
Sam didn’t even blink. “That was mine.”
“Was.”
Across the yard, you laughed at something Joaquin said, but your gaze slipped back to Bucky again. This time, you didn’t look away as quickly.
Neither did he.
The whole yard seemed to blur at the edges.
You lifted the popsicle in a tiny salute.
Bucky’s mouth twitched before he could stop it.
Sam groaned. “Go talk to her before the grass catches fire from all this unresolved tension.”
Bucky handed the beer back. “You always this dramatic?”
“Only when two emotionally constipated people are ruining my barbecue.”
Bucky ignored him or tried to. But his feet were already moving.
Each step across the yard felt ridiculous. He had crossed battlefields with steadier nerves. He had walked into gunfire. He had faced monsters and gods and men who thought themselves both.
And somehow, walking toward you with the sun setting behind your shoulders made his pulse kick like a drum.
You watched him come closer.
That was the thing that ruined him. You didn’t glance around. Didn’t pretend you hadn't been waiting. You just stood there in the grass, cherry red smile softening into something sweeter, something almost shy.
“Hi, Barnes,” you said.
“Hi.”
Terrible start.
One word. He had eighty years of languages, mission reports, coded phrases, and poetry somewhere in his head, and all he managed was hi.
Your smile widened like you knew exactly what he was thinking. “You having fun?”
He looked over his shoulder at Sam, who was very obviously watching while pretending to inspect burger buns.
“Fun might be generous.”
“You smiled at least twice.”
“Maybe it was heatstroke.”
You laughed, and there it was again. That feeling. A door opening somewhere in him that he had sworn was sealed shut.
You held out the popsicle. “Want some?”
Bucky stared at it, then at you.
Your fingers were sticky. The thing was melting down your wrist. A drop of red sugar slid toward your palm, and Bucky’s mind, traitorous and unhelpful, noticed the movement with far too much attention.
“No,” he said quickly.
Your eyebrows lifted. “You sure?”
“Yeah.”
“Scared of germs, Sergeant?”
“Scared of you.”
That slipped out before he could stop it.
The air changed.
Your teasing expression softened, the laughter fading from your eyes but not the warmth. You lowered the popsicle, suddenly still.
Bucky wished he could take it back... no, he didn’t.
That was the problem. He didn’t want to take any of it back. Not the looking. Not the wanting. Not the quiet ache that had been building in him for weeks every time you said his name like it belonged in your mouth.
You glanced down, lashes hiding your eyes. “You shouldn’t be.”
Bucky’s voice came out low. “I know.”
“Do you?”
He swallowed.
The music shifted behind you, the song swelling into something bright and desperate. Summer folded itself around the two of you, warm wind moving through the trees, cicadas buzzing like tiny live wires, fireflies sparking gold in the grass.
Bucky stepped closer.
Not much. Just enough that he could smell sunscreen on your skin, sugar on your fingers, the faint clean scent of your shampoo underneath the smoke from the grill.
Your breath caught.
He noticed that too.
“Doll,” he said quietly.
Your eyes lifted to his.
The nickname landed differently this time. Not casual. Not easy. It hung between you, soft and trembling, waiting to see if either of you would be brave enough to touch it.
“Bucky,” you whispered.
His name in your voice nearly undid him.
He had heard his name shouted. Ordered. Begged. Cursed. He had heard it through radios and nightmares and hospital rooms. But this was different.
This was summer-warm. This was wanting. This was you.
Bucky’s hand flexed at his side. “Tell me to stop looking at you like that.”
You did not blink. “I don’t want you to stop.”
The words hit him clean through the ribs.
Behind him, someone laughed too loudly. A plate clattered. Sam yelled something about burger integrity. The world continued, careless and alive.
But Bucky could not hear much past the blood rushing in his ears.
“You sure?” he asked.
Your smile trembled at the edge, nervous and hopeful all at once. “I’ve been sure for a while.”
Bucky let out a breath that felt like it had been trapped in him for years.
He raised his hand slowly. You leaned into the space between you, your eyes fluttering when his knuckles brushed your cheek.
Soft.
You were so soft.
It terrified him. It made him want to be soft too.
His thumb swept lightly beneath your cheekbone. “I don’t want to mess this up.”
“You haven’t even kissed me yet.”
A helpless laugh escaped him, quiet and disbelieving.
Your smile turned radiant.
There, that was the moment.
Not the kiss. Not yet.
The moment before.
The breath before the match struck. Your face tipped up toward his. His hand at your cheek. The music spilling into the pink-orange dusk. The summer heat pressing close, turning the air molten.
Bucky leaned in slowly. So slowly he felt every inch of it.
Your eyes closed first.
That nearly killed him.
Then his mouth touched yours.
The kiss was gentle at first, almost a question. Your lips were warm, tasting faintly of cherry sugar, and Bucky felt the shock of it all the way down to his bones. Not sharp. Not violent. Just bright.
A sparkler in his chest.
Then you sighed against him. That tiny sound broke something loose.
Bucky stepped closer, his other hand finding your waist with careful reverence. You leaned into him, fingers curling in the front of his shirt, and the kiss deepened just enough to become an answer.
Yes.
Yes, this.
Yes, you.
The yard disappeared. The years disappeared. For one impossible second, there was no past waiting behind his eyes. No cold. No ghosts. No weight dragging at his name.
There was only your hand over his heart. Only the warm press of your mouth.
Only the dizzy, golden thought that maybe he had not been made solely to survive. Maybe he had been made for this too. For a summer evening. For a kiss that tasted like sugar and courage. For wanting someone and being wanted back without either of you having to run from it.
When you pulled away, it was barely far enough to breathe. Your forehead rested against his. Your fingers were still twisted in his shirt.
Bucky opened his eyes and found you already looking at him.
You looked stunned.
He probably did too.
“Hi,” you whispered again, breathless.
This time, Bucky smiled. A real one.
“Hi, doll.”
Your laugh came out soft and shaky, and Bucky wanted to kiss that too.
So he did.
Just once. Quick and sweet. Enough to make you smile against his mouth.
From across the yard, Sam shouted, “Finally!”
The entire barbecue erupted into noise.
You buried your face against Bucky’s chest with a groan. “I’m moving. I have to leave the country now.”
Bucky wrapped his arms around you, smiling into your hair. “I know a guy.”
You laughed, muffled against him. “You’re supposed to say no.”
“I’m considering my options.”
You tilted your head back, eyes bright with embarrassment and happiness and something so tender it made his throat ache. “Was that okay?”
Bucky stared at you.
The sun had nearly vanished, leaving gold caught in your lashes. The music was still playing. Sam was still yelling. The popsicle had melted completely, forgotten in the grass.
Bucky brushed his thumb over your cheek again.
“Best part of my summer,” he said.
Your smile went soft.
And Bucky Barnes, who had spent so much of his life bracing for winter, stood barefoot in the warm grass with you in his arms and let himself believe, just for tonight, that some things were allowed to last.
SUMMARY:
You accidentally left a tipsy voicemail. John Walker made it his personal mission to one-up you.
It all started with Yelena declaring, "We deserve a night without testosterone and tactical gear," while dramatically waving her vodka martini like a battle flag. Ava had already downed her first drink and was halfway through a second before you could protest.
The mission had been long, the debrief longer, and John Walker's irritating smirk had lingered in your mind like a mosquito buzz you couldn't swat away.
So naturally, when Yelena said girls' night out, you said hell yes.
Cut to two hours later, the three of you squeezed into a tiny booth at a dimly lit bar, surrounded by too-loud music, glittering lights, and Yelena trying to convince the bartender to name a drink after her.
Ava, meanwhile, was showing off her ability to phase her drink hand in and out of the table for comedic effect. You were already on your third cocktail, cheeks warm, laughter flowing easier than oxygen.
The conversation had been harmless at first. Fashion. Mission gossip. Why Alexei's playlist was 90% Soviet marching anthems.
Then Yelena leaned in, grinning like she'd just found the detonator. "So…" she drawled, stretching the word like a warning siren, "are we going to talk about him or pretend we haven't noticed the way you look at Walker during sparring?"
You nearly choked on your drink. "Excuse me?"
Ava smirked. "Oh please. You practically shoot laser beams at him every time he takes his shirt off to 'cool down.' It's like watching a rom-com with combat boots."
"I do not," you protested, but your voice went an octave too high, and Yelena pounced.
"Oh, you do," she said, swirling her drink like an oracle about to deliver doom. "The way you glare at him when he smiles? That is not hate, that is… repressed something."
Ava snorted. "Sexual tension so thick it's its own field mission."
You groaned, sinking into your seat. "You guys are insane."
Somewhere between your fourth and fifth drink, your internal filter went AWOL.
You slammed your glass down, nearly spilling it. "Okay. Fine."
Both Yelena and Ava perked up immediately.
"Yes, John Walker is… infuriating," you blurted out, waving your hand for emphasis. "He's cocky, he talks too loud, he thinks the world revolves around his stupid Captain America jawline..."
"But?" Ava teased.
You glared at her, or tried to. Your eyes crossed slightly. "But… he's also… so unfairly hot. Like... like God got bored one day and decided to make someone who's both annoying and absurdly attractive just to personally torment me."
Yelena burst into laughter so loud half the bar looked over. "I knew it! I knew the way you looked at him during training wasn't hatred, it was horny confusion!"
"Oh my god, stop," you groaned, burying your face in your hands. "I hate that man."
Ava smirked. "You sure? Because it sounds a lot like you'd let him carry you out of a burning building."
"Yeah," Yelena added wickedly, "and maybe back into it again."
You swatted at both of them, half-laughing, half-dying inside. "You guys are the worst."
"Oh my God," Yelena wheezes, "you so have it bad."
"I do not!"
Ava snorts. "Call him."
"What? No."
"Call him," Yelena echoes, eyes gleaming. "Bet you won't."
"I definitely won't."
"Then you lose the bet," Ava teases.
You slam your empty glass down. "Fine! I'll call him! Happy?"
Ava immediately shoves your phone into your hand, already pulling up his contact. "Do it."
You squint at the glowing screen like it's a bomb. "This is such a bad idea."
"Best idea," Yelena corrects. "Go. Go before you sober up!"
You hit the call button.
The three of you huddle close, waiting. It rings once… twice… and then voicemail.
Yelena gasps dramatically. "Leave a message!"
"No!" you whisper-yell. "Absolutely not!"
"Do it!" Ava cheers. "He'll never let you live it down!"
The tone beeps.
You freeze for a second, then your drunk brain decides to take the wheel.
"Uh... hey, Walker," you start, your voice already too loud.
"You think you're so tough, don't you? All that bravado, that stupid perfect face, those arms... God, your arms are ridiculous. But you're not that tough. I could take you."
You hiccup
"I could… I could ride you into the ground, make you scream my name for hours. You're not even that hot. Okay, you are, but I hate you for it. So… yeah. Call me back. Or don't. Whatever."
Yelena is doubled over laughing, Ava clapping like it's a comedy show.
"I'm hanging up now," you announce, before whispering, "you infuriatingly attractive idiot," and hanging up.
Silence follows for half a second.
Then the table erupts.
You bury your face in your arms while Yelena and Ava cackle like hyenas.
"Oh my God," Yelena gasps. "You're doomed. He is going to tease you until you die."
You groan. "Please tell me I imagined that."
Ava pats your shoulder. "Nope. You left a whole essay."
Morning hit like a freight train. Sunlight stabbed through your curtains, and your head throbbed like someone was using it as a drum. Groaning, you dragged yourself to the kitchen, squinting against the harsh light of the tower's communal space. Coffee. You needed coffee.
As you fumbled with the machine, heavy footsteps echoed behind you. You didn't need to turn to know who it was, his presence was like a storm cloud, all heat and weight.
"Morning, sunshine," John drawled, leaning against the counter, his voice low and teasing. He was in his usual tactical gear, sleeves rolled up to show off those damn forearms, his blue eyes glinting with something unreadable.
You froze, a vague sense of dread curling in your gut. "Uh… morning," you mumbled, avoiding his gaze as you poured coffee with shaking hands. Something nagged at you, a fuzzy memory of his name on your phone screen. "Did… did we talk last night?"
John raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms, which only made his biceps look more infuriating. "Talk? Nah. I was out late on a mission debrief. Why? You miss me or something?" His smirk was pure arrogance, and it made your skin prickle.
"I just… I feel like I called you," you said, rubbing your temple, the headache pulsing harder. "Must've been a dream."
He chuckled, stepping closer, his voice dropping to a low rumble. "A dream, huh? Must've been a good one if you're this flustered."
You glared, heat creeping up your neck. "I'm not flustered. I'm hungover. Big difference."
"Sure," he said, clearly not buying it. He pushed off the counter, brushing past you close enough that you caught the scent of his cologne, woodsy, warm, and maddening. "If you did call me, though, I'd love to know what you said. Bet it was interesting."
You forced a laugh, heart racing as you prayed he hadn't checked his voicemail yet. "Yeah, well, keep dreaming, Walker."
He shot you one last grin before heading out, leaving you clutching your coffee mug, dread and desire warring in your chest.
The kitchen was barely quiet for a moment before Yelena and Ava strolled in, both looking far too chipper for people who'd matched you drink for drink last night.
Yelena's blonde bob was slightly mussed, but her smirk was sharp as ever, and Ava's dark eyes sparkled with mischief as she plopped onto a stool, stealing a sip of your coffee.
"Well, well," Yelena drawled, her accent thick with amusement. "Look at you, barely upright. How's that hangover treating you, lover girl?"
You groaned, slumping over the counter, your forehead pressing against the cool granite. "Like I got hit by a quinjet. Why are you two so… functional?"
Ava grinned, tossing her hair over her shoulder. "Because we're not pining over John Walker like some lovesick puppy. Keeps the headaches at bay."
"I'm not pining," you snapped, though the words lacked conviction.
Then it hits you, one fragmented flash at a time. The sound of laughter echoing off the bar. Yelena daring you to do something stupid. Ava's cackling as you clutched your phone with the confidence only three margaritas could give you.
Your stomach flips.
You remember his name on your lips, John Walker, slurred into your voicemail at some ungodly hour, every word soaked in alcohol and poor judgment. You can almost hear your own voice now, playful and a little too honest: "You're… infuriatingly attractive, you know that?"
The color drains from your face as the puzzle pieces lock into place. Every half-remembered giggle, every clinking glass, it all crashes back in a mortifying flood.
Your stomach dropped like you'd just missed a step on the stairs. "Oh no," you whispered, eyes widening. "Oh no, oh no, oh no."
Yelena burst into laughter "Realization sets in."
Ava is beside her, clutching her sides "You do remember what you said, right?"
"Stuff... bad stuff," you blurted, your voice a frantic hiss, as bits and pieces come back to your fuzzy " Like, 'I could ride you into the ground' stuff. He can't hear it. He cannot hear it."
Yelena's cackle echoing through the kitchen.
"This isn't funny!" you hissed, your face burning as you scrambled to your feet, nearly knocking over your coffee. "He hasn't heard it yet, he said we didn't talk last night. But if he checks his voicemail..." You cut off, a wave of nausea hitting you, and not just from the hangover. "I have to find him. Now."
Ava wiped a tear from her eye, still giggling. "What's the plan? Tackle him and steal his phone? Because I'd pay to see that."
"Shut up," you muttered, already halfway out the kitchen, your socks sliding on the polished floor. "Just... cover for me if anyone asks where I am!"
Yelena called after you, "Tell him to save the voicemail! I want a copy!"
You ignored her, heart pounding as you sprinted toward the elevator. The tower was a maze of sleek corridors and high-tech labs, and John could be anywhere, training room, briefing room, or worse, already listening to your drunken confession.
Your mind raced with worst-case scenarios: John's smug grin as he played the voicemail on speaker, his teasing voice quoting your words back to you, those piercing blue eyes seeing right through your defenses.
You checked the training room first, peering through the glass door. Empty, except for a few agents sparring in the corner.
Next, the briefing room, also empty. Your phone was still in your room, but you didn't dare go back for it; every second was a ticking bomb. You rounded a corner toward the common area, nearly colliding with Bucky.
"Whoa, slow down!" Bucky grunted, steadying you. "What's got you running like you're chasing a Hydra agent?"
"Have you seen John?" you asked, breathless, trying to sound casual and failing miserably.
Bucky raised an eyebrow. "Walker? Yeah, he's in the tech lab, I think. Something about mission reports. You okay? You look like you're gonna puke."
"I'm fine," you lied, bolting past him.
The tech lab was on the next floor, and you mashed the elevator button like it owed you money. The ride up felt eternal, your palms sweaty as you imagined John pulling out his phone, that telltale smirk spreading as your voice spilled out.
The elevator dinged, and you sprinted down the hall, skidding to a stop outside the tech lab. Through the glass, you saw him, leaning against a table, scrolling through his phone, his expression unreadable. Your heart lurched. Was he listening to it right now?
You burst through the door, panting. "John!"
He looked up, startled, his phone still in hand. "What the hell? You okay?"
"Don't check your voicemail," you blurted, then cringed at how desperate you sounded. "I mean... uh, can I borrow your phone for a sec?"
His brows furrowed, but that damn smirk was already creeping onto his face. "My phone? Why? You planning to confess something else?"
Your blood ran cold. "What do you mean, 'something else'?"
He stepped closer, his voice low, teasing. "You were pretty out of it last night. Said some interesting things in the kitchen just now, too. What's got you so spooked?"
You swallowed hard, heart hammering. He hadn't heard it yet. You still had a chance. "Nothing," you said, forcing a laugh. "Just… thought I left you a dumb message about a mission. Can I check? Please?"
John tilted his head, studying you like he could see every secret you were hiding.
"You're a terrible liar," he said, but he held out his phone anyway, his fingers brushing yours as you took it. The brief contact sent a jolt through you, and you hated how your body reacted.
You fumbled with the screen, praying you could delete the voicemail before he got curious. But as you opened the app, his hand closed over yours, stopping you.
"Hold on," he said, his voice dropping to a dangerous, velvet tone. "If it's that important, maybe I should listen to it first."
You froze, staring up at him, his blue eyes locked on yours. You were so screwed.
John's grip tightened over your hand, his smirk growing as he tugged the phone back from your trembling fingers with infuriating ease. "Now I'm really curious." he said, his voice a low, teasing rumble that sent heat racing up your spine despite your panic.
"John, don't," you pleaded, lunging for the phone, but he held it out of reach, his height and reflexes making it impossible. Your heart was a jackhammer in your chest, each beat screaming disaster as he swiped through the screen, navigating to his voicemail with deliberate slowness, like he was savoring your desperation.
"Walker, I swear..." you started, but the words died as you launched yourself at him in a last-ditch effort.
You jumped onto his back, wrapping your arms around his shoulders, trying to wrestle the phone from his hand. He barely flinched, his broad frame solid as a wall, but you clung on, reaching desperately over his shoulder. "Give it back!"
He laughed, a deep, infuriating sound that vibrated through you as you flailed. "What's got you so worked up, huh? This must be good." His thumb hovered over the play button, and before you could stop him, he tapped it, switching the phone to speaker.
Your blood turned to ice as your own voice, slurred, reckless, and unmistakably you, filled the tech lab.
"Hey, Walker… It's me. You think you're so tough, don't you? All that bravado, that stupid perfect face, those arms, God, your arms are ridiculous…"
You slid off his back, your feet hitting the floor with a thud as you whispered, "No, no, no, no," over and over, your face burning so hot you thought it might combust. You wished the ground would open up and swallow you whole, wished for a sudden alien invasion, anything to stop the mortifying playback.
"…But you're not that tough. I could take you. I could… I could ride you into the ground, make you scream my name for hours…"
John's eyebrows shot up, his smirk morphing into something darker, hungrier, as he turned to face you, the phone still held aloft. Your voice droned on, each word a fresh stab of humiliation, and you covered your face with your hands, unable to meet his gaze.
"…You're not even that hot. Okay, you are, but I hate you for it. So… yeah. Call me back. Or don't. Whatever."
The voicemail ended with a beep, and the silence that followed was deafening. You peeked through your fingers, expecting mockery, but John was just standing there, his blue eyes locked on you, an unreadable intensity in them that made your stomach flip. He wasn't laughing. He wasn't even smirking anymore.
"Well," he said finally, his voice low and rough, like he was holding something back. "That was… enlightening."
You groaned, stepping back until you bumped into a table, your hands still half-covering your face. "Just… kill me now. Please. I'll owe you one."
He stepped closer, closing the distance between you, his phone still in hand but forgotten as he leaned in, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. "Oh, I don't know. I kinda like you alive. Especially after that."
Your breath caught, your hands falling to your sides as you forced yourself to meet his gaze. His eyes were darker now, pupils blown wide, and the air between you crackled with something electric, something that made your skin prickle and your heart race for reasons beyond embarrassment.
"John, I was drunk," you said, your voice small, desperate to defuse whatever this was becoming. "I didn't mean..."
"Didn't mean it?" he interrupted, tilting his head, his tone challenging but soft, almost daring you to lie. "Sounded pretty convincing to me."
You opened your mouth to argue, but nothing came out. He was too close, his presence overwhelming—broad shoulders, sharp jaw, that damn cologne that made your head spin. You wanted to deny it, to laugh it off, but the truth was there, raw and exposed in the echo of your own words.
He took another step, his voice dropping even lower. "So, what's it gonna be? You gonna take me down like you said? Or do I get to call you back… and see how long you last?"
Your mouth went dry, your headache forgotten, as the weight of his words settled over you. You were in so much trouble, and not just because of the voicemail.
The air between you and John was thick, charged with a tension that made your pulse race and your skin burn.
His words hung in the space like a dare, his blue eyes pinning you in place as he leaned closer, the ghost of a smirk playing on his lips.
You opened your mouth, fumbling for a response, something to deflect, to deny, to survive this mortifying moment, but before you could get a word out, the tech lab door burst open with the force of a hurricane.
"Yo, lover girl!" Yelena's voice cut through the silence like a knife, dripping with glee. "Did you get the phone, or are you too busy making heart eyes at Captain Smug?"
Ava trailed behind her, already laughing, her dark hair bouncing as she leaned against the doorframe. "Oh, please tell me we're interrupting something juicy. The vibes in here are screaming unresolved tension."
You whipped around, your face flaming anew as you realized the scene they'd walked into: you, flushed and flustered, inches from John, who hadn't stepped back and was now looking at Yelena and Ava with a mix of amusement and irritation. The phone, still clutched in his hand, felt like a ticking time bomb.
"Nothing's happening!" you blurted, too quickly, your voice cracking. You pointed at John, desperate to redirect the chaos. "I was just... trying to get his phone! Because of the voicemail! Which he heard, thanks to you two not helping!"
John raised an eyebrow, holding up the phone like a trophy. "Oh, I heard it, alright. Pretty memorable stuff."
Yelena's eyes lit up, and she clapped her hands together, practically vibrating with delight. "You played it? On speaker? Oh, this is better than I hoped! Tell me, Walker, how's it feel to know she wants to... " she mimicked your slurred voice, "...ride you into the ground?"
Ava doubled over, cackling so hard she had to brace herself against the wall. "I'm dead. I'm actually dead. Please tell me you recorded her reaction when it played."
You groaned, burying your face in your hands again, wishing for a wormhole to another dimension. "I hate you both. So much."
John, infuriatingly calm, leaned back against the table, crossing his arms, which only made his biceps strain against his shirt in a way that was not helping your situation.
"You know, I was about to get an answer out of her before you two clowns showed up," he said, his tone teasing but with that same dark edge that made your stomach flip.
"An answer?" Yelena sauntered over, plucking a pen from the table and twirling it like a weapon. "What, like whether she's gonna follow through on her drunken promises? Because I'd bet money she's too chicken to try."
"I'm not chicken!" you snapped, then immediately regretted it as Yelena's grin widened and Ava's laughter hit a new pitch. "I mean... I didn't mean anything by it! It was tequila talking, not me!"
Ava wiped tears from her eyes, barely containing herself. "Sure, babe. Tequila's the one who's been staring at Walker's ass during every training session for the past month."
"I have not!" you lied, your voice hitting a pitch that could summon dogs. You turned to John, desperate to regain some semblance of control. "Can you just... delete the voicemail? Pretend it never happened? I'll owe you. I'll do your mission reports for a week."
John's smirk returned, slow and dangerous, as he stepped closer, his voice low enough that Yelena and Ava wouldn't catch it. "Delete it? Nah. I'm keeping that as a souvenir. Besides…" He leaned in, his breath brushing your ear, sending a shiver down your spine. "I'm curious how much of it was just the tequila."
Before you could respond, or combust, Yelena grabbed your arm, pulling you back with a dramatic flourish. "Okay, enough flirting! We're stealing her for damage control. You," she pointed at John, "don't get any ideas until she's sober enough to mean them."
Ava looped her arm through your other side, still giggling. "Come on, we're getting you coffee and a plan to survive this. Walker, don't listen to that voicemail again unless you're ready to deal with her wrath."
John chuckled, pocketing his phone as he watched you being dragged toward the door. "No promises," he called after you, his voice laced with a challenge that made your heart stutter.
As Yelena and Ava hauled you into the hallway, their teasing relentless, you couldn't shake the feeling that this was far from over. John Walker wasn't the type to let something like this go, and a part of you, buried deep under the embarrassment, wasn't sure you wanted him to.
The rest of the day was a blur of coffee, Advil, and dodging Yelena and Ava's relentless teasing. You'd holed up in your room at the tower, hoping to hide from the world, and John Walker, until the mortifying memory of that voicemail faded into obscurity.
By evening, you were sprawled on your bed, scrolling aimlessly through your phone, trying to distract yourself with memes and mission reports. The headache had dulled to a faint throb, but your pride was still in tatters.
Your phone buzzed, the screen lighting up with an incoming call.
John Walker.
Your heart stopped, your thumb hovering over the decline button as panic surged through you. Why was he calling? Hadn't you humiliated yourself enough for one day? But curiosity, or maybe something else, got the better of you, and you answered, your voice wary.
"Uh… hello? John, what's going on?"
His low chuckle came through the line, warm and infuriatingly confident, like he knew exactly how flustered you were.
"You told me to call you back," he said, his tone teasing but edged with that same intensity from earlier. "In that… memorable voicemail of yours. Figured I'd follow through."
You sat up, your stomach lurching as the memory of your drunken words slammed back into focus.
Call me back. Or don't. Whatever.
You'd said that, hadn't you? Right after ranting about his stupid perfect face and how you could... oh, God. You pinched the bridge of your nose, willing your voice to stay steady. "That was… I was drunk, John. It doesn't count."
"Doesn't count?" he repeated, and you could hear the smirk in his voice, could picture those piercing blue eyes glinting with amusement. "You sounded pretty damn sure of yourself. Something about making me scream your name? Gotta say, I'm intrigued."
Your face burned, and you paced your room, clutching the phone like a lifeline. "I'm begging you to forget that ever happened. I'll do anything. I'll... clean your gear, take your night shifts, whatever you want. Just delete it."
He laughed again, the sound low and rough, sending a shiver down your spine despite your best efforts to stay annoyed. "Tempting offer, but I'm not sure I'm ready to let it go. You put it out there, sweetheart. Can't just take it back now."
You groaned, flopping onto your bed, one hand covering your eyes as if that could block out the embarrassment. "You're the worst. Why are you even calling? To torture me?"
"Maybe a little," he admitted, his voice dropping to a husky murmur that made your breath catch. "But mostly because I wanted to hear your voice. See if you're still as bold sober as you were last night."
Your heart skipped, and you hated how his words sent a spark of heat through you. "I'm not... bold. I was drunk. There's a difference."
"Mm-hmm," he said, clearly unconvinced. "So, you're telling me you don't think about it at all? Not even a little? Me, you, a couple hours to see who breaks first?"
You choked on air, your mind traitorously conjuring images of his broad shoulders, those forearms, the way he'd looked at you in the tech lab, close, intense, like he was daring you to make a move.
"John," you said, your voice firmer than you felt, "you're fishing. I'm not taking the bait."
"Fair enough," he said, but there was a challenge in his tone, like he was already planning his next move. "But you should know, I saved that voicemail. Might listen to it again later. You know, for… inspiration."
You bolted upright, your voice rising. "You wouldn't dare."
"Try me," he shot back, and you could hear the grin in his voice. "Unless you wanna come over here and delete it yourself. My room's not far."
Your mouth went dry, your pulse hammering as the implication hung in the air. He was teasing, probably, but there was an edge to his words that made you wonder how much of it was a game. Before you could respond, you heard a muffled noise on his end, like someone knocking.
"Hold that thought," he said. "Got company. But don't think this is over. You started this, and I'm not letting you off that easy."
The call ended, leaving you staring at your phone, your heart racing and your mind a chaotic mess.
He'd called you because of the voicemail. He'd saved it. And now he was dangling it over your head like a weapon. Worse, a part of you, the reckless, stupid part, wasn't entirely mad about it.
You groaned, tossing your phone onto the bed. You needed a plan. Maybe Yelena and Ava could help you break into his room and steal his phone. Or maybe you'd have to face him head-on and deal with whatever this was turning into.
Either way, John Walker was officially under your skin, and you had a sinking feeling he wasn't going anywhere.
The tower was cloaked in the stillness of late night, the kind of quiet that amplified every thought, every pulse of adrenaline. You were fast asleep, dead to the world after the emotional rollercoaster of the day, your phone silent on your nightstand, unaware of the storm brewing.
John Walker, meanwhile, was anything but asleep.
He sat on the edge of his bed, the dim light from a single lamp carving sharp angles across his jaw and bare chest, he'd stripped down to a pair of sweats, restless and wired.
His phone was in his hand, your voicemail still saved, replayed so many times he could recite it by heart. Your voice, slurred and brazen, had wormed its way into his head, stoking a fire he hadn't expected.
The way you'd called him out, challenged him, then let slip those raw, unfiltered desires, it was messing with him in ways he couldn't ignore.
He'd called you earlier to tease, to push, but now, with the night stretching out and the memory of your flustered face in the tech lab burning in his mind, he wanted more.
He dialed your number again, knowing you wouldn't answer. When the voicemail beep sounded, he didn't hold back, his voice low, rough, and dripping with intent.
"Hey, sweetheart," he started, his tone dark and deliberate, like he was speaking directly into your ear. "You're probably out cold, but I can't stop thinking about that voicemail you left. That mouth of yours, running wild, talking about how you'd take me down, ride me for hours, make me scream your name. Fuck, that got me going."
He paused, letting the words hang, his breathing heavier as he leaned into the phone.
"I keep picturing you here, right now, trying to back up all that talk. You, pinned under me, all that fire in your eyes while I take my time with you. Or maybe you're on top, like you said, trying to make good on your promise, sweat on your skin, your nails digging into me, begging for more even when you're too wrecked to speak."
He shifted, his free hand gripping the edge of the bed, his voice dropping to a near-growl.
"You think you can handle me? I'm not so sure. I'd have you shaking, gasping my name, forgetting everything but the way I feel inside you. I'd make you lose that control you're so damn proud of, until you're nothing but a mess for me. And trust me, I'd take my time, hours, like you said, until you're screaming, until you can't think straight."
He chuckled, low and filthy. "So here's my offer: you come find me, and we'll see who breaks first. My door's open, and I'm not hard to find. But if you're too scared to face me, I'll keep this little message of yours… and I'll listen to it every damn night until you do."
He ended the call with a slow, deliberate breath, a smirk tugging at his lips as he tossed the phone onto the bed.
He'd just thrown down the gauntlet, raw and unfiltered, and the thought of you hearing it, your face flushing, your breath hitching, made his pulse race. He leaned back, staring at the ceiling, knowing he'd just changed the game.
The next morning, you woke to the soft glow of sunlight filtering through your curtains, your body heavy but your head clearer than yesterday.
You reached for your phone, yawning, and froze when you saw the notification: 1 new voicemail. John's name stared back at you, timestamped at 12:47 a.m. Your stomach twisted, a mix of dread and something else, something hotter, more dangerous, curling in your gut.
"Oh, no," you muttered, your thumb hovering over the play button. Your heart pounded, a mix of dread and a traitorous curiosity twisting in your chest.
What could he possibly have said at nearly 1 a.m.? More teasing, probably, rubbing in your drunken voicemail like salt in a wound. But the memory of his voice earlier, low, challenging, laced with something dangerous, made you wonder if this was something else entirely.
You hit play, holding your breath as John's voice filled the room, rough and unfiltered, like he was right there beside you.
"Hey, sweetheart… You're probably out cold, but I can't stop thinking about that voicemail you left. That mouth of yours, running wild, talking about how you'd take me down, ride me for hours, make me scream your name. Fuck, that got me going…"
Your breath hitched, heat flooding your face as his words sank in.
He wasn't just teasing, he was escalating, painting vivid, explicit images that made your skin prickle.
His voice dropped lower, a gravelly edge to it, and as he described you pinned under him, sweat on your skin, nails digging into his back, your core tightened, a hot, needy pulse sparking to life.
You squeezed your thighs together, trying to ignore it, but his words were relentless.
"…I'd have you shaking, gasping my name, forgetting everything but the way I feel inside you… until you're screaming, until you can't think straight…"
Your mouth went dry, your body betraying you as a flush spread from your chest downward.
You should've stopped the voicemail, deleted it, thrown your phone across the room, anything to stop the way his voice was unraveling you.
But you didn't.
You sat there, frozen, as he dared you to come find him, to see who'd break first. When the message ended with that low, filthy chuckle, you exhaled shakily, your fingers trembling as you stared at the screen.
You should've been mortified. You should've been furious. Instead, you were… something else.
Hot, restless, your body humming with a need you couldn't ignore. Your mind replayed his words, the way he'd said sweetheart like it was a promise, the way he'd described you losing control under him. It was too much, too vivid, and before you could talk yourself out of it, you hit play again.
His voice washed over you a second time, slower now, each word sinking deeper.
"…trying to make good on your promise, sweat on your skin, your nails digging into me, begging for more…"
Your hand moved almost without thought, slipping under the waistband of your pajama shorts, fingers brushing against your already slick skin.
You gasped softly, the contact sending a jolt through you as John's voice continued, describing exactly how he'd take you apart. Your fingers moved in time with his words, circling slowly, your breath hitching as you imagined his hands, his mouth, that infuriating smirk pressed against your skin.
You knew it was reckless, letting his voicemail push you to this point, but you couldn't stop.
The heat in your core was overwhelming, a desperate ache that grew with every syllable.
"…I'd make you lose that control you're so damn proud of, until you're nothing but a mess for me…"
Your hips rocked against your hand, a soft whimper escaping your lips as you chased the edge his words had driven you toward. Your other hand gripped the sheets, your body trembling as you pictured him, broad shoulders, piercing blue eyes, the weight of him pinning you down.
The voicemail ended again, and you were panting, your fingers still moving, chasing the release that was so close.
You didn't replay it a third time, you didn't need to.
His voice was seared into your mind, looping as you tipped over the edge, a quiet moan spilling out as waves of pleasure crashed through you. You collapsed back against the pillows, chest heaving, your face burning with a mix of satisfaction and shame.
What the hell had you just done?
You'd let John Walker's voicemail, his smug, explicit, infuriating voicemail, get you off. And worse, you weren't sure you regretted it.
The thought of facing him now, knowing what he'd said, knowing how it had affected you, was both thrilling and terrifying. He'd dared you to come find him, to back up your drunken words. And now, with your body still humming from the aftershocks, you weren't sure you could avoid it.
You stared at your phone, the voicemail still saved, a dangerous temptation.
You could delete it, pretend this never happened, and go back to dodging him.
Or you could listen again… or worse, take him up on his challenge.
Either way, John Walker had just turned your world upside down, and you had a feeling this was only the beginning.
C's corner: I am obsessed with that freckle on Wyatt’s left earlobe, so of course I had to write about it.
WARNINGS: 18+ MDNI, strong language, heavy making out, suggestive content, slight smut, mutual pining, John Walker being a problem, all because of that damn freckle.
✍🏽WC: 11.8K+
SUMMARY:
John Walker was already a problem, then you noticed that damn freckle on his left ear.
The Tower is finally quiet.
No guns, no yelling, no Ava stalking down the hall threatening to tase anyone who breathes too loud. Just the low hum of the fridge, the faint ticking of the old clock over the stove, and the soft clink of your spoon against the mug as you stir your tea.
You curl your fingers around the warm ceramic, letting the heat seep into your hands. Your muscles ache in that satisfying way that only comes after a successful mission, no casualties, minimal yelling from Val, and you managed not to punch anyone you weren’t supposed to. So you’re counting that as a win.
You bring the mug to your lips and exhale, watching the steam curl up. Tonight, you tell yourself, you’re going to be calm. No chaos. No drama. Just tea, a snack, and bed.
The universe, of course, hears that and laughs.
Heavy footsteps echo down the hallway outside the kitchen, the familiar cadence of someone who has never learned how to walk quietly in his life.
John Walker.
You don’t even have to see him to know; you feel him, like the air shifts a little just before he appears. It’s stupidly dramatic, but the man really does have main character energy.
He steps into the doorway, hair damp from a shower, a gray t-shirt tugged over his shoulders and a pair of soft-looking sweatpants slung low on his hips. There’s a faint crease on his cheek where he clearly face planted onto his pillow earlier and then got back up, unable to fully give in to sleep.
“Could smell the tea from down the hall,” he says, voice low and rough from tiredness. “You hoggin’ all the good stuff again, sweetheart?”
You roll your eyes, but your lips tug upward anyway. “Maybe I am. What are you gonna do about it, Captain America?”
He shoots you a look that’s half amused, half exasperated. “You know I’m not..."
“Yeah, yeah,” you wave him off, hiding your smile behind your mug. “Retired Captain America. Discount Captain America. Thunderbolt Walker. Take your pick.”
He snorts. “You forgot devastatingly handsome super soldier. That one’s my personal favorite.”
“The ego on you,” you say, shamelessly eyeing him over the rim of your mug. “I was going to say ‘moderately decent to look at,’ but sure. Let’s go with that.”
He shakes his head, crossing the kitchen to the cabinet where the mugs are. “Moderately decent?” He glances back at you, blue eyes glinting. “You wound me.”
You watch him move, easy and comfortable in this space, big body somehow fitting into this old, slightly too small kitchen like he belongs there. He reaches up to grab a mug from the top shelf, the hem of his t-shirt lifting just enough to flash a bit of skin, the faint line of a scar along his side.
You’ve seen worse. You’ve patched him up before. But somehow, in this soft, domestic light, every inch of him feels… different. More dangerous, in a stupid, heart-clenching way.
He sets his mug down on the counter next to you, close enough that you can feel the warmth of him through your sleep shirt. “Move over,” he murmurs.
“You move over,” you argue, though you shift a little to give him space.
His arm brushes yours as he reaches for the tea tin, and your brain short-circuits just a little. You’ve always known he was handsome, ridiculously so. You’ve flirted with him more times than you can count, and he’s given just as good right back. It’s a game. A safe one.
Mostly.
He leans in, squinting at the label. “This the fancy stuff Yelena hid from everyone?”
“We do not speak of my tea sources,” you say primly.
“Oh, so you admit it’s stolen.”
“I admit nothing.”
He huffs out a laugh, low and warm. It curls down your spine.
You look away, forcing your attention back to your mug so you don’t stare at him like some lovesick idiot. It’s late, you’re tired, that’s all this is. Your brain is mush and your filter is weaker than usual.
From the corner of your eye, you watch him spoon tea leaves into his mug, pour hot water from the kettle, then lean his hip against the counter to wait. His hair is still damp, darker at the ends, a couple of strands clinging to his forehead. He drags a hand through it, pushing it back, and then...
You see it.
He turns his head just a little, and the kitchen light catches the side of his face. His jaw, sharp and shadowed with stubble. The strong line of his neck.
And there, just below his left ear, on the soft, delicate skin of his earlobe...
A freckle.
Small, warm brown, perfectly placed.
Your brain flatlines.
You blink, your tea forgotten midway to your lips. How have you not seen that before? You’ve seen John bleed, seen him broken and bruised, seen him shirtless and half out of his mind with adrenaline after missions, but somehow this tiny, absolutely unfair freckle escaped your notice.
Until now.
It shouldn’t be a big deal.
It’s just a freckle.
But your gaze locks onto it, and your thoughts lurch sideways into territory that is very much not safe for late night kitchen conversation.
You imagine leaning in, close enough to feel the warmth of his skin under your lips. Imagine the way he’d suck in a breath the moment your mouth brushed that spot, the way his shoulders might tense before he melted into it. You picture your hand sliding up the back of his neck, fingers curling in his hair while you kiss that little freckle like it’s your own personal target.
Your cheeks heat.
You swallow.
You really, really should look away.
Instead, you find yourself tracking the way his throat moves as he takes a sip of his tea, oblivious. The freckle disappears for a second as he turns the other way, and you feel an absurd spike of annoyance. Turn back, your brain complains. You were looking at that.
“So,” John says, completely unaware that your thoughts have gone off the rails, “are we celebratin’ tonight or hiding?”
You blink, dragging your gaze up from his neck to his face. “What?”
He smirks. “Mission went well. No yelling, no explosions, no one tried to stab you. I’d say that’s a success.”
You wrinkle your nose. “You didn’t see the paperwork Val sent me.”
“That bad?”
“I’m pretty sure she wants to strangle me with bureaucratic procedure.”
He chuckles, the sound low and genuine. “You did good out there,” he says quietly. “You always do.”
The compliment, simple as it is, sneaks past your defenses. Your grip on your mug tightens. “Careful, Walker. If you keep being nice to me, people are gonna talk.”
“Oh, they already talk,” he says easily. “I hear things.”
You arch a brow, leaning your hip into the counter so you’re angled toward him. “Oh yeah? Like what?”
“That you’re a menace,” he drawls.
You gasp dramatically. “I am a delight.”
“Mm.” He pretends to consider. “A delightful menace, maybe.”
“You’re just jealous.”
He tilts his head, and there it is again, that damn freckle. Your gaze dips to it for half a second before you force yourself to meet his eyes again. “Of what, exactly?” he asks, that cocky little glint in his gaze telling you he knows you’re up to something.
You lift your mug, hiding half your face behind it. “That I do chaos better than you.”
He laughs, shaking his head. “Nah. You do chaos, I do damage control.”
“That’s not how I remember it.”
“That’s ‘cause your memory’s biased,” he says, stepping just a little closer, like you’re caught in your usual orbit. “You always make yourself the hero in your own version.”
“Well,” you say lightly, “someone has to.”
There’s a moment of quiet after that, comfortable, your earlier tension slowly morphing into something softer. You sip your tea; he watches the steam rise from his, his shoulder brushing yours.
You’re acutely aware of every point of contact.
His knuckles, resting on the counter near your hand. The warmth radiating off his body. The faint scent of his soap, something clean and simple, cut with that underlying thread of John, sweat and leather and whatever specific kind of stubborn his cologne is trying and failing to tame.
“So,” you say, because silence feels dangerous with your thoughts already in the gutter, “did we survive Yelena’s cooking?”
“Barely,” John deadpans. “I think that casserole could be classified as a weapon.”
“She said it was a family recipe.”
“Her family is Russian and terrifying, that tracks.”
You chuckle, biting back a grin. “You’re just mad she called you ‘old man’ in front of everyone.”
“I am not old,” he insists, indignant. “I’m experienced.”
“Oh, is that what we’re calling it now?”
“That’s what I’m callin’ it,” he says, and there’s that little spark again, that familiar back-and-forth you’ve always had with him. His tone dips, just enough. “You don’t seem to mind.”
Your heart skips.
This is the game you play. Flirt, tease, flirt, retreat. You tell yourself it’s harmless. That you could stop anytime.
You’re not so sure anymore.
“Maybe I don’t,” you say softly.
His gaze lingers on your face for a beat longer than usual. It feels like standing on the edge of something. Like if either of you leans just a little too far, this will stop being a joke.
And you will absolutely, one hundred percent, kiss that freckle.
He looks away first, clearing his throat, as if he just remembered the script and found his place again. “You should get some sleep,” he says, gentler now. “Long day.”
“You too, Walker,” you reply, grateful for the out. Your heart’s pounding a little too fast for someone who is allegedly just having tea.
He finishes the last sip from his mug and sets it in the sink, rinsing it out. You watch the muscles in his forearm flex as he moves, the veins standing out under his skin. You drag your eyes back up quickly before you embarrass yourself.
He turns back to you, leaning one hand on the counter, the other braced on his hip. He’s close again. So close.
“You stayin’ up much longer?” he asks, voice lower now, tinged with that rough edge you’re becoming too aware of.
“I’ll finish this,” you say, lifting your mug slightly, “then I’ll head to bed.”
“You sure?” His gaze searches your face, always so damn observant when you wish he wouldn’t be. “You look beat.”
“Wow, thank you,” you say dryly. “Tell me how you really feel.”
He huffs a quiet laugh. “Didn’t mean it like that.” His eyes soften, crinkling at the corners. “You’re beautiful even when you look like death warmed over, you know that.”
Your brain trips over the word beautiful.
The air between you thins.
You recover with a crooked smile. “Careful, Walker. You keep talking like that and I might start thinking you like me.”
He grins, slow and easy, like this is just another volley in your ongoing game. “Who says I don’t?” he tosses back.
Your pulse jumps. His eyes hold yours for a heartbeat, two, then he pushes off the counter.
You feel the loss of his closeness more than you’d like to admit.
“Night, sweetheart,” he says, giving you a little two-finger salute as he heads for the doorway.
“Goodnight, Walker,” you reply, trying very hard to sound normal and not like you’re actively fighting the urge to drag him back by his shirt and investigate every stupid, perfect inch of him.
He’s halfway through the door when he pauses, glancing back over his shoulder. The kitchen light hits the side of his face again.
Your gaze drops, unbidden, to that freckle on his left earlobe.
God, it’s tiny. Insignificant, really. But now that you’ve seen it, you can’t unsee it. Your mind conjures a dozen scenarios all at once, leaning in close under the pretense of whispering something in his ear, your lips brushing that spot “by accident.” His breath stuttering. His hand tightening on your waist.
You squeeze your mug a little tighter, heat creeping up your neck.
“You okay?” he asks, brow furrowing slightly at whatever expression you’re probably making.
“Yeah,” you say quickly, schooling your features. “Just… thinking.”
“Don’t hurt yourself,” he teases automatically, that little half-smile back in place.
You raise your mug in a mock toast. “Go to bed, old man.”
He points at you as he backs away. “Menace,” he reminds you.
“Delight,” you counter.
He chuckles, shaking his head as he disappears down the hallway.
The moment he’s gone, the kitchen feels too quiet again. The hum of the fridge returns to the forefront. You stare at the doorway for a long second, replaying the entire conversation in your mind, your thoughts pausing every single time on that little freckle.
You drag a hand down your face.
“This is ridiculous,” you mutter to yourself.
You finish your tea in a few slow gulps, rinse your mug, and flick off the kitchen light. The hallway is dim, lit only by the soft glow of the sconces, and the quiet feels heavier now.
You pass his door on the way, the memory of his damp hair and that sleepy half-smile still fresh in your mind.
And that damn freckle.
You pause in front of his room without meaning to, listening. There’s the faintest rustle from inside, then silence. He’s probably already half-asleep, big idiot. He’s always out like a light as soon as his head hits the pillow after missions.
You imagine him lying there, broad back relaxed, lashes resting against his cheeks, that freckle waiting just out of sight. One tiny dot on a man who’s been torn apart and stitched back together too many times.
You wonder what it would feel like to be that close to him. To press your mouth there and feel him shiver. To have him know you like him, not just in passing, not just as a joke, but really know.
Your heart squeezes.
You step away from his door before you do something truly spectacularly stupid, like knock.
In your room, you collapse onto your bed, staring at the ceiling. The tower is quiet again, but your mind is anything but. Every time you close your eyes, you don’t see explosions or blood or mission reports.
You see the curve of his neck.
The scruff on his jaw.
The soft, maddeningly perfect freckle on his left earlobe.
You throw an arm over your face and groan into your pillow.
You’ve always known John Walker was handsome. Cocky, infuriating, annoyingly charming, but handsome. You’ve always been aware of his mouth, his hands, his stupid blue eyes.
But now?
Now, all you can think about is a freckle.
A tiny, innocent freckle that you suddenly, desperately, irrationally want your mouth on.
John Walker goes to bed that night completely unaware.
You, on the other hand, lie awake far too long, wondering how exactly a small dot of pigment on a super soldier’s ear became the center of your entire universe.
Sleep doesn’t come easy.
You toss and turn for a while, replaying the kitchen scene in your head on a loop. His laugh, the way he said beautiful so casually, like it was a fact and not a grenade. The little glint in his eyes when he said, Who says I don’t?
And that freckle.
You tell yourself it’s nothing. You’ve noticed stupid things about teammates before: the way Ava always taps twice before opening a door, the scar on Yelena’s knuckle, the faint streak of gray through Bucky’s hair.
This is just another detail. Your brain is just… stuck.
You roll over, burying your face in your pillow.
It doesn’t help.
Eventually, the hum of the vents and the soft creaks of the tower lull you under. Your breathing evens out. Your muscles loosen.
And then you’re back in the kitchen.
Only this time, it’s different.
The light’s dimmer, warmer, like someone turned the switch down low. The hum of the fridge feels distant, blurred at the edges. You’re at the counter, but there’s no mug in your hand, no tea, no pretense.
Just him.
John is standing close. Closer than he ever has. His chest is nearly pressed to yours, his body a wall of heat and solid muscle, caging you in without touching yet. His hand is braced on the counter beside your hip, the other hovering like he’s not sure if he should touch you, or he’s drawing it out on purpose.
“Thought you were gonna stay away from the dangerous stuff,” he murmurs, voice low as thunder.
You swallow, looking up at him. “This feels… pretty dangerous.”
“Yeah?” he asks, eyes flicking down to your mouth and back up again. “What part?”
You don’t answer with words.
Your gaze is dragged, inevitably, to the side of his neck. To his jaw, rough with stubble. To the curve of his ear.
To that freckle.
You reach up, fingers brushing his shoulder for balance, and you lean in. His breath ghosts across your cheek, hot and uneven. You get close enough to see every detail, every tiny color variation in his skin.
“Been thinkin’ about it, haven’t you?” he says, his voice a rasp now. “That look you’ve been givin’ me…”
Your lips hover a breath away from that spot. Your heart is pounding so loud you’re sure he can hear it. “Maybe I have.”
His hand finally settles at your waist, fingers gripping, pulling you closer until there’s no space left between you. You can feel the steady, heavy beat of his heart against your chest.
“Then stop thinking,” he says, almost a growl. “Show me.”
You close the last bit of distance.
Your mouth finds that freckle, soft skin warm and sensitive under your lips. The reaction is immediate and devastating, John sucks in a sharp breath, his whole body jerking with the surprise of it. His fingers dig into your waist like you’ve hit a live wire.
“Jesus...” His voice breaks.
You kiss the spot once, twice, slower the second time, letting your mouth linger, letting your lips part just enough to taste the salt of his skin. His head tips to the side without you asking, baring more of his neck like instinct.
“Do that again,” he whispers, and there’s something almost desperate in it.
You oblige.
This time your hand slides up the back of his neck, fingers threading into his hair. You press your mouth to that freckle and feel him shudder, feel the quiet, helpless sound he makes against your ear. His grip on you tightens; he pulls you flush against him, no more holding back.
“That why you’ve been avoidin’ lookin’ at me, huh?” he mutters, words vibrating against your cheek. “This little thing drivin’ you crazy?”
You smile against his skin, emboldened, and flatten your tongue to that spot before you can stop yourself.
He swears, low and wrecked, his hand at your waist sliding to the small of your back, shoving you into him like he can’t get you close enough.
Your own control slips. Your lips trail from the freckle down the line of his neck, his pulse racing under your mouth. His other hand finds your hip, thumb drawing rough, aimless circles that make heat pool low in your stomach.
“Careful, sweetheart,” he warns, except it doesn’t sound like a warning at all. It sounds like a plea. “Keep goin’ like that, I’m not gonna be able to pretend I don’t..."
You never hear the end of that sentence.
Because suddenly you’re awake.
You jolt upright in bed, breath coming in short, sharp gasps. Your heart is hammering against your ribs like you just sprinted half a mile. For a second, your brain scrambles, still halfway in the dream, still tasting his skin, still feeling his hands on you.
Your room swims into focus. The familiar shadows, the glow of the digital clock on your nightstand.
3:17 a.m.
You stare at the numbers, chest rising and falling too fast.
“Fuck,” you whisper into the quiet darkness.
Your skin is hot, your face is burning, and you are painfully aware of how turned on you are over something that, technically, hasn’t happened.
You flop back onto the mattress, throwing an arm over your eyes.
“A freckle,” you mutter. “You are losing your mind over a freckle.”
The universe does not correct you.
You lie there for a long time, trying to will your racing pulse to calm down. Every time you close your eyes you get flashes of that dream, your lips on his skin, his reaction, the way he sounded.
It feels too real. Too close to the line you’ve been pretending doesn’t exist.
You know, with absolute, bone-deep certainty,
You are fucked.
You manage maybe another hour of restless sleep before your alarm goes off.
The morning is cruel.
Your reflection in the bathroom mirror looks like hell, dark circles, hair a mess, eyes still a little wild. You splash cold water on your face and try to scrub the images of the dream from your brain.
You fail.
By the time you wander into the kitchen, the tower is starting to wake up. Yelena is already rummaging through the fridge, Ava is stabbing her cereal like it personally offended her, and Bob is humming something off-key under his breath.
John is at the counter, back to you, pouring coffee.
Your stomach does a weird, traitorous flip.
You freeze for a half-second in the doorway. In the harsh morning light, he looks almost exactly like he did in your dream, broad shoulders filling out his t-shirt, hair still a little damp from the shower, that easy spread of him across the space like he owns it.
Except, in your dream, your hands were on him.
You force your feet to move, heading for the cupboards like everything is normal. Like your subconscious didn’t just throw a very explicit compilation of “what if” scenarios at you all night.
“Morning,” he says without looking, like he always does, that warm-gravel drawl wrapping around the word.
“Morning,” you manage, aiming for casual and landing somewhere in the vicinity of strangled.
He glances over at you, smiling and you immediately jerk your gaze to his forehead. Not his ear. Not his neck. Not the freckle.
Just. Forehead.
God, you are so obvious.
“Someone didn’t sleep,” Ava observes dryly from the table.
You shoot her a flat look. “Thank you for the analysis.”
Yelena squints at you over a yogurt container. “You look like Walker when he reads a big email.”
“I do not... hey,” John protests.
You snort despite yourself. “She’s not wrong.”
John turns fully then, leaning back against the counter with his coffee in hand. His eyes flick over your face, lingering a moment too long. He’s assessing, you realize. Cataloguing. He’s always been weirdly good at it when he wants to be.
“You good?” he asks, and it’s not the casual throwaway version. It’s the quiet one. The real one.
“I’m fine,” you say a little too quickly.
His brow ticks up just slightly.
You distract yourself with the coffee machine, wrestling a mug out of the cabinet, focusing very hard on not looking at the side of his face. Every time he moves, your brain supplies a mental zoom-in of that spot, plus a highlight reel of what you did to it in your dream.
You nearly drop the mug.
The day doesn’t get better.
If anything, it gets worse.
Because whatever switch your brain flipped last night is firmly stuck there now. You’re hyper-aware of John in a way that is absolutely obnoxious.
In the quinjet? He adjusts his earpiece and your eyes dart to his neck before you can stop them.
On the mission debriefing? He leans back in his chair, stretching, and you suddenly remember exactly how his voice sounded when you kissed...
“Focus,” you hiss to yourself under your breath.
“What?” Yelena whispers.
“Nothing,” you say, staring down at the mission files like they personally insulted you.
You avoid being alone with John all day, which is its own problem. Because he’s not stupid, and you’re not actually subtle even on your best days.
You’re not flirting with him like usual, either. The banter is shorter, your touches nonexistent. Every time he brushes past you in the hallway you practically jump out of your skin like he’s on fire.
It’s a miracle no one calls you out on it.
Almost.
It takes him three days.
Three long, agonizing days of you being weird before John snaps.
It’s late again, some ungodly hour when most of the tower is either asleep or pretending to be. You’re in the hallway outside the armory, half-expecting to run into no one, just making a quick trip to drop off a weapon you’d been cleaning in your room.
You close the locker with a quiet click, exhale, and turn...
Right into John Walker’s chest.
You yelp, stumbling back a step.
He catches your elbow without thinking, steadying you. “Easy,” he says, that automatic concern tightening his voice. “Didn’t mean to spook you.”
You look up at him, your heart banging against your ribs. He’s close. Of course he’s close. It’s a narrow hallway and he’s huge and your brain is useless.
“God, wear a bell or something,” you mutter, trying to pull your arm back.
He doesn’t let go.
“Been lookin’ for you,” he says.
Something in his tone makes your stomach drop. It’s not playful. Not sharp. It’s… intent.
“Congratulations,” you say lightly, defaulting to sarcasm, your go-to armor. “You found me.”
He doesn’t smirk. Doesn’t roll his eyes. He just studies you for a long, quiet moment, blue eyes searching your face.
“You gonna tell me what’s goin’ on with you,” he asks, “or do I have to guess?”
You hate how your pulse jumps.
“Nothing’s going on,” you lie. “I’m fine.”
He lifts a brow. “That’s twice today you’ve said you’re fine. You forget I’ve been around you long enough to know that’s bull?”
You try to sidestep him. He shifts with you, hand still warm around your elbow, effectively blocking your exit. He’s not crowding you, exactly, but he’s close. Close enough that you can see the faint roughness of his shave, the tiny scar near his jaw.
And yes, the curve of his ear.
You look away quickly.
“Walker,” you say, sighing. “I’m tired. I just want to go to bed.”
He tilts his head, something like frustration flickering across his face. “You’ve been actin’ weird around me for days.”
“I act weird around you all the time,” you try.
“You’ve been actin’ different,” he corrects, voice firm. “You’re avoidin’ me. You won’t look at me. You barely talk to me unless other people are around.”
“That’s not true,” you protest, totally busted and knowing it.
He leans in just a fraction, eyes never leaving yours. “Did I do somethin’?” he asks quietly. “Say somethin’? Because if I crossed a line, I wanna know.”
The earnestness in his voice hits you right in the chest.
Guilt twists in your gut. This isn’t his fault. He’s just existing. Breathing. Having skin.
“No,” you say quickly. “You didn’t… you didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Then what is it?” he presses.
You hesitate, chewing on your lower lip. There’s no way in hell you’re about to look this man in the eyes and say, Hey, so, tiny update, I had a really hot dream about licking your ear like it offended me, and now I can’t look at you without wanting to recreate it.
Absolutely not.
“I just…” You cast around helplessly for an excuse. “I’ve had some weird dreams. That’s all. It’s messing with my sleep.”
His expression softens immediately, thumb unconsciously rubbing a soothing circle against the inside of your elbow. “Nightmares?”
Oh. Great. Now you feel worse.
“Not… exactly,” you say, staring very hard at his chest so you don’t accidentally glance up and fixate on the freckle again.
He studies you, jaw working. “You know you can talk to me, right?” he says. “I mean it. You don’t have to tell me everything, but if somethin’ I’m doin’ is making you uncomfortable..."
“It’s not that,” you cut in, sharper than you intend. “You’re not... you haven’t done anything wrong. Okay?”
His brows draw together. “Then why can’t you look at me?”
You freeze.
Because he’s right. You’ve been talking to his shoulder, his collar, his nose, anywhere but his eyes. Or his ear.
Slowly, like it might bite you, you drag your gaze up to his.
It’s a mistake.
He’s standing so close you can see every shade of blue in his irises, the darker ring around the edge. His expression is open, worried, a little confused. There’s no teasing there now. No cocky smirk. Just… John.
You swallow.
The silence stretches.
“I’m not gonna just drop this,” he says finally, voice low. “Not when you look like you’re five seconds from bolting every time I walk into a room. So either you tell me it’s somethin’ that has nothin’ to do with me and swear you mean it..."
“It does have to do with you,” you blurt, before your brain can stop your mouth.
His fingers flex on your arm.
“Okay,” he says carefully. “Then talk to me.”
Your heart is beating so fast you feel a little dizzy. You glance past him, down the empty hallway, as if someone might conveniently walk by and save you from this conversation.
No one does.
Of course.
You take a breath. “It’s stupid,” you say. “You’re gonna laugh.”
“Doubt it.”
“You always laugh at me.”
“Not when you look like this,” he says softly.
Like this. Like what? Like your whole world tilted on its axis because your subconscious decided to zero in on one tiny piece of him and build an entire fantasy around it?
“John,” you warn.
The sound of his first name on your lips makes his eyes flicker, but he doesn’t comment on it. He just waits.
You stare at him, at the familiar lines of his face, at the gentle crease between his brows. You want to trust him with this. You do. But you also want the floor to open up and swallow you whole.
You compromise.
“I had a dream,” you say finally, words knife-edged with embarrassment. “About you. And now my brain is being… extra.”
His throat bobs as he swallows. “A dream,” he repeats slowly.
“Drop it,” you say quickly, heat flooding your face. “It was just a stupid… thing. I’m tired. It messed with my head, that’s all.”
He doesn’t look away. If anything, his gaze sharpens. You can practically feel the question sitting on his tongue: what kind of dream?
“What did I do?” he asks instead, voice rougher.
You let out a shaky breath, half a laugh. “You existed,” you say, attempting lightness that doesn’t quite land. “You breathed. It was very offensive.”
One corner of his mouth twitches. “You sure that’s all?”
You shoot him a look. “Don’t push it.”
His eyes flick over your face one more time, slower now. You get the sense he’s lining things up in his head. The late nights. The staring. The avoidance.
You pray he doesn’t land on freckle.
After a beat, he sighs, and his grip on your elbow loosens, but doesn’t fall away.
“Okay,” he says quietly. “I’ll back off. For now.”
You blink, surprised. “You will?”
“Yeah.” He shrugs one shoulder. “You don’t owe me the details. But if it’s messin’ with you this bad, and it’s about me…” He pauses, searching for the words. “Just know I’m not gonna freak out on you. Whatever it is. I can take it.”
You stare at him, torn between rolling your eyes and kissing him stupid.
Instead you nod, throat tight. “Thanks,” you say, and you mean it more than he probably realizes.
He studies you for another moment, like he’s committing something to memory. Then, slowly, his hand slides down from your elbow, fingers brushing yours before he lets go completely.
The absence of his touch is immediate.
“Get some sleep,” he murmurs. “You’re runnin’ on fumes.”
“You sound like Bucky,” you mutter.
“Yeah, well, he’s right sometimes.” He steps aside, finally giving you a path down the hallway. “And… if you ever wanna talk about it. The dream. Or whatever.” His jaw flexes. “I’ll listen.”
You hesitate, your hand brushing the wall as you move past him.
“I know,” you say quietly.
You’re almost clear of him when he speaks again, voice softer, just for you.
“For the record,” he adds, “I’ve had a couple dreams about you too.”
You freeze.
Slowly, you look back at him. His expression is unreadable in the dim light, somewhere between teasing and serious, but his eyes are very, very real.
Your mouth goes dry. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” he says simply. “So you’re not alone in that.”
Your brain short-circuits.
You manage a weak, “Great. Fantastic. Love that for us.”
He huffs out a quiet laugh, the corner of his mouth finally tipping up. “Go to bed,” he repeats.
You turn and walk away before you can do something stupid like ask him what his dreams were about.
You feel his gaze on your back all the way down the hall.
In your room, you close the door gently, lean your forehead against it, and exhale a long, shaky breath.
You are still, undeniably, fucked.
But now, for the first time, you’re not entirely sure you’re fucked alone.
Mission reports are the worst.
You’ve fought enhanced mercenaries, outrun collapsing buildings, stared down Val when she’s in one of her I will end your career with a single email moods, but nothing drains your soul like a stack of post-op forms.
Especially at midnight.
You’re at the big table in the common room, laptop open, half-finished report glaring back at you. The only light is the floor lamp in the corner and the dull blue glow from the city outside.
Across from you, John sits hunched over his own laptop, his t-shirt is tight across his shoulders, his forearms braced on the edge of the table, veins standing out just enough to be distracting.
Very, very distracting.
You try to focus on the cursor blinking in the “Detailed Account” section.
Subject neutralized at 2300 hours. No civilian casualties. Team maintained formation…
Your gaze flicks up without permission.
John shifts in his chair, rolling his shoulders like they’ve been locked in place too long. He cranes his neck to one side, then the other. The movement exposes the side of his throat, the line of his jaw.
And there it is.
That stupid, tiny, life-ruining freckle on his left earlobe.
You go completely blank.
You stare at it, mind helpfully pulling files from your mental disaster archive, that vivid dream, the way he’d shivered under your mouth, the sound he’d made when you’d...
Nope.
You slam the mental file cabinet shut so hard you almost hear it.
Your cheeks warm. You drag your gaze back to your laptop like it just said something offensive.
Focus.
Words. Reports. Neutralized. Coordinated assault.
You type, “Subject attempted to flee through the...”
John mutters a quiet curse under his breath.
Your eyes snap back up like they’ve been yanked on a string.
He’s rubbing the back of his neck now, head tilted the other way. The side of his face is exposed again. The freckle is right there, a little dot of color on otherwise pale skin.
Taunting you.
You swallow hard.
You do not remember being this obsessed with any physical feature in your life. Not a mouth, not hands, nothing. But this? This tiny, infuriating speck of pigment has apparently become your Roman Empire.
“Stop it,” you whisper.
John’s fingers still on the keyboard. “What’d I do?”
Mortification hits fast and hard. “Nothing. I meant...” You gesture vaguely at your screen. “This. Paperwork. It’s killing me.”
He huffs out a sympathetic laugh. “Thought you were yelling at me for typin’ too loud.”
“You type like a normal person,” you say. “You breathe too loud.”
His mouth quirks. “Knew there was somethin’.”
You should look back at your laptop.
You don’t.
Your eyes keep darting to that freckle like it has its own gravitational pull. Every tiny movement he makes draws your attention there, when he tilts his head, when he rubs at his ear absently, when he hums low under his breath in concentration.
You feel a hot, prickly wave of irritation at yourself. This was already bad. Ever since you admitted to him that you’d had “a dream,” your brain has been running laps. But now, knowing he’s had dreams too?
Yeah. You are so deeply, irreparably screwed.
You stare at the blinking cursor until the words start to blur.
Footsteps echo somewhere down the hallway, distant. A door shuts. The tower settles a little more into that late-night quiet, the kind that makes every rustle and every breath sound louder.
“Y’know,” John says, breaking the silence, “for someone who hates paperwork, you sure stare at it a lot.”
You blink, realizing you haven’t typed anything new in… several minutes.
“Maybe I’m trying to melt it with my mind,” you mutter.
“How’s that goin’ for you?”
“So far I just have a headache.”
He chuckles, leaning back in his chair. The movement makes his shirt stretch across his chest, muscles shifting under the fabric. He scrubs a hand over his face, then drags it back through his hair, pushing it away from his forehead.
Your gaze follows the motion.
Lands on his ear.
Sticks.
You think about it under your mouth again, about what his face looked like in your dream when you...
You shut your laptop.
Hard.
John startles slightly. “You kill it?” he asks dryly.
“I’m done,” you say, shoving your chair back. “That’s it. Brain has left the building.”
“You didn’t finish your report,” he points out, glancing at the screen.
“I’ll finish it tomorrow,” you say, already gathering stray papers that don’t even belong to you. “Or Val can. Or we can fake a data breach and lose them all. I’ll set the server room on fire. It’ll be great.”
He snorts. “You set the server room on fire, I’m not savin’ you.”
“Liar,” you say automatically.
His eyes soften, just a little. “Yeah,” he admits. “I’d still save you.”
That does annoyingly warm things to your insides.
You sling your laptop under your arm, avoiding looking directly at him. “I’m calling it. If I stare at one more casualty box, I’m gonna start writing my own name in it.”
He watches you stand, something flickering in his expression. “You sure?” he asks. “We were almost done.”
You shrug, trying for casual. “My brain’s mush. I’ll just screw it up and you’ll have to fix it anyway.”
“M’sure I could manage,” he says, but he doesn’t push.
You start to turn away.
“Hang on,” he says, getting to his feet. “I’ll walk you.”
You roll your eyes. “You really don’t have to..."
“I know,” he says, already closing his laptop and setting it aside. “Still gonna.”
You exhale through your nose, too tired to argue and too rattled to be in this room alone with him any longer.
“Suit yourself,” you mutter.
The walk starts normal.
It never stays that way.
You fall into step beside him, laptop clutched to your chest like a shield. The hallway lights are dimmed, most of the tower already gone to bed. Your socked feet make almost no sound on the floor; his steps are heavier, that familiar solid presence at your side.
You’re painfully aware of him.
Of the way his arm swings just close enough that it brushes yours every few steps. Of the heat radiating off his body. Of the faint smell of his soap and clean sweat and the cologne he always claims he doesn’t wear.
You keep your eyes straight ahead.
Don’t look at him. Don’t look at his face. Don’t look at his neck or his jaw or his...
You glance sideways.
The light hits him just right as you turn a corner, casting shadows along his cheekbones, catching on the curve of his ear.
There.
The freckle.
You drag your gaze away so fast you almost give yourself whiplash.
John notices.
Of course he notices.
He’s been watching you all week, ever since you half-confessed about your dream. And you can practically feel him clock every tiny flinch, every time you avoid his eyes, every stupid micro-expression your traitor face makes.
“You always this quiet after missions?” he asks casually.
“Sometimes,” you say.
“Only time I’ve seen you this quiet is when Yelena’s cookin’ experiment goes bad and you’re trying not to offend her.”
“That’s survival instinct,” you say. “There’s a difference.”
He huffs out a laugh. “That what this is now? Survival instinct?”
You don’t answer.
You’re almost to your hallway, or you should be. You realize, two turns too late, that you’re not going the usual way to your room.
You know the tower well enough now to orient yourself fast.
You’re in his hallway.
Your heart drops into your stomach.
You slow down. “Uh, Walker?”
“Mm?”
“This isn’t… my side.”
“I know,” he says.
He stops right in front of his door.
You stop too, momentum bringing you a little closer than you mean to. You can practically hear the click of a trap closing.
You narrow your eyes. “You plan this?”
“Maybe,” he says honestly.
You stare at him.
He leans his shoulder against his doorframe, crossing his arms loosely over his chest. The pose makes his biceps bulge just enough to be obnoxious. He looks maddeningly calm. Patient, even.
You, on the other hand, are pure static.
“What are you doing?” you ask.
“What I said I wasn’t gonna do,” he admits. “Droppin’ it.”
You exhale, frustration and anxiety tangling together. “John..."
“You’re not sleepin’,” he says quietly, cutting you off. “You’re jumpy. You won’t look at me half the time, and when you do, you look like you wanna crawl out of your skin.”
He tilts his head, eyes never leaving your face.
“And unless I got real ugly overnight,” he adds, lips quirking just a little, “I’m pretty sure it’s not ‘cause you suddenly hate me.”
You press your lips together.
He’s not wrong.
“I told you,” you say carefully, “it’s a weird dream. That’s all.”
“I can handle weird,” he says. “You know that. Hell, I am weird.”
You huff out half a laugh, despite yourself.
“Talk to me,” he says, and the light tone drops entirely. “Stop runnin’ circles in your head and just… let me in, a little.”
He takes a small step toward you, not enough to crowd, just enough to make the space between you feel charged.
“If you really don’t wanna tell me,” he goes on, “I’ll back off. But if this is about me, and it’s messin’ with you this much?” His gaze searches yours. “I’d rather know.”
You stare at him.
He’s leaving you an out. He is. You could lie. You could make something up about a mission gone wrong, about some nightmare that has nothing to do with him. He’d probably believe you, at least for a while.
But you’re tired.
So, so tired.
Of pretending you’re not thinking about his mouth. Of pretending that freckle isn’t living rent-free in your skull. Of dancing around something that’s already halfway out in the open.
You lean back against the opposite wall, the cool surface grounding you a little. Your laptop digs into your ribs.
“This is going to sound insane,” you warn.
He smiles, just a little. “Puts us on the same level then.”
“I’m serious,” you say.
“So am I.”
You take a breath. Let it out slowly. Your gaze flicks up to his face, to his eyes, then skitters away again.
“Okay,” you say finally, voice low. “You remember that night in the kitchen? After the mission?”
“Yeah,” he says immediately. “Tea. Insults. You called me old. Standard Tuesday.”
You ignore the faint warmth that curls in your chest at how fast he says yeah.
“Yeah, well,” you say, “that was also the night I noticed it.”
“Noticed what?”
You’d rather be shot than answer, but you force the word out.
“The freckle,” you mutter.
He blinks. “…What?”
You gesture vaguely toward his head, mortified. “On your ear.”
His hand automatically lifts, fingers brushing the shell of his left ear like he’s checking it’s still there. “You lost sleep over... a freckle?”
“Yes,” you snap, then immediately cringe. “I mean... no. I mean... not just that. I don’t know. It’s stupid.”
His lips twitch, like he’s fighting a smile and losing. “You’re gonna have to help me out here, sweetheart, ‘cause I am not followin’ how a dot on my ear has you lookin’ like I ran over your dog.”
You scrub a hand over your face. This is torture.
You could soften it. You could say I keep noticing it or my brain fixated and leave it there. But his eyes are steady on you, open and patient and stubbornly kind, and you realize he’s not going to let you half-ass this.
So you rip the bandage off.
“The dream I had,” you blurt, staring very hard at the space between his shoulder and the doorframe, “was about me kissing that stupid freckle on your left earlobe and you losing your mind over it, and now every time I look at you, all I can think about is putting my mouth on it, and my brain won’t shut up.”
Silence.
You squeeze your eyes shut.
“I told you it was insane,” you add weakly.
There’s a beat where he doesn’t say anything at all.
Then, “Say that again.”
You groan. “Absolutely not.”
“Not the whole thing,” he says, a little rough around the edges now. “Just... the part where you said..."
“Nope. We’re skipping past that part.”
He takes another step forward before you can bolt, one hand braced on the wall beside your head now. He’s close enough that you can see his pulse jump in his throat.
“You had a dream,” he says slowly, voice low, “about kissing… my ear.”
“Just the freckle,” you mutter, because apparently your dignity is already in hell. “I mean, technically your ear, yes, but the freckle specifically.”
“You’re killin’ me,” he says under his breath.
“I am aware,” you shoot back. “Welcome to my week.”
His gaze drops to your mouth for a fraction of a second, then snaps back up. There’s no teasing in it now. No smugness. Just heat, and something softer under it, something that makes your chest tight.
“And now you can’t look at me,” he says, “because you’re thinkin’ about that.”
“Yes,” you say honestly. “It’s… extremely inconvenient.”
He huffs out a short, disbelieving laugh, like he can’t quite believe this is his life. “You’re losin’ sleep ‘cause you wanna kiss a freckle.”
“You make it sound ridiculous when you say it like that.”
“How am I supposed to say it?”
“I don’t know!” you snap, more defensive than you mean to be. “Do you have any idea how annoying it is to have your brain latch onto something like this and refuse to let go? I look at you and it’s just..." You gesture vaguely at his ear, flustered. “...ear. Freckle. Mouth. Static. Nothing else.”
His jaw flexes.
You push on, half-laughing, half on the verge of hysterical. “I can’t concentrate. I can’t write reports. I almost walked into a door yesterday because you turned your head at the wrong time. I’m trying not to be weird about it, but I am being weird about it, and you notice everything, and I hate it.”
You stop, chest heaving, words finally spent.
John just looks at you.
Then, very quietly, "You’re attracted to me.”
You stare at him. “That’s what you’re pulling from this? Now you figure that out?”
His mouth curves, faint and crooked. “Just makin’ sure we’re on the same page.”
You glare, but there’s no real heat in it. You’re too raw, too exhausted.
“Of course I’m attracted to you,” you mutter. “You’re... you. And we’ve been flirting for months. You knew that. I thought we were just… not talking about it.”
His eyes soften. “I knew,” he admits. “Didn’t know it was keepin’ you up at night.”
“Not you,” you say quickly. “The freckle. Specifically. That’s an important distinction.”
He laughs then, low and incredulous, running a hand down his face. “You’re really somethin’, you know that?”
“I did warn you,” you say.
He drops his hand, looks at you again, really looks. There’s a new weight in his gaze now, something considering, like he’s turning over a decision in his mind.
“So let me get this straight,” he says slowly. “You’ve been losin’ sleep, avoidin’ me, drivin’ yourself crazy… over somethin’ you want to do.”
You blink. “…Yes?”
“And you didn’t think,” he continues, a little wry, “at any point in all this, to maybe just ask me?”
Your heart stutters.
“Ask you,” you repeat.
He lifts one shoulder. “I told you I’ve had dreams too,” he says quietly. “You think I haven’t imagined you this close? Think I haven’t...” He cuts himself off, jaw clenching, reins it in. “Point is, you’re not the only one who’s been thinkin’ about… stuff.”
Your mouth goes dry.
“So,” he says, voice dropping, “before your brain explodes… why don’t you let me help you out?”
You swallow. “Help me how?”
He shifts just a little closer, careful, giving you plenty of time to shove him away if you want to. You don’t move.
“If the thing drivin’ you crazy,” he murmurs, “is not knowin’ what it feels like… we could fix that.”
The world narrows to the space between you.
“John,” you say, warning and want tangled together.
He searches your face. “You tell me no, I walk into that room,” he tilts his head toward his door, “and we pretend this conversation ended at ‘weird dream.’ I won’t bring it up again unless you do.”
You believe him.
You hate that you believe him, because it makes the decision yours.
“But if you say yes,” he adds, voice a little rougher now, “then maybe tonight you sleep a little better. ‘Cause you won’t be wonderin’ anymore.”
Your pulse is a steady roar in your ears.
You think about lying awake, staring at the ceiling. You think about the heat that coils low in your stomach every time he walks into a room. You think about the way he looked at you in your dream, like you’d knocked the air out of him.
You’re tired.
You’re so, so tired.
And you trust him.
You exhale slowly. “You’re sure this isn’t just you trying to cash in on the fact that I’m very publicly losing it over your ear?”
His lips curve. “Sweetheart, if I wanted to ‘cash in,’ I would’ve done it months ago.”
“That’s… fair,” you admit.
He leans in just a fraction more, enough that you can feel his breath feather across your cheek. “So,” he murmurs. “What’s it gonna be?”
You stare at him, at his mouth, at the steady light in his eyes. Then, finally, you let your gaze drop to the left.
To the freckle.
It’s right there. Real, not dream-soft. A perfect little dot against his skin, close enough to touch if you just lift your hand.
Your voice comes out quiet. “I hate how much I want this.”
He smiles, soft and a little sad. “You’re not the only one.”
You meet his eyes again.
“Okay,” you say, heart in your throat. “Then… help me out.”
Something in his expression loosens, relief, maybe, or tension he’s been holding just as tightly as you. His hand lifts from the wall, fingers skimming lightly along your jaw until his thumb rests just below your cheekbone.
“Last chance to run,” he says, giving you one more out.
You step into him instead.
“I’m already fucked because of a freckle,” you murmur. “Might as well commit.”
His laugh is breathless, barely there.
“Come here,” he whispers.
His thumb strokes along your cheek, slow and steady, and then he leans in, closing the last bit of space between you. His mouth brushes yours once, soft, testing, like he’s giving you every chance in the world to change your mind.
You don’t.
You tilt up into him, kissing back properly, your free hand catching his shirt at the collar and holding on. The first real kiss is nothing like the joking, half-flirty, half-serious stuff you’ve imagined between missions.
It’s better.
He’s warm and steady and careful in a way you didn’t expect, like he’s been holding this back for a long time and refuses to rush now that he finally has it. His hand slides along your jaw, fingers threading behind your ear, angling you closer as his lips move against yours, slow, firm, thorough.
You exhale into his mouth, something inside you unwinding.
He hums low in his chest, that sound vibrating through you, and when you part for a breath he stays close, his forehead resting against yours.
“Okay?” he murmurs.
You’re breathless, eyes half-lidded. “Yeah,” you manage. “You’re… very distracting.”
His mouth kicks up at one corner. “Good.”
His hand drops to your waist, big palm spanning your side, and then he’s walking you backward the last few steps until your shoulders bump his door. You hear the soft click as he reaches behind you and opens it, backing you both inside without breaking contact.
You don’t even remember the door closing, just the soft thud of it somewhere behind you and the feel of his hands, his mouth, his body in front of you. The room is darker than the hallway, lit only by the faint glow from the blinds and the small lamp on his dresser.
John kisses you like he has nowhere else to be.
Slow, then deeper, letting it build. One hand cupping the back of your neck, thumb stroking small circles at the base of your skull; the other finding your hip, anchoring you to him. You slide your fingers into his hair, tug gently, and he makes a quiet sound that goes straight through you.
Your brain is static.
When he finally pulls back, both of you breathing harder, he searches your face in the low light.
“Still okay?” he asks, chest rising and falling under your hands.
You nod, swallowing. “Yeah. Just… recalibrating.”
He huffs a smirk, brushing his nose against yours. “Been tryin’ to recalibrate around you since the day you walked in that briefing room. ‘Bout time I stopped pretending.”
The confession hits something tender in you, but before you can answer, your gaze flickers sideways.
The angle of his head, this close, brings his left ear into view. The soft curve of it, the pale skin, and there, like a dot on a map you’ve memorized too many times...
That freckle.
You go a little lightheaded.
John feels the shift in your focus. His thumb pauses where it’s resting near your jaw.
“There it is,” he murmurs.
You drag your eyes back to his. “What?”
“That look,” he says softly. “The one that says you’re thinkin’ about it again.”
Your cheeks heat. “I hate that you can tell.”
He smiles, but there’s nothing mocking in it. If anything, there’s a kind of warmth there that nearly undoes you. “You don’t have to hate it,” he says. “You can… y’know. Do somethin’ about it.”
Your heart stutters. “You’re really okay with this?”
His hand slides from your neck to your shoulder, firm and reassuring. “Sweetheart,” he says quietly, “I have been thinking about your mouth for months. If you wanna use it on some tiny piece of me that’s got you all tied up in knots, I’m not gonna complain.”
You laugh, half-nervous, half giddy. “You say that now.”
He leans in, lips brushing your jaw, his breath warm against your skin. “Trust me,” he murmurs, the words ghosting along your cheek, “I’m very sure.”
You shiver.
Carefully, you lift a hand, fingers curling lightly at the back of his neck. He lets you guide him, his body yielding to your touch, turning his head just a little until that small, infuriating freckle is right there in front of you.
Your pulse thunders.
You take a breath.
Then, finally, you lean in.
Your lips brush the freckle in the lightest, quickest kiss, just a press of mouth to skin.
John’s reaction is immediate.
His breath catches, shoulders jerking with a small, surprised shudder. His hand tightens on your waist, fingers digging in just enough to feel. You feel his exhale stutter against your cheek.
“Jesus,” he whispers, the word punched out of him.
You pull back a fraction, dazed. “That was barely anything.”
He huffs a laugh that sounds a little wrecked. “Do it again.”
You shouldn’t feel as smug as you do.
But you do.
You go back in slower this time, letting yourself savor it. The skin there is softer than you expected, warm and sensitive, the tiny freckle a marker under your mouth. You let your lips linger, giving it a proper, unhurried kiss.
John’s head tips to the side without you asking, like his body is chasing the contact. His hand slides up your spine, settling between your shoulder blades, holding you close.
“Keep goin’,” he says, voice rougher now. “Please.”
The please does something dangerous to you.
You smile against his skin, emboldened, and let your mouth wander, another kiss to the freckle, then a slow trail along the edge of his ear, the line of his jaw, back again like you’re mapping a route only you get to follow.
You take your time with it, like you promised yourself you would. Worshipping is the only word for it; this isn’t rushed or sloppy or joking. It’s deliberate. Focused. A quiet, greedy kind of reverence, all centered on this one tiny, ridiculous detail of him that somehow feels like everything.
John feels it.
His breathing changes, deepening, turning uneven. You feel the way his chest rises against yours, the way his fingers flex where they hold you. Every little sound he makes, those low, unguarded noises you’ve never heard from him before, only pushes you further.
“So that’s what’s been in your head, huh,” he murmurs, voice shaking around the edges as you kiss that spot again.
“No wonder you’ve been distracted.” he whispered, his voice laced with awe, as if he couldn’t believe someone could worship something so small about him.
“You have no idea,” you whisper, lips brushing his skin.
He swallows hard. “I’m gettin’ one, believe me.”
You let your hand slide up into his hair, thumb tracing the edge of his ear as your mouth returns to the freckle again and again, soft kisses, a gentle scrape of teeth that makes him swear under his breath, the slow press of you mouthing at it like you can imprint yourself there.
He turns his face toward you suddenly, catching your mouth with his.
The kiss this time is not slow.
It’s hungry.
You melted into him, your arms wrapping around his neck, fingers threading into his hair as the kiss deepened, tongues brushing in a slow, sensual dance.
He guides you back toward the bed, never breaking contact, his hands roaming your sides with a gentleness that made your heart ache.
“Let me show you,” he breathed against your mouth, “how much I’ve wanted this too.”
You both tumbled onto the sheets, a tangle of limbs and quiet gasps.
John hovered over you, his weight a comforting press as he trailed kisses down your jaw, your neck, pausing to nip softly at your collarbone. “You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “Every inch of you… I want to worship you right back.”
Your hands explored him greedily, sliding under his shirt to feel the hard planes of his chest, the scattering of freckles across his shoulders that mirrored the one on his ear.
But you kept returning to that spot, leaning up to press your lips to his left earlobe, tongue flicking out to trace the freckle.
He groaned, a deep, rumbling sound that vibrated through you, his hips pressing instinctively against yours.
“God, that feels…” He trailed off, his breath hitching as you sucked gently on the lobe, worshipping that tiny imperfection like it was sacred.
His hands worked at your clothes, peeling them away with care, exposing your skin to the cool air. He paused to admire you, eyes dark with desire but soft with adoration.
“Perfect,” he whispered, leaning down to kiss your breasts, his mouth warm and reverent as he lavished attention on each nipple, sucking and swirling his tongue until you arched beneath him, moaning his name.
You tugged at his shirt, desperate for more skin, and he obliged, shrugging it off to reveal the expanse of his torso, strong, marked by life, but so achingly human.
Your fingers traced patterns over him, worshipping the dips and rises, the freckles that dotted his body like stars. “John,” you gasped, as his hand slipped between your thighs, finding you already wet and ready.
His touch was gentle, fingers circling your clit with slow, deliberate strokes that built the heat in your core.
“I’ve dreamed about this,” he confessed, his voice husky as he kissed his way down your stomach, pausing to nuzzle against your hip. “About tasting you, feeling you come undone for me.”
He settled between your legs, his breath hot against your center, and then his mouth was on you, soft, worshipping licks that made your toes curl.
His tongue delved into you, exploring with a tenderness that bordered on devotion, sucking gently on your clit while his fingers slid inside, curling to hit that spot that made stars burst behind your eyelids.
You threaded your fingers through his hair, pulling him closer, your hips bucking against his face. “John… oh, god, yes…” The pleasure built slowly, a sensual wave that crested when he hummed against you, the vibration sending you over the edge.
You came with a cry, body trembling as he lapped at you, drawing out every last shudder.
He rose up, lips glistening, eyes locked on yours with pure, unfiltered want.
You pulled him down for a kiss, tasting yourself on him, and reached for his pants, freeing his cock, hard and thick, the tip already weeping with pre-cum. “I need you,” you whispered, stroking him slowly, worshipping the length of him with your hand.
He groaned, thrusting into your grip, his forehead pressing against yours.
“Tell me if it’s too much,” he said softly, always so careful, even now. But you shook your head, guiding him to your entrance, and he slid inside you inch by inch, filling you completely. The stretch was exquisite, a perfect fit, and you both moaned in unison as he bottomed out.
He moved slowly at first, hips rolling in a sensual rhythm that let you feel every inch of him.
“You feel incredible,” he breathed, kissing your neck, your shoulders, you returning again to that left earlobe where you nipped and sucked, making him thrust harder.
His pace built, still soft but insistent, each stroke a act of worship, his hands caressing your breasts, your sides, as if memorizing you.
You wrapped your legs around him, pulling him deeper, your nails grazing his back in gentle patterns. “John… harder, please… I want all of you.”
He obliged, his thrusts becoming more deliberate, hitting that sweet spot inside you over and over. The room filled with the sounds of your bodies, wet, rhythmic slaps and shared gasps, as you climbed together.
“Come with me,” he murmured, his hand slipping between you to rub your clit in time with his movements. The pleasure coiled tight, and when it snapped, you clenched around him, crying out his name as waves of ecstasy washed over you.
He followed moments later, burying himself deep with a guttural moan, spilling inside you in hot pulses
You lay tangled together afterward, breaths mingling, his head resting on your chest as you traced lazy circles over his back.
Your fingers found their way back to his left earlobe, brushing the freckle softly.
For a long while, there’s only the sound of your breathing and the slow tick of the old clock on his wall.
You stare at the ceiling, every nerve pleasantly humming.
John moves on his side, facing you, one hand resting loosely over your stomach. His fingers move in slow, absent-minded patterns, just gentle, like he’s reassuring himself you’re really there.
You feel his gaze before you look.
When you turn your head, he’s already watching you.
There’s no smugness there. No cocky grin. Just something soft and a little stunned, like he hasn’t quite caught up to the reality of tonight.
“Hey,” he says quietly.
You huff a lazy little laugh. “Hey.”
He studies your face for a moment. “You okay?” he asks.
You roll your eyes, but your chest warms. “You’ve asked me that, like, twelve times tonight.”
“Gonna keep askin’ till I’m sure,” he says simply.
You think about it for a second, do a quick internal scan. Your body is pleasantly sore, your mind quieter than it’s felt in days, your heart still thudding a little faster than normal, but in a good way this time.
“I’m okay,” you say. “Better than okay, actually.”
He smiles, small and relieved. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
His hand on your stomach relaxes, fingers splaying just a little like he wants to cover more of you. He glances away for a second, then back.
“For the record,” he says, “that was… definitely better than anything my brain came up with.”
You snort. “You had freckle dreams too?”
“Oh, sweetheart,” he says, his smile turning crooked, “you don’t wanna know what my freckle dreams looked like.”
Heat creeps up your neck again. “Rude.”
He chuckles, sliding a little closer, his knee bumping yours under the sheets. “Your turn,” he says. “How’s reality stack up to that dream of yours?”
You pretend to consider it, then sigh dramatically. “Well, in the dream I didn’t almost drop my laptop, so that’s one point in its favor.”
He nudges your hip with his. “And?”
“And in the dream I didn’t have to admit I was losing my mind over your ear to your actual face.”
“Mm. That part was fun, not gonna lie,” he says, grin widening for a second.
You narrow your eyes at him; he schools his expression, tries again.
“But?” you prompt.
“But,” he says slowly, his gaze dropping to your lips for a moment before coming back up, “pretty sure dream me didn’t sound like that when you kissed that spot.”
You feel that line all the way through you.
A smaller, more self-conscious part of you pokes its head up. “I didn’t… go too far with that, did I?” you ask quietly. “With the freckle thing. Or just… tonight, in general.”
He goes serious fast, the joking glint in his eyes softening.
“Hey,” he says, fingers tightening gently where they rest on your stomach. “You didn’t go too far. You told me what was goin’ on in your head, you let me check in. That’s… that’s not too far. That’s good.”
The knot in your chest loosens a little.
“Besides,” he adds, something fond curling at the edge of his mouth, “if you’re askin’ me if I minded you takin’ your time with that freckle?” He huffs a soft laugh. “Absolutely not. You can do that anytime you want.”
You bite back a smile. “Dangerous offer, Walker.”
“I’m willin’ to take the risk.”
Silence settles again, more comfortable this time. You scoot a little closer, letting your forehead rest against his chin. He adjusts automatically, arm sliding more firmly around you, pulling you into his chest.
You listen to his heartbeat, steady and strong under your ear.
After a while, you murmur, “So… what happens now?”
You feel him go still for a second, like he’s been wondering the same thing.
“Whatever you want to happen,” he says honestly. “If you wanna call this a one-time, ‘freckle crisis management’ situation, we can. I won’t make it weird. If you wanna see what it looks like when this… isn’t just happenin’ by accident at midnight in front of my door…” His hand rubs slow circles on your back. “We can try that, too.”
“You mean, like… date?” you ask, the word weirdly small in your mouth for everything you’ve just done.
He smiles into your hair. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “Like date.”
You lie there, thinking about it. About morning afters and shared coffees and missions where the flirting isn’t half as hypothetical. About the way he looked at you tonight, like you were a choice, not a mistake.
“You’d be okay with that?” you ask. “With… me?”
He tips your chin up gently so you’re looking at him. There’s no hesitation in his eyes.
“I’ve been okay with that since you called me ‘Discount Captain America’ to my face and then stole my fries,” he says. “Took me a while to catch up to what that meant. But yeah. I’d be more than okay with that.”
Emotion squeezes your chest in a way that has nothing to do with the freckle and everything to do with him.
You swallow past it. “We’re gonna have to tell the team,” you say, making a face.
He winces. “Yeah. That’s… future us’s problem.”
You snort. “Yelena is never letting us live this down.”
“Yelena ever finds out it all started because of a freckle, I’m movin’ to another country,” he mutters.
You grin, wicked. “Oh, I’m absolutely telling her that part.”
He groans, dropping his head back onto the pillow. “You are relentless.”
You lean in, pressing a soft, quick kiss just under his ear, right over that tiny dot of skin that started all this.
He shivers.
“I warned you,” you murmur against his skin. “I’m a menace, remember?”
He laughs quietly, that warm, wrecked sound you’re pretty sure you’re going to be chasing from now on.
“Yeah,” he says, pulling you closer, tucking you against his chest like you fit there. “But you’re my menace now.”
You smile into his skin, feeling the slow, steady thud of his heart under your cheek.
For the first time in days, maybe weeks, your mind goes quiet.
No relentless what-ifs, no endless replay of that first kitchen scene. Just the weight of his arm around you, the warmth of his body, and the knowledge that if you wake up in the middle of the night thinking about that damn freckle again…
C's corner: Apparently we're just building an entire extended universe of Thunderbolts being absolute disasters... and honestly? I couldn't be happier. 😂 This is another Thunderbolts Shenanigans request, I genuinely loooove writing these idiots. They're chaotic, dramatic, somehow incredibly competent on missions, and then immediately lose all sense the second they're back at the tower. It's one of my favorite little corners to write.
A huge thank you to my lovely anon for sending in this request! 🫶🏽 I had so much fun with it, and I really hope it lives up to your expectations. Thank you for trusting me with your ideas and for giving me another excuse to unleash complete Thunderbolts nonsense.
As always, thank you to everyone who's reading, liking, reblogging, commenting, and screaming alongside me. You all make writing these stories so much fun.
WARNINGS: Nothing but Thunderbolts chaos and absolutely no respect for normal team communication.
✍🏽 WC: 4.1K+
SUMMARY: When one ridiculous handshake turns into an entire secret language, you and John Walker accidentally create a communication system made of looks, noises, phrases, and pure nonsense. Naturally, the rest of the Thunderbolts refuse to be left out.
It starts because John Walker can't stop looking at you. Not in the normal way. Not in the romantic, soft-eyed, forehead-kiss way that usually makes your stomach do something embarrassing behind your ribs.
No. This is worse. This is tactical staring.
Across the training room, John lifts his chin exactly two centimeters.
You narrow your eyes.
He narrows his back.
You tilt your head toward the weapons rack.
He glances at it, glances at Bucky, then glances back at you.
You blink once.
John's mouth twitches.
Then, without saying a word, he steps behind Bucky, reaches around him, plucks the foam training knife off the rack, and tosses it underhand across the room.
You catch it without looking.
Bucky, who has been standing directly between you and John the entire time, goes still.
Slowly, he turns his head toward you. Then toward John. Then back toward you. "What was that?" he asks.
You look down at the foam knife in your hand. "What was what?"
"That."
John grabs his water bottle from the bench. "Knife transfer."
"With eye contact?"
"Situational awareness," you say.
Bucky's jaw tightens. "You two are getting worse."
"We're getting efficient," John says.
"We're developing as professionals," you add.
Bucky points between you. "You made eight facial expressions and committed theft."
"It wasn't theft," John says. "It was logistics."
Bucky stares at him.
John drinks his water.
You toss the foam knife back at Bucky. He catches it, annoyed that he catches it well, which somehow makes the entire thing better.
That should've been the end of it.
Unfortunately, you and John have never once let anything be the end of anything.
The handshakes were bad enough. Now, apparently, you and John have evolved.
You don't just have handshakes anymore.
You have looks. Sounds. Phrases. Small, stupid little bits of language that mean nothing to anyone else and everything to you.
It happens naturally.
A hum means come here.
A double click of the tongue means look left.
A sharp inhale through your teeth means absolutely not, Walker.
John's little "mm" means I'm listening, but I'm about to do something dumb.
Your "hm" means I know, and I'm deciding whether to stop you.
A slow blink means get me out of this conversation before Alexei explains his squat-based greeting again.
Two fingers tapped against your own wrist means food theft.
One eyebrow up means we're not telling them.
Both eyebrows up means we should absolutely tell them, but in the worst way possible.
And then there are the phrases.
"Ceiling weather" means the vibes are terrible.
"Blue fork" means someone's lying.
"Parking lot rules" means nobody panic, but definitely prepare to panic.
"Soup is armed" means you've both lost the plot and there's no returning from it.
You don't know how it started.
You're pretty sure John said it once during a mission when an informant served suspicious stew with a gun hidden under the table.
Now it means everything. It means danger. It means awkwardness.
It means Bucky looks like he's two seconds from throwing someone through drywall.
It means Valentina has entered the room wearing sunglasses indoors.
It means Alexei is about to say something that'll require a team apology.
It's a system. A perfect, terrible, deeply stupid system. And for three blissful weeks, nobody notices.
Then Bob ruins everything.
You're in the common room with John, Ava, Yelena, Bucky, and Bob. Alexei is somewhere upstairs, allegedly "resting," though the thuds in the ceiling suggest he's either exercising or fighting furniture.
Valentina stands by the windows, reviewing mission details from her tablet. "The target will likely attempt to escape through the east corridor."
John makes a small sound beside you. "Mm."
You don't look at him. You keep your eyes on Valentina. "Mm-hm," you answer softly.
John shifts his weight.
You tap two fingers against your thigh.
He clears his throat.
You hum once.
John nods.
Bucky's eyes move between you. Ava's tea pauses halfway to her mouth. Yelena stops eating chips.
Valentina doesn't notice, which is probably the only mercy left in the room.
Bob, sweet Bob, kind Bob, Bob with the survival instincts of a scented candle, raises his hand. "Sorry," he says. "Are they talking?"
Valentina looks up. "Who?"
Bob points at you and John.
The room goes silent.
You and John slowly turn toward Bob.
Bob's hand lowers. "Was I not supposed to say that?"
"No," you say.
"Definitely not," John adds.
Valentina removes her sunglasses.
Ava sets her tea down with the delicate precision of a woman preparing for war. "I knew it."
Yelena sits forward. "I knew there were noises."
"There aren't noises," you say.
John nods. "No noises."
"You literally just hummed at each other," Bucky says.
"That was breathing," John says.
"You said 'mm.'"
"That's a natural human sound."
"You answered it," Ava says to you.
"I'm also human."
Yelena points a chip at you. "Debatable."
Valentina closes her tablet. "Explain."
You smile politely. "No."
John smiles too. "Can't."
"Classified," you both say together.
Alexei bursts into the room at exactly the wrong moment wearing gym shorts, one sock, and the expression of a man who heard gossip through concrete. "Who has classified thing?"
Nobody answers.
His eyes widen. "It's handshakes again."
"It's not handshakes," Bucky says.
Alexei gasps. "Worse?"
Yelena nods gravely. "They've developed a sound language."
"It's not a sound language," you say.
John leans closer to you. "Ceiling weather."
You snort.
Every head turns.
Ava's eyes narrow. "What does ceiling weather mean?"
"Nothing," John says.
"It means something," Yelena says. "Write it down."
"There's nothing to write down." You insist.
Yelena grabs the whiteboard marker from the side table like she's been waiting for the universe to hand her purpose.
She writes:
WEIRD LANGUAGE
Under it, she adds:
Mm = suspicious
Ceiling weather = unknown
Knife transfer = crime
"That wasn't a crime," John says.
Bucky mutters, "It was close."
Valentina looks at the board, then at you. "How many of these are there?"
You and John look at each other. Terrible mistake.
Because John raises one eyebrow.
You raise both.
He presses his lips together.
You tilt your head.
He lets out the smallest laugh.
Yelena screams. Not loudly, just one sharp little "Ha!" of triumph. "You are doing it right now!"
"We're not," you say.
"You are!" Bob says, delighted. "That was a whole conversation."
"What did it mean?" Ava asks.
John folds his arms. "Wouldn't you like to know."
Bucky points at him. "That means it meant something."
Alexei looks betrayed all over again. "First, secret handshake. Now secret face?"
"It's not secret face," you say.
"It is face espionage."
John nods once. "That's actually pretty good."
"Don't encourage him."
Alexei marches to the whiteboard and writes FACE ESPIONAGE in massive letters.
Valentina pinches the bridge of her nose. "I'm not approving this."
"You don't approve team culture," Yelena says.
"I absolutely do when team culture becomes mouth Morse code."
John looks at you.
You look at John.
You both click your tongues once.
Valentina's head snaps up. "No."
"What?" you ask.
"No clicking."
John points at himself. "I didn't click."
"You clicked."
"I have teeth."
"That's not a defense."
Ava leans forward. "What does the click mean?"
"Nothing," you say.
"It means something," Bucky says.
"Why are you so invested?" John asks.
"Because I'm apparently surrounded by human walkie-talkies."
Bob raises his hand again. "Can I learn it?"
"No," everyone says.
Bob lowers his hand.
You immediately feel guilty.
John does too, because he's tragically soft under all that military-grade smugness. He sighs. "Okay. Bob can learn one."
You turn to him. "John."
"What?"
"We talked about this after the handshake incident."
Bob perks up. "You talked about me?"
"No," you say.
"Yes," John says at the same time.
Bob looks pleased anyway.
Yelena draws a new column.
AUTHORIZED STUDENTS
Bob: pending
Alexei: denied
Bucky: pretending not to care
Ava: already spying
"I am not spying," Ava says.
Yelena doesn't look at her. "You're memorizing blink patterns."
Ava takes a sip of tea. "That's not spying. That's threat assessment."
Bucky closes his book. "Fine. What's 'blue fork'?"
You freeze.
John freezes.
The room sharpens.
Bucky smiles very slowly. "Interesting."
Ava points. "That one's real."
"Everything's real," Yelena says, scribbling.
John looks at you.
You look back.
One blink.
A tiny hum.
Two fingers tap against the table.
John nods.
Bucky groans. "Stop doing that."
"We're not doing anything," you say.
"You just had a board meeting with your eyelashes."
Valentina looks deeply tired. "I need every phrase on that board by end of day."
You laugh.
She doesn't.
"You're serious?"
"Very."
John slips his hands into his pockets. "Can't. It's organic."
"It's nonsense."
"Organic nonsense."
Alexei slams a fist against his palm. "Then we make our own."
The room stills.
Ava says, "No."
Yelena says, "Yes."
Bucky says, "Absolutely not."
Bob says, "I'd like a phrase."
Valentina says, "Nobody is making a phrase."
Alexei lifts both arms. "Too late. Revolution has begun."
It does, in fact, begin.
By dinner, Yelena has invented a noise system consisting of three clicks, a hum, and one sharp whistle that makes Bucky flinch every time.
"What does that one mean?" Bob asks after she whistles at him across the kitchen.
"It means you are standing in front of the drawer I need."
Bob steps aside. "Oh. That's useful."
"It's also awful," Bucky says.
Yelena whistles again, this time at him.
He doesn't move.
She whistles louder.
He turns slowly. "Do it again and I'm eating your chips."
She gasps. "You wouldn't."
John leans toward you. "Blue fork."
You choke on your water.
Ava's head snaps up. "That means lie."
"No, it doesn't," John says.
"Yes, it does," Bucky says.
You look at him. "How would you know?"
"Because he said it when Yelena told Bob she didn't steal his pudding."
Yelena points at Bucky. "You have been collecting data too."
"I have eyes."
"And feelings," you add.
Bucky's stare goes flat.
John murmurs, "Ceiling weather."
You lose it.
Ava looks furious that she doesn't understand. "This is intolerable."
So Ava builds her own system.
It's not fun. It's not silly. It's terrifying.
One eyebrow shift means move.
Two blinks means duck.
A slow turn of her mug means shut up right now.
A gentle tap of her spoon against the table means if you don't stop talking, I'll phase my hand into your snack and ruin your day.
Nobody knows how they know this, they just do.
During breakfast the next morning, Alexei begins explaining the emotional symbolism of his proposed "solidarity grunt language." Ava taps her spoon once.
The entire table goes silent.
Alexei frowns. "Why did everyone stop?"
Bob whispers, "Spoon."
Alexei looks at Ava's spoon.
Ava smiles pleasantly.
Alexei sits down.
John leans toward you. "Parking lot rules."
You nod. "Soup is armed."
Bucky pushes his chair back. "Nope." He leaves.
Yelena writes:
SOUP IS ARMED = escalation
PARKING LOT RULES = possible disaster
SPOON = Ava has seized control
By the end of the day, Bob has invented his own form of communication.
It's mostly thumbs.
Thumbs up means good.
Two thumbs up means great.
One thumb sideways means confused but supportive.
Two thumbs sideways means confused and afraid.
No thumbs means he's gone nonverbal because the room got too weird.
It's surprisingly effective.
John respects it. You respect it. Ava respects it.
Yelena studies it like Bob has accidentally rediscovered an ancient language.
Alexei hates it because it doesn't involve enough yelling.
Bucky becomes fluent immediately. This annoys everyone.
"How do you understand him?" Yelena asks when Bucky passes Bob the salt after one sideways thumb and a small nose scrunch.
Bucky shrugs. "He's clear."
"I'm clear," Alexei says.
"No, you're loud."
"I'm loudly clear."
Ava taps her spoon.
Alexei sits down again.
Then Bucky, because he's the worst kind of hypocrite, develops his own system without admitting it.
It's grunts. Not random grunts. Specific grunts.
A low one means no.
A shorter one means absolutely not.
A sigh through the nose means I heard you, and I'm ignoring you.
A soft hum means maybe.
A barely audible "hm" means yes, but I'm annoyed about it.
John figures it out first.
You catch him standing beside the fridge, watching Bucky stare into it.
Bucky grunts.
John hands him the leftover pasta.
Bucky grunts again.
John gives him a fork.
Bucky hums.
John nods. "You're welcome."
You stare.
Bucky shuts the fridge.
You point between them. "Did you just speak Barnes?"
"No," John says.
Bucky says nothing.
"That was Barnes."
"It wasn't."
"He grunted and you provided pasta."
John shrugs. "Context clues."
Bucky walks away with the pasta.
You follow him with your eyes. "He said thank you."
John nods. "Yeah."
"He did not say thank you."
"He did."
"He hummed."
"That was thank you."
You stare at him.
John smiles. "You're jealous."
"I'm not jealous."
"You're jealous I speak Barnes."
"I speak Barnes."
From across the room, Bucky grunts.
You point at him. "See?"
John tilts his head. "That meant 'stop involving me.'"
Bucky grunts again.
John nods. "And that meant 'especially you.'"
Your mouth falls open.
Bucky leaves the room.
You turn slowly toward John. "How dare you."
He grins. "What? I'm multilingual."
You flick his shoulder.
He catches your hand automatically.
Palm.
Backhand.
Fist.
Roll.
Then you both pause. The whole team isn't there. It's just the two of you in the kitchen.
John's thumb brushes yours, the private little last step of the new handshake.
Your chest softens.
He smiles at you.
Then, from behind the pantry door, Alexei whispers, "I knew there was romantic thumb."
You scream. "Son of a...!"
John yanks the pantry door open.
Alexei is crouched inside with a bag of pretzels and the expression of a man who has witnessed history.
"Why are you in the pantry?" John demands.
"Research."
You press a hand over your heart. "You almost killed me."
Alexei points at your joined hands. "You have secret romance language too."
John looks down at your hands. You do too. Neither of you lets go.
Alexei's eyes get wetter. "Beautiful."
"No," John says. "Not beautiful. Illegal."
"You can't call emotional discovery illegal."
"I can, and I will."
Yelena appears behind Alexei. "Did he find something?"
You narrow your eyes. "Were you both in the pantry?"
Yelena holds up a finger. "Different reasons."
"That doesn't make it better."
She looks at your hands. Her face lights up. "Ah. Romantic thumb."
John points at her. "Don't name it."
"Already did."
By the next morning, romantic thumb is on the whiteboard.
John tries to erase it. Yelena slaps his hand away with the marker. "Documentation matters."
"Our privacy matters," John says.
"You lost privacy when you communicated soup danger in front of the group."
"That's not legally binding."
Ava walks by, glances at the board, and says, "Romantic thumb sounds like a medical condition."
Bob gives two thumbs sideways.
Bucky grunts.
John points at him. "Exactly."
You look at John. "What'd he say?"
"That he agrees."
Bucky grunts again.
John's mouth twitches. "Okay, fine. He said, 'Stop translating me.'"
"You're enjoying this too much," you tell him.
"I'm finally good at languages."
"You know English and Barnes."
"And you."
Your expression softens before you can stop it. John realizes what he said at the exact same time you do.
The kitchen goes very quiet.
From the table, Bob slowly gives two thumbs up.
Ava taps her spoon once, but gently this time.
Yelena whispers, "This is cinema."
Bucky sighs through his nose.
John clears his throat and looks down at the counter.
You nudge his boot with yours. He nudges back. A tiny thing. A private thing.
Naturally, everyone notices.
Alexei walks in carrying a bowl of cereal, sees the room, sees your feet, and gasps. "Foot language!"
"No," you and John say together.
"Too late," Yelena says, writing.
Things devolve from there. The team develops too many systems.
Yelena's whistle language becomes impossible because she keeps changing meanings based on "emotional texture."
Ava's spoon code spreads outside meals. She starts carrying one in her jacket pocket like a weaponized utensil.
Bob's thumb system becomes official enough that Valentina asks him for a mission status and he responds with one thumb up, one thumb sideways, and a nervous smile.
Bucky's grunts are translated by John against Bucky's will.
Alexei creates a full-body communication system that involves poses.
His "danger" pose looks like stretching.
His "snack shortage" pose looks like grief.
His "team unity" pose looks like he's about to throw a couch.
Nobody likes it, but everybody understands it. That's the problem.
During one mission briefing, Valentina pauses mid-sentence when she realizes nobody has spoken for almost four minutes.
Yelena whistles.
Ava taps her spoon.
Bob gives one thumb sideways.
Bucky grunts.
Alexei strikes a pose by the window.
John makes a small sound.
You murmur, "Ceiling weather."
The entire team shifts positions at once.
Valentina lowers her folder. "What just happened?"
"Nothing," John says.
"You all just had a staff meeting without words."
"That's efficient," you say.
"No. That's unsettling."
Alexei holds his pose. "It's unity."
"It's a communications hazard."
Bucky grunts.
John says, "He disagrees."
Bucky points at John without looking.
John says, "And he'd like me to stop."
Valentina stares. "You can understand him?"
"Unfortunately," Ava says, "yes."
Valentina looks at you next. "And what does ceiling weather mean?"
You shrug. "Depends."
"On what?"
"The ceiling."
She closes her eyes. "I hate this team."
Yelena whistles twice.
Bob gives two thumbs up.
Ava taps her spoon.
Alexei changes pose.
Bucky grunts.
John leans toward you. "Parking lot rules?"
You glance at Valentina's slowly tightening grip on her folder. "Parking lot rules."
Valentina points at the door. "Everyone out."
Nobody moves.
Ava taps her spoon once.
Everyone gets up.
Valentina looks horrified. "Did the spoon just outrank me?"
"Yes," Yelena says.
"Absolutely," you say.
John nods. "Clean chain of command."
Valentina throws the folder onto the table. "No more nonverbal communication during briefings."
Bucky grunts.
John opens his mouth.
Valentina points at him. "Translate that and I'll assign you to Wilson for a month."
John shuts his mouth.
You lean in and whisper, "Sam's squad."
John shudders. "Don't joke."
The ban lasts twenty-two minutes.
It breaks because Alexei tries to ask Bob to pass the potatoes at dinner without speaking, using only his "snack shortage" pose.
Bob misreads it as "emotional injury" and tries to hug him.
Ava taps her spoon.
Yelena whistles.
Bucky grunts.
John translates Bucky.
You say, "Soup is armed."
Valentina walks in, sees everyone frozen around a bowl of mashed potatoes, and walks right back out.
For a while, it's just funny. Stupid funny. Tower funny.
The kind of funny that sticks to the walls and makes the place feel less like a government-funded mistake and more like something almost warm.
Then one night, after a bad mission, it becomes something else.
Nobody talks much after you get back.
There's blood on John's sleeve that isn't his. Dirt on your cheek. A bruise blooming along Bob's jaw. Bucky's left hand keeps flexing like he's still waiting for a fight to come back.
The common room is quiet. Not peaceful, just tired.
Ava sits on the floor with her back against the couch. Yelena is beside her, knees pulled up, a bag of chips unopened in her lap. Alexei stands at the window, arms crossed. Bob is curled in the corner of the sofa, both thumbs tucked into his fists.
John stands near the kitchen.
You're by the table.
His eyes find yours across the room.
No smugness. No joke. No performance.
Just John.
He lifts his chin slightly.
You breathe in.
He taps two fingers once against his wrist.
Not food theft, not this time.
You know what he means.
You okay?
You give him one slow blink.
Not really.
His jaw tightens.
Bucky grunts softly from the couch.
Everyone looks at him.
Then tilts his head toward you.
John understands before anyone else does.
Go.
John crosses the room.
No one jokes. No one writes it down. No one whistles.
He reaches you and holds out his hand.
You take it.
Palm.
Knuckles.
Thumb.
He doesn't kiss you yet. He just holds your hand between both of his and rests his forehead against yours.
You close your eyes.
Behind you, Bob gives one small thumbs up.
Ava doesn't tap her spoon.
Yelena doesn't write anything down.
Alexei sniffles loudly and pretends he doesn't.
Bucky grunts one more time.
John exhales a soft laugh against your forehead. "He says we're annoying."
You laugh too, but it comes out shaky.
Bucky mutters, "That one was obvious."
The room loosens just a little.
Later, when everyone starts drifting away, you and John stay behind in the kitchen.
The city shines outside the windows, all glass and gold and late-night traffic.
John leans against the counter beside you. "You okay?" he asks.
You look at him. "You already asked."
His brows pull together. "No, I didn't."
You tap two fingers against your wrist.
His expression softens. "Oh."
You bump your shoulder against his. "I like that one."
He nods. "Yeah?"
"Yeah."
He looks down at your hands, then holds his out. "Think it needs an answer."
You slide your palm against his. "An answer?"
"For when you aren't okay."
Your fingers curl around his.
His thumb brushes your knuckles.
You think about jokes. About soup. About ceiling weather. About all the ridiculous, cobbled-together ways you've learned to find each other across rooms and chaos and bad days.
Then you press your thumb gently against the inside of his wrist.
Once.
His breath catches.
"There," you say quietly.
John looks at you like you've handed him something fragile and glowing. "That means stay?" he asks.
You nod. "It means stay."
His thumb settles over yours. "Okay," he says. "I can do that."
You smile. "You're good at that."
"I'm good at you."
Your heart does something ridiculous again.
From somewhere behind the couch, Alexei sobs, "Beautiful!"
John's head drops forward.
You close your eyes. "Why is he always hiding?"
Yelena pops up from behind the couch beside him. "He's not hiding. We're observing."
Ava appears from the hallway holding her spoon. "I told them this was weird."
Bob peeks over the back of the couch with both thumbs up.
Bucky stands in the doorway, arms crossed. "I was dragged into this."
"No, you weren't," Yelena says.
He grunts.
John points at him. "That means yes, he was."
Bucky glares.
Valentina's voice calls from down the hall. "I swear to God, if anyone has invented another language, I'm transferring all of you."
Alexei whispers, "Workers' rights language still pending."
Ava raises the spoon.
Everyone shuts up.
You look at John.
John looks at you.
One blink.
One hum.
A tiny smile.
He squeezes your hand.
You press your thumb to his wrist.
Stay.
He leans down and kisses you softly.
From the hallway, Valentina sighs. "I heard that."
John pulls back just enough to murmur against your mouth, "How do you hear a kiss?"
You grin. "Face espionage."
Yelena gasps. "She said it!"
Alexei cheers.
Bob gives two thumbs up.
Ava taps her spoon twice, which apparently means applause now.
Bucky grunts, which John wisely doesn't translate.
And because the room is already lost, because this team has never once known when to leave well enough alone, because John Walker is still unbearable and you're still no better, you point at him.
He points back.
Palm.
Knuckles.
Thumb.
Kiss.
Then you both turn toward the others and click your tongues once.
C's corner: Another song inspired fic! This one by the song Mayhem by Halestorm. I really need to stop letting new ideas pop into my head and finish my other fic... I will, eventually....
SUMMARY: Bucky Barnes has fought wars, outsmarted Hydra, and survived alien invasions, but nothing prepared him for you: the walking embodiment of mayhem with a smile that makes every disaster worth it.
Bucky had a ritual.
Two sugars, one cream, silence.
That was his peace before the day's chaos, before Yelena's sarcasm, before John's chest-thumping, before Val's "debriefings."
He liked silence.
Unfortunately, silence packed its bags and left the building the morning you arrived.
The elevator doors opened with a cheerful ding that already sounded too loud for Bucky's taste. Out stepped you, half-awake, wearing mismatched socks, humming something suspiciously aggressive, and holding what looked like a dismantled toaster in your arms.
"Morning," you said brightly, even though it was clearly a threat. "Do you know if the sockets here are European-compatible? I kinda... borrowed this from the safehouse in Prague."
Bucky blinked. "You... brought a toaster from another country?"
"It makes the bread crunchy on the inside and soft on the outside," you replied like it was obvious. "It's a masterpiece."
He stared. You smiled wider. That should've been his first warning.
Within minutes, the "masterpiece" short-circuited half the kitchen. The espresso machine sputtered, sparks flew, and Bucky's mug of coffee died a tragic, caffeinated death on the floor.
He exhaled through his nose. "You know, some people just use... normal toasters."
"Normal's boring," you said, leaning down to inspect the smoldering plug. "Besides, chaos builds character."
"Chaos builds migraines," he muttered.
You straightened, brushing a smudge of soot off your cheek. "I'll make it up to you."
"You'll... make up for ruining my coffee?"
"Yep. I'll make pancakes."
The last person who'd offered to cook for the team was Alexei, and it took two days for the med bay to clear the fumes.
Bucky opened his mouth to protest, but you were already humming again, flipping a pan onto the stove and talking a mile a minute about "creative culinary redemption."
Ten minutes later, the kitchen smelled like heaven and slight panic. Flour dusted your hair, syrup dripped down your wrist, and somehow Bucky found himself smiling despite himself.
He didn't want to smile. He really didn't. But there it was, curling at the corners of his mouth like it had been waiting years for an excuse.
You slid a plate in front of him. "See? Mayhem with a side of maple."
He looked down at the lopsided stack. "This is gonna kill me, isn't it?"
"Probably," you said, beaming. "But at least it'll taste good."
When he finally took a bite, and it did taste good, he heard Yelena walk in and mutter, "What in god's name happened here?"
Bucky didn't answer. He was too busy watching the way you laughed, the way your chaos filled every quiet corner of the room. And for the first time in a long time, the quiet didn't feel like peace anymore. It felt like something was missing.
Maybe it sounded crazy, but Bucky suspected that something was you.
The fire alarm goes off at 7:43 a.m.
That's how Bucky Barnes knows you're awake.
He doesn't even flinch anymore. He just exhales through his nose, flips the page of his book, and waits for the inevitable sound of...
"Bucky! Don't freak out!"
He doesn't even look up. "You only yell that when I should freak out."
"I didn't mean to start a fire, it just... happened!"
He closes the book. "That's not better."
When he finally enters the kitchen, the sight isn't half as bad as it could be, which, in your defense, is saying something.
A pan smokes on the stove, there's flour in your hair, and you're standing on the counter trying to kill the smoke detector with a spatula.
"Why are you on my counter?"
"Technically our counter. And I'm testing gravity."
"Stop testing it before it wins."
He grabs the cereal box from the top shelf, sets it down, and mutters, "You're gonna be the death of me."
"Nah," you say with a grin. "You'd miss me too much."
You're chaos personified.
Where Bucky folds laundry with sniper precision, you leave your socks on the couch and claim it's "strategic placement."
Where he moves through missions with calm control, you improvise, turning firefights into artful messes that somehow, always work.
You're his opposite in every measurable way. And yet, he can't remember the last time the Tower felt alive before you.
Later that afternoon, he's polishing his arm in the lounge when you appear again, hair still slightly damp from a shower, wearing a hoodie that might be his. You lean on the back of the couch upside down, head dangling toward him.
"You ever get tired of being so serious?"
He glances at you. "I like quiet."
"You like boring."
"Quiet," he repeats, unbothered.
You hum thoughtfully. "You should try letting go sometime."
"Letting go gets people killed."
You tilt your head. "You think everything's life or death?"
"Most things are."
"Not this." You motion vaguely between you. "This is just existing. Which, by the way, you could be better at."
His lips twitch despite himself. "You trying to teach me how to live, doll?"
"Someone has to." You grin at him, bright, reckless, unstoppable, and before he can stop you, you plop down next to him and start braiding the end of his hair.
He stiffens instantly. "What are you doing?"
"Enhancing your vibe."
"My vibe?"
"Yeah, you're like, mysterious brooding guy number four in every movie. I'm just trying to make you number one."
He's not sure what's more absurd, the words or the fact that he's letting you do it. "You're insane."
"You like me that way."
He doesn't answer, but his silence is telling.
Bucky liked training days. They were predictable. Routine. There were mats, weights, a schedule, and an unspoken rule that no one interrupted him mid-set.
Then you joined the team. And suddenly, routine became a relic of a simpler, quieter time.
The morning began innocently enough. Bucky was stretching in the corner, earbuds in, zoning out to something instrumental and broody, because of course he was, when you burst into the gym like a tiny hurricane with a towel around your neck and a grin that spelled trouble.
"Morning, Buck!" you called cheerfully.
He grunted in reply. That was his version of a warm greeting.
You dropped your duffel beside him, ignoring the eyebrow he raised. "I heard we're sparring partners today."
His eyebrow climbed higher. "We are?"
"Yep. I swapped with John."
"You what?"
You shrugged, already wrapping your hands. "He said he didn't mind. Said something about preferring an opponent who doesn't giggle while punching."
"That's... fair," Bucky muttered.
"Anyway," you said, bouncing on your toes, "let's see if the Winter Soldier can handle a little mayhem."
There it was again, mayhem. That word followed you like a theme song. Bucky sighed, adjusting his gloves. "Just don't break anything this time."
"No promises."
The first five minutes went about as well as anyone could expect.
You were quick, unpredictable, and absolutely refused to follow any known combat form. One second you were dodging neatly, the next you were using a forward roll that somehow ended in you kicking off the wall like an acrobat.
"Is that even a real move?" Bucky asked, blocking your next hit.
"It is now!"
You grinned mid-punch, and he made the fatal mistake of looking at that grin instead of your fist. Your glove clipped his jaw, not hard, but enough to make his head turn.
"Oh my god," you gasped, freezing. "Did I just... did I just punch you?"
He rubbed his jaw. "You did."
You blinked. "Do I get an award or...?"
Before you could finish, Bucky swept your leg with one smooth motion, sending you flat on your back.
You blinked up at him, dazed but still grinning. "Okay. That's fair."
He offered a hand. You took it, and for a split second, something shifted. The room got quieter. Your fingers were warm, your smile was a little too bright, and Bucky's pulse betrayed him.
He let go quickly, pretending to adjust his gloves. "You're unpredictable."
"That's the nicest thing anyone's ever said to me."
By the time Yelena wandered in, the two of you had managed to destroy half the obstacle setup. Foam barriers toppled like dominoes. One of the treadmills was still running from when you tripped over it.
Yelena leaned against the doorframe, chewing gum. "So this is training or foreplay?"
You immediately tripped over a mat. Bucky turned scarlet.
"It's training," he said tightly.
"Sure," Yelena drawled, smirking. "Whatever you say, comrade calm."
She sauntered out before either of you could respond.
You looked up from the floor, laughing breathlessly. "Comrade calm, huh?"
"Don't," Bucky warned.
"Oh, I'm definitely using that later."
When the session finally ended, Bucky found himself doing something strange, waiting for your laughter to echo off the walls again. The room felt too quiet when you left to grab water.
Maybe it was the adrenaline. Maybe it was the insanity of living in this tower.
But when you came back, hair sticking to your forehead, smiling like chaos incarnate, he caught himself smiling back.
And this time, he didn't even try to hide it.
Valentina's voice was smooth as ever, but the words hit Bucky like a thrown knife. His eyes flicked up from the mission file just in time to see your face light up like it was Christmas morning.
"Bucky and me?" you asked, visibly delighted.
Val just smirked. "Yes, you. Two-person recon. Simple grab-and-go, no civilian contact, no explosions, no..." she glanced directly at you "...improvisation."
You saluted. "You have my word."
Yelena snorted audibly from her seat. "That's worth exactly nothing."
Bucky closed his eyes and muttered, "Why me?"
Val's lips curved in amusement. "Because you're calm, Barnes. And she's… not. I need balance."
He wasn't sure if he should feel flattered or doomed.
Two hours later, you were both crouched behind a rusting van in an abandoned shipping yard. Rain drizzled down from an overcast sky, slicking the ground and muting every sound except your occasional whisper.
"Okay, the target is in the third warehouse," you said, squinting through the binoculars. "Two guards, minimal patrol. I can distract them."
Bucky shook his head. "No distractions. We go in, grab the drive, and go. Quietly."
You grinned. "Define quietly."
He gave you a flat stare. "Without chaos."
You mimed zipping your lips. "Got it. Quiet as a mouse."
Thirty seconds later, there was a crash, a yelp, and the sound of metal clattering as you tripped over a loose pipe.
Bucky pinched the bridge of his nose. "You're kidding me."
"Shh!" you hissed, sprawled on the ground. "You'll blow my cover!"
"You don't have cover!"
But somehow, your accident worked. The guards rushed over to investigate the noise on the opposite side, leaving a clean path straight to the warehouse.
Bucky blinked. "You actually… helped?"
You dusted yourself off, whispering proudly, "Told you I'm good at improvisation."
Inside the warehouse, it went mostly according to plan, until it didn't.
You found the data drive easily enough, but then the floor creaked. Someone shouted. And suddenly, Bucky's calm, perfect infiltration turned into a mad dash for the exit, bullets ricocheting off metal as you laughed breathlessly beside him.
"This wasn't in the plan!" he yelled over the gunfire.
You ducked behind a crate, cheeks flushed. "Plans are overrated!"
"You're overrated!"
"Harsh!"
He dragged you up and out through a side door, the two of you sprinting across puddles toward the van. You jumped in first, slamming the door shut as he dove behind the wheel.
When the engine coughed and died, you looked at him sheepishly. "I might've… borrowed the keys from Yelena. They're shaped like a cat, I thought they were cute..."
"Unbelievable," he groaned, reaching under the dash and hotwiring it in seconds.
The van roared to life. Tires screeched. You whooped, leaning out the window as rain hit your face. "See? We did it!"
"Barely," Bucky muttered.
But he couldn't stop the corner of his mouth from twitching. The adrenaline, the chaos, the sound of your laugh cutting through the storm, it was intoxicating in a way he didn't want to name.
When you finally got back to the tower, dripping wet and triumphant, Val was waiting.
You raised your hand cheerfully. "We didn't blow anything up!"
"That's progress," she said dryly. "Dismissed."
Later that night, Bucky sat in his room, towel-drying his hair. He could still hear your laugh echoing in his head. He told himself it was just adrenaline. That's all.
But then he caught himself smiling at nothing, and sighed.
He'd survived Hydra, wars, and alien invasions, but you? You were going to be the death of him.
And the worst part? He wasn't sure he minded.
For most of the team, midnight meant rest. For you, it meant projects.
Bucky had learned that the hard way. Every strange noise in the dead of night, the clank of a wrench, the faint hum of wires, the occasional crack followed by an "oops" usually traced back to you.
Tonight was no exception.
He'd gone down to the kitchen for tea, not expecting to find you crouched on the counter, hair tied up, wearing one of the tower hoodies three sizes too big for you. A halo of scattered tools surrounded you.
The object of your affection: the poor, overworked toaster you'd electrocuted on your first day.
He paused in the doorway, watching. You were muttering under your breath like a scientist on the brink of madness. "Okay, red to white… no, that's wrong. Red to metal thingy... no, wait..."
"That's how people lose eyebrows," Bucky said finally.
You nearly fell off the counter. "Jesus, Barnes! Don't sneak up like that!"
He smirked, stepping closer. "Didn't sneak. You just don't listen."
"I listen selectively," you shot back. "It's a skill."
He leaned against the counter beside you, arms crossed. "You're really fixing that thing again?"
"It deserves redemption." You gestured at the toaster solemnly. "I wronged it. I feel responsible."
"Pretty sure that's not how appliances work."
"Tell that to the coffee maker. It growls at me now."
Bucky exhaled a small laugh, barely there, but real. You caught it and grinned, victorious. "Was that a laugh, Sergeant Barnes?"
He shook his head. "Don't push your luck."
"Admit it. You like having me around."
That made him pause. You hadn't meant it to sound vulnerable, but it did. The words hung there, soft and unguarded.
He looked down at you, eyes catching the faint glow from the toaster light, and said quietly, "You make things... interesting."
You smiled. "I'll take that as a yes."
Minutes passed in companionable chaos. You fiddled with wires while Bucky handed you tools, occasionally giving unhelpful commentary.
"That's a screwdriver, not a soldering iron."
"I knew that," you lied.
When the toaster finally sparked back to life with a triumphant ding, you gasped and threw your arms in the air. "It's alive!"
"Should I be worried?"
"Yes, but in a fun way."
You hopped down from the counter, only for your sock to slip on the tile. Before gravity could claim you, Bucky caught your arm. Instinct. Fast. Precise.
You froze, half in his arms, half in disbelief.
"Gotcha," he murmured.
Your heart skipped. His metal hand was cool against your wrist, his flesh hand warm at your waist. For a man who prided himself on calm, his pulse was doing a poor job of cooperating.
You cleared your throat, smiling nervously. "Wow. You catch people and fix toasters. Truly a man of many talents."
He let go, pretending to focus on the toaster. "Don't flatter me."
"Too late."
When you finally called it a night, Bucky lingered. You were halfway to the door when he called out, voice softer than he meant it to be.
"Hey."
You turned.
"Next time you decide to fix something," he said, "wake me up first. You shouldn't be here alone."
You blinked, taken aback by the quiet protectiveness under his words. "You offering to be my midnight sidekick?"
"Something like that," he said.
You smiled, genuine, sleepy, touched. "Careful, Barnes. I might get used to that."
He watched you leave, your footsteps fading down the hall. The toaster gleamed faintly in the dark, and for reasons he couldn't explain, it made him smile.
That night, Bucky lay awake longer than usual. He told himself it was the caffeine. Or maybe the hum of the tower.
But deep down, he knew the truth.
You were in his head, loud, unpredictable, and impossible to ignore.
And for once in his long, quiet life, he didn't mind the noise.
It was supposed to be a routine mission. Simple recon. Quiet extraction. No improvisation.
So, naturally, it all went to hell the moment you were involved.
"Stay close," Bucky muttered, crouching behind a stack of metal crates.
"I am close," you whispered back. "If I get any closer, we'll be sharing an oxygen supply."
"Good," he said without thinking, then froze when he realized it.
You raised a brow. "Was that flirting, Sergeant Barnes?"
He grumbled, "Focus."
The plan was simple: infiltrate, secure the data, exfil.
You'd both done harder missions before. But the warehouse was crawling with more guards than expected, and when you tripped an alarm, by "accidentally" leaning against a motion sensor you swore wasn't active, everything erupted.
Within minutes, lights blared, radios screamed, and chaos became the soundtrack of your life again.
"Move!" Bucky shouted, grabbing your wrist as you ran through the narrow hall. "We're improvising."
"See?" you said breathlessly. "You do like mayhem."
He gave you a look somewhere between exasperation and affection. "You're gonna kill me one day."
"Yeah," you grinned, ducking under a pipe, "but you'll die smiling."
By the time you made it back to the tower, covered in grime and triumph, Val was waiting. Again. Arms crossed, expression unimpressed.
"You two have a very creative definition of 'quiet recon'."
You and Bucky exchanged a glance.
He started, "We got the data."
You added brightly, "And no one died!"
Val sighed, massaging her temples. "Barnes, how do you tolerate this?"
He glanced at you, still smiling, eyes gleaming despite exhaustion and said, before he could stop himself, "I don't tolerate it. I... adjust to it."
You blinked, a slow smile spreading. Val groaned and walked off muttering something about "HR paperwork for inter-team relationships."
The tower was quiet again.
Too quiet.
You found Bucky on the rooftop, sitting against the railing, watching the city lights flicker like fireflies below.
"You hiding from me?" you teased softly, stepping closer.
He didn't look up. "Trying to think."
"Dangerous habit," you said, sitting beside him. "What's on your mind?"
He hesitated. The silence stretched long enough that you almost filled it with a joke, until he finally said, voice low:
"You make it hard to stay calm."
You blinked. "Is that... a compliment or a complaint?"
He turned to you, eyes steady even in the dim light. "I've spent years trying to keep things quiet. Control every move, every thought. Then you came along."
You tilted your head, listening.
"And suddenly there's noise again," he continued, a small, helpless smile tugging at his lips. "And for the first time, it doesn't scare me. You don't scare me."
Your chest tightened. "That's the sweetest confession disguised as a panic attack I've ever heard."
He huffed out a laugh. "You're mayhem. I shouldn't want that. But I do."
"You sure it's not just Stockholm syndrome?" you teased gently, trying to hide how much your heart was hammering.
He leaned in, eyes soft but certain. "Pretty sure it's not."
You smiled. "Then maybe you should stop fighting it."
When he kissed you, it wasn't hesitant, it was inevitable. The kind of kiss that felt like static electricity finally grounding itself, all chaos and calm colliding in perfect balance.
You tasted like adrenaline and laughter. He tasted like peace and trouble.
When you finally pulled back, you whispered, "So... does this mean you're officially embracing the mayhem?"
He smirked faintly. "Guess so."
"Good," you said, resting your head against his shoulder. "Because I'm not going anywhere."
Down below, the tower lights flickered. Somewhere, Yelena yelled, "I TOLD YOU THEY WERE FLIRTING!"
Bucky groaned. You laughed.
And in the middle of all that chaos, he smiled.
Because maybe calm was overrated.
Maybe you were exactly the kind of mayhem he needed.
If someone had told Bucky Barnes a few years ago that he'd one day live peacefully in a tower filled with mercenaries, assassins, and an unrelenting ball of chaos who stole his hoodies and broke appliances for fun, he would've laughed.
Now he was living it. And somehow, it felt right.
It started with a crash.
Not the "building's under attack" kind. More like the "you tripped over something that definitely wasn't supposed to be there" kind.
Bucky sighed, rolling out of bed. "Please tell me that wasn't the toaster again."
From down the hall, your voice called brightly, "Nope! Different appliance!"
He groaned. "That's not better."
When he stepped into the kitchen, you were standing on a chair with a wrench in one hand and a determined look on your face. The coffee maker was half-disassembled, surrounded by a mess of wires, coffee grounds, and your latest "experiment."
Bucky blinked. "What did the coffee maker ever do to you?"
"It made a weird noise. I'm improving it."
"Improving it how?"
"By giving it personality," you said matter-of-factly. "Right now it's shy, but by the end of the day, it'll say good morning when it brews!"
He ran a hand over his face. "That's not personality... that's AI."
"Semantics," you said cheerfully, still tinkering.
When Yelena wandered in, she stopped dead. "Why does it look like a robot crime scene in here?"
"Science," you replied.
Bucky took a sip of tea. "Mad science."
Yelena smirked. "You two are disgustingly domestic."
You beamed. "He complains, but he secretly loves it."
Bucky didn't answer fast enough, and that was all the confirmation Yelena needed.
She smirked and backed out of the kitchen. "Good luck with your little... coffee Frankenstein."
When she left, you looked over at Bucky. "You do secretly love it, right?"
He stared at the mess for a moment, then at you, hair messy, sleeves rolled up, smiling like chaos itself.
"Yeah," he said softly. "I do."
By the time night fell, the "experiment" was a success, depending on your definition of success.
The coffee maker now greeted anyone who touched it with a chipper, "HELLO, HUMAN! WOULD YOU LIKE CAFFEINE?" in an unsettlingly cheerful tone.
Yelena and Bob screamed the first time they heard it. John refused to go near it. Ava threatened to dismantle it herself.
And Bucky?
He just leaned against the counter, watching you try not to laugh.
"You're trouble," he said, smiling.
"I'm your trouble," you corrected.
"Yeah," he said, wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling you close. "You are."
You looked up at him, teasing, "So, do I finally count as part of your peace?"
He pressed his forehead against yours, his grin small but honest. "No. You are my peace. Even when you're breaking everything."
"Especially when I'm breaking everything?"
He chuckled. "Especially then."
If Bucky had learned anything over the past few weeks, it was this: peace never lasted long around here. Especially not when the team got ideas.
He'd just settled on the couch beside you, book in hand, your feet on his lap, when Yelena entered, dragging a bewildered Alexei and an all-too-gleeful John behind her.
"Intervention time!" Yelena announced, smacking a clipboard on the coffee table.
You frowned. "Intervention for what?"
"For this," she said, pointing between you and Bucky like a lawyer presenting evidence. "Your... situationship."
Bucky blinked. "Our what?"
John crossed his arms, looking far too entertained. "You two have been acting all domestic and it's making everyone uncomfortable. It's like watching a married couple who also handle live grenades."
You gasped dramatically. "We are adorable!"
Alexei nodded solemnly. "Da. Like bear and raccoon. Small chaos, big scowl."
Bucky looked personally offended. "Did you just call me a bear?"
Alexei patted his shoulder. "Grumpy but huggable. Yes."
You grinned. "That's actually perfect."
Yelena flipped her clipboard open with theatrical flair. "Exhibit A: the kitchen incident. You two created a talking coffee maker. It now greets me at six in morning with cheer and judgment."
"It's polite," you protested.
"It yells at me to hydrate!" Yelena shot back.
"...Still polite," you said under your breath.
"Exhibit B," John said, smirking. "The training room. You two vanished for an hour yesterday after 'stretching.' I don't buy that."
You raised a brow. "You want to see the footage?"
John blinked. "...No."
"Good," Bucky muttered, glaring.
Yelena snorted. "Please, we all know Barnes blushes if she breathes near him. Very scandalous."
Bucky turned pink instantly, confirming her point.
Alexei cleared his throat, taking the floor with mock seriousness. "I, as elder of this family, have one request."
You both turned toward him.
He spread his arms. "Invite me to wedding. I bring gift. Big toaster."
You burst out laughing. Bucky buried his face in his hands.
"Dad," Yelena groaned, "they're not getting married, they're annoying."
"Love and annoyance, same thing," he said proudly.
By now, the entire "intervention" had devolved into chaos: Yelena arguing about boundaries, John pretending to mediate while clearly instigating, Alexei making speeches about true love and Soviet romance, and you egging them all on with popcorn.
Through it all, Bucky just sat there, silent, until finally he said, "Are we done?"
Yelena sighed. "For now."
He stood, grabbed your hand, and started toward the door.
"Where are you two going?" John called.
Bucky didn't stop walking. "Somewhere quiet. Somewhere without witnesses."
"Suspicious!" Yelena yelled after him.
You just winked over your shoulder. "You'll live."
In the quiet of his room, away from the chaos, Bucky looked at you and shook his head. "They're never gonna stop teasing us."
You smiled, leaning in close. "Let them. You know what they say, if they're talking about us, it means they're jealous."
He smirked. "Of what?"
"Of this."
You kissed him, slow and certain, the noise of the tower fading behind you.
When you pulled away, you whispered, "Besides, you secretly love the chaos."
He sighed, but his arm tightened around your waist. "Yeah. I really do."
From somewhere down the hall came the muffled sound of the coffee maker's chipper voice:
"HELLO, HUMAN! WOULD YOU LIKE CAFFEINE AND RELATIONSHIP ADVICE?"
You laughed against his chest. Bucky groaned into your hair.
And as he held you, Bucky realized something simple and undeniable...
C's corner: So this request was originally supposed to be a short, silly little fic about the Thunderbolts sticking magnets all over Bucky’s arm. Naturally, I took that idea, shook it violently, and somehow turned it into a chapter series. 😂 Because apparently one chapter of magnet-related nonsense wasn’t enough. Now every chapter is going to revolve around the team finding increasingly ridiculous ways to convince Bucky to voluntarily remove his arm so they can strike again. Thank you so much for this request because I’m having way too much fun with it already. Poor Bucky is about to spend several chapters being suspicious, annoyed, flirted with, and aggressively decorated. As he deserves. 🫶🏽
WARNINGS: chaotic Thunderbolts behavior, relentless teasing, mild language, weaponized magnets, flour-related sabotage, Bucky being aggressively decorated, mutual pining, suggestive flirting, and an alarming lack of respect for unattended vibranium.
WC: 4K+
SUMMARY: When Bucky leaves his vibranium arm unattended, the Thunderbolts turn it into their newest source of entertainment. What begins as one harmless magnet quickly becomes an elaborate team competition involving ridiculous distractions, wrong guesses, and far too much flirting between you and one increasingly suspicious super soldier.
Bucky Barnes has made several questionable decisions during his lifetime.
He's jumped out of airplanes without parachutes. He's fought aliens with nothing but a rifle and a deeply concerning amount of confidence. He once trusted Sam Wilson to choose a restaurant without checking the reviews first.
But putting his vibranium arm in the dishwasher? That might be the worst one yet. In Bucky's defense, the arm needs cleaning.
Missions get messy, the tiny seams collect dirt, and someone, probably Alexei, spilled maple syrup directly into the elbow joint during breakfast.
Alexei maintains that the syrup attacked him first.
Bucky removes the arm, places it carefully on the top rack, and starts the dishwasher while the rest of you pretend not to stare.
It isn't unusual anymore.
The first time Bucky detached his arm in the kitchen, Bob screamed. John instinctively reached for a gun. Alexei asked if he could borrow it.
Now, nobody pays much attention. Or, at least, that's what Bucky thinks.
He leaves the kitchen to shower while the machine runs.
The moment his footsteps disappear down the hall, Yelena slowly turns toward you.
You slowly turn toward her.
Ava looks up from her coffee.
John lowers the newspaper he hasn't actually been reading.
Bob blinks.
Alexei's eyes widen with the delighted horror of a man watching civilization collapse in real time.
Yelena whispers, "He has left it unsupervised."
The dishwasher hums innocently.
You glance toward the hallway. "That feels legally significant."
"It is abandoned property," Alexei declares.
"It's not abandoned," Ava says.
"He walked away."
"He lives here."
Alexei shrugs. "Details."
John folds the newspaper and sets it on the counter. "What exactly are we discussing?"
You point toward the refrigerator.
More specifically, toward the collection of magnets covering its stainless-steel doors.
The tower's magnet collection has grown without anyone admitting responsibility. There are souvenir magnets from missions, tacky slogans, animals wearing sunglasses, miniature landmarks, several letters from an alphabet set, and one shaped like a glittery cowboy boot.
John follows your gaze.
His mouth twitches.
"No," Ava says immediately.
John stands. "I didn't say anything."
"You made the face."
"What face?"
"The one you make before doing something that ends with Valentina sending a legal memo."
Yelena is already opening the dishwasher.
Steam rolls out dramatically.
Bucky's arm lies on the top rack, clean, polished, and completely defenseless.
You place a hand over your heart. "Beautiful."
"Majestic," Alexei agrees.
"Guys," Bob says nervously. "Are we sure we should touch it?"
"No," Yelena says.
She reaches for the refrigerator anyway.
Three minutes later, Bucky's arm is resting on the counter beneath an arrangement of magnets that looks like a souvenir shop exploded across it.
A smiling sun sits on the shoulder.
A glittery cactus clings to the forearm.
Someone has spelled HOT DOG using mismatched alphabet letters.
Alexei adds the cowboy boot.
John moves it two inches to the left.
"Composition," he explains when you look at him.
Ava puts a tiny magnet shaped like a knife on the wrist.
Bob, after several minutes of moral conflict, adds a smiling cloud.
You place a red heart directly in the center of Bucky's palm.
Then all six of you retreat to different parts of the kitchen and pretend to be engaged in completely normal activities.
Yelena starts peeling an orange.
Ava stares at her phone.
John picks up the newspaper upside down.
Bob opens an empty cabinet and peers inside.
Alexei whistles with all the subtlety of an air-raid siren.
You lean against the counter, biting the inside of your cheek.
Bucky enters wearing sweatpants and a black T-shirt, his hair damp from the shower.
He makes it three steps into the kitchen before stopping.
His gaze lands on the arm.
The room falls silent apart from Alexei's continued whistling.
Bucky looks at the magnets. Then at all of you. Then back at the magnets. "What," he says slowly, "the hell is this?"
You gesture toward the arm. "You left it unsupervised."
"It was in the dishwasher."
"Exactly."
"In my home."
"Location doesn't cancel negligence."
Bucky stares at you.
You stare back with an expression of perfect innocence.
His eyes narrow.
It's annoyingly attractive.
"You did this," he says.
You gasp. "That's a serious accusation."
"You're smiling."
"I smile all the time."
"Not like that."
"Like what?"
"Like you're about to get tackled."
Your stomach gives an embarrassing little swoop.
John clears his throat loudly. "For the record, Barnes, this appears to have been a group effort."
Bucky looks at the upside-down newspaper.
"Walker."
"Yeah?"
"You're holding that wrong."
John glances down. "Experimental reading technique."
Bucky exhales through his nose.
He removes the magnets one by one, placing them in a pile on the counter.
When he reaches the red heart in his palm, he pauses. His gaze flicks toward you.
You suddenly become very interested in the ceiling.
Bucky peels the heart away and drops it with the others. "This stops now," he announces.
Yelena takes a bite of her orange. "Of course."
"I mean it."
"We hear you."
"No more magnets."
"Crystal clear."
Bucky looks around the kitchen.
Every face is solemn. Even Alexei has stopped whistling.
Bucky attaches the arm, tests his fingers, and leaves the room.
The moment he disappears, Yelena turns to you.
"Tonight, we establish rules."
By dinner, the Thunderbolts have formed the International Committee for the Decorative Enhancement of James Buchanan Barnes.
Bucky doesn't agree to the name.
He also doesn't agree to the meeting, which is being conducted around the dining table while he tries to eat his pasta.
You sit at the head of the table with a notepad.
"Rule one," you announce. "Magnets may only be placed when the arm has been voluntarily detached."
"No," Bucky says.
Yelena raises her hand. "Clarification. What if arm is dramatically removed during combat?"
"It isn't."
"Hypothetically."
"No."
You write beneath the first rule. "Combat-related exceptions require committee approval."
Bucky drops his fork against his plate.
"There is no committee."
John raises his hand.
You point at him. "The chair recognizes Captain Walker."
Bucky's glare moves to John.
John wisely keeps his eyes on you. "I propose a limit of one magnet per person, per round. Otherwise Alexei's going to cover the whole arm before anyone else gets a turn."
"This is discrimination," Alexei says.
"You used eleven magnets this morning."
"I have large ideas."
"Seconded," Ava says.
You write it down.
Bucky leans back in his chair, looking genuinely betrayed by society.
"None of you are putting anything else on my arm."
Bob raises his hand tentatively. "How does Bucky get rid of the magnet?"
Everyone goes quiet.
You tap the pen against your chin. "He has to correctly guess who placed it."
Bucky looks around the table.
"That's it?"
"That's it."
"And when I guess correctly?"
"The magnet comes off."
Bucky nods slowly, clearly convinced he can identify each of you within seconds.
"And if he guesses incorrectly?" Yelena asks.
Your smile widens.
Bucky's narrows.
"If Bucky guesses wrong, he has to keep the magnet on his arm for the rest of the day."
John immediately sits forward. "No removing it. No covering it. No pretending it fell off during training."
"What if it actually falls off?" Bob asks.
"It gets put back on," Ava says.
"Same location?"
"Same location."
Alexei raises both hands. "Can we add more magnets after incorrect guess?"
"No," you and John say together.
Alexei lowers his hands. "This committee fears innovation."
Bucky looks from one face to another.
"So you put a magnet on my arm, I guess who did it, and if I'm wrong, I have to walk around with it all day?"
"Correct."
"That's ridiculous."
"It creates stakes," John says.
"It creates consequences," Yelena adds.
"It creates visual joy," Alexei says.
Bucky turns toward you. "You understand this is my arm, right?"
You reach across the table and pat the metal hand resting beside his plate.
"Yes. Our canvas."
His fingers close around yours before you can pull away.
The movement is quick, warm despite the vibranium, and far too gentle for the glare he's giving you.
Your breath catches.
Bucky's thumb sweeps once over your knuckles.
"If I wake up with something glued to this," he says quietly, "I'm holding you personally responsible."
You recover enough to smile. "Threatening me with personal attention isn't the deterrent you think it is."
John chokes on his water.
Ava looks toward the ceiling.
Bob whispers, "Wow."
Bucky's stare sharpens, but there's a faint flush rising along his neck.
He releases your hand and pushes his chair back. "You're all insane."
"Noted," you say, writing it down.
"That wasn't another rule."
"It is now."
Bucky grabs his plate and stalks toward the kitchen. "This stops tonight."
"Of course," Yelena says.
"I mean it."
"We can tell."
"No magnets."
"Perfectly clear."
Bucky disappears into the kitchen, muttering something under his breath about transferring towers.
The moment he's out of earshot, everyone leans toward the center of the table.
"Who goes first?" you whisper.
"Me," Alexei says immediately.
"No," John says. "You have no restraint."
"I have tremendous restraint."
"You put eleven magnets on him this morning."
"I could have used twelve."
Yelena points her fork at Ava. "She should go first. Bucky will never suspect her."
Ava looks around the table. "Why wouldn't he suspect me?"
"You have very calm face."
"I always have this face."
"Exactly."
Bob raises his hand. "Shouldn't we draw names or something?"
You tear several small pieces from your notepad.
"Fine. Everyone writes their name down. We draw for the order."
John takes one of the slips. "Are we including Sam?"
"He doesn't know about it yet," Ava says.
Yelena smiles. "He will."
Alexei scribbles his name in enormous letters, folds the paper once, and drops it into the empty breadbasket.
Bob folds his into a tiny square.
John folds his with crisp military precision.
Yelena doesn't fold hers at all.
Ava watches everyone with open suspicion before adding her name.
You toss yours in last and shake the basket. "Moment of truth."
You reach inside and pull out the first slip.
Everyone leans closer.
You unfold it.
"Ava."
Ava closes her eyes.
Alexei slaps the table in celebration. "Yes! The quiet assassin begins!"
From the kitchen, Bucky shouts, "I can still hear you!"
The entire table goes silent.
A beat passes.
Then Yelena whispers, "Tomorrow morning."
Bucky's exasperated groan carries through the wall.
You write Ava's name at the top of the official rotation.
The game has begun.
A week passes.
Seven full days without a single magnet.
No one mentions the committee. The rotation chart disappears from the refrigerator. Alexei stops carrying magnets in his pockets, or at least stops letting them fall out whenever he sits down. Yelena doesn't make any suspicious comments about "decorative opportunities."
Even you behave.
By the fourth day, Bucky starts watching all of you with the narrowed eyes of a man who knows peace is usually followed by property damage.
By the seventh, he decides the idea has finally died.
It's a ridiculous team game. The Thunderbolts possess the collective attention span of a puppy inside a fireworks factory. Of course everyone forgot.
That afternoon, he finds you in the kitchen making a cake.
Or trying to make a cake.
There's flour on the counter, flour on the floor, and somehow flour on the cabinet behind you. A bowl sits beneath the mixer, filled with something that resembles wet cement.
Bucky stops in the doorway. "What happened?"
You look up from the recipe on your phone. "I'm baking."
"I can see that."
"It's a cake."
"Can't see that."
You point the wooden spoon at him. "I'm still in the early stages."
"It looks like you fought the flour and lost."
"The flour cheated."
Bucky moves closer, surveying the kitchen with growing concern. "Why're you making a cake?"
"Bob said he wanted one."
From the common room, Bob calls, "I said cake sounded good!"
"You see?" you say. "A direct request."
"That's not what direct means."
Bucky reaches around you to examine the batter. His metal hand settles on the counter beside the bowl while he leans over it.
You glance toward the hallway.
Ava is waiting just out of sight.
Bucky doesn't notice.
He dips the wooden spoon into the bowl and lifts it. The batter clings to it in a dense, stubborn lump.
"This isn't cake batter."
"It's rustic."
"It's resisting gravity."
"It has character."
"It has structural integrity."
You snatch the spoon from him. "You came in here to criticize me, or are you going to help?"
"I came in here for coffee."
"Congratulations. You've been promoted."
Bucky sighs, but he washes his flesh hand and moves beside you.
You hand him the bag of flour. "Half a cup."
"You already put flour in."
"It needs more."
"How much did the recipe say?"
You quietly turn your phone facedown.
Bucky stares at you. "You're not following a recipe."
"I'm following my heart."
"Your heart's making concrete."
"Half a cup, Barnes."
He mutters something about ordering dessert like civilized people, but reaches into the cabinet for a measuring cup.
You watch him scoop flour from the bag. Then you look toward the hallway again.
Ava's face appears around the corner for half a second.
You give her the smallest nod.
Bucky turns back toward the bowl.
You reach for the sugar at the exact same moment, swinging your elbow directly into the measuring cup.
Flour erupts between you.
A white cloud explodes over the counter, the bowl, your shirt, and most importantly, Bucky's metal arm.
You gasp with enough force to qualify for community theater. "Oh my God!"
Bucky stands perfectly still. Flour coats him from his shoulder to his fingertips. There's even a white streak across his cheek.
You clamp both hands over your mouth.
His eyes close. "Tell me," he says slowly, "that wasn't on purpose."
"It wasn't on purpose."
His eyes open.
You widen yours.
Bucky looks at the flour covering his arm, then at the nearly empty measuring cup in his hand. "You hit me."
"It was an accident."
"You swung your elbow at me."
"I was reaching for the sugar."
"The sugar's on the other side of the counter."
"I got turned around."
"You've been standing in the same spot for twenty minutes."
"I panicked."
"Before anything happened?"
"I'm intuitive."
Bucky stares at you for another long moment.
You give him your most apologetic smile.
It's the same smile you use whenever you've done something that may require repairs, stitches, or intervention from human resources.
His eyes narrow.
You grab a dish towel and begin wiping at the vibranium.
"Here, let me clean it."
"You're making it worse."
"I'm helping."
"You're pushing flour into the seams."
"I'm emotionally helping."
Bucky catches your wrist before you can scrub more flour into his elbow joint. "I'll clean it."
"You sure?"
"Yes."
"I feel terrible."
"No, you don't."
"I feel a little terrible."
"You're smiling."
"I smile when I'm nervous."
"You smiled when Alexei broke the training simulator."
"That was different. The robot called him an outdated Soviet appliance."
Bucky shakes his head and reaches up to detach the arm. The vibranium releases with a soft mechanical sound.
Your pulse leaps.
There it is. Voluntarily detached. Exactly according to the rules.
Bucky carries the flour-covered arm to the sink.
"I'm going to rinse this before it turns into paste."
"Great idea."
He looks over his shoulder at you.
You're standing very still beside the mixing bowl. Far too still.
"What?"
"Nothing."
Bucky looks toward the hallway. It's empty. He looks back at you. "You're acting weird."
"I spilled flour on a ninety-year-old assassin. I'm processing."
"I'm a hundred and nine."
"That doesn't make it better."
Bucky rinses the arm beneath the faucet while you pretend to rescue the batter.
Once the flour is gone, he sets the arm on a clean towel beside the sink.
Then he notices the flour streaking across his shirt. "Great."
"You can use the bathroom downstairs," you say immediately. "There're towels in the cabinet."
His suspicion returns. "Why're you trying to get rid of me?"
"I'm not."
"You just gave me directions to a bathroom I've used for six months."
"You seem disoriented."
"I'm standing in my own kitchen."
"Without an arm. That has to affect your balance."
Bucky studies you.
You smile.
He points at you with his flesh hand. "Don't touch it."
You lift both hands. "Wouldn't dream of it."
"Don't let anyone else touch it."
"Who would do that?"
His stare turns flat.
You press your lips together.
Bucky leaves the kitchen, still watching you until the wall blocks his view.
You wait.
One second.
Two.
Three.
Then Ava slips through the wall beside the refrigerator.
You jump even though you knew she was coming. "Jesus!"
Ava looks unimpressed. "Keep your voice down."
"You came through the wall."
"You told me to."
"I didn't tell you to emerge directly from the drywall like a ghost."
"We have maybe thirty seconds." She pulls a magnet from her pocket.
It's blue and orange, with bold block letters printed across the front.
GO BEARS!
You stare at it. "A sports magnet?"
"It's perfect."
"You don't watch football."
"Exactly."
Ava moves toward the sink.
Bucky's arm lies peacefully on the towel, unaware that it's about to become the centerpiece of an extremely stupid conspiracy.
She presses the magnet against the outer forearm.
It clicks into place.
You lean closer. "It's crooked."
Ava adjusts it.
"Now it's too low."
She moves it again.
"A little left."
Ava turns her head slowly. "Do you want to do this?"
"No. It's your turn."
"Then stop art-directing the crime."
Footsteps sound in the hall.
Ava's eyes widen.
"Go," you whisper.
She steps backward and disappears through the wall just as Bucky enters the kitchen.
He's changed into a clean shirt, though there's still flour dusting his hair.
You're standing beside the mixing bowl, stirring with exaggerated concentration.
Bucky looks at you. Then at his arm. Then back at you. "What did you do?"
You gasp. "Nothing."
"That was too fast."
"What was?"
"Your answer."
"I'm offended you'd accuse me after I've already apologized for assaulting you with flour."
"You didn't apologize."
"I expressed regret."
"You said you felt a little terrible."
"That's huge for me."
Bucky approaches the sink. His gaze lands on the magnet.
He stops.
You bite the inside of your cheek.
He picks up the arm.
GO BEARS! beams cheerfully up at him.
Bucky closes his eyes. "No."
You lean against the counter. "Something wrong?"
"You've got to be kidding me."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"The magnets."
"What magnets?"
Bucky holds up the arm.
You squint at it. "Huh."
"'Huh'?"
"That's strange."
"You spilled flour on me."
"Accidentally."
"You made me take the arm off."
"I didn't make you do anything."
"You sent me out of the room."
"You had flour in your shirt."
"And while I was gone, you put this on it."
You glance at the magnet again. "Go Bears," you read. "Interesting."
Bucky points the arm at you. "It was you."
Your heart jumps. Not because he caught you. Because he didn't.
You slowly smile. "Is that your official guess?"
Bucky hesitates.
The rules come rushing back to him.
If he guesses correctly, the magnet comes off.
If he guesses wrong, it stays on his arm for the rest of the day.
His eyes sweep over you.
You've still got flour on your nose. You're standing beside the abandoned cake batter. Nobody else is visible.
Everything points directly at you.
Which is exactly why Ava picked the magnet.
Bucky's jaw tightens. "Yes," he says. "Official guess. You did it."
You press your lips together, savoring the moment.
Then you make a loud buzzer noise. "Wrong."
Bucky's expression goes blank.
From inside the wall, there's a muffled thump.
You cough to cover it.
Bucky's eyes shift toward the sound.
Ava emerges through the wall with her arms crossed. "It was me."
Bucky looks at her.
Then at the magnet.
Then at you.
"You spilled the flour to distract me."
You place a hand over your chest. "Ava acted alone."
"You hit my arm with half a cup of flour."
"Unrelated baking incident."
"You told me where the towels were."
"Hospitality."
"You stood there directing her."
Ava glances at you. "He heard that?"
"I have enhanced hearing," Bucky says.
You turn toward Ava. "We may need to revisit our whispering protocols."
Bucky exhales slowly through his nose. Then he attaches the arm. The cheerful GO BEARS! magnet sits proudly against the dark vibranium.
You grin. "Looks good."
"I hate all of you."
Ava walks past him and picks up her coffee from the counter. "You guessed wrong."
"I'm aware."
"So it stays until midnight."
"I remember the rule."
"No covering it," you add.
Bucky looks down at the sleeve of his clean shirt.
Then at you.
You point at him warningly. "Don't even think about it."
"This is my shirt."
"And that's a regulation violation waiting to happen."
"There are no regulations."
"There's a written charter."
"You wrote it on the back of a takeout menu."
"It's legally binding."
Bob wanders into the kitchen. He spots the magnet. His entire face lights up. "Ava did it?"
Ava takes a sip of coffee. "He guessed her."
Bob looks at you.
Then at Bucky.
Then back at the magnet. "Oh, no."
Bucky's eyes narrow. "Why do you sound happy?"
"I don't."
"You're smiling."
"I smile when I'm nervous."
Bucky slowly turns his head toward you.
You shrug. "It's catching."
John enters next, takes one look at Bucky's arm, and doubles over laughing.
Alexei hears him from the common room and comes running.
Yelena follows at a calm walk, already holding her phone.
Within thirty seconds, Bucky is surrounded.
"Go Bears!" John shouts.
"You don't even like the Bears," Bucky snaps.
"Today I do."
Alexei places both hands on Bucky's shoulders. "You look magnificent. Strong. Athletic. Midwestern."
"I'm from Brooklyn."
"Today, you are from Chicago."
Yelena takes a picture.
Bucky turns toward her. "Delete that."
"No."
"Yelena."
"It is for official committee records."
"There is no committee."
You step beside him and brush the remaining flour from his hair.
Bucky looks down at you, exasperation written into every line of his face. But he doesn't move away.
Your fingers linger near his temple. "You really thought we forgot?"
"I hoped."
"That was your first mistake."
"No," he says. "My first mistake was walking into this kitchen."
You smile sweetly. "Your first mistake was leaving your arm unsupervised."
Bucky leans closer, lowering his voice until the rest of the kitchen seems to blur around the edges. "You understand I'm getting you back for this."
Warmth slips through your chest. "Is that a threat?"
His metal hand comes down against the counter beside you, close enough that the vibranium brushes the fabric near your hip, trapping you between him and the counter without actually trapping you at all.
Your heart leaps anyway.
Bucky's eyes flick briefly toward your mouth. "A promise."
Behind you, John makes an exaggerated gagging noise.
The moment shatters.
Bucky doesn't look away from you.
He only lifts his metal hand from the counter and raises his middle finger toward the team.
Unfortunately, that puts the GO BEARS! magnet on full display.
The entire room erupts into laughter.
Bucky closes his eyes, looking like a man reconsidering every decision that led him here.
