Mootsieeee 👀 hope you're doing well,
I had this little idea and thought of you instantly — a Bucky fic where Reader’s like a spy (Natasha vibes), and she and Bucky end up on the run together, Budapest-style. Civil War era, and maybe she notices he’s wounded and actually takes care of him — like the first time in a long while someone’s patched him up because someone cared not lab reasons...I feel like you’d make that so soft and painful, especially with his trust issues but slowly letting her in.
But no pressure at all if you don't like it. Feel free to skip it... Thanks!
~tori
“You didn’t complain that much while I was on your lap.”
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Black Widow Reader Summary: you end up on the run with a wounded Bucky Barnes. Between bickering, patching him up, and surviving together, your sass clashes with his guarded silence until tension turns to fragile trust. word counts: 2.9k Warnings/tags: Sharp banter, emotional tension, aching vulnerability, y/n sarcasm, playing nurse, bruised humor
`` bucky masterlist
The world was falling apart around you — Sokovia, the Accords, the Avengers tearing each other apart on TV screens in dingy bars — and here you were, patching up the Winter Soldier with a cracked bottle of antiseptic and sarcasm as your only shield.
He didn’t trust you at first. Hell, he barely looked at you unless it was to check for a weapon. But he didn’t push you away, either. Not when you stole him a new jacket. Not when you shared the last of your rations on a cold night in Serbia. Not even when you caught him watching your back in the crowd instead of vanishing like he always said he would. You were with him for a few months because Steve and Nat ask you to... more like babysit him.
Now, you were on the run together.
Two ghosts crossing borders faster than governments could track.
You with your forged IDs and sharp tongue, and him with his haunted silence and metal arm.
It was never meant to be permanent.
You’d get him safe, he’d disappear again — back into the shadows where ghosts belonged.
But every time you told yourself that, you’d look at him — at the way he’d flinch from kindness, the way he’d whisper your codename like it was a secret — and realize that maybe you were both already too far gone.
You kick the door shut behind you with a thud. The safehouse smells like damp wood and regret — dust thick enough to choke on, one bare bulb flickering above, and a table that looks like it hasn’t seen a meal since the Cold War.
“Home sweet dump,” you mutter, dropping your duffel on the table and pulling off your gloves. “Remind me to fire our travel agent.”
Bucky slumps into the nearest chair like gravity finally won. His breathing is ragged — shallow, controlled, but too uneven to hide from your ears. There’s blood on his ribs, seeping through the half-wrapped bandage, dark and stubborn.
You stare. He avoids your eyes, which makes you roll yours.
“Alright, so…” you clap your hands once, mock cheery, “which part of ‘I’ll cover the back exit’ translated to ‘go get yourself stabbed, Barnes’?”
He doesn’t look up. “Didn’t get stabbed. Grazed.”
“Oh, forgive me, Sergeant Technicality,” you scoff. “You’re practically bleeding out, but sure, call it a ‘graze.’”
Bucky exhales through his nose, low and steady — the kind of sound that means he’s two seconds from either walking out or punching a wall. You’re not sure which would irritate you more.
“Didn’t ask for help,” he mutters.
“Good thing I don’t take requests,” you shoot back, already unzipping the first-aid kit.
The scrape of metal against wood makes you glance up. He’s removing his combat knife, laying it neatly on the table beside his gun. A quiet act of surrender — or maybe just an old soldier’s habit.
When you reach for his shirt, he grabs your wrist — metal fingers cold around your skin.
“Don’t,” he says.
You glance at the hand, then at him. “If I wanted to kill you, I’d have done it before dragging you across the border.”
His grip loosens, reluctantly. You peel the shirt up, careful despite his flinch, and whistle under your breath. “Damn. That’s a nice one. What was it — a knife? Shrapnel?”
“I don’t know…I didn’t stop to ask.” He grunts.
“Right, of course. You were too busy being dramatic.” You jab back.
He gives you a look that could freeze lava.
“Relax,” you mutter, snapping open the antiseptic. “I’m just saying, next time maybe let me take the hit. I bounce back faster.”
You, look at the wound, and hiss under your breath. “That’s not a graze, that’s a canyon.”
“It’ll close.”
“Yeah, sure. Just give it twenty minutes and a miracle.” You rummage through the kit. “Do you even know what infection looks like, or do Hydra labs not teach that in Winter Soldier 101?”
His glare could peel paint. “You always talk this much?”
“Only when the person I’m talking to is an idiot with a death wish.”
He leans back, metal fingers flexing, jaw working. You can practically see the push-pull in his chest — pride versus exhaustion.
You pop open the disinfectant. “You’re gonna hate this part.”
“I already hate it.”
“Good. We’re bonding.” You pour the antiseptic over the wound.
He jerks at the sting, grabbing the edge of the table hard enough to creak the wood. “Son of a—”
“Language,” you tease, voice sugar-sweet. “You’re a hundred years old, you should know better.”
He looks at you, incredulous. “Are you seriously quoting Cap right now?”
You grin. “Someone has to. You clearly never listened to him.”
He glares. “You’re enjoying this.”
“A little,” you admit, dabbing the blood away. “It’s not every day I get to boss around a super-soldier.”
You reach for the suture kit, and he eyes the needle like it’s a sniper rifle. “You sure you know what you’re doing?”
“I’ve stitched bullet holes in my own shoulder,” you say, threading the needle with calm precision. “Relax, soldier. I’ve got steady hands.”
“That supposed to make me feel better?”
“Depends. Do you prefer I tell you I once sewed up an arms dealer’s femoral artery while upside-down in a moving car?”
He stares at you. “…You’re insane.”
“Aw, you’re sweet when you compliment me.”
The corners of his mouth twitch — not quite a smile, but close enough that you have to look away before it turns into something softer.
“Hold still,” you say, leaning close. His skin is warm under your gloved fingers. The tension in his muscles makes the stitches harder, but you don’t comment. Not on that, not on the way his eyes dart to your face when you concentrate.
He tries to distract himself with sarcasm. “You always this bossy?”
“Only when someone’s being stubborn.” You tug the thread tight, making him grunt. “Or bleeding. Or both.”
“I’ve been fine on my own for years.”
You hum noncommittally. “Sure. Because getting shot in alleyways is the definition of ‘fine.’”
He tenses again, but this time not from pain. From memory, maybe. You can see the ghosts flicker behind his eyes — the conditioning, the missions, the labs.
So you keep your voice light. “For the record, I’ve had worse patients. There was this mercenary once, tried to flirt with me while I was stitching his thigh. Nearly lost an artery because he couldn’t shut up.”
“Steve is right about you.”
You blink. “Excuse me?”
He looks away, faintest ghost of a smirk touching his lips. “You talk to fill silence. Makes it harder for people to think you care.”
That one lands too close. You stop mid-motion, then jab the needle in just a little harder.
He hisses. “What the hell—”
“Oh, sorry,” you say with a saccharine smile. “Hand slipped.”
“Sure it did.”
When you finish the last stitch, you cut the thread and lean back, wiping your hands on a rag. “There. You’re good as new. Try not to rip it open by brooding too hard.”
“Didn’t ask you to—”
“—help, yeah, I know.” You stand, packing up the kit. “Here’s the thing, Barnes. You don’t have to ask. That’s how it works when someone actually gives a damn.”
He goes still. Like you just said something he doesn’t know how to process.
He looks down at your hands, then back at your face. There’s a long beat of quiet, like he’s weighing whether or not to say something real.
“...Thanks,” he mutters finally.
You straighten up, brushing your knees off. “You’re welcome. Though, for the record, if you ever get stab again because you decided to play hero, I’m leaving you in the nearest dumpster.”
“Romantic.”
“Don’t start with me, Barnes.”
You head for the window, checking the perimeter. He stays quiet, watching you the way wolves do — patient, unreadable.
“Go to sleep,” you say after a while.
He leans back, sighs. “I don’t sleep.”
You glance over your shoulder. “Then pretend. Close your eyes, fake it for the camera in my head.”
That almost earns a laugh. “You’re something else.”
“Yeah, well, you’re not so bad yourself, when you’re not bleeding all over my boots.”
His metal fingers drum against the table. The rhythm is soft, almost thoughtful.
He breaks the silence first. “You didn’t have to come after me.”
You snort. “Yeah, well, the CIA didn’t send me a memo asking for your permission.”
“I’m dangerous.”
“So am I.”
“Not like me.”
You turn, meeting his gaze head-on. “Exactly like you. Difference is, I made peace with it.”
His mouth tightens. “Peace is overrated.”
“Tell that to the bullet you almost caught in Bucharest.”
He bristles. “You think you can fix me?”
“Oh, for—” You throw up your hands. “I patched a wound, not your trauma, Barnes. Don’t flatter yourself.”
That stops him cold. For a moment he just stares, then looks away, something almost like shame crossing his face. The sight makes your chest ache in a way you hate.
You sigh, rubbing a hand over your temple. “Look. I don’t do charity cases. I stick around because you’re useful and because the world’s on fire. You keep me alive, I keep you patched up. Deal?”
He studies you for a long beat, then nods once. “Deal.”
“Good.” You shoulder your rifle, head toward the door. “Now get some sleep before I chloroform you.”
“Charming.”
“Effective.”
He mutters something that sounds a lot like a curse in Russian. You grin. “I heard that.”
“Not my fault you speak too many languages.”
“Not my fault you mutter like an old man.”
He looks up at that, eyebrow raised. “Old man?”
“You fought in World War II. You are history.”
“I could still snap your neck.”
You smirk. “You’d miss me in an hour.”
The air shifts. He looks like he wants to argue—but instead, his expression flickers into something softer. Something tired.
You catch it. You always do. And before you can stop yourself, your voice drops a notch. “You should lie down. Rest. I’ll keep watch.”
He leans back, eyes closing. His chest rises and falls slow, measured.
------
The next morning
You wake to the sound of rain hammering the roof and Bucky loading a gun. Typical.
“Morning to you too,” you mumble, rubbing your eyes.
He glances up, startled — didn’t expect you to still be asleep, apparently. “We should move.”
“Wow. Good morning, sunshine. No coffee? No pancakes?”
He ignores you, checking the window. “They’ll be tracking us. Need to head north.”
You groan and swing your legs off the couch. “You’re lucky I like danger. Otherwise I’d have ditched your paranoid ass three safehouses ago.”
“You’d be dead without me.”
You pack your bag, double-check the ammo, and toss him a protein bar. He catches it midair.
Hours later, you’re both in a stolen car, weaving through backroads. The wipers squeak, radio dead, the silence broken only by the hum of the engine.
You glance over at him. His knuckles are tight on the wheel, eyes fixed ahead.
“You should rest,” you say. “I can drive.”
He scoffs. “Last time you drove, we almost went off a bridge.”
“Correction — I avoided the missile you didn’t notice.”
“Still a bridge.”
“You’re impossible.”
“And you’re loud.”
You grin. “See? We make a perfect team.”
He huffs a reluctant laugh. And when he glances at you, there’s something softer in his eyes. Something you don’t quite have the courage to name yet.
The rain blurs the world outside. You lean your head back against the seat, pretending not to notice that his gaze lingers a moment longer than it should.
By the time the rain stops, you’re both starving, tired, and running on caffeine fumes. The car rattles down a narrow street lined with cracked cobblestones and faded awnings. A small local market sprawls ahead, alive with noise — fruit vendors, chatter, music from an old radio.
You tap the map on your lap. “There. Safe route through the back. We can grab supplies, maybe blend in for a while.”
Bucky cuts you a side glance. “Blend in? You’re wearing combat boots and a gun holster.”
You grin. “Please. I’ve pulled off worse disguises. Once played a newlywed arms dealer in Prague.”
He arches a brow. “Convincingly?”
“Oh, you’d be surprised how well I fake affection,” you shoot back, smirking.
His jaw tightens. “Noted.”
You hop out of the car before he can come up with a comeback, pulling up your hood. The smell of roasted coffee and wet earth fills the air. Crowds move in lazy waves, people too preoccupied with shopping to notice the two strangers slipping between stalls.
You keep your voice low. “We need food, clean clothes, maybe fake IDs if we can find a contact.”
He keeps scanning the crowd, tense. “You have contacts here?”
“Barnes, I have contacts everywhere. I’m a very social outlaw.”
He shoots you a look that’s equal parts disbelief and exasperation. “That’s… concerning.”
“You say ‘concerning,’ I say ‘resourceful.’”
You drift toward a stall selling dried fruit and bread, trying to look casual. You pick up a loaf, pretending to inspect it. The vendor smiles at you, mutters something in Romanian, and you hand over a few bills from your stash. Shove the bread into your bag.
When you turn back, Bucky’s vanished.
“Unbelievable,” you hiss under your breath. “Can’t leave him alone for thirty seconds—”
A rough hand catches your wrist and yanks you sideways into a narrow alley. You twist, ready to elbow whoever it is—
—but it’s him.
You glare. “You ever heard of communication, Barnes?”
“Tail,” he mutters. “Two of them. Across the street.”
You glance back — and sure enough, there are two men scanning the crowd, their posture too military to be casual.
His eyes flick toward you. “We don’t have a plan.”
“Oh, I’ve got one,” you say, already grabbing his arm and tugging him toward a café terrace. “But you’re gonna hate it.”
“Wait—”
Too late. You push him down into a seat, slide into his lap like it’s second nature, and wrap your arms around his neck just as the agents turn the corner.
He freezes solid. “What the hell are you—”
“Act natural, Barnes,” you whisper against his jaw. “Couples don’t get profiled.”
His muscles lock, and you can feel every ounce of his discomfort under your hands. “You’re insane.”
“Shh.” You shift closer, the motion earning a few amused looks from nearby locals. “Relax. You’re supposed to look like you like me.”
He mutters something low and dangerous. “This is not—”
You cut him off with a fake laugh, brushing your fingers along his jaw as you whisper, “Smile, Barnes. Or I’ll make you.”
He glares at you. You grin wider.
The agents pass by, eyes scanning the crowd — and sure enough, they skip right over you two. Just another couple being disgustingly affectionate in public.
You lean in, murmuring, “See? Told you it would work.”
“You’re enjoying this way too much,” he mutters, voice tight.
“Maybe. You smell good.”
That actually makes him huff — a sound somewhere between exasperation and disbelief. “You’re unbelievable.”
“Compliment accepted.”
You wait another minute before finally slipping off his lap. “Alright, soldier. False alarm. You can breathe again.”
He stands abruptly, muttering, “Never doing that again.”
You shrug. “You didn’t complain that much while I was on your lap.”
He looks at you, and for a second, his expression is unreadable — something torn between anger and… something else. You can almost feel it — the weight of unspoken things between you.
Before you can push your luck further, a shout rings out from behind. “There! By the market!”
You don’t think — just grab his hand. “Run!”
The two of you bolt through the maze of stalls, knocking over baskets and shouting apologies you don’t mean. Bucky barrels ahead, clearing a path with brutal precision while you cover the rear, tossing a smoke charge behind you that floods the street in grey haze.
You sprint into an alley, breath ragged, heart pounding. He slams the door of an abandoned warehouse shut behind you and throws the bolt.
For a moment, all you hear is the sound of your breathing — harsh, loud, alive.
You press your back against the wall, catching your breath. “So much for low profile.”
He turns on you. “You call that a plan?”
“It worked until you started glowering like someone stole your lunch.”
“I was glowering because you decided to sit on me in public!”
“It was improv!”
“That’s not what improv means!”
“Oh, really? Then enlighten me, Captain Definitions!”
He steps closer — too close — metal arm gleaming in the dim light. “You could’ve gotten us both killed.”
You look up at him, refusing to back down. “And yet, here we are. Alive. Again. You’re welcome.”
The air crackles between you. For a heartbeat, neither of you move. You can feel the heat of him, smell the faint mix of sweat and gunpowder and soap.
He exhales sharply, breaking the tension. “You drive me insane.”
“Good,” you say, voice low. “Means I’m doing my job.”
He looks like he wants to say something else — something quieter, softer — but the moment slips away.
You move past him toward the window, peeking out. “They’ll regroup soon. We’ll need to move after dark.”
He follows your gaze. “You really think they’ll stop chasing?”
You shrug. “Not a chance. But that’s half the fun, right?”
When you turn back, he’s still watching you — expression unreadable.
“What?” you ask.
He shakes his head slightly. “Nothing. Just... still trying to figure you out.”
You smirk faintly. “Good luck with that, Sargeant. I’ve been trying for years.”
He almost smiles — the kind of almost that hurts to see, because it’s so rare, so human.
And somewhere between the exhaustion, the adrenaline, and the fading echo of danger, you realize something dangerous: you’re both starting to care.
