Archive of Our Own

Bucky’s head was in your lap as the two of you sat on the couch, watching some show Peter put on. Peter was already conked out, curled up on the armchair.  You were reading a book, blocking Bucky’s face when he said, “I should take you to Brooklyn.”

You lowered your book slowly, peering down at him with an unreadable stare. "Brooklyn?"

Bucky nodded, relaxed and casual, one hand idly tracing circles on your knee. "Yeah. My old neighborhood. I could show you around."

You blinked at him once, deliberately. "Is that something couples do?"

He shrugged slightly, giving you a gentle smirk. "Normal ones, yeah."

"Bold of you to assume we're normal," you said flatly.

Across the room, Peter shifted slightly in his sleep, mumbling something unintelligible. Bucky’s eyes flicked toward him briefly, then returned to you. "It’d be fun."

"You have a weird definition of fun."

Bucky snorted softly, eyes warm with amusement. "Come on. I’ll take you to my favorite spots. Best pizza, best coffee, the diner Steve and I used to go to—”

"You realize it's been eighty years," you said. "They’re probably all Starbucks now."

He feigned offense, pressing his vibranium hand dramatically to his chest. "Don’t say that. You'll hurt my feelings."

"Didn't know you had any left."

He laughed quietly, catching your hand gently and threading his fingers through yours. "Please?"

You looked at your intertwined fingers for a moment, your expression carefully neutral. "Fine," you finally said. "But only because you're being pathetic."

"Works every time," he murmured, lips curling into a victorious grin.

A quiet snort came from across the room. Peter’s eyes were cracked open slightly, looking sleepy but smug. "Did you just guilt-trip her into a date?"

Bucky glanced at him dryly. "Shouldn't you be asleep, Parker?"

Peter yawned dramatically, stretching out. "Pretend I still am."

You shook your head slightly. "You talk in your sleep. Be careful, kid."

Peter smiled sheepishly, settling back down. "Yes, ma'am."

Bucky looked back up at you, smiling lazily. "Brooklyn. Saturday?"

You sighed lightly, returning your attention to your book, hiding your slight smile behind its pages. "You're annoying."

He chuckled softly, eyes sliding shut, head settling comfortably back in your lap. "And you love it."

---

The train ride into the city had been quiet. Comfortable. You’d leaned your head back against the window, earbuds in, eyes half-closed. Bucky hadn’t said much—just sat beside you, arm warm against yours, occasionally glancing over like he couldn’t quite believe you’d agreed to this.

Now, the two of you stood near the water, the city stretching out behind you, the sound of traffic just distant enough to feel like background noise. The path was mostly empty, the wind cool but not sharp. Bucky had his hands in the pockets of his jacket, eyes scanning the skyline like it held something just for him. You stood beside him, arms folded, expression unreadable as always. "This is where you wanted to go?" you asked finally.

Bucky nodded. "Yeah. Used to come here when I needed to think. Or breathe."

You looked at him, eyes narrowing slightly. "That supposed to be a hint?"

He glanced at you, mouth twitching. "Maybe."

You stared at him for a moment longer, then looked back toward the water. "It’s fine."

He huffed a laugh. "That your way of saying you like it?"

"It’s not awful."

"Wow," he said. "Romantic." You ignored him. After a minute, he leaned closer, shoulder brushing yours. "You ever stop being on guard?"

You didn’t look at him. "No."

"Even with me?"

You shrugged. "Especially with you." That made him laugh—quiet and real. Another few seconds passed before you added, "but this isn’t terrible."

His smile softened. "That’s high praise, coming from you."

You nudged his elbow with yours. "You’re lucky I didn’t make you take me to Coney Island just to suffer."

Bucky leaned in, close enough that you could feel the warmth of his breath. "Still can. If you really wanna see me cry."

You turned slightly, meeting his gaze. "I’ll keep it in mind."

He smiled—smaller this time, more private. Then, quietly, he said, "Thanks for coming."

You didn’t say anything for a beat, then gave the tiniest nod. "You’re welcome."

His fingers brushed yours once, tentative. You didn’t pull away. Didn’t say anything. You just stood there, letting him keep the contact. Behind you, the city buzzed. In front of you, the water moved slow and steady. Neither of you rushed to leave.

---

“Please?” Peter was practically vibrating, pacing in front of you while you leaned against the doorway to the kitchen, arms crossed. “It’s just a science expo thing. Midtown does it every year. May’s caught up at work, and—well, I know it’s not your thing, but—”

You raised a brow. “Is there a ‘but’ coming?”

“But…” Peter stopped, grinning sheepishly. “You’re the only one I trust to not make it weird.”

“That’s optimistic,” you muttered.

He perked up. “You’ll come?”

“I didn’t say yes.”

“You didn’t say no,” Peter shot back. “Which means there’s a window.”

From across the kitchen, Bucky glanced up from where he was chopping vegetables. “What time?”

Peter spun around. “Four o’clock. Midtown gymnasium. There’s posters. Trophies. The whole thing.”

Bucky looked at you. “We doing this?”

You sighed. Long, dramatic. “If he wins something and you cry, I’m leaving.”

Peter grinned. “I won’t tell anyone you’re coming. It’ll be like a surprise guest appearance.”

You looked at Bucky. “We’re not clapping.”

“I’m definitely clapping,” Bucky said.

“Traitor.”

---

The Midtown gym was packed. Teachers, parents, booths covered in glitter and LED tape. Bucky walked beside you in a dark jacket and jeans, casual but still drawing a few stares. You had your hood up, arms folded, eyes scanning the room like it was a crime scene. Peter spotted you first, jogging over with a lanyard around his neck and a stack of pamphlets in his hand. “You made it!” he beamed. “Okay—don’t freak out, but Mr. Harrington is super stressed and I may have told him someone from Stark Industries might be showing up.”

Bucky blinked. “Why would you do that?”

Peter shrugged. “It was more of a… panic-based brag.”

You frowned. “And who’s that supposed to be? You?”

“Nope,” Peter said, then smiled brightly. “You.” You stared at him. “Anyway, come meet the judges,” Peter said quickly, grabbing Bucky’s sleeve and dragging him toward the center of the room.

“I don’t want to meet the judges,” Bucky muttered.

“Too late,” Peter said cheerfully.

Five minutes later, you were standing awkwardly in front of a panel of tired-looking adults while Peter introduced you both with zero warning. “She works with Stark sometimes. And that’s Bucky. He’s… a very intense consultant.”

“Consultant,” Bucky repeated flatly.

One of the judges, a woman in her forties with a clipboard and a vaguely overwhelmed expression, smiled kindly at you. “Your son’s very talented.”

You blinked once. “He’s not my son.”

“Oh,” the woman said, cheeks reddening slightly. “Sorry—I just assumed—he speaks very highly of you.”

Bucky coughed into his hand, clearly trying not to laugh. You elbowed him, hard. Peter, across the table, looked mildly horrified. “Oh god.”

You looked at the woman. “We’re just here to watch him panic.”

Bucky nodded. “It’s one of our favorite hobbies.”

Peter covered his face with one hand. “Please leave.”

You didn’t. And Bucky definitely didn’t.

Later, after Peter won some technical achievement ribbon and you both stood politely off to the side during the photo ops, someone passed by and muttered, “cool parents.”

You glanced at Bucky. “I’m going to set something on fire.”

He smiled, amused. “Wait until the photos are done.”

“I hate you,” you muttered.

“You came, though.”

You didn’t look at him. “Shut up.”

He bumped your shoulder. “You’re glowing with pride.”

You stared straight ahead. “I will break your ribs.”

“Sure you will.”

Peter walked back over, ribbon in hand, smiling too wide. “So... food court?”

You sighed. “Let’s get this over with.”

Bucky slung an arm casually over your shoulder as you walked out. “You hear that, Pete? She’s glowing.”

Peter grinned. “She definitely is.”

The food court was the exact level of chaos you’d expected—kids in uniforms everywhere, parents hovering, pizza grease on every surface. Bucky walked beside you, still smug. Peter was ahead of you in line, rattling off toppings for a custom burger like it was a mission briefing. “She doesn’t even like kids,” Bucky said, grabbing a tray.

You didn’t look at him. “Still don’t.”

“You sat through a science fair.”

“I was promised fries.”

Bucky smirked. “You drove here. You lied to yourself.”

Peter turned around from the counter. “They have chili cheese fries.”

You pointed at him. “Those.”

“Got it,” Peter said, then looked at Bucky. “You’re gonna have to carry the tray though. She’s in one of her moods.”

“She’s always in one of her moods,” Bucky said, grabbing the food.

Peter grinned. “Right. But now it’s a hungry mood.”

The three of you took a table near the back. You sat across from Peter, Bucky beside you. The fries hit the table and you immediately claimed them, pulling the tray closer. Bucky stole one and you stabbed him in the hand with a plastic fork. “You’re insane,” he muttered, sucking on his thumb.

“Don’t touch the fries,” you said flatly.

Peter snorted. “This is domestic. You know that, right?” You and Bucky both looked at him. “What?” Peter blinked. “It is! Like—you’re sitting next to each other. You came to my school thing. You’re sharing food—”

“I’m not sharing,” you cut in.

“She stabbed me,” Bucky confirmed, holding up the fork-mark.

“Yeah, yeah,” Peter waved it off, grinning. “But like… it’s kind of nice. You’re chill around each other.” You didn’t respond, just kept eating. Bucky reached under the table, casually brushing his fingers against your knee. You didn’t react, but your leg didn’t move either. Peter popped a fry in his mouth. “If I die in the next few years, I just want it known that you two are my favorite couple.”

“Peter,” you said evenly, “stop talking.”

He grinned. “There it is. I missed the threatening tone.”

Bucky leaned back, arm draped along the back of the bench behind you, voice low. “He’s not wrong though.”

“I will stab you again.”

Peter beamed. “You guys are so in love.”

You flicked a napkin at him. “Finish your damn burger.”

---

The kitchen was too crowded for a Tuesday morning. Steve was pouring coffee, Wanda was flipping through a mission log on the counter, and Tony was somehow both working on a tablet and trying to fix the toaster with a butter knife. You walked in, hoodie up, coffee already in hand because you had the foresight to steal the first pot from the lab. Bucky followed a few steps behind, his hair still damp from a shower. Peter trailed last, backpack slung over one shoulder.

Tony didn’t look up. “Morning, Mom. Dad. Hope the kid packed his lunch.”

You stopped mid-sip. Bucky blinked. “What?”

Peter groaned. “Oh god.”

Wanda looked up, straight-faced. “You’re late for parent-teacher conferences.”

Steve nodded solemnly. “Little Peter’s been misbehaving in chemistry again.”

“I did not misbehave—” Peter started.

Natasha walked in from the hallway, deadpan. “Detention. Again. Typical.”

Peter dropped his bag on a stool, face in his hands. “Please stop.”

You stared at Tony. “Do you want to keep your fingers today?”

He smirked. “Only if Dad doesn’t ground me first.”

Bucky let out a quiet sigh, grabbed a protein bar, and leaned against the fridge. “We’re not doing this.”

“Oh, we are,” Clint said, strolling in and tossing an apple to Peter. “You two brought him to a school event. Drove him home. Fed him chili fries. I’ve seen less commitment from actual parents.”

“I stabbed someone over those fries,” you said.

“That’s called defending your child’s honor,” Sam offered from the hallway.

Peter looked between all of them, vaguely betrayed. “I thought we were friends.”

“You thought wrong,” Natasha said.

“You’re all very loud,” you muttered, rubbing your temple.

Tony grinned. “Classic mom response.”

Peter groaned again, louder. “I hate this.”

“Don’t talk to your mother like that,” Bucky said calmly, cracking open the protein bar. You slowly turned toward him. His face didn’t change. “What?”

Wanda covered her mouth, trying not to laugh. Clint actually choked on his apple. Peter looked at you, panicked. “I think he’s fully committed now.”

You took a long drink of your coffee and muttered, “I’m moving out.”

“No you’re not,” Bucky said, casually hooking an arm around your waist.

Sam poked his head in. “Aw, look. A family moment.”

“I will kill all of you,” you said flatly.

Tony nodded. “And that, kids, is how Mom keeps the house in order.”

Peter slumped dramatically across the counter. “This is my villain origin story.”

---

The kitchen smelled like burnt toast and too much coffee. Tony was elbow-deep in a half-disassembled toaster, muttering curses. Sam stood in front of the fridge, staring at it like it personally offended him. Clint was already on his second energy drink and making poor choices. You walked in wearing Bucky’s hoodie—dark grey, a little too big, sleeves pushed up. You didn’t look at anyone. Just beelined for the good coffee pot you’d hidden behind the blender yesterday. “Morning, sunshine,” Tony said without looking up. “Nice of you to wear Dad’s clothes.”

You poured your coffee, not breaking stride. “You want your fingers or your face broken first?”

Tony grinned. “That’s our girl.”

Peter skidded into the room next, hoodie half-zipped, hair a mess, holding a notebook in his teeth and typing frantically on his phone. “Don’t say anything,” he said, dropping everything on the counter. “I’m late. Midtown moved my presentation to first period. I need a ride.”

Sam raised an eyebrow. “You can web sling and you’re asking her for a ride?”

Peter pointed at you. “She drives fast and doesn’t ask questions. Also, she has snacks.”

You took a sip of coffee, finally looked at him. “Get in the car. You have two minutes.”

Peter fist-pumped. “Knew you loved me.”

“Don’t push it.”

Bucky walked in behind you, hair wet from the shower, tugging a sweatshirt over his head. “What’d I miss?”

Tony pointed between the two of you. “Mom’s already got the kid to school, Dad. You’re slacking.”

Bucky grabbed a banana, completely unfazed. “I’m making her breakfast. She threatened to break my kneecaps if I didn’t feed her.”

Clint popped open another drink. “Domestic violence or romance? You decide.”

“You’re disgusting,” you muttered, sipping your coffee.

Bucky leaned down, kissed your temple. “Good morning.”

The room went quiet. Peter blinked. “Are you guys, like, just casually affectionate in front of people now?”

“No,” you said at the same time Bucky said, “yes.”

Steve walked in, saw the group, immediately regretted it. “Why is it loud?”

Wanda appeared from the hallway, still wearing pajama pants. “Because they’re being parents again.”

“I am not—” you started.

“Mom,” Clint coughed into his drink.

“Mommy dearest,” Tony added.

Bucky bit into the banana and mumbled, “I warned you this would happen.”

Peter grabbed his bag, slinging it over one shoulder. “Okay, this is too much weird before 8 a.m. I’m going to wait in the car.”

“You touch my aux cord, I kill you,” you called after him.

Peter gave you a thumbs-up without turning around. “Love you too!”

The room fell silent. Natasha strolled in and glanced at Bucky. “You got a son now. Congratulations.”

“I’m not parenting him,” you said.

“Sure,” Wanda said, grabbing a mug. “That’s why you packed snacks and threatened violence on his behalf last week.”

“That was about sour cream and onion chips,” Bucky clarified.

Steve sighed into his coffee. “Every day I wake up and hope today’s the day things go back to normal.”

Tony clapped him on the shoulder. “They are normal. Just... upgraded. With family trauma.”

You finished your coffee in one long sip, grabbed your keys off the counter, and nodded to Bucky. “You’re making waffles when I get back.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, already grabbing the mix.

As you walked out, Clint called, “bring the kid back by curfew!” You flipped him off over your shoulder. No one was surprised.

---

The room was quiet except for the soft scratching of your pencil against paper. You were on the floor, hoodie sleeves pushed up, sketchpad balanced across your knees. A lamp was the only thing on, warm light casting shadows over half-finished designs. You didn’t notice the door open. Bucky stepped in quietly, a paper bag under his arm. He paused in the doorway, watched you for a beat. “You didn’t eat dinner.”

“I had coffee,” you said without looking up.

“That’s not food.”

“It’s my food.” He didn’t argue. Just shut the door and walked over, dropping the bag onto the bed. You glanced up. “What’s that?”

“Nothing.”

You narrowed your eyes but stayed where you were. Eventually, curiosity won. You stood, stretching, and walked over. Opened the bag. Inside was a full set of new drawing pencils. High-end. The kind you’d never buy for yourself. Tucked underneath—an equally expensive sewing kit. Clean lines, sharp tools, black case.

“You left the old set in the laundry room,” Bucky said casually. “Three of them were chewed up. Dunno if that was Peter or Clint.”

You stared at the kit. “This is… a lot.”

He shrugged, sitting on the bed, pulling his boots off like it was nothing. “Thought you’d use it.” You didn’t respond right away. Just held the pencil case in your hand. Bucky glanced up. “You mad?”

You shook your head. “No.”

“You’re making that face like you’re mad.”

“That’s just my face.”

He gave a half-smile. “Right.” You set the bag on your desk gently, then came back and stood between his knees. Bucky looked up at you. “What?”

You didn’t say anything—just leaned down and wrapped your arms around his neck. Slow. Quiet. His hands slid up your back instantly, pulling you in. No words needed. After a while, he mumbled into your hoodie, “you’re welcome.”

You whispered back, “don’t make it a habit.”

He huffed a laugh. “You love it.” You didn’t answer. Just stayed there—arms around him, forehead against his—and let yourself breathe. He didn’t say it again; he didn’t need to.

---

The compound was quiet. Too quiet, probably, but you didn’t mind. You sat on the roof, legs pulled up, hoodie wrapped tight around you, sketchbook balanced across your knees. The pages fluttered slightly in the breeze. Bucky sat beside you, one leg stretched out, the other bent—elbow resting on it, beer in hand.

He didn’t say anything. Just sat close, warm against your side. After a while, he tilted his head toward you. “What’re you working on?” You didn’t answer right away, just flipped the page and started shading the hem of a jacket. Bucky leaned in, letting his shoulder bump yours. “Is that leather?” You nodded. “You gonna make it?”

You paused, considering. “…Maybe.”

He looked out over the edge of the roof, city lights in the far distance. “You should.” You kept sketching. He stayed quiet a moment. “I’ve never seen you this calm.”

You didn’t look up. “You’ve seen me sleep.”

“That’s different.” You flipped the page again and started something else. “Is it weird,” Bucky said slowly, “if I like this version of you best?” You stopped drawing. Turned your head. He wasn’t looking at you. Just down at the ground below, thumb tapping the label on his bottle. “I like all of you,” he added, still not meeting your eyes. “Even the sharp edges. Just… this part? The one that lets me sit close without bracing for a punch? It’s nice.”

You blinked. “I never punched you.”

He smirked. “Not for lack of opportunity.”

You rolled your eyes, but the corners of your mouth twitched anyway. After a few more seconds of quiet, you tilted your sketchpad toward him. “This one’s yours.”

Bucky looked down. It was a fitted combat jacket—dark, minimal lines, reinforced seams. Functional. Sleek. His brows lifted slightly. “You designed that for me?”

You shrugged. “Wouldn’t look good on anyone else.”

He looked at you then—fully, eyes soft. “You ever made something like this before?” You shook your head. He nodded once, then bumped your shoulder again. “I’d wear the hell out of it.”

You didn’t answer. Just flipped the page before he could see the unfinished one behind it—a softer design, still rough. Lighter fabric. More... sentimental. You weren’t ready for him to see that one yet. He didn’t press. You both sat there until the wind picked up and the rooftop got too cold to pretend you weren’t freezing. Bucky stood first and held out a hand. You took it without a word. Neither of you said anything all the way back to the room. You didn’t have to.

---

The lights were off, save for the lamp on your desk. Rain tapped quietly against the windows. You were curled up on the bed, hair damp from a late shower, hoodie sleeves pulled down over your hands. A dog-eared novel lay open beside you. The room smelled like laundry and coffee and whatever detergent Bucky insisted on using.

Bucky walked in, towel around his neck, T-shirt clinging to him from his own shower. He ran a hand through his hair and tossed the towel aside. “You didn’t wait for me,” he said, mock offended.

You didn’t look up. “You take forever.”

He huffed. “Because some of us have hair longer than two inches.”

You turned a page. “You’re not special.”

He walked over and leaned down, pressed a kiss to your forehead. “Liar.”

You glanced up at him then, just for a second, but it was enough for him to catch something in your eyes—whatever it was, it made him pause. “What?” you asked. Bucky sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing the back of his neck like he was nervous. You’d seen him do it during mission briefings. Before jumping out of planes. He didn’t answer right away. You raised an eyebrow. “Did you break something?”

“No,” he said quickly. Then quieter, “Not yet.”

You sat up slightly, the book slipping shut in your lap. “Bucky.”

He looked at you, serious now. “I love you.”

You froze. No snark. No smirk. Just those three words, dropped like they were the simplest thing in the world. You didn’t respond.

Bucky held your gaze, didn’t look away once. "You don’t have to say it back. I just—needed you to know."

You stared at him for another beat. Then you reached over, tugged the edge of his shirt, and said, “get in the bed before you freeze to death.” He stood still. “That’s the compromise,” you added. “You say intense things, I pretend I didn’t hear them until I’m ready.”

His mouth twitched into the smallest smile. “Okay.” He slid in beside you, arm slipping behind your back automatically, pulling you close. You didn’t resist. Just leaned in, head against his shoulder, book forgotten.

The rain kept tapping. And Bucky didn’t push. Didn’t ask again. Just let you sit there, quiet and warm, wrapped up in the space between everything said and unsaid. You didn’t say it that night. But you didn’t let go either.

---

Three days later, it was just past midnight. The common room was dark, save for the soft flicker of a muted TV. Some old action movie Tony had forgotten to turn off. The compound was dead quiet. Everyone asleep or pretending to be.

You were curled up on the couch, legs stretched out, hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands like usual. Your sketchbook was open in your lap—half a page filled, the rest blank. You weren’t really drawing. Not tonight.

Bucky walked in, barefoot, grey T-shirt clinging to his chest, hair still a little messy from sleep. He spotted you instantly, eyes flicking to your face, then to the sketchbook, then back again. “Couldn’t sleep?” he asked. You shook your head. He padded over and dropped onto the couch beside you, shoulder brushing yours. "Bad dreams?"

You shrugged. “Just loud in my head.”

He didn’t say anything else—just gently pulled the sketchbook out of your lap and set it on the table, then nudged you until you let him pull you sideways into his chest. You resisted for half a second, then folded. You sat like that for a while—his hand trailing slow patterns over your arm, your head tucked under his chin, both of you barely breathing. Then, out of nowhere, you said, “I love you.”

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t dramatic. You didn’t look at him when you said it. But Bucky stilled completely, like someone had pulled the air from the room. You added, softer, “I do.”

He didn’t speak. Just turned his head, pressed a slow, deliberate kiss to your temple. You pulled your arms around him tighter and didn’t let go. “Good,” he said quietly, smile in his voice. “I was starting to think you were waiting for a formal event.”

You smacked his side—light, a warning. He laughed under his breath and didn’t push further.  You stayed curled together until you both finally drifted off, the movie still running in the background. Neither of you moved when it ended.

---

The lab was quiet, a miracle, really, considering Stark’s usual chaos. You were perched on a stool near one of the long tables, sketchbook in your lap, stylus pen moving in fast, clean strokes. There were weapon schematics up on the holoscreen across from you, but you weren’t interested in those. Your focus was on fabric drape simulations, split-screened with a half-finished coat design.

Peter swung in from the hallway, landing on the mat with a soft thump. “Hey!” he said, a little too loud for the quiet.

You didn’t flinch. Just looked up, blinked once. “You’re late.”

“I wasn’t even invited.”

You gave a subtle nod—fair point—then gestured at the screen. “The algorithm Tony wrote for synthetic lining keeps glitching. Figure it out.”

Peter perked up instantly. “Yeah, okay. I’ve been messing with that. I think it’s something with the override priority values.” You slid off the stool, swapping places with him. He sat and started typing immediately, brows furrowed. You stood next to him, arms crossed, watching in silence. After a minute, “you’re wearing the hoodie I gave you,” he said without looking up.

You glanced down. It was a Midtown High hoodie—slightly oversized, sleeves a little too long, faint fading at the cuffs. You hadn’t noticed you’d put it on. “Was cold,” you said flatly.

Peter smiled. “Yeah, okay. Sure.” You ignored that. He paused his typing to grab something from his backpack and set it in front of you. “Also—I brought you something.” It was a tiny enamel pin shaped like a little bat in a hoodie. Black with red eyes, lowkey cursed looking. “Thought it looked like Vlad,” he said. You picked it up, turned it over in your hand and said nothing. Peter watched you for a second. “It’s okay if you don’t like it—”

You reached over, clipped the pin to the edge of your sketchbook cover, and went back to staring at the screen like nothing had happened.

Peter grinned. Bucky walked in halfway through their debugging session, holding two coffees and a protein bar. He handed you your usual—black, hot, bitter—and set the bar next to Peter. “You look like you haven’t eaten in twelve hours.”

Peter blinked. “I haven’t.”

Bucky sighed. “Shocking.”

You took a sip and said quietly, “He brought me a pin.”

Bucky raised a brow. “You like it?” You didn’t answer, just opened your sketchbook slightly so he could see the edge. He looked at it—smiled. “That’s terrifying.”

Peter beamed. “It’s Vlad’s cousin. Chad.” You and Bucky both stared at him as Peter shrugged. “He looked like a Chad.” You didn’t comment. Just sat back on the stool beside him while he kept typing. “You know,” Peter said after a beat, “I told MJ I think you guys are secretly really nice.”

You raised a brow. “Don’t spread lies.”

Bucky ruffled Peter’s curls as he passed behind him. “She’s terrible. Never trust her.”

Peter laughed, typing faster. “Yeah, yeah.”

And if you made a quiet note in your sketchbook later of a coat pattern labeled P. Parker prototype, no one needed to know.

---

It was supposed to be simple. In, copy the hard drive, out. Madripoor again—tight alleys, neon buzz, heavy air. Everyone was in place. “Barnes, Y/N, you’re on west flank,” Steve’s voice crackled through comms. “I’m covering south exit. Sam and Rhodey are eyes-in-sky.”

“Copy,” Bucky said, low. His voice smooth in your ear.

You checked the alley. “West is clear. Moving in.”

The two of you slipped into a side entrance of the compound, shadows wrapped around your boots. You didn’t talk much on missions. Just glances, gestures. Worked better that way. Inside was a dark hallway. No one in sight. “Security room’s up the stairs. I’ll watch,” Bucky murmured.

You nodded once and headed up the metal stairs as he followed behind. You could feel the way his eyes trailed up your back—focus, Barnes, you wanted to say. But then again, yours weren’t entirely on the mission either. You reached the server room to find it locked. You pulled your tools out and started picking the keypad. Bucky leaned against the wall, arms crossed, head tilted. “You watching my six or checking me out?”

“Same thing, doll,” he said under his breath.

Click. The door opened. You pushed in, ducked under the camera blind spot, and started downloading the data. Bucky stepped in behind you. Stood too close. “Should take three minutes,” you said.

He nodded. “You looked good in that tactical gear, back in 'poor. The red stripes.”

“You’re distracting me.”

“That’s interesting,” he said, voice dropping, “because you’ve got a knife in your boot, three loaded mags, and I’ve never seen you flinch. But me whispering to you in the dark is the thing that throws you off?”

You turned, slow, until your back was nearly against the desk. “You want to test that theory?” you asked.

He took one step closer. Didn’t touch you—yet—but his breath was warm where it brushed your cheek. “I mean… we’ve got two minutes left.”

Your hand slid up his chest. “That’s barely enough time.”

Bucky smirked. “Then we better make it count.”

You kissed him first. It started sharp, just to shut him up. But it turned fast. Desperate. Hands in hair, teeth clashing. He pulled you tighter, up against the edge of the desk, fingers digging into your waist.

That’s when Steve’s voice cut in, sharp in both your ears. “Barnes. Y/N. Report.”

Neither of you moved. Then Sam’s voice, “you guys good? You’re quiet.”

You shoved Bucky off with one hand, breathing hard. He looked dazed, blinking once, like he forgot they existed. You hit the comm button. “Still in progress. Hold perimeter.”

A pause. Then Clint, dry as hell, “uh-huh. You sure about that?”

You didn’t answer. Bucky muttered, "shit," under his breath.

Then Tony spoke, “did we all just hear—was that a—did you just make out during recon?!”

Steve again, deadpan now. “Get the drive. Get out.”

“Copy,” you said, voice flat, expression unreadable.

Bucky straightened up, adjusted his gear, and whispered, “Worth it.”

You shoved the flash drive into your pouch. “You’re an idiot.”

“I’m your idiot,” he murmured, smirking.

---

The Quinjet was mid-lift, the city lights of Madripoor shrinking in the window. Everyone was strapped in—gear tossed into crates, the hard drive secure in Steve’s pack. The comms were finally off. But the team? Very much not done talking.

Tony was pacing in the aisle like a lawyer building a case. “So let me just get this straight—for the record—you two were supposed to be copying secure intel. And instead, you reenacted a CW drama with tongue?”

Sam had his boots up on the seat across from him. “I heard breathless noises. Don’t even try to deny it.”

Natasha, deadpan as ever, flipped a page in her book. “It was definitely a makeout.”

“Possibly second base,” Clint muttered.

“We heard everything,” Wanda added from across the cabin. “We were all mentally scarred. You owe us.”

Steve didn’t say anything, but he was looking at you and Bucky like you were unruly teenagers. Disappointed, mildly exhausted, not surprised. You sat back in your seat, hood up, arms crossed, unbothered. Bucky leaned casually beside you, sprawled like he hadn’t just embarrassed himself in front of seven other people. "You were the one who kissed me," he said under his breath.

"You provoked me."

"Don’t act like it wasn’t the highlight of your night."

“Buck,” Steve said sharply from across the aisle, “if you ever turn your comm off mid-op, I swear to God—”

“We didn’t!” Bucky said. “That’s the problem!”

Tony pointed at you. “And you. I expected this behavior from him. But you? I’m disappointed. You’re the broody one. The professional one. The one who makes me feel like I should apologize for breathing too loud.”

You didn’t blink. “Maybe you should.” Tony looked personally attacked.

Sam chuckled. “You guys are impossible.”

As the bickering continued, Bucky turned toward you, voice lowered. “You wanna head to the back of the jet?”

You blinked. “No.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Why not?”

You side-eyed him. “Because the team is here.”

A small smirk tugged at his lips. “What, you think you’ll get caught?”

You narrowed your eyes. “No.”

“Sounds like you do.”

“I don’t.”

Bucky leaned in, voice barely above a whisper. “It’s okay. Not everyone’s cut out for stealth.”

You stared at him. “Did you just say I’m not stealthy?”

“Didn’t say that,” he murmured, eyes sparkling. “You said that.”

You tilted your head slowly. “You’re baiting me.”

His smile deepened. “It’s working.”

You looked at the rest of the team—mid-chaos, arguing about comm protocol and whether or not Sam needed to start carrying headphones just to avoid this kind of trauma. Then you looked back at Bucky. “Five minutes. No more.” His grin was quick, sharp, victorious. “I hate you,” you muttered, unclipping your harness.

He stood and offered you a hand. “Yeah,” he said, helping you up, “but you still kissed me first.”

And behind you, Sam muttered to Steve, “where are they going?”

Steve groaned, rubbing his face. “I don’t want to know.”

Tony stared at the ceiling. “I’m putting a parental lock on every damn comm.”

---

The compound was quiet for once. Peter was back at school, Tony and Rhodey were in Dubai for some conference, and most of the team had taken the afternoon for themselves. Bucky found you exactly where he expected—sitting cross-legged on your shared bed, hair damp from a shower, oversized hoodie swallowing your frame. You didn’t look up when he came in, too focused on whatever you were sketching. “Hey,” he said softly, pulling his jacket off and tossing it over the chair. “Didn’t see you after training.”

“I wasn’t there,” you murmured.

“Rebel.” He walked past the bed, leaning to press a kiss to your temple in passing, and headed toward the closet. You didn’t react, still dragging your pencil slowly down the page. He paused halfway, glanced over your shoulder, and froze. You noticed too late. You turned your head just as he blinked down at the open sketchbook in your lap—his brows slightly raised. You tried to close it on instinct, but he caught the edge. “Don’t.”

“Bucky—”

“Let me see it.”

You didn’t move. But you didn’t stop him either. So he sat on the bed beside you, quiet, gaze flicking back down to the page. It was clearly a wedding dress. Not just any dress—a big, dramatic, princess-style gown with a fitted bodice, layered tulle, and maybe some sparkle in the fabric. Detailed and intentional. Not something you’d idly sketch. Not for work. Not for anyone else. Definitely for you.

He didn’t say anything for a while. Just looked at it, then looked at you. You kept your face blank. “It’s just a sketch.”

Bucky’s voice was soft. “Yeah?”

“Not everything means something.”

He turned a page back—more designs. Still gowns. Not all wedding, but clearly formal. A few looked vaguely like you. Your proportions. Your style. Another page back—silhouettes, fabric studies, notes in shorthand. Then he flipped forward again to the dress. He tapped the corner of the page. “You gonna make this one?”

You hesitated. “Maybe.”

He didn’t smile. Didn’t tease. Just leaned over, kissed your cheek—light and warm. “I hope you do.”

Then he stood, walked toward the bathroom. You sat there for a second, not breathing. Just before he closed the door, he looked back. “And for the record,” he added, “you’d look good in it.”

Then the door shut. And you stared down at the page, wondering when exactly he’d learned how to say things like that and still leave you speechless.

---

It started with Sam yelling, “mandatory vitamin D, let’s go, y’all!” at 9:37 AM.

By 10:00, almost the entire team was outside by the pool—Tony blasting music, Wanda with her book under an umbrella, Clint already halfway through a bag of chips, and Peter in board shorts doing flips off the diving board.

You walked out late in a black one-piece. Low scoop back. Clean lines. No frills. Bucky, halfway through a conversation with Steve, turned his head—and immediately forgot what he was saying. His mouth actually parted a little. You ignored the stares and dropped your towel onto a chair, slipping your sunglasses on like you hadn’t just knocked him into next week.

Clint leaned over to Sam. “Oh, he’s done for.”

“Five bucks says he forgets how to talk,” Sam muttered.

Bucky blinked hard. “I’m fine.”

Steve raised a brow. “You didn’t say anything.”

“I—shut up.”

You slid into the pool with zero ceremony, pushing back into a slow backstroke. Peter waved as you passed him. “Hi! You look nice—please don’t drown me!”

You arched a brow. “Stay out of my lane, Parker.”

“Yes ma’am,” he squeaked, doggy-paddling away.

Bucky was still standing poolside, towel in hand, staring. Natasha walked by, sunglasses on. “Subtle.”

He didn’t look at her. “Do I look like I care?”

“No. That’s the problem.”

You floated to the edge and rested your arms on the rim. “You gonna get in or stand there gawking all day?”

His mouth twitched. “You’re talkative today.”

You shrugged. “Vitamin D.”

He stepped forward, crouched beside you. “You didn’t tell me you had that suit.”

“You didn’t ask.”

Sam, already in the pool, swam by and muttered, “God, just kiss already or go back inside. You’re fogging the air with tension.”

Peter, again too close, mumbled, “I thought they were already kissing. Like… often.”

Tony yelled from across the patio. “Everyone thought that, spiderling.”

Bucky reached out, brushed a thumb against your cheek like he didn’t care the whole team was watching. “You gonna let me in?”

You tilted your head. “Water’s cold.”

“Good,” he said, and cannonballed.

You shrieked—more from the splash than the temperature—and tried to dodge the wave that hit you in the face. Bucky surfaced, slicking his hair back, laughing openly. “You’re dead,” you said flatly.

“Prove it.”

You lunged at him. He caught you mid-charge, arm around your waist, both of you going under. Peter panicked. “Oh no—do I save her or just pretend this is fine?”

Wanda didn’t even look up from her book. “She’ll kill him before she drowns.”

Back above water, you were pressed to Bucky’s chest, blinking water from your lashes. “You’re impossible,” you muttered.

He was grinning. “You love me.”

You paused. “Don’t get cocky.”

“Too late.” He dipped forward and kissed you, slow and easy, like you weren’t both soaked and surrounded by half the Avengers.

Someone groaned, it might’ve been Sam. Tony raised his mimosa. “Gross. But finally.”

You pulled back. “I’m going to drown you next time.”

Bucky smiled against your jaw. “You’d miss me.”

“…Unfortunately.”

Peter swam by, gave a thumbs-up. “Parental affection. Very healthy. I’m proud of you both.”

Clint choked on his soda. Bucky rolled his eyes. “Go do a flip, kid.” Peter did, and you sank lower into the water to hide the smirk tugging at your mouth.

“Still smug?” you asked Bucky.

“Always.”

---

The mission had been chaos from the start—intel scrambled, layout wrong, more hostiles than expected. Tony was swearing over comms. Steve was trying to regroup. Bucky had eyes on you from across the building. And then the explosion hit. A blast from below tore through the structure. You were moving before the floor even gave way—but not fast enough. "Y/N—!" Bucky’s voice snapped over comms.

The ledge crumbled and your foot slipped. The world tilted sideways. You didn’t scream. Just braced for impact. Then—

“Got you!” A sharp yank halted your fall mid-air, whiplash hard and jarring. You dangled for a second, upside down, tethered by webs looped around your torso.

Peter’s voice, tight and breathless: “Holy shi—okay—okay, you’re good—I got you—don’t die—”

You blinked up at him—he was crouched on the edge above, straining, both arms locked, webline creaking. “Stop talking,” you muttered, deadpan.

He laughed, nervous. “Right. Okay. Pulling you up now.”

Between the webs and sheer panic, he managed to swing you up just enough for Bucky to reach over and grab you by the wrist. He hauled you over the side, one hand fisting your jacket, the other braced on the slick ledge. “You good?” he asked lowly, scanning your face.

You exhaled once. “Fine.” He didn’t let go until you swatted at his hand. “Drama queen,” you added.

He smirked. “You fell through a roof.”

Peter landed next to you, panting. “That was way too close. You could’ve—like—died. That would've been really uncool.”

You eyed him for a long second. Then, without speaking, you reached over and patted his head—twice. His mouth opened in surprise behind his mask. “Was that—did you just—”

“Don’t ruin it,” you said.

Peter froze and nodded. “Not ruined. Perfect. Great. Still alive. Everything’s awesome.”

Bucky watched the exchange, hiding his smile behind a scowl. “You’re turning soft.”

You didn’t look at him. “No one asked you.”

Back on comms, Sam’s voice crackled. “Status?”

Bucky clicked in. “She fell.”

“She what?”

“She’s fine,” Bucky added. “Spider-kid caught her. Team’s moving.”

Tony cut in. “Jesus Christ, one of you better bring me a souvenir. You owe me emotional reparations.”

You stood, brushing ash from your sleeves. “There’s a guy in the stairwell with a Stark drive. I’m getting it.”

Peter nodded, still vibrating from adrenaline. “I’ll come with—backup.”

You gave him a look. “Stay behind me.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Bucky leaned against the wall as you passed. His hand brushed against your arm—quick, subtle. You didn’t stop, but your fingers brushed back—just once. Later, when the jet was in the air, you dropped into your usual seat, wet and exhausted. Peter sat down next to you and hesitated for a second before leaning gently against your shoulder. You didn’t move. Bucky glanced up from across the aisle and said nothing.

But you saw the way his hand tightened around the dog tag he still kept in his pocket. And you knew. After a while, the quinjet was quiet. Sam and Steve were reviewing mission data at the back. Wanda had dozed off against a spare medpack. Clint was nursing a bruised shoulder and mumbling something about hazard pay. Peter sat beside you, head still lightly leaned on your shoulder, dozing now—finally.

You hadn’t moved. Bucky had been watching from across the aisle for the last ten minutes. Eventually, he stood and walked over. Stopped in front of you and jerked his chin toward the back. “Walk with me?”

You glanced at Peter. “I’ll take over,” Steve said, already getting up to swap seats with Bucky.

Peter stirred. “Huh—what? No one’s dead?”

“Not yet,” you said before standing up.

You followed Bucky toward the rear of the jet, past the curtain that separated the cargo hold from the rest of the team. He didn’t speak until the curtain dropped behind you. Then he turned around and looked at you. “You okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“You weren’t fine when you were dangling off the side of a blown-out building.”

You raised a brow. “I landed.”

“You almost didn’t.”

You shrugged. “I would’ve figured it out.”

Bucky stepped closer. “You don’t have to play tough every second of the day.”

You didn’t answer that. Instead, you asked, “you mad I fell or mad you didn’t catch me?”

His eyes narrowed. “You’re impossible.”

You stepped into his space, soft but steady. “But alive.”

His jaw flexed. He leaned forward, brushing a knuckle along your cheekbone, just under a scratch you’d earned earlier. “You’re still bleeding.”

“You’re still dramatic.”

He snorted. “You keep making jokes and I’m gonna carry you off this jet like a sack of flour just to prove a point.”

“Do it,” you said. “See what happens.”

His eyes sparkled. “You’re bluffing.”

You leaned in just enough to brush your nose against his. “You sure?”

The tension hung there—warm, familiar. Your fingers brushed against his waist, just under his jacket. From the front of the jet, Tony’s voice rang out. “Whatever you two are doing back there, keep it PG. There are children present.”

Peter piped up, half-awake. “I’m not a kid, I’ve seen so much.”

“Emotionally? You’re nine,” Sam muttered.

You pulled back slightly. “I told you they'd be listening.”

Bucky looked like he was about to say something else—but then paused. Eyes dropping. Thinking. “…Thank you,” he said softly.

You tilted your head. “For what?”

“For not brushing me off when I ask you if you’re okay. For letting me care.”

You looked at him for a long second. Then stepped forward again, arms slipping under his jacket. Your hands settled at the base of his spine. You didn’t say anything. Eventually, Bucky just whispered, “let me hold you for a second?”

You nodded once, almost imperceptibly. And he did. No jokes. No teasing. Just silence, and his arms wrapped around you, steady and warm, swaying slightly with the hum of the quinjet cutting through clouds.

---

"Don’t look at me like that," Bucky said, reaching into the paper tray and holding out a stick of fried dough. "You’re acting like you’ve never had a zeppole."

You squinted at the powdered mess. "It looks like it died in a flour explosion."

"It’s sugar. Stop being dramatic." You didn’t move. Bucky sighed, stepped closer, and held it out like bait. "Just try one. One. For science."

You took it with a blank expression and bit down, then blinked once. "...It’s good."

He grinned. "You’re welcome." The boardwalk behind you was buzzing—families, teenagers, couples holding greasy paper bags and soda cups. Somewhere to your left, a band was playing out of tune. A little kid screamed from the cyclone coaster as it rattled down the track. And for once—you didn’t hate it. "You ever come here before?" Bucky asked, walking beside you now, shoulder brushing yours.

You glanced around. "No. Looked loud."

"It is," he admitted. "But worth it sometimes."

You let out a soft hum, finishing the zeppole. He handed you a napkin without a word. "Do we have to ride anything?" you asked warily.

Bucky smirked. "Nah. Not unless you want to beat me at ring toss."

You stopped walking and turned towards him. "You think I can’t beat you?"

"I think you won’t," he said, eyes glinting. "You’ll overthink the trajectory. Get in your own head. Classic."

You were already moving. Ten minutes later, you won him a horribly stuffed raccoon with devil horns and an embroidered "I BITE" across its chest. You handed it to him without comment.

He stared at it, then at you. "It’s perfect."

"Matches your vibe."

"You love my vibe." You didn’t answer—but he caught the corner of your mouth twitching as you turned away. You ended up at a small spot tucked behind one of the food trucks, just out of the wind, with a view of the water. Bucky leaned back against the railing. "This is the part where I say something cheesy and try to kiss you."

You took the last sip of your lemonade. "Go ahead."

He blinked. "Really?"

You raised a brow. "You brought me to a crowded, loud place. Gave me fried dough. Let me humiliate you in front of teenagers. I’m impressed. You earned one."

He laughed, stepping forward. "God, you’re such a romantic."

"Shut up and kiss me, Barnes."

So he did—soft and slow. Hands cupping your face like you might vanish if he blinked. After a while, he rested his forehead against yours, smiling. "You wanna stop by the bridge spot before we head back?"

You nodded once. "Yeah. Let’s go." He took your hand without asking and you let him.

The sky was bruising into twilight by the time you reached it—quiet, tucked just far enough from the foot traffic to feel like yours. Bucky’s hoodie was slung over your shoulders. He didn’t ask if you were cold. He just handed it over when the wind picked up, and you didn’t give it back.

The city glowed across the water, lights rippling along the surface like static. You stood at the railing with him beside you, shoulder to shoulder, the sound of the river below and the occasional distant car. It wasn’t loud. And for once, it wasn’t quiet in the bad way either. Just calm.

Bucky leaned against the railing, arms folded. "You ever think about what it’d be like if we weren’t in this life?"

You didn’t answer right away. Just looked out at the skyline. "Sometimes," you said finally. "Doesn’t feel real, though."

He nodded. "Yeah."

Another beat of silence passed. "You’d still be an overprotective menace," you muttered. "Even in civilian clothes."

"And you’d still pretend not to like it."

You snorted. Then, without looking, you said, "this is a good spot."

"Yeah." He nudged your arm. "We can make it ours."

You glanced at him, eyes catching in the dim light. "You trying to make this sentimental?"

"Terrifying, right?" You exhaled, almost a laugh, and leaned into his side slightly. Just enough. He didn’t say anything—just reached down and linked your fingers together where they rested on the rail. A few minutes passed like that. Then, softly, like it wasn’t meant to be anything big, he said, "I love you, you know."

You turned your head. "I know." He smiled. You added, quieter, "I love you too."

And just like that—like always—he kissed you. Not urgent, not rushed. Just warm. Familiar. Like something steady. Like something that didn’t need to be explained. Backlit by the city and held in place by his hand in yours, you let the quiet sit. No mission. No chaos. Just the two of you. And the city. Still standing.

---

It had started as a dare. Tony brought back a ridiculous haul of "experimental" gelato flavors from some boutique in Manhattan, probably just to stir chaos. The freezer was now full of things like "lemon basil lavender," "toasted marshmallow balsamic," and "blueberry black pepper."

Everyone hated at least one flavor. Clint gagged after trying three. Sam had a meltdown about "savory desserts being crimes." Steve politely refused all of it. Natasha silently vanished with the normal vanilla.

You and Bucky were sitting on the kitchen counter now, watching the fallout. "You gonna try one?" he asked, cracking open a new pint and grabbing two spoons.

You raised a brow. "You’ve already had three."

"Yeah, but this one’s ‘caramelized peach with smoked salt and jalapeño ripple.’"

"...Why are those words together?"

He took a bite, paused thoughtfully, then held out the spoon. "It’s weird. Wanna try?"

You eyed the spoon like it was laced with poison. "You’re trying to kill me."

"Or I’m trying to share a life experience." You didn’t move. He smirked and leaned in. "What’s the matter? Think you’ll like it?"

"No," you said flatly.

"Then prove it." He held the spoon out again, closer. "One bite."

You kept your face blank. Then, deliberately, reached out and pushed his hand holding the spoon aside. Then you grabbed him by the front of his Henley and kissed him. Full, slow, mouth open. Tongue brushing against his just enough to make him freeze for a second. His hand dropped the spoon and it clattered onto the counter. You pulled back half an inch. “There. Sampled.”

Bucky blinked, clearly trying to reboot. “That… that wasn’t the ice cream.”

“Didn’t need it,” you said, deadpan. “You taste better.”

He stared at you. “That was foul. And hot. I don’t know what to do with that.”

You shrugged. “Then sit with it.”

Peter wandered in right then, holding his phone. “Hey, have any of you seen—oh my god.” He turned around immediately. “Nope. Didn’t see anything. I'm leaving. Have fun doing... culinary crimes.”

Bucky snorted, still a little dazed. “You think he actually saw?”

“Don’t care,” you muttered, reaching past him to steal a clean spoon and actually try the ice cream. You winced. “Okay. That’s awful.”

“Told you,” Bucky said, watching you like you’d just turned into his favorite TV show. “Wanna try the marshmallow one?”

You grabbed the pint, hopped off the counter, and walked toward the hallway. “Only if I get to eat it off your mouth.”

Behind you, you heard Clint shout from the rec room, “why is everyone so disgusting now?!”

Bucky followed right behind you, grinning. “It’s a phase. Let them suffer.”

---

It was almost midnight. You were both clean from post-training showers, skin warm, hair damp, tucked under the sheets with the lamp dimmed to the lowest setting. The only sound was the distant hum of the compound’s HVAC system and Bucky’s fingers slowly dragging idle lines down your back.

You were lying half on your stomach, cheek pressed to the pillow, and he was on his side facing you—hair pushed back, eyes half-lidded. “M’so full,” he mumbled.

“You had one plate of food.”

“One and a half,” he corrected. “You gave me your potatoes.”

“Because you were staring at them like they owed you money.”

Silence for a moment. “I miss Abba-Zabas.”

You blinked. “What?”

Bucky’s voice was muffled against the pillow. “Abba-Zabas. Peanut butter taffy things.”

You snorted. “Jesus. You really are a thousand.”

“Not a thousand.”

“Close.”

He huffed softly. “I used to split one with Steve. Like, dead split. Cut it with a knife ‘cause he’d get mad if I took the bigger half.” You turned your head toward him, brows raised. He was staring at the ceiling now. “There was this place on 47th, by the river. Little candy shop with a radio in the window. Every Friday after school, we’d sneak over. I’d buy the bar, he’d steal the comics section from the paper stand. Sit on the stoop, trade bites and read dumb cartoons.”

His voice went quieter. “No war yet. Just... school, and the radio, and candy.” You didn’t speak. Just watched him. His eyes didn’t move. “I forget those days sometimes. When it wasn’t fightin’. When we were just... kids.”

You shifted slightly, sliding your hand across the bed to thread your fingers through his. “I’m glad you remember it.”

His mouth quirked into the smallest smile. “You’d’ve made fun of me back then,” he muttered, eyes starting to close.

“Absolutely,” you said softly. “High socks and suspenders?”

“Bold of you to assume I wasn’t a fashion icon.”

You squeezed his hand. “I would’ve stolen your candy.”

He huffed again, but it faded into a breath. “You’d’ve gotten away with it, too.” His body was already starting to go slack beside you—breath deepening, hand still tangled with yours under the sheet. You kept your eyes open just a little longer, watching him as he fell asleep first.

---

Thunder cracked just outside the compound’s reinforced windows, and the lights flickered violently—once, twice, then gave up completely. “Backup system’s down,” Sam yelled from somewhere near the kitchen. “Stark, what the hell?”

“You think I’m God?” Tony shouted back. “Ask Thor!”

You were already in the common room with Bucky, a box of long matches in one hand and a candle in the other. He stood beside you holding a stack of emergency candles under one arm and an unopened deck of cards in the other. “Romantic,” he murmured, watching you light the wick.

You didn’t even glance at him. “You smell like matches and attitude.”

“And you love it.”

You hummed noncommittally and lit the second candle. “Grab that mug.” He did, and you dropped the candle inside it. One more for the table. A soft glow filled the space.

The others slowly migrated elsewhere—Wanda to check on Vision, Steve and Sam to the basement to investigate the power. Natasha mumbled something about grabbing wine and vanished. Which left you and Bucky in the candlelit room with a warm drink and a new deck of cards. "Go fish or poker?" he asked, already peeling the plastic off.

"Does it matter? You're gonna cheat."

He gasped, mock offended. "I have honor."

"You literally tried to fake a sprained wrist last time."

"I did sprain it."

"You switched your hand while I was answering a call."

He spread the cards dramatically. "Let’s play something easy."

You both ended up on the floor, legs stretched out under the coffee table, flickering candlelight bouncing off the windows. Twenty minutes in, you slapped your hand on the table. "That’s your third ace."

Bucky blinked. “You sure?”

You stared at him flatly. “You tucked it under your thigh. I can see the edge.”

He grinned, entirely unapologetic. “Well, damn. Must’ve gotten lost.”

You reached behind you, grabbed the nearest utensil from the tray Tony left earlier—a fork, of all things—and casually held it up. Bucky laughed. “What are you gonna do with that?”

“Stab your kneecap.”

“For cheating?”

“For being a smug idiot while cheating.”

He leaned back on his hands, smirking. “Is this your love language?”

You narrowed your eyes. “No. This is threat assessment.”

He held up both hands. “Alright, alright. You win. I surrender the ace.”

“Too late. You’re already on the list.”

“I’m already on your list,” he said, softer this time. “The good one.”

You looked at him for a second longer, then rolled your eyes and reset the cards. Another boom of thunder rattled the windows. Somewhere down the hall, Clint cursed and yelled something about stepping on a flashlight. You and Bucky stayed where you were, trading cards by candlelight. He kept stealing glances at you, and you kept pretending not to notice.