The Way He Comforts

Infected by the Chaos

Summary: Overtime, your questionable tendencies and unpredictable phrases have rubbed off onto your boyfriend. The team reacts by trying their best to un-corrupt the supersoldier. (Bucky Barnes x Avengers!reader)

Word Count: 1.2k+

A/N: Thank you to @ozwriterchick for the idea. Enjoy and Happy reading!

Main Masterlist | Earth’s Mightiest Headache Masterlist

There was a debriefing. The usual boring, long, and necessary meeting. Everyone sat around the conference table looking various degrees of irritated.

You were leaning back in your chair, chewing gum, spinning a pen between your fingers, and mentally ranking everyone’s haircuts from “tragic” to “god-tier.” (Sam had climbed two spots today.)

Steve was talking, bless him, but honestly, your brain had already turned into a screensaver.

“-and next time, we need tighter communication. Nat, cover the north entrance. Sam, recon from above. And you two,” He gestured at you and Bucky. “Try not to burn the entire building down next time.”

You opened your mouth, probably to say something deeply unhelpful and not at all relevant but then it happened.

Bucky got there first.

Deadpan, casual, and not even glancing up from his notepad, he muttered:

“I don’t control the fire. The fire controls me.”

The room went silent.

Sam slowly turned his head. “What.”

Nat blinked. “I’m sorry- Did Barnes just say that?”

Steve dropped his tablet. You were staring at him like he’d just told you he was pregnant with a spider-dog hybrid.

Bucky glanced up with a shrug. “What? It’s true.”

“No, no, no, back up.” You stood, pointing at him. “That’s my level of chaos. You don’t get to say things like that with a straight face. That’s my thing.”

“Pretty sure I’ve earned chaos privileges by now,” He said in an even tone, biting into an apple.

Nat coughed. “What else have you been saying lately?”

You whirled on Bucky. “You didn’t even flinch. You said it like a man who has absolutely Googled whether rats can legally vote.”

Bucky smirked. “I have due to our last date. They can’t yet.”

Sam slid down in his chair. “Oh god, there’s two of them now.”

Tony, who had joined the meeting late with a coffee and zero patience, looked between you and Bucky. “I always knew one of you was a bad influence. I just didn’t expect it to be her.”

“I resent that,” You said.

“I expected more from you, Barnes,” Tony replied.

Steve looked like he was having a mild stroke. “I spent a decade dragging him out of assassin mode and you…you-“ He pointed at you with all the drama of a soap opera actor. “You corrupted him.”

You crossed your arms. “Excuse me, I elevated him. You think he’d even know what a possum rave is without me?”

“Wait,” Bucky said, serious again. “That’s real?”

“Unfortunately,” Sam muttered.

Bucky turned to you. “Do you think we could-“

“No,” Steve and Sam said in unison.

Later that night, you and Bucky were sitting on the roof, feet dangling over the ledge, and watching the stars while splitting a packet of strawberry Pop-Tarts.

You nudged him with your shoulder. “You really said it, huh?”

He smirked. “It just came out.”

“And the fire controls you?”

He looked at you with something soft and proud in his eyes. “Maybe I’ve just been spending too much time with my favorite disaster.”

You grinned and leaned into his side. “Next step: getting you to name a pigeon.”

“Already done. His name’s Charles. He watched us fight three agents yesterday.”

You gasped. “You’re perfect.”

“I know,” Bucky said. “You trained me well.”

-

As time passed, Bucky was the problem now.

At first, the team found it endearing. The grumpy super soldier smiling at dumb jokes, randomly throwing out facts about duck mating rituals, or muttering “vibe check failed” after knocking someone out. In some strange way, it was charming. Odd, but charming.

But then he named a second pigeon. And that was the last straw.

“We need to intervene,” Natasha said, deadly serious with her arms folded as she stood at the head of the war room table.

“Why?” Bucky asked, mid-bite of a toaster strudel. “Charles Junior likes me.”

“Exactly,” Tony said, pointing dramatically. “The fact that you’re calling it Charles Junior is the problem.”

“I don’t see the issue,” You said from your seat next to Bucky, proudly wearing your ‘#1 Chaos Hero’ necklace again. “It’s genetic. Charles Prime had strong leader energy.”

Steve looked between you both like he was watching two people fall off a moral cliff in slow motion. “You used to be a soldier.”

“He is a soldier,” You said. “He just also knows five ways to make banana bread ”

Bucky nodded solemnly. “Just don’t over-mix the batter.”

Tony facepalmed. “Nope. This is a brain rot virus, and you’re patient zero.”

You smiled sweetly. “Thank you.”

“I wasn’t complimenting you.”

“Still taking it that way.”

Natasha, still painfully calm, pulled out a folder labeled “OPERATION: WINTER DETOX.”

“Oh no,” Bucky muttered.

“Yes,” She said. “We're deprogramming the chaos out of you. We're doing it for the safety of the building, and also the pigeons.”

-

During phase one, you were banned from interacting with Bucky for 48 hours. No comms. No breakfast together. No late-night feral cuddling where you told him shark facts until he passed out.

You broke the rule in 6 minutes.

Literally. You broke into the vent system and dropped into his room from the ceiling like some kind of gremlin god.

“Did you know octopuses have nine brains?”

Bucky looked up from his book, deadpan. “I do now.”

When Sam burst in to yell at you, he found Bucky trying to braid your hair while you explained the 36 reasons flamingos are both cursed and divine.

Sam left with his soul cracked in half.

Phase two didn’t end much better either. They tried re-soldiering him. Military documentaries. Physical training drills. A six-hour silent stare-off with Steve.

You showed up with a whiteboard that said “Today’s Mission: Turn Bucky Into a Lizard.”

Steve had to lock you out of the room and block your contact from Bucky’s phone for two hours.

By phase three, the team tried pairing Bucky with other Avengers. Nat. Rhodey. Bruce.

Each one ended up slightly more unhinged than when they started.

Bruce now exclusively drinks out of a cup shaped like a frog. Nat started saying “mood” unironically. Rhodey got a ferret and named it “Mini War Machine.”

“Do you see what you’ve done?” Steve begged one night as you and Bucky made soup in the communal kitchen while retelling an episode of River Monsters using only metaphors and curse words.

“I made the team fun,” You said, stabbing a ladle toward him.

Bucky beamed. “They laugh more now. And I haven’t threatened to murder anyone in two weeks.”

Tony nodded slowly. “He’s not wrong. Still terrifying, but now it’s… unpredictable terrifying.”

The breaking point came the next morning. Bucky walked into the briefing room wearing a shirt that said: “Emotionally Stable is a Strong Word”

You wore one that said: “I Know the Assignment. I Am Choosing to Ignore It.”

Steve stood then walked out muttering something about moving to Wakanda.

The team officially gave up trying to fix Bucky Barnes.

-

Later that night, Bucky was lying beside you, watching the stars again as the city hummed below.

“They really think I’m broken now,” He said.

You shrugged, twirling a glow stick between your fingers. “They just don’t know how to handle dual-wielding emotional repression and chaotic brilliance.”

He turned to you, smiling. “You really think it’s brilliance?”

You kissed his cheek. “Obviously. I don’t waste my time on mediocrity. Now help me build a pigeon obstacle course on the balcony.”

He nodded. “It’s what Charles Prime would’ve wanted.”

Escape Room Chaos

Summary: You take Steve and Bucky to an escape room for a fun, relaxing evening, but things quickly spiral into chaos. Both somehow ignore the obvious clues in favor of dramatic theories and property damage. You’re just trying to survive until you can successfully escape without a lawsuit. (Steve Rogers x reader x Bucky Barnes)

Word Count: 1.6k+

Main Masterlist

You really should’ve known better.

The moment Bucky rolled up his sleeves and said “This’ll be easy,” you felt the first ripple of doom. You’d booked the escape room as a fun, harmless activity. Something like a little post-mission team bonding that didn’t involve hand-to-hand combat or collapsing buildings. You even picked a cheesy detective theme, thinking they’d enjoy something grounded and puzzle-y. Maybe even quiet.

You were wrong.

The three of you stood in the lobby of “The Great Escape,” surrounded by plastic magnifying glasses, dusty fedoras, and a suspiciously chipper staff member in suspenders and a fake mustache. She gave you the usual speech: 60 minutes to escape, no real danger, don’t break the props, yada yada.

Steve nodded solemnly like he was being briefed before an intense mission. Bucky? He crossed his arms and smirked. You could already tell his competitive switch had flipped.

The room itself was dimly lit and lined with fake wood panels. A ticking clock glowed red above the door while there were clues scattered everywhere ranging from files, books, old telephones, and even a fake fireplace. As soon as the door clicked shut behind you, Steve took a deep breath like he was about to deliver a speech at a press conference.

“We should split up to cover more ground. Look for patterns, numbers, keys. And be sure to keep a level head.”

You blinked. “It’s not a hostage situation, Cap.”

But Steve was already kneeling to inspect a lockbox with the intensity of a man deciphering enemy codes. Meanwhile, Bucky was tapping along the walls with the knuckles of his metal hand.

“Could be a hidden panel,” He muttered.

“Could be drywall,” You replied, dragging your palm down your face.

Ten minutes in, you had two clues solved and one increasingly serious argument about whether the bookshelf was a red herring or not. Bucky was now trying to climb it.

“James Buchanan Barnes, get down before you collapse the whole set!” You hissed.

He looked down, half-smirking. “It’s not real, doll. Look.” He gave it a little shove, just enough for it to creak ominously. You glared.

Steve, across the room, had located a cipher wheel and was mumbling to himself. “It’s gotta be a Caesar shift. Or maybe Morse code…”

“Steve, it’s literally a riddle that says ‘Look in the desk drawer,’” You pointed out, pulling it open and revealing a key taped inside.

He looked genuinely offended. “They’re dumbing it down.”

You exhaled through your nose. “Yes, they’re dumbing it down for people who aren’t 100-year-old super soldiers who do escape rooms like they’re battle strategy.”

By minute twenty, you were regretting everything. Steve had taken charge like a squad commander and Bucky had declared himself the “wildcard” of the team, which essentially meant “loose cannon with a metal arm and no patience.”

You were the only one actually reading the instructions on the wall.

By minute thirty, you’d reached the room’s second stage which was a secret chamber revealed when Bucky yanked on a wall sconce you definitely weren’t supposed to touch.

You all froze when the wall creaked and groaned like a bad horror movie. Then, with the slow drama of a B-grade haunted house, the panel slid open.

Steve actually clapped, cheering.

“I knew there was a hidden passage!”

“No, you didn’t,” You said, stepping cautiously inside. “You were still trying to decode that cipher wheel that said, ‘The butler did it.’”

The new room was darker with a desk, some faux-blood splatter, and a very questionable plastic skeleton slumped over a chair. Its skull was tilted sideways with a bowler hat perched on top of its head. There was also a magnifying glass clutched in one bony hand, and a suspicious envelope glued to its chest with “CLUE #6” scrawled across it in marker.

Steve stared at it. “I think we’re meant to… talk to him?”

Bucky narrowed his eyes. “Interrogate the corpse.”

You opened your mouth to say something, then thought better of it. You just took out your phone and started recording. For science… and for future blackmail.

Steve crouched beside the skeleton, folding his hands like he was addressing a witness. “We’re here to help. If you can tell us who killed you, we’ll bring them to justice.”

You bit your lip so hard trying not to laugh, you swore you tasted blood.

Bucky leaned over the desk and yanked the envelope from the skeleton’s chest.

Steve’s jaw tightened. “You’re contaminating the scene.”

“It’s a twenty dollar prop, Steve. I don’t think it’s going to trial.”

Then Bucky poked the skeleton’s head, making it fall off and clatter dramatically to the floor.

Everyone stared at it. Steve looked personally offended.

You raised an eyebrow. “Did you just decapitate our only lead?”

“It… it was barely hanging on anyway,” Bucky muttered, setting the skull back with exaggerated care. “These things happen.”

Steve knelt beside the fallen plastic remains, eyes full of regret. “He served his purpose. We thank him for his sacrifice.”

You threw your hands in the air. “It’s a skeleton, not a fallen comrade!”

The intercom crackled. “Hey guys,” The perky staff member’s voice rang out, “Just a reminder: Please don’t disassemble the props. Sir with the metal arm? Yes, you. Please don’t interrogate the decor.”

Bucky gave a small chuckle. Steve immediately stood at attention. “Sorry, ma’am.”

You looked between your two supersoldier boyfriends and the half-decapitated skeleton, then turned toward the camera in the corner and gave it a deadpan stare. “I just wanted a nice evening. That’s all. Just puzzles and maybe a little fun but no. Instead I get a dramatized cold case and two very intense golden retrievers with trauma.”

“Hey,” Bucky said with a shrug. “You’re the one who invited us.”

You squinted at him. “…You know what? That one’s on me.”

By minute forty-five, you were starting to suspect the real puzzle wasn’t the escape room. It was figuring out how you were going to survive this without needing a drink afterward. Bucky had taken it upon himself to test “structural weaknesses” in the fake brick walls. His version of “testing” was punching one lightly. With his metal arm.

The wall cracked and the room went silent.

From the intercom: “Please do not damage the set. Also, we are not responsible for injuries caused by over enthusiastic participation. Thank you!”

You turned on him like a storm. “What happened to ‘this’ll be easy’?”

“It is easy. The wall just looked suspicious,” Bucky replied, wiping fake cobwebs from his sleeve like a man with no regrets.

“It’s foam!” You yelled. “It’s suspicious because it’s clearly styrofoam!”

Steve, meanwhile, had discovered a locked chest with an old rotary phone on top. He was pacing in front of it like he was expecting it to ring with instructions from headquarters.

“I think it’s a code,” He murmured. “We dial something, and it opens. Maybe if we spell out a word using the numbers-”

“Steve,” You interrupted, pinching the bridge of your nose, “The clue literally says: ‘Dial 911 to unlock the final key.’ That’s not a code. That’s just instructions.”

Steve blinked. “Oh.”

He dialed 911 on the dusty phone. The chest popped open with a ding and a dramatic puff of dry ice that startled all three of you.

Inside was a black keycard and a note that said “Final door: 5 minutes remain.”

Bucky snatched the keycard. “Let’s finish this thing. I’ve got a hot date with a milkshake and a nap.”

Steve furrowed his brow. “We should think this carefully and plan. There could be traps in the last room.”

You looked between them and snorted. “What, like the staff’s gonna throw in a booby trap just to spice it up?”

“…They could,” Steve muttered. “It’d be unexpected, that’s good design.”

You made a mental note to ban both of them from anything resembling a mystery game for the rest of your natural life.

Then came The Moment.

You all stepped into the final room that was all dark with eerie music playing from a hidden speaker, and a blinking red countdown above the last door. Dramatic fog rolled out across the floor.

There was a button on the wall.

Just a red, glowing button with a sign above it that said:

“EMERGENCY ESCAPE – DO NOT PRESS UNLESS YOU GIVE UP.”

You hadn’t even opened your mouth to say “don’t” before Bucky pressed it. The room lights blared on and the music stopped. The countdown froze at 00:03 as you all stood in stunned silence.

The intercom crackled again.

“…So, you technically escaped, but also forfeited. That’s… a first.”

Bucky blinked. “What? It said emergency. I figured it’d blow something up. Or, like… open a trapdoor. Something dramatic.”

Steve looked personally betrayed. “We were three seconds away from winning with full completion.”

“You were still looking for tripwires,” You snapped. “I was reading the last clue. He just wanted to blow something up!”

Bucky looked sheepish. “You can’t give me a glowing red button and not expect me to press it. That’s on them.”

You stared at the ceiling like it might offer you divine intervention. “I invited two enhanced soldiers into a puzzle-themed children’s attraction. This is my fault. I accept that.”

As the final door clicked open and the staff came in to escort you out, one of them gave you a pitying smile.

“Hey,” She said brightly, “At least no one tried to climb into the air vents this time!”

You blinked. “Wait. That’s an option?”

Steve immediately looked intrigued.

You grabbed both their arms. “Nope. Out now. I’m buying you both ice cream so you don’t break anything else.”

Unexpected Outlook

Summary: The Avengers launch a mission to raid a known base of the organization you now work with and discuss over what they found.

Word Count: 1.7k+

A/N: A little shorter since it’s Father’s Day, but I also wanted to add more weight to the previous chapter and progress the story.

Main Masterlist | The One You Don’t See Masterlist

Preparations moved fast. Too fast, maybe.

Steve didn’t like that they were running with incomplete information, but the longer they waited, the deeper this organization could dig itself into global systems. And the more time you had to assist them, whether willingly or not.

Still, it didn’t sit right. None of it did.

Bruce pulled the files. Natasha studied known locations. Sam monitored chatter. Bucky cleaned his weapons with a look in his eyes like he wanted answers he didn’t have the right to ask.

Yet no one brought up your name again. At least, not directly. But it hovered beneath everything.

The way Bucky checked each plan twice. The way Natasha’s jaw twitched when she reviewed footage. Even the way Steve hesitated before calling it an official mission.

The woman Bucky liked didn’t voice objections anymore. She simply kept a kind, quiet distance, like someone watching friends argue over a lost cause.

And within a week, the op was set.

Steve gave the greenlight with his jaw tight and eyes harder than usual. The mission was clear: infiltrate a suspected communications hub. A nondescript, rural compound masked as a grain storage facility. Satellite data showed encrypted signals routing through it over the last month, signals that matched ones the Avengers used internally.

Which meant either someone was watching. Or someone had been taught how.

They went in with a small team. Just Steve, Sam, Natasha, and Bucky. No need for Hulk or Thor; this wasn’t a battering ram job. It was a retrieval and disrupt operation. Quiet and clean.

Or so they thought.

The quinjet landed half a mile out, under cover of dense fog rolling over the hills. The forest beyond the compound was eerily still like it had been holding its breath since before dawn.

“They want us to find this,” Natasha muttered, brushing a branch aside as they crept through the trees.

Steve didn’t argue. His shield was strapped to his arm, but he hadn’t raised it once.

They reached the clearing. The compound was just as expected. Gray concrete, flat roof, minimal security fencing, and a gravel path leading to two entrances. No guards. No movement. Even the air felt… hollow.

Sam scanned the building with a handheld sensor. “No heat signatures. Not even a rat.”

“Too clean,” Bucky said, voice low.

They breached the back door.

Inside, it was dark but not ruined. Every surface was wiped. Consoles powered down. Not destroyed, removed. Carefully like a move-out rather than an attack. Upon investigating further, files had been cleared, drawers emptied, and chairs pushed in with bland desks.

Whoever had been here knew exactly when to leave.

Steve turned in a slow circle, taking it in.

“This was active,” He said. “Days ago.”

“Hours, maybe,” Natasha said, crouching beside a desk. She tapped the edge, there was a faint spot where something electronic had been sitting. Someone had worked here… and then vanished.

Sam stepped into the central control room. There was only one thing left behind: a monitor left switched on, flickering a soft blue light in the dimness.

A single message scrolled across the screen.

Too late, Captain.

That was it. There wasn’t any long monologues. No other mocking comments. Not even a signature or sign-off present. Just a cold fact. Steve stared at it like he could will it to change. Bucky stood a step behind him, arms folded, expression unreadable.

“I don’t like this,” Sam muttered.

Natasha approached a wall panel and pried it open effortlessly. Inside, wires had been sliced. Intentionally. However, there were no explosives. No traps could be seen anywhere either. It was all just… closure.

“They stripped this place surgically,” She said. “No fingerprints, no traces. It’s like they wanted us to know they were here… but not who they are.”

Steve closed the monitor with a clenched jaw. “This wasn’t a base. It was a decoy.”

“No,” Bucky said suddenly. His voice was soft but steady. “It was a base. It just outlived its usefulness.”

They all turned toward him. He looked at the empty room, the missing equipment, and the quiet hallways. Then, to the message. And for a moment, something shifted in his eyes. Guilt, maybe or something deeper.

“They planned for this,” He murmured. “Someone told them exactly how we’d come.”

No one responded, but no one needed to. Because they were all thinking it.

-

The debrief room was thick with a heavy silence, the kind that pressed down harder than shouting. Ghost-blue blueprints and photos of the abandoned compound still flickered on the monitors, reminders of how quickly their plan had unraveled. Notes about the missing equipment and the chilling message on the screen scrolled slowly, marking everything they should have anticipated.

Steve hadn’t sat once since they returned. He stood rigid at the head of the table, hands braced on his hips, and a deep furrow like it was etched there permanently. Sam had stopped pacing but his leg bounced nervously, jaw clenched tight. Natasha’s fingers tapped against her thigh in a rhythm so steady it barely seemed voluntary.

Only Bucky remained perfectly still, arms crossed, and eyes locked on the screen across the room. He said very little since they’d left the empty compound since that message haunted him.

Too late, Captain.

The words weren’t just text; they carried a weight, a deliberate coldness that dug into Bucky’s mind. Whoever had left it knew him. Not just the soldier, but his moves, his instincts. And worse, their enemy had used the knowledge you once held to outmaneuver them.

The memory played on loop in his mind. Not just the words but the feel of them. The calculation in them. Whoever was behind that terminal… knew him. Not just facts. His patterns.

And maybe worse than that, they’d used your knowledge to do it. They probably used you to do it.

The door hissed open.

She stepped in with her usual soft elegance, cradling a fresh cup of tea between her hands like she had no idea anything had gone wrong. Dressed casual, warm, and comfortable. Like she belonged. Like she didn’t feel the same tension that pulled everyone else taut. The one you used to be jealous of had sat out for the mission after all.

“Oh,” She said lightly. “You’re all back already.”

Her tone wasn’t mocking. If anything, it was gently surprised, as if she’d simply walked into a meeting that ended early. Steve didn’t answer right away. Neither did the others.

She blinked, smile sweet and expectant, like someone unaware they were intruding. “Was it a short mission?”

“We were too late,” Steve said flatly, straightening.

Her brows lifted, and she crossed to the table, setting the tea down. “Really? That’s unfortunate. I thought it was just one of those cleanup things. You all make those look so easy.”

Sam looked over, jaw tight. “They cleaned up, alright. Took every last trace of themselves. Left us a polite message, too.”

“They knew how we’d approach,” Natasha added with her arms crossed now. “Like they knew our pattern. Our flow. They stripped the place within hours of our arrival window.”

“Hmm.” She tapped a fingernail against the ceramic. “That’s strange. Maybe they had inside intel?”

“No,” Steve spoke, narrowing his eyes. “Not unless someone studied us long before they left.”

“Oh.” She blinked, tilting her head. “So… do you think your old administrator friend told them?”

Bucky stiffened.

Natasha’s voice was sharper now, eyes narrowing. “She’s not our anything.”

That seemed to amuse her. She let out a light laugh, the kind meant to dissolve tension, not that anyone was asking for it. “Well, you’re not wrong,” She smiled. “ She didn’t really fit in here anyways, did she?”

Bruce, who had been mostly quiet, looked up sharply. “She worked here for over two years.”

She didn’t seem phased. There was no malice on her face actually. Just soft confidence.

“I guess I didn’t think she’d be important,” She sighed simply. “Kind of kept to herself. I always assumed she’d move on.”

Sam stood, voice tight. “She did. Straight into the hands of the people trying to tear us apart.”

Her smile faltered just a touch. “I didn’t mean—look, I’m sure she was… sweet. I just don’t see how it helps to chase after someone who clearly didn’t want to be here. Don’t you think she made her choice?”

Steve’s eyes narrowed. “We don’t know that yet.”

“I mean, sure,” She said gently, “But if she’s really that dangerous, wouldn’t you have noticed before she left? You didn’t even realize she was gone until weeks later, right?”

Bucky shifted slightly. The burn in his chest deepened. Not from her words exactly, but from how true they rang.

They hadn’t noticed. They hadn’t looked.

The woman moved closer to Bucky, noticing his subtle distress as she rested her hand lightly on Bucky’s shoulder.

“I just worry about you,” She confessed softly, smiling up at him. “You’re all stretched so thin already. I’d hate to see you waste energy chasing ghosts.”

Her hand lingered. But Bucky’s jaw clenched, and for once, he didn’t lean into her touch.

“She’s not a ghost,” He muttered. “She’s a mirror. Of everything we missed.”

Her expression flickered for barely a moment. Then the sweet smile returned.

“Well, if you have to go after her,” She brushed her hand away, her expression turning more solemn. A hint of pity evident, “I hope you’re prepared for what you find. Sometimes people change… and not always in ways you can fix. I don’t want you to be hurt.”

She reached for her tea again, her fingers wrapping around the cup like it was an anchor.

“And if you do decide to keep going after her, well.” She gave a gentle little laugh, looking around with open, innocent eyes. “I hope it goes well. I really mean that. And if you need my help at all… just let me know. I’m always happy to support the team.”

The door hissed softly behind her as she walked out, quiet heels tapping against the floor in steady, graceful rhythm.

The rest of the team stood in silence for a few long seconds, each lost in their own storm of thoughts.

Steve broke it first.

“We move forward. We stop that organization before it spreads deeper.”

“And if she’s helping them willingly?” Sam asked, his voice low.

Steve hesitated.

So, Bucky answered instead.

“Then we stop her, too.”

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I’ll Still Love You

Summary: After a mission gone wrong, you lose all memory of your relationship with Bucky. Even though it pains him to the core with grief, he stays by your side and quietly swears he’ll always love you no matter what happens. (Bucky Barnes x reader)

Word Count: 2.8k+

A/N: This has ANGST!!! I hope you cry /j. I love this version more than the other to be honest, maybe you all will like it too! You are responsible for the media you consume. Happy reading!

Main Masterlist | Your Version

There were things Bucky didn’t think he’d ever have again.

Peace. Sleep. A future. And you.

You came into his life like silence after gunfire. Still and steady, almost unnoticeable at first. You didn’t push or prod. You didn’t flinch at the name Winter Soldier or look at his arm like it was a loaded weapon. You just existed in that calm, present, and kind way.

Many times you would ask how his day was, not his past. You told him what you dreamt about instead of asking what woke him screaming. You made him feel like a person, not a project nor a burden. And that was enough to terrify him.

But he kept coming back.

The first time he held your hand, it was hesitant. He was half-expecting you to pull away, but you didn’t. The first time he kissed you, it was desperate. Like he was drowning in memories and you were the only air left. And you kissed him back like you already knew how many pieces he was in, and didn’t mind picking them up one at a time.

He didn’t say I love you for a long time, not until it slipped out during a fight that he couldn’t remember why it happened to begin with. The words had always felt too big, too fragile. But he knew it the night you fell asleep on his chest, your breathing slow and your fingers resting over the surface of his metal arm. Like you cherished even the parts of him that brought so much destruction. He watched you sleep for hours, just holding you, trying to remember what it felt like to want to stay alive.

Sixteen months with you, and he still couldn’t believe it was real.

The little apartment above the bookstore wasn’t much, but it was yours. The heater barely worked. The neighbors were loud. But there were books in every corner, and a photo of you both pinned to the fridge with a magnet shaped like a cat. You called it “home.” And for once in his life, Bucky did too.

Every morning, he woke up with you tangled in the blankets beside him. Your head tucked beneath his chin, one arm slung over his waist. You always woke up first, but you never moved until he stirred. You said you liked to watch him even though he never knew why.

He always figured you saw something in him he couldn’t. And maybe that was what scared him most. That somehow, one day, you'd wake up and see him for what he really was. Not a man. Not a boyfriend. Just a weapon with blood on his hands.

But that day hadn’t come. Not yet.

-

When the mission briefing came through, it was supposed to be simple and low risk. An abandoned Hydra lab flagged for cleanup. Just intel recovery and demolition. No fights, no enemies. He didn’t want you going in. Something about the location sat wrong in his chest. But you insisted. Said you’d handled worse.

And maybe that was the problem. You always handled everything for him. For others. Even when you shouldn’t have had to.

He watched as you went down another hall to split up and cover more ground. He wished he had never left your side. Because then came the moment of static on the comms, then the flicker of power loss, and lastly the sudden radio silence.

He ran. It took six minutes to find you.

You were in a containment room, collapsed near a machine that looked like something between a scanner and a torture device. Your body was curled on the ground, breathing shallow, hands twitching.

He dropped to his knees beside you. “Hey. Hey… C’mon, Doll, open your eyes.”

You blinked and looked up at him. You stared at him like he was a stranger. When you spoke up, your voice was hoarse. “Who are you?”

The question didn’t register at first. He thought maybe it was the shock. Or a concussion. Maybe you were disoriented. But then you pushed yourself away from him and crawled back, visibly panicked. Your eyes were wide and your throat was working hard to swallow a scream.

“Please… don’t touch me.”

And just like that, the air left his lungs. He tried to stay calm. He tried saying your name, gently. Over and over. You flinched every time like it was a threat. Like he was. It was the look in your eyes that gutted him the most. Not fear of what had happened. Not confusion. But the absence of everything.

Everything you’d shared. The way you looked at him every morning. The jokes you made in the kitchen. The way you once whispered you’d never been safer than in his arms. It was all gone.

You didn’t know who he was. You didn’t know you loved him. And in that moment, he’d never felt more like the ghost they said he was.

-

You didn’t come home right away.

When he managed to coax you back to the tower, the Medics cleared you, of course. Physically, you were fine. Not a scratch on you. But the memory loss was real. The device had done something. Wiped neural pathways, scrambled connections, stripped entire years like peeling wallpaper.

You remembered your name. Your training. How to handle a weapon. How to take apart a gun and stitch a wound. But not him. Not the man who held you every night like you were the only thing tethering him to this century. Not Bucky.

At first, you stayed in a S.H.I.E.L.D. facility while they ran scans and tests. Bucky barely left your side. He hovered in corners, not too close, watching you try to relearn yourself in pieces. You were calm, quiet, and even polite.

You just didn’t know him.

He heard it in your voice every time you said his name: Barnes, not Bucky. Cold and distant like a fellow agent rather than the man who once made you laugh so hard you cried over a burnt grilled cheese sandwich in the middle of a power outage.

“I don’t want to make you uncomfortable,” You told him once, hands folded in your lap, and voice so gentle it cut him clean. “But… I don’t feel anything when I look at you. I’m sorry.”

He nodded and didn’t say anything more. What could he say?

He didn’t cry in front of you. But later, in the hallway, he braced his metal hand against the wall and exhaled like it hurt just to breathe. They had given you the option not to work for S.H.I.E.L.D anymore, to never see him again. To transfer and reset your life wherever you wanted.

But you didn’t. You looked at him and said, “Maybe… if I spend time with you, it might come back.”

So you came home.

You sat in the apartment like it was a museum. You traced the spines of your own books with unfamiliar fingertips. You opened drawers and stared at the little things like the shared grocery lists, photos of the two of you at Coney Island, a half-finished mug you’d made in a pottery class Bucky had hated but gone to anyway, just because you asked.

None of it sparked anything. But you wanted to remember and that mattered.

He made dinner the first night. Pasta, simple. You smiled faintly and said it tasted good. But you had always used to make fun of him for using too much garlic. He waited for you to say it, but you didn’t.

Later, you sat on opposite sides of the couch while a movie played in the background. You asked questions about yourself: what kind of music you liked, what books you used to read, or if you ever learned to play the old keyboard tucked beside the bookshelf.

Bucky answered every one like he was handling glass.

“You hated horror movies,” He said softly. “Used to bury your face in my shoulder even during the trailers. But you’d watch them anyway, just to laugh at me jumping.”

You tilted your head. “You get scared at horror movies?”

He cracked a faint smile. “Terrified.”

You laughed, really laughed, and for a second, just one fragile moment, it felt like you. He clung to that.

He didn’t touch you. Didn’t kiss you. Didn’t call you doll or lean against you the way he used to. You weren’t his anymore. Not yet. Maybe not ever again. But every time you laughed or asked about a memory, he let himself hope.

Hope that somewhere, buried deep inside your mind, you were still his.

When he wasn’t spending time around you, he could tell how the rest of the team practically tiptoes around him now.

Some aren’t subtle. Natasha gives him long looks across briefing tables, equal parts pity and protectiveness. She doesn’t speak unless spoken to and whenever she does, her voice is softer than usual. Controlled.

Sam tries, bless him. He cracks a joke or two, light and quick, as if humor could stitch something this deep. He claps Bucky on the shoulder once in the gym and says, “You’re still in there. She’ll find you.” But he doesn’t say anything back, simply giving a tight nod before walking off.

Tony doesn’t gloat much anymore. He doesn’t joke either. He just sends a file to Bucky’s secure inbox about neural-recovery tech, theories, names of people who’ve studied memory wipe reversal. No subject line. No message. But Bucky understands it for what it is: support in Stark language.

Even Clint says it plain. “You’re not giving up.” And Bucky says it back. “I’m not.”

But none of them really know how to be there for him.

Because they saw the way you used to look at him, like he wasn’t a weapon or a man with blood on his hands, but simply yours. And now… you don’t even flinch when you stand near him, because you don’t remember what there is to be afraid of or to love.

So they give him space. But not Steve.

It’s late when Steve knocks. He doesn’t bother answering, but Steve comes in anyway. He finds Bucky in the kitchen, t-shirt and sweatpants, staring at a chipped mug on the counter like it just insulted him.

Steve doesn’t say anything at first, just leans back against the counter, crossing his arms and waiting.

Bucky exhales, but doesn’t look up. “She used to use that one,” He murmurs. “Every morning. Even when the handle cracked.”

His best friend glances at the mug to see the tiny sunflowers on it, slightly faded from too many washes. He remembers seeing it in the sink a hundred times. He remembers seeing you curled against Bucky on the couch, sipping from it with both hands while Bucky tucked a blanket around you like you were something breakable.

“I don’t know how to do this,” Bucky says. His voice is low, shaky even now. “She’s here. She’s here, Stevie. But it’s like watching her ghost walk around our apartment.”

Steve swallows as his chest aches, but he doesn’t show it.

“She’s not gone, Buck.”

“She doesn’t remember me.”

“But she’s trying.”

That lands hard. Bucky finally looks up, eyes bloodshot but dry.

Steve pushes off the counter and takes a slow step forward. “You’re angry. You’re grieving her, even though she’s right in front of you. That’s hell. But Bucky…” He sighs. “You know what it’s like to lose everything and still survive. You’ve done it before.”

Bucky’s jaw clenches. “It’s not the same.”

“No. It’s not. Because this time, she’s trying to come back to you. You just have to be patient.”

Bucky looks down at the mug again. He breathes slowly, his tone more vulnerable now. “What if she never remembers? What if she falls in love with someone else, and I’m just some… ghost in a photo?”

Steve’s expression cracks for a moment but his voice remains gentle. “Then you’ll still love her. You’ll still be there, however she needs. Because that’s what you do when someone’s your home.”

Silence fills the air before Bucky finally nods. It’s a slow, pained motion done only once.

Steve steps closer to his friend and grips his shoulder, firm and steady. “You’re not alone in this. You never were.”

And with that, Bucky stays. He stays by your side at a comfortable distance, offering a steady presence and patient answers to any questions you have.

Even though it hurts him to see you this way, makes him sick to his stomach with grief and anguish at the loss of your love; Bucky never let it show around you, not even once.

Because if there was one thing he remembered and understood better than anyone, it was what it meant to lose pieces of yourself. He couldn’t be angry with you for forgetting, not when he’d spent decades trying to remember who he used to be.

So he doesn’t beg. Doesn’t plead. He doesn’t guilt you into trying harder either. He just stays.

Sometimes, you asked him questions.

“Did I… love you?”

He never lied. Never told you stories to manipulate your heart into remembering. He just answered, gently and honestly.

“Yeah,” He’d say. “You did. And I loved you too.”

And when you looked down or away or offered a polite smile instead of a knowing one, he’d excuse himself for a few minutes to the hallway where he could breathe through the ache in his chest. But Bucky wasn’t a man who gave up. Not on you. Not now.

Because the truth was, he’d wait as long as it took. Even if you never remembered. Even if he had to fall in love with you all over again from scratch and let you fall for him at your own pace, in your own way.

-

On some days, something sparked enough to give him hope.

One morning, it started small. Not with a kiss. Not with some dramatic tearful moment or sudden flood of recognition. Just… a hum.

You’re making tea, quiet and slow, the way you always did. The kettle hisses and clicks, and you’re standing in Bucky’s- your kitchen, waiting.

And you hum. A stupid little melody. Out of tune and familiar.

Bucky freezes in the doorway, his breath caught like a hook in his throat.

Because you always used to hum that song. A dumb old jazz piece he played on vinyl one night just to tease you, and you rolled your eyes and said it sounded like elevator music. Then you got it stuck in your head for weeks to the point where he’d find you humming it while brushing your teeth or waiting for the microwave. Once he heard it while you were patching up a bullet graze.

And now you’re doing it again, without realizing. He doesn’t say anything. He’s afraid if he moves too fast, the moment will vanish like mist.

You pour the tea then turn enough to notice him, tilting your head slightly in concern. “You okay?”

He swallows. “Yeah. Just… you always used to hum that.”

You blink. “Did I?”

He nods and you don’t say anything else. But you look thoughtful. Like maybe, for a flicker of a second, something stirred inside.

Later, it happens again.

You’re sitting on the couch. He’s a few feet away. Respectful as always. You yawn, curl your legs up under you, and reach for the blanket on the back of the couch. Without thinking, you toss one corner toward him.

He stares. Because you always used to share it like that. The dumb little blanket-sharing ritual, a habit you never talked about. Just muscle memory. A routine born of hundreds of nights side-by-side.

And now… now your body remembers what your mind doesn’t.

You notice the way he’s looking at the blanket. “Is this something I used to do?”

He nods again, slower this time. “Yeah.”

“…Do you want it?”

“No,” He says quickly, quietly. “I’m good.”

You study him a moment longer, then gently drape it across both your laps anyway. You don’t say anything. Neither does he. But he doesn’t move for a long time.

That night, when you go to bed, Bucky stays on the couch like he always does now. It’s separate and distant, yet safe. But his heart is full of knives. Because every second you’re here, every time you smile or laugh or hum that dumb melody, he remembers how it used to feel. The ease and the intimacy. The way you’d tuck your face into his chest and call him “Buck” in that soft, sleepy voice like you’d never say it for anyone else.

And he wonders if he’ll ever have that again. But even if he doesn’t, even if you never remember, and even if you move on someday and love someone else…

He knows one thing like gospel truth:

He will still love you. Always. Even if it breaks him.

Because it was never a choice. Not with you. You were the first thing that made him believe he could have a future. And he’ll keep loving you even if all you ever give him now are flickers of hope.

And now, even with your memory scattered like ash in the wind, you’re still the most beautiful thing he’s ever lost.

Prank Wars

Summary: You and Bucky Barnes start as chaotic, bickering frenemies locked in a prank war filled with glitter bombs, insults, and grudging teamwork. What begins as rivalry evolves into a sharp-edged romance, complete with teasing, team gossip, and quiet moments that prove even the most combative hearts can find their match. (Bucky Barnes x Avenger!reader)

Word Count: 3.5k+

A/N: Wanted to write something with a sort of friendly rivalry type vibe. I think it turned out to be a fun read. So, Happy reading!!!

Main Masterlist

You weren’t sure how it started. Maybe it was the time you’d called Bucky a “grumpy vintage action figure” during sparring, or maybe it was when he’d scoffed at your taste in music loud enough for the entire compound to hear. Either way, it was clear from day one: you and Bucky Barnes didn’t get along… but also couldn’t seem to stay away from each other.

You were a field agent with a smart mouth, a tendency to disobey orders, and a deep love for chaos. Bucky was a stickler for rules (at least the ones he liked), a human grimace with vibranium arms and trauma to spare, and somehow you kept ending up on the same teams. That first year at the Tower had been nothing but sarcastic quips, mutual eye rolls, and explosive chemistry that was definitely not romantic. At all. Probably.

Still, he never missed a mission with you. He’d grumble, complain, and occasionally fake gag when assigned to your squad, but he always showed up, and you always had each other’s backs. That didn’t mean peace. Oh, no. It meant war. Pranks, to be specific.

It began with the coffee incident. You’d woken up earlier than usual and decided to be kind for once. So, you brewed Bucky’s preferred dark roast before heading to the gym. But when you returned, your favorite mug (“World’s Okayest Agent”) was full of lukewarm decaf. A tiny sticky note on the handle read: Thanks for the bean water. I upgraded it. -B.

You were fuming. You didn’t say anything. You simply retaliated.

The next morning, Bucky found his boots filled with glitter. Not just glitter, iridescent, microfine, impossible-to-wash-out glitter that puffed into the air with each step like a magical dust trail from hell. You heard him curse halfway across the compound and smiled, eating your breakfast yogurt.

From there, it escalated. Your shampoo was swapped with syrup. His knife belt mysteriously vanished and reappeared glued to the ceiling. Your favorite hoodie went missing and was later found on Alpine who now refused to give it back. You switched his phone settings to speak and only read in French. He hacked your earpiece during a mission so it played 90s boyband music every time you tried to speak. Natasha bet twenty bucks on who would snap first. Clint started recording everything for “training purposes” (a.k.a. blackmail).

Still, you and Bucky kept a strict code: no permanent damage, nothing during missions, and no involving civilians. The rest was fair game.

There was an unspoken tension that came with it though. The kind of energy that lingered in the way you stood just a little too close during briefings, or the way Bucky always made sure you had your favorite protein bar stashed in the quinjet after tough missions. You could argue like enemies, scheme like tricksters, and still be the first ones to bandage each other’s wounds in silence.

And maybe that’s why, one night, when your newest plan involved rewiring his door sensors to trigger a confetti cannon… you hesitated.

You stood there, crouched in the hallway, wires in hand with your face lit by the soft glow of your tablet screen. Something was off. A quiet hum in the air. Your instincts itched. You weren’t alone.

“Don’t move,” came a voice behind you, calm, smug, and too close.

You sighed. “That’s what you said last time, and then I ended up zip-tied to a barstool with Steve giving me a lecture about boundaries.”

Bucky stepped into your peripheral vision, arms crossed. “Because you tried to saran-wrap my motorcycle.”

“It was a creative deterrent.”

He leaned down. “And this is… what? Revenge? Retaliation? Or are you just obsessed with me?”

You tilted your head, smirking. “What can I say? I love a fixer-upper.”

His eyes narrowed, but there was a flicker of amusement. He reached past you slowly and disconnected a wire before you could stop him. The door made a sad little beep as the trap disarmed. You stared at him, defeated.

“I was going to use that for the hallway next week,” You muttered.

He leaned in even closer, his voice lower. “Try harder.”

And just like that, he walked off. You were still crouched in the hallway, flushed, stunned, and already plotting.

The war wasn’t over. It was just getting good.

-

During your next mission, you weren’t sure what set off the alarm in your head. It wasn’t anything loud or dramatic, just a moment. A brief flicker of tension in the air during an otherwise routine mission.

You and Bucky were assigned to a low-level extraction. Some simple, easy to navigate warehouse but you were both grumbling the whole time, because being sent on “babysitting detail”, as you’d called it, meant no time for new pranks. He’d called you “bored and dangerous,” and you’d called him “paranoid and constipated,” because that’s what you two did. Banter was the language. Biting, sarcastic, familiar.

But then, something shifted.

You’d split up to secure the area. You were in the northwest wing, scanning crates for the target intel when your comm crackled, static. No voice, just dead silence.

“Barnes?” You tried, tapping your earpiece. “Buck, come in.”

No answer.

That was fine. Annoying, but fine. He’d probably gone off comm on purpose to mess with you even if that went against the “rules”. You rolled your eyes, muttered something unspeakable, and kept moving. But then, the overhead lights flickered, and a strange smell reached your nose, smoke. Not fire. Something burning.

You pulled your weapon and turned the corner just in time to see two unknowns in black body armor dragging a third figure toward the loading dock. Bucky. His arms limp. One eye half-open, dazed. Blood at his temple.

You didn’t think. You moved.

It wasn’t flashy, wasn’t graceful. It was fast, brutal, and angry. You’d never felt this kind of burn before. Like someone had tried to mess with your territory. You fired two rounds, took a pipe to the ribs, wrestled one attacker to the ground, and jabbed a shock baton straight into the other’s side.

By the time you got to Bucky, he was already regaining consciousness, his voice a ragged growl.

“’M fine,” He muttered, trying to sit up.

“You look like hell,” You snapped, crouching beside him. “What happened?”

He blinked at you, blood still dripping down his cheek. “Trap. One of them said your name.”

That made you freeze.

“What?”

“They weren’t after me,” He said, grimacing. “They were using me to draw you out.”

Your mouth went dry. The adrenaline started wearing off, and something unfamiliar twisted in your gut.

They weren’t random mercs. They were targeting you.

You didn’t know what you were more pissed about, the fact that they almost got away with it, or that Bucky had taken a hit meant for you.

Back at the Tower, you didn’t speak to him for a full hour. Not because you were mad at him but because you didn’t know what to do with the feeling that had sunk under your skin like lead.

You sat by his med bay cot with your arms folded, pretending to be annoyed when really, your leg wouldn’t stop bouncing.

“You’re awfully quiet,” Bucky murmured, glancing at you from the bed.

You scowled. “You’re lucky I didn’t punch you. Running off like that without backup.”

“I had backup. You found me.”

“Not the point.”

He gave you a long look. “You okay?”

You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you reached into your jacket pocket and wordlessly handed him a folded sheet of paper.

He frowned and unfolded it. A crude drawing of a scoreboard. At the bottom, you’d scribbled:

Injured in the line of duty (for dumb reasons): You – 7 Me – 5 Bonus point for catching me off guard. Bastard.

For the first time that day, he actually smiled. Not his usual smirk, but something a little softer, quieter.

“Does this mean the prank war’s on hold?” He asked.

You leaned back in your chair, arms crossed again. “Not a chance.”

And then, after a beat:

“…But maybe we cool it with the glitter bombs for a week.”

And so it did. The prank war didn’t end after the warehouse incident. It just… slowed. Morphed into something quieter. The jokes were still there like dry comments and sarcastic smiles but the glitter bombs were replaced by things like Bucky bringing you an ice pack before you asked. You, in turn, dropped by the training room with his favorite protein shake the day after his stitches came out.

And of course, everyone noticed.

Natasha cornered you in the gym a week later, twirling a throwing knife with deliberate laziness as you wiped sweat from your brow.

“So,” She said, nonchalant. “You and Barnes done setting the Tower on fire yet?”

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

She arched an eyebrow. “I mean the tension. The bickering. The very specific brand of foreplay that involves booby-trapping his bedroom door.”

You tossed the towel over your shoulder and rolled your eyes. “It’s not foreplay. It’s war.”

Nat gave you a slow, knowing smirk. “Sure. That’s why you look like someone kicked your puppy every time he gets hurt now.”

You didn’t respond because she wasn’t wrong.

It wasn’t that you liked Bucky Barnes. He was infuriating, overly serious, deeply confusing, and didn’t know how to share snacks. But he was also reliable, frustratingly observant, and lately, the look he gave you when you smiled, like you were the only one in the room, made your brain short-circuit.

You thought about it again later that night when Steve roped the two of you into a debrief on a rooftop overlooking the city. The mission had been a success, barely. You’d both walked away with bruises, dust in your hair, and a couple of near-death moments. Typical.

Steve cleared his throat when neither of you said anything.

“So, I just wanted to say… the teamwork is improving. Kind of.”

Bucky grunted. You didn’t look up from your seat on the low concrete ledge.

“But,” Steve added, crossing his arms, “I’d also like to point out that the Tower can’t afford another prank incident involving electrical rewiring, sparklers, and… what was it last time? A taxidermy raccoon?”

You smiled faintly. “He started it.”

“She painted my arm pink,” Bucky said flatly, leaning beside you.

“It was fuchsia,” You corrected. “Tasteful fuchsia.”

Steve exhaled like a parent trying very hard not to ground both his kids.

“…Just- figure it out, okay?” He said, before leaving the rooftop with a muttered “I miss the days when people just punched each other.”

You sat in silence for a while, watching the city lights flicker in the distance.

“You okay?” Bucky asked after a beat.

You nodded, then tilted your head toward him. “You?”

He shrugged. “Tired. Still sore.”

You leaned back on your palms, glancing up at the stars. “Nat thinks we’re flirting.”

He scoffed. “Is that what this is?”

“God, I hope not. I’d hate to be attracted to someone who uses the phrase ‘back in my day.’”

He glanced sideways, something sharp flickering into something soft in his eyes. “You’d miss me.”

You looked at him. Really looked.

“…Yeah,” You admitted, barely above a whisper. “Maybe so.”

There was a pause. Just long enough to shift the air. Then, he bumped your shoulder with his.

“Don’t tell Clint. He’ll never shut up about it.”

You smirked, your voice quieter this time. “Don’t worry. This never happened.”

-

Things changed during your next mission together. It wasn’t supposed to be a high-stakes adventure. A simple recovery op in a half-abandoned research facility on the outskirts of Prague. The intel said light security and no hostiles. Which of course meant it immediately went sideways.

You were cornered behind a crumbling wall with Bucky beside you, bullets chewing up stone, and the mission blown to hell. Your heart thundered in your chest, breathing ragged, but your mind was laser-focused until you caught a glance at Bucky’s face.

Blood streamed down from his temple. Again. The same spot as last time. You hated how that made your stomach twist.

“I told you to watch your six,” You snapped, crouching low to reload.

“I did!” He snapped back.

You shoved a fresh mag into your weapon and glared at him. “You are a human disaster.”

“And you’re a walking magnet for trouble.”

“Funny, coming from the guy with five knives hidden in his boot and a death wish.”

Another round of gunfire rang out closer this time. You both ducked instinctively, his body shielding yours without a word as he pulled you into a room to hide. You froze, just for a second, with his shoulder brushing yours and the warm pressure of his hand steadying you behind your ribs.

Your eyes met. The world blurred around the edges.

Something cracked.

The space between you wasn’t wide, wasn’t safe. It had been pulled tighter and tighter through months of snark, bruises, bullet wounds, glitter bombs, and unspoken care. And now it felt like the only logical conclusion was combustion.

“This is insane,” You muttered, your voice barely audible over the chaos.

“Yeah,” He agreed, still close to you. “We’re gonna die, aren’t we?”

You looked at him, seeing the blood at his temple, the sharp lines of frustration, the flicker of something else entirely under his words. You saw everything that had gone unspoken.

Maybe it was the adrenaline. Or the fear. Or maybe you were just done pretending. But whatever the reason, you surged forward.

The kiss wasn’t soft. It was frantic and rough and tasted like dirt, smoke, and months of unresolved tension. You grabbed the front of his suit; he pulled you closer like he’d been waiting for this since your first argument over coffee. The world was still burning around you, but for a second, it didn’t matter.

When you pulled back, breathless and stunned, he stared at you like he’d been hit by something harder than any punch he’d ever taken.

“That was…” He started.

“Shut up,” You said. “Don’t ruin it.”

He blinked, then huffed a laugh, the real kind. Warm and sharp and barely hidden behind years of practiced scowling. “Took you long enough.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me? I kissed you.”

He smirked. “Right. That’s why my knees went weak.”

You rolled your eyes, cheeks flushed despite the danger. “We still have to get out of here alive.”

Bucky’s smile softened just enough to make your chest ache. “Then let’s finish this. Fast. So I can do that again properly.”

You reloaded, nodded, and moved out together, side by side, like always.

Only now, everything had changed.

The Tower was quiet when you got back. Mission was technically successful with the intel secured, the bodies left behind, and the bruises already starting to bloom beneath your jacket. You showered, changed, limped a little too dramatically down the hall, and did the most responsible thing you could think of: you avoided Bucky Barnes.

You didn’t mean to. But after the kiss, your entire nervous system had gone haywire. You weren’t used to him being real with that warm, rough voice in your ear when he said he wanted to do it again. It’d been easier when he was just a rival, a nuisance, a sarcasm-laced headache wrapped in leather and trauma.

Now he was something else. Someone who kissed you like you were gravity itself.

So you hid.

He gave you a full twelve hours.

You were in the common room the next morning, pretending to read a mission report, but mostly just sipping lukewarm coffee and staring into the distance like a haunted Victorian widow. Until the door opened.

You didn’t need to look up. The energy shifted immediately. You felt him walk in, heard his boots heavy, and presence heavier. You took another slow sip of your coffee.

“You’re sulking,” He said from across the room.

“I’m not.”

“You’re avoiding me.”

“I avoid a lot of things,” You replied. “Dentists. Feelings. You’re not special.”

He stepped closer, the weight of him familiar now in a way that made your skin feel too tight. “So the kiss didn’t happen?”

You closed the file and set it aside, keeping your tone carefully casual. “Adrenaline makes people do weird things.”

“Right,” He said, voice dry. “So next time we’re in a life-or-death situation, I should expect you to confess your love to Steve or kiss a vending machine.”

You looked up sharply. “I don’t love anyone.”

He tilted his head. “Didn’t say you did.”

You hated him a little in that moment, not really, not at all but enough to scowl and mutter, “Why are you even here?”

“Because I don’t want that to be something we pretend didn’t happen.”

Your breath caught. He sat across from you, elbows on his knees, expression unusually open. Honest in a way that made your stomach twist.

“You’re a pain in my ass,” He began. “You drive me crazy. You’re reckless and loud and allergic to sitting still. But I’ve never met anyone who makes me laugh the way you do. Or who I’d trust to watch my back in a fight. Or who’d glue my knife belt to the ceiling and still patch me up afterward.”

Your mouth opened, but nothing came out.

He leaned forward, gentler now. “I meant it. When I said I wanted to kiss you again.”

You stared at him. Then down at your coffee, then back at him.

“…This doesn’t mean I’m gonna stop putting glitter in your boots,” You said finally.

He smirked. “Wouldn’t expect you to.”

You hesitated. Then sighed and leaned across the table, grabbing his shirt collar and tugging him into a kiss, softer this time. Slower. No adrenaline, no smoke. Just you and him, in the quiet.

When you pulled back, you grinned faintly. “You really are kind of obsessed with me.”

He exhaled a laugh. “Yeah. I really am.”

-

BONUS:

By the end of the week, everyone knew.

You thought you were being subtle. A few quiet looks, the occasional shoulder bump in the hallway, a shared smirk during mission briefings. But Avengers Tower was a den of spies, assassins, super-soldiers, and gossip. You had no chance.

The first to say something out loud was Clint.

You walked into the kitchen one morning, bleary-eyed and in desperate need of caffeine, only to find Clint already there, sipping from his mug. He glanced up, looked from you to Bucky trailing in behind you with his usual scowl and morning hair, and just grinned.

“Oh,” He said, like a man who had just confirmed a winning bet. “You two finally stopped fake-hating each other?”

You reached past him for a mug, unbothered. “We still hate each other. Just with tongue now.”

Clint snorted so hard he spilled his coffee. “Jesus.”

Bucky, behind you, didn’t say a word, just patted Clint on the back as he passed, expression entirely neutral. Clint looked personally betrayed.

Later that day, Natasha cornered you in the elevator.

She didn’t say anything at first. Just leaned back against the mirrored wall, arms crossed, and gaze sharp. You kept your eyes on the floor numbers.

Finally, she said, “I had fifty bucks on you being the one to kiss him first.”

You blinked. “There were bets?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Please. There were charts. Steve ran the bracket.”

“…Steve?!”

Speaking of Steve, he found you both in the training room a few days later, sparring in what could only be described as borderline flirt-fighting. You’d just knocked Bucky on his ass (with some help from gravity and a well-timed insult), and were grinning down at him when Steve cleared his throat.

Bucky didn’t move. “Don’t say it.”

“I’m not saying anything,” Steve said, holding up his hands. “I’m just impressed. You made it a whole six months before punching each other turned into making out.”

You rolled your eyes. “You’re the one who made us partners.”

He looked at you both, sweaty, bruised, smiling like idiots, then sighed. “You’re each other’s problem now. Don’t drag me into it.”

Sam was the worst. Every time you walked into a room, he’d do the voice.

“Well well well, if it isn’t the Tower’s resident enemies-to-lovers plotline.”

One time, you and Bucky entered the kitchen holding hands. Sam immediately stood and slow-clapped.

Bucky just turned around and walked back out.

Tony? He didn’t even blink. Just tossed you a keycard to one of the private Tower suites and said, “Soundproofed. You’re welcome. And for the love of all that’s holy, don’t ruin the common couch.”

And Bruce…

Bruce looked up from his tablet one afternoon and said casually, “So when’s the wedding?”

You choked on your water while Bucky left the room.

Eventually, you stopped pretending.

You still bickered like cats in a sack. You still pranked each other with glitter bombs, hair dye in shampoo bottles, or emotionally incriminating Spotify playlists over the Tower speakers. But now there were quiet moments too. An arm around your waist on late nights. Soft smiles when one of you thought the other wasn’t looking. Kisses stolen between missions, sometimes bloody, sometimes breathless.

The whole team may have seen it coming before either of you did. But in the end, no one could deny it:

You and Bucky were still frenemies.

Just… now with benefits, bruises, and a whole lot more trouble for anyone who got between you.

Lie Better

Pairing: Avenger!Bucky x Avenger!Reader

Summary: After a failed mission, you hide an injury to avoid looking weak. But you can’t escape Bucky’s watchful gaze.

Word Count: 1.9k

Warnings: enemies to lovers vibe; graphic descriptions of injury and untreated wounds; low self-worth; emotional suppression

Author’s Note: Thank you for this request, my dear! I had fun bringing it to life. Hope you’ll enjoy ♡

2k Drabble Challenge Masterlist | Masterlist

The lights in the briefing room are too bright.

They buzz overhead like an accusation and spill white over tired faces and blood-stiff uniforms.

The table is long and cold and metal. You sit at the far end, spine rigid, eyes forward, your body still echoing with the aftershocks of the mission.

Nobody is talking about what went wrong. No one ever does.

Steve says something about containment protocols. Natasha nods. Sam makes a clipped joke no one laughs at.

You stare at the holographic blueprint glowing in the center of the table and pretend you don’t feel the heat of Bucky’s eyes boring into the side of your skull like a warning shot that hasn’t fired yet.

You don’t look at him. But that doesn’t seem to bother him. He’s been watching you since you stepped back onto the quinjet right after the failed mission. Hasn’t said a word.

Your side throbs and you try not to flinch when you shift your shoulder and it sings agony down your spine. You keep your arms folded, elbows tight to your ribs in the hopes of keeping them together.

But you’re fine. Or at least you are supposed to be. The mission is over - failed, but over. The explosions have stopped. The sky is not on fire anymore. So you must be fine.

You stepped onto the quinjet earlier, zipped up your tactical suit, and ignored the crimson that stained the inside like rusted guilt. You stood tall beside your team, among the living legends who don’t bleed and don’t fall and don’t feel like failures. You walked into the compound pretending the floor wasn’t swaying and that you didn’t see stars glow behind your eyelids.

And now, in the debrief of said failed mission, you don’t really say anything. Just low responses when prompted, clipped and tactical.

Bucky hasn’t said a damn thing for the entire hour. Not to Steve. Not to you. Not even when Sam mentions a breach in the lower wing and looks toward Bucky with the expectation of a rundown. Bucky says nothing. Just leans back in his chair, arms folded across his chest. A muscle ticks in his jaw.

Because every time someone talks, every time the screen flickers with mission footage, every time you glance down at your trembling hand and will it still, he’s looking at you.

His gaze scrapes across your skin like sandpaper, cataloging your movements like a file being updated in real time.

You feel it like a fingerprint pressed to your skin. Heavy. Heated. He’s not subtle when it comes to you.

Bucky stares as if he’s reading the parts of you you’ve never let anyone see. As if he knows things you haven’t said out loud. As if he’s trying to find a reason not to say them first.

You shift in your seat. And the world tips. Not far, just a breath, but it’s enough for you to clench your jaw so hard it stings.

He sees it.

His eyes snap down. You wonder if he’s tallying up your mistakes, your imperfections, the way he always used to.

Your skin pulses hot and slick, a slow-drum ache that’s spreading its limbs now. You’re pretty sure something inside you shifted wrong, but it doesn’t matter. You can’t say that. Not here. Not with him looking at you like that.

As though he already knows.

As though he’s angry about it.

You push up from your chair before they’ve dismissed you. You move fast. Too fast. The movement sends pain ricocheting through your side and you bite down on it, hard enough to taste metal.

You don’t limp, this time. The last time you limped off the quinjet, he made sure to point it out with narrowed eyes. But your steps are too careful, your gait off-balance, your body feels misaligned with the floor.

Your blood is still warm where it shouldn’t be. Your shoulder is soaked through, the pain urgent.

You reach your door.

And you don’t hear him until he’s behind you.

“Didn’t look too good in there.”

You freeze, fingers still pressed to the panel. His voice is low, but not quiet. There’s is something resembling rust in it. Wear.

You don’t turn. “Pretty sure that applies to half the team.”

“Yeah, but you’re the one still bleeding,” he says, flat.

You don’t say anything.

He waits.

And you hate how he does that. Just stands there. Just waits. As if he’s not going to speak again until you do.

“I’m not going to the med bay.” The words are sharper than you mean them to be. Or maybe you don’t care how sharp they are.

“Didn’t say you have to,” he answers gruffly.

You swipe your door open, slip inside, and it almost closes, but his hand is there.

He stops the door and pushes it open again, steps in, and lets it seal behind him without asking, without invitation, without hesitation.

You don’t turn around. You don’t want to see his face. Don’t want to know what his mouth is doing or what his eyes are trying to say.

Instead, you sit down on the edge of your bed because standing is no longer an option. Your shoulder screams when you start peeling back the sleeve of your suit. You hiss and your hand falls away.

In the mirror on the wall, you catch Bucky’s hands curl into fists.

He doesn’t say anything, just moves, and you hear him pull something from the med kit on your desk - gauze, antiseptic, quiet clicks and snaps. You stare at the wall, refusing to meet his eyes in the reflection.

Still, without a word, he comes kneeling in front of you. His hand hovers for a second too long before brushing yours away. There is blood on his knuckles still.

“I’ve got it,” you mutter weakly.

He ignores you.

Cool metal fingers tug the fabric down and you flinch without meaning to.

“Stop moving,” he instructs, though his hands still for a second, his words come through gritted teeth and he says it with a voice too soft.

Slow and controlled, he peels the suit back further.

Your breath is uneven. You think of all the times he’s looked at you as if you’re a mistake waiting to happen. All the clipped comments, the tension, the cold.

And now he’s here, in your room, on his knees in front of you.

The antiseptic burns and your breath catches. His hand steadies your arm. Not tight. Almost soothing.

You hate that it helps.

“I didn’t ask you for this,” you clarify, barely in a whisper.

“No,” he states evenly. “You didn’t.”

The gash on your shoulder is deep. Ugly. Stitched with shrapnel. His fingers smear salve across the worst of it.

You glance down and see his brow tight, jaw flexed, mouth tugged in a frown. He looks as if he’s trying to keep something down. Something sharp.

He doesn’t say why he’s doing this. Doesn’t ask if it hurts. He cleans the wound in silence. You flinch again. He pauses. Not a word. Just eases his hand back, slows his movements, rolls his tense shoulders.

You don’t know what to do with him acting this way. With his hands being so gentle with you.

But his voice still isn’t.

“Shouldn’t have ignored this.” His eyes flick to yours, then away again.

You press your lips together and watch the way his hands move. Experienced. Unshaking.

“You always think you can do everything alone,” he says after a long pause. “You think that’s strength.”

Your mouth fills with copper. “You get that from reading my mind?” you ask rather unkindly.

His eyes fly up and catch yours like glass catching sun. They hold this time, just long enough to knock the breath sideways in your chest.

“No,” he says, calm and low. “I get it from watching you limp off the quinjet and pretend your ribs weren’t giving out.”

That lands too close. You look away.

His hands keep moving. He’s pressing a fresh wrap into place now, pulling it snug. Not too tight, but enough to hold. His fingers brush your skin and they are cool where you are fever-warm.

“You favor your left when you’re exhausted,” he adds, voice quieter now, talking as if this is a passive observation. A note. “You’ve been doing that since Moscow.”

You blink. Moscow was months ago.

It was the first week-long mission you ever had with the man in front of you. It went sideways. You took a pretty big hit.

You didn’t expect him to still think about this.

“You take notes on everyone like that?” you ask dryly.

He shrugs. “Not everyone’s got your talent for pretending they’re inscrutable.”

The silence is filled with things neither of you are going to say.

You press the heel of your hand against your brow. Breathe through your teeth. “I’m not pretending to be anything, Barnes.”

“And yet, you said nothing.” He doesn’t say it as a reprimand. He says it as a fact he’s disappointed to keep collecting.

You breathe out sharply.

You’ve never made it easy between you two. You know that. Ever since they threw you on the same team, there’s been some friction. He’s quiet and disciplined and splits the world into useful and not. You are stubborn and made of sharp turns.

You bicker a lot. Get under each other’s skin.

He doesn’t trust easily. You don’t like being watched.

You told yourself he doesn’t like you. It was simpler that way. Now he is fixing what you won’t admit is broken. Not exactly looking at you as if he hates you.

And somehow that’s worse.

Bucky tapes the last piece of gauze down with the same careful pressure. Then he sits back on his heels, metal hand flexing at his side.

You pull your arm back, testing the tension. It’s tight. Secure. You flex your fingers to prove something, even if you’re not sure what.

Bucky keeps sitting there, keeps watching you.

“I’m fine,” you say. Uselessly. But it’s easier than saying thank you and it’s the most practiced lie in your arsenal anyway.

His brow lifts, faint. But he doesn’t say anything. He just stands with a grunt, packing the things he used together. He moves slow.

You watch the way his shoulders move. Still coiled. Still prepared. As if his body doesn’t know the mission is over.

You take a moment to breathe in. Breathe out. Then you open your mouth to say the words that will most likely burn on your tongue. “Thank you.” It comes out quieter than intended, but you know he picks it up.

He doesn’t respond, but the mirror shows you the way he stills in his movements for a moment.

Then he heads to the door without a glance back.

“You walk as if it’s the shoulder, but you’re guarding your ribs.” His voice is a low earthquake. Not loud, but enough to crack you open if you’re not careful.

You freeze.

“Next time,” he says, voice rough, pausing at the threshold, “at least lie better.”

Then he’s gone.

And you’d like to curse him out.

Mischief Managed

Summary: With the power to talk to animals, your feline companion, Mischief, hates everyone at the tower except you. Therefore, when you start getting closer to Bucky, you watch as she slowly starts to trust the super soldier. However, with all things, it doesn’t go well at first. (Bucky Barnes x Avengers!reader)

Disclaimer: Reader has the power to talk to animals.

Word Count: 3k+

Main Masterlist | Whispers of the Gifted Masterlist

You never expected your strange bond with animals to shape your life so completely. From the time you were little, the voices of birds, dogs, squirrels, even ants, were a constant hum in your mind. You couldn’t explain how or why, but you understood them, and they understood you. You didn’t just hear noises or read body language. You heard words. Emotions. Stories. And most importantly, you could talk back.

At first, it was a secret. A party trick for only the most trusted friends, who usually assumed you were joking. But now, it’s just part of you. You’ve learned to filter out the constant chatter.

You’ve learned to help animals when they’re in trouble and, occasionally, when SHIELD needs it, use them for information. Sometimes, rats knew more about hidden Hydra facilities than satellites ever could.

But for all your strange gifts, you lived a relatively quiet life in the Avengers Tower. Most of the others accepted your ability with curiosity or amusement. Tony had tried to run tests on your brain, and Clint still jokingly called you “Dr. Dolittle.” You didn’t mind. Your companions whether they be feathered, furred, or scaled had always had your back. And one in particular? She guarded you like a dragon guards treasure.

Her name was Mischief. A sleek, coal-black cat with amber eyes and a resting glare that could curdle milk. You’d found her three years ago, injured and starving in an alley, snarling at rats and pigeons for scraps. She hadn’t trusted you at first, but the moment you spoke to her, really spoke, her entire posture changed. It took a few trips bringing food to her, taking things slow. And slowly, you began to realize you hadn’t just earned her trust, you’d earned her devotion.

Since then, she rarely left your side. Mischief judged everyone you interacted with, and she never hid her opinions. She Tolerated Steve. Hated Tony’s cologne. And she absolutely loathed anyone who flirted with you.

That became a problem the day Bucky Barnes moved into the Tower.

He was quiet, scarred, and carried the weight of too many ghosts behind stormy blue eyes. He barely spoke to anyone, kept to himself, and moved like someone always waiting to be attacked. You saw it the first day in how he looked at everyone sideways, how he didn’t sit with his back to a door, how he flinched when someone approached too fast.

And Mischief? She was watching him like he’d brought a knife to your front door.

She sat on the windowsill in your room, tail twitching, eyes narrowed like tiny slits of fire. He’s hiding something, Her voice was flat, echoing in your mind like dry leaves scraping across pavement. He smells like ghosts. Like regret mixed with metal and blood. I don’t like him.

You sighed, brushing a hand over her silky back. “He’s been through a lot. Be nice.”

Nice? You want nice? Find a golden retriever. I’m watching him.

You didn’t know it then, but Mischief’s “watching” would escalate. She wasn’t just wary of Bucky Barnes. She was preparing for war. And you? You were caught in the middle of a cold war between an ex-assassin with a tragic past… and your jealous cat.

It started small at first.

Bucky would pass you in the hallway, nod a quiet hello, and Mischief would hiss from your shoulder like a kettle set to boil.

You tried to explain it away as best as you could. "She’s just like that at first," You said once when Bucky raised a brow at the low growl coming from your tote bag. Mischief liked to crawl inside and travel with you unnoticed. “She doesn’t warm up easily.”

He gave a short, humorless chuckle. “Neither do I.”

You weren’t sure what drew you toward him. Maybe it was the way he always seemed almost comfortable in silence, the way he sat on the common room couch like it didn’t quite belong to him, or how he listened to conversations without ever trying to steer them. Maybe it was how he never asked you questions unless he thought the answer would matter. He was calm. Still. A rare kind of quiet you’d only ever felt around animals.

But Mischief noticed.

One night, you caught her sitting in the kitchen sink like a gargoyle, glaring at the hallway. When you asked what she was doing, she said, Waiting for the metal-armed brooder. If he comes in here again, I’ll gut the loaf of bread he likes.

Sure enough, Bucky wandered in a minute later, offered you a soft smile, and went for the exact loaf.

The next morning, it was shredded. You sighed at the sight as you went out to get a replacement.

Still, you didn’t stop spending time with him.

You started joining him in the gym after hours. The excuse given was wanting to stretch, but really, you just liked the way he relaxed when no one else was around. Sometimes you brought a dog or two in from the compound’s training fields, let them rest while you and Bucky talked. Or didn’t talk. You didn’t need to.

“I think animals like you,” You told him one evening, watching a scruffy mutt rest his head on Bucky’s knee.

He blinked down at the dog like it had just spoken fluent Russian. “That’s a first.”

He’s got soft hands, The dog murmured. I like him.

You smiled to yourself. “I think they know.”

“Know what?”

“That you’ve got a good heart.”

He looked away quickly, jaw tight. You didn’t say anything more, letting it go.

Later that night, Mischief perched on your chest like a stone weight and narrowed her eyes. You’re getting attached.

“I’m not.”

You are.

“You scratched a loaf of bread.”

It deserved it.

You sighed, having not expected that response, but then again, it was typical of her. Mischief wasn’t one to be easily appeased, and her possessiveness was notorious. But this time, she didn’t go on about it. Instead, she flicked her tail, an uncomfortable tension hanging in the air. Her voice softened, almost like a reluctant admission. You’re… different with him.

“Different?” You tilted your head, trying to understand her point.

You relax around him. You listen more. I don’t like it.

It struck a chord in you. You weren’t blind to the shift in your own behavior. With Bucky, things felt easier. Calmer. He had this way of being present and patient in a way that drew you in, as if there was a shared understanding of pain that made silences less heavy. Sure, there were times where the past still haunted him. But his company was always one you found yourself subconsciously seeking.

He didn’t demand things from you. He didn’t ask for anything you weren’t ready to give. And when you were with him, the world felt… simpler.

But Mischief’s words stung in a way you hadn’t anticipated.

“I’m not going to stop seeing him just because you don’t like it,” You murmured, feeling the weight of her gaze.

I know you won’t, She responded in a quieter tone now. But if he hurts you, I’ll bite his face off.

You chuckled softly at the absurdity of the threat. “I don’t think he’s the kind of guy who would hurt anyone… but thanks for the warning.”

Mischief gave a long, almost disappointed sigh, as if she realized there was nothing she could do to change your mind. You’ve always been good at ignoring my advice. I’ll be here, though. Watching.

And just like that, she padded off your chest and curled up on the windowsill, turning her back to you in a huff.

You didn’t feel the usual pang of guilt for not heeding her advice. Instead, you lay there, staring at the ceiling, thinking about Bucky’s quiet demeanor, his unspoken trust, and how, somehow, he made you feel less like an outsider.

But the cat was right about one thing: you were getting attached. And that was something even Mischief couldn’t stop.

Over the next few weeks, Bucky Barnes became a quiet fixture in your life. He wasn’t the kind to join in on group outings or large training sessions. He mostly kept to himself, which, in a way, you could relate to. The weight of his past was something you recognized in yourself. A type of emotional burden carried alone, pushing people away without ever intending to.

Mischief, however, now had different ideas about Bucky. She followed him around like a shadow, watching his every move, her eyes always narrowing suspiciously whenever he so much as looked in your direction.

And then came the first moment that Bucky spoke to her directly.

You were sitting in the common room, legs tucked underneath you, reading a book when Bucky entered, his usual silent demeanor drifting through the door like a storm cloud. You barely looked up, but Mischief did. She jumped down from the windowsill with a graceful thud, making her way slowly toward Bucky. He froze, eyes narrowing as she circled his feet.

"You've got a problem with me, huh?" He asked, voice low, as if speaking to a wild animal.

Mischief didn’t answer. Instead, she sat down and stared at him, her eyes unblinking, before giving a loud, unmistakable hiss.

Bucky took a slow, measured step back, unsure whether to laugh or be alarmed. “Right… definitely got a problem with me.”

You looked up from your book, feigning innocence. “She’s just… protective.” You tried not to laugh, but the cat’s blatant territorial behavior was almost too much.

“Protective?” Bucky raised an eyebrow. “Of you?”

You nodded, setting your book aside. “She doesn’t like anyone getting too close to me. Especially not new people.” You gave him a playful smile, though there was an undercurrent of caution. You had no idea what he might say next. Yeah, he’s graciously ignored her behavior the past couple of encounters. But you know that not everyone reacted well to Mischief’s… directness.

Bucky looked at Mischief, who was now sitting on the arm of the couch, staring at him with intense focus but a bit more relaxed. Like she was really assessing him now. He couldn’t seem to hide the slight tension in his shoulders, though his eyes softened just a fraction. “I’ll take her behavior as simply me being new then?” He asked with a wry grin.

You couldn’t help but chuckle. “Like I said before, she warms up to people eventually.”

“Eventually?” He turned to you, crossing his arms. “How long does that usually take?”

“A few months,” You answered, fully serious, but Mischief’s sudden purring interrupted the tension in the air. You blinked in surprise. Mischief didn’t purr for just anyone, certainly not for someone she didn’t trust who she had threatened previously.

You try not to make it a big deal, knowing maybe something changed her mind and she’s likely trying to give Bucky a chance for you. Or she’s trying to spite you. Either works.

Bucky let out a short, amused huff. “I guess I’m getting there.”

As time passed with your relationship with Bucky slowly becoming more comfortable, he started showing up more too. Helping you with groceries, joining you on the Tower’s rooftop garden, even sitting beside you when you fed a flock of sparrows that landed whenever you called. The birds adored you. One bold little sparrow even landed on Bucky’s knee once, chirped at him twice, and fluttered away.

“She says you look sad but safe,” You told him.

He stared at the spot where the bird had been. “…I’ll take it.”

You didn’t realize it back then, but Mischief had stopped watching Bucky like a threat. She still narrowed her eyes when he got too close, but the claws stayed retracted. And one morning, after Bucky fell asleep on your couch with a book resting on his chest, you walked into the room and found Mischief curled on the back of the couch above his head, keeping watch.

Don’t make this a habit, She warned, but you saw the way she rested her tail across Bucky’s shoulder like a soft little truce flag.

He didn’t wake up. But when he did, and she didn’t move, you didn’t miss the quiet surprise and the ghost of a smile on his face.

Bonus:

The Avengers had long accepted that Mischief was… a little difficult. And by “difficult,” they meant that she was impossible.

Steve tried to be friendly and charming, his warm smile and gentle hands never working when it came to earning her trust. He once tried to bribe her with tuna, only for her to leap onto the counter, knock the can on the floor, and give him a look that suggested he was the most pitiful creature to ever walk the Earth.

Tony, of course, had tried his usual route. Gifts. Expensive toys, cat condos, custom-made collars with diamond studs. Mischief had only hissed at him, her tail twitching with disdain, and turned her back on him every time he walked past. Tony had even tried to sneak in some extra treats with a drone, but Mischief had launched herself at it like a panther on a hunt, sending the drone crashing to the ground in a flurry of sparks and broken components.

Clint and Wanda were no better. Clint had tried talking to her like they were two old friends. He’d even imitated her meows, thinking he could “speak her language.” His reward was a sharp swipe to the face that left him sporting a red scratch for a week. Wanda had tried charm, offering the cat quiet moments and gentle pats. But Mischief simply stared, unblinking, until Wanda gave up, shaking her head and muttering, “She’s something else.”

A couple of the others had tried too, but failed just like the rest. They had all made their peace with it. Mischief was your cat, your problem. None of them expected to get closer to her.

So, when they found out Bucky managed to break some of her walls, it certainly drew some attention.

It wasn’t even anything spectacular at first. At first, it was just him sitting in the common room with his coffee, his book, his quiet presence that always seemed to put you at ease. You, in your usual spot, with Mischief curled at your feet.

But slowly, Bucky had started talking to her. Not in any particular way, just gentle words, a little teasing, soft hums that she might respond to. At first, they were just passing exchanges.

“You’re looking smug today,” Bucky had said, watching Mischief stretch out on the windowsill, her tail swishing slowly.

To his surprise, she’d looked at him, unimpressed, and flicked her tail toward the floor like she was dismissing him entirely. Bucky chuckled softly.

“That’s fine. I’m used to being ignored,” He’d muttered, before turning back to his book.

No one had thought much of it. Until it happened again. And again.

One afternoon, you came into the living room to find Bucky sitting cross-legged on the floor, Mischief lying across his lap. She’d never done that with anyone else. She was curled up, purring softly, and Bucky’s hand was resting just behind her ears, stroking her fur gently.

The other Avengers were lounging around, preparing for the evening’s mission debrief. Steve and Clint had been discussing logistics while Tony fiddled with a gadget, but all of them froze when they saw the scene unfolding in front of them.

Mischief, the aloof, temperamental queen of the Tower, was utterly content in Bucky’s lap.

Tony’s jaw dropped first. “Wait a minute,” He pointed at the scene. “Is that… Mischief?”

“Yeah…” Clint said, his voice a mixture of disbelief and awe. “Is she… purring?”

“I’ve never seen her so… calm,” Bruce added quietly, watching the scene. “She always runs away from us. We can’t even get close without her hissing or hiding.”

“I don’t understand,” Steve said, furrowing his brow. “What is he doing differently?”

Bucky glanced up, catching their stares. He shrugged with an easy grin. “I don’t know, she just… likes me, I guess.”

Everyone stared at him. Even Tony, who never really lacked for confidence, looked a little thrown off.

“How?” Wanda asked, her tone hesitant. “She’s never… let anyone get that close. Not even me, and I’ve tried for weeks.”

Bucky just chuckled, his hand continuing to stroke Mischief’s back. “I don’t know. Maybe she sees something in me. Or maybe I just smell like someone who doesn’t mind the silence.”

The others exchanged baffled glances. It was true. Bucky was quiet, reserved. He never pushed, never pried. Perhaps that had something to do with it. But no one could quite figure out how he’d managed to break through the barrier that had kept them all at arm’s length.

“I don’t think it’s just that,” Clint said thoughtfully, his eyes still on the cat, his fingers twitching like he was about to reach for her. “I’ve been here longer than you, man. And she’s never let anyone get that close.”

Bucky’s smile faltered for a moment, as if he was considering something deeper. “Maybe she just needed someone who didn’t expect anything from her.”

The team was silent, still watching Mischief as she stretched lazily on Bucky’s lap, a low purr vibrating the air around them. It was the first time anyone had seen her so relaxed in front of someone who wasn’t you.

Steve shook his head in disbelief. “I think we’ve just witnessed a miracle.”

Tony was already pulling out his phone. “I’m gonna start a betting pool. Bucky Barnes: Cat Whisperer. Who knew?”

Wanda chuckled softly, still a little stunned. “What did you do, Bucky? Did you offer her a deal?”

“I think she’s just decided I’m not worth the trouble,” He said, finally giving Mischief’s ears a gentle scratch that made her eyes flutter shut in contentment. “Sometimes, that’s all it takes.”

And just like that, the Avengers knew. There was something about Bucky Barnes, something quiet, something patient, that had finally cracked through the walls of the grumpy black cat that no one else had been able to breach.

Mischief had chosen him. And the rest of them? They were just going to have to deal with it.

Even If You Forget

Summary: After a mission gone wrong, Bucky loses all memory of his relationship with you. Though heartbroken, you patiently stay by his side, offering gentle support and quiet company. Despite the emotional distance, you hold onto the hope that someday he’ll find his way back. (Bucky Barnes x reader)

Word Count: 2.1k+

A/N: This has ANGST by the way. I absolutely adore anything to do with memories, so much potential. I might write another version of this where the reader loses her memories instead. You are responsible for the media you consume. Happy reading!

Main Masterlist | His Version

The mornings with Bucky were always slow, quiet, and warm.

His arm was usually draped over your waist by the time the sun started to creep through the blinds. He breathed a little heavier in the mornings, caught between dreams and the weight of his history. However, he never seemed to stir until you moved.

You liked it that way. It gave you time to look at him, at the faint worry lines that softened in sleep, at the longer strands of brown hair you liked to brush behind his ear, at the mouth that rarely smiled in public but had no trouble curving up for you when the world was far away.

You loved him deeply. In the way people loved after surviving something. There were scars on both of you and silences that stretched longer than they should’ve, but you understood him, and he had never once looked at you like he regretted being understood.

Your relationship had started quietly, like most things with Bucky did. It wasn’t love at first sight. It wasn’t loud declarations or stolen kisses in the rain. It was simpler. He’d sit near you during debriefings and glance over to make sure you understood the mission. He’d knock on your door late at night when he couldn’t sleep and leave a book outside if you didn’t answer. He remembered how you liked your coffee and never asked why you kept a light on when you slept.

Eventually, he started sitting a little closer. Touching your hand a little longer. Smiling a little easier. It wasn’t fast, but it was safe and real. You both needed that.

Sixteen months into the relationship, you'd moved in together into a tiny apartment, tucked above an old bookstore with creaky floors and a heater that only worked when Bucky kicked it. You painted the walls together. He helped pick out the furniture. You made him tea when his nightmares left him shaking, and he kissed your forehead when your hands trembled after bad missions.

He was never one to say I love you right away and especially not out loud. But he showed it, every single day.

And when he finally did say it, it was late at night, in the middle of an argument about laundry or groceries or something equally domestic and ridiculous when you both froze. He looked horrified that it slipped out. You looked stunned for barely a second before smiling and leaning closer to him, saying it back like it was the easiest thing in the world.

You thought nothing could take that from you.

But you were wrong.

You and Bucky had been paired up for another mission like normal to infiltrate an abandoned Hydra facility. Retrieve what remained of their stolen technology and data, destroy the rest. Bucky didn’t want you going in at first, but you reminded him that you were a trained operative, not a civilian. Besides, you worked better together anyways.

You were halfway through the facility when the alarms went off. Not an intruder alert but something else. Something that triggered deeper in the system. You split up briefly to cover more ground, and that was the last time Bucky looked at you like he knew who you were.

When you found him again twenty minutes later, he was hunched over and clutching his head near a strange, flickering device. When he raised his head, all you could see was cold, calculating eyes staring back.

Like a stranger.

And when you called his name, your voice shaking, and your hands reaching out to steady him; he backed away like you were poison.

“Who the hell are you?”

You froze in your spot. His voice wasn’t like Bucky’s. It was lower, flatter. Measured. It lacked the hesitant warmth that usually colored his words when he spoke to you. It was the voice of someone evaluating a threat.

Your hand, half-raised, trembled in the air between you.

“Bucky,” You whispered, like maybe the sound of it would crack something open. “It’s me.”

He stood slowly, the whir of his metal arm slicing through the silence. His eyes didn’t flicker with recognition. No softness. No guilt. Just analysis and caution.

You’d seen that expression before. Once. Years ago, when the Winter Soldier was still a ghost wandering about without a strip of autonomy. You definitely didn’t see this expression on the man who crawled into your bed at night and tucked a blanket around your shoulders.

But, here he was. You could feel how painfully your heart pounded in your chest.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” He said, almost to himself. He looked around, scanning the shadows like he expected enemies to crawl out of the dark. His hand hovered near the side holster at his thigh. “Who sent you?”

“No one sent me,” You said, stepping forward. “You’re-… Bucky, you’re not well. That machine, something happened. Let me help-“

“Stop,” He snapped. Your name was unfamiliar to him now. It didn’t make him pause. It didn’t register. “You’re not cleared to speak to me. I don’t know you.”

The words landed with brutal precision. You stepped back like you’d been struck. Because in a way, you had. He didn’t remember you.

The realization settled over you slowly, like frost creeping across glass. You felt your lungs tighten, your throat close. You could still see the outline of the relationship you'd built, months of laughter and late nights and slow healing, but he stood on the other side of it now, locked out.

You reached for your comm, fingers clumsy and stiff with dread as you called for backup and reported the situation.

When the team arrived, faster than you had expected, they didn’t ask many questions. You let them take over while you stood to the side, arms wrapped tightly around your chest, eyes fixed on the man who no longer knew your name.

Steve had been brought with the other agents. Miraculously, Bucky still remembered him and trusted his words to lead him to safety. He had followed Steve back to the Quinjet without hesitation. There was a time when he would have trusted you without a second thought too, but now you were just another stranger.

You sat in the back of the jet, silent and numb, your eyes never leaving his tense form. One hand was curled loosely near his chest. You remembered how he used to hold your hand that way when he slept. Like he needed to know you were real.

Now he didn’t know you at all.

Back at HQ, medical scans confirmed your worst fear. The machine had been some kind of neural disruptor, a crude prototype designed to extract and overwrite memory. Hydra tech, of course. The data was incomplete, scrambled, but the damage wasn’t.

He remembered Steve. Missions. Pieces of his past. It didn’t bring back the Winter Soldier thanks to his time in Wakanda. However, anything recent or anything soft, was gone.

You. Erased just like that.

You spent three days outside the glass of the room he stayed in, watching him rebuild his reality in pieces. He spoke little. Ate less. The team tried reintroducing him to other faces, but he flinched away from most of them. He was polite, distant, cautious. Like a soldier unsure of his orders.

Every time you entered the room, his eyes would land on you and linger. But they never softened. He never said your name, not even once.

And every night, you’d sit alone in your apartment above the bookstore, staring at the spot on the couch where he used to fall asleep during movie nights, wondering how you could miss someone who was technically still alive, just out of reach.

You never forced him to remember. You didn’t even try. Because you knew memory wasn’t something you could demand back. It wasn’t a switch you could flip or a locked door you could break down with frustration or anger. It was delicate. Fragile. Like glass edges that could cut him deeper if handled carelessly.

So instead, you became quiet. You became gentle even though visiting him wasn’t easy. Each time you entered the room, you reminded yourself to soften your eyes, to keep your voice low, calm. To be someone who he might feel safe with, even if he didn’t remember why.

“Hey,” You’d say, just like that. Simple. No pressure. No demands.

You’d bring small things like his favorite book, a picture from your last trip, or a worn jacket he’d left behind. You hoped these would speak to something buried inside him, a spark.

Some days, he’d look at you with confusion. Others, with suspicion. Sometimes, his eyes would flicker like he was searching for a ghost behind your face.

You hated that, but you never showed it. You never let him see it because you couldn’t. You remembered how lost he felt the first time you met him, before all the pieces of you and him fit together. And you knew patience was the only thread strong enough to hold you both together now.

Because you could tell he was afraid. Of you. Of himself. Of what he’d lost. And you were afraid, too. Afraid you’d never get him back. Afraid he’d forget the moments you shared, the trust you built. All the moments you shared together.

But you stayed. Every passing day, every painful visit, you stayed. Even when it hurt to see the distance in his eyes or the way his hand no longer found yours in the dark or the way his voice no longer softened when he spoke your name.

Because love wasn’t about forcing recognition or surfacing memories of what used to be. It was about waiting. Waiting until he could find you again, on his own terms.

-

In the halls of the Avengers compound, you often caught the looks of the team. Quiet glances that lingered too long before they quickly looked away. Soft expressions shadowed with pity. Sometimes, it was Tony shaking his head slightly when he thought you weren’t looking. Sometimes, Natasha’s eyes would meet yours briefly, sympathy buried beneath her usual stoic mask. Steve especially, steady as ever, gave you a small nod of understanding whenever your paths crossed.

They all knew. They knew what you were going through. They knew exactly what you had lost, but no one said it aloud. They didn’t need to after all.

You felt the weight of it, like invisible hands pressing down on your chest when you thought you were alone. The way they looked at you said, She’s holding onto someone who’s slipping away. She’s pretending to be okay, but she’s breaking.

You never asked for their pity. You never wanted it. It felt like another reminder that things were broken beyond repair. So you kept forcing yourself to keep your head high and to keep moving forward.

You showed up for briefings. You trained with the others. You made sure your smiles were steady, your voice calm. But deep within you, every step was heavy. Every breath felt borrowed. Because the truth everyone was coming to realize, no one could fix this but Bucky. And Bucky couldn’t remember you.

And as days bled into weeks, your visits with him continued. Still quiet, steady, and unyielding. But no breakthroughs. No magic moments where Bucky suddenly remembered your name or the warmth of your touch.

But slowly, you learned to be okay with that. Because sometimes, healing wasn’t about the big gestures. It was about the small ones.

A flicker of recognition in his eyes when you laughed at a joke you’d shared long ago. A twitch of hesitation before he pulled back when you offered your hand. A breath held a moment longer when you read aloud from his favorite book.

Those tiny cracks in the wall gave you hope.

One evening, as the sun dipped low, casting long shadows across the compound, you found yourself sitting beside him on the couch. No words were spoken, there was no need.

His hand, tentative and unsure, brushed against yours. You paused for a moment and didn’t dare pull away. Instead, you let your fingers intertwine slowly, grounding both of you in that fragile moment of connection.

It wasn’t the past rushing back. It wasn’t a promise of what would come. But it was something. A beginning. A chance. And sometimes, that was enough.

Because you knew this story wasn’t finished. Not yet.

And as long as you both were willing to try, maybe one day, he’d find his way back to you.

Borrowed Gifts, Steadfast Love

Summary: You accidentally trigger a moment of amnesia in Bucky after giving him precognition during training. In the aftermath, Bucky, gentle and vulnerable in his confusion, asks if you’re someone important to him. When his memory returns, the two of you gradually confess what you’ve both been holding back. (Bucky Barnes x Avengers!reader)

Disclaimer: Reader has the ability to temporarily bestow powers to other people.

Word Count: 3.5k+

A/N: It has been a while since I’ve had something for this series. Though, I’ve mostly covered my favorites so far, so I’ll need to brainstorm ideas for other abilities lol. Happy reading!

Main Masterlist | Whispers of the Gifted Masterlist

You had a rare and unnerving gift. One that terrified some of the Avengers more than it reassured them. With a touch, you could grant powers to others. Temporarily. Specific abilities, curated like items on a menu but always with a cost. The more potent the power, the more unpredictable the side effects. Some people got migraines. Others felt emotionally drained. And a few… well, a few forgot their names for an hour or two.

That last one had landed Tony flat on his back once, insisting he was a ballet dancer named Cheryl.

You hadn’t been born with powers yourself. You were experimented on briefly, in your early teens by a defunct program obsessed with replicating the abilities of others. Their tests failed to give you any power of your own. Instead, your body became a kind of channel, like a living transmitter. You couldn’t fly, lift tanks, or shoot lasers but you could let someone else do it. For a while. Ten minutes, fifteen if you really focused. Maybe twenty, but that always came with a nosebleed or worse.

SHIELD picked you up after the facility fell, though you never quite belonged in the field the same way the others did. You weren’t a soldier. You were a tool they deployed when someone needed an extra edge.

Bucky Barnes was one of the few who treated you like more than that.

You met him a year after he rejoined the Avengers, still finding his footing in a world that changed too fast. At first, he was quiet and standoffish, not unlike you. People like Steve and Sam tried to loop you in with group dinners, training sessions, or "team bonding" game nights that only made you feel more like a guest in someone else’s home. But Bucky? He never pressured you. He saw your silences and matched them. Sat next to you on the sidelines without needing to fill the air. Slowly, like frost melting under careful sun, you two grew close.

You trained together sometimes. Your power fascinated him in a way you didn’t expect. He’d ask questions no one else thought to: Did it hurt you? Did the powers you gave others come from somewhere, or from you? Could you give him one and take it back before it fully formed?

He was the first one to ask if you liked using your powers.

Most people just expected you were fine with it, already having some idea of what you were supposed to like, do, or be. But you never felt that pressure nor those expectations with him.

Therefore, you spent more time together after that. Coffee in the kitchen before morning briefings. Patrolling side by side, because he said he liked your “measured pace.” Evenings where you’d sit outside on the Tower balcony and he’d talk about Brooklyn before the war, or ask you what it felt like to see someone else use what wasn’t truly theirs. Sometimes you didn’t answer. Sometimes you did. Regardless, he never pushed.

Even with these shared moments, you didn’t dare name whatever was forming between you. Not yet. There was comfort in the undefined, in the quiet understanding between two people still trying to trust themselves again. You weren’t healed, but neither was he. However, you were there and that mattered.

The only time he ever raised an eyebrow was the day he caught you sketching in the rec room. It was an old habit you formed from before the facility, something you rarely indulged in. You tried to hide the notepad, but he saw it before you could. You were fully prepared to defend yourself.

Until he saw the page. A portrait of him. Focused. Sharp lines. Gentle shading.

He didn’t tease you.

He just said, “You made me look like someone worth drawing.”

You had to look away.

“I draw things I don’t want to forget,” You whispered.

That moment hung between you like an unspoken truth. One neither of you were ready to face. Not yet. Not until later. Not until the day you gave Bucky the ability to see a few seconds into the future and he forgot the past. Including you.

It started with a sparring match.

You weren’t planning to use your powers. You rarely did in training, unless asked. But Bucky was frustrated and off his rhythm. He was distracted and getting increasingly impatient with himself. You’d watched from the edge of the mat as he shook out his shoulders, jaw tight, and muttering curses under his breath.

“Want to cheat?” You asked, casually tossing him a water bottle. “I’m offering a limited-time preview of danger-dodging.”

He arched a brow. “What, like Spider-sense?”

“Closer to precognition. A few seconds ahead.” You shrugged, trying to downplay it. “Enough to give you an edge.”

He hesitated. You could see the thought wheels grinding behind his eyes, then he stepped forward and extended his hand. “Hit me with it.”

You reached up and pressed two fingers gently to the side of his neck, just under his jawline. A safer place than the wrist, less prone to backlash. A flicker of gold shimmered under your skin, then transferred into his.

“There. Ten minutes. You’ll feel it kick in.”

He blinked, eyes fluttering slightly, then his pupils dilated. His stance changed instantly into something more grounded. Lighter and alert. You backed up and watched as Sam moved in to spar with him, a little too eager to knock Bucky off his game.

But Bucky didn’t miss a beat.

He dodged Sam’s attacks before they landed, twisting just out of reach, predicting moves before they were even made. You saw Sam frown. Then grin. “Okay, okay, cheating is kind of cool.”

“Don’t get used to it,” You warned, arms crossed, already feeling the beginnings of a tension headache.

Everything was going fine until the timer ran out.

You didn’t notice right away. Bucky had stepped back, grabbing a towel and breathing a little hard. But then you saw him frown, glance around the gym like something was wrong. Like the lights were too bright. Or the air too thin.

“Bucky?” You asked cautiously.

He turned to you and blinked, staring at you like you were a stranger. Not the kind he feared, not someone threatening, just someone whose shape should’ve meant something. His brow furrowed like your presence itched at the back of his brain, like a song he almost remembered.

“Sorry,” He said again, voice quiet. “You look… familiar.”

You gave a tight smile, hiding the panic behind your eyes. “It’s okay. You’ve had a bit of a power hangover.”

“Power?” He looked down at his hands, then flexed his vibranium fingers. “Did I… hurt someone?”

“No. You were training. You asked me to give you a temporary ability.” You moved in front of him, trying to keep your voice steady. “Precognition. It lets you sense movements a few seconds ahead. You handled it like a pro.”

“Guess I didn’t handle it that well,” He said with a weak, lopsided smirk. Then his smile faded. “I really don’t remember.”

He sounded more concerned now. Not panicked yet, just… vulnerable. That was rare for him, especially in front of others. But now, it was like something raw had surfaced under his skin. The carefully constructed guard he wore every day had holes punched through it, and he didn’t know why.

You glanced to the training room door, where Sam was now standing uncertainly with a towel slung around his neck, unsure whether to intervene. You gave him a small shake of your head. This wasn’t something that needed a team.

“Come sit,” You murmured, gently taking Bucky’s arm and guiding him to a bench in the corner. He followed without resistance, like you were the only thing anchoring him.

Once seated, he studied your face for a long moment. His eyes were softer than usual, curious and searching. Like he wanted to remember you but didn’t know how.

“So we… know each other?” He asked carefully.

You nodded. “We work together. Trained together. Talked… a lot.”

He tilted his head. “Are we… close?”

Your throat tightened. “Yes.”

There was a long beat, and then, completely sincere, he asked, “Are we dating?”

You blinked, startled. “What?”

“I’m just asking,” He said, sheepish but oddly confident in a way the real Bucky never was. “You seem like someone I’d… want to be close to.”

Your heart jumped into your throat. He doesn’t remember you, You reminded yourself. He’s just reaching for familiarity. Don’t fall for the illusion.

Still, you answered, “No. We’re not.”

Bucky looked disappointed, genuinely. “Are you sure?”

You gave him a half-hearted glare. “Even amnesiac, you’re a flirt.”

He chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t feel like me. It’s like I’m dreaming with my eyes open.” He looked down at his hands again. “I hate this.”

“I know. And it’ll wear off. Soon.”

He turned back to you, brow knitting. “You said you gave me a power? You… can do that?”

“I can lend them out. For a short time. Sometimes there are… side effects.” You hesitated. “You usually remember everything just fine.”

“Usually,” He echoed. “Lucky me.”

“I’m sorry, Bucky.”

His eyes lifted back to yours again. “You said my name.”

You smiled softly. “Yeah.”

He blinked slowly, taking that in. “And yours is…?”

You gave him your name and he repeated it quietly. The way he said it nearly undid you. It was gentle in the way as if he wanted to commit it to memory now, before it slipped through his fingers again.

“I don’t want to forget you,” He whispered, without thinking.

Your breath caught. You reached out then, almost instinctively, placed your hand over his.

“I won’t let you. I’m going to fix it,” You promised quietly. “Just… give me a minute.”

It took concentration, channeling the right counterbalance of power, guiding a mild recall ability through touch. When your hand met his again, you saw flickers of your face, training sessions, shared coffee. The sketch. His smile when he saw it. His voice, gentle and real: “You made me look like someone worth drawing.”

And then, the power flickered back before either of you were ready.

One moment, Bucky was holding your gaze like he was memorizing every detail of your eyes, your name, and the warmth of your hand covering his. Then the next, his fingers twitched beneath yours and his breath caught.

You saw it in his expression immediately.

Like a floodgate creaking open too fast, memory rushed back into his mind. You watched him blink once, twice, his face flickering through confusion, realization, then… guilt.

“It’s you,” He said softly.

You nodded slowly, afraid to speak first.

He sat up straighter, pulled his hand from under yours. Not harshly, but more so like he was grounding himself. His brows furrowed as his eyes darted around the training room, checking every shadow, and every sound. You could see his instincts coming back online.

“I remember,” He said.

Your shoulders slumped slightly. Relief mixed with… something sharper. A part of you had cherished that fragile, disarmed version of him. It felt wrong to miss it, but you did.

“I’m sorry,” You said. “I should’ve stopped the transfer sooner or done something-“

“No,” He interrupted quickly, looking at you again. “Don’t. Don’t blame yourself. I asked for it. You warned me. And besides, I’ve had worse side effects from coffee.”

You huffed a breath of dry amusement, though you didn’t quite smile.

Bucky’s gaze lingered on you. “What… did I say?”

Your eyes dropped to the mat. “Nothing terrible. Just…” You fidgeted with the edge of your sleeve. “You forgot me. Asked who I was and if we worked together.”

“And?”

“And then you asked if we were dating.”

He stiffened slightly. “Did I?”

“Mm-hm.” You tried to play it off lightly. “You also asked if you hurt anyone, so clearly your priorities were intact.”

He didn’t laugh. He was still watching you too carefully. “And what did you say?”

“That we weren’t.”

He tilted his head. “And was I disappointed?”

You hesitated, wondering why he would ask that. “You said… I seemed like someone you’d want to be close to.”

Bucky was silent for a moment. Then: “I wasn’t wrong.”

Your eyes lifted to his, startled. There was something cautious in his voice, yes, but it was also honest. Maybe that amnesiac version of him didn’t just say things out of confusion. Maybe it said things he usually didn’t let himself say.

“I didn’t mean for that to happen,” You murmured, voice quieter now, rawer. “But… I didn’t hate it. Sitting with you. Talking without all the walls.”

His jaw tensed, eyes flicking down for a beat. “I don’t always know how to be soft on purpose,” He admitted. “But I want to, with you.”

A long silence stretched between you. And then, slowly, he offered you his hand. Not out of confusion. Not because of borrowed power. Just his hand. Open, steady, and inviting.

You took it.

“I may not remember everything at times,” He said quietly. “But I won’t forget that part.”

You gave a small nod, sitting in silence with him for a moment. Reality slowly began to creep back in like a fog settling over warm ground. The gym lights felt too bright. The air too still. Sam had already quietly slipped out, leaving the two of you alone to untangle the strange, fragile thread left behind by the power’s fading echo.

So, you made the decision to stand slowly, brushing your palms on your pants as Bucky followed suit.

Neither of you quite knew what to say. The rawness of the moment still lingered between you like something unspoken, and neither of you dared break it yet.

“I should… probably check in with Bruce,” You muttered. “Make sure there aren’t any lingering neurological disruptions. It’s been a while since I gave someone that particular ability.”

Bucky nodded. “Right, yeah. I’ll shower. Try to not stare into space too long.”

You huffed softly. “Good plan.”

Then came that moment, the moment. The one where your eyes met just before you both turned away. You caught a flicker in his gaze, something he wanted to say but didn’t. Something you wanted to hear, but couldn’t ask for. So instead, you both retreated to your corners of the compound.

-

In your room, you sat cross-legged on your bed with a cold compress on your forehead, scrolling through your tablet with one hand and letting the other rest uselessly in your lap. You weren’t reading anything. Not really.

Your mind was stuck in the echo chamber of You seem like someone I’d want to be close to and Maybe you should’ve said not yet.

You told yourself not to read into it. It was just scrambled-brain honesty. He wasn’t thinking straight. People say things when they forget their walls.

Still… he remembered now. And he hadn’t pulled away.

You ran a hand through your hair and dropped your tablet on the bed, then stared out the window. The sky had shifted from orange to deep navy. The tower was quiet. Too quiet.

Meanwhile in Bucky’s quarters, he had showered and dried off. Now sitting on the edge of his bed in sweats and a black T-shirt, staring at the cup of water he hadn’t touched.

His mind replayed the way your hand had felt in his. The nervous quirk of your mouth. The devastation in your eyes when he didn’t remember your name. The tenderness when he did.

He knew what he wanted to say. He had known it for a while. But now it felt like the air was thinner around you. Charged. He wasn’t sure if that was because of the power or because it exposed something deeper between you. Something neither of you had dared voice before.

He stood, opened his door, and walked down the quiet hall. Looking to end up in the one place he hoped you’d be.

-

Later that night, you were sitting alone on one of your favorite balconies, legs pulled up to your chest, and the air cool against your skin.

A quiet shuffle of boots sounded behind you.

You didn’t have to turn to know who it was. “Couldn’t sleep?”

Bucky settled down beside you, offering a second cup of tea. You took it without question.

“I keep thinking,” He said, “About how easily I forgot you. Like one wrong spark and poof.”

“It wasn’t your fault.”

He nodded slowly. “Still… I don’t like that. I’ve worked so hard to build this life. The idea that someone could take a piece of it and I wouldn’t even know what was missing?”

Your fingers curled around your cup.

“I’ve spent years being forgettable,” You said. “By choice or by design. It’s safer that way, less… risky.”

Bucky turned his head to look at you. “You’re not forgettable to me.”

You finally met his eyes.

“I don’t care what kind of power tries to take that away. You’re not something I’d lose easily.”

And just like that, you didn’t feel like a tool anymore. You felt like someone worth remembering.

The night was hushed between the two of you, save for the faint hum of the city far below and the way Bucky’s thumb lightly tapped against his tea cup. Nervous energy. Not from fear, just hesitation. Like he was weighing each word before he let it out.

“I don’t want to forget you again,” He added quietly.

You watched him, and something in your expression whether it be gentle, surprised, or open, made him go still.

“Not from power backlash, not from time, not from fear. And if I’m being honest…” He trailed off, then exhaled. “I don’t want to waste time pretending you’re just a teammate. Or just someone who gives me an advantage in combat. You’re not that to me.”

You set your cup down slowly, the heat of it fading from your hands, replaced by the thrum of something warmer beneath your skin. “Then what am I?”

He looked at you fully and deliberately.

“You’re the person I look for in every room,” He said, voice low and sure. “The one I feel calm with. The one I trust when everything else gets loud in my head. You matter to me more than I’ve let myself admit.”

The words hit softly, like the first snow, but carried weight. Real and steady. You blinked, unsure if your heart had always beat this fast or if he’d just jump-started it.

“I thought maybe…” Your voice came out smaller than you expected. “If I let myself believe you might feel the same way, I’d mess everything up. That you’d need someone steadier. Someone who wouldn’t make you forget your own name when they touch you.”

His lips twitched into a quiet smile at that, but he didn’t joke. He didn’t downplay it. Instead, he leaned in slightly. His shoulders brushing yours.

“I won’t do anything unless you want me to. You’ve always given everyone else power. Maybe it’s time someone gave you the choice.”

There was no pressure in his tone, no coaxing. Just offering.

And something in you, long hidden and cautious, stirred.

You turned toward him fully, the dim light casting soft shadows across his features. You could see the tired but hopeful gleam in his eyes. You lifted one hand slowly, tracing your fingers along the line of his jaw, anchoring yourself in this moment.

“I’ve wanted you for a long time,” You admitted, voice barely above a whisper.

“Then I’m all yours,” He replied, breath catching slightly as he leaned in.

You closed the gap.

The kiss was gentle at first. Something that could be described as cautious, exploratory, or like a question answered in a language both of you had forgotten how to speak. But then his hand came to rest at the side of your neck, warm and steady, and yours slid over his chest, feeling the weight of everything he wasn’t saying but always meant.

It wasn’t fireworks. It was better. It was safe, solid, and real.

When you both pulled back, neither of you spoke right away. But then Bucky’s voice broke the silence, low and steady:

“I’ve wanted that for a long time.”

Your lips quirked into the faintest smile. “Me too.”

His thumb brushed lightly against your cheek, almost reverent. “I don’t know what happens next,” He admitted, eyes meeting yours, vulnerable and unguarded. “But I know I want it with you.”

You nodded, fingers still curled into the fabric of his shirt like you weren’t ready to let go. “Then stay. That’s all I need right now.”

A breeze stirred your hair, and he leaned in again, pressing a soft kiss to your temple this time. Gentler, more certain.

“I’m not going anywhere,” He whispered.

And under the quiet sky, for the first time in a long while, you believed it.

Lazy Morning

Summary: Snuggled up between your loving boyfriends, you listen quietly as they argue over who is the better cook. (Steve Rogers x reader x Bucky Barnes)

Word Count: 300+

A/N: I am basically using this as an introductory to more Stucky content without the age regression. I’ve done many with just Bucky x reader, so I am honestly not sure why I haven’t thought of this sooner. Steve would accuse me of playing favorites… (ᵕ•_•)

Main Masterlist

You woke up slowly, the soft warmth of Steve and Bucky's bodies pressed on either side of you. Their steady breathing and the sound of their murmurs wrapped you in a cocoon of safety and comfort. The morning sunlight peeked through the blinds, casting a gentle glow on the room, but you were content just being there, between them. No missions. No battles to be fought. Just them.

Bucky shifted first, stretching lazily and groaning. "I’m tellin' ya, Stevie, I make way better pancakes than you."

Steve, already awake, chuckled softly. "You really want to start this again? You burn them every time."

"I do not!" Bucky shot back, his voice filled with playful offense. "They’re crispy, not burnt. There's a difference."

You suppressed a smile, keeping your eyes closed as you snuggled deeper into the blankets, enjoying the familiar rhythm of their playful banter. They had been doing this for months now, arguing over the most trivial things, and yet it always ended in laughter.

Steve let out an exaggerated sigh, clearly amused. "Sure, sure, Buck. Crispy like charcoal. You know, the kind you can’t even put syrup on without it crumbling."

“Better than your soggy mess,” Bucky retorted. “The secret is in the flip.”

You couldn’t help it anymore. A tiny giggle escaped from your lips, betraying the fact that you were awake. Steve turned his head slightly, smiling down at you.

“See? Told you they’re awake.” His voice was soft, warm, full of affection.

Bucky, ever the tease, leaned closer, his lips brushing the top of your head. “Oh, so you’re just gonna let me and him fight over breakfast, huh? Come on, you gotta choose. Who’s the better cook?”

You turned your head slightly to meet his mischievous gaze, then looked at Steve, who was giving you that calm, almost too innocent smile.

"I don’t know," You said playfully, your voice still thick with sleep. "But whoever makes breakfast better today gets the first kiss."

Both men froze. Bucky blinked, a grin slowly forming. "Oh, I see how it is. I can work with that."

Steve’s eyes sparkled with competitive fire. “Challenge accepted."

You laughed softly, content and grateful to have both of them by your side, even as they bickered over something as simple as breakfast. There was no place you’d rather be than sandwiched between them on a lazy morning.