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No one ever talked about how missions were typically only 10 percent combat-related and the rest was logging reports and expenses, training, traveling, arguing with someone on a screen, pleading your case to someone who outranked you, and worse than that, waiting. Sitting around, hoping for the best. Working with highly-skilled individuals sent on covert missions that were so deadly, so way above your clearance level, your main contribution was getting them to the target site on schedule and crossing your fingers.
Praying, if you’re on the spiritual side. Performing light maintenance work on the Quinjet, if you’d rather do something with your hands.
You felt bad about complaining about boredom from the safety of the sophisticated aircraft.
“Glorified aircraft babysitter,” Bucky Barnes called you. He’s not entirely wrong. These jets practically flew themselves, but the government limited use of unmanned planes (with good reason, just google Tony Stark + unmanned suit) so in the meantime, pilots like you had a job.
You checked the engines for the second time that hour and before that, ran a 20-minute lap around the aircraft because you’re not allowed to leave the jet unattended.
The third hour arrived without ceremony and you slipped into the cockpit for the second check-in. You would kill for a hot cup of coffee just about now. There were supplies at the back but those things were nasty.
The tell-tale glimmer on the horizon signaled sunrise in a few minutes. You landed on a clearing approximately 10 kilometers from the target site a little before 03:00 hours that morning. Cloudy skies gave you some cover from the moon. Sunrise was a different story. The Quinjet will be fully exposed to satellites within the hour.
You stared at the speakers on the overhead panel, as if anyone would sense you through it. Blowing raspberries through your lips, you reached for the call button. Your finger hovered the green notch.
Bucky ordered you not to break radio silence unless absolutely necessary.
*****
“My capture? Not urgent.” He reminded you hours ago as he and Clint Barton strapped their weapons on after the plane landed. Clasps snapped and adjusted. Accessories clipped and secured. You didn’t want to keep tabs on how many guns Bucky was packing but he definitely had more guns than he had hands.
Bucky threw you a stern look because you were more interested in the small knife he just slipped inside his boot. “Barton’s capture? Not urgent.”
Clint cleared his throat. “Personally speaking, I’d say that’s a matter of urgency, but does anyone ever listen?” He tapped his modified hearing device which glowed purple in his ear. “Comm check.”
“Check.” You tapped your own lightweight device. “I’d plow the Quinjet through a building to get to you, Clint.”
“That’s why you’re my favorite Uber driver.” Clint pointed to you appreciatively as he examined his bow before attaching it to the specialized quiver on his back.
Bucky ignored the lighthearted exchange, intent on clarifying what constituted “necessary use of comms.” “My death-”
You waved him off. Grim and gore, not your thing. “If you croak, then there’s even less of a reason to break silence because that would only alert the enemy to the location of the Quinjet.”
With a few quick steps, Bucky stood right next to you. Your arm grazed his belt. He stared you down as if you weren’t taking the mission as seriously as he was. His breath fanned your ear when he leaned into you. “And we don’t want the jet to fall into the wrong hands, do we?” His low voice sounded sinister. It’s his job to scare you and keep you on your toes.
You don’t agree with his methods all the time, but one of you was a military veteran and the other one got their job because they happened to be fantastic at video games. Still, standing this close to him affected you in more ways than you’d care to admit.
Bucky reached for his ear device. “Comm check.”
The static pierced your ear but you didn’t wince because he didn’t. “Check.”
“Damn right,” he whispered before finally straightening up and following Clint out of the exit ramp. He pulled his hair back using a hair tie from his wrist as he took quick strides.
“Bucky!” You rushed to the ramp.
He turned with his head tilted. Under the moonlight, you imagined his frustrated expression. You’re not supposed to be hollering in the woods even though you were in the middle of nowhere.
You held your left fist up and tapped your wrist watch. Don’t forget the check-in.
He nodded from a distance and mimicked you. I won’t. Without wasting another second, he jogged into the opposite direction from Clint and disappeared within seconds.
*****
Your thumb tapped the speaker impatiently. The training manual said a delayed check-in must be reported within five minutes. Neither operative made contact yet and it’s 13 minutes past schedule.
The waiting was always the worst part, because within that period, everything you dreaded could have happened already. Enemy ambush. Capture. Torture. For all you knew, the world was about to end while you were checking inventory and fiddling with lines of code you promised Tony Stark you wouldn’t touch.
You checked the horizon again, noting the subtle transition, from red gold to yellow as the sun ascended over the mountains and planes in this part of West Asia.
“Fuck it,” you declared, reaching for the button again.
“Wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Bucky’s voice came through the speaker in bursts.
You immediately scanned the area through the windshield and spotted a figure in a dark tac suit approaching. He could not have seen what you were about to do. No way. His eyesight was amazing, but not that amazing… No way. You watched him marching toward the plane. Your thumb flicked the ramp switch and in a couple of minutes, Bucky entered from the back of the jet.
Cool air entered the cockpit. You hurried to the back to see if he needed help.
He unzipped his thick outer jacket immediately and discarded it on the floor. “Gimme a break, I’ll clean that up later,” he said when he saw you eyeing the mess. You nodded to the bruise forming on his cheek. “Walked into a door,” he lied without a second thought. “I’m fine,” he insisted when you continued to look at him openly. Bucky Barnes didn’t have a monopoly on glaring, even though he believed he did.
The dark-haired soldier removed two hand guns from behind him, and two more from the jacket on the floor, and deposited these in the firearm safety cage. After double checking the lock, he collapsed on a bench and stretched his legs out.
“Where’s Barton?”
He stretched his neck and rolled his metal arm. The sound of Vibranium plates readjusting filled the jet. “I don’t know,” he replied after a few seconds.
“Let me try-”
“Wait.”
You stopped in your tracks not only because he was the mission leader, but deep down you also trusted he had the experience you lacked. Too much experience, he would say with a dry laugh, if only there was a way he could pass on knowledge to you expeditiously.
“You mean like stick your hard drive into her?” Sam commented with a deadpan look. Laughter erupted around the table in the mess hall.
Bucky scowled. It was more of a reaction to Sam’s existence than the dirty joke. You couldn’t be mad because you teased Sam about performance issues in front of his date weeks ago. This was payback in installments.
You reached across the table to steal a fry off Sam’s plate and maintained eye contact with him as you popped it between your parted mouth, making sure to suck your bottom lip loudly while chewing.
“Damn woman,” Sam chuckled.
Life at the base was a cake walk compared to the tense gaps during field missions when absolutely nothing or everything happened. You’re supposed to sit tight.
Bucky waved at you to sit next to him. “Come on, you should be used to this by now.”
You crossed your arms and stayed put. “No, I don’t think I want to get used to worrying about my friends.”
His messy bun fell apart when he leaned his head against the side panel and closed his eyes. “You know what I meant.” He smirked and opened one eye. “Did you just admit to worrying about me?”
“I said friends.” You slammed the medicine drawer shut and threw an ice pack at him, which he caught without flinching.
Bucky’s smirk intensified. He placed the pack over his face, humming quietly. “Sit and try to relax instead of watching me like it’s my fault Barton’s late.”
You’re used to his glib comments. “First of all, I don’t need to relax. You’re the one who’s like ‘oh I don’t need to be saved, stay off the comms, don’t attract attention, fuck the manual’ this morning and secondly, you’re really full of yourself if you thought I was watching you.”
With a silent sigh, you retreated to the cockpit, taking a tablet with you to review flight logs for the fifth time that day.
The Quinjet was quiet for several minutes. You and Bucky each remained on your end of the aircraft. You wondered if he fell asleep at some point because you couldn’t pick up the slightest movement but you didn’t want to be the first to turn around and speak.
He’s an oaf, a huge block of a man who filled every room he entered with his presence and wouldn’t hesitate to kick a door down on a bad day. His ability to move like a cat, navigate a room without making a sound, and slide into spaces gracefully boggled the mind.
Your mind, in particular, but you haven’t told him that. No sense giving Bucky one more thing to be smug about.
Your eyes landed on the speakers again and when he called out your name, you were convinced Bucky could see into your head. That’s the only way to explain all of this.
He added vowels to your name when he pronounced it with a teasing, jovial tone. When you didn’t respond, Bucky approached, his footsteps even and quick, boots scraping the floor on purpose. He wanted you to know he’s crossing the invisible line in the middle of the jet.
“Listen. Barton’s fine. Give him some credit. But don’t tell him I said that.”
You looked up from the tablet. “I need to move the jet deeper into the woods soon. We don’t have cover here.” You checked the skies out of habit.
Bucky crouched next to you in the cockpit, looking out of the front window too. Part of you wanted to let him know how relieved you were when his voice came on the speakers earlier. You breathed a little easier. You and Bucky sniped at each other, but his presence reassured you more than anything.
His eyes scanned the perimeter, his gaze reaching twice, triple the distance your eyes could see. His pink lips pouted, which only meant he had something in mind and he’s having an internal debate about letting you in or carrying the burden by himself.
He’s a pretty good looking guy especially when he’s brooding.
Without warning, his eyes flicked toward you and he grinned because he just caught you gaping at him. “See anything you like?”
Heat fanned out from your core to every limb. Bucky observed your flustered reaction with amusement. It was a game you played with him often, but it still stirred butterflies in your stomach. You always struggled with the boyish charm on display when he’s being a self-centered prick around you.
“Maybe,” you raised your eyebrows suggestively.
Bucky’s jaw dropped and blushing cheeks made his eye color pop. You thought you had him. He grabbed the back of your seat. “I suspected you have a thing for these baby blues.” He tucked his hair behind an ear to give you a better view. He spoke with such confidence and delight and in that moment you decided you would have to worry about Clint later. Right now you had to get away from this cocky bastard.
“I’m going to need some air because your ego just sucked all the oxygen in here.” You pushed past him to leave but it was going to take some maneuvering. Bucky refused to budge. He blocked the path, forcing you to lean into him in an attempt to elbow your way out of the cockpit. It was like asking a concrete wall to move but you were equally as stubborn, if only for the sake of your pride. He laughed over your muffled grunting, like he was being tickled. On the other hand, you began to get exhausted.
After a minute of this childish shoving competition you had no way of winning, you clambered over the seat instead, propping a hand on his shoulder on your way out of the cockpit.
He followed you to the ramp, soft chuckles mocking you. “Just admit you like my eyes; I won’t feel objectified.”
“Oh please, they’re not that blue!” You retorted before storming down the ramp.
Immediate embarrassment flooded you. It wasn’t from lying about the arresting blue of Bucky Barnes’ eyes; it came from realizing he’s on to you now. Your boots hit the dirt as you stomped your way to a lone tree a few feet from the jet.
“What, just sorta kinda blue then?” He said from behind you, which you pretend not to hear.
There’s no justice for ordinary humans like you, who recently realized just how into Bucky you were. It’s not even funny when he winked at you at the compound, prompting Sam to say things like, “You guys are too adorable, now stop making eyes at each other, people are trying to eat here.”
“Blue-ish?” Bucky continued to blab from the foot of the ramp.
You paced under the shade of a tree, faking interest in a patch of weeds and wishing he’d shut up. He couldn't even name another shade of blue; he just kept repeating the word. Bluesy. Bluer than blue. Ocean blue. Blue like your faded jeans.
He was setting bait. You’d be stupid to bite, but the urge, Jesus, the urge to list shades of blue to his face was nearly impossible to resist.
Part of you entertained the idea of confessing from where you stood. That ought to shut him up for a few seconds. If you were lucky, he’d smile sincerely and give you the “aww shucks” look he did so well, the one where his puppy dog eyes twinkled and you forgave him for whatever stupid stunt he just pulled.
If you weren’t too lucky, he’d say he’s flattered but he just doesn’t feel the same. Sometimes he can be quite an ass, but he’s a good guy at heart, Bucky, and the thought of him letting you down gently made you feel nauseous. It would devastate you and you’re going to have to ask for a transfer, plain and simple. The threat of rejection was enough to make sure you kept a lid on that little chest of explosive emotions.
Your apprehensions drowned out Bucky’s rambling. You didn’t even realize he’d followed you under the shade. He startled you when he grabbed your arm, forcing you to face him.
“What’s wrong with you? I asked you to get back to the damn jet three times!” He dragged you back with him to the aircraft without waiting for a reply. Bucky’s grip didn’t ease up, not even after the ramp retracted and he sealed the jet.
His fingers pinched your arm, close to cutting circulation off. He pushed you against the side panels without another word, standing so close to you, his feet planted next to yours.
“Buck-”
He frowned and shook his head. Bucky’s forehead creased. His eyes were on yours and you could tell this was no longer about how many kinds of blues he could name.
He wasn’t angry at you. He was trying to focus. You gingerly placed a hand over the one clutching your arm. “Starting to lose sensation here,” you spoke softly, careful not to contribute to the tension.
His eyes followed your hand and within a blink, Bucky released your arm, but he did not step away. “Fuck. Did I - shit I’m so sorry. Fuck I’m sorry.” He kept whispering apologies, his lips brushing your ear, and his hand caressing the air next to your arm. He couldn’t bring himself to touch what he’d been so close to seriously hurting.
You moved your hand over his chest to get his attention. His heart pounded against your palm and you immediately realized something was amiss. “What’s wrong?”
He inhaled sharply. “Three to four vehicles headed this way. We have a couple of minutes.”
“Clint?”
Bucky shrugged. “No way to tell.” He inspected your hand on his heart and released a strained sigh, not unlike the one you made earlier. “I’m sorry - you have to believe me, I just - had to get you back inside; it’s safer here.” He rested his forehead on yours to catch his breath. When he finally lifted his head to address you again, Bucky wore a determined expression. “Gotta deal with incoming.”
Your head spun. You registered the mounting worry in the back of your head. “What does that even mean?”
He sighed impatiently. “As soon as I’m positive Clint isn’t out there, I’ll let you know. Get ready to leave.”
You didn’t like it, but you had to agree it’s the best course of action.
“Listen for my signal.”
You truly despised waiting, especially when Bucky sacrificed his own safety to ensure yours. A limp hand fell to your side and you turned away in an attempt to hide your fear.
“Thought you’d be happy to see a handful of henchmen rough me up some.”
“Don’t act like you don’t know how I really feel, Bucky,” you snapped at him. You pushed him away, knowing it was a futile attempt. Bucky didn’t move unless he wanted to.
“Hey.” The urgency in his voice was enough to make you stop struggling against him. “This sure as hell isn’t the time for this, but I'm not stepping out there thinking the love of my life hates my guts.”
His words knocked the irritation out of you. Even Bucky appeared stunned by his own admission. For the first time since you’ve known each other, Bucky looked like he wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do next. He recovered after a moment. With a gentle, steady hand, he lifted your chin. He seemed amused by what just took place but you couldn’t help but wonder if there was also relief in his face, like a weight has been lifted. “You don’t have to say anything,” he said.
He switched into super soldier mode the moment he stepped away. Within seconds, he’s armed and ready. When Bucky glanced at you again, he was the mission leader ordering you to open the rear.
You hit the button with a resigned fist. The ramp descended and this time the air entering the jet felt dry and suffocating. Your heart raced and you nearly missed the crackling radio signal under the droning ramp gears.
“Clint?” You pressed the device deeper into your ear even though that did nothing to improve the signal.
“...got a bike!” His agitated voice yelled over the roaring engines. “...two jeeps on my six!”
You raced to the cockpit and checked the display panel. As if on cue, the monitor picked up incoming movement south of the jet. “We see you.” Within seconds, you’ve readied the jet for take-off.
“Barton, are we doing magic tricks or Shoot To Thrill here?” Bucky kept watch by the rear. The racing vehicles kicked dirt up in the distance.
You didn’t know what those words meant, but you assumed you’ll find out soon enough.
“Ah-” inaudible chatter followed. “- see if I can lose them first… wait…”
“Barton, forget it, just get yourself back in here! I know someone who flies a fighter jet pretty well. She'll take care of them.” He didn't look in your direction, but a tiny smile lived on his lips. Your heart swelled as you looked at his profile.
Silence followed. Clint could have gotten cut off or lost signal again if he swerved deeper into the woods.
“I hate waiting,” he mumbled after a quiet minute. “Remind me to punch Barton in the face later.”
See, everyone hated the waiting. It was your turn to chuckle, but before he could even ask you what was so funny, Clint’s garbled voice returned. “Trashed the bike but problem’s been dealt with.” He paused to catch his breath. “Give me a couple of minutes to get there because I ain’t running.”
You checked the monitors. “We can come to you.”
“No. I’ll go to you. Just in case they have more friends on the way. It’s best if they don’t see the jet.”
Bucky didn’t argue with that. He continued to glare at the horizon. He must have fixed his bun ten times since Clint made contact.
You tiptoed toward him. “About what you said.”
“I say a lot of things,” he responded without taking his eyes off the view.
“You do.” You stepped in front of him with your back to the ramp. When Bucky didn’t move away, you looped your hands around the back of his neck. The tension in his shoulders evaporated. Encouraged by the searching look in his "not that blue eyes," you found your voice. “I love you too, by the way.”
The “aww shucks” grin returned, wider than before, and lit up like a Times Square billboard. Bucky rubbed his face in an attempt to hide it. “Yeah?” His tone was wistful, nose scrunched. He couldn’t quite believe what he just heard.
You nodded and tiptoed.
He received the message instantly, his face swooping to meet yours. Bucky’s skin was on fire and he kissed you frantically, like a time limit had been imposed and he needed as many kisses as you’d give him. “Don’t even know why I waited this long to tell you,” he muttered, his lips covering every inch of exposed skin.
His scent always made you feel slightly drunk; it’s why you’re flustered when he moved around your space. You fell asleep to the feel of his arms around you and the sound of his steady breathing. You woke up inhaling his warm skin tangled in your sheets. Bucky only had to exist to get you feeling some type of way.
Your nails dug into his back when he nuzzled your neck.
He panted against your collarbone. “C’mere.” He hoisted you up, lifting your legs to his waist. His satisfied, commanding smirk greeted you as you reached his eye level. “There she is.” His arms secured you in place. “That’s better.”
You traced a finger across his jaw and saw a twitch. “Marginally.”
“That right?” He grunted before tossing you gently in the air, testing the friction.
You whimpered and your thighs automatically clenched around him. “Bucky.” It was half a plea, half a warning.
“Yeah, thought so.” Bucky’s hungry lips descended on yours again.
Just as you began to think about the long term effects of oxygen deprivation, someone cleared their throat.
“And this is why I said I didn’t want to go on missions with couples.”
Clint’s disgusted voice forced you apart, although Bucky didn’t release you from his arms. He only turned to your teammate, proudly demonstrating the hands cupping your bottom in your current position, and said “You’re late.”
Clint gave both of you an exasperated look. “Yeah, and you’re welcome assholes.”