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“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
You say it very matter-of-fact, yourself nearly believable. Metal bumps against plastic, narrowed eyes trained on collecting the last of your yogurt.
“Oh, no idea, huh?” Natasha accuses, crossing her arms against her chest. “You’re a liar.”
You scoff, glancing at her for credibility. “I’m not lying.”
Sam frowns, leaning in close to your face. You stare right back at him over your yogurt cup, bewildered.
“I can’t tell,” he says, disbelieving. He turns to Natasha. “Are we sure she knows?”
“ She is right here,” you snap. “And she thinks you both are insane. ”
“His effect on you should be studied at universities,” Wanda quips.
“What effect?” you cry, letting what’s left of your breakfast clatter to the table.
“Come on,” Sam starts, observing you closely with a hopeful smile beaming although obscured. “You know you turn into a dopey idiot when RoboCop comes around, right?”
“Don’t call him that,” you mutter, a little quieter. “And I do not. We’re grown-ups, Sam. Who are together. In an adult relationship.”
“‘M not saying you’re not,” Sam shrugs. “I just…” He squints. “I need to hear you say it. You can’t seriously not see it, I’m concerned.”
“I don’t need your concern,” you argue. “And I don’t know what you want me to say.”
“You’re a competent person,” Sam starts.
“Thank you,” you deadpan.
“Normally. And then… Bucky, like, smiles at you, and you get all… gooey.”
Your brows pull together. “What does that mean?”
Immediately, all of your friends fall into an array of “gooey.” Natasha stares up at the ceiling with doe eyes while Sam fans himself, falling over the counter. Even Wanda has cradled her chin in her palm.
“You guys are awful,” you declare.
“I should film your interactions,” Sam says in turn. “Are we awful… or are we accurate?”
“You’re awful,” you respond promptly. “And I genuinely can’t see where you’re getting this from because--”
“Hello.” Bucky.
The show begins.
He catches your eye and smiles, eyes crinkling in a promise that it’s genuine.
Your reaction is immediate, features melting like butter in the sun at his appearance. “Hi.” You straighten and blink fast, clearing your throat. “Hi. Hello, Bucky.”
He raises an eyebrow and says hello again, curved in amusement. When he says your name, it’s devastating.
The others can see it happen, the moment your resolve begin to crumble in unsteady hands and trickle into Bucky’s. He sidles up next to you, familiar, wonderful heat kissing a bare stripe of your skin. Pathetically, you freeze up. It’s only for a moment because it’s him, because you’re overwhelmed, because your ribcage feels like it’s closing in around your heart, a shocking heat at the bottom of your stomach, but the team notices anyway, sharing a distinct look you can sense.
You turn to him, that line of itchy warmth crawling up your nose and into your eyes. He’s very pretty up close, eyes a green below ocean and smile a notch above cocky.
“You look nice,” he says casually, brushing his lips right below your eye.
“Thank you,” you breathe. He’s done this so many times, and not once has it dimmed your reaction. He looks at you like he’s proud of the fact and squeezes your hip. You feel as though he wants to kill you. “You.. you too.”
Unexpectedly, he dips down int the dip between your shoulder and your neck, his chin grazing your necklace. “Why’s everyone staring at us?”
You’re a little dizzy. With him, it’s like your surroundings are heightened and gone all at the same time, like it’s just you and him and the lovely sparks beneath your skin. You shrug. “They’re perverts.”
Bucky laughs. “‘Course. I already knew that. Don’t know why I asked.” He steps away from you in favor of the coffeemaker, but you’re stuck in the few seconds before, reminiscing on the heat of his skin sticky on your collarbone. Like a sweet, awful honey.
Natasha raises an eyebrow at you, you frown; you just get so caught up in his eyes.
“C’mon.” Bucky’s hand wraps around your wrist, tugging you from the kitchen and away from prying eyes. He has a mug in his fingers. One of yours, with a grinning Garfield dragging something along a faded white background.
“Do you know,” you start finally, standing close to him in the elevator, “that our friends think I act weird around you?”
“How so?”
“Gooey. That I go gooey around you.”
“Gooey?” he repeats thoughtfully, a canine concaving his bottom lip. “You? No.”
“That’s what I said.”
“Good,” he says. “‘Cuz that’s ridiculous,” he murmurs, leaning in to kiss you. As if expecting something, a hand goes to support the dip of your back quickly.
“Yeah,” you mutter indignantly, leaning into him. “Yeah…”
It’s love, you think. Prickly, overwhelming love that makes you want to hold his face in your hands and kiss him till you can’t breathe, and the cost of the image is the cost of the action when it comes to him.
He hums against your lips, grinning at you when you pull away. “You do this on purpose,” you accuse, its bite harmless with your breathlessness.
His pupils bounce between your features, his shoulders jumping with a shrug. “Dunno what you’re talking about.” He kisses you again, that same heat that stifles you crawling up his neck.
“Liar,” you croak.
Maybe, he thinks.