Chapter Text
“What’s the best way to kill a person if I’m stabbing them in the chest?” you ask absently, curled in your chair, one leg tucked under you and the other swinging slowly. Bucky looks at you from across the table, amusement and vague curiosity glimmering in his eyes.
“Go between the fourth and fifth ribs on the left side.” Your only response is an acknowledging noise, and he arches a brow rather eloquently. “Should I be concerned?”
“What about?” and you spare enough of a moment to flash him a carefree grin over the rim of your coffee mug, “You’re not anyone I’d ever want to kill.”
His laughter isn’t verbal, but it sparkles beautifully in his smile. “And who do you want to kill?”
“Oh,” you draw out the word, and leave it at that. Across the table, Bucky snorts quietly to himself, returning his attention to the book in his hands.
***
“Hey, Bucky!” You wave him over from across the room, interrupting his conversation with Steve and not really caring enough to do more than wave at the blonde man, too. Steve returns the wave with a small smile, touching Bucky lightly on the shoulder before moving away.
Bucky saunters over, hands in his pockets, loose strands of hair falling in his face. It’s a constant battle against your urge to wipe the strands from his eyes, and you’re sure he knows it. He just always seems to know . “Hey, doll. Have another question?”
Because that’s nearly the extent of your relationship, your odd questions and his specific answers and curious retorts. Which is fine; you’ve not known him long enough for your relationship to be anything else.
“Yeah, how would you kill a person but make it look like an accident?”
A considering look settles over his face. “What resources are you working with?”
“Something simple, please.”
“Syringe.” He holds out his hand, showing you his fingers. “Beneath the nail here; it’ll look like a heart attack and most medical examiners don’t look for track marks unless there’s been a history of drug use.”
You absorb it all with the memory of a diligent student. “And what’s in the syringe?”
“Air.”
Oh, right. You’d read about that somewhere, once. “Perfect. Thanks!” You offer another wave and bound off, wondering gleefully if he’s confused or just curious, or perhaps just amused.
***
“Hey, doll.”
You hadn’t expected him to be grabbing coffee from this floor’s kitchen so late at night, but alas. “Hey, Bucky.”
His intelligent eyes track you as you prepare your own mug. “Working late?”
“Work days for Stark never end,” which isn’t quite true, but it’s certainly a known fact that the man himself works odd hours, and his employees may, as well, if they wish.
Bucky tips his head in understanding. “Killed anyone lately?”
You smirk at him as you bring the mug to your mouth, testing the temperature. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”
He snorts quietly. “I know you wouldn’t tell me.”
“One doesn’t kill and tell, Mister Barnes.”
He just hums into his own mug, and you bask in a moment of amused togetherness, the rest of the floor silent and dark as the city slumbers around you.
***
Your hand trembles as you hold the phone to your ear. He picks up on the second ring. “Hello?”
“Hey, Bucky.” You try to keep the tremble from your voice, too, and don’t quite succeed. “I have a question.”
“Yes?” He’s alert, you can hear it in his voice, alert and calculating and dangerous.
You swallow, staring at the decidedly horrible situation in front of you. “How do you get rid of a body and all evidence?”
Silence. And then he exhales softly, probably already figuring out what happened because he just knows these things. “I’ll come explain in person.”
He arrives ten minutes later, hands in his pockets, loose strands of hair falling into his face. You’d brush them out of the way if your own hands weren’t covered in blood. His eyes move over the body prone on your floor, the chopping knife you’d grabbed in a blind panic, the gun laying forgotten in the middle of the kitchen. And then he looks at you, and you grin as best you can, not sure what to do and trying not to burst into tears.
“Between the fourth and fifth ribs, right?”
And his lips curl up, laughter breaking from him as a snort. “Let’s get to work.”