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You’re off duty. It’s a quiet night, a rare moment of peace where New York or any other place on the planet isn’t facing some impending danger.
So here you are in your quaint Brooklyn flat, rather than your designated room in the Avengers Tower in order to maintain this temporary peace all to yourself. No ongoing missions, no super enhanced roommates, no interfering AI (though you know JARVIS means well).
Curled up on the sofa, there’s some mediocre action movie playing on the TV screen as you nurse a bowl of your chosen snack. The last few weeks have been rough—tactical work on the field always is.
Your body can feel the exertion taking a toll on your limbs now as you sink further into the couch cushions with a sigh. Honestly, you’re tempted to doze off right here and now when suddenly, something proves that your peace is indeed temporary.
A knock sounds at the door.
You stir, a frown on your lips as you glance at the source of the noise. You hadn’t been expecting anyone, certainly not at this hour. You mutter, “Who the hell…”
You set aside your bowl on the coffee table and reach for your handgun you had placed aside. (What? One can never be too careful in this sort of profession.)
Not bothering to turn the TV off, you creep towards the front door and peek through the eyehole for a person—only to be met with the sight of something even worse.
It’s Bucky.
James Buchanan Barnes, the formidable Winter Soldier turned redeemed Avenger, a force to be reckoned with in the throes of combat. Though, you know him as something else entirely.
A pain in the ass.
You don’t even remember how it started. Ever since you joined the team, he’s been on your nerves. From criticizing your performance during missions to making teasing comments when you’re minding your own business in the Tower.
(It doesn’t help that he looks damn good when doing it, but hey, no one heard that from you.)
With an exasperated sigh, you unlock the door and swing it open, fixing him with an unamused expression. “What the hell are you doing here, Bucky?”
He looks a little worse for wear. You remember that he had been assigned a long mission a while ago, which it seems like he had finally wrapped up considering the fact that he’s still clad in his gear. His metal arm is definitely dirty, but it still gleams somewhat due to the hallway light from above. His hair is messy and there’s a few cuts on his face.
(He still looks good. Unsurprisingly.)
“Hey, sweetheart,” Bucky simply greets, a ghost of a smirk curling on his lips as he leans on your doorframe. You’re tempted to shut the door right in his stupid handsome face... but then you notice he’s clutching his side with his flesh arm and— shit, he’s bleeding. “You gonna let me in or what?”
You blink hard in disbelief. Disbelief that one: he had come to you out of all people after getting injured apparently, and two: that he had gotten injured in the first place. Now you know he isn’t invincible, but it still takes you by surprise.
“There better be a good explanation for this,” you grumble under your breath, swinging the door open wider to make way for him.
Bucky eyes the gun still in your hand. “Hope you aren’t looking to put me out of my misery and using that on me,” he remarks dryly as he makes his way inside, still clutching the bloody side of his abdomen.
You roll your eyes and shut the door promptly, but not without casting a surveying glance outside just to ensure that he hadn’t been followed. You doubt it ‘cause it’s Bucky, but again, one can’t be too careful.
Bucky makes his way to your sofa, and you internally cringe knowing all the grime and dirt he’s going to leave on it.
He’s only been in your apartment once. A few months ago, when he had insisted on walking you home himself after a night out with the rest of the team drinking. Vaguely, you remembered through your headache the following morning of him helping you into your apartment and tucking you into bed.
(He hadn’t brought it up afterwards, so you didn’t too.)
“Do not sit your filthy ass on my couch, Barnes,” you stop him before he can do such a thing, and he turns to offer you a glare. His icy gaze is enough for you to feel the chills, but you point to another door.
“Bathroom,” you inform, “I have first aid in there.”
With a grunt, the super soldier trudges over to the door. Before you follow him, you toss the handgun back on the coffee table. He’s taking in the appearance of your bathroom when you join him inside. He meets your eyes in the mirror, and you can tell he’s about to say something.
Before he can though, you forcefully make him sit down on to the toilet seat, to which he blinks up at you with that same icy stare.
“Care to tell me why you’re here?” you pry with a slight frown. You can feel his eyes lingering on you whilst you open a cabinet for the required items for first aid.
“The end of the mission just went differently than expected,” Bucky says curtly with a shrug. However, with the movement of his shoulders causes a strained hiss of pain to emit from him.
You set aside some of the things—alcohol, wipes, some gauze—to meet his awaiting stare. “That’s not what I meant, Bucky,” you reply in a quiet tone, your brows coming to a furrow.
He blinks at you real slow.
“I meant.. why did you come here?” you ask more firmly, shaking your head, “I’m sure you can get patched up at the Tower. Or hell, maybe even a hospital nearby.”
Bucky is silent for a few heartbeats. “You were closer. Saved me the trouble,” he clarifies. He then adds, “Unless you want me to leave.”
For some reason, that last part irks you. You heave out a sigh. “No, you’re already here. As funny as it would be, I don’t think the team would appreciate you dying out on a street after I sent you away.”
His lips twitch into something of amusement. “Don’t know. I think Stark would find that pretty funny too.”
You almost laugh. You match his amused expression before tapping at his right arm that’s still applying pressure to whatever wound he has. “Lemme see.”
He gingerly moves his arm out of the way, but it’s hard to determine what the wound is with the gear still on. “Yeah, you’re gonna have to take this off, Barnes,” you comment, narrowing your eyes at the blood staining the material.
Bucky huffs but he begins tugging and removing the straps and buckles and whatnot. It’s a struggle considering the fact that he’s tired and injured—but touching him feels too awkward, too intimate.
Eventually, he removes the top part of his suit off with a grunt and— oh, he’s shirtless.
You try not to stare. Obviously it’s not the first time you’ve seen him shirtless. After some missions, days in the training room, in your dreams… but he can’t ever know that.
“That bad?”
His voice abruptly stirs you out of your staring. You can see the injury now—it looks like a bullet grazed his side just barely. You hum in acknowledgment, “Unfortunately, you’ll live.”
A hoarse chuckle leaves Bucky then. “You don’t sound so thrilled now, doll.”
You grab the bottle of isopropyl alcohol and some of the gauze you had placed near the sink to dab at the wound. He grits his teeth at the sting, but other than that, he doesn’t move.
“Oh trust me, I am beyond elated,” you retort, voice dripping with sarcasm. You try to focus on completing first aid, rather than the fact that you’re touching him—his bare skin.
Surprisingly, he doesn’t say anything in return. But honestly, you wish he would because you can feel his eyes burning into you. It’s almost unnerving. He lets you finish in silence. The quiet that fills the space of the bathroom is heavy but not uncomfortable. It’s just the sound of you cleaning and patching up his injury and his soft breathing. When you’re finished, you sigh.
Your eyes flicker upwards to his face, your lips flitting into a small frown to see his face still bruised and cut. Without another word, you start tending to that too.
Bucky blinks in brief surprise. “You don’t have to,” he says lowly, but he doesn’t protest any further nor move away from your touch.
A particular cut on his cheek makes him wince when you go over it, and absentmindedly, you grasp his chin to tilt his head back your way. He blinks hard again. “Stay still,” you chide, pursing your lips in concentration. He does just that.
Finally, you’re done. When you pause in your ministrations, your breath nearly catches in your throat as your eyes meet his. It’s only now do you realize just how close the two of you are with you leaning in. You can feel the warmth of his breath when he speaks. “Thanks,” he murmurs quietly into the very little space between you.
“I…” You don’t pull away, not yet. The stormy blue of his eyes up close like this is almost startling. And then you lean back. “Don’t mention it,” you brush off.
Bucky shifts on the toilet seat, eyes still watching you like a hawk as you fix and put away the first aid items away back in their place. “You gonna kick me out now?” he jests, something to ease the tension in the atmosphere.
At least, you think that’s what he’s trying to do. It works, however. “I’m sure you can show yourself out the door,” you retaliate. You turn back to glance at him. “Unless you need me to hold your hand.”
He rolls his eyes and stands with a grunt. “I think I can manage.”
Oh, fuck, he’s still shirtless—you blatantly realize as he rises to his full height. Suddenly the bathroom feels much smaller than it actually is. If it had been another time, you might’ve laughed since he looks so out of place standing there.
“Well,” you clear your throat, suddenly feeling awkward, “Have a good night, Barnes.”
Bucky shifts on his weight, his combat boots shuffling on the tiles. “That’s it?” he gets out gruffly.
You quirk up a brow. “So you do want me to hold your hand?”
At that, he puffs out a chuckle, tilting his head in a way that makes his hair frame his face. “Lemme borrow a shirt, at the very least. I don’t think putting my gear on again will be any good.”
It’s your turn to roll your eyes now as you head out of the bathroom. But he does have a point, so you start your way to the bedroom. “You owe me then. You’re going to stain one of my precious shirts,” you throw a teasing remark over your shoulder.
But he’s right on your heels, trailing after you. You didn’t think he’d been following so closely behind you, so you quickly look back ahead.
He hums aloud. “You’ll let me pay you back in some way.”
“Damn right.”
The two of you enter your bedroom and you make a beeline for one the dressers in search of a shirt that might fit him. Digging through the clothes, you’re still hyperaware of his presence standing by idly. You fish out an old tee that he might manage to fit in and hold it out to him.
Bucky takes it into his hands with a tilt of his head. “You’re being awfully kind to me, sweetheart,” he tells you. His comment prompts you to cross your arms.
“Well, you did insist on me helping you out,” you argue with a soft shake of your head.
Bucky only stares. “You still could’ve turned me away.”
“Look, I already told you,” you say, exasperated, “I might not like you but I’m not just gonna not do anything when you show up bleeding in my apartment like it’s a patient room or something.”
“Yeah?”
The man still makes no move to put the shirt on, unrelenting in his stare. (Sam is totally right about his staring problem.) It’s unnerving. Dare you say you can feel a flurry of butterflies stirring in your stomach under the weight of it.
“Yeah,” you breathe out.
Bucky closes the distance between you ever so slightly. “Thank you,” he affirms, the fabric of the shirt twisting in his grip, “I mean it. Really.”
His genuine gratitude almost makes you take a step back. Instead, you swallow and nod. “You said that already.”
“I did,” he agrees. He takes another step closer. You don’t move back.
But you blink—uncertain, cautious. “You’re acting strange.” You decide to be blunt and confront him on his current antics. His behavior tonight has confused you too much.
It’s the usual back and forth banter that happens between you—but something felt different… too intimate. The way he had showed up at your door, the proximity in the bathroom, this current confrontation right where you’re standing.
“Only on nights like this,” comes Bucky’s reply as he comes to stand right in front of you. He’s not as close as he was when you were patching him up, but enough to where you can smell the lingering alcohol you had used on his wound.
You blink at him. “Nights when you’re injured?”
Bucky puffs out a laugh. It’s a soft sound. But his next words catch you off guard. “Nights when you make it hard to hold back.”
What?
Your surprise must be colored all over your face because you can see the faintest of smirks on his lips. It stirs up another set of butterflies within you.
“Bucky, what the hell are you talking about?” you manage to inquire, trying to steel your nerves. If he’s implying what you think he’s implying, your heart feels like it’s about to leap out of your throat.
“I…” He trails off, his look shifting into something more serious. You can feel the heat of his breath again… but when had he gotten closer? He then murmurs, “Just let me thank you.”
His right hand brushes against the length of your arm, and you can feel the goosebumps he leaves along your skin as he does so. But you don’t pull away. You can’t.
“Put the damn shirt on already, Barnes,” you whisper. You don't even realize that your voice is quieter than you would’ve liked—not with roar of your heartbeat in your ears.
Something cheeky comes across his expression. His smirk returns, and there’s a flicker of mirth in his blue eyes. “I don’t think you want that.”
He’s right though.
You don’t.
“No,” you voice out your agreement.
Against your better judgment, your own hand comes up to tenderly dust your fingertips over his chest. His bare skin is warm and smooth to touch, even with all the scarring both old and new.
Bucky’s breath stutters. It’s a barely audible sound, but you hear it.
What the hell are you doing? Bucky drives you crazy and annoys you to no end—and until now, you thought it had been the same for him. (Turns out you had been driving him crazy in a different way.)
There’s a blooming sensation in your chest the longer you stare into Bucky’s eyes. The words leave your lips before you can think twice.
“I want you to kiss me.”
The world seems to stop for just a moment.
Your lips part in order to say something, anything… maybe to take back the words you had just uttered—before Bucky leans in and kisses you silly.
A groan resonates from his chest as he does. The shirt drops from his metal hand since you can feel the coolness of it cup your cheek, angling your head into the kiss with need.
Your hand mirrors his, feeling the stubble under your palm whilst your other hand allows its fingers to tangle themselves into the threads of his hair.
It’s a blur of what happens next—both of your feet are shuffling against the carpet as you stumble back with his persistence, the back of your knees hitting the edge of the bed and allowing the two of you to fall onto the mattress.
Bucky presses open-mouthed kisses down your jawline, a hefty laugh sketched onto your skin there. “And here I was, under the impression that you didn’t like me, sweetheart.” He refers to your earlier words.
You want to retort, but you’re a little distracted with the way his weight settles on top of you. God, and he’s still fucking shirtless. You huff, but it’s a fond noise.
He pulls back ever so slightly to look down at you. “Thank you,” he says for the nth time that night. The look in his eyes is enough to make you melt into the bed, but in a pleasant way.
“For what?”
Bucky’s smile radiates charm. For being a man out of time, he’s still got it. “For patching me up. For letting me kiss you. For.. being here for me.”
His unfiltered fondness has your heart thudding faster against your ribcage. Saying “you’re welcome” doesn’t feel right. Doesn’t feel enough. Not for Bucky—not when he’s looking at you like you’re the only thing that matters right now. So you say the next best thing.
“Shut up, Barnes.”
And then your fingers are curling into the nape of his neck to pull him down towards you for another breathless kiss.
Hm. Maybe you can get used to having the night off.