Work Text:
The Watchtower sinks into something quieter at night. The kind of quiet that has weight. The kind of quiet that Ava hates.
It somehow reminds her of old laboratories, when the researchers and scientists had gone home, leaving her at the mercy of beeping noises and bright lights and machines that studied her, even during sleep.
Maybe that’s why she rarely does.
So, she steps out of her room and wanders barefoot, quite enjoying the feel of the cold, solid floor under her skin. Ava walks past the briefing and weapons quarters, without really a destination in mind, but finds herself being pulled into the common area anyway. Maybe there she can watch TV, or look out the window and watch the world move at night, or something. Anything to keep her mind off the quiet.
She expects the common room to be empty.
It isn’t.
Instead, there’s a faint pool of yellow light spilling out from one of the corner couches. Someone’s sitting there, boots off, a mug cooling on the table beside him.
Bucky.
Of course.
Ava exhales softly through her nose, feeling inexplicably annoyed. He hasn’t looked up yet; she can phase through the wall to her right and pretend she never intruded on his peace. And maybe she should; he was there first. He has a right not to be disturbed by anyone, especially her.
But something about the picture he presents pins her in place anyway.
He seems to be reading something small, not some military file or report. She squints, realizing he’s holding a well-worn paperback in his hands. Something that looks… well, old.
He turns another page, seemingly engrossed by the content.
Eh. Might as well.
“Didn’t peg you for the bedtime story type,” she finally speaks, breaking the silence.
He doesn’t startle, but his head turns slightly, blue eyes flicking up to her in the dim light. “Didn’t peg you for the talking to me type,” he murmurs.
She smiles, despite herself.
Touché.
Ava moves closer anyway, curiosity outweighing her instinct to keep distance. “What are you reading?”
He flips the book closed, thumb marking the page. “The Hobbit.”
“The one with the dragon?”
“That’s the one.” He nods, voice quieter now.
Well.
All right, then.
And Ava internally debates - again - whether to retreat to her room or to stay.
It would be easier to leave. She’s always been good at walking away, at disappearing when things start getting a bit uncomfortable. And honestly? It’s starting to get uncomfortable.
Still, her feet stubbornly refuse to move.
Out of the others, Bucky just seems so hard to read. Walker might be fucking annoying at times, but at least the man seems fairly straightforward - and so is baiting him. Yelena has a tendency to speak before being spoken to, which often sets the tone of their conversations. She hasn’t had a ton of chances to talk with Alexei, but Ava can imagine - with a wince - how their encounters might go. And Bob? Can be quiet most of the time, but she finds herself at ease around him anyway.
Bucky’s none of those.
Which she supposes is intentional on his part.
Except who’s she to judge? It’s not like she’s winning friendship contests in the tower either. She’s not exactly the type to invite conversations from anyone, at any rate.
Ava’s about to turn back when he speaks again, “There’s hot water for tea in the kettle, if you want.”
…oh.
Well, she isn’t about to say no to a cup of tea now, is she?
She moves to the kitchen and makes herself a cup. It perks her up immediately.
Then she's padding back to the common area, intending to just cross it and go back to her room, when Bucky addresses her: “I thought you’d have gone with Bob and Yelena.”
He isn’t looking at her, but Ava finds herself shaking her head anyway. “Oh, no. I’m not sure what Yelena’s plans were with Bob tonight, but I doubt I’d enjoy them. Knowing her? They'd involve a lot of noise.” And she has enough of those in her head, thank you.
“Hm.”
She inclines her head. “You didn’t go out with Walker and Alexei?”
A beat.
“Me,” he says dryly. “Go out. With Walker. And Alexei.”
Ava can’t help it; she laughs. “All right, sorry. Does sound like an awful way to spend the night, doesn’t it?”
“I don’t think ‘awful’ is enough to cover it.” But he’s actually smiling a little now, and for a moment it surprises her - the way the expression softens his face, the faint lines around his eyes deepening into something that looks… kind.
The silence that follows isn’t uncomfortable this time. It settles between them, lighter than before.
It’s enough to get her to drift closer, settling on the far end of the couch opposite his, feet tucked in. Ava tells herself she’ll only stay for as long as she has a cup to sip. She isn’t in any hurry to go back to the quiet stillness in her room, anyway.
And to Bucky’s benefit, he doesn’t seem irritated by her presence.
Unless he keeps that well under wraps, too.
But he just kept his attention on his book, while she kept hers on the window behind her. Just so he won’t think her a creep for watching him.
Then, “Do you like to read?”
It startles her to realize that she’d asked the question out loud.
Bucky glances at her. “This one, I do,” he replies easily. Then, after a few moments, he adds, “You?”
The question shouldn’t catch her off guard.
It does, anyway.
Ava looks into her cup like she’ll be able to find the answers there. Quietly, she replies, “I don’t know.”
And before he can say anything, she adds, “I remember doing it before. I remember liking it before. But, now? I honestly can’t say.”
He doesn’t respond right away. The silence stretches, unhurried, but not unbearable. She can feel his attention on her, steady and searching, as though he’s weighing something.
Then he asks, just as softly, “Well, what do you like, Ava?”
And again, she freezes. And not just at Bucky’s serious expression.
But because it’s a question she hasn’t asked herself for a long, long time.
The replies in her head sound so stupid, even to her. She likes tea. She likes laughing with Yelena. She especially likes needling Walker. But those are all fleeting moments, and they don’t matter in the long run. She likes them, all right. But she can go on living even without them.
“I like–” Ava starts, “--not being in pain.”
He doesn’t say anything.
And now she feels absurdly, horribly embarrassed, because obviously he isn’t asking about that kind of thing. He’s just trying to make casual conversation, and she goes on to say something heavy and unprompted like that.
She can really be a proper idiot sometimes.
But then he exhales, low and steady, and replies, “I get that.”
And she frowns at him. Her gaze slides to his metal hand and asks, “Do you mean your arm or…?”
He shrugs. “Not all pain’s physical,” Bucky replies, like it’s the most casual, normal thing in the world.
Ava studies him for a moment - the way his thumb traces the edge of the book, eyes distant, like he’s watching something only he can see. The lamplight catches the fine lines on his face, the uneven glint of metal at his wrist.
She wants to ask what he means, but stops herself at the last moment.
Not all things need to be explained anyway.
Still, she finds it in herself to inquire, “So what do you do? When things get bad?”
“I walk. Clean things. Run. But mostly?” He raises the book in his hand. “I read. Especially at night. It helps calm the noise, sometimes. Makes it easier to handle.”
Ava raises a brow at him. “Tolkien does that?”
Bucky replies, “Believe it or not, yeah. I like the story. The way Bilbo just keeps going with the dwarves. Little guy, big world. A dragon at the end. They keep walking, anyway.”
She looks at the cover, the creased spine, and frowns. “Sounds exhausting.”
“Probably was,” he admits, closing the book to study its covers, “but they still made it.”
“Ugh,” she says, wrinkling her nose. It surprises him enough to make him look at her, so she continues, “Thanks for the spoiler.”
Bucky grins at that. “I’m allowed to. It’s been around for almost a century, come on.”
It’s a small thing, but the sight of his grin loosens something in Ava’s chest. His expression fades quickly, but lingers long enough for her to realize she likes the way it looks on him.
“Besides,” he continues, “you read it for the journey, not the ending. Or at least, that’s how I do it.”
Ava sips her tea before teasing, “Now that’s a very book club thing to say, Congressman Barnes.”
“Then read it yourself,” Bucky tells her, “and maybe I’ll invite you to my next one.”
She rolls her eyes, hiding a smile behind her mug. The silence that settles between them this time feels… easy. Companionable, even. It makes the Watchtower feel not as heavy as before - like it’s muted to a background noise she can live with, for once.
Ava sighs. “Maybe I will heed your wise words,” she tells him, “and try reading again. But maybe not Tolkien. Maybe not something as… old.”
He narrows his eyes at her. “His works are a classic for a reason, Ava.”
“You mean aside from existing for more than a hundred years?” she asks him, grinning openly.
She’d never once thought that Bucky, of all people, could be easy to bait, but here they were.
“Almost a century, not more than,” he corrects her. “As Yelena loves reminding me: Googling is free, you know.”
“Wow,” Ava says. “This really coming from you, huh?”
He shakes his head and opens the book, though she does hear him mutter, “Impossible.”
She pretends to take offense. “I think you mean delightful. Thank you.”
He doesn’t look up from the page, but there’s a small, telltale twitch at the corner of his mouth. “You keep telling yourself that.”
Ava hums, taking another sip of tea that’s gone lukewarm. It still feels strange, seeing him like this firsthand. Not the Winter Soldier, not the New Avengers' leader, not even the man carrying a lifetime’s worth of pain and noise. Tonight he’s just Bucky. Sitting barefoot on a couch, reading Tolkien by lamplight.
It feels fragile somehow - this stillness, this version of him - and she almost doesn’t want to break it.
But it’s late, and she knows she’s stayed in his quiet for a little too long now.
“Well,” she says, reluctantly moving to her feet. “Guess I’ll leave you to frolic with your hairy-footed hobbits, then.”
Then she turns to go, tea mug in hand, ready to leave him to his peace.
Except he breaks the silence with a simple, “Ava.”
She glances back.
“If you ever want to talk,” he tells her over his shoulder, his tone and expression serious again, “I’m usually awake.”
And sadly, so is she.
But she doesn't say that. Ava just nods once. “I might take you up on that.”
Maybe even sooner than later.