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Two weeks into this whole Avengers thing, Bucky finds himself still operating in containment mode.
Mostly in an effort to keep his sanity in check.
He understands what this whole thing is about. New base. New routines. New people, who are also inexplicably very comfortable touching his stuff. Everyone means well, but they still manage to disrupt his entire sense of order without fail. And he gets it, really - that they’re all adjusting to this arrangement. Learning what it means to coexist with others in a place too big in some areas, too small in others. Trying to act like a cohesive team instead of individual operatives thrown together in a single space.
And that’s why Bucky keeps his room spare, his drawers well-organized, his clothes folded the exact same way every time - because those are among the very few things he could still control in this place.
(Unless he resorts to tying the rest of them again with the ropes and the Chitauri handcuffs he definitely does not keep within arm’s reach in his drawer - just so they’d do exactly what he wanted them to do. Which was mostly sit still and shut the fuck up.
Except no, that’s not an option he could resort to.
Yet.
Also, no, he did not just think that for the thirtieth time this week, and no one can make him admit that he did.)
So, yes. He kept to his usual routines and rhythms in the Watchtower because they felt predictable. Comfortable.
Safe.
Which is why the case of the first missing shirt immediately pisses him off.
He notices it while he’s folding his laundry. He knows his things, knows exactly how many he put in the machine, knows how many should naturally come out of it hours later. One. Two. Three—
Then he stops.
Frowns.
Then counts them again.
Three.
He should be counting up to four.
So Bucky checks the washer. The dryer. The counter. Even the space behind the machines because who knows, the missing shirt - a black long-sleeved one - might have flown or fallen in there by itself for some reason. Except–
–nothing.
Bucky exhales through his nose and tells himself someone probably grabbed it by mistake. Comes with communal living. Many hands, limited laundry machines. Adjust, adjust, adjust.
Fine. It was fucking annoying, but fine. He’d survived worse things; he can live through losing a goddamned shirt.
The second time it happens, though, his patience frays, but he fights hard to keep it in check. Still could’ve been an accident, he convinces himself, breathing slow, almost methodically. Someone picked up his shirt and threw it in their closet with the rest of their things without meaning to. Best case scenario: his grey shirt’s bound to turn up in the Watchtower somewhere. Preferably clean and still in one piece.
The third fucking time, not even a full week later, he stands in the laundry room staring at an empty dryer long enough that the machine beeps at him for no goddamn reason.
And this is when Bucky comes to an awful realization:
It’s not random.
It’s not an accident.
On the contrary - he was being targeted.
More specifically, his possessions were.
Because it’s the same kind of shirt every time. Long-sleeved. Soft. Broken-in. The old, familiar ones he’d bought himself so long ago. The ones that somehow survived the worst moments in his life, including being blipped for five goddamned years, without being eaten by moths or succumbing to molds or however else clothes disintegrate these days.
Obviously, he would like to have them back.
By any means necessary.
So he leaves the laundry room, already feeling tense. Angry. Forget about keeping the peace. Forget about patience. He’s going to get answers, and there are exactly two idiots in the tower he could take them from.
Fortunately, both John and Bob were in the gym when he arrived. John’s wrapping his hands, yapping about the importance of endurance, and Bob’s nodding along, acting like his body isn’t 1000% more durable than John’s. Or Bucky’s. Except Bucky refrains from thinking about that now.
“Either of you take one of my shirts by mistake?” he asks them straight up, because politeness be damned.
John glances at him, startled. “What? No! They’re smaller than mine.”
Bob frowns. “Why do you think we’re taking your shirts?”
“Because they keep disappearing in the laundry room,” Bucky says flatly. “And I don’t lose things.”
“First time for everything, huh?”
And Bucky glares at John.
Who quickly wipes the smirk off his face and clears his throat. “I mean… you’re sure the dryers here don’t just eat stuff?”
“Ooh, yes. Like socks,” Bob pipes up. “Every dryer in the world does that, right? I mean, why–”
“Not here, they don’t,” Bucky cuts in immediately. “I already checked. Thrice.”
John raises his brow at him, crosses his arms. “Well… then I don’t know what to tell you, Barnes, because I sure as hell didn’t take them.”
Fair enough. Bucky then turns to Bob.
Who lifts both hands without question and says, “I swear, I haven’t touched your clothes, man. The thought didn’t even cross my mind.”
They both look annoyingly sincere about their responses, too.
Bucky exhales through his nose, frustration still coiled tight in his chest. “Okay. Fine.”
Except it’s not fine, because this confrontation doesn’t resolve anything.
And the thing is, he can’t even ask Alexei about it because obviously, the Russian’s too big and his taste too questionable to even be interested in Bucky’s shirts.
Which leaves the girls.
Or a ghost haunting the tower.
And he doesn’t believe it’s either.
He stalks out of the gym, still irritated, still wound the fuck up, but already coming to terms with the uncomfortable truth that maybe this is just another thing he has to get used to. Maybe he was just meant to lose his shirts for no goddamned reason. Maybe–
Bucky walks into the common room.
And sees Ava perched on one of the stools by the counter, knee drawn up, sipping something out of a chipped mug while browsing something on her tablet.
Which was normal, because Ava lives here, with them.
But Bucky positively, absolutely freezes in his tracks upon seeing her anyway. His irritation derails so fast it’s almost funny. His brain? Goes completely, horrifyingly blank.
Because what’s not normal?
Is her wearing his missing long-sleeved maroon shirt.
And no, it’s not ‘similar.’ It’s not even a case of ‘wow that looks eerily like one of mine.’ It’s his, 1000%. Bucky’s worn that shirt long enough that he knows the way the collar sits slightly uneven around the neck. Knows the faded details along one sleeve. Knows the exact spots where the red looks off because the fabric’s gone thinner there over the years of wash and wear.
Ava glances up, seemingly sensing his presence. “Hey. What’s up?”
He opens his mouth.
Closes it.
“Uh. Where did you get that?” he finally manages.
She looks down at her mug at first. “You mean the tea?”
“No. No. The–” Bucky places both hands on his hips. “The shirt.”
“Oh.” She looks down again, then tugs absently at the hem and shrugs. “Nabbed it from the laundry room. It was clean.”
“--Oh,” he echoes at her. “Right.”
He should say something. He should address it. He should tell her that it’s his, and, you know, do literally anything else other than stand there and look at her like an idiot.
Ava frowns at him and asks, “You all right, there?”
“No.” The answer slips out before he can stop it. Better start with stating the obvious, then. “It’s just– that’s my shirt.”
“Oh.” She nods and adds, “Okay.”
He’s not fond of how casually she said that.
It was almost… dismissive.
“You’re wearing my shirt,” he rephrases, just in case something’s not clicking. “Right now. In front of me.”
Ava tilts her head. “I mean, yeah, I am. I have. A few of them, actually.”
“A few,” he repeats. Blankly.
“They’re really warm and comfortable,” she adds, like that explains and excuses everything. “I must say, you have good taste.”
His jaw tightens, but he reins himself in. He takes a breath. Another. Then counts to five in his head, because apparently he’s actively negotiating for custody of his own clothes now.
“Okay,” he says carefully. “Okay, so. Here’s the thing, Ava. I really don’t mind—” this is a goddamned lie, by the way, “—sharing my things, but I need to know if and when my stuff is taken. Because I thought someone was purposely stealing from me, and I don’t like it one bit.”
She furrows her brows at him. “Oh. Well, I didn’t think you’d notice.”
He shakes his head. What an odd response. “They’re my clothes,” he says. “Of course I’d notice if they suddenly go missing.”
“Right. Of course.” She shrugs, unapologetic but not defensive, either. “It’s just that, out of all of them, you have the best shirts, so.”
That?
That is beside the point.
And is not helping the situation at all.
“So, what. You’ve just been sampling shirts from the laundry room and then taking the ones you like?”
“I’ll return them,” she says, standing to refill her mug with hot water. “Eventually. Don’t worry about it.”
Bucky starts massaging the space between his eyes because this is… what is even this conversation and why is he the one handling it? “It’s not about returning them.” Well, actually it is, but. “It’s about taking them in the first place without even asking. Because there’s a thing called ‘courtesy,’ Ava. Otherwise known as ‘not stealing.’ And I don’t think either of those is a foreign concept to you.”
“I wasn’t stealing,” she scoffs. “I was borrowing. Indefinitely.”
He crosses his arms. “Borrowing implies consent.”
She nods again. “You know what else it implies? The owner getting it back.”
Bucky stares at her.
She stares right back at him.
It goes on for so long that he starts to wonder if he should take out the Chitauri handcuffs as some sort of not-so-veiled threat against her.
But, before he can even fantasize about it more, she eventually folds and rolls her eyes. “All right, fine. Next time I take one, I’ll make sure to ask you first. You can stop being dramatic about it now.”
“Next time,” he repeats. Flatly.
“Well, yes.” Ava shrugs. “I really like them. I said that already, right? Besides, you’ve got like, a hundred.”
“Twelve. I have exactly twelve of them. Well, nine now, because you took three.”
“Then don’t you think it’s time to buy more? Before you run low?” she suggests. Very, very helpfully.
And Bucky just.
Sighs. “Ava–”
And she just laughs at his pain. “I’m kidding. I’m going to stop taking your stuff without your permission. You have my word, Sergeant.”
And to her credit, she does stop taking his shirts without asking him first.
Meaning the whole thing actually stops being Bucky’s problem.
It does become John’s, however.
The man catches Bucky having coffee at the kitchen counter, looking like a person who’s been busy looking for something. Bucky should know; he’d been wearing that expression for literally days before he discovered Ava’s tendency to suddenly ‘borrow’ things from the laundry room without telling anyone.
“You, uh. You ever find out who’s been taking your shirts?” John asks him a bit awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck as he does. “Because I’m pretty sure my college hoodie’s been missing lately.”
Bucky stares at him.
Wonders if he should point John in Ava’s direction, even though he’s unsure the woman’s actually responsible for this incident. Because who knows, maybe she isn’t. Maybe this time, it was John being irresponsible, and not Ava being–
And then, even before he could continue that thought, Yelena stomps into the kitchen, looking about ready to commit mass murder so early in the morning. Behind her, Bob shuffles in ever so quietly - a stark contrast to Yelena’s temper.
“Okay, so which of you dipshits took my favorite sweatpants?” she demands, even before checking who she was actually talking to. “The one with the many pockets?”
John turns to face her. “Why the fuck would you think we took your sweatpants? Have you seen how tiny you are? I don’t think your pants would even go up one of my legs, let alone both.”
And Yelena practically snarls at him, “I’m telling you, Walker, insulting me today? Is exactly how you lose those kneecaps.”
“Then try me, you little piece of–”
And before he even knows what’s happening, Bucky’s already standing between the two of them, trying to de-escalate the extremely tense situation between a Widow and a Super Soldier.
All before 9-fucking-AM.
“Walker. Yelena. Settle down before–”
“Wow. You’re all so bloody noisy this morning.”
Then Ava phases in beside the refrigerator, entirely unconcerned. She immediately goes to the cupboard, rummaging through it for her chipped mug.
No one says anything.
The silence stretches. Uncomfortably.
Then, as if finally noticing it, she turns to them and asks, “What?”
And then…
…the yelling starts.
“That’s my hoodie!” John exclaims.
The exact same time Yelena shrieks and points, “My sweatpants!”
Ava looks down at herself. Then, at John and Yelena.
Then she turns her attention to Bucky and demands, “You told them?”
Wait. What? Why is he suddenly in this conversation? “What? No! I didn’t–”
“Take those sweatpants off, Ava! Now! I want them back!” Yelena says, advancing towards Ava.
“Hoodie too, Ghost Lady!” John adds, following Yelena’s lead. “I need that today!”
“Oh, for god’s sake,” Ava says under her breath, eyes moving from John to Yelena then back again, as if assessing which of them poses more danger to her.
Except she just turns and runs through the other wall, effectively disappearing from the kitchen.
John’s mouth drops open. “Goddamnit, that’s cheating!”
“You’re not running away from us that easily, you fucking thief!” Yelena calls after her, moments before she and John bolt out the kitchen door.
Leaving Bucky and Bob in the kitchen.
Despite actually not doing anything, Bucky feels as though he’s just run a marathon - all from witnessing the scene. So he returns to his seat near the counter and just.
Sighs.
Bob settles in front of him and quietly asks, “So, is Ava the one who took your shirts, too?”
He glances at Bob and says, flatly, “Yeah.”
“Oh.” Bob blinks. “This… this is going to be a problem, isn’t it?”
Well.
They could all sit down and discuss the issue like real adults. Have Ava commit to no longer taking clothes from any of them without permission - the way he was able to convince her not to take any of his.
Or they could all just accept the unavoidable fact that the Watchtower has developed a new security threat: one that phases through walls, ignores personal boundaries, and exclusively targets soft, comfortable fabrics left alone and helpless in the laundry room.
Bucky rubs the area between his eyes, already knowing that Ava Starr was actually going to be a big problem.
For him.
“Yeah,” he tells Bob, resigning himself to the fact. “Yeah, it is.”