A Kiss Meant for Someone Else

The Avengers throw strange parties.

Not bad parties. Never bad, exactly. Just strange in the specific way only people who have fought aliens together can be strange.

There are fairy lights strung across industrial steel beams in the common room of the compound. Someone - probably Wanda - has made them glow warmer than they should. Music pulses through hidden speakers. Expensive bottles line the kitchen island beside a bowl of pretzels from a gas station because Tony Stark contains multitudes and terrible instincts.

Natasha Romanoff is in a black dress sharp enough to count as a weapon. Clint is losing a darts game on purpose to make Scott feel better. Thor is laughing loudly enough to shake glasses in the cabinet. Bruce is trying to explain something scientific to Peter, who is pretending to understand while clearly staring at the dessert table.

Sam Wilson looks offensively good in a dark button-down with the sleeves rolled to his elbows.

And Bucky Barnes is standing near the far wall like he would rather be almost anywhere else.

You notice him immediately.

You always do.

He’s dressed nicer than usual - dark slacks, fitted black shirt, sleeves down to his wrists. Hair tied back at the nape of his neck. Broad shoulders. Expression unreadable. One hand curled around a glass of something amber. The other, metal and gleaming faintly beneath the lights, relaxed at his side.

He isn’t talking much. He rarely does in crowds. But his eyes move constantly, taking in exits, windows, people, threats that aren’t threats.

And sometimes, without meaning to, they find you.

You tell yourself you imagine that part.

“You’re staring.”

You startle and turn to find Sam beside you, two drinks in hand and a smirk already loaded.

“I am not.”

“You are. Been doing it for three minutes.” He offers you a glass. “Ice helps denial go down easier.”

You take it. “I was looking around the room.”

“Mhm.”

“Shut up.”

“Can’t. Doctor said if I stop talking I’ll die.”

You snort despite yourself. Sam bumps your shoulder lightly.

“Go talk to him.”

“To who?”

“To the brooding sculpture by the wall.”

“I’m not talking about Bucky.”

Sam’s grin sharpens. “Interesting that you knew exactly who I meant.”

You hate that man.

Not really.

“I’m not doing this with you tonight.”

“Then do it with him.”

He walks away before you can insult him properly.

You take a long drink.

Across the room, Bucky glances over. His gaze catches yours for half a second.

Then he looks away first.

You had decided, several weeks ago, that you were into someone else.

It had seemed practical.

Harmless.

There was a new consultant working with the team - smart, funny, handsome in a polished sort of way. He flirted openly. Remembered details you mentioned. Complimented your clothes. Touched your elbow when he laughed.

The kind of interest that was easy to understand.

The kind that didn’t come wrapped in silences and sideways glances and a man who stood too close only when he thought you wouldn’t notice.

You told yourself liking him made sense.

You told yourself Bucky was just… Bucky.

Quiet. Protective in a general team way. Friendly in tiny, hard-earned pieces. Sometimes warm with you because you’d been patient long enough to reach the soft center he hid under scar tissue and steel.

You told yourself that the strange ache in your chest when he smiled at someone else was nothing.

You told yourself many things.

Tonight, your practical crush has his hand low on another woman’s back.

She’s laughing up at him near the bar.

He leans close to hear her over the music. Says something that makes her touch his chest.

Something ugly and immediate twists in your stomach.

“Oh no,” Sam says from somewhere behind you.

“Don’t start.”

“That’s not jealousy,” he says. “That’s bad decision face.”

“I don’t have a bad decision face.”

“You absolutely do.”

You keep staring at the consultant. He catches your eye and gives you a distracted little wave before turning back to the woman.

Your cheeks burn.

Humiliation arrives dressed as anger.

Fine.

Fine.

If he wants to flirt publicly, you can be public too.

You scan the room for the nearest option.

Your gaze lands on Bucky.

He’s already looking at you.

There is no time to examine why your pulse jumps.

You cross the room before common sense can catch up.

“Hey,” you say breathlessly when you reach him.

Bucky straightens. “Hey.”

His eyes flick over your face. Concern lines his brow.

“You okay?”

“Yep.”

“You don’t sound okay.”

“Need a favor.”

Something in his expression changes immediately - attention sharpening, body turning fully toward you.

“What kind of favor?”

You should stop.

You should laugh this off.

You should do anything except what you do next.

You grab the front of his shirt and kiss him.

The room does not go silent all at once.

It happens in ripples.

A dropped laugh. A cut-off sentence. Music still playing while everyone nearby freezes around it.

Your lips meet Bucky’s hard in a move born entirely from impulse and wounded pride.

For one stunned heartbeat, he doesn’t move.

Then his glass clinks onto the side table.

His flesh hand catches your waist.

And Bucky kisses you back.

Not cautiously.

Not politely.

Like he has been starving.

The sound you make embarrasses you instantly.

His mouth is warm and firm and devastatingly real. The hand at your waist tightens. His metal hand hovers near your ribs like he wants to touch you everywhere and nowhere at once.

You meant for this to be a performance.

Bucky kisses like there is no audience.

Like there is only you.

It lasts one second too long to be fake.

Two seconds too long to be harmless.

Then he jerks back as if burned.

The room explodes.

“OH, COME ON!” Sam yells somewhere to your left.

Thor cheers loudly.

Clint shouts, “I had fifty bucks on next month!”

Natasha cackles.

You stumble back, breathing hard.

Bucky looks at you like he doesn’t recognize the world anymore.

His lips are parted. Eyes wide. Chest rising sharply.

Then something shutters behind his face.

He steps away.

“Excuse me,” he says hoarsely to no one.

And walks out.

You laugh because everyone is staring.

It sounds wrong.

“Wow,” you say. “Okay. Dramatic.”

Natasha arches a brow. “You seem unwell.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re flushed,” Wanda says gently.

“It’s hot in here.”

“You kissed Barnes in front of forty people,” Clint says. “Temperature probably not the main issue.”

Sam is watching the doorway Bucky disappeared through.

Then he looks at you.

Not teasing now.

Something more complicated.

“Why’d you do that?” he asks quietly.

You open your mouth.

No answer comes that doesn’t sound ugly.

“I just -"

“Mhm.”

He takes your empty glass and sets it aside.

“You should probably go talk to him.”

“Why? It was a joke.”

Sam’s expression hardens in a way you rarely see.

“No,” he says. “It wasn’t.”

You do not go after Bucky.

Because you are a coward.

Also because the thought of facing him makes your stomach turn over.

You spend the next hour pretending to mingle.

Pretending you don’t notice he never comes back.

Pretending the consultant eventually drifts over to apologize for being distracted matters at all.

You smile at him and hear yourself say, “No worries.”

You realize, with slow horror, that you don’t care.

You never really cared.

You only cared that Bucky saw.

The knowledge lands heavy and undeniable.

You wanted him to react.

You wanted proof that your orbit around him wasn’t one-sided.

You wanted the impossible man by the wall to stop standing so still.

And when you kissed him -

He had.

God.

By midnight the party thins.

Thor has challenged three people to arm wrestling and lost interest halfway through each round. Bruce is carrying sleeping Peter toward the elevator. Natasha disappears with a wicked smile and someone else’s jacket.

You help stack cups just to have something to do.

Sam appears beside you holding a tray of untouched mini quiches.

“Need to talk?” he asks.

“No.”

“Liar.”

You keep stacking.

“I messed up.”

“Correct.”

“Thanks.”

“You want comfort or honesty?”

“Neither.”

“Too bad.” He sets the tray down. “You hurt him.”

You flinch.

“I didn’t mean to.”

“I know.”

“Then why does he look at me like I broke something?”

Sam studies you for a long moment.

“Because maybe you did.”

He leaves before you can ask what that means.

You find Bucky an hour later because you know where he goes when things get too loud.

The training wing is dark except for a single strip of overhead lights.

He’s in the empty gym, sitting on the floor with his back against the wall, knees bent, forearms resting over them. Shirt sleeves rolled up now. Metal arm bare in the low light.

He doesn’t look up when you enter.

“Bucky.”

“You should be at the party.”

“It’s over.”

“Good.”

You hover near the mat.

“Can we talk?”

“Depends.”

“On what?”

“If you’re here to apologize because Sam told you to.”

“He didn’t tell me to apologize.”

“Then you came on your own?”

“Yes.”

He finally looks up.

The hurt in his face is worse than anger would have been.

“That’s almost worse.”

Your throat tightens. “Why are you being like this?”

He laughs once. Short, bitter.

“Being like what?”

“Cold. I kissed you, okay? I know it was stupid, but you kissed me back.”

His jaw flexes.

“Yeah.”

“So why are you acting like I slapped you?”

He rises in one smooth motion.

You forget how physically imposing he is until he’s standing close and furious and trying very hard not to be.

“Because,” he says quietly, “you don’t get to kiss me like that and act like it meant nothing.”

The room goes still.

You stare at him.

“Bucky…”

“You grabbed me to make somebody else jealous.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because I watch you.”

The words slip out raw.

He seems to hear them only after they’re spoken.

His face closes instantly.

But it’s too late.

You heard.

“You watch me?” you whisper.

He turns away.

“Forget it.”

“No.”

You step in front of him.

“No, you don’t get to say that and walk away.”

His eyes flash. “Funny.”

“Tell me what you meant.”

“I meant I know you. I know when you’re forcing a smile. I know when you skip breakfast and get mean by noon. I know you tap your fingers when you’re nervous and bite the inside of your cheek when you’re trying not to cry.”

Each sentence hits like a blow.

“I know what songs you play when you can’t sleep because I hear them through the wall.”

Your breath catches.

“I know you hate thunderstorms unless someone sits with you. I know you pretend to like whiskey because Stark keeps buying it.”

His metal hand curls into a fist.

“I know too much for someone who was never supposed to matter.”

You don’t know when tears gathered. Only that your vision blurs suddenly.

“Bucky…”

“Don’t.”

His voice cracks on the word.

He looks away, ashamed of it.

That hurts more than anything else.

“I’m not asking for anything,” he says. “I never was. I know you don’t feel that way. I made peace with it.”

“Then why tonight?”

He laughs again, softer and sadder.

“Because for one second, I forgot.”

You cannot breathe properly.

“When you kissed me…” He swallows. “I forgot it wasn’t real.”

His metal fingers tremble.

Just barely.

But you see it.

“And then I remembered everyone was watching. Remembered you were looking past me the whole time.”

“I wasn’t.”

“You were thinking about him.”

“I don’t even know if I was.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“It matters to me.”

He goes still.

You step closer.

“I thought I liked him,” you admit. “Maybe I wanted to. Maybe it was easier.”

“Easier than what?”

You laugh wetly. “Than liking someone impossible.”

His eyes search yours.

“And who’s that?”

“You, idiot.”

The silence that follows is almost holy.

Bucky blinks once.

Twice.

“Don’t do that,” he says.

“Do what?”

“Say things you don’t mean because you feel bad.”

“I’m not.”

“You kissed me to make another guy jealous an hour ago.”

“I know.”

“So forgive me if I’m not trusting my judgment tonight.”

You wince. Fair.

“I deserve that.”

“Yeah.”

“But I’m telling the truth now.”

He shakes his head, backing away.

“You don’t understand what that kiss did to me.”

“Then explain it.”

“No.”

“Bucky.”

“No.”

You catch his wrist before he can turn.

He freezes instantly beneath your touch.

“Please.”

The word changes something.

He closes his eyes.

When he speaks, it’s so quiet you almost miss it.

“It ruined me.”

Your fingers tighten.

“Because it felt real.”

He opens his eyes then, and there is nowhere to hide from the nakedness in them.

“Because I’ve wanted to know what it would be like for so long that I built rules around never finding out.”

His throat works.

“And then you kissed me. In front of everybody. Like I was the person you wanted.”

Tears spill freely now.

“For two seconds,” he says, voice shaking, “I believed I was.”

You move before thinking.

You throw your arms around him.

He goes rigid with shock.

Then slowly, carefully, as if handling something breakable, he folds around you.

His flesh hand presses between your shoulder blades. His metal arm settles at your waist with exquisite caution.

You bury your face in his chest.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. “I’m so sorry.”

He exhales into your hair.

“Yeah.”

“I was stupid.”

“Yeah.”

“And jealous.”

“Yeah.”

“And apparently in love with the wrong man.”

His whole body stills.

“What?”

You lean back enough to look up at him.

His eyes are wide again.

It’s becoming your favorite look on him.

“I thought I wanted him to notice me,” you say. “But when I saw him flirting, all I could think was that you were watching and not reacting.”

He stares.

“I wanted you jealous.”

“That is the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“I know.”

“Dangerously dumb.”

“Still know.”

“You could’ve kissed anyone.”

“I know.”

His jaw flexes. “But you kissed me.”

You smile through tears. “Yeah.”

“Why?”

The truth is terrifyingly simple.

“Because when I’m upset, I reach for the person I trust most.”

His expression breaks.

The gym door suddenly rattles.

Then clicks.

Then doesn’t open.

You both turn.

“Sam?” Bucky calls flatly.

From the other side: “No idea what you mean.”

“Open the door.”

“Can’t. Mechanical issue.”

“Sam.”

“Take your time!”

Footsteps retreat.

You laugh helplessly into Bucky’s shirt.

He pinches the bridge of his nose.

“I’m gonna kill him.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Eventually.”

“Later.”

He sighs.

Then, impossibly, he smiles.

Small. Crooked. Beautiful.

You feel it like sunrise.

“So,” you say softly. “We’re trapped.”

“Looks like it.”

“Guess we have to talk more.”

“Cruel and unusual punishment.”

“You like me talking.”

“Sometimes.”

“Rude.”

“Accurate.”

You settle on the mat floor and tug him down with you.

After a hesitation, he sits beside you.

Shoulder to shoulder.

Close enough to feel his heat.

“How long?” you ask quietly.

“How long what?”

“How long have you…”

You can’t finish it.

He can.

“Loved you?”

Your heart stutters.

He says it like a fact he’s already suffered through.

“Yeah.”

He looks ahead.

“I don’t know exactly.”

“Try.”

“When you sat outside my room at three in the morning because I had a nightmare and wouldn’t let anyone in.”

You remember that night.

You had brought tea and terrible jokes and a blanket. He never opened the door, but he had spoken through it until dawn.

“Or when you punched a senator for calling me unstable.”

“I shoved him.”

“With enthusiasm.”

You grin despite yourself.

“Maybe when you taught me how to use a smartphone without making me feel ancient.”

“You are ancient.”

“See? Romance.”

You laugh, then grow serious again.

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

His answer is immediate.

“Because I’m me.”

You wait.

He exhales.

“Because I’ve spent too much of my life taking things I shouldn’t have had. Because wanting feels dangerous. Because you were happy with me as a friend and I couldn’t risk losing that.”

He glances at you.

“Because I didn’t think someone like you could want someone like me.”

You turn fully toward him.

“That’s stupid too.”

“Yeah.”

“We’re a matched set.”

You sit in silence for a while.

Comfortable and trembling at once.

Then:

“Can I ask something embarrassing?”

“Depends.”

“At the party.” You clear your throat. “When you kissed me back…”

He groans softly and drops his head back against the wall.

“Please don’t make me relive that.”

“I need data.”

“You sound like Banner.”

“Bucky.”

He turns his face toward you.

“Yeah?”

“Did you mean it?”

His eyes darken.

“Every second.”

Your pulse races so hard it almost hurts.

“Even if it was fake?”

“Especially then.”

“That doesn’t make sense.”

“It does if you’ve wanted something you can’t have for a long time.”

You swallow.

“I think maybe I did too.”

He reaches for you slowly enough that you could stop him.

You don’t.

His flesh hand brushes your cheek first, thumb catching a tear you missed. Then his metal hand settles on your knee, careful and steady.

“I need to know,” he says quietly, “that if I kiss you again, it’s for us.”

Your chest aches.

“It is.”

“Not for some guy at a bar.”

“He was by the buffet, actually.”

Bucky glares.

You beam.

“Definitely for us.”

He huffs a laugh that sounds surprised to exist.

Then he leans in.

This kiss is nothing like the first.

No witnesses.

No performance.

No desperation.

Only choice.

He gives you time to meet him halfway. Mouth soft against yours, patient and reverent and somehow needier because of how restrained he is.

You touch his jaw. Feel the tiny hitch in his breath.

When you kiss him deeper, his control frays with a low sound that goes straight through you.

His metal hand tightens on your knee, then loosens immediately.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize for touching me.”

He searches your face.

You guide that hand to your waist yourself.

His eyes close briefly.

Then he kisses you again like gratitude.

When you part, both of you are breathing hard.

You rest your forehead against his.

“Hi,” you whisper.

“Hi.”

“You still ruined?”

“Worse now.”

“Good.”

He laughs into your mouth.

You think you could live on that sound.

The door unlocks with a loud click.

Neither of you move.

Sam cracks it open two inches.

“You two done being emotionally constipated?”

Bucky doesn’t even look over.

“Get out.”

“That’s a no, then.”

You call, “Thank you, Sam.”

“I know,” he says smugly, and shuts it again.

Bucky mutters something in several languages.

You grin.

“He likes us.”

“He likes meddling.”

“Same thing.”

Eventually you do leave the gym.

The compound is mostly quiet now, lights dimmed to night mode. Somewhere distant, a dishwasher hums.

You walk side by side down the hallway.

Not touching at first.

Then your hand brushes his.

He pauses like the world has asked him a question.

You lace your fingers through his.

Metal and flesh, cool and warm.

He looks at your joined hands for a long moment.

“Still okay?” you ask softly.

“Yeah.”

He squeezes once.

“More than okay.”

The kitchen is a disaster of cups and crumbs.

Natasha sits on the counter eating leftover cake straight from the platter.

She glances at your clasped hands.

“Finally.”

You choke.

Bucky sighs. “You too?”

“Please. Everyone knew.”

“I didn’t,” you say weakly.

Natasha points her fork at you. “That sounds like a personal problem.”

She hops down, pats Bucky’s shoulder, kisses your cheek, and leaves with the cake.

You stare after her.

“Everyone knew?”

Bucky looks deeply offended. “Apparently not everyone.”

“I hate this place.”

“No, you don’t.”

“No,” you admit. “I really don’t.”

Later, outside on the balcony, the night air cool against flushed skin, you stand wrapped in one of Bucky’s jackets while city lights blink far beyond the trees.

He leans on the railing beside you.

Peaceful. Tired. Real.

“So,” he says after a while. “What happens now?”

You look at him.

The man who watched quietly. Waited quietly. Loved quietly until it nearly broke him.

“Now,” you say, stepping into his space, “we stop pretending.”

His breath catches the tiniest bit.

You kiss him first this time.

Slowly.

Carefully.

Meaning every second.

When you pull back, his forehead rests to yours again.

“Good plan,” he murmurs.

Inside, someone whoops loud enough to carry through the glass.

Sam, obviously.

You laugh.

Bucky rolls his eyes and kisses you once more.

And this one is meant for no one else at all.