Work Text:
You don’t like mornings.
That’s not new, not interesting, not something worth analyzing it’s just a fact, like gravity or taxes or the way your upstairs neighbor insists on vacuuming at six a.m. on Saturdays. Mornings are loud and bright and intrusive, and you meet them with the same expression you wear for most of the world: unimpressed at best, actively irritated at worst.
Which is why the man currently humming in your kitchen makes absolutely no sense.
“You’re in my spot,” you mutter, voice still rough with sleep as you lean in the doorway, arms crossed.
James Buchanan Barnes, Bucky, as he insists, as if the name itself is friendly enough to soften the edges of him glances over his shoulder. He’s standing at your stove like he belongs there, sunlight spilling in through the window and catching in his hair, turning it warmer than it has any right to be at this hour.
“Good morning to you too,” he says, cheerful. Always cheerful. It’s suspicious.
“It’s not a good morning,” you reply flatly. “You’re in my spot.”
He looks down at the burner like it might argue your case for you. “Didn’t realize your stove had assigned seating.”
You don’t laugh. You don’t even blink.
He grins anyway.
“You want coffee?” he asks, already reaching for a mug like he knows the answer.
“I want you out of my kitchen.”
“Got it. Coffee it is.”
You exhale slowly through your nose, the way people do when they’re trying not to commit a minor crime. “You broke into my apartment.”
“You gave me a key.”
“I gave you a key for emergencies.”
“Yeah,” he says, turning back to the pan, “and I ran out of eggs. That felt like an emergency.”
You stare at his back, debating whether or not it would be socially acceptable to revoke his key and his general existence.
It wouldn’t. Probably.
Unfortunately.
Because somewhere between the early mornings you didn’t ask for and the groceries he keeps mysteriously restocking, Bucky has lingered. Like a stubborn ray of sunlight that refuses to move even when you shut the blinds.
“You’re making a mess,” you say instead, because it’s safer than acknowledging anything else.
“I’m making breakfast.”
“There’s a difference.”
He hums again, unconcerned, flipping something in the pan with an ease that suggests he’s done this a hundred times. “You’re welcome, by the way.”
“I didn’t say thank you.”
“You didn’t have to. I could feel it.”
You push off the doorway and walk further into the kitchen, drawn in despite yourself by the smell—something warm and buttery and annoyingly comforting. “If you start claiming psychic abilities, I’m calling someone.”
“Who? A priest? A scientist? The Avengers hotline?”
“Don’t joke about that,” you mutter, reaching for the coffee he’s already poured. It’s exactly how you take it. Of course it is. Of course he noticed.
You hate that he notices things.
You hate that he remembers them.
You hate that part of you, small, traitorous, and buried deep, likes it.
He slides a plate onto the counter and nudges it toward you. Eggs, toast, something that looks like it required effort. “Eat.”
“I didn’t ask—”
“Eat,” he repeats, softer this time, but no less insistent.
You glare at the plate like it personally offended you. Then you glare at him. Then, because your body is a weak, betrayal-prone machine, you sit. He doesn’t make a big deal out of it. That might be the worst part. He just leans back against the counter, arms loosely crossed, watching you take the first reluctant bite. You pause because it’s… good. Annoyingly good. You chew, swallow, and refuse to give him the satisfaction of a reaction.
“Well?” he prompts.
“It’s edible,” you say.
He beams like you just handed him a five-star review.
You hate him.
“You know,” he says after a moment, “most people say thank you.”
“Most people don’t break into other people’s apartments to play house.”
“I’m not playing house.”
“You’re cooking me breakfast uninvited.”
“Uninvited but appreciated,” he counters.
You take another bite just to spite him.
There’s a quiet that settles after that, not uncomfortable exactly, just present. The kind that might feel normal if it weren’t so unfamiliar to you. You’re used to silence being heavy, something you carry alone. With him, it feels shared.
You don’t like that either.
“You’re staring,” you say without looking up.
“I like watching you pretend you don’t like things,” he replies.
“I don’t like things.”
“Sure you don’t.”
You finally glance up, narrowing your eyes. “You’re very confident for someone trespassing.”
“And you’re very grumpy for someone eating a full breakfast I made,” he shoots back.
You open your mouth to argue, then stop.
Because he’s smiling.
Not in a smug, I won kind of way, not teasing, or pushing. Just smiling that smile of his, soft around the edges, like it’s something he does without thinking. Like it’s easy. Like you’re easy. And something in your chest does a weird, inconvenient little flip, you immediately scowl harder to compensate.
“Don’t,” you say.
“Don’t what?”
“That,” you gesture vaguely at his face, “whatever that is.”
“My face?”
“Yes. Fix it.”
He laughs, low and warm, and it makes that stupid feeling in your chest worse. “I don’t think I can fix my face.”
“Try harder.”
“Or,” he says, pushing off the counter, “you could admit you like it.”
“I don’t.”
“Mm.”
“I don’t,” you repeat, sharper.
He steps closer, not crowding you, just enough that you’re aware of him, of the warmth he carries, the quiet steadiness of his presence. “You’re a terrible liar.”
“I’m not lying.”
“You are.”
“I’m not.”
“You are,” he says again, softer now, like it’s not an argument anymore but an observation.
You set your fork down with more force than necessary. “You’re insufferable.”
“And yet,” he replies, “you keep letting me in.”
“I gave you a key one time.”
“And you haven’t taken it back.”
You hesitate just for a second and he notices that too. Of course he does.
“Why is that?” he asks gently.
You hate that question. You hate that tone. You hate the way your brain scrambles for something sharp and deflective and lands, instead, on the truth sitting heavy in your chest.
Because you like the quiet when he’s there. Because you like the way he makes your space feel less empty without making it feel crowded. Because you like that he doesn’t flinch at your edges, just… waits them out.
Because you like him.
Which is deeply, profoundly inconvenient.
You look away first, reaching for your coffee just to have something to do with your hands. “You make decent eggs,” you mutter.
It’s not an answer or a confession but it’s the closest thing you’re willing to give for now.
Bucky smiles again, softer this time, like he understands the language you’re speaking even when you don’t say the words outright. “High praise.”
“Don’t let it go to your head.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
You take another sip of coffee, trying to ignore the warmth creeping up your neck. He doesn’t move away. Doesn’t push. Just stays there, steady as ever. And then because the universe has a sense of humor, because your life is apparently a joke at your expense, your heart does that stupid, fluttery thing again.
You grimace, pressing your lips together.
“Oh great,” you mutter under your breath, just loud enough for him to hear, “now my heart’s all aflutter. Jackass.”
There’s a beat of silence. Then he laughs, not loud, or obnoxious, just warm and bright and entirely too pleased with himself.
You refuse to look at him.
“You just admitted it,” he says.
“I did not.”
“You did.”
“I didn’t,” you snap, even as your ears burn. “I was being sarcastic.”
“Sounded pretty sincere to me.”
“You don’t know what sincerity sounds like.”
“I think I’m getting the hang of it.”
You finally glance up, glaring. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”
“Maybe,” he admits easily. “But only because it’s you.”
That… doesn’t help at all. You huff, turning back to your plate, even though you’re not really hungry anymore. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And you’re smiling.”
“I am not—”
You stop.
Because he’s right.
It’s small. Barely there, but it’s there, and you hate that he caught it. You immediately wipe it away, scowl snapping back into place like armor.
“Don’t get used to it,” you warn.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he echoes, though the look in his eyes says otherwise.
And somehow, despite everything, despite the mornings and the intrusion and the way he keeps slipping past your defenses like they’re suggestions instead of walls you don’t tell him to leave. You just sit there, drinking your coffee, letting the sunlight creep further into the room.
Letting him stay.
For now.