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thunderbolt-ing · 2 days ago

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Three Roommates and a Loft [3]

PREVIOUS | NEXT The One Where You Get Romanoff'd: A lifestyle adjustment, a bed-rotting intervention, a surprise guest, and a rebound roster. Yeah, you'll probably regret this later. Warnings: none, just pure silliness and slight (stupid) sexual innuendo. I'm sleep deprived when I'm writing this, so this is just pure crack. Word count: 6.6K (sorry for the mistakes, i dont proofread as you already know)

You were jolted awake at exactly 6:30 a.m. on a Sunday by the unmistakable sound of an old-timey trumpet muffly blaring through the ceiling, specifically, a World War II-era jump blues song.

�� He was a famous trumpet man from out Chicago way,

He had a boogie style that no one else could play,

He was the top man at his craft,

But then his number came up and he was gone with the draft,

He’s in the army now, a blowin’ reveille,

He’s the boogie woogie bugle boy of Company B! 🎵

There was only one possible culprit: Steve Rogers.

His room was directly above yours, and apparently so was his nostalgia-fueled alarm clock. The song continued at full volume for a solid two minutes before Steve finally got up and shut it off.

Unfortunately for you, that wasn’t the end of it.

Next came the footsteps. Then the light stomping. Then… counting… and grunting…?

Was he doing pushups? At six-thirty-five in the morning? On a Sunday?

You buried your head under a pillow and groaned. The realization settled slowly and painfully; the walls in this loft were way too thin. Adjusting to life here was going to take time and possibly noise-cancelling headphones. Or earplugs. Definitely earplugs.

Eventually, you managed to fall asleep again, though it was more like drifting in and out of consciousness while dreaming about WWII-era trumpets. Still, your body naturally woke up at your usual weekend time of 9:00 a.m., groggy but functional.

Noise was already filtering in from the living room—voices, at least two of them, mixed with the clatter of dishes and the unmistakable sound of someone being way too enthusiastic for a Sunday morning (suspects are either Steve or Sam. You’re leaning towards Steve).

You stared at the ceiling and sighed.

This was your life now.

With the weight of reluctant acceptance, you braced yourself for the horror of human interaction. You got up from your bed and mentally prepared yourself to walk out of your room looking like a witch who’d just crawled out of a bog. Your oversized t-shirt was twisted halfway around your torso, your hair was an unruly mess, and you were certain that your face bore the imprint of your pillowcase.

You didn’t even bother to make yourself look presentable. What was the point?

You needed caffeine. You needed breakfast. And most of all, you needed to not be spoken to until at least a cup of coffee had been fully consumed.

You sluggishly dragged yourself out of your room, your first stop being the bathroom. You just wanted to splash some water on your face and pretend to be alive. Instead, you opened the door to find a near-naked Bucky Barnes hunched over the sink, towel slung low on his hips, mid-shave.

Your brain short-circuited, but he didn’t flinch. He just met your stunned silence with a deadpan stare.

“Do you know how to knock?” he asked coolly, eyes narrowing like you’d just ruined his entire day.

You blinked, fighting the instinctive downward glance that, traitorously, happened anyway. It only made everything worse.

“Sorry,” you muttered, slamming the door shut as your heart pounded loudly in your chest. Your face burned with the mix of rage and embarrassment, and now, thanks to him, you were fully and disturbingly awake.

From inside the bathroom, you heard him mutter just loud enough to be heard:

“Unbelievable.”

“Oh, fuck you,” you snapped through the door, patience running thin with the lack of caffeine in your system.

“No thanks,” he called back flatly without missing a beat.

You were two seconds away from throwing the door open and escalating when Sam’s voice rang out from the kitchen:

“I told y’all to come up with a bathroom system.”

You huffed and stomped your way into the common area, still fuming.

Sam was at the stove flipping pancakes that were definitely a little burnt, but pretending not to notice. Steve was already seated at the newly placed dining table (thanks to your charitable donation), sipping coffee like this was a perfectly normal, drama-free Sunday morning.

“Hey, sunshine!” Steve greeted you as you stepped into the room, entirely too cheerful for someone who caused your 6:30 a.m. trumpet wake-up call. “How was your first night?”

“What is wrong with him?” you shot back, completely ignoring Steve’s question. “Does he not believe in getting dressed after a shower? Is that not a thing for him?”

Sam’s laughter echoed through the loft. “Wait—did you see him butt-ass naked?”

Steve choked on his coffee, but being Steve, he tried to play it off with a composed nod and a sip like nothing had happened.

You gave Sam a withering glare. “Toweled, but barely. It was an assault on my morning.”

Sam was practically doubled over now. “Man, you and Bucky are gonna kill each other before the month’s out.”

“Yeah?” you muttered as you poured yourself a cup of coffee. “Well, I’ll make sure I get to him first.”

“Doubt it,” Bucky said unenthusiastically, stepping into the room fully clothed this time.

“No one’s killing anyone,” Steve cut in with a chuckle. “We just need time to adjust. There are four of us now, it’s gonna take a little grace.”

You and Bucky locked eyes over your mugs. Clearly, there was no grace, only war.

——

After breakfast, the guys headed out for a Whole Foods run, arguing over oat milk versus almond milk as they disappeared out the door. You stayed behind, however, choosing to confront the disaster that the loft turned into from your move-in yesterday. So, with Japanese Breakfast on Sam’s speaker, you got to work.

You hauled your boxes to the center of the living room, then tore through them with the determination of a woman who was about to perform a miracle. Blankets, candles, books, and years of collected knick-knacks found their homes. A patchwork quilt over the chaise. A vase of bodega flowers on the dining table. Your Princess Diaries poster now hung proudly beside Bruce Willis, which perfectly summarized the loft’s new look.

In the kitchen, you replaced the single wooden spoon with actual utensils, alphabetized the spice rack (because who was stopping you?), and stuck a whiteboard on the fridge that read Weekly Chore Rotation — TBD in teacher handwriting. You almost changed your alphabet magnet message from HELLO ROOMIES to HELLO FUCKERS, but you figured you’d soft launch your personality and have them get used to the harmless kindergarten teacher first.

Perhaps you were getting carried away, but you even cleaned the entryway. Now there was a shoe rack, jacket hooks, and a key bowl because you weren’t a barbarian. You felt very smug about your work… until you opened the hallway closet and discovered the mini-armory.

Mounted neatly on the back wall was an array of throwing knives, each blade gleaming despite the dim light. Steve’s old, battered shield leaned against the corner, the once bright paint chipped and scratched raw to the vibranium. It looked like it had been through hell, probably had. Maybe he kept it for emergencies, or maybe out of sentiment. Above the shield, resting on a shelf, sat a worn military grade duffle bag with WILSON embroidered on the front. You didn’t dare to open it, something told you that it didn’t hold gym clothes.

And then, there was the bundle. It was tucked in the far corner, hidden enough that it could be overlooked. Before you could even begin to think about unwrapping it, keys jingled outside, and the front door swung open with a dramatic slam.

“Guess who survived Whole Foods!” Sam’s voice rang through the loft, followed by the telltale thud of grocery bags hitting the floor.

You quickly shut the closet door, forcing a casual smile despite your heart hammering in your chest. “Hey! So, who won the milk debate? For the record, I was team oat—”

“Hold up,” Sam cut in, eyes widening as he entered the living room. He gasped, hand clutching his chest theatrically. “Is that Amelia Mignonette Thermopolis Renaldi, Queen of Genovia next to John McClane?!”

You followed him into the living room with a shrug. “Don’t they look cute together?”

“Who the hell is that?” Bucky asked, breezing past with grocery bags and heading straight for the kitchen.

“Princess Diaries,” Sam and Steve answered in unison, though Steve was a beat slower and slightly more ashamed about knowing.

Steve bent to pick up the remaining bags, but paused as he took in the living room. His eyes did a slow sweep across the space before he broke into a pleased, golden-retriever grin. “You redecorated.”

“Holy shit, you did,” Sam added, spinning in place to look around. “No more hostage bunker, frat house adjacent. This place has… character now.”

“There’s a key bowl,” Steve noted in delight, pointing to the entryway like you’d just placed a national treasure.

“I’m ignoring this,” Bucky cut in from the kitchen. He scowled at the whiteboard magnetized to the fridge. “Weekly Chore Rotation? This is not elementary school.”

“Also, where are the tongs?” he asked, rummaging through the newly organized drawer with increasing irritation.

“The rusty ones?” You asked, joining him in the kitchen. “I threw them out before it gave someone tetanus, but don’t worry, I replaced them with new ones.” You opened the other drawer and showed him the new tongs.

Bucky turned to you, arms crossed. “So you’re in charge now?”

You smiled sweetly. “Someone has to be a functional adult out of the four of us.”

Steve chuckled as he dropped the last bag on the counter. “She’s not wrong.”

Bucky muttered something about “whiteboard dictatorships” as he walked off, but not before you caught him glancing at the newly filled bookshelf.

That was the closest thing to approval you were probably ever going to get.

——

Adjusting to your new life at the loft with three superhero roommates was… messy at best. The only man you’ve ever lived with before was Adam, and while that came with its own set of issues, chaos had never been one of them. Adam had been neat, predictable, and quiet. The exact opposite of the three men you now shared a loft (and very thin walls) with.

The loft wasn’t perfect. It was loud, unfiltered, and filled with clashing personalities. But oddly enough, it was exactly what you needed right now. You wouldn’t admit it out loud, not to them at least, but the chaos helped. It distracted you from thinking about Adam and from falling back into the life you’d walked away from.

Monday started off strong.

You were in the kitchen, half-asleep and clinging to your coffee before work, when Sam practically sprinted down the stairs looking like he’d already finished at least three marathons.

“Morning, miss girl,” he beamed, already reaching for your mug as if you didn’t need it to survive. “What’s your sign by the way? Wait—don’t tell me. You’re a Virgo aren’t you? You alphabetized the spices.”

You stared at him. You didn’t even get a word in before he declared you his ‘platonic soulmate’ three times and tried to convince you to join him on a sunrise run. It was 5:07 a.m.

Later that day, after work, you found Steve in the living room, utterly absorbed in The Great British Bake Off. You expected him to switch to something more macho when you sat beside him, but instead he turned to you with a frown.

“I just think he could’ve decorated that cake better…”

You blinked at him, unsure how to respond at first. “You know what, you’re right. It’s lacking something and the sponge looks dry.”

“You wanna make something better?”

“...Sure?”

By the end of the hour, you were in the kitchen covered in flour, while Steve was making frosting. You two were making something completely unrelated to the show, and the smell of vanilla filled the loft. Steve wore an apron that said ‘Be Patriotic & Kiss the Captain’ with an arrow pointing toward himself. You didn’t question it, but you had a sneaky feeling that Sam was the one who gave it to him.

Steve and Sam were surprisingly easy to get along with, but Bucky on the other hand, was the human equivalent of a locked door.

On Tuesday, he glared at you for leaving your clothes in the dryer.

On Wednesday, you got into a five-minute shouting match because he was using your shampoo.

On Thursday, he accused you of “hogging the hot water” like you’ve just committed crimes against humanity.

But on Friday, your shampoo was replaced with a fresh bottle, and when you walked into the living room later, he was reading your copy of Anne of Green Gables. You didn’t say a word. Instead, you just baked the cookies that Steve offhandedly mentioned Bucky liked. He didn’t say thank you, but the cookies didn’t last a day.

Midweek, the boys left on an impromptu mission. It was a quick recon, nothing too dangerous according to Steve, but the silence in the loft was jarring. You wandered around in your fuzzy socks, grading math quizzes with background noise from a sitcom rerun just to fill the void.

You actually missed the chaos.

They came back home a day later, exhausted and grumpy. You didn’t say anything, but you had grilled cheese and tomato soup ready for them. Steve muttered something about being “blessed,” and Sam dramatically asked that you platonically marry him (whatever that meant). Bucky just gave you a curt nod, which, in his language, might as well be a hug.

On Saturday, Steve and Sam insisted on helping you grade a stack of your kindergarteners’ spelling tests while eating cereal straight from the box.

“Why does this kid spell ‘banana’ like ‘bunahnuh’?” Sam asked.

“Gwen spells phonetically,” you replied, like it was obvious.

Steve, squinting through his reading glasses with a red pen in his hand, held up a paper. “What’s turlul?”

“Turtle,” you replied with a grin.

Then Sam, looking deeply concerned, held up your lesson plan. “You’re teaching them Romeo and Juliet with puppets?”

“What? They’re five and they love tragic romance.”

Steve chuckled. “New York kids… gotta love ‘em.”

The week ended with you, curled up on the couch, blanket over your legs, grading kindergarten science homework while Steve sat beside you, quietly sketching. Sam DJ’d badly from the kitchen while Bucky was silently fixing the crooked picture frame you meant to fix days ago.

“You hung this badly,” he muttered.

“I’ll fix it later,” you replied without looking up.

“It’s going to fall.”

“Aw,” you looked up and smirked at him. “So you do care.”

His lips twitched just a little, but you didn’t point it out.

Living in the loft was a mess, but it was home.

Your home.

——

Two months into living with the boys, a rhythm had settled in. It was morning coffees with Sam’s unsolicited astrology takes, quiet evenings grading assignments with Steve, and your usual snark-filled cold war with Bucky. Against all odds, the arrangement was working. And yet, even with all the laughter and distractions, the sinking feeling hadn’t gone away. If anything, the stillness between the noise made it even louder.

You missed Adam. Terribly and painfully, in spite of the hell he put you through. Some wounds didn’t announce themselves with aching pain, they crept in during the quiet, slipping through the cracks when you were doing everything to keep moving forward.

You thought you were hiding it well, smiling when you needed to, laughing when expected. But somewhere deep down, you had a feeling that the boys were starting to catch on.

It started with Sam. One afternoon after work, he appeared at your door without knocking, flopping onto the edge of your bed with a bag of chips and zero introduction. He didn’t pry or asked how you were, he just talked about nothing. He complained about the subway system. He argued about why almond milk was better than oat milk. He recalled the dream he had where Steve ran for mayor and lost to RuPaul.

Then Steve started stopping by too. He’d sit in the armchair in the corner, sketchbook in hand, half-listening to Sam’s ramblings and occasionally offering stories about old missions and silly anecdotes about his teammates. He talked about the Avengers often that you were starting to feel like you knew them, even though you hadn’t met any of them in person. Steve never asked what was wrong, he just stayed just like Sam did.

Bucky never set foot in your room, but the arguments with him stalled. The sharpness between you dulled just a bit. He still glared, still muttered under his breath when you used the last of the coffee, but he didn’t pick fights the way he used to. It was as if he didn’t want to add more weight to what you were already carrying.

At one point, the quiet sadness that had been simmering beneath the surface tipped into something heavier. A mini depressive episode, maybe. If you could even call it that. It crept in gradually at first and was barely noticeable, but soon your behavior shifted in ways the boys couldn’t ignore.

You started locking your bedroom door after work, claiming you were just tired. You bailed on loft game night more than once, always with a vague excuse about lesson planning or needing to grade your students’ assignments. Even when you didn’t have a stack of spelling tests to get through, you stayed tucked away in your room, lights dim with Pride and Prejudice looping in your TV just to feel something.

You stopped lounging on the couch. Stopped making dinner for the loft. Stopped bickering with Sam over his abhorrent snack combinations or baking with Steve for fun. You slipped in and out of the kitchen like a ghost, only entering when the coast was clear. You timed your showers to avoid Bucky, dodging eye contact in the hallway like it was a full-time job.

It wasn’t that you didn’t care. You did. It was that everything suddenly felt unbearable. Every noise, every conversation, every mundane task, it all felt too much.

The worst part? You didn’t even know how to explain it to yourself or the boys.

By the time the weekend rolled around, you’d all but vanished into your room. The door stayed closed, the lights stayed off, and not even the smell of Steve’s buttermilk waffles managed to lure you out.

Sam, in an attempt to get you to talk, slipped a piece of paper under your door:

Are u mad at me? Yes or no. Circle one pls <3.

You saw it, but you didn’t pick it up.

Later that evening, the three boys were sprawled on the couch, half-watching a terrible action movie and working through their respective takeout containers. The dialogue on the screen was awful, the explosions louder than necessary, but no one bothered to change the channel.

Then, casually, as if tossing in an afterthought, Bucky asked, “What’s going on with her?”

He didn’t look up from his food, he just stabbed a piece of broccoli with his fork. “Last night, she had this song on repeat. Something about a girl sitting in a restaurant, waiting or something. Played it for hours. I didn’t say anything. Kinda liked it.”

Sam froze mid-chew. Slowly, he lowered his chopsticks. “Wait. Was she playing Right Where You Left Me?”

Bucky shugged. “How should I know? I wasn’t paying attention. Her room’s next to mine, I just heard it.”

Sam immediately placed his food on the coffee table like it had become irrelevant. “Oh hell no. That’s the emotional paralysis anthem.”

Steve frowned. “You got all that from a song about… a restaurant?”

“It’s not about the restaurant, Steven, it’s about the metaphor,” Sam said, deadly serious. “It’s heartbreak, it’s what you play when you’re stuck. And she’s got it on loop? Oh, I’m gonna kill that Adam guy.”

“Who the hell is Adam?” Bucky asked, brow furrowing.

“Her ex,” Sam said, crossing his arms. “Steve and I met him briefly. Bad vibes, stank aura, absolutely zero stars.”

“Not a pleasant man,” Steve added diplomatically. “Didn’t seem to appreciate her.”

Bucky went quiet for a moment, then muttered. “Figures.”

Sam narrowed his eyes. “Figures what, Barnes?”

“Nothing,” Bucky replied, too quickly. He refocused on his takeout with exaggerated interest, stabbing the piece of beef in his plate half-heartedly.

Steve sighed and looked toward your room, his features softening. “I should try checking in on her again.”

Sam was already on his feet, grabbing the extra box of chow mein from table. “Nope. We’re doing this together. This is a group effort.”

Bucky didn’t move.

Steve glanced at him. “You coming?”

Bucky groaned, dragging himself up with zero enthusiasm. “Do I have to?”

“Yes.” Sam and Steve said in unison, leaving no room for argument.

Reluctantly, Bucky followed them down the hallway. Sam knocked first, rapping his knuckles gently against your door.

“I know you’re alive in there,” he called. “I can hear Mr. Darcy monologuing through the wall.”

No response.

Bucky shifted awkwardly. “Wanna insult me? Could be therapeutic. I’m an easy target and I used up all your conditioner again.”

Still nothing.

Steve gave the door handle a patient turn, but it didn’t budge. “We just wanna check in. No pressure.” Steve said, his voice low and gentle.

Sam held up the box of food like you could see it through the door. “We brought noodles… and poor emotional boundaries.”

“Speak for yourself,” Bucky muttered.

Steve side-eyed him. “You offered yourself up for verbal abuse two seconds ago.”

“I’m just trying to help!” Bucky snapped, crossing his arms.

Another beat of silence followed. Then, from inside the room, you spoke up, your voice muffled, “Is it chow mein or lo mein?”

Sam grinned triumphantly. “Chow mein.”

You shuffled to the door and creaked it open an inch.

“Fine,” you sighed. “But only because I’m hungry and you guys are loud.”

As you stepped back to let them in, Bucky was the last to follow, but not before glancing at your TV, the frozen frame of Pride and Prejudice paused on Darcy’s rain-soaked confession. He didn’t say anything, just slipped inside and quietly straightened the crooked calendar by your door as the others made themselves at home.

Sam looked around your room, eyebrows raised at the unmade bed, scattered tissues, and the lopsided stack of grading papers on your desk. “I love you,” he said as he handed you the box of chow mein, “But this is just… a mess, and I will be cleaning while we talk.”

You gave a weak laugh as he started picking up the empty cups on your nightstand like he lived in your room, too.

Steve sat gently on the edge of your bed, his tone soft. “I’m sorry you didn’t feel like you could talk to us.” His brows pulled together in concern. “I know we’re not… the best at this kind of thing, but we care and we want to help.”

You looked down at the box in your hands, fingers digging into the paper. “It’s not that I didn’t feel comfortable with you guys,” you said, voice tight. “I just didn’t know how to explain it. And honestly, it’s stupid. I’ve been crying over Adam.”

The words felt small and pathetic once they were out in the open. But the silence that followed wasn’t judgmental.

From the doorway, Bucky shifted his weight, arms still crossed tightly. His gaze stayed on the floor, then he mumbled, barely loud enough to hear. “It’s not… stupid.”

You glanced up at him in surprise, but he refused to meet your eyes.

Sam looked between the two of you with a knowing expression. “Well damn. If Barnes is offering moral support, then you’re officially at rock bottom.”

Bucky glowered at Sam while you flipped him off. “Whatever, Wilson,” you muttered in mock annoyance.

Steve smiled, looking relieved that they were somehow helping. “Why don’t you go and spend a day with your own friends?” He suggested kindly, his tone gentle. “Not us, you know, like… women. People who get it more than we do.”

“Sure! That’s cute,” You said dryly, bitterness bleeding into your voice. “Except all my friends were Adam’s friends, and when we broke up, he turned them all against me. They blocked me, every single one of them.”

“That motherf—“

“Okay,” Steve cut in quickly, shooting Sam a look before he could finish. “I’m calling Nat. She’ll know what to do.”

“Nat?” You echoed, confused. “Who’s Nat?”

“Natasha,” Steve clarified, pulling out his phone.

“You know… Natasha Romanoff,” Sam clarified further, seeing your confused expression. “Black Widow…? Come on, keep up.”

“Oh no, no, no,” You sat up a little, alarmed. “I am not meeting her like this. She’s going to think I’m a loser. I mean, she kills men for sport, and I’m here sobbing into my pillow over one. I’m literally crying over someone who owns a mug that says ‘Rise and Grind’, I am beyond pathetic.”

Steve raised his brow, but you kept going.

“It’s already embarrassing that you three know,” you muttered, tugging your blanket higher. “Just give me one more week of bed rotting and I swear I’ll bounce back.”

“You’ve been rotting,” Sam said bluntly. “We’ve hit the compost stage.”

“Advanced decay,” Bucky chimed in, arms still crossed. You shot him a glare. “Nat won’t judge.” Steve reassured, patting your shoulder gently. “She’ll understand more than we do.”

“Yeah,” Sam agreed. “She’ll actually be gentle, like surprisingly gentle. You need someone who gets it, because if it were me? I’d just deck the guy and move on.”

You groaned, flopping back onto your bed dramatically. “If I end up crying in front of Black Widow, I’m changing my name and I’m leaving the country.”

“She cried during Marley and Me, you’ll be fine,” Steve reassured as he pressed Natasha’s contact on his phone.

——

The next morning, you shuffled out of your room in an oversized t-shirt and mismatched socks. Your only mission for the day: retrieve coffee without making eye contact with anyone.

You failed instantly.

All three of your roommates were seated around the dining table, and sitting casually among them, as if she hadn’t just completely caused your soul to leave your body, was her.

Natasha. Romanoff.

The Black Widow.

Former Assassin. Legendary Avenger. Threat to all men.

She was drinking her coffee from one of your ridiculous mugs. She wore no tactical gear, no combat boots, just jeans and a fitted black top, with a posture so immaculate that it made you stand up a little straighter.

Her red hair was braided loosely over one shoulder, and her gaze met yours the moment you entered. She didn’t smile, she didn’t frown, she just looked. It was as if she was quietly assessing whether you were dangerous or just a sad little mess Steve had guilted her into babysitting.

You, of course, chose to freeze like a deer in headlights.

Flattening your sleep-matted hair instinctively, you stood awkwardly in the doorway, wondering if you should apologize for daring to set foot in front of her presence. You didn’t understand why she was here. There was no way someone like Natasha Romanoff wasted time on strangers. She must’ve owed Steve big-time if she came to the loft immediately after he called yesterday.

“Good morning,” Natasha said smoothly, voice low and unreadable. It was a statement, not a greeting. Like a poker player declaring her turn. You stalled in real time, your brain shutting down in a panic. And then, you opened your mouth despite every survival instinct begging you not to embarrass yourself:

“Hi. Wow. Is being hot a requirement to be an Avenger because… damn.”

Silence. You could even hear the birds chirp outside.

Sam snorted into his coffee. Steve blinked slowly like he was rebooting. Bucky coughed to hide what suspiciously sounded like a laugh.

Natasha tilted her head, still expressionless. “Yes,” she said simply, and took another sip of her coffee. “That’s why Sam didn’t make the cut.”

Your laugh came out before you could stop it. It was your first real laugh in weeks, and it caught everyone off guard.

“Okay, first of all, I just didn’t sign the papers, Romanoff,” Sam shot back, pointing his fork at her like it was a weapon. “I was recruited! There were negotiations!”

“Yeah,” she replied dryly. “Negotiations to keep you off the roster.”

Steve hid a grin behind his coffee. Bucky didn’t bother hiding his smirk, though he kept eating like he wasn’t paying attention.

Sam turned to you with a hand over his heart. “I’m being dragged in my own home. Do something,” he said, turning to you with pleading eyes.

You dropped into an empty seat next to Bucky, grabbed a piece of toast, and casually stole a forkful of eggs from his plate. He shot you a look, brows knitting in mild disapproval, but he didn’t stop you.

“Not too much on Sam,” you said with a grin. “He’s an emotional guy. He cried during Paddington 2.”

“He went to prison!” Sam cried, throwing his hands in the air. “Why would you incarcerate a cute little bear who just wanted to make marmalade?!”

Steve nodded solemnly, like he was testifying in court. “It was deeply unfair.”

Natasha raised an unimpressed eyebrow. “You’re all unwell.”

“This is my life now,” Bucky muttered, sliding the rest of his eggs your way with a resigned sigh. You beamed at the gesture.

Natasha took a sip of her coffee, eyes scanning you like she was running a background check. Then, finally, she nodded. “Okay. I like you. You’ve got potential.”

You blinked at her, your fork halfway to your mouth. “Potential for…?”

Natasha stood up from her chair, already grabbing her keys off the counter like this was a done deal. “Not sure yet, but you’re coming with me today.”

You choked on your eggs. “What—why?”

“Does it matter?” she said, already halfway to the door.

You looked around the table like someone might save you, but Steve just gave you a thumbs up and took another sip of his coffee. “You’ll be fine.”

“Fine or maybe dead,” you muttered. ‘What’s her idea of fun anyway?” you asked in a small, horrified voice as Natasha opened the front door.

“Get dressed,” Natasha called. “Ten minutes. I leave with or without you.”

Sam leaned back in his chair, grinning. “Congratulations. You’ve been Romanoff’d.”

Bucky, now taking back his eggs, gave you a flat look and a lazy wave. Then, with zero sympathy, he nudged your chair with his foot. “Go. Now.”

You groaned, already standing. “God help me,” you muttered, fast walking to your room like your life depended on it because with Natasha Romanoff waiting at the door, it just might.

——

Spending the day with Natasha Romanoff was nothing like you’d expected, but exactly what you needed. She didn’t drag you to brunch to get bottomless mimosas or ask how you were feeling. Instead, she tossed you into the passenger seat of a black Corvette Stingray, drove like every red light was a suggestion, and took you to an underground boxing gym in Brooklyn where she taught you how to properly throw a punch. You expected sympathy, but she gave you bruised knuckles and a protein bar.

Later, she made you walk through the city with her, mostly in comfortable silence, stopping only to grab overpriced lattes and people-watch like spies on a stakeout. At one point, she handed you a pair of sunglasses and muttered, “Put these on. We’re stalking your ex.” You tried to protest, but she was already leading the way, reciting tire-slashing tips like they were ancient wisdom. “Don’t worry,” she added coolly, “I’ll make sure there’s no trace.” You still don’t know how she found Adam’s car, but you did it, and oddly enough, it felt like therapy.

By the time you got back to the loft, your head felt a little clearer, your shoulders a little lighter, and for the first time in weeks, the tightness in your chest had eased. You didn’t feel fixed, but you finally didn’t feel like rotting for the foreseeable future.

Now, the five of you were sprawled across the loft’s living room, half-watching The Princess Diaries play on the TV. It was Sam’s idea, of course. He insisted that Bucky had to be cultured, and no one else had any other suggestions.

Steve sat on the floor with a bowl of popcorn, fully invested. Bucky was squinting at the screen like he was trying to solve a murder. Natasha, lounging in the armchair with her legs propped on the ottoman, glanced at you. You were pitifully curled up under a blanket with a bowl of ice cream. She gave you a once-over, then turned to Steve.

“She needs a rebound.”

Steve opened his mouth to say something, maybe to disagree, but instead he gave Natasha a thoughtful look and decided to keep his mouth shut.

You choked on your spoon. “I’m sitting right here.”

“Exactly,” Nat said coolly, not missing a beat. “You’re sitting, you’re sad, and you haven’t been laid in…?”

“Do not answer that,” Sam interjected, hands raised. “Please, I beg.”

Unfazed, Natasha went on. “You need someone pretty who’ll tell you your hair looks good and you know… absolutely ruin you in the best way.”

Your face flushed an alarming shade of red as you stared hard at the TV. “I need to get struck by lightning.”

“Whatever you do,” Bucky said flatly from the opposite end of the couch, “Do it at his place. I’m not hearing that.”

Sam gagged dramatically. “Can we not talk about her getting defiled during Princess Diaries?’

“Uh-uh,” Natasha cut in smoothly, already pulling out her phone. “No talking unless you’re volunteering, I need to focus.”

Before anyone could argue, she cast her screen onto the TV, replacing The Princess Diaries entirely. Sam let out a horrified gasp as the screen flickered.

“Nat! Princess Mia was about to give a speech!”

“Shhh,” Natasha waved him off. “This is more important.”

On the screen, three crisp photos appeared in a neat row.

“These,” she said, gesturing toward the candidates like she was presenting a PowerPoint presentation, “are all people we know. Which means they’re not losers… not really. Low emotional investment, good hygiene, passably good-looking. All solid rebound options.”

The screen displayed the following candidates:

Johnny Storm — Shirtless in a bathroom mirror, abs flexed, sunglasses on indoors. There was a 99% chance this selfie had originally been sent to someone else, or possibly everyone else. He looked like the human embodiment of a “wyd?” text at 2 a.m. “This guy? Really?” Bucky sighed, genuinely disappointed. “Slim pickings, huh?” “I’d steer clear with this one,” Steve added with a grimace.

Sébastien Noir — A S.H.I.E.L.D agent with a sleek black-and-white headshot, clearly pulled from a classified S.H.I.E.L.D file (because, of course, Nat had access to that). Dark hair and a darker smirk. Very French, very suave. “Could be the next James Bond,” Natasha said casually. “Or a complete poser,” Bucky muttered under his breath.

Matt Murdock — The Avengers’ lawyer. Crisp navy suit, tousled hair, holding a cane and leaning casually against a brownstone like he walked out of a Jane Austen adaptation if it was directed by Scorsese. “I like this one,” Sam said with a thoughtful nod, “Lawyers have money.”

After much deliberation and a fair amount of peer pressure, you begrudgingly settled on Sébastien Noir. Johnny had given you nothing but red flags, and you didn’t hate yourself enough to fall for a walking thirst trap with the romantic depth of a frat boy..

Matt Murdock, on the other hand, was too much. Too handsome, too smart, and too put together. You weren’t emotionally stable enough to be perceived by someone that kind, and to be honest, it felt borderline disrespectful to label him a rebound.

So… Sébastien it was.

Tall, French, and suspiciously charming, he felt like the safest terrible decision. There was a certain relief in choosing someone who came with low expectations and virtually no risk of actual feelings. If it all went up in flames, you could just blame it on ‘cultural misunderstanding’... or Natasha.

“Are you sure about this…?” Steve asked cautiously, like he might step in and offer a better alternative if you gave him even a hint of hesitation.

“Not really,” you admitted with a frown. “I feel like I’m setting feminism back a few decades.”

“That’s how you know you chose the right rebound,” Natasha nodded while typing something on her phone, probably texting Sébastien himself.

Bucky didn’t even bother commenting. He just sat there, slowly shaking his head like a man watching a car crash.

“What? No notes?” you asked him, raising an eyebrow.

“This is just… unbelievable,” He simply muttered, shoveling another handful of popcorn into his mouth like he was trying to eat away his disapproval.

“To your slut era, I guess,” Sam said half-heartedly, raising his beer before switching the TV back to Princess Diaries like nothing life-altering had just occurred.

——

Later that evening, on your way out of your room to brush your teeth, you caught a glimpse of Bucky standing by the hallway closet you jokingly dubbed the mini armory. The door was open, and dim light spilled out over the floor. He was unraveling a black bundle you vaguely remembered seeing months ago, back when you were just trying to store your cleaning supplies.

You paused in your room’s doorway, unsure if he’d want company.

The cloth slipped from his hands to reveal a silver prosthetic arm with a red star near the shoulder area.

“So that’s what it was,” you said softly, stepping out just enough for him to hear.

Bucky froze. His head turned slightly, shoulders tense. “You were looking around here?”

“I just thought it was a normal closet, okay?” you said quickly, holding your hands up. “I was just looking for somewhere to stash my Swiffer and boom… murder closet.”

That earned the smallest twitch of his lips. Barely.

“I should throw this thing out. Make room for your junk.”

You smiled just a little at the jab. “I don’t know…” You said, tilting your head. “I kinda think you should keep it.”

He gave you a look. “Yeah? Why’s that?”

“Because it’s good to have a reminder of how far you’ve come,” you said, meeting his eyes. Then, with a wry twist of your lips, you added, “And also, maybe we can use it as a talking stick. In my class, we pass around this glittery baseball bat to stop the kids from yelling over each other. This could be our version.”

That earned you a real smirk this time, brief but genuine. “You’re weird.”

“Not the worst thing I’ve been called,” you said with a shrug, just as your phone buzzed.

You glanced down at your phone to see a text from Sébastien. Bucky noticed, and his smirk immediately faded.

“You’re going through with Romanoff’s idea?” He asked, crossing his arms.

“Why not?” You replied, shrugging your shoulders. “It could be fun.”

“You’re going to regret it,” he warned, putting his old prosthetic back inside the closet like he was wrapping up the conversation.

“Probably,” you called over your shoulder as you turned to the bathroom, “But at least I won’t be looping Pride and Prejudice in my room anymore.”

Bucky didn’t say anything, he just gave you one last unreadable look before retreating to his room and closing the door with a soft click.

—————————————————————————————————— End Notes: this was so dumb i cracked myself up writing this one. oh and for some reason, when i was writing this i kept imagining Sébastien (original character) as Sebastian Stan when he was the mad hatter in ONCE hashsdhasdhahdfh i need to sleep oh and i will be changing the summaries to look like friends episode titles because why not

tags: @projectjuvia @vibraniumavenger @mommymilkers0526 @iyskgd @pllwprincess @hiraethmae @b1pan1cg1rly @starstruckfirecat @soupiemeowmeow @biaswreckedbybuckybarnes @cherrypieyourface @lasnych @okbutiambabygorl @herejustforbuckybarnes @ilistentotayswifttocope @s-sh-ne @ficmeiguess @alagalaska

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thunderbolt-ing · 9 days ago

Text

Three Roommates and a Loft [2]

PREVIOUS | NEXT The One With The Damn Couch: an ungodly amount of boxes, two helpful roommates, one damn couch, and a partridge in a pear tree. Warnings: none except for your loser ex. Otherwise, very lighthearted silliness. A/N: This is such a fun series to write, i can't wait to post the other parts and im so glad you guys like it too!! i love them so much, my dysfunctional loft dwellers. Not thoroughly proofread!! Word count: 4.6k <3

Today was move-in day, and honestly, you were dreading it. The sheer number of boxes and mismatched furniture you owned was enough to trigger a minor internal crisis. Worst of all, you couldn’t bring yourself to ask the boys for help, even though you had three super soldiers at your disposal (well, two… maybe? You still weren’t sure if Sam was enhanced or just naturally built like a Greek statue. Note to self: ask him later).

Half of the furniture from your shared apartment with your ex-boyfriend was technically yours, which gave you a petty sense of satisfaction. You were leaving that man with next to nothing, you’ve basically stripped that sorry apartment down. You were now the proud owner of a one aggressively mid-century modern couch that was definitely larger than the one in the loft, two completely different nightstands, a custom-made bookshelf that you’ve DIY’d to resemble the ones you’ve obsessively pinned on Pinterest, a dozen potted plants, and a partridge in a pear tree.

None of those pieces of furniture matched the loft’s current aesthetic, which brought you to your newest problem.

You had no idea if the boys were okay with you bringing in your furniture, or by extension, completely redecorating their man cave with what could only be described as a Pinterest board chic. The loft was charming in that minimalist, exposed brick, bro-cave kind of way. It had a few battered bar stools, a couch that looked like it was going to fall apart anytime soon, and approximately one framed poster of Die Hard in the living room. They lacked a dining table, they had no rug, and there wasn’t a single plant in sight.

To put it simply, the loft lacked a woman’s touch; there was no hint of a woman ever having stepped foot in that space.

You took a deep breath and mustered up the courage to text Sam. He had become your unofficial point person during the entire moving process. He would respond promptly, didn’t leave you on read, and never made you feel stupid for asking a dozen questions.

Sam didn’t seem to mind your questioning. In fact, he’d been almost suspiciously nice about the whole thing. Steve was still too intimidating to approach without rehearsing a script first. Talking to him felt like talking to a celebrity, if said celebrity had no idea he was famous and somehow managed to be so charmingly humble about it. Bucky, on the other hand, was completely out of the question. You were ninety-nine percent sure he didn’t like you, or anyone really. His usual expression bordered somewhere between mild disdain and ‘please leave me alone’. Honestly, you weren’t brave enough to test the waters with him.

You sent Sam a photo of your rented moving truck, fully loaded with neatly stacked boxes and carefully arranged potted plants. A moment later, you sent another photo of your furniture sitting pitifully on the curb outside your old apartment. Your ex had flat-out refused to help load any of it into the truck, you figured he was hoping you’d get frustrated and leave it behind. Joke's on him, though, because you were far too stubborn for that.

You followed the photos with a quick text:

You: Sam, is it okay if I bring all of this?

He replied almost instantly.

Sam: damn, woman

Sam: is that… a proper couch…???? Oh thank god, ours is ugly and flat

Sam: telling Steve rn to chuck ours out on the curb IMMEDIATELY. I want yours

You: I'm so glad you said that. It’s a comfy couch, i promise.

Sam: im just glad the loft might finally look like adults live there

Sam: where are you? Steve says he wants to help lift stuff

You dropped your location without hesitation. You were relieved and surprised that you didn’t have to haul everything by yourself. You hadn’t even asked; they just offered, and after the week you’d had, that small token of kindness made you a tad bit emotional.

About thirty-five minutes later, the sound of a revving engine pulled your attention to the street.

Sam and Steve rolled up on a motorcycle like they were some sort of action stars in a low-budget film. Sam hopped off first, quickly approaching you with a grin on his face. Meanwhile, Steve parked the bike and pulled off his helmet with effortless cool. You expected the stoic man you’ve seen on television so many times, but instead, he looked genuinely happy to be there.

That alone knocked him down from ‘intimidating superhero’ to ‘potentially huggable.’

“Hey!” Steve called out, giving you a wave and an easy smile. “Came to steal your couch. Sam’s orders.”

“You're taking orders from this guy?” you shot back as you gestured at Sam, your brow arched in mock judgment.

Sam let out an exaggerated gasp like you’d just deeply offended him, but the smirk tugging at his lips gave him away.

“First of all,” he said, placing a hand over his chest, “I’m not just some guy. I’m a respected government employee who makes very important decisions. Occasionally. Like replacing that god-awful couch in our living room with this work of art.” He motioned at your near-perfect condition couch before moving to pick up a piece of furniture.

Steve let out a chuckle as he moved to help with one of the heavier boxes you’d left on the curb. You did a double-take and picked your jaw off the floor when he casually lifted your entire mattress like it weighed next to nothing and slid it into the truck with ease.

“He’s been talking about this couch since you texted,” Steve said, straightening up with zero effort. “I had to listen to him ramble on about lumbar support and aesthetics.”

“I know what I like,” Sam defended with a shrug, already heading toward the next piece of furniture. “And I like that couch. Nothing wrong with a man of taste.”

You bit back a laugh. “Taste, huh?”

Sam turned back with a grin. “You’ll thank me later when the living room no longer looks like a frat house.”

Steve nodded agreeably. “We don’t have an eye for interior design, unfortunately.”

You couldn’t help the laugh that slipped out as you watched Steve and Sam move in perfect sync, like they’d done this a hundred times before. You tried to lift a single box, just to be useful, but they immediately shut it down with matching looks of disbelief.

“Nope, do not,” Sam said, waving you off while he carried your lamps into the truck.

“Sit down, go drink some water,” Steve added, already halfway up the ramp with your dresser like it was made of Styrofoam.

So you resigned yourself to the curb, watching your life get packed up by two superheroes.

A few minutes later, you heard the creak of the front door behind you. You didn’t even need to turn around, you could feel the smug, stale energy of your ex wafting toward you like cheap cologne.

Adam stepped onto the sidewalk, pausing mid-stride when he caught sight of Steve carrying a part of your bedframe.

He blinked at your two roommates, eyes narrowing with confusion. “What the hell is going on? Is that—?”

You didn’t even bother turning to face him. You just let out a long, exhausted sigh, the kind that said you were done dealing with him. Your gaze stayed fixed on Steve and Sam, watching as your bookshelf was handled with more care than Adam had ever given your relationship.

“What do you want, Adam?” you asked flatly, arms crossed, and your tone devoid of warmth. “If you’re here to lift something heavy, great. If not, please go away.”

Adam’s eyes darted from Steve to Sam, then back to you, his mouth pathetically opening and closing. “Is that…? Is that Captain America?”

“Just Steve,” Steve said, his tone noticeably cooler than it was before. He didn’t know the backstory, but somehow, without being told, he already knew enough.

Adam shifted uncomfortably under Steve’s unreadable stare.

Before the awkward silence could stretch any further, Sam—who still held onto one end of your bookshelf—turned to Adam with a look of unimpressed disdain.

“Do you need something,” Sam asked, voice sharp, “or are you just gonna stand there and catch flies with your mouth open like that?”

Adam sputtered, clearly scrambling to put together a coherent sentence. “I just… I just think this is all a bit dramatic, don’t you think?”

You let out a loud, bitter laugh before finally turning to face him. “That might actually be the funniest thing you’ve ever said,” you replied, voice flat as your laughter faded into silence. “Which is saying something, considering I’ve known you for six years.”

It was classic Adam, minimizing the damage he caused while making you look like the overdramatic one. It was one last taste of hell before you were finally free.

“You dumped me and gave me a week to move out,” you said, your tone sharp and unapologetic. “If anyone was being dramatic, it was you.”

Adam’s expression twisted as if he were about to defend himself, but every possible comeback would only dig his hole deeper. Before he could try, Steve stepped forward, not aggressively, but solid enough to send a subtle message.

“She’s got this handled,” Steve said coolly. “Thank you for your concern, Adam.” His tone was calm but final, leaving no room for argument.

“Yeah, take your ass back inside,” Sam added sharply, earning a pointed look from Steve. “...Please.” he tacked on begrudgingly, rolling his eyes.

Adam swallowed hard, muttered something about needing to get back upstairs, and turned on his heel without another word.

You exhaled, surprised by how much lighter you suddenly felt. It was as if something invisible had finally been unclenched inside of you. When you turned back toward the truck, both Sam and Steve were already back to work like nothing had happened.

It didn’t take long for the two of them to load everything into the truck. They moved with practiced ease, and before you knew it, the last box was secured and Steve was already climbing back onto his bike.

Sam slid into the driver’s seat beside you, shooting you a small, reassuring smile as he started the engine. You turned back one final time, leaving behind the version of you who tolerated a bleak man and the small, dim life that came with him.

And just like that, as the truck pulled away from the curb, you finally felt peace.

—

The moving truck rumbled to a stop in the narrow alleyway beside your new building, a small space that connected it to the one next door. You hopped out, taking in your surroundings that consisted of a cracked pavement, weathered bricks, and a series of classic New York fire escapes that zigzagged up the building.

On one of them, a few stories up, sat Bucky. He was perched on the steps, elbow resting on his knee, and sipping something from a mug.

Your eyes met for a brief second. Then, just as quickly, he looked away as if you had just disrupted whatever fragile tranquility he’d allowed himself that morning. Still, you offered him a polite wave. You knew he didn’t like you, but you made a point to let the universe know that the feeling wasn’t mutual. Not your fault he was perpetually grumpy.

In response, he stood up, took a long sip from his mug like he needed it to deal with you, and promptly disappeared back inside without so much as a nod.

So charming.

“That’s his way of saying ‘welcome,’” Sam said, glancing up at the now-empty fire escape before looking back at you with a smirk. “Real nice guy, once you get past the scowl.”

“I doubt it,” You replied as you walked over to the back of the truck, “I don’t think I’ll ever be fluent in Bucky-speak… and honestly? I don’t think I want to try.”

Sam chuckled, then rolled up the back of the truck with ease, ready to unload your things. Steve rounded the corner moments later, all smiles and a go-getter attitude, like helping people move was his idea of weekend fun.

Between the three of you, the unloading began, boxes first, and heavier furniture saved for later. It was surprisingly efficient, aside from the four flights of stairs you fought to climb up. Steve and Sam handled them like it was nothing, practically jogging to the top without breaking a sweat. You, on the other hand, had to concentrate hard on trying not to wheeze. The last thing you needed was to pass out in front of two superhumans.

Back at the loft, while Steve and Sam were still downstairs, you wrestled a box you’d insisted on bringing up through the doorway. Sam urged that you not touch it, but you needed to feel useful. You couldn’t just let them do everything, even though both he and Steve reassured you multiple times that they could handle it.

“Are you trying to break your back?” a voice drawled behind you, equal parts exasperated and bored.

You turned around and found Bucky leaning against the wall of the couch-less living room, arms crossed and judgment dialed up. So, Sam had been serious about chucking the old sofa.

“Dragging a heavy box builds character.” You replied, panting slightly as you nudged the box with your foot, “Something you could use.”

“I was tortured by HYDRA for seventy years,” he deadpanned. “I’ve maxed out my character development.”

You paused, your hands on your hips as you stared at him in disbelief. “Wow, okay. We’re trauma dumping now? Cool, cool. So, when I was like seven—”

“Move,” Bucky interrupted, already pushing off the wall. Before you could get another word in, he lifted the box you’d been fighting with and tucked it under one arm like it weighed nothing. You had to fight the urge to gawk.

“I literally had that,” you insisted, though it didn’t sound so convincing.

“Sure,” he said dryly. “I could practically hear your spine snapping.”

You followed him into the living room, watching as he set the box down with zero effort. “You know, for someone who clearly doesn’t want to talk to me, you sure have a lot to say.”

“I talk when necessary,” he replied without looking at you. “Like when someone’s clearly about to slip a disc over a box of…” he glanced at the label. “...’Books and more books’? Are you turning this place into a library?”

You opened your mouth to fire back, but he was already disappearing through the front door.

You sincerely hoped he wasn’t planning on helping unload the rest. But, unfortunately for you, he absolutely was.

—

Downstairs, all four of you stood in a loose semicircle around the back of the truck, silently staring at the couch inside. It was significantly larger than the loft’s old one, and it was quickly becoming clear that none of you had thought through the logistics of hauling it up four flights of stairs.

The silence stretched, and Bucky exhaled slowly through his nose like he regretted coming down to help.

“I feel like we should’ve measured something.” Sam finally muttered as he squinted at the couch.

“No, no,” Steve said as he shook his head with the confidence of a man who refused to be defeated by a piece of furniture, “It fits, we just need all hands on deck to push it up the stairs.”

He climbed into the truck, already taking charge. “Bucky and I could take the chaise section first. Then the four of us can handle the rest together.”

“I could suit up and just fly the chaise up…?” Sam suggested helpfully.

“Let’s not scare the neighbors.” You vetoed, patting Sam on the back as you moved aside to give Steve and Bucky some space to bring down the chaise.

Steve’s plan had seemed solid at first. He and Bucky managed to painlessly haul the chaise up the stairwell with minimal fuss, while you and Sam followed with the cushions.

When it was time to haul the main section, that was when everything fell apart.

The stairs were narrower than anyone remembered, and the couch was bulkier than anyone admitted. The corners were too wide, the angles too sharp, and the laws of physics were actively working against you. Now, all four of you were wedged awkwardly into the stairwell with the couch jammed at a sharp diagonal between the third and fourth floors.

So close yet so far.

“Keep pushing!” Steve grunted from the top landing, shoulder pressed into one as he and Bucky tried to hoist it upward. Bucky let out a low grunt, his metal arm whirring under the strain.

“Uh, hello?! It’s stuck!” Sam called from beside you, beads of sweat rolling down his face. “Like, stupidly stuck!”

“It’s not stuck,” Steve insisted, pushing harder and lodging it even more firmly into the corner. “It just needs to pivot.”

“Oh my god,” you groaned, wedging your back against the couch to help. “Do not say pivot.”

“I’m sorry, but we need to pivot left!” Steve yelled from the top of the stairs.

“What does that mean?” Sam yelled. “My left or your left?”

“Everyone’s left is the same if we’re facing the same damn way!” Bucky snapped, clearly seconds away from abandoning this entire operation.

“Pivot now!” Steve urged, straining as he and Bucky pulled from the top. “Pivot! Pivot!”

“Steve,” you gasped, “for the ever-loving god, you could just say turn!”

The couch groaned, and then miraculously, it shifted.

With one final, collective pivot and an unholy amount of effort, the couch squeezed past the stairwell corner and landed with a loud thump on the fourth-floor landing.

“I told you it would fit,” Steve said, far too cheerful for someone who nearly died trying to get the couch to move a few inches.

Bucky dropped his end of the couch with a thud and disappeared inside the loft without a word, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like, “I should’ve let it fall.”

—

The placement of the couch sparked yet another argument.

Sam was adamant it should go against the big window for ‘optimal feng shui’, a phrase you weren’t sure he understood but kept repeating anyway. Steve lobbied for the couch to be against the exposed brick wall for ‘aesthetic balance’ and something about creating a strong visual focal point.

You, on the other hand, were too mentally and physically drained from nearly losing your life on the stairs to care. At that point, you considered lying down on the floor, but you didn’t trust it much and made a mental note to mop it down before placing your area rug.

Bucky, wisely, had removed himself from the debate entirely. He disappeared into his room without a word, presumably to recover from what he now considered his yearly act of community service. You didn’t blame him, you could practically hear his voice echoing in your head: “Figure it out. Leave me out of it.”

After a thorough scrubbing of the floor and some wrestling with the area rug, a compromise was made. The main section of the couch was placed against the brick wall to satisfy Steve’s vision, while the chaise was angled toward the window to appease Sam’s need for energy flow. Both men looked pleased, and you were just relieved that standing was no longer a requirement.

One by one, the three of you dropped onto the couch like flies.

Sam flopped onto the corner with dramatic flair with his arms draped across the back cushions. You claimed the chaise with a heavy sigh, slumping sideways with one arm dangling off the edge and the other clutching a throw pillow. Steve eased himself down with a satisfied grunt, hands on his knees, looking like he’d just completed a major tactical operation.

“See?” he said, beaming as he leaned back into the cushions. “Teamwork.”

“Worth the pain,” Sam muttered, letting out a relaxed sigh, “this couch feels like a cloud.”

You grinned happily, sinking deeper into the cushions as you felt a warm sense of satisfaction settling in your chest. Despite the mess of the mountains of boxes, you’d officially contributed something good to the space. The loft still looked like a war zone from the move, but at least the living room finally felt like a living room and not the sad foyer of a glorified man cave.

Bucky rejoined civilization moments later, water bottle in hand, looking like he’d just barely forgiven the three of you for making him carry a couch.

He paused in the doorway, doing a double-take at the transformed living room. You thought, just for a second, you caught a flicker of a smile tug at the corner of his mouth, quickly smothered before it could be considered an emotion.

“What do you think?” Steve asked, grinning as he gestured proudly to the space.

Bucky took a long sip from his bottle, eyes scanning the new setup.

“Looks livable,” he muttered, which, coming from him, might as well have been a glowing five-star review.

“You’re welcome,” you called out with a smug grin from the couch.

Bucky didn’t respond. He simply turned and walked straight into the kitchen like he hadn’t heard you at all.

“He likes it,” Sam whispered giddily, nudging your leg like a kid who just witnessed something scandalous. He looked far too pleased that you’d managed to extract any emotion from Bucky. You gave him an equally delighted smile, both of you sharing a silent victory like proud co-conspirators.

“I think I’m just gonna lie here for the foreseeable future,” you mumbled, already sinking deeper into the cushions. “I physically cannot haul the rest of my stuff upstairs. No more stairs for me.”

“You don’t have to,” Sam said casually, patting your leg.

Your eyes widened. “Wow, Sam. That’s really kind of you. Thank you for—”

‘Oh no, no,” he cut in quickly, shaking his head. “I’m not bringing anything up. I switched rooms with you. You’re in the downstairs bedroom now—the one next to Bucky’s.”

You sat up, throwing the pillow on the floor. “What?”

“What?” Bucky echoed sharply, his head poking into the living room from the kitchen with his eyes narrowed in displeasure.

“What’s going on? Why are we saying ‘what’?” Steve chimed in, blinking like he’d just come back from where he’d mentally checked out.

Sam shrugged, completely unbothered. “It’s the best case scenario. She’s a woman and she’s got, like, a lot of stuff,” he gestured at the boxes scattered across the loft. “That room’s bigger. Her junk fits. And I don’t have to listen to Bucky sleep-talk through the wall anymore. I’m a light sleeper, man.”

“I do not sleep-talk,” Bucky muttered defensively from the kitchen doorway.

“Oh really?” Sam shot back. “Last week, you said ‘I’ll kill you where you stand’ at three a.m., and it scared me so bad I had to lock my door.”

You held up a hand, trying to keep up. “Can we circle back to the part where you just moved me without asking?”

“Door’s already open,” he added, completely ignoring you. “I already put your suitcases in there, and your bedframe’s already assembled. You’re welcome.”

Bucky crossed his arms, glaring. “I didn’t agree to this. We had a bathroom system, Wilson.”

“Okay, then come up with a new system with her,” Sam replied, clearly proud of his problem-solving skills and equally oblivious to how very against this idea you and Bucky both looked.

Steve blinked between the three of you, finally putting it all together. “Oh, that’s why Sam told me to reassemble your bed in there…”

You let out a slow, deep sigh. “Thank you, Steve.”

Steve held up his hands like he’d just realized he accidentally committed a crime. “I didn’t know it was a bad thing! I thought I was helping!”

Sam patted your leg like he’d just done you a favor. “This is going to be great.”

You weren’t sure if you wanted to strangle him or yourself.

—

Night fell slowly over Brooklyn, the sunset casting a golden hue through the loft’s wide windows before the city’s glow took over. Boxes were still everywhere, potted plants were scattered in the living room, and takeout containers on the kitchen counter hinted that no one had the energy to cook.

Despite the chaos, the loft was finally quiet as everyone retired to their rooms. You were the last to head to bed, lingering in the living room like staying there might somehow delay the inevitable reality that you were now sleeping next door to Bucky Barnes. Eventually, a little after nine, you reluctantly padded to your new room, thanks to Sam’s unsolicited relocation efforts.

You had to admit, the room itself was… perfect. Annoyingly so.

The room was bigger than the one you would’ve had upstairs, which easily accommodated your desk, bookshelf, and all the other ‘woman with a lot of stuff’ essentials Sam had so graciously cited as justification. Your suitcases were inside the closet, ready to be unpacked. Your favorite lamp was already plugged in and set on your nightstand (courtesy of Sam). Even your diffuser was thoughtfully placed on the windowsill.

It took you a couple of minutes to get yourself somewhat settled. Now, you lay on your bed wrapped in familiar sheets, staring at the ceiling, surrounded by a half-unpacked mess and the distant hum of New York traffic.

It almost felt like home, until the walls reminded you that they were roughly the thickness of a tortilla.

From the other side, muffled but clear, you heard the sound of a drawer slamming.

Then silence.

Then, a sigh. The long, exhausted kind, followed by the unmistakable clatter of something metallic.

You rolled over and pulled a pillow over your head. You could do this. You just needed to adjust.

Another beat of silence.

Then, Bucky’s voice, low and muttered: “Where the hell is the other sock?”

More shuffling and noise followed, and you were trying your hardest to grasp at the last shred of patience you had. The noise continued for a couple of minutes, and you tried to ignore it by burying yourself in your covers.

Silence settled for a few seconds, enough to make you think it was over, before a barrage of thuds, drawer slams, and muttering followed.

You groaned and sat up, marching across your room to knock on the wall.

It went quiet, then from the other side:

“What?” Bucky’s voice was muffled, but it was clear that he was annoyed.

You pressed your forehead to the wall and replied, “If you’re going to have a breakdown over a sock, can you please keep it quiet? I’d like to have a full eight hours of sleep.”

“It’s nine-thirty. On a Saturday.”

“Some of us have functioning circadian rhythms.”

Footsteps followed. Then, under his breath, you heard: “God, they’re the same. Both annoying.”

You narrowed your eyes. “What was that?”

“I didn't say anything,” Bucky grumbled, annoyed but backpedaling.

You bit back a chuckle, lips curving despite yourself.

With a shake of your head, you walked back to your bed and climbed under the covers. To your surprise, the noise actually stopped. No more stomping, slamming, or sock-related mumblings.

Just quiet.

“Good night, Bucky,” you called softly, not expecting a response from the grump.

For a second, there was nothing. Then, muffled through the wall, you heard his voice.

“...Night.”

It wasn’t exactly warm, but at least he responded. You had little hope that this arrangement would work out, but maybe it would.

Maybe. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Endnotes: steve and sam are tied for roommates of the year btw.

tags (lmk if you want to be tagged!): @okbutiambabygorl

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