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Wyatt Russell as John Walker in thunderbolts deleted scene

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Thunderbolts* deleted scene.

“I can confirm the door is unliftable.”

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What if the dog tags John carries around his neck aren't his but Lemar's?

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THUNDERBOLTS* (deleted scene)

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wyatt russell as john walker

thunderbolts*, 2025

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john goes utterly soft around you, to a hilarious degree—at least to yelena and ava.

he's all sharp edges, unmitigated ego, wit too dry to be anything but a little bit cruel at times. they've gotten used to his act, all the bluster that makes up u.s. agent. hell, ava and yelena have made a game out of calling his bluff in the months spent in the tower.

but with you in the room? he's hopeless, utterly and completely hopeless. it's like every wire in his brain goes crossed. it's all quiet acts of service and listening to your every word, but the moment you—or anyone else—calls him on it, those wires only get more crossed. then, he becomes a total disaster.

he flounders for excuses, looking for an out that lets him avoid actually talking about his feelings like an adult. and boy, does everyone get a kick out of that. yelena and ava's game of calling his bluff turns into a game of who can fluster walker more when you're around.

they point out that he was the one to buy your favorite cereal when you ran out—to which he replies, "i was already planning on going grocery shopping, don't read into it."

they act like teenagers when you two get paired up for missions, teasing him for getting alone time with you, until he can't do anything but storm off.

they poke fun when he stares just a bit too long at the outfit you pick for a charity gala—but, damn, it really isn't his fault you look good, okay? he's allowed to think you look good without it meaning anything. sue him for appreciating good fashion sense.

ava is quick to point out that it's abundantly clear john couldn't give less of a shit about fashion. he spends the next week trying, and failing, to prove her wrong.

but when the two of you properly start dating? it only gets worse.

it's all "hey, honey" when you walk into a room, or "i missed you" when he comes back from a mission. the john that deflected everything turns into the john whose cheeks only go slightly pink when yelena calls him out for being a sappy idiot.

that harsh military stiffness melts away when you're sitting by him, and honestly? yelena and ava are almost impressed with what you've done to him. he's lost the edge he once had, the too-quick to anger attitude he waltzed around the tower with.

but even still, they'll never pass up an opportunity to make fun of walker for nearly shoving alexei out of the seat he saved next to himself during movie night. or the time he carried you to bed when you fell asleep on his shoulder coming back from a mission. or even the time that he spent a week groveling because he accidentally shrank your favorite sweater.

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John making the Thunderbolts Lemar’s favorite dinner when he’s fully accepted that they’re now family and that he would do anything for all of them and he couldn’t bring himself to cook it before because it hurt so badly, but once he realizes that he can do it again because he let himself love these people, it’s like a weight is lifted off of him and he’s lighting up like a christmas tree like he used to all those years ago.

Like Yelena’s teasing him one day and she’s like “Why don’t you make us your favorite dinner tonight, I wanna know what it is?” and him laughing it off and oops, all of a sudden, holy shit, he can actually make it again without it hurting so badly that he has to stop??? Because Yelena asked him to make it and he loves her like he loved Lemar??? He loves the entire team so much and he’s finally stopped trying to deny it???

I have many feelings TM about how Lemar haunts the narrative but in such a gentle and loving and painful and happy way.

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hey just wanted to let you know that windchill changed my life so thanks for that! one of the greatest characterizations i’ve seen of thunderbolts and the mcu in fics. u r a freaking genius and i love you user sentrryy

THANK YOU BELOVED ANON!!!!!! I'm so glad you like it!!!! honestly I was worried it was a little too self indulgent when I was writing it lol but ANYWAY tysm for the kind words!!!!! I love you too!!!!!!!!!!

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⟡Everything Else⟡

(John Walker x Reader)

Summary: You wake up from a nightmare and find yourself drawn to the tower's grand piano. John finds you having a crisis shortly after. (Based on a request by @laugffgbbh) - ao3 version

Word Count: 2.5k

Notes: Set after the events of Thunderbolts*, self-loathing, nightmares, feelings of inadequacy, general mental illness (this is mostly based on my own experience with an anxiety disorder so uh. yeah), reader plays piano, hurt/comfort i think??? walker in his therapy era (king) Beethoven, romantic undertones (to be explored in a potential part 2??)

a/n: So if you didn't know I am a huge theatre kid. However I am cursed in that I am a tech kid and do not know anything about music besides 3 years of clarinet in elementary school. But I love Next to Normal (which this is named after) and I love John Walker and I have a mental illness so enjoy this piece.

You wake up with a start, panting as you try to calm yourself down. Your eyes flashed across the room, trying to comprehend your surroundings.

It was just your room. You took a breath. Just a nightmare. You are home, and safe, in the Watchtower. You take deep breaths; one in, hold, one out. John insisted on teaching you his military breathing techniques. You’d never admit it to him, but they worked. 

You flopped back on your bed, staring into your ceiling. You could try and go back to sleep, but you knew it’d be futile. You took a glance at your alarm clock. 3:45. Jesus.

You settled on heading to the common room to watch some nonsense middle of the night television till you hopefully fell asleep. As you left your room, you took care to tiptoe through the halls, trying not to wake the others.

You didn’t bother turning on a light as you reached the common room; you plopped down on  the sofa, shutting your eyes to bask in the silence. The tower was rarely this peaceful; there was always Yelena and John arguing about something, Alexei pitching a new marketing idea. It was soothing, just existing in the quiet space. 

You opened your eyes again, craning your neck as you looked out the picture windows. The sky was still dark, the sun still hidden beyond the horizon. Out of the corner of your vision, you could see the grand piano that had sat gathering dust since you’d all moved in.

Val insisted that it came with the tower when she bought it. You all placed bets on who put it there; Bucky insisted Tony did to look cooler and more elegant, Yelena and Ava were convinced it was Bruce Banner’s, while Alexei kept spouting out his theories about Asgardian musical traditions. Still, you found no leads as to whose it was or who had put it there.

It just sat there, another mystery of the past. Just another reminder of your headquarter’s prior residents. You all felt the presence of the old Avengers in everything you did. Bucky had chosen to live in Steve’s old room, Yelena in Natasha’s. John was still reeling from his brief stint as Cap. You knew they still felt the losses, the gaping void both in them and the world at large, the level of greatness they felt was expected of them. Maybe it wasn’t as personal for the other three, but you knew they felt the same. You felt it too. You felt it every time you looked at that godforsaken piano.

The Avengers weren’t perfect. You knew that. But everyone certainly remembered them as perfect. After the Blip, people had forgotten how New York had been torn apart after the battle in 2012, how Sokovia had been completely razed. They had made some serious fuck-ups, same as you had. But the 6 of you hadn’t saved the earth from a genocidal purple alien (well, except Bucky), which meant you had big shoes to fill.

You found yourself walking to the piano, pulled as if by some invisible force beyond your comprehension. The surface was covered in dust, the keys still hidden beneath the lid. A small light hung above the sheet music, slightly crumpled and yellowed with time. It had still been there with the piano when you’d all found it. None of you could bear to touch it.

You flicked on the light. Opened up the keylid. The black and white keys sat there, untouched, polished. Just as they were left.

You’ve never told any of the team you played piano. You learned because your old building had a piano in the lobby, and you went down there when you felt too boxed in in your own apartment. It was a little embarrassing, honestly. Especially when compared to a group of former professional killers whose special talents include walking through walls, jumping off buildings and literally flying, being able to play an instrument didn’t seem too impressive. 

So you never brought it up. You found yourself avoiding the piano, in fact. It felt like a piece of history, a museum exhibit that shouldn’t be touched. You’d all grown used to living in the tower, to being so close to what felt like history. Still, it was the piano that felt most off limits to you.

Your fingers hovered over the keys, hands adjusting to the correct position. Still unsure, you pressed one key.

The sound felt like it echoed through the whole tower. You whipped your head around, afraid someone would suddenly appear. You were met with silence, the common room just as empty as before.

You’re no pianist. You play decently, a hobby for between missions, for when the day felt too long and you needed to get out of your head. When you sat at that old, untuned piano, you could forget who you were, what you’d done. You could just play.

You tap along the keys, a scale of sorts. You haven’t played in months, not since before the vault, before this. You’ve avoided the piano like the plague, like it was something unholy.

Still, you can’t seem to stop yourself as you start to play.

You forget your nightmares. You forget all the people you've killed, the pain you caused. You forget you’re playing an instrument owned by a man who saved the world. THat you’re the one who's supposed to be saving the world now. The weight of your life vanishes in the music, harmonies echoing out of the instrument. Then you hit a wrong note. And it’s ruined.

“Fuck.” you mumble. You pause, fingers hovering just above the keys. You stare into them, trying to recenter yourself. You readjust, go back to the beginning. You start to play again.

You close your eyes, trying to lose yourself in it like before. But that one fuckup note still echoes in your mind. You wonder if someone like Stark or Barton sucked at piano too. It didn’t matter, because they were heroes. They didn’t need to be good at this, because everything they did was good. And here you sat, some screw-up anti-hero at best playing their piano.

You hit two wrong keys at the same time.

You don’t bother swearing. Just crack your neck slightly and start again.

Yelena talks about Natasha often. She’s one of the only ones who feels like a person, not some idolic figure that left this massive hole in their wake. Yelena and Alexei tell stories of her as a kid, always the protective older sister, standing up for Yelena, playing make-believe in the backyard. They don’t bring up her faults, all the dark things in her life. And somehow it makes all your mistakes even bigger, that little voice in the back of your mind even louder as it tells you you don’t deserve this, to have a second chance, to be a hero.

This time, you smash the keys as you screw up. You try again.

You think of how the nation saw Steve Rogers. Like some saint, someone who was truly good. You compare it to the way Bucky talks about Steve. Not as some painting on a church wall, but as a person, a real human. He tells these ridiculous stories of their days in Brooklyn, stupid things Steve would do. He wasn’t perfect. But he might as well be. And you weren’t. You had no one to look fondly upon the times you lost a fight, got a black eye. You have a world watching you, just waiting for you to screw up so they can throw you away.

You cry out, smashing against the keys like a madman. Fractured, angry sounds emanate through the room, mixed with your grunts of frustration. You beat against the keys like a punching bag. If you can’t do it right, you might as well give up. Might as well pound on the keys till you can’t hear your thoughts. Hurt them, like it’ll take away the loathing you feel everyday as you parade yourself around like some kind of hero.

You didn’t even realize you were crying till you stopped, head hung low over the keys, your own voice feeling like an echo, low sobs coming out of your throat.

You feel alone. Utterly alone. And a failure. You’ll never live up to them. To this title you found yourself forced into. How could you? Who could ever replace them? Certainly not some shitty assassin for hire like you.

A voice interrupts your spiral.

“Hey.”

You jolt up, wiping the tears from your face as you spot Walker standing a few feet away. You blink hard, trying to clear the wetness forming in your eyes. “Hey. You’re up early.”

He nods awkwardly, trying to find a way to address what he just saw. “Yeah. I couldn't sleep.”

“Me neither.” you both go silent again, the room quiet save for the buzzing of the old piano light. “How long were you-”

“You’re really good.” you both speak at the same time. You scoff, glancing at the vile instrument. 

“I fucked up.” you blurt out. “I fucked up over, and over. I suck. I can’t play for shit-”

“Hey. Hey hey hey.”John insists as he scooches onto the piano stool, his large frame taking up almost the whole thing. “Don’t talk like that. What’s this about? Because it’s clearly not just about you absolutely shredding on the piano.”

You chuckle a little. “I don’t think that’s the right word for it.”

“Whatever. You wanna talk about it?” you look over at him. He doesn’t have the usual smug look on his face. He seems genuinely concerned. Who wouldn’t be if they found their teammate crying at a grand piano at 4 in the morning.

You take a small breath, staring into your reflection in the polished black of the piano. “How are we supposed to live up to them?” you mumble. “How is a fuckup like me supposed to be an Avenger? I-I can’t even do this right, how am I supposed to save the world?”

John sighs. “We’re never gonna be them.” he admits, earnest and quiet. “Trust me, I know better than anyone.”

There’s a hint of sarcasm in his voice, trying to lighten the bad memories. You didn’t live under a rock; you saw John’s meteoric fall from grace as Cap a few years back. 

“But you can’t let it get to you.” he steadies himself, assertive in his words. “None of us are perfect. But we just gotta keep trying.”

None of you are perfect, that’s for sure. You probably have a combined kill count of a small country. But you can forget about that, even just for this moment, sitting here with Walker, with your friend by your side. 

You can’t erase it. But you can move forward.

You turn back to him, a small smile forming. “Nice pep talk, Walker.”

He shrugs jokingly. “Yeah, the therapy’s helped a lot.”

“You go to therapy?”

“Everytime I say something about my childhood, you and Ava tell me to go to therapy, and you’re surprised I actually did it?”

“I didn’t think you’d actually do it.” You actually laugh at that. “But that’s good.”

“It is. It’s actually nice, talking about…feelings.” he says it as if it’s a dirty word, or if he’s not sure if he’s allowed to use it. 

“Wow. Crazy stuff.” you deadpan, earning another chuckle from him. He has a nice laugh, a low rumble you don’t hear very often. You like this John. Kind, soft. You hope he stays when the sun comes up.

For now, you just lean against him, head resting on his shoulder. You feel him tense up just a little, surprised at the touch. He clears his throat. “You, uh, can you play this?” he gestures to the sheet music before you. You squint. The first few pages of Für Elise.

“Pretty easy. Whoever was using this wasn’t very good at piano.” you joke.

“See? We’re the Avengers with the better pianist.”

You just laugh, moving into the piece. You forget your nightmares, the Avengers, the pain. You just lean into John, joking and laughing, and you play. 

You make a mistake.

Before you can even start to think poorly of yourself, John is talking. “That’s still really good,” he points out. “I mean, you just saw the music for the first time. I can’t even read this.”

“What, you’re telling me you weren’t in your high school marching band?”

“I was on the field actually playing.” he reminds you. “3 years, state champs, back-”

“To back, to back, go Bears!” you jokingly raise your fist as you recite it from memory. “You bring this up at least once a month, John.”

“Because it’s impressive!”

“Alright, you wanna see impressive?” you crack your knuckles dramatically, stretching your fingers as they return to the keys. 

Your fingers move on their own, like you’re casting a spell instead of hitting keys. You play it through, then turn the page over to the next, and the next, and the next. Everything else just vanishes as you throw yourself into it, only feeling the cold keys under your hands and the warmth of John Walker next to you.

You finish with a flourish, giving a smug smile to Walker. He doesn’t even look annoyed; just happy, impressed, even. He gives a small clap. “That was good. Nerd.”

You smack his arm playfully, and he responds by pulling you into a one armed hug. You both laugh, your sorrows forgotten as the sun begins to rise, the light reflecting on the surface of the instrument.

You look up at John, noticing the way the light catches his bright blue eyes. You like to bully him about them sometimes, joking that they always look like they’re boring into your soul. In this light, they remind you of a clear sky, of a moment of peace. 

You don’t realize you’re staring till moments after you realize that John is as well. Your faces have inched closer to one another. A little too close. You clear your throat, turning back to the piano. 

“Thanks, John. For, uh, everything.”

“‘Course.” he says. You can still feel his eyes on you, the warmth of his arm around you. You feel him lean in just a bit, his lips just barely touching the crown of your head. You swear you can feel him leave a kiss against your hair, before he excuses himself to go train.

You just stay at the piano. You pick through the sheet music, find another piece, and try to play. You don’t beat yourself up at your mistakes. You just keep playing, on and on and on.

And for a minute, everything else goes away. Well, almost everything.

a/n: TO BE CONTINUED???? MAYBE??? idk if you guys like this and are interested i'd love to do a little part two to this one. maybe also n2n inspired??? you guys aren't escaping fic based on this musical i've already got bob character study in the works. Ain't much but it's honest work!

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Read somewhere that John Walker does his best when he’s taking orders.

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THUNDERBOLTS* (2025) dir. Jake Schreier

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Two kitties

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How does he get his eyes to do this, how are they glistening like people's eyes used to in old timey films

He looks like he's in The Sound of Music if The Sound of Music had a superhero tied up with an iron rod

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being a john walker fan sucks. i’ll see "john is an interesting character and deserves a redemption arc!" and im like YEAH!! and then they follow it up with "and he's MY cap!" STOP GO BACK

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Get Around

Summary : After going on a date with Bucky, Sarah realises they're better off as friends. So she does the next best thing: sets him up with you, the Wilsons’ childhood best friend. 

Pairing : Bucky Barnes x Wilsons’ best friend!reader (she/her) 

Warnings/tags : Fluff!!!! Canon-compliant-ish. cursing. Sex is mentioned and described but nothing too graphic. Honorary Wilson!reader lol. (Please let me know if I miss anything!!!)

Word count : 6.1k

Note : If you’d like to be on the taglist, message me! It gets lost in the comments sometimes. Enjoy!

Bucky had been hanging around Delacroix more often—helping out with repairs, tagging along with Sam, awkwardly charming every older woman at the community center. 

After a while, he asked Sarah out the old-fashioned way. They were mid-conversation on her porch after a neighborhood barbecue when he said, “Would you maybe wanna grab coffee sometime?”

Sarah blinked. “Like… a date?”

Bucky rubbed the back of his neck, shrugging. “Yeah. A date.”

She smiled, a little surprised he actually made a move. “Sure, Barnes. Why not?”

—

The coffee date was… fine.

Sarah looked good—she always did—but sitting across from her in a cosy little café, Bucky felt like he was going through the motions. She talked about her boys, the PTA, the plumber who still hadn’t fixed the upstairs sink. He listened politely, sipping his drink.

As the date went on, the silences got longer. Not the comfortable kind— the searching-for-what-to-say-next kind.

Sarah told a hilarious story about AJ trying to microwave a juice box. Bucky laughed but didn’t know how to relate. He talked about old jazz clubs in Brooklyn, and she smiled, but couldn’t picture it.

Now, he thought to himself, what on earth do we have in common? 

She liked things like school pickups and meal prep and making sure her boys had clean socks.

He was still figuring out how to use Google Maps.

By the time their drinks were finished, Sarah leaned back in her chair and tilted her head. “You know this isn’t gonna work, right?”

Bucky let out a relieved sigh. “God, thank you. I thought I was crazy.”

“You’re sweet,” she said with a grin. “But you’re… not for me.”

“You’re way too… normal,” he joked, happy to go back to friendly banter.

“Hey! Normal’s not so bad,” she playfully slapped his arm, grinning. “Especially with two kids and a mortgage. I like normal.”

Bucky shrugged. “I think I’m still trying to figure out what normal even is.”

There wasn’t any bitterness between them, just a mutual understanding. They walked out side by side, still friends, no pressure. Bucky held the door open for her, and they walked side-by-side on the sidewalk.

“You’ll find someone,” she said, patting his shoulder. “Just maybe not a single mom who spends half her life arguing with a ten-year-old about screen time.”

“Mm. Modern dating’s rough,” Bucky muttered, almost to himself, kicking a pebble. He gave her a half-hearted laugh. “I never had to do it before. In the forties, you danced with someone, got shipped three weeks later, and that was that.”

Sarah adjusted the strap of her bag. “Yeah, well, times have changed.”

“I don’t even know what my ‘type’ is,” Bucky sighed, plunging his hands into the pocket of his leather jacket.

“Come on. Everyone has a type,” She glanced at him. “What do you usually go for?”

He thought for a long moment, mouth half open, brows furrowed like he was trying to solve a math problem.

“I dunno… pretty? Smart? Likes reading and stuff?” He squinted. “You know. Someone who makes me feel like I’m not completely out of place all the time.”

Sarah blinked at him, then let out a laugh that was more affectionate than mocking. “You’re hopeless.”

“I said I don’t know!”

“So,” she started, gears already shifting in her head, “You want someone smart, probably a little intense, maybe a little weird— someone who could keep up with your nerdy ass and not try to fix you.”

Bucky looked at her sideways. “...Is that a bad thing?”

“Not at all. Just not me.” She shrugged, before smiling to herself. “Lucky for you, I think I know the woman for you,” she said with a little sing-song voice.

Bucky’s brow furrowed. “You’re setting me up with someone else?”

She grinned, wide and smug. “Damn right I am.”

“After I just tried to date you?”

“Please,” she said, already pulling out her phone. “This is the South. Everyone’s dated everyone once. It’s how we weed out the bad matches and find the good ones.”

—

The air was warm and fragrant with the smell of jasmine, the kind of Southern evening that made time stretch out and slow down. Cicadas hummed in the trees like a constant chorus, and the porch creaked beneath. You sat curled up on the steps, legs tucked beneath you, an old quilt draped across your lap even though the heat hardly called for it. Sarah lounged across from you, sipping sweet tea from a mason jar, her curls tied back, the porch light casting a halo around her.

“So,” she said, breaking the comfortable silence as she swirled the ice in her glass, “I went on a date with Bucky Barnes.”

You blinked. “Wait—the Bucky? Metal arm, might’ve killed a guy with a butter knife?” Sam has told you a lot about him, of course. But that wasn’t the same as knowing him. 

Sarah nodded.

You sat up straighter, curious now. “Okay, and? Spill.”

She tilted her head thoughtfully. “He’s... complicated. But nice. Weirdly funny. He loves old movies and books and he’s got this thing where he looks constantly exhausted by the existence of social media.”

“That’s… something.”

Sarah shrugged. “He’s trying. But it didn’t really click, you know? Not romantically, anyway. We kind of gave each other this look like, ‘Yeah, this isn’t it.’”

You took a slow sip of your tea, watching her closely. “So why are you telling me this?”

Sarah raised an eyebrow, unhurried. And if you knew her— and you did— she was scheming. “Because you… you might be exactly his type.”

Your brow shot up. “You’re trying to set me up with the Winter Soldier?”

“No,” Sarah rolled her eyes and leaned forward. “I’m trying to set you up with Bucky. Who happens to have a metal arm and a very unfortunate history of government-sanctioned murder. Besides, I think he’s your type, too.”

You made a show of pretending to consider it, lips pursed. “Pretty but did government-sanctioned murder is my type?”

She nodded without missing a beat. “A hundred percent. You like them brooding and bookish with just a dash of ‘might stab someone for you.’”

You laughed. “Okay, but what about Sam?” You leaned back to the wooden railing, running your fingers around the rim of your glass. “You really think he’s gonna be chill with Bucky taking two of the closest women in his life out?”

“He’ll freak,” Sarah finished, deadpan. “But if it doesn’t work out, he doesn’t have to know. If it does we’ll handle it. I’ll hit him with the ‘don’t get in the way of love’ speech. Maybe throw in some guilt about daddy watching from heaven.”

“That’s cold.”

“It’s effective.”

You chuckled, setting your glass down and leaning back, looking out at the yard. Crickets chirped somewhere near the bushes, and the stars were just starting to peek through the indigo sky. 

You bit your lip, shaking your head but not saying no. You were picturing him now— this man you’d only ever seen in brief glimpses, standing quiet at the edges of cookouts, nodding along to conversations, sometimes slipping into laughter like he forgot he was allowed to enjoy things.

“Does he read?” you asked finally, glancing sideways at her.

“All the time. Sam said he annotates in the margins.”

You tried not to smile, but it slipped out anyway. “That’s annoyingly charming.”

“Right?” Sarah grinned, delighted.

You took another sip, thinking. “I mean... I’m not saying yes,” you murmured.

Sarah just chuckled. “But you’re already thinking about what you’re gonna wear.”

You shot her a look. “Shut up.”

But to be fair, she was right. You were intrigued. 

Completely, undeniably intrigued.

—

Sarah picked the brunch spot—a sunny corner café with mismatched mugs and a chalkboard menu that changed every week. It had string lights even in daylight and smelled like syrup, coffee, and cinnamon.

Bucky walked in five minutes early, as he always did when he wasn’t entirely sure what to expect. He scanned the room— and then stopped short.

“Oh,” he said aloud, more to himself than anything.

Because there you were, sitting by the window in a breezy sundress and sneakers, sipping coffee from a mug the size of your face. You looked up, spotted him, and smiled like you were in on a secret he hadn’t been told yet.

He found himself smiling. “It’s you.”

You hadn't really talked before, not properly. He knew you were close with Sam and Sarah, always laughing or deep in conversation with someone else at the Wilson gatherings. He’d noticed you, though— thought you were beautiful, but always just too out of reach.

“That’s one way to greet a date.” Your brow lifted, amused. “I was hoping for a little more enthusiasm.”

“No—I mean—hi,” he managed to recover, walking over. “I just didn’t know it was you you.”

“Sarah didn’t tell you?”

“No,” he admitted, a little sheepish. “I thought I was showing up for a complete stranger. Not the Wilson’s pretty friend who always hangs out with the book club moms at barbecues.”

“Hey!” You defended yourself. “Mrs. Landry always has good gossip.”

Oh, this was going to be interesting.

—

You both sat a little awkward at first, but then he made a dry joke about how brunch menus had too many eggs, and you responded with a sass-laced quip about men being afraid of hollandaise. The banter just clicked.

Conversation flowed easy after that.

You teased him for calling the server “ma’am” like he was born in a different century (because he was), and he shot back that you flirt like it’s a contact sport— which you didn’t deny. He found out you liked old books and that you could, in fact, take him in an argument about which Indiana Jones movie was the best. 

To your surprise, Bucky was funny. Not just in a dry, sarcastic way, but he was genuinely quick-witted. He told a story about a disastrous attempt to use a self-checkout machine (“It yelled at me, loudly, in front of children”), and you nearly choked on your coffee.

When you talked about the petty drama at your job, he listened with real interest, laughing in the right places, asking the right questions. It wasn’t like dragging someone through small talk; it felt… mutual.

“So…” you started as you took the last bite of your croissant. “how’s this date measuring up to Sarah’s?”

“Well,” he raised an eyebrow. “I haven’t checked the time once.”

Your smile widened.

“She’s cool,” he added, “but… this is different. In a good way.”

“I’ll take that.”

–

By the time the check landed on the table, you both reached for it.

Bucky narrowed his eyes. “Don’t even think about it.”

You tilted your head, amused. “You don’t even know what I was going to say.” 

“You were going to insist on splitting. Don’t. Let me feel like a gentleman,” he said playfully, “Don’t steal my moment.”

“Oh, this is your moment?”

He leaned in slightly. “I’m trying to be charming, sweetheart. Let me have this.”

“Fine,” you rolled your eyes, pretending to be pissed, “But only because you said ‘sweetheart’ like a noir movie star.”

He winked. “I’ve got more where that came from.”

You rolled your eyes, but you were grinning now as he handed the check off, and thought, Sarah was right. 

–

He walked you to your car, hands in his pockets, close enough that your shoulders brushed every few steps. The sun was warm, the air smelled like honeysuckle and syrup, and you… didn’t want it to end.

“I had a good time,” you said, pausing at your door.

He stopped, looking at you like you’d caught him off guard. “Yeah… me too. More than I expected.”

You raised an eyebrow, pretending to be offended. “More than you expected?”

“I just didn’t think it’d be… this easy,” he admitted, scratching the back of his neck. 

“Careful,” you teased. “I might start thinking you like me.”

He looked at you, eyes on your mouth, on the way you leaned back against the car door like you had nowhere else to be. “I do.”

You smiled, knowing this wouldn’t be the last time you saw each other. “So… what now?”

“That depends,” he said. “Would you wanna do this again?”

You stepped in just a little, your face tilted up toward his, close enough to feel the heat off his skin. “Definitely.”

“We should go to the new bar down the corner soon,” he suggested.

“Great,” you said, eyes twinkling. “Text me, and I’ll be there.”

He leaned in like he might say something else, or might kiss you, might do something bold— but instead, he just smiled.

You slipped into your car, started it up, and rolled the window down.

“Hey, Bucky?” you called.

He stepped back, looking unfairly attractive in the sunlight. “Yeah?”

You met his eyes. “You’re even prettier up close.”

And you drove off, leaving him standing there— watching you go like you were the best thing that had happened to him all week.

—

Three days later, you went on your second date.

“Are we sure about this?” Bucky asked, pulling open the bar’s door for you. For better or for worse, tonight was trivia night. 

You stepped in, instantly hit with the scent of beer, wings, questionable cologne. “Nope,” you said cheerfully. “I’m mostly here for the nachos.”

“That’s fair.” He chuckled, following behind. “I’m just gonna pretend I know things about pop culture.”

You gave him a sidelong glance. “I don’t know if I trust your grasp on modern trivia.”

“I’ve been catching up,” he said, almost seriously if not for the slight curve on his lips. “Did you know there are nine Fast & Furious movies?”

“Ten, actually,” you said with mock pity. “Proud of you, though.”

He held a hand to his chest like you’d wounded him. “I let you insult my trivia knowledge and I still pulled your chair out for you.”

You beamed. “Chivalry’s not dead.”

“Just slightly bruised,” he said, sitting beside you as the host passed around answer sheets and sharpies.

–

You came in fifth out of nine teams.

“Honestly,” Bucky said as you both stepped into the night air, “I think we did well.”

“You thought Pluto was a planet.”

“It was,” he defended, “back in 1940!”

You laughed, waving him off. “Excuses.”

He walked a little closer, catching up. “Still,” he started again, “I had fun.”

You nudged him with your shoulder. “We make a good team. Incompetent, but y’know.”

“Speak for yourself,” he said lightly. 

“So…,” you drawled. “Should we do something again next week?”

He leaned in close, pretending to think. “Only if you promise to educate me on planetary bodies.”

“Deal.”

—

The week after, you decided to go to a roller rink together.

“This is either going to be really cute,” you said as you laced up your skates, “or humiliating.”

Bucky was already upright, perfectly balanced in his skates, the annoyingly coordinated war-time ballerina that he is. He looked down at you with that stupidly charming half-smile. “So far, I’m voting cute.”

You squinted at him. “You’re only saying that because you haven’t seen me fall yet.”

He offered you his hand. “Let’s see, then.”

You took it—gratefully—and let him help you up. Instantly, your legs turned into spaghetti and you clung to his arm with both hands.

“Oh fuck,” you cursed under your breath.. “Fuckfuckfuck.”

He laughed, gently snaking an arm down your waist. “When was the last time you did this?”

“Thirteen?” you guessed, “I had a much lower center of gravity. Also, zero fear of public scrutiny.”

“Well,” he said, guiding you slowly onto the rink like you were made of glass, “you can hold on to me.”

“I’m practically koala-ing your arm.”

“I don’t mind,” he murmured under his breath, glancing down at you with a look that was far too fond for someone who’d just watched you nearly faceplant.

You clutched his arm tighter, still trying to get your legs to cooperate. “God, this is embarrassing."

“It’s cute,” he insisted. “You’re like a baby deer on ice.”

“I will push you into a wall.”

“You’d fall too,” he warned, “So it’d be mutually assured destruction.”

Eventually, you got the hang of not immediately dying, though Bucky still skated close, one hand lightly on your back or guiding your wrist like he didn’t want to be too far away. Every time you stumbled, he caught you like he’d been training for this moment his whole life.

“You’re doing great,” he encouraged, breathless from laughing. “You haven’t even faceplanted yet.”

“That’s because I’ve been using you like a human walker.”

“And I’m honored,” he said solemnly. “Touch me all you want.”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t let go. His hand was steady, and every time you squeezed in fear, it made his heart stutter a little.

As the cheesy pop music echoed through the rink and colored lights flashed over your faces, you tugged him down slightly and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek.

He tilted his head like he hadn’t expected it. “What was that for?”

You gave him a casual shrug. “You didn’t let me fall.”

His grin looked a little dazed. “I’m never letting go now.”

You bumped his shoulder playfully. “You sound like you’re catching feelings.”

He looked down at you, cheeks still pink from your kiss. “And if I was? You gonna push me into a wall?”

You leaned into him, still holding on. “No,” you pretended to consider, “You’re growing on me.”

He gave your hand a gentle squeeze, then tugged you into another lap around the rink— this time, not as your balance support, but just because he wanted to keep you close.

—

The next time he took you out was two weeks later— Bucky needed to go on a mission, and thankfully, he came back in one piece.

You weren’t sure what possessed you to say yes to a swing dance night— probably Bucky’s hopeful smile and the promise of watching him do footwork that didn’t involve combat boots and a rifle. But now, standing in the bar with a live brass band warming up and people in suspenders and retro curls twirling across the floor, you were very aware of two things: One, you were wearing a swing dress that flared when you spun. Two, Bucky Barnes was staring at you like he forgot how to breathe.

“Wow,” he said as he stepped up to you. “You look…”

You raised a brow, playfully daring him to finish that sentence.

He blinked, still locked in on your dress. It was deep red with a fitted waist and a full skirt. Your hair was pinned just enough to look like effort without screaming it, and your lipstick was the exact shade of I-wanna-kiss-you red. “Like a dream.”

You laughed, smoothing your skirt like it might somehow make his gaze less intense. “You’re just saying that because the dress twirls.”

He offered you his arm, loving the way you fit beside him— like an old-Hollywood couple.

The dance floor was alive, buzzing with movement and people spinning and dipping under strings of lights. You clutched Bucky’s hand tightly as he led you out, equal parts excited and terrified.

“I have no idea what I’m doing,” you whispered.

He leaned in, mouth brushing your ear. “That’s okay. I do.”

And he did. Oh, he really did.

Bucky danced well, probably because he learned to when it meant something—when music was a lifeline, when joy had to be stolen in smoky clubs when the world was falling apart. He was confident, never showy, and always aware of you. 

You found yourself laughing, light and giddy, as he spun you out and back again. Your dress fanned like a flame, your heels sliding along the floor, and every time you landed in his arms, his stare lingered just a moment longer than necessary.

“Where’d you learn to dance like this?” you asked, catching your breath.

He gave a small, wistful smile. “Brooklyn. You had to ask someone or you didn’t dance at all.”

“And you always asked?”

He shrugged, but the glance he gave you was shy. “Sometimes.”

You couldn’t help yourself. “What a player.”

“Well, I never found the right partner,” he chuckled, but didn’t deny it. “Until now.”

Oh?

“Only took you ninety years,” you teased and squeezed his hand. When you leaned back slightly, the lights caught the silver of his dog tags beneath the open collar of his shirt. It was a reminder of everything he’d carried on his shoulders— everything he rarely said out loud. And you wanted, suddenly, for him to feel something new. 

So you kissed him.

Right there on the floor, standing on your toes to press your mouth to his. His lips parted with surprise at first, then his hand tightening at your waist, his other sliding up your back like he couldn’t stop himself.

You weren’t trying to steal something from him—you were offering something instead. He kissed you back because he understood that. 

When you finally pulled away, he didn’t say anything.

He just looked at you like he was falling in love— and trying, desperately, not to admit it.

—

A couple days later, you had your monthly catch up with Sarah. 

Your porch smelled like beer, chicken wings, and dandelions. The boys were pretending to swordfight in your backyard. 

Sarah stirred the ketchup pot with a wing. “So,” she said, already smiling like she knew, “how’s it going with our favorite ex-assassin?”

You tried to play it cool. You really did.

“It’s…” You took a sip from your glass to buy time. “Going.”

Sarah tilted her head. “That’s all I get?”

“Fine.” You let out a soft laugh, resting your elbow on the lap, chin in your hand. “It’s going… really well.”

“Mmhmm.” She took a sip like she was examining a case. “Are we talking awkward small talk and polite side hugs? Or—”

“He took me dancing,” you interrupted, like that alone said everything. 

Sarah sat up straighter, eyes wide. “Bucky Barnes took you dancing?”

“To a swing bar with a live band and couples in suspenders and victory rolls. He knew all the steps.”

Sarah pretended to look disappointed. “The best he could do for me was coffee.”

You laughed, nudging her shoulders. “And he looked at me like— fuck, Sarah, like I was made of stardust or somethin’.”

“Oof.” She leaned back, hand over her heart. “You’re in it.”

“I’m not—” You paused, considering it. “Okay. Maybe. A little.”

“A little?”

“I kissed him,” you confessed. “On the dance floor.”

Sarah was quiet for a beat, her eyes turning warm. “Sounds like he’s falling for you.” 

You toyed with the rim of the bowl. “I think it scares him.”

Sarah nodded slowly. “Good.”

You looked up at her, almost worried. “What if I fall first?”

“Then you fall,” she reassured, proud of her matchmaking skills. “He’ll catch you. Even if it takes him a minute.”

—

Across the world, Sam and Bucky were just finishing up a mission— low-level intel retrieval, some mild breaking and entering, nothing they hadn’t done a dozen times before. Still, Bucky was in a suspiciously good mood for someone who’d just spent three hours crawling through ventilation ducts and dodging motion sensors.

They were walking back to the jet when Sam finally said it.

“You’ve been smiley lately.”

Bucky scoffed, keeping his eyes forward. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You’ve got this weird, smug little grin thing going on,” Sam insisted. “Thought maybe you got hit too hard in the head back there.”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “I’m not.”

Sam nudged him with an elbow. “So what’s her name?”

Bucky stiffened for a split second, just enough for Sam to catch it.

“See, I know you,” Sam said, leaning forward now, laughing. “You’re seeing someone, aren’t you?”

Bucky tried to play it off, shrugging like it was no big deal. “I’m... Yeah.”

Sam’s jaw dropped in mock offense. “And you weren’t gonna tell me?”

Bucky groaned, already regretting it. “Don’t make it weird.”

“I’m not making it weird! I’m just—who?”

“Drop it.”

Sam blinked. “You’re not gonna tell me?”

“Nope.”

“Is it someone I know?” Sam insisted.

“I’m not talking about it,” Bucky gritted.

“Is it—? Wait.” Sam’s eyes went round. “It better not be someone from my neighborhood .”

Bucky shot him a look. “It’s none of your business.”

“Oh my God it is someone from the neighbourhood!”

“Sam.”

“You’re dating one of the aunties??”

“No! Jesus.”

“Who then? Just give me a hint—”

“Fuck, it’s… early,” Bucky said, voice a little tight. “So just—drop it, okay?”

Truth was, he didn’t want to deal with the fallout. Yet. Because once Sam found out—once he did the math and realised Bucky had dated his sister, however briefly, and then ended up dating you, his childhood best friend, the one who used to sneak popsicles to Sarah after bedtime and once helped him bury a broken Game Boy like it was a funeral…?

Yeah. No thanks. Not until he had to.

Sam, to Bucky’s immense surprise, let it go.

Kind of.

“Well,” Sam said after a long moment, trying to play it cool but still delighted, “Just a foolproof-Sam-Wilson-dating-tip: bring her over to yours. Cook for her. Ladies love that.”

Bucky side-eyed him. “What, like, from scratch?”

“Yeah, man. Light a candle, put on some Coltrane, pretend you know how to make pasta that isn’t out of a box.”

Bucky rolled his eyes, but Sam could tell he was actually considering it. “I didn’t ask for your advice.”

“You never do, and yet, I keep improving your life,” Sam said in that annoying matter-of-factly way he always did. “You’re welcome.”

Bucky shook his head, fighting the urge to smile again as he started planning your dinner. 

—

So he invited you to your apartment when he got back. 

When he opened the door that night, you kissed him chastely on the corner of his mouth as a greeting. “Hey you.”

He tried to look casual, but blushed a little. You were in jeans and a tucked-in tank top, nothing dramatic, but seeing you again after three weeks of non-stop texting felt like a breath of fresh air.

You had since gotten comfortable in his place, exploring every nook and cranny, figuring what made this place so…. him.

It was tidy and lived-in, filled with small signs that he was figuring out what a home meant— books stacked on end tables, a couch with a cozy throw, a record player in the corner playing jazz like it belonged in another century.

You were now barefoot in his kitchen, sipping wine and leaning against the counter, watching him move around like he wasn’t nervously making sure he was making the pesto right. Bucky wore a plain black tee and trousers, sleeves pushed up, forearm metal plates rippling as he stirred something on the stove— pasta, homemade sauce, garlic bread in the oven. It smelled good.

“I can’t believe James Buchanan Barnes is cooking for me,” you teased, swirling the wine in your glass.

He glanced over his shoulder, smirking. “Don’t sound so shocked.”

“What?” you defended, “I’m flattered.”

“You should be. I’m just trying to impress you.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Trying pretty hard, huh?”

He squinted playfully at you. “Shut up.”

You were chuckled as he stepped closer, reaching past you for the olive oil—but his hand hovered on the counter instead, palm pressed near your hip. His eyes flickered to your mouth and lingered, there, like it was physically impossible to look away.

“You look good here,” he mentioned, hands creeping closer to you.

“Here?”

“In my space.” He clarified, nodding. “You fit.”

Your heart skipped a beat.

Before he could overthink it, he kissed you.

It started slow—his hand resting just below your ribs,—but it escalated quickly, the kind of kiss that made you forget the world was round. 

Your hands slipped up under the edge of his shirt, palms flattening against the warm skin of his stomach. He gasped against your mouth, just a little, but didn’t pull back. His hands found your waist and pulled you closer until there was no space between you.

Bucky kissed like he was starving. Like he’d been trying so hard to be careful and you’d finally told him he didn’t have to be.

You dragged your fingers up his sides, felt the way his body shivered slightly under your touch. He kissed you harder, tongue slipping against yours, his metal hand gripping your waist. Your back hit the edge of the counter and you arched into him, lips parting on a moan you didn’t mean to make—but it set a bomb off in him.

His mouth dropped to your neck, open-mouthed and hot, and your hands found the hem of his shirt again, tugging gently.

“Wait—” you said, breathless, your head falling back a little, “Bucky—” 

“What? Did I—?”

You laughed, one hand resting on his chest. “The stove.”

He blinked. “The—?”

You tilted your head toward the pot behind him, steam now visible, the faint bubbling sound definitely not part of the white noise.

“Oh, shit.”

He turned fast, fumbling with the knob, grabbing the towel and yanking the pot off the heat and turning off the oven while muttering curses under his breath. You leaned back against the counter, laughing.

He turned back around, hair slightly tousled, but not looking the least bit sorry. “We can heat it up later.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“Mhm.” He stepped in close again, gently crowding you against the cabinets, one hand braced beside your head. “Dinner can wait.”

You didn’t argue. You just hooked a finger into the collar of his shirt, pulled him in again. His hand hiked up your thigh as he sunk down, kneeling on the floor, pasta be damned. 

You tasted better than anything on the stove anyway.

—

After a good hour or so in bed, Bucky took you to shower. It was all steam and lazy kisses pressed to damp skin. You’d lingered under the spray longer than you needed to, neither of you in any rush to move, to pull away, to stop being tangled up in each other.

Now, you were perched on the edge of Bucky’s island kitchen counter, freshly showered, legs swinging gently, damp hair tucked behind your ears, wearing nothing but a pair of his briefs and his t-shirt, hanging off one shoulder in a way that made Bucky keep glancing over like he was already planning to peel it back off.

He stood shirtless across from you at the stove, boiling a new batch of pasta after he’d abandoned the old ones earlier. His hair was still a little wet, clinging to the back of his neck, and his gray sweatpants hung dangerously low on his hips. His metal arm glinted in the light as he stirred the sauce one-handed, the other casually wiping at a stray droplet of water on his chest.

You tilted your head. “You know what?” you started.

Bucky looked over, eyebrows raised. 

“I think I like sex better before dinner,” you finished your thoughts.

He let out the sweetest laugh, remembering how beautiful you looked underneath him on the couch earlier, right before he scooped you up, took you to bed, and placed you on his lap. “Do you, now?”

“Mmhmm,” you nodded, “Because the food’s not in there yet. It’s not, like… sloshing around.”

Bucky paused mid-stir, blinked at you, then chuckled. “Sloshing?”

You laughed too, unapologetic. “I’m just saying! Strategic timing is key.”

He turned back to the stove and shrugged. “My metabolism’s so quick it doesn’t really matter.”

You scoffed. “Of course it doesn’t.”

He turned to face you fully, spoon in hand, as he fed you a taste of the sauce. “But I’m glad we didn’t wait.”

You hummed in approval at the taste and hooked your fingers into the waistband of his sweatpants to tug him closer, gently. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he admitted, almost sheepishly. “You, in my shirt…” He reached up, tugging the loose collar gently back into place over your shoulder. “Kind of ruins me a little.”

Your smile turned fond. “Good.”

He kissed you again, sighing as he pictured you thirty minutes earlier, mewling and begging on top of him, falling apart at the same time as him. He remembered pulling you close afterward, whispering praises and sweet nothings in your ears as you mumbled his name, content and so fucking pretty—

Knock knock knock. 

The sound interrupted the kiss as you pulled away. The knocks were so confident, it sounded like the person on the other side knew Bucky was home.

You tilted your head, your fingers idly twisting the waistband of his sweats. “Who’s that?”

Bucky glanced toward the door, grabbing a towel to wipe his hands. “Probably one of my neighbors. You were loud earlier.”

You swatted him. “Shut up.”

He just winked and went to open the door.

But his smirk vanished the second he saw who was standing there.

“Hey, tin man,” Sam greeted casually, breezing in like he owned the place, holding up a paper bag from that diner down the street. “I got fries, I’m bored, and Joaquin’s still in Miami, so I figured we could—” He trailed off, freezing.

Because he’d looked past Bucky.

And saw you.

You, still perched on the counter in Bucky’s shirt, hair damp, face flushed. Very clearly post-shower, post-sex, post-everything.

Sam looks at Bucky. “Hold up.”

Your eyes grew as wide as dinner plates. Bucky winced.

Sam pointed between the two of you, voice rising. “You’re dating my childhood best friend?!”

You tried to recover, sliding off the counter like that would somehow make things better. “Okay, wait—”

“It’s not—” Bucky started, rubbing the back of his neck like he wanted to disappear into the wall. “It’s not what it looks like.”

Sam gestured wildly. “It looks like she’s wearing your shirt.”

You looked down. Yep. Sure was.

You cleared your throat. “Surprise?”

Bucky groaned. “Look, Sarah set us up.”

“SARAH???” Sam yelped. “What does Sarah have to do with this?!”

You raised a hand like a student in class. “Okay, okay—context,” you started, “Sarah went on a date with Bucky. But it didn’t work out.”

Sam turned so fast. “YOU DATED MY SISTER TOO?!”

Bucky dragged a hand down his face. “It didn’t work out, man!”

“I can’t—” Sam paced in a tight circle. “You dated my sister, and now you’re—what—hooking up with our childhood best friend? An honorary Wilson? Are you working through my entire support system? Gonna date my mom next?!”

You muttered under your breath, “Don’t think they have tinder in the afterlife.”

Bucky gave you a look. “Not the time.”

You winced. “Sorry.”

Sam squinted at you both, still flabbergasted, still holding his fries like they’d betrayed him. “And how long has this been going on?”

You and Bucky exchanged a guilty glance. You opened his mouth to answer, but he beat you to it.

“… when did we get back from that Madripoor mission?”

Sam stared. “That was, like, two months ago.”

Then, quietly, Bucky muttered, “I was gonna tell you.”

“When?” Sam crossed his arms. “At the wedding?”

Bucky sighed. “You gonna be mad forever?”

Sam shook his head, grumbling, “I’m not mad. I’m just—processing.” Then he pointed a finger at you, suspicious. “And you. You were just gonna act like this is normal?”

You bit your lip, smiled sheepishly. “In my defense, I was planning to tell you… eventually. So stop pointing hot food at me and quit being dramatic. Sarah and I can take care of ourselves, thank you very much.”

Sam looked at his fries.

“…These are for both of you now,” he muttered.

And Bucky, hopeful, asked, “So we’re good?”

Sam narrowed his eyes.

“I swear to God, Barnes, if you hurt her—”

“I won’t,” Bucky said, before you even could. And the way he said it made something in your chest flutter. 

Sam sighed again, shaking his head. “Fine. But next time, maybe tell me before I walk in on my best friend looking like she just climbed outta your bed.”

You shrugged, plucking a fry from the bag. “Honestly, we never made it to bed the first time.”

“NOPE,” Sam said, backing toward the door. “I’m leaving. And you!” He pointed at Bucky “Next week. You’re explaining everything.” Then he pointed at you. “You. Bring wine.”

You saluted. “Yes, sir.”

And as Sam walked out grumbling, Bucky just shook his head, slid an arm around your waist, and pressed a kiss to your temple.

“Well,” you said, leaning into him, “that could’ve gone worse.”

“Yeah,” Bucky laughed. “He didn’t even threaten to punch me.”

“Yet.”

“Fair.”

—end. 

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