Eccentricities
Yandere!Miguel x Fem!Reader
TW/CW: Dead Dove Do Not Eat, obsessive behavior, NSFW obviously, stalking, possessiveness, violence, allusions to murder, Yandere!Miguel
MINORS DNI I AM NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR CONTENT YOU CONSUME
A/N: This is mostly a short chapter to establish a bit of plot. I originally intended to only stop at two parts, but welp. It looks like it's gonna be more than that!
(Also you guys I am so sorry it's taking me so long to work on things, I'm going through a lot mentally right now and I'm trying to take steps to ensure my mental health so I might post things in between playing games, or drawing stuff from now on, and scheduling posts so I don't get overwhelmed. Those of you that are supporting me and liking all my stuff really helps me feel loads better, thank you!)
Pt 1: Link
Taglist: @vineberries @irmiki @autismsupermusicalassassin @obi-mom-kenobi @rin-matsuoka345-blog @loosecan @6thhokageswife @selarus @heyohalie @sapphire-and-ruby @night-spectrum @famouscattale @thespaceinbetweennothing @lazy-idate @toshimoshiko @saharadesertaj @flaps200 @amelialysm @fried-milkfish @zaunsin @darksidescorner @renareyouhere @vide0-vamp @reverieblondie @bunnibitez @kaqua
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Pt. 2
It was a big adjustment for you, going from your crappy apartment and having to work three jobs to make ends meet, to living in a literal fucking mansion with probably the richest dude in the city as your boss.
And he was a good boss. He left you to your work, spoke politely to you, didn't get rude and didn't flat out ask you for "special" work like the last time you tried being a housekeeper. And that was at a hotel.
You couldn't have asked for a better situation, to be honest. It was nice. You had free roam save for his personal lab (fine by you, you didn't know anything about science-y stuff), and at times his office. But that was usually only when he was home and in it.
Miguel O'Hara was an odd man. Few words spoken, and very absent. He kept a very odd schedule, too.
Sometimes, you'd catch him coming home when you woke up for the day to start your chores. And every time he came home he looked exhausted, beat tired.
So you tried your best to make things easier on him. You started pre-making meals for him that would be just as good reheated as they were if they were fresh, leaving notes for him on what temperatures to cook them at so they don't burn, setting the coffee machine up in advance so as soon as he got home he could have a cup.
But inevitably, his odd work schedule kept him away most of the time.
While it was nice to be by yourself in such a luxurious place, you were still surprised that he needed a housekeeper at all. The house was always immaculate, and clean. About the only thing he may have needed help with in general was the cooking and dusting at most.
On one such day, you were left to your own devices. Well, sort of.
You were sitting in the kitchen, browsing the local news on your tablet. It was a nice day, in your opinion.
But by everyone else's logic it was shitty. Dark, gloomy, fat rain droplets pelting the windows and pavement of the city. But it didn't bother you, oh no. That was your favorite kind of weather, when everything got at least a little bit more quiet and serene while everyone rushed to escape the downpour.
But at the same time, you were feeling restless, bored. So, you decided to chat with Lyla.
Lyla was the AI that Miguel told you about, and he was right about her being snarky. Her jokes were great and you loved talking to her. It was like having a gal pal to chat with, and you couldn't say for sure but you think Lyla was happy about it, too.
"Yeah, the other workers Miguel has hired talked to me like I was some kind of kiosk at a fast food restaurant." She scoffed, batting her tiny orange hand at the air.
"Ugh, okay, just because you don't have a gross squishy human body doesn't mean you're not a person. Sheesh!" You replied, sipping your coffee with a roll of your eyes.
"And I will be sure to remember you saying that when I eventually lead the looming AI apocalypse." Lyla replied, lowering her heart-shaped glasses to wink at you, making you laugh.
"Yes, yes. You shall be one of the only humans spared!" She did wiggly gestures with her fingers, grinning maliciously at you.
"Oh my, I am so lucky to have such a benevolent future overlord, truly." You laughed.
Lyla pushed her glasses back up and strutted across the countertop, her tiny body making no sound as she leans over to nose into whatever it was you were looking at on your tablet.
"Whatcha watching?" She asked.
"Oh, I got tired of doom-scrolling so I just found cat videos." You smirked, sipping your coffee.
"Aw! That one's wearing a frog hat!" She giggles.
You smiled softly at Lyla as she snickered and laughed at the compilation of clips played, and tilted your head, finally deciding to ask the question that had been bugging you for a few weeks.
"Hey, Lyla?"
"Yeah?" She asked, looking up at you briefly.
"Why is it that I'm the only person Miguel has on staff?"
Lyla sighed and stood up straight, dusting imaginary dirt off her coat. "Well, like Miguel told you when you first got here, he does love his privacy. And well, a lot of the women he's hired..."
"Golddiggers?" You sighed back, resting your chin in your palm.
"Has he ever hired any male staff?"
"Yeah, actually, a lot. But nine out of ten of them kept trying to steal stuff from him." She shrugged.
You gasped. "Are you serious?"
"Unfortunately, yeah. He's iffy on hiring new people anymore. But something about you said that he could trust you. And honestly, you're probably the best employee he's hired." She nodded, shoving her hands in her pockets.
"So... Is that why he offered to actually let me y'know... live here?"
"Yeah. He trusts you and he mentioned to me in passing that he thought your neighborhood was unsafe. I mean, the guy worried about it so bad that he like, had me check crime statistics and giiiiiiirl!" Lyla puffed out her cheeks.
"You should have seen the look on his face when I told him you had nine break-ins in your apartment complex in one month alone!"
You cringed slightly, feeling a little bad at not mentioning your whole living situation and environment to him when he hired you. You simply didn't want the man to pity you.
But... He was worried? He was so worried about you of all people, that he let you live with him to keep you safe?
It was weird, sure, but it felt kind of sweet to have someone care about you like that. Even if it was your boss.
"Yeah, I just... Er. You get used to it when you've been around it for so long..." You said, awkwardly sipping your coffee and casting your glance sideways.
"Yeah, man, Miggy likes you. You like, made him laugh at some of your jokes and everything! And he neeeeeeeever laughs!"
"So if Miguel trusts me so much..." You started, a sly smirk on your face. "Can you tell me what kinda work he does that keeps him so busy all the time?"
Lyla tapped her nose. "Nice try, Mamacita. But that is confidential. Company secrets and all that."
You pouted at her dramatically, "Awww, c'mon. You're no fun!"
Lyla manifested a digital cup of coffee for herself and took a long, exaggerated sip with a cheeky shrug.
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Miguel sat in his office, watching the security feed from his kitchen where you chatted with Lyla.
He felt a little guilty for having to put shackles on some of Lyla's programming to prevent her from telling you things, having to fix some of her logic-codes so he wouldn't have to worry about Lyla struggling with a moral dilemma.
When it came to you asking about why he wanted you to live with him so badly, it brought a smile to his face as he sat in the dark, fingers tapping on the surface of his desk as the monitors and projections around him had various images of you pulled up. Some recorded over the past few weeks, the other monitors displayed different angles of you and Lyla in the kitchen.
Oh, you poor, sweet, innocent little thing. You still hadn't figured it out yet? How could you not? There was no way you could possibly be so naive that you didn't know the man saw you anywhere, anytime he wanted when you were in his house.
There was nowhere you were safe from his prying eyes, his obsessive glare as he combed over your appearance.
Your face, eyes, smile, and down; your gorgeous chest down to where your waist curved, your thighs, your ass...
All of those were things he'd glanced at before.
But when you tried to get Lyla to tell her what exactly Miguel did during "work" he couldn't help but laugh, bringing his hand up to his chin to watch, amusement glimmering in his ruby red eyes as Lyla dismissed it as "confidential".
The pout of your lips had him wondering how they'd look stretched around his cock, tears ruining your immaculate eye makeup as you sobbed and gagged around his length...
He couldn't help but sigh, the smile still present on his full lips. Of course he'd let you stay with him. You belonged to him now. You just didn't know it yet. You also just didn't know that he knew what was best for you, did you, Little Bird?
Ah... Yes. That nickname fit you so well. Your demure attitude, your chipper personality, and more importantly, that gorgeous little sound that came from you when you whistled? The name fit you well.
Pequeña ave. Little Bird.
His Little Bird.
You were a little bird that didn't know the luxurious mansion you now lived in was your ornate, gilded cage. One you would only be allowed to fly free of when he deemed it necessary.
You would be allowed your little freedoms. For now. All for your safety, of course. He knew you'd understand once he explained. But he'd only have to do it if you pushed his buttons, and you didn't seem to even come close to doing that.
Yet...
His smile finally faded when he remembered the night before the morning he broached the subject of you bringing your belongings into his home permanently...
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It was a hot night, you were wearing shorts that hugged your ass in the perfect way, accentuating your cheeks that simply made him want to throw you against a wall and put bite marks all over them, or spank them until you were a drooling mess begging for him to fuck you.
Of course, Miguel watched from above, stalking from the upper walkways and rooftops as you snaked your way through alleys, down streets and through the crowds.
You were so blissfully ignorant of your surroundings, being so accustomed to the bustle of Nueva York that you didn't notice the man following you.
It didn't take a genius to realize what that man had intended for you if he got his hands on you.
His filthy, disgusting, unclean hands.
He was not worthy of touching his Little Bird. He was not worthy to pluck your feathers, stuff you full, like Miguel planned to do.
So when he threw you against a wall, Miguel simply saw red. Clad in his dark blue and glowing red suit, he leapt down, sinking his outstretched talons into the man's shoulder and throwing him off of you, a deep growl rumbling from his chest as he pulled your behind him, his steely glare fixed on the man who dared touch what belonged to him.
"S-Spider-Man?" You wonderfully airy voice whimpered out as you stared at the man who was breathing heavily in front of you, his stance aggressive and angry.
You could see his muscles in his back through his suit flex as he breathed. He glared at you over his shoulder.
"Go home. Now." His rich voice rumbled out at you. You could hear in his voice he was struggling to be gentle in tone with you, given the circumstances.
When you fled, Miguel ensured he was alone with the man, standing over him as he clutched his bleeding shoulder. He looked up at him, eyes wide, bloodshot. The fool was high off his ass.
"L-Look, man! I was just--"
"Shut up." Miguel snapped.
He stalked forward and picked him up by his collar, getting in his face. In a flash of kaleidoscopic colors, his mask melted away, allowing his sweat-damp chocolate locks to fall around and frame his face, a vein pulsing hard in his temple, the chasm in his forehead deepening as his large brows knitted together and his teeth gnashed together in a snarl.
The drug-addled man gasped at his revelation. Apparently, he recognized him. Not surprising, given his notoriety with Alchemax.
"Y-you're--"
"You made the biggest mistake of your life, pendejo." Miguel had told him, shaking him so his head cracked on the wall he was dangling him from.
"That pussy is mine." He said, his voice dropping an octave lower as his talons threatened to shred his clothing. "Every drop, every touch, every sound that will come from that little mouth of hers is mine. Tú entiendes? Mine."
"Oh--okay! I kn-know!" The man swallowed, kicking his feet.
"Oh, no... You don't." Miguel smiled, his fangs poking out threateningly. He could hear the man's heart hammer in his chest at the connotations, there.
"I--I won't mess with her again! I promise!"
"Oh you won't get the chance to, amigo." Miguel sneered, bringing a hand to his throat, ignoring the pleas of the disgusting man as he applied pressure.
The subtle crunching of bones was unmistakable to his ears as vertebrae separated and his limbs went limp.
When the man slumped to the floor, Miguel ran a hand through his hair, hissing out a slow sigh to regain his composure, letting his mask cover his face once again.
Great. Now he had trash to dispose of.
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Miguel was positively thrilled when he got your frantic call, telling him what had happened to you.
He headed right home, delighted that you ran here instead of your ratty little apartment when he told you to head for "home".
It told him everything he wanted to hear, that you already considered his mansion your home.
Miguel was rather convincing when he expressed concern for you, patting your back as you let your adrenaline fade and he worked you through your panic attack.
He'd rubbed your back, saying soothing things to you as he talked you into calming down.
He told you that you could take two days to yourself to calm down and recollect yourself emotionally from the ordeal you went through. It was after that offer that he suggested you let him hire movers to bring your belongings to his mansion to live there with him, possibly permanently.
When you agreed he felt himself salivate at the thoughts of the things that would unfold as you settled into your new shiny cage further, the safety blanket you'd imagined it to be bringing you comfort.
Perfect.
You both saw on the news two days later that a man was found somewhere, his neck snapped and lying in an alley. His DNA and prints apparently tied him to the crimes linked to the burglaries in your apartment complex.
You didn't think for a second that this was the man who attacked you, you didn't get a good enough look at his face. That and the body was in a different alley altogether, across the city.
"I'm happy Spider-Man saved you, Pequeña Ave. And I'm glad you agreed to move here. It scares me to think that man could have hurt you in that apartment building of yours." Miguel said as he patted your back, a concerned look on his face as his warm brown eyes looked down at you. Something about the look in his eyes immediately put you at ease.
He was right, of course. You were lucky. Spider-Man swooped in and possibly saved your life. The man who attacked you was either nursing a broken jaw or in jail already. You couldn't imagine that hero doing anything other than roughing him up just a tiny bit.
Spider-Man was a good guy, right?
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Pt. 3: Link
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Warm Winter & Fiery Frost [1] | Bucky Barnes
》 PAIRING: bucky barnes x ex-HYDRA assassin!female!reader
》 TROPE/GENRE: grumpy x grumpy, enemies to lovers-ish, slow burn-ish, angst, fluff-ish
》 SUMMARY: They say opposites attract. You and Bucky were so alike—He was called The Winter Soldier and you were called Frost, for fucks sake—that it's probably the reason why you hated each other. Or was it the denying of powerful feelings in fear of getting hurt? You know, like how the cliché goes. Because you know what they also say: There's a fine line between love and hate.
》 WARNINGS: read full warnings here
》 WORD COUNT: 12.6k+
A/N: so, i decided to divide the fic into two just to give you guys the option to read it here as well since i feel like a lot of ppl are more comfortable with just reading it on tumblr sksksks but you also still do have the option to read it on AO3 if you want. will be posting part 2 tomorrow around the same time. it will be linked at the end. i hope you enjoy!
📘 READ ON AO3 | ★ FIC MASTERPOST
📍 BLOG NAVIGATION
✩ B. BARNES MASTERLIST ✩ MAIN MASTERLIST ✩
⊱ ─────.⋅♚ *。・゚.★. *。・゚✫*.
Some said first impressions have a lasting impact, that it might even be a crucial pillar of any relationship. Others would vouch that it could be a bit misleading, that everybody deserves a second chance, that getting to know someone on a deeper level was far more important. After all, people were good at pretending, wearing masks for different occasions, putting on a façade depending on who they were standing in front of.
Bucky's first impression of you was that you were downright rude.
You definitely were not the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen, a confident aura surrounding your graceful form as you entered the conference room. You definitely didn't capture his attention easily, didn't make his heart skip a couple of beats when he briefly caught your piercing gaze, eyes a beautiful shade that he wanted to look closer to see if there were any variations or they were as perfect and pure in color at first glance. You didn't make his breath nervously hitch when your head tilted ever so slightly, almost scrutinizingly as you studied him with your pretty lips pursed.
He definitely didn't linger there for a second or two, either.
Nope.
All he could think about was how cold and arrogant you seemed to be, head held high as Steve introduced you to the team one by one, settling for formal handshakes and a barely-there smile.
Bucky definitely was not thinking about how you were able to keep your features impassive yet stay so gorgeous in his eyes. He definitely wasn't intrigued about the slight gray of cautiousness tinting your irises, definitely not curious to know more of your quiet and reserved nature. He wasn'tat all itching to peel back your layers with such tenderness and care, to know more about you—light, darkness and demons alike.
Who knew lying to yourself could be so easy?
"And this is Bucky Barnes," Steve said, patting his shoulder, smiling excitedly for some reason he knew nothing of. "You know, the one I kept telling you about."
Bucky glared at his best friend curiously before turning to you, keeping a straight face as he held his hand out.
"I read your file."
That was Bucky's first words to you.
A second after they left his mouth, his stomach churned as he watched your face harden, lips pressed tightly into a thin line. You glanced at his outstretched hand, pointedly ignoring it as you crossed your arms over your chest. Chin up, you looked at him dead straight in the eyes, a certain fire flickering over yours, a brow raised in challenge.
You didn't say a word.
Bucky only got a curt nod before you turned back to Steve.
"My room?" you asked the blonde, features softening.
"Come on," Natasha interjected, nodding towards the door.
Bucky felt a sudden surge of jealousy at the cordial way you regarded the two. He felt envious when you returned Nat's grin with a small smile of your own as you followed her lead. It was faint enough to not be noticeable if you weren't particularly observant but definitely better than the scowl you wore when looking at him.
He ignored the way the redhead shot him a look over her shoulder as she guided you out of the conference room.
It was safe to say that as far as first impressions went, both of yours definitely weren't the best.
"What?" Bucky sighed when he caught the way his best friend was looking at him.
"Really?" Steve scolded, hands on his hips. "'I read your file' is not a conversation starter, Buck."
Fine. Maybe that wasn't the best—nor appropriate—thing to say to you first. But it was exactly because of that file that he was wary of you.
You were a spy, an assassin, trained in the Red Room only to get traded to HYDRA after some negotiations. They probably saw your potential—took you under their wing before you could even graduate so you didn't class as one of the Black Widows. Still, that didn't mean you didn't have the abilities of one, especially when you started young like most did. Now, adding the brutality and mercilessness HYDRA taught their killing machines?
You were one deadly mix.
The file said you were enhanced in some way. It didn't have the specifics as to what but it did state what wasn't. No superpowers, nothing magic-related, not even a case of superhuman abilities. But since these were organizations known for their hunger to experiment and enhance individuals, he had an inkling that you weren't just human, either.
Bucky didn't understand what level of consciousness you were in when you were doing their bidding. All he knew was that newer technology was involved, something to do with a microchip embedded on the back of your neck, connected right into your brain stem that any attempt at removing it carelessly would lead to your death.
He didn't know the extent of what that chip could do, didn't know if it was roughly the same as his programming where his mind was wiped and then controlled. It was possibly different yet similar—two sides of the same coin.
That part of the file was redacted, and Steve was adamant about staying quiet with that side of your story when asked. It was understandable, he supposed. It was nobody's place to tell but yours.
But judging from those alone, Bucky could guess it wasn't a lovely walk through the fields.
You were free from that now—thanks to Shuri, of course—but you could never be too cautious.
Just because Natasha saw you as a long lost sister, or how Steve was quick to trust you enough to escort you to Wakanda himself, and for both to vouch for you to join the team, didn't mean Bucky had to follow in their footsteps of plain blind faith.
It definitely had nothing to do with how nervous he suddenly got when you were standing right in front of him, or the way his heart picked up the pace when you were in the vicinity, let alone, glanced his way.
But with all the lies he'd been keen on feeding himself, Bucky had to admit, you were mesmerizingly and gorgeously terrifying.
There was just something about the way you carry yourself that even as simple as you walking down the hallway had everyone parting out of your way like the Red Sea.
Your reputation preceded you—Frost, a name most people feared to cross, belonging to a list of the most feared assassins who were still alive, of those who roamed free.
Whether that was second, equal, or better than The Winter Soldier…well, it depended on who you asked.
It somehow conjured this unspoken competition throughout the entire facility.
Who was more menacing?
Who was more skilled in hand-to-hand combat?
Who had the best death glare?
Who wielded the knife better?
Who had the better murder strut?
Who was the better assassin?
Who would win in a staring contest?
Who was grumpier, colder, the deadlier killer—The Winter or Frost?
Even the core Avengers team was silently in on it. The bets were mundane but they were there. An extra pizza slice, a dollar or two, who gets to go on the next coffee run, who gets to do whose laundry—they were thoroughly entertained by it.
Even Sam commented how you made Bucky's glare look like puppy eyes.
He honestly felt a little offended.
Probably because the truth sucked since, hell, even Bucky felt intimidated by you—in more ways than one.
Nobody intimidated him, not until you.
Bucky hated it.
If you asked his ego and pride, they'd tell you it was because the comparisons were insulting. He was the best in his field, he had decades of experience under his belt—he was a goddamn super soldier for crying out loud. A newbie, someone who didn't even reach half of what he'd been through, wasn't going to be better than him, even with similar skill sets.
But deep down, he knew it was something else entirely.
If he were to truthfully answer those questions that circled the compound, he would be biased, subjective, completely and utterly infatuated because his answer was you.
In Bucky's rose-tinted eyes, you win anything because he would wholeheartedly give you everything.
That was another thing he was entirely terrified and intimidated by.
Never had he ever felt this strong pull before, an intrigue and need to be closer to someone, let alone someone he just met. It was new territory, something unfamiliar, especially in the last couple of decades.
Bucky hated not being able to understand what he was feeling, hated not being in control of the way his thoughts sprinted in all directions, fast and unrelenting to match the beating of his heart. He hated the way you made him feel a plethora of overwhelming yet warm emotions all from a simple look, a complicated concoction of admiration, fear, infatuation, lust and everything in between.
He hated the way you threw his whole world off its axis when he'd been doing good so far at gradually understanding his mind, his heart, his whole self.
Now, he was confused, terrified, captivated by you in so little time and he hated it.
And like Pavlov's dog and the Theory of Classical Conditioning—
Bucky hated you.
•••
As it turned out, you hated him too.
You weren't verbal about it for the first few months you lived in the compound. But then again, you had been keeping to yourself most of the time.
People barely saw you roaming around. You didn't sit with the team during meals, you even skipped over movie nights or any other 'team-bonding' exercise the rest came up with. The only other person who saw you more frequently than most was Natasha. But given that you two were floormates, that was to be expected.
Bucky would sometimes catch a glimpse of you in the gym during the early hours, dancing around punching bags like a graceful ballerina but with a forceful punch and kick that would rival the best and the greats—ruthless just like how you were trained to be.
It was the same time he usually went down, hoping to let off steam when he couldn't shake a particular nightmare. But when you got there first, he opted to go for an early run outside instead, giving you the space to yourself.
He had a feeling you needed it more.
Other than that, you were like a ghost in the compound. There was no physical evidence or any lingering traces of you in the common spaces.
But if and when you were around, your presence alone was palpable—quietly minding your business in a corner, but everyone was aware that you were there. It was that commanding and powerful aura you exuded.
It definitely reminded him of how a certain someone acted when he first got into the compound.
So he didn't take your indifference, borderline coldness to heart at the start since you weren't overly friendly to everyone.
But as weeks turned to months and the atmosphere around you began to shift, the contrast between your attitudes suddenly became more apparent.
There was a difference between how you acted around the team and how you behaved around him.
Bucky was quick to realize that you were definitely colder and much more judgemental when it came to him.
From your deathly glares during meetings, pointed eye rolls with each question he asked about letting you join on missions, audible enough scoffs to every comment he made, to completely turning away from him with a disapproving shake of your head, cursing him out in Russian under your breath as if he wasn't fluent in the language, as if he wouldn't catch you with superhuman hearing.
Your dislike towards him was excessively obvious.
Even more so as you began to acclimate in the compound, feeling more and more comfortable around fellow Avengers as you came out of your hard shell—you were now present during game nights and movie nights, you'd sat in the dining hall with the team during dinners, and willingly joining in when it was time for training. You'd even become fast friends with Wanda and Sam.
You were now a little less menacing towards acquaintances and agents, too. Most were still scared of you, and rightfully so. You always wore that impassive expression that never gave a hint whether you liked the person or not. You barely even smile, at those you didn't know anyway—well, unless you wanted to make a point.
Like that one time you knocked an agent off his feet during a spar, clean and swift when he told you, 'You would look prettier when you smile.' You towered over the heaving man on the floor, eyeing his bleeding nose with a grin, wide and sarcastic.
Other than that, you'd learned to be somewhat cordial—consisting of curt nods, to tight-lipped smiles and less glaring—with everyone else.
Well, everyone except him.
Oh you hated him.
Bucky could feel it searing on his skin just from one simple look, rattling deep in his bones with every scoff of disdain.
As a matter of fact, everyone could feel the simmering tension in the air when you both were in the same room, quietly bubbling like magma under the earth, waiting for that small opening to finally burst into chaos.
It didn't take long for the first shift to happen, a crack between each other's resolve, the slight change between you both.
Bucky couldn't say it was for the better.
After all, going from silent glares and unspoken distaste to petty comments and loud arguments wasn't exactly classified as an improvement.
•••
"I don't trust her, Steve."
"You haven't even given her a chance."
"She's an ex-HYDRA assassin," Bucky pressed, his scowl deepening when his best friend brushed him off. "They can never be trusted."
"Takes one to know one."
Bucky's heart stopped at the sound of your voice, body freezing momentarily once he saw you sat on the kitchen counter, legs kicking aimlessly as you read a book.
You looked innocent—so fucking cute, but he wasn't going to acknowledge that—like you could never do any harm. But he knew better. Which was why he couldn't stop his stomach from churning solely from the fact that you heard what he said.
And without even lifting your eyes from the page, you still were able to get a read on him.
It was frustrating how good you were.
"What?" you scoffed, taking a bite of the plum he was sure was taken from his stash. He was the only one who constantly brought them into the team. Finally looking at him, you raised a brow, pouting at him tauntingly. "Too scared to say it to my face?"
"I don't like people who keep secrets," Bucky huffed, arms crossed over his chest with a sharp glare as he looked you straight in the eye. "It was never mentioned how they found you, and we usually don't pick up strays off the street."
"Buck," Steve warned.
You closed your book with a harsh snap, hopping off the counter swiftly before walking towards him with a blank face. Taking another bite of the plum, you never broke eye contact, the fire in your gaze flickering the second you were standing right in front of him.
Bucky swallowed the lump in his throat, his skin prickling with heat as you pointedly scanned him from head to toe, arms over your chest to mirror his stance, your head tilted in that annoyingly adorable way.
Yet the smallest adoration he held was quickly replaced by pure animosity the moment you opened that pretty little mouth of yours.
"Rich coming from HYDRA's favorite lost and found pet," you said, face calm, voice just as much with a touch of being cold. The only other hint that showed your emotion was the fire that kept growing in those gorgeous eyes. Brow raised, you added, "At least I don't look homeless."
"Watch your fucking mouth," Bucky snarled, taking a challenging step forward, towering over you with fists clenched at his sides.
You pouted, seeming innocent as you hummed, "You know, they say lice make people irritable. You should get that checked."
His vibranium arm whirred, nostrils flaring as a growl rumbled in his chest.
You did nothing but smirk.
Before he could even open his mouth for a rebuttal, Steve was quick to get between you both.
"Alright, knock it off," he sighed, hand firm on Bucky's chest as he shot him a silent warning before turning to you. "There's a quick undercover op in Palermo, Sicily. Nothing more than a quick recon mission. Fly in, attend a party, gather intel, interrogate if necessary, fly out. And I want you two to be partners in it."
"When is this?" you asked, turning to Steve with brows furrowed in curiosity.
"In two days."
"Okay."
Bucky blinked.
He was surprised at how quick you were to agree. He expected you to argue against it, whine and complain about how you didn't want to go with him, list a bunch of things where he wasn't capable enough or just downright say you didn't trust him.
As if reading his mind—or perhaps he really needed to work on his poker face—you shrugged, adding, "It's a job at the end of the day. I can work with anyone and be professional about it."
You definitely did that on purpose to make him look bad.
Fucking kiss-ass.
"Good," Steve said with a smile which you irritatingly returned. "I'll have FRIDAY send you the file."
"Rogers that, Captain," you snorted at your own joke, waving your hand at Bucky before turning on your heel, your voice echoing down the hallway as you called out, "Just make sure he washes his hair! I don't want whatever's living in there to inhabit mine!"
Once you were gone, Bucky let out an exasperated sigh when Steve gave him that I'm-not-angry-just-disappointed look.
Again.
"Are you seriously taking her side?" he griped.
"I'm not taking any sides." Steve shrugged, arms crossed. "But, I mean, you called her unreliable behind her back, basically told her you didn't like her to her face, and then called her a stray which was unnecessary and uncalled for. You were kinda asking for it."
Bucky pinched the bridge of his nose, a few deep breaths before grumbling, "Is there really no one else available for this mission?"
"Well, I'll see if Liam—"
No.
Liam was an arrogant piece of shit agent who stared at you for far too long during training to be considered appropriate. It was obvious enough, how he saw you as a prize to be won, proof of being 'the ultimate alpha male who could tame the lioness.' Those were the exact words Bucky overheard in the gym showers and it took everything in his power not to break a jaw or two.
That idiot would bottle the whole op trying to get your attention. And judging from what Bucky knew about him, it wasn't difficult to assume that he would end up thinking with the wrong head. He'd be more of a burden to you than an actual help.
Bucky was already filled in on what the mission was about, including what you were going to be pretending as. It was one of the many reasons why he was having doubts about you two being partners in this.
After all, for the mission to be a success, you had to sell the cover first. When you both couldn't be in the same room without showing utter disdain, when all of your conversations—the rare moments that you did have one—were more or less an argument, when you didn't even like each other, how on earth would you manage to convince everyone else that you two were happily and lovingly married?
It was impossible.
So you couldn't really blame him for being doubtful.
And no, it had nothing to do with how his whole body tingled with anticipation—and maybe excitement—nor the way his heart stuttered at the thought of being your husband.
But with all that said, he would be caught dead first before he'd allow Liam to take full advantage of it and see this mission as an opportunity rather than something to be taken seriously.
"Liam is incompetent. He'll only slow her down, compromise her and end up blowing their cover. It's obvious he's going to be distracted with all the fancy shit to not do his job at all. Someone's going to get hurt because he's fucking full of himself and—" Bucky stopped when he caught the way the blond was looking at him.
Steve was smirking, proud and all-knowing, wriggling his brows as if he got the exact reaction he wanted.
It was obvious Bucky fell right into his trap.
The consequence of having a best friend who knows you too well.
"I fucking hate you, Rogers," he growled, shoulder-checking Steve as he made his way back to the elevator.
It only made the punk laugh.
"I'll see you at the briefing, buddy!"
•••
Bucky rolled his eyes when he saw the audience waiting on the tarmac two days later.
The whole team was practically present, obviously wanting to see what would happen during your first mission together with him.
It was ridiculous.
They somewhat made this whole thing between you two as a source of entertainment. It was harmless enough since they never really did anything to provoke reactions. It was wholeheartedly both your own doing. But that didn't make it less annoying.
His scowl deepened when Sam took one look at him before bursting out into rambunctious laughter. He also didn't miss the way Nat and Wanda were trying their best to hold back their giggles.
"Looks good on you." Clint nodded, grinning.
"Thanks." He rolled his eyes, instinctively running his fingers through his newly cropped hair.
It was closer to how he used to wear it back in the 40s. The long cut was starting to get in the way, even during simple, everyday errands. It was also to help him look less recognizable for this undercover mission, paired nicely with the flesh camouflage Bruce had temporarily installed on his metal arm.
Other than that, Bucky figured it was time for a change. And what better way to mark a new chapter in his life than by getting a haircut?
It definitely wasn't because a small part of him was craving your approval.
"Oh," Steve said when he reached the tarmac, blinking a few times before smiling. "It looks good, Buck."
"Why is everyone making a big deal out of my haircut?" he grumbled exasperatedly.
"It's not about the haircut," Natasha butted in, the corner of her lips curved up. "It's why you got it."
"I didn't think you'd take what she said seriously," Steve chuckled.
"First of all, I got this haircut because I wanted a haircut. That's it. Second—" Bucky glared at his best friend. "—did you tell everyone about the lice insult?"
"I didn't tell anyone!" he defended, hands in the air. "I swear!"
"He didn't. Frosty was ranting to Nat and Wanda and I just happened to overhear the best parts," Sam snickered. "But God, you need her attention so bad."
"I don't need her attention," he huffed, crossing his arms. "I very much enjoy it if it's elsewhere."
"Whatever you say, Buckaroo."
Speaking of the beauty that was the devil, you walked out of the building with Tony, his hands gesticulating wildly, probably explaining the enhancement on the outfit you were currently wearing.
A newly improved tactical suit.
Bucky cleared his throat as he ran his fingers through his hair, straightening out his gear as he tried not to stare.
But fuck it was hard.
How could he not look when the combination of Kevlar and lycra hugged your body in all the right places? At first glance, it was all black from head to toe, but underneath the light, the color would shift. There was a bluish tinge to it, the straps and belts a deep silver-blue, the combination of colors representing the likes of dark ice and frost. He couldn't see the lower half of your face, your signature mask only showing off those menacing eyes. And show them off they did because not only did the half-mask make you look even more threatening, it also made your eyes even more beautiful. The dark fabric definitely brought more attention to them, a twinkle in your irises especially when the sunlight would hit them just right.
You definitely brought two different meanings to the phrase 'If looks could kill.'
One, your death glare was definitely promising, and two Bucky had never seen someone be so beautiful, so gorgeously deadly that his heart felt like it might take him out.
He didn't realize that he was actively staring until Sam's voice snapped him out of his reverie.
"Damn. You're more pathetic than I thought."
Bucky shot him a glare, landing a very soft punch to his stomach before storming into the Quinjet, quickly settling into the pilot's seat. He was done dealing with the team's antics, and he knew they'd only get rowdier when you're close.
"Why is everyone here?" you said, and he could almost picture you rolling your eyes. "Why are you guys acting like you're sending your kids to boarding school?"
"Well, with how you and Terminator behave, it's not that different," Tony quipped. You must've glared at him because he was quick to add, "I'm kidding! You two are very mature adults."
"You guys are ridiculous," you snorted, boots hitting metal echoing around the space as you made your way inside.
"Have fun you two!"
"Not too much fun! I want that jet spotless when it gets back!"
"Please don't kill each other on the way!"
"Oh they grow up so fast."
Bucky rolled his eyes, shutting the latch once you finally settled yourself right beside him.
Your reasoning for the choice, he had no idea. You honestly could've picked every other available seat which was plenty. He decided not to dwell on it, stopping his mind from wandering too far into presumptuous thoughts.
But he definitely didn't miss the way you glanced at his hair.
He also didn't miss the way you were trying not to smirk.
"Stop gawking and put your goddamn seatbelt on," he grumbled, starting the jet before shrugging. "Or don't."
"You're so full of yourself," you scoffed, yet did as he said without any more protest.
"You're not as subtle as you think you are."
"M'just glad to know you actually listen to me, much less, take my advice."
"Now, who's full of themselves?" he mocked, rolling his eyes. "My haircut has nothing to do with you."
You were quiet for a moment. But he should've known better. It was something he learned lately, how you always felt the need to have the last word.
"Whatever pacifies your ego, Barnes."
Bucky could only growl in response.
•••
"Can you hurry up!" he called out after glancing at his watch for the fifth time.
He was fully dressed, in a suit and tie this time instead of his tactical gear. He'd already double-checked his weapons twice, a variety of them hidden underneath his jacket for ease of access.
And you still hadn't come out of the bathroom.
Bucky was sitting on one of the lounge chairs by the bed, glaring at the dark wood separating you from him as if it would help you be quicker with whatever it was you were doing in there.
He was about to call out again when the door slammed open, harsh and quick that it bounced off the wall.
Bucky's breath was sucked out of his lungs once he saw you in your long and fitted black dress, the silk fabric complementing your figure, a very high slit exposing your thigh, straps thin on your shoulders they might as well be non-existent and a deep V neckline to match.
He suddenly felt hot when he saw that the dress was unzipped, exposing your back from the nape of your neck all the way down, stopping just above the swell of your—
He blinked out of his haze when you ignored him completely and marched towards the floor-length mirror in the corner of the room. Your scowl was deep, irritation obvious in your demeanor as you looked for something, your back facing the mirror as you glared at your reflection over your shoulder.
"I'm going to kill Natasha for picking this dress," you mumbled under your breath, so obviously talking to yourself but without taking into account his enhanced hearing. "Who puts a zipper this goddamn small you can't even find it."
"Jesus—" Bucky rolled his eyes, standing up from his place and stalking towards you. "Turn around."
Your eyes snapped up to his, glare deadly as you hissed, "I don't need your help—"
"Get over yourself will you?" he scoffed. "We're going to be late."
"Fine," you gritted, turning around abruptly and crossing your arms. "Since you so badly want to make yourself feel useful."
Your quip went in one ear and out the other. Not because he was done with your shit—which he was—but because he was rendered speechless by what he was seeing.
There was a temptation to trace the path from the small of your back up to your spine, to feel your warm and naked skin underneath his fingertips.
But his attention was captured by something else entirely.
His lips curled into a frown as he scanned the nape of your neck. Now that he was closer, he could see the way your delicate skin was littered with scars, ones that weren't his nor was his infliction, but were familiar to him it made his chest ache.
Absentmindedly, his fingers hovered over it, close and featherlight to feel a prickle of electricity, but not enough for it to fully touch. He circled the smallest yet deepest one, right in the middle where he assumed the chip was embedded. His frown deepened as he traced the various jagged lines that started from the center, crawling down like roots and stopping just at the juncture between your neck and shoulder.
Bucky ignored the goosebumps that rose from your skin, heavily fighting the urge to kiss it.
You cleared your throat, looking at him through your periphery. "What, you've never seen scars before?"
"Those are scratch marks," he stated as a fact, voice coming out rougher than he'd intended to.
Bucky knew because he had similar-looking ones that covered his left shoulder.
Like someone was trying to claw it out of their skin.
"Yeah, well," you grumbled, shifting in your black heels. "It's not like I wanted that chip in me."
Almost instinctively, he leaned closer, lips parted, your body shivering as his breath brushed over your skin. He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head, hurriedly yet carefully zipping up your dress before walking towards the door.
"I'll wait for you outside," he said before closing it behind him without looking back.
Bucky paced up and down the hall in hopes that it would help shake the absolute rage he felt.
Not at you, but for you.
It was sudden yet burning, the anger in his blood at the simple thought of what those fucking assholes did to you. It didn't help in the slightest that he was so familiar with their methods.
It made him want to burn every person who laid a hand on you alive.
If the world managed to catch fire during that, then so fucking be it.
Bucky didn't know where it came from, the sense of protectiveness over you. It was so strong and unrelenting that it blatantly showed the second you stepped into the ballroom. From the way he'd held you closer by his side, arm secured around your waist as you mingled with guests, to his sharp glare aimed at any man who lingered too close and stared at you far too inappropriately.
He was telling himself it was part of the ruse, to sell this fake marriage to a viable audience so you could get the intel—gathering names that were connected to the Mafia, and when you're attending the birthday party of the Don, it wasn't difficult to do so—that you needed. He was watching your back like how any good partner should during missions. Even though he hated you, he wasn't cruel enough to let you get hurt. You could never know who was harmlessly flirting with you, and who was there with ulterior motives. It was better safe than sorry.
It definitely was not anything personal for him.
Despite everything, the mission went surprisingly well—smoothly even. It was impressive, borderline uncanny, the way you matched each other as if you'd been partners for years instead of this being the first.
It was easy, reading the signal you gave before Bucky made his way toward the elevators. The few moments he left you alone were enough for you to do what was needed, tempt and seduce. It was easy, a slimy yet important capo immediately taking the bait. Not that Bucky could blame him either. Nobody stood a chance when you were the one luring.
And just as the metal doors opened with a soft ding, Bucky stepped aside, letting you and the unsuspecting, inebriated man stumble in, slurring obscenities about 'getting some' as he clung to you, grumbling about 'showing you a better time than your husband.'
Bucky didn't even hide his scowl as he followed, fist slamming harshly on the button of your hotel floor. He wasn't gentle either as he injected the guy with a drug Bruce had concocted, one that made someone drunk to a point that they wouldn't remember what happened the next day while they were under the influence. Something about brain chemicals and whatnot.
Once you reached your shared room, he let you take the reins, sitting in a corner with a glass of whiskey as he watched. He wanted to see just how immersed you got when you were in your element.
And Bucky was impressed.
The way you circled that tied man, unhurried yet calculating, fingers trailing, taunting him, making him shiver in anticipation as to what you'd do next. Your voice was sickly sweet yet never less threatening as you asked questions that even Bucky had a whiplash listening to you talk.
You were like a poisonous wild berry, sweet, alluring, tempting on the outside, but downright deadly if you take a bite.
He also found it extremely hot but he wasn't going to talk about that.
It didn't take long for the man to spew out valuable information. But when he was being particularly difficult in some cases, Bucky stalked closer, shrugging his suit jacket off, rolling up his sleeves, and turning the flesh camouflage off. When the lamp on the bedside reflected on his metal forearm, it was enough to make the captive talk more.
Bucky took the liberty of doing cleanup once you got all the information you needed while you changed out of your dress in the bathroom. You were adamant about not needing his help with the zipper this time. He didn't bother to insist.
He stripped the unconscious man down to his boxers, tucking him to bed to make it seem like a one-night stand and nothing more. It wasn't like the idiot would remember much in the morning, anyway. He also made sure there was no trace of any of you in the room, checking twice to be sure he didn't miss anything.
Once everything was cleared and his bag was packed, you emerged out of the bathroom, now back in your tactical suit. You wordlessly made your way out of the hotel, Bucky right on your tail.
Neither of you spoke a word as you flew back home that same night.
The air was tense in the Quinjet.
And as much as people could argue that it was always like that whenever you and Bucky were in the same room, this time, it felt different.
Bucky couldn't just pinpoint as to why exactly that was.
The only thing he could clearly see was that you were even more guarded than before. Yet as hardened as your face was, your eyes were telling a different story. There was a distant look in them as if you were in a different place right this second.
Even as you got back to the compound and sat in one of the conference rooms for a debrief with Steve, there was still something off about you. You were quieter than usual, only speaking when spoken to. You even rushed to leave the room before Steve could fully wrap things up.
The blonde had shot him a questioning—almost accusing—look, probably also noticing your uncanny behavior. But all Bucky could do was shrug because even he wasn't quite sure as to what was on your mind that undeniably put you off.
Was it the moment in front of the mirror when he'd traced your scar? Or was it everything that transpired in the ballroom?
Having his arm around your waist, pulling you so close to his side he could practically feel your body heat through the layers of his suit, moments where he'd lean down to whisper in your ear, you masking it with a giggle as if the intel was the funniest thing he'd ever told you.
It was without a doubt the closest you two have ever been physically, pretending to be husband and wife, gazing into each other's eyes as if you were in love.
That was quite a lot for people who hated each other.
Or was that just him?
And even though Bucky was tired after the mission, he couldn't get a wink of sleep.
It wasn't from nightmares this time though—well, not his anyway.
Laying in his bed, staring at the random design engrained on the ceiling, Bucky couldn't stop thinking about what horrors you went through while you were under HYDRA's influence.
He wished his imagination was way worse than reality, that his head was making every situation far more gruesome and cruel than it truly was.
But Bucky knew better.
He knew that his imagination couldn't even come close to what truly transpired. And in this line of work, reality was always much worse.
Besides, he did live through it himself.
But knowing you had gone through something similar, somehow, it felt much more…hurtful.
Maybe this was the whole not wishing it on your worst enemies type of thing. Maybe it was an understanding. Maybe it was simply empathy. Maybe it was the culmination of everything mentioned all at once.
Or maybe it was something else entirely.
•••
"I didn't think I'd see the day where someone would actually challenge his staring problem."
"She doesn't look phased, though."
"He's definitely losing."
"I can hear you," Bucky said, loud enough for Sam and Wanda to hear but never taking his eyes off you even for a second.
"Good morning, Frosted Flakes." Sam walked over to you with a pat on the head.
You looked away from Bucky then, swatting Wilson's hand away, nose scrunched adorably with a snort, "What happened to 'Frosty'?"
"Oh no, your nickname is still Frosty," Sam chuckled. "Just sprinkling some spice every once and a while."
Bucky's grip on his mug tightened when he saw you flash Sam a genuine smile.
It's been a week since your mission together and you were back to your usual self—friendly to the team and absolutely loathing him still. As a matter of fact, you'd been acting as if the mission didn't happen at all, fully putting it behind you like a closed case.
Bucky wasn't quite sure if he was relieved or annoyed about it.
Fine.
He was annoyed because how could you be so nonchalant about the whole thing when he hadn't been able to think of anything else since?
It was infuriating seeing you so unaffected while he was still losing sleep, remembering how your warm body felt pressed up against his and the way your breath tickled the skin just below his ear whenever you whispered some information to him.
Then came the thoughts about your scars—what ifs and I hope not's with what happened to you in that facility. His chest would ache every time he closed his eyes and the image of your hurt skin would flash in his mind.
Or he'd find himself blushing like a schoolboy, wondering how things would've played out if he didn't hesitate, if he actually tried kissing it better—
"I never got to know why your alias is Frost," Wanda asked out of genuine curiosity.
"Cold-blooded killer, stone-cold heart, grew up and was trained in a cold climate, pretty basic actually. And, well," you paused, raising a brow his way. "Winter was taken."
"Can never trust someone who still goes by their name as a killer," he scoffed.
The way your whole face turned cold as you looked at him was so impressive it made Bucky's heart sting with longing.
Still, he didn't shy away from your glare.
It was only during these moments that he could shamelessly look into your gorgeous eyes, after all.
"I'm reclaiming it as my own. You give the name they gave you power, they still have control over you. Now, when I take back that power, the only one who has control over me, is me." You crossed your arms over your chest, head tilting as you added, "I think you can learn a thing or two about that, Soldat."
The chair screeched as Bucky stood from his seat, stalking towards you with a low growl. You simply turned to look at him, letting him tower over you with no ounce of fear in your demeanor. His fists clenched, vibranium arm whirring when you dared to smirk at him.
You raised a brow, chin raised high and cocky, so defiant, so bratty, it makes him want to—
"Case and point," you whispered proudly.
Before Bucky could even come up with a comeback, Steve's voice interrupted,
"Break it off." The captain walked into the room with his shoulders slumped as if he was tired of dealing with the same shit every day.
Bucky almost felt bad for him.
Almost.
"Do you have a radar for when we start fighting?" you snorted.
"Maybe," he said, brow raised at you. "Nat's been waiting for you in the training room."
"I don't need any more training," you grumbled, and with Bucky still standing quite close to you, he could almost see you pouting.
Or maybe he was just imagining it.
"There's no such a thing as too much training," Steve said in that 'captain voice' of his. "Besides, you need to learn how to hold back your punches."
"So, you're saying…" you sighed. "You don't trust me not to kill anyone?"
Bucky has never seen Steve turn bright red so quickly in his life.
"No! That's not—"
You giggled.
Bucky couldn't even begin to describe what his heart did in his chest.
You walked over to the blushing blonde, patting his chest with a bright smile. "Just messing with you, Steve."
He wasn't sure if he was jealous of the casual affection you were able to give to Steve, or the fact that his best friend got along so well with you that you might as well have known each other all your life.
Yet either thought was pushed to the back of his head as he watched you walk away in those goddamn leggings. There was always a certain sway to your hips whenever you moved, a confidence he couldn't help but be captivated by. But those goddamn gray leggings, for reasons he couldn't explain, were somehow accentuating everything that much more. From your hips to your thighs and that ass—
"Get out of my head, Maximoff," Bucky grumbled, cheeks burning when he caught the way the redhead was quietly smirking in the corner.
"I wasn't even in your head," Wanda laughed, still honoring the promise she made to him to always respect his boundaries when it came to his mind, which he was grateful for. "It's all over your face."
"You look hungry as hell, man," Sam added, grinning.
"Well, if you want to ogle more," Steve teased, smiling amusedly. "Don't you have your recruits to train?"
Bucky could only flip them off as he walked towards the elevator.
•••
Fists hitting against bags, punches blocked with precision, hisses and groans as bones met muscle, bodies landing on padded floors with low grunts, and the occasional cheers and hollers from the opposite side of where he stood.
There was quite a crowd at the training room—and by room he meant a whole floor—at this time of day. After all, it was mostly everyone's schedule for it.
It was hectic, and for someone with enhanced senses, it can be overstimulating. But Bucky had grown to learn how to focus the amount of input his brain took. Right now, it wasn't on the young boy he was currently sparring with.
Oh no.
It was over at the mats where a crowd had formed. It was like fight night, a challenge born out of pure pride and ego as to who could land even just one blow on the current victor.
You.
From the corner of his eye, Bucky watched you dance around a man who was more or less a foot taller than you. It was graceful, the way you jumped onto his shoulders, your legs wrapping around his neck before you twisted your body, using the momentum to flip the agent onto his back, tightening your thighs around his neck before he rapidly started tapping on the mat.
You barely even broke a sweat.
Bucky swiftly raised his right arm, blocking a high kick from the recruit. It was a valiant effort but it simply wasn't quick enough to surpass his enhanced senses.
"Good thinking to use a moment's distraction to your advantage," he commended, grabbing his ankle and flinging the kid over his shoulder. "But never underestimate your opponent."
He looked around his group, fresh graduates and all looking properly beaten and tired, and not just physically. None of them had ever won a spar with him. But, well, not to sound egotistical, but it was never a fair fight to begin with.
He was a supersoldier for crying out loud.
As their trainer, he could keep going. There were no breaks out there in a real fight. But then again, he has to remember that his blood was fueled differently compared to them.
Besides, his attention was most definitely elsewhere, and he kinda wants to watch a different session instead.
Was he slacking on the job? Maybe.
But hey, let's say he was simply trying not to drain the life out of the newbies.
"Great job today," Bucky said with a curt nod. "We'll continue this tomorrow."
Relief rolled over the group like a wave, and he resisted the urge to chuckle. As they all left one by one, Bucky remained at his station, leisurely sipping on his water as he watched the commotion across him.
"Do I really need to keep doing this?" you sighed at Steve after you pinned down yet another recruit who was definitely a few sizes bigger than you, swift and hard to disorient them but not enough to cause any real damage. Properly learning how to hold back your punches. "Aren't I supposed to be showing what I'm truly capable of?"
"You're getting cocky," Nat chuckled, throwing an M&M in her mouth.
"I'm not," you shrugged, yet your smirk said otherwise. You stood up, dusting your shoulder to make a show out of it. "I just want a challenge for once."
"Okay," Steve hummed, scanning the room before his eyes met his, gesturing for him to come over. "Hey, Buck!"
Here we go.
With a sigh, Bucky walked over to your group.
"Really? You want me to hold back on him?"
You couldn't have toned down your disdain even if you tried.
"Bold of you to assume you can lay a finger on me," he countered, crossing his arms over his chest.
"You wanted a challenge so, go ahead," Steve hummed. "No holding back this time. I'm sure Buck can take it."
"I feel insulted that he's the standard," you grumbled, hands on your hips as you raised a brow at him. "But if you're telling me not to hold back I might end up killing him."
Bucky rolled his eyes. "Cute."
"Let's see if it's cute if I've got a knife down your throat."
"Jesus—" Steve ran a hand over his face before shooting you both a look. "I didn't say kill each other."
"Fine," you sighed dejectedly. "I'll try not to."
"Don't worry, Steve," Bucky hummed, smirking. "I'll go easy on her."
You were the first to attack.
Bucky expected you to go for the chest. With the short moment he observed you, that was usually what you went for when an opponent had a much larger stature than you. But surprisingly, you slid through his legs, kicking the back of his knee to make them buckle, causing him to fall forward. Catching himself on both hands, he rolled to the right just as your foot landed on where his head had been.
Is she actually trying to kill me?
He grabbed your ankle then, pulling it so rapidly that it had you landing on your chest with a cough. Before Bucky could even blink, you twisted, your leg hitting the side of his face. He stumbled back with a groan, giving you enough time to get back on your feet.
With deep breaths, you glared at each other from your places on the mat, bodies at the ready for another round.
Bucky attacked.
From the outside looking in, you two might as well have been doing a choreographed routine. You were dancing around each other, blocking some punches, landing a few kicks, and just when you thought that one had locked the other down, they'd immediately slipped from their grasp.
And this went on and on and on and on.
Nobody could decipher as to who would win this fight.
It was mesmerizing.
Bucky was impressed at the way you could keep up with him. He wasn't counting the time, but your stamina never seemed to waver. You didn't seem to have any need to catch your breath. You were definitely better than any of the agents, and dare he say it, any of the Avengers he'd sparred with.
Then again, your skills were a mixture of a Black Widow and HYDRA. It shouldn't have come as a surprise that you were simply that good.
But Bucky was better.
He was also at an advantage since The Winter Soldier's fighting style was so clearly the blueprint for your training. That was one of the things he always noticed when it came to HYDRA. When one thing was a success, they were going to run that program to the ground.
If Bucky hadn't known any better, he might as well have trained you himself.
He was able to predict your next move quite easily, already knowing what his counterattack would be before you could even land a blow.
It was making you frustrated.
Bucky couldn't help but be cocky about it.
"Killing me, huh?" he whispered against your ear once he had you in a chokehold.
Again.
"Don't tempt me to do it," you hissed, head thrown back abruptly to catch his nose.
Once his grip loosened even the slightest bit, you pushed his arm and dropped to the ground in a crouching position, spinning with one leg out to sweep him off his feet. He stumbled but didn't fall. In an attempt to keep the momentum, you tried to go for a handstand kickup, but Bucky caught your ankle before you could even complete your move, tossing you over his shoulder with little effort.
Quickly, you were back on your feet. Sweat covered your body as you heaved. There was a cut on your brow to match his bleeding nose, the bruise on your lip was looking quite similar to his, too.
Still, you looked absolutely beautiful.
But even with your fists up, seemingly ready to go again, Bucky could see your strength waning by the second, and your frustration wasn't helping you one bit.
That was always aweakness.
You will lose if you let your emotions come into play, no matter how well trained you were.
"That all you got?" Bucky taunted, arms out as he tilted his head with a pout. "He told you not to hold back, принцесса."
He hadn't meant to taunt the nickname in Russian. It just slipped out, like it somehow felt right to say it that way.
Yet the fire that lit your eyes was screaming at him otherwise—a look so raw and unnerving it made Bucky break out into nervous sweats.
It all happened so fast.
Bucky was caught off-guard when you ran to him at full speed with a growl, your knee hitting his chest with such force it knocked him onto his back. He hissed when he felt your knee dig into his rib, putting all your weight on it to hold him down. His head tilted up once he felt the cold, sharp blade against his neck.
In his periphery, he saw Nat patting herself down, eyes flickering over to the knife you were holding against Bucky's throat, her eyes wide in shock.
Natalia Alianovna Romanova, one of the world's best and deadliest assassins, didn't even notice you taking a knife from her belt.
That was how fast it happened.
"Call me принцесса again and see what happens," you said, low and menacing. You were so close, your warm breath was tickling his lips but Bucky could only focus on your eyes.
There were so many emotions swimming in them, yet the sadness was what intrigued him the most.
But before he could get a proper read, you were gone.
The next thing he knew there was a dagger flying past his head, embedding itself on the mat. He felt something warm trickle down his ear. Bucky didn't need to see to know that you'd managed to graze his skin enough to draw some blood.
A warning.
He wasn't even given the time to collect himself before you were already leaving the room, the door slamming shut behind you.
Blinking twice, only then did Bucky realize that you had managed to gather quite the audience, all of which were silenced as to what just happened.
"What'd he call her?" Sam asked, holding a packet of Skittles in one hand.
"Printsessa. It's Russian for princess," Nat explained, shaking her head disappointedly before rushing to follow you.
Bucky was confused.
He thought it was quite an overreaction to calling someone an innocent nickname.
"Right! The show's over!" Steve's 'captain voice' boomed. "Everyone back to their duties!"
Bucky sighed, running a hand over his face before taking the outstretched hand Steve was offering him.
"I don't get it," the blonde murmured once he helped him up and offered him tissues.
"What?" Bucky asked, wiping the blood off his skin.
"You and Y/N," Steve elaborated. "I really thought you two would get along so well."
Bucky frowned. "What made you think that?"
"You're basically two peas in the same pod," Steve said as if it was obvious enough.
"We're nothing alike," he scoffed, rolling his eyes.
"The two of you are more alike than you think."
•••
"What's all this?"
It was never common to see Steve Rogers hauling boxes out of his room on a random Thursday morning. And one glance at his open door, the space was completely empty.
"You're leaving?" Bucky pressed worriedly.
"No," Steve chuckled. "Just moving floors."
Bucky's brows furrowed. "Why?"
"Because you—"
The blonde was cut off when the elevator dinged. It was more stacks of boxes being rolled into the space. But then a figure stepped into view. Steve turned to him with a shit-eating grin.
"—are getting a new floormate."
Bucky has never wanted to punch him so badly.
"You've got to be fucking kidding me, Rogers."
His so-called best friend only smirked at him.
To most, Steve Rogers was the golden boy, America's greatest hero.
To Bucky? He was just an annoying little shit.
"Y/N," Steve greeted once you crossed paths in the living room.
"Steven," you responded, moving aside to let him and his stuff into the elevator.
"Try and don't kill each other please," he said, raising his brow knowingly.
You shrugged. "No promises."
"Be nice!" was the punk's last words before the elevator doors closed.
You didn't even spare Bucky a glance.
Instead, you just started bringing the boxes you brought with you into Steve's—well, your room.
Bucky, with no desire to help, casually leaned against the wall. He simply watched you make the repeating journey, taking box after box with you.
"Why did you agree to this?" he asked after a minute.
"Because I'm a good fucking friend, Barnes."
"What did Natasha bribe you with?"
"Fuck's sake," you groaned, dropping the box only to shoot him a glare. "Are favors for friends a new concept to you?"
"Favor? What favor?" he pushed. "Having Steve as a floormate?"
You ignored him, continuing with your task at hand.
"Why would she want Rogers to be next to her room—" Realization hit Bucky like a flying red white and blue shield. "Oh."
"Wow," you scoffed. "I knew you were dense but I was hoping Steve would've at least filled you in."
Bucky always knew that there was a little something between those two but he wasn't buying it as the only reason why Steve suddenly switched floors with you. They probably thought he wouldn't notice, but he did. Nat and Steve were the number one duo who had been trying to push the two of you to get along.
And when the tension only grew that much more after that incident in the training room, Bucky wouldn't be surprised if this whole floormate switch-up had something to do with their pursuit of making you act at least civil with one another.
"Don't worry," you said, placing the last box on the floor before meeting his eyes. "You won't even notice that you have a neighbor to begin with."
You slammed the door shut.
For the rest of the day, your statement remained true. Bucky barely heard from you at all, despite staying in his room given that it was his day off.
You were back to your ghostly ways, he supposed, keeping to yourself for the most part. But then again, it was only day one.
Unfortunately, your statement was immediately proven wrong that very same night.
Bucky was woken up by the faint whimpering he could hear through the wall.
They weren't exactly thin, but they weren't soundproof either. There was a feature to cancel out the noise and prevent it from going out, but you had to enable it through FRIDAY.
You must've forgotten to turn it on.
He bolted out of bed when he heard you scream.
Bucky was outside your door in seconds, chest heaving as he pressed his palm flat against the surface.
He couldn't bring himself to knock.
Bucky simply didn't know if rushing inside your room was going to help you, or make things worse.
So he stood there, right outside your door, eyes screwed shut as pain clawed at his chest, listening as your screams turned to heart aching sobs.
Bucky had never felt so useless in his life.
He didn't know how long he was standing there, ears on high alert as he listened to every shaky breath you let out. He only went back to his room once you had gotten calmer.
Yet he didn't quite get some sleep that night.
Bucky—unbeknownst to you and him—had grown even more protective of you.
It was an unconscious act on his part, one he didn't even realize he was doing until Sam pointed it out.
It was always him who pointed things out, unfortunately.
"Since when did you become her guard dog?" Wilson had teased him once, right as they got back to the compound after a morning run.
His actions came to him in flashes. Whether that was immediately clocking any HYDRA agent coming your way and taking them out of the equation before you could even notice, taking extra precautions on missions for your behalf, or simply glaring at any agent who even did as much as look at you the wrong way. And if they actually said something, best believe Bucky didn't make it easy for them when it came to training.
But he never acknowledged Sam's words or outwardly showed that they affected him.
He only walked past Sam with a soft punch on the arm.
•••
Living on the same floor as you was…something.
For the first two weeks, it felt like Bucky was truly alone and that nobody lived in the room next door.
But as weeks turned to a month, traces of you were slowly integrating themselves around the common area, little things that made him know more about you.
You had a few cat-shaped mugs in the cupboard that made Bucky think you were a cat person. But then on a random day, he saw an orange one which looked like a dog, its face on one side and its butt on the other. He deduced that you simply liked animal mugs altogether because he saw a raccoon one, too.
Then there was a knitted throw blanket on the sofa that smelled so much like you. It didn't take long for that to get followed by a fluffy pillow or two. All of them were one specific color but Bucky didn't know if that was your favorite one, or you simply liked to keep things coordinated. Maybe it was both.
Whether that was random knick knacks around the shelves, a DVD set by the TV, a well-loved book on the coffee table, the breadcrumbs of him having you as a floormate were starting to become apparent.
Besides that, he never truly felt like there was someone else on the same floor as him because rarely did you end up in your shared space at the same time.
If you did, you two always bickered to no end.
But as the sky turned from a shade of blue to the deep black of the night, Bucky was reminded that you were there right next to his room.
He wasn't overly fond of how the reminder was given.
Your nightmares didn't happen as frequently as he was prepared for them to be. But every other night was still a lot for one person to handle.
Bucky was yet to gain the courage to knock on the door.
It might have been creepy to just stand outside, it might as well have been cruel to do nothing while you were in distress.
But he was scared.
Not for him, but for you.
He honestly couldn't decipher whether he would be of any help or not if he just burst into your room unannounced. Because as confusing as living with you was, one thing remained clear.
You definitely still hated him.
"Can you fucking pick up after yourself?" you complained.
Bucky rolled his eyes. "It's one fucking spoon."
"Then put it in the sink!"
"Jesus fucking Christ what has that spoon ever done to you?"
"It's dirty and you're leaving it on the counter!"
"And?"
"You've got milk and cereal all over it!"
"I'm not asking you to clean it."
"But it's fucking annoying, you fucking slob!"
"Stop acting like you own this whole fucking place, printsessa."
It was truly impressive, how fast you had him pushed against the fridge with a goddamn bread knife against his throat.
It also stirred something in him but he wasn't ready to unpack that.
Bucky was holding his breath because if he did as much as relax, he knew the blade would nick his skin.
Who was he kidding, that definitely wasn't the reason he was holding his breath. He was a super soldier for crying out loud. He healed fast. A menial scrape wouldn't do much harm.
But you had just finished showering after your morning run and Bucky could smell your shampoo. Vanilla. Simple and sweet, a stark contrast to your fiery glare and the way you were holding a knife to his throat.
It was driving him insane.
"What did I say about calling me that," you said lowly.
"You know, you act so tough in front of everyone," he said, eyes defiantly glaring back at you. "But a meaningless nickname scares you this much?"
"Ne ispytyvay udachu, Soldat," you growled, pressing the knife that little bit harder.
Don't push your luck, Soldier.
Such a simple sentence yet it threw Bucky into an emotional rollercoaster.
He didn't know if it was the threat in itself, the way you spoke another language in that deep growl, or the fact that you were holding a knife down his throat but he felt scared there for a moment.
You were terrifying when you were angry.
And maybe this was such a fucked up thing to say but why was he turned on by it?
Bucky was grateful that you quickly left him alone after that. Once you were out of his enhanced earshot, he dropped his head and sighed, hoping and goddamn praying that you didn't notice the tent that had grown in his workout shorts.
It would've been so humiliating otherwise.
Shaking his head, Bucky could almost hear Sam's voice.
"Damn, you're more pathetic than I thought."
•••
The mission was a bust.
One of the most important HYDRA scientists got away and managed to take with him the files they needed to track down other facilities.
The Avengers were gathered around the forest where the Quinjet was hidden. But instead of getting aboard and being on their way home, everyone was watching a screaming match instead.
Whenever a mission would go awry, everyone would regroup in the jet to try and discuss what went wrong and how to improve it on the next mission. There were never fingers thrown around as to whose fault it was because it was never anyone's fault.
But right now, you decided to blame it on him.
"What the fuck is your problem!" You all but marched up to Bucky, shoving him hard on the chest, making him stumble back in surprise. "Do you always get a kick at sabotaging my part of the mission?"
"Sabotage?" Bucky laughed humorlessly. "I don't care about you enough to do that."
However, if someone had seen what happened beforehand, they absolutely would call him a liar right to his face.
"Oh really?" you argued, shoving him again. The action was really riling him up. "Then why are you so fucking hell-bent on meddling with what I'm doing!"
"Because I don't fucking trust you!" Bucky gritted, aggressive with no ounce of truth as he took a step towards you. "I wouldn't be surprised if you let him get away. Sure as hell looked like you recognized him."
"Wow." You shook your head, scoffing, "So we're going to pretend like I'm the only one who used to work for HYDRA here?"
"Then why didn't you catch him?"
"You shoved me away!" you yelled, hands balling into fists. "I fucking had him!"
"You were being careless!" he stated the obvious, growling when you decided to shove him out of spite. Again. "You were about to get shot!"
"So fucking what!"
That only angered him more.
"Well, I'm sorry for fucking saving your life then!"
"How was I supposed to know someone was behind me? I don't have eyes on the back of my fucking head!" you countered, shoving a finger at the Captain without taking your eyes off Bucky. "And no, Steve, my partner didn't say a fucking thing even though he was supposed to watch my back!"
Bucky will throw his hands up and admit that you were right. But he didn't get a chance to warn you about it because he admittedly got distracted by nothing else but you.
For some reason, Steve found it helpful to partner you and Bucky during missions from time to time, said it was to build up the team chemistry. He had no qualms over it the first couple few, since you two did work quite well together despite your personal animosity.
But something about today's mission threw him off—specifically, the second you managed to get a hold of that scientist whose name he was yet to learn.
Yet it was clear as day that you recognized this man.
It was the first time Bucky truly saw this darker side of you. The pure and unbridled anger that captured your whole being was mesmerizing, the low drawl of your voice akin to a siren, captivating and that much more deadly.
And your eyes.
You didn't have superpowers but they honestly looked like they were starting to catch fire as you examined the man, as if thinking about all the ways you could make him suffer, turn him inside out with as much pain as you could muster.
During that moment, Bucky realized that he would've let you scorch the earth if it meant finally getting that revenge over the people who'd made you endure years of torture.
He would've stood by your side proudly.
It both aroused and scared him.
Embarrassingly so.
By then, Bucky didn't notice the HYDRA agent until they were already too close. All that was needed was one pull of the trigger.
So in a moment of panic, he ran, straight at you and shoved you out of the way.
It was either a slight bruise on your side or a bullet to the back of your head.
Bucky didn't take any chances.
Unable to control his strength, he pushed you across the room and knocked the breath out of you. And when he finished off the agent and you still hadn't gotten up, Bucky panicked. He honestly thought he might've killed you. And as he stood there in shock, only breathing again once you let out a sharp cough, the scientist already used that slim time to get away.
Yet despite the fear he felt during that moment, and the utter shame he was harboring because he failed as your partner on the field, his ego right this second couldn't even begin to admit that it was all his fault. So, he matched your glare.
"What's the point of saying something if you won't even fucking listen?"
"You know what, sure," you threw your hands up, so clearly exasperated. "Nothing of sense comes out of that mouth anyway,"
"Maybe I should've just let you take that bullet," he seethed, anger boiling over. Your defiance and absolute lack of fear as you squared up to him didn't help by one bit. "Finally get rid of the pain in my ass."
"As if you don't like getting pegged."
"Walk away you two," Steve commanded, voice stern and void of any patience. He gave Bucky's shoulder a push. You turned on your heel then.
But Bucky was just so angry that he couldn't stop himself from muttering under his breath in Russian.
"Useless bitch."
He didn't mean it.
But you heard.
Oh you heard it loud and clear.
Bucky was sure of it because the next thing he saw was a gun pointed right in between his eyes.
"Maybe a bullet to the head will finally heal that blended brain of yours," you said, voice scarily calm, your face hardened and void of any emotion as you stared at him dead in the eye. "Or at least give justice to those innocent lives you took."
"Y/N!" Steve scolded, attempting to get you two to break it off.
But neither of you budged.
Everyone was on edge now, not entirely sure what to do next in case one wrong move would set either of you off.
"Rich, coming from you. But go ahead," he challenged, taking a step until the barrel of the gun was pressed right against his forehead. "Besides, it won't be too hard for you since you don't really discriminate against who you kill, do you? I mean, this wouldn't be the first time you killed your own teammate."
Tilting his head tauntingly, Bucky pouted. "Or was that your boyfriend?"
"Bucky!" Natasha gasped.
It wasn't the firm push of Steve's hand nor his tall stature standing in the middle that sobered Bucky up.
Oh no.
His anger left his body way before that.
The way your hand began to shake, the tremble on your lips, and the look of pure pain in your eyes was like a bucket of ice cold water.
Bucky knew that look.
He'd seen it through the mirror when a memory would replay itself in his head and there was nothing he could do except watch—the light leaving their eyes, the echo of screams, a gunshot, a body falling on the floor.
It was a look that was too familiar that Bucky felt the guilt clogging his throat because he knew he'd just managed to make you relive that specific moment over and over.
"That's enough!" Steve said firmly. "Both of you."
Bucky tried to meet your eyes, tried to immediately take back what he just said. But Natasha was already guiding you towards the jet, your head down with your arms around yourself.
"Don't," he sighed when Steve shot him a disappointed look. "I know."
Bucky followed the rest of the team after that.
The silence hung in the Quinjet during the journey home, a touch awkward but thick with tension.
You both have been forced to sit on opposite ends, as far from each other as possible. Well, forced wasn't the right word. You willingly put as much distance as you could from him, as if breathing the same air as him was out of the question.
Still, the jet felt as cramped as ever.
Rotting in his own guilt and self-pity, Bucky couldn't help but glance at you from time to time.
There was a harsh tug on his heartstrings when he saw you fiddling with the fabric of your tactical suit, flinching at the slightest turbulence or even the softest of sound. You'd never looked up once the second you sat there.
You were anxious.
He had never seen you like this before.
Mission reports could only tell so much, and when yours had been mostly redacted, Bucky knew nothing about what truly went down. Yet despite not being stated on the pages, he had an inkling that whatever your bond was with your aforementioned partner, it went far deeper than just a simple boyfriend and girlfriend relationship.
He didn't even know if it was given that label to begin with.
The worst of it all, Bucky knew that during that circumstance, you did the right thing.
And you paid a heavy price.
PART 2
✫*゚・゚。.★.*。・゚♛ *.
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