Captain America and Bucky Barnes Imagines

25. BUCKY: A Good Bit of Fun

"Why do you have to do anything at all? It's not like you have to be best buddies with everyone on the team here, Bucky. She's not evil. She'll have your back on the field." Steve focuses on finding the perfect corner of his sandwich to bite into when he notices Bucky's lack of response. His eyes go a bit wider as he draws to a conclusion. "Oh Jesus Christ..." Steve chuckles breathily. "You love her, don't ya?"

"Love her?!" Bucky spits. He runs a hand through his hair and huffs. "What in god's name would give you that idea? She's... she's an argumentative, obnoxious, loud-mouthed, know-it-all who never leaves me the hell alone."

Steve's smirk takes over his whole face. "Yeah, and you love it."

Bucky stares at the ground beneath his feet. He lets out a long breath through his nose, and Steve knows he's right.

"Ooooh man—you're screwed!" Steve cackles. He reaches across the table to smack his buddy on the shoulder. "Good luck with that one, man." He smiles at his sandwich as he keeps laughing to himself. "In love with Y/N... I'll be damned."

Bucky grunts. "I think I'm the damned one."

Just then, someone strolls into the kitchen. You come wandering in wearing a tight pair of red underwear and an oversized band t-shirt suitable for bed. Through the light fabric of the shirt your drawers are clearly seen, and you clearly don't give a rat's ass. Your hips sway as you walk past the boys to the kitchen.

"Steve," you greet politely as you pass. You tap his shoulder kindly and ignore Bucky's presence all together. Your hair is up in a braid. Your face wears a smirk lightly—as if you know what you are doing to Bucky.

Bucky and Steve both struggle to keep their eyes politely off your ass as you walk away. You're gorgeous, Bucky thinks, but it's not just your looks. It's the way you carry yourself—the way you talk, smirk, laugh, roll your eyes, kick-ass... it's everything about you.

Steve's chuckle breaks Bucky's train of thought.

"Yeah, punk, you're damned."

...

You hum a stupid 90s song as you pour some coffee the next morning. You nibble on some toast as you wait for the cream to cool down the hot, bitter liquid that should hopefully make up for the lack of sleep.

"Good morning."

You scoff, "It was until you showed up." You take a long sip of your drink before turning to face a very tired looking Bucky. "Rough night? Or do you just happen to look slightly worse than normal?"

Bucky bunches his metal fist together tightly. You raise an eyebrow at the gesture, not at all worried. If he wanted to hurt you, he would've done it long ago.

"Got something to say, pretty boy? Or you gonna keep scowling like I killed your puppy?" You pull yourself up onto the kitchen counter to wait for him to speak. He hardly does, but for some reason you have the feeling that he will today.

Bucky digs around the cupboard for his own mug. Everyone has their own color. Yours is yellow. His is grey, if you remember right.

"I just don't understand why the hell you hate me so much." His voice is low and sort of secretive. Ah, he's found his mug.

You laugh. "I thought I told you?"

Bucky turns around. On his face is a deeply rooted frown. It stems way down in his soul. "My man bits, yeah, you told me that. But I call bullshit on it."

"Oh really?" You take a loud slurp of your drink. "Please, educate me then on why it is that I'd lie to you."

"You like Steve: you talk to him all the time and taught him how to use Instagram. You like Clint: he's gonna name his next daughter after you. And you like T'Challa: you call him Kitty, and he fucking lets you." He disregards his cup of coffee as he sulks in front of where you sit. "So tell me, Y/N, what the hell is your problem with me?"

Respectfully, you nod. "That's all very true." You take another drink. Bucky's left eyebrow twitches with impatience. "But can all be explained." You set down your mug and lay your hands on your lap. "Steve's America's darling. I grew up loving him. And technically, he was the one who recruited me. So I like him." You take another bite of toast, leaving Bucky hanging on your every word. You brush the crumbs from your jeans. "As for Clint, he reminds me of my father. He's a dad. I generally like dads. Therefore, I like him." You tilt your head side to side. "T'Challa is... well, first of all, he's a King. What girl doesn't admire a King? A handsome one at that." Bucky's eyebrows fold together as he frowns. "But he's my friend. He let me into his home when I had no other. I like him, too."

"And me?"

"And you," you keep going. You tap a finger on Bucky's chest and he follows your arm with his blue eyes. "You, Bucky Barnes, are a hell of a lot of fun to fuck with."

Bucky's eyes form into large moons. He gapes at you wordlessly. The dark circles under his eyes and clueless expression make you feel a bit of pity for him, but you still smile.

"You see, I don't exactly hate you as much as you think I do." You take another long drink of coffee. "In fact, I like you too." Bucky stares at you. "Perhaps even a little more than the rest." You admire him over the top of your steaming mug of coffee. "Well? What do you have to say to that, pretty boy?"

Bucky starts to stutter. His cheeks are warm. "I—well, I—I just..."

"You really don't have to say anything at all." You slide off the counter and grab him by the hand—shocking old Bucky Barnes to the core. "Now, forgive me if I'm misreading things, but do you wanna make out?"

Bucky's jaw goes slack. He stares down at you as you smirk. Then, without as much as another stupid fucking word, he grabs you by the face and presses his lips to yours.

The kiss is good; scratch that, it's bloody great. But you cut it short by gently pushing on his chest. Bucky pulls away with ransacked breaths. His hands on your waist tighten as if he's worried about having to let you go.

"Now this..." you smile against his mouth—biting gently on his bottom lip. "This will be much more fun."