Setting: sometime after TWS
You'd been encouraging Bucky to channel all of his anger against Hydra into many, many different things.
You'd met Bucky through your good friend, Sam Wilson, who'd met him through his friend, Steve Rogers. That was four months ago. Now, you seemed to hang around Bucky more than you did with Sam, but that probably had something to do with you liking Bucky.
While Steve was off avenging, you were pretty much responsible for keeping Bucky occupied. He'd sometimes get a little irritated at the fact that he was almost always being 'babysat,' but he ended up having fun with you around and didn't seem to care after awhile.
"Bucky?" You called from the doorway of his and Steve's apartment, kicking off your shoes.
You shut the door behind you and closed your umbrella, scanning the living room for any sign of him. Your hair was damp along with your clothes due to the raging thunderstorm going on outside.
"Kitchen!" Bucky yelled, causing your eyes to narrow in the direction of the kitchen.
"What're you doing in the kitchen, Bucky? You don't cook—" You followed the sound of his whistling to the kitchen.
He was humming 'Can't Help Falling in Love' by Elvis, a song that you'd introduced him to a while ago. Now, he was going through an Elvis phase and it was all he ever sang.
"I'm 'channeling my anger,' I believe that's what you called it." Bucky said as you rounded the corner and appeared in the archway of the kitchen.
There sat Bucky on top of the kitchen table, his brown locks tied up into a messy man bun, paintbrush in hand, and an easel in front of him. He shifted on the table so that he was facing you. You could now also see the paint covering his fingers and hands, and to your surprise, a streak here and there on his stubbly face.
Your jaw nearly dropped; he looked extremely attractive this way—the man bun, the once-white, clean tee shirt that was now covered in streaks of nearly every color in the rainbow clinging to his muscled torso, and the smirk forming on his face because of your expression.
"Close your mouth, (y/n), you'll catch flies," he teased, spinning back around to his painting.
"Since when do you paint?" You asked, trying to rid yourself of your blushing cheeks.
"Since today," he smirked, his paint brush creating strokes of vibrant colors on the paper.
Honestly, you had no idea what exactly he was painting. It was some sort of colorful blob, but as you narrowed your eyes and tilted your head to the side, you at least tried to have some imagination.
"Ah," you nodded, carrying a bag of groceries over to the counter. Bucky couldn't necessarily be trusted to buy groceries and Steve was always busy, so you were left to do the task alone quite often.
You looked over at him, seeing a look of determination behind his baby blue eyes. Your gaze dropped to his lips, his tongue poking through them slightly as he focused on his work. You couldn't peg this man as the assassin that Hydra had once brainwashed; he was too...cute.
"So, I'm guessin' it's raining out there?" Bucky had glanced up at you briefly, noting your damp hair and clothes before returning his attention to his painting.
"Cats and dogs," you replied, stocking the fridge full of various vegetables. Steve, what a health nut, you thought.
"Well, if you're staying a while," Bucky finally hopped off of the table and placed his paint brush in a cup of water, "you're gonna need some dry clothes."
You raised an eyebrow at him as he turned and disappeared down the hallway, only to return a few minutes later with a plain, white tee shirt in his metal fist and gray sweatpants in his flesh hand.
"Here," Bucky grinned, handing them to you.
"What's with you today? You sure are...chipper." You cocked your head to the side, scrutinizing him.
"I'm in a good mood, don't 'kill my vibe.'" He was always doing this—trying to use modern phrases that just made you want to laugh at him. His attempts at being a 21st century man were cute, but definitely dorky.
"Spare me, Buck," you rolled your eyes, cracking a smile.
You went to the bathroom to change and upon coming out, you saw Bucky in the living room. He had a large canvas propped up against the apartment door and a clear tarp on the floor in front of it. He stood facing it, paints surrounding him on the floor.
"What's this?" You asked, almost scared as to what the answer would be. Bucky could make some rather impulsive decisions sometimes and you hoped this wasn't one that would end badly.
"Come over here," Bucky pointed to the canvas, insinuating for you to stand in front of it.
"Why?" You asked hesitantly as you walked over to him and stood sideways, one side of your face facing the canvas, the other facing Bucky.
"Just stand still," Bucky backed away, picking up a paint brush from one of the paint jars. "You're my muse."
"Why, what are you—"
Splat!
Bucky let out a loud laugh as your eyes widened. He had slung his paint brush in your direction, causing bright blue paint to splatter on your cheek.
"Bucky, what the hell?!" You squealed, turning to him, your face turning red with anger.
"Sorry, doll, but you said it yourself; I have to find creative ways to channel my anger," he smirked, dipping the paint brush in a different color, "and this is definitely working."
"You are so dead," you furrowed your eyebrows, picking up a paint brush and slinging it at him. Red paint hit him square in the nose.
"Maybe you need to channel your anger, huh, doll?" Bucky chuckled, not caring that you'd just made him look like Rudolph the red nosed reindeer.
You rolled your eyes and continued splattering Bucky with paint as he did the same to you. He found it down right funny and eventually, you did, too, though you didn't admit it.
"I see you trying to hold back that beautiful smile of yours," Bucky warned, holding his paint brush deathly close to your face as you squirmed beneath him.
He'd easily pinned you to the floor using his super soldier strength, which in this moment, you really disliked.
"You think my smile is beautiful?" You asked, pushing on his chest to get him off.
Just then, the door opened, sending the canvas that had been leaning against it crashing to the floor.
Steve stood in the doorway, his eyes widening at the sight of his apartment—now covered in various, vibrant colors.
Bucky looked up at him, you still fidgeting underneath of him on the floor.
"Well, now you know why I have to ask (y/n) to 'babysit' you while I'm gone," Steve stepped in, keeping calm and collected, despite how pissed he was that you two had given his apartment a new paint job. "Guess (y/n) needs a babysitter, herself."
"I'm sorry, Steve." Bucky stood up, releasing you from his grip. "This was all my idea."
"Oh, I don't doubt it," Steve nodded, his hands on his hips.