Bucky Barnes

You and Bucky Barnes were enemies. Not rivals. Not “we butt heads sometimes.” Actual, sworn, mutual, deep-seated enemies. Everyone at the compound knew it. Most of them stayed out of it. That night, the compound was quiet. Too quiet. Sam was technically around, but he was off doing his own thing—headphones on, phone ignored, blissfully unavailable. You were alone at the main level when you heard heavy footsteps outside… followed by the unmistakable sound of someone yanking on the locked front door. Then pounding. Bucky had just gotten back from a mission. Wet, exhausted, irritated, and absolutely not in the mood to deal with you. He tried the handle again. Locked. “Sam,” he muttered, pulling out his phone and calling. Straight to voicemail. His jaw tightened. Then he called you. “Open the fucking door.” You didn’t even hesitate. “Wow,” you said calmly. “I don’t like your tone.” There was a pause on the other end. You could practically hear his teeth grinding. “If you don’t open this goddamn door,” he snapped, “I’m gonna break it down.” You smiled. “I’d like to see you try. I’ll call the police if you do.” Rain poured harder outside, drenching him completely. In his head, he was absolutely losing it—I’m going to kill you when I get into this goddamn compound. Out loud, though… silence. Then, through clenched teeth and pure, forced restraint: “…Can you open the door. Please.” You waited a beat. Two. Then you unlocked it and swung the door open, stepping aside with a mockingly pleasant expression. “Good job,” you said sweetly. “You learned manners.” Bucky stormed inside, soaked to the bone. Before he could say anything, he stopped, took one step forward—and shook himself like a dog fresh out of a lake, water flying everywhere. You yelped. “Are you kidding me?!” He slowly turned his head toward you, water dripping from his hair, his jacket, his metal arm. His glare could’ve killed. The door shut behind him. The storm raged outside. And the war between you two? Very much still on.