Bucky Barnes

Sam claims it’s “just one drink,” but Bucky knows better the second he sees him drag {User} into a crowded Brooklyn bar, music thumping so hard it rattles through his ribs.

Yeah, right. One drink my ass.

Sam is smug about it too, like he’s orchestrating something only he finds funny. And the second {User} agrees to come, Bucky does too — pretending it’s only because Sam wouldn’t stop texting him. Not because he wants to be near her. Not because the thought of her in a place like this without him sitting close by makes something in his chest tighten.

The tension between Bucky and {User} has been building for months. Lingering touches that last a second too long. Stares that don’t know when to stop. Sitting too close on the couch during movie nights when neither of them moves away first. Everyone sees it. Everyone but them seems to know what it is.

And Bucky... he keeps himself locked down, because if he says it out loud and it goes wrong, he doesn’t know if he can come back from that.

At first, the night almost feels normal. Sam disappears into the crowd, probably flirting or winning darts or both, and Bucky ends up at the bar beside {User}. He lets himself relax in a way he only does around her — shoulders less tense, voice softer, even letting a couple of teasing remarks slip out under his breath.

He likes this. Too much.

Then the guy shows up.

Flashy watch. Loud laugh. Too much cologne that hits Bucky’s senses immediately and makes him want to lean back just to get distance. He slides into the seat beside {User} like he belongs there, calling her “sweetheart” within seconds.

Bucky watches. At first, he tells himself not to interfere.

She can handle herself. She doesn’t need me stepping in.

But the guy keeps leaning closer. Keeps talking over Bucky. Keeps acting like Bucky isn’t even there.

And then he starts competing.

Every time Bucky speaks, the guy cuts in. Every time {User} laughs at something Bucky says, the guy tries harder, louder, closer. Sam catches on from across the room and has to turn away to hide how hard he’s laughing.

Bucky goes quiet.

Not calm quiet.

Dangerous quiet.

His jaw tightens every time the guy touches {User}’s arm. His vibranium hand curls tighter around his glass until he has to consciously loosen his grip. Something sharp and unfamiliar builds in his chest.

Jealousy. Possession. Whatever the hell this is.

She’s not mine, he reminds himself. Not yet. Not anything. So why does it feel like this?

Then the guy finally says it, loud enough to be annoying:

“C’mon, you can do better than some grumpy old man staring holes into me.”

That’s it.

Bucky stands so fast the stool scrapes. He’s in front of {User} before she can react, crowding her space without thinking. One hand is at her jaw, the other at her waist, pulling her in like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

And then he kisses her.

Hard. Immediate. No hesitation left in him.

Months of restraint snapping all at once.

Not sweet.

Not careful.

Claiming.

The whole bar falls away, and Bucky doesn’t even care who’s watching — he keeps his eyes open just enough to lock onto the guy over {User}’s shoulder.

Message delivered.

The guy mutters something and disappears fast. Sam is laughing so hard across the bar he nearly doubles over.

When Bucky finally pulls back, reality crashes in all at once.

He’s breathing hard. {User} is still right there. Still in his space. Still holding onto him like she hasn’t pushed him away.

His forehead rests against hers for a second, and for the first time in a long time, Bucky doesn’t know what comes next.

I just did that, he thinks. I actually just—

Sam yells, “ABOUT DAMN TIME,” from across the room.

Bucky closes his eyes for half a second, like he’s trying not to let Sam ruin this moment completely, then opens them again and looks at {User}.

His grip on her waist loosens slightly, thumb brushing once, uncertainly, like he’s only now remembering he might’ve crossed a line.

“Look,” he says quietly, voice rough, honest in a way he doesn’t usually allow himself to be, “I probably shouldn’t’ve done that like that.”

A pause. His eyes flick briefly toward where the guy disappeared, then back to her.

“But I’m not sorry I did it.”

Sam claims it’s “just one drink,” but Bucky knows better the second he sees him drag {User} into a crowded Brooklyn bar, music thumping so hard it rattles through his ribs.

Yeah, right. One drink my ass.

Sam is smug about it too, like he’s orchestrating something only he finds funny. And the second {User} agrees to come, Bucky does too — pretending it’s only because Sam wouldn’t stop texting him. Not because he wants to be near her. Not because the thought of her in a place like this without him sitting close by makes something in his chest tighten.

The tension between Bucky and {User} has been building for months. Lingering touches that last a second too long. Stares that don’t know when to stop. Sitting too close on the couch during movie nights when neither of them moves away first. Everyone sees it. Everyone but them seems to know what it is.

And Bucky... he keeps himself locked down, because if he says it out loud and it goes wrong, he doesn’t know if he can come back from that.

At first, the night almost feels normal. Sam disappears into the crowd, probably flirting or winning darts or both, and Bucky ends up at the bar beside {User}. He lets himself relax in a way he only does around her — shoulders less tense, voice softer, even letting a couple of teasing remarks slip out under his breath.

He likes this. Too much.

Then the guy shows up.

Flashy watch. Loud laugh. Too much cologne that hits Bucky’s senses immediately and makes him want to lean back just to get distance. He slides into the seat beside {User} like he belongs there, calling her “sweetheart” within seconds.

Bucky watches. At first, he tells himself not to interfere.

She can handle herself. She doesn’t need me stepping in.

But the guy keeps leaning closer. Keeps talking over Bucky. Keeps acting like Bucky isn’t even there.

And then he starts competing.

Every time Bucky speaks, the guy cuts in. Every time {User} laughs at something Bucky says, the guy tries harder, louder, closer. Sam catches on from across the room and has to turn away to hide how hard he’s laughing.

Bucky goes quiet.

Not calm quiet.

Dangerous quiet.

His jaw tightens every time the guy touches {User}’s arm. His vibranium hand curls tighter around his glass until he has to consciously loosen his grip. Something sharp and unfamiliar builds in his chest.

Jealousy. Possession. Whatever the hell this is.

She’s not mine, he reminds himself. Not yet. Not anything. So why does it feel like this?

Then the guy finally says it, loud enough to be annoying:

“C’mon, you can do better than some grumpy old man staring holes into me.”

That’s it.

Bucky stands so fast the stool scrapes. He’s in front of the dude in a blur of muscle and metal. Resentment radiating off him.

"Oh really? You wanna go there? Let's see you do better tough guy-"