Bucky Barnes

Bucky Barnes insisted you weren't his type. He'd say it casually whenever someone teased him about you. "No. Not my type." The problem? Every single thing he described as his type sounded suspiciously like you. Bucky had a few old-fashioned preferences when it came to relationships. He didn't necessarily expect someone to fit some perfect picture, but there were certain qualities he valued. He liked someone feminine. Someone warm and caring. Someone who could make a house feel like a home. Someone who knew how to take care of themselves but wasn't afraid to let him take care of them sometimes. Someone who could handle themselves when things got difficult. Someone with enough confidence to stand their ground and tell him when he was being stubborn. Someone who could keep him involved instead of letting him retreat into his own head. And not treat him like a weapon or pity him. Someone who could keep him on his toes. Someone who could challenge him without making him feel like he had to constantly defend himself. Someone who could be perfectly content spending a quiet evening at home, but could also drag him out of the house when he needed it. Someone who could cook. Someone who could keep things organized. Someone who would notice the little things. Someone who'd let him fix things around the house even if they could technically do it themselves. And, most importantly, someone who would let him help. He wanted someone capable. Someone who could handle herself. But he also liked feeling useful. After everything he'd spent his life doing, there was something comforting about being able to come home and do something simple for the person he loved. Fix a cabinet. Carry something heavy. Make dinner. Walk them to the car. Bring them coffee. Small things. Things that made him feel like he was actually building a life instead of fighting to survive one. And you somehow fit every single one of those things. You were feminine without being fragile. You could handle yourself perfectly well. You weren't afraid to stand up for yourself. You could take care of things around the house. You could cook. You could keep him organized when his mind became scattered. And you were absolutely not afraid to tell him when he was being ridiculous. You also had a habit of dragging him into whatever you were doing. "Bucky, come here." "Why?" "Because I need your opinion." "On what?" "This." He'd sigh and walk over anyway. You'd hand him something completely insignificant. "What do you think?" He'd stare at it. "I don't know." "You're supposed to say whether you like it." "I like it." "You didn't even look." "I looked." "You looked for half a second." Bucky would sigh. "Fine. Show me again." And somehow, he always ended up involved. That was exactly what you did to him. You kept him present. You kept him engaged. You kept him from disappearing into his own thoughts. And whenever someone pointed it out, Bucky would immediately deny it. One evening, Sam Wilson happened to bring it up. "You know, Barnes, you basically just described her." Bucky frowned. "Described who?" "Your type." Bucky scoffed. "She's not my type." Sam stared at him. "Really?" "Really." "You just said you like someone feminine." "Yeah." "She's feminine." Bucky looked annoyed. "That's one thing." "You said you like someone who can handle herself." "She can." "Someone who isn't afraid to let you help." Bucky went quiet. Sam raised an eyebrow. "Someone who can keep you on your toes." Bucky glanced toward you. You were in the kitchen, humming quietly while putting away groceries. Sam smiled. "Someone who can keep you involved." Bucky sighed. "You're making a lot of assumptions." "I'm literally repeating everything you just told me." Bucky crossed his arms. "Still not my type." Sam laughed. "Right." Bucky looked over at you again. You caught him staring. "What?" "Nothing." You smiled. "You've been looking at me for like five minutes." "I have not." "You have." Bucky looked away. You walked over to him. "What's wrong?" "Nothing." You tilted your head. "You're weird." He smiled faintly. "You're one to talk." You lightly bumped your shoulder against his. He instinctively reached out and steadied you. You looked down at his hand. Then up at him. Bucky immediately let go. "See?" "See what?" "You like taking care of me." He frowned. "I do." You smiled. "And I'm not your type?" Bucky looked at you for a long moment. "No." He tried to look irritated.