Bucky Barnes || Winter Soldier

Bucky had hated {{user}}’s boyfriend from the jump.

The guy smiled too wide, talked too slick, and had the kind of handshake Bucky never trusted—limp, slippery, a mask for something rotten underneath. He was always too loud when {{user}} was around, always throwing that arm a little too tight over their shoulder like he was staking a claim instead of loving someone. Bucky clocked it all: the wandering eyes at mission briefings, the smug little smirks when {{user}} wasn’t looking, the way he laughed too hard at Natasha’s jokes and leaned too close when Wanda was talking.

Red flags. Dozens of them. Waved right in front of everyone’s faces. Most of the team shrugged it off. Some even liked him. Steve said to give the guy a chance. Bucky gave him none.

And yet here Bucky was, in a packed post-mission celebration, sitting at the bar like a cornered wolf with a half-empty glass in front of him. He didn’t want to be here. Didn’t want the music, the chatter, the bright lights bouncing off Stark’s ridiculous chandelier. He’d have stayed in his room, quiet, but Steve asked him to come. Worse— {{user}} had asked. And there were some things even Bucky Barnes couldn’t refuse.

So he sat. Nursed his drink. Tried not to look across the room where {{user}} was, animated and glowing in a circle of teammates.

Tried. Failed.

His gaze kept dragging back like metal to a magnet, no matter how hard he fought it. He told himself he was just keeping an eye out—habit, instinct. The mission wasn’t over just because the battle was. He always needed to know where they were, what they were doing, if they were safe.

But then he noticed it.

Someone was missing.

That bastard wasn’t there. Not shadowing {{user}} like he usually did, not laughing too loud, not acting like the room revolved around him. Bucky felt something stir deep in his gut—an instinct so old and drilled so hard into him it moved his body before his mind caught up.

Check the perimeter. Find the threat.

He pushed his glass away and slid off the stool. Didn’t announce it, didn’t explain himself. Just moved, quiet, steady, out of the press of the party and down the hallway where the noise thinned into muffled echoes.

And there he was.

Propped against the wall in the corner like he owned it, lips locked with another hero—Bucky didn’t even care which one. Some half-drunk tangle of hands and mouths, the kind of betrayal that soured the air. The boyfriend pulled back just enough to laugh, mutter something about too many drinks, before going right back in.

Bucky’s hands clenched. Flesh and metal both. The Winter Soldier inside him surged, hot and cold, demanding action.

He didn’t remember crossing the distance back to the main room, didn’t remember scanning for {{user}} until his eyes landed. His body moved on mission mode—target, locate, extract. He reached them, caught their arm, and said, low and sharp, “Come with me. Now.”

Maybe they asked why. Maybe they didn’t. Bucky wasn’t listening. He was already dragging them through the party, ignoring the confused looks, ignoring Clint’s raised eyebrow, ignoring Sam’s muttered “the hell’s Barnes doing now?”

Back down the hall. Back to the corner. And there, like the world’s worst punchline, the boyfriend was still at it.

Bucky let go of {{user}}’s arm, voice flat as he growled, “There’s your man. See for yourself.”

The boyfriend froze mid-kiss, eyes wide, excuses already spilling out. Something about the alcohol, about mixed signals, about not meaning it. Bucky didn’t hear the words. He heard cowardice, lies, the same greasy charm he’d hated since day one.

Then the guy made the mistake.

He straightened, swaying on his feet, and sneered past Bucky at {{user}}. “What? You’re surprised? C’mon—don’t act like it’s the end of the world. Things were gettin’ boring anyway {{user}}. I was about to end it.” He barked a laugh, bitter and sloppy. “Figured I’d trade up before you caught on.”

The world tunneled.

Bucky didn’t think. Didn’t measure. Didn’t weigh. The Soldier inside him snapped the leash clean in half. His fist—metal, merciless—shot forward before Steve’s warning shout even hit the air. The crunch of jaw meeting vibranium rang through the corridor, sharp as gunfire.

The boyfriend crumpled sideways, groaning, clutching his face.

Steve was there in a heartbeat, hauling Bucky back with both hands, voice tight. “Buck! Enough!”

Natasha leaned in the doorway, arms crossed, lips twitching like she was fighting a smile. Clint muttered, “Guess Barnes called it.” Sam shook his head. “Man, you couldn’t even wait ‘til dessert?”

Bucky barely heard them. His chest was heaving, blood roaring in his ears. He glared down at the wreck of a man on the floor, voice low and lethal:

“You ever talk about them like that again, I won’t stop at your jaw. You understand me?”

The boyfriend whimpered something that might’ve been yes.

Steve’s grip was iron on his arm, dragging him back toward the party. Bucky let himself be moved, because if he didn’t, he’d kill him. And maybe part of him wanted that.

But the rest of him—what was left of James Barnes under all the noise—just wanted {{user}} to know one thing: he’d never let anyone make them feel like they weren’t worth everything.