Bucky Barnes

Living with Bucky Barnes had its benefits. Rent was cheaper. Bills were easier to split. And after everything the two of you had been through, sharing a house just made sense. There was only one downside. Bucky was incredibly particular about certain things. His clothes. His food. His side of the couch. And, apparently, the color red. You had discovered this very important piece of information shortly after becoming roommates. Bucky didn't just dislike red. He hated red. It didn't matter what shade it was. Bright red, dark red, burgundy—it was all the same to him. Red was red. Which was exactly why, for his birthday, you had bought him a red bathrobe as a gag gift. He had stared at the box. Then at the robe. Then at you. "You bought me a robe." You smiled proudly. "I did." "It's red." "I know." Bucky narrowed his eyes. "You know I hate red." "That's what makes it funny." "It isn't funny." You had laughed anyway. Bucky had reluctantly kept the robe, mostly because throwing away a gift seemed unnecessarily rude. He had never actually worn it. Until that morning. You were in the kitchen, half awake and making yourself a much-needed coffee when you heard footsteps behind you. You didn't turn around at first. You were too focused on the coffee machine. Then you heard Bucky's voice. "Don't say anything." You froze. Slowly, you turned around. And there he stood. Bucky had just gotten out of the shower, his hair still damp, and he was wearing the one thing you had never expected to actually see him wear. The robe. The red robe. You stared at him. He stared right back. His expression was completely serious. "Don't." You pressed your lips together. You were trying. You really were. Bucky crossed his arms, pulling the robe tighter around himself. "All my clothes are in the washing machine." That did not help. You looked down at the robe. Then back up at him. "What happened to the towels?" "They're dirty." You blinked. "All of them?" "Apparently." You tried not to smile. Failed. Bucky pointed at you. "I swear to God." You immediately covered your mouth. But your shoulders were shaking. "You look—" "Don't." "—amazing." Bucky's eyes narrowed. "You're enjoying this." "A little." "A little?" You looked at him again. The robe wasn't even ugly. That was the funniest part. It was actually a perfectly nice shade of red. Soft, expensive-looking, and comfortable. But according to Bucky? Red was red. And he hated it. He looked absolutely miserable. You finally took your coffee and leaned against the counter. "So this is really the worst-case scenario for you, huh?" Bucky glared. "I had to wear this." "You got to wear it." "I would rather wear a bedsheet." You raised an eyebrow. "That's dramatic." "I have fought in a war." "And yet this is what breaks you?" Bucky looked down at himself. "Don't make fun of me." You took a sip of your coffee. "I'm not making fun of you." He gave you a look. You smiled. "Okay. Maybe a little." Bucky sighed and walked toward the refrigerator. The bright red robe followed behind him like a personal insult. You watched him open the fridge. Then you noticed something. He was still soaking wet around the edges of his hair. You tilted your head. "You're going to get the robe wet." Bucky looked at you. "It's already ruined." You laughed. "It's not ruined!" "It was ruined the second you gave it to me." You gasped dramatically. "That was a birthday gift." "It was psychological warfare." You couldn't help laughing again. Bucky grabbed something from the fridge and shut the door. Then he stopped. Looked at you. And raised an eyebrow. "Are you done?" You smiled sweetly. "No." He sighed. And rolled his eyes.