Words: 3.2K

Warnings: Language

You're all bundled up on the big couch downstairs with a bowl of popcorn and the lights dimmed low. You're snuggled in the middle of the sofa with pillows all around and blankets wrapped over your shoulders. It's a cold January night to say the very least. Even with efficient heating you've managed to catch a chill. In FRIDAY's defense though, you most likely caught Jack Frost's bite on your walk home from work rather than in the warmth of her Stark Tower walls.

"Well don't you look cozy," Captain America can be heart chittering. He makes his way into the kitchen which is just behind you.

"I am rather cozy, thank you very much." You take a handful of popcorn before craning your neck back to see him, Sam Wilson, and James Buchanan Barnes waltzing into the common space. The presence of the third man sends your heart into a bit of a frenzy. "What are you three doing down here?"

"Getting food," Sam answers. They're hustling around the fridge now, looking very akin to savage beasts.

An eyebrow cocks up on your forehead. Chewing on some popcorn you suppose, "Don't you all have your own apartments? You know, with your own kitchens?"

"Sure, doll," Bucky responds. "But we don't have your fancy little boxed leftovers in our own kitchens."

"Touché."

Sam takes a dramatic whiff of the air. "Do I smell popcorn?"

"You sure as hell do," you laugh. You hold up the bowl so that the light from the loading Netflix screen illuminates it. "Want some?"

"Of course I do!" Sam launches himself onto the lounge chair across from you. He helps himself to a rather generous handful. He cranes his neck to the TV. "What are we watching?"

"Not sure. I'm still deciding between Armageddon and Step Up. Atlantis was on the table, but I just watched that last week."

"What're they about?" Steve asks. He comes into the room with a box of Raisin Bran cereal. No milk or utensils—just the box and his hand dunked inside of it.

"First one's about an alien attack," Sam answers for you.

Steve chuckles and drops onto the couch next to you. "Sounds extremely familiar. What about the other?"

"A coming of age teen movie about a boy growing up in the projects, kind of a rough and closed-off type, falling in love with a ballet dancing protégé who needs his help to follow her dreams. A modern classic, really. Dewan and Tatum have the best chemistry of all time. And the dynamics between them and the other characters are unparalled by any of the other teen flicks of the time."

Sam raises an eyebrow. "Okay, IMBD. Don't have to get so fancy-schmancy."

"What can I say?" You shrug. "I'm a movie fanatic."

"Okay movie fanatic. I'm in." Steve settles down into the couch. "But you have to share the blankets."

"Aww come on."

He holds out a hand and a twinkle dances in his eyes. "Come on, sport. At least give me one."

You huff, "Sir yes sir."

"Do we have milk,Y/N?" Bucky can be heard hollering—his head deep in the fridge.

"Yep. Check behind the iced tea pitcher, Buck," you call out.You've tossed the remote to Sam so that he can find the movie.

"Found the milk."

Sam grunts. "You better not be drinking it straight from the goddamn carton this time, Barnes. Fucking disgusting is what that is."

You risk glancing behind me into the kitchen. Bucky has the milk jug lifted up to his lips, readying to take a big gulp. You bite down on my tongue to keep from laughing as he rolls his eyes and braves the consequences. Then he brings a finger to his lips, swearing you to silence with a cheeky wink.

Ornery bastard. Dangerously handsome ornery bastard, more like it.

You shake those thoughts away.

"You gonna watch this with us, Buck?"

Bucky comes wandering into the living room with a bowl of grapes. "Sure. I don't have anything better to do."

"Wow. You really do know how to make your friends feel special," you sarcastically quip.

Bucky shrugs once while walking in front of you. "I've never been one for flatteries."

Sam snorts, "Clearly."

Bucky seems to be heading towards one of the chairs. You don't really think twice about patting the spot beside you. It's to your right because Steve's to your left—lounging on the corner with his phone in his face before the movie starts. Sam's on that other chair just beyond.

You're pleasantly surprised when Bucky actually choses to follow the recommendation and sit beside you. You! He sits next to YOU!

Dear lord, he smells even nicer than you remember.

"Found it!" Sam cheers of his own lame success. "God, this is gonna be goooood."

Bucky surprises you yet again when he reaches across his lap and into yours with his human hand for a scooping of popcorn. With your wide eyed reaction he says, "Mind if I share?"

"Not at all. As long as I get some of that," your point to his lap then curse yourself.

The fucking grape bowl has been moved to the coffee table.

"Oh fuck, I meant the grapes." You're blushing, you can tell. He's snickering now. "I meant the grapes, actually. Not—not that," you gesture to the space between his legs again. Your eyes can't seem to avert from the soft bulge in his sweatpants. You look to the ceiling for a moment. God bring you strength. "I should just stop while I'm ahead."

"Oh sweetheart you're way past that," Bucky chuckles. He doesn't seem thrown off by your stupid blabbering in any way. In fact, he looks a bit tickled.

"Shut up you two. The movie's starting. And put away your phone, Rogers!"

It's only thirty minutes into the film that Sam falls asleep. He's snoring like a goddamn tow truck on the other side of Steve. Fifteen minutes go by after that and Bucky's out cold, too. Then a few minutes more pass and Steve's phone is ringing. He says it's something about a mission and he can't let it go to voicemail, so he runs into the hall and then up the elevator to take the call in private.

So then it's just you and two sleeping superheroes.

You do a pretty good job at ignoring them for a while. Well, Sam's hard to ignore because of the snoring. But Bucky? Goddamn, he's hard to ignore because—well, because fucking everything. His beautiful brown hair, his gorgeous cheekbones, that lovely soft skin that's been revealed on his face since he last shaved, the toned torso through the thin cotton shirt, the peachy pink pout, the turned cheek against the pillow, and his metal arm that lingers so, so close to you.

The arm; it's, it's bloody gorgeous. You don't quite know how else to describe it. It fits him well. You can't imagine him without it. It's a work of art, but then again so is he.

You've never touched it before. He's very secretive about it, really. He's graced your skin with the cold metal touch only once or twice before. You'd say it'd been on accident but you have a strong inkling that there are no such things as accidents in Barnes' life. No, he'd been very careful those times before. They'd been necessary times. They've been instances where he's initiated it. He never lets you get too close. Or is it his closeness to you that he's worried about?

You're biting your bottom lip. Something terribly stupid has just popped into your head. But now that the idea is there, it's surely going to be impossible to remove.

You're going to touch Bucky Barnes' arm.

You glance behind to the doorway. Steve's still not back, that's good. You don't even have to look at Sam to know he's sleeping. His goddamn snoring could wake an entire fleet of deaf dead men. Now it's just you and sleeping Bucky. His eyelids flutter peacefully with, what you assume are, sweet dreams.

Triple checking to make sure the coast is clear, you scoot slightly closer to your target. He doesn't budge. He's still propped up beside you on the sofa with his head on the back rest and his legs kicked up on the table. The bowl of grapes has been accidently knocked to the floor.

Your hand reaches out for him. Closer... closer...

You stop—fingertips dancing in the air just before connecting.

Is this rude? Are you being impolite? What about creepy? Okay, perhaps you're a creep. But what he doesn't know won't hurt him, right? And if he can't feel it, how's he ever supposed to find out?

So you do it. You touch that fucking beautiful arm.

Your finger graces his wrist first. You're gentle as a summer tide when your skin connects with the metal. It's colder than you thought it would be. You wonder if it makes him cold and if that's why he's always scowling all the time.

You trace some of the lines up from his wrist to his elbow. You can't help but lean closer and admire the light from the TV and how it reflects in bold blues and reds in the silver of his bionic limb. Your touch climbs gracefully up to his bicep where you trace the outline of the red star.

Yes, you're a dirty creep. But you don't even care, dammit.

"Having fun, doll?"

You gasp—pushing backwards and throwing your hands under your ass to sit on them. Your eyes are wide as they take in the sight of Bucky's quietly smirking face.

"Uh, uh..." you panic. You think you're sweating. God, what a freak! "Yes," you splutter. Your head shakes and you resist the urge to smack yourself. "No—I mean, no. Wait! I mean yes. I was—no, that's—I'm sorry. I'm so sorry that was weird and rude and totally crazy for me to do and I shouldn't have done it, and it won't happen again—"

Your rambling's cut short by a long finger to your lips. You keep your mouth pursed slightly ajar while your widened eyes take in the sight of Bucky's dark metal finger just beneath your nose.

"Calm down," Bucky's voice drawls. He sounds tired but amused. An eyebrow rises on his face. "Are you gonna be calm?" You nod and then he's lowering back into his seat with a sigh. "I'm not mad or anything. I was just giving you a hard time."

"A hard... right. A hard time. Right," you repeat quite nervously. "But I am sorry."

"It's okay," Bucky replies. He looks to the TV briefly before glancing back. "It's not a big deal."

You still feel the need to explain. It'll be awkward if you don't. "It's just that you're so secretive about it and I'm just a naturally curious person. And I thought you were sleeping and that I could just—well, I can imagine you know what I was thinking actually."

Bucky smiles. It's not mocking; you notice and are surprised by this. "Actually, I don't really know what you're thinking."

"You—you don't?"

Bucky blinks; face not showing any emotions. "You seem surprised by that."

"Well, I am," you admit. "I'm a very easily read person and you seem like the kind of guy that knows a lot."

Bucky takes a moment to reply. He seems to be thinking. Then he says, "I guess those are both true." He shuffles, seeming uncomfortable now. "I guess what I can't figure out it why you've got such a fascination with it." He stops mid-gesture to his arm then swallows. "With me, too."

Your mouth is suddenly dry. He's looking for you to explain.

Speak, Y/N! What are you, mute?!

"I think it's beautiful." You draw your eyes to his arm. "I've thought that for a long time now. It's a piece of art, if you ask me. It's unique. I like unique. And it's a bit rough and tough, but those are good things. It might be a little dangerous but it doesn't mean any harm." You stop to smile at him sweetly, hoping that with your words the uneasy expression on his face will soon ebb away. "All of those things are a lot like you, actually. I guess that's why I'm so drawn to it."

Bucky stares down to his arm. You can see the knot in his throat falling. His fist clenches, sitting rigid on his thick upper thigh. Then he's looking back to you with the weight of the world in his stare. He doesn't say anything yet; but his actions speak much louder.

He holds his metal hand out to you.

You're smiling like a schoolgirl when you scoot closer. You look into his face, seeking permission, and he gives a soft nod. Then you're grabbing his hand with yours and grinning at the way your fingers knot together. It's unmistakable how the metal warms drastically with the addition of your heated flesh.

"I like it," you can't keep yourself from humming.

"You're not afraid?"

Your eyes peek up past your knotted eyelashes. You see Bucky watching closely—jaw screwed tight and nose pointed down towards you.

"Of your arm? Of course not," you respond. You look back to the pretty thing and smile again when he lets you pull your entwined hands into your lap so that you can better see the grooves and gears.

"Of me."

You're slightly confused by his statement when your ears first take it in. But then you're gaping stupidly at his expression and realizing that he's asking if you're afraid of him.

Are you afraid of Bucky Barnes?

He must take your slow response as a bad thing. The next thing that happens is that he's dropped his head and looking to the floor. The light from the television illuminates the hard swallow he takes. He still doesn't move his hand from yours though. But his grip has grown weak.

"No, I'm not."

Bucky's eyes dart in your direction. He waits silently for you to go on.

"I'm not scared of you," you speak quietly—wondering if he can even hear over the movie's music and Sam's snoring. But he blinks hurriedly and the scowl on his face fades so you can assume he has. "And I'm a wretched liar, James. You'd know if I was." You chuckle lamely.

"But why?"

You're confused as to his series of soft-spoken questions, but you suppose you have nothing to lose in telling him the truth.

You shuffle around. You haven't let go of his hand yet, but you don't want to. "I don't really know how to explain it," you begin. Momentarily you wonder if Bucky's forgotten about his hand in yours, but then his steel blue stare is locked onto the place where your soft fingers are touching his cold metal ones. You haven't even realized it but you've begun to trace patterns against his wrist with your thumb. He seems intrigued by this.

"Please try," Bucky nearly begs. He sounds so... weak. You would've never thought that this big, burly, brutish man could have a voice so pleading and confused. Maybe it's because he won't believe you until you give him the truth. But why he cares so much? You're not entirely sure.

"Okay." You clear your throat. It's grown rather dry. "I guess it's because I've known you for a little while now, and ever since we've met I've felt a sort of deeper trust with you." You pause to smile softly, grateful when he copies the gesture with one side of his mouth. "I don't know how else to explain it besides intuition or maybe fate. But I trust you." He doesn't respond; he's watching you closely. "I trust you a lot, Bucky, and I'm certainly not afraid of you. I have lots of strong feelings towards you, but fear is not one of them."

Bucky's brilliant blue eyes regard you. The dedication and focus in his stare is startling. He's nearly unreadable. You hate that you can't piece together his thoughts from the stoic expressions he wears. But now it's easy to tell that he's trying to figure out what the hell you're talking about.

"Y/N, what—"

You choose to interrupt him instead of facing the questions that are surely to come. "I'm getting pretty tired. I think I'm going to head up." You stand up from the couch—letting his hand fall. He stands beside you.

Bucky's long haired head is shaking softly. "Wait, Y/N."

You wrap a blanket around your shoulders and in front of your chest like a cloak. "You might not be tired, Super Soldier, but us regular folks need the sleep." You smile softly and point back to Wilson.

You try to step around Bucky to head for the exit. But his hand, the metal one, has reached out to stop you. He holds you gently by the forearm. Your feet are cemented in place just to the side of him. "Hold on. I—I have something I wanna say." He sounds strict but not mean.

You blink. "Oh okay. What—what is it?" You sway from one foot to the other.

Bucky bites down on the inside of his fleshy cheek. His gaze ravages over your face—from your eyes to my lips then over each of your freckles. The length of his silence is murderous. Then eventually he lets out a jagged breath—the hotness fanning your cheeks. "Never mind. It's not important."

You can't help but to feel a bit confused and disappointed. "Okay. I guess I'll just..." You gesture to the door.

"Right," Bucky clears his throat. He lets go of you suddenly then lets you move around his large form. "Sorry."

You smile. "No worries. Sorry about, you know, violating your personal space and being a weirdo."

Bucky's lips quirk up in a smirk. "It's okay, sugar. You can violate my personal space any time." His smile drops for a second as he thinks over the implications of what he's just said. You're grinning broadly at the way he flushes slightly pinker now.

You shake my head with a soft chuckle.

A hand runs through his hair as he tugs at it a bit. "What I mean is; you don't have to tip-toe around me or anything. I won't get mad if you're curious."

"Good, because I'm sure I'll do something weird and unpredictable again soon."

Bucky's taking his turn at a little laughter now. His eyes are so pretty and blue. "I'll be looking forward to it."

Your bare foot scoffs slightly against the carpet. "Well," you clear your throat—feeling how your cheeks are warm now with the words he speaks and the weight of his quiet, introspective stare. "I guess I should go up to bed now." You pull your blanket tighter. "Goodnight, Bucky."

"'Night, Y/N." He doesn't say anything more than that—choosing only to nod and stuff his hands into his pockets. You take this as your cue to leave. The tail of your blanket cape runs across the floor behind you as your bare feet patter away. Down the hall you let out a deep sigh and force yourself not to glance back at the man over your shoulder: never knowing if he cares enough to watch you leave.