Chapter Text
Chapter One
What’s Your Name
You hadn’t meant to say it.
You really, truly, hadn’t meant to say it.
It is, you know, impossible to reverse time, despite Stark’s best efforts to do so. Impossible to hit undo or rewind or any other finicky button on the dashboard of life and take back the stupid or moronic things people are wont to do throughout their lives. You’d tried a number of different ways over the years to achieve just that - hoping, wishing, dreaming, praying to a multitude of gods (one of them had to be listening, you just hadn’t found which one yet) - until finally achieving Mature Adult Status TM and consequently affecting the following: fucking up was a totally bullshit part of being a human.
But the gravity of your recent error, the implications your four little words would have on various existences moving forward - well. Let’s just say the minute you got back to your room in Stark Tower, you were going to pray to as many gods as you could. And maybe never leave said apartment again. No one would even notice you were gone, right?
…Right?
He’d just been so bossy. Who did he think he was, anyway? Just because he was Steve’s BFF and now apparently Sam’s BFF and Natasha’s let’s-bitch-about-people-in-Russian-buddy and Tony’s new little science project (‘I bet we could get that arm firing lasers in no time’) did not give him the right to be so - bossy. He’d been on the Avengers for what - five minutes? And already he was dick-swinging, settling his big ol’ egotistical self into the group of people who you had tentatively started to think of as a family. A family - a career, a life, a home - that you’d strived your entire life to find.
And then, Bucky Barnes comes along with his stupid blue eyes and his stupid broad shoulders and his stupid crooked smile, and ruined it.
OK, maybe not ruined it. Petulant toddler, much? But he’d definitely put a pin in your balloon. No longer are you buddied with Sam or Natasha on missions; you’d lost that privilege, because there was a new recruit who needed training. Which was fine. You were happy to show him the superhero ropes, because everyone has to start somewhere, right? And wouldn’t the other most recent new recruit be the best person to train said newest recruit in the ways of - new recruit-ness?
And that - that - was why you hated the man. Not because he had turned up at the Tower looking like a lost puppy who needed a home.
No, you hated him because, even though you were babysitter and he was babysittee, he had clearly decided to ignore that memo and shove it in the shredder without a second thought. Hence the bossiness.
And that man was so fucking bossy.
So, in conclusion, you hadn’t meant to say it. But really, when you boiled everything down - it was Bucky’s fucking fault in the first place.
*****
It had happened an hour or so ago, when you were out on mission, just the two of you, headsets switched off - thank you God / Zeus / Ra / whoever the fuck was in charge up there for small mercies.
The plan had gone to shit: comms with the rest of the team were down, and you and Bucky were having to navigate escaping from a Hydra base you’d infiltrated on your own. With no map. And fucking sirens going off right, left and centre, alerting everyone within a five mile radius that there were people in the building who definitely should not be there. And harsh German commands being issued over the corridor speakers, orders which you assumed loosely translated to: ‘Get your supervillain bad guy butt over to floor 6, corridor B, because there are two goody-goodies over there tryna fuck up our shit.’
Had you mentioned it had gone to shit? Oh, it had. Big style.
‘Turn right at the end.’
He’d said it so effortlessly, so smoothly, despite the fact that the two of you were pelting down the cold metallic corridor, red lights flashing aggressively overhead. He hadn’t even broken a sweat, had barely even adjusted his breathing to accommodate the long sprints he was taking (one for each of your two). You, on the other hand, could already feel the baby hairs sticking to your forehead, could feel the burn creeping in around your lungs. Stupid fucking super soldiers.
‘We’re turning left.’
He’d barely glanced at you. ‘The blueprints in mission brief definitely said right.’
‘Yeah,’ you’d panted. No way were you about to fall behind this six foot stupid four man. No. Way. ‘If you’re coming from the other direction.’
He threw you a look that - even from the corner of your eye - read clearly as please shut the fuck up. ‘No,’ he’d said firmly. ‘It’s right.’
‘No,’ you’d said, equally as firmly, ‘it’s left.’
The junction was looming up ahead, and you were no closer to deciding which way to go. You didn’t need to look at Bucky’s face to know the exact expression on his face: stubbled jaw clenched, baby blues bright with annoyance, and his way-too-full-for-a-guy’s lips pressed in a hard line.
‘Why,’ he’d muttered irritably, ‘do you always have to disagree with me?’
‘Why,’ you’d said back in a voice that had definitely not sounded like a whiny toddler’s, ‘do you always have to disagree with me?’
‘Oh my fucking - Christ.’ This time, you had glanced his way, and you had felt pretty smug at the pink points of irritation blooming on the high points of Bucky’s cheekbones. ‘Every single mission - you tell me I’m wrong about something.’
‘Usually,’ you’d murmured primly, ‘because you are.’
‘You don’t have to make it into a fucking sport.’ His breathing was getting uneven, his paced inhales punctuated with the odd cross pant, which also thrilled a vengeful part of you.
‘Oh,’ you’d sniped back, ‘like you don’t go out of your way to point out when I’m wrong.’
‘Because you -‘
The sound of gunfire cut off Bucky’s trial of thought, remote and several closed doors back, but it was enough to make the pair of you stumble as you both glanced back behind you.
‘Maybe,’ Bucky had snipped, ‘we wouldn’t be in this situation if someone hadn’t set off the alarm.’
Your head had swivelled in Bucky’s direction so fast, you were surprised it didn’t crick. ‘I didn’t set off the alarm.’
‘Sure you didn’t.’ A sardonic look was thrown your way, the effect softened only by the slightly-sweaty bangs starting to fall into his narrowed eyes. ‘When you crossed that threshold without checking for traps.’
Asshole. ‘I did check for traps,’ you’d seethed. You sincerely hoped the two of you stopped running down this never-ending corridor soon, because talking and racing at the same time was not a skill you excelled at.
A breathy chuckle from Bucky. ‘That what they teach you in Avengers school these days, agent? To blame others for your mistakes?’
‘I -‘ What the actual fuck? ‘The alarms went off,’ you’d bitten back, ‘because you set them off. Because you punched the wrong security code into that keypad -‘
Before you had time to finish out a response, Bucky was no longer by your side. You scrabbled to an awkward and uncoordinated stop. Apparently, you’d reached the junction without you even noticing, and Bucky was already jogging swiftly down the right-hand passageway. You had stared after him, dumbfounded. He hadn’t even stopped to check you were following him.
‘Bucky,’ you hissed. Why were you keeping your voice down? Every fucker knew you were there anyway. ‘It’s left.’
Bucky had come to an abrupt halt about ten feet away before spinning on his heel to face you. At six foot four - had you mentioned that before? - and equally as wide as he was tall, Bucky filled the passageway in an almost imposing manner, a broad-shouldered, dark-haired, towering specimen who wouldn’t look out of place in some BookTok romance novel. He shoved his left hand through said locks - locks that straddled that line between ‘short hair’ and ‘long’ in a undeniably rugged way - and pushed them roughly out of his face, before running the same hand across the hard line of his jaw. The silver metal of his arm caught the fluorescents glaring down from the ceiling, glinting almost prettily in the sharp bright light.
So, OK. Bucky Barnes was objectively hot. Was it a crime you had noticed? You were still human, after all.
What was a crime was such an asshole being so hot.
‘Girlie,’ he said lowly. ‘We’re going right.’
‘Because you’re always right, huh?’
‘Because it’s the right - fucking - way.’ Gunshots again, closer than before, although still safely out of sight. ‘Either you come this way, or I’m fucking off without you.’
His tone had left no room for argument, stern, authoritative. Sergeant. It ignited something hot deep in your belly, and you stood for a moment, staring him down, letting the heat lick its way up your spine and along your limbs. His unwavering gaze had been hard. Icy Unflinching. A challenge. A dare. Go on, go left. Fucking do it.
Who did he think he was?
Someone needed to take him down a peg or two. Subvert his expectations. Prove him wrong. You needed to go right, just so you could wind up at the dead end you knew was there, and he could see with unwavering clarity how wrong he was.
Yes. That’s what you needed to do.
And that was when you had fucked up.
You sauntered down the corridor after him at a leisurely pace, stopping right in front of him, craning your neck back to look up into his face. His mouth - his stupid, stupid goddamn mouth - started to quirk at the corners in the beginnings of a smug grin that you wanted to wipe clean off his face more than anything else in the entire world.
There was no brain engagement. No activating of neural pathways. No checking with your brain whether these words were the best thing to say, given the circumstances.
Instead, those four little words that will haunt you to the end of your days came tumbling out of your mouth.
‘Whatever you say, daddy.’
Without even waiting to see the expression on his stupidly handsome asshole face, you breezed past him and started racing down the corridor.
As it turned out, Bucky was correct: it was the right corridor that led to your escape route.
Fuck your life.
*****
That was an hour ago, and now you’re on the Quinjet wishing Hydra had just shot your ass and put you out of your misery.
Daddy. Daddy. Out of all the name to call him, why use one that was so - sexually charged? Just the memory of sneering your smarmy little comeback at him - whatever you say, daddy - made your cheeks - hell, your entire body - feel very, very hot. God, you were such a fucking idiot. You hadn’t even registered the look on his face before you were already bolting away, and in a way you’re glad you didn’t: in the space of ten seconds, you had successfully managed to serve him all the material he needed to one-up you for the rest of your lives and beyond. You’d never hear the end of it. And then he’d tell Steve, and Sam, and Natasha, his friends, and you’d never hear the end of it from them, either. Was it too late to relocate to Uzbekistan and start a whole new existence? Did Uzbekistan need a new superhero with no actual superpowers, just the ability to run kind of fast (ish) and punch kind of hard (ish) and say the absolutely worst thing at the worst time?
Whatever you say, daddy.
You bite your lip to stifle a groan and continue to ignore the dark, hulking figure strapped into the Quinjet seat beside you (because ignoring your problems is statistically proven to make them go away in 99% of scenarios. You were pretty sure, anyway). You haven’t looked at him once since Steve and Sam had scooped you up from the previously agreed rendezvous point and saved your asses from the wrath of zealous Hydra minions. Even the thought of looking at him is enough to make you feel so hot there is an actual, legitimate risk you could burst into flames. Having Bucky sitting there - whatever you say, daddy - makes everything feel uncomfortably close, like your tactical suits is a size too small, like the straps to your seat are strung too tight. Not for the first time this trip, you wriggle in your seat, desperate to give this emotion some form of out - not exactly an easy task when you’re shooting along at a couple of hundred miles per hour in a super-secret jet. It’s no good: you still feel like you’re a freaking hothouse, building to implosion point. You shift again, the zipper along the front of your body pressing snuggly against your -
‘Please,’ you hear someone murmur, almost imperceptibly, ‘stop squirming.’
You freeze. Tilt your head as far as you dare in Bucky’s direction, until you realise he’s not even looking at you: he’s sitting with his head tipped back, eyes closed, his face a picture of perfect serenity. Little lines and nicks mark his skin - some from today, some healing from other recent missions - and you notice a scar along the side of his jaw, a slight dip in the skin where a chunk has been cut, closed and healed over once more. Pre-super soldier days? Or after? You feel an inexplicable urge to run your tongue along it, to taste the salt that’s gathered there.
Wait. Did you just think about licking Bucky Barnes’ jaw?
You feel yourself flush, a tidal wave of crimson on your cheeks. Your eyes flick up to Bucky’s; they’re still peacefully shut, his obscenely long lashes resting lightly against his cheeks. It can’t have been Bucky who said those three words. Those words sounded - tight. Almost… strained. Edged with something you were unable - or unwilling? - to name.
Bucky looks anything but strained. His face is a picture of calm, muscles relaxed, the delicate skin around his still-closed eyes smooth and wrinkle-free, wisps of dark hair falling rebelliously across his forehead. Your brain takes the opportunity to indulge in some light fantasy work, transposing the scene in front of you to a king sized bed and fluffy pillows situation. Was this how Bucky slept? Your gaze follows the course of his jaw once more, then dips further, down his neck to the snug line of his tactical suit, his broad shoulders neatly filling out the dark material in a way that could only be described as very satisfying. Your brain hums thoughtfully and adjusts the daydream ever-so slightly, placing a duvet across the man, but leaving a bare metal shoulder peeking out from above the quilt. Because Bucky Barnes, your brain reasons sagely, definitely slept naked.
Whoa. Whoa whoa whoa. Jaw fantasising was one thing; this was a whole other ball park you had no idea you even knew the existence of.
What the fuck even was that?
Feeling hot - again - you glance down at his hands - his stupidly massive, ginormous hands. Bucky hadn’t said those words. Bucky, quite clearly, was one of those lucky fuckers who could fall asleep on flights and was now happily away in the land of nod.
But if Bucky hadn’t said those words… who had? Because somehow, you doubted Sam and Steve - cosy up in the front of the cockpit, squabbling over the merits of autopilot - had any idea you were currently cursed with a severe case of the wiggles.
You shake your head, trying to dislodge any remnants of your sleeping Bucky fantasy, and focus on his hands once more, one metal, one flesh. It’s then that you notice they’re not merely resting on the armrests; they’re gripping the armrests, fingers digging into the pleather, turning the knuckles on his right hand white.
Which was… weird.
Thankfully, Sam saves you from muddling through this conflicting image any further, choosing that moment to announce that you’re less than ten minutes from home, and to store all lap trays and electronics for landing (‘The air hostess routine was funny the first six times, Sam’ - ‘Hey, screw you, Rogers, Frosty hasn’t seen it yet’).
You bolt out the door the minute the Quinjet’s landed, because avoidance of Bucky ‘Daddy’ Barnes is obviously the best and most sustainable way to manage the entire situation.
*****
Mission debrief always drags, but this one seems to take a lifetime, with Steve wanting detailed accounts of every corridor you wandered down, every room you peeped round the corner of. You and Bucky sit side-by-side, adding notes to the blueprints before you, Sam and Steve peering over shoulders and pointing to areas they want further clarity on. This close, you can feel the gentle body heat emanating from Bucky, which perversely seems to chill you instead of warm you, judging from the frequent shivers that tickle their way down your spine. Can smell him, too, a subtle tang of masculine sweat intertwined with the scent of cinnamon and pine, a combination that makes your brain feel foggy. Sometimes can even feel him: when your shoulders brush, or at one point when he covers your hand with his ridiculously large one, gently working the pencil from your fingers.
It’s a lot, Bucky’s quiet assault on all of your senses, and you spend the entire meeting resolutely not looking in his direction, because making eye contact with the man you called daddy just that afternoon might cause you to die on the spot.
Finally, Steve lets you go, and you’re out of the shiny glass walls and hard-backed swivel chairs of the debrief room before the words are even officially out of his mouth.
You chew on your bottom lip as you wait for the lift to turn up, tapping your right foot in a rhythm that would make a pro tap dancer rethink their life choices. The numbers tick by agonisingly slow, but Tony doesn’t believe in stairs (‘You know they’re needed for fire evacuation, right, Stark?’ - ‘Rogers, what makes you think I don’t have some other evacuation procedures in place?’), so unless you feel like flinging yourself from the 66th floor of Stark Towers (not a bad shout, given the circumstances), there’s no alternative but to wait and hope desperately that Bucky’s hung back to chat to his BFFs. He’s probably telling them all about your faux pas right now. Hey, guess what girlie did earlier. She called me daddy. I know, right. Never letting her live that one down!
Bucky, your brain interjects with a mental pout, does not talk like that.
Oh, you think back stubbornly, shut up.
Well, if you’re going to have a maladaptive fantasy, at least make it realistic -
‘Girlie.’
Like that!
Wait. You didn’t think that. That was - external.
‘Girlie - wait.’
You swing around. Bucky’s at the other end of the corridor, half in and half out of the doorway to the debrief room, his ridiculously oversized, hulking body occupying most of the doorframe. He casts a look in your direction, and there’s a franticness about his expression you can see even from twenty or so feet away.
‘Yeah - yeah, Steve, I’ll get on that. Yeah, I know the mission report’s important. We got back like five minutes ago. Yeah, I’ll get her on it, too.’
God / Zeus / Ra bless Steve and his hard-on for post-mission paperwork. You glance at the numbers ticking by on the panel above your head. Ten floors away. Note to self: complain to Pepper about how fucking slow Stark’s lifts are.
‘Yeah I - look -‘ A glance back at Bucky, just in time to see him jerk his metal hand through his hair and shove it roughly off his face. ‘Can I get this done later? Yeah - yeah. Great. Thanks, Steve. Girlie -‘
Ohhh fuck. He’s through the doorframe now and following you down the corridor, long strides that are covering way too much ground in way too little time. The elevator door opens, and you scurry inside, jamming the button for your floor and hitting the one to close the doors.
‘Girlie,’ Bucky calls again, alarmingly close now, his stupid broad body being carried by his stupid long legs and his stupid thick thighs in record time. There’s an undertone to his voice you can’t quite place. Not quite panic, but not not panic. Urgency? Someone buy you a thesaurus. ‘Wait a second -‘
You hit the button again, and the door closes with surprising promptness on Bucky’s aghast face, before starting the descent to your apartment level.
Slumping against the cool metal of the elevator wall, you breathe a sigh of relief. Bullet successfully dodged. Now all you had to do was continue dodging said bullet for the rest of time.
Or until you relocated to Uzbekistan.
Problem. Solved.
*****
You hide in your room all evening, feigning exhaustion when Steve messages you about team dinner (since that stupid management and leadership course four months ago, Steve had been very big on team dinners), providing Natasha with the same excuse when she texted checking in on you (you are nothing if not a consistent liar). Because you are a fully functioning adult with a fully functioning ability to process your own shame and self-loathing (not), you opt instead to do what you normally do in times of mental health crisis: migrate your bed to your sofa, curl up in copious amounts of cushions and blankets, and rewatch The Lion King 2, which may objectively be the best movie of all time. In your humble opinion, anyway.
Your phone pings again; your gut contracts into a tight, anxious knot. The team would have had dinner by now. Who would Bucky have told first? Would he have done it one by one? Or sat at the end of the table and regaled your tale of woe over dessert? Probably the former: Bucky wasn’t really the regaling type. Pensive and stoic in a Moody Boy Way that definitely scores high with Tumblr Girls and Romantasy Lovers alike, Bucky treats words, smiles, and general social interactions like he had a finite amount he’s allocated each day. Every sentence feels thought out, each word carefully selected to fulfil a very specific meaning; you therefore doubt that Bucky would waste all those previous consonants and vowels on a throwaway story sesh. No, Bucky would tell them one-by-one, and one-by-one, they would message you their gentle commiserations (Steve), half-hearted reassurances (Natasha), and declarations this event would never, ever be forgotten (Sam). Groaning to yourself, you pull out your phone and wonder who has messaged you first.
It’s not Steve. Or Natasha. Or Sam.
BB: I really think we need to talk.
You drop your phone into your lap like it’s caught fire. Couldn’t this man appreciate that you wanted to spend the last few hours you’d get free from public humiliation without him, the root cause of said humiliation?
It’s fine. It’s totally fine. Just clear the notification, then turn your phone off until morning (or forever?). It’s not like anyone is going to be desperate to reach you. And if they were, they could just come to your door to laugh in your face instead of sending multiple emojis. Wait - better idea. Go get new phone, obtain new number, then give this number to everyone apart from Bucky, who could communicate via smoke signals or something instead, so that he could never reach you again. The perfect counterpart to the avoid-Bucky-Barnes-forever plan.
Another buzz. On reflex (damn you modern technology, corrupting us all), you check your phone.
BB: I know you haven’t opened my message and are just clearing the notification and leaving it unread.
Wait. How the fuck did he know? You glance around your room, half-expecting him to jump out from behind the curtains. He didn’t.
Another buzz.
BB: not because I’m spying on you. Because Sam told me that’s a thing. And it means something. It doesn’t mean you’ve left me on read. That’s something else.
Ah. Right. Of course: Bucky Barnes was a world-class technophobe, and without Sam’s weekly lessons, would probably still be writing using chalk and slate.
Please, buzzing, desist.
BB: anyway.
BB: we should talk.
Maybe… you should talk. After all, you were going to have to see him tomorrow. And the next day. And the day after that. And you were going to have to go out on missions with him, surveillance, assassinations, not to mention sit in relative close proximity to him while Steve dished out his surprisingly good beef casserole on team-building nights, plus -
Whatever you say, daddy.
And suddenly, the avoidance tactic definitely seems like the best stance to take.
*****
You turn your phone off and don’t switch it back on again until morning, relying on a crummy old digital clock you dig out from the depths of your wardrobe which you vaguely remember getting in high school and weren’t even aware you still owed. The lack of phone makes you feel enlightened. Like one of those Insta gurus who make reels of how to reduce your screen time and all the benefits it has to your sleep hygiene and gut health. It definitely did not make you feel insanely anxious that Bucky was simply going to knock on your door in the middle of the night to rehash the single most embarrassing incident of your entire life. Not at all.
When you do turn it on again (the instant you wake up; hey, those Insta gurus aren’t fooling anyone), you wait for one minute, two minutes, five whole minutes for any further messages to appear from Bucky - but none appear.
Well, that annoying little pick-me-voice in the back of your head says primly. He obviously didn’t want to talk that badly.
Don’t worry, another voice in your subconscious helpfully chimes in. We’re seeing him at mission brief in an hour, so maybe he’ll talk to us then!
Oh, a third one groans (how many of the fuckers are there living in your head?), goodie.
You’re the second to last one to arrive at mission brief, slipping into a chair between Sam and Natasha. Your tardiness is not unusual: the trip from your floor to the briefing room always seems to take a good six minutes longer than you remember it being, and numerical fact seems incapable of finding any place to stick in the chaos otherwise called ‘your brain’. You snatch up a croissant (‘hear me out guys: team-building breakfasts’) and pour yourself a glass of OJ, mumbling polite good mornings to your fellow superheroes. Natasha gives you a nudge as you lift said glass to your mouth, causing some of the neon orange fluid to spill down your chin. Classy.
‘You ok?’ she asks, raising a perfectly groomed eyebrow at you.
‘Of course,’ you say brightly, trying not to look too obvious as you scan the room for He Who Shall Not Be Named and whether you would successfully be able to repeat yesterday’s lift incident. ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’
‘Because you seem really… tense. Like Steve is about to announce a team-building day and we all need to run a section on how to improve interpersonal working relationships.’
The look Steve throws you is indication of just how not-keeping-her-voice-down Natasha is being.
‘Oh, well.’ You shrug, trying to appear nonchalant. Bucky is not here. Where is he? Has he decided to move to Uzbekistan in your stead? ‘You know. Rough mission yesterday.’
Natasha nods sagely. ‘Barnes was quiet last night as well. Well. More quiet than usual.’
You freeze. Brace yourself. This is it. This is where Natasha says is it because you called Barnes daddy? Because girl, that would be enough to rough up any mission.
‘Oh?’ you manage in a tight voice.
‘Mmmm.’ Another elbow nudge from Natasha. ‘If you need to talk, you know you can always come to me, right?’
You blink at her. The ex-Russian spy with knowledge on how to kill her enemies in approximately 461 different ways sounds surprisingly compassionate - but then, Natasha usually is after a hard mission. She’s seen some shit.
But that isn’t the reason you’re blinking at her.
She didn’t mention anything about the daddy thing.
‘Oh,’ you say again, glancing at Sam, who is on his phone playing Fantasy Football (loser), then at Steve, who is also - although more surreptitiously than Sam - looking at his phone (probably also playing Fantasy Football - again, loser). Neither one of them have given you a second glance since you slid into the room and silently positioned yourself in one of the world’s most uncomfortable chairs (Tony really should invest in getting some more).
Has Bucky not… told them?
‘I - uh - thank you, Natasha. I - appreciate it.’
Natasha gives you the tiniest quirk of her lips - her version of a beaming smile - and nods at the chair opposite you. ‘Barnes.’
You freeze.
Fuck.
He must have slipped in when you were talking to Natasha, because he was definitely not there two minutes ago (you’re not that unobservant), although you genuinely wonder how a man that huge could be that inconspicuous. He is way too large for the seat, a mountain of a man sitting precariously atop of a flimsy Ikea model, but he seems unbothered by the arrangement: he leans back in the chair and crosses his stupidly wide arms across his stupidly broad chest, making his stupidly large biceps bulge against the material of his red Henley. Wintry eyes have locked onto you with the single-mindedness of heat-seeking lasers, and they flick across your blushing face as you whip your head around to gape at him, cool and indifferent, the hard planes of his face devoid of any emotion.
‘Romanov.’ He doesn’t tear his gaze from you, and you shiver reflexively in your seat, despite it being over 24 degrees in here (thanks, Sam). He utters your surname, too, in that deep, Brooklyn drawl that stirs something not unpleasant in the depths of your tummy.
First imagining licking his jaw, now this. The daddy thing had really rocked you.
‘Hi,’ you squeak out. If he has any form of reaction to your apparent inability to speak, he doesn’t show it, dark stubbled jaw set, mouth downturned in a sullen line.
‘Can you greet me with my surname? Actually, can you greet me at all?’ Sam pipes up from your left. ‘Or is it something only the ladies get?’
Still nothing from Bucky. Is he malfunctioning? Then, after a pause that goes on for too-long: ‘Samuel.’
‘Not quite the same, but whatever,’ Sam grumbles, but any further complaining is cut off by Steve launching into the agenda of today’s team brief.
Bucky doesn’t look away from you once.
*****