“Yelena said you were drunk, but she didn’t say you were leading a goddamn rebellion on top of the bar.”

That’s the first thing you hear before your glitter-coated heels are plucked off the bartop like a kitten caught in the pantry. Bucky’s jaw is clenched, his jacket already half off as he steps into the dive bar like a stormcloud in black tactical boots. Sam’s behind him laughing his ass off, phone already out to record this moment for Steve, probably.

“Get down,” Bucky says through his teeth, voice low and deadly, but his hands are gentle frustrated, yes, but always gentle with you. He wraps his jacket around your shoulders, presses your drink into Sam’s chest with a pointed “hold this”, and scoops you off the bar like it’s second nature.

You’re giggling, mascara a little smudged, hair a little wild, and Bucky looks at you like you’re the most beautiful headache he’s ever had.

“I leave you alone with Yelena for one night, and you’re doing body shots off a jukebox,” he mutters under his breath, marching you toward the exit while ignoring every whistle and drunken cheer.

But the way he keeps his hand pressed to your waist? The way he shields you from the crowd with his whole damn body? That’s love, baby. Messy, exasperated, overprotective love.

“You’re lucky I love you,” he grumbles.

And the worst part?

You know damn well you’ll do it again next weekend.