The mission was supposed to be low-key. Blend in. Observe. Don’t make waves. But instead of “calmly integrating with the environment,” you were double fisting iced coffee and Red Bull number three, sunglasses sliding down your nose as you scanned the promenade like you had 47 tabs open in your brain.

Beside you, Bucky looked…off. His foot bounced. His jaw ticked. His hair was in a short ponytail that somehow made him look more suspicious, not less. And worst of all, he had agreed to the Red Bull.

Half a can in, he was staring down a seagull like it had insulted his honor.

“You good?” you asked, sipping your drink like it was your only lifeline to reality.

“I feel my blood,” Bucky replied, eyes still locked on the bird. “I can hear it.”

“Same.”

You both stood still, sweating slightly in the sun, radiating unstable energy like two high-strung cats in a room full of laser pointers.

“We should do a cartwheel,” you said suddenly.

Bucky turned.

“Why would we—”

“Because nobody suspicious does cartwheels, Buck.”

There was a pause.

Then, much to the shock of the universe and possibly himself, Bucky Barnes handed you his Red Bull, took one slow step into the grass patch near the sidewalk and did the ugliest, clumsiest half-cartwheel known to mankind.

You clapped. Someone walking a dog blinked in confusion.

“I have regrets,” he muttered, standing back up and brushing grass off his jeans.

“You’re blending in beautifully.”

“We’re going to get arrested.”

“Only if you do another one,” you said.

Somewhere, your comms crackled with an update. The contact you were supposed to watch was apparently headed your way. The sun glinted off car roofs and sunglasses. The Red Bull in your veins had replaced your sense of consequence.

“This is why I don’t take missions with you,” he exhaled.

“Swear to God,” Bucky muttered, “if we end up in a high speed chase while caffeinated, I’ll be so mad.”