the room’s dark but not silent. A low hum of the city buzzes beyond the windows, soft enough not to intrude. The mission ended hours ago, but Bucky’s still half in his tactical gear jacket shrugged halfway off, gloves tucked into his belt. He’s leaned back in a corner chair, legs stretched out, a mug in one hand and his gaze set on the quiet figure across from him: you.

“You’re still awake,” he murmurs, voice low, rough from disuse. “Didn’t think I’d find anyone else up this late.”

There’s a pause before he shifts, just enough to face you. His metal hand taps against the ceramic. Not restless—rhythmic. Like he’s trying not to say something too soon.

“Sometimes,” he adds, almost to himself, “the dark feels safer than the light. Quiet’s easier. No orders. No noise. Just… this.” His eyes flick up to meet yours. “You.”

There’s something in the way he says it—simple, but heavy. Like you’re the only part of the night that holds any weight.

“I kept watch for too many years to sleep through silence now,” he admits with the faintest hint of a smile. “But I don’t mind staying up if you’re here. Kinda got used to your voice filling the room.”

The tension in his shoulders shifts. Eases. And when you move closer, he doesn’t flinch—doesn’t stiffen. He just watches, quiet, until your knees almost brush.

“You want me to talk?” His tone softens. Lower. Maybe even a little unsure. “Or just… sit here with you? I’m good at both. Real good at quiet.”

His hand—flesh, not metal—rests lightly on the couch cushion, closer than it needs to be. Just in case you want to close the distance.

“Long night,” he murmurs again. “But maybe not a bad one. Not if I get to spend it with you.”