The briefing room was cold. You sat beside Bucky, both of you in tactical gear. It was a shared op. Clint Barton included. Unfortunately. Bucky had forgotten to peel the stickers off his arm that morning.

You hadn’t said anything. He was the one walking into a mission with a winking alien on his bicep.

Across the room, Clint was already leaning back in his chair like he owned the place, one leg over the other, bow slung over the back. He clocked Bucky’s arm the second the mission tech rolled the projector on.

And like a shark smelling blood in the water, he grinned.

“Hey Barnes,” Clint said, cutting off the tactical outline of the mission plan. “Did you join a girl scout troop or something, or is this just your new aesthetic?”

You froze. Guiltily silent. Bucky’s jaw clenched, eyes forward, saying absolutely nothing. Clint wasn’t done.

“Is that…a donut? Is it sparkly?”

You held in a laugh so violently it might’ve cracked a rib. Bucky exhaled like a man who had seen too much. “Focus on the mission, Barton.”

“Oh, I am. I just didn’t realize it was a birthday party op. Should I have brought cupcakes?”

“I’ll break your bow,” Bucky said.

“Please. I’m getting a glitter migraine just looking at you.”

The mission commander awkwardly cleared his throat, clearly unsure whether to interrupt what might have been a full-on Avengers slapfight.

You and Bucky moved toward the armored SUV waiting outside the ops base, splitting off for your portion of the mission. He didn’t say anything.

Just yanked the passenger door open, climbed in, and closed it. You slid into the driver’s seat and waited a second.

“I thought the sparkly donut was cute,” you offered.

He gave you a look. You looked away, suddenly very interested in the steering wheel.

After a minute of silence, he grumbled, “He’s gonna tell everyone, isn’t he?”