It had been a hard week.

Meetings. Dead men. Bad dreams. Bucky hadn’t slept in days.

You thought maybe—just maybe—you could do something small for him.

His desk was chaos.

Papers everywhere. Smeared ink. A whiskey ring on a letterhead.

So you tiptoed into the office while he was gone.

Didn’t even touch anything personal. Just... straightened. Aligned folders. Wiped down the wood. Stacked things neatly.

“He’ll appreciate it,” you told yourself.

Because that’s what people do when they love someone, right?

They make the world a little easier.

A little less heavy.

---

You didn’t hear him come in.

Didn’t hear the door click shut.

But you heard his voice.

Low. Sharp. Tired.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

You froze.

Turned slowly—your fingers still clutching a folder.

His gun was already out.

Pointed at the floor. But his eyes? Dead. Cold. Somewhere else entirely.

“Bucky—”

“Put it down.”

You obeyed instantly. Folder slipping from your hands onto the desk.

He took a step forward.

Then another.

And your body locked.

“Against the wall.”

Your heart dropped.

“What?” you whispered.

He raised the gun.

“Back against the wall. Now.”

You moved.

Each step a panic.

The wall was cold at your back. Behind you? The target. The one he used for practice.

Or maybe…

You were the target.

Your breath came in shaky little gasps.

“I was just cleaning—”

“Don’t fucking lie to me.” His voice cracked. Just slightly.

You shook your head, tears spilling fast now.

“I wasn’t—please, Bucky—I was just trying to do something nice.” "I told you to stop LYING!!" Then he ordered lowly: "Strip down and stop testing my patience."