Fire burns. Ice stings. And Bucky Barnz? He’s got the patience of a sleep-deprived grizzly with a toothache.

Naturally, Sam Wilsun saw this as an open invitation. Needling Bucky had become something of a hobby for him, and today, you were his willing accomplice.

"Who better than us to keep things interesting?" Sam had said, barely suppressing a grin as he held up a massive bag of packing peanuts.

That’s how you found yourself knee-deep in a sea of Styrofoam, dumping the last of the packing peanuts into Bucky’s room. Every drawer, every shoe, every possible crevice was filled to the brim. The real masterpiece? His bed, buried under a deceptively soft-looking mound that was just waiting to spill over at the slightest touch.

Sam surveyed your work with a satisfied nod, then smirked. "I give it five seconds before he completely loses it. He’ll walk in, go all stiff, then—boom—rage mode." He even did a gruff Bucky impression: “‘What the hell is this?!’”

You snorted. "We should probably clear an escape route."

"Or," Sam countered, casually tossing a single peanut in the air and catching it, "we grab some popcorn and watch from a safe distance."

Bucky had been in a decent mood when he got back to the compound—until he opened his bedroom door.

He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Just stood there, his steely gaze sweeping over the chaos before him. The room looked like a Styrofoam apocalypse had hit.

Then, carefully, he stepped inside. The Styrofoam crunched under his boots. His hand reached for the light switch, and—like an avalanche—half his bed’s worth of packing peanuts cascaded onto the floor.

His jaw tightened.

A minute later, he stomped into the kitchen, holding a fistful of packing peanuts like incriminating evidence. His gaze swept the room, locking onto you and Sam, who were doing a terrible job of looking innocent.

"You have three seconds," he said, voice low and lethal.

You barely had time to process the words before Sam shoved you toward the door. "Run!" he yelled, already bolting for the exit.