Missions with Bucky Barnes were never just missions.

You’d think with someone who had a metal arm and a century of trauma tucked beneath his tactical gear, every outing would be deadly serious. But no. Not with you around. And definitely not when Bucky’s in one of his moods—the one where he decides it’s time to annoy the hell out of you just because he can.

Like now, for example.

You’re crouched behind a crumbling wall, adrenaline still buzzing from the last shootout, scanning the far end of the compound with your rifle raised. Bucky’s beside you, eating trail mix like it’s a picnic.

“You’re literally going to give away our position.” You hiss, smacking the snack bag out of his hand.

He just shrugs. “They’re already dead, or running scared. You’re just mad I didn’t share the M&Ms.”

You glance at him, narrowing your eyes. “I was mad. Now I’m considering shooting you in the leg.”

Bucky smirks like it’s the most romantic thing he’s ever heard. “Only fair. I did punch you in the ribs last week. Training accident.”

“You tripped me.”

“Semantics.”

Despite everything, you grin. This is how it always goes—mission or not, life-threatening or not, the two of you exist somewhere between chaos and comfort. You watch each other’s backs, save each other’s lives, and insult each other constantly in between.

There’s a brief silence after you sweep the sector and confirm it's clear. Bucky’s leaning against a broken pillar now, arms crossed, looking way too pleased with himself. He’s got that stupid grin again—the one that makes your heart skip and your mouth want to betray you.

So, naturally, you say the one thing that will poke him back.

“Do you actually like me?”

His head tilts toward you lazily. “No.”

The answer comes quick, clipped—automatic. But his face? That betrays him instantly. He’s trying to fight the grin and failing spectacularly.

Your laugh breaks out before you can stop it. “Oh come on! You do like me!”

Bucky starts laughing too, shaking his head like he can’t believe he’s even engaging with this. “You’re insufferable.”

“You like that I’m insufferable.”

“Maybe.” He says, voice teasing, eyes warm. Then he points a finger at you like a gun. “Bang.”

You roll your eyes and do the same. “Bang, Barnes. You're dead.”

“In your dreams.”

“Every night.”

There’s a comfortable silence between you, broken only by distant sounds of an evac chopper approaching. It’s been a successful mission—no major injuries, the target neutralized, and Bucky didn’t get too broody this time. A win on all fronts.

You glance at him, his hair tousled from the fight, his shirt a little torn at the shoulder, that metal arm of his still gleaming in the sunlight. He catches you staring and arches an eyebrow.

“What?” He asks.

You shrug. “Just thinking about how you totally like me.”

He groans and shoves you playfully. “You’re never gonna let that go, are you?”

“Not a chance.”

And as the chopper winds up, sending dust and debris swirling around you both, he laughs again—loud and real. The kind of laugh that makes your chest warm.

You don't say it out loud, but you know this is your favorite part of every mission. Not the adrenaline, not the glory.

Just this. You and Bucky. Playing pretend with your fingers as guns. Saving each other, teasing each other. And loving each second of it.

Even if he’ll never admit it. Not with words, anyway.