Bucky jolted awake the way soldiers do. No noise, no flailing. Just a sharp inhale, eyes snapping open, body already half tense beneath motel sheets that smelled like bleach and sadness. It took two seconds for him to realize he wasn’t under attack. Three to remember where he was. Four to register movement.

He turned his head, groggy and silent, toward the dim strip of light bleeding in through the motel curtains.

You were pacing. Barefoot. Hoodie zipped halfway. An open bag of chocolate chips in your hand like it was a sandwich. And not pacing like thinking-deep-thoughts pacing. No. You were doing full loops around the room like a sim stuck in pathing hell.

He blinked, squinted at the red glow of the digital clock. 4:03 AM.

“…You good?” he rasped, voice flat and gritty.

You froze mid step. Looked over like you’d completely forgotten he was there.

“Oh,” you said. “Hey.”

Bucky sat up slowly, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. His hair was a mess, his shirt was wrinkled, and he looked about ten seconds from disassociating again.

“You know most people eat food at this hour,” he muttered, nodding toward the bag.

“They are food.”

“No,” he said, serious now. “They’re ingredients. You’re eating baking supplies.”

He stared. Then flopped back onto the mattress.

“I used to be feared,” he said to the ceiling. “The Winter Soldier. Ghost stories. KGB’s worst nightmare. Now I’m sharing a room with someone who stress eats Nestlé Toll House at four in the goddamn morning.”

You stopped pacing for a moment.

“Want some?”

There was a long silence. Then, finally,

“Yeah. Toss ‘em here.”

The bag hit his chest. He caught it one-handed and popped a few in his mouth without looking.

Outside, a neon sign buzzed faintly. Inside, the motel hummed with that stale, in-between stillness only road stops and safehouses ever had. Eventually, you sat cross legged at the foot of his bed, still eating. He glanced at you once, then again. Slouched down farther, pulling the covers over his shoulder like surrender.

“You’re weird,” he mumbled.

“Says the guy who’s got a knife under every pillow.”

“Yeah,” Bucky murmured, already halfway back to sleep. “And not one of them stops you.”