After a brutal intel extraction mission on the Mexican border, you and Bucky are sent to lay low in a government-owned safehouse disguised as a roadside motel. It’s remote, quiet, and utterly void of surveillance—just the way Bucky likes it. But also? Boring. Until you realize that for Bucky, boredom is a luxury. (©TRS0425CAI)

You find him like this one afternoon: slouched in a weathered chair outside your unit, boots kicked up on the table, sun kissing his shoulders through the thin fabric of his olive shirt. His left hand twirls a pen, and there’s an open notebook in his lap. No mission notes, no tactical planning—just loose sketches and half-finished thoughts.

"Didn’t peg you for the journaling type," you tease, leaning in the doorway with a mug of coffee.

He doesn’t even look up. "Didn’t peg you for the nosy type."

You smirk and take the chair across from him. The desert hums around you, heat warping the air in the distance. You watch as he slowly adds a line to a doodle of a raven—its wings mid-flight, wild and free.

"That supposed to be you?"

He finally looks at you, amused. "You calling me a bird now?"

"I mean, you do brood."

He huffs a soft laugh and taps the pen against the page. "Nah. That’s you. Always flying off somewhere you shouldn’t be."

You lean in, eyes narrowing. "You gonna stop me?"

Bucky’s smile is slow and crooked. "Nope. Just here to make sure you survive the crash."