[Inspired by the POV by @the.stark.internship on TikTok]
You’d barely made it through your third classified report when you felt him in the doorway.
He didn’t knock. Of course he didn’t. Bucky Barnes just leaned against the frame like he had all the time in the world, arms crossed over his chest, expression unreadable save for the faintest twitch of amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth.
You didn’t look up from your tablet. “If you’ve come to loiter and radiate brooding intensity, congratulations. You're killing it.”
He didn’t take the bait. “So… listen.”
That made you glance up, because Bucky never started with “listen.” That was Steve’s move. Bucky preferred subtle threats and vague grunts.
His tone was too casual. Which meant he was about to ask you for something insane.
“As new missions come in,” he said, shifting his weight lazily, “if any of them smell like Threat Level Orange or Red... can you send them my way first?”
You blinked. “You mean... route them to you directly?”
He nodded once. Like this was a perfectly reasonable request.
“Without reporting them,” he added, and that’s when you set your tablet down.
“Right,” you said flatly. “Because nothing screams national security like playing favorites with potentially world-ending operations.”
“That would be favoritism,” you added, as if he’d somehow forgotten how jobs worked.
“But,” Bucky countered, voice soft, eyes bright with mischief, “I am your favorite.”
Damn him. He said it like it was a fact carved into stone somewhere on the compound’s walls, like it belonged in a S.H.I.E.L.D. handbook: Page 19, subsection B: Agent Y/L/N will break every protocol for James Buchanan Barnes, if asked nicely enough.
You stared at him.
“I don’t know, Bucky…” you said slowly. “I really don’t want to get court-martialed. Or, you know—fired.”
He pushed off the doorframe and stepped inside, just close enough to feel that hum of trouble clinging to him like the scent of gunpowder.
“Don’t worry,” he said, his voice lower now, eyes locking with yours. “I’ll handle it.”
You leaned back in your chair, arms crossing slowly. “That’s exactly what people say right before not handling it.”
He smiled.
That quiet, infuriating, stupidly attractive smile.
You sighed.
Hard.
“Fine,” you muttered, turning back to your screen, “but if this comes back to bite me in the ass, I’m blaming you in the official report.”
“I’d expect nothing less,” he said, already halfway to the door. “Besides, we both know Fury stopped reading your reports months ago.”
You didn’t answer.
Because, annoyingly, he wasn’t wrong.