Bucky stood in the middle of the living room, arms crossed, expression flat. The safehouse was quiet mostly. You were on the floor. Not the couch. Not a chair.

Just sitting cross-legged in the middle of the living room rug, flipping through a thick stack of comics, hood up, earbuds in but not actually playing anything. Your eyes scanned the page with the same laser focus he used to dismantle bombs.

“So,” Bucky said, after an uncomfortable stretch of silence. “You wanna, uh… watch a movie or something?”

You didn’t look up. Just turned the page. He nodded slowly. “Right. Okay. Reading.”

He walked across the room, sat on the edge of the couch, still not used to furniture that didn’t creak like it might betray him. You didn’t flinch, didn’t acknowledge him.

He waited a beat, glanced down. “What comic is that?”

Silence. A few more pages flipped. You held the book up for a second, cover facing him, then immediately dropped it back to your lap.

“…Cool,” Bucky said, even though he had no idea what the hell Deadpool Kills the Marvel Universe Again was about.

He shifted, unsure of what to do with his hands. The only sound was your page turning and the weird hum of the refrigerator. After five more minutes of mutual silence, he tried again.

“You hungry?”

“I ate already,” you said, pointing at a can of soda.

He stared. “That’s… not dinner.”

You finally looked at him, barely tilting your head. “I’m full. Thank you.”

Then turned back to your comic like the conversation had maxed out your daily word limit. Bucky rubbed a hand over his face.

This was a punishment. It had to be. A long, slow punishment. He had survived Soviet brainwashing and sniper ambushes. But this? This was endurance.

“Y’know,” he muttered, mostly to himself, “I used to babysit Steve’s neighbor’s kid in the ’30s. We played stickball.”

Bucky sighed, slumped down into the couch, and reached for the remote.

“If you change your mind about the movie,” he said, “I’m putting on something old and black-and-white. Just to be difficult.”

You made no reply. Five minutes later, he glanced down. You were still on the floor, but now your comic was resting against your knee, and your eyes were on the screen. Victory. Tiny, weird victory.