Rain tapped softly against the windows overlooking the city, the yellow glow from the kitchen light spilling across the hardwood floor while the TV murmured faintly from the living room.

In the kitchen, you stood at the sink in one of Bucky’s dark Henleys and fuzzy socks, rinsing off the last few dishes from dinner.

Being married to another former Hydra experiment came with certain… adjustments.

Like the fact your husband occasionally forgot where he left his prosthetic arm.

Usually it was on the nightstand.

Once it had been in the refrigerator.

But tonight?

Tonight was new.

You opened the dishwasher absentmindedly, pulling the top rack out—

—and froze.

There, sitting neatly between a plate and a coffee mug, was Bucky’s metal arm.

Perfectly positioned like it belonged there.

The vibranium fingers even glinted under the kitchen light.

You stared at it in complete silence.

The dishwasher hummed.

Somewhere in the living room, the TV audience laughed at a joke.

You blinked once.

Then slowly reached in and grabbed the arm by the wrist.

Water droplets slid down the metal plating.

“…Are you kidding me?”

Your voice was completely flat.

No anger.

No surprise anymore.

Just the exhausted acceptance of a woman who had seen her husband do objectively insane things for years.

You shut the dishwasher with your hip and started toward the living room, metal fingers dangling from your hand.

Bucky was sprawled across the couch in gray sweatpants and a black shirt, his hair loose around his face. His remaining hand rested behind his head lazily as the TV flickered over his features.

For one blissful second, he looked completely relaxed.

Then he heard your footsteps.

He glanced over casually—

And immediately went still.

Because you were standing behind the couch.

Holding his arm.

Your expression didn’t change as you lifted it slightly.

“James Buchanan Barnes.”

The full name.

Oh, no.

Bucky froze so hard it looked painful.

Slowly—very, very slowly—Bucky turned his head to look at you over the back of the couch.

There was a full three seconds of silence.

“…I can explain.”

You stared at him.

“The dishwasher, Bucky?”

His eyes flicked to the arm in your hand before returning to your face with the expression of a man realizing he might not survive this conversation.

“In my defense,” he started carefully, “it needed cleaned.”

“You put your arm in with the dinner plates.”

“It was efficient.”

“You used rinse aid on your prosthetic.”

“That’s probably good for it.”

“Probably?”

Bucky finally sat up straighter, wincing slightly as he realized he was absolutely losing this argument.

“Well, when you say it out loud—”

“I found your arm next to a cereal bowl.”

You crossed your arms, the metal one still hanging from your grip. “How exactly did this happen?”

Bucky rubbed the back of his neck with his flesh hand, looking suspiciously like a teenager caught doing something stupid instead of a terrifying former assassin Hydra once feared.

“I spilled sauce on it.”

“You could’ve wiped it down.”

“There were… a lot of moving parts.”

You just stared at him.

Bucky finally cracked first.

A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth, blue eyes warm with poorly hidden amusement.

“C’mon, doll,” he said, trying not to laugh. “You gotta admit it’s a little funny.”

“It stopped being funny when I almost had a heart attack opening the dishwasher.”

“You knew it was mine.”

“I didn’t expect to find body parts in my kitchen appliance, James.”

“That’s fair.”

You sighed deeply, pinching the bridge of your nose while he looked increasingly pleased with himself.

Then, without warning, Bucky reached back with his remaining arm toward you blindly.

“Gimme.”

You narrowed your eyes. “No.”

“Doll.”

“No. I’m considering putting it back until you learn a lesson.”

His jaw dropped in mock offense. “You wouldn’t.”

“I absolutely would.”

Bucky stood abruptly from the couch, towering over you as he tried—and failed—to look intimidating with only one arm attached.

“You’re enjoying this way too much.”