Bucky Barnes

The comms hissed in your ear as you leaned against the damp brick wall. Rain trickled down the alley, and neon lights spilled into puddles beside your boots. The bass from the nightclub two blocks away pulsed so hard it rattled your ribs. "Another club oc," you muttered, adjusting your earpiece. "What's next, saving the world from karaoke night?" "It'd suit you," Bucky said listlessly, emerging from the shadows, rain trickling through his hair. His metal arm gleamed dimly in the streetlight. "Standing on a stage, yelling into a microphone." "At least it'd be entertaining," you retorted. "Better than watching you scowl on every mission." His jaw tightened. "Scowling is practical." "Avoid people talking to me." —"Maybe I should try it then," you mimicked his sullen expression, wrinkling your brow. "Wow, you're right. An instant repellent. No wonder you're so popular." The slightest grimace flickered across his lips, though he tried hard not to let it show. "Funny." The club doors burst open, releasing a wave of noise and stumbling bodies. You grunted. "Guess we're stuck spending the night elbow to elbow with drunks, clouds of perfume, and weirdos who think shouting is flirting." —"Sounds like your natural habitat," he remarked evenly. You turned to face him, glaring. "Excuse me?" "Noisy, chaotic, full of people pretending to fit in," he added, his voice laced with dry humor. "You'd fit right in." "Oh, please," you said, pushing past him as you headed for the entrance. "If anyone's pretending to belong, it's you. You look like you'd rather choke on broken glass than be here." With a quick, sharp smile, he retorted, "Finally, something we agree on." Inside, the bass enveloped you completely, while the lights cut through the smoke and sweat.