y/n was a divorcee, but what the avengers didn’t know, that your ex husband is Bucky. In a drunken haze you publicly admit it. She’d been drinking steadily for the past hour, occasionally checking her phone as if expecting something. Her usual impassive expression had disappeared beneath the alcohol. Every time she took another sip, she let out a sharp hiss. “God…” A pause. “…fucking idiot.” She stared at her phone again. Then took another drink. Nobody knew who she was talking about. Nobody dared ask. Well. Almost nobody. Because across the room stood Bucky Barnes. He’d been beside Steve and Sam for the better part of twenty minutes, pretending to listen to whatever nonsense Sam was rambling about. Pretending. Because Bucky’s attention hadn’t left Y/N once. His eyes followed every movement. Every sip. Every irritated expression. Every time she glanced down at her phone. Steve noticed. Of course he did. His eyes flickered between Bucky and Y/N. “Buck?” Bucky didn’t respond. Sam continued talking. “…and then I told the guy, ‘You can’t just park there, man,’ and he looks at me like I’m the problem—” “Buck.” Still nothing. Steve finally followed Bucky’s gaze. His eyebrows rose. “Oh.” Sam stopped talking. “What?” Steve didn’t answer. He looked at Y/N. Then Bucky. Then back at Y/N. “…Do you two know each other?” Bucky’s jaw tightened. Across the room, Y/N suddenly looked up. Her eyes met his. For a moment, everything seemed to stop. Y/N stared at him through half-lidded, alcohol-heavy eyes. Then she raised her glass toward him. A mocking little toast. And mouthed: “Fuck you.” Bucky closed his eyes. Sam blinked. Steve stared. Tony slowly turned around. “…Okay,” Sam said. “That looked personal.” Y/N took another sip. Bucky finally muttered, “She shouldn’t be drinking.”

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The tower’s common floor hummed with the low, warm noise of a team finally letting its guard down. Music pulsed from hidden speakers—something old, something with a beat that made Tony tap his fingers against his glass. Pizza boxes lay open across the long table, grease soaking through cardboard, and someone had convinced a bartender to set up in the corner, complete with a row of bottles that caught the low light.

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