bucky barnes imagines

lix. PUSHOVER

"SHOTS, SHOTS, SHOTS..."

Bucky groaned as you began to chant loudly, bashing your fists on the table and subsequently drawing a lot of attention to yourself. Being just a little too drunk, you didn't notice that practically every single person at the bar had their eyes on you, chuckling bemusedly at your antics.

The two of you were sitting together at one of Tony's infamous parties. Quite frankly, you didn't usually enjoy huge gatherings, especially when most of the guests were snobby, judgemental and too rich for their own good. However, Wanda and Nat had wanted you to attend, so you'd let them drag you to the event, reminding them with each reluctant step that you'd only be staying if you could somehow consume enough alcohol to make the evening fun.

Luckily, you weren't the only one who'd been forced into the ordeal, hence why Bucky Barnes was now grumbling beside you, watching you drink yourself into oblivion. He knew that it wasn't at all healthy, but he brushed it off – if he was even capable of getting drunk, he would probably be doing the same thing. But normal alcohol would never be strong enough, and Thor wasn't present to slip him some Asgardian mead, so for now, he was reduced to being the "sober friend."

Bucky's scowl intensified at the thought. Sober friend. He didn't want to be your friend – no, he'd much prefer something more than that, and stupidly, he'd thought that perhaps this party could be his opportunity to finally admit that he was in love with you. He'd even got all spruced up for the occasion – hair neatly slicked back, an all black tuxedo drawing out the ice in his eyes. But he couldn't tell you now, that would just be taking advantage of you.

You wouldn't remember it anyway.

When you stumbled to your feet, knocking over both your drink and your barstool in the process, Bucky finally decided that maybe he should step in, stop you before you did anything that would make you regret the night even more than you were already going to. He reached out and lightly grasped your wrist, intending to steady you and persuade you to sit back down.

Mere seconds later, he was scoffing in confusion as he realised that the roles had somehow been reversed and, instead of pulling you back towards him, he'd let you tug him towards the temporary dance floor.

Pushover.

Vaguely yelling along to whichever catchy pop song was playing, you wildly spun around, throwing your head back as the light material of your dress flared out around you. Bucky could do nothing but watch, shaking his head in exasperation – but despite his bad mood, he still had to fight the impending sense of satisfaction that filled him whenever he saw you happy.

When you wrapped your arms around his neck, trying to coax him into joining your crazy dance routine, he had to remind himself to breathe. He knew he couldn't – well, he could, but he shouldn't. But he wanted to. So he did.

Pushover, pushover, pushover.

Three songs later, as he dipped you with his hand resting on the small of your back, Bucky convinced himself that this was fine – he'd always been a dancer and, after everything he'd been through, he surely deserved to enjoy a moment like this with the girl of his dreams.

Then you crumpled like paper in his grasp, and suddenly it wasn't fine anymore. He knelt down by your side, automatically fearing the worst; maybe you'd fainted, maybe it was alcohol poisoning, maybe he'd unintentionally killed you even though he'd been trying his damnedest to keep that cursed arm away from you—

"Oohhh, m' dizzy," you slurred, giggling uncontrollably at your own clumsiness. Bucky shut his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, feigning irritation when all he really felt was relief that, as always, his fears had been irrational. You'd simply fallen over.