#i swear it’s an instant fuckin rage spiral

[indefiniteavatar]

holy shit these israeli propaganda ads lack self-awareness - ‘no country in the world would allow repeated threats to its existence’, huh?

the unholy fuck y’all think you’re doing to palestine?!?

[imhereforbvcky]

Catastrophe in Color

Summary/Request: ''We got way too competitive over a game of paintball and now you won’t look at me'' with Bucky? Also could I please ask for this to be pre-relationship and one of them tried paintball as a bonding opportunity to confess their feelings?

Warnings: Just swearing! This one is so tame and silly, you guys!

Word Count: 2569

Author’s Note: I was so excited when this request came in!! Aaaand then I quickly got stuck. But here it is, like… a year later. I’m sorry darling.

“This is going to work!” you insisted, pointing the slice of apple at Steve from across the counter.

“I’m telling you it’s not a good idea,” he shook his head before swiping the apple from your fingers.

“Hey!”

“I know you think it sounds fun, but you have no idea how competitive he is.”

You rolled your eyes and slid your plate closer to your side of the counter, guarding your snack form Steve’s insatiable appetite.

“He’s a guy. I think I have some idea,” you argued. “Besides he’s also old-fashioned, right? He’s got to be at least a little bit of a gentleman about it.”

“You sure we’re talking about the same Bucky Barnes?” Steve’s dry chuckle only elicited a dissatisfied frown from you. “He once blew three bucks trying to win a stuffed bear for a girl, and then when she bailed we spent our train money on hot dogs. I wouldn’t hold your breath on a fairy-tale ending.”

“Oh come on, that’s a little bit sweet.”

“Those games were five cents at most. Some were just a penny. Three dollars was anywhere from 60 to 300 games. I’m not sure he even noticed when Dolores left.” He laughed softly. Blue eyes, glossy with wistful memory, drifted up to the left as he slipped into the past, “He called her Dot.”

It was hard to scowl at him when he waxed nostalgic like this, but you managed it. The crush you had been harboring for Bucky had grown plenty strong enough to maintain a frown for Steve’s dismantling of your plan to finally make a move.

“No! This is going to be great,” you insisted. “I’m going to organize paintball and you’re going to help me so it’ll be just me and Bucky, and it will be cute and fun! Like 10 Things I Hate About You!”

“I don’t… know what that is, but it doesn’t sound like a good model for a relationship.”

“It's a fantastic model, and paintball is happening!” you hollered, turning your back with finality as you set your plate into the sink.

Ordinarily your unwavering optimism was a welcome energy on the team. It kept morale high in tough situations and played wonderfully with the media. Today, Steve found it downright amusing. This would be a train wreck.

The first round had gone to plan. Better than you’d expected, actually.

It had ended with a whispered “Gotcha” tickling against your skin and a grin so wide you’d never scrub it from your memory. No matter how horribly each subsequent round spiraled from that first perfect match.

The next game Bucky caught you unaware again; he always did. But a lucky fall had you tumbling out of the path of his shot before you even knew it was coming.

When his blue glob splattered against the tree you’d just been standing beside, you quickly spun and fired a shot of your own. The paint splashed across his shoulder and you raced forward.

“Gotcha,” you returned, a bit more than a whisper, brimming with laughter.

“Not how it works, sweetheart,” he grinned. It was smug and oh so pleased with himself. “I already took you out while you were busy hiding behind that tree over there.”

He reached forward and lifted your arm. His eyes darted to the splash of color there, but you weren’t having it.

“You know, you’re very cute, but you’re also very wrong,” Your cheeks flushed. Nervous. But you resolved to stick to the plan. You would tell him, damn it.

With bright grin and blind optimism, you shoved your sleeve inches from his face and swiped a finger over the inky blot. “It’s dry. That’s from last round. You missed, sweetheart.”

His gaze followed as you pointed to the splatter of blue paint on the tree. The little muscle in his jaw ticked when he clenched it tight. You really shouldn’t have loved his angry face as much as you did. But when he set his jaw, making it angle sharper… and that ticking muscle drew your eyes to the steep curve of his cheek and then the sharp steel of blue-grey eyes… you were hopeless. Head over fuckin heels.

“How do I know the paint on the tree isn’t old?”

Your proud and teasing smile faded in an instant.

“What?”

He shrugged, glancing at the tree again. “Who knows how long that paint’s been there? And you’re supposed to clean your gear between rounds. If I called a paint check right now you’d be out anyw—“

“So I’m not Mary Poppins. Doesn’t mean I’m cheating!” you bellowed “You’re out!”

“My record speaks for itself: I don’t miss. I’m not going anywhere.”

“But you did miss!”

He sighed and rolled his eyes. Before you even knew what was happening, he’d popped off a shot. At close range the little bead of paint burst against your leg like a whip.

“Ow!” you howled.

“See I don’t miss.”

“But you’re already out!”

If it had shocked you how quickly the tone of your little game had just flipped into a bitter argument to the death over who tagged who first, the next 2 games were a revelation. You really should have heeded Steve’s warning.

By the end of the 4th round you’d had more than enough. Burning with anger and desperate with disappointment, the battle for victory had turned heinous.

“Not again Barnes. You’re definitely out!” you cried from across the clearing. “Look at your trash can lid.”

“So? You didn’t hit me. It’s a shield,” he argued. “Ask Steve.”

“Oh, come on.” You complained, still crouching behind your bunker. “You agreed to the rules, Bucky. ‘If a player is holding an object as a shield and it is hit and marked, he will be out.’” The rule was 100% meant for Steve, but Bucky had taken his friend’s side and argued that it shouldn’t count.

“That doesn’t make any sense. If this was Steve’s shield and that was a bullet, I’d be safe.”

“BUT IT’S A TRASH CAN LID!”

You heard him laugh. That sound that normally ignited your world and made your chest feel a little tight, at this moment, lit a blaze at the base of your skull.

Moving on rage and instinct, you leapt over the barrier and marched toward him with unwavering resolution.

For a moment his brows flickered high in surprise; but he quickly recovered, raised his paintball rifle and fired.

You froze mid stride as the blue dye splattered across your chest.

“I hope that was worth it,” you called out calmly, eyes still locked on the paint dripping down your armor.

He chuckled again. “Sure was. You’re out.”

“Because it will be your dying act,” you continued as if you hadn’t heard him.

He laughed openly now. Partly because he thought you were funny, and partly because he knew it would irritate you and you’d be distracted by it in the next round.

Perhaps he wouldn’t have if he knew you’d then raise your gun and fire unceasingly at him as you strode ever closer.

“Are you kidding me?!” he shouted.

The referees had made it clear that absolutely no multiple shooting would be tolerated. But you and Bucky had thrown the rules out the window a long time ago.

With a deep scowl on his face, he charged forward. His metal fist clapped around the barrel of your gun and wrenched it back. The metal whined under the pressure and you screeched in shock. He too seemed a little surprised with himself.

“That fuckin hurt,” he complained, releasing your mangled weapon and tugging at his t-shirt, now soaked in paint. He winced slightly as it pealed away from the fresh welts.

“You broke my gun!” you shouted.

“It’s just aluminum,” he rolled his eyes.

“It’s ruined, is what it is! How the hell am I supposed to play now?”

He shrugged, “All’s fair in love and war, sweetheart.”

A guttural scream clawed up your throat. Frustration bubbled from your lungs and surged through your fingers. You ripped open the canister on your mangled gun and took out a fistful of paintballs.

He thought he was being cute, making playful flirty jokes and pushing just enough. But the pair of you had pushed and pushed all day and it was too far. You’d snapped and his perfect smug face with his damn jokes that struck just a hair too close to your actual feelings pushed you over the edge.

Bucky watched in horror as you smashed the handful of paintballs against his chest. They popped and smeared between his body and your palm. The thick wet paint oozed down his shirt.

You stepped back and gave your hand a hard shake. The paint dripped away in heavy lines onto the dirt. The bright droplets seemed so small and insignificant, as did, suddenly, your receding anger.

The game was over. Both the paintball match and the larger one you’d been playing at. You stood in the dusty field, covered in sweat and thick latex paint, exhausted as the embarrassment and defeat washed through you.

“You’re insane.” Bucky swept two fingers through the paint you’d smeared over him. His voice held a ghost of laughter, hoping for banter again.

“Must be,” you agreed without humor. Swallowing the thick knot in your throat did little to quell the brimming tears. “The hell was I thinking being so goddamn into you.”

His eyes shot to your face and found it defeated and heartbroken. Heaving out a deep cleansing sigh, shook your head and let your eyes drop to the ground as you turned back towards the parking lot.

Unable to move, Bucky stood in the wreckage of the day, blindsided and full of regret. His mind reeled, replaying every joke, every playful jab, searching for the tipping point, wondering how he’d missed it.

The sharp snap of a paintball gun fired off to his right and yet another bead of color erupted across his shoulder.

Bucky scowled down at it, then looked up to see Steve frowning deeply at him as he lowered the gun. Steve paused only a moment before marching off toward the car.

The patio was often quiet and cool in the early morning, just before the sun crept over the concrete. You kept your bare feet curled up beneath you, safe from the chill as you watched the light begin to break through the barrier of trees.

Steve sat a few chairs over with a steaming coffee beside him and a small sketchpad in his lap. Neither of you spoke. Didn’t need to.

His “I’m sorry. I told you so,” was obvious in the gentle squeeze he’d already given your shoulder before taking his post. Your “thanks for the support,” came with the simple tilt of your head toward the hand. Good friends didn’t need words.

It was this restorative silence that Bucky stood on the edge of, holding his breath, rocking from his toes to his heels.

“Don’t over think it,” Steve’s earlier reprimand echoed in his head. “I’m the expert on waiting too long; don’t. Stop pushing, stop teasing, stop pulling on pigtails. Life’s too short for those games, Buck. Just tell her.”

Bucky couldn’t help thinking that Steve had it all wrong. Life wasn’t short, at least not his. His life was so long. At times, so dreadfully, painfully long. Time had carried him farther than it ought to have and he’d completely lost touch. Lost himself. Lost how to do… this.

He’d lost everything.

But then that was the point, wasn’t it. Where Steve’s life had been short bits of time spliced together and skipped over decades, Bucky’s had been stretched thin over too much time. But they had lost in the same ways. Time had moved on without them, and always would.

He couldn’t keep losing to its constant current.

Before he knew his feet had even been moving he stood beside your chair, drew a quick, deep breath, and fought for you. Against all the time pressing at his back and all the seconds rushing beneath his feet… he called your name.

“Can I have a minute?”

“I’m not paying you back for the paintball gun,” you sighed, eyes still locked on the rising sun. You wondered why today must be spoilt with the memory of yesterday’s failures so early in the morning? You were trying. Really trying to put on your usual brightness, but god he was making it difficult.

“No, I don’t wan--”

“You broke it; you bought it, Bucky.”

“Can I take you out sometime?” he finally barked.

Your lips curled into half a smile, mischief dancing in your eyes as you looked at him. He returned it happily, just in time for you to turn back to the horizon.

“I don’t know, are you offering to kill me or take me on a date?”

He rolled his head over his shoulders with a sigh. “Why are you making this difficult?”

“Because you were beyond difficult when I tried,” you spoke with the utter simplicity of a statement of fact. It wasn’t his fault, not really. You’d reciprocated with banter and teasing, and after all you’d been the one firing multiple shots… but it all stung and right now it was easier to be guarded. Anger hurt less.

You rose to your feet, making to step away but he called after you before you’d even passed.

“So… you don’t want to?” he asked, looking down at you.

You refused to even breathe. It was only yesterday the tables were completely turned and you were still stinging with rejection. If you dared to look up you knew you’d be right back where you started. So you froze, with Bucky’s soft blue eyes staring straight through you.

Steve huffed and let his sketchbook fall on the table with a heavy thump. “The team is not participating in anymore schemes. Yes, she does. She wants to go. But no putt-putt.”

Bucky grinned and raised an eyebrow as he turned back to you. “Putt-putt?”

You shrugged.

“Can’t be worse than yesterday,” he prodded.

Steve cleared his throat from across the patio without looking up from his sketch. You had the decency to look sheepish.

“I’ve been banned from 3 courses.” You buried your face in your hands. “There’s still a putter lodged in the gorilla’s eyeball on the twelfth hole at Adventure Island."

He laughed; that full sound that you still loved. The one that had your stomach doing flips and sent a wave of giggles through your own chest.

You feel rough hands slide across your back and heavy arms wrapping over your shoulders. His embrace is bone crushing and you feel his laughter reverberating through you in a new way. This is where you want to stay. Where you’ve always wanted to be.

“I don’t know if it’s a good thing or a bad thing that you’re just as bad as me,” he hummed against the top of your head.

“Oh you’re definitely worse,” you teased, tilting your head to face him. Your chin rested on his chest and your smiles came so easily, it felt as if your head was spinning. “Steve told me about Coney Island. Three hundred games?! You might have a problem.”

“It’s your problem now; I was thinking we could go to the carnival Saturday.”

Tags: Will reblog with tags shortly. :)