Cinnamon and Metal
Bucky wasn't subtle.
People liked to say he was—the ghost of a man, all silence and shadow—but Harry had learned early that silence was never subtle. It was loud. Heavy. It lingered in rooms like smoke, like static before a storm.
But there was something about Bucky's silence that didn't threaten. It didn't crowd the air. It just was—anchoring. Solid. A presence that didn't demand anything in return.
Harry didn't realize Bucky had started lingering until he caught himself noticing the pattern.
The gym was usually empty when Harry came in late. He liked it that way—no eyes on him, no loud corrections, just space and the repetitive rhythm of movement.
But Bucky had started showing up five, ten minutes after he arrived. Not every time. But enough.
He never interrupted. He just trained in the opposite corner, gloves on, expression unreadable. Sometimes he'd watch. Sometimes he didn't. But he never left first.
One night, Harry broke the silence.
"You planning to hover forever, or is this your version of flirting?"
Bucky didn't look up from the bench press.
"Not flirting," he said. "Just making sure you don't vanish."
Harry blinked. "You think I'd disappear?"
"I think you've done it before."
Harry didn't respond to that. Because he wasn't wrong.
After that, they started sparring more often. Not formally. Not even scheduled. It just happened. Harry would show up, and Bucky would already be there. Or vice versa.
There was something honest about it—no posturing, no talking. Just movement. Reaction. Flow.
Harry liked it more than he wanted to admit.
Especially the part where Bucky never asked questions. Not when Harry flinched too hard at a loud noise. Not when he jerked away from an unexpected hand on his shoulder. Not when he tensed for half a second too long when someone moved too fast nearby.
Bucky didn't ask.
He just adjusted.
Didn't touch without warning. Didn't crowd. Sometimes he'd nod before they started sparring, a small motion, permission to engage.
And Harry—Harry gave it every time.
They ended up on the balcony once, after a particularly long session. Both of them breathless, sore, and running on the kind of adrenaline that made it hard to sit still.
The air outside was cold. Harry's hoodie wasn't enough, but he didn't move.
Bucky leaned against the railing, arms folded, face turned toward the city.
"You fight like someone who had to learn young," he said eventually.
Harry tilted his head. "You sound like someone who did too."
They didn't say anything else for a while.
But when Bucky turned to go, he paused just long enough to peel off the light jacket he was wearing and toss it in Harry's direction.
Harry didn't say thank you.
But he wore it the rest of the night.
The next morning, there was a thermos waiting for him in the common kitchen.
It wasn't labeled.
But it smelled like cinnamon.
And metal.
And something safe.