The Winter Soldier had never been an unstable man.
He had been precise. Efficient. Cold when necessary, warm when allowed. A tool of war, a ghost in the shadows.
But now?
Now, he was obsessed.
It had started the moment he laid eyes on Harry. Something inside him stirred, something ancient and unspoken. It wasn't memory, not exactly, but recognition. A sense of something unfinished, something waiting.
And Bucky Barnes had never been one to leave loose ends.
Which was why, for the past three days, he had been watching.
He didn't hide it.
Whenever Harry entered a room, Bucky's gaze followed.
Whenever Harry spoke, Bucky listened.
Whenever Harry's magic flickered, the soldier's fingers twitched—ready, waiting, as if his body was responding to something only he could sense.
And the strangest part?
Harry let him.
He didn't push Bucky away. Didn't snap at him or demand explanations. If anything, he welcomed it. He was just as fascinated by Bucky as Bucky was by him.
Which was a problem.
Because Loki noticed.
"You are irritating," Loki announced one evening, stepping in front of Bucky with his usual dramatic flair.
Bucky didn't react. "You're in my way."
Loki smiled. It was not a nice smile. "Good."
Bucky tilted his head slightly, his steel-blue eyes unreadable. "You have a problem with me."
"Several," Loki said smoothly. "Would you like me to list them in alphabetical order, or should I start with the most offensive?"
Bucky exhaled through his nose. "Let me guess—Harry."
Loki's smirk vanished. His emerald eyes burned cold as he stepped closer. "He is not yours."
Bucky remained still. "Didn't say he was."
"But you think it," Loki hissed. "You don't even understand why you feel drawn to him, do you?"
Bucky clenched his jaw. "Doesn't matter."
Loki's magic flared—subtle, but there.
"It matters to me."
For a moment, neither moved.
Then—
"Are you two going to fight, or are you just posturing?"
Both turned.
Harry stood in the doorway, his glowing emerald eyes sharp and amused. He leaned casually against the frame, arms crossed, watching them with the patience of someone who knew exactly what was happening but was in no hurry to stop it.
Loki immediately withdrew, stepping toward Harry with ease. "Merely informing the soldier that his attentions are unnecessary."
Bucky snorted. "Sounds like jealousy."
Loki's head snapped back toward him, fury flashing in his eyes. "Mind your tongue, mortal."
Bucky smirked. "Touched a nerve, huh?"
"Enough."
The room shook.
Both Loki and Bucky froze.
Harry's magic pulsed outward, curling through the air like invisible vines, pressing against them with a force that was neither violent nor gentle.
It was a reminder.
That he was the one in control.
That he was the one they were drawn to.
That he was the Master of Death.
Loki exhaled sharply, stepping back. His magic withdrew immediately, but his displeasure was obvious. "Tread carefully, soldier."
Bucky, however, did not step back.
Instead—
He smiled.
"You're strong," Bucky murmured, his voice low, admiring.
Harry arched an eyebrow. "Yes."
Bucky took a slow step forward, his steel arm flexing slightly, his entire focus locked entirely on Harry. "I like strong."
The tension in the room shifted.
Loki's magic spiked, the god bristling at the sheer audacity of the mortal.
But Harry?
Harry laughed.
Soft. Amused. Deadly.
Then—
"Good," Harry said, his voice smooth as silk. "Then you'll like me."
Bucky's smirk widened.
And Loki?
Loki seethed.