A Bolt from the Blue

Chapter 9

The next morning, Steve and Bucky were making their way inside S.H.I.E.L.D. facility, greeted as always by all the agents, regardless of their ranks. As they turned around a quiet corridor, Bucky leaned in toward Steve.

"You went on a date with Romanoff?!" he exclaimed with a low voice.

Steve rolled his eyes. "For the hundredth time, it wasn't a date."

"Took you long enough to tell me though," Bucky retorted with an accusative tone. Indeed Steve had waited until they were driving to D.C. to let him know about how he had spent his afternoon the day before.

"For the simple reason I didn't want you to harp on about it for the whole evening. Considering how you've been harassing me with the same question all morning my fears were clearly legitimate," Steve said.

"Well, it's rude! I've always told you how my date nights went."

"And I wish you didn't," Steve commented matter-of-factly, a little smile playing on his lips. "I'm glad this conversation had at least the merit to get this off my chest."

He had to admit his best friend's detailing had decreased through the years, especially compared to their teenage years.

Bucky grunted and shrugged. "Fine, then let's go on with our thing. I'll keep punishing you by telling you all about my dates, and you'll keep punishing me by not spilling a damn thing."

A glorious conclusion to a glorious conversation. Or so Steve thought.

After two minutes, as they stepped out the elevator, Bucky, unable to hold it any longer, went on again.

"A date with Romanoff!"

Steve sighed. This was to linger on forever.

"It wasn't a date."

"Only one way to know," Bucky retorted. "Did you kiss?"

"We ate a doughnut," he said.

Bucky's face slowly morphed into an expression of utter confusion and puzzlement.

"Wait, what?" he hissed, furrowing his brows hard. "Is that a secret code? It's an idiom they use nowadays for something else, isn't it?"

They had just reached the end of a long corridor. Steve slightly turned around, facing his friend, pressed his shoulder against the door and leaned forward to push it open. Only Bucky could come to such a conclusion after an answer as simple as the one he had provided.

He waggled an eyebrow and smirked in silence like the one and only response to Bucky's internal torment. Knowing him, he was sure he would rack his brains over it for at least two days.

He could swear he heard a roar coming from inside his friend's throat as if he was aware of the fate he had just been sentenced to. He shot him a hard and fairly hostile glare.

"You a-," he began to grumble with passion.

"Gentlemen. Morning briefing is about to start," an agent said gently as the door opened on him.

Bucky shushed himself and solemn silence, meant to conceal any trace of the colloquial conversation that had just been interrupted, followed. To Steve's advantage.

"I'm not done yet," Bucky muttered menacingly.

"I'm sure you're not," Steve answered with a nonchalant smile.

They parted, one looking insatiate and frustrated, the other smug and content, and sat in their respective seats, then they regularly threw each other eloquent glances across the large, rectangular table for the whole duration of the meeting.