StrangerNightmare

Or… well. As calm as he can be.

“Daddy, don’t move,” Maisie insists, her small fingers carefully separating a section of his hair. She’s perched behind him on the back of the couch, tongue poking out in concentration as she attempts what she proudly declared was going to be “a braid like Elsa.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Bucky murmurs, perfectly still despite the slight tugging.

On his right side, curled into him like she belongs there, is Lila. She’s tucked against his flesh arm, her cheek pressed to his chest, thumb absentmindedly brushing along the seam of his shirt. Her legs are thrown over his lap, fully claiming him as her personal pillow.

“I’m comfy,” she mumbles, already half-asleep.

“You look comfy, bug,” he says softly, dipping his head just enough to press a kiss to her hair—careful not to disrupt Maisie’s “masterpiece.”

That lasts all of three seconds.

“Daddy!”

Bucky barely has time to react before something collides into his left side—hard.

“Oof—” His vibranium arm comes up instinctively, steadying the small body now attempting to climb him like he’s a jungle gym.

“Look what I made!” Nora announces proudly, shoving a slightly crumpled drawing directly into his line of sight.

He shifts just enough to see it without disturbing the rest of his very delicate situation.

It’s… colorful.

Very colorful.

There’s a stick figure with long hair (you), a bigger one with a square torso (him, he assumes), and four smaller figures scattered around. One of them appears to have wings.

“Is that me?” he asks, tapping the larger figure.

Nora beams. “Yeah! And that’s you too—” she points to another one. “But that’s you when you’re a superhero.”

“Ah,” he nods solemnly. “I can tell by the… wings.”

“They’re not wings,” she says, scandalized. “That’s your metal arm.”

“Of course it is,” Bucky corrects immediately. “How could I miss that?”

Satisfied, Nora scrambles into his lap—well, what little lap space remains between her and Lila.

“Daddy, I wanna cuddle too.”

“C’mere, sweetheart.” He shifts carefully, adjusting his legs so she can wedge herself in without knocking Lila off entirely.

Behind him, Maisie groans. “Daddy, you moved!”

“Sorry, sweetheart,” he says, freezing again mid-adjustment. “Won’t happen again.”

“That braid better be worth it,” you murmur from where you’re sitting cross-legged on the floor, trying (and failing) not to laugh.

Bucky shoots you a look that says help me, but there’s no real distress behind it. His eyes are soft, warm, glowing in that way they only ever do when he’s surrounded like this.

When he’s theirs.

“Daddy!”

Another voice this time—Ellie—coming in at full speed from the hallway. She’s clutching a stuffed bunny in one hand and something shiny in the other.

“I found this!” she declares, climbing onto the armrest next to him.

“What’d you find, El?” he asks, shifting his vibranium hand to steady her before she can topple over.

“It’s your dog tags!” she says, dangling them in front of his face.

His chest tightens for half a second—old memories, old weight—but it melts just as quickly when she beams at him like she’s discovered treasure.

“You wanna wear them?” he asks gently.

Her eyes go wide. “Really?”

“Really.”

He carefully lifts them over his head, placing them around her neck. They hang comically low, nearly to her stomach, but she doesn’t care.

“I’m just like you!” she announces proudly.

“Yeah, you are,” he says softly, brushing his thumb over her cheek.

Now there are four of them on him.

Maisie behind him, still braiding with fierce determination.

Lila half-asleep against his chest.

Nora sprawled across his lap, holding her drawing like it’s sacred.

Ellie perched beside him, dog tags clinking as she wiggles with excitement.

And then—

“Daddy, I wanna sit too!”

The smallest voice yet.

She toddles over with unsteady steps, dragging a blanket behind her like a royal train. Her curls are a mess, her pajama top twisted, and her lip slightly stuck out in a pout.

“There’s no room,” she declares, deeply offended.

Bucky exhales a quiet laugh.

“C’mere, Pip.”

He somehow shifts again, making space by pulling her up onto his chest, right above Lila.

“There we go,” he murmurs, settling her carefully so she doesn’t squish her sister.

Piper immediately melts into him, tiny hands fisting in his shirt.

“All my girls,” he murmurs under his breath.

You catch it.

Of course you do.

Your heart does that soft, aching thing it always does when he says stuff like that—like he still can’t believe this is his life. Like he’s still waiting for it to disappear.

It won’t.

Not this.

Not the way Maisie proudly announces, “Daddy, I’m done!” and holds up what can only be described as the most chaotic braid you’ve ever seen.

Not the way Nora immediately demands, “Can I do the other side?”

Not the way Ellie leans into him, whispering, “I love you, Daddy.”

Not the way Piper is already snoring softly against his chest.

Not the way Lila sleepily murmurs, “Best movie day ever.”

Bucky just sits there in the middle of it all—hair half-braided, arms full, heart fuller—looking like a man who was carved from war but somehow remade for this.

For them.

For five little girls who see him not as something broken or dangerous, but as theirs.

“Love you too, doll,” he murmurs quietly, not even sure which one he’s answering.

It doesn’t matter.