But the test is negative. Your body never even tried to hold on.

You don’t cry until three days later, when Bucky comes home with groceries and finds you sitting in the middle of the hallway with the onesie in your lap.

He doesn’t say anything. Just sinks down beside you and lets you sob into his chest until your throat burns and the fabric of his shirt is soaked through.

“Try again?” you whisper into the space between his heartbeat.

He nods without hesitation. “As many times as it takes.”

ii. the second time

This time, you're cautious.

No nursery window shopping. No Pinterest boards. You barely let yourself speak above a whisper in the clinic, and you don’t meet Bucky’s eyes when he brushes your cheek with a kiss before the transfer.

You’ve read all the research. The success rate is still low. The hormones are hell. You’ve learned to dull your expectations into something small and manageable.

But Bucky—he still hopes like it's his job.

He starts reading aloud to your belly at night, lying beside you in bed, whispering tiny stories to cells that may not even be there. You pretend not to listen. Pretend you’re asleep.

Then comes the morning.

You take the test. You don’t breathe. You press your hand to your chest and count seconds.

Two lines.

You stare for so long you forget how to count.

“Bucky,” you call, voice cracking in disbelief. “Buck…”

He’s already sprinting from the kitchen. Sees the test. Drops to his knees like his whole world just crashed back into orbit.

And for one week, you’re parents.

Until you’re not.

The bleeding starts on a Thursday.

You lose them on a Friday.

You lose something else, too.

Hope, maybe.

Or whatever was left of your trust in your own body.

iii. the third time

You scream into a pillow after the third round.

Not because of the negative result. But because you never even made it to transfer this time. Your body didn’t respond. Your hormone levels were all wrong. The eggs didn’t fertilize.

Bucky tries to stay strong for you. He offers soft encouragement, gentle words, firm touches that feel like they’re meant to anchor you to the earth.

But then you hear him cry in the shower.

Not loud. Not long.

Just one stifled sob.

And it crushes you.

Because this was supposed to be his redemption arc, too. A life after war, after loss, after blood and pain and metal and ghosts. He wanted this as much as you did. Not just to be a father—but to build something good.

You knock on the bathroom door before letting yourself in.

He startles.

You wrap your arms around his wet body, clothes soaking instantly, and rest your forehead against the seam of his shoulder.

“I can’t keep doing this if it’s breaking you.”

“Then let it break me,” he whispers hoarsely. “Just don’t do it alone.”

iv. the fourth time

This one’s a chemical pregnancy.

Which sounds sterile. Clinical. Distant.

But it still feels like death.

The embryo implants, hormone levels rise, the doctor congratulates you.

You and Bucky sit in the car afterward, holding hands and smiling quietly. You eat pickles and ice cream at midnight even though it’s ridiculous, even though you know it’s superstition and not science.

Then your hormone levels plummet.

Too fast. Too soon.

You bleed it out in a haze of cramps and tears and guilt.

“It was real,” you whisper into the pillow one night. “Even if it was only for a second.”

“I know,” Bucky says. “It was ours.”

You can’t explain how much it helps to hear that. To know someone else saw them. Even for a second.

v. the fifth time

The fifth round leaves you wrecked.

You’ve memorized the routine by now: shots, meds, early mornings, hope, fear, silence.

You’ve started to resent your own body—your tired veins, your battered womb, your broken systems. You start thinking of yourself as a failure. A factory with the lights flickering and machinery rusted.

Bucky sees it before you do.

He watches you in the mirror as you jab a needle into your thigh with mechanical disinterest. He sees the way you recoil from touch now. The way your hand hovers over your stomach like you're afraid to try again.

So he makes you laugh.

Every day.

Even when the test is negative again. Even when your chart reads like a line of disappointments.

He tapes up drawings on the fridge—tiny stick-figure babies in sunglasses, Bucky drawn with a massive arm holding a diaper bag.

He books you a weekend away. Just the two of you.

There’s no talk of clinics. No mention of shots. Just the ocean and your bodies and the fragile joy of breathing beside someone who still loves you like you’re whole.

That’s when you ask him.

“Do you want to stop?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just cups your face in both hands.

“I want you. Always. Baby or not.”

But he doesn’t say no.

And neither do you.

+ i. the sixth time

You almost don’t tell him.

You take the test in silence, heart in your throat, because you’ve convinced yourself this time won’t work either and you're tired of letting him watch you shatter.

You squint at the test.

You blink.

You sit down on the bathroom floor, suddenly unsure if you're awake or dreaming.

Then you hear footsteps.

You look up, and Bucky is already there, still wiping his hands on a dishtowel, head tilted in concern.

“What is it?”

You hold up the test with shaking fingers.

Tears brim before either of you speaks.

“Bucky—”

He crosses the room and drops to his knees in front of you, just like he did the first time. But this time he’s quiet. Eyes glassy. Almost scared.

“How sure are you?” he asks.

You nod. “I took three.”

The doctor confirms it the next day.

Viable. Strong heartbeat. Levels climbing steadily.

The clinic staff who’ve known you for years cry with you in the exam room.

You hold Bucky’s hand like it’s your lifeline. His thumb brushes yours in a rhythm. Three times.

I love you.

You spend the next nine months terrified.

Every symptom is a warning. Every silence is a siren.

You whisper affirmations to your belly like prayers. You keep your hospital bag packed from week twenty.

You and Bucky argue once—over how tightly he watches you, how often you disappear into fear.

But he softens when he finds you crying over baby socks at two in the morning, holding your belly and begging the universe not to take this one, too.

He holds you in the middle of the nursery, surrounded by soft things and hopes you can’t bring yourself to name.

“You’re not broken,” he says into your hair. “You never were.”

Labor is chaos.

Early. Painful. Scary.

But you’re not alone.

Bucky grips your hand, forehead to yours, whispering your name like it’s a lifeline.

“You’ve got this, sweetheart. You’ve always had this.”

And then—

There’s a cry.

A real one.

Wet and loud and angry.

You see your baby—your actual baby—for the first time and the world shifts on its axis.

Tiny fingers. A scrunched face. A sound that splits your ribs open in the best way.

You’re sobbing. Bucky’s sobbing.

They lay your baby on your chest and everything hurts and heals at once.

You look at Bucky.

You’ve never seen that look on his face before.

Awe. Wonder. Absolute, bone-deep love.

“Hi, little one,” he whispers. “We’ve been waiting for you.”

You name her Hope.

Because it almost left you.