mellowanimeinscience

✦ a/n: This is my first fic, guys, so please be kind! It’ll be posted in 5–6 parts, with a new chapter every Sunday. My love for Bucky is immense, and this is my way of showing some love to this work of art of a man. 🫶

This is post-Thunderbolts Bucky, but I’m giving him his TFATWS hair because I simply refuse to get over that look on him.

The past few days had been filled with nervous anticipation, trying not to get your hopes up while still checking your phone more often than you wanted to admit.

When the call finally came, you spent a few moments afterward simply staring at your phone, letting the reality settle in. The countless applications, the late nights searching for opportunities, the uncertainty of what came next, all of it had finally led somewhere.

You got the job.

When you told Paul, he looked happier than you expected.

He immediately celebrated with you, insisting that it was exactly what you deserved and that he knew you would get it. Later, when he returned from the headquarters, he told you that everyone had sent their congratulations.

Even Bucky.

You tried not to look too interested when Paul mentioned him.

According to Paul, Bucky had simply nodded and said that he wasn't surprised. The compliment stayed with you longer than it probably should have.

It was twelve days after you joined before you saw Bucky again.

Not that you were keeping track. At least, that was what you told yourself.

The Avengers medical facility was unlike anywhere you had trained before. The foundation was still the same, patient care, emergency response, and teamwork, but the environment existed on a completely different level.

It wasn't only built for the Avengers.

With Valentina overseeing the facility's operations through her connections with the CIA, it also served as a specialised medical centre for select security personnel, field agents, and government operatives across the city. People whose work placed them in situations where ordinary hospitals either couldn't provide the right care or couldn't protect their privacy.

Advanced technology. Unusual injuries. Patients whose situations belonged nowhere near an ordinary hospital.

Slowly, though, the unfamiliar became routine.

Between learning new protocols, shadowing senior nurses, finding your way around the vast facility, and familiarising yourself with technology you had never seen before, you barely had time to think about anything outside of work.

Still, you noticed his absence.

You had seen almost everyone else at least once.

Paul stopped by whenever he had a moment, usually checking in before getting pulled back into work.

Yelena occasionally appeared just to complain about something minor, though she always made sure you were alright before leaving. Bob somehow managed to complain about paperwork even while getting his vitals checked.

John was quieter, usually offering a simple greeting before returning to work. Alexei, meanwhile, treated the medical wing like a social club, arriving with dramatic stories and unnecessary commentary that somehow made even routine check-ups entertaining.

Ava began appearing too, usually with some flimsy excuse, before casually asking oddly specific questions about Paul’s preferences and disappearing again.

But Bucky never came through.

Until tonight.

It was almost seven, and your shift was nearly over, when the alarms announcing the team’s return echoed through the medical wing.

The quiet rhythm of the facility changed into something sharper and more focused. Staff moved with practiced urgency, medical teams preparing equipment, monitors being checked, and reports being pulled up before the returning agents had even reached the doors.

You weren't part of the emergency response team yet.

As a trainee, your role was still mostly observation, assisting where needed, and learning the procedures from those who had been doing this far longer than you had.

So you stayed back, organising supplies and restocking equipment while the senior medical staff handled the more serious injuries.

About twenty minutes later, after the immediate rush had settled, you stepped into one of the quieter supply corridors to collect additional sterile packs.

The hallway was much calmer now.

The bright overhead lights hummed softly, casting pale reflections across the polished floor. Most of the staff had moved back toward the main treatment areas, leaving this part of the facility almost completely silent.

Then you noticed movement. A door at the end of the corridor was slightly open.

You slowed and through the gap, you saw him.

Bucky stood alone inside one of the smaller treatment rooms, facing away from the doorway where you had stopped without realising it.

For a moment, you simply watched. Not because you meant to. But because there was something strangely different about seeing him like this. Not as the Avenger everyone knew. Not as the man people talked about.

Just as someone who had come back injured and was trying to handle it himself.

His tactical jacket had been discarded over the back of a chair, the heavy material hanging there like a reminder of where he had just been. His gloves and equipment were placed neatly beside him, everything arranged with the same careful precision you had noticed about him before.

His shirt was caught between his teeth, holding the fabric out of the way as he leaned one hip against the examination table. The overhead lights caught the faint sheen of sweat on his skin, making the injury stand out even more clearly.

A deep graze stretched along his ribs, the skin around it already bruising slightly. It wasn't life-threatening, and from the look of it, it probably wasn't even something he would consider worth mentioning.

You knew James Barnes was a super soldier. His body healed faster than a normal person's, and an injury like this would probably close up within a day or two. If he ignored it, he would likely be fine.

But "fine" wasn't the same as being properly treated.

The wound was longer than you first noticed, the edges irritated from whatever had caused it. There were still traces of dirt and debris caught around the injury, the kind of thing that his enhanced healing might push through but didn't make any less unpleasant in the process.

It wasn't life-threatening. It wasn't even close. But it was deep enough that it needed to be cleaned properly. Deep enough that leaving it alone simply because it would heal felt careless.

In one hand, he held an unopened dressing pack. With the other, he was trying to reach the injury himself.

You watched as he carefully attempted to clean the wound.

Once.

He stopped, adjusted his position, and tried again, shifting his body slightly to get a better angle. It didn't help. His fingers still couldn't quite reach the area properly without forcing his shoulder into an awkward twist that looked increasingly uncomfortable.

A quiet sigh escaped him.

He tried a third time, reaching around himself with a little more determination, but the result was exactly the same. The muscles across his shoulders tightened slightly with frustration, even though his expression remained carefully controlled.

That was when you finally spoke. “You know…”

He froze. Not dramatically. Just enough. His hand stopped mid-motion, and for a second, the entire room seemed to go still.

“There are people whose entire job is helping with that.”

Slowly, he looked over his shoulder. The expression on his face was like he had been caught doing something he knew he shouldn't have been doing.

“I was almost done.”

You looked at the untouched supplies beside him.

“You haven't even opened the antiseptic.”

His eyes flickered briefly toward the small packet.

“I was getting there.”

You folded your arms, unable to stop the small smile forming.

“You weren't able to.”

A quiet sigh escaped him. It was almost amused. Almost.

“It doesn't need a nurse.”

“It needs two hands.”

That made him pause, because he knew you were right. You could see the brief calculation in his expression, the instinct to argue, followed by the realisation that arguing would only make him look more stubborn.

Which, unfortunately for him, he was.

You walked into the room, already reaching for a pair of gloves from the nearby station.

“Sit.”

The command came out more naturally than you expected. Maybe it was the nurse training, or maybe it was simply the fact that you'd spent years telling people to stop making their injuries worse by pretending they weren't there.

Either way, Bucky looked at you for a moment, as though he wasn't quite used to people speaking to him that way.

Then, after a quiet second, he obeyed. He sat on the edge of the examination table while you prepared the supplies, and as you moved closer, you found yourself noticing details about him that you usually didn't have the opportunity to see this closely.

The faint exhaustion around his eyes. The small tension he carried even when he was perfectly still. The way he watched everything around him out of habit, always aware, always prepared. Even here. Even with you.

You cleaned the wound carefully, explaining what you were doing only when necessary. The graze wasn't severe, but it had collected dirt and needed proper attention before it became a bigger problem.

For a while, neither of you spoke. Then,

"You've done this before."

You glanced up.

A small smile appeared on your face. "I've been studying nursing for years."

"I meant..." He paused, choosing his words. "...with stubborn patients."

You laughed quietly. "Occupational hazard."

The corner of his mouth lifted. Only slightly. But enough.

You smoothed the last strip of medical tape over the fresh dressing, pressing gently along the edges to make sure it would stay in place. Satisfied, you let your hands linger for only a second before beginning to pull away.

That was when you looked up. He was already looking at you.

The fluorescent lights softened the blue of his eyes, making them seem quieter somehow. His expression was unreadable, but his gaze wasn't. It rested on you with a calm, almost searching kind of attention that made the room suddenly feel much smaller than it had a moment ago.

For a heartbeat, neither of you moved.

His vibranium hand still held the hem of his shirt out of the way, the dark metal contrasting sharply against the worn fabric. His flesh hand rested loosely on his thigh, relaxed now that you had finished, the fingers slightly curled as though they had finally stopped expecting to do the work themselves.

You became acutely aware of how close you were.

Close enough to notice the faint scent of antiseptic mixed with whatever soap he used.

Close enough to hear his steady breathing.

Close enough that, if you didn't step back now, it might become awkward.

Your eyes dropped for the briefest moment. The dressing sat neatly against the hard lines of his torso, your own gloved hands still hovering near his ribs. You cleared your throat and finally took a step back.

"Try to keep the dressing dry for the next twenty-four hours," you said, slipping naturally back into your professional voice. "If it starts bleeding through or the edges lift, change it. Otherwise, clean it gently tomorrow before putting on a fresh dressing."

His eyes never really left yours. After a quiet beat, he finally released the hem of his shirt from his metal hand and carefully pulled it back into place, his movements unhurried, as though neither of you was in any rush to break the moment.

"I know the drill."

Of course he did.

You smiled, pulling off your gloves. "I figured."

Then, after the smallest pause, you added with a hint of frustration,

"Doesn't mean you're actually going to follow it."

That earned another almost-smile. He looked down at the bandage, thumb brushing absentmindedly over the edge of the dressing.

“Maybe,” he said quietly. “Maybe it’s time I stopped overthinking things.”

The words caught you off guard.

You couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at your lips. Finally, you thought. Maybe he’d decided to stop carrying the weight of every life he couldn’t save. Maybe he’d finally let himself believe he deserved more than isolation and endless punishment.

“That’s… probably a good place to start,” you said softly.

"Thanks." But there was something about the way he said it that made it feel heavier than it should have. As though he wasn't only thanking you for cleaning a wound or the interaction you just had.

You smiled. "You're welcome, James."

His head tilted ever so slightly, and that familiar flicker crossed his face again, the same one you had caught outside the elevator days ago.

"It's Bucky."

You blinked. "Oh. I mean…"

He waited patiently, watching you stumble over the correction.

You smiled sheepishly. "Sorry, James."

For a moment, he simply stared at you. Then his eyes narrowed slightly. "...You did that on purpose."

You tried to look innocent. "Maybe." The corners of your lips curled despite your best effort.

A sharper smile appeared this time, quick and undeniably cheeky. It reached only one corner of his mouth, but there was something quietly playful about it, as though he had accepted your challenge without saying the words.

You turned away before he could catch your own smile growing any wider and busied yourself clearing the trolley. Used cotton swabs disappeared into the clinical waste bin, empty antiseptic packets followed, and you folded the discarded wrapping into a neat pile almost absentmindedly. 

"So..."

You glanced over your shoulder.

"Successful mission?"

His expression settled again. He had slid off the examination table, reaching for his jacket.

"As successful as they usually are."

"Meaning?"

"We came back."

Something about the answer made you smile. 

“That’s a remarkably low standard.”

“It keeps expectations realistic.”

You nodded, sealing the waste bag.

"Well... try to get some rest tonight."

A faint breath of amusement escaped him.

"I'll try."

"And maybe..." you added, glancing back at him, "...a warm cup of herbal tea before bed. It helps."

He slipped his tactical jacket over one shoulder before answering. "I don't do tea."

"No?"

"I like coffee."

"At night?"

"Yes, especially at midnight."

You laughed.

"I suppose that's one way to recover."

He shrugged into his jacket.

"What are you going to do now?" 

"My shift's almost over." You washed your hands, drying them carefully. "I've just got to collect my bag, finish my notes, and then I'm heading home."

He gave a small nod.

“I was thinking of going to the canteen. Grab a coffee, maybe something to eat.”

The words were spoken so casually that you almost missed them altogether. He wasn't looking directly at you anymore, just adjusting the cuff of his sleeve as though the thought had simply crossed his mind.

“The canteen coffee?” You smiled sympathetically.

“Mhm.”

“I tried it on my second day.”

“And?”

“I've been carrying instant coffee sachets in my locker ever since.”

For a second, he simply looked at you. Then he laughed, a quiet, genuine sound that escaped before he could stop it, accompanied by the smallest shake of his head.

“If you ever want to try something better, there's a café down the road. They have the best cheesecake.” You added.

“I'll keep that in mind.”

You smiled, oddly pleased that you'd managed to introduce him to a decent place so close to headquarters.

"I should probably get going." 

He nodded. "How're you getting home?"

"Paul."

Another small nod. "Right."

You walked towards the door. Just before stepping out, you glanced back.

"See you around..." You caught yourself. "...Bucky."

His expression softened. The smile this time wasn't any bigger than the last, but it reached his eyes.

"See you."

It wasn't until you were sitting in the car that you found yourself replaying the evening, particularly his casual mention of grabbing something to eat after your shift. In hindsight, it seemed painfully obvious. He'd been giving you an opening, and you'd responded by warning him the coffee was terrible.

The following morning began like every other.

You arrived a little before your shift, clipping your ID into place as you stepped into the elevator. When the doors opened, you stepped into the corridor, adjusting the strap of your bag as you headed toward the nurses' station. You'd barely made it a few steps before you noticed someone standing farther down the hall.

Bucky.

He stood with one shoulder resting lightly against the wall, already dressed for the day in dark tactical clothing, his hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket. At first, you thought he was simply waiting for someone else.

Then he looked up. His expression softened ever so slightly when he saw you. Without a word, he held out a takeaway coffee cup.

You slowed to a stop.

"...What's this?"

"Coffee."

"I can see that."

For a second, he almost looked uncertain. Then he shrugged one shoulder.

“You said the canteen’s was terrible. Said this place was good.”

You looked down at the cup. It wasn't from the canteen. The logo belonged to the café you'd recommended yesterday.

"You got one for me too?"

Bucky shrugged again, still trying very hard to look casual about it.

You looked back at him, still trying to understand. "...Why?"

He was quiet for a moment, almost as though the answer should have been obvious.

"You patched me up."

The words were simple. Matter-of-fact. Like, in his mind, that explained everything. 

You couldn't help smiling. "I was just doing my job."

"I know." Another small pause. "I'm saying thank you."

Something warm settled quietly in your chest. You accepted the cup. The paper was still warm against your hands.

"Thank you... Bucky."

The corner of his mouth lifted. 

You took a sip and smiled. Somehow, it tasted better than you remembered.

The next few days settled into a routine that neither of you ever acknowledged aloud.

Every morning you were scheduled to work, you would find Bucky somewhere around the elevator before your shift. One day, you casually mentioned your days off, mostly so he wouldn't end up waiting for you on a morning you wouldn't be there. Your days off passed uneventfully without him, and you found yourself missing the coffees and, more than you cared to admit, the conversations that came with them.

On your workdays, you began arriving ten minutes earlier than usual, giving yourself more time to walk with him before your shift. Somehow, even then, Bucky was always already there.

Never in quite the same place. Sometimes he leaned against the wall, other times he sat on a nearby bench, phone in hand, or stood by the security doors pretending to be interested in the access panel.

Without fail, there were always two coffees.

There was never any ceremony to it. He would simply hold the second cup out as though it had always belonged there, and you would take it with an easy “thank you” before the two of you started walking toward the nurses’ station.

The conversations came just as naturally. At first, they were little more than questions about his injuries, your shift, or what either of you had planned for the day. Gradually, though, they wandered elsewhere, coffee preferences, terrible canteen food, the strangest things you'd seen since arriving, bits of his work he could actually talk about.

Sometimes, they were completely ridiculous.

“I don’t believe you,” you said one morning, laughing.

“It's true.”

“Bucky, Australia did not actually lose a war to birds.”

He gave you a look. “They did.”

You pulled out your phone. “Seriously?”

“Go ahead.”

You opened Google, already convinced you'd prove him wrong. A few seconds later, your expression fell.

Bucky glanced at you. “So, what does Google say?”

His voice was unbearably smug. You shoved your phone back into your pocket.

“I don't like you.”

The corner of his mouth lifted.

Some mornings, you did most of the talking while he listened. Other mornings, you managed to get a surprisingly long answer out of him before he seemed to realise how much he'd said.

The walk to the nurses’ station was barely two minutes, but somehow, you always seemed to take the long way around or at least walk a little slower than necessary, stretching those few minutes into something neither of you seemed eager to end.

You also learned quickly that Bucky had an incredibly dry sense of humour. He never smiled before the punchline. Sometimes, he barely smiled afterwards. More than once, your laughter came several seconds after the joke, usually earning you a faint, knowing look that suggested he'd expected exactly that.

One morning, you were telling him about a couple who had come in together, both agents, both injured, and apparently both determined to spend the entire appointment arguing.

“They were fighting the whole time,” you said.

“About everything. He said she never listens. She said he only talks when he's wrong. At one point, they started arguing about who had started the argument.”

Bucky glanced at you. “Sounds healthy.”

“It gets better. One of the nurses finally looked at them and said, ‘Have you two considered couples therapy?’”

Bucky snorted quietly.

“You should've seen their faces.”

“I'm guessing they weren't thrilled.”

“They looked genuinely offended.” You laughed. “I mean, she wasn't exactly wrong.”

Bucky was quiet for a moment.

Then, completely matter-of-factly,  “Sam and I did couples therapy once.”

You stopped. Bucky kept walking.

“…What?”

He glanced over his shoulder, completely straight-faced. “Couples therapy.”

You hurried to catch up. “Why?”

“Don't know.”

“Bucky.”

“Communication issues.”

You stared at him. “I'm sorry, you and Sam went to couples therapy?”

“Yeah.”

“Like..actually?”

“We had to sit really close and stare into each other's eyes.”

You nearly choked on your coffee.

Bucky's mouth twitched. “It was awful.”

By the end of the week, those few minutes before work had quietly become your favourite part of the morning.

The following Monday morning, he wasn't there.

You didn't think much of it at first. Missions happened. Projects ran longer than expected. Sometimes people were simply needed elsewhere. That was life inside the compound.

Still, as you accepted an overly sweet coffee from the vending machine near the nurses' station, you caught yourself glancing towards the corridor where he usually appeared.

It remained empty.

Your morning carried on exactly as it always did. You attended handover, checked patient charts, assisted with admissions, learned how to calibrate one of the medical wing's new portable imaging scanners capable of producing three-dimensional skeletal projections in seconds, and spent the better part of an hour shadowing one of the senior trauma nurses during an emergency transfer from the training facility.

The work was demanding enough that the hours slipped past almost unnoticed.

Almost.

Every now and then, usually when you reached for the coffee sitting beside your workstation or found yourself walking the familiar route towards the nurses’ station, you realised you had expected to see him.

You told yourself it was only because routines were easy to miss once they disappeared.

Nothing more.

By the time your shift finally ended, your shoulders ached pleasantly from hours spent on your feet, and all you could think about was getting home, showering, and collapsing into bed.

You collected your bag from the locker room, exchanged goodbyes with the night staff taking over, and stepped out into the main corridor.

Someone was waiting.

Bucky stood in his usual spot, one shoulder resting lightly against the wall, his hands tucked into the pockets of the dark jacket he'd changed into after the morning's tactical gear. There was still a trace of fatigue around his eyes, but his posture eased the moment he noticed you.

In one hand, he held a small paper bag from the same café. When you reached him, he held it out.

"I'm making up for this morning."

You looked down, opening the top just enough to peek inside. Two slices of cheesecake. You looked back up at him, unable to stop the smile spreading across your face.

"You didn't have to do this."

"I know." He shrugged almost self-consciously. "I wanted to."

Something about how simply he said it made your chest tighten.

"Thank you."

"You survived the canteen coffee."

"Barely."

That earned a quiet laugh.

"I figured you deserved better."

Together, the two of you began walking towards the exit.

You talked for only a few minutes, mostly about ordinary things. A stubborn trainee who had somehow managed to sprain his wrist during a simulation exercise. The engineering project that had kept Bucky occupied since before sunrise. The weather, which had finally begun cooling after several days of relentless heat.

Nothing important.

Everything important.

By the time the compound's glass entrance slid open ahead of you, the evening sun had settled lower over the city, washing everything outside in warm amber light.

The car was waiting exactly where you'd left it that morning. You stopped beside the driver's door, turning back towards Bucky.

"Thanks."

You lifted the paper bag slightly. "For this."

"And..."

You hesitated, your fingers tightening just a little around your keys.

"...for waiting."

"It wasn't much of a wait."

You suspected that wasn't entirely true.

“Still.”

A small pause.

“You didn't have to.”

“I know.”

You smiled.

He looked at you for a second before his own smile appeared, small and effortless. His eyes had that same steady, unhurried warmth you had begun recognising over the past week, and for the smallest fraction of a second, it felt as though he was considering saying something more.

Something that lingered just behind his expression. Instead, the thought seemed to pass.

“Get home safe.”

“You too.”

You opened the car door, then glanced back.

“See you tomorrow?”

“Yeah.”

The answer came a little too quickly.

You smiled to yourself as you climbed into the driver's seat, placing the paper bag carefully on the passenger seat beside you before fastening your seatbelt.

As you pulled out of the parking space and merged onto the road leading away from the compound, you glanced once in the rear-view mirror.

He was still standing where you had left him. Hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket. 

Watching until your car disappeared through the security gates. Only then did he finally turn and head back inside.

You smiled to yourself, one hand resting lightly on the steering wheel while the other reached over to steady the paper bag as the car rounded the first corner.

By the time your shift finally ended the next day, your head ached in that familiar way it had started to after long days in the medical wing.

The morning had started with coffee with Bucky, routine observations, and dressing changes before you were pulled into the simulation suite. By the third simulation, you were barely noticing the technology, focused entirely on the patient in front of you. That, one of the senior nurses had told you, was the whole point.

The afternoon had been busier.

When you finally finished your shift and reached the main waiting lounge, exhaustion had settled comfortably into your shoulders.

Paul had insisted you wait for him.

It wasn't as though you needed to. Your apartment wasn't far from HQ, and you could easily walk back on your own. But after you'd made the mistake of doing exactly that after a particularly long shift the week before, Paul had apparently decided he'd been given one more reason to worry about you.

He'd been stuck in meetings that evening and hadn't answered his phone for nearly forty minutes. By the time he finally called and found out you'd walked home alone after dark, he'd given you the same lecture he'd given you a dozen times before, only this time with considerably more emphasis.

Neither of you had shouted. You rarely did. But by the end of the conversation, Paul had asked (far more quietly than angrily) that you wait for him next time, even if it meant sitting in the lounge for another half hour.

You'd agreed.

So here you were, sitting in the waiting lounge with a medical journal balanced across your lap, skimming an article on post-traumatic complications while agents around you slowly packed up for the evening. You'd already read the same paragraph twice without absorbing much of it.

“Hey.”

You looked up.

Paul was already halfway across the lounge, still fastening one of the straps on his tactical vest as he made his way toward you. The usual calm expression he wore around headquarters was slightly different now, not panicked, but focused. The kind of look that appeared whenever work got in the way of whatever plans he'd made.

“I'm so sorry.”

You immediately closed the journal, before setting it aside.

"What happened?" You said, standing up 

"I'll have to go to the site. There's an urgent surveillance review they need me for."

His eyes shifted briefly toward the exit as he spoke.

Through the glass doors of the lounge, you could see John already waiting by the car, leaning against the side with his arms crossed. From the look on his face, he had clearly accepted that he was involved in whatever last-minute situation had appeared, but he was not particularly happy about how quickly it had happened.

John caught Paul's glance and simply lifted a hand in acknowledgement, the universal expression of someone saying yes, I know, I’m already here, stop explaining.

Apparently, Paul had already decided to take the car, which meant you were officially without a ride home. Since the two of you shared it, his sudden change of plans had left you with very few options besides waiting around for him or finding another way back.

Paul looked back at you, his expression softening slightly.

"It's okay. I'll walk."

The answer came automatically. You had already started gathering your things when Paul shook his head.

"No."

"Paul—"

"It'll only take me a minute to sort you a cab."

He pulled out his phone, already opening an app while his eyes kept flicking between the screen and the exit. You could almost see him trying to balance two thoughts at once, getting where he needed to be and making sure you got home safely.

Before either of you could continue the conversation, another voice drifted across the lounge.

"You heading out?"

Both of you turned.

Bucky stood at the entrance of the lounge, his hands resting loosely by his side as he looked between you and Paul.

He looked much the same as he always did, just softer around the edges. He'd traded his usual tactical gear for a deep blue henley, the sleeves pushed casually up his forearms, the collar sitting slightly open at his throat. The shirt fit comfortably across his shoulders and chest without looking like he'd made any effort to dress up. His hair was slightly mussed from a long day, and there was a faint tiredness around his eyes that somehow suited him.

Paul looked relieved the moment he saw him.

“Finished the surveillance rotation?” Paul asked.

Bucky nodded. “Yeah.”

“Any updates?”

He shrugged one shoulder. “Nothing worth mentioning. Just the usual patterns. A few things that needed watching. No field work.”

Then he smiled, glancing over at you.

You smiled back. “So, no jumping out of planes tonight?”

“Not tonight.”

You chuckled. “Shame.”

Bucky smiled back, but your attention shifted to Paul as another notification appeared on his phone. Whatever brief calm Bucky’s arrival had brought him disappeared almost immediately.

“I really have to go.”

Bucky’s gaze left you and settled on him.

Paul hesitated for a second, his eyes moving briefly toward the exit before returning to you. He seemed to be working through his options, probably trying to figure out how to get you home without making himself even later.

You were about to tell him you'd just get a cab yourself when Bucky spoke.

“I can take her.”

The words were simple, almost casual. Like he was offering to do something completely ordinary. And judging by the way Paul’s shoulders relaxed, it was exactly the solution he’d been looking for.

“You sure?”

Bucky nodded once. “It’s no problem.”

Paul looked at you. “You okay with that?”

Your eyes flicked toward Bucky.

He was already willing to help. That much was obvious. But he wasn't moving closer or speaking for you. He simply waited, leaving the choice entirely in your hands.

For some reason, that small consideration made it harder to say no. Your heart gave one embarrassing little stumble.

You ignored it and nodded. “Yeah. Sounds good.”

"Okay.”

Paul slipped his phone back into his pocket. “Text me when you get home.”

“I always do.”

A small smile appeared on his face, relief finally easing some of the tension that had been sitting there since he walked into the lounge.

“Thanks.” Paul said.

The word was directed at Bucky, who answered with a small nod, as though thanks weren't necessary.

Paul was already turning toward the exit, calling a quick goodbye over his shoulder as he crossed the lounge at a pace that was almost a run.

You watched him disappear through the glass doors and hurry toward the waiting car. John was already behind the wheel. Paul barely had time to throw open the passenger door and climb in before John pulled away, the car already moving as he slammed the door shut.

The lounge felt noticeably quieter once Paul was gone. You glanced toward Bucky, only to find him already looking at you.

“He really can't stop worrying about you,” he said, a quiet chuckle slipping into his voice.

You glanced toward the doors. “Apparently not.”

"Ready?"

“Yeah,” you said, adjusting your bag on your shoulder as you walked toward him, a smile already pulling at your lips.

Your gaze drifted over him as you walked, catching on the sleeve he'd rolled up to his forearm, exposing the smooth titanium of his arm beneath the bright lights of the HQ.

It reminded you of something.

“Oh, by the way,” you said. “I saw this really cute kitten on my feed the other day.”

Bucky looked over. “Yeah?”

“He had this little marking on his front leg that looked almost like your arm.” You smiled at the memory. “And apparently the person who adopted him named him Bucky. Bucky the cat.”

That earned a proper smile from him.

You'd learned early on that Bucky had a soft spot for cats. He'd once told you about the ones he'd fed in the alley behind his place in Brooklyn before he'd been drafted, and you had never quite forgotten the way his expression had changed when he talked about them.

“That sounds adorable,” he said. “Do you have a picture?”

You were almost at the car by then. “Oh, no. I was just doom-scrolling when I saw it.”

“Of course you were.”

You stopped beside the passenger door. “I'll save it next time I see it.”

“Right. Save it.”

He said it almost absently, already opening the driver's door. Then he chuckled to himself, as though something had just occurred to him, and got in.

You stood there for a second before opening the passenger door yourself and getting in.

“So, what’s your plan for tomorrow?” Bucky asked as he started the car.

You looked at him, realizing he remembered that tomorrow was your day off. A small smile pulled at your mouth as you settled into the seat.

“Nothing much. Sleeping through the alarm I set for the morning, ordering takeout, finding a show I've already watched three times, and, if they're free, maybe spending some time with my friends.”

“Sounds fun.”

You smiled, looking out the window as the car pulled away from HQ. “It is.” 

“So how do you spend your days off?” You asked, turning toward him.

Bucky drove carefully, his attention focused on the road ahead, his movements controlled and steady. His left hand rested on the steering wheel, the vibranium catching the passing lights outside, the dark metal reflecting faint glimmers with every turn.

“I usually just sleep them off. Or maybe grab a drink with Sam.”

You nodded. “Must be difficult, though. Being famous in public.”

Bucky glanced at you briefly.

“You know,” you continued, “having people recognise you everywhere, or taking pictures, or suddenly deciding they need to tell everyone that Bucky Barnes is sitting three tables away.” Your voice softened slightly. “It doesn't sound like you get much privacy.”

“It's usually better than people who don't like you recognising you and then saying something that just sticks with you.”

There was a tiredness to his voice that made you pause. You hadn't expected that answer.

“Well,” you said after a moment, “I suppose that's one of the occupational hazards of being a superhero.”

Bucky gave you a sideways look.

“Along with getting shot, thrown through buildings, and never really getting to have an ordinary day,” you added.

That pulled a small laugh from him.

“Something like that.”

“You should get hazard pay.”

“I'll bring it up.”

“Please do. I have several suggestions for the Avengers' employee benefits package.”

His smile lingered for a moment, and you were glad you'd managed to pull it out of him.

The car fell quiet again, comfortable this time.

After a moment, Bucky said, “Wakanda was probably the closest I ever got to having any of that.”

You turned toward him. “Having what?”

“Privacy.”

There was a slight pause.

“I spent a lot of time there.”

His expression changed almost imperceptibly. You didn't push further, but Bucky seemed willing to keep going.

“It was strange at first,” he said. “I'd spent so long with someone else deciding where I went, what I did, who I was supposed to be. Then I got to Wakanda and nobody needed anything from me.”

You listened.

“I didn't really know what to do with that.”

“You had to learn how to be a person again.”

His mouth curved faintly. “Something like that.”

You smiled, but his expression had grown thoughtful again.

“Wakanda was the place where I wasn't someone's weapon,” he continued. “But being free and knowing what to do with that freedom aren't necessarily the same thing.”

You just looked at him, letting the silence sit for a moment.

“Did you ever figure it out?” you asked. “What to do with the freedom, I mean.”

Bucky glanced at you before returning his eyes to the road. “I'm still working on it.”

There was something almost self-deprecating in the way he said it.

“That's fair.” You smiled, trying to reassure him.

“Yeah, well.” His mouth twitched. “I've had a few attempts.”

“Attempts?”

He gave you a look. “You're going to make me say it?”

“I have no idea what you're talking about.”

“Sure.”

You smiled innocently.

Bucky sighed, though there was no real annoyance behind it. “I tried politics.”

Your eyebrows lifted. You'd expected him to say that, and judging by the way his eyes immediately flicked toward your expression, he caught it.

“What?”

You laughed. “I'm just trying to picture you at a campaign fundraiser.”

“Don't.”

That only made you laugh harder.

Bucky shook his head, a faint smile pulling at his mouth.

“I thought it'd be a way to do something useful. Change things from the inside. Get close to people and information I wouldn't otherwise have access to.”

“And?”

“Too many meetings. Too much reading. Turns out I don't have the patience for twelve people arguing about something that could've been solved in ten minutes.”

“So you quit.”

“Eventually.”

“And went back to being an Avenger.”

His fingers shifted slightly against the steering wheel.

“Something like that. Although I don't really appreciate the paperwork that came with being one full-time.”

You laughed softly. “I suppose saving the world comes with some administrative responsibilities.”

His mouth twitched.

“Being an Avenger is strange when you've spent most of your life believing you're the thing everyone needs protecting from.”

The words were delivered matter-of-factly, but they landed heavier than he'd probably intended.

You didn't know what to say to that, so you didn't try to fix it.

Instead, you said quietly, “For what it's worth, I think you're doing a pretty good job of being the other kind of person.”

His eyes flicked toward you for half a second before returning to the road. The car was already slowing as you approached your apartment building.

“The other kind?”

“The kind people are glad is around.”

The car came to a stop outside your building. The silence that followed felt different. The almost amused expression he'd worn earlier was gone, replaced by something else. Something you couldn't quite place.

It wasn't anger. It wasn't disbelief. It was something heavier.

Your smile softened. “I just think you're looking for proof that you're a good man in all the wrong places.”

“And where should I be looking?” he asked, turning toward you. There was something almost painfully hopeful in his eyes.

You looked at him for a long moment.

“The people whose lives are better because you were there.”

His eyes softened, but there was a sadness behind them that hadn't been there before. Like your words had reached somewhere deeper than you intended.

For a second, you wondered if you'd said the wrong thing. But then you noticed the way he looked away. Not dismissively. Almost like he needed a moment.

His right hand, resting on his lap, slowly curled into a loose fist. The tension in his fingers was subtle, but you noticed it. Like he was trying to hold himself together without letting you see how much your words had affected him.

And for the briefest second, as the headlights of a passing car swept across his face, you thought you saw his eyes glisten.

That couldn't be right.

Bucky Barnes did not seem like someone who cried easily.

But maybe he wasn't used to someone saying those things to him.

Maybe he had spent so long looking at himself through the worst moments of his life that he'd forgotten other people could see something different. 

Maybe he wasn't used to hearing himself described that way.

The thought stayed with you. Because, in a way, you understood.

You didn't remember enough of your own life to know who you'd been before the accident. You knew things about yourself because people had told you. That you'd studied nursing. That Paul was your brother. That you'd had friends, routines, places you loved, things you cared about.

You knew the facts.

But the feelings attached to them were gone.

Sometimes you wondered what it would be like to remember yourself properly, not the person everyone told you that you were, but the person you'd actually been before everything went missing. What had you been like when no one was there to explain you to yourself? Why was there so much about your own life that seemed to have no answer, so many gaps that everyone around you treated as unfortunate consequences of the accident, even when some of them didn't quite feel like they belonged there? And then there were the stranger things you couldn't explain at all, the way your body sometimes seemed to recover from injuries faster than it should, the little details you noticed and filed away because there was never quite enough of an explanation to make them worth asking about.

You had learned, eventually, not to pull too hard at those loose threads.

Maybe that was why you found yourself saying it.

“I don't remember any of it.” you said quietly.

Bucky's gaze returned to you.

“Any of what?”

“My life.” The words sounded strangely simple once they were out. You swallowed.

“I know I went to college. I know I studied nursing. I know Paul is my brother.” You paused. “But I don't remember choosing any of it.”

Bucky didn't interrupt.

“I don't remember being a kid. My friends. What I wanted to be when I grew up. Even what kind of person I was.”

You gave a small shrug, trying to make it sound less significant than it felt.

“Sometimes it feels like I'm living in someone else's life. Everyone else remembers me. I just have to take their word for it.”

Something in Bucky's expression tightened.

You looked toward the windshield. “It's strange, knowing there was a whole person there before me.”

“And not knowing who she was.”

“How far back?” His voice was quiet, almost careful, like he was trying to understand without pushing too hard. 

You looked at him. “Right after the Snap.”

Your fingers tightened together.

“I got into an accident. The chaos of people disappearing had something to do with it. Paul said the car that hit mine crashed because the driver vanished.”

Bucky's attention sharpened.

“I woke up weeks later with no memories of who I was.” You paused.

“Just a blank slate.”

He stared at you for a moment. He didn't look shocked. He didn't look pitying. If anything, he looked too focused.

You looked down at your hands. For a moment, neither of you spoke.

Then you gave a quiet, almost embarrassed laugh.

“It's weird that I'm telling you this.”

Bucky's expression softened slightly.

“I don't usually talk about it,” you admitted.

“I don't know. I just…”

You shrugged. “I felt like you should know.”

You looked out through the windshield again. When you glanced back, Bucky was still watching you. Something unreadable crossed his face.

“I'm glad you told me.” His voice was quiet, matter-of-fact. The simplicity of it caught you off guard. Your heart did something embarrassingly stupid.

“And anyway, it doesn't change anything.”

You frowned. “What?”

“You.”

You stared at him.

“You were already three years into nursing when the accident happened.” His fingers shifted slightly against the steering wheel. “You lost your memories, had to start your life over, and somehow you still ended up choosing the same thing.”

A pause.

“Maybe some things are just… you.”

A small smile pulled at your mouth. You just looked at him, and for a moment, neither of you said anything.

There was something quiet in the way he looked at you now, something warm enough to make your chest feel strangely tight. You couldn't quite tell what he was thinking, but you found yourself holding his gaze anyway.

For a few seconds, the rest of the car seemed to disappear.

Then Bucky looked away first. You blinked, suddenly aware of yourself again. He shifted slightly in his seat, clearing his throat.

“Anyway…” He glanced toward the road ahead. “I should probably let you get back.”

The change in subject caught you off guard.

“I've got some unfinished work waiting for me, and I have early training tomorrow.”

“Right. Then I should take my leave now.” 

He was quiet for a moment before adding, “And I reckon Paul will be back tonight.”

“Lock your door, okay?”

You smiled. “I know how to stay safe, Bucky.”

A faint smile appeared on his face. "I'm just saying."

You shook your head, but the smile remained.

Before you could respond, he held out his hand. For a second, your brain completely stopped working. You looked at his hand.

Open. Careful. Waiting.

And, for one ridiculous moment, all you could think about was how easy it would be to place your hand in his. How warm his palm would probably be against yours. How strange it was that the same hand that could probably break through a wall could be held out to you with such quiet gentleness.

You looked up at him. Bucky was watching you. Your stomach gave an embarrassing little flip. Then you noticed the faint amusement in his eyes.

You blinked. "What do you—"

“Your phone.” His smile widened slightly.

You immediately looked away, hoping he hadn't noticed the heat creeping into your face.

“Oh.”

You handed it to him. His fingers brushed yours as he took it, lingering for barely a second before he looked down at the screen. “No lock?”

You glanced at him. “I don't think it's necessary.”

His eyebrows lifted.

You shrugged. “What? I trust the people around me.”

Something about that made his expression soften.

“Right.”

He unlocked your phone and typed in his number, then called himself. A moment later, his own phone lit up.

“There.” He handed yours back. “Now you have my number.”

He glanced down at his screen and saved your contact.

“And I have yours.”

You looked at him.

It was such a small thing. People exchanged numbers every day. There was nothing particularly significant about it.

And yet, watching his number appear on your phone made something warm settle low in your chest.

You looked up, and found him already watching you. The faint smile on his face made your stomach flutter. You were probably staring. And judging by the way his eyes flickered briefly toward your flushed cheeks, he'd noticed.

Bucky cleared his throat.

“I mean…”

His gaze shifted toward the windshield.

“I just don't want to miss another meme.”

You bit back a smile. “Of course.”

His eyes came back to you. There was a beat. Then he smiled.

You realised you were staring, again. Before it could get any more awkward, you quickly reached for the door handle.

“Okay. I should probably go. Good night.”

Bucky's smile lingered. “Good night.”

You stepped out of the car, grateful for the excuse to look anywhere but at him. The cool air did absolutely nothing to settle the warmth still creeping into your cheeks, and you shut the door a little more quickly than necessary before taking a few steps toward the building.

When you glanced back, Bucky was still there, waiting. You lifted your hand in a small wave, and he waved back, a quiet smile resting on his face. Not the polite one you'd seen him give people at HQ, but something warmer, softer, something that seemed meant only for you.

It made your stomach twist in a way you were becoming increasingly certain was going to become a problem.

You waited for him to drive off, but instead he gestured toward the building.

“Go in first.” He mouthed.

You rolled your eyes slightly. Of course. You turned toward the lobby, shaking your head with a smile you couldn't quite get rid of, but glanced back once more before the doors closed behind you. He was still watching, still wearing that soft, almost unfairly sweet smile.

You kept walking, resisting the ridiculous urge to look back again, and only when you were completely out of sight did you hear the car finally pull away.

It wasn't until you reached your apartment door that you stopped. Your hand hovered near the handle as the realization slowly caught up with you. You'd never actually told Bucky your address.

Then, almost immediately, your brain supplied the easiest explanation. Paul. Of course. Paul must have told him. There was nothing strange about that. Nothing worth thinking about. 

Your day off had been exactly what you'd needed: takeout ordered without a second thought, several episodes of the new show everyone seemed to be talking about, and absolutely no intention of doing anything productive.

Well, almost nothing. You'd spent a surprisingly decent portion of the day texting Bucky whenever he had a spare moment, which, considering he was still working, wasn't particularly often. Still, he'd kept you updated in little pieces throughout the day - Briefing is running long, followed a few hours later by Yelena has decided the briefing is boring and is now making faces at everyone, and then, much later, We're done. It could have been worse.

You'd sent him memes in return, as promised, carefully choosing the ones you thought he'd actually find funny. He'd responded to some with a simple Jesus, others with a thumbs-up, and one with I don't understand this one, but I feel like I should.

At some point during the afternoon, Bucky had mentioned that he and Paul were heading out on an extraction mission around midnight. He'd said it casually, like it was another item on an already crowded schedule, but you'd still immediately told him to be careful and come back in one piece. A few minutes later, Paul had called you, and you'd repeated almost exactly what you'd told Bucky, earning a laugh and a promise that he'd be fine.

The next morning, you were back at work again.

You were halfway through reviewing a patient's chart when your phone buzzed against the desk. You glanced down and found a message from Bucky.

Bucky: Morning.

You smiled before you could stop yourself.

You: You're alive.

Bucky: Barely.

You: What happened?

Bucky: John tried to convince everyone that his plan was better.

You: Was it?

Bucky: No.

Bucky: He didn't let the facts get in the way.

You shook your head, smiling down at your phone. 

You: I'm sure he meant well

You were just putting your phone away when someone appeared at the entrance of the small staff lounge off the medical wing.

Paul.

Your face immediately brightened. “Hey.”

“Hey.” He walked over, looking tired but otherwise perfectly fine. Except there was something different about him. A little too much energy in his step. A faint smile that hadn't quite left his face.

You immediately looked him over.

He noticed. “I'm fine.”

“I didn't ask.”

“You were about to.”

“I wasn't.”

Paul gave you a look.

You smiled innocently. Then your eyes narrowed slightly. “What's with you?”

“What?”

“You look happy.”

For a second, his smile grew before he seemed to remember himself. He cleared his throat and glanced away.

“I'm just going for a coffee.”

You stared at him. “That's it?”

“That's it.”

“Paul.”

He laughed under his breath. You knew that laugh. It was the one he used when he was trying very hard not to tell you something.

“You asked Ava, didn't you?”

His eyes flicked back to you.

There.

You pointed at him. “You did.”

“It's not a big deal.”

“You asked her?”

“Yeah.”

“How?”

Paul's smile returned despite himself. “I asked her if she wanted coffee.”

Your eyebrows lifted. “And?”

“She said yes.”

You stared at him.

Paul immediately looked away, suddenly very interested in the room around him.

“You're happy.”

“Can we not do this?”

You grinned. Paul shook his head, but he was still smiling as he pulled out the chair beside your desk and sat down.

“Anyway,” he said, clearly attempting to move on, “we're having dinner tonight.”

You blinked. “We?”

“The team.”

“Oh.”

“And I want you to join.”

You frowned. “Why so sudden?”

Paul shrugged. “A few of their friends are coming too. Everyone's been asking about you, so I thought I'd invite you.”

You glanced toward the chart you'd left open, then back at him.

Paul's expression softened. “Come on. It'll be fun. You like them.”

You considered it. You could probably finish up your shift and head there straight from HQ. You had something clean to wear in your locker, anyway.

“Okay.” you said.

“Okay. See you at eight.”

And he was already walking away before you'd even had a chance to say anything else. You watched him disappear through the doorway, already making a mental note to corner him later and get the full story about his little coffee date with Ava.

Your phone buzzed.

Bucky: Paul made it to you yet?

You: He just left.

The reply came almost immediately.

Bucky: I see.

Bucky: Did he happen to mention what he did?

You: Asked Ava out for coffee?

Bucky: That he did.

Bucky: Right before they fought their way out. Over the comms. Everyone heard.

You: omg

Bucky: At three in the morning.

You: OMG.

You: He couldn't have waited until the mission was over?

Bucky: That's what I asked him.

You laughed softly. Apparently, Paul had left out one rather important detail.

Bucky: Also, come to dinner tonight.

You stared at the message for a second. Then another appeared.

Bucky: Apparently I'm being told you're invited.

You: Is that your official invitation?

Bucky: No.

You waited.

Bucky: Official invitation: please come.

Bucky: I need someone there who won't let Alexei choose what I eat.

You laughed softly.

You: Does he really get that much say in what you eat?

Bucky: Don't you know him by now?

You: Fair enough.

And somehow, despite having spent the entire day yesterday doing absolutely nothing, you found yourself already looking forward to getting off work.

When your shift finally ended, you changed out of your scrubs, grabbed your things, and checked your phone one last time. Paul had texted earlier, telling you to just come straight upstairs afterward, so you made your way toward the lounge.

The room was already loud when you stepped inside.

Yelena spotted you first. “There she is!”

You barely had time to react before she waved you over, and you laughed as you made your way toward the table.

“You are late,” she said.

You frowned. “I was working.”

Yelena considered this for a moment before nodding solemnly. “Excuses.”

You laughed, shaking your head as you greeted the others in the group. Paul was already settled at the table with Bucky, John, and a few familiar faces from the team, along with a couple of their friends you'd crossed paths with around HQ before but had never really had the chance to sit down and talk to.

Bucky noticed you almost immediately. His eyes found yours across the table, and something in his expression softened as soon as they did.

You smiled at him.

Paul looked up next. “How was work?”

“Long.” You pulled a face, glancing around the table. “Where’s Ava?"

“She’s just opening the wine.” Paul nodded toward the other side of the room, where Ava was doing exactly that.

“Oh.” You lowered your voice slightly. “How'd it go?”

“Went well.” Paul smiled, but there was something in his expression that made it clear he was leaving out a few details.

Alexei, who was busy setting wine glasses around the table, looked up with a pleased expression. “The Thunderbolts are uniting like never before.”

Bucky sighed and shook his head.

John groaned. “Please don't.”

Alexei ignored him, continuing to arrange the glasses. “One successful mission, and suddenly we are becoming family.”

You shook your head, glancing around for somewhere to sit. Most of the chairs were already taken, but before you could decide where to squeeze in, Bucky reached for the empty chair beside him and pulled it out.

“Here.”

You looked at him.

He nodded toward the seat, already making room for you. Paul noticed. So did Alexei.

You decided not to acknowledge either of them and walked over, dropping into the chair beside Bucky.

Bucky turned slightly toward you. “Long day?”

“Very,” you said, setting your bag beside your chair.

“Thought you were going to be late,” he said.

“I got off five minutes ago.”

“Still.”

You looked at him. “Do you want me to leave?”

“No.”

“Then stop complaining.” 

Bucky's mouth twitched beside you.

Ava returned with the wine and gave you a small smile. “Hey, glad you made it.”

She pulled out a chair beside Paul and sat down. Your eyes flicked from him to her, then back again, and Paul caught the look immediately, giving you a warning glance that told you exactly what he thought you were thinking.

You smiled innocently and reached for your glass. The ship had officially sailed.

Dinner itself was easy. The people you already knew slipped naturally back into familiar conversations with you, while the few friends they'd brought along made themselves comfortable around the group. You knew everyone well enough by now that you didn't have to spend the first hour making conversation or answering questions about yourself. You could simply settle into the noise of them.

At some point, Alexei started telling a story. You were halfway through taking a bite when Bucky quietly said, “Don't encourage him.”

You looked at him. “I'm not doing anything.”

“You're listening.”

“That's generally how conversations work.”

“Not with Alexei.”

You bit back a smile, but when you glanced across the table, you caught Yelena watching the two of you. Her eyes moved from you to Bucky and back again, and then a slow, knowing smile appeared on her face.

You immediately knew that look.

You turned back to your food, pointedly ignoring her, though that didn't stop you from becoming increasingly aware of the little things Bucky seemed to do throughout the rest of dinner. Whenever the conversation moved too quickly for you to follow, he filled you in quietly. When someone across the table started talking over you, he waited until you finished. Every so often, he'd lean toward you with some dry comment about whatever was happening, as though making sure you were still part of the conversation was the most natural thing in the world.

Yelena's occasional smirks didn't help.

Neither did the fact that, once you started noticing it, you couldn't seem to stop. At one point, you both reached for something in the middle of the table at the same time, and your fingers brushed.

“Sorry,” he murmured.

“It's fine.”

Neither of you moved for half a second. It was barely anything, just the briefest touch before you both pulled away, but you found yourself looking down at your plate afterward with a sudden, inexplicable interest in your food.

Across the table, Yelena's expression had become deeply entertained.

You ignored her.

Later, when people started getting up and moving around, you found Paul near the kitchen, helping clear a few things from the table.

You leaned against the counter beside him.

“So,” you said casually. “How was your date?”

Paul glanced at you. Then a small smile appeared.

“Good.”

You raised your eyebrows. “Just good?”

“Yeah. Good.” He paused, looking far too pleased with himself. “We're probably going to go out a few more times before we make anything official.”

Your smile widened. “Look at you.”

“Don't.”

You laughed, reaching for one of the glasses he was carrying.

Paul shook his head, but he was still smiling. “It's nice, though. Having a normal night like this.”

You glanced toward the lounge. Most of the group was still there, scattered around the room in smaller conversations.

“Yeah. It was fun.”

“You've really gotten comfortable with them.”

You looked at him. “I have.”

“I noticed.” There was something almost fond in his voice.

You smiled. “What?”

“Nothing.” He picked up another glass. “Just… you seem happy here.”

The words caught you slightly off guard. You looked back toward the lounge. “I am.”

Paul nodded, seemingly satisfied with that answer. Then he glanced at you again.

“I've also noticed something else.”

Your eyes narrowed. “That sounds ominous.”

“It's not.”

“That's exactly what someone says before saying something ominous.”

Paul laughed quietly. Then his expression shifted, becoming a little more serious. “I know.”

You blinked. “What?”

Paul stared at you. You stared back. Then you realised. “Oh.”

“Yeah.”

Your eyes immediately flicked toward Bucky. He was talking to one of the others, apparently unaware of the conversation happening behind him.

Paul lowered his voice. “If you like him, I mean, I'm not going to make it weird.”

Your eyebrows lifted. “I don't—”

“I'm not asking.”

You stopped. Paul's expression softened.

“I've seen you two together. You like him.”

You looked away, suddenly very interested in whatever was happening across the room.

“I like him as a friend.”

“Sure.”

“Paul.”

“I'm just saying.”

You crossed your arms.

He sighed. “Look, I respect the guy. He's good to you. So if something happens, I'm not going to have a problem with it.”

You looked at him again.

“That was surprisingly mature.”

“Don't ruin it.”

You smiled.

Paul pointed at you. “But.”

You immediately knew there was going to be a but.

“But what?”

“He still has to ask me.”

You stared at him. “Ask you what?”

Paul looked genuinely offended that you had to ask. “To date my little sister.”

You blinked. Then laughed. “Paul, I'm an adult.”

“I know.”

“I don't need your permission.”

“I know.”

“Then why does he have to ask?”

Paul shrugged. “He doesn't but he should.”

You stared at him. “That makes absolutely no sense.”

“I'm your older brother. It doesn't have to.”

You rolled your eyes. 

Paul's mouth twitched. “Besides, I'd say yes.”

You stared at him for a second before shaking your head. “You're ridiculous.”

“Probably.”

Then Paul added, more quietly, “Seriously, though. If you like him, I'm happy for you.”

You paused. The teasing had disappeared from his voice. He gave your shoulder a small squeeze. 

“Just don't tell him I said he can date you. I'd like to see him sweat a little.”

You laughed. “Paul.”

“What? He can handle it.”

You shook your head and walked back into the lounge.

The rest of the evening passed without Paul bringing it up again, thankfully. Some of the group had started playing pool, somehow, there was a pool table in the lounge and you ended up catching up with Bob, who had settled beside you on one of the couches. 

He told you about the new book he was reading and how he'd been getting better at controlling Sentry, especially with the smaller things. Apparently, he could now make objects levitate in front of him without the other guy immediately taking over, which he seemed strangely proud of. You listened, asking questions whenever he paused, and it was nice seeing him talk about something that wasn't missions or everything he'd been through.

Bob was halfway through telling you about something that had happened during training when he paused, his attention briefly shifting toward the pool table.

Bucky had just missed a shot.

“You know,” Bob said, watching him for a moment, “he's been in a pretty good mood tonight.”

You glanced toward Bucky. “Has he?”

“Yeah.” Bob nodded, looking back at you. “Usually after a mission like that, he's quieter.”

You watched Bucky laugh at something John said, the sound low but unmistakably genuine.

“Maybe he's just relaxed, you know? The mission's over,” you offered.

Bob gave you a look that suggested he didn't quite buy that. Then his eyes moved back toward Bucky.

“He looks happier when you're here.”

You blinked. “What?”

Bob turned back to you, his expression completely matter-of-fact, as though he'd simply pointed out something neither of you had noticed.

“He does,” he added.

You didn't quite know what to say to that.

Bob gave you a small, almost knowing smile before returning to his story as though he hadn't just said anything particularly interesting.

“Anyway,” he continued, picking up exactly where he'd left off, “during training, I accidentally made the entire equipment rack float.”

You stared at him for a second. Then you laughed softly. “You did not.”

“I did.”

“What happened?”

“Everyone started yelling.”

That pulled your attention back to him, and Bob launched into the story, demonstrating with his hands exactly how the equipment had apparently lifted several inches off the ground before he'd managed to bring it back down.

You listened. You laughed in the right places. You asked questions.

But every now and then, without meaning to, your eyes wandered across the room toward Bucky. And each time, you wondered if Bob was right.

Eventually, people began leaving in twos and threes, the noise of the room slowly fading as everyone got tired. Yelena insisted you stay rather than go back to your apartment so late, and after a brief argument, with Paul ultimately agreeing that you should stay, you finally gave in. Before heading to her room, you said goodnight to Bucky. He looked exhausted, but somehow still hadn't gone off to his room to sleep. He gave you a tired smile and told you to get some rest before you followed Yelena.

You were exhausted enough to think you'd fall asleep the second your head hit the pillow, between the long shift and the dinner.

You were wrong. Sleep never came.

You lay on your back, staring at the ceiling while the digital clock on Yelena's bedside table quietly counted the minutes past two in the morning. Beside you, Yelena had somehow managed to occupy almost the entire bed, one leg half tangled in the duvet, breathing with the unmistakable contentment of someone who had fallen asleep less than three minutes after saying, “Wake me if the building explodes.”

You had smiled at the time. Now, nearly an hour later, you were beginning to think even that wouldn't wake her. You turned onto your side for what had to be the twentieth time.

The evening replayed itself over and over again. The moments with Bucky. How comfortable you'd felt around him. Paul's sudden confrontation and, somehow, his equally sudden acceptance of Bucky. Yelena throwing you those knowing looks whenever you and Bucky happened to be talking. Bob casually pointing out how much happier Bucky seemed when you were around.

Somehow, none of it felt embarrassing. If anything, it felt strangely... nice. With a quiet sigh, you slipped carefully out of bed.

Yelena mumbled something unintelligible into her pillow before immediately falling back into complete silence. You smiled to yourself. “Goodnight to you too.”

You quietly slipped out of the room, deciding you could at least grab some water, or maybe make yourself a cup of tea, if they had any, and then go back to sleep. You did have work in the morning, after all.

You wandered quietly toward the kitchen. The lights above the island had been left on at their dimmest setting, casting a warm golden glow across the room while the rest of the floor remained comfortably dark.

That was when you noticed him. Bucky sat at the far end of the kitchen island. Not looking out over the city. Not doing anything particularly dramatic. Just Sitting.

An untouched mug rested between both hands, though the steam rising from it had long since disappeared. His elbows rested against the countertop, shoulders slightly rounded, his head lowered enough that loose strands of hair had fallen across his forehead.

He looked exhausted, significantly more than he had a few hours ago, as though sleep had found everyone else on the floor except him.

For a moment, you considered quietly turning around and giving him some privacy. Then the floor creaked softly beneath your foot.

His head lifted, and his blue eyes met yours. For the briefest second, surprise crossed his face. Not because you were there, but because he had been so lost in thought that he genuinely hadn't heard you approach.

“Couldn't sleep?” he asked.

His voice sounded rough, tired in a way that went beyond simple exhaustion.

You walked a little closer. “Neither could you.”

The corner of his mouth twitched. “Guess not.”

Your eyes dropped to the mug in his hand. “You made coffee?”

He glanced down at it, as though he'd forgotten he was holding it. “Yeah. I like coffee at midnight.”

The answer sounded strangely familiar.

A faint smile pulled at your mouth. “Looks like it.”

For just a second, genuine amusement softened his expression before disappearing again.

You pulled out the stool beside him and sat down, leaving a comfortable amount of space between you. You were simply sitting beside him.

The kitchen settled back into silence. The refrigerator hummed quietly in the background, and somewhere further down the corridor, pipes shifted softly as someone turned on a shower.

Neither of you felt any need to fill the silence.

You weren't sure how much time had passed before you noticed his fingers wrapped around the ceramic mug. They trembled almost imperceptibly, not enough for anyone else to notice, but enough for you.

Your eyes lifted carefully to his face. Only then did you realise that his breathing hadn't settled either. It was a little too quick, a little too shallow. His gaze remained fixed somewhere beyond the kitchen cabinets, though you had the distinct impression that he wasn't really seeing anything in front of him.

“Bad dream?” You asked it so quietly that you almost wondered whether he'd heard you.

His jaw tightened. For several seconds, he remained perfectly still. Then he nodded once, small and almost reluctant.

Your chest tightened. Not because of the nightmare itself, but because he hadn't denied it. He hadn't hidden it or brushed it aside with a joke.

You remembered Paul mentioning, months ago, that some mornings Bucky simply looked tired. Now, you understood what he had meant.

You looked back down at the countertop. You wanted to ask what had happened, whether it had been HYDRA, the Winter Soldier, or something tonight that had brought it all back.

But looking at him now, you realised those questions weren't yours to ask.

Not yet. Maybe not ever.

So instead, you simply stayed. Minutes passed without either of you speaking.

Eventually, without consciously deciding to, you shifted your stool a few inches closer, until you were close enough that your shoulder almost brushed his.

He noticed. You saw it in the way his eyes flickered toward you for barely half a heartbeat.

But he didn't move away. His breathing remained uneven, as though he were still fighting whatever memories had followed him out of sleep.

Your gaze drifted once more to his hands. His flesh hand rested beside the mug now, open. As though he'd unconsciously given up on trying to steady it.

Before you could lose your nerve, you reached across the narrow space between you, slowly and carefully, not wanting to startle him.

Your fingers settled lightly over the back of his hand. Warm. Calloused.

Immediately, he stopped breathing. Not literally. Just for a moment, everything inside him seemed to freeze. His eyes dropped to where your hand rested over his. His eyes lifted slowly from your hand to your face.

You didn't say anything. You weren't entirely sure there was anything to say.

Your thumb moved once across his knuckles, small and gentle. It was an instinct more than a decision, the sort of reassurance you'd offered frightened patients countless times without even thinking about it.

For a long moment, nothing happened.

Then, almost too subtly to notice, his shoulders lowered by a fraction. His breathing slowly lengthened, and the tightness around his eyes began to ease.

His hand turned and his fingers curled beneath yours until they carefully wrapped around your hand. Not tightly. Never demanding. Almost questioning, as though he still wasn't entirely sure he was allowed to hold on.

You answered by turning your hand slightly, letting your fingers settle naturally between his.

Only then did he finally look at you properly.

Your heart hurt. Not because he looked broken, but because, for the first time since you'd met him, he looked like someone allowing another person to see the pieces he'd spent years hiding.

You smiled at him, soft and quiet, letting him know he didn't have to hide them from you.

“Better?”

His lips parted, and a faint breath escaped him before he gave the smallest nod.

“Yeah.” The word was barely above a whisper. “Thank you.”

You held his gaze for another moment before giving his hand the gentlest squeeze.

“You don't have to thank me.”

His eyes lingered on yours. “They usually leave.”

The words were so quiet that you almost missed them. Your heart broke a little.

“I wasn't planning to.”

He smiled. It wasn't big, but it was real.

Neither of you spoke again for a long while. 

Your hands remained loosely intertwined where they rested between you on the kitchen island, neither of you acknowledging it anymore, as though drawing attention to it might somehow disturb the fragile calm that had slowly settled over the room.

You weren't sure how much time had passed. Five minutes. Maybe twenty. Time had become strangely unimportant.

Eventually, your eyes drifted downward, and you looked at your fingers still loosely curled around his hand. The longer you looked at it, the more you became aware of the warmth creeping steadily into your cheeks.

Bucky's gaze followed yours. He looked down at your joined hands, and for the briefest moment, the smallest smile touched the corner of his mouth before fading again.

“I should probably let you sleep.”

His voice was quiet, almost reluctant, as though he wasn't entirely convinced by his own suggestion. You glanced toward the discreet clock mounted above one of the kitchen cabinets. It was well past three in the morning.

“You should probably take your own advice.”

A soft breath of amusement escaped him.

“Probably.”

Neither of you moved.

The realisation made you laugh under your breath. “We're both terrible at ending conversations.”

He seemed to consider that for a moment before looking back at you.

“I think we stopped talking half an hour ago.”

That earned another quiet laugh from you.

Reluctantly, you began to withdraw your hand.

For the briefest moment, you felt his fingers tighten almost instinctively around yours, so subtle that you weren't even sure it had happened. Then, just as quickly, the tension disappeared, and his hand slipped gently from yours. The absence of its warmth surprised you more than you expected.

You stood first, smoothing imaginary creases from the oversized sweatshirt Yelena had lent you, mostly because it gave your suddenly restless hands something to do.

Bucky stood a heartbeat later. For a moment, the two of you simply faced each other beneath the soft pendant lights above the kitchen island, neither quite seeming to know what to do with the sudden space between you.

“Try to get some sleep,” you said quietly.

“I will.”

You tilted your head slightly. “Promise?”

A faint smile appeared on his face. “I'll try.”

You narrowed your eyes playfully. “That's not the same thing.”

“No,” he admitted after a moment. “It isn't.”

He paused, then added, “But it's the best I can do.”

You studied him for another second before finally giving in with a small nod. “I'll accept it.”

“Good.”

You took a few steps backward into the corridor before stopping again.

“…Goodnight, Bucky.”

His expression softened in that quiet, almost imperceptible way you'd started recognising over the past couple of weeks. “Goodnight.”

You turned and began making your way back through the dimly lit corridor toward Yelena's room, your footsteps muffled by the thick carpet beneath you.

When you reached the corner, curiosity got the better of you, and you glanced back.

He was still standing exactly where you'd left him. Watching you.

The second your eyes met again, something almost boyish crossed his expression, as though he'd been caught doing something he hadn't realised he was doing.

You smiled to yourself before disappearing around the corner. 

The next morning, you woke to the sound of your alarm.

Yelena had already left the bed, leaving you with a few quiet minutes before you had to get up. You stayed there for another ten minutes, staring at the ceiling and letting the memories of the night before drift through your mind.

The kitchen. His hand around yours. The way he'd looked at you afterward. A small flutter moved through your stomach. You finally forced yourself out of bed.

After getting ready, you made your way toward the living room, where Yelena and Bob were already awake and putting together breakfast.

“I'm running late,” you said, grabbing your things. “I'll get something from the canteen.”

Yelena gave you a suspicious look, but you ignored it.

You made it a few steps before the thought crossed your mind again. You could knock on Bucky's door before leaving, just to check on him and say goodbye properly after everything that had happened during the night.

But you hesitated. He had barely slept, and the last thing you wanted was to wake him when he'd finally managed to get some rest. You could always text him later, once you knew he was awake. That seemed like the better choice.

You headed toward the lifts, still thinking about it as you pressed the button to call one.  A few seconds later, the familiar ding sounded, and the doors slid open to reveal Bucky standing inside.

With two cups of coffee.

You smiled immediately. “Good morning.”

His eyes found yours, and for a moment, something warm and quietly pleased softened his expression, easing the tiredness that still lingered around his eyes. His hair was slightly tousled, like he'd run a hand through it one too many times and he wore a simple dark T-shirt beneath his familiar black jacket, paired with dark jeans and boots.

“Morning.”

You stepped inside, and Bucky shifted slightly to the side to make room for you before pressing the button for the ground floor. Apparently, he was still going to walk with you as usual, all the way to the nurse's station before you started your shift.

Then he held one of the cups out toward you.

You took it without hesitation. “Thanks.”

You took a sip and immediately felt warmth spread through you from the coffee and something else you didn't want to name.

“How'd you sleep?” you asked.

Bucky's eyes flicked toward you. “Eventually.”

You smiled faintly. “That's something.”

“How about you?”

You hesitated for half a second, remembering how you'd spent far too much of the night lying awake with your thoughts. “Eventually.”

He looked at you, and you looked back.

“Guess we're both doing great,” he said, the corner of his mouth lifting.

You took another sip of your coffee before glancing at him. “I've got a simulation today.”

“A medical one?”

“Yeah. Mass-casualty response. They're running us through a whole scenario, triage, emergency treatment, evacuation. The whole thing.”

Bucky nodded thoughtfully. “Sounds fun.”

“I'm apparently supposed to be one of the people running it.”

“You'll be good.”

You looked at him. “You sound very confident.”

“I've seen you work.”

Has he? you wondered. You couldn't remember him actually seeing you handle anything particularly difficult, but something about the simple certainty in his voice made you believe him anyway.

You smiled. “Well, now I have to be good.”

His eyes stayed on you for a second longer before he looked toward the elevator doors. They opened, and the two of you stepped out into the corridor, heading toward Elevator C together.

“What about you?” you asked. “What's on your schedule?”

“Training this morning. Some of the newer people need a little work on close-quarters stuff, so I'll be with them for a few hours.”

“Teaching?”

“Apparently.”

“You seem like you'd be a good teacher.”

He glanced at you. “That's a compliment before eight.”

You smiled. “Don't get used to it.”

“Too late.”

You looked at him, and the faint smile on his face made it difficult not to smile back. By the time you reached the next elevator, the easy rhythm between you had already settled back into place, as though neither of you had spent the previous night sitting together in a quiet kitchen at three in the morning.

You both stepped inside, and Bucky pressed the button for the medical wing.

“And after training?” you asked.

“I've got a case I'm working on. There's some information we haven't been able to track down yet, so I need to go through a few old files, some online archives, and see if I can find anything useful.”

“Sounds exciting.”

“It probably won't be.”

“You could always come by the medical wing. We have paperwork too.”

Bucky looked at you. “Is that an invitation?”

You paused, suddenly aware of how easily the words had come out.

“I was just offering you some company.”

“Sure.”

You shook your head, though you couldn't stop yourself from smiling.

When the lift opened onto the entrance of the medical wing, Bucky gestured for you to step out first, holding the elevator door open with his hand until you had cleared the threshold before following after you.

He adjusted his jacket as you walked, but the movement pulled the collar slightly out of place, leaving the fabric folded awkwardly beneath the strap crossing his shoulder.

You noticed it immediately. Before you could think better of it, you reached up and caught the edge of his collar between your fingers.

Bucky stopped.

You barely seemed to notice his reaction as you gently fixed the fabric, smoothing it back into place and brushing away the small crease that had formed beneath the strap. It was such a small, familiar gesture that you didn't think twice about doing it until you realised he was standing completely still beneath your hands.

“There,” you murmured, smoothing the collar down once more before finally letting your hand fall back to your side.

Bucky looked at you, and for a second, neither of you said anything. His eyes dropped briefly toward your hand before returning to your face, and something soft settled into his expression.

“Thanks.”

You smiled. “You're welcome.”

For a few seconds, neither of you moved. The hallway continued around you as though nothing had happened; people walked past with their own destinations in mind, phones rang somewhere further down the corridor, and the occasional announcement echoed faintly overhead. Somehow, though, the two of you seemed to exist in a small pocket of stillness in the middle of it all.

Then Bucky glanced down at the coffee in his hand, turning the cup slightly between his fingers before looking back at you.

“Can I tell you something?”

You studied his face for a moment before nodding. “Of course.”

He hesitated.

“I've been trying to figure something out.”

His fingers tightened slightly around the coffee cup, and you noticed the small movement immediately. He seemed to be choosing his words carefully, as though he'd been carrying the thought around for a while without quite knowing how to say it.

“I don't know when it started or why.”

You stayed silent, giving him the space to continue.

“I think, at first, I told myself it was because you were kind. Because you felt familiar in a way I couldn't explain.” His eyes lifted to yours. “I told myself I appreciated that you didn't treat me differently. That I just liked you as a person. You were fun to be around. Caring. Easy to talk to.”

A faint smile touched his mouth, but it disappeared almost immediately.

“I thought that was all it was.”

He paused.

“Then somewhere along the way, I started looking for you without meaning to.”

He paused, his gaze lingering on your face.

Your heartbeat shifted slightly. Not faster, exactly. Just more noticeable, as though suddenly you were aware of every beat.

“I look forward to seeing you.”

The simple honesty of the sentence left you momentarily unsure of what to say.

“I look forward to these mornings.” A small, almost embarrassed smile appeared. “The coffee is good.”

You smiled, but you couldn't quite find the words to speak. His gaze dropped briefly to the coffee in his hand before he continued.

“I spent a long time believing I wasn't allowed to want things.”

The softness in his voice made your expression change.

“But then you came along, and somehow you made ordinary things feel…” He paused, searching for the right word. “Easy.”

Your chest tightened.

His eyes met yours again, and there was something almost vulnerable in the way he held your gaze now.

“I know I don't want to keep pretending it doesn't matter.”

A silence followed.

“I don't think you're just someone I like having around anymore.”

The words came simply this time, without any attempt to disguise what he meant.

His gaze didn't leave yours.

“You're someone I want.”

Then the world changed.

During the incident everyone now referred to as the Void Crisis, Paul happened to be in the wrong place at the right time. While everyone else was running, he ran toward people who couldn't. He pulled collapsing concrete off trapped civilians, carried people to safety, and stayed until emergency responders arrived.

The videos spread across the internet before he even made it home.

Nobody could explain how one man had lifted pieces of a collapsed building with his bare hands.

You could.

Well... sort of.

Years ago, long before you remembered much of your own life, Paul had told you about an accident at work. He'd crossed paths with dangerous people, people he insisted were long gone now, and somehow walked away... different. Stronger. Faster. Harder to hurt.

Whenever you asked for more details, he'd simply shrug.

"Guess I got lucky."

You never believed that was the whole story. But it was the only story he was willing to tell.

A few weeks after the Void incident, Congresswoman Valentina Allegra de Fontaine knocked on your apartment door with an offer. The New Avengers Initiative. A new team. A new beginning. You remembered Paul laughing after she left.

"You know," he'd said, scratching the back of his neck, "I fix carburetors. I have no idea why she thinks I'd fit in with superheroes."

You'd laughed too. Then you'd watched him accept anyway.

Six months had passed since then. Life had settled into a strange rhythm. Paul disappeared for missions more often than either of you liked. You worried every single time he walked out the door, even if he always reminded you that he could handle himself.

"I'll be fine."

He always said it with that same reassuring smile. And somehow, it never made you worry any less.

In the meantime, you buried yourself in nursing school. It was your final-year and between lectures, clinical postings, late-night revision sessions and trying to catch up on everything you felt you had missed, you barely had time to think about anything else.

Which was probably a good thing.

Because whenever you weren't studying...

You were wondering if your brother would come home safe.

So when Paul insisted you take one evening off to attend a celebration for his team, you almost refused.

Almost.

After their successful mission, a months-long operation that ended with the dismantling of an international black-market network trafficking stolen Stark technology and Chitauri weaponry, Valentina wanted to showcase the New Avengers to the world. She wanted cameras. Headlines. Public approval. A chance to prove that she was not just another politician, but the visionary congresswoman who had brought together the next generation of heroes.

So she organised a massive celebration, a formal event filled with reporters, government officials, investors, and the general public. A night designed to introduce the world to the New Avengers.

Paul insisted on taking you.

"You deserve one evening to yourself after your exams," he'd said. "You'll officially start working as a nurse soon. Life's only going to get busier from there. So enjoy the break while you still can."

He wasn't wrong. Tonight was the first time in weeks you had spent more than ten minutes getting ready.

The moment the car stopped outside the venue, a strange feeling settled in your chest. You couldn't explain it.

A pull in your chest. A strange nervousness twisting in your stomach. You brushed it aside. You were just excited. After all, you were finally going to meet the people your brother had been talking about for months. You knew them almost as well as if you had met them before.

Ava was quiet, observant, and somehow always appearing exactly when someone needed her. She was also the one Paul talked about the most. According to him, she was impossible to sneak up on because, as he put it, “she’s literally a ghost.”

Yelena, who apparently had no concept of personal space, constantly teased everyone, and somehow managed to insult someone while also complimenting them. Paul had once told you she could turn a normal conversation into an interrogation within thirty seconds.

Alexei, loud, dramatic, and completely convinced that every story needed him as the main character. According to the stories, he spent more time talking about his past glory days than actually listening to anyone else.

Bob, gentle, awkward, and surprisingly kind. The one who seemed almost uncomfortable with how much attention came with being an Avenger. For now, Bob rarely went out on missions. Most of his work happened before and after them, research, planning, logistics, and recovery, while he continued training to better understand and control the Sentry's immense power.

John, outspoken, competitive, and had a habit of saying whatever came to mind. He admitted that John was a good soldier. But he carried the pressure of living up to a title that was never really meant for him, and it had a way of making him defensive.

And then there was Bucky.

James Barnes.

According to Paul, Bucky was the most dependable person on the team. He always showed up. Always had a plan. Always got people home. He also had a habit of risking his own life a little too easily.

Maybe it was Bucky's way of making peace with everything the Winter Soldier had done, like somewhere deep down, he still believed every person he saved could somehow make up for the innocent lives he'd been forced to take.

You weren't sure anyone could carry that kind of guilt forever.

After the Void crisis and his announcement as one of the new Avengers, Bucky had stepped away from politics too, leaving behind his position as a congressman and returning to the work he seemed to understand better than anything else: saving people.

And apparently, he was also... interesting.

Some days, he'd barely say ten words, sitting through an entire briefing in silence before disappearing without anyone noticing. Other days, according to Paul, he'd make the driest joke imaginable with such a straight face that half the room wouldn't realise he was kidding until five minutes later.

You frowned at yourself. It was a little strange, now that you thought about it. Somehow, over the past few months, you had learned more about James Barnes than anyone else on the team.

You looked over at Paul as he stepped out of the car.

Instead of walking toward the main entrance, he headed toward a smaller, quieter entrance on the side of the building. You followed him, raising an eyebrow.

"VIP entrance?" you asked.

"Something like that," he replied with a small smile.

The security guard checked his identification and invitation card before looking at you. Paul handed over your invitation. After a quick verification, the guard stepped aside. Together, you stepped into the waiting elevator.

"Have fun," Paul said as the elevator doors slid shut. "You deserve this."

You smiled softly, leaning back against the polished metal wall as the elevator began its ascent to the twenty-fifth floor.

"I will try my best," you whispered.

A soft chime echoed through the elevator as it came to a stop. The doors slid open, and you found yourself momentarily frozen. The long hallway led to the main hall.

And it was breathtaking.

The entire hall had been transformed into a perfect mix of luxury and modern technology. Massive glass walls overlooked the city skyline, reflecting the golden lights of the decorations inside. Elegant chandeliers hung from the ceiling, while holographic displays showed images of the New Avengers' recent missions. Tables covered in white cloth were scattered around the room, filled with food, drinks, and small displays celebrating the team's achievements.

It looked less like a superhero event and more like a declaration. A statement. The world was watching.

"There you are."

You turned at the voice.

Ava stood there, dressed in a sleek jumpsuit, her dark hair styled neatly. She had a small smile on her face, though there was a hint of amusement in her eyes.

"Hey. You must be the sister." She approached and extended her hand.

You smiled and shook it.

"I'm—"

"I know," she interrupted gently. "I'm Ava. Or, as they like to call me, the ghost."

You laughed quietly.

"I know. My brother won't stop talking about you."

The smile on Ava's face flickered. Just slightly. And beside you, you felt Paul tense. You immediately realised what you had just said.

"Guys, you guys. The New Avengers. His team, of course."

You quickly corrected yourself.

Ava gave a small nod, though the awkwardness lingered for a moment.

"Right," she said. "Come on. Everyone's getting ready for the press briefing Valentina scheduled."

"Of course she scheduled a briefing," Paul muttered.

You smiled. "She seems like the type."

"You have no idea," Ava replied.

Paul sighed and took your hand, guiding you toward the group. You gave him an apologetic smile for the awkward comment. He only shook his head slightly, silently telling you it was fine.

The team was gathered around the table, and your brother introduced you to them. They welcomed you warmly, each of them offering their own version of a greeting. Despite the unusual circumstances, their easy familiarity made you feel less like an outsider and more like someone they had been expecting.

Before the conversation could settle, Valentina approached the table, quietly mumbling to herself as she reviewed the notes in her hand.

"We need to make sure the public understands the importance of this initiative," she said. "The New Avengers represent stability, cooperation, and a new era."

Yelena leaned closer to Alexei. "She has practiced that speech in the mirror."

Alexei nodded seriously. "Many times. Maybe thousands."

"I can hear you," Valentina said without looking up.

Yelena smiled innocently. "I know."

Bob looked down at the files in his hands, trying not to laugh. Ava shook her head.

"This is why we can't have normal meetings."

Your brother smiled slightly. You noticed that immediately. This was the first time you had seen him so relaxed around other people. These weren't just teammates. They were becoming his family too.

You took a drink from one of the passing servers, wrapping your fingers around the cool glass as you smiled to yourself. This felt nice. Maybe Paul had been right. Maybe you did need this.

Everything felt... alive.

Then...

The feeling returned. That strange pull in your chest. Your smile faltered. You frowned ever so slightly, instinctively rubbing your thumb against the cool glass in your hand.

Then you noticed someone walking toward the group.

James Barnes.

His head was lowered, attention completely focused on the file in his hands. He looked as though he was allergic to any conversation that did not involve work. He flipped through the pages carefully, checking every detail.

He was taller than he looked in photographs, broad-shouldered in a charcoal suit tailored well enough to hide nothing. A navy-blue tie rested neatly against a crisp white shirt, the color making his startling blue eyes seem even brighter despite the exhaustion they carried. His dark hair was trimmed shorter than in most of the pictures you'd seen, and the neatly kept beard framed a face that looked both impossibly young and unbearably tired.

The blazer stretched slightly across his shoulders and arms whenever he moved, hinting at years of relentless training beneath the formal attire. The only visible giveaway beneath the expensive suit was the sliver of silver metal peeking out from beneath his left shirt cuff, the unmistakable Vibranium arm that had become almost as famous as the man himself.

There was something quietly commanding about him.

He wasn't the loudest person in the room. He wasn't trying to draw anyone's attention. Yet the crowd seemed to part around him naturally, conversations dipping for a moment as he passed before resuming again.

You couldn't explain it.

Maybe it was everything you'd read about him.

Maybe it was the weight of his history.

Or maybe it was simply the sadness that lingered behind his eyes, the kind that made you wonder what someone had endured to carry it so silently.

You found yourself smiling without realizing it, hoping Paul would introduce you.

You wanted to speak with him.

“The extraction happened from the northwestern wall, not the western entrance,” he said as he approached the table. “And, just to make the report a little more inaccurate, John was extracted first. I activated the remote destruction sequence for the lab afterward. So, unless we’ve started rearranging events for dramatic effect, the report has it backwards.”

“Okay, let’s change it after the press briefing,” Yelena replied, casually taking another sip of champagne. You had a distinct feeling she was only saying that to get Bucky to relax and, more importantly, to stop him from talking about the report.

Your brother looked at him and smiled. He picked up a glass from the passing server and held it out to Bucky.

"Here. Relax before the press briefing."

Bucky closed the file, setting it carefully on the table before accepting the glass, looking more than happy to let the report go.

"Thanks." 

Then he looked up. His eyes met yours. And everything changed.

The movement was almost imperceptible at first. His hand tightened around the crystal glass so suddenly that the ice clinked loudly against the sides. You watched his shoulders stiffen beneath his suit jacket. He didn't blink. Not once.

His expression emptied so completely that, for a fleeting second, you wondered if he'd somehow forgotten where he was.

You instinctively looked behind you.

Maybe he is looking at someone else?

But there was no one there. When you looked back, his eyes were still fixed on you. Unmoving. Searching.

Your heartbeat quickened beneath the strange intensity of his gaze. It wasn't uncomfortable. It wasn't threatening.

It was heartbreaking.

There was something in his expression that you couldn't name. 

Disbelief? 

Relief? 

Grief? 

Or maybe all tangled together into something so raw that it almost made you feel guilty for witnessing it.

You'd never seen someone look at another person like that. Like they had just found something they'd spent a lifetime mourning.

A strange warmth spread through your chest. Not because you knew him. You didn't. At least, you were almost certain you didn't. But something about the way he looked at you made your own heart ache in response. As though some part of you was reacting before your mind had the chance to catch up.

You smiled instinctively.

Small. Friendly. The kind of smile you gave anyone you were meeting for the first time.

It didn't seem to help.

If anything, his expression crumpled even further.

His blue eyes glistened beneath the lights, and for one impossible second, you thought he might actually cry. The thought caught you completely off guard.

This was James Barnes. The Winter Soldier. The man you'd spent weeks reading about after Paul joined the team.

A decorated soldier.

An Avenger.

Someone who had survived more than most people could imagine.

Yet standing in front of you, he looked less like a legend and more like a man whose entire world had just been ripped out from beneath him.

Slowly, you offered him your hand, believing this might break the ice. That this might bring him back to reality and away from whatever distant place his mind had disappeared to.

"Hi," you said with an easy smile. "I'm _"

He never looked at your hand. He simply stared at your face, completely motionless. His lips parted ever so slightly. Like he wanted to say something.

A name.

A question.

Anything.

But no sound came out.

Your hand lingered awkwardly between the two of you before you slowly lowered it back to your side. Maybe he wasn't a handshake person. Maybe crowds overwhelmed him.

Or maybe...

Maybe something was wrong. Your concern quickly outweighed your embarrassment. The colour had drained from his face. His breathing had become shallow, almost imperceptible. He looked as though he were trying very hard not to fall apart.

"Bucky?" Paul's voice cut through the silence as he stepped beside him, placing a hand lightly on his shoulder. You looked away from him for a moment, only then noticing that everyone around the table had stopped talking. Yelena had raised an eyebrow, Ava watched him carefully, and even Alexei had gone unusually quiet. 

"You okay?"

The question seemed to pull him back into the room.

He blinked.

Once. Then again.

His throat bobbed as he swallowed.

"Yeah," he answered, his voice rough enough that it barely sounded like speech. "I'm fine."

He wasn't.

You didn't know him well enough to say why. But every instinct you had insisted on the same thing. Whatever had just happened, it had nothing to do with the press briefing. It had everything to do with you. And for reasons you couldn't begin to understand, that realisation made your chest feel impossibly heavy.

The silence stretched just a little too long.

It was Alexei who broke first.

"Well," he clapped his hands together once, far louder than necessary. "That was... incredibly awkward."

Yelena immediately shot him an unimpressed look.

"You are helping so much."

"I am trying," he defended himself, placing a hand over his chest dramatically before turning toward you with an apologetic smile. "Do not worry. Bucky is... strange."

"He gets worse when people are nice to him," Ava added dryly, folding her arms across her chest. "You get used to it."

Bob let out a nervous laugh. "Maybe he's just... overwhelmed? Or tired from the mission?" he offered. "I mean, he did take down fifty armed men all by himself."

That earned a small nod from some of the team. It was a reasonable explanation. At least, it was the easiest one to accept.

Valentina cleared her throat, gathering the scattered files from the table and straightening them with practiced efficiency.

"Enough. We have a press briefing in five minutes. I'm going to do the final checks. Avengers, please be ready to take your entry positions."

With that, she walked away from the table, moving toward the stage where the reporters and cameras were already waiting. You watched as she adjusted her expression into the confident, composed face she showed the public, quietly murmuring parts of her speech under her breath while reviewing the final details.

The conversation around you slowly picked back up, though it felt slightly forced now. Everyone returned to their preparations, accepting microphones and speech notes from Valentina's staff, reviewing the details one last time, and making small adjustments to their appearance as they waited for the cue to take the stage.

Paul lingered for a moment, his eyes shifting toward Bucky with a quiet concern you couldn't quite understand. But before he could say anything, one of Valentina's staff members approached him with a last-minute update, pulling his attention away.

But your attention never truly left him.

He was still standing exactly where he had been.

The untouched drink remained in his hand, his fingers wrapped around the crystal glass so tightly that his knuckles had turned pale. His gaze had finally dropped from your face, settling on the table in front of him, as though looking at you for even another second was something he couldn't allow himself to do.

A strange knot formed in your stomach.

Have you done something wrong?

Embarrassed him somehow?

You replayed every word, every expression, every second of your interaction in your mind, searching for something, anything, that could explain his reaction.

But you found nothing.

You had simply introduced yourself.

You had smiled.

You had offered your hand.

Nothing about that should have caused someone to look at you like they had just seen a ghost. A strange thought crossed your mind, had you known him before the accident?

As though sensing your eyes on him, Bucky lifted his head for the briefest moment.

Your eyes met again.

This time, he was the first to look away. He exhaled quietly, rubbing a hand over his jaw before looking around the room.

"I'm... gonna head out."

John frowned immediately. "The briefing starts in a few minutes. Valentina is already on the stage."

"I know."

"You sure you're okay?"

Bucky gave the smallest nod.

"Yeah."

It was the same answer. Just as unconvincing.

Before anyone could question him further, he placed the untouched glass back onto the table and walked past the group. The crowd instinctively parted around him as he crossed the ballroom, his expression unreadable, his shoulders carrying a weight that seemed far heavier than the suit jacket resting over them.

Only when he was completely out of sight did you realize your eyes had followed him the entire way.

And somehow...

His leaving left the room feeling strangely empty.

"Valentina is not going to like this," Alexei chuckled, shaking his head as he watched the doors close behind Bucky.

————

The press briefing began shortly after.

You stood slightly away from the crowd, watching as the New Avengers walked onto the stage one by one. Cameras flashed. Reporters called out questions. Valentina stood confidently at the center, speaking with the ease of someone who had practiced every word.

When someone inevitably asked about Bucky's absence, Valentina didn't even hesitate.

"James Barnes had some unfinished business from the previous mission that required his immediate attention," she explained smoothly. "He is one of the most dedicated members of this team. If there is something left unresolved, he will make sure it is handled."

Her words painted his sudden disappearance as a strength rather than a problem.

A small smile appeared on her face as she continued.

"That level of commitment is exactly what makes him an exceptional Avenger."

You couldn't help but think there was a small trace of irritation hidden beneath her polished expression. She was clearly not pleased that one of her team members had walked away moments before a major public appearance.

But she handled it. That was what she seemed to do best. Turn chaos into something controlled.

The rest of the evening continued.

You tried.

You genuinely tried to enjoy yourself.

Yelena pulled you into conversations you barely expected to have. Alexei told exaggerated stories that made everyone roll their eyes. Bob apologised every time he interrupted someone. Ava quietly observed everything while occasionally adding comments that made you laugh when you least expected it.

Paul filled in the gaps whenever the team broke into laughter over inside jokes, explaining the stories behind them and sharing some of their more unbelievable missions. Bucky's name came up often, usually when they talked about the missions that had gone wrong but somehow ended with him saving the day.

And every now and then, your eyes drifted toward the doors.

Half expecting him to return.

Half wondering why you cared if he did.

On the drive back home, you found yourself asking Paul about the past again. About the people you'd known before the accident, again. About why no one had ever reached out to you, again.

His answer was simple, again.

“We moved.”

You knew that was true. You knew your entire life had changed after the accident. You knew you and Paul had started over somewhere new. But still, it didn't explain everything.

You didn't remember anything from before the Snap.

As far as you knew, the accident had happened sometime during all that chaos. The years before it were nothing but empty spaces, pieced together from stories Paul had told you and records you'd read yourself.

It was the only explanation you'd ever had.

You knew you didn't have parents. They'd passed away when you were young. You'd apparently been raised by your grandmother, though you didn't remember her either. You didn't remember the house you'd grown up in, the places you'd lived, the people you'd known, or even what your life had been like before everything supposedly changed.

You had always known Paul was hiding things from you. You weren't naive enough to believe otherwise. You saw it in the way he avoided certain questions, the way his expression changed whenever you got too close to something he didn't want to talk about.

But you never pushed too hard.

Because he was your brother.

And because whenever you asked about the past, he didn't get angry or defensive. He just... shut down.

He would go quiet, distant, like he was somewhere else entirely, somewhere you couldn't follow him no matter how many questions you asked.

You had tried to push once.

Really push.

It had ended in the biggest fight the two of you had ever had.

You had demanded answers. Who you'd been before the accident, why there were years of your life you couldn't remember, and why certain things about you had never quite felt... normal.

Like the healing.

Cuts that should have taken days sometimes disappeared within hours, bruises faded far too quickly, and injuries that should have left marks simply... didn't. It wasn't dramatic enough to call a superpower, but it was strange enough to make you wonder.

For the first time in your life, Paul had yelled back.

Not out of anger.

Out of desperation.

Then, just as suddenly, he broke.

You still remembered the way he had sunk into the couch, rubbing a hand over his face as though he was trying to hold himself together.

"It's best if you know as little as possible."

That was all he had managed to say.

You had waited for him to explain.

He never did.

Seeing your brother, your steady, dependable brother, fall apart like that had taken the fight out of you.

After that, you stopped asking so often.

Not because your questions had disappeared.

But because you couldn't bear to watch him carry whatever burden made those words sound like a plea rather than an excuse.

So instead, your thoughts returned to Bucky.

Maybe he was someone you'd known before the accident.

It was the only explanation that seemed remotely possible. Maybe you'd crossed paths somehow, been acquaintances, friends. But the thought fell apart almost immediately. You would've been in college back then. He was an Avenger. How could your lives have intersected?

And if they had, there should've been something—a photograph, a message, Paul mentioning his name, anything proving you'd once been close to a man the entire world knew.

Still, the Blip complicated things. He'd disappeared for five years, and even if he'd wanted to find you, he couldn't have. Maybe he'd looked for you after returning, found you living a new life without any memory of him, and decided it wasn't his place to interfere.

But that didn't explain the confusion in his eyes, or why he seemed just as lost as you were.

So you settled on the simplest explanation.

Maybe you just had a familiar face.

Maybe you reminded him of someone he'd once known.

Someone important.

Someone he'd loved.

Someone who wasn't you.

————

The next morning, Paul was gone.

Something about Avengers life always seemed to involve paperwork, meetings, and things he described as "political bullshit." According to him, he was only going to the headquarters to submit some documents and deal with whatever endless requirements came with being part of the New Avengers.

You had learned not to question it too much.

There were days when he didn't come home, staying overnight at the tower because a mission briefing ran too late or because there was always something else that needed his attention. You never liked those nights, but Paul always made sure to call.

Lock your doors.

Keep your phone nearby.

Don't open the door for anyone.

The usual things a protective brother would say.

You decided to do something simple. Go grocery shopping, make yourself a warm dinner, and enjoy a quiet evening before returning to worrying about the future. Since Paul usually took the car for Avengers-related work, you decided to walk to the nearby grocery store. Having two cars was still not something either of you could justify, especially when one was already enough for most days.

Being part of the New Avengers came with a steady income, but Paul had never been interested in spending it on himself. Instead of saving up for a bigger house or rushing into a more comfortable lifestyle, he insisted on putting most of it toward your education and your future.

"You have worked too hard to start over again," he always told you.

So you stayed in the same rented home, close to the New Avengers headquarters, with a little less convenience but a lot more stability.

You moved through the grocery store aisles slowly, pushing your cart from one section to another, picking up ingredients while your mind wandered somewhere else entirely.

James Barnes.

You barely knew him.

And yet, you kept thinking about him, not because of the way he'd looked at you, but because of what that look might mean.

He had known you.

At least, that was what you'd started to suspect.

Maybe if you talked to him, he could tell you something Paul never would. Something about the person you'd been before the accident. Where you'd lived. Who you'd known. Maybe even who you'd been to him.

You were still lost in your thoughts when your cart caught against the edge of a display, sending a stack of cans tumbling onto the floor and rolling in every direction across the aisle.

"Shit," you muttered, immediately crouching down to pick them up.

A few people nearby glanced over, while others stepped forward to help. You thanked them quietly as you collected the cans one by one, trying to ignore the embarrassment creeping up your face.

As you reached for one of the last cans, another hand reached for it at the same time.

Your fingers brushed.

For a brief second, you felt the roughness of callused skin beneath a black glove. It was strange, something about the touch felt familiar, though you couldn't explain why.

You assumed he was just another person helping you clean up. Until you looked up.

A mask covered most of his face, hiding his identity, but you saw enough.

The blue eyes. The familiar intensity. The way he looked at you for a fraction of a second too long.

Your breath caught.

No.

It couldn't be.

But some part of you already knew.

Before you could say anything, before you could even ask what he was doing here, he stepped back and walked away quickly, disappearing between the aisles before you could follow.

You stood there, frozen, staring after him.

Your mind first told you it was impossible.

That you were imagining things.

That you were connecting two unrelated moments because you had been thinking about him too much.

But then you were pretty sure that was James Barnes.

You sighed and put back the last can back in the aisle, picked up your cart, finished your shopping, and tried to convince yourself that nothing unusual had happened.

————

The next time you saw Bucky, it was three days later.

That evening, you had planned to have dinner with Paul after he finished work. It had been three days since you last saw him, and you were looking forward to spending some normal time together. After dinner, he would probably have to return to the headquarters anyway. Valentina had already been breathing down their necks about a new mission, which meant the team was constantly being pulled into briefings and preparations.

At around six, you arrived at the New Avengers headquarters and settled into the lounge area, scrolling through hospital listings on your phone, looking for places where you could apply as a nurse while you waited for Paul to finish.

You had barely gotten through a page when your phone rang.

Paul.

"Hey," he said when you answered.

"Hey. Everything okay?"

"Yeah, sorry. I'm going to be late."

You sighed softly.

"How late?"

There was a pause.

"Probably... a while."

Despite yourself, you smiled.

"What happened?"

"New information came in about a mission. The team needs to go over everything tonight."

You weren't surprised.

This had become a familiar pattern.

"I'm sorry about dinner," he added.

"It's okay."

"No, seriously. I owe you one."

You chuckled lightly.

Then he hesitated.

"Actually... why don't you come upstairs?"

You looked toward the elevators.

"Paul..."

"They are ordering takeout. You can grab something if you're comfortable with it. Everyone's here."

You knew you should probably say no. You didn't want to interrupt their work or make yourself feel like you were intruding.

But the truth was, you liked their company. Spending dinner with them didn't feel like an inconvenience.

And maybe...

Maybe there was another reason too.

A part of you wanted to see James Barnes again.

You wanted a chance to actually talk to him, to ask him what he'd known about you, and why he'd looked at you that way the first time you'd met.

Maybe, if you could get him alone long enough, he might finally tell you something about the life you'd forgotten.

And you wanted to know.

"Okay."

"Cool. I'll let the guards know to let you in.” He hung up, and a few minutes later, your phone buzzed with a message from him.

“Come up to the thirteenth floor.” 

————

It was Bob who greeted you first. He looked up from the files scattered across the table and immediately gave you the gentlest smile you had ever seen. "Hey," he said, standing slightly. "You made it."

“I did, although I must say, it was a long way here.”

Bob laughed softly, glancing around at the mountain of documents, laptops, and empty coffee cups surrounding them. 

"Good to have you. I was starting to think this place was just going to be us staring at screens until we forgot what sunlight looked like." 

Beside him, Ava sat with earbuds in, quietly working through stacks of paperwork. She didn't look up immediately, only lifting a hand in a brief wave of acknowledgement before returning to the reports in front of her.

"Hi," she said absentmindedly, her eyes never leaving the page. "Sorry. Deadline."

You looked at the piles of files in front of them. "Five hours of paperwork?"

"Five hours and twelve minutes," he corrected seriously.

You raised your eyebrows. "That's concerningly specific."

"I have been counting."

You couldn't help but laugh. "So that's what being a superhero is really about?"

Bob sighed.

“Everyone talks about fighting and saving people. Nobody mentions how much paperwork comes with it. I don’t mind the work, but this much of it is starting to feel excessive.”

"He's been complaining about it for the last hour," Yelena added as she walked over.

Bob immediately looked offended. "I have not been complaining."

"You have been describing your suffering in great detail," she replied.

"...Now that is more accurate."

You smiled at their exchange. 

"How have you been?" Yelena asked, turning her attention back to you.

"Good. Tired, but good."

"You told us your exams were over," she said, pretending to sound disappointed. "So now you can stop by more often. Honestly, it's ridiculous that this is only our second time meeting when Paul has been an Avenger for months."

You laughed. "I will. Paul is just... a little secretive."

From beside Bob, Ava finally looked up from the file she had been reading. One earbud remained in her ear while she held the other between her fingers, clearly wanting to join the conversation now.

"He is," she said. "Half the time, we don't know what he's thinking either."

Yelena smirked. "Except apparently you."

Ava looked at the papers again. "Keep talking and I'll volunteer you for the paperwork."

"I know there is a reason he always sits next to you during briefings," Yelena muttered under her breath.

Ava simply rolled her eyes, slipped her earbud back in, and continued reading as if the conversation had never happened.

You smiled to yourself. It was clear that your brother's crush on Ava hadn't gone unnoticed. They obviously teased them about it whenever they got the chance. And maybe the feeling wasn't entirely one-sided.

Your eyes wandered around the room. Paul was sitting near the other side with John, Bucky, and two people you hadn't met before. Two laptops sat open between them, with files spread across the table. The two unfamiliar faces moved between the documents and screens, comparing information while Paul and John discussed something quietly with them.

Your attention lingered on Bucky for a moment.

He sat slightly apart from the others, sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms, his vibranium hand resting against the edge of the table while his other hand held onto the file in front of him. He listened more than he spoke, occasionally leaning forward to point out something on the pages or exchanging a few quiet words with the others before returning to his silence.

Even surrounded by people, there was something solitary about him.

Yelena noticed where you were looking.

"Oh," she said casually. "Paul's still working."

Then, just under her breath, "Or maybe you were looking at Bucky."

You caught it. You quickly looked away.

"What are they working on?"

"Hacking into a server or, as they would say, extracting information," she replied, making air quotes with her fingers. "Which is just a fancy way of saying they're breaking into someone's system legally."

You let out a small laugh.

"So, corporate-approved crime?"

"Exactly."

"So, we are ordering some burgers. Should we get you one too? With a french fries, of course."

"Yeah, that sounds perfect."

"No worries. We always order extra anyway."

Yelena laughed as she opened DoorDash on her phone. Apparently, everyone else had already added their orders because you saw eighteen cheeseburgers sitting in the cart. You stared at the screen for a moment.

"Eighteen?"

Yelena shrugged.

"You learn quickly that feeding superheroes is a full-time job."

You smiled at that. Your gaze drifted back toward Bucky without meaning to. This time, he was already looking at you. And for a moment, neither of you moved. The surprise on his face was impossible to miss. His expression softened almost instantly, as if he hadn't expected to find you looking back. There was a flicker of disbelief in his eyes, followed by something warmer, something almost like relief.

Then he seemed to realize he had been staring.

The softness disappeared behind the familiar guarded expression, his shoulders straightening slightly as he looked away and returned his attention to the file in front of him. His jaw tightened, like he was forcing himself back into control.

"Looking at Bucky?" You turned to find Yelena giving you a knowing look.

Your face warmed immediately. "What? No."

She smiled. "You can talk to him."

You frowned slightly. "I don't think he'd appreciate me interrupting whatever... this is."

Yelena glanced over at Bucky before looking back at you. "I think he’d enjoy your company."

But before you could answer, Alexei appeared beside you, looking far too interested in the conversation.

"I knew it!"

You blinked. "Knew what?"

He pointed dramatically between you and Bucky.

"The eyes. The staring. The mysterious soldier man looking like he has seen a ghost."

"Alexei.." Yelena warned.

"No, no, listen." He continued. "I saw it at the party. The way Barnes looked at you. Like man who found treasure after losing map."

You tried not to blush. "That's not exactly how I would describe it."

"I tried talking to him about it," Alexei continued. "Everyone tried. We all saw it. But he just says, 'I'm tired.'"

He shook his head dramatically.

"Tired? No. That was not tired. That was something else. Deeper. Rawer."

"Alexei," Yelena repeated.

"What? I am a romantic man. I understand these things."

You let out an awkward laugh, unsure where to look.

"I think maybe we should not analyse this too much," you said, hoping to steer the conversation somewhere else.

"Analyse?" Alexei looked offended. "I am simply observing."

"Alexei, please don't make this worse."

"Worse?" He looked genuinely confused. "This is beautiful. Like Romeo and Juliet."

Yelena immediately grabbed his arm."Dad, please stop comparing people to tragedies."

"Fine. But I am just saying, I see something."

You smiled awkwardly as Yelena guided him away.

"Ignore him," she said. "He thinks everything is a dramatic movie."

"I noticed." You gave Yelena a polite smile. In return Yelena pushed you gently toward one of the couches. 

"Come sit. Before he starts giving you relationship advice."

You sat down beside Bob, who had returned to reading the files, facing the direction where Paul was sitting. A few minutes later, Paul finally noticed you. His entire expression softened, and he immediately stood up, walking toward you.

"Hey."

"Hey."

"I'm sorry about dinner."

You smiled. "Paul, it's fine."

He looked relieved. "Thanks for understanding."

"Of course I understand."

You glanced around the room, watching everyone working together. "Honestly, I don't mind."

Paul smiled.

"Really?"

You nodded. "Yeah. I like them."

His expression softened slightly. "I was worried you would feel out of place."

You smiled. "I think I'm likable enough for a group of superheroes to like me."

That made him laugh.

"I know. I just..." He shook his head slightly. "I wanted to make sure you were comfortable."

"I am."

For a moment, he simply smiled.

“Good.”

You smiled back. “Now stop looking so guilty. It’s a very annoying brother habit.”

He smiled and nodded once, then glanced back toward the group.

“I’ll wrap this up.”

With that, he turned and walked away, returning to the group he’d been working with.

You settled onto the couch beside Yelena and went back to your hospital research. Around you, the room gradually began to loosen as people reached the end of their files, closed their laptops, and started drifting into casual conversations and laughter.

One by one, the group began putting their work away, clearly ready for a break.

Everyone except Bucky.

He stayed where he was, continuing to type and scroll through whatever information was on his laptop.

But now that you were paying attention, you noticed something different.

He wasn’t actually relaxed.

Not completely.

His posture was calm, his expression unreadable, but there was a quiet tension in the way he moved. His fingers kept working, clicking through files and searching through information, yet it felt less like he was focused on the task and more like he needed something to do with his hands.

Like sitting still was harder than pretending to be busy.

He looked like if he stopped moving for even a moment, all the thoughts he was avoiding might catch up to him.

When the food arrived, everyone moved around the room to collect their meals. You took yours and looked toward Paul. He was still sitting with John and the others, talking between bites.

Your eyes moved again. Bucky was sitting alone at the dining table, his meal in front of him. Not far enough away to seem like he was avoiding everyone, but far enough that it felt intentional.

For the first time all evening, you saw a perfect opportunity to talk to him.

"I'll be back," you murmured to Yelena.

She was already eating and drinking from an opaque cup that you were fairly certain did not contain coffee.

She simply glanced at you with a knowing smile.

"Sure."

You ignored the tone and walked toward the dining table.

As you got closer, you noticed that he wasn't only eating. His burger sat mostly untouched while his attention remained fixed on the laptop beside him. He stared at the screen in-front of him, occasionally scrolling, his expression focused in a way that made the rest of the room disappear around him.

You hesitated for a second.

But before you could change your mind, he noticed you.

The reaction was immediate.

His hand stopped moving.

For a brief moment, his expression changed completely, surprise first, then something softer. Like he hadn't expected you to come over but some part of him had hoped you would. Then he seemed to remember himself. He closed the laptop screen with a quick motion before looking up at you.

It was almost like he had been caught doing something he didn't want anyone else to see.

"Hey," you said, giving him a small smile.

"Hey." His voice was quieter than usual.

You looked at the empty chair beside him.

"Is this seat taken?"

For a second, he looked almost startled by the question.

"No."

He moved his meal slightly, clearing some space on the table even though there was already plenty of room.

You sat down.

A small silence followed.

You stole a glance at him. His attention rested on the closed laptop, his expression distant, as though part of his mind was still caught up in whatever he'd been working on moments ago. Then your eyes drifted to his food.

"You're not actually eating, are you?"

His eyebrows lifted slightly. "I am."

You looked at the plate. "Really?."

He followed your gaze and seemed to realise he had barely touched it. "I'm eating slowly."

You smiled softly. “I can tell.”

For the smallest moment, you thought you saw the corner of his mouth move. Almost a smile. "I get distracted."

"Clearly."

You looked around the room. "So, is this normal?"

"What?"

"Everyone sitting around, working, arguing, eating together."

He glanced toward the others. "Most days."

"And you always sit here?"

The question came out more curious than you intended. His eyes flickered back to you.

"Sometimes." A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. "When I want to miss out on the stupid."

"How's that working out for you?"

He looked around the room. "Poorly."

“I was going to say,” you replied with a soft laugh, glancing at the empty space around him before looking toward the group across the room. “Considering you basically live with them.”

He shrugged and nodded.

“You might enjoy your food a little more with some company,” you added.

He looked at you, slightly amused. "Is that your professional opinion?" 

"Actually, yes," you replied seriously. "As a future nurse, I can confirm that avoiding social interaction is probably not the healthiest lifestyle choice."

That earned a quiet laugh. "Future nurse?"

You nodded.

"So, have you started working with real people yet, or are you still practising on mannequins?"

The way he asked it made you narrow your eyes slightly.

"I don't know what that tone was."

"What tone?"

"The one where you sound like you think mannequins are easy."

A small smirk tugged at his mouth. "I didn't say that."

"You didn't have to."

You shook your head, smiling.

"You wouldn't believe how difficult it is to treat a plastic person. Honestly, I might argue it's harder than treating real patients sometimes. At least real people can tell you when you're hurting them."

For a moment, Bucky just stared at you. Then he smiled again, a little more this time.

“I believe that.”

You smiled back. Talking to him was easier than you'd expected.

“So…” You nodded toward the black mask folded beside him on the table. “Do you usually go grocery shopping dressed like that?”

A faint smile crossed his face. “Occupational hazard.”

“I figured.” You rested your elbows on the table, studying him for a moment. “So is disappearing from parties also part of the job?”

His eyes flickered up to yours.

“The party?”

“Yeah.” You tilted your head. “You left pretty quickly after you saw me.”

Something shifted in his expression, but it was gone almost immediately.

“I had somewhere to be.”

You watched him.

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

You weren't entirely convinced.

“You looked a little surprised to see me.”

Bucky's gaze held yours for a second before he glanced down at his laptop.

“I was surprised.”

Your heart gave a small, involuntary jump.

“Why?”

He paused.

“Because you looked familiar.”

You went still.

Bucky seemed to notice, because his expression softened slightly.

“But that's not exactly unusual,” he added. “I've been around for a long time. I've met a lot of people.”

You searched his face, trying to find something that would confirm the feeling you'd had that night, but there was nothing obvious there now.

“So you didn't actually know me?”

His eyes lifted to yours again.

“No.”

The answer came easily enough that, for the first time, you wondered if you'd simply imagined everything at the party, the recognition in his eyes, the way he'd frozen, the strange feeling that he'd been looking at someone he had known rather than someone he'd just met.

Maybe you'd read too much into it.

Maybe he really had just thought you looked familiar.

“Oh,” you said quietly.

Bucky gave you a small, almost apologetic smile.

“Sorry if I made it weird.”

You shook your head. “You didn't.”

But you weren't sure you believed that either.

"So," you smiled, deciding to let him off the hook, "next time I see a mysterious masked man sprinting through the soup aisle in a grocery store, I'll know not to take it personally."

He gave a genuine, quiet laugh. The laugh that will melt the coldest hearts.

"I'd appreciate that."

Your eyes moved briefly to his plate. "You're really not eating."

He glanced down.

“I am.”

“You’ve been staring at your closed laptop for the last five minutes. I think you’re allowed to take a break.”

His eyes narrowed slightly. “You noticed that?”

You shrugged. “Hard not to.”

A faint smile crossed his face before he looked back down at his burger, slowly picking it up.

“You always wanted to be a nurse?”

You shrugged.

“Maybe. I don't know.”

You hesitated, searching for the right words.

“Medicine always felt like something I was supposed to do. Understanding what people were going through, helping when I could... it just made sense to me.”

“So, you like helping people.” He said, more to himself than to you.

You smiled slightly. “Yes.”

He looked at you for a little longer than necessary.  "I think they would like having you around."

The simple sincerity of it caught you off guard.

"That's a very nice thing to say."

He looked away almost immediately.

"Just telling the truth."

You smiled.

"You're less scary than people make you sound."

That surprised him. "People say I'm scary?"

"Not exactly."

You glanced toward the others. "They just make you sound very serious."

He looked across the room.

"They're not wrong."

"Maybe."

You tilted your head.

"But I think they also know you're the person they'll call when things go wrong."

His expression softened slightly.

"Yeah." A pause. "I guess they do."

And for some reason, the way he said it sounded less like pride and more like someone who still couldn't believe he had people who trusted him. You didn't know what to say to that. So you didn't.

And neither did he.

The silence that followed wasn't uncomfortable.

It was just quiet.

A few minutes passed, and you finished your burger while he continued eating slowly, taking his time with every bite like he was finally remembering he had a meal in front of him.

You stood up and gave him a small, polite smile.

"I'll let you get back to your very important paperwork."

His eyes flickered briefly toward the untouched files. "Very important."

You smiled at the seriousness in his voice.

"Right. Wouldn't want to interrupt."

A faint hint of amusement appeared on his face. Along with something like disappointment 

You returned to the couch, where Yelena immediately glanced between you and Bucky.

"You survived."

You frowned.

"Survived what?"

"Conversation with Barnes."

"Is that supposed to be difficult?"

Yelena shrugged, glancing briefly in Bucky's direction.

"Not difficult. He just doesn't usually stay around unless he really wants to."

You looked at her curiously.

"What do you mean?"

She shook her head.

"Nothing."

Before you could ask or think about it further, she changed the subject.

Soon, everyone slowly returned to their own conversations. You talked with Yelena about random things, listened to Bob complain about another round of paperwork, and watched Alexei attempt to convince John that his training methods were "historically inspired."

Every now and then, you caught Bucky looking in your direction. Not staring. Not enough to be obvious. Just brief glances, like he was quietly observing without meaning to.

You ignored it. Old habits, you supposed. A man who had spent decades as a spy and assassin probably noticed things automatically. It didn't have to mean anything. 

Still, some part of you remained alert, replaying the conversation in your head and searching his answers for any little clue that might confirm what you suspected, that he'd known you before. But you found none.

Eventually, you realised it was getting late.

You gathered your things, saying your goodbyes to everyone as the room slowly began settling down. Yelena gave you a knowing smile when you thanked her for the evening, while Bob wished you luck with your future applications. Alexei, of course, insisted that next time you had to try his cooking, which earned him an immediate warning from Yelena that you should not agree to anything without supervision.

John simply gave you a polite nod before returning to his conversation.

Paul was also wrapping up, preparing to drop you home

Before walking out, your eyes moved briefly across the room.

Bucky was standing near the table, his attention no longer on the files in front of him. When your eyes met, he gave you a small nod.

“Goodnight,” he mouthed.

You smiled, nodding in response.

————

It had been a week since you last stepped outside. Between finishing your exams, finally allowing yourself to rest, and researching everything you could find about Bucky, leaving the apartment had somehow become less urgent than staying in.

And eventually, you had to accept the most reasonable conclusion: James Barnes didn't know you.

You'd gone through everything you could find, old articles, interviews, photographs, records, and there was nothing. No connection, no shared history, nothing that suggested your lives had ever crossed before.

He had been telling the truth.

Whatever you'd seen in his expression that first night, you'd simply misunderstood it.

But on the bright side, your nursing results had arrived three days ago.

You'd passed.

Not just passed. You'd passed with flying colours.

You had celebrated the only way you and Paul ever really did, with takeaway food and your brother insisting that he had "always known" you would top the class.

Now came the difficult part.

Finding somewhere to start your career.

Your laptop had become permanently buried beneath tabs from different hospitals and teaching institutions across Virginia. Every morning started the same way.

Applications.

Requirements.

Residency programmes.

Trainee positions.

Somehow, you always got distracted. One search became another—an article about the Avengers, a charity event, an interview.

Then, before you knew it, you were reading an unnecessarily long discussion about whether James Barnes was actually as intimidating as the media claimed.

Half the comments called him terrifying.

The other half insisted he was secretly the sweetest Avenger, citing blurry photos of him carrying sleepy children after charity events or patiently helping elderly women across the street.

You smiled to yourself before closing the tab.

Again.

You really needed to stop doing that.

There is no connection.

Back to more applications.

Most of them wanted experience.

Which would have been incredibly helpful if someone had first given you a place to gain that experience.

You were halfway through comparing two hospitals when your apartment door unlocked.

"You alive?" Paul's voice echoed through the apartment.

"Barely."

He stepped inside, dropping a duffel bag by the couch before stretching his shoulders with an exhausted groan.

"You look terrible."

You looked up from your laptop.

"You've literally been on another continent."

"So?"

"You've slept... what, six hours in the last three days?"

He considered it. "...Maybe."

You pointed toward the bathroom. "Go shower."

"You sound like my mother."

"You should be grateful."

He laughed before disappearing down the hallway.

It wasn't until nearly forty minutes later, now dressed in a T-shirt and sweatpants instead of tactical gear, that he wandered back into the living room and collapsed onto the couch beside you.

"You smell like shampoo."

"I've been told that's an improvement."

"It is."

He leaned over, looking at your laptop.

"What are we looking at?"

"Hospitals."

He frowned.

"Still?"

"There are more hospitals in Virginia than I thought."

"Mm."

"I've narrowed it down to six."

Paul reached for one of the printed applications scattered across the coffee table. "Memorial Medical."

He picked up another.

"Fairfax."

Then another.

"You've really been doing this all week."

"I kind of have to."

"You'll get hired."

"I know."

You sighed.

"I just want somewhere that'll actually teach me. Not somewhere that'll throw me into a ward on day one because they're understaffed."

Paul nodded slowly.

"I get that."

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

He kept reading through the papers before quietly asking,

"What exactly are you looking for?"

You thought about it.

"I want somewhere busy. Somewhere I'll actually learn. Good mentors. A decent trauma department."

You smiled faintly.

"And preferably somewhere that doesn't make new nurses cry on their first shift."

Paul chuckled.

"That's a high standard."

"I know."

He placed the papers back on the table.

"Let me see what I can do."

You looked at him. "What do you mean?"

He simply shrugged. "I'll ask around."

"You know hospital administrators now?"

"I know people."

"You always say that."

"And I'm usually right."

You narrowed your eyes. "I'm not taking special treatment."

He rolled his eyes. "I'm not getting you a job. I'm getting you an interview. And there's a difference."

You weren't entirely convinced.

But before you could argue, his phone buzzed.

He glanced at it. "I've got to head back for a briefing."

"You just got home."

"I know."

He stood, pulling the duffel bag closer before unzipping it. "The Australia mission still has paperwork."

He began sorting through it with the efficiency of someone who had done this countless times. A few spare clothes were pulled out and tossed onto the couch. A half-empty medical kit followed. He shifted a stack of classified folders toward the top before rearranging what remained inside.

You caught a glimpse of tactical gear. A sidearm. Several sealed evidence bags.

Then, tucked beneath everything else, were bloodstained bandages.

Paul's hand paused for only a fraction of a second. He noticed where you were looking. Without a word, he pushed the bandages farther into the corner of the bag, covering them with the folders before zipping that compartment halfway shut.

"The press says you were chasing some government escapee." Your eyes never left the duffel.

Paul let out a quiet snort. "The press says a lot of things."

"So... were you?"

He looked up at you, one corner of his mouth lifting. "I'm legally obligated not to answer that."

You sighed, pushing yourself off the couch.

"Please get whatever injury you're hiding properly checked."

His eyes flickered toward the duffel before returning to you. "I'm fine."

"You literally just hid bloody bandages from me."

"They're old."

"You are a terrible liar."

A small laugh escaped him. "I've had worse."

"Paul."

"I'll get it looked at."

You weren't entirely convinced, but it was as much reassurance as you were going to get. He slung the duffel over his shoulder, then pointed a finger at you.

"Don't stay up until three in the morning filling out applications."

"No promises."

Shaking his head with an amused smile, he stepped out into the hallway, leaving the apartment quiet once again.

————

Two days later… 

You were still awake late at night. At some point, researching hospitals had turned into reading an article about the Avengers' latest humanitarian mission.

Which somehow became a video interview.

Which somehow became a YouTube channel called BuckyFanEdits.

You refused to question your life choices.

The edits were... surprisingly well made.

One clip showed him helping an elderly woman carefully down a flight of stairs after a charity gala, carrying her handbag without seeming to realise someone was filming. Another caught him laughing at something Sam had said during an interview, only for the smile to disappear the second he noticed the cameras were still rolling. One edit had stitched together his painfully serious congressional hearing, cutting from him answering, “Very worrying,” with complete sincerity straight into footage of him crashing through a wall during a mission.

There were clips from missions, awkward public appearances, behind-the-scenes moments the media had somehow captured, and an embarrassing number of slow-motion edits set to dramatic music that probably gave him far more credit for looking mysterious than he deserved.

You rolled your eyes. And watched another one. You couldn't help it. It had been more than a week since you talked to him.

You hadn't seen him since. 

Then again, you hadn't really seen anyone.

Apart from Paul… And Luca, your DoorDash driver, who had delivered food often enough this week that the two of you were now on a first-name basis.

Your laptop was still open beside you when you heard the apartment door unlock.

Paul.

You glanced at the clock.

2:03 a.m.

You waited to hear his bedroom door close. Instead...

Three soft knocks landed against yours.

"You awake?"

You smiled despite yourself. "Barely."

He walked in holding a large envelope. "I have something for you."

You sat up. "What is it?"

Instead of answering, he handed it over. Across the front, embossed in dark silver lettering, were the words:

Avengers Medical Facility

Your eyebrows shot up.

"...Paul."

He leaned against the doorframe. "Open it."

You pulled out the letter inside. Your eyes skimmed the first paragraph.

Interview Invitation.

Graduate Nurse Trainee Programme.

Avengers Medical Facility.

You looked up so quickly you nearly gave yourself whiplash. "What?"

"You said you wanted somewhere you'd actually learn."

He folded his arms.

"They've got some of the best trauma surgeons, biomedical researchers, rehabilitation specialists and emergency physicians in the country."

You looked back at the letter.

"This..."

"...isn't a joke?"

"No."

"How?"

"I asked."

You stared at him.

"I told you. I know people."

"You got me an interview at the Avengers' hospital?"

"The medical facility." He corrected you. "It's attached to headquarters, but it's its own institution. They train military medics, trauma nurses, doctors, researchers..."

He smiled.

"You'll see things there that most hospitals won't see in ten years."

You looked down at the letter again. "But..."

"You'll also be close."

His voice softened.

"I know you can take care of yourself. But if something happens..."

He shrugged.

"I'll know you're somewhere safe."

Your chest tightened. "Paul..."

"It's just an interview.” He smiled. 

For a moment, neither of you spoke. You were still staring at the letter in your hands, too surprised to say anything.

"Good night." Paul said, quietly closing the door behind him.

Silence settled over your room once again. Your eyes slowly drifted toward the still-open laptop on your desk.

The tab at the top proudly read: BuckyFanEdits - Best James Barnes Moments (Part 17)

Yeah.

Those fan edits were probably not going to help you pass the interview.

With a reluctant sigh, you closed the tab.

"Back to studying," you muttered to yourself.

————

The morning of your interview arrived far sooner than you would have liked.

You had changed outfits three times, read through your notes one last time, checked your folder at least five times to make sure you hadn't forgotten anything... then checked it a sixth, just in case.

"Text me when you're done," Paul had reminded you for what felt like the third time that morning. "And take the car home."

You had tried to argue. He would probably need it more than you would, especially if he ended up working late.

"I'll get a ride."

That had been the end of the discussion.

Paul dropped you off outside the main reception entrance. After wishing you good luck one last time, he headed toward the secured elevators beyond reception, the same ones you had taken the day you first visited headquarters. He flashed his credentials to the guard stationed beside them before disappearing behind the closing doors.

You took a slow breath and looked up.

The Avengers Headquarters looked even more impressive in broad daylight.

After checking in at reception and presenting your identification, a woman behind the desk handed you a white visitor badge.

VISITOR

The word sat beneath your name in bold black letters.

"You'll be heading to the Medical Sciences Division," she explained. "Follow the blue line until you reach Elevator C."

You thanked her and clipped the badge onto your blazer. The corridors surprised you. You had expected something... flashier. Instead, they looked remarkably normal. Scientists hurried past carrying tablets. Engineers discussed something involving drone diagnostics. Someone in scrubs pushed a patient toward radiology.

It felt less like superhero headquarters...And more like a hospital attached to a research university.

The blue line eventually led you to a quieter corridor. At the end waited Elevator C. You stepped inside.

Instead of floors, the panel read:

Training.

Operations.

Ground.

Engineering.

Medical Sciences.

You pressed the final button and the elevator descended. The doors opened onto an entirely different world. The medical facility stretched farther than you expected.

Glass-walled rehabilitation rooms. Simulation labs. An emergency department. Operating theatres. Physical therapy suites. Teaching rooms filled with nursing students and residents. A trauma bay where a team was practising emergency procedures on a high-fidelity mannequin.

Your heart skipped.

This...

This was exactly where you wanted to be.

The interview lasted nearly an hour. There were four people on the panel. A trauma surgeon. The head nursing coordinator. A rehabilitation specialist. And the director of the facility.

Most of the questions weren't designed to catch you out.

They wanted to know how you thought. How you communicated. How you handled pressure.

You answered honestly. When you didn't know something, you admitted it.

When they presented difficult patient scenarios, you explained your reasoning instead of rushing to an answer.

By the end, you felt... Good. Not certain. But good.

As you gathered your papers to leave, one of the pages slipped from your folder. You reached down too quickly. The edge of the paper caught your finger while you were collecting the rest of your documents.

"Ow."

It was barely more than a sting.

You glanced down, expecting to see a small cut.

By the time you stood again, the pain had already disappeared.

You looked at your finger.

The cut was gone.

Completely.

Just like it always did.

You ignored it and stepped back into the corridor. 

Now where was the exit?

When you had first arrived, the facility had seemed simple enough. A few hallways, a clear direction from reception, an elevator that brought you straight down and signs that lead you towards Conference room 3. But now that you were leaving, the place somehow felt twice as large.

You turned left. Wrong.

The door ahead required clearance you definitely didn't have.

You turned around and tried another direction. Another restricted access area. 

"Project 890 personnel only."

You stared at the sign for a second.

"Okay."

You muttered under your breath.

"Not this way either."

You turned back again, taking another corridor that looked promising.

A few minutes later, you found yourself standing in front of a set of doors marked Men's Washroom. You quickly looked away, pretending you hadn't just accidentally wandered somewhere you absolutely weren't supposed to be.

The next corridor led to a large meeting room in the general ward area. Empty chairs surrounded a table covered with files and tablets, but there was still no sign of the elevator or the way back to reception.

You sighed, ready to admit defeat and ask someone for directions.

"Lost already?"

You turned around.

Bucky.

He stood a few feet away, a tablet tucked under one arm. The sleeves of his Henley were rolled to his forearms, the vibranium catching the overhead lights as he adjusted his grip. His expression somewhere between amusement and concern.

For a moment, you just stared at him.

Of all the people who could have found you wandering around the facility like you didn't belong there...

Of course it had to be him.

"I am absolutely…lost." You admitted

The corner of his mouth twitched ever so slightly.

"The lifts are this way."

He pointed toward the very corridor you had just come from.

You followed the direction with your eyes before letting out a quiet, embarrassed laugh.

"Oh."

Mercifully, he didn't tease you about it.

He simply turned and started walking, and after a moment, you fell into step beside him.

The corridor stretched ahead in comfortable silence, your footsteps echoing softly against the polished floor. The facility felt strangely peaceful now that the interview was over. The rush of doctors, trainees, and staff had settled into a quieter rhythm, broken only by the occasional voice drifting from behind closed doors.

"You work down here?" you asked, more to fill the silence than anything else.

"Sometimes. I was just leaving."

That was all he offered.

He reached the elevator first and pressed the call button. A second later, the familiar chime echoed through the corridor, and the doors slid open with a soft mechanical hum.

You expected him to walk in.

Instead, he stepped to one side.

His vibranium hand caught the edge of the elevator doors before they could begin closing again, holding them open.

He looked at you.

"Ladies first."

You blinked.

It was such an old-fashioned gesture that it caught you completely off guard.

You couldn't remember the last time anyone had done something so simple and yet so thoughtful.

"Thank you..."

You hesitated.

"...James."

For the briefest moment, something shifted in his expression.

It was subtle.

His eyes lingered on you for half a heartbeat longer than usual before he simply gave a small nod and followed you inside.

You pressed the button for the ground floor.

He selected another floor further up. Training

The doors slid shut.

For a while, neither of you spoke.

The elevator hummed quietly as it climbed, the numbers above the door changing one by one. You found yourself watching them instead of looking at him, suddenly far more aware of how small the space felt.

Beside you, he shifted his weight almost imperceptibly.

You could hear the faint, absent rhythm of his boot tapping lightly against the floor.

Once.

Twice.

A third time.

Then he broke the silence.

"Interview?"

You looked over.

"Yeah."

"How'd it go?"

You let out a small breath.

"I think it went well."

His head tilted slightly.

"You think?"

A smile tugged at your lips.

"I didn't see anyone making concerned faces, so I'm choosing to be optimistic."

He considered that for a moment, his gaze settling on you with the same quiet attentiveness he'd carried throughout your conversation.

"I've met enough people to know when someone leaves a good impression."

His voice was calm and matter-of-fact. There wasn't a hint of exaggeration in it. No attempt to flatter you. He simply sounded... certain.

You looked at him, caught slightly off guard.

That wasn't the kind of compliment people usually gave. It sounded like an observation. Like he had looked at you, listened to you, and reached a conclusion.

For some reason, that made it mean far more.

A warmth settled quietly in your chest before you could stop it.

"I'll take that as a compliment."

The corner of his mouth lifted just enough for you to notice.

"You should."

A small pause followed.

"I meant it as one."

You smiled instinctively and lowered your eyes, suddenly finding the brushed steel floor of the elevator far more interesting than looking at him. You weren't entirely sure why those few words had affected you as much as they had.

The elevator chimed softly.

The doors slid open onto the reception floor.

You stepped out before turning back.

"Thanks again..."

You hesitated for the briefest second.

"...for rescuing me from getting lost in your headquarters."

A quiet huff of amusement escaped him.

His shoulders relaxed just a fraction, and the faint smile that appeared this time reached his eyes, softening them.

"Try not to get lost again."

You laughed.

"I'll do my best. No guarantees."

His smile lingered for another moment before he gave the smallest shake of his head, equal parts amused and resigned.

The elevator doors began sliding together.

He didn't immediately look away.

Instead, he held your gaze with the same quiet steadiness that somehow made the busy reception disappear around you.

"See you," he said.

Not goodbye.

See you.

The words were simple. Almost casual. Yet something about the certainty with which he said them made your heart skip in a way you chose not to examine too closely.

You found yourself smiling before you even realised you were.

"Yeah."

Your voice came out softer than you intended.

"See you."

The narrowing gap between the doors framed him for one last second, standing relaxed with one hand in his pocket, watching you with that same gentle expression that seemed so at odds with every intimidating headline you had ever read about James Barnes.

Then the doors met.

The elevator disappeared.

For a long moment, you remained exactly where you were, staring at your own reflection in the polished metal doors long after he was gone.

It was only when someone approached the elevator and called it that you remembered you were supposed to be leaving.

You let out a quiet breath you hadn't realised you were holding and started toward the exit. His words stayed with you the entire drive back to your apartment.

You were already looking forward to seeing him again.