#(carnival)

You took one step after her, and the migraine surged, hot, precise, and mean, so hard you had to stop.

Your older daughter’s chair scraped as she stood. “I can get her,” she offered, already moving, helpful in that earnest elder daughter way that made your chest squeeze.

“No, love,” you said quickly. You didn’t wanted her parenting her sister while you stood there pretending you were fine. “It’s okay. I’ve got her.”

You bent and scooped your toddler up mid-wobble. She immediately twisted to look at you, offended at being contained, kicking lightly against your hip and squealing again in protest.

It was thankfully lower in pitch this time, but it was still loud.

You adjusted her weight, tucked her closer, and kept your voice steady. “No cabinet raids. Not tonight, my little love.”

She stared at you with solemn toddler judgment, then stuck the spoon in her mouth.

You turned back to the stove because dinner was happening whether you were in pain or not. The onions needed stirring. The pasta water needed salt. The sauce needed attention. Everything needed you all at once, and you felt pulled in four directions, with the headache as the fifth.

Your eight year old hummed thoughtfully while her pencil scratched across paper. The sound was sandpaper on bone.

You adjusted your daughter on your hip. She smelled like applesauce and baby shampoo. Normally it would have made you smile, but tonight, it was simply one more sensation.

The front door clicked open. You didn’t need to look to know your husband was home. The house shifted when he arrived, as though familial gravity recalibrated around his presence.

“Hello, my girls,” Bucky called, his voice warm yet worn at the edges.

He was still in his suit jacket, tie loosened a fraction like he tugged at it on the walk from his office because he couldn’t stand it tight another second. His hair was slightly rumpled, his jaw shadowed with stubble that suggested a day that felt like a week. He looked like he’d been holding himself together in public the same way you been holding yourself together at home.

You straightened instinctively, smoothing your expression into something you hoped was convincing. You could get through dinner. Just dinner. After that, you could collapse.

He stepped into the kitchen doorway, his gaze finding you first, like always.

But his smile didn’t linger in admiration and love like it usually did. You could tell he was assessing you.

You turned back to the stove before he could study you too closely. “You just got home, sweetheart. Go take off your jacket and relax.” You stirred the sauce, though you couldn’t remember adding salt. Had you added it?

The words sounded smooth, but silence stretched behind you. You felt him step closer.

“Doll,” he said, low and quiet.

You hated that tone. It meant he saw right through you and already made a decision.

“I’m okay,” you insisted without turning around. The kitchen lights pulsed; your stomach rolled. “It’s just a migraine. I took a pill. It’s nothing I haven’t before. Let me finish dinner for you and the girls.”

He moved into your space with gentle certainty, his large hand settling at your waist.

“You’re squinting,” he said. “And you haven’t blinked in about thirty seconds.”

You forced your eyes wider to prove a point. It made everything worse. “I’ve got it handled.”

“Yeah,” he murmured. “I can see that.”

Your daughter squirmed in your arms, reaching for her father. Bucky’s vibranium hand slid securely beneath her and lifted her from your hip in one seamless motion. The sudden absence of her weight made you sway.

“I can still cook,” you protested. The words come thinner now. “Butterfly needs help with her math, and you just got back from work. You’ve been in meetings all day.”

“And I’m home now,” he said, making it sound simple.

“Dinner’s halfway done—”

Your toddler patted his cheek and babbled something happy. Bucky pressed a distracted kiss to her head without looking away from you.

His voice softened. “Go,” he said quietly. “Please? Let me take care of it.”

The words struck your heart tenderly, because even though he was tired himself from a long day, he was willing to take over and let you rest. Because your well-being was important to him.

You hesitated, because you always did, because you’d trained yourself not to be a burden, because your brain still insisted that handling everything yourself was safer than letting go.

He reached past you and took the wooden spoon.

“Upstairs,” he said gently but firmly. “Dark room. Ice pack. I’ll bring you water.”

“I can’t just—”

“You can just.” He leaned down and pressed a careful, featherlight kiss to your temple. “You don’t get points for suffering through it.”

Your older daughter appeared in the doorway, wide-eyed. “Is Mom okay?”

Bucky shifted the other higher on his hip. “Mom’s got a headache,” he said easily. “So I’m taking over. Think you can be my sous-chef tonight?”

Butterfly straightened immediately, solemn and proud. “Yes, sir.”

You wanted to argue again, to insist on finishing dinner, on being helpful, on being useful, but the room tilted, and the relief of letting someone else carry the evening was so strong it made your eyes sting.

You felt his warm hand settle at the small of your back, guiding you toward the stairs.

Your legs felt heavier than they should have.

Halfway up, guilt clawed its way through the pain. You were supposed to handle this. Other mothers handled worse. You’d handled worse. You hated feeling fragile, hated needing rescuing in your own kitchen.

At the top of the stairs, you turned back. He was still there, watching to make sure you made it the rest of the way. He shoo’d you onward with a tilt of his head.

And so you let the bedroom swallow you: blackout curtains drawn, blessed darkness wrapping around your aching skull.

Downstairs, you heard your toddler’s delighted babble, your oldest’s earnest questions, and cabinet doors opening and closing.

And under it all, Bucky’s steady, capable voice, entirely at ease.

A different kind of quiet settled over the house as you finally closed your eyes.

*****

Bucky stood in the middle of the kitchen for a full three seconds after steering you upstairs, toddler balanced on his left hip, oldest hovering at his right elbow, and simply took inventory.

The onions were soft but threatening to burn. The carrots were half-chopped. The cutting board looked like you’d been mid-motion when he walked in. The pasta water hadn’t quite boiled yet. The sauce was bubbling.

He exhaled slowly through his nose.

He fought aliens on battlefields where goats had grazed the day before. He survived HYDRA brainwashing and found love. He’d run for elected office with his shadowy past and won.

This should be easy.

The little one buried her face in his shoulder and gripped his shirt with both fists like she was afraid he might evaporate.

“Okay,” he muttered to himself. “We’re good. We’re fine.”

The older reached for a wooden spoon before he could stop her.

“Nope,” he said automatically, taking the spoon from her. “Not near the stove.”

“It needs stirring,” she said, offended.

He given her a look. “You are eight.”

“And I know when it’s burning,” she replied with your signature sass, like only someone 8-going-on-18 can, and held up her worksheet. “And I need help.”

He glanced down at the paper like it might bite him.

“Show how you use eight and five to get ten,” she read, tapping the line with her pencil.

Bucky blinked at it.

“Ten?” he repeated. “Eight plus five is thirteen.”

She nodded vigorously. “That’s what I said.”

He felt a surge of completely irrational vindication for something so simple. “Right. So we’re correct.”

“But it says get ten,” she insisted.

He squinted at the worksheet, shifting his daughter higher on his hip when she started to slide. She immediately grabbed his loosened tie and shoved it toward her mouth.

“Absolutely not,” he muttered, gently prying it away. “That tie’s already a long day.”

Butterfly watched the exchange, unimpressed. “Daddy.”

“Right,” he said, dragging his attention back to the page. “Ten.”

He looked at the numbers again. Eight. Five. Get ten.

“What the heck is this?” he muttered.

She brightened like she’d been waiting for that line. “My teacher says it’s ‘New Math,’ but that it’s not ‘new’. It’s just better.”

Bucky furrowed his brown and huffed a quiet laugh. “Better for who?”

He glanced toward the stairs instinctively, like he might call up to you for backup.

“Does your mother understand this?” he asked.

She nodded immediately. “She understands it, but she said she doesn’t like it.”

“Okay,” he said slowly. “If your mother understands it, then it to make sense. Somewhere.”

The pan given a warning hiss.

He turned a “sh—” under his breath into a “shoot” and pivoted, using the wooden spoon and stirring the onions one-handed.

The toddler objected to the angle change by leaning back dramatically, threatening to throw herself out of his arm like a tiny, uncoordinated protester. He tightened his hold without looking, enhanced reflexes compensating for her wobbly rebellion.

“You are clingy tonight,” he told her quietly.

She pressed her face into his shoulder in response, as if that settled it.

Butterfly sighed loudly. “Daddy.”

“Right. Math.”

He turned the heat down and scanned the rest of the counter. Carrots. Pasta. He could do this.

“Okay,” he said, pointing at the numbers on the page. “Maybe it meant you take eight… and needed two more to get to ten.”

She looked at him quizzically. “Okay…”

“So if you have five—” He paused, letting her work it out herself.

Her pencil hovered. “You take two from the five? That makes eight into ten.”

“Yup. Then you have three left,” he said slowly. “Because five minus two is three.”

She started writing. “So it’s ten and three?”

“And ten plus three is thirteen,” he said automatically.

Butterfly looked up at him, brows furrowed. “That’s what we said before.”

“Okay,” he said. “So maybe the point isn’t to get ten as the final answer. Maybe it was to show how you made ten first. Like how you rearranged the numbers to make it easier to do in your head.”

Butterfly’s eyes narrowed in thought. “Ohh… Mrs. Mulligan said something about making ten.”

He pointed at the worksheet with a grin. “There. That’s it, then. You took two from five, added it to eight, that gave you ten. Then you three left. Ten and three made thirteen.”

She slowly smiled. “So they’re teaching me how to do the math I do in my head, but making me do it on paper.”

He’d be damned. The little bugger was right. “Yeah, Butterfly,” he muttered. “That’s school for you.”

He turned back to the stove, juggling one kid on his hip while reaching for the half-chopped carrots. He scraped them into the pan one-handed, missing a few that scattered across the counter. He grabbed them and tossed them in.

The pasta water finally begun to bubble. He dumped salt in, then the noodles, stirring awkwardly while trying to keep the littlest Barnes away from the steam.

“No,” he said firmly, angling her away. “That’s hot.”

She pouted.

He kissed her hair automatically, watching the stove like it was a volatile negotiation.

He could feel the tempo of the kitchen now, the way you must: what needed stirring, what needed lowering, what could wait thirty seconds and what couldn’t.

And beneath it all was the steady pull of two kids needing different things at the same time.

His oldest cleared her throat. “Can I show you the next one?”

“Sure,” he said, not looking away from the pan.

She waited for him.

He sighed and turned, giving her his full attention like he seen you do when you make them feel like the only person in the room even when three things are on fire.

Ladybug chosen that exact moment to squirm violently.

He adjusted without thinking, tightening his hold, bracing her against his chest.

*****

Dinner was slightly overdone by the time he plated it. The onions were darker than intended, the carrots softer.

He set a plate in front of the oldest, then maneuvered the toddler into her high chair with practiced efficiency. She protested the transition from hip to seat.

“I know,” he placated her. “I know. I’m the worst.”

He spooned pasta onto her tray, blew on it, and popped one elbow noodle into his mouth to test the temperature.

She immediately grabbed a fistful and smeared it across her tray.

He intercepted the second handful mid-air on the way to her hair.

“Food goes in your mouth,” he informed her solemnly.

She grinned at him like he was hilarious.

By the time both plates were mostly empty, Bucky’s tie was speckled with sauce, his sleeve was sticky, and the baby’s face looked like she’d lost a fight with a tomato.

He wiped her down with a damp cloth in swift, precise motions: cheeks, chin, hands, between fingers. It was military efficiency applied to pasta cleanup.

His oldest watched him with open amusement. “You missed a spot,” she said.

He narrowed his eyes. “Where?”

She tapped her own cheek.

He wiped away the imaginary spot of sauce and sealed it with a kiss to her cheek. “There,” he said, “all clean.”

Ladybug leaned forward and pressed a sloppy kiss to his jaw in response, leaving a wet mark behind.

He snorted softly.

Bedtime was mercifully short; pajamas were put on and teeth brushed with minimal argument.

Until his oldest handed him a hair tie.

“Mom does it,” she said, sitting cross-legged on her bed.

He looked at the hair tie and sighed.

“How hard could it be?” he muttered.

Five minutes later, she was staring at her reflection with mild concern.

The ponytail was functional, if slightly to the left and angled. The hair was in the elastic, so he counted it as a win.

“It’s kind of lopsided,” she said.

“It’s fine for bedtime,” he replied defensively.

She studied herself another second, then shrugged. “Okay.”

He kissed the top of her head. “Goodnight, Butterfly.”

“Goodnight, Daddy.”

The toddler had already been half-asleep when he laid her down, thumb tucked into her mouth, hair a mess against her forehead. He was grateful she didn’t need her hair done for bed.

When he finally made it back downstairs, the house was quiet.

The kitchen was a mess, but a manageable one. He moved through it methodically: plates into the dishwasher, counters wiped, backpack checked.

He paused with his hands braced on the counter.

This constant recalibration, tracking heat and hunger and homework and moods, never made the news. It wasn’t flashy. It simply got done. Every single day.

He looked around the kitchen one more time. It was mostly clean. A slightly crooked stack of plates didn’t fit in the dishwasher, a wooden spoon was abandoned in the sink.

He rubbed a hand down his face, exhaustion settling into his bones in a way that felt different from battlefields or Capitol Hill.

“I never thought fighting aliens would be easier than raising two girls,” he muttered to himself.

Then he turned off the kitchen light and headed upstairs.

*****

The bedroom had been dark for hours.

You weren’t sure when the sharp edge of the migraine had dulled into something survivable, only that the room had stopped spinning and the pulse behind your eye had receded to a distant, manageable throb. The curtains were drawn tight, sealing out the streetlights. The air smelled faintly of lavender from the diffuser you’d turned on in desperation.

You were floating somewhere between sleep and awareness when the mattress dipped.

The sheets shifted as Bucky eased himself under them, slow enough that the bed springs barely protested. Even exhausted, he was so careful with you.

You stirred anyway.

Your body knew when he was near.

“Hey,” you murmured, voice thick with sleep and the remnants of pain.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he answered softly.

The fatigue in his tone threaded through you more effectively than any alarm. Your eyes opened to the dark, adjusting just enough to trace the outline of his shoulders.

“I’m sorry,” you said immediately.

The words came like muscle memory. “I didn’t mean to just leave everything to you. Dinner and homework and—”

“Stop,” he said. You felt his hand find yours under the covers, squeezing once. “Don’t,” he added, gentler now.

You swallowed. Guilt had been waiting for an opening all evening. “I hate when I can’t just push through.”

He shifted closer, the mattress dipping again as he turned toward you fully. His fingers slid into your hair, slow and careful, like he was untangling your wayward thoughts. His thumb settled at your temple, brushing lightly over the place that had hurt most.

“How’s it now?” he asked.

“Better,” you admitted. “Dull. Manageable.”

He kept his thumb moving in small, steady arcs, not pressing too hard. The pad of it was warm and soothing. You let your eyes close again as his hand continued its slow rhythm through your hair. His other arm slipped around your waist, palm spreading against your back. 

“The girls okay?” you asked.

“Alive,” he replied dryly. “Fed. Clean enough to pass inspection.”

A small smile tugged at your mouth. “How bad was it?”

There was a pause, just long enough for honesty.

“Nothing catastrophic,” he said. “Dinner was a little overdone. Ladybug thinks gravity is a joke. And apparently eight and five make ten before they make thirteen.”

You laughed softly, the sound barely more than breath. “Yes, they do.”

“Yeah, well.” His thumb paused, then resumed. “It took me a minute, but we got there. You know, you are so smart. How do you just understand this new math stuff?”

Even in the dark, you could hear the genuine bewilderment under the teasing.

You opened one eye. “Of course I’m smart,” you said lightly. “I married you. Math is much simpler compared to figuring you out.”

He snorted under his breath, the sound warm against your forehead as he leaned in to press a kiss there.

“That logic feels suspicious,” he murmured.

“It’s airtight.”

His hand slid from your temple down to the curve of your neck, then back into your hair again, slower now.

“You do so much that I don’t even see.” He said, his palm at your back rubbing once in a thoughtful line. You felt something in your chest loosen.

“It’s just… stuff,” you said, though without conviction.

“It’s not just stuff.” He didn’t say it dramatically or turn it into a speech.

You turned your face into his shoulder, breathing in the familiar scent of him: soap, starch, a faint trace of the outside world he carried home every night. His body relaxed into you, matching your own.

“I don’t like sitting out,” you admitted quietly. “It feels like I’m failing.”

His hand stilled at your back, then pressed you closer.

“You going upstairs before you pass out in front of the stove?” he said softly. “That’s not failing.” His thumb brushed once more over your temple. “That’s having a limit and respecting it.”

Down the hall, the house was silent. No small footsteps, no requests for water. Just the low hum of the heater and the steady cadence of his breathing.

“I’ve got it,” he added, quieter now. “When you can’t. I’ve got it.”

You believed him. Not because he was strong or capable or frighteningly competent when he decided to be, though he was all those things.

But because he didn’t keep score. When you couldn’t handle something, he stepped in. When he dropped the ball, you picked it up. You were partners in life and in love. 

Your hand slid up his chest, curling into the fabric of his white undershirt. His heart beat steady beneath your palm. You matched your breathing to it without thinking.

For a while, neither of you spoke.

There was only the warmth of him along your front, his hand resting wide and sure against your back, and his thumb tracing idle patterns through your hair.

The migraine faded further into the background.

After a while so did the guilt.

In the dark, wrapped in the quiet of a house you’d both built and held together in different ways, you let yourself simply rest.

And he stayed awake just long enough to make sure you did.