#alpine supremacy

“Baby?” he called out, voice lighter than usual.

You peeked from the couch where you’d been curled up with a blanket and a book. “Hey, welcome back.” Then your eyes narrowed, amused. “You’re covered in something… fuzzy.”

He blinked, then glanced down. A small grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah. About that.”

He set the food down and shrugged off his jacket, revealing even more fur speckled along the sleeves of his black long-sleeve shirt. He didn’t even bother brushing it off. Instead, he practically beamed as he sat beside you, still riding the high of his afternoon discovery.

“There’s this cat,” he began, already breathless with excitement. “At the café downstairs. All white. Like—not cream or off-white. White-white. Snow.”

You tilted your head, already smiling. “And she attacked you?”

“No,” he said, eyes softening as he looked at you. “She curled up on my lap while I was waiting for your pastries. Like she just decided I was furniture. Didn’t flinch when I pet her. She even rolled over so I could scratch her tummy.”

“She showed you her belly?” you laughed, heart fluttering at how gentle he sounded. “That’s trust. Instant soul bond.”

“That’s what I’m saying.” His knee bounced slightly. He was trying to contain himself, like he was unsure if this would sound silly—but you already knew the answer.

“So… I wanna bring her home,” he said, glancing at you, hopeful but cautious. “If you’re okay with that. I already checked—she’s a girl. I’d name her Alpine. Like the snowcaps in the Alps. Pure white. Peaceful. It just… felt right. I think she reminds me of that part of me I never got to have.”

That last part made your chest ache a little—softly, sweetly. You leaned forward, cupping his jaw and brushing your thumb over his stubbled cheek.

“I love it,” you said. “And I love her already. Let’s go get Alpine.”

—

Later that evening, you were both back at the café. The little white cat was still perched in her usual spot by the patio, paws tucked under her like a loaf of bread.

Bucky crouched down and softly called, “Hey, Alpine…”

Her ears twitched. She lifted her head, saw him—and without hesitation, padded straight over. She hopped onto his lap like it was the most natural thing in the world, head bumping against his chest before she curled against him.

“Yup,” you murmured, watching him hold her like she was the most delicate thing in the world. “You’re hers now.”

He scooped her up carefully, and she made no fuss—just settled in with a quiet purr, trusting and content.

—

The evening ended with a smooth vet visit—Alpine was healthy, just a little underweight—and a very enthusiastic trip to the nearby pet store that felt, quite honestly, more like preparing for a royal homecoming than a casual adoption.

The moment you stepped inside, Bucky froze like a soldier facing an unexpected new mission.

“This is… a lot,” he muttered, surveying the rows of colorful packaging and towers of cat furniture like they were tactical assets on a battlefield. You watched his eyes dart from brand names to ingredient lists with the same intense focus he used when analyzing mission files.

He lingered in the litter box aisle for an embarrassingly long time, crouched in front of three nearly identical models with his brow furrowed. One had a carbon filter, another promised “maximum odor control,” and the third came in sleek matte black.

“This one looks like it belongs in Stark’s bathroom,” he grumbled.

“Then she’ll probably hate it,” you replied, laughing as you nudged him. “Just pick one that doesn’t look like a spaceship.”

“She deserves something classy,” he insisted, eventually settling on a simple beige model with a privacy hood and golden trim. “She’s got dignity.”

The indecision didn’t stop there. In the food aisle, he hovered like a man trying to choose the perfect wine for a Michelin-starred dinner. He held up one bag of premium organic kibble like it held the answer to the universe.

“This says wild-caught salmon,” he mumbled, reading the back. “But this one has freeze-dried duck. Which one’s better? Which one screams ‘I love you and I respect your primal instincts’?”

“She’s a five-pound cat, Buck.”

“She’s my five-pound cat,” he said stubbornly. “I can’t give her anything boring. What if she hates me?”

Then, with sudden intensity, he looked at you and said, completely serious: “Should I just buy raw steak? Like… once a week? A little Friday night ritual? We could call it Alpine’s Ribeye Hour.”

You burst out laughing. “No, babe. No ribeye hour. She doesn’t need red meat marbled to perfection.”

A staff member nearby chuckled and gently stepped in. “If she’s not on a raw diet, that much red meat might upset her stomach. Fancy kibble and wet food will do fine. Maybe throw in a few freeze-dried treats.”

Bucky nodded slowly, as if receiving sacred instructions.

“I just want her to feel safe,” he murmured, running a hand through his hair. “Like she’s somewhere soft and permanent.”

“She already does,” you reminded him softly.

Eventually, you both left the store with a small cart piled high: a tall cat tree (“She deserves the high ground,” Bucky declared), a pastel pink ceramic bowl set (“Matches her tiny murder princess energy”), a soft faux-fur bed, several mouse-shaped toys, a bag of treats shaped like little fish, and a feather wand Bucky couldn’t stop playing with while waiting in line.

“She’s gonna think we’re insane,” you said.

“She’s gonna think she won the lottery,” he replied.

—

By the time you were both back at the Watchtower—inside your cozy, shared space that passed for a home more than a mission base—Alpine was already out of her carrier and trotting forward like she’d been here before in another life.

Tail held high, she made her rounds with purpose. First the kitchen, where she sniffed the legs of the island and examined the corner near the fridge. Then the couch, where she clawed lightly at the throw blanket you’d folded earlier that morning, as if testing the texture for naps. She darted into the hallway, disappeared into the bathroom, and reappeared with what looked like a stray cotton swab in her mouth.

“She’s inspecting her kingdom,” you whispered.

“No—she’s checking for weak spots in our defenses,” Bucky replied seriously, crouching to retrieve the cotton swab from her mouth. “Classic flanking maneuver.”

Eventually, she made her way into the bedroom, pausing only once to look over her shoulder and chirp—a soft, curious sound that neither of you had expected to melt your hearts the way it did.

You followed her inside, and watched as she leapt effortlessly onto the bed. But not just anywhere. No. She walked with clear intent to Bucky’s side—his pillow still creased from that morning—and plopped down like she owned it.

“I…” Bucky blinked. “I think I’m the chosen one.”

“You are,” you smirked, leaning against the doorframe. “You’re covered in fur and she already slept on you once. You’re marked.”

As if to prove it, Alpine stretched and rolled sideways, exposing her belly to the ceiling as she purred and rubbed her face into Bucky’s pillow like she was stamping her signature all over it.

He stepped forward slowly, like if he moved too fast she might vanish. But when he sat on the edge of the mattress, Alpine stood, walked over, and—with the most casual entitlement—climbed halfway up his leg like a tiny mountain lion scaling familiar terrain.

“Did you see that?” he whispered, wide-eyed and trying very hard not to move. “She picked me again.”

You grinned, arms crossed. “Yeah. She’s definitely got good taste.”

Alpine nuzzled her cheek into the dark fabric of his pants before curling into a loaf at his feet, purring like a little motor. The kind of sound you could feel if you stood close enough—warm and steady.

Bucky’s voice dropped to something almost reverent. “She’s home.”

—

Dinner was easy that night. The two of you ate on the small dining table tucked against the window, city lights sparkling far below. You passed each other bites between conversation and quiet laughter, half of your attention stolen by the soft presence now occupying the middle of the table.

Alpine had curled up just to the left of Bucky’s plate, nose tucked under her tail, the tips of her ears twitching ever so slightly. Her soft, rhythmic purring filled the space like background music—comforting, cozy, like a fireplace crackling.

Bucky just stared at her for a long moment, chin resting on his palm, spoon suspended in his other hand.

“You good, Buck?” you asked gently.

He didn’t even look away from her. “Mmhmm,” he hummed, a dreamy smile spreading across his face. “I’m full already. Could listen to that purr all night.”

You snorted into your drink, setting it down with a smirk. “So that’s it, huh? I’ve lost my queen position to a white cat with jellybean toes?”

Bucky finally turned to you with the softest look—like he’d never been more sure of anything in his life—and said, “Nah. You’re the queen. She’s just… the royal advisor. Or a tiny fluffy tyrant.”

“She’s got you wrapped around her paw.”

“She does,” he admitted, completely unbothered. “And I’d do anything she asked.”

You couldn’t even pretend to be jealous. Watching him like this—gentle, light, his guard down so far it was practically gone—you felt the warmth of this little family settling into place around you.

And across the table, Alpine purred on. Content. Safe. Home.

—

Night fell quiet over the Watchtower, the kind of stillness only broken by the hum of distant aircraft traffic and the occasional creak of the unit’s HVAC system. In the soft light of your bedroom, all was warm and calm. Alpine was nowhere to be seen for now—last you saw, she’d been investigating the inside of Bucky’s tactical boot.

You were already under the covers, curled into Bucky’s chest, his vibranium arm stretched behind your pillow and his flesh hand lazily tracing patterns over your shoulder. Nothing heated, nothing rushed. Just the kind of closeness that spoke in silence—shared warmth, steady heartbeats, fingers laced under the sheets like they belonged there.

“I love this,” you mumbled, eyes fluttering shut.

“Mmhmm,” he hummed into your hair. “Me too.”

But then, after a beat, you felt him shift. Just slightly. Then again—shoulders squirming, fingers pausing on your back.

“Bucky,” you said, suspiciously. “Why are you moving?”

He hesitated… then whispered like a kid asking for dessert past bedtime, “Can I… go pet Alpine now?”

You pulled back just enough to look at him. “Are you serious?”

“I’ve been waiting all day to cuddle with her,” he said, completely sincere. “I thought maybe she’d sleep on my chest tonight or curl into my arm or something.”

You groaned and buried your face in his neck. “You traitor. I lose my spot to a rescue cat in less than twelve hours.”

But before either of you could move, there was a soft thump from the hallway—then the elegant click of tiny paws against the wooden floor. Alpine strutted into the room like she owned the lease.

“There she is,” Bucky whispered excitedly, already shifting up onto one elbow with a smile spreading across his face.

You watched, amused, as Alpine paused at the edge of the bed, assessed the situation like a military tactician… and then, with no hesitation whatsoever, padded to your side and flopped down against your stomach. Not between the two of you. Not on Bucky.

Just you.

Bucky blinked.

You stared.

Alpine let out one satisfied purr, stretched long across your middle like a sash, and closed her eyes. Her white fur glowed in the soft bedside lamp, her little pink nose twitching like she’d claimed her spot and would not be moved.

“…She picked you,” Bucky said, sounding personally wounded.

“Oh no,” you gasped, not hiding your grin. “Oh no, Sergeant Barnes, I believe you’ve been rejected.”

“I fed her salmon bits tonight,” he said, genuinely baffled. “I carried her around PetSmart for two hours like she was royalty. I said she was my girl!”

“She was your girl,” you teased. “But clearly, she has her eye on the throne now.”

He narrowed his eyes, flopping back onto the pillow with an exaggerated sigh. “Betrayal. In my own bed.”

You reached over with a smirk, gently shifting Alpine so she now lay in the middle between you both. She didn’t curl into a tight ball, like she had before—instead, she stretched out flat and long, paws extended forward, belly facing up proudly as if to say yes, I own you both now.

Her purring started almost instantly—loud and deep, vibrating against the mattress like a lullaby.

“Well,” Bucky murmured, giving her a fond scratch behind the ear, “if she’s in the middle, then at least I get joint custody.”

You smiled, snuggling closer, your arm brushing his over Alpine’s fluff. “Looks like the bed’s not just ours anymore.”

He leaned in, pressed a kiss to your temple, and whispered, “I don’t mind. As long as you’re both here.”

“I don’t want to be a dad,” Bucky said simply, thumb stroking the silk of Alpine’s ear. “I want to be yours. I want to be here. I want…this. Our little life. Our quiet. I don’t think I have space in my head, or heart, for anything else. Not the right shape for it.”

You nodded. “I don’t want to be a mom,” you answered, and it startled you a little to hear it out loud, how much relief there was in the truth. You’d been trying the word on in the mirror for months and it never looked right on you. “I love you. I love us. I love Alpine. I like being the aunt who drops off cookies and returns sugar-high kids to their parents.”

“Mmm. The hero aunt,” he agreed, lips tipping. “And we already have one perfect child, don’t we, snowball?”

Alpine blinked imperiously. She kneaded the blanket once, as if adding her signature to the decision. The three of you fell back into the kind of silence that wears comfortable socks.

Then Bucky said, almost shy, “We could…y’know. Consider getting her a sibling. Or three. Since we’re good at cats. And since you’re basically the Florence Nightingale of small furry chaos.”

“Excuse me,” you sniffed. “That’s Florence Nightmeow-gale.”

“God,” he said, grinning. “Marry me.”

“Already did.”

He kissed you, slow and smiling, Alpine wedged like a purring referee.

—

The litter arrived two mornings later like the universe had taken notes.

Premature, barely a handful each. A Good Samaritan had found them chilled and crying under a porch—no mama in sight—and brought them to the clinic where you worked. Opened eyes but narrow, fragile bodies; ribs too visible; limbs like matchsticks. Your vet, Dr. Rivera, set you up in the quiet room in the back with a heating pad, a box turned neonatal ward, and a row of miracle bottles lined up like little soldiers.

You took their temperatures. You warmed subcutaneous fluids. You rubbed tiny bellies clockwise with a cotton pad to help them poop. You made a chart with their weights and feeding schedule, wrote their temp and hydration status in patient-perfect handwriting. You spoke softly. You breathed softer.

“Okay, team,” you whispered into the cardboard nursery. “Hi. I’m the human. We’re going to do this together.”

A charcoal-gray one with a paint-dipped white tail chirped in answer and tried to gum your knuckle. Another—tabby, with a mustard seed speck on her nose—blinked owlishly. The third, a black kitten with a locket of white fur on his chest like a buttoned shirt, lay still, conserving every calorie in his thimble of a body.

“Hungry,” you said. “Right. Operation milk-mustache begins now.”

You were on hour two when Bucky knocked on the clinic’s back door, cap low, hoodie up, the picture of a man trying not to make a fuss. He had a coffee carrier that smelled like salvation and a paper bag that told secrets about a dozen warm bagels.

“Couldn’t stop thinking about you,” he murmured, kissing your temple. “An’ your little patients.”

“Solid chance they own me now,” you confessed, leading him to the warm room. “Do not look directly at them if you value your heart.”

He peered into the box and failed instantly. “Oh,” he breathed. His voice did something you’d only ever heard when Alpine made biscuits on his sternum. “Oh, doll.”

You showed him how to bottle feed, the angle of support, the way to keep their tiny necks straight, how to stroke the bridge of a nose to stimulate the latch. He listened like you were teaching him a sacred martial art. You put the gray one in his hands and watched the rigid soldier that sometimes lived in his shoulders dissolve into a man-shaped puddle.

“Hey, little guy,” he said, as if they’d met before. “Name’s Bucky. I’m big and scary but only to people who deserve it.”

The kitten latched and gulped greedily. Milk beaded at his whiskers. Bucky’s smile went damp at the edges.

“Look at you,” he whispered. “You’re doin’ such a good job.”

“Talking to the baby or me?”

“Both.”

For a week, you kept them there. You staggered their feeds with staff breaks. Dr. Rivera would come by to frown approvingly and say, “They’re responding to supportive care. Keep going.” Your coworkers, battle-hardened as any ER unit, quietly slipped you fresh towels, extra syringes, little felt toys. Someone brought a portable white noise machine and set it outside the door like a talisman.

Bucky came before his morning workout and after patrols, and sometimes in the middle of the day when you texted I’m crashing and he’d walk through the back like it was the most natural thing in the world to be a superhero turned kitten dad.

He added his handwriting to the chart, careful and neat, like he was signing old military forms. He wore the scent of clinic soap and warmed formula out into the world so often that Sam asked if he’d been moonlighting at a bakery.

“Names yet?” Bucky asked one afternoon, chin in his palm as he watched the tabby clamber over her siblings to get to your hand.

“You sure you want me to have that power?”

“I want you to have all the power.” He leaned over, kissed the corner of your mouth. “But I would like veto rights if you try to name one after your favorite snack.”

You made a thoughtful noise. “And if my favorite snack is you?”

He smiled into your laugh, but the names arrived that night, anyway, all at once, like kittens themselves. The gray boy was Pancake, because when he slept he sprawled flat as batter. The tabby girl with the mustard seed nose was Broccoli, because she hated every first thing on principle and then decided she loved it passionately. And the black boy with the white locket was Apple, sweet and solemn and carrying more old-soul gravity in his tiny bones than any creature that size should have.

“They’re so…them,” Bucky said, reverent. “Pancake, Broccoli, Apple.” He said it a few more times, as if it were a spell that might fix the world.

“They’re almost ready,” you told him a few days later, flipping through their chart, smoothing the paper like a proud parent. “They’re gaining well. Eating like pigs. Temp’s stable. Stool’s good. They have opinions. I think—if you’re sure—we can bring them home soon.”

“I’m sure,” he said immediately. Then, softer: “Is Alpine?”

—

Alpine was the queen of the household and recognized as such. You introduced her to things the way you might inform a monarch of a state visit: slowly, formally, with dignity and treats.

For two nights before the homecoming, you brought home blankets that smelled like the kittens and rubbed them along Alpine’s cheeks. She sniffed them, went big-eyed and then medium-eyed, and kneaded what you came to call the “I am listening” biscuits. She slept with her chin on Apple’s blanket. She dragged Pancake’s into the sunbeam like a victory flag.

“Approval pending,” Bucky said, watching her. “She’s gonna pretend she invented them.”

“She will be correct. History favors the survivors.”

On Homecoming Day, you set up the bathroom like a tiny studio apartment: litter tray with low sides, a hidey bed, water wide and shallow as a worry, food bowls, toys. You closed the toilet lid. You covered the gap behind the washer. Bucky had spent the previous evening on the floor, zip-tying cords behind furniture and cursing affectionately at the thought of Broccoli discovering electricity.

When you finally carried the carrier in and set it down, Bucky sat on the tile with his back against the tub, legs long and loose, hands open. Alpine perched on the closed toilet with the stoicism of a captain watching the dock.

“Okay,” you said, kneeling beside him. The carrier door clicked. “Welcome home, Pancake, Broccoli, and Apple.”

They tumbled out with the chaotic grace of new sailors hitting land. Pancake rolled once and then belly-flopped into the water bowl to think about his life choices. Broccoli marched immediately into the litter tray and then out again with a swagger that said queen behavior only. Apple came last, blinking slowly, and pressed his little chest to Bucky’s bare ankle like it was the most natural place in the world to anchor.

Bucky didn’t move. His eyes went warm and wet. “Hey,” he whispered. “Hey, bud. You picked me, huh?”

Alpine made a chirp you only ever heard when she saw pigeons. She stepped down, deliberate. She sniffed the edge of the carrier, then Pancake’s head, then your wrist. She moved to Apple and touched noses. She sat back and threw a paw over her ear like, yes, obviously, these are mine.

You laughed into your knuckles. Bucky exhaled like someone easing out of a parachute harness.

“Domestic bliss status,” he said, “achieved.”

“Not to jinx it,” you murmured, “but I think our daughter likes her siblings.”

Alpine blinked slowly at you, then reached out and batted Pancake with the benevolence of a monarch tapping a squire’s shoulder with a sword. Pancake fell over in ecstasy. Apple followed Bucky’s hand as he scratched the bathmat, pouncing with fierce, wobbly precision. Broccoli stalked the toilet brush and was gently redirected, amid scandalized squeaks.

You stayed in the bathroom for an hour, then two, then moved to the living room with the door cracked and the kittens returning to their safe room as they liked. You ordered takeout and ate on the floor. Bucky built a fort of pillows and they slept in a pile in the innermost chamber like a fuzzy sun.

That night, Alpine took up her usual post on your pillow. Pancake lay across Bucky’s neck like a scarf. Apple tucked beneath his chin. Broccoli, a creature of opinions, slept in the curve of your hip, paws kneading your shirt in tiny, ceaseless approval. Bucky’s arm lay across your waist, and even asleep you felt the conscious softness of it—how he had learned all the places not to press so as not to disturb a queen or a court.

When you woke at 3 a.m. to feed the trio, Bucky woke too, hair sticking up in startled allegiance, and followed you in his socks, taking the bottles you passed him, shushing Pancake’s impatience, tucking Apple’s blanket around him like a burrito. Alpine supervised from the threshold, tail wrapped around her feet, the very image of maternal detachment betraying pride.

Later, after kittens burped and litter boxes scooped, after hands washed and lights turned low, you stood in the kitchen and leaned into Bucky’s chest. He was warm. He was steady. You could have slept there, inside that long heartbeat.

“Thank you,” you murmured into his shirt.

“For what?” He scratched under your hair, a circle at the base of your skull that could unspool empires.

“For loving what I love. For not making me feel like I need to be anything I’m not. For…today.”

He kissed your hair. “Thank you for letting me,” he said. “For sharing your magic. You walk into rooms and things live.”

You laughed, a little watery. “You’re very sappy for a scary assassin.”

“Only for you. And cats. Maybe Steve if he brings snacks.”

—

Life, with four cats, found its rhythm.

Your mornings began with an Alpine headbutt, the firm, cold insistence of a forehead on your cheekbone as if to say, we will be having breakfast at the agreed-upon time. Bucky would roll out of bed with a groan that dissolved into a laugh when Pancake slid off his shoulder. He’d scoop Apple gently from the duvet and tuck him into the kangaroo pouch of his hoodie while he made coffee, because Apple was a marsupial at heart and believed strongly in bean proximity.

Broccoli became your shadow while you brushed your teeth, practicing guerrilla warfare on the toothpaste cap and ambushing your toes. Pancake learned to fetch crumpled receipts with startling discipline, dropping them at Bucky’s feet and then sitting like a soldier awaiting orders, tail vibrating. Alpine presided over the kitchen counter in open defiance of rules she herself had made.

You kept a dry erase board for their weights and meds and dewormer dates. Bucky added doodles: Alpine in a tiny crown; Pancake as a round pancake with whiskers; Apple as a literal apple with ears; Broccoli as a stalk with a face scowling at a helpless human. The doodles grew elaborate. You came home one afternoon to find a full comic strip in four panels about the time Broccoli stole a cherry tomato and Bucky tried to negotiate its return like a hostage situation.

He built them a castle—no other word for it. A floor-to-ceiling cat tree in the corner by the windows, with ramps and platforms and a hammock at the top where Alpine could sit like a furred admiral and judge the pigeons. He assembled it on the rug while the kittens “helped,” stealing screws and untying rope. Apple fell asleep in a half-built cubby and Bucky worked around him, painstaking, slow.

“Gonna start calling you Bob Vila,” you teased, holding a hex key while Pancake gnawed it.

He wiped his brow with his forearm and smirked. “More like Bob V—Vill—look, I’m doin’ my best, okay?”

“You’re perfect,” you said, and meant it. The words were air now, easy and often, and you never took for granted how rare that was in any lifetime, let alone his.

On Saturdays, you brought them to the clinic in a bundle of carriers to weigh and check and confirm how healthy your children were. The techs cooed. Dr. Rivera pretended not to coo and then, when she thought you weren’t looking, cooed. Bucky sometimes sat in the lobby with two carriers balanced on his knees and would field a hundred questions from strangers who didn’t recognize him as anything other than a tall man with the softest eyes anyone had ever seen.

“What are their names?” asked a little girl once, her braid as thick as a rope.

“Pancake, Broccoli, and Apple,” Bucky said gravely, as if he were reciting the names of revered generals. “Do you want to see their pictures?”

He showed the strangers your album like a dad in an early-2000s movie. You watched from the reception desk and your heart did that trick where it swelled and softened at the same time.

“Why not babies?” the girl’s mother blurted, catching herself, flushing. “Sorry. Not my business. They’re just so good with you.”

Bucky didn’t flinch. “These are our babies,” he said kindly, and there wasn’t a single place for judgment to root in the soil of his tone. “They’re exactly the ones we wanted.”

He looked at you when he said it. You looked back and felt something click into place, a door closing on a drafty room.

—

The first time it rained after they came home, the windows fogged with the breath of your new family. Alpine sat at the glass and chattered at the drops. Pancake discovered that wet paws were a moral emergency. Apple arranged himself on the back of the sofa like a librarian and watched, solemn, like the story of rain was a book he’d read before. Broccoli hunted reflections and was insulted by physics.

You and Bucky made soup. He chopped vegetables with a precision that made your culinary school heart swell. You rolled dough into dumplings with Broccoli’s face popping up over the counter like an auditioning sous-chef. The apartment smelled like garlic and broth and contentment.

“I used to think I wasn’t allowed to want this,” Bucky said, out of nowhere, in the way he did when old memories rose like fish in a lake. He leaned against the counter, cradling Apple—who tolerantly allowed the cradle because Bucky’s hoodie pouch was toasty. “Not the kittens—I mean, yes, the kittens. I mean…quiet. Safety. To pick a life that fits me instead of a life that proves something.”

You nudged his foot with yours. “We picked a life that fits us.”

He breathed. His eyes were bright, the gray of the sky mid-storm and every bit as beautiful. “Yeah,” he said. “We did.”

You kissed him. Alpine made a sound that clearly translated to get a room and then leaped from the back of the sofa into her hammock with all the grace of a cat swan.

—

In the middle of the night sometimes, you’d wake and find Bucky not in bed but on the rug, lying on his back with Pancake sprawled over his chest and Apple a little anchor on his shoulder and Broccoli perched on his stomach like a victorious conqueror. Alpine would be on the dresser, eyes half-closed, counting her subjects.

“What are you doing?” you’d whisper.

“Philosophy,” he’d whisper back, not moving his head so he wouldn’t dislodge Apple. “Thinking about how soft paws are.”

You’d crawl down and lay with him and the room would fill with purrs, and the purrs would fill your bones, and there in the dark you would tell him things like I like our quiet and I like that we chose it and he would say me too, me too, me too.

On a Sunday afternoon, you filmed a video on your phone of Pancake fetching a toy and edited in a dramatic soundtrack. Bucky laughed so hard he startled Apple into jumping and then apologized like he’d offended a professor. You posted a picture of Alpine with the kittens piled against her and tagged it with a caption that read: Her Majesty and Her Vegetables. Your comments filled with hearts and good-natured outrage. Someone said Apple had the eyes of a poet.

At night, you wrote notes in the margins of your dry erase board: Apple likes the sound of pages turning. Pancake prefers the green mouse, not the orange. Broccoli responds to being called “Your Excellency,” and nothing else. Alpine is pleased your new throw pillow matches her fur.

Bucky wrote: You, me, and the cats forever, in block letters, and drew five little paw prints leading to a heart.

You left it there. You let it be true.

—

The milestones came small and shining. The first time Apple climbed to the top of the cat tree and looked out, fearless. The first time Pancake brought you your own sock in the morning like a gift from a worshiper. The night Broccoli fell asleep with her head on Alpine’s flank and Alpine pretended not to notice and then adjusted slightly so Broccoli’s neck would rest more comfortably.

There were messes too—tipped plants and shredded mail and the time someone (Pancake) discovered how to unspool a full roll of toilet paper during a Zoom call. You and Bucky would exchange looks that were more amused than exasperated, the secret smile of people who had chosen their chaos on purpose.

When friends asked about babies, when relatives assumed, when strangers nosed in, you gave them the same smile. You said, “We don’t want kids,” and let your simple, happy life make the argument for you. You came home and were greeted like a star returning to the stage, meows overlapping like overlapping applause. You watched Bucky scoop Alpine and kiss her head and then kiss you and felt a wholeness you didn’t have a name for before.

You stopped searching for the life you thought you were supposed to want. You fed the life you had, and it purred.

—

One evening, months on, you built a blanket fort in the living room for no reason other than it was raining and the lamp-light was honey-gold and you felt twelve in the best possible way. Bucky ducked inside with two mugs of cocoa, and Alpine strolled in like a visiting dignitary inspecting the architecture. The kittens scorched around the perimeter like tiny comets and then crash-landed in the warm center, all limbs and kneading paws.

“Remember when it was just us and Alpine?” Bucky said, nudging his knee against yours.

You nodded. “I loved that. I love this.”

“I love you,” he said, without ceremony, and you looked up and there it was—his truth, plain as a window and just as bright.

“I love you,” you answered, and outside the rain softened and the city got a little quieter and the four cats arranged themselves on and around you like a map of a country you had built together.

Alpine made her lap of the fort like a general. She sniffed Bucky’s sleeve, then your cheek, then Apple’s ear. She settled with her spine along Bucky’s ribs and one paw thrown across Pancake like, mine. Broccoli wedged herself between your knees so she could glare at the thunder in case it tried anything. Apple tucked under Bucky’s hand and closed his eyes with a faint, suffused smile.

Bucky’s thumb found the soft skin at your wrist and drew lazy circles. “We picked right,” he murmured.

You thought of that Tuesday night, of Alpine’s knead, of the breath you’d let out, of the three little lives you’d bottle-fed into belonging. You thought of slow mornings and midnight feedings and rain against glass and the way Bucky’s heart sounded under a pile of cats. You thought of the word family and how it fit now, custom-tailored, hemmed to your exact measurements.

“We did,” you said.

Outside, a siren rose and faded. Inside, the cocoa cooled. The kittens dreamed kitten dreams—running paws, twitching whiskers, little squeaks. Alpine’s purr went deep and oceanic. Bucky’s breath evened, slow and safe, and yours matched it, two metronomes calibrating to the same song.

No one asked you for more than this. The world didn’t need to be convinced. It only needed you to love it in the small square you’d chosen. You did. You would.

You closed your eyes. Pancake snored, a syrup-sweet sound. Broccoli sighed like a queen after decree. Apple pressed his tiny face into Bucky’s palm and went boneless with trust.

You slept, surrounded by everything you wanted, and in the morning there would be breakfast and laughter and litter to scoop and a toy mouse to fetch and Bucky’s crooked, perfect smile as he held a mug that said #1 Cat Dad because the kittens had “bought” it for him and you had helped with the shipping.

You’d make coffee. He’d kiss your shoulder. Alpine would remind you that schedules are holy. Pancake would invent a new game. Broccoli would enforce curfew on the dust bunnies. Apple would sit in the window and watch the world roll by and choose, every hour, to stay.

“Goodnight,” you whispered into Bucky’s T-shirt, into Alpine’s fur, into the small breath of the life you’d built. “See you in the morning.”

The first time was coincidental. You were in the backseat of a tinted black SUV. Stocking-clad legs had crossed one over the other, the airborne heel dangled haphazardly off your foot, though it was nothing if not intentional. The way the man sat across from you dug his gaze into your flesh almost made it burn with revulsion, but it was one of many testaments to your intentions. You could tell he propped up his left hand on purpose, an awkward position to flash his tacky, yet no doubt expensive, watch in your face to impress you. Your intention. Even the enthusiastic turn of his laptop towards you as he recklessly explained the backgrounds and products of his weapon suppliers; just as you intended.

You'd stored away many of the names in your head. Having a good memory was an important part of your training. The rest of it, though, began to coalesce into background noise. This one had a way of going off on tangents in some way that highlighted his wealth. He wasn't the target by any sense of the word, just a dirty stepping stone, a meager means to an arms-dealer end, and so you were less diligent than you probably should have been. Not that he cared -- you're sure he doesn't think you have much of a brain to listen too long anyway, so you didn't bother to.

Amid your boredom, you'd tilted your head to lean against your hand, elbow digging into the side of the car. Catching a glimpse of the outside world behind him was bittersweet. Your nights were now spent pretending to be interested in one of many forgettable corrupt rich men in the world instead of out there doing anything else. You watched longingly as the people sped by: a group of girls chasing each other and giggling in sparkly skirts, an arguing couple trying to be inconspicuous, a dog half-leading and half-dragging a skinny man along, a new father pushing his baby's stroller as far away from the road as the sidewalk would allow, a leather-gloved hand running through familiar brown locks to drive them away from a familiar stubbled face-

You sat up suddenly. The airborne heel slipped back snug onto your foot as it stabbed into the ground, breath slowing to what felt like a complete halt; heart seized in its beating with a well-known comfort that lied just outside the van. Your eyes followed him as the car raced by, head turning to see him disappear out the back window. Time stops just for you two when you swear he locks eyes with you, but you realize it's probably disbelief at the speed the driver is going on such a crowded street, as this car is far past the legal amount of window tint to be able to see in to. Just as it started, the moment is gone, and he's disappeared into the downtown bustle.

The man you're with doesn't even notice anything changed.

That was roughly a month ago, and it's become something of a problem ever since.

You were meant to be deep undercover, four months of lying and flirting and manipulating undercover. Despite this, in between emotionally draining performances, you'd sneak out to linger around spots you knew he frequented. One of your favorites was the bakery some blocks away from the compound, where he'd sit at the table next to the window and play with the chair that used to be where you sat. Like you were still there, rambling about how unfair the daily New York Times Connection answers were. The only thing new was that he'd swipe any crumbs into a leftover napkin when he got up to leave. That was what you did. Then he'd let his eyes linger on the cold, empty chair and leave, and a couple of minutes later, you'd go in and occupy the same table. On your side.

Weeks of seeing Bucky left you more disheveled than when you began. What started as a one-time thing to get out of your system became a necessity, engrained into your routine and the highlight of your monotonous days. You'd even started to get as reckless as you dared to, wandering closer and closer until this Wednesday when his nose twitched from the familiar scent of you, and you had to duck behind a corner to avoid his searching. You can't help but realize how absolutely out of your mind this op has made you. Pretty much stalking your closest friend. How much lower could you get. Yet you don't stop. Part of you wants him to catch you just once, and so that Friday, you're in his room in the compound while he's out with Sam and Steve, just like he was the first night you saw him.

It hasn't changed much at all. It was still uncannily clean, barely signs that it's lived in if not for the couple of framed pictures on the bedside table. One is of Bucky, Sam, and Steve. Another is of a white cat, one you recognize from a nearby shelter that you, Bucky, and Sam had been to a couple of times. He might have finally got her in your absence, the snowy baby that had captured his heart with her insistence on wrapping herself around his metal arm. Cute. The third, a group picture of everybody in the compound. Towards the front left sat you and Bucky, side by side, your bright smile next to his more straight yet amused expression. Instead of sitting up by the wall, this one laid face up, closer to his pillow. You decide to spare yourself and not think too much into that.

You're about to leave, but something from his bathroom beckons you. Tired fingers drag along his wall as you enter, feeling in the dark for the light switch. When the room finally erupts with light, your gaze is dragged towards the only difference in the room; a folded picture tucked into the mirror's frame, and when you pluck it out to inspect it, its the picture Natasha had taken of you two in some corner of the Quinjet, leaned up against each other. You remembered that day.

Multiple dead-end HYDRA bases had left everyone depleted and disappointed. It had taken Bucky aback when you searched him out and sunk to the floor next to him, filling the quiet he'd found for himself with nothing but your soft breath. At some point, your head lulled to the side, and he began to suggest you go to your sleeping quarters if you're tired, but he can feel your breath deepen, and your weight depend completely on his shoulder, and he can't bring himself to say anything. He would not be able to sleep, certainly not as easily as you had, but in your calming presence he could relax, if momentarily. He could even, remarkably, close his eyes without seeing the bloodstains of his past, and so he did. He listened to the light footsteps that approached without surging up in defense of a perceived attack, though he still opened his eyes again to see Natasha grinning with her phone out, shaking her head.

"Clint owes me $10 now."

There's a small ripped piece of what you assume to be printing paper inside the fold as well, with words written in Nat's handwriting. A date. The exact date you were supposed to be finished with your op, to uphold the timeline of taking down the arms dealer. You knew Nat had a way of knowing things that she should not have; it was her livelihood, but you could only dream of why she'd share it with Bucky. Her teasing of the friendship between you two? If so, certainly spurred on by Tony or Yelena or Sam. Or -- surely not -- had he asked?

A vibration from your phone breaks you out of your thoughts, and glancing at the lock screen, you realize you've spent much longer reminiscing than expected. Like you were never there, you disappeared out the window you came from.

The next week progresses the same. You become somebody else entirely, loosing all parts of yourself, until those fleeting chances at normalcy tempt you again. Eve's apple, your newfound Achilles heel. And when the next Friday rolls around, your heart beats wildly against the confines of your ribcage, itching to claw it open and escape while you climb up towards his window once more. When you finally haul yourself in, you're sure your heart has succeeded at tearing your chest open and abandoning the bloody remains to drop to the floor because you're staring at stormy blue, furrowed eyes instead of an empty room.

The only thing you can manage to do after what feels like an eternity of eye contact is to turn back towards the window. You hear a huff and the scuffle of him standing from the chair he was sitting on, dragged across the room to face the window.

"Don't." His gruff voice calls out, and you almost feel a sense of pleading behind it, but there's not nearly enough emotion to diagnose that.

Your hands grow clammy, and you're suddenly aware of everything: the wind rushing past your face from the night breeze, the way your black jacket hugs you too tightly now, the speeding of your breath, but still you turn back to him in anticipation.

For another eternity, he stares at you, taking in your entire form and then tugging his eye line back up to yours, until finally, finally, he sits again and speaks.

"What are you doing here?" The words are cold and distant and rip the moisture from your mouth. Any response you could have had dies in your throat. You break eye contact with him and lower yourself to sit on the ground in front of the window. After a minute of silence, his voice rings out again, forcing your gaze up with another, louder, "What are you doing here?"

"I don't know," You finally shake your head, throat already burning with shame and eyes threatening to spill over with guilt, "I miss you. I miss us."

Bucky's eyes soften momentarily, but he looks away, and now you're wondering if you imagined it. He tries not to let you see how that word affected him: "us."

"You could ruin your entire mission." He practically mutters it, yet it's the loudest thing you've heard in months. He's completely right. You've dedicated many of your personal resources to making sure your escapades stay secret, but what if you weren't careful enough?

"I could."

"And for what?"

"You." The word tumbles out before you can catch it, and his eyes meet yours again. He purses his lips and rolls them out again, sliding his metal hand through his hair like the night you first saw him.

"Me?" He repeats it under his breath again, more to himself than you. Before you can respond, he pipes up again. "How long?"

You shake your head this time, "I was only in here once. Last week."

Another beat of silence, then, as if reading your mind, he answers your question, "You were wearing the scent you always wear. I know it," a pause, "and you left the bathroom light on."

That makes you wince. Reckless. Stupid. Kind of deserved. Then again, that was what you wanted, right? To get caught? The longer you writhe under his unwavering stare, the more you think it’s absolutely not what you wanted. He doesn't even let you hang your head in humiliation for long.

"You've been around other times too?" He poses it as a question, but it's more a confirmation that he wasn't going crazy that day he smelled you. You know he doesn't need your answer, and instead, you try to answer his question of why again.

"I don't think I can do this without you."

"That's bullshit." He scoffs, leaning down to rest his elbows on his knees while his hands hang between his legs. "You've done it a million times before."

The bluntness of his words make a playground of your already bloodied heart. "I have."

He doesn't respond to this one, only leans back in the chair once more, and you know all this movement comes from a place of frustration. You don't let him keep hammering you with questions before you speak again.

"I know who I am now, Bucky," you trail off as a blur of unoriginal recent months curse your brain, "I did. With you. I don't out there."

He quirks an eyebrow up slightly, allowing quiet room for you to gather yourself and continue.

"I am a really hot assistant."

He grunts in sarcastic agreement, but keeps his composure. As he does. Still staring. Still silence.

"It doesn't matter if it's the government or Fury or the millionth rich asshole, Buck. I am a piece of meat-"

To this, he sits up straight and furrows his eyebrows again, rushing to correct you. He doesn't bother to govern his tone this time. "No, you're good at your job. You're luring the arms dealer out. You're going to save hundreds of thousands of people-"

"Bait is still just meat, no?" You're looking down now, in your head, barely registering when Bucky sinks out of his chair and towards you. The call of your name goes completely over your head; the second call goes in one ear and out the other, until finally, on the third exasperated call of your name, he uses his finger to softly guide your head back towards him. At last, recognition seizes your face as you realize he's saying your name, and the expression makes him painfully aware that you didn't even respond to your own name;

you'd nearly forgotten your own name.

The toll of the mission that you'd been holding back for months suddenly breaks free, surging through you like hurricane flood waters, bubbling up and filling your eyes once more. Bucky only allows for one sniffle before he pushes you by the back of your head into his chest, legs caging around you, shielding you from the world with broad, hunched shoulders and wrapped arms. Just like this, he allows you to let out all your sorrows into his fitted black shirt while he holds you, staring out into the night.

When you've finally gotten past the fit of tears, you push gently on his chest. He gets the hint and releases his hold on you, hands floating away from the back of your head and to either side of your face. He can barely stand to see you so broken like this, but holds your reddened gaze intently, waiting for you to feel comfortable enough to break the quiet, and you do.

"I didn't.. feel like that often. Before you. Human."

He uses a thumb to swipe away a stray tear.

Your expression hardens in determination, and you grasp his wrists with your hands. "I need you to make me feel human again, Jamie."

Jamie.

You've only called him that once before, bringing him down from a rough mental snap that threatened to regress him back into the winter soldier. He sucks in a breath and uses his flesh hand to massage your temple gently. He watches intently as you lean into the action. "You need me?" He's back to muttering.

"I need you, Jamie."

Softly, as if scared to spook a wild deer, he brings your face into his, lips ghosting over yours. He only looks up momentarily to search for any indecision in your eyes, and when he finds nothing but pure need, he guides his mouth to yours.

At first, he's feigning innocence, pressing slow and sweet into you. His flesh thumb draws taut circles in your cheek, metal hand skimming the side of your face and curling itself around the back of your neck. Testing the waters. Then your lips part to moan softly into him; he swallows it, and suddenly, the water is scorching his entire body, overrunning his thoughts. His tongue darts out desperately, pushing past your teeth and savoring your taste. He swells up to his knees, drawing your face up and looming over your sitting form in want. Your hands paw at his still damp shirt wildly, tracing the defined curves and muscles under it.

As he explores your mouth and caresses the back of your head, your finger painting descends lower and lower. The curves take a sudden dive, and you follow them, breathless, fueled with a similar scorching fire to his boiling flood, down the low 'v' of his torso, until his hands leave your head and grab your wrists, stopping them in place. You freeze in fear, looking up at him in confusion. You've misunderstood him, somehow. Surely, you think, you've ruined your relationship with the only thing grounding you, but he runs a metal thumb over your lower lip and chuckles lowly. "You're cute, but don't pout, please."

You're still regaining your breath, chasing the warmth of his hand rapidly leaving. Pouting is in your nature. Natasha hates it when you do it, you and Yelena. Your voice quivers slightly as you move to stand up, fingers finding comfort in picking at one another. "I don't understand."

He looks up at you from his knees, blowing stoutly out his nose. You can't help but admire him like this; out of breath, hair messy and casting handsome shadows down his face, his muscles bulging under his jeans as he remains on his knees for you. One hand reaches out from their place on his thigh, slithering around the back of your own and pulling gently until you step forward voluntarily. The same hand dips under your jacket and rises it just enough so that the skin under is exposed to his mouth, where he plants a gentle kiss. His lips linger at the junction between your lower stomach and hip, eyes fluttering closed and then reopening to peer up at you through his downturned lashes. Finally, he uses your hips as means of steadying himself as he stands.

"Fucking me isn't what will make you human, doll." It's under his breath, but tunnels into your being deeply.

You look down in shame, but can't dwell in it for more than a second before he plants a chaste but just as gentle kiss to your lowered forehead. Then his hand shoots up and he flicks the same spot.

You drive your neck back, head following, and go to rub the spot. "Ow? What the fuck."

He laughs again, louder and less intimately this time, and turns away from you to move to his drawer. You watch with your hand on your forehead as he digs through it, pulling things out every few moves: sweatpants, a sweater, workout shorts. He peels his jeans off casually, only giving you a second to sheepishly admit the definition in his legs to memory before he's replacing the jeans with his sweatpants. The corner of his mouth quirks up when he turns back around, throwing the other two items towards you. You catch them dumbfounded as he takes long strides towards his door, opening it to reveal a small snowflake of a kitten. She meows loudly, like she was waiting a long time to be let in, and struts past him, and Bucky scoffs in response, "Yeah, whatever, Alpine. Be nice."

"You adopted her." Your gaze sinks down to watch her kittenish investigation of you.

He hums in affirmation, still staring down at Alpine as she begins to meow repeatedly in recognition. His voice is low and introspective. "Reminded me of you. We both missed you." He observes her rub up against your leg for a beat longer, then looks back up at you. "Change and get comfy on the bed. Movie night."

He's so agonizingly casual about it all. Doesn't even flinch when you let out a confused, strangled noise in response. He only drives the door open more and begins to disappear around the corner, his voice getting louder to counteract his retreat. "I'm getting snacks. Pick something. No war movies." It's said blandly, but you know it's supposed to make you laugh, and you can see his proud grin in your mind when you do.

This sort of ruins all the dramatic yearning you've been doing, but you suppose you don't mind too much. You'll be back to playing a ditsy someone tomorrow, but tonight, you allow Bucky to serve as your personal lighthouse, guiding you back to your own shore; and you allow Alpine to step on your chest as you situate yourself under the covers, even if the weight of her small paws feel like two elephants crushing your ribs.

“He looks like trouble,” Bucky says, crossing his arms.

You smile up at him, knowing you’ve already won. “You love trouble.”

He glances down at the cat, who’s staring back like he’s issuing a challenge. “We already have Alpine,” he tries weakly. “She barely tolerates me.”

“Which is exactly why she needs a friend,” you counter. “Someone to boss around that isn’t you.”

Bucky sighs, looking between you and the cat. “What’s his name?”

“Charlie,” you say softly.

Two hours later, you’re on your way home with an adoption folder in your lap, Bucky driving, Rowan babbling in her car seat, and Charlie—already purring—sitting smugly in his carrier like he knows he’s found his people.

Alpine, to her credit, takes one look at Charlie and immediately decides he’s beneath her.

She stalks off to her favorite windowsill like a queen refusing to acknowledge a commoner.

But Rowan? Oh, she’s enchanted.

From the moment Charlie steps paw into the house, she lights up—wide-eyed and squealing as he pads over to her play mat. He doesn’t hiss, doesn’t hide. He just sniffs her, flicks his tail, and flops right beside her like he’s accepted his new role as protector and playmate.

Bucky leans against the doorway, watching with a mix of disbelief and fondness. “Doll,” he says quietly, “I think he imprinted.”

You grin, crouching beside your daughter. “Guess Rowan’s got a new best friend.”

By the end of the week, it’s official: wherever Rowan goes, Charlie follows.

During bottle time, he sits under her high chair, tail flicking in rhythm with her happy kicks. When she naps, he curls up beside her crib, eyes half-lidded and vigilant. When she practices crawling, he trails along like a fuzzy little shadow—pausing whenever she stops, meowing softly as if cheering her on.

You find them one afternoon sprawled across the nursery rug. Rowan’s babbling in her musical, nonsense baby talk, and Charlie’s lying on his side, letting her tug gently at his fur.

“Careful, baby,” you say softly. “Gentle with Charlie.”

She responds with a gummy grin and a delighted “Cha-cha!”

Charlie blinks slowly, the feline equivalent of a smile, and purrs loud enough to rattle the floorboards.

The first time Bucky catches them “talking,” he thinks he’s lost it.

It’s early morning. You’re still asleep, so he’s on Rowan duty—sitting on the nursery floor while she plays with her stacking cups.

Charlie’s next to her, perfectly patient, tail swishing lazily.

“Da-da-da!” Rowan chirps, waving a cup.

“Mrrrow,” Charlie replies immediately.

Bucky freezes.

“Buh!” she says.

“Meow.”

He stares between them, jaw slack. “No way.”

Rowan giggles and smacks the cup against the rug. “Cha!”

“Meow.”

“Oh, so now you’ve got your own language?” Bucky mutters, trying not to laugh. “You two talkin’ about me, huh? Saying how your old man doesn’t feed you fast enough?”

“Da!” Rowan squeals, bouncing.

Charlie yawns dramatically, stretching like he’s confirming it.

“Unbelievable,” Bucky chuckles, running a hand through his hair. “Traitors, both of ya.”

Later, you find Bucky on the floor beside them, chin resting on his arms, watching your daughter and her cat with the softest look you’ve ever seen.

“Caught them talking again?” you tease.

He glances up, smiling. “You’d think I was crazy if I told you what I heard earlier. It was like… back and forth, doll. She says something, he answers. Like a real conversation.”

“Maybe they understand each other,” you say, kneeling beside him. “They both communicate in snacks and chaos.”

“Exactly,” Bucky laughs. “It’s uncanny.”

Rowan babbles something that sounds suspiciously like “Char-lee,” and the cat perks up, padding over to nuzzle her cheek.

“See?” you grin. “Soulmates.”

Bucky wraps an arm around your waist, watching them with awe. “Never thought I’d see the day. My little girl and her cat—best buds already.”

You brush a hand through his hair, voice soft. “You’re a goner, huh?”

“Completely,” he murmurs, still smiling. “She’s got both of us wrapped around her finger… and now this little furball too.”

When Rowan turns one, Charlie is practically a guest of honor.

During her birthday party, Alpine perches regally on the counter, observing from afar, while Charlie sits under the high chair like a knight sworn to duty. He watches every crumb fall, every bit of frosting hit the tray, waiting patiently for his share.

Bucky snaps a picture just as Rowan smears cake across her face and Charlie gives a slow, approving blink beside her. He makes it his phone wallpaper that night.

He shows you while you’re curled against him on the couch. “Look at these two, doll,” he murmurs. “Could they get any cuter?”

You smile. “The best decision we’ve made since Alpine.”

Bucky chuckles. “Don’t let her hear you say that. She already thinks she’s the queen.”

“Please,” you laugh, “Alpine’s too busy pretending none of us exist.”

Right on cue, Alpine strolls into the living room, hops onto the couch arm, and gives Charlie a disdainful look before curling up beside Bucky’s shoulder.

He strokes her snowy fur, grinning. “See that, girls? Peace treaty’s been signed.”

Charlie yawns in response. Rowan claps from her spot on the floor, drooling happily.

“Guess that’s approval,” you say.

“Or judgment,” Bucky muses. “Hard to tell with cats.”

The next morning, you wake to the sound of giggles through the baby monitor.

Bucky groans beside you, half-asleep. “Your turn or mine?”

You nudge him. “Yours. I did bedtime.”

He drags himself out of bed and pads down the hall, rubbing his eyes—then stops dead in the nursery doorway.

Rowan’s sitting in her crib, wide awake, babbling cheerfully. Charlie’s perched on the edge of her blanket like a sentinel, answering her with little chirps and meows.

Bucky watches them for a moment, smiling so hard it hurts. The morning light catches Rowan’s curls, the rise and fall of Charlie’s tail, and he swears it’s the sweetest thing he’s ever seen.

“Morning, you two,” he says softly.

Rowan squeals, reaching her arms up. Charlie meows once, as if to say, We’re busy here, Dad.

Bucky chuckles, shaking his head. “Fine, fine. Carry on, partners.”

He tiptoes back to bed, slides under the covers, and kisses your shoulder.

“They’re talkin’ again,” he whispers.

You smile sleepily. “About what this time?”

He grins. “Probably plotting how to convince me to feed them first.”

A moment later, the monitor crackles to life: one delighted giggle, one perfectly timed meow.

That earns you a look—one that’s equal parts fond and deeply skeptical. Bucky Barnes has lived long enough to know that people usually say that and then immediately try to win Alpine over. Treats pulled out of pockets, hands reaching without permission, voices going too high and sweet. Alpine, regal and massive and unimpressed, tolerates exactly none of it.

“She’ll let you know if she’s uncomfortable,” he adds, a little stiff.

“That’s fine,” you say again, quieter this time. “I’ll listen.”

That seems to throw him more than anything else.

Alpine is sprawled across the rug when you step inside, all pale fur and long limbs, chin on her paws. Her ears flick up at the sound of the door. Her eyes—sharp, intelligent—track you immediately. You stop where you are, like you’ve stepped into the edge of her territory and know better than to push.

Bucky holds his breath.

You don’t reach out. You don’t coo. You just crouch slowly, keeping your hands to yourself, and let your gaze drift away from her face—softening your posture, offering calm instead of attention.

“Hi, Alpine,” you say, low and gentle, like you’re greeting a skittish animal and not a dog the size of a small horse. “I’m really glad to meet you.”

Alpine lifts her head.

Bucky’s heart starts pounding so hard he’s sure you can hear it.

She stands, unfolding herself with the quiet grace of something that knows its own strength. She pads forward, slow and deliberate, nose working the air. You stay still, breathing evenly, letting her come to you.

She sniffs your knee. Your wrist. The hem of your sweater.

Bucky watches every second, muscles coiled, ready to intervene if needed—though he’s not sure what “intervening” would even look like against a wolfhound who answers to no one but him.

Then Alpine does something she has never done with a new person.

She leans into you.

Not hard. Just enough to press her broad chest against your legs, to feel your warmth, to test your presence. You let out a small, surprised laugh before you can stop yourself, and then you sink down fully onto the rug, one hand lifting hesitantly.

“Is this okay?” you ask, glancing up at Bucky like he’s the one who needs reassurance.

His mouth is open. He has no idea what he looks like right now, only that his brain has completely short-circuited.

“Yeah,” he manages. “Yeah, that’s—she wouldn’t—if she didn’t—yeah.”

Your fingers brush Alpine’s fur, slow and careful. She exhales, long and content, and lowers herself beside you. Her head ends up resting on your thigh like it belongs there.

Bucky is fucked.

He knows it in the same instant Alpine does.

Later, you’re all on the couch, the apartment dim and warm, some half-forgotten movie playing in the background. Bucky sits on one end, you curled beside him, your legs tucked under you. Alpine claims the rest of the space with the confidence of someone who knows she’s the most important being in the room.

You don’t pet her constantly. You don’t crowd her. You let your hand rest on her side, rising and falling with her breathing, and when she shifts closer, you adjust without complaint.

At some point, her massive head ends up on your chest.

Bucky notices the weight first—the way the couch dips, the way Alpine’s breathing changes, deeper now, slower. He looks over just in time to see her eyes flutter shut.

Asleep.

On you.

Your head is tipped back against the cushion, eyes half-lidded, mouth curved into a small smile. One arm is wrapped loosely around Alpine’s neck, fingers buried in her fur. You don’t even seem to realize what’s happening.

Bucky can’t look away.

There’s something about the sight that hits him right in the sternum. Alpine doesn’t sleep like this. Not on people. Not exposed, not vulnerable. She chooses her places carefully, always with one eye open, always alert.

And she chose you.

“She never does that,” he says quietly, more to himself than to you.

You glance down, startled, then freeze like you’re afraid to wake her. “Oh. Should I move?”

“No,” he says immediately, too fast. Then, softer, “No. You’re fine.”

Alpine snuffles in her sleep, pressing closer, her weight warm and solid against you. Your hand instinctively tightens, protective without being possessive.

Bucky’s chest feels tight.

He’s spent his life measuring risk. Assessing threats. Keeping parts of himself locked down and controlled because letting go has always come at a cost. He’s told himself—over and over—that what he feels for you is manageable. Careful. Contained.

But watching the one creature in his life who owes the world nothing trust you so completely—

He’s in deep trouble.

You catch him staring and smile, soft and sleepy. “She’s really sweet,” you whisper, like it’s a secret just for him.

He swallows. “Yeah,” he says, voice rough. “She is.”

But he’s not looking at Alpine anymore.

And for the first time, the realization doesn’t scare him.

It settles in his chest, heavy and inevitable, like Alpine’s head on your heart—like something that has chosen him whether he’s ready or not.