#protecting

You don’t know how long you sit there, folded into Bucky’s quiet embrace. Time slips sideways - your body aching, your mind heavy with noise, but your breath gradually beginning to slow. His arms stay around you, unwavering, like he understands that right now, words would only bruise the silence.

When the tears finally stop - leaving your face tight and raw, your chest sore - you pull back, just barely. He lets you, hands loosening but still resting lightly on your arms like he’s not quite ready to let you drift away again.

You sit back against the wall, legs drawn up, head tilted to the side. Bucky sits beside you this time, not in front of you. Shoulder to shoulder. Quiet. Solid.

You finally whisper, voice hoarse and barely audible “It was them.”

His head turns. He doesn’t ask who. He knows.

“I was off shift. I was walking home” you say, eyes fixed on the floor. “I heard my name. Not - my name now. The other one. The one I buried.”

Your breath shudders. He doesn’t interrupt.

“I tried to keep walking. Pretend I didn’t hear. But they were already too close. I didn’t even look. Just kept moving, but… they grabbed me. My - my arm - ” You look down at the faint bruises forming around your bicep. “I got away. Fell. But I ran.”

You pause. Your voice drops lower. “They know where I am.”

Silence stretches thin in the air.

Bucky exhales slowly through his nose. “Did they follow you?”

You shake your head. “I don’t think so. I took a long route home. Through alleys. Doubled back. I… I think I lost them.”

But you’re not sure. That uncertainty wraps around your spine like a vice. You feel it pressing on your lungs with every breath.

“I’m not ready” you murmur, almost to yourself. “I thought I was. But I’m not. I can’t move them again, not right now. They just started feeling safe again. I just got them in school. Got clothes. Got a routine.”

Bucky is quiet for a beat. Then he says, low and firm “Then we don’t run.”

You blink.

He’s looking straight ahead, eyes narrowed - not at you, but at whatever threat lies beyond the apartment walls.

“You’ve done more than most people ever could” he says. “You ran. You survived. You built something solid out of nothing. You carried three kids on your back. But you’re not alone anymore.”

He turns toward you, jaw set.

“You don’t have to carry this by yourself.”

You almost laugh - short and bitter. “What does that mean, Bucky? What, are you gonna stand at the door with a knife and scare them off?”

“If that’s what it takes.”

You stare at him.

He’s not joking.

That quiet weight behind his voice - he means it. Every word.

“You can’t just fix this” you whisper.

“I know” he says. “But I can stand between you and the fire. And maybe it’s not enough, maybe I can’t stop them from trying to reach you - but I’ll sure as hell make it harder.”

The silence after that is different. Still thick, but less suffocating. Less hopeless.

Eventually, you murmur “The kids like you.”

“I like them too.”

“They miss you when you’re not around.”

He tilts his head slightly, watching your profile. “What about you?”

You hesitate.

The question hovers in the dark like a gentle touch against a bruise.

“I didn’t think I would” you say. “I didn’t want to. But I think I got used to you.”

Bucky smiles - small, but it reaches his eyes. “I’m okay with that.”

You nod, just once, gaze falling to your scraped palms.

“I should clean those” he says softly.

You don't stop him when he stands. You don’t flinch this time when he gently lifts your hand and guides you to the bathroom, the soft light flickering on like a sigh. You sit on the edge of the tub while he opens the cabinet, finds the antiseptic, the gauze, the bandages. His touch is careful, hands rough but warm.

The sting of the antiseptic doesn’t even compare to the ache in your chest, but you stay still. You let him tend to you. Let him see you.

And when it’s done - when your hands are clean, your skin wrapped in soft white strips - he doesn't move away.

He just says “We make a plan tomorrow. Okay? You sleep. I’ll stay.”

For once, you don’t argue.

You don’t say “you don’t have to.” You don’t say “I’m fine.” You don’t say “go home.”

You just nod, and whisper “Okay.”

And for the first time in what feels like years, when you crawl into bed, your body still aching, your heart still bruised - you sleep.

Not deeply. Not dreamlessly.

But you sleep.

And Bucky’s silhouette stays by the door. Silent. Watching. Unmoving.

Like a sentry. Like a wall. Like someone who isn’t going anywhere.

You wake up late. Later than you have in months.

The light slipping in through the cracked blinds is soft and golden afternoon, maybe. Your body aches in that deep, bone-tired way, but it’s not panic that greets you when your eyes open. It’s stillness. Strange, unfamiliar stillness.

You blink a few times, adjusting. Then the soreness in your shoulder reminds you of last night, the running, the fall, the way your name cut through the night like a blade.

You sit up slowly. There’s a blanket tucked over you, one you didn’t remember grabbing. Your bandages are intact. Your bedroom door is cracked open, the quiet sound of voices filtering in.

You strain your ears, heart skipping for a second.

Then you hear laughter. Your siblings. A muffled thud. Someone says, “No, no, don’t touch that - wait - ” followed by a chorus of giggles.

Bucky.

For a moment, all you do is sit there and breathe. Because the apartment is still here. The world didn’t crumble in your sleep. Your siblings are safe. They’re safe.

You get up slowly. Limbs stiff but moving.

When you step out into the hallway, the scene in the living room is something you never expected to become real.

Your littlest is curled on the couch, watching cartoons with wide eyes and a mouth full of cereal. One of the others is leaning over a coloring book, showing Bucky how they made the stars purple and the sky green “because space doesn’t have rules.” And the oldest is sitting at the kitchen table, working on a homework packet with a little furrow between their brows.

Bucky is… in the middle of it all. Barefoot. Wearing one of your too-small aprons you didn’t even know you still had. A pan of something cooking gently on the stove behind him. His hair is tied back. He’s listening to your sibling’s explanation with more patience than you’ve ever had time to offer.

No one notices you at first.

And you don’t say anything.

You just watch.

Because this - this scene, this impossible quiet joy - feels like a memory you never got to have. Something borrowed from a life you were never allowed to live.

When Bucky finally glances up and sees you, he doesn’t say anything. He just offers a small smile, nodding once. Like, you’re up. you’re here. good.

You clear your throat softly, and your siblings notice you too.

They don’t swarm you like they usually do. Your oldest glances over and gives you a quiet smile. Your youngest beams but doesn’t run. There’s a kind of unspoken understanding in the air - like maybe they know, in their own small way, that something cracked open last night.

You nod toward the stove. “You cooking?”

“French toast,” Bucky says. “Well. Attempting. One piece might be burnt but it’s… artfully done.”

You raise an eyebrow.

He shrugs, playfully defensive. “Okay, I forgot how hot the pan was.”

You press your lips together, something like a laugh catching in your throat.

Your siblings are distracted again, and you move a little closer to Bucky.

Low, so only he can hear, you say, “You stayed all night.”

He nods. “Yeah.”

“You didn’t have to.”

“I wanted to.”

You look at him for a long second. The tiredness still lives behind your eyes, behind your ribs, but something else is there now too. Not quite ease. But… something lighter.

“I don’t know what comes next” you admit.

“I do” Bucky says. “First? You eat. Then we talk.”

You blink. “Talk?”

He nods. “About what you want to do. How we make this place safer. What I can do to help. What you need. Not what you think you should handle on your own. What you actually need.”

You look away, unsure.

Then you whisper “I don’t want them to know.”

Bucky’s voice softens. “They won’t. Not unless you decide to tell them.”

“They’re happy” you murmur, watching them from the corner of your eye. “I don’t want to take that away.”

“You’re not” he says gently. “You’re just protecting it.”

The toast dings behind him.

He steps away to plate it, and you watch him - this man who should’ve just been another hour in your week. Another paycheck. Another wall. But somehow, over time, became something more.

You don’t call it friendship. Not yet. Maybe never. The word feels too small.

But when he sets a plate down in front of you, fork resting gently beside it, he doesn’t ask for anything in return. No explanations. No gratitude.

He just sits across from you and says, “Eat.”

So you do.

And for the first time in what feels like forever, you let yourself believe that maybe - just maybe - you don’t have to keep running. Not alone. Not anymore.

You don’t finish the whole plate, but you eat more than you have in days. It’s not about hunger exactly - it’s about the steadiness of the room around you. The fact that no one is shouting. That the floor isn’t trembling under your feet from the force of old, cruel voices. That your siblings are here. Laughing. Arguing over crayons. And Bucky’s here, like some kind of strange constant - never too loud, never too close, but always present.

When you finally set your fork down, you exhale slow and deep. Like something inside you had been clenching tight for weeks and only now realized it could start to let go.

Bucky watches you, elbows resting on the table, a cup of coffee cooling between his palms. “You look like you slept a hundred years” he says, quietly amused.

“Feels like I did,” you admit, rubbing your eyes. “Still not enough.”

“Then tomorrow, you sleep in again.”

You don’t argue. You don’t have the energy to, and… maybe you don’t want to. Not this time.

Your siblings begin to drift from the table, one by one. A mess of sticky hands and tangled hair, grabbing at toys or dragging homework to the floor. The apartment is small, but somehow they’ve made it their kingdom. You let them move freely. You let them be.

Once the soft noise of cartoons picks up again in the living room, you glance at Bucky, voice low.

“I think they like you more than me.”

He raises a brow. “They’re allowed to have taste.”

You snort. It's weak, but it's a laugh.

Then quieter “They call you the ‘cool uncle.’ Did you know that?”

Something flickers across his face. A warmth that makes your chest twist a little, too sharp and too soft at the same time.

“I’ve been called worse” he says, smiling faintly.

You nod. Fiddle with your sleeve.

“I still don’t know what to do” you say eventually. “If my parents really do know where we are…”

“We’ll handle it.”

“What does that mean?”

He leans forward, forearms on the table, gaze steady. “It means we find out what they know. How they found you. We take that information and we build around it. Better locks. Cameras. People to call if anything happens. We make it harder for them.”

Your voice is barely audible. “And if that’s not enough?”

“Then I make sure they know they don’t get to come near you. Or your siblings.”

You stare at him. “You’d really do that?”

“I’ve done a lot worse for a lot less” he says simply.

It shouldn’t be comforting. But it is.

You both sit in silence for a while, the sounds of your siblings drifting in from the living room like soft static. Eventually, Bucky leans back, sips his coffee again.

“Have you ever talked to someone about what they did to you?” he asks, quiet but direct.

You freeze for a second. “Why?”

“Because you carry it. In your voice. Your walk. Your eyes. You survived, yeah. But you’re still bleeding, even if no one sees it.”

You say nothing. Not at first.

Then “I couldn’t afford to bleed. I didn’t have time.”

“I know” he says gently. “But you might now. Just a little.”

You don’t respond. But you don’t tell him to stop, either. That’s progress, maybe.

Eventually, your youngest crawls into your lap, thumb in mouth, eyelids drooping. The weight of their small body against yours sends another crack through your armor. You wrap an arm around them and rest your chin lightly on their head.

“They trust you” Bucky says.

“They shouldn’t have to” you whisper. “They’re just kids. They should have school and toys and scraped knees. Not escape plans.”

He nods. “That’s why we make sure they don’t have to run again.”

The room falls quiet again, but it’s not uncomfortable. It’s the silence of two people standing on the edge of something terrifying - and maybe, maybe, something better.

Eventually, Bucky rises. Begins cleaning up without asking. You let him. It’s easier to let someone help when they don’t ask for permission. When they just do it.

As the evening bleeds into night, he stays. He stays through story time and brushing teeth and lost pajamas and nightlight arguments. He helps tuck each one in, listens when your middle child wants to show him a crayon drawing of a “protector robot” which you swear might actually be him. He smiles, and doesn’t deny it.

And later, when the apartment is quiet again - doors closed, lights dimmed - he stands by the window, eyes on the dark city outside. You stand beside him, arms crossed against your chest.

“What if this is temporary?” you murmur. “What if it all falls apart?”

“Then we build it again” he says, without hesitation.

You turn to look at him. His profile sharp in the low light. His eyes still watching the shadows. A steady shape in a world full of shifting ground.

You nod.

You don’t know what this is. Not friendship. Not yet. Not love. Not yet. But maybe it’s trust. Maybe it’s the start of something that could grow.

And for now, that’s enough.

Part 6