#regressor!reader

Ohhhh that pacifier. 

It had been missing since they left and no one else that lived in the tower had seen it nor was it anywhere to be found in the small apartment you shared with the two men.

You hadn't been as bothered by its disappearance the first day. Mildly annoyed and inconvenience– yes. But it hadn't felt like an end of the world situation. You figured you could hold off your headspace for a few days until you found it or until the boys came back.

By the third day you had torn the apartment apart, turned the tower bedrooms upside down, and looked through every crack and crevice of the common room for it. 

The others keep trying to reassure you that you would find it or that you could just get another one but–no! No way! You couldn't just– they didn't understand!! It was so important! Your caregivers had gotten you that specific pacifier! And it meant everything to you! You always knew where it was and always used it when you regressed and– and… and you couldn't sleep without it! Not while they were gone!!

You needed to have something tangible from them that was sentimental or else… or else it meant you might not love them or they’ll hate you for not appreciating the gifts they got you and that just wasn't true because you loved it but by the stuffies– you just didn't know where it was!!

No matter how much their friends tried. Soft lights, gentle lullabies, good cuddleable toys… one of Steve's stinky sweatshirts not yet washed free of his scent… a lot of warm milk and sleepy time teas… nothing. You wouldn't sleep. You wouldn't stop having uncontrollable bouts of sobbing. Always wailing about the missing pacifier or wanting Steve and Bucky back.

It had reached a point Bruce was considering giving you a sedative for your own health. But lucky for everyone your perfect, loving, and incredibly hardworking caregivers came back early from their mission. 

Unfortunate for them that they didn't receive as cheerful of a welcome back from their sweet kiddo as they had expected. Instead you barreled into their arms, red in the face with extra dark eyebags that rivaled Bucky’s on his worst days and a throat so sore from wailing that you sounded like a radio station with a bad connection. All crackles and coughs as you babble out apologies and pleas, anything for them to never leave again. 

“Woah..! woah woah! Okay. hold on– why are you crying, bug?” Steve kneeled down, letting his bag drop from his shoulder to the floor as he hugs you close, rubbing your back as you keep sobbing out words that were too garbled to be understood. He looks up at a very exhausted but relieved looking Nat and Bruce and asks again, “what happened?”

“Lost pacifier on day one.” she starts.

“Hasnt slept since.” the other finishes.

Bucky’s brows furrow slightly at the news then shares a look with Steve who understands but also looks visibly a bit guilty. He turns his head back to you as Buck fishes around in his pocket, “Hey, bug… Stevie’s got somethin to tell you. Okay? Are you listening? Can you look at me?”

Bucky pulls out the pacifier in question out and uses the cleaner part of his sleeve to wipe off the nipple as Steve keeps going in that soft voice of his. “I must have accidentally packed it in our things out of habit before we left…he’s kept it safe in his pocket the whole time just waiting to give it back to you.”

Bucky squats down to be at eye level with the two of you as he holds the pacifier out towards your face, “Yeah, bug. Here. Look. All safe… and ready to join you for a nap.”

“All of us for a nap. What do you think?” Steve asks, silently trying to convey to his partner that he also needed some solid rest. 

You look at the pacifier that had caused you so much grief for so long with such shock and confusion it nearly stopped your crying all at once. Your arms relaxed from their death grip around the blond’s shoulders, no longer digging into him like you were trying to physically carve handles into him so you would never be able to be pried off again. 

You just couldn't believe that… that they had it the whole time. 

They kept it safe. 

They… they had taken a piece of you with them. Even if it was an accident they had still purposely kept it on them the whole time they were gone. Keeping it safe. Sleeping with it in their hands like they sometimes did when it fell from your mouth at night and… and never forgetting you. 

“Yeah… Its been a long week for all of us.” Buck agrees with that soft rumbled voice, gently tapping the pacifier to your mouth as you continue to look at it in disbelief. “We definitely deserve a nap.”

Your tears fill your eyes back up, looking up at him like he was something descending down from your best, most unbelievable dreams. You swore you could almost see a halo of light illuminating him. Well.. okay maybe it was the lights glinting off his metal arm but still– it was magical.

“Y…you… Bubby… n Sevie keped it… f’me?” you rasp out on the verge of bawling again, this time from the overwhelming feeling of… being seen and loved. 

“What did you think we would do with it? Can’t modify it to be a weapon when it's our best baby’s favorite binky, can we?” he jokes, his brows furrowing just lightly together in bewilderment as he watches you choke out a sob then start wailing again. He would've thought that teasing you would've made you feel… better. Not worse.

His looks between you and the only man that could see the twinge of worry hidden behind his features and asks, “What did I do?”

“Nothing. I think our kid’s simply tired…” Steve grunts softly as he stands up, bringing you with him. “And happy we're back.”

You reach out to grab Bucky's wrist before you and Steve are all the way up, pulling his hand closer to take the pacifier in your mouth and making him stand with you two. He holds it there for a couple moments to keep it from falling out of your mouth each time you have to suck in a breath or sob again. 

You three stand there for a minute, captain caregiver gently bouncing or rocking you while the ever dutiful brunette keeps your pacifier in place until you start to calm down enough to keep it there without help. By then you couldn’t hardly keep your eyes open no matter how much you wanted to make sure they wouldn't leave you the moment you drifted off. 

The first home visit happened two weeks into the trial. By then, Trinity had learned several things about you. You drank coffee long after it stopped being useful. You used your cane more frequently than your wheelchair outside the hospital, even when the chair would have made the day easier. You disliked being asked the same question twice. You disliked being told what to do even more and whenever Trinity came close to identifying an actual need, you became so composed that it bordered on hostile.

She had not yet learned what you looked like regressed. She had asked once, during the first weekly meeting with Miriam. Not directly. She had asked how she was supposed to recognize a shift in your headspace if you did not tell her. You had answered that she was not supposed to recognize anything yet.

“You haven’t earned access to that,” you had said.

Trinity had bristled.

She had completed the training. She had signed the confidentiality paperwork. She was your registered trial caregiver, but when she looked at your face, she realized you were not trying to punish her. You were frightened. So she had swallowed every argument and answered, 

“Okay.”

She had thought about the exchange for days afterward. Earned. Not assigned. Not granted by a compatibility score. Earned.

It bothered her that those things were different. It also made her want to prove she could do it. Which was exactly how she arrived at your apartment carrying a home-assessment packet, two bags of groceries, and far too much confidence. You opened the door at two precisely. Trinity looked you over. Soft blouse. Loose trousers. Cane in your right hand. Hair tied back. Face carefully neutral.

“You look like you’re interviewing me,” she said.

“You brought paperwork.”

“It’s the home-visit checklist.”

“You brought a folder.”

“So?”

“Folders are inherently threatening.”

Trinity glanced down at the black folder tucked beneath her arm.

“It’s flexible.”

“That makes it worse somehow.”

She lifted the grocery bags.

“I also brought lunch.”

“We did not agree on lunch.”

“You say that every time I bring food.”

“You have brought food twice.”

“And both times you ate it.”

“That proves nothing.”

“It proves a little.”

You stepped aside with a sigh. Trinity entered. She had been curious about your apartment since the trial began. Not because she wanted to search through your things. She told herself that repeatedly. She wanted context. The classification office had given her an outline of your needs, but it was all clinical language. Dynamic disability. Intermittent assistance with instrumental activities of daily living. Variable mobility. Pain-associated regression risk. Reduced verbal communication during deeper regression.

The words told her nothing about you. Your apartment did. Books filled the shelving units along one wall, double-stacked in places where you had run out of room. Framed medical degrees hung near artwork that looked as though it had been collected gradually rather than selected to match. A heating pad rested on the arm of the couch with its cord wrapped loosely around it. Your folded wheelchair stood beside the television. Not hidden. Not displayed either. Simply part of the room. Trinity noticed a basket near the couch filled with blankets. She tried not to stare. You noticed her trying not to stare.

“The apartment is accessible,” you said.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were conducting a visual assessment.”

“That is part of why I’m here.”

“No. You’re here to become familiar with the space. You are not here to grade it.”

Trinity’s mouth tightened. She had been inside for less than a minute. Already she felt as though she were failing a test whose questions kept changing.

“I know.”

“Do you?”

“Yes.”

You held her gaze.

Trinity added, less defensively, “I’m trying to.”

Your shoulders relaxed slightly.

“Shoes can stay by the door.”

She took them off. You moved toward the kitchen with your cane. Trinity followed. Your gait was almost even. Almost. She noticed the small hesitation each time your left foot came down. The way your grip tightened around the cane before you turned. She kept her mouth shut. That was growth. She was very proud of it. You glanced over your shoulder.

“You can stop looking at my legs.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I’m looking where I’m walking.”

“You’re following me through an unobstructed hallway.”

“It could become obstructed.”

“By what?”

“I don’t know. You have a lot of books.”

“They are on shelves.”

“Dangerously.”

You stared at her. Trinity smiled. Your mouth threatened to move before you turned away. The kitchen table had already been prepared for the visit. Your medication list sat beside the emergency contact information and a copy of the trial agreement. Everything had been typed, printed, and arranged in clean lines. Trinity set the groceries on the counter.

“You did homework.”

“I prepared.”

“You highlighted things.”

“Color coding improves readability.”

“You’ve been making fun of my folder.”

“Your folder is aggressive. My documents are organized.”

Trinity pulled out the chair opposite yours. You sat carefully. Too carefully. She noticed the way you used both hands to lower yourself, one braced on the table and one gripping the cane. She placed the home-assessment folder down.

“What’s your pain?”

Your expression shut immediately.

“Manageable.”

“That isn’t a number.”

“You are not entitled to a number every time you ask.”

Trinity sat back. The response hit harder than it should have. She had asked the way she would ask a patient. Direct. Efficient. Expecting an answer. You watched her face.

“Four,” you said eventually.

Trinity looked at you.

“You don’t have to give me a number because I look disappointed.”

“I’m not.”

“Not what?”

“Giving it to you because of your face.”

“Then why?”

“Because you asked.”

She knew it was not the entire truth, but she nodded.

“Thank you.”

You looked briefly surprised. Perhaps you had expected her to question the number. She wanted to. She did not. Instead, she reached for the folder.

“Do you want to go through the checklist before we eat or after?”

“Before.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“You just said your pain was four.”

“That does not prevent me from answering questions.”

“I didn’t say it did.”

“You implied we should structure the afternoon around it.”

“I offered a choice.”

“A pointed choice.”

Trinity closed the folder again.

“You do this a lot.”

Your eyes narrowed.

“Do what?”

“Decide what I mean before I finish saying it.”

You leaned back slightly.

“And you decide what I need before I say it.”

The observation landed cleanly.

Trinity rubbed her thumb against the folder’s edge.

“Okay.”

You waited for her defense.

None came.

“Okay?” you repeated.

“I do.”

Her jaw tightened around the admission.

“I’m trying not to.”

The irritation in your face eased by a fraction.

Trinity opened the folder again.

“Checklist first.”

You nodded. The beginning of the visit went better than either of you expected. You showed her the emergency contact sheet. Dana was listed as the hospital contact. Your parents were included but marked as not classification-informed. A neighbor had a spare key for building emergencies but was not permitted to enter without explicit consent unless emergency services were present. Trinity read every line.

“You’re not listed yet,” you said.

“I noticed.”

“It’s a trial.”

“I know.”

Her tone came out sharper than she intended.

Your gaze lifted.

Trinity softened it.

“I know.”

She continued to the medication plan. You explained which medications required food, which could worsen your nausea, and which were only used during severe flares. Trinity asked questions, but fewer than she wanted to.

“Where do you keep them?”

“Daily medication in the kitchen. Night medication in the bedroom. Rescue medication in my work bag and beside the bed.”

“Do you have a list of when you last took anything?”

“I use an app.”

“Can I see it?”

“No.”

The answer was immediate.

Trinity blinked.

“Okay.”

You looked almost suspicious of how easily she accepted it.

“You don’t need access to my daily medication tracking.”

“What if you’re regressed?”

“You ask me.”

“What if you can’t answer?”

“There’s a paper log beside the organizer.”

Trinity nodded and wrote it down. You watched the pen move.

“You’re not upset?”

“I don’t need the app if there’s another system.”

“That’s reasonable.”

“I’m capable of being reasonable.”

“Debatable.”

Trinity looked up. Your mouth had shifted. Not quite a smile. She took the victory. The home-safety portion was less successful. You showed her the bathroom grab rail, the nonslip mat, and the shower chair folded against the wall.

“You use the chair?” Trinity asked.

“When I need it.”

“How often?”

“When I need it.”

“That is not a frequency.”

“It varies.”

“Weekly?”

You crossed your arms.

“Sometimes.”

“Why is this difficult?”

“Because I don’t enjoy cataloging every fluctuation in my disability for someone I’ve known two weeks.”

Trinity lowered the pen. The words were not cruel. They were tired. She closed the folder.

“You’re right.”

You blinked.

“I am?”

“Yes.”

She stood.

“We can stop.”

“We still have half the list.”

“We can do it later.”

You looked at her as though this might be another strategy. Trinity set the folder on the kitchen table.

“I don’t need to know everything today.”

“That isn’t what Miriam said.”

“Miriam isn’t here.”

“She’ll ask whether we completed it.”

“I’ll tell her we didn’t.”

Your brows lifted.

“You hate admitting you didn’t finish things.”

“I hate being described this accurately.”

You almost smiled again.

Trinity turned toward the grocery bags.

“Lunch.”

You did not object this time. She had brought turkey sandwiches, soup, applesauce, and the now-familiar emergency crackers.

“You bought bird food again.”

“You mocked it last time and then kept the packet.”

“For emergencies.”

“This is a home visit with me. That qualifies.”

You gave her a tired look. Trinity began warming the soup. She did not ask whether you wanted help standing from the table. She only moved the chair far enough that your cane would not catch against it. You noticed. She noticed you noticing. Neither commented.

You settled on the couch while she prepared the food. The pain had climbed since she arrived. Not drastically. Enough that your lower back felt heavy and hot. Your left hip caught whenever you shifted. You pressed your hand against it. Trinity came into the living room carrying two bowls. Her gaze dropped to your hand. You removed it. She put the food on the coffee table.

“Still four?”

“Yes.”

The lie came too quickly. Trinity’s face changed. You saw the question forming. You reached for the soup before she could ask. It was too hot. You set it down immediately. Trinity picked up one of the sandwiches.

“Here.”

“I can reach.”

She placed it on the table within easier reach.

“I know.”

The phrase was beginning to irritate you. It also made it harder to fight her. You ate half the sandwich. Trinity ate hers while trying not to watch you. The conversation drifted toward work. Joy had asked Trinity whether every attending secretly hated medical students.

“What did you say?” you asked.

“That most attendings don’t think about them enough to hate them.”

You stared.

“What?”

“That was reassuring.”

“No, it wasn’t.”

“She laughed.”

“She was probably terrified.”

“She likes me.”

“She fears you in a way that resembles affection.”

“Same thing.”

You huffed softly. Then pain caught beneath your ribs. The sound changed. Small, but Trinity heard it. Her attention sharpened. You looked toward the hallway.

“I’m tired.”

Trinity glanced at the clock. It had been less than an hour.

“Do you want me to leave?”

The question came carefully. You did not answer immediately. The room had begun to feel too exposed. Trinity on your couch. The classification folder on your table. Your medication plan lying open in the kitchen. Every object in your home suddenly looked like information she might use to understand you. You did not want to be understood anymore. You wanted the day over.

“Yes,” you said.

Trinity’s face fell before she could hide it. She nodded.

“Okay.”

She began gathering the containers. The movement should have relieved you. Instead, something inside you pulled tighter. She was leaving. Because you had asked. Because you were difficult. Because this had been a test after all, and you had failed to be cooperative enough to finish it. Your headspace shifted before you recognized the movement. Not deep. Not enough to lose words. Enough that the apartment felt larger and Trinity’s disappointment felt unbearable. You stood too quickly. Pain tore through your hip. Your hand slammed against the couch arm. Trinity dropped the container she was holding.

“Y/N?”

“I’m fine.”

You reached for your cane. Your hand missed the handle. Trinity moved toward you. You recoiled.

“Don’t.”

She stopped immediately. Her hands lifted away from her body.

“Okay.”

You caught the cane on the second attempt. The pain had become bright enough to make you nauseous. Your thoughts softened at the edges. Not now. Not with her here. Not where she could see.

“I need to lie down.”

“I can help.”

“No.”

“Okay.” She said it again. Too calm. Too gentle. You hated how badly you wanted it to be real.

You moved toward the bedroom. Each step hurt. Trinity remained in the living room. She did not follow. You reached the bedroom door and looked back. She stood near the coffee table, worry plain on her face.

“You can go,” you said.

Your voice sounded wrong. Quieter. Less controlled. Trinity heard it. Her gaze softened. You saw recognition trying to form. Panic rushed through you.

“No.”

She went still.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Don’t look.”

“Okay.”

Trinity lowered her eyes. You entered the bedroom and closed the door. Then locked it. The click echoed through the apartment. For several seconds, Trinity stood exactly where you had left her. Her first instinct was to follow. To knock. To ask whether you were safe. To remind you that locking a door during a possible regression was not part of the care plan because the two of you did not have a care plan yet. 

She reached the hallway. Then stopped. You had said not to look. You had asked her to leave. She had already pushed too hard once today. Trinity walked to the bedroom door but did not touch it.

“Y/N?”

Silence.

“I’m not coming in.”

Nothing.

“I just need to know if you’re hurt.”

From behind the door came a small movement. Fabric against the floor, perhaps or the bed. Trinity rested her palm against the wall beside the door rather than the wood itself.

“Can you answer yes or no?”

No response. She closed her eyes. Every training module had insisted communication was essential. Every instinct told her to do something, but she remembered your words. You haven’t earned access to that. Perhaps this was what you had meant. Not that Trinity had to perform enough correct acts to unlock the hidden part of you. That you needed to know she would respect the boundary even when she was frightened by what existed beyond it.

“I’m going to stay out here,” Trinity said.

Still nothing.

“I can leave the apartment if that’s what you need.”

The silence changed. She could not explain how she knew. A faint sound. Not a word. Something distressed. Trinity’s chest tightened.

“Or I can stay in the living room.”

Another small sound. Less sharp than the first. She waited.

“Stay?”

It was barely audible. One quiet word through a closed door. Trinity’s entire body softened.

“Yeah.”

She stepped back from the door.

“I can stay.”

No answer.

“That doesn’t mean I’m going to come in.” She needed you to hear the distinction. “I’m going to sit on the couch.”

Trinity walked away loudly enough that you could follow her movement through the apartment. She picked up the dropped food container. Closed the soup. Put the sandwich wrappers into the grocery bag. Ordinary sounds. Not leaving sounds. She sat on the couch.

For the first five minutes, she stared at the locked bedroom door. Then she remembered what you had said about looking. Even through a wall, it felt like too much. She turned toward the television and left it off. The apartment became very quiet. Trinity could hear the refrigerator humming. Traffic passing somewhere below. Once, a floorboard creaked behind the bedroom door. She wanted to call your name. She did not. 

She took the home-assessment folder from the kitchen and placed it back inside her bag. The checklist remained unfinished. She no longer cared. After fifteen minutes, she sent Miriam a brief message.

Home visit paused. No emergency. We will reschedule.

Miriam responded almost immediately.

Has regression occurred?

Trinity stared at the question.

She did not know. She suspected. That was not the same as being entitled to name it. She typed:

Dr. Y/N requested privacy. She is safe in her bedroom. I am remaining in the apartment at her request.

Miriam replied:

Do you have verbal confirmation of safety?

Trinity looked toward the hallway. Not quite. She stood, then stopped herself from walking closer.

“Y/N?”

No answer. Trinity kept her voice level.

“I need to know you’re physically safe. You don’t have to open the door.”

Silence.

“Can you knock once for safe?”

A pause. Then one faint knock. Trinity’s knees nearly gave with relief.

“Thank you.”

She sat again. She updated Miriam.

Safety confirmed. No further intervention requested.

The coordinator sent back a thumbs-up reaction that irritated Trinity enough to make her consider reporting it as unprofessional. She put her phone away. Another twenty minutes passed. Trinity grew restless.

She wanted to occupy herself, but doing dishes felt too intrusive. Turning on the television might make you think she had stopped listening. Leaving the couch to inspect the apartment would violate nearly every boundary you had tried to establish.

So she stayed.

She sat in the living room with her hands folded between her knees and learned that caregiving could feel like doing absolutely nothing while every nerve screamed for action.

Behind the bedroom door, you lay curled beneath your comforter. You had made it to the bed before the pain worsened. Barely. The cane rested on the floor where you had dropped it. Your shoes were still on. Your cardigan twisted uncomfortably beneath one shoulder. You could have fixed those things. Probably. Instead, you had pulled the blanket over your head and waited for the afternoon to end. Your thoughts had slipped younger, though not enough that you would have admitted it. Words remained. They simply felt too heavy to carry across the room. You knew Trinity was outside.

At first, that had frightened you. Then she had walked away from the door. Not out of the apartment. Only far enough to give you space. You listened for her shoes. For the front lock. For the silence that would mean she had decided you were too difficult and left.

Instead, you heard containers closing. The couch creaking beneath her weight. Her voice asking for one knock. Then nothing. She stayed quiet. She did not call you little. She did not ask what age you felt. She did not tell you she was your caregiver and therefore allowed to come in. She did not use your fear as evidence that you had surrendered the boundary. She waited.

The pain eased slowly. Five became four. Four became the familiar ache you had lived around for years. Your thoughts sharpened with it. Embarrassment came next. The unfinished home visit. The locked door. The small, frightened stay you had allowed to escape.

You lay still for several more minutes, gathering the grown pieces of yourself before moving. When you finally sat up, the room swayed faintly. You untangled the cardigan and removed your shoes. You picked up the cane. Then you stood in front of the bedroom door. Your hand hovered near the lock.

Trinity might have left quietly.

Perhaps she had understood stay as staying until you settled and then disappearing before you had to face her. You unlocked the door. The click sounded impossibly loud. You opened it a few inches. Trinity was still on the couch.

She had taken off her jacket and folded it across her lap. Her phone rested face down beside her. The assessment folder was packed away. She looked toward the hallway immediately, but she did not stand.

“Hi,” she said.

Your throat tightened.

“Hi.”

“Can I look at you?”

The question nearly undid you. You nodded. Trinity let her gaze move over you. Cane. Unsteady posture. Red-rimmed eyes. Still dressed. Still upright. Her shoulders lowered.

“How’s the pain?”

“Four.”

“Actually?”

You almost bristled. Then saw the fear beneath the question.

“Actually.”

“Okay.”

You remained in the doorway. Trinity remained on the couch. Neither knew what came next.

“You stayed,” you said.

Her expression softened.

“You asked me to.”

“I also told you to go.”

“You changed your mind.”

“I wasn’t…”

You stopped. Wasn’t grown enough? Wasn’t thinking clearly? Wasn’t supposed to need her? Trinity did not finish the sentence for you.

“I didn’t know what was happening,” she admitted. “I still don’t.”

Your fingers tightened around the cane.

“But you didn’t come in.”

“No.”

“Why?”

“You locked the door.”

The answer was simple.

“You told me not to look.”

Your eyes burned again. Trinity rubbed her hands against her jeans.

“I wanted to make sure you were safe. I probably would have come in if you hadn’t answered the knock question.”

“That would have been fair.”

“I didn’t want to.”

You looked at her.

“I mean, I didn’t want to override you.”

Her voice had grown quieter.

“I was worried. But being worried doesn’t automatically make me right.”

The words settled into the room. You stepped farther into the hallway. Trinity shifted as though she might stand, then caught herself.

“Do you want me to come closer?”

You considered it.

“No.”

She nodded.

“Okay.”

The answer hurt less this time. You walked slowly back into the living room and sat at the far end of the couch. Trinity remained where she was, leaving the space between you untouched. The grocery bags sat packed near the door.

“You were going to leave.”

“I packed the food so it wouldn’t spoil.”

“Oh.”

“I didn’t know how long you would need.”

You looked at the bags. Then at her.

“You could have gone.”

“I could have.”

“But you didn’t.”

“No.”

“Why?”

Trinity took a breath.

“Because you asked me to stay.”

The answer seemed too obvious to carry so much weight. She glanced toward the hallway.

“And because I didn’t want you coming out and thinking I’d left because of whatever happened.”

Your chest tightened.

“Nothing happened.”

Trinity looked at you.

Then nodded.

“Okay.”

She did not challenge the lie. That was another kindness. You stared down at your hands.

“Did you tell Miriam?”

“That the visit paused and you requested privacy.”

Your head snapped toward her.

“That’s all?”

“She asked whether you regressed.”

Your face went cold.

“What did you say?”

“That I didn’t know.”

Trinity held your gaze.

“And even if I did, it was your information.”

Something inside you loosened. She had protected a secret she had not even been trusted enough to confirm.

“Thank you,” you whispered.

“You’re welcome.”

Silence returned. Different now. Less defensive. You looked at the empty space between you.

“Are you angry?”

Trinity frowned.

“No.”

“You should be.”

“Why?”

“I ended the visit.”

“You needed it to end.”

“I locked you out.”

“It’s your bedroom.”

“You sat here for almost an hour.”

“I have survived worse.”

Despite yourself, your mouth moved. Trinity saw it and smiled faintly. Then her expression became serious again.

“I was scared.”

You looked at her.

“I thought you were hurting more than you said.”

You did not answer.

Trinity nodded to herself.

“You were.”

It was not phrased as a question. You stared at the floor.

“Six.”

“When?”

“Before I went to the bedroom.”

Her jaw tightened.

“I told you four.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

You knew the answer. You did not yet trust her enough to say all of it.

“Because I wanted the visit to go well.”

Trinity leaned back against the couch.

“You thought being in pain would make it go badly?”

“It made it end.”

“No.”

She spoke firmly.

“The visit ended because you needed it to. That isn’t the same thing.”

You looked at her.

“We didn’t finish the checklist.”

“I hate that checklist.”

“You arrived carrying it like a weapon.”

“I’ve grown.”

“It has been an hour.”

“A transformative hour.”

You huffed softly. Trinity’s smile faded into something warmer.

“Can I ask one thing?”

You nodded cautiously.

“Was me staying helpful?”

The directness of it made your eyes burn. You could have said it did not matter. That the pain would have eased either way. That you had been behind a locked door and therefore technically alone. Instead, you answered honestly.

“Yes.”

Trinity’s shoulders lowered.

“Okay.”

“You didn’t do anything.”

“I know.”

“You just sat there.”

“I know.”

“That was helpful.”

Her face changed. The relentless need to prove herself softened, if only for a moment. Caregiving did not always mean opening the medication bottle. It did not always mean carrying someone, feeding them, or talking them through a crisis.

Sometimes the help was remaining on the other side of a closed door without taking the boundary personally. Trinity looked toward you.

“You don’t have to show me anything you’re not ready to.”

Your throat tightened.

“I know you said I haven’t earned seeing you regress.”

Your body went still.

“I’m not asking whether that happened today.”

You watched her carefully.

“I just want you to know I heard you.”

She gestured faintly toward the hallway.

“I can stay outside the door.”

The words were awkward. Unpolished. Exactly what you needed. You looked down at your cane.

“What if I never let you see?”

Trinity did not answer immediately. Her honesty mattered too much now for an easy reassurance.

“Then I’ll be disappointed.” Your gaze lifted. “But it’s still your choice,” she continued. “I don’t want you to hide because you’re scared I’ll react badly. But I can’t make you trust me faster because I’m impatient.”

“You are impatient.”

“Extremely.”

You almost smiled. Trinity leaned forward slightly.

“I want to be good at this.”

“I know.”

“I keep thinking that means doing more.”

You waited.

“Maybe sometimes it means not doing the thing I want to do.”

“Like opening the door.”

“Like opening the door.”

She looked toward the grocery bags.

“Or making you finish the soup.”

“I was never going to eat that soup.”

“It was expensive.”

“It smelled like celery.”

“You didn’t even try it.”

“I could smell it.”

Trinity shook her head.

“You’re impossible.”

The words were light.

Not rejection. You let yourself hear the difference.

“Are you going now?” you asked.

Trinity glanced at the time.

“I can.” Your chest tightened unexpectedly. She saw it. “Or I can stay a little longer.” You looked toward the dark television.

“We could watch something.”

Her eyebrows lifted.

“That sounds almost social.”

“It’s still part of the required contact hours.”

“Of course.”

“You should not read into it.”

“I would never.”

“You are already reading into it.”

“I’m naturally perceptive.”

You rolled your eyes.

Trinity picked up the remote but did not turn anything on.

“You choose.”

“It’s my apartment.”

“Yes.”

“You are the guest.”

“Yes.”

“The guest chooses.”

“Is this another test?”

“It is basic hospitality.”

“You threatened to make me leave forty minutes ago.”

“And now I am offering television. People contain contradictions.”

Trinity handed you the remote.

“You choose.”

You selected a baking competition neither of you had seen before. Trinity shifted into the corner of the couch. She did not move closer. You remained at the other end with your cane resting beside your leg. Halfway through the episode, she retrieved the crackers and set them on the cushion between you.

No comment. No instruction. You opened them after several minutes. Trinity pretended not to notice. When the credits rolled, she stood.

This time, you did not ask whether she was leaving because the trial had failed. She put on her jacket and collected the grocery bags, leaving the unopened applesauce and ginger ale on your counter.

“For later,” she said.

You nodded. At the door, Trinity put on her shoes. Her hand rested on the knob.

“I’m still here,” she said.

You frowned.

“You’re visibly leaving.”

“I know.”

She looked back at you.

“I mean the trial.”

Your grip tightened around the cane.

“Oh.”

“I’m still here.”

The words touched the same place as her quiet presence on the couch. You had locked a door between you. She had not forced it open. She had not mistaken privacy for rejection and now she was leaving only because the visit was over, not because you had become inconvenient.

“Okay,” you said softly.

Trinity nodded.

“Okay.”

She opened the door.

“Text me when the pain changes?”

Your defenses rose automatically. She caught them.

“Only if you want to.”

You studied her.

“I will.”

Her shoulders loosened.

“Goodnight.”

“It’s four in the afternoon.”

“You’re going to sleep.”

“That is an assumption.”

“You locked yourself in the bedroom and told me the day needed to end.”

Your face warmed. Trinity immediately softened.

“I’m not making fun of you.”

“I know.”

It surprised you that you did.

“Goodnight, Trinity.”

She smiled.

“Goodnight.”

you had been waiting for freddy to came back. waiting in his dressing room. you had a special pass and he was always around after shows. but he said he had some maintenance he needed to do today… you were lonely within the first thirty minutes he had been gone and it had only gotten worse since then. your stomach got gotten uneasy and you couldn’t stop picking at a bandaid on your arm. the clock felt so needlessly loud and no cartoons on the tv helped to distract you. you let out a whine and began to cry, tears stinging your little eyes. they dripped down and you sniffled and whined, rubbing at your eyes. where was papa? he was taking so long. 

“ cub? “ your eyes shot up and you cried out as your papa bear appeared in the door. you shot up from the sofa in his dressing room and ran to him. you wrapped your arms around his metal frame and pressed your face into the soft fur modeled on his chest. he scooped you up from the floor and cradled you against his chest. “ why are you crying? did something happen while i was gone? you should have called me with your watch. “ his voice was thick with concern as he walked back to the couch. he sat down with you in his lap and paused the cartoons on the tv.

you sniffled and rubbed your nose, “i-i just m-missed you s-so much…” you tried not to cry more now. he was back. but what if he thought it was weird you got so upset? but he didn’t. he didn’t at all. he held your cheeks in his hands and wiped the tears gently. “ you’re my superstar, i missed you too. “ he leaned forward and kissed your forehead. “ i’m sorry i was gone for so long. i was worried you might get hurt if you came with. maintenance can be scary. “ you leaned into his paws and blinked through your tears. “ i-i know. “ 

you sway softly from side to side, just enjoying listening to the various noises of your apartment. the hum of the heater, the gentle splashes and clinking of jeonghan doing the after dinner dishes, the way he softly sings under his breath to himself to help him through a task. you've picked up the same habit over time, humming or singing as you pick up your things or write emails.

it's getting late. honestly you're not sure why jeonghan is even still here, doing your dishes for you and letting you sit in the living room all bundled up and cozy. you'd almost feel guilty if he hadn't insisted so much, pushing you into your room to get into your pajamas by force. the blanket smells good too, freshly cleaned. you're not sure when you last did laundry, or even if this is your blanket. everything's so fuzzy and warm it's a little hard to think. it doesn't matter, really. as long as you get to stay all warm and bundled up.

your head had just began to drift off to sleep on your living room floor when you hear soft, padding footsteps. "sweetheart?"

you make a vague whine in response.

"hi baby." the warmth in jeonghan's voice seeps into your skin, sending tingles up the back of your skull. "does someone need to go to bed?"

you grumble and pull your blanket tighter around yourself, squishing your eyes even more firmly.

"no, none of that, baby." jeonghan's hands find your shoulders and start to rub slow circles. "if you fall asleep on the floor you'll get all sore, little one. you'll wake up and think about how mean i was to leave you out here, all alone on the cold hard floor! i can't have you turning into a shrimp, now can i?" you giggle, slowly blinking yours eyes as open as they'll go.

"there you are!" jeonghan smiles fondly, eyes crinkling up at the corners. "my big boy, so responsible!" you think about thanking him, but your brain's too tired to make words at the moment. instead, you wriggle a hand out of your nest and touch his cheek. soft.

"hi baby." he repeats. "what do you say we get those teeth brushed?"

you whine.

he shushes gently. "i know, i know. but after that we can get our paci and get all snuggly in bed, doesn't that sound nice?"

you pout, looking up at jeonghan with your roundest puppy-dog eyes, but ultimately being all cozy under the covers with an actual mattress to lay on instead of the hard floor does sound nice. maybe you could even convince him to read you a story.

so, you nod once and wiggle your other hand out of the blanket, reaching up at him.

when he pulls you up and out of your nest you're suddenly hit with just how cold it is. you whine and cling to jeonghan's side for a few steps while he drags you behind him. he sighs lightly and turns back to you.

"you want up?" he holds him arms open. you try to protest, but without access to words it's a little difficult so you just look frantically between the floor and the door to your bathroom that's only about 20 steps away. "hey, hey. it's alright if you don't want to, but i really don't mind. i like taking care of you, little one." he smiles, warm again and you feel all the worry melt out of your body.

you nod a little shyly, letting him hoist you into his arms like nothing. it's almost silly how fast you reach the bathroom, and how soon he's setting back down, sat on the closed toilet lid. he walks back out to the living room and returns with your blanket, wrapping you back up. you watch with heavy eyelids as he picks up your toothbrush, attentively wetting the bristles and squeezing toothpaste on to them.

"here you are, sweetheart." he holds the handle out to you but your body just feels so heavy. you blink up at him slowly, wondering what to do next. a little noise leaves the back of your throat.

"do you need help, baby? i can do that." he coos and kneels down next to you. "say ah!" he presses lightly on the hinge of your jaw with his free hand and you open your mouth. it's a strange sensation, but not unpleasant. he brushes gently in little circles, getting between every tooth. he tells you when to put your teeth together and when to stick out your tongue so he can brush it too.

"that should do it." he nods and stands. your brush is rinsed and you're handed a cup of water before your brain registers anything. you rinse and lean to spit in the sink. he hands you your night-time meds without needing to double check, you've asked him to get them for you while you're busy enough times that he knows them by name. you take them with the rest of the water while jeonghan combs his fingers through your hair. "i'd offer to brush your hair too, but i think that might have to wait until morning." he chuckles softly as your head bobs again.

you feel yourself getting picked back up, fuzzily recalling standing first. after a few steps your placed into bed, cool sheets under you and soft blanket being draped over you. jeonghan runs his hands through your hair. you could swear he's talking but you can't register any meaning from his words. it's just so warm, and nice, and cozy. you feel a kiss be placed on your temple.

you wish you could thank him, for being so kind, for taking such good care of you, but it'll have to wait until the morning.

The crevices and rocky ground of Dada's favorite road warmed you and cooed the pangs and aches in your body. The dips were like being rocked by mother nature.

'thank you mama tree'

crunch! crunch!

Ah, that's the sound of your anxieties melting away. Really it's the gravel getting all crunched up but you know... same difference.

Your Dada was in love with these backroads. Tomorrow, while you down some fruity pebbles, you'll tell him again that they really should get married. They see each other all the time! It made trips take longer but that just meant more time with Stevie.

bop! bop!

The tapping of your head against the window was actually quite gentle. Sometimes, it'd hurt, and that's when you'd whine to Stevie that "ow it hurt!! dada whyyy!!?" To get you to stop, he'd get your favorite fast food (it was the plan all along and Stevie most definitely knew-). This time, Dada was driving super, duper slow so the bumps didn't hurt. They soothed you instead and made you very, very sleepy.

Your legs were tucked close to yourself. You laid curled up like a cat in the cold winter. In better days, you'd find your position annoyingly uncomfortable but you were so eepies- I mean sleepy.

It was kind of like leaves falling from the really tall trees in the rainforest. Sleep didn't come fast but crept up on you.

You enjoyed watching the view go by the window and the mental image of a little superhero doing parkour, racing with Dada's pickup truck. The trees had all sorts of colors and some animals hop, hopped, and peeked out from the bushes.

Everything eventually became grey, then black but you didn't mind. It was so calming, this rest your eyelids have found.

'Oh, they closed? Ooooh that's why the superguy disappeared.'

hmm hm hm hm

m

m

hmm

mm

♡

"Welcome back, Steve-O." Bucky stood at the door frame, hands resting in his jacket pockets.

Steve placed his pointer finger on his lips and tilted his head, indicating that you were asleep.

Bucky firmly nodded and held a gentle smile. 'You're finally asleep! Aww, you deserve it, little dear.'

Your dada traded places with Bucky, leaving to go get himself ready for bed.

Daddy peeked through the windows and found you with your little head against the car door. He walked around to the door opposite of you, and moved very carefully as to not wake you.

Snores filled the air and Bucky had to hold back a giggle. He thought it was so freaking cute, don't worry!

"Come here, little one." He whispered and securely held you up against his chest. Warm and snug.

Your daddy walked into your bedroom, where Steve had been waiting and prepared your bed for you.

"Here you are, darling." Daddy laid you down.

Buck and Stevie kissed the top of your head and tucked you in.

"Goodnight, sunflower."

“Pssst, kiddo.”

The words make it through your sleepy head but aren’t enough to pull you into full awareness. You can feel something soft under your fingers: the familiar texture of your favourite stuffed animal, held against your chest. Your body is twisted into a bit of an uncomfortable shape, but you’re so warm and cozy that you don’t feel like moving.

“They’re definitely asleep,” says a familiar voice. You can hear the smile in their voice and it makes you happy, even drifting between sleep and consciousness.

“We should bring them to bed,” whispers a voice from the other side of you.

“Look at them, though,” the first voice says, and there’s a gentle hand touching the top of your head, just barely felt through your hair. “They’re proper conked out.”

“I’ll carry them,” the other replies. “C’mon, we won’t disturb them.”

Their voices have woken you up properly, but you keep your eyes closed and your breathing even. You want to know how they’re going to handle this. You recognize the voices as Fred and George: the memories of the evening are blurry, but you were having regression time with the two of them. You remember about half of a fairy tale, read by George with extra dramatic voices from Fred. You must have fallen asleep partway through.

“Alright, let me help.”

There was a muttered charm and you could feel your body get lighter, the strange part-weightlessness that came with a levitation charm. You had thought you had been leaning against the couch, but as it started to move behind you, you realized that it was one of the twins. He wrapped his arms around you, picking you up without any effort now that the levitation charm was helping.

The other twin laughed quietly, and you could feel a hand fixing your hair.

“Little tyke,” he whispered, fond. “Let’s head up to bed.” That was Fred, then, and George was the one carrying you. Only Fred used that nickname for you.

You let yourself rest, somewhere between floating and being carried, doing your best to pretend to be asleep as George carried you upstairs. You could hear Fred on the stairs behind you, close enough to maintain the charm.

Your stuffed animal almost fell to the side, and you forced yourself not to grab it. Thankfully, Fred darted forwards and resettled it onto your chest.

“Thanks,” George whispered, bumping his shoulder into his twin and jostling you slightly.

“Oi, careful,” Fred said, moving out of range. “You’ll wake them.”

“I won’t!”

“Shhhh!”

You heard George scoff, and then there was the creak of a door and George crossed a room, lying you down on a soft bed. You let your limbs settle where you were dropped, unable to stop the smile on your face as you felt the pillow beneath your head.

A hand on your forehead, and one of them pulled the blankets up and over you, enveloping you in soft warmth.

“Sleep well,” one of the twins whispered, retreating towards the doorway.

The other one leaned over the bed, you could feel his weight pushing the mattress down as he leaned down to press a kiss to your forehead where your hair had been smoothed back.

“Sweet dreams, kiddo,” George whispered. “You’re very cute when you pretend to sleep.”

He was walking away from the bed before you could process his words, but you grinned as the door closed, rolling over to scoop your stuffed animal into a more comfortable position. Of course the twins had known.

Still, they had carried you gently, with whispers and careful hands. Settled you into bed, sure to keep your stuffed animal in your arms.

You squeezed that stuffed animal, rubbing your cheek against its fur.

You loved them so much. They were so good to you.