Jack doesn’t wince, but it’s a near thing. He inclines his head, a small acknowledgement, then waits for Bucky to continue.

The only sound is Bucky’s metal fingers tapping lightly on the wall behind him, a strange mix of patterns. Jack picks out some morse code, American Sign Language, the tune of a couple of those old 40s songs Rogers used to hum unconsciously, and the rapid tap of Bucky’s trigger finger firing on reflex.

“What can I do for you?” Jack says finally, and Bucky’s gaze snaps up from where it had drifted to the floor, wide eyes blinking rapidly at Jack before his head ducks again, eyes fixed on his shoes.

“I… I just need…” Bucky starts, arms coming up to curl around himself. “I just want to…” He exhales shakily, forces himself to meet Jack’s eyes, if only for a few seconds. “Please don’t make me ask for it.”

Jack pushes his chair back from the table, suddenly grateful for the lack of restraints (he’d come voluntarily, so they hadn’t be necessary), and places his hand on his knee, palm out towards Bucky.

Bucky is across the room and on his knees nuzzling into Jack’s hand so fast that Jack can barely register the movement, and Jack lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, brings his other hand up to stroke through Bucky’s hair. Bucky whines softly, burying his face in Jack’s knee, and for a moment it almost feels like before, like nothing’s changed.

It takes a few minutes before Bucky raises his flesh hand, runs his fingertips across the ring on Jack’s hand. “He’s alive, you know,” Bucky says quietly. “Still in ICU, but alive.”

Jack nods. “Yeah, I know. Waited until I could confirm that before I came here. Had to know.”

There’s a long pause, and Jack almost misses Bucky’s words. “He scares me.”

“I’d be surprised if he didn’t.” “You don’t though. I trust you. You’re safe.”

Jack shakes his head. “I’m not. I hurt you too.”

Bucky makes a noise, shakes his head. “No. You helped me. You didn’t do what he did. It wasn’t the same.”

Jack grabs his chin, forces Bucky to meet his eyes, ignores the way Bucky gasps, eyes wide with fear. “It was the same. I enjoyed it. It doesn’t matter what I did after.”

Bucky swallows hard, squeezing his eyes shut. “I love you.” His voice wavers, words barely above a whisper.

Jack smiles. It’s not right for him to say it back. He doesn’t care. “I love you too.”

The door bursts open, and they both look up to see Steve stomp into the room, Natasha slipping in beside him.

“Natasha has questions for you,” Steve says to Jack, staring right through him, “Buck, I need to talk to you.”

Bucky nods, metal arm tapping three times at the side of Jack’s leg, out of Steve’s sight. It’s an old code, one that Jack and Brock had taught to Bucky, to Winter, a simple message for when they couldn’t say it out loud around other people: ‘I love you.’ Jack gently scratches Bucky’s scalp three times, repeating the message back, and Bucky stands, follows Steve out of the room.

Natasha smiles at Jack, nothing friendly about it, as she settles into the chair across the table from him. “This won’t take long.”

Pains as the pup kicks and shifts inside him are nothing new, but the pup is getting bigger, stronger, and it hurts more when it kicks inside him, and he winces, but doesn’t whine. Good dogs don’t whine. He must tense though, or maybe it just shows on his face and his new handler is observant.

“Come up here, Buck, it’ll be more comfortable,” Steve urges, but Winter stays at his handler’s feet. No. He knows this is a test, that he’s being humiliated and tested because he’s shown weakness. That’s nothing new. That’s what happens with all of his handlers. They have to test him and his resolve to behave, to comply with orders.

Steve sliding off the couch behind him is new. The confused murmur of his handler’s teammates only adds to Winter’s confidence that this is unusual behavior for a handler. Steve gently taps Winter’s side, coaxing him to sit up so Steve can settle in, sliding Winter back into his lap. Steve rubs at his tummy, and Winter makes a soft noise, barely audible to a supersoldier and inaudible to anyone else, and Steve hums.

“Feel good?” He asks, and Winter hesitates slightly before nodding, wondering if Steve will stop because it feels good, or if Steve will punish him for hesitating to answer.

“Good,” Steve says instead, rubs and presses gently on Winter’s belly, and Winter leans back against him for a second before he realizes what he’s doing, immediately straightening again.

“Have him lay down on his back, it’ll help,” Clint says, and Steve looks up, gives him a quizzical look, Winter watching curiously as Clint shrugs.

“Knew some pregnant women at the apartment building I was in before I moved here. It helps, takes the strain off the shoulders and back.”

“Did you even look at what your master got you?” Jack asks, and Winter shakes his head, watches Jack hold the object up. it’s a small rubber disc, painted with a red and blue stripes and a star. Winter looks at the star curiously, then glances toward the star on his arm.

“That’s right, good boy,” Jack praises, ruffling Winter’s hair, and he barks, sits back to look at the toy expectantly.

Jack tosses it down the hall, but Winter stays facing Jack, well trained by now. A long pause, Winter wiggling with anticipation, before Jack finally gives in.

“Okay, fetch,” he says, and Winter bolts down the hall, brings the toy back just as Brock sits down beside Jack.

Winter jumps up, jerking his head to the side to toss the toy at Jack before plopping himself in Brock’s lap, licking Brock’s face.

“Gross,” Brock groans as Winter barks and yips at him, slobbering all over Brock’s cheek and ear. “How come he only does this to me? Why doesn’t he slobber on you?”

“Because he knows I’d beat him senseless if he did it to me,” Jack says calmly, and Winter whimpers softly, curls slightly closer to Brock.

“Point taken,” Brock concedes, pulling Winter back by the hair. “Win, if you can settle down for just a few minutes, I’ll give you a treat.”

Winter perks up at that and stops his attack on Brock’s face, slipping off the couch to lay with his head on Brock’s feet and his hip against Jack’s feet.

“Thank fuck,” Brock says, and Jack laughs.

“C’mon, let’s get the business talk out of the way so the pup can have his treats.”

Tony enters the room with the intention of fighting Thor, but then Peter spots him, face lighting up with excitement.

“Tony! Hey!” Peter says, words slurring a little as he stumbles to his feet, Tony lunging forward to catch him before he falls. “Did you know I can’t really get drunk ‘cause of the spider DNA? But Mr. Thor has this really strong stuff from his world! Isn’t that cool?”

“Yep, really cool,” Tony says, looking around Peter’s head to glare at Thor, who, for his part, has the sense to swallow hard, a look of panic on his face. Clint, who had been singing so passionately minutes ago, is nowhere to be found.

“Stark, I didn’t realize he was not supposed to get drunk,” Thor says, fidgeting when Tony continues to glare at him.

“Uh huh. Pete, we’re gonna get you to bed, okay?”

Peter nods, face buried in Tony’s shoulder. “Sure, okay.”

Tony scoops Peter up in his arms, carrying him to their bed.

“Okay, here we are, darling. I’m gonna go get you some water.” Tony pulls back the covers, settling Peter under them and turning to leave, only for Peter to grab his wrist.

“No, Tony, don’t go,” Peter whines, “I love you.”

“I love you too, but trust me, you’re going to want some water to help prevent a hangover.” Tony tries to pull his wrist out of Peter’s grip.

“Don’t care, don’t want you to leave,” Peter says, and Tony sighs.

“Alright, then move over, I’m not sleeping on the floor.”

Peter scooches over in bed, dragging Tony with him.

Tony groans, moves as best as he can with his wrist still in Peter’s grasp. “Jesus, Pete, I’m not going anywhere, and I am definitely too old for this.”

“No you’re not,” Peter mumbles, “You’re perfect. Love you, Tony.”

“JARVIS, turn down the music please?” Peter asks, and the volume lowers, music fading into the background.

Tony’s head pops up from under one of the cars, looking around and frowning. “JARVIS, what did you do that for– oh, Peter, hey.”

Tony stands, wiping his oil and grease covered hands on his pants as he walks over. “What’s up, baby?”

“You haven’t been coming to bed, what’s wrong?” Peter asks, and Tony tilts his head to the side.

“It’s only been a day or two–”

“It’s been four days, sir,” JARVIS interrupts, and Tony pauses.

“Oh. Well, I’ve just been really busy, and–”

“You’ve been having nightmares again,” Peter guesses, taking in the dark circles around Tony’s eyes, the way his hands are shaking and his eyes keep fluttering shut every few seconds.

“What? No, I’m fine, nothing to worry about.”

Peter takes Tony’s hands in his own, gently pulls Tony toward the door. “Come to bed.”

“But I don’t want to keep you awake,” Tony protests.

Peter stops, meets Tony’s eyes. “I can’t sleep when you aren’t there, Tony. I need you. Please, come to bed.”

There’s a moment where Peter thinks Tony’s going to argue, but Tony just sighs, head dropping slightly. “Yeah, okay. Sure. JARVIS, lock up after us?”

“Of course, sir.”

They go to bed, Peter snuggling up against Tony until Tony finally wraps his arms around Peter, falling asleep like that. Tony wakes up halfway through the night with nightmares, and Peter flips them around so he can hold Tony instead, whispering reassurances between kisses pressed to Tony’s neck and collarbone.