#tiny trouble

You were fluttering peacefully through the trees near the outskirts of New York when a group of shouting humans in dark armor leapt out from behind a bush and trapped you in what they called a “containment unit.” You didn’t know what SHIELD was, but their agents were very loud and very rough, and they didn’t even ask your name.

You sat cross-legged at the bottom of the jar, wings tucked in, arms folded across your chest, trying your best to look unimpressed.

And then he walked in. Tall, golden-haired, broad-shouldered, a man who practically radiated kindness and confusion in equal measure. Steve Rogers.

He approached the table with another man behind him, darker, quieter, haunted-eyed but alert watching everything. Bucky Barnes.

“I thought you said there was an artifact,” Steve said slowly, looking at the jar.

“It is,” The agent replied. “It talks.”

You gave the man your most dramatic eye roll.

Steve crouched beside the table, eyes soft, voice careful. “Hi there. What’s your name?”

You turned your head away and said nothing.

Bucky stepped closer, narrowing his eyes. “Do fairies sulk?”

You didn’t like his tone not cruel, just skeptical. So you stuck your tongue out at him and turned invisible.

Bucky jumped slightly. “Okay. That answers that.”

“Hey, hey,” Steve murmured, holding his hands up gently. “We’re not gonna hurt you, promise. You just surprised everyone, that’s all. Didn’t mean to scare you.”

Still, you said nothing.

It wasn’t until someone walked by with a coffee and a chocolate chip cookie that you broke your silence. You reappeared instantly, pressed against the glass, eyes wide.

Steve blinked, then laughed softly. “You want one of those?”

You nodded furiously.

Five minutes later, the jar was opened and you bolted straight onto Steve’s shoulder, snatched the cookie chunk he offered, and curled into the crook of his neck like you’d always lived there.

You stayed close after that. Not that they had much of a choice.

You built a tiny hammock out of tissues on their bookshelf. Braided thread into their laces. Tried to “fix” Bucky’s grumpy face with flower petals and got scolded, very softly, for it. You called Steve “Tree” because he was tall and smelled like sap. You called Bucky “Shadow” because he followed you around pretending he wasn’t trying to protect you.

You refused to be studied, refused to go back in any jars, and made it very clear you’d chosen your new home: right between two super soldiers who didn’t know how much they needed something as strange and sweet as you.

Sometimes, you’d land on Bucky’s shoulder when he couldn’t sleep, singing soft, wordless melodies that reminded him of something in the past. Sometimes, you’d perch on Steve’s chest as he read, snuggled into the fabric of his henley like a kitten with wings.

You were tiny, fragile, ridiculous, and completely, utterly theirs.

Even if you still left cookie crumbs everywhere.

-

Steve and Bucky discovered quickly how particular fairies could be. Or maybe it was just you.

See, they realized you were much more stubborn than they had anticipated which caused another one of your sulking moods. It started because you weren’t allowed to use the microwave. Which, in your defense, made no sense.

You weren’t trying to start another fire, that was an accident. And yes, maybe the leftover spaghetti had exploded the last time, but how were you supposed to know that foil was banned? You’d never had a microwave before. You grew up in moss and tree hollows and warm sunlight. Your diet was dew, nectar, and whatever you could barter from passing squirrels.

Now, you wanted popcorn, but Bucky had said no. He had looked down at you with his arms crossed and that stupid I care about you and you’re being ridiculous face, stating, “You almost fried the tower’s circuits last time. Find something from the fruit bowl if you’re hungry.”

You responded with the most dramatic gasp you could manage and fluttered up to the top of the cabinets, crossing your arms with a huff.

Steve tried to step in, intervening gently. “He’s not trying to upset you. He just doesn’t want you to get hurt.”

You didn’t answer. You turned your back with your wings flaring slightly in righteous fairy fury, you refused to acknowledge either of them. Not even when Steve sighed and offered you a piece of shortbread. Not even when Bucky muttered something like “She’s sulking again, isn’t she?”

You remained a furious little sparkle, curled into a puffball of wings and pouting.

Hours passed. You still refused to come down.

They tried tempting you with cookies, with your favorite mug of rose petal tea, with one of Steve’s socks (which you always stole to use as a blanket).

Nothing. You were mad. And fairies, though small, are very good at holding grudges.

By the time night fell, you were still wedged behind a cereal box, curled into a mopey heap. And then… you heard a sound. Thump. It was a soft knock on the cabinet.

You peeked over the edge to find Bucky standing there, holding a tiny plate.

“I made popcorn. Not with the microwave. Just the pan.”

You stared at him.

“I didn’t put salt on it. Figured you’d want to do that yourself.”

He set the plate down gently on the counter, then leaned against it, arms folded.

“…You gonna stay up there forever?” He asked after a pause, tone mild.

You turned invisible.

He smirked. “Cute.”

Moments later, you reappeared beside the popcorn and began nibbling, still silent, still frowning.

Steve walked in just then and paused. “Is that a peace offering or a trap?”

“I’m not sure yet,” Bucky replied.

You muttered something under your breath.

Steve blinked. “Did she just call you a ‘grumpy tin soldier’?”

“I think so,” Bucky said, raising an eyebrow.

You stuffed a piece of popcorn in your mouth and glared at them both, cheeks puffed out like a hamster.

Steve crouched beside the counter, eyes warm. “Hey, no one’s mad at you, sweetheart. We just don’t want you getting hurt.”

You looked away before mumbling, “I wanted to make it myself.”

And that was the truth of it. You wanted to prove you could. That you weren’t just tiny and delicate and fluttery. That you could be useful, capable. That you weren’t always the one needing help.

Bucky leaned closer, voice quieter now. “Next time… I’ll show you how.”

You peeked up at him, suspicious.

“You can hold the lid,” He said, tone serious. “That’s an important job.”

“…Fine,” You muttered.

Steve smiled gently, brushing your wing with one careful finger. “We’re proud of you, y’know.”

You huffed, still pretending you weren’t moved before climbing into Bucky’s hand, wings drooping slightly from exhaustion and popcorn forgotten. You curled into his palm with a sigh, tiny fingers gripping the edge of his sleeve.

Tony tried, for about five minutes. He offered you a nanobot containment suit that looked like a miniature Iron Man armor. You stared at it, picked it up, and immediately used it as a bowl to hold berries.

Clint once tried to feed you a gummy worm. You were offended he gellied a worm, threw it back at his face, and disappeared in a sparkle.

Natasha never tried. She just nodded at you once, quietly, like she saw you in the way only someone used to silence really could. You nodded back. A silent truce.

But it was Steve and Bucky who brought you into their strange human world piece by piece.

Steve started with books.

Children’s stories at first, Grimm’s fairy tales (which you found rude), then picture books, then little poems he read aloud to you in the warm morning sun. You’d perch on the windowsill, legs swinging, wings drowsy and half-spread out, as he explained what a “library” was. You didn’t say much, just blinked slowly, then nodded once.

Then came buttons.

You were obsessed with them, often hoarding them after being given some as rewards for your lessons with Steve. The man would sit you on the table and give you different things one at a time. Sometimes it was light switches, other times old radio dials or clicky pens, and he would explain each time what they did.

“Elevator,” Steve said once, pointing to the big silver doors. “You press that button, and it takes you to another floor.”

You looked at him then at the button before pressing it. When the doors opened, you flew inside and hovered in the corner like a suspicious bee.

He didn’t laugh. Just waited.

You ended up going up four floors by yourself and refused to speak for two hours afterward.

Bucky, on the other hand, was… different.

He saw your silences as permission. Permission to teach you everything you weren’t supposed to know.

“Okay,” He whispered one evening, crouched beside the kitchen island like he was about to spill government secrets. “This is a prank. It’s not bad. It’s mischief. And Sam deserves it.”

You blinked slowly, sitting on his shoulder.

He held up a spoon and nodded toward the sugar bowl.

“Swapped with salt. Classic.”

You didn’t say anything, but when he looked away, you fluttered over and swapped every single label in the spice rack.

Bucky stared, then smirked. “Okay. Overachiever.”

From then on, it became a game.

You’d turn invisible and move Sam’s phone two inches to the left every day until he questioned reality.

You filled Peter’s web-shooter with glitter. You unzipped Tony’s backpack halfway so it spilled post-its everywhere. No one ever suspected you except maybe Nat, who watched you a little too knowingly.

You never laughed out loud. But sometimes, when no one was looking, your wings would pulse in little ripples like soft, silent giggles.

And sometimes Bucky caught you smirking behind your hand.

You didn’t talk much. But you listened.

You remembered that Steve said “please” and “thank you” even to vending machines. That Bucky never let anyone touch his dog tags but didn’t mind when you rested on them. That Sam talked too loudly but always smelled like clean laundry and summer air. That Wanda could feel emotions like a river and once gifted you a leaf shaped like a heart.

You never spoke of it, but sometimes you left little gifts.

A petal in Natasha’s drawer.

A marble in Peter’s hoodie.

A single, silver button beside Steve’s bed.

You were quiet, mysterious, and easily mistaken for decoration sometimes. But the tower shifted around you, softened. They grew used to the way coffee mugs were suddenly left out around the place or how the microwave would beep and no one was there.

Well, one cookie after the cupcake Bucky had snuck you under the table. And after the bowl of marshmallows you’d discovered in the pantry (leftover from some forgotten movie night, probably). And maybe after the hot cocoa, which had far too much whipped cream and was definitely not your first of the day.

The sugar hit you hard, and you were having a great time.

Bucky had laughed when you tried to race him through the hallway, wings fluttering in a blur. He didn’t even flinch when you bumped into the side of the couch mid-loop and spun yourself in a dizzy little circle before face-planting into a throw pillow. He’d just snorted and said something like, “Lightweight,” before tossing you a chocolate coin as a reward for effort.

But Steve? Steve saw the crash coming.

You could feel his Captain Voice creeping in even before he said anything. It was there in the way he folded his arms, in the furrow of his brow, in that subtle shift from Steve to Responsible Steve™. You were curled up on the kitchen counter, eating mini marshmallows out of the bag with both hands like a squirrel when he finally stepped in.

“That’s enough,” He said firmly, plucking the bag from your grip.

You blinked up at him slowly. Your hands still hovered midair, fingers sugar-dusted and betrayed.

“No more sugar for a week,” Steve added, like it was a reasonable sentence. Like he hadn’t just crushed your spirit under the weight of a thousand uneaten cookies.

You stared at him blank and hollow, the very essence of betrayal incarnate.

And then, still holding that expression, you slowly, very slowly, faded from view.

Steve sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “Oh, come on.”

But you were already gone. Or at least, invisible enough to make a point.

You didn’t reappear once. There wasn’t even a shimmer or a puff of fairy dust. Just a thick, judgmental silence in the air as Steve sighed and went about tidying the kitchen like he hadn’t just committed a crime against your entire being.

The cabinet door closed. Then it opened again.

He blinked.

The bag of marshmallows he'd pushed to the back suddenly floated off the shelf and thunked onto the floor like it had tripped on purpose. He raised a brow.

“You can’t sneak sugar when you’re invisible either,” Steve warned calmly.

The bag shuffled across the floor anyway, then stopped, then shuffled again just to make a point. You didn’t respond with words or sound. Just movement: the slow, sulky drag of sugarless defiance.

He sighed heavily and took the bag from the ground, placing it securely into a locked cabinet.

When he moved to the living room, you followed. The remote on the coffee table turned the TV off the moment he sat down. A little puff of cool air ghosted against his neck, and he frowned, glancing behind him with a soft, "…Hello?"

Nothing.

You’d made yourself presence-only. A haunting with a mission. And your mission? Maximum petty protest.

By noon, Steve had stepped on two glittery socks that mysteriously ended up on the stairs, nearly spilled his water twice when you nudged his elbow at just the right moment, and spent ten whole minutes searching for his phone before finally giving up. It was on the ceiling, taped there upside-down like it belonged.

He was clearly trying to stay patient.

But when you rearranged all the throw pillows to spell “S-U-G-A-R” and one of them literally floated past his head mid-conversation with Bucky, he finally groaned, dragged his hand down his face, and muttered, “I am too old for this.”

You, in response, poked his ear. Just once.

It made him flinch.

“I know you’re pouting.”

The only answer was a puff of air that blew out the candle on the table.

Bucky, on the other hand, was no help. He just smirked and leaned on the counter, watching Steve try to bargain with the invisible force of chaos you’d become.

“You really gonna let her starve like that?” Bucky teased.

“I said no sugar, not no food. She had fruit at lunch,” Steve grumbled, rubbing his temple.

“You’re lucky she hasn’t hexed your shoes to melt.”

He checked his boots.

You hadn’t. Yet. But the day wasn’t over. Not even close.

You didn’t reappear at lunch, after training, or even when Bucky casually tossed a blueberry your way, and it vanished mid-air like the world's slowest magic trick. He blinked, then sighed. “Still on strike, huh?”

Steve keeps pretending not to notice. Keeps walking right past the floating pens and ignores the sticky notes you rearranged to spell “Mean” on his clipboard. He keeps acting like the creak of the cabinet late at night is just the air conditioning and not you trying to sniff out another bag of marshmallows.

But you’re still committed. Fully invisible, fully pouty. You poke his side every time he sits down with a snack that you could be sharing. You even rearranged his bookshelf alphabetically just to confuse him because he had it by height.

He gives you one last warning glance during dinner after you sneak a spoonful of mashed potatoes and clank the spoon onto his plate.

“You done?” He asks the empty air.

You float a fork into your hand, twirl it in a slow, dramatic circle, and then dramatically stab a green bean.

He exhales, closes his eyes, and mutters, “I said one week.”

Later that night, he finds his socks stacked into the shape of a frowning face on the dresser.

Still invisible, you hover nearby, watching him fold laundry like you aren’t right there sulking like a ghost with a vendetta. It’s not even about the sugar anymore, it’s the principle.

You’ve been good that week too. You’ve only caused minor emotional damage.

And then, finally… he cracks.

You flutter into the kitchen to find sticky note on the counter in Steve’s handwriting.

You can have one more cookie.

Just that.

You stare at it. And slowly… slowly… reappear.

He doesn’t even look up from his book on the couch, just flips the page and says, “Took you long enough.”

You don’t say a word, but he hears the rustle of the snack bag you pull from the pantry. The slow, deliberate crunch of victory. You plop down beside him on the couch, not speaking or necessarily apologizing, but you do offer him one of your treats as a silent truce.

He takes it, bites into it, and murmurs, “We’re back to fruit tomorrow.”

You slide a pillow over your face and groan. But you’re visible again and the house doesn’t feel haunted anymore.

You just watched. Observed.

He dropped his shield near the couch with a soft clatter. He was still in the dark navy suit, but it was torn in places. There was a long gash across the side and bruises blooming along his jaw. His shoulders were slumped in that way they only were when something had gone wrong. Not physically wrong, emotionally wrong.

He sighed as he lowered himself to the couch, hand pressed against his side. You saw red, dull and drying, on his gloves. You fluttered down silently, your wings barely whispering in the dim light.

He didn’t notice you right away. He had his eyes closed, breathing through the pain and focusing inward, as humans often did when they didn’t want to feel anything at all.

You stood on the coffee table in front of him, arms folded, brow creased. You didn’t like this. He was your Tree. And trees weren’t supposed to fall.

You disappeared for a moment, darting across the shelves, climbing inside the drawer where you kept your special collection. By the time you returned, Steve had opened his eyes.

He didn’t say anything though. He didn’t need to. Because there you were, wings fluttering tiredly, arms full of your treasures for him.

You placed a smooth, round stone beside his knee. The one you’d kept for three seasons because it felt like sunshine when you touched it. You set down your best leaf, soft and silvery on one side. Good for calming dreams. You also had a tiny pot they had given to you before, filled halfway with real honey. The kind you only used for injuries. You unscrewed the top with some effort and nudged it toward his hand.

Then finally… your favorite button.

It was a pale blue one, the color of the sky on warm days. You’d once told Bucky it was “lucky” with a proud little tap and a wide grin. It had always stayed in your drawer, wrapped in a bit of thread like a tiny treasure.

Now it sat beside Steve, on the curve of his palm. His fingers closed around it slowly.

“Is this for me?” He asked, voice rough and tired.

You nodded then sat cross-legged on his knee, your glow dim but steady. You didn’t speak much. You didn’t need to. Your wings brushed his arm gently, a small touch acting as a reminder that you were here, that he wasn’t alone.

Steve exhaled softly and leaned his head back against the couch, hand still curled around the button, the honey pot beside him.

“…Thank you,” He whispered.

You didn’t answer, but you stayed. And your silent company said the rest.

The sun hadn’t risen yet when Bucky pushed open the door.

The team was back, the worst was over, and he’d spent the last few hours finishing debriefs, patching his own wounds, and pacing. He hadn’t seen Steve since the quinjet landed.

So when he opened the door, he froze in the doorway.

Steve was half-asleep on the couch, sprawled awkwardly with one hand clutched loosely over his ribs and the other cupped around a single, small, pale blue button.

His eyes flickered open at the sound. “Hey.”

“You look like hell,” Bucky said, walking in, voice softer than his words.

Steve cracked a tired smile. “Felt worse.”

That’s when Bucky spotted you curled on Steve’s shoulder like a fallen petal, wings tucked tightly around yourself, and your arms holding a bit of thread that had come loose from your pouch. Your cheek was pressed to the fabric of his torn uniform, your tiny form rising and falling with his every breath.

Bucky stopped in his tracks.

There was a leaf on the armrest, a smooth stone by Steve’s knee, and a small pot of honey with the lid off, just barely untouched. And that button… your button.

Bucky knew that one. You’d once protected it from the vacuum like it was sacred. He had joked about it being your “dragon hoard,” and you had hissed at him like an angry kitten, then patted the button gently and flown off in a huff. You’d even growled at Sam once for trying to borrow it.

He stepped closer, crouching beside the couch, eyes flicking between the little offerings and the soft expression on Steve’s face.

“She left them for me,” Steve murmured. “Didn’t say anything. Just… stayed.”

Bucky stared at you for a long moment as his features softened. He reached out, and with one gloved finger, gently fixed the corner of the blanket that had fallen from Steve’s chest, then carefully draped a second piece over your tiny form, shielding you from the draft.

“She always knows,” He muttered, more to himself than Steve.

Steve let out a breath. “She gave me the button.”

Bucky blinked. “The button?”

Steve nodded, voice quiet. “Think I was supposed to hold it till I felt better.”

Bucky huffed, half-sigh, half-laugh. “She gave me a sunflower petal when I had a panic attack last month.”

“She didn’t say much, but… it worked,” Steve said, looking down at you again. “I feel better.”

Bucky’s gaze lingered on you curled up. You were so still, wings trembling slightly in your sleep. “You think she knows we’d burn the world down for her?”

Steve chuckled weakly. “She probably does.”

They both sat in silence for a while, watching the way your wings fluttered in your dreams. Then Bucky, very gently, reached into his pocket. He pulled out a dried dandelion puff, impossibly intact, and set it beside the button in Steve’s palm.

“She gave me this,” He spoke softly. “When you went dark on a mission last month. Said it was for… wishing.”

Steve looked at him.

“You keep it,” Bucky added. “Until she asks for it back.”

Steve nodded. His fingers curled around the puff and the button, chest rising with something deep and quiet. You shifted, still asleep, and leaned closer into the warmth of Steve’s neck.

Bucky turned to go fetch the Medkit before pausing at the door.

“Get some rest, Stevie,” He said over his shoulder. “She’s got you.”

Steve looked down at the little fairy asleep against his collarbone, then back at Bucky.

“So do you.”

Bucky didn’t say anything, just dipped his head in a small nod before slipping into the hallway, the door shutting quietly behind him.

Steve leaned back, hand still cradling the button and the wish, and let his eyes fall closed again. This time, he slept without pain because you were there.

✿ Tiny Winged Trouble - When SHIELD accidentally captures you, a fairy, in a jar, Steve and Bucky are tasked with figuring out what you are. You refuse to speak at first, until Steve gives you a cookie. Now they’re stuck with a clingy, stubborn fairy who calls them “Tree” and “Shadow.”

✿ Tiny Wings, Gentle Things - Steve gently teaches you human things like books, buttons, and manners, while Bucky encourages mischief, showing you how to pull harmless pranks around the tower.

❦ Tiny Caretaker - Steve returns from a mission injured and emotionally drained. You wordlessly comfort him using small, nature-based gifts.

✿ Tiny Cravings - After one life-changing bite of chocolate pudding, you becomes adorably obsessed, sneaking midnight spoonfuls and fiercely guarding your dessert like a dragon with treasure.

✿ Tiny Bedtime - You were determined not to sleep, even as your wings drooped and your yawns gave you away, until Steve gently scooped you up and tucked you into your moss nest with quiet care.

✿ Tiny Grudge - After Steve bans you from sugar for a week, you dramatically fade into invisibility and spend the day sulking, poking at him, and passive-aggressively moving things around.

✿ Tiny Tummy Ache [Part 2] - Bucky introduces you to a wide variety of sweets, thrilled by how happy it makes you, until you overdo it and spiral into a dramatic panic, convinced you’ve been poisoned.

But the sunbeam coming through the kitchen window is perfect: golden and warm, with just the right glow to stretch your wings and nap. So there you are, legs dangling off the edge of the ceramic fruit bowl, watching with sleepy disinterest as Sam Wilson rummages through the fridge.

He hums to himself as he opens a plastic cup and peels the lid with one smooth motion. The scent hits you instantly. Something sweet, creamy, and rich. You sit up just slightly, like a woodland creature catching wind of something suspiciously delicious.

Sam notices.

“Oh ho. What’s this?” He grins. “Got your attention, huh?”

You blink at him.

He walks over slowly, spoon in hand. “Come on. Don’t look at me like that. You’ll love this stuff. It’s chocolate pudding.”

You frown. Pudding? The name itself sounds suspicious, mysterious. Not to mention it looks wobbly. You’ve eaten clover honey and flower sap, licked dew off spider silk, even nibbled the crust of Steve’s toast once (that was… disappointing). But this?

You cross your arms.

Sam leans the spoon a little closer. “Just a taste. You don’t even have to like it. I’ll still respect you as a deadly little creature of vengeance and glitter.”

You tilt your head, narrowing your eyes.

Then, cautiously, you lean forward. You wrinkle your nose, it smells sweet, but also foreign. Like magic made in a lab. Not natural. Not woodland.

Sam holds the spoon steadier. “Go on. One bite. I promise, if you hate it, I’ll never offer it again.”

You glance left, then right.

Then, finally, you reach out with both arms toward the spoon. You don’t bite at first, just taste. A little lick.

Your wings twitch.

You blink.

You lick again.

And again.

Sam says nothing as your tiny hands suddenly grab the spoon and cling to it like a vine. You make a tiny squeak, your wings fluttering like a hummingbird’s.

Sam stifles a laugh. “Yep. That’s the face of someone who’s found religion.”

You don’t speak. But the way you curl your whole body around the spoon and growl when he tries to reclaim it?

That says everything.

Dinner at the tower is always loud.

There’s laughter, clinking silverware, Tony making at least one questionable comment per minute, and Clint telling a story that definitely didn’t happen. You usually stay tucked in your little woven hammock on the center table, occasionally nibbling a blueberry or sipping tea from an acorn-cup.

But tonight? Tonight you are on a mission.

You hover above the table, arms crossed, eyes locked on Steve Rogers like a hawk watching prey. He doesn’t notice you at first, too busy listening to Sam and Natasha argue about some training exercise.

But you wait. You bide your time.

And then… dessert arrives.

A tray of pudding cups is brought out, chocolate, perfect, and glistening under the lights. You feel a little shiver down your spine just looking at them.

Sam glances over and raises an eyebrow. You point at him, then at the pudding. This is your fault.

He grins and takes a seat. “Good luck, Cap. She’s hooked.”

Steve peels the lid off his pudding cup and sets it beside his plate. You inch closer.

You don’t speak, but your eyes are screaming: “Give. Me. That.”

Steve finally notices you. “Hey, sweetheart,” He greets gently. “You okay?”

You point to the cup. Then to yourself.

He blinks, confused. “You want… mine?”

You nod. Firmly.

He looks down at the spoon. “I mean… I can get you your own?”

You shake your head. You don’t want just any pudding. You want his pudding. The one you’ve already emotionally attached yourself to.

Bucky chuckles from across the table. “You’re being challenged, Steve. Don’t lose to a creature that sleeps in a sock drawer.”

You shoot Bucky a look. A lethal look.

Steve, thoroughly amused, scoops out a single, perfect spoonful and lifts it toward you. “Is this what you want?”

You land delicately on the edge of the spoon like a queen settling into her throne.

The first bite is pure magic. The second is better. By the third, you’re hugging the spoon with both arms, eyes half-lidded in bliss, legs dangling like a sleepy sugar-drunk bat.

Steve glances at Bucky, then back at you. “Should we be worried?”

“She’s small,” Bucky mutters. “One more bite and she’s gonna vibrate through the ceiling.”

You finish your fourth bite, wipe your mouth with a tiny piece of napkin, and sit very still, glowing faintly from sugar joy.

Ten minutes later, you’re asleep on the rim of the pudding cup, arms wrapped around a chocolate smear, purring softly.

Steve places a hand nearby so you don’t roll off. “We need to get her her own stash.”

Bucky’s already writing your name on the next pudding cup with a marker.

“Already ahead of you.”

It’s just past 2:00 a.m.

The tower is quiet, lights dimmed, the only sounds a gentle hum from the vents and the low purr of machinery somewhere in Tony’s labs. Almost everyone is asleep.

Except you.

You stand at the edge of the kitchen counter, staring down at your target: The Fridge.

Your wings flutter with purpose. You’ve done the math. Sam goes to bed by midnight. Steve’s been asleep since ten. Bucky… well. You think he’s asleep. He might be sharpening knives somewhere, but you’ve risked worse for less.

You loop a piece of string–tied to the fridge handle just for you–around your waist like a makeshift climbing rope and pull.

The door creaks open with the slow drama of a temple revealing its treasure.

Cool air spills out and you zip inside.

Everything is oversized. Leftover chicken in foil. An ominous container labeled “Bruce, do not touch.” But then you spot it in the back of the second shelf.

A chocolate pudding cup. The label says your name in Steve’s careful blocky handwriting. It’s yours. It belongs to you.

You tackle it with both arms, wrestling it free. You manage to drag it out of the fridge and onto the counter top. You’re working on peeling back the lid, teeth bared and wings buzzing when you hear the voice.

“…Seriously?”

You freeze. You turn slowly.

Bucky stands in the kitchen doorway, hand on his hip, hair a mess, and one brow arched like a judgmental owl. He’s holding a glass of water in his other hand and staring at you like he’s caught you stealing classified intel.

You do not drop the pudding.

Instead, you wrap your whole body around it like a protective dragon curled over its hoard.

“It's two in the morning,” He states flatly, walking toward you.

You dig your heels into the lid and continue pulling.

He sighs and sets the water down, watching you with all the weary patience of someone who’s done this before. “You’re gonna crash. You’re gonna hum at a pitch only dogs can hear and then collapse in Steve’s sock drawer for six hours.”

You finally get the lid off with a heroic RIP and nearly tumble backward from the effort.

Bucky catches you midair with one hand.

You blink up at him, pudding clutched to your chest like a teddy bear.

He looks down at you for a long second. Then sighs again and sets you and the pudding down gently on the counter.

From the drawer, he pulls out your custom fairy spoon and places it next to you without a word.

You sit and eat.

He leans against the fridge door, sipping his water.

After your second bite, you glance up at him. Then nudge the pudding slightly toward him.

He blinks. “You’re sharing?”

You nod once. Graciously.

He grabs a small spoon and scoops a small bite. He eats it then nods in approval. “Alright. Worth the heist.”

You eat the rest together in the quiet, the fridge humming behind you. When you start nodding off mid-spoonful, Bucky gently scoops you up and tucks you into the hood of his sweatshirt.

“Gremlin,” He murmurs with a small smile, walking back down the hall.

Your glow is soft now, warm and content.

And even if he won’t admit it, he’s already planning to buy a whole case of pudding tomorrow.

Just in case.

However, that had turned out to be a mistake. For a week later, Steve wakes up early.

He always does.

The sun is barely cresting over the skyline when he steps into the kitchen, sweat still clinging to his shirt from his morning run. He reaches for a glass of water–

And pauses.

There, in the middle of the counter, curled up in an empty pudding cup, is you.

You’re fast asleep.

Your wings are limp, one foot hanging over the rim, and there’s a smear of chocolate on your nose. You look like a fallen warrior who fought valiantly against dessert and won.

Steve blinks. “…Oh, sweetheart.”

He sets the glass down gently so he doesn’t startle you, then crouches to take a better look. The pudding cup is definitely one that he labeled for you. He gave you that as a treat, a sometimes snack. But now?

This is the sixth cup this week.

He glances toward the fridge and opens it.

There’s another cup missing.

He exhales slowly. Not angry. Not even annoyed. Just… concerned. Thoughtful.

Your diet, up until now, has been mostly natural. Flower nectar. Bits of fruit. Fresh water. Popcorn on special days. Just things you scavenged or received in carefully balanced portions. You’re a forest-born creature. You glow like a firefly when you’re content. And he can’t help but wonder:

Is all this sugar… good for you?

You mumble in your sleep and roll over, arm draping dramatically over the side like a chocolate-smeared Juliet. Steve carefully wipes your face with the edge of a tissue, smiling softly even as he sighs.

“You’re gonna give Bucky a heart attack glowing like a Christmas light again.”

He lifts the whole pudding cup carefully in both hands and carries you into the living room. With slow, practiced fingers, he transfers you to a little moss-lined nest near the bookshelf, the one he built after he caught you sleeping in a napkin drawer two weeks ago.

You stir slightly but don’t wake.

Steve tucks a corner of a miniature blanket over your legs and runs a single fingertip gently down your wing to soothe you.

Later, while you sleep off your sugar coma, Steve has a quiet conversation with Bucky in the hallway.

“She’s been getting into the fridge again.”

Bucky’s already smirking. “She shared with me the first night.”

Steve folds his arms. “Buck. She had an entire pudding cup to herself. She’s tiny. That’s, like… three adult servings for a person her size.”

“She was fine,” Bucky shrugs.

“She was glowing pink last time.”

“She looked happy.”

Steve gives him a look. “She also passed out in the empty cup like a melted marshmallow.”

They both fall quiet for a moment.

Then Bucky mutters, “I can… put a veggie in her next pudding.”

Steve sighs but smiles, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “I’ll make her a shelf for her snacks. But we’re going to start balancing it. She needs real food. She’s still–y’know.” He gestures vaguely, then softens. “Small.”

“Delicate,” Bucky adds.

“Ridiculously cute.”

“Stubborn as hell.”

They both nod.

That afternoon, you wake up to find a new space inside the fridge: a custom, labeled shelf made and sized just for you. A polished sign reads:

“Fairy Storage Only. Balanced Snacks Preferred 💚”

On the shelf? One pudding cup, two blackberries, a tiny square of bread, a miniature carved bowl filled with fresh dew, and a few other things.

Steve walks by and pauses. You look at him.

He simply smiles. “Just taking care of you, sweetheart.”

You don’t speak. But the way you glow , soft and content, tells him all he needs to know.