#trapped together

The mission goes sideways in under ten minutes.

The building collapses inward after the explosion—concrete screaming, steel buckling, the floor giving out beneath you both. You barely have time to grab onto him before the world tilts and slams you down into darkness.

When you come to, your ears are ringing and your ribs feel like they’ve been rearranged. Dust coats your tongue. It takes a second to realize you’re pinned—half under a slab of concrete, half under him.

Bucky’s weight is solid, unyielding. Warm. Too warm.

“Get off,” you gasp, shoving at his shoulder.

He groans, pushing himself up with one arm. “Real welcoming.”

“Get off me,” you repeat, sharper.

He does, rolling to the side with a curse. The movement sends a spike of pain through your leg and you bite down on a cry. The ceiling above you has caved in—no clear exit, no signal, no light except what leaks in through a crack in the wall.

Trapped.

Of course you are.

“You hurt?” he asks, clipped.

“No thanks to you.”

His jaw tightens. “You grabbed me.”

“You were falling on me.”

“Could’ve let me.”

You look at him then, really look—dust-streaked face, blood at his hairline, eyes too blue for how dark everything feels. “And watch you splatter? Yeah. Real tempting.”

Silence stretches, thick and suffocating.

You’ve hated each other for years. Ever since that mission in Bucharest where he ignored your call and you took a bullet meant for him. Ever since he apologized once—stiff, hollow—and then never again. Ever since every briefing turned into passive-aggressive warfare.

He breaks the silence first. “Your leg.”

You follow his gaze. Your pant leg is dark with blood.

“Shit,” you mutter.

He’s already moving, kneeling in front of you, hands hovering like he’s not sure where he’s allowed to touch. “I need to check it.”

“You don’t need—”

“You’re bleeding.”

Something about his voice—low, steady—cuts through your instinct to push him away. You let him carefully roll the fabric up. The gash is ugly, angry red.

His fingers brush your skin as he wraps it, gentle despite the metal hand. You hate how it makes your chest tighten.

“You could’ve died,” he says quietly.

“So could you,” you snap. “But you don’t seem too bothered by that.”

He stills. Slowly looks up at you.

“That’s not true.”

You scoff. “You never listen to me on missions. You don’t trust me. You don’t even look at me.”

“That’s because if I do,” he says, voice rough, “I remember the sound you made when you got hit. And I don’t know how to carry that.”

The words land heavy between you.

You swallow. “Then why do you act like you hate me?”

His mouth twists. “Because it’s easier than admitting I’m terrified of screwing up again.”

For a long moment, all you hear is the distant groan of settling concrete.

“I don’t hate you,” you admit, quieter. “I hate that you decided I was expendable.”

His shoulders sag like you’ve finally hit something raw. “You weren’t expendable. You were—” He stops. Exhales. “You were everything in that moment. And I failed you.”

You don’t realize you’re crying until he reaches out, hesitant, and wipes a tear from your cheek with his thumb. The touch lingers. Too long. Charged.

“You’re shaking,” he murmurs.

“It’s cold,” you lie.

He shifts closer, the space between you disappearing. There’s nowhere to go anyway—just stone and shadow and him. His arm comes around you, careful, like he’s afraid you’ll break. You should pull away.

You don’t.

His breath ghosts your temple. Your heartbeat stutters.

“If we don’t make it out,” you whisper, “I don’t want this to be how we end.”

His forehead rests against yours. “Then don’t let it be.”

It’s not a kiss—not really. Just a brush of lips, tentative, like asking permission. When you don’t pull back, it deepens—slow, aching, restrained by everything unsaid.

You break it first, breathless. “When we get out—”

“We talk,” he says immediately. “We fix it. Or try.”

A distant rumble cuts through the moment. Light spills in as debris shifts above you.

Rescue.

Bucky helps you to your feet, arm firm around your waist. Before they pull you out, he leans in and murmurs, “I’m not losing you again.”