#tshuuls

You’ve seen Bucky come back from missions enough times to have trained eyes; you notice immediately the torn sleeve, a dark stain spreading across his ribs, the bruises blooming under his jaw, across his neck.

“Jesus, Bucky-”, you start, but already you’re interrupted by his rough voice.

“I’m fine.” He straightens up, tugs at his jacket as if doing that will somehow erase all the damage.

You narrow his eyes at him, but say nothing. Maybe he thinks that’s a challenge, a dare. “Stop looking at me like that. It’s nothing. I’ve had worse.”

That’s when the right (or the wrong) words get ripped out of you, definitely sharper than intended. “Stop pretending you’re fine. You’re bleeding.”

Something cracks in Bucky, then. He finally looks at you, really looks, and his shoulders slump forward. For a moment, there’s no Sergeant, no Winter Soldier - just Bucky Barnes. Tired. Yours. Without waiting for another word, or for permission, you cross the remaining space between you and ease the jacket off his shoulders. Bucky doesn’t fight this time, only winces as the fabric pulls at the gash in his side.

“Sit,” you order, pointing to the kitchen chair. To your surprise, he obeys.

You grab the first aid kit from under the sink, hands steady despite the storm brewing in your chest. No matter the amount of times you watch Bucky leave and come back, it never gets easier to see him hurt. Always a reminder that you’re that close to losing him. When you kneel in front of him, Bucky attempts a smirk - weak, fleeting. “Missed you.”

“Don’t deflect,” you mutter, but your lips twitch up nonetheless. Careful fingers move his shirt up before pressing a clean gauze to his side, firm enough to stop the bleeding, gentle enough to not make it worse. He hisses through his teeth, and you bite down on your lip in concentration.

“Sorry,” you whisper.

Bucky shakes his head. “Don’t be. You’re better at this than most guys at the tower.”

“Not exactly a comforting standard,” you say, pulling the gauze away to inspect the wound. It doesn’t look deep enough for stitches (thank God, because you really hate needles), but bad enough to be very uncomfortable for the next few days. You reach for antiseptic. and Bucky winces again when you press it to the open wound.

His metal fingers catch your wrist, grip feather-light despite the strength you know he has. “You know you don’t have to do this.”

“You know I want to,” you reply, eyes flicking up to meet his, holding. “Let me take care of you, Buck.”

He doesn’t answer; instead, you just catch a flicker of something in his gaze, something too close to vulnerability. Something even you, his wife, don’t find in him every day. Finally, he lets go of your wrist, letting you work.

You clean the cut in heavy silence, the steady rhythm of your hands ground both of you. His breathing slowed, shoulders easing from rigid to something closer to comfortable. But he never fully relaxes. Not tonight.

“You always do this,” you whisper, taping fresh gauze over the wound.

“Do what?”

You blink at him, a silent ‘are you serious’ etched into your face before you reply. “Come back broken and tell me you’re fine. Like I can’t see the bruises. Like I can’t smell the blood.” You swallow hard. “You don’t have to carry it all alone, you know.”

Bucky’s metal hand twitches on the table. He looks up at the ceiling, then at the way his fingers flex against the wood, then at the sink - anywhere but at you. “It’s easier to do it alone.”

“That’s a lie, and you know it.” You tie a bandage around his torso and finish it off before sitting back on your heels, one hand tugging at his chin to make him face you. “Bucky. I’m serious. We took vows when we got married. In sickness and in health. I meant that.”

Bucky just stares at you before his flesh hand reaches down, gently pushing your head until your noses nearly brushed together.

“I don’t deserve you,” he whispers and then he presses his lips to yours.

The kiss isn’t demanding, isn’t hungry. There’s no sexual tension in it, no desire - just love, like that kiss is doing a better job of healing his injuries than an any medicine could ever. He sighs against your lips, as if breaking away to breathe is a personal offense.

For a moment, neither of you move. Then Bucky exhales, the tension bleeding out of him as surely as the wound you’ve just dressed. He tugs you closer until you are perched on his lap, your head against his chest, his arms locking around you with quiet desperation. “I don’t want to worry you every time I come home like this.”

You lean into him, your voice steady even as your heart thunders. “That’s not your call to make. I’ll worry about you until my last breath, James Barnes.”