(brother best friend!Bucky Barnes x paraplegic!fem!reader)
Summary: After a car accident leaves her paralyzed from the waist down, her carefully built life collapses into anger, depression, and a fierce refusal to be pitied. Her adoptive brother Steve - who was taken in by their parents as a chronically ill child - and his girlfriend Natasha do everything they can to care for her in the family home, but she resents every second of the dependence. When Steve needs to return to the motorcycle shop he co-owns, his best friend Bucky Barnes steps in. What begins as practical help, slowly turns into something neither of them expected.
Warnings: major character injury, permanent disability, references to suic!de, AU/AH, eventual smut, Steve is reader’s adoptive brother, paraplegia, mentions to car accident, soft Bucky Barnes, hurt/ comfort, protective Bucky Barnes, caregiving, may be mentioned reader is a brunette, reader parents were doctors, reader and Steve are orfans, no use of yn/you reader is referred as she/her
Steve’s sneakers scuffed against the hardwood as he pushed her wheelchair through the narrow hallway of the house they’d grown up in. The place still smelled like their mother’s old perfume and the lemon cleaner Natasha had used that morning, but none of that softened the sharp edges of the moment.
“Almost there,” he said, voice carefully light. “Just the living room today. We can do the stretch routine on the mat.”
Her fingers dug into the armrests hard enough to turn her knuckles white. She didn’t look at him. Her hair was pulled into a messy knot that had started falling apart hours ago, and the oversized hoodie she refused to take off swallowed her frame. From the waist down she was still, heavy, foreign. Every bump of the chair over the threshold made her jaw tighten.
“I can do it myself,” she muttered, the words flat and edged.
“I know.” Steve kept pushing anyway. “I’m just… helping.”
Natasha was already in the living room, folding a blanket over the back of the couch. She glanced up, green eyes soft but assessing, the way she always was when the air got thick like this. “Morning.”
She didn’t answer. Steve locked the wheels beside the thick exercise mat they’d dragged in from the spare room and crouched in front of her, hands open, waiting. The house wasn’t built for this. The stairs to the second floor still waited at the end of the hall like a quiet accusation. The bathroom doorway was too narrow for the chair without an awkward angle. Nothing fit the way it used to.
She stared past his shoulder at the window. Outside, the street was ordinary. Cars passed. Someone walked a dog. Life kept moving while hers had stopped at the waist.
“Just get it over with,” she said.
Steve nodded once, the same quiet determination he’d had since they were kids and he’d been the sickly one their parents had brought home. He slid an arm under her knees, the other around her back, and lifted. Her body was lighter than it should have been, but the dead weight of her legs made the transfer clumsy. She stiffened the entire time, breath held, eyes locked on the ceiling like she could disappear into it.
When he set her down on the mat, she immediately pushed herself up on her elbows and glared at him.
“You can’t transfer alone yet,” he answered, still calm. “Doctor’s orders. And mine.”
Natasha stepped closer, offering a rolled towel for her lower back. “We’re not trying to take anything from you. Just keep you from falling on your face before lunch.”
Her laugh was short and bitter. “How generous.”
Steve sat cross-legged beside her and reached for her left leg, starting the slow, careful range-of-motion exercises the physical therapist had shown them. He moved her ankle in careful circles, then flexed the knee. Hia sister watched his hands like they belonged to a stranger. Every touch felt like proof of what was gone.
“You don’t have to stay,” she said after a minute, voice quieter but no softer. “Natasha’s here. Go… be a person. Go to work. Go live.”
Steve didn’t look up from what he was doing. “I’m right where I need to be.”
“You’re twenty-six and babysitting your broken sister in a house with fucking stairs.” The words came out sharper than she meant, but she didn’t take them back. “That’s not living.”
Natasha’s hand settled lightly on Steve’s shoulder, a silent check-in. He just kept working, methodical, patient in a way that made her chest ache with something ugly.
“Mom and dad left us this place,” he said eventually. “I’m not leaving you in it alone. Not now.”
She turned her face away. Outside, a car door slammed. Somewhere down the block a kid laughed. Inside, the only sounds were the soft shift of fabric as Steve moved her leg and the quiet, controlled breathing she was forcing through her teeth so she wouldn’t scream.
She hated every second of it.
The dependency. The careful hands. The way the house still smelled like home while nothing about her body felt like it belonged there anymore.
And she hated, most of all, that Steve’s voice stayed steady the whole time—like he really believed he could hold both of them together if he just kept showing up.
He finished the last stretch and carefully lifted her again, settling her back into the wheelchair with the same careful strength he’d used the whole morning. The second the brakes clicked into place, something in her snapped.
Her voice came out raw, louder than she meant. Steve froze, hands still near the armrests.
“I said get away!” She shoved at his chest with both hands, the push weak but furious. “Stop touching me, stop moving me, stop looking at me like I’m something broken you have to fix!” Her throat burned. She could feel the tears climbing and forced them down with pure spite. “Just leave. Leave me the fuck alone. Both of you. Get out!”
Steve’s face went tight, the way it always did when he was trying not to show how much something hurt. Natasha stepped in before he could answer, palm light against his back.
“Steve. Come on.” Her voice was low, steady. “Just a walk around the block. Give her a minute.”
He hesitated hard, eyes locked on his sister. She wouldn’t look at him. Her jaw was clenched so tight the muscle jumped under the skin, and her hands were shaking on the wheels.
“I’m fine,” she ground out. “Go.”
Natasha tugged gently. “Five minutes. She needs air that doesn’t have you in it right now.”
Steve exhaled through his nose, long and controlled, then finally nodded. He followed Natasha out the front door without another word. The moment it shut behind them, the house felt too big and too quiet.
Outside, they walked in silence for half a block before Steve spoke, voice rough.
“She’s disappearing,” he said. “Every day a little more. She barely eats. She won’t talk to the therapist. She looks at me like I’m the enemy for trying to keep her alive.”
Natasha slipped her hand into his. “She’s grieving her body. And she’s terrified. Being angry is safer than falling apart in front of you.”
“I can’t just watch her sink.”
“You’re not watching. You’re holding the line. But she needs a second without your eyes on her.” Natasha squeezed his fingers. “She’s still in there, Steve. She’s just buried under a lot of rage right now.”
Back in the house, she sat in the middle of the living room, chest heaving. The second the door closed she let the tears come, ugly and silent at first, then shaking. She pressed the heels of her hands hard against her eyes, furious at herself for breaking the second they left.
She didn’t hear the car pull up. Didn’t hear the soft knock that went unanswered. The front door opened the way it always did when Bucky came over—like the house still belonged to all of them somehow.
He stepped inside, keys still in hand, and stopped dead when he saw his best friend’ sister in the middle of the living room in the wheelchair, face wet, shoulders trembling, trying and failing to wipe the evidence away before anyone saw.
His voice came out low, surprised. “Hey… what’s going on?”
She jerked her head up so fast her neck cracked.
Blue eyes. Broad shoulders. The dark metal of his left arm catching the light from the window. Hair falling just past his jaw, a little messy from the drive. Bucky Barnes. Steve’s best friend since high school. The guy who used to steal their snacks and fix the porch light and sit through every family dinner like he was already part of it.
He was standing in her living room looking at her like he’d just walked into something private and broken, and she hadn’t had time to put the walls back up.
For a second she just stared, startled and exposed, tears still shining on her cheeks.
“Steve’s not home,” the girl said, voice still rough from crying. She wiped at her cheeks with the sleeve of the hoodie, trying to look less wrecked than she felt.
Bucky’s brows pulled together. “He left you alone?!” There was a clear edge of indignation in the question, like the idea itself offended him.
“No.” She shook her head once. “I told him and Natasha to go. I needed them out.”
He studied her for a second, something thoughtful moving behind those blue eyes, then walked slowly over to the couch and sat down like he had all the time in the world. The metal of his left arm caught the light when he rested it along the backrest.
She frowned. “What are you doing?”
“Waiting for Steve,” he answered simply.
Silence settled between them. It wasn’t comfortable, but it also wasn’t sharp. She stared at her hands in her lap for a long moment before finally speaking again.
The rest of the sentence died the second her eyes landed on the staircase at the end of the hall. The familiar rise of steps looked taller than it ever had. Steeper. Impossible.
Bucky noticed. He was already standing before she could look away. “I’ll help you.”
He tilted his head, almost amused. “Your room’s upstairs, right? So what—you grew wings while I wasn’t looking? Planning to fly up there?”
Her face stayed closed, but the corner of her mouth betrayed her, twitching upward for half a second before she could stop it. She let out a long, resigned sigh.
Bucky didn’t wait for more argument. He stepped in, slid one arm under her knees and the other around her back, and lifted her like it was the most natural thing in the world. The metal of his left arm was cool through the fabric of her hoodie. He carried her up the stairs without rush, careful with every step.
When they reached the second floor he stopped in the middle of the hallway.
She raised an eyebrow. “Did you forget which door is mine?”
A small smile pulled at his mouth. “No.”
He walked the rest of the way, pushed her bedroom door open with his shoulder, and set her down on the bed with deliberate care. He stayed close long enough to help her shift, adjusting the pillows behind her back until she was settled against the headboard.
Then they just looked at each other. Her voice came quieter. “What?”
Bucky’s eyes moved over her face like he was checking something he already knew. “You’re still beautiful,” he said simply. “That always amazes me.”
Steve chose that exact moment to appear in the doorway.
He leaned against the frame, arms crossed, watching the two of them with a small, knowing tilt at the corner of his mouth. He’d always known Bucky had a soft spot for his sister—had seen it in the way Bucky looked at her when he thought no one was paying attention, in the way he’d gone quiet and pale for days after the accident, even though she never found out how hard the news had hit him.
Her eyes landed on her brother and she rolled them hard. “Great. The babysitter’s back.”
Steve pushed off the doorframe and stepped inside. “In the absence of our parents, I’m responsible for you. That’s just how it is.”
Silence stretched for a beat. Bucky stayed where he was beside the bed, not moving away, not explaining anything.
Steve’s gaze flicked between them once more before he spoke again, voice practical. “You hungry?”
“Don’t care. I’m bringing you something anyway.”
She let out a long, tired sigh and turned her head toward Bucky. “Didn’t you want to talk to him?” She gestured toward Steve with a small tilt of her chin. “There he is. All yours.”
Bucky glanced at her for a second longer, then nodded once and followed Steve out of the room. Their footsteps fading down the stairs.
In the kitchen, Natasha was already moving around the counter, pulling containers from the fridge and setting a pan on the stove. She looked up when the two men walked in, one eyebrow raised in quiet question, but she didn’t say anything—just kept working, the soft sound of food being prepared filling the space while Steve and Bucky settled into the kind of silence that only old friends could share.
The blonde let out a long, heavy breath the second they were alone in the kitchen. He braced both hands on the counter and dropped his head for a moment, the weight of everything sitting visibly on his shoulders. Seeing his sister like this—trapped in her own body, angry and fading—hurt in a way that cut deeper than losing their parents ever had.
Bucky leaned against the opposite counter, metal arm folded across his chest, waiting.
Steve finally looked up. “What did you need?”
“The shop,” Bucky said. “We’ve got three bikes waiting on finishing work and paint. That’s your end. I can only do so much of the mechanical side before the clients start calling.”
Natasha didn’t even glance over from the stove. She already knew.
Steve shook his head immediately. “I can’t leave her. Not right now. Not like this.”
Bucky stayed quiet, letting him talk.
“You saw her,” Steve continued, voice low. “She’s depressed. It’s getting worse every day. I’m scared she’s going to do something to herself if I take my eyes off her for too long.”
Bucky’s expression tightened. “Doctors give any real hope she’ll walk again?”
Steve rubbed a hand over his face. “Maybe. If she keeps up with the exercises, they said we can look at other options down the line—surgery, experimental stuff, whatever. But she has to stay motivated. That part matters more than anything else in recovery. Right now she just… shut down.”
Bucky was silent for a few seconds, thinking. Then he spoke carefully.
“Maybe she’s not just depressed. Maybe she’s pissed because she doesn’t want to be a burden. She still sees you as the little brother she has to look out for, even though you’re the same age. She hates needing you like this.”
Steve’s jaw flexed, but he didn’t argue.
“I can help,” Bucky continued. “When you need to be at the shop, I’ll stay here with her. New face might actually get her moving. And I’m not afraid to be the bad cop when she needs it.”
Steve looked at him for a long moment, something conflicted and grateful flickering across his face at the same time.
Natasha didn’t even try to hide the smirk as she stirred whatever was on the stove.
“It’s a bonus that Bucky doesn’t mind spending the whole day around his teenage crush,” she said lightly. “Convenient, right?”
Steve let out a short, genuine laugh for the first time that day.
Bucky’s expression flattened. “You’re both being ridiculous. Nothing ever happened between me and her, and nothing’s going to. Not because of her condition—I’m not enough of an asshole to measure someone by that. But because she doesn’t see me that way. And the last thing she needs right now is some guy pushing for a relationship she doesn’t want.”
Steve tilted his head, studying him. “You sure she doesn’t like you? You two ever actually talk about it?”
“I just know,” Bucky answered, voice even.
Steve held his gaze for another second, then shrugged. “Fine. I need to work, and it’ll be good for her to have someone else in the house.” He glanced toward the stairs, the weight of the morning still sitting heavy in his chest, but there was a flicker of relief in his eyes now that the decision had been made.
That night she stayed in her room.
Steve had tried—more than once—to get her downstairs. He’d even dragged the extra armchair closer to the couch and pointed out that Bucky and Natasha were already settled in for a CSI marathon. She’d refused. The idea of sitting there while the three of them pretended everything was normal made her skin crawl. So she’d stayed upstairs, lights off except for the soft glow from the streetlamp outside her window, staring at nothing.
Pathetic. She told herself
She looked down at her legs under the blanket and focused the way she did every single night. Tried to flex her toes. Tried to shift her thighs. Nothing. Not even a twitch. It was stupid and she knew it, but she kept trying anyway. It was the only rebellion she had left.
But tonight she wanted another one.
Steve always left everything within reach—laptop, phone, books, water bottle—arranged on the nightstand like she was some fragile thing that couldn’t be trusted with distance. But the laptop charger had ended up on the low shelf across the room. Of course it had.
She huffed under her breath and scooted herself to the edge of the mattress, stretching as far as she could. Her fingers brushed empty air. The charger sat there, mocking her, maybe two feet too far.
Calling Steve would only make her feel smaller.
So she gathered every scrap of stubbornness she had left, braced one hand on the mattress, and tried to throw her weight toward the shelf.
Her shoulder slammed hard into the wood. Pain exploded white-hot through the joint. The next second gravity won and she hit the floor in a graceless heap, half-curled on her side, one arm wrapped tightly around the throbbing shoulder.
Down the hall, Bucky had come upstairs to use the bathroom. He passed her door—half open, as usual—and glanced in out of habit. The bed was empty.
He stopped, called her name
He pushed the door open fully and found her on the floor, shoulders hunched, face tight with pain as she clutched her arm.
“Shit—” He crossed the room in three long strides and dropped to a knee beside her. “What happened?”
She didn’t look at him right away. “I was an idiot. Tried to get out of bed for the laptop charger.”
Bucky’s jaw flexed. Without another word he slid one arm under her knees and the other carefully around her back, mindful of the shoulder she was protecting, and lifted her. The metal of his left arm was cool against her side as he carried her the short distance back to the mattress and set her down with deliberate care.
“You okay?” he asked, voice lower now, eyes already scanning her for damage. His right hand hovered near her injured shoulder, not quite touching yet. “Let me see.”
She let him check the shoulder without pulling away. Bucky’s fingers were careful as he pressed gently around the joint, testing the range.
“Nothing broken,” he muttered. “Ice’ll be enough.”
Then his eyes lifted to her face and stopped. A thin cut sat just above her right eyebrow, already beading blood that had started to trickle down toward her temple.
He stood, crossed into the bathroom in the hallway, and came back with a clean washcloth. He pressed it firmly but carefully against the cut.
“No.” The word came out sharp and immediate. When he looked at her, the plea in her eyes was raw. “Please. Don’t. Please.”
Bucky held her gaze for a long second. Whatever he saw there made him exhale slowly through his nose. He stayed.
He lifted the cloth after a moment and checked the cut again. The bleeding had already slowed to almost nothing.
“What the hell were you thinking?” he asked, voice low. “You could’ve really hurt yourself.”
Her mouth twisted. “I already can’t walk. Not like it can get much worse.”
Bucky let out a short, humorless laugh. “Is that it, then? So what’s next—throw yourself down the stairs?”
She met his eyes without flinching. “Not a bad idea.”
The air in the room changed.
Bucky’s expression went completely serious. He set the cloth aside, reached out, and carefully but firmly gripped both of her shoulders, grounding her in place.
“Don’t you ever say that again,” he said, voice quiet and hard. “Don’t even think it.”
Her voice came out quiet and sharp at the same time.
Bucky didn’t answer right away. His hands were still on her shoulders, steady, but something behind his eyes shifted. When he finally spoke, the words were low.
“Doesn’t matter. Your life didn’t end because of the accident.”
She scoffed, the sound bitter. “Easy for you to say.”
“I went through it too,” he said, glancing briefly at the dark metal of his left arm. “I know what it’s like when your body stops being yours.”
“It’s not the same.” Her voice climbed. “I’m never going to walk again.”
“I do know that.” She was fully agitated now, volume rising with every word. “Stop pretending like there’s some miracle waiting around the corner—”
The bedroom door opened hard.
Steve and Natasha stood in the doorway, both of them alert, clearly having heard the raised voices from downstairs. Steve’s eyes went straight to his sister— the cut on her forehead, the way she was sitting, the tension radiating off her—and his face tightened with worry.
Neither his sister nor Bucky stopped.
“You don’t get to tell me how I’m supposed to feel about this,” she snapped at Bucky.
“I’m not telling you how to feel—”
“Hey.” Steve stepped fully into the room, voice firm as he moved between them. “Enough. Both of you.”
The interruption cracked something open. Her chest hitched once, then again, and the tears she’d been holding back all day finally broke free. She turned her face away, shoulders shaking, completely overwhelmed by everything—the fall, the argument, the helplessness, the fact that she couldn’t even get a charger without ending up on the floor.
Bucky looked stricken. The fight drained out of him in an instant. He took a step back, then another, like he suddenly didn’t trust himself to stay in the room.
“I’m gonna go,” he muttered.
He left without waiting for an answer. Natasha followed him down the stairs and to the front door. Outside, the night air was cool and quiet.
“Don’t take it personally,” she said softly. “She’s really not okay right now.”
Bucky nodded once, jaw tight. Then he added, almost reluctantly, “She said she wants to throw herself down the stairs.”
Natasha’s expression didn’t change much. She’d already caught her sister-in-law staring too long at the staircase more than once, eyes distant and dark. She’d known the thought was there.
“Yeah,” she said quietly. “I figured.”
She woke slowly the next morning, the light already soft through the curtains. She dragged a hand over her face, then through the tangled mess of her hair, and called out the way she always did.
Footsteps came down the hall, but the person who appeared in the doorway wasn’t her brother.
Bucky leaned against the frame, arms crossed, looking entirely too awake for this hour.
“He went to the shop,” he said. “Left about an hour ago.”
Something in her chest eased at the news—Steve needed to work, needed to feel useful again—but the relief lasted only a second. Her eyes narrowed slightly as the obvious question formed.
Who the hell was going to help her today?
Then she actually looked at him. Jeans, that stupid soft Henley that somehow always fit him too well, dark hair pulled back in a loose bun, a few strands escaping near his temples. Standing there like he belonged in the doorway of her bedroom at eight in the morning.
Apparently they weren’t gonna talk about last night… well not that she wanted to, either. Letting out a long, quiet breath and dropping her head back against the pillow, she resigned there was no arguing her way out of this one.
Bucky pushed off the doorframe. “Need the bathroom?”
She closed her eyes for a second, swallowed whatever dignity she still had left, and nodded. “Yeah.”
It was awkward—the careful way he lifted her, the silence between them as he carried her the short distance down the hall, the way he set her down just inside the bathroom and immediately stepped back to give her space. He didn’t hover. He simply closed the door most of the way and went back to her room, sitting on the edge of her bed like he’d already decided he wasn’t going anywhere until she was done.
She finished and called for him through the half-open door.
Bucky’s voice came back immediately, dry. “You decent?”
A short, surprised laugh escaped her. “Not even in your dreams are you seeing me naked.”
There was a beat of silence, then the faint sound of amusement in his reply. “You don’t get to decide what happens in my dreams.”
He pushed the door open the rest of the way, already reaching for her. “Where to, Your Highness?”
She rolled her eyes hard, but the corner of her mouth still twitched. “I’m hungry.”
Bucky lifted her without comment, careful with the injured shoulder from the night before, and carried her down the stairs with the same steady, unhurried pace he’d used the previous day. In the kitchen he set her down on one of the tall stools at the counter so she was facing the open space where he could move around.
“What do you usually eat?” he asked, already opening the fridge.
“Omelets.” She watched him for a second, then added, almost casually, “But I remember very well that you’re some kind of specialist in chocolate chip pancakes.”
Bucky paused with the carton of eggs in his hand. A real smile pulled at his mouth as he looked over at her.
“Chocolate chip pancakes it is, then.”
He moved around the kitchen in easy silence, cracking eggs, measuring flour, the quiet rhythm of someone who’d done this a hundred times before, in that very kitchen. She stayed where he’d left her on the stool, chin resting in her hand, just watching him.
After a while the words slipped out without much thought. “I envy you.”
He glanced over his shoulder. “Yeah? Why?”
She gave a small shrug, eyes still on him. “First the stupidly pretty blue eyes and the hair. Then… because you can walk.”
Bucky turned fully this time, one eyebrow lifting as a slow, teasing smile pulled at his mouth. “My blue eyes, huh?”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself.”
He huffed a quiet laugh and went back to the batter, the metal of his left arm catching the light every time he moved. The silence stretched again, comfortable enough, until her voice cut through it once more—quieter this time, almost careful.
“How did you find out about the accident?”
Bucky’s hands stilled for a second over the mixing bowl.
He didn’t look at her right away. When he finally did, his expression was carefully even.
“Steve called me,” he said. “Right after it happened. I was at the shop. He could barely get the words out.”
Her fingers tightened slightly around the edge of the counter. She waited.
Bucky poured the batter onto the hot pan, the soft sizzle filling the quiet. “I got to the hospital as fast as I could. You were still in surgery. Steve was… wrecked. Natasha was trying to hold him together. I stayed until they brought you out.”
He flipped the first pancake with more focus than necessary. “I didn’t leave until they said you were stable.”
She watched him, something complicated moving behind her eyes. She hadn’t known he’d been there that night. No one had told her.
“You never said anything.”
“Wasn’t about me.” He plated the first pancake and started another. “Steve needed someone who wouldn’t fall apart. That was it.”
The kitchen smelled like chocolate and butter now. Bucky slid a plate in front of her—two perfect chocolate chip pancakes, still steaming—and set a fork down beside it without comment.
She looked at the food, then back at him.
“Thank you,” she said quietly. Not just for the pancakes.
Bucky only nodded once and turned back to the stove, giving her the space to eat without having to fill the silence.
After putting everything away in the dishwasher, he leaned against the counter across from her, arms loosely crossed, watching as she cut into the pancakes.
“So,” he said after a moment, voice casual, “what does a normal day look like for you now?”
She chewed slowly, buying herself a second. The question landed heavier than it should have.
“Normal?” She let out a short, dry breath. “There isn’t one. I wake up. Steve or Natasha helps me to the bathroom. Someone makes food I barely touch. Then it’s stretches I hate, transfers I hate, and staring at walls I hate. Sometimes I try to work on my laptop. Mostly I just… exist until it’s late enough to pretend I’m tired so people will leave me alone.”
She pushed a piece of pancake around the plate with her fork, not looking at him. “Before, I’d be out by nine. Meetings, shoots, coffee with people who actually wanted to see me. Now the biggest decision of my day is whether I’m going to cry before or after lunch.”
Bucky stayed quiet, letting the honesty sit between them without rushing to fix it.
She finally glanced up “Why?”
“Just trying to figure out how to not make this worse,” he said simply. “If I’m going to be here, I’d rather not be another thing you have to tolerate.”
She stared at him for a long second, fork still in her hand.
“You’re already something I have to tolerate,” she said, but there was no real bite behind it. Just tired honesty. “You’re in my kitchen making pancakes and asking about my tragic daily schedule. That’s not exactly invisible.”
Bucky’s mouth twitched. “Fair.”
She took another bite, chewed, then set the fork down. “You’re not the worst company, though. Better than Steve hovering like I’m going to shatter if he blinks too hard. Or Natasha doing that quiet concerned thing with her eyes.”
“I’ll take the compliment.”
A small, reluctant almost-smile pulled at the corner of her mouth before she killed it. She looked down at her plate again, pushing the last piece of pancake around.
“I used to hate quiet mornings,” she said after a moment. “Now they’re the only part of the day that doesn’t feel like a performance. Until someone shows up and reminds me I can’t even get to the bathroom without help.”
Bucky didn’t rush to answer. He just nodded once, like he understood the weight of it.
“You finished?” he asked eventually, nodding toward her plate.
She glanced down. She’d eaten more than she usually did. She gave a small shrug.
He took the plate without comment and set it in the sink. When he turned back, his voice was steady, practical.
“You want to sit in the living room for a while, or go back upstairs?”
She hesitated, then looked toward the front windows where the morning light was coming in clean and bright.
“…Living room,” she said. “But if you put on CSI again I’m throwing myself out of this chair.”
Bucky’s quiet huff of laughter was the first real one she’d heard from him all morning.
He slid one arm under her knees and the other around her back, lifting her from the stool with the same easy strength as before. She expected him to turn toward the living room.
He walked straight past the couch, past the hallway, and pushed the front door open with his shoulder. Cool morning air hit her face. She tensed in his arms.
He carried her across the porch and lowered himself carefully onto the wide wooden swing that had been there since they were kids. It creaked under their combined weight as he settled, keeping her across his lap so her back rested against his chest and her legs stretched out along the seat. One of his boots braced against the floorboards, giving the swing a slow, gentle push.
She sat rigid for a second, still processing the sudden change of plan. The street was quiet. A light breeze moved through the trees. Somewhere down the block a lawnmower hummed.
She turned her head slightly, enough to catch the side of his face.
“…You could’ve just said we were coming outside.”
Bucky kept his eyes on the street, the corner of his mouth lifting almost imperceptibly.
“Where’s the fun in that?”
The swing moved in a slow, steady rhythm under Bucky’s boot. She gradually relaxed against him, the morning air cool against her skin, the quiet of the street settling over both of them. For a while neither of them spoke. It was the first time in days she hadn’t felt the walls of the house pressing in.
Bucky’s left arm rested along the back of the swing, the dark metal warm from the sun. His right hand stayed loosely at her waist, steadying her without making a show of it.
She watched a car pass at the end of the block, then glanced sideways at him.
“You’re different than I remember,” she said.
“Quieter. Less… chaotic.” She paused. “Or maybe I just never paid enough attention.”
Bucky hummed low in his chest, not quite agreeing or disagreeing.
Another stretch of silence passed before she spoke again, tone lighter but pointed.
“What happened to all the girlfriends you used to leave scattered around? There was always someone. Blonde at the shop, the one who worked at that bar downtown, the yoga instructor Steve wouldn’t shut up about for a month.”
Bucky let out a short breath that might have been a laugh.
“They left,” he said simply. “Or I did. Same difference most of the time.”
She turned her head a little more, studying the line of his profile. “That easy?”
“Never said it was easy. Just said it happened.” He kept his eyes on the street. “Not much point keeping someone around when you’re not actually in it.”
She considered that, fingers absently tracing the seam of her hoodie.
The swing creaked softly as he gave it another gentle push. She looked back out at the quiet neighborhood, the answer sitting between them longer than either of them acknowledged.
Bucky was quiet for a moment after her question. Then he turned it back on her without missing a beat.
“What about you?” he asked. “Anyone still around?”
She let out a short, incredulous breath and looked at him like he’d lost his mind.
“Are you kidding me? Who the hell would want someone like me right now?”
Bucky’s eyes stayed on hers, steady and completely serious.
“Like what? Intelligent, funny, beautiful?”
The words landed clean and unhurried, like he wasn’t offering comfort so much as stating facts he considered obvious. Her mouth opened, then closed again. For once she didn’t have a sharp reply ready, holding his gaze longer than she meant to. The words sat between them, plain and steady, without any of the careful pity she’d gotten so used to from everyone else.
She looked away first, back toward the empty street.
“That’s a nice list,” she said eventually, voice quieter. “Doesn’t change the fact that half of me doesn’t work anymore.”
Bucky didn’t rush to fill the silence. The swing moved gently under them, wood creaking in a slow rhythm.
“You’re still you,” he said after a moment. “The rest is just logistics.”
She let out a soft, disbelieving huff. “Logistics.”
“Yeah.” His thumb brushed once against the side of her waist, almost absent. “Annoying, complicated logistics. But not the whole story.”
She was quiet for a long time after that. The morning light shifted across the porch, warming the metal of his arm where it rested behind her. Somewhere down the block a dog barked once and then went silent again.
Her voice came smaller when she finally spoke.
“You’re really bad at this whole ‘just helping out’ thing, you know that?”
Bucky’s mouth curved slightly.
“Never claimed I was good at it.”
He gave the swing one last gentle push, then set both feet flat on the porch boards and stilled it.
“We’re going out,” he said, like it was already decided.
Her head snapped toward him so fast it almost hurt. “What?!”
“Out. Fresh air. Something that isn’t these four walls.”
“No.” The word came out sharp, immediate. “Absolutely not.”
“Bucky, I can’t—” She gestured down at her legs, frustrated. “I’m in a hoodie and yesterday’s clothes. I look like shit. People will stare. I don’t even know how to get in and out of a car properly without making it a whole production. And what if I need the bathroom? Or if—”
“That’s not an answer.” Her voice climbed. “I don’t want strangers looking at me like I’m some tragic case. I don’t want to sit somewhere public while you have to lift me in and out of places. I don’t want anyone seeing this version of me.”
Bucky stayed calm, completely unmoved by the rising panic in her tone.
“You’ve been inside for weeks. You’re rotting in that room. Steve’s too scared to push you and Natasha won’t force it. Someone has to.”
“So you just decided that someone is you?”
“Yeah.” He shifted her slightly in his arms, already preparing to stand. “I did. We’ll go somewhere quiet. No crowds. You can wear the biggest hoodie you own and glare at anyone who looks twice. But we’re leaving this house for a couple hours.”
Her hands curled into fists against his chest.
“I know,” Bucky said, already rising to his feet with her. “Doesn’t mean we’re not doing it.”
She let him help her change upstairs, jaw tight the entire time. She directed, he followed—no unnecessary comments, no lingering. Black leggings first, then a soft long cardigan that fell past her hips and made her feel slightly less exposed. She sat on the edge of the bed afterward and ran a brush through her wavy hair until it looked halfway intentional.
Minimally decent. That was the best she was going to get.
Bucky crouched in front of her with a pair of heeled ankle boots he’d found in her closet. The second she realized what he was doing, her face twisted.
“Those are ridiculous. I’m not wearing heels, what’s the point?”
He slid the first one onto her foot anyway, careful with the zipper. “They’re not ridiculous. They’re not even going to touch the ground yes, but they’re not ridiculous”
She stared down at the second boot as he secured it. “We shouldn’t leave the house.”
Bucky looked up at her from where he was crouched, one hand still resting lightly around her ankle. His expression didn’t shift.
“We’re already leaving,” he said simply, and stood.
He lifted her without another word and carried her downstairs. She stayed rigid in his arms the entire way, cardigan clutched tight around herself, the heels of the boots dangling uselessly in the air exactly like he’d promised.
Outside, the morning was brighter than it had any right to be. He unlocked his truck with one hand and opened the passenger door. The transfer was careful but awkward—he had to angle her in, support her weight while she shifted, then lean across to buckle the seatbelt when her hands stayed clenched in her lap.
She stared straight ahead through the windshield, jaw locked.
“I hate this,” she muttered again as he closed her door and walked around to the driver’s side.
Bucky climbed in, started the engine, and pulled away from the curb without looking at her. “I know.”
They drove in silence for several minutes. The neighborhood slid past the windows—familiar houses, familiar trees, people walking dogs and living ordinary lives that suddenly felt very far away from the passenger seat. Her fingers stayed twisted in the fabric of her cardigan. Every time the truck hit a small bump she tensed, hyper-aware of how little control she had over even this.
Bucky kept his eyes on the road.
“We’re going to the overlook,” he said eventually. “Quiet. No one really goes there on weekdays. You can sit in the truck the whole time if you want. Or we can get out for five minutes. Your call once we’re there.”
Her answer didn’t come right away. She watched the trees thicken as they left the residential streets behind, the road climbing toward the higher edge of the city.
“…Five minutes,” she said at last, voice low. “That’s all.”
Bucky nodded once, like that was more than he’d expected.
The overlook was empty, exactly as Bucky had promised. Just a short stretch of gravel, a low wooden barrier, and the wide view of the city dropping away below them. He parked near the edge, killed the engine, and sat for a moment in the sudden quiet.
She stared out the windshield, arms still tight around herself.
Bucky got out, walked around, and opened her door. He didn’t ask this time—just reached in, unbuckled her, and lifted her carefully out of the seat. The heeled boots never touched the ground. He carried her the few steps to the barrier and sat on the wide wooden rail, settling her across his lap the same way he had on the porch swing so she could see the view without having to hold herself up.
The city stretched out beneath them, soft and distant in the late morning light. Wind moved through the trees behind them. No one else was around.
She didn’t speak at first. She just looked.
After a while her shoulders dropped a fraction.
“Okay,” she said quietly. “It’s… not the worst.”
Bucky’s mouth curved slightly. “High praise.”
She almost smiled. Almost. Then it faded again as her eyes stayed on the horizon.
“I used to come here after bad days,” she said. “Before. When things still made sense.”
Bucky didn’t push. He just kept one arm steady around her and let the silence hold. The five minutes she’d agreed to stretched longer without either of them mentioning it, while she kept her eyes on the city below them for a long time before she spoke again.
“I haven’t listened to Taylor Swift since it happened,” she said quietly. “That’s what was playing in the car. The second the song stopped I knew something was wrong, and then… everything just went.”
Bucky’s arm tightened slightly around her.
“Getting into your truck today was—” She exhaled. “Terrifying. Same angle of the seat. Same sound of the door closing. It put me right back there for a second.”
Regret flashed across his face almost immediately.
“Shit. I’m sorry. I didn’t even think about that.”
She shook her head once, still looking out at the view. “It’s not on you. I was going to have to face a car again at some point. Better with someone who wouldn’t freak out if I did.”
Bucky was quiet for a moment, the wind moving through the trees behind them. When he spoke again his voice was lower, careful.
She kept silent for a long time. The wind moved across the overlook, cool against her face, and for a moment Bucky thought she might not answer at all.
Then she spoke, voice flat and distant, like she was reciting something she’d already replayed too many times.
“I was driving home from a late shoot. Tired. Not reckless—just tired. Some guy ran a red light coming the other way. I don’t even remember the impact. Just the sound of the music cutting out and then… nothing. I woke up in the hospital and they told me my spine took the worst of it. From the waist down, done.”
She gave a small, humorless shrug against his chest.
“No dramatic story. No big villain. Just a stupid intersection and bad timing.”
Bucky didn’t say anything right away. His hand rested steady at her waist, the metal of his other arm cool where it supported her back. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet. “I’m sorry.”
She let out a short breath. “Everyone’s sorry. Doesn’t change anything.”
She tilted her head slightly, enough to glance at the side of his face.
“Steve still blames himself for not picking me up that night. Like if he’d insisted, none of it would’ve happened. It’s bullshit. But he carries it anyway.”
Bucky’s jaw flexed once. He kept his eyes on the city below them.
“He loves you,” he said simply. “That’s all that is.”
She didn’t argue and Bucky didn’t push. He just kept the steady support of his arms around her, the swing of his breathing calm against her back.
Eventually she spoke again, voice lower than before.
“If Steve had gone that night instead of me… if it had been him in that intersection…” She swallowed. “I wouldn’t have survived it. Not really. I would’ve spent the rest of my life knowing I should’ve been the one behind the wheel. I never would’ve forgiven myself.”
She let out a thin breath.
“So as much as I hate this—hate every second of it—I’d still rather it was me. Every time.”
Bucky’s arm tightened around her almost imperceptibly. He didn’t offer empty comfort or try to talk her out of the feeling. He just sat with it, the two of them looking out over the city, the silence between them heavier now but not cold.
After a long moment he spoke, quiet and even.
“He’d say the exact same thing about you.”
Her mouth twitched, not quite a smile, not quite pain.
“I know,” she said. “That’s the problem.”
It sat between them, heavy with everything neither of them tried to fix, her fingers absently tracing the edge of Bucky’s metal wrist where it rested against her side. She didn’t seem to notice she was doing it.
“He’s going to spend the rest of his life trying to make this better for me,” she said eventually. “And I’m going to spend the rest of mine resenting that he has to.”
Bucky’s voice came low near her temple. “You don’t have to resent him for loving you.”
“I don’t resent him.” She exhaled. “I resent needing it.”
He nodded once, like that distinction made perfect sense to him.
Another stretch of quiet passed. A bird cut across the open sky below them. Somewhere far down the hill a car horn sounded and then faded.
She shifted slightly in his arms, enough to glance at his profile.
“You’re not what I expected,” she said.
Bucky’s mouth tilted. “Yeah? What did you expect?”
“I don’t know. More jokes. Less… this.” She gestured vaguely at the way he was holding her, at the quiet patience of it. “You used to be louder.”
“You used to be meaner,” he answered without heat.
That almost pulled a real smile out of her. Almost.
She looked back out at the city.
“We should probably go back before Steve starts calling every five minutes.”
Bucky didn’t move right away. He gave it another few seconds, like he was letting her be the one to end it, then simply nodded and stood, lifting her with him as carefully as before, carrying her back to the truck without rushing. The transfer into the passenger seat was quieter this time—still tense, but less rigid than before. She didn’t argue when he reached across to buckle her in. The click of the seatbelt felt louder than it should have in the enclosed space.
He closed her door, walked around, and slid into the driver’s seat. For a second he just sat there with the keys in his hand, not starting the engine yet.
She stared straight ahead.
“You can put music on,” she said suddenly. “Just… not that.”
Bucky glanced at her, understanding immediately. He plugged his phone in and chose something instrumental, low and wordless, then pulled away from the overlook.
The drive back felt shorter. Neither of them filled the silence with forced conversation. She watched the trees thin out and the familiar streets return, her hands still twisted in the sleeves of her cardigan. Every so often Bucky’s eyes flicked toward her, checking, but he didn’t comment.
When they turned onto their street, she spoke again, voice quieter.
“Thank you. For not making it a whole thing.”
Bucky parked in front of the house and killed the engine. He looked over at her, one hand still resting on the steering wheel.
“Anytime,” he said simply.
He got out, came around, and lifted her from the seat with the same careful ease as before. As he carried her up the front steps, the door opened and Steve appeared in the doorway, phone still in his hand, relief and residual worry written all over his face.
She felt Bucky’s arms tighten just slightly around her—like a silent warning to her brother not to make a scene—and for once, she was grateful for it.
