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I would like to introduce this first blog entry with two quotes that really match my view of fanfictions. Some people may think it's shameful to write fanfictions and some are ashamed of doing it. Don't be!

"Fanfiction is what literature might look like if it were reinvented from scratch after a nuclear apocalypse by a band of brilliant pop-culture junkies trapped in a sealed bunker. They don't do it for money. That's not what it's about. The writers write it and put it up online just for the satisfaction. They're fans, but they're not silent, couchbound consumers of media. The culture talks to them, and they talk back to the culture in its own language"

"I adore the way fan fiction writers engage with and critique source texts, by manipulating them and breaking their rules. Some of it is straight-up homage, but a lot of [fan fiction] is really aggressive towards the source text. One tends to think of it as written by total fanboys and fangirls as a kind of worshipful act, but a lot of times you’ll read these stories and it’ll be like ‘What if Star Trek had an openly gay character on the bridge?’ And of course the point is that they don’t, and they wouldn’t, because they don’t have the balls, or they are beholden to their advertisers, or whatever. There’s a powerful critique, almost punk-like anger, being expressed there—which I find fascinating and interesting and cool."

—Lev Grossman

You’ll find my Masterlist here and if you want to know more about me, you can go to my original tumblr page.

If you want to support me go check my ☕ Ko-Fi & 🔴 Red Bubble! 💖🙏

Edit: I've been opening up more and more in my stories about things I've carried around for a very long time—wounds that settled into my bones so deeply they became part of me, even when I don’t consciously register them. It’s like my brain would rather not dwell on them, but in the end, they still bleed out. So, you might come across those themes around the corners: car accidents, past abusive relationships, chronic pain, survivor’s guilt, ADHD and autism, existential crisis, heavy angst...

Don’t worry,I’ll always include them in the warnings, just in case. So I strongly recommend reading them (and the notes too. I do my best to avoid spoilers, but I also offer insight into why each text came to life) to help avoid reopening old wounds.

Also, you'll notice that the male love interests in my stories are often tied to those themes I mentionned. I realized not so long ago that I'm drawn to them as if they're reflections of parts of myself; men I feel the need to nurture, reassure, and help heal, because in the end, it’s also a way of healing myself.

I think that’s all for now.

A like, a comment, or a reblog is always appreciated. I write for myself, but it’s always a gift to know that my words have touched someone else's heart.

See you around.

Buk Sea-Taken: Fell into the sea when he was young while the tribe was changing gathering grounds, got raised/enslaved by the Clan of the Octopus, and found his way back to the tribe decades later. He speaks with a weird accent now and doesn’t really socialize. A good hunter/fighter/sentinel, he also knows how to fish.

Sam Sky-Path: Scout/gatherer/fighter/social glue. Climbs into the trees, collects feathers, checks on people, and occasionally settles arguments.

Stev Front-Stone: Protector/fighter/big game hunter.

Ton Fire-Mind: Inventor/crafter/smart fighter.

Nat Soft-Steps: Scout/hunter/stealthy fighter.

Klin Sky-Fang: Scout/hunter/stealthy fighter.

Brus Two-Skins: Healer/thinker. He got bitten by a green mamba when he was younger, and now there are times when he just explodes in rage over little things without really meaning to.

Tor Storm-Fist: Protector/fighter/big game hunter.

Wan Red-Gaze: Chaotic seer.

Vis Clear-Sight: Logical seer.

And then, there’s our reader: she has many names because she’s a jack-of-all-trades/night sentinel/keeper of the old ways/storyteller/painter… Night-Eye, Many-Paths, Old-Tongue, Moon-Wake, Soft-Voice. She is the last member of another branch of the tribe that stayed behind a few decades ago, so she knows their ways/dialect, but she doesn’t quite fit at first.

Of course, this is a work in progress (if I even do something about it at all…)

Just wanted to share and ask:

Would you read that if I were to write about it? It wouldn’t really be a full story, more like a collection of snippets (unless I get dragged into it…)

It hadn’t been like this a few days ago. But it built, hour by hour, slow and cruel, until she felt like her limbs were all coiled up inside, like her muscles had turned to steel cables strung too tight, pulled taut and ready to snap.

Except they wouldn’t. That’s not how her body worked—or any human one for that matter.

So she kept stretching, adjusting, trying to ease the pressure before it drove her insane.

But it was no use. The storm wasn’t just outside anymore. It was inside her, too.

She sat at her desk, in her little corner of the infirmary, tucked between the supply closet and the diagnostic bed that no one ever used unless someone was actively bleeding—which happened more than it should have.

The neon lights were off, only a small lamp casting a soft, golden pool of light around her table, and the book in her lap.

That book had been opened to the same page for almost fifteen minutes, her thumb stuck between chapters. She wasn’t reading. Just… existing. Rocking gently side to side in her chair, slow little sways that helped more than they should. Her legs were propped up on the overturned waste bin—not glamorous, but better than nothing. It helped her hip some.

But the ache was still there. Deep. Gnawing. The kind of pain that wasn’t loud, but persistent. Insistent.

She’d fractured it nearly twenty years ago in an accident, and on days like today, it reminded her of every painstaking damage.

The thunder hadn’t broken yet. The sky outside was a sickly yellow-gray, air so thick it pressed down on her skin like a coat. Even the walls of the newly rebuilt tower seemed to groan.

She winced as another sharp jolt pulsed through her arm until it reached the tip of her pinky. She stretched her limb out again, rotating her wrist, trying to twist the sensation away. She must’ve looked ridiculous, squirming in her chair like a worm on a hook, mouth tight, eyes narrowed, stimming just to keep sane.

She was so focused on the uncomfortable sensation that she didn’t hear the door open. But she felt the shift in the air, heard the boots on tile. A presence like gravity walked into the room.

She glanced up, her chair spun halfway around as she turned expecting anyone but him. Yet there he was.

Bucky Barnes looked like shit.

His hair was slightly damp with sweat, a few dark strands sticking to his forehead. His jaw was clenched so tight she could practically hear it grinding. His right hand was cradling the side of his head, fingers pressed into his temple, like he could physically stop the pain from pulsing there, and the other braced against the doorframe, like the act of standing upright was increasing the pain even more. His dog tags hung low over a black T-shirt that clung to him, evidence of the heat and the weight pressing down on him, too.

"Please tell me you’ve got the good stuff," he muttered, voice gravel-low, eyes pinched nearly shut—squinting against the low light coming from outside through the huge glass panels—brow furrowed, lips pressed tight like he’d walked through hell just to get to the infirmary. "Feels like there’s a jackhammer behind my eyes trying to push my brain out through my eye sockets."

She blinked at him, slowly lifting the book off her thighs and setting it aside to point at the supply closet. “Top drawer. Behind the gloves. Red bottle. The one labeled ‘Headaches & Regrets,’” she still managed to jest.

That earned a soft huff from him—not quite a laugh, but close enough—and a soft thanks, but he didn’t move right away.

Instead, his eyes settled on her. Her arm was halfway raised again, shoulder rolled forward in slow, pained circles. She hadn’t realized she was still doing it.

He frowned. “You good?”

She blinked. “I’m fine.”

He looked at her then—really looked. Her words had been blurted out a little too fast for her to be fine.

The way his gaze searched her face made her feel small. Not in a bad way, but in the way someone feels seen and isn’t used to it. His eyes dropped to her hands, still subtly stretching and twisting at the wrists, then to her legs, propped up awkwardly. The rocking. The subtle winces she’d been trying to hide.

“Storm’s messing with you, too, uh?”

That wasn’t really a question, more like a polite affirmation from someone who got it but didn’t want to assume.

She hesitated, finaly settling for something vague. “Old injury. Messed up my hip and a bunch of my nerve endings. Weather like this… it’s kind of a bitch.”

“I get it,” he said. “My skull’s been ringing like a church bell since yesterday.”

She nodded, huffing, defeated by the weather. “It’s like that storm is turning me into a goddamn barometer.”

Bucky let out a breath that was almost a laugh, tired, strained, but understanding.

“Yeah. I’m getting the deluxe version too. Pressure’s been climbing all week. Think the serum makes it worse. Sensitive to pressure changes or whatever. It’s like I could feel that storm coming an hour before it even got close. Can barely think straight now.”

She gave a tired little shrug. “Bet your barometer doesn’t creak like a haunted house when you stand up, though.”

That made him smirk, just a little. “You’d be surprised.”

She nodded with a faint, weary smile that turned into a grimace as she dropped her arm and the muscles spasmed in protest.

She watched Bucky finally move, crossing the room with slow, deliberate steps, opening the drawer with his flesh hand while the metal one hung limp at his side. She noticed the tension in his shoulders, the tightness in his neck. He moved like every sound in the room was too loud. She knew that feeling. She watched him pull out the bottle she’d pointed to, but he didn’t take the pills right away. His eyes were back on her.

“You shouldn’t be in here alone when you’re hurting,” he said after a second. It wasn’t a command. Just a quiet observation. Gentle, even.

She shrugged… or at least tried to. “Didn’t want to bother anyone. Everyone’s out. Figured it’d pass.”

Bucky’s gaze didn’t move. He had that look—the kind people get when they’re watching someone bleed and trying not to show it.

“You know… storm’s not gonna pass for some times,” he said. “And I’ve got nowhere else to be.”

He watched her for a beat more, then nodded at her rocking motion. “You want company, or should I leave you to… whatever pain ritual this is?”

She flushed a bit, shifting in her chair. “It’s a very scientific technique. Ancient. Passed down by physiotherapists everywhere. Rock ‘til it stops hurting.”

He chuckled—low, rough, and real. The sound warmed something in her chest.

Without waiting for permission, he grabbed the chair across from her and dragged it closer, letting it creak beneath him as he sat down. She noticed his movements were slower than usual. Like gravity was heavier today, too.

“You been with us what… three weeks now?” he asked after a second. “Feels longer.”

“Yeah.” She paused. “In a good way, I hope.”

Bucky leaned back, his good hand finally twisting the cap off the pill bottle.

“I wouldn’t be sitting here if it wasn’t.”

That brought a smile to her lips, and warmth bloomed in her cheeks as she rocked forward gently in her chair, still swaying a little. She wasn’t used to that kind of attention, and embarrassment crept through her chest, making her eyes drop to a paper cup on her desk. It had gone lukewarm, forgotten long ago. Her mouth turned dry at the thought. She exhaled, slowly unhooking her legs from the upturned bin beneath them.

“I think I’m gonna refill this,” she said, voice light, even as her body protested every motion. She finished the cup before glancing at Bucky. “You want a drink too, or should I keep the top-shelf whiskey to myself?”

His lips curved at the corner. “Tempting. But I don’t think mixing painkillers with bourbon is a good idea.”

“Lightweight,” she muttered playfully as she rose from the chair.

That first movement—rising onto her right leg—was manageable. Not pleasant, but familiar. But as soon as her weight shifted to her left, a sharp clok rang out from deep in her hip joint. Loud. Heavy. And instantly wrong.

She groaned, the pain electric. Hot and sudden and white behind her eyes. She barely had time to grimace before her knee gave way, her whole leg buckling underneath her with no warning.

“Shit–!” She mentally braced for impact. But it never came.

A firm grip caught her wrist before her brain could register what had even happened. Another settled around her waist, solid and grounding. She blinked, heart pounding, and found herself pressed close to Bucky’s chest, the edge of his vibranium hand braced against her spine, holding her steady like she weighed nothing at all.

A scent—a mix of sweat, metal, gunpowder, and leather—so very masculine and intoxicating, wrapped around her.

“Got you.” His words were low, close—so close it made her head spin for a moment.

She realized then: he hadn’t even thought. Hadn’t planned. He’d moved before the sound of her hip had even fully registered. His face was right in front of hers, frown deep, blue eyes flicking between her expression and her legs like he was already scanning for more damage.

“I’m–” She sucked in a breath. “–Fine. That was just… spectacular timing.”

“You’re not fine,” he said, calm but firm. “That sound came from inside you.”

She let out a breathless laugh, trying to shake the nerves. “It’s just as I said… old injury. It does that sometimes. Storm’s pulling at it worse than usual. It’ll ease up in a second.”

“You said that ten minutes ago,” he murmured, not moving his arm from around her, “while you were rocking like a metronome.”

Her cheeks heated, but she hid it under sarcasm. “I didn’t think you noticed.” The tone was playful, masking embarrassment.

“I notice everything,” he said, softer now. Then, after a beat, “Especially pain.”

She swallowed hard. The closeness wasn’t helping her pulse calm down. His body was warm, even through the sweat and the tension, and the way he held her—firm but careful, like she’d break if he wasn’t—was doing something dangerous to her ribcage.

“I just wanted some water,” she whispered jokingly. “Didn’t think I’d trigger a full rescue mission.”

Bucky’s lips twitched, but he didn’t let go. “You still want it?”

Her eyes lifted to his. “…Yeah.”

He let out a small sigh, then tilted his head toward the chair. “Then sit. I’ll get it.”

“You don’t have to–”

“I know,” he said, already stepping away, guiding her gently back into her seat with one hand before turning toward the fountain.

She fell back into the chair with a quiet grunt, blinking at his retreating form as he walked toward the far wall, refilling her paper cup with cool, clean water. His broad shoulders were tense, the line of his jaw still tight. Whatever headache he was battling, it didn’t stop him from noticing her.

When he came back, he handed her the water with a look she couldn’t quite place. Something cautious. Gentle. Quietly angry, but not at her.

“So… the hip, huh?” he asked, voice soft as he leaned against the edge of the desk.

She nodded, sipping slowly.

“Car accident,” she said after a pause. “Twenty years ago. Fracture never fully healed the right way. Most days it’s manageable.”

“And on days like this?”

She hesitated. Then shrugged, sheepish. “I avoid standing. And maybe do some rocking-chair stimming like a grandma.”

He smiled—really smiled this time. And it wasn’t pity. It was something warmer. Something closer to understanding.

“Tower’s sensors showed the storm should break soon,” he murmured. “When it does, maybe we’ll both get some quiet.”

She gave him a small smile in return. “If we survive until then.”

Bucky nodded, then tapped his fingers lightly against the desk.

“Alright,” he said, like it was a mission briefing. “We keep at it. You stay here, keep doing your magic physio rock moves. I’ll sit here and be your very grumpy weather buddy.”

She looked at him. “That your way of asking if you can keep hanging out here?”

He arched a brow. “I’m not asking.”

And then he sat back. Close enough that her knees almost bumped his. And somehow, that storm outside felt a little further away.

They didn’t talk for a while.

The hum of the building’s vents filled the space, joined by the occasional creak of metal as the storm’s pressure pressed against the tower. The lights in the hallway flickered once—not enough to be alarming, just a reminder that something was still coming. Simmering. Brewing.

Bucky sat in the chair across from her, legs slightly spread, elbows resting on his thighs, the pill bottle now forgotten on the side of her desk. His head hung low like the weight in his skull was still pulling him down, but his eyes occasionally flicked her way, quietly checking on her without drawing attention to it.

She, meanwhile, had resumed her gentle rocking. Barely noticeable to most—just a soft side-to-side sway. It soothed her hip. Her spine. Her nerves. She wasn’t sure if it was helping him too, but he hadn’t moved since sitting down.

She was used to silence in here. But not this kind.

This one had gravity. A pull that was almost impossible to ignore.

She risked a glance at him. His hair had fallen into his face again, slightly damp and dark and sticking to his temple. He didn’t brush it away. He looked tired. And in the quiet, something pulled at her chest—not pity, but that ache of recognition. She wasn’t the only one carrying around old wounds that flared in bad weather.

She opened her mouth– And so did he. “So everyone’s on mission but you?” “How’d you end up working for Valentina?”

Both sentences collided in the air and just… hung there. She blinked. He blinked. Then they both let out a breath of something close to a bashful laugh.

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Uh. Sorry. You go first.”

Bucky leaned back slightly, folding his arms across his chest, still wearing that look—part curiosity, part caution. “How long have you been doing this… job? You’ve got that… polite vibe still. Like we still didn’t… damage that.”

A faint smirk tugged at her lips. “Yeah, I haven’t been shot at or emotionally traumatized in a briefing room yet, so I guess I’m not fully initiated. I’m still pretty green.”

He gave a soft snort at that, then tilted his head. “So? How’d you end up here? With us?”

She looked down at her cup, rolling the rim between her palms. She wasn’t sure what kind of answer he expected. The truth always sounded so… underwhelming. “I didn’t pick this job because of Valentina,” she said finally. “I picked it despite her.”

That made his brow lift a little.

“I was working in rehab facilities for powered people. Got decent at it. Especially the ones who didn’t trust easily.” She offered a small, wry smile. “Apparently that makes me an asset. When the place got shut down for lack of funds, she made me an offer. Said I’d be working with people who didn’t like to be touched, who didn’t like hospitals, who didn’t believe they could be helped. Thought of it like a challenge.”

She hesitated. “Then she told me it was for the Thunderbolts. And I– I almost said no.”

“Why didn’t you?”

She shrugged, then winced as it pulled at her shoulder. “Because something about it felt important. I don’t really know how to explain it. Like maybe if I did this, I’d be helping people who’d never had the chance to heal. People like me. Or…” Her eyes lifted to his. “…People like you.”

His gaze softened. Just a little.

She sat back in her chair again, letting her hip shift carefully. “Alright, your turn,” she said. “You’re not on the mission today?”

He shook his head. “Didn’t need me. It was recon-heavy. Yelena, Ava, Walker, and Alexei have their rhythm for that kind of thing. I’d just be in the way.”

She gave him a look. “You? In the way?”

Bucky shrugged. “Some days I don’t like quiet jobs. Especially not when my head’s pounding like right now. Makes it worse.”

She frowned. “So you came here to… what? Pop painkillers in your system like candies and listen to me creak like an old house?”

He actually smiled at that, and it reached his eyes this time—tired, yes, but real. “You creak,” he agreed. “But it’s not loud.”

She snorted, brow arched. “That supposed to be a compliment?”

He looked at her for a long second, then said softly, “You don’t make the room feel empty. That’s more than I can say for most.”

That shut her up real quick.

The silence that followed wasn’t tense this time. It was… different. Like the pressure in the room had shifted—just slightly. Still heavy. Still storm-laced. But not as lonely.

Outside, thunder still hadn’t come. But it was closer. And inside, maybe something was starting to crack. Not painfully. Just enough to let a little light in.

The silence stretched, low and weighted. She thought he might say something else, but instead, he just let his head fall forward into his hands again, fingers digging into his temples with a frustrated grunt. The tension in his neck had only gotten worse, muscles locked in place like stone.

She winced in sympathy. Her own body still ached, but watching someone else suffer—someone who never really let it show—was a whole other kind of pain.

She set her cup down, grabbed the edge of the desk for leverage, and slowly stood. The dull fire in her hip flared again, but she bit it back and rolled her shoulders, loosening the stiffness in her joints with a few practiced movements. Her neck popped twice, her knuckles once.

The sound made Bucky look up. “What are you doing?”

She rounded behind him slowly, using his chair to avoid losing balance again. “It physically hurts me to see you in this much pain,” she said gently, voice laced with quiet determination. “Let’s see if we can make it better.”

“I’m fine.”

She gave him a flat look. “You’re not. And it’s literally my job. I’ve just been sitting in here, doing nothing, reading a book while on payroll. At least let me try to do something useful.”

He sighed, already half-defeated by the logic. “You sure? You’re the one in pain.”

She huffed softly, a smile tugging at her lips. “Cause you’re not? Trust me. I’m better when I’m moving. Sitting still is what kills me.”

He didn’t argue again. Just gave a small grunt and nodded forward, letting her come up behind him.

She gently placed her hands on either side of his neck, over the collar of his shirt, testing the pressure before applying any. His muscles were rock solid, and not in a flattering way. Every inch of his upper back felt like it had been wired for tension.

She pressed slowly, thumbs working small, careful circles through the fabric.

He didn’t say anything at first, just let out a breath through his nose. But she could feel the slight give in his posture. His body had been bracing against touch, against help, and it was starting to loosen, like he was remembering how to receive care.

She kept working along the base of his neck, thumbs brushing the sides of his spine, focused and methodical.

“You don’t have to be so polite about it,” he muttered eventually, voice a little rough. “I’m not a modest teenager anymore.”

She blinked—then realized what he meant. Just as she was about to say something witty in return, he reached for the hem of his shirt and pulled it off in one smooth motion.

The fabric dropped onto the desk beside him.

And she forgot to breathe.

His back was a map of old battles. Long, pale lines of healed wounds, some faded, others still raw-looking. A puckered scar along the metal on his left shoulder, jagged like it had been torn open instead of cut. Bullet holes. Knife marks. Burns. She couldn’t look away, but she also knew better than to linger.

Letting out a small breath through her nose, she turned quickly, busying herself at the small cabinet near the wall.

Two things came out of habit: a bottle of peppermint essential oil and a neutral massage base, unscented. The menthol would help with the tension. The oil would keep her fingers from catching on all that hard-earned damage.

When she turned back, Bucky was sitting still, arms resting on his thighs again, eyes on the far wall. He hadn’t looked back. He wasn’t watching for her reaction. But she knew he was listening.

She said nothing.

Just poured a few drops of the neutral oil blend into her palms, rubbed them warm slowly, and laid her hands gently on his bare shoulders.

His skin was warm. Scarred. Solid beneath her touch. But he didn’t flinch.

“Tell me if it gets too much,” she said softly.

He didn’t answer right away. Then, quietly: “I trust you.” And Gods—if that wasn’t the heaviest thing anyone had ever said to her in a whisper.

She swallowed, nodded once, and pressed her thumbs into the tight muscles just below his neck. Slow. Steady. Careful not to lean too far, though her arms ached with effort. She worked in practiced patterns—releasing tension around the base of his skull, then down along the traps, across the tops of his shoulder blades.

He was so still.

And it wasn’t until she passed over a knot near his shoulder blade that he let out a shaky breath, like the pain had finally found an exit point.

She didn’t speak. Didn’t tease. She just kept working, quietly watching the tension leave his body drop by drop.

The storm hadn’t broken yet. But this steady silence? It felt like shelter.

Her hands kept moving, slow and sure, working through the worst of the tightness near his spine and the base of his neck. He didn’t speak again, only let out the occasional breath or low grunt when her thumbs found another knot. She kept her pressure firm but careful, not going deeper unless she could feel it was okay to press harder.

And then, without thinking, she started to hum.

Soft. Barely audible. Just enough to fill the silence.

It was instinct, the tune rising quietly into the space between them. The slow, drifting notes of Gymnopédie No.1, that haunting, bittersweet rhythm that steadied her hands, her breath, her focus. Like it had always had for years.

She’d used it in clinics, rehab, even during her own therapy. She barely noticed she was doing it anymore. Until Bucky’s voice broke through.

“What’s that?”

She stilled—hands, humming, everything. Eyes flicked to the back of his head.

“Hm?”

“That tune,” he said, softer now. Less gravel, more curious. “You were humming. What is it?”

Her mouth parted, surprised. “Oh– Oh Gods. Sorry. I didn’t even realize–”

His head tilted slightly. “Didn’t say I minded. Feels familiar, but I can’t place it.”

She hesitated, then gave a small laugh—the kind that said wow, I feel stupid, but also thanks for not making it weird.

“It’s just a… a reflex? Satie. Gymnopédie No.1. Classical. Kind of my go-to when I’m working.”

“Why?”

She smiled faintly, pressing her thumbs back into the space between his shoulders. “The tempo. It’s slow, steady. Helps me match my rhythm. Usually it stays in my head, but sometimes…” She gave a sheepish shrug, even if he couldn’t see it. “…it slips out.”

He was quiet a moment, then said: “It’s nice.”

Her hands faltered again—just a breath. Then she kept going.

“It helps me pace myself,” she added more softly, “otherwise I rush. And my joints don’t like rushing. Neither do my patients.”

A low hum rumbled from his chest, more felt than heard.

“I get that,” he said eventually. “I used to march to rhythm, too. In the war. Had to. Kept the unit together. Still keeps me together, some days.”

She didn’t speak. Just kept working. Gentle. Quiet.

The tension in him was slowly fading—not gone, but enough to loosen the hard lines of his shoulders. Enough to make him breathe differently.

She started humming again, quieter now. Almost just for herself.

And Bucky let it happen. He didn’t interrupt. He just… let her be with him in the stillness.

Eventually, her hands slowed.

The knots in his shoulders had softened, the tension in his neck no longer rigid under her thumbs. He still held a bit of stiffness, the kind that lingered after living with pain for too long, but the worst of it? She’d worked it loose. He hadn’t spoken much during the massage, but his breathing had shifted—longer exhales, shoulders less braced. Like something inside him had finally… let go.

She poured a single drop of peppermint oil onto her fingertip. Just one. Rubbing it between her fingers to warm it, she stepped to his side.

“Close your eyes for me,” she said gently.

Bucky obeyed without a word.

Her touch was featherlight as she brushed the oil across his temples, then between his brows. She didn’t press, didn’t dig—just enough to let the cooling menthol settle over his skin.

He exhaled—deep and low—the kind of sigh that slipped out before he could catch it.

“Is it still there?” she asked quietly.

“The headache?” he murmured. “Yeah. But it’s… getting quiet now. Like someone finally turned down the volume.”

She gave a small, satisfied smile. “Good.”

He kept his eyes closed as she stepped away, walking carefully to the sink. She turned on the water, rinsing her hands and wrists to wash the oil away. The cool water eased her own aching joints for a beat, even if the motion tugged at her hip again.

“Shirt on,” she called over her shoulder. “Muscles need to stay warm if you don’t want them locking back up.”

He chuckled faintly. “Yes, doc.”

When she turned off the faucet and dried her hands, she glanced back just in time to see him tugging the black T-shirt over his head. The fabric stretched across his shoulders, settling over all the old scars she’d just touched with such care. The sight made her chest ache in a way that had nothing to do with the atmospheric pressure.

She turned away, hiding the tiny smile threatening to give her away, and started her slow walk back to her chair. Every step made her hip twinge, and by the halfway point, she winced, letting out a soft breath.

Bucky caught the sound.

He was already on his feet before she reached for the desk. “You good?”

She waved him off halfheartedly. “Just feeling like a fossil today. Happens when your bones think the weather’s a threat. Not ideal when you’re in your late thirties.”

He reached her in two strides, one hand on her arm, the other hovering at her back—not pushing, not forcing, just there in case she needed him.

“You don’t look a day over twenty-five,” he said, brow furrowed but his voice soft, genuine. “Was about to ask you what high school you graduated from.”

She let out a small laugh through her next wince, easing herself carefully into the chair again.

“Oh please. You do realize I’m from the same century as you, right? Just a few… decades later.”

“Still,” he said, watching as she adjusted her legs with a small grunt, “you definitely don’t look like someone with a haunted hip.”

She arched a brow, smirking. “And you don’t look like someone who’s a hundred and ten years old, Barnes. Must be all that clean living.”

He snorted and sat back down across from her, this time leaning on the edge of the desk like he’d meant to stay longer all along.

“Something like that,” he murmured, his tone teasing—but behind his eyes, there was something softer. Something unreadable.

She didn’t press. Just sat back, finally letting herself rest now that her part was done.

For now, the storm still hadn’t broken. But the pressure in the room? It had eased. Like maybe this was the beginning of something quieter. Something that didn’t hurt.

The calm between them lingered.

For a moment, it felt like the air itself was holding its breath—that fragile peace between pain and relief, between the ache and whatever came next.

And that’s when the storm broke.

A sharp, rolling CRACK of thunder exploded overhead, shaking the tower’s windows with a vengeance. It was so sudden, so violent, that her whole body jolted in the chair before she could stop it. Her breath caught. Her hand flew to her chest. And from her lips, involuntarily–

A small, startled yelp.

Not loud. Not dramatic. But too real.

Bucky’s head snapped toward her instantly, eyes wide, alert. “Hey– Hey. You okay?”

She blinked, struggling to calm her pulse as the distant rumble gave way to a constant hiss. The rain had started—not gentle, but fast, like it had been waiting all week to be let loose, to be freed. It splattered against the tall windows, a steady downpour that covered the tower in sound.

She inhaled deeply, held it for three seconds, then exhaled slow. One breath. Then another.

“I’m fine,” she murmured, even though she wasn’t. Not really. “Loud bangs just… throw me off. Muscle memory. From the… the accident, the... crash.”

Bucky’s expression softened. He didn’t reach for her this time, just stayed where he was, giving her space—but his attention was entirely on her.

“Rain’s good, though,” she said after a moment, trying to settle back into her chair. “Means the pressure’s finally dropping. Storm’s finally moving on.”

He nodded slowly, gaze lingering on her face. “You still hurting?”

She gave a tired smile. “Always. But it’ll get better. That’s something.”

They sat there, listening to the steady drumming of the rain for a few long, quiet seconds.

And then– “Bucky?”

A voice echoed in from the hallway. Not loud, but bright, slightly out of breath.

Bucky sighed, his head turning toward the door just before Robert Reynolds appeared in the frame—tall, chestnut-haired, like a golden retriever looking for his owner, yet clearly trying not to intrude.

“Sorry,” Bob said, giving her a small nod of greeting. “Alexei’s pinged us on comms. Yelena needs an extraction run, and Walker’s got a sprained ankle like an absolute amateur—her words not mine. Mel says Val wants your opinion on rerouting the pickup.”

Bucky groaned under his breath. “Course she does.”

He stood up slowly, reaching for the bottle of painkillers he’d set aside earlier, pocketing it with a quiet mutter. Then he turned to face her, pausing just a beat too long.

She met his eyes.

“Go. I’ll be fine,” she said gently, answering the unspoken question. “The world needs its grumpiest strategist.”

That earned a quiet huff of amusement from him.

He hesitated, then nodded. “You sure?”

She smiled, softer now, motioning to the infirmary with a vague wave of her hand. “I’m not going anywhere.”

And there was something in his face when she said it, something that cracked open, just slightly. Like he wasn’t used to people saying that. Let alone meaning it.

“Alright,” he murmured, his voice lower. “I’ll be back. Soon.”

Then he turned and followed Bob into the hallway, boots thudding softly against the floor until the door eased shut behind him.

She leaned back slowly, her body still aching but somehow… lighter.

Outside, the rain continued—an insistent but somehow soothing soundtrack. And for the first time in days, the air felt breathable.

It had been a few days since the storm broke.

The skies had cleared. The air was lighter. And true to her word… she hadn’t gone anywhere.

She was always in the infirmary. Reading. Sorting supplies. Stretching stiff joints. Sometimes humming under her breath. And almost always—at some point in the day—Bucky showed up.

Never for anything major.

Once, he asked if she needed help lifting a box from the top shelf. Another time, he offered to walk down to the supply room and fetch extra gauze. Just the other day, he came in with a scraped knuckle that barely needed a bandage.

And some days? He didn’t come in at all. Just walked past. Twice. Three times, maybe. Like he’d forgotten something. Like he needed to be reminded she was still there.

She noticed. Of course she did. But she didn’t call him out for it. Just smiled. Softly. Kept going.

And then—today—came the mission.

She was sorting antiseptic bottles, back turned to the door, when the heavy sound of boots and uneven hurried steps echoed in the hallway.

She barely had time to turn before the door banged open.

“Hey, doc!” Walker’s voice rang out. “Got a situation!”

Her heart jumped before she even saw him. When she did, her stomach dropped.

Bucky was leaning against Walker, pale but upright, one hand clamped around his right side. Blood had soaked through his T-shirt, trailing down his abdomen, glistening against the black fabric. His jaw was set. Eyes steady. Mumbling it was gonna be fine, that he’d lived through worse… but he was clearly in pain.

She gasped. Just once. Then everything snapped into place. Professional mask on. Hands moving.

“Put him on the table—now.” Her voice was steady, controlled, as she swept supplies onto a tray and yanked gloves from the dispenser. “Close the door behind you.”

Walker obeyed without a word. Bucky grunted as he sat down, peeling off his suit with practiced hands, blood smearing over his skin as the fabric tugged against the wound.

She approached with quick, practiced steps, eyes scanning the damage. The shot had hit his side—just below the ribs. Deep enough to bleed like hell, but from what she could see, it hadn’t hit anything fatal and there was an exit wound. Good. It meant the bullet wasn’t still inside anymore.

She let out a quiet breath, mostly for herself.

“You’re gonna be okay,” she said, grabbing gauze. “It missed your lung. You’ll be fine. I’ve got you.”

Bucky’s eyes flicked to her face. “I’m not worried,” he said, calm as ever.

She forced a smile, tone a little dry. “Yeah, well. One of us has to be.”

Her hands worked quickly, cleaning the wound, applying pressure to slow the bleeding.

“I’ve stitched worse,” she murmured, more to herself than to him. “It’s just another tear. Muscle and skin. That’s all.”

Walker lingered for a moment, but when it was clear she had it under control, he gave Bucky a look and stepped out with a muttered, “I’ll give you two a minute.”

The door clicked shut.

Bucky sat back on the table, watching her as she prepared the suture kit.

She didn’t meet his eyes. She was too focused on the needle. On the antiseptic. On not letting her hands shake.

Only when she leaned closer to him to begin stitching, her face near his side, did she speak again. “You shouldn’t scare people like that,” she whispered.

He smiled faintly. “Didn’t mean to.”

Her fingers paused at his skin, breath caught halfway in her throat. Then she started stitching.

Slow. Steady. Clean.

She worked in silence for a beat too long, trying to keep her hands from trembling, trying to stop her heart from pounding against her ribs like it was her body that had taken the hit.

She cleaned the wound carefully, movements efficient. But she couldn’t keep the mutter under her breath from slipping out. “Always playing heroes… getting yourselves half-killed…”

Her tone was low, bitter. Too honest.

Bucky’s brow twitched with something like amusement. “Didn’t know you’d be this worried, doc.”

She didn’t look up. Didn’t smile. Her jaw clenched tight as she tied off the last stitch, breath held. Then finally, she said it—quiet but heavy.

“Well, I am.” Just that. No explanation. No humor. Only concern, raw and stripped bare, bleeding out of her like it had nowhere else to go.

The words hung in the room, still and weighty.

Bucky didn’t respond. Not out loud. But something shifted in the way he looked at her—just slightly. Like maybe he hadn’t expected her to care. Not like that. Not enough for her voice to crack under the pressure of it.

She cleared her throat, blinking away whatever heat had just flooded her chest, and stepped around him.

“The bullet went clean through,” she said, her voice back to clinical, careful. “Exit wound’s low on your waist. Needs closing too.”

He nodded, already bracing himself as she guided him to roll onto his side, careful not to tug at the fresh stitches on his front.

“Hold still,” she murmured, fingers at his hip. “It’s going to sting.”

Bucky didn’t flinch. He just reached forward and grabbed the edge of the metal table with his hand, knuckles going white.

But his eyes? They were on her. Watching as her brow furrowed, as her hands moved with calm precision. Watching the way her lashes fluttered, the small crease between her brows. The way she breathed through the pain that wasn’t even hers.

She didn’t notice. She was too focused. Too inside her own head, trying to keep it together. Trying not to imagine what would’ve happened if the shot had been a few inches higher. If he hadn’t made it back. If Walker had burst in through that door alone.

So she worked. And Bucky watched.

Letting himself feel it—just a little. Letting himself be cared for. Maybe for the first time in a very long time.

She tied the last stitch on his lower side with a practiced flick, then gently hooked her arm under his to help him sit back. He grunted but didn’t complain, letting her guide him as he eased upright again on the edge of the medical table.

His breath caught slightly as he sat. She was already reaching for clean gauze and the bandage roll from the tray.

“Alright,” she said, voice low, focused. “I’m going to wrap you up, and then you’re on strict no heroics for a few days. No sparring, no training, not even rooftop brooding. You hear me? The serum’ll do the heavy lifting, but the stitches need time.”

He let out a small grunt. “Know that already.”

She nodded, starting to wrap the gauze carefully around his middle. “I know you do.” She adjusted the angle. “But I still have to say it.”

The bandage wrapped snug across his ribs, layer after layer. Her fingers brushed the side of his chest, her hands working around the curve of his back.

“I’ll redo the dressing every day,” she continued. “In the morning. I’ll stop by your room.”

He shifted slightly under her touch. “I can do it myself.”

Her fingers froze. She didn’t look up. But her voice—oh, her voice—tightened, sharp like snapped wire.

“I’m not paid to sit around and read books, Barnes.”

The air between them went still. She kept her eyes on the bandage. Her jaw clenched.

“I’m here to take care of you. All of you. That’s the job. So let me do it.”

He didn’t argue this time. Just went very still under her hands. A beat passed. Then another.

She resumed her work, finishing the bandage in tense silence. But her fingers had lost their rhythm, the pressure off just enough to slip.

That's when it hit—her hand spasming mid-wrap, a sharp jolt of pain shooting from her wrist into her palm.

She hissed through her teeth, pulling her hand back instinctively and clenching it into a fist. The ache flared worse, sharp and hot in the tendons.

Bucky straightened, brow furrowing. “What–”

“It’s fine,” she muttered quickly, cradling her hand with her good one.

But her thumb was trembling. She flexed her fingers, trying to loosen the cramp.

He watched her, frown deepening. “Your hand–”

“I said it’s fine.”

She turned away slightly, embarrassed, massaging her palm and knuckles through the rubber of the glove. The stiffness in her joints made her whole hand feel like it had been turned to stone, and she hated how visible it was—how easily her body betrayed her when emotions ran too hot.

“It does that sometimes,” she said, voice lower now. “When I go too fast. Or get too tense.”

She didn’t say when I worry too much. But it was there. Hanging between the words.

She expected him to joke. To tease. Maybe to grumble that she couldn’t take care of anyone if she couldn’t even take care of herself first.

But he didn’t. He just sat there. Quiet.

And then, softly: “Give it here.”

She kept massaging her palm, stubbornly working her thumb over the tense knot near her wrist. It wasn’t helping much. The muscles were locked tight, the ache refusing to fade. Still, she muttered:

“It’s okay.”

Bucky raised a brow, unimpressed. “Yeah. Sure,” he said, dry as hell, laced with sarcasm. “You say that like I can’t hear your joints begging for mercy from where I sit.”

She scowled faintly, still not looking at him. “I’ve had worse.”

“I know you’ve had worse,” he shot back, more quietly now. “Doesn’t mean you have to tough it out alone.”

She paused.

He shifted slightly, resting his arm on his knee, his voice lowering again. Not teasing anymore—just… steady. “You take care of us. Every damn one of us. Even when we don’t ask for it.”

He glanced at her trembling hand. “But who takes care of you when you need it?”

That hit a little too close.

She let out a sigh, long and quiet, and finally rolled her eyes—not out of annoyance, but resignation. She knew when she’d been caught.

“Fine,” she muttered. “But don’t make it a thing.”

“Too late,” he murmured, corner of his mouth twitching up in the slightest smirk.

She held out her hand—reluctantly, palm up. It felt strange to offer it like that. Like a weakness. Like surrender.

Bucky took it gently, removed the glove, his fingers surprisingly warm, strong but careful. He didn’t rush, didn’t squeeze, just held her like she was made of something worth being gentle with.

He turned her hand slightly in his, examining the lines of tension, the way her thumb curved, the pads of her fingers still curled slightly inward.

“You did this for me the other day,” he said softly. “Let me return the favor.”

She didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Not with her throat that tight.

He hesitated, brow furrowing slightly as he gently pressed into a pressure point at the base of her thumb.

“I’m not as precise as you,” he added. “Tell me if I’m hurting you.”

She swallowed. “You’re not.” And then a breath. “I can hum the rhythm... if that helps.”

Bucky looked up at her, a little surprised.

“Yeah?” he asked, voice almost fond. “I’ll take it.”

She nodded, hesitating only a second before starting to hum—slow and low—that same Satie piece, Gymnopédie No.1, her voice soft in the sterile quiet of the infirmary.

He followed the pace. Let his hands move in time with the melody. Gentle pressure. Careful circles. He focused like it mattered. Because to him, it did.

And for the first time in a long time, someone held her together.

Not because she asked. But because he noticed. Because he saw right through her. Right through her pushing him away. And he refused to give in.

His fingers worked over hers in slow, practiced rhythm, her quiet humming filling the space between them. The pain in her hand was dulling now—not completely gone, but eased, tamed by the warmth of his touch and the weight of his presence.

It was strange, letting someone do this for her. Stranger still that it was him—especially when she was supposed to be the one taking care of him.

“That tune’s gonna be stuck in my head forever now,” he murmured, still working his thumb in slow, even circles against her palm.

She smiled faintly. “Good. It’s worth knowing.”

His hand stilled for just a moment, holding hers a little tighter.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “And I’ll always know how to fix you… if you need it.”

She looked up, caught off guard. His eyes were already on her.

Not flirtatious. Not teasing. Just honest. And it undid something in her.

Before she could answer—or even breathe properly—the door creaked open again.

“Hey, Barnes,” came Walker’s voice, loud and clueless as ever. “You two done with your little therapy hour? Val’s asking for you at the debrief.”

The doc didn’t hide her glare. In fact, she turned to level it at him.

Walker paused, blinking, looking at Bucky to understand what he said that she didn’t like. “…What?”

Bucky sighed, muttering something that might’ve been “You have the subtlety of a brick.”

She took a step back, finally slipping her hand from Bucky’s and finished dressing his wound properly before he moved to ease off the table. Walker stepped in to help, but she cut in with a sharp look first.

“No heroics,” she said firmly, pointing a warning finger from her good hand at Bucky. “I mean it.”

He smirked faintly, which only made her frown deepen.

“I’ll come to your room tomorrow morning,” she added, brushing invisible dust from her sleeve. “To redo the dressing.”

“You said that already, doc,” he murmured with a faint smirk.

And even though he didn’t say thank you, the look he gave her—steady, lingering—felt like one.

She didn’t look away until he did. And even then, she could still feel the warmth of his hand in hers.

The knock on his door was quiet but deliberate. Two short raps. Like she didn’t want to wake him—only, she knew he was awake.

Bucky was halfway through rubbing a towel through his hair when he heard it.

He glanced at himself in the mirror. His hair was damp, curling slightly at the ends. His dog tags glinted faintly against the dark blue fabric of the henley he’d finally settled on. Not his usual black-on-black uniform. Something softer. Maybe intentional. Maybe not.

His eyes drifted to the bed squared from old military habits. The dark red shirt still laying there on its hanger made him grimace. He grabbed it.

“One sec,” he called through the door, tossing the towel through the bathroom door and shoving the spare shirt into his wardrobe like it was the most incriminating piece of evidence in the world. He rubbed a hand down his face, took a breath, and opened the door.

She stood there, already in her white coat over a comfy sweater and old jeans, hair pinned up loosely with a pen like she’d thrown it together on autopilot, med pouch in hand. That familiar tiredness in her eyes.

“Mornin’,” he mumbled.

“Morning,” she returned softly, gaze flicking over the henley with the barest hint of amusement. Then her eyes shifted past him. She noticed the other shirt sticking awkwardly from the wardrobe, askew on its hanger. Smiled, but said nothing.

Bucky cleared his throat and stepped aside. “Come in.”

She breezed past him without hesitation and motioned toward the bed. “Sit. Shirt off.”

He raised a brow at the command but obeyed, tugging the fabric over his head with practiced ease and tossing it aside.

The wounds looked clean—no sign of infection, just faint redness around the stitches. Still, she moved with sharp focus, dragging the room’s chair closer and settling in front of him to unwind the gauze she’d wrapped around his waist the day before.

“How was the night?” she asked lightly.

He shrugged. “Had worse.”

Her eyes flicked up briefly. “How’s your side?”

He arched a brow. “How’s your hand?”

She smirked faintly, uncapping the disinfectant. “I’ve had worse.”

Then, pressing the pad gently against his stitched skin, she added flatly: “Two can play this game.”

A small huff of laughter escaped him.

“You know I’m supposed to assess you, right?” she went on. “Not just physically. Mentally, too. The whole team actually. Val’s orders.”

He didn’t flinch, but his voice dropped, blunt and unbothered. “You read my file.” It wasn’t a question.

Her hands slowed slightly. She didn’t deny it. “I did,” she admitted instead. “Because it’s my job.”

She paused, meeting his gaze squarely. “But I don’t pretend to understand what you went through. That would be insulting.”

His jaw flexed subtly, expression unreadable, eyes on her hands.

She shifted, handling the gauze with more care this time. “I just know,” she continued, quieter now, “that sometimes… all it takes is one bad night. One sound. One memory. And old wounds start bleeding like they never healed.”

Her voice stayed steady, but the undercurrent was unmistakable.

She didn’t need to say more. He’d seen it happen the day the storm finally broke. The thunder. The yelp. The way her body locked up like it remembered every metal crunch and shattered glass of that crash twenty years ago.

She finished securing the bandage and leaned back, meeting his gaze again. “I know you can handle pain, Barnes. I know you’ve had worse. But that doesn’t mean you should carry all of it alone.”

Bucky didn’t answer right away. He just looked at her—really looked. Not just the medic. Not just the one who stitched him up and hummed through the pain.

But someone who understood. Not his story, but the cracks left behind. The ones that came with surviving.

His mouth twitched at the corner. Barely a smile. More like a flicker of something softer. “You’re really gonna show up at my door every morning like this?” he asked, voice low and a little rough. Like the idea didn’t bother him in the slightest.

She arched a brow, standing and tucking her hands into her white coat pockets. “Unless you’d prefer Alexei doing your dressing instead,” she replied flatly, the faintest smirk tugging her lips. “I bet he’d enjoy it.”

Bucky actually flinched. “Jesus.”

Her smile turned slow and smug. “Exactly.”

He chuckled—short, warm, genuine—rubbing the back of his head as he reached for his shirt. “Guess I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

She paused at the door, glancing over her shoulder. “Don’t do anything stupid ‘til then, Barnes.”

“I’ll try not to.”

And just like that, the doc slipped out, letting the door swing shut behind her.

Bucky sat there for a long moment, shirt in hand, staring at the space she’d just left. His fingers brushed the fresh bandage around his ribs.

She hadn’t sung this time, but the hum of her voice from the previous day still lingered in his memory.

That tune really was going to be stuck in his head forever. But he didn’t mind one bit.

Three mornings. That’s how long the routine lasted. Three quiet visits where she sat him down, re-dressed the wound, checked for signs of infection, and gently, efficiently, peeled back the layers he’d wrapped around himself tighter than the gauze.

And then, just like that, she said the words: “It's ready to come out.”

The stitches. Not him. But damn if part of him didn’t wish otherwise.

He didn't say anything. Just watched her work—her fingers confident and precise, her hum absent again this time, replaced by the occasional quiet question about how it felt. He mumbled answers, too focused on how warm her hands were and the way her brow furrowed when she leaned in close, focused.

When it was done, she packed her things neatly, like always, and said, “You’re clear. Try not to get shot again.”

He had chuckled—maybe a little too fondly—and muttered, “No promises.”

But even after the stitches were gone, he still… wandered. Every day or two, like clockwork, he’d pass by the infirmary under some vague excuse. A sore shoulder. Restocking bandages. Checking on “protocols.” One time, he just stood in the doorway and asked if she had any peppermint oil left—“for Bob.”

No one was fooled.

Yelena was the first to say something.

She caught him loitering outside the medbay one afternoon, arms crossed, pretending to study a poster on proper handwashing techniques like it was sacred scripture.

She raised one dark brow. “You’re like a little stray dog, you know.”

Bucky glanced at her, frowning. “What?”

She smirked. “Someone feeds you once and now you’re hopelessly attached.”

He grumbled something unintelligible and stalked off—but he didn’t deny it.

Later that same day, after he dropped by again to “double-check his tetanus update”—not that the serum wouldn’t take care of it—Alexei grinned from the bench press.

“Nurses weren’t this gentle with me when I was Red Guardian,” he bellowed, flexing with absolutely zero subtlety. “Maybe I should take a bullet again, da?”

Bucky gave him a deadpan look. “If you’re that desperate to see her, just say the word, I’ll go grab my gun.”

That earned him an amused look from the ex-Soviet hero, who clearly took it as a compliment rather than a threat.

Bob, sitting cross-legged nearby with a snack in one hand and a faraway look in his eyes, spoke without even glancing up: “I like her. She’s soft.”

Everyone paused.

Yelena tilted her head. “Like… emotionally?”

Bob blinked. “No. Like… her voice. Or her hands. Or… maybe her soul. I don’t know. She reminds me of something soft.”

John Walker scoffed from across the room. “Are we talking about the same woman?” He gestured with his half-empty water bottle. “She told me, and I quote, ‘If you hurt your shoulder again by being stupid, I’m not going to fix it for you.’ That’s not soft. That’s dry.”

Ava, running on the treadmill, didn’t slow her stride. “She seems quiet,” she said simply. “Haven’t spoken much.”

Everyone looked at Bucky.

Bucky said nothing. He just kept his eyes on the hallway that led to the infirmary.

And—he’d never admit it under torture but—the corner of his mouth twitched up anyway.

The tower was asleep. Mostly.

Bucky had never been a deep sleeper, not before the war, and certainly not after. He’d learned to live in half-rest, always with one ear tuned to trouble. Most nights he slept with the covers half off, his dog tags still around his neck, a blade not far from reach—usually between the mattress and the bed frame. Not because he expected danger, but because it soothed something feral inside him to prepare.

Tonight, though… something different stirred.

A sound. Faint. Muffled. Not mechanical or structural. Human.

He turned his head toward the door, listening. Nothing for a beat. Maybe he imagined it– And there it was again.

A cry. Muffled, choked, like it had clawed its way out of someone’s throat against their will.

Bucky was on his feet before the full adrenaline even hit him. Someone else’s door creaked open down the hall, a startled voice—Yelena, maybe, asking “Did you hear–?”—but he was already moving.

He knew exactly which room.

Her room.

He burst in without knocking, pushing the door so fast it hit the wall with a sounding thud he didn’t even register.

The room was dim, lit only by the sliver of citylight bleeding through the curtains and the polarized glass. But it was enough to see her—twisted in the sheets, arms thrashing, breath coming in ragged gasps, sweat slicking her forehead. Her mouth was open in a cry, her body curled and locked in place like she was bracing for impact.

“No– No– Watch out!”

Instinct, not thought, moved him.

He crossed the room in two strides, half climbing over the mattress, hand hovering over her arm as if afraid to touch her.

“Hey, hey. You’re safe. It’s just a dream. You’re safe.”

She didn’t hear him. She flinched from his voice, rolled away, her back arching like she was in pain.

“C’mon, doc,” he murmured, softer now, voice barely above a whisper. “Wake up.”

His hand reached for her again in a split second—hesitating at the small of her back.

Then gently, he laid his metal palm there. Cool. Steady. Her body jerked. But his hand didn’t move.

“It’s me,” he whispered, leaning in closer. “It’s Bucky. You’re safe. I swear it.”

Her eyes snapped open like someone had pulled her up from underwater. Wide. Glazed. Breath caught mid-sob.

She gasped, clawing at the air like she still didn’t quite believe it.

“Hey,” he said again, more firmly now, his other hand coming up to cradle her arm. “You’re okay. You’re home. It’s just me.”

For a moment, she just stared at him.

Then her lip trembled. Her eyes filled. And she collapsed forward into his chest.

He caught her easily, one hand slipping behind her shoulders, the other cradling the back of her head. She was still shaking. Still struggling to get air through her lungs.

“I’m sorry,” she choked, voice cracked and raw. “I didn’t–”

“Shhh.” He held her tighter. “Don’t.”

Outside, he could hear the others shuffling. A door creaking. Murmurs down the hall.

He didn’t move. Just stayed where he was, wrapped around her in the dark.

And for the first time in a long time, Bucky Barnes held someone not because he had to—but because he wanted to. Because she needed it. Because someone finally mattered enough for him to burst through a door for.

Her breath was still catching in short, uneven bursts as she pressed her forehead into Bucky’s chest, his heartbeat steady beneath her cheek. She wasn’t fully back yet. Not really. The nightmare still had its claws in her—those seconds between sleep and waking where everything bleeds together. Where the crash and the fire were now, the pain fresh, the helplessness real.

But his hand didn’t leave her back. Didn’t flinch when her fingers curled tightly into his shirt.

The door creaked behind him.

Bucky didn’t turn his head, but his body shifted just slightly—more protective than before.

“Everything alright in here?” Yelena’s voice came softly, quieter than usual, almost cautious.

He answered without looking away. “Yeah. I’ve got it.”

A heartbeat.

She could feel the ex-Widow standing there, reading the room like a sniper gauging windspeed. Then her voice again, closer to the door now, protective.

“Walker, don’t even think about it.”

A loud, “What? I wasn’t–”

“Not your scene, idiot.”

Another voice, sluggish with sleep, gentle, curious. “Is everything okay?” That was Bob—he’d recognize it anywhere.

Yelena again, her tone already easing. “Bucky’s got it.”

And then—like someone hit the rewind button on a chaotic movie—doors closing one by one down the hallway. Click. Clack. One after another.

Until it was quiet again.

Just her. Him. The faint hum of the building around them.

Bucky let out a long breath, slow and measured. His hand was still at her back, warm and steady. His other hand moved—slowly, deliberately—to rest at the nape of her neck, fingers threading gently into her hair.

“You’re safe,” he said again, softer now. Almost like a promise.

She nodded against his chest, finally finding her voice. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t mean to–”

He pulled back, just enough to see her face. His expression was all softness now—none of the gruff edges, none of the sarcasm. “Don’t apologize for having scars.”

She blinked, her throat tightening all over again. “I woke the whole team.”

“They’ll live.” His lips twitched, just a little. “Walker could use a little emotional exposure.”

That actually pulled the faintest breath of a laugh from her chest.

Bucky’s thumb brushed her cheek, catching the last trace of a tear. “I’ve been there,” he said, voice low but unwavering. “Woken up like I was still bleeding. Thought I was back somewhere I swore I’d never go again.”

Her breath hitched. “I know the feeling,” she whispered. “Of waking up and… not knowing if it’s real or not.”

He nodded, slow and solemn. “I know.”

For a moment, neither of them moved. The silence wasn’t heavy now—it was thick, like a weighted blanket wrapped tight. She could almost feel it around them both.

“I’m okay,” she said after a while. Not because she felt like she had to—but because it was the truth, and she wanted him to know she was coming back.

“I’ll stay,” he said, just as quiet. “If you want.”

Her eyes flicked up to his. She didn’t answer with words. Just shifted, enough to open the space beside her.

An invitation.

He climbed onto the mattress completely. Slipped under the blanket behind her. Let his arm rest lightly at her waist, not trapping—just there. Like a tether. Like an anchor.

She took a deep breath. And when she exhaled, it was less shaky, heartbeat steadier.

Because he stayed.

She didn’t close her eyes again. Not right away.

Sleep didn’t return easily after dreams like that—not with her blood still buzzing and her mind still holding on to images she didn’t want to remember.

Bucky hadn’t moved. His arm still rested at her waist, gentle but solid. She could feel the rise and fall of his breathing against her back, steadying her more than she wanted to admit.

“…Can I put something on?” she asked softly, not turning around. “Music helps. I just– I can’t stay in the silence right now.”

He didn’t hesitate. “Yeah. Go ahead.”

She reached for her phone on the nightstand, flicked through her usual post-nightmare playlist until the right one came up—low, slow strings, something heavy with emotion but not overwhelming. Melancholic. Beautiful. Something that filled the cracks in the room without trying to patch them.

She lay back down slowly, turning this time so she could face him in the dim light. He was already watching her. Eyes dark, thoughtful. He didn’t try to hide it. Neither did she.

The silence stretched between them, thick with all the questions they hadn’t dared ask until now. So she just asked one. Ripped it clean, like a bandage.

“What’s this?”

His gaze didn’t flinch. He let the question hang for a moment, like he wanted to respect it.

“I don’t know,” he said finally. Quiet. Honest. “Not exactly.”

She didn’t look away.

“But I know I want to find out. If you want to.”

She held his eyes. The music faintly swelled behind them, a soft crescendo before it dipped again.

“Bucky…”

He shook his head just a little, the edge of something gentle in the movement. “We don’t have to name it. Not now. Doesn’t have to be anything yet. It doesn’t matter.”

He reached up, not to touch, just to emphasize the words. “The only thing that matters is that there’s something.”

His eyes were so open, so unguarded. She’d read his file—Dr. Raynor’s notes—and knew it didn’t happen. Not like this.

“No matter what shape it takes,” he added, “I’m here. For however long you want me.”

Her throat tightened. “I don’t do halfways,” she said, voice a little hoarse.

“Neither do I.”

The music played on, long and aching between them. Neither of them moved. Not yet.

But something had shifted. The shape wasn’t clear. The edges weren’t defined. But the weight of it? Real. Undeniable.

And maybe that was enough. For now.

When sleep came for her again, it wasn’t the storm that followed. It was calm. Quiet. Warm. Safe.

It was the quiet that woke him. Not the kind that was sterile or empty—but the kind that settled. Heavy. Still. Peaceful.

Bucky hadn’t slept like this in… God. He didn’t know how long. No tossing. No dreams. No waking with his fists clenched, his body tense, jaw locked against memories. Just warmth. And the unmistakable weight of her.

His eyes opened slowly, adjusting to the soft morning light spilling through the window. At first, all he registered was comfort. A kind of warmth he couldn’t name. Then he realized why.

She was pressed to his chest, her forehead tucked beneath his jaw, one hand resting against his sternum like it belonged there. Her legs were tangled between his, the curve of her body fitted perfectly into the line of his. His arm had found its way around her back in sleep, holding her close. Protective. Like it had always been meant to.

He looked down slowly, barely breathing. And there she was.

Lashes fluttering slightly, lips parted just enough to let out soft, steady breaths. Completely out. Oh-so-vulnerable. Her cheek was pressed against him, her hand curled slightly like she’d been clinging to his shirt in her sleep.

There was no space between them. No tension. No hesitation. Just this—the kind of unconscious closeness you didn’t fall into with a stranger. Or even a friend.

This was something else.

He let his head fall back against the pillow, throat tight, heart… weirdly calm. No panic. No guilt. Just that growing, quiet certainty that he couldn’t move without waking her.

So he didn’t.

He stayed right there, still, letting her warmth anchor him to the present. Letting himself look. Really look.

The lines around her mouth were softer in sleep. No tension in her jaw. No trace of the pain she’d been in yesterday. He could still feel it in her body though, in the way her hips tilted slightly to relieve pressure, the faint wince that still lingered in her brow even now. And still… her body had found him. Like it knew. Like it remembered.

His thumb, careful and slow, brushed a loose strand of hair from her forehead. She didn’t stir.

He closed his eyes again. Not to sleep. Just to stay.

Because for the first time in longer than he could remember, Bucky Barnes didn’t want to be anywhere else. She sighed in her sleep.

It was soft. Barely audible. But Bucky heard it like a gunshot in the quiet morning.

Then came his name—murmured, half-breathed, like it slipped past her lips without asking permission.

“Bucky…”

He froze. Not because he was afraid. But because he could feel the way her body shifted next—pressing more firmly against his, seeking him out. Like whatever thread her dream self was holding onto, it led straight to him.

And God, the way that felt–

Warmth coiled low in his gut, tight and visceral. Not just from the way her thigh slipped over his, or the way her fingers curled against his chest again, but from the truth of it. From knowing that, asleep or awake, her body chose him.

She groaned softly, hand drifting up to cover her face like she could block out the day itself.

He felt her move—hesitating between the pull of rest and the awareness blooming slowly across her features.

Her eyes fluttered open. Blinked once. Twice. Then locked with his.

For a moment, she didn’t move. She just stared at him like she was still dreaming, like her brain couldn’t reconcile the comfort in her limbs with the sight of him this close. The weight of him still in her bed. The way his arm still held her gently at the waist.

And him? He smiled. Just a little.

“Mornin’ doc,” he said, voice low, rough with sleep, but soft in a way he didn’t let many people hear.

She blinked again. Then, quietly, still a little breathless–

“Morning, Barnes.”

Her voice was scratchy, dazed, like she wasn’t sure if speaking would make this real or shatter it. But it didn’t shatter.

She was still there. Still wrapped around him, tangled in blankets and something unspoken that had taken shape in the dark.

And neither of them moved. Because suddenly, there was nowhere else to be.

She didn’t look away. Neither did he.

The moment stretched, slow and warm, soft around the edges like morning light slipping between blinds. She was still pressed to his chest, her leg draped over his, her fingers unconsciously curling against the worn fabric of his shirt.

And then—just when she thought her heart might calm down–

Bucky tilted his head slightly, his lips curling into the barest ghost of a smirk.

“You always wake up this pretty…” he murmured, voice still rough from sleep, “or is it just for me?”

Her breath caught in her throat.

A beat passed.

Her brows lifted, just a little, eyes narrowing like ‘really?‘ but her chest was warm and her lips betrayed her with a hint of a smile.

“Oh,” she said flatly, dry as hell. “That’s how we’re doing this.”

He grinned, and damn it, he didn’t even try to hide it now.

“You started it,” he shrugged—just the shoulder not pinned under her weight.

“Did I?” she asked, voice dipping lower.

“You said my name,” he shot back, a little too smug for someone still horizontal. “In your sleep.”

She flushed—visibly.

Gods. She had. She remembered now. The edge of the dream still hung on the rim of her awareness, and yeah… it made sense. She’d reached for him because she knew he was there. Not just in the room—but with her.

She looked away for half a second, just enough to recover. Then turned back, calmer.

“And you didn’t run,” she said.

His smile faded, just enough to let something else show through.

“I didn’t want to.”

There was no teasing in that. No deflection. Just the truth.

It landed softly between them. Honest. Undeniable. And it stayed there, like a red thread pulling tighter between their chests.

She shifted slightly beneath the covers, trying to stretch out her hip. Big mistake.

A sharp pinch flared through the joint, radiating down her thigh like lightning. Her face scrunched before she could stop it, breath catching between her teeth.

Bucky was instantly alert.

“Hey,” he murmured, voice suddenly serious. “What’s wrong?”

She groaned, scrubbing a hand over her face.

“It’s fine,” she muttered, breathless. “Just my hip. It’s always worse in the morning after a bad night. I need my meds and a hot shower.”

His brow creased, eyes sweeping over her like he could see the pain curling beneath her skin.

“Is there anything I can do?” he asked, earnest and a little helpless.

That almost broke her more than the pain itself.

She gave him a crooked smile, something soft.

“No. Not really. It’s just how it goes sometimes.”

But she hesitated. Let out a long breath. And then, without over-thinking it, boldly:

“…Though sometimes, if I confuse my nerves—throw them off with a new sensation—it can ease up. Just a little.”

He blinked. And then, slowly smirked.

“Is that so?” he murmured, eyes glittering with something that wasn’t quite teasing. Almost. But not cruel.

Before she could ask, his metal hand slipped under the blankets—cool against the warmth of her skin—and found her forearm.

She shivered.

“Bucky–!”

“You said you needed a distraction,” he said, far too pleased with himself.

She frowned at him—tried to, anyway. “Really?”

He grinned wider. It was almost boyish. Almost.

“I’m just being helpful.”

“Oh yeah?” she muttered, and poked him in the stomach—expecting solid muscle and smug silence.

What she got instead was a surprised little jerk and a barely stifled laugh.

Her eyes narrowed.

“You’re ticklish?”

“No–” he said instantly, like a liar. The kind of no that meant yes but he didn’t want anyone to know.

She poked him again.

He twitched.

“Stop it,” he said, but he was already grinning, laughing under his breath as she did it again.

One more poke and he lunged—not to stop her, not really, but to retaliate.

The movement shifted them both—bodies rolling together, tangled again in the sheets. His hands caught her sides, hers caught his arms, and suddenly she was there again—against his chest, breathless, laughing, eyes locked.

And then it stopped. Not in fear. Just slowed.

Because he was looking at her. Really looking at her. And it wasn’t about the joke anymore.

“Damn…” he breathed, almost to himself. “What did I do to get so lucky?”

Her heart stuttered. Color rose to her cheeks again, warmth blooming under her skin as his eyes searched hers, open and full of something she didn’t dare name.

Not yet. But it was there.

And then—softly, leaning closer, his lips just shy of hers: “I want to kiss you,” he whispered.

Her heart was pounding. Not the way it did after a nightmare. Not the thrum of panic or fear. No, this was different. This was anticipation. This was him.

Bucky was so close now she could feel the warmth of his breath against her lips, eyes fixed on hers like she was the only solid thing left in the world. His hand, warm and flesh this time, rose slowly to brush a strand of hair behind her ear, fingertips barely grazing her cheek as he did.

“Is it okay if I do?” he asked softly, carefully.

She nodded. Barely. Just once.

And he didn’t rush. He closed the space like it mattered. Like every millimeter was a promise.

When his lips met hers, it was featherlight—a question, not a claim. The kind of kiss that waits for an answer, not assumes one. His hand cradled her jaw, thumb brushing her skin, grounding them both in the here and now.

It was so gentle, it almost hurt. Because it meant something. It was reverent. Careful. Like he didn’t want to break her. Like he didn’t want to break this.

But then she kissed him back—tilted her head, let her hand rise to his chest, clutching fabric between her fingers. She leaned into him, deepening it, opening her mouth just a little, just enough– And something broke.

His other arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her flush to him. The kiss shifted—still soft, but deeper now. Needier. His breath hitched when her fingers tangled in the hair at the nape of his neck, when her body pressed more firmly into his.

Her name left his lips like a sigh between kisses, low and rough and utterly wrecked.

And then it was messy—not in movement, but in feeling. His hands roamed—over her sides, her back, learning the shape of her like he wanted to remember it. She kissed him harder, and he answered in kind, like this was what his mouth was made for. Like she was what he’d been waiting for all this fucking time.

When she finally pulled back—just enough to breathe—her lips were tingling, her chest heaving, her eyes locked with his.

Neither of them spoke. But the silence wasn’t awkward. It was charged. Sacred.

And she knew without needing to say it– This was only the beginning.

A muffled crash echoed faintly from somewhere down the hallway, probably the sound of a plate shattering followed by Bob’s unmistakably concerned voice calling out: “Yelena, you okay?!” “Sorry!” the Russian shouted back, unapologetic and zero percent sorry.

The spell cracked. The doc chuckled, unable to help it—still breathless, still pressed against him. Bucky groaned in frustration—like someone forced to wake from a really good dream before they’re ready.

His head dropped into the crook of her neck, his nose brushing just under her jaw, and he inhaled slowly. Deeply. Like he wanted to memorize her.

Scent. Warmth. Skin. Her.

She let him stay there for a second. Just a second more. And then she shifted again.

Bad idea.

This time there was an audible crack and the pain sparked hard, a sharper stab from deep in her hip. She couldn’t stifle the wince, or the breath she sucked through her teeth.

Bucky felt it instantly. He pulled back—reluctantly yet protectively, eyes sweeping over her, concern overtaking the softness in an instant.

She gave a sheepish little smile. “Yeah… I really need that shower now.”

“You don’t have to apologize,” he said, firm but quiet. “Especially not for pain. Not to anyone. And definitely not to me.”

“Force of habit,” she murmured.

He gave her a look. Not sharp. Just… disappointed. Soft glare, Winter Soldier edition, turned down to affectionate scolding.

She deflected—because that’s what she did—with an eye roll. She reached for the blankets, threw them back, and carefully sat up on the edge of the bed.

Her breath hissed through her teeth again.

The playfulness faded as her body reminded her exactly how real it all was. The rolling around, the twisting, the pinching of old wounds—none of it forgotten by her nerves.

Bucky was out of bed in a blink, besides her, like he knew before she even said anything, his hand finding her elbow to help her.

“Don’t–” she started, “I can–”

But she couldn’t. Not really.

She tried to stand. Her leg gave way before she even got her weight on it.

He didn’t ask. He just scooped her up, arms under her legs and behind her back like she weighed nothing, holding her to his chest with absolute ease.

She let out a startled noise, half protest, half surrender.

“Bucky–”

“I got you, doc.”

She exhaled, curling her fingers lightly into his shirt. The ache was still there, but it felt just a little less heavy like this—held in arms that didn’t flinch from her pain. That didn’t pretend it wasn’t there.

He carried her carefully toward the bathroom, steps slow, cautious. Like he wasn’t in a rush. Like he’d do this every morning if she’d let him.

He set her down carefully on the edge of the closed toilet lid, his hands lingering for a second longer than necessary—like he was still worried she might slip, even sitting. She leaned forward slightly, bracing her arms on her knees, wincing as the pain shifted again.

“Need anything?” he asked, voice quiet but so damn present. “You want me to stay?”

She hesitated. “I’m good,” she said—too quickly, too bright.

His eyes narrowed slightly. He didn’t believe her. Not fully. So she deflected again.

“Honestly? I wish Val had put bathtubs in here instead of showers,” she muttered, offering a crooked smile. “But then again, I’d probably never get out of it on my own.”

That earned a quiet huff from him—almost a laugh, but not quite. He still looked worried. She looked up at him again, softening.

“I’m okay, Bucky,” she said gently. “I’m just not– I’m not ready to take a shower with an audience.”

He blinked. “I wasn’t gonna–”

“I know,” she cut in quickly, not accusing. Just… shy. “It’s not you. It’s me. I’ve got my scars too.”

Her smile faltered at the edge. She didn’t say the rest. Didn’t mention the parts of her body she’d made peace with over time, but not enough to let him see them yet. Not like that.

But he got it anyway. Not the specifics—but the weight behind her eyes. And he respected it. Even if his frown deepened a little.

“Okay,” he said, stepping back. “But you call if anything happens, yeah? Yell if you need me.”

“I will,” she promised, grabbing the counter with one hand as she pushed herself upright again.

He hovered at the door a second longer. And then, when she glanced up and arched a brow at him–

“A magician never reveals her secrets,” she said with a smirk, motioning to the bathroom around her. “And I’m not letting you watch the transformation.”

That earned a real grin from him. Soft. Adoring.

“Fine,” he said. “But it better be a good one.”

“It always is,” she teased.

He backed out of the bathroom slowly, his hand resting on the frame for a moment, like he didn’t want to leave—but knew he should.

“You sure you’re good?”

“I’m sure.”

A couple of heartbeats passed.

“Bucky,” she said more softly. “Thank you. For this morning. For– For everything.”

He gave her a nod, attention flickering between her mouth and her gaze, filled with a longing she’d never seen in the eyes of any man until now.

“Anytime,” he murmured, and slipped out, closing the door softly behind him.

She heard his steps retreating, slow and measured—toward his own room. A few minutes later, the sound of running water through the pipes in the walls let her know he was in the shower too.

And for the first time in what felt like days, she exhaled fully. She was still aching. Still tired. But she was also warm.

She wasn’t alone.

The shower helped. Not as much as she’d hoped, but enough to dull the worst of it. Her body still protested every shift, but at least now it felt bearable. Manageable.

And in the quiet steam of the bathroom, she could still feel the ghost of his lips against hers.

After a quick shower and change of clothes, Bucky padded quietly back through the hallway, hair still damp, his dark blue henley clinging a little to his skin. He slowed instinctively near her door—lingering without meaning to—but didn’t knock. He didn’t want to push. Not so soon after she’d just assured him she’d call if she needed it.

So he carried on.

The scent hit him first as he neared the kitchen: something vaguely sweet and… protein-forward?

Sure enough–

Alexei stood proudly at the stove, flipping waffles with the kind of theatrical flourish that could only come from a man raised on Soviet glory and decades of prison workouts. Beside him, a trough of batter that looked suspiciously like it could power a small village.

Walker sat at the island, elbows on the counter, head bowed dramatically over his mug like he was personally offended by the coffee.

Bob was talking nonstop, eyes bright, hands flailing. “…I swear, they put the tutu on the dog and the dog danced. Like, full-on ballerina spin. You think I’m kidding but I am not, Ava– Ava– I need you to see this, it changed me.”

Ava didn’t even blink. “That’s nice, Bob.”

At the far end, Yelena stood barefoot and unbothered, slowly sharpening a kitchen knife with a precision that could either be considered meditative or vaguely threatening depending on the angle.

Then Bucky walked in. Everything stopped. Like a weird sitcom freeze-frame.

He froze too, halfway to the coffee pot, eyes flicking to each of them. “…What?”

Yelena grinned, not looking up from her blade. “Just wondering if you were gonna come back to your own room at all.”

Alexei snorted. “We thought maybe you moved in. New roommate, da?”

Bucky scowled—defensive, but trying to hide the blush creeping up his neck. “You all stalking me now?”

Yelena arched a brow. “Door to your room was still open this morning, Soldat. I walked past it on the way to get my tea. No one was in it.”

Bob mocked a gasp, hands over-dramatically clutched to his chest like a clueless man watching a drama unfold. “A plot twist!” But the teasing glint in his eyes said what they all thought.

Walker didn’t even lift his head. “Finally,” he muttered into his coffee.

Ava rolled her eyes. “He was literally bursting through her room the second he heard her thrashing in her sleep, why is any of this surprising?”

Bucky just stood there. Holding the coffee pot. Frown set. Ears pink.

“…You’re all so fucking annoying,” he grumbled.

Yelena smirked and resumed sharpening. “You’re welcome.”

The doc never ate with them. Not really.

On most mornings, she moved like a shadow—slipping into the kitchen either before the rest of them were awake, or after they’d cleared out for training. She had a whole system by now: get in, grab what she needed, and disappear back into the infirmary before the sound of boots or banter filled the hall.

They didn’t mean to be intimidating.

But the Thunderbolts were tight. A weird, dysfunctional, loud-mouthed family forged by shared pain and Valentina’s questionable leadership. They weren’t just coworkers or teammates—they were connected. They bickered and joked and shoved each other around, like a bunch of kids sometimes, and somehow made it all feel like home.

She didn’t want to intrude on that. She wasn’t part of that. Not really.

So, most mornings, she slipped by.

But not today.

Today, she was slower. Still aching. And her timing was off—enough that she passed the open doorway of the kitchen just as the smell of protein waffles and too much coffee hit her in the face.

She didn’t mean to look inside. But she did.

And Alexei caught her.

“Hey, Doc!” His voice boomed across the room like a cannonball, bright and warm. “You want waffles?”

She froze. Mid-step. Like a deer in headlights, back stiff, hand twitching slightly at her side. She hadn’t expected to be seen, let alone invited.

Her mouth opened to politely decline, but–

“What kind of tea do you want this morning?” Yelena asked over her shoulder, already reaching for the electric kettle. “We have the mint you like. Or the fruity one, strawberry? There’s lemon too.”

The doc’s eyes shot to her, caught off guard as she realized the ex-Widow had noticed her preferences.

Then to Bob, who was already mid-chair-pull, gesturing toward the space beside him like it was already hers.

Walker didn’t even react—just gave her a subtle nod over his mug like this was the most normal thing in the world.

Ava offered her a warm and encouraging smile.

And then her eyes landed on him.

Bucky.

His expression was unreadable for half a second—then he tilted his head toward the open space, and without a word, set his coffee down and crossed the room to her.

“Hey,” he said, voice quiet, low, just for her. “C’mon.”

He offered his arm—not grabbing, just offering—and when she hesitated, he dropped his voice a little more. “Let me help.”

Her footing wasn’t great. Not after standing too long in one place. The ache in her hip was starting to throb again.

So she nodded. Took his arm. Let him guide her into the room like it wasn’t a big deal. Like this was what she did every morning.

She could feel them watching. Not judging. Just… memorizing.

She lowered herself carefully into the chair Bob had pulled out for her. He grinned, victorious.

Yelena slid a steaming cup in front of her before she could say anything. “Still take it with honey?”

The doc blinked. How did she know that? “Yeah. Thank you.”

Alexei was already stacking two thick waffles on a plate with way too much gusto. “You don’t have to eat protein waffle,” he said seriously, “but I make very good protein waffle.”

The scent hit her nose. She smiled despite herself.

Bucky stayed near her side for a moment longer—his hand brushing hers as he set her utensils down. Just once. Just long enough.

And when he returned to his seat across from her, coffee back in hand, she realized something.

This time? She wasn’t outside the circle. She was in it.

Things shifted.

Not all at once.

There was no big announcement, no team meeting where someone said, hey, the doc belongs with us now. It just happened—slow and quiet, like water wearing down stone.

Bob was the first. Of course.

He started swinging by the infirmary mid-mornings, smoothie in hand, usually chattering about some ridiculous video he’d found or a new conspiracy theory involving lizard people and pizza toppings. She humored him—because it was easier than arguing. And because, deep down, it was… nice.

The company. The dumb jokes. The little glint in his eye when he made her smile.

Yelena came next.

Snacks—always snacks. Stashed in her jacket pockets or tucked into sealed jars labeled “totally not poisoned ;).” She didn’t make a fuss, just dropped them on the desk with a shrug and a sharp: “Eat something, or I’ll feed you myself.”

And somehow, the doc knew the blonde woman meant it.

Walker stopped tending to his own injuries.

She noticed the change in his posture first. Less stubborn. Less defensive. And when he came in with a busted knuckle and muttered something like, “Figured you’d do a better job,” she didn’t point it out. Just cleaned the cut and kept the smirk to herself when he handed her the alcohol swab before she reached for it.

Alexei started asking questions.

About protein, about joint care, about vitamins. “I am not getting younger,” he said, very seriously, while chewing something that looked like it was strong enough to wrestle back against the Red Guardian jaw. “You are like small scientist. I trust you.”

Ava never said much—but she helped. Every week like clockwork, she showed up to restock shelves. Silently, methodically, like it had always been her job.

And Bucky? Bucky kept showing up.

Sometimes just to lean on her doorframe and talk about nothing. Sometimes to ask how she was really doing. Sometimes to just be there—close, constant, solid.

She started taking her breakfasts with them.

Not every day. But often enough that no one batted an eye anymore when she limped into the kitchen and made a beeline for the electric kettle while Bob yelled “Doc! You gotta see this!” and Yelena wordlessly slid her a biscuit.

Bucky spent most nights in her bed now.

It wasn’t official. There were no toothbrushes or declarations. Just two people sharing space, holding each other when it got too loud, too heavy. And in the quiet hours before dawn, she sometimes caught herself watching him—studying the lines of his face, the calm in his breath—and wondering how the hell she got so lucky.

This morning, though, he was the one watching her. The light was soft. Not quite sunrise, not quite shadow. His flesh arm was tucked beneath the pillow, the metal one resting protectively across her waist, his fingers curled slightly against her hoodie.

She stirred a little, shifting her leg, wincing slightly. He caught it. “Hey,” he murmured. She blinked slowly, still half-asleep. “Morning.”

He didn’t smile. Not yet. Instead: “When do you treat your pain?”

That made her pause. She looked up at him, a little confused.

“I mean…” he continued softly, “you take care of all of us. You check our injuries, scold us for not hydrating, make sure we stretch before training…”

He reached out, brushing his knuckles gently along her cheek. “But what about you? Do you go see a physio? Do you– Do you do your own stretches? Take anything before it gets bad?”

Her eyes drifted away. Guilt tugged at her ribs like a tight thread. “I’m not–” she started, then sighed. “I’m good at taking care of other people, Bucky. Not myself.”

He was quiet for a moment. Then: “I know.” Not accusing. Not disappointed. Just… honest.

Because he saw it. The way she brushed off her pain. How she always said ‘I’m fine’ with clenched teeth, always a little too fast. How she limped a little more on stormy days but said nothing. And he hated that he hadn’t asked sooner.

“I’ll help,” he said simply. “If you let me.”

At first, she did what she always did. She said no. Reflexively. Automatically. Without even thinking. “I’m fine, Bucks.”

But he didn’t budge. Didn’t roll his eyes, didn’t argue. Just looked at her with that calm, soft gaze that made everything in her chest feel like glass. “You’d never let one of us say that.”

She opened her mouth to push back—but the words didn’t come.

He shifted, sitting up slowly, pulling the blanket back just enough to show he wasn’t going anywhere. “I want to help,” he said gently. “Let me.”

Her throat tightened. “Like you take care of us,” he added, “I need to take care of you. Would you let me?”

She held his gaze for a moment. He didn’t say the word ‘please’ but she felt it in his voice. A weight that crushed her heart. So she nodded. Just once. “Okay.”

She started with her hands and arms. They were safest. Easiest to explain.

She reached into the drawer of her nightstand and pulled out a small dark plastic bottle—massage oil with something calming in it. Lavender. She’d had it for months, maybe even longer. Never touched it.

But this time, she unscrewed the cap.

She guided him to sit across from her on the bed, knees brushing, and poured a few drops into his palm, warming it with his other hand.

He didn’t ask questions. Just watched her. Quiet. Attentive.

Then, slowly, he reached for her arm.

His fingers moved gently over her wrist, then upward, working into the tendons along her forearm. She let her eyes flutter shut. She hadn’t realized how tightly she’d been holding tension there—how good it felt to let someone else be careful with her.

She took a breath. “There’s some nerve damage,” she murmured. “Right here. Above the elbow. If I sleep wrong, it pins everything down and I lose feeling in my fingertips.”

His thumb paused for half a second. Then adjusted. Softer. More deliberate.

She guided him through each spot. The places that locked up. The ones that sparked pain without warning. He listened with his hands as she hummed the rhythm.

Her back was next.

She removed her hoodie and pulled her T-shirt up, turning just enough to show him where the nerves tangled just below her right shoulder blade. “Most days it’s a dull throb,” she said. “But when it flares, it feels like lightning. Like everything misfires.”

He didn’t answer. He just pressed his palm there. Warm and steady.

And then– She shifted again. Fingers trembling a little as she pulled her hair to one side. “I have– a scar,” she murmured, a little quieter. “From the accident. Just above the ear.”

She didn’t look at him as she said it. But she felt his breath as he leaned in, parting the strands with care, fingertips brushing her scalp like she was something precious.

She felt the soft kiss of his touch against the bump of kneaded tissue.

“I get tangles there,” she added softly. “Every morning. I guess the hair catches on the scar when I sleep or something…”

“I’ll help with those too,” he murmured. Voice low. Reverent.

She reached for the hem of her shirt again, hesitating only for a second before lifting it just enough to reveal the faint mark on her side. The burn. “It’s not bad,” she said quickly. “Could pass for a sunburn. But it’s– It’s there.”

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away. He just reached out—metal fingers cool, feather-light—and traced the edge of it with a kind of awe.

“You were lucky,” he said quietly. She nodded. “I know.”

Then finally, the hip.

He helped her lie down slowly, on her back, guiding one leg at a time into gentle stretches. It wasn’t sexy. It wasn’t polished. It was careful and slow and a little awkward—but never uncomfortable.

She gritted her teeth through some of the tightness. He noticed. “You okay?” “Yeah,” she said through her breath. “It helps.”

He stretched with her. Side by side, they moved together—mirroring as Gymnopédie No.1 accompanied their moves again, adjusting. His hand always hovering just close enough to steady her when needed. Not overstepping. Not assuming. He was just there.

And that, more than anything, made the ache feel manageable.

They lay on the bed again, side by side, the faint scent of oil still lingering on her skin. His hand rested over her hip, fingers splayed—not possessive, not heavy, just there, grounding her. She stared at the ceiling, eyes unfocused. The silence between them was thick with unsaid things.

And then her voice cut through it. “I never let people help.”

Bucky shifted slightly but didn’t speak. Just listened.

“After the accident… I couldn’t shower alone. Couldn’t get to the bathroom by myself. Couldn’t even roll over in bed without help some days.”

Her throat tightened, but she kept going. The words were there now, rising like floodwater, and she was tired of holding them back.

“I was twenty-three. Calling my parents at three in the morning because I couldn’t move without crying. Having to ask my dad to help me stand while trying not to sob in front of him. I didn’t want them to worry more than they already did…”

She exhaled a shaky breath. “It made me feel like a burden. Like something broken everyone had to carry.”

Bucky’s fingers tightened gently around her hip, but he still didn’t interrupt.

“My family’s physician cleared me eventually. Said I was healing well. Strong. Independent.”

A hollow laugh slipped out. “So I stopped asking for help. I pushed through. I figured if I could fake being okay long enough, people would stop asking.”

She turned her head to look at him, her voice quieter now—raw. “And my friends? They were all there. Right after… Shocked. Worried. All at once. And then…”

A pause.

“They left… Not in a cruel way. Life just… picked back up for them. And I was still stuck in it. Still aching. Still slow. Still learning how to exist in this new version of myself.”

Bucky’s brow furrowed, something deep and aching behind his eyes.

“So I smiled,” she whispered. “I said I was fine. That I didn’t need anything. And they didn’t push. Not because they didn’t care, but because they didn’t have time—they had their own lives, their own things to deal with.”

She swallowed hard. “But you did.”

Her gaze met his.

“You were the first one who didn’t just let it slide. The first one who didn’t flinch when I said no. Who asked again. Who stayed.”

A long pause. A breath caught between ribs. “I didn’t know what to do with that.”

Bucky reached for her hand. Not to squeeze. Just to hold.

His voice, when it came, was low—gravel warm. “You’re not a burden.”

Her eyes stung. She blinked fast.

“You never were,” he continued, brushing his thumb over her knuckles. “You’ve been carrying all that weight for so long, I don’t think you remember what it feels like to share it.”

She tried to look away, but he was already there, gently guiding her chin back toward him.

“I want to be here,” he said softly. “Not just for the good days. Or the soft mornings. But the nights that ache. The ones where you feel like you’re made of glass. Let me stay, okay?”

She nodded. Once. Then again. And finally, through a breath: “Okay.”

Their fingers were still tangled. The room was dim, the silence between them soft now—not empty, but full. Of things unsaid. Of things understood.

He shifted, his metal hand brushing a stray strand of hair away from her face with more tenderness than should’ve been humanly possible for something so cold and rigid. His thumb grazed her cheek. She felt it all the way down her spine.

Her gaze lifted to his, and there was a question there.

She nodded. Barely.

And he leaned in.

His lips met hers in a kiss so slow it hurt. Like he was afraid she’d disappear if he moved too fast. Like she was something rare, something fragile, something he wasn’t sure he deserved.

Her hand found his chest—warm skin against fabric, his heartbeat steady and strong. Anchoring.

The kiss deepened. Still slow, still reverent. But this time, there was heat behind it. Want. It seeped through the cracks of restraint, curling under her skin like smoke.

Her breath caught as his hand—flesh this time—slipped to her jaw, tilting her face up. His mouth opened against hers, and she responded without hesitation, fingers curling into his shirt, needing something to hold on to.

The second kiss was messier. More urgent.

He groaned softly into her mouth when her teeth grazed his bottom lip, and it did something to her—flipped a switch, sent sparks down her spine.

She shifted, pressing closer, and his hands moved instinctively—one at her back, the other at her waist, anchoring her to him like he was afraid she’d drift away.

“Fuck–” he breathed against her mouth. “You feel so–”

He cut himself off with another kiss, deeper this time, and she matched it, gasping when his hand gripped just a little tighter, grounding her in the present.

Her name escaped him like a prayer, whispered against her lips.

And all she could do was answer it with another kiss, because she didn’t have the words. Not for this. Not for everything she was feeling.

So she let her body speak instead. And he listened.

Every touch, every sigh, every shared breath—it all said the same thing: I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.

The kiss slowed again. The urgency shifted, melting back into something deeper. Something steadier.

Bucky leaned back just enough to look at her—really look. His chest was rising and falling a little quicker now, but his eyes stayed locked on hers. Not with hunger.

With awe. Like he couldn’t quite believe she was letting him be this close. Like he was terrified he’d break the spell if he moved too fast.

His fingers brushed the hem of her shirt. A question.

She nodded, her throat too tight for words. And that was all it took.

He took his time. Every inch of fabric lifted, every moment drawn out like a vow. He didn’t just undress her. He unwrapped her, like she was something precious, something given, gifted, not taken.

His eyes never left hers. Even when the shirt slipped off, even when her skin was bare under his hands—he wasn’t just looking. He was seeing.

And what he saw made something in him soften and ache and ignite all at once.

His hand moved to her side—right where the burn scar lived, where the skin wasn’t quite the same—and he traced the edge with the tip of a finger. Not a word spoken. Just reverence.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmured finally, voice rough like gravel wrapped in silk.

She didn’t look away. Because part of her wanted to believe him.

He leaned in again, his lips brushing against her collarbone, slow and warm. Then lower. And lower still. Each kiss deliberate. Every touch gentle. His hands never strayed too far, never pressed too hard.

He let her guide him.

A shiver ran through her when his metal hand—cool and careful—trailed down the outside of her thigh. She inhaled sharply, and he stilled instantly, pulling back just enough to whisper, “Too much?”

She shook her head. “No. Just–” She swallowed. “You’re being… too gentle.”

He smiled. “I thought you wanted careful.”

“I do,” she breathed, eyes on him. “I just didn’t expect you to mean it. Not like that.”

He leaned down, pressed a kiss to her stomach. “You deserve it.”

He said it like it was a truth he’d been waiting to tell her.

And then he kept going—lips, hands, breath tracing every inch of skin like a man building a map. Worshipping not just her body, but what she’d survived.

Every scar. Every soft curve. Every place she’d hidden away from the world.

When he finally slid back up her body, she was breathless. Shaking.

He brushed his nose along hers. “Still okay?”

She nodded, voice trembling. “More than.”

And when he kissed her again, she swore she’d never been seen like this. Never even believed it would be possible.

He hovered above her now, one hand resting at the curve of her waist, the other braced beside her head, like he was holding himself back. His chest brushed hers with every breath, and when he looked at her—really looked—it was like his whole world narrowed to the space between her lips and the thrum of her heartbeat.

But instead of moving, instead of kissing her again, he stilled.

His gaze softened, flickered down to her mouth, then back to her eyes, and he exhaled like the moment was too much—in the best way.

“I still can’t believe this,” he murmured, voice hushed and hoarse, like he was afraid saying it too loud would make it vanish. “That I found you.”

She blinked, her fingers brushing his cheek as if to ground him, to say You did. You’re here. And I am here too. With you.

“I wake up before you, some mornings,” he continued, eyes fluttering shut for a second, voice barely above a whisper. “And I just… stay still. Just for a second. Watching you. Making sure it’s real. That you’re real.”

His gaze held hers and her breath caught, because there was so much honesty in it, in him. No bravado. No shields. Just the man underneath it all, cracked open and full of wonder, like he was standing in front of something sacred.

She lifted her hand to brush through his hair, her thumb grazing the edge of his brow. “Maybe it’s the universe trying to say sorry,” she whispered, “for everything it put you through.”

He laughed quietly, but there was a tremble in it.

She kept going. “Maybe it’s trying to make up for all the times you thought it was never going to get better. Maybe it’s trying to give you something soft for once.”

His eyes closed for a second once more, like the words physically hit him.

“I think…” she breathed, “we found each other because we were what the other needed. At the right time. Not to fix each other–” her fingers trailed down to his shoulder, ghosting over the scar there “…but because we know what it feels like to survive something that almost broke us.”

His breath hitched. She felt it more than heard it.

“We’re both survivors,” she said gently. “Of our own nightmares. Different ones, sure. But we still carry the weight. In our bodies. In our minds. In the way we flinch when it’s too loud. Or brace when no one else notices the shift in the air.”

Her voice softened even further. “We still feel it. But… we see it in each other, too.”

And that’s when it wrecked him.

He dropped his forehead to hers, his metal hand fisting the sheets beside her like it was the only thing keeping him tethered. His other hand moved to cup the back of her neck, trembling slightly. His breath fanned over her lips, uneven. Shallow.

“I don’t know what I did to deserve this,” he murmured, voice breaking.

“You survived,” she whispered back. “That’s all you had to do.”

And it undid him.

The next kiss was reverent again. Like prayer. Like gratitude. Like he was giving back everything he’d never known how to say.

His touch returned, slow and deliberate, but there was no hesitation now. Just devotion. Just awe. Just love, even if neither of them had said that word yet.

But it was there. In every sigh. Every shiver. Every look.

His hands roamed her body like he was tracing scripture across skin. Slow. Careful. Devout.

Each touch was permission asked, and permission received. Each kiss a question, and her answering sighs? The only confirmation he needed.

She felt him everywhere—not just where his skin met hers, but in the way he saw her. Not like she was broken. Not like she was a burden. But like she was everything… like she was home.

Bucky kissed down her throat, his warm breath ghosting over her collarbone, his mouth reverent. Like she was something sacred. His tongue flicked out, a soft, languid stroke against the hollow of her throat, and she arched toward him without even thinking.

His hands settled at her waist, grounding her. His lips returned to hers. It was slow, tender, but it built, each kiss longer, deeper, warmer. Like he was tasting the years he’d gone without this. Without her.

When he finally pulled back, just enough to look into her eyes, his thumb stroked her cheek, his voice low, wrecked.

“You sure?”

She nodded, heart in her throat. “Yeah. I want this. I want you.”

Something flickered in his gaze—relief, awe, maybe even disbelief. He pressed his forehead to hers for a beat, exhaling a long breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, like he needed to steady himself. And then he nodded too.

“All right,” he breathed. “Then I’m gonna take my time.”

And he did.

His hands mapped her body with care, exploring every inch like he was learning her by touch alone. He didn’t rush. He didn’t push. He listened– To her breathing, to the way her body reacted to every stroke, every kiss, every shift of his weight.

When he finally settled between her legs, he went slow—so slow—his eyes locked on hers, waiting for that last unspoken yes. She offered it with her fingers curling around the back of his neck, drawing him down to her.

The stretch made her breath hitch, but he was right there, kissing her jaw, her cheek, whispering, “I got you. You’re okay.”

And she was. For the first time in a long time, she really was.

The rhythm started steady. Gentle. His forehead pressed to hers. His hand gripping hers, fingers laced, holding tight like she was the thing anchoring him to this world.

And maybe she was.

They moved together like they’d done this a thousand times in dreams, like their bodies remembered before their minds ever caught up.

His name fell from her lips, soft and desperate, and it undid him all over again. He kissed her harder, breath catching, pace faltering just slightly as his hand slid to cradle her face.

His mouth found her shoulder, her collarbone, the edge of her jaw—like he couldn’t decide where to worship her first.

Every movement was thick with meaning. Every thrust, a confession. Every sigh, a promise.

When she reached for him, trembling under the weight of it all, he held her tighter, whispering her name like it was the only word he remembered.

“Look at me,” he said, voice raw, wrecked. “I want to see you.”

And when she did—when her eyes met his—she saw it there. All of it. Everything he’d never been able to say. Everything he’d never let himself feel.

This wasn’t just desire or pleasure. This was healing. This was coming home.

And when they both fell—slow, hard, together—it wasn’t the end. It was the beginning. Of something real. Of something soft. Of something they both thought they’d never have.

The world felt softer now.

The light filtering through the polarized glass and curtains was pale and golden, brushing across the sheets like the morning was afraid to intrude too loudly. The air was warm, still humming with the aftermath of what had just passed between them, but neither of them moved—not really.

Just breaths. Just heartbeats. Just him—curled against her like he belonged there.

And maybe he could let himself believe that he did.

Bucky’s eyes were half-closed, lashes brushing the tops of his cheeks, a content little furrow in his brow like he was still trying to process that this wasn’t a dream. His metal arm was cradled around her waist, warm against her skin from the heat they’d both built, and his flesh hand was tangled with hers, thumb grazing her knuckles absentmindedly.

They were both still catching their breath in the quiet. Then, gently—softly—he whispered, stubble grazing the crook of her neck. “…you okay?”

She hummed, the sound more vibration than voice. “Mmhmm. Better than okay.”

He let out a breathy chuckle. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” she replied, her smile brushing against his temple.

Silence again. But it was a good one. Full of weightless stillness.

She reached up with her free hand, brushing a few strands of hair from his forehead. He tilted into the touch like it was instinct, like he needed it more than he wanted to admit. She kissed the edge of his brow. Then his cheek. The corner of his mouth.

He turned toward her just in time for their lips to meet again.

This time, it was her reaching for him.

It was slow. Unhurried. Full of the kind of quiet that only came when everything unsaid had already been answered.

He let out the softest sigh into her mouth. It wasn’t lust this time—it was something sweeter. Something deeper. Like gratitude wrapped in skin.

When the kiss broke, she rested her forehead against his, a smile tugging at her lips. “You’re kinda good at this,” she murmured.

He chuckled, low and warm. “Well, I have an excellent partner.”

She rolled her eyes playfully and nudged his nose with hers.

There was a pause, and then they both chuckled. Joy. Quiet but real. That soft, ridiculous laughter that only came when you were naked in more ways than one, and the world finally felt light.

And he looked at her again—with that same reverent awe—and murmured, “Still can’t believe you’re here.”

She smiled, sliding her fingers into his hair again. “Believe it, Barnes.”

He closed his eyes, soaking it in. And when he opened them, all the edges were gone. Nothing left but softness.

She pulled the covers up a little, still tangled together, and he shifted only to tuck her tighter against his chest, his chin resting gently on top of her head.

For a while, neither of them said anything else. There was no need. There was no need for words. Not really.

They stayed wrapped in each other, warmth seeping between skin and sheets, breaths slow and steady, like the storm in both their lives had finally passed.

No need for anything else– Except maybe this.

The need to say it out loud. To put weight and shape to what had been silently growing between them since that first stormy afternoon in the infirmary. Since the first time his hand caught her body before his brain even registered the motion.

His voice was quiet when it came, like he’d been sitting with the thought for a while.

“A few weeks ago…” he began, eyes still on hers, thumb brushing gently along her knuckles. “…you asked me what this was.”

She remembered. Clear as day. That moment—raw and a little terrifying when her voice had cracked slightly as she cut through the darkness of her room with, ‘What’s this?’

He hadn’t known then. Or maybe he had, but couldn’t let himself name it. Afraid he was wanting it. Afraid he would jinx it.

Now, though—now, he breathed in deep.

“And I told you I didn’t know.”

He looked at her—really looked at her. Like everything about this moment mattered. Like it deserved his full attention.

A pause. Soft. Sure.

“But I do now.”

His hand came up to cradle her cheek, his eyes flicking between hers like he wanted her to feel every word.

“This is us,” he said. “This is me… falling for you.”

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t dramatic. But it was everything.

She blinked, breath catching—not from surprise, but from the way it landed deep inside her chest. She felt it like a key clicking into place. Like she’d been waiting to hear it, even if she already knew.

So she didn’t hesitate. She didn’t blink away.

She leaned in, brushed her nose gently against his, and whispered, “Good.”

And then, with the smallest smile—quiet but steady—she said, “Because I’m here to catch you.”

The look that crossed his face was wrecked. Tender. Undone in so many ways now. Like maybe he hadn’t known how badly he needed to hear that until it was said.

His forehead touched hers again, and they stayed like that for a long moment—still, suspended in the safety of that promise. Of this. Of them.

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