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You barely remembered stepping onto the elevator. The day had stripped you raw — some awful cocktail of failed negotiations, a blown mission, and another civilian casualty. Your arms ached beneath your coat, muscles knotted and unwilling to unclench. The suit still clung to your skin, damp with sweat and dried blood, but you couldn't bring yourself to take it off yet.
The doors opened with a soft chime, spilling warm light onto the dark floor. The familiar hum of the common area greeted you, but it was muffled under the weight of your exhaustion. You dragged your feet inside, leaving behind the cold steel of the elevator and the last scraps of your composure.
Bucky was already there.
He looked up from the couch the second he heard you, his expression softening the moment his eyes met yours. Setting the book down on the coffee table, he stood and came to you.
"Rough day," he murmured, more statement than question.
You folded into his chest, and Bucky held you steadily. His vibranium hand splayed wide against your back, cool and steadying. His other hand cradled the back of your head, fingers tangling gently in your hair.
The scent of dinner hung in the air — garlic, herbs, something Alexei probably made with too much butter and not enough restraint. You barely registered it. Bucky held you just inside the living room, murmuring something low against your temple, but your gaze drifted past his shoulder.
Yelena was sprawled across the sectional, a plate balanced on her knee, eyes shifting toward you. Her brow furrowed, just slightly. Ava sat cross-legged on the floor nearby, hunched over some kind of field schematic, but even she paused to look up. Bob stood near the kitchen island, one hand curled loosely around a mug of tea, his shoulders drawn like he wanted to fold himself smaller. He gave you a tentative nod, the kind that said I get it without needing the words.
Then there was John.
He was leaning against the back of a barstool, mid-sip of a beer, dressed down in sweatpants and a t-shirt. Normally, he'd have something snide to say — or at least a comment just sharp enough to test you — but tonight, he only frowned. "You okay?"
You didn't trust your voice, so you nodded.
John blinked once, looked like he might say more, then settled for a gruff, "Alright. Let me know if you need anything."
Yelena scoffed softly but didn't argue. No one did. The whole room felt like it leaned a little closer, not crowding — just... steady. Present. You hadn't even taken off your gear yet, still smelled like gunpowder and rain and blood that wasn't yours, but no one looked at you like you were a mess. Just someone they cared about.
"Come on," Bucky whispered, pressing a kiss to your temple. "Let's get you out of this."
You let him lead you, past your teammates who said nothing but watched you go, their silence heavy with understanding.
Your room — your room, not just his anymore — was dimly lit, the lamps casting amber puddles of warmth across the hardwood floor. Bucky closed the door behind you with a soft click, sealing out the low murmur of the others and the sharp, echoing memories of the day. In here, it was just him. Just you.
You stood there for a moment, unmoving. Still in your suit, caked in dried dirt, soot, and worse. Your muscles screamed from tension held too long, and your hands still ached from how tightly you'd gripped your weapons. You stared down at your fingers like they weren't yours.
Bucky stepped close again, his voice low and warm. "Let me help."
You didn't answer, but you didn't stop him, either.
His hands were gentle. He started with the holster at your thigh, unbuckling it carefully, like it might break. He slid it down, set it aside without a word. His fingers brushed your hips as he moved to the clasps of your suit, undoing them slowly, deliberately.
The collar came loose, then your sleeves, your shoulders. He helped peel it back from your frame with that same reverent quiet he gave to old vinyl records and well-worn books. The suit thudded softly to the floor, and cool air kissed your skin. You stood there in your underwear, bare and trembling
"Arms up," he murmured.
You obeyed without thinking. He tugged his sweatshirt off and pulled it over your head, the fabric soft and worn and smelling like cedar and him. It fell to your mid-thigh, enveloping you in warmth. Safer than armor, somehow.
"You don't have to talk yet," he said, brushing a strand of hair from your cheek. "We've got time."
Your throat tightened. You blinked up at him, vision swimming, but the tears didn't fall. Not yet.
"I feel like I broke something today," you rasped.
His expression didn't shift into pity — just understanding. "You didn't," he asserted. "You bent. But you're still here. With me."
Bucky didn't press you with more questions. He just took your hand, his thumb brushing the back of it as he guided you gently toward the en suite bathroom. The light inside was low, diffused by the frosted glass of the fixtures, and the room smelled faintly of lavender and eucalyptus — something Bob had left behind once and Bucky had quietly adopted after seeing you smile the first time you smelled it.
He turned the shower on without a word, testing the temperature with three fingers. Steam began to rise almost instantly, curling into the corners of the mirror, softening the sharp edges of your reflection.
You leaned against the counter, arms limp at your sides, watching him in the glass. You should've felt self-conscious, still stripped down and hollowed out from the day, but there was nothing in his gaze but warmth. Respect. Devotion.
Bucky held a hand out, "C'mere.”
You stepped toward him, and he met you halfway, fingers firm on your waist. He kissed your forehead first, then the corner of your mouth — softly, like a promise — and helped you out of the borrowed sweatshirt. Every motion was a silent question: Is this okay? Still okay?
You nodded, barely, and he began to undress as well.
When you stepped into the shower together, the heat hit your skin like relief. Not just physical — all of it. You closed your eyes and tipped your head back as the water poured over you, and for the first time all day, you breathed deep.
His arms guided you gently back into him, turning you so your chest pressed against his and your cheek found its place in the crook of his neck.
You sighed against his skin, eyes fluttering closed. The steady thump of his heartbeat against your ear was more comforting than any words could've been.
Then you felt his hand in your hair — his real hand, warm and careful. He cupped water into your scalp first, soaking your hair until it clung heavy against your skin. No rush. No tugging. Just slow, deliberate movements like he had all the time in the world and nowhere else to be but here, with you.
You felt the slick of shampoo next, and he worked it through with gentle fingertips, massaging your scalp in slow, soothing circles. The sensation of your head resting in the crook of his neck while he lathered your hair was so tender, so achingly gentle, that your knees nearly buckled. His metal arm braced you at the small of your back, steady and solid, as if he sensed it coming.
"You're okay," he whispered into your wet hair, his lips brushing your temple. "You're right here. I've got you."
Your breath hitched, but no tears fell. Not this time. You just held onto him, hands curled loosely against his ribs, and let yourself be. No armor, no mission, no mask.
He rinsed your hair next, tilting your head ever so slightly, shielding your eyes with one hand while the other directed the spray. You were half-lost in him now, lulled by the rhythm of it — the rinse, the press of his lips to your forehead, the slow drag of his thumb down your spine.
Devastatingly, he pulled away from you to lather up a loofah with your body wash. He began to scrub your body, tracing the contours of your arms, shoulders, back, and stomach. You stood still under his hands, watching as dark trails of dirt and dried blood swirled together at your feet and disappeared down the drain.
The water finally tapered off, the soft hiss fading into silence, leaving only the sounds of your breathing and the occasional drip of water from the showerhead. You were reluctant to move, but Bucky nudged you gently with his nose, "Let's get you warm."
He kissed the side of your head before reaching past you for a towel — one of the soft, oversized ones you'd bought because he used to dry off with the scratchy white ones like he didn't deserve better.
"Arms up again."
You obeyed, and he wrapped the towel around you from behind, cocooning you in softness. He rubbed slow circles over your back, then moved around to kneel in front of you, catching the rivulets of water trailing down your legs. His hair was damp, curling a little around his temples, and the muscles in his shoulders flexed as he worked.
You watched him, eyes trailing over the lean lines of his chest, the long scar that cut down his ribs, the quiet power in his body even when at rest. You didn't have it in you for heat — not really — but appreciation still stirred somewhere low in your stomach. He was beautiful. He was yours.
"Staring," he murmured without looking up, a half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"Shut up..."
His smile widened. He looked up at you then, eyes soft. "There she is."
You rolled your eyes, but the corners of your mouth pulled upward. He caught that too — he always did.
Bucky stood again, looping a second towel around your shoulders, this one for your hair. He rubbed at it with gentle hands, fluffing it dry while you stood there, quiet and pliant in his care.
You looked up at him through damp lashes. He hadn't put a towel on himself. Water still beaded down his chest, tracing the ridges of his abdomen, the cut of his hipbones.
"Staring again," he teased, softer this time.
You exhaled something like a laugh, and Bucky beamed like he'd just won a trophy.
He eventually coaxed you out of the bathroom wrapped in both towels, one around your shoulders, the other clutched loosely around your middle. You padded barefoot across the hardwood floor, hair damp and mussed under his careful toweling. The world outside that bathroom — the screaming, the blood, the guilt — felt farther away now. Not gone. Just... softer at the edges.
Bucky followed a step behind, wearing only a towel slung low on his hips, water still trailing down the dip of his sternum. You could feel your pulse jump a little at the sight — stupid, even now, even today. But he'd always looked like that. Carved from some old god's half-forgotten statue. Built to carry the weight of things no one should.
He rummaged through the drawers quietly while you perched on the edge of the bed. Pulled out one of his pairs of boxer-briefs you sometimes stole when your own clothes felt too clingy. You didn't need to say anything. He just knew.
"I can do it," you said, but the protest was weak, mostly for show.
"I know, let me, anyway."
He helped you dress like it was a ritual. A familiar one. The sweater from earlier first, pulled over your head with slow hands, smoothed down over your sides. Then the boxers.
When you were clothed again, hair still half—damp and sticking to your neck, he sat beside you with his metal fingers combing through the ends gently.
"You want me to brush it out?" he asked.
You nodded. He stood, went to the bathroom, and returned with the wide-toothed comb he'd learned to use after the first time your wet hair was tangled so badly it made you wince. You sat between his knees while he worked from the bottom up, careful, slow. The comb tugged now and then, but never painfully.
When he finished, he gathered your hair loosely and pressed a kiss to the crown of your head. "Bed?"
"Yes please." You spoke it with a bit of humor, smiling despite yourself.
He pulled back the covers and climbed in beside you, tugging you in like gravity. You curled into his side, head tucked under his chin, one leg thrown over his. His arm draped around your waist, his still-warm vibranium hand against your back.
His body was so steady, so solid, you could almost believe nothing bad had ever happened. That you hadn't felt a pulse vanish under your fingers today. That your hands weren't shaking just hours ago.
He ran his thumb in lazy circles along your spine until your breath evened out. When your fingers curled into his side with the last of your strength, he pressed his lips to your temple.
You didn't drift off right away. Your body was tired — bone-deep and aching — but your mind still moved, replaying flashes of the day in half-formed fragments. Bucky must've felt it in the way your breath caught now and then, the tension that hadn't quite left your shoulders.
"You're thinking too loud," he grogged, voice low and rough with sleep.
You huffed softly into his chest. "Can't help it. My brain forgot how to shut up."
"That's alright," he smoothed a hand up and down your spine. "I'll file a complaint."
"To who?"
He paused. "Dunno. Probably HR."
"You are HR."
"Well, damn," he huffed with mock resignation. "No wonder nothin' ever gets done around here."
You let out a soft laugh, the sound half-strangled but genuine. "Pretty sure your version of conflict resolution is sparring with John and not pulling your punches."
"Exactly. Team-building."
"One of these days he's gonna knock you on your ass."
"Nah."
You didn't know why, but the way he deadpanned it made a giggle bubble from your chest. You looked up at him then, chin propped on his chest, and caught that faint grin he only wore when he knew he'd gotten to you.
"There she is again."
You rolled your eyes, but you didn't look away. You let yourself take him in. Hair still damp. Scar just visible at the edge of the collar. Eyes a little tired but endlessly soft.
He brought a hand up to your cheek, his thumb brushing tenderly along your skin. The pads of his fingers were rough from years of wear, rounded out by his meek smile. Quiet. A look of nothing but utter adoration.
"I love you," you whispered, almost without thinking, leaning into his touch, your eyes slipping shut for a moment like your body had known the words before your mind caught up.
Wait.
Oh, fuck.
Your eyes flew open, snapping to his. You hadn't said that before.
Not once.
Not out loud.
You felt the breath catch in your throat, every muscle going tight with sudden panic, your brain scrambling to decide if you should double down or pretend it didn't happen. But Bucky —
Bucky didn't flinch.
He blinked once, and then his smile softened into something else entirely — impossibly warmer. Then, he leaned in again, forehead resting against yours. "You mean that?" voice barely above a breath, unsure in the most human of ways.
You swallowed thickly. Your heart thudded painfully loud in your chest. "Yeah," you assured, voice steadier than you expected. "I do."
Something in him shifted then, something quiet but seismic. Like a tide turning.
He kissed you, slow — no urgency, no heat, just a quiet, lingering press of lips that said everything you didn't know how to say.
When he pulled back, his eyes were glassy, storm-blue and shining.
"I love you too, doll."
Your chest tightened, a strange knot of relief and tenderness pulling you closer to him, arm tightening around his middle as you pressed your face into the curve of his neck.
The room had gone still again, your breathing slowed to match his, your body curved against Bucky's like you'd always belonged there. You were on the edge of sleep, the world softened at the edges, when you heard the faintest thump from beneath the bed.
You stilled, then lifted your head slightly. Bucky didn't move, but a chuckle came from his chest.
"It’s just Alpine," he explained, "I really wish she’d stop hitting her head on the bedframe."
Sure enough, a fluffy white paw emerged from beneath the edge of the bed, followed by the rest of her. Regal as ever, blinking at you with sleepy disdain, upset that you took her spot. She made a short chirrup, then gracefully hopped up onto the mattress.
With a rumbling purr, she padded up between you and Bucky, worming herself neatly into the space between your torsos like she belonged there all along.
Bucky let out a fond sigh, resting his chin against the top of your head. "Jealous little thing."
"She just has good taste." Your hand reached up to scratch behind Alpine's ears.
"Yeah, she does," he said, without looking away from you.
As Alpine's purrs filled the room and your eyelids finally began to slip closed, you felt Bucky press one last kiss to your hair.
"I've got you."