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thirtysomethingloser92 · 2 days ago

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Chapter 2: The Darkest Fairytale, In The Dead Of Night.

Summary: After multiple failed attempts at retirement, you keep getting pulled back into action by Sam Wilson and Bucky Barnes. Despite the constant bickering and teasing, there’s an undeniable tension between you and Bucky—something everyone else sees except the two of you.

When a new threat involving stolen Inhuman tech emerges, you reluctantly join Bucky and Sam for one more mission. As the stakes rise, your playful banter with Bucky deepens into something more, and the emotional walls you’ve both built finally begin to crumble.

Warnings: Swearing, Violence, Smut.

The air crackled with tension, the ground shaking beneath your feet as you sent another of Thanos’ soldiers flying into the dirt, the impact forming a crater that mirrored the turmoil inside you. Blood trickled down the side of your face, your chest heaving with every breath, but you couldn’t stop. The battle raged on, pulling at every last reserve of strength you had left. Your body screamed for rest, but your heart kept you moving.

You felt him before you saw him.

A familiar presence, steady and unwavering, just on the edge of your awareness. You turned, and there he was—Bucky. His rifle fired off sharp, precise shots, covering you without missing a beat. For just a moment, the chaos around you faded, replaced by the overwhelming relief that he was here. Beside you. Alive.

Your throat tightened, and you swallowed hard, choking back the flood of emotions that threatened to overwhelm you. “You took your sweet ass time,” you rasped, your voice rough from the strain of fighting, but the teasing tone still slipped through.

Bucky didn’t look at you right away, his focus still on the enemies ahead as he reloaded his weapon with practiced ease. “I was busy,” he shot back, the corner of his mouth twitching in a familiar smirk.

Your heart clenched painfully in your chest. God, you missed this.

“Slacking off, more like it,” you quipped, forcing yourself to keep the banter going, like old times. “You always leave me to do the heavy lifting.”

Bucky shook his head, glancing at you out of the corner of his eye. “I mean, why else would I keep you around?” His voice was dry, but there was something softer beneath it, something you hadn’t heard in a long time, “You irritate the hell out of me.”

Then, the moment hung between you, heavier than the battle around you, heavier than the years of war and separation. Something had shifted. The banter stalled, and suddenly, words didn’t seem enough to fill the space between you anymore. The sounds of battle faded into the background, distant and unimportant for just a heartbeat.

You clenched your fists, your fingers flexing as if trying to channel the nervous energy that was now thrumming through you, but it didn’t help. Your breath hitched, and before you could stop yourself, you stepped forward, your hands shaking slightly as you reached up and wrapped your arms around his neck.

“I missed you,” you whispered, your voice cracking on the last word.

For a moment, Bucky froze. His rifle hung loosely at his side, his body rigid beneath your touch. You could feel the hesitation, the way his breath stilled like he wasn’t sure whether to pull away or hold on tighter. His metal arm hovered above your back, uncertain, as though he didn’t quite trust himself to hold you, as though he was afraid of what it might mean if he did.

But then, slowly, he moved. His arms came around you, tentative at first, almost like he was testing the weight of the moment. But once his grip tightened, it was as if something inside him broke free. He pulled you closer, his hands pressing into the small of your back, holding you like he’d been waiting for this—for you.

His breath was warm against your hair, ragged and uneven, and you could feel the tension in his muscles slowly ease as he held you. He wasn’t the same Bucky who once fought beside you—there were new scars, new ghosts in his eyes—but right now, none of that mattered. Right now, he was here, and so were you.

“I missed you too,” he murmured, his voice rough, almost like it hurt to admit it. But there was no denying the truth in his words, the rawness of it. He held you tighter, like he was afraid you might slip away if he let go.

You made your way up the long gravel driveway, the crunch of rocks beneath your boots the only sound breaking the silence. Behind you, Bucky and Sam trailed behind. The air was crisp, filled with the earthy scent of pine and damp soil, a stark contrast to the sun that hung high in the mid-morning sky, casting long shadows over the forested landscape around you

At the end of the path, nestled between towering trees, stood the safehouse. It was a modest structure, almost unassuming, camouflaged by nature and time. The house was a compact, two-story building, its weathered wooden exterior blending seamlessly with the surrounding forest. The paint had long since faded to a dull gray, chipped and peeling in places, revealing the raw wood beneath. Vines crawled up one side of the house, their green tendrils having claimed the walls as their own over the years.

It wasn’t the sort of place that would catch anyone’s eye, and that was the point. It was isolated, tucked far enough into the woods that it was nearly impossible to spot from the main road, but close enough to offer a quick escape if necessary.

As you drew closer to the house, the details that set this place apart from a typical cabin became more apparent. The front door, while appearing weathered and worn, was reinforced with thick metal bars cleverly concealed beneath layers of aged wood. The locks seemed ordinary at first glance, but you could tell they were far more advanced than they let on—high-grade security hidden in plain sight. Above the door, under the eaves, a small security camera was almost invisible, its lens blinking faintly as it tracked your approach. It was unobtrusive but sharp, recording every movement with quiet vigilance. There was likely a backup generator hidden around the back of the house, in case the power was cut. And inside, you could almost guarantee there were stashes of weapons and gear tucked behind false walls or beneath floorboards. This place was more fortress than cabin.

“Nice place,” Sam muttered, his voice tinged with sarcasm as his eyes swept over the house. He adjusted his pack, glancing at you with a mixture of amusement and skepticism. His sharp gaze, trained from too many missions in too many dangerous places, picked up on the same details you had. “Real cozy.”

You grinned, undeterred by his tone. “It’s cute. I like it,” you said simply, shifting your bag higher on your shoulder as the straps dug into your skin. The weight of it had been a constant companion for miles, but you barely noticed anymore.

Sam shot you a sidelong look, one eyebrow raised. “Of course you’d like it. It’s rustic,” he commented, his voice light but teasing. He had a way of poking fun at you that always seemed to walk the line between annoyance and affection.

You narrowed your eyes playfully and corrected him, “Homey,” you said with a nod, your tone making it clear you weren’t backing down. “Peaceful.” As you said it, your gaze drifted toward the treeline, the quiet forest stretching out in every direction. Despite the house’s fortified appearance, something about the isolation, the stillness of the woods, felt calming in a way you hadn’t expected.

Stepping up onto the porch, you paused, your eyes scanning the area. Something felt… off. It wasn’t a bad feeling, just a certain awareness, like the house was too still, too quiet. “Is someone here?” you asked, your voice low as you turned back to Sam and Bucky.

Bucky, who had been trailing slightly behind, stepped forward. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes were sharp, as always. He hadn’t missed anything. “Fury said we’d be meeting someone here,” he replied, his tone measured, as if this was just another routine mission. But there was a subtle tension in the way he stood, the way his metal hand flexed at his side. He was always ready for something to go wrong. You reached for the handle, fingers curling around the cool metal as you twisted it slowly. The lock disengaged with a soft *click*, and the door creaked open, revealing the darkened interior of the safehouse. You pushed it wider, stepping over the threshold and into the entryway. The air inside was warmer than you expected, carrying the unmistakable scent of cooking—garlic, onions, and something rich simmering on a stove.

Your brow furrowed in mild confusion. This place was supposed to be empty, at least until your contact arrived. But clearly, someone was here.

You paused in the middle of the entry hall, your boots scuffing the worn wooden floor. The smell of food lingered in the air, homey in a way that felt out of place in this kind of hideout. You let your bag slide off your shoulder, the weight of it thumping heavily onto the floor. The sound seemed to echo through the quiet house, and you could feel the presence of Sam and Bucky as they stepped in behind you, equally tense, equally curious.

The three of you exchanged a quick glance, the silent communication of people who had been through enough together to know when something wasn’t right. Sam’s brow arched slightly, his expression asking the question you were all thinking: Who the hell is cooking?

“Hello?” Sam called out, his voice carrying through the house.

For a moment, there was nothing but the soft crackle of something cooking in the distance, and then—

“Hello.”

The voice was feminine, thick with a Russian accent, and casual in a way that made you instantly more alert. You turned toward the sound just as a blonde head poked around the corner from a nearby hallway. Her hair was loose, a few strands falling into her face, and her expression was relaxed, almost amused as she took in the three of you standing there like you’d stumbled into the wrong house.

“Come, make yourselves at home,” she said, her voice a lazy drawl, as if this was the most natural situation in the world. “I’m cooking lunch.”

Before any of you could respond, she disappeared back around the corner, presumably returning to the kitchen, leaving you standing there in stunned silence.

You blinked, glancing first at Sam, who looked as surprised as you felt, and then at Bucky. He hadn’t moved, his body unnaturally still, but his jaw was tight, and there was a flicker of something in his eyes—something you hadn’t seen in him since the last time you crossed paths with someone from his past.

“Bucky?” you prompted quietly, noticing the way his metal fingers flexed unconsciously at his side.

He exhaled slowly, his lips pressing into a thin line as he finally spoke. “Yelena,” he said, the name falling from his mouth with a weight that made the air in the room feel heavier.

You frowned, looking between him and the corner where the woman had disappeared. “Who?”

“Yelena Belova,” Bucky answered, his voice flat, though his jaw clenched as he spoke. “She’s a Black Widow.”

The name hit you like a punch, and you immediately understood why Bucky’s entire posture had shifted. The Black Widows were notorious—ruthless assassins trained from childhood, their loyalty hard to win and difficult to understand. You knew Natasha Romanoff, of course, but this was someone different. And judging by the tension radiating off Bucky, there was a history here, one that ran deeper than what he was willing to say aloud.

“Great,” Sam muttered under his breath, crossing his arms as he glanced toward the kitchen. “Just what we needed.”

You cast another look at Bucky, but he didn’t return it. His gaze was fixed on the hallway, his mind clearly elsewhere, caught between the present and whatever memories this woman had dragged back to the surface. His silence said more than his words ever could.

You inhaled deeply, trying to ground yourself in the moment, but the unease lingered, sharp at the edges of your awareness. The comforting scent of food—rich and savory—still filled the air, but now it seemed oddly out of place. It wasn’t just the smell that felt foreign; it was the entire situation. The warmth of the kitchen, the domesticity of a meal being prepared, didn’t match the undercurrent of tension that hummed in the background. It was as if the two realities were clashing, and you couldn’t quite reconcile them.

“Friend or foe?” you asked quietly, your voice barely above a whisper as your eyes flickered between Bucky and Sam.

Bucky’s expression remained unreadable, his shoulders tight. He shrugged slightly, the movement almost imperceptible. “Depends on why she’s here,” he muttered under his breath, his jaw clenched as if holding back more than he was willing to say.

“Assuming she’s who Fury called?” Sam offered, his voice carrying a note of skepticism as he glanced toward the kitchen where Yelena had disappeared.

Bucky hesitated, then responded, “Mostly friend.”

You raised an eyebrow at him, your unease deepening. “Mostly?”

Before Bucky could elaborate, Yelena’s voice floated in from the kitchen, cutting through the quiet tension like a knife. “Are you coming or not?” she called out, her tone casual but laced with a hint of amusement. “Or are you just going to stand there gossiping about me?”

You exchanged a quick look with the two men—Sam’s expression was a mixture of curiosity and wariness, while Bucky’s was harder to read, his eyes still narrowed in thought. Taking a breath, you steeled yourself and made your way toward the kitchen, the weight of Bucky and Sam’s footsteps following closely behind.

As you stepped into the kitchen, you couldn’t help but pause for a moment, taking in the scene. The space was small, almost cramped, but surprisingly cozy. The walls were lined with rustic wooden cabinets, their paint chipped and worn with age. A narrow window, partially obscured by a tattered curtain, let in a soft stream of sunlight that illuminated the room in a warm, golden hue. The countertops were cluttered with mismatched pots and utensils, as if someone had been living here for a while, despite the house’s remote location.

In the center of the room was a small wooden table, just big enough for four people. Yelena stood by it, casually placing bowls down, one after the other, as though this was some kind of normal family dinner and not a meeting between wary allies. The bowls were filled with what looked like a casserole—steaming, aromatic, and far more appetizing than you’d expected from a safehouse kitchen in the middle of nowhere.

The table itself was battered, its surface scarred with years of use. A single chair sat askew, its wooden legs uneven, while the others were mismatched entirely, as if thrown together without care for aesthetics. Despite the disarray, there was something oddly welcoming about it, a strange contrast to the high-stakes tension that had settled between all of you.

Yelena placed the last bowl down with a soft clatter, looking up at you with a smirk. “Sit,” she said, motioning to the chairs with a wave of her hand, as if this was her house and you were her guests.

Awkwardly, the three of you settled in around the table. As you eased into your seat, the wooden chair creaked beneath you, the air feeling thick with unsaid words. You glanced down at your bowl, the rich aroma of the casserole rising to meet you. Tentatively, you took a bite, surprised at how delicious it was—savory, hearty, the kind of comfort food you hadn’t expected. It felt almost surreal, eating a home-cooked meal in a place like this, with the looming presence of a Russian assassin watching over you.

Sam sat beside you, his expression one of bemused curiosity as he chewed slowly, clearly trying to make sense of the situation. Across from you, Bucky leaned back in his chair, his posture stiff, his eyes never leaving Yelena. He wasn’t eating—not yet. His gaze was intense, as though he was waiting for something, his jaw still tight with unspoken history.

Yelena, on the other hand, seemed utterly unbothered by the tension in the room. She took her seat, her movements fluid, graceful in a way that only someone with her training could manage. She took a bite of her own food, chewing thoughtfully for a moment before her gaze flicked up to meet yours.

“So, you’re the back-up Fury sent?” she asked, her tone casual, but you could sense the probing curiosity behind her words.

You swallowed your mouthful of food, glancing briefly at Sam and Bucky before answering. “Apparently,” you replied, your voice steady despite the strange circumstances.

Yelena’s lips curved into a small, knowing smile. “Interesting,” she said, leaning back slightly in her chair, her eyes sweeping over the three of you. “I knew Fury liked to keep his cards close, but this…” She gestured vaguely at the table, as if you were some kind of puzzle she was trying to piece together. “I didn’t expect the Winter Soldier and Captain America to be coming.”

Bucky's eyes darkened at the name, but he remained silent, his metal fingers tapping idly against the table. Sam smirked slightly, clearly amused by the situation, but didn’t say anything either. The weight of their shared history hung in the air, thick and heavy, and though you didn’t know the full extent of it, you could feel it pressing down on the room like a storm cloud waiting to break.

You took another bite of the casserole, the warmth of the food doing little to ease the knot of tension tightening in your chest. Each chew felt deliberate, like you were trying to ground yourself in the mundane act of eating while navigating the strange, precarious atmosphere that hung over the table. Every second stretched out, the weight of Yelena’s gaze heavy on you. Her sharp, calculating eyes missed nothing, and despite the casual air she tried to present, you could feel the undercurrent of something more simmering beneath her words. This wasn’t just small talk—this was an interrogation of sorts, a test to see what you knew, how much you understood about the situation you’d walked into.

“So,” she asked, her voice deceptively soft but with an edge that made your skin prickle, “what exactly did Fury tell you about this little operation?”

You hesitated for a moment, unsure if you should speak, but Sam beat you to it. His voice was steady, though you could sense the same unease beneath his calm exterior. “Inhuman weapons going missing. Inhumans themselves going missing,” he stated, his words clipped, to the point.

Yelena nodded, her expression unreadable. “Yes, but I think this goes deeper than just some weapons and missing people,” she said, her tone carrying the weight of something more sinister.

A chill crawled up your spine at her words. You leaned forward slightly, your curiosity starting to eclipse the tension. “How do you mean?” you asked, trying to keep the edge of apprehension out of your voice.

Yelena shrugged, her nonchalance almost unsettling as she took another bite of food, chewing slowly like she had all the time in the world. “So while I was waiting for you three to show up, I decided to do my own thing,” she said, leaning back in her chair with the kind of casual confidence that only came from someone who was always ten steps ahead. She stood up, moving to the counter with a fluid grace that reminded you exactly who she was—a deadly assassin, a predator always watching, always calculating.

Your eyes followed her as she picked up a thick file from the bench, flipping it open briefly before walking back toward the table. There was something about her movements, the way she handled the situation, that made your pulse quicken. She was in control here, and the fact that you didn’t know what she knew gnawed at you.

“This is every Inhuman who’s gone missing that I believe is linked to this,” Yelena said, her voice cool as she slammed the file down on the table with a heavy thud.

The sound echoed in the small space, and you felt your breath hitch slightly, the weight of the file a physical manifestation of the gravity of the situation. You pulled it toward you, sliding your half-eaten bowl aside as your fingers brushed against the rough surface of the papers. The file was thick, crammed with missing posters, police reports, and data sheets, all staring back at you like silent accusations.

Your heart pounded in your chest as you flicked through the pages, the faces of the missing Inhumans blurring together in your mind. What was Yelena seeing that you weren’t? What was the pattern she had noticed that had eluded everyone else?

“What am I looking at?” you asked, frustration tinging your voice as you glanced up at her, your eyes searching her face for some kind of answer.

Yelena raised an eyebrow, her expression challenging. “You don’t notice it?” she asked, her tone almost mocking, like she was testing you, waiting for you to catch up to something she had figured out long ago.

You shook your head, flipping through the pages again, frustration building as you sifted through the documents. Reports, names, faces—nothing was standing out. “I don—” You stopped mid-sentence, your fingers freezing on the edge of one of the pages. Something clicked in your mind, a pattern starting to emerge as you stacked the papers back into a neat pile, going through them all one more time, this time with a sharper eye.

Yelena’s smirk widened slightly, her arms crossing over her chest as she watched you with a look of quiet satisfaction. “You notice it now?” she asked, her voice almost smug, like she was enjoying this little game.

You didn’t answer immediately, your heart racing as your eyes narrowed, scanning the reports again. The realization hit you like a punch to the gut, and you felt your stomach twist with the weight of it. “No one noticed this?” you muttered, more to yourself than anyone else, disbelief coloring your tone.

Bucky, who had been silent up until now, shifted in his seat, his metal arm resting on the table as he leaned closer. “What?” he asked, his voice low as he scooted his chair closer to you, his eyes darting between you and the file.

You swallowed, your mouth suddenly dry. “There’s no men,” you said, your voice quiet but filled with a growing sense of dread. You pulled out one of the missing posters, holding it up before flicking through the rest of the stack. “None of the missing Inhumans are men. Every single one of them is a woman.”

Bucky’s brow furrowed, his gaze snapping back to the papers in front of you. Sam, too, leaned in, his expression darkening as the realization dawned on him as well.

Yelena nodded, her arms still crossed, a satisfied smirk tugging at her lips, though there was no real humor in it—only a hard edge of knowing. “Almost two thousand Inhumans have gone missing, and not one of them is male,” she repeated, her voice calm but carrying a darker undertone, like she was laying out a puzzle you were only just starting to piece together. “Why?”

The question hung in the air like a guillotine, sharp and heavy, slicing through the room’s tense silence. You stared down at the papers spread out in front of you, your fingers still resting on the thick stack of missing persons reports. The weight of the information pressed against your chest like a lead blanket, making it harder to breathe as the implications crashed over you, one after another. Two thousand Inhumans—two thousand—all women, all gone without a trace. The numbers alone were staggering, but the specificity of it, the fact that not one of them was male, sent a chill crawling up your spine.

Your mind raced, running in circles as you tried to make sense of it, but every question only led to more questions. Why only women? What was happening to them? And how had no one noticed this pattern until now? Fury hadn’t said a word about this when he briefed you. Were the disappearances that well-hidden, or had no one been looking closely enough? The thought made your stomach twist.

You glanced up at Yelena, pulse thudding in your ears. She was watching you carefully, her face unreadable, but there was something in her eyes—something sharp and dangerous, like she already knew just how deep this rabbit hole went. She wasn’t just showing you this to pass the time. She was waiting for you to understand, to see the gravity of what she’d uncovered. This was something bigger, something far more dangerous than any of you had anticipated when you first walked into this safehouse.

Your throat felt dry, and you swallowed hard before speaking, your voice a little rough around the edges. “So, years ago…” you began, trailing off as you gathered your thoughts. The words felt heavy on your tongue, like you weren’t sure if you should say them, but you pushed forward anyway. “Now, I might be out of line here, so bear with me.”

Bucky’s eyes narrowed slightly, and Sam leaned forward, his attention fully on you now. Yelena stayed silent, still watching, her expression carefully neutral.

You took a deep breath, feeling the weight of their eyes on you, but more than that, feeling the weight of what you were about to say. “Years ago, there was this theory. About Inhumans. It was mostly dismissed, just something people were throwing around, but…when there’s smoke and all that.”

The silence in the room thickened as all eyes stayed fixed on you. You could almost hear the gears turning in their minds, waiting for you to continue.

“It wasn’t official, more like rumors that started circulating online—conspiracy theories on the street that sort of thing. People were talking about the genetic differences between male and female Inhumans. The idea was that female Inhumans might have something… unique in their genetic makeup. Something that made them more powerful, more valuable. It was all just rumors, but the theory went that certain organizations, maybe even governments, were interested in… experimenting. Harvesting something from female Inhumans.”

You paused, feeling the weight of the words settle into the room like a suffocating blanket. You could see the skepticism in Sam’s eyes, but he didn’t interrupt. Bucky’s face remained impassive, though his jaw tightened slightly, the only sign that he was processing what you were saying. Yelena, for her part, remained unreadable, but there was a glimmer of something in her eyes—recognition, maybe. Like she’d heard this theory before, or worse, seen it in action.

Sam finally spoke, his voice low but steady. “You’re saying someone’s targeting female Inhumans specifically because of their genetics? For experiments?” He leaned back slightly, crossing his arms as the words hung in the air, doubt lacing his tone.

“We’ve dealt with crazier,” you admitted, your eyes flicking between them, “and I don’t know if that’s what this is. But two thousand women, all gone without a trace? There has to be a reason. Something about them that makes them a target.”

Bucky’s voice cut through the tension, cold and sharp. “If this theory’s even remotely true, then Fury’s right. This is planned. Coordinated.”

Yelena nodded slightly, acknowledging Bucky’s words. She stepped forward and tapped the file with her finger, her gaze hardening. “It’s no coincidence. Someone’s been doing this for a long time, slowly, methodically. Not enough to raise alarms right away, but enough that by the time anyone noticed, they were already deep into whatever they’re doing.”

Her voice was steady, but there was an edge of anger in it, the only crack in her otherwise unflappable demeanor. She wasn’t just showing you this information because she was curious—she wanted to stop it, whatever it was.

You leaned forward, your heart racing as you flipped through the missing reports again, your fingers trembling slightly. The faces of the missing women stared back at you, their eyes haunting, as if they were silently pleading for answers you didn’t have.

“But what could they be doing with them?” you asked, not really expecting anyone to have the answer, but needing to voice the question all the same.

Yelena’s lips pressed into a thin line, her eyes dark as they met yours. “That’s the question, isn’t it?” she said quietly. “What do they want from them?”

The room felt colder, the implications of her words sinking in. Whoever was behind this wasn’t just abducting Inhumans—they were harvesting something from them. Experimenting, maybe. And two thousand women were already gone.

Sam let out a slow breath, his expression turning grim. “If this is some kind of experiment, we’re already way behind.”

“And they’re still taking more,” Bucky added, his voice low, his eyes hard as steel. “Which means they haven’t finished.”

The silence that followed was thick with dread, the weight of the situation pressing down on all of you. The casserole in front of you, once comforting, now felt like lead in your stomach, and you pushed the bowl aside, unable to eat another bite.

Yelena crossed her arms again, her sharp gaze sweeping across the three of you, the weight of her words hanging in the air like a challenge. “Are we going to sit here and speculate, or are we going to do something about it?” she asked, her voice cutting through the room with a tone that left little room for argument. “We need to find out who’s behind this. And we need to stop them, before it’s too late.”

Her words lit a fire in your gut, but the enormity of the situation still weighed heavily on your mind. This wasn't just a few missing people—this was thousands of lives, and there was something deeply sinister behind it. You could feel it in your bones.

Sam, ever the pragmatist, leaned forward, his arms resting on the table. “First, we need to figure out what exactly female Inhumans have that males don’t,” he said, his voice steady but with an edge of urgency. “If we can understand that, we might get closer to figuring out what they’re targeting.”

All eyes turned to you. You felt the weight of their stares, the unspoken question hanging in the air. You shifted uncomfortably in your seat, shrugging as you met their gazes. “I don’t know,” you admitted, frustration creeping into your voice. You had lived with these abilities, but what made female Inhumans different from males? You hadn’t the faintest idea. “They don’t exactly give you a welcome pack when we get our abilities. All I got was a dozen broken cups and a broken rib when I fell through the wall.”

Yelena raised an eyebrow, a look of mild disbelief crossing her face. “You are an Inhuman, yes?” she asked, her tone laced with a hint of impatience, as if your ignorance was an inconvenience.

You nodded, feeling the slightest bit defensive under her scrutiny. “Yeah.”

“So all we need is a male’s genetic makeup to see the differences,” Yelena said matter-of-factly, as though it was the simplest thing in the world. She spoke with that same blunt directness that people like her often had—the kind that came from years of seeing the world’s complexities as problems that just needed solving, no matter the cost. There was no room for hesitation in her mind, “We’ve already got you here to be able to get a sample from.”

You blinked, staring at her incredulously. “Is medical consent not a thing here?” you asked, unable to stop the dryness from seeping into your voice. “Plus where the hell are we going to get a male sample from? I don’t exactly have a list in my phone of people to call.”

Yelena’s smirk returned, that same knowing, almost smug expression that made you wonder if she already had this all worked out before you’d even arrived. “In the labs,” she said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“What labs?” Bucky asked, his voice low and skeptical as he crossed his arms, clearly not appreciating being left out of the loop.

Yelena let out a soft groan, rolling her eyes as if she couldn’t believe how much of the briefing had been lost on you all. “Do you not read the briefings Fury gave you?” she asked, her tone dripping with exasperation. She glanced between the three of you like you were schoolchildren who hadn’t done their homework.

You felt a flicker of embarrassment, but it was quickly overtaken by a wave of indifference. You’d seen enough in your time to know that plans never really went according to script, and scanning a few bullet points had always been enough to get the gist. “I glance over them,” you said simply, trying to keep your voice casual.

Yelena shot you a pointed look, and you could tell she wasn’t impressed. “Clearly.”

Sam sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “Okay, okay, so what are these labs?” he asked, trying to steer the conversation back on track. “What are we walking into?”

Yelena leaned forward, resting her hands on the table as she spoke, her eyes sharp and focused. “There’s a facility not far from here, isolated, off the official record. It’s an old Hydra lab that was repurposed—government-run now, technically. And it just so happens they’ve been doing research on Inhuman genetics for years. Quietly.”

You felt a chill run down your spine at the mention of Hydra. Even though they were supposedly long gone, the remnants of their operations still haunted the world in ways that were both obvious and insidious. An old Hydra lab, now in the hands of the government? It sounded like a bad idea waiting to explode.

Bucky’s jaw tightened at the mention of Hydra, his metal arm flexing unconsciously. You could almost feel the memories stirring in him, the ghosts of a past he’d rather forget. “How do you know about this place?” he asked, his voice low and dangerous.

Yelena’s smirk faltered for the briefest of moments, but only just. “Let’s just say I have my sources,” she replied cryptically. “The lab’s been under the radar, but I’ve been keeping an eye on it. If anyone’s got the genetic data we need, it’ll be there.”

“And you’re sure they won’t see us coming?” Sam asked, though you could tell by his tone he already knew the answer wasn’t going to be comforting.

Yelena shrugged, her expression indifferent. “I’m never sure of anything. But if we’re going to figure out why female Inhumans are vanishing, this is our best shot. We go in, we get what we need, and we get out before anyone knows we were there.”

You let out a slow breath, the weight of the situation pressing down on you even more. Breaking into a government-run lab, one with Hydra’s fingerprints all over it? It was risky, dangerous even. But what other choice did you have? Two thousand women were already gone, and whoever was behind it wasn’t going to stop.

Bucky leaned back in his chair, his eyes narrowing as he considered Yelena’s plan. “This lab… they’re not just going to let us walk through the front door.”

Yelena’s eyes gleamed with something close to excitement. “No, they won’t. But that’s half the fun, isn’t it?” You exchanged a glance with Sam, who looked just as wary as you felt. This entire situation was a gamble, a dangerous one, and you could feel the weight of it pressing on your chest like a vice. But if Yelena was right, this was the only solid lead you had. The thought of going in blind, not knowing what kind of horrors or traps you might face, sent a spike of anxiety through you. Yet, the alternative—doing nothing, letting more women vanish, letting whatever dark force was behind this continue unchecked—was far worse.

You took a steadying breath, trying to focus your thoughts and push down the unease. “Okay,” you said slowly, looking around the table. “So assuming the missing women and the stolen weapons are connected somehow… Why would they need the weapons? I mean, they already have hundreds of powerful people in their hands, right?”

Bucky leaned back in his chair, his expression grim and thoughtful. “Maybe the weapons are a way to keep them in line. You said it yourself, there’s hundreds of powerful people under their control now—Inhumans with all sorts of abilities. Could be they need the weapons as a fail-safe. Something to neutralize them if they get out of hand.”

The idea made your skin crawl. The thought of someone not just kidnapping these women but also holding onto weapons specifically designed to keep them subdued, as if they were nothing more than dangerous tools to be controlled, felt sickening. It was a possibility you hadn’t fully considered, but now that Bucky had said it, it made a horrible kind of sense.

Sam, who had been quiet for a moment, suddenly shrugged, his brow furrowed in thought. “Or maybe,” he said slowly, “they’re repurposing the weapons.”

Everyone turned to him, the silence thick with anticipation. You were the first to speak, frowning as you tried to grasp the idea. “Repurposing them? How?”

Sam leaned forward, his fingers tapping lightly on the edge of the table as he pieced the idea together. “Hypothetical situation here,” he started, his voice careful, as if he was still testing the theory in his own head. “They started by taking the women. Maybe they were looking for something specific. Something unique in their genetic makeup. After realizing whatever it is—whatever makes the women different from the men—they decide to use it.”

Yelena gave a small, amused shrug, her lips quirking into a smirk. “We’re already genetically superior, but go on.”

Sam shot her a look, not in the mood for her snark. “They figure out that the women’s genetics have some kind of advantage. Maybe it’s an enhancement, maybe it’s something that can be extracted or replicated. Then they start wondering: what if they can incorporate that into the weapons? Use whatever they’re harvesting from the women to make the weapons even more dangerous.”

A cold chill ran down your spine at the thought. You leaned forward, trying to wrap your mind around the terrifying implications. “So you’re saying… they’re not just taking the women for experiments or control. They’re using them. Their powers, their genetics, maybe even their blood—whatever it is, they’re weaponizing it.”

Sam nodded grimly, his expression dark. “It’s possible. Think about it—if they’ve figured out how to extract something from these women that enhances power or makes weapons more lethal, it would explain why they’re targeting them specifically. It’s not just about keeping them captive. It's about making them part of whatever twisted operation they’ve got going.”

The room fell into a heavy silence as the weight of Sam’s words settled over all of you. The idea was horrific—women being abducted, experimented on, and turned into living resources to fuel some kind of monstrous weapons program. The thought of what they must be enduring, what their captors might be doing to them, made your stomach churn.

Yelena’s smirk had faded, her expression sharp and focused now. “If that’s true, they’re not just building weapons. They’re building an army,” she said quietly. “And they’re using Inhumans to do it.”

Your heart raced as the pieces started to fall into place. The stolen weapons, the missing women, the government labs—all of it was connected. You could feel it in your gut. Whoever was behind this wasn’t just kidnapping Inhumans. They were turning them into tools, into something far worse than just captives. And if Yelena was right, this was only the beginning.

Bucky, who had been sitting quietly, suddenly spoke, his voice low and filled with a quiet fury. “If they’re using Inhumans to build weapons, then they’re planning for something big. You don’t go through all this trouble just to sit on an arsenal. They’re preparing for a war.”

The room fell into another tense silence, the truth of Bucky’s words sinking in. If this was about more than just control, more than just experimentation—if this was about war—then the stakes had just skyrocketed. And whoever was behind this wasn’t just a threat to the Inhumans. They were a threat to the entire world.

You could feel the tension building in your chest, your mind racing as you tried to figure out the next step. “So what do we do about it?” you asked, your voice quiet but determined. “If they’re building an army, if they’re using these women to power their weapons, how do we stop them?”

Yelena’s eyes gleamed with a dangerous light, her smirk returning, but this time it was sharper, fiercer. “We hit them where it hurts,” she said simply.

Sam frowned. “And where exactly is that?”

Yelena leaned in slightly, her voice lowering as she spoke. “The lab I told you about earlier. That’s where they’re doing the genetic research. That’s where they’re extracting whatever it is they’re using from the women.”

You nodded, feeling a surge of adrenaline starting to build. “So if we hit the lab, we cut off their supply?”

Yelena’s smirk widened. “Exactly. We go in, we get the data, and we destroy whatever they’re working on. If we can figure out what they’re using, we can stop them from making more weapons.”

Silence filled the table as you all took on the severity. “We plan today, we hit tonight,” Bucky said lowly. <><><><><><> Bucky stood in the doorway, his broad frame leaning against the wooden frame as he watched you methodically unpack your bag. The room was dimly lit, the soft glow from a single bedside lamp casting long shadows over the walls. You moved with practiced ease, laying out your weapons on the bed one by one—a few knives, a set of knuckle dusters, small items that could easily disappear into the folds of your clothing. Each item was familiar in your hands, your fingers tracing the edges of the blades with a calm precision that spoke of experience.

But Bucky knew better than anyone that the calm on the surface wasn’t the whole story.

He watched as you unsheathed a blade, testing its sharpness with a careful thumb, before sliding it back into its holster with a quiet, almost reverent movement. There was something about the way you moved—so controlled, so deliberate. It reminded him of himself in ways that made his chest tighten. He could see the tension in your shoulders, the slight stiffness in your posture that belied the storm that was no doubt raging inside you. On the outside, you looked like a well-oiled machine, a soldier preparing for the next mission. But underneath, Bucky knew your mind was racing, swirling with the weight of what lay ahead.

And it was his fault.

A pang of guilt twisted in his chest, sharp and unforgiving. He’d dragged you into this. Into something dangerous, something personal. He hadn’t wanted to—he’d tried to keep you out of it, tried to shoulder the burden alone—but you’d come anyway. You always did. And now, as you prepared yourself for the battle ahead, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he had failed you. Failed to protect you from the darkness that seemed to follow him everywhere.

There was a part of him that hated seeing you like this—so focused, so hardened. It wasn’t that you couldn’t handle yourself. He knew you could. Hell, you were one of the few people he trusted to have his back. But seeing you like this, preparing for something that could very well get you hurt, or worse, because of a mission he’d pulled you into—it made something tighten painfully in his chest. You shouldn’t have to be here, shouldn’t have to fight this fight. Not for him. Not for anyone.

And yet, you were here. Just like you always were.

He swallowed hard, his throat tight as he watched you slide a knife into the sheath on your ankle. You were here because you cared. Because you didn’t want to see him go through this alone. And that, more than anything, made his guilt twist into something deeper, something more complicated. He didn’t deserve your loyalty. He didn’t deserve the way you looked out for him, the way you always seemed to know when he needed someone by his side, even if he’d never ask for it.

Bucky's gaze softened as his eyes traced the familiar lines of your face, watching the way your brow furrowed slightly as you tested the weight of the knuckle dusters in your hand. You were beautiful in a way that both calmed and terrified him. Beautiful in the way you carried yourself, in the quiet strength you exuded, in the way you faced danger head-on without flinching. But there was something else, too—something that made his heart ache every time he looked at you like this.

It was the vulnerability you hid so well, the weight of the world you carried on your shoulders even when you tried to hide it. It was the way your hands, so steady now, had once trembled when you’d told him about your own past, your own demons. Demons that, in some ways, mirrored his own. Maybe that was why he felt so protective of you, why the thought of you getting hurt in any way made his chest constrict with guilt and fear. You understood him in a way most people didn’t. You saw him—not just as the Winter Soldier or the broken man trying to make amends, but as all the pieces in between. And that scared him.

Bucky sucked in a quiet breath, pushing off the doorframe and stepping into the room. He didn’t say anything at first, just moved closer, his presence steady and grounding as he stood next to you. The air in the room felt heavy, charged with an unspoken tension. He watched as you packed the last of the weapons into your bag, your movements deliberate, almost mechanical. He could tell you were trying to stay focused, to keep your hands busy, but he also knew that wasn’t really what was going on.

“Are you alright?” he asked, his voice low and careful, as if testing the waters.

You glanced up at him, a familiar smirk tugging at the corners of your lips, though it didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Of course,” you said, your tone light, almost casual. “Another day, another fight.”

Bucky wasn’t convinced. He could see through the bravado, through the tough exterior you always put on before missions. He’d seen it enough times to recognize it for what it was—your armor. He watched you for a moment longer, then quietly moved to the chair near the bed, settling into it with a quiet sigh. His gaze never left you, though, as you continued packing. He knew you were trying to stay busy, trying to keep your mind from wandering too far into dangerous territory. But he also knew you well enough to see the cracks in your calm exterior.

You’d been shaken since learning the details of the mission. He could see it in the way your hands moved—just a little more tense than usual, a little more deliberate. You’d done this dozens of times before, faced down impossible odds without flinching. But this time was different. The risks were more personal now, too close to home. This wasn’t just about the missing women anymore.

This was about how easily it could have been you.

Bucky leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees, his gaze softening as he watched you. “But it isn’t though, is it?” he said quietly, his voice cutting through the silence like a gentle but firm nudge.

You froze for a moment, your hand hesitating over the strap of your bag. The words hung between you like a thin thread, fragile and dangerous to tug on. You straightened, turning to face him, your expression guarded. “Look,” you began, your voice sharp but not angry, more defensive than anything. “What do you want me to say? That I’m what, scared?”

The question lingered in the air, and for a moment, you let your guard down, just a fraction. The flicker of vulnerability in your eyes was brief, but Bucky caught it. He always did. You were scared.

You shrugged, pushing past the moment and forcing that smirk back onto your face. “I’m okay, Bucky. Really.”

He looked at you for a long moment, his blue eyes searching yours. He could see the lie behind your words, the way you were trying so hard to convince yourself as much as him. He’d seen this before. Hell, he’d lived it. The way you told yourself you were fine, over and over, until you started to believe it—at least on the surface. But underneath, the fear was always there, gnawing at the edges, waiting for the right moment to break through.

“I know you are,” Bucky said softly, his voice carrying a note of quiet understanding. He would play along, just like he always did. It was a game the two of you had perfected over the years—a silent agreement where you pretended you were fine, and he pretended to believe you. It was easier that way. Less messy. Neither of you had to confront the deeper feelings swirling beneath the surface. It was a dance you’d done countless times before, and like always, Bucky would be the one to keep a close eye on you, watching for the cracks in your armor, waiting for the moment when you needed someone to catch you.

You finished zipping up your bag, then turned to him, sitting on the edge of the bed, one leg tucked under you while the other rested on the floor. You gave him a small, playful smile, trying to shift the mood. “So, on a lighter note,” you began, “during my brief stint of retirement—”

Bucky raised an eyebrow, smirking. “What time?”

You rolled your eyes, exasperated but amused. “Well, considering that I’m still retired and this is just a favor—” you reminded him, your tone dripping with faux seriousness.

Bucky pulled a face of exaggerated disbelief. “Uh-huh, sure.”

You crossed your arms, giving him a pointed look. “Anyway, as I was saying, I went on a road trip to Washington. I hadn’t been there since, you know… SHIELD, helicarriers, you trying to kill me.” You waved a lazy hand like it was no big deal, but your grin betrayed the humor behind the jab.

Bucky shook his head, letting out a soft, almost regretful sigh. “I was brainwashed.”

“I had my abilities for like, two minutes,” you countered, your voice drifting off as the memory came back to you. You remembered your first encounter with him—when he was The Winter Soldier. How Steve and Natasha had dragged you into their mission, how you’d gone hand to hand with Bucky, both of you relentless, neither letting up. You could still picture the cold efficiency in his eyes as he fought, the crack of each punch, the sheer force behind every block. The fight had been brutal, violent, and terrifying. “I had no idea what I was doing.”

Bucky gave you a look, his lips quirking up slightly. “I apologized,” he pointed out, his tone just a little defensive.

You laughed, waving him off. “Yeah, yeah. Can I finish my story? You’re gonna love it, I promise.”

Bucky settled back into his chair, gesturing for you to continue with a mock-serious expression. “By all means,” he said with a smirk.

“So, like I said, I went to Washington, and I thought, ‘Man, I wonder if they’ve updated the Smithsonian since Steve ya know, ‘retired’—’”

“I thought you didn’t like history,” Bucky interrupted again, his eyebrow raised in challenge.

You shot him a dry look, one eyebrow arched. “You’re just gonna keep right on interrupting me, huh?”

Bucky lifted his hands in surrender, fighting back a grin. “Sorry, sorry.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, but there was a playful glint in your gaze. “As I was saying,” you emphasized, “I went and took myself to the Smithsonian—”

At that exact moment, Sam strolled through the doorway, arms crossed casually over his chest as he leaned against the frame. His expression was all easy charm, but there was a spark of curiosity in his eyes. “What are we talking about?” he asked, his tone light, though you knew he was always looking for a chance to stir the pot.

You threw your head back in mock frustration, letting out an exaggerated groan. “How they’re about to make a Netflix series about me going postal because no one will stop interrupting me.”

Sam chuckled, clearly amused by your antics as he sauntered over to lean against the dresser, arms still folded, a smirk playing on his lips. He was enjoying this far too much. “Hey, sorry, sorry. Please, by all means, continue,” he said, the faux innocence in his tone making it obvious he wasn’t sorry at all.

You shot him a playful glare before glancing at Bucky, who was watching you with a faint smirk of his own. You took a dramatic breath, as if preparing for the biggest reveal of your life. “They’ve expanded the Howling Commandos exhibit.” You shrugged, “Looks kinda cool.”

At that, both men perked up slightly. Bucky’s brow furrowed with curiosity, the teasing air around him shifting just a little. “Oh yeah?” he asked, his voice a bit more genuine now. The mention of the Commandos always did that—brought something quieter, more thoughtful out of him.

You grinned, feeling the moment hang deliciously in the air as you let the suspense build. “Apparently, a woman named Connie donated some letters you wrote to her.” You sucked in some air through your teeth dramatically, your grin widening as you watched Bucky’s eyes narrow, clearly trying to place the name.

Sam’s eyebrows shot up, an incredulous smile breaking across his face. “Whoa, hold up—Bucky was out here writing love letters? Ol’ Winter Soldier, the romantic?”

Bucky’s face immediately hardened into a defensive scowl, but the tips of his ears were turning pink, betraying him. “I didn’t—” he started, but you cut him off, enjoying every second of this.

“Oh, no, no. These weren’t just letters,” you said, your voice dripping with mock seriousness. “They were passionate letters. Full of longing. Full of ‘I fought in a war, but the real battle is in my heart’ kind of stuff.”

Bucky groaned, rubbing a hand over his face. “You’re exhausting.” He commented shaking his head at you.

Bucky leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching you closely as you bantered with Sam. He could see the way you were trying to brush off the weight of everything—using humor to mask the tension that had been building since the mission brief. It was something he understood all too well. Deflecting, joking, pretending things weren’t as heavy as they were. He did it all the time. But he also knew that underneath the teasing, you were carrying more than you let on.

Sam, oblivious or just enjoying the lighthearted moment, burst out laughing, his voice filling the room as he leaned forward on the dresser. “Man, I have to see these letters. Bucky Barnes, the romantic. Who knew?”

You grinned, shooting Sam a playful look. “Oh, trust me, we’ll go spend the day when we get back,” you said with a sly wink, relishing the little jab at Bucky. “You’re gonna love it. Reading those letters and trying to compare it to the Bucky I know now? Impossible. I mean, they’re so... heartfelt.”

Bucky gave you a half-hearted glare, though his lips twitched with the hint of a smile. He was trying to play it off, but you could tell he wasn’t as mad as he pretended to be. “You two done?” he asked, his voice gruff but without any real bite behind it.

“Oh, we’re just getting started,” Sam grinned, leaning back again, arms still crossed over his chest like he was settling in for a long show. “Tell us more, though. What else was in this exhibit?”

Bucky groaned, rolling his eyes but not saying anything. He was used to this by now—the endless teasing, the jabs at his past. But you could see the way he was watching you, his eyes sharp and focused, like he was waiting for you to drop the facade. He knew you too well. Knew all of this was just a way to keep the conversation light, to keep from thinking too much about what you were all walking into.

You decided to pivot, your tone suddenly serious as you fixed your gaze on Bucky. “Okay, I’ll give you credit for this—”

Sam’s eyes widened in mock surprise, immediately cutting in. “Oh, hold up. Are you about to give him a compliment? Somebody mark the date and time!”

You nodded, keeping your face serious as you glanced back at Bucky, your tone shifting ever so slightly. “Have you seen his long-distance shooting record?”

Sam blinked, a mixture of surprise and curiosity crossing his face. “Wait, what?”

You nodded again, turning fully to face Bucky now. “Not bad,” you said, your voice carrying a note of genuine respect. “There’s a whole section on it at the exhibit. They’ve got targets he hit from crazy distances. It’s impressive.”

Bucky’s brow furrowed slightly, clearly caught off guard by the sudden shift in tone. He wasn’t used to getting compliments, especially not from you. He opened his mouth to say something, but Sam beat him to it.

“Wait, wait, wait. Back up,” Sam said, holding up a hand, his tone incredulous. “Are you telling me Bucky’s a sniper legend? I mean, I know he’s good, but legendary?”

You shrugged, a small smile tugging at your lips as you looked at Bucky. “Well, when you’re fighting Nazis, I guess you pick up a few skills.”

Bucky shifted uncomfortably, clearly not used to this kind of praise. “It’s not a big deal,” he muttered, his voice low. “Oh, it’s definitely a big deal,” Sam said, leaning forward with a grin that stretched ear to ear, clearly enjoying this moment far too much. “I mean, I knew you were good, but this? We’re talking about museum-worthy accuracy here, man.”

Bucky rolled his eyes, but there was a quiet chuckle under his breath, something soft and amused in the sound. “You guys are killing me with this. Really, top-notch stuff. Hilarious.”

Sam crossed his arms, his grin widening with satisfaction. “Oh, we know,” he said, his tone dripping with mock arrogance. “But back to the main event—love letters, Barnes? Seriously?”

You couldn’t help but join in, your grin playful as you chimed in. “Hey, it was wartime,” you said, glancing over at Sam with a shrug. “My grandparents always said that despite the war, it was a whole different time. People fell in love hard and fast because they might not have tomorrow.”

Sam raised an eyebrow, smirking mischievously. “So what about you?” he asked, leaning in as if he were about to uncover some scandalous secret. “You ever sweep anyone off their feet with some heartfelt letter? Maybe a little romance on the battlefield?”

You laughed, shaking your head before he could even finish the thought, already anticipating where this was headed. “Me? Please,” you scoffed, rolling your eyes dramatically. “Could you imagine me sweeping some poor asshole off their feet? I’d probably trip them over. I’m much more of a ‘stumble into someone and hope they don’t notice I’m a mess’ kind of person.”

In the background, Bucky’s laugh broke through, warm and unguarded, the kind of laugh that came so rarely from him. “Nah, you’ve got a certain charm about you,” he teased, leaning back against the dresser with a smirk that was equal parts amused and fond. “A kind of, uh—what’s the word—chaotic energy.”

You shot him a mock glare, arms crossing over your chest in faux indignation. “Oh, thanks, Barnes. That’s exactly what every girl wants to hear—that she’s a natural disaster.”

Sam, never missing an opportunity, jumped in, clearly having the time of his life. “Hey, he’s not wrong! You’ve got that whole unpredictable, keep-‘em-on-their-toes vibe. Some people are into that, you know?”

You scoffed, grabbing a nearby pillow and chucking it at Sam, who caught it with ease. “You’re full of it, Wilson.”

Sam was still laughing, his grin never faltering. “No, no, I’m serious! It’s like... you’re the kind of person who’d accidentally knock over a bookshelf, but then somehow make it look like you did it on purpose. There’s a strategy to your chaos.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, shaking your head as you waved him off. “Great. So I’m a charming disaster. That’s really working wonders for my confidence.”

Sam raised his hands in mock defense, his grin wide and playful. “Hey, I’m just calling it like I see it. You’ve got personality, that’s all I’m saying.”

You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling. The banter with Sam was easy—light-hearted and fun, the kind of back-and-forth that made everything feel just a little bit lighter, even with the weight of the mission hanging over all of you. It was normal for you and Sam to mess around like this, and you were comfortable in the rhythm of it, not thinking too much about it.

But what you didn't notice was the way Bucky had gone quiet.

Sam, however, wasn’t as oblivious. He picked up on it almost immediately—the subtle shift in Bucky’s demeanor. The way his easy smile faded just a little, the way his eyes lowered as he leaned back against the chair, retreating into himself. It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t something that most people would catch. But Sam knew Bucky better than most. He could read him like a book, and right now, that book was telling him something was up.

Bucky’s jaw tightened ever so slightly as his eyes flicked to you, lingering longer than they should. It wasn’t just a passing glance—it was the kind of look that held more than just casual interest. There was something deeper there, something quieter. Something Bucky wasn’t saying.

And it wasn’t the first time Sam had noticed.

Since coming back from being dusted—since being thrust back into a world that had moved five years without him—Bucky had changed in ways that weren’t immediately obvious. To everyone else, he was still the same old Bucky Barnes: stoic, brooding, and reserved. But Sam had spent enough time around him to see the cracks forming beneath the surface, the subtle ways Bucky’s once hardened exterior had softened.

It was in the small moments when Sam caught Bucky watching you, his expression unguarded, like he forgot for just a second that someone might see. Back when they were first regrouping after the Blip, Sam had noticed the way Bucky’s entire posture would shift when you entered the room. At first, he thought it was just Bucky being cautious—observing, like he always did. But the more Sam watched, the more he realized it wasn’t wariness in Bucky’s eyes when he looked at you. It was something else entirely.

There was that one time, when you were all holed up in some dingy safehouse between missions. You had been pacing, frustrated about something that had gone wrong, your voice sharp with irritation as you vented to Sam. Bucky had been sitting on the other side of the room, seemingly uninterested, quietly cleaning his weapon. But Sam had noticed the way Bucky’s eyes followed you, his movements slowing as he listened to every word you said. And when you’d finally thrown yourself onto the couch with a dramatic sigh, Bucky had glanced over at you, his expression softening in a way that was almost imperceptible. Almost.

Sam had even noticed the way Bucky’s mood would shift depending on how you were feeling. If you were having a rough day, Bucky would be quieter than usual, his eyes tracking your movements like he was waiting for the right moment to step in. If you were in a good mood, cracking jokes and teasing him, Bucky’s responses would be a little sharper, his banter quicker, like he was trying to keep up. But it was when you weren’t around that Sam noticed the biggest difference. Bucky was always more withdrawn when you weren’t there—more closed off, like he was missing something essential.

It wasn’t just about attraction, either. Sam had seen that before, the way people looked at each other when they were interested. This was different. This ran deeper. It was in the way Bucky seemed to need you, the way his edges softened when you spoke to him, even in passing. The way his gaze would flick to you when he thought no one was looking, his expression quiet, contemplative, like he was memorizing every detail.

Sam hadn’t said anything, of course. Bucky wasn’t exactly the type to talk about his feelings, and Sam wasn’t about to push him. But that didn’t mean he hadn’t noticed. It was hard not to notice when Bucky’s entire demeanor shifted around you.

It was the kind of quiet, unspoken affection that ran deep—deeper than Bucky probably even realized. The kind of feelings that had been building slowly, over time, in the small moments between missions, in the comfortable silences and the shared glances. And Sam, ever the observer, had been there to witness it all.

So when Bucky’s gaze lingered just a little too long during moments like this, Sam wasn’t surprised. He’d seen it before. He’d seen it in the way Bucky’s eyes softened when he looked at you, the way his body seemed to relax ever so slightly when you were near. It was a look Sam had seen on Bucky’s face more times than he could count now—a look filled with quiet admiration, with something unspoken and profound.

And maybe Bucky wasn’t ready to admit it to himself yet. But Sam knew. Sam had always known.

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