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“—and I’m just saying, maybe don’t mention the blood.”
Steve’s voice crackles through your phone speaker, carefully neutral in that way that means he’s managing a situation. You shift on the uncomfortable plastic chair, holding your phone between your shoulder and ear while you fill out insurance paperwork with your good hand.
“What blood?”
“The blood on his—you know what, never mind. How’s the wrist?”
“Sprained. I’ll live.” You pause, pen hovering over a question about previous injuries. “Steve, why are you calling me about blood?”
“No reason.”
“Steven Grant Rogers.”
A pause. You can practically hear him running a hand through his hair. “He might have been interrogating a Hydra operative when I called about your accident.”
“And?”
“And he might have… left abruptly.”
“Steve.”
“Still covered in the operative’s blood.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“I broke several traffic laws trying to catch up with him, but he had a head start and that bike is faster than—” Something crashes in the background. “Shit. I should go. Just, uh. Maybe give the hospital a heads up?”
“A heads up about what—”
The automatic doors explode open like they’ve personally offended him.
“Never mind,” you mutter, watching Bucky stride through the ER like an avenging angel dressed in tactical gear and what is definitely someone else’s blood. “He’s here.”
“Is he—”
You hang up on Captain America.
Three nurses scatter. An orderly drops his clipboard. A small child points and whispers, “Mommy, is that the Winter Soldier?”
His eyes find yours across the crowded waiting room and everything else ceases to exist. The murderous expression melts off his face so fast it’s almost comical, replaced by something raw and desperate that makes your chest tight. His shoulders drop from murder-mode to oh-thank-god and he’s moving, crossing the space between you in long strides that have people scrambling out of his way.
“Buck—” you start, but he’s already there.
His hands frame your face with devastating gentleness, thumbs ghosting over your cheekbones like you might evaporate. The metal one leaves a smudge of something you’re not going to think about too hard. His eyes catalog every inch of you, frantic and thorough.
“You’re okay.” His voice comes out gutted. “You're—Steve said accident, said hospital, and I—”
“I’m fine.” You cover his flesh hand with yours, trying to ground him. The soul bond thrums between you, flooded with his barely-contained panic. “Bucky, breathe. It’s just a sprained—”
His gaze snaps to your wrapped wrist and the temperature drops ten degrees. The shift is instant—soft boyfriend to Winter Soldier in 0.2 seconds flat. A muscle in his jaw ticks.
“Where?”
One word. Flat. Deadly. The kind of tone that makes trained assassins reconsider their life choices.
Your thighs clench at absolutely the wrong moment.
“Bucky—”
“Where is he.”
“It was an accident—”
“Don’t care.” His metal hand drops to your shoulder, plates recalibrating with that soft whir that means he’s fighting for control. “Someone hurt you.”
“A teenager in a minivan hurt me,” you clarify. “By accident. At five miles per hour.”
He processes this information like a targeting computer, eyes scanning the waiting room with mechanical precision. They land on Tyler Hendricks—seventeen, terrified, wearing a Midtown High letterman jacket and clutching a juice box like a lifeline.
“Him?”
“Bucky, no.”
But he’s already moving, that predator-stride that would be absolutely terrifying if it wasn’t so goddamn attractive. Tyler sees death approaching and goes pale enough to match the walls.
“Oh shit,” Tyler whispers. “Oh shit oh shit oh shit—”
Bucky looms, all six feet of blood-splattered tactical gear and barely-leashed violence. Tyler might actually be crying.
“You did this?”
Tyler opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again. No sound comes out.
The silence stretches. You watch from your chair, caught between concern for Tyler’s blood pressure and an inappropriate appreciation for how Bucky’s shoulders look in his compression shirt.
“I—yes? It was—the light was—I’m so sorry, man, I’ll pay for everything, please don’t murder me, I have college applications due—”
“College applications.” Bucky’s voice is winter-quiet, which is somehow worse than yelling. “You hurt my girl and you’re worried about college applications.”
“I mean—yes? No? I don’t know what the right answer is here, sir. Mr. Soldier. Sergeant Barnes? Wikipedia said you were a sergeant—”
“You looked me up on Wikipedia?”
“I wanted to know how to address you properly before you killed me!”
Bucky circles Tyler’s chair slowly, each step measured and deliberate. The poor kid tracks him like a mouse watching a cat, juice box forgotten.
“Do you know what a sprained wrist means?” Bucky asks conversationally.
“Um. Swelling? Four to six weeks of healing?”
“Wrong.” Bucky stops directly behind him. Tyler goes rigid. “It means she’s in pain. Because of you.”
“I’m really sor—”
“It means I have to watch her hurt.” His voice drops lower. “Do you have any idea what that does to me?”
Tyler squeaks. Actually squeaks.
“It means you get to fuss over me and carry my groceries and open every single jar in the apartment,” you interrupt, trying for levity. “Bucky, stop terrorizing children.”
“He’s not a child. He’s old enough to drive. Old enough to hurt—”
“Old enough to have his prefrontal cortex still developing,” you interrupt. “Also old enough to need therapy after this. Tyler, honey, you’re doing great.”
“I am?” Tyler’s voice cracks three times in two words.
“No,” Bucky says flatly.
You roll your eyes. “Come here, James.”
The use of his first name makes him pause. He gives Tyler a look that threatens death and dismemberment, then lets you pull him away. But not before leaning down one more time.
“I know your name,” he says quietly. “Tyler Hendricks. Midtown High. License plate AGH-2847. Instagram handle @TylerBBallKilla04. If she has even one moment of unnecessary pain because of this—”
“James.”
He gives Tyler another look that promises creative violence, then stalks back to you. The second he reaches you, his hands find your face again, gentler this time, thumbs stroking your cheekbones like you’re made of spun glass.
“Stop threatening minors,” you murmur. His touch makes you feel a little soft, a little dizzy.
“He hurt you.”
“It was an accident.”
“Don’t care.” He presses his forehead to yours, and you can feel the tremor running through him. “Can't—fuck, baby, when Steve called—”
“I know.” You reach up to cradle his jaw, feel him lean into it helplessly. “But hey, I’m okay. We’re okay.”
He exhales shakily, then straightens. Turns back to Tyler, who immediately tries to become one with his chair.
“You’re paying for her medical bills.”
Jesus Christ.
“Yes sir!”
“And her car repairs.”
“Absolutely!”
“And—”
“Bucky.” You tug on his tactical vest. “We have insurance.”
“And her pain and suffering,” he continues, ignoring you.
“I don’t think that's—”
“Are you suffering?” he asks you, eyes still on Tyler.
“Tremendously,” you deadpan.
“See? Pain and suffering.”
Tyler nods frantically. “Whatever you want! My mom’s a dentist, I can throw in free cleanings!”
Bucky blinks. Once. Twice. You can see him trying to process this unexpected turn. “Are you… bribing me with dental care?”
“Is it working?”
“No.”
“We should go,” you say, standing carefully. “Before you give him a heart attack.”
Bucky immediately wraps an arm around your waist, taking most of your weight like you’ve broken your leg instead of sprained your wrist. The casual display of strength makes heat pool in your stomach.
“Call if you need anything,” Tyler says desperately. “Anything at all! I’m really good at calculus! And I babysit!”
“We don’t have kids,” Bucky says flatly. Then, under his breath, so quiet only you catch it: “Yet.”
You pinch his side through his gear—hard enough to make your point. He retaliates immediately, metal fingers finding that spot just above your hip that makes you squirm. You have to bite your lip to keep from making an undignified sound in front of poor, traumatized Tyler.
“I can also do yardwork!”
You’re definitely laughing now, muffled against Bucky’s shoulder. He guides you toward the exit, but pauses at Tyler’s chair.
“I know where you live.”
“That’s deeply concerning!” Tyler’s voice hits a pitch only dogs can hear.
“Good. It should be.”
And then he’s guiding you out, hand splayed possessively on your lower back. The cold air hits like a shock after the hospital warmth. Without hesitation, he shrugs out of his jacket and wraps it around you, ignoring your protests.
“Is that actually someone’s blood?” you ask, eyeing a suspicious stain.
“Probably.”
“Bucky.”
“What? He was Hydra. He’ll live.” He helps you onto his bike with careful hands, gentler than you’ve ever seen him. “Probably.”
“You can’t just—”
“You were hurt,” he says simply, like that explains everything. Justifies everything. And in his mind, it probably does.
He swings onto the bike, pulling you tight against his back. You can feel the tension slowly leaving his body now that he has you close, safe, confirmed alive and whole.
“For the record,” you murmur against his ear, “the whole protective thing? Very sexy.”
His hands tighten on the handlebars. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. Probably shouldn’t traumatize teenagers over it, though.”
“He had it coming.”
“He’s probably stress-drinking his apple juice as we speak.”
“Good.” He starts the engine, then glances back at you. “You really okay?”
You press a kiss to the spot just below his ear, feel him shiver. “Take me home and I’ll show you how okay I am.”
The bike peels out of the parking lot fast enough to leave rubber on the asphalt.
(Tyler Hendricks posts about his near-death experience on Reddit that night. It goes viral. The title reads: “TIFU by rear-ending the Winter Soldier’s girlfriend.”
The top comment is from Steve Rogers’ verified account: “You got off easy, kid.”)