Chapter Text
You stirred before your eyes opened. You hardly registered the subtle weight of a blanket tucked around your body and the uncomfortable stinging at the inner edge of your arm.
The lights above you were dimmed to a low hue, probably on account of whoever dragged you in knowing the last thing you’d want to see was bright hospital lights. Your lashes fluttered open slowly; your vision adjusted in broken pieces: a blood bag suspended beside your head, the unmistakable silhouette of Bob in the corner.
His head slumped over to the side, arms crossed loosely over his chest in a way that said he’d been waiting for hours. There was a small pile-up of books on the floor beside him; how long had he been here?
Questions spun in your head, but all you heard was the primal scream to rip out the needle. Now . Common sense dissolved beneath the urge as your hand frantically clawed at your inner elbow, nails dug into the tape that secured the needle. The moment the adhesive gave, you yanked.
A hot jolt of pain surged, and blood welled instantly — you forced the blood back in before it could threaten to spill over the white hospital sheets. Your breath hitched as you tried to will the blood to clot with your powers, but you were too weak, barely able to coax even the smallest scab into forming.
Your throat rasped with every breath. Slipping your legs off the side of the bed, they didn’t feel like yours; sluggish and aching with every move. That didn’t stop you as you shoved off the mattress, bare feet hitting the cold floor like you could outwalk the bitter memories gnawing at the corners of your mind.
Your knees buckled on impact. Bob caught you before you could hit the ground, arms looped around your waist with your back flush against his front. “You’re not strong enough yet,” he said, voice low. “You need rest.”
“I can’t stay here, Bob. I can’t.” You instinctively curled away from him, arms scrambling for the bed to brace yourself. His hands lingered for a moment at your waist before slowly withdrawing; he lowered himself into the chair beside the bed.
You gritted your teeth, jaw clenched as your arms shook from the effort of holding yourself up. Your fingers pressed cold against the rough mattress. “What happened?” you asked. “How long was I out?”
Bob didn’t answer right away. He stared down at his hands, his thumb brushing over a crease in his jeans. “Three days,” he said finally. “You’ve been in a coma for three days.”
You blinked, staring at the floor as if it could somehow make sense of the lost time. “Three days?” you repeated. “I was only… I thought—”
“You hardly made it into the Quinjet,” Bob cut in. “Your vitals were crashing, your powers were… all over the place. You were burning through blood faster than we could get it in you.”
Three days where your body had been a battlefield without your mind present to witness it. Three more days stolen, tacked onto the seventy-year coma you'd already endured. Your body convulsed in a sudden, involuntary shiver.
“I hate hospitals.” You turned your head slightly, meeting his eyes for the first time. His eyes were rimmed in red, not from crying, no. Bob didn’t wear his grief so obviously, but from nights spent in a chair with no sleep and too much silence.
Bob leaned forward, slowly lifting a water bottle from the bedside stand. “Sip?” He offered gently. You hesitated, then nodded. He twisted the cap open and offered it to you, waiting patiently as you brought it to your lips. The water was lukewarm but soothing, washing the bitterness from your throat. You only managed a few gulps before your arms started shaking again. He took the bottle wordlessly, setting it down as if this was all perfectly normal.
“Have you even left?”
“I didn’t want you waking up alone.”
The words you needed to say felt out of reach. Thank you. I'm sorry . Anything that didn’t feel like blood in your mouth. Instead, the confession that came out was, “I kept dreaming I was back there, and suddenly I woke up, and I'm in another lab. I can’t stay here.”
Bob’s brows twitched, but he didn’t speak; he didn’t need to. You both knew what “there” meant: the cold marble, the needles, the white coats, the scalpels slicing every vein in your body.
“I couldn’t move,” you continued, voice thin. “Like my body wasn’t mine. Like I was just… feeling it happen all over again.”
Bob reached forward, his hand curling around yours where it lay limp on the bed. It wasn’t a squeeze, just a presence. A tether. “You’re not there,” he said. “I have you.”
You wanted to believe him. God , you wanted to believe him. But rage clawed its way up your throat — the thought of being forced into a coma, of losing even more time, was unbearable. You knew it wasn’t anyone’s fault, least of all Bob’s, but that didn’t stop you from pulling your hand away from his gentle touch and running your fingers through your hair. Needing something to do with the tension humming under your skin.
A knock came shortly after, two short raps against the metal frame of the door before it creaked open. Bob straightened but didn’t rise. You turned your head toward the sound, heart kicking hard in your chest.
Yelena poked her head in first. “We are ok to come in, yes?” she said, already halfway inside before waiting for permission. “You are looking remarkably less dead than earlier.” She sat beside you, eyeing you up and down. A small sound escaped you, not quite a laugh. Still, Yelena’s mouth tilted into a satisfied smirk.
Alexei, vibrating with barely contained anticipation, produced a large black garment bag from behind his back. “We bring gift!” You tilted your head, genuinely bewildered. With a sharp tug, he ripped the zip down. The bag’s front panel fell away, revealing your tactical gear. Albeit, a slightly different version of it. “Your old one was destroyed!”
You closed your eyes and the memory surged: flames devouring the Kevlar fabric, stitch by agonizing stitch. Almost instinctively, your fingers drifted behind you, tracing the skin of your back. Only smoothness met your touch. No scars. The coma had erased even that.
A headache pulsed behind your eyes as you forced your gaze forward. Your gear was nearly identical to pre-incident, except for the bold 'New Avengers' emblem now embroidered on the side.
“Were you just waiting for me to die so you could make me officially part of the team?”
Ava’s voice cut from behind Bob’s shoulder. “You’ve been official for eighteen months.” She stood rigid, arms locked tight across her chest. The sterile, medical air seemed to press on her just as heavily as it did on you.
“Don’t remind me,” you muttered, offering Alexei a weary nod of thanks as he set the gear aside. “Someone kill me again.”
Yelena rolled her eyes beside you and tapped your thigh twice before standing up; her eyes fluttered to the hanging needle and the gash in your arm. “I have a strange feeling you’re not going to stay here once we leave.”
“Correct,” you responded.
John cut in, exasperated. “The doctor ordered bed rest. A week, minimum. You just woke up.”
“I can recover in my own room,” you countered, meeting his gaze head-on despite the persistent throb in your head.
“You needed help sitting up ten minutes ago,” Bob murmured, his voice unexpectedly joining the fray. Your head snapped toward him, a jolt of confusion tightening your chest. Now he chimed in?
“Fine,” you bit out. “Bob can stay with me. In my actual room.” Exhaustion made your head feel stuffed with cotton. “He can babysit. Make sure I don't crack my head open or whatever bullshit you all think I'm gonna do.”
Bob’s head snapped toward you. Yelena stared, her expression raw with genuine shock. Around the room, you could almost hear the suppressed jokes straining behind clenched teeth. Ava had raised her eyebrows sky-high, looking faintly amused.
Only Bucky remained motionless. He’d been a brooding silhouette against the door frame since the start, arms locked across his chest. His gaze was heavy and unyielding beneath fiercely knitted brows as he pinned you with a judgmental look.
Bob pushed himself up with a groan, stretching the stiffness from his limbs. “I’m going to shower then,” he announced, scrubbing a hand over his face. His gaze flickered over the group before settling on you. “I can help you upstairs when I'm done?”
“I've got her, Bob. Take a break,” Bucky said, stepping away from the door frame where he’d been leaning.
One by one, the others began to move out the door as well. Yelena gave a small nod, folding her arms tighter, the smirk fading into something softer. Alexei hoisted the garment bag over his shoulder; John lingered a moment longer, shooting a look at Bucky before turning to you. “Rest is non-negotiable. You hear me?”
You gave a tired nod. He was right, of course. But following orders, even sensible ones, had never exactly been your strong suit.
As the others footsteps faded, leaving only you and Bucky in the sterile quiet, the air thickened with everything he’d held back. Bucky crossed the small distance; the chair sighed softly as he took his place beside you.
“How are you?” His voice was low, rough gravel scraping against the quiet.
You stared at the ceiling, the fluorescent lights blurring in your vision. “Like shit, and if I spend one more minute trapped in this fucking room, I swear I’ll crawl out that window.” The words tasted bitter. “A coma? Really, Bucky? My body heals. It always has.”
He didn’t flinch, but his jaw tightened. “You were dying. There wasn’t time for consent forms or debates. Your organs were shutting down.”
“And the only reason those doctors knew how to save me,” you shot back, turning your head to pin him with a sharp look, “was because you told them. You knew. You knew what it meant to me – to lose control like that. After everything. Again.”
“The choice wasn’t easy.”
“Well, isn’t that fucking rich?” A brittle, humourless laugh escaped you. “At least you got a choice.”
That finally broke something in him. He leaned forward, his metal hand clenching on his knee. His gaze, when it met yours, was stripped bare.
“You think I could stand it? Watching you die? I tried, God, I tried to turn away. Tried to tell myself it was what you’d want, that I should respect it. But I couldn’t.” His voice fractured. “I couldn’t stand the look on Bob’s face when they held him back – the sound he made when you stopped taking the blood. I couldn’t… I can’t lose you. Not after Wakanda. Not after Siberia. Not after every damn time you dragged me back from the edge. I had a chance. Just one chance to save you. How could I walk away from that?”
“You could’ve walked away,” you said, voice tight with accusation, “I wish you did.”
Bucky’s jaw clenched, a flicker of regret in his eyes. “I wish I could say I’m sorry,” he admitted, voice low. “But I’m not. This team wouldn’t survive without you. Hell, I don’t even know what I’d do without you. And Jesus… Bob.”
You scoffed, shaking your head. “Bob would be fine without me.”
He shot you a look, half exasperated, half amused. “You must be an idiot or lying to yourself. You don’t think I see you two always together? The poor kid wouldn’t leave this room unless I promised to stay in his place.”
“We’re not together,” you muttered, eyes flickering away.
Bucky leaned closer, his voice softening. “Do you want to be?”
Your breath caught. “I—I don’t…”
You trailed off, eyes flickering away. Your fingers twitched, brushing against the edge of the bed, then curling into a loose fist. For a moment, your mind raced through every stolen glance, every quiet moment with Bob, the way your pulse quickened, the warmth that lingered long after he’d left the room. You bit your lip, swallowing the denial curling in your throat, unable to meet Bucky's steady gaze.
“Look, don’t be stupid like we were. Just tell him. He cares about you, even if you don’t see him the same way.”
You blinked, caught off guard. “I never said that.”
“Enough with your relationship problems,” Bucky grumbled, standing and offering a hand. “Let’s get you to your room.”
You smirked despite yourself, “You sure you’re going to be able to help me up, gramps?”
“You do remember you’re only eight years younger than me, right?”
You stared at his hand hesitantly for a moment, not because you didn’t trust him but because you didn’t trust your legs. But you slid your fingers into his anyway. His grip was solid, the callouses on his palm felt familiar. He helped you ease to your feet with careful patience, his metal arm sliding under your waist.
It anchored you physically, but your thoughts drifted helplessly back to the encompassing warmth of Bob’s hold, the surprising gentleness of his hands. Bucky’s blunt question resurfaced, churning in the silence between steps: Do you want to be?
The ache in your limbs flared, sharp and immediate, but you gritted your teeth and nodded. One foot in front of the other. Your bare feet were ice against the cool tile, and you were suddenly hyper-aware of the too-thin hospital gown and the sharp draft that cut through the halls.
You made it to the elevator just as your knees threatened to fold again. Bucky reached forward and hit the call button. The doors opened with a mechanical ding, and he guided you in.
You glanced up at the mirrored panel above the buttons and caught your reflection: exhausted. “You’d think three days of sleep I’d look a little less terrible.”
The elevator hummed to life, and you leaned against the cool metal railing, letting it carry your weight, while Bucky watched you from the corner of his eye. The elevator dinged, your floor.
Bucky reached out again, hand gentle as he helped you through the hallway. The lights here were warmer, dim gold rather than sterile white. You hated how grateful you were for it. Your door slid open as you approached, and the familiar scent of your own space hit you.
Hobbling towards the end of the bed, you lowered yourself down with a wince. “Pyjamas,” you managed, the word clipped. Bucky crossed to the wardrobe in two strides, flung it open, and rifled through the contents. He emerged moments later, tossing a worn pair of shorts and an oversized top onto the mattress beside you.
“I'll leave you to it,” he said, already at the door. “Doubt Bob will be long.” His hand paused on the frame. “Call if you need me. And don't forget what I said.” The door clicked shut behind him.
Gritting your teeth, you pushed yourself upright again, the simple motion sending fresh waves of dull ache through your core and back. Every muscle protested. Getting the gown off was its own humiliating ordeal. Your fingers fumbled with the ties, clumsy and weak.
Finally free of your previous clothes, you reached for the shorts. Lifting your legs felt like moving through tar. You braced one hand heavily on the mattress, knuckles white, as you awkwardly manoeuvred one foot, then the other, through the leg holes. Pulling them up over your hips required a risky lean and a surge of effort that left you panting. Leaning back against the mattress, your eyes closed against a brief wave of dizziness.
Bob’s arms holding you… the warmth… the softness…
Shoving the thought down, you grabbed the oversized top. Slipping it over your head was easier, the soft, familiar cotton swallowing you whole.
Outside the door, muffled footsteps sounded in the hallway. Your breath hitched. Bob. A flutter of something entirely new – nervousness? Anticipation? Dread? — joined the exhaustion churning in your gut. The quiet room suddenly felt charged again, waiting.
“It’s open.”
The door slid open and Bob stood in the doorway, freshly showered. His damp hair was darker, pushed back from his forehead, and he wore clean, soft-looking grey sweatpants and a plain black t-shirt that stretched slightly across his shoulders.
He stepped inside, the door hissing shut behind him. His gaze swept the room, taking in the familiar clutter, the dimmer lighting you preferred, the view out the window at the city lights below, before finally landing on you. He hovered near the door for a moment, his hands shoved into his pockets.
“Hey,” he said, his voice low and quiet. “Made it up okay?”
“Yeah. Bucky's a pretty good crutch,” you replied, managing a weak shrug that hurt more than it should. He took a tentative step further into the room, stopping near the foot of the bed. His eyes darted to the empty space beside you, then back to your face.
He looked strangely uncertain, maybe even a little lost. The Bob who’d held you steady in the warehouse, whose voice had trembled with emotion. Bucky’s words echoed: He cares about you.
“Bob,” you started, your voice catching. You quickly cleared your throat before continuing. “About… about me asking you to stay…” He held up a hand, stopping you.
“You don't need to explain. Or apologize.” He met your eyes directly, the blue seeming clearer in the warm light of your room. “I get it. The medbay… it’s suffocating. Especially after…” He trailed off, not needing to name the nightmares. “If being here helps, then I'm here. Babysitting duty accepted.”
He finally moved closer to you, settling himself down on the empty space beside you instead of the chair further off.
“I slept for three days, but I don’t think I’ve ever been so tired.”
“I know the feeling,” Bob murmured. “Sleep, if you can. I'll be right here.”
The warmth you’d remembered from his hold in the medbay seemed to emanate from him now, a quiet, steady heat. The nervous flutter settled, replaced by a different kind of ache, a longing for that warmth, for the safety it promised.
Bucky’s question wasn't just churning; it was pounding against the walls of your heart. Do you want to be? Looking at him, the lines of worry etched around his eyes, the quiet strength in his posture even as weariness pulled at him, the sheer, unwavering presence of him… the answer, terrifying and undeniable, rose within you.
Yes.