Chapter Text
Bucky held your gorgeous body in his arms, every luscious curve of you molding against him as if you’d been made to fit there.
His gloved hands gripped your thighs, your hips, and the bare skin where your lingerie had shifted and melted away under the heat. For one breathless instant, he knew he’d never seen anything more beautiful.
It was so goddamn hot.
Literally.
This house was old, and probably optimal fuel for the fire that had started within it. You were unconscious and dead weight, but Bucky could more than handle you and he had to get you out of there.
As he approached the door, Bucky heard a crash which he hoped was created by his crew going through the roof to get to the fire. When you heard it, you started coughing and moaning and struggling against him.
“Easy. Easy now. You have to stay calm. I got you. Gonna get you out of here.”
You opened your eyes, lifting your head from his shoulder but all you saw was haze, and a giant form that had you in his grip. The voice that came out of it was distorted, sort of like Darth Vader. You dropped your head back down and decided that you were dreaming.
“Never gonna drink a whole bottle of wine by m’self again. ‘M a lightweight.”
Bucky’s heart clenched. He’d heard a lot of things in burning buildings, but that was a first.
You twisted in his hold, one hand fumbling for a pillow that wasn’t there. And then, realization dawned and your body went rigid. You started thrashing. Hard.
“Stop, hey!”
He grunted, tightening his grip as you fought him. You weren’t too heavy, he could carry you all day if he had to, but you were panicked, limbs flailing, feet kicking against the door he’d been about to open.
A white-hot jolt of fear surged through him as your leg scraped the door’s edge and blistered instantly.
“Fuck! Hold still,” he ordered, voice dropping low. “You’re gonna have to trust me.”
You bit your lip with tears in your eyes. It was time to woman up.
Bucky felt something sharp lodge in his chest. You were terrified, but you were still fighting.
“We’re going through the window,” he said, already shifting you higher against his chest.
“My guys have the lifenet ready. We’re gonna be fine.”
Your wide wet eyes met his, and even through the mask, he felt the way it hit him, something hot and protective and completely unprofessional.
A groan of splintering wood cracked above you and you flinched, burying your face in his chest. He looked up, saw a fissure spidering across the ceiling, and knew there was no more time.
He ducked his head to look you in the eye.
“We gotta go. Now. Both arms around my neck.”
Your arms obeyed on instinct, looping tight behind his helmet. His grip flexed on your thighs as he stepped to the window, shoulder braced against the glass, testing.
He backed up and tightened his hold, telegraphing what was about to happen. Terror filled you.
“Open the window!”
You thought he’d forgotten that important detail as he responded.
“The air will just feed the fire.” He backed up a step, his stance widening, every muscle bracing.
“We’re going through.”
You gasped and then coughed with a lungful of smoke.
“Just hold on. A few scratches are better than the alternative.”
You clung to him, nodding, trying not to sob. “‘Kay.”
“I’m gonna count to three.”
His gloved hand rose with his axe poised over his shoulder. You pressed your face to his chest.
“One,” he said, rocking forward.
“Two,” he shot forward, and you closed your eyes as he swung the axe.
You two jettisoned through the window as the glass shattered. There was a leap out into cool air, but also the slight vacuum tug of heat following you.
For a moment, flight, then a free fall. You screamed as your stomach dropped, and howled as you landed on the net, the canvas scraping your burned leg raw and glass raining down all over you.
“Three.”
It was the last thing you heard before you blacked out from the pain.
—-
When you woke, it was to the steady beep of monitors and the low murmur of voices you knew, your parents, your best friend, and one you didn’t.
You turned your head, blinking slowly, and found him sitting there in the visitor chair, still in his turnout pants and a navy t-shirt that clung to broad shoulders and the defined planes of his chest, his face streaked with soot. You noticed the metal hand on his thigh and your eyes traced the prosthetic up to his elbow, his bicep, and his shoulder.
His blue eyes locked onto yours with an intensity that sent a shiver through your bruised, exhausted body.
They were a little too familiar, like you’d seen them somewhere before.
Your voice scraped out, hoarse and raw.
“Thank you,” you whispered. “For coming in after me.”
He exhaled, something easing in his shoulders.
“Anytime,” he said quietly.
For a moment, neither of you looked away. You knew him, but you were too exhausted to chase it down. There were more immediate things, like the ache in your throat, the exhaustion clawing at your bones, and the simple fact that you were alive.
Hours later, the room had emptied, your parents slipping into the hall to talk to the doctor as your best friend Amyra dozed in a chair. You were almost asleep again yourself when you heard it, your father’s low voice, warm but edged with fatigue, right outside the door.
“Yeah. Lieutenant Barnes just went in. He’ll be out in a sec.”
Lieutenant Barnes.
That old, unshakable teacher’s instinct, cataloguing every name and every face, flickered awake in the haze of your mind.
James Barnes.
You knew that name. Not from the firehouse. Not from any training.
From the district memos.
The reports you’d read a couple of years ago, when you were still at Jefferson High. The ones about a lieutenant who’d flagged repeated safety violations, who’d stood in front of your principal, your mentor, Lloyd Hansen, with a spine of steel and told him he was risking lives.
Lloyd, who’d called that firefighter a nuisance. And who’d been demoted when it turned out the firefighter had been right.
Your heart gave a slow, stunned thump, and the monitor betrayed you, spiking with your recognition.
That was why he looked familiar. That was why you’d trusted him in that burning house. Even half-conscious, even terrified.
Before you could think better of it, you cleared your throat.
“Lieutenant Barnes?” you rasped.
He turned from where he’d been watching the monitor, his gaze catching yours. Even out of uniform, just dark work pants and a grey t-shirt stretched over muscle and scar and metal, and he looked every inch the man you now remembered.
The man who didn’t back down, no matter who he was up against.
“Yeah?” he said, stepping to your bedside, voice low, handsome face soft. “You need something?”
Your voice shook.
“I… I think we’ve met before,” you said carefully. “Jefferson High. You were the one who…”
You trailed off, too tired to finish, but you knew he’d understand. And he did. Recognition sparked behind his eyes, something like surprise, and maybe even regret.
“Yeah,” he murmured after a minute. “I remember.”
Neither of you spoke, just looked at each other, the air between you heavy with everything that happened back then, and everything you’d barely survived tonight.
He sideyed the monitor, which told him that your heart was hammering. You didn’t have the energy to fully analyze the reason why.
Finally, you shifted.
“I guess you’ve been saving my life longer than I realized,” you whispered.
Something flickered in his expressions.
“Yeah,” he said softly. “Guess so.”
And in that strange, quiet moment, you knew nothing between you was ever going to be simple.
—--
The next few days passed in a blur of pain and bright fluorescent lights. Every morning, someone came to change your bandages. It was excruciating, worse than the burn itself some days, and you clamped your jaw shut so you wouldn’t make a sound.
The burn specialist explained it over and over:
The burn needed to be thoroughly cleaned daily
The risk of infection was high.
Pain management wasn’t optional.
But you tried to prove you were stronger than this. You refused the stronger pain meds the first day, and the nurse just looked at you like she’d seen it a hundred times, like she’d watched other stubborn fools learn this lesson the hard way.
Bucky visited that night, unannounced and uninvited.
He stood just inside the door for a moment, watching you like he was taking inventory of everything you were trying so hard to hide. Then he crossed to the chair by your bed and sat, his hands braced on his knees, his broad shoulders tense.
“You don’t get points for suffering.”
“I’m fine,” you lied.
His gaze locked onto yours, blue and unflinching.
“Then why are you shaking?”
You hadn’t even realized you were until he said it.
The next morning, when the nurse offered you a dose before the dressing change, you didn’t argue. You swallowed the pills and stared at the ceiling until the pain blurred into something you could survive.
—---
The first time Bucky stepped into your hospital room, you were half-asleep, your face turned to the window. You looked so small in that bed, swallowed up by stiff white sheets, and an IV running slowly into your arm.
He’d seen hundreds of burn patients over the years. Kids, grandparents, families with nowhere else to go.
He’d told himself you weren’t different, that you were just another call. Another save.
But standing there, watching you pretend you weren’t in pain, he knew he was lying.
—---
Three days in, Bucky watched you grit your teeth through rehab.
Your parents hovered by the door, but you kept waving them away, insisting you were fine. Amyra cried once, quietly, and you looked mortified.
Eventually, they left.
They trusted him. God help him, he almost wished they didn’t.
He was the one who stayed when you shuffled to the parallel bars, every step a fresh agony you refused to admit.
He knew you were proud, knew you’d rather collapse than ask for help. But he also knew what it felt like to push so hard you tore yourself up inside.
When your knee buckled, he moved instinctively, one step forward, ready to catch you if you fell. But you didn’t. You caught yourself, your breath coming in fast, ragged pulls.
“Are you trying to prove something?” he asked, voice quiet and close.
You didn’t look at him. When you finally spoke, your voice cracked around the words.
“Maybe I am.”
He stayed behind you, silent and steady, even though his hands itched to touch you, to ease something he had no right to claim.
Then he watched you take another step.
And another.
And he knew. You were going to survive this.
But you’d rather bleed in private than let anyone see you weak.
—-
That night, when he stopped by after shift, Bucky saw the pill bottle on the tray. The edge had gone out of you, your face soft in sleep, one hand resting over your heart.
And even though it was selfish, and probably wrong, a small part of him felt relief. You’d finally started to heal.
He should have left; he’d already crossed too many lines.
Instead, he sat in the chair by your bed and let himself watch you.
When your eyes blinked open and drifted down to the glint of metal where his sleeve had ridden up, he didn’t move to cover it.
Your voice was soft, thick with exhaustion.
“Does it…does it hurt?”
He hadn’t told anyone in a long time about the fire that took his arm. It had been easier to let people think he was born hard.
Easier to be the man who never flinched.
But looking at you now, he knew he wouldn’t lie.
He swallowed. Sometimes it did hurt; phantom pain was a bitch no one prepared you for.
“Not like it used to,” he said quietly.
Your gaze stayed there, on his metal skin.
“Was it…fire?”
He nodded once, “Yeah.”
You didn’t ask more questions.But you didn’t look away, either.
After a moment, he cleared his throat.
“They tried a lot of shit to fix it,” he murmured.
“First graft failed. Infection. Then this…experimental tech.”
“Really?” you whispered.
“Yeah, in Wakanda.”
He let out a breath.
“Figured if anyone could build something that felt real, it’d be them. They are good people.”
You were quiet for a long time. Then your fingers moved, just a little, toward where his forearm rested on the side of your bed.
He didn’t pull back. But he couldn’t breathe.
When you finally drifted off again, he stayed there, your touch warm on metal that usually felt like nothing at all.
—--
It was over a week before they’d even consider letting you leave.
Eight days of doctors, dressing changes, antibiotics, and endless check-ins that woke you every time you drifted into something like real sleep.
Eight days of Bucky showing up at your door, sometimes in uniform, sometimes in jeans and a plain t-shirt, but always carrying something you hadn’t asked for.
Like food, or flowers.
Not from him, of course.
From the crew, he’d say, every time, like he thought you couldn’t tell he wasn’t telling the truth.
He never stayed long.
But he always came.
On the morning of your discharge you were sitting on the edge of the hospital bed, trying not to look as exhausted as you felt. You’d been upright for barely fifteen minutes, and it already felt like you’d run a marathon.
The nurse was flipping through your chart when Bucky came in, this time with backup.
Steve gave you a quiet nod, smiling kindly at you. He set a bag of takeout on the tray table without ceremony. Syverson followed, carrying a bouquet so large it looked ridiculous in his hands.
Ari Levinson trailed behind, all, dark-haired, still in uniform, flashing you a crooked grin. His eyes swept over you in a slow, unhurried appraisal that made your face warm.
“Principal,” Ari drawled, smile flickering, “you’re looking better than last week.”
Your throat felt too tight to answer immediately.
“I’d hope so,” you managed.
Syverson smirked, glancing at Bucky.
“She’s even prettier up close. You didn’t say she was pretty, Buck.”
Bucky didn’t look at him. He was staring at you, his jaw flexing.
“Not relevant,” he muttered.
You mind began to spin.
Bucky didn’t say you weren’t pretty. He said it wasn’t relevant. So did he think you were pretty, or just that prettiness wasn’t relevant to the situation? Holy shit, the drugs must be affecting your brain.
Ari’s gaze slid back to you, amused at his friend’s reaction.
“You sure you’re ready to leave? You could milk this for a little longer.”
You managed a tired laugh, “I just want to go home.”
Silence. Your face went hot.
“I mean a home,” you corrected quickly. “I’m going to Amyra’s.”
Your parents were nearly an hour away, and you couldn’t stay on your own.
Not yet.
“Then let’s get you there,” Steve said, his voice warm as he set the takeout on the tray table.
“Just waiting on the last form,” you said.
The nurse finally came in, flipping through your chart.
“You have a ride home?”
Amyra’s voice came from the doorway, dry and affectionate all at once.
“Right here. I’ll go bring the car around.”
You pushed yourself upright, ignoring how your leg twinged.
“I can walk.”
The nurse gave you a look.
“Hospital policy says wheelchair discharge.”
Bucky’s mouth quirked. “Told you.”
Ari smirked, leaning closer, voice pitched low.
“He’s just trying to impress you. Thinks it’s charming when he plays stoic hero.”
Bucky’s jaw flexed so tight you thought it might crack.
“Knock it off,” he growled.
Syverson let out a low whistle, tipping his head toward the hall.
“C’mon, Ari. Let’s go warm up the truck before Barnes commits a homicide.”
Ari lingered half a beat longer, eyes sliding back to you.
“If you are half this stubborn at your school,” he mused, that grin widening, “I don’t know how any kid ever gets away with anything. You need someone who can keep up with that spirit at home.” he teased.
Bucky took a step toward him, his shoulders squaring like he’d forgotten you were watching.
Ari held up both palms in mock surrender and disappeared into the hallway, Syverson chuckling behind him. Steve shook his head and then spoke to you again.
“Please take care. We’ll… “ He caught his friend’s glare. “...I mean Bucky will check in on you.”
He smiled as he left, following his men.
You looked away from Bucky, but it didn’t matter, he was still watching you like he already knew what you were thinking.
“Hospital insists on wheeling you out,” he said. “I can do it.”
You blinked, flustered by the testosterone in the room.
“Since when does a fire lieutenant do the hospital escort?”
His gaze didn’t waver.
“Since I’m a certified paramedic.”
You were surprised. And pleased. But you didn’t let it show.
“You…you don’t have to.”
“Yeah,” he murmured, already moving to get the chair. “I do.”
When you reached the exit, Amyra was waiting in her car.
“You good?” she called, her eyes flicking between you and Bucky like she was trying to read something neither of you had said out loud.
You nodded, even as your throat went tight. Bucky bent, one large hand bracing your elbow as he helped you stand.
His touch was professional. Almost.
“I’ll ride over behind you,” he said. “Make sure you get settled.”
Amyra lifted a brow. “I think I can handle it.”
He didn’t argue, just stated facts.
“Yeah. But I’ll still be there.”
—--
Amyra’s little bungalow felt impossibly calm after the hospital with it’s natural light and lavender smell. She helped you to the couch, fussing with your pillow, and making sure your leg was elevated.
“Can I get you anything?” she asked.
“I’m fine,” you said, though your voice sounded thin in your own ears.
Her gaze flicked to the door just as Bucky stepped in, carrying your overnight bag and the takeout. He looked too big for the room, broad shoulders, heavy boots, that quiet, unshakable presence that made something in your chest pull tight.
“I was going to make sure your room has everything you need,” Amyra said, her tone so carefully casual it made you suspicious.
“Can you stay, Lieutenant Barnes?”
You opened your mouth to protest. Bucky cut in first, his voice low but unyielding.
“Yes, I’ll make sure she rests.”
Amyra’s brows rose.
“Oh, I’m sure you will.”
He shot her a look that probably worked on everyone else. Amyra just grinned.
“Call me if you need anything,” she sing-songed, already drifting to the hallway.
“Or if you need him removed.”
“Amyra,” you groaned.
“I heard that,” Bucky muttered under his breath.
She ignored you both as she slipped down the hall. Bucky stood there for a moment, just watching you. He looked tired.
“You really don’t have to stay,” you whispered.
“Yeah,” he said again, voice soft but final. “I do.”
“I don’t need a babysitter.”
He looked you in the eyes.
“I know,” he said quietly. “But you’ve got one anyway.”
He set the takeout on the coffee table and crouched to unzip the duffel.
“I’ll change your bandages after you eat,” he added, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
Your throat went dry.
“You don’t…”
“You’re not an inconvenience,” he interrupted gently, glancing up.
His gaze held yours, unflinching. Heat crawled up your neck, your heart thudding so hard you were sure he could hear it.
“Okay,” you whispered.
His mouth curved, just a little.
And for one breathless second, you didn’t feel tired at all.
—--
Bucky unpacked the supplies efficiently, like this was something he’d done a hundred times and never thought twice about. He laid out gauze, antiseptic spray, ointment, and a fresh roll of the elastic bandage.
His hands were steady. Yours weren’t.
“I can call the nurse,” you said, though you didn’t mean it.
He gazed at you, blue eyes burning.
“I’m qualified.”
“I know.” Your voice came out too soft. “That’s not…”
You were lost in the ocean of his eyes.
“Do you trust me?”
It was such a simple question. And it shouldn’t have felt like the most intimate thing anyone had ever asked you.
“Yes,” you whispered.
He nodded once, the line of his jaw easing by a fraction. “Good.”
Carefully, he lowered himself to the edge of the couch, close enough that your knees brushed his thigh. The warmth of him bled through the thin cotton of your borrowed sweatpants, and you had to look away.
“I’m going to lift your leg,” he said quietly. “Tell me if it hurts.”
His hands were large, warm, and shockingly gentle as he braced your calf. You hissed when he shifted the limb onto a folded towel, and his gaze snapped up, searching your face.
“Breathe,” he murmured, his thumb brushing the unburned skin above your ankle in a reassuring stroke.
You tried. When he began unwrapping the bandage, you pressed your lips together keep from making a sound.
“It’s okay,” he said, his voice low. “I’ve got you.”
The last layer fell away, and cool air kissed the raw, angry skin. You swallowed, blinking fast.
“It looks good,” he said after a moment. “Healing clean.”
You hadn’t realized you were holding your breath until it shuddered out of you.
“Still hurts,” you admitted.
His metal hand hovered for a second, then lowered to rest lightly against your shin, careful not to touch the burn.
“I know,” he murmured. “I’ve been there.”
Your gaze flicked to his arm.
“Do you have sensation in it?”
“Yes.” His thumb traced a slow line along your uninjured skin. “Not the way you’d think.”
You didn’t know what possessed you to ask.
“Can you feel my skin under your fingers now?”
His jaw worked, like he was sorting through a thousand things he wouldn’t say.
“Yes,” he said finally, voice rough. “I can.”
Your heart knocked hard against your ribs.
He set the clean gauze in place, the touch gentle but so precise it almost felt clinical, if it weren’t for the way he looked at you.
Like he was memorizing every small sound you made.
Like he’d never let anything hurt you again if he could help it.
When he finished with your bandage, he sat back on his heels and looked up at you, searching your face like he could read every unspoken thing you were holding in. He held your gaze for a second, and then looked away, moving to pack the supplies away.
You watched him in a daze, your cheeks still hot.
“Is this where you offer me a sponge bath, too?” you mumbled, trying to sound like you were joking, even though your voice was too unsteady.
He looked up, and his gaze pinned you in place again.
“I told you,” he murmured, his voice like gravel. “I’m qualified.”
Heat crawled up your neck so fast you thought you’d pass out.
Maybe he mistook the look on your face for pain, or maybe he didn’t, because he said, “You should take something.”
“I’m okay,” you sighed, because you were always okay.
Because you didn’t know how to be anything else.
His brow furrowed, and something about the way he looked at you, like he’d already decided you were his responsibility, made your throat close. His eyebrow raised.
“You keep saying that.”
He reached for the bottle of pills the nurse had sent with you and shook one into his palm. He held it out.
“Take it,” he said, steady and unflinching.
You looked at his hand, at the calluses and the faint scars along his knuckles, and at the way his metal fingers flexed against his thigh. And you realized you were too tired to argue.
Your hand brushed his as you took the pill. His fingers curled reflexively around yours, warm and sure, and for one heartbeat you didn’t feel like someone broken or in need.
You just felt seen.
He handed you the glass of water, watched you swallow the pill, and waited until you set the glass back down.
“Good girl,” he murmured, his voice softer than you’d ever heard it. The way he said that phrase made you feel things, but your eyelids were already heavy, the pain blurring at the edges, replaced by something warm and thick that made it hard to think.
You drifted in and out as he moved around the room, packing away the supplies, murmuring something to Amyra when she peeked back in.
When you opened your eyes again, it was darker and there was a ceiling fan spinning above you.
Amyra’s guest room.
The quilt tucked around your shoulders smelled like lavender and clean cotton. Your overnight bag sat neatly on the chair in the corner.
For a second, you couldn’t remember how you’d gotten there.
Then you realized.
He’d carried you.
And even though you told yourself it shouldn’t matter, it did.
It mattered more than anything had in a long time.
Because it was the second time Bucky Barnes had carried you to safety.