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Harsh light pours from the ceiling panels, glinting off metal surfaces and stabbing straight into his eyes.
John blinks hard, trying to focus on the holographic map, but the edges blur and double. The painkillers they gave him earlier—supposed to be “mild”—are turning his brain into warm soup. He swallows, straightens in his chair, and pretends he’s fine.
He is not fine.
When the commander says, “Team Alpha deploys in twenty—” John pushes himself upright.
“I’m good to go. I can do the perimeter sweep.”
He actually makes it halfway to standing before the world tilts. His knee bumps the chair, his hand misses the table, and he sways—slow, syrupy, like gravity is having fun with him.
Bucky is up before anyone else even flinches.
A metal hand lands on John’s shoulder, steadying him with a barely-there squeeze.
“Woah. Sit,” Bucky murmurs, low enough that only John hears it.
John bristles—drugged, stubborn, a little frantic. “I said I’m fine—”
“You’re slurring, John,” Bucky says softly.
John huffs. “No I’m not.”
The team exchanges looks. Yelena raises a brow. Sam mouths, He’s slurring.
John ignores all of them and makes a beeline toward the exit—well, tries to. He gets about three steps before his balance wobbles again.
Bucky moves cleanly into his path, planting himself in front of the door like a wall disguised as a man.
“Move,” John says, poking a finger at Bucky’s chest. “I can do my job.”
“That’s great,” Bucky replies calmly, “because right now your job is not face-planting.”
John frowns. “That’s not a real job.”
“It is today.”
He tries to sidestep. Bucky simply mirrors him. John tries the other way. Bucky blocks that too. It would be funny if John didn’t look so desperately earnest.
The sedative is hitting hard now—his eyelids heavy, knees shaky, words soft around the edges.
“Buck… c’mon,” he mumbles. “Just let me—”
Bucky steps closer, drops his voice to a gentle rumble meant only for him.
“You’re not going anywhere but horizontal, sweetheart.”
The term of endearment lands like a warm hand on John’s spine. His stubbornness cracks. His shoulders sag.
“I hate these meds,” he admits, nearly whispering. “Feel like my head’s full of fog.”
“I know,” Bucky says, finally slipping an arm around him. “That’s why you’re not going anywhere.”
John leans before he realizes he’s doing it—heavier than he means to be, cheek brushing Bucky’s shoulder. Bucky takes the weight like it’s nothing.
The team politely pretends not to watch while Bucky guides him back to the couch with slow, steady pressure.
“There you go,” Bucky murmurs, lowering him carefully. “Sit. Breathe.”
John sinks into the cushions, blinking slow, trying to stay alert. “I could’ve done the sweep.”
Bucky kneels in front of him, one hand braced on the couch beside John’s thigh. He lifts John’s chin so their eyes meet.
“You don’t have to prove anything today,” he says, softer than the room deserves. “Let us handle it.”
John’s breath shudders out. He nods—barely—but he nods.
Bucky squeezes his knee once, stands, then looks over his shoulder at the room.
“No one’s putting him on a mission until the meds wear off.”
A couple of people nod quickly. Sam raises both hands: “Wasn’t planning on it.”
Yelena smirks. “He is cute when he’s tipsy.”
John groans into the couch pillow.
Bucky just tucks the blanket around him—when did he grab a blanket?—and murmurs, “Sleep. I’ll check on you after the briefing.”
But he doesn’t leave right away.
His hand stays a moment longer on John’s shoulder, grounding him, warm and steady.
John’s eyelids finally give up the fight.
And Bucky stands guard until he’s sure John is under, safe.
-
The briefing wraps, chairs scrape back, voices fade into the hallway. John doesn’t stir. He’s sprawled on the couch, one arm flopped uselessly over his eyes, breathing slow and uneven in that medicated way that says this man is not waking up for anything short of a fire alarm.
Bucky stands over him for a moment, watching the rise and fall of his chest, the faint crease between his brows. Even asleep, John looks like he’s trying to stay alert.
“C’mon, big baby,” Bucky murmurs, brushing knuckles along John’s temple. “Time to get you somewhere less… fluorescent.”
No reaction.
Bucky tries again, a little louder. “John.”
Nothing. Not even a twitch.
He sighs—fond, resigned—and slips an arm under John’s knees, the other behind his shoulders. John is warm, limp, and heavier than he looks when he isn’t helping at all.
The moment Bucky lifts him, John murmurs something half-word, half-sigh, and curls instinctively toward the warmth, tucking his head against Bucky’s sternum like it’s the most natural place in the world.
“Yeah, I know,” Bucky whispers. “You’re out cold. Let me do the work.”
He carries him down the hall, boots quiet on the floor. A couple of teammates pass and freeze mid-step.
“Is he dead?” Sam asks.
“No,” Bucky answers without slowing. “Just blissfully unconscious.”
Yelena leans in the doorway, smirking. “He’s going to be mortified when he wakes up.”
“He won’t remember,” Bucky says. “And if he does, I’ll deny everything.”
He nudges their bedroom door open with his foot, steps inside, and lowers John onto the bed with careful precision. But John won’t let go—not fully. His fingers have curled into the front of Bucky’s shirt, refusing to release even in drugged sleep.
Bucky tries to gently pry them loose.
No luck.
John lets out a soft, distressed sound, brows pinching.
That’s all it takes.
“Okay, okay,” Bucky murmurs, thumb brushing over John’s knuckles. “I’m not going far.”
He sits on the edge of the bed, guiding John’s grip to his wrist instead—something he can hold without dragging Bucky down onto him. John’s breathing steadies immediately.
Bucky watches him a moment, expression softening in that private way he’d deny to anyone else.
“You scare the hell out of me when you push yourself,” he murmurs, barely audible. “Even doped up, you’re trying to prove something.”
John stirs. His lashes flutter, but don’t open.
“…Buck?”
“Yeah. Right here.”
John’s face relaxes, the tension melting out of him in a slow exhale. His fingers tighten around Bucky’s wrist once, like a silent acknowledgment, before drifting back into deeper sleep.
Bucky leans in, presses a quiet kiss to the top of John’s head.
“Get some rest, sweetheart,” he whispers. “I’ve got you.”
And he stays right there—unmoving, watching over him long after John has fully sunk into the medicated fog—because Bucky Barnes always stands guard where John is concerned.
-
John wakes slowly, the kind of slow where reality feels like it’s wading through honey to reach him. His mouth is desert-dry, his head clouded, his limbs heavy under the blanket.
He blinks.
He’s in bed. Their room. Wrapped in blankets he definitely doesn’t remember getting into.
And Bucky is right there, sitting at the edge of the mattress, tablet in hand like he hasn’t moved in hours. The moment John stirs, Bucky looks up.
“There he is,” Bucky murmurs, voice warm. “Back with us.”
John groans and drags the blanket over his face. “What… happened?”
“You got sedated,” Bucky says calmly. “And then spent twenty minutes trying to prove gravity wrong.”
John winces. “Did I say anything stupid?”
Bucky’s mouth twitches. “Nothing catastrophic.”
Which is absolutely a yes.
John sinks into the pillow in despair. “Please tell me I wasn’t embarrassing.”
“You were deeply embarrassing,” Bucky says, patting his leg. “But adorable.”
Before John can die on the spot, the door swings open.
Sam pokes his head in. “Well look who woke up! Sleeping Beauty has risen.”
John pulls the blanket over his entire face.
Ava steps in behind Sam, arms crossed, expression a mix of entertained and delighted judgment. “You should’ve seen him. He tried to march through Bucky. Not around. Straight through his ribcage.”
John groans louder.
Yelena strolls in last, sipping a protein shake. “He also gave a speech. A slurred one. About being ‘battle-ready.’”
Bucky nods solemnly. “He declared himself ‘perfectly vertical’ while literally falling sideways.”
Sam bursts out laughing. “Oh, wait—don’t forget the best part. He poked Bucky in the chest and called him—what was it…”
Ava smirks. “The ‘immovable wall of my life.’”
Yelena makes a dramatic heart shape with her hands. “Romantic.”
John shoves his face deeper under the blanket. “Stop. Please.”
Sam leans against the doorframe. “And we haven’t even gotten to the part where Bucky carried you out like a lost toddler.”
“I was NOT—”
“You were limp, dude,” Sam says. “Like… boneless. Zero structural integrity.”
Ava lifts her cup. “Also drooling.”
John nearly levitates in protest. “I DO NOT DROOL—”
Bucky shrugs. “A little.”
John stares at him, betrayed. “You’re supposed to defend me!”
“I’m supposed to tell the truth,” Bucky says, far too amused.
Ava raises a hand like she’s swearing in court. “For the record, if I’d known he was going to cling to you like that, I would’ve started taking photos.”
“AVA—NO—”
Yelena waves her phone. “Too late. I saved security cam stills. For training purposes.”
“TRAINING?!” John yelps.
“Team morale training,” Yelena clarifies. “Very important.”
John collapses backward in shame. “I’m quitting the team.”
Bucky gently pulls the blanket away from his face. “No you’re not. You’re dramatic when you’re dehydrated.”
Sam points at him. “Rest up, loopy boy. Teasing resumes tomorrow.”
Ava grins. “Or tonight if we get bored.”
Yelena salutes with her shake. “Recover quickly so we can mock you at full strength.”
They exit like a pack of wolves satisfied with their work.
John flops back down, covering his face with a pillow. “I hate all of you.”
Bucky chuckles, nudging the pillow down. “No you don’t.”
“I hate most of you.”
Bucky brushes hair from his forehead. “Just sleep, sweetheart.”
John peeks up, groggy and miserable. “You’re not gonna tease me too, right?”
Bucky pretends to consider. “Not tonight.”
John narrows his eyes. “Tomorrow?”
“Absolutely.”
John groans and pulls the blanket back over his head.
Bucky leans in, presses a slow kiss to John’s temple, and murmurs,
“Get some rest. I’ve got you.”
And finally—finally—John drifts off again, mortified but safe under Bucky’s watch.
-
John sleeps deep—so deep the entire room seems to settle around him. Bucky stays right where he is, fingers still buried in John’s hair, making sure every breath is steady, every muscle loose.
But once John fully melts into sleep, Bucky’s eyes drift downward—toward the slight bulge in the blanket along John’s side. The fabric has risen oddly, stretched in a way that screams swelling.
Bucky’s brows knit sharply.
“What did you do to yourself…” he mutters.
He lifts the blanket just enough to see John’s shirt. The hem is wrinkled from when Bucky carried him earlier. He places a warm palm over the fabric—not touching the injury yet, just mapping its shape.
John’s body flinches, a tiny twitch of pain even in sleep.
Bucky’s stomach drops.
“…yeah. That’s what I was afraid of.”
He gently pushes the blanket higher, then shifts John with slow, careful precision, using only his flesh hand—not risking the metal one at all. He eases John onto his back and lifts the shirt.
And Bucky’s breath goes cold.
A massive bruise sprawls across John’s ribs—dark purple, almost black in the center, edges swollen and angry.
Bucky’s jaw tightens.
“This wasn’t what the medic described,” he whispers, anger soft but sharp.
John has no idea—his face relaxed, lashes resting on his cheek, completely defenseless.
Bucky brings his fingertips close, tracing the untouched skin just beside the bruise. He doesn’t press, doesn’t prod—just needs to know the boundary of the damage.
John’s breath catches, a faint wince.
Bucky freezes instantly.
“Okay. Okay, I hear you.”
He exhales through his nose. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I know it hurts. I’m just trying to see how bad it got.”
He grabs the ice pack from the nightstand, the one he always keeps ready when John’s injured. He wraps it in a soft cloth first, then brings it slowly—slowly—to John’s side.
The moment the coolness touches him, John’s body tenses.
Bucky leans down, brushing his lips against John’s hairline.
“I know. I know. It’s just for a minute. I’m right here.”
John’s fingers, searching blindly in sleep, catch Bucky’s shirt and hold on.
And Bucky’s whole stern façade nearly collapses.
He adjusts the ice, one hand smoothing John’s hair as he waits for the swelling to calm. When he finally moves the pack away, he gently lowers the shirt back down and tucks John securely under the blanket.
He allows himself a long moment to just look at him—this stubborn, reckless man who still tries to fight through pain even half-conscious.
Bucky sits beside him, close enough that their knees touch under the blankets.
“Every damn time,” he murmurs, brushing a thumb across John’s cheek.
“You get hurt, and you try to hide it. You don’t have to do that with me.”
He leans in and kisses John’s head again, softer this time.
“When you wake up,” Bucky whispers against his skin, “we’re having a talk. I’m not letting you push through pain like that ever again.”
John doesn’t wake, but his fingers tighten faintly around Bucky’s shirt.
And Bucky threads his fingers through John’s, holding on.
“Rest,” he breathes. “I’m not going anywhere.”
The room settles into silence again—only John’s breathing and Bucky’s quiet, determined vigil filling the space.
-
Soft morning light drifts across the room, warming the blankets, warming the two bodies tangled together in the aftermath of a long night.
John wakes first.
Not fully—just enough to feel the ache in his ribs flare as soon as he shifts. He sucks in a sharp breath, hand snapping to his side.
Bucky is awake instantly.
His arm tightens around John’s waist, anchoring him. “Hey. Slow. What hurts?”
John grits his teeth as the pain settles. “Just… sore.”
“‘Sore’,” Bucky repeats, unimpressed. “You’re flinching like you got kicked by a truck.”
John tries to ease away, embarrassed by how much he needs the support. “I’ll be fine. I just need—”
Bucky catches his chin—gentle but unmovable—and makes him face him.
“No. You need to stop pretending you’re okay when you’re not.”
John freezes.
Bucky shifts, helping him sit upright without jarring his ribs. He adjusts the pillows behind him, settling him back in place with that mix of tenderness and absolute authority that makes John obey despite himself.
Once John is propped up, Bucky lifts his shirt carefully and examines the bruise again.
John looks away, jaw tight.
“Don’t look at me like I’m breakable.”
Bucky’s head snaps up.
His voice drops—quiet, controlled, firm enough to shake the air.
“Being hurt doesn’t make you breakable.”
John swallows, eyes darting aside.
“And hiding it doesn’t make you strong,” Bucky adds, lowering the shirt but keeping his palm warm against John’s side. “It makes you scared someone will see you as weak.”
John stiffens.
Bucky leans in, eyes sharp, protective, unyielding.
“That’s what this is, isn’t it?”
John tries to deny it, but the words stick in his throat.
Bucky softens the hand on John’s ribs, but not his tone.
“You didn’t tell me you were in pain because you thought looking hurt made you lesser.”
John stays silent—because it’s true.
Bucky inhales once, deeply, before speaking again.
“John. Look at me.”
Slowly, reluctantly, John does.
Bucky cups his jaw, thumb brushing near the corner of his mouth.
“There is nothing weak about you needing help. Nothing weak about you hurting. And there sure as hell is nothing weak about me taking care of you.”
John’s breathing stutters—and it has nothing to do with the bruised ribs.
Bucky steps closer, knees touching John’s under the blankets, making sure there’s no escaping the sincerity or the intensity in his eyes.
“Let me say it clearly,” he murmurs. “You hiding pain doesn’t protect you. It just keeps me from protecting you.”
John’s chest clenches.
“Bucky…”
Bucky slides a hand behind John’s neck, thumb rubbing slow circles there.
“I can only keep you safe if you let me.”
That’s when the lump in John’s throat finally gives.
He leans forward, forehead pressed to Bucky’s collarbone, breath unsteady.
“I’m not good at… letting people do that,” John murmurs.
Bucky wraps an arm around him, careful of his ribs but firm, holding him in place.
“Then I’ll teach you. Starting now.”
John lets out a shaky exhale. “…okay.”
Bucky’s tone lowers into something warm and determined.
“Good. First lesson: when you’re hurt, you tell me. Immediately.”
John huffs, managing the faintest smile. “You sound like you’re giving orders.”
Bucky smirks into John’s hair. “I am.”
He pulls back just enough to brush their noses together.
“And you’re going to listen.”
John nods—small, honest, vulnerable.
“I will.”
“Good.” Bucky presses a soft kiss to his forehead. “Now, stay still. I’m going to rewrap that bandage, then get you water and breakfast.”
John leans into him again, letting Bucky’s steadiness replace the pain for a moment.
Bucky shifts his hand to support John’s ribs, touch firm but gentle.
“You don’t have to push through this alone,” Bucky murmurs. “Not with me.”
John’s breath shivers as he tries to find a comfortable position. “I’m trying.”
“I know.”
Bucky adjusts the pillows behind him, making sure John can relax without straining his side. “Let me do the rest.”
John gives a weak huff of a laugh. “You’re not going to let me move on my own today, are you?”
“Absolutely not.” Bucky’s tone is warm but unshakeable. “You’re staying with me. I’m keeping an eye on you.”
John winces as another pulse of pain hits. Bucky is on it instantly—arm around his back, grounding him.
“Easy,” Bucky whispers. “I’ve got you.”
John exhales, tension melting under Bucky’s hands.
“Yeah,” he murmurs quietly. “I know.”
And he does.
This time, he truly does.