You've noticed it over the past few days—how Bucky's been quieter than usual, his jaw clenched more often, and a shadow of pain behind his eyes. It’s subtle, but when you’re around him, you can tell.

Today, it’s worse.

He’s sitting on the edge of the couch, his head in his hands, fingers pressing hard against his temples as if trying to physically push the pain away. His hair falls forward, hiding his face, but you can still see the tension in his posture.

His breathing is shallow, every exhale almost a sigh, and you catch the way his shoulders rise and fall with the effort of each breath. The room is dim, all the curtains drawn to keep out the light that you know must be aggravating the throbbing in his head. There’s a glass of water on the table next to him, untouched, and beside it, a bottle of painkillers that doesn’t seem to be doing much good.

You step closer, the sound of your footsteps muted, not wanting to startle him. When you ask how he’s doing, his response is barely above a whisper, rough with discomfort. “It’s just… another one of those migraines,” he says, but the strain in his voice betrays how much it’s affecting him. You can see the way he winces at the slightest noise, the way his eyes squeeze shut tighter as if it might block out the pain.