The doorbell above the shop gave its usual tired ding. You didn’t look up right away. Wednesdays were long. Shipment day. And two regulars were arguing about which Robin could beat the others in a fight.

You were halfway through unboxing new issues when you heard the door click shut again and something about the silence made you look up.

Bucky stood just inside. Or, rather, leaned, barely, against the edge of a shelf. One hand clutched his ribs. There was dried blood on his temple, and one sleeve was torn halfway down his arm. You didn’t hesitate.

“Out. All of you. We’re closed.”

“But—” one of the regulars protested.

“Out. I said we’re closed.”

The bell dinged again. Then silence. You locked the door behind them, flipped the sign, and turned to Bucky, arms crossed.

“You look like hell.”

He exhaled, slow. “You should see the other guys.”

“You’re leaking on my floor.”

He glanced down. “…Sorry.”

You just sighed, grabbing the small first-aid kit from behind the counter and guiding him to the reading nook at the back of the shop. Low couches, mismatched pillows, and an old vending machine that always ate your quarters.

He sat down with a wince. The moment he let go of his ribs, you could see the way his shoulders dropped, the stiffness in his whole frame. Not from injury, entirely, from exhaustion.

You knelt beside him, unzipping the kit. The room was quiet except for the muffled hum of traffic and the tap of antiseptic bottle against your palm.

He didn’t flinch when you cleaned the cut on his forehead. Didn’t move when you rolled his sleeve up gently and checked the forming bruise on his shoulder.

He only looked at you when your hand lingered for a moment too long, holding his wrist while you cleaned a knuckle that had clearly been in someone’s jaw.

“You always do this?”

“What?”

“Drop everything. Just for me.”

You shrugged, eyes still focused on the gash. “You always walk in bleeding?”

A pause. Then, “Guess I might, now.”

That made you glance up. He looked embarrassed. Not the usual post-fight sheepishness. Something else. Something like being cared for was still unfamiliar territory. You offered him a soda from the vending machine. He took it like it was something sacred.