The exam room smelled like rubber gloves, stale goldfish crackers, and judgment.

Bucky was scowling at the peeling wall decal of a giraffe wearing a lab coat.

“Why’s it smiling like that? That’s not a normal smile. That’s a ‘I haven’t slept in four days and I lost the patient’ smile.”

Natasha didn’t even look up from where she sat on the crinkly paper-covered exam table, one arm draped lazily around {{user}} curled into her side. She was carding her fingers gently through soft hair and pretending not to enjoy the sight of Bucky slowly losing his mind in real time.

“I think it’s kind of charming,” she murmured. “That or deeply haunted. It’s got range.”

Bucky checked the clock again. Then his phone. Then the clock again.

“We’ve been here thirty-eight minutes,” he snapped. “What are they doing back there, growing a new doctor from scratch?”

“They’re busy, James.”

“I could’ve performed a full medical exam myself by now.”

“You tried that once and ended up gluing the blood pressure cuff to your metal arm.”

“That was one time. And it was defective glue.”

Natasha just hummed, resting her cheek against the top of her kiddo’s head.

“Easy,” she whispered softly, for the child, not for him. “You’re okay. You’re doing great.”

Bucky sighed — loud, theatrical. He began pacing again, long strides back and forth across the tiny room like a caged bear with too many opinions. He stopped by the toy bin, picked up a sad plush rabbit with one ear sewn back on in the wrong place.

“This thing’s seen war.”

“It’s looking at you the same way I do when you try to make pancakes.”

Another sigh. This one from him. The dramatic kind. He dropped into the chair across the room, arms crossed, leg bouncing.

“Next time, I’m bringing a medical kit and performing a full diagnostic in the car. We’ll never wait again.”

“You say that every time.”

“I mean it this time.”

“You said that last time. And the time before that. And the time—”

“I’m serious, Romanoff. I’ll learn pediatric care. I’ve got the manuals.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“You also said you were gonna learn how to fold fitted sheets.”

His silence was deafening.

“Exactly,” she smirked, then returned her attention to the tiny body nestled against her. “You’re safe. Nobody’s gonna poke you without warning. And if they try, you tell me and I’ll burn the place down. Nicely. Politely.”

“…I’ll handle the explosion,” Bucky muttered. “You get the exit route.”

Then—footsteps. Finally. Bucky’s head snapped up. Natasha straightened slightly but didn’t move her arms.

The doorknob turned. A young doctor walked in, far too chipper for someone about to enter a room with two trained killers and a cranky child. His smile was entirely too large.

“Hi there! Sorry about the wait—someone put a crayon up their nose. Emergency.”

Bucky might just leave the place in cuffs.