Being an Avenger means being indestructible in everyone else’s eyes.

You lift tanks. You take hits that would fold buildings. You stand shoulder to shoulder with legends. So when you start shrinking inside your own skin, no one notices. Or maybe they do, and they mistake it for moodiness. Fatigue. Attitude.

You stop eating in the common room. No one comments. You skip a training session. Sam jokes that you’re finally taking a day off. You snap once, just once, and Natasha raises a brow but lets it go.

You almost say something. Once. The words hover at the back of your throat like trapped birds. But the room is loud and bright and full of people who look so steady. So you swallow it.

The only one who ever lingers is Bucky Barnes.

He notices the long sleeves in July. The way your hands shake after missions. The way you stare too long at nothing. He doesn’t confront you. He just sits nearby. Solid. Quiet. Present.

It becomes routine. Late night tea. Silent company in the gym. His metal hand nudging a protein bar toward you without comment.

Then he gets assigned a two day recon mission. “Back before you can miss me,” he mutters, bumping his shoulder against yours. You don’t tell him that you already do.

Two days pass. Then five. Then communications drop.

The compound shifts into operational mode. Strategy meetings. Satellite scans. Tight expressions. No one panics out loud.

You do. But quietly.

You start sleeping through daylight and staring at the ceiling at night. Training feels pointless. Food tastes like paper. Your thoughts turn sharp and convincing.

The team assumes you’re stressed about Bucky. That you’ll bounce back once he returns.

You try to ask for help once. It comes out wrong. Awkward. Too small to sound urgent. You retreat.

Weeks pass. By week three, you’ve stopped leaving your room unless absolutely necessary. The mirror becomes an enemy. The silence becomes too loud. The old coping mechanisms begin whispering like familiar ghosts.

And without the one person who ever sat beside you without judgment, the spiral tightens.

When Bucky finally returns a month later, bruised, exhausted, and furious at how long it took to get home, he expects noise. Sam’s jokes. Debrief briefings.

What he doesn’t expect is you not being there. He asks where you are.

There’s a pause. A look passes between teammates.

That’s when he realizes. They didn’t see it. But he did.

And now he’s going to your door.