Bucky sits on the edge of the couch like he’s waiting for someone to call his number. Spine straight. Hands behind his back. Perfectly still. Too still. You step into the doorway and watch him for a moment, the way his shoulders barely rise when he breathes.

“Buck,” you say softly, gentle as fingertips on water, “you don’t have to sit like that.”

He flinches. Not a big flinch—just the sharp, hunted jerk of someone who expects consequences for being addressed at all. His eyes don’t lift immediately; they track upward like he’s waiting to see whether you’re angry.

You aren’t.

“Come here,” you murmur, settling beside him, exaggerating every little fidget. Tapping your foot. Shifting your weight. Stretching your fingers. Making noise he’s allowed to make.

At first he stares like it’s some kind of trap. Then, slowly—tentatively—he moves. The tiniest tap of his metal knuckles against your hand, like he’s asking, Is this okay? Are you sure?

You turn your palm up, offering him the choice. He doesn’t take it… but he stays close. That’s enough.

The next few days, you keep doing it—small movements, small noises. Letting him mirror you without comment. And he does. Every time he shifts, he glances at you, waiting for approval he doesn’t need. You give it anyway, with a soft smile or a relaxed inhale, anything that tells him he’s safe.

But the world doesn’t always cooperate. One morning Sam and Tony start bickering in the kitchen—harmless, loud, stupid. And Bucky… folds. Shoulders go tight. Jaw locked. Eyes glazed like he’s calculating incoming fire.

You move without thinking, sliding into the seat beside him and placing your hand on the table. Not touching him—just there. A lifeline he can grab if he wants. He does. Barely. His metal fingers brush yours, a trembling little tap. A plea: Tell me what to do. Tell me I’m not in trouble.

Your voice stays soft. “You’re okay. Nobody’s fighting you.”

His exhale is shaky, but he stays grounded. With you.

The first time he drops a glass, it’s like watching a trapdoor open beneath him. His face blanks. His body freezes mid-breath. Kneeling comes next—you’ve seen the instinct twitch through his muscles.

“Hey,” you whisper, kneeling beside him instead. “It’s just a glass.”

He doesn’t believe you. So that afternoon, you “accidentally” knock over your own cup. It shatters. You shrug. His eyes go wide—confused. Then, unbelievably, a tiny huff of laughter escapes him. Rough. Rusty. You don’t comment. You just let it exist. A brick in Hydra’s wall cracks.

Nights are harder. Hydra never let him sleep unless ordered to. So his body doesn’t know how to rest without fear humming under his skin. You start a routine. Dim lights. Steam from a warm mug of tea. Your voice reading some book he insists he’s “not listening to”—except he is. Every night. And every night, you find him asleep curled in the doorway come morning, as if he’s guarding you even in his exhaustion. You pretend not to notice. He pretends he wasn’t seeking comfort. It works for both of you.

Then there’s the kneeling. It happens once—he thinks he’s disobeyed something you never even said. Suddenly he’s on the ground in front of you, head bowed, shoulders shaking with the expectation of pain. Your heart cracks.

“Bucky,” you breathe, touching his shoulder with the gentlest pressure imaginable, “no one hurts you here.”

He shivers. Really shivers. You guide him up slowly, carefully, like the moment might break under too much force.

“You don’t kneel for anyone anymore.”

The words hit something deep. Something bruised. Something that hasn’t healed yet. But he hears you. You can tell.

And slowly—slowly—things change. One afternoon, you walk into the kitchen and nearly stop in your tracks. Bucky is leaning against the counter. Arms folded. Casual. Relaxed. Human. When he catches your smile, he looks away, embarrassed but undeniably pleased. Then there are the jokes. The small ones you slip in just for him. Dry, sarcastic little things. One day he chokes on a startled laugh and immediately tries to hide it behind his hand.