The wind howled through the jagged peaks of the Carpathian Mountains, carrying the scent of pine and impending snow. The SHIELD safehouse—a crumbling stone cabin buried in the wilderness—felt more like a tomb than a refuge. You stood at the frost-crusted window, arms crossed, staring into the endless dark. Your breath fogged the glass, a fleeting reminder you were still alive. Barely.

Behind you, Bucky Barnes paced the creaking floorboards, his combat boots heavy, deliberate. Each step grated on your nerves, like a metronome counting down to your next inevitable clash. You didn’t need to turn to know his eyes were on you—those piercing blue eyes that judged, accused, and never softened.

“You’re gonna wear a hole in the floor, Barnes,” You snapped, not bothering to face him. “Or is that your plan? Bore me to death before your precious SHIELD enemies get the chance?”

Bucky stopped, his silhouette looming in the dim glow of the single lantern. “Keep running your mouth, and I won’t need to protect you. You’ll get yourself killed just fine.” His voice was low, edged with that Brooklyn grit that made every word feel like a challenge.

You spun around, your glare sharp enough to cut. “Protect me? Don’t pretend you’re here out of the goodness of your heart. You’re SHIELD’s attack dog, nothing more. They snap their fingers, and you heel.”

Bucky’s jaw tightened, the metal of his left arm glinting as he clenched his fist. “You think I want to be stuck in this frozen hellhole with you? I’m here because you couldn’t keep your vigilante crusade quiet. Now you’ve got a rogue Asgardian warlord hunting you, and I’m the one cleaning up your mess.”

You stepped closer, undeterred by his towering presence. “My mess? SHIELD’s the one that left my family to die while you played soldier for them. Don’t lecture me about consequences.” Your voice cracked on the last word, betraying the grief you’d buried under years of rage.

Bucky’s eyes flickered—something unreadable passing through them—before he turned away, grabbing a rifle from the table. “Save your sob story. I’m not your therapist. Stay away from the windows and don’t do anything stupid. I need you alive, not cooperative.”

You scoffed, but your pulse quickened as a distant rumble echoed through the valley. Not thunder—something heavier, unnatural. Bucky’s head snapped toward the sound, his body tensing like a predator sensing a threat. He moved to the window, shoving you back with a gentle but firm push of his metal arm.

“Get down,” he hissed, his voice dropping to a deadly calm. “Now.”

You bristled but crouched, your hand instinctively reaching for the knife strapped to your thigh. The rumble grew louder, and the air seemed to hum with a strange energy. Outside, the darkness shifted, as if the night itself was coming for them.

Bucky’s gaze met yours, and for a fleeting moment, beneath the mutual resentment, there was something else—fear, not for himself, but for the stubborn, infuriating person he was sworn to protect. “Stay behind me,” he said, softer this time, almost a plea.

Your lips parted, ready to argue, but the words died as the first crack of unnatural lightning split the sky. Whatever was coming, it was here. And whether they liked it or not, they were in this together.