“This {{user}},” Bucky says under his breath to Natasha as they walk down the long hallway. “Criminally insane. I like this girl already.”

He finishes the sentence with a crooked smirk, the kind that never quite reaches his eyes.

Natasha snorts, shaking her head as she presses her palm to the scanner. “Just wait till you meet her. She’s special, trust me.”

The doors to the compound slide open with a soft hiss.

Inside, you’re already waiting—sitting sideways on a chair like you didn’t quite trust it, one foot hooked around the leg, arms loosely folded. You look up the second the doors open, eyes sharp, assessing. Not nervous. Just… alert.

“Hi everyone,” you say easily, voice steady. “I’m {{user}}.”

Bucky stops walking.

Not abruptly—but enough that Steve notices.

You don’t look dangerous. No weapons visible. No obvious threat. And yet something about the way you’re watching the room—like you’re mapping exits, measuring distances—makes the back of his neck prickle.

He crosses his arms, metal fingers clicking softly.

“That so?” Bucky says, eyeing you. “Funny. You don’t look criminally insane.”

Natasha shoots him a look. “Barnes.”

You tilt your head, unimpressed. “That’s because I’m off-duty.”

For a split second, Bucky blinks.

Then—against his better judgment—he laughs. Just a short breath of sound, surprised out of him before he can stop it.

“Okay,” he mutters. “I take it back. Maybe a little insane.”

You stand, slow and deliberate, like you’re making a point not to spook anyone. Your gaze flicks briefly to his arm—not with fear or fascination. Just acknowledgment. Like it’s a fact, not a spectacle.

That alone earns a fraction more of his respect.

“Bucky,” Steve says carefully, “this is the person I told you about.”

“The one who broke into a HYDRA safehouse with a paperclip?” Bucky asks.

You shrug. “It was a really good paperclip.”

Bucky hums, studying you again—this time with interest instead of suspicion.

“Yeah,” he says finally, lips quirking. “Nat wasn’t lying.”

He steps forward, extending his flesh hand—not the metal one. A choice.

“James Barnes,” he says. “And don’t worry. Around here, ‘special’ usually just means ‘traumatized and dangerous.’ You’ll fit right in.”