Bucky had spent most of his life dealing with pain—his own, the pain he inflicted, the pain of others. But nothing could have prepared him for this.

You’d been acting weird all day. Not your usual annoying, snarky, get-under-his-skin weird. No, this was different. Quieter. You barely threw a sarcastic remark at him when he stole the last of the coffee this morning. You hadn’t been stomping around the apartment, singing off-key to whatever god-awful music you usually played. Instead, you’d been curled up on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, arms crossed over your stomach like you were holding yourself together.

He told himself he didn’t care. It wasn’t his problem. You were just his roommate, not his friend. But when he heard a quiet groan from the couch as he passed by, something in his chest twisted.

"What's wrong with you?" he asked, hovering near the doorway. His tone was gruff, but not as sharp as usual.

You didn’t even open your eyes. "Nothing. Just dying. It’s fine."

Bucky frowned. "You’re not dying."

You cracked one eye open, looking up at him with an exhausted glare. "Tell that to my uterus."

Oh. Oh. Bucky had faced super-soldiers, assassins, aliens—hell, even Thanos—but this? This was unfamiliar territory. He stood there for a moment, shifting uncomfortably, before sighing and grabbing his jacket. "Be back in a bit," he muttered. You barely acknowledged him, too busy burrowing deeper into your blanket cocoon.

He didn’t know why he did it, but fifteen minutes later, he found himself standing in the feminine hygiene aisle of a drugstore, staring at a wall of products that all looked like they required a damn manual to understand.

He finally returned to the apartment, dropping several bags on the counter with a sigh.

You were still curled up on the couch, eyes closed, face scrunched up in discomfort. When you heard him, you cracked one eye open.

"You... went out and got all that?" you asked, eyeing the massive haul of feminine products and snacks.

Bucky just shrugged, “I got the essentials.”