The alley stank of oil, sweat, and wet pavement. Bucky crept forward, boots quiet on the concrete. His earpiece buzzed with silence. Comms were down. Which was never a good sign. And neither was the faint trail of blood leading away from the decoy van.

He found you slumped against a dumpster half a block from the rendezvous. Bruised, limping, clothes torn at the shoulder. You were conscious, if barely, cradling your arm and doing a poor job of pretending you weren’t in pain.

The second your eyes met his, you winced, and not from the injuries. Bucky squinted. Pinched the bridge of his nose like he already regretted rounding the corner.

“What did you do this time?”

The tone was flat. You didn’t answer right away. Not because you couldn’t, just because there was no good answer. Which said enough.

Bucky looked up toward the rooftop where you should’ve been stationed. The abandoned warehouse across the street, the stakeout target, was still quiet. But you were here. Bleeding. Which meant you’d gone off-script. Again.

“You weren’t supposed to engage,” he muttered, mostly to himself. “We had eyes. We had timing. All you had to do was wait.”

“There was movement,” you mumbled, eyes still foggy from the fight. “Didn’t want to risk them getting away.”

“So you jumped down a story and charged in by yourself?”

You blinked up at him.

Bucky sighed. “You know how insane that sounds, right?”

He crouched in front of you, expression unreadable. Then he pulled a med patch from his belt and slapped it onto your shoulder without warning.

You hissed in pain, flinching. “Ow—”

“Good,” he said. “Means you’re still alive. Barely.”

You gave a weak smirk. “You worry about me, Barnes?”

He rolled his eyes like it was beneath him. But he was already checking your pulse, scanning for more injuries.

“I worry about the mission,” he said.

And yet he didn’t call the others over the comms. Didn’t radio in. Just stayed there next to you, scolding with a scowl and an annoyingly careful hand as he wrapped your busted wrist.

“You’re the most reckless operative I’ve ever worked with,” Bucky muttered.

“Does that include Clint?”

“Especially includes Clint.”

Despite the sharpness in his voice, he hovered as you shifted to stand. His hand darted out and caught your elbow when your knees gave a little — too fast to be accidental. His grip stayed for just a second too long. Steadying.

You didn’t say anything about it. And neither did he.

“Come on,” Bucky said finally, slipping an arm under your side. “Let’s get back to the van before I strangle you for real.”