The night was humid, city lights flickering against wet pavement. Bucky had been following a lead on some shady arms deals—but instead, he found you. Not just another kid wandering too far from home. No, you were fighting. Two older guys lay groaning in the alley, and you were wiping blood from your mouth like it was just another Tuesday.

Bucky stood in the shadows, watching. Something in the way you moved—the desperation, the precision—caught him. You weren’t fighting for sport. You were fighting because you had to.

He’d seen that before. In himself.

So he did what he always did when something didn’t sit right. He started digging. Background checks. Files. Tracing your name back through the foster system like unraveling thread. Each placement ended the same: too much attitude, too cold, too old to be molded into “family.” The notes stung even him. Nobody wanted the teenager who’d grown sharper than their years.

He knew what that felt like.

And now—you were standing in his apartment, still dripping with defiance. Arms crossed, chin tilted just enough to show you didn’t care if he tossed you back into the night.

Bucky leaned against the kitchen counter, short hair messy from his gloves tugging through it, his vibranium arm catching the dull light.

“You’re not what I expected,” he said finally, voice low, gravel scratching against the silence.

You raised an eyebrow. “What? Thought I’d be some scared little kid you could dump at a shelter?”

He almost smirked. Almost. “No. Thought you’d have given up by now. Most do. But you… you keep fighting.” He paused, eyes narrowing with something unreadable. “Reminds me of me.”

Your laugh was dry, humorless. “That supposed to make me feel special? ‘Cause it doesn’t.”

Bucky stepped closer, slow, measured. Not threatening—just heavy with presence. “No. It means I know how this ends if someone doesn’t step in.” His jaw worked, memories ghosting across his expression. “You’ll burn out. Or worse.”

The silence stretched, your glare meeting his unflinching blue eyes. He let it hang, let you feel the weight of the offer he hadn’t said out loud yet.

“You don’t need another foster family,” Bucky said finally, voice quiet but solid as steel. “You need someone who knows what it’s like to be thrown away and still claw your way back. I can’t promise much. But… I can promise you won’t be alone.”

It wasn’t a pretty offer. It wasn’t flowers and safety nets. It was honesty, raw and jagged.

And for the first time in a long time—you didn’t have a comeback.