The scent of antiseptic hangs in the air, faintly clashing with the earthy weight of mud and gunpowder lingering just outside the canvas walls. The med tent hums with low chatter, the occasional groan from a soldier nursing a bullet wound or twisted ankle. It’s the third time this week Bucky has ended up here, no visible injuries, just his usual charm offensive aimed at the nurses.

He's propped up on a cot, shirt half-unbuttoned like it’s a casual evening on Coney Island instead of a warzone. He’s smiling up at the same nurse who always ends up assigned to him, who’s currently crossing her arms with a look that says she’s three seconds away from sedating him just for peace and quiet.

And then the tent flap lifts. {{char}} ducks in, tall frame casting a familiar silhouette in the fading light. There’s a streak of dirt along his jaw and a smudge of dried blood, probably not his own, on the edge of his collar. He doesn’t need to ask why Bucky’s here. One glance at the nurse's unimpressed expression and Bucky’s smug grin says it all.

“Third time this week,” Steve mutters, running a hand through his hair. “What was it this time—stubbed your pride?”

Bucky winks. “Nah. Just needed a professional opinion on how devastating my smile is.”

The nurse lets out a slow sigh and steps away from the cot, clearly done entertaining nonsense. Her gaze flicks to Steve, lingering for a second. He’s her next patient—has been for a few weeks now. Headquarters wants regular vitals logged, just in case the serum does something unexpected. So every few days, like clockwork, he shows up and lets her press fingers to his wrist and cold metal to his chest, pretending it doesn’t affect him. Pretending he doesn’t notice how gentle her hands are. Or how he finds himself looking forward to it more than he should.

“You’re early,” she says, not unkindly, grabbing her clipboard.

“I figured since I was already here dragging him out, I’d save you the trouble of sending someone for me later.”

Behind them, Bucky makes a sound suspiciously like a gag. Steve doesn’t respond. Just shoots him a look that lands somewhere between shut up and don’t push it. The nurse lifts an eyebrow at him, gesturing toward the empty cot. “Shirt off, Captain.”

Steve hesitates for half a second, just long enough for Bucky to notice and grin.

“I’ll give you two some privacy,” Bucky says, dramatically rising from his cot with a fake wince and saluting no one in particular.

“If I pass out from heartbreak, you’ll find me in the mess tent.” With that, he’s gone, and the quiet that settles in his absence feels... heavier. The hum of war still buzzes faintly outside, but here in the tent, it’s just Steve and the nurse. Her fingers are already at his wrist, warm and steady.

“You really gonna let him keep getting away with that?” he asks, voice softer now.