Words: 3.7K

Warnings: Mentions of abuse by a significant other (with a supper sappy lovey-dovey ending)

I've come to the Avenger's compound today in Upstate New York with every intention to have another regular, superhero filled day. No, I'm not a part of the league. Not in the traditional way that many would assume. My job requires me to stay within the walls of the newly constructed compound where I'm best put to use fixing all of the crazy gadgets each of the heroes has adopted as their own. Commonly I'm being called to fix weight distribution issues with Clint's bows, and to repair all of the dents Steve somehow manages to mess up his shield with—that happens to be built with the earth's strongest metal, so how he scratches it so often: I have no bloody clue.

Following routine I empty my pockets and chuck my purse onto the belt to be scanned and sorted. It's all for security reasons, of course, so I don't complain. I do whine a bit though about having to take my headphones out and send my phone through the X-Ray, too.          

"Having a good morning, Y/N?" the burly and slightly grotesque normal security guard questions me.

I hand him that extra cup of coffee I always bring in for whoever is on duty. "Tip top, it is Mr. Canners. Thank you for asking. I hope yours is well."

Mr. Canners smiles toothily into the top of the brew. "Ah, much better now. Thank you."

I nod my chin at him before gathering my things and heading upstairs into my division. I'm one of the first staff members here, so I'm not surprised when the halls and offices are nearly all empty. I am surprised though to see a very sleepy-eyed James Buchanan Barnes sitting atop one of my lab tables with his metal arm and naked chest on full display.

"Jesus Christ, Barnes. Have you ever heard of making an appointment?" I clutch my chest for another moment more, indulging myself in the pattering heartbeats of the momentary shock, before waltzing the rest of the way into my office.

"I thought it'd be rude to call so early." He doesn't speak much, but when he does, he never ceases to make my mouth dry.

"Well, yes I suppose that would've been." I set my things down in place and then make my way to stand in front of the tired super soldier. "What seems to be the problem this time?" I don't risk touching the metal arm until I know exactly what it is that's gone wrong. Last time he was accidently electrocuting people with a single touch (I, unfortunately, was one of them).

He smirks, almost as if sensing my fear. "Nothin' that should hurt ya, doll. Just lost movement in the thumb again."

"Oh." I breathe a sigh of relief. "That should be an easy fix." I walk over to my shelves of tools and continue conversing with the strangely intriguing man on my mechanical operating table. "How have you been, Sargent?"

"How many times do I have to tell ya to call me Bucky, doll," Bucky chuckles.

I smile back at him quite sheepishly. "Sorry. I've forgotten again." I clear my throat and turn back around before he can see me blushing. Blush is not very professional. "Anyway, you've been well I hope?"

"As good as can be expected I guess." He pauses a moment before going on. "And you?"

I swallow stiffly. "Yes. Yes, I've been well."

I turn back to walk towards Bucky again. It's very noticeable that he's no longer smiling now. "It sounds like you're lying," he observes in a low, rumbling hum.

"That's strange," I dance around the subject, "Because I'm not. Here—hold this for me. Thank you."

Bucky looks down to the screwdriver in his human grasp for only a millisecond before jumping back to the unbearable subject of myself. "Are you sure everything's alright?"

"I think you're overanalyzing things, Bucky." I smile to him when I've remembered to use the correct name. He doesn't smile back for the first time, which in turn makes me extremely nervous. I quickly go back to opening the panel on his lower forearm. He stares at me silently for a very long time. His gaze makes my fingers quiver. "Please, Bucky." I huff exasperatedly and look into his blue eyes. "Would you stop staring? It's making this very hard."

"Fine," he sighs. He looks up to the doorway where no one lingers. It's just us alone in this room, as it usually is. We meet multiple times every week—sometimes every day. He's constantly getting upgrades and fixing bugs in that metal arm of his, and I seem to be one of the best suited in the building in dealing with it (and dealing with him, for that matter—he scares many of the workers, and rightly so; he's tried biting one or two).

I tinker with the gears in his arm for a moment longer before deciding that there's a tool I'm missing. So I walk back to the shelved wall, not unaware of Bucky's stare as it cements onto me again. I refrain from snapping at him.

The door swings open so fast and wide that it startles me into jumping. When I turn to see that it's only Tony Stark, I decide to send him a smile and then go back to searching for that little yellow handled pair of pliers.

"Ah, Y/N—Sunshine, dearie..."

"What do you want, Stark?" I call impatiently back to him. "I'm sort of busy now, if you can't tell."

"Yes, yes, I see that. But I was just wondering if you'd maybe help me out with a little project Banner and I got going on upstairs."

"Do you need my help with something, or are you just going to take me up there to brag?" I raise an eyebrow at him over my shoulder.

"Neither, really. Just thought maybe you'd like to stick your nose in on this one before anyone else sees it." Tony grins proudly. "And, well, we might want your input on a little molecular level theory we've got tossing around..."

"Ah there it is—the truth comes out."

Bucky's staring at me while I smile. "It always does."

If Tony senses an odd, deeper meaning behind Bucky's phrase he makes no comment on it. I notice it though. Honestly, his tone and intensity that I can see and sense is staggering. He's really ravishing me with his eyes now—desperately trying to figure out what it is that I'm hiding from him, why he's gotten the guttural sense that I've lied to him now when I never have before...

A hand presses down into my shoulder. With the hot skinned palm searing into the skin before my neck, I turn and shove backwards and away from them immediately. I quickly lose my footing and end up collapsed onto the hard laboratory floor on my knees—my body thrown by the force of my shove so that my back is flush to the metal cabinetry.

My heartbeat hammers so loud and fast that I'm hardly aware of anything anyone says for a solid fifteen seconds. Then the world comes whirring back into place and I realize that it's only one of my lab assistants to touch me—a man, no less, who's holding out the pliers I'd been so desperately searching for. He's staring wide-eyed at me and probably wondering why on earth I'd flown away from him so.

Bucky's come off the table at an impossibly fast rate. He's looking as if he's coming for my aid, but just before he can reach me he stops dead in his track. We lock eyes—and that's when he must notice it. He sees my fear. It's palpable, especially to him. He's seen so much of it. Hell, he's felt enough of the emotion throughout his years.

Staying rooted at a reasonable distance, Bucky holds out a hand. I stare at his leathery worn palm until I've mustered the courage to let him help me to my feet. He steadies be before quickly leaving my side. He steps far away.

"Sorry I scared you, Boss."

"Oh no, you just spooked me a little, Todd. No harm done." I sound a bit winded but I manage to laugh it off.

Tony doesn't seem impressed or bothered by any of this. He looks a bit bored, actually. "So are you coming up or not?"

"Later, Stark." I wave him off. I smile to Todd as he passes over those damn pliers. All this for a stupid little tool?

Tony leaves then so does Todd. The lab now is slowly filling with other people, but they all linger slightly out of reach. And more importantly, out of earshot.

I pretend as though nothing has just happened here. Bucky does for a moment as well, but I can tell that the words are just gnawing at his chest and soon he'll need to let them out. The instant that his jaw rears wide to speak, I silence him with words of my own.

"That should be good for you now, Bucky. Let me know if you have any other problems, and don't worry about bothering me next time if you need to call. I've got to go now, have a nice day."

I hurry out of the lab as fast as my legs can take me. I think I hear him following, so I quickly let myself into the ladies' toilet across the hall. The door locks and I'm sure I catch the sound of dull footsteps stopping just outside. After a moment, I think they're gone—but I can't be too sure. I wait above the sink with the water gently flowing to cover up any sort of noises I make. I chance a quick look at my reflection and then curse. I've tried to cover the markings on my neck, but the moisture in the air from last night's storm has worn the concealer thin. The dark purple and blue bruises are not hickeys. They match the same bruises that I've got hiding beneath my shirt sleeves and long trouser legs.

Taking a deep breath, I hold onto the sides of the pedestal sink and close my eyes.

There's a knock at the door.

It's midnight now, in my home just outside of Manhattan. It's a nice sized suburban house with a Chrysler out front and a pool in the back. I like the color of the front door—it's a subtle shade of blue. Much like the color of Bucky Barnes' eyes when I open that very same door to find him standing on my porch.

"Bucky?!" I hiss in both shock and sudden fear. I quickly usher him out of my way. I make room for myself beside him on the porch and out of view of the foyer. "What the bloody hell are you doing here?" Deep down I know, but I hope I'm wrong.

Bucky gives his head a shake. "I know something's going on, Y/N. I know someone's hurting you. And I have damn good reason to believe that they're here in this house." His eyes roam up the front of my home.

I shove him—taking him by total surprise. His eyes widen a bit before he just cements his legs in place for when I push him again (which I do). "Get the hell out of here, Bucky. You don't know what you're talking about."

"I know exactly what I'm talking about," Bucky doesn't even bother to lower his voice. He's not afraid. "I've seen the bruises you've come in with. I thought maybe—I didn't fuckin' know—you were into some kinky shit or something. Then I saw the cigarette burns and I thought that's no goddamn turn on. And then these last few times I've seen you, Y/N, you looked worse and worse." I swallow stiffly as I see the roaring waves of pure intention behind his eyes. He steps closer and I take a shallow step back. He realizes his mistake before clearing his throat and going on. "And then after today..."

"Todd startled me."

Bucky shakes his head in a sad, slow way. "You don't have to make excuses anymore, Y/N. I know what's going on. So how about you just tell me who it is and we can get you out of here and take you somewhere safe?" His voice is gentle and soothing like a Christmas hymn. His warm gaze and sweet smell make me want to wrap up in his arms and never look back...

"It's not that simple," I hiss. I tug closer the ends of my nighttime robe and shiver from the wind that roars down the street. "You don't understand, Bucky. And I don't expect you to." I glance behind me at the still closed door. I worry about what's going on inside. "Listen, this is really kind of you, but you owe me nothing. Yes, I help you with your arm, but it's my job. This? Helping me now, or whatever it is you think you're doing? It's not your job, and it's not any of your concern."

I try to turn back towards my home, but Bucky manages to stop me without a single touch or block. He just uses that pretty voice of his to say: "It is my concern, Y/N, because I care about you." I freeze. My hand is stone on the doorknob as I wait for him to go on. "I really, really care about you, Y/N. I can't explain it... but I want to keep you safe. And when I worry about you, it's never ending. I spend all day and night worrying about if you're hurting. And as long as someone's putting you through pain like they are now, I'm not going to rest until they stop—not until they stop and I know you're happy and safe."

A tear dribbles down my cheek. I turn to face Bucky, seeing all the emotions on his face and reading the truth behind his eyes. When my hand falls from the doorknob and I turn back towards him he takes this as a sign. He comes towards me, closer, closer, until we're close enough to touch. He doesn't reach out, not first that is, and then I'm rising on my toes to press my lips to his. The salt from my tears mixes with the peppermint on his breath until I'm reminded only of chilly winter mornings and candy canes.

I pull away after only a brief pause in the turning of time.

"Come with me now, Y/N. We can get your things in the morning and I can deal with him later. You'll be safe with me tonight back at the compound." His metal hand brushes against my cheek and for the first time in my life I curl closer to a man's touch rather than away. "I promise."

I shake my head, somewhat surprising him. "It's—It's not that simple, Bucky." I back away with his hand in mine until we reach the door. I pull on the latched handle, letting it swing inwards into the house.

"Why not?" he questions. He lingers just outside of the threshold.

"Because," I begin. "Because Bucky, I have—"

"Mum?"

Bucky's eyes take on the shape of saucers when they dart to the staircase to see the same sight that I've now turned to see. My oldest, Bellamy, is standing on the middle step as if coming down for a midnight treat or snatch of water but instead gotten the shock of his life: his mother holding hands with a bionic armed stranger in the open doorway.

I hurry closer to the stairs. Quiet, as swift and gentle as a dormouse, I come to stand on the step before the ten-year old boy. "Darling, it's happening now. We're going to go."

Bellamy blinks at me with those pretty brown eyes. "But why right now?" He points down to Bucky. "And why with him?"

"It doesn't quite matter, but this man works with the Avengers. He's friends with Captain America—you remember learning about him in class last spring? You have him on your poster in your room, right?"

"Yeah. It was my favorite lesson."

"Good, good." I run my hands up and down Bellamy's fleece-covered arms. "This is Bucky Barnes, darling, and he's going to give us a ride to mum's office. We'll stay there for a night then come get our things in the morning."

Bellamy cautiously looks down the staircase at the man waiting there. Then after a brief moment, he nods and stands a smidge taller. "Okay. I'm ready."

"Good boy," I nearly want to cry again. I smooth some of the dark hair out of his eyes and kiss his forehead. I know he hates it, but I can never get enough of him. "Now go wait outside with Bucky. I'm going to get your sister."

I try to leave his side, but he immediately latches onto my wrist and tries to keep me beside him. His wide eyes are fearful and show his true age of only a boy in the fifth grade. "No mum, please—please don't go up there. He'll wake up if sis makes too much noise."

"She won't, okay? I know what I'm doing." I hold his cheek and then gently guide him out of my way. "Go with Bucky." I make eye contact with Bucky, and he sends me a nod. He doesn't seem shocked anymore. He just looks determined.

"Don't let him out of your sight," I whisper to Bucky. Bellamy reaches the bottom of the staircase and Bucky sends him a friendly little smile.

I hurry up the stairs before either of them can protest any further. Soundlessly I scurry down the hall outside of my closed bedroom doors. I tiptoe to the place where my dear Delilah sleeps in her princess castle bed with the Little Mermaid sheets. Thankfully she's about as responsive as a rock in her slumber, and the five year old is a bit behind in her growth so she's easy enough to carry. She hardly protests when I lift her up and into my arms. I grunt a bit at her weight before gritting my teeth and powering on.

It's actually happening. Sure, we've tried and failed before to leave, but never before has it felt like this. This time it feels so... so surreal. Like perhaps this is finally where our lives all change and we no longer have to leave in fear of the big, burly bully who savagely rules over our little suburban world.

I make it to the top of the stairs. I can see the light of the front porch far beneath—guiding me the rest of the way.

***

My eyes flutter open to the sound of cartoons. I rub at my eyes, seeing that I'm alone in bed, and that the bedroom door has been left cracked. There's the distinct sound of bacon frying accompanied by the familiar smell. A little girl laughs and then there's a small boy and an older one that join in.

I get up out of bed, wrapping myself tighter in my robe, and walk out into the living room.

Bucky's standing above the stove while Bellamy's stirring the orange juice. Delilah is on the couch with her Hello Kitty pajamas.

"Ah, good morning, doll."

"Bucky and me are making breakfast," Bellamy tells me proudly.

I stop behind Bucky to plant a kiss to his cheek. Bellamy makes gagging noises, to which Bucky and I laugh.

If only he knew how I got this baby in my tummy.

Delilah walks into the kitchen with her American Girl doll in hand just in time for my husband of three months now to announce that it's time to eat.

It's been over a year since we disappeared from the house outside of Manhattan. With Tony Stark's legal team and a group of rather intimidating friends, I haven't had to worry about anyone bothering me or my family ever again. Especially now that I have Bucky: he's made promises to keep us all safe. He's even taken it as far as to not go on Avenger's missions anymore (only the end of the world ones, because we live here too).

"I have a question," Delilah announces as she's served her plate of bacon and eggs.

I lower into the seat beside her and Bucky's next to me. Bellamy's there at the head of the table like always—playing with his food like a boy half his age.

"What is it, sweetheart?" Bucky beckons, not even realizing how big my heart swells when he talks to her like that.

"Is the baby going to call you daddy?"

I glance to where Bucky's mid-sip of his coffee—freshly cut hair slightly messy, beard untrimmed, and clothes wrinkled because I never want to iron. "Well," he clears his throat, "Yeah, I guess so."

Delilah nods. "That's what I thought." She takes a bite of her bacon, looking very blasé, and then adds, "If the baby gets to call you daddy, then I want to do it too."

I've never seen Bucky's eyes go so wide. "You—you do?"

Delilah nods like it's the most normal thing in the world. And to her, it is. She sees the other kids at school with their dads. They do the same things that Bucky does: take her to the market, bring her the sack lunch when she forgets it at home, walk her to the park, and struggle to braid her hair. Bucky's more of a father than her real one could ever be. I'm just grateful she doesn't remember the other one very much.

"I do too." Bellamy reaches for the ketchup, which I help him to grab. "I want to call you dad."

My heart's pattering at a million beats a minute. When I look up at Bucky, who is usually so quiet anyhow, he's been rendered absolutely speechless. But I know that I see tears in his eyes.

"Okay, yeah, okay," he finally manages to stutter. "I'd really love that, kids. I'd love that a lot."

My hand finds his beneath the table. He squeezes my fingers. Smiles paint both of our lovesick faces.

"Okay, cool. Can I go play now, dad?"

I laugh—shaking my head. But Bucky, still so wrapped up in what's happened, gives the girl what she wants. "Sure, sweetheart. Go ahead." The girl's got him wrapped around her finger, I swear.

With Delilah gone, it's just Bellamy left with Bucky and me. The eleven, almost twelve, year old boy smiles at us with a bit of spunk in his eyes. "Thanks for everything, dad."

I look over to Bucky Barnes, former Winter Soldier and the current light of my life, and say, "Yeah. Thank you—thank you for everything."

His response melts my heart. "Thank you guys for being my everything."