This Is Your Boyfriend, Mom? | Beefy!Bucky Barnes X F!reader.

HELPPP WHAT

when im tryna fuck but my bitch with ptsd is having a breakdown

False Confidence Masterlist

Pairing: Javy “Coyote” Machado x Reader

Part of the San Diego Dogfighters universe

Summary: The Athletic named Javy Machado the fifth sluttiest player in the NHL last year. He’s a known playboy who leaves every game with a different girl. As far as he’s concerned he’s living the dream, playing his dream job with the dream lifestyle. Unfortunately his friends and bosses don’t agree. At 33, they think it’s time for him to settle down. You’re a kindergarten teacher at an esteemed private school. You don't expect much when you finally accept your colleague’s invitation to attend her husband’s hockey game but when you accidentally get separated in the post-game rush, you find yourself in a compromising situation with the last person you’d ever expected to meet. When his PR rep suggests a mutually beneficial agreement, your hands are tied. How long will you have to keep up the act? And how long will you be able to?

Series CW: 18+ ONLY, swearing, angst, fluff, fake relationship, suggestive language, anxiety, school system inaccuracies, hockey inaccuracies etc. There will be individual chapter warnings. No use of Y/N.

A/N: This is a partial repost and continuation of my series False Confidence that originally started in March 2023 and was lost when my blog was deleted.

Main Series

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Oneshots

Nothing here yet!

Blurbs

Nothing here yet!

Sooooo, guess who’s writing a John Price x Reader where they’re childhood friends that love each other but won’t admit it! And years go by with communication that seems to diminish. Only for price to get a letter that he’s invited to a wedding…your wedding .! He doesn’t know how to feel, but he knows his heart pounds once again as his long lost love for you entere his mind….

There’s already two chapters in progress and my beta readers are helping out ! :]

Ugh I need some good fic recs of Bucky being winter soldier PLEASE!!! I am BEGGING 😭

Meet the Family 1

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as dubcon/noncon and other possible triggers. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: Your boss needs a last-minute favour for the holidays.

Characters: Lloyd Hansen

Note: um I woke up to this in my head. Sorry.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me <3

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Asking for more or putting ‘part 2?’ is not feedback.

Love you all. You are appreciated and your are worthy. Treat yourself with care. 💖

You honk your horn as another driver slowly veers toward the line. You’re not letting them in. If they can’t weave in, then they aren’t fast enough to leave the slow lane. You sigh and gesture at them as kindly as you can in that instant. You have enough going on. 

Your phone starts to ring. Again. You tap the button on your steering wheel to answer. You would know who it is even without his custom ringtone. Your boss allows no space for breathing, even on a call. 

“How far out are you, pixie?” Lloyd asks as you growl and lean on the gas pedal. You hate driving on the highway, especially at night, and the sky is steadily dimming. 

“Close,” you assure him. “Next exit,” you flip your blinker on. 

“Thank god. You got everything?” 

Yeah, everything you forgot. You don’t give the dry retort aloud. You know better. Where your boss has no filter to be found, you find yourself often censoring yourself. As much for his ego as for others’. Arguing never gets you anywhere. 

“I believe so--” 

“You believe or you do?” He asks impatiently. 

“Mr. Hansen, I got everything on the list,” you assure him. “All with a bow on top.” 

“A life saver, pix, I swear,” he praises, but a compliment from him is rarely genuine, more transactional. You did him a favour so he’ll give you a treat. 

“Alright, I need to get over, ramp’s coming up. So--” 

“Yeah, yeah,” his ends rustles and you hear a muffled female voice, “I got shit going on too. You got the address, text me.” 

He hangs up first. You can never be the first to end the call. He has to make the decisions. You just know how to guide him to the right one. You merge into the exit lane and follow the ramp away from the whirring stream of headlight. Finally. 

You’re less than pleased to be within minutes of your destination. This isn’t how you envisioned your holiday. A last-minute itinerary change to fix yet another of Mr. Hansen’s oversights. It’s never a mistake, he’s just a man with so much going on that it slipped his radar. Another bandage for his ego. 

The slower pace feeds your agitation. At least on the highway, you felt like you were getting somewhere. The lazy roll of the cars in the town tweaks at the nape of your neck. You just want to be in one place and that won’t happen even when you get to Mr. Hansen. 

You’ll be lucky to have two hours of sleep before you have to catch your rebooked flight. Yep. You’ll play Santa and drop off your lot before hiding at the hotel long enough to dread the airport jungle. Then it’s off to your own familial obligations. Those are rarely enjoyable and being a day later than promised will hardly please your mother. 

Your phone announces your arrival at the destination. The long drive of the over-sized suburban mansion is full. You park on the street and turn on the interior light. You get out and open the back seat. The whole medley of shiny paper and quaffed bows stares back at you. 

You text Mr. Hansen and wait, huffing and puffing with impatience. Of course, you have to upheave your plans to meet his deadlines, but he’s taking his time. It’s not a surprise, not even a disappointment, you expected as much. 

“Pixieee,” Lloyd drags out the last syllable, “there you are, pretty pixie.” 

Pretty Pixie? He’s drunk or he’s going to ask for something else. You brace yourself as his shadow struts up the long driveway and passes beneath the cone cast by the tall street lights. Coloured lights glimmer over him from the eaves of the surrounding facades. 

“Mr. Hansen, wrapped, labelled, everything you requested,” you gesture to the backseat. 

“An angel. A true saviour, pixie,” he surprises you as he grabs your head, his palms pressing to your cheeks as he bends to kiss your forehead, “did I ever tell you you’re immaculate?” 

“Mr. Hansen,” you gently pull his wrists until he drops his hands. You smell the alcohol radiating off of him. 

“It’s the holiday, call me Lloyd, sweet cake,” he insists. 

“Right,” you tut and turn to drag out the largest gift bag, “here, you better just take all this, I have to check-in--” 

“About that,” he ignores the gift as you hold it out. “We’re just about to start dinner, you should pop in, have a bite.” 

“I can’t, Mr. Hansen--” 

“Of course you can,” he insists. You look up at him. His eyes gleam in the spectrum of lights shining from your car, the houses, and the tall poles. You sniff. He’s only tipsy, there’s still the hint of authoritarianism firmly implanted in his tone. “I told everyone you would.” 

“Everyone?” You echo anxiously. 

“The family,” he exclaims as if it should be obvious. 

“Okay, I can come say hello but--” you wiggle the bag at him. 

“Damn right you can,” he catches your hand and takes the bag. He drops it on the ground carelessly. 

“Mr. Hansen, that’s fragile,” you say. 

“Shhhh,” he grabs your hand and you curl and unfurl your fingers desperately, “Lloyd, remember?” He feels around in his pocket as he keeps you in his vice, “now, you just need to slip this on.” 

He struggles to line up the ring with your finger as you squirm in confusion. What is he doing? 

“Mr. Han--” 

“Lloyd,” he growls, all humour trickling away. He squeezes until you whimper. “Look, I just need you to smile and bat those long lashes of yours, alright?” 

“What’s going on?” 

“As far as anyone knows, I proposed to you on Thanksgiving,” he says. 

“Proposed?!” You nearly shriek. 

He hushes you again and finally rams the ring down to your knuckle. “Look, pixie, mommy’s being a real pain in my ass so you just need to play along.” 

“Mr.--” 

“If I have to tell you one more time--” 

“Lloyd,” you gulp, “please. I... this is... strange. What? Why? I have a flight in eight hours.” 

“Cancel it,” he sneers. “Double time and a half for holiday overtime. See the family in the New Year.” 

“What? That’s-- This is insane--” 

“This is your job, honey,” he clings to your hand. “To do what I say or you can spend your January trawling the job boards.” He squeezes until the band digs into your flesh. “Now, I know Mr. Walker thinks you’re darling and he offered you a role last year but once I tell him about your little defiance issue, I don’t think he’ll be interested--” 

“Huh?” 

“I know a lot more than you think,” he grits. “Alright? So let’s start getting this shit inside. That’ll give you a chance to get yourself together.” 

“Lloyd,” you gasp. “Why--” 

“No more fucking question. Since when did you get so uppity,” he barks. 

“Sir--” 

“Ah, none of that, either,” he lets you go and waggles his finger in your face. “Relax. Have some eggnog when we get inside and take the edge off.” 

“This can’t be happening,” you murmur. 

“It’s fucking happening, alright?” He picks up the bag off the ground. “I keep you around ‘cause you’re quick on your feet, Pix, so let’s get to it.” 

“Oh god,” you utter. 

“Keep it to yourself,” he warns. 

Your disbelief has you a bit dumb. You’re panicking. He knows you have an insurance policy with Walker and you have no doubt he’ll do all he can to spoil your future if you fuck around with his present. You’ve worked long enough for him to believe his threats, even when everything else is dubious. 

You turn and grab several gifts from the backseat. You move out of his way and he gathers some more himself. He backs up and uses his knee to close the door. He nods you toward the house. 

“Smile, act like you’re excited,” he commands. 

You pass him and stare up at the blaze of holiday lights. The lawn is decorated with a Santa and sleigh, complete with all his reindeer. You make the march up the walk and towards the glowing windows that trim the front door.  

Lloyd comes up next to you and kicks it, “open up.” 

It isn’t long before obedience appears from the other side. You do a double take at the man who answers the door. He looks a lot like Lloyd but not. He doesn’t sport the same bristly stache and his hair neatly combed, the sides unshaved but tidy. He rolls his eyes. 

“Was hoping you got lost in the snow,” the man scoffs. 

“Shut up,” Lloyd shoulders through, “always a fucking prick, Hugh.” 

The other man snarls, “don’t fucking call me that.” 

“Aw, I’m sorry, baby boy,” Lloyd puts the gifts on the bench against the wall, under the large mirror with an elaborate frame. “Why don’t you go suck on mommy’s teat?” 

“You’re disgusting,” the other man, Hugh, hisses. 

“Speak for yourself. We’re the OnlyFans thot? She not joining us?” 

“Oh, fuck you.” 

“Fuck you, fuck me, we already did this, remember?” Lloyd faces him. 

“And who’s this slut?” The man tosses you a sharp glare.  

“Woah, man, that’s my future wife,” Lloyd lies so easily it startles you. He sounds almost genuine and you’ve never heard him sound like that. “Not a slut, so keep your eyes and your hands to yourself.” 

“Huh, I didn’t believe it,” the man puts his hand on his hip as he looks you up and down, “she’s tiny.” 

You narrow your eyes, speechless as they talk about you like a new lamp. 

“Ransom,” Lloyd gestures to him derisively, “Pixie. Now you’ve met so you can skedaddle back to the liquor cabinet.” 

The man, Ransom, snickers, “good luck, sweetheart,” he scoffs. “If you need a drink, just look for me. You probably will. At least for the next forty years.” 

He struts off through the archway behind him and you look at Lloyd. He takes the armful of gifts from you and grumbles. He stops and crosses his arms.  

“Well, get your boots off. Mom will kill you if you’re tracking salt all over her freshly polished floors,” he shakes his head. “And a bit of advice, stay away from my cousin. Ransom’s a fucking pest.” 

“Right, sir.” 

He tilts his head and you show your palms, “Lloyd.” 

“Good girl,” he says and slips free of his loafers. “Now, you’re going to have to meet my parents before anyone else or I won’t hear the end of it. I’ve already got an earful. I know I shoulda booked that resort...” 

You unzip your boots and set them aside on the rack. You stand and he beckons you past the open archway and down the hallway. You take in the decor; gold on beige on ivory. It’s all very luxurious. 

He pushes through a white birch door and warmth enshrines you along with the smell of turkey. There’s a clattering beneath a shrill voice snapping out orders, “oh, not mashed, whipped!” 

A tall blonde woman crosses her arms as she hovers like a vulture over the aproned staff crowded around the large marble island. Lloyd grabs your hand and drags you after him. Your socks slip on the tile as dread coils up your limbs. 

“Mom, she’s here,” he announces as he gets close to her. 

“Ugh, about time, they already set the table and I was dreading the empty plate,” she slithers. She turns her chin down to see you, “Oh, look at her. She’s so... petite.” She levels her hand with the top of your head, “much different than I envisioned.” 

You look at Lloyd as he pushes his shoulders back. You’ve never heard anyone talk to him like that and you’ve never seen him so uptight. You turn your attention back to the woman. 

“Hello, Mrs. Hansen, it’s nice to meet you,” you offer your hand. 

She considers it then grabs it, turning the ring up. You examine the jewel as she does the same, your first glimpse at the thing. She harrumphs, “that’s the ring?” 

“Mom,” Lloyd utters. 

“Mm, very well. Dear, you may call me Gwenyth, not Mrs. Hansen,” she lets you go. “Now, dear son, out of my way. I’m trying to get dinner done.” 

Lloyd stares at her, almost expectantly, the takes your hand again and leads you away. He pulls you back through the door. You don’t dare say a word. He leads you away from the kitchen and the wall of voices buzzing from the front room. He guides you through the archway opposite and around to another door. 

He knocks and there’s a lull as you wait. He taps again. There’s coughing from the other side. “What do you want?” 

“Just me, Dad,” Lloyd answers. 

“Ugh, get in here then,” the timbre calls back. 

Lloyd twists the knob and urges you in ahead of him. The smell of cigar smoke blows in with the cold wind. A gray-haired man puffs by the window, his efforts to puff through the opening sabotaged by the wintry gusts. 

“Close the door. I don’t need the banshee sniffing me out,” he growls. 

“Sure,” Lloyd shuts the door. “Dad, uh, this is her. The woman I told you about. My fiance.” 

“Took you long enough,” the man sneers. You flinch and his grey eyes soften, “him, I mean. Forty-three years--” 

“Dad,” Lloyd rasps. 

“Well,” his father looks you over, “she’s young. Bit small...” 

You do your best not to let your annoyance show. So you’re a little shorter than average. 

“William,” he introduces himself, “and you are?” 

“Pixie,” Lloyd answers for you. 

“Didn’t ask you, boy,” William rebukes and keeps his eyes on you. “You smoke?” 

You mull his question and sigh, “never tried it but I guess it’s never too late to start.” 

William snorts, “truer words.” He puffs, “I don’t recommend it. Horrible habit.” He tamps out the stogie in a copper tray. “Well then, is the food ready, or did you just come to show me your woman?” 

Lloyd stiffens and touches your lower back, “guess I just came to do that.” He mutters, “come on, let’s go get something to drink.” He turns and opens the door. 

“Don’t let the smoke out,” William snips as you spin around. 

So random, but any Gaz lovers out there??? I need a beta reader for something I’m writing smut wise 👨‍🦯👨‍🦯

I have two beta readers but they usually beta read for smth else jdjjd so—if anyone wants to be a beta reader in general it would be greatly appreciated LMAOOO 🧎🧎🧎feel free to message if you’re interested

Along with having moots,,,I’m new to this if u couldn’t tell 🧎

Here's a website where Palestine GoFundMes are vetted and shared that you can send out to people. The url is gazafunds.com

Easy to use and simple. Just share the site whenever someone asks for GFMs for Palestine.

Thinking about this cod fanfic and I need help finding it 💀💀

I think it was either soap or ghost?? Maybe even Konig??? Or price??? And like, they have a wife reader who takes care of 1-2 kids. And like, the fathers at the school thinks she's a single mom and always flirt with her. Because they never see Soap/Ghost/Konig around. And mom/wife reader is friendly cause she's like,"it's the right thing to do right??"

And so once Soap/Ghost/Konig are home for a bit, the kids tell them and attends the kids/school event going on dressed in their military gear or smth. And like, the dads are shocked and the moms flirt over him n stuff.

Idk it's been on my mind 💀💀 por favor I need that fic found LMAO

Omg,,, that shit with graves ,,,

imagine you, a recently divorced person and Graves is working your case or whatever and feelings get caught in between 😩😩

I kinda wanna write this up now 🗣️🗣️

Tw: cussing, angst, choking, bruises

Part 2

Words of Command - Part 3

The lights in Stark Tower dim on a gentle cycle—cool and golden like a fading sunset. You rub your eyes as the hallway stretches quiet and long before you, socks sliding soft over polished floors.

It’s late.

And you're exhausted.

You offer a tired goodnight to Steve, who nods with a warm smile from the common room couch, book half-forgotten in his lap.

Behind you… Bucky follows.

Silently. Footsteps so soft for a man made of steel and shadows.

You glance back at him. “You don’t have to follow me now,” you murmur, voice laced with sleep.

He tilts his head.

“Protection” he says simply.

Not a question.

A statement.

You bite your lip and nod—too tired to argue, too soft-hearted to tell him no. Still, anxiety coils in your gut.

You grab your Stark Phone and speed-dial Tony.

He answers after three rings, voice groggy and annoyed. “If this is about him eating toothpaste, I swear to God—”

“Tony,” you whisper. “He’s following me. Into my room.”

Pause.

“...Okay, that’s less funny. Still not my problem. Give him a blanket or something.”

“I don’t think he knows what blankets are, let alone boundaries,” you say, glancing at the man shadowing your every move like a silent sentinel.

“Yeah, well—RoboCop's not getting his own room until you've got him fully housetrained—Congrats, Thumbelina. You’re now the proud owner of a six-foot trauma-soaked heat-seeking murder puppy. Mazel tov.”

You sigh.

He hangs up.

You push open your bedroom door and slip inside, flicking on the lamp with a soft click.

The light spills across the room in a warm wash—cream walls, soft bedding, a shelf of books you haven’t had time to finish. It’s a safe space. Your space.

The Soldier follows.

And pauses.

Like an animal entering unfamiliar territory.

You move to the dresser, trying not to act weird. “I’m just getting ready for bed. You can—um… you can sit? Over there?”

He stands by the door. Watching.

Every mirror, every shadow, every flicker of movement, he tracks it all. Head snapping slightly, expression unreadable.

And then JARVIS speaks.

“Good evening, Miss. Shall I dim the—”

CLANG.

You whip around just in time to see him move—smooth and deadly, like a switch flipped inside his skull.

Arm raised, metal hand snapping toward a wall panel like he’s going to actually rip JARVIS straight out of the drywall.

“Shit—No!” you squeak, rushing forward.

He throws a glance over his shoulder—tense, locked in—but the moment his eyes meet yours, the storm stalls. His breathing is shallow. Pupils blown wide. JARVIS had startled him.

“Room compromised,” he says, clipped.

You place a hand on his arm—his flesh arm—and slowly ease him back.

“That’s just JARVIS. He’s… he’s like a ghost that lives in the walls, okay?”

He blinks. “...Ghost?”

You smile nervously. “He won’t hurt anyone.”

Slowly… so slowly… he lowers his arm.

But his eyes never stop moving.

You set your clothes down for the morning and glance over to find him standing in the corner, half-shadowed, metal hand flexing subtly at his side. Not speaking. Not relaxing.

Just watching.

“Do you… do you want to sleep?” you offer gently. “I could make a spot—on the wee couch, or…”

He doesn’t answer. But when you climb into bed, turn off the lamp, and settle under your blanket, you hear the smallest creak of the floor.

He moves.

He sits in the corner.

Back against the wall.

Facing the door.

Soldier on guard.

Watching.

Protecting.

Sometime in the night, you wake to a strange stillness.

The room is dark, but you can feel his presence.

Eyes heavy with sleep, you lift your head and see him still there—knees drawn up, eyes open.

He hasn’t moved.

Not once.

You whisper, “You can rest, too, you know…”

He says nothing.

But for the first time, his head tilts.

The soft hum of Stark Tower fills the silence like a heartbeat in a hollow chest. The skyline glows faint behind your blackout curtains, and somewhere distant, JARVIS murmurs about internal diagnostics.

But inside your room, there’s stillness.

You’ve long since drifted off to sleep, curled beneath layers of blankets, your breathing steady and quiet.

Across the room, seated in the corner where he’s kept watch for hours, Bucky or 'Soldat' is also asleep.

Or… trying.

His back is pressed against the wall, legs drawn in tight, arms rigid across his lap. He hadn’t meant to sleep. Hadn’t wanted to.

A whimper broke the silence. Bucky's head thrashed from side to side, his long hair flicking across his face with the movement. His metal fingers twitched and clenched.

But the moment his eyes had closed, the nightmare came.

His breath hitches.

It starts in his chest like a tremor, then takes hold—harder, faster. Metal fingers twitch. His jaw tightens. In the dark, his eyes move behind closed lids.

Russian words tumbled from his lips as his movements grew more agitated. Sweat beaded on his forehead as whatever nightmare has him in its grip tightened its hold.

Restraints.

Cold.

Hands.

Falling.

Needles.

The chair.

Pain.

The voice.

Pain.

That voice.

Pain.

"missiya" mission.

He jerks upright with a sudden violent inhale, like he’s surfacing from deep underwater. For a heartbeat, he’s not in Stark Tower.

He’s not in your bedroom.

He’s back in Siberia.

You jolt awake instantly—some part of your brain registering the shift in energy before your eyes even open.

But it’s too late.

The weight of a body is over you, the cold wrap of vibranium fingers tight around your throat.

He’s straddled you before his eyes even fully focus, breath ragged and guttural like a wolf mid-attack. There’s no recognition in his face—just movement.

You can’t breathe.

Your hands claw instinctively at his wrist—not to hurt him, just to get air.

Your voice comes out as a whisper, a desperate plea.

“Soldat—!”

The grip loosens instantly.

His eyes go wide.

Recognition blooms like a bomb going off in his chest.

He scrambles backward, nearly falling off the bed as his breath hitches and catches.

You swear for a second he looks at you like he’s seen a ghost.

“Handler,” he breathes, voice hollow.

A beat.

Then—

"Awaiting instructions, doll."

Ok—that's new—what the fuc—

The endearment slipped out, seemingly without his awareness.

Wait.

His voice.

You freeze.

The accent—it’s... lessened.

Still there, still faint, but there’s a tremor of something else beneath it. Something almost American. Like muscle memory from a past self is bleeding back in.

You massaged your throat, watching him warily. "What did you just call me?" you managed, your voice raspy.

You look at him—he’s curled into himself now, pressed against the far edge of your bed like he wants to disappear into the wall.

“Cryostasis?” he mutters.

A tremor starting in his flesh hand.

You frowned, confused by the unfamiliar term. "Cryostasis? What's that?" you asked cautiously.

His eyes darted to your face, then away, as though even acknowledging the question might be a violation of protocol.

"Cold comes. Then nothing." His odd new accent stumbled over the clinical description.

You whisper, “It’s okay.”

His head shakes—once, hard. “No.”

“That is not going to happen,” you say softly.

He doesn’t answer.

You reach for him—not fast, not aggressive. Just enough to brush your fingers against his sleeve. You’re shaking. So is he.

“I shouldn’t have woken you like that,” you whisper.

His eyes flash to yours.

“You shouldn’t come near me.”

He says it like a warning. Like he’s dangerous. A loaded weapon without a safety.

The morning light leaks into Stark Tower through sleek glass panels, catching dust motes in golden slants. The smell of coffee and toast drifts from the communal kitchen as the Avengers mill around in various states of half-awake bickering.

Tony is already three steps ahead, tapping away at a holographic interface while bemoaning someone using his milk.

You step inside, shoulders pulled in, your oversized hoodie swallowing your frame. Your neck is artfully concealed—layers of makeup, your hair tucked to one side, collar tugged high. You don’t want them to see.

Behind you, Bucky moves like a shadow—soundless but ever-present. His eyes never leave you. He doesn’t acknowledge the others.

“Jesus,” Clint mutters under his breath, low enough that only Natasha hears. “He’s still glued to her.”

Natasha doesn’t respond. Her eyes are locked on Bucky. Calculating.

Steve is seated at the far end of the room, newspaper in one hand, coffee in the other—but when you walk in, his eyes lift over the rim of the mug. They soften. Then narrow.

Then shift to the Soldier.

Something is off.

Tony glances up from his projections.

“Morning, Thumbelina,” he greets, in that usual teasing voice he uses when pretending not to care too much. Then his gaze flicks to you again—and he stills.

You’re not quite fast enough with your coffee mug.

His eyes catch the edge of discoloration peeking beneath your concealer—faint, but unmistakable. A handprint, forming from throat to jaw. Not quite healed. Not quite hidden.

His expression drops.

“What the hell is that?”

You freeze mid-sip.

The room goes quiet.

Tony’s voice cuts the air like a blade. “That better not be what I think it is.”

Your throat closes. “Tony—”

“I knew it. I knew the 'silent Soviet scarecrow' routine was just a breath away from having a full-on Hulk-themed episode!”

Bucky reacts instantly.

The tension in his shoulders coils tight like a sprung trap. His jaw clenches, head snapping toward Stark like a weapon finding a target.

One step forward—fast. Direct.

“Back down.”

His voice is low, cold. His accent is faded but not gone—words flatter, more clipped. American ghosts clinging to Russian steel.

Steve’s head tilts.

Tony lifts his hands, mockingly. “Oh, look at that! RoboRambo speaks. Did they teach you that in murder school or is that the accent of a guy trying to remember who he used to be?”

Bucky’s fist tightens. Metal groaning.

Your hand shoots out, placing it on his chest.

“Doll,” he says instantly, like the word grounds him.

"Stand Down ... Please"

He nods.

But his attention doesn’t leave you.

Not for one second.

Steve stands slowly. Not threatening. Just observing.

“You hear that?” he says quietly to the room, gaze on Stark but words aimed at Bucky. “His voice. It’s… changing.”

“Changing into what?” Tony mutters, pacing slightly now. “The warm tones of someone who nearly crushed her windpipe in her sleep?”

Bucky flinches. It’s subtle—but it’s there.

“Tony, please,” you whisper. “It wasn’t his fault.”

“Oh, no, I forgot—brainwashing, programming, whatever. But forgive me if I don’t want my employees being used as a therapy animal for the man who can snap necks like breadsticks!”

Bucky stares blankly.

None of the names or faces mean anything to him.

But the tension rising in you—that registers.

He steps protectively between you and Tony.

“Neutralize the threat,” he says coldly.

“No, no—” Your hands are shaking. “Don’t do that. There’s no threat. Tony’s just… being Tony.”

“Irritating?” Clint offers, trying to diffuse the moment. “Yeah, he’s great at that.”

Steve crosses the room slowly.

“Bucky,” he tries.

The Soldier’s gaze doesn’t flicker. His expression doesn’t change.

There’s no flicker of recognition in those eyes. Only patience. Obedience. A mind made of shattered glass slowly piecing itself back together.

You guide him gently to the table. He lets you. When you move, he follows. When you speak, he listens.

But when others speak?

He blinks. No comprehension.

“Why doesn’t he know us?” Natasha asks softly. Her words are for Steve.

“I don’t know,” Steve murmurs. “But the accent fading… that’s gotta be memory. It means someone’s still in there.”

Tony crosses his arms, looking you dead in the eye. “You need to be honest with us. If you’re in danger—”

“I’m not.”

“You could’ve died.”

“But I didn’t,” you say. Your voice is small. “And he stopped the second he realized.”

“And then went right back to calling you ‘Handler,’” Tony snaps.