Chapter Text
On paper, the mission was supposed to be easy. Routine.
Bucky hates it when missions are described that way. Routine got people sloppy. Routine was how things could easily go wrong.
“Alright,” John says, because it’s his turn to lead this assignment this time around. “This one’s simple. In and out. We grab the tech, we neutralize whoever’s dumb enough to still be guarding it, and then we’ll be back in time for whatever sad concoction Barnes calls dinner later this evening.”
Bucky doesn’t even look up from tightening the strap on his glove. “I learned it from the internet. It’s chicken. With cream. And I'm telling you, it's the best thing any of you will ever have.” It's something he’d actually slaved over that entire morning, thank you very much.
John snorts. “Sure it is, bud.”
Bob, perched awkwardly on the edge of the table, raises a hand and tells everyone, “I would like to go on record to say that every time someone says in and out, we are never in and out that easily.”
Yelena raises a hand, too. “I, for one, would also like to say that when someone says in and out, I get hankering for burger and fries.”
Alexei grins, wide and fearless, a piece of lettuce stuck to his teeth from the sandwich he wasn’t supposed to be eating anyway. “We should get some. After successful assignment.” He slaps his own chest. “My treat!”
John frowns at him. “No, Alexei, I don’t want–”
Bucky tunes the noisy exchange out halfway, attention drifting to the side, despite himself.
Because Ava is leaning against the wall near the exit, arms crossed, listening to everyone talk with that quiet, thoughtful focus she always has before every mission.
She’s not smiling. Not frowning either. Just wholly… present.
Her hair is pulled back for combat, a few loose strands already escaping and framing her face. A small tidbit he isn’t supposed to notice, yet he does, anyway. She catches his eye, tilts her head slightly. You good? She seems to ask - without having to say a word.
Bucky gives her a small nod.
Because he is.
He… actually feels normal. Centered. It’s a new enough feeling that he notices it.
That’s probably the first and only warning sign the universe was kind enough to give him that time.
The facility is buried deep in the mountains, because of course it is. Old concrete, old sins, retrofitted with old tech that hums wrong in his bones. The kind of hum he doesn’t particularly like. The kind that vibrates through metal and flesh arms alike.
They breach clean, because after more than a year of working together, they’re already moving as a single, cohesive unit - plus John’s a competent leader. First corridor goes down without issue. Second, too.
So far, so good.
Bucky moves on instinct, muscle memory honed over decades, but there’s something tugging at the back of his mind. It wasn’t dread exactly. More like… anticipation. As if his body’s bracing for something he can’t put a name to, yet.
As planned, John covers his six, efficient and solid. Yelena ghosts ahead of them, lethal and quick. Bob, still new to fieldwork, stays close to Alexei, who barrels through everything like a wrecking ball - subtlety be damned.
And Ava? She’s to Bucky’s left, as always. They fell into that formation months ago without ever talking about it. It comes as a relief, actually, that they did.
He likes knowing where she is at all times.
Especially during dangerous missions.
They reach the central chamber, where, based on intel, the dead tech is supposedly housed.
Of course, that’s where everything tips sideways.
The air around them warps.
It’s not visible; it’s more like a sudden pressure change, sharp and electric, like they’re all stepping into altitude way too fast. Bucky’s vibranium arm vibrates hard enough that it actually rattles his shoulder.
“What the hell—” John starts, eyes forward.
As if detecting their presence, the device in the center of the room flares to life, lines of light beaming out of its center like a spiderweb made of electricity. Still, Bucky moves towards it, trying to see if it can still be removed.
“Buck,” Ava calls out to him, frowning openly. “Don’t.”
He turns to look at her. “Someone has to check it. I’m being careful.”
From behind him, Bob swears softly. “Wait, didn’t intel say that it’s not supposed to be active?”
Yelena whips around to face him. “Then why the hell is it active?”
“I don’t–”
Suddenly, before he can even finish that sentence, a blast hits them all at once.
And it isn’t made of heat. Or force.
It’s… displacement.
Bucky, being the closest, absorbs most of it. He feels the effect in his head first; a sharp, nauseating pull, like his thoughts are being yanked forward while his body lags behind. The room fractures. Sound stretches. Instinctively, he turns to his left, Ava’s name on his tongue–
–only for the floor to completely drop out from under him.
He doesn’t remember hitting anything on the way down.
Just the feeling of free-falling. Like he was weightless. Like he was flying.
And then–
–softness.
Warmth.
That alone feels wrong.
The Watchtower medbay - where he thinks he ought to be after a mission that went wrong - is never warm. It’s sterile and efficient, all hard edges, beeping sounds, and brighter-than-necessary lights. But this? This place is soft. Dim. Quiet.
His right arm is heavy.
No. Not heavy. Pinned. Under… something. Was it in a cast? Had he broken it in the fall?
Bucky frowns, eyelids fluttering as he slowly surfaced from sleep. His body still aches in that familiar, bone-deep way it often does after missions, but now it’s dulled. Muted. Like all the pain had been delicately wrapped in cotton.
And then he realizes: there was weight pressing against his side.
A steady, breathing presence.
Another wrong thing.
Instincts flared. He tenses, muscles tightening, already anticipating–
“Hey,” a soft voice murmurs, low and so very close. “Hey. Easy there, Buck. You’re not in danger.”
Fuck. He knows that voice.
Bucky drops his arm, opens his eyes, and finds–
Ava.
Looking up at him.
While she’s curled against his body.
On his bed.
She’s tucked into his side, one hand splayed over his chest, the other resting casually, possessively, on the unmistakable curve of her belly beneath an oversized sweatshirt.
His brain basically short-circuits at the sight.
This close to him, she looks… different. Softer. Rounder. Her hair’s pulled back in a loose braid, a few wisps escaping here and there. Still devastatingly beautiful. Still so very… Ava.
And she’s… pregnant.
Very pregnant.
Bucky sucks in a sharp breath.
“Hey,” she whispers. “Hi.” Her face then breaks into the kind of smile he’d never let himself imagine was meant for him. “I’ve missed you.”
He freezes. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe.
Because this has to be a dream.
A cruel one. A beautiful one. This is his brain being unnecessarily vicious, stitching together stolen glances and painful longing into something soft and vivid enough to hurt.
And if he so much as breathes wrong–
–he knows it’ll disappear from his eyes like smoke.
And a part of him wants to cherish the vision for as long as he can.
At his continued silence, Ava frowns slightly. She lifts her fingers to brush against his jaw. “Buck?”
He swallows hard.
“‘M not–” His voice cracks. He clears his throat. “This isn’t real. You’re not– you can’t be–”
Ava laughs softly, sounding almost… fond.
“Yeah, that’s probably your concussion talking,” she murmurs, moving up to press a soft, chaste kiss to the side of his mouth.
The contact sends a shock straight through him.
The touch isn’t fleeting or hesitant. Her lips linger on his skin; warm, familiar, and utterly devastating.
Despite himself, he jerks away like he’s been burned. “Don’t–”
“Okay,” she acquiesces easily, pulling back as well. “Okay. I don’t want to spook you. We’ll take it slow. All right?”
Without waiting for his answer, she shifts carefully on the bed, propping herself up on one elbow. Her belly presses more firmly into his side, now.
Seemingly taking in his shocked expression and rigid posture, Ava tells him, “Just breathe, luv. I’m not going to hurt you. You’re safe here.”
Safe.
Like he’s supposed to believe that.
He flexes his metal arm, ready to lunge if necessary. Except the very thought of hurting Ava–
His mind shuts down the thought even before it can finish.
Thankfully, she remains ignorant of his thoughts. “If you want, you can walk me through what you’re feeling,” she encourages him, hand moving to hold his in hers. “If you’re confused, then… you can ask me anything. I’ll be happy to help.”
“How’d you know,” he begins, his voice low and careful, “that I’m… confused?”
She smiles again. “Well, you are looking at me like you don’t know me,” Ava replies - though she doesn’t sound insulted at all. “Plus, with your recent head injury–”
“What head injury?”
She glances at his temple and says, “Your last mission with John and the others. Reactor blew up. Sent you all flying. Knocked you out for three days.” Her brows knit as she mentions that.
Three days.
He was out for three days.
But it feels like he’s been out far longer than that.
“Doctors told us your body’s healing well, but we won’t know the full extent of your injury until you wake up.” She takes his hand and kisses his knuckles. “Thank god you woke up. I don’t know what I would’ve done if you hadn’t.”
Bucky watches her actions. He feels it, her lips against his fingers, and thinks just how vivid this dream feels. How impossibly surreal it is. He must have hit his head pretty badly if his brain’s working overtime like this.
“And–” He wets his lip. “And you’re in my bed because…?”
She tilts her head, studying him, then reaches up and cups his face with surprising steadiness. “Because this is our bed?” Ava says, gentle. “Has been for the last two years.”
Last two–
Bucky squeezes his eyes shut for half a second. Utterly convinced that this was going to disappear anytime soon. Or be replaced with something terrifying and ugly.
Because it was too beautiful.
And everything beautiful in his life?
Never lasts.
Except–
When he opens them again, nothing has changed.
She’s still here.
Her hand is still warm on his cheek.
And her stomach is still round beneath his palm - because at some point, without realizing it, he’d actually moved his hand there.
Quietly, almost afraid of the answer, he asks her, “Ours?”
She laughs again. Ava moves a bit so she can place both her hands on top of his. “Yep. Ours.”
Bucky’s breath hitches.
And he starts looking at the room around him.
It was his corner in the Watchtower, all right. But it was also different. Softer lighting. Ava’s things everywhere, mixed in with his; her jacket draped over the chair, her boots by the door next to his, a half-finished cup of tea on the nightstand. Two mission tablets and two sets of comms quietly charging nearby. A photo frame turned face down, like it had been moved recently.
And that’s when it hits him.
This… whatever it is, it isn’t a fantasy.
It’s too detailed. Feels too lived-in to be one.
And Ava?
Was a warm, living, breathing proof of it.
Bucky turns his attention to her and asks, “Is this– all of this is real?”
She threads her fingers through his and squeezes.
“As real as you and I can get,” Ava says tenderly, eyes shining.
And the thought of losing it already terrifies him more than the fall ever did.