Project Hellhound

Chapter 15

Risk assessment prevails. One incorrect attempt might trigger security protocols. I nudge the device back to sleep and retreat from the desk, my attention shifting to the partially open drawer of the dresser.

The shower continues running, steam seeping beneath the bathroom door while Bucky's off-key humming filters through. Taking advantage of the extended time, I pad silently to the dresser, using my nose to nudge open a slightly ajar drawer. Inside are spare tactical gear and what looks like emergency supplies.

The shower abruptly shuts off with a squeak of pipes. I nudge the drawer closed and retreat swiftly to my position by the window, arranging myself casually as if I'd never moved. By the time the bathroom door opens, I'm seated casually, gaze fixed on a squirrel darting across the compound lawn. My posture suggests nothing more than predatory interest, ears forward, body slightly tensed as though contemplating a chase I know is impossible.

Steam billows from the bathroom as Bucky emerges, towel draped around his neck, fresh clothes clinging slightly to his still-damp skin. Water droplets glisten in his dark hair as he towels it roughly. His eyes immediately find me at the window, assessment tempered with something like curiosity.

"Found a friend out there?" he asks, approaching with deliberately audible footsteps—a courtesy that doesn't escape my notice. He positions himself beside me, following my line of sight to where the squirrel now scrambles up the trunk of an oak tree. "Sorry to disappoint, but hunting's probably off the menu for now."

I exhale sharply through my nose in what could pass for an animal's frustration. Calculating my response carefully, I shift my weight to press lightly against his leg—enough contact to suggest growing trust without seeming unnaturally tame.

Bucky tenses momentarily before relaxing into the contact. His hand hovers uncertainly before descending to rest between my ears. The touch is tentative at first, then more confident as I allow it, leaning slightly into his palm.

"You know," he says conversationally, as if discussing the weather, "most wolves would've taken my hand off by now." His metal fingers move with surprising gentleness through my fur. "Either you're the world's most domesticated wolf, or..." He leaves the alternative unspoken, watching me with unnerving intensity.

I maintain my focus on the squirrel, which now perches on a branch, chittering aggressively at something unseen. The moment stretches between us, oddly peaceful against the backdrop of our complicated circumstances.

"Fury wants daily updates," Bucky eventually says, his tone shifting to something more professional. "Evidence of behavior, signs of training, potential triggers." His hand stills on my head. "If I can't prove you're just an enhanced animal by week's end..." The sentence hangs unfinished, but its implications settle heavily in the air between us.

He withdraws his hand and stands, reaching for his jacket draped over the chair. The metallic whisper of recalibrating arm plates fills the silence as he shrugs it on.

He studies my reflection in the window as he adjusts his collar. "Just... try not to bite anyone, alright? Not even Stark, though I'd understand the temptation."

The joke catches me off guard, and I find myself huffing in a way that sounds suspiciously like amusement. My tail wags slightly of its own accord—a genuine reaction I have to quickly modulate into something more measured.

Bucky raises an eyebrow, a small smile playing at his lips as our eyes meet in the window's reflection. "Thought you might appreciate that," he murmurs, the smile reaching his eyes briefly before fading back into watchfulness. "You know, for a wolf, you've got quite the expressive face."

I tilt my head at an angle that perfectly straddles the line between animal curiosity and intelligent acknowledgment.

Something in my response draws him back. He kneels beside me, bringing his face level with mine. "It's your eyes," he says quietly, searching my gaze. "Too... aware. Like you're listening, really listening." His own eyes—stormy blue-gray harboring memories of captivity and control not unlike my own—bore into mine with unsettling intensity. "Are you? Can you understand every word I'm saying?"