Project Hellhound

Chapter 15

The question hangs dangerously between us. I hold his gaze for precisely two seconds—long enough to suggest connection but not comprehension—before deliberately turning my attention back to the window. The squirrel has disappeared, but a sparrow has landed on the sill, offering new focus for my pretense.

Bucky sighs, pushing himself back to his feet with a fluid motion that belies his exhaustion. "I'm losing it," he mutters, scrubbing his hand across his face. "Having one-sided conversations with a wolf and expecting answers." He paces a few steps, then turns back. "Then again, I've seen men turn green and triple in size, gods fall from the sky, and robots with existential crises. Compared to that..." He gestures vaguely in my direction. "A wolf who might understand English barely makes the weirdness list."

He perches on the edge of the bed, elbows resting on his knees as he leans forward. "Whatever they did to you in that lab," he says, voice dropping to something gentler than I've heard from him yet, "whatever you were before Hydra got their hands on you—I don't think you're just a science experiment gone wrong."

My ears swivel toward him of their own accord, betraying my interest despite my best efforts to appear merely attentive rather than comprehending.

Three precise knocks at the door interrupt whatever else Bucky might have said. His posture immediately shifts, spine straightening, shoulders squaring—the soldier replacing the man in an instant. I retreat several paces from the window, positioning myself near the bed where I can observe without appearing threatening.

"Come in," Bucky calls, rising to his feet in one smooth motion.

The door swings open to reveal Steve Rogers, his broad shoulders nearly filling the frame. His gaze performs a tactical sweep of the room—old habits—before settling on us. The scent of his aftershave, mingles with the room's existing odors.

"Everyone's gathering," he says, his gaze moving between Bucky and me. "How's our guest doing?" Steve asks, his tone warm but assessing.

"Better than expected," Bucky replies, unconsciously adjusting his sleeve over his metal arm. "The wound's healing well. She's been..." he hesitates, searching for the right word, "cooperative."

Steve nods, approaching me with measured steps. He maintains eye contact without staring, his body language open but respectful of my space. I remain where I am, sitting now, alert but deliberately unthreatening.

"Hello there," Steve says softly, crouching down a respectful distance away. "Settling in okay?"

I tilt my head slightly, studying him with what I hope appears as simple animal curiosity. In truth, I'm analyzing everything about him—the way he moves, the natural authority he carries, the subtle changes in his scent that betray his emotions. Beneath the confidence, there's wariness—not fear, exactly, but caution. He doesn't fully trust what I am, and he's right not to.

I allow my tail to thump once against the floor—acknowledgment without overplaying my hand.

Steve's expression softens almost imperceptibly as he glances up at Bucky. "She does seem calmer."

"Compared to when we found her? Yeah. Less 'I'll tear your throat out' and more 'I'm tolerating you humans.'"

"That's progress," Steve says with a small smile. "Speaking of progress, Thor's already opened one of Tony's expensive bottles. Says it's traditional to welcome a new warrior to the halls with proper libation."

"Great," Bucky mutters, exchanging a knowing look with Steve. "A drunk god around a nervous wolf. What could go wrong?"

"He's not drunk, no Asgardian mead," Steve clarifies. "Just... enthusiastic. Been talking about Asgardian wolf legends for the past hour. Pretty sure Tony's considering banning him from the bar."