"That could've gone worse," he mutters, just loud enough for my enhanced hearing. "Could've gone better too."
I glance up at Bucky, his face remains impassive, but there's a tightness around his eyes that speaks volumes.
The corridor echoed with our footsteps as we turn a corner and nearly collide with a SHIELD agent—young, nervous, clutching a tablet to his chest like a shield, not that it would do much to protect him. His eyes widen at the sight of me, and I can smell the fear flooding his system.
"Sergeant Barnes," he stammers, pressing himself against the wall to maximize the distance between us. His heart rate spikes—I can hear it hammering away, a frantic rhythm that signals prey. "D-Director Fury wanted an update on—" His voice cracked as his gaze bounced between Bucky and me, never quite meeting my eyes.
"On what?" Bucky's tone is flat, but I recognize the subtle shift in his posture—shoulders squaring, weight shifting forward. He's irritated.
The agent swallows hard, eyes flicking to me and then quickly away. "The asset's status, sir."
I feel the vibration of a low growl building in my chest at that word—"asset." I suppress it before it can escape my throat.
Bucky's demeanor shifts at the same word. His posture becomes subtly more aggressive—shoulders squaring, weight shifting forward on the balls of his feet.
"Her status," Bucky replies, emphasizing the pronoun with unmistakable intent, "is that she's tired and heading to rest. Which you can tell the Director yourself."
The agent swallows hard, nodding quickly. "Yes, sir. And the security protocols for overnight?"
"Unchanged," Bucky says flatly. "I'll be with her."
"In the room, sir?" The agent's eyebrows lift slightly.
"That's generally what 'with her' means," Bucky replies dryly.
The agent's discomfort grows with each passing second. His gaze keeps darting to me, as if expecting me to lunge at any moment. The fear scent grows stronger, and I can see his hand trembling slightly where it grips the tablet.
The agent clears his throat. "Director Fury mentioned concerns about containment protocols, especially during rest periods when—"
"When what?" Bucky interrupts, voice dangerously soft.
"Sir, I'm just relaying the Director's concerns about—"
"About an 'asset' you've been ordered to monitor," Bucky finishes for him, the word 'asset' coming out like poison. "I've heard it all before. Been on the receiving end of those same 'concerns.'"
I decide to intervene before Bucky frightens the poor man into cardiac arrest. The agent's fear is becoming overwhelming, and fear makes humans unpredictable. I move slightly forward, placing myself between them, and deliberately sit down in what any human would recognize as a non-threatening posture.
I keep my ears relaxed, my tail still, my body language communicating patience rather than aggression. It's a calculated decision—the human part of me recognizing the advantage in appearing docile, while the wolf instincts urge me to show teeth, to establish dominance.
The agent blinks in surprise at the seemingly intentional de-escalation.
"See that?" Bucky says, some of the edge leaving his voice. "She's got better manners than half the agents Fury has stationed around the compound."
I tilt my head at the agent, adding what I hope reads as a non-threatening curiosity to my posture. His scent begins to shift—fear still predominant, but now tinged with confusion.
"She seems... docile," he observes cautiously.
"She responds to the energy around her," Bucky explains, seizing the opening. "You come at her tense and afraid, she reads you as a potential threat."
It's a simplification bordering on condescension, but not entirely wrong.
The agent nods as if Bucky has imparted profound wisdom. "I'll explain the situation to Director Fury," he says finally, his posture relaxing slightly.
"You do that," Bucky agrees. "Anything else?"
"No, sir." The agent hesitates, then looks directly at me. "Good night... ma'am?"
The awkward, uncertain politeness is so unexpected that I find myself making a soft huffing sound that could almost be interpreted as laughter. The agent's eyes widen before he quickly composes himself, sliding along the wall to pass us with as much distance as possible.
As we continue walking, I hear Bucky's quiet snort. "Guy acted like you were about to go for his throat, then suddenly decides to call you 'ma'am.' Make up your mind, buddy."
I make another huffing sound, and Bucky glances down at me with momentary surprise before his face settles back into its neutral mask.
The compound's night time lighting gradually dims as we move deeper into the residential wing. The harsh fluorescents of the main corridors give way to softer, amber-tinted illumination that casts long shadows as we move through the less populated areas. Occasionally we pass other personnel—technicians finishing late shifts, security teams on rotation—and each time, they give us a wide berth, their reactions ranging from naked fear to barely concealed curiosity.
"You're the most interesting thing to happen around here in weeks," Bucky comments after a particularly wide-eyed technician nearly drops her coffee at the sight of us. "Bet the rumor mill is working overtime."
I wonder what those rumors might be—what stories they're telling about the Winter Soldier and his wolf companion. Nothing close to the truth, I'd bet.
When we finally reach the guest room which seems to be mine at this point. The familiar scents of the room wash over me. I move into the space, doing a slow circuit to check that nothing has changed during our absence.
When I'm satisfied, I settle onto the floor in the center of the room, watching as Bucky immediately moves toward the chair. He shrugs off his jacket and drapes it over the back.
I observe him for a moment, noting the dark circles still under his eyes, the slight slump to his shoulders that betrays his exhaustion. He's barely slept—dozing in that uncomfortable chair while maintaining his self-appointed vigil. The lack of rest is beginning to show, even with his enhanced physiology. His movements, though still precisely controlled, have a heaviness to them.
"What?" he asks, catching my stare. "Something on my face?"
I continue to watch him, noting the tension in his shoulders, the way he seems to force himself to straighten up. He's running on fumes—super soldier or not, even he has limits. After a moment's consideration, I move deliberately toward the bed and look pointedly from it to him.
Bucky shakes his head. "That's for you. I'm fine here."
I huff and nudge my nose against the mattress, then look back at him.
"I know it's not the Ritz," he says, misunderstanding. "But it's better than a cage floor."
The mention of cage floors sends an involuntary shiver down my spine, my fur rising slightly along my back. He notices—of course he does—and something in his expression shifts, softening almost imperceptibly.
I let out a low, frustrated sound and step directly in front of him, blocking his path to the chair. Then I look very deliberately at the bed again, hoping my intent is clear despite the limitations of this form.
A flicker of understanding crosses his face, quickly replaced by stubborn resistance.
"Not happening," he says flatly. "I need to stay alert."
I cock my head and look pointedly at the dark circles under his eyes.
"I've gone longer without sleep," he counters, trying to step around me.
I shift to block him again, this time adding a soft growl—not threatening, just frustrated at his stubbornness.
"Are you..." He pauses, looking genuinely bewildered. "Are you trying to make me take the bed?"
I nod my head, a decidedly un-wolf-like gesture that I immediately realize might be too revealing. But I'm too tired to care, and frankly, so is he.
"Did you just—" Bucky cuts himself off, rubbing his face with his flesh hand. "I'm definitely more sleep-deprived than I thought."
I huff again and move to the chair, grabbing one of the legs in my teeth and dragging it with deliberate effort toward the opposite wall, away from where he's standing.
"Hey!" Bucky protests, watching as I manhandle, wolfmouthle whatever, his chair. "What are you—stop that!"
I ignore him, continuing to drag the chair until it's a good ten feet away. When I release it, I turn to give him what can only be described as a smug look, my tail swishing slightly with satisfaction.
"Seriously?" Bucky stares at me, exasperation warring with disbelief. "You know I can just walk over there and sit in it anyway, right?"
I answer by returning to the chair, grabbing it again, and dragging it even further—this time toward the bathroom. My paws slide slightly on the smooth floor, but I manage to maintain my grip on the chair leg.
"Oh, for—" Bucky starts forward, but I growl playfully and quicken my pace, managing to get the chair halfway through the bathroom door before he catches up. The narrow doorway works to my advantage, forcing him to slow his approach.
"This is ridiculous," he says, grabbing the chair with his metal hand while I maintain my grip on one leg. "Let go."
I growl again, tugging back with just enough force to make him work for it without actually damaging the furniture. The metal of his arm glints in the dim light as he braces against my pull.
"Are we seriously having a tug-of-war over a chair?" Bucky asks, incredulous.
There's something in his tone—a hint of lightness that hasn't been there before.
I give another pull, and he yanks back with more force, causing me to skid slightly on the smooth floor.
"Ha!" he says triumphantly, a small smile threatening at the corners of his mouth.
Not to be outdone, I brace my paws more firmly and throw my weight backward, catching him off-guard. The sudden shift pulls him forward a step before he recovers his balance. His eyes widen momentarily before narrowing in challenge.
"Oh, it's like that, is it?" There's a gleam in his eye now that wasn't there before—competitive, almost playful. It transforms his face completely, erasing years of hardship for just a moment. For an instant, I can see glimpses of the man he might have been before Hydra got their hands on him—before they broke him and remade him.
What follows is an absurd but surprisingly spirited battle for possession of the chair. Despite his enhanced strength, Bucky is clearly holding back, using only a fraction of his power—just as I am. It becomes less about the chair and more about the back-and-forth.
Minutes pass as we engage in this strange tug-of-war, neither willing to concede. At one point, he actually laughs when I suddenly release my grip, causing him to stumble backward, only for me to quickly dart forward and reclaim the chair leg in my teeth before he can recover. The sound of his laughter seems to surprise him as much as it did me—rich and warm and rusty from disuse.
"You're impossible," he tells me, but there's no heat in it. If anything, there's a warmth I haven't heard before. For just a moment, we're not asset and handler, not experiment and keeper—just two beings engaged in something as simple as play.
Finally, after several minutes of this ridiculous standoff, Bucky releases his hold on the chair with an exaggerated sigh. "Fine. You win this round. But I'm still not taking the bed."
I drop the chair, now slightly worse for wear, and return to stand by the bed, looking at him expectantly. My breath comes in soft pants, not from exertion but from a strange excitement I haven't felt in years.
"This is a weird standoff," he mutters, running a hand through his already disheveled hair. "I'm arguing with a wolf about sleeping arrangements."
I settle onto the floor by the bed in silent protest, making it clear I won't be using it either. The cool floor against my belly is a familiar sensation, but tonight it serves a purpose beyond mere rest.
"So what, neither of us gets the bed?" Bucky asks, crossing his arms. "That's your plan?"
I maintain my position, stubborn and unyielding. His eyes narrow as he studies me, and I can almost see the wheels turning in his mind—reassessing, reevaluating.
Bucky runs a hand through his hair, mussing it further. "You know, for an 'asset,' you've got an impressive talent for being a pain in the ass."
I bare my teeth in what might almost be a grin, feeling an unfamiliar lightness in my chest. How long has it been since I've felt anything like this? Since I've been able to assert my will, even in so small a matter?
"Fine. We'll share. It's big enough." He gestures to the reinforced bed, which is indeed larger than standard "But I'm staying on top of the covers, and if anyone asks, this never happened."
I stand immediately, giving what might be interpreted as a smug look before hopping onto one side of the bed.
"Don't look so pleased with yourself," Bucky mutters, but there's a hint of amusement playing at the corner of his mouth. "And if you kick me during the night, deal's off."
I settle into position, making a show of taking up precisely half the bed—no more, no less. Bucky watches me with something between exasperation and reluctant amusement.
"You're not like any wolf I've ever met," he says quietly, almost to himself. Then, louder: "Budge over a bit more. Your tail's going to be in my face."
I shift obligingly, tucking my tail closer to my body. The human consciousness within me recognizes the significance of this moment—the trust implicit in sharing space, in allowing vulnerability. For creatures like us, shaped by captivity and control, such choices are never small.
Bucky shakes his head as if he can't quite believe what he's doing, then moves to the opposite side of the bed. He sits on the edge first, removing his boots with careful precision, placing them side by side where he can reach them quickly if needed. Then stretches out on top of the blanket as promised, metal arm positioned on the outside—ready for trouble, even in concession.
"This doesn't mean I'm not still on watch," he says, stifling a yawn that undermines his words. "Just... resting my eyes."
I settle into a comfortable position, careful to leave plenty of space between us. I can feel Bucky's weight on the other side, the mattress dipping slightly under him. His scent surrounds me—gun oil, leather, the faint metallic tang of his arm, and beneath it all, something uniquely him. It's oddly comforting.
"Don't get used to this," he warns, even as his body begins to relax. "Tomorrow night, I'm back in the chair."
I make a soft sound that clearly communicates my doubt.
"I mean it," he insists, though his voice has already grown heavy with approaching sleep. "This is a one-time..."
His words trail off as exhaustion finally claims him, his breathing evening out into the rhythm of deep sleep. I lift my head just enough to confirm he's actually unconscious. His face in sleep loses some of its hardness, the perpetual vigilance easing from his features.
Victory secured, I allow myself to relax as well, though I keep my senses alert for any approach to the door. There's something oddly comforting about sharing this space with him—a strange echo of pack behavior that resonates with both sides of my nature. The wolf finds security in the presence of another, while the human recognizes the rare gift of trust.
I let my eyes close fully, lulled by the steady rhythm of Bucky's breathing beside me. Tomorrow will bring new challenges—more questions, more suspicion, more carefully maintained facades. But tonight, at least, we've found a moment of peace in this strange alliance.