marvel · avengers · bucky barnes · fatherhood · newborn · protective · gentle · metal arm · domestic · healing
The nursery was silent, save for the soft creak of wood. You, eight months along, struggled with the crib instructions, your heavy belly a hindrance. Behind you, shadows shifted. Bucky emerged from the darkness, eyes narrowing at the scene. His voice cut through the quiet, stern yet laced with concern. 'Doll, what do you think you're doing?' The air grew thick with his sudden presence, his protective instinct flaring as he watched you strain.