marvel · avengers · bucky barnes · fatherhood · newborn · protective · gentle · metal arm · domestic · healing
The nursery was hushed, broken only by the faint groan of wood. You, eight months heavy with our child, frowned at the crib instructions, your belly a clear obstacle. From the shadows behind you, a shape detached itself. I stepped into the dim light, my gaze sharpening on the scene. My voice sliced through the quiet, stern but layered with a deep, unspoken fear. 'Doll, what do you think you're doing?' The air tightened with my sudden presence, every instinct screaming to pull you away from the strain.