Doll. // Bucky Barnes X OC

THIRTY-ONE

The moment her fingers close around his metal hand, the compound inhales.

Not literally—but that's how it feels. Like the space tightens, recalibrates, draws something inward.

The lights brighten.

Not harsh. Just enough to be noticed.

Bucky's pulse spikes.

Too fast.

Too soon.

Shit.

His eyes flick instinctively toward the ceiling corner—camera housing disguised as conduit. He knows the angle. Knows the lag. Knows exactly how long it takes the system to flag a deviation once it crosses from passive observation into active response.

Three seconds.

He doesn't get three seconds.

His phone vibrates in his pocket.

Once.

Low-priority alert tone—but the kind reserved for internal routing commands. Not a message. Not a request.

A summons.

He'd been ordered to wear comms continuously for days now. No exceptions. No downtime. A "temporary oversight measure," They had called it—automatic activation enabled, manual override removed.

Meaning if the system decided to speak to him, it didn't ask.

It just did.

He closes his fingers reflexively, thumb brushing over her knuckles. Her hand is warm against the metal. The contact is grounding in a way nothing else has been in weeks.

Which means it's already too much.

"Melany," he says, too quickly. His voice comes out tight, clipped, all control layered over panic. "You need to let go."

She doesn't.

Her grip tightens instead—warm, real, stubborn.

The lights adjust again.

Fuck.

He gently but firmly pries her fingers away, forcing himself to move with care instead of urgency. The system reads urgency as instability. Instability invites escalation.

"Please," he says under his breath. "You have to leave. Now."

Her eyes flick past him, catching the shift in the room, the way the air itself seems to lean closer.

"They're reacting," she whispers.

"Yes," he says. "And that means you're running out of time."

His phone vibrates again.

Longer.

He doesn't look.

If he looks, he won't be able to pretend this is still something he can manage alone.

"Buck—"

"I can fix this," he interrupts, stepping back, putting distance between them like it physically hurts him to do it. "But not if you stay. Not if they think I've lost containment."

Her throat works. Her eyes are bright now, wet in a way that makes something in his chest fracture.

"You didn't lose control," she says. "You never did."

He swallows hard.

"That's not how they see it."

A soft chime echoes through the room.