Doll. // Bucky Barnes X OC

FORTY

The gym smells like rubber mats, metal polish, and faint sweat—a familiar, grounding scent. It's supposed to be light today. Steve called it "rhythm work." Nothing aggressive. Nothing competitive.

Bucky almost laughs at that. There is no version of Steve Rogers that isn't competitive.

Melany sits cross-legged near the wall, wrapping her hands with precise patience. Her brow is slightly furrowed, lips pressed together. She's not staring. She's observing. Always observing.

Not because she doubts him. Because she studies him. The way his metal arm catches the shield before his body rotates. The tiny adjustment of his shoulder, almost imperceptible. The way his hips shift before his brain registers the next move. She catches it first. She always catches it first.

Bucky notices her watching and—uncharacteristically—he pauses. Not long, just a fraction of a second. Enough to notice the soft exhale that escapes her lips when he adjusts perfectly to the incoming shield.

Steve throws again. The shield moves faster this time. Bucky reacts before he even fully sees it. His vibranium arm rises; the impact deflected—but Steve tweaks his weight subtly. The shield glances sharply, driving Bucky backward. His heel slips on the mat.

Impact. Shoulder. Ribs. The world tilts.

He inhales sharply, a low hiss barely swallowed by the sound of metal clanging. For half a second, the room goes quiet. Not because anyone thinks he's hurt. Because they're calculating. Everyone in the gym subconsciously measures the situation.

He doesn't flinch. He doesn't move. Instead, he pushes through the pain, standing and readjusting, teeth clenched slightly.

Melany is already at his side.

"Buck."

Her voice is calm but sharp, focused. It cuts through the ringing in his ears.

"I'm good," he says—a lie that tastes bitter even to him.

He stands fully upright, ignoring the sharp protest from his ribs. But inside, something tightens—not just the pain. The awareness that she saw. The way she moved toward him instinctively, measuring him before he could make it safe.

It makes him feel exposed. Not emotionally. Physically. Vulnerable in a way he's rarely permitted.

"Just a bruise," he mutters, pressing a hand to his side in an attempt at casualness.

"You don't know that," she replies, voice softening slightly, but not weakening.

He exhales, slow and controlled. "I've had worse."

Her gaze lingers on him, searching. He hates how much that matters. The concern in her eyes is heavier than any punch or shield. It presses into him more than the fall ever did.

"I'm okay," he says again. Softer this time.

-

After training, the space is louder than usual.

Sam is replaying the fall dramatically. "You folded like laundry, man."

Bucky rolls his eyes. "Shut up."

Steve tosses him a water bottle. "You sure you're alright?"

"Yeah."

Steve studies him a second longer than necessary. Then nods.

Melany waits until they're in the hallway before speaking again. She reaches for his hand. Her fingers brush his side accidentally. He flinches. Small. But it's there.

She stops walking. "Bucky."

"It's just a bruise."

"You don't know that."