the team doctor || bucky barnes (EDITING IN PROGRESS)

9.

Edited 8/27/25

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ꜱᴏɴɢ: ꜰᴇᴇʟ - ᴘᴏꜱᴛ ᴍᴀʟᴏɴᴇ

"𝐈 𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐫𝐭 𝐨𝐟𝐟."

~

"VALERIE!"

She jolted at the sharp calling of her name. Steve's voice echoed down the tunnel from the Quinjet, and she turned to see him helping Bucky into the common area. Bucky's usual scowl was present, but it flickered with a wince of pain as he leaned on Steve for support.

"What happened?" Valerie asked, already moving toward them.

"Barnes was stabbed," Natasha interjected, brows furrowed. "Had to cut the mission short."

"It's not even that bad," Bucky muttered through gritted teeth.

Valerie guided them to her office, motioning for Steve to help him into the leather chair. Steve nodded, lingering a moment as if unsure whether to step away.

"Steve, we could use you," Bruce's voice called from the doorway.

"You got him, Valerie?" Steve asked, already halfway out.

"Yes," she replied firmly, sanitizing her hands before turning back. Her gaze caught the deep red staining Bucky's lower left abdomen. He was pressing his metallic hand over the wound, clearly attempting to stop the bleeding.

"Um..." she muttered, her voice catching slightly.

"What?" he snapped, the edge of pain cutting through the words.

"I need you to take your shirt off," she instructed.

He hesitated, his hand trembling slightly as he tried to release the pressure on his wound. A sharp hiss escaped him as he moved too much, and Valerie winced instinctively at the obvious agony etched across his features.

"Let me help--"

"I got it." He barked.

"No, you obviously don't," She spat back.

He exhaled sharply, relenting. Valerie's fingers lightly grasped the hem of his black tee, brushing against the taut skin of his abdomen. Bucky's breath hitched at the touch, the sting of the wound and the heat radiating from his body coiling into a mixture of frustration and vulnerability.

She lifted the shirt slowly over his head, careful not to jostle him, and set it neatly on the floor beside her. Her eyes swept over the injury—a clean stab wound, nothing she couldn't handle. Still, her gaze betrayed her, flicking just past the wound.

His tan skin was stretched tight over defined muscles, beads of sweat tracing along his chest as he shifted in discomfort. His arms—one flesh, one metal—framed his torso. She had never seen them fully exposed before. The flesh arm rippled with veins, a testament to sheer strength, while the metal arm gleamed under the overhead lights, a mechanical masterpiece in its own right.

Valerie reminded herself to focus. This was work. She inhaled sharply, steadying her racing thoughts before kneeling to prepare her sutures.

"Done staring?" His voice cut through the air, low and teasing.

Valerie cursed under her breath when she caught the ghost of a smirk playing at the corner of his lips.

"I'm assessing the wound," she murmured, her voice meek but steady.

He hummed, amused, and she felt a flicker of irritation. This new side of him—so smug, so unbothered—was disarming.

Grabbing her stitch kit, she lowered herself onto the stool, positioning herself at eye level with the injury. Her hand rested lightly on his stomach to steady him. Though her touch was cool, he felt the heat radiating from her, a subtle friction that made it impossible to focus entirely on the needle threading through his skin.