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

12.

Edited 8/27/25

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ꜱᴏɴɢ: ꜰᴀꜱᴛ ᴛɪᴍᴇꜱ - ꜱᴀʙʀɪɴᴀ ᴄᴀʀᴘᴇɴᴛᴇʀ

"𝐈𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐚 𝐠𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮?"

~

IT HAD BEEN SIX DAYS.

The team had been called away on an unexpected mission nearly a week ago. Valerie told herself it was some cosmic reward for a lifetime of being relatively decent—but the days that followed were anything but peaceful.

Every time she replayed that moment in her mind, her heart raced uncontrollably. She forced herself to reason it was anxiety. Nothing else.

What was he thinking?

That night, she hadn't returned until she was certain he was asleep. Only when his usual signs of an impending nightmare had vanished did she slip back to her apartment to rest. The next morning, he was gone.

She stared at herself in the mirror, stunned. The man who had so consistently shown her nothing but disdain had kissed her like she was the last woman on Earth.

And just thinking about it made her lips tingle.

As the days dragged on with no word of his return, her frustration simmered. She was angry at him—for ambushing her with that moment, for assuming he had the right, for leaving her with no explanation.

Angry, too, that she had enjoyed it.

Three days later, she woke drenched in sweat, her own version of a nightmare playing out: his strong hands curling behind her knees, pulling her close. For a fleeting, horrified second, she wondered if checking herself into a mental institution was the only reasonable option—just for having a dream about his hands.

Now, almost a week past that night, all she wanted was to confront him. She caught herself wondering if he thought about it, too—and quickly scolded herself. He had bigger battles to fight.

<>

On the eighth day, the team returned. Valerie's pulse quickened the moment she spotted them emerging from the tunnel—Steve at the front, Natasha close behind. One by one, the others trickled in, and she pretended not to notice, keeping her eyes glued to her book.

But then she felt it—the unmistakable rhythm of steel-toed boots drawing closer. Her stomach tightened as they halted just in front of her. She lifted her gaze, following the boots upward until they met his face.

A faint, burning intensity radiated from his eyes, and for a moment she faltered. He raised his hand—flesh streaked with blood, slashed and raw—and she felt a surge of concern wrestle with her nerves.

Without a word, she rose and led him toward her office. He trailed a few steps behind, his gaze never straying from her, silently noting the way her skirt moved with each step. Once inside, he sank into the familiar leather chair, his presence heavy and measured.

Valerie busied herself with sanitizing her hands, her movements precise, deliberate. When she reached for his injured hand, her skin brushed against his, and a jolt of memory shot through her—his hand, strong and commanding, wrapped around her waist in that other moment.

She shook it off, grabbing supplies to sterilize the wound. "So, are we not going to talk about it?"

He tensed as she poured alcohol into his gash. "Talk about what?"

She scowled, voice sharp. "Do you not remember when you kissed me? Not even two feet from where we're sitting?"

"Vaguely," he replied, his tone casual.