Beyond Saving Bucky

"God, I wish Wanda were here"

Nat's POV:

"Poor Steve."

I glance up briefly as Thor's voice cuts through the quiet tension in the room. He's sitting across from me, his large frame nearly dwarfing the chair beneath him. His concern for Steve is etched in every line of his face. "He has been through so much. And now this."

I don't say anything. What could I say that would make any of this better? Steve has been carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders for so long, and now... this.

Clint leans across the kitchen island, his brow furrowed as he focuses on Tony. "Tony, how long is she going to be under?"

Tony sighs, rubbing his hand over his forehead. He looks exhausted, the kind of exhaustion that settles deep in your bones. "Few days. Long enough to get some of her strength back."

A heavy silence falls over us, and I stare at the table, tracing the wood grain with my eyes. I can't bring myself to look up, not yet. The weight of the situation presses down on me, making it hard to breathe.

"How long has Steve been with her?" Thor's voice is gentle now, as if he's afraid to break the fragile calm that's settled over the room.

"The last four hours," I reply softly, my voice barely above a whisper. The image of Steve sitting by her side, not moving for hours, flashes in my mind. "Just sitting there, holding her hand. Talking to her."

I leaned against the doorway, just out of sight, watching Steve. The room was dim, illuminated only by the soft glow of the monitor beside Olivia's bed. The rhythmic beeping was a constant reminder that she was still with us, but each time it faltered, just for a moment, I could see the fear flash across Steve's face.

His eyes would dart between the screen and Olivia, his breath catching in his throat. The moments when her heart rate dropped slightly, triggering the alarm, were the worst. I could feel the tension in the room thicken, the air growing heavy with his silent panic.

He never called for help or asked for anyone to come in. Instead, he'd sit there, motionless, except for his hand. He'd squeeze hers a little tighter, as if by sheer will alone, he could pull her back from the edge. I could see his knuckles turning white from the pressure, his jaw clenched so hard it looked like it might break.

I wanted to step in, to say something, anything, that might ease the burden he was carrying. But what could I say? What could any of us say that would make a difference? So I stayed where I was, watching him fight against the fear that threatened to consume him, knowing that this was a battle he had to face alone.

Every time the alarm went off, I saw the momentary panic in his eyes, the way his breath would hitch, but he never faltered. He never let go of her hand, never stopped talking to her.

"It's late, guys. Let's all get some rest," I say, standing from the table. The fatigue in the room is palpable, but so is the worry. We're all running on fumes at this point, and it's not doing anyone any good.

"Night, Nat," Clint says, his voice tinged with exhaustion.

"Night, guys," I reply, giving them a small smile before making my way out of the kitchen. My feet carry me almost on autopilot toward the med wing. I need to check on Steve before I head to bed myself.

When I get to Olivia's room, the first thing I notice is that the chair beside her bed is empty. A wave of unease washes over me, but I push it down as I step further into the room, looking around for any sign of him. Instead of Steve, all I find is the night nurse, quietly tending to the machines that keep track of Olivia's condition.