Bucky's Anchor

Chapter 3 - Bonded by Battle

When I was assigned to my first mission with the Avengers, I didn't know what to expect. I'd been working with S.H.I.E.L.D. for a while now, but this was different. This was the big leagues. And leading the team was none other than Captain America—Steve Rogers.

I was trying to focus on the mission briefing, but it was hard to concentrate with Steve standing right there at the front of the room. He had this aura about him, something that made everyone want to sit up straighter and listen. He wasn't just a legend; he was the embodiment of every value S.H.I.E.L.D. supposedly stood for.

"Emily Robinson," he said, his gaze settling on me. His eyes were steady, intense, but not in an intimidating way. It was like he was seeing me, really seeing me, not just another agent in the room. "You'll be running tactical support."

I nodded, my mouth suddenly dry. "Understood, sir."

He smiled a little at that, a faint curve of his lips that somehow made him seem more human. "Steve's fine," he replied. "This isn't the military."

I relaxed a fraction at his words, but only a fraction. This wasn't the military, no, but it was something just as demanding, if not more. We were about to head into a conflict zone where everything could go wrong in an instant, and I was about to be working alongside a man who had faced down literal gods and survived.

The mission brief continued, with Steve explaining the objectives and the potential threats. He was methodical, precise in his explanations, but there was also a warmth to his tone that put the team at ease. It was clear he knew how to lead, not through intimidation or fear, but through respect.

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The mission itself was... intense. We were dropped into a hostile environment with limited intel. Steve led the charge, and I followed orders, providing tactical support as best as I could. There was a moment during the mission when things went sideways—our exit strategy was compromised, and we were forced to improvise.

"Emily," Steve's voice crackled over the comms, calm even in the chaos. "We need an alternate route. Now."

I could feel the pressure bearing down on me, the lives of the team hanging on my ability to think fast. My fingers flew over the tablet, scanning for an escape route. My heart pounded, but I forced myself to stay focused.

"Got it," I replied, relaying the coordinates. "There's a service tunnel two clicks east. It should be clear, but I can't guarantee it."

"Understood," Steve said. "We're on the move. Stay sharp."

He didn't question my decision, didn't second-guess my judgment. He trusted me to do my job, and that trust steadied me. We managed to get out, bruised and battered but alive. When we finally regrouped, Steve sought me out immediately.

"You did good work out there," he said, his voice sincere. "Quick thinking under pressure."

I felt a warmth spread through me at his words, a sense of accomplishment that went beyond the mission itself. "Thank you," I replied, meeting his eyes. "I just... I didn't want to let the team down."

"You didn't," he said firmly. "You've got a good head on your shoulders, Robinson. That's not something you see every day."

From that moment on, Steve and I started to spend more time together. It was mostly professional at first—debriefings, strategy meetings—but there was an unspoken camaraderie forming between us. He would ask for my input during planning sessions, valuing my perspective even when it differed from his own.

One evening, after a particularly grueling training session, we found ourselves sitting in the break room, nursing bottles of water. Steve looked more relaxed than I'd ever seen him, his guard down in a way that made him seem... normal. Not the icon. Just Steve.