chuju | fighting for something

[ They really had meant to get around to that movie night.

And Bucky wasn't well-versed enough in modern communication, and so didn't engage in the back-and-forth games: if he wanted to text her, then he did. He didn't measure the time between messages, didn't try to meter out his enthusiasm for each reply. It was still just a marvel to him that you didn't have to wait weeks on weeks for letters to get to people.

But then he'd been whisked off to Las Vegas for an op with Sam, and the next time he was in town, then Daisy was buried in some mandatory training exercise. They're ships in the night for a while, bridging the gap with texts, and trying to make up their minds on what to tackle first from his pop culture list.

And then Manhattan started trembling underfoot, and they were all called in.

Bucky's walking on a metaphorical live-wire, sleep-deprived but near-buzzing with that energy which comes from adrenaline, danger, a fight. He goes sprinting across the open space of the parking garage they're fighting their way across, and then skids behind a pillar, taking up position beside Agent Johnson, his back pressed to the chipped concrete. In the field, he doesn't wear gloves and doesn't try to hide that vibranium arm — it's useful, can block bullets when he needs it to. He's barely winded as he shoots a glance at her. ]

Hey. Not a great morning, but it's nice to see you.

[ Flirting in the middle of a fight?? Maybe! ]

[ Seeing Bucky there is a relief, to put it bluntly. She can tell with her own eyes that he's safe, and she trusts him implicitly to have her back and do what has to be done to protect the city and all the people in it. Plus... she's missed him. Each and every one of his texts have been a gift, little moments of joy between hard, grueling days and long hours spent trying to motivate and train up the new recruits. Mostly, she's let him initiate those messages, trying to gauge how much might be too much for him, though she has sent him a few photos here and there. A shot of the front of a pizza place she'd discovered that's beyond incredible; one of a daisy growing up through broken asphalt in an abandoned lot; another of a tiny fly drowned in her overpriced coffee. They're nothing more than glimpses of her day, pieces of her life that don't warrant more than a passing notice, but they're also a way to stay connected. One that doesn't involve going into battle together.

But this is pretty nice, too. ]

Yeah, you too. You're looking pretty spry for an old guy.

[ He's not even winded and here she is, feeling wrung out and ready to burst out of her own skin. She isn't wearing her Quake suit, there hadn't been time to get it from HQ, so all she's got are the soft gauntlets she sleeps with that have just barely managed to take the edge off the impact of the constant quakes. But despite the aching in her bones and the exhaustion clinging to her, she still grins at Bucky, flirting right back at him. ]

If I find some greys in my hair after this op, I'm blaming you. Whipper-snapper, keeping me on my toes—

[ The ground shudders underfoot again, and part of the ceiling cracks, spilling more concrete dust into the air, and he coughs. That doesn't look good. Meanwhile, the terrorists'(?) leader is... still rambling on over the intercom, his voice rising and falling between manic outbursts and a dull drone, and Bucky scowls up at the speakers. ]

Monologues. Why do they always have monologues? At least this guy isn't cackling over a molten lair, I guess.

[ Speaking from experience! The Red Skull had been wild. ]

[ The tremor cuts him off before Daisy can offer her own retort, her tired grin morphing into something more akin to a grimace as she leans heavily against the concrete pillar. Glancing over at Bucky, she gives him a comically confused frown before shaking her head — she'll ask about that one later. ]

Must be in the Bad Guy Handbook. [ She reaches up to tap the comm unit in her ear, addressing another member of the team on-site. ] Ramirez, how we doing with that bomb removal?

[ The man's voice comes through loud and clear despite the levels of concrete between and wherever he and his team are, though his words still leave her frowning again. "We'd be doing a whole lot better if the building would stop shaking every twenty seconds." Her frown deepens and she flinches closer to Bucky as a bullet strikes her side of the pillar. ]

Leave that to me, just move fast. [ Holstering her gun, she looks at the man beside her, trying for an easygoing expression but failing miserably. ] Think you can cover me while I absorb those quakes?

[ Bucky isn't the greatest at staying on-task even in the middle of a fight. Some of his teammates, it was like flipping a switch, their demeanours shifting into curt, serious, and business-like until the bullets at least stopped flying — but try as he might, he can't help but keep cracking wise. In its own way, it's a good thing. Means he's inching ever further and further away from the silent Winter Soldier, who had only existed for the mission.

But still: As Daisy contacts Ramirez and then asks him a question, Bucky wrangles himself back into sharp attentiveness. Eye on the prize, Barnes. ]

Definitely. But, uh— elaborate a bit on 'absorb those quakes'?

[ Daisy isn't a stranger to quippy banter and jokes during a fight, either, but today the stakes are a little too high for her to manage it. If they fail here... But they won't, not on her watch. Crouching down onto one knee, she presses her hands to the pillar and floor, fingertips clinging to the rough concrete as she mentally prepares herself for what's about to happen. ]

I don't just make things shake, I can stop them shaking too. [ The details of how and what happens after can wait. She shoots him a strained smile. ] So I'm gonna stay right here and you're gonna try to keep anyone from shooting me. Deal?

[ Before he can answer, the shaking begins again, a rumbling from below that moves up the floors— and then stops, only a slight vibration humming through the building left to signal what's happening. And then there's Daisy: head bowed, jaw clenched, and arms trembling as she pulls the strong vibrations into her own body. ]

[ Bucky's frozen for a moment, watching her — that pull in her tendons, the curve to her back, the fingertips digging into the floor, the obvious palpable strain — but then, like a starting pistol's been fired, he's off and running.

He's fast. Not enough to literally dodge bullets, he's not Wanda's brother, but still: the keep-up-with-a-moving-vehicle kind of fast. So Bucky runs, and he draws their attention, and that patter of gunfire follows him as he ducks and weaves across the garage, moving between pillars and then cars. When he doesn't have cover, he instinctively puts his vibranium arm between himself and the bullets, and it functions just like Captain America's shield does, sends the metal slugs bouncing right off and ricocheting back towards the people who fired them.

Bucky's surprised at one point by a guy who appears behind the very car he was going to move behind, but the enemy isn't there for long — metal fist to the ribs, feeling them shattering at the impact, he's probably dead from that hit, and Bucky can't bring himself to care. He keeps moving.

He's leading them on a merry chase, but he comes back when it seems like their attention's about to slip back to Daisy. And then it's more tried-and-true methods: him unholstering his own gun, keeping his head behind a pillar, occasionally ducking out to pepper the enemies with some answering gunfire to keep them holed down. It's a battle zone. It's familiar. It's the sort of thing he was boiled alive in for decades.

Part of him almost enjoys it. ]

Wish we could just push in and shut this guy up, [ Bucky admits while refilling his clip, shooting Daisy a glance, not sure if she's too overwrought to even reply. But he keeps talking anyway between bullets. ] But I'm guessing we leave it to Ramirez.

[ Sometimes, Bucky, rush in with guns blazing isn't actually the best call. If they push too far and the group decides their backs are too flat against the wall, then they pull the trigger on that contingency plan. ]

[ Distantly, Daisy tracks the sounds of the firefight ensuing all around her, some part of her mind focused on the feeling of Bucky's arm, the almost void of the vibranium assuring her he's still there. She isn't alone. It helps to know that while her body is battered from within, her everyday gauntlets unable to shelter her limbs as well as the combat model. There are cracks in her bones, hairline fractures all up her arms threatening to worsen with every passing second. And already she can feel the bruises twisting up her arms and across her shoulders and chest, dozens of capillaries bursting as her body shakes more than any human can withstand.

It's a relief to hear Bucky's voice again, though it takes her a second to parse what he's said enough to give a reply. ]

His team's good. They'll get it done. [ Her voice is strained and breathy, the words offered in the few moments of respite between quakes. And then, just seconds later, the man in question comes back onto comms. "All explosives cleared!" ]

[ There's something in Daisy's voice which he doesn't like. That tight jaw-clenching thread, the sheen of sweat against her temples which he sees whenever he sneaks a look at her. But then there's the announcement, and he finds himself relaxing for a heartbeat. ]

Thank god, does that mean we can—

[ There's some kind of commotion on the other side of the garage. The men and women of this group realising that their gambit's gone. There's a shift in the tension in the air, a rising anger, buzzing so thick you could practically cut through it.

So they can't bring down half of the city anymore.

But they can still take down this building, and take SHIELD with them. Bucky sees the arc of the grenade as it goes flying, and there's that split-second remembrance — his own words, spitting furious at John Walker — you ever jump on top of a grenade? — his own hypocrisy in this moment, if he doesn't—

And so he jumps. Uses those hyper-quick reflexes, cat-like, to leap forward and smack the grenade out of the way, further away from Daisy, where it clatters off another pillar and then explodes with a low boom. He raises his left arm, shields himself from the smattering of debris and flying rock. It pings harmlessly off the metal, and it's alright. No big deal. Just a grenade. It's fine. Daisy's out of the blast radius, too. It's fine.

But then there's an ominous groan overhead, and Bucky looks up just in time to see the ceiling: its fractures from the earlier quakes now cracking and eggshelling and spreading further down the concrete, zigzagging, as the load-bearing supports...

Timber, is the nonsensical thought running through Bucky's head, as the pillar cracks and tumbles and the ceiling rips open and the storey above them just collapses, a whole floor of concrete and twisted rebar and at least one car going down, and taking him with it. ]

[ The minutes they've been in here have felt like hours, each and every one of them fighting for more than just their own lives. They're fighting for each other, for the city, for every single person who stands to lose someone if they fail here. But now they have the upper hand, they can end this—

The explosion is a small one, a grenade Bucky easily takes care of, though it's still enough to send another piercing spike of pain through her arms. But it could have been so much worse, and once again they owe a debt to one James Buchanan Barnes, the man who'd never signed up to be a hero but couldn't seem to find his way out of it.

She feels the strain of the building shifting, creaking, cracking seconds before it happens; enough to look up in horror but too few to do anything about it. Her gaze goes straight to him, searching out his form through the dust floating in the air. No. ]

Bucky! [ The name rips itself from her throat in a scream that ricochets off the rubble that piles onto him. She throws herself up from the ground, climbing up and over a large broken slab that's come down between them, her focus entirely on reaching him. ]

I need medical and rescue to my location now. [ No room for argument, no time for details. Daisy doesn't hear whatever the response might be, her attention shifting as three people emerge on the far end of the parking level. Later, when she writes up her report about this incident and goes through an official debrief, she won't be proud of her response, but at the moment when she hears that voice calling out to her, she can't help how she reacts. The leader's voice is that same condescending tone of superiority they've been listening to, the same one that ordered the attack that may have—

Every bit of energy she'd pulled in from the quakes is directed at those three people, the vibration strong enough to lift them off their feet and send them flying back. The sound of their bodies crunching against the far wall is one she'll remember for the rest of her life, but it's also one that's quickly pushed out of her mind as her focus returns to where it belongs.

Her now-useless left arm stays pressed tightly to her side while her right screams in protest as she starts desperately shifting the rubble one piece at a time. She hadn't been there when Fitz died, she hadn't heard his dying breaths, but she'd seen the state of his body afterward and she can't... That can't happen to Bucky. He's a supersoldier, he survived falling from a train into a frozen ravine, he'll survive this too. He has to.

Those are some of the longest hours of her life. Waiting for the rescue team to pull his battered body out, staying by his side in the chopper as they're lifted back to HQ, shaking off any attempt at being treated herself until she sees him safely loaded into the healing chamber. Only then does she let someone examine her, Simmons calling in to consult and immediately ordering she spend some time in the chamber herself once it's available. In the meantime, her left forearm and wrist are wrapped in a thick bandage to keep the breaks from shifting, she pops more than the normal dosage of bone regenerative meds, and she changes into a SHIELD t-shirt and sweatpants so she can be a semblance of 'comfortable' while waiting for Bucky to wake up. As comfortable as one can get when they refuse to take their pain meds, anyway. ]

[ For a while, he dreams.

Bucky is entirely unconscious when they finally haul him out of the debris, and cart him back to headquarters for healing. His bones and muscles are stronger and sturdier than most; he can flinch off punches or deep bone-shaking impacts being thrown into a wall that would knock out other, unenhanced humans; he can just jump out of a plane at two hundred feet. He's durable.

But he's not indestructible. And maybe he's gotten too recklessly comfortable with it, too accustomed to heaving himself into danger because he's always come out of it unscathed (or near enough, because the things that hurt most were never the physical injuries).

For a while, he dreams.

Cold wintry snow. The trigger of a gun. The sound of a grenade ringing in his ears.

Bucky doesn't like sleep even at the best of times, under the best of conditions. Those murky dreams: watching his own memories through smeared glass, the faint twitches of muscle memory, the remembrance of his teeth biting down on a leather belt, shackles on his arms, wrists, legs, his free will being seared right out of him, his memories burned out of him. Waking up. Going to sleep. Waking up. Shackled. Again.

When he finally opens his eyes, bleary and with everything aching in a way it hasn't in literal years, he stares up and he sees a curved transparent barrier and he's already screaming. The chamber he's in is small, cramped — like a glass coffin — like the cryotubes HYDRA had put him down under, again and again and again — and his instincts react before he's even finished parsing through the sensory input, before he's groggily managed to consider where he might be. There's an animal yell throttled in his chest and his vibranium hand lashes out before he can think better of it. Metal fingers curled into a fist and smashing against the— plastic, whatever this is— and his human fist lashes out, too, bruising his knuckles, hammering against it in an unthinking bid to escape, a wolf throwing itself against the bars of its cage, unheeding of its injuries. ]

[ It's been too many hours. She knows it's a ridiculous worry, Simmons even walked her through how to read the screen to see that Bucky's condition is improving, but she's still to strung out with anxiety and fear that she spends half the time pacing the small medlab room and the other half trying not to have some sort of panic attack.

She'd asked him to have her back. She'd asked him and now he's lying there, unconscious and battered, and it's her fault. If she'd been paying more attention, if she'd spared the time to grab her suit, if she'd taken out their attackers sooner—

The screaming interrupts her spiraling thoughts and she spins away from the window she'd been staring out of without seeing the city landscape beyond. It's an animalistic cry of desperation and it tears into her more than any bullet ever has. ]

Bucky! [ She's calling to him even before her body catches up and starts moving, flinging her across the space between them and slamming her hand against the control that will lift the curved shell of the pod off of him. ]

Bucky, it's okay, you're okay. [ Without thinking of any potential consequences, she reaches into the open space as the shell rises, her bruised but still functioning hand moving to his face, attempting to press against his cheek and cradle his jaw, perhaps even turn his head so he'll see her. ]

You're safe, you're not back there. [ Because of course that's what he's thinking. Just like how her mind tricks her into believing she's back in that barn. ]

[ The cover lifts off the pod — it's horizontal, that's different, all his other cryostasis chambers have been vertical — and Bucky's trying to surge loose before suddenly Daisy's right there, in front of him, filling up his field of vision. His arm jerks, almost on the verge of lashing out and attacking the sudden appearance, but then her hand is against his face and his panicked blue eyes are staring blankly into hers, and he stops. Hearing her voice, her shouting a name.

Bucky. Your name is Bucky.

Another set of words come instinctively to mind, a mantra that had kept him sane once upon a time, murmuring it to himself in a HYDRA cell to remind himself: Barnes, James Buchanan. Sergeant. 32557038. That's who you are.

He's not restrained. That's different, too. There's nothing stopping someone from just sliding right out from this pod and walking away.

His heart is pounding madly in his chest — which twinges with that familiar-now-unfamiliar sensation of broken ribs — and the skin on his face is split, stitched up, bruised. He's had black eyes since getting the serum, but it never lasts: a few hours or a full night's sleep and then it's gone as if it never happened. This one feels worse, his whole body like battered meat, although the time in the chamber had helped without his knowledge.

He's stopped himself just short of attacking her, in a rigid iron display of self-control; his right hand seizes Daisy's forearm instead as he hangs onto her, braces himself against her, leans his face into the touch. He squeezes her arm too hard, forgetting his strength for once. ]

Where— Where am I?

[ The words are strangled and he's still reeling. Trying to put the pieces together. It's a good thing there aren't any doctors in the room, no assessing faces over thoughtful glasses and clipboards and white labcoats. He's woken up to that view one too many times, a hundred. ]

[ His hand clinging to her hurts, his fingers squeezing against bruises and fractures, but she only tenses slightly in reaction, focusing on him instead because seeing him like this hurts far more than any physical injury ever could. ]

SHIELD. You kind of had a building fall on you, so we brought you back here for treatment. That's what this chamber does: helps you heal faster.

[ She explains it quickly and succinctly, keeping her voice low and calm, trying her best to soothe the fear that she can only guess is still roiling through him. It's why she'd insisted there be no one else in the room until he woke up; this would be bad enough without a bunch of strangers around. Smoothing her thumb over the stubble on his cheek, she offers him a slightly strained smile in an effort to hide just how anxious she is. ]

How are you feeling?

[ Bucky looks at her too long, through that bruised-meat face and the dried blood scabbing over on his cheek. It's an empty stare, as if the words don't fully make sense to him yet, as if it's taking a moment for him to come back to himself. Helps you heal faster.

His mouth is woollen, his tongue thick and clumsy, and for an irrational moment it feels to him like English isn't the language he should be speaking. The words sound alien and foreign on his tongue, but in the end he finally wrings out a reply. ]

Like shit,

[ he says, and there's that faint, anemic glimmer of humour. And then, noting the way she's stiffening beneath his touch, Bucky finally startles and loosens his grip. After having lurched up, he's perched sitting on the edge of the pod now, Daisy standing right in front of him and between his knees. He's glad she hasn't let go of him yet; that physical touch is an anchor, a way of keeping him rooted. ]

Didn't know this tech existed. Think I'm— out of the loop.

[ His gaze finally sharpens. Those pieces starting to click into place, the memory rolling back from before the roof fell in on him. ]

You were hurt, too.

[ It's not the first time she's had to help someone through a jarring situation like this. Between the head trauma and the PTSD, she knows better than most how hard it can be to make it back to yourself. Patience and a gentle touch go a long way and she'll give him as much as he needs of both.

Besides, it's a good thing for her, too — touching him reassures her that he really is safe. Her hand falls from his face down to his chest, the vibrating thud of his heart soothing away her anxiety in seconds. He's safe. ]

Yeah. [ She holds up her left arm, bruises visible between the end of her sleeve and the bandage wrap. They're twice as bad as the mottled assortment of colors on her right, thick black bands twisting up her arm. ] But I didn't get shot, so thanks for that.

[ Two can try playing this humor game. ]

Shit, that looks ugly. Are you okay?

[ Looking down, Bucky's hands drift to her arm and he touches her wrist more gingerly, fingertips grazing against the bandages but mindful not to apply any pressure. ]

Bullets, I can handle. I just didn't expect them to drop the fucking building while they were still in it.

[ But then again, never underestimate the desperation of fanatics.

Apparently Bucky gets more foul-mouthed when he's rattled, some of that old soldier's mentality creeping back in during and after a fight. He's still not fully relaxed; there's an unsettled patter to his heartbeat beneath her hand. Even now knowing where he is and why, he can't help thinking that the pod behind him feels like a coffin. That if he gets in there, he doesn't know when he's going to wake up again. It's a fear that straddles the line of completely rational but also irrational; he'd subjected himself to cryo in Wakanda, after all, and come out of it improved. But he hadn't liked it then either. He'd just done it anyway because there didn't seem to be any other option. ]

What's the prognosis, doc? Do I have to stay here?

[ She hates seeing him like this. He's had too much pain in his life, too much fear, and he doesn't deserve a single moment more, but there's nothing she can do to take it from him. Like everyone else, he's forced to carry all that trauma with him and all anyone can do is offer to hold him up while he does. ]

You probably should, if you can stand it. The hours you slept through took care of the internal bleeding at least, and your normal super healing will take care of the rest, so it's okay if you don't stay. [ Honestly, she's impressed he's still standing there. She wouldn't have blamed him one bit if he'd gone right out the door the second he'd gotten on his feet. ]

I'm supposed to spend some time in there myself, but I'll hold off until tomorrow. I'll be okay, this isn't the first time I've... [ She holds up her arm again. ] It usually happens a couple of times a year, so I've spent a lot of time in this thing and I know what it can be like. If you decide to stay, I'll stay with you. And if you decide to go, I'll take you home. [ She tilts her head in the best shrug she can manage with two banged-up shoulders. ] It's your call, Bucky.

[ He sits there and chews over it for a moment, weighing the smart choice between the impulsive call and what he wants to do.

And Bucky's never been particularly good at doing the smart thing. What he wants is to get the fuck out of here as soon as possible and back to familiar territory, even if his studio apartment is bare-bones and horrible. So he gently eases himself off the edge of the pod and back to his feet, wincing slightly as he moves. It puts him even closer into her personal space, but he braces himself against the cot rather than Daisy's shoulder, to avoid accidentally putting weight on any of her own injuries. ]

Alright. Then take me home, Agent Johnson.

[ There could be a winking joke buried in there somewhere, but he doesn't particularly lean into it. He's still too on edge, too tired, too concerned. ]

This isn't the first time... So you mean this always happens when you use your powers? [ He gestures to those dark mottled bruises, the mess of her arms. ]

Not always. [ She corrects him easily as if it's no big deal that using her powers can result in physical injury to herself. And it isn't, not really. Not anymore. It's something she's lived with for almost a decade now, just another piece of her messy life. ]

It happens when I'm not wearing my proper gauntlets, or if it's something extreme. The time I blew up a spaceship from the inside? Broke nearly every bone in my body. [ She tries to say it with levity, even a bit of pride at the achievement, though she feels neither. That particular time had also killed her, though technically it was more the freezing to death in space than the other thing. If Kora hadn't been there to warm her up... ]

But come on, let's get out of here. [ Stepping back from Bucky, she immediately misses the warmth she'd felt from being so close to him. It takes a lot of restraint to not move back, wrap her arms around him, and find out what a Bucky Barnes hug feels like. (She could really use a hug right about now.) But instead, she gives him a smile and grabs two opaque plastic bags from the chair she hadn't been sitting in for hours. ] I've got our goodie bags.

[ Daisy veers the topic away so quickly that he can't follow up on the broke every bone in my body thing, and Bucky shoots her a Look™, but he gamely follows her distraction. His combat jacket's not in the room, but he figures it might've gotten ruined, and he can deal with that later — he'll be back at this building eventually anyway. Maybe SHIELD has a tailoring department. ]

Aw, goodies. Which I guess means candy which I guess means painkillers.

[ He moves more slowly than he's used to, not accustomed to all those aches and twinges and throbbing pain. Recuperation's gonna be a bitch. As she accompanies him out of the SHIELD building, they don't bother with the subway, and just flag down a cab instead. It's a sign of how tired he is that he doesn't just stubbornly insist on doing it alone. He doesn't clamour against having an escort home, just tips his head back against the seat and almost dozes off again as the car gets stuck in inevitable Manhattan traffic, the humming of the engine practically hypnotic.

He doesn't complain when she hops out of the cab when they arrive, either, like he's some vulnerable invalid who needs to be seen safely all the way to his door. But standing on the front step of his run-down lower east side apartment building, he pauses while fumbling for his keys, and looks back at Daisy instead. Fuck it. He's not just going to take that plastic bag from her and shove her back in the cab on this cold winter night. ]

So, about that movie night...

[ Look, if she breezes right past an uncomfortable topic, then she won't have to deal with it. There won't be the memories of days of pain and exhaustion, of nightmares every time she was in the pod. They don't have to talk about those things; neither of them needs that in their lives right now.

On the ride to his apartment, she contemplates just dropping him off and heading back to her own apartment, but... she's not ready. It might be pushing in where she's not welcome but she wants to make sure he gets to his place safely, and she's not ready to be alone just yet. Not when she knows what awaits her. So here she is, following after him with their bags full of a rainbow of pills, looking around the hallway with moderate interest.

Except then he pauses, keys in hand, and something clicks. Oh. ]

Well, it definitely doesn't have to be tonight. [ She smiles reassuringly and holds up one of the bags, a sticker with Barnes pasted in the corner. ] I just wanted to make sure you got to your door okay. And here you are. Mission accomplished.

[ There's no reason for her to linger. She can just... go home and not acknowledge how distressed she is about it. ]

I mean, it doesn't have to be. And I'll probably fall asleep partway through. [ A tip of his head to the pills, which won't be as soporific on him as someone without a serum-enhanced body, but they'll still nip at the edges, drag him down even deeper into that exhaustion. ]

But if you wanna come in. I could probably— do with the company. Even if, fair warning, my place is a piece of shit.

[ The admission comes slow and halting. He's not good at admitting when he wants help, even when that help is something as simple as a little human company. If she weren't here, it would probably be an endless series of text messages bugging Sam, walking circles around the actual subject at hand, until the other man realised what was up and he would just up and come over without Bucky having to ask.

But Daisy, meantime, is already right here. And he's been wanting to see more of her anyway. ]

[ A tension releases in Daisy like a rope being cut, her sore muscles noticeably relaxing as he invites her to stay. He could be living in a dirty rat-infested shithole and she'd still stay. ]

I could do with the company too.

[ Since he admitted it first, it's easy for her to echo the words with her own, showing a bit of her own vulnerability in exchange for his. And maybe she lets a little desperation creep into her expression — or maybe it's just the exhaustion he'll see. Because she is completely exhausted, the stress and physical exertion of the day combining with her injuries to utterly wear her out. Honestly, she'd love to just curl up and sleep for a week, but she knows rest won't come easy. ]

[ He looks at her — that fragile, wrung-out, vulnerable expression on her face — and he feels something twist and lurch in his chest.

Before he can let himself examine that too closely, Bucky just nods, turns around, and then turns the key in the lock. Shoves the door open (it has a habit of sticking) and then leads them further out of the cold and into the apartment building, then up the stairs to his actual door. The realisation that, oh shit, of course this means Daisy's going to have to see his actual apartment, comes just a hair too late for him to do anything about it. He's never had anyone over and he's been avoiding having anyone realise how dreary this place is, but the cat's gonna be out of the bag either way. So he doesn't hesitate, just unlocks that last door too and lets her in.

And it's not even that it's messy. It's just that it's... empty. There's nothing there, barely any hint of personality in the studio. There's a kitchenette right by the entrance, a bathroom to the side, and the rest of the room only consists of an endtable, an armchair in front of a TV, and a mattress on the floor in the corner, by the door out to the balcony. There's no decorations, no personal touches, no real sign that it's an actual home.

The mattress is, at least, an upgrade compared to him sleeping on the bare hardwood; not that she knows it. It's made up military-style, sheets and blankets neatly tucked in at the corners despite the lack of a frame. He winces while he toes out of his boots and tosses his keys onto the kitchen counter. ]

Home sweet home. It's... yeah. Sorry.

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