His to Guard
Summary: After hiding your pregnancy from your husband for a while, Bucky, fiercely territorial and quietly devoted, turns every moment into proof that you and the baby are his entire world. (Mafia!Bucky Barnes x Sweetheart!reader)
Word Count: 2.4k+
A/N & Disclaimer: This is a special addition to this series due to my 1k followers event based off the Character Questionnaire game from this ask! It has a significant time skip and is not part of the main chapters (at least not for a longggg time). The next update to this AU will go back to when they are not married, not expecting babies, etc.
Main Masterlist | His Sweetheart Masterlist
You didn’t mean to keep it from him.
You chalked the fatigue up to stress. The soreness? A bad night’s sleep. The way your stomach flipped at the smell of coffee one morning and you nearly cried because of a stupid dog commercial? Well… okay, that was harder to explain.
But still, you told yourself it was a fluke. A weird week. Hormones, maybe. You didn’t want to worry Bucky. Not when things had been so peaceful lately with quiet mornings curled together in bed, more meals together, and late-night walks with his hand brushing yours. You didn’t want to ruin it with paranoia.
Still, Bucky noticed. Of course he did.
You’d catch him watching you, brow furrowed slightly like he was running numbers in his head. When you started getting lightheaded every time you stood up too fast, he stopped letting you carry anything heavier than a throw pillow. You tried to wave him off, but he didn’t say much, just kept that steady gaze on you like he was trying to crack a code you hadn’t realized you were writing.
You weren’t hiding what was going on for some grand plan or secret rebellion. It was fear. And maybe… maybe a little bit of disbelief. If you didn’t say it out loud, if you didn’t name it, then maybe you could keep everything as it was. Simple, safe, and normal.
So you smiled through the nausea, blamed the headaches on allergies, and quietly swapped your morning coffee for tea when Bucky wasn’t looking. You were careful. You hid your vitamins behind the cereal boxes and kept the pregnancy test buried under old wash clothes and unused toiletries in the very back of the bathroom drawer.
You were good at pretending, but Bucky was better at watching.
He saw the way you flinched from certain smells, the way your body gravitated toward the couch faster than usual after a long day, or the way your hand went protectively to your stomach whenever you thought no one was looking.
And then came the mood swings.
You were usually patient, especially with him, but one night you snapped at Bucky for leaving a dish in the sink. He didn’t even argue, just tilted his head, studying you quietly as you stormed out of the room like your heart was on fire.
He found you in the bedroom twenty minutes later curled into a ball, blanket pulled over your face like you could hide from the world.
“Wanna talk?” He asked, voice soft.
You didn’t answer, just shook your head.
He didn’t press. He just sat beside the bed quietly until you fell asleep.
And still… you didn’t tell him.
You wanted to be sure. You wanted time to think. You wanted to hold onto the tiny, flickering hope for just a little longer, uninterrupted.
So you waited and you planned.
One quiet morning, when Bucky left early for a training session, you slipped into the bathroom with shaking hands and another test clenched tight in your fist. The mirror showed a pale version of yourself, someone who was nervous, uncertain, and blinking too fast.
You followed the instructions with breathless precision and set the test on the counter like it might explode.
Then you waited. Two minutes. You could survive two minutes.
Except you didn’t feel like you were surviving. You felt like you were floating and sinking all at once, like the air had turned to static and your bones were filled with buzzing dread. Your gaze shifted to the drawer where the old tests were.
Maybe they were faulty or glitched, maybe even expired. Maybe this was just stress, or a weird shift in your cycle. Maybe your body was playing tricks.
You hoped so.
Because your hands were shaking, your mouth was dry, and your head kept looping the same thought like it was stuck on a scratched record:
You still haven’t told Bucky.
The subject of kids had never come up, not seriously. There were no “what-ifs,” no late-night talks about futures with cribs or lullabies. You didn’t know if he even wanted them. What if he didn’t? What if the idea of a baby scared him and pushed him back into memories too dark to name?
Your stomach twisted. Not from nausea, though that hadn’t exactly eased, but from the gut-deep fear that this one thing, this one tiny life-altering truth might shift everything between you. Bucky loved you. That wasn’t in question. He told you in every touch, every breath, and every stupid middle-of-the-night trip for snacks you hadn’t even realized you were craving.
But love didn’t always mean ready.
And the last thing you wanted was to see anger on his face. Or worse, disappointment. Cold, quiet regret. A sharp flinch that said I wasn’t expecting this. I didn’t want this. A withdrawal.
And when the lines appeared clear, certain, and real, your stomach dropped. You slid down onto the cool tile floor and stared because it was happening. You were pregnant, no doubts about it. And Bucky didn’t know.
You stayed in the bathroom longer than you meant to. Long enough that, when the front door creaked open, you jumped, heart lodging in your throat. Bucky’s voice echoed softly down the hall.
“Sweetheart? I forgot my gloves–”
Panic surged through you. You shoved the test back in its box and crammed it under the sink, slamming the cabinet door closed, standing back up just as Bucky rounded the corner into the hallway.
He paused when he saw you, your wet eyes, tense shoulders, and breath caught halfway to a sob.
You really weren’t as convincing as you thought.
“…You okay?” He asked gently, blue eyes narrowing with something deeper than concern. “You look… pale.”
You forced a smile that hurt. “Just tired.”
He studied you like he didn’t quite believe you, then stepped forward and raised a hand to your forehead. His touch was careful, the brush of his fingers cool against your skin.
“No fever,” He murmured. “But your heart’s racing.”
“I said I’m fine,” You said a little too fast.
That look came over him again. The one that meant he was filing something away, mentally circling something he couldn’t yet name.
“…Alright,” He sighed softly. “I’ll be back in an hour. Don’t go fainting on me.”
You nodded, lips pressed tight.
He kissed the top of your head before heading back out the door, but you could feel the weight of his concern even after it shut behind him.
He knew something was going on. He just didn’t know what. Not yet.
At least, that’s what you thought.
Bucky didn’t ask what was wrong, but he made it impossible for you not to notice that he knew.
It was in the subtle things. You reached for the car keys one morning and found one of his men already standing by the door, your coat in hand, saying, “Mr. Barnes has requested I drive you.”
When you went to brew coffee, there was suddenly a mug of herbal tea beside your usual spot, caffeine-free, floral, and warm.
“I just thought you might want something gentler,” He said with a shrug, eyes fixed on the kettle like he hadn’t spent ten minutes researching safe teas and had them delivered the day of.
You told yourself it was coincidence, that you weren’t being obvious, that he couldn’t possibly know.
But then you caught him watching you when you sat on the couch and curled your arms around your stomach, something you did more and more without thinking. He didn’t comment, just gave you that look. That look.
Gentle. Patient. Heartbreaking.
And you knew. He was waiting. He’d already figured it out.
You came home one evening quite late, exhausted and foggy with emotion. Bucky had left a blanket folded over the back of the couch, soft and warm. The fireplace was already lit. There was soup in the kitchen made by Nico. Something mild, simple, and exactly what your stomach could handle lately. He didn’t greet you at the door, didn’t hover. Just let you ease into the silence of the house as he was sat on the couch with a discarded book, staring patiently.
He was giving you a choice.
“Thought you were busy, didn’t think you’d be down here,” You murmured.
“Didn’t think you’d be home so late,” He answered, and you caught the quiet worry behind the words.
You sat beside him, shoulder to shoulder, neither of you saying anything for a long time. The crackling of the fire filling the space.
Then he asked, so quietly it nearly broke you, “You gonna tell me?”
Your breath caught.
“I mean… when you’re ready,” He added quickly. “I’m not going to force it out of you. I just…”
He paused, looking down at his hands, then up at you again.
“I just want you to know I already got you. No matter what it is.”
Your eyes stung. You didn’t say it yet. Not out loud.
But your hand found his, fingers weaving slow and certain. Holding on.
And Bucky didn’t push. He just laced your fingers together and waited with you.
The fateful day happened on a Tuesday.
Not a dramatic day. Not a falling-apart kind of day. Just… a Tuesday. The kind where your lunch didn’t settle right and everything felt a little too loud.
Bucky had been trailing the edges of your space again. Not smothering, just there. Like gravity that’s always near, always steady.
He hadn’t asked again, but he left things: crackers in your bag, your favorite fuzzy socks on the bed, or a bottle of ginger ale already opened with the fizz just right. You didn’t have to tell him. Somehow, Bucky knew the shape of your day before you could say it.
And maybe that’s what broke you.
Because when he found you that evening, curled in on yourself on the edge of the bed, blanket half-dragged over your lap and your hands clutched tight in your sleeves; you looked up, met his worried blue eyes, and said it.
“James,” You whispered, voice wrecked and tired.
His whole body went still, like he’d been holding his breath for weeks. “Yeah?”
“I’m pregnant.”
There was a moment of silence. Then Bucky exhaled, slow and trembling, like you’d cracked something open in his chest.
“I know,” He said gently, stepping forward and kneeling in front of you. “I figured.”
Tears burned behind your eyes. “Then why didn’t you say anything?”
His hands came up to rest on your knees, tentative and warm. “Because I didn’t want to take it from you.”
You blinked. “Take what?”
“The chance to say ii, to let it be yours first.” His voice cracked, quiet and tender. “You needed to hold it for a while before sharing it. I get that.”
You stared at him, lip trembling. “Aren’t you mad I didn’t tell you sooner?”
“Sweetheart,” Bucky murmured, brushing your hair behind your ear, “I was never gonna be mad.”
You broke then as your sobs spilled out and your hands trembled. Bucky gathered you close without a second thought. He rocked you gently, murmuring things you didn’t catch.
When your tears slowed, and your breathing steadied, he kissed the side of your head and said quietly, “We’re gonna be okay. All three of us.”
You nodded into his shoulder, still shaking. “I’m scared.”
“I know,” He whispered, pulling the blanket around both of you. “But I’m here and I’m not going anywhere.”
And for the first time in weeks, the fear didn’t feel so overwhelming.
But then it started the day after you told him.
At first, it was subtle. Bucky adjusted your car seat a little further back and mumbled something about “spinal alignment.” Then he replaced your shampoo with one that had “better prenatal safety ratings,” and you realized it was happening.
By the end of the week, your world had shifted.
You tried to carry a grocery bag inside one afternoon and he blinked like you’d committed a war crime.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
“Helping?”
“Not anymore, you’re not.”
From that moment on, you were banned. From lifting, from bending, from anything Bucky Barnes decided was “unnecessary effort” for a person growing a child.
You rolled your eyes. “I’m pregnant, not fragile.”
He didn’t argue. He just took the bag from your hands, scooped you up bridal-style, and carried you inside like you weighed less than a breath, ordering his staff to handle the rest of the groceries.
From then on, it only got more apparent how determined he was to provide nothing but the best for you.
If you so much as shifted in bed at 3 a.m., he was up. Padding to the kitchen in his sweats, eyes still half-shut, and grabbing pickle chips, orange slices, or whatever weird craving your body decided it had to have. You once whispered “s’mores” at 2:47 a.m. and woke up to him standing over you with a plate of them.
You weren’t allowed to open doors. You weren’t allowed to walk into any building first; he always went in first, eyes scanning, and body subtly angled in front of yours like a living shield.
You tried to argue once. “James, you can’t possibly keep doing this every single time we go somewhere–”
“I can and I will,” He said simply, “I know what this world’s like. I’ve seen too much. No one gets near you unless I say so.”
He meant it. No one raised their voice around you. No one touched you. People who even looked at you wrong got a tight-lipped stare that made them suddenly remember an urgent reason to be elsewhere.
Sam called him “feral.” Nat called him “a full-time bodyguard with a nesting complex.” You just called him yours.
And under all the sharp edges was softness.
Warm hands rubbing your lower back when it ached, whispered promises to your child, and bought an overly-excessive amount of books about parenting, swaddling, and sleep schedules. He helped you build baby furniture in the middle of the night when insomnia hit you and even hand-painted the tiny mural on the nursery wall, stars and constellations, soft and glowing.
He looked at you nowadays like he couldn’t believe he got this lucky. Like it terrified him, grounded him, and gave him purpose all at once.
And when he pressed a kiss to your knuckles, and then lower to the swell of your stomach, you knew what he meant without words.
You and the baby were his everything now and he’d do anything to protect you both.
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