Ok ok ok, I saw a tiktok the other day of a woman giving birth ON THE SIDE TOF THE ROAD because her contractions and everything came so fast. How do you think Bucky would react to this kind of thing? While he probably has med training from being in the Army/Avengers he's still also just a man worried about his wife and baby? Please please pleaseeee make me cry!
i saw a video like this the other day too! #new fear unlocked
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The first contraction hits while you’re still laughing.
It folds you in half mid-sentence, steals the air right out of your lungs, turns your spine rigid as your hand clamps around Bucky’s forearm. He goes still immediately, all humor draining from his face as he watches you, blue eyes sharpening into something alert and searching.
“Hey,” he says softly, already moving closer. “Talk to me, doll. What’s that?”
You try to brush it off, because it can’t be time yet, it’s too soon, you’ve got weeks, you’ve got plans, but then it hits again, harder, sharper, a deep, pulling ache that makes your knees buckle.
Bucky catches you before you can even think about falling.
“Okay,” he breathes, voice steady even as his hands tighten around you. “Okay, that’s not nothing.”
The next ten minutes are a blur of movement. He gets you into the car, one hand braced behind your head so you don’t hit the doorframe, the other gripping yours like he’s afraid you’ll slip away if he lets go. Your hospital bag gets tossed in the backseat, your phone forgotten on the kitchen counter, and then he’s behind the wheel, engine roaring to life.
He's too calm.
It’s the kind of calm that comes from years of training, from missions where panic gets people killed. His breathing is even, his voice low and controlled as he glances between the road and you, counting the seconds between your contractions like it’s second nature.
“Breathe with me,” he murmurs, squeezing your hand. “In through your nose, slow. I’ve got you. You’re doing good.”
But underneath it, buried deep where he hopes you won’t notice, is fear.
Real, gut-deep fear.
Because you’re not supposed to be screaming in pain ten minutes into the drive. You’re not supposed to be gripping the seat so hard your knuckles go white. You’re not supposed to be gasping out, “Bucky, something’s wrong—this is too fast—”
And then your water breaks.
It soaks through your leggings, warm and sudden, and Bucky’s head snaps toward you so fast it’s almost violent.
“Okay,” he says again, but this time it’s tighter. Thinner. “Okay, that’s—okay.”
He presses harder on the gas.
The hospital is still fifteen minutes away when you cry out, a broken, desperate sound that rips straight through him.
“I need to push.”
The words hit him like a gunshot.
For a second he freezes.
Because he knows what that means. He’s been through enough emergency scenarios, enough battlefield triage, enough late-night briefings with medical teams to recognize it instantly.
There is no way you’re making it to the hospital.
“Shit,” he breathes, already scanning the road. His grip on the steering wheel tightens, vibranium fingers digging into the leather hard enough to crease it. “Shit, okay, okay—hang on, baby, just—”
Another contraction hits you, and your entire body curls forward with a sob.
That’s it.
He swerves the car onto the shoulder without hesitation, gravel crunching under the tires as he slams it into park. He’s out of the driver’s seat before the engine even fully dies, sprinting around to your side, yanking the door open.
“Look at me,” he says, dropping to his knees beside you, his hands cradling your face. His voice is firm now, commanding in a way you’ve only heard on missions. “Hey. You stay with me, okay? I’ve got you.”
You’re crying, shaking, terrified, and he hates it.
He hates that you’re in pain. Hates that this isn’t safe and controlled and planned the way it was supposed to be. Hates that he can’t take it from you, can’t carry it the way he’s carried everything else.
But there’s no time for that.
Another contraction hits, and you scream.
He’s all instinct now, controlled precious of a soldier in combat. He helps you shift, supporting your back, guiding your breathing, murmuring constant reassurances even as his heart pounds so hard he can feel it in his throat.
“You’re okay,” he keeps saying, over and over, like he can make it true just by repeating it. “You’re okay, I’ve got you, you’re doing so good—”
You cling to him, nails digging into his shirt, your forehead pressed to his shoulder as your body takes over.
“Bucky, I can’t—” you sob.
“You can,” he cuts in immediately, voice fierce. “You can, you are. You hear me? You’re doing it right now.”
His metal hand braces your thigh, steady and unyielding, while his other hand grips yours, grounding you through every wave of pain.
He talks you through it.
Every breath. Every push.
His voice is the only thing keeping you tethered until you both hear the cry.
Tiny, unmistakeable and entirely mad at life.
Everything stops.
For a moment, the world goes completely, utterly silent.
Bucky’s hands tremble as he lifts your baby, his breath catching hard in his chest. There’s blood, there’s chaos, there’s the distant sound of cars rushing past—but none of it matters.
Because your baby is crying.
Because you’re here.
Because you both made it.
“Hey,” he whispers, voice breaking in a way you’ve never heard before. “Hey, I’ve got you… I’ve got you…”
He places the baby against your chest with hands that are suddenly so, so gentle, like you’re both made of glass, then he looks at you.
Really looks at you.
Your tear-streaked face, your exhausted smile, the way you’re already reaching for your baby like nothing else in the world exists.
His throat tightens.
“You did that,” he says softly, brushing your hair back with shaking fingers. “You—God, you did that, sweetheart.”
His forehead presses against yours, eyes slipping shut for just a second.
Relief crashes over him so hard it almost knocks the breath out of his lungs.
He laughs then, hysterically, as he cups the back of your head, holding you both close.
“We gotta work on your timing,g” he murmurs, voice thick with emotion. “Couldn’t wait for the hospital, huh?”
But his hand never stops trembling.
And neither does the way he keeps looking at you, like he almost lost everything.
Like he’s never going to take a single second with you for granted again.
