picturing Bucky and reader!wife when she is pregnant with their first baby and he is also trying to avoid any foods you can’t eat because of the pregnancy and even not drinking at a dinner out with the team because he doesn’t want you to feel left out, even if you tell him you really don’t care lol
Bucky doesn’t say a word about it the first time you notice.
You’re in the compound kitchen, belly still small enough that only you and the mirror and Bucky’s hands can really tell the difference. You’re standing at the counter with a bowl of strawberries you rinsed three times because pregnancy brain has convinced you that bacteria is a personal enemy, and Bucky is behind you—close, warm, careful—reading something on his phone with the intensity he usually reserves for mission briefings.
You lean back into him and tilt your head. “What’re you doing?”
He angles the screen away like you’re not allowed to see the world’s least thrilling secret. “Nothing.”
That’s Bucky-speak for everything.
“James,” you sing, because apparently pregnancy has also turned you into the kind of woman who can’t resist teasing her husband at eight in the morning. “Let me see.”
He sighs like he’s deeply burdened, sets his phone down, and slips his flesh hand around your waist—fingers splayed under your ribs like he’s grounding himself. His metal hand, cooler, steady, cups the underside of your stomach like it already knows what it’s meant to protect.
Then he says, flatly, “Apparently you can’t have deli meat unless it’s heated until it’s steaming.”
You blink. “Okay.”
“And the fancy soft cheeses are a risk,” he continues, voice tight. “Unless they’re pasteurized. But some places lie about it. There’s a list.”
You stare at him for a beat. “Are you… studying my food?”
His jaw works, and you can see it—how seriously he’s taking this, like your pregnancy comes with an enemy dossier. “It’s not just your food,” he mutters. “It’s ours.”
You laugh, soft and helpless, and he looks offended by it—not angry, just… wounded that you’d find it funny when he’s clearly doing Something Important.
“Oh my God,” you say, leaning back into his chest. “Bucky.”
“It’s not funny,” he insists, but his voice drops, gentler. “It’s… you. It’s the baby.”
“I know,” you whisper, and you cover his hand on your belly with your own. “I know. But you don’t have to do this like it’s a war.”
“It is,” he says instantly, and then pauses like he realizes how insane that sounds out loud. He clears his throat. “I mean. It feels like it.”
There’s a moment where the kitchen is just the hum of the fridge and the distant sound of Sam talking too loudly somewhere down the hall, and Bucky’s breathing at your back.
Then he adds, quieter, “I don’t get to mess this up.”
Your heart tugs—so hard it almost aches. You turn in his arms, press your palms to his chest, and look up at him. “You’re not going to mess this up.”
His eyes flick down to your mouth, then back up. Like he wants to believe you, but belief has always been something he has to earn.
“Come here,” you say, and you kiss him—slow, patient, the way you’ve learned he needs when he’s spiraling quietly.
When you pull back, he exhales like you’ve just loosened a knot under his ribs.
“Okay,” you murmur. “But if you start grilling waiters about pasteurization, I’m going to die of embarrassment.”
“I’ll be subtle,” he promises.
You raise an eyebrow.
He looks you dead in the face and says, “I will not be subtle.”
---
It starts small. It always does with Bucky—quiet adjustments he thinks you won’t notice.
He reads labels with a frown deep enough to be carved in marble. He asks you, Can you have this? like it’s a life-or-death question and not a jar of sauce. He gets rid of the smoked salmon in the fridge without telling you, like he’s disposing of contraband. He swaps out your coffee for decaf the second you mention that caffeine makes you nauseous now, and when you make a face, he offers you his own mug like a peace treaty.
Then he stops eating things you can’t eat.
You’re the one who notices first in the most mundane way possible: you’re both at the kitchen table with lunch, and his plate looks… suspiciously identical to yours.
You narrow your eyes at his sandwich—turkey, but the turkey is steaming. Like he nuked it until it was basically a tiny protein volcano.
“Bucky,” you say, slowly. “Why is your turkey… hot.”
He doesn’t even glance up from where he’s peeling a clementine for you like you’re a delicate Victorian heroine. “Because deli meat is a risk.”
“I know mine is hot,” you say. “Why is yours hot?”
He finally looks at you like you’ve asked him why the sky is blue. “Because you can’t have it cold.”
“Baby,” you try, reaching across the table to touch his wrist. “You don’t have to suffer with me.”
His mouth tightens. “You’re not suffering.”
“I mean—” you laugh a little. “Okay. It’s not suffering. It’s just… annoying. And I don’t want you to feel like you have to do everything I do.”
He stares at your hand on his wrist, like he’s watching the point of contact anchor him. “I want to,” he says simply. “It’s easier.”
“Easier?”
His eyes lift to yours. “If I do it too, I don’t have to watch you do it alone.”
That… hits you. The way everything with him comes back to loneliness, to being left behind, to watching other people carry pain while he stands helpless on the edge of it.
You swallow. “I’m not alone,” you whisper.
He nods like he hears you, but he doesn’t look convinced.
So you squeeze his wrist and change tactics.
“Okay,” you say, brightening. “Then you can do this with me, but you have to let me pick one thing you don’t copy.”
His brow furrows. “Why.”
“Because I’m your wife,” you say, like that should settle the entire argument, “and I’m exercising my marital rights.”
He exhales through his nose. “Fine.”
“Good.” You point with your fork. “You are allowed to eat sushi when we go out.”
His whole face goes still. Like you just told him you’re planning to juggle knives.
“No.”
“Bucky—”
“No,” he repeats, firmer.
You blink. “That’s not how compromises work.”
“I don’t care,” he says, and there’s that protective steel in him, the same one that makes him step between you and danger without thinking. “I’m not eating sushi while you can’t.”
“I don’t even want sushi right now,” you protest. “The smell makes me want to cry.”
“Then it’s settled,” he says, like he’s won.
You laugh, helpless, and he watches you like the sound is oxygen.
The first time it becomes a team thing is at dinner.
It’s one of those rare nights where the whole crew is off at the same time—no missions, no emergency calls, just a reservation at some place in the city that Sam found and insisted was “normal people good” and not “Tony Stark good.”
You’re sliding into the booth beside Bucky, adjusting your coat over your belly, when the server comes by to take drink orders.
Sam orders something fruity and bright and immediately starts flirting. Nat orders vodka like it’s a personality trait. Walker is already annoying. Even Steve—who has been trying to be chill since getting back—is eyeing the beer menu like he’s studying history.
The server looks at you. “And for you?”
You smile. “Just water, please.”
Bucky doesn’t hesitate. “Water for me too.”
You whip your head toward him. “Bucky.”
He keeps his gaze on the server like this is the most normal thing in the world. “Water.”
The server nods and leaves.
The second she’s gone, you lean in. “You can have a drink.”
“I don’t want one,” he says.
“You always want one,” you hiss, because this man has discovered the simple joy of a cold beer after a long day and clings to it with the devotion of a convert.
He glances at you, expression flat. “Not tonight.”
“James,” you warn.
He reaches under the table and laces his fingers with yours—metal and flesh warm against your palm. His thumb rubs slow circles like he’s calming you on purpose.
“I don’t want you to feel left out,” he says quietly.
You stare at him. “I do not feel left out.”
“You will,” he insists.
“I won’t,” you insist back.
He holds your gaze like he’s bracing himself. “I don’t like it.”
You soften. “You don’t like what.”
“The idea that everyone gets something you can’t have,” he admits. “Even if you say you don’t care. I care.”
Your throat tightens, and you lean your shoulder into his arm. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I know,” he says, and there’s a flicker of relief in his eyes—like being called ridiculous is safer than being called sweet.
Across the table, Sam squints at your drinks. “Why do y’all have water? Are you two in trouble?”
“We’re hydrating,” you say brightly.
Bucky, deadpan: “She’s pregnant.”
Sam freezes. “Oh.”
Nat leans forward, eyes lighting up. “He is doing the sympathy thing.”
“It’s not—” you start, but Bucky cuts in.
“It is,” he says calmly. “I’m doing it.”
Clint snorts. “That’s—”
Steve shoots him a look that could cut glass. “Don’t.”
Clint shuts up, miraculously.
Sam points his straw at Bucky. “So you’re not drinking for nine months?”
Bucky’s chin lifts. “If she’s not.”
Your eyes widen. “Babe—”
Bucky looks at you like you’re the only person in the room. “Unless you tell me you want me to,” he adds, softer. “If you actually want me to have a beer, I will.”
Your chest swells, hot and tender.
You could push. You could argue. You could insist you don’t care.
But then Bucky presses his lips to your knuckles under the table—quick, secret, like he can’t help himself—and you realize this isn’t about rules or food or alcohol.
It’s about him choosing you, over and over, in a thousand small ways. Him standing beside you so the world feels less sharp.
So you squeeze his hand and give him the gentlest compromise you can.
“Okay,” you say quietly. “You can have a drink at home sometimes. When I’m asleep. Like a little forbidden bachelor.”
His mouth twitches. “That sounds depressing.”
You grin. “It’s romantic. You’ll be thinking of me.”
“I’ll always be thinking of you,” he says, like it’s not even a line—just a fact.
And when the server comes back with your waters and sets them down, Bucky slides yours closer first, like you’re the priority.
Like you always have been.
Like you always will be.
