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11pm sessions - college!bucky barnes

one-shot college!bucky barnes x pre-med!reader warnings/tags: college!au, neighbours, canon-typical mental health issues, PTSD, nightmares, panic attacks/dissociation, fainting, insomnia, minor injury, medical care, academic stress, grumpy bucky, slowburn, caregiving, protective nat&steve, fluff mostly!?

author's note: sooo it's been a while, since i started to work. thats why i forgot how to write but this one cured me. you can think bucky as ex soldier i didnt mention specifically but hes 2 years older than them. he was trying to help his family with the money issues thats why he joined the military. as soon as they solved it he went back the college. i checked it but if i have mistakes so sorry for it <3

scenes from their life!! -safe together

You had memorized the sounds of apartment 5B.

2:47 AM: The first thud. That was the sound of him falling, or being thrown, out of bed.

2:48 AM: A muffled "No!" or "Stop!"

2:50 AM – 3:15 AM: The pacing. A heavy, restless tread. Thud, drag. Thud, drag. The sound of a man who couldn't—or wouldn't—let himself rest.

For two months, this was the soundtrack to your pre-med degree. You lived in 4B, directly below him, in a meticulously organized apartment that smelled of coffee and printer. Your highlighters were arranged by color. Your anatomy textbooks were tabbed and cross-referenced. Your neighbor, you assumed, was some reckless, overgrown frat boy who couldn't handle his liquor.

You'd complained to the landlord, who was useless. You’d pounded on her ceiling with a broom, which only made the pacing stop for a moment before resuming, heavier and more defiant.

You knew of him, of course. You’d seen him in the hall. Dark, brooding, and annoyingly handsome, with eyes that looked right through you. He was always with that group: Steve Rogers, the campus golden boy, and his terrifyingly smart girlfriend, Natasha Romanoff. You knew Natasha from an honors seminar—the girl was less a student and more a surgical instrument, all precision and sharp edges.

Natasha and Steve were protective of the 5B neighbor. You had seen them corner him by the mailboxes, Steve’s face a mask of concern, Natasha’s a mask of cold analysis. You had overheard other students talking about him—that he was a transfer, older, a veteran. It just reinforced your judgment. You were driven, you were focused, and you had no time for someone else’s self-destructive drama.

Tonight, you were running on fumes and the acidic burn of your third energy drink. Your organic chemistry final was in five hours.

At 3:17 AM, the sound came.

It wasn't the usual thud. It was a crash. The splintering, violent sound of wood giving way. It rattled the light fixture in her ceiling. It was followed by a sharp, guttural yell that wasn't just anger—it was pure, unadulterated pain.

You snapped.

All the sleep deprivation, the academic pressure, and the resentment boiled over. You threw on your old university sweatshirt, grabbed your phone, and stormed out of your apartment. You flew up the stairs and hammered on 5B's door.

"Hey! Are you insane? I'm trying to sleep! People are—"

The door swung open, and the words died in your throat.

He was shirtless, his chest slick with a terrified sweat. His eyes were wide and completely vacant, staring at a point six inches past your left ear. He was breathing in short, gasping hitches. In his right hand, he was gripping the broken leg of a wooden chair, and his knuckles were split and bleeding.

But he wasn't looking at you. He was looking at the ghost in his hallway.

"I... no," he gasped, his voice a raw whisper. "I'm... I'm sorry."

And then, as if his strings were cut, his eyes rolled back and he collapsed. He didn't stumble; he fell like a dead weight, fainting in a heap, half in the hallway and half in his apartment.

You froze. The anger evaporated, replaced by a cold, clinical buzz.

"Shit," you whispered. You dropped to your knees. "Hey," you said, your voice firm, tapping his cheek. "Hey. Can you hear me?" His pulse was thready, jumping under your fingers like a frightened bird. He was breathing, but barely. "Okay," you said to yourself. "Okay."

You couldn't leave him in the hall. You hooked your arms under his, grunting at the sheer, unexpected density of his muscle, and dragged him inside, kicking the door shut with your foot.

You half-lifted, half-dragged him to the cheap rental couch. And then you looked around.

The apartment was his contrast. Where yours was full, his was empty. Where yours was organized, his was... sterile. A single twin bed in the corner, a green army blanket pulled so tight the mattress bowed. A small, clean desk with nothing on it. No pictures. No books. No personality.

The only mess was the destroyed chair, a spilled glass of water, and the man now passed out on his couch.

You ran his bathroom tap until the water was cold, soaked a dishtowel, and pressed it to his forehead. He groaned, his head moving from side to side. "You're okay," you said, your voice automatic, the one you practiced for a "bedside manner."

"You're in your apartment. You're safe."

He was coming to. His eyes fluttered, then focused on her. Terror. Then, worse: Mortification.

He jerked upright, scrambling away from you until his back hit the arm of the couch. "What... Who... Get out!" His voice was hoarse, but it was a command. "You fainted," You said, refusing to be flustered. You held up your hands. "You crashed, you were yelling, you passed out when you opened the door. I'm your neighbor. I live downstairs."

"Get. Out."

"No," you said, your patience finally snapping. "You're bleeding." You pointed at his hand. He looked down at his raw knuckles as if he’d never seen them before. "I'm fine."

"You're not. And you're going to be my problem if you bleed on the floor and I have to hear about it from the landlord."

You went into his bathroom. It was as sterile as the rest of the apartment. A single toothbrush, a bar of soap. You found a first-aid kit under the sink—a professional-grade one, you noted—and brought it back.

You sat on the coffee table, clicked open the kit, and pulled out an antiseptic wipe. "Give me your hand." He stared at you, his eyes a mix of suspicion and exhaustion. "I'm pre-med," you said, "I'm not going to hurt you. But this will sting." He slowly, reluctantly, extended his hand.

He sat in silence as you cleaned the blood. He hissed when the antiseptic hit, but he didn't pull away. He was shaking, you realized. A fine, whole-body shake.

"Was it a nightmare?" you asked, your voice softer. He just closed his eyes, his jaw tightening. "You don't want to know." "Try me. I've got a fetal pig dissection tomorrow. I can handle 'gross'."

He didn't answer. You finished bandaging his hand. You should have left. Your final was in four hours. But you stood up, went into his kitchen, and opened his cabinets. Nothing. Just a box of coffee, a half-empty bottle of whiskey, and a box of chamomile tea. You boiled water in his kettle. You made two mugs, handed one to him. "Drink this. You're dehydrated."

He stared at the mug. "Why?"

"Because," You said, sitting in the one remaining chair, "if you faint again, I'm not dragging you. You're heavy. And I have a final." He looked at you, really looked at you, for the first time. The emptiness was gone, replaced by a deep, aching exhaustion. You sat in the dark, silent apartment and drank tea until the first grey light of dawn touched the window.

The next afternoon, you were a walking zombie in the campus library, mainlining caffeine. You'd somehow aced your final, but you felt hollowed out. You saw them before they saw you. Steve and Natasha, in a corner booth, deep in a low, intense argument. Steve looked wrecked, his head in his hands. Natasha looked... angry. "You can't keep doing this, Steve," You heard her say, her voice a sharp whisper. "You can't be his only anchor. It's not fair to you. He needs real help."

"He's my friend, Nat. I'm not... I'm not giving up on him."

You tried to slide past them, but Natasha's head snapped up. Her sharp eyes cataloged you—the rumpled sweatshirt, the dark circles under your eyes. Natasha's gaze was cold. You knew what she saw: a rival. The other pre-med "shark" who was acing the classes Natasha was.

Then the library door opened again. It was him. Bucky. He looked as bad as you felt. He was wearing clean clothes, but his hair was still damp and wild. He was there for coffee, but he stopped when he saw Steve and Nat. His whole body tensed, a new wave of guilt and shame washing over his face. He hated them worrying about him. Then he saw you.

His shoulders dropped. A different kind of tension, but not fear. Just... acknowledgment. You, on impulse, gave him a tiny nod. I didn't say anything. We're good. To the absolute, open-mouthed shock of Steve and Natasha, Bucky walked straight past their table and stopped at yours.

"Hey," he said. His voice was gravel. "Hey," you replied, not looking up from your textbook. "Thanks. For the... tea. And the..." He motioned to his bandaged hand. "You're welcome." You finally looked up. "But you're a terrible neighbor." A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "I'm aware."

"And you owe me a coffee. This stuff is poison." He looked at your cup. "It's all poison." He went to the counter.

Steve was staring. "Since when...?" Natasha didn't answer. Her eyes were fixed on you. The calculation in her expression was profound. She was re-evaluating every assumption she'd ever made about the "success-obsessed" girl in her honors class.

Bucky came back. He placed a large, hot coffee and a blueberry muffin on your table. "My bad," he said. "For the... noise."

"It's fine," you said, pulling the muffin toward yourself. "But if you're going to have a full-on crisis, try to do it before 3 AM. Some of us have lives."

He actually huffed. A small, dry sound that might one day be a laugh. "Roger that." He gave a small nod, turned, and walked past Steve and Nat, pausing only to clap Steve on the shoulder before leaving the library.

You took a bite of the muffin. It was surprisingly good. You looked over at Natasha, who was still staring. You met her gaze, gave her a polite, neutral nod, and went back to your textbook.

You didn't see Natasha again until their seminar on Thursday. You were packing your bag, your mind already on the three chapters of cellular biology you needed to memorize, when Natasha stopped at your desk.

"You're in 4B," Natasha said. It wasn't a question.

"I am," you replied, zipping your bag. "That was... kind of you. What you did. The tea." You paused.

"It was just tea."

"With Bucky, nothing is 'just tea.'" Natasha leaned against the adjacent desk, her arms crossed. Her eyes were sharp, analytical, as if you were a problem on a logic exam.

"Look, I know your reputation. You're top of the class, you're competitive, and you're ambitious. I respect that." Your spine stiffened.

"I'm not sure what my grades have to do with anything."

"They have everything to do with it," Natasha said, her voice low and even.

"Bucky is not a grade. He's not a project you can 'ace' to prove something. He's... complicated. He's been through things you and I can't even... look, he's fragile. And if you think you're going to 'fix' him, you're not. You're just going to break him."

Your hands tightened on your bag straps. "I... I'm not trying to fix anyone. He fainted. I helped. That's it."

Natasha's expression didn't soften. "He's not a stray. Don't treat him like one. He's been through enough. Just... stay in your lane. It's better for everyone."

She walked away, leaving you fuming in the empty classroom. How am I the bad guy? you thought, your face hot. I'm the one who's been losing sleep for two months. I'm the one who brought him tea and bandaged his hand. How am I the threat?

At the same time, across campus, Steve was having a similar conversation in apartment 5B. He was trying, badly, to fix the chair Bucky had broken. The splintered wood was beyond his skill.

"I'm just... I'm glad you're okay, man," Steve said, tossing a piece of wood into the trash. "That sounded like a bad one." Bucky was on the floor, doing his physical therapy stretches, his face tight.

"It was fine."

"It wasn't 'fine,' Buck. You terrified your neighbor." Bucky's hands stilled.

"She seemed fine."

"Yeah, well, she's..." Steve sighed.

"She's a nice girl, Buck. She's got her whole life planned out. She doesn't need... this."

"This?" Bucky's voice was dangerously quiet.

"What's 'this,' Steve?"

"You know what I mean. The nightmares. The... all of it. It's a lot. It's not fair to... to drag her into our mess." Bucky sat up, his eyes flashing. "I didn't 'drag' her anywhere. I didn't ask her to come in. I didn't ask her to make tea. She just... did."

"And what happens next time?" Steve pleaded. "When she sees what it's really like? When she gets scared and leaves? Can you handle that? Because she seems nice, and she doesn't deserve to be your collateral damage. And you don't deserve to get attached to someone who's gonna run."

Bucky stood up, grabbing a sweatshirt. "She's the only person who's seen me like that who didn't look at me like I was a monster or a victim. She just... handed me a goddamn bandage."

"Bucky..."

"Leave it alone, Steve," Bucky snapped, and slammed the door on his way out. He doesn't get it, Bucky thought, pounding down the stairs. They're all trying to protect me. She's the only one who didn't.

Two days passed. The nights were quiet. You were almost disappointed. The silence from 5B was now, somehow, more unnerving than the pacing. You were in your kitchen at 11 PM, trying to force glycolysis into your brain, when the knock came. It was soft. So soft, you thought you'd imagined it. Knock. Knock. You opened the door. It was Bucky. He was dressed in sweats and a hoodie, and he looked... lost. He was holding a small, crumpled brown paper bag.

"Hey," he said.

"Hey." He held out the bag. "It's a muffin. From the library. You said... you liked the other one."

You took it. "Thanks. You're... quiet. Upstairs."

"Yeah." He scrubbed a hand over his face. "Steve's been giving me sleeping pills. They... they just make it worse." They stood in the awkward silence of the doorway.

"You shouldn't be here," you said, your voice flat. You were tired. So, so tired. He flinched, his face closing off.

"Right. Sorry. I'll..."

"That's not what I meant," you said, cutting him off. "I meant... your friends. Steve and Natasha. They told me I should stay away from you."

Bucky looked up, his eyes finding yours in the dim hallway. The exhaustion you saw in them mirrored your own. He didn't look angry. He just looked... done.

"They told me the same thing," he said, his voice a low rumble. "Told me to stay away from you." He didn't move. You didn't move. "So?" he asked. You felt the corner of your mouth quirk.

"So... they're really bad at this, aren't they?"

"The worst." A beat of silence.

"I can't sleep," he finally admitted. "I... I can't sit still. And if I pace, I'm just going to tick you off."

"You will," you agreed, leaning against your doorframe. "So... what now?"

You looked at the stack of anatomy flashcards on your kitchen table. You looked at the pot of coffee you'd just brewed. You looked at him. "Look," you said, making a decision. "I've got a test on the human nervous system in two days. And you're... you've got hands. And you can read." He looked confused. "What?" You sighed, holding the door open. "Get in here, Barnes. If you're going to keep me awake, you're going to make yourself useful. You can't be worse at this than my study group."

He hesitated, just for a second, standing on the threshold. "You sure?"

"No," you said honestly. "But I need the A. And you need the... whatever this is." He stepped inside. You poured him a mug of coffee, black, the way you'd seen him order it. He sat at your tiny kitchen table, looking impossibly large in your small, organized world.

"Okay," you said, shoving the stack of cards at him. "Let's start with the cranial nerves." It was a start. And little by little, it was enough.

It became a routine. A strange, unspoken, 1 AM routine. The nights Bucky couldn't sleep—which was most nights—he wouldn't pace. He would just go downstairs. He'd knock, soft and hesitant, and you'd open the door, hair piled in a messy bun, looking just as exhausted as he felt.

Tonight, your living room was a disaster zone of biochemistry. Textbooks lay open on the floor, a giant whiteboard was covered in your frantic diagrams of the Krebs cycle, and there were at least four empty coffee mugs on the table.

Bucky sat on your couch, a stack of flashcards in his hand. "Okay," he said, his voice a flat monotone. "Guanine."

"Purine," you muttered, not looking up from your notes. "Binds with Cytosine."

"How many hydrogen bonds?"

"Three. Don't ask me the easy ones, Barnes, I'm trying to cram."

"This is the 'cram' pile," he said, holding up the thick stack. "Okay. Next. 'A non-competitive inhibitor binds to...’’

"...the allosteric site,’’ you finished, rubbing your temples. "It changes the shape of the active site. I know this. Why don't I know this?"

Bucky looked at the card, then at your whiteboard. "You drew this wrong," he said, standing up. "What? No, I didn't." He walked over, picked up a blue marker, and drew a short line connecting two molecules. "You missed a phosphate group. That's why your ATP count is off."

You stared at the board. You stared at him.

"How... how did you know that?" Bucky just shrugged, his face unreadable. "It's just... a pattern. A system. You see the system, you see what's missing." He tapped the board. "Like this. This... enzyme... it needs a 'key' to start it, right? But it's not starting. It's just sitting there. You need to add the key."

He was just talking about enzymes, but he was staring at the diagram with an intensity that made you pause. "You're good at this," you said. "I'm good at... patterns," he said, sitting back down. "War is just patterns. And waiting. This is just... a different kind of pattern."

He'd never said the word "war" to you before. You just nodded, like he'd commented on the weather. You didn't ask questions. You didn't say 'thank you for your service' or look at him with pity. You just grabbed the next textbook. "Okay, 'Pattern-master.' Explain the Sodium-Potassium pump to me, because this diagram looks like it was drawn by a drunk."

For an hour, they worked. He wasn't a pre-med student, but he was logical, and his calm, detached questions forced you to explain things more simply, fastening the concepts in your own mind. It was good for him. He could feel the familiar 3 AM itch under his skin, the restless energy that made him want to punch a wall or run until his lungs burned. But holding the cards, reading the strange words—Mitochondria. Cytoplasm. Adenosine—it was a new kind of drill. A new kind of patrol. It was simple, low-stakes, and it kept his hands busy.

At 2:45 AM, you threw your pencil down. "I'm done. I'm fried. I can't... I can't look at another molecule."

"You looked at that last one for ten minutes," Bucky noted, gathering the cards into a neat pile. "You were just staring at it."

"I was... meditating."

"Your eye was twitching."

"Shut up and make coffee," you grumbled. He went to your kitchen—he knew where the mugs were now—and started a new pot. You joined him, leaning against the counter, your shoulders slumped. They stood in the comfortable silence. "So," you said, mostly to the floor, "Natasha thinks I'm going to 'break' you." Bucky didn't look up from the coffee pot.

"And Steve thinks you're 'collateral damage.'"

You snorted. "That's... oddly poetic of him."

"He's an art major," Bucky said with a shrug.

"He gets one."

"So we're just... a terrible idea, according to them." He poured two mugs, handing one to you. Their fingers brushed. "They're not the ones who have to memorize the Krebs cycle," he said.

"And they're not the ones who hear you pacing," you countered softly. He looked at you then. The gratitude in his eyes was so sudden and intense it almost made you look away. "No," he said, his voice rough. "They're not." They drank their coffee.

The night was quiet. Upstairs, apartment 5B was silent. And downstairs, for the first time in a long time, neither of them felt like they were completely alone.

The new routine held for two weeks. It was a strange, silent contract. If Bucky's lights were on past 1 AM (which you could just barely see from your own window if you craned your neck), you would make a fresh pot of coffee. And sooner or later, the soft knock-knock would come.

He'd sit at your table, you'd pace your living room, and they'd drill. Clavicle. Scapula. Humerus. He learned the words with a soldier's precision. His pronunciation was flat, but he never forgot a single one.

One Tuesday, the knock came early. 10 PM. You opened the door, a highlighter tucked behind your ear. Bucky was standing there with a duffel bag at his feet. He wasn't in his usual sweats. He was in dark jeans and a worn-out Henley, and he looked... normal. Almost. "Hey," he said. He wouldn't meet your eyes. "Hey. You're... leaving?"

"Yeah." He scrubbed a hand over his jaw. "Gotta... go home. See my parents. It's..." He trailed off. "I'll be back Friday."

"Oh." You felt a strange, hollow dip in your stomach, which you immediately identified as "annoyance." Your best study-partner was ditching you right before your midterm. That's all it was. "Okay. Well... have a safe trip."

"Yeah." He looked at you, and for a second, he looked like he wanted to say something else. But he just nodded. "See you." He turned and went upstairs. You shut your door.

The first night, the silence was a relief. You went to bed at 11:30 PM. It was glorious. The second night, the silence was... weird. You found yourself staring at the clock at 1 AM, your apartment feeling too big, too quiet. You were restless. You missed... the company. You shook your head, furious with yourself. "You're pre-med," you muttered to your textbook.

"You don't have time for 'company.'" That night, you felt the first tickle in your throat. You blamed the library's recycled air.

By Friday morning, you were a disaster. The "tickle" had switched into a full-blown, body-aching, miserable flu. You were dizzy, feverish, and you'd been subsisting on saltine crackers and lukewarm water for twelve hours. You were a terrible patient. You were supposed to be in your micro-lecture, but you were buried under three blankets, shivering, and still trying to read your textbook. The words just swam.

Bucky got off the bus at the campus stop at 10:50 AM. The trip home was exactly what it always was: three days of his parents looking at him with a mix of pride and sheer terror, of old bedrooms feeling small, of everyone pretending the last few years hadn't happened.

He dumped his bag in 5B. The apartment was cold and sterile. He didn't even stop. He just washed his face, changed his shirt, and headed straight to the library. It was Friday. They had a quiz on Monday.

You'd be in your usual spot, in the back corner by the anatomy charts, highlighter in hand. He needed to see you. He just... needed the routine to start again.

He walked into the library. He scanned the back tables. No sign of you. He felt a sharp, unfamiliar spike of... disappointment? No. Annoyance. He walked the stacks, telling himself he was just looking for a book. No sign of you. He checked the computer lab. He even checked the cafeteria. Nothing.

Finally, he went back to the library, his mood darkening. He saw Steve and Natasha at their table, huddled over a laptop. He sat down, dropping his bag with a heavy thud. "Hey," Steve said, looking up with a grin. "Man, you made good time! How was it?"

"The same," Bucky said, his voice clipped. He tried to act casual, but his eyes kept flicking to the library entrance every time the door opened. Steve, oblivious, started talking about a new art project. Bucky just nodded, his leg starting to bounce under the table. He did it again—a quick scan of the room. "She's not here." Bucky's head snapped to Natasha. She was typing, her eyes not leaving her screen. "What?" Bucky said, too quickly. Steve paused. "Who's not here?" Natasha finally looked up, sipping her coffee. Her gaze was cool, analytical, but not unkind. She was just stating a fact. She said your name.

"She wasn't in our seminar yesterday. And she wasn't at the lecture this morning. I texted a friend from her study group." A cold knot formed in Bucky's stomach. He hated it. "And?"

"She's sick," Natasha said. "Like, 'plague-level' sick, apparently. Hasn't left her apartment in two days."

"Oh, that's rough," Steve said, frowning. "She works herself too hard. Someone should... " Steve trailed off, because Bucky was already on his feet. He had slung his bag over his shoulder and was walking away before Steve could even finish his sentence. "Buck? Where are you going?"

"Forgot something," BBucky threw over his shoulder, not looking back. Steve looked at Natasha, bewildered. "What did I say?" Natasha just watched Bucky's retreating back, a tiny, almost imperceptible smile playing on her lips. "Nothing, Steve. You didn't say anything at all."

Bucky didn't go to his apartment. He went to the campus store. He was a man of action. This was a problem he could solve. This wasn't a nightmare. This was... logistics. He grabbed a basket. He bought: two large bottles of Gatorade (one red, one blue), a box of saltine crackers, a can of chicken noodle soup, and a bottle of Tylenol Cold & Flu. He stood at the checkout line, feeling exposed.

He walked back to their building, his heart pounding a stupid, unfamiliar rhythm. He stood outside your door. He raised his hand to knock, but hesitated. Their entire relationship existed after midnight. He couldn't... just knock. This was daylight. This was different. This was... your world. He was the night guy. The problem. Not the... solution.

He cursed, frustrated. He took the plastic bag, tied it in a neat knot, and placed it directly in front of your doormat. He turned, went upstairs to his own cold apartment, and sat in the chair by his window, staring at the wall. And waited.

An hour later, he heard your door creak open. A long pause. Then, your door clicked shut. He let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. A minute later, his phone buzzed. He'd given you his number "for emergencies" (a lie; it was for study questions). It was a text from you.

You're a terrible neighbor. You forgot the ginger ale.

He looked at the text. And in his empty, quiet apartment, Bucky Barnes smiled.

The next 48 hours were a new kind of hell for Bucky. He'd text you, his messages blunt and functional. You need more soup? The reply would come an hour later: No. I'm fine. I'm coming down. I've had worse than the flu. I'm not gonna get sick. The reply was almost instant: Absolutely not. You have that Pol-Sci quiz on Monday. I'm not going to be the reason you fail. Stay in 5B, Barnes. That's an order.

He'd never been "ordered" by you. It was... effective. So he stayed in 5B. And he paced. He paced not because of the nightmares, but because you were sick, one floor below, and he was supposed to just... sit here. He read his textbook. The words didn't stick. He cleaned his apartment. He re-organized his drawers. He felt the familiar, restless itch, but this time it wasn't for a fight. It was for... a problem he couldn't solve with his hands.

Monday morning, you dragged yourself to your midterm. You felt... okay. Physically. The fever was gone, your headache was a dull throb, and you were 90% sure you were no longer contagious. But your brain felt like it was full of cotton. The two days you'd spent in a fever-haze were the two days you'd allocated for your final, high-intensity cram session. You walked out of the exam an hour later feeling hollow.

Bucky finished his own quiz—a multiple-choice nightmare on 18th-century political theory—and walked out into the main quad. He saw Steve and Natasha sitting on the steps of the library, sharing a laptop. He hadn't seen you all morning. "Hey," Bucky said, his voice clipped. He scanned the crowd, looking for you. "How was the quiz, man?" Steve asked. "Fine. You seen her?"

Steve shook his head. "No, but her micro-quiz was at 9 AM. Probably went back to bed." Bucky's leg started to bounce. He pulled at the sleeve of his sweatshirt. Natasha watched him. She watched him scan the crowd, his jaw tight, his shoulders set. She saw the way his eyes kept flicking back to their apartment building in the distance. Finally, she sighed.

She closed her laptop. "Her quiz was graded on a curve and posted instantly," Natasha said, her voice flat, as if just reading data. Bucky's eyes snapped to her. "And?"

"She got an 88." Steve winced. "Oof. That's... good for anyone else, but for her..."

Bucky looked confused. "An 88 is... good. It's a B+." Natasha met his gaze, and for the first time, there was no warning in her eyes. No skepticism. Just... information. "Not for her. An 88 means she's not the top of the curve. It means she's not getting a 4.0 in this class. For her... an 88 is the same as an F."

Bucky didn't say a word. He just stared at Natasha. He was processing. "She's probably in the library," Natasha added, a subtle prompt. "Or her apartment. She's not going to be... good company."

"Right," Bucky said. He turned and walked away, his stride long and purposeful. Steve watched him go. "You're... just letting him?" Natasha packed her bag.

"He was going to pace a hole in his floor anyway. At least this way, it's productive." She gave Steve a small, rare smile. "And honestly? He's the only one she's probably going to talk to right now. They're... good for each other."

Bucky didn't find you in the library. He didn't find you in the cafeteria. He found you in the lobby of their building, fumbling with the key to your mailbox. You'd clearly just gotten home. Your hair was still damp from the rain, and you were wearing the same sweatshirt you'd had on three days ago. You looked... small. And defeated. He said your name. You froze. You turned around, your face pale, your eyes red-rimmed. When you saw him—just standing there, solid, his bag slung over one shoulder—your perfectly curated composure just... shattered. The clinical distance was gone. The sarcasm was gone. Your shoulders started to shake, and you made a sound, a tiny, frustrated sob you immediately choked back.

And then you moved. You crossed the small lobby in three steps, and before Bucky could process what was happening, you had grabbed the front of his sweatshirt and buried your face in his chest. Bucky's entire body went rigid. He was a soldier. He was trained for impact, for violence, for threats. He was not, under any circumstances, trained for this. His arms were locked at his sides. He could feel you shaking. He could smell your shampoo and the faint, dusty smell of the library.

It was the first time they'd touched, really touched, outside of a clinical bandage. Then, slowly, as if his arms were rusty hinges, he moved. He let his bag drop to the floor with a heavy thud. His hands came up. One settled, warm and heavy, between your shoulder blades. The other, more hesitant, came to rest on the back of your head, his fingers tangling in your messy hair. He didn't say "it's okay." He didn't say anything. He just stood there, solid as a brick wall, bracing you.

"I failed," you whispered, your voice muffled against his shirt. He was still processing. "Natasha... she said you got an 88."

You pulled back, just enough to look at him, your face furious and tear-streaked. "I failed. I missed the curve. I'm... I'm supposed to be better than that."

"Okay," he said. Just, "Okay." He didn't get it. He didn't understand your world of grades and curves, any more than she understood his world of nightmares and hyper-vigilance. But he understood this. He understood what it felt like to fail a mission. To not be what everyone expected. You sniffled, wiping your nose on your sleeve. "Sorry. I... I don't know why I did that. I'm probably still contagious."

"I don't care," he said, and his voice was so rough it surprised him. His hands were still on you. He didn't move them. You didn't pull away. "You look like hell," he said. You let out a watery, gasping laugh. "You're an ass, Barnes."

"Yeah," he said, a small smile touching his lips. He bent down, grabbed your bag off the floor with one hand, and then his dropped duffel. "Come on. You're making me coffee. And I'm re-teaching you the cranial nerves."

"I... I don't need to..."

"You do," he said, nudging you toward the stairs. "You're rusty." You looked up at him, your eyes still watery, but the panic was gone. "You're not contagious," he said, "so you're not getting out of it. Let's go." You nodded, and for the first time, let him lead the way.

He followed you up the one flight of stairs to 4B, nudging you along when you stopped at your door. You fumbled with your key until he wordlessly took it from you and opened the lock himself.

He dumped their bags by the door. The apartment was cold. "I'll make the coffee," he said. It was a statement, not an offer. "Fine," you muttered, and then a violent shiver wracked your whole body. Your hair was dripping cold rainwater onto your shoulders. "God, I hate the rain." Bucky looked at you. Your face was pale, your lips were tinged blue, and you were soaked. "Go change," he said, his voice clipped. "You're gonna get sick again."

"I'm fine," you insisted, though you were hugging yourself.

He said your name again, his voice dropping into a tone he'd used on recruits. "Go. Take a shower. A hot one. I'll handle this." You were too tired to argue. You just nodded, grabbed a towel, and disappeared into your bathroom, slamming the door.

Bucky let out a breath. He went to your kitchen and started the coffee, his movements precise. He found your "good" mug (the one that didn't have a university logo on it) and his own (a chipped black one you'd bought for him at the campus store, muttering, "If you're going to live here, you're not drinking out of my 'A+' cup."). He heard the shower shut off. A few minutes later, you came out, your face scrubbed clean and your body hidden in a pair of gray sweats and a thick hoodie. You were briskly rubbing your hair with a towel, but it was still dripping down your back. You flopped onto your sofa, exhausted. Bucky handed you the mug of coffee.

"Thanks," you mumbled, wrapping your cold hands around it. Bucky stood there, watching you. You shivered again, despite the hot mug. "You have to dry your hair," he said. You looked up, annoyed. "What? No. I never dry my hair."

"That's the problem," he said, gesturing at you. "You were just sick. You're cold. Your hair is wet. That's... it's stupid. You're going to get a chill."

"I don't care," you said, leaning your head back against the couch. "I'm too tired to care, Barnes. It'll dry."

"No."

You opened your eyes. "No?" He just looked at you, a muscle in his jaw ticking. He'd seen soldiers get trench foot from less. He wasn't going to let you get sick again because you were stubborn. "Where is it?" he asked. "Where is what?"

"The hairdryer. Where is it?"

"In the bathroom, under the sink, but I'm not..." He was already gone. He came back a second later, holding your pink hairdryer as if it were a foreign weapon. He unplugged your desk lamp and plugged the dryer into the wall. You stared, baffled. "What are you doing?"

"Sit on the floor," he ordered. "I'm not..."

"Sit. On the floor." Frustrated, you slid off the sofa and sat on the rug, your back to him. "This is the dumbest... I'm perfectly capable..."

"Shut up," he said, not unkindly. He flicked the switch. The dryer roared to life, making him wince, but he didn't hesitate. He sat on the edge of the sofa behind you and, awkwardly at first, aimed the hot air at your head. His other hand, hesitant, came up and began to run through your hair, separating the strands. Your breath hitched. You went completely still.

No one had done this. No one had ever done this. His fingers were rough, calloused, and utterly gentle. He worked with a strange, focused efficiency, as if he were cleaning a rifle. He was careful, starting at the roots, his fingers gently massaging your scalp as he moved. It was quiet. It was warm.

The angry, buzzing energy that always thrummed under your skin, the anxiety about your 88, the chill from the rain... it all just... dissolved. You felt your shoulders, which were tensed up to your ears, finally drop. Bucky didn't say anything. He just kept working, his hand moving through your hair, the warm air layer around them.

This was... care.

It wasn't a pep talk. It wasn't a "you'll get 'em next time." It wasn't pity. It was just... a pair of hands, a hairdryer, and an unspoken order to be okay. You closed your eyes, your heart doing a stupid, painful, lurching thing in your chest. You felt... taken care of. And from him, the most broken person you'd ever met, it felt like the most solid, real thing that had happened to you all year. You just sat there, in the warm, loud silence, and let him.

The hairdryer incident changed something. Before, your apartment was a study-zone, a neutral territory. Now, when Bucky knocked on your door at 11 PM on Wednesday, your heart did a stupid, painful, lurching thing against your ribs.

It was... a problem.

"Hey," you said, pulling the door open. You'd been ready. You'd been pre-med-level prepared. Coffee was made. Textbooks were open. Your pulse was not going to be a traitor. "Hey," Bucky said. He walked past you and went straight to the table. He looked... the same. He was in his usual gray sweats. He looked tired. He was, infuriatingly, completely unaffected. You, on the other hand, felt like a live wire.

"Okay," you said, your voice too high. You cleared your throat. "Right. So, the brachial plexus. It's a network of nerves originating from the..."

"C5 to T1," Bucky said, not looking up from his book. "I read the chapter."

"Right. Yes. Good." You sat down, your hands fidgeting. You grabbed a pen. It immediately slipped from your fingers and clattered onto the hardwood floor. "Damn it." You bent to pick it up, and at the same time, Bucky, ever the soldier with quick reflexes, bent down too. Their heads knocked, not hard, but with a dull thunk.

"Ow," you yelped, jerking back as if you'd been electrocuted. "Sorry! God, I... sorry." Bucky just rubbed his forehead, his eyes narrowed. He looked at you, really looked at you. "You okay?"

"Fine. I'm fine. Just... tired." You grabbed the pen and sat up straight. "Okay. The five... terminal branches. They are...?" You were a mess. You were fumbling your flashcards. You were reading the same line twice. You were hyper-aware of how close his chair was. You were aware of his hand, wrapped around his coffee mug. You were aware of the fact that those were the same hands that had been in your hair. Bucky let you stumble for another five minutes. He was quiet, but it was not his usual, comfortable quiet. It was a tense, observational silence. Finally, you were trying to explain the radial nerve and instead said "radio nerve."

Bucky just... stopped. He put his textbook down. "Okay, what's wrong?" he asked. Your head snapped up. "What? Nothing. Why?"

"You're acting weird." It was an accusation. It made your spine straighten. "I am not acting weird. I'm tired. I'm still recovering. I told you..."

"Yes, you are," he cut you off, his voice flat. He wasn't angry, he was... diagnosing. "You're jumpy. You're dropping things. You just called the radial nerve the 'radio nerve.' You haven't made a mistake like that since the first week." He leaned forward, his gaze intense. "You've been weird since Monday. What is it? Did I... did I do something?" The concern in his voice was almost worse. He thought he'd hurt you. "No," you said, frustration and a humiliating blush rising in your throat. "No. You didn't do anything."

"Then what?" he pushed. "I can't... I can't focus when you're... like this. You're... you're off. Just tell me."

"I can't!"

"Why not?" You slammed your textbook shut. The sound was loud in the small apartment. "Because you make me nervous, Barnes! Okay?" The words hung in the air, electric and terrifying. Bucky's expression didn't change. He just... processed. He stared at you, the muscle in his jaw ticking. The silence stretched, and you were positive you were going to die of humiliation.

Finally, his head tilted. "Do I?" he asked, his voice quiet.

"Yes! You... you dry my hair, and you buy me ginger ale, and you... you listen. And you're not... you're not supposed to. You're my grumpy, insomniac neighbor. You're not supposed to be... nice. And now I can't think straight. So, yes. You make me nervous." You had said it. It was out. You buried your face in your hands.

"Oh my god, just... go. Forget I said that." You heard him shift. You heard the scrape of his chair. He was leaving. You'd finally done it. You'd scared off the one person who...

"Nervous... like I'm going to hurt you?" he asked. His voice was close. You looked up through your fingers. He hadn't left. He was standing right in front of you, looking down at you, his face a mask of confusion.

"No," you whispered.

"Nervous... like I'm a freak?"

"No, Bucky. God, no." You dropped your hands, exasperated. "Nervous like... like I'm about to take a final I haven't studied for. Nervous like... I can't breathe right. Nervous like... my heart is being stupid." He just watched you, his dark eyes unreadable. He seemed to be translating your words from a language he didn't speak. He was quiet for a long time.

Then, he said, "Oh." He didn't say "me too." He didn't say "that's crazy." He just... "Oh." He bent down, picked up his textbook from the table, and tucked it under his arm.

"So," he said, his voice a low rumble. "We're... not studying."

"I guess not," you whispered, your face still burning. He nodded. He walked to the door and stopped, his hand on the knob. He didn't turn around, but his shoulders were tense. "For what it's worth," he said, his voice so low you almost missed it. "You're not the only one." He opened the door and was gone. You just sat there, your heart hammering a completely new, terrified, and unmistakable rhythm.

The next day, you were furious. You woke up having replayed the entire scene a thousand times. He'd just... left. He'd gotten a full-blown, humiliating, heartfelt confession out of you, said "you're not the only one," and left. Who did that? What did that even mean?

It was a drive-by confession. A hit-and-run. You stomped to your 10 AM class, your mug of coffee gripped so tightly your knuckles were white. You felt exposed. You felt... stupid. And you were mad. Mad at him for being so unreadable, and mad at yourself for being so... readable.

You saw him before he saw you. He was sitting on the main square steps with Steve and Natasha, who were in their own little bubble, and having an argument about... something. Bucky was on the step below them, just drinking a coffee and watching people, looking for all the world like a perfectly normal, non-anxiety-inducing person.

He looked up. His eyes, programmed for long-distance observation, found yours in the crowd instantly. You froze. He didn't smile. He didn't look away. He just... looked. And then, he gave you the smallest, tiniest nod of acknowledgment.

Like, 'I see you.' That's it. You were so angered you almost tripped. A nod? After you'd just spilled your guts? You shook your head in what you hoped was a "whatever" motion and stalked into the lecture hall, your cheeks burning.

From the steps, Steve and Natasha looked up. "Was that her?" Steve asked, squinting. "It was," Natasha said, her eyes narrowed, watching her retreating, angry form. "She looks... mad."

"She does look mad," Steve agreed. He looked down at Bucky, who was now checking his phone, his expression completely neutral. Steve and Nat exchanged the look. The "okay, what's he done now" look. "Buck?" Steve ventured. "Everything okay with you and her? She... she looked like she was staring a hole through your head."

Bucky finished his text and looked up. He took a slow sip of his coffee. The usual tension in his shoulders, the coiled energy he always carried... it was gone. He looked... calm. "She's fine," he said. Natasha raised an eyebrow.

"She looked like she was debating whether to kiss you or kill you, and she was leaning heavily toward 'kill.'" A ghost of a smile, small and private, touched Bucky's lips. He looked down at his coffee cup. "Yeah," he said, almost to himself. "Sounds about right." He stood up, stretching his back. "She's just... she's just realized it."

Steve looked baffled. "Realized what?" Bucky just looked at his best friend. The restless, haunted look that had lived in his eyes for three years was... quiet. "That we're not studying, Steve." He slung his bag over his shoulder.

"See you guys at lunch." He walked off, leaving Steve and Natasha on the steps, staring after him. "What... what does that mean?" Steve asked. Natasha was watching Bucky's retreating back with a new, appraising look.

He wasn't pacing. He wasn't looking over his shoulder. His stride was even and relaxed. "It means," Natasha said, a slow smile spreading across her face, "that your friend is... okay." She finally looked at Steve. "And it means she's definitely going to kiss him. After she's done trying to kill him."

You made it through your 10 AM lecture, your 1 PM lab, and your 3 PM review session, all in a state of boiling, high-energy fury.

You were furious with Bucky for leaving. You were furious with yourself for letting him get to you. You were furious that your meticulously organized brain now had a Bucky-shaped variable in it that you couldn't solve.

You got back to your apartment at 5 PM, threw your bag on the floor, and started pacing. This was his fault. He had infected you with his nervous energy. You—who organized your socks drawer by color—was pacing.

You tried to study. You opened your anatomy textbook, and all you could see was "For what it's worth, you're not the only one."

"What is 'it' worth, exactly?!" you yelled at the empty room. "What does that get me?" An admission? An alliance? A... a feeling?

At 10:45 PM, you were a wreck. You were in your 'study' sweats, your hair was in a bun so tight it gave you a headache, and you were vibrating. He wasn't coming. Of course he wasn't. He'd said his piece. He'd "won," somehow. He'd made you confess, matched your confession, and then vanished. He was a coward. 11:00 PM. The clock on your wall ticked. 11:05 PM. 11:10 PM.

"That's it," you muttered, slamming your book shut. "I'm done." You were done. You were going to... you were... you were going to have to see him in the hallway. You were going to have to hear him pace. You were going to die.

Knock. Knock.

It was his knock. Solid. Deliberate. Not a "hey, can I borrow sugar" knock. It was an "I'm here" knock. Your heart jumped into your throat. You froze. Knock. Knock. You ripped the door open, your anger a shield. "You're late."

Bucky was standing there, his bag slung over one shoulder, wearing a faded black t-shirt and sweats. He looked... calm. He looked at you, standing there vibrating with rage, and his expression didn't change. "I know," he said.

"I waited," you snapped.

"I know."

"So... are we studying?" you demanded. "Or was that all... I don't know... a joke? You get me to say something stupid and then... what? You just... leave?"

Bucky was quiet for a long second. "No," he said, his voice low. "We're not studying."

"Then why are you here?" you asked, your voice cracking, all the anger suddenly draining away into a miserable pool of humiliation.

"Because you were mad," he said, as if it were a simple fact.

"I'm... I'm not mad..."

"Yes, you are," he said. He took a step, and you had to step back into your apartment. He followed you in, letting the door click shut behind him. He was in your space now. He dropped his bag by the door. "You were glaring at me on the stairs. You looked... you looked like you did that first night. When you were going to call the cops."

"Well, what did you expect?" you burst out, turning on him. "You can't just... say something like that—'you're not the only one'—and then just... walk out! Who does that?"

"I do," he said.

"Yeah, well, it was a jerk move, Barnes!"

"Yeah," he agreed. "Yeah? That's all you have to say? 'Yeah'?" He finally, finally, looked... not calm. He looked frustrated. He ran his hand through his hair. "I'm not... I'm not good at this. I'm not... I don't have the... the words for it. Not the right ones."

"What words?" you whispered, the fight leaving you. "What did it mean?" He was quiet, just watching you. He was across the room, by the door. You were by your desk. The small space suddenly felt charged.

"It means," he said, his voice a low rumble, "that I can't sleep. And it's not... it's not the nightmares. Not anymore." You didn't breathe.

"It's... I'm in 5B. And I can hear you, down here. I hear your alarm go off at 5:30 AM. I hear you making coffee. And all I... all I think is... I'd rather be down here." He took a step. "It means... when you got that 88... I wanted to find that professor. I wanted to... I don't know. Argue about the curve." A tiny, broken laugh escaped your throat. He took another step.

He was in the middle of your room now. "It means," he said, and his voice was rough, "when I was drying your hair... I... I didn't want to stop. It was... it was the first time my hands..." He looked at his own hands, flexing them. "It was the first time they felt... steady. In years." He was in front of you now. Close. You had to tilt your head back to look at him.

"You... you make me nervous," you whispered, your voice trembling. It wasn't an accusation anymore. It was a fact. "I know," he said. His eyes were dark, and they were focused entirely on you. He lifted his hand, the one that had been in your hair, the one he said was steady. He moved with agonizing slowness, as if you were a deer he was afraid of spooking.

He gently, so gently, tucked a stray piece of hair behind your ear. His rough fingertips grazed your cheek, and you leaned into the touch instinctively. "The feeling's mutual," he murmured.

And then he was... just... kissing you. It wasn't a soft, hesitant, movie-perfect kiss. It was... Bucky. It was desperate. It was rough, and firm, and a little bit angry. It was three months of 3 AM pacing. It was ginger ale and textbooks and dried hair.

It was a "finally." It was a "shut up."

He kissed you like he was drowning. His hand was still on your cheek, his other arm coming around your waist, pulling you flush against him until there was no space, no air, no "nervous" left. Your hands, which had been frozen at your sides, flew up, grabbing the front of his t-shirt, pulling him closer.

When he finally, finally, pulled back, they were both breathing hard. He rested his forehead against yours. "That," Bucky breathed, "is what it meant."

"Oh," you whispered, your eyes still closed. "Okay. Good. That's... that's good."

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