No one's Ever Told me That
The Tower was not a quiet place.
Even in its stillest hours, it pulsed with quiet life—mechanical hums, distant echoes, the whirr of elevators and automated lights adjusting to presence. It was alive in a way that reminded Harry of something sentient, but not quite human.
Still, he liked the rhythm of it. Liked that no one tried to force him into conversation before nine. That Tony left stacks of tech on his worktable like puzzle offerings. That Bruce quietly slipped him research articles with handwritten notes in the margins. That Natasha only spoke when she had something to say.
They made space for him. Without pressure. Without expectation.
That morning started like most others.
Harry padded out of the guest quarters he hadn't officially claimed but had steadily overtaken. Hoodie hanging off one shoulder, sweatpants two inches too long, bare feet making little sound against polished floors. He was half-asleep, one hand tucked around a mug he'd stolen from the communal kitchen—the infamous "Property of Chaos Gremlin" mug that no one dared touch now.
He followed the familiar hallway toward the kitchen, eyes half-lidded and head still buzzing from three hours of tinkering with Stark's terrible wiring system. Stark called it "innovative." Harry called it "chaotic evil, tech edition."
He turned the corner and nearly ran into him.
A man in SHIELD black. Broad-shouldered, clean-cut, maybe thirty-five. Not familiar. Not from the Tower.
A temp? Liaison? Guest? It didn't matter.
The moment the man laid eyes on Harry, his brows drew together.
"Hey," the man snapped, voice sharp with command. "What are you doing up here?"
Harry blinked, the mug clutched tighter in his hands. He stopped walking.
"I asked you a question," the man continued, stepping forward. "Who let you in this floor? Are you even cleared?"
The tone—sharp, loud, clipped—wasn't yelling. Not technically.
But it hit Harry like a slap.
He didn't move. Didn't breathe. His fingers clenched tighter around the mug. Not because he wanted to throw it—but because he was waiting. Bracing.
Some part of him—old, buried—flashed back to a kitchen that wasn't clean. A hand raised too fast. A voice too loud. The cold certainty that something bad was coming.
"Kid—" the man started again, louder this time.
He never finished the sentence.
Because Bucky Barnes stepped between them like a wall of muscle and ice.
Harry hadn't even seen him approach. One second he was alone. The next, there was six feet of Winter Soldier standing directly in front of him, shoulders tense, body angled in defense.
The agent jolted. "What the—"
"You want to try that again?" Bucky asked, voice low. Dangerous.
The man's hand twitched near his belt. Not a weapon. Just instinct. But Bucky noticed. His head tilted just slightly.
"Put your hand down."
The man obeyed.
"I didn't know who he was," he stammered. "I thought he was a kid—someone who snuck in."
"He belongs here," Bucky said, steel in every word. "More than you do."
There was no yelling. No violence. Just Bucky's presence—calm and lethal—and the crackling tension of something cold and ancient pressing down on the space.
The agent nodded stiffly and backed away, mouth moving around apologies that no one acknowledged.
When he was gone, Harry realized Natasha was standing nearby.
She hadn't made a sound.
"You're bleeding," she said.
Harry blinked down at his hand. The mug was fine—miraculously—but his grip had been so tight, his fingernails had broken skin into his palm.
"Didn't notice."
"Come on," she said. "Let's fix that."
He sat at the kitchen counter ten minutes later, hand bandaged, a fresh mug in front of him.
It smelled like cinnamon.
Bucky leaned against the far wall, arms crossed. Watching. Not hovering. Just there.
Harry took a sip. His hands had stopped shaking.
"Thank you," he said.
Bucky tilted his head. "For what?"
"For stepping in."
"You looked like you didn't want me to."
Harry was quiet for a moment. "I didn't want to need it."
Bucky's gaze didn't waver. "You shouldn't have to explain yourself to people like him."
"I usually do."
Natasha, seated across from them, sipped her tea and said, "Not here."
Later that day, Steve pulled Harry aside in the hallway. No lectures. Just a gentle, quiet conversation near the window.
"You alright?" he asked.
Harry nodded. "It wasn't a big deal."
"It was," Steve said, softly. "You didn't deserve that."
Harry looked away.
Steve's hand hovered, then gently rested on his shoulder—light, brief, respectful.
"We've got your back, kid."
He meant it.
And when he walked away, Harry found himself standing a little straighter.
That night, Harry lay curled on the couch in the lounge, wrapped in a fleece blanket, cinnamon tea cradled in his hands.
The lights were low. The Tower quiet.
Bucky entered without a word, settled into the other end of the couch. Not touching. Not speaking.
Just there.
Harry spoke into the silence. "No one's ever done that for me before."
Bucky didn't ask what.
Didn't need to.
Natasha, from the kitchen, said it instead. "You'll have to get used to it."
Harry closed his eyes.
Maybe he could.