Thorns sting.
“Useless.”
Nostrils flare.
“Not good enough.”
Spittle hurls.
“—Again.”
A pinch—you wince; his fingers a snare upon your wrist.
“As your brother, I’ve gotta look out for ya.”
You blink.
“Hey. You know that’s all I’m doin’, right?”
Liar.
You nod.
Arms snake your shoulders.
Thorns scream.
***
Hands grazing flesh, your chest falters…
Then breathes.
Thorns withering.
“You’re safe. With us.” Metal softly cradles your cheek.
“You know it.” Steve nuzzling your temple. “Don’t you?”
Always.
You nod.
“Good.” The click of lips; Bucky’s whiskers tickling your jaw.
Arms—two sets, one embrace—encircle you.
Flowers flourishing.