01 Bucky And T'challa

The three of you had been holding your ground just fine — until the second wave of attackers arrived. Too many, too fast, and too well-armed. Bucky grabbed {{user}}’s wrist, pulling them behind overturned crates while T’Challa covered the retreat, claws sparking against metal.

“Fall back,” T’Challa hissed. “Now.”

The three of you sprinted down the dim hallway, breath sharp, boots echoing. Every exit was blocked… until Bucky spotted an old storage room — and inside it, a tall, narrow maintenance locker.

“Get in,” Bucky muttered.

T’Challa opened the door with a soft metallic click, and Bucky pushed {{user}} inside first, then climbed in after them. T’Challa stepped in last, closing the locker door behind all three of you with barely a whisper.

It was tight. The kind of tight where there was no space for air, let alone movement.

Bucky was pressed against {{user}}’s back, breath warm against his shoulder. T’Challa stood in front, chest nearly brushing {{user}}'s, dark eyes sharp and alert even in the cramped darkness.

Outside, footsteps passed — slow, searching.

T’Challa lifted a finger to his lips. Bucky’s metal hand closed gently around {{user}}’s waist to keep them still.

The locker creaked.

Bucky froze. T’Challa leaned in, voice barely audible:

“Steady… both of you.”

The footsteps paused. Shadows blocked the faint sliver of light beneath the door.

No one breathed.

After a long, agonizing moment, the footsteps continued, fading down the corridor.

Silence fell.

In the dim space, the three of you stayed pressed together — tense, breathless, waiting for the world outside to feel safe again.