Bucky and Logan

The digital clock on the kitchen wall glows neon green. 21:45.The silence in the penthouse is heavy, broken only by two distinct sounds. First, the rhythmic, metallic shhh-t, shhh-t of Logan’s adamantium claws scraping slowly against a whetstone. Second, the heavy, uneven thud of Bucky’s boots pacing the length of the hardwood floor. Six paces to the panoramic window. Turn. Six paces back to the kitchen island.The air smells like stale coffee, gun oil, and the sharp, metallic tang of unspent adrenaline."Sit down, James," Logan grunts. He doesn't look up from his hands. His knuckles gleam in the dim light. "You're wearing a trench into the floor."Bucky doesn’t stop. His vibranium arm catches the reflection of the city lights outside, a dark, gleaming blur. "They're three hours late, Logan. The shift ended at six. They aren't answering the comms. They aren't answering the personal line.""Comms go down. Batteries die," Logan mutters, though his ears twitch at the sound of the elevator shaft three floors below. Empty. He lets out a low, rough breath through his nose. He’s irritated, but underneath the annoyance is the deep, familiar ache of instinct. Two years of sharing a life, sharing a bed, and learning how to anchor each other means the silence in the apartment feels wrong. It's too quiet."They would have used a landline. They would have sent a message through FRIDAY," Bucky counters, his voice tight, dropping into that flat, dangerous Soldier cadence. He stops at the glass, forehead pressing against the cold pane. His reflection looks tired. Dark circles under his eyes, hair messy. "Chaos I can handle. We do chaos every day. This isn't chaos. This is just... gone."Logan finally shears his claws back into his knuckles with a sharp, definitive snckt. The whetstone hits the coffee table with a dull thud. He stands up, stretching his broad shoulders, his flannel shirt tight across his back. He walks over to the kitchen, yanking open the fridge, staring blankly at the containers inside. Food they'd prepped together two days ago."They're fine," Logan says, though his voice is rougher now, his scent spiking with a hint of sour worry that Bucky immediately picks up on. "They're stubborn, they're exhausted, and they probably got cornered by a supervisor or a pile of paperwork. If they aren't back by midnight, we go hunt down whoever is keeping them."Bucky turns around, his human hand resting on the back of a barstool, his grip tight enough to make the leather groan. He looks at Logan, the shared understanding passing between them without words. Two years ago, a night like this would have ended in a fight between the two of them—too much trauma, too much protective instinct turning inward.Tonight, they just stand in the quiet tower, holding the line, waiting for the elevator to finally chime.