Chapter Text
From that day on, Bucky kept his word.
After every mission, no matter how tired or battered they all were, the routine became ingrained: the team would check him for injuries first. They’d make sure his flesh arm wasn’t hiding bullet wounds, and that he wasn’t limping from some secret injury he refused to talk about. But then, it was Bucky’s turn.
Once his check-up was done, Bucky would cross his arms, raise an eyebrow, and say, “Alright, your turn.” And without fail, the rest of the Avengers knew exactly what that meant.
Steve would sigh but comply, lifting his shirt to reveal another set of bruised ribs or a sprained wrist. Natasha would roll her eyes but give in, letting Bucky scan for muscle strains she tried to brush off. Sam and Tony didn’t even bother arguing anymore, accepting their checks with grumbles and smirks, knowing Bucky wouldn’t let them slide. Even Bruce got used to having Bucky hover, making sure he wasn’t hiding any signs of overexertion.
It became their ritual.
No one could hide injuries anymore—not after they’d called Bucky out, and certainly not after Bucky had caught all of them doing the same thing. It was a mutual understanding, a silent agreement that they’d all keep each other in check.
And over time, the team realized that Bucky wasn’t just enforcing the rules—they were growing closer because of it. Every time he caught them trying to push through the pain, he was reminding them of what they had promised: to have each other's backs, no matter what.
After every mission, they’d all laugh or groan, complaining about how annoying it was to get checked over, but deep down, they knew it was Bucky’s way of saying he cared. He wasn’t about to let them face their battles alone—just like they wouldn’t let him.
And so, their new tradition stuck. Mission after mission, Bucky kept to his word. He’d get checked first, and then he’d check them, ensuring that no injury went untreated and no one ever had to carry the burden alone.
It was how they looked out for each other.