Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Your team was sent to uncover the Red Room. There were whisperings everywhere, but they were invisible. Nobody knew where they were. Anyone who presumably located them never returned.

Your team was filled with highly trained soldiers—special forces. The last team sent to find the Red Room had gone rogue. Half ended up dead, and the other half, no bodies were found. They were assumed compromised, and you were supposed to eliminate them if seen. If they weren’t dead alongside the others, they were traitors—a strict order from the US government, particularly from SHIELD. 

Technically, you weren’t a part of SHIELD, but your team worked with them closely. Something felt wrong in your bones as soon as your team set foot in Belarus, but there was no turning back. You located one of the leaders of the Red Room almost too easily. 

This set you on edge, and you instructed your team to be mindful of their surroundings. The first night was just scoping out the territory, watching who came and went. Nothing happened, yet your unease never dissipated. 

The next night, one of your closest friends and second-in-command was on the night watch. You did everything together—growing up, training, joining the military, and working alongside SHIELD. You woke up in the dead of night. Since you knew you wouldn’t be able to get back to sleep, you went to keep her company. As soon as you approached the designated spot assigned for watch, no one was there. 

Instantly, your gun was in your hand as you surveyed the area—nothing—not even a soft breeze. As you secured the makeshift camp, you released a breath. No one was there, but one of your own was still missing. You strolled over to take your place at the large rock when you heard the click of a gun hammer pulling back. 

You trained your gun towards the sound and swallowed hard. A man had his gun pressed against your friend’s temple, her face composed, but her eyes betrayed her. 

Fear. 

The near moonless night cast shadows over his face. 

“Who are you?” You spoke in Russian. It wasn’t the best, but it was what you knew. He had to be a part of the Red Room, or someone aligned with the Soviets. Why else would he be here? He dug the barrel of the gun harder into her temple. She winced, keeping her chin held high. 

“You come with us.” He had a thick Russian accent when he spoke to you, but in English. You stepped forward, but your friend shook her head. He tightened the arm he had around her throat, her hands gripping his forearm tightly. 

“What do you want?” You asked, gun held firmly in your grasp. You should all have been dead if this was who you thought it was, so what was this? Did they want information?

He didn’t respond, just observed you. You stepped forward again. 

“Drop the gun.” Your friend gasped in pain as the barrel whipped against her head. 

“Okay! Okay,” you crouched, setting the gun in the dirt before standing back up. 

“Kick it over here.” 

You did as he said. You were part of a team, and they were the only thing that mattered to you. He kicked the backs of her knees, sending her to the ground. She barely caught herself before her face ended up in the dirt. The gun pressed against the back of her head as you watched helplessly. 

“Unload it.” 

He shoved her head back down, the gun sitting just beside her. She didn’t hesitate. It was something they had all done a million times. She removed the clip, setting it on the ground beside the gun. Her eyes turned to you, the fear replaced by something else. 

Acceptance. 

Your eyes screamed what your mouth couldn’t say. Neither of you was going to die today. 

The man picked up the clip, pocketed it, then retrieved the gun and inspected it. 

“Now, let’s chat,” your voice was composed despite the circumstances. You were trained to endure torture, not to say anything, and you would die before betraying your country. He smiled cruelly. 

“I think not.” He fired his gun. You flinched, expecting pain from the bullet, but there was none, just a strangled gasp.

No.

Your eyes fell to your squadmate, your friend. 

No. 

Her face relaxed as she clutched her chest, blood coating her hand as she pulled it away. 

NO!

You screamed, except you couldn’t hear it, the ringing in your ears deafening. The ground bit into your knees as you fell, gathering her up in your arms. Her eyes were already dull, the life fading from them. She wheezed, coughing as she tried to speak.

“In the—” She coughed up blood, lungs rattling with her last few breaths. “Next one.”

Her body slumped in your arms, her lifeless eyes staring up at the night sky. You screamed again, her hand clenched in your fist as tears fell down your cheeks.

You were dragged backwards by the collar of your uniform, away from her body—away from your friend. You kicked at the ground, hoping to catch your boots on anything.

The man threw you to the ground, landing a solid kick to your ribcage. 

“I’ve got the target.” He spoke into a radio.

“Confirmed. Sending in backup now.” A deep voice responded. You spat into the dirt, pushing up to your knees.

“You’re gonna wish you were dead.” Your voice was soft, deathly calm. A switch had flipped inside of you. Everything you had felt in the last minute dissipated. You felt nothing except burning hot rage.

He laughed, and the sound only fed that fire burning inside of you. You leapt from the ground, tackling his legs. A shot rang off in the air as you took him to the ground. Both of you landed with a solid thud. You quickly crawled up him, trapping him underneath you, but not before wrenching the gun from his hand and throwing it away.

This would not be a clean death. 

He caught your fist before the first punch connected, but you headbutted him, ignoring the pain that shot through your skull. It disoriented him enough that he released your wrist, and you swung. 

Again. And again. And again.

Until you heard a voice, “Y/L/N? Where are you?!” Your other squadmate shouted. The man beneath you groaned, his face bloodied and bruised, nose crooked. 

“Get out of here! NOW!” You commanded, temporarily halting your brutal attack. 

“No! Not without—” He staggered, his words cut off. This pulled your attention away to look in his direction, finally. You saw the bullet hole in his forehead before his body crumpled to the ground. Your eyes squeezed shut.

Everything you had worked for, spent your life working up to—gone. You realized you weren’t going to be getting out of this alive, but you sure as hell weren’t going without a fight. 

You saw a figure in the distance. A man, dressed in tactical gear as dark as the night itself, held a sniper rifle against his shoulder. He ejected the bullet, sliding the bolt back into place before slinging the gun over his shoulder.

There was a glint of silver underneath the fingerless gloves he wore, the only color visible on him. The sight distracted you for too long. The man beneath you held your arms and slammed his forehead into your face. You felt your nose crack, blood dripping down your throat. He flipped you to the ground before you could recover. You kicked at him, but he pinned your legs between his. He held your wrists to the ground on each side of your head.

“You will regret that,” He hissed, spitting blood into the dirt beside you. You bared your bloodstained teeth. 

“Soldat!” He yelled. 

A large shadow loomed over the two of you. You tilted your head backwards to look up at the man.

Goggles covered his eyes, and a black tactical mask to match the rest of his ensemble. It looked more like a muzzle to you, going all the way down his neck. Shoulder-length dark hair framed his face. It was clear he was an assassin—dressed to kill, armed to the teeth. 

He said something in Russian that you didn’t understand. His voice was low and raspy, as if he only spoke when ordered to. The man grimaced before responding to the soldier, presumably an order, if you had to guess. Their eyes both fell on you, but you closed yours.

Defeat. That was what it felt like. 

You saw your best friend’s eyes as she died, your squadmate’s expression as he fell to the ground lifeless. You’d go down with your team, because you sure couldn’t go back home after this.

The weight of your assailant lifted off you. Your eyes shot open just in time for you to be dragged up by the soldier in black behind you. His grip was solid—unyielding. You struggled in his grasp, stumbling forward as they started walking. 

You hissed in pain when the barrel of a gun smacked the side of your head.

“Behave. Makes this easier.”

You spat in the man’s face. Both of their movements halted, and you were yanked back against the soldier’s chest.

“I won’t let you take me alive.” You rasped just before the man backhanded you. It wrenched your head to the left, your eyes falling to the silver underneath the holes in the soldier’s glove. 

You didn’t get the chance to die honorably or among your team.

“Knock her out,” were the last words you heard before darkness consumed you. 

Chapter Text

The moon’s light shone through the trees, casting shadows against the deserted land. Snow crunched softly beneath the rabbit’s weight as it searched for the little food amongst the winter wasteland. Its ears perked up, twitching. With a nearly silent thud, the rabbit fell to the ground lifeless. 

A figure stepped from the treeline, emerging from the shadows after picking up his bullet casing. 

No trace left behind. 

The silenced rifle was slung behind his back as he grabbed his next meal. Rabbits were hard to come by, and this one would do nicely for him. He tied the legs to a string that connected to his pack. He was out in the open. He needed to move. 

Too late. 

A bullet buried into his skull, blood dripping down his forehead into now lifeless eyes. The thud of his body dropping was the loudest noise against the silence of the night. 

The masked man kept his gaze fixed in the scope of his sniper rifle. That wasn’t his bullet in the target’s head. He surveyed the area. 

Someone else was here. 

After searching for a couple of minutes, he lowered the rifle. Nothing. No trace of another. 

He slung the rifle over his shoulder, tightening the strap. With his hand on his pistol, he moved down the hill. The snow crunched softly despite his heavy combat boots. Approaching the body, he scanned the area with his own eyes. 

Nothing. 

No wait.  

A shadow moved behind a tree about twenty yards away. He moved silently. Nearing the tree, he slowed, finger over the trigger. He popped out from the other side of the tree to meet—nothing.

He was sure someone was here. Underneath the thick fabric of the dark tactical gear, his skin prickled in awareness. The serum that ran through his veins provided him with senses far above human capabilities. 

A serrated hunting knife pressed tightly against his throat from behind. Without hesitation, the masked man released the gun. He grabbed the blade with his metal hand, twisting around to face the shadow. The blade bent as he ripped it from their grip, extending his flesh arm out. 

The cloaked figure grasped onto his hand as it encircled their throat. He slammed them back against the tree as they struggled to fight back against his unchecked strength. Their frame was small and slender. 

Female. 

He released her, but not before he threw her against the tree for good measure. She wheezed, desperately sucking air into her lungs. 

He would end her easily. 

Reaching down for his handgun lying on the forest floor, legs wrapped around his large frame. He slipped his metal hand in front of his neck just in time before the wire that would’ve wrapped around it connected. He stood to his full height, the wire snapping as he tugged forward. 

The assassin grunted as she kept her hold on his back, relying on her arms instead of the wire. Before she knew it, the masked figure reached behind him, grabbed her by the shoulders, and threw her over his head. 

The air left her lungs once again as she landed face-first into the frozen ground. She rolled out of the way and crouched on her feet just in time for a metal fist to slam down right where her head was. He was quick, but so was she. 

They locked into combat. Fists, elbows, forearms. Every surface of their body was fair game to use and hit when it came to surviving. The female assassin landed a solid kick to his chest, sending him sprawling back. She tried to follow up with another, but he caught her leg and twisted. 

She grunted in pain as he pulled her to him, face-planting in the snow. As she flipped to her back before he could pin her to the ground, she met the end of a serrated knife much like hers, but bigger. Before the knife could plunge into her chest, she caught his wrist. The knife was mere centimeters away. She groaned as she pushed back against him, slowly losing the battle. 

In a last-ditch effort, she decided a knife in her shoulder was a better option than death, since she didn’t have the strength to outmaneuver him, trapped like this. She slid her body so that when her grip failed, the knife plunged right below her collarbone. 

She cried out, the burning sensation immediate as the knife sliced through her muscles. After everything she’d been through, she was not dying today. 

Her legs kicked up around the man’s thighs, all her weight focused on flipping him backwards. He landed with a solid thud as she pinned him down, the knife still sticking out of her shoulder. She pushed her forearm down on his throat, cutting off his air supply. It had to be quick or she would lose the upper hand.

Gritting her teeth, she pushed harder. Pain shot down her arm, but she didn’t relent. The man made an animalistic noise as he struggled beneath her, unsuccessful at removing her arm from his throat. He shuddered underneath her from lack of oxygen, darkness creeping into his vision. 

Just a little more. 

She shouted through the pain, using most of her waning energy, and felt the man go limp. Instantaneously, she lost control of her body and fell to the ground beside him. 

Slowly, groaning from the pain, she got onto her back. Her chest heaved with every breath, accompanied by a sharp pain. Somehow, she mustered enough energy to get to her knees. Then her feet. 

She limped over to a large tree, bracing herself against it. Her fingers wrapped around the hilt of the knife, yanking it out before she could second-guess herself. She shouted in agony as the serrated blade ripped back out of her shoulder, throwing it to the ground immediately. The air was sharp—bitter—burning her lungs as she inhaled deeply. 

She looked back at the masked man lying on the frozen ground. They sent her waltzing to her death, and she somehow made it out alive. The hell she was going to raze when she got back would be devastating.

She weakly strode to the body of the man she shot, feeling around in his pockets for the object she was sent to retrieve. 

There. 

She pulled out the small hard drive, tucking it into her pocket. Stumbling the entire mile back to the black Hummer hiding in the trees, she slammed the door as she slid inside. 

“Did you get it?” The driver asked, looking back at the woman through the rearview mirror. She slapped the drive down on the console, grunting. The man smiled.

“Drive.”

Chapter Text

You were going to bite the head off the next doctor or nurse that came in here. While you were glad for the recovery after two cracked ribs, a shoulder laceration from the knife that nearly pierced your lungs, and a severely busted nose, you felt cooped up—especially since your superiors sent you into a deathmatch with the Winter Soldier. 

Did they even want you to survive?

As soon as the door opened, you were ready to yell until you saw who walked in. He had been here before. Watching, observing. For what? You didn’t know. You assumed he held the leash on the Winter Soldier, seeing as the two often were here together. 

You had never directly interacted with the Winter Soldier until just the other day when he almost killed you, but you had felt those cold, dead eyes on you while he assisted with the widows’ training. At least, that’s what they told everyone. 

The last time he was here was months ago. They liked to keep him in cryo during the summer, except for the few times he showed up here. It was a threat while also supposedly productive for everybody. 

Fighting a skilled mercenary who was tasked to kill anyone who opposed HYDRA was like being thrown in ice-cold water and immediately drowning. And that’s exactly what you felt like when he barreled down the hill after you shot your target. 

Was it a coincidence that HYDRA had sent the Winter Soldier after the same target? 

So when his handler walked straight up to you, that same feeling washed over your body. You set your shoulders straight, muscles tense and stiff. On instinct, you reached for the knife typically strapped to your thigh, but found nothing. It lay somewhere in that barren winter wasteland, its blade completely warped from the Winter Soldier’s bionic grip. 

“Soldier.” He addressed you, sounding almost bored. Technically, you were a soldier, but nobody called you that. Nobody called anyone here that. Soldiers commanded respect from others. It should be a high honor. 

Should. 

All the girls and women here did not get that same respect. They were hidden in the darkness and not to be seen. To be seen was to be punished.

You were afraid that was the reason for this visit. 

“I suppose I’m something of the sort.” You quipped back, never one to hold your tongue, just took every punishment that came with it. 

There was just the lightest twitch of his lips, fighting a smirk. It was not something you were familiar with. Authority didn’t take kindly to your sharp mouth. The only reason you weren’t dead was because of your skill set. It was the reason you were here in the first place.

“Your gracious hosts allowed me to visit and discuss some things with you, Y/N Y/L/N.” 

Your back went straight as a pin after hearing your full name. No one had said your name in years. They didn’t use names here, but of course, they had everything on file after taking each girl. Almost everything. He took your silence as a signal to continue.

“My apologies for your encounter with the Winter Soldier, but I commend you for your victory.” The fake pleasantries and forced tone in his voice set you on edge. He wanted something from you, and you’d learned that was never good, not in this world.

“I had the upper hand and used it,” you said bluntly. 

“No one survives the Winter Soldier.  No one takes the Winter Soldier by surprise.” The man’s voice was stern, yet something else was hidden within it. “He is an elite machine that leaves no witnesses, no evidence.” 

You couldn’t tell if he was aggravated or impressed—maybe both—but you could hear the question he had yet to ask. 

“How did I do it?” You prompted with a smug look on your face. The muscles in his jaw tensed. While he appreciated skill and ability, he didn’t seem to tolerate disobedience or back talk, like all the others.

“Nothing out of the ordinary,” you finished, leaving the details hanging in the air. It wasn’t anything different from your routine missions.

It had taken you a few days to finally catch his trail. A man hiding from the government—an underground one at that—had to be smart. He was, mostly. Once the snow halted, his tracks were easier to follow. When he finally stopped, it was for food. It was hard to give up that opportunity when there was hardly any wildlife to be seen.

His last mistake. 

Your own mistake was not getting there early enough. Maybe then, the Winter Soldier would’ve found the man already dead, with you gone in the wind. It was like cosmic timing you were both there at the same time.

“Well, if such a task was simple for you, then your handlers did well to showcase you.” The man’s words cut through your thoughts. 

“Showcase?” You couldn’t hide the bitterness in your voice, the surprise. 

“Ah.” He seemed pleased with your reaction. “You didn’t know. Even better.”

“What the hell was I supposed to know?” Everyone else in the room startled as you raised your voice. 

“We orchestrated your mission.” 

What the fu—

“We wanted to see the best widow in the Red Room in action. Although not a widow at all. I hear they call you the Viper.” He laughed. “It fits. Strikes quickly, deadly. If anyone sees you, it’s too late for them.” 

You didn’t like this. Not at all. The Red room was no paradise, but it wasn’t the hell of HYDRA and their experiments. It became glaringly apparent you were about to become one of them. You swallowed hard, fingernails digging into your palms.

“You want me.” 

A curt nod. 

“For what exactly?” Your face hardened. You would not show fear, would not feed this man exactly what he wanted. 

A cruel smile crept up his lips. The door slammed against the wall, damn near ripped off the hinges. Instantly, you readied yourself for an attack, but your expression fell once you saw who walked in. 

✯✯✯

You startled awake, gasping for air. 

It was just a nightmare.

No more Red Room. No more HYDRA. No more… anything. It had been almost six months since defeating Thanos. Six months after losing so many loved ones. 

Natasha sacrificed her life to obtain the soul stone, to do something for her family, and to save her people after they had been taken away from her for five years. 

Tony sacrificed himself so that the world could go on, so that his family—his daughter —could survive. 

And Steve. That one hit you harder than most. He didn’t die valiantly or tragically. He left. He chose to return to the life he had missed while frozen in the ice for 70 years. He chose her over you. Over Sam. Over Bucky. 

You told everybody you understood, and you did. But it hurt. A small tear deep down that wasn’t noticeable, a wound that got worse and festered inside you as time passed. Everyone went their separate ways. It was time to figure out life after everyone either disappeared or grieved for five years. 

You didn’t know where you fit. It was one mission after another, one fight after another. You didn’t know who you were outside of that. Nobody stayed in touch. The world didn’t need saving anymore, didn’t need heroes. Not that you’d call yourself that anyway. 

Sam started working with the Air Force against a terrorist group overseas. Bucky was court-ordered to undergo therapy, ensuring he was mentally fit after being pardoned. 

Not that you were keeping tabs on them.

You? You weren’t doing anything. You didn’t have a past, legally anyway. You barely existed. So all you did was try to find something to occupy your time. Coffee shops, cafes, book stores, something to keep you out of your head, and the dangers that lurked there. 

Today, you just wanted to sit in your slightly run-down apartment, on a couch that was surprisingly comfortable enough to fall asleep on.

At twenty-three minutes past nine, you begrudgingly rolled from bed. It was late for you to be waking up, but considering you slept for more than 4 hours, it was a positive start to the day. You wrapped yourself in the oversized cardigan that you used as a robe and shuffled to the coffee maker. 

While you waited the dreadful few minutes for it to be done, your eyes roamed over the variety of flavored syrups and creamers you started collecting. Still, you always seemed to gravitate towards your favorite creamer, despite it being spring. 

You grabbed it out of the fridge, already pouring it into your mug. It was one of your obscure talents, knowing how much you needed before pouring the coffee—the perfect ratio.  

Once ready, the first sip went smoothly down your throat, a calming warmth already settling within you. Despite your dark curtains, light spilled through every gap it could find. 

Maybe it was a good sign. Today was going to be a good day. 

You peered out the window behind the sink, watching the street below. It was oddly calm. There was always a lot of movement on the streets of Brooklyn, but not this morning. A chill crawled over you, your skin prickling. Wrapping your cardigan tighter around your body, you settled into the couch. 

Silence was the most challenging part for you, so you tried to avoid it. You turned on the television, flipping through channels until you saw a familiar face.

What the?

Sam placed the shield into the display case, sealing it shut. Everybody clapped. Several government officials shook Sam’s hand. “What did you do, Sam?” You sighed.

So much for this being a good day.

✯✯✯

The wind blew strands of hair out of your braid as you watched Sam load up his truck. He was going back home to Louisiana after what he did. You flipped up your hood, hands in your pockets, and strode forward. As you approached, several people glanced your way. A cool glare from you sent them looking elsewhere.

You stood out like a sore thumb. Most of the clothes you own are black, black, and more black. Maybe some grey in there somewhere. Night was more your scene, not daylight, yet here you were. 

“Sam, why wo—” He went into fight mode immediately. You caught his fist in yours, twisting his arm behind his back. Instinctively, you had him pinned up against his truck. 

“Jesus, woman. Stop sneaking up on me!” Sam exclaimed as you released him. 

“I wasn’t sneaking, just walking normally.” You replied. 

“Well, walk louder next time,” Sam winced, massaging his shoulder. 

“Habit.” You shrugged, a stoic expression on your face. His eyes narrowed. 

“What do you want?’ He asked, crossing his arms over his chest. 

“Why did you do it?”

“Do what?”

“You know exactly what.” You said sharply. Sam pinned you with a scrutinizing glare, but you just stared back blankly. 

“You will never understand.” He finally said. 

“Not good enough,” You snapped. 

“Not good enough?”

“That’s an excuse.”

“No. No. I’m not doing this with you, Y/N.” Sam turned around and walked back up to the house.

“No. You are.” You raised your voice. “Steve gave you that shield. You.”

“And I gave it to the Smithsonian.”

“Why?” You pushed harder. 

“Because the shield was Steve’s. Still is. It’s not just a symbol of hope, of freedom. It’s him.” Sam stopped in his tracks. “That shield belongs to nobody, despite Steve giving it to me.” He turned back around to face you. “It’s already done.”

“You do realize what’s going to happen, right?” You questioned him, stepping closer. “It’s basically in the government’s hands, and they aren’t going to let it sit there and collect dust.”

“You don’t know that.” Sam declared.

“Why wouldn’t I?” You snapped at him, voice harsh. “Just because Steve is gone, doesn’t mean Captain America is gone too.” That got his attention. 

“There can only be one Captain America.” He replied sternly. 

“Why don’t you go tell that to the government then?”

“Did you come all this way to berate me about my choices?” His voice dropped lower, clearly done with your interrogation. “Steve gave me the shield. Now the Smithsonian has it. It’s done. Are you done now?” He asked. You stared at him, eyes hardened. 

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” You turned on your heel and returned to where you had parked your car. 

“That’s it?” Sam asked. You didn’t stop, tucking your hands into your jacket's pockets. 

“You’re just as bad as him, you know?” He yelled. 

A smile appeared on your face. If not worse.

Chapter Text

A few days had passed since you confronted Sam. You drove back to Brooklyn, back to your life of waking up and trying to move forward from everything that had happened. The conversation played over in your head. Even after the events that unfolded in 2016 with the Avengers and the government, Sam still gave the shield to them, despite having been thrown into a floating hell, locked in a cell for doing the right thing, and trusting Steve.

 It was eating away at you, and you knew Barnes was going through the same thing. You had followed him to his therapy session one day. Surprisingly, the window had been cracked open. 

Good. 

You didn’t have to worry about getting into the vents this time.  

“So, Mr. Barnes, are you still having nightmares?” Dr. Raynor asked. 

Silence. You knew for a fact that he did. They never stopped, not even for you.  

“James, I asked you a question. Are you still having nightmares?” She repeated.

“No,” Barnes said, voice flat. 

You knew better. Despite the facade, you’d seen him waking up from nightmares countless times, from close up and far away. You adjusted your position, pushing into the shadows between the buildings. No one would be looking at the fire escape just outside Dr. Raynor’s office. 

“I’ve been doing this long enough, I can tell you’re lying. You seem off today.” She clicked her pen. “So, did something happen recently?”

You tensed, inhaling deeply. You could picture the look on Bucky’s face, jaw clenched, the sharp lines of his face lethal. 

“No,” he repeated, and a loud sigh from Dr. Raynor immediately followed. 

“You’re a civilian now, James. With your history, the government needs to know you won’t…” She trailed off. You knew what she wasn’t saying, even though you couldn’t see into the office. “It’s a condition of your pardon. So tell me about your last nightmare.”

“I didn’t have one.” 

Someone inhaled so deeply that you could hear it.

“Oh, come on. Really? You’re going to do the notebook thing?” Bucky adjusted himself on the couch so he sat straight. “Why? It’s passive-aggressive.” He protested. 

“You don’t talk. I write.”

“Okay. Okay.” A pause, as if gathering himself together. “I crossed a name off my list yesterday.” Dr. Raynor must’ve given him a look because he immediately followed up with “Don’t worry. I used all three of your rules. Senator Atwood. I helped her get into office when I was the Winter Soldier. She continued to abuse the power I gave her after HYDRA was dismantled.”

You leaned back against the brick wall, wondering when he had time to do this. Must’ve been when you were visiting Sam. 

“So, rule number one, you can’t do anything illegal.” She stated as though she were worried he did. 

“All I did was provide info to the aide to convict her. And I wasn’t involved in anything else.” Lie. You could hear it in his voice. Later. You would get that information from him later. 

“Rule number two?” Dr Raynor asked him. 

“What was rule number two?” He asked rhetorically, his voice laced with sarcasm. 

“Don’t hurt anyone. It’s kind of a big one.”

“Then why isn’t it rule number one?” He asked sharply. 

He had a point.

“I didn’t hurt anyone.”

Again, you were doubtful. This was Barnes talking. Sharp words and violence were kind of his thing.

“I promise.” He reassured the therapist. 

You couldn’t help the twitch at the corner of your lips. God, you missed that attitude, even though you drove each other to insanity most of the time. 

“And what about rule number three? The whole point of making amends is to fulfill rule number three.”

“You know, you’re a cynic, Doc,” Bucky spoke in a smart-mouthed tone. “Of course, I completed rule number three.” After a few seconds of silence, he continued. 

“I’m no longer the Winter Soldier. I’m James Bucky Barnes, and you’re part of my effort to make amends.” He repeated like a mantra.

“So you did it all right, but it still didn’t help with the nightmares?” Dr. Raynor asked.  

“Well, like I said, I didn’t have any.” He shut down immediately. 

“Look… one day you’re going to have to open up and understand that people can be trusted and want to help you.” Concern laced her voice, as if she actually cared, rather than just completing a job, but she was still part of the government.

“I trust people.”

“Yeah? Give me your phone.” Bucky groaned, digging into his jacket pocket and handing her his phone. There was silence for a few moments. 

“You don’t even have ten numbers in this thing. Oh, and look.” She flipped through the text messages. “You’ve been ignoring Sam’s texts.” A noise of false shock. “Big surprise here. You haven’t caught up with anyone in here. Even Y/N. Why don’t you tell me why you haven’t kept up with her?”

It got quiet. Your body stilled when you heard your name, panicking slightly to remember the last text thread you had with Bucky. 

“I just haven’t.” He sighed. You heard the phone flip shut. 

“At least you didn’t give an excuse. I’m the only person you’ve called in the last week. That is sad.” Her voice cut through the room, targeted and slightly harsh. 

“You’re alone. You’re a hundred years old. You have no history, no family…”

“Are you lashing out at me, Doc? Because that’s really unprofessional, you know?” He quipped back, his defense mechanism. You knew it too well; you did it yourself. 

“When did that start, yelling at your clients?” A loud thud against the desk. “The notebook. That’s great.” He sighed. “All right, give me a break. I’m trying, okay? This isn’t… This is new for me.” His voice softened. 

“I didn’t have a moment to deal with anything, you know? I had a little… calm in Wakanda.” He paused. Your chest tightened, knowing that ‘calm’ was mostly him being in cryo until they could figure out how to get HYDRA’s control out of his brain. 

“And other than that, I just went from one fight to another for ninety years.” 

You heard the pain laced in his voice. He had barely lived before getting thrown into a war, captured, and experimented on. Then, when Steve found him, he followed him back into the war. He would’ve followed him anywhere. He did. And then he lost seventy years after he fell off the train, and everyone thought he was dead. 

It was much worse. 

Bucky had been given the serum that HYDRA recreated before Steve rescued him. He survived the fall. He lost his arm. He lost his mind. He wished he had died that day, because then he would’ve never done all those terrible things. Despite his mind being torn through and brainwashed, he remembered every kill, every face.

“So, now that you’ve stopped fighting, what do you want?” Dr. Raynor’s voice cut into your thoughts. 

“Peace,” he said a little too quickly. 

“That’s utter bullshit.”

“You’re a terrible shrink,” Bucky said, tone condescending. 

“I was an excellent soldier, so I saw a lot of dead bodies, and I know how that can shut you down.” She cut straight to the point, no bullshit. “And if you are alone, that is the quietest, most personal hell. And, James, it is very hard to escape.” 

You were certain he knew that already. 

What did he want? Better question yet, what did you want? Sirens sounded in the near distance, pushing you back against the wall again, hidden. 

“Look, I know that you have been through a lot, but you’ve got your mind back, you are being pardoned. I mean, these are good things. You’re free.” 

Shit. Cop cars were swarming the street below. You had to move. You couldn’t help but wonder what Bucky’s response was. As you fled down the fire escape, you flipped up your hood and headed back to your apartment. 

“To do what?” Bucky asked Dr. Raynor. 

Chapter Text

You waited. He should be back from lunch any time now. Day after day, he followed a strict routine. You sipped your early-afternoon coffee, scanning the faces in the crowd. 

There. The leather jacket, gloved hands. He was heading back. Dropping into a crouch, you slipped off the roof, making your way into the mass of bodies. You followed far enough away, keeping your eyes locked on him. He looked tense, something eating away at his mind. 

He veered off into the dead part of the city. You knew he deliberately chose to live away from the noise, from people. The dog tags sitting against his chest reflected the little sunlight that peeked through the clouds. You waited for a few minutes, letting him settle inside his apartment before you moved again. 

This happened way too often, as you observed and watched. Never from up close, you couldn’t risk that. He was a trained assassin, too; he would have known you were near. 

Today, though, you climbed up to the window of his bedroom—the room you knew was bare and untouched. In the first few weeks after everyone came back, you watched him. He never slept in his bed. If you had to guess, a flat pillow and a thin blanket lay somewhere on the floor of his apartment. 

You sent up a silent prayer to no one in particular. The window creaked as it lifted, halting your movements. After a few moments of silence, you continued, folding your body through the opening and into the apartment. The plush carpet muffled your landing.

Thankfully, the bedroom door was cracked open, so you didn’t have to worry about making noise to get through. A muffled sound echoed through the apartment, and light flashed against the hardwood in the living area.

He was watching something on television. You hugged the wall, staying in the bedroom as your ears strained to hear it. 

“While we love heroes who put their lives on the line to defend Earth, we also need a hero to defend this country.” A man spoke, presumably to a crowd of people, since you couldn’t see the screen. 

“We need a real person who embodies America’s greatest values. We need someone to inspire us again, someone who can be a symbol for all of us.” You stilled, muscles locking. 

No. Despite your conversation with Sam, you didn’t expect them to do this so quickly. Bastards. 

“So, on behalf of the Department of Defense and our Commander-in-Chief, it is with great honor that we announce, here today, that the United States of America has a new hero. Join me in welcoming your new Captain America.” 

Applause broke out on the television. Your ears started ringing, blood pounding in your ears. A wound broke open inside of you. It wasn’t the same as Steve leaving, but adjacent to it. Steve was Captain America. There could be no other, would be no other. 

Except that there was now, to America at least. Not to you. It didn’t matter who this man was, how good he was. He would never be Captain America. 

A loud thud startled you from your head. Bucky’s fist slammed against the floor as he watched a man who wasn’t his best friend—who wasn’t Steve—carry the shield. There was no sound but your heartbeat pounding relentlessly as he switched off the television. 

“I know you’re there,” Bucky said quietly. Your eyes widened. 

He couldn’t be talking about you, could he? 

As if he heard your thoughts, 

“You know I’m talking to you, no one else is here, Y/L/N.” 

Shit. You blew out an annoyed breath, pushed off the wall, and fully opened the bedroom door. 

There he was, up close after so many months. He was still devastatingly handsome despite his brooding, lethal appearance. He didn’t bother looking at you.

“You guessed,” you accused, stepping into the space. 

It was small, not much to it, exactly like yours. The only closed-off rooms were the bathroom and bedroom, except that the bedroom appeared to be only a closet for Bucky. 

“The window creaked when you opened it. I felt the vibrations on the floor when you landed.” He turned those sharp steel eyes on you, looking you up and down with silent rage. “Carpet muffled the sound, but not the feel.”

Of course, because he had been sitting on the ground. Is that why he slept on the ground, ready for anyone who might come for him? 

“Guess I finally slipped up,” you shrugged, avoiding the elephant in the room. He knew you heard what happened, heard him punch the floor with his flesh hand. 

“You've been watching me this entire time.” He asked, although it sounded more like a statement. You weren’t sure if he meant today or the last six months. 

“Figured you would’ve known, former assassin and all.” You elaborated, trying to sound as composed as he was. 

Yet he wasn’t composed. It was cold rage that settled into the sharp lines of his face. A calm that was more dangerous than any anger. 

How was it possible that there was so much rage behind those eyes? 

He ignored your comment. 

“He can’t have that shield,” he muttered so low you almost couldn’t hear it. 

You took a shaky breath. He was right. No one should have that shield, but it meant more to Bucky than anyone. 

His best friend since early childhood. They lost years, decades, of each other after Bucky was presumed dead and Steve was frozen in the ice. They found their way back to each other just to fall into another battle as Bucky got framed for the bombing that killed the king of Wakanda. And again, freshly removed HYDRA controls after being placed back in cryo, thrown into a galactic battle against Thanos, just to be snapped away into dust. 

And when everybody was brought back, well, that’s where the real problem started. Steve and Bucky didn’t get torn apart or thrown into another battle. Steve took the stones and stayed back in the 1940s with Peggy—a life he never got to have, a life he was owed. 

That didn’t make it hurt any less for Bucky. For anyone. You knew that haunted him just as much as all the killings. 

Was he not worth it? 

A question that continued its torment Bucky’s mind. You wished you could convince him that he was worth it, that he was worth everything, but he wouldn’t listen to you. He may have leaned on you in the past, but those days seemed to be long gone. 

But it wasn’t Steve’s fault. He was tired of fighting, like many others, after defeating Thanos. However, they didn’t have the option to simply abandon everything.

“Bucky,” you stepped forward, your voice soft. 

You had been with him during HYDRA, on the run, during part of the healing process, and during the nightmares. This was a whole new subject, untouched and rattling around in his mind. You hadn’t seen him since the funeral you gave for Natasha. She had been lost, and there hadn’t been time to do anything because Thanos came. 

Bullshit, at least that’s what you said—so you celebrated her life, what you could and couldn’t remember. 

It hurt her when you barely recognized her back in 2012, after SHIELD captured you during a mission, although she didn’t show it. Her name was of legend in the Red Room after you left, what she became after. It gave you hope, that is, until she died, reminding you that there would never be peace for people like you, like Bucky—who felt like they had to atone for all the sins committed. 

“Stop. Don’t Bucky me,” he snapped, the plates in his metal arm whirring as he flexed his fingers, restraining himself. 

“Talk to me.” You continued, taking another step. If this was the day he caught you watching him, it must’ve been for a reason. 

This.

He didn’t respond, his jaw clenched tightly. If he wanted a fight, you’d give him a fight. 

“Where were you last night?” You asked, crouching low as you neared him. 

“Stalking me, are you Y/L/N?” His voice dropped lower, his tone slightly playful with a sharp edge to it. 

“Stalking, watching? No harm done.” He kept you in his line of sight, like he couldn’t look at you.

“Hmm.” He rolled his shoulders, the muscles in his back and upper arm flexing. “Should I be concerned you’re now here instead of lounging on rooftops, watching me from afar?” 

You froze when he looked up, something dark swirling behind those frosty eyes. “What do you think?”

A chuckle fell from his lips. The sound was dark, dangerous. 

“I think I’m always concerned when you show up, whether you’re slipping through the shadows or busting down the door.” His face softened ever so slightly—a familiarity, something that grounded him.

“Some things never change.” Silently, you sat beside him. Physical touch was a problem for both of you. Just being here, having someone, was more than enough. 

“So you know then.” Again, not a question. 

“Know what exactly?” His left brow raised. “I’m not omniscient, Barnes, contrary to belief.”

A smug yet embarrassed look flashed over him. 

“And here I was, thinking you were coming to berate me about leaving the date like I did.” 

You almost choked on your own saliva. 

“What? You on a date?” Your face flushed, betraying the indifference you had plastered on your expression. “Willingly?” A giggle bubbled up from your throat before you could cut it off. 

Bucky’s eyes narrowed. “So, that’s not why you’re here? You didn’t know.”

“Please tell me someone got a picture of that.” The corners of your lips turned up into a smile. You pressed them together, trying to hold back the laughter. 

“God, I hate you,” he grumbled, pushing off the hardwood and walking into the small kitchen area in the corner of the living room. 

You couldn’t help it. It had been so long since you laughed like this. Bucky’s glare could’ve sliced you open. 

“Stop laughing, Y/N.” He warned. 

“I’m sorry, I just—” You held your hand over your mouth. “No, actually, I’m not sorry.” You pushed up from the floor, following his path. “I need details. Who was the girl? How did this even happen? Did you get on a dating a—” 

Your back crashed against the wall, a hand wrapped around your throat, although there was no pressure. A weak laugh escaped your chest. 

“Touchy subject, okay. Must’ve gone poorly,” you croaked. That look—nose scrunched, lips turned up in a barely contained snarl—he was trying so hard not to throttle you right now. 

“Shut up.” He said, his voice a low growl.

“Come on, Bucky. Isn’t this a go—”

“Shut. Up.” He accentuated each syllable, eyes coming alive with anger. Well, maybe not anger, but he definitely looked pissed off. He squeezed the sides of your neck, cutting off some of your air. 

“Don’t push it today, Y/N.” 

You swallowed hard. Heat radiated off his body into you. It had been months since you last talked with him in person, even longer than that since you had been this close to him. You slid your hand over his, and his grip tightened. Your eyes widened, watering, but you just studied him now that he was up close. 

Dark circles beneath his eyes, pale skin, disheveled hair. All signs that the nightmares still had a grasp on him, asleep and awake. When your vision started to blur, you gasped for air and failed. He released his grip on you, pushing off the wall and away from you. You stood hunched over, sputtering and catching your breath. 

“Good catching up with you too, Barnes,” you wheezed, but didn’t get a response. Okay, not working here. You switched gears.

“Look, I’m sorry I didn’t keep in touch.” His shoulders tensed. Got him. “It’s just been a lot to process. Everybody was gone, dead or just… not here. It took a lot out of me just to get to the next day.” You admitted, sighing. 

He poured a glass of water, keeping his eyes down as he took a swig. He made a small gesture, but you declined.

“Why am I here?” The words got his attention back. “Why do I get to be here when people I care about don’t?” You whispered. 

These conversations never got very far for either of you. It was like trying not to spook a wild animal; one wrong move and you were bolting in the other direction. 

“Don’t speak like you know what’s inside my head,” Bucky cautioned. The air was thick with tension, and you could stab it with a knife.

“I’m not. Those were my thoughts,” you insisted, leaning back against the open counter. Were, as if you hadn’t thought about that the past five years on repeat. In hopes of breaking through that wall erected between the two of you, you continued. 

“Why didn’t I get snapped? Because of all the terrible things I’ve done? For as much suffering that occurred in my life, living was the hardest. Without half of the population. Without Sam.” You paused, voice lowered. “Without you.” 

His gaze locked you in place. Such vulnerable thoughts rarely left your head; they hadn’t for years. Not since… You shook your head, backing away from those thoughts. The lines on his face relaxed, a weight disappearing, but there was turmoil in his eyes. 

“You left,” Bucky recalled, making you flinch at the sheer animosity in his voice. 

“I was here, always close.”

“You left just like everybody else!” He roared, slamming his metal fist on the counter. It cracked in half, the cabinets below groaning under the uneven weight. “After Steve took the stones back, you bolted as far as possible.” He laughed, and it was a cruel sound, reopening another wound that had been bleeding slowly over the last few years. “At least, I thought you were far away.”

“Bucky I—” 

“Save it.” He clipped, clearly done with you and this conversation, as he grabbed his jacket lying on top of the chair. 

“Where are you going?” You asked, falling into step behind him. 

“Paying Sam a visit.” 

You sighed dramatically. Oh, this was not going to end well. 

“I’m coming with you.”

Chapter Text

Injure, not kill; those were his orders. The widow charged forward, somehow still fighting despite being knocked down for hours on end. She grunted as he caught her fist. He twisted her arm, kicking out her ankles and sending her to the floor again. 

“Enough!” A voice echoed through the cold room. The Winter Soldier turned towards his handler. “Back to cryo for you.” 

His jaw clenched, a relief, but not at the same time. As he strode across the room, he didn’t hear the widow come up behind him. She kicked his flank solidly, causing him to stumble sideways. 

He had to give it to her. She got the upper hand on him weeks ago, and now, she didn’t give in despite the hours of being thrown around and beaten. Most of the widows he trained had excellent skills and reflexes, but they could never beat him. 

How could they? 

The serum running through his veins was hard to beat, on top of what was already there, and intense training. The bionic arm was virtually indestructible in hand-to-hand combat, but HYDRA always had a fix if it got damaged. 

This widow irked him. He remembered the name that HYDRA soldiers whispered before bringing her here. 

Viper. 

Fitting for her. Fast, resilient, lethal. The widows were stolen, trained from such a young age that they didn’t know anything else. Something told him otherwise for her. The widow training was just an addition to her already honed skill set. She was targeted for the Red Room and brought here under special request. The experiment had failed before her, so what did they think they could achieve with her?

“Stop, " the man ordered again, but something deep inside him fought it. His mouth pulled into a snarl, and he retaliated. 

She launched gracefully from the floor, wrapping her slender body around his back, arms encircling his neck tightly. Her weight pulled them back, a soft grunt slipping through her lips as they hit the wall. 

“Halt! Soldiers, halt!” 

Neither of them listened. Pulling away from the wall, he wrapped his hands tightly around her forearms. Her legs squeezed around his abdomen as he tried to pry her off. The knife left its sheath and embedded into her thigh before she could defend against the attack. 

She groaned in pain, teeth clenched tight enough she might have chipped a tooth. Her grip loosened around him, and he flipped her onto the ground. With no time wasted, he trapped her body beneath him, his bionic hand surrounding her throat. Her eyes widened, hands clawing at the arm as her oxygen was cut off. 

Several soldiers attempted to disengage the fight, but he threw his free arm back, launching a couple of them onto their backs across the room. 

Her skin flushed red, and her struggle to conserve the remaining oxygen inside her halted. An electric current coursed through his body. He gritted his teeth, muscles spasming, but didn’t let go—another disc shot from across the room, attaching to his metal arm. The current short-circuited his arm, and his fingers released the widow from his grasp.

She coughed violently, gasping for air. He flexed his fingers, trying to regain control until another disc attached to his abdomen. Despite the leather gear, he felt it all. He groaned, the soldiers finally pulling him off her. She scrambled away as soon as possible, pushing back against the wall as her watery eyes fell on him, her vision still blurred. 

Frozen steel, but with a flame burning within. It was then, as the soldiers dragged him away to get wiped and put in cryo, that the widow saw there was a man behind the mask. The man before he was the Winter Soldier, the man who clung to the slightest shred of life inside.

A cold feeling sank inside of her as she realized that she was the reason for his sudden outburst, disobeying orders just to kill her. 

The last thing she needed was to be the Winter Soldier’s fixation. It was another rope they could use to hang her and keep her under their control so that they could use him. 

✯✯✯

“Bucky,” you murmured, arms resting against your thighs. 

He was restless, another nightmare if you had to guess. You were on your way to Georgia to intercept Sam when you both fell asleep in the back of the plane. It was a small cargo plane, not meant for passengers, but you were both trained mercenaries. You could get around on anything if you needed to. 

“Bucky?” You stood, strolling over to him. His fists clenched tightly at his sides, neck craned to one side. You gingerly placed your hand on his thigh, trying not to startle him. 

Poor execution.

You sucked air through your teeth as your fingers were crushed in Bucky’s unyielding grip. His blue eyes were dull and foggy, clearing as soon as he realized what was happening. He dropped your hand as if it were a hot stone, a trembling inhale wracked through his whole body. 

“Shit, Barnes. Easy on the merchandise.” You flexed your fingers slowly, making sure they weren’t broken. 

“Jesus, Y/L/N. You know better than to do that,” he grumbled, rubbing his sore neck from the awkward position it was in. 

“Yeah. My bad,” you shied away from him, clearing your throat. “Another nightmare?” You asked, not sure what to expect for an answer. Silence permeated the air. 

“You were mumbling and twitching in your sleep.” You certainly weren’t going to tell him that he mumbled ‘Viper’. Hearing that name again after so many decades felt like an ice pick to your temple. The past was never too far away from you, especially with him around. 

His eyes burned into the side of your face, a flame so hot it felt like ice. “Nothing important.” His lips pressed in a firm line.

End of discussion, got it. 

It felt like you had gone backwards after Wakanda. All those months of progress flushed down the drain after Thanos took almost everything from him again. You didn’t push it this time. 

“We’re about 30 minutes out.” You stood from the bench, walking back over to where you sat before. He nodded, a soft sound of acknowledgment. His eyes followed you, like he was seeing a ghost.

“Were you in Brooklyn the whole time?” He asked, voice rough, raw, almost. You blinked, a little shocked by his question, but nodded. 

“I kept tabs on you and Wilson for a couple of weeks before settling down in Brooklyn. Found something I liked for the time being.”

“And how far away was that?” He pried. Something had set him off in that nightmare, enough that he was asking too many questions. 

“Not terribly far,” you paused, but the look on Barnes’ face told you he knew; he just wanted to hear you say it aloud. For once, you didn’t want to start a fight.

 “About a brisk five-minute walk to you,” you mumbled under your breath, voice low. 

A small part of you hoped he accepted that you were always there for him, even if he didn’t know it. That small part was crushed into oblivion when that icy, familiar anger blazed in his steel eyes. 

“Fucking five minutes?” He growled, the material of the bench beneath him splintering from his grip. Shit. You eyed him cautiously, not wanting to incriminate yourself to him anymore. 

“You watched me these whole six months, five fucking minutes from my apartment, and Dr. Raynor thinks I’m pathetic for not answering texts.”

“Whoa, now. That’s a different kind of issue.” You interjected.

“Different issue?” His voice raised in volume, the severity of his tone punishing. “I’d say it’s a worse fucking issue than mine.”

“We’re not talking about my faults here, Barnes.”

“And why fucking not?” He bared his teeth, stepping towards you. You jumped up from the bench, a step backward for each he made forward.

“Steve would’ve had your tongue if he heard how many ‘fucking’s’ left your mouth.” And just like that, the air changed. You hadn’t talked about Steve since he left, and now? The wounds tore open inside both of you. 

Bucky fell into a state of anguish, his chest rising and falling rapidly with each heavy breath. “You don’t get to bring him up.” He said, deathly quiet. 

Your brows raised, “I don’t—what? Why the hell can’t I bring Steve up?” You countered, halting your retreat. Suddenly, you were face-to-face.

“You left again. Just like him.” He jabbed a finger just below your collarbone. You threw your shoulder back, opening your mouth in disbelief.

“I’m right fucking here, J!” You snapped, shoving at his broad chest.

You didn’t even realize the nickname that had slipped from your tongue, but he did. He didn’t budge, but man, did he look even more pissed off than before. His under-eye twitched, just enough that you caught the movement.

“That makes it even worse.” He said with such malice that you didn’t see James Buchanan Barnes—no. 

You saw the cold assassin, void of all emotion except the anger that burned through his gaze. It was in your head every night, haunting you in your sleep. Just a quick flip of a switch inside you, and that’s all it would take for you to be right back there with him. 

You still didn’t know that you were always the cause of that switch inside him. The one who fractured the soldier to find the man beneath; in moments of anger, of fear, of something unnamed.

“Well, I’m here now. So what do you want, huh? You want to yell at me? Scream in my face?” You stepped even closer, having to crane your neck up to look at him. “You want to tell me that I’m a terrible person? Go ahead, it’s nothing I haven’t heard before.”

His face pulled back into a snarl, nose scrunched up. He was holding back. You wouldn’t accept that. 

“Say it to my fucking face,” you goaded him. 

He grabbed you by your shoulders, jolting you around. “You’re fucking insufferable.”

“I lost him, too.” Your voice cracked, unable to mask the pain. His eyes scanned you, waiting for something else, but he didn’t get it. “He was my friend too, and I didn’t get to say goodbye!” You roared, breaking out of his grasp. 

A loud smack echoed in the cargo hold. Bucky held his face, his cheek already pink. You didn’t remember the last time you had genuinely slapped someone, let alone not remembering that you raised your hand to do it. His eyes narrowed, jaw shifting as he turned back to you. You hadn’t even noticed you fell into a fighting stance. 

Old habits die hard.

“Alright. You made your point,” Bucky stated, hands up in surrender, but his body still bristled with tension. Your brow quirked up as you relaxed your stance. 

“You just don’t want to get slapped again.”

“You know I love it when you hit me.”

“No need for the sarcasm, old man.” You commented, yet one corner of your mouth turned up. 

“You may not be as old as me, but you’re old too.” He quipped back. The hostility in the air dissipated, but nothing of significance was addressed. 

Later, you thought. 

The plane shook from turbulence, throwing you off balance. Firm hands gripped behind your elbows, keeping you steady. Bucky offered a soft, barely visible smile—his way to apologize without actually saying the words. 

You fought the urge to roll your eyes. Pulling yourself out of his grip, you sat on the bench, crossing one leg over the other. 

“You’re lucky I didn't make you get on your knees and apologize. Beg for my forgiveness.” You sneered half-heartedly. Head tilted down, he looked up beneath his dark lashes with a devilish expression. 

“You wouldn’t want to see the day that I do, little wraith.” He confessed in a tone that made you suppress a shudder. It would’ve sounded like a threat to anyone else, but you weren’t anyone else. 

You mockingly saluted him, mirroring his expression. “Challenge accepted, Sergeant.”

Chapter Text

You struggled to keep up with Bucky’s long strides. He was on a mission.

“Bucky,” you called out, “I may have forgotten to mention that I talked with Sam already.” 

He visibly skidded to a halt, you running into his solid form. It felt like you hit a wall. 

“Ow,” you muttered under your breath, your palm resting against your forehead. 

“What do you mean, forgot?”He questioned.

“Oh, like you would’ve listened to me and not hopped on that plane anyway?” You crossed your arms, matching his glare. His left under-eye twitched. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.” 

He grumbled some indecent words that you heard very clearly before continuing. You were cutting it close.

Sam was about to get on a plane to Munich. Why? Well, that’s what you were about to find out. Bucky could blow off his own steam at Sam; you fought that battle already. 

The air base was teeming with people of all ranks and levels. Bucky charged forth like he owned the place, every last detail mapped out in his head while you scanned the room for the only person here who was important. 

Again, you stuck out like a sore thumb. There were women here, but few wore tight jeans and a long sleeve underneath a leather jacket. It was Georgia, and the heat was already slick against your skin. 

“There,” Bucky’s voice carried effortlessly back to you. 

You glanced up at the higher platform to find Sam and the kid that he was working with. You, thankfully, caught up to Bucky before nearing Sam.

“Can you be civil? We are currently on an air base.” Your muscles screamed at you, trying to keep pace with him. It had been months since you last completed any missions or even done any cardio. Your combat skills had seen better days.

“I’m always civil.” He quipped, his tone dry and sarcastic. 

“Good to see the attitude never leaves,” you mumbled, a sigh leaving your lips before Torres saw you both walking his way. 

“Shouldn’t have given up the shield.” Bucky’s voice was strained; he wasn't beating around the bush with this one. Sam barely reacted, as if he were expecting the ambush. 

“Good to see you too, Buck.” He responded.

Uh oh. 

“This is wrong,” he said, voice low as you both neared Sam, who was not stopping on anyone’s account. 

“Hey, hey, look. I’m working, okay? So all this brooding outrage is gonna have to wait.” Sam finally paused to look up at both of you, his eyes flickering to Bucky’s steel gaze. 

“You didn’t know that was gonna happen?”

“I warned him,” you interjected before they both turned their eyes to you. You shrugged. “Just saying.”

“Nobody asked you,” he angled his body back to Bucky. “No, of course I didn’t know this would happen. You think it didn’t break my heart to see them march him out there and call him the new Captain America?” 

Bucky’s voice rang clear. “Steve didn’t want this.” 

You rolled your eyes. “Sure, he gets to bring up Steve, but I don’t?” 

“Shut up!” Bucky yelled. You took a step back, hands up in surrender. 

No interrupting the guys’ fight, got it. 

“What do you want me to do? Call America and tell ’em I changed my mind?” Sam scoffed, widening his stance. After no response, he continued. “Yeah, right. Great reunion, buddy.”

“You had no right to give up the shield, Sam.” And there it was, the hostile air closing in around them. You watched this one play out, not daring to interrupt again. 

“Hey. This is what you’re not gonna do. You’re not gonna come here in your overextended life and tell me about my rights.” A hefty sigh left him, “It’s over, Bucky. Besides, I have bigger fish to fry right now.”

“What could be bigger than this?” The sincerity in his voice cut you to the core, and without looking, you knew the look in his eyes. Sam grabbed the tablet from Joaquin’s hands, settling close to Bucky so he could see. 

“This guy.”

“Don’t worry, boys. I’ll just wait over here, no problem.” Those steel blue eyes cut you a glare at your tone.

“Just get over here,” Sam threw an exasperated look your way. “I can’t deal with both of your attitudes at once.” You walked over to Bucky’s side, Sam tilting the screen so you could see the video playing. 

“He has connections with rebel organizations all over Eastern and Central Europe, and he’s strong. Too strong.”

“And?” Bucky asked, crossing his arms across his chest.

“Well, he’s been connected to this group called the Flag Smashers. Now, Redwing traced them to a building somewhere outside of Munich. So that’s where I’m going.”

“Well, I don’t trust Redwing.”

“Hold on a minute.” You jumped in.

“You don’t have to trust Redwing, but I’mma go see if he’s right. Cause I have a feeling they might be a part of the Big Three.” They continued as if you weren’t even there.

“What ‘Big Three’?” A puzzled look appeared on Bucky’s face. 

“The Big Three,” Sam responded. 

“What Big Three?” He repeated. 

“Androids, aliens, and wizards.”

“That’s not a thing,” Bucky said sharply.

“That’s definitely a thing.” 

“It’s a thing.” You confirmed. Barnes glowered at you.  

“No, it’s not.” He rasped, turning back to Sam.

“Every time we fight, it’s one of the three,” Sam stated. 

He wasn’t exactly wrong. 

“Who are you fighting now, Gandalf?” Bucky countered. Sam visibly did a double-take.

“How do you know about Gandalf?” He asked. 

“Here we go,” you droned, forehead resting against your fist.

“I read The Hobbit. In 1937. When it first came out.”

“Book nerd Barnes, at your service.” You jested, but he ignored your comment. 

“So you see my point?” Sam emphasized.

“No, I don’t. There are no wizards.” Bucky remarked. You raised your arm, finger in the air.

“Doctor Strange,” you submitted an answer you knew Sam would back you up on. 

“Is a sorcerer.” He declared quickly, tossing a look of pure irritation over his shoulder at you. 

“Aah!” Sam chuckled, “A sorcerer is just a wizard without a hat. Think about it. Right?” He waited for a response from Bucky, but you could’ve told him that wouldn’t happen. “I’m right. I just came up with that. It’s crazy, but that’s not the point.” His playful tone cut off. 

“These guys aren’t magical. They use brute force, like you. Like the incredibly annoying guy in front of me with the staring problem,” Bucky kept his eyes on Sam, indeed, staring a little too intensely. “And you.” He turned his attention to you. “The terrifying lady who doesn’t know how to keep her attitude in check.”

You opened your mouth to retaliate, but he wasn’t finished. 

“Ah ha, right there, my point is proven. Although you’re not much better than him with the staring as well.” Sam concluded. You gave him a look that promised him sweet hell. 

“We’ll be having words, you and I. Later. At a better time.” He returned a smile, knowing full well this wasn’t over. Sam took off towards his ride. 

“I’m coming with you,” Bucky announced.

“We! We are coming.” You shot him a look that said, Seriously?

He returned one that said, We don’t know anything about these guys. It’s not safe.

Your eyes hardened, goading him. Sideline me again, Barnes, and just watch what happens. 

Sam must have been watching, because he made an uncomfortable noise.

“No, can you two not do that? That thing you guys do where you communicate in your heads somehow.” He shuddered dramatically as he stepped up into the plane. 

You gave Barnes one final look. I can take care of myself. 

“We’re coming.” You shouted, pulling yourself up into the plane before Barnes. 

✯✯✯

The ride was silent, a lingering tension in the air. 

“One minute to drop off, Sam.” Joaquin’s voice crackled over the intercom. The supplies in the cargo hold rattled as you descended. 

“So what’s our plan?” Sam messed with his straps, getting his gear on. “Great. So no plan.” Bucky grumbled.

“Thirty seconds!”

“Enjoy your ride, Buck,” Sam replied.

“No, you can’t call me that.” He corrected Sam. 

“Why not? Steve called you that.”

“Steve knew me longer, and Steve had a plan.” You could see the irritability on Barnes’ face, hear it in his voice. Even you never dared to call him Buck. 

“Fifteen seconds!” Sam walked towards Torres, who stood by the now-open door. 

“I have a plan,” Sam stated. 

Oh, you knew what his plan was, alright.

“Really? What is it?” Sam jumped from the plane as soon as Bucky asked, wings extended. Bucky sighed in annoyance, pushing up from his seat. ”Great, where’s the chute?” He directed at Torres, whose brow raised at Bucky’s question. 

“We’re at 200 feet. Too low for a chute.” 

You made your way to the door, glancing out. All you had was a grappling hook, which wasn’t great in this scenario. You weren't hanging back on the plane, even though it was probably the smarter idea. 

“I don’t need it anyway,” Bucky affirmed, although his shoulders tensed, his eyes targeting the ground below. 

“You sure about that?” Torres asked, skeptical of his statement. Bucky pulled his eyes away, looking at him. 

“Yeah.” He nodded, a shaky exhale leaving his lungs. It was absolutely not a convincing tone, but he leapt out of the plane anyway. You heard the yelling as he presumably started hitting the tree tops. 

“No courtesy among boys, leaving the lady for last.” You quipped. Torres’ lips quirked at your comment. You gave him a devilish smile, clapping him on the back of the shoulder. “Glad someone around here appreciates my input.” 

The grappling hook was gripped firmly in your hand as you threw yourself out of the plane. Your stomach flipped. 

“This was a bad idea!” You yelled into the air as you entered a free fall. 

You had to focus. There was one shot to grapple onto a sturdy tree before you plummeted to the ground. As quickly as you could, you scanned the area beneath you and found the tree. The hand with the grappling hook shot out in front of you, ready. 

As soon as you fell through the treetops, you hit the button. The grappling hook latched onto the bark, digging into the tree. 

Thank god. 

Your relief came a little too early. The momentum swung you forward, pulling you through sharp branches and needles. You groaned, closing your eyes. With a force that would’ve cracked a normal person’s sternum and ribs, you connected with the tree. 

You attempted to grab on, but it was larger around than you expected.

“Fuck!” You grimaced, bouncing off and swinging back around. The next time, your back hit, and then you lost your grip on the grappling hook. Your stomach shot up into your throat as you fell who knows how many feet to the ground. Bracing for the impact did nothing.

A sob ripped from your chest as your shoulder took the brunt of the impact, a clear indentation in the hard soil. Eyes squeezed shut, the air knocked out of your lungs, you didn’t move. You groaned as you opened your eyes.

“I should’ve stayed out of it,” you wheezed, your breath coming back to you in sharp bursts. Redwing whirred about a dozen or so yards north of you. The coms clicked as Sam started talking. 

“I have all of that on camera. You know that, right?” He was talking to Bucky, but you had no doubt you were on that footage somewhere. 

“Get out of my face, Sam, or I’ll break it.” He threatened, voice raspy. 

“Okay, okay.” Redwing hovered in the air over Bucky until he stood. You pushed to your knees, gritting your teeth. The pain in your shoulder radiated down your entire arm. It was most definitely dislocated.

“Barnes!” You yelled, stumbling to your feet. He looked in the direction of your voice, jogging over. 

“What? What is it?” If you had to guess, he almost sounded concerned. You pointed to your left shoulder. 

“Shoulder. Dislocated.” You grunted, still trying to catch your breath. 

His eyes asked, You sure? You nodded, grunting as you extended your arm out. 

“Quick and dirty, Barnes.” You uttered, bracing yourself for more pain. One hand gripped just behind your elbow, the other gingerly resting on your shoulder—a sinful smile formed on his lips.

“Just how I like it.” There was no warning before he popped it back into place. A sob wrung from the bottom of your chest.

“Fuck!” You howled, pulling out of his grip and grabbing your shoulder. Redwing flew overhead. 

“Are you done flirting now? I can hear and see everything.” Sam interjected.

“Shut it.” You growled, turning to Bucky. 

“You enjoyed that a little too much, didn’t you?”

“Maybe a little.”

“Just you wait, Barnes. Your time is coming.” You threatened, grimacing as you rolled your shoulder back. The pain had lessened significantly, down to a dull throb. 

“On a clock here, lovebirds.” Sam’s voice sang through the coms playfully. “Come on, head north.” You flipped the bird at—well—the bird drone, grumbling under your breath as you both followed Redwing north. 

Chapter Text

The cold settled into your bones, scraping your lungs with each ragged breath. Everything was a godforsaken snowy hell here, and it was your new home. You hadn’t seen the light of day in weeks, maybe months or years, and even then, that was only an estimate.

  It was hard to tell how much time passed when walls of concrete and steel always surrounded you—no windows, no natural light, just the yellow, flickering glow of lightbulbs. 

  This was a trial run with the Winter Soldier that required leaving the base. It was a test to see how you performed as a unit in the field, not as opposing forces. You proved you could contend against him, but never quite crossed the line of success like you did against him that night. It was a matter of survival, a will to live—to continue. Sparring with him didn’t give you that instinct when you knew his orders weren’t to kill.

Over time, your punches became cleaner and quicker. You followed his fight pattern, predicting where he would move and whether he would attack or guard much more easily. That still didn’t mean you could overtake him. He was much stronger with the bionic arm and the serum. 

You knew precisely why he was a ghost story that frightened even the strongest men, the elite of the elite. The man, though it was hard to call him that, was lethal all by himself. Pairing a well-oiled, obedient machine and a trained widow together? 

A completely different story. 

To test this experiment, you were both sent out into the middle of nowhere to find a drop-off point. It was suspiciously quiet, no obstacles in your path besides Mother Nature herself. 

Basic details and necessities were provided before you were practically kicked off the plane. You wondered if they were evaluating your willpower to stay sane. Between the sharp, frosty winds that bit into your skin like crystalline shards and the deathly silent, robotic soldier lurking behind you, you were itching for some action. 

His tactical gear must have been insulated because he showed no indication of freezing, unlike you, who was wearing several layers and freezing your ass off. 

You’d been moving north for hours, and it all looked the same—a mountainous, snow-covered death trap. You’d lost count of how many times you slipped on the ice hidden beneath the snow. The Winter Soldier barely batted an eye, his posture rigid and pace set to match yours. 

The more you had time to think—and you had plenty—you speculated that HYDRA might want you dead. No one would find your body. It would be buried under several feet of snow before the winter was over, like finding a needle in a haystack hundreds of miles away from any sign of human civilization. You’d be a meal for the starving animal scavenger before anything else. 

You eyed the soldier behind you warily. He kept enough distance between you that made you uncomfortable, making it easy to slip away and leave you stranded; easy enough to put a bullet into the back of your skull. If your options were to navigate through a blizzard alone, ending up an ice cube, or having this psychopath behind you, you’d choose the psychopath. 

Strange dreams plagued your sleep over the last few weeks. A man, clawing out of his enclosure, thrust back before he stepped a foot outside. Of course, you knew what it was about—who, but not why. It all pointed back to your first sparring with the Winter Soldier at the HYDRA base. 

He rarely stepped out of line since then. No fire sparked behind that icy stare. It took too many soldiers to drag him out of that room, and he wasn’t seen for days. When he came back, he was colder. Harder. He didn’t do anything unless ordered. 

You had seen your fair share of physical and psychological torture, but this was something else. A complete reworking of his identity, his life before was nothing but shards inside his mind that meant nothing. You didn’t know who he was or why they took him. Very few knew his actual name—the ones who oversaw Project Winter Soldier. The rest were buried six feet under, some probably never found. 

Distracted by your thoughts, you didn’t hear the shot until it was too late. You were flattened to the ground, the ice-coated snow slicing into your cheek as your head hit hard. The weight lifted off you almost immediately. You looked back at the Winter Soldier towering above you. 

He scanned you for any apparent injuries, although that was difficult due to the numerous layers you were wearing. 

“We need to find the drop off, or some shelter, if they’re going to be shooting at us,” you said gruffly. 

As you pushed yourself to your knees, you let out a harsh gasp. Your body had been numb from the cold, but now a sharp pain shot through your midsection. You gritted your teeth, hands assessing the situation. 

There it was. 

A bullet hole through your dense jacket. This was not the place to get shot, to bleed to death. You practically ripped your outer layers off, trying to get to the wound. Blood already soaked your undershirt.

Fuck.

The bullet was lodged in your right side, below your ribcage. You’d be lucky if it didn’t hit a kidney or your liver. You bunched your undershirt tightly and tied it in a knot, a poor attempt to stem the blood flow. It would have to do until you found whatever you came for.

You stood weakly, hand pressed firmly into your side. HYDRA couldn’t kill you that easily. 

“Let’s go.” The words were soft against the howling wind, your voice laced with pain as you shuffled forward. 

It didn’t take very long before your knees threatened to buckle. Your vision blurred around the edges, and your sense of balance faded with each step. You didn’t look behind you to see if he was following; you knew he was. 

✯✯✯

For half a mile, he watched your gait shift to compensate for the bullet wound in your side, lungs rattling with each breath. He surveyed as much of the wasteland as he could see. There was a building in the distance, a dark shadow amongst the white canvas. 

He didn’t know why he reacted. A split second, that was all. The bullet wasn’t for him; that was clear. You did nothing but annoy and irritate him. You were arrogant to a fault, but a skilled fighter. You adapted well, observed everything, and even came to match his patterns during training—yet he still didn’t know why you were there. 

So why did he dive to cover you after spotting the sniper?

It was clear you needed immediate medical attention. If the bullet somehow missed your liver, it was lodged in your intestines somewhere—no exit wound. The pallor of your skin was already pale, but now you looked like death had you in its grasp. 

He walked directly behind you, his presence somehow stirring up whatever adrenaline you had left. He made you uncomfortable, despite the bravado you always wore. 

Good.

He had no time for games, no time for you. Unfortunately, HYDRA seemed to have other plans. Figures moved towards you in the distance. Soldiers. This was where you were supposed to meet up, except it didn’t look like any sort of supply drop-off to him. 

His spine straightened, muscles locking up. His hand moved to the handgun at his waist, and his finger twitched on the trigger. A loud, shaky exhale worked its way out of your lungs. He couldn’t tell if it was out of defeat or if your body was giving out. It was the latter. 

As soon as your feet fell out from underneath you, he was there. He scooped you up like you were weightless, holding you against his chest. You blinked up at him, eyelids drooping as you fought to stay conscious. 

It already felt like you were dead, because certainly, the Winter Soldier, the man hell bent on kicking your ass, could not be carrying you right now. The last thing you saw was his masked face, his hair frozen in place by the ice, framing his face. 

Your body went limp in his arms just as soldiers neared, guns trained on him. He could see the bold HYDRA symbol embroidered on their uniforms. They swarmed him, inspecting you, probably wondering if you were dead. 

A low rumble had the soldiers backing away. He didn’t even register that the noise came from him, somewhere deep within his chest. As he continued forward, his handler came into view. Karpov stood tall amongst the soldiers, proud. 

“Bring her into the chamber,” his gruff voice cut through the howling wind. Karpov signaled with his hand, and several of the soldiers fell into step behind the Winter Soldier.

He knew this facility, this room. It was his home.

It looked like it was about to become yours, too. 

Chapter Text

You and Bucky moved north, taking care to keep out of sight as much as possible. Redwing led you into what seemed to be an abandoned facility out in the middle of nowhere. You stayed behind Bucky, crouched against the wall as you made your way forward. 

Sam gestured behind him as both of you approached. Bucky stared into the distance, fixated on something. 

“You’re doing the staring thing again,” Sam stated. “They’re in there.” He pulled up the camera feed from Redwing. 

“Where’s the guy, Sam?” You asked. 

There were a few rebels here, but none were the one he had been after. 

“I don’t know, but they seem to be smuggling something outta here,” Sam said quietly.

“Well, I think you could be right, but there’s only one way to find out.” Bucky declared. “I see a clear path, I’m going to take it.” 

Sam slapped a hand across his chest as he turned to go.

“We’re not assassins.” 

Bucky’s eyes hardened, his body coiled tight with tension.

“I’ll see you inside.” He paused, pushing Sam’s hand off his chest. “Or not.” 

Sam huffed a laugh as Bucky strolled forward. 

“Do you remember who you’re talking to?” You tossed over your shoulder before following Bucky. If anyone needed to be watched, it was him. Sam could follow or use Redwing to keep an eye on things. 

“Wait, come back. I was just kidding!” He said in a hushed tone, loud enough that both you and Bucky could hear as you advanced on the rebel group. You couldn’t help but shake your head.

Seeing these two back together again was—something. 

Despite Bucky's attempts to kill Sam multiple times throughout the years—brainwashed, of course—there was an unspoken bond between them. It was different now, for both of them. All of you. There was no Steve, who had brought them together in the first place. 

Steve was a righteous man, everything America was supposed to be. Even after the Sokovia Accords, he continued to do what was right for the people, not what the government demanded. Sam followed him, leading to his arrest and years on the run, all because he trusted Steve about Bucky. 

But the two of them had rarely interacted without Steve. They were both Steve’s right-hand men at one point in time, trusting Steve with their lives. 

You were hesitant around Steve at first—distrustful, even—because who could be that good? It was only after Natasha vouched for him, day after day, week after week, that you began to let him in—but only so far. You practically begged for Natasha’s silence about your past.

Captain America becoming friends with a trained assassin from the foreign government, whom he thought he took down going into the ice? That wasn’t exactly the best start. 

Little did you know, at the time, that his best friend had been precisely that. And he had been with you all those years.

He always talked about Bucky, but you didn’t know Bucky—you knew J.

Over a year went by, and the Winter Soldier showed up in New York. Natasha only knew your association with HYDRA, nothing of your association with him. You knew you had to get to him. It might have been your only chance.

When Steve looked at the Winter Soldier unmasked after their fight, he froze. It looked like he was seeing a ghost, and you knew that look all too well. And if your past wasn’t already cruel enough to you, Steve muttered a name that changed everything. 

“Bucky?” 

No.

You thought you were being tricked, trapped in a nightmare: his best friend, your lifeline—the same person.

So, how did you tell Steve that you had been through decades of torture with him? That you had almost died because of him, for him. That he had done the same for you.

You didn’t—until you had no choice but to. 

Finally, you caught up with Bucky as he leered out from the wall, inspecting the surroundings thoroughly. He heard you come up from behind, but didn’t acknowledge you. 

“Look at you, all stealthy. Little time in Wakanda and you come out all White Panther,” Sam chuckled in your earpiece. 

Bucky straightened as you both neared an opening. 

“It’s actually White Wolf.”

Silence. 

“Huh?” Sam’s voice finally cut through, the confusion evident. 

“He’s the White Wolf in Wakanda,” you chimed in. 

You had seen everything there first-hand. It marked the beginning of a change for him and the acceptance of Wakanda. Bucky was a new man, no longer burdened by HYDRA’s controls inside his head. The Winter Soldier was no more.

“This is not a fight. We’re scoping them out,” you said lowly, bringing them both back to the task at hand. You stepped in front of Bucky’s line of sight. He sighed, his face tinged with irritation. 

“We take these guys out now, they’re not a problem for us later.” 

You scoffed at his declaration, earning a hard look from him.

“No, that’s never how this works, Barnes.”

“Tell me then. How does it work?” He scowled, voice nearly dropping into a growl. 

“Okay, we’ve got to work on whatever this hostility is that you have towards me.” Your jaw clenched, and your shoulders squared back as you rested your hands on your hips. 

Bucky’s eyes flashed, and it was lethal. “We’re not getting into that right now.” You followed the movement of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed hard. “This is why I didn’t want you to come.”

You barked a laugh, the sound louder than you would’ve liked. 

“Oh, you’re just begging for a fight, aren’t you?” Venom laced your honeyed tone in a sweet trap. 

“Guys, can we focus?” Sam cut in through both of your earpieces. Bucky eyed you as if he were going to take you up on that offer. 

“I’ll still kick your ass even with my shoulder,” 

And it was a certainty. You were lethal when you wanted to be, even to another super soldier, even to him. Bucky knew this firsthand, having taken the brunt of your violence many times before, with and without serum. 

Sam suddenly came up behind you both, distracting you from the moment. Bucky’s head snapped to the side, looking past where Sam came from, then back to him.

“Hi. Hello, how are you?” The passive-aggressive jab dripped with sarcasm. 

“Good, what did I miss? Nothing.” Sam snapped back just as quickly. 

You rolled your eyes. Everyone was acting like children, including you. Something needed to change, or this was going to go severely wrong. 

“Alright, let’s go,” Barnes said, clearly itching for that fight. 

“No, wait,” Sam interjected. 

“I’ve got a vibranium arm, I can take them.”

“I can fly, who gives a shit? Wait.” He said again. “I wanna see where they’re going,”

Bucky looked enraged. “There are only two people.”

“That you can see,” you intervened, throwing both of them a look over your shoulder. 

“Let’s see what Redwing sees, then,” Sam said, pulling up the camera feed on his wrist again. The thermal image showed at least five people as he zoomed out. 

“Oh, look at that. How many people do you see again? One… Two…” Sam chided.

“I think he gets the point, Wilson.” 

“Four… Oh, look. Five…” He continued. Bucky sighed, his shoulders dropping. 

“Okay, fine. Whatever.” His eyes never left them as they hauled away crates that no average person could lift without any equipment. “Okay. Now, let’s go.” 

Sam’s hand grasped onto Bucky’s bicep to hold him back, but the movement pulled his feet forward. He stepped onto something that resembled chicken wire, and it scraped against the concrete floor. 

“Shit, shit,” Sam whispered. All of you pushed back against the shelf, waiting for someone to inspect the noise they just heard.

You pursed your lips, eyes on Barnes. You dumbass.

His asked, You’re blaming me for this?

Hell fucking yeah, I am. 

A snarl formed on his lips. The rebels all turned away, moving to the trucks, where they just loaded everything on. 

“Okay, let’s go.” You heard from a distance. 

The engine of the truck roared to life. All of you looked at each other. Sam scanned the area again with Redwing’s thermal camera. 

“There’s an eighth person in the trailer.” His eyes narrowed as he looked up at you. “I think they have a hostage.”

This time, no one stopped Bucky as he took off in a sprint. Sam followed close behind, his wings already extended. You swore under your breath, but didn’t follow them. There was another plan you had.

You pulled out your phone and tapped into Redwing's software. There was only a slight chance this would work, but it was better than nothing while the two of them intercepted the rebel group. After a minute of looking around, you found what you were looking for. 

You double-tapped your earpiece, connecting to a different channel you opened up from Redwing. 

“Sam? Everything okay?” Torres sounded worried.

“Sorry, big guy. Try again.”

“But, how—” He stuttered, probably double-checking that he, in fact, answered a call from Sam. 

“Later, Torres. We’ve got a problem.” 

You relayed all the information you had, including what was currently happening. “I won’t be able to catch them now, so they’re going to have to deal with the rebels themselves. I’ll meet you at the airport.”

“Copy that. You, uh, have a name I can use?” 

You laughed at the timidness in his voice.

“Y/L/N. I don’t know you well enough for a first name,” you teased, wondering if the kid was blushing. 

Coordinates popped up on your phone. 

“Guess we’ll just have to get to know each other a little better, won’t we?” He suggested. 

You couldn’t help but let out a laugh as you made your way to the airport. “Many have tried, Torres. You sure you want to be one of them?”

Chapter Text

He paced all night, getting not a single ounce of sleep. Today was the day. After decades of torture, after years of guilt and remembering, they were finally removing HYDRA’s controls from his head. 

He ran his hand through his hair, pushing it back out of his face. It had gotten even longer since he came here to be put in cryo, longer than it had ever been before. Most of the time, he knotted half of it up behind his head. It helped keep some of the weight off his neck. 

Although he’d never admit it, he didn’t allow anyone to cut it because he wanted to remember everything, even if that meant seeing a monster when he looked at himself.

There was a calm that surrounded him in Wakanda. They set up a camp for him, but he wasn’t in isolation. Everybody visited, not scared of him. Hell, most probably didn’t know who he was beyond just Bucky. 

He thought not having two arms would bother him, but he adapted quickly. The serum allowed him to move and lift things with one arm without any problem. 

The dried grass outside crunched beneath someone’s weight. His pacing halted. It was early in the morning. No one was ever up at this hour, at least not by him. He held his breath, just listening. 

Nothing.

He was starting to think he was losing his mind. 

Again. 

He pushed the fabric aside and stepped out to investigate. When he lifted his head, he froze. 

Maybe this was a dream. Maybe he did fall asleep after all, because there’s no way you were here right now. He scanned you from head to toe, as if searching for an anomaly that proved you weren’t here.

“This isn’t real,” he breathed, eyes settling on yours. 

The color of your eyes was just like he remembered. So was the slight pout on your lips, the corners turned down, as if you were always displeased with everyone. The faint freckles that brushed over your nose and dusted your cheeks after you spent time in the sun. 

He should be really concerned with his mind for remembering all of these details so vividly. 

You wore faded gray jeans that fit snugly around your legs. A dark blue t-shirt clung around your shoulders, but was a little baggy around your waist. You wore your favorite brown leather jacket over the top as garnish—like always. 

“Well, hello to you too,” you chirped, shifting your weight to your right side. Bucky looked as if he were seeing a ghost. “I tried to get here last night, but got held up.” 

He blinked rapidly, still not processing that you were standing right in front of him. You snapped in front of his face, and he flinched. It seemed to have an effect because he finally responded. 

“Why are you here?” He asked, his voice raw. 

His eyes were dull with dark circles underneath them, but he looked healthier than when you last saw him. You pressed your lips together, brows furrowed. 

“Shuri texted me. She said that—” You cut yourself off mid-sentence. 

There was no recognition on his face. You shook your head, swearing at Shuri under your breath. 

“Anyway, I’m here, and it looks like you’ve gotten no sleep.” 

You stepped toward him. He didn’t move from his spot. Why would Shuri ask you to come here, on today of all days?

He eyed you warily, still not convinced this wasn’t a fever dream and he would wake up in a few minutes, your presence gone. You smiled at him. 

“Are you going to stand there and stare at me all morning, or would you like to go on a walk?” You inquired, your gaze falling to his hair. 

It was longer than before, and somehow shinier than yours, even though you know he probably didn’t do much to take care of it. He had half of it pulled back into a bun at the back of his head.

You reached his side, inspecting him further.

“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but—” your hand brushed the strands of his hair off his shoulder. “—the bun looks too good on you.” There was a pleasant lilt to your voice, almost melodic. 

He snatched your hand in his. You gasped softly. His was warm in contrast to yours. Your extremities were always cold; hands, feet, nose, you name it. 

“Y/N would never compliment me.” His voice was low, gravelly almost. “Although it almost sounded like you were jealous.”

You ran your tongue over the front of your teeth. 

“Alright, I’m taking it back then,” you said, withdrawing from his grasp. 

He stifled a laugh. You were about to give him some more hell, but all thoughts flew from your head when you were pulled into his embrace.

You panicked. Physical touch was still hard, even with him. It wasn’t easy for Bucky either—yet here you were. You tried and failed to fight it. Reluctantly, you wrapped your arms around him, palms resting on the middle of his back. His hand settled in between your shoulder blades. 

You couldn’t help but inhale the scent of him, mostly earthy, but still somehow smelling of leather and a spiced citrus—unless the leather was from you. You startled when his breath caressed your ear.

“I missed you,” he admitted. 

It was such an honest, raw confession. Neither of you bothered with pleasantries, always hiding behind sarcasm and retreating when things got too much. This was something different, something new. 

You were accustomed to the heated tension and anger, not this. Was he finally healing, being here in Wakanda? Was this what made him happy? His heartbeat was slow and steady as your head fell against his chest, quite the opposite of yours. 

“That’s not something James would say to me,” you mumbled, but there wasn’t the usual fire behind your words. 

Both of you just stood there, in that moment, like there was nothing else. He rarely let anybody call him James. It was too formal, and he was Bucky. But you, you were a different story.

He chuckled, the sound a low rumble in his chest. You felt it through your body and suppressed a shudder. His fingers trailed down your spine, light as a feather, before he released you.

You stepped back, keeping your eyes down. You didn’t think you could look at him. That tender moment, whatever it was, confused you. Yes, you had been through a lot together over the years, but this was uncharted territory. You cleared your throat.

“So, that walk?”

✯✯✯

“So Shuri really texted you?” Bucky finally asked, and you nodded. He showed relief, but something else was buried deeper. 

“What’s wrong, J?” You asked, strolling through the field beside him. 

There was always something lurking below the surface. It stayed there until it bubbled up and exploded. He didn’t answer you right away, as he didn’t know what to say. 

“What if it doesn’t work, Y/N?” The rawness in his voice pierced through you, and you felt a sharp pang in your heart.

“They wouldn’t put you through this before they knew it would work.” 

“But what if it doesn't?” He repeated immediately. “What if this can’t be taken from my mind?” He stopped walking. 

You turned to face him right away. The quick retort fell off your tongue as soon as you saw his expression. 

Anguish, despair. 

“Bucky. They can get it out of your head. The control was never permanent, even before this,” you took a step towards him. “You fought it back when HYDRA brought me in. You fought it when Steve did nothing but say your name after seventy years apart.” 

Another step, and you were face-to-face, inches apart. You had to crane your neck up to look at him, but he turned away from your gaze. 

No—that wasn’t going to happen this time. 

Your fingers latched onto his jaw firmly, turning his head back to you. His lips pressed in a thin line, eyes finally locking on yours. 

“Hope,” you said quietly, hand dropping back to your side. “You’re scared because you had hope.” 

His eyes flickered across your face, taking you in. The path seared into your skin. You were so focused on him that you didn't see his arm move. When his fingers brushed your cheek, you almost jumped out of your skin. They were cool against your flushed face. 

Twice. That was the second time he had initiated such a gentle touch with you today. 

“And Shuri got you here for—support?” He questioned, his voice softer. 

You swallowed hard. All you could do was nod. You had come when they brought him out of cryo, although he didn’t remember it. Another time, you just observed him in the village. He seemed happy, free even. You didn’t think he saw you, but he did. He watched you leave that time, and wondered how many times you’d done that—snuck away under the cover of the night. 

“Why didn’t you come see me?” He blurted before he lost whatever confidence he had. 

You averted your eyes, sucking in a sharp breath. He had seen you. His fingers hooked under your chin, forcing you to look at him. His eyes—it was always his damn eyes that got you. They showed so much so freely right now, yet other times, so much was buried behind those blank stares. 

“Y/N.” 

“I—” 

You were locked in his grip, unable to tear your eyes away. 

Pain, that’s what you saw. There was still so much more pain within him. 

“Why do you keep yourself away?” 

“Because you looked happy,” you finally admitted. 

His chest heaved with his next breath, his eyes boring into you with a familiar intensity. 

“I wasn’t about to take that away from you when you hadn’t found any peace in so long.”

His fingers lessened their grip just slightly, his thumb resting atop your chin, just below your bottom lip.

“And what about you?” He tilted his head to the side.

“What about me?”

“Were you happy? Are you?” 

“I—that’s not what we’re discussing.” You said sharply, yet there was no harshness behind the words. 

His face was so close you could feel his breath brush against your cheeks. “Are you happy, Y/N?” 

“Yes.”

“Try again,” his eyes flashed with something that could’ve been mistaken with anger. “Make me believe it next time.”

You frowned. “I'm fine.” 

He huffed. “You’re always fine, but that’s not what I asked.” His eyes darkened, and his brows furrowed together. 

You narrowed your eyes. “Don’t ask questions I can’t give you an answer to.” 

“What if I told you I wasn’t happy, like you thought?” Bucky asked, trailing his fingers down your neck. 

You froze, skin prickling in the trail of his touch. The air between the two of you sizzled with something akin to electricity; you couldn’t see it, but damn if you couldn’t feel it.

“And if I admitted that when you showed up this morning, the darkness already started to retreat, like it always does,” he asked, although it wasn’t phrased as a question.

Something inside of you fluttered at that. 

“I’d say you were crazy to admit that to me,” you finally answered him. 

A dark chuckle. “Crazy isn’t the worst thing I’ve been called.” 

You were nervous. Why were you nervous? 

“Are people like us ever going to be truly happy, though?” You diverted back to the conversation. You had somehow drifted closer, your tones hushed despite being the only ones around. 

He seemed to ponder that thought more than you would’ve guessed. “I’d like to think we could have something close.” 

Your heart did a little flip. You knew that wasn't what he meant, but your body and heart thought otherwise.

“Wouldn’t that be nice?” You whispered softly, voice laced with sarcasm despite the truth behind the question.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

The air was taut with tension. The threads of a rope pulled tight between the two of you, ready to snap, one by one with each tug. The pad of his thumb brushed your bottom lip, his eyes following. Despite knowing better, you leaned into his touch. It surrounded you. The feeling was intoxicating—no, that was just him. 

There was a magnetic pull to him, like the Earth rotating around the Sun. He was gravity, the center of it all—a black hole that consumed everything. It was a force no one could stop, certainly not you, despite your attempts. And now? 

Nothing was pulling you apart. 

His forehead fell against yours. You looked up at him beneath your lashes, his eyes bright and clear for the first time in a long time. 

“Y/N,” he rasped, like he had just found his voice within him.

“James,” you whispered back, the tip of your nose brushing his. 

He let out a shaky breath, his hand flexing as he moved it down your neck, angling your head back. A soft gasp left your lips, and his burning gaze tracked the sound. 

There was something carnal in his gaze—a hunger—pure and simple. He had been deprived of things for too long. So had you. He was trembling—no, he was restraining himself.

“Good! You’re here!” Both of you jumped away from each other at the interruption. You wiped your palms against your jeans before turning to the visitor. 

“Yes, I’m here, Shuri.” You replied, cheeks slightly flushed. She looked between the two of you innocently, although you knew she had something stirring in that brilliant, devious mind of hers. 

“Shall we get ready?” Shuri asked, beckoning to Bucky. He nodded and looked your way longingly before falling into step behind her. You wondered if he realized he was looking at you like that, or if you were imagining it. You stayed back, but Shuri looked directly at you.

“You’re coming too.” 

“I am?”

Chapter Text

Back at the airport, you and Torres watched the monitors he had set up in a control room in the airport. He was surprised at how quickly you made it, but you had your ways. Two blinking red dots moved at dangerous speeds.

“Well, at least they’re still on the trucks,” you muttered, face resting in your palms. 

The dot, which you could tell was Sam, flew around, likely using his wings in combat, or maybe just flying beside them. Something didn’t sit quite right with you. The hostage Sam had thought was in the trailer was alone in there. There should’ve been another body there, unless they were restrained, but even then, that was risky. 

“And we can’t get footage from Redwing?” You asked, not hiding the bit of concern in your voice. 

Torres shook his head. “No, Redwing is out. Something happened. There’s no connection.” 

You sighed. All you could do was wait and see how this played out. “So, how’d you get roped in all this?” 

Torres looked at you with a little smirk.

“You could say I got Sam roped into this. I was in Switzerland following a lead.” He said, his smile faltering. “Things went poorly.”

You quirked a brow. “I can imagine. Going against super soldiers unknowingly, you were at a distinct disadvantage.”

“Uh, yeah. Sam already chewed me out for that one—going alone.”

You could tell from the way he talked about Sam that he looked up to him. It was cute. 

You rested your hand on Joaquin’s shoulder. “He’s hard on the people he cares about. It’s just part of a man’s love, unfortunately.” You smiled, squeezing his shoulder.

“That’s why Sam didn’t want you guys here?”

Leaning back in the chair, you kicked your legs up on the console table, one ankle over the other. “Mhhh, that’s hard to say. Let’s just go with—it’s been too long since we’ve worked together.”

He gave you a look that said he might know otherwise.

“Yep, sure. So it must’ve been a different woman with the same name that threatened Sam recently.”

“I didn’t—” You stopped. 

He asked for your name earlier, like he didn’t know it.

Motherfucker.

He returned your smile from earlier. “You may not have known me before today, but who doesn’t know about you?”

“Lots of people, Joaquin, lots.” You crossed your arms over your chest.

He mimicked your movements. “You were an avenger.”

“Associate.”

“You fought against Thanos. Twice.” He shrugged. “I’d say that makes you as much of an Avenger as Bucky.”

You grumbled. “Fine. Still doesn’t mean anyone knows anything about me.” 

“I bet I know some things.”

“I bet you think you know some things.” You grinned wolfishly.

“I’m excellent with information and the internet.”

You uncrossed your legs, planting your feet on the floor. Joaquin’s expression went from playful to concerned in record time. Leaning forward, you cocked your head.

“Go on, then. Give me—” A sudden movement on the monitors had dragged your attention away. “—wait. What’s happening?”

Sam’s dot flew off to the side and behind the truck, leaving Bucky there. 

Was he retreating? What about Bucky?

Suddenly, Sam’s dot raced back, and both were overlapped. They rolled to a dead stop. 

That can’t be good. 

“Can we get into the comms without Redwing?” 

Torres nodded.

 “Do it now.” 

He typed rapidly at his computer, signaling when he was done. “You’re live.” 

You tapped your earpiece. “Sam, Bucky? Everything good?” You waited for a minute before continuing. “Hello? I know you can hear me.”

“Super soldiers,” Bucky affirmed. 

Your stomach dropped. 

“Fuck,” you whispered. 

You were right; something had seemed off about that eighth person hiding in the trailer. “Are you alright?”

“As alright as we can be,” Sam answered, groaning as he pushed up off the ground. 

Bucky made a gruff sound of agreement that barely came through the comms. 

“We’ll regroup at the airport. Get back as quickly as you can.”

✯✯✯

Your foot tapped impatiently, your hip jutted out to one side. 

Where the hell were they? 

Turning back to face him, Joaquin shrugged. 

Men.

You rolled your eyes. “Don’t be thinking of doing that research on me, Torres. You won’t like what you find.”

He puffed out his chest, just a little. “Oh yeah? Got some dark secrets you don’t want anyone to know about?”

You spared him a glance, a dark glint in your eyes. “You wish, pretty boy.”

He stood a little straighter, a little taller after you called him that. He wouldn’t find anything earlier than 2011. He wouldn’t even find a birthday. 

Finally, you saw two figures walk—yes, you were seeing that right—up to the entrance. 

“You walked here?” You shouted at them before you turned back to Torres. “I thought you sent a car?”

“Now that, I never said that.” He defended, holding his finger out. 

You immediately saw the dark bruise blossoming under Bucky’s eye, right on the cheekbone. All you did was raise an eyebrow, but he met you with a stern glare. 

“Don’t even start,” he stalked directly past you, right onto the plane. 

Sam caught your look before you asked anything.

“On the plane.” He nodded, his expression less grim but enough to worry you. You sighed, falling in step behind them. 

✯✯✯

Sam and Bucky had settled into the back of the plane right away, but you had followed Joaquin into the cockpit. He turned as you slid the door shut.

“Whatever happens with this, I need you to look out for both of them.” You ordered. “And don’t tell them.”

He sensed the shift in the air.

“Yeah, of course.” He nodded. “What about you?”

You gave him a sharp smile, all teeth.

“I can take care of myself, Torres.”

✯

It was silent as you stepped out of the cockpit. It seemed that they were in their own thoughts about what had just happened. Since you didn’t know any of the details, you broke the silence. 

“So, what happened?” You perched on one of the crates across from Bucky.

His eyes were distant, foggy almost, and they told you all you needed to know about where he was locked inside his head. 

“Super soldiers. All of them.” Sam spoke up, leaning forward with his elbows on his thighs. 

You waited for Bucky to respond, but he stared forward, eyes blank. 

“All? What about the hostage?”

 “One of them. Maybe their leader.”

“Shit,” you let out a long breath, gripping the edge of the crate. This was worse than you thought. “How the hell did eight new super soldiers pop up out of nowhere? The serum was destroyed.”

“All it takes is another greedy scientist who wants to make money. They just need notes from HYDRA, regardless of whether the physical serum was destroyed,” Bucky said.

“So you’re saying someone got HYDRA’s recipe for this shit, and recreated it?” Sam asked. 

Bucky nodded. 

“I burned everything physically. Digitally, there was nothing. They couldn’t risk that—I checked. The serum can’t exist anymore. Every trace of it is gone except for you and me.”

“You think they didn’t keep samples of your blood?” Bucky asked, finally looking in your direction. 

His face was set in hard lines. 

“Gone.” You clipped back. 

Of course, you knew they took your blood, experimenting with you in just about every way possible. You removed all traces of yourself from them. 

“Positive?”

“Unequivocally.” You kept your gaze on him, waiting for something inside of him to break through that facade he was so adamant on keeping up right now.

There was a silent conversation between you two. 

When did you have time to do that?

Not important. 

Fine. But you’re still here, that’s enough trace.

So are you. What’s your point?

 He sneered. Easy to get blood when you’re always fighting.

You glared daggers at him. And the Wakandans were studying you. Someone could have gained access to their databases.

“Enough with the staring and secret conversations. It doesn’t matter how, just that they did.” Sam chimed in, cutting you a puzzled look. 

You shot him one back that said, You don’t want to know. 

He jumped, like he had actually heard you in his head. 

“Don’t use that freaky shit on me, woman.” He shivered dramatically. “Anyway, the serum is clearly out there and got recreated in some way. We need to figure this out because we’ve got nothing.”

Bucky rolled his neck, exhaling deeply. “Let’s just take it. We can do this ourselves.” 

Confusion rolled over your face. “Take what?”

“We can’t just run up on the man, beat him up, and take it. Do you remember what happened the last time we stole it?” Sam stood up, walking closer to Bucky.

“Last time you took what?” You asked again, a little firmer this time. 

“Maybe,” Bucky said coyly.

“Here, I’ll help you in case you don’t remember everything in that cyborg brain of yours. Sharon got branded an enemy of the state, and Steve and I were on the run for two years.” Sam paced, arms crossed over his chest. “I don’t know about you, but I don’t wanna live the rest of my life like that. We just got our asses handed to us by a bunch of super soldiers.”

You jumped up. “Captain fucking America showed up? Here?” You thundered, blood already boiling. “You couldn’t have started with that? How did he even get here?”

“We’ve got worse problems than Captain America,” Sam noted.

“They tracked Redwing,” Bucky added.

“Fucking—” You blew out a breath. “Seriously?” You swiveled back to Sam. “Speaking of which, what happened to Redwing? I couldn’t get into his feed.” 

Bucky huffed, his lips turned up slightly. 

“Snapped in half by a super soldier,” Sam grumbled. 

“I wish I could’ve done it myself,” Bucky remarked.

“Jesus man, really? Not cool.” 

“Okay, boys, enough.” They both turned at your comment, not happy with being called boys. 

You wouldn’t have said it if they weren’t acting like it—scratch that—you totally would’ve.

 “So Redwing is down for the count, and the dollar store Captain America showed up to—what?” You trailed off. 

Neither of them answered you. 

“To help? Is that what you’re trying to say?” The look on Bucky’s face said it all—his jaw clenched, eyes darkened into something violent. “Fucking hell.” 

You pressed your fingers into your forehead. 

“We’ve got nothing against the super soldiers. Two super soldiers and a guy with wings can’t beat eight of them.” Sam said. 

“Well, we can’t let the US government get involved. Whatever these guys are up to, they are most certainly going against world governments, and it won’t end well. No Captain America this time.” 

“Not true—that we have nothing, I mean,” Bucky added. 

“What else would we have?” You asked, hands on your hips. 

He ran his hand through his hair. “There’s someone you both should meet.” 

Chapter Text

Bucky changed the flight course to Baltimore. 

“Baltimore?” Sam read the screen with a frown. “Who the hell do you know in Baltimore?”

Bucky didn’t answer. When you landed, he led the way through a quiet, worn-down neighborhood. Two kids were playing on the sidewalk. One stopped, squinting as Sam approached. 

“Hey, it’s Black Falcon! What’s up?” The kid called, grinning.

Sam chuckled. “Just Falcon, kid.” 

“Nah. My daddy told me it’s Black Falcon.”

Sam tilted his head, eyebrows raised. “Is it because I’m black, and the Falcon?”

“Well, I mean, technically, yes.” The kid looked momentarily stumped at Sam’s line of questioning.

Behind them, you and Bucky exchanged an identical deadpan look.

Sam shook his head, walking closer. “So, are you like, Black kid?” 

The boy blinked, then sighed as Sam patted his shoulder and moved forward. “I got him, right?” He threw over his shoulder, trying not to laugh.

Bucky gave a tight smile, but didn’t say anything. He nodded toward a small house up ahead. “This is it.”

Sam headed up the walkway. Bucky’s hand shot out and grabbed your wrist—the uninjured one, but firm enough to make you whip around, eyes narrowing.

“What the hell—”

“Stay here,” he leaned in, lowering his voice. “Listen to me. This guy isn't going to want me here. Do not say anything about who you are, in the slightest chance he doesn’t know already.”

Your eyes narrowed. “Who is he?”

“Quiet.” Bucky hissed, gaze flicking to Sam’s back.

You yanked your wrist from his grip. “So this is serious. Who?” 

He gave you a hard look. “Someone from my past.”

Your lips twisted. “I’m someone from your past.” 

His jaw flexed. “Before you were born.”

“Oh,” you snorted. “You’re really selling this. Who is he, Bucky?”

He clenched his teeth. “Just—don’t say anything. Don’t do anything. For once.”

It wasn’t often you heard that tone from him, less command and more worry. Enough that it seemed like he was trying to protect you, in his own brutish way. 

You leaned in, voice mockingly sweet. “Aw, you trying to keep me safe, Sergeant?” His nostrils flared. “News flash, you have to keep everyone safe from me—not the other way around.” 

He didn’t rise to the bait, biting his tongue, and only gave you that look that said he wouldn’t humor you today.

You rolled your eyes, but let it go. “Fine. I’ll be the meek, little woman in the background while the big, bad soldier talks shop.” You brushed a finger along the collar of his jacket. “If you say please.”

He seized your wrist again, tugging you closer so your faces were inches apart. 

“Y/N.”

You raised your brows, feigning innocence. “First name. We’re getting somewhere.” 

His brows drew tight. “Little wraith.” 

The name hit somewhere low in your gut—a fluttering—despite it being the name HYDRA coined for you. It was the way he said it in these tense moments, like it was the only way to get through to you. Your face twitched, betraying too much.

You looked away sharply. “Fine. I’ll play nice. Let the boys do the talking.” 

But your eyes lingered on him too long. Every single atom inside of you was affected by him, whether you wanted it to or not. His touch seared into your skin, burrowing deep within your bones. 

The way your hand was clasped in his made the deepest parts of your mind surface—memories you didn’t want to remember flickered—the parts you kept locked away for good reason. An image flashed behind your eyes: your arms stretched above your head, locked in his grip just like this. 

You buried that image as far down as you could. 

Fuck—you were so messed up for thinking that. 

Your face hardened. You ripped your wrist from his grasp, wiping your palm on your jeans like you could scrub him off you. His eyes searched yours, and you prayed he couldn’t see everything that was written there. 

“Hey!” Sam’s voice cut the tension. “You two lovebirds coming or what?”

You ignored Sam’s comment, stepping around him, and followed Sam, but not before he gave you a knowing look.

Do as I said. 

You heard it clear as day, as if he had said the words aloud. The feminist side of you got combative—he couldn’t tell you what to do, no man could. The other side of you, well, you didn’t dare let her get hold of those thoughts. 

Bucky fell in behind you both, his voice flat but heavy. “Yeah, let’s get this over with.”

✯✯✯

You stood behind Bucky and Sam, exactly where Bucky had told you to stay. It was rare you listened this well, but the way he’d asked—almost begged—made you uneasy enough to obey.

The door creaked open, and a younger, dark-skinned man peered out suspiciously. 

Bucky didn’t waste any time. “We’re here to see Isaiah.” 

The man’s eyes flicked between the three of you, hardening. “Nobody named Isaiah lives here.”

“Look, we just want to talk to him,” Bucky pressed.

“You must not hear what I just said. You ain’t getting in this house. Y’all can leave.” 

He moved to shut the door, but Bucky caught it. “Tell him the guy from the bar in Goyang is here. He’s gonna know what that means.” 

You and Sam exchanged a glance. Goyang? You mouthed, What the hell at Bucky, but he ignored you.

The young man squinted at Bucky, clearly weighing something. Finally, he exhaled sharply. “Wait here.” He shut the door. 

You let out an annoyed sigh. “Charming.”

Sam shot Bucky a look. “Nice kid. How did you even know this guy?”

Bucky rolled his shoulder like it was sore. “I used to. Skirmish during the Korean War.” 

You sucked in a sharp breath. He didn’t miss that. His gaze cut sideways, meeting yours. Your father had fought in Korea, too—the medic. The man your mother claimed was a saint on and off the battlefield. You couldn’t try to count all the stories she had told you about him always fixing up his guys, even outside of work. Your chest felt too tight for a second.

Did Bucky know? Is that why he told you to stay quiet? 

The door opened again, breaking your thoughts. The young man gestured stiffly. “Today’s your lucky day. He wanna see for himself.”  

Inside, the place was dim even though it was midafternoon. The shades were drawn tight, and light spilled in only at the corners. You scanned the photos on the walls—no effort to hide them. Someone lived here honestly, despite the secrecy.

A sound rattled deeper in the house. Bucky didn’t flinch. “Isaiah?” He called. 

The man who emerged had the build of a fighter, even at his age. Late sixties at best—but if he’d been in Korea, he’d have to be older than that. Much older. He carried himself like someone who wouldn’t let time take anything without a fight.

Isaiah’s eyes scanned Sam, then you, finally landing hard on Bucky. 

“Look at you.” He rasped, voice worn like sandpaper. 

Bucky’s shoulders tensed. He cleared his throat. “This is Sam. Sam, this is Isaiah. He was a hero. One of the ones that HYDRA feared the most, like Steve. We met in ’51.”

Isaiah’s face twisted with disdain. “If by met, you mean I whooped your ass, then yeah.”

You blinked, but you were stuck on Bucky’s words. HYDRA feared him? 

Isaiah didn’t stop. “We heard whispers he was on the peninsula, but everyone they sent after him didn’t come back.”

That checked out. 

His eyes narrowed at Bucky. “So the US military dropped me behind the line to go deal with him. Took half that metal arm in Goyang, but I see he’s managed to grow back another. I just wanted to see it.” He snorted. “Or if he came here to kill me.” 

Silence stretched. The air felt like it might crack. Bucky didn’t answer, just met Isaiah’s stare with something close to shame. 

Isaiah’s gaze slid to you, cold and appraising. “And who’s this?”

Your mouth twitched. So much for staying unnoticed.

“She’s no one,” Bucky said flatly. 

Your head snapped toward him. Seriously?

Isaiah’s eyes narrowed further. “Yet she’s here.”

You plastered a fake smile on your face. “Work partner. Government, unfortunately.” 

Technically, it wasn’t a lie, just not the whole truth. He didn’t buy it for a second, but he didn’t press further.

Bucky’s voice nearly cracked, almost like he didn’t believe himself. “I’m not a killer anymore.” 

Your fists balled at your sides. You wouldn’t let him fall back into that. Not here. Not in front of this man. Isaiah watched you. He noticed. His eyes widened a fraction at the tension in you, but he turned back to Bucky. 

“You think you can wake up one day and decide who you wanna be?” His voice was ragged, shaking with rage and something older—deeper. “It doesn’t work like that. Well—maybe it does for folks like you.”

Bucky flinched like he’d been struck. “Isaiah, the reason we’re here is because there’s more of you and me out there.”

It was hard to control your expression. 

He’s a fucking super soldier?

Isaiah let out a bitter laugh. “You and me.”

“We need to know how.” Bucky added quietly.

Isaiah’s eyes went flinty. “I’m not gonna talk about it anymore.” His hand shot out, grabbing a metal canister. 

He hurled it at the wall. It embedded with a heavy thunk, cracking plaster. Sam recoiled, eyes going wide. Your heart thudded.

Fuck. 

Isaiah’s voice broke. “You know what they did to me for being a hero? They put my ass in jail for 30 years. People running tests, taking my blood, coming into my cell. Even your people weren’t done with me.” He was shaking outright now. 

“Isaiah,” Bucky tried, his own voice breaking, eyes pleading.

“Get out of my house!”

The young man reappeared in the doorway. His voice was quiet, but firm. “Let’s go, man. Now.”

Chapter Text

You were still reeling. The US government had experimented on Isaiah Bradley after Steve went into the ice, and buried it so deep no one even knew. You trailed a few steps behind Bucky and Sam as you all walked down the street. Sam’s posture was stiff, rage radiating from him in tight, controlled movements.

“Sam,” Bucky called quietly. 

Sam didn’t even look at him. “Why didn’t you tell me about Isaiah? How could nobody bring him up?” His voice was low, shaking with fury.

Bucky hesitated, jaw working.

“I asked you a question, Bucky.”

“I know.” He exhaled hard, dragging a hand through his hair. 

Sam stopped dead and turned. “Steve didn’t know about him?”

Bucky swallowed. “No. I didn’t tell him.”

You finally closed the gap, voice sharper than you meant. “Who did know? Anyone other than the bastards who made him?”

Bucky didn’t answer; his silence said enough. 

Sam’s face was a mask of disbelief and fury. “So you’re telling me that there was a black Super Soldier decades ago and nobody knew about it?” 

You glanced between them, your mouth twisting bitterly. Of course, the US had covered it up. Just like HYDRA did. It wasn’t even surprising—just enraging.

“This isn’t exactly the best place for this conversation,” you said, trying to keep your voice even as you glanced at the houses lining the street. Neither of them heard you, or they were ignoring you. You sighed and stepped between them. Sam barely flicked his eyes at you, laser-focused on Bucky. 

“Let him answer. Stop protecting him.” His voice was colder than you’d ever heard it. 

“Sam,” Bucky rumbled, stepping closer behind you. His hand brushed against your back—a quick, grounding touch. “Don’t take it out on her, she’s right. We can’t do this here.”

“Bullshit!” Sam snapped.  “Isaiah rotted in prison for decades, and you wanna wait? We’re talking about this right damn now.” He stepped forward. 

You held your ground, putting a hand on his chest. “Sam. Please.” Your voice cracked with urgency. 

Sam’s jaw tightened. “Stay out of this, Y/N.” 

He grabbed your hand and forcibly pulled it off him. Your brain stuttered. You knew it wasn’t an attack—but your body didn’t. It only screamed one thing.

THREAT. 

You reacted without thinking. You caught his forearm, twisted, and slammed him to the ground in a perfect, practiced flip. Sam groaned, the wind knocked out of him. Bucky swore under his breath. You froze. Your hands were still out, breath coming in sharp gulps. You looked at Sam, sprawled on the pavement, then at Bucky’s wide, startled eyes.

“God, Sam—I’m sorry, I just—” You were cut off by the wail of police sirens.

Shit. 

Your heart hammered. Old instincts screamed at you to run, but you stood there, trembling, fighting the urge. Bucky watched you carefully, reading you like a map he’d memorized long ago. He shifted closer, an unconscious pull, but didn’t touch you. Two officers stepped out of their vehicle, eyes sweeping the scene.

“Hey there,” the shorter one greeted, sounding deceptively friendly as he eyed Sam pushing himself up off the ground. 

Sam forced a strained smile. “Hey, man, what’s up?” 

“A problem here?”

“No. We’re just talking.” 

“We’re fine,” Bucky said firmly, training his gaze on the two officers. 

You didn’t say a word, arms crossed tight over your chest. 

“Looks like there was a little skirmish between the two of you.” The taller officer gestured between you and Sam. 

Your eyes narrowed dangerously. Not the smartest thing you could’ve done. Bucky slid beside you, giving the cop a strained, fake smile.

“Y/N just likes to remind us that she takes her self-defense training very seriously.” The lie rolled smoothly from his tongue, and he forced a chuckle. His hand found your lower back again, firm and grounding. It stabilized you. “Keeps us sharp.”

The officers’ attention flickered off you—mission accomplished. Bucky knew how you felt about law enforcement, but then their eyes drifted back to Sam. 

“You got any ID?”

Sam’s nostrils flared. “No. Why?”

Bucky’s voice dropped. “Man, come on.”

“Sir. Calm down.”

“I am calm. What do you want? We just said there wasn’t a problem.” Sam snapped. 

“Just give him your ID,” Bucky muttered.

“No! We weren’t doing anything.” Sam barked. 

“Is he bothering you?” The shorter officer turned to Bucky. 

Your blood went ice cold. Oh no. You knew exactly what was happening now—they were targeting Sam. 

Bucky’s patience snapped. “No, he’s not bothering me. Do you know who this is?” His voice thundered with barely restrained anger. 

Recognition flickered in the second officer’s face.

“Hey, these guys are Avengers…” He whispered to his partner. 

The first officer’s eyes widened. “Oh, God, I—I’m so sorry, Mr. Wilson.” He laughed awkwardly. “I, uh, didn’t recognize you without the goggles.” 

Another cruiser rolled up behind them. The siren blipped once, cutting the tension for just a moment. “Give us a second, guys. Wait here.” 

Both officers walked to the other vehicle, leaving all of you standing there. You could hear the radio chatter from here. 

Bucky turned back to Sam, voice low and raw. “Because he had been through enough. That’s why I didn’t tell anybody.”

He sounded hollow—like a man who had already lost, no matter what he said. The weight of it pressed into his voice, heavy with guilt and inevitability. Even if he had told Steve, told anyone, it wouldn’t have mattered. The damage was done. The words hit Sam like a blow to the chest, the anger draining just a little.

You swallowed hard. “Bucky.” 

His eyes met yours—exhausted, haunted. It hurt him, you could see that. It hurt you that he felt like it was his fault, no matter what he had done. But the moment was shattered when the first officer returned, clearing his throat. 

“Mr. Barnes, there’s a warrant out for your arrest.”

Your head snapped to the officer. “The fuck there is.” You took a step forward, but Bucky grabbed you and pulled you back against him, arm tight around your shoulders.

“Look, the President pardoned him for all of that,” Sam argued. 

The cop didn’t flinch. “No, not for that. You missed your court-ordered therapy. It’s like missing a check-in with your PO.” 

You turned to look at Bucky. His face was resigned, like he’d known, but you couldn’t let this happen—not now. You struggled against his grip, but he held firm, pulling you back even closer.

“It’s fine, little wraith,” he murmured against your hair, voice low and soothing. The warmth of his breath tickled the back of your neck, and a shiver wracked through your body. “No need for you to get yourself in trouble for me.”

After a long pause, he slowly let you go. The cops moved in, cuffing him. “I’m sorry, Mr. Barnes,” one muttered as they guided him to the car. But before the door shut, another officer approached. 

“Did you say your name was Y/N, as in Y/N Y/L/N?”

You stiffened. “I didn’t say that.” 

They turned to Bucky. He didn’t meet your eyes, guilt all over his face. He had said your name earlier. 

“That is her name?”

Bucky winced—it was all the answer they needed.

“Miss Y/L/N,” the cop said grimly. “Unfortunately, it looks like we also have a warrant out for your arrest.” 

There was no way. 

Your breath caught. “On what charges?”

“Breaking and entering.” The new cop said. “Into a government facility.” 

You stilled unnaturally, the color draining from your face. Sam whipped around, baffled.

Shit. 

You glanced at Bucky, his face now blank, but his eyes—oh, his eyes stared right through you. He knew exactly what they were talking about. You tried to bury the embarrassment beneath a scowl, but it still crept through—hot, obvious, and humiliating. He bit his bottom lip, eyes bright, and you knew you were never going to hear the end of this. As the cops came toward you with cuffs, you feinted forward just enough to make them flinch back.

Good. 

You looked over your shoulder and locked eyes with Sam.

 I’m sorry.

He understood. You didn’t have to say a word. He was going to have to try to pull some strings to get you and Bucky out of jail. They hauled you toward the car, the door slamming behind you. That was the end of that argument—for now. But you had another one coming your way.

✯✯✯

You felt Bucky’s searing gaze on you before forcing yourself to turn his way.

“I swear it wasn’t—”

“How many times?” He cut you off, voice low but sharp enough to sting. 

You dropped your gaze to your cuffed hands, jaw tight. You didn’t answer him.

“Y/N,” his voice was harsh with disbelief. “Therapy is confidential, you do know that, right?” 

“Only when you actually share information,” you muttered under your breath, but you knew he heard it. 

“Fucking Christ.” 

It was too loud because one of the officers spared you both a glance from the mirror. You sat back hard against the seat, exhaling shakily.

“I just wanted to make sure you were okay,” you bit out, eyes locked on your twisting fingers. It cost you to admit that, and you couldn’t look at him, not when you were voicing things that made you vulnerable—weak. Bucky stilled, watching you.

“Goddamn it,” he raked his cuffed hands through his hair as best as he could, jaw clenching. “You could’ve texted. Called—walked through the damn door. You clearly knew where I was.” 

“I—” You faltered, the words catching in your throat.

Because you hadn’t. Not once.

“Look at me.” 

You swallowed hard. You didn’t want to, but you did. He was torn. A war raged between his expression and his eyes—his face stone, yet his eyes held something softer. 

“Why?” He demanded.

You opened your mouth and shut it again. Emotion knotted in your throat, threatening to spill everything you’d fought to lock away. It was a question for which you didn’t have a good answer—an answer he didn't want. You’d stayed away because you had to. After HYDRA, after Thanos, after everything. You left because you couldn’t afford what he made you feel.

“You needed space,” you said finally. 

Not a lie. Just not the truth. 

“You just lost your best friend, and I lost Natasha.” You bit the inside of your cheek to keep your lip from quivering. “We both needed space after what happened.” 

Bucky snorted, mouth curling into cold amusement. “That’s a bullshit answer.” 

You blinked, barely keeping your jaw from dropping. “Excuse me?” 

“You heard me.” He said, and it was a challenge. 

You bristled. Your cuffs clinked as you shifted to face him fully. “Oh, and you couldn’t have reached out to me? Why the hell was it my job?”

“Don’t turn this around on me.” 

“You put it on me in the first place!” Your wrists strained in the cuffs as you pressed your palms to your face, trying to calm down. “You distanced yourself from me first, not the other way around, Barnes.”

He scoffed. “You’re the one who fucking left.”

“Oh my God,” you twisted your whole body toward him, rage simmering. “You don’t even see it.”

Confusion flickered in his glower. “See what?”

Your mouth opened to eviscerate him completely—but a soft rap on the plexiglass divider startled you both. The cop in the front seat turned, expression stern.

“Calm it down back there.” His eyes landed on you, lingering for too long.

You leveled him with a flat, cold stare. “This is me calm.” 

The officer looked over at Barnes, who said nothing, then back at you. “Just keep it down.”

Your lip curled. “Or what? You gonna come back here and make me?”

Bucky snapped forward, cuffed hands finding yours and gripping tight. It dragged your attention back to him.

“Stop.”

You tore at his hold, your fury flashing hot and wild. He didn’t let go. His grip only tightened, knuckles pale, and when your eyes met his—there it was. 

That same haunted fire. Grief forged into steel. Fury straining against the leash. You swallowed hard. Neither of you spoke. It was a breathless, burning silence—both of you seething, neither willing to look away. And then because you were furious and stupid and aching for a fight, you said it.

“Make. Me.” 

You didn’t mean to say it like that. Not with that tone. Not with that heat. Not with him sitting inches away in the back of a goddamn squad car, your hands clasped in his like they had any right to be, chest heaving like he was one second away from ruining everything—or fixing it. But the words slipped out like they always did when you were around him. You meant it to be venom. A threat. A taunt. 

But it came out like a challenge—a plea. 

And then you saw it. The flicker behind his eyes. The shift from restrained fury to something more profound. Not anger. No, this was heat—undiluted, unrelenting. Hunger, sharpened into something feral, barely leashed beneath the surface. It burned in his too-blue eyes, something you’d glimpsed once before in what felt like another life. Now it surged back like a riptide breaking the calm, dragging you under before you could brace. And just like that, the fight was gone—swallowed by something far more dangerous.

Because that look? 

That was a man whose patience had sharp teeth. It was like being stripped bare, flayed to the bone. Blue and blistering, that stare was carnal—devouring you. It said everything neither of you dared say in words. Everything you’d felt simmering beneath every sharp word, every near-miss, every loaded silence. You swallowed. Hard. 

The air inside the squad car turned molten. Your pulse roared in your ears, your breath hitched—and still, he hadn’t moved an inch. He didn’t have to. That look alone was enough to undo you. Right here. Right now. His tongue swept over his bottom lip before he caught it between his teeth. 

It was the kind of movement that didn’t need words. The kind that said Don’t test me, and you have no idea what you just started all at once. Your stomach dropped—no, it twisted—tight and hot, like the oxygen in the car had been swapped for something heavier and charged. Bucky’s eyes were still on yours, fixed and unrelenting. 

And for a moment—just one—you let those deep thoughts surface, wondering what would’ve happened if the space between you didn’t exist. If you weren’t handcuffed by circumstances, quite literally, in the back of a squad car with half a mile left to the station. But then—

The brakes squealed. The world outside the squad car lurched with a loud clunk as the vehicle came to a stop. Flashing lights leaked through the rear window, casting red and blue over his face, still too close. A knock on the rear door snapped through the air like a slap. 

“Barnes. Y/L/N. Let’s go.”

The moment was shattered. He blinked once, slowly—like waking from a trance—then leaned back with a loud breath through his nose, a quiet scoff under his breath that might’ve been frustration—or maybe something worse. Something unfinished. Your pulse still hadn’t calmed.

As the door opened and reality spilled in, you swallowed hard again, squaring your shoulders, and followed him out of the car—face neutral, heart hammering, heat still blooming inside you. Whatever that moment had been, it wasn’t over. Not even close.

And God help you, you didn’t want it to be over.  

Chapter Text

The heavy metal door groaned open, spilling harsh fluorescent light into the cell. You didn’t flinch, lying in the dark, listening. There were boots, laughter, and the careless sound of violence. Then a body hit the floor with a hard thud. The Winter Soldier. They didn’t even pretend to be careful this time. His bionic arm was scorched, circuitry still faintly hissing from the voltage they’d dumped into him.

Minutes passed by, and he didn’t move. When the silence stretched too long, you sat up. He was crumpled at the threshold like a discarded weapon: bare-chested, skin slick with sweat, and bruises already blooming across his ribs. He looked half-dead, but he wasn’t a normal man; he would heal.

With a resigned breath, you pushed off the cot—the thin, rusted frame that rattled when you shifted too fast. You crossed the cell slowly, taking deliberate, careful steps to avoid startling him if he woke. Sometimes—most of the time—he lashed out after these ‘sessions’ before realizing where he was. You usually took the brunt of it. He still didn’t stir.

They must’ve really done a number on him.

You knelt, the chill of the concrete leeching into your bones through your thin pants. His hair stuck to his face, damp from sweat and tangled. You brushed it back only to find what you knew would be there—burn marks from the electroshock clamps. They traced his temple, all the way down his jaw in cruel arcs.

Guilt clawed at you. You knew it wasn’t your fault—none of this was—but you couldn’t help but feel responsible. You wished he hadn’t done anything. Because this was always the cost. It never got easier to watch it happen or see the aftermath.

It certainly wouldn’t be the last time.

You pressed two fingers to his throat, his skin hot and clammy. Pulse—weak. Your hand trailed down to his chest. Breathing—barely—but you felt the subtle rise, lungs taking in oxygen. Everything was faint, but he was stubbornly alive.

“Alright, big guy,” you murmured, slipping his flesh arm over your shoulder. “Let’s get you off the damn floor.”

He was dead weight—dense muscle and steel. You grunted with the effort, despite the serum, staggering as you wrestled him upright, his body sagging against yours. You half-dragged him to the cot and eased him down. That’s when his body tensed. You froze.

Right after they sent him back, he was dangerous—too far gone, caught somewhere between the programming and the pain. You’d learned the signs, the patterns. But tonight, when he opened his eyes, something was different. He blinked up at you, his eyes still foggy. They were bloodshot, wild, and nearly shaking. You braced for it, the strike, the shouting, the metal hand at your throat. Instead—

“Are you okay?” His voice cracked on the words, as if his throat was raw from screaming.

You blinked. That wasn’t part of the pattern. He tried to sit up, muscles jerking with the effort, but you lifted a hand to stop him, hovering just shy of contact. Your jaw twinged, the steady throb of your own injuries intensifying.

“I should be asking you that, J,” you whispered.

They didn’t just deliver shocks; they beat him. Bruises splattered across his ribcage, and you didn’t want to think about what his back looked like. His eyes drifted down, caught on the angry, red marks still wrapped around your throat.

His jaw tightened. “What did he do to you?” The words came out low, barely controlled.

“Is it really that impor—”

“Yes.”

It was the kind of answer that dared you to lie. “It looks like they beat you with a cattle prod.” The bars of the cell were cool against your back as you leaned back, looking away from him. “Just a few threats, then tossed me in here.”

His eyes conveyed many of the things he never voiced. It was how you learned to communicate over the years. He read you like you were his favorite book, one that he refused to stop reading, hell bent on finding every tiny detail until he knew it from memory. You felt like his book kept rearranging the chapters.

“Verbal threats,” you added, knowing he was waiting for the confirmation that Karpov didn’t touch you after they took him away.

A lie, but he didn’t need to know that.

He continued to watch you with that intensity only he possessed—the kind that made you feel stripped bare. You were never sure if he hated you for caring about what happened to him, or if he hated himself for caring about you. But he didn’t press further.

He sank back into the cot, wincing, exhaling like he’d been holding his breath since he stirred awake. You watched him. There was always something in his silence, something loud, almost deafening.

“Can I do anything?” You asked quietly.

Of course, he didn’t answer. You weren’t sure he knew how to accept help, but he still gave it somehow. You’d seen it enough times to know he’d walk through fire if it meant dragging you out. But to let someone else do the same for him?

Never.

Your palms rubbed over your face, trying to scrub the day off your skin.

✯✯✯

You swung the door open, strolling into Karpov’s office. It reeked of sweat, leather, and rot. You hated it. Even the cells they kept you in didn’t smell like that, stained with old blood and scarred with bitter memories. The Winter Soldier stood behind you like a shadow, silent and towering.

It took approximately five minutes before Karpov snapped. His voice was venomous, fists slamming on the desk. You didn’t flinch. Neither of you flinched anymore. It was why it always resulted in physical punishment. You were forced to stand by his guards, their stunners in hand, in case you had any ideas. The backhand, you expected. The fingers around your throat? That was new.

Air fled your lungs. Your vision tunneled. You refused to fight back because that meant giving him what he wanted, but it was hard not to pry his fingers off you and throw him across the room. Your eyes watered, and just when your legs started to buckle, there was movement behind you. Fast and violent.

You gasped as Karpov released you, but you didn’t see the aftermath. Not until a body flew across the room, limp as it hit the floor. And then you knew. He was snapping—you just didn’t understand why. Your eyes locked with Karpov’s, and you didn’t like what you saw. It wasn’t just anger. There was a strange mix of curiosity in his gaze as it flickered between you and the Winter Soldier.

Karpov barked at the remaining guards. “Take him.”

They, in fact, did not take him—not easily, at least. He was tearing through the guards like they were paper. One, two, three—all down. Another group of five soldiers had burst into the room before they could restrain him, disable him. You turned just in time to meet his eyes.

There he was. Not the weapon, but the man. Feral. Wrathful. Untamed. It was a man who had been caged for too long. And they deserved all of it, and everything that followed. Just a second, that was all it was—a blip in time. The lethality in his face was apparent. His eyes were electric, and it was as if you were staring into the hottest, burning flame.

Oh, yes.

They had never quite broken the man inside. And then he was gone, dragged out like an animal, and you stared after him, blood pounding in your ears.

Karpov stepped closer. “Very protective of you, isn’t he?”

You said nothing. It was better not to speak sometimes. Even you knew that, despite your temper.

“I asked you a question, Wraith.”

You stared at the floor, gritting your teeth. “How am I to know?”

He clicked his tongue.

Wrong answer.

“Now, now. I can’t even count on my hands the number of outbursts he’s had. Not for himself—no.” He circled the table until he stood directly in front of you. “For you.”

Those two words, you didn’t want to hear them, especially not from him. “What do you expect me to do?”

“I expect my assets to obey. Not form an attachment to one another.”

“There’s no attachment,” you said coolly.

He motioned for you to stand. He had several inches on you, similar to the Winter Soldier, but it wasn’t the same. He never seemed to tower over you like the Winter Soldier did. He pulled out a small black remote, and your muscles locked up instantly. Amusement flashed across Karpov’s face.

“No, no. That’s not what this is.” He waved it around in front of you, taunting. “You’ll know exactly when that gets used.” He pushed a button, and the screen at the far end of the room flashed on.

It was you.

Fuck.

They had another camera, one you apparently didn’t find. Karpov watched you, waiting to see some sort of reaction from you. You gave him none.

“Nothing to say?” He turned around, pausing the feed as soon as you pulled up the files you had been looking for. You said nothing.

“I know it’s not the first time you've accessed his file.”

Your expression flickered, betraying you.

“Ah, see that? That’s what I was looking for.” He shut the screen off, tucking the remote back into his pocket. “Tell me.”

“Tell you what, sir?”

He backhanded you again, then he grabbed your jaw, forcing you to look up at him. The smile on his face was wrong—practiced, artificial, unhinged. You stood face-to-face with him, simmering rage building within you.

“You think I won’t punish you like him? You’re just as guilty of his indiscretions.”

You knew he would. He already had.

“I’ll throw you in there and make him watch. That’ll give me all the answers I need about you both. Now tell me—what do you want to know that’s in his files?”

You bit your tongue, copper flooding your taste buds. If he had known you were snooping around for some time, he could’ve put you down easily. But he didn’t. It just proved how valuable you were, that even though you're on a kill switch, they won’t use it. You only smiled at him, blood coating the front of your teeth.

You didn’t say anything, despite his many attempts. That was when he had the guards haul you back to the cell. So they knew about you going into the Winter Soldier’s files, but he didn’t know you had also found his files. And you would keep it that way for as long as you could. Because even with everything—blood, bruises, burn marks—when they threw him back into your dark little cell, his first words had been, “Are you okay?”

And that was worth all the pain.

✯✯✯

You sat crossed-legged on the cold floor, your back on the rust-stained bars of the cell, watching him. His breath was ragged, quiet but uneven, catching on every inhale like it hurt just to breathe. You imagined it did. You knew that kind of pain. The kind that didn’t show up on their scans and X-rays.

His body was twisted on the cot, too big for the narrow frame. One arm dangled over the side—the metal one—still twitching faintly like the wired nerves hadn’t settled. You'd always wondered if he could feel with that arm. You’d got your answer when just a touch on that metal arm would cause him to flinch. 

Every few minutes, he’d shift, wince, then go still again. You should’ve looked away. Should’ve stopped staring at the bruises across his ribs, the marks around his throat, the flecks of dried blood under his fingernails. But you didn’t. Because something about seeing him like this—so vulnerable, so human—terrified you, and you couldn’t look away.

You told yourself he was asleep. It made the watching easier. You’d both been bled dry tonight, in different ways, but you knew the weight he carried tonight wasn’t physical. Whatever Karpov had done to him, whatever they’d dragged him through before dumping him back at your feet like a broken toy, it stuck with him like smoke inhaled into his lungs.

He shifted again. You tensed, but only slightly. Then his voice came, so quiet it nearly unraveled you.

“You shouldn’t look at me like that.”

You blinked. His eyes were open, glinting faintly in the dark. You hadn’t realized he’d been watching you, too.

“You think I’m looking at you some kind of way?” You murmured, voice hoarse, cracking under the weight of his gaze. He didn’t answer, but you could feel it in the air between you. “You think I don’t see you?” You asked quietly. “After everything?”

He rolled to his back, wincing again, eyes flicking toward the ceiling and away from you. “I don’t want you to.”

There was no venom in his voice, only bone-deep exhaustion and guilt—so much fucking guilt it made your teeth ache.

You leaned forward, elbows on your knees. “Too bad.”

A ghost of a laugh left him, more breath than sound. It hurt him, you could tell, but he didn’t stop you.

“I’ve seen you covered in blood, J,” you said. “Yours. Theirs. Mine. Doesn’t change anything.”

His jaw clenched. The metal fingers on his left hand flexed once. Then again.

“You should hate me. For what I've already done. For what they'll make me do.”

You stared at him, heart tight in your chest, then you pushed from the floor slowly and walked across the cell with bare feet, which you could barely feel. Every step echoed despite their silence. When you reached the cot, you knelt beside it, hands in your lap. You didn’t touch him. You rarely did, not unless he needed it. You knew what touch could feel like when it wasn’t safe.

“I don’t,” you said.

He didn’t respond, but his breathing slowed, and that told you more than words ever could. You tilted your head, looking at him: the bruises, the lines under his eyes, the flicker of fear he tried to bury every time you got too close.

“You’ve hurt me, and nearly hurt me many times.” He tensed but didn’t look away. “I know you didn’t mean to. It wasn’t you.” You hesitated. “But it still scares me every time.”

That hit him harder than anything—you saw it in his eyes as he looked at you again.

“I don’t want to be afraid of you,” you said. “And I don’t think you want me to be, either.”

He swallowed hard.

“I’m not safe around anyone,” he whispered. “Especially not around you.”

You knew what he meant. Not the violence, but what you made him feel—that you made him feel at all. Something stirred in him, the part that HYDRA hadn’t been able to crush.

“You are,” you said. “Because I see you, behind the mask. And you’re still here.”

That silence again—heavy and sacred. He closed his eyes like it hurt to be seen. And maybe it did. Maybe it always had. But when you reached up gently, fingers brushing his hair back from his forehead, he didn’t flinch away from your touch.

And that meant more than anything he could’ve said.

You sat beside him on the floor the rest of the night, watching his chest rise and fall. You never fell asleep. Neither did he, but he didn’t tell you to move, and you didn’t need to stay at his side. You just did. Because bleeding for him—that was the easy part. It was instinct. You’d do it a hundred times over without hesitation, without thought.

But watching him bleed for you—choosing to—that shattered something inside you. Something brittle and hidden you’d fought to keep intact. It carved something open in your chest that couldn’t be stitched shut. And the worst part was knowing he felt the same. That your pain gutted him more than his own ever could. That your silence haunted him.

You were two weapons, a soldier and a ghost, stitched together by trauma and violence, but never by words. And maybe, it was easier that way. Maybe the moment either of you said anything about it, it would all fall apart. So you didn't speak often because you could see everything you needed to in his eyes and his actions. 

Chapter Text

Sam sat hunched in one of the precinct’s uncomfortable chairs, elbows on his knees, jaw tight. He hadn’t been waiting long—he’d shown up not long after you and Bucky had been booked—but it felt like hours under the fluorescent lights. 

Heels echoed across the polished floor. He looked up to see a woman approaching, maybe mid-fifties with dark hair and eyes that had seen too much and weren’t impressed by any of it.

“Sam Wilson? I’ve heard a lot about you,” she extended her hand out. “I’m Dr. Raynor, James’ therapist.”

Sam stood, shaking her hand firmly. “Thanks for helping get them out.” 

She offered a faint, knowing smile. “That wasn’t my doing. At least not for James.”

The doors groaned open behind her, and Bucky emerged. His expression was flat, unreadable—like always—but there was something tight in the way he held his jaw, something simmering just under the surface. He took his place beside Sam without a word. 

Then came the storm.

“Christina,” John Walker announced, swaggering through the doors with a polished arrogance. He wore a smirk that teetered between charm and provocation. “Great to see you again.” 

Sam groaned. “You’ve gotta be kidding me. You know him?”

“Field operations,” she answered curtly, not taking her eyes off Walker. 

“I came once I heard Bucky was in holding and you were working with him,” Walker said, resting an elbow on the counter like he owned the building. “Figured I’d step in. He’s not going to be following a strict schedule any longer.” 

Raynor’s brows drew together. “We haven’t finished our work. Who authorized this?” 

Walker gave her a casual shrug. “People above your pay grade. Barnes is a high-value asset now; we can’t afford to have him wasting time in therapy sessions. Wrap it up and send him my way. We’ve got unfinished business, him and I.” He turned toward the exit, walking backward just far enough to jab a finger at Sam. “You too, Wilson. I’ll be outside.” 

The door slammed shut behind him. Dr. Raynor exhaled slowly, long and controlled. There was no point fighting against the new star-spangled poster boy of America.

She turned to Bucky without missing a beat. “James. Session. Now.” Then, over her shoulder, as she walked away. “You too, Sam.” 

Sam hesitated, one foot half turned toward the exit. “That’s okay. I’ll just wait out here—”

“That wasn’t a request.”

✯✯✯

The room was small, windowless, and uncomfortably bright. The kind of government-issued space where the furniture was functional but uninviting—gray chairs, a table that looked like it had barely been assembled, and a notebook that never left Dr. Raynor’s hands. She sat across from them, spine straight, eyes sharp behind her glasses, radiating that quiet, clinical authority that said she could read you before you even opened your mouth. 

Bucky slouched in his chair, arms crossed like a steel wall, jaw ticking with restrained irritation. Sam sat beside him, leaning back slightly, one leg crossed over the other with a patience that was already beginning to wear thin. 

“So, who would like to start?” She asked firmly, looking between the two of them. 

“All right, look, Dr. Raynor? I get it, why you want me to talk to Freaky Magoo over here. But I’m 100% fine.” Sam gestured to Bucky. “This wasn’t part of the plan.”

Dr. Raynor didn’t blink. “It is now. It’s my job to make sure that you’re okay. And so, yeah, this may be slightly unprofessional, but it’s the only way that I can see if you are getting over whatever is truly eating at you.”

Sam sighed. “This is ridiculous.”

“Yeah, I agree.” Bucky scoffed. 

“You know what’s ridiculous?” Raynor asked, leaning forward. “The fact that you’re both going into war zones together and can’t even stand to look at each other for more than five seconds.”

Sam glanced sideways at Bucky, who was studiously avoiding eye contact. The tension between them at the moment was thick—resentment, grief, stubborn pride all rolled up into a silent standoff. 

“So, who wants to go first?” She asked, waiting only for a couple of seconds before continuing. “No volunteers? Great. How surprising.” She took a breath. “We’re going to do an exercise then. It’s something I use with couples when they are trying to figure out the kind of life they want to build together.”

Bucky chuckled, but was silenced by Raynor’s glare. 

“Are you familiar with the miracle question?”

“Absolutely not.” 

“Of course not.” 

They both responded over top of each other. 

“Okay, it goes like this. Suppose that while you’re sleeping, a miracle occurs. When you wake up, what is something that you would like to see that would make your life better?”

“Well, in my miracle…” Bucky paused, glancing sideways at Sam. “He would talk less.”

Sam laughed. “That’s exactly what I was going to say. Ironic, isn’t it?”

“You guys are leaving me with no choice.” Raynor looked between the two of them, squaring her shoulders. “It’s time for the soul-gazing exercise.”

Bucky smirked, sitting up in his chair. “I like this one.”

“Oh, God. He’s gonna love this.” Sam responded. “This is right up his alley.”

“Yeah, I’m ready,” Bucky said. 

Dr. Raynor motioned with her hands. “Turn around. Face each other.” 

The metal legs of their chairs scraped against the ground as both men turned to face each other. 

“You should really enjoy this.”

“I’m going to.”

“I know you are,” Sam stated, arms crossed. 

“Let’s do it. Let’s stare.” Bucky taunted. 

“Get closer,” she said, motioning again with her hands. Bucky turned to look at her.

“This is a great exercise. Thanks, Doc.” Bucky said as they scooted closer. Their knees hit together. 

“Which way are you gonna go? Right or left?” Sam challenged.

“Why are your legs so open?”

They both struggled, slotting a leg in between the other’s.

“You know what, fine. Here. You happy now?” 

Finally, they got as close as they were going to get, legs locked together. 

“All right.”

“All right.”

“Good. Fine.” Bucky snapped. 

“We’re locked in.” Sam directed at Dr. Raynor, shifting slightly. 

“That’s a little close.”

“Very. That’s what you wanted, right?”

“Guys,” her voice cut through their bickering. “Good. Now look into each other’s eyes.” The room was silent as the two men obeyed, both staring intensely. “There, you see? That wasn’t so hard.” 

She watched them for a few seconds, noting when Sam’s eyes squinted. “Wait, what are you doing?” Bucky’s eyes narrowed in response. “Are you having a staring contest?” 

No one answered. 

“Just blink,” she snapped her fingers, causing both of them to blink. “Sweet Jesus,” she sighed loudly. “All right, James, why does Sam aggravate you?” 

His response was quick on his tongue, a wicked smirk on his face, but Dr. Raynor cut him off with a warning. “And don’t say something childish.”

After a moment, a solemn look fell over his face. Looking directly at Sam, he spoke. “Why’d you give up the shield?”

“Why are you making a big deal out of something that’s got nothing to do with you?” Sam threw the question at him. 

“Steve believed in you. He trusted you. He gave you that shield for a reason.” He paused, eyes clouded with thought. “That shield is everything he stood for. That is his legacy. He gave you that shield, and you threw it away like it was nothing.”

Sam’s lips parted to rebut, but Bucky cut him off.

“So maybe he was wrong about you. And if he was wrong about you, then maybe he was wrong about me.” Obvious, evident pain was laced in Bucky’s voice. 

He had said it. Finally. He fell back against the chair, defeated. 

“You finished?” Sam asked calmly. 

Bucky nodded. “Yeah.”

“All right, good. Maybe, this is something you or Steve will never understand. But can you accept that I did what I thought was right?” 

Bucky’s head hung, eyes on the floor. 

Sam scoffed, pushing up from the chair. “You know what, Doc? I don’t have time for this. We have some real serious shit going on. So, how about this? I will squash it right now. We go deal with that, and when we’re done, we both can go on separate, long vacations and never see each other again.” 

“I like that,” Bucky said. 

“Great. Well, let’s get to work, then. Thanks, Doc, for making it weird. I feel much better.” He pulled open the door. “I’ll see you outside.” He said to Bucky as he walked away.

The door clicked shut behind Sam, the echo of his frustration still clinging to the walls. Bucky sat rigid in the chair, jaw clenched, fingers twitching against the armrest like they were holding back more than just fists. Dr. Raynor watched him for a beat longer, scribbled something in her notebook, and then turned her gaze toward the door just as it creaked open. 

You stepped in, brows raised. “Hey, sorry. The officer was putting up a fight, I’m—” You paused mid-step, catching the tension in the room like you just walked into a wall. Your eyes flicked between Bucky and Dr. Raynor, confusion pinching at your brow. “—late?”

“You’re not late,” Dr. Raynor said, closing her notebook with a decisive snap. “You’re right on time.”

Bucky shifted. “Doc—”

“I didn’t plan for this, James. But now that she’s here,” she said, gesturing toward the now-empty chair beside him, “I think we’re going to try something different.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Try what?”

“Sit down.”

Bucky exhaled sharply, a sound of protest rising in his chest, but Dr. Raynor cut him off with a look that said, Don’t even try. He didn’t speak, just leaned back, tight-lipped and scowling. You hesitated—sensing danger, definitely sensing something—but sat anyway. 

You shifted in your seat, adjusting your arm, which was now in a sling, as you glanced at Bucky. He hadn’t looked at you once. His jaw was locked so tight you could see the muscle twitching.

“Okay,” Dr. Raynor said, fingers steepled. “We’re doing a modified version of what we just did with Sam.”

“Oh, great,” you muttered. “Did he cry?”

“No,” Bucky bit out. “No one cried.”

Of course, you knew that, but you were trying to lighten the mood just a little. You turned toward him, but he still refused to look at you. 

Dr. Raynor, unfettered, leaned forward. “You two have a complicated history. And from what I understand, the problem is a lack of communication. Loyalty. Resentment. Maybe even guilt.” 

Your mouth opened, then closed again. You looked at Bucky and felt that low, familiar ache stir within you. The one that had never gone away. The one that flared every time he pulled away from you like you were a wound he didn’t want to reopen. 

“You very rarely talked about Y/N in our sessions,” she added, addressing Bucky. “But I know who she was to you. Who she still is.”

Bucky finally looked at you as his silence lingered, not for long, just long enough to make you forget how to breathe. There was weight behind it. Years of it. 

“She doesn’t belong in this anymore,” he said, voice low. 

“And you do?” You quipped back at him.

“She already is, James,” Raynor replied.

The silence was colder now. More personal. 

You folded your arms across your chest. “Well… This is fun.”

Dr. Raynor ignored your sarcasm, having grown accustomed to it from Bucky. “Tell her why you kept her out of our talks. Tell her why you keep shutting her out.”

You smirked, turning to him. “See? Even she knows it was you,”

“Quiet.” She said firmly, her presence commanding in that moment. 

Bucky’s fists curled. “Because it hurts not to.”

You blinked. Your throat felt tight all of a sudden. 

Dr. Raynor gave a slight nod. “Then say that. Say it to her.”

He didn’t move. He just stared at the floor like it had the answers that he didn’t. 

But then, voice rough, he finally said it. “I didn’t want to put what’s broken in me on someone I dragged into this life—someone I broke.”

Your breath caught. And for a long, quiet second, no one moved. 

✯✯✯

It was 2011. You were woken from cryosleep, the frost clinging to your eyelashes like tiny needles. They didn’t bother giving you time to adjust—they never did. The handler barked your designation.

“Wraith. Mission briefing.” 

You slid off the platform, knees weak, but you didn’t stumble. You never did because they’d burned that weakness out of you. The Winter Soldier stood across the prep room, getting his own orders. They were splitting you up. He glanced at you once—just once—eyes flickering over your face as though he remembered something he wasn’t supposed to. Your fingers twitched, but you were only weapons. You were Death.

No talking.

No warmth.

No goodbye.

They sent you to D.C. Your orders were clear: infiltrate, retrieve classified SHIELD documents, and eliminate any obstacles. You never asked why, but even then, something in you resisted. It itched in the back of your skull, right where they jammed the electrodes in. That feeling that you’d made a promise to someone once.

Get each other home.

But you had a mission. You went in clean, silent, and deadly until he found you.

You didn’t know his name, but you would—the square jaw, the smug confidence of a soldier, and a reinforced helmet—as if he were going into a warzone. He didn’t have a title, but he had the arrogance of someone with one. They’d sent him after you—the US government, not SHIELD. 

It was almost laughable—he was practically a kid. You tried to ghost away—he was too loud, too brash to keep up with you. But despite appearances, he was trained. Strong. Obsessed with proving himself.

You ended up in the depths of a SHIELD warehouse, grappling, snarling, and tearing at each other. You slashed his face. He cracked your ribs. You broke his nose. He dislocated your shoulder. You felt blood coating your teeth. He spat his onto the floor. At the end, you were both half-dead, barely crawling. There was no winner in this fight, but you slipped away.

Because you always did.

Unfortunately, SHIELD had also been searching for you. They found you collapsed on the docks, barely conscious. You were feral, fighting even then. A knife clasped in your fist, eyes wild. It took four agents to pin you down—bruised, bleeding, dying.

One of them was Natasha Romanoff.

She didn’t kill you, didn’t let them kill you. Instead, she knelt next to you while you gurgled threats in Russian and English, bleeding everywhere. She said your name like she knew who you were. Your real name. You didn’t even recognize it at first. You blacked out before you could ask how she knew.

You woke up in a medical bay. Not the freezing HYDRA cell. Not the kill room. Clean sheets, monitors, and real doctors. Nick Fury watched you from the doorway like you were a bomb about to go off—which you were.

They tried to talk to you. Natasha visited you every day, told you things you didn’t believe: you were more than what they made you out to be, and you had choices. You didn’t even know what that meant. You didn’t trust them, but you didn’t fight.

Because you were so tired.

Barely a week after you crawled away from death, you could already stand on your own. The serum in you ensured it. But HYDRA wanted you back, and when you didn’t return, didn’t report, didn’t obey—they activated the kill switch—the one you never thought they’d use.

You felt the burn in your spine first. Then your vision went white, your heart seizing in your chest. You remember the smell of your own flesh cooking from the inside. You screamed until your throat bled. And then—

Nothing.

✯✯✯

They marked you compromised. A failed asset. A threat to the program. They told the Winter Soldier you didn’t come back. No explanation. No mission report. No confirmation.

Just—gone.

Maybe you died. Maybe you defected. It didn’t matter. You were gone. You left him alone.

And he remembered.

✯✯✯

Somehow, you survived. SHIELD found you convulsing on the floor. Fury ordered the medics to keep you alive. Natasha held your hand while you choked on your own blood, begging you to stay with her. You did—because you didn’t know how to let go—because somewhere buried under all the conditioning and pain, you remembered a promise you made.

Get each other home.

Except you didn’t get to keep it. Because he wasn’t here, and you weren’t going back.

✯✯✯

He told himself multiple times. You left. Plain and simple. Or HYDRA killed you. But he chose to think you left, because if you left, that meant you were still alive somewhere.

It meant you were free.

Not lying cold beneath the ground, dumped in an unmarked grave. HYDRA wouldn’t have given you that comfort anyway. They would have dissected you, studied you, disposed of you like broken machinery. In fact, they wouldn’t have let you die. You would’ve been a study, a specimen in the lab. Not a person—never that. You were too valuable for death, even to them. 

So, he kept telling himself you ran—that you were smarter than him, quieter, better at escaping. That you were out there somewhere with your all-seeing eyes and your knives like a second skin, slipping through the world like smoke—there but not—a wraith.

But it hurt. God, it hurt.

Every time they woke him up, it was the same thing. The handlers barked orders, and the muzzle was strapped to his face.  He felt the bitter sting of the serum in his veins. They wiped him, but there were cracks in the programming. He’d see you—only a flash—a flicker of memory he shouldn’t have had.

Your eyes catching his in a crumbling building in Morocco.

Your fingers wrapping around his through the bars of those cells, blood drying on your skin. 

Your voice in the dark, barely a whisper, ‘Don’t forget this.’ 

It would surge up in him like fire, even though he was nothing but ice. It made him hesitate. It made him weak. The techs noticed and punished him. The sessions grew longer—more violent, more frequent. Electrodes to his temples, voices screaming in his ears.

“Asset. Comply. Forget.”

He tried. God, he tried.

Because remembering you hurt him more than anything they did. You weren’t there anymore. When they woke him up, you weren’t beside him on the bench awaiting orders. Your chamber stayed empty. He hated seeing it. Hated hearing them say you were compromised—a failure.

Terminated.

They wouldn’t confirm it. They never said you were dead. But even after they fried his brain to sludge, there was one stubborn, ugly part of him that refused to accept it—that told him you’d escaped, that you’d keep your promise.

Get each other home.

He hadn’t kept his because you weren’t here. And in the quiet moments—when the torture was over and they locked him in the cell to await cryo—he would lean his head against the freezing wall and imagine you were leaning on the other side. That you were breathing. Living.

Even if you were free of him.

That was better than you being gone—yet also worse—because if you’d really left him? It meant you chose to leave him alone. And it made sense. He was a monster. A weapon that broke everything he touched. They’d called you The Wraith because you were silent. You were death incarnate, hidden within the darkness—but it was all so goddamn fitting now.

Because you haunted him. Every time he closed his eyes. Every time they rebooted him. Every time he forgot. You were always the first thing he remembered.

And the last thing he wanted to.

Chapter Text

It was strange, actually, seeing her in person. You’d done your homework the second you found out she was his assigned therapist—dug through credentials, interviews, case histories. On paper, she was solid: decorated military background, clinical psychology degrees, a long string of successes. But even then, you weren’t convinced she was the right fit for him. 

Not that you were qualified for that, either.

You’d listened in on a few of their sessions—quietly, at first. Then came the curiosity. Concern next. Then, finally, worry. Raynor had a tendency to push. Her tactics weren’t gentle; they were direct and confrontational. You understood, it was her job, but he was still a person—one with trauma that would fill the nightmares of dozens of men. 

Sometimes, you wondered if she understood anything about what he’d truly been through—the way his mind worked, the way it fractured under certain kinds of pressure. You knew the signs. You’d lived them. Hell, you still did. He wasn’t the usual case. He had never been. 

However, it wasn’t like you had a better track record. Trying to get him to open up with you now usually ended up in shouting matches, threats full of backhanded sarcasm, and bruises neither of you meant to leave. You poked at old wounds until they bled, and he shut down or lashed out in turn. It wasn’t therapy. It was war. And yet, somehow, you didn’t know how to stay away from each other. 

So maybe that was why Dr. Raynor unsettled you. Not because she was cruel, but because, despite your criticism, she had a way of cutting straight to the root. Not just with him. With you, too. She saw the rot beneath the reinforced armor. She didn’t run away from it, and that scared you more than you wanted to admit. 

But you also hadn’t been ready for him to say that. Not like that, not here—with the walls so close, and Dr. Raynor watching like a hawk, waiting for someone to bleed—and yet, you felt the blow of it anyway. Sharp. Quiet. Right under your ribs. 

‘I didn’t want to put what’s broken in me on someone I helped drag into this life—someone I broke.’

You stared at him—the man who used to be a ghost in the dark, then a shadow in your periphery—a threat you couldn’t outrun. The Winter Soldier, and you, The Wraith, were built to match him.

You remembered all those times in the first year that they put you in the same enclosed room. He lunged first; you’d nearly slit his throat. It took more than the four men they had stationed in the room and a syringe of something you couldn’t pronounce to get you both apart. 

You hated each other back then. 

He was cold, controlled, dead in the eyes. You were rage in a bottle, barely corked. They called you assets, but you were weapons—caged animals sent out to do their bidding and frozen again, like it was all a bad dream. But missions blurred into years, and years into glances you weren’t supposed to hold, touches you weren’t supposed to feel.

There was that time he dragged you out of a burning compound after you had taken a bullet to the thigh. You cursed at him the whole time, blood leaking through your suit, and he growled, ‘Shut up and let me.’

There was another time, when you sat beside his cryo-chamber, waiting for them to wake him next, knuckles split and healing from the fight after coming out of cryo, because you couldn’t trust them not to hurt him immediately. You watched the entire process. His eyes always locked on you when they put him in first, and when they took him out last. 

Then there was that time—

“Say something,” Bucky said, voice hoarse, snapping you out of it. “Please.”

You exhaled slowly. The words felt heavy in your mouth, but you gave them anyway. “You didn’t break me,” you said. “They did.”

He flinched, barely, but you saw it. You always saw everything when it came to him. 

“And yeah,” you added, “You hurt me. A lot. But so did I. I tried to kill you every time they put us together in the beginning.” 

You held his gaze because you owed him that, because he needed it. Your voice was low and careful, but it didn’t tremble. 

“Do you remember the first time they threw us in that room together?” His jaw ticked, but he didn’t answer. “They told me I had to prove myself. Said I had to put you down.” You saw the flicker in his eyes, that haunted flash—his hand around your throat, his knife in your thigh, and the cold command in your ears, ‘Neutralize the asset.’

“I hated you.” It felt almost good to say it aloud. True. Solid. But you still felt uncomfortable with all the truth coming out in front of Dr. Raynor. You chuckled nervously. “You were everything they wanted. Their perfect killer. The Soldier. No fear. No hesitation. I thought you wanted it, that you chose that—believe it or not.” 

Your breath shuddered. “But then I watched you get hauled away for reprogramming because you lashed out at me, disobeyed their orders to stop. And then later, when you hesitated. Because to them, it didn’t seem like you wanted to kill me enough, even though they didn’t want me dead.” 

You swallowed. Hard. “And after the months, the years of trying? We stopped trying to kill each other. Not because they told us to, but because we couldn’t do it. No matter how many times they tried to get us to.”

Your eyes burned, but you didn’t look away. 

“Do you remember the first mission they sent us on together, after they were sure they fixed us?” You asked, voice even lower now. “That shitshow in Morocco?”

You could see it in his eyes. Of course he did. 

“I got shot in the leg, after it had just healed from the last bullet. They ordered you to leave me. You didn’t.” Your voice cracked, and you let it. 

“You carried me out. You got whipped for that.” You didn’t miss his wince, as if the memory were a physical bruise. “And after that? We made a deal. We’d get each other home alive. Every mission. No matter what they said. Even though that hellhole was never home, it was the closest thing we had.”

His metal fingers curled against his knee, creaking softly, but still, he didn’t speak—maybe couldn’t. 

“Remember cryosleep?” You asked, a sharp, bitter laugh escaping you. “Months. Years in a frozen box. Waking up to kill someone, then back under. Over and over. You were always there when I woke up, and I was always there when you woke up. You’d nod. I’d nod. It was stupid, but it meant I wasn’t alone.”

You wiped at your eyes, annoyed at the tears forming.

“I didn’t survive because I was strong. I survived because of you.”

There was only silence surrounding you. 

You took a deep breath, collecting yourself. “So don’t you dare tell me you broke me,” you said, voice steadier. “You were the only thing holding me together.” 

His eyes were wet, not quite tears. You didn’t say anything about it. You just leaned back in the chair and breathed. Dr. Raynor didn’t speak because, for once, you had laid everything bare: the hate, the hurt, the loyalty, the truth. You were The Wraith and The Winter Soldier. Tools. Monsters. Survivors. But right now, you were just people.

And maybe it could be enough. 

You waited for his response. Any little movement, expression, or even a single word. Hell, at this point, you even wanted Dr. Raynor to jump in and say something instead of the silence drowning you. It would be better than the blank stare on his face, after all the truth that poured out of you after years—decades—of bottling it up.

He sat there, breathing heavy like he’d been punched in the gut. You felt yourself start to shake, and not from fear. From frustration. From heartbreak.

Because you gave it to him—everything. All of it. The hate, the hurt, the loyalty, the fact that he was the only thing that kept you sane in that frozen hell you both called life. And now he was just… Quiet. Dr. Raynor opened her mouth, looking like she was about to interject, but Bucky beat her to it.

His voice cracked. “Stop.”

Her mouth snapped shut. He lifted a hand—flesh, not metal—like he was trying to push something away. His eyes squeezed shut.

“Just—just stop for a second.” His voice was strained.

You bit your tongue, hard, forcing yourself to obey even though you wanted to scream. Copper flooded your taste buds as you waited. He dragged in a ragged breath, chest heaving, and when he opened his eyes, they were wet. Glassy.

“You think I don’t remember Morocco?” He rasped. “You think I don’t remember all of it?” You swallowed. “Every mission. Every time they told me to kill you. Every time you tried to kill me.”

His metal fingers tapped against his knee restlessly.

“Every time they froze us side by side.” He laughed once, humorless.

He looked at you then, and your breath hitched.

“I carried you out of that compound because I couldn’t leave you. Couldn’t live with it if I did. Even back then,” he exhaled shakily. “And yeah, I remember the deal. Get each other home alive.” His jaw worked, teeth grinding.

Just hearing those words falling from his lips again cut you deeply.

“I broke that deal.”

Your eyebrows drew down. “No—”

“I did,” he cut you off, voice rising—cracking. “You got captured. They got to you because I got shot.”

You felt that old wound split open, right down your spine. You’d both paid for that one. He blinked hard.

“I had to hear you scream after I got you back,” he whispered. “While they stitched you back together. And afterwards, in the cell next to mine, when you were healing. They didn’t risk pulling me away, putting me in cryo for fear of me killing more of them until you were better.”

You closed your eyes. That memory burned.

✯✯✯

It was routine. Simple, even. Infiltrate, extract, disappear. You were both good at it, but this time, you were the distraction while he was the ghost. It wasn’t in you to question orders. Except this time, they had known you were coming. 

You remembered the cold crunch of snow under your boots, how the air stung your lungs as you made your way across the courtyard. You were almost to the rendezvous point. The extraction team was delayed, but you could handle it—you always had. Then the shot rang out. Not at you. At him.

He took it below the shoulder blade and staggered. Just enough to make noise and leave you exposed. It was an ambush. Foreign operatives descended like a raging storm—shouting, guns raised, floodlights cutting through the dark. You turned back for him. You remembered screaming his name—the name you knew. 

“J!”

Blood dripped onto the snow beneath him. He was fighting against them. And then the butt of a rifle cracked into the back of your skull, and the world tilted sideways. The last thing you remembered before you blacked out was a heavy boot to your ribs and him trying to crawl toward you, mouth open in a silent shout, blood soaking the snow beneath him. 

You came to in a concrete room, soaked in flickering fluorescent light. I was cold. Metal restraints bit into your wrists and ankles. You fought like hell, bit one of them, and broke your own thumb trying to get out of the cuffs. But they were prepared for you. They didn’t want you dead. 

Just ruined. 

They tried to flay information out of you with surgical precision. At first, no questions were asked; only punishment was given. They said it was a lesson. You didn’t scream for the first two days, but it didn’t deter them. On the third, you started to crack, but despite the pain, the blood, the beatings, you never gave them what they wanted. 

By the fourth day, you were hallucinating. Bloodied. Skin split open and peeled back. Your collarbones had been fractured, but the healing factor in the serum worked against you, mending you enough to be broken again. And then—

Hell came to collect. 

You didn’t see him arrive, but the guards did. One of them screamed. Gunfire cracked like thunder in the sky, and then there was silence. He found you in that room. You could barely lift your head, hanging between your shoulders. You couldn’t speak, throat raw, but you remembered what you saw. 

Blood soaked his vest, his right hand slick with it. His hair was matted, eyes black—not just from rage, but from the thing they burned into his being, the thing they’d shaped him to be—a ruthless killing machine. You didn’t remember leaving the facility, only the sound of his boots, his arms under you, and the cold steel pressing against your side. You blacked out. 

When you woke, you were back at the base. You didn’t remember the ride back or the screams. But they all did. It took over a dozen guards to pull him off you, and not without casualties. He hadn’t wanted to hand you over. To let you go. Even when you were back with him. Even when they promised to help you, he didn’t trust them—not with you. He thrashed. Roared. Fought them with every ounce of himself. 

“Don’t touch her. Don’t fucking touch her!”

You sobbed, screaming when they touched you, poking and prodding. Too many hands, too much pain. They resorted to activating him, as restraining him had done nothing. But even then, he fought his trigger words—longer than you’d ever seen—his voice cracking as he screamed. You remembered whispering his name, barely audible. 

And for a moment, the noise stopped. The chains stilled. You felt the quiet weight of his attention, and that was the moment that broke him. Not the mission or the consequences. You. He saw what happened when he wasn’t there. He saw what they did to you. 

What he couldn’t save you from.

He watched you cry through gritted teeth as they stapled your skin closed. He counted all the new scars you would have—memorized them. Even the ones you’d try to hide after this. 

They put you with him the whole time you were healing, right up until you both went into cryo. Neither of you said a word to each other, but you didn’t need to. You felt the guilt, saw it in his eyes as he watched you. It was his fault, and he hadn’t gotten to you soon enough. He kept your promise—get each other home—but at what cost? You were better off without him. If it weren’t for him, you would’ve been fine, but you weren’t. 

You would always bleed because of him. And worse—

He couldn’t stop it.

✯✯✯

You blinked hard, breath catching in your throat like you were being held underwater. The memory let go slowly, like claws dragging through your ribs. Your skin was cold and clammy. You didn’t know how long you’d been gone—how long you’d just sat there, hollowed out. 

That’s how it worked, though. When your mind decided to pull you under, it didn’t ask permission. It just dragged you back and left you staring into nothing—an empty shell. Now, all eyes were on you, watching, waiting. You swallowed hard, trying to find the present again when Bucky broke through the silence. 

“After that, I didn’t want to care about the deal. I figured you were better off without me, that I was the thing that got you hurt. That I’d do it again.” His voice broke.

You shook your head, your mouth open, but no sound came out. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, face crumpling.

“But I never forgot. Never. Even if it took me a while to get there every time,” he wiped at his face roughly, metal fingers scraping his stubble. “You were the only good thing in that hell. The only thing that wasn’t them. And I didn’t want to drag you back into this shit here. Ever. This—half-life I’m trying to live.”

You couldn’t hold it back anymore. Your voice cracked as you leaned forward. 

“Bucky,” his eyes snapped to yours. “I didn’t survive them without you. You think I’ve been okay? You think I don’t hate waking up in a cold sweat, terrified that I’m back there—that you’re back there? No matter how long we’ve been out of it.”

His breath caught, but you didn’t look away.

“You were the only thing that felt real, that was real,” you said. “And I don’t care how fucked up that is. Not anymore.”

More silence.

Dr. Raynor cleared her throat but remained silent. She just let all your words sit in the air. Bucky’s eyes were red. His shoulders trembled, and for once, he didn’t argue or tell you to go away. He just dropped his head into his hands and breathed. It wasn’t an apology. It wasn’t forgiveness.

But it was a start.

Chapter Text

You always hated the desert at night. It wasn’t the heat; it was the cold. The way it got into your bones once the sun died. The way you could hear every breath, every footstep, too loud against the emptiness. You moved like a shadow. That was what they made you. 

The Wraith—unseen, unheard, unforgiving.

Beside you, he was even quieter. The Winter Soldier—mask on, eyes blank, that silver arm catching stray moonlight every so often as he signaled you forward. The mission was routine: eliminate the target, leave no witnesses, extract. 

You’d done it dozens of times, but tonight, something felt wrong. You tried to tell him. A flicker of your fingers, a silent code. 

Wait. Listen. 

He hesitated, just for a second, enough for you to know he agreed. And that was when the world exploded.

Gunfire. The hiss of a grenade. Dust and screams filled the night. You lunged for cover. He was already moving—firing, reloading, neutralizing the threats with terrifying precision.

“Asset,” the voice crackled in both your earpieces. “Leave the secondary behind. Complete the objective.”

Secondary. That was you. He turned his head, just a fraction. You saw his eyes behind the mask—cold, but hesitating.

“Asset, confirm.”

You didn’t give him a chance. You pushed off the wall, taking out two hostiles with clean shots, then felt the searing pain as a round punched into your thigh. You went down hard.

“Asset. Leave her.”

You screamed between clenched teeth as you tried to stand. Your leg gave out, blood soaking through your black suit. He was standing over you in an instant, firing at the men converging. The metal arm scooped you up like you weighed nothing.

“ASSET. LEAVE HER. THAT IS AN ORDER.” 

He didn’t even flinch. You heard the shots hit his armor. One clipped his arm. He just kept moving, dragging you behind crumbling walls, pressing your head down.

“Stop it,” you hissed, trying to shove him away even as you bled. “Go! Complete the mission!”

He ignored you and more bullets ripped through the air. He fired back, jaw set underneath the mask. When you screamed at him again, he grabbed your face with that freezing metal hand.

“Shut up and let me.”

Your breath hitched. It was the first thing he’d said to you in weeks. You went silent. He picked you up, hauling you like a sack of potatoes over his shoulder. Your blood smeared down his arm, his front. You remembered watching it drip onto the sand as he ran. The comm crackled with angry voices—orders, threats, and promises of punishment. He didn’t answer. 

You passed out once, twice. You came to with him pressing a scrap of ripped fabric to your wound, muttering curses in languages you didn’t know. You remembered the coldness of his arm under your cheek when you finally blacked out for good, the steady sound of his breathing, ragged but alive. And when you woke up, strapped to the med table back at base, you saw him across the room, on his knees, head bowed, as they whipped him.

He didn’t make a sound at first, but they whipped him, over, and over, and over—making you watch before they fixed your leg. He whimpered, voice cracking. It seemed to be what they were looking for: a sign of him breaking. He didn’t look at you. He chose you over the mission, over them, over everything they tried to program into him.

That was the night you stopped looking at him like an annoyance. 

✯✯✯

You came to with the taste of copper in your mouth. Your leg was on fire. The stitches were sloppy, medical tape pulling at your raw skin. You were lying on the floor of the cell—no cot, no blanket, just concrete, still tacky with blood they never bothered to clean off.

The lights overhead buzzed in that clinical, sickly way, making your head feel fuzzy. And next door, you heard him breathing, ragged and wet. You swallowed, forcing your eyes to focus. There was a narrow gap between each bar. You dragged yourself closer, leg screaming, nails scraping on the floor. 

You could finally see him through them. Mask gone. Hair damp with sweat, clinging to his forehead. Split lip. Black eye. Bruises on his throat where they’d gripped him when he fought back. The whipping was for his disobedience. They didn’t care about the pain; they just made sure the wounds wouldn’t get infected. They’d cleaned him just enough to keep him alive.

He sat against the far wall, legs splayed out, metal hand limp at his side. His flesh hand twitched. You hissed his name, well, the name you knew. He flinched, as if he were ashamed to hear you say it.

“Look at me.”

He didn’t.

“Look at me.”

Slowly, like it physically hurt him, his eyes shifted to yours. You saw it there—the guilt. He opened his mouth, then closed it. His jaw worked, grinding like he was chewing on glass.

“I told you to leave me,” you rasped, voice hoarse.

He flinched harder. You wanted to be angry. Wanted to curse him for being stupid, for getting himself whipped, for nearly getting you killed. But you didn’t because when you looked at him, you saw yourself. A weapon they left to rust in the corner. You swallowed the rage, letting it melt.

“...thank you.” 

His eyes darted away. His breathing hitched, shaky and sharp.

“Don’t,” he rasped.

You forced yourself up on your elbows, every stitch in your leg screaming at you to stop moving.

“Don’t what?”

His eyes were shiny now. Furious. Broken.

“Don’t thank me. Don’t you fucking thank me.”

You blinked, stunned. “Why?”

He turned his head so hard it almost smacked the wall behind him.

His voice broke. “Because they’re gonna use it.”

Your heart stuttered. He kept going, voice lower now, shaking so bad it was hard to hear the words.

“All they see is that I didn’t leave you. That I chose you over them. They’re gonna use that against you. Against me. Against both of us. They’re gonna hurt you because of it.”

You felt your eyes burn, yet there were no tears. He choked on something like a laugh. “They’ll put us back under, and when they wake us up again, they’ll make sure we don’t even remember why.”

You didn’t know what to say to that, so you just dragged yourself closer, until your fingers could slip through the gaps in the bars. Your hand trembled as you extended it.

“Then don’t forget now.”

He looked at you like you’d lost your mind.

“J,” he flinched at the name, but it’s all you had to call him. “Take my hand.”

He didn’t move at first, and then—slowly, deliberately—his flesh fingers twitched, crawled, until they wrapped around yours. It was clumsy, awkward, but real. Warm, even through the grime. You squeezed until your fingers ached.

“We don’t forget this,” you whispered. “No matter what they do to us. You hear me?”

He dragged in a shaking breath.

“You hear me?”

He squeezed back. Hard. “Yeah,” he rasped.

You closed your eyes. You were both bleeding, broken. You both smelled like antiseptic, fear, and anger. But in that moment—fingers locked through the bars, two monsters refusing to let go—you made the deal without saying it outright. The words unsaid, but shone brightly in both of your eyes.

Get each other home.

No matter what.

✯✯✯

You forgot—both of you. They wiped you clean, zapped you until your brain was fried, and all you could say was ‘Yes, sir.’ The Winter Soldier’s blue eyes were dull, drained. You didn’t know names. Well, he knew yours, but didn’t use it. They made sure of that. A command word. A threat. A lever they could pull to make you obey.

But nobody knew his.

He was a ghost. A weapon. A file number and a string of code. Except once, long before the screaming, before the frostbite under your skin—you knew something—just the first letter. 

J.

You didn’t know what it meant. Didn’t know who he’d been. Just that for one stolen second, he was a man and not a machine. So that’s what you called him, when you finally remembered everything. But the next time they woke you?

You didn’t remember anything at all.

✯✯✯

You came to in the chamber, the glass doors hissing open, hinges crackling. Your skin was burning with cold that went all the way to your bones. Breath fogging in the frozen air. Muscles screaming as they unlocked, one command at a time.

“Asset.”

You blinked. The voice was familiar. Authority. Everything in you snapped straight. “Yes, sir.”

They made you stand. Naked except for the standard-issue undersuit. Eyes forward. Heart like a drum, but face empty. No thoughts. No feelings. They gave you a new mission. Eliminate. Extract. Clean up the evidence. No names. No questions. Beside you, another chamber hissed open.

The Winter Soldier emerged in the same uniform. Same blank stare. Hair plastered to his head. His metal arm was cased in frost that hadn’t yet melted. He didn’t look at you. You didn’t look at him. They didn’t bother with the introductions anymore. They knew you’d work in perfect sync.

And you did.

That mission was a blur of blood and screaming. Your blades were an extension of your hands. His rifle was rolling thunder in narrow hallways. You didn’t talk. You only knew how to kill. And afterward?

Back in the facility, they shoved you both into the prep room for refreezing. The walls were metal. Cold. Dripping with condensation. You sat there, side by side on the bench, heads bowed. Silent.

He didn’t look at you. You didn’t look at him. But your fingers twitched. Maybe it was muscle memory. Or something older. Older than the screaming and the needles and the handler’s orders. Your pinky brushed his gloved hand. He didn’t move. For one awful moment, you thought he’d forgotten everything. But then—

His metal fingers twitched back. Barely a graze, not even contact, but it was intentional. Your eyes stung. They were watching. They always watched. So you held your breath and closed your eyes as the cold gas hissed in around you. Frozen again, but together, and even wiped clean, even as monsters, something in you still reached for him.

Something in him still reached back.

Chapter Text

Minutes passed in heavy silence. You sat motionless, numb, unsure of what part of yourself was still intact. You’d torn yourself open—willingly, vulnerably—laid your scars on the floor between you both, hoping maybe he’d meet you there. And what did he do? 

Tore your heart out. Ripped it clean from your chest, gaping, bleeding. Was he ashamed that he had to admit it? Should you be? You were both survivors, bloodied and bent, but you’d never felt this exposed. Not even in HYDRA’s hands. You had just told each other you were the reason for continuing, the reason you both were standing here today, and now you couldn’t look at each other. 

Dr. Raynor cleared her throat, the sound startling in the hollow room. Bucky lifted his head, just slightly—only to set his eyes on anything but you. 

“Well,” she said quietly, her voice uncertain. “That was… a start.” 

She had read the files. She thought she understood. But this wasn’t in any file. What just happened between you two wasn’t a battle strategy or a psychological symptom; it was history—buried, bleeding history. Denial lingered thick in the air, even after everything had been spoken aloud. You’d both admitted some truth, that you’d endured because of each other, but it seemed to change nothing. You were still fractured in different corners of the room. Still unreachable. 

You needed him to respond. Anything. Acknowledge what you just admitted to him. But he stared ahead, jaw clenched, fists curled on his knees. You stood, the legs of your chair scraping against the floor. Dr. Raynor raised a hand, cautious. 

“Y/N, please. Let’s—”

“No.” The word came out clipped, hard. “I’m done.” 

You turned to Bucky. His face barely moved, but the tension in his brow deepened—like he was locked in a war with himself, unable to surrender to what he really wanted. What you both did. But he said nothing. That silence was your answer.

“I’m leaving,” you said, voice raw as you turned your back on him. 

You had just reached the door when fingers closed around your wrist, firm and familiar. You spun, startled. You hadn’t even heard him rise. Your pulse jumped with a fury you didn’t know how to contain. Betrayal churned in your chest, your breath catching as you looked up into his eyes. 

And there it was—turmoil. 

Not rage, not regret. Just that same damned storm he never let anyone else see. You saw it now, just like you always did. He didn’t want you to go, but he didn’t know how to ask you to stay. His gaze flicked down to the sling on your arm—a quiet reminder of everything you’d endured recently, everything you were still enduring. 

The officers made you put it on before coming here. It was why you walked in late, because you were arguing with them that you were fine, but you eventually gave in and put the damn sling on. You waited, staying quiet. He parted his lips, then closed them again. Your heart sank.

“If you don’t have anything to say, let me go.”

His grip tightened. “No.”

You reeled back, stunned. “Excuse me?” 

“Just—” He shook his head, voice lower now, splitting apart at the seams. “Don’t run. Not from this.” 

His eyes looked past you for a second, like he was barely holding himself in the present. His hand around your wrist was the only thing anchoring him. But you couldn’t do this. Not now. Not with Dr. Raynor silently watching like a vulture, taking mental notes, measuring you. You gave her enough trauma to digest for a lifetime. You pulled your arm from his hand gently, but with finality. His eyes met yours once more, pained, pleading, but yours were just as broken. 

“I’m leaving,” you said softly. “Find me when you’re ready.” 

And this time, he didn’t stop you as you walked away.

✯✯✯

His hand dropped to his side like dead weight, head sinking between his shoulders. He didn’t lift it right away, just stared at the ground like it might open up and swallow him.

“I know that look,” Dr. Raynor said quietly.

He didn’t answer. Just a low grunt—half scoff, half exhale.

“What’s wrong?” She crossed one leg over the other, casual in posture but not in tone.

He tilted his head slightly, still not meeting her eyes. “What’s rule number two?” 

Her lips pressed together, unreadable for a beat. She wasn’t sure where he was going with that, not after the implosion she just witnessed. Not after the way you looked when you left. Haunted. Done. The longer it took for the two of you to talk, the more catastrophic it would become.

Despite the pain, anger, and guilt, you had healed each other. Slowly. Over decades. And right now, she saw both of you pushing each other away for what you both thought was logical reasoning. No matter how simple or complicated the circumstances between two people like you, it was always the same. Almost. 

“I’m not the one who needs that reminder,” she said carefully.

But he was already turning toward her, expression hollowed out. “Just say it.”

Dr. Raynor studied him for a moment longer before relenting. “Don’t hurt anybody.”

He gave a slight nod, almost imperceptible, but something flickered in his eyes—shame or regret, she wasn’t sure. Probably both. 

“Goodbye, Doc.”

✯✯✯

You shoved open the back door of the precinct, lungs burning, fury clawing up your throat. The cold hit your face, but it didn’t cool you down. Not even close. You wrestled your arm out of the sling, throwing it to the ground. You didn’t know what had just happened. All you knew was that you had peeled back everything—laid yourself open and bleeding, and thrown yourself over the edge—and he hadn’t caught you. 

When you started talking about the past—about HYDRA, about him, about you—for a second, it seemed like you’d reached him. You saw it in his eyes, the way his hand trembled. You heard it in his voice. You thought maybe it would be different this time. 

Wrong. 

You were so wrong because the silence still came back, enveloping you. The kind that crept back in like a poison, eating through anything you’d tried to rebuild. It felt like you were bleeding in front of a man who couldn’t look at the wounds.

It had taken years for you to reach that particular point, where you talked freely—to feel anything close to safety. And it was always him. It was only ever him. He was the only person who made you feel alive and whole, but you didn’t know if you had it in your heart to wait that long to get back to that point. That’s why you had left and stayed hidden from him these past few months. He could’ve come after you, found you at any point. Tried. 

But he didn’t. 

Because maybe he’d known on some level that whatever bound you two together wasn’t enough anymore, not after everything. Or maybe it was too much. You’d spent your whole life as the weapon, the shadow, the predator in the dark. You thought that made you untouchable. But standing here, shaking, alone—

You weren’t the hunter anymore; you were the one running. And you didn’t know if he would ever chase you.

✯✯✯

“Well, I feel much better,” Sam muttered as Bucky approached, hands shoved deep in his pockets. 

“I feel like shit,” Bucky replied.

They walked down the sidewalk in silence, shoulders brushing once before a siren whooped as they veered around the corner. John Walker and Lemar Hoskins stood waiting as promised. 

“Gentleman,” John greeted, all puffed up pride and fake charm. “Good to see you again.”

“What do you want?” Bucky clipped. No room for civility. Not tonight.

Walker barely flinched. “We can’t afford to split forces. Surely, you know that. We won’t stand a chance.”

Sam stopped short, arms folded. “So, what’ve you got?”

Walker’s grin flickered into place, practiced and shallow. “For starters, the leader’s name is Karli Morgenthau.” He gestured towards Lemar, who stepped forward. 

“We’ve been tracking the civilians who’ve been helping her move—hide. Flag Smasher symbols are popping up all over Central and Eastern Europe,” Lemar added.

“Great,” Bucky muttered. “So they’ve gone viral.”

Walker forged ahead. “We think they are smuggling medicine to one of these refugee camps.”

“Well, there are only, I don’t know, hundreds of those since the Blip,” Bucky said flatly. “You plan on checking them one by one?”

Walker chuckled, jabbing Lemar lightly with an elbow. “Good thing I have twenty-twenty vision, then, huh?” 

The joke landed like a brick. Lemar smiled, but it fell quickly. 

Bucky didn’t blink. “Do you know where she is, Walker, or not?”

Walker’s jaw tightened. “No, okay? No, we don’t.” His voice rose in irritation. “But we will. It’s only a matter of time.” 

That wasn’t good enough, not for Bucky, not after everything. Dealing with Walker was damn near at the bottom of his list, if it was on it at all. His face smoothed over as he tilted his head, tongue in cheek. 

“Things are really intense for you, aren’t they, Walker?” His voice was like frost. “Hard being the star-spangled man with a god complex?”

Sam stepped in, a barrier in motion. “Hey. Chill,” then to Walker, “Look—you’re not wrong. We need to stop them as soon as possible. But we’re free agents. You aren’t.” 

Walker’s smile fell flat, but Sam didn’t stop.

“You’ve got red tape. Protocol. Permissions.” He looked at Bucky, then back again. “We don’t. So, it doesn’t make sense to work with you.” 

And just like that, Walker’s whole persona soured.

“Word of advice, then,” he muttered, stepping forward. “Stay the hell out of my way.” 

✯✯✯

They ducked down a side street, away from the echo of patrol cars and arguments. 

Sam finally broke the silence. “Where’s Y/N? Didn’t she come in after I left?” 

Bucky’s jaw ticked. His head filled instantly with that room. Your face. Your voice. His silence.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

Sam didn’t back off. “You don’t want to talk about where she is, or what happened in there?”

Bucky grumbled something under his breath. 

“Listen, man,” Sam continued. “I don’t know what went down between you after the dust settled—” Bucky cut him a stern glare. “—Sorry. Bad choice of words. But something’s still living in the space between you. Pain, maybe. Guilt. Definitely something sharp enough to cut everybody else around the two of you.”

Bucky stayed quiet, but Sam’s words hit too close to the bullseye. Because you had left—again—and this time by choice. He hadn’t even begun to think about what you had gone through during the Blip, he didn’t have time to. Not with everything that happened when he came back. Not when Steve had just left. Not when he had to gather the strength to get through every day. But now with you back around him? It was like standing in the blast radius of a bomb he didn’t see drop.

You had told him SHIELD captured you, nursed you back to health, courtesy of Natasha. She hid you away from the world—even hid your past from Steve, with whom you started to become friends. Bucky still wasn’t quite sure if he had gotten over that, remembering Steve’s face when you burst through the door after he and Sam pulled him into that safehouse. 

“I’ll go talk to her,” Sam said, breaking through his haze. “If you’re not gonna give me anything.” 

Bucky huffed a humorless laugh. “Good luck.” But something cracked open in him. Slowly.

“She found me. After I pulled Steve from the river and ran,” he started, Sam watching him intensely. “I barely remembered Steve, let alone anything else—but I felt her.” 

Sam tilted his head, listening now.

“I knew someone had been following me. I don’t know how long she had been there, but she slipped up, I think.” He took a deep, steadying breath. He always hated remembering this part—the look on your face, the feelings that had welled up inside him. 

“I slammed her against a wall. My fingers wrapped around her throat. Squeezing.” 

His voice dropped, a rasp of guilt and memory. “I didn’t recognize her. But something in me—something—did.”

Sam’s expression turned serious, somber. Still, he let Bucky talk.

“Yet, she did nothing. Just looked at me like she knew it had to happen. Like she deserved it.” 

He shuddered. A beat of silence passed. Sam let him have a moment. He was finally opening up, telling someone, even if it wasn’t you, which he needed to do next. 

“I’m guessing she found the apartment then?”

Bucky nodded. “Yeah,” he paused, the words sticking in his throat. “She didn’t push anything on me. Let me come into my own memories. She patched me up. Stayed.”

His voice cracked. “She healed me. And I think I broke her in the process.”

Sam exhaled in a heavy breath. He gave Bucky a slight nod and clapped a hand to his shoulder—firm and steady. That was enough.

“For what it’s worth,” he said, “you should talk to her. Before this turns into another thing you bury too deep.”

Bucky just kept walking.

“So, about the whole Flag Smasher situation?” Sam shifted the subject.

Bucky glanced his way. “When Isaiah said ‘my people’... I think he meant HYDRA.”

Sam flinched. “Nah. Don’t do that. Don’t carry that.”

Bucky’s voice sharpened. “He wasn’t wrong. HYDRA was my life once. It’ll always be a part of me.”

Sam shook his head. “Not anymore.”

“Walker’s flying blind, but he knows all of HYDRA’s secrets.”

“Don’t even tell me you’re thinking of—”

“I am,” Bucky cut him off. “He knows the serum. He is familiar with the ideology of people like Karli. And he doesn’t want more super soldiers running around.”

Sam looked at him like he was trying to find the flaw in his logic. But deep down, he knew Bucky was right. 

“You really gonna sit in a room with him?”

Bucky exhaled through his nose. “Yeah. I am.”

His eyes darkened. His top lip twitched up in an almost snarl, remembering everything that had happened. The pain he caused everyone. Zemo represented everything he hated. Everything that haunted him. But maybe—just maybe—he was the key to ending this before it got worse. 

Sam stopped walking and turned to face him fully. “Alright then.”

A long pause passed between them. The air between them settled like ash. 

 “Let’s go see Zemo.”

Chapter Text

They strapped him down, leather and cold metal. He didn’t fight at first because that was the protocol. But he saw you. A ghost. His memory coughed you up like blood in his mouth. Your eyes in the dark, your voice saying his name. 

He flinched. The handler noticed. He said something in Russian, his designation. He squeezed his eyes shut, but you were still there. You were always. Still. There. 

‘Don’t forget me.’

No. He bared his teeth and growled. He pulled at the restraints until they bit into his skin. They increased the voltage. White light, white sound. His mouth opened in a scream he couldn’t hear. He saw you in Morocco, blood drying on your face. In Berlin, pressed against his chest. 

‘Don’t forget me.’ 

✯

His head snapped to the side, brain fried. Drool leaked from the corner of his mouth. He panted, chest heaving. They just waited, then started again. Electric fire burned inside his skull, leaving nothing but ashes—except you. You were too deep. You were in the cracks.

You were the crack. 

✯

He remembered the cell, the bars, the blood—your voice.

‘Get each other home.’

He roared, trying to rip free from his restraints, metal arm whining under the strain. They just tightened the straps until they cut into his flesh. They told him to comply. 

He refused.

✯

Another shock. Blinding white. He smelled his skin burning. His eyes rolled into the back of his head. He saw the vault in Berlin. Your fingers, cold, slick with blood, sliding into his palm. 

‘Mission complete.’

Stop it. Stop it.

They screamed at him in Russian. “Forget.” He sobbed, heaving. It was ugly. He shook his head, defiant, refusing.

No.

He saw you pressed against him outside of the vault, your forehead against his chest. Your eyes—alive. 

‘Don’t forget me.’

✯

They shocked him again. And again. And again. Everything was static. Blood leaked from his ears. His body jerked, his heart misfired. He saw you in the med bay, whispering and begging. 

‘Don’t forget me.’

He choked, throat burning as he swallowed. He wanted to say your name, but he couldn’t remember it. He knew it, but he couldn’t make his mouth say it. They were shouting angrily. They couldn’t break him. They couldn’t get you out of him. They asked him who he was. He snarled, spitting blood at their feet. You were there, in the cracks, saying his name.

‘J.’ 

✯ 

They increased the voltage beyond safe levels, against orders. He felt something snap. Not bone. Worse. Inside of him.  He saw you in a hallway, vision obscured by smoke. Your voice was small. 

‘Please.’

He tried to hold on, he tried. But it hurt. God, it hurt. He couldn’t stand it, seeing you but not being able to see you. Hearing you. Feeling your hands on his face, your blood on his gloves—something. 

“It’s easier to let go.”

A voice whispered. Soft. Gentle. Not yours, not his. But he did. Because he was so tired. He let go, burying you—burying himself. 

✯

They asked him again. 

“Who are you?”

He stared at them. Empty. “Winter Soldier.” No hesitation, no flicker of pain or rage, no memory—just the words. 

They nodded, pleased. They finally turned off the machine. He slumped, his breath ragged. His face was wet, his vision blurred, and he didn’t know why. His chest ached, but it was quiet. 

Blessedly, horribly quiet. 

He didn’t see you anymore, not even in the dark, because that was the only way the pain would stop. 

Because he chose to forget.

✯✯✯

You weren’t supposed to overhear it, but you did. She had said his name—The Winter Soldier—and it sliced deeply, burrowing under your skin. That meant he was coming here. They were coming here.

Was he coming for you? Did they realize you weren’t dead?

You had been, technically, free for two years. You knew all the signs of him, the rumors. You listened to Natasha as she told Steve everything she knew about the Winter Soldier, the assassin who killed Fury. He was actually here. Had they finally broken him? Had he forgotten about you? Did he hate you? All you knew was the promise made in blood, both said and unsaid. 

‘Get each other home.’ 

Even if he forgot. Even if he was lost. You would not leave him. 

✯✯✯

You trailed Steve, Natasha, and Sam as they dug for information. You watched the whole thing happen, staying hidden. He jumped, landing on the top of their car. It was chaos, with cars fleeing the scene at a rapid pace. They didn’t care—he didn’t care. Civilian lives didn’t matter here; there was only the mission. 

You pressed your back against the cold concrete support of the underpass. Your lungs burned. The grenade launcher sent Steve flying into a bus, tipping it over. Natasha swept below the underpass with her grappling hook, using the explosion as a distraction. She nearly stumbled when she saw you. 

“What are you doing here?” She hissed between clenched teeth. 

You shook your head. “It doesn’t matter. Go.” 

But she knew that look in your eye, knew when you were on a mission. She just nodded at you, accepting that she couldn’t change your mind. 

“That’s him, huh?” 

You never told her you were kept with the Winter Soldier, but she had just put two and two together.

“Be careful,” Natasha whispered as you moved. He would be coming this way soon, either to go after Steve or Natasha. 

It was Natasha. She shot at him, hitting the goggles he wore. You both took cover from the automatic fire from above. But then, it got quiet. 

Run, you mouthed to her. She, thankfully, didn’t put up a fight and followed your command, yelling at the scrambling civilians to get out of the area. You breathed deeply. He would be coming. And then you heard his voice after two years. 

“I have her. Find him.” He spoke in Russian, his voice low and controlled. It was him, but not. 

There was a loud crash as he landed on top of a vehicle, just a few dozen feet from you, but his focus was on Natasha. She had disappeared from sight.

Now was your shot. Walking past the wreckage of the armoured vehicle, you stared, frozen in place, finger twitching against the trigger. Mask, tactical vest, combat boots—all black. His metal arm glinted in the sunlight, a stark contrast to everything he embodied. He had ripped off the goggles after Natasha shot them. He was the silhouette out of your dreams, your nightmares, but you didn’t look away. You drank in every detail like you were dying of thirst because it was him. 

Alive. Moving. Breathing. 

Even if he was theirs again. 

✯✯✯

He hadn’t spotted you yet. You stalked behind, taking care to keep cover. He was following Natasha’s trail, and you hoped she was far away. You had to stop him before he got there, because he always found his targets. You ducked between cars, moving quickly. You forced yourself forward, gun in hand, heart in your throat. 

Your calf muscles strained to keep up with him, when all of a sudden, he stopped. He had heard something. You knew it as he cocked his head to the side, just barely. He reached behind him, unlatching a little metal ball—a grenade—getting ready to roll it across the street. 

Shit. 

“J!” You screamed.

He turned, just his head, almost as if it was an unconscious response. His eyes met yours; steel, cold, dull. His body language didn’t change. There was no flicker of recognition as he took you in. 

None. 

He raised his rifle. You didn’t know what came over you, but you stepped forward, lowering your gun. 

“J. Please. I know you’re in there.” 

He fired.

You felt the impact slam your shoulder back, flesh tearing, hot blood spilling down your arm. You hit the ground hard, your vision blackening for just a second. You bit down on a scream. Nothing. There had been nothing in his eyes. In the eyes that used to say so much to you. You blinked through the pain, watching him move on. 

Cold. Efficient. 

He left you like you were nothing. Like he hadn’t just shot you. Like you weren’t real to him. Except he didn’t go for the kill like you knew he should’ve.

You pressed your hand over the wound, wincing. Blood slicked your glove. Your gun was somehow still in your hand, fingers squeezing it like a lifeline. You shook, fighting to hold on. You forced yourself up, grunting, and pushed to get back into the wreckage, breathing in ragged gasps. His sole focus was on Natasha as she fought him. On Steve, as he rose through the wreckage of the bus to fight the man who was once his best friend. 

It was then, that you realized, he didn’t know you anymore. Not even a little. Not even a shadow of doubt. All the times you whispered in the dark. All the times you’d held onto him, promising to get him home. He didn’t remember any of it. They had wiped him clean. You couldn’t breathe, vision blurring, but not from the pain in your shoulder—from the pain in your chest. Your heart. 

For the first time since 2011, you realized you might not get him back at all. But you didn’t run, you didn’t give up. You wouldn’t break the promise again. You stayed, bleeding, watching, waiting. Because you told him you’d never leave him behind. And you wouldn’t. 

Not now. 

Not even at the end. 

✯✯✯

HYDRA had fallen. SHIELD was in shambles. The world was still trying to figure out what was real, what wasn’t, despite Natasha’s sacrifice—exposing herself—to let the world see all of SHIELD and their lies. But that wasn’t your main concern, not now. 

Because he was still out there. 

He had pulled Steve from the river, saving him. He was still inside there. And you made a promise. 

You didn’t tell Steve where you were going, despite knowing he would be on the hunt for the same person. You didn’t even leave Natasha a note. You didn’t look back at anything because this wasn’t about either of them or you. It was about him. The Winter Soldier. J—Bucky—as Steve had called him. You finally had a full name for him. 

James Buchanan Barnes. 

It clicked the moment Steve said it. You remembered digging into his files, getting reprimanded for it. They wiped it from you. All except one letter. 

And that was all that mattered, even if he didn’t remember you. Even though he’d looked you dead in the face and pulled the trigger. 

You’d made a promise. And you were damn well going to keep it. 

✯✯✯

He was in Bucharest. A ghost on the outskirts, no name, no face. Just a tall man keeping to the shadows with eyes too tired for someone his age—because physically, he looked to be in his late twenties to early thirties—but nobody knew that he was much older. Except you. You knew it was him, even though you hadn’t seen him yet. 

You felt it like an old wound reopening. 

You got off the train two stops early. Your hood hung low on your face. You checked every window reflection twice, but you weren’t scared. You weren’t being hunted anymore.

You were hunting. 

You gave him a couple of days. You saw something in his eyes, even as he had locked his fingers around your throat, body pressing you against the wall. He thought you were a threat. He was scared. Confused. He thought you were taking him back, just like you had thought when they sent him to take care of Fury. But there was something else. 

A pull. 

You both felt it, standing there together again, the same, but very different. He fled. You let him. There would be time. It was a start. 

Chapter Text

The city pulsed beneath you like a slow, dying heartbeat. Wind curled around your body, dragging strands of hair across your face as you sat on the edge of the rooftop, legs dangling over the abyss. Down below, lights flicked off one by one as the night crept in, the streets softening into shadows. The city was settling into sleep, but you weren’t. You couldn’t. You were still up here, trying not to come apart at the seams.

It was stupid—sitting up here like some lost silhouette trying to outrun the ghosts—but it was the only thing that kept your mind from splitting wide open. Earlier tonight, something had cracked loose inside you. All that rage and hurt bled out, and for a moment, you could breathe again. Just for a second, the light fought back. But now? Now the weight had shifted again. 

Now, your Phantom stirred. You felt her rise like oil through water, thick and slow, coiling in the hollow of your spine. That was what she called herself—your darkness—the Phantom. The name stuck because it fit. A cruel, cunning thing that waited in the shadows. 

That was why they took you. It was like they knew that you could host a monster. Every punishment, every command you didn’t follow—she took it. Not the pain, but the rage, the despair. She absorbed it, drank it down until you could walk again, talk again, pass as human. 

You sometimes wondered if that was why you’d survived in ways Bucky hadn’t—why your mind hadn’t shattered completely under their hold. She held the cracks together. She stitched the pieces of you back into place. She kept your mind intact because she could handle everything they threw at you—at her. But now she wasn’t quiet. 

When you had escaped HYDRA, staggering free into the world with Natasha helping you feel like a person again, the Phantom got louder. Meaner. She didn’t like kindness. She didn’t understand your healing. For two years, you nearly screamed through your own skull trying to shut her out—her voice. Natasha thought they were flashbacks, panic attacks. She didn’t know about the voice. The claws. The way it felt like someone else was wearing your skin.

You thought you were going crazy.

It wasn’t until months after HYDRA tried and failed to use your kill switch that you started to realize something. In some ways, the Phantom wasn’t separate or any sort of hallucination—she was part of you. All the worst parts, maybe, but she knew things you didn’t. She had memories of HYDRA you couldn’t access. Files. Faces. Experiments. It felt like the two separate parts of you were fusing together into one fractured whole—you and the part HYDRA created.

It explained all the confusion when you woke up weeks after you had been shot in the side, just trying to reach that rendezvous point with the Winter Soldier. Something had happened after they injected you with the serum. Did they create her when they thought you were dying? Injected something into your bloodstream that fractured your mind to save your body? And always the thought—had she always been there? 

The Phantom didn’t have answers. She only had hunger. They never hesitated to point out that they didn’t create the monster that you had become—that was all you. It was always there inside of you; they just brought it out into the light as their weapon. But it couldn’t be, because she wasn’t there before. You would’ve remembered that.

The soft crunch of gravel pulled you from the spiral. You didn’t move or glance back. You’d chosen this rooftop specifically for the gravel that was laid out on the roof for the warning it would bring. You knew he would find you. He always did.

He didn’t speak, but you felt him—the weight of him in your orbit. Even your Phantom perked up, pressing closer to the surface. She liked him. Too much. She swore the darkness inside him matched your own because she was your own darkness. You hated that she might be right.

“How’d you find me?” You asked quietly, eyes still fixed on the city below. 

His voice was soft, cautious. “Wasn’t that hard. You like to leave a trail.” 

You almost smiled. “You’re an asshole, you know that?” Of course, he would say that when you were in this self-destructive mood. Some of the tension fled your body, shoulders dropping back. 

“I know,” he whispered, voice rough.

“I’m angry with you.”

“I know.”

You let out a humorless breath and finally turned to look at him. “Is that all you can say?” 

He was already watching you. His eyes were impossibly blue in the moonlight, a color that shouldn’t exist in a world as broken as yours. That crooked grin tugged at his lips—the one that made you want to pull him close and hit him in the same breath.

“There you are,” he murmured, voice sinfully low, like he’d been waiting for your fire to resurface.

The Phantom purred in response, practically purring yours.

You rolled your eyes and looked away. “Did you come here to feel better about yourself, or is there an actual reason you’re hovering?”

“I came to see if you were okay.”

You laughed—sharp and bitter. “Do I look okay?”

He didn’t answer, but the pain in his eyes did. He crouched beside you, elbows on his knees. “Talk to me.” He mirrored the words you had said to him when you first saw each other again in his apartment.

“I did,” you said, voice cold. “Hours ago. In that ridiculous excuse for a therapy room.”

“Not the performance,” he murmured. “The real thing.”

You blew out a harsh breath, fingers curling into fists. “No, see. That is where the problem is, Barnes,” you turned to him, eyes ablaze. “That was real. Just because Dr. Hawk-Eyes was there doesn’t make it fake.” 

Your hands shook. You pressed them flat against your thighs, inhaling deeply. His jaw clenched. You could see the apology forming behind his teeth, but he didn’t say it.

“Just because it wasn’t enough for you doesn’t mean it didn’t cost me something to say it.” 

Damn it. 

Your voice cracked on the last word. You looked away fast, hoping he hadn’t noticed. He had.

“Y/N, please,” he reached out and brushed your shoulder. 

You flinched. He recoiled like you’d burned him. His hand hung in the space between you, useless.

“If you’re not here for something useful, just go.” Your voice was thinner now, fraying at the edges. “I can’t do this again.” 

“I’m not leaving.”

“Then what? You want a pat on the back for caring?”

He steeled his expression, eyes locked on you. “You walked away earlier. I didn’t stop you. But I’m not walking away now. I can’t,” he murmured. A whisper. A promise.

“Bucky.”

“You said I held you together? That I didn’t break you?”  

“Stop,” you warned, your hands shaking. You were barely holding yourself together right now.

“Wrong. You were wrong.” 

“Stop.” 

“Then look at me, and tell me I’m wrong,” he said, voice low, but you didn’t miss the heart-wrenching crack. 

You couldn’t. Your throat burned. Your eyes blurred. You drew your knees up to your chest, locking yourself in.

 “Why are you doing this?” You rasped. “Why now?” 

He exhaled slowly. “Because you’re slipping. And I’ve seen you fight every goddamn thing in the world except this—except yourself.”

You stared at the skyline, biting your lip so hard it nearly bled. The Phantom stirred again. Let him in, she whispered. Just a little.

But you didn’t know how. Not without breaking.

✯

He swallowed hard. Coward. That was what it felt like, sitting here like this, watching you unravel right next to him and doing nothing. He’d come up here with a plan. A script, even. He expected you to throw punches, to scream, spit, and rage. That, he could handle. That was familiar.

But this?

This hollow, gutted silence—this wasn’t you. This was something broken. Something wrecked. You weren’t even looking at him anymore. You just stared past him like he was the smoke rising from a building long collapsed. 

 You were always the embodiment of strength—the strong one of the two. Even when it was all falling apart, you stood taller. Carried more. Suffered deeper and let no one see it. He used to envy that about you. Hate it, even. Because you never fully let him in. Not truly. Not unless he earned it, bled for it. And now?

You were bleeding out, and you weren’t trying to hide it.

“You’re gonna have to do a hell of a lot more to push me away,” he said quietly.

You blinked. A sluggish, dead sort of blink, as if you hadn’t even registered the words. They passed over you like the wind skimming over the top of water. He dragged a hand down his face, metal scraping against his stubble, before he finally sat down. You had disappeared into yourself. He knew that look. He lived in it for decades. Knew what it felt like to retreat somewhere inside and lock every door behind you.

But he wasn’t going anywhere.

“I’ll wait here,” he murmured. “I’ve got time.” 

✯

His voice cut through the fog.  

Now, he had time?

The irony stung so sharply it almost brought a laugh to your lips. She stirred beneath your skin—the Phantom—the part of you that usually stayed hidden. But right now, she rose quickly, teeth bared. You were so frayed, so splintered, that she was ready to come out. To tear into him. But she’d never hurt him; she’d just return the favor.

“I know you’re in there,” he drawled suddenly, tone far too casual, like he hadn’t just shattered every raw edge you had. He stretched out, limbs long and loose, his eyes still on you—like a house cat basking in the warmth of the sun—except there was no sun, and no warmth. You didn’t move.

“You think Steve ever forgave you for hiding our past together from him?” He asked.

The words cut sharper and deeper than they should have. Your eyes fluttered—just for a second. But he caught it. Because of course he did. 

“There she is. My favorite ghost. I remember that day. Too well. The look on his face when you broke down the door,” Bucky said softly. “You were a mess. Blood. Soot. Eyes wild. You didn’t even say anything, just stood there.” 

He chuckled, but there was no humor in it. His head tilted back, gaze searching the stars like it might hold answers. “He wasn’t angry. That’s the thing. Not really. I think he was… hurt. But not in the way I expected.” 

You held still. Even your Phantom was listening intently.

“We didn’t talk about it much after that, but he told me he was glad I had someone during all those years. Even if it was hell. Even if it was you.”

The last part hit you like a slap. Even if it was you. 

“He thought maybe, if you’d told him, he could’ve gotten to me earlier. That maybe things wouldn’t have gotten so… far. With everything that happened those years.”

You felt that old shame rise in your throat. And then Bucky looked at you again, searching.

“I fought them, you know. Every time they tried to wipe me again. They turned the voltage up so high, I thought I was gonna die in that chair. And I always thought—just for a second—maybe it would’ve been better to.” 

He ran his tongue over his teeth, turning back to you. His tone was hollow, but steady. Confessional. “They had to replace my teeth because they cracked, even with the mouth guard.”

Your stomach lurched. You should’ve looked and run away, but you didn’t. You kept your eyes on him, even when everything in you wanted to shut down. His voice had gone low, like he was confessing to something worse than all the blood on his hands. 

“It took almost two full years. Freezing. Reprogramming. But it wasn’t them that finally broke me,” his mouth pressed into a line, jaw tight. “It was me.” 

And that—that—was the moment your body rejected reality. The Phantom took you. She stepped forward, shielded you, the way she always did when you couldn’t breathe anymore. Your vision collapsed to black, and everything else with it.

✯

His muscles stiffened. Your eyes darkened, as if a shadow had passed through your body, and for a moment, it wasn’t you looking back at him. He didn’t call your name. He didn’t try to shake you out of it because he knew exactly what had happened. He’d broken you. Again. And you didn’t even have the strength to fight back.

“Wraith,” he breathed, more a recognition than a greeting. 

Her gaze—your gaze—devoured him. Cold, precise. Like a scalpel about to cut into him. 

“Soldier,” she purred, low and rasped like velvet over rusted wire. Your voice, but not. A mimicry of silk hiding a knife’s edge. 

She stood slowly, and he followed, because he always had. Even back then. The way you moved, calculated and slow, the tilt of your head, the poise of a threat coiled and ready. He knew her. He knew you. Or, he thought he had. This was no shield, no armor. This was something deeper. 

A fracture inside of you made flesh. Born from death and its survival. Raised by pain. She didn’t just protect you, she owned the battlefield inside you. And now, with blood on your sleeve and grief seeping into your bones, you became her again. And right now, she looked at him like he was something to be scrubbed from memory.

“You don’t need to be here,” he said gently, hands relaxed at his sides. “She needs to hear this.”

“She’s given you enough, boy,” she hissed, voice sharper now, the quiet cut of a garrote. “Don’t ask for more.”

And there it was—that edge—that razor-thin snarl that cut before anyone even knew they were bleeding. He remembered that tone. The before. The during. The aftermath. That voice haunted hallways soaked in pain and red light. That voice had curled around him in the dark when there was no one else left alive enough to understand. It wasn’t just anger. It was possession.

“Let her hate me,” Bucky said, voice low and bare. “She deserves to.”

The Phantom tilted her head slowly, like a predator toying with prey.

“Do you think hate is the worst thing she could feel for you?” Her lips curled in a smirk that didn’t reach her eyes. “Hate means she remembers you.”

“I never asked for any of it,” he murmured. “But she gave it anyway. You both did.”

The Phantom tilted her head with a small, unblinking smile. “And look what it cost her.”

She stepped forward. He didn’t move.

“She fought for you when you were nothing but a myth in her head.” Another step. “She bled for you. Killed for you. Cursed your name and still held it like a prayer,” she was already close enough that her breath fanned his jaw. “She went after you, even after you shot her with that cold blood running through your veins.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Even when you remembered Steve after several decades apart.”

He shut his eyes, shame ripping down his spine.

“But not her,” she finished softly. Cruelly. “Not the one who would’ve followed you into the fucking fire.”

“I—”

The silence was suffocating, and when he opened his eyes, the Phantom was still. Her eyes were wide and dark, but it wasn’t rage anymore; it was something more dangerous. 

Curiosity.

She leaned in close, nose nearly brushing his. “Why?”

His voice cracked as he answered. “Because it hurt too much.” 

That was when she struck.

She shoved him hard against the wall, her hand a vise around his throat. Her strength was terrifying—your strength—honed by rage and grief and the violence you couldn’t forget. His head snapped back against the brick, and still, he didn’t fight it. 

“Then you’re a coward,” she spat. “You don’t get to choose silence when someone is dying to scream your name.”

He didn’t flinch. “I fought,” he rasped. “With everything I had. Every day, I fought to hold on. For months. Years, maybe—I don’t truly know how long it was. But I fought. Until one day—” He choked on his words.

“One day, I heard a voice. Calm. Gentle. It wasn’t mine, wasn’t yours, but I was… so tired.” His eyes glazed over, but he wasn’t seeing her. He was seeing that cold room, that flickering light—that switch. “‘It’s easier to let go.’” He shook his head slowly. “And I was weak.”

She released him with a shove, disgust curling her lip, like looking at him made her sick. 

“You think that’s an excuse?” She whispered.

He bowed his head. “No.”

“She cried for you.” Her voice hollowed. “She screamed in her sleep. Tore at her own chest like she could dig you out of it. Every day, she fought to remember everything about you—every moment of the pain, the promises. While you gave yourself permission to forget her.”

“I know,” he whispered.

He stepped forward—tentatively, achingly—but she shoved him back with a finger pressed to his chest.

“She almost didn’t survive the Blip. But I did. I was the only one left after the sky swallowed you whole.”

His breathing halted, lungs constricting. 

“Natasha found me after a year. Me. Natasha brought her back, and even then, there was hardly anything left—because she couldn’t survive the memory of you.”

Bucky swallowed, fighting every instinct inside of him. He never knew how bad it had been. There had never been time to discuss what had happened during those five years when both he and Sam had been blipped.

“Natasha and Steve didn’t know it was me. They just thought she had hollowed out to deal with the pain. But that’s not what happened,” she stalked forward, grabbing his chin between her fingers. “You and I both know it.”

“She never—“ He started, but she cut him off.

“Of course she never told you. But didn’t you see the look on her face when you came through that portal? Alive.” 

He stayed quiet, the silence falling over them like a guillotine. Of course, he saw it. The first thing he did was look for you. But there was a war raging. 

“She was ready to die beside you in that battle,” she said, voice quiet now. “Because she wouldn’t go through that again. Couldn’t. So you don’t get to cry about it now.” 

Bucky’s jaw locked.

“You want to talk about sacrifice?” She whispered, leaning in so her lips ghosted his ear. “You think you know pain? You think you’re the one who suffered? You didn’t see her when you weren’t of this world. After everything she endured. After all of it was finally over. And then you barely said a word to her.”

He shut his eyes. 

“She smiled,” the Phantom said. “Like it didn’t kill her. And you believed it. Thought she was the one who pulled away. Left you.”

He shook his head, voice nearly gone. “I wanted—I wanted to say something. I didn’t know—”

“You never asked,” she growled. “Because you didn’t want to know the truth. That she broke. That I had to piece her back together with bloody hands. That she waited after the battle, after the funeral, and you said nothing. You barely looked at her.” The Phantom’s finger trailed down his neck, her nail scraping across his skin, leaving a faint trail in its path—his skin raised and red. “Was it just the Soldier that felt anything back, or was it you, too, J?”

Her words were venom, souring the thing you called him with such softness, such rawness. Something deep within him resurfaced. He snatched her hand in his metal one. A warning. 

“You don’t know anything.” 

She clicked her tongue in disapproval.

“Ahh, Soldier. But I do. I know everything. And you don’t get to want her now.”

Bucky’s eyes burned. He squeezed her wrist tightly.

“I wanted her then,” he said. “And now. Every version. Even the broken ones. Even you.”

Her breath caught, the only sign of hesitancy. He looked into her eyes for any hint of you. Nothing. 

“But I’m afraid,” he said. “Because the moment I touch her again… I don’t know if I’ll break her worse.”

She pulled away, silent for a long beat. Then she smiled slowly, almost sad. 

“Then I’ll only warn you once, Soldier,” she said, voice chilling in its certainty. Those dark eyes lifted to him.

“If she breaks again, I’m all that’s left. And I don’t forgive.”

Chapter Text

Your shoulders slumped, and the shadows in your eyes slipped away. Something receded inside you, like the tide pulling back and leaving only wreckage behind. You blinked slowly, your vision sharp and strange. The world had shifted in your absence. 

You looked at Bucky, then down at yourself. You hadn’t been standing before. That much you knew. And now, the air between you was too still. Tense. He’d been talking about Steve, then there was—

Nothing.

No memory. No time. Just… nothing.

It was suffocating, the kind of silence that followed disaster. When your ears were still ringing and your mind hadn’t caught up to what was broken yet. You blinked again. Your body was buzzing—too aware. Your throat was dry, your jaw sore like you’d been biting down on a scream. Your heart kicked against your ribs. 

You could smell him—a warm, spiced musk with something darker hidden beneath. A scent that used to steady you. Now, it just made you feel like you’d done something unforgivable. You didn’t remember getting that close. You stepped back before your mind could make sense of it. His eyes followed, unreadable, and his shoulders dropped—barely—but you caught it. Like you’d relieved him. Or disappointed him. 

You didn’t know which was worse. 

“What…” Your voice cracked, raw and rough. “What just happened?”

He didn’t answer, just stared. But there was something in his eyes that made your skin prickle.

Your eyes snapped to his. “I blacked out.” Not a question, but confirmation.

No nod, no words, but it told you everything you needed to know. His silence always said more than a thousand words ever could.

Your stomach coiled. “Did I say something?”

He looked down, breathed in sharply. Then he finally nodded. The blood drained from your face.

“Was it her?”

His gaze cut back up—too fast, too sharp. Almost guilty.

You whispered it again, though you already knew. The emptiness she always left behind was already settled over you. “Was it her?”

Another nod, but slower this time. 

You swayed slightly, the ground unsteady beneath you, because you knew what it meant when she came forward. You had rules. Conditions. Boundaries you’d built like walls and cages. 

So you thought. 

Your chest tightened, heart stumbling. “I don’t remember…”

“I know,” he said. 

The way he said it made your bones ache—two words soaked in something he wasn’t saying. Something he didn’t want to say. You swallowed hard, staring at him, forcing yourself not to look away.

“Did she hurt you?”

He flinched. “No,” he said too quickly.

Your stomach dropped. She did—maybe not physically, but you knew her cruelty all too well. Her precision. She could gut a man with a single sentence. And though she had a twisted fondness for him, she’d tear him apart if it meant keeping you safe.

“What did she say?”

He hesitated. A flicker of something passed over his face—shame? Grief? Longing? It almost looked like he wanted to lie, but then he spoke carefully.

“She told me what happened. While I was gone.”

The words hit you like ice water. You didn’t flinch, but inside, your heart nearly stopped. That wasn’t what you expected. 

“She’s…” You started, the lie thick in your throat. “She’s dramatic.”

“She’s you,” Bucky said, and this time his voice was calm. Your eyes cut to his. “She’s what you bury. The parts you hide away. But she’s still you.”

You wanted to tell him to shut up. To stop pretending like he knew anything about this. Because that part of you—the Phantom—knew things. Things you’d never say. Things he should never hear. But the truth was lodged behind your teeth. So all you could do was manage a whisper.

“She hasn’t come out since—” you stopped yourself and folded your arms over your chest, like it might hold you together. “I didn’t mean for her to come out. She just—” Your voice cracked.

He took a single step toward you, cautious, like you might bolt. You didn’t. You let your eyes drift shut. The air shifted—his hand, not touching, just hovering in the space between you.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

Your eyes snapped open. “What?”

He didn’t repeat it. He looked you up and down, like he was trying to calculate how much damage had been done and whether anything could still be salvaged.

“I’m not running,” he said, voice low but steady. “I swear to you I’m not. I know we need to… talk. But right now,” he hesitated, jaw clenching, hand raking through his hair. “We need to prepare.”

“Prepare? For what?” Your voice cracked.

He winced slightly, giving you the faintest, guilt-ridden half smile. “To go see Zemo.”

“What?”

✯✯✯

It was silent. Just the hum of the fridge and the faint creak of the floorboards under Bucky’s feet as he paced, restless, sleepless. The night had dragged, and he hadn’t closed his eyes. Not once. Not since you both came down from that building and then you walked away. 

Again. 

And he let you, because he knew you were mad at him. About Zemo. About everything else. He thought you needed time. So he gave it to you. However, as the hours passed, he grew increasingly concerned. So here he was, pacing at one in the morning. He didn’t even hear the door open at first. Didn’t hear the quick, stomping footsteps until they were right there. 

BANG.

The door slammed against the wall as you stormed inside, blood trailing from your temple, your knuckles split open, bruised. The second you stepped into the room, the atmosphere changed—electric, choking, heavy like a coming storm—one he hadn’t prepared for. Not after what had just happened. His instincts flared, expecting a fight, and he found it in your eyes. 

Rage.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” You hissed.

Bucky froze. His brain scrambled to figure out what the hell was happening. You came back to him, but you had clearly gotten into a fight—went searching for one—and now, your sights were set on him.

“You were supposed to come after me!” You shouted, shoving him hard, two hands to the chest. He stumbled back. “You let me walk away!”

“Y/N,” his voice cracked. “Wait—”

“No,” you snapped, shoving him again, this time with more force. “You don’t get to say my name. Not like that.”

Blood trailed from a split in your lip. There was a bruise forming beneath your eye. Your hands were trembling, not from weakness, but rage—unstable, molten, white-hot fury.

“You let me walk away,” you seethed. “You just let me fucking go. Again.”

“I thought you needed—”

“You thought what? I needed what? That I’d blow off steam and come back fine?” You shoved him again. “I waited. Every goddamn day, I waited for you. And you—”

Then suddenly, you weren’t talking just about tonight. Your hand lashed out—sharp, fast, and you slapped him across the face—and everything stopped. His head snapped to the side, cheek stinging, ears ringing. His body coiled tight with something darker and hotter than anger. 

For a second, you froze, waiting for him to retaliate. To shut down. To fall apart. Anything. But he didn’t. His eyes met yours, blown wide and stunned. And then he moved. 

He surged forward, slamming you against the wall with a grunt, caging your body between the plaster and the weight of his own. It was hard enough that it knocked the air from your lungs, but you didn’t pull away. His hands grabbed your waist, fingers biting into the fabric of your jacket. Every hard line of him collided with every sharp edge of you—steel meeting shrapnel.

“You think that’s what I wanted?” His voice was low, strained. “You think it’s easy watching you walk away?”

“It certainly fucking looks like it.”

Your pulse throbbed in your throat. You tried to twist from his grip, but he didn’t let you.

“Let go,” you hissed, but it came out weak. Unconvincing. Even to you.

“This is what you wanted, yeah?” He growled, voice rough and breath hot against your lips. “To pick a fight? To hit me? To hurt me?”

“I came to remind you,” you snapped, breath ragged, chest heaving, “that for someone who claims to care, you keep letting me walk away real damn easy.”

His thigh wedged between yours, and you barely contained the noise behind your teeth, but he heard it. You moved into him.

“You’re bleeding,” he murmured, staring at your lip.

“You didn’t fucking come after me.”

He dipped his head lower. “I wanted to.”

“You should’ve.”

And without thinking, he crushed his mouth to yours. You gasped into it, and then you were kissing him back—furious, fevered, no room for air between you. It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t sweet. It was months of silence, rage, grief, and need spilling out in bruising kisses and frantic hands.

Bucky’s grip tightened, his mouth moving along your jaw, teeth scraping your throat. You didn’t stop him, didn’t slow down. Your fingers fisted in the fabric of his shirt, yanking him closer until the world shrank to the sound of his breath in your ear, the press of his body, the truth of it all finally breaking loose. His lips found yours again, and you clawed at his back. He pushed his thigh harder between your legs until you groaned.

And then he slammed you back against the wall again. Hard enough to rattle your bones. Hard enough to make you feel all of him. You broke the kiss, not because you wanted to, but because your head fell back, gasping, moaning, as his hips pinned yours. You rocked against him, frantic, starved.

His voice rasped into your skin. “You came back.”

Your fingers dug into his hair, grabbing what you could, and yanked his face back to yours. Your eyes were wild. You crashed back together like wildfire spreading. Hot, fast, blinding. You clawed at his back, dragged his shirt over his head, kicked off your boots, and shoved your pants down with frantic hands. He barely got your shirt off before you were on him, sweat already slicking your skin. 

There was no time for hesitation. No time for gentleness. You kissed him like a threat. Teeth clashing. Tongues tangling. You tugged his pants down. As he stepped out of them, you bit his lip, and he groaned—low and dark and hungry—his hands grabbing your ass and lifting you without effort as your legs wrapped around him.

He pressed you back against the wall, cock already hard and pressed between your folds. You were so wet he could feel you soaking him, grinding on him, leaving him trembling.

“Fuck me, James,” you snarled against his mouth.

And he obeyed. No teasing. No words. Just a sharp, desperate thrust that buried him deep inside you. Your head fell back against the wall with a thud as your mouth opened in a soundless moan, and he fucked into you hard, again and again, feeling the drag, the tight heat, the way you clamped down on him every time his hips snapped forward.

You loved it. Your nails carved red lines down his back. Your teeth caught the meat of his shoulder. The sting only drove him further into this spiral.

“You like this,” he growled into your neck. “The pain.”

You answered with a sharp roll of your hips, gasping, “Harder.”

So he carried you—still inside you—to the other room and pulled out just to throw you onto the bed. You landed with a bounce, legs spread, already reaching for him again, eyes gone hazy with lust. 

He flipped you over, pushed your face into the mattress, hauled your hips up, and thrust into you from behind—brutal, deep strokes that made the bed creak underneath you. The sound of skin on skin filled the room. Your cries broke with every thrust, your fingers clawing at the sheets as he pounded into you.

“You’re mine,” he gritted through his teeth.

“All yours,” you moaned, voice cracked and needy.

He grabbed your hair, yanked you upright so your back was flush to his chest, and his metal arm wrapped around your waist. His flesh hand slipped down between your thighs, fingers working your clit with precise, punishing pressure while his cock slammed up into you from behind. Your body shook, your breath coming in broken sobs as your orgasm ripped through you. But he wasn’t done.

He pulled out, flipped you onto your back, and thrust in again before you could blink. Your legs wrapped around him, dragging him deeper, nails raking down his arms, over the scar on his shoulder, biting into the flesh of his back.

“Come inside me,” you whispered. “I want to feel it.”

And he lost it. His hips stuttered, body tensing. He buried himself to the hilt, cock throbbing, pumping into you with a strangled moan. You took it all, arms around his neck, your mouth on his throat, murmuring broken words he couldn’t quite understand.

But then you rolled him underneath you before he could recover. You didn’t wait before you sank onto him, and it didn’t take long for him to get hard again as you rode him, your pace relentless. His hands gripped your thighs, fingers bruising your skin. 

You leaned in, lips ghosting his, and whispered, “Again.”

And again. And again. Until you were both wrecked. Until neither of you could breathe. Until the sheets were soaked and your skin was covered in his marks and he couldn’t remember anything but you.

✯✯✯

He didn’t remember falling asleep. And he didn’t know why he would’ve fallen asleep because your mouth was around him.

Warm. Wet. Devoted.

He was already gasping by the time his eyes focused, his head tilted back, thighs trembling. You were between his legs, on your knees, your lips wrapped around his cock, your eyes locked on his like you wanted him to watch you ruin him.

And he did.

He moaned—deep, broken—hand in your hair, stroking your jaw with his thumb. “Fuck,” he groaned, already close. It was too much. Too good. You pulled off, and he let out a strangled whine, hips bucking into nothing. Then you smiled, slow and dangerous.

“Not yet,” you whispered.

Before he could answer, you crawled up his body and sank onto him—bare, dripping, taking him in inch by aching inch. He gasped like he was drowning. You rode him slow, so slow, your hands on his chest, your head tilted like you’re studying him. Worshipping him. Or judging him.

“You missed me, didn’t you?” You murmured.

He nodded, teeth clenched. “God, yes. I missed you—fuck—I never stopped.”

Your hips moved just right—perfect, devastating—but only for a second. And then you stopped, clenched around him. You let him feel it. Let him ache for it.

“Then why,” you whispered, mouth by his ear, “did you let me go?”

His chest rose and fell hard. His hands gripped your thighs. He wanted to move—needed to move—but you didn’t let him. You pinned his wrists down, your strength too much for him at the moment.

“You came back,” you murmured, voice soft but seething. “And you ignored me.”

He shook his head, already unraveling. “I didn’t know what to say. I was scared you—”

You ground down hard, making him hiss, then stopped again.

“Scared?” You echoed, laughing bitterly. “You were scared?”

Your hips rolled again, slower this time, circling, building that pressure until he was panting beneath you, whispering your name like an apology. And then you lifted off him entirely, leaving him throbbing, soaked with you. Helpless. He cursed, whimpered, and reached for you. You pushed his chest hard, sending him flat against the bed.

“Do you know what it felt like?” You asked, straddling his stomach now. “Five years. Living in a world you weren’t in anymore. Barely surviving day after day.”

You leaned in, pressed your palm to his throat—not choking, just holding.

“Do you know what I became when you vanished?”

He didn’t answer. You reached back, took his cock in hand, and teased yourself with it again—rubbing your slick folds against the tip, letting him feel how soaked you were, how much you still wanted him—but not giving him what he was dying for.

“You broke me,” you whispered. “And then you watched me walk away. Again.”

He choked on his breath. “Please…”

You lined him up and almost sank back down. Then stopped. His body trembled, his abs flexing. His eyes burned with need and grief and shame.

“Is this what you want?” You asked, voice raw now. “To fuck me like you didn’t fuck up?”

He didn’t answer, so you kept going.

“You don’t deserve it. You never did. Not my body. Not my love. Not this.”

He tried to rise, tried to kiss you, but you shoved him back down, straddled his thighs, and stroked him once—tight, slick, perfect—but only once. He let out a sob, loud and broken. Tears stung the corners of his eyes.

“Tell me the truth,” you demanded.

His voice was wrecked. “I should’ve followed you. I should’ve never let you fucking leave.”

You finally leaned in close, nose to nose, voice cutting like a knife. “You left me after I endured a broken world without you. Five. Fucking. Years. And when you came back, you said nothing to me. Nothing.”

And with that, you slammed down onto him. Hard. Merciless. Riding him in punishing, brutal thrusts that felt like a battle. He met every single one with equal force, hands on your waist, holding tight, grounding himself in the ruin of you. In the truth of you.

“Make it hurt,” he rasped. “Make me pay.”

So you did. You dragged it out, kept him teetering, raw and desperate. And when you finally let him fall, when release crashed through him like a tidal wave, it wasn’t bliss. It was devastation. 

His body arched violently, hands grasping at your hips, your shoulders, at anything he could grab to anchor himself while it tore through him. You came like fire, burning everything around you—including him. He gasped, choked, and clung to you like you might disappear.

 And when it ended, when your walls pulsed around him, and your moans echoed through his skull and sank into his bones, there was no peace. No comfort. Only your breath against his ear.

“You’ll never have me.” Soft. Final. “You lost your chance.”

His eyes flew open, heart lurching. “What?” His voice cracked, confused. “No, I—”

But your voice had already begun to fade, as if you were drifting away from him. “You only get me in your dreams, James,” you whispered with a cruel little laugh. “And even there, you bleed for me.”

He woke up with a sharp inhale, drenched in sweat, hard as a rock, chest heaving like he’d run through Hell itself. The sheets were tangled around his legs, fists grasping at the mattress below him. Tears streaked his face. That wasn't a memory or fantasy. It was judgment from within his own mind. And he knew—he’d take it again. He’d plead guilty. 

Every. Single. Time.

✯✯✯

It had been a long night. The kind that didn’t end, just bled into morning. Bucky had stood stiff beside the stairwell, jaw tight, hands buried in the pockets of his coat like he was considering climbing down the side of the building instead of walking back with you. You didn’t blame him. 

Instead of sitting in the silence, the bleeding tension, you walked off again. You needed space for the darkness in your head to clear. Because you didn’t want to be mad, but she did. Whatever your Phantom had dragged out of him in your blackout—whatever truth bled through the cracks—he wasn’t ready to face it. Not this morning. Maybe never. 

And you weren’t sure you wanted to know. You just felt something new, a strange hum in the air between you. Dense and electric, like an aftershock, but for something you never witnessed. And yet it clung to you—cold and suffocating—like you’d missed something that changed everything around you. 

Now, on a silent flight to Berlin, all you could do was think. About last night, about Zemo. How you were now chasing the man who dismantled the Avengers from within. The master manipulator. The one who saw through every crack. Who might know everything about who—what—you were: the Wraith, and yet so much more. 

If he didn’t before, he would now.

You hadn’t spoken since last night. Not to Sam. Not to Bucky. Even the voice in your mind—the one that had whispered for years—was quiet now. You weren’t sure you could even trust that voice anymore. 

You stared into the coffee cradled in your palms, the dark liquid spinning into a whirlpool. Your reflection flickered on its surface. Fragile. False. Then gone as your fingers trembled and the cup jerked sideways.

Your thoughts from last night wouldn’t let you go. She hadn’t surfaced like that since the Blip. You thought you had control now. You hoped you did. However, it appeared that your Phantom never left. She just waited for the right wound to open. Waited for a crack, a moment of weakness. And now, you weren’t sure if she’d ever let you close it again.

What had triggered it? A word? A memory? A name? There had been too many blanks lately. Moments where you didn’t remember forgetting. The blurred edge between you and her was thinning. Did she have ultimate control? Would she do it again? You were slipping. Just like Bucky said. You exhaled slowly through your nose, gripping the mug tighter like it might anchor you.

“Shit.”

A loud crash broke through your thoughts. Your head snapped up, heart in your throat. Sam stood near a spilled crate of Zemo’s files, frozen mid-bend. His eyes landed on you and widened.

“Alright,” he said cautiously. “I tried to stay out of it, but… are you okay?”

You blinked, then followed his gaze down. The shattered mug was still clutched in your hand, ceramic shards biting into your palm. Blood slid slowly and steadily down your wrist. You hadn’t felt a thing.

“Yeah,” you said softly. “Just startled me.” 

You placed the remains of the mug on the tray. Your fingers were slick with blood. You started pulling the shards out one by one. The sting was grounding. Familiar. Then—

There was movement beside you. A shadow sliding into the corner of your vision. He sat without a word. Close. Too close. 

“Let me,” Bucky said gently, voice low. 

You didn’t fight him, but it seemed like he was fighting something. The moment his vibranium hand slipped beneath yours, his body locked up, shoulders pulled back, spine ramrod straight. Like your skin had shocked him. You glanced up briefly—and something in his expression knocked the air from your lungs. It wasn’t about your hand or the blood. It was about you. About what you didn’t know. About something he wasn’t telling you. He swallowed hard, jaw shifting like it hurt to hold back.

Let me help you. 

You looked away. The blood had dripped into a small, rich, and dark puddle. It reminded you of other nights. Other hands. Other ghosts. He steadied your hand in his metal one, the pad of his right thumb brushing your skin with a tenderness that didn’t match the quiet thunder in his chest. Every time he touched you, his fingers twitched, like they knew more than they should. Like they wanted more than they could ask for.

Sam cleared his throat awkwardly. “I’ll get the first-aid kit.”

Neither of you answered. The silence between you wasn’t hostile, just strained—fragile. Bucky moved slowly, removing each shard from your hand, but his touch wasn’t clinical; it was attentive. Tortured, even. Something was running through his head, but you didn’t ask. 

His thumb pressed lightly along the edge of one of the larger wounds, gauging its depth. You flinched. Still, he didn’t speak. When he pulled the last shard, he paused, his eyes catching on the blood pooled in your palm. He looked like he might say something, confess something.

“Do you want to talk about it?” He asked quietly, almost too gently. 

But that wasn’t what he meant. His eyes held the real questions. 

Where were you just now? Who was I looking at?

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. He took a napkin and pressed it to the worst cut. You hissed through your teeth. 

“Sorry,” he muttered, not moving his eyes from your hand. “Just until the bleeding stops.” 

You could’ve done it yourself, but letting him do it was easier than facing what came next. There was a conversation—one you both were dodging like landmines—but not here. Not now. Thankfully, Sam returned, and the tension eased slightly. He looked between the two of you, reading the air like a man who was used to helping soldiers battle their trauma after coming back from war. 

“I’m fine,” you said quickly. “Really.” 

Sam raised his hands, backing off. “Hey, I didn’t say anything.” 

“You didn’t have to,” you muttered, eyes shifting back to Bucky, who was now unpacking gauze and antiseptic wipes from the kit. “I just know.” 

Sam scoffed. “And you wonder why I accuse you of being a mind reader.” 

You smiled faintly. “No secret power. You just give it away—motherfucker!” 

You sucked in a breath, shooting Bucky a glare as he cleaned a deep cut with the antiseptic.

“Guess I am old enough to be one,” Bucky murmured.

You frowned. So did Sam.

He sighed. “You know. A mother fucker. It was a joke.” 

You looked at Sam, then back to Bucky. “Aren’t jokes supposed to be funny?” 

Sam lost it. Cackling, hands clapping together like it was the best thing he’d heard all week.

“She got you, man.”

You smirked despite yourself. Sam bumped your uninjured hand with his knuckles. “Boom!”

“Last time I try to be clever around you two,” Bucky grumbled, finishing cleaning up the last of your wounds.

You didn’t miss the care he took—each move of his fingers gentle and deliberate. He tied the gauze neatly, off the side of your palm. His hands lingered just a second too long on yours. Yours throbbed, but you barely noticed.

“Is that okay?” He asked.

Are you okay? 

No. 

You nodded. “Thanks.” 

But his eyes lingered. Haunted. Searching. 

You don’t have to be okay. 

I know.

Okay.

“You guys just gonna keep me out of the conversation, huh?” Sam called from his seat.

You pulled your hand away from Bucky’s.

“There was no—”

“Ah, don’t lie. You were both quiet for too long. I know what that means,” Sam squinted. “Got anything to say, Buck?”

Bucky didn’t answer; his eyes were still on you. And there it was again. The silence. The thing he refused to say, and maybe never would.

“No,” Bucky rasped finally. “Nothing.”

Sam sighed. “Yep. That’s what I thought.”

✯✯✯

He couldn’t look at you. Not after the dream. Not after the way you’d taken him—used him—and then spat him out before he could even catch his breath. Even in sleep, you didn’t let him win. He’d woken up with his sheets soaked and his chest aching. Not from the heat of it, but from the hollowness after. From the words you whispered against his neck when it was over. 

“You’ll never have me.”

You didn’t mean it, not really. You hadn’t even been there. It wasn’t real, but the ghost of you lingered. And now here you were. Real. Flesh and bone and blood. So when the mug shattered and you didn’t even flinch, he was already halfway to you. He didn’t think; he saw the blood first, then your face. 

Blank. Detached. Like it wasn’t even your pain to feel. That scared him more than anything. 

He slid in beside you without asking. “Let me,” he said, voice low and hoarse. 

For once, you didn’t argue with him. Your hand trembled when he took it in his. And the second your skin touched his, his gut twisted. 

Fuck. 

His body went rigid. A current of memory surged behind his ribs. The heat of your thighs around his hips. The drag of your breath across his mouth. The way you’d leaned in close in that dream and demanded pain, just to give it back to him. For him to ruin you, just for you to turn around and rip him apart. And now this. 

Your hand was cold and delicate in his. Bleeding. So why did it still feel like a sin? He flexed his fingers instinctively, fighting the urge to pull away, but he didn’t. Couldn’t. You didn’t know what was racing through his mind. You couldn’t know. 

You barely glanced, and it nearly gutted him. Because you looked at him like nothing happened. Like he wasn’t on fire every time you touched him. He worked in silence, extracting the shards carefully, watching the way your blood painted his hand. It felt obscene. Too intimate. Too much. And still—he couldn’t stop staring. 

Even when Sam walked off ot get the med kit, all Bucky could feel was your pulse under his touch. Too fast. Too shallow. Like something was wrong. Like something was waiting. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” He asked, voice low. 

But what he meant was, did you feel it too? Do you know what I’d give to make it real?

You didn’t answer. You looked away from him like you always did, like you always had. When he pressed the napkin to the deepest wound, you hissed. 

“Sorry,” he murmured. Not for the pain. For everything else. For wanting you like this—in this… sinful, carnal way. “Just until the bleeding stops.”

When Sam came back, the mood fractured. Bucky stayed quiet, tying the gauze into place, hands steady even though his mind was spiraling. And after you and Sam exchanged barbs against him, he caught it. Just the flicker of your smile—the tired one, the mask. It still looked like a knife to the chest. He felt Sam watching him. 

“You guys just gonna keep me out of the conversation, huh?”

Bucky’s eyes snapped up. You’d pulled your hand from his without a second thought. Like it hadn’t wrecked him to hold it. 

“There was no—” you started, but Sam cut you off.

“Ah, don’t lie. You were both quiet for too long. I know what that means.” He narrowed his eyes. “Got anything to say, Buck?”

Bucky stared at you. At your fingers flexing gently. At the faint line of blood still on your palm. He remembered your hands on his chest in that dream. Around his throat. Scraping down his back like you wanted to drag him down with you. He hadn’t ever felt raw pleasure like that. He hadn’t felt shame like that since HYDRA.

“No,” Bucky rasped finally. “Nothing.”

Because if he opened his mouth, he’d confess it all. How you’d haunted him. How badly he wanted you. How it killed him knowing you’d never let him in—not like you did in his dreams. And how even if you did… he wasn’t sure he deserved it. 

Sam sighed. “Yep. That’s what I thought.”

But Bucky wasn’t listening anymore. Not to Sam. Not to you. Just the echo of your voice, soft and cruel from the dream. 

“You only get me in your dreams, James.”

And he knew he’d bleed for the chance again—he’d bleed for you. Even if it tore him apart.

Chapter Text

You strolled behind them down the corridor, each step echoing through the sterile white hallway. The air was cold, recycled, stale. It smelled like bleach and old metal. You hated it. 

Everything about the place pressed in on you—the manufactured stillness, the pristine walls, the way the guards stood too straight. It was déjà vu in the worst way, dragging you backward into some nightmare your body remembered better than your mind. Places like this had broken you down, stripped you until nothing was left. Your shadow still lingered in their walls, screaming—bleeding.

Up ahead, the guard who had seen you in passed his clipboard to another and muttered something under his breath. His eyes skimmed over you and didn’t quite hide the way they lingered too long. You curled your injured hand, fingers digging into your sleeves, but you hardly felt the bite of pain. A slow fire lit in your chest. Men who stared like that didn’t stare very long. Not if you had a say.

But you kept your head down. Behaving. You were here for the mission—get what you could from Zemo, and get the hell out. The fact that you’d even walked back into a place like this was a bad sign. A desperate one. Had there really been no other lead to start with? You’d been so distracted by the chaos, by everything else closing in, that you hadn’t stopped to think about where the serum might have come from.

During the Blip, you’d torn apart so much of HYDRA, dismantled what scraps were left—but maybe you missed something. Maybe you’d missed someone, lost in the fog that still crept through the back of your mind. Those dark weeks— months . You didn’t remember a good chunk of those five years, and yet, you remembered too much.

“He’s just down there,” the new guard announced, breaking you from your thoughts, nodding to the locked metal door up ahead. Thick and reinforced with mechanical locks that buzzed like a wasp hive.

“Give us a second,” Bucky said coolly. His voice didn’t waver, but you could tell by the way his jaw tightened that his calm was a mask. He pulled both you and Sam aside, ducking just out of earshot. 

“I’m going in alone.”

You and Sam both looked at him.

“Why?” Sam objected, frowning. 

Bucky didn’t look at him. He looked at the door—like he could see through it. Like it was already pulling something out of him.

“You’re an Avenger, Sam. You know how well that went last time.” 

Sam crossed his arms. “It’s not like you were good buddies with him.”

“No,” Bucky said, finally meeting his gaze, “but he’s obsessed with HYDRA. There’s history. Just—trust me.” 

His words were measured, but something in his voice cracked faintly on the last part. You turned toward him slowly, your expression unreadable.  

“And what about me?”

He didn’t answer right away. His jaw clenched hard, twitching like he was chewing back something he didn’t want to say. 

“I don’t want to risk him knowing you. Not now.”

You stepped toward him, tone sharp. “You just said he was obsessed with HYDRA. I was a part of it. I was there in Siberia, right next to you.”

“If you thought my files were hard to get,” he snapped, “think about yours.” 

That stopped you. The breath caught in your chest.

 “You were their best experiment,” he said, softer now, but it didn’t feel like a compliment. “You think they kept your existence in the standard files? They buried you so deep even I wouldn’t have known you existed if they didn’t put us together.”

His eyes met yours—and something flickered behind them. Guilt. Regret. Resentment, but not for you. You didn’t say anything, and the silence between you started to fill with heat. With questions. With truths neither of you were brave enough to say out loud. 

“And you said it yourself,” he continued, voice low, “you destroyed what little there was. You made sure they couldn’t find you again.”

You stared at him, trying to figure out what exactly he was protecting—Zemo from you, or you from something you didn’t know. First Isaiah, now this. It was starting to feel like Bucky didn’t just want to keep you safe… he wanted to keep you secret.

“If he doesn’t know what I am,” you said quietly, “then why does it matter if I go in?”

His eyes cut away. 

“It just matters,” the snap in his voice was immediate—like he couldn’t help it—then he ran a hand down his face, exhaling through his nose like he hated himself for it.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered. “Just— please . Trust me.” 

It was the second time he’d said that, and this time, it was weighted. Like he wasn’t just asking you to trust his judgment. He was asking you to trust something he wouldn’t tell you. Something you’d probably have to tear out of him piece by piece. Still, you nodded. Your body said okay, but your eyes didn’t.

“Fine. We’ll wait.” 

You stepped back beside Sam, your shoulder brushing his just enough to give him the silent message: Don’t push him right now. 

Sam gave a long, low sigh beside you. “Alright. All yours.” 

Bucky didn’t look back as the metal door buzzed open. He squared his shoulders, stepping inside without hesitation, without a word. And then the door slammed shut behind him, sealing him in—and whatever was about to unfold—completely away from you.

Sam let out a quiet breath. “I’m guessing that conversation didn’t go how he planned.”

You said nothing, your gaze fixed on the door, on the space he’d just vanished into.

You have no idea.

✯✯✯

The door sealed behind him with a hiss and a metallic clang. Inside, the air was colder—tighter. The space wasn’t just a cell; it was a cage dressed up as something it wasn’t. Zemo stood in the middle of it, unmoving. A study in self-control. He was mumbling under his breath until he heard the door shut. Then, he looked up—smiling.

He smoothly transitioned to Russian. “Longing. Rusted. Seventeen.” 

His words—old ones—like daggers in his skull. Bucky’s face stayed still because those words did nothing anymore.

“Those days are gone.” 

Zemo offered a casual shrug, like he already knew. 

“I know. I simply wanted to see how the new you reacted to the old words.” 

He stepped closer to the glass, tilting his head slightly. “Something is still in there. That doesn’t just go away. But… at least you were not aware during most of your imprisonment.” 

Bucky’s jaw ticked. “Yeah, well, it wasn’t exactly a picnic either.”

“I’m sorry, for what it’s worth,” Zemo said. “You were a tool. A function. Nothing personal.” 

Bucky didn’t flinch, nor did he respond. Zemo’s eyes flicked over his shoulder toward the door.

 “You came alone?”

“Yes.” 

“Lie,” Zemo’s voice was light. “Where’s your little friend?” 

His face fell flat, and his shoulders stiffened. “He’s out there, but I thought it best for him not to come in.”

Zemo clicked his tongue. “Not that little friend.”

He didn’t answer.

“What was her name again?” Zemo pressed, eyes glinting with satisfaction when Bucky’s body tensed ever so slightly. “The ghost. The wraith .”

Bucky went still, the way the air stilled before a storm broke.

“What about her?”

Zemo raised an eyebrow, like he’d just proved a theory. “Strange, isn’t it? I remember her by your side. Close. Protective. You two seemed… inseparable.”

A muscle in Bucky’s cheek twitched. Truthfully, you had been—up until that horrid day in Wakanda. 

“That was a long time ago.”

“Was it?” Zemo clasped his hands behind his back. “Decades together. Tortured. Isolated. Conditioned. You think bonds don’t form in that kind of pressure? You were soldiers. But more than—”

“What’s your point?” Bucky bit out. 

Zemo hummed, as if wondering that question himself. “Curiosity becomes me, Mr. Barnes. Just two weapons rarely separated. I wondered why that was, and if it was still happening now, outside of HYDRA’s control.”

Bucky visibly recoiled, fists clenching. 

“Ah, well, maybe I don’t know anything at all,” he stepped away from the glass, giving Bucky his back for just a moment. “What do you think?”

He fought the anger that simmered below the surface, biting his tongue. Zemo watched with an infuriatingly calm expression, eyes sharp as a blade. 

“Careful,” Bucky finally said, his voice low and dark. “You should know better than to back a wolf into a corner.”

Zemo didn’t flinch, didn’t blink. A faint smile appeared on his face. 

“Oh, I do, but I’m counting on those primal instincts to take over.”

Bucky drew a steadying breath in through his nose. He needed to focus. He came here for a reason, and it was not this. Yet, Zemo wasn’t quite done with him. He lifted an eyebrow.

“All these years, and you’re still so easy to read, Bucky.”

“You don’t get to call me that.” 

Zemo ignored him. “Your jaw tightens, hands clench. Your breathing changes when I mention her. Just… so predictable.”

A muscle in Bucky’s jaw ticked. He shifted on his feet, but didn’t move away. He wouldn’t give Zemo the satisfaction. 

“I asked once already, so I won’t ask again. A real answer this time,” he bit out, his voice cold. “Why bring her up?”

Zemo feigned thought, tapping his chin. “Because people are leverage. Even the mighty Winter Soldier learned that the hard way.”

Bucky’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “I told you, I’m not him anymore.”

Zemo’s head tilted. “Mm. You say that, but here you are. Same face, same weaknesses, same triggers—and no, I’m not talking about the words.”

He let his words sink in, watching Bucky’s reaction, who gave him none. 

“She was your leash, no?” Zemo mused, his voice deceptively soft. “The thing they used to keep you compliant. Or, was it the reverse? She was always more dangerous than people gave her credit for. Quiet. Surgical. It was beautiful, in its own way.”

Bucky’s eyes sharpened, gritting his teeth. 

“That look in your eyes—ah, yes. Even now, you’re angry because it’s true.”

His metal fingers twitched, clenching into a fist before he quickly released them. He inhaled slowly—a careful, measured practice. 

Bucky’s voice dropped into a low rasp. “You know nothing.”

“Don’t I?” Zemo’s gaze sharpened, the playful edge falling away. “You give me everything I need. You wouldn’t react this way if I mentioned Steve Rogers, or maybe your friend Sam.”

Silence.

Zemo stepped closer to the glass. “You were her tether to reality. The thing that kept her from falling completely out of their control. HYDRA knew it. I figured it out. And from the look in your eyes, you still haven’t forgiven yourself for what she became because of you.”

Bucky said nothing. His expression was carved from stone, but the crack behind his eyes had widened.

Zemo’s voice softened, almost like sympathy—but it wasn’t. It was control. “You’re afraid of her, James. Not because of what she did then… but what she might still   be.”

“Enough,” Bucky growled, his voice dark, trembling just beneath the surface.

“You’re afraid she’ll break again. And this time, when she does—you won’t be able to pull her back. Because she won’t come back for you , will she? Not now. Not after… everything.”

Bucky’s hand twitched at his side—metal fingers flexing. 

“She was your collateral,” Zemo whispered. “A knife disguised as an ally. I imagine it’s… difficult to care for someone who only knows how to make others bleed.”

Zemo smiled softly, stepping closer to the glass that imprisoned him—the only thing keeping him from Bucky’s wrath—yet he just watched, eyes glittering with interest. 

“I wonder if she’s still willing to kill for you, or better yet—is she willing to die for you? I imagine she is, and that’s what you’re afraid of, isn’t it? That you’ll get her killed, even now.”

Bucky didn’t respond. He couldn’t breathe. His muscles locked up because if he moved, he wasn’t sure he wouldn’t shatter the cage between them. 

Zemo’s smile faded into something colder. “You can’t save her. Your darkness was created—forced—into who you are now. Her darkness was always there, waiting for the chance to surface. Don’t tell me you can’t see that?”

The air pulsed with rage, silent and heavy. But Bucky inhaled sharply—steeled himself. 

Focus . 

“Someone recreated the serum. I need to find out who.”

Zemo blinked once. Twice. Then chucked softly. 

“Ah, there he is. The soldier and his mission. How nostalgic,” he unclasped his hands from behind his back. “Alright, Mr. Barnes. Business, then. No more chatter about old ghosts.”

His posture relaxed. “But remember this,” Zemo added quietly, eyes locking with Bucky’s one last time. “Ghosts don’t stay buried for people like us. We don’t get the pleasure of ignorance.”

Bucky ground his teeth together hard enough that he was worried he might chip a tooth. He ignored Zemo’s comments, focusing on the task at hand. 

“Talk.”

Zemo’s eyes lit up with satisfaction, like he’d won something. “Of course. You must be desperate to come to me.”

“I am,” Bucky said flatly. “So don’t waste time.”

Zemo turned, thoughtful. “You’re assuming HYDRA is behind it. But HYDRA doesn’t exist in the way it once did. Their parasites scattered after the fall. Someone else picked up the pieces.”

He walked in a slow circle, his fingers tapping together. “But lucky for you, I know where to look. Where these things tend to resurface. Even ghosts leave a trail.”

He stopped and faced Bucky again, eyes narrowed.

“But understand this, James. If you bring her into this—willingly or otherwise—there’s no guarantee she will come back as herself.”

Bucky stared at him, emotionless. 

“You don’t get to warn me about her.”

Zemo’s voice dropped low. “Oh, but I do. Because if what I suspect is true, then she’s already buried beneath the rubble.”

The words hung in the air before dropping, heavy as lead. And Bucky, despite everything, didn’t deny the warning.

Chapter Text

The building was crumbling, bricks flaking like old scars. Fifth floor, back corner near the stairs. An exit route. There was a cheap lock on the door, but he didn’t need it. No one was looking for him—well, except you. You didn’t breathe, didn’t knock, just opened the door with shaking hands. 

The apartment was quiet. Clean. Sparse. There were books stacked by the window—history, Russian, something about restoring memories, and one about trauma. A single mug sat in the sink. A metal arm glinted faintly in the dim light. And then—

Him . 

Standing in the kitchen, frozen mid-movement. He was wearing a t-shirt and sweatpants. Barefoot. It felt like you had never paid attention all those years. 

Had he ever been barefoot before?

It felt invasive—intimate. Now that you had the time to study him more, his hair was longer than before, like they hadn’t cut it in the last three years. 

He turned slowly, eyes wide. They were tired, yet still sharp. Your chest ached, but you said nothing. You just watched him, waited—even prayed a little—that maybe, just maybe, something in him remembered you. 

His voice was low. Rough. “How did you find me?”

You blinked. That wasn’t the question you expected. It wasn’t even the voice you remembered. Not cold, not cruel, but cautious. Wary. You stepped further inside. 

“Wasn’t that hard,” you said softly. “You always did like to leave a trail for me.” 

His brow furrowed, the line between his eyes deepening. He didn’t move. He also didn’t tell you to leave. 

“Do I—know you?”

The words hit you like a boulder, flattening you to the ground. 

You swallowed. “In another life,” you said. And then quieter, “And in this one too, even if they tore it from you.”

He stared at you like he was trying to read a language he’d once spoken fluently, but had lost after years of not speaking it. 

“I don’t remember.”

“I know.”

A beat passed before he responded again, his eyes still trained on you—no longer a threat. “I shot you.” 

Your fingers ghosted over your shoulder—still tender, still aching. The wound had been vicious, soaking through layers of gauze in the early days. Now it only wept, soft and slow, like the pain you carried inside.

“You did.”

Silence.

He looked down at the floor, breaking his gaze, jaw tight. “I’m sorry.”

And your breath caught, because that sounded like him. Not the soldier— him . You took another slow step forward. 

“Do you remember Morocco?” You asked gently.

He blinked, then shook his head. 

“Berlin?” 

A flicker, then—

“I remember… pain,” he murmured. “Concrete. Metal. Blood. A woman’s voice. Over and over. Harsh, yet soft.”

Your throat closed. You got dizzy. That had been you. You . It seemed that you were just as stubborn inside of him, clawing your way through the mental blocks. You stepped closer, now only a few feet apart. 

“You once told me not to die on you,” you whispered. “I didn’t. I came back. I found you.” 

His hands were trembling. He looked down, clenching them into fists. “I don’t remember your name.”

“That’s okay,” you said. “They took it from you. Like they took it from me. But I know yours. And I’m giving it back.”

He looked at you, really looked at you, and something in his eyes shifted. A crack in the armor. Not recognition, not quite yet. 

But something older, deeper—trust shaped like instinct. His lips parted, voice nearly silent. 

“You never left.”

You shook your head. “No.”

He nodded once, took a shaky breath, and then did something you didn’t expect. He stepped toward you—slow, hesitant—and reached out, fingers brushing the edge of your sleeve. Testing if you were real. And when you didn’t disappear, he whispered,

“Get each other home.”

The words cracked open something inside you. You didn’t cry, but you broke all the same. You took his hand in yours, gently at first, but then gripped it tightly. 

You whispered back. “Always.”

✯✯✯

Weeks had gone by, and you’d only left the apartment for necessities. It was raining outside today. The soft, persistent kind that smeared the windows with a gray haze. The apartment was warm only because you made it so—space heater in the corner, patched blanket on the couch. Bucky was in the kitchen, if you could call it that—two burners with one battered pot. He was standing in front of it like it was a puzzle he had almost solved. 

You watched him silently from the little table, wrapping your shoulder again. It was done bleeding, but stubbornly didn’t want to heal all the way, like all of the bad memories still needed to seep out of you. His hands shook, and when they did, he put the pot back down, breathed, and started over. He was trying, so you never interrupted, never forced it. 

You just watched as his shoulders rose and fell, the tension in his jaw, the cut on his cheek still healing, a fresh pink. Eventually, he gave up on the pot, leaning both hands on the counter, head hanging between his shoulders. The rain tapped softly against the windows, but you heard him breathe in slowly, unsteadily. 

“I remember,” he said hoarsely. 

Your fingers froze as you ripped the gauze off the roll. You looked at him carefully.

“Yeah?” You asked gently. He didn’t turn, his eyes locked on the counter, knuckles white. 

“They made me watch.”

Your mouth went dry, an image flashing through your mind. You knew what he was referring to—based on his expression, the instability he seemed to be fighting with. You’d prayed he wouldn’t remember that , of all things—but of course he would. He never let you take the worst alone. You swallowed. You weren’t going to say anything, to push. He finally turned, eyes blue and wounded, searching the depths of yours. Haunted.

“He threw you to them.” 

You lowered your eyes, fumbling with the gauze again. “I remember.”

“He said—” A snarl curled up on his lip. “Punishment.” He finally spat out, as if the words burned him. “For you, for me. Karpov wanted to prove a point.”

Your stomach clenched, your shoulder throbbing with a phantom pain—a memory. 

“They told me to sit,” he growled, metal fingers clenched. “I wouldn’t, so they strapped me down. Made me watch,” he shuddered. 

“I remember roaring, my voice cracking. I couldn’t—I couldn’t stop them.”

You closed your eyes, your voice small. “They wanted me to fight back. That was the point.”

He flinched, but you forced yourself to keep going. 

“He wanted me to go until they beat me near death, or I did to them, but I couldn’t. I was too hurt, too slow. He knew that,” you swallowed hard. “They were going to—” Your voice broke, then silence. 

He made a noise in his throat—raw, animal. 

“I remember. ”

He pushed away from the counter, walking toward you—slow, careful—like you were the one who might break. He dropped to one knee in front of you, taking your hand in his metal one. It was cold, heavy, but gentle. Your breath hitched. 

“They touched you,” he said, voice shaking. “They tried.”

You nodded. Barely. 

“They would have—”

Your voice was ragged. “But you broke free. When they—when they tried to…” You looked at him, eyes hot—burning. “It wasn’t your fault.”

He squeezed your hand so tight it ached, but you didn’t pull away. 

His voice was broken. “They made me watch.”

Your free hand trembled as you cupped his face. 

“They made me watch,” he repeated.

You saw the boy under the killer. The man under the soldier. The friend.

You stroked his cheek with your thumb, your voice soft. “They wanted to break us both.” 

A tear fell, but he didn’t wipe it away. He just stared at you. “I’m sorry.”

You leaned down, pressing your forehead to his. “Not your fault.”

His breath hitched, your voice cracked. 

“It was never your fault.” 

He shuddered, letting out a sound you’d never heard from him. Half-sob, half-laugh—broken. You stayed there on the battered chair, he on his knees, holding each other together. The rain drummed a steady beat on the glass. Outside, the world was still in chaos. But here, for one quiet moment, you were both just people. Not weapons. Not ghosts.

Just two survivors who refused to let go. 

✯✯✯

He was there. Again . You were both there. He wasn’t in Bucharest anymore. He was strapped to the chair, thick leather biting into his wrists. He couldn’t move; the metal arm clamped down. He could only watch. 

Karpov’s voice was cold, cruel. “Look at her.” 

His head jerked as he fought, teeth bared, breath ragged. They drugged him, and he was sluggish—weak. He roared, but they only laughed. 

“Look at her!” 

Karpov backhanded him, and stars exploded behind his eyes. He blinked through his blurred vision. He saw you, thrown to the floor, already bloodied from them. Your face was swollen, your lip split and puffy. You pushed yourself up, shaking. Your arms trembled, but you didn’t crawl to him. You didn’t beg. You just glared at Karpov, like you’d murder him if you could stand. 

The guards circled you. One kicked your side. You grunted, your body curling to protect your ribs. But you didn’t scream yet. He knew you wouldn’t give them the satisfaction. His chest heaved. He wrenched at the restraints until his wrist started bleeding. He snarled, like a caged animal, but Karpov only smiled.

“Watch. This is your punishment.”

They grabbed you by the hair, dragged you to your knees. You were dazed, panting, but your eyes found him. And he saw it—that tiny shake of your head.

Don’t do it. Don’t give him what he wants.

He snarled again, trying to stand. The chair rocked, but didn’t break. One of the guards laughed, and another spat on the floor next to you. They start hitting you harder until your head snapped back, blood splattering the concrete. He roared—low, animal. Not human. 

It ripped from his chest like it was tearing through his lungs. You swayed, barely conscious. One of them touched your face—almost gentle—his thumb smearing blood off your cheek, as he leered at you.

His vision blazed red. He thrashed, foam flecking his lips. 

“Don’t touch her!”

But they held him down. They made him watch. The guard’s hand moved lower, down to your neck. Your body went rigid, a spark of awareness returning to your battered eyes. That was what they wanted, for you to break, for him to watch you break. 

His voice was raw as he pleaded. “Stop.”

It wasn’t in Russian, it wasn’t a command—he was begging. 

“Don’t. Please.”

Karpov only laughed. “Your fault, Soldier. You didn’t obey.”

The guard unbuckled his belt. You flinched. You finally fought. Weak, desperate, scrabbling at the floor—fingers clawing at anything. He pinned you easily. 

His scream cracked in his throat. “STOP!”

His eyes were leaking, blind with hot tears, but he didn’t look away—couldn’t. They wanted him to see. They forced his eyes open even when he tried to squeeze them shut. 

The other guard smirked. “Hold her down.”

You spat blood into the one guard’s face. His grip was bruising as he locked his fingers around your jaw. 

“ Do it then, you fuckers,” you rasped in Russian.

Defiant until your last breath, but he didn’t miss the tremble of your voice—the fear in it. It gutted him. Something snapped in a roar of pure rage. He twisted the metal arm until the clamp broke, skin tearing and muscles straining—but it was free. 

He lunged. The chair toppled over as he ripped his arm free of its socket, swinging it like a club. Bone crunched, blood sprayed—but he didn’t care. He ripped the second strap off with his teeth. Fists flew, skulls cracked, but he didn’t stop—not until they were dead or dying. 

Then, he was on his knees next to you. Your face was beaten—ruined—but your eyes were open. Barely. You blinked slowly, the sound of your breathing raspy and wet. 

He pressed his forehead to yours, shaking. 

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

You didn’t speak. Your mouth filled with blood, but your fingers twitched, curling into his vest—holding on. Karpov dragged him back. They sedated him again. His last sight of you was limp on the floor, eyes fluttering shut as they pulled him away, your lips moving with something he couldn’t hear.

“Don’t forget me.” 

✯✯✯

He woke with a broken sound—choked and guttural—as if the nightmare had followed him straight into waking. You were on your feet before you could think, crossing the room in quick strides as he shoved himself back against the wall, breath ragged, arms braced to keep the world from caving in. 

“James,” you said softly, not touching him, but close. 

“Don’t.” His voice cracked. “Don’t touch me. I’m fine.”

He wasn’t. You could see it—the way his body trembled, the sheen of sweat clinging to his skin, the haunted look in his eyes as if he wasn’t fully here yet. He was fighting to stay upright, to keep it all inside, but his breath hitched again, and the dam broke open. 

He crumpled. Dropped to his knees in front of you, hands fisting in his hair as he sobbed into the quiet. And even then— even then —he tried to pull away when you reached for him. 

“I said don’t—” He rasped, twisting from your hands. 

But you didn’t let him. You followed him to the floor and sank to your knees in front of him. Not forcing, just… offering. Quiet. Steady. Waiting for him. 

“I know,” you whispered. “I know it hurts.”

He tried to resist again, but the moment your fingers brushed the back of his neck—gentle, anchoring—he folded. Fell into you like gravity had decided he belonged there. His head dropped into your lap, forehead pressed to your thighs, hands still clenched like he didn’t deserve to be held, like he might break something by needing this. 

You buried your fingers in his hair and just stayed there. Breathing with him. Holding the pieces together while he shattered. 

You let him find himself again before going back to the couch, before trying to settle back into sleep. You stayed curled on the couch above him, one leg tucked beneath you, the other hanging over. He laid on the floor like he didn’t deserve comfort, even in his sleep. 

Hours later, another nightmare—the same nightmare—dragged him under again. Over and over, haunting his sleep. And you were there. Again. He was sobbing, kneeling on the floor in front of you. He had buried his face against the couch before you could say anything, so you just combed your fingers through his hair. Calming, gentle, soothing. 

“It’s over. It’s over. They can’t hurt us anymore.”

You were shaking, eyes wet again as he clung to you like a man drowning, fists twisted in your shirt. He couldn’t speak—couldn’t tell you what he needed—that he needed to feel you, even when he pushed you away. But you knew. You slid down from the couch, wrapping your legs around his hips, pulling him to you. His arms locked around your waist instantly, chest heaving.

“I’m here. I’m real,” you whispered against his skin, the warmth of your breath against his neck calming him. 

His hands nearly spanned the entire length of your spine, clutching at you like he was afraid you’d vanish. Like if he let go, he’d wake up there again. You held him tighter. 

His breath hitched, then steadied. The tremors didn’t stop right away, but they slowed. Bit by bit. Inch by inch. His fingers softened their grip, shifting to trace the shape of you—your spine, your shoulder blades, the large scar just below your ribs. Proof. That this was real. That you were real. 

You stayed like that until the room stilled. Until the ghosts faded back into the darkness and all that was left was your body against his, hearts still bleeding. You both survived. You had kept your promise.

Get each other home. 

“I’ve got you,” you murmured. “We’re home. We made it.” 

In the hush between your heartbeats, the tension in his body fled, and you felt him believe it. Just for a second. But sometimes, a second was enough. 

Chapter Text

He didn’t even step out of the cell before texting. 

One hour. I’ve got information. 

Not to Sam. Not to both of you. Just you. Sam scowled at the screen over your shoulder, like he’d been left out of something sacred. “Seriously? Not even a group text?”

You barely registered it. Your heart was pounding. The silence you felt in your very veins was louder than an alarm. “Let’s go,” you said, already walking.

You trusted Bucky, but trust didn’t mean you weren’t angry. Or suspicious. Or terrified of what you didn’t yet understand. It was too easy. Too simple to just come to Zemo and get information without some sort of a price. So what was that price?

The location he sent led you and Sam to some forgotten backlot garage—walls lined with rusting tools, half-dismantled engines bleeding grease onto the cracked concrete. It reeked of oil and something metallic and old. A place that hadn’t seen light in years.

Why the hell did he send us here?

“This is where he wants to meet?” Sam muttered, pulling his jacket tighter. “He wants us to sell car parts or something?”

You didn’t answer. The hairs on the back of your neck were already standing up. He emerged from the shadows like he had been molded with them. Bucky didn’t say your name or offer a greeting. He just looked at both of you like he’d already argued with you in his head—

And lost. 

“What the hell is this, Buck?” Sam demanded, stepping forward. 

For the last twenty minutes, you and Sam had been arguing about what Bucky’s plans were. Sam had it in his mind that this was payback from earlier when you and Bucky joined him in Munich. He had his own plan, which hadn’t included either of you, and now Bucky seemed to have a plan of his own. It seemed like you were stuck in the middle of their issues, as well as your own. 

“We need him,” he said simply.

Sam’s voice pitched higher. “Okay, did he tell you something, or are you trusting he’s feeling generous today?”

You reiterated his question when Bucky didn’t answer. “Did he tell you anything or not?” 

You didn’t move. Your eyes stayed locked on him. There was something in his face. Too still. Too controlled. He wouldn’t look you in the eye. 

“ Fucking —” You surged forward.

Sam tried to stop you—reaching a hand out instinctively—but you batted it away with a look that promised violence if he tried. Bucky didn’t flinch as you got in his face.

“What did he want from you?” You hissed, fisting the front of his jacket. You were close enough to see the dilation in his pupils, the slight twitch in his jaw. He wouldn’t respond.

“What did you trade for this?” Your voice was lower than Sam’s, and far more dangerous. You could feel the edges of it fraying as your fingers twisted into the front of his jacket. Still, he said nothing—because his silence was the answer.

“God help you, James . When I find out what you gave him.”

Behind you, Sam exhaled. “Okay, maybe everyone takes three deep breaths—”

But you didn’t back down. You stayed nose to nose with Bucky, your breathing ragged. He didn’t move either. His eyes were shadowed. Maybe he knew he deserved this. Maybe he didn’t care.

“We had nothing,” he rasped. “No leads. No way forward.”

You saw it in him—guilt straining against everything else. It looked a lot like what you felt. 

Sam’s disbelief cracked through the tension. “So what—you wanna break Zemo out of prison?”

Bucky stiffened, his breath catching. Your stomach twisted.

No… He didn’t. 

Sam saw the same thing as you. “Have you lost your damn mind? He’s in there for a reason. He’s dangerous.”

You let go of Bucky’s jacket and shoved him back. You turned your back, pacing, trying to keep from screaming. You dragged a shaking hand through your hair, tugging a few strands loose from the tie.

Fuck. What did he just do?

Bucky’s voice was tight. “We have super soldiers on the loose.” 

Sam let out an incredulous laugh. “He’s gonna mess with our minds. Especially yours. No offense.”

Your eyes slammed shut. You felt the burn under your skin—her stirring. Your darkness. The one that didn’t like to speak with words, only in blood and instinct.

No .

You couldn’t let her come out. Not now. The dim garage lights flickered and buzzed, stuttering off for a moment before humming back on. Sam and Bucky both paused to look at you, waiting. You clenched your fists so hard your nails bit into your palms.

“Offense,” Bucky grumbled before continuing. “Super soldiers are against everything Zemo believes in. He doesn’t want them out there any more than we do.”

You turned back slowly, voice flat and dangerous. “So you think he’s going to work with two of history’s deadliest super soldiers?”

Bucky’s eyes snapped to yours immediately, searching. He was making sure it was still you . It almost hadn’t been. You swallowed and made yourself breathe. He seemed to relax a fraction. He’d rather you be pissed than gone. And you were pissed. 

“Even Zemo still follows a code, crazy as he might be,” Bucky insisted. “He knows he needs us for this, just as much as we need him.”

Sam groaned. “We’ve been on the other side of that code, Buck. You do remember Zemo blew up the UN, right? That Wakanda lost their king? Think the Wakandans forget about that?”

“That’s rhetorical, right?”

Sam just shook his head. “Of course it’s rhetorical!”

You narrowed your eyes. “What. Did. You. Do.” Your voice cut through the air like a knife. 

Bucky didn’t answer. Sam tried one last time, gentler than you could ever manage—especially right now.

“I know why this matters to you. It matters to us, too, but this? This is you going off the rails.”

“We don’t know how they got the serum, if there’s more of them out there,” he sighed. “Let me just walk you through a hypothetical.”

You were done trying to be calm. You barely restrained yourself from lunging at him again, voice coming out hoarse, broken at the edges.

“What the fuck did you do?”

The words echoed in the garage like a gunshot.

Bucky’s eyes flicked from Sam to you. “ I didn’t do anything.”

That tone. That look. You knew that look too well—regret bleeding through even as he lied to your face. He played you both. You should have known better than to let him go into that cell alone. Your jaw tightened, nails digging crescents into your palms.

Bucky exhaled, voice low. “The weakest point in any system is us. Humans. In this prison? Nine prisoners for every guard. And if prisoners started fighting, four guards would have to respond.”

Sam folded his arms, glowering. “And why would they start fighting?”

Bucky shrugged like he was explaining the weather to you both, ignoring the cold look in your eyes, the way your nostrils flared. “Who knows? Prison’s a tense place. Could be a hundred different reasons for a fight to break out.”

Your eyelid twitched. You shut your eyes altogether, blocking him out. You didn’t need the rest of his damn hypothetical . You already knew. But you wanted him to admit it— own it—after he was done with his bullshit excuse. 

He continued, voice dry. “The point… is that these things escalate.” 

“How?” Sam pressed.

“Lockdowns. Chaos. And with that many bodies everywhere, guards and prisoners, it would be easy to slip away. Unnoticed.”

She snarled. She wanted out . To tear him apart for being so cavalier, so casual about it. She rattled the bars of her cage inside you, but you kept her under control. Barely .

“And if, say… a fire alarm got pulled at the same time,” Bucky continued evenly. “It would make everything even messier. The perfect cover for someone to disappear.”

“I don’t like how casually you’re talking about this. It’s not right, man.” Sam widened his stance, looking around the room like he expected more trouble. “Also, why are we here?”

You opened your eyes in time to see a door open behind Bucky. You didn’t even need to see who it was. You knew . Your chest rose and fell sharply. Your face was stone, but your eyes burned like hot coals.

Sam saw the movement and surged forward. “Whoa, whoa—”

Bucky cut him off with an arm. “No—just wait.” 

“What the hell is he doing here?” 

Zemo stepped into the light, calm as ever. Bucky’s shoulders slumped slightly.

“I didn’t tell you,” he said quietly, “because neither of you would have let it happen.”

Your growl was inhuman, scraping from your throat like it was dragged from the depths—more Phantom than you, as if you were molded together in this moment. His words hurt more than they should have.

“What did you do?” Sam echoed, his voice quiet.

Bucky’s arm dropped from Sam’s chest, defeated. “We need him.” 

“You’re taking him back ,” he snapped. “Back to prison!” 

Zemo slowly removed the guard’s cap he’d stolen. “If I may—”

“NO!”

Bucky and Sam both shouted in unison. Zemo blinked, lowering his hands, the cap hanging limply. 

“Apologies,” he murmured softly. But his eyes found you immediately, studying you with unsettling precision.

“When Steve refused to sign the Sokovia Accords, you backed him. You stuck your neck out for me, you broke the law.” Bucky turned to you, eyes full of things too heavy to name. “You had my back—the entire time. With me through it all. The pain, the guilt,” he swallowed hard. “I’m asking you both to do it again.”

You swallowed hard, fury warring with betrayal in your eyes.

Zemo cleared his throat lightly. “I really think I’m invaluable in this.” 

Your eyes flashed as they snapped to him, darkening for just a second. Zemo’s lips twitched, just a hair—he saw it. He recognized it. And fucking smiled.

Oh, he knew what you were. 

Everything snapped, your control shattering. You lunged, too fast for words. Too fast for Sam. But Bucky was already there—arms around your waist, dragging you back against his chest in one swift motion. You screamed, pure fury, legs kicking. Your head snapped back on instinct. A loud crack sounded as you connected with his nose. He grunted, stumbling slightly, but never loosened his grip. His metal arm snaked around your torso next, pinning your arms to your sides. 

“Let me go , ” you snarled.

“I can’t let you do that, little wraith ,” he whispered, his voice against your ear, his breath hot on your skin. 

That low growl—the name only he used—it only fanned the flames. Fed them. With your upper body restrained, you only had one option. You shifted your weight and snapped your leg back. Hard. The hit landed square. Bucky choked out a pained groan.

“ Fuck! ” He wheezed, doubling over slightly, but refused to let go. “Jesus, Y/N—Sam! Little help?”

Sam raised both hands in surrender, taking a step back. “Uh-uh. I like breathing, thanks. You got this, man.”

Bucky gritted his teeth, holding on as you thrashed like a thing possessed. His nose wasn’t broken, but it throbbed. And his pride? Pretty damn bruised. Again . You had a talent for wrecking both. Zemo stepped forward, fascinated. His eyes gleamed with interest, like he was watching a caged predator that might break free at any second. 

“I may have misspoken earlier, James.”

“ Shut up! ” You and Bucky barked in unison.

Zemo, for once, took the advice. Though that damn smirk still played at the corners of his mouth.  

Sam clapped his hands once. “Alright, that’s enough.”

Your muscles tensed, then slowly relaxed, your body going slack in Bucky’s grip. He exhaled, his breath skimming your neck.

“Can I trust you not to attack when I let go?”

You laughed once. Cold. “Don’t talk to me about trust right now.”

You were lucky you couldn’t see him in this position, because you weren’t sure what you would’ve seen on his face—what he would’ve seen on yours.

“Guys,” Sam warned.

Bucky hesitated, then loosened his grip like someone releasing a grenade—defused, but the timer was still running down on the clock. You tore away from him and stormed across the room, each step a crack of thunder. You could feel their eyes on you, but none of them mattered right now. 

Your hands shook. Rage clawed at your insides, demanding release. You grabbed the nearest thing—a heavy crate of spare tools—and hurled it at the nearest wall. The metal clanged and screeched across the concrete as it exploded across the room. 

It wasn’t enough. 

You roared, then your fist slammed into the cement wall. 

Not enough. 

Again. And again. And again. A smear of blood trailed across your knuckles—the same hand wrapped in gauze from earlier. 

Bucky edged closer—slowly, cautiously. Like you were an animal with its leg caught in a trap, ready to bite the first hand that reached for you. He knew he was the last person who should be calming you—after all, he did this. You felt him behind you, but you didn’t stop. You punched the wall again, blood dripping down your fingers, down your arm.

He called your name, softly, inaudible to anyone but you. It just made everything worse—how gentle he was with you, when all you felt was wrath and rage. He was the last voice you wanted to hear, but maybe the only one that could get through. You wanted someone to fight back, to ease this pain inside. You reared back, but he caught your elbow.

You snapped your head around, eyes narrowed into venomous slits. The black of your pupils swallowed nearly all the color from your eyes when they took him in, your breath coming in sharp, controlled bursts. Fury rippled off you in waves—but it was your eyes—glowing embers with barely contained wrath—that told him the Phantom was not buried deep enough. 

It was his eyes that brought you back.

They held no fear of your rage. Only raw, desperate pleading. Wide, unblinking, and shimmering with something heartbreakingly gentle. It was steady, unflinching—an anchor holding you in place. The molten fury in you faltered, just enough, colliding with the quiet ache in his eyes. 

Come back to me. 

You broke through the dark clouds swarming inside of you, blinking slowly. He released your elbow, inspecting the damage to your knuckles. They would heal, but he wasn’t concerned about your physical wounds. You swallowed hard, the burn in your chest easing as you dragged in a shaky breath. Your hands trembled, exhaustion washing over the anger. 

He traced a thumb lightly over your scraped knuckles, gaze lifting to meet yours again. There was no judgment there, only that quiet, relentless worry that made something twist painfully in your gut. Your breath hitched, the buried fury bleeding into something uglier—shame. You jerked your hand away, but he didn’t let you go far.

“Don’t,” he growled, low and ragged. “Don’t pull away from me.”

Your eyes flashed. “Why? So you can watch me lose myself? Again ?”

His jaw clenched. The muscle ticked as he stared you down, chest heaving like he was holding back everything he wanted to scream.

“You think I don’t know what this is?” His voice cracked at the edges. “You think I don’t recognize it? Don’t you dare act like I haven’t been there. Like I’m not still there.”

You swallowed hard, but the words were acid on your tongue. “I don’t need you to fix me.”

He let out a harsh, bitter laugh. “Good. I’m not trying to.”

Silence crashed down. That unbearable ache between you again. That never-ending tension of almost and too-late. He took a step closer, his face twisted with pain and something desperate.

“I’m not letting you do this alone,” he whispered. “Hate me if you want. But I’m not leaving you behind.”

“You should,” your eyes burned, and you hated how your voice cracked. “But you won’t. So just… don’t leave me out of it.” 

He didn’t flinch. “I thought I was protecting you.”

“You weren’t,” you said sharply. “You were protecting yourself.”

There it was—that shaky inhale from Bucky. The tell that he was holding something back, biting down on the words he didn’t trust himself to say. Then—

Someone cleared their throat. 

“Uh… I don’t wanna interrupt,” Sam interjected carefully, glancing between you both with open concern. “But we still have Zemo to deal with over here.” 

You swallowed hard, crushing the raw tightness in your throat. You shoved off the wall—away from Bucky—and turned all that rage on Zemo. For a split second, his face flickered with unmistakable fear. 

He backpedaled a step, but you didn’t give him another. Your hand lashed out, grabbing him by the collar, and you slammed him against the wall hard enough that the tools on a nearby shelf rattled.

“Whoa! Not what I had in mind!” Sam barked, hands up in a calming gesture. 

Bucky moved immediately, coming to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with Sam, his eyes never leaving you. But you didn’t care. Your fingers flicked to your belt, drawing your knife so smoothly it was a blur. The cold edge was at Zemo’s throat before he had a chance to blink. He froze, eyes narrowing, watching you like he might watch a cornered viper.

“I assume,” you said, voice low and lethal, “you don’t need an introduction from me.” 

You twisted the blade slightly, enough that a thin line of red beaded along his neck. He didn’t move. He met your eyes, stubborn and silent—but he was smart enough not to make it worse.

“Step out of line,” you continued, voice a growl, “you deal with me. Fuck with us, you deal with me.” 

Your eyes caught on the reflection in the steel—your own face, eyes blazing, unrestrained. Something ugly. Something dangerous. You held that stare—owned it. Then you leaned in, breath ghosting across Zemo’s ear. 

“You do anything to him,” you whispered, voice dropping to something primal and cold, “and you deal with her .” 

Zemo swallowed slowly. Sam shifted uncomfortably. Though he didn’t hear the words that fell from your lips, he didn’t need to. His eyes flicked to Bucky, who hadn’t moved an inch. And Bucky—his eyes were on you—something unspoken in them that burned hotter than any warning. There was a weight in his chest so heavy, he thought it might crush him.

Sam exhaled, clapping his hands together. “So, where do we start?”

Chapter Text

It’d been months in that battered apartment. The world outside was on its own because you had your own world inside. For the two of you, it had begun to feel like a home. Not safe, not yet. But close. You were curled up on the tiny, sagging couch, knees pulled up, tucked beneath the tattered blanket draped over your shoulders. The kettle on the stove whistled shrilly before shutting off with a metallic click. 

In the kitchen, Bucky poured the boiling water into two chipped mugs, stirring in the cheap cocoa packets he bought from the corner market. It wasn’t the real stuff—the thick, velvety kind you once made him try, where the spoon could almost stand upright in the melted chocolate—but it would do.

You knew he remembered the way you’d tugged him toward that little cafe, eyes bright, stubborn grin daring him to keep up. You’d sat there, breaking off peppermint bark and dropping it into your drink, waiting for it to melt into the rest of the chocolate. He’d thought you were out of your mind, acting like hot chocolate could be anything more than sugar in a cup. 

But then he saw the look on your face, saw the joy from that crack you open in a way nothing else had—and it had stopped him cold. It was the first time he had seen you that excited, and for something so simple. But it was simple things like that you never got to have anymore. Never got to cherish them. Later that week, you had rummaged around the cabinets when he was in the shower and found cocoa packets. When he had gone to the market alone that day, he must’ve bought them. For you.

He brought the mugs over carefully, like all his movements these days. No sudden motions, always telegraphing what he was going to do like he’d be punished for stepping out of line. It broke your heart, because you remembered when he wasn’t like that—but you remembered when you weren’t either. 

He set your mug down, settling on the other end of the couch. The blanket was small, so you had to share it. You both pretended not to notice. The silence settled in. Outside, the rain tapped against the windows. Inside, the space heater hummed. You blew into your mug, watching steam curl up into the air. You glanced over at him, but he wasn’t drinking, just watching his hands, thumbs pressing against his palms to ground himself. 

You studied his profile—new scars, tired eyes, but also the softness he reclaimed. The slow, gentle way he blinked when he was deep in thought. The faint line between his brows that you had taken to smoothing over with your thumb when he finally fell asleep. You set your mug down and nudged his knee with your toe. He blinked, startled. You tilted your head.

“Where’d you go just now?”

He huffed, looking away. “Nowhere.”

You raised an eyebrow. He sighed, rubbing his face. 

“Memories.”

You leaned back, waiting. He didn’t elaborate, so you nudged him again. “Tell me.”

He swallowed, metal fingers tapping against the mug. The sound was soft, like chimes rustling in the wind. 

“Not tonight,” he muttered.

You shook your head. “Nope. Deal was that you tell me every time you get stuck in them.” 

His jaw worked. He closed his eyes. “Not the bad ones.”

You shifted closer, pulling the blanket together around both of you. You pressed your cold toes to his leg. He twitched, eyes opening to glare at you half-heartedly. You just smiled. 

“Tell me.”

He sighed and looked at you like you were asking for something impossible. But his shoulders sagged, you could see it—he wanted to. 

After a moment, he rasped. “Greece.”

Your brows lifted, trying to follow the thread.

“The one where they gave us names,” he muttered.

That narrowed it. You let out a soft exhale. “The slow job. The hotel above the coast. I remember.”

You remembered the silk of your dress clinging to your skin. You remembered the scent of brine on his collar mixed with spice as he stood beside you, hand loosely resting on the curve of your spine. You remembered smiling for people who would’ve dropped dead if they had known who you really were. You were the Wraith and the Winter Soldier. You never needed names. But that time—they gave you aliases, pressed them against your skin like masks.

“They called me Amber,” you said. “You were Mark.”

His jaw flexed. “I fucking hated Mark.”

“You looked like a Mark,” you teased, just to soften the edges. “You were wearing a tie and everything. I almost didn’t recognize you.”

He huffed. “You hated that job.”

You nodded. “It was a long con. I wasn’t built for waiting.”

His gaze flicked to yours. There was something darker behind it. He was already moving toward that night in his head. It was after the gala. You’d gone back to the suite they gave you, your heels in one hand, your gun in the other. He was supposed to meet you there with the intel. You’d been leaning against the windowsill, staring out into the black ocean, when you heard the door open. And then slam shut. You didn’t even get to turn around before you heard the sharp scrape of metal fingers flexing. 

You swallowed, still remembering the static in the air when he entered. “You weren’t… you.”

“I’d been made,” he said, voice low. “Some guy—he tried to trigger me. Got in too close. Said the words like he knew what they meant, but he didn’t get to finish.”

You nodded, slowly. “But it did something.”

“I don’t remember walking back to the hotel. Just the color of your dress… Red.”

You blinked. “That dress was black.”

He stared at you. “No. I saw red.”

You went quiet. That night hummed behind your ribs like a struck nerve. The fear didn’t come from what he did. It came from the fact that you didn’t stop him—you couldn’t. 

“You grabbed me,” you said, your voice softer. “Threw me against the wall before I could speak.”

His head bowed. “I thought you were one of them. I didn’t see you. Not at first.”

“You pinned me by the throat,” you said, because saying it made it real, made it smaller. 

His hands curled into fists, one metal and the other scarred. “I almost—”

“But you didn’t,” you cut in gently. “Because I stopped fighting.” That drew his gaze back. You offered a soft, bitter smile. “You always told me to stay still if you ever went dark. Don’t run. Don’t hit back. Just wait—as hard as it was. So I did.”

His eyes shone, something deep and hurt in them. “I thought I killed you,” he murmured. “I let go and you just… dropped. You didn’t move.”

“I was faking,” you shrugged. “Mostly.”

“You’re an ass,” he said breathlessly, but there was no bite behind it, and you both laughed, thin and sharp, like glass cracking. 

“I remember you kneeling next to me. You said my name. Not Amber. Mine. I couldn’t even remember the last time you called me anything but ‘little wraith.’”

He gave you a ghost of a smile. “It slipped out.”

You rolled your eyes. “Uh-huh. And then you puked.”

That got a genuine laugh from him, small and surprised. “I did.”

“Right on my heels. Ruined them.”

He grinned, glancing down. “They were ugly anyway. Looked like they hurt.”

“They were Louboutins,” you deadpanned. 

He tilted his head, mock-serious. “Never heard of him.”

You reached over and flicked his shoulder. “Asshole.”

He let the laughter trail off, breath evening. You felt him watching you, like he was still trying to decide what was really eating at him. But he had talked, and continued to tell you every memory that surfaced. You leaned your head back against the couch, eyes fluttering closed for a second. 

You breathed. “Another.”

He raised an eyebrow, but you lifted your mug. 

“To the good ones.”

He sighed, rolling his eyes, but he didn’t fight you. “Berlin.”

Your lips twitched. “I need more than that.”

“The vault job.”

Your breath caught. He saw it, but he didn’t stop. He needed to say it. 

“I remember you,” he said hoarsely, “after it went bad. We had to hide for two days in that flooded tunnel. You were hurt.”

You nodded slowly. He licked his lips, swallowing. 

“You fell asleep on my shoulder, the metal arm. I didn’t move all night. Not once. I thought if I moved you’d—”

He trailed off, eyes shining. You reached over, curling your fingers around his wrist—warm and familiar against the cool metal. 

“Finish it,” you whispered. 

He closed his eyes. “I thought you might not wake up.”

Your heart twisted. You squeezed his wrist. 

“And?”

He opened his eyes, voice cracking. “You woke up. You—you smiled at me. First thing you did. You fucking smiled.”

You wiped your cheek. You didn’t even realize you were crying until you felt it fall down your cheek. 

“Yeah,” you rasped. “Because I was safe, in that moment.”

He bowed his head, trembling. You slid closer and wrapped your arms around him, pressing your face into the crook of his neck.

“Another,” you whispered. 

He breathed out a laugh, shaking as he pulled you into his lap. 

“Pushy.”

You tugged the ends of his hair gently. “Yeah. Another.” 

He leaned even further into you, hand firm between your shoulder blades. 

“Okay,” he murmured. 

“Okay.” 

✯✯✯

The rain hadn’t let up. If anything, it poured harder now, like the sky was purging something. Like it needed to grieve too. The power blinked out just after midnight. The apartment dimmed, the heater’s low hum silenced, and the overhead light sputtered once before giving in. Neither of you moved. You just sat there, still wrapped in the frayed blanket, your cheek pressed to his collarbone, his arms around you like a tether.

“Of course,” you murmured dryly.

Bucky huffed a quiet laugh near your temple, breath warm. “Should’ve expected it.”

You didn’t get up to find a candle. The moonlight filtered in through the thin curtains, painting pale silver shapes on the scuffed floor. And really, this wasn’t a moment that needed light. It just needed quiet. Space. Breath.

A tremor ran through him—tiny, almost imperceptible.

You lifted your head, just enough to look at him. “Cold?”

He shook his head, but his jaw worked. That familiar tension returned—the one that always lived in his shoulders, in his spine. A coiled, silent readiness. It had taken you years to learn how to spot it. Months to learn how to unravel it.

Wordlessly, you pulled back enough to slide off the couch. The blanket went with you. He blinked, confused, until you laid it out across the floor in front of the window.

“What’re you doing?”

You settled onto the blanket and patted the space beside you.

“Moon’s out. Might as well sit where it’s shining through the clouds.”

He stared at you like you were half-mad. But after a beat, he unfolded himself from the couch and sat down beside you, metal arm brushing your knee. The two of you sat there in silence. You leaned back on your hands. He mirrored you after a second, the quiet settling around you again. There was something different about this moment. 

Your head tilted toward him, voice quiet. “You okay?”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he tilted his head back to look up at the ceiling like it held the answer.

“I don’t know,” he said honestly. “But I’m here.”

That was more than he would’ve said a year ago. More than either of you believed possible.

You nodded, folding your legs underneath you. “We made it this far.”

“Yeah.”

The silence stretched. It didn’t demand to be filled. And then, quietly, he reached for your hand. Not a plea. Not a lifeline. Just contact. You didn’t pull away. Your palm fit against his—flesh against metal. Warm against cold. You could feel the gentle whir underneath the metal plates, but his touch was steady.

“I hate this arm. It’s never felt like mine,” he said, voice nearly inaudible.

You turned your gaze to him. His eyes were still on your joined hands.

“I know,” you whispered.

He took a long breath. “You make me want to stop hating it.”

You blinked hard. You didn’t know what that meant, or how it was possible, but you understood it. The metal arm only came after. The metal arm was the Winter Soldier’s, not his. Used for death and destruction, he only hurt people with it. And now? He didn’t have to. But people would still fear it—he still feared it. It’s why he always wore long sleeves, even when he wasn’t cold, why he wore gloves all the time—even the the apartment until recently.

Though you’d been victim to that arm, you never shied from it because that was never him. You laid your head on his shoulder. His arm came around you again, not for protection—but for closeness. For warmth. You let it happen.

“You never stopped being a person, James,” you said softly.

“I wanted to.”

“I know,” you exhaled. “Me too.”

The room held that silence gently, like it understood. The darkness was quiet. Kind. The rain had slowed to a drizzle, a soft rhythm against the glass. You didn’t say anything else.

Eventually, you leaned back against the window, legs stretched out in front of you. Bucky joined you, shoulder to shoulder. You both watched the sky. Not waiting for morning. Just enjoying the night, the quiet, the dark. 

✯✯✯

The first sound was barely audible—a whimper, low and raw, dragged from your throat like it had been buried deep. Then a sharp gasp. Bucky stirred instantly, his sleep breaking like glass. The floor beneath him was cold, but he'd gotten used to that. What he hadn’t gotten used to was the sound of you unraveling.

His eyes found your silhouette on the couch—tense, restless, tangled in the blanket. Your legs kicked once, then again. A sharp turn of your head. Your breath hitched, faster now, shallow and wrong.

“No—” you whispered. The word fractured. “No, no, stop—don’t touch—get off—”

Bucky rose to one knee, voice low, careful.

“Y/N…”

His hand hovered above your shoulder, inches from skin. You jerked violently.

“Hey. Hey—it’s me,” he said again, softer this time. “You’re dreaming. It’s okay. You’re safe.”

But your eyes snapped open. And they weren’t yours—blank, hard, stripped of recognition. Your gaze cut through him like you were still behind enemy walls. He didn’t even have time to blink before you lunged.

You moved like a weapon unsheathed—fluid, precise, devastating. Years of controlled violence detonating inside your muscles. One second, you were beneath the blanket. The next, you were on top of him, pinning him to the floor like it was muscle memory.

His back slammed into the floorboards with a crack that echoed through the quiet apartment. His lungs emptied in a rush as your weight hit his chest. Your knees locked down his arms. The sharp point of your elbow pressed against his windpipe, just shy of cutting it off completely. The ceiling flickered above him, but he didn’t resist. He looked up at you, his breath uneven, but he wasn’t afraid.

“Y/N,” he rasped, voice straining around the pressure. “It’s not them. It’s me. It’s me .”

Your pupils narrowed, then widened. A tremor in your grip. Your breathing faltered. Recognition broke through the fog, slow and reluctant, like thawing ice. Then horror came rushing in—like a dam breaking under the weight of what you’d done.

You recoiled. You scrambled off him so fast your limbs tangled, like you couldn’t get away from your own body. You dragged yourself backward across the floor until your spine hit the wall, where you curled into yourself like something wounded. Your knees came to your chest. Your nails dug into your palms like you were trying to strip off your skin. Your eyes were wide and dry for a moment—too shocked to cry—until the tears started falling, slow and silent.

You didn’t speak. Didn’t scream. Just trembled. Like your body was remembering something you didn’t want it to. And Bucky—he remained there for a second longer, chest heaving, staring at the ceiling. Not because you’d hurt him—but because of the look on your face. Because he’d never seen you like that. You’d always been the one who carried his burdens. Who hid your own from him. Who tucked your trauma behind anger and silence.

But this—this was the part you didn’t let anyone see.

So he got up, his movements quiet and measured. You didn’t flinch when he moved. H crossed the room and sank beside you, close enough to touch but not quite. His flesh arm brushed your knee. Still, you didn’t move. So he reached gently and pulled you toward him. You let him. Let yourself be folded into his arms like something breakable. Like something worth holding.

He settled you in his lap, tucking you beneath his chin, wrapping his arms around you like he was your shield. One strong, warm human limb, one cold, unyielding thing of war. Both real. Both his . You stiffened for a breath. Maybe two. Then exhaled a sound so broken it barely counted as a breath. Your fingers curled into the front of his shirt, twisting the fabric. Your face pressed into the hollow of his shoulder, and you shattered. 

He tightened his grip. He held you like you had him on countless nights. When he thrashed and screamed and woke up with sin and blood on his hands. When you never asked him to explain, you just anchored him until the shaking stopped. Now, it was his turn.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured, voice hoarse. “You’re safe.”

And you didn’t answer. The sobs stole your breath. And the worst part wasn’t the nightmare. It was his face when you’d come back to yourself. The lack of fear. The sorrow. Like he’d understood, and now he held you like something special. Like somebody who deserved to be happy. Not with your past. Not with your ghosts. 

“James,” you croaked, trying to pull away, but he didn’t let you.

He hushed you, his lips against your hairline. “Shhh, don’t. Just… let me do this.”

He felt the fight leave your body. You let out a broken sob against his chest, his shirt now covered in your tears and snot. He stroked his fingers through your hair gently, like he wasn’t sure he wouldn’t break you. Like he wasn’t sure he should even be doing this. The metal was cool against your neck, making you shiver. His flesh hand gripped the outside of your thigh, grounding you to the moment. A reminder that you were here, he was here. You were yourself, and he was himself. And he wouldn’t let you go. 

The tremors in your limbs didn’t stop. Not right away.
Not even with the pressure of his arms around you, or the soft brush of his lips against your temple. They weren’t kisses so much as grounding points—quiet reminders that you were here, not there. Not in the dark cell. Not under their control. Not the Wraith anymore.

Your breath hitched against his shoulder. “I didn’t mean to—”

He shook his head, silencing you before the guilt could bloom into something sharper. “Don’t,” he said, voice low, steady. “Don’t apologize. You were dreaming.”

“But I hurt you.” The words scraped out of your throat like they cost something. “I could’ve—”

“You didn’t.” He pulled back just enough to look at you, not to assess damage, but to look into your eyes—to see you. “I’m okay.”

You tried to look away, but he caught your chin gently and turned you back toward him. His eyes scanned your face like he was memorizing it. Not the version that fought. Not the version that survived. Everything underneath—the part you didn’t want anyone to see.

“It’s the first time I’ve seen you like this since being here,” he murmured, thumb brushing beneath your eye where a tear clung. “Not angry. Not cold. Just… scared.”

You wanted to deny it, but you couldn’t. Because the fear was still in your chest—lodged like shrapnel.

“I thought I was back there,” you whispered. “Thought you were someone else. That I was…”

He knew who you meant. The version of you they made.

He let his forehead rest against yours. “You’re not. Not anymore.”

Silence stretched between you for a long moment. You breathed him in. The faint scent of the old, cheap soap from the apartment shower. The warmth of him, real and solid beneath your hands. He was an anchor—yours—and you hated how badly you needed him to be that.

“I used to watch you,” you said quietly. “Back in the cell. When you’d sleep. When they let us have that. You twitched in your sleep. Fists clenched. Like you were fighting it even then.”

His jaw tightened, but he didn’t look away.

“I always wondered what you dreamt about. If you remembered any of it.”

“I did,” he said. No hesitation.

Your breath caught.

“Sometimes you were hurting me. Sometimes I was hurting you,” he said. “But mostly… I remembered your voice. When everything else was gone.”

That undid something in you. 

You blinked, and the tears returned without permission. Silent. Hot. You hated this—being seen like this. You never let anyone in that far—never even got the chance to. But he didn’t flinch from it. He let you cry. Let you break against him like waves against the jagged rocks.

And when the worst of it passed, when your breath evened out and your grip on his shirt loosened, he spoke again.

“You’ve helped me so much since getting out. Even when I didn’t want it.”

You nodded slowly. You remembered. You’d pull him out of his nightmares even when he shoved you away. Even when he cursed your name and didn’t recognize your face.

“I just wanted you to come back into yourself,” you said. “That was all I could do.”

He tilted his head, voice softer. “And now it’s my turn.”

That undid you again. You buried your face in his neck, and he held you tighter.

It was still dark outside. The city was quiet. But in that dim hush, with your body wrapped in his and your ghosts slowly retreating to the shadows, something shifted. You weren’t healed. You weren’t fixed. But you weren’t alone. Maybe you’d never be alone again.

Chapter Text

The roar of the tarmac wind whipped past your ears as the four of you approached the sleek silhouette of a private jet, parked like a damn monument to old money and arrogance. Perfect for Zemo. It gleamed in the sunlight—a blatant ‘fuck you’ to anyone looking.

“So all this time you’ve been rich?” Sam asked. 

Zemo walked slightly ahead, as if he were the gracious host welcoming you onto his estate instead of an escaped convict you should be dragging in chains. He had the nerve to look pleased about it, his coat flaring in the breeze like some villain in a movie. 

“I’m a Baron. Until your friends destroyed my country, my family was royalty.”

You kept your steps even, jaw tight, eyes fixed on the man waiting to greet you at the plane. You could practically feel Bucky beside you—tense and silent. Every time Zemo so much as glanced at you, his glare sharpened to something lethal. Sam wasn’t doing much better. He had his arms crossed, the wind tugging at his jacket—face set in that I’m too tired for this bullshit look you’d seen a hundred times before.

Zemo greeted the man in Russian. “Hello, Oeznik.”

Interesting. 

“Welcome, gentleman,” Oeznik paused, eyes falling to you. “And, lady.” He bowed. 

“Old friend,” Zemo reached him, greeting him with a kiss on each cheek.

“This really how we’re doing it?” Sam muttered under his breath, barely loud enough for you and Bucky to hear. 

Bucky’s voice was gravel. “Got any better ideas?”

Sam didn’t answer, just scoffed. Zemo slowed, turning halfway up the stairs to address you all with mock courtesy. 

“Please,” he said with a grand sweep of his arm. “Comfort awaits. And champagne, if it will soothe your wounded pride.”

You resisted the urge to grab him and throw him off the stairs. Barely. Sam’s eyes rolled so hard he might’ve strained something. 

Bucky didn’t blink. “Move.”

Zemo gave a little shrug, his smile unwavering, and finished climbing the stairs. You caught Bucky’s eye for half a second before stepping up. His eyes tracked you the entire time, guarded and intense. 

Inside, the cabin was absurdly nice. Plush seats in cream leather, a stocked bar, even artwork on the walls—because, of course, Zemo would fly around with framed artwork like it was a floating gallery. Sam took it all in with thinly veiled contempt. 

“Oh, look,” he drawled, dropping into a seat and propping his feet up. “Rich people nonsense.”

You didn’t sit. Couldn’t yet. You paced instead, checking corners, ignoring Zemo’s amused look as he settled in comfortably—like he’d never left this life. Bucky hovered near you, close enough that your shoulder brushed his when you turned. Static charge—at least that’s what you told yourself you felt when you touched. 

His voice was low, only for you. “Try not to kill him before we get there.”

Your eyes flicked up, meeting his. 

“No promises,” you murmured, still hurt from earlier. 

Oeznik walked to Zemo with a glass of champagne in his hand. “The fridge is out, so I apologize. But I will see if there’s good food in the galley.”

Zemo switched to his native language. “If it doesn’t pass the smell test, give it to them.”

Oeznik chucked, and you tensed. You didn’t know Sokovian, and it made you even more wary of what Zemo was hiding from you all. He leaned down, clasping Zemo’s free hand in his. 

“It’s good to have you back, sir.”

He departed from the cabin, leaving the four of you. Zemo swirled his flute of champagne, savoring a sip with theatrical pleasure before letting out a satisfied sigh.

“You know, being locked in a cell isn’t something you can truly appreciate until you experience it,” he mused, glancing at Sam. “Oh, wait. You have.”

Sam’s eyes narrowed. “Why don’t you skip the crap and just tell us where we’re going?”

Zemo offered an apologetic shrug. “Forgive me. I’m simply… fascinated by this.” His gaze shifted to the book in his hand. “Who is Nakajima?”

Bucky’s reaction was instant. He surged out of his seat, vibranium hand clamping around Zemo’s throat before you could blink. 

His voice dropped nearly an octave. “Touch that again, and I’ll kill you.” 

A sweet kiss of death—that’s what that was. 

You stilled, watching the lines of control in Bucky’s face harden. It hadn’t taken long, and Zemo had already pushed the boundaries of his freedom. But he couldn’t help it. Mind games were in his nature, just like violence was in yours—and Bucky’s. 

He had already been stretched thin, watching you almost lose yourself earlier. Now? It seemed that the darkness inside him was ready to crawl back out from the depths. Bucky ripped the little journal sitting within the pages of Zemo’s book, fisting it in his grasp.

“I understand,” Zemo rasped, voice calm despite Bucky’s hand having just been around his throat. “That list is for atonement. People you’ve wronged as the Winter Soldier.”

Bucky’s jaw clenched, but he didn’t reply.

“You’re on thin ice, Zemo,” you said flatly. 

Sitting in front of him, you pinned him with a cold glare. Bucky’s gaze burned into the side of your face, but you ignored it. He didn’t want you getting involved with his battles? Too damn bad. He didn’t get that option when he wouldn’t leave yours alone either.

Sam cleared his throat, breaking the tension. “I’ve seen that book. That was Steve’s when he came outta the ice.”

Bucky forced himself to sit back down, muscles bound tight. You let your eyes drift to the little journal before he stuffed it in his front pocket. It mirrored the one Natasha had given you during the Blip. 

Ironic—that the deepest struggles in his healing journey, and the deepest pain you’d ever felt—were encased in almost the same book. Same style, same purpose—different pain.

Did Steve give it to him? Did Natasha give its mate to you knowingly?

Sam continued, drawing you back into the conversation. 

“I told him about Trouble Man . He wrote it in that book. Did you even listen to it?”

Bucky hesitated. “I like 40s music, so…”

Sam’s jaw dropped. “You didn’t like it?”

“I liked it,” Bucky blurted too fast. 

Zemo interjected casually. “It is a masterpiece, James. A complete, comprehensive experience of the African-American.” 

Sam did a double-take, turning his attention to Zemo. You just glared coolly. 

“He’s outta line…” Sam said. “But he’s right. Everybody loves Marvin Gaye.”

Bucky just gave a stiff nod. “I like Marvin Gaye.”

“Steve adored him.” Your voice came out all wrong—bitterness hidden beneath the words.

Zemo studied you all, fingers tapping his glass. “You must have truly looked up to him, both of you.” His gaze flicked between Sam and Bucky. “But that’s the danger with men like Steve Rogers. Putting them on pedestals.”

Your voice turned glacial, different from the burning fury inside of you. “Watch your mouth.”  

Although you had struggled with Steve for a while after the events in Bucharest, he was a good man. A good friend. All he ever wanted to do was help others. Even the ones that didn’t want it. Even you. 

Zemo ignored you. “They become icons. Idols. And then everyone forgets about their flaws.” his gaze settled on Bucky, whose fists were clenched atop his thighs. “You remember that, right? Being a young soldier sent to Germany to stop a madman while becoming another.”

His eyes went blank, distant. The words landed like punches.

Zemo sat back. “That’s why we’re going to Madripoor.”

Sam frowned. “Why do you say it like that? Like we’re flying straight into the pits of Hell?”

“It is,” Bucky muttered. “An island nation in the Indonesian archipelago. It used to be a pirate sanctuary.”

“Lucky for us, it kept its lawless ways. Except we can’t exactly walk in as ourselves, we will need to play our roles.” 

The silence that fell was heavy. 

Zemo interlaced his fingers and placed them atop his knee. “James. You will have to become someone you insist is gone.”

“No,” you snapped, the word cutting through the air like a blade. “Not happening.”

Zemo tilted his head, unsurprised. “Y/N.”

You didn’t let him get any further than that. You shot to your feet, crossing the small distance in a heartbeat. Your forearm pressed against his chest, pinning him in his seat.

“Not him. Use me ,” you whispered, your voice fraying with a raw desperation only he could hear.

Zemo didn’t flinch. His voice was silky. 

“Ah, but my dear Y/N. They want him. The Winter Soldier. You are… less known.” 

His eyes met yours, dark and knowing, and your blood ran cold. He looked behind your eyes. You weren’t sure how he even did it, but you felt it.

“Phantom,” he whispered softly enough that only you could hear it. Not Wraith. 

Phantom.

Your breath caught, rage crashing through you. “How much do you know?” You growled, sounding almost inhuman.

Bucky was there in an instant, arms around you, dragging you back. You thrashed against him once—twice, chest heaving—but he didn’t let go. He pulled you down into the seat with him, wrapping himself around you, applying solid, grounding pressure. He was trying to activate your parasympathetic nervous system, which would calm your body both physically and chemically.

And you hated that it started to work. 

✯✯✯

Bucky didn’t say a word as he dragged you back onto the seat with him. He settled heavily, arms banded tight around you, pulling you back against his chest. One arm looped around your waist, the other braced across your chest just under your collarbones, pinning you in place. Your breathing hitched, then began to slow, though your whole body still shook with rage. Your pulse thudded violently, breath shuddering in your lungs. 

“Breathe,” he muttered roughly against your hair.

You snarled at him, half-wild, still straining.

“Hey. Look at me.” His voice cracked with urgency.

Your head turned just enough to see the edge of his face—his jaw tense, eyes too open. Not the Winter Soldier. He was Bucky. 

James.

“C’mon, focul . In. Out.”

You tried. Failed. Tried again.

The others didn’t miss Bucky’s slip-up. Zemo couldn’t hide his intrigue, and Sam’s brows knitted together. You were too distracted to notice anything outside of him. Your ribs rattled as you finally obeyed, dragging in a breath that caught at the top of your lungs before releasing it in a ragged sigh.

“That’s it,” he praised softly, voice raw, his lips brushing your hairline. 

Sam watched across the aisle, frowning. “What the hell is going on?”

Bucky didn’t answer him right away. He just kept applying that firm pressure you hated and craved all at once.

Sam’s voice sharpened. “Seriously. Are you okay?”

Your voice broke. “I’m fine.”

“Yeah, you look real fine,” Sam fired back. He ran a hand over his face, exhaling loudly. “Zemo’s getting in your heads. Both of you.”

You bared your teeth at that, but Bucky’s arm tightened. 

“Stop.” Bucky’s tone wasn’t a request.

Zemo sat back, watching like he’d just won a prize. His smirk was subtle and infuriatingly polite. 

“Fascinating dynamic you two have,” he drawled, voice soft and measured. “Not just her partner-in-crime. You’re her anchor. A tether to—“

“Shut your mouth,” Bucky snapped. 

Zemo raised an eyebrow, ignoring the threat. “You see, James, you understood the Winter Soldier better than anyone, because you were him. He was inside of you, still is. Just like… her. ”

Your muscles went rigid in Bucky’s hold. 

Sam’s eyebrows crashed together. “Her?”

Zemo’s gaze flicked lazily to Sam. “The Wraith. Or… Phantom ? Depends on who you’re talking to.”

Sam’s mouth fell open, turning to you. “Wait, what? ”

Bucky’s jaw ticked as he pulled you in tighter, forcing you to lean wholly against him so he could keep your arms pinned. He felt you trembling.

“Don’t,” Bucky said, low and harsh, to Sam. “Not now.”

Sam’s eyes bounced between you and Bucky, realization dawning on him. “Jesus. You’re telling me there was another… what, program? ”

Zemo’s eyes sparkled. “Oh, yes. There was a project. She was very good at it. Her file was fascinating.”

“I destroyed it,” you hissed, voice shaking with rage. 

Zemo’s gaze slid back to you, infuriatingly calm. “You think you found every copy?”

Your breath stuttered again. Bucky’s flesh hand moved up to your face, cupping your jaw, forcing your gaze away from Zemo and onto him. 

“Eyes on me.” 

His voice was soft, but the order was firm. You tried to twist away, but he wouldn’t let you. 

“Hey.” He shook you once, just enough to get your attention. “On. Me.”

When you finally met his stare, his voice dropped to a near-whisper. “He doesn’t get to do this to you.”

Your throat closed. 

Zemo let out a small sigh. “James, you should know better than anyone. We are the sum of our trauma.”

Bucky didn’t even look at Zemo. “Fuck him. Just breathe .” 

Sam’s voice was softer now, though still frustrated with all the secrets. “He’s messing with you both. You realize that, right?”

Zemo’s smile was small and cold. “I’m simply stating the truth. You need to be prepared for Madripoor. There is no room for these… vulnerabilities.”

Your hands trembled in your lap, but Bucky’s arms stayed locked around you like steel.

“Fuck Madripoor,” you rasped. 

He swallowed, jaw working. “We have to do this.”

You shut your eyes. Forced your lungs to work. 

Sam watched you both, eyes troubled. “We’re walking into a hornet’s nest.”

Zemo took another sip of champagne. “We’re walking into their world. And you all will play your parts beautifully. I have every confidence in this.”

Bucky didn’t even turn to look at him. His voice rumbled in his chest. “You don’t have to do anything for me. Let me do this.”

You shook your head, blinking back heat in your eyes. “Not when you’ve gotten so far.” 

Bucky exhaled heavily, eyes dark and pained. He rested his forehead on your temple, breathing with you. 

“I won’t let you lose yourself. Not now,” he said in a voice too low for anyone else to hear, breath ghosting your jawline. 

Sam shook his head, leaning back into his seat. “Man. This is going to be a disaster.”

Zemo merely smiled. 

Chapter Text

It was damp. Cold. But it didn’t bother you. You were an empty shell. You didn’t feel, couldn’t let yourself feel. Natasha found you curled up in the shadows of an alcove in the Appalachian Mountains outside of Portland. How you got there? You didn’t know, and Natasha didn’t ask. 

Her gun was out, using the attached light to illuminate her path. She took in the dried blood on your knuckles, your eyes blank and flat as you stared ahead. You didn’t react to her presence. Nor to the flash of the light over your face. You were locked in the depths of your mind. 

Testing a theory, Nat approached. You still didn’t flinch—catatonic almost. She pressed further, placing the barrel of the gun against your temple. You didn’t blink.

“Do it.”

Nat startled, holstering the pistol. Your voice was monotone, but she heard the scream of pain behind its’ rasp. She sat beside you amongst the rubble and just waited. It took hours for any light to return to your eyes. It took even longer for the shaking to start, for the tears to silently slip down your cheeks. Nat needed to get you back, get you home .

 But you didn’t have a home anymore—not without him. 

✯✯✯

Natasha got you onto the Quinjet in restraints, not for her safety—for yours. Back at the Compound, you didn’t speak. Nat would sit across from you when she forced you to eat something. She would watch, eating from a can of beans or a cup of fruit while you stared at the floor. Your eyes would go blank—a flash of darkness—and then you would blink rapidly, but you wouldn’t look at her. At anyone.

One day, she threw a toasted roll at your head. You moved inhumanely fast, and it frightened her a little. But she saw something in your eyes when you glared at her. Anger, irritation. It was better than nothing. But it was the old news footage that looped on the TV in the gym while you were using the punching bag next to Nat’s that broke you. 

“—half the world gone—”

“We can’t find any explanation for the dust—”

“—still confirming the missing persons lists—”

The chainlinks snapped off. The punching bag shot across the room, hitting the wall with a loud thwack. Natasha inhaled sharply next to you, glancing up at the TV. You didn’t scream or cry. You just stopped moving, a blank film falling over your eyes again. Your muscles went rigid, holding you upright, but that was all.

He was gone.

✯✯✯

Nat called Steve into the gym. He thought you were making progress. It had been over a year since the Blip, just a couple of months after they had brought you back here.