Rising from the Cage

by Moderna

Summary:

Synopsis:

Bucky Barnes was supposed to be dead. He fell from that train in the Alps, lost to the ice, and Steve Rogers spent years mourning him. But fate had other plans.

Years later, whispers of a secret facility experimenting on enhanced individuals reach the Avengers. Steve doesn’t want to hope—he can’t—but when they storm the base, what they find is beyond anything he could have imagined.

Bucky is alive. But he’s not the man Steve remembers. Taken by Hydra, twisted by their experiments, he’s no longer just human. Sharpened senses, feline instincts, a body that isn’t entirely his own. And worst of all, he believes he doesn’t belong in the world anymore.

Steve swore he wouldn’t lose Bucky again. But saving him might not be as simple as breaking his chains.

Notes:

Hey guys, I’m back! (Yeah, pretty quickly, I know) with a brand-new story!

This time, it’s about another Marvel character I love (maybe a little too much)… Bucky! (And let’s be real, I also love Bucky and Steve way too much together).

Hope you’ll enjoy this one! ❤️ Feel free to drop a comment!

Chapter 1

The fall should have killed him.

 

The wind had roared in his ears, drowning everything else out, and the world had turned into a blur of white and gray and pain. His arm had gone numb first—merciful, almost. The rest of his body wasn’t so lucky. He’d hit the ice, bounced once, and skidded to a stop, limbs twisted in ways they shouldn’t have been. He could still taste blood.

 

The cold crept in slowly at first, then all at once. His vision tunneled, darkness rushing to meet him. He thought he heard a voice—Steve’s, maybe—but it was distant, slipping through his fingers like smoke. Steve…

 

everything went black.

 

It wasn’t death that found him. It was them .

 

When he woke again, his head pounded, and his body screamed with every breath. Bright lights burned his eyes, and voices circled him like vultures. He tried to move, but something held him down—straps across his chest, arms, legs. Panic clawed its way up his throat.

 

Where am I?

 

The faces around him blurred, voices distorted. Foreign. Clinical.

 

“Subject 106, stabilized.”

“Prepare the next injection.”

 

He thrashed against the restraints, heart hammering. “ No! ” The word tore from his throat, raw and desperate. He tried to tell them to stop, to leave him alone , but his voice cracked, choked on the air that felt too thick, too heavy. His head spun again. Someone pressed a needle into his arm.

 

Blackness swallowed him whole.

 

The darkness became familiar after a while—sometimes brief, sometimes stretching on forever.

 

Every time he woke, it was worse.

 

His thoughts felt like they belonged to someone else, slipping through his grasp before he could hold on. Words floated in and out of reach—fragments of names, faces he thought he should know but couldn’t place. His memories fractured, each piece scattering farther than the last.

 

They called him Asset now. Not Bucky. Never Bucky.

 

“Asset, respond.”

He didn’t know who they were talking to at first. Then he realized—it was him. He was the Asset.

 

Time blurred. Days, weeks, months—all the same. His body changed, reshaped under their hands. He caught glimpses in mirrored surfaces: slitted pupils glowing faintly in the dim light, fangs pressing against his lower lip, black claws curling from his fingers. His senses sharpened—he could hear the buzz of machinery in the walls, the hum of electricity through cables, the stuttered heartbeat of the man watching him from behind the glass.

 

It frightened him at first. His reflection wasn’t his own anymore.

 

The panic came less often. In its place, a simmering restlessness—a need to move , to hunt , to escape . The walls felt smaller every day, the air too stale, too thick with their voices and orders. His muscles burned with energy he couldn’t use, his mind fogged by instinct and rage.

 

Words slipped away. Thoughts blurred. Simple concepts—the kind that should have been instinctual—tangled into knots. He’d reach for a word and find only growls in its place.

 

“His cognitive function is deteriorating.”

“The genetic enhancements are affecting more than we expected.”

“He’s losing higher reasoning—language, memory. He’s reverting to instinct.”

 

What’s left of him won’t last much longer.

 

They talked about him like he wasn’t there. Like he couldn’t understand. And most of the time, he couldn’t. But sometimes, through the haze, fragments reached him. They whispered around the edges of his thoughts.

 

Then the cage came.

 

The room was small, dark—barely enough space to stand. They called it containment . A necessary precaution. He called it something else: a prison.

 

He tore at the walls until his claws bled, pacing until his muscles ached. He watched them through the glass, eyes narrowed, tail flicking behind him in slow, deliberate arcs. Every now and then, one of them flinched under his stare. That almost made him smile.

 

When they finally spoke of cryostasis, he didn’t fight it. Not this time. He was tired—tired of the cold, tired of forgetting, tired of them . His body, his mind, had turned into something unrecognizable. Maybe the cold would bring peace. Maybe it would bring oblivion.

 

He welcomed both.

 

The last thing he saw before the ice closed in was his own reflection—something inhuman staring back at him.

 

 

HYDRA Base, Outskirts of Irkutsk, Russia – 2014

 

 

The hum of the Quinjet’s engines droned softly, a steady vibration running beneath their feet as the team prepared for the mission. Natasha sat in the co-pilot seat, her eyes fixed on the horizon, while Tony kept his hands on the controls, casually checking the flight instruments like it was just another Tuesday.

 

“It’s quiet out here,” Natasha muttered, her voice calm, but with that edge it always had before a mission.

 

“Classic,” Tony quipped. “You wanna throw in ‘What could possibly go wrong?’ while we’re at it?” Natasha smirked but didn’t respond.

 

In the back, Steve sat on one of the metal benches, his shield resting against his knee. His shoulders were tense, eyes distant, locked on a point somewhere far beyond the Quinjet’s walls. He wasn’t paying attention to the back-and-forth between Tony and Natasha. His mind was elsewhere—somewhere darker.

 

The briefing had hit harder than he’d expected. HYDRA . Even after all this time, that name still had the power to sink its claws into him, dragging him backward through years of war, loss, and ghosts he hadn’t been able to outrun. It wasn’t just HYDRA’s name that haunted him, though. It was the memories that came with it. Bucky.

 

He’d told the team about him once or twice—always in passing, never too much detail. It was easier that way, keeping the grief folded neatly into the background. Besides, there was no avoiding the story of Bucky Barnes; it was right there at the Smithsonian for anyone to read. Still, there were days when the weight of it pressed a little harder. This was one of those days.

 

Sam noticed. He always did.

 

He settled onto the bench beside Steve with a casualness that was probably rehearsed. “Hey,” Sam said, leaning back and resting his elbows on his knees. “You’ve been awful quiet for a guy about to storm an abandoned base full of who-knows-what.”

 

Steve forced a faint smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Just thinking.”

 

“Yeah? Dangerous pastime, that. What’s got you all broody?”

 

Steve hesitated, his fingers curling tighter around the edge of his shield. “It’s HYDRA,” he said finally, voice low. “Every time we deal with HYDRA, it brings back—” He stopped himself, the words sticking in his throat.

 

Sam didn’t push. He knew better than that. “Bucky?” he asked gently.

 

Steve nodded. “Yeah.” His gaze dropped to the floor. “I’ve tried to make peace with it, but sometimes… I don’t know. It feels like it was yesterday. Like if I just turned around fast enough, I’d find him standing there.” He exhaled, shaking his head. “It’s stupid.”

 

“It’s not,” Sam said, his tone easy. “Guy was your best friend. You’re allowed to carry that with you. You’d be kind of a jerk if you didn’t.”

 

Steve huffed out something that was almost a laugh. “Thanks, Sam. Really.”

 

“Hey, that’s what I’m here for.” Sam clapped him on the shoulder. “Moral support and excellent conversation. You’d miss me if I wasn’t around.” Before Steve could respond, Natasha’s voice crackled over the comm.

 

“We’re coming up on the base. ETA five minutes.”

 

All traces of humor disappeared from Sam’s face. Steve straightened, his eyes narrowing as he focused on the task ahead. “Alright,” Natasha continued. “Here’s the deal. Russian military found this place a week ago. Looks like an old HYDRA outpost that took some serious damage weeks ago. They’ve cleared most of it, but they want us to sweep the lower levels—especially since Steve has experience with HYDRA’s… surprises.”

 

Steve tightened his grip on his shield at that.

 

“From what we know,” Natasha went on, “the facility’s been abandoned for decades. Expect collapsed infrastructure, limited power, and maybe a few nasty surprises. Standard in-and-out. We clear it, confirm there’s nothing dangerous left behind, and get back in time for dinner.”

 

Clint raised an eyebrow. “And if there is something dangerous?”

 

Natasha smirked. “Then we improvise.”

 

Steve barely heard the banter. His mind was already spinning through the possibilities—what they might find, what might be waiting for them beneath the surface. He had a bad feeling about this place. He’d learned to trust those feelings. “Everyone ready?” Steve asked, his voice calm, steady.

 

“Always,” Sam said with a grin.

 

Clint loaded an arrow into his bow. “Born ready.”

 

Bruce sighed, already looking like he regretted coming along. “Define ready.”

 

Steve glanced at the horizon as the base came into view—a jagged, half-collapsed structure buried in snow and shadow. His instincts screamed that something wasn’t right. He tightened the straps on his shield, preparing himself for whatever lay ahead.

 

“Let’s move,” he said.

 

And with that, the jet descended into the storm, carrying them straight into the heart of HYDRA’s forgotten nightmare.

Chapter 2

Notes:

Hey again!

Here’s the next part of the story!

Feel free to drop a comment, reader!❤️

The wind howled outside as the Quinjet touched down, its landing skids sinking into the thick blanket of snow. The ruined HYDRA facility loomed before them, a broken skeleton of concrete and steel, half-buried beneath decades of ice and shadow.

Steve was the first to step off the ramp, shield strapped to his back, scanning the horizon with cautious eyes. His breath curled in the cold air, vanishing before it reached the ground. He glanced at Bruce, who stayed behind in the cockpit, arms folded and looking more than a little relieved to remain where he was.

 

“ Try not to need me, ” Bruce muttered. “I’d really rather not turn into the other guy today.”

Steve gave him a quick nod. “We’ll keep you posted.”

 

The rest of the team moved into formation—Steve in front with Natasha and Tony, Clint and Sam covering the rear. The snow crunched underfoot as they made their way toward the entrance, a gaping hole where a reinforced door had once stood.

“Well, that’s not ominous at all,” Tony said, his helmet retracting briefly as he peered at the jagged edges of the opening. “Looks like someone had a real bad day.”

Steve crouched, running his fingers along the scorched metal. The blast had come from inside . That was odd. Whatever—or whoever—had been here hadn’t broken in; they’d broken out .

“JARVIS, give me a full scan,” Tony said, straightening.

 

“Scanning now, boss. The structure is unstable in several areas, but no signs of recent activity. Power levels are minimal, and no heat signatures detected. The facility appears… deserted.”

 

They slipped inside, flashlights cutting through the thick darkness. The air was stale and heavy, every step echoing off the crumbling walls. The upper levels told a familiar story—office spaces, dormitories, meeting rooms—most of it trashed, papers scattered across the floor, furniture overturned. Clint nudged a broken chair with his foot, his bow lowered but still at the ready.

 

“Looks like they left in a hurry,” Sam said, sweeping his light across a shattered window. “Can’t blame them. This place has serious haunted-house vibes.” Natasha didn’t respond. Her eyes stayed locked on the shadows ahead. Tony’s light flickered across a series of broken lab tables, the metal warped and charred. They reached another set of stairs and descended further. The air grew colder with each step, the walls narrowing into tight corridors that seemed to press in on all sides.

 

“This just keeps getting better,” Clint muttered, his voice barely above a whisper.

 

It was in one of the lower laboratories that they found the first real clue. Most of the computers were useless—burned-out husks that had probably been offline for weeks or month. But Clint noticed a pile of papers shoved into a corner, half-buried beneath debris. He picked up a torn follet, frowning as he flipped through its yellowed pages.

 

“What’s that?” Steve asked, stepping closer.

Clint held up the file, his expression grim. “Some kind of experiment logs. No name—just a number. Subject 106. Most of the details are missing, but what’s here… it’s not pretty.” He tapped one page, his voice dropping. “They were doing some real messed-up stuff down here.”

 

Steve scanned the document, his jaw tightening. He’d seen enough HYDRA files to know what this was—an experimental site, hidden and fortified. This wasn’t a typical weapons facility. This was something else entirely.

 

“Whatever they were working on, they didn’t want anyone to find it,” he said. “This place was designed to keep secrets.”

 

“Boss,” JARVIS’s voice broke in, “there’s a sealed section below the current level. Scans show an intact door behind the east wall. It’s the only part of the facility still locked down.”

 

Steve cast a glance at Tony. “Can you get us in?”

 

With a quiet click , Tony’s mask slid into place. “Please, I once rewrote SHIELD’s security protocols mid-battle while dodging missiles. This? Barely a warm-up.”

 

They followed JARVIS’s guidance down a dimly lit corridor, the walls lined with corroded pipes that hissed faintly with escaping steam. At the end of the passage, a reinforced metal door loomed, its surface mottled with rust but still formidable. A keypad and biometric scanner blinked faintly beside it, waiting for input. Tony lifted his gauntlet, scanning the access panel with practiced ease.

 

“The system is running an outdated HYDRA encryption sequence,” JARVIS observed. “Security measures remain intact, and decryption may require additional processing time.”

 

Tony tilted his head, grinning behind the mask. “Oh, so it wants to put up a fight? Cute. Let’s see who cracks first.” Tony dropped to one knee beside the console, fingers flying over the flickering blue holograms as he worked. Lines of code scrolled past in rapid succession, reflecting off the metal of his gauntlet. Minutes stretched uncomfortably long. The silence thickened. Clint shifted, casting a wary glance down the corridor. Sam crossed his arms, tapping his foot just loud enough to be annoying. “Anytime now, Stark.”

 

“Relax, Birdman,” Tony muttered, not looking up. “This door’s been sitting here since bell-bottoms were in fashion. A few more minutes won’t kill you.” The console beeped once. Then again. With a final click , the lock disengaged. The heavy door groaned, then hissed open, revealing a narrow staircase spiraling down into the kind of pitch-black void that usually came with bad decisions. Tony stood. “And voilà. One ancient evil lair, unlocked and ready for your poor life choices. After you.” Steve stepped forward, peering down the stairwell. His stomach twisted. The air was colder here, heavier, like the walls themselves were holding their breath.

 

“What’s down there?” Clint asked, gripping his bow. Steve didn’t answer right away. His instincts screamed at him to turn back, to leave whatever was hidden beneath them buried forever. But he’d learned long ago to ignore those instincts. “There’s only one way to find out,” he said, his voice low, steady.

 

And with that, they descended into the shadows, one step at a time. The staircase seemed endless. Steve moved cautiously, his flashlight cutting through the thick darkness, illuminating only dust and cobwebs that hung like ghostly curtains from the ceiling. Each step echoed beneath their feet, the sound hollow, swallowed by the heavy silence pressing down on them. Behind him, the team followed in tense formation, their movements quieter than usual, their usual banter absent. Even Tony, who could never resist a well-timed quip, said nothing. The air was too thick, too cold, too wrong .

 

Finally, the stairs ended, depositing them into a narrow corridor lined with steel doors, each one marked with a number. Most hung open, swinging on broken hinges. The walls were stained, dark streaks dried into patterns that told a grim story no one dared to put into words. Clint’s flashlight swept across the floor and into one of the cells. He grimaced. “Yeah, this is… not great.” His voice was tight, trying and failing to mask the unease curling in his chest.

 

Steve moved ahead, jaw clenched, eyes steady despite the weight settling in his stomach. He knew what this was— containment . These weren’t cells for prisoners; they were cages for experiments. The kind HYDRA was all too good at hiding.

“Looks like they cleaned house on their way out,” Natasha said, her voice calm, but her eyes darkened as she glanced into another cell. “Whatever they were doing here… they didn’t want anyone to know about it.”

 

“ Real friendly place, ” Sam muttered, keeping his eyes moving. “Someone remind me why we agreed to this?”

 

Steve didn’t respond. He stopped at the end of the hallway, where a larger room opened before them—a laboratory, or what was left of it. Broken equipment lay scattered across the floor, tables overturned, papers long since reduced to brittle fragments. Against the far wall, a massive observation window stood cracked, its glass spider-webbed but still holding, offering a view into the next room—a space darker and more ominous than the one they stood in.

 

They moved swiftly, each taking a different section of the room. Clint rifled through a stack of dusty files on a metal counter, Natasha methodically checked the far corner, and Steve stepped up to the observation window, peering into the darkened space beyond.

“JARVIS, talk to me,” Tony said, his scanner humming softly as he swept his arm through the air. For a moment, only static filled the comms. Then JARVIS’s voice returned.

 

“Detecting a thermal signature, albeit faint. The heat source is minimal but active.”

 

Tony stiffened. “Wait. Active? ” His gaze flicked to Steve. “He means alive. Like alive alive.”

 

“Correct,” JARVIS confirmed. “Source identified in the final room on this level. The door is reinforced and secured with a high-clearance HYDRA lock—currently operational.”

 

Tony was already moving, his hand raised toward the control panel as his gauntlet scanned the mechanism. “Give me a second. This one’s a little more—” He frowned as the readout scrolled across his HUD. “Okay, that’s annoying. Real stubborn piece of—” He cut himself off with a sigh and flexed his fingers. “Fine. Going old-school.”

A sharp whine filled the air as his wrist lasers powered up. With a searing beam of red-hot energy, he sliced clean through the locking mechanism. The door groaned in protest, metal warping under the heat before giving way entirely with a deafening crash . It collapsed inward, sending a thick cloud of dust and rust spiraling into the air.

 

Tony took a step back, waving a hand through the settling debris. “And that is why we don’t put our trust in outdated security systems. You’re welcome.” Everyone raised their weapons, bracing for whatever was behind the door. But nothing moved. The room beyond remained still, cloaked in darkness, the air colder than it should have been. Tony stepped in first, his flashlight cutting a narrow path. His HUD flickered, locking onto something in the far corner. He moved closer, narrowing his eyes.

 

“Thermal signature detected, ” JARVIS said. “It’s located inside the containment structure at the back of the room.”

 

Tony’s light swept across the floor until it found what JARVIS had detected—a cage, bolted to both the floor and the wall, reinforced with thick steel bars. The air around it seemed heavier, colder, almost suffocating. “What the hell…” Tony whispered, shining his light into the cage. The beam caught movement—quick, instinctive. A figure recoiled from the light, pressing itself into the shadows, a low growl vibrating through the air.

 

“Is that a person ?” Clint asked, his voice tight. Tony turned the flashlight up, flooding the cage with light.

 

The figure flinched violently, covering its face with clawed fingers. Long, tangled hair hung over its shoulders, hiding most of its features. The body was thin but muscular, every inch of it tense, coiled like a spring ready to snap. Bare feet scraped against the cold floor as it backed further into the corner, emitting another low, guttural growl.

Steve’s breath caught. His heart slammed against his ribs, a thousand thoughts colliding at once. Who is that? How long have they been here?

 

The figure’s head tilted slightly, blue eyes flashing briefly through the strands of hair before it turned away, hiding once more. The growl deepened, raw and animalistic.

“ Uh… guys? ” Sam said quietly, shifting his stance. “Pretty sure that’s not standard-issue HYDRA personnel.”

 

Steve couldn’t tear his eyes away from the cage. His fingers tightened on his shield, his breath slow, steady.

 

“Tony,” he said, voice low, “turn the light down. You’re scaring it.” Tony glanced back at Steve, then did as he was told, dimming the beam.

 

The figure relaxed—just a little—lowering its hands, but staying crouched, watching them with wary eyes. The room fell silent, tension stretching like a live wire, no one daring to move.

 

And Steve… Steve took one step closer.

Chapter 3

Notes:

Heeeyyy

Here’s the next part of our story about Bucky!

Enjoy the chapter!

Just a heads-up, in case you were wondering: in this story, Bucky didn’t lose his left arm, and he never became the Winter Soldier.

The air in the room grew heavier with every step Steve took, his heart pounding in his chest, his instincts screaming for him to stop. He didn’t listen. His gaze never left the figure in the cage. Something deep inside him—a voice too quiet to trust but too strong to ignore—urged him forward.

 

“Steve,” Sam said behind him. “ Not a good idea, man. We don’t know what that is. He’s in that cage for a reason.”

 

Steve hesitated but kept moving, slow and careful. Tony dimmed the light just enough to keep the figure illuminated without making it panic again. Steve could see him clearer now, but only in pieces: long, tangled hair hanging down, bare shoulders marked with old scars and bruises, a thin, too-sharp frame that hadn’t seen food—or daylight—in a long time.

 

“Hey,” Steve said, keeping his voice calm, steady, like speaking to a wounded animal. “It’s okay. We’re not here to hurt you.” No response. The figure didn’t move.

 

Steve tried again, stepping closer, squinting to see his face. “What’s your name? Do you understand me?” Still nothing. Just the eerie stillness of someone watching without showing any sign of it. Steve took another step, close enough now to reach the cage, craning his neck for a better look at the man’s face.

 

Then it happened—so fast Steve barely registered it.

 

The figure exploded into motion, a snarl tearing from his throat as his arm shot out through the bars, claws gleaming in the dim light. Steve stumbled back, his heart lurching as the hand swiped inches from his face. He raised his shield instinctively, but the attack never connected. The man was yanked back, the heavy chains securing his wrists snapping taut and stopping him just short of reaching Steve. His other hand clutched the bars, nails digging into the steel as he growled—a deep, guttural sound that sent a chill down everyone’s spine.

 

And then, in the low light, they all saw it. A tail—sleek and black—lashed violently behind him, curling through the bars in wild, frantic movements, its fury unmistakable.

 

“Is that… a tail ?” Clint asked, blinking hard. “What the hell did HYDRA do here?”

 

Steve didn’t answer. His eyes were locked on the man in front of him, his breath caught somewhere between disbelief and horror. The man’s chest rose and fell in quick, shallow breaths, the chain on his wrist rattling softly as he shifted, still growling low in his throat. His hair fell across his face, shadowing most of his features. Steve tried to steady his breathing, his pulse racing as the pieces of the nightmare started to fall into place. He stepped closer again, his voice quieter now. “Let me see you…”

 

The growl stopped, replaced by a tense, wary silence. Slowly, the figure lifted his head, his hair parting just enough to reveal his face in the faint light. Steve froze.

 

It couldn’t be.

 

The face was thinner, older, hardened by time and suffering. His cheekbones were sharper, his jaw more angular, covered in a scruffy beard. Long, unkempt hair framed his face, tangled and dirty. His eyes—brilliant blue, slitted like a predator’s—burned beneath the shadow of his brow, locking onto Steve with a mixture of instinct and something deeper.

 

But it was him. It was Bucky.

 

Steve’s breath caught in his throat. His heart dropped, the weight of it crashing down all at once. He staggered back a step, barely able to stand.

 

“Bucky…” His voice was barely a whisper.

 

The man— Bucky —didn’t react to the name. His head tilted slightly, almost curious, but his eyes remained wild, suspicious. His breathing quickened, the muscles in his arms tensing as he tugged against the chains. Steve’s gaze flicked down, taking in the rest of him. The tattered pants, filthy and torn at the seams. Bare feet covered in dirt. Scars—so many scars—lacing across his torso and arms like a map of all the ways HYDRA had broken him. Then his eyes caught something else: a small black tattoo just above Bucky’s collarbone, barely visible in the dim light—a simple mark with a number beneath it. 106.

 

Steve swallowed hard, his mouth dry. His mind reeled, every part of him screaming that this couldn’t be real. Bucky had died. He’d fallen from the train, and Steve had felt the loss every day since. He’d grieved, mourned, carried the weight of that failure for decades. But here he was. Alive.

 

Or… something like it.

 

“Steve…” Natasha’s voice was soft, but it didn’t pull him back. He couldn’t take his eyes off Bucky. He barely noticed the team around him, barely heard Sam murmuring something about it being impossible, or Tony muttering an endless stream of calculations under his breath. The only thing Steve could hear was his own heartbeat pounding in his ears, drowning everything else out.

 

“Bucky,” he said again, his voice breaking. “It’s me… it’s Steve.” For a brief moment, something flickered in Bucky’s eyes—a spark of recognition. But it was gone just as quickly, buried beneath layers of instinct and fear. Then, with a final growl, Bucky turned his head away, retreating deeper into the shadows of the cage, leaving Steve standing there, shattered and breathless, staring at the ghost of the man he’d spent his whole life missing. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. Steve couldn’t move, his pulse thundering in his ears. He tried to process what was in front of him, but every thought collapsed under the weight of a single, unbearable truth: Bucky was alive .

 

Natasha’s voice cut through the haze, calm but edged with tension. “Steve, what’s going on? Who is he?”

 

Steve’s throat tightened. His mouth opened, but no words came out. How was he supposed to explain this ? His best friend, his dead best friend, sitting in a cage like an animal, snarling and scarred and so far gone that Steve could barely recognize him.

 

“It’s Bucky,” he finally managed, his voice barely above a whisper. “James Barnes. He… he’s my friend.” His eyes never left Bucky’s face. “We grew up together. He—he fell off a train during the war. I thought he died.” His breath caught. “But he didn’t. HYDRA took him.”

 

The others stared at him, processing. Clint blinked, shifting his weight uneasily. “Wait. Hold on. This is Bucky? Your Bucky? The guy from the museum exhibit?”

 

Natasha narrowed her eyes, glancing from Steve to Bucky, her mind piecing the puzzle together. “You’re sure?”

 

“I’d know him anywhere,” Steve said, his voice cracking. “Even after… this.” His gaze dropped to the chains, the scars, the glowing blue eyes that watched him with something feral and unreadable. “It’s him.”

 

“Okay, that’s…” Sam cleared his throat. “A lot to unpack.”

 

Tony raised an eyebrow, the tension so thick even he seemed hesitant—though not hesitant enough to stop himself. “Not to be that guy, but this is, objectively speaking, the most ironic thing that’s ever happened to you.” He gestured toward Bucky. “You go to war, lose your best friend, mourn him for seventy years, and then , surprise, he’s alive—and apparently a jungle cat.”

 

“ Tony, ” Natasha snapped, eyes flashing.

 

“I’m just saying!” Tony raised his hands in mock surrender. “We’re all thinking it.”

 

Steve clenched his jaw and turned back to Bucky, ignoring Tony. “JARVIS,” he said quietly, his voice steadier now, “run a full scan.”

 

“Running scan,” JARVIS responded immediately. A soft hum filled the room as his sensors swept over Bucky’s curled form. After a moment, his voice returned.

 

“Subject confirmed: James Buchanan Barnes. Genetic structure matches with 99.8% accuracy. Current condition: severe malnutrition, extensive scarring, and signs of long-term confinement. Neurological activity is heightened but unstable. Vital signs are present but irregular. No evidence of speech function.”

 

Steve swallowed hard, his chest tightening painfully. No speech function. He glanced back at Bucky, who was crouched in the shadows, his eyes locked on Steve with an unsettling intensity.

 

“Bucky…” Steve took a cautious step closer, trying again. His voice softened, almost pleading. “It’s me. It’s Steve. You remember me, right? We’re friends. You’re safe now. You don’t have to fight anymore.”

 

His head tilted slightly, but it was gone as quickly as it appeared, replaced by a sharp, defensive glare. He pressed himself further into the corner of the cage, muscles coiled tight, his breath shallow and quick.

 

Steve tried again. “You’ve been through a lot, I know. But you’re okay now. You’re gonna be okay.”

 

Bucky didn’t respond. His fingers curled around the bars, claws scraping lightly against the metal. His gaze never wavered, sharp and watchful, tracking every move Steve made. He didn’t speak—didn’t even try. But his body language spoke volumes. He was listening. He understood them. He just didn’t trust them.

 

“Steve,” Natasha said quietly, “he’s not the same.”

 

“I know,” Steve said, barely able to keep his voice steady. “But he’s still Bucky. He’s in there. I just… I have to get through to him.”

 

“Yeah, about that,” Clint said, shifting uncomfortably. “What’s the plan if he doesn’t want to be gotten through to? Because he looks like he’s one bad day away from ripping somebody’s face off.”

 

“He won’t hurt me,” Steve said without hesitation.

 

Sam raised an eyebrow. “He just tried to claw your face off.”

 

“That doesn’t count,” Steve muttered, his eyes still locked on Bucky.

 

For a long moment, no one spoke. The room seemed to hold its breath, waiting. Bucky’s eyes flicked from face to face, assessing each of them with quiet, predatory focus. His tail lashed once behind him, the movement slow and deliberate. Then he growled—low and deep—curling into himself and resting his head on his knees. His breathing slowed, but his eyes remained open, watching them all in silence.

 

“Bucky,” he whispered one last time. “I’m not leaving without you.”

Chapter 4

Notes:

Hey there, dear reader! Hope you’re doing well!

New chapter is here—enjoy!

Steve’s jaw tightened as he stood in front of the cage, his eyes flicking between the heavy chains and the dark figure inside. Every fiber of his being told him that getting Bucky out was the only right thing to do. But every logical part of his brain knew how dangerous it was.

 

“Taking him to the compound is the best option,” Natasha said quietly, leaning against the wall. “But we should call for backup. Shield containment, medics—”

 

“No.” Steve’s tone left no room for argument. His eyes burned with conviction. “No Shield . No containment unit. We’re not locking him up again, Nat. We’re not putting him through more tests. He’s coming with us, and we’ll figure it out at the compound. Without Shield.” Natasha held his gaze for a moment, then gave a short nod. “Your call, but this isn’t going to be pretty.”

 

“Understatement of the year,” Clint muttered, examining the thick bars of the cage. “So… what’s the plan, Cap? We just open this thing and hope he doesn’t tear our faces off?”

 

“We need to secure him,” Steve said. “Safely. For him and for us.”

 

Tony was already circling the cage, his wrist lasers glowing faintly. “Well, first things first. Let’s detach this thing from the wall.” He knelt and began cutting through the bolts that held the cage in place. Sparks flew, illuminating the cold steel for a brief second.  They quickly realized there was another problem—the hallway was too narrow to move the cage.

 

“We’ll have to take him out,” Natasha said.

 

Steve grimaced. “That’s not ideal.”

 

“No kidding,” Clint added, pulling a small case from his gear. He tapped it twice, revealing a collection of tranquilizer darts. “I hate to say it, Cap, but this is the only way. We can’t risk him waking up mid-transport.” Steve hesitated, his gut twisting in protest. He didn’t want to drug Bucky. But Clint was right. They had no choice.

 

“Do it,” Steve said quietly, his voice heavy with reluctance.

 

Clint gave a sharp nod and loaded the darts into his bow. He took aim through the bars, releasing three shots in quick succession. The darts hit Bucky’s arm and shoulder, sinking deep into his skin. The reaction was instant. Bucky’s body convulsed, his head snapping up as a feral snarl tore from his throat. His eyes burned, wild and furious, his claws scraping violently against the floor as he thrashed, trying to rip the darts out. His tail lashed behind him in agitation, slamming into the bars with enough force to rattle the entire cage. Slowly, Bucky’s movements began to slow. His breathing grew labored, and his limbs sagged. His growls softened, fading into heavy, ragged breaths as his body went limp.

 

Tony stepped forward cautiously, his face hidden behind his helmet. “Okay… that was fun. Let’s get this over with.” He dismantled the door first, carefully removing the vibranium panel and setting it aside. Then he moved on to the chains binding Bucky to the floor and walls. Each link was cut methodically, the lasers slicing through the metal with precision. The last chain snapped free with a soft clang , falling to the floor. Tony leaned back, satisfied.

 

“Alright. One super-soldier, ready for—”

 

Bucky moved. Before anyone could react, he exploded into motion. His eyes snapped open, his body a blur of muscle and instinct. He lunged forward with inhuman speed, slamming into Tony with enough force to send him flying backward. Tony crashed into the wall with a deafening thud , his armored body embedding in the concrete.

 

“Boss, he’s stronger than expected,” JARVIS said helpfully.

 

“No kidding,” Tony groaned, struggling to peel himself free. “You couldn’t have mentioned that five seconds earlier?” Steve’s heart jumped into his throat as Bucky stood to his full height for the first time. His bare chest rose and fell with each breath, muscles coiled beneath scarred skin. His long tail swept behind him, thick and powerful, swaying slowly as if searching for its next target. His ears flicked, attuned to every sound, and his claws flexed. The feral intensity in his eyes never faded. He didn’t just look like a man who’d been trapped. He looked like a predator, a hunter who’d been waiting for his chance to strike. For a moment, no one moved.

 

Then Bucky did exactly what they feared most—he bolted. He launched himself toward the doorway with terrifying speed, his claws digging into the ground for traction.

 

“ He’s trying to run! ” Clint shouted, raising his bow again.

 

“Bucky, wait!” Steve called, already chasing after him. But Bucky didn’t stop. He didn’t even glance back. He was already gone, lost in the shadows of the hallway, his footsteps echoing like a warning through the depths of the HYDRA facility. Bucky moved like a shadow through the crumbling corridors—. His bare feet barely made a sound on the cold floor, his tail flicking for balance as he launched himself around corners and leapt over debris with terrifying agility. The Avengers chased him, their footsteps pounding behind him, their shouts echoing off the walls.

 

“ He’s heading right—cut him off! ” Natasha’s voice was sharp, but there was tension underneath it. Clint sprinted ahead, bow raised, another tranquilizer arrow already nocked. He released it with expert precision, but Bucky twisted mid-run, the dart missing him by inches.

 

“ Seriously?! ” Clint shouted, breathless. “He’s faster than a damn gazelle!”

 

“Keep at it!” Steve barked, not slowing down. His heart hammered in his chest, his focus razor-sharp as he chased after Bucky. Every muscle burned, but he pushed harder, unwilling to lose him again. Not now. Not ever . Bucky darted into another room—a dead end.

 

Steve caught up just as Bucky turned to face them, chest heaving, eyes glowing in the dim light. There was no escape, but the fight wasn’t over. He moved before anyone could react, muscles coiling as he sprang toward Natasha. His snarl echoed through the room—a sound so raw, so primal, that it sent a shiver down her spine. But Steve was already there. He threw himself between them, catching Bucky mid-lunge, his hands locking around his wrists with a strength that matched Bucky’s own. They slammed into the wall, the impact rattling the room.

 

“Bucky, stop !” Steve’s voice was steady, but his grip was unrelenting. “It’s me! You’re okay. Just stop !” Bucky didn’t stop. He fought like a cornered animal, twisting and thrashing with everything he had, his eyes wild and unseeing. His growls deepened, turning into something dangerously close to a roar. His claws slashed through the air, but Steve held firm, his grip tightening around Bucky’s wrists. The others froze, watching with wide eyes. None of them dared intervene—this was a fight only Steve could handle.

 

“Clint,” Steve said through gritted teeth, his muscles straining. “ Now! ” Clint didn’t hesitate. He fired three more darts in quick succession, each one hitting its mark. Bucky let out a pained snarl, his body jerking as the tranquilizers sank deep.

 

Even then, he didn’t give up. He fought harder, thrashing wildly, every ounce of his strength pouring into one last desperate attempt to escape. Steve held on, his heart breaking with every second that passed, watching the friend he’d lost dissolve into something unrecognizable.

 

“I’m not letting go,” Steve whispered, his voice barely audible. His arms trembled, but he refused to yield. “No matter what, I’m not letting you go.” Bucky’s movements grew sluggish, his breathing heavier, slower. His eyes flickered, the blue light dimming as the drugs finally began to take hold. His growls softened into strained breaths, his claws loosening their grip on Steve’s arms. His legs buckled, and Steve followed him down, lowering him gently as his knees hit the floor. Bucky’s head dropped forward, his breathing ragged, his body trembling from exhaustion and the cocktail of sedatives coursing through his veins.

 

“Easy,” Steve murmured, cradling him. His voice was softer now, almost pleading. “You’re okay… just rest. I’ve got you.”

 

Bucky’s eyes fluttered, barely open, but there was still fight in him. His hand lifted weakly, aiming for one last strike, but it never made it. His arm fell limply against Steve’s chest, his strength finally gone. Steve caught the hand and held it, his fingers curling around Bucky’s—scarred, clawed, and trembling. Bucky’s head lolled against Steve’s shoulder, his body going completely limp. His breathing slowed, his chest rising and falling in uneven patterns, until even that seemed to even out. Steve stayed there, his arms wrapped around the only person he thought he’d never see again. His throat tightened, but he forced the emotion down, blinking against the sting in his eyes.

 

“Steve…” Sam’s voice broke the silence, cautious, almost breathless.

 

Steve didn’t look up. He didn’t need to. “He’s coming with us,” he said quietly, his voice resolute. “We take him home.” No one argued.

 

Natasha lowered her weapon, Clint slung his bow over his shoulder, and even Tony said nothing for once. They all knew, in that moment, there was no stopping Steve Rogers. Not when it came to Bucky Barnes.

Chapter 5

Notes:

Hey! New chapter today!

Our little Bucky is finally waking up!

The Quinjet’s ramp lowered slowly, snow swirling around their feet as Steve and Sam carried Bucky’s limp body inside. His head hung forward, hair falling across his face, arms draped over their shoulders. His breathing was steady but shallow, his body completely slack, weighed down by whatever cocktail of tranquilizers Clint had pumped into him. Bruce stood in the center of the cabin, his arms crossed, eyes wide. He blinked once, then again, staring at the unconscious figure they hauled in.

 

“I thought this was a reconnaissance mission,” Bruce said, eyebrows raised. “You leave for HYDRA leftovers, and now you’re bringing back…” He gestured vaguely toward Bucky’s tail, which hung limply over Steve’s arm. “ That. ” Tony walked past him, casually patting Bruce’s shoulder. “It’s a very long story, Big Guy. Trust me, you’ll want to read the footnotes.”

 

“Is he stable?” Bruce asked, already slipping into doctor mode despite his confusion.

 

“For now,” Steve answered, his tone clipped. “Bruce, I need you to run a full exam while he’s still out. We don’t know how long we have before he wakes up again, and… if he wakes up like that again, it won’t be safe.” Bruce looked at him for a long moment, noticing the tension in Steve’s jaw, the way his shoulders stayed rigid, even now. This wasn’t just another mission for him—this was personal, and Bruce had learned never to ignore that kind of determination from Steve.

 

“Alright,” Bruce said with a nod. They eased Bucky onto one of the metal benches along the wall. He looked even worse under the harsh cabin lights—his skin pale, a faint sheen of sweat on his forehead. His chest rose and fell slowly, but the sharp lines of his ribs were visible beneath his scarred skin. His long hair clung to his face in dark strands, and his tail curled slightly around his leg, twitching unconsciously every few moments. Bruce started his examination, his hands calm and methodical as he checked Bucky’s vitals. His fingers pressed gently against Bucky’s wrist, feeling for his pulse.

 

“Heart rate’s slow,” Bruce muttered, eyes narrowing. “But not dangerously so. Temperature’s a little low, but expected given his condition. Blood pressure… low, but stable. Breathing’s irregular—shallow but consistent.” He pulled a penlight from his kit and leaned closer, carefully opening one of Bucky’s eyes. The light reflected off a blue, slitted pupil, almost feline in its sharpness. Bruce frowned.

 

“His eyes… these are engineered. This isn’t just genetic splicing. This is surgical modification at a cellular level. HYDRA must have gone through several phases of experimentation to get him like this.” He moved on, gently touching the base of Bucky’s ear. It twitched involuntarily under his fingers. The ear itself was pointed and covered in short, dark fur, more sensitive than any human ear should be. Bruce made a mental note and continued.

 

His gaze moved downward, inspecting Bucky’s bare torso. Scars crisscrossed his chest and back—some old, others fresher, their edges ragged and angry. He pressed lightly along Bucky’s ribs, checking for fractures. His fingers skimmed over the tattoo on Bucky’s neck: 106 , a grim reminder of HYDRA’s ownership. Then there was the tail—a long, muscular appendage covered in smooth black fur, tapering to a sharp point. It was thicker than Bruce expected, strong enough to knock a full-grown man off balance with a single strike.

 

“And this…” Bruce’s voice trailed off as his eyes settled on Bucky’s hands. “Claws on both hands. Retractable.” Bruce said, almost to himself.  He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “HYDRA didn’t just enhance him. They rebuilt him—redesigned him from the ground up.”

 

Steve stood silently by the bench, his jaw tight, his hands curled into fists. “Can you help him?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

 

Bruce looked up, his expression softer now. “We’ll try. First step is understanding how deep this transformation goes. I’ll need to run some blood tests, get a better picture of his physiology. We also need to develop a sedative strong enough to counteract his enhancements—something reliable, in case this happens again.” He grabbed a syringe from his kit and took Bucky’s arm, drawing a vial of dark, thick blood. He held it up to the light, studying its unusual viscosity and color.

 

“This should give us some answers,” Bruce said, carefully sealing the sample. As Bruce worked, Steve stayed close, his eyes never leaving Bucky’s face. His friend looked fragile like this—so different from the snarling, feral creature they’d pulled from that cage. The Quinjet hit a patch of turbulence, shaking gently as it continued toward the compound. Bucky stirred for a moment, his tail flicking once before settling again.

 

“Let’s just hope he stays out until we land,” Tony said, crossing his arms. “Because if Round Two happens up here, none of us are making it home in one piece.”

 

Steve’s eyes didn’t waver. “He won’t hurt anyone,” he said softly. “Not if I can help it.”

 

Tony glanced at Bruce, then back at Steve. “You might want to tell him that when he wakes up, Cap. Because I’m not sure he got the memo.” Steve didn’t respond. He only tightened his grip on the edge of the bench, silently promising himself—and Bucky—that this time, he wouldn’t fail him. The ride back to the compound was mercifully uneventful. The tranquilizers held, keeping Bucky unconscious for the duration of the flight. Steve kept a close watch the entire time, arms crossed, barely moving except to glance at Bruce every now and then for reassurance.

 

“Still out,” Bruce said softly as they hit their final descent. “Looks like we got the dose right.” Steve gave a curt nod, his lips pressed into a thin line. He didn’t feel reassured. Not really. The Quinjet touched down on the rooftop of the compound, and the team moved quickly, not wanting to push their luck. They carried Bucky inside, careful to keep his hands restrained. He stirred once or twice—nothing more than faint twitches, his body instinctively resisting even in sleep.

 

“Alright,” Tony said, leading the way toward the lower levels. “Not exactly the five-star treatment, but we’ve got temporary holding cells on the sublevel. They’re reinforced and secure. Best we can do for now.” The “cell” wasn’t much—a plain room with reinforced walls and a heavy door. It had the sterile, clinical feel of something built for emergencies, not comfort. It was cold, too cold, but they did what they could. Natasha brought in a cot, while Bruce set up monitoring equipment to track Bucky’s vitals.

 

The final touch was the chain. A long, thick length of vibranium anchored to the wall, attached to the cuffs that they put on Bucky’s wrists. It allowed him some freedom of movement, enough to sit or lie down without discomfort, but kept him firmly tethered.

 

“We’ll figure something better out,” Bruce said quietly, adjusting one of the monitors. “Once we know he’s stable.” Steve nodded, his eyes lingering on Bucky’s face. With everything in place, they left the room. Steve hesitated at the door, his hand resting on the frame for a moment too long.

 

“Be here when he wakes up,” Tony offered, his tone softer than usual. “You’ll get your chance to talk to him.” Steve nodded again but didn’t reply. The door sealed shut with a heavy clang , leaving Bucky alone in the dim light. The air was stale, heavy with the scent of metal and antiseptic. It was the silence that woke him first—thick and oppressive, pressing down on him like a weight.

 

 

Bucky’s eyes snapped open, slitted pupils adjusting instantly to the low light. His breath hitched, heart pounding, every muscle coiling tight as instinct took over. He didn’t move at first, only his eyes darting around the room, taking in every detail: the sterile walls, the thick chain attached to his wrist, the heavy door across from him.

 

Another cage.

 

A low growl rumbled in his throat, barely audible but vibrating through his chest. He pulled at the chain, testing its strength, his muscles flexing as he strained against it. It held firm. His tail lashed once, cutting through the air behind him, sharp and deliberate. The motion helped center him, his breathing slowing just enough to focus.

 

He shifted, rising to a crouch on the cot, his bare feet curling over the edge. His ears twitched at the faint hum of the monitors nearby, catching even the softest sounds. He hated the lights, the constant hum of the equipment, the feel of cold metal beneath his fingers. Everything about the room made his skin crawl, his body tense with the need to move, escape, run.

 

He paced in tight circles, his tail flicking irritably, eyes narrowing as he surveyed the door. He pressed a hand to the wall, claws lightly scraping the surface, testing for any weaknesses. There were none. His breath came faster, frustration building with every second. His claws extended fully, gleaming under the faint light as he struck the wall, the sharp clang of metal on metal echoing in the small space. The sound seemed to satisfy something deep in his chest—a reminder that he wasn’t as helpless as they wanted him to be.

 

He crouched again, watching the door with unblinking eyes. His head tilted slightly, his senses hyper-aware, waiting for any sign of movement beyond it. He didn’t know how long he stayed like that, waiting in the stillness, muscles coiled and ready. He didn’t remember how he got here, didn’t know who had brought him here or why , but it didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered was getting out.

Chapter 6

Notes:

Hey guys !

New chapter today !!!

The lights in the common room were dim, the soft hum of conversation fading into the background as the Avengers settled in for a quiet evening. Outside, the sky had turned a deep shade of indigo, and the compound had grown still. Then JARVIS’s voice cut through the calm.

 

“Captain Rogers, Dr. Banner… sergeant Barnes is awake.”

 

The casual tone didn’t match the tension that immediately gripped the room. Steve straightened, already halfway to his feet, while Bruce shot him a quick glance.

 

“Right on schedule,” Tony muttered, swirling what was left of his drink. “I was wondering when Sleeping Beauty would make his grand reappearance.” Steve ignored the comment, his mind already racing. Bucky was awake. And the longer they left him alone in that cell, the worse it would get. He needed to see him. He needed Bucky to know he wasn’t a prisoner anymore—not really .

 

“Should we bring food?” Steve asked aloud, almost to himself. “He hasn’t eaten since we found him.”

 

Bruce rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Might be a good idea. Show him we’re not here to hurt him.”

 

Natasha leaned back in her chair, arms crossed. “What are you thinking? Bread and water like some medieval dungeon?”

 

“Soup?” Clint suggested, shrugging. “Can’t go wrong with soup.”

 

Sam shot him a look. “Soup’s not exactly the kind of power meal he needs, man. He’s got the body of a jungle cat and the appetite to match. He needs protein.”

 

“Okay, we’re not throwing him a steak dinner,” Tony said, raising a hand. “Keep it simple. Something non-threatening.”

 

“Peanut butter sandwich?” Sam offered.

 

Steve shook his head. “Too sticky. He hasn’t eaten in God knows how long—he needs something easy to chew.”

 

It took another minute of debate, but eventually, they settled on plain chicken, some steamed vegetables, and a bottle of water. Simple, safe, nothing too heavy. Bruce grabbed the tray from the kitchen, and together, he and Steve made their way down to the lower level. The door to Bucky’s cell slid open with a low hiss, and Steve stepped in first, holding the tray carefully in both hands. Bruce followed, keeping a respectful distance. Bucky was already waiting.

 

The second the door opened, his entire body tensed. He moved into a defensive crouch on the cot, his eyes narrowing as he tracked their every step. His tail flicked once, then twice, muscles coiling beneath his scarred skin. His claws flexed instinctively, scraping softly against the metal floor.

 

“Hey,” Steve said gently, his tone calm but deliberate. He raised the tray just enough for Bucky to see it. “We brought you something to eat. You’ve got to be hungry.”

 

He set the tray down on the floor a few feet away—not too close, but within reach if Bucky decided to trust him. He stepped back slowly, his hands raised in a gesture of peace. For a moment, Bucky didn’t move. His eyes flicked toward the tray, his nostrils flaring as he caught the scent of food. But instead of going for it, he turned his head away, ignoring it completely. Steve sighed softly. Not surprising. He’s not ready yet.

 

But then Bucky’s gaze shifted—to Bruce. Steve noticed the change instantly. Bucky’s eyes darkened, his posture stiffening. His breathing quickened just slightly, his claws extending just a fraction more. His focus was no longer on Steve or the food—it was entirely on Bruce. Bruce froze, his eyes widening slightly. “Uh, Steve?”

 

“Easy,” Steve said, his voice low. He glanced back at Bucky, following the line of his gaze. That’s when he saw it—the way Bucky’s eyes locked onto Bruce’s white lab coat, his pupils dilating, his tail curling tightly behind him in agitation. Steve’s heart sank. Of course. To Bucky, the coat wasn’t just a piece of clothing. It was a symbol. A ghost from his past that still haunted him. Blouses meant scientists. Scientists meant tests. And tests always meant pain.

 

“Bruce,” Steve said quietly, his eyes never leaving Bucky. “Take the coat off.”

 

Bruce blinked. “The coat? You think—” He stopped, following Steve’s gaze. Understanding dawned on his face, and without another word, he shrugged off the coat and tossed it aside. Bucky’s eyes tracked the coat for a second, then snapped back to Bruce. He didn’t growl this time, but the tension in his body didn’t ease.

 

“See?” Steve said, crouching down to Bucky’s level, his voice soft. “It’s just Bruce. No tests. No needles. Nothing like that. He’s here to help you.” Bucky’s eyes flickered, something unreadable passing across his face. He didn’t move, but the tight coil of his muscles loosened just a little. His gaze darted between Steve and Bruce, suspicious but… curious. The air in the room felt heavy, thick with unspoken tension. The only sound was the soft hum of the monitors in the corner and the light clink of the chain around Bucky’s wrist whenever he shifted.

 

Steve remained perfectly still, sitting on the opposite side of the cell, his eyes never leaving Bucky. He didn’t push, didn’t speak. He’d learned a long time ago that sometimes the best way to reach someone was just by being there .

 

Bucky hadn’t moved much since they entered. His eyes tracked every motion Steve or Bruce made, but his body remained tense, coiled like a spring. His tail, which had lashed aggressively at first, eventually slowed its movement, curling around his leg in a slow, deliberate motion. It was the strangest thing, watching him like this. The last time Steve had seen Bucky, he’d been entirely human—broken, maybe, but still himself. Now, this version of Bucky sat quietly on the cot like some wild creature trying to decide if it would bolt, attack, or settle into uneasy coexistence.

 

Bruce cleared his throat softly, drawing Steve’s attention. “He might respond better if you’re alone,” he said, keeping his voice low and calm. “He knows you, Steve. He doesn’t know me. Right now, I’m just the guy in the lab coat, and that’s probably not helping.”

 

Steve nodded slowly. “You’re right.”

 

Bruce stood carefully, moving toward the door with measured steps. “Just… don’t push too hard,” he added. “He’s unpredictable right now, and it’s going to take time. Be careful.” The door closed softly behind him, leaving Steve and Bucky alone in the dim light. For a long moment, neither of them moved. Steve exhaled slowly and leaned back, trying to look as non-threatening as possible. He kept his distance—far enough that Bucky couldn’t reach him, even if he tried.

 

“Hey, Buck,” he said gently, his tone warm but steady. “It’s just you and me now.”

 

Bucky didn’t respond. His eyes stayed locked on Steve, unblinking, his expression unreadable.

 

“I brought you food,” Steve continued, gesturing toward the tray. “It’s good. Chicken, some vegetables. Nothing fancy, but it’ll help. You need to eat something.” Nothing. Not even a flicker of interest. Steve sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “Look, I get it. You don’t trust me. I wouldn’t trust me either, not after what you’ve been through. But it’s not poisoned, I swear.” Still no reaction. Steve looked at the plate, then back at Bucky, a thought forming in his mind. He reached over, grabbed a piece of chicken, and took a bite. He chewed slowly, deliberately, then swallowed.

 

“See?” he said, picking up the bottle of water and taking a long sip. “Perfectly fine.” He pushed the tray a little closer to Bucky, keeping his movements slow and calm.

For the first time, Bucky reacted—his nostrils flaring slightly as he sniffed the air. His face wrinkled almost immediately, a deep frown settling across his features. He leaned back slightly, his tail flicking once in irritation. Then, with an expression that could only be described as pure disdain, he turned his back on Steve completely, curling up with his knees drawn to his chest, his head resting on his arms. His tail wrapped protectively around his legs, creating a barrier between him and the rest of the room.

 

Steve stared at him for a long moment, then shook his head with a soft, rueful laugh. “Right. Okay. That’s how we’re playing this.”

 

He leaned back against the wall, crossing his arms. “You’re really gonna ignore me like a grumpy housecat, huh? That’s fine. I’ve dealt with worse.”

 

Bucky didn’t even flinch. His breathing slowed, his body relaxing just enough to show that he wasn’t worried about Steve’s presence. He wasn’t scared, just annoyed .

 

“Well,” Steve muttered, resting his head against the wall, “this went about as well as I expected.”

Chapter 7

Notes:

New chapter today guys !

Thanks for your comments ! ❤️

The days passed in a blur of repetition and silence. Every morning, Steve returned to the cell with a tray of food—freshly prepared meals that varied each day in an attempt to find something Bucky might eat. Every day, Steve would sit in the same spot, carefully placing the tray just within reach and waiting, hoping for even the smallest sign of progress. But Bucky never touched the food. Not once.

 

He watched Steve with that same unreadable expression, his glowing eyes tracking every movement. Sometimes he growled softly when Steve got too close. Other times, he simply curled up on the cot with his back turned, his tail flicking lazily in what Steve could only interpret as deliberate indifference. And every day, Steve stayed. Hours passed in silence, interrupted only by the occasional sigh or attempt to break through the wall Bucky had built around himself. Bruce’s research didn’t offer much reassurance.

 

“It’s definitely the super-soldier serum,” Bruce said one afternoon, holding up a holographic readout of Bucky’s blood. “A modified version of yours, combined with genetic manipulation. His DNA has been spliced with panther DNA on a cellular level. That’s why he’s so fast, so strong—. We still don’t know if HYDRA trained him to fight in this form, but if they did… well, we’re lucky he hasn’t ripped through those restraints yet.”

 

“And the cryo?” Steve asked, leaning against the counter, arms crossed.

 

Bruce nodded, frowning at another set of data. “It’s the only explanation for why he looks like this. Physically, he hasn’t aged much beyond when you knew him in the ‘40s. He was probably frozen between experiments, just like you—only not under ideal conditions. This kind of genetic manipulation… it’s brutal. And the fact that he’s still alive, let alone functioning at this level, is nothing short of a miracle.” Steve’s stomach twisted at the thought. Frozen. Used. Turned into something else entirely.

 

He glanced back toward the hallway leading to Bucky’s cell. “He’s still in there,” he said quietly. “Somewhere beneath all of this, he’s still Bucky.”

 

“I hope you’re right,” Bruce said, crossing his arms. “But you should know… we still can’t tell if he’s observing or waiting. If he’s trying to decide whether to trust you—or just waiting for the right moment to escape.”

 

By the end of the week, Steve grew worried. Really worried.Bucky hadn’t eaten a bite of anything Steve had brought. His already thin frame seemed even more fragile now, his face hollow and drawn. Steve could feel the growing anxiety twisting in his chest each time he saw Bucky lying there, refusing to move.

 

“This isn’t working,” Steve muttered to himself, pacing the kitchen late one evening. He stared at the fresh tray in front of him—another meal Bucky would probably ignore. Something needed to change.

 

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Okay. Desperate times…” He opened the fridge, his eyes settling on a pack of raw beef. “Let’s try this.” When Steve stepped into the cell, the air was cooler than usual. Bucky was sitting on the cot, his tail curled tightly around his leg, his eyes half-lidded as he watched Steve enter.

 

“Hey, Buck,” Steve said softly, holding up the tray. “I’ve got something different for you today. Thought maybe you’d like this a little better.” He placed the plate on the floor, the raw beef sitting neatly in the center. The scent wafted through the room, faint but unmistakable. Steve leaned back, watching carefully. At first, Bucky didn’t move. He glanced at the meat, then back at Steve, his face blank and unreadable. His nostrils flared, but he made no move toward the food.

 

Then his stomach betrayed him. A loud, unmistakable growl filled the room, breaking the silence. Steve raised an eyebrow, fighting back a grin. “Hungry, huh?”

 

Bucky scowled, visibly irritated. His tail flicked once in annoyance, and he shot Steve a glare.

 

“C’mon,” Steve encouraged, his voice calm but teasing. “You’ve got to eat something. It’s not like I’m trying to poison you. Your body’s already made it clear it wants food. Might as well listen to it.” Bucky’s stomach growled again, even louder this time. His ears twitched, betraying his growing frustration. He shifted slightly, his fingers curling against the cot.

 

Steve waited, his patience endless. “No one’s watching but me,” he said gently. “And I won’t tell anyone if you cave. It’ll be our little secret.” For a moment, Bucky seemed to consider it. His eyes flicked toward the plate again, lingering longer than before. His nostrils flared once more, the scent clearly getting to him. Finally, with a low, reluctant growl, Bucky slid off the cot and crouched beside the plate. He sniffed the meat cautiously, his tail swaying slowly behind him.

 

Steve held his breath. Bucky’s claws extended slightly as he picked up a piece of the meat, bringing it to his mouth. He sniffed once more, then—almost begrudgingly—bit into it.

 

Steve smiled, relief flooding through him. “There you go. See? Not so bad.” Bucky shot him another glare, as if to say don’t push your luck , but he didn’t stop eating. He tore into the meat with more enthusiasm now, his body clearly desperate for sustenance despite his stubbornness.

 

Steve leaned back against the wall, arms crossed, watching with quiet satisfaction. “Told you,” he muttered. “You’ll feel better once you’ve got something in your stomach.” Bucky didn’t respond, too focused on the food. But for the first time in what felt like forever, Steve felt a flicker of hope.

 

Step one: Get Bucky to eat something. Success.

 

Steve made a mental note—Bucky didn’t care for cooked food or anything overly complicated. His interest seemed to start and end with raw red meat, which wasn’t exactly the healthiest diet, but for now, it would do. At least it was something . Water wasn’t an issue either. Bucky had figured out how to use the faucet in the corner of his cell on the first day. He drank straight from it, crouching low, his claws tapping softly against the sink as he lapped at the water in long, deliberate gulps. It was an odd combination—both instinctual and human—and Steve couldn’t help but feel a rush of relief every time he watched Bucky interact with his surroundings.

 

He remembers how to do things. It meant there was still a part of him that hadn’t been erased, buried beneath all the modifications and conditioning.

 

Step two: Gain his trust.

 

This part wasn’t going to be easy. The vibranium cuffs still weighed heavily on Steve’s mind. Every time he looked at them, a knot tightened in his chest. Bucky wore them like they were just another part of his body—moving with them, adjusting when the chain tugged against his wrists, barely reacting anymore. But sometimes, when he thought no one was watching, Bucky would absently pull at the restraints or scratch at the chain with his claws. Not out of frustration, but with a kind of absent curiosity, like testing a familiar prison’s walls for cracks.

 

He knew the cuffs were necessary for now, but it didn’t make it easier to watch. He wanted to take them off, to give Bucky some semblance of freedom. But they weren’t there yet. First, he had to get Bucky to trust him enough not to attack the second they came off.

 

Another observation: Bucky didn’t sleep on the bed. The cot was right there—simple but more comfortable than the cold floor. But Bucky avoided it entirely. Instead, he curled up in the corner on the hard ground, his tail wrapped around his legs, arms folded under his head like a pillow. His breathing was deep and slow, his ears flicking occasionally even in sleep. It was the kind of posture you’d expect from a big cat in a zoo, not a person.

 

Steve tried not to let it bother him, but it did. They hadn’t even managed to get Bucky to change clothes. He was still in the tattered remnants of what they’d found him in—dirty, torn, and barely holding together. Bathing was a non-starter too. Any attempt to coax him toward the idea of soap or water earned Steve a flat glare that said try it, and you’ll regret it. He talked to Bucky constantly. Sometimes about their shared past, sometimes just about whatever came to mind. Stories about the war, about Brooklyn, about how things had changed while they were both frozen in time. He didn’t expect answers. He wasn’t even sure Bucky would understand half of it.

 

But he knew Bucky listened. His ears always gave him away. Even when Bucky lay on the floor, pretending to ignore him, his ears twitched at certain words—especially names like “Brooklyn” or “Steve” or “Barnes.”

 

Yet something was missing. Steve noticed it while reviewing the security footage late one night. Bucky spent most of his time pacing. Around and around the cell in slow, measured steps, always in the same pattern, always with the same blank expression. It wasn’t restlessness; it was boredom .

 

Like a lion in a cage. Of course, he’s bored. Steve thought. He’s got nothing to do, nothing to focus on. An idea began to take shape in his mind. Something familiar. Something from before . The next day, Steve entered the cell carrying two things: an old deck of cards and a small portable speaker.

 

“Hey, Buck,” he said, his tone light. “I figured we’d try something new today.” Bucky was perched on the cot again, his back against the wall, his tail curled loosely around his leg. His eyes flicked to the cards, then to the speaker, but he didn’t move. Steve set the speaker down and pressed play. The soft crackle of a vintage recording filled the room, followed by the warm notes of a song from the ‘40s.

 

 

Steve watched carefully for a reaction. Bucky’s ears twitched again, this time in rhythm with the music. His eyes narrowed slightly—not in anger, but in thought. He didn’t growl or turn away. He just… listened . Steve took that as a good sign. Next, he shuffled the deck of cards and sat cross-legged on the floor, a reasonable distance from Bucky. “Remember this?” He held up the deck. “We used to play during the war. Mostly to pass time between missions. You always cheated.”

 

He started dealing the cards, speaking casually. “I’ll teach you again if you forgot. It’s easy. Nothing fancy—just poker. No stakes, just for fun.” Bucky didn’t move at first, but his eyes stayed locked on the cards as Steve laid them out. There was something in his expression—something sharp and calculating.

 

Steve leaned back, smiling faintly. “Whenever you’re ready, we’ll play a hand.”

Chapter 8

Notes:

New chapter ! ❤️

Steve shuffled the deck slowly, the sound of the cards a steady rhythm against the soft crackle of music filling the room. He kept his voice calm, light, explaining the rules like they were sitting in a warm, familiar place and not a sterile cell deep beneath the compound.

“So,” he said, placing a row of cards on the floor between them, “the goal is simple. You make the best hand you can. Pairs, straights, that kind of thing. And don’t even think about trying to bluff me—you’re terrible at it. Always were.” He glanced up briefly but kept his gaze casual, careful not to hold it too long. He didn’t want Bucky to feel watched, hunted, or expected to respond. Steve had learned that direct pressure didn’t work on him.

 

At first, there was nothing—just the quiet hum of the room and the low rustle of cards against the concrete. Then he heard it: the soft drag of the chain across the floor. Subtle but unmistakable. Steve resisted the urge to look. He dealt another card. “You always used to claim you had a system,” he said with a small chuckle. “You didn’t. You just liked watching me lose.”

 

The chain dragged again. Closer. Steve caught the flicker of movement at the edge of his vision—just the tip of Bucky’s tail swaying gently, almost lazily. Then, slowly, Bucky came into view, crouched low, his weight balanced on the balls of his feet. Steve’s breath caught for a split second. Bucky was closer than he had ever been, his eyes gleaming in the dim light, watching the cards with quiet intensity. His hands rested lightly on his knees, claws retracted, his posture relaxed but ready to bolt at the first sign of danger.

 

For the first time in what felt like forever , his expression wasn’t guarded. It wasn’t angry, distant, or wild. It was curious. Almost… childlike.

 

Steve smiled softly and kept dealing the cards. “You want me to keep going, huh?”

 

Bucky didn’t speak. He didn’t nod. But his eyes—bright and sharp—flicked from the cards to Steve, as if silently encouraging him to continue. Steve did. He explained the game again, this time a little slower, demonstrating how the cards worked, how to match them, how to win. His voice remained calm, like they were two old friends passing time in a quiet room, not two men separated by years of pain and trauma.

Bucky watched everything closely, his head tilting slightly as Steve laid down another card. His ears flicked, catching every word, every shift in Steve’s tone.

 

When Steve finally stopped and gathered the cards back into a neat pile, Bucky’s brow furrowed just slightly, the smallest sign of disappointment.

 

Steve chuckled. “Oh, you don’t like when the game ends, huh?” He tapped the deck gently. “We can keep going. How about we play a real hand this time?” Bucky’s gaze lifted to meet Steve’s, his feline eyes unblinking. There was no nod, no growl, no obvious response. But something in the way he held his gaze told Steve everything he needed to know.

 

“Alright,” Steve said quietly. “I’m gonna move a little closer. Just so it’s easier for you to play. If that’s okay.” He moved slowly, careful not to make any sudden movements. But even with all the caution in the world, Bucky still tensed. His eyes sharpened, his body leaning back slightly, a low growl vibrating in his chest.

 

“Easy,” Steve murmured, stopping where he was. “It’s okay. I’m just dealing the cards. No tricks, no traps.” He began laying the cards out again on the floor, spreading them in front of Bucky. The growl faded into silence, and to Steve’s surprise, Bucky relaxed again. His eyes dropped to the cards, his tail swaying in slow, deliberate arcs. Then, with a hesitant movement, Bucky reached out. His fingers brushed the cards tentatively at first, his claws just barely extending. He looked up at Steve for a brief moment, almost as if checking for permission, then picked up a card.

 

Steve held his breath, watching every second of it.

 

“Good,” he said, smiling gently. “See? You remember how to play.” Bucky studied the card in his hand, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully. His expression was still guarded, but there was something else there—something deeper, something softer. Steve leaned back, careful not to break the moment. “Your move, Buck.”

 

Steve shuffled the deck with practiced ease, glancing up occasionally at Bucky, who was crouched across from him, eyes fixed on the cards with sharp focus. His tail flicked idly behind him, a subtle gauge of his mood—each twitch telling Steve more than any word could have.

The first game was over quickly. Bucky’s movements were hesitant at first, his memory clearly struggling to catch up. He played the wrong cards a couple of times, his brow furrowing deeper with every mistake. When Steve laid down the winning hand, he smiled gently and placed his cards on the floor.

 

“Looks like I got you this time,” Steve said. “That’s alright, though. You’re rusty.”

 

Bucky blinked, then narrowed his eyes. His tail lashed behind him, once, twice—a sharp snap of frustration. He rose to his feet with a low, guttural growl, pacing the small space with all the agitation of a cat that had been denied a meal. His claws clicked softly against the floor as he moved, and his eyes never left Steve, challenging him without a word. Steve couldn’t help but laugh.

 

“Still a sore loser, huh?” he teased, his grin widening. “I should’ve guessed. You always hated losing.” Bucky’s growl softened into something closer to a huff, his expression shifting. He crouched back down with a deliberate thud , his movements more dramatic than necessary, as if to make a point. Another low noise rumbled from his chest—not quite angry, not quite amused—something in between.

 

“Well,” Steve said, gathering the cards, “I guess you want a rematch.” Before he could finish the sentence, Bucky reached down, gathering up the scattered cards clumsily. He scooped them into his hands and shoved them toward Steve. Then he sat back, crossing his arms with a look that said, Shuffle. Now.

 

Steve chuckled again. “Alright, alright. Rematch it is.”

 

He shuffled the cards with exaggerated flair, letting the sound fill the quiet space. Bucky watched intently, his eyes tracking every movement like a predator waiting for the perfect moment to strike. His tail swayed behind him in slow, deliberate arcs, brushing against the floor in time with the rhythm of the shuffle. This time, when Steve dealt the cards, Bucky sat cross-legged on the floor, his posture more relaxed but his focus sharper. He glanced at his hand, then at Steve, tilting his head slightly. And then Bucky played .

 

At first, Steve didn’t notice. The game progressed normally, with Bucky taking his turns quietly, his face giving nothing away. But as the game neared its end, Steve started to feel that nagging sense of déjà vu, a suspicion creeping in. Bucky laid down his final hand with the kind of casual confidence that Steve hadn’t seen in years . A perfect straight flush. Steve stared at the cards, blinking in disbelief. “Wait… what?”

 

He glanced up at Bucky, who was now sitting back, arms folded, his head tilted just slightly in what could only be described as smug satisfaction. His tail flicked once, lazily, before curling around his leg.

 

“You hustled me,” Steve said, half-laughing, half-shocked. “You totally played me like you used to! You remember , don’t you?” Bucky didn’t answer, but his eyes sparkled with something undeniably familiar—a hint of mischief, the tiniest shadow of the man Steve had known during the war. He leaned back, shaking his head with a broad grin. “I can’t believe it. All this time, and you’re still a cheater.”

 

Bucky blinked slowly, his version of a long-suffering You should’ve seen it coming.

Steve laughed again, louder this time, the sound filling the small room. “Well, I’m glad to see some things haven’t changed.”

 

Bucky leaned forward slightly, picking up another card and turning it over in his hand. He tapped the card gently against the floor, his eyes flicking up to meet Steve’s. The message was clear: Deal again.

 

And for the first time in a long while, Steve didn’t feel like he was sitting with a stranger. He was sitting with Bucky . Changed, scarred, but still there—still the man he’d lost so long ago.

 

Steve shuffled the cards again, his heart lighter than it had been in years.

 

“Alright,” he said with a grin. “But this time, no cheating. I’m watching you.”

 

Bucky tilted his head, his lips curling ever so slightly into something that wasn’t quite a smile—but close enough. His tail flicked once behind him, lazy and confident, and his eyes glinted in the soft light.

Chapter 9

Notes:

Hey everyone!

New chapter on our little Bucky’s progress 😌

The door to the common room slid open, and Steve stepped inside, his face lit with the kind of rare smile that made everyone else pause. For a second, there was nothing but silence as the team glanced at him, waiting for an update.

 

“Well?” Sam was the first to speak, raising an eyebrow. “How’d it go? Did he try to rip your head off again, or are we calling that progress now?”

 

Steve chuckled softly, rubbing the back of his neck. “No head-ripping tonight. Actually… we played poker.” The room went dead silent. Tony blinked, his glass of whisky halfway to his mouth. He froze there, staring at Steve like he’d just grown another head. Slowly, he set the glass down, turning toward JARVIS with a look of disbelief.

 

“JARVIS,” Tony said, his voice calm but suspicious, “can you confirm that I did not, in fact, hallucinate what Steve just said?”

 

“You are not hallucinating, sir,” JARVIS responded in his usual neutral tone. “Captain Rogers did, in fact, play a card game with Sergeant Barnes.”

 

Tony blinked again, his mouth opening, then closing. “Okay. So, just to be clear—we’re talking about the same Bucky , right? The guy who’s been pacing his cell for a week like a jungle cat and growling at anything that moves?”

 

“The very same,” Steve said, his smile widening.

 

“And he played poker with you?” Tony leaned forward, tapping his temple. “Like, cards, bluffing, winning, losing? Poker poker?”

 

Steve nodded. “He even remembered how to hustle me. Beat me fair and square in the second game.”

 

Tony sat back, letting out a long, low whistle. “Well, I’ll be damned. That’s… not what I expected to hear tonight.” He picked up his glass again, giving Steve a sly grin. “Guess it’s true what they say—cats are always full of surprises.”

 

Bruce’s expression softened, a pleased glint in his eyes. “That’s a good sign, Steve. He’s engaging. That’s a huge step forward.”

 

Steve leaned against the arm of the couch, crossing his arms. “I was right there, well within reach, and he didn’t lash out. Not once. He could’ve taken my head off if he wanted to—but he didn’t.”

 

“That’s big,” Natasha said, her voice encouraging. “Still too early to unchain him, but you’re on the right track.”

 

“I know,” Steve agreed. “But at least now, I know it’s possible. He’s in there . He hasn’t forgotten everything. We just have to be patient, keep building on this.”

 

“And keep the card games coming,” Clint added, smirking. “Maybe we can start a weekly poker night. Loser has to take the next Bucky watch.” Steve rolled his eyes but couldn’t help smiling again. He had a plan now, a real path forward. Even if it meant playing cards with a half-feral, clawed super-soldier who growled when he lost and glared at him like an annoyed housecat when he shuffled too slowly.

 

“I’ll take that bet,” Steve said, pushing off the couch and heading toward the kitchen. “But just so you know, if we do poker night, Bucky’s on my team. And trust me—you don’t stand a chance.”

 

Behind him, Tony laughed, clinking his glass against Sam’s. “Alright, Cap. Game on.”

 

 

The days turned into weeks, and the strange rhythm of life inside Bucky’s cell began to settle into something almost normal. Steve showed up every morning at the same time without fail, carrying a tray of food and something new to introduce—whether it was a deck of cards, an old game, or just another story from their past. At first, Bucky had stayed wary, watching him from the cot with those unblinking feline eyes, always on edge, always ready to bolt if things went wrong. But slowly, the tension began to fade.

 

He started to wait for Steve, sitting cross-legged on the floor near the door, his tail curled neatly around his ankle. His head would tilt slightly at the sound of Steve’s boots in the hallway, ears flicking toward the door, like a cat listening for its owner’s return. By the time Steve entered, Bucky was already watching, his expression expectant but still unreadable.

 

“You waiting for me, Buck?” Steve would ask, smiling as he set down the tray. “Hope I didn’t keep you waiting too long.” Bucky never answered verbally—he never spoke at all—but sometimes his tail flicked in response, just once, like a small acknowledgment. It was enough.

 

Steve decided one afternoon that it was time for the next step: utensils.

 

He set the tray down, this time with a fork and knife next to the usual raw meat. “Alright, Buck. Let’s see how this goes.” Bucky stared at the fork with open suspicion, his eyes narrowing. He sniffed the air, leaning closer. Then, with a sudden burst of decisiveness, he grabbed the fork—wrong end first—and gnawed on it, his teeth scraping audibly against the metal.

 

Steve winced. “Nope. Not for eating. Let’s try something different.” He gently took the fork from Bucky’s hand and demonstrated, stabbing a piece of meat and bringing it to his mouth. “See? It’s like an extension of your hand. Makes eating easier. Fancy, even.” Bucky blinked at him, unimpressed. He reached for the meat with his bare hand and stuffed it into his mouth instead, chewing deliberately while maintaining eye contact.

 

“Okay,” Steve muttered, leaning back with a laugh. “That’s one way to make your point.”

 

The next challenge came a few days later when Steve showed up with a hairbrush.

 

“Alright, Buck. You’ve got some serious knots going on in that hair of yours. Thought we’d give this a shot.” He held up the brush, giving it a little shake. Bucky’s ears twitched, his eyes narrowing. He watched the brush like it was some kind of enemy combatant, his tail flicking in irritation. When Steve tried to bring it closer, Bucky bared his teeth and snapped at it, catching the edge of the brush in his teeth and holding it there like a defiant cat refusing to let go of a toy.

 

Steve burst out laughing, tugging lightly. “Come on, you’re not supposed to eat it. Give it back.” Bucky growled—a low, playful rumble—and tugged harder. They went back and forth for a few seconds before Steve finally let go. Bucky leaned back, victorious, chewing the edge of the brush like it had insulted him.

 

“Fine,” Steve said, crossing his arms. “Keep it. See if I care. But next time, I’m bringing the detangler spray.”

 

The introduction of new clothes was equally chaotic. Steve brought in a simple set of sweatpants and a T-shirt, nothing fancy, just something clean and comfortable. “Alright, Buck. Time to upgrade from jungle-chic to something a little more civilized.”

 

Bucky tilted his head, eyeing the clothes with a kind of bemused curiosity. He reached out, running his claws along the fabric. Then, without warning, he dug his fingers in and ripped the shirt down the middle with one clean motion.

 

Steve blinked. “Really? That was brand new.” Bucky tossed the torn fabric aside, his expression calm and entirely unapologetic. His tail flicked once—slow, deliberate, confident.

 

“You did that on purpose,” Steve accused, crossing his arms. Bucky gave him a slow blink—the feline equivalent of What are you gonna do about it? —and began shredding the sweatpants next.

 

Steve groaned. “Great. You’re turning into a fashion critic now.”

 

Despite the setbacks, every day brought something new. Steve reintroduced old games—dominoes, checkers, even marbles—and Bucky slowly began to engage more and more. He played with quiet concentration, his head tilting slightly as he worked through each move, his tail curling and uncurling behind him in thought. Some days, Steve caught flashes of the old Bucky—the playful smirk in the way he cheated at checkers, the intense focus in his eyes during a game of cards.

 

And every small victory felt monumental. He knew they still had a long way to go. Bucky still didn’t speak, still didn’t let anyone else near him without bristling, still curled up on the floor instead of using the bed. But he was there . He was present . And more importantly, he was learning to trust again—slowly, carefully, but surely. Steve sat back one evening, watching as Bucky rearranged the cards on the floor in neat little piles, his tail swaying contentedly.

 

“You’ve come a long way, Buck,” Steve said softly, his voice warm. “We’ve still got a lot to figure out, but… I’m proud of you.”

Chapter 10

Notes:

Heyyyy !

New chapter guys ❤️

The cell was quiet, the kind of stillness that could be comforting or suffocating, depending on how you looked at it. Steve sat cross-legged on the floor, just a few feet from Bucky, who was crouched in his usual spot. His tail rested lightly along his leg, swaying lazily every now and then. This was how it always started—Steve sitting with him, talking softly, waiting for Bucky to decide how close was close enough . Over the past few weeks, they’d built a routine together. It wasn’t perfect, but it was progress.

 

Now, Steve knew it was time to take the next step.

 

He had to touch Bucky. Really touch him—not by accident or in the midst of a card game—but with calm intent. He needed to know if physical contact could happen without triggering panic or violence. They couldn’t remove the cuffs until he was sure it would be safe—for both of them. It had taken weeks to get here. Weeks of Bucky learning to tolerate Steve being close. He still avoided physical contact, his instincts flaring the second a hand moved too fast or too close. Steve had learned the hard way when he’d accidentally dropped a book near Bucky’s feet one afternoon. The sudden noise had startled him, and without thinking, Bucky had lashed out with his claws, leaving three shallow cuts across Steve’s forearm. Bucky had frozen afterward, staring at the blood with wide, terrified eyes.

 

“It’s okay,” Steve had said immediately, raising his hands in surrender. “It’s okay, Buck. You didn’t mean it. I scared you.” And Bucky, still shaking, had curled back into his corner, burying his face in his arms like a scolded child. Now, Steve knew better. He moved slowly, carefully, his voice soft and steady.

 

“Hey, Buck,” he began, watching Bucky’s face closely. “I’ve been thinking… how about we get rid of these cuffs?” He tapped his own wrist lightly. “You’ve been wearing them long enough. You don’t need them anymore. This is your home, not a cell. You’re not a prisoner. You’re not a test subject.” Bucky blinked, tilting his head slightly. He didn’t understand—not fully. His eyes flicked to the cuffs on his wrists, the chains that had been a part of his existence for longer than he could remember.

 

“It’s your choice,” Steve continued. “If you want them off, we’ll take them off.” He leaned forward a little, resting his arms on his knees. “First step is me touching your hand. Just your hand. No pain. No tests. Just… me.”

 

Bucky’s reaction was immediate. His body tensed, and his tail flicked sharply. His eyes darted to Steve’s hand, his breathing quickening as his claws flexed instinctively. Touch had always meant pain—electric shocks, strikes, the cold grip of scientists who saw him as nothing more than an experiment. Steve could see it all in his eyes, the ghosts of what had been done to him. His heart clenched painfully at the thought.

 

“Easy,” Steve murmured, keeping his hand in the air but not moving closer. “It’s okay. Look at me, Buck. Just me. No one’s gonna hurt you. I promise.” Bucky stared at him, his chest rising and falling rapidly, caught in a war between instinct and trust.

 

Slowly, Steve extended his hand, palm up, leaving it open between them. “You can say no. But if you let me, I’ll hold your hand, just for a second. That’s all.”

 

For a long moment, nothing happened. Then, with an almost childlike hesitance, Bucky reached out. His hand trembled slightly as it hovered above Steve’s. His claws retracted halfway, his fingertips brushing against Steve’s palm. Steve stayed perfectly still, letting Bucky explore the sensation at his own pace. His skin was cool, rough from scars, his touch feather-light and uncertain.

 

“You’re doing great,” Steve whispered, his voice barely more than a breath. “See? No pain. Just me.”

 

Bucky’s eyes flicked up to meet Steve’s, and for a brief moment, there was fear—but also curiosity. Slowly, Steve curled his fingers around Bucky’s hand, holding it gently. His thumb brushed softly across the back of Bucky’s knuckles in a soothing motion.

Bucky flinched at first, his muscles tightening as if expecting something terrible. But the pain never came. Just warmth. Steve didn’t let go. He held Bucky’s hand with the same care he would hold something fragile, something precious.

 

“It’s okay,” he murmured again. “I’ve got you.” Bucky’s breathing slowed, his eyes wide with cautious wonder. His tail twitched once, then relaxed, curling loosely around his leg. He stared at their hands, his fingers twitching as if testing the reality of the moment. When he finally looked back up at Steve, his expression had softened, his defensive walls cracking just enough to let something else through—something raw and vulnerable.

 

Steve smiled, his voice steady and warm. “See? Not so bad, huh?”

 

Bucky blinked slowly, his version of a nod. He didn’t pull his hand away. Instead, he left it there, letting Steve hold it. And as Steve sat there, gently cradling Bucky’s hand, he knew they’d just taken another step forward—one small touch at a time. Steve took his time preparing Bucky for what was coming. The cuffs had to come off eventually—he couldn’t stay shackled forever—but it had to be done carefully .

 

“Alright, Buck,” Steve said the next afternoon, sitting cross-legged in front of him. Bucky mirrored the posture, his tail curled loosely around his ankle, his eyes fixed on Steve with quiet intensity.

 

“In a couple of days, someone else is going to come in here to help take these off.” He tapped lightly on one of the cuffs around Bucky’s wrist. “Tony’s going to use one of his gadgets to cut through them. No pain, I promise. It’ll just take a minute, and I’ll be right here with you the whole time.” Bucky didn’t react at first, just stared at him, his ears flicking slightly at the mention of someone else entering the room. His body tensed, his tail twitching in short, restless movements.

 

Steve smiled softly. “Hey, it’s okay. You trust me, right? I won’t let anything bad happen.” He reached out and gently rested his hand over Bucky’s, his thumb brushing against the cuff. “Just think—no more chains. You’ll be free. You’ll like that.”

 

Bucky’s eyes dropped to the cuffs again, his fingers flexing thoughtfully. It was clear he understood something , but there was still hesitation—a deep-rooted wariness that couldn’t be erased overnight.

 

Over the next two days, Steve kept explaining, repeating the plan, preparing him. “Tony’s loud,” he’d say with a small chuckle, “but harmless. He just talks a lot. You’ll see.”

 

 

When the door slid open that morning, Steve was already seated beside Bucky, who sat stiffly on the edge of the cot. His posture was tense, his muscles coiled tight, every instinct in him ready to spring. Tony stepped into the room, wearing one of his gauntlets, the glowing arc reactor humming softly at his wrist. He paused in the doorway, giving Bucky a once-over.

 

“Well, this is cozy,” Tony muttered, raising an eyebrow. “He looks thrilled to see me.”

 

Steve shot him a look. “Be nice. He’s nervous.”

 

“Nervous?” Tony deadpanned. “He’s one bad day away from turning me into confetti.”

 

Steve ignored him and turned back to Bucky. His voice softened. “Okay, Buck. Just like we talked about. Tony’s going to cut these off, but it’s going to be loud. I’ll hold your arms to keep them steady, alright? You just sit here with me. You’re safe.” Bucky’s eyes flicked to Tony, his breathing picking up slightly. His tail curled tighter around his leg, his claws flexing against the bedframe. But he didn’t move. He didn’t bolt.

 

Steve shifted closer, wrapping his hands gently around Bucky’s wrists. He could feel the tension under his fingers, the way every muscle in Bucky’s body was locked like a spring about to snap. “You’ve got this,” Steve whispered. “I’m right here.”

 

Tony moved in carefully, his gauntlet lighting up with a soft hum. “Alright, kitty-cat, hold still. This won’t take long.” Bucky’s eyes tracked every movement, his pupils dilating slightly at the sound of the laser heating up. His breathing grew faster, but he stayed perfectly still, his trust in Steve just barely holding him together.

 

Steve tightened his grip, his voice calm and steady. “Almost done, Buck. Just a little longer.” The laser made a sharp snap as it sliced through the first cuff. Tony moved to the second, working quickly, his brow furrowing in concentration.

 

“Last one,” Tony muttered, carefully severing the final link. The cuff clattered to the floor with a metallic thud, the sound echoing in the small room. “There. Free as a bird.”

 

For a moment, everything was still. Then, in a blur of motion, Bucky shot up from the bed—not to attack, but to hide . He bolted directly behind Steve, crouching low and pressing his face against Steve’s shoulder. His arms wrapped loosely around Steve’s waist, his claws lightly gripping the back of Steve’s shirt. His tail curled tightly around Steve’s leg, holding him like an anchor.

 

Tony blinked, stepping back in surprise. “Huh. Didn’t see that coming.”

 

Steve froze for a second, then turned his head slightly, looking down at the top of Bucky’s head. He felt the slight tremble in Bucky’s body, the shallow rise and fall of his breath.

 

“You’re okay,” Steve said softly, resting a hand on Bucky’s back. Bucky peeked up at Tony, his eyes narrowed in suspicion. His tail tightened its grip on Steve’s leg, making it clear he wasn’t planning on moving anytime soon.

 

“Wow,” Tony said, crossing his arms. “I’ve been downgraded to terrifying stranger . Fantastic.” He gestured to Steve. “Looks like you’ve officially been adopted.”

 

Steve chuckled, gently patting Bucky’s back. “Don’t take it personally. He just needs some time.” Bucky pressed closer, his tail swishing once before curling tighter again.

 

Tony sighed, tapping his gauntlet to power it down. “Well, if anyone needs me, I’ll be not terrifying somewhere else. Good luck with your little shadow.” The door closed behind him, leaving the room in silence.

 

Steve turned slightly, his hand still resting on Bucky’s back. “See? Told you it’d be okay.” Bucky glanced up at him again, his eyes still wary, but calmer now. His grip on Steve’s shirt loosened slightly, but his tail remained firmly in place. “You’ll get used to him,” Steve said with a smile. “Eventually.”

Chapter 11

Notes:

Hey! How’s it going?

New chapter today about our little Bucky’s progress! (I really love this one ❤️)

Thanks for your comments ❤️ Enjoy the read!

The air felt different. Bucky stood in the center of the room, his body still tense, but his hands hovered in front of him, turning slowly as he inspected them like they belonged to someone else. His wrists, now free of the cuffs, felt strange . Light. Too light, almost as if they were hollow. He flexed his fingers, the scars catching the soft light, his eyes tracing the pale indentations where the cuffs had dug into his skin for years. Steve watched in silence, his heart clenching at the sight. He could see the red, raw outlines where metal had once bitten into flesh, evidence of countless struggles against restraints that had never given way. How many times had Bucky fought to free himself before giving up entirely?

 

Taking a slow step forward, Steve reached out carefully, gently wrapping his hand around Bucky’s right wrist. Bucky flinched at the contact, his breath hitching, but he didn’t pull away. His eyes darted up to meet Steve’s, wary but curious.

 

“Easy,” Steve whispered, his fingers brushing against the raised marks. His thumb moved in slow, comforting circles over the scarred skin, as if trying to erase what had been done. “It’s over now. No more chains. No one’s ever going to do that to you again.” Bucky didn’t blink. His gaze dropped back to his wrist, watching Steve’s thumb move over the old wounds. His breath slowed, his shoulders lowering fractionally, though the tension still lingered.

 

“I’m sorry,” Steve said softly, his voice thick with regret. His eyes darkened as they flicked back to Bucky’s face. “For everything. For not being there when I should’ve been. For what they did to you. I should’ve—” He stopped, his throat tightening. “I should’ve protected you better.”

 

Bucky’s brow furrowed, his head tilting slightly, confused by the apology. He didn’t understand. It wasn’t Steve’s fault. None of it was. After a moment of hesitation, Bucky did the only thing that felt right. He leaned forward and gently pressed his forehead against Steve’s, the touch brief but deliberate. Steve froze at the unexpected contact, his breath catching in his chest.

 

It was simple—clumsy, even—but it spoke volumes. You didn’t fail me. You’re here now. That’s enough.

 

Steve swallowed hard, his eyes burning. His heart swelled with a sudden wave of emotion, his hand tightening ever so slightly around Bucky’s wrist. He could feel it, that tiny flicker of connection, of understanding, bridging the gap that had seemed so insurmountable for so long. Then Bucky pulled back slightly, his lips parting, his eyes locked onto Steve’s with an intensity that made Steve hold his breath.

 

He was trying to speak. At first, it was just a soft rasp—a sound more like a breath than a word. His throat worked visibly, the muscles straining with the effort. His lips moved slowly, deliberately, as though trying to remember how to form the shapes.

 

Steve leaned in, his hand still cradling Bucky’s wrist, his voice barely a whisper. “It’s okay, Buck. Take your time.”

 

Bucky’s mouth opened again, his breath trembling as he forced the sound from his throat. The word caught at first, his voice rough from years of disuse, but it was unmistakable.

 

“…Ssss…Steve…”

 

Steve’s eyes widened, his breath hitching. His heart stopped for a second, the room closing in around him. The word hung in the air, raw and broken, but filled with so much meaning it nearly brought Steve to his knees. He stared at Bucky, the shock quickly giving way to a tidal wave of emotion—relief, hope, something so deep it left him speechless.

 

“You did it,” Steve whispered, his voice cracking. “You said my name .”

 

Bucky blinked, his eyes glassy, his breath shaky. He opened his mouth again, but no sound came this time. His throat convulsed in frustration, his expression tightening into something close to panic.

 

“Hey,” Steve said gently, his free hand moving to rest on Bucky’s shoulder. “It’s okay. Don’t push it. You’ll get there.”

 

Bucky’s chest heaved as he tried to calm himself, his hand tightening slightly around Steve’s, fingers curling around the larger hand like an anchor. His tail twitched once, then wrapped loosely around Steve’s leg again, grounding himself in the only comfort he knew.

 

“You’re amazing, you know that?” Steve smiled through the sting in his eyes. “One step at a time, Buck. We’ve got nothing but time.” Bucky nodded—slow, hesitant—but the gesture felt monumental. And Steve swore he’d do everything in his power to help him speak again.

 

 

The weeks that followed Bucky’s newfound freedom were filled with quiet progress. Small victories that built on each other until, slowly, the weight of fear that hung around him began to lift. Steve noticed the change almost immediately. Bucky seemed lighter—less tense, less like a predator waiting for an ambush. He still didn’t express emotions openly, but Steve had become fluent in Bucky-speak : the flick of his tail, the twitch of his ears, the subtle shifts in his posture that said more than words ever could.

 

Bucky hadn’t spoken again since the day he tried to say Steve’s name, but he found other ways to communicate. Steve worked tirelessly to teach him how to respond with nods for yes and no , or to point when he wanted something. It felt like teaching a child how to navigate the world for the first time—slow, careful steps toward something bigger. Bruce and Steve theorized that Hydra’s conditioning, combined with the genetic modification, had buried Bucky’s humanity deep in his subconscious. Years of being treated like an animal had pushed those instincts to the surface, turning every learned behavior into something primal and reactive. It was going to take time to unlearn all of that, but they were making progress.

 

 

Three Months Later

 

Bucky was a different person—or at least closer to the man Steve remembered. He moved around his room freely, no longer confined by fear or mistrust. He waited for Steve every morning, sitting calmly on the edge of his bed, his tail flicking lazily as he listened for the familiar sound of footsteps approaching. He let Steve touch him without hesitation now—gentle pats on the shoulder, the occasional ruffle of his hair—and had even started to lean into the contact, subtle but unmistakable. Steve decided it was time to take the next step. Bucky needed to meet the others.

 

It was slow at first—one person at a time, short visits to ease Bucky into the idea that other people could be safe too. Natasha was first. She moved carefully, her eyes calm and steady as she spoke softly, giving Bucky plenty of space. He tolerated her presence well, though he kept his distance. No contact, no sudden closeness—but he didn’t growl or hide. Bruce followed, but only after swapping his lab coat for a sweater. Bucky’s eyes still narrowed at the sight of him, but as long as Bruce stayed at arm’s length, everything remained peaceful.

 

Sam and Tony, however, were different stories.

 

“See?” Steve said as Tony entered the room. “It’s just Tony. You’ve met him before.”

 

Tony gave a small wave, his usual cocky grin tempered to something more cautious. “Hey there, tiger.” Bucky’s reaction was immediate. His eyes narrowed, his tail coiled tightly around his leg, and before Steve could react, Bucky darted behind him, pressing his forehead into Steve’s back. His claws gripped the hem of Steve’s shirt, and his tail wrapped around Steve’s leg like a lifeline.

 

“Seriously?” Tony muttered, throwing up his hands. “I’m the scary one? He’s got claws , and I’m the bad guy?”

 

Steve laughed, gently patting Bucky’s arm. “He’ll warm up to you. Eventually.”

 

Tony raised an eyebrow. “Uh-huh. Call me when he stops hiding behind your cape.”

 

 

The next challenge came in the form of something deceptively simple: a bath.

 

Steve had tried to ease Bucky into it, showing him the tub and turning on the faucet to demonstrate how the water flowed. But Bucky wouldn’t come anywhere near it.

 

“See?” Steve said, crouching by the tub. “It’s just water. Nothing scary. It’ll help you feel clean—trust me, you’ll like it.” Bucky remained rooted at the edge of the bathroom, his ears flat against his head, eyes wide and suspicious. His claws flexed slightly against the floor, and his tail twitched nervously.

 

“Alright,” Steve said with a soft sigh. “Watch this.” He turned the faucet on, letting a steady stream of water pour into the tub.

 

Bucky hissed.

 

Actually hissed .

 

Then, to Steve’s utter shock, Bucky spat at him—an unmistakable, sharp spray of defiance, accompanied by a low, guttural growl.

 

Steve blinked, holding up his hands. “Whoa, whoa, easy! It’s just water!”

 

Bucky backed into the farthest corner of the room, his body pressed against the wall like it could somehow shield him from the horror of the faucet. His breathing was fast, his pupils blown wide with panic. Steve’s heart sank. What did Hydra do to him?

 

He shut the water off immediately, the sound disappearing into silence. “Okay, no bath. Not today. We’ll try again later.” Bucky watched him warily, his chest still rising and falling rapidly.

 

Steve knelt slowly, extending his hand. “Come on, Buck. It’s gone. No water, see?”

 

It took a few moments, but eventually, Bucky crept forward. He didn’t stop until he was at Steve’s side, pressing his head lightly against Steve’s shoulder like an apology.

 

Steve smiled softly, running his hand through Bucky’s hair. “It’s alright buck.” Bucky gave a soft huff, his tail flicking behind him in what could almost be called agreement.

Chapter 12

Notes:

Hey!

New chapter with a tough challenge for Bucky! 😂 Or maybe for the cats too ❤️🤣

The next stage of Bucky’s rehabilitation was proving to be one of the most challenging. While Steve had managed to bring some semblance of peace into Bucky’s life, certain obstacles remained insurmountable— water being the most persistent and difficult of all. After the bathtub incident, Steve knew he had to change his approach. Bruce suggested they start with something small, something less intimidating: a large basin filled with water in the corner of the room. It wouldn’t be overwhelming, and it would give Bucky time to get used to the sight and sound of it without pressure.

 

At first, it seemed like a solid plan. Steve set the basin down, filling it with a few inches of water and waiting for Bucky to approach on his own terms. Except Bucky didn’t .

 

For days, he kept his distance, his eyes narrowing at the basin like it was an enemy lying in wait. His tail twitched with agitation every time he glanced at it, and he refused to come within ten feet of it.

 

“Not a fan, huh?” Steve muttered one afternoon, sitting cross-legged on the floor beside the basin. He dipped his hand into the water, letting it ripple gently. “Come on, Buck. It’s not going to bite you. Look, see?” Bucky, crouched on the far side of the room, hissed softly, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. His tail flicked sharply, and he crossed his arms like a stubborn child refusing to eat his vegetables.

 

“Alright,” Steve said with a sigh. “How about we try this together?” He stood and walked over to Bucky, crouching beside him. “I’ll hold your hand. We’ll go slow. You trust me, right?” Bucky didn’t answer—he rarely did—but he didn’t pull away when Steve reached for his hand. His claws were retracted, his fingers trembling slightly as Steve wrapped his hand around them.

 

“Just a few steps,” Steve said, his voice calm and steady. “I’ll be right here.”

 

They moved toward the basin slowly, Bucky dragging his feet the entire way. His eyes stayed locked on the water, every muscle in his body screaming for him to retreat.

When they finally reached it, Steve knelt beside the basin and plunged his hand into the water with a deliberate splash. “See? Not so bad.” He looked up at Bucky, smiling softly. “Your turn.”

 

Bucky leaned forward cautiously, his free hand hovering just above the surface of the water. His nose twitched slightly as he sniffed it, his head tilting in curiosity. Finally, with an audible huff, he dipped the tips of his fingers into the water. The reaction was immediate. His eyes widened, and he jerked his hand back with a low growl. His tail lashed behind him, and he shot Steve a look that could only be described as betrayed .

 

“Yeah, I know,” Steve said, suppressing a chuckle. “Weird, right? But it’s just water. You’ll get used to it.” It took another hour— and a lot of coaxing—but Bucky finally allowed both hands to submerge up to his forearms. His expression remained suspicious, his lips curled slightly as he flicked water from his fingers like it was a personal insult. Steve watched him with patient amusement, resisting the urge to laugh every time Bucky shook his hands violently, trying to rid himself of the unfamiliar sensation. “You’re doing great,” Steve said encouragingly. “Next time, we’ll work on getting your hair wet. One step at a time.”

 

Bucky shot him a flat look, his tail flicking sharply. Steve grinned. “Yeah, I know. You’d rather chew on chess pieces.” Despite the setbacks, there was progress. Small, cautious progress—but progress nonetheless.

 

“We’ll get there,” Steve promised, squeezing Bucky’s hand gently. “Just don’t spit on me again, okay?” Bucky blinked slowly in response, his ears twitching. His tail flicked once, slow and deliberate. No promises.

 

Steve laughed, patting his shoulder. “Fair enough.”

 

One thing was certain—introducing Bucky to water was going to be an adventure . But Steve had never backed down from a challenge, and this one was no different. And, judging by the mischievous glint in Bucky’s eyes, neither had he.

 

It took weeks of careful planning and slow, incremental progress before Bucky would sit in the basin with water. First, it was empty, just a dry space to sit in, which he tolerated. Then Steve added a little water—just enough to wet his feet. Bucky had stared at it like it might swallow him whole, his eyes narrowing with deep suspicion, but he didn’t bolt. Eventually, Steve managed to get him to sit down with enough water to cover his legs and lap. As long as it didn’t rise above his torso, Bucky could manage, though his expression made it clear that this wasn’t exactly his idea of a fun time. That night, Steve decided to push a little further. He walked into the room holding a pile of towels, a bottle of shampoo, soap, and a washcloth.

 

“Alright, Buck,” Steve said, setting everything down next to the basin. “We’re doing this. Full bath. No running, no spitting. Just you, me, and a whole lot of soap.”

 

Bucky eyed the supplies, his tail twitching sharply. He crossed his arms, sinking deeper into the basin with a low, almost pitiful groan. Steve sighed, crouching beside him. “Come on. You’re already wet. Might as well finish the job, right?”

 

It took thirty minutes of negotiations—some of which involved Steve miming washing his own face and hair to prove it wasn’t a death sentence—before Bucky reluctantly agreed to stay in the basin.

 

“You’re really making me work for this,” Steve muttered, rolling up his sleeves. “Alright, if you’re not gonna do it yourself, I’ll help.” Bucky shot him a flat, unimpressed look, his ears flicking backward in annoyance. He didn’t move as Steve picked up the washcloth and lathered it with soap.

 

“Let’s start easy,” Steve said, wiping down Bucky’s arms, making sure to move gently. The water sloshed softly around them as Steve cleaned Bucky’s hands, carefully scrubbing his fingers and under his claws. Bucky watched with mild curiosity, occasionally sniffing at the soap, wrinkling his nose at the scent.

 

“There we go,” Steve said, smiling. “See? Not so bad.”

 

Bucky grunted, which Steve took as a reluctant maybe . Steve moved on to Bucky’s face, carefully cleaning around his jaw and under his chin. His fingers worked gently through the scruffy beard, trimming and shaping it as best he could with the scissors he’d brought along.

 

“You’ll thank me later,” Steve muttered, focused on his task. “You were starting to look like a wild man—well, wilder.” Bucky huffed softly, his eyes half-lidded as Steve worked.

 

Then came the hardest part—the hair. Steve took the shampoo bottle and squeezed a generous amount into his palm, rubbing his hands together. “Okay, Buck, this is the tricky part. Head back, eyes closed. I promise I’ll be careful.” Bucky hesitated but obeyed, tilting his head back as far as he could. His eyes squeezed shut, his face twisted in a grimace, his whole body tensing as Steve’s fingers gently massaged the shampoo into his hair.

 

“You’re doing great,” Steve said, keeping his voice calm and steady. “Almost there.”

 

But Bucky’s hair was a disaster—a tangled mess of knots that hadn’t seen a proper comb in who knew how long. Steve worked through it carefully, untangling each section bit by bit, mindful of Bucky’s sensitive scalp.

 

“Sorry,” Steve murmured every time Bucky flinched. “I’m being as gentle as I can.”

 

The real challenge came when Steve reached the base of Bucky’s ears. He paused for a second, his fingers brushing against the soft fur at the tips. They move. That’s so weird.

 

“Hope you don’t mind,” Steve said with a chuckle. “Just curious.” Bucky’s ears twitched at the touch, flattening slightly before flicking back up. He cracked one eye open, giving Steve a look that said Don’t get any ideas.

 

“Alright, alright,” Steve said, raising his hands in surrender. “I’ll stick to the hair.”

 

It took a long time—far longer than Steve had planned—but by the end, Bucky’s hair was finally clean, the knots carefully combed out. His dark locks fell neatly around his face, wet but smooth, framing his sharp features.

 

“There,” Steve said, sitting back on his heels. “Good as new.”

 

Bucky opened his eyes slowly, blinking up at Steve. His tail flicked lazily in the water, his posture visibly more relaxed than it had been at the start.

 

“You survived,” Steve teased, handing Bucky a towel. “Told you it wasn’t so bad.”

 

Bucky took the towel, sniffing it cautiously before rubbing it over his head, his ears poking through the damp strands of hair. His eyes flicked to Steve, unreadable for a moment, before a quiet huff escaped his chest.

 

“Yeah, yeah,” Steve said, smiling. “I love you too, buddy.”

Chapter 13

Notes:

Hey hey!

Today’s chapter is full of fluff between Steve and Bucky! (They’re so cute together ❤️)

Once the bath ordeal was over, the next challenge was getting Bucky into fresh clothes—without him turning them into confetti. Steve held up a pair of sweatpants and a shirt, the fabric soft and clearly designed with comfort in mind. The back of the pants had a small slit for Bucky’s tail, carefully sewn in by Bruce’s suggestion.

 

“Alright, Buck,” Steve said, handing him the clothes. “Let’s try this. No ripping this time, okay? These are meant for wearing, not shredding.” Bucky narrowed his eyes at the shirt, holding it like it might spontaneously attack him. His fingers flexed, claws just barely extending. For a second, Steve thought he might have to intervene, but then Bucky huffed softly, tugging the shirt over his head without protest.

 

“Good,” Steve encouraged, smiling as Bucky adjusted the fabric. “See? Not so bad.”

The pants were a little more complicated, mostly because Bucky had no idea how to manage his tail. After a few failed attempts, Steve crouched beside him and gently guided his tail through the slit in the back.

 

“There,” Steve said, patting his shoulder. “Tail-friendly pants. Pretty nice, huh?” Bucky blinked at him, flexing his toes on the floor, visibly confused by the sensation of wearing socks . His claws tapped lightly against the fabric as he tested the texture, his expression somewhere between curious and mildly offended.

 

Steve chuckled. “Yeah, I know. Socks are weird at first. You’ll get used to them.”

 

Once fully dressed, Bucky looked… almost like himself again. It caught Steve off guard for a moment—the way the clean clothes and freshly washed hair brought back flashes of the old Bucky, the one he remembered from a lifetime ago. His heart clenched a little, but he quickly shook off the thought.

 

“Come on, sit down,” Steve said, motioning to the edge of the bed. “Let’s finish this.”

Bucky sat obediently on the bed, his tail curling around his side as Steve moved behind him with a brush and a bottle of detangler. His hair, though clean, was still a tangled mess. This part was going to take a while.

 

“Okay, Buck,” Steve said, holding up the brush. “This might tug a little, but I’ll be gentle. Promise.” Bucky shifted nervously, his ears twitching at the sight of the brush. He didn’t bolt, but his muscles tensed. Steve began carefully working through the tangles, taking his time to avoid hurting him.

 

It quickly became a game of hold Bucky still . His scalp was sensitive, and every time the brush tugged even slightly, he would wiggle or lean away with a low grumble.

 

“Buck,” Steve said, holding him steady, “you’ve got to work with me here. I’m not trying to torture you. I’m just trying to get the knots out.” Bucky twisted around, glaring at the brush like it was a mortal enemy. His tail flicked sharply in protest.

 

“Yeah, I know,” Steve sighed, “it’s the worst thing in the world. I get it.” As Steve continued brushing, Bucky relaxed in small increments—until Steve accidentally brushed too close to one of his ears. Bucky flinched violently, letting out a sharp “Ow!” —the single word clumsy and barely audible, but there.

 

Steve froze, his eyes wide. “Wait… did you just say ow ?” Bucky blinked, his ears lowering slightly.

 

“Hey,” Steve said softly, setting the brush down and placing a hand on Bucky’s shoulder. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.” Bucky didn’t pull away. He just gave a quiet huff, his tail flicking once in acknowledgment. Steve smiled. “You’re getting really good at this talking thing, you know?”

 

He went back to work, carefully brushing the rest of Bucky’s hair without incident. When he reached the final section, he grabbed a small bottle of leave-in conditioner and poured some into his hands.

 

“Alright, last step,” Steve said, rubbing his hands together. “This’ll help keep your hair soft. Smells good, too.”He started massaging the conditioner into Bucky’s scalp, his fingers working in slow, gentle circles. Bucky froze at first, clearly unsure what to make of the sensation. Then, something shifted. His shoulders relaxed, his head tilting slightly into Steve’s touch. A soft, barely audible rumble rose from his chest—a low, soothing vibration that sent Steve’s brain into a full stop.

 

“Wait… are you… are you purring ?” Steve leaned closer, his eyes wide in disbelief. The sound grew louder, a steady, rhythmic hum that vibrated through Bucky’s entire body.

 

Steve let out a breathless laugh, unable to help himself. “Oh my God, you’re actually purring.”

 

Bucky’s eyes remained closed, his expression calm and content for the first time in years . Steve’s heart melted on the spot. He kept massaging Bucky’s scalp, his fingers moving gently through his hair. “You really like this, huh?” The purring grew louder, Bucky leaning back slightly into Steve’s hands.

 

Steve shook his head, grinning ear to ear. “You’re full of surprises, Buck.”

 

**————**

 

The decision to bring Bucky upstairs to live with the rest of the team wasn’t one that was made lightly. Steve had spent days convincing the others that Bucky was ready—or at least ready enough to take this next step. Bruce was the first to offer his support. “It makes sense,” he said, tapping his pen against a clipboard. “He’s come a long way in a short time. Learning how to interact with the world again in a real environment will help him recover faster. We just have to keep an eye on him—ease him into it.”

 

Natasha nodded thoughtfully. “I trust your instincts on this, Steve. He listens to you.”

 

Sam wasn’t entirely convinced. “We’re talking about the same Bucky who hissed at me last week, right?” He raised an eyebrow. “I mean, I’m not saying no , but… let’s keep it supervised, at least for a while. Maybe let him share your room until he gets used to being out of that space.” After much debate and planning, the decision was made. Bucky would live upstairs with the team—starting that very night.

 

 

Steve stood in the doorway of Bucky’s room, gesturing toward the open corridor. “Come on, Buck. You’re moving in with the rest of us. You’re not stuck down here anymore.” Bucky didn’t move. He sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the open door like it was some kind of trap. His ears flicked back, his tail curling around his leg protectively. The space beyond the door was too big , too open, too full of unknowns.

 

He’d grown comfortable in the small, enclosed room. It was familiar, manageable. Out there… it was something else entirely.

 

“I know it’s a little scary,” Steve said, kneeling in front of him. “But you’ll be with me the whole time. Nothing’s going to hurt you. I’ll show you around, and if you don’t like it, we can come back down. Deal?” Bucky glanced at the door again, his jaw tightening. He still didn’t move.

 

“Okay,” Steve said softly. “No pressure. I’ll be right outside when you’re ready.” He stood, giving Bucky a reassuring pat on the shoulder before stepping into the hallway.

 

He waited just outside, leaning casually against the wall, counting the seconds in his head. He knew Bucky too well by now. Bucky wouldn’t let him go far. A minute passed. Then two. Steve smiled when he saw Bucky’s head slowly peek around the edge of the doorway, his eyes scanning the hallway cautiously. His posture was low, his movements slow and deliberate—his every instinct telling him to retreat at the slightest sign of danger.

 

“Hey,” Steve said gently, holding out his hand. “Come on. It’s just me.”

 

Bucky’s eyes locked onto Steve, his body still tense. He hesitated for another moment, then quickly closed the distance between them, pressing himself against Steve’s side like something might jump out at him if he didn’t.

 

Steve chuckled softly. “You’re alright,” he said, wrapping an arm around Bucky’s shoulder. “Nothing’s gonna get you.” Bucky gripped Steve’s arm tightly, his claws barely brushing the fabric of Steve’s shirt. His tail wrapped around his own leg, swaying nervously behind him.

 

“Tell you what,” Steve said, gently pulling Bucky’s hand into his own. “You stick with me, and we’ll take this one step at a time. Sound good?” Bucky blinked, then gave the faintest nod, his grip on Steve’s hand tightening slightly. Steve smiled and started walking, guiding Bucky gently down the hall.

 

 

The first few steps were hesitant—Bucky’s head on a constant swivel, his ears twitching at every little noise. The hum of the air vents, the distant sound of footsteps above, even the soft creak of the floor beneath their feet—it all seemed to put him on edge. But Steve kept talking, pointing out every detail as they walked. “This is the main hallway,” he said. “Leads to the living room, kitchen, and, most importantly, the coffee machine. You’re gonna want to remember that one.”

 

Bucky’s brow furrowed, clearly unsure why a coffee machine mattered, but he kept walking.They passed the gym, the training rooms, and the medical bay—Steve giving Bucky plenty of space to observe without rushing him. Every so often, Bucky would glance up at him, his expression a mix of curiosity and wariness.

 

“You’re doing great,” Steve said. “See? Not so scary.”

 

Bucky huffed quietly, his tail flicking once. Steve led him toward the living area, stopping at the large windows that overlooked the compound’s grounds. The late afternoon sunlight bathed the room in a warm glow, the trees beyond swaying gently in the breeze. Bucky froze for a moment, his eyes widening at the sight of the open sky.

 

Steve gave him a moment to take it in. “Pretty cool, huh?”

 

Bucky tilted his head, his eyes never leaving the window. His fingers twitched slightly, as if unsure how to process what he was seeing.

 

“We’ll come back here later,” Steve said, guiding him gently toward the hallway that led to their rooms. “For now, let’s get you settled upstairs.”

Chapter 14

Notes:

Hey guys!

More and more fluff between Steve and Bucky ❤️

Steve pushed the door open to his room and gestured for Bucky to follow. The space was modest, cozy, with just enough personal touches to make it feel like home. By the far wall, a mattress had been set up on the floor for Bucky, piled with blankets and pillows. It wasn’t much, but Steve knew Bucky still wasn’t ready for a bed—too unfamiliar.

 

“There you go,” Steve said, pointing to the mattress. “This is your spot for now. We’ll sleep in here together. If anything feels weird, you let me know, alright?” Bucky didn’t respond. His eyes were already scanning the room, his tail curling behind him as he moved.

 

He explored without hesitation, his fingers brushing along the shelves, his nose wrinkling slightly as he sniffed one of Steve’s jackets draped over a chair. Steve crossed his arms and leaned against the wall, watching with a faint smile. Let him get it out of his system, he thought. Bucky opened the closet door next, his eyes widening slightly at the rows of neatly folded clothes and the shield propped up in the corner. His head tilted in curiosity, his ears flicking as he took it all in.

 

Steve chuckled quietly. “You’re like a cat in a new house, you know that?” Bucky shot him a brief glance before turning back to his investigation, thoroughly ignoring the comment.

 

“Alright, you explore,” Steve said, grabbing a pair of shorts from a drawer. “I’m getting ready for bed. Don’t break anything.” He changed quickly in the bathroom, pulling on a soft T-shirt and a pair of sleep shorts. When he returned, the room was quieter than expected. Too quiet. His eyes scanned the space, his chest tightening when he realized Bucky was gone. The sound of the balcony door sliding open hit him like a punch to the gut.

 

“Bucky?” Steve called, striding across the room. His heart raced at the thought of Bucky standing on the edge, ready to leap. He flung the door open, expecting the worst. He was standing near the railing, his head tilted back, his eyes fixed on the sky.

 

Steve slowed his steps, his breath catching as he watched. Bucky stood perfectly still, bathed in the soft glow of sunset, his hair gently tousled by the breeze. His tail swayed lazily behind him, he looked… peaceful.

 

Steve joined him, keeping his voice soft. “Hey. You alright?” Bucky didn’t answer at first. His gaze remained on the Sky, his eyes wide with wonder. The cool air seemed to calm him, easing the weight that always hung around his shoulders. The corners of Bucky’s mouth lifted—just slightly—but enough for Steve to notice.

 

A smile . Small, tentative, but undeniably real. Steve felt his chest tighten, warmth spreading through him like sunlight after a long, dark storm. He hadn’t seen Bucky smile in years—not since before .

 

“You like it, huh?” Steve said quietly, leaning against the railing beside him. “It’s nice up here. Peaceful.” Bucky nodded slowly, his eyes still fixed on the stars. His fingers gripped the metal rail lightly, and Steve noticed the way his breathing had evened out, his body finally at ease.

 

“It’s the first time you’ve been outside in a long time,” Steve added. “You deserve this. Fresh air, a clear sky… freedom.” Bucky’s eyes flicked to him briefly, something soft and unspoken passing between them. He didn’t have the words to say it—not yet—but the way his shoulders relaxed said enough. Steve stayed by his side, the silence between them comfortable.

 

“Take your time,” Steve whispered, resting a hand gently on Bucky’s shoulder. “We’ve got all the time in the world.” Bucky’s tail wrapped loosely around his leg, swaying gently in rhythm with the breeze. His eyes returned to the sky, his expression calm, peaceful—maybe even hopeful .

 

Steve let Bucky linger on the balcony for a little while longer, watching him soak in the fresh air like it was something sacred. He leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, content to let Bucky enjoy this new taste of freedom. But it was getting late, and Steve wasn’t about to let him sleep out there.

 

“Alright, Buck,” Steve called softly, walking over. “Time to head back in. We’ll come out again tomorrow, I promise.” Bucky turned slowly, his expression shifting into something that could only be described as pure feline stubbornness . His tail flicked once, his ears flattening slightly as he made no move to budge.

 

Steve sighed, amused despite himself. “Oh, we’re doing this, huh?” He reached out and gently grabbed Bucky’s arm, giving him a light tug. “Come on, don’t make me drag you inside.” Bucky groaned—a deep, low sound that bordered on a growl—and dug his heels in like a child refusing to leave a playground. Steve chuckled and pulled a little harder, guiding him back into the room.

 

“There. Not so bad, right?” Steve said as he closed the balcony door behind them. He gestured toward the mattress on the floor. “Your very fancy bed. Give it a shot.”

 

Bucky didn’t bother hiding his irritation. He plopped down on the mattress with exaggerated force, crossing his arms. His tail thumped against the floor, a clear expression of his displeasure. Then, without missing a beat, he grabbed a pillow from the mattress and launched it directly at Steve’s head. The pillow hit Steve square in the face, and for a second, the room went quiet.

 

Steve lowered the pillow slowly, raising an eyebrow. “Really?” Bucky blinked at him innocently. His tail swayed behind him, and Steve could swear there was a hint of mischief in his eyes.

 

Steve laughed, tossing the pillow back onto the bed. “Okay, fine. I’ll let that one slide. But if you behave, we’ll go back out on the balcony tomorrow. Deal?” Bucky huffed softly, turning onto his side in what Steve could only assume was his version of agreement .

 

Shaking his head with a smile, Steve climbed into his own bed, grabbing a book from the nightstand. He clicked on the bedside lamp, the warm glow filling the room as he settled in to read. The room fell into a peaceful quiet, the only sounds being the soft rustle of pages and the occasional sigh from Bucky. It happened so gradually that Steve didn’t even notice at first.

 

One moment, he was deep into his book; the next, there was a slight dip in the mattress beside him. He glanced down, expecting to see a misplaced pillow or blanket, but instead found Bucky .

 

Somehow, without making a sound, Bucky had crawled onto Steve’s bed. Steve blinked, caught between confusion and amusement as Bucky slipped beneath the covers with surprising stealth. His head peeked out for a moment, eyes darting around like he was making sure no one would catch him in the act. Then, without a word, Bucky wriggled closer, tucking himself against Steve’s side. His head rested near Steve’s arm, and with a soft sigh, he pulled the blanket over his face until only his eyes were visible.

 

“Uh… Buck?” Steve said, lowering his book. “You know you’ve got your own bed, right?” Bucky didn’t move. His eyes remained half-lidded, his body curled up snugly under the covers like a cat that had just claimed the warmest spot in the house. His tail flicked once, curling around his leg before settling. Steve shook his head, smiling. “Fine. But no snoring.” Bucky blinked slowly, his eyes closing as he let out a deep, contented breath.

 

Steve set his book aside, pulling the blanket up around both of them. He rested his arm lightly over Bucky’s shoulder, his fingers brushing gently against his hair.

 

“Goodnight, Buck,” he whispered, the warmth of the moment settling over him like a soft blanket of its own. Bucky’s response was a low, almost imperceptible purr , his body relaxing fully against Steve’s.

 

Steve closed his eyes, his heart lighter than it had been in a long time.

Chapter 15

Notes:

Hey!

Another fluffy little chapter today, and Bucky finally meets all the Avengers together ❤️ haha

The morning light filtered softly through the curtains, filling the room with a warm, golden glow. Steve blinked awake slowly, his mind still wrapped in the fog of sleep. For the first time in what felt like forever, he wasn’t tired. Not even a little. In fact, he felt more rested than he could ever remember. A soft warmth pressed against his side, and it didn’t take long for him to realize why.

 

Bucky was still curled up against him, deeply asleep, his face tucked into the crook of Steve’s arm. His hair was a tousled mess, falling in loose strands across his forehead, his chest rising and falling in a slow, steady rhythm. One arm rested lightly across Steve’s waist, his fingers loosely gripping the fabric of Steve’s shirt as if afraid to let go even in sleep. Steve lay perfectly still, watching him with a mix of awe and something far warmer, far more confusing, blooming quietly in his chest. When was the last time either of them slept this well?

 

Bucky hadn’t stirred once during the night. No tossing, no restless pacing, none of the nightmares Steve had come to expect. Just… peace. Steve’s lips curved into a soft smile. He could get used to this. He was content to let Bucky sleep a little longer, but then—right on cue—Bucky began to stir.

 

It started with a faint twitch of his ears, followed by a low hum deep in his chest. His body shifted slightly, stretching out in a long, languid motion. His back arched, his tail curling before flicking back down. His legs stretched straight, toes flexing, and his arms extended above his head with a soft, sleepy groan. Steve watched, utterly transfixed, as Bucky finished his stretch and opened his mouth in a wide yawn—a full cat yawn , complete with bared canines and a low rumble in his throat.

 

Finally, Bucky blinked his eyes open, his gaze still hazy with sleep. His eyes met Steve’s, and for a second, they just stared at each other. Steve bit back a laugh, his expression somewhere between amused and bewildered. “Morning, Buck.”

 

Bucky blinked again, tilting his head slightly, clearly still waking up. His lips moved clumsily, his voice hoarse and unsteady as he tried to repeat the greeting Steve always gave him.

 

“Mmm… m-morrr…nin’,” Bucky managed, the word dragging awkwardly over his tongue. His voice was rough, barely more than a whisper, but it was there—another step forward. Steve’s eyes widened in surprise before breaking into a grin. “Hey! That’s pretty good! Look at you, talking before breakfast. Impressive.”

 

Bucky’s expression remained blank for a moment, but then his ears flicked forward slightly, a faint spark of pride glinting in his eyes.

 

“You hungry?” Steve asked, sitting up slowly. “How about some breakfast?” Before Bucky could respond, a loud, unmistakable gurgle echoed from his stomach.

 

Steve laughed, running a hand through his hair. “I’ll take that as a yes.” Bucky blinked down at his stomach, mildly startled by the noise, before looking back at Steve with a rare hint of embarrassment.

 

“Come on,” Steve said, standing and offering his hand. “Let’s go get something to eat before your stomach decides to take matters into its own hands.”

 

Bucky hesitated for a second before slipping his hand into Steve’s, his grip warm and steady. His tail swayed gently behind him as he stood, still blinking away the last remnants of sleep. Steve couldn’t help but smile as he led him toward the door.

 

The walk to the communal lounge felt uneventful enough—Steve leading the way, Bucky trailing just half a step behind, his eyes constantly darting around to take in the unfamiliar surroundings. His fingers brushed lightly against the wall as they moved, grounding himself in something tangible, something steady.

 

Steve glanced over his shoulder every now and then, offering a reassuring smile. “Almost there, Buck. Just the lounge. Some breakfast, some coffee… nice and easy.”

 

But as soon as they stepped into the lounge, Bucky froze in place. Every Avenger was already up. Natasha was leaning casually against the counter, sipping coffee. Sam sat at the table, scrolling through something on his tablet. Clint was halfway through a plate of scrambled eggs. Bruce was by the sink, washing his hands, and Tony—of course—was tinkering with something on the kitchen counter, coffee mug in hand.

 

The room went silent the second Steve and Bucky walked in. It wasn’t intentional. No one meant to stare, but seeing Bucky— actually seeing him, in clean clothes, out of his small, isolated space—was a shock. Even for them. For a second, Steve worried the silence would be too much. Bucky’s eyes scanned the room, his shoulders tightening. His ears flicked back slightly, his tail curling around his leg. Steve braced himself for what he assumed was coming— panic, retreat, something .

 

But Bucky didn’t bolt. Instead, he shifted closer to Steve, pressing himself against his side, his eyes darting cautiously between the others. He didn’t look scared—just overwhelmed, uncertain about what to do next.

 

“Morning, Captain,” JARVIS chirped cheerfully through the speakers. “And good morning to Mr. Barnes.” Bucky nearly jumped out of his skin. His tail bristled, his eyes wide as he looked around for the disembodied voice.

 

Steve placed a steadying hand on his shoulder. “It’s okay, Buck. Just JARVIS. He’s… well, kind of everywhere.”

 

The silence stretched for another beat before Tony decided to break it, his tone light and casual. “Well, this isn’t awkward at all. How about some coffee, Cap? Unless your shadow here prefers chocolate.”

 

Steve chuckled, giving Bucky a reassuring squeeze. “Coffee sounds great, Tony. Thanks. Sorry, Buck’s still adjusting to… well, everything.”

 

Clint leaned back in his chair, smirking. “He’s like a kid seeing the world for the first time.” That earned him a sharp glare from Bucky—eyes narrowed, tail flicking in irritation.

 

Bruce cleared his throat, raising a brow at Clint. “You do realize he can understand you, right? Bucky’s not some animal. He’s far from stupid.”

 

Clint held up his hands. “Hey, no offense. Just an observation.” Bucky didn’t take his eyes off him, his expression saying more than words ever could.

 

“Alright,” Steve said, steering the conversation back to safer ground. “Come on, Buck. Let’s sit down.” He pulled out a chair at the dining table and motioned for Bucky to join him. Bucky hesitated for a moment, glancing at the chair like it might bite him. But when Steve sat down first, Bucky followed, lowering himself into the seat with a stiffness that betrayed just how uncomfortable he was. His tail curled tightly around the leg of the chair, his posture tense, every muscle in his body coiled like a spring.

 

Tony returned with two cups of coffee and set a plate of food in front of them—a little bit of everything: eggs, fruit, toast, pancakes. Bucky eyed the plate with open suspicion, sniffing the air tentatively. His eyes flicked between the various items, his nose wrinkling slightly at the eggs before zeroing in on the stack of pancakes.

 

Steve watched, amused, as Bucky leaned forward, his claws retracting slightly as he tentatively poked one of the pancakes. He lifted it, sniffed it again, then—deciding it was safe—took a cautious bite. The moment the warm, fluffy pancake hit his tongue, his eyes widened. He chewed slowly, savoring the taste, then immediately went in for another bite—bigger this time.

 

Steve chuckled. “Looks like someone’s a fan of pancakes.” Bucky didn’t look up, too focused on his new favorite food. His tail swayed behind him, a clear sign of approval.

 

Tony watched with a raised brow. “Wow. You got lucky, Cap. If pancakes are the way to his heart, you’re golden.”

 

Bruce nodded thoughtfully. “It’s a good sign. If he’s eating without hesitation, it means he’s feeling more secure.”

 

Steve smiled, leaning back in his chair. “Yeah. We’re getting there.”

 

He glanced at Bucky, who was now fully engaged in demolishing the stack of pancakes. His posture had relaxed slightly, the tension in his shoulders easing bit by bit.

Chapter 16

Notes:

New chapter today!

Things are finally moving forward! And there are still a few surprises 😂😂 Hang on tight — things might get a little rough for our little Bucky.

The weeks that followed Bucky’s integration into the team were a whirlwind of ups and downs, small victories, and a few setbacks. But with every passing day, the progress was undeniable. Steve never stopped encouraging Bucky to speak, even when it was painfully slow at first—single syllables, mumbled sounds, or words cut short. At times, Bucky would get frustrated, his ears flattening as he huffed in irritation, but Steve’s patience never wavered.

It took months, but Bucky gradually began to speak more. His sentences were short, his voice soft and halting, but the progress was unmistakable.

 

“food,” Bucky would say, pointing to the fridge with an intense look of concentration.

 

“Do you want fruit or something else?” Steve would ask, and Bucky would tilt his head thoughtfully before replying with the simple but decisive, “Fruit.” It was slow, deliberate, and childlike in its simplicity, but every word mattered. It wasn’t just speaking—it was rebuilding . His voice, his autonomy, his identity . He didn’t talk much with the others, but occasionally, a softly spoken “Hi” to Natasha or “No” to Tony would catch them by surprise, and they’d always respond with an encouraging smile or a pat on the back. With Steve, though, Bucky was more comfortable, even managing to string together short phrases.

 

“Steve… no remember,” Bucky confessed one night, the words heavy with frustration as he gripped the edge of his blanket. “Not there… inside.” He tapped his temple with two fingers, trying to express how empty his mind felt.

 

Steve sat beside him, his heart aching at the raw vulnerability in those words. “It’s okay, Buck. If the memories come back, great. If they don’t, it doesn’t change who you are now. We’ve got this. Together.” Bucky stared at him for a long moment, then nodded slowly, his fingers curling into Steve’s sleeve as if anchoring himself to that promise.

 

 

Bucky gradually found his rhythm living with the others. He developed strong bonds, but in his own unique way. He spent hours playing chess with Natasha, sitting cross-legged on the floor with intense focus. Natasha had a surprising amount of patience when it came to Bucky—something Steve hadn’t expected—but the two of them seemed to share a quiet understanding.

 

“You’re getting better,” Natasha commented one day, moving her rook across the board.

 

Bucky narrowed his eyes at the board, calculating his next move. “Better… beat you,” he said with a mischievous glint in his eyes, making his move and smirking.

 

Natasha chuckled. “You wish.” When they weren’t playing chess, she encouraged him to train with her in the gym. That’s when everyone realized something shocking— Bucky could fight . His movements were precise, calculated, and fluid, far beyond what anyone had anticipated. Natasha quickly caught on that Hydra hadn’t just experimented on him—they had trained him in hand-to-hand combat. The way he moved, the way he blocked and countered, it wasn’t instinct. It was programming .

The realization made Steve’s stomach turn, but at the same time, it was another piece of the puzzle—another part of who Bucky had been forced to become.

 

 

Steve had tried— really tried —to get Bucky to sleep in his own room after a while. They had set up a comfortable space, complete with a mattress on the floor and plenty of blankets. But the very first night, sometime around 2 a.m., Steve woke up to find Bucky standing at the foot of his bed, looking half-asleep and completely unbothered.

 

“Sleep here,” Bucky said simply, climbing into Steve’s bed without waiting for a response. Steve sighed but didn’t argue. There was no point. After that, Steve gave up trying to get him to sleep anywhere else.

 

 

Bucky’s mischievous streak didn’t take long to surface. Once he grew more comfortable with the team, Sam became his favorite target. It started innocently enough—hiding Sam’s sneakers or flicking his tail at Sam’s face as he walked by. But soon, it escalated. One afternoon, Sam found himself the victim of Bucky’s feline reflexes when Bucky jumped from the back of the couch and landed squarely on Sam’s shoulders.

 

“What the—?!” Sam nearly dropped his coffee, stumbling back as Bucky clung to him with a self-satisfied grin.

 

“Really?” Sam said, glaring up at Steve, who had just entered the room. “You’re just gonna let him terrorize me like this?”

 

Steve folded his arms, raising an eyebrow. “What did you do this time?”

 

“ I didn’t do anything! ” Sam protested.

 

Bucky, still perched on Sam’s shoulders, blinked innocently, his tail curling around Sam’s arm. “Sam… started,” he said slowly, his voice soft but mischievous.

 

Steve chuckled, shaking his head. “Sure he did, Buck. Sure he did.”

 

Bucky eventually hopped down and padded over to Steve, his tail swaying behind him. Sam muttered something under his breath, but Steve just ruffled Bucky’s hair. “You’re trouble, you know that?”

 

Bucky grinned faintly. “Not me. Sam.” With each passing week, Bucky became more a part of the team. He wasn’t just the lost soldier or the experiment anymore. He was Bucky—complicated, mischievous, stubborn, but undeniably there .

 

 

 

**Two Years Later**

 

 

The compound was a flurry of activity, the steady hum of preparation filling the halls. Steve was already suited up, adjusting the straps of his combat gear as he paced in front of the hangar doors. He checked his watch and let out a sigh. Late. Again.

 

“Bucky!” Steve called out toward the hall. “Let’s move! Natasha’s gonna kill us if we’re late— again ! And I’m not taking the blame this time!” There was a brief pause before Steve heard footsteps—calm, confident, and utterly unapologetic. When Bucky appeared at the end of the hallway, Steve couldn’t help but smile despite himself.

He looked every bit the soldier he once was, yet unmistakably different .

 

Tony had designed his combat suit to blend functionality with Bucky’s unique traits. A sleek black material, but tailored with a modern, tactical twist. The suit had reinforced padding, a high collar, and enough flexibility to accommodate his movements—especially his tail, which now swayed behind him, partially wrapped in a protective sheath.

 

“Sorry, sorry,” Bucky said as he adjusted his gloves, his voice smooth. “Took me a second to get this thing on.” He tugged at the sheath covering his tail, scowling briefly. “Almost lost a fight with it. Again.”

 

Steve chuckled, crossing his arms. “You and that tail, huh? One of these days, you’ll figure out how to dress without getting it stuck.”

 

“Doubt it,” Bucky muttered, giving the sheath one last tug before flicking his tail free with a satisfied huff. He looked up at Steve, his blue eyes sharp and clear, no longer clouded with confusion or fear. His long hair was pulled back into a low ponytail, leaving his face clean and focused. There was a slight smirk playing on his lips—one that hadn’t been there for years but had slowly made its way back.

 

The man who stood before Steve was not the same broken soul he had found in that Hydra facility. Bucky had reclaimed so much of himself over the past two years. He could speak freely now, his words no longer halting or hesitant, his tone carrying the dry wit that Steve remembered from their time in the 107th. Much of his memory had returned, though not all of it. The most significant breakthrough had come one quiet evening when Steve had stumbled across Bucky’s old army medals, tucked away in a forgotten box in storage.

 

Steve had handed the medals to Bucky without a word, watching the flicker of recognition spark in his eyes. Bucky had held them in his hands, his thumb tracing the worn edges. And then it hit him— a flood of memories , each one crashing into the next.

The pain, the pride, the faces of comrades long gone. The weight of it all had brought Bucky to his knees.

 

That night had been filled with tears, laughter, and long, honest conversations. For the first time, Bucky had been able to remember . He wasn’t just the experiment Hydra had molded him into—he was Bucky Barnes. Sergeant of the 107th. Steve’s best friend. Since then, things had only improved. His recovery wasn’t perfect—there were still gaps, and some days were harder than others—but Bucky was undeniably himself again. Mostly.

 

Some habits lingered from his altered DNA. His ears would twitch when he was irritated, and his tail often gave away his emotions no matter how hard he tried to hide them. Steve found it endlessly amusing, especially when Bucky’s tail betrayed his excitement or annoyance.

 

“You ready for this?” Steve asked, adjusting his shield on his back.

 

Bucky rolled his shoulders, his smirk widening. “Born ready. Though I gotta admit, the thought of Nat yelling at us for being late again is scarier than whatever mission we’re about to jump into.”

 

“She will yell,” Steve agreed with a grin. “And you know Clint’ll have something smart to say about it.”

 

“Which I’ll ignore,” Bucky said, brushing a speck of dust off his arm. His eyes flicked toward the jet waiting at the far end of the hangar. “Let’s not keep them waiting, then.”

Steve watched as Bucky strode ahead, his movements fluid and confident. His tail flicked once, almost playfully, before he glanced over his shoulder with a raised brow.

 

“You coming, or are you just gonna stand there admiring me all day?”

 

Steve shook his head, laughing. They jogged toward the jet together, the familiar rhythm of their partnership settling into place effortlessly.

Chapter 17

Notes:

Heyyy, new chapter! Things between Steve and Bucky keep evolving ❤️❤️

Also, I’m loving this Sam and Bucky duo vibe 😅🤣

Natasha stood at the bottom of the Quinjet’s ramp, arms crossed, her sharp gaze locking onto Steve and Bucky as they jogged toward her. The jet engines hummed softly in the background, a subtle reminder that they were officially five minutes late.

 

“You’re late,” she said, her voice calm but laced with enough authority to make even the most hardened soldier think twice.

 

Steve slowed his steps, grimacing slightly under her stare. “Technically, we’re only five minutes late—”

 

“ Five minutes is still late, Steve.”

 

Bucky, standing just behind him, didn’t even flinch. His arms crossed, his tail swaying lazily behind him. “Relax, Nat. We’re here now.” He flashed her a charming smirk, clearly thinking he could talk his way out of this one.

 

Big mistake. Before Bucky could say another word, Natasha reached out and grabbed his ear , tugging him into the jet with the same no-nonsense energy she used when dealing with stubborn recruits.

 

“Ow—ow! Nat! ” Bucky protested, stumbling forward. “Come on! I’ve only got two of those!” Steve tried— really tried—not to laugh. But the sight of Bucky being dragged into the jet by his ear was too much. He covered his mouth with his hand, a snort slipping out before he could stop it. Natasha threw him a sharp look, her hand still firmly on Bucky’s ear. “You think this is funny, Steve? If you’re not inside in ten seconds, you’re next.”

 

Steve raised his hands in surrender, quickly stepping onto the jet. “Noted.” As the ramp closed behind them, Steve couldn’t help but reflect on how much had changed in two years. The fact that Bucky could be tugged by the ear without lashing out or shutting down was a miracle in itself. Not long ago, the mere act of being touched—especially unexpectedly—would have triggered a fight-or-flight response.

 

Bucky was still selective about physical contact, but now, with people he trusted, he could handle it. Even Natasha’s ear-grabbing punishment had become something he could take in stride— well, almost . Bucky sat down, rubbing his ear dramatically while glaring at Natasha. “You’re lucky I like you,” he muttered.

 

“Lucky you’re still alive,” Natasha shot back, raising an eyebrow.

 

Across the jet, Sam watched the whole thing unfold with a grin. “Man, that was beautiful. Absolutely beautiful. Ear punishment—it’s so old-school. I might have to try that next time you act up, buck.”

 

Bucky narrowed his eyes. “You’re welcome to try, Sam. But you won’t have fingers left to tell the story.”

 

Sam leaned back in his seat, clearly unfazed. “Big talk for someone who just got dragged into the jet like a toddler.”

 

That was it. In a blink, Bucky launched himself across the jet, his tail swishing wildly as he tackled Sam, the two of them tumbling onto the floor.

 

“ I’ll show you toddler! ” Bucky growled, his teeth bared in a grin that was more mischievous than threatening. His sharp canines glinted under the jet’s lights as he pretended to snap at Sam’s arm.

 

Sam twisted, trying to escape, laughing despite himself. “ Steve! Help! He’s gone feral again! ”

 

Steve leaned back in his seat, arms crossed, watching the chaos unfold with a resigned sigh. “You brought this on yourself, Sam.”

 

Clint, sitting across the aisle, shook his head. “Two years, and they’re still like this. It’s like watching two overgrown kids.”

 

“ No biting! ” Natasha called out, her eyes narrowing. “Seriously, Bucky. We talked about that.”

 

Bucky froze mid-snap, still grinning, his face inches from Sam’s shoulder. “Not real biting. Just… you know, symbolic biting.”

 

Natasha raised a brow. “Symbolic or not, you’re both going to sit down right now before I have JARVIS lock you into your seats.”

 

Bucky sighed dramatically, standing up and offering a hand to Sam. “Fine. Truce—for now.”

 

Sam took his hand, shaking it with a mock glare. “One day, you’ll regret this.”

 

“Doubt it,” Bucky said with a smirk, flicking his tail in Sam’s direction before dropping back into his seat.

 

Steve shook his head, trying to hold back another laugh. “You two are gonna be the death of us.”

 

Bucky leaned back, folding his arms behind his head. “Keeps things interesting.”

 

It was moments like these that reminded Steve just how far they’d come. The fear and uncertainty that had once haunted Bucky were barely shadows now, replaced by confidence, humor, and a mischievous streak that could rival anyone on the team.

And as the jet rose into the sky, Steve felt that same warmth in his chest he always did when he looked at Bucky—pride, relief, and the deep, unwavering knowledge that they’d made it . Together.

 

The mission had gone smoothly, without a hitch, and the team’s return to the compound was quick and uneventful. Despite the success, Steve’s mind remained restless. Bucky was part of the team now—unofficially, at least. He hadn’t been declared alive to anyone outside the Avengers, and S.H.I.E.L.D. was, surprisingly, still unaware of his existence. Natasha had kept her lips sealed, trusting Steve’s judgment. But deep down, Steve knew that wouldn’t last forever.

 

It gnawed at him every night. What happens when they find out?

 

Steve could picture it too clearly—bureaucrats and officials descending on the compound, Bucky dragged back into custody, judged not for who he had become but for what he had once been. Worse, for what Hydra had turned him into.

The idea of Bucky being locked away again, treated like an experiment or a threat, was a nightmare Steve couldn’t bear. Not after everything they’d fought to rebuild.

 

The thought weighed heavily on him all evening, like a stone in his chest. When he finally made his way to bed, exhaustion pulled at every muscle. He let out a long sigh, sinking into the mattress and staring at the ceiling. His eyes were barely closed when— bam .

 

A sudden weight hit him square in the chest, forcing the air from his lungs.

 

Steve’s eyes snapped open, startled, only to find Bucky sprawled on top of him, his arms resting on Steve’s chest, his chin propped on his hands with the most innocent expression imaginable. His ears were tilted forward, his eyes fixed on Steve with sharp curiosity. His tail flicked lazily behind him, brushing lightly against Steve’s arm.

 

Steve blinked at him. “Bucky… what are you doing?”

 

“You’re brooding,” Bucky said matter-of-factly, his voice calm but accusing. His ears twitched slightly, his eyes narrowing. “You’ve got that look again. The ‘I’m-worried-about-everything-and-won’t-tell-anyone’ look. It’s depressing.”

Steve raised an eyebrow, fighting the urge to smile. “I’m not brooding.”

 

“Uh-huh,” Bucky said, unconvinced. His tail swayed again, this time curling around Steve’s wrist like a soft, living rope. “So why do you look like someone kicked your puppy?”

 

Steve sighed, resting a hand on his forehead. “I’m just thinking, Buck. That’s all.”

 

“Thinking too much,” Bucky countered, shifting his weight slightly but refusing to get off. His head dropped onto Steve’s chest with a soft thud, his cheek pressed against Steve’s shirt. “You know I hate that.” Steve glanced down at him, amused despite himself. Bucky had somehow perfected the art of being simultaneously intimidating and adorable . His ears flicked forward again, and his tail gave another lazy swish, brushing against Steve’s arm in what Steve could only describe as comforting .

 

“You’re really not going to move, are you?” Steve asked, his fingers idly brushing against Bucky’s tail.

 

“Nope,” Bucky said, his voice muffled against Steve’s chest. “Not until you tell me what’s bothering you—or at least stop looking so miserable.”

 

Steve hesitated for a moment, his hand resting on Bucky’s back. He couldn’t help but smile softly. “You really don’t miss a thing, do you?”

 

“Nope,” Bucky repeated, lifting his head just enough to meet Steve’s gaze. “Talk to me, Steve.” His voice softened, his eyes earnest. “You always make me talk when I’m upset. Your turn.”

 

Steve stared at him, the weight in his chest easing just a little. He couldn’t lie—not to Bucky. “I’m just worried about what’ll happen if… if S.H.I.E.L.D. or the government finds out about you. I don’t trust them, Buck. Not after everything. They’ll see your past, your… abilities, and they won’t care who you are now. They’ll lock you up just to be safe.” Bucky was quiet for a moment, his gaze steady. Then, to Steve’s surprise, he smiled—a small, lopsided grin that sent warmth rushing through Steve’s chest.

 

“You’re worrying about something that hasn’t even happened yet,” Bucky said, his voice calm. “We’ll deal with it when it comes. Together. Same way we’ve dealt with everything else.” Steve opened his mouth to respond, but Bucky cut him off, pressing a finger lightly to his lips.

 

“And if they do come for me,” Bucky added with a mischievous glint in his eye, “I’ll just bite them.”

 

Steve burst out laughing, his shoulders shaking beneath Bucky. “Oh yeah? That’s your plan? Biting the entire government?”

 

“Worked on Sam,” Bucky said, grinning. Bucky’s tail curled once more around Steve’s arm, a silent promise of comfort and companionship.

Chapter 18

Notes:

Hey! New chapter today with a bit more action 😊

Trigger warning: Contains blood and graphic descriptions of injuries ❗️

Steve sighed, a smile tugging at his lips despite himself. Bucky had always known how to lift his spirits, even if his methods were unconventional. Steve’s eyes lingered on him, quietly taking in every detail—the slight twitch of his ears when he was amused, the way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he smirked, the way his tail curled in lazy contentment around his leg. There were things only he noticed.

 

The way Bucky’s fingers drummed lightly against Steve’s chest when he was deep in thought. How his lips pressed together when he was trying to hold back a laugh. Or how he had that small habit of tilting his head just a fraction too far when he was curious—like right now.

Over the last two years, their relationship had evolved into something neither of them could quite define. Bucky had been by Steve’s side through every step of his recovery, and even after regaining his independence, Bucky still slept next to him every night.

 

They’d tried to change that once. Bucky had decided— insisted , really—that it was time for him to sleep in his own room again. He made it through part of one night before the nightmares hit hard and fast, dragging him into a panic so intense that he bolted straight back to Steve’s room, trembling and gasping for air.

 

After that, neither of them mentioned it again. Bucky stayed, and Steve never asked him to leave.

Steve wasn’t sure what to call what they had. Were they just friends? Something more? He wasn’t blind—he’d noticed the way Bucky looked at him, the way his hand lingered just a little longer when they touched.

 

And Tony— of course Tony—had plenty of opinions on the subject. “You two are basically a couple already,” Tony had once said, waving his hand in the air. “Honestly, it’s adorable. You should just admit it and put us all out of our misery.”

 

But they’d never talked about it. Not really.

 

Steve’s thoughts drifted, his gaze softening as he studied Bucky’s face. He felt something stir in his chest—warm and steady, the kind of feeling that rooted itself deep and refused to let go.

 

“You’re doing it again,” Bucky said, raising an eyebrow.

 

Steve blinked, snapping out of his thoughts. “Doing what?”

 

Bucky smirked, then—without warning— pinched Steve’s nose .

 

“ This! ” Bucky said, his eyes gleaming with mischief. “Spacing out. Not listening. I don’t like being ignored, Steve.”

 

Steve laughed, swatting his hand away. “I’m not ignoring you. I’m just… thinking.”

 

“Too much thinking again,” Bucky teased, shifting his weight slightly. Steve adjusted, sitting up just enough to support Bucky’s weight better, settling him more comfortably on his lap. His arms slipped around Bucky’s waist, pulling him close. Bucky’s hand came up slowly, his fingers brushing lightly through Steve’s hair. “Feel better?” he murmured, his voice low and warm.

 

Steve nodded, his arms tightening slightly around Bucky. “Yeah. I just needed this.”

 

They stayed like that for a moment longer, comfortable in the quiet. Steve could feel the tension in his body melting away, the warmth of Bucky’s presence chasing away every lingering shadow. When Steve finally leaned back, his eyes met Bucky’s—and that soft, steady warmth in his chest flared just a little brighter.

 

Bucky watched him for a second, his expression thoughtful, before leaning in slowly.

It wasn’t the first time they’d kissed. There had been moments before—brief, stolen kisses that neither of them talked about afterward. Moments that felt natural, like breathing. This time was no different.

 

Bucky’s lips brushed against Steve’s gently, testing, warm and familiar. Steve didn’t hesitate. He kissed back, his hand sliding up to cup Bucky’s cheek. His fingers moved instinctively to Bucky’s ears, brushing against the soft fur at their base. Bucky’s breath hitched at the touch, his ears twitching under Steve’s fingers. His tail curled around Steve’s arm, holding him in place.

 

“You always do that,” Bucky whispered against his lips, his voice barely more than a breath. “Touch my ears when you kiss me.”

 

Steve smiled, his forehead resting against Bucky’s. “You like it.”

 

“Maybe,” Bucky admitted, his eyes glinting with something playful, something vulnerable. Steve ran his fingers through Bucky’s hair, his thumb tracing the edge of his ear again, soft and careful. “I like it too,” he said quietly.

 

Bucky’s eyes softened, his hand tightening slightly on Steve’s shoulder. “Good. Then we’ll keep doing it.” They stayed close, their foreheads touching, their breaths mingling in the quiet. Steve could feel Bucky’s heart beating against his chest, steady and sure. For the first time that night, his own heart felt just as calm.

 

Steve had always hoped that the fear of water would be the worst thing Hydra had left Bucky with, but he knew better. Bucky carried more than just one fear— layers of trauma buried so deep it was impossible to completely untangle them. He’d come a long way, no doubt about it. With time, effort, and an iron will, Bucky had learned to manage most of his triggers. But they were still there, lurking beneath the surface.

 

Sudden, loud noises. The clinking of metal restraints. The sterile smell of antiseptic. Crowded spaces where every exit felt too far away. Bucky could handle them now—or at least better than before. Steve had taught him grounding techniques, how to focus on his breathing, how to find Steve in the chaos and hold on to that anchor until the panic passed.

 

But the nightmares … those were something else entirely.

 

When Bucky slept beside Steve, the nightmares usually stayed away. It had lulled Steve into a false sense of security, making him believe, foolishly, that maybe Bucky was free of them for good. But there were nights—rare but terrible—when the past still found a way to claw its way back into Bucky’s mind.

Those nights, Steve would wake to Bucky’s screams— raw , terrified, full of pain that words couldn’t touch. His body would thrash violently, his breath ragged and broken, tears streaming down his face. Steve would hold him close for hours, whispering softly, grounding him, reminding him over and over again that he was safe.

 

JARVIS would quietly ask if Steve needed him to call Bruce or alert the rest of the team, but Steve always refused. He knew how to handle this. He had to handle this.

But even those nightmares— the screaming ones —weren’t the worst.

 

The worst were the ones where Bucky woke up… different. Bruce had explained it once in clinical terms, calling it a kind of defense mechanism. The animal side of Bucky’s DNA wasn’t just physical—it was part of his mind too. It couldn’t be erased, no matter how human Bucky had become again. And sometimes, when the nightmare cut too deep, when the trauma pressed too hard, Bucky’s brain switched .

 

His human side shut down, and the animal took over.

 

The first time it happened, Bucky had destroyed an entire dresser in a blind panic, reducing it to splinters. The second time, he shattered a mirror with his bare hands and nearly strangled Steve before realizing what was happening. The third time… the third time, Bucky had clawed Steve’s arm so deeply that Bruce had insisted on stitches. Tonight was one of those nights.

Steve woke with a start, his instincts kicking in before his mind caught up. His eyes darted toward Bucky, who lay next to him—except he wasn’t lying still . His body twitched, his breaths coming fast and shallow, a low, guttural growl building in his throat. His hands clutched at the sheets, his metal arm trembling violently.

 

“Bucky?” Steve whispered, already reaching for him.

 

Bucky’s eyes snapped open—but they weren’t Bucky’s eyes. They were the eyes of the predator Hydra had created—wide, unfocused, pupils blown and wild. His breath hitched, his ears flattened back against his head, and a deep growl rumbled from his chest.

 

Steve froze for a second, his heart tightening. Not again. He thought, for just a moment, that he could control it—that the situation hadn’t spiraled too far out of reach. His voice was calm, measured, as he took a step forward. “Bucky, it’s me. You’re safe.”

 

But then he made a mistake. He reached out too soon. He didn’t wait for the signs, didn’t let Bucky settle back into himself. His hand grazed Bucky’s arm—a touch that should have been grounding—but in this state, it was a trigger.

 

Bucky snapped. The change was instant. His pupils dilated, his breath caught in a sharp growl, and his body exploded into movement. He vaulted off the bed with terrifying speed, sending the bedside lamp crashing to the floor. His claws tore into the carpet as he landed, his tail whipping violently behind him, scattering objects in his path.

 

“ Buck, stop! ” Steve shouted, his heart pounding as he tried to follow.

 

Bucky didn’t stop. His eyes darted wildly around the room, desperate to find a way out. He lunged toward the window, slamming into it with a force that rattled the glass but didn’t break it. He tried again, the pane groaning under the pressure.

 

“Bucky, you’re going to hurt yourself!” Steve moved in front of him, blocking the window, his arms raised. Bucky spun, his back to the glass, cornered now. His breath was ragged, his muscles taut, every instinct screaming at him to fight his way free. His eyes locked on Steve’s—no longer with recognition but with primal fear, the kind of fear that had been beaten into him long ago.

 

And then he attacked.

 

Steve saw it coming but barely had time to brace himself. Bucky lunged, his claws flashing in the low light. Steve twisted, trying to catch his wrist, but Bucky was too fast. His claws raked across Steve’s chest, tearing through skin with a brutal swipe.

The pain was immediate and blinding, a burning streak that stole Steve’s breath. He stumbled, his knees hitting the floor as blood seeped from the deep gashes, warm and sticky against his skin. His hand instinctively pressed against the wound, his head spinning as he tried to steady himself.

 

“ It’s okay, ” Steve managed, his voice trembling but steady. He forced a smile through the pain. “It’s nothing, Buck. Just a scratch.” Bucky froze. His chest heaved as he stared at Steve, his eyes dropping to the crimson staining his claws. The scent of blood hit him hard, and his breathing grew faster, panic crashing over him like a tidal wave.

 

“No… no, no, no, no…” Bucky whispered, his voice breaking as he backed away. His hands shook violently, his claws still dripping red. “Steve… I—what did I do?” His eyes darted frantically from Steve’s wound to his own hands.

 

Steve tried to reach out, his hand still pressed to his chest, his other extended toward Bucky. “It’s okay. It’s not as bad as it looks.”

 

Bucky stumbled back farther, hitting the wall with a soft thud. His eyes were wide, wild with panic. “ I hurt you. I hurt you!” His voice cracked, growing louder, each word more frantic than the last. His ears flattened, and his breath hitched as the full weight of what he’d done settled on him.

 

“It’s not your fault,” Steve said firmly, trying to push himself to his feet despite the searing pain in his chest. “You didn’t mean to. You weren’t in control.”

 

Bucky shook his head violently, tears welling in his eyes. “No! No, I did this!” He stared at his claws like they didn’t belong to him, his fingers trembling so badly that he clenched them into fists. “I… I promised I wouldn’t hurt you again. I swore it!” His voice broke, raw and full of anguish. “I’m dangerous, Steve. You should’ve left me there. I’m still that— that thing they made me.”

 

“Bucky, look at me ,” Steve said, his voice low but commanding. He stumbled forward, ignoring the way his knees wobbled, ignoring the warmth of blood trickling down his chest. “You are not a thing. You’re not dangerous to me. You’re my best friend, my family, and you’re here . You came back.”

 

Bucky shook his head again, pressing himself harder into the wall like he could disappear into it. “No. No, I—” His voice caught, tears slipping down his cheeks as he slid to the floor. His tail curled tightly around his leg, trembling with him. “I can’t… I can’t trust myself. I’ll hurt you again. I always hurt you.”

 

“You won’t.” Steve’s voice was softer now, but no less certain. He closed the distance between them, his hand finding Bucky’s wrist. He didn’t pull him forward—just held him there, letting his touch ground him. “You came back to me, Buck. That’s what matters. You always come back.”

 

Bucky’s breathing slowed, his eyes flickering between Steve’s face and the blood still soaking his chest. His lip trembled. “But what if I don’t next time?”

 

“You will,” Steve whispered, his fingers tightening gently around Bucky’s wrist. “Because you’re stronger than anything they did to you. You’ve beaten this before, and you’ll beat it again. And I’ll be here. Every time.” For a long, agonizing moment, Bucky didn’t move. His body was trembling, his eyes filled with something raw and broken.

Then, finally, his knees gave out beneath him, and he collapsed into Steve’s arms, his face buried in Steve’s shoulder. His breath hitched, his body wracked with silent sobs.

 

“I’m sorry,” Bucky choked out, his voice barely audible.

 

“You don’t have to be,” Steve whispered back, holding him close, his hand stroking down Bucky’s back. “I’m still here. I’m always going to be here.” Bucky’s arms tightened around him, his claws retracting fully for the first time since the nightmare started. His tail wrapped loosely around Steve’s leg, trembling but steady.

 

And they stayed like that—on the floor, blood and fear and tears between them—until Bucky’s breath slowed, and his body finally began to relax.

 

Steve whispered soft reassurances, never letting go, his own pain forgotten. All that mattered was that Bucky was here, in his arms, safe again. No matter what it took, Steve would always bring him back.

Chapter 19

Notes:

Hey guys!

New chapter today, and it’s a bit (okay, a lot) emotional! Our poor Bucky is really struggling 😢

TW: Mentions of self-harm, dark thoughts, and injury descriptions (please be careful reading if you’re sensitive to this) ❗️

Enjoy the read, and feel free to leave a comment ❤️

Steve had barely stepped out of the room when Bucky curled tighter into himself on the floor. His hands were still trembling, sticky with the blood he couldn’t wash from his mind. Every breath was shallow and uneven, the weight of guilt pressing so hard on his chest that it felt like it might crush him.

He stayed like that for a while—just breathing, or trying to. His thoughts spiraled, each one worse than the last, and no matter how many times he tried to convince himself that Steve had forgiven him, the image of Steve on his knees, blood pouring down his chest, burned itself into his mind.

 

Finally, Bucky forced himself to his feet and made his way to the bathroom. His steps felt heavy, his limbs weighed down by something far more suffocating than exhaustion.

The light flickered on, harsh and sterile, reflecting his pale face in the mirror. His eyes dropped to his hands first—still stained red, the blood half-dried beneath his nails. He turned on the tap and scrubbed them furiously, watching the water swirl pink as it rushed down the drain.

 

But no matter how much he scrubbed, it didn’t feel clean. He raised his head, staring at himself in the mirror. His breath caught in his throat, his eyes locking onto the details that were impossible to ignore.

 

His ears twitched back against his head in distress. His sharp teeth glinted faintly in the light. His eyes—those unhuman eyes—stared back at him, glowing faintly in the reflection. His tail lashed behind him, betraying his rising panic.

 

This isn’t me.

 

Bucky pressed his hands to his ears, flattening them against his head as if hiding them would make them disappear. His fingers trembled as he squeezed his eyes shut, tears slipping down his cheeks. “Go away,” he whispered, his voice broken. “I don’t want this… I don’t want to be this.”

 

When he opened his eyes again, his gaze fell on his tail. He grabbed it in both hands, gripping it tightly, his breathing hitching with frustration and desperation. Why did they give me this? It was a part of him he never asked for, something that reminded him of everything they’d taken—everything they’d turned him into.

With a sob of pure anguish, he yanked at it, trying to pull it away from his body. Of course, it didn’t budge, only sending a sharp jolt of pain through him. His chest heaved, and his eyes dropped to his fingers—the claws that had done this , that had hurt Steve.

 

Those were something he could remove. His breath steadied, his tears slowing as a grim determination settled over him. His mind went quiet, numb with a singular focus. He turned to the counter and grabbed a pair of small pliers from the cabinet beneath the sink.

 

 

When Steve returned with Bruce, everything seemed eerily calm. Too calm. Steve pushed open the bedroom door, immediately scanning the room. “Buck?” No answer. His eyes darted toward the bathroom, the door slightly ajar, light spilling into the dim bedroom. His heart skipped a beat.

 

“Bucky?” he called, his voice sharper this time.

 

He moved quickly, reaching the bathroom door and pushing it open the rest of the way. What he saw made his blood run cold. Bucky sat on the floor, his back against the bathtub, his head tilted back, eyes half-lidded and glassy. His hands rested limply on his sides, blood dripping steadily onto the tile. The tips of his fingers were raw and torn, his claws— gone .

Steve froze, his breath caught in his chest. His eyes darted to the sink, where blood smeared the porcelain in long, jagged streaks. The pliers lay beside it, red-stained and abandoned.

 

“ Oh my God, ” Steve whispered, rushing to his side and dropping to his knees. “ Bucky! ”

 

Bucky blinked slowly, his eyes struggling to focus. His lips parted, but no sound came out. “What did you do?” Steve asked, his voice trembling, panic clawing its way up his throat. He grabbed Bucky’s wrist gently but firmly, inspecting the damage. Blood seeped between his fingers, pooling on the floor beneath them.

 

“I… I had to,” Bucky whispered, his voice hoarse. “I couldn’t… I couldn’t hurt you again. Not with these.” He raised his mutilated hand weakly, the faintest tremor running through it. “So… I got rid of them.”

 

Steve’s heart broke in two. He could barely breathe past the knot tightening in his chest. “You didn’t have to do this,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “ God, Bucky, why didn’t you wait for me? ”

 

Bucky shook his head, tears welling in his eyes again. “I’m tired of being a monster, Steve. I don’t want to be this anymore. I don’t want to hurt you.” His voice cracked, a sob escaping before he could stop it. “ I’m sorry. ”

 

“You’re not a monster,” Steve said, his voice fierce despite the tears stinging his own eyes. “ You’re not. You’ve never been one. You’re the strongest person I know, and you didn’t have to do this to prove anything to me. You could never lose me, Buck. Never.”

 

Bruce crouched beside them, his face grim but calm. “We need to take care of this,” he said quietly, reaching for his medical bag. “Steve, hold his hands.”

 

Steve nodded, gripping Bucky’s wrist tightly but gently. “I’ve got you,” he whispered, his forehead pressing against Bucky’s. “We’ll fix this. Together. You’re going to be okay.” Bucky let out another sob, his body sagging against Steve’s. He clung to him with his uninjured hand, his breath hitching as Bruce worked quickly to clean and bandage his wounds.

Steve stayed with him the entire time, whispering soft reassurances, his heart aching with every tear that slipped down Bucky’s face.

 

And when it was finally over, when Bruce had done everything he could, Steve wrapped his arms around Bucky and held him close, vowing silently to never let him fall that far again.

 

“ You’re not alone, ” Steve whispered, his voice steady despite the storm raging inside him. “You’ll never be alone again.” Bucky nodded weakly, burying his face in Steve’s shoulder. His body shook with silent sobs.

 

**—————**

 

 

The sun was barely rising when Steve carefully slipped out of bed, mindful not to disturb Bucky, who lay curled in the tangle of blankets. His face was calm, his breathing soft and steady—almost peaceful, if not for the faint streaks of dried tears on his cheeks.

Steve stood there for a moment, just watching him. There was something fragile about Bucky in the early light, something so vulnerable that it made Steve’s chest tighten.

 

He gently tucked the covers around Bucky’s shoulder, brushing a strand of hair out of his face. “Sleep a little longer, Buck. You’ve earned it,” he whispered before slipping out of the room and making his way to the common area. The smell of coffee hit him first. Bruce and Sam were already at the table, deep in conversation, but both heads turned toward Steve as soon as he stepped in. Bruce gave him a reassuring nod, but it was Sam who spoke first.

 

“How’s he doing?” Sam asked, leaning back in his chair, his face etched with concern. “I heard about last night. Bruce told us.”

 

Steve sighed, running a hand down his face. Where do I even start? “He’s… better, I guess. He’s still sleeping. He was exhausted—physically, emotionally. Last night hit him hard.” He hesitated for a moment, his jaw tightening. “He blames himself. A lot. He… he tore out his claws because he thought it was the only way to stop himself from hurting me again.”

 

Sam winced, his eyes flicking toward Bruce, who had a grim expression but nodded softly. “The claws will grow back soon,” Bruce said. “They always do. But that’s not what worries me.”

 

“I know,” Steve said quietly. “I’m afraid he’ll do it again. Not because of the pain—he can take that—but because he thinks he deserves it. Like it’s some kind of punishment for not being able to control something that isn’t his fault.”

 

Bruce placed a hand on Steve’s shoulder. “You’re helping him more than you think. You always have. But don’t forget to take care of yourself too. You might heal faster than most, but those scratches are still deep. How are you feeling?”

 

Steve glanced at the faint bandages under his shirt, his chest still tender but no longer throbbing. “I’ve had worse,” he said with a faint smile. “You did a good job patching me up.”

 

Bruce smiled back, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Just don’t push yourself too hard. You’re no good to him if you’re running on empty too.”

 

“I won’t,” Steve promised. “Thanks, Bruce.” He knew they were right—he needed to stay strong for Bucky. But he also knew Bucky well enough to predict how the rest of the day would go. Bucky wouldn’t leave the room. He’d curl back into that dark place, convinced he was a danger to everyone around him, too ashamed to face anyone.

And Steve wasn’t about to let that happen. He pushed the door open quietly, stepping back into the room to find Bucky exactly where he’d left him—curled up in bed, half-buried beneath the covers, his face tucked into the pillow.

 

Steve grinned to himself. Alright, you asked for it, Buck.

 

With practiced ease, Steve launched himself onto the bed, landing beside Bucky with enough force to jostle the mattress but not hurt him. “ Rise and shine, sunshine! ” he said, his voice far too cheerful for the situation. Bucky groaned, rolling deeper into the blankets like a burrito. His voice was muffled, heavy with sleep. “Steve… what the hell are you doing?”

 

“Waking you up,” Steve said simply, leaning over him. “You can’t just hide all day. Come on, we’ve got pancakes downstairs, and I’m pretty sure Sam made extra just for you—probably to bribe you into not biting him again.”

 

Bucky peeked out from under the covers, his eyes still puffy from sleep. “Not funny.”

 

“It’s a little funny,” Steve teased, his grin widening. “Besides, I know what you’re doing. You’d totally do this to me if our roles were reversed.”

 

Bucky huffed but didn’t argue.

 

Steve leaned closer, his hand gently brushing back Bucky’s hair. “Hey. You don’t have to hide from me. Or anyone else. Last night was hard, but it’s over now. You’re still you, and that’s who we care about.” Bucky blinked at him, his expression softening just slightly. His lips parted as if to say something, but before he could, Steve closed the distance between them, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

 

It was warm, tender, and way too sweet —the kind of kiss that left Bucky blinking in surprise. Steve pulled back, his eyes crinkling with a soft smile. “See? You’re stuck with me, Buck. No amount of running or hiding is going to change that.”

 

Bucky stared at him for a second longer before a faint smile tugged at his lips. “You’re ridiculous,” he muttered, but his voice was lighter now.

 

“Yeah,” Steve said, grinning. “But you love me for it.” Bucky rolled his eyes, but his tail flicked lazily against the mattress—an unspoken yes . And just like that, the heaviness of the morning lifted.

 

“Now, come on,” Steve said, grabbing Bucky’s hand and pulling him up. “You need pancakes. They’ll make everything better.”

 

Bucky snorted, shaking his head but following Steve anyway. “If Sam burns them, I’m blaming you.”

 

Steve chuckled, his hand squeezing Bucky’s. “Deal.” And as they left the room together, the lingering shadows of the previous night seemed a little less heavy.

Chapter 20

Notes:

Hey!

New chapter today, and Nick Fury’s in the house!

The weeks following the incident passed in tense silence, marked by an unspoken agreement not to bring it up. Bucky refused to talk about what had happened, and Steve respected his choice. No one else dared to break the uneasy truce, sensing the weight it still carried for both of them.

Steve’s wounds healed quickly—too quickly for Bucky’s peace of mind. He kept watching Steve’s chest for any sign of scars, afraid there would be something permanent to remind Steve of what he’d done. But, by some miracle, there were none.

 

His own claws grew back just as fast. Bucky hated them. He’d stare at his hands for long stretches of time, flexing the sharp tips with a grimace, tempted to tear them out again. But Steve had drawn a line in the sand. No more self-mutilation.

 

“You promised,” Steve had said one night, his voice soft but firm. “No more hurting yourself. You don’t have to like them, but they’re a part of you.”

 

So Bucky kept his promise. It wasn’t easy. There were nights he woke up drenched in sweat, the weight of his instincts pressing too hard, too heavy. But he fought it. Not for himself—never for himself—but for Steve . He couldn’t stand seeing that sadness in Steve’s eyes again. Besides, the claws always grew back. What was the point? For a while, things felt steady again. Peaceful. Almost normal.

 

Until it wasn’t.

 

They had just returned from a mission, still winded and half-covered in dirt and dust, when everything spiraled out of control. The jet touched down on the compound’s platform, its engines humming to a stop, and the ramp lowered with its familiar mechanical whine. Steve stepped off first, Bucky close behind him, his shoulders relaxed in a way they rarely were.

 

The peace lasted all of five seconds .

 

The bay doors burst open, a wall of soldiers in full tactical gear swarming the hangar. Their boots thundered against the floor, rifles raised in perfect synchronization as they encircled the team. Steve’s instincts kicked in immediately, his arm snapping out to push Bucky behind him.

 

“ What the hell— ” Tony started, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the soldiers.

 

Then Nick Fury walked in, his long coat trailing behind him like the weight of authority itself. His one good eye zeroed in on Steve and Bucky with the kind of intensity that made Steve’s stomach drop.

 

“ Fury, ” Steve said, his voice sharp and steady despite the chaos around them. “What the hell is this?”

 

Fury didn’t answer right away. He gave a curt nod, signaling for the soldiers to hold their positions, before turning to Tony. “Stark, you’ve got some explaining to do.”

 

Tony crossed his arms, unimpressed. “ Me? You just hacked into my system and stormed my compound. I think you owe me an explanation. Or at least a phone call . You know, basic manners?”

 

Fury ignored the sarcasm, his expression grim. “You’ve been harboring an undocumented Hydra experiment here for two years without informing the government or the council. Did you really think we wouldn’t find out?”

 

The words hit like a hammer, the tension in the room skyrocketing. Steve’s jaw clenched, his body shifting slightly in front of Bucky, shielding him. He could feel Bucky’s breath hitch behind him, his fingers curling into Steve’s jacket, his instincts flaring at the sight of so many weapons.

 

“ He’s not an experiment, ” Steve snapped. “His name is Bucky, and he’s not going anywhere.” Fury’s gaze flicked to Bucky, assessing him with the sharpness of a man who saw the world in black and white, in threats and risks. His expression didn’t soften.

 

“You can’t honestly believe that,” Fury said. “He’s dangerous, Steve. He was created by Hydra. Enhanced, weaponized. That kind of conditioning doesn’t just disappear. You’re risking everyone in this building by letting him stay.”

 

“He’s not a risk,” Natasha said, her voice cutting through the room like steel. She stepped forward, her arms crossed, her eyes hard. “He’s family. And if you think we’re handing him over, you’ve got another thing coming.”

 

Clint nodded from the side. “She’s right. Bucky’s been with us for two years. He’s more stable than half the agents you’ve got working for you.”

 

Sam crossed his arms, his eyes narrowing. “Yeah, and last time I checked, busting into someone’s home with a private army is a pretty bad way to have a conversation.”

 

“Bucky hasn’t done anything wrong,” Bruce added quietly. “He’s been recovering. Healing. You have no right to take him away.”

 

Fury sighed deeply, crossing his arms as his eyes scanned the group, already anticipating how this conversation was going to unfold. His tone was calm, though edged with frustration. “Look, I’m not here because I want to be. I’m here because I’ve got orders. The government knows about Barnes, and it’s out of my hands now. The best-case scenario is this—he comes with me to the SHIELD headquarters, we run some tests, confirm that he’s not a threat, and I put in the paperwork to place him officially under the Avengers’ jurisdiction. If that happens, the government can’t touch him. He’ll be safe.”

 

His eye darkened, his voice dropping to a more serious tone. “The alternative? The government sends their soldiers. And believe me, they won’t be polite about it. They’ll drag him out of here, shove him into a cell at the Raft, or worse, turn him into a lab experiment all over again. You really want that to happen?” A heavy silence fell over the hangar. No one missed the weight of Fury’s words, but that didn’t mean anyone liked them.

Steve’s jaw clenched so tightly it felt like his teeth might crack. His hand instinctively tightened around Bucky’s wrist, his mind racing with every possible outcome. The idea of Bucky being taken anywhere—away from him, away from the safety they’d built—was unbearable.

 

“How long?” Steve’s voice was low, barely masking his anger. “How long do you intend to keep him? How many tests will you run before you decide he’s ‘safe’? What happens if he gets scared or… loses control for even a second? Will you declare him a threat and lock him up forever?”

 

Behind him, Bucky’s body was wound tight as a spring, his ears flat against his head, his tail flicking nervously. He didn’t say a word, but the tension in him was palpable. His eyes darted toward the soldiers surrounding them, and Steve could feel the barely restrained instinct to lash out and fight . He was doing everything he could to hold back. But Steve knew him too well. Bucky wouldn’t go down quietly if it came to that.

 

Natasha, standing beside them with her arms crossed, cut in before things could escalate. “Give us a minute,” she said to Fury, her tone leaving no room for argument. “We need to talk this through.”

 

Fury raised a brow but nodded, taking a step back. “You’ve got five minutes,” he said. “Make it count.” The Avengers huddled together in a loose circle near the edge of the hangar. Bucky stood close to Steve, his eyes never leaving the soldiers, his posture tense and ready.

 

“I don’t like this,” Sam said, his voice low but firm. “Sending him off to SHIELD just feels like handing him over on a silver platter.”

 

“I agree,” Steve said immediately. “We’ve worked too hard for this. He’s safe here. He’s finally healing. I’m not about to send him into some lab for tests—tests that could trigger everything we’ve been trying to bury for the last two years.”

 

Natasha held up a hand, her eyes calm but serious. “I don’t like it either, but Fury might not be wrong. If we say no now, the government’s not going to let this go. They’ll come back, and it won’t be Fury standing there next time—it’ll be someone with a lot less patience and a lot more power.”

 

Bruce nodded thoughtfully. “If Fury’s on our side, he might be the only one who can control how this plays out. He’s giving us a way to protect Bucky from the worst outcome. I hate it, but it might be our best shot.” Steve felt like the floor had dropped out beneath him. His instincts screamed at him to protect Bucky at all costs, to never let him go. But there was a brutal logic to what Natasha was saying. He hated it, but deep down, he knew she wasn’t wrong.

 

He looked at Bucky, his expression softening. “Buck… what do you want to do?”

 

Bucky’s eyes finally left the soldiers, locking onto Steve’s. His voice was steady, but there was a flicker of fear beneath it. “I’ll do whatever you want, Steve. If you think it’s the right thing, I’ll trust you. But… I don’t want to go back to something that feels like Hydra. I can’t. I won’t. ”

 

Steve swallowed hard, his chest tightening. He reached out, resting a hand on Bucky’s shoulder. “You’re not going back to anything like Hydra. Ever. I promise you that.”

 

Natasha spoke again, her voice quieter this time. “If we do this, we go with him. All of us. No one leaves him alone, not for a second. We stay on top of it, and if anything feels wrong, we pull him out immediately.”

 

Sam nodded reluctantly. “We make sure Fury knows the deal. Bucky doesn’t leave our sight, not for a second. And if he does… well, we all know how to make a quick getaway.”

 

Steve took a deep breath, his hand tightening briefly on Bucky’s shoulder before he turned back toward Fury. “Alright,” he said, his voice steady but filled with steel. “We’ll cooperate. But under our terms. No labs. No isolation. And we stay with him every step of the way.”

 

Fury’s expression was unreadable, but after a moment, he nodded. “Deal.”

 

Steve exhaled slowly, feeling Bucky press just a little closer against his back. He reached down, his fingers briefly brushing against Bucky’s in silent reassurance.

 

“We’ve got this,” Steve whispered again, more to himself than anyone else.

 

Bucky didn’t answer, but the faint flick of his tail against Steve’s leg said enough. He believed him. For now, that was enough.

Chapter 21

Notes:

Heyyy! Today’s chapter is packed with action, so get ready!

Just a heads up — there might be a bit of violence, nothing too crazy or shocking, but I figured I’d let you know anyway.

Feel free to let me know what you think!

Fury crossed his arms, his voice steady but leaving no room for negotiation. “We need to leave. The sooner we get this done, the sooner Barnes can go home.”

 

One of the soldiers stepped forward, holding up a pair of thick metal restraints. The sound of the cuffs clicking open echoed ominously through the hangar. “Protocol,” Fury explained, his tone flat. “We’re required to secure him—standard procedure. He’s technically considered inoffensive, but given his strength… it’s a precaution.”

 

Steve’s entire body tensed, his face darkening with fury. “No,” he said, stepping protectively in front of Bucky. “You’re not putting those on him. He’s not a criminal. He doesn’t deserve to be treated like one.”

 

“Steve, I get it,” Fury said calmly, though his eye flickered with something close to regret. “But this isn’t up for debate. This is the only way we get through this without complications.” The air was thick with tension, every Avenger poised to step in and argue, but to their surprise, it was Bucky who moved first.

 

He took a step forward and extended his wrists, his expression calm despite the storm swirling in his chest. “It’s okay,” he said softly, looking at Steve. “If this is what it takes to get through it quickly, I can handle it.”

 

“Buck—” Steve started, his voice tight with frustration.

 

Bucky shook his head gently. “It’s fine. Really. It’s not forever. Just a little while, and it’ll be done.”

 

Steve’s stomach twisted at the way Bucky’s voice stayed calm, but his eyes couldn’t hide the flicker of unease. He knew Bucky hated being restrained— despised it —but here he was, forcing himself to endure it for the sake of everyone else. The soldier snapped the cuffs around Bucky’s wrists with a cold, mechanical click , the sound hanging heavy in the air. Steve clenched his fists at his sides, barely holding back his anger, and the rest of the team looked equally furious. Natasha’s jaw tightened, Clint glared openly at the soldier, and even Bruce’s usually calm expression was dark with disapproval.

 

“Steve,” Fury said, glancing at him. “You can ride with him. The others will follow in a separate vehicle.”

 

Steve nodded stiffly, his eyes never leaving Bucky. “I’m not leaving his side.”

 

The ride was tense, cloaked in silence. The hum of the engine was the only sound, broken occasionally by the faint rustle of fabric as Bucky shifted next to Steve. His hands, bound in front of him, rested quietly on his lap, but Steve could see the tightness in his jaw, the way his shoulders remained stiff. Without a word, Steve reached over, his hand settling gently on Bucky’s knee. Bucky didn’t look at him, but the tension in his body eased just slightly.

 

When they arrived at SHIELD headquarters, Bucky was immediately led inside, his steps steady, but his eyes flicking cautiously at every exit, every armed guard standing in the hallway. Steve stayed close, his presence a silent shield. They stopped at a large interrogation room with a metal table and a one-way glass window. Fury turned to Steve, his face serious. “I need to speak to him alone. It’s protocol.”

 

Steve didn’t move at first, his eyes narrowing. “ No. ”

 

“It’s not a negotiation, Rogers,” Fury said quietly but firmly. “You can watch from the observation room with the others. This has to be done by the book, or none of this will hold up. You want him free? Let me do this my way.”

 

Steve glanced at Bucky, reluctant. “Are you okay with this?”

 

Bucky gave a faint nod, though his eyes betrayed his apprehension. “I’ll be fine,” he said softly. “It’s just Fury. I’ll see you in a bit.”

 

Steve exhaled, his hand brushing against Bucky’s arm one last time before he reluctantly left the room, joining the others on the other side of the glass. Bucky sat down at the metal table, his cuffed hands resting in front of him. Fury remained standing for a moment, studying him carefully before sitting across from him.

 

“I’m not your enemy,” Fury began, his voice calm but direct. “I don’t want to be here any more than you do. But we both know what’s at stake. You’ve been through hell—I get that. But if we’re going to keep you out of a cage, I need you to trust me enough to answer a few questions. Can you do that?”

 

Bucky tilted his head slightly, his eyes unreadable. “Depends on the questions.”

 

Fury allowed a faint smirk. “Fair enough. Let’s start easy. How long have you been living with the Avengers?”

 

“Two years,” Bucky replied without hesitation.

 

“And in that time… no incidents?”

 

“Nothing dangerous,” Bucky said, his tone steady. “A few bad nights. Some memories I’d rather not relive. But I’ve never hurt anyone. Not intentionally.” From the observation room, Steve leaned forward, his eyes locked on Bucky’s face, watching every flicker of emotion. Natasha stood beside him, arms crossed, her eyes sharp as always.

 

“This is a formality,” Natasha said quietly. “He’ll be fine.”

 

Steve nodded, though his heart remained in his throat. “He better be.”

 

Fury leaned back in his chair, his eye narrowing slightly. “One last question.”

 

Bucky raised an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

 

“If it ever came down to it—if your instincts took over again—do you believe you could control them?” The air seemed to shift, a heavy weight settling over the room. Bucky didn’t answer immediately. His eyes flicked to his hands, then back to Fury.

 

“I’ve spent every day fighting to stay in control,” Bucky said quietly. “I won’t let them win. Not again.”

 

Fury studied him for a long moment before nodding. “That’s what I needed to hear.”

 

He stood, motioning to the guard by the door. “Take the cuffs off.”

 

Steve breathed a sigh of relief as the soldier moved to unlock the restraints. He was out of the observation room and back at Bucky’s side within seconds, his hand settling firmly on Bucky’s shoulder. He could feel the tension still humming beneath Bucky’s skin, but at least now, his hands were free. It was almost over. Fury turned back toward the desk, pulling out a folder and sliding it across the table toward Steve and Tony. “This is it,” he said, his voice steady but clipped. “Sign here, and Barnes is officially under Avengers jurisdiction. No one touches him without your authorization.”

 

Steve reached for the pen, relief washing over him in a slow exhale. Bucky, beside him, flexed his fingers, rubbing absently at his wrists where the cuffs had left faint indentations. The weight was lifting. For the first time in years, it felt like Bucky was about to be free. And then the alarms screamed.

 

The entire room was suddenly bathed in flashing red light, a mechanical voice overhead droning, emergency lockdown initiated. All personnel remain in designated areas.

 

Steve tensed immediately, instincts flaring. This wasn’t right. This wasn’t part of the plan. Fury’s expression darkened as he reached for his earpiece. “What the hell is going on?” Silence.

 

Fury frowned, tapping into the console at the desk, his fingers moving fast as he attempted to override the lockdown with his personal clearance codes. The system rejected him. Access denied. He tried again. Authorization revoked. His mouth set in a grim line. “That’s not possible.”

 

Then the doors burst open.

 

A flood of heavily armed operatives stormed the room, rifles raised, their movements too precise, too coordinated. These weren’t standard SHIELD agents. Their armor was reinforced, their helmets blocking their faces, every movement synchronized like a well-oiled machine. The Avengers reacted immediately, muscles tensing, hands twitching toward weapons, but the moment Clint so much as shifted his weight, half a dozen barrels snapped toward him. Steve stepped in front of Bucky, instinct taking over. “Stand down.” His voice was sharp, commanding. “Who sent you?”

 

The answer came in the form of slow, measured footsteps, heels clicking against the floor with practiced ease. And then, from behind the wall of armed soldiers, stepped a man Steve hadn’t expected to see again.

 

Alexander Pierce.

 

The former Secretary of World Security stood with the air of a man entirely in control, his sharp gaze sweeping the room before settling with particular interest on Bucky. “I have to say, I’m a little disappointed, Director,” he mused, addressing Fury as if this were a casual meeting. “I expected you to have a little more foresight.”

 

Fury’s eye darkened. “Pierce.” The name was spoken like a curse. “You have exactly three seconds to explain what the hell you’re doing before I start shooting.”

 

Pierce barely reacted. “Come now, let’s not be so dramatic. We both know the decision was never really in your hands.”

 

Steve felt Bucky shift behind him, felt the way his breathing had gone shallow, sharp. He didn’t have to look to know Bucky’s ears were pinned flat, his tail stiff with unease. “I don’t remember asking for your opinion,” Steve said coldly. “You’re not in charge here, Pierce. Stand your men down and get the hell out of our way.”

 

Pierce smiled, a slow, calculated thing. “You see, that’s where you’re wrong, Captain.” He lifted a hand, and in unison, the soldiers cocked their rifles. The sound was deafening in the tense silence. “Barnes doesn’t belong to SHIELD. He doesn’t belong to the Avengers. He’s government property. And I’m here to ensure he’s secured accordingly.” Bucky went rigid behind Steve. The air in the room shifted.

 

Steve’s grip tightened into fists. “He’s not property,” he spat, his voice low, dangerous. “He’s a person.”

 

Pierce’s smile didn’t waver. “A person enhanced with unregulated super soldier serum. A person who has been genetically altered beyond recognition. A person who, let’s not forget, has no legal identity, no documentation. No rights. We’re well past the discussion of personhood, Captain. Barnes is an asset. And the government does not allow unstable weapons to roam free.”

 

Steve’s entire body was coiled tight enough to snap. “He’s not unstable.”

 

“Isn’t he?” Pierce mused, cocking his head. His eyes flicked toward Bucky, assessing. “Because I’ve read the reports, Rogers. The nightmares. The animalistic responses. The panic attacks. The incident where he clawed you open—should I go on?” Bucky flinched, the words slicing through him sharper than any blade.

 

Steve took a step forward, pure fury radiating off him. “If you think you’re taking him, you’re going to have to go through all of us.”

 

Pierce sighed, almost disappointed. “I figured you’d say that.” He snapped his fingers.

 

And then, all hell broke loose. The soldiers moved fast—too fast—deploying weapons specifically designed for enhanced individuals. The first blast sent a sonic pulse through the air, a high-pitched, gut-wrenching frequency that made Steve’s skull feel like it was splitting open. But for Bucky—who had enhanced hearing—it was crippling.

A choked sound tore from his throat as he stumbled back, hands clamping over his ears, his entire body shuddering violently. Then came the tranquilizers.

 

Steve saw the glint of the darts a second too late. They struck Bucky in rapid succession—one, two, three straight into his side. His breath hitched, his muscles locking up immediately as the formula coursed through his veins. His vision blurred, knees buckling. Steve barely had time to lunge forward before Bucky collapsed.

He caught him before he hit the floor, but Bucky’s weight was already dead weight, his body completely unresponsive.

 

“Bucky—” Steve’s voice broke, shaking him, but there was nothing. His chest rose and fell in shallow breaths, his pupils blown wide, his body limp in Steve’s arms.

 

Steve’s roar of fury was barely human. He surged forward, slamming his shield into the nearest soldier, sending him flying, but there were too many—far too many—and before he could even get Bucky out of his arms, they were prying him away. Steve fought like hell. He threw punches, dodged bullets, tackled soldiers like a feral thing, but they were already hauling Bucky’s unconscious form away, dragging him toward a reinforced containment pod waiting just outside the room.

 

“No!” Steve snarled, tearing himself free from one soldier’s grip, but electricity hit him in the back—a baton crackling with high-voltage current, sending his muscles into immediate spasms. He hit the ground hard. The pain in Steve’s spine was still sharp, his muscles sluggish from the electric current, but it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except getting to Bucky. His body screamed in protest, but his instincts shoved him forward, fists flying, shoving through the wave of soldiers blocking his way.

 

A crack of energy burst through the chaos, and suddenly the weight pinning him down disappeared as a soldier was thrown back. Tony stood over him, not in the Iron Man suit, but with one of his portable gauntlets sparking at his wrist. His expression was grim, his free hand already reaching down to haul Steve back up.

 

“Get your ass moving, Cap,” Tony barked. “They’re getting away.”

 

Steve didn’t need to be told twice. The second he was on his feet, he was running, shoving past another soldier, his shoulder slamming into someone’s ribs hard enough to send them sprawling. He could hear the others behind him—Clint’s sharp curses, Natasha’s swift strikes, Sam’s voice cutting through the chaos as he fought to clear a path. Bruce wasn’t hulking out, but Steve could see his fingers twitching like he was seconds away from snapping. Even Fury looked furious, locked in a standoff with Pierce, his gun half-raised but unable to fire without escalating things into an all-out war. But none of it mattered because Bucky was already being dragged away.

 

He was barely conscious, limp in the arms of one of the operatives hauling him toward the doors. His head lolled, eyelids fluttering like he was trying to stay awake, trying to find Steve through the chaos. His mouth opened, but nothing came out—his body refused to obey him, too drugged, too weak. Steve’s heart lurched.

 

“Bucky!” His voice was raw, desperate, but Bucky could barely react.

 

They dumped him unceremoniously into a containment cage , a reinforced steel box barely big enough for his body. The clang of metal against metal echoed painfully through the room as the lid was sealed. He could see them lifting the cage , carrying it toward the waiting transport truck. He slammed his way past two more soldiers, an elbow cracking against someone’s helmet, his fists raw and aching from throwing everything he had into fighting through the blockade.

He was so close —so close he could hear the scrape of the cage against the truck’s flooring as they shoved it inside. And then the doors slammed shut.

 

“NO!”

 

Steve reached for them, fingers just brushing the cold metal before the lock engaged , the sound ringing like a gunshot in his ears. Inside the truck, Bucky’s fading vision caught only a glimpse of Steve , his figure blurred, his expression devastated , like the entire world was caving in around him.

 

Then the world went dark.

 

Bucky’s body finally gave out, his consciousness slipping completely, and the last thing he heard was the muffled, broken sound of Steve’s voice calling his name.

Chapter 22

Notes:

Hey guys!

New chapter with a character I really hate (this character is seriously awful and mean) 😢 and Steve is really angry.

Steve saw red. The moment the truck carrying Bucky disappeared beyond the gates, the last of his restraint snapped. The two soldiers gripping him barely had time to react before he threw them off, sending them sprawling with a force that rattled through his bones. His chest rose and fell in rapid, ragged breaths, but it wasn’t exertion—it was rage . Pure, undiluted fury, sharp and blinding in his veins.

 

His mind screamed that he had failed. That if he had been faster, stronger, better , none of this would be happening. That Bucky wouldn’t be locked in a cage again, drugged and defenseless, at the mercy of people who saw him as nothing more than a thing . Steve turned, advancing on Pierce with murder in his eyes.

 

“Call them back,” he growled, voice low, seething, barely controlled. “You have no right to take him. He’s not a danger. He’s not some experiment for you to poke and prod. He’s not Hydra’s anymore. ” Pierce didn’t flinch. He barely looked fazed, even as Steve’s rage burned hotter, even as Natasha and Sam had to physically hold him back. Steve fought against their grip, his hands clenched into fists, his entire body shaking with the sheer force of his own helplessness.

 

“ Do you even understand what you’ve done?! ” His voice broke. “ We spent two years—two years—putting him back together! He was finally getting better! And now you’re going to tear all of that apart! ” Pierce sighed, slow and deliberate, as if Steve’s outrage was nothing more than an inconvenience.

 

“Captain,” he said, voice smooth and mockingly patient, “Barnes was never yours to put back together. And as for what we’ve done?” He gestured toward the doors where the transport had disappeared. “We’ve taken a potential threat off the streets before he can become a real one.”

 

A sharp crack echoed through the tense air. It was Tony, his gauntlet activating with a high-pitched whir, his jaw tight as he leveled his palm at Pierce’s chest. “You know,” Tony mused, voice dangerously light, “I have just enough energy left in this thing to send you flying into the next zip code. You sure you wanna keep running your mouth?”

 

Pierce barely spared him a glance. He had eyes only for Steve, who was still fighting against the arms holding him back, his breath coming sharp and uneven. Bruce stepped up beside him, and Natasha caught the way his hands trembled , the way the green pulsed beneath his skin. She touched his arm lightly, a silent question. He didn’t look at her, but his response was low and guttural. “ I’m trying. ”

 

Fury exhaled sharply, stepping forward, his posture stiff with barely restrained fury. “You just hijacked my goddamn agency, Pierce. I’d love to hear how exactly you managed that.” That was when Pierce smiled. A slow, satisfied smirk that made Steve want to break his goddamn jaw.

 

“Simple,” he said, pulling a folded document from his coat. “I have orders .” He unfolded the paper with exaggerated care, eyes gleaming as he held it up. “Signed personally by higher-ups who outrank even you, Director. See, while you were busy playing house with your little band of misfits, the government decided to step in where you failed .” His gaze flickered toward Steve, and his smirk widened.

 

“Barnes is classified as an unregulated enhanced individual with no legal identity and an extensive history of violence ,” he recited smoothly. “ By law, he falls under direct government jurisdiction until further notice. In other words…” He looked around, eyes sweeping over each of them—Tony, Sam, Natasha, Bruce, Fury, all barely holding themselves back—before he finished with a sickeningly smug lilt:

 

“ You can’t do a damn thing about it. ”

 

Silence. Heavy, suffocating silence.

 

Then—Steve lunged .

 

Steve moved before he could think. His entire body coiled, ready to lunge, to tear through anyone standing between him and Bucky. The only thing that stopped him was the full force of his team slamming into him at once. Sam had his arms locked around Steve’s torso, Natasha gripping his wrist in a vice-like hold to keep him from reaching for his shield. Clint and Bruce pressed forward, blocking his path, while Tony had an iron grip on his shoulder, fingers digging into the fabric of his suit. Every single one of them was physically holding him back , because without all of them combined, Steve would have gone for Pierce’s throat .

 

“Steve,” Sam gritted, muscles straining as he fought to keep him in place. “This is exactly what he wants.”

 

Steve barely heard him. His chest heaved, his breath coming in sharp, ragged bursts. His entire body burned with fury so violent it made his vision blur, his nails digging into his palms so hard they might have drawn blood. He could still see the smug look on Pierce’s face, hear the way he had all but mocked them. Mocked him . Mocked Bucky .

Pierce didn’t even flinch at the chaos, standing as though the whole thing was beneath him. The way he took his time adjusting his cuffs, barely sparing Steve another glance, made something deep in Steve’s chest snap .

 

“That’s enough,” Pierce said, and his soldiers immediately stiffened, shifting into a defensive line between him and the Avengers, guns raised, fingers hovering over the triggers. The slightest wrong move and they would fire .

 

Steve wanted them to fire. He wanted them to try . Pierce exhaled, long-suffering, as if they were the unreasonable ones. Then he turned back toward Fury, not even looking at Steve anymore, like he wasn’t worth acknowledging.

 

“You have no authority here, Director,” Pierce said smoothly, his voice calm, almost bored . “Barnes is now under direct government custody. Not SHIELD’s. Not yours. If you interfere, you will be held accountable for obstruction.” He tilted his head, smirking just slightly. “And we both know what that would mean, don’t we?”

 

It was a threat. A thinly veiled promise . And he wasn’t just talking about Fury. He was talking about all of them . Fury’s expression remained unreadable, but there was an unmistakable danger in the way he held himself, like he was moments away from drawing his weapon and damn the consequences. Natasha’s fingers twitched near her holster, and Bruce—Bruce had to be fighting a war within himself, because the green was creeping up his throat, his hands trembling with the effort of keeping the Hulk contained . Tony, silent for once, flexed his fingers against the gauntlet at his wrist, the repulsor humming quietly in the tense air. Pierce, unfazed, simply turned on his heel.

 

“Enjoy the rest of your day,” he said, the amusement in his voice infuriating . And just like that, he walked away. The lockdown lifted. The flashing red lights dimmed, the blaring alarms cut off with an almost deafening silence , and the electric buzz of security measures shutting down rippled through the walls.

 

But none of it mattered. Steve barely felt it. He barely heard it. He barely noticed the second his team finally let him go, like they no longer trusted him not to throw himself into a fight that couldn’t be won. Because the only thing he could hear was the sound of the transport truck disappearing , carrying Bucky further and further away. His breathing was uneven, his hands shaking at his sides, his entire body tense with the sheer weight of it all, he snapped .

 

The sharp crack of Steve’s fist against the steel still echoed in the room when, for the first time, the team heard him mutter a curse—low, guttural, furious . That alone was enough to send a wave of tension through the room. Steve never swore. Not like this. Not with that kind of raw, visceral anger. If there had ever been a sign that he was dangerously close to losing control, this was it.

 

The weight of their helplessness hung thick between them. Every single one of them had spent the past two years watching Bucky rebuild himself, fight tooth and nail to reclaim what little of himself Hydra hadn’t stolen. They had laughed with him, argued with him, fought beside him—he had become theirs . The thought of Pierce sinking his claws into him again, reducing him to nothing but an experiment , a prisoner , made their blood boil.

 

Natasha was the first to break the silence. “There has to be something we can do,” she said, turning to Fury, her voice level, but her eyes burning. “ Anything .”

 

Fury exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand down his face, his exhaustion clear. “My hands are tied.”

 

Steve’s jaw tightened. “That’s bullshit .”

 

Fury’s gaze snapped to him, sharp and unwavering. “You think I want this?” he shot back. “You think I like standing here, watching this happen? Pierce outranks me, Rogers. The only reason I even still have my job is because he put me here. I go against him, and this becomes a war between SHIELD and the government itself.” His voice lowered, steel cutting through his tone. “ And I promise you, we don’t win that war. ”

 

Steve didn’t care . All he could see was Bucky’s face—the moment his body went limp, the moment the doors slammed shut, the last flicker of awareness in his eyes as he reached for Steve and Steve didn’t get to him in time .

 

“I should have stopped them,” Steve muttered, voice raw, his hands curling into fists again. “I should have— ”

 

“Stop,” Natasha cut in, stepping closer, forcing him to meet her gaze. “You couldn’t have done anything differently. And if you’d tried? You’d be in cuffs right now, and Bucky would still be gone.” He knew she was right. It didn’t make it easier.

 

“Look,” she continued, voice firm but not unkind. “ Losing our heads doesn’t help. We need a plan. And if you let your anger make your decisions for you, we’re going to end up with a bigger problem than just Bucky’s location.” Natasha wasn’t finished. “The Avengers don’t answer to the government,” she said, her voice slow, deliberate. “ Pierce doesn’t control us. And if he thinks he can just take Bucky and walk away clean? He’s wrong.”

 

A beat of silence. Then Fury sighed, shaking his head. “ This is why I’m going to have a migraine by the end of the day.” He looked at Steve again, his expression unreadable. “I’ll see what I can do. I’ll try to find out where they’re taking him, pull whatever strings I can to keep things from escalating. But for now?” His voice dipped lower, a warning. “ Get out of here. Go back to the Compound, cool your heads. Because if you don’t, this is going to turn into something even bigger than what we’re already dealing with.”

 

The only thing that snapped him out of it was Sam and Tony physically pulling him toward the exit. The world outside felt too big , too bright , but none of it reached Steve. He let them drag him away, but his mind was still trapped in that moment—the sound of the doors locking, the panic in Bucky’s gaze, the feeling of failure curling deep in his chest.

 

It was the train all over again. And this time, Steve had no idea how to bring him home .

Chapter 23

Notes:

Today’s chapter is kinda (okay, really) intense — our poor Bucky is seriously getting wrecked 😅

TW: graphic violence

Honestly, my heart hurt writing this part 😭😭 Hope you guys like it! Feel free to drop a comment!

Bucky’s consciousness dragged itself back into his body like a wounded animal, sluggish and disoriented, his thoughts tangled in thick, inescapable fog. The world around him felt distant, muffled, as if he were underwater, yet the first thing he registered was the cold bite of metal pressing into his skin. His fingers twitched against the surface beneath him, and as his senses slowly returned, panic began to coil in his chest.

 

It was dark. Too dark. His breathing hitched, chest tightening as his mind clawed at the haze of sedation, trying to piece together what had happened. The last thing he remembered—Steve, Steve —his name flickered at the edge of Bucky’s thoughts, but everything else came in jagged, incoherent flashes. Soldiers. A fight. A needle pressed into his neck. The realization struck like a physical blow.

 

His heart slammed against his ribs as he tried to move, but the space was too small, pressing in on all sides. His shoulder rammed into the wall of his cage, metal biting into bone, and he twisted, trying to stretch his legs only to find that he couldn’t. His knees were tucked awkwardly beneath him, his back curved uncomfortably against the narrow walls. Too small, too tight. His breath came faster, sharper, the air suddenly feeling too thin.

 

Bucky gritted his teeth, forcing himself to focus. He pressed his palm against the cage’s interior, pushing hard, but it didn’t budge. He tried again, muscles trembling, the remnants of the tranquilizer still dragging at his limbs, dulling his strength. His claws scraped against the steel, useless. His pulse pounded louder, blood roaring in his ears as the walls of the cage seemed to shrink around him. It’s Hydra. It’s happening again. The cage, the drugs, the transport. You’re not getting out. The truck hit a bump in the road, jarring him violently against the bars, and suddenly, his control snapped .

 

He lashed out, ignoring the sluggish weight in his limbs, slamming his fists, his elbows, his entire body against the metal. His breathing came fast and uneven, muscles straining as he shoved — pushed — anything to make it give. But it didn’t. Of course, it didn’t. His claws curled against the bars, body shaking with effort. Steve. Where’s Steve?

 

The truck slowed. Bucky stilled, chest heaving. Heavy boots striking pavement in practiced synchronization. Muffled voices carried through the vehicle walls, sharp commands. The entire cage shifted as unseen hands lifted it, and Bucky’s stomach lurched with the sudden weightlessness. His body slammed against the bars as they carried him, jostling him without care, without thought, as if he were nothing more than cargo. His breathing came ragged. They weren’t even treating him like a prisoner . They were treating him like an animal .

 

Another jarring movement, then the sensation of being lowered, metal scraping against the floor. The air changed, the scent of cold sterilization hitting his nose, burning sharp and artificial. His pulse roared, every fiber of his being screaming at him to move, to run, but the damn tranquilizers still clung to his limbs, dragging him under. A metallic clank. Then, light .

 

Blinding, searing white filled his vision as the top of the cage was wrenched open. His pupils contracted sharply, his senses assaulted all at once. He jerked back instinctively, chest tightening, body curling away from the brightness. The world was a blur, indistinct shapes moving too fast, too close, and then—Hands.

Unfamiliar, unwelcome hands seized his arms, dragging him up, pulling him out. His body resisted, instincts kicking in with raw, unfiltered desperation. He twisted , fought , his voice breaking free in a hoarse, desperate snarl.

 

“Let go of me! Don’t—!”

 

His words dissolved into a sharp breath as he struggled, his movements clumsy, sluggish, his strength not returning fast enough. His vision still swam, the light too sharp, his ears ringing from the overstimulation. He didn’t know how many of them there were, didn’t know where the hell he was, but the second he found an opening, the second his body worked again, he would—

 

The ground rushed up to meet him . He barely had time to brace before he was slammed down, his chest hitting the floor with enough force to knock the air from his lungs. Hands pressed him down, shoving him onto his stomach, pinning his arms behind his back in a practiced, methodical hold. The pressure in his chest tightened, breath coming in ragged bursts against the sterile floor.

 

“Stop,” he growled, thrashing. “I said stop —” Cold metal snapped around his wrists, biting against his skin. The restraints locked in place with a final, decisive click, and Bucky felt something in him break . His tail lashed, the only part of him still free, still moving, flicking wildly in panic.

 

“Hold him down,” a voice ordered. A boot slammed down onto his tail. Pain—sharp, blinding — exploded through his spine, sending his entire body into violent convulsions. His muscles locked, a strangled, animalistic cry tearing from his throat.

 

A cruel chuckle echoed above him. “Looks like that did the trick.” The weight on his tail increased, pressing down harder , sending fresh agony rocketing through his nerves. His breath hitched, his head spinning from the intensity .

 

“Doesn’t look so tough now, does he?” Another voice, bored. Bucky’s chest rose and fell in shuddering gasps, his vision tunneling, his body trembling beneath the pressure. His heartbeat was a frantic, stuttering thing, every part of him begging for this to not be happening , for Steve to be here, for this to be a nightmare he could wake up from.

 

But it wasn’t. His fingers curled into fists, his nails biting into his palms as the weight finally lifted from his tail, but the damage was done. He lay there, panting, his entire body shaking , his breath sharp and uneven. Somewhere in the distance, a door hissed open.

 

“Get him up,” came the order. Hands grabbed at him again, wrenched him upright, but Bucky barely reacted. His body wasn’t cooperating, his mind spiraling down a deep, dark pit, the weight of reality crashing over him all at once. His wrists throbbed where the vibranium cuffs dug into his skin, every attempt to wrench them apart proving utterly useless. The soldiers gripping his arms on either side barely needed to exert pressure to keep him moving; the drugs were still dragging at his limbs, his balance unsteady, his vision slow to process what was in front of him.

 

The walls blurred as he forced himself to focus. Stark white. Sterile. Unforgiving. The scent of antiseptic and cold stone filled his lungs, the air too thick, too empty of anything living . It wasn’t the Triskelion . This place—wherever the hell they’d brought him—felt even less like a government facility and more like a prison designed to never be found. No windows. No natural light. No signs of an exit. Just long, unending corridors leading to nowhere. Then the hallway opened to another set of reinforced doors, and the moment they swung inward, Bucky saw them .

 

Cells. His body went rigid.

 

Rows upon rows of reinforced glass and metal, containment units embedded into the walls like cages in a laboratory. Some were empty. Others—he couldn’t even see who or what was inside, but the air was heavy with something worse than fear. Resignation. The soldiers barely had time to react before Bucky moved . He wrenched violently to the side, twisting his shoulders, his balance tilting as he sank his teeth into the nearest arm without hesitation. His jaw locked hard , muscles snapping tight, his canines puncturing through flesh, tearing past the thin fabric of the uniform until the bitter, metallic taste of blood coated his tongue.

 

The soldier screamed , a raw, unfiltered cry of agony as he jerked away, and Bucky used that single second of hesitation to kick the other square in the ribs. The grip on him loosened just enough for him to move , and he ran, bolting down the hallway, his mind singularly focused on one thing—

 

Get out. Get out. Get out.

 

His arms weren’t working properly, still pinned behind his back, but his legs carried him forward on instinct, years of survival pushing his body into motion even with the drugs slowing him down. The white lights overhead flickered as the alarm screamed to life, a blaring, deafening wail bouncing off the walls, but Bucky kept running , his breath burning in his throat, his boots pounding against the cold tile—

 

A sound split through the air. A frequency and it hit like a bullet . A sharp, high-pitched ring, slicing through his skull, shredding through his senses like barbed wire.

Bucky’s legs gave out . His equilibrium shattered, his body lurching sideways as a fresh wave of disorientation slammed into him with full force. The hallway tilted—no, spun —the entire world losing its axis as the sound dug into his skull. His ears screamed , the pain unlike anything he had felt before, as if needles were stabbing into his brain, relentless and cruel.

A raw, guttural cry ripped from his throat as he crashed onto the hard floor. His body convulsed on impact, the shockwave of pain shooting down his spine, but the noise was still there , ringing and tearing through every nerve in his body, his hands bound, his ears bleeding from the sheer intensity. He barely registered the soldiers closing in, barely heard their voices past the ringing —

 

Then hands were on him again. Forcing him onto his stomach. His cheek hit the tile, the cold seeping into his burning skin, but he barely felt it. His limbs were numb , his muscles locked from the pain , his ears still ringing so violently he couldn’t even hear his own heartbeat.

 

“Hold him still .” A hand grabbed his jaw hard , fingers digging into his cheeks, forcing his mouth open—something was shoved inside. Bucky choked, his body instinctively fighting the foreign intrusion, but it was locked in place, thick straps pulled tight around the back of his head before he could so much as spit it out. The taste of metal filled his mouth, pressing against his tongue, restricting movement entirely. His breathing stuttered .

 

No— no, no, no.

 

His eyes widened in horror as the realization set in. It wasn’t just a gag, it was a muzzle . Leather and reinforced steel, thick and suffocating, wrapping around his jaw and nose, sealing over his mouth with only narrow slits for breath. The weight of it pressed down like a collar , the world suddenly too small , the air too thin , and something deep in Bucky’s chest twisted into something horrible . Hands wrenched his chin up, forcing his head back at an unnatural angle. A soldier smirked down at him, tilting his head mockingly. “How’s that feel, pet ?”

 

Bucky’s pupils blazed with fury, his nostrils flaring, but the moment he tried to lunge, a baton slammed into his ribs, sending a sharp crack of electricity through his body. Pain exploded in his side. His muscles locked , every nerve screaming as a strangled, muffled noise tore from his throat, his body instinctively curling inward as the shock burned through him.

 

A second later, the pressure lifted. His body trembled violently against the cold tile, his chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven gasps through the damn muzzle, his vision blurred, dark spots dancing at the edges of his sight. His tail twitched weakly, spasming from the aftershock, his fingers curling into useless fists against the restraints. The soldiers above him laughed.

Chapter 24

Notes:

Heyyyyy, new chapter! And once again, our poor little kitten Bucky is gonna suffer 😅 (but hey, that’s why we’re here, right?)

TW: graphic violence

Have I mentioned how much I hate Pierce? It’s honestly insane 😅🤣🤣

Bucky barely registered the sensation of being dragged across the floor, his body too weak to resist, his limbs nothing but dead weight in the soldiers’ hands. His breath rasped against the suffocating material of the muzzle, his ribs aching from the impact of the baton, his ears still ringing from the ultrasonic weapon that had shattered his balance. His vision blurred and refocused in slow, painful waves as they pulled him down the corridor, his surroundings a haze of dim lights and sterile walls. Then, through the fog of his disorientation, he saw them. Other cells.

 

Figures hidden behind reinforced glass, some curled into themselves, others standing stiff and silent, their faces empty, hollow— broken. Some met his gaze with vacant expressions, others with raw pity, and then there were the ones who stared at him with something far worse: the wild, desperate glint of those who had long since lost their sanity. Bucky swallowed hard, his throat tight beneath the muzzle.

 

He was going to rot here. Just like them.

 

A door slid open with a low hiss, revealing a cell at the far end of the hallway, sterile and devoid of anything that resembled comfort. The guards shoved him inside without hesitation, and Bucky barely caught himself before he collapsed against the cold floor, his breath coming in harsh, uneven gasps. He thought— hoped —they would leave him there. That they’d at least be done with him for the night. But they weren’t finished. Hands yanked him back up, dragging him toward the far wall where a thick metal chain dangled ominously from the ceiling. At the end of it, a collar.

 

Bucky’s stomach dropped. A collar. His pulse spiked in sheer panic, his entire body twisting in protest even as his muscles screamed from exhaustion. He fought harder , his feet slipping against the tile, a muffled, desperate sound escaping past the muzzle as he tried to shake them off, but the guards only laughed .

 

“Aw, look at that,” one of them sneered, tightening his grip on Bucky’s arms. “It’s like he knows what’s coming.” Another guard grabbed a fistful of his hair, yanking his head back so hard his neck cracked . Bucky let out a strangled grunt, his ears flattening against his skull, his tail whipping against the ground in distress. His breathing was erratic, his chest rising and falling in panicked bursts as the guard dangled the collar right in front of his face, forcing him to look at it.

 

It was worse than he could have imagined. The inside of the collar wasn’t smooth metal. It was lined with retractable, needle-thin spikes—small enough to not pierce deep, but sharp enough to dig into the skin like tiny barbs the moment any pressure was applied. If he so much as pulled against the chain, they would drive into his neck, biting into flesh, reminding him that he had nowhere to go. A cold shudder ran down his spine.

 

The guards laughed again. “Yeah, he’s real bright, huh?” Bucky thrashed violently, his muffled cries turning into raw, animalistic snarls. He wasn’t going to let them do this. He wasn’t going to let them— But the collar snapped around his neck before he could stop it. The click echoed through the cell like a death sentence. Bucky jerked instinctively, his body screaming to get it off, off, off—

 

And then— pain.

 

The second he pulled, the spikes inside the collar dug in , dozens of tiny points stabbing into his skin like hooked wires. It wasn’t enough to draw blood, but it burned , the sensation a sharp, humiliating bite that sent his nerves into a spiral. He froze , panting harshly through his nose, his hands twitching against the restraints. The guards howled with laughter. “Damn, that’s pathetic. You should see your face. You look like a kicked mutt.” Bucky squeezed his eyes shut, his shoulders trembling as he forced himself to not move, not react, not give them any more satisfaction.

 

“You think this is bad?” One of the guards leaned in close, his breath hot against Bucky’s ear. “You should be thanking us. Compared to what’s coming next? This is just the warm-up. ” Bucky felt sick. He slumped forward as much as the chain would allow, his fingers curling into fists, his whole body hating itself for the way it trembled.

 

He didn’t know how long they stood there, watching, waiting for him to break even more, but eventually, they grew bored of him. One of them patted his cheek mockingly before they left, their laughter echoing down the corridor as the door slid shut behind them. Silence settled over the cell, heavy and suffocating. Bucky barely felt the throbbing in his ribs, barely registered the dull ache in his arms, the way his knees threatened to buckle beneath him. His mind was stuck on the collar around his neck, on the fact that it was there at all.

 

Bucky’s breathing hitched, shallow and fast, his chest tightening like a vise was squeezing the air out of his lungs. The weight of the collar around his neck felt heavier , the memory of those sharp little spikes pressing against his skin a suffocating reminder that even the smallest movement could set them off again. His hands twitched, fingers curling uselessly into fists, but there was nothing to fight , nowhere to run , no voice left to even scream with the muzzle strapped tightly over his face. Panic swelled in his chest like a tidal wave, drowning him in a sensation he knew , a feeling that had once been familiar but had long since been soothed away by steady hands and a voice that never demanded —only reassured.

 

Steve.

 

Steve had always been there when this happened. When the nightmares had dragged him under, when the walls had felt too small, when the world had started spinning too fast—Steve had always been there, pressing a hand to his chest, grounding him, telling him to breathe. Steve would count with him, keep his voice steady even when Bucky couldn’t. You’re safe. You’re okay. I’ve got you.

 

But Steve wasn’t here .

 

Bucky’s heartbeat thundered in his ears, the rhythmic, suffocating thud-thud-thud syncing with the growing chaos in his mind. His tail lashed behind him, his muscles coiled so tight they felt ready to snap, his legs weak but unable to stop pacing . Back and forth, back and forth, his steps uneven and frantic, his breath coming in sharp, ragged gasps against the muzzle.

 

The walls were pressing in. The room was too small , there was no air , the muzzle was too tight . Bucky slammed his back against the far wall, eyes wide, pupils blown, his chest heaving as he desperately tried to slow his breaths. But it wasn’t working. Nothing was working . The noise of the cell—his own breath echoing inside the muzzle, the faint hum of the reinforced glass, the distant shuffling of guards beyond the door—it all became too much, and he sank to his knees, head dropping forward, body shaking like a caged animal waiting for the next strike. The door slid open again and Bucky tensed. His ears twitched at the sound of approaching footsteps, slow and deliberate, the kind that wanted to be heard. He knew that rhythm, recognized the self-assured swagger behind it.

 

Pierce.

 

Bucky’s body locked up , every muscle wound so tight it ached. His tail curled defensively around his side, but he didn’t move , didn’t even breathe as Pierce stepped into the room, his presence filling the space like a slow-working poison.

 

“Well, well… looks like someone’s feeling right at home already.” Bucky didn’t lift his head. Didn’t look at him.

 

Pierce tsk’d in mock disappointment. “Not even a greeting? No ‘hello, sir’?” He crouched slightly, tilting his head as if studying him. “I suppose we’ll have to work on those manners, won’t we?”

 

“Tell me,” Pierce continued, his voice dripping with condescension, “do you like your new accessories? Thought they suited you.” He smirked. “The muzzle’s a nice touch, don’t you think?” Bucky’s jaw clenched. His ears flattened further, a deep, warning growl vibrating in his chest despite himself.

 

Pierce laughed and his hand reached out. Bucky flinched instinctively the moment fingers brushed against his ears, his whole body recoiling as Pierce deliberately dragged his touch over the sensitive fur at the base, slow and mocking . The growl that ripped from Bucky’s throat was guttural , raw, vibrating through the muzzle like a low, dangerous snarl. His tail lashed , his ears pinning flat against his skull, but Pierce only chuckled, thoroughly amused .

 

“Oh, that’s more like it,” he mused, his fingers giving a slow, deliberate scratch against Bucky’s ear, just enough to irritate . “That little temper of yours—still right there, just beneath the surface.” Bucky twitched , his breathing ragged. Pierce smirked. “We’ll have plenty of time to tame that, don’t worry.” His hand withdrew , but the feeling lingered— crawled beneath Bucky’s skin like something rotting .

 

And as Pierce straightened, as he turned toward the door with one last, satisfied glance over his shoulder, Bucky’s nails bit into his palms.

Chapter 25

Notes:

Hey guys!

Our poor Bucky is suffering yet again 😅 — is Steve gonna make it in time before Pierce does anything nasty?

TW: graphic violence

Bucky had lost track of time. There were no clocks here, no natural light, nothing to mark the hours except the dull, steady pulse of his own heart hammering in his chest. He sat curled in the corner of the cell, his body aching from the position he had forced himself into—knees drawn up, tail wrapped tightly around his legs, arms tense despite the weight of the cuffs locking them behind his back. The collar chafed against his throat with every shallow breath, the metal cool against his skin, its edges pressing just enough to remind him it was there. The muzzle, stiff and suffocating, kept his jaw clenched in an unnatural position, leaving his mouth dry, his tongue thick and useless.

 

Sleep never came. It wasn’t an option. Every time his body threatened to drift, his mind dragged him back, clawing him awake with a sickening jolt of panic. His instincts screamed at him to stay alert. He had spent years in cages, locked away in darkness, stripped of control, but this—this was worse. There was no sedation fogging his senses, no icy chamber numbing him into oblivion. No mission waiting on the other side. Just a small, sterile box with four white walls and a single reinforced door, waiting to swallow him whole.

 

When the door finally hissed open, he jolted upright before he could stop himself, muscles locking into place, the hair along his arms standing on end. His ears twitched at the sound of approaching footsteps, his eyes narrowing against the sudden intrusion of light. He didn’t need to see who it was to know . Bucky’s stomach curled in revulsion even before his gaze landed on the man, the sight of him standing there, relaxed and pleased with himself , sending a wave of hate curling through his gut. He wasn’t alone. A guard followed at his side, carrying a tray, the metallic scent of raw meat hitting Bucky’s nose before he could even see it. The moment it registered, nausea coiled inside him like a tightening noose.

 

He stiffened. Didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Didn’t give them anything. Pierce’s smirk deepened at his silence, his sharp eyes scanning Bucky’s face with the kind of satisfaction that made Bucky’s hands twitch in their restraints. “Good news,” he said, voice smooth, casual, as if this were nothing more than a business transaction. He gestured toward the tray with an air of mock generosity. “I figured you might be hungry.”

 

Bucky didn’t move. Pierce sighed as if this whole thing bored him already. “Of course, I can’t have you choking on your own food, can I?” He nodded to the guard, then took a slow step forward. “Let’s fix that, shall we?” Bucky knew what was coming. His shoulders went rigid, every muscle in his body tensing in preparation. But he couldn’t stop it. Pierce reached for the muzzle.

 

Bucky flinched. It was barely visible—just the smallest recoil, a fraction of hesitation—but Pierce saw it . And he liked it. His smirk widened slightly, dragging the moment out, letting the weight of it settle between them before finally undoing the straps and ripping the muzzle away in one harsh pull. Bucky’s jaw ached the second the pressure lifted, a dull throb radiating from his stiff muscles, but he barely had time to register the relief before Pierce grabbed his chin. Fingers dug into his skin, forcing his head up , grip tight and deliberate .

 

“Now,” Pierce said, retrieving the piece of raw meat from the tray, the casual weight of it in his hand making Bucky’s stomach churn. “Open wide.” Bucky’s lips pressed together, his glare sharp, unwavering. He didn’t move, didn’t acknowledge the demand. His jaw clenched so tightly his teeth ached.

 

Pierce sighed dramatically. “Don’t be difficult. You need to eat.” He tilted his head slightly, gaze settling on Bucky’s face, his amusement barely contained. “You do remember what happens when you don’t eat, don’t you?”

 

Bucky did. He remembered the starvation, the weeks of empty hunger stretching into unbearable silence. He remembered what they had done to him to fix it. His hands twitched, nails biting into his palms as he forced himself to breathe through the nausea climbing up his throat. But he still didn’t open his mouth.

 

Pierce let out a long, exaggerated sigh. “Have it your way.” And then he shoved the meat into Bucky’s mouth. It happened too fast —the taste, the texture, the iron tang of raw blood hitting his tongue. Bucky gagged immediately, twisting his head to the side, but Pierce’s grip on his jaw was unrelenting , forcing him to keep his mouth open, forcing him to swallow before he could spit it out.

 

The moment it slid down his throat, he coughed , his body rejecting it even as his stomach clenched painfully around the food it hadn’t had in hours. Pierce patted his cheek, condescending. “See? That wasn’t so hard, was it?” Bucky barely heard him. His breaths were shaky , his hands trembling as he fought every urge in his body to rip Pierce apart with his teeth. But the worst part—the absolute worst part —was the familiar burn that followed.

 

The craving. The way his body responded to it. Bruce had told him. Warned him. Meat like this, fed to him in high doses, would spike his aggression . It was intentional . Hydra had known it. And so did Pierce . Bucky swallowed back the rising rage , forcing it down, forcing his muscles to stay still, forcing himself to breathe .

 

Pierce, of course, looked pleased . He dusted his hands off like he’d done something charitable , then straightened, giving Bucky one last satisfied glance.

 

“I’ll be back for dinner.”

 

**—————**

 

Bucky quickly learned the rhythm of his new captivity. Morning and night, the same routine, the same twisted game that Pierce seemed to enjoy playing. The cell door would slide open, and even before he saw the man, Bucky could smell him—that sharp, artificial cologne clinging to every fiber of his suit, heavy and suffocating, pressing against his senses like a physical weight. The scent always came first, crawling under his skin, raising every hair along his arms, setting his nerves on fire with revulsion before the inevitable sound of polished shoes against tile followed.

Then the voice. Always smooth, always composed. And always so damn pleased with itself.

 

“Morning, darling. Sleep well?”

 

Bucky never answered. He had learned quickly that silence was his only real weapon here, the one thing he could control. Pierce didn’t take well to defiance, but it was the only thing Bucky had left to cling to. And so, every day, he endured the same ritual .

The tray, always the same—raw meat, red and glistening under the artificial lights, and a metal cup of water placed beside it like some pathetic attempt at generosity. He wasn’t unchained from the wall, not even given the dignity of eating like a person. The message was clear: You are an animal. You will eat like one .

 

And every time, Bucky refused. At first, he tried to hold out, letting hunger gnaw at his ribs, hoping that maybe— maybe —Pierce would tire of his games, that the guards would get bored. But they didn’t. Instead, they made it worse. The first time, they left the tray in front of him for hours, let the scent of blood fill his nose, let his stomach twist and clench until it felt like it was devouring itself. And when he still didn’t touch it, Pierce had sighed like a disappointed parent, pulled him up by the collar, and forced it past his lips, fingers pressing cruelly against his jaw, nails digging into his skin as he shoved the meat into his mouth, as he held it there until Bucky had no choice but to swallow or choke.

 

That became the routine. Twice a day, every day, forced to consume something that made his body ache for more, something that sent his instincts spiraling, something Bruce had warned him about—meat, raw and dripping, triggering something buried deep inside him, something designed to make him more aggressive, more volatile, more like what they wanted him to be . And after the meal, the real torment began.

 

The guards never missed an opportunity to remind him of what he was. They pulled at his ears, yanked his tail just to hear him hiss or flinch, pressed heavy boots against it just to watch his body jerk in pain. If he growled, if he bared his teeth, they laughed . If he lashed out, they punished him with the batons, sharp arcs of electricity shocking through his bones, leaving him writhing on the floor as they stood over him, amused.

 

But Pierce was worse. The way he looked at him, the way his fingers brushed against his skin under the guise of adjusting the collar or checking his restraints , the way he held Bucky’s chin when forcing him to eat—it made his stomach twist in ways he didn’t want to acknowledge. Pierce was patient, far too patient, and that terrified Bucky more than anything else. He knew this was leading somewhere, he knew there was a bigger plan at play.

 

He wasn’t naive enough to think Pierce had done all of this just for fun. He was preparing him for something. Bucky felt it, coiling in the back of his mind like a slow-building storm, a truth he didn’t want to face but couldn’t ignore. Still, he clung to the one thing they couldn’t take from him— Steve .

 

Steve was coming .

 

He had to be. Bucky refused to let himself forget, refused to let himself slip back into the abyss that Hydra had once dragged him into. He wouldn’t become that again. Wouldn’t forget his name, wouldn’t forget who he was , wouldn’t forget who he belonged to . So every day, every time Pierce stepped into the cell, every time the guards taunted him, every time the food was shoved into his mouth, Bucky held onto a single thought, a single truth, the only thing keeping him sane.

 

Steve will come for me .

 

And God help anyone who stood in his way when he did.

Chapter 26

Notes:

Heeeyyy, how’s everyone doing today?

Got a brand new chapter — and yep, it’s even more Bucky-focused 🤣🤣🤣 so here we go:

TW: graphic violence and torture

My heart seriously hurts for him 🥲🥲

Bucky had lost track of time. He didn’t know if it had been days or weeks since Pierce had changed the rules of his captivity, but the absence of food was impossible to ignore. At first, he thought it was just another punishment, another way to make him suffer for some perceived disobedience. But after two days without a single scrap of meat, the gnawing in his stomach told him the truth—this wasn’t just cruelty. This was a calculated move.

He should have seen it coming. He had been force-fed nothing but raw meat since his arrival, bloodied and fresh, meant to sharpen his instincts, meant to awaken something primal. And now, deprived of it, he felt the slow, agonizing withdrawal clawing at him. His body wanted it. Needed it. The hunger sat heavy in his gut, twisting, burning, making every scent that drifted through the air unbearable.

 

The worst part was that Pierce knew it. Knew exactly what was happening inside him.

Every time the scent of food reached his heightened senses, his stomach clenched, saliva pooling in his mouth before he even realized it. It was involuntary, a reaction he despised , and he could feel the smugness in Pierce’s gaze every time Bucky clenched his jaw and turned away, refusing to acknowledge it. But his body betrayed him in ways he couldn’t control. His hands trembled. His pupils dilated at the scent of blood, at the faintest trace of iron in the air. His temper grew shorter by the hour. He caught himself growling under his breath at the guards, his muscles tensing without thinking, fingers twitching with the urge to lash out .

 

Bucky knew it. Knew he was being conditioned , knew he was being forced toward the edge of something he had fought so damn hard to control. And it wasn’t working . His defiance only made them escalate.

 

The guards were given permission to do whatever they wanted. The violence became relentless—batons striking his ribs, his back, jolts of electricity coursing through his body until his muscles locked up and his vision blurred. They shoved him into walls, pinned him down for no reason other than to prove that they could , that he was nothing, that they owned him. The humiliation became a daily ritual, designed to break him bit by bit.

 

And then they changed how they washed him. Bucky had been dreading it from the second he was pulled from his cell, already uneasy when they dragged him down the hall. The scent of disinfectant filled his nose, and the moment he caught sight of the room, of the basin waiting in the center, his blood ran cold .

 

He knew what was coming.

 

Instinct took over before he could think—snarling, thrashing, trying to tear himself free. But hands grabbed him from both sides, yanking his arms back as another soldier hooked an arm around his waist, lifting him like he weighed nothing.

 

And then he was thrown . The impact sent a shock through his spine, his body slamming into the freezing water, every nerve in his body screaming as he went under. The shock alone made him gasp, made icy water rush past his lips before he could stop it. He barely managed to twist up, barely managed to choke out the liquid burning his throat before hands grabbed him again.

 

He struggled. Desperation clawed at his ribs, his mind snapping to a place it hadn’t been in years. Hydra . The training rooms. The cold tanks. The endless drowning. A hand curled into his hair, yanking his head back cruelly. “Hold still, kitty,” someone sneered. He barely had time to think before he was forced down again .

 

He fought —thrashing, kicking, his instincts screaming for air. The water rushed past his ears, filling every space, drowning out sound, drowning out everything. He tried to force himself up, but the hands held him down , shoving his face toward the bottom, keeping him there as his lungs burned . His heartbeat pounded in his ears, hammering as the seconds stretched—five, ten—his body screaming at him to breathe, his instincts screaming —

 

Then they yanked him back. He gasped, coughing, choking, trying to drag in air before he was shoved under again .

 

Again. And again.

 

His body convulsed violently, lungs locking up, panic flooding every cell in his body . Every second that passed felt endless . When they finally pulled him up again, he barely recognized the sound that left him—a broken, rattling gasp, body shuddering so violently he could barely hold himself upright. His arms trembled, his vision swam, his ears were ringing . The guards laughed. Someone patted his cheek , fingers digging in mockingly. “You learning your lesson yet, sweetheart?”

 

Bucky was shaking too hard to do anything but breathe . His stomach twisted, his body still trying to force the water out of his lungs, cold seeping into every bone, leaving him feeling hollow. His tail was trembling behind him, uncontrollable, every muscle still coiled with the desperate, animalistic urge to run . He slumped forward, too weak to resist as they hauled him out of the basin and onto the freezing tile, the world spinning violently. The cuffs on his wrists were locked back into place, too tight, always too tight .

 

Bucky barely registered the sound of the cell door sliding open. His head throbbed with every sluggish beat of his pulse, fever burning through his skin, yet he still felt the damp chill clinging to his clothes. His body ached, his muscles leaden with exhaustion, and his throat was raw from the relentless coughing fits that tore through him. He sat slumped against the cold stone wall, the chain at his neck taut as far as it would allow, his forehead pressed against the unyielding surface in a desperate attempt to cool his burning skin. The effort was useless. He felt like he was on fire, trapped in a fevered haze that made everything around him blur and shift.

 

The scent of expensive cologne reached him before the man himself, and Bucky swallowed back the urge to gag as Pierce crouched in front of him. His gaze was unreadable, but the amusement curling at the corners of his mouth made Bucky’s blood boil. The bastard was enjoying this.

 

“Well, well,” Pierce drawled, reaching out as if to brush a stray lock of damp hair from Bucky’s forehead. The touch was ice against his overheated skin, and he flinched, jerking away instinctively despite the weight of exhaustion pressing down on him. Pierce chuckled, his fingers tracing over the sweat-slicked skin of Bucky’s cheek before pressing against his forehead. “Tsk. Burning up already? And here I thought super soldiers were supposed to be tougher than this.”

 

Bucky gritted his teeth, forcing himself not to react, not to give Pierce the satisfaction of seeing him shudder beneath his touch. He hated this. Hated being looked at like some broken thing. Hated the way his own body betrayed him, too weak to fight, too sick to move . Before he could summon the strength to shove Pierce away, another figure entered his vision. A man in a white coat. The sight alone made his breath catch, a fresh surge of nausea rolling through him. The blouse . His mind flickered back to the endless, sterile rooms, the scent of antiseptic, the cold bite of scalpels on skin.

 

The doctor exchanged a few quiet words with Pierce, his voice devoid of emotion, clinical, detached. Then he turned his attention to Bucky, kneeling beside him, prying open one of his eyelids to inspect his pupil reaction. Bucky snarled weakly, jerking his head back, but the doctor merely sighed as if dealing with an unruly pet.

 

“He’s running a high fever,” the man stated, his fingers pressing against Bucky’s pulse point before moving to his wrist, inspecting the sluggish rhythm. “Likely pneumonia setting in from prolonged exposure. He needs rest. Antibiotics.” Pierce hummed, noncommittal, but Bucky barely processed it before he felt the sharp sting of a needle being plunged into his shoulder without so much as a warning. His body tensed on reflex, a strangled growl escaping between his teeth as the burn of the injection spread beneath his skin.

 

“That should help,” the doctor muttered, standing as if he had already lost interest in the conversation.

 

Pierce, however, remained crouched before him, watching him with something Bucky could only describe as mocking concern . “Looks like we’ll have to take it easy on you for a few days,” he murmured, his fingers ghosting over the collar still locked around Bucky’s throat. “Wouldn’t want you breaking before we’ve even started.”

 

Bucky exhaled sharply through his nose, gathering what little energy he had left to glare up at him. He wasn’t stupid. He knew this wasn’t mercy . It was strategy . Pierce wasn’t letting up because he cared—he was ensuring Bucky lasted long enough to endure whatever came next. Bucky’s hands clenched into fists, his nails digging into his palms. His skin itched with the phantom sensation of metal restraints, the distant echo of Hydra’s commands whispering at the back of his mind. Stay upright. Stay silent. Don’t break.

 

Not again. He wouldn’t let it happen again. Pierce smirked at whatever he saw in Bucky’s expression and finally rose to his feet. “Get some rest, soldier,” he said, voice sickly sweet. “We’ve got a long road ahead of us.”

 

Bucky didn’t speak. Didn’t acknowledge him. He just closed his eyes, feeling the fever claw its way deeper into his bones, the chill of the stone wall leeching what little warmth remained in him. He heard the door slide shut, the lock clicking into place, but he didn’t move.

 

Instead, he focused on the one thing keeping him tethered.

 

Steve will come for me. He always does.

Chapter 27

Notes:

Heyyyy, new chapter’s here!

Once again: TW: graphic violence and torture

At this point, our poor Bucky seriously just wants to rip Pierce’s head off 😅

For a few days, Bucky experienced something close to peace. Not true peace—not with the collar still locked around his throat, not with the ever-present weight of the chain tethering him to the wall—but at least the beatings had stopped. The guards left him alone, food and water were brought without ceremony, and the bitter burn of antibiotics in his system helped clear the fever from his veins. His body was finally allowed a sliver of rest, time to heal, to regain even the smallest semblance of strength.

 

And yet, even as he recovered, Bucky knew it wouldn’t last. He was buying time, nothing more. Pierce had his plans, and Bucky could already feel the noose tightening, the moment of reprieve nothing but a delay in the inevitable. He stretched out every moment he could, feigning exhaustion even as his fever broke, keeping his limbs sluggish, his breathing heavy, hoping to squeeze out just a little more time before Pierce came for him again. But he had underestimated them. The doctor wasn’t an idiot, and after a thorough examination, he saw right through Bucky’s act. The next morning, Pierce entered his cell with the same practiced arrogance, the guards flanking him like wolves scenting fresh blood.

 

“You’ve been lying to me, darling ,” he crooned, his voice thick with condescension, amusement flickering in his sharp gaze. The nickname made Bucky’s stomach twist, a sickening mix of rage and revulsion pooling in his gut. He had endured many things, but this—this mockery of ownership, this disgusting attempt at familiarity—made his skin crawl.

 

Bucky’s eyes snapped to Pierce’s, his lip curling in disgust. “I’m not your damn pet.” His voice was hoarse from disuse, but the venom behind it was unmistakable.

 

Pierce’s smirk widened, seemingly delighted that Bucky was speaking again. “There you are,” he mused, crouching down in front of him, reaching out as if to brush a stray strand of hair from Bucky’s forehead. “I was wondering when you’d find your voice again.” Bucky recoiled instantly, baring his teeth in a silent snarl. Pierce was too close, too at ease in a space where he had no right to be. Before Bucky could stop himself, instinct took over—his body moving before his mind could warn him otherwise. He lunged, his teeth snapping shut just inches from Pierce’s wrist, the force behind it driven by weeks of pent-up fury.

 

The sharp, unforgiving bite of the collar yanked him back mid-motion. A searing jolt of pain lanced through his throat, cutting off his breath as the spikes inside the collar dug into his skin, the mechanism designed to punish any attempt at resistance. Bucky gasped, choking on the pain, but he didn’t look away from Pierce. If he was going to suffer, then he was damn well going to make sure the bastard knew he would never submit willingly.

 

For a moment, there was silence, the tension thick and suffocating. Then, Pierce’s expression shifted, the amusement in his eyes fading into something colder, sharper. Without hesitation, he lifted a hand and struck Bucky hard across the face, the force of it snapping his head to the side. A sharp sting bloomed across his cheek, his vision swimming for a brief moment before he forced himself to steady.

 

“You never learn, do you?” Pierce’s voice was smooth, almost bored, as he stood to his full height, dusting off his sleeve as if the very act of touching Bucky had somehow sullied him. “Animals don’t speak, James. They obey .” Bucky glared up at him, breathing heavily, his pulse roaring in his ears. He could taste blood in his mouth, the sharp tang of copper coating his tongue, but he swallowed it down. He wouldn’t give Pierce the satisfaction of a reaction. Wouldn’t flinch. Wouldn’t cower.

 

Pierce regarded him for another moment before turning on his heel, motioning for the guards to follow as he strode toward the exit. “Rest up,” he called over his shoulder, his tone laced with dark amusement. “You’ll need it.”

 

And just like that, the cell door slid shut once more, leaving Bucky alone in the dim silence, the lingering sting of the slap burning against his skin. His breathing was unsteady, his hands clenched so tightly into fists that his nails bit into his palms.

Stay human. He forced the words into his mind, an anchor against the suffocating weight pressing down on him. Stay human. Don’t let him break you.

 

But as he sat there, the collar heavy around his throat, the chain rattling faintly with each movement, Bucky couldn’t help but feel the creeping shadow of doubt settle deep in his chest. It was days before Bucky saw Pierce again. When the man finally stepped into the dim confines of the cell, he let out a long, exaggerated sigh, as though Bucky’s very existence exhausted him. His gaze swept over him, lingering on the dark, ugly bruise covering nearly half his face, the split in his lower lip still raw and healing.

 

The soldier at Pierce’s side didn’t wait to be prompted. “He attacked one of the guards during his washing cycle,” he reported stiffly. “Bit him. Broke his forearm before we could get control of him. He was disciplined accordingly.”

 

Bucky sat against the far wall, his body stiff, unyielding. He didn’t bother defending himself—what was the point? Instead, he stared them down, his blue eyes burning with a cold, unwavering fury. He could taste copper in his mouth, remnants of a fight he didn’t regret. Pierce sighed again, slower this time, as if he was genuinely disappointed. “Still refusing to behave,” he murmured, stepping forward, the click of his polished shoes echoing against the cold stone floor. “I had higher hopes for you, darling .”

 

Bucky’s jaw clenched at the name. “Fuck you,” he spat, voice hoarse but sharp enough to cut through the stale air. He barely had time to flinch before Pierce moved. A hand shot out, fingers clamping down on his bruised jaw, pressing into the swollen flesh with deliberate cruelty. Bucky hissed through his teeth, refusing to make a sound beyond that, even as pain radiated through his face like a white-hot blade. Pierce’s grip was firm, possessive, his thumb stroking along the edge of Bucky’s cheek as though testing his limits.

 

“Still so stubborn,” Pierce mused, his grip tightening for the briefest of moments before he turned his free hand palm-up, waiting.

 

A soldier stepped forward, placing something into his outstretched hand. Bucky didn’t need to see it to know what it was. His breath hitched slightly, the faintest tremor running through his arms as the object was brought into view—a new mask, different from the one they had forced onto him before. Sleeker, blacker, designed with more precise cruelty in mind. His entire body tensed, muscles locking as adrenaline surged through his veins, his instincts screaming for him to move, fight, run —but Pierce was already speaking, his voice slipping into that low, almost condescending tone one used on an unruly pet.

 

“Stay still.” A soft command, not sharp, not threatening—almost kind, if not for the malicious amusement curling at the edges of his words. “This is for your own good.”

 

Bucky jerked his head back, struggling against the firm grip on his jaw, but the hands holding him were relentless. The mask was forced over his face, the cold metal pressing against his skin, molding around his features with suffocating precision. It didn’t just cover his mouth—it wrapped tightly around the lower half of his face, restrictive and claustrophobic . Unlike the first one, it didn’t silence him entirely, but it compressed , squeezing in a way that made every breath feel calculated.

 

Pierce’s fingers lingered along the edge of it, adjusting the fit as if admiring his work. “There,” he murmured approvingly. “Much better. Not just functional, but intimidating , don’t you think?” His voice dipped, gaze dark and sickly pleased . “I’d even say it suits you. Enhances your… appeal .”

 

A fresh wave of revulsion rolled through Bucky’s stomach. The mask pressed against his lips, muting the growl building in his throat, but his body betrayed him—his ears flattened, his tail lashed behind him, the only outward expressions of the disgust clawing through his chest. Pierce, of course, noticed.

 

“Oh, don’t give me that look.” He chuckled, stepping back, nodding to one of the guards. “Undo the restraints. He won’t need them anymore.”

 

Bucky’s breath stilled. He wasn’t naive enough to believe it was an act of mercy. The guard moved swiftly, unlocking the chains from the wall, releasing Bucky’s arms from their confines, but before he could even think to react, something else was brought forward—a new collar, thinner than the previous one, a polished, sleek black that gleamed under the harsh fluorescents. There was a faint beep as the locking mechanism engaged around his throat, the metal pressing against his pulse like a silent threat.

 

Instinct took over. His fingers shot up, clawing at the collar, searching for a seam, a latch, anything —and then the sound hit. A high-frequency screech, sharp and agonizing , a noise that pierced straight through his skull, rattling every nerve, every thought, setting his brain on fire . His hands flew to his ears, but it did nothing—his heightened senses made it unbearable, every part of him recoiling, body seizing as if he were being physically struck.

 

He barely registered the way his legs gave out, his knees slamming onto the cold floor, his breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps. His tail twitched erratically, an involuntary response to the distress flooding his system. The sound finally cut out, but the ghost of it still rang in his head, a pulsing, unbearable echo. Pierce crouched in front of him again, watching his trembling form with satisfaction. “That was just a warning,” he said smoothly. “This collar works on a frequency only your kind can hear. Humans? They won’t even notice . But you? I can assure you, it will make every nerve in your body beg for relief.” Bucky didn’t move, his fingers still curled over his ears, eyes squeezed shut as he forced his breathing to steady. The humiliation burned worse than the pain.

 

“Oh,” Pierce added, almost as an afterthought. “And, of course, there’s a secondary function. In case you really misbehave.”

 

A click.

 

Electricity jolted through the collar, a searing pulse of raw agony that tore through Bucky’s body, forcing his back into a violent arch, a strangled sound catching in his throat as his muscles locked, spasming beneath the current. It lasted only a second, but it was enough to leave him panting, his vision swimming, every part of him recoiling from the viciousness of it. Pierce tilted his head, studying him with mock curiosity. “Not a fan?” He smiled, standing with ease, brushing nonexistent dust from his sleeves. “Then I suggest you learn .”

 

Bucky didn’t move. Didn’t respond. Couldn’t.

 

The collar hummed softly around his throat, a silent reminder of the control now threaded into his very body. Bucky wondered if he had ever truly escaped at all.

Chapter 28

Notes:

Hey guys! New chapter’s out featuring our boy Bucky!

Lots of big reveals in this one 😮😮😮

Bucky barely had time to catch his breath before Pierce gave a curt nod to the guards. A rough hand seized his arm, yanking him to his feet with no regard for the lingering dizziness clouding his senses. His balance wavered, his ears still ringing from the residual shock of that unbearable frequency, but the guards didn’t care. A shove between his shoulder blades forced him forward, making it clear that whether or not he could walk, he would move.

He stumbled after Pierce, his boots dragging against the cold floor as they navigated through the endless maze of sterile white hallways. He barely noticed the turns they took, his mind still scrambling to process what had just happened—what was still happening —until the haze in his brain began to clear just enough for questions to start forming.

 

Why was he being moved ?

 

They never let him out. Every single day had been the same routine, the same torment, the same cell. He had been chained to the wall like a dog, muzzled and humiliated, and now, suddenly, he was being escorted somewhere? Not even shackled beyond the sleek black collar pulsing against his throat, keeping him obedient with the ever-present threat of pain.

Bucky’s eyes flicked toward Pierce, narrowing in suspicion. The bastard had to know what he was thinking, had to feel the weight of his silent questioning, because a slow, knowing smirk tugged at the corners of his mouth.

 

“I imagine you’re wondering what comes next,” Pierce mused, his voice almost conversational. “Surely, you didn’t think I was going to let you rot away in that cell forever. What a waste that would be.”

 

Bucky stiffened, his gut twisting. What the hell does that mean?

 

Pierce continued as if he were discussing something as mundane as stock prices. “You see, we both know you’re more than just some forgotten relic, some failed experiment that should’ve been buried along with the rest of Hydra’s past mistakes. No, you, my dear, are an asset . One that’s far too valuable to be left to decay in a cage.” He glanced over his shoulder, amusement flickering in his eyes. “No, I have far greater plans for you.”

 

The words sent an involuntary chill down Bucky’s spine, but he forced himself to keep moving, to keep his expression blank, unreadable. He wouldn’t give Pierce the satisfaction of seeing fear. He wouldn’t.

They reached a reinforced door, the kind that required multiple security clearances just to unlock. Pierce lifted his wrist, the scanner chirped, and the heavy lock disengaged with a mechanical hiss. The door slid open, revealing a dimly lit room, clinical and empty, except for a single sleek table positioned in the center.

 

Pierce lifted a hand, giving a simple flick of his fingers. “Leave us.”

 

The guards didn’t hesitate. They shoved Bucky inside and backed away, the door sealing shut behind them. Now, it was just the two of them. Bucky exhaled slowly, forcing himself to steady his breath as Pierce walked toward the table with deliberate ease, retrieving something from a drawer. When he turned, he held a file—thick, yellowed at the edges with use, the bold print across the front unmistakable even from a distance.

 

Bucky’s stomach clenched. His file .

 

Pierce let the moment linger, his fingers idly brushing the cover before flipping it open. “You know, we searched for you for quite some time,” he remarked, thumbing through the pages like one might skim an old book. “After all, you disappeared so suddenly. One moment, you were Hydra’s most promising project. The next, your facility was compromised. An inside job, of course. Some fool must’ve thought they were doing you a favor.”

 

He glanced up, watching Bucky’s reaction closely. “We came back for you, of course. But you were gone —just vanished, like a ghost. We assumed the worst for a while. Thought you might have perished in the chaos. But then, wouldn’t you know it, our dear Captain America found you first .” He let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head. “And what a shame that was. Imagine the potential wasted. Two years of progress undone because Rogers was naive enough to think you could be fixed .”

 

Bucky’s breath turned shallow, his mind racing through the implications. They’d been looking for him this whole time? They never stopped?

 

Pierce continued, his voice smooth, unbothered, like he was recounting an old war story. “We finally got confirmation of your location through a secondary source. And what a sight you were—parading around the Avengers’ compound, living freely among them. A soldier without a war. A weapon without a master. Pathetic .” He clicked his tongue in mock disappointment, then tilted his head, studying Bucky like he was a particularly fascinating specimen. “Tell me something,” he said casually, tapping his fingers against the open file. “Do you really believe they see you as one of them? That they look at you and don’t still see this ?” He turned the file, sliding it across the table until it rested just within Bucky’s reach.

 

Against his better judgment, Bucky’s gaze flickered downward. There, staring back at him, were page after page of reports—detailed records of his time with Hydra, his conditioning, his missions, every act of violence carried out under their command. Photographs. Data logs. Graphs tracking his aggression levels, his usefulness . His throat tightened, bile rising as his hands curled into fists.

 

Pierce smirked at his silence. “Oh, you don’t have to answer. We both know the truth. You were never meant to be free, darling. You were made for something far greater.” He leaned forward slightly, voice lowering to a coaxing whisper. “And the best part? You already know it.” Bucky forced himself to look away, his pulse hammering in his ears. The words slithered into his mind like poison, insidious and cold, and the worst part was—he could feel that tiny, insidious sliver of doubt trying to take root.

 

No.

 

Pierce leaned back, satisfied. He closed the file with a soft thump , tapping his fingers against the cover once more. “Welcome home,” he murmured, and Bucky swore he felt the ground crack beneath him.

 

Bucky’s breath hitched as his eyes locked onto the red file now closed before him. The Hydra insignia, bold and unmistakable, burned into the cover like a brand—an unshakable reminder of everything he had fought to escape. His pulse roared in his ears, drowning out all other sound, his vision narrowing until all he could see was that symbol. The one that had ruled his existence, stolen his life, turned him into something he had never wanted to be.

 

Hydra still exists.

 

The realization struck him like a physical blow, leaving him momentarily breathless. He had believed—no, hoped —that it had all been over, that Steve and the others had wiped out every last remnant. But Pierce was standing in front of him, looking far too smug, far too satisfied with the horror etched onto Bucky’s face. He wanted this reaction, had orchestrated this moment just to watch Bucky crumble beneath the weight of it.

 

“Ah, there it is,” Pierce murmured, his voice a smooth drawl of amusement. “Recognition.” He leaned forward slightly, watching Bucky as though he were savoring every second of his unraveling. “I’ll admit, I wasn’t sure how long it would take for you to piece it together. But seeing it click into place? Delightful. ”

 

Bucky forced himself to breathe, swallowing the bile rising in his throat. His fingers twitched against his restraints, his entire body coiled so tightly he thought his bones might snap under the pressure. “You’re Hydra,” he rasped, his voice hoarse beneath the weight of his own disgust.

 

Pierce grinned, an expression that made Bucky’s stomach turn. “Now that is the kind of clarity I like to see.” He rose to his feet, circling the table with an infuriating air of casual ease before coming to stand directly in front of him. “And you, my dear, are finally home. ”

 

Bucky clenched his jaw, his breath sharp through his nose. No. Hydra had taken everything from him—his freedom, his identity, his humanity . He wasn’t theirs. He would never be theirs again. But Pierce only chuckled, as if he could hear the defiance rattling inside Bucky’s skull. “I know this is difficult for you to process, but you’ll see, in time. You were never meant to live among them. Rogers and his little band of heroes might have fed you sweet little lies about redemption, about belonging, but deep down, you know the truth. You were made for this. ” His voice dipped lower, almost coaxing. “And now, at last, we can finish what was started.”

 

Bucky’s stomach twisted violently. He had heard these words before. Felt them carved into his bones. You are the fist of Hydra. You are a weapon, nothing more. You do not think, you do not feel, you obey. He forced himself to breathe through the rising panic, but Pierce had already moved on. “Of course, before we can move forward, we need to see just how much of you remains intact.” His lips curled at the edges. “And what better way to measure that than through a proper test?”

 

Bucky barely had time to register the shift in Pierce’s tone before the man turned and pressed a button on the wall. A door slid open behind them, revealing two guards waiting just outside.

 

“Take him.”

 

Bucky stiffened as they moved toward him, grabbing him roughly by the arms and hauling him to his feet. He struggled instinctively, digging his heels into the floor, but the collar’s presence was an ever-present warning against resistance. Gritting his teeth, he let them drag him down another series of sterile corridors, his pulse thundering in his skull. His mind screamed at him to run, to fight, but where could he go? Where could he hide?

 

Then, they stopped. The door before them was unlike the others. It was reinforced, double-sealed, with a panel beside it that required multiple security clearances to unlock. Pierce stepped forward, scanning his wrist, and the locks hissed open.

 

Bucky was shoved inside. The room was massive, sterile, with walls lined in thick metal plating. It looked like a training facility—no, a combat arena. His stomach turned cold. He barely had a moment to process before another door slid shut behind him, sealing him in. A second, larger door loomed ahead, still closed, but something told him it wouldn’t stay that way for long. Then, the intercom crackled to life.

 

“Welcome to the proving grounds,” Pierce’s voice rang through the room, smooth and dripping with satisfaction. “I thought we’d start simple. A little test to see what’s left of Hydra’s finest work. Call it an evaluation.”

 

Bucky’s blood ran ice cold. His hands curled into fists, his breath shallow behind the mask still strapped to his face. His instincts screamed at him to move , to prepare , but his body refused. He knew what was coming

 

“I won’t fight,” he bit out, his voice hoarse, the words burning his throat.

 

Pierce chuckled, unbothered. “Oh, I think you will.”

 

And then—white-hot agony seared through Bucky’s throat. The collar activated, sending a pulse of pure electricity coursing through his body, dropping him to his knees with a choked, muffled cry. His nerves burned, his vision swam, but he barely had a second to recover before the other door in front of him slid open with a deafening hiss.

 

And Bucky knew, with a sickening certainty, that this fight had already begun.

Chapter 29

Notes:

Hey there, lovely reader! We’re back with our dear Bucky for an intense chapter — how’s he gonna get through this one? 😥

Bucky’s breath came in short, ragged gasps, his nerves frayed from the relentless torment of the collar. His body still trembled from the aftershocks of electricity, muscles coiled tight with the phantom pain of it. He could still hear the shrill, agonizing sound reverberating inside his skull, a noise so unbearable it had driven him forward, forced him out of the safety of the entryway and into the open space of the arena. The second he was clear, the door behind him slammed shut with a mechanical hiss, locking him inside. Instinct took over—he spun, lunging back toward it, fingers clawing at the sealed metal edges. He tried to wedge his fingers between the panels, his heartbeat hammering in his ears. No, no, no—

 

Pierce’s laughter echoed through the chamber. “Oh, don’t tell me you’re trying to leave already, darling .” His voice oozed with condescension, a smirk evident even without seeing his face. “I thought you’d be eager to prove yourself.”

 

Bucky stilled, his shoulders rising and falling with the weight of his breath. His nails scraped against the door one last time before his hands curled into trembling fists at his sides. He wasn’t going to fight. He wasn’t.

 

But then another sound filled the chamber—a deep, heavy thunk as a second door at the opposite end of the arena slid open. Bucky’s body went rigid. He turned slowly, dread pooling in his gut. From the shadows of the entrance, something stepped forward.

 

The man—or the thing —that emerged wasn’t human. Not anymore. He was tall, broad-shouldered, built with the same unnatural strength as Bucky, but his body was different. Twisted. His arms and legs seemed just a little too long, his joints moving with an unnatural fluidity, muscles shifting beneath a layer of taut, scarred skin. His bare torso was marred with jagged lines—experiments gone wrong, failed surgeries, a grotesque display of trial and error. His eyes were inhuman. A sickly shade of yellow, pupils slitted like a serpent’s, glowing faintly in the artificial light of the arena. His mouth was lined with elongated, razor-sharp fangs, the canines nearly too large for his lips to conceal. And his hands—if they could even be called that—were clawed, fingers tipped with curved talons that gleamed like obsidian.

 

But the most horrifying part was the fur. Patches of coarse, bristling fur ran along his arms and back, his shoulders covered in a thick, ragged mane of dark brown. His legs were digitigrade, reshaped into something that belonged to a predator, built for sprinting, for chasing . And behind him, extending from the base of his spine, was a thick, powerful tail—striped in deep, rust-colored bands.

 

A tiger.

 

Pierce’s voice crackled through the speakers again. “Ah, yes. I see you’ve met Subject Thirty-Nine. One of our… less fortunate attempts. You were our greatest success, of course— trainable. ” He let the word hang in the air, reveling in the sheer insult of it. “But this poor soul? He didn’t take to the conditioning quite as well. A shame, really. No higher reasoning, no ability to follow orders. Just pure instinct. ”

 

Bucky could see it. Thirty-Nine—whoever he had once been—wasn’t there anymore. There was no humanity left in those glowing eyes, no awareness beyond the base need to kill. His breathing was slow, steady, but his body was coiled like a spring, weight shifting as he took Bucky’s measure.

 

Prey.

 

Bucky’s stomach turned to ice. He could feel something deep in his bones, an ancestral knowledge screaming at him to run . Pierce continued, oblivious or simply uncaring of the growing tension in the room. “You see, we experimented with many subjects before perfecting the serum we used on you. Most, unfortunately, didn’t survive. But he did. If only barely.” He chuckled. “Fascinating, isn’t it? A direct clash of the food chain. The panther and the tiger. A natural predator of yours, wouldn’t you say?”

 

Thirty-Nine let out a slow, guttural growl, deep and reverberating through his chest. His tail lashed behind him, ears pinned back against his head. Bucky recognized the movement for what it was—a warning. Bucky forced himself to straighten, to keep his breathing steady even as his pulse raced. He turned his gaze toward the glass observation deck where Pierce stood, waiting. “I won’t fight,” Bucky said, his voice raw.

 

Pierce sighed, almost pitying. “I thought you might say that.”

 

And then, Bucky’s world exploded in white-hot agony as the collar activated once more. The electricity seared through Bucky’s nerves like molten fire, every muscle locking up as the collar forced him to his knees. His breath hitched, eyes wide with agony as the current coursed through his body, leaving him trembling, vision blurring at the edges. He barely registered Pierce’s voice over the ringing in his ears, that same insufferable, pleased tone dripping from every word.

 

“You won’t have much of a choice, darling,” Pierce said smoothly. “Thirty-Nine is alive for one reason. To kill. He doesn’t take prisoners, doesn’t hesitate. You may be unwilling to fight, but he’s hungry —we made sure of that.” Bucky’s head snapped up just in time to see a blur of movement in his peripheral vision. Too fast. He twisted to the side on pure instinct, barely dodging the swipe of razor-sharp claws that cut through the air where his throat had been a second ago. The sheer force of the strike sent a gust of air against his skin, close enough that he felt the sting of the displaced air like a whisper of death.

 

His body hit the ground hard, his limbs struggling to obey him, still twitching from the aftershocks of the electricity. His breath was ragged, his heartbeat slamming against his ribs. He landed in a crouch, hands splayed against the floor, shoulders hunched, muscles coiled. The moment he realized what he was doing, he stiffened. Animal stance. Defensive. His tail lashed behind him, ears flattened against his skull, claws unsheathing with a slow, deadly click against the floor.

 

And the thing in front of him did the same. Thirty-Nine wasn’t just watching him. He was mirroring him. A growl rumbled low in the tiger hybrid’s throat, deep enough to vibrate through the floor. His shoulders rolled, his massive frame lowering into a stance that was unmistakably predatory. Muscles tensed like coiled steel, his breath slow and measured, movements fluid as water. His claws flexed against the ground, gripping it with lethal precision, every motion controlled, measured. His tail curled in sharp flicks, the warning clear— he was going to lunge.

 

Bucky’s instincts screamed at him. Not in words, but in raw feeling . He wasn’t standing across from a man. This was an apex predator, something created to be faster, stronger, more aggressive. And his body—his damned, altered body—was reacting before his mind could, the genetic memory of the panther in him knowing it was outmatched. That it needed to run .

 

No.

 

Bucky wasn’t an animal. He wasn’t going to be forced into this, reduced to instinct and desperation for Pierce’s entertainment. He gritted his teeth, shoving away the cold spike of fear curling in his gut. His hands curled into fists, and slowly, deliberately, he stood . Thirty-Nine’s nostrils flared, the faintest flicker of something crossing his gaze—curiosity? Confusion? But it was gone as quickly as it had appeared. His lips peeled back in a snarl, and before Bucky could so much as blink, he moved .

 

The speed was blinding. Bucky barely had time to react, forcing himself to sidestep just as Thirty-Nine’s claws sliced toward him. The impact of the strike against the floor sent debris flying, deep gouges torn into the reinforced material. If Bucky had been a second slower, he’d be in pieces.

 

He exhaled sharply, pushing himself backward, keeping his stance upright. He wasn’t going to let this become an animal fight. He needed to be smart. Strategic. Thirty-Nine was bigger, stronger, faster—but Bucky had something he didn’t. Training. He wouldn’t fight with desperation. He would fight with skill. His opponent lunged again, faster this time, a blur of stripes and claws, and Bucky pivoted on his heel, dodging by a hair’s breadth. His mind was already calculating his next move. He wouldn’t kill. He couldn’t. But if he could incapacitate Thirty-Nine—knock him unconscious, take him down without playing into Pierce’s hands—then maybe he could win this without losing himself.

 

Bucky exhaled, steadying himself. He locked eyes with his opponent, fists tightening.

 

He had one shot. And he wasn’t going to waste it.

Chapter 30

Notes:

Hey folks! New chapter’s out today and Bucky’s fight is looking pretty rough 😅 so heads up:

TW: graphic descriptions of injury and blood (not for the faint of heart!)

Bucky dragged the fight out as long as he could, forcing himself to keep moving, to stay just out of reach, dodging each swipe of claws that could tear him apart in an instant. His breath came faster, sharper, the weight of exhaustion pressing down on him like a slow-acting poison. He wasn’t used to this—not anymore. He fought with strategy, precision, not the mindless brutality of an animal. But that was exactly what was in front of him. Thirty-Nine was relentless, fighting with pure, unfiltered aggression. His strength was monstrous, his speed unnerving. There was no sign of him tiring, no hesitation in his attacks. He was operating on sheer instinct, likely enhanced by something Bucky didn’t even want to think about. He had no doubt Hydra had pumped him full of whatever twisted cocktail they thought would make him more lethal. And it was working.

 

Bucky, on the other hand, was starting to falter. A voice crackled through the overhead speakers.

 

“Your little game won’t work, darling,” Pierce cooed, his tone laced with amusement. “An animal can only be stopped by another animal. You can feel it, can’t you? Your claws are your only chance. It’s what you were made for.”

 

Bucky clenched his jaw, his grip tightening into fists. No. No, he wasn’t going to do that. If he did, if he let himself go there, there would be no coming back. Behind the glass, Pierce exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. He turned slightly as one of the scientists monitoring the fight spoke up, their gaze flickering between multiple screens, tracking every vital sign, every spike of adrenaline.

 

“Give it time,” the scientist murmured, adjusting a dial. “Instinct always wins when survival is at stake. He won’t hold out forever.”

 

And he was right. Bucky’s body was betraying him. His movements were slowing, his dodges growing less precise. The burning in his lungs was suffocating beneath the oppressive weight of the mask, restricting his air, trapping heat, making every breath a struggle. He wanted— needed —to rip it off, but he couldn’t. The fight wouldn’t stop just because he wanted a second to breathe. Thirty-Nine struck again, and this time, Bucky wasn’t fast enough.

 

A searing pain ripped through his side as claws tore through fabric and into flesh, raking across his ribs. He gasped, stumbling back, his vision flashing white-hot from the sudden, biting agony. Blood bloomed beneath his uniform, spreading fast, warm and sticky against his skin. He barely had a second to recover before the next strike came, slicing across his forearm as he lifted it instinctively to block. The force behind the blow sent him skidding backward, his boots scraping against the ground as he barely kept himself upright.

 

Through the mask, his breaths were uneven, ragged. His muscles screamed in protest, and he grimaced at the sharp sting of his wounds. Bucky didn’t last much longer. The next strike came from behind, sudden and brutal. The force of the impact sent him flying several meters before his body slammed against the unforgiving ground, rolling hard across the floor. Pain exploded through his ribs, white-hot and searing, radiating outward as something inside him cracked. Maybe one of his ribs, maybe more. It didn’t matter. His body refused to move the way he wanted, muscles locking up, every nerve screaming at him to stop.

 

He tried to push himself up, but his limbs wouldn’t cooperate, the damage catching up to him in full force. His breaths were ragged beneath the mask, shallow and wheezing. He barely had time to shake the dizziness from his vision before a shadow loomed over him, massive and swift, moving with the kind of precision only a predator possessed. The tiger was on him before he could react, the weight of its body crushing down against his back, pressing him into the floor.

 

Panic shot through Bucky like a bolt of electricity. Instinct took over, his body twisting in a desperate attempt to escape, his boots digging into the ground as he tried to push himself forward, anywhere but here. His metal arm struggled against the grip that held him down, the servos whining under the pressure, but the tiger was stronger than he anticipated.

 

Then came the pain. Searing, sharp, relentless. The tiger’s claws sank deep into his wrists, pinning them to the ground with an unforgiving force, digging into flesh with the precision of a blade. Bucky choked on a gasp, his teeth clenched as a cry of pain ripped from his throat. His feet kicked out blindly, trying to find some leverage, some way to move, but the weight above him was unbearable, unyielding. A deep, guttural growl rumbled above him, and before Bucky could brace for it, the bastard bit him.

 

The tiger sank his fangs into Bucky’s throat, the full force of his jaw clamping down over the vulnerable stretch of flesh on the side of his neck. Bucky’s world exploded into agony. His eyes shot wide, pupils blown, his entire body locking up from the sheer, mind-numbing intensity of the pain. The pressure was unbearable, sharp canines piercing skin, sinking deeper, deeper, until Bucky could feel them scraping against bone. A scream tore out of him, muffled beneath the thick mask that still clung to his face, his breath hitching into something desperate and ragged.

 

And then the tiger shook him. A violent, animalistic motion, meant to tear. His head snapped to the side, his neck twisting at an unnatural angle as the beast wrenched his body beneath him, trying to rip muscle from bone, to end him. Blood spilled instantly, hot and thick, soaking into the fabric of his suit, warm against his skin. The edges of his vision blurred, the pain radiating outward in violent, pulsing waves. The scent of iron filled his nose. His heart pounded.

 

He’s going to kill me. The thought hit him like a gunshot, a sharp, final realization that sliced through the haze of pain and exhaustion. He’s going to kill me. Right here. Right now. Something inside Bucky snapped.

 

His mind fractured, his grip on reality slipping as instinct surged forward, violently ripping control from his failing body. It wasn’t a choice. It wasn’t conscious. It was survival. A deep, primal thing that had been forced into his very DNA, buried beneath years of training, of conditioning, of Hydra’s relentless experiments.

 

And now, now —with blood filling his mouth and his body failing him—it took over.

 

The fear melted away. All that remained was the hunt.

Chapter 31

Notes:

Hey everyone! Hope you’re all doing good!

TW: graphic descriptions of injury and blood in this chapter

Thanks again for all your comments — seriously, it means a lot to me ❤️

Bucky tore himself free with a desperate burst of strength, his body twisting violently as his claws raked deep into the tiger’s arm. Flesh split beneath his fingers, hot blood spraying across his face as the beast let out a furious snarl and staggered back. Bucky didn’t hesitate—he shoved hard, sending the other hybrid skidding backward across the concrete.

 

It gave him just enough time to scramble away, every muscle in his body screaming in protest. He collapsed into a crouch, his chest heaving, one hand clutching the gaping wound at his neck. Blood poured between his fingers, warm and slick, dripping onto the floor in heavy, rhythmic splatters. The scent was suffocating, coppery and thick, and it only made the nausea coiling in his gut worse.

 

His vision swam. He forced himself to blink through the blur, to focus. The tiger was already back on its feet, its body low and poised to strike, the dark slits of its pupils locked onto him with purpose. Bucky clenched his jaw, his heart pounding against his ribs. Think, Barnes. Stay human. Don’t give in.

 

But he could feel it—something deep, something primal thrumming beneath his skin, curling around his spine like an instinct he’d spent years trying to bury. His breath came out in slow, steady exhales as his pupils expanded, his tail flicking behind him, ears flattening. His fingers curled against the floor, claws extending fully without conscious thought.

 

The tiger lunged. Bucky didn’t think— he moved. His body reacted faster than his mind, his instincts taking over. He met the attack head-on, using the momentum to twist mid-air, his hands seizing the tiger by the shoulders. The force of their impact sent them crashing to the ground, rolling violently across the bloodstained floor.

 

Bucky landed on top. He didn’t hesitate. His claws struck deep into the tiger’s ribs, tearing through fabric, through flesh, through bone. The scream that ripped from the creature’s throat was inhuman—high, raw, agonized—but Bucky didn’t stop. He couldn’t stop. His body acted without his permission, without thought, without restraint. He drove his claws in deeper, twisting, feeling the heat of blood gush over his hands, soaking his fingers, his arms, his chest.

 

The tiger struggled beneath him, thrashing, snarling—until Bucky struck again. His arm shot out in one final, brutal arc, claws slicing across its throat in a clean, devastating motion.

 

A spray of blood hit him full in the face. The body beneath him spasmed once—twice—then went still. Bucky stayed there, crouched over the corpse, his entire body rigid, his breath ragged and uneven. His hands trembled, slick with blood— so much blood. His own, the tiger’s—it didn’t matter. It was everywhere.

 

A choked sound left his throat, something between a gasp and a growl. He stumbled backward, scrambling off the body, his chest rising and falling in rapid, panicked bursts. His hands—his claws —shook violently as he stared down at them, at the wet, crimson stain coating his skin.

 

No.

 

His stomach twisted. His heart pounded so hard it hurt. He could still feel the sensation of flesh giving way beneath his fingers, the warmth of blood spilling over his knuckles. He had felt the life leave the body beneath him, had watched as its eyes went glassy, its breath rattling into nothing. A noise crackled over the speakers, piercing the stunned silence. Pierce’s voice, smooth and pleased.

 

“Well. That was entertaining.”

 

Bucky barely heard him. His pulse roared in his ears, drowning out the words, the laughter, the distant murmur of onlookers. His breath hitched. His fingers curled against his palms.

 

Bucky barely had time to process the pain before the world tilted violently beneath him, his vision swimming. His breath stuttered, catching in his throat as the last remnants of adrenaline abandoned him, leaving behind nothing but raw agony and the slow, creeping cold of blood loss. His knees buckled, and the moment his back hit the concrete wall, his body surrendered, dragging him down until he slumped against the ground, legs sprawled awkwardly beneath him.

 

Somewhere beyond the fog of his mind, he could hear shouting—voices urgent, laced with the sharp edge of panic. The pounding of boots against the floor echoed in his ears, distant but rapidly approaching. His fingers trembled against the open wound at his neck, sticky and slick with blood, and when he pulled them away, the deep crimson smeared across his skin sent a sickening lurch through his stomach.

 

“Move, move, move!”

 

The first pair of hands reached him, gripping his arms roughly, pushing his body back against the cold wall to keep him upright. His head lolled, his vision flickering between brief clarity and total darkness. The sharp scent of antiseptic cut through the iron tang of blood. Something was shoved against the open wound, the pressure immediate and brutal, and Bucky let out a choked, strangled sound—half a cry, half a growl—his instincts kicking in to pull away from the source of the pain.

 

“Hold him down!” a voice barked. “He’s losing too much blood—if he keeps thrashing, we’ll never stop the bleeding!”

 

“Shit, his pulse is erratic,” another muttered. “BP’s crashing. We need to get a line in—now!”

 

Gloved hands pressed firmly against his shoulder, forcing him to stay still as the medics worked with brutal efficiency. More hands grabbed at him, pinning him in place as cold metal shears ripped through the fabric of his blood-soaked shirt, exposing more of his battered torso to the harsh, artificial lighting. The sharp snip of scissors barely registered in his dazed mind, but the sudden sting of antiseptic being poured over his wounds sent another wave of pain crashing through him. His body jerked weakly in response, and the pressure against his throat increased.

 

“Damn it, he’s still bleeding—apply more pressure!” Bucky gasped, choking as a fresh wave of agony rolled through him. He barely noticed the needle sliding into the crook of his arm, the cool rush of fluids flooding his veins in an attempt to stabilize his plummeting vitals. His limbs felt impossibly heavy, every movement sluggish and uncoordinated.

 

“We need to intubate if his oxygen levels drop any further,” someone warned. “His breathing is shallow—get that mask on him now!”

 

The metal muzzle that had been forced onto his face was wrenched off with a sharp, mechanical hiss, only for another mask to take its place—this one softer, clear, pressing down over his nose and mouth as a steady stream of oxygen pumped through. The cold bite of it sent a shiver down his spine, his lungs stuttering as he struggled to take in a full breath.

 

“We have to move him now!”

 

“Heart rate’s dropping,” someone else warned. “He’s going into shock.”

 

The words barely made sense anymore, muffled and distant as the darkness at the edges of his vision swallowed more of his awareness. He could feel hands gripping his body, lifting him onto something—hard plastic beneath his back, straps securing him in place. The motion jostled his wounds, another flash of searing pain ripping through him, but he couldn’t even react anymore. His body wasn’t his own—it was just an open wound, bleeding out onto cold metal, fading into nothingness.

 

The last thing he heard before unconsciousness finally dragged him under was the sound of a machine beeping wildly, the rapid, erratic beat of his heart echoing in the sterile room.

 

Then, silence. Darkness enveloped him, thick and suffocating, but somewhere within it, warmth flickered like the last ember of a dying fire. Bucky wasn’t in a cold, sterile prison anymore. He was somewhere else .

 

Soft laughter echoed around him, familiar and distant all at once. He turned, and there they were—Steve, younger, grinning, standing in the golden light of a Brooklyn afternoon. His uniform was crisp, his shield strapped to his back, and his eyes—those damn blue eyes—were filled with something Bucky hadn’t seen in so long: ease. Relief.

 

“You comin’, Buck, or what?” Steve’s voice rang out, playful, teasing, like they were kids again, running through the streets, causing trouble. Bucky wanted to answer, wanted to reach out, but the scene shifted like water slipping through his fingers. Suddenly, he was at the Tower, sitting at the long communal table, watching Sam argue with Clint over a game of cards while Natasha smirked in amusement. Bruce sat in the corner, reading, occasionally glancing up when Tony made some dramatic remark about genius being underappreciated .

 

It felt real . He could smell the coffee Steve was drinking, hear the distant hum of Friday’s voice in the background. He could feel the leather of the chair beneath him, the warmth of the light pouring in through the windows.

 

Then— A suffocating, biting cold that didn’t belong.

 

The dream fractured. A ringing sound filled his ears. The golden light faded, bleeding into harsh fluorescents. The scent of coffee vanished, replaced by antiseptic and metal. Voices warped and twisted, dissolving into something low and taunting.

 

Wake up.

 

His breath hitched as reality slammed back into him like a freight train. His eyes fluttered open to a ceiling too white, too bright. The steady beeping of a heart monitor filled the suffocating silence. Bucky inhaled sharply, but the moment he tried to move, a searing pain exploded at his throat. He let out a choked sound, his body jerking on instinct as he realized— He was strapped down.

 

Thick restraints pinned both wrists to the cold metal rails of the bed. His muscles tensed, an immediate panic creeping up his spine as he weakly pulled at them, but his body was too weak to do much more than shift. His arms felt heavy, an IV needle embedded in one, clear tubing running from his skin to a bag hanging overhead. His chest rose and fell with the assistance of a nasal cannula, the plastic tubing biting into the bruised skin of his cheek.

 

And his neck— The pain was unbearable. He barely had to move to feel the thick layers of gauze wrapped around his throat, pressing against raw, stitched flesh. The fight. The tiger. The teeth.

 

A wave of nausea rolled through him. Bucky clenched his jaw, forcing himself to stay still, to take in his surroundings despite the haze of pain muddling his senses. The room was empty—no windows, no cameras that he could see, just a handful of monitors keeping track of his vitals and the steady drip of fluids keeping him alive.

 

His breathing was slow, but the second the door slid open, it stuttered. Pierce entered, his presence suffocating in the too-quiet space. A doctor trailed behind him, clipboard in hand, expression unreadable.

 

“Look who finally decided to join us again,” Pierce mused, stepping closer to the bed. His voice was pleasant, almost kind , but the glint in his eyes was anything but. “You gave us quite the show, kid. That little stunt of yours nearly cost you your life.” Bucky didn’t move, just let his eyes flicker toward the doctor as he scribbled something onto his chart. He could feel the exhaustion pulling at him, every fiber of his body demanding rest, but he refused to let himself slip back under while Pierce was in the room.

 

“The damage was extensive,” the doctor finally spoke. “The carotid artery was narrowly missed, but the jugular wasn’t so lucky. Emergency surgery was required to stop the hemorrhaging. We also had to administer multiple transfusions to compensate for the blood loss. The bite wounds were deep—several punctures required internal stitching. You’re lucky the infection didn’t set in immediately.”

 

Bucky remained silent, the weight of the words pressing down on him like lead. Pierce hummed, tilting his head as he studied Bucky’s impassive expression. “This wouldn’t have happened if you had simply done what you were meant to do,” he said smoothly, stepping closer to the bed. “Your instincts were screaming at you, weren’t they? Telling you to fight, to kill, to survive . But you resisted. You still think you’re human enough to play by their rules.”

 

A cold hand brushed against the bandages at Bucky’s throat, fingers ghosting over the bruised skin just below his jaw. Bucky flinched, his shackled wrists jerking on instinct, his breath coming out sharp and uneven through the nasal cannula. Pierce smirked. “You’re not, you know. Not really. Hydra made sure of that.” Bucky’s eyes darkened, his muscles coiling with what little strength he had, but Pierce just chuckled, straightening.

 

“Rest up,” he said easily, turning toward the door. “Because once you’re back on your feet, we’ll continue your training.”

 

Bucky’s stomach twisted. Pierce glanced back over his shoulder, eyes gleaming with amusement. “And this time, you won’t hesitate.”

 

The door hissed shut behind him, leaving Bucky alone with nothing but the sterile, mechanical beeping of the machines keeping him alive.

Chapter 32

Notes:

Hey reader friends!

Short chapter today, and yep — it’s still rough for our sweet Bucky (I promise things will get better… or maybe not 😅 who knows?)

TW: graphic descriptions of injury and blood in this chapter

Thanks again for all your comments, seriously — it means a lot!

Pierce wasted no time. The moment Bucky could stand without collapsing, he was dragged back into the fighting pits. The wounds from his last battle had barely healed, the deep gashes across his arms and torso still raw beneath hastily applied bandages, but it didn’t matter. They didn’t care.

The fights became relentless. One after another, they threw him against whatever monstrosities Hydra had bred in their quest for the perfect weapon. Some were like him—fragments of men, twisted into something else. Others were nothing more than animals in human skin, rabid and mindless, tearing at anything that moved. And Pierce made sure there was always blood.

 

The arena smelled of it. The thick, metallic stench clung to Bucky’s skin, burrowed into his clothes, turned his stomach every time he sucked in a breath. His knuckles were always split open, his ribs always bruised. His body had long since adjusted to the ache of torn muscle and fractured bone.

 

But the worst part wasn’t the pain. It was what he could feel changing.

 

The first few fights, he’d fought like a man. Using his training, his discipline. But they pushed him. They deprived him of sleep, sent him into fights with his body half-broken, starved him just enough to make him feel hungry . Not enough to kill him—just enough to fray the edges of his mind, to leave him desperate, instinct-driven.

 

And instincts were dangerous.

 

Instincts made his pupils dilate, made his ears twitch at the sound of movement behind him. Instincts made his teeth itch, his claws extend before he even realized what he was doing. The first time he pinned an opponent instead of simply knocking them out, he caught himself a second too late, the weight of his own body pressing them down, his canines bared. He hadn’t even thought about it. It had just… happened.

 

The worst of it came when they forced him to fight two .

 

It was a pair of failed experiments, wild-eyed and foaming at the mouth, their bodies laced with scars, their minds long since shattered. Bucky barely had time to get his bearings before they lunged, one going for his throat, the other slamming into his ribs.

He held out for as long as he could, dodging, countering, but his body was exhausted. His movements became sluggish, and the moment he faltered, the first one got its teeth into his shoulder. The pain was blinding, a sharp, tearing sensation as flesh ripped beneath jagged teeth. Bucky roared, more out of rage than pain, and then—

 

Something snapped .

 

He wasn’t thinking anymore. The pain, the exhaustion, the blood pooling beneath him—it all blurred into nothing. The world turned sharp, his breath coming out in ragged pants, something feral curling in his chest. And then he tore them apart.

 

He moved faster, sharper, like his body finally understood what it was meant to do. His claws raked through skin like it was paper, his movements fluid, deadly . When one tried to flee, he caught them by the ankle and dragged them back, slamming them into the ground with a force that made bones crack . The scent of blood filled his lungs, and for the first time, he wanted it.

 

By the time the fight was over, he was standing over them, his breathing ragged, his hands trembling. The room was silent. Behind the glass, Pierce watched with satisfaction.

 

Bucky looked down at himself. Blood. So much blood . His hands, his chest, his face—it wasn’t his. It was theirs . His stomach lurched. He stumbled back, his breath hitching as the weight of it hit . He hadn’t just fought them. He had hunted them. He had enjoyed it. A low chuckle echoed through the arena.

 

“Well, well,” Pierce’s voice hummed through the speakers. “Seems like you’re finally getting the hang of it.” Bucky swallowed hard, bile rising in his throat.

 

He was losing it.

 

Bucky had lost all sense of time. The days blurred into each other, indistinguishable from the next, a cycle of pain, exhaustion, and bloodshed. He felt like a pitbull in an underground fighting ring, dragged out of his cage whenever Pierce decided it was time for another round. If his wounds weren’t too severe, he was forced into the arena daily. If they were worse, he got three days, maybe a week, before they threw him back in. It wasn’t enough time to heal. It was barely enough time to breathe .

 

Refusal was never an option. Not when Pierce had his leash . The ultrasonic waves, the electric shocks—they made resistance impossible . The pain was unbearable, a white-hot agony that seared through his skull and turned his nerves to fire. Bucky had tried, God , he had tried to hold out, to refuse, to fight back in the only way he could. But in the end, he was always forced to give in, to step onto that killing floor, to let himself be turned into a spectacle.

 

Every night, when the cell door clanged shut behind him and his body ached with fresh wounds, he prayed—prayed that Steve and the others would find him , would pull him out before it was too late. Before Pierce stripped away the last remnants of who he was and turned him into something else entirely. He wasn’t trying to erase Bucky’s mind, not like Hydra had done before. This was worse .

 

Pierce wanted him aware . He wanted to bury Bucky’s humanity under instinct, to smother it beneath hunger, pain, and desperation until there was nothing left but the beast inside. He wanted to break him, not by taking his memories, but by making him forsake them willingly.

 

And no matter how hard Bucky resisted, no matter how much he clung to himself, he could feel it happening. He could feel his mind slipping .

 

The hunger made it worse. They starved him just enough to make his body crave , to heighten his aggression, to force him to rely on the instincts they were trying to sharpen. Every time he stepped into the pit, it became harder to hold back. And then, one day, it happened. The first time, it was subtle. A moment of blackout, a brief lapse in time. He had been in control—dodging, countering, thinking—and then he wasn’t . His vision had tunneled, his senses sharpening too much, his body reacting on something deeper than thought. And then—

 

Nothing.

 

When he came back to himself, his opponent was sprawled at his feet, blood soaking into the sand. Bucky’s hands were red. His claws ached, and his heart thundered in his chest like a war drum. He couldn’t remember what had happened.He hadn’t meant to black out. He hadn’t wanted to. But it had taken him anyway. And Pierce had smiled .

 

That was the moment he knew. This wasn’t just about survival anymore. Pierce wasn’t training him. He was conditioning him. The next fight was worse. Another gap in his memory. Another body left broken beneath him. And the horror was knowing —knowing it had been him , knowing he had done it , but being unable to remember how .

 

The more it happened, the more satisfied Pierce became. The control, the resistance, the desperate fight to hold onto what made him Bucky Barnes —it was slipping through his fingers like sand.

 

And he didn’t know how much longer he could hold on.

Chapter 33

Notes:

Hey reader friends!

Bucky’s gonna be hurting again today 😅 Sorry to those who aren’t into that kind of stuff, but I promise things will get better soon!

TW: graphic descriptions of injury and violence

Bucky had survived a lot of things, endured pain most people couldn’t even fathom, but this—this was different . This was worse. The realization that he was losing time, that entire fights were disappearing from his memory, left a sick, gnawing terror in his gut. He wasn’t just being broken down physically; his mind was being tampered with, rewired, corrupted in ways he didn’t understand. And the worst part?

 

Pierce knew exactly what was happening . He could see it in the way the man watched him, that infuriating, smug amusement written all over his face whenever Bucky snapped back to himself, panting, disoriented, drenched in someone else’s blood. And every time Bucky demanded answers, every time he begged to know what was being done to him, Pierce only laughed, dismissing his concerns like they were meaningless.

 

“You worry too much, darling. You’re doing exactly what you were made to do.”

 

That was the worst part. The way he spoke to him, the way he treated him like some prized, well-trained animal.

 

Back in the isolation of his cell, Bucky curled up in the farthest corner, arms wrapped tightly around himself, trying to remember . But no matter how hard he concentrated, no matter how many times he tried to force the pieces to come together, the gaps remained. The fights were there one second—he could remember stepping into the pit, hearing the lock click behind him, the sound of his opponent’s breathing—and then nothing. Just flashes of red, of torn flesh, the taste of blood in his mouth. Then consciousness snapping back into place, the weight of his own body feeling foreign and wrong, as if he’d only just woken up inside it again.

 

His body was changing. His behavior was changing. Little things at first—things he could ignore if he tried hard enough. But then he started catching himself moving wrong , crouching low when he should have been standing, reacting to sounds too quickly, his muscles twitching with anticipation even when there was no threat. He had to force himself to straighten up, to walk normally instead of pacing like a caged animal. And talking— talking was becoming harder. He could still speak, but it was getting easier to stay silent. Easier to respond with gestures and body language instead of words.

 

And Pierce noticed . He was always watching, always pushing , always testing to see just how far Bucky could be broken. Whenever Bucky made an effort to speak, to hold onto his humanity, he was there to make it harder. A squeeze of the collar, a casual flick of a switch that sent an agonizing jolt through his nerves. If that didn’t work, Pierce wasn’t above using his own fists, delivering sharp, well-placed blows that left Bucky reeling. It was all a game to him, a test , and he was winning .

 

The worst part wasn’t the fights. It was him . His hands —always on Bucky, always lingering in ways that made his skin crawl. His voice, his touch, the way he cooed at him like he was nothing more than a pet. He loved treating him like this. Like some exotic creature he could own . Like a damn cat , always running his fingers through Bucky’s hair, tugging lightly at his ears, pressing a thumb against the hole in his right ear where a claw had torn through it in a fight. Bucky flinched every time.

 

“Sensitive, aren’t you?” he mused, thumb pressing just a little harder, making Bucky hiss through his teeth. “You should really learn to sit still, darling. You belong to me now—” Bucky snapped , jerking his head back with a growl, his teeth bared before he even thought about it. He hated the way Pierce only laughed , tilting his head in mock amusement.

 

“That’s my boy.”

 

Bucky clenched his fists so tightly his claws bit into his own palms. He wasn’t going to let Pierce win. He wasn’t going to let him take what was left . Bucky had learned not to trust routine. The moment something became predictable, Pierce would change it . He always had a new way to break him, a new game to play, another level of hell to drag him through. So when the door to his cell slid open, Bucky didn’t move right away. He sat there, his muscles coiled, his ears twitching at the faintest sound of movement.

Pierce stood in the doorway, watching him expectantly.

 

“Get up.”

 

Bucky swallowed down the grimace threatening to show on his face as he rose to his feet. His body still ached from his last fight, deep bruises hidden beneath his skin, ribs that weren’t healing as fast as they should, but he forced himself to move as if nothing hurt. He had to. Showing weakness only gave Pierce more reason to press his advantage. He expected to be led toward the combat arena again. Expected another opponent, another fight, another bloody test of how much of himself he could lose before he forgot who he used to be.

 

But the path they took was different. Bucky’s steps slowed, his brows furrowing as he realized they were heading down a corridor he didn’t recognize. Every other turn he had memorized. This? This was new . His instincts bristled, his shoulders tensing as they approached a reinforced door, the kind that only opened with multiple security clearances. That was never a good sign.

 

The moment he stepped inside, his stomach dropped . The room smelled wrong . Too sterile. Too clean. And at the center of it all—a chair . Not just any chair. A medical restraint chair . Bucky’s breath hitched as his gaze locked onto the steel bindings attached to the armrests and footrests, the thick, reinforced straps designed to hold someone down—designed to keep them from fighting .

 

No.

 

His pulse pounded in his ears, drowning out everything else. He barely registered the sound of the door locking behind him. His body was already reacting before his brain could process, his weight shifting, his stance widening as his eyes darted around the room, searching for an exit.

 

“Bucky,” he said smoothly, his voice almost soothing if not for the wicked glint in his eyes. “You’re going to cooperate, aren’t you?”

 

Bucky’s breath came faster. He couldn’t be here. He couldn’t do this. The edges of his vision blurred, old memories colliding with the present— metal restraints biting into his wrists, sparks flashing behind his eyes, Hydra scientists speaking in calm, clinical voices as they turned the dial higher and higher— He took a step back. Then another. His back hit the door.

 

“Don’t,” he breathed, his voice hoarse.

 

Pierce tilted his head in mock curiosity. “Don’t what?” The walls were closing in. The chair wasn’t just a chair . It was Hydra . It was pain. It was erasing him piece by piece . Bucky’s mouth opened, and to his own horror, words tumbled out before he could stop them.

 

“Please.” A flicker of surprise crossed Pierce’s face before his lips curled into a slow, satisfied smirk. He took his time approaching, circling him like a predator who had finally cornered its prey.

 

“That wasn’t so hard, was it?” Bucky hated himself for saying it. Hated the tremor in his breath, the way his knees threatened to buckle. But it didn’t matter. Pierce had already won . He gave a sharp nod to the guards.

 

“Strap him in.”

 

Bucky fought . He thrashed , ripping his arms away, his claws unsheathing as he tried to dig them into anything that wasn’t air . He elbowed one guard in the ribs, kicked out at another, sent the chair skidding a few inches across the floor in his struggle. But he was still weak —too many fights, too much hunger, and they knew it .

Hands clamped down on his arms, shoving him forward. The world tilted as he was forced into the chair, metal digging into his skin, restraints clamping down . He felt the weight of them, felt his freedom disappear in the span of seconds. The moment the last strap was tightened around his wrist, he snapped .

 

“DON’T DO THIS—” A hand slammed against his throat, pressing him deeper into the chair. Pierce leaned in, his breath warm against Bucky’s ear, his tone almost affectionate .

 

“You’ll thank me later, darling.”

Chapter 34

Notes:

Hey folks! There’s a little surprise in this chapter 😅 for Bucky (and yeah… not a good one). Things are getting even more intense.

TW: graphic description of body modification (heads up if you’re sensitive), and violence.

Bucky expected darkness, the numbing oblivion of unconsciousness, but it never came. Instead, the drug seeped into his system like poison, warping the edges of reality until everything felt distant—muted, stretched, wrong . His limbs went slack against the restraints, his breathing slowed, and his head lolled to the side as if even the weight of it was too much to bear. Thoughts drifted sluggishly through his mind, colliding without coherence. What did they give me?

 

The room swam, the bright fluorescent lights above shifting, twisting, turning into something unrecognizable. His vision blurred, then refocused, but everything felt delayed , like his brain was half a second behind his body. He tried to move—his fingers, his wrists, anything—but his muscles wouldn’t listen, his body drowning in an unnatural, heavy calm.

 

He hated it. A hand cupped his jaw, fingers pressing into his skin with calculated control, turning his face toward a figure he could barely make out. The scent reached him before his sluggish brain identified the face. Pierce.

 

“Good,” Pierce murmured, his grip lingering, thumb trailing just under Bucky’s cheekbone as if admiring his handiwork. “That’s much better. Look at you, all docile now.” Bucky tried to jerk away from his touch, but the effort barely amounted to a twitch. His breathing hitched, frustration and fear tangling into a dull haze that thickened with every slow blink.

 

Another presence entered the room. The sound of footsteps, the faint rustle of fabric. Bucky’s ears twitched, his instincts struggling to stay alert even as the drug weighed him down.

 

“Let’s begin,” Pierce said smoothly.

 

Bucky tried to keep up with the conversation, but his mind was slipping between seconds, awareness fracturing. He caught bits and pieces. Relax. Just a precaution. Testing durability. Studying regeneration rates. Hands moved over his arms, fingers prodding at his skin, pulling at his eyelids, pressing cold instruments against his ribs. Something sharp pricked his forearm. He tried to flinch, but his body remained frustratingly unresponsive.

 

Then, out of the corner of his vision, he saw it. A syringe. The liquid inside glowed an unsettling, unnatural shade of blue. Something in the recesses of his memory twitched , warning bells muffled beneath the drug’s hold. He knew that color. He’d seen it before, but the thought slipped away before he could grasp it.

 

The needle sank into his arm. At first, there was nothing. Just the familiar sting, the sensation of something cold slipping into his veins. Then— burning .

 

A slow, creeping fire ignited beneath his skin, spreading with every beat of his heart. It started as a low thrum, an ache, but quickly grew sharper, hotter, burrowing into his bones like molten iron. His breath hitched, a strangled noise escaping his throat. His fingers twitched against the restraints, his pulse hammering wildly as the pain escalated fast . His body tried to recoil, instinct screaming at him to move , to fight , to get it out . His muscles spasmed against the straps, but his strength was still dulled, leaving him trapped in his own agony. His breath came in sharp, uneven gasps, his mind clawing for clarity, but the drug still held him in its suffocating grip.

 

Pierce watched, expression unreadable. “It’ll pass,” he murmured, though there was no comfort in his tone. “Adaptation is never easy. But you’ll survive.”

 

Bucky barely heard him. His head rolled to the side, his vision flickering in and out of focus as the pain roared through him, setting every nerve on fire. He bit down hard, stifling the pitiful sound threatening to leave his lips, but his body betrayed him—his back arched slightly, muscles locking in reaction. He felt hands on him again, unfastening the restraints, but before he could react, he was hauled from the chair. His legs refused to hold him, his knees buckling instantly.

 

“Put him in containment,” Pierce ordered, his voice already fading into the background. Bucky barely registered being dragged through the halls, barely felt the cold floor beneath him as he was dumped into a new cell—reinforced, sterile, colder than the last. The door slid shut with an ominous hiss.

 

Pain surged anew, radiating outward from his core, his limbs curling inward instinctively. His breath came in short, uneven pants as his fingers clawed at the floor, his body trembling violently. His skin felt tight , burning from the inside out, every cell in his body screaming in protest. He had no idea what they had done to him. But as the agony intensified, twisting through his bones, through his very being , he realized one thing with certainty.

 

This was change . Behind the reinforced glass of the observation room, Pierce folded his arms, watching the screen where Bucky writhed in agony inside his containment cell. The dim lighting cast deep shadows across his face, but the glint in his eyes betrayed his interest.

 

“Is he going to survive this?” His voice was smooth, unbothered, as though he were merely inquiring about the weather.

 

The scientist beside him, a man of sharp features and an unsettlingly neutral expression, adjusted his glasses and monitored the readings on the nearby console. “His body is resisting the changes as expected. But given his enhanced physiology and the pre-existing genetic modifications, I would say his chances are… favorable.” He paused, considering. “That being said, this is the first test of its kind. If his system rejects the mutation, he could die. Or worse—his DNA could destabilize, resulting in complete cellular breakdown. He might become a mindless beast, indistinguishable from the other failures. Or, if this works…” He trailed off, his lips curling slightly. “We may witness the first successful full-body transformation of its kind. A living hybrid, something beyond human or animal. A true creation of science.”

 

Pierce hummed, pleased. “Then the real test,” he murmured, gaze locked on the trembling figure in the cell, “will be if his mind holds.”

 

Inside the cell, Bucky had long since lost track of time. The pain had settled into something unbearable, growing by the second, gnawing at the very fabric of his being. He had been through agony before—through beatings, through torture, through surgeries that cut him apart and pieced him back together. But this —this was different. This wasn’t just pain. This was his body breaking itself apart, tearing itself open from the inside. His breath came in ragged, uneven gasps, sweat dripping down his temples as he curled against the cold floor, trying— desperately —to ground himself. His claws dug into the steel beneath him, leaving deep gouges as he sought something, anything , to hold onto. His body convulsed violently, muscles twitching uncontrollably beneath his skin, as if something inside him was trying to crawl its way out . His heartbeat pounded in his ears, deafening, drowning out even the harsh mechanical hum of the room around him.

 

He didn’t understand. He couldn’t understand. His bones shifted .

 

A sickening crack echoed through the room as something inside him twisted unnaturally, sending a fresh wave of agony lancing through his spine. He choked on a gasp, his vision flashing white-hot as his body spasmed again. His ribs stretched , widening as if they were rearranging themselves, his chest rising and falling in erratic, uneven bursts. Every nerve in his body screamed .

His limbs burned, the muscles beneath his skin tightening and thickening, his fingers lengthening slightly as his claws extended further , black and curved like sharpened obsidian. The fine hair on his arms darkened, thickened—his skin itself seeming to shift , the texture subtly changing into something tougher, something not human .

 

Then—another spike of pain, sharp and blinding . His jaw ached — burned —and then it snapped .

 

His breath hitched, his hands flying to his face as his bones shifted , his jaw widening, sharpening at the edges, his teeth growing into something longer, deadlier. The ache spread through his skull, his ears ringing as their shape altered , becoming more pointed, more sensitive. Then, finally, the worst of it.

 

His spine .

 

The first crack made him seize, his back arching off the ground as his vertebrae stretched , elongating, something forcing its way out of the base of his spine. His tail—once long, sleek— grew , thickened with new muscle, the fur darkening into something impossibly black, almost blue under the dim light. His body followed, muscles expanding , his frame shifting into something slightly larger, his shoulders broadening, his stance shifting into something more fluid, more predatory. Then the final snap—one that shattered whatever control he had left.

 

The pain surged into something unbearable, and his body—his very being —couldn’t take it anymore. His head tilted back, mouth parting, and for the first time since it had begun, Bucky screamed .

 

Not a human scream. But a deep, raw, primal roar —something purely beastial , echoing through the chamber, vibrating through the very walls. The scientists watching from behind the glass froze , their monitors lighting up with erratic readings. Pierce exhaled slowly, a satisfied smirk curling at the edge of his lips.

 

“Now that ,” he murmured, watching as Bucky collapsed, his chest heaving, his body still wracked with tremors, “is progress.”

Chapter 35

Notes:

Heyyyy! Hope you’re all doing great 😁 Today’s chapter has our poor Bucky getting a very harsh (and very violent) reality check 😅

TW: graphic violence

Bucky lay motionless in the center of the containment chamber, his body no longer human, no longer something caught between two worlds—but something new . The transformation had been a grotesque symphony of breaking, reshaping, becoming , and now, in its aftermath, the creature that remained was nothing short of terrifyingly beautiful .

 

The panther lying before them was far from an ordinary animal. The scientists, still staring at their monitors, cataloged the first observations in stunned silence. Pierce, however, stepped closer to the reinforced glass, his breath slow, controlled, yet unmistakably fascinated.

 

Bucky’s new form was massive. Larger than any natural panther, his shoulders were broad, his muscles coiled with power beneath an impossibly sleek black coat, the deep hue absorbing the dim light of the room, making him appear almost like a living shadow. Unlike an ordinary feline, his proportions weren’t just beastly—his frame was built for something beyond nature. His hind legs were longer, allowing for explosive bursts of speed, his claws retractable but sharper than any steel, curved into deadly hooks that could slice through flesh and armor alike. His tail was thicker, more muscular, an extension of his lethal grace, but the most striking feature wasn’t his formidable build. It was his eyes .

 

The same piercing, icy blue remained, now more haunting than ever, set against the midnight fur of his face. They glowed faintly under the sterile lab lights, inhuman and intelligent , locked in some unconscious war between man and beast.

 

The scientist beside Pierce adjusted his glasses, still eyeing the monitors filled with biometric data. “This… exceeds expectations,” he murmured. “His size—his muscle density—his structure… it’s as if his body adapted in a way that’s more refined than the others. More evolved .” He hesitated. “He’s retained his symmetry. None of the deformities or abnormalities we’ve seen in previous trials.”

 

Pierce’s lips twitched with satisfaction. “Perfect.” There was no other word for it. This was not a mindless experiment gone wrong. This was success .

 

Finally, with careful consideration, Pierce gestured toward the entrance of the chamber. “Open it.”

 

The scientist looked at him sharply. “Sir, that’s highly—”

 

“I said , open it.”

 

With reluctance, the doors hissed open, and Pierce stepped inside. Soldiers followed closely, their rifles raised, tranquilizer rounds loaded. They were tense, waiting for a reaction, their fingers hovering over the triggers. But Bucky didn’t move. His massive chest rose and fell with heavy, controlled breaths, his body still, save for the occasional twitch of his claws against the floor, as though his mind were still catching up with what had been done to him. He had yet to truly awaken to his new form.

Pierce exhaled in appreciation, taking another step closer, his boots clicking against the sterile ground. Even unconscious, the sheer presence of the beast in front of him was overwhelming .

 

Then—Bucky stirred . A faint tremor ran through his muscles, and his breath hitched as consciousness clawed its way back into him. The soldiers tensed, their grips tightening on their weapons, some taking a step back.

 

Slowly, his head lifted. And then—those eyes snapped open again. A deep, resonant growl rolled from his throat, vibrating through the walls, a sound so primal, so filled with warning, that every single person in the room felt it. The weight of it pressed against their chests, sent cold dread snaking down their spines. Pierce smiled . Because those icy, glowing eyes—the ones that locked onto him with unwavering intensity—weren’t mindless.

 

They were watching and then pierce take the remote and just push one button.

 

Pain. Searing, blinding, unrelenting pain. The moment the current surged through his body, Bucky’s world exploded into agony. His muscles seized, locking up so violently that his limbs spasmed, his claws raking against the sterile floor, carving deep gouges into the tile. A raw, guttural snarl tore from his throat, the sound fractured by the tremors wracking his entire frame. His vision went white, static roaring in his ears as the voltage burned through him, every nerve set aflame by the sheer power of it. His body convulsed against the floor, his hind legs kicking out involuntarily, his tail thrashing wildly in response to the attack he couldn’t escape.

 

And then, just as suddenly as it had come, the current ceased .

 

Bucky collapsed, his massive frame hitting the ground with a heavy thud , his ribs expanding and contracting in rapid, shallow breaths. His limbs twitched sporadically, residual tremors still coursing through him, his claws flexing instinctively against the cool tile. The coppery taste of blood lingered on his tongue—his own, likely from biting down too hard in his struggle.

 

Bucky’s ears flicked toward the sound automatically, his instincts sharpening despite the haze clouding his mind. He wanted to lunge, tear , rip , but his body refused to cooperate. He was too heavy . Something was wrong .

 

His head throbbed, each beat of his heart a dull boom reverberating through his skull, his senses sluggish, overloaded by the onslaught of information flooding in all at once. The world felt different. The floor beneath him was closer than it should be. His limbs— his hands —felt…wrong. A low rumble vibrated in his chest—. Bucky frowned—or, at least, he tried to.

 

His brow furrowed, the expression automatic, but it felt off . Stiff. Something shifted where his lips should be, and instead of words, a low, throaty growl escaped his mouth. His ears flicked again.

 

Wait.

 

Panic crawled up his spine, slow and creeping, like ice seeping into his veins. His breath hitched, his instincts screaming at him that something was wrong , but his brain struggled to process what. Everything felt too much —his skin was hypersensitive, his heartbeat a roar in his ears, scents overwhelming his nose, a strange new weight settled along his back, his spine arching in ways it never should.

 

His gaze darted downward. And froze . The polished tile beneath him reflected his shape, fractured and warped by the overhead lights, but the image was unmistakable. A panther.

 

No .

 

Bucky blinked rapidly, his breath coming faster now, chest rising and falling with mounting distress. He tried to lift his hands— his hands —but sleek, powerful, furred limbs responded instead, claws flexing instinctively against the floor.

 

The air left his lungs all at once. That thing in the reflection—that beast —was him .

 

Bucky’s body seized , his breath strangled by pure, undiluted terror . His heart thundered against his ribs, his lungs struggling to expand, panic turning his thoughts into static. This wasn’t real. It couldn’t be real. He opened his mouth to scream, but only a deep, distressed snarl ripped from his throat, echoing off the cold, sterile walls.

Chapter 36

Notes:

Hey yo folks!

Our poor Bucky’s suffering again (as always), but hang in there — things will get better soon ❤️ Gotta have some angst for everyone, right?

TW: graphic violence

Bucky’s panicked gaze snapped to Pierce, his piercing blue eyes wide, pupils blown so large they nearly swallowed the color entirely. His massive, sleek form trembled, each labored breath sending a shudder down his powerful frame. He didn’t need words—his entire body screamed the question that his voice no longer could: What have you done to me?

 

He turned sharply, his claws clicking against the floor, his tail lashing violently as he tried to make sense of his own body. His limbs felt too long, his muscles coiled with a strength that was both unfamiliar and terrifying. He lifted a paw—observing the sharp, retractable claws that extended involuntarily in response to his distress. He could feel them, the way they flexed as though they had always been a part of him. His instincts—ones he hadn’t possessed before—told him to crouch, to move differently, his shoulders shifting under his dense fur as he turned again, catching his reflection in the glass of the observation window.

 

The creature staring back was him —a massive panther, pitch-black and twice the size of any normal one. He could see the powerful structure of his new body, muscles rippling beneath his coat, his movements as fluid as a predator’s. He inhaled sharply, but that only made things worse—the scents in the room crashed into him all at once, overwhelming in their intensity. Metal, sweat, Pierce’s cologne, the rubbery stench of wires and medical equipment. He sneezed at the assault on his senses, but it came out as something between a snort and a low growl.

 

Panic mounting, he turned back to Pierce, lips parting to demand answers, to scream at him. Instead, a guttural, choked mewl —somewhere between a growl and a strangled yowl—escaped his throat, deep and resonant, nothing like his own voice. His ears flattened instantly, mortified at the sound. Pierce, of course, laughed .

 

“Oh, look at you,” he mused, eyes gleaming with amusement. “Still trying to talk? You’re adorable .”

 

Bucky’s lips curled back, exposing a terrifying set of serrated fangs. His ears pinned back against his skull, and a low, menacing rumble vibrated deep in his chest. The pure rage that surged through him drowned out everything else. It didn’t matter what he looked like—Pierce was right there . He lunged forward, his massive paws barely making a sound as he moved like a shadow, sleek and deadly.

 

Pierce didn’t even flinch. The moment Bucky advanced, his hand lifted, thumb pressing down on the sleek remote in his palm. Pain.

 

White-hot agony exploded through Bucky’s body, sending him crashing onto the cold floor with a strangled roar . Every muscle seized, his limbs jerking uncontrollably, his claws scraping uselessly against the tile as another pulse of electricity tore through his nervous system. His tail lashed wildly, ears flattened against his skull as his vision blurred. He couldn’t move . The pain was unlike anything he’d ever felt, sinking deep into his bones, setting his very nerves on fire.

 

When the current finally stopped, his entire body collapsed, chest heaving, limbs twitching from the lingering aftershocks. His breath came in ragged, shuddering gasps, his tongue hanging slightly from his open maw as he fought to recover. Every part of him ached, his new form still too raw, too unfamiliar, making it even harder to regain control.

 

Pierce crouched in front of him, close —too close. Bucky’s first instinct was to lunge, to tear him apart , but his body refused to obey, still weak from the shock.

 

“Now, now,” Pierce tsked, shaking his head. “I told you to behave.” He gestured toward the fallen predator with mock sympathy. “I’d hate to have to do that again . And trust me, it can get much worse.” Bucky exhaled sharply through his nose, a heavy puff of hot breath that ruffled the fabric of Pierce’s pristine suit. He could still smell the sickening stench of satisfaction radiating from the man.

 

“But,” Pierce continued, straightening, “I will give you some good news.” His smirk widened. “This transformation should be temporary.”

 

Bucky’s ears perked slightly despite himself. Pierce let the moment linger before adding, “ Once you learn how to control it, of course.”

 

Bucky’s stomach dropped. The bastard was enjoying this. Testing him. Breaking him down, piece by piece. Bucky had endured a lot in his lifetime—torture, war, mind control—but this? This was humiliating . The moment they decided to conduct a full examination, he knew it wasn’t going to be easy. Even in his current state, barely familiar with his own body, he wasn’t going to make it easy for them. But Pierce was prepared for his resistance, of course. He always was.

 

It took six tranquilizer darts to bring him down, each one slamming into his flank with a sharp sting before pumping enough sedatives into his bloodstream to drop an elephant. And still— still —he refused to fully lose consciousness. His mind floated in a fog, his limbs heavy, body sluggish, but his senses remained frustratingly intact. He could hear everything. Feel everything. He just… couldn’t fight back.

 

The exam began with his eyes —too bright lights flashing against his retinas, the sensation of his eyelids being pried open by gloved fingers as someone muttered about their unusual luminescence . The slurred voices barely registered through the haze. Then came his teeth . Bucky’s lips were forcibly pulled back, exposing rows of massive, razor-sharp fangs that gleamed under the sterile glow of the room. Someone whistled.

 

“ Jesus Christ, ” one of them murmured. “ We could throw him in the wild, and he’d take down an elephant in seconds. ”

 

“ Well, he’s not exactly an herbivore, ” another chimed in. “ Hell, I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s craving raw meat already. ”

 

“ His breath’s atrocious, ” someone else muttered as they pushed his jaw open, inspecting his teeth with unsettling fascination. “ Ever heard of feline dental care? Because this one sure as hell needs it. ” Bucky rumbled deep in his throat, a lazy, irritated growl that barely required effort in his current state. He desperately wanted to bite down—just one good snap , just enough to send a message—but the tranquilizers had sapped the strength from his jaw. He could do nothing but endure as they cataloged every feature of his new form.

 

They measured his claws —sharp, curved weapons that extended far beyond the length of any human’s fingers. They prodded at his muscles , tracing the taut sinew beneath his dense fur. They recorded his size , his weight , every inhuman feature he had been forced to acquire. His tail was stretched out, inspected for length and flexibility, his ears twitched under the invasive touch of their gloved fingers, and a needle pierced his skin as they drew vials of his blood.

 

And through it all, Bucky remained painfully aware. It was only after they had gotten what they wanted that Pierce approached. Bucky could smell him before he saw him—the cloying scent of expensive cologne and something fouler , something smug and predatory beneath it. He had always hated the way Pierce smelled.

 

His blurred vision caught movement, and then—fingers scratched against the top of his head. He froze . Pierce scratched him. Like he was some goddamn house cat .

 

“There,” Pierce cooed in mock affection, “such a good boy.”

 

Bucky’s vision flared red. If his body had obeyed him, he would’ve ripped Pierce’s throat out right there . Instead, all he could do was seethe , his ears pinned back, his tail lashing weakly against the cold floor. Pierce chuckled, clearly entertained by Bucky’s impotent rage. “Get some rest,” he hummed, stepping back. “You’re going to need it.”

 

Then, mercifully, they left . Bucky lay there for what felt like hours , his mind sluggishly attempting to claw its way through the fog. His body remained heavy, his limbs unresponsive, but the worst part was that he could still feel everything . The residual touch of their hands on his skin, the needle pricks, the weight of his own foreign form pressing into his bones like a nightmare made real.

 

He forced himself to focus on the steady rhythm of his breathing, on the slow return of sensation to his limbs. His muscles ached in ways he had never experienced before—his entire frame was different, heavier, larger. The way his body moved felt off-kilter, his balance completely foreign to him. His tail twitched in frustration, as if it, too, were trying to adjust.

 

He pushed himself up— too fast . His massive paws slipped on the smooth floor, his weight shifting awkwardly. A startled growl rumbled from his chest as he stumbled into the wall, the impact sending a dull ache through his side.

 

His ears flattened, embarrassment hot beneath his fur. With a grumble of frustration, he finally gave up. He slumped down in the farthest corner of the room, tail curling around himself as he huffed out a deep sigh. His heavy lids drooped, exhaustion pressing down on him like a lead weight. His last thought before drifting into an uneasy sleep was the same as it had been since this nightmare began.

 

Please—let me wake up human again.

Chapter 37

Notes:

Hey Bucky fans!

Emotional chapter today, just a heads-up! 🤣 You asked for it — the cavalry’s finally here for our Bucky!

TW: graphic descriptions of physical transformation, violence, and blood

The first time Bucky managed to shift back, it felt like dying all over again .

 

For days, he had been trapped in this monstrous form, pacing the confines of his cell, trying everything to force his body back into something human . He had spent hours curled up, focusing every ounce of his willpower, had even tried sheer anger , but his body refused to obey. It was like being locked inside a cage within himself.

 

Then, one day, when frustration burned in his chest hotter than ever, it happened .

 

Pain tore through him like wildfire. It was nowhere near as agonizing as the initial transformation, but it still felt like his bones were breaking in reverse, like his entire structure was collapsing inward. His muscles twisted and snapped, his spine arched in a way it shouldn’t , his skin burned as if something was being peeled away . A choked, strangled sound left his throat as his claws retracted with a sickening pop, as his limbs shortened , as his ribcage shifted and his skull realigned . The worst part was the tail—it hurt , like something was being yanked back inside him, before finally stopping at the base of his spine. His ears remained , twitching involuntarily at the sound of his own ragged breathing.

 

Then it was over . Bucky collapsed onto the cold floor, his chest heaving, sweat slicking his skin. He felt raw , every nerve ending oversensitive, his body trembling from the aftershocks. And then— realization .

 

He was naked . A horrified noise tore from his throat as he scrambled toward the pile of clothes they had so generously left him, fumbling to pull them on with unsteady hands. He didn’t care how dazed he was, how much his limbs ached , he wasn’t about to give those bastards the satisfaction of seeing him like that . But there was no time to dwell on it. The moment he had regained his human form, they had new expectations for him.

 

The next few weeks were hell . Pierce wasted no time putting him through a new regime—forcing him to shift back and forth, over and over again, making him fight in both human and feral form, pushing his body until it broke just to see how long it took to put itself back together. If Bucky hesitated, if he refused, the collar reminded him of its presence with sharp, agonizing shocks that left his vision white and his muscles spasming.

 

He learned fast. He had to. His transformations became smoother , though the pain never fully disappeared. He learned to move like a predator in his feline form, his instincts growing sharper, his reflexes inhumanly fast. He started adapting to the sensations —the heightened awareness, the sheer power in his muscles, the way he could smell every single person in a room. Even as a human, it lingered—his senses sharper, his balance inhumanly precise. And that was when Pierce started pushing the real limits.

 

Bucky didn’t notice it at first. The fights got harder , the opponents stronger , but something felt off. It wasn’t until the first time he lost himself completely—waking up covered in blood, not his —that he realized what was happening. Pierce was testing his control . And worse—he had found his weakness .

 

Blood.

 

The scent of it did something primal to him, something he couldn’t fight . When it was fresh, hot, in the air, something inside him lurched , his instincts sharpening too much , pushing him toward something feral , something he couldn’t stop . The first time it happened, he thought it was a fluke. The second time, he knew it wasn’t.

 

And the third?

 

He wasn’t sure who he had been fighting, wasn’t sure what had happened, only that he had woken up with his claws dripping, his breathing heavy, his mind fogged over with something hungry . Pierce had smirked . Bucky was becoming exactly what he wanted.

 

The months blurred together in a haze of blood, sweat, and exhaustion. Bucky had long since stopped counting the fights, stopped marking the days in his mind. There was no point. Time meant nothing when every day bled into the next, a constant cycle of shifting, fighting, bleeding, and obeying. His body moved on instinct, his mind slipping further and further away with each opponent he tore apart.

 

There had been a time when he fought not to kill, when he clung to the last shreds of his humanity with everything he had. But that time had passed. Pierce had chipped away at his resistance, pushed him to his limits over and over again, until there was nothing left but the part of him that obeyed. That survived .

 

Now, as he stood in the center of the combat ring once more, sweat dripping from his skin, his breath coming in ragged gasps, he barely felt anything. His muscles burned, his knuckles were raw, his claws stained, but he didn’t care. He wiped a hand across his forehead, eyes flicking to the body at his feet. Just another one. Another nameless, faceless thing that he had been forced to fight, another soul snuffed out by hands that no longer felt like his own.

 

And then— chaos .

 

The floor trembled beneath him, the overhead lights flickered violently, casting erratic shadows along the walls. His ears twitched at the sudden blare of alarms, the sound so sharp, so piercing , that it sent a jolt of pain straight through his skull. He clenched his teeth, hands flying to his ears, trying to block out the unbearable noise. His senses were too sharp, too heightened—it felt like someone was drilling into his skull.

Through the haze of discomfort, he turned toward the observation deck. He could see Pierce there, barking orders, his expression flickering between anger and barely concealed panic.

 

Something was wrong .

 

Soldiers scrambled, moving in every direction, their weapons drawn, their formation shifting into defense mode. Bucky’s heart pounded, confusion creeping into the numbness that had settled in his chest for months. And then— boom .

The explosion tore through the observation deck’s reinforced doors, sending a thick cloud of smoke billowing into the air. He flinched, instinctively crouching low, his body readying itself for a fight, but what he saw through the clearing smoke made him freeze entirely .

 

A figure stepped through the wreckage, the familiar gleam of red and gold unmistakable even through the haze.

 

“Alright, nobody move, or I start getting creative,” Tony’s voice rang out, casual despite the tension in the air. His repulsors were raised, already charged, his stance radiating a confidence that only he could pull off in the middle of a hostage situation. “ And believe me, you don’t want me getting creative. ”

 

Bucky barely heard him. His breath caught in his throat, something aching pulling at his chest.

 

They found me.

 

The realization hit him like a physical blow, his knees nearly buckling from the sheer force of it. His heart slammed against his ribs, his lungs felt too tight, his throat thick. And then, just as his brain was trying to catch up, a second figure emerged from the smoke. A glint of silver. A red, white, and blue shield catching the dim, flickering light.

 

Steve.

 

Bucky’s entire body seized, something raw, something desperate clawing its way up his throat. His vision tunneled, every sound drowned out except for the sound of his name , his real name, falling from Steve’s lips in a voice thick with fury and something else—something aching . Steve was on Pierce in an instant, voice low and sharp with barely restrained rage. “ Where is he? ” he demanded, his whole body thrumming with tension, his grip on the shield dangerous .

 

Pierce scoffed, the smug bastard, even with the situation falling apart around him. “ You’re looking at him, Captain. But I’d be careful—he’s not quite what you remember. ”

 

Steve didn’t care . His focus had zeroed in on Bucky, his entire stance shifting the moment he saw him. And Bucky—Bucky moved before he even realized what he was doing. He threw himself at the reinforced glass that separated them, his fists slamming against it so hard it rattled on impact. “ Steve! ” His voice was hoarse , almost unrecognizable, but he didn’t care. He hit the glass again, harder, raw desperation lacing every syllable. “ Steve! ”

 

Steve whipped around at the sound of his name, his gaze locking onto Bucky’s. The moment their eyes met, everything else ceased to exist. For months, Bucky had been nothing but a hollow shell, a ghost walking through the motions, but now— now —there was something alive in his expression again. His chest heaved, his eyes burned, and for the first time in so damn long , there was something in them other than exhaustion and numbness. Something bright . Something real .

 

Steve ran . He didn’t hesitate. Didn’t stop to think. He sprinted straight to the glass, pressing both hands against it, his eyes raking over Bucky like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. “ Bucky, ” he breathed, his voice shaking , his entire expression twisting into something between devastation and sheer relief.

 

Bucky nodded frantically, his breath hitching, his shoulders trembling. He had so much to say, but the words refused to come. All he could do was stare at Steve, his best friend, his anchor , the person he had clung to in the darkest corners of his mind, and he was here .

 

“You found me,” Bucky choked out, barely more than a whisper.

 

Steve’s throat worked as he swallowed hard, his fingers curling against the glass like he wished he could reach through it. “ Of course I did, ” he murmured, fierce and unwavering . “ I’m bringing you home. ”

 

And in that moment, nothing else mattered .

Chapter 38

Notes:

Hey folks!

Things are really heating up for Bucky and our beloved Avengers 😭 And Pierce definitely isn’t planning on letting Bucky go that easy.

TW: graphic violence

Enjoy the read!

Steve forced himself to tear his gaze away from Bucky, jaw tight as he turned to face Pierce. The bastard had regained his composure, standing there with that infuriating smirk, completely unfazed despite the glowing repulsors Tony had aimed directly at his face. Natasha, Clint, and Sam had moved into position, weapons drawn, bodies coiled like springs ready to snap.

 

Bucky could hardly believe they were here . That they had found him . He wanted to take it all in—the sound of Sam’s exasperated sigh, the barely restrained fury in Natasha’s stance, even Clint’s muttered “This is why I hate politics.” He had spent months believing this moment would never come, that he’d die in this place. But they had come for him. Steve had come for him.

 

Steve’s voice cut through the tension like a blade. “ Open the door. ”

 

His tone was razor-sharp, brooking no argument, and yet Pierce barely blinked. The reinforced glass and steel doors still separated them from Bucky, keeping him locked in the combat pit like a damn animal . Pierce merely scoffed, shaking his head in mock disappointment. “ Really, Captain? You think you can just walk out of here with him? After barging in here, launching a full-scale attack against the government? ” His tone dripped with amusement, as if this whole situation was entertaining to him.

 

Tony let out a sharp exhale, flexing his fingers where his repulsors hummed hot. “ I don’t know, Pierce, you tell me. Do you think you’re gonna have a job after this? Or do you think we’re about two seconds away from broadcasting all your dirty little secrets to the whole damn world? ” He tilted his head, as if considering something. “ Oh wait—we already did. ”

 

Bucky saw it then—the flicker of uncertainty in Pierce’s eyes, the slight shift of his jaw as if he’d just realized exactly how much control he was losing. But it didn’t last. He smoothed his expression over too quickly, turning back to Steve with that same calculated smirk. “ You really think you can just take him back? ” He gestured vaguely to Bucky without even looking at him, like he was discussing an object rather than a person. “ You think you can undo what’s been done? ”

 

Steve didn’t even hesitate. “ Yes. ”

 

It was the kind of answer that left no room for doubt. No hesitation. No fear. And something in Bucky’s chest ached because of course Steve would say that. Of course he believed it. But Pierce wasn’t done. His smirk widened slightly, his gaze sliding toward Bucky in a way that made his skin crawl. “ I don’t think your soldier wants to leave, Captain. ”

 

The words hit Bucky like a physical blow, and suddenly—all eyes were on him. He felt it like a weight pressing down on his chest, the expectation , the hope . He only had to say one word. Yes. Just say it and he’d be free. Just say it and he’d be with them again. With Steve . But his throat locked up.

 

His gaze drifted, unbidden, to the lifeless body at his feet, the blood that stained his hands. His hands again . He had killed so many. He had lost himself. And no matter how much he wanted to believe otherwise, no matter how much he ached to be back at Steve’s side, the truth was there, staring him in the face.

 

What if he couldn’t be saved?

 

What if he hurt them ?

 

He had spent months inside this place, being stripped down and rebuilt into something else . Pierce had twisted him, sharpened his instincts, pushed his body until his humanity felt like an afterthought. He lost time . He blacked out and woke up covered in blood . What if—God, what if that happened out there ? What if Steve looked at him one day and didn’t recognize him anymore ?

 

His fists clenched at his sides, nails digging into the skin of his palms. He wanted to say yes. He wanted to step forward. But for the first time since he had been dragged into Hydra’s grasp all those years ago, fear rooted him in place.

 

Steve called his name. “ Bucky? ”

 

He swallowed, trying to force his voice to work. He needed to say it, he needed to tell them yes , to get him out — But Pierce stepped in before he could.

 

“ See? ” Pierce gestured toward him with an almost mocking sigh. “ He knows what you refuse to accept, Captain. There’s no place for him out there anymore. Not with what he’s become. ” The words burned , settling deep in Bucky’s chest like poison.

 

Steve’s eyes were pleading, searching Bucky’s face for any sign that Pierce was wrong, that this wasn’t the truth—that Bucky still wanted to be saved. But when Bucky opened his mouth, only a single word slipped out, strangled and broken, before his voice failed him entirely. The fear inside him was suffocating.

 

And Steve—God, Steve—his face shattered . It wasn’t anger, wasn’t disappointment. It was something so much worse . It was heartbreak. Because for the first time, Steve was realizing that Pierce’s words weren’t just manipulation. Bucky had begun to believe them.

 

Steve didn’t want to accept it. He refused to. “ Bucky, ” he said, voice thick with something desperate, “ tell me you don’t want this. Tell me you want to come home. ”

 

Bucky met his gaze, ears flattening against his head in a silent display of sorrow. His heart ached . He wanted to tell Steve what he wanted to hear, to tell him that he still belonged with them, that he could still be the person Steve remembered—but what if he wasn’t? What if there was no undoing this? What if everything Pierce said was right ?

 

The silence stretched. And then Pierce laughed, slow and victorious. “ See? ” he drawled, shaking his head. “ Even he knows it. ”

 

Bucky could barely breathe as he watched Steve’s jaw tighten, that soft grief in his expression hardening into something unshakable. “ I’m not leaving without you, ” Steve murmured, voice low and sure. “ No matter what it takes. ”

 

Bucky’s pulse thundered in his ears. No. That was the worst thing Steve could say. He needed Steve to go, to run before he saw what Bucky had become—before he saw the monster in him. Before it was too late.

 

“ Steve, don’t— ” But the words never made it past his throat.

 

Because suddenly—chaos.nPierce had been stalling. The realization struck a second too late, just as a dozen of his men burst into the room, weapons raised, surrounding the Avengers in a semi-circle. The sound of safeties clicking off rang out like a countdown to disaster.

 

“ Drop your weapons! ” one of the soldiers barked. Steve, Tony, Natasha, Clint, and Sam didn’t move. They had been in enough fights to know how this was about to go.

 

“ You really should’ve just walked away, Captain, ” Pierce mused. “ But now? Now I get to make an example out of all of you. ”

 

And then—gunfire. Bucky’s body reacted before his mind did. His hands slammed against the glass, his throat raw as he roared Steve’s name. But he was trapped . Trapped behind reinforced walls, forced to watch as the team dove into action, bullets bouncing off Tony’s armor as he let out a sarcastic, “ Oh yeah, that’s real fair. ”

 

Sam took to the air in an instant, wings flaring as he dodged a round of bullets, returning fire with his pistols. Natasha and Clint moved as one, diving for cover and laying down precise, deadly shots that took out soldiers with expert efficiency. Steve was already moving , shield raised as he tore through the nearest guards like they were nothing. Bucky’s chest tightened — Steve was winning.

 

But then Pierce pressed another button. The far doors slammed open, and suddenly the room was flooded with bodies. Not just soldiers— experiments. He knew what Pierce was doing. He wasn’t sending mindless cannon fodder—he was sending killers . Subjects that had been broken , men who had lost themselves to the animal within them. And Steve didn’t know what he was up against.

 

“ STEVE! ” Bucky slammed his fist against the glass so hard it cracked . Steve barely had a second to react before one of the creatures lunged at him, too fast—Bucky saw the flash of fangs, the gleam of claws— And then Steve was gone , tackled beneath a blur of rage and teeth and muscle . He couldn’t do this . He couldn’t just watch this happen .

 

His vision went red.

Chapter 39

Notes:

Hey hey folks!

In today’s chapter, Bucky’s had enough of being controlled — so yeah, get ready for some action-packed chaos! 🤣🤣

TW: graphic descriptions of violence and injuries

PS: only three chapters left before the story ends! ❤️

Bucky had a choice. He could stay behind this glass, frozen by fear, shackled by doubt, watching helplessly as Steve and the others were torn apart. Or he could become what Pierce wanted him to be—but on his terms. Not as a weapon. Not as an experiment. But as something more . Something stronger .

 

Steve had believed in him. Had always believed in him. Had never once doubted that Bucky was still himself, no matter what they had done to him. That faith was something Bucky couldn’t let die here, not when he was the only one who could turn the tide. His decision was made in an instant.

 

Heat surged through his veins, a wild, searing energy that burned away the last of his fear. His body shifted —bones stretching, reshaping, muscles thickening as dark fur rippled across his skin. His senses sharpened, the dim, sterile light of the room flaring into clarity, the scent of gunpowder, sweat, and blood sharpening into something almost tangible .

 

By the time the transformation had finished, Bucky was no longer a man trapped behind glass. He was a force of nature . And Pierce had made a grave mistake in thinking he could ever be tamed . With a roar that shook the room, Bucky launched himself forward.

 

Glass shattered around him as his massive body crashed through the reinforced barrier like it was nothing. The soldiers barely had time to react before he landed hard in the center of the chaos, his claws tearing into the floor as he skidded into position. The scent of fear hit him first—some of it from the soldiers, some from the creatures Pierce had unleashed, but most of it from Steve.

 

Steve—who was on the ground, struggling beneath one of the experiments, shield barely holding back the snapping jaws of a creature that had once been human.

 

And then—guns. Bucky’s ears flicked at the sound of safeties clicking off. His head snapped toward the row of soldiers who had just taken aim at Steve, fingers tightening on triggers. There was no time . A single leap carried him in front of Steve, his massive frame slamming down between him and the line of fire just as bullets erupted from the barrels of their guns. Steve braced for impact—expected pain, expected the bullets to tear through him.

 

But none of them landed. Because in front of him, blocking every shot with a body of muscle and fur and fury, stood a panther the size of a goddamn horse . The gunfire slowed, hesitated. The soldiers had clearly not been prepared for this.

 

Neither had Steve. He looked up, stunned , breath catching as his brain scrambled to process what the hell had just happened.

 

The panther’s sleek black fur was riddled with bullets that had embedded harmlessly into reinforced skin. Its hulking shoulders heaved with the force of its breath, claws digging into the ground as a low, guttural growl rumbled from deep within its chest. Its glowing blue eyes —so strikingly familiar—locked onto Steve’s for the briefest moment.

Recognition hit Steve like a freight train.

 

“Bucky?” The panther didn’t respond, couldn’t respond. But it looked at him, and in that look, Steve saw everything.

 

I will protect you.

 

Then, without another moment of hesitation, Bucky turned back to the soldiers, his lips pulling back over razor-sharp fangs, the growl in his throat deepening into something primal . The moment Bucky moved , everything else became secondary.

 

One second, the soldiers were aiming at Steve. The next, they were gone —slammed into walls, shredded by claws, torn apart by a force of nature wrapped in black fur and rage. The air filled with the sharp scent of blood and the dying screams of men who had no idea what kind of monster they had just provoked. The Avengers—who had seen everything, everything —stood frozen.

 

Sam was halfway to helping Steve up when he stopped cold , eyes locked on the enormous creature that had just saved Steve’s life. “What the hell am I looking at right now?” His voice cracked slightly, which—under normal circumstances—Steve would have teased him about.

 

Steve didn’t answer. He couldn’t. His brain had not yet caught up to the sight in front of him. His hands gripped the edges of his shield like it might anchor him back to reality. Because what he was looking at was— Bucky.

 

Natasha’s eyes narrowed, her brain already running through every possibility—an illusion, a genetic mutation, what the hell did they do to him —but the way Bucky moved , the way he stood in front of Steve like a goddamn guardian —there was no mistaking it. Tony, on the other hand, lit up like it was Christmas morning. “ Holy shit, ” he breathed. “I mean—I knew you had a whole feral thing going on, Barnes, but this? This is next level. ” Bucky didn’t react. He didn’t acknowledge them, didn’t make a sound except for the low, constant growl reverberating through his chest as he turned toward Pierce.   

 

Pierce—who was finally starting to look afraid . He had backed into a corner, his usual smug composure cracking as the massive panther stalked toward him with murder in his eyes. The two remaining guards raised their weapons, but their hands shook , fingers hovering over the triggers. Because this Bucky was not the broken man they had beaten and experimented on.

 

Bucky moved slowly, purposefully, like a cat toying with its prey. His claws scraped against the floor with every step, his muscles rippling under thick black fur. His tail lashed behind him, his ears pinned flat against his skull. His pupils had shrunk to sharp, deadly slits. When he bared his fangs , they gleamed under the fluorescent light, his lips curling back in a silent promise of death . Pierce tried to recover, tried to pretend he wasn’t trembling, but his voice betrayed him. “You think—” He swallowed thickly. “You think killing me will change anything?”

 

Bucky didn’t answer. His growl deepened, a warning. Steve moved . He got between them, hands raised, stepping into the path of a literal apex predator. His heart thundered , but he refused to let Bucky go down this road—not like this. “Bucky,” he said, calm but firm . “This isn’t who you are. You don’t have to kill him.” Bucky didn’t blink , didn’t lower his head.

 

Steve held his ground. “If we kill him now, all of this stays buried. We need him alive. He’s going to pay for everything he’s done, but we’re gonna do this right .” Bucky’s tail flicked . His ears twitched, listening. Then—his gaze shifted. He looked at Steve. For a single, agonizing moment, Bucky hesitated. His breathing slowed. His claws flexed against the ground, but he didn’t move. He was listening .

 

Pierce took advantage of it, there was a sharp click . The collar activated , the sound it made was nearly silent —but the effect was instant. Bucky convulsed . His entire body seized , muscles locking up as electricity tore through him at full force . His roar of pain was unlike anything Steve had ever heard—low, guttural, sickeningly raw.

 

And then—he snapped . Pierce had underestimated Bucky’s new form. The collar wasn’t strong enough to take him down completely, not anymore. But it hurt . It hurt so much that Bucky lost himself , pain overriding everything . With a snarl , he lunged for Pierce. The guards opened fire And Steve’s heart stopped . Bullets ripped into Bucky’s side, not enough to drop him but enough to stagger him, enough to make him bleed .

 

“Bucky, stop !” Steve yelled, desperate , but Bucky wasn’t listening —because Bucky wasn’t Bucky right now.

 

Tony fired a repulsor at one of the guards to distract them, but it barely registered. “We need to get that damn remote !” he shouted.

 

Natasha and Clint were already moving , cutting through soldiers with deadly precision. Sam took to the air, dropping down with a kick that sent another one sprawling .

 

Steve ran . Straight toward Bucky. Straight into the chaos. Because if there was one person who could reach him, who could stop him from losing himself completely—it was him.

Chapter 40

Notes:

Hey friends!

Another action-packed chapter today, but things are finally starting to wrap up! The nightmare’s almost over for our dear Bucky and Steve ❤️

Just two chapters left before the end! Thanks so much for reading this story and for all your amazing comments! ❤️

TW: graphic descriptions of violence and blood

The air was thick with the scent of blood, metal, and ozone, the crackling electricity from the collar still lashing through Bucky’s body like a live wire. He staggered , muscles convulsing, his massive form colliding with the walls, leaving behind streaks of red smeared against cold steel. Steve barely had time to register just how many bullets had struck him. Ten? More? He couldn’t tell—Bucky was moving as if he didn’t care , as if his body wasn’t his own anymore, just a weapon driven by sheer instinct.

 

Steve wasn’t sure how much longer Bucky could hold on. Then—one of the guards landed a lucky shot. The bullet clipped Bucky’s eye, sending a sharp, burning pain lancing through his skull. It wasn’t enough to blind him, but it hurt . And pain, on top of pain, on top of pain —it was too much. Bucky lunged .

 

Teeth tore through flesh. Bones crunched under the sheer force of his jaws. The guard screamed —briefly—before the sound was cut off in a sickening, wet gurgle . Blood splattered against the walls, across the floor, painting the scene in a grotesque smear of crimson. The remaining guards barely had time to react before Bucky was on them too, tearing through their ranks like a force of nature , his massive frame moving with terrifying speed. A tail like a whip lashed through the air, sending bodies crashing into equipment.

 

Steve barely ducked in time as Bucky’s tail nearly took his head off .

 

“ Damn it, Barnes! ” Sam groaned from where he’d been knocked sideways, clutching his ribs. “ Watch where you’re swinging that thing! ” Steve’s heart pounded . Bucky wasn’t listening . He wasn’t Bucky anymore.

 

Pierce tried to run. Bucky saw him. A low, rumbling growl built in his chest as he pivoted, bounding forward in a single, powerful leap. The ground shook as he landed, his weight slamming down onto Pierce’s chest, one massive paw pinning him in place.

The man beneath him—who had never once shown fear, not when Steve had a shield in his hand, not when he had been threatened with exposure—was pale , his expression frozen somewhere between disbelief and absolute terror .

 

Because he wasn’t looking at a soldier anymore. He was looking into the face of death .

 

Pierce tried to move , but Bucky pressed down , the weight of his body alone making it nearly impossible to breathe. The deep, guttural growl that tore from his throat sent a shudder through the air, his muzzle mere inches from Pierce’s face. His ears were flat against his skull, lips curled back to reveal a gleaming row of razor-sharp fangs. His breathing was ragged, blood dripping from his fur, his wounds ignored entirely in the face of his prey .

 

Pierce’s lips moved, but no sound came out. For the first time in his miserable existence, he was afraid . Steve didn’t wait. His gaze locked on the remote that had slipped from Pierce’s grip in the chaos. That was the key. That damn thing had to go.

 

He sprinted for it, diving into a roll just as a stray shot rang out, missing his shoulder by mere inches. His fingers closed around the device and, without hesitation, he slammed it against the ground, his boot coming down with all of his strength. The plastic and metal shattered beneath the impact, sparks flying as the circuits fried.

 

The collar powered down . The sudden absence of pain staggered Bucky. His breath hitched, his muscles tensed, his claws twitching against Pierce’s chest. And then—Steve was there .

 

“Bucky— “hey,” look at me.” The deep snarl hitched , hesitation creeping into the sound. Steve reached out, placing a careful hand against Bucky’s shoulder, feeling the trembling tension coiled in his frame. “It’s over. You won. You don’t have to do this.” Bucky’s breathing was ragged. His blue eyes—still his eyes, even in this form—locked onto Steve’s, wild and frantic .

 

Steve held his gaze. “ I’ve got you. ” His voice was quie t . “ Come back to me, Buck. ”

For a long, terrible moment, the only sound was the harsh panting of the massive panther looming over Pierce’s terrified form. Then—slowly, so slowly —Bucky exhaled .

 

And he let go.

 

Bucky took a step back, then another, his massive paws nearly slipping in the blood that streaked the floor. His ears flicked, disoriented, his breathing heavy, his ribs expanding and contracting with every labored inhale. His muscles trembled—not with fear, but exhaustion. He was listening now, to Steve, to the familiar voices of his friends, but he still couldn’t bring himself to move closer.

 

The adrenaline was wearing off. He felt it now—the deep throbbing wounds, the dull ache in his side where a bullet had lodged itself, the sharp sting from where claws had raked across his flank in one of the fights prior. His body felt too heavy, his limbs slow, his vision beginning to blur around the edges. He needed to shift back. He wanted to. But his body wasn’t listening.

 

Steve’s voice cut through the haze. “It’s over, Buck. We’ve got you.” Bucky’s ears twitched toward the sound, but his feet didn’t move.

 

Meanwhile, Natasha and Clint wasted no time in restraining Pierce, yanking him up onto his feet, his hands wrenched behind his back as the sharp clink of cuffs echoed in the air. Tony, standing over the remaining guards, held up a palm, repulsors humming to life with a warning.

 

“Now, I could be a reasonable guy and say this is your last chance to surrender,” Tony said, voice edged with sarcasm. “But let’s be honest—I’d rather just blast the next one of you that tries something stupid. So, by all means, make my day.”

 

The few remaining guards exchanged uneasy glances before the crackle of an earpiece confirmed what they feared most. “S-Sir,” one of them stammered toward Pierce, sweat beading at his temple. “The perimeter—SHIELD’s here. They’ve got the base completely surrounded.”

 

Pierce’s expression didn’t falter, though his jaw tensed. He exhaled slowly, his eyes flicking toward Steve with something that almost resembled amusement, even in his predicament. “ And here I thought you’d come alone, ” he muttered, voice laced with dry humor.

 

Steve, still standing over him, tightened his grip on his shield. “ Yeah? You thought wrong. ”

 

Pierce huffed, then rolled his shoulders despite the restraints. “ You think you’ve won? ” His gaze flicked toward Bucky, lingering on the massive feline form, his face twisting into something almost smug. “ Tell me, Rogers—what exactly do you plan to do with that? ”

 

Steve’s expression darkened. “ Bucky —”

 

“ No, ” Pierce cut him off smoothly, his voice calm, almost mocking . “ Not Bucky. Not anymore. Look at him. Look at what he’s become. You really think the world is just going to accept something like this walking around, free as a bird? ” He tilted his head, the smirk returning to his lips. “ The moment people see what he is, they’ll fear him. They’ll never trust him. You know I’m right. ” Bucky felt something cold settle in his chest.

 

His claws curled against the floor. He had thought about this. Wondered about it in the quiet moments between fights, between tests, between the days of endless agony and struggle. If he ever did get out, where the hell was he supposed to go ? Who was going to accept him now? His ears flattened against his skull, tail curling tighter around himself as he stepped back, putting more distance between himself and Steve. And Pierce laughed .

 

“ See? ” he murmured, shaking his head as though this was some grand tragedy. The sound of a crack shattered the air. Pierce’s head snapped sideways, blood trickling from his mouth as he staggered, reeling from the force of Steve’s punch. He blinked, as if genuinely surprised, his balance faltering as Natasha shoved him forward roughly, barely letting him stay on his feet.

 

Tony whistled low. “ Damn, Cap. You hit him so hard, I think I felt that.”

 

Sam let out a dramatic sigh, rubbing the spot between his brows. “ Man, I was this close to doing it myself. ”

 

Steve flexed his fingers, exhaling sharply through his nose, as if restraining himself from going again . “ I’m done listening to you, ” he growled, voice low and dangerous . “ SHIELD’s taking over from here. And Bucky? ” His expression hardened , shoulders squaring as he turned his back on Pierce entirely. “ He’s coming home. ”

 

From the comms, Fury’s voice crackled to life. “ We’ve got Pierce covered, ” he confirmed. “ Your job now is getting Barnes out of there in one piece. ” Steve turned. His gaze locked onto Bucky, standing motionless, pressed against the farthest corner of the room, barely holding himself up. The fight was over. But Bucky—

 

Bucky still wasn’t moving .

Chapter 41

Notes:

Hey!

For our second-to-last chapter of this story, things are finally falling back into place — Steve’s got his dear Bucky back haha ❤️

Also, I decided not to focus on what’s gonna happen to Pierce after all this. Obviously he’s not just getting away with it, but I’m keeping the story centered on Bucky and Steve instead 😁

Steve took a cautious step forward, then another, keeping his movements slow, deliberate. Up close, Bucky’s form was even more breathtaking than it had seemed from a distance. The sheer size of him was staggering, his frame hulking and powerful, the sleekness of his pitch-black coat catching the harsh artificial light. But it was his eyes that held Steve in place—those same piercing blue eyes, unmistakable, still his Bucky, no matter what shape he was in.

 

“Bucky,” Steve called softly, waiting for some sign that he was still listening. The massive feline’s ears flicked toward him instantly, his gaze snapping to Steve’s face with a level of understanding that was almost eerie. Steve swallowed, feeling the warmth of relief settle in his chest. “You okay?”

 

There was a long silence. Then, with a deep exhale, Bucky let out a slow, rumbling sigh, his breath a hot gust against Steve’s face. The sheer force of it ruffled his hair slightly, and Steve couldn’t help but huff a quiet laugh. That was as much of an answer as he was probably going to get.

 

“I’m sorry,” Steve murmured, his voice heavier now. “For taking so long to get to you.”

 

Bucky didn’t answer with a growl, didn’t snarl at him in anger—he simply leaned in, his massive head nudging lightly against Steve’s chest in what could only be described as an unmistakably human gesture. Steve froze, caught entirely off guard by the unexpected contact. His hands instinctively came up, fingers sinking into the impossibly soft fur behind Bucky’s ears. The realization hit him then. He was petting Bucky.

 

Something in Steve’s chest twisted painfully at that, but he shoved it down, clearing his throat and forcing himself to focus. “We need to get you back to normal,” he said, stepping back slightly. “Can you shift back?” The hesitation in Bucky’s body language was immediate. His ears flattened slightly, tail flicking in clear discomfort. He didn’t respond right away, but his front paw lifted slightly, shifting against the floor in an almost awkward manner as if he was trying to explain without words.

 

Steve frowned. “Buck?”

 

Natasha, standing off to the side, narrowed her eyes slightly before her lips curled into something that almost resembled amusement. “He’s gonna be naked when he shifts back, isn’t he?” Bucky’s entire body tensed. Then, after a moment, he let out a low, throaty huff , glancing away as if hoping they’d just move past the topic.

 

Steve blinked before realization hit him like a truck. “Oh.”

 

Tony, who had remained suspiciously silent up until this point, suddenly clapped a hand over his heart in mock sympathy. “Damn, Barnes. First time naked in front of all of us and you’re not even gonna buy us dinner first?”

 

Bucky glared at him, the sharp, unimpressed expression somehow translating perfectly even in his panther form. He let out a guttural, distinctly annoyed growl, deep and low in his throat, the kind of sound that sent a shiver down most people’s spines. Tony, however, just grinned wider. “Okay, okay, geez. Tough crowd.”

 

Steve pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling sharply. “Can we focus , please?” He looked around at the others. “Somebody find him something to wear.”

 

Sam was already moving, muttering under his breath about how this was somehow the weirdest and least surprising thing to happen today. Natasha smirked before disappearing down one of the corridors in search of something useful. Clint, meanwhile, gave Bucky an exaggerated thumbs-up. “For what it’s worth, big guy, I’m just glad you’re not attacking us. That’s already a win in my book.”

 

Bucky merely let out another deep, tired sigh, dropping down onto his haunches and resting his chin on his massive paws. His tail flicked idly, ears twitching, expression still unreadable. But Steve knew him well enough to understand—Bucky had already made up his mind. He was going with them. Now they just had to get the hell out of here.

 

Steve returned with the oversized coat in his hands, shaking it out once before glancing toward Bucky, who had curled up against the far wall. At first, he thought Bucky was just resting, but then he noticed how still he was—his massive chest rising and falling in the steady rhythm of sleep, ears twitching faintly at some sound in the distance. A fond, tired smile tugged at the corner of Steve’s mouth. Of course , Bucky had started dozing off in the middle of an active rescue mission. After everything he’d been through, the exhaustion had to be unbearable. But they needed to get out of here.

 

With a sigh, Steve crouched beside him and gave his shoulder a small shake. “Buck,” he murmured, watching as one blue eye cracked open, the slit pupil narrowing slightly in drowsy irritation. When Bucky didn’t move, Steve brought a hand up and scratched lightly at the bridge of his nose, brushing over the short fur there.

 

Bucky let out a deep, grumbling huff, something caught between a growl and an actual whine before he finally stretched out his limbs with obvious reluctance. “Come on,” Steve encouraged. “Shift back so we can get you out of here.”

 

Bucky exhaled sharply but complied, his massive frame trembling slightly as he gathered the energy to focus. Steve watched as the process unfolded, the shift from beast to man a strange, fluid thing, limbs twisting and reforming, muscle and sinew pulling back into human proportions. He could hear Sam mutter somewhere behind him, Yeah, I’m never sleeping again , but Steve was too caught up in the transformation to respond. And then, just like that, Bucky was back, kneeling on the cold floor, breathing hard. His dark hair was damp with sweat, his bare skin riddled with bruises and shallow cuts, his frame thinner than Steve remembered, but beneath all of it—those same familiar, exhausted blue eyes.

 

Steve barely hesitated before wrapping the coat around Bucky’s shoulders, pulling it close to shield him from prying eyes and the chill of the room. But mostly, he did it because Bucky looked small like this, worn down to the bone, and Steve wanted to protect what little warmth he had left. Bucky gave him a weak, lopsided smile as he tugged the coat tighter around himself. “Took you long enough,” he muttered, voice hoarse.

 

Steve huffed a quiet laugh, pulling him in without thinking, arms looping around him carefully. He felt Bucky tense slightly, but then his whole body melted into the embrace, his weight pressing into Steve’s chest as he let out a long, shuddering sigh.

For the first time in what felt like forever, Steve breathed him in—sweat, blood, and something distinctly wild clinging to his skin, but underneath it, the familiar scent of home .

 

“I’m so damn glad you’re okay,” Steve murmured against the side of his head.

 

Bucky let out a quiet, breathy chuckle. “Wouldn’t go that far,” he said, his words slurring slightly, exhaustion weighing him down. “But I’m glad you’re here.” Steve held onto him a little tighter, his grip steady even as Bucky’s legs started to give out beneath him.

 

“Hey,” Bucky mumbled after a beat, voice barely above a whisper, “Are we going home?”

 

Steve felt his throat tighten, his hold on Bucky unwavering. “Yeah, Buck,” he said softly. “We’re going home.” A faint, tired smile tugged at Bucky’s lips before he exhaled one last time, letting his full weight drop against Steve’s chest.

 

“Gonna take a nap,” he muttered, just before slipping into unconsciousness. Steve barely had time to adjust his grip before Bucky went completely limp in his arms. He shifted his hold instinctively, one arm steady around his waist while the other curled beneath his knees.

 

“Yeah,” Steve murmured, voice thick. “You do that.” Bruce stepped forward, glancing over Bucky’s injuries with a critical eye. “We need to get him back to the compound now ,” he said. “He needs rest, medical attention, food—probably all of the above in massive quantities.”

 

Tony clapped his hands together. “Right. Great. So, who’s carrying the giant murder cat?”

 

Steve shot him a look before adjusting Bucky’s weight in his arms. “I got him.”

 

Sam let out an exasperated sigh. “Of course, you do.” As the team fell into motion around them, Steve held Bucky close, pressing his face against the mess of damp hair at his temple.

 

They were getting out of here.

Chapter 42

Notes:

Heyyyy!

And here we are — the final chapter of our story with our dear kitty Bucky! (It’s always so sad finishing a story, not gonna lie 😭)
I know I could’ve added more detail to the ending, but honestly, I like keeping it simple (all’s well that ends well, right? 🤣).
Kidding… kinda — but hey, maybe it leaves a little room for you to imagine what happens next 😁

Anyway, I just really wanna say THANK YOU for reading this story!
Thanks for all your comments — I read every single one, even if I didn’t always reply 😅
Thanks again for sticking with this, and I really hope you’ll be around for the next ones (trust me, I’ve still got plenty of ideas left)!

Big hugs, friends!

The ride back to the compound was quiet, almost eerily so. Steve sat in the rear of the jet, Bucky curled up in his arms, his weight heavy with exhaustion. Even with the hum of the engines and the faint chatter from the cockpit where Tony and Sam were exchanging remarks about the mission, Steve couldn’t shake the surreal feeling of it all. He had him back.

 

After months of pushing against the bureaucracy of the S.H.I.E.L.D. brass, scouring intelligence reports, tracking dead-end leads, and ignoring every damn person who told him to let it go , he had finally found Bucky. And now, holding him close, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath, Steve realized just how much he didn’t know.

What had they done to him? What had he endured during all those months in captivity?

 

Steve’s gaze drifted down to the bruises littering Bucky’s face, to the too-sharp angles of his jawline, to the way his body curled inward as if bracing for another fight even in sleep. Whatever had happened, it had left its mark. At the compound, Bruce and Cho were already waiting when the jet landed. Steve barely stepped off the ramp before they were guiding Bucky onto a gurney, their expert hands working fast, checking vitals, assessing the damage.

 

Steve hovered nearby, refusing to leave as they cataloged every injury: Several deep claw marks across his chest and back, some already halfway healed but still raw. Bruised ribs, likely cracked from repeated impacts. Bullet wounds scattered across his body, remnants from the final battle, thankfully none hitting anything vital. A prominent scar at his neck—the bite from the hybrid tiger he’d been forced to kill. The heavy toll of exhaustion, dehydration, and malnutrition, evident in the sharp hollows of his cheeks and the weight he had lost.

 

Steve clenched his fists at the last one. How long had they been starving him? Bruce murmured something about accelerated healing—how Bucky’s system was adapting even faster than before, likely an effect of his forced transformation. It meant he would recover quicker, but it also meant his body needed rest, food, and time to replenish itself. And so, Bucky slept.

 

They moved him to Steve’s room once the worst of his wounds were treated, hooking him up to a slow IV drip to rehydrate him. He hardly stirred through any of it. The exhaustion ran so deep that Steve started keeping track of the hours. One day passed. Then another. By the third, Steve was getting worried. The only moments Bucky surfaced were brief—when Steve coaxed him to sip some water, when he shifted slightly in his sleep, seeking warmth. Other than that, he was utterly, completely out, curled up under Steve’s blankets, his body tucked close to the warmth of Steve’s own.

 

And Steve let him. He stayed there every night, lying beside Bucky, arm draped loosely around him, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat against his own. Then, on the third night, something changed. Steve was lying on his back, scrolling through his phone, half-reading an article about some S.H.I.E.L.D. official already trying to bury the details of the raid. His mind was hazy with exhaustion, but he couldn’t sleep—not yet. Bucky stirred beside him, shifting slightly. At first, Steve didn’t think much of it. He had moved before in his sleep. But then, something different—a slow inhale, deep and lingering, like someone waking up for the first time in years.

 

Bucky smelled him before he even opened his eyes. The scent was familiar—warmth, safety, home . It was the first thing that registered, grounding him in reality before anything else could. The ache in his body, the lingering haze of exhaustion, the dull throb of healing wounds—none of it mattered when the scent of Steve Rogers was right there, wrapping around him like a shield. His eyelids fluttered open, the dim glow of the bedside lamp casting soft light across the room. And there he was—Steve, lying beside him, brows furrowed in thought, absorbed in whatever was on his phone. Bucky blinked, taking in the sight.

 

Goddamn , he thought. How did I forget how good-looking he is?

 

Steve was all sharp angles and soft light, golden skin against the dark sheets, a slight crease between his brows as he concentrated. His jawline looked unfairly strong from this angle. And it hit Bucky like a freight train just how much he had missed this—just existing beside Steve, waking up next to him, feeling his warmth without bars, without chains, without fear. Steve was real. He was here.

 

Without thinking, Bucky shifted closer, pressing his face against Steve’s shoulder, seeking warmth. Steve tensed slightly, startled by the sudden movement. Then, his head snapped down, eyes widening as he met Bucky’s.

 

“Buck—”

 

Before he could finish, Bucky let out a low, satisfied hum, his breath warm against Steve’s collarbone. He burrowed in deeper, curling against him, pressing every inch of himself into Steve’s side like he could somehow melt into him. Steve let out a shaky breath, the tension in his body easing. His phone dropped onto the mattress as his hand came up instinctively to cradle the back of Bucky’s head, fingers tangling gently into his hair.

 

“You’re awake,” Steve murmured, his voice rough with emotion.

 

Bucky huffed a quiet laugh, the sound muffled against Steve’s skin. “Mm. ‘Course I am,” he muttered sleepily. “You think I’d miss the chance to wake up next to you?” Steve swallowed hard, his throat thick. He didn’t trust himself to speak, so instead, he just held Bucky a little tighter. They lay there in silence for a long while, Steve absentmindedly running his fingers through Bucky’s hair, tracing the strands like he was memorizing them. Bucky listened to the steady rhythm of Steve’s breathing, grounding himself in the warmth of his presence, in the solid weight of him beside him. It still didn’t feel real.

 

Then, barely above a whisper, he asked, “Is this a dream?”

 

Steve chuckled softly, but when he turned his gaze back to Bucky, his smile was tinged with sadness. Of course Bucky would ask that. After everything, after months of captivity, of being conditioned into believing he would never make it out, that no one was coming for him—of course he’d have trouble believing that this was real.

 

Steve’s grip on him tightened, and with quiet certainty, he murmured, “No, Buck. It’s real.” As if to prove it, he reached down and took Bucky’s hand, lacing their fingers together. The warmth of his touch sent a shiver through Bucky, one that had nothing to do with fear. He squeezed back, grounding himself in the reality of Steve’s presence, the sheer certainty in his voice.

 

Bucky let out a shaky sigh, his voice breaking as he confessed, “I almost lost hope.” His throat tightened, the admission leaving him raw, vulnerable. “Pierce—” He swallowed, forcing himself to say it, to let Steve hear it. “He was right. About everything. What I am now, what they turned me into—I don’t—” He exhaled sharply, his chest tightening. “I don’t think I belong out here anymore.” Steve didn’t let him finish.

 

He shifted, sitting up and tugging Bucky up with him so they were facing each other, legs tangled under the sheets. His expression was fierce, unwavering, like he was ready to fight God himself if it meant making Bucky believe him. “Pierce was a liar and a coward, Buck. And if you ever— ever —let his words make you doubt yourself, I swear to god I’m gonna kick your ass.”

 

Bucky let out a weak laugh, half a breath, but Steve wasn’t done. His hands came up, cupping the sides of Bucky’s face, forcing him to meet his gaze.

 

“You belong here,” he said, voice thick with emotion. “You belong with me . And you have every right to live a real life, to be free. None of this is your fault. You didn’t choose what they did to you, and it sure as hell doesn’t make you a monster.” His thumbs brushed gently over Bucky’s cheekbones. “But if you can’t believe that yet, then believe this—I’m not going anywhere. Not this time.”

 

Bucky’s vision blurred. He clenched his jaw, breathing uneven, his heart hammering against his ribs. Steve had always had a way of saying the right things, of seeing past all the walls Bucky built and tearing through them like they were nothing. The words crashed over him like a tidal wave, breaking apart something inside him.

 

His tail, still visible in his semi-human form, flicked anxiously beneath the blankets. He wanted to believe Steve. He needed to. Bucky swallowed hard, his voice barely above a whisper when he finally said, “I missed you.”

 

Steve’s expression softened instantly, and he exhaled like he had been holding his breath for weeks. “I missed you too, Buck.” Then, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, he leaned in and kissed him.

 

Steve kissed him like he was making up for lost time, like he had been waiting to do this since the moment he found Bucky behind that glass, desperate to reach him. His hands tangled in Bucky’s hair, pulling him impossibly close, like he was afraid he might disappear if he let go. Bucky melted into it, gripping Steve’s arms, grounding himself in the warmth, the realness of it. And maybe it was the exhaustion, or maybe it was the sheer relief of knowing he was safe, but before he could stop himself, the weight of everything crashed into him all at once.

 

A sob tore from his throat, muffled against Steve’s lips. Then another. Steve didn’t pull away. He just held him tighter, kissing away every broken sound, every tear that slipped down Bucky’s face.

 

“It’s okay,” he whispered, his lips brushing against Bucky’s. “I got you.”

 

**—————**

 

 

A year had passed.

 

A year since Pierce had been taken down. Since the world learned the full extent of his crimes, of what had been done to Bucky—and of the man, the Avenger , he had become despite it all. It hadn’t been easy.

 

The first few months had been hell. Adjusting to life outside captivity had taken time, patience, and more support than Bucky was willing to admit he needed. But Steve had been there every step of the way, as stubborn and immovable as ever, refusing to let Bucky fall apart. The others had been there too—Sam, Natasha, Clint, Bruce, and even Tony, who had made a show of being mildly offended that Bucky hadn’t immediately embraced his friendship. ( “After all, you do owe me for getting your ass out of that facility. Just saying.” )

 

The nightmares still came, but they no longer owned him. The blackouts had faded, replaced by full control over his transformations. He had spent months training, pushing his body and his mind to their limits, mastering the instincts that had once threatened to consume him. And now— now —he stood here, suited up, fully prepared, and with the emblem of the Avengers displayed proudly on his uniform.

 

Bucky Barnes was officially one of them.

 

The compound buzzed with activity as the team prepped for their next mission. Weapons were checked, comms tested, strategies confirmed. The energy in the room was electric, a sharp contrast to the eerie stillness before a fight.

 

Steve stood by the open hangar doors, his shield strapped firmly to his back, eyes scanning the horizon. His stance was relaxed, but Bucky knew him too well—he was already thinking about the battle ahead, about every possible outcome, every way to keep them safe.

 

Bucky padded up beside him, the heavy weight of his panther form a sharp contrast to the silent grace with which he moved. He stretched out, flexing his claws against the metal floor before shaking his fur, feeling the wind from the hangar doors rush over him.

 

Steve turned, taking him in with that small, almost imperceptible smile he reserved for moments like this—moments when he was just proud .

 

“You ready for this?” Steve asked. Bucky flicked his tail, ears twitching, before he let out a deep, rumbling huff —his own way of saying I was born ready.

 

Sam strolled past them, adjusting his goggles. “Still not over the fact that we’re bringing a literal big cat into battle. Like, that’s just unfair .”

 

Tony, striding toward the jet with his helmet tucked under one arm, smirked. “Oh, come on, Wilson. Just admit it. You’re jealous.”

 

“Damn right I’m jealous,” Sam muttered. “He’s bulletproof. He’s got claws. And he’s got Steve wrapped around his little cat paw—”

 

Steve sighed, “Sam.”

 

“— Big cat paw,” Sam corrected. “Sorry. My bad.”

 

Bucky let out a sharp exhale that could almost be mistaken for a laugh. Then, with a powerful leap, he was on the ramp leading into the Quinjet, tail flicking in amusement as he passed Sam, intentionally brushing against him on the way up.

 

“Okay, see, that was intentional ,” Sam said, pointing. “He knows what he’s doing.”

 

Natasha smirked as she passed. “Of course he does.” Inside the jet, Bucky stretched out in his usual spot—right next to Steve, just as it had always been.

 

He wasn’t a prisoner anymore. He wasn’t a weapon. He wasn’t the thing Pierce had tried to make him. He was Bucky Barnes . An Avenger. A man with people who would always have his back. As the Quinjet lifted off, soaring into the sky, he glanced over at Steve, who gave him a knowing look.

 

Whatever came next, they would face it together .

 

the end.

Notes:

For all my regular readers—and even if you’re new here!

I wrote this story a long time ago (way before the one about Loki you can find on my profile), and while I was waiting for fresh ideas about our dear Loki, I decided to share this one in the meantime. ☺️

It’s completely written already (I’m not sure exactly how many chapters yet since I’m still editing), but I really hope you enjoy it!