Chapter Text
The cold hit him like a wall.
Immediate, Brutal like Icy fingers clawing at his skin.
Bucky stumbled out into the alley behind the bar, the door slamming shut behind him like a gunshot. The night air sliced through him sharp, fast and punishing. for a second, he couldn’t breathe. His legs buckled, and he barely caught himself on the brick wall, his shoulder slamming against it hard enough to leave an ache.
His lungs heaved. Shallow, frantic breaths. Each one scraped at his throat like broken glass, his chest rising and falling too fast.
He dragged his metal hand down his face, smearing sweat and cold across his skin, then pressed it hard to his sternum, as if he could press the pain back in, force the panic down where no one could see it.
It didn’t work.
The noise in his head surged—roaring, relentless. That man’s voice. The weight on his back. A hand brushing his throat. It had been nothing. Nothing. But now....
Now it all bled together.
Voices. Commands. Grunts. Laughter. Filth shouted in Russian and German and languages he hadn’t heard in years but would never forget. It crowded his mind, deafening and thick like smoke in his lungs.
Cold rooms. Iron cuffs. The sting of compliance. Hands. Always hands.
The memories burst loose, sour and violent.... lodging deep in his gut like shrapnel that won’t come out.
He gritted his teeth so hard his jaw began to shake.
No. No. No.
You’re not there. You’re not there.
You're not—
He started to pace, one frantic step, then another....like a caged animal trying to outrun a memory. The alley blurred at the edges of his vision, spinning slightly with each uneven breath. He tried to focus, to ground himself. Left foot. Right foot. Solid ground beneath him. Just breathe. You're out. You're safe.
But the buzzing in his ears only grew louder. A static scream under his skin. Like insects writhing behind his eyes, crawling along his spine, burrowing into the softest parts of him. His metal hand twitched at his side, fingers curling and uncurling in a stuttering rhythm he couldn’t control. He didn’t even notice until he felt the tremor shaking down his arm.
He yanked at his collar, desperate for air, nails catching on the fabric. The skin beneath was raw, red, hypersensitive. That man hadn’t done anything. Hadn’t hurt him. Hadn’t even held him too hard.
But it didn’t matter.
Because it reminded Bucky of what it used to mean when someone touched his throat.
And that was enough.
He had clawed at the spot in a panic, scraping at the heat blooming there like an echo of his own making. He'd done it himself, trying to make the sting disappear when he bolted from the storeroom. But it only made it worse. The ache felt like a brand, like ownership carved into skin that had been violated too many times to forget.
He felt dirty. Unclean in a way that soap couldn't touch. Contaminated by memory.
it was Shame that clung like oil to his ribs and settled in his bones, like thick matter. it felt suffocating and impossible to scrub out.
He collapsed against the side of the dumpster, doubled over, hands braced on his knees like his body couldn’t hold itself upright anymore. His chest rose and fell in jagged bursts, breath catching on every inhale like it hurt just to keep going.
Why the hell did he do this?
What part of him thought this would help?
He let out a broken scoff, quiet and bitter. at his own stupidity of course.... What was he even thinking?
That was the thing. He wasn’t.
he wasn't thinking at all
He’d walked in there asking the man to make him stop thinking, to make him forget, to drown out the noise in his head, the guilt clawing at his ribs, the silence that echoed with all the things he could never say.
But he hadn’t wanted sex.
God, no. That wasn’t what he needed.
He just wanted to be held. To feel something soft. Something that didn’t come with blood or orders or screams. He wanted warmth, Affection, Comfort. Just for a minute. Just to remember what it felt like not to be broken.
How stupid of him.
Because instead, he’d asked to forget.
And for maybe ten seconds, he had. Ten seconds of quiet. Ten seconds where his body wasn’t his enemy.
But then it all came crashing down. The numbness peeled back, and underneath it was terror—sharp and familiar. The kind that made his pulse spike and his lungs seize up and his fingers claw at his own skin.
He should’ve known better.
He always should’ve known better.
His throat burned, not from bruising, not from any touch—but from the pressure building behind it. A scream he couldn’t release. A sob he didn’t know how to let out. He clenched his jaw so tight it ached, forcing it all back down. Like always.
Push it down. Bury it deeper. Smother it until it stops clawing at your insides.
But no matter how deep he buried it, one truth refused to die:
He was still stuck under Hydra.
Still under those hands,
He doesn’t even know why he came out here.
Maybe to breathe. Maybe to fall apart where no one could see. Or maybe just to disappear.
God, he really does want to disappear. Wishes the world would just forget him, forget who he is, who he was, everything he’s ever been. He just wants it all to stop. Wants himself to stop.
Because right now, that doesn’t sound so bad.
He feels sick. Not the kind that passes. The kind that clings to him, rotting at the edges, sinking into him. It’s in his skin, under it, all over him. A filth he can’t scrub out. A heaviness he can’t lift.
God, he hates himself.
He hates his body. how it still reacts like it’s wired for pain, how even a touch can crack him open. He hates his mind more. The way it drags him backward without warning. The way it keeps him trapped in the same memories, playing them on a loop like some kind of punishment he can’t ever finish serving.
He scratches again at the raw skin near his collar, hard enough to sting. Maybe if it bled, it would feel real. Maybe that would make him real.
Maybe it would remind him he's still here, even if every part of him wishes he wasn’t.
Because what's the point? He can't be touched. Can't be held. Can't even lie to himself long enough to believe he’s okay.
He's tired.
Tired of being broken. Tired of pretending. Tired of waking up.
And then, without meaning to, his mind betrays him—slipping sideways into a name he doesn't want to think about.
Sam.
The name alone feels like a bruise beneath his ribs.
He doesn’t want to think about him, not like this. But that’s the thing about pain. It doesn’t ask for permission.
Sam had started to make him feel like maybe he wasn’t just a shell. That he was more than orders, more than memories and metal and scars. Sam had looked at him like he was still a person.
And Bucky....stupid, desperate Bucky believed it.
He misses him so much it makes his chest physically hurt. A low, crushing ache that radiates outward, hollowing him from the inside. He misses Sam’s voice. His steadiness. His laugh. The quiet way he used to say Bucky’s name, like it wasn’t made of broken things.
But he ruined it.
He fucked it all up like he always does, And now the one person who made him want to live can’t even look at him.
He lost him.
and now there’s No warmth, no steady hand, no voice to call him back when his mind tries to swallow him whole.
Just silence.
And this alley. And the sting beneath his collar. And the sick, sinking certainty that he’ll never be enough for Sam, or for anyone.
He swallows hard, but the lump in his throat stays.
He wipes at his cheeks slowly, deliberately even though they’re dry, there are no tears. there never are, the motion isn’t about comfort; it’s an act of grounding, a ritual more than a release. If his hands are busy, maybe his mind will quiet. Maybe the world will stop spinning sideways.
This is nothing, he tells himself.
He’s survived worse. He’s endured far darker things in colder rooms, with no one and nothing but his own breath to prove he was still alive. This spiral, this alley, this aching behind his ribs, shouldn’t be enough to break him.
And yet it is.
Maybe it’s not just tonight. Maybe it’s him, maybe it’s Sam....the way he looked at him like a stranger today, like Bucky wasn’t worth the air it took to speak to him. That hurt in a way the man’s touch never could.
But he can’t afford to fall apart.
The mission starts tomorrow. His team is counting on him. They still look to him for guidance, still expect the soldier who never wavers, never slips. He can’t be the reason something goes wrong. He can’t let his broken heart turn into a weakness that costs someone their life.
Get it together, he tells himself.
Not for you. You don’t matter. Do it for them.
His throat tightens, and he clears it sharply, trying to shove everything back down where it belongs. He straightens a little, shoulders curling forward as he folds in on himself like worn paper, his breathing steadier now—shallow, but steady. The cold mask creeps back over his face like ice forming across water. He knows how to wear it. He’s worn it most of his life.
Sitting there, in a grimy alley with fading red marks on his neck, he feels it settle over him again.
Alone.
He’s always been alone.
And maybe that’s what someone like him deserves. Something used, ruined, A weapon, A ghost.
Not a person.
Not someone who gets held without breaking.
Not someone who gets loved.
Just this.
Just cold concrete. Bruised skin. Silence.
That’s all he gets.
His muscles protest the movement before he even gets halfway up.
His palms press against the concrete, shaky and scraped raw from earlier, and still, he pushes slow and stiff, like something mechanical forcing itself back into motion after too long in the cold. His legs nearly give, a warning sign masked by sheer grit, but he locks them.
Bucky sways slightly once upright, chest rising in shallow gasps he tries to control. The sudden rush of blood makes his vision blur at the edges, and his hand twitches—rising automatically to scratch at his neck.
He forces it down.
Not again. Don’t touch it. Don’t go there.
His jaw clenches so hard it hurts, and he plants his feet apart to stabilize himself. Ground, .... ground yourself.
A memory flickers through the fog, his old therapist’s voice, scratchy and firm:
“Name five things you can see.”
“Name four things you can feel.”
“Three things you can hear.”
He swallows, throat raw, and forces his eyes open.
Cracked brick. Rust on a nearby pipe. A rat skittering past a soda can. The pale blue of his own knuckles. A torn flyer, soaked through.
He touches the wall—concrete.
Bucky breathes. It’s not deep, not clean but it’s real. And it's enough to stay upright.
He tells himself he has a purpose. He’s enhanced, He’s still breathing, and the mission starts tomorrow. His team needs him......
suddenly,
He freezes.
Just for a second.
Then—
That feeling.
The prickle at the back of his neck. Hair standing upright. The air shifting is off.
A sound.
Rustling.
Somewhere to his left. Distant. Then, too close.
Footsteps.... Soft, measured. Too smooth to be casual, Too fast to be safe.
His breath catches. His stomach flips.
No. No.
He hadn’t heard them.
He should’ve heard them.
But he didn’t.
Not a crunch of gravel. Not a scrape of fabric. Not a goddamn whisper. The world spins sideways as reality rushes in—sharp, ruthless.
You’re compromised.
His heart slams against his ribs. His vision flashes white.
His fingers jerk, reaching before he can think—pure instinct screaming louder than thought. He spins, body crouched tight, metal shoulder pulling with the movement, hand already going for the Glock.
Gun drawn. Safety off.
"Stand down!"
The shout tears from his throat like a growl—feral, fractured, violent. His stance locks into place. Arm extended. Sights lined up. Breath shallow. Fast.
Too fast.
His eyes are wild—dilated, glossy with adrenaline.
His finger twitches on the trigger.
A heartbeat from firing.
His skin is damp, cold with sweat. A drop trails down the side of his temple. His back’s already soaked, the tremor in his arm barely restrained.
And in that split second, everything narrows. Tunnel vision. Target. Enemy.
But then—
“It’s me! It’s just me!”
The voice cuts through the air like a wire snapping.
High. Frightened, Familiar.
Bucky doesn’t move.
Doesn’t breathe.
Mel stands a few feet away, arms frozen in the air, palms open, face pale under the dim alley light. Her mouth opens—closes—opens again.
“I—I didn’t mean to scare you!” she stammers. “I swear, I wasn’t sneaking—I called your name, twice—you didn’t—”
She’s trembling.
And she’s not lying.
But none of that matters right now. Because all Bucky can hear is the roar in his ears. The sick, echoing silence where his awareness should have been.
He hadn’t heard her.
Not a step. Not a breath.
Not a sound.
He could’ve fired.
He could’ve killed her.
His heart gives a painful thud. Then another. The kind that makes your ribs feel too small for your body.
His mouth is dry. His throat aches.
He forces his arm down.
Every muscle protests. Like it’s fused to the weapon. But he does it, inch by inch—until the gun lowers. It hangs at his side, heavy and useless.
But he doesn’t drop it.
He can’t. His fingers are locked around it like a lifeline. White-knuckled.
Mel still hasn’t moved. Still has her hands up. Still looks at him like she’s trying not to breathe wrong.
“I’m sorry,” she says again, voice low. Shaky. “I didn’t mean to— I just… Valentina sent me.”
She swallows, eyes still on the gun like it might come back up.
Like he might snap again.
And for a second, so does he.
Because his hand’s still trembling.
Because his lungs still won’t feel right.
Bucky’s arm finally drops fully to his side, jaw clenched tight. He doesn’t holster the gun. he just lowers it enough to show he won’t fire.
Not unless he has to.
His eyes stay locked on Mel, narrowed, stormy. His face is carved from ice, shadows under his eyes, lips pressed into a thin, sharp line.
His voice comes low, rough, laced with that dangerous simmer.
“What the hell does she want now?”
Mel flinches, just slightly. She tries to mask it with a nervous breath. Her hands shake a little as she reaches into her coat pocket and pulls out a small envelope.
Navy blue. Sleek. Striped with silver foil across the edges. The kind of envelope that screams money.
She offers it out with both hands, politely. Like she’s afraid even the paper might set him off.
“I—she said to give you this,” Mel says, voice quieter now, eyes flicking between the envelope and his still-tense grip on the gun. “It’s from her. Sealed. She said… you need to come see her. Alone. Tomorrow morning. Before anyone else gets to base.”
Bucky doesn’t take the envelope right away. His eyes dart down to it. Then back up.
He stares at her for a long moment, unreadable.
Mel shifts uncomfortably. Her fingers twitch, still holding the envelope out like it’s a live grenade. “She said it’s a private matter. Just you and her.”
He still doesn’t move.
Mel swallows. “She said not to be late.”
Bucky scoffs under his breath, the sound bitter and dry.
“Of course she does,” he mutters, staring down at the envelope like it personally insulted him. “She always knows the perfect time to show up. Right when you're just barely keeping your shit together.”
His voice isn’t raised, but the sarcasm cuts like a blade. tired and sharp with old resentment.
He runs a hand down his face, dragging rough fingers along his jaw, then exhales hard through his nose. The gun finally disappears into his thigh holster with a practiced motion, though his hands still twitch with leftover adrenaline.
For a second, he doesn’t look at Mel.
Then he glances sideways, just enough to see her still standing awkwardly, eyes uncertain, the envelope still offered with stiff politeness.
Bucky sighs.
It’s quieter this time. Deflated. Exhausted.
“Wasn’t aiming at you,” he says gruffly, not quite an apology, but not nothing either. “You just… surprised me.”
Mel nods quickly, still not dropping her hands. “It’s okay. I get it. I shouldn’t’ve come up behind you like that.”
He finally reaches out and takes the envelope from her—his metal fingers brushing the envelope for half a second, cold and unsteady.
The envelope is heavier than it looks.
Of course it is.
Everything from Valentina always is.
(Earlier at the bar)
They all stood frozen, the echo of the door still rattling in their ears.
Now...just silence. it was Heavy, almost suffocating.
No one spoke for a moment
This wasn’t something they could just ignore… right?
Yelena turned slowly to look back at the team.
Everyone looked the same. concerned, unsettled, and just a little thrown.
Sam hadn’t moved. His arms were crossed tight, jaw clenched, eyes still fixed on the door like it might open again. Like he was trying to make sense of it all without saying a word.
Yelena exhaled through her nose, sharp and tense. Her eyebrows pulled together, lips slightly parted as if a thought was forming but refusing to land. She didn’t know what the hell that was, only that it left a bad taste in her mouth.
John still hadn’t sat back down. He shifted his weight from one leg to the other, his eyes bouncing between each of them as if someone might explain what the hell had just happened.
Bob was tugging at his sleeves now, thumbs nervously worrying the fabric, his leg bouncing in place. He kept glancing at the door, then the floor, then the others, but didn’t speak.
Ava had gone sober. Her expression had drained into something flat and narrowed, eyes fixed straight ahead, like she was trying to process in real-time.
Even Alexei had gone quiet. His drink sat untouched in his hand.
The energy in the room had shifted completely.
Bob was the first to speak, voice low and unsure.
“…Should we check on him?”
That was enough to break whatever strange spell held the room still.
“I don’t think he wants that,” John muttered, arms crossed, posture stiff.
“You don’t know that” Ava snapped, sharper than she meant to. She didn’t even look at him when she said it.
A beat passed.
Sam finally blinked, shoulders tense, like he’d only just realized they were all still in the room. “He left for a reason,” he said, voice tight.
“Yeah, maybe the reason is he needed someone to follow,” Yelena shot back, not quite harsh, but not soft either.
Torres exhaled slowly through his nose, eyes narrowed “He didn’t look good.”
“No shit,” Ava muttered.
Another silence started to creep in—more uncomfortable now, layered with something like regret.
And then—
A slow, sarcastic tch tch tch echoed from the hallway.
They all turned toward the sound.
Valentina.
Framed in the doorway, arms crossed, expression dry as ever.
“Well, this is all very touching,” she drawled, stepping closer like she owned them. “Really. A group pity party. How sweet.”
She gave a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.
“I mean, don’t get me wrong...breakdowns are very on-brand for Barnes these days. But do we really need this much drama? We’ve got things to do.”
Her tone was clipped, mocking, almost playful but every word landed like a slap.
Valentina’s heels clicked further into the room, her gaze sweeping over the team like she was walking past broken furniture.
But she didn’t get far.
Sam turned to face her fully, jaw tight, eyes narrowed with something far beyond irritation. Disgust, Cold and unfiltered.
He didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to.
The look alone was sharp enough to cut.
Yelena took a step forward, arms crossing tight across her chest. “Do you ever get tired of hearing yourself talk?”
Valentina gave a mock-pout. “Aww. I touched a nerve.”
John, who had been unusually still, let out a short, bitter laugh—no humor in it. “God, you really don’t know when to shut up, do you?”
Valentina tilted her head toward John, lips curling into something sharp.
“Oh, don’t glare too hard, sweetheart. Wouldn’t want another Captain America moment now, would we?”
John’s jaw clenched, and for a second, he just stared at her, chest rising faster.
“Fuck you,” he snapped, stepping forward.
Ava moved fast, one hand on his chest, holding him back. Her fingers gripped his vest tightly. not out of fear, but force. Her face didn’t move, but her eyes were warning enough.
Valentina blinked at them in mock alarm, hand fluttering to her chest.
“Well, this is awkward,” she drawled.
She turned then, slow and composed, toward the rest of the team. “Anyway, you’re all too late. I checked the perimeter aaand..Barnes is already long gone. Poor thing bolted like the building was on fire.”
There was a ripple of movement. john swore under his breath. Yelena exhaled through her teeth. Alexei muttered something low and Russian that didn’t sound polite.
Sam finally broke his stare to look away, like the news hit harder than he expected.
Valentina let the moment settle. Then she smiled.
“He’ll be back tomorrow,” she said, sing-song, like it was obvious. “It’s a mission he can’t afford to miss.”
She tapped her wrist like there was a watch there.
“So! You’ll get all time to cry and bond and play therapist. Then back to work.”
She turned, smirking as she walked away, heels clicking again like nothing had happened at all.
The door clicked shut behind Valentina as she stepped into the hallway.
Her heels clicked once and then stopped.
She pulled her phone out, tapped a contact.
“Mel.”
Within seconds, her assistant appeared at the end of the corridor, quick on her feet, tablet tucked under one arm. Val didn’t look at her at first, she just reached into her blazer, slow and casual, and pulled out a sleek navy blue envelope. no markings, no seal, just expensive paper that already felt like a threat. She held it out with two fingers like it disgusted her.
“Take this. Go give it to Barnes.”
Mel’s fingers curled around the envelope slowly. “He’s already gone, right? I thought—”
“Oh, sweetheart.” Valentina laughed, loud and sharp like broken glass under heels. “You thought?”
She turned fully now, eyes wide with mock amazement. “You thought I was telling the truth?”
Mel didn’t answer.
Val just smiled wide, toothy, gleaming with venom. “He’s in the alley, darling. Right outside. Probably doing that pathetic half-breathing thing he does when he’s overwhelmed and trying not to cry. It’s honestly a little cute. Like a stray mutt waiting for someone to put it out of its misery.”
Mel looked down at the envelope again.
“Doesn’t matter where he is,” Valentina went on, stepping in a little closer, voice dropping low and smooth. “What matters is how functional he stays. If he breaks, its a loss, And I’m not about to let that happen because he got his feelings hurt.”
She tapped the edge of the envelope lightly. “So give him this. And tell him it’s—say it with me now—private... and confidential.”
Mel nodded.
“Good girl,” Val added with a saccharine smile, already turning away, heels clicking again as she disappeared into the far hall like this was just another night.