the void of heart

by Big_dawg

Summary:

After months without a word — without even a glance — Bucky Barnes finds himself standing across from Sam Wilson once more, brought together under Valentina’s orders to respond to a sudden, devastating global outbreak.

It should feel like fate.
But it feels like punishment.

Sam’s here, breathing the same air, fighting the same fight — and still a thousand miles away. And Bucky, already unraveling at the seams, doesn’t know if this reunion is a second chance…
Or just another way to break him.

(warning at the start of every chapter)
(ART in chapter : 1, 5, 9...)

Chapter 1: mirror

Notes:

hello! hope u guys like it
chapter warnings: vomit (brief mention) and panic attack

It had been six months.                                                                                                                                                              

Six months since they last spoke. Six months since he felt Sam’s presence. Six months since everything fell apart. The days since had passed in a blur. Bucky felt numb, like he was holding his breath without even realizing it. A heavy pressure sat on his chest, a constant discomfort — like he was running on fumes, running on nothing.

It had all happened too fast for Bucky to truly process how Sam drifted out of his life. Just a few months ago, he’d been in Delacroix — laughing with Sarah and her kids, teasing Sam, flirting with his sister just to get a rise out of him. He’d stayed there, slept there, helped around the house. It felt strangely domestic, a feeling he’d long forgotten. He was at peace — or as close to peace as someone like him could get.

And now...nothing, just silence.

ever since he was on that news with Valentina after saving the whole New York from void along with some random people he seemed to form a bond with while fighting alongside. everything had changed. Valentina had jumped at the chance to spin it, introducing them as the “new Avengers,” soaking up the attention and dumping the weight of that label on Bucky and the others.

Before he could even understand what had happened, Sam had shown up — demanding an explanation.

What explanation? Bucky had thought. I didn’t even know myself.

But when he saw Sam’s face — when he saw that look — the words died in his throat....

Sam hadn’t tried to hide the hurt. His eyes screamed betrayal, and it pierced through Bucky like a knife. A deep, aching pang settled in his chest. He never wanted to be the reason to make Sam look like that.

But he was.

He had caused that pain.

To Sam — the same Sam who was all smiles and sunshine, even when the world was upside down, The same Sam who helped pull Bucky out of his nightmares, never judging him, never pushing him too far. 

The same Sam Bucky loved — deeply, silently, helplessly...Even if he could never admit it. Not even to himself.

He’d only wanted to do something good. He wanted to change. To do the right thing, for once. And look how that turned out. He wasn’t meant to save people. Not when he couldn’t even be someone worth staying for.

They all left — eventually.

 But this is the only thing that actually made sense to Bucky, people staying ...didn't make sense, why would they?who in their right mind would want to engage with the fist of hydra, the ‘the winter soldier’. They said he's not him anymore…that he’s “free”…but no one knows him better than himself , he knows…he still sees the blood on his hands , he doesn't see anything besides a monster when he catches himself in mirror ...the vile creature is still in there, how his sleep never comes without the nightmares of countless disgusting memories, how he jolts awake and forget where he is and his mask starts to slip until he eventually struggles out of his panic attacks.… Everyone can see his fucked up poorly masked ghost of the James ‘Bucky’ Barnes he used to be.   

---

It was late. Moonlight slanted across the bare floorboards of his bedroom in Avengers Tower. Bucky sat with his back against the closed door, knees drawn up, staring out at the city lights. even though he's been here before everything. When Steve was here—alive, whole—Bucky dared to believe life could be peaceful. Now, perched alone in this silent room, all he felt was the hollow echo of his own heartbeat.

He sat with his back to the door, eyes fixed on the dark windows. Strips of moonlight slipped through the torn curtains, tracing pale lines across his face. He’d never bothered to draw them open—sleep had long since abandoned him.

he was playing with his lighter. The one he always kept to himself. Scratched into the lighter’s surface were a jumble of letters and numerals—his thumb knew them by heart. He popped it open, then shut it, over and over, the small flame never quite igniting. With each mechanical motion, his eyes grew more unfocused, his mind slipping farther from the present, lost in memories he couldn’t pull himself away from. 

“You planning to burn this whole place down, Barnes?”

Bucky snapped out of his hazy gaze and sighed, rubbing his temples as he looked over his shoulder.

“Yelena”          he said, his voice hoarse from disuse.

Yelena was always good at making her presence unknown until she wants to be see, although bucky can always sense her before anyone else can due to his super soldier senses, this time he didn't even hear her coming. Maybe he really needed that beauty sleep, his dark circles agreed.

she stepped into the shaft of moonlight, arms folded, She didn’t comment on his lighter ritual. She just watched him, that infuriating “I‑know‑what’s‑on‑your‑mind” gaze sharpening each second.

He looked away and went back to doing whatever he was doing with his lighter.

“what is it Yelena?” he said with a harmless but firm tone.

“Have you talked to him yet?” she said not breaking away her attentive gaze aimed towards him.

‘great’ bucky thought as he almost rolled his eyes, he drew in a sharp breath and said 

“i did...it didn't go well” he said sounding letting his exhaustion slip into his tone uncharachterlessly.

“that's what you said last time months ago....im asking did u talk to him at all? after that?” she said with somewhat sympathy that bucky hated.

“no.”

“Bucky-” she cut herself with an annoyed sound..'‘‘he's suing us btw..u need to talk to him and do something about that” she said tone flat not letting her own annoyance show.

bucky dragged his flesh arm over his face and suddenly looked back at Yelena with sharp eyes.

“You think I would be fucking sitting here, if he gave any reaction to my several attempts to make contact?” bucky said with a cold tone through his gritted teeth.

but. Rather than looking bashful ..yelena looked?..amused?

bucky cocked an eyebrow and looked at her as if asking her to elaborate.

Yelena cleared her throat, stepping into the moonlight. She offered him a grin that held no humour. “Well, be grateful,” she said, voice low enough that he had to lean forward.

“We’ve got an arranged meeting with Sam—and his whole team—courtesy of Valentina’s collaboration pitch.”

Bucky’s chest tightened.

What?

His eyes shot wide, pupils dilating in the dim glow. A dry laugh caught in his throat, then died. The silence dragged on so long it pressed against his ears. Finally, he croaked, “You’re…serious?”

She folded her arms and smirked, clearly enjoying his shock. “Yeah, old man—dead serious.” With a casual flick of her wrist, she turned on her heel and faded back into the shadows, leaving him alone with the weight of her words.

He stared at the spot where she’d stood, mind spinning. After everything—the years of fighting side by side, the silent support, then the abrupt wall of radio silence—why would Sam agree to this now? Why invite the man he’d exiled from his life back into the ring?

Was this some test? A trap? His stomach churned at the thought of sitting across from Sam again, having to explain himself all over. Bucky’s shoulders slumped. He had tried so many times before to bridge the gap; each attempt had been met with silence or anger. He’d convinced himself it was over, that Sam’s forgiveness was forever out of reach—and in that resignation, he’d let himself unravel.

But now, the meeting was set.

Sam’s contempt for the rest of the team was obvious—he’d made that crystal clear the last time they crossed paths. And his aversion to being near Bucky tingled at the edge of every word, every glance. If Sam couldn’t stand the others, and actively avoided him too, then this arranged meeting had to mean something far more deliberate—and that notion made Bucky’s stomach twist into knots.

Bucky pushed himself upright on trembling legs and staggered to the bathroom. He flipped on the light and forced himself to meet his own gaze in the mirror.

pause

Fuck. He looked like “him” again. Those eyes—empty, hollow—seemed to stare right through the glass, fixed on something miles away. The warmth he’d clawed back with Sam was gone. In the harsh glare, he saw the fugitive he’d been: the man on the run, hopping between countries to escape the monster inside.

He remembered who he was: the killer. The hunted. The one some wanted to save…or lock away forever,And now, looking back at himself, he wondered if he’d ever really escaped at all.

He looked every inch the Winter Soldier once more—his hair long and unruly, a rough stubble shadowing his jaw, and a fresh bruise blooming on his cheek. Beneath sunken lids, dark hollows carved into his skin, each one a testament to battles unforgotten.

no.. he just didn’t “look” like him. he was ‘him’  how could he ever feel otherwise?

his breath hitched and his vision started to get blurry , he wasn't looking at James bucky Barnes anymore...he was looking at what was left, hollow shell of the man who rotted from inside and out.

His hands trembled and his legs gave out beneath him. He caught himself on the sink, knuckles white against the cold porcelain—and then he froze. Blood. Dark, glistening blood coated his palms.

The sleek Wakandan prosthetic was gone. In its place, the jagged metal of the Hydra arm glinted back at him—the same arm that had slaughtered innocents, the same arm that had nearly ended Steve.

His breath caught in his throat. The bloody weight of every life it had taken pressed down on him all at once.

He couldn’t draw air. He stood rooted to the spot, gaze locked on his blood‑slicked palms as a high-pitched ringing filled his ears—so painfully loud it drowned out the room. Why did his ears hurt? Why was his arm back?

Images flooded him: cold steel cuffs biting into his wrists, the rasp of chains as they dragged him into the testing chamber. The memory of surgeons’ scalpels grazing bone, of Hydra scientists’ clinical voices barking orders. No…this couldn’t be real.

Yet the vivid red droplets still slid from his fingertips. A distant plea echoed in his mind:

(“Please… I saw nothing… don’t kill me!”)

Another voice, shrill and panicked:

(“Stay away from me! Don’t… p-please spare me!”)

And a third, broken sob:

(“No… I have a month-old daughter… please…”)

memories...., they? he was the who killed them.

Bile surged in his throat as he gasped for air, collapsing against the edge of the basin. His body convulsed in dry heaves, chest heaving as hot tears threatened behind clenched lids—yet none fell. He choked on empty air, every retch wracking his bones. He wanted to curl into himself, to let the cries tear free and wash away the horror—but he couldn’t. Not when he had no right.                                                                                                                             

He had no right to tears—for lives he’d extinguished, for souls he’d shattered. How could he mourn the dead when his own two hands were stained with their blood? He wasn’t a victim; he was their executioner.

He couldn’t plead for forgiveness—not from the people he’d destroyed, and not from a god he no longer believed in.

He wasn’t ready to share a space with Sam again. The thought of looking into those eyes—eyes that saw straight through his defenses, that once held nothing but warmth for him—twisted his gut into knots. Bucky had spent so long bracing for disgust, for betrayal, for Sam’s quiet condemnation. Instead, Sam’s gaze had always offered understanding, hope, even forgiveness.

But now…how could he face that kindness when he felt so unworthy? He pictured those steady brown eyes scanning every flinch, every tremor in his voice, reading every ounce of guilt he carried. He wasn’t sure he could handle the compassion he craved, nor the disappointment he feared.

He closed his eyelids tight, picturing the empty room, the low hum of the tower’s life support, the distant city lights—anything but Sam’s face. Because no matter how much he longed for reconciliation, he wasn’t ready. Not yet.

not anymore.

 

 

 

here's a little sketch of the mirror scene ;)

Notes:

hey guys! hope u guys are intrigued, i tried my best and this is just the introduction :), a looooot of angst is about to come and be prepared.
let me know ur thoughts for now!!<3

Chapter 2: explain

Summary:

deeper dive into the lore and teams dynamic

Notes:

no specific warnings for this chapter :D

By the time he finally came back to himself, it was already 6 a.m.

Bucky lay on the cold bathroom floor, limbs stiff and body aching. The tiles had stolen all the warmth from him, and now that the numbness was fading, the shivering had started. He blinked slowly at the ceiling, hollow-eyed, as pieces of the night drifted back to him—memories he wished had stayed buried.

When he finally moved, he did so carefully, as if his bones might snap under their own weight. He didn’t look in the mirror. He didn’t need to. He already knew what he looked like—the hollow face, the haunted eyes, That wasn’t new.

He stepped out of the bedroom. Morning light was beginning to seep through the windows, soft and indifferent. The bed remained untouched, the sheets crisp and cold. Outside the door, faint voices and movement bled through from the common area—signs that the others were already awake, already moving, already fine.

Usually by this time, Alexei would be shouting at full volume, rallying everyone for morning training like a drill sergeant on too much caffeine. And usually, Bucky would be there—half-awake but present—already warming up in the gym.

But not today.

Today, he was still unraveling. His hair was a mess, knotted from sweat and lack of sleep, and he hadn't bothered to change out of the same clothes he’d broken down in. He sat on the edge of the bed for a long time, just staring at the floor, listening to the dull rhythm of normal life beyond his door.

Eventually, he forced himself to stand. To move. To exist.

The living room was already alive with its usual, chaotic energy. John sat on the sofa beside Ava, scrolling through a tablet with a frown that suggested deep existential Googling—probably about himself. Alexei was at the stove, supposedly making eggs and bacon but mostly just burning them, judging by the thick smell in the air. Yelena crouched beside a crate, feeding her guinea pig with the kind of focused tenderness she never showed to people. Bob hovered near Alexei, trying to help but only managing to make the eggs even more unrecognizable.

Everyone was used to him waking up grumpy and brooding—it wasn’t new. His dissociation, his silence, the shadows in his eyes—they understood it better than most. Maybe too well. They were all haunted in their own ways, after all.

So no one looked up when he stepped into the room. No questioning glances, no awkward tension. Just quiet acceptance.

And maybe… maybe that made it easier.

But today, he was worse than usual—and he knew it.

He moved slowly toward the table, keeping his steps steady, shoulders squared. His fingers were trembling, but he curled them into fists behind his back.

He sat down without a word.

Someone passed him a mug of coffee—he didn’t see who. He murmured thanks. Or maybe he just thought he did.

He tried to hide it. The ragged edge of his breath. The subtle shiver running through his limbs. The tremble in his fingers that refused to stop. His skin felt too cold, his clothes clung with last night’s sweat, and his eyes—God, his eyes looked like he hadn’t slept in a year.

So he kept his head down, moved slowly, deliberately, hoping that if he didn’t draw attention to it, no one would ask.

And thankfully, no one did.

But it didn’t go unnoticed for long.

He tried to eat.
The eggs were, predictably, a crime against humanity. Burnt edges, rubber center. But he forced down a few bites, chewing slowly.

The conversation buzzed around him—Alexei bragging, Yelena mocking, John trying to jump in and getting cut off every time. Ava delivered commentary like a bored war god judging mortals. Bob laughed too hard at someone’s joke and spilled orange juice on his shirt.

Normal. Loud. Chaotic.

Safe.

And for a few moments, Bucky let himself breathe.

These idiots had grown on him. Somehow, without realizing it, he’d slipped into the role of protector. Not just physically—but emotionally. He kept an eye on them. Made sure they slept. Checked their gear. Covered for their bullshit when Valentina asked questions.

Even John.
John fucking Walker. He couldn’t believe it either.

He didn’t volunteer to be the leader. But leadership had a way of finding him—and this team, messy and unorthodox, followed him anyway.

No one had ever officially decided who the team leader was, but over time, that role had quietly settled onto his shoulders. He and Yelena shared the reins in their own way, but some days, it felt less like leading and more like parenting a room full of emotionally volatile kindergartners. Which, frankly, made sense—he was older than all of them, even if he still looked like he was somewhere in his thirties.

He was over 110 years old. A century of war, loss, and survival pressed onto his shoulders. And even though no one asked him to carry it—he still did.

He drew his attention back to the group, blinking away the fog in his head—only to find Ava staring right at him. Her brows were furrowed despite the crooked grin tugging at her mouth.

“You look like hell, Bucky,” she said casually, turning away just as quickly to pick up the cup of instant noodles she'd made for herself—her quiet protest against what she’d called “culinary war crimes” when Alexei served his burnt eggs.

A dry huff escaped him. It might've passed for a laugh if you weren’t paying too much attention. He leaned back in his chair, the tension in his shoulders refusing to loosen.

If he didn’t know her as well as he did by now, he might’ve thought Ava was just trying to get a rise out of him. But he could tell—by the quick glances she kept sneaking his way, by the way her brows twitched as she tried to read his body language—that she was concerned.

“gee Thanks.” he muttered, voice hoarse and rough like sandpaper, the kind of rasp that made it obvious he hadn’t really breathed right all night.

He sipped his coffee slowly, trying to anchor himself in the taste, the warmth, anything. He knew—knew—some of them had clocked what happened last night. The panic. The breakdown. This team wasn’t made of oblivious civilians—they were assassins, former soldiers, experiments. Trauma was practically a shared language around here.

But thankfully, no one brought it up. They knew—that’s not what he needed. Not sympathy, not confrontation. No one reached out, no one asked. And he was grateful for it.

Because the last thing he wanted was to talk about it. To give it shape. To admit, out loud, how badly it had all broken him, That would make it real.

That would be proof of just how weak he still was..

...

Then something clicked.

A small, quiet alarm in the back of his mind.

Usually, when a mission of this scale came up—especially one involving global threats—Valentina’s team would call them in for a full debriefing. There’d be a formal meeting, maybe some unnecessary theatrics, and then the details would be handed down. And Bucky, as the de facto team lead, was always the first to know, always. Valentina never bypassed him. Not for something this big.

So why had he heard it from Yelena?

In his bedroom, no less.

And judging by the way the others were acting—calm, unfazed—they already knew, too. That was the part that unsettled him most.

A cold chill ran down his spine—not from fear, but from clarity.

He set his mug down. Quiet. Intentional. The dull sound echoed like a gunshot.

“When did Valentina brief you?” he asked, voice low and cold, That cold that made rooms go quiet. That winter-soldier-calm that was far more terrifying than yelling ever could be.

A beat of silence followed the question.

Conversation died.

Bob stopped chewing. Ava’s grin vanished. John sat up straighter. Yelena didn’t move.

There was silence, long and sharp.

Yelena popped a sunflower seed into her guinea pig’s mouth. Crunch. Click.

“Not a meeting,” she said at last. “Just... relayed information.”

Bucky leaned back in his chair, jaw tight. He didn’t say anything else.

But his silence said enough.

He didn’t believe her.

Yelena’s answer had come too easily, her voice too casual. That wasn't how you delivered something this important—not to him. Her stance was practiced. Controlled.

And the others… they weren’t reacting like people who had just casually stumbled across a mission update. They were bracing.

Something in the air shifted—subtle but sharp.

“Yelena,” Bucky said.

The way he said her name made the entire room still.

No one moved. 

It wasn’t fear of Bucky—not exactly. But the Winter Soldier? He was still there, buried under the surface. And sometimes, just sometimes, the room remembered.

Yelena looked up, slow and careful, finally meeting his eyes. He could see it—the flicker beneath her calm exterior. The way her nonchalance faltered for just a second.

She was lying, Or hiding something.

“I’ll ask again,” he said, voice too calm for anyone’s comfort. “Only once.”

A beat of silence.

“Was there a meeting?”

The way he asked it, it wasn’t really a question.

Yelena hesitated. Just a flicker, But that was all it took.

Bucky’s eyes didn’t move, didn’t blink. The metal fingers of his left hand tapped once against the table—slow, deliberate, like a warning.

Then she sighed, low and reluctant, and straightened her back.

“Yes,” she admitted, finally. “There was a meeting.”

No one reacted. Not at first.

It was as if the air had thickened—too heavy to breathe.

Bucky didn’t flinch, but his expression darkened, shadow cutting across his face from the morning light. “And no one told me.”

She looked at him not flinching. “Valentina gave the order. Said you needed time. That you weren’t—”

“Fit?” he cut in. Still calm. Still ice.

Yelena didn’t answer.

“You all knew,” he said, scanning the room. His eyes stopped briefly on Bob, who looked down in guilt. On Ava, whose jaw was tight. On John, who just crossed his arms and leaned back, eyes unreadable.

“You sat here,” Bucky continued, quieter now. “You sat here and acted like everything was fine. Like I wasn’t a part of this team.”

"You are," Ava said quickly, the words slipping out like instinct.

He turned to her. “Then why was I bypassed?”

she replied. “Valentina didn’t want you there.”

There it was. Said out loud.

“What?” His voice was dangerously low now.

“She said you’ve been... unstable. Unfit to lead right now,” Yelena continued, not flinching. “I didn’t agree, but I couldn’t exactly override her.”

Bucky didn’t move.

His eyes narrowed just slightly, his voice still razor-sharp.

“Was it her order that you tell me about the meeting?”

Yelena didn’t answer right away.

Just for a moment, her mouth parted like she might lie again—might brush it off. But then she exhaled, gaze shifting just slightly to the side.

“…She told me to give you a heads-up,” she said finally.

The room felt colder, So it wasn’t even meant to be a real briefing. Just a gesture. A courtesy, A warning.

Bucky’s jaw tensed, metal fingers curling into his palm. “So that’s all I am now,” he said, voice bitter. “A formality.”

Yelena didn’t argue. she knew better than that to do that right know

---

Bucky knew it wasn’t anyone’s fault but his own.

He’d been off lately. Detached. Distant. That was on him. He couldn’t be mad at his team for following orders—not really. And he wasn’t. Not angry.

Just tired, So goddamn tired.

But being outright told that he was a liability to the team? That hit something different. Something inside him shifted—quietly, but deeply.

He exhaled slowly and dragged his metal hand over his face, trying to ground himself. When he opened his eyes, he took a moment to really look at the people around him.

Ava was still holding her cup of noodles, though it had long gone cold. John sat stiffly, gripping the tablet so tightly his knuckles had gone white—his eyes fixed on the screen, but clearly not seeing it. Alexei, for once, was silent. A miracle. Bob was nervously fiddling with his fingers, sneaking glances at Bucky that were full of guilt and something close to shame.

And then there was Yelena. Sitting with that calm expression she wore like armor—but Bucky could see the tension in her jaw, the way her shoulders were braced like she expected to be yelled at.

Actually, the whole team looked like they were bracing for impact.

And that image—it made Bucky’s stomach turn.

Because these were his people. And whether he wanted to admit it or not, he cared. He cared enough to feel sick at the thought of being the thing they were afraid of.

He sighed and ran a hand down his face, trying to keep the bitterness from slipping into his voice. The words that came next were flat, cold, and unmistakably final.

“Give me every single detail of the mission.”

It wasn’t a request. It was an order.

The room shifted with his tone—guilt and discomfort gave way to something more focused. Serious. Grounded.

Yelena hesitated for only a few seconds before pushing herself up from her seat. She crossed the room and retrieved a bag that had been abandoned in the corner since the meeting. Without a word, she unzipped it, pulled out a thick folder, and walked back to the table. Bucky’s eyes tracked her every movement like a hawk. The others instinctively inched closer, silent, attentive.

Yelena dropped the files onto the table and took the seat across from him. The thud of paper hitting wood echoed slightly in the stillness of the room.

“There have been approximately three hundred and forty-four confirmed deaths across the globe,” she began, her tone clinical but laced with unease. “Each case shows the same symptoms—severe hallucinations followed by a comatose state. Victims seem to relive their worst fears. In most cases… they don’t come back.”

She looked directly at Bucky, watching for a flicker of understanding.

His gaze shifted slightly toward Bob.

“You mean… like the Void,” Bucky said slowly. “But without the shame rooms.”

“Exactly,” Ava chimed in from where she leaned against the wall.

“And where is this spreading from?” Bucky asked, already bracing. “Do we have any leads?”

Everyone exchanged quiet, uneasy glances.

Yelena answered after a moment. “You could say someone found a way to recreate a part of Void, like a weaker substitute. Only this time, they’re weaponizing it—spreading it like a disease. A psychic plague.”

“And those who survive it?” Bucky prompted.

“They’re taken,” Yelena said. “Dragged in. Experimented on. We don’t know what happens to them after, but we have reason to believe they’re part of something bigger. We’ve identified a few possible bases connected to this operation.”

His fingers drummed lightly against the edge of the folder. His jaw tightened. This wasn’t just another mission. This was personal. Too familiar. Too close to what he’d lived through already.

He exhaled slowly, then opened the file. "Start from the beginning,” he said, voice low and steady. “And don’t leave anything out.”

Yelena opened the file and flipped through several documents before sliding a photo across the table.

It was grainy satellite imagery—an aerial shot of a compound nestled deep in an isolated forest. Barbed wire fencing. Watchtowers. Heat signatures scattered throughout the grounds.

“This is one of their confirmed facilities,” she began. “Northern Finland. Cold, remote, and heavily shielded—physically and psychically. We’ve sent recon drones, but anything electronic scrambles within two miles of the perimeter. No one’s come out since we discovered it.”

Bob added quietly, “We think it’s a testing site.”

“Testing what?” Bucky asked, eyes narrowing.

“The Void-effect,” Yelena said. “Or whatever version of it they’ve created. Based on what we’ve gathered, they’re recreating fear states. Artificially. Inducing it into people like a virus. It spreads fast—through air. We’re still working on the vector.”

Alexei leaned over the table and tapped another document.

“We found traces of psychic residue in the surrounding area,” he said. “Like leftover trauma. You can feel it. Not just from the victims—but from the ground itself. It's like the whole place remembers fear.”

Ava muttered, “That’s not science. That’s horror movie shit.”

“It’s both,” Yelena replied. “And it’s spreading.”

She slid a second image forward—another compound, this time underground, with corridors mapped by blueprints.

“This one’s in Germany. We intercepted communication that suggests it’s a processing hub. Survivors—if you can call them that—are taken here after exposure. For experimentation. Possibly for reprogramming.”

Bucky stiffened. “Reprogramming?”

Yelena met his eyes. “We think they’re trying to build something. Not just a plague… but soldiers.”

There was a long silence. Bucky’s fingers curled into a fist over the file.

“And the organization?”

Bob hesitated, then nodded at John, who finally spoke up.

“No official name, no flag. Just… a symbol.” He reached into a folder and pulled out a photograph.

A strange circular emblem—black ink on scorched metal. Three lines intersecting at the center, surrounded by what looked like fractured wings.

“They leave it behind. Burn it into walls. Scar it into bodies. It's a calling card.”

“They’re organized,” Yelena said grimly. “Funded. Global. And they’re moving fast. Too fast. We think the collaboration with Sam’s team was pushed through because Valentina finally realized we can’t handle this alone.”

“And you’ve already planned infiltration?” Bucky asked staring out the window, letting everything sink in.

Yelena nodded.

“And I’m assuming Valentina expects me to lead one of these strikes?” he said with a grim expression.

“Yes.” Yelena said. “But yeah. It was implied."

Bucky leaned back, eyes heavy, but mind sharp.

“And yet she keeps me in the dark?...”

This wasn’t just a mission. This was the past clawing its way back. Experimentation. Conditioning. Weaponized trauma. It was the Winter Soldier program rewritten with a modern twist—and this time, it was global.

He looked around the room—at his team, they were tired. Damaged. Scarred, but they were ready.

He tapped the file once more. “We hit Finland first. That’s the source. If we cut the head off the venom, there… maybe we slow the spread.”

nobody argued and did affirmative hums, even john.

---

The files lay open on the table. The mission details had been laid out, the gravity acknowledged, but the air still felt… off.

Bucky was quiet—too quiet—even for him.

Yelena leaned back in her chair, arms crossed, eyeing him like a cat preparing to pounce. “Sooo…” she said, drawing out the word. “Ready to see your ex?”

Bucky’s head snapped up. “....What?”

John choked on his coffee. Ava let out a snort. Bob looked like he was trying very hard to pretend he hadn’t heard anything.

Yelena shrugged innocently. “What? You and Sam—there was tension. History. Mutual pining. All that classic brooding soldier drama.”

“There was no pining,” Bucky muttered, glaring at her. “And he’s not my ex.”

“Right,” Ava said, dragging the word out as she leaned on the back of the couch. “Just a former partner who you bonded with deeply, trusted with your life, made weird intense eye contact with on rooftops, and now refuse to talk to.”

“I don’t make weird eye contact.”

“You absolutely do,” Bob chimed in, finally brave enough to join the teasing.

Bucky looked between all of them, stunned. “Are you all—what the hell is this, a roast?”

“It’s an intervention,” John said, smirking. “A very necessary one.”

Alexei added with a dramatic sigh, “Ah, young love. Tragic and full of unresolved emotional repression.”

Bucky buried his face in his metal hand and groaned. “You’re all the worst.”

“You missed him,” Yelena said casually, flipping a page in the mission file like she wasn’t detonating emotional landmines.

“I did not.”

“You did,” Ava corrected. “You moped.”

“I don’t mope.”

“Bro, you brood-moaned on the rooftop for a week,” John said, eyes wide. “It was like watching a sad indie music video.”

Bucky opened his mouth to argue, but then Yelena tilted her head. “Are you blushing?”

That did it. The entire room fell into stunned silence.

“No! I’m—shut up...”

Bob squinted. “No no, wait… is that color in your cheeks? Is James Buchanan Barnes—actually blushing?”

Alexei barked a laugh. “This is a historic moment. Someone write this down.”

Ava held up her tablet mockingly. “Already recording.”

Bucky turned away, muttering, “You’re all goddamn children.”

But his ears were definitely red now.

And for a second—just a second—everyone forgot about the darkness outside, the creeping mission ahead, and the ghosts they carried. The room lit up with something warmer. Familiar. Real.

“You’re allowed to care, Buck,” Yelena said finally, gentler now. “It doesn’t make you weak.”

He didn’t say anything, but maybe he could breathe a little more.

 

Notes:

the team is like a family :p
lemme know ur thoughts!
if u have any questions please ask , and tell me if u guys would like more sketches of some scenes!! :)

Chapter 3: this is not a reunion

Notes:

no chapter warnings besides sadness and yearning.
please comment , i appreciate them so much!💕

The others eventually drifted off—John grumbling about “emotional sabotage,” Ava claiming she had “better things to do than watch old men blush,” and Alexei loudly declaring himself “too powerful for mushy moments.” Bob scurried off after them, still chuckling under his breath.

That left just Bucky and Yelena.

He sat still, fingers pressed to the bridge of his nose, the files forgotten on the table. The teasing had faded, but the feelings underneath it lingered like dust in the air.

Yelena didn’t say anything at first. She sat back down beside him, not too close, but close enough that her presence grounded him.

“Hey,” she said quietly.

He didn’t respond.

“You alright?”

“No.”

Yelena nodded. “Yeah. Figured.”

There was a pause. Just the low hum of the fridge, the distant clatter of Alexei’s failed attempt to do dishes, and the weight of everything left unsaid.

“You’re not just scared of seeing Sam,” she said after a beat. “You’re scared he’s… gone. That you lost the only person who ever saw you as more than just what they made you.”

Bucky’s jaw tightened.

“Tell me I’m wrong.”

He didn’t.

Instead, he exhaled through his nose, tired and brittle. “He did see me. Even when I didn’t see myself. And now… I don’t know if he even wants to look at me again.”

Yelena looked at him, softer now. “Then look at him first. Whatever this meeting is—it’s a start. Doesn’t mean you have to fix everything today. Just… show up. Let that be enough.”

Bucky didn’t speak for a long time.

Then finally, he said, “I’m not afraid of the mission. I’m afraid of being seen by him again. Really seen. And what if this time… he looks at me and doesn’t recognize what he sees?”

Yelena leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table.

“Then remind him who you are now.”

Silence again. because bucky, he himself didn't know who he was anymore

Bucky finally stood, slower than usual, but steadier. He looked down at her, something unreadable in his eyes.

“Thanks,” he murmured weakly.

Yelena smirked faintly. “Don’t thank me until after you survive the most awkward meeting of your life.”

He almost smiled at that, Almost.

---

The truth was, Bucky wasn’t ready to see Sam.

He could pretend all he wanted—keep the stoic mask on, wear that same indifferent expression as an armor—but underneath it, he was unraveling. Every time he thought about the meeting, his chest tightened. The idea of standing in the same room as Sam again, after everything, made his pulse race and his throat constrict. If he were being honest with himself, he was on the edge of a full-blown panic attack just thinking about it.

But no one could tell.

He was too good at hiding it by now.

The meeting was set for 20 hours from now. Bucky and his team would finally sit down with Sam and the people he’d built his own squad around. Together, they were supposed to go over the gathered intel, lay out their strategy, and coordinate on the mission.

But Bucky had only learned about the mission 28 hours ago. And though he’d spent nearly every second since then surfing through files, reading, analyzing, hunting for gaps—he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off. Something important was being kept from him. The information didn’t feel whole. It felt curated. Watered down.

And his gut—annoyingly accurate as always—told him he was right.

He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, fingers drumming against his knee as his mind spun with what-ifs and half-buried dread. What was he supposed to say to Sam? How does one bridge a silence like this? Months of ghosting, of unanswered messages, of distance so sharp it could cut—and now they were expected to work side by side again like none of it happened?

Sam clearly didn’t want anything to do with him anymore.

Bucky knew that. Had accepted it. Or… at least tried to.

So why had Sam agreed to this?

He already knew the answer. Sam wasn’t the kind of man who let personal feelings get in the way of duty. He’d always put the mission first. He was one of the few truly good people left—steady, grounded, disciplined to the bone. That was something Bucky had always admired, even envied, in him.

Even when Bucky had dragged him into absurd situations—hell, even when he’d pulled Zemo into the mix—Sam had kept his cool. Kept his focus. Done what needed to be done for the greater good, even if it meant working beside someone he had every right to resent.

That was just who Sam was.

So, Bucky knew, deep down, that this meeting wasn’t about mending fences or rekindling whatever shaky trust they once had.

It was about the mission.

But a part of him—one that he hated for still existing—wanted to believe otherwise.

Wanted to believe that maybe Sam did want to see him again.

That maybe, despite everything, Sam still saw Bucky as a partner. As someone worth standing beside.

It was pathetic. Desperate. Naïve.

And Bucky hated himself for it.

His eyes burned suddenly, stinging as tears threatened. He blinked them away with practiced ease and swallowed hard. No. He wouldn’t cry. Not for this. He didn’t feel like he deserved that kind of release.

So, like always, he sucked the pain in.

Buried it.

And carried on like it didn’t exist.

---

Sam sat slouched in a lawn chair outside Sarah’s house, squinting at the grill as the smoke curled upward into the summer air. The sizzle of the meat crackling over the heat was the only thing grounding him in the moment.

Cass and AJ were roughhousing nearby, their voices rising in a mess of laughter and exaggerated grunts. In the distance, neighbors were enjoying plates of food under the shade of an old tree, the sound of clinking glasses and low chatter blending with bursts of laughter. Sarah moved between them with ease, smiling as she handed out plates, soaking in the compliments about her cooking like sunlight.

Sam had come here to spend his last few days of peace before the mission started. A long one—months, maybe more. He needed the calm before everything got loud and heavy again.

But calm was proving difficult.

His mind wouldn't stop racing. No matter how many times he tried to push it aside, the thought of seeing Bucky tomorrow kept creeping back in.

The truth was... he missed the guy. He’d never admit it out loud, but the absence had gnawed at him more than he expected. Still, what was done was done. He couldn’t forget how much it hurt—how deeply the betrayal cut.

And it was betrayal, no matter how much he tried to rationalize it, Bucky, of all people, going behind his back, putting together a team, calling it the Avengers—that part still left a bitter taste in his mouth. Sam had spent years trying to live up to the weight of that name. Trying to rebuild from the ruins. Trying to do it right.

And they just..took it.

That hurt. The worst part was that it was him. Sam had respected Bucky. Admired him, even. He’d considered him a partner—not just in battle, but in life. Someone who understood, who carried the kind of pain no one could.

Now Sam doesn't know what to feel.

He didn’t know how he’d face him tomorrow. He sure as hell didn’t know how to hold back all the anger still simmering under his skin. He was tired—of pretending things were okay, of patching up fractures that just wouldn’t hold. Whatever tomorrow brought, Sam wasn’t going to fake it. Not anymore. Things weren’t the same—and Bucky needed to understand that.

“Dude, you’re burning the meat!” a voice snapped him out of the spiral.

He blinked and looked down. The smoke was thicker now, and when he flipped the meat, it was visibly overcooked on one side.

“Shit,” he muttered, already bracing for the inevitable lecture from Sarah.

Yeah. He was definitely getting yelled at. 

“Samuel Wilson, I told you to keep an eye on the food,” she scolded, already reaching past him to adjust the heat on the grill. “Are you trying to poison my neighbors?”

“It’s not that bad,” Sam muttered, though even he winced when he looked at the charred piece of chicken now sticking to the grates.

Sarah gave him a sharp side-eye and let out a low sigh. “You’ve been out of it all morning. What’s going on?”

Sam didn’t answer right away. He just shook his head, grabbed a pair of tongs, and started salvaging what he could from the grill. Sarah didn’t press him—she just gave him that look. That I-know-you-better-than-you-know-yourself look that only siblings could pull off.

After a long pause, Sam finally said, “I’ve got a meeting tomorrow.”

“With who?” she asked.

“…Barnes.”

The name came out quieter than he meant. Not because he was unsure—because saying it out loud made it real. And real meant messy.

Sarah blinked, then leaned against the porch railing, arms crossed. “So, it’s finally happening, huh?”

Sam didn’t answer.

She raised an eyebrow. “You mad at him?”

Sam barked a short, bitter laugh. “Am I mad?” he repeated, shaking his head. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m mad.”

The words came out harder than he intended, edged with months of silence and buried resentment. He dropped the tongs with a clatter on the side table and rubbed his face with both hands.

“I gave him everything,” Sam continued, voice low. “My trust. My loyalty. I stood by him when the world didn’t. When he didn’t even stand by himself.”

He turned to face Sarah, his voice starting to crack. “And what does he do? He ghosts me. Cuts me off. And then turns around and puts together his own team behind my back? which is being called Avengers like they have any damn right?”

Sarah stayed quiet, letting him get it out.

“I spent years, Sarah—years—trying to live up to that name. Trying to rebuild what was left after the dust settled. That name meant something. It meant sacrifice. Unity. Steve.”

His voice faltered.

“And Bucky-.... they just slapped it on some ragtag squad and acted like it was theirs to claim.”

Sarah exhaled slowly, her eyes softening.

“I know it hurts,” she said gently. “But do you think he wanted any of that?”

Sam looked away. “That’s the thing. I don’t even know anymore.”

A heavy silence settled between them. The grill hissed quietly in the background.

“Maybe he thought you didn’t want anything to do with him anymore,” Sarah said.

Sam turned sharply to her. “I didn’t!” he snapped, then winced. “I mean… I couldn’t. Not after what he did. I tried reaching out—tried waiting. But he never came back. He made his choice. So now I’m making mine.”

Sarah didn’t say anything. She just nodded once, then reached for the plate of half-salvaged meat.

“Then be clear with him tomorrow,” she said. “Tell him exactly how you feel. Don’t carry it around like you always do.”

Sam stared at her for a long second.

Then he nodded, jaw still tight. “Yeah. You’re right.”

But under the anger… under the frustration and the pride… was grief.

And somewhere, buried deep beneath it all, was the aching truth he didn’t want to say out loud:

He missed Bucky Barnes.

Not the soldier. Not the teammate. The man.

The one who used to watch his six in the field, who’d sit with him in silence on rooftops after long missions, who’d mutter dry jokes under his breath in debriefs, just loud enough to make Sam huff a laugh. The man who used to be his partner. Now they were just… two ghosts walking toward each other with weapons drawn.

And Tomorrow was going to hurt.

---

Slowly, the time was approaching.

Everyone was getting ready for the meeting—some dressed in training gear, others opting for something more formal. The atmosphere buzzed with anticipation, nerves, and unspoken tension.

Bucky stood in his room, staring at the scattered pieces of himself in the mirror. Without realizing it, he'd tried to fix his hair—twisting a few strands into place—only to give up halfway through. He huffed and ran a hand through it, letting it fall as it wanted. In the end, he changed into his usual training attire: a black vest that clung to his broad shoulders and framed his lean waist, dark combat pants that fit snug against his strong thighs.

He looked good—undeniably so. The cut of his clothes complimented him, the lines of his body sharp and honed from years of battle. His hair, long and messy, still fell beautifully over his forehead before being swept back. His lips still held that soft, natural pout. His blue eyes, crystal clear, still held that impossible shade of storm-washed sky.

But none of it mattered.

Because no one could miss the exhaustion etched across his face.

He looked worn out. Hollow. Sick, even.

He had the same drained expression he’d carried when Steve left—when everything around him crumbled, and he had nothing left to hold onto. The frown lines on his face had deepened, his dark circles heavy and raw like bruises. It was clear to anyone who looked at him: Bucky Barnes was not okay.

But what could he do about it now?

He exhaled slowly, trying to slow the rhythm of his uneven breathing. His chest felt tight. He hadn’t even seen Sam yet, and already, his body was betraying him.

Because the thought of facing Sam again brought on a flood of tangled, conflicting emotions—grief, guilt, longing, fear. A part of him wanted to run. Another part wanted to fall apart. But the biggest part—the one buried so deep he barely let himself feel it—just wanted Sam to look at him the way he used to.

Bucky's gaze drifted back to the mirror, catching his own reflection. He held it for a second—just one—and then looked away sharply, his jaw tightening.

He couldn’t stand the sight of himself.

And in this moment, right before everything collided, he didn’t even know what he felt anymore.

Only that it was coming.

And he wasn’t ready.

---

The meeting room was larger than it needed to be—clinical, echoing, lined with monitors and reinforced windows that overlooked the facility’s main courtyard. A long table sat in the center, occupied on one side by the Thunderbolts and on the other by Sam’s team.

Torres was seated near the front, thumbing through a digital tablet while glancing up at the projected visuals on the wall. His face was tense but curious. Rhodey sat beside him, arms crossed, eyes sharp as always, the weight of too many responsibilities resting squarely on his shoulders. His expression didn’t waver as he tracked the tension in the room.

Yelena lounged back in her chair on the Thunderbolts’ side, legs crossed, expression unreadable as she chewed on a toothpick. Alexei sat beside her, while Ava leaned forward, elbows on the table, head tilted like she was watching a slow-burn drama unfold. John and Bob sat near the edge, silent, but alert.

Bucky stood near the doorway, motionless, until the side door clicked open.

Sam entered.

He looked calm. Controlled. Clad in his usual tactical jacket, dark gloves tucked under his arm, posture upright and resolute. He scanned the room quickly—and when his eyes landed on Bucky, his face didn’t change.

No smile. No nod. Not even acknowledgment.

Just a blank, guarded stare.

“Mr. Barnes,” Sam said, his voice clipped and formal. “Take your seat. We’ll begin shortly.”

The words hit harder than they should have. It wasn’t the coldness or the indifference—it was the name.

Mr. Barnes.

Not “Bucky.” Not even “James.” just a formal acknowledgement 

Bucky swallowed, jaw tensing. “Sam, I—”

“I said take your seat,” Sam cut in, sharp but still composed. “We’re not here for reunions.”

Everyone in the room froze—just for a moment. Not out of fear, but out of discomfort. Even Rhodey’s gaze flickered.

Bucky stiffened but didn’t argue. He moved quietly to the seat Yelena had saved beside her and sat down, his metal fingers curling into his palm under the table.

The silence that followed was palpable. No one dared comment.

Sam turned toward the display and tapped a command into the tablet on the desk. The room dimmed slightly as a map appeared, spreading across the wall.

“Let’s begin,” he said, stepping aside so the projection was visible. “We’ve confirmed six outbreak zones tied to the neural contamination effect. All victims report hallucinatory episodes before falling into a comatose state. The median exposure time is 5 hours, and symptoms begin with dissociation and visual distortions.”

Torres chimed in, voice calm. “We’ve tracked three major leads across Eurasia and two in Central America. The sixth location seems mobile—possibly a cloaked vessel or base that shifts locations every 72 hours.”

“They’re experimenting,” Rhodey added, arms crossed. “Not just on civilians. We found evidence of former enhanced individuals being targeted. Some survived. Most didn’t.”

A murmur of unease swept through the Thunderbolts’ side.

“We’re assuming it’s tied to The Void,” Ava said, glancing at Bucky. “But this… feels worse. More invasive. More controlled.”

Sam nodded but didn’t look at her. His gaze remained fixed on the data.

“We believe someone’s trying to weaponize fear—literally. Inducing subjects into their worst mental state and harvesting neural data while they’re trapped. Some survivors are showing signs of personality disintegration, as if pieces of them were torn out and not returned.”

“That explains the memory gaps,” Bob muttered softly, almost to himself.

Yelena leaned in. “What about the organization running it? Any name?”

“No confirmed name,” Rhodey replied. “But they operate like a Hydra splinter group—smart, decentralized, and decades ahead in psychological warfare.”

A long silence followed.

Then Bucky spoke, his voice quiet but firm. “What’s the end goal? If it’s not control, then what?”

Sam didn’t look at him. “You’d know more about those tactics than we would, wouldn’t you?” His tone was still cold—biting, but smooth enough to pass for neutral.

Ava’s head snapped toward Sam. Even John looked mildly surprised.

Bucky didn’t reply. He just lowered his gaze and clenched his jaw.

Torres cleared his throat awkwardly and pointed to the screen. “We believe they’re trying to implant altered memories or suppress core identity traits—turn people into blank templates for reprogramming. But there’s also a secondary effect. Some subjects… come out violent. Others just don’t come out at all.”

“We’re already too late for hundreds of them,” Rhodey said flatly. “But if we move fast, we might be able to prevent this from spreading into another Sokovia-level incident.”

Yelena tapped her fingers on the table. “What’s the plan, then?”

Sam finally looked up.

“We split into two joint-task units,” he said. “Thunderbolts lead on infiltration and ground-level takedowns. My team will oversee containment and tech disruption. No solo missions. No one breaks rank. We coordinate through shared comms every step of the way.”

Bucky forced himself to raise his head. “Who’s in command?”

Sam’s eyes landed on him.

“I am,” he said, voice unwavering. “This is my op. And I expect full cooperation.”

It wasn’t a power play. It wasn’t pride.

It was a message.

You don’t lead me anymore. You don’t even stand beside me.

Bucky held his stare. His throat felt tight, his chest heavier than it had all morning. But he nodded. “Understood.”

He didn’t let the tears fall.

He wouldn’t.

He was the one who hurt Sam. He couldn’t cry about the consequences.

The rest of the meeting blurred past him—strategy talk, deployment plans, tech specs, resource needs. He sat through all of it, nodded when needed, offered intel when asked. But his body remained rigid, and his mind… kept drifting back to one thing. 

Sam being so close yet so far

---

(Sam Pov)

The hallway was silent. Sterile in the way most military-grade facilities were—white walls, humming fluorescents, the occasional clink of metal or soft footstep echoing off polished floors. Sam walked quickly, tablet in one hand, gloves tucked under his arm, jaw set tight enough to ache.

The door to the meeting room was already cracked open, light spilling out like a quiet warning. He slowed as he neared, glancing through the narrow vertical pane of glass.

And there he was.

Bucky.

Standing just inside, not quite in or out. Still as stone. Too composed to be casual, too detached to be comfortable.

The light hit him in fragments: half his face in soft shadow, the other pale under flickering fluorescents. His jaw was clenched, his hands at his sides, unmoving. Not resting. Waiting. Like he didn’t know if he was welcome.

Sam’s breath caught—just for a second. Just long enough to feel it.

He looked… different. Older. Not in age, but in weight. Like everything that had happened had hollowed him out and left him standing there, carved from everything Sam had once trusted.

And God help him, he still looked—

Beautiful.

Not the kind of beauty Sam wanted to admit. Not soft. Not kind. Just sharp lines and sorrow, wrapped in a black tactical shirt that clung to him. His hair was pushed back, face tired, eyes already full of something unreadable.

Sam tore his gaze away.

No.

The heat that flared in his chest wasn’t anything but anger.... it couldn't be. The kind that made his pulse climb and his hands tighten around the edge of the tablet. Because Bucky didn’t get to look like that.

Especially not while standing that close to the Thunderbolts.

Yelena sat back in her chair like she’d known him for years. Ava leaned toward him like they shared secrets. Even Walker had that easy slouch, like Bucky had somehow become one of them.

And Sam—Sam who had been there through the worst of it, who had picked up the pieces time and time again—was now just… someone across the room.

It stung.

He hated that it stung.

So he shoved it all down—tight and cold—and stepped inside.

All heads turned. He didn’t give them more than a second. His eyes swept the room, taking in the layout with soldier’s precision: Thunderbolts on the left, his own team on the right. Torres poised, Rhodey unreadable.

His gaze flicked past Bucky.

Didn’t pause. Didn’t soften.

“Mr. Barnes,” he said, voice sharp and formal. “Take your seat. We’ll begin shortly.”

He didn’t need to look to know it hit. He heard it in the way the air shifted, felt it in the stiffening silence. But he did glance, just for a heartbeat—and caught the flicker in Bucky’s expression. That subtle clench of his jaw, the dry swallow.

Good.

Let him feel it. Let him feel something.

“Sam, I—” Bucky began, but it wasn’t even a real protest.

“I said take your seat.” Sam cut him off, cold but composed. “We’re not here for reunions.”

The tension snapped across the room like static. No one spoke, but even Rhodey gave a sideways glance. Ava’s mouth opened slightly, like she might interject. She didn’t.

Bucky obeyed. Of course he did. Like a soldier. Like it was easier to absorb than to answer. He walked quietly to the seat beside Yelena and sat down, metal fingers curling into a fist against his leg.

Sam didn’t look again. Couldn’t.

His pulse was too loud in his ears, and his face felt like a mask he was afraid to crack.

He moved to the console and tapped the command sequence with mechanical precision, watching the mission projection flood the wall with pale blue.

“Let’s begin,” he said, like none of it mattered. Like Bucky hadn’t just swallowed silence instead of a thousand unsaid things.

He walked them through the intel like a machine. Each word was precise, emotionless. Six zones. Five static, one mobile. Coma-state victims. Fear used like a weapon. Details, dates, numbers—he gripped them like armor.

If he stopped focusing on the mission, he’d start thinking about him.

About the way Bucky hadn’t argued. Hadn’t looked hurt. Just folded inward, like he’d expected it.

Like he thought he deserved it.

Sam clenched his jaw again, staring straight ahead. He couldn’t afford to feel bad for him. Not now. Not after everything.

Torres picked up the thread smoothly, detailing the leads. Rhodey added context. The Thunderbolts stayed mostly quiet. Ava spoke once, eyes drifting to Bucky like it was a test.

Sam didn’t look. Didn’t need to. He felt it anyway.

Bucky’s presence pulled at him. Like gravity.

And he hated it.

He hated that even now, after betrayal and silence and all those sleepless nights, some stupid, broken part of him still wanted to ask why. Still wanted to fix it. Still wanted to believe Bucky wasn’t already gone.

Then Bucky spoke.

“What’s the end goal?”

The voice was soft. Rough. And it slipped past Sam’s defenses like it always did.

His stomach twisted.

He turned.

Met his eyes.

And cut with precision: “You’d know more about those tactics than we would, wouldn’t you?”

Flat. Measured. But the blade was there, right under the surface.

He wanted to make him react, anything.

Ava looked at him in disbelief. Even John blinked.

Bucky didn’t flinch.

Didn’t defend himself.

He just looked down. Like he agreed.

That should’ve made Sam feel better.

It didn’t.

The meeting rolled on. Sam kept his voice steady, locked into logistics, ignoring how much smaller Bucky seemed now—how his shoulders curled inward like he was trying to vanish.

When Yelena asked the plan, Sam answered without hesitation. Split teams. Shared comms. No solo acts.

Discipline. Distance.

Order.

Then Bucky raised his head. His voice was barely above a whisper. “Who’s in command?”

Sam didn’t blink.

“I am,” he said. Simple. Final.

And he meant it.

Not as a warning. Not even as a power move.

But as a wall.

You don’t get to stand beside me anymore.

Bucky nodded. “Understood.”

It landed harder than Sam expected. Because it sounded honest. Not bitter. Not resentful. Just… quiet.

Like someone surrendering.

Sam turned away, fixing his attention on the screen again. His throat was tight, but he didn’t show it.

He wouldn’t.

Because if he let himself feel the way Bucky said “understood,” he might shatter something he didn’t know how to rebuild.

So he did the only thing he knew how to do.

He kept talking.

 

Notes:

let me know your thoughts please!! i appreciate comments a lot! please comment and tell me what u guys feel :> , if u wish u to give any suggestion or criticism its deeply appreciated.💕

Chapter 4: Neither of Us Spoke First

Summary:

We’re now firmly planted in the POVs of two emotionally allergic idiots who clearly need therapy, not another mission—but here we are.

Notes:

no specific warning besides deep ache and numbness :,(
hope u guys like it and please let me know Ur thoughts!

Sam was the first to leave the room.

The door clicked shut behind him, and his footsteps echoed down the hall—sharp at first, then softer, more distant, until they vanished altogether.

With every step Sam took away from him, Bucky felt something inside him unravel. The knots in his stomach tightened, coiling like barbed wire, pulling tighter with each fading sound.

The silence that followed was deafening.

Bucky’s eyes remained fixed on the spot where Sam had just stood. He didn’t move. Couldn’t. His chest rose and fell in shallow, unsteady breaths as a familiar ache bloomed inside him—deep and hollow, the kind that sat behind the ribs and never really left.

The way Sam had looked at him...

No warmth. No familiarity. Just cold professionalism, like Bucky was a stranger. An obligation. A name on a mission file.

And Bucky knew—

This was the moment he’d feared all along.

Whatever they had—whatever bond they’d shared through war, through grief, through laughter and silence—was gone. The late-night conversations, the unspoken understanding, the mutual care that had once stitched them together in the shadows of a broken world... it had all been severed. Clean and cold.

It was over.

He felt it in his bones.

His throat clenched as his vision blurred, and he cursed himself inside. Not here, not in front of them.

He could feel the others watching him—not directly, but through the corner of their eyes, like people unsure whether to approach a wounded animal or leave it to bleed in peace.

Still, Bucky didn’t look at them. He didn’t speak. He just stared at the empty space Sam had left behind—so close moments ago, and yet already a thousand miles away.

He drew in a shaky breath, jaw tightening to hold everything in.

His eyes burned, red-rimmed and glossy. The threat of tears was there, heavy and hot behind his eyes—but he didn’t let them fall. He couldn’t.

He swallowed hard, the sound loud in the quiet room, and blinked the moisture away with a practiced precision.

He wouldn’t break down.

Not in front of people who still looked to him to be the strong one.

But in his silence, in the way his shoulders drooped, and his gaze didn’t lift from the floor, the heartbreak was plain as day.

---

The quiet didn’t last forever.

It was Yelena who moved first—arms crossed, but not with her usual smug sharpness. She took a slow step forward, her voice lower than usual. “You’re not gonna say anything?” she asked quietly.

Bucky didn’t answer, gaze still fixed in that same damn place.

“You just gonna sit there and let him talk to you like that?” John muttered from the side, his voice teetering between a scoff and anger. "Thought u would shoot back right away"

“He’s angry,” Ava said quietly, frowning as she sat on the edge of the table, legs crossed at the ankle, one foot tapping restlessly against the metal. “It doesn’t mean he’s right.”
Her tone was defensive, but the way her arms folded tighter across her chest betrayed something else — concern

Bob shifted nearby, his weight moving from one foot to the other. He rubbed the side of his neck, then dropped his hand, then raised it again — fidgeting with the hem of his jacket sleeve like he didn’t know what to do with his hands.
“He didn’t even give you a chance to speak…” he said, eyes flicking toward the door Sam had disappeared through, then dropping again. “Didn’t even look at you. Just… walked away.”

Alexei let out a low exhale, arms folded across his chest. “Still, he is not wrong to feel what he feels.... But he could have handled it with more honor.”

Everyone turned their eyes back to Bucky, who still hadn’t moved, shoulders hunched, gaze lowered to the floor, jaw tight. His fingers curled slightly on his thigh, knuckles pale.

“I don’t need you all to defend me,” he said finally, voice low, hoarse. “He’s right.”

Yelena stepped closer, brow furrowed. “Bucky…”

“No.” He finally lifted his head, eyes red-rimmed but dry. “He’s right. I should’ve done more. I should’ve—should’ve fought harder to reach out, to fix it, to make him believe that I tried. But I didn’t. I didn’t do enough.”

He stood then, slow and stiff like something heavy had sunk into his bones. The mask was back on—cold, distant. But it wasn’t holding as well as usual. His lip twitched slightly as he tried to suppress the tremble in his voice.

“I’m the guy who ruins everything he touches,” he muttered almost to himself. “Even the people who once gave a damn.”, he said so quietly as if not meant to say it to anyone else, but they all heard it anyway.

“No, hey—” Ava started, voice softening, but he cut her off with a quiet, broken laugh.

“It’s over,” Bucky said, and the words hung in the air like a funeral bell. “Whatever I thought we had—whatever I hoped we could rebuild… that’s done.”

His voice cracked at the end, just slightly.

And then, without waiting for anyone else to speak, he turned on his heel and walked out. His boots echoed softly against the floor, his figure rigid, every line of him drawn tight to keep from falling apart.

No one stopped him.

The door shut quietly behind him.

Silence followed again, but this one felt heavier than the last. Grief-ridden.

It was Ava who finally exhaled and muttered, “Shit.”

“He’s not okay,” Bob said softly, glancing toward the door.

“No,” Yelena agreed, eyes still locked where Bucky had stood. “And he hasn’t been for a long time.”

John crossed his arms, frowning. “Sam saw the worst moment and ran with it.’’

“He’s hurting too,” Bob murmured.

“Yeah, but so is Bucky,” Ava said quietly.

“They could fix half their mess with one honest conversation,” Yelena muttered grimly. “But no—emotional repression is apparently their love language.”

A beat passed before Torres, who’d been lingering in the corner in awkward silence, finally found his voice.

“I didn’t realize it was that bad,” he said quietly. “I thought... he just needed space. I didn’t think—”
He trailed off, the weight of it catching in his throat.

The room fell silent again as uneasy glances were exchanged. No one said it out loud, but the question hung thick in the air:

What the hell were they supposed to do to help two people who’d rather bleed out than ask for a bandage?

---

(Sam Pov)

The moment Sam closed the door behind him, his chest felt too tight. He kept walking down the hallway, each step brisk and deliberate, like there was somewhere important he needed to be. Truth was, he had no destination—just the overwhelming urge to be anywhere but that room.

His jaw was clenched. His fists, too. His whole body was wound tight like a spring about to snap.

The encounter had been brief. Polite. Professional. Just a few clipped words exchanged, all the things they were supposed to say. And yet somehow, it felt like he’d walked through a battlefield instead of a meeting room.

"Mr. Barnes". That’s what he’d called him. It had slipped out sharp and cold, like he was addressing a stranger—because in some ways, that’s what Bucky had become. Or maybe that’s what Sam had decided he needed him to be. Easier to face. Easier to ignore.

Still, that didn’t stop the flicker in Bucky’s expression from carving its way into Sam’s memory. He hadn’t cried. Not even close. But he’d looked like he might. Just for a second. Just long enough for Sam to see something tremble behind that carefully guarded stare.

And God, that shook him more than he wanted to admit.

Sam reached the end of the corridor and pressed his palm flat against the wall, leaning into it as he bowed his head. His breathing was shallow. His heart thudded like it didn’t know if it was angry or something else. Guilt, maybe. Confusion. Regret?

He wasn’t sure.

He ran a hand down his face, willing the tension to ease. It didn’t.

The truth was—he had been cold. Distant. Not by accident, either. He’d cut Bucky off before he could explain. Shut him down before he could offer anything real. And Bucky had just stood there, wearing that same tired expression Sam remembered from days long gone. That stoicism, that heaviness in his shoulders… like he was used to expecting the worst.

And that look—that flicker of something broken behind his eyes—it kept replaying over and over in Sam’s head.

Because it wasn’t just pain. It was shame. And restraint. Like Bucky wouldn’t even allow himself to fall apart in front of them.

Maybe he deserved it, Sam thought bitterly. After everything, maybe Bucky didn’t deserve the benefit of the doubt. He’d disappeared. Formed a team. Used the Avengers name like it was just a label and not something sacred. Something Sam had bled for. Built toward.

And Bucky—of all people—should’ve understood what that meant.

But still…

Sam pushed away from the wall and let out a breath, frustrated and uneasy.

He wanted to feel justified. He wanted to believe he was right to be angry, to draw that line between them, to keep things professional. But if he was being honest with himself—truly honest—what unsettled him most wasn’t what Bucky had said.

It was what he hadn’t.

And the part of Sam that had always respected Bucky, cared about him, couldn’t ignore the fact that he’d just wounded someone who’d already been carrying more pain than he ever let on.

He hated that he couldn’t regret it. Not fully.

And he hated even more that some part of him wanted to, because no matter how much time had passed, or how much had changed, it still mattered.

Bucky still mattered.

And that made all of this hurt in ways he wasn’t ready to face.

---

Sam hadn’t moved from the spot.

The corridor was quiet now, far enough from the meeting room that the sounds of the others had faded. The weight of what just happened pressed into his spine like a leaden hand, and he was still leaning into the wall—brow furrowed, lips pursed, heart too restless to find peace.

Footsteps approached, light and unsure.

“Sam?” came a voice from behind. Kind. Steady. Cautious.

He didn’t turn around. “Hey, Joaquin,” he said, trying to sound casual.

But he could hear the tightness in his own voice. And clearly, so could Torres.

There was a pause. Then, a quiet shuffle as Joaquin stepped up beside him, shoulder to shoulder. He didn’t say anything right away, just stood there with his arms crossed, gaze fixed forward.

“You don’t look okay,” Torres said eventually, not accusing—just stating a fact.

Sam exhaled. “Just tired.”

“Right,” Joaquin replied. “Tired from emotionally eviscerating the guy you still obviously care about?”

Sam gave him a side-eye glare.

Torres held his hands up in mock surrender. “Okay, okay—too soon.”

But the humor faded just as quickly. His expression softened as he looked at Sam more carefully. “I saw his face when you said that stuff,.... You really going with that now?”

Sam stayed quiet.

“Look, I get it. You’re hurt. Still pissed. And  you have every right to be. But I’ve never seen him like that, Sam. Not even back when we first started working with him, -and I think this is only hurting you further too”

Sam swallowed, throat suddenly dry. “He—he left. Joaquin. No warning. No calls. Just... disappeared and built an entire team using the Avengers name. That wasn’t just some personal fallout. That felt like betrayal.”

“I know,” Joaquin said quietly. “But maybe it wasn’t that simple.”

Sam finally turned to look at him. “Then he should’ve said something.”

Torres shrugged slightly. “ he tried. Maybe you didn’t want to hear it.”

Sam opened his mouth to protest—but stopped. Because part of him knew Joaquin might be right.

The younger man shifted, his tone softer now. “You’re not wrong to be angry. And I’m not saying what he did didn’t hurt. But you’ve always been the guy who sees through the noise. Who listens. And today? You didn’t even let him finish a sentence.”

Sam ran a hand over his face and let out a breath, shaky and low.

“I don’t know what I want from him anymore,” he admitted, voice hoarse. “I wanted him to say he was sorry. I wanted him to explain. I wanted him to fight for this—for us. But at the same time... I think I didn’t want to hear anything at all.”

“Because if he explained it... you’d have to forgive him,” Torres said gently. “And maybe that scares you.”

Sam didn’t answer. The silence said enough.

Sam clenched his jaw, the memory of Bucky’s expression haunting the back of his eyes. The tight grip in his throat. That flicker of something behind his eyes.

“I thought I’d feel better after saying what I did,” Sam admitted, almost a whisper. “But I don’t.”

Torres nodded. “Because you didn’t just hurt him, Sam. You hurt yourself too.”

Sam let out another breath, this one heavier than before. He didn’t respond—he didn’t have to.

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It sat with them, still and steady, like something honest.

After a long moment, Torres finally said, “It’s not too late, you know.”

Sam didn’t move.

---

The bathroom was cold.

Not just in temperature, but in the way a place could feel stripped of all comfort. Empty. Blank. Too quiet. Too white.

Bucky stood in front of the sink, both hands gripping the porcelain so tightly his knuckles were pale, even on the metal side. He wasn’t even sure how he got here. Just remembered the way his feet moved on autopilot after Sam left the room, face unreadable, voice colder than ice.

Mr. Barnes.

That had hit harder than it should’ve. Harder than most things had in recent years. He’d expected anger—maybe yelling, maybe confrontation. But not indifference. Not that empty, formal tone like Bucky was a stranger in his life.

He dropped his head, breath trembling, chest tight.

The mirror in front of him reflected a man he barely recognized. Hair falling into his face, lips drawn thin, jaw clenched so tightly it ached. The dark circles under his eyes looked bruised, like something internal had cracked and leaked through to the surface.

He hated looking at himself.

Every time he did, he saw what everyone else tried not to—what he tried not to: the soldier who didn’t save the right people. The man who failed again. The man who couldn’t even hold onto the one friendship that had felt like redemption.

His breathing got shallower.

He squeezed his eyes shut, nails digging into the edges of the sink. His metal arm trembled—faint, but it was there. His flesh fingers were clammy with cold sweat.

"I’m not fit to lead."

"I’m a liability."

"He doesn’t want anything to do with me anymore."

His thoughts swirled like a whirlpool, tightening around his throat, pushing bile to the surface. He pressed the heel of his hand against his chest, willing it to stop. To slow. To make sense.

But the ache didn’t fade.

He just wanted to forget. To be anyone else. To be somewhere else. He wanted—

Warmth.

Just once. To be held. To be seen. Not as a soldier. Not as a mission. Not as a failure.

Just as Bucky.

But no one could do that. 

Especially not Sam...

He dragged in a shallow breath, wiped his face with the edge of a towel, and forced himself upright. His expression smoothed over. Walls up. Mask on.

No one needed to see what he was going through. No one wanted to, anyway.

He stepped out of the hallway, footsteps quiet, steady.

But just down the corridor, he froze.

Sam and Torres were still talking, standing a little ways apart—just far enough for Bucky to catch the tail end of a quiet, serious exchange. He couldn’t hear all the words, but he didn’t need to. The way Sam’s shoulders were tense, the way his brow was furrowed… it wasn’t hard to guess the topic.

It was him. It had to be.

And for a second, he almost turned around. Let them talk. Pretend he didn’t see.

But then Sam shifted, and their eyes met.

Bucky exhaled slowly through his nose and took a step forward.

"Sam," he said, his voice level, even gentle. No trace of a plea—just simple acknowledgment. His face was blank, unreadable, carved into stillness.

Sam barely blinked.

"Barnes," he said again, flatly, and immediately turned back toward Torres. “We were in the middle of something.”

Bucky stood frozen.

The rejection didn’t slam—it sank. Quietly. Slowly. Like a stone dropped in water.

He didn’t let it show this time.

No twitch. No waver. Just a short nod.

“Right,” he said softly. “Sorry to interrupt.”

And then he turned and walked away.

This time, there was no crack in his voice. No slip of grief in his tone. He wouldn’t give Sam the satisfaction of seeing that again.

He wouldn’t give anyone that.

He just needed to breathe. And maybe something stronger than air.

He needed a drink.

His footsteps echoed down the hall—quiet, controlled.

But inside?

Inside, something was breaking.

---

The bar was upscale, dimly lit, and far too polished for what it was being used for.

Valentina had pulled every string to make it look like a gesture of goodwill — a welcome evening to “build synergy” between her team and Sam’s. A casual meet-and-greet with free drinks, faux leather booths, and a carefully curated playlist of soul classics and vintage rock humming just under the noise.

But everyone could tell what it really was.

A thin veil. A distraction. A way to avoid the massive, festering awkwardness between two fractured sides of the same war.

Bucky stepped in last.

He'd changed into something marginally more relaxed — a dark Henley and black jeans — still practical, but presentable. His hair was damp from a quick rinse and pushed back behind his ears. He looked put-together, but anyone with eyes could see how drained he was. His eyes were hollow and distant, like he was moving through water.

Yelena was already at the bar, sipping something neon and pretending not to be watching everyone. Ava was next to her, making sarcastic commentary under her breath, mostly directed at John, who was trying too hard to look relaxed. Bob was nursing a ginger ale like it was whiskey, while Alexei had somehow convinced the bartender to let him try every beer on tap.

Sam’s team was gathered at a separate table — Sam, Torres, and Rhodey—spread out just enough to be polite, but still distant.

Valentina, of course, was in the center of it all. Laughing too loudly. Wearing a designer blazer like she was heading a fashion show, not a covert government-sponsored strike team. She clinked glasses and said things like “cross-pollination” and “heroic synergy” as if those words meant anything to people who’d spent years losing sleep over missions gone wrong.

“Don’t you just love how everyone’s getting along already?” she beamed, raising a flute of champagne.

No one answered.

Torres offered her a half-smile and a “Sure,” while Rhodey sipped his drink without reacting. Sam didn’t look up from his glass. He hadn’t said a word to Bucky since the hallway.

Bucky hovered by the edge of the bar, standing instead of sitting, quietly scanning the room like he was waiting for something — or someone — to go wrong.

Every laugh felt too loud. Every eye contact, too short. The room was full of professionals — elite soldiers, assassins, spies — and still, not one of them could fake comfort.

Valentina didn’t seem to notice.

She approached Sam and gave him a too-firm clap on the shoulder. “How’s it feel, Cap? Old friends, new alliances — it’s practically the Avengers 2.0 reunion.”

Sam’s jaw tightened. He looked at Bucky, then away.

“I’m just here for the mission,” he said simply.

Bucky exhaled softly through his nose, jaw flexing.

Yelena glanced at him from her seat. Her eyes said don’t start something here — not yet.

Ava muttered to Bob, “This is less of a meet-and-greet and more of a watch-Bucky-have-a-breakdown-in-four-K.”

“I can hear you,” Bucky said without looking at her.

“I know,” Ava replied, sipping her drink.

The tension hung in the air like thick smoke. No one knew what to say. No one wanted to say what needed to be said.

They were soldiers dressed as civilians. Wounded people in disguise.

And this bar? This curated, expensive illusion of normalcy?

It was just a waiting room for confrontation.

Bucky shifted his stance, then finally moved toward the back corner of the room, where the lighting was dim and the music felt like a distant echo. He needed space. Air. He felt too visible, too watched. His body was buzzing with something too close to panic.

Sam saw the movement but didn’t follow. His fingers tapped restlessly against his glass, like part of him wanted to speak, but the weight of everything between them made it impossible.

Rhodey watched them both. So did Torres. Everyone saw it — the quiet detonation waiting to happen.

Valentina raised her glass again like she was at the end of a successful campaign speech.

“To new beginnings!” she cheered.

No one echoed her.

Just a long pause. Then the dull clink of glass against wood.

The silence said more than any toast ever could.

And Bucky… eventually sat down alone.

At a table near the bar, in the darkest part of the room, just far enough that the dim lights didn’t quite reach his eyes. He ordered something simple. Whiskey. Straight.

The first glass burned.

The second didn’t.

The third just felt like swallowing air.

It didn’t matter. He kept going.

He couldn’t get drunk — not really, not since the serum. But that didn’t stop him from trying. Every time. He’d chased oblivion a thousand times, and it never came, but still — the ritual comforted him. The act of drinking. The lie of control. The illusion of silence.

He sipped slowly, watching the ice melt.

Across the room, the laughter got a little louder. A few chairs scraped. Glasses clinked. Music shifted to something slower, smokier. Voices blurred.

No one looked at him. No one approached.

And for once, he was grateful.

Sam still hadn’t looked his way, and Bucky tried to tell himself that was a blessing. That it was better this way. That the coldness, the distance, the silence — all of it — was deserved.

But it didn’t stop the ache. That stubborn, quiet ache in his chest that never went away.

He stared into his glass like it held answers. It didn’t.

Sam was close enough to hear if he said something — if he stood up, if he walked over, if he just... tried again.

But Bucky didn’t move.

He just sat there, silent and unraveling beneath the surface, as the rest of the room carried on without him.

He didn’t want conversation. He didn’t want forgiveness. He just wanted to feel something that wasn’t this.

And since the universe had denied him numbness, he settled for routine.

Drink. Breathe. Pretend.

He tilted the glass again.

Still nothing.

 

 

Notes:

to be continued.......
please comment!!!! they make my day<3 please let me know ut thoughts and are u ready for more angst??? i hope so because I'm drowning everyone in it.😘❤️

Chapter 5: Unshackled, But Not Untouched

Summary:

Bucky ached for warmth—something to remind him he could still feel that he wasn’t completely numb. He was tired of losing people, tired of watching everything slip through his fingers. Even if he knew he’d lost himself a long time ago, he still craved something normal. But deep down, he knew the truth: his body had escaped Hydra, but his mind hadn’t. And maybe it never would. And in that space between want and impossibility, he reached for anything that might make him feel real again.

Notes:

hey everyone!, this chapter takes a little darker turn, nothing explicit or bad yet but its something, so please look at the warnings as it may be triggering to some people

spoilers! warnings!

non explicit sex.

ptsd flashbacks during sex

panic attack

hook up with a stranger!

non explicit mentions of abuse

you can read end notes to understand this chapter a little better if u have any doubts :)
please comment and let me know you lovely thoughts! they mean the world to me <3

Bucky didn’t know how long he’d been sitting there.

The whiskey didn’t burn anymore. It barely registered at all — just warm water slipping down his throat. The noise of the bar had faded to a dull, formless hum. Laughter, music, glass clinking… all distant, like it was happening through a thick pane of glass he couldn’t be bothered to break through.

Valentina was still making her rounds, her laughter too loud, too sharp. Sam hadn’t looked at him.... Not even once. The others were scattered around the bar — clustered in booths, sprawled across high tables, half-drunk and pretending not to watch each other. Relaxing, or faking it. He couldn’t tell the difference anymore.

Bucky’s glass was nearly empty. He hadn’t touched it in a while, hadn’t realized the ice had melted until the last drop splashed unexpectedly against his lips, too cold, too sudden. He flinched slightly.

A quiet sigh left him. He set the glass down, not looking at it, and pushed it across the bar with two fingers — a practiced motion, disconnected and impersonal.

“Another?” came a voice — lower than expected, smooth, calm.

Bucky didn’t respond at first. His brow furrowed faintly, his jaw tightening.

He didn’t like being spoken to.

Didn’t like being pulled out of his thoughts — or whatever passed for thoughts anymore. Noise, Static, the replays in his head, Faces and memories he didn’t want to see.

He exhaled through his nose, slow and sharp, like annoyance barely contained, and only then did he look up.

The bartender stood across from him — tall, solid, his presence quietly steady. Tan skin, sharp cheekbones, short-cropped dark hair. Tattoos crept out from beneath rolled-up sleeves, curling around toned forearms. His expression was unreadable, except for a trace of something — not quite a smirk, not quite curiosity. Just a lingering look that didn’t break even as Bucky stared back with visible disinterest.

For a beat, Bucky said nothing. Just stared. Scowled faintly.

Then, with a voice rough from silence, he muttered, “Yeah.”

The bartender didn’t flinch. He reached for the bottle and poured smoothly, quietly — and Bucky noticed, with a flicker of irritation, that the man didn’t look away even once.

That stare — direct, unbothered. Not flirtatious, not hostile. Just… present. Bold in a way that made Bucky’s skin prickle.

The bartender finished pouring, set the bottle aside, and then — without a word — reached into his pocket.

Bucky tensed. Just slightly. A flicker of instinct, an old reflex.

But the man only pulled out a half-crumpled pack of cigarettes and placed it gently on the bar between them. No grand gesture. No smirk. Just a quiet offer, his fingers brushing the edge of the pack once before withdrawing.

For a moment, Bucky didn’t move. He stared at the pack like it was a relic from some forgotten life. Like it belonged to someone else entirely.

He hadn’t smoked in years.

Not since… well, not since he started trying to feel human again. Since Sam had started nudging him toward clean routines and fresh air and little anchors that reminded him he wasn’t just a thing. Cigarettes had always dulled the edge — but so had pain, and he’d tried to stay away from both.

But tonight, he didn’t care.

He was too tired to care.

Too tired to pretend he was better than the things that used to ruin him.

His hand moved without thinking — slow, mechanical — and he took one from the pack, rolling it between his fingers. It felt thin. Fragile. Like it’d turn to dust if he held it too tightly.

"Got a light?" he asked, voice rasped and low.

The bartender gave a slight nod, already sliding a lighter across the bar.

Bucky lit the cigarette, inhaled. The smoke scratched its way down his throat, bitter and dry — and familiar. Not comforting, exactly, but numbing. Just enough to drown out the static for a moment.

He exhaled slowly, eyes half-lidded. The smoke curled upward, twisting like ghosts above the glass.

(yes, the art is mine, pulled an all-nighter to finish this ～ (✿◠‿◠),)

 

“Rough night?” the bartender asked.

Bucky’s lips twitched — not toward a smile, but something bitter beneath.

He gave a low, noncommittal hum and leaned back slightly, eyes already drifting away. “Something like that.”

The guy leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on the polished wood, his fingers curling loosely around a towel he’d stopped pretending to use. The low lights caught in the planes of his face — shadowing one side, highlighting the other — but his eyes didn’t waver.

He looked directly at Bucky. Not past him. Not through him, At him.

“You’ve got one of those faces people don’t forget,” he said, voice smooth, low — like he was sharing something he shouldn’t. His gaze flicked downward, not hurried, but deliberate. Down to Bucky’s jaw, his throat, then to where the edge of his metal arm caught the light — not gleaming, but dull, worn, like armor that had been through too much.

“But tonight,” the bartender continued, softer now, “you look like you’re trying to disappear.”

It wasn’t a pickup line.

But it lingered, heavy enough to hang in the space between them like smoke.

Bucky didn’t move. He didn’t blink.

He just stared into his glass again, shoulders subtly tensing as though bracing against something he couldn’t name. The heat that crept up the back of his neck wasn’t exactly desire — it wasn’t even embarrassment. It was the kind of heat that came with exposure. With someone seeing too much and saying it out loud.

His hand tightened around the glass, the metal of his prosthetic clicking faintly where it met the wood. His other hand, the flesh one, remained still — fingers loose, but his forearm taut.

He hadn’t been expecting to feel anything tonight. Certainly not this. Whatever this was.

The bartender didn’t say more. He let the moment breathe, leaned back slightly as he reached for another glass, towel in hand, eyes drifting lazily around the bar — but always returning. Again and again. Glancing. Watching. Quietly studying Bucky like a puzzle he wasn’t quite ready to solve yet.

Around them, the bar moved on. Glasses clinked. Music shifted. Conversations rose and fell. But in that muted, background way, people noticed. Just flickers of awareness — a tilt of the head, a glance too long, a lull in speech before someone pretended to laugh again.

But no one really watched. No one cared. It was just a guy at a bar.

Bucky’s fingers curled tighter around his drink. The ice had mostly melted again, and he could feel the condensation sliding down onto his knuckles. Still, he didn’t drink. Didn’t speak.

Didn’t look up.

He could feel it, though — the weight of being watched not like a threat, but like a question.

A question with no answer.

Like he was a mystery worth chasing.

It was that thought — worth chasing — that did it. Split something right down the center of him.

Bucky exhaled, slow and low through his nose, like trying not to shake.

His heart felt too heavy for his chest, like it had been packed with wet concrete. Every breath echoed through the hollowness inside him, bouncing off old guilt, old silence.

He didn’t want comfort. He didn’t want someone to fix him.

Hell, he didn’t even want kindness.

He just... wanted to feel.

Not numb. Not invisible. Not like some broken piece of military tech wrapped in skin and regret.

Just—something. Something that would remind him he was still a man, still made of blood and nerve endings and want. Something to prove he wasn’t all machine and memory. Maybe something humane. 

He wanted to be touched.

Wanted to be wanted.

Even if he didn’t deserve it.

Even if he couldn’t hold onto it.

Even if it meant nothing next morning.

He didn’t remember what it felt like anymore — to be seen and not feared, to be reached for without orders or obligation. But suddenly, painfully, he wanted it. That heat. That pull. That ache.

When he finally lifted his gaze, it was slow. Deliberate. Like unpeeling something that had been sealed shut too long. His lashes hung low over tired eyes, and his lips parted just slightly — not in invitation exactly but interest.

The bartender looked back at him. Didn’t glance away. Didn’t smirk or crack a line or joke.

He just looked. Still. Steady. Bold.

And the heat in his gaze was unmistakable. It didn’t shout. It didn’t chase. It simply was.

Bucky’s jaw tightened. His tongue pressed to the roof of his mouth like it might stop the flood inside him.

He hated himself for it — for the thought that came next, loud and vulgar and true:

I just want someone to hold me. Touch me. fuck me hard enough to feel like I’m not hollow inside.

It wasn’t romance. It wasn’t weakness. It wasn’t new.

Sex had never been foreign to him. He wasn’t some blushing virgin. He’d had nights. Quick, unspoken, sometimes needed. But lately — more like decades-really, Saving the world didn’t leave much room for craving anything. And being Hydra’s pet experiment didn’t exactly teach you how to have a want or worth for anything, either.

Still — the ache was there now. Building. Coiling low and sharp in his stomach, like something waking up. A hunger he didn’t trust, didn’t want to name, but couldn’t ignore.

And it hurt — because it wasn’t about sex. Not exactly

It was about proof. Proof that he was human. That he could still feel. That someone, even for a few minutes, might touch him without recoiling.

That he wasn’t beyond reach.

---

He looked around the room like he wasn’t even sure what he was searching for. Maybe a place to breathe. Maybe a reason to stay.

Everyone had sunken into their own corners of the night — slouched, half-dazed, softened by alcohol. The room pulsed with low music and louder voices, the haze of comfort he couldn’t touch.

Ava was midway through a chaotic story, slurring her way through punchlines only she understood. Her hands carved out the air, wild and unbothered, while Bob laughed too hard at the wrong moments — red-faced, leaning back like the world was still light.

Yelena was poking at Alexei’s side, whispering something sharp that made him grunt and shove her shoulder. She grinned, teeth flashing.

John sat alone in a booth, hunched over his phone, thumbs moving fast. His glass was untouched. He didn’t look up.

And Sam—

Sam still hadn’t looked at him.

Not even once.

Bucky’s gaze caught there. Hung there.

It shouldn’t have mattered. But it did.

He watched Sam sip from his glass, laugh at something Torres said in passing. Easy, smooth. 

It felt worse than anger. Worse than a fight.

It was absence. Sharp-edged. Deliberate.

Bucky’s chest tightened, slow and suffocating, like something folding in on itself. He didn’t know what he’d expected — maybe a glance, even if it was cold. Something to confirm he still existed in Sam’s periphery.

But he didn’t.

Whatever was left between them — whatever had been there — was too quiet now. Unacknowledged. Like it had never meant enough to grieve.

Bucky looked away. Swallowed down whatever tried to rise in his throat.

The ice in his glass had melted. The whiskey tasted like nothing.

So did everything else.

And just like that, the weight of it all — the noise, the distance, the way he somehow still didn’t exist in the center of a room full of people — settled hard in his chest.

Nobody saw him.

And maybe that was the point.

Maybe not being in the spotlight — not being the hydra's weapon or Captain America’s mistake or the team’s quiet liability — made it easier to decide.

He wasn’t being watched.

He was just a man at a bar. And someone was looking at him like he was more than static in the background.

The bartender’s voice broke through the haze — quiet, but clear enough to cut through the hum.

“You sure?”

Just that. No pressure. No push. Just the offer hanging there like smoke.

Bucky met his eyes. Didn’t look away.

Then he nodded once. Small. Final.

The bartender gave a slight tilt of his head — toward the hallway that led to the back rooms, marked with a discreet “Staff Only” sign. No one else noticed. No one else cared.

Bucky slid off the stool in one smooth motion, leaving his half-empty glass behind.

No one called his name.

He moved like someone crossing a threshold they couldn’t come back from.

His boots made barely a sound on the tile.

His pulse didn’t.

And when he followed the man down the hall, his hands didn’t shake.

---

The hallway behind the bar was dim and quiet, lined with crates of unopened bottles and dust-furred corners. At the far end, a flickering red “EXIT” sign pulsed faintly, casting a dull, uneven glow that threw long, twitching shadows across the walls like ghosts trying to crawl out.

Bucky’s footsteps didn’t make a sound.

Not on purpose—he wasn’t hiding. He just… moved like something that wasn’t meant to be noticed.

Like habit. Like instinct. Like shame.

The bartender glanced back, just once, as if to make sure Bucky hadn’t vanished entirely. There was no impatience in his expression. Just a quiet curiosity.

He leaned against the wall near a steel door, one boot hooked casually behind the other, hands in his pockets like this was just another break between shifts. But his gaze was steady. 

And it wasn’t just the calm that made Bucky falter.

It was that flicker—too close to warmth.

It wasn’t lust. It was attention. Focus. Something human and undeserved and unearned. And it made something twist low in Bucky’s gut, coiling tight until his breath threatened to catch in his throat.

That kind of look—it shouldn’t land on him.

He could almost hear Steve again. Or Sam. One of their voices. Always trying to fill the cracks in him with something like grace.

"It wasn’t your fault, Buck."

"That wasn’t you."

But they didn’t understand. That it was still his body.

His hands.

Those knives hadn’t floated on their own.

His shoulder twitched. A reflex.

And still, he stood there—half in shadow, a foot away from the man who still hadn’t looked away.

He clenched his jaw, just to keep from swallowing too loudly.

The bartender tilted his head slightly, studying him. Trying to read him like a puzzle where all the corners had been burned off.

A long beat passed in silence. And then:

“You sure you want this?”

A lump caught in Bucky’s throat, thick and stubborn. His chest felt like it was being compressed from the inside, like something was clawing at his ribs from underneath.

This was what he wanted, 

To feel something real. Something close to warmth.

To shut off the cold inside his own skin.

To pretend for a night, that he was human.

But his body didn’t agree. His muscles were taut with instinct—don’t trust it, don’t touch it, don’t deserve it.

Even now, as he stood there asking for it without words, his mind scrambled backward. Survival mode. Training. Trauma.

Fucked-up reflexes that had nothing to do with pleasure.

He didn’t know if it was sex he wanted.

Or something deeper. Warmer.

Something that might burn through the ache, scorch him clean. Leave him hollow enough to finally sleep.

He just needed the noise to stop.

The ghosts. The memories. The endless, circling thoughts.

He blinked slowly.

His voice, when it came, was hoarse—half a whisper, half a breath.

“I don’t… I don’t want to think,” he said, eyes lowered, shame cracking behind his words. “Just—don’t make me think.”

The bartender didn’t flinch. Didn’t smile.

Didn’t soften in the wrong way or say something syrupy to ruin it.

He just nodded.

“Alright.”

And then—quietly, like he’d done this a thousand times and never with anyone like this—he stepped forward. His hands lifted to Bucky’s waist, warm and steady, fingertips brushing the hem of his shirt, just enough pressure to ground him.

The contact made Bucky shiver. Not from arousal—yet—but from something older. Deeper. A kind of grief, maybe. A kind of bittersweet feeling.

Because his body leaned into the touch like it had been waiting for it.

But his mind kept whispering, You don’t get this. You don’t get to want this. Not after everything you’ve done.

He didn’t move. Didn’t stop it. Didn’t speak.

And still—he didn’t look away.

His lashes cast delicate shadows over tired blue eyes, rimmed red, but dry. Hollow, but trying.

And that look—God, that look—froze the bartender for a second.

Like he saw something in Bucky that no one had seen in a long time.

One of his hands lifted, slow and deliberate, and brushed along Bucky’s cheek, tucking his fallen hair back behind his ears. His thumb ghosted beneath his eye, not to wipe a tear—there was none—but just to feel him. Just to see if he was real.

“You’re beautiful,” the man said, quietly. Like it wasn’t meant to convince Bucky of anything—just an observation.

Not performative. Not flirty.

Just fact.

Bucky didn’t react. Not outwardly. But inside, his stomach curled.

He hated that word. Hated it for what it used to mean. Hated how far away from it he felt.

Beautiful was for people who hadn’t done what he’d done. Who didn’t have kill orders written across their spine. Who didn’t have hands that remembered blood more than warmth.

But he didn’t flinch. Didn’t reject it.

Because some fractured, dying part of him needed to hear it.

Needed someone to think he wasn’t  what hydra left of him. 

Even if it was a momentary lie for a single night.

For now, it was real.

And real was enough. 

But as if reading his mind, the man shifted. His grip tightened at Bucky’s waist—strong, sure, grounding.

And then—without hesitation—he leaned in and kissed him.

 For half a heartbeat, he didn’t breathe nor move.

Because it had been so long.

Too long since someone had touched him like this.

Without fear. Without a mission. Without hesitation.

Not to patch him up or to steady him mid-combat. But to want him.

And that was the part his brain struggled to accept.

Wanting was dangerous. Wanting meant hope, and he wasn’t supposed to have any of that left.

But the kiss was warm. Not gentle—but not cruel. Confident. Intentional. The kind that didn’t ask for permission out loud but gave him every chance to pull away.

Bucky didn’t.

Slowly—like thawing ice—he leaned in.

A broken sound escaped his throat. Soft. Cracked. Barely there.

A whimper, swallowed by the kiss.

His fingers clenched in the man’s shirt—gripping like it was the only solid thing keeping him here, in his body. Not drifting off into memory. Not back in Val’s office or on the floor of some cold Hydra cell.

Just here. Right now.

The kiss deepened.  

The kind of kiss meant to blur the edges, to shut off thought, to replace pain with sensation.

bucky Matched the energy, bit by bit, until he wasn’t just being kissed—he was kissing back.

Hard. Breathless. Mouth open. Desperate.

His hands slid upward, shaky at first—hesitant, like he didn’t know if he was allowed.

But then they found the man’s shoulders—solid beneath his palms—and held on. Like anchor points. Like lifelines.

There was no technique. No seduction. Just need.

Low puffs of breath passed between them in the rare moments they surfaced for air.

Bucky’s breathing was already uneven, but not from panic this time. From feeling. From heat unfurling low in his stomach. From sensation overwhelming the static in his head.

The man made a soft sound into his mouth—encouragement, maybe, or awe.

His hands roamed slow, respectful but firm. One traced the curve of Bucky’s spine. The other slid just beneath his shirt, fingers skating over scarred skin like it didn’t scare him. Like it wasn’t something broken.

It made Bucky shudder.

Not from fear but from disbelief.

He’s touching me like I’m not a monster.

The thought struck him so sharply it almost broke the moment.

But then the man’s mouth was at his jaw, kissing the edge of his throat, and Bucky’s knees nearly gave out.

His eyes fluttered shut. His grip tightened. His pulse roared in his ears.

I’m allowed to want this, he told himself. Just this once. 

No meaning. No attachment.

Just a flicker of warmth before the dark swallows him whole again.

---

They had somehow ended up in a staff-only storeroom tucked behind the bar, dimly lit and quiet, save for the muffled clatter of glasses and laughter bleeding in from the closed door. The world outside carried on like nothing was broken. 

Inside, Bucky was half-undressed, 

The room smelled faintly of wood and dust, bottles stacked in forgotten corners, crates pushed aside to clear just enough space. The man—warm hands, quiet voice, eyes that didn’t look away—had been careful in his own way. He hadn’t stripped Bucky down completely, just eased his jeans down and shifted his stance, tugging at what he needed without ever rushing or mocking. He left the shirt on.

Maybe it was for Bucky’s comfort. Maybe it was the arm. The thought twisted something sharp inside him. The fabric clung to sweat-slick skin, clinging to his spine, as if it wanted to keep him tethered to something.

He was bent over the table now, fingers curling hard against the edge, forearms bracing the weight of his body—of everything he couldn’t say. His jaw clenched tight, forehead pressed to his arm, eyes squeezed shut. 

The bartender moved behind him with steady, unhurried thrusts. There was a rhythm to it, something human in the way his hands squeezed at Bucky’s hips, in the low murmurs he breathed near Bucky’s ear—not dirty. Just soft. Reassuring, maybe. But Bucky didn’t hear the words. Didn’t want to. He didn’t want to know if the man was trying to be kind or just chasing his own pleasure. Maybe both, it didn’t matter.

All Bucky could feel was the pressure of another body against his, the burn of friction that reminded him he still had skin. That he still existed.

He wanted to feel wanted. And this—this was as close as he could get to it.

His thighs trembled from the effort of holding himself up, of staying present enough to respond. Little sounds escaped him—broken exhales, strained breaths—but his mind was somewhere else, spiraling. He tried to focus on the sensation, on the weight of the man’s hands, the warmth of the contact. But it was like trying to light a fire in the rain.

The ache in his chest didn’t ease. The storm didn’t stop. He felt the pleasure, sure, in flickers—but it slid through him like water through cracks. Nothing stuck.

The man slowly slid his hands beneath Bucky’s stomach, palms warm against his skin as he leaned in to press a soft kiss to Bucky’s shoulder. There was no rush in the motion—just a slow, careful shift of weight and touch. Then, just as gently, he guided Bucky onto his back, repositioning him slightly on the table, his grip steady but not forceful.

Their eyes met—sudden and unguarded. The man moved again, deeper, deliberate, and for a moment, something about the act felt almost sweet. Tender. His gaze didn’t stray, like he was watching for every flicker of response, and Bucky—so far gone he hadn’t registered the shift until it was done—sucked in a breath when the new angle hit just right.

It felt good. Unavoidably so. The kind of good that tore a low moan from his throat before he could silence it.

But even as his body arched toward the pleasure, his chest tightened. His heart beat faster—not just from the rhythm or the sensation, but from something heavier pressing in beneath it.

Bucky didn’t fight it. Not physically, at least. But inside, he was spiraling.

He couldn’t tell if what he felt was building pleasure or blooming discomfort. Maybe both. Maybe neither. His thoughts blurred into static—white noise swallowing sense—his body responding on instinct while his mind drifted to some shadowed edge, hunting distance, the man shushed him softly and slid a hand up to Bucky’s throat.

Not squeezing. Just holding. Gentle, almost absentminded. Leverage, maybe.

Still, the touch sent a shiver through him—fast and uninvited.

That simple contact, light as it was, made Bucky feel startlingly exposed. Caged beneath another body. His own tensed instinctively, a sharp jerk that broke through the fog like glass cracking under strain. Everything rushed in at once: the weight, the closeness, the heat, the breath on his face, the sound of the man’s voice.

No longer muffled. No longer distant.

“God, you’re so pretty,” the man groaned into his skin, voice thick with heat. “You feel so fuckin’ good—so perfect like this, fuck—”

More compliments followed, messy and breathless, meant to be sweet, maybe. 

The act twisted in Bucky’s head. Not because of what was happening, but because of what it echoed—things he’d buried, things that clawed free when he was most defenseless.

His eyes flew wide as panic surged up from his chest like floodwater breaching a dam. His breath caught—sharp, shallow, too fast. The air thinned around him. The room, dim and distant just moments ago, suddenly felt too close, too loud, too bright. The warmth of the man’s hands faded, replaced by the cold press of memory.

The shock collar. The kicks. The commands barked into his ear like he wasn’t a person. Just an asset. Just a thing. The restraints biting into his wrists until they bled. Until he couldn’t move. Couldn’t scream.

He told himself to breathe.

Just breathe.

But the air didn’t feel real anymore. Too thick, too hot. His body buzzed with a familiar numbness, the kind that came before pain, before violence, before everything went sideways. He wasn’t in danger—he knew that. Rationally, he knew. But his body didn’t. His body remembered everything.

He hated this. Hated how easily he could be unmade.

This wasn’t that. He knew it wasn’t. The man wasn’t hurting him. Wasn’t controlling him. But being beneath someone, held down—pinned, caged, seen—was enough to splinter the line between now and then.

And the pressure at his throat—light, teasing, meant to heighten pleasure—was the crack that let everything spill through.

His throat burned. Not from the whiskey. Not from the man’s hand resting lightly against his skin. But from the sudden ache behind his ribs, from the way his breath caught there like it didn’t know how to move forward.

You’re not safe, something in him whispered. You’re not safe.

The thought shouldn’t have made sense here—he was in control, wasn’t he? He’d chosen this. Chosen the distraction, the noise, the heat of another body. He wanted this. Wanted to feel something. To forget.

So why did it feel like the ground was slipping?

Why did his skin crawl like he’d been touched without permission?

Why did it feel like all of this wasn’t happening with him, but to him?

He’d worked so hard to bury it all. Those rooms. Those hands. That silence. But now it came rushing back, too loud to ignore. Too sharp to soften.

The man's hand didn’t squeeze. It didn’t press hard. But it was there. Present. Unwelcome.

And it was too much.

“Stop,” Bucky said, voice tight—clear, but already fraying at the edges.

The man stilled instantly, hands going still on Bucky’s skin. But it was too late.

Bucky slapped his hands away, sharp and shaking. “Just—don’t.”

The bartender blinked, clearly caught off guard, but not offended—concern overtook his features as he took a step back, palms half-raised.

“Hey—wait, what’s wrong?” he asked gently. “Did I—did I do something?”

Bucky didn’t answer right away. His heart was pounding so loud he could barely hear anything else. He dragged his shirt down with trembling fingers, breath coming in shallow bursts, eyes locked somewhere distant. He couldn’t focus. The room felt too small. His own skin too tight.

The man tried again, voice low. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s fine,” Bucky cut in, voice raw. “You didn’t... do anything wrong.”

He forced himself to meet the man’s eyes for a second. “It’s not you. Just—needed to stop.”

And then he was moving—grabbing the rest of his clothes with fumbling hands and heading for the door like it was the only way out of his own body. The sounds of the bar filtered in from beyond, muffled and meaningless through the static roaring in his ears.

He didn’t look back. Just kept walking.

---

( Sam Pov )

Sam stood with Joaquin and Rhodey, nursing a drink he didn’t want, eyes glancing over his team, barely feigning interest in whatever Torres was saying about mission logistics.

His gaze flickered past the bar—and stilled.

There, hunched slightly over the counter with a glass in his hand, was Bucky. Alone. As always. Same blank expression, same furrow in his brow, same distance in his eyes.

But it wasn’t Bucky that caught Sam’s attention this time.

It was the man behind the bar.

Tall. Sharp. Leaning in a little too close. His gaze pinned too steadily on Bucky’s face as he refilled the glass, fingers lingering just long enough to make Sam notice.

Sam didn’t mean to stare. He didn’t even know why it unsettled him. It wasn’t his business. Bucky could do what he wanted. why would Sam care about that in the first place?

But still… Sam’s fingers tightened slightly around his glass.

He watched — subtly, carefully — as the bartender said something with a smile that wasn’t entirely professional. Something smooth, by the shape of his mouth. Bucky didn’t react at first. Then, a slow blink. A small shift in his jaw. The bartender leaned a little closer again.

Torres was still talking beside him, but Sam’s mind had drifted completely.

He saw Bucky’s shoulders rise, like he was holding in a breath. Then, for the first time in a long while, Bucky turned to look directly at someone — not with his usual deadpan stare, but something almost… cautious. Curious.

His lashes were low, his expression unreadable — but Sam had known that face long enough to see beneath it.

He was trying to disappear. Not from the room, but from himself.

Sam turned away abruptly, swallowing the tight knot rising in his throat. Don’t look. Don’t care.

He told himself it didn’t matter. Bucky could do whatever he wanted. It wasn’t Sam’s place to say anything—

But the image clung to him like smoke: the way Bucky’s shoulders had sagged just slightly, the flicker of something vulnerable in his eyes under the haze of dim bar light. Almost like he was asking someone to stop him.

Sam's jaw tightened.

Across the room, Bucky swirled the last of the melting ice in his glass, then knocked it back in one swallow. The scrape of the stool against the floor was soft but final.

The bartender was already waiting for him by the hallway, posture too casual. No words passed between them—just a subtle tilt of his head. An unspoken invitation.

Sam saw it. Felt it.

And he saw Bucky pause. Barely a second.

Then he followed.

No emotion on his face. Just that blank, practiced calm that made Sam’s stomach twist.

He didn’t move. Didn’t say anything. Didn’t stop him.

But something in his chest pulled taut. Sharp. Cold. Irritatingly heavy.

He tried to pass it off as nothing. As tension. As the usual frustration that came with working alongside Bucky Barnes.

But the knot wouldn’t loosen.

And deep down, Sam wasn’t sure if he was angry… or just afraid to admit what he really felt.

 

---

The door burst open with a violent crack, slamming into the wall so hard it rattled the frame.

Bucky staggered out like a man fleeing a fire. His breath came in sharp, fractured bursts, chest rising too fast, like his lungs couldn’t catch up. Sweat clung to his hair, dark strands plastered to his forehead. His hands trembled by his sides, twitching like they didn’t know where to go. His pupils were blown wide, gaze unfocused, flitting across the room like he wasn’t sure where—or who—he was.

He looked like he’d just sprinted through a snowstorm barefoot and lost something vital along the way.

The low thrum of the bar continued, oblivious—glasses clinking, distant laughter echoing like background noise on a wrong frequency. But the air shifted. Something fractured beneath the surface.

Sam felt it first.

From his place near the corner, drink untouched in his grip, his head snapped up. His spine stiffened. He hadn’t even realized he was watching the hallway until he saw Bucky stumble out—not the man who had disappeared minutes ago, but someone unrecognizable. Someone unraveling.

Then the rest of the team noticed too.

Ava trailed off mid-sentence, voice catching in her throat. John straightened abruptly, his mouth slightly ajar. Bob froze mid-laugh, the sound dying awkwardly. Even Yelena, who rarely missed a beat, dropped her easy posture in an instant—her attention razor-sharp.

Bucky looked wrecked.

His steps were uneven, hurried, like the floor might collapse beneath him at any moment. His shirt collar was skewed, the skin beneath it visibly flushed—too red. Like pressure had been there. Like something had gone wrong.

Sam’s grip tightened around his glass until it creaked. His jaw tensed, teeth clenched. He didn’t know what he was feeling—concern, yes. But also something sharper, deeper. Something that burned.

“Bucky?” Ava called, careful and low.

No answer.

Bucky kept moving, faster now, shoulders hunched like the walls were pressing in. He brushed past a waiter, barely muttering something none of them could make out—not even Sam, who was suddenly straining to hear everything.

“Buck, wait—what the hell happened?” John called out, rising to his feet.

Still no reply.

Bucky’s eyes flicked toward him—just a glance—then forward again, determined to escape. He looked like a man seconds from shattering, each footstep more desperate than the last. And then—

Yelena stepped into his path.

Not to block him. Just enough to reach him.

She lifted a hand slowly, voice gentle but firm. “James. Talk to me. What happened?”

“I said I’m fine,” Bucky snapped, but the words cracked as they left his throat—raw, fraying at the edges.

Yelena flinched, not in fear, but with realization. That wasn’t fury. That was fear. Panic.

From across the room, Sam was already moving toward them. The tension between them, the wall they’d built—none of it mattered in that second. It didn’t match the way his heart twisted seeing Bucky like that.

“What happened?” he asked, voice low.

Bucky looked up.

Their eyes met—brief, electric, shattering.

And then Bucky tore his gaze away like it burned.

Sam felt it all the same: the panic behind those eyes, the desperate plea not to be touched, not to be seen. His body ached to move faster, to stop him, to reach—but his legs didn’t listen. His feet stayed planted, like something invisible was holding him back.

Then Bucky turned and left.

Before Sam could say anything else. Before he could figure out what the hell had just happened.

He shoved through the door, the handle clanging sharply as the cold air rushed in. It slammed shut behind him like a closing vault.

Silence fell like a weight.

Everyone stared after him, rooted in place by the sudden emptiness he left behind.

 

 

Notes:

hello everyone!! please read.
This chapter leans into a darker, more vulnerable space. I want to acknowledge upfront that Bucky is intimate with someone who isn’t Sam — and while this is a SamBucky story at its core, this moment isn’t really about romance or even sex.

It’s about Bucky reaching for something he can’t name. Trying to feel alive. To feel human. He’s someone whose body escaped Hydra, but whose mind still lives behind locked doors. This scene is about that dissonance — the aching need to connect, to reclaim something normal, even if it doesn’t work, even if it only makes the emptiness worse.
It’s about trauma, loneliness, and the desperate attempts we make to outrun them.

I just wanted to be honest about what this chapter explores. I hope I did justice to the emotions behind it. Thank you so much for being here, and for giving this story your time and care. ❤️ and PLEASEE comment your thoughts and what u thought of this chapter, your compliments/criticism would be deeply appreciated!! and please also comment if u guys like the art, and if i should do include more of them in later chapters!! and if anyone wants to see more of my art :> i love reading comments :,) please do <3

Chapter 6: unravel

Notes:

hey everyone <3
warnings! slight panic attack.

hope everyone enjoys this chapter, :D and please make sure to leave comments!! they mean so much to me

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.

 

Notes:

hehehe....
how was it?? please comment!!!! and let me know Ur thoughts, they make me sooooo happpyyyyyyy ehehehehe

Chapter 7: this can't be it

Notes:

hello everyone!!!<3
warnings: self-harm behaviour.
sad :(

 

please as usual leave your thoughts and love in the comments 💕💕

Mel was gone the second she realized her work was done.

Her footsteps had already faded down the alley, fast and deliberate like she couldn’t get away from him quick enough.

Now it was just him. Alone in the alley, lit faintly by the flickering orange glow of a nearby streetlamp. The night pressed in around him, humid and too quiet, broken only by the soft buzz of a neon sign a few buildings away and the occasional drip of rainwater from an overflowing gutter.

Bucky stood there for a long moment, chest barely moving, breath shallow.

The envelope sat in his hand like it weighed more than it should. Paper shouldn’t feel heavy, and yet this one did. Its clean navy-blue surface caught the streetlight, edges pressing sharply into his skin like it might cut him if he held it wrong.

Either way, it made him feel anxious.

It made him feel sick.

What could Val want this time? Nothing good obviously. She never showed her hand unless it came laced with something toxic. ulterior motives wrapped in smiles and silk and envelopes.

He swallowed hard, throat dry.

His fingers tightened around it instinctively, knuckles whitening. He didn’t even want to open it. Didn’t want to know at all, especially not when his mind was still buzzing from earlier, still cracked open and raw. 

She always came with something heavy. Always found him at his worst. Always knew the exact moment to strike.

His eyes dropped to the crumpled hem of his jacket. He let out a slow, rough sigh and forced his shoulders back, trying to get his posture under control. Trying to seem less like the mess he felt like. He adjusted his collar, straightened the seams, wiped his palm down his thigh like it would do something to the shaking of his limbs.

He slipped the envelope into his pocket with mechanical movements, like if he did it without thinking, it wouldn’t matter. Like not looking at it meant it didn’t exist. 

He sighed, long and sharp through his nose, and blinked hard at the ground.

He couldn’t stay here,

Panicking in an alley like some pathetic wreck. Like he hadn’t already survived worse. Like he didn’t know how to shove this kind of thing deep down, enough to make it stop screaming.

His fingers twitched. The envelope was still burning a hole in his pocket, but he didn’t touch it again.

Instead, he rolled his neck until it popped, forced a breath through his lungs, and muttered under it

“Get it together.”

His boots scraped against the gravel as he moved forward, slow at first. One step, then another. He felt heavy,  But movement helped. It always did. At least then he wasn’t just standing there waiting to unravel.

The city around him was quiet now. Most of the shops on this block had gone dark. Only a few distant car horns echoed down the street, the kind of half-dead nightlife hum that didn’t care what kind of night he was having.

The streetlamp flickered again behind him, and Bucky didn’t look back.

He tugged his sleeves down, tugged his jacket tighter. Tried to pretend he didn’t feel like a threadbare jacket himself......frayed, thin in all the wrong places, and just barely holding shape.

---

his room was dim and cold when he let himself in.

No lights, no sounds, just the low hum of the fridge in the next room and the distant rattle of rain beginning to tap against the windows.

Bucky kicked his boots off at the door, barely registering the thud they made against the wall. His jacket hit the floor right after, damp from sweat and the alley air, smelling faintly of rust and pavement.

He moved like a ghost through the dim space, his footsteps almost soundless on the worn floor. Straight to the bathroom. No hesitation, no thought.... just the single-minded pull to get there.

The door clicked shut behind him, sealing him in. He stripped layer by layer, movements stiff and mechanical, like his body was working from muscle memory instead of will. The sweat clinging to him was unbearable. hot, sticky, suffocating. Every shift of fabric against his skin sent a spike of irritation through him, his senses screaming.

The panic earlier had left him soaked, and now the stale, gritty air from the street seemed baked into his skin. He felt coated in it, like a film he couldn’t peel off. The sensation made his chest tighten. Dirty. He felt dirty.

It was worse under the surface—like a thousand phantom ants crawling just beneath his skin. The more he noticed it, the faster his hands moved, shoving his clothes to the side in a crumpled heap.

He caught his reflection in the mirror and stared for a beat too long. Pale skin stretched tight over sharp angles, Jaw locked, Eyes dull and rimmed with a darkness that wasn’t entirely sleeplessness, and wasn’t entirely grief—something heavier, somewhere between the two.

He didn’t feel real.

The mirror offered a reflection, but it might as well have been a photograph of someone else 

he didn't feel anything for a moment; it was suddenly too empty.

Slowly, almost as if testing the motion, he lifted his hands and let his fingertips graze his face, both metal and flesh. The pads of his fingers were calloused, the metal ones felt too cold in places where they met his skin, creating an uncomfortable contrast. He slowly started to drag his fingers on his face. they traced along the edge of his jaw first, following the sharp line up to his cheeks, the curve of his nose, the set of his lips, the slope of his forehead. His touch was feather-light at first, as if trying not to disturb whatever fragile thing still held him together.

The pressure grew without him noticing, fingertips dragging harder over skin, as though he could force the shape of his own features to feel familiar again. He lingered too long in places—across his mouth, over the hollows beneath his eyes. as if trying to remember himself.

His bitten nails caught against his own skin, the ragged edges scratching faint lines along his jaw and cheeks. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t even feel it.

His hands dragged down hard until his chin came to rest in his palms, elbows anchored against the sink. His eyes went unfocused, the reflection blurring into meaningless shapes.

The metal hand moved on its own, slow and deliberate, until cold fingertips brushed the curve of his ear. He pinched—tight—holding the flesh between forefinger and thumb. At first, there was nothing. No heat, no ache, no sting. Just pressure.

He kept going. Tighter. Watching his own knuckles whiten while the faint blue crept into the skin. Still nothing. He thought maybe he’d stop when it hurt. But the pain never came—only a muffled awareness.

A part of him wanted to see if he could crush it entirely. To see what would happen if the numbness gave way, if something finally broke.

When his grip finally eased, the skin throbbed with a shallow, irritating pulse. Not pain. Not relief. Just a stubborn discomfort that settled in and refused to move.

His hands dropped to his sides.

The mirror showed no change—same pale skin, same still mouth, same hollow, unblinking eyes. A face that looked like it had been left too long on a shelf, gathering dust. A broken doll that no one had bothered to fix.

He let out a slow, uneven sigh and moved toward the shower.

The water hit him like a sheet of glass—cold, sharp, almost hostile.

Good.

It wasn’t comfort he wanted. It was proof. Proof that he not all numb and lifeless. The droplets stung against his skin at first, then numbed it entirely, sliding over him in quick, relentless trails.

He dragged his hands up into his hair, scrubbing, rinsing, letting the rivulets trace down the sides of his face. The water wasn’t washing away the heaviness in his chest, the grime that clung to his mind. He still felt marked—branded.

And then the memory hit. A phantom hand on his neck, too real to ignore. His jaw clenched hard; a grunt slipped through his teeth.

Dirty.

He needed to get clean. Now.

The soap felt too light in his palm, almost mocking. He glanced down at his body, as if searching for the stain he could feel but not see.

Then he ducked his head and started scrubbing.

Hard.

His movements were sharp, deliberate, but his hands trembled all the same. First his neck, nails digging in until red lines rose up in angry welts. Then his stomach. Every stroke was harder than the last, like he could erase the memory if he just scraped deep enough.

The sting bloomed under his skin, raw.

He didn’t stop.

He kept going until the soap stopped foaming, slipping uselessly in his grip. Until his skin was flushed and raw, as if it had been scoured by steel wool. The air thickened with the sharp scent of clean—too clean. Like antiseptic poured over something that had already begun to rot.

He turned the water off and leaned over the sink, taking a good look at himself, breathing hard, water dripping from his chin.

Still here.

Still breathing.

Unfortunately.

He tore his gaze away, like the image of himself stung.

The mirror still caught his outline, damp hair clinging to his temples, water trailing down the curve of his chest. But he didn’t look again, That reflection never changed but the more he stared, the less human it felt.

The towel hung loose around his neck, forgotten. He didn’t bother to dry off properly. Drops still rolled down his spine and across the metal seams of his shoulder, collecting briefly in the crevices before dripping onto the floor. The skin beneath was raw and reddened from how roughly he’d scrubbed...his neck, his stomach, the insides of his wrists. There was a quiet sting beneath the surface, but at least it was real he told himself. Something he could feel.

He moved wordlessly through his room, bare feet brushing across the cold floor, the towel still damp against his collarbones. He didn’t turn on any lights, There was no need because moonlight spilled in through the cracks in the blinds, catching the edges of furniture and illuminating patches of the otherwise unlit room in soft silver. The scent of rain had crept in—earthy, sharp, cool. It mixed with the faint remnants of soap and the harsh tang of metal.

Outside, the storm had fully taken over.

Rain hit the windows in a steady, rhythmic pattern—loud but calming. Bucky walked to the window, slow and silent, his breath fogging faintly against the glass as he got close. The cool air seeped through the cracks. 

He liked the rain. Always had.

It reminded him of something cleaner. Something softer. As if the world was trying to wash itself clean, drop by drop. But rain didn’t come without weight. With it came a quiet ache in the chest, a kind of sorrow that settled into the bones and made itself at home. On nights like this, it all felt heavier—his body, his mind, everything he hadn’t said and couldn’t feel.

The moonlight caught on his lashes as he stared outward, painting his eyes in silver and shadow. Those pale eyes—the color of a storm in winter, reflected the light like ice. He blinked slowly, tilted his head back, and unlocked the window with a soft click.

A gust of cold wind pushed through, damp and wild.

He leaned into it slightly, letting it hit his face.

Raindrops kissed his skin instantly, soft against the lingering harsh drops of the shower, they slowly slid down his cheeks like tears he never let out.

He stood there for a while, eyes closed, jaw slack, the tension in his shoulders unwinding inch by inch. He didn’t cry He couldn’t......But the rain did it for him.

When he opened his eyes again, they were damp but empty. Not from sadness—just from being. He exhaled through his nose, slow and steady, and stepped back inside.

He shut the window.

Turned.

And saw the envelope still sitting on the table where he left it. He stared at it for a long second. His hand twitched.

Finally, Bucky moved to the couch, the floor creaking beneath him.

He sat slowly, elbows resting on his knees, hair dripping onto his bare shoulders. The room around him was still dark, but outside, the storm kept singing.

Bucky reached for the lamp and switched it on. The warm light filled the room, soft against the dark walls. He didn’t need it, he could see perfectly well without it but something about the act felt normal.

He sat down on the couch, the towel still resting around his shoulders, hair damp, shirtless. The smell of rain drifted in through the slightly open window, cold and clean. The only sound was the steady downpour outside.

The envelope sat on the table, untouched.

He stared at it for a moment.

Then he picked it up.

The sharp, glossy navy-blue envelope felt out of place in his calloused hands. Too pristine. Too polished. Like it didn’t belong anywhere near him.

He exhaled slowly and peeled it open.

Inside, two neatly folded papers slid out—crisp, clinical. He frowned, setting the envelope down on the table as the paper edges caught the lamplight like little blades.

Two?

He picked the first one, unfolding it with a sigh. The layout was unmistakable: a letter. Formal. Structured. Impersonal already.

He cursed under his breath.

“Can’t she just wait until tomorrow?” he muttered, rubbing a hand over his face. “Say it to my face like a normal person?”

But Valentina was never normal. And nothing she did was ever just words on a page.

With a heavy breath, he settled in and began to read.

 

 

---

Dear James,

I was going to ask how you’ve been holding up… but then I remembered—I already know. I’ve been watching you unravel for months now. It’s almost poetic, in a tragic, made-for-TV sort of way. Really, it’s very sweet. Almost romantic.

And today? Oh, James, I wish the whole world could’ve seen your face when your dear captain treated you like you were nothing. You looked like a kicked, half-starved dog—pathetic and heartbreaking in the most delicious way.

Anyway, let’s skip the pleasantries.

 

Bucky harshly scoffed at the words, a sharp, humorless sound that broke the quiet of the room. Of course. Of course she’d open with that. His jaw tightened, metal fingers twitching against the edge of the page until the paper crinkled under his grip. He could feel his pulse in his temples, a dull, insistent beat that only got worse the longer his eyes stayed on the ink. Still, he kept reading

 

Let me be blunt: you're becoming a liability Barnes. I signed up for the damaged assassin thing, sure — tragic past, haunted eyes, the trauma blah blah yes. But this? This teary, twitchy, guilt-ridden mess you’re parading around as a “team leader”? It’s getting old. Fast.

And the timing couldn’t be worse, considering what’s on the horizon. You’ve wandered into something bigger than you, darling. Much bigger. You're in deeper than you think — and the threads wrapped around you? They're tightening. But you haven't felt the choke yet, have you? Not at all

 

The words made Bucky flinch, an instinctive, ugly twitch in his shoulders, even though no one was speaking them aloud. A shudder slipped through him before he could stop it, his breath hitching like the sentence had reached somewhere he kept buried. His eyes widened, catching on the implication buried between the lines — something going on in the dark, something only Val knew and he didn’t. Something bad. His throat worked in a hard swallow, metal fingers flexing against the paper. He told himself not to give her the satisfaction, not to let her get under his skin. Still, he kept reading.

 

Now, listen carefully: this behavior? The instability, the self-pity, a panic ticking bomb? It ends. Immediately. Because if you crack, the whole thing comes down. And we both know you’d hate to be the reason someone else gets hurt now, wouldn't you?

You’re a tool, James. A very old, dented, sentimental tool — but a tool, nonetheless. And tools can be replaced. Easily. Quietly. Sometimes even with an upgrade.

 

He shut his eyes, forcing a slow breath in through his nose. The lids felt heavier when he opened them again, like something in him had sunk lower.

God, he hoped she wasn’t implying what he thought she was.

 

Oh, and when you open that second paper?..trust me you’ll need to. Try not to run like you always do. I know your first instinct is to bolt the second things get hard (emotionally or otherwise) but resist it, don't be a pussy. Your team still believes in you, poor things. Let’s not ruin the illusion just yet.

So be a good boy. Come meet me tomorrow, bright and early. maybe pass a Smile. Obey. Pretend you're still the hero in this story.

And do try to get some sleep — you’ll need it.

With all my love,

-Valentina

 

He forced his breathing to stay even, jaw locked tight. No wrong breath, no slip — Not after reading her call him a liability. And here he was, proving her right, teetering on the edge of another panic spiral. Pathetic.

A rough, shaking drag of his hand down his face. His gaze landed on the other paper, lingering there far too long. His pulse thudded in his ears. Whatever was in it, it wasn’t good. Val already assumed he’d bolt — the thought sent a cold twist through him. He hated that it scared him.

He didn’t even realize his hands were still trembling.

Calm down. Empty it all out.

He shut his eyes, forced the breath from his lungs in one long exhale, and let the rest go still. He can do this. He has to. 

He picks up the paper slowly, scowling at it like he could burn a hole straight through with his eyes. A long, tight sigh leaves him before he tears the flap open and....Several photos slip free and fan out across the floor.

He pauses. he definitely wasn't expecting photos in there,

Bending down, he reaches for the nearest one, eyes narrowing—only to freeze halfway through the motion. His fingers hover above the glossy print like touching it might make it worse.

The image staring back at him makes his stomach turn.

his eyes widen.

It’s his photo.

his face, His body, slumped in a chair, head tilted at an unnatural angle, skin gray with that too-still, too-empty look he’s seen a hundred times before—in morgues, on battlefields. He doesn’t even realize he’s dropped it until it hits the floor with a soft slap.

No. no ...what?

he looks half dead, this can't be him.

This can’t be him.... He has his memories back, every miserable, blood-soaked one of them, and nothing—nothing—like this has happened in the past decade.

Unless…

He snatches up the rest, hands shaking so badly the edges cut into his palms. The blood drains from his face as each picture piles onto the next.

several more photos of...?

Hydra.

It has to be Hydra.

Because those aren’t just strangers in these photos.

He knows every single one of those faces.

And he’s not supposed to be seeing them again.

Because these are the agents—no, the men—the handlers he killed.... He killed them with his own hands.

They look alive...do they? he can't even tell but they are in the damn picture! This shouldn’t be possible. It has to be fake.

His fingers shuffle through the photos on instinct, but every face that stares back makes his stomach turn harder. These people are long dead.

his handlers.

the other men that held power.

Pierce? 

Rumlow..?

His vision blurs for a second and he swallows against the bile rising in his throat.

Rumlow was crushed when the building came down. He knows that.

So how the hell—how—.

Not just alive, but… posed. Looking straight into the camera, like they know exactly who’s going to be on the other side of it.

Bucky’s breath stutters in his throat. The air feels too thin. 

He already knew Hydra hadn’t died. Cut one head off and two more sprout — he’d told himself that a thousand times. Still, seeing it laid out in his hands felt like salt poured into a fresh wound. He stared back at the photos as if they’d rearranged the world: himself — or a mockery of him — slumped in a chair, handlers he’d watched die looking back at him alive and grinning into the lens. Nothing made sense.

Panic crawled under his ribs, hot and jagged. Anger pooled on top of it, a slow, black burn: after everything, after a life spent trying to outrun what they did to him, Hydra was still there—still messing with the parts of him that had been chewed up and stitched back together. 

He could feel the edges of hyperventilation arriving, breath too quick, chest too tight, the world slimming to the edges of the photos. His metal fingers trembled on the paper so hard the images fluttered. Dread sat heavy behind his eyes, a pressure that made his vision go thin at the edges. God—after a century of surviving, this was the thing that kept coming back.

He pressed a fist to his sternum as if he could push the noise down, force the nausea away.

No.

No, he couldn’t let himself spiral. Panic was a luxury he didn’t get to have — not when this could be real. If these photos weren’t some sick fakes, then he needed answers. Now.

He forced his breathing into something steady, teeth grinding as he looked back down at the one photo still clutched in his hand. Before, he’d only seen the faces — the impossible faces — but now he forced himself to take in the rest.

The room wasn’t a dungeon, wasn’t some rusted Hydra bunker he remembered. It was… pristine. Walls gleaming under harsh, sterile light. The chrome edges of machinery catching the shine. And behind him — or whatever version of him that was — rows of identical chairs, each bolted to the floor, each perfectly spaced.

It made his stomach turn. There was something about the orderliness, the shine, the intent behind it that scraped at the inside of his skull. Clean. Controlled. Prepared.

Not just for one prisoner. Not just for him.

The back of his neck prickled. He knew that kind of setup. This wasn’t a cell.

It was a production line.

It felt like a stone had dropped straight through his gut, heavy enough to hollow him out. He forced a slow breath through his teeth, tried to steady the pounding in his chest.

“Fuck…” he muttered, the word rasping out as he dragged a hand down his face, trying to press the tension out of his skull.

When he dropped his hand, his gaze snagged on something he’d nearly forgotten in the haze of shock — the second sheet of paper.

He snatched it up quickly, almost too quickly, like if he hesitated it might disappear. His pulse thudded in his ears as he told himself to calm down and be rational.

Because these photos couldn’t be real.

They couldn’t.

He slowly unfolded the paper.
This one wasn’t a letter—it read more like a report.

Bucky exhaled, the sound shaky in the stillness. He shut his eyes for a moment, willing his heartbeat to steady, but it only seemed louder in his ears. The paper felt stiff between his fingers, edges biting against his skin. like it wanted to remind him it was there. 

He opened his eyes and glanced down at the page.
Printed images were scattered across the paper, each one sharp and deliberate. Beneath them ran long blocks of text—clinical descriptions. The body of the report wasn’t written like a letter at all, but like a script instead. Lines meant to be read aloud in some presentation, each word calculated, rehearsed, prepared for an audience.

he exhaled and started reading.

Notes:

did u guys like it? teehee
i hope i created a good tension build up and I hope the plot is intriguing, please leave your comments and let me know your thoughts and you guys can ask me any questions if anything is confusing. pleeeeaaaseee comment <3

Chapter 8: let it seep in

Notes:

hello everyonee <3
no specific warnings for this chapter.

this is where we head towards the start of the mission

Sam was back in his room. After Bucky had stormed out, the air in the bar had gone heavy, brittle. Nobody had said it out loud, but they’d all felt it-the night was over. Chairs scraped, glasses were left half-full, and one by one, everyone made their excuses and drifted off toward their base.

For this mission, they were all crammed under the same roof. The facility wasn’t small by any means. Wide halls, echoing corridors, high ceilings that swallowed sound, but it didn’t matter. With so many bodies stuffed into one place, every step, every cough, every low murmur carried farther than you wanted it to. Privacy was thin. A luxury. At least they had their own rooms, and for that, Sam was grateful.

Still, he didn’t want to be here. Not with them.

It wasn’t hate. He didn’t hate any of them, but “fond” wasn’t the right word either. He could fight alongside them, sure. He could trust them in combat, maybe. lean on them when the bullets started flying. But sharing space? Sharing silence? Sitting shoulder-to-shoulder at a bar, pretending this was anything close to camaraderie—that was another story altogether.

Now, slouched on the worn sofa in his room, Sam sat hunched over a small table, a bowl of soup cooling between his hands. His elbows dug into the wood, shoulders bowed, the weight of exhaustion pressing down heavier than he wanted to admit. Steam curled upward in thin spirals, soft against the dim light, but his eyes weren’t on it. They weren’t on anything at all.

The window ahead framed the skyline beyond the base, glass towers outlined against the night. But even that view slipped in and out of focus, smudging into little more than shapes and shadows. His gaze passed right through it, unseeing. His mind refused to stay here.

It kept circling back—to Bucky.

No matter how many times Sam tried to steer his thoughts elsewhere—toward the mission, the data they’d found, even the soup in his hands—they just kept snapping back like a rubber band. What the hell had happened out there?

That panicked look in Bucky’s eyes… the skin flushed red like he’d been standing too close to a fire. The image sat heavy in Sam’s gut, rolling there like a stone dropping into deep water. He winced when it flashed again in his mind, sharper this time, as if his memory wanted to etch it in permanent ink.

His mind wandered somewhere it had no business going—back to the image of Bucky leaving with that bartender. The memory left a sour taste in his mouth, the kind that sat heavy on the back of his tongue. He couldn’t even pin down why. Maybe it was because of what it might’ve meant. If it was what he thought it was…

Truth was, Sam had never even considered the idea that Barnes liked men. Not that it would’ve bothered him, not in the least—but it was something to think about. The guy came from a time when people could lose everything, even their lives, over something like that. Back then, it wasn’t something you said out loud unless you had a death wish. Sam wondered—had Bucky always known this about himself and just buried it under layers of secrecy and survival? Or was it something he’d only discovered recently, in the years after everything had fallen apart?

The questions made him uncomfortable, not because of the answers but because of the fact he was asking them at all. This wasn’t his to pick apart.

He shook his head slightly, like that might knock the thoughts loose. Foolish. It wasn’t his place to guess at someone’s truth—especially not Bucky’s. Not unless Bucky told him directly. And the way things were now between them? The chance of that happening was about as likely as Hydra sending them a fruit basket.

That thought settled like a rock in his chest, dragging the corner of his mouth down. It wasn’t just the distance. it was the fact that, even if he wanted to, Sam didn’t know how to close it anymore.

The frown deepened before he even realized it.

Sure, Sam was furious. Mad as hell at Bucky. The kind of mad that made his jaw ache from clenching it too long. He felt betrayed—no, worse than betrayed, blindsided. But that didn’t mean he didn’t care anymore.

And that was the part he hated most.

He hated that no matter how far Bucky had pushed him away, no matter how much cold distance there was between them now, he still gave a damn. He still pictured the look on Bucky’s face earlier...the panic sharp enough to slice through air and wondered how the hell he was doing right now.

Sam had been there before, in the thick of those moments. He’d seen Bucky at his absolute worst, shaking and breathless, locked inside some invisible chokehold only he could feel. He’d been the one to drag him out of it, one slow breath at a time.

And now? Now he was just sitting here, bouncing his leg so hard the table rattled, itching to get up—do something, find that stubborn bastard, and make sure he was okay.

But he couldn’t. he didn't even know if bucky was at the base in his room or still outside somewhere. he didn't even know how to reach out..or that if he even could, definitely Not with the wall between them standing taller than it ever had. All he could do was sit, and stew, and wait for tomorrow’s debrief

---

Bucky’s pace was unrelenting, each step landing with a muted but decisive thud against the polished floor. His jaw was locked; a deep scowl etched into his face like it had been carved there overnight. His hair swung forward and back with the rhythm of his stride, catching the faintest flickers of light from the tall windows that lined the hallway. In his hand, he clutched a crumpled piece of paper, the edges bent and torn where his fingers dug in too hard, as though he could crush the words written on it if he just held tight enough.

The corridor around him was silent, the kind of hollow, early-morning quiet that made every sound sharper—the echo of his boots, the faint rustle of paper, the creak of the floor with each step. Outside the windows, the first light of dawn stretched across the horizon, breaking through the heavy, post-rain fog. The glass was cool and misted, blurring the view of the sun as it climbed, its pale gold bleeding into a backdrop of muted grays and blues. The beauty of it went completely unnoticed. Bucky’s gaze stayed fixed ahead, shoulders tense, stride purposeful.

The room his eyes were locked on was at the end of the corridor. Two guards flanked the door, straight-backed and watchful, their eyes flicking briefly to the man approaching like a storm. The moment they recognized him, they nodded and stepped aside without a word. Bucky didn’t so much as glance at them as he passed; his hand pushed the door open in one rough, decisive motion.

Inside, the air was warmer, heavier. And there she was—Valentina Allegra de Fontaine—leaning casually against the long table as though she’d been waiting for him all along. The faintest curl of amusement tugged at her lips, and when she saw him step through the doorway, she clapped her hands together with deliberate, mock enthusiasm.

“There you are,” she sang, her voice dripping with false sweetness. Then, with a little tilt of her head, “Quite early. I’m impressed.” Her tone sharpened just enough to turn it into a barb.

Bucky didn’t answer. He didn’t slow. The sound of his boots filled the short distance between them until he stopped at the table. Then, with a force that made the wood jump, he slammed the crumpled paper down on the surface.

The guards at the door shifted instantly, hands twitching toward their weapons, their bodies tensing like pulled bowstrings. But Valentina didn’t so much as blink. Her eyes flicked down at the paper, then back up to his face, her smirk widening almost imperceptibly.

Bucky leaned forward, the shadow of his frame stretching across the table. His voice came low and sharp, the words carrying an edge that could cut steel.

“What kind of game are you playing?”

The menace in his tone was palpable, heavy enough to settle in the room like smoke.

Valentina only scoffed, rolling her eyes with practiced disdain.

“Oh, calm your balls, soldier,” she drawled, unbothered. A smug smirk curved her lips, the kind of smile that said she knew exactly which buttons she’d pushed—and that she’d done it on purpose.

Bucky’s scowl deepened, his jaw tightening until the muscle ticked. The paper beneath his palm crumpled further, the sharp sound cutting through the heavy air. Val’s gaze drifted downward, tracking the movement of his fingers as they flexed against the table. She didn’t budge at the tension radiating off him—if anything, her smile grew, slow and deliberate.

“Well?” she prompted, the word drawn out like a dare.

Bucky’s breath came through his nose, sharp and measured, the only thing keeping his temper from spilling over. His voice was low but rough when he spoke, more growl than words.

“Explain. what is this, right now.”

For a heartbeat, Val just studied him, head tilting like she was appraising an unruly dog deciding whether or not to bite. Then she pushed off the table with an exaggerated sigh, straightening to her full height.

“Very impatient, Barnes,” she chided, her mock frown an almost theatrical touch. “You didn’t even greet me.”

The frown melted almost instantly back into that self-satisfied smile, one that didn’t just ignore his anger—it fed on it.

Bucky didn’t soften, not even for a second. His gaze stayed locked on her, unblinking, the lines of his face carved deep with restrained anger. The muscle in his jaw jumped as he ground out,

"Start talking."

He lifted the paper in his grip, the crumpled edges trembling slightly with the force of his hold, and gave it a short, sharp shake in her direction.

Val didn’t answer right away. Instead, she strolled toward the projector like she had all the time in the world, her heels clicking against the floor in deliberate, measured beats. Without so much as glancing back at him, she flicked the switch. The projector hummed to life, bathing the wall in pale light.

The same page he held appeared in blown-up clarity—same layout, same polished tone—but this one carried more. Additional images slid into view, colder and more clinical than the text itself. His jaw tightened further, a deep, quiet fury knotting in his chest.

“Well,” Val began, her voice carrying that mockery she knew he hated, “what you read there explains it perfectly fine, Barnes.” She glanced over her shoulder, lips quirking upward. “But… I guess I’ll have to explain it to you again anyway, huh?”

Bucky’s grip on the paper was so tight it looked ready to tear in half. His shadow loomed across the table under the projector’s light, his jaw locked, eyes narrowing with the kind of warning that would’ve made most people back down. But Val wasn’t “most people.” She sat back on the edge of the table, arms crossed loosely, lips curled in a grin that screamed satisfaction.

She tilted her head, voice sickly sweet and mocking.

“What you saw, Barnes… those Hydra men, those snapshots of you—yourself—in those photos…” Her tone sharpened, theatrical with false pity. “Must’ve rattled you, huh? Given you quite the scare.” She dragged out the last word, dripping in fake sympathy, before letting it dissolve into a smirk. “I mean, seeing ghosts from your own head paraded back at you? That’s the kind of thing that keeps people awake at night.”

Bucky’s scowl deepened, his breath heavy through his nose. He didn’t answer, didn’t give her the satisfaction.

Val didn’t care. She kept talking, piling it on like a vulture circling.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that. It’s not my fault your past is a horror show. Hydra was really creative with their methods, really. And you, darling, were their centerpiece. No shame in being a little shaken by it. Hell, anyone would be.”

“Get to the point,” Bucky finally snapped, voice low, gravelly, dangerous.

“Ouch. Straight to the jugular. You really don’t know how to savor a performance, do you?” Her expression sharp as a knife. “Fine. You want the point, Barnes? Here it is.”

She slid off the table and began to move toward the projector, heels clicking against the floor in deliberate beats, dragging out each second. The images on the wall shifted—Hydra documents, fragmented notes, and then a photograph: a gaunt figure slumped in a chair, arms chained, skin mottled with inky black veins that looked like they were eating him alive from the inside. His eyes glowed faintly, half-swallowed by the Void’s infection.

Bucky’s stomach turned at the sight. The chair was too familiar. He could smell the room it reminded him of—the metallic sting of restraints, the oil and blood that clung to the air. His fingers flexed around the paper, crumpling it further, and his throat worked hard against the wave of nausea threatening to crawl up.

Val leaned close to the image, her perfectly manicured finger tapping the chain as if she were giving a lecture.

“These, my dear Winter Soldier, are fragments. The Void, instead of existing as its own neat little entity, is being… repurposed. Poured into vessels like this one here.” She glanced at him over her shoulder, her smile sharp and indulgent. “Little knock-offs. Imitations. Each of them carrying just enough juice to replicate the Void’s powers.”

Her tone dropped, smooth and cruel.

“Basically—a cheaper version of him. Disposable. Replaceable. With one very simple, very singular purpose.”

Bucky’s throat was dry, his body stiffening as if bracing for a blow.

“And what’s that?” he ground out, though he already knew.

Val’s smirk widened. She gestured toward the chained, half-infected man as if presenting a prize.

“They’re digging through the graveyard of the mind. Taking pieces of what’s dead, what’s gone, and stringing it back together. Memory made flesh. A consciousness born from fragments. Not alive, not truly… but aware enough. Obedient enough.” Her eyes gleamed as she stopped, facing him. “That’s how they’re trying to bring back what hydra used to be, everyone that you see here” she said as she pointed to the unpleasant view of hydra men "is dead, but they are able to gain their consciousness and body through infiltrated memories of no other than our dear. the Winter soldier"

The name hung in the air like a noose.

Bucky didn’t move. Didn’t blink. He forced his face to stay neutral, to keep the panic clawing inside from spilling out where she could see it. He knew. He had known the moment those images landed in his hands what this meant. Somewhere in the back of his head, he had always been waiting for it—for the world to decide peace was too much for him to ask for, for Hydra’s shadow to claw its way back out of the dirt.

His hand trembled where it pressed into the table, so he clenched it into a fist until the veins in his forearm stood out like wires. He dragged in a slow breath, jaw rigid, chest tight with the need to smash the projector to pieces, to snap the smug look off her face.

Val clicked through the display, the screen flickering from one image to the next. Her voice dripped with that brand of sarcastic sweetness only she could wield.

“Whatever was left of Hydra, Barnes,” she began, drawing out his name like it was a joke, “didn’t just vanish into thin air. They’re like roaches—you crush one, ten crawl out from under the floorboards. Only now… they’ve made friends. They’ve mixed themselves with a third party. they are ambitious, clever, the kind of people who don’t mind playing with fire if it means they’ll get to watch the world burn.”

Her hand gestured casually at the projection as though she were presenting art in a gallery, not nightmares. A click, and the image shifted, faces frozen in grainy fragments, men locked in positions of power and violence long since erased from the world.

“They’re trying to bring back what they call the ‘fragments’ of Hydra’s strongest. Not resurrecting the dead, don’t flatter yourself—this isn’t necromancy. These are memory echoes given weight. Like taking a shadow and teaching it to bite.”

Bucky’s stomach twisted, his jaw locking so tight it ached. He knew those faces before the names even hit him, ghosts he’d long since buried in his head.

Val smiled wide, delighted at the tension rolling through him. She tapped the screen, and the worst of them appeared—familiar sneers, familiar uniforms. Rumlow. Pierce. A row of others who should have stayed rotting.

Her voice dipped, mocking sympathy sharpening every word. “What you see here, Barnes… are their fragments. Not breathing, But aware. Conscious. Able to act, to think, to interact as though death never happened. Isn’t that fascinating?”

Bucky was still not moving, his throat burning. He didn’t speak, but his eyes were burning holes in Valentina's face, and he looked like he was ready to throw punches.

“Don’t think I’m stupid, Valentina,” Bucky finally said after a long beat, voice low, gravel roughened with restraint.

His eyes burned into hers, hard and unblinking. “I can read. I got that much. Now tell me—how the hell are they getting access to my-...winter soldier's memories?” The growl under his words carried the kind of edge that promised violence if she danced around him again.

Val didn’t flinch. She didn’t even blink. Instead, her expression shifted into something infuriatingly calm—lips curving into a knowing smile that looked almost proud. She leaned back slightly, arms folding, and exhaled like she’d been waiting for this exact question.

“That,” she said softly, bluntly, “is the reason I called you here, before anyone else.”

Bucky’s tensed. His stare sharpened, demanding more.

She tilted her head, “I suppose it doesn’t take a genius to guess what’s required to pry open someone’s past and all those little shame rooms through the Void. An anchor. An identity. A living vessel to tie those fragments to. Normally, they’d need something strong, tangible—memories wrapped in blood, flesh, ritual.” Her voice dipped, mocking intrigue. “But this time… Hydra did it with just DNA.”

Bucky cocked his head slowly, eyes narrowing to slits. His silence said what words didn’t: keep talking.

Val’s eyes glittered. She loved this—dangling truth like bait. “And somehow… they got yours.”

“Bullshit,” he snapped, the word coming out like a gunshot. He leaned forward, metal fingers flexing against the edge of the table. “There’s no way they could pull this off without help. Without backup. Spill it, Val. This was you, wasn’t it?” His voice dripped venom, suspicion sharpening every syllable.

Val clutched her chest theatrically, her tone flipping to feigned hurt. “Me? Oh, Barnes… you wound me. After everything? You think I’d do that to you? That breaks my heart.” Her mock offense bled into laughter, careless and cruel.

“Cut the bullshit,” Bucky deadpanned, his stare like steel. “Tell me the truth.”

Her eyes flicked to his, and for once, the smile dimmed into something colder. “There’s a mole.”

The words dropped heavy. His eyes narrowed further, suspicion curling tight in his gut. He didn’t trust her—not for a second—but the thought dug its claws in anyway.

Val circled him like a shark now, her voice silk over barbed wire. “Whoever pulled this off… did it smart. Clean. Precise. Think, Barnes. When was the last time you were injured badly? When you were vulnerable enough for someone to take without your notice?”

His thoughts stuttered, dragging him back whether he wanted it or not. He remembered it too vividly—the way he’d lost focus, let himself take a bullet when his head wasn’t clear, when guilt had eaten him hollow. four months ago. After a fight with Sam that went horrible and had left bucky hollow for days.

The memory twisted in his gut, shame thick and bitter. He exhaled slowly, dragging a hand down his face, metal fingers scraping against stubble.

“Four months ago,” he admitted, voice heavy. His eyes cut back to her, sharp again. “Elaborate.”

Bucky’s knuckles were white against the crumpled page in his fist, his pulse hammering too loud in his ears as Valentina’s words slithered into the room like poison.

“From what I believe,” she began smoothly, crossing one leg over the other with practiced elegance, “back then… one of our nurses happened to be someone of our dear hydra in disguise. When you were in that sorry state—bleeding, weak, barely conscious—they took what they needed. A swab, a vial, a trace. Just enough. Your DNA.”

Her tone sharpened, cutting like glass. “Which means, Barnes… this wasn’t luck. This wasn’t an accident. This has been planned for a very, very long time.”

The air thickened, heavy with the weight of her revelation.

Bucky’s stomach lurched, the bile rising. Hydra. So close to him. Touching him, getting under his skin, into his blood. He felt sick—physically sick—like he was back on the cold operating tables, strapped down, helpless. His jaw locked, teeth grinding, but his hands betrayed him with a faint tremor. He forced himself to glare at her, to burn holes through that smug expression.

“And how sure are you,” he ground out, voice gravelly.

Val’s smile widened, satisfied with the crack she’d dug into his armor. “Well, Barnes,” she purred, rising to her feet with the grace of someone who knew she owned the room, “I have better hobbies than playing scavenger hunt with your bodily fluids. I don’t enjoy childish games. When I say it was then, it was then.”

She stepped closer, heels clicking, her perfume mixing with the sterile tang of the projector’s heat. She tilted her head, studied him with a predator’s curiosity. “I’d say this though, Barnes…”

Her tone shifted—soft, flat, dripping with mock sympathy. “It could have been avoided. All of it. If you hadn’t been… distracted.”

Bucky’s frown deepened. “Distracted by what?”

Valentina’s eyes glinted like a blade catching the light. “By your breakup with your dear Cap.”

He snapped his gaze toward her so fast his neck cracked. His chest tightened, anger sparking hotter than the nausea. “What the fuck are you—”

“Tch, tch, tch, James.” She wagged a finger at him as though scolding a child. “Don’t hit me with that sad denial tone. You and I both know exactly what I mean.”

Her lips curled into a venomous smirk, every syllable deliberately cruel. “The way you look at him. The way you breathe around him. It’s sweet, really. Tragic, almost… like a war story with no happy ending. But” she leaned in closer, lowering her voice as though whispering a secret, “it was pathetic how you even spread your legs for a stranger yesterday trying to forget it all.”

Bucky’s breath caught in his throat, shame and fury colliding like two grenades inside his chest.

Valentina didn’t stop. Her smirk only grew sharper. “All that effort, all that sweat, all that need to erase the ache—and still, it took a toll on your poor, soft brain, didn’t it? It’s alright. Happens to the best of us. Especially,” she tapped her forehead with one manicured nail, “with a package like yours.”

Her finger lingered in the air, deliberately pointing toward his head—the cursed metal and the memories inside it, the fractured mind that was never fully his own.

Bucky’s hands shook now, his knuckles screaming from how hard he gripped the paper. His breathing had gone shallow, ragged. He wanted to launch the table across the room, wanted to shut her up with violence, anything to stop the words from seeping in. But he knew that was exactly what she wanted—his loss of control.

So instead, he forced his body still, even as his insides screamed. His voice dropped, guttural, low and dangerous.

“You don’t know a damn thing about me.”

Valentina only laughed softly, tilting her head with a wolfish gleam. “Oh, James… I know more than enough.”

Bucky forced himself to breathe evenly, to bury the fury where it always went—deep, locked down, away from the surface. Rage was useless here. Rage made him sloppy. And Val was the type who’d feed on it like a shark sensing blood. He needed to be rational, keep control, and start thinking in terms of solutions instead of giving her the satisfaction of a reaction.

His jaw clenched as he finally spoke, 

“So what are we supposed to do with this mole?”

Val let out a sharp huff, as though the question bored her. She leaned back in her chair with practiced ease, crossing her legs. 

“As for the traitor,” she said, tone smooth, “you can leave that part to me, Barnes. I’ll handle it. I always do. Finding snakes in the grass is a specialty of mine—it’s well within my power.”

Her certainty should’ve been reassuring, but it only made his stomach turn. Every instinct screamed at him that letting her “handle it” meant another round of lies, half-truths, and power plays. And she wasn’t done. He could see it in her eyes—the spark of something sharper, waiting to be unsheathed.

He leaned forward slightly, glaring at her across the desk.

“…But?”

Val’s smile spread slowly, venom in silk. She rested her chin delicately on her interlaced fingers, elbows balanced on the desk like a cat stretching just before it pounced.

“But,” she drawled, “I need you to play your part, James. First of all—this entire conversation stays between us. Strictly confidential. None of your little friends are to know about this.”

She didn’t wait for his reply. Instead, she reached into a lower drawer, drew out a photo, and slid it across the desk toward him with deliberate slowness.

Bucky snatched it up, eyes narrowing as he studied it. It wasn’t a person this time—it was a machine. A massive, grotesque thing, bristling with tubing and metal containers, each one glowing faintly with something dark and shifting inside. The design looked industrial, clinical, and yet corrupted, like it had been built for the sole purpose of feeding nightmares into the world.

He frowned, brow furrowing.

“What the hell is this?”

Val tilted her head, her tone turning crisp, businesslike.

“That,” she said, gesturing toward the photo with a painted nail, “is where they’re mass-producing the serum. Multiplying it. Feeding it into different sectors of their operation-like veins pumping into an organ. Think of it as a heart.”

Her voice lowered, almost conspiratorial, though the glint in her eyes betrayed the performance.

“The black matter you see being fed through those containers? It spreads on contact. It eats at the body, piece by piece. And when deployed as a toxin-well, let’s just say it rewrites you before it takes control over you.”

Bucky’s stomach rolled, his grip on the photo tightening until the edges crumpled. He could almost smell it already, the chemical tang and rot, the way Hydra’s toys always reeked of cruelty.

Val leaned back, folding her hands like she’d just explained the weather.

“What I need you to do,” she continued smoothly, “is simple. When you infiltrate that facility, you’re going to retrieve samples of it for me. Secure vials, secure data, whatever you can. We need them intact.”

Her smile sharpened, all professionalism painted over with smug satisfaction.

“And don’t worry, darling. your enhanced body can handle exposure, you know that very well.”

Bucky’s jaw locked so tight he swore he could hear the faint creak of bone grinding together. His temples throbbed, rage pulsing in his veins like poison, but when he spoke, his voice came out low, flat and worn down with exhaustion.

“And why,” he asked, each word pressed out between clenched teeth, “is this being kept confidential?”

Valentina leaned back in her chair with infuriating ease, crossing her legs as though she were addressing a child who’d asked too many questions. “Well, Barnes, we don’t ask that many questions. I give you orders… and you obey. You already excel at that, don’t you?”

The words landed like a knife to the ribs, sharp and deliberate. Bucky felt them dig in deeper because she wasn’t wrong. Even now, even after all this time, after everything...his first instinct was still to listen. To follow. To move when told, like a fucking dog. He told himself a thousand times he was free, but his brain was too well-conditioned, scarred in places no serum or therapy could reach. He hated that she could still see it in him, hated more that a part of him still felt it.

His chest tightened until it burned. He scoffed sharply, shaking his head, forcing his body to stay still when everything inside screamed to lash out. He straightened, shoulders squared, eyes locked on hers like twin gun barrels.

“You don’t lead me, Val.” His voice cracked like ice, controlled but trembling with suppressed violence. “The only thing stopping me from ending you right now is this team. And you know it. We both know if we weren’t stuck under these circumstances—” he leaned forward, words practically spat through his teeth “—your neck would’ve been broken before you had the chance to think about talking to me like that.”

Val didn’t flinch. If anything, her expression went smugger, a glint of mockery sparking in her eyes as if she enjoyed his fury.

“Oh, there it is,” she said softly, tilting her head, dripping with mock sweetness. “Shifting back to the old days, aren’t we? You and that temper. We both know how your body still craves violence, Barnes. Don’t play the saint with me. Don’t fool yourself.”

Her nose crunched in feigned pity, her head tilting as though she were observing some tragic, broken specimen.

Before he could bite back, Bucky’s head tilted slightly, instincts sharper than any soundproof wall. His enhanced hearing caught the muffled rhythm of footsteps in the corridor outside—steady, familiar, more than one pair. His eyes darted to the clock on Valentina’s wall. 7:15 a.m.

The debrief was scheduled for 7:40. Which meant his team was already in the building. Probably gathering, waiting, getting ready.

His teeth ground together, metal arm twitching at his side, the servos whining faintly as he forced it still. He wanted to tear into her, rip apart every poisonous word she’d just thrown at him—but now wasn’t the time.

He drew in a breath, slow and jagged, it burned down his throat like broken glass. His nostrils flared, his chest rising once, steadying. The fury pressed against his ribs, demanding an outlet, but he buried it the way he always did—stuffed deep into the pit where everything else lived.

When he looked back at Valentina, his stare was nothing but venom. A silent promise. He held it for a moment, long enough to make the room feel colder, long enough that even her smug composure faltered for half a second. Then he pushed himself back from the table, the scrape of the chair loud against the floor, and turned on his heel.

His boots thudded across the office, each step heavy, purposeful. He stopped at the doorway, hand tightening briefly on the frame, spine rigid as if holding himself together by sheer force of will. He didn’t look back when he spoke, voice low but laced with steel:

“If my team goes in blind because of you, it won’t end well—for anyone.”

The words weren’t a request—they were a threat dressed as a warning.

And with that, he walked out, jaw tight, back straight, his silence as cutting as the words he left behind.

---

The debrief room still carried the faint tang of burnt coffee and steel polish, its long table glowing faintly beneath the overhead fluorescents. One by one, boots and voices trickled in.

Yelena was the first seated, legs propped up on a chair like she owned the place, her tactical vest already clipped and squared. She idly spun a knife between her fingers, expression cool and unreadable, though her sharp eyes tracked every new arrival. Beside her, Bob sat hunched, he wasn't in any tactical clothing, but he still came along and get information on this mission and would be there all the time.

Near the entrance, Sam and Torres stood shoulder-to-shoulder, their comms linked to someone offsite. Sam’s tone was clipped, professional, but his brow creased with an irritation he couldn’t quite hide. Torres, younger and far more restless, kept shifting his weight from foot to foot, nodding quickly at whatever was being said through the line. Every so often, Torres leaned toward Sam, muttering quick clarifications, while Sam pinched the bridge of his nose and exhaled heavily.

On the opposite side of the room, Alexei lumbered toward Rhodey with the kind of enthusiasm that could knock a man over. He gripped Rhodey’s hand in both of his massive mitts, shaking it so violently that Rhodey’s entire shoulder jolted with each pump.

“Ah! Colonel!” Alexei bellowed in his booming voice, his Russian accent thick as molasses. “Finally, someone respectable in this circus! You are… how they say… very important man, yes?”

Rhodey’s jaw tightened. He tried to tug his hand back with little success, his metal brace catching the light. “Uh-huh. That’s—great. Yep. Important. Can I—actually get my hand back now?”

“Of course, of course!” Alexei released him with a grin wide enough to split his face. “Strong grip, eh? Like true soldier!”

Rhodey muttered under his breath as he shook out his fingers, “Like true torture device…”

Meanwhile, Yelena snorted softly, amused despite herself, and went back to twirling her knife.

The clock above the whiteboard ticked closer to 7:30. A murmur spread through the room as more chairs scraped against the floor. But two seats remained conspicuously empty—John and Ava were nowhere to be seen. Yelena checked her watch with a theatrical sigh.

“They’ll be late to their own funerals,” she muttered, just loud enough for Bob to choke on a laugh.

Everywhere, the faint hum of suits and buckles shifting filled the silence, armor plates creaking as people adjusted straps and flexed their gloved hands. Each of them wore their tactical suits now, the black and muted greys sharp against the sterile walls of the room. The atmosphere was building—expectation, impatience, and just enough unease to make the air feel heavier.

The low murmur of voices filled the debrief room, a scattered rhythm of shifting chairs, comms checks, and restless energy. The tension cracked the moment the side door hissed open.

Barnes stepped in.

The room quieted instinctively, as though the sound of his boots carried an unspoken authority. His tactical suit clung close, its matte plates tracing sharp lines over his frame, the snug fabric drawing the shape of broad shoulders and a lean waist. His metal arm caught the harsh light, gleaming briefly before he pulled it into shadow. Black gloves covered both hands, completing the image of restraint and control.

He didn’t rush, or fumble. He walked with measured precision. His long hair was tucked behind his ears, strands slightly mussed, but his face was all steel—stoic, unreadable. The familiar scowl pulled at his mouth, a carved expression that never shifted, the closest thing he had to armor.

His gaze swept the room once, sharp and cool, before he cut straight toward Yelena and Bob. Crossing his arms, he stopped in front of them, weight balanced evenly on both feet.

“Where’s John and Ava?” His voice was even but carried that hoarseness.

Yelena’s eyes met his stare without flinching. She shrugged right away, but she kept studying him trying to find the cracks he didn't let show—like she was trying to peel back the layers of the mask he wore.

Bob, on the other hand, leaned towards him slightly in his chair, "Uh—John was whining about dirtying his suit, last I saw him,” he muttered. “No clue where Ava’s—”

Before he could finish, the air shimmered at the edge of the table. Ava phased straight into the room, the distortion fading as her solid form snapped back into place.

“I’m right here,” she announced smoothly, adjusting the strap of her gear as though she hadn’t just stepped through dimensions. “John’s outside—on a call. He’ll be in.”

Bucky’s eyes flicked her way. A brief nod. No comment, no wasted words. He unfolded his arms and sank into the chair beside Yelena, the leather creaking beneath his weight. His posture remained upright, rigid, as if even sitting was a controlled act.

The silence stretched for a beat after his arrival, the weight of his presence pressing into the air. Then the room’s scattered noises began again—mutters, the scrape of boots, the click of Yelena’s knife against the table—but Bucky didn’t add to it. He just sat, hands resting flat on the table, eyes forward, as unreadable as ever.

---

From the far side of the room, Sam caught the movement before he registered it fully—the side door opening, boots steady against the floor. Barnes stepped in.

For a second, Sam froze, the voice on the other end of his comm blurring into white noise. Bucky walked in calm as ever, tactical suit molding to him like it had always been his second skin. From the outside, he looked composed, ready, exactly what a soldier was supposed to look like. No one else in the room would’ve guessed he’d been unraveling the night before. But Sam knew better. That was the thing about Bucky—he could bury everything deep, wear stone over his face, pretend the cracks weren’t there. To most people, it worked. Not to Sam.

Sam’s gaze lingered longer than he meant it to. He caught the shadows under Bucky’s eyes—dark circles so heavy that even the serum couldn’t erase them. Proof that the man hadn’t had real sleep in a long while. His hair had grown past the easy, manageable length it used to be, strands tucked behind his ears, longer now than when they were laughing together, shoulder to shoulder, partners.... proof of how much Time had passed, too much of it, stolen from them.

And then there was the suit. Bucky never used to wear one, always grumbling and whining that he didn’t need the extra armor, that the arm and his training were enough. But now here he was, wrapped in a design that looked like it had been built just for him, snug around his torso, clinging at that small waist in a way that made Sam’s throat go tight before he caught himself. He looked… complete, almost untouchable, like the kind of soldier he had never wanted to be but had been forced to become.

Sam blinked hard, realizing he’d been staring. He shifted, jaw tight, dragging his attention back to the tablet in his hands, to the call still buzzing in his ear. Focus, Wilson.

“Cap,” Torres’ voice broke through, close and awkward, like he’d been trying for a while.

“Huh?” Sam looked up too quickly.

Torres raised both brows, giving him that sheepish, knowing look of his. “Man, I called your name twice.”

Sam let out a breath, shaking his head like he could chase away whatever had just rooted him to the spot. “Shit—sorry. Got distracted. What were you saying?”

Torres smirked faintly but didn’t push, just angled the tablet back towards him. Sam forced his eyes down, but it didn’t change the fact that his pulse was still too aware of the man who had just sat across the room.

 

Notes:

please share your thoughts and let me know what u thought of this chapter in the comments!! i realllllyy look forward to reading them ❤️❤️💕

Chapter 9: Caught in the Gaze

Summary:

With every step into the unknown, the air grows tighter. Maybe it’s the threat of what lies ahead. Maybe it’s the restless gravity pulling them toward each other. Either way, something is about to break.

Notes:

hellooo!!!!!
I took some time to write this chapter so i decided to add a sketch for y'all :)
no specific warning for this chapter besides absolute yearning XD

PLEASE comment and let me know ur thoughts! 💕

 

The Quinjet hummed low beneath them, steady and constant, like a heartbeat threading through the tension filling the cabin.

They were strapped in, scattered along the benches lining the jet. The faint smell of fuel still lingered, mingling with the sharp tang of metal and the worn leather of their tac suits. Each carried their own brand of stillness—some restless, some impatient, some unreadably stoic.

Val stood at the front near the holo-table, her hand tapping against the projection controls as a pale-blue map of Germany flickered across the display.

“Like I said,” she spoke, her eyes sweeping across them with smug ease, “this one’s a gift. Practically abandoned. They cleared out the moment they realized I’d poked my nose in. Which makes this base our appetizer before the main course.”

She looked at each of them in turn, searching for the faintest trace of dissent.

Alexei grunted, tugging the straps of his vest with heavy, impatient movements. “Empty base, empty victory. Is like walking into graveyard!”

“Yeah, well,” Yelena muttered, slouched against her harness with one leg bouncing, “graveyards still have bones. Bones tell stories.” Her sharp gaze flicked to Val, unimpressed. “Let’s hope your intel holds more than dust.”

Bob, seated beside her, rolled his shoulders but kept quiet, absently fidgeting with the buckle of his seatbelt.

Rhodey leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees, eyes fixed on the map. “We’re not here to pick fights with the plan. Intel first, then infiltration. That order matters if we want to keep people breathing.” His voice was calm, but the steel underneath cut clear.

No one argued with that—at least, not out loud.

Sam sat on the opposite side, arms crossed, jaw tight. He wasn’t smiling, but his voice carried a clipped authority when he added, “Look, I know everyone hates taking orders from her. I don’t love it either. But right now, what matters is figuring out what Hydra-or whatever’s left of it—is building. So, we go in, sweep the place clean, and pull out before anyone even knows we were there. That’s the job.”

Torres, seated beside him, gave a quick nod, then half-joked, “Passive-aggressive teamwork, my favorite.” He earned a few dry snorts, mostly from Alexei, who didn’t seem to realize Torres was serious.

Through it all, Bucky sat in silence. He was strapped in near the back, posture perfect, hands gloved and resting on his thighs. His face was unreadable, the permanent scowl fixed in place like carved stone. His metal arm caught the dim lighting, glinting sharp against the dark matte of his tact suit.

The others kept sneaking glances his way, not openly enough to invite his notice, but enough to confirm what they’d all thought since last night. He hadn’t said a word since they lifted off. Not a question. Not a comment. Just that mask again, perfectly intact.

Sam’s eyes lingered on him a beat too long before he forced himself back toward the holo-display.

“Alright,” Val said with a final tone, smile sharp. “So, abandoned or not, let’s play nice with my intel. The ghosts left in a hurry. That means something worth finding was in there.” she said and clapped her hands as if shes dismissing children and walked off, bodygaurds trailing behind as she stepped off the jet.

The hum of the Quinjet deepened as it ascended through the clouds. They were cutting across the Atlantic, heading toward a remote stretch of Germany, close to the Netherlands border. Six hours in the air. Six hours crammed shoulder-to-shoulder with people who barely qualified as teammates, let alone anything resembling friends.

It was only now, sitting face-to-face under the harsh overhead lights, that the reality of it sank in. This wasn’t going to be quick flight. It wasn’t going to be easy.... And it was going to be awkward as hell.

Alexei shifted in his seat with a grunt, his knees spread too far apart, taking up space like he owned the cabin. He leaned toward Rhodey with a booming laugh, clapping a hand on the man’s shoulder. “Six hours! Is nothing. In Red Room days, six hours in tin can was warm-up!”

Rhodey sighed under the weight of the hand, his mouth pressing into a flat, pained line. “Yeah. Great. Can’t wait to hear all six hours of that story.”

Torres tried—and failed—not to laugh under his breath. Yelena caught it, smirking slightly as she crossed her arms and leaned back. “Oh, you’ll hear them. All of them. He doesn’t shut up.”

Alexei beamed, clearly missing the insult.

after some awkward exchange between them, Silence followed. Not a peaceful kind, but the kind that stretched, awkward and suffocating, through the cabin. The low drone of the Quinjet filled the gaps like static.

Bob fidgeted with his gloves, then his seatbelt, then went perfectly still when he realized everyone could hear the sound of the buckle clicking. Ava hadn’t said a word yet—her head leaned back against the wall; eyes closed like she could will herself to sleep through the entire flight.

And Bucky hadn’t moved since they strapped in. Back straight, eyes fixed on nothing, jaw tight enough to cut steel. He still hadn’t said a word. 

Sam glanced at him once, quickly, then looked away.

Yeah. Six hours was going to feel like sixty. 

 

Yelena’s eyes flicked between Bucky and Sam, her sharp gaze catching the tension neither of them bothered to name. Bucky sat rigid, arms crossed tight, eyes fixed forward like stone. Sam leaned back in his seat, jaw set, deliberately angled away, as if refusing to even acknowledge the man across from him. The silence pressed in heavy, thick enough to choke on.

She tilted her head, studying them with that hawk-like sharpness, then let her gaze drift to the rest of the cabin. John sat a few feet away, the corners of his mouth twitching as if fighting the urge to crack a remark or smirk in their direction. He shifted uncomfortably, his knee bouncing, eyes darting between the two men like he was sitting on a live wire. Rhodey, by contrast, let out a long, weary breath. He pinched the bridge of his nose, his shoulders slumping in the universal language of someone already too tired for this.

Yelena arched a brow, lips pressing together as if to say you see it too, don’t you? She didn’t bother hiding her amusement.

It was Alexei, predictably, who shattered the moment. He shifted in his seat, cleared his throat in a way that wasn’t subtle in the least, then leaned forward with a grin stretched far too wide.

“Captain America,” he boomed, stabbing a meaty finger toward Sam. “Finally, I get to say it properly. It is honor—big honor—to work beside you!”

His voice rose above the Quinjet’s low hum, too loud, too earnest.

Sam blinked, caught off guard, then let out a short laugh—half genuine, half disbelief. “Man, I don’t know about all that. But… appreciate it.”

Alexei clapped once, as if he’d just sealed a deal. “Yes! Good. You are worthy of the shield.”

Sam gave a small, awkward chuckle in response, a touch of bashfulness creeping into his expression.

Naturally, that was Walker’s cue. John leaned forward in his seat with a smug grin, forearms resting casually on his knees. “You know, Sam, for all the shade you throw, I think deep down you’re starting to like us.”

Sam turned his head slowly, face flat, voice dry. “Don’t flatter yourself, Walker. I still don’t like you.”

That drew a sharp, quick burst of laughter from Yelena, followed by Ava, who shook her head and tried to stifle hers behind a hand.

“Burn,” Yelena said, grinning wide. “You walked right into that one.”

Walker scoffed, leaning back with exaggerated ease, though the red creeping up his ears gave him away. “Yeah, yeah. Real funny.”

Ava arched a brow at him, lips curling into a sly smile. “Honestly, Walker, you make it too easy.”

Yelena leaned forward, propping her chin in her hand, her eyes dancing with amusement. “Maybe that’s his superpower—being the punchline.”

Even Torres chuckled at that, and for the first time since they’d taken off, the cabin didn’t feel like a pressure cooker.

Bucky didn’t laugh, but his mouth twitched—an almost-smile that never made it past his lips. He sat there with his eyes fixed on the floor, shoulders drawn tight, body language screaming restraint. He was trying to be invisible. But Yelena noticed. She always noticed.

Her gaze lingered, sharp and unrelenting, catching the faint tremor running through his metal arm where it rested against his leg. Not a shake anyone else would pick up on—but she’d been trained to see the cracks people tried to hide. Beside her, the hum of the Quinjet masked it, but in her mind it was deafening.

She let out a low, deliberate hum, the kind that wasn’t really a sound so much as a test, as her eyes flicked between Bucky and Sam. They sat across from each other like opposing magnets—charged with something electric, close enough to feel the pull but stubborn enough to resist it. Sam leaned back in his seat, that carefully measured composure wrapped around him like armor, arms folded tight, his gaze fixed on some neutral point just past Bucky’s shoulder. His face was calm, but not enough to hide the bead of sweat trailing down his temple, sliding slow despite the cabin’s cool air.

Bucky, meanwhile, had retreated into emotionless statue...spine ramrod straight, jaw locked, expression smoothed into ice. A wall. Always a wall.

Idiots, she thought, rolling her eyes internally. Absolute idiots.

She remembered how it used to be, those months when Bucky still bothered trying. The brooding, the awkward silences that carried weight instead of emptiness, the way he’d flick his eyes toward his phone like a starving man staring at food he couldn’t touch. Every time the line went dead, every unanswered message—he’d sit there like the ground had been ripped out from under him. Not loud, not dramatic. Just quietly, hopelessly gutted.

And now? Now the same man sat only a few feet away, the distance between them more brutal than oceans. He wasn’t chasing anymore. He wasn’t trying. He was just enduring, breath by breath, as if survival was all he had left to offer.

She shifted her weight in her seat, deliberately turning her head so her gaze slid over Ava. Their eyes met for half a second, both of them raised their brows at the exact same time, that silent, wordless exchange only teammates could master. The look said it all: you see this, right? 

Ava pressed her lips together to hide a smirk, nodding the tiniest bit before shaking her head. Yelena leaned back, exhaling loudly through her nose like she might actually scream if she didn’t restrain herself.

The urge to call them out—to cut through the silence and say what everyone else was pretending not to notice—itched in her throat. She wanted to snap, You’re both acting like frozen statues, just kiss and kill each other already.

Instead, she rolled her eyes so hard it was practically audible and muttered under her breath, “Idiots.”

---

The Quinjet carried them steadily through the dark, high above the sea of clouds. The hum of the engines filled the silence, soft but constant, a low vibration that buzzed in the floor panels beneath their boots. For the past hour, no one had spoken much. The air felt cramped despite the space the stretch of cabin that could easily fit them all without brushing shoulders. It wasn’t the Quinjet that was too small; it was the tension.

Yelena had been staring at Bucky for the better part of five minutes. Not subtle, either. Her chin propped on her palm, eyes flicking from him to Sam like she was watching some sort of live theatre. 

Bucky sat stiff, arms crossed over his chest, jaw working every now and then like he was chewing over something unspoken. Sam knew that look; it was the same damn mask Bucky always wore when he wanted to disappear into the background. The long strands of his hair, tucked back behind his ears, framed that scowl so perfectly it was practically carved into his face. Sam caught himself staring before he knew it and forced his eyes away.

And then Yelena finally spoke.

“So,” she said, stretching the word like she was savoring it, “what is your deal?”

The silence in the Quinjet sharpened.

Sam blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You two,” Yelena said, gesturing lazily between them with a flick of her fingers. “You act like… how do you say? Like divorced couple who didn’t really want divorce. Always glaring, always silent, always… unresolved.” She tilted her head, a sly grin tugging at her lips. “Very entertaining.”

There was a beat. Then the reaction hit.

Alexei snorted first, loud and sudden. Ava clapped a hand over her mouth but failed to hide her laugh. Even Walker chuckled under his breath like he couldn’t resist. The cabin filled with the sound of poorly suppressed amusement.

Both Sam and Bucky turned toward Yelena at the same time, glares sharp enough to cut steel.

That just made it worse. Alexei bent over in his seat, wheezing. Ava lost her battle with composure and let out an honest, delighted laugh. The others grinned, whispers rising like a wave around them.

Sam’s jaw tightened. He hated being the center of attention like this, hated giving anyone the satisfaction. He could feel his face heating, and judging by the way Bucky’s scowl deepened into something murderous, he wasn’t enjoying it either.

“Funny,” Sam muttered flatly.

“Very funny,” Bucky bit out, voice low.

But no one was listening. Yelena leaned back in her seat, triumphant, and exchanged a smug glance with Ava. Walker smirked. Alexei wiped tears from his eyes. The teasing had taken root, and Sam knew it’d be hell to shake it off.

Sam turned his head, ready to scoff and brood, but his gaze snagged, like it always did...on Bucky.

Bucky hadn’t looked at him once. He was too busy glaring daggers at Yelena, mouth drawn tight, shoulders locked rigid beneath the snug black fabric of his tac suit. Sam’s eyes lingered longer than they should’ve, cataloging him without meaning to. The faint shadow of stubble darkening his jaw. The strands of hair that had slipped loose, brushing against his cheek. The hollowness in his face, exhaustion carved in before the mission had even begun.

Something tugged restless in Sam’s chest, deep enough to make his brow crease. He ignored it. Tried to.

Bucky’s scowl faltered, just for a heartbeat, before it sharpened again, his glare still fixed on Yelena. Which, for Sam, felt like permission. Like maybe he could keep looking without being caught. His eyes wandered, soaking him in piece by piece, until he forgot entirely that he was still staring.

Sam’s throat tightened. His pulse gave a traitorous kick. He told himself it was irritation, or wariness, or maybe just the damned tension of the mission. But the way Bucky’s eyelashes fluttered, the way his scowl bent ever so slightly when he spoke, God help him—it pulled Sam in like a riptide.

He didn’t even hear the words Bucky tossed at Yelena. All Sam registered was the movement of his mouth.

His eyes dropped. Slow. Intentional. He swore he didn’t mean it, but there they went fixated on the soft curve of Bucky’s lips, on how the dim cabin light caught against them just enough to make them look… soft. Too soft. And pink. Ridiculously pink.

Sam blinked once. Twice. The hell? Did Bucky wear something? Gloss? Because no way in hell lips should look like that.

And God, Sam hated himself for noticing.

With a sigh, Sam forced his eyes upward—too late. he made eye contact with those pale blue eyes

Direct. Unblinking.

Sam froze. The air between them shifted in an instant—dense, electric, charged with something unspoken that pressed down on his chest and stole the breath from his lungs.

For a heartbeat, everything else vanished. The hum of the Quinjet, the scattered laughter, Yelena’s smug little grin—they all dissolved into static. All Sam could hear was the drumbeat of his own pulse hammering in his ears as he locked eyes with Bucky across the narrow space.

Those eyes were sharper than memory allowed, icy and endless, cutting straight through every wall Sam had tried to build. The look snagged on something raw inside him, and he felt it—his chest stuttering like it had forgotten how to move.

The world narrowed down to just that stare. Just Bucky.

Sam’s throat bobbed as he swallowed, a tight, nervous gulp. His hand clenched against his thigh, fingers curling hard enough to bite into the fabric of his tac suit before he forced them to release, only to tense again a second later. On the outside, he kept his face steady, carefully blank, but inside he was burning alive. A restless fire licking under his skin.

He should’ve looked away. Should’ve broken the moment, turned his head, laughed it off. That would’ve been the smart thing. The safe thing.

But he didn’t.

He couldn’t.

(it would be a crime to not include a sketch of that eye contact)

 

Time stretched thin as they kept looking at each other.

Bucky’s gaze flickered just slightly, like he’d caught Sam staring at his mouth before. The thought made heat crawl up the back of Sam’s neck, He straightened in his seat, cleared his throat, and finally snapped his eyes away, fixing them on the floor with iron determination.

Get a grip, Wilson.

The others were still laughing, tossing comments back and forth. Yelena muttered something in Russian that set Ava off again. Alexei was already coming up with dramatic theories about “the tragic lovers torn apart by fate.” they didn't seem to notice the inner turmoil both men are going through. he still felt the burn of those eyes staring at him.

Sam clenched his jaw and let it roll off him. Or tried to. He’d learned how to drown noise out before, how to stay steady under fire. But this was different. This wasn’t about noise. It was about the way his chest was still tight, the way his pulse refused to settle, the way the memory of blue eyes and too-pink lips wouldn’t leave him alone.

He risked another glance.

Bucky had turned away, staring off toward the bulkhead with furrowed eyebrows. But Sam caught the tiniest twitch at the corner of his mouth—not quite a smile, not quite a scowl. Something in between. Something unreadable.

And Sam hated how badly he wanted to know what it meant.

---

Bucky had been minding his own business. Keeping his head down, eyes fixed on the black scuffed flooring of the Quinjet, the low hum of the engines drowning out most of his own thoughts. That was how he preferred it. Quiet. Contained. If he didn’t look at anyone, if he didn’t say a word, he could almost pretend he wasn’t here.

And then Yelena opened her damn mouth.

It started harmless, her poking fun at Alexei’s booming laughter, her snide little comments that always got Ava smirking at her side. But then her eyes shifted, sharp and mischievous, bouncing between him and Sam like she had discovered buried treasure.

“What’s your deal?” she asked, her voice pitched just loud enough for everyone to hear, casual as a dagger sliding under the ribs. “You two sit there like a divorced couple who didn’t really want the divorce.”

The words slapped him out of his daze

Bucky’s head snapped up before he could stop himself, snapping toward her with a glare sharp enough to cut. He felt the heat crawl up his face instantly—hot, prickling, all the way to the tips of his ears.

“Shut up,” he almost said, but the words locked in his throat. His jaw tightened instead, teeth grinding down hard.

Fuck. He didn’t want Sam to hear this...didn’t want him dragged into Yelena’s bullshit observations. He didn’t want to imagine the expression Sam must be wearing right now. Disgust, maybe. Or worse...indifference. That reluctant tolerance Sam had perfected around him over the months. The one that always drove a knife into his chest, quiet and merciless.

No. He couldn’t look. He wouldn’t look.

So he forced his eyes on Yelena, icy, unblinking, willing her to shut up with nothing more than his stare. Ava leaned forward slightly, already smirking, and Yelena doubled down, unbothered. Bucky’s glare only made her laugh, a snort breaking free.

The sound hit him like a taunt.

He felt eyes on him, sharp and unrelenting, and his scowl faltered before he could stop it. His gut twisted. He didn’t need to look to know—it was Sam. He could feel the weight of that gaze burning into him like heat against the side of his face.

So he did what he always did: he deepened the scowl, carved the mask deeper, and forced himself to keep his stare pinned on Yelena. “Stop your bullshit, Yelena,” he muttered, voice low and rough, every syllable clipped with warning.

Yelena only smirked, lips curving slow, smug and satisfied, as if his reaction had just confirmed everything she already knew. Her eyes slid away from him—tilting, purposeful—toward Sam’s side of the cabin.

Bucky’s own gaze, against his will, followed hers.

And that’s when he saw—

Sam was looking right at him.

Not just a glance. Not casual. He was studying him.

And it wasn’t the expression Bucky had braced himself for. Not disgust. Not that quiet, exhausted tolerance that cut sharper than a knife. No, Sam’s eyes weren’t even on his eyes at all. They were...Christ—on his mouth.

For a split second, Bucky forgot how to breathe. His chest locked, air catching sharp in his throat as heat surged through him, traitorous and uninvited. He felt naked under that stare, stripped bare in a way that battlefields and interrogations never managed.

Sam’s gaze lingered there, slow, deliberate, dragging over the curve of his lips like it meant something. Like he was weighing something heavy in that silence neither of them dared to break.

And Bucky—frozen, burning, drowning in the tension—couldn’t move. Couldn’t look away.

He blinked, heart hammering against his ribs like it wanted out, blood roaring in his ears... Sam’s eyes dragged upward slowly, reluctant, until they met his own. And time just… stopped.

Sam’s eyes were furrowed, guarded, but there was something else there too. Something Bucky didn’t recognize. Not hostility. Not pity. Something quieter. He didn’t even have a name for it.

Those eyes—warm brown, soft in a way Bucky had never earned—pinned him in place.

And it hit him, in the pit of his stomach, with an ache so sudden and sharp it nearly doubled him over.

He wanted it to mean something.

He hated himself for that thought, hated how reckless it was, how selfish. Sam deserved better than the mess that sat across from him, than the weight of these unspoken feelings Bucky kept strangled in the back of his throat.

But for one breathless moment, one impossible second—Sam wasn’t looking at him like he was broken.

Bucky’s throat went dry, and he couldn't stop looking straight into Sam's eyes

Fuck Yelena. Fuck her knowing looks and her questions. 

Because for one unbearable second, Bucky almost believed she was right.

Then Sam looked away first, shattering whatever spell had caught between them. Bucky didn’t follow—his eyes stayed fixed, lingering on him as if he could will the moment back. He caught the subtle flicker in Sam’s composure—the tight swallow, the clench of his hands against his thighs, the nervous energy bleeding through the stillness of that carefully stoic face.

The air between them was suddenly too heavy, pressing down on his lungs, his shoulders, his skin. He turned his head sharply, like it was nothing, like it hadn’t happened, but the heat had already settled in his face, crawling up his neck, burning across his ears. He clenched his jaw tight, hoping no one could see it.

What the hell was that?

He tried to steady his breathing, tried to tell himself it didn’t mean anything, that Sam’s eyes had lingered by accident, that he was imagining it all. But the thought...the thought that it could mean something flickered in his mind like a dangerous flame.

A hope.

Small and impossible.

It rose up before he could choke it down, before he could remind himself that men like him didn’t get to have that kind of hope, not with people like Sam Wilson. Not with someone who deserved so much better.

The second he felt it, he crushed it. Shoved it down into the same dark place where he kept everything else. The place where nothing ever saw daylight.

No.

Whatever that look in Sam’s eyes had been, it wasn’t for him to interpret. It wasn’t anything. Couldn’t be anything.

His lips parted, then pressed together tightly, his teeth catching his bottom lip as though he could bite the thoughts away. His face smoothed over, blank, as if nothing had touched him at all. That was safer. He knew how to wear that mask, how to let the world see nothing.

But inside, his mind wouldn’t quiet. It spun in circles, tangled and restless, replaying that moment over and over until his chest ached. His lashes fluttered as his eyes unfocused, staring past the Quinjet wall like he wasn’t even there.

He didn’t know what to feel. Didn’t know what to do with the rush of confusion, the echo of warmth in Sam’s gaze, the ghost of his own want pressing against the iron bars he kept it locked behind.

So he did what he always did.

He went still.

Blank face, steady posture, silence heavy as armor. A fortress of nothingness.

But his lips still stung faintly where his teeth had pressed into them. And somewhere beneath the mask, the faintest spark of hope kept trying to flicker back to life, no matter how many times he smothered it.. 

---

The Quinjet touched down with a muted whine, engines cutting to a low hum as the landing gear sank into the uneven dirt. The forest around them was still, cloaked in thick fog and shadows that stretched long in the fading evening light. It was quiet—too quiet. The kind of silence that pressed against the eardrums, making every rustle of leaves sound like a warning.

They had landed a good distance away from the targeted base. everyone knew the reason well enough: no one wanted to take chances with an abandoned base. “Abandoned” never meant safe. More often than not, it meant the opposite—traps, ambushes, or ghosts of Hydra projects still clinging to life.

The Quinjet door hissed as it lowered, cool night air rushing inside. Sam stood at the edge, scanning the tree line with that steady, assessing look of his, arms folded over his Chest plate like he was weighing every possible outcome.

“We can’t risk revealing our position if anything’s still crawling in there,” Sam said, voice clipped but even. His eyes flicked toward everyone one by one, pausing on buck for the briefest second—too quick, too sharp—before he returned his gaze to the dark horizon.

Torres leaned over the holo-table, running his hands through a messy pile of schematics. “No heat signatures detected on scan, but I’m not ruling anything out. Could just mean whatever’s there knows how to hide.”

“Or it means they’re waiting for us,” Rhodey added, pulling off his gloves. He was staying back tonight, but his tone carried that no-nonsense edge of someone who’d seen too many “empty” sites turn into bloodbaths. “We play this smart. Split.”

It didn’t take long to decide. Some would stay with the Quinjet, ready to act as backup if things went south. Alexei grumbled at first when Sam suggested he stay behind, but one sharp look from Yelena shut him up instantly.

“I’ll stay with Torres and Rhodey,” Alexei finally declared, a little too loudly. “If something comes for the ship, I will crush it like bug.” He thumped his chest for emphasis, earning a soft laugh from john and a rolled eye from Yelena.

“Good,” Sam said, adjusting his gauntlet. “Keep comms open at all times. If we run into anything, we’ll call it in.”

The rest of them—John, Ava, Yelena, Sam, and Bucky—were already suiting up, movements practiced, quiet. Ava double-checked her knives, sliding them into hidden sheaths. John stretched his shoulders with a faint smirk like he was heading into a sparring match instead of possible enemy territory.

Yelena, on the other hand, was humming under her breath, casual as ever, like this was a stroll rather than a mission. Her eyes flicked sideways, sharp and calculating, watching and observing out of the corner of her eye.

Bucky adjusted the strap of his rifle and shifted his weight, keeping his face as blank as possible. He could still feel the ghost of Sam’s stare from earlier, that flicker of heat that hadn’t left his chest since. He tried not to think about it, tried to bury it under the familiar click of weapons and the smell of damp pine seeping into the Quinjet.

But his jaw was tight. Too tight.

“You ready?” Sam’s voice cut through the air, directed at no one in particular, but it made Bucky’s spine straighten all the same.

“Always,” John replied first, grinning as he swung his shield onto his back.

“More than ready,” Ava added dryly, zipping up her tactical vest.

Yelena tilted her head, eyes flicking to Bucky, too knowing “Sure. Let’s go play.’’

---

Bucky felt the back of his neck itch as the quinjet’s ramp lowered and the night air spilled in, cool and damp with the weight of the forest that surrounded them. He followed Sam out, boots pressing into soft dirt before giving way to the paved, almost sterile ground that led up to the entrance. Whoever had built this thing had hidden it well beneath the trees—like a phantom structure that didn’t belong.

It was too neat to be abandoned. Too untouched. Too easy.

Sam walked at the front, shoulders squared, his hand brushing briefly against the comm at his ear as he took in the building. Behind him, Yelena muttered something under her breath in Russian, her eyes narrowing like she didn’t trust the sight either. John trailed beside her, visibly bristling, while Ava’s gaze swept upward, cataloging every angle of the structure with a kind of predator’s focus.

Bucky stayed silent, but his metal hand flexed once by his side. He hated when things felt staged.

The entrance swallowed them whole. A massive corridor opened ahead, leading to four separate chambers branching off deeper inside. The air was stale, as though circulation had been cut weeks ago, but the walls gleamed, metallic and spotless. Even their breaths sounded too loud here.

Their footsteps echoed despite training, each click of boot on polished flooring ricocheting down the long stretch of hall.

Sam pressed two fingers against his comm. “We’re inside, Torres.” His voice was steady, clipped, but the edge of unease threaded through it.

Static answered first, then Torres’ voice crackled through: “Copy that. One sec—yeah, I’ve got your readings. Place the chip I gave you on the nearest wall.”

Sam unclipped the small device from his belt and crouched, pressing it flat against the cold surface. It latched with a faint metallic snap. Almost instantly, the chamber filled with a low, vibrating hum, like the air itself was alive. The sound was subtle but annoying.

Bucky scowled. His advance hearing caught every ripple of it, too sharp. He bit the inside of his cheek and forced his face blank.

“Uh, yes!” Torres’ voice jumped back in, half-excited, half-distracted. “Signal’s good. The chip’s transmitting clean. Give me another minute and I’ll have a hologram of the whole structure. We’ll see how the hallways connect in real-time.”

Sam exhaled, low and steady. “We’ll wait for your go.”

The five of them fanned out slightly, weapons loose in their hands but tension coiled tight in their shoulders.

Yelena leaned against a wall, tapping her knife absently against her thigh. “Too clean,” she muttered, eyes flicking along the polished floor. “Nobody abandons a base like this. Unless they’re idiots.”

“They’re not idiots,” Ava said flatly. She crouched, brushing her fingertips over the ground, then lifted them to the light. Perfectly spotless. She frowned. “Feels staged.”

John shifted impatiently. “Or maybe they just pulled out quick. Not every empty room’s a trap, you know.”

Yelena rolled her eyes at him, then looked past toward him. “Sure, Johnny. Keep thinking that.”

john ignored the jab, but his jaw worked once as he studied the branching chambers. His hand lingered by his sidearm. “Falcon, talk to me. How long?”

“Another thirty seconds,” came the reply, voice fast as keys clacked faintly in the background. “Alexei’s breathing down my neck asking for the feed—”

In the background of the channel, Alexei’s booming voice cut through. “How long does it take to press a button? I could’ve built the hologram by now if you let me touch it!”

“Do not touch my equipment,” Torres snapped, irritation leaking through. “One wrong keystroke and you fry the signal.”

Rhodey’s steadier voice joined next, calm but firm. “Focus, Torres. Get them a map. We’ll handle the babysitting.”

“Babysitting!” Alexei barked, offended.

The channel buzzed with overlapping voices until Sam cut in, sharp. “Quiet, all of you. We’re standing in the middle of a wide-open hall. Not the best time for a comedy show.”

The silence that followed was instant.

Sam’s gaze flicked sideways, catching Bucky for half a second. The dim blue light carved his face into sharp planes, his jaw locked, expression unreadable. But there was something in the way his eyes scanned every corner, how his metal fingers twitched subtly at his side. Always calculating, always bracing for the worst.

Sam felt something twist in his chest, the urge to ask what was going on in his head. Instead, he pushed it down, tightened his grip on his sidearm, and looked away.

Bucky felt the glance, though.

The faint buzzing of the chip filled the silence, pressing against the edges of their nerves. Every sound seemed magnified—the scrape of Yelena’s knife against her holster, the shuffle of John’s boots, the faint hum of Ava’s breathing through her mask.

Bucky hated it. The wrongness of the space. The quiet that wasn’t really quiet. 

“Okay!” Torres’ voice finally broke through the comms, cutting across the tension. “I’ve got it. Holograms online. Patching the layout through now.”

Back inside the base, Sam’s jaw tightened. “Copy. We’ll move when you’re ready to guide.”

Torres’ voice crackled in the comms, grounding them for a moment. “Alright, I’ve got the layout forming on my screen. There are four main chambers branching off from that hall you’re in. Three of them look standard—storage, labs, maybe some offices. The fourth…well, that one’s flagged.”

“Flagged how?” Sam asked, his voice calm but carrying that steel edge it always did when danger hovered too close.

“Val mentioned something about toxic production,” Torres spoke. “Poisonous fumes, unstable residues. She didn’t give details. Just…don’t step inside unless absolutely necessary. It’s like a hazard zone.”

Bucky scowled, the crease between his brows digging deeper. So Val hadn’t given them details after all—just “poisonous.” Vague. Reckless. Typical. His jaw tightened as he thought it through. How the hell was he supposed to vanish into that chamber, the one everyone else was avoiding like plague, and pull a sample without anyone noticing?

The scowl carved deeper across his face. He could already picture it—the weight of their stares if they caught him slipping away, the questions he wouldn’t be able to answer. He exhaled slowly through his nose, the sound heavy, resigned. Why couldn’t it ever be easy?

No, he was going to have to shut off his location, time it right, and disappear without a trace for a minute and return before anyone can clock it.

And God, how in the hell was he supposed to pull that off?

John’s voice cut in “I think we should split up. Hit each chamber, grab what we can, and get the hell out before this place decides to explode on us.”

Yelena immediately made a face. “Oh yes, brilliant idea. Divide ourselves in creepy abandoned lair. What next? We start yelling ‘Hello? Anyone there?’ like in horror movies?” She crossed her arms, her sharp tone undercutting John’s enthusiasm.

John scowled. “It’s called efficiency. Cover more ground, faster.”

“Mmhm.” Yelena didn’t even bother to look at him, instead turning her gaze toward Sam with a raised brow, as if daring him to shut the suggestion down.

Sam rubbed a gloved hand over his jaw, weighing it. His gaze swept across the group, pausing on Bucky for the briefest flicker before moving on, sharp and decisive. The glance shouldn’t mean anything, but to Bucky, it cut deep. For a second, he thought Sam might say his name, might pair them like old times. That familiar ache twisted through him, a memory of battles fought shoulder to shoulder, unspoken trust between them.

But then Sam’s voice broke the silence, steady and commanding. “Ava—you’re with me.”

The words were simple. Practical. But they landed like a fist in Bucky’s chest. foolish

He forced his face blank, forced his shoulders still. It shouldn’t sting—shouldn’t, he reminded himself like a mantra. They weren’t partners anymore, hadn’t been for months. He’d burned that bridge the second he stood beside Val. Still, the sting was there, crawling under his skin. A weight pressing down his ribcage.

Bucky’s breath left him in a quiet sigh before he could stop it. He caught Yelena and John bickering in the corner of his vision, their voices sharp but distant, like static. He couldn’t focus on their words. Not when his own chest felt too tight.

Fine. If Sam didn’t want him at his side, he’d work alone. That was easier anyway. Cleaner. Less messy than pretending they still knew how to stand shoulder to shoulder without the weight of everything unsaid dragging them down.

Besides, going solo had its advantages. He could slip into that chamber without eyes on him. He could retrieve the thing Valentina demanded, and no one would know until it was done. He hated the thought of following her orders, hated the chains he still hadn’t shaken off, but he couldn’t afford to be petty.

His fingers flexed again, metal plates catching the cold light of the chamber.

Sam was speaking, organizing, steady as ever. “We stick close enough to stay in comms range. If anyone finds something, call it in first—no cowboy moves.” His gaze slid toward John at that, pointed and sharp.

John rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Message received.”

Yelena smirked. “Good. Maybe this time you won’t get us all blown up.”

John bristled, but before he could snap back, Ava nudged him lightly with her elbow, a silent not now. She gave Sam a short nod, already moving toward the chamber he’d gestured for.

Bucky lingered a step behind the others; his eyes fixed on the branching hallways ahead. Too clean. Too empty. Too easy. His gut screamed it wasn’t right.

He wondered if Sam felt it too.

And when he finally forced himself to glance up, Sam was already looking the other way, voice steady as he spoke into the comms. “Torres, keep those readings up. If anything shifts—even a flicker—you let us know.”

“Yes, Cap,” Torres answered quickly.

And with that, they split—each member peeling off down a different path toward the chambers that waited in the shadows. The air grew colder, heavier.

Bucky lingered just a heartbeat longer, his eyes flicking toward the others, watching them disappear one by one into the dark. Then he turned, boots carrying him down his own path.

The moment their line of sight was gone, he lifted a gloved hand to his comm.

A single click.

The channel went dead.

And just like that, Bucky Barnes vanished into dark hallway.

 

Notes:

SOOOO what do u guys think???
SHARE UR THOUGHTS IN THE COMMENTS PLZ!! any criticism or compliment is deeply appreciated <3, also sorry if the sketch looks messy lol i was so tired, stay tuned for the next chapter ;)