Chapter Text
They weren’t supposed to be out this deep.
Not with Hydra remnants scattered like rats through a half-collapsed Soviet weapons facility, and certainly not with Valentina breathing down their necks about timelines, optics, and who needed to die to make things look “clean.”
But Hydra didn’t follow the schedule.
And neither did the bomb.
John Walker had just enough time to look up from where his boots crunched glass and snow to see it — the blue glow of a Hydra tech core pulsing wildly in a dead soldier’s hand. Too late. It surged forward in a flash of Tesseract-light, blinding and violent.
The blow should’ve vaporized him.
It didn’t.
Because Bucky Barnes had thrown himself in front of it.
Bucky—who didn’t hesitate. Who shoved John back with a snarl. Who took the hit straight to his chest.
And screamed.
Not the Winter Soldier. Not the man carved from steel and silence. Not the hardened team leader of the Thunderbolts. This was something else — primal, raw, like bones being pulled inside out.
His body hit the ground convulsing. His metal arm sparked and fizzed like a chewed-up live wire. The snow beneath him sizzled blue, smoking. His skin steamed, the super soldier serum boiling off him in streaks of sweat and agony.
Yelena was the first to move, dropping beside him with trembling hands.
“Oh my God—he’s—he’s—” She didn’t finish.
Gone. The strength, the mass, the presence.
What was left was smaller.
Thinner.
Shaking like a leaf and barely breathing, Bucky Barnes looked just a little older than nineteen again — like he’d just stepped off the front lines in France in 1943. His jaw was tight, bloody, and his eyes rolled beneath fluttering lids.
His dog tags were half-melted.
“I think it stripped the serum,” Ghost said, voice cold and stunned.
“Valentina can’t see this,” Walker said flatly. “She’ll pull the plug. She’ll put him down.”
Yelena glanced up. “Then we don’t tell her.”
Alexi stood dumbstruck. “You want to lie to Val?”
“No,” said Ghost. “We want to keep Bucky alive.”
⸻
He shouldn’t have lived past the hour. That’s what they all thought.
They snuck him out, bleeding into dark sheets, convulsing. They used old SHIELD channels, burned comms, and unregistered craft. Yelena forged a report. Ghost wiped the satellite.
Valentina would believe he died saving Walker.
And until she found out otherwise, that bought them time.
They were out of options for where to take him. Hospitals weren’t secure. S.H.I.E.L.D. didn’t exist. And Valentina’s eyes were everywhere.
“Who do we trust?” Yelena asked. “Who would not recognize him like this?”
Nobody answered.
Then Ghost looked at Walker. “You said Captain America doesn’t know us that well.”
Walker hesitated. “He… met Bucky once. On the field. From a distance.”
“And now he looks like a kid from 1940,” Ava added. “So he won’t recognize him.”
“Captain America has his own team now,” Yelena said. “He’s clean. Off-grid. He’ll keep Bucky safe.”
“He’ll ask questions,” Walker grunted.
“So we lie,” Yelena said. “We say he’s a former SHIELD asset. Off-books. Nothing on record. You want to tell the truth and get him shot?”
Nobody argued.
⸻
They wrapped Bucky in enough gear to muffle any hint of vibranium. Yelena used a flesh-tone compression sleeve over his metal arm — a near-perfect mimic of skin with simulated pores, subtle veins, and even heat output. Unless someone peeled it off, no one would know.
It was roughly two hours until they reached Sam’s safe zone in Louisiana — a rural command node used by the Captain America crew — Bucky was semi-conscious, delirious, and twitching beneath three layers of thermal blankets.
He didn’t speak much. Just mumbled broken Russian, scraps of English. Sometimes cried out like he was burning.
But when he heard “The only safe space I can think of isn't ours, it's Captain Americas,” he went feral.
The quinjet rattled with turbulence that wasn’t from the air.
“God—Yelena, do something!” Ava’s voice sliced through the cabin, static and sharp, yelling over the intercom as the floor jolted again under people's quick moving weight. “He’s going to tear himself apart—”
“I am doing something!” Yelena’s reply came from the rear bay, strained and exasperated. “I am not a sedative dispenser! Would one of you—hold his legs!”
Another metallic crash. A body slammed against the interior hull.
“Jesus Christ,” Bob muttered from the cockpit, his voice almost lost under the warning alarms. “What the hell is happening back there?!” He yelled, looking back. He quickly cringed back inwards as a pencil got hurled in his direction.
“Do not leave that seat!” Yelena barked as Bob watched now using his copilot seat as a makeshift shield. Ava barely avoiding a hit as she phased through a flailing limb. Her grip flickered, insubstantial for a second too long.
Walker cursed, loud and angry, as a solid boot caught him in the chest and sent him back into the wall. “Son of a bitch! He’s got elbows like blades!” He yelled, eyes darting for his taco shaped shield, anything would do versus this.
“He is a blade,” Alexei grunted, trying to grab a writhing torso with the attitude of an alley cat. “A small, angry blade with hair.”
The cabin reeked of sweat, ozone, and blood. Bucky Barnes — or what was left of him — had woken up somewhere between the Hydra facility explosion and the medbay, half-dead and all teeth. Bones jutting like someone carved the muscle out of him with a spoon. Five-foot-nine, maybe, and barely holding that. Ninety pounds of fury, half-lucid and fully uncooperative.
He didn’t know where he was, only that he was going somewhere — and he didn’t want to.
They’d gotten a strap around one of his arms. That was it. The rest of him was a tangle of desperation and instinct. Something deep in him still fought like this was the 1940s. Or the 70s. Or last week.
Alexi acted as a makeshift SWAT shield, wrapping two thick arms around a frantic Barnes as Walker practically egged him on, not wanting to take the next hit. This was not their fearless leader or even a well trained assassin, this was instincts and panic. Walker would later compare to when him and his brother would wrestle as kids, where his brother, losing, would lay down on a thing of furniture and start kicking wildly. That kind of annoying instincts.
“We’re not gonna make it if we can’t land! We have to drop him somewhere!” Bob shouted to the braver, more experienced people who attempted to wrangle the veteran.
“Where, Bob?! Where?!” Ava snapped.
“Wilson’s!”
Everything froze for half a second.
"Oh HELL no! Bob- BOB, TURN THIS AROUND RIGHT NOW-" Bucky roared,
Not a scream — a sound with no room for debate behind it. Just the raw, shredded bottom of something that didn’t want to be seen. Not by him. Not like this.
"–BOB, KEEP ROUTE TO WILSONS. DO. NOT. LISTEN. TO BARNES." Yelena shouted back, cutting off bucky's loud protests as she shrinked inward past a skinny thrashing leg.
He twisted, eyes wild, and bit down on Alexei’s forearm so hard the Red Guardian howled, dropping him as he retreated with a colorful string of Russian curses.
“God damn it—he heard you!” Yelena yelled, trying to wedge a sedative out of the broken needle needed, compliments to the first edge being broken when Bucky wasn't restrained, and yelped as a super soldier built like a bear stumbled onto her foot before he collided with the metal bench.
Walker tackled again, staying clear of Barnes attempt to headbutt him, aiming to bring him to the floor where it would be easier to subdue him. “Get the needle, get the needle—” he half shrieked, as if he was scared he would be the next bitten victim of the ex Winter Soldier.
“He snapped the needle the first time we tried!”
“He’s gonna kill himself before Val even finds out he’s alive, get another one!” Ava snapped, already mid-phase again as Bucky bucked and kicked out against Walker, who was struggling far too much for someone who was Captain America for a whole 2 seconds.
“This is a covert evac! She doesn’t need to know!” Yelena shouted. “Nobody does!”
They weren’t waiting for Valentina. There’d been no orders. No playbook.
Just a bleeding mission gone sideways, and a body — a man — too stubborn to die, too changed to live, and too scared to go quietly.
They were off-script now. All of them.
And still—Sam Wilson’s name hovered like a match over gasoline.
Bucky bucked and wriggled under the weight of two grown men now, practically claws in place of fingernails, eyes rimmed red and white with rage–no, desperation.
He wasn’t crying.
He wasn’t pleading.
He was fighting like hell.
Like he’d rather die in this jet than let Sam Wilson see what was left of him.
And the Thunderbolts? They weren’t heroes. They were just the poor bastards trying to hold him down long enough to land.
“No—no—no—don’t take me—”
Yelena pinned his thrashing flesh arm down, all 90 pounds of reversioned muscle bucking against all three of them, and failing spectacularly.
“Easy, Buck. You’re safe.”
“Don’t—don’t—he can’t see—he can’t see me like this—” he gasped.
“Like what?” she grunted, giving an exasperated look to the other two men holding him down. Now with no difficulty as the space left for Barnes to fight was cut to nothing.
But he only sobbed. Clawed at the floor and attempted to kick out like a dying thing.
Ghost sedated him.
He didn’t wake up again before they dropped him off.
⸻
“Name?” Sam asked, frowning.
Yelena didn’t blink. “James. Worked for SHIELD. Off-grid asset. Got hit during a Hydra extraction.”
Sam eyed the half-conscious figure on the cot — scrawny, wrapped in gauze, one arm stiff and sleeved. Dirty hair falling in his face. Cheekbones too sharp.
“Doesn’t look like he’s eaten a day in the three years,” Sam muttered.
“He has,” Yelena said. “He’s had it rough.”
Sam narrowed his eyes. “This isn’t a trick, right?”
“No trick,” Walker said quietly, guilt and a hint of relief wavering in his gaze when his eyes flickered to where Bucky was, “He saved my life.”
Sam sighed and nodded. “Fine. We’ll keep him here until he stabilizes. He stays off-record. If I find out he’s trouble—”
Yelena smiled thinly. “He’s nothing but stubborn.”
They didn’t tell Sam his name was Bucky Barnes.
Didn’t tell him he used to lead the Thunderbolts.
Didn’t tell him he once stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Steve Rogers.
Didn’t tell him that the hidden metal arm under that compression sleeve once shattered HYDRA bunkers. Or that this near-starved, half-unconscious figure once burned with the fury of the Winter Soldier.
They left.
And Sam turned to face the sleeping figure in his cot.
Poor bastard, he thought. Must’ve been through hell.
He didn’t know that hell was looking right back at him — behind fluttering lashes and a painfully familiar jaw.
Bucky didn’t speak for three more days.
But when he woke, and saw Sam for the first time…
He shut his eyes tight. And said nothing.
Because if Sam didn’t recognize him… maybe he could stay.
Maybe he could stay small, broken, and invisible — and still be close.
And maybe that was enough.
Notes:
HIHIHI this is my first time writing a fic i hope you enjoy!! The first draft was up for a couple hours but i added a little bit of drama and more Thunderbolts action before they give him off his his own safety. Let me know if there are any mistakes please!! More chapters in the works! Today was a fluke though, I need to crank through more homework so no more writing for today 💔. Might be closer to uploading once a week! I always loved the Shrunkyclunks AU but after endgame can't really stand Steve, so I thought, "why not my boys Sam and Bucky?" Let me know if anyone has suggestions!!
Chapter 2: Barley a Fight and No Wings to Fly
Summary:
Barnes is up and at 'em, literally.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
It was disgusting.
Worse — it was safe. The sheets were cotton. The pillow smelled like detergent. Somewhere, a bird was singing. And there was heat in the room — sunlit and golden, which felt wrong on his skin. He wasn’t used to warmth without warning.
His body hurt.
Everything was smaller. His hands, his limbs. No solid hum of the serum in his blood. No buzz in his skull warning him of danger. Just cold sweat and aching muscle and a heartbeat that felt too fragile in his ribs.
He moved, barely.
The compression sleeve over his metal arm shifted with him. It looked human. Not real, not to him, but passable. Whoever made it had even added a scar at the wrist, as if mocking his history.
His name was James, they said.
James, who used to work for SHIELD. James, who was injured and rescued. James, who was being kept off-record with Captain America’s team until he recovered.
They didn’t say Winter Soldier.
They didn’t say Bucky Barnes.
They didn’t say you’re not the person you used to be.
But they didn’t have to.
⸻
He waited until the nurses rotated out.
Until Sam had stepped away from the viewing window for a mission debrief.
Until the windows were unlocked — maybe by mistake, maybe not. Who expected him to be conscious or dumb enough to escape in this shape? Didn’t matter.
He climbed out slow, his joints howling, his muscles thin and underfed. The sunlight burned his eyes. His vision pulsed. But the woods beyond the safehouse looked quiet, and quiet was freedom.
No serum meant no tracking.
No powers meant no expectations.
He could disappear.
Start over.
Somewhere Sam Wilson didn’t know his name.
Somewhere no one remembered what his hands used to do.
He got exactly fifteen feet before he heard the voice.
“Hey! Hey. Where the hell do you think you’re going, man?”
Bucky didn’t turn to see Sam leaning slightly on the door, hand on his hip like he had caught his nephews sneaking away to explore when and where they shouldn't.
He ran.
Or tried to.
His legs gave out on the third step. He hit the dirt hard, rolled, and kept scrambling.
Sam caught up fast. Not just because he was trained — but because Bucky wasn’t anymore. Not really.
“Stop—hey—stop!”
Bucky kicked back blindly, elbowed, thrashed. Feral panic.
Sam didn’t stop. He threw himself forward, pinning the smaller man down with a grunt.
“Damn—you’re wiry as hell—calm down!”
“Let go—let go of me!”
“Are you serious?” Sam gasped. “You’re half-dead and trying to Houdini into the woods in your pajamas. Sit your ass down.”
Bucky squirmed harder.
Sam had to hook an arm under his ribs and literally carry- no, drag him back to the safehouse like a flailing, half-starved stray.
The entire time, Bucky didn’t stop fighting. Or shaking.
⸻
Sam dropped him onto the cot like luggage and planted his hands on his hips.
“What the hell was that?” he snapped.
Bucky didn’t answer. His hair was in his eyes. He looked at the floor like it had done something to offend him.
“You’re not a prisoner,” Sam added, softer now. “But if you run, you’ll die.”
Still nothing.
Sam huffed, dragged a chair closer, and dropped into it with a grunt.
“Okay. Fine. Let’s sit here awkwardly and pretend you didn’t just try to vanish into the swamp like a cryptid.”
Still nothing.
Sam let his head fall back. Stared at the ceiling.
And thought of him.
⸻
It had been years ago.
Cold op in Latvia. Sam was still fresh in the wingsuit, working recon on a splinter Hydra lab.
He remembered the silence.
And then the chaos.
Not from the team he was with — no, the storm came from him. A shadow through the snow, moving like smoke and iron. The Winter Soldier.
He’d watched from a rooftop, breath caught, not blinking. That wasn’t just fighting. That was art. Calculated and brutal and weirdly elegant.
The metal arm shimmered like a blade half tucked into snow, pointed edge gleaming with moonlight.
Sam had turned to his comm at the time and said, “Okay, so—no one tell anyone—but I kinda get it now.”
“Get what?” Torres had asked.
Sam hadn’t answered.
But the crush had stuck as he continued to watch what could only be described as cold radiance born from violence.
He’d even pulled files later — as many as he could get his hands on. Not much. Redacted photos. Mission blurbs. A name: Winter Soldier. Not a real one. Not even a face he could pin down under the tactical mask and long hair.
Just… menace.
Beautiful menace.
He'd groaned, rubbing a gloved hand across his temple. Now this was ridiculous, he was a grown man, an Avenger. And here he was, checking through reports like a teenage girl flipping for her crush in a yearbook.
And now here he was, years later — staring at a scrawny, haunted kid with gunmetal blue eyes and a mouth that either snapped or trembled when he believed Sam wasn't looking.
But no.
That wasn’t him.
That wasn't even properly a thought yet, and it was stupid.
⸻
“I know you’re scared,” Sam said finally, voice low. “And I know something’s eating you alive, but running? That’s not going to fix it.”
The man on the bed — James, they said — didn’t move.
But his fists clenched.
“I’ve worked with ghosts before,” Sam went on. “I’ve seen people come back from worse.”
A flicker. One pale blue eye lifted to meet his.
And for half a second, Sam’s breath caught.
That look…
Then it was gone.
“I’m not a ghost,” Bucky rasped.
It was the first real thing he’d said to Sam since arriving.
“Good,” Sam replied, voice steady. “Because I don’t bury people who are still breathing.”
Bucky looked away.
And Sam stayed there — quietly watching, half-suspicious now, but not ready to put the puzzle together.
Not yet.
———
It had been maybe two and a half days of pure, maybe drug-induced sleep that wouldn't have been possible to achieve before the god awful serum extraction turned his world upside down, bringing Sam Wilson, Captain America, within the mix.
The compression sleeve was starting to itch.
Not on the skin — the nerves below it were too dull for that — but in his head. Bucky could feel the metal underneath. Cold. Familiar. Mocking.
He’d tried to pick at it during the night. Peeled a corner of the synthetic layer near the wrist.
Nothing major. Just enough to see the glint of silver.
But it was too damn convincing.
It didn’t look like armor anymore.
It looked like a limb.
Which, ironically, made it worse.
Because it wasn’t his limb anymore — not really. It was a relic of something he wasn’t allowed to be.
Sam came in with a tray and a pinched expression.
Oatmeal. Applesauce. Water. No utensils — smart.
“You bite people or something?” Sam muttered as he set it down on the bedside table.
Bucky didn’t answer.
“Cool,” Sam said to the silence. “I’ll just assume you do.”
He sat down across from him. Still no handcuffs. Still no threats. Just those maddeningly calm eyes.
“Want to talk about why you tried to rip the IV out this morning?”
No answer.
Sam shifted, folding his arms. “Alright, then. I’ll talk. You… be mysterious.”
Bucky didn’t look at him. Just stared at the tray.
Sam leaned forward.
“I’ve been briefed on a lot of unstable ex-operatives,” he said casually. “Yours came with no name, no record, no details. Just a note that said, ‘Needs protection. Do not question.’”
A pause.
“Pretty sure that’s exactly when you start questioning.”
Bucky’s jaw twitched.
Sam tilted his head. “You’re not a field rookie. That’s obvious. The way you watch doors, your reaction time. You’re hurt but trained. Like, trained trained. That kind of instinct doesn’t come from boot camp.”
No response.
“But the weird part?” Sam added. “You’re scared. Terrified. And that doesn’t fit.”
Bucky’s hand twitched on the sheet.
Sam didn’t miss it.
“I’ve seen guys like you before,” he said. “War ghosts. Most of them either go down swinging or not at all.”
Still nothing.
So Sam stood, stretched, and started toward the door.
“You’re not a ghost, huh?” he said over his shoulder. “Then start acting like someone who wants to live.”
That night, Bucky made it to the back hallway before Sam tackled him again.
“Oh, come on!” Sam barked as they crashed to the floor.
Bucky kicked, hissed, tried to wriggle out from under the grip pinning his arms.
“You are not this strong,” Sam growled. “How the hell are you this strong?”
“I hate this,” Bucky snapped, breathless and red-faced. “I hate this, I hate you, I hate—get off!”
Sam wrestled him back, panting.
“Dude,” he gasped. “You are literally covered in stitches and probably running on fruit cups. Stop fighting me– how are you even fighting me right now? I might need a re-evaluation after this.”
Then Bucky did something Sam hadn’t expected.
He bit him.
Right on the forearm.
“AH— WHAT THE—!” Sam nearly dropped him.
It wasn’t hard enough to break skin. But it wasn’t light either. Enough to bruise. Enough to make Sam yank his arm back like he’d touched a stovetop.
“You bit me!”
Bucky didn’t answer. His eyes were wild, face burning with panic and humiliation.
Sam dragged a hand down his face.
“Oh my God, I am babysitting a feral cat.”
Once he’d wrangled Bucky back to the cot and locked the windows — again — Sam sat beside him, still rubbing his bitten arm.
“You want out so bad,” Sam said. “Why?”
Bucky didn’t look at him.
“Look, I get being injured. I get being stubborn. But you’re acting like I’m the bad guy here.”
Still nothing.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” Sam said more quietly. “But I will tackle you again if I have to.”
A beat passed.
Bucky whispered, “You shouldn’t have to take care of me.”
Sam blinked.
“Well, I’m not exactly thrilled about it, if I’m honest.”
That got a faint twitch of a smirk. It vanished quickly.
Bucky swallowed. “I’m not what you think I am.”
Sam nodded slowly. “You’re right. Because I don’t know what you are.”
“You’re not supposed to,” Bucky whispered, eyes flicking to the door. “It’s better if you don’t.”
Later, when Sam finally left to nurse his wounded arm, he checked the bite in the mirror.
It wasn’t deep. But it was solid. Determined.
It meant something.
He stared at it, then stared at himself.
Then his eyes drifted to the files he’d left on the desk — years old, buried deep in a SHIELD archive. One name under heavy redaction.
Winter Soldier.
He glanced back toward the med room.
The kid in there didn’t look like the ghost Sam had seen in Latvia.
But the eyes, maybe…
“…Nah,” he muttered to himself. “That guy was built like a damn statue.”
Still.
He made a note to double-check the scan files.
Because something wasn’t adding up.
And Sam didn’t like mysteries that bit back.
Notes:
HI GUYS!! Back with my boys and I combined two chapters I was writing into one to spare me some time when I go on vacation! I'm also going back to school, but who cares?? I'm so used to being the reader, not the writer, so I'll question if something was enough writing as I hit post. I had a good plan for the slow burn sillies, but I'm all ears to hear your thoughts! love all of the support coming from a first-time Ao3 writer who second-guesses everything they write! yay. Also, it's so freaking scary when my dad walks by and I don't notice, but thank go he assumes I'm doing summer school work.
Chapter 3: Teeth and Tension
Summary:
Im so sleep deprived and schoolwork is whooping my ass so let me know about mistakes.
Chapter Text
The fourth escape attempt came at dawn.
Sam hadn’t even had coffee yet.
The safehouse alarm gave a low chime — subtle, just enough to warn the team that a sensor had been tripped. Sam bolted out of his room barefoot, hoodie half-on, heart already in his throat.
“Again?” he groaned as he reached the hall.
Sure enough, there he was.
James.
Skinny. Shirtless. Still bandaged at the ribs. Still stitched down one side. And currently wedged halfway out a narrow vent in the hallway like a panicked raccoon trying to flee a suburban garage.
His good arm was scraping along the metal. His vibranium one — hidden under the flesh-toned cover — was jammed in the ductwork, twitching like it might rip the whole vent free. Sam didn’t even want to think about how he got the screws off.
“You have got to be kidding me.”
Bucky froze.
Then, very slowly, his head twisted around — hair stuck to his forehead, cheeks flushed, eyes wide with cornered humiliation.
“Don’t,” Sam warned, stepping closer. “Don’t you even think about—”
Bucky lunged forward.
There was a terrible screech of metal on metal, a crash, and then a thud as he hit the floor on the other side of the wall. Sam ran around the corner and found him sprawled on the floor in a tangle of wires and bent aluminum, panting and wild-eyed.
And biting.
Because when Sam grabbed him by the shoulder and tried to lift him up—
CHOMP.
“AGAIN?!”
Sam jerked back with a strangled growl. “What is wrong with you?!”
“I told you not to bring me here,” Bucky snarled, staggering to his feet. “I told them not to—you shouldn’t—”
“I didn’t ask to be your babysitter, man!” Sam snapped. “You think I like this?”
Bucky flinched, just slightly.
Sam paused. Took a breath. Tried again.
“You’re hurt. You need help. You’re acting like I’m the one who tied you to this bed, but all I’ve done is try to keep you alive while you crawl through vents like a rabid possum.”
“I didn’t ask for help,” Bucky muttered.
“Oh, I noticed!”
The two of them stood in the hallway, panting. One dressed for bed. One dressed for escape. Or maybe exile.
Sam looked him over — his limbs were shaking, his knuckles scraped, a thin trickle of blood dripping from his elbow. He looked like a lost teenager.
A lost teenager with bite marks to his name.
“Back to bed,” Sam said firmly.
“No.”
Sam didn’t wait for agreement.
He lifted the smaller man — not gently — and threw him over his shoulder like an unruly duffel bag.
“HEY—!” Bucky squawked, kicking and squirming.
“Unless you want another sedative, you can shut up and stop punching my kidneys.”
“I bit you!”
“Yeah,” Sam snapped. “And I didn’t sedate you then. This is me being nice.”
⸻
They made it back to the medical room like that — one half-dead fugitive flailing and hissing over Sam’s shoulder, and one thoroughly done Captain America with a rising blood pressure and zero sleep.
Bucky was dumped unceremoniously onto the cot.
He didn’t get up. Didn’t say anything. Just curled in on himself and stared at the wall.
Sam leaned in the doorway, rubbing his arm. Another set of bruises to add to the list.
“You know,” he said, “I don’t get paid enough to wrestle grown men with trauma complexes and escape artist fantasies.”
No answer.
“You’re lucky I’m too tired to call Torres. He’d put a leash on you just for the drama.”
Still nothing.
Sam crossed his arms. Watched the rise and fall of the man’s back. The curve of spine that was too sharp, too hollow. He could count ribs through the shirt. The half-hidden tremor in his left leg hadn’t stopped.
This wasn’t just fear. It wasn’t just stubbornness.
It was shame.
And it hit Sam like a gut punch — the realization that this guy wasn’t running from him… he was running from what he thought Sam would see.
Someone broken.
Someone weak.
Someone who used to be a threat… but wasn’t anymore.
Sam let out a long breath.
“You don’t have to prove anything,” he said softly.
The figure on the cot didn’t move.
“You don’t have to fight me. I’m not the enemy.”
A pause. Then, very quiet:
“You’d hate me if you knew.”
Sam blinked.
He stepped forward, crouched beside the cot.
“Try me,” he said.
But Bucky didn’t answer.
Didn’t lift his head.
Didn’t even flinch.
⸻
That night, Sam pulled out the old files again.
The ones he hadn’t looked at since Latvia.
One photo in particular — blurry, but unmistakable. The Winter Soldier on a rooftop. Lean build. Masked face. Glint of a metal arm mid-motion.
He stared at it for a long time.
Then glanced back down the hall, where James — if that was even his real name — was pretending to sleep.
Too thin.
Too raw.
But…
The eyes.
And that twitchy, bite-first attitude? That kind of fire didn’t come out of nowhere.
Sam tapped the photo. Scanned it again.
He didn’t want to think it.
Didn’t want to admit that maybe the man he’d crushed on from afar — the lethal, elegant ghost from another life — was now hiding in his guest room, snarling like a scared dog and flinching every time someone touched his arm.
But Sam wasn’t stupid.
And the pieces were starting to align.
“You’re not as good at hiding as you think,” he murmured.
Anonymsus on Chapter 1 Wed 30 Jul 2025 06:55PM UTC
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Dkvosvvkgbkjb123 on Chapter 1 Wed 30 Jul 2025 09:20PM UTC
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Jaeouni on Chapter 2 Tue 05 Aug 2025 04:51PM UTC
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