Chapter Text
Bucky sighed, hands resting in his pockets as he strolled into the next hallway. It was another restless night, and he had developed a habit of patrolling the building as a means of winding down until he eventually felt compelled to sleep again.
The Watchtower still felt like a museum - a testament to superheroes that once gave the world hope when the future seemed bleak - but now it acted as the HQ for a league of anti-heroes that were viewed as objects of ridicule rather than faces of valiance. Despite living here for the last couple months, it didn’t quite feel like a home, and he didn’t know if it ever would. The New Avengers team, as lively and rambunctious as they were, still couldn’t fill the immense emptiness the tower possessed. Not that he would ever desire to have the facility full of people or anything, but the space somehow felt like a cruel reminder of how alone he was.
With Steve gone and being at-odds with Sam, the familiar sting of isolation hit him like a ton of bricks. Bucky was once accustomed to being alone; in fact, there was a time he thought he would’ve thrived off living in peaceful solitude, but as it turns out, developing meaningful connections provided more fulfillment than he realized. The time spent with his new team, albeit stressful and frustrating in most cases, made him feel alive. He had a sense of purpose and grew a fondness for the ragtag group. Still, he wasn’t particularly close with any of them, and he was starting to miss having that personal connection with someone.
Turning the corner, he noticed the lights to the gymnasium were lit. Did someone leave them on? A few additional steps allowed the sound of punching and grunting to bounce into earshot. Who the hell was working out at this time of night?
Interest piqued, he peered through the glass to find his fellow co-leader tearing into a punching bag, fists and legs working up a frenzy as she shot a barrage of attacks into the leather material. She looked run ragged - clothing drenched with sweat, heavy bags beneath her eyes, hair frizzy and askew - even the weariness of her body language reflected her exhaustion.
When he entered the room, she paid him no mind, not even sparing a glance. The super soldier took note of a pile of coffee cans and energy drinks haphazardly discarded at the side of the room. How long has she been at this?
“What are you doing up so late?” he asked, approaching hesitantly.
“Could ask you the same thing,” she responded, delivering another fierce kick.
“You…” he eyed her up and down, “don’t look so great.”
She paused, breathing heavily as she leaned on the punching bag for support, “You flatter me, Barnes.”
A puff of air shot through his nose, somewhat impressed she could still be snarky despite her current state, “You should get some rest.”
“I will,” she spoke plainly before readying herself to continue, “Just not yet.”
“Yelena,” he grabbed her wrist before her next punch could land, “You look like you could collapse at any minute. You need a break.”
Her teeth clenched as she turned to face him, yanking her fist out of his grip, “Who died and made you King?”
With a sigh, he crossed his arms, “I’m not your boss, but I am your teammate.”
“Oh, and that gives you the right to tell me how to live my life?” she planted her hands on her hips, eyebrow twitching.
He scowled in return, “It’s called giving a damn. You should try it sometime.”
She scoffed, gaze averting from his own as her anger slowly morphed into a form of anxiety. Perplexed, he watched silently as she pressed her lips together and raked a trembling hand through her hair.
Yelena was someone he had grown to respect during their time as Avengers. She was smart, confident, skilled, and had a natural charisma that helped her connect with people. The concept of a “leader” was never officially assigned or voted upon, but the Black Widow slid into the role naturally; it really suited her. Bucky, on the other hand, only seemed to gain the “co-leader” designation via Yelena’s actions. She’d often defer to him for advice or feedback on mission tactics, claiming he had more experience working with the previous Avengers, and while that may be true, he still didn’t think she needed him in that regard. Sure, there were certain things he had more knowledge on, but that could be said for anyone on the team. She treated him like a mentor despite him not doing much more than agreeing with her strategies, but she did have one key weakness he needed to keep in check.
When it came to mission planning for the team, she was cautious - calculating and considering every risk, every exit strategy, every path that could lead to failure - but when it came to herself… she was reckless and stubborn. Situations would turn awry, and she’d dive head-first to accomplish her goal, even if it meant putting herself in harm’s way. It wasn’t like she was trying to die, rather that she didn’t let the possibility stop her, and that’s where Bucky came in. On more than one occasion, he’s had to drag or carry her out of the line of fire, only to be rewarded with her criticizing him for getting in the way of the mission. She might be willing to gamble her life, but he wasn’t and never would be.
Tonight, however, she was in danger in a different way, and this time he couldn’t just grab her and whisk her away to safety. She didn’t need to be protected from a barrage of bullets. She needed to be protected from herself.
“I need to keep training, OK? I need to get stronger, faster, and just… better in every way.”
“Why?” he took a few steps closer, “Where is this coming from?”
She gulped, eyes forlorn yet hollow, “I woke up from a dream… a reminder from my past,” her body flinched as she squeezed her eyes shut, “Bucky, I’ve killed so many people…”
He nodded, not in confirmation but understanding. He knew her feelings all too well - the guilt, the nightmares, the memories that clawed away at your mind.
“Being a hero… an Avenger…” her throat tightened, visibly holding back tears forming in her eyes, “I don’t deserve it, but… maybe it can be my way of giving back to the world. Making up for my mistakes. It probably won’t be enough, but I have to try. I need to be ready for anything.”
Bucky could relate to some degree. He too had sought a method of changing society for the better, but becoming congressman wasn’t the road to salvation he originally thought it’d be. Most of the government was corrupt from the inside, and the parts that were yet to be tainted struggled to prune those evil roots through legitimate means. It was simple: good guys played by the rules; bad guys made their own. Tipping the scales in that setting was almost impossible. Being an Avenger, even one sponsored by Valentina, at least gave him an avenue to help people without needing to jump through twenty hoops first. Plus, that woman was an absolute menace, and with the Thunderbolts holding the truth of her dirty deeds above her head, there wasn’t much she could do to spite them.
“Yelena…” he gingerly placed a hand on her shoulder, “I know where you’re coming from, so trust me, beating yourself up like this isn’t the answer.”
For a while, she stood motionless, mind miles away. He thought maybe his words were getting through to her, but then suddenly, she shook his palm off, returning to her irate form, “We are not the same, Bucky.”
He was taken aback by the abrupt change in attitude but still pushed further, “How so?”
She opened her mouth to answer but ended up closing it again, shaking her head, “Forget it.”
Something in his chest ached; it seemed like she was opening up to him for a while, but it all faded away in an instant. Did he say something wrong?
Sensing that she didn’t want to talk anymore, he gave one last attempt, “At the very least, it’ll be difficult to be a good hero if you don’t give your body some rest.”
Nothing in her countenance signified that she heard him, but within a few seconds, she stormed off. The super soldier’s eyes followed her brisk footsteps out of the room until she was no longer visible. Maybe he convinced her after all?
With a deep inhale through his nose and exhale out his mouth, he decided to clean up the scattered mess of drink containers she left behind. Under normal circumstances, he’d find having to pick up after this kind of slovenly behavior to be a nuisance, but his mind kept returning to a state of concern. Yelena might be hardheaded, but this was pretty unorthodox for her, as far as he knew. Perhaps it was a just fluke - a one-off, rough night where she needed to punch out her inner demons.
Hopefully she’d feel better after getting some sleep.
- - - - -
As soon as he stepped out onto the rooftop, he spotted her: Yelena sitting with her back against the railing, legs sprawled out as she clung loosely onto a bottle of vodka. Same as before, if she noticed him, she didn’t show it - just gazing into the distance, eyes red and cheeks tear-stained.
It had been about a week since he caught her training in the middle of the night. The following morning, she seemed completely normal, not even acknowledging their previous interaction. Plus, following their run-in, he made it a point to check the gym while he was making his nightly rounds, and he didn’t find her there again. So he figured she must’ve been alright.
Apparently, he was wrong.
“Hey…” once again, he approached with caution, “You OK?”
Bucky tried to keep his voice gentle or at least not accusatory, hoping to come across as a more friendly presence.
A smile formed on her face, one that somehow looked painful, “I’m doing great. Can’t you tell?”
She giggled as tears streamed down her cheeks. How much had she been drinking?
The super soldier leaned down and snatched the bottle out of her hand, met with little resistance, “I’m cutting you off.”
His eyes widened when he felt the light weight of the bottle, realizing it was almost empty. Did she drink the whole thing in one sitting?
“You gonna lecture me again, old man?” she provoked, folding her arms across her chest.
Deciding to sit directly next to her, he slid the bottle off to the side, “Wouldn’t be anything you didn’t already know.”
“What is this? Reverse psychology?” she tilted her head, eyebrows furrowing with a sniffle, “Think you’ll convince me to request advice from you?”
Drunk or not - she still had her signature sass.
“I just wanna help,” his voice was slightly above a whisper, “I’m worried about you.”
“Why? Because you think we’re the same? Because you think you understand me?” the questions must’ve been rhetorical because she didn’t give him a chance to answer, “You couldn’t be more wrong.”
“You said something similar last time,” he took note of the scowl on her face, “What do you mean by that?”
“I mean that you always make a big deal about how you’ve been in our same position or know where we’re coming from but you don’t,” that last word came out like venom, “You even gave this whole speech to the team about how therapy helped you make amends and how we should try it ourselves.”
“I did that because I genuinely think it’d help you,” he explained, sensing the rise in tension.
“And that’s where you’re wrong, Bucky!” her voice escalated in volume as additional tears sprang from her eyes, “I can’t remember most of my victims. The chemical subjugation fucked with my brain and distorted my memories. I’m not even capable of making amends!”
The super soldier blinked, stunned by not only her outburst but the new piece of information he wasn’t aware of.
“Chemical subjugation? As in… mind control?”
He knew the Red Room was full of women that were trafficked as young girls and subsequently built into killing machines, but up to this point, he was under the impression that they were tortured and manipulated into submission. Obviously, that was an unforgivably traumatic experience in its own right, but mind control had uniquely distinct effects - ones of which he was all too familiar.
“Yeah,” she breezed by the inquiry as if it was nothing, expression contorting into one of forced amusement, “You want to hear something funny about that? My own mother developed the chemicals used to control me.” Her delirious giggling returned, words slurring slightly, “Talk about mommy issues.”
Bucky felt his heart crumble. The strong woman he had come to know and appreciate - the same one who always presented herself as cunning, capable, and fully in-control - was suffering in the same way he did. She was forced to kill and had to live with the consequences. Had to deal with the constant reminders in her nightmares. Had to grapple with the line between when she was herself or when she was just a pawn. Had to parse through her brain and figure out what memories actually belonged to her.
Before he could formulate what would be the best thing to say, she turned and crawled over to him, her hands finding their way to his chest as she leaned closer to his face. At this point, she was practically on top of him, and he was too stunned to move. Her breath reeked of alcohol; was she even aware of what she was doing?
His fingers trembled, trying to piece together what was happening or if he should do anything about it. This was way closer to someone than he was comfortable with, but her eyes were hypnotizingly glued to his own. Her palms snaked their way up his torso, followed by his neck, until they rested against his jaw, holding his head in place. For a moment, he thought she was going to kiss him, but instead, she just smiled before speaking again.
“I kind of hate you, Bucky.”
His mouth hung open; that was unexpected. Did she actually hate him? Or was that the booze talking? If it was true, he never would’ve guessed, given how well they had been working together.
“Sure, you have a dark past, but you have a good heart at your core,” she prodded the center of his chest, “You’re a good person. People can accept you because of that. You’re everything I wish I was, and that’s so fucking annoying.”
“Yelena…” he whispered, feeling vaguely touched by her perception of him, especially given that he’d have a hard time agreeing, “You are a good person. You didn’t have a choice when you were in the Red Room. You were under someone else’s control. It wasn’t your fault.”
A malicious sneer sprouted across her visage, “Is that what you told yourself, Winter Soldier?”
Ouch.
She shook her head with a frustrated sigh, hands falling to his shoulders as her gaze drooped downward. He knew it wasn’t as simple as believing what he said blindly; a lot of time and therapy was involved for him to come to terms with his position in being the Winter Soldier.
“Steve told me something similar, but it took making amends to believe it,” he admitted, “You said you don’t remember most of your victims… are there a few you do remember?”
Even if she couldn’t address 100% of her past, he figured taking just one step in the right direction could ease her mind. Sam had given him that advice, so he tried to pass it on to her in his own way.
She was frozen for a couple seconds, not even blinking, but eventually gave a solemn nod.
“The one from my dream tonight - Oksana. She… she was the Widow who freed me from the chemical subjugation,” her fingers weakly clung to the fabric of his shirt, “I killed her before I could regain control. She risked her life for my freedom, and I repaid her with death.”
When their eyes locked again, it was like he could feel her remorse weaving into his skin, “Tell me, Bucky, honestly… Knowing who I am and what I’ve done, do you really think I could become worthy of being called an Avenger? Like Steve? Like my sister?”
He kept his voice solid and steadfast with his response, “You already are.”
Her eyes widened, evidently not expecting that answer. It seemed to sober her up a bit, but that wasn’t his goal. He really meant it. Yelena had demonstrated her natural kindness and empathy with the team on multiple occasions; in fact, he’d go as far to say that she’s the main reason the New Avengers felt motivated to do better. She truly was a good person - even beyond that, someone who inspired others to be good; that was a quality she shared with both of the Captain Americas.
Not uttering another word, she pushed herself off of him, the sudden lack of warmth oddly discomforting. He wasn’t used to physical touch, almost never going beyond a shoulder squeeze or pat on the back (even those being few and far between), so it didn’t make sense that he suddenly craved having her that close to him. Damn, maybe it had just been too long since he was last intimate with someone. Regardless, admitting he was touch-starved after an interaction with his drunk teammate wasn’t going to do him any favors, so he repressed the feeling into the back of his skull.
“I…” she rubbed her temples, avoiding eye contact, “should go to sleep.”
Wasting no time, she gripped onto the railing to pull herself up, but the second her weight transferred to her feet, she collapsed, nearly slamming her head into the ground.
Hastily, Bucky caught onto her shoulders, “Are you OK?”
Her pupils swirled, like she couldn’t tell where exactly his face was located, but she still shimmied him off of her and insisted, “I’m fine.”
Yelena attempted to stand again, but the super soldier was prepared this time, clinging onto her arms when her legs dizzily veered to the side.
“Fuck,” she muttered angrily to herself, holding a palm against her forehead.
“Alright, that’s it,” he quickly swept the Widow into his arms, not giving her an opportunity to protest.
“Put me down,” she argued, giving him a weak punch to the chest, “I can take care of myself.”
“Yeah, you clearly had it all under control,” he responded sarcastically as he walked back into the tower.
Despite her grumpy objections, he could feel her head slowly beginning to weigh down against his shoulder, her eyes drooping with every step he took. By the time he made it to her room, she had fallen completely asleep. Thankfully, the door was left open ajar, and he was able to slide inside without making any noise. Using a feather-light touch, he laid her down onto the mattress and pulled the blankets over her body; she barely moved a muscle.
For a while, he watched over her, reflecting on everything she had shared. He already believed they could relate to each other before, but after learning more about her today, he realized it was an even deeper connection than he previously thought. This woman led such a miserable life, enduring many of the same horrors he did, and yet, she was still so bright and vibrant, cracking jokes and comforting her team members, effortlessly keeping spirits high. But now he knew, in her darkest moments, she retreated into self-destructive habits that she sealed away and kept to herself. If he hadn’t found her, would anyone have ever known?
Quietly, he slipped away to grab a glass of water and hangover pills before placing them on her bedside table. Prior to heading out the door, he took one last look at the Widow, now lying on her side, curled into the covers.
He wanted to help her. He didn’t quite know how, especially since she might not remember any of this in the morning, but he’d figure it out one way or the other. If he could be there for her when she needed someone, the same way he had needed someone in the past, he’d do it.
And maybe it’d heal something in him too.