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There was something about John that made him feel small.
There was something about John that had made him shiver ever since he escaped that old, dusty HYDRA base. Something in that deep gaze, sometimes too sharp, sometimes too empty.
Bucky tried to stay calm. To convince himself it made sense. No one who walked through HYDRA's doors came out exactly intact.
Of course, HYDRA was eager to get their hands on another super soldier. Of course, they'd experiment on John. They'd seek to break him, rebuild him, cut away the parts they deemed useless and sew on others in their place.
After all, John Walker was the perfect soldier—everything Steve Rogers never was and everything Bucky Barnes would never be.
Because John, even with his flaws, was a valuable asset to those who knew how to pull the right strings properly.
So when Bob finally gave him the coordinates to the base, Bucky made sure not to waste time, expecting to find his worst nightmare, the reflection of his darkest days.
But, to his surprise, what he found was absolutely nothing.
The place was in flames.
The fire kissed every inch of the structure, blocking entry from every angle Bucky searched. The flames roared fiercely until some columns gave way under the heat and collapsed.
His chest ached. He could taste the bitter ash, savor the failure of arriving too late.
They found hundreds of bodies, none of them John's, though the place was covered in his blood.
Val insisted on declaring him missing in action. She pointed out that even if John had escaped, the blood loss would have killed him anyway. There was no point in continuing a search that only led them to a dead end.
Bucky tried to kill her.
He was sick of people like Val. Of the Government, of HYDRA, of SHIELD, of all those who only saw them as pawns to manipulate, follow orders, and discard once they'd served their purpose.
It would be too easy—just press the knife into that exact spot. Neither Mel nor anyone else would be fast enough to stop him.
Yelena yelled at him to calm down, that even if what they were looking for was a body, they'd still do it, because John was family.
Bucky wanted to laugh. He didn't believe for a single moment that John was dead. He couldn't be—they were talking about John, after all. All those mistakes, all that recklessness; Bucky used to joke that John only lived out of sheer spite, thumbing his nose at Death over and over.
Ava agreed with him. For months, they led the search, only to find exactly what Val had warned them about: a goddamn dead end.
Impatience began to gnaw at them. They were determined to find him, but they felt exhausted, hearts heavy every time they went out and came back empty-handed.
For weeks, no one dared enter the kitchen, to take the cup of coffee John had left on the counter that morning before disappearing. They didn't touch the open book he'd left on the couch, or his cleaning gear piled in the corner of the living room; even his shirt still hung over the back of Bob's favorite armchair.
Every time they saw one of John's belongings, they froze there, waiting for John to walk through the door laughing at Alexei's stupid jokes or arguing with Bob about what to have for dinner, only to remember that John wasn't with them anymore.
For nights on end, Bucky dreamed of that smile, that spark that made his pretty blue eyes light up, but every time he took a step toward him, telling him how much he'd missed him, John seemed to pull away until he was out of reach.
Those nights, Bucky woke up screaming, burying his fingers in the cold sheets, with nothing but loneliness as his only company, repeating that it was his fault.
Hearing the whispers was a relief. A glass of water after months in the desert.
In the darkest corners of Romania, a little horror story was told about an agent dismantling the surviving HYDRA bases, hunting down handlers, skinning them alive and burning their bodies, erasing any proof that they'd ever existed.
No one had any idea who it could be. Some claimed it was an experiment seeking revenge, others that maybe they were finally making the decisions that should have been made long ago. Either way, the Agent was effective.
So effective that he was impossible to track.
Bucky tried. He tracked the surviving handlers himself, but he always arrived too late.
He found the same thing every time: the fire, the ashes, that taste of failure, with no trace of John.
He wondered if this was karma. If the universe had decided to collect on all the hell he'd put Steve Rogers through when he escaped HYDRA's clutches. If Steve had ever felt that same pressure in his chest every time his efforts were mocked.
Still, he didn't give up.
He didn't stop trying.
Not even when he got the warning from Wilson.
Bucky thinks he should have listened.
But listening back then would have meant John wasn't in his room that night, acting like nothing had happened, like he hadn't disappeared for a whole year.
The first thing Bucky did was hug him. Hard.
Having him finally in his arms made him realize how long he'd been holding his breath, how much he'd missed him, and how much he didn't want to let him go—but he had to, so the rest could hug him too.
John told them what happened that night, corroborating Mel's words about a mission gone wrong, an informant who forgot to mention HYDRA was involved, though he kept it vague.
"Why didn't you come back?" Yelena had been the first to ask, looking so young, so broken as she was. The rest held their breath, staring at John with all the pain and grief they'd suffered since his disappearance. "We looked for you. A whole year." Bucky heard the unspoken accusation, the hurt and disbelief of knowing that John, all this time, had been out there.
John stayed silent for a moment, looking at each of them before stopping on Bucky. "I was trying to remember," he answered, nothing more.
Remember what, Bucky had wanted to ask. What exactly did they do to him? What happened in that base that kept John from coming back? What had taken him a whole year to remember?
John had new cuts splattered across his face, bruises fading, wounds healing. He'd traded the navy blue OXE suit for a black one, no flag, no team markings.
Silence, he soon realized, was John's new best friend.
At first, he chalked it up to him maybe getting used to being back with them, dealing with the chaos and mess they left in their wake, but the silence became frequent. John no longer disrupted the Tower's quiet; he stayed off to the side, watching them, watching Bucky. No jokes, no snarky comments—just silence.
Sometimes, they had to pull him back from wherever he was. With an awkward smile, a hand on his forearm, they'd draw him back to reality.
John tried. He really did. But first he'd look at them, analyze them for half a second before relaxing his shoulders and saying the stupid thing they were all waiting to hear like eager ducklings.
But.
But there was something. Something Bucky refused to acknowledge, something that felt artificial, like John remembered he had to follow a script to fit in.
Bob was the first to point it out.
"There's something wrong, Bucky," he whispered. "The Void can feel it, something different. It's... it's John, but—"
But it doesn't feel entirely like John.
Bucky dismissed it.
No one comes out of HYDRA intact.
John spent weeks in their hands. It took them weeks to reach him, and when Bucky got there, it was too late—could they really blame John for not being the same?
Could they blame him for acting disoriented?
But John wasn't really acting disoriented. He fooled himself into believing he was.
No.
John was sharp, as sharp as his old military file detailed—the one that earned him three Medals of Honor, made him worthy to carry the shield.
A sharp mind, brutal. Focused on his missions and total success. An unrelenting force. He doesn't hold back. He doesn't fear getting his hands dirty.
The perfect soldier.
But.
Who exactly was that soldier fighting for? What did John need to remember?
Wilson pointed out he was turning into an animal in the field. An uncontrollable beast that tore his prey apart inch by inch. Something more Dantean than what happened with Nico.
Unnecessary, he yelled. Reckless.
Bucky thought John was actually methodical.
Methodical. Cold. Calculating.
Always watching.
Always searching.
What exactly was he searching for? Was he looking for what he'd tried so hard to remember?
"He's benched."
"I'd like to see you try."
The briefing room went silent. Mel clutched her tablet while Yelena watched John warily. The new Falcon straightened up, not hesitating to back his teammate.
In front of them, Sam squared his shoulders, stepping toward John to establish himself as the man in charge, even if he wasn't their team's leader. But John didn't back down; he met his eyes directly.
"I'm doing my duty," John said, curling his lips into a sardonic smile. "Collateral damage isn't my problem anymore, Captain." The mocking 'Captain' dripped with condescension. Sam clenched his jaw, stepping closer.
Bucky had to intervene, grabbing John's arm and dragging him to his room, where he disinterestedly began to undress.
He was covered in blood, dirt, and sweat. His hair was disheveled, and there was a glint in his eyes that took Bucky's breath away. Glassy, feverish.
John smiled, extending a hand toward him.
Bucky didn't hesitate to take it.
Bucky thinks that's when the descent into madness began. When John stopped hiding, at least from him.
When he revealed what the Void was so afraid of.
Sam didn't lie. John was brutal on his missions. He left a bloodbath that he then washed away with fire. The same method the agent used on the HYDRA bases.
John never took credit for it. He kept it vague, attributing his escape to a little nurse who died before John could save her. So kind, so sweet. Dead so young. What a tragedy.
He didn't hide the smiles. The satisfaction he got from crushing his enemies' hearts under his boots. The way he savored the blood. He didn't hide from Bucky.
"Are you afraid, Soldier?" he'd asked a few weeks after his confrontation with Sam, tracing his cheekbone with disconcerting gentleness. John looked into his eyes, then at his mouth. He continued tracing his lips, leaving a coppery trail that Bucky licked without thinking.
"No."
"Good." John rewarded him with a sardonic smile.
Sometimes, John didn't look at Bucky.
Sometimes, he looked at Ava. At Yelena, Bob, Alexei. He seemed to be searching for something, something he'd already found with Bucky in that abandoned factory. He seemed to be trying to figure out how they fit with him, with his life.
Sometimes, that icy gaze would settle back on Bucky.
Icy.
Empty.
Hungry.
John made him feel small.
It was a strange concept.
Bucky used to be the Winter Soldier. The monster under the bed. The story they used to scare the worst villains, but there was something different in John that made him feel small.
Something predatory.
He supposed that was the difference. Being aware of one's own greatness.
And John was aware. Oh, he was. He knew he made Bucky shiver with his brutality, knew there were days when Bucky looked away.
He also knew how to bring him back.
A small caress over his shoulders, a soft, purring whisper against the crown of his head.
A small kiss to the corner of his lips, always leaving him hungry for more.
Bucky became addicted. He craved those moments, that sweet, poisonous seduction that burrowed into his brain and drew him to John. Always to John.
He started assigning the missions himself. More distant ones, more problematic. He let John off the leash, turning his missions into bloody carnages just to receive that sweet caress, that distant kiss.
He ignored Ava's looks, Bob's doubts, Mel and Alexei's questions. Val didn't care, as long as the job got done. Yelena was the only one who seemed to understand them—after all, HYDRA and the Red Room had been allies for a few years.
She said the only thing that mattered was that John was back and now he was with them.
"I could leave," John murmured one night. Bucky tensed after hearing it.
No, he couldn't lose him. Not again. Not when he'd gotten him back and John had finally found what he'd tried to remember away from them.
They were in a motel bed, sated after spending hours devouring each other inch by inch. The satisfaction now tasted bitter. Fear clawed its way into his heart.
He remembered the last year. The emptiness, the silence. He remembered the loneliness, the pain. That familiar feeling of abandonment.
"Do you think I should leave, Soldier?"
"Take me with you," he chose to answer. Because that's what he preferred. If John left, if he thought the team was better off without him, if they really wanted that, he preferred to go with him.
He didn't care about anything else. Not his job, not what they might think. To hell with the world that had turned its back on him so many times, with the government that used him up and discarded him once he was no longer useful.
He'd never felt more alive. More in love.
Maybe there was something wrong with him too.
Maybe he was fucked up as well.
Bucky really enjoyed watching John in the field. Seeing that calculated frenzy, that brutality. He liked watching him toy with his prey, seeing the way he drained them. Those sky-blue eyes turning dark as he sated the hunger that consumed him.
Sometimes John looked at him, two dark orbs reflecting an emptiness, and Bucky made sure to hold his gaze, to let him know he wasn't afraid, that he wouldn't judge him again, and that he actually loved him.
John always rewarded him with a caress, with a kiss.
He called him his Soldier; Bucky responded by calling him Captain.
The name made him smile. Bucky couldn't stop thinking that the profanity tasted fucking sweet.
But if there's one thing Bucky loved more than working with John, it was the treatment he got when he went solo.
"Who did this to you?" His Captain, he soon discovered, was possessive. He liked looking at his Soldier intact, so even something as tiny and insignificant as a cut on the cheekbone enraged him.
Those times, John wasn't gentle. He grabbed his face hard, muttering threats through gritted teeth that he didn't hesitate to follow through on. He made Bucky see just how strong John was when he was in his element, when loss didn't blind him.
Other times, Bucky wished he could hide his wounds. He knew what his Captain was capable of; he'd seen it multiple times, taken his offerings and offered his own—profane promises they made to each other.
"Because not even death will keep me away from you," his Captain whispered against his ear. He trailed kisses over his skin, worshiped his body. He caressed him with a profane devotion that Bucky craved to receive for the rest of his life.
Valentina, HYDRA, the Government—they'd all learned to stay away from Bucky.
It shouldn't surprise him that they focused on John. That they tried to use him one last time.
They don't want John on the team; for Bucky, it's like going back to 2024, except this time the pain and rage don't blind him. Sam insists that John stains the Avengers' name with his brutality, soaks the meaning in blood, drowns the hope. Bucky starts to believe the name was stained from the beginning—after all, none of the original Avengers were saints.
Sam refuses to understand, to believe that John isn't really doing anything wrong—it's HYDRA, for God's sake. He threatens to take the name by force.
"We should go," he whispers against his neck. His Captain continues caressing the bare skin of his back. He traces the scars with a delicate touch, naming them absentmindedly.
Aleksandr. Ivan. Misha. Dimitri.
Sergei. Pavel. Ilya. Nikolay.
All gone. By external enemies. Some, the most unfortunate, by John's hand.
Drained and burned. Their ashes carried on the wind.
Bucky's dreams are no longer plagued by nightmares; now they're filled with dreams.
Lately, he's been dreaming of a cabin by a beautiful lake, with John.
The dawn forms a halo around him, dresses him as the most beautiful angel, even when his nails protrude like small claws and he sees those pristine fangs peeking from his lips.
Wasn't Lucifer an angel?
"And where would we go, Soldier?" his Captain asks. He doesn't seem to reject the idea, so Bucky emboldens himself. He talks about his little apartment in Romania, how quiet it is, how much he'd like to go back to the country, to the forest where he used to hide when the voices tormented him.
About the little kitten he used to feed and never got the chance to name. The kind old ladies who used to give him discounts on plums.
His Captain listens, hums low.
"Is that what you want?"
"I just want to be with you."
Breaking the news is hard, though it surprises no one. Yelena nods solemnly, tells them she thinks it's for the best, at least for now. When the waters calm, they can come back; she'll work with Mel to shut down the media.
Bucky doesn't tell her they don't plan to come back. That the only leash he wants around his neck is John's hand. Surprisingly, Ava hugs them hard, makes them promise to send the address of their new home as soon as they have it so she can visit, while Bob hangs back, resisting the urge to run in the opposite direction because it's John—he's still their John, despite everything.
They spend one last night in the Tower; Bucky makes a barely deep cut on his neck under the dark orbs watching him intently.
There's something intimate about letting John feed from him. It sends his heart into a frenzy, triggers his fight-or-flight instinct, before he relaxes like putty in his hands.
Because it's John.
John. John. John.
Bucky can't stop thinking about John. Worshiping him. Breathing to his rhythm. Orbiting around him.
Every muffled moan heats his blood, and he waits, like a lovesick lunatic, hoping it tastes sweeter like this for John.
He wants to be the only one John feeds from.
He wants John to mark him as his.
He's barely conscious when John lays him back on the bed and climbs over him, guiding his hard cock into his dripping hole. Blood smears his lips, his jaw, and part of his neck; Bucky watches with dreamy eyes, in love with the image his fallen angel projects.
He lets him take him at his pace, at his thirst. The constant slap of his hips against John's thighs is music to his ears. It starts to hurt at one point from the relentless effort, but it feels so good, so good that he can't stop him.
"Good boy," he hears him murmur. Sweet, seductive. "Just one more, one more before we go, Soldier."
Just one more.
Bucky signs one last sentence.