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infinitycaprogers · 3 years

Note

a harmless drabble more on the angsty/hurt and comfort side of things? 🥺

a/n: sigh. welcome to chaos week update #2 :)) last one is out this friday and im exhausted pls keep me in your thoughts or send me doughnuts. either works hey, just a shoutout to the anon who has a presentation today. i hope it all goes well :)

warning: lot of swearing, angst, anxiety, self esteem issues, sick bucky, but it gets lighter at the end dw

word count: 8.4k (we established like seven parts ago that these aren’t drabbles anymore)

Previous Part || Series Masterlist

He probably shouldn’t be even awake right now.

But he was.

With a vengeance.

Over fifty hours of a recon mission paired with the additional stakeout due to people not doing their jobs correctly made sure it was a very long two weeks.

The last stretch had been a bit of an adrenaline rush, a lot of explosions and walking away like a badass even though the combination of heat and leather had him sweating buckets. He hopes that the same high would keep him going for at least another few hours before he crashed for the next three days.

“Buck, you’re gonna be exhausted by the time we reach. Can’t you push it to tomorrow?” Steve tries his level best to reason with him, knowing that Bucky in particular had volunteered for a lot of the mission assignments when others were too tired or occupied to pursue it.

“She’s busy tomorrow. School’s got some dance planning committee happening.” Whatever your inator was, he could punch a hole through it and be done for the day. “It’ll be 20 minutes tops.”

“No point arguing with him, Cap. He’s whipped.” Clint’s kinda delirious. He’s almost fallen over twice already, Bucky’s metal arm being the only thing that stopped it from happening. Maybe Clint’s head deserved to hit the floor a couple of times after that comment.

“Shut up.” He fiddles with the solar system bracelet around his wrist, shoving all the beads to one side before thumbing them back. Not a very convincing argument but the same adrenaline is starting to wear off faster than could conserve. “I’m not.”

“Just go on Tuesday or something. ’s not like you wait for the weekend to see her anymore,” Clint throws in a rebuttal much to his annoyance. “Didn’t you meet her after school that day?”

“She said she was going to hypnotise some birds to go shit on someone.” Fuckin’ Jeff.

“Yeah, but then you walked her home afterwards.”

“It was a part of the negotiation.” A trade off, even.

He wonders if the thread that linked all the beads would ever wear out with how much he played around with it, but so far it showed no signs of giving away.

“Negotiation, date, whatever you wanna call it. The point still stands.”

“It’s your fourth mission this month, bud,” Steve interrupts before Bucky’s glare burns holes into Clint’s face. “You need to relax.”

The quinjet takes a sharp turn and Bucky feels like he’s gonna throw up. Motion sickness was a rarity, only showing up in cases where his body was on the verge of crumbling due to fatigue.

He takes a swig of water, shoving down any signs of distress. “Swear on Barton’s life, I'll take a break after this.”

“Motherfucker, I know you’re lying.” Clint whips around in his seat. “Take it back right now. You’re gonna get me killed.”

“Maybe you deserve it,” Bucky quips back calmly.

“That’s fair.” Clint pauses. “But I’ll take you with me, Jimmy.”

Bucky scowls at the nickname. He absolutely loathes it, which gives this piece of shit all the more reason to use it.

“Can you both shut up?” Nat groans from her seat, doing everyone a favour.

“Whose side are you on, Tasha?” Her blonde and begrudgingly admitted best friend asks.

“Whoever pushes you out of this plane in the next five minutes, Clinton.” She smiles sweetly at him but it drops abruptly. “Steve, just let him go, he’s a big boy now. But you’re finding your own way home, Barnes. I’m not picking you up again.”

She picked him up twice a long time ago and one of them was when you called her over to thank her and return the microchip she got you from the lab.

Back then he knew that the team kept in contact with you occasionally, but not to the point where he had to wait half an hour for Nat to stop telling you about the tech behind her photostatic veils so he could finally go home.

“You guys are great,” Bucky mumbles sarcastically, getting up to go punch in the new coordinates. “Best fuckin’ friends a fella could ask for.”

They still have a long way to go. Bits of conversation takes place, but a two week long mission tends to drain the life out of even enhanced human beings so it’s mostly quiet. The longer he sits idly, the longer the weariness sets in. He could take a walk but he’s not sure he could make an entire lap.

Clint's head droops as he slips in and out of sleep again. Bucky considers letting him hit the cold, hard ground in an act of revenge.

In the end, he sticks his arm out again, pushing him back into his seat.

Steve lowers the jet for him at the street outside your lair, enough for him to jump out and not lie on the ground in pain. Still, it takes him a little longer to stop the dizzying when he lands, before he rolling his shoulders and walks to the door.

The lair’s lit up in shades of yellow and red for a change. Even the pillars with the bubbling liquid were a flaming orange to match whatever theme you had going on.

You were in the smack middle, dressed like a completely authentic firefighter.

“You’re back!” you cheer when he opens the door. You follow it up with a quick clearing of your throat, dropping your voice lower to sound more serious. “You’re back.”

He can’t think of anything to say so he just walks to the middle of the lair, a few feet away from the raised platform. His backpack is still with him, a few grimy and tattered clothes, empty guns inside and other essentials inside. But there’s a separate paper bag that he’s holding in his hand.

“I got you something,” he informs to the best of his ability, holding it up. He wonders if you even heard it, considering how coarse his words had sounded.

“What is it?” You jump down from the platform to meet him midway.

“Open it.” He extends it forward.

He’s a little nervous when you pull out a t-shirt from the bag, ‘I love Philippines’ printed against the plain black, the love represented by a bright red heart.

“You bought me a souvenir.” Your eyes widen when you twist it around to look at the words.

“Yeah.” Could he sit down for a few minutes, maybe? Your chair looks real nice. “There’s some chocolate in there if you want.”

“You’re so cute, oh my God.” You hold it up against you, checking out the fit.

He can feel himself smiling but he isn’t exactly sure if he is.

“Thanks, sarge.” You half consider wearing it right now but you don’t want to ruin it with what you have planned. “I love it.”

Bucky gives you a thumbs up, arm dropping to his side when it takes more energy than it should.

“Did you come here right after a mission?” You notice the beads of perspiration lining his forehead. “Is that why you’re all sweaty?”

He just ‘mhm’s in response. He didn’t even notice how hot he was feeling.

He forces himself to pay attention when your fingers wave in front of his face.

“You okay?” You’re a step closer than he remembers you being a second ago. “You look kinda pale.”

“’m fine.” It feels like gravel scraping against his throat. “What d’ya have planned for today?”

You look entirely unconvinced. “Aren’t you supposed to be hibernating right now?”

“Nah.” Did he land 2 minutes ago or two hours ago? How long has he even been here? “Slept on the jet.”

Accidentally, before snapping awake thirty seconds later when turbulence hit.

“Okay,” you say hesitantly. “If you say so.”

You march back to the platform. He lets the backpack fall to the ground, exhaling in relief at the sudden weight off his shoulder. He walks over to leave it by the wall, well out of the way so that neither of you trip.

You stretch your arms out and declare something about subverting expectations and turning things into water so you could float giant paper boats but he only catches bits and pieces of it. He supposes the subverting expectations had to do with the theme of the lair and your costume.

“Where, uh-” If you had mentioned it and he wasn’t paying attention, this was going to be embarrassing, “-where is this... thing?”

“You’ll have to find it.” You grin. “A little game.”

He blinks rapidly, the words taking some time to register in his brain.

“It’s here somewhere?” He looks around, the bright colours bringing on the early signs of a migraine.

"You will never-" you begin to cackle but pause mid-sentence, "Bucky, are you sure you're fine?"

He nods with a slight wince, beckoning for you to go on. His shoulder pressed against the concrete for support, centring his balance accordingly.

"It’s around here.” You sound more disinterested, instead, eyes trained on him in worry. “But there’s this whole ‘floor is lava’ thing going on, it’s gonna get a little crazy.”

“Ah.” Jesus, had it been over sixty hours since he’d been awake? What fucking day of the week was it?

“Listen, can I get you something? Do you want some water or-”

His legs nearly buckle under him in a flash.

"Can we just take 5?" He slides to the ground along the wall, leaning on his palm to stay upright.

"Shit, Buck." You immediately leap off your platform to get to him. “What’s happening to you?”

“‘m fine,” he groans, trying to push himself up again.

“Clearly you’re not.” You drop to your knees by him to get a picture of what exactly was wrong.

"I have super healing.” He clenches his eyes shut. “I'll be fine, just- just give me a minute."

"You're sick, James.” He can feel your hand press against his forehead, a welcome coolness against the heat. “You're burning up."

Alright. Maybe he isn’t that fine.

“I’m callin’ Hill.” You dig around your firefighter’s outfit for your phone. “This is why we don't see each other until you've gotten some rest, Bucky. We could have just rescheduled.”

His eyes blow open, hand reaching out to grab your wrist. "No, no.”

“What?” you ask, eyebrows furrowing.

He shakes his head. “Don't take me back there. They won't let me go on missions."

"Well, they shouldn't, not if things like this are going to happen," you bite back, finger hovering over the contact.

"Please,” he pleads, "Please. I don’t know how else to make up for it.”

“Make up for what?” Your determination falters.

“Everything.” His eyes close again. “Don’t call them.”

“Fuckin’ hell,” you breathe out. “How do I help you, sweetheart, you gotta tell me.”

You check his temperature again, biting your lip to quell what feels a lot like rising fear because panicking wouldn’t help the situation. His skin burns under yours.

“Just leave your hand there,” he says under his breath. The ground was cold, God, he wanted to lie down. “Feels nice.”

Sleep looks like she’s finally catching up with him, a race that she inevitably always won. She’s a sneaky one.

He doesn’t try to resist this time, letting it consume him.

Something under him is plush, soft. It’s not dissimilar to the seats in the common room.

He can barely rotate his body, every muscle feels like it's on the verge of tearing and fuck, he's barely conscious but he manages to pry his eyes open.

“Easy there, Buck." It's you, even though he's moving in and out of consciousness he can tell it's you.

The room's too bright. The world's too bright. The panic builds in his chest.

"Where am I?" His words come out slurred, eyes squinting painfully.

“My couch," you sound gentle, calming. "You're safe. Go back to sleep."

Okay. He trusts you.

He passes out before his head hits the pillow.

Bucky doesn't dream. He has nightmares, yeah, but those had begun to lessen in frequency after he started working on them a few months ago.

This isn't a nightmare.

It's a dark, navy blue sky, pristine white ground and a mist swirling around with the strong wind. He swears he can feel the cool droplets collecting on every inch of him. He doesn't feel nervous... just strange.

It’s uncharted territory.

There’s not a lot going on otherwise.

He takes a step forward, and another, and another when nothing happens. It’s a slow walk against the low howl of the draft, but it looks like there’s no one around for miles.

He stands still for a second. Lets the world move around him.

He’s alone anyway.

“Bucky.” He jerks awake again, hastily pulled away from the nothingness. “Slow down. Breathe. It’s me.”

“How long have I been out?” he croaks out. It feels like five minutes between since he shut his eyes.

“About two hours.” He hears a clink as you set a tray down on the table beside him. “Sorry for waking you up. Just thought you needed some water.”

He can’t lift his head up. It’s bordering on humiliating. “I can’t-”

“Got you a straw,” you break in gently. “But I’m gonna need you to take these for your fever. You’re still burning up pretty bad.”

Something pokes at the corner of his mouth. He figures you’re holding up the glass for him. The straw’s helpful, and hell, you were right. His throat was absolutely parched and the water sliding down feels like a respite but he can’t get more than a few sips in.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t-” he begins in a long series of apologies to come, hoping the throbbing in his head would go away.

“Get some rest, Buck.” You knew that if he started he wouldn’t ever stop. “We’ll talk about this later.”

There’s the sound of a light switch clicking and he’s left in silence for a few seconds.

He should have just gone home. He should have listened.

But he wanted to give you the t-shirt.

He’s been walking for what seemed like hours now.

The inky dark horizon seems endless, the white ground crunches under his feet.

Is this what fever dreams were really like?

Or is this what his normal dreams are like? He can’t really remember the last one he had.

He doesn’t know what he’s headed towards but something in him tells him not to stop. There’s an unspoken destination to get to.

“Where are you going?” A voice asks from around him. No matter how ominous it was, it doesn’t seem to unnerve him.

“‘m not sure,” he admits, his pace not faltering.

It doesn’t ask anything further so he keeps treading.

It’s a minute before something catches his eye. A light appears in the distance. His heart lifts.

Something warm. Inviting.

Fire?

The closer he gets, the clearer it becomes that it is a fireplace. It stands alone out there, several logs of wood accompanying it with an axe leaning against them.

The flame’s dull.

He gets to work.

His forehead feels cool. He thinks that either his dream was had transcended into reality or he’s sweat right through his shirt and condensation was working wonders.

His hand shifts up to wipe at his skin. It comes in contact with cloth instead and it takes him a moment to realise that it was a wet hand towel laid across his forehead.

He hasn’t been like this in years. He sure remembers laying soaked handkerchiefs on Steve a lot when they were boys, nights of flu and stomach bugs keeping Bucky up in palpable fear until his friend’s fever broke in the early hours of the morning. He can’t recall the last time someone had done it for him.

He can hear you tinkering with something in the other room. His senses seemed like they were gradually making a comeback, but along with them came the most excruciating headache.

A small groan escapes him when he tries to flip over, hands flying to his temple to try and relieve some of the pressure. The serum was good most of the time. But for all the epic moments of energy and healing it gave him, the inevitable lows crashed down just as hard.

But a headache was good. If this was the worst he had been feeling all day, then he knew from experience that it was going to be over soon.

“Where does it hurt?” He didn’t even notice that you had stopped building whatever you were, now crouching a few feet away from the couch.

“My fuckin’ head.” He turns over to press his face against the sofa cushion, hoping that the darkness would help in some way.

He can feel your fingers run through his hair, pushing it away from where it stuck to his face. His teeth unclench slightly, just for a second, before another wave hits him.

He begs to go back under.

It’s snow, he realises. The white ground is snow.

“Why don’t you sit down for a while?” it cajoled again. The voice doesn’t have a physical form but he can feel it follow him around like a little friend.

“Can’t.” He’s been hacking away at the wood for too long now, using the bits to keep the flame going, keep it alive before it dies out on him.

“Can’t or won’t?”

He leans against the hilt of the axe, breathing heavily. He’s exhausted.

“Won’t.” His voice is quieter, eyes downcast.

The wind doesn’t give up around him. It hugs him like a blanket, adding to what could easily turn into misery.

“What do you think is going to happen if you keep cutting wood?”

Warmth. Something to break the monotony of the blue around him. Maybe the heat would invite someone to sit with. Redemption.

“I don’t know.” He brings the tool down hard on another block, breaking it into half before he throws it into the fireplace.

“You’re not seeing what you’ve already created,” it points out delicately. “Wait for a second, watch the fire.”

He wipes his brow, taking a step back. His muscles were aching, shortness of breath finally catching up to him.

If it gives up on him, he’d have to work twice as hard.

But the fire continues to crackle, seconds, moments, even minutes later. Just as bright.

Has it always been burning?

“Yes, it has.” It reads his mind.

At what point did it stop mattering how much he added to it to keep it alive?

“A long time ago.” It didn’t make sense. “So then why are you working so hard towards it when it’s already here?”

Something is kneading on his head. It’s foreign and should definitely set off alarm bells but it's nice. It feels good.

"Hey, B." You’re on a single seat couch adjacent to his, welding gloves on your hand. Do you ever take a break? “You look better.”

"Hi." He reaches up, coming in contact with metal this time. "What's on my head?"

"Synthesised Message Inducer."

A message inducer?

"What messages were you sending me?" Is that why his dream was so fucking weird?

"Well- none," you confess. "I read the label wrong. Turns out it’s a massage inducer. Don't know what evil I can do with that but it’s helpful.”

No wonder.

"You mentioned a headache before you passed out again so I just thought that-" you gesture to it with a flick of your hand. "Is it making you uncomfortable? I wasn't sure-"

"It feels good,” he murmurs, trying his best to straighten up. "Thank you."

“You look less pale.” You smile, although it looks strained. “You hungry?”

“Don’t think so.”

“There’s some Gatorade on the table. Saltines too, if you can stomach it.”

He knows he should eat. His metabolism needs it.

You push yourself off your couch to go sit beside him. He sits up straight, back leaning heavily against the couch when you land next to him.

He takes three out of the bowl of saltines you offer him. Breaking it into little pieces, he pops a few in his mouth, chewing slowly. A quick sip of Gatorade washes it down for momentary satisfaction but he knows it won’t be nearly enough to fill the hunger that will eventually hit him the minute he’s a little healthier. His body’s energy was being entirely spent in fixing him up.

“Steve called, by the way.” Of course, he did. Mother.

“Did you pick up?” He twists the cap back onto the bottle.

“Let it ring all the way through.” You take it from him and leave it on the floor beside the couch, lifting your legs to keep onto the table.

“He’ll call back later.”

“I think it’ll be fun to reject Steve Rogers’ call.”

Oh, it definitely is. Gets him all riled up.

“How you feeling?” You sneak a glance at him.

“Better than this morning.” An hour more and he’d be good to go.

You nod, looking down at your lap. "You scared the shit out of me, you know.”

"I'm sorry." Guilt. It’s guilt that might just eat him alive. “Really.”

“I know what you’re thinking.” You wave it off. "Don’t. I'm just glad you're okay."

There’s a beat of silence where he’s not quite sure what to say. There’s a certain tension that hangs in the air between you both. He can feel the drowsiness creep on him again.

“But you need to tell the team, James,” you say softly. “You need to talk to someone.”

He doesn’t react too much. He knew it would come up eventually.

Bucky exhales uneasily. “I know.”

“Will you?”

The million-dollar question. He doesn’t want to lie and tell you that he absolutely will because he doesn’t know.

His head cautiously rests on your shoulder. You don’t hesitate for a moment before shifting to make him more comfortable, leaning your cheek on his hair.

“I’m gonna pick up next time Rogers calls.”

“Yeah?”

“Gonna tell him you got held up on our date.” He feels your chest rise and fall with a small laugh. He smiles against your shoulder.

“They’ll get on my ass.”

“You should get bullied, it’s good for character development.”

Some date.

He can’t even stay awake longer than five minutes at a time.

He’s still cutting the wood fervently, throwing blocks upon blocks into the fire to keep it alive, keep him alive.

“You know you don’t have to keep doing this, James,” it’s being a voice of reason but he can’t afford to listen to it. “You’re not gonna find something new that you don’t already have.”

“What do I have?” he asks desperately, planting his feet in the ground, hand gripping the axe tightly.

“You know what.”

He does. “Don’t say it.”

“Accepta-”

“No.”

“That’s going to keep burning.” It’s true. “You’re just going to kill yourself trying to keep it.”

He has to earn it. He has to do something to be worthy of what it was giving him because if it knew the kinds of things he’s done, things he has to make up for- it’d extinguish a long time ago.

“You don’t.”

“I do.” No matter how long he stays still, it shows no sign of flickering.

“The fire’s still alive.” It’s calm despite how frantic he was turning. “You don’t have to work to keep it.”

“I’m useless here,” he says defeatedly against its insistence. “I don’t deserve it.”

“Maybe you don’t.” It still stings even though he knew it. “But maybe you do. Either way, it’s giving it to you, no strings attached.”

He lifts his axe over his shoulder again, ready to bring it down. Why does he deserve it when he has nothing to give in return?

“You don’t have to offer a service to have worth.”

He halts, body frozen. His chest constricts almost painfully.

“Sit down for a while,” its command is kind, almost caring. “Let it come to you.”

“Fuck,” it escapes him like a small prayer.

The axe drops to the ground. He shakily takes a seat.

He doesn’t cut more wood or fan the flame or scour for gasoline. He doesn’t do anything.

And yet the fire keeps burning.

It’s a kitten.

On his chest.

Bucky stares right at it and it unflinchingly stares back.

He’s not really sure if he’s still dreaming or not.

He hesitatingly uses a finger to scratch behind its ear.

“Hello,” he whispers. It leans into his touch, pressing itself against his palm. “Where’d you come from?”

"You're awa- ah, jeez, I'm sorry." You walk into the room, finally changed into an oversized cardigan and out of your lab coat, "She's clingy."

"It's okay." He likes it. “This is your cat?”

“Yeah. Finally, about time you two met.”

He folds his legs to give you space on the couch. You sit next to him, a cup of something warm in your hands. There’s music playing softly through the apartment, tracks definitely from the 80s. He recognises some of them from the playlists Sam had been sending to catch him up.

“You look good as new.” His temperature had gone down a while ago and his headache had subsided after thirty more minutes of sleep and an Aspirin.

“Feel normal.” Praise be to the serum. “Think it’s over.”

“You need some more water?”

“I’m good.” He’s fucking starving, though. “What have you been up to all day?”

“School stuff.” You relax into the seat. “Inators to kick your ass when you’re not unconscious on my couch.”

“Winter Formal prep?” He flinches when the cat digs her claws into his chest but it doesn’t hurt that bad, arching her back before snuggling back.

“Yeah. Turns out I’m chaperoning.” The cynicism in your tone has him believing that maybe it’s not your activity of choice. “Yay.”

“When is it?”

“Pretty soon. The planning committee’s all excited.” You take a sip out of your mug. “I get one day to recuperate.”

Maybe he should leave you alone for the next few weeks. Maybe a month. Possibly forever.

“I’m sorry,” he says for the umpteenth time that day but at least now he’s properly conscious.

“I know you are.” You don’t sound mad at him. “You don’t need to be. What are frenemies for?”

He lingers a little longer on the word, reevaluating what exactly this thing was at this point.

“Plus you brought me a present.” You gesture to yourself and he realises only then that you actually have the shirt on. “That makes it pretty even, I think.”

“You sure?”

You know it’s an unspoken way of asking if you want him to get out and never come back, judging by the way his lip was caged between his teeth.

“Absolutely.” You finish whatever you’re drinking, leaving it on the coffee table. “And you fixed my generator last time you were at the lair so, you know, an eternal debt or something.”

Well, it nearly electrocuted you and him so it’s not like it was a difficult choice to make.

“I think she likes you.” You raise your eyebrows at the cat who had dozed off on his chest a while ago when he wasn’t paying attention. “Traitor.”

“She has good taste.” He didn’t think he was a cat person, having grown up with his neighbour’s dogs and the human equivalent of a spunky Golden Retriever.

“She has terrible taste. Unless she likes me, then she’s basically Gordon Ramsay.”

“You keep telling yourself that.” He retracts his hand back to his side, fully intending not to disturb her. He probably wouldn’t be able to move from that position for the next few hours out of compulsion.

The ease slowly returning to your conversation takes off some of the edge he was feeling.

“Something feels wrong about today.” He stares off to the side, turning his face to the wall.

“Aside from me having to use all my Grey’s Anatomy knowledge on you?” You snicker. “Web MD told me you had Pneumococcal Meningitis.”

“No. I don’t think you’ve said enough bullshit for today.” There’s a certain quota that’s been set.

“I did, you just weren’t awake to hear any of it.” There’s a smile on your face finally and the relief he feels is immeasurable. “Told you all my hopes and dreams.”

“Yeah?” He raises an eyebrow, head inclined ever so slightly to look at you. “What’d that include?”

“To start, I’d like a pony.” You pull your knees up to your chest, circling your arms around it. “Then a private island.”

“You’re startin’ small.” The corner of his lip tugs upwards. “Real humble.”

“You know me, queen of humility and all that.” You brush his comment aside. “But you know what‘s actually wrong?”

He hums in curiosity.

“I haven’t hit on you all day.”

Ah.

“‘M sure it’s hurtin’ pretty bad,” he says in amusement.

“You have no idea.” You sigh loudly. “How else will you know about my undying love for you?”

“Get it out of your system then.” Months ago he wouldn’t have even dreamed of encouraging this behaviour, but here he was.

“Don’t think you can handle it, buddy,” you tease, eyes crinkling.

“Why, because I have a fever?” He smiles playfully. “Just means I’m hotter than usual.”

You press your lips into a straight line to avoid smiling back. “Mr Barnes, are you flirting with yourself?”

“So what if I am?”

“That’s my job, sir.” You huff. “You gonna have me unemployed now?”

Begrudgingly, he thinks you do your job very well, so no, he’s probably not going to.

He shakes his head slowly instead, stopping when he feels the movement send a shot of pain up his neck. Certainly slept the wrong way.

There’s a faint spell of victory on your face. “You hungry? Been a while since you ate anything.”

“Kinda.” His stomach lining was going to digest itself but he’d never tell you that.

You’re about to open your mouth and tell him that he was a wholeass snack and you were starving when the front door’s doorknob jiggles.

The key turns, finally pushing open and accompanied by a voice that can only be described as peeved.

“Y/N, did you forget the fuckin- oh mother of God.” Some guy covers his eyes instantly, retracting back to the doorway. “You coulda warned me you had a guy here. Is he clothed?”

“Unfortunately, he is.”

“Sir, are you clothed?” he asks aloud instead, ignoring your cry of betrayal.

“Uh, yeah.” Bucky clears his throat awkwardly. “I am.”

“You have no faith in me, Jake,” you grumble, not even meeting his gaze in greeting.

“Fuck off, Y/N,” he replies like it’s a habit, peeking through his fingers to look at who was in the living room.

Oh, this was Jake. Roommate Jake that you’ve mentioned to him a few times before, mostly in complaints.

Roommate Jake’s eyes squint in an effort to discern who was on the couch.

“Anyway come meet-”

“I see.” Recognition finally settles on his face, paving way for immediate displeasure.

“This is Sergeant Ba-”

“I know who he is,” he says dryly. “Why is there a superhero in our apartment? Nice to meet you, by the way.”

Bucky simply waves in acknowledgement, feeling pretty helpless. He tries to sit up straight but the cat simply latches onto him, dragging herself further up his chest and settling there.

“We’re having a sleepover.” You nudge Bucky’s knee with your elbow. “We just did each other’s nails. Do you wanna join?”

“I’ll pass, thanks,” he retorts curtly. “I’m gonna go change. Make sure we still have a home by the time I return.”

Oof.

“Left you some pasta in the microwave,” you call out, face scrunched in anticipation.

Jake stops down the hall. “You didn’t do the laundry today, did you?”

“The pasta is really good,” you say alternatively.

“Again, fuck you,” he reiterates before a door opens and closes. “I’m gonna have you evicted.”

There’s a stupidly big grin on your face when you turn back to Bucky. “I was just fuckin’ with him, I did the laundry.”

“He hates me,” Bucky states, pulling you out of your self-induced haze of pettiness.

“Ah ah, correction; he doesn’t hate you,” you emphasise, wagging a finger. “He hates all of you. The entire team.”

Bucky’s nose crinkles.

“Don’t look so confused, I warned you about this a while ago.”

He vaguely remembers you telling him to come find out the reason.

“Why?” If it was an anti-superhero agenda, it wouldn’t be the first time Bucky had encountered one of them.

“He has one of the worst jobs in the city.” You smirk. “He works in insurance.”

Oh.

“Every time aliens destroy New York, he works overtime.”

Oh.

“‘Hi, thank you so much for calling Gold Star Insurance, how may I help you? Oh, Shmulk used your car as a landing pad?’' you mimic, hand pressed to your ear like a phone. “‘Yes, we can set you up with a claim. Lemme just transfer you real quick to-’”

“I don’t sound like that.” Jake’s voice carries over from the kitchen.

“No one said this was you,” you fire back, rolling your eyes. “God, Jake, the world doesn’t revolve around you.”

“It will once I change the locks on all our doors, Y/N.” His voice is muffled as he opens the fridge, burrowing his head inside. “Did you finish my fucking yoghurt?”

It’s like your ears perk up the way you whirl around to the direction he was. “Admit you ate my cereal, bitch.”

“I don’t even like your shitty cereal,” he shouts back, shutting the fridge door. “You ate my damn yoghurt. I’m adding it to your rent for this month.”

“Fuck your yoghurt.” You sound a little too proud for someone who supposedly didn’t have anything to do with it.

There’s silence until he pokes around the corner, phone in his hand.

“Did you eat dinner?” Jake asks normally.

“No. You ordering?” The way your tone shifts almost gives Bucky whiplash.

“Yeah. Pizza?”

“Sounds good. I’ll pay.”

“Nah, I got it. You paid last time.” He punches in the number. “Sergeant Barnes, would you like some pizza?”

“No, I-” He’s well overstayed his welcome. He probably has a few therapist appointments to make, a few missions to cancel from his schedule.

“Yes, he would,” you interrupt. “Order another large please, Jakey.”

“Cool.” He walks away, speaking into the phone.

“Get dessert,” you yell after him.

He shouts a muffled agreement back.

“Hope you like pepperoni.” You return your attention to Bucky. “That’s his default for people he doesn’t know.”

“Uh, yeah.” He doesn’t quite know what to say after all that. “He seems nice.”

“He’s an asshole.” Your eyes shine in excitement. “I love him.”

The cat paws at his chest, demanding the attention Bucky hadn’t been giving her all this while. He scratches her back again before she goes back to sleep.

“Sergeant Barnes, are you injured?” Jake walks back into the room. “Did one of her dumb machines do this?”

“He’s fine.” You shoot a look towards Bucky who nods in confirmation. “And my machines aren’t dumb, they’re stupid.”

"Is he going to die on our couch?" Jake turns to him. "Are you going to die on our couch?"

"No, he isn't," you say, a tick of annoyance in your voice.

“I really am fine,” Bucky adds on, switching between you and him.

"We could get court-martialed, you know."

"We'll just go on the run." Your eyes shine. "You and me, living it up as criminals. We'll even bring Fondant."

He looks at you in disdain. "We're taking the cat with us?"

"You love her, shut up."

“She sheds everywhere.”

"Your cat's name is Fondant?" Bucky dares to speak up in the middle of whatever this was.

"Among others." Jake sighs. "It was Vaseline this morning, Daisy yesterday and probably will be something stupid like Q-Tip tonight."

You let out an ‘ooh’ in excitement. "Q-Tip is a good one, Jake."

"That was an insult, not a suggestion," he shoots back. "You can't even decide on a name."

"You call her Airpod.”

“She’s small and white and I can never find her anywhere.”

“That's the worst name. What if I went around calling you Shit Stain, huh? Because that’s what you are,” you accuse, adoration highlighting your face when you look at her. "We need a good name, something worthy of her."

"Sergeant Barnes, since you're here would you like to weigh in on the situation?"

Not really. But he's starting to take a liking towards the little thing that was fast asleep on his chest.

“You can just call me Bucky,” he says instead, figuring that since he was crashing on your shared couch, Jake could at least get nickname privileges.

“You know what, you’re right,” you start, ignoring his white flag. “Bucko here should pick a name.”

“Uh-” Bucky didn’t know this was still the topic of discussion, considering how fast the both of you had been bickering back and forth.

“Stop pestering him,” Jake carped.

“Let him speak, bro, holy shit,” you exclaim, throwing your hand up in a ‘what the hell?’.

“Like you’re going to actually use it. Don’t get his hopes up too high.”

“Maybe I will.” You scowl at Jake, giving Bucky a smile. “No pressure sarge, it can’t be worse than Airpod.”

It can if Bucky tries hard enough.

Jake was right, though, it is tiny and white. Snowball was too common, Frostbite was too violent and you had already used Daisy once-

“How about Alpine?” He scratches under its chin. She turns her head up in contentment.

“Alpine,” you test how it feels on your tongue. “Alpine.”

“It can be something else, I don’t know-”

“I like it.” Something about it feels right. “I really do.”

“A normal fucking name. Hallelujah.” Jake crosses his arms across his chest. “If you change it now I’m getting a dog.”

“Nice one, sarge.” You pet her back, grinning when she leans into you.

“Glad to be of service.” Your fingers brush against his for a second and he freezes. He doesn’t even think you notice the mini contact, already busy in firing off a new insult at your roommate.

“Sergeant Barnes, in case you need to kill her at any point, I can tell you her schedule.” Jake glares at you.

“He already has my schedule, so you can eat shit.” You flip him off. “He and I are besties.”

Bucky still has the certificate you mailed him about your promotion from strangers to best friends. It was definitely tacky, but he appreciated the gift card you sent along with it.

An hour later he’s stuffed with so many carbs, his mother would be proud. His diet doesn’t usually consist of copious amounts of pizza but fuck it, he probably needs the energy for the lecture he was going to receive later on.

His lips taste like strawberries from the chapstick you forced him to use, his hair tied back in a little bun because the cat wouldn’t stop playing with it and he’s about halfway through listening to a conversation about why insurance workers had it harder than lawyers while living in a city full of superheroes.

“They get to sit up there in their fancy little air-conditioned rooms but we’re doing all the groundwork,“ Jake rants, eyes still trained on the rerun of an old football match playing on the TV.

“Right,” Bucky acknowledges. It’s not like he has any say in this, he wasn’t the one cleaning up the mess. He had spent his fair share of hours helping cleaners clear up debris and discarded alien rubble from Avengers battlegrounds but he certainly should start investing more time into it.

“And don’t even get me started on the fuckin’ landlords-”

“Is he still talking?” you interject, rounding the corner from your visit to the kitchen to get some water.

“I’m sorry I’m more interesting than you,” he shoots back without a break. “Anyway, as I was saying-”

You had a glass in one hand Bucky’s phone in the other, a constant stream of buzzing drawing his attention to it. He already knew what it was.

“Shut up for once in your life, Jake. Bucky, catch.” You toss his phone at him and he catches it with one hand. “Your phone’s been blowing up Mr. Steal Your Girl. Who are you cheating on me with?”

He unlocks it to find his notifications drowned by a series of texts. He ignores the ones from Steve and Sam’s number is still blocked, so that leaves him with only one option.

From Clint

steve’s trying to convince sam to send redwing after you lol

From Clint

i told him he should check in with every morgue in the city

From Clint

ok he spent half an hour doing it lmao where are you

From Clint

if you’re alive can you get me some pringles on the way home

From Clint

sour cream and onion

From Clint

nat told me i shouldn’t have said that. my bad.

From Clint

*when you’re alive can you get me some pringles on the way home

From Bucky

From Clint

i’m telling steve you died on a bridge

Bucky locks his phone again, shoving it into his pocket. “I think I should go.”

“Aw, already? You can take Jake’s bedroom if you want,” you offer earnestly. “He can sleep on the asphalt.”

“We have a guest bedroom.” Jake rolls his eyes. “And you can stay over if you need to, Sergeant.”

“Nah, I think Steve might end up here soon if I don’t let him know I’m alright.” The man needed to get laid. It had been too long.

“Well, why don’t you just tell him you’re fine?” Jake is logical, his suggestion reasonable.

Bucky stops to really think about his answer for a moment.

“It’s funnier.”

Bucky tries to lift Alpine off his lap and onto the couch so she can continue her nap. She opens her eyes briefly before arching her back and jumping off him without so much as a second glance back. Is this what feeling used is like?

“It was nice meeting you.” Your roommate holds out his hand and Bucky takes it firmly, shaking it and responding in kind. “You should visit again. Could use some reinforcements against this crackhead.”

“No one likes you,” you respond, handing Bucky his backpack. “Go add some numbers or cry in a corner or something.”

Jake sends a middle finger and a sarcastic smile your way before disappearing into the kitchen to get the garbage bags.

“Can’t keep America’s Golden Boy waiting.” You hand Bucky his backpack on the way out.

“He’s anything but America’s Boy.” Bucky scoffs, opening the door and stepping out, “Punk’s broken just about every law under the sun. Not exactly patriotic of him.”

“A rebel with a cause.” A lightbulb goes off in your head. “I know someone who might like that.”

“You’re plannin’ on setting Steve up?” It was probably about damn time. “Good luck.”

“He’s gonna need it, not me.” Your lips upturn in a smirk. “Speaking of your teammates, who’s picking you up?”

“I’ll probably walk.” He inhales deeply, lips pressing inward in a line. “Could use some air.”

“Are you serious?”

He looks at you quizzically. “Yeah.”

“All you superheroes and your lone wolf complexes,” you say under your breath, digging around your cardigan pocket for something.

You ask for his hand. He gives it to you, slightly confused.

“You’re crazy if you think you’re walking home after all that.” You tug his metal arm up slightly to get a better grip on it.

When your eyes fall on the galaxy bracelet he still has around his wrist, your gaze softens almost immediately. “You kept this?”

Bucky clears his throat, feeling the heat creep into his face. “Steve’s not the only one who needs luck.”

“Sure isn’t,” you agree, moving the bracelet down gently before snapping a new contraption around his hand.

It’s designed to look like a digital watch but he knows exactly what it is.

“Thought you never made two of the same thing.” He stares at the teleportation device that fits snugly around his wrist.

“Yeah, well, your clone getting kidnapped can really change a person,” you murmur. “Made two after the whole thing just in case, but you should have it.”

“Y/N-” he begins, ready to argue.

“I want you to have it,” you interrupt. “Could be helpful on missions. Late night booty calls too, makes the commute less.”

Like he was getting a ton of those on a regular basis.

“I’ll return it next weekend,” he promises, clutching his backpack a little tighter.

“No, you won’t.” You shake your head. “This store doesn’t accept returns.”

He opens his mouth to argue.

“If anything comes out of there that isn’t ‘Y/N you’re the love of my life, please be my girlfriend’, don't even bother,” you warn seriously.

He shuts his mouth again.

You weren’t going to let him have his way, your stubbornness taking the front seat. It’s slightly infuriating, but he supposes that came with the gig.

“Thank you,” he says, voice quiet, “for everything.”

“Don’t mention it,” you make a callback to what he said to you months ago. “You glued popsicle sticks together for three hours, ‘tis the least I could do.”

“Still.”

You can tell it’s something he isn’t used to doing, judging by how serious he was.

“Don’t go all soft on me, Barnes.” You punch his shoulder playfully. “Could even say it’s an evil scheme in itself, making sure your frenemy is fine enough to get their ass handed to them next time.”

“Friends.”

“What?” you ask, not sure if you heard him right.

“We’re friends,” he repeats.

It shouldn’t make your stomach flutter but it does and it’s despicable.

“Give me two more weeks and we’ll add ‘with benefits’ as a suffix.” Using humour as a way to cope with the sudden surge of your heartbeat maybe isn’t the best way to go about things.

“It’s gonna take a lot longer than that.” He counters, buckling the strap of his backpack across his sternum.

“But you’re not denying that it can happen.” A grin spreads across your face. “It’s just gonna take some time.”

He stops his movements, hand still on the watch as he adjusts the coordinates. “Sure. Whatever you say.”

“Bucky Barnes, you are playing hard to get.” You laugh and he smiles wide and free.

“You gotta put in the work.” Not much, judging by the way he’s looking at you.

“I will wear you down someday,” you swear. “You will admit that you have feelings for me.”

He purses his lips out in contemplation. “Good luck.”

“Thanks.” You snort. “Get home safe. And get some sleep.”

“Bye Y/N.” He takes a moment longer to linger on you before pressing down on the watch, blipping out of your view.

You let out an exhale, eyes dropping to the area he was standing just a minute ago.

What a day.

“He your boyfriend?” Jake asks, handing you a bag as you shut the door behind you.

“What? No,” you mumble to yourself, arms crossed over your chest.

“I know you. You don’t just give your inventions away to just anyone,” he continues even when you push past him, “and you especially don’t make stuff twice for them unless they’re Director Fury.”

“I didn’t make that watch for him.” You couldn’t exactly hand out freeze rays and air bending tools to random people. They’d have to have insight into what you were doing in the first place and the only people from your citizen life were T and Jake.

“You’re a terrible liar.” He scoffs. “I saw the blueprint on the table. You built that shit today.”

“They just happened to be there.” You pick up a pizza box, shoving it into the trash. “I was editing a prototype.”

“Y/N, I love you occasionally but you’re full of shit.”

“Beginning to doubt the first part, J.” You hand him the used glasses to take to the sink.

“Look me in the eye and tell me you’ve never built him anything before this.”

You spin on your heel to face him, staring him straight in the eye.

He waits. Your mouth opens to say something before closing it again.

“Your face is ugly.” You press the bag full of garbage into his hand. “Why do you even care so much?”

“Because I’m one of your only two friends, you loser.”

“I have more than two friends.” You huff. “Alpine.”

“Alpine is a cat.”

“Alpine is my best friend and I love her.”

“She is a cat,” he repeats. “Listen- shut up, that cat doesn’t love you- I don’t want anything to happen to you. Your life is fucking weird as it is, just wanna make sure his heart’s in the right place.”

You had already been kinda kidnapped once, what’s the worst that could happen?

You don’t tell Jake that, though. He’d send out a search group the next time you were late.

“He’s good.” You sigh, hand resting on your hip. “And nothing’s going on between us anyway so you got nothing to worry about.”

“Like you don’t have the biggest crush on him.” He swings the bag over his shoulder. “Just because I just choose to ignore you on purpose doesn’t mean I’m ignorant.”

“Yeah, well, I have a crush on someone new every week so your point is invalid.” You put your hands on your waist. “Stop being so mean to me or else I’ll fall in love with you too.”

“God, no. Go back to whatever hole you crawled out of.” His face twists in disgust as he exits the room.

“You’re comin’ with me, boy,” you reminded him. “Alpine too.”

“Just for the record,” Jake’s voice resonates through the apartment, “I probably hate him the least out of all of them.”

You let out a small laugh. “Yeah, I figured.”

all proceeds to my ko-fi go towards me trying to get a life or at least some doughnuts <3 (and fix my really fucked up phone)

requests used in this chapter

(You can add yourself to the taglist here!)

#bucky x reader #on queuer left #one of my favorite fics rn

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infinitycaprogers · 3 years

Text

The Only Kindness

summary: In the early days of Bucky’s captivity in Hydra, the only comfort he knows is the kindhearted doctor assigned to mend his wounds. At least when he's with her, he knows he isn’t alone. pairing: bucky x reader word count: 9.7k warnings: torture, canon level violence, unwanted sexual advances, hydra's attempts to brainwash bucky, hella angst, a/n: this is meant to sit in the world of canon and what we know eventually happens to Bucky at Hydra sooo do with that what you will. I am genuinely really proud of this one so I hope you can forgive me for the pain I cause

The first thing Bucky remembered every morning when the sting of florescent lights woke him in a cold sweat was that the arm attached to his shoulder was not his own. The realization of it hurt worse than the day before; with unforgiving metal seared into his skin, leaving behind bubbled scars and a revolting, oozing smell.

It weighed him down, slumped on his spine, pulled at his neck, and he struggled to even push himself upright. Sitting upon the thin mattress laid amongst an otherwise baron room, Bucky supposed he might have preferred the floor if not for the dark red stain at the center of the concrete.

Then, the familiar clicking of locks echoed against the walls and Bucky gritted his teeth as a stout man with rounded features and an arrogant grin strolled into the room – no, the cell – alongside two men strapped with rifles.

He clutched to the solid metal of his arm as if holding it might take the pressure off his shoulder, might subside the pain as it spread through his veins, or stop the twitching in his cheek as he tried to stifle the pain, but it was no use. He held on anyway in favor of wrapping a hand around the scientist’s throat.

“Ah, good morning, Sergeant Barnes,” Zola greeted, though there was something unpleasant in his tone. A threat, perhaps. A taunt. It was always something of the sort.

Bucky could barely muster the energy to look the man in the eye, but as he did, it was hidden under a dark, loathing glare. He spat on the floor by Zola’s feet.

“Go to hell.”

Zola jumped back and brushed at the toe of his shoe. It was amusing, at least, to see the rage boil in the man’s chest; all red faced and round and steaming from the ears. Though Bucky’s triumph was shorted lived as Zola waved a single hand at the armed guards beside him.

They lunged forward and with heavy hands, clawed Bucky into their grip by his biceps. He met concrete within seconds; the red stain laid beneath him. His knees barely had time to heal from the day before and they stung as he struggled under the guards’ grasp, raw skin and blistering burns shielded by paper thin fabric.

His face was pushed down into the stone and for a strange moment there was relief; it was cool to the touch, a break from the feverish heat on his brow.

But then, while a guard pinched at the nape of Bucky’s neck, nearly choking the air straight out of him and the other jabbed a knee to his spine, he remembered there was no relief within Hydra.

“You have a long day ahead of you,” Zola announced, a smirk growing upon his face as Bucky let out a hollowed whine. It slipped past his lips before he could smother it down. He knew then that he had lost whatever game they were playing; the win-lose of a man in chains to his captors with scalpels in their hands and venom on their tongues.

He didn’t know how long it had been since the fall; since icy waters and plummeting down to a ravine he wished most nights had swallowed him whole. He didn’t know how many times he was cut open in an unsterilized room, thrown onto a rusting metal table and operated on with cheap anesthetic. He didn’t know how many times he was strapped into a chair that set fire to his veins and left him feeling numb and empty, how many times he felt a lingering sense of dread he couldn’t quite place.

He didn’t know much at all, really.

But he knew his name. He knew his serial number. He knew Steve would come for him like he did before. He knew he’d get through this. He had to. He didn’t have a choice.

“We have much to do,” Zola announced, admiring how Bucky’s face pressed down into the concrete, how the prickles in the stone scraped against his cheek and cut at his skin— pleased to see a man brought to his knees, bowing before the greatness of Hydra. It brought Zola a sense of pride whether the Sergeant resisted or not. He would give in soon enough.

The guards didn’t loosen their grip on Bucky’s arms as they yanked him back to his knees. They didn’t give him a chance to stand either before they started to drag him from the cell.

The grip on his right arm was sure to leave bruises behind, ones to accompany the mess of blue and purple coloring his skin, but it was the pain on his left that rendered him paralyzed. It felt like his arm was being ripped straight from his body, pulled at every nerve ending until they snapped. He could hardly move.

It wasn’t until Zola made a sharp left at the end of the hall that a familiar sense of dread dropped into Bucky’s stomach. Whether it was fear, panic, resilience, he wasn’t sure, but he started to fight back as they neared a dark red door with six locks running up the side.

“No,” he gaped, barely a whisper, but it caught Zola’s attention.

Bucky thrashed in the men’s grip, using his weight as leverage despite the searing pain in his shoulder and the blood trickling down his ribs from where metal fused to flesh. His heels dug into the concrete, trying to catch against the wall to slow them down, to stop what he knew was coming.

Zola merely smiled.

It was no use, and perhaps Bucky knew that from the start, but he couldn’t be strapped into that chair without a fight. He still didn’t know its purpose but he knew it brought him pain. It disoriented him, made him forget his own name and the monsters that chained him. It forced him to remember all over again that he was held prisoner, thousands of miles away from home, presumed dead, and he couldn’t -- he couldn’t do it anymore.

“Please,” Bucky gasped and it sounded foreign in his own voice – broken. He hated it. He despised how his voice cracked, how he fell to his knees in front of his captors and begged.

Zola grabbed a firm hold of Bucky's chin, stump fingers digging into his cheeks and demanding attention. As he pulled in closer, Bucky caught sight of something strange in the reflection of Zola’s glasses.

He didn’t recognize the man staring back at him; hair grown and wild, unkept beard on his face, dirt and blood covering most of his skin. Amongst the scratches in the glass and the clouds of dirt, the reflection of the man looked tired, with hallowed eyes and sunken cheeks. He wasn’t strong enough to fight back. He wouldn’t survive if he tired.

Bucky slumped in the guards’ arms.

“That’s what I thought,” Zola jeered, a lingering chuckle etched into the trail of his voice. He waved a hand at the guards and Bucky was placed into the chair, all dead weight and positioned like a doll.

Thick, metal bars strapped down around Bucky’s wrists, his biceps, his ankles to hold him in place. He did his best to let go of himself, to find somewhere far beyond the walls of this room, away from the men who ripped him to pieces and broke him to the bare bones. He imagined something better, safer, where he was clean shaven and in fresh clothes, where Steve was waving from the end of the street and the war long behind them, but the dream was torn from him as soon as the panels clamped against his temples.

Electricity jolted through his system and his whole body tensed. He couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe.

But he could scream.

It ripped through his lungs and he was certain he’d break straight through the mouth guard and shatter his teeth if they didn’t turn off the machine soon. The sound echoing through the room was strained, broken, and Bucky might have mistaken it for nails to a chalkboard if he didn’t feel the burn in the back of his throat.

He started to lose time, unsure if it was on for seconds or hours. It was blinding. It was all-consuming. It was swallowing him whole.

“Enough!” a voice broke through. A woman’s. It wasn’t one Bucky recognized.

“No, keep it on! He can take more.” Zola.

“Are you insane!” the voice shouted again. “You’ll kill him!”

Let them.

The thought startled Bucky but it slipped from him in the seconds it took to arrive; searing pain, white hot fire washing through every muscle down to his bones. His eyes began to flutter closed, a strange sort of emptiness pulling him under, a darkness he couldn’t place, and he welcomed the escape.

There was yelling again, though this time it was coming was across the room. The machine began to power down, the whirring sounds of electricity in his ears leaving him with a numbing silence. The dizziness took hold, the hollowness, and he was surprised to find a woman staring back at him, her hands wrapped around the lever that pulled him from the fire.

“What the hell are you doing!” Zola roared, accent thick and slurring his words together. He bounded forward, attempted to push past the woman but she held her ground, hands planted on her hips.

“I’m saving his life,” she grunted back, unfazed by Zola’s finger pointing up into her face. She swatted it away, ignoring the shock upon his rounded features. “You brought me here for a reason, didn’t you? Let me do my damn job.” She glanced around the room, eyed the men with guns aimed at the ready, barrels trained in her direction. “Give me the room.”

“Not going to happen,” Zola snapped but quickly silenced as she shot him a glare that had him cower several steps in retreat. His cheeks were burned red.

The woman turned back to the man in the chair and he slumped limply in its clutches, her narrowed eyes centering on the rapid rise and fall of his chest. She held up two fingers, eyeing him carefully before she slowly moved to press them against his throat.

He winced before she could even touch him, flinching at the air itself, and she paused, bringing her hand back to her chest. She gave him a minute to watch as she demonstrated what she was trying to do by pressing the tips of her fingers to her own neck.

She tried again and this time she held his stare; calming aura nestled between the vibrant shades in her eyes, a gentle kind of patience he didn’t expect, and he hardly noticed her fingertips against his skin as she felt for his pulse, feather light and paper thin. They were cool to the touch, a comfort in the burning heat of metal surrounding him and he caught himself before he could lean into her palm.

“His heart rate is through the roof,” she said tensely, turning back to Zola and withdrawing her hand. “Unless you want your multi-million-dollar project to go to waste, clear out before he has a goddamn heart attack.”

Zola eyed her suspiciously in what appeared to be a competition of wills. She straightened her back, arms folding over her chest, and she towered over the scientist’s small frame. He glared up at her and the fury was palatable on his face; upper lip twitching, eyes narrowed, hands curling into fists.

She held her ground.

“Fine,” Zola grumbled, waving a hand to the line of men behind him until they bring their weapons down to their sides. “Give the doctor the room.”

As if she were waiting for the men to leave, she exhaled a breath like she had been holding it for quite some time. When she let her hands come back to her sides, puncture marks were left in her palms.

“I’m leaving a man behind for your safety,” Zola threw over his shoulder at he reached the door, almost like a threat.

She swallowed; jaw clenched. “That won’t be necessary.”

“Maybe not today, but it will be.”

Then, he was gone.

The door locked shut behind him and a single guard remained by the door, positioned with his finger on the trigger.

“Finally,” she exhaled, turning back with a gentle smile on her face that felt almost unsettling to be in such a cold and unforgiving place. “Can you tell me your name, soldier?”

“Uhh,” was all that left his lips and he hardly recognized his own voice. He searched in the back of his head for the answer, felt it on the tip of his tongue, and still… nothing. He glanced back up at her with clenched teeth because he knew what would happen next, what always happened next.

But instead of a harsh hand to the side of his face or the blunt edge of a weapon to his crown, she nodded, offered him a sad sort of smile, and simply said, “that’s alright.”

She glanced down at the clamps restraining him to the chair. His skin was raw underneath, bleeding a little, and she frowned. It crinkled up into her forehead, pursed out at her lips, and he decided he liked it much better when she smiled.

“Your name is Sergeant James Barnes,” she said fondly and it sounded familiar as she said it, but it still felt distant— wrong in some way. She seemed to notice the contemplation on his face. “It’ll come back to you soon. Might take longer than the last time, but it will. They haven’t perfected the science of the chair yet, it seems.”

There was a resentment laced into her words as she glared back at the armed man standing guard with disgust. She softened as she turned back to face the man she called James. It was within that moment the anger washed from her features, a kindness replacing the hatred, and she ran her fingers on the edge of the chair before she pulled away.

“I’m going to undo these, okay?” she told him and he was surprised that she waited for his nod before adjusting the mechanics on the machine until the metal snapped open and a rush of cold air swept against the blistering skin. He hissed at the sting of it.

“Come,” she requested, gesturing to the examination table in the corner of the room. “Let’s get you out of this thing, huh?”

He was thankful for that. He couldn’t stand the sharp edges anymore or the blistering heat of the arm rests. Her touch was so gentle he wondered if it could push right through him as she bent down to help tug his right arm over her shoulders.

Just as she nearly had him positioned well enough to get him to his feet, the guard standing in the corner of the room stepped forward, gun raised.

“I wouldn’t do that, ma’am.”

She clenched her jaw. “I’m fine. Let me work.”

“He’s dangerous,” the guard grunted back.

“He’s not going to hurt me,” she argued. There wasn’t a trace of hesitancy in her voice, even as she turned to the man hanging off her arms. “Are you, Sergeant Barnes?”

He shook his head.

“See?” she gestured. “Now leave us be.”

The guard stepped back, lowered his weapon, and she smiled.

“Alright then, James,” she started, “think you can help me get you to that table over there? I know you’ve lost some muscle mass but you’re still pretty heavy.”

A short ghost of a laugh escape as he let himself lean on her shoulder, allowing her to guide him towards the table. It surprised him as it left his chest, the feeling of laughter, because he hadn’t so much as smiled since the fall. It hurt, almost. But it was a nice kind of hurt.

She helped him sit on the table, just high enough to give her decent leverage, and he spotted a bag filled with what appear to be medical supplies. It contained with what he would expect; a stethoscope, bandages, depressors, but there were also needles, and shiny metal tools that made him clench his hands around the lip of the table.

“I’m a doctor,” she said, noticing his stare. “I won’t hurt you.”

“Zola’s a doctor,” he muttered back feebly, sharp images of lying awake on a cold, metal table much like the one he currently sat upon plagued his mind, memories of scalpels in his shoulder and needles in his arms.

She nodded, contemplating what he said before she frowned and countered, “Zola’s a mad scientist with a God complex.”

A smile tugged at his lips. It broke a little, but it remained.

“You can call me Y/n if you like,” she said as she began digging through her bag. She found the stethoscope and placed the ends in her ears. “I’m going to press this to your chest, alright? It might be a little cold.”

She exhaled a breath on the side of it for a moment to try and warm it, rubbing it with the palm of her hand. He was mesmerized by the small details; how she positioned herself strategically between him and the armed guard behind her, how she told him exactly what she was doing before she did it, how she gave him time to prepare, how she hadn’t once touched him without asking first.

He didn’t understand her or why she was here, but he was thankful.

He nodded at her and she leaned in closer, pressing the piece to his sternum. It had a slight chill to it but he could still feel the warmth left behind from her breath. He took a deep breath in as she instructed. She took her time, slowly moving to his ribs, and then his back. He took more deep breaths, felt the pulsing of his heart steady under her touch.

“Looks good all things considering,” she told him. Her eyes drifted to the burn marks on his right wrist, fingers ghosting over the reddened marks and her lips tug down into a frown. She masked it as she faced him again, pushing out a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Might as well attend to this, too, don’t you think?”

Yeah, might as well.

He offered her his hand.

He sat quietly while she worked, listening to her hum softly under her breath. She was impossibly gentle with him, so delicate he could hardly feel it until it was gone. Her hands were a little cold but he found them soothing against the burns. The alcohol she placed on the wound stung, made him grit his teeth and grip to the table’s edge, but she moved quickly, wincing at the way he sucked in a harsh breath as if his pain meant something to her.

When she was finished, she wrapped his wrist with a bandage from her bag and gently tapped on his knee.

“Not a lot my patients would have sat still through that without some kind of numbing agent,” she grinned, praise in her voice, smile on her lips, and it sent a flutter through his chest. “You did good, James.”

He didn’t want to tell her that he’d known worse, that the pain of alcohol to his wounds was nothing in comparison to the mutilation on his arm or the electricity of the chair. So, he focused on something else, a distant memory edging its way back to the surface, something that didn’t lie within the pages of Hydra’s files.

“Bucky,” he choked out, voice a little dry. She raised an eyebrow. “My name… it’s Bucky.”

She smiled at that.

“Bucky,” she repeated, testing it on her lips, “it’s nice to meet you.”

***

It wasn’t the last time he saw Y/n.

No, he found himself under her care more days than not. It was a simple system, it seemed. Hydra would do its best to break Bucky to pieces and they’d send in Y/n to stitch him back up; glue him together with needle and thread or scotch tape and paper mâché. She did her best to heal him and while she could not cure every wound on his body, she gave him something he didn’t have before – something to look forward to.

A kind smile. A gentle hand. A voice so soft it nestled deep into his chest and warmed the hollow ache that had made a home by his heart.

Even through the pain, through the chair, through the long hours he spent overworked in a boxing ring, he knew she’d be waiting on the other side. It didn’t hurt as much when he thought of her, he realized – the only kindness he knew within Hydra.

They hadn’t attempted to use the chair on him in a while and for that he was grateful. To save him from the pain of the electricity and the emptiness that followed, but lately, to allow him to hold onto her memory. He didn’t want to forget her name, her kindness, her light within the darkest corners of hell.

He only ever saw her in short glimpses, brief moments when the guards pushed the boundaries too far and cracked open a scar that wouldn’t stop bleeding or dislocated his arm again or fractured another bone. They’d drag her into his room, rough hands on her wrists that made a knot form deep into Bucky’s stomach, and give her minutes to work before they hulled her away.

He healed quickly, he came to find. Certainly faster than he should. Maybe in another world he would have been pleased with this. A perfect soldier. Always ready for battle.

In this world, it meant shorter recovery between trainings. It meant pushing him beyond his limits and testing the extent of his newfound abilities. It meant few and distant meetings with the kind doctor whose smile made it impossibly difficult to despise every last ounce within Hydra.

***

A few weeks since their first meeting, Bucky found himself dragged by his wrists on a familiar path into what looked like a room much like his own, only there were a few small comforts inside; a bed, a desk, a lamp, and a series of books piled on a small dresser.

Y/n jumped up from the desk, pen falling to the concrete as she stared back at the guards, agape. “What the hell did you do to him?!”

They dropped Bucky to the ground, his own arms too weak to hold himself up, and felt the harsh crack of concrete to his jawline. Blood dripped down into his eyes, clouding his vision with crimson pools of red, but he could hear the quick patter of your bare feet as you slid down to the floor beside him, shooing away the guards.

Hands ghosted over his shoulders before you paused, watching the way he sighed into the cool embrace of concrete. She glared back up at the guards, waiting on their answer.

“He’s weak,” one of the guards spat, thick accent spewing down to land on Bucky’s bare skin. “The fist of Hydra is an embarrassment. He crumbles under pressure. He needs to be pushed, to be taught what he is.”

Bucky couldn’t quite register the way her hands curled up into fists or how a harsh exhale burned deep in her chest, but she swallowed it the best she could as she muttered, “get out.”

A toe nudged at Bucky’s leg – one of the guards behind him – and he groaned as it dug into a dark purple bruise from the days before.

“You’ve done enough,” she pressed again, swatting away his leg as he tried to push Bucky over to his back to see his good work. "Now leave.”

“You don’t give us orders, princess,” the other guard smirked, yellowed teeth bared.

“We’ll be back for him soon,” the first one said, nudging his friend to stand down. “Make sure he’s ready to go again tomorrow.”

The door slammed shut and within the echo, Bucky felt the cool touch of a breeze nestle against his skin. It was a relief, as kind as the concrete, that sat in sharp contrast to the burning heat on his skin.

“Are you alright, Sergeant Barnes?” an angelic voice called. It sounded muffled, and a bit distant, but it was one he recognized.

He nodded slowly, though the concrete scratched at his skin.

“You don’t look alright,” she countered, a touch of lightness in her tone and it came as a welcomed relief.

“You kidding? I look great,” Bucky teased, half muffled by the ground. She laughed, pressing a hand over her lips, and Bucky swore for the smallest of moments that all the pain had washed from his body completely.

He could hear her riffling around the room, gathering supplies and laying a blanket down by his side, then a pillow. She was talking to herself, words he couldn’t quite hear or understand, but they were a comfort nonetheless.

"Still with me Sergeant Barnes?"

“Bucky,” he grumbled, just as she came down to kneel beside him again. “S’my name, remember? I’m supposed to be the one with the memory problems here.”

There came that laugh again, though she tried to suppress it. “That’s not very funny, Bucky.”

“Give me an ounce of humor here, doll,” Bucky smirked. It ached in his lips where the split tore through, burned in his cheeks from the swelling on his face, but he didn’t mind. It wasn’t often he had much reason to smile these days. She seemed to bring it out of him.

Y/n smiled, shaking her head. “Think you can turn onto your back? I’ve got some cushioning here for you. I’m sorry I can’t lift you to the bed.”

“Nah, this is perfect.”

Bucky summoned as much strength as his body could muster as he pushed down into the concrete with his right hand. He started to shake as pressure burned into his left shoulder and he gritted his teeth, face contorting in a wash of pain as his smirk faded away in an instant.

She must have noticed because her hands slipped gently onto his right bicep, gently easing him to turn over the metal shoulder and lay onto his back. Her touch was so feather light, he questioned for a moment if it was even there at all, but then he felt a soft squeeze, the cool press of her palms, and he sighed.

Her hands were the only ones who did not mean him harm. She healed. She nurtured. She cared.

“What are they doing to you...”

Her voice was hardly a whisper, the shock on her face evident enough of the damage on his own. He didn’t want to imagine what he looked like, but he knew it was bad. It hurt to speak, hurt to even part his lips, and his vision was tunneled and dark, cast over in shadows, and somehow, she was still clear as day.

“Dunno,” he responded, recognizing the slur in his voice. “Training me for something, I think.”

She stilled; muscles rigid as she reached into her bag for something to bandage his wounds. He could see the contemplation on her face, the worry, but she swallowed it back, pushed out that gentle, reassuring smile he’d come to rely on and began to work on the cut along his cheekbone.

“It can’t be anything good, Bucky,” she said quietly, eyes flickering to the door as if she were worried about what laid on the other side. He knew the feeling well.

***

He forgot her for the first time a few days later.

The scars were starting to heal; the gashes open on his face just days before nothing but a thin discoloration on his skin. He knew the look on Zola’s face as he emerged in his cell that morning - smug and grim, eager to wipe away the decorated prisoner of war and turn him into something empty and broken. The smirk that crept up his face was unsettling, jarring, as it crinkled lined into his forehead and a vile look in his eye.

They slammed him down into the chair, locked the restraints into place, and he only spotted her rush into the room as the machine powered on. The horror in her eyes as she met his, the quick transition to rage as she turned to Zola, and the pain took over until it consumed him whole.

He lost some time because the next thing he knew, he was sitting on a metal table and the room had emptied, save for a single guard standing in the corner over the shoulder of a beautiful woman who eased a soothing gel onto the burns on his wrist.

He studied her as she worked, quietly humming to herself, telling him what she was doing before she dared to touch him in a voice so gentle it startled him. It was familiar, he realized, the delicate intricacies of her tone, the warmth in his chest when she touched him. He wasn’t afraid of her like he was the others. He didn’t flinch under her touch.

“Your heart rate is still pretty high,” she noted, her fingers pressed to the inside of his right wrist. “Can you take some deep breaths for me?”

She embellished her own, chest rising high as she inhaled, air blowing out from her mouth in the exhale. She nodded for him, something encouraging and kind, until he followed suit. But even through the tender smile upon her lips there was a sadness there, a disappointment, and it hurt him deep into his chest.

“I know you, don’t I?” he finally said after he mimicked a few of the breaths as she requested.

She smiled at that and he felt an instant relief. Something warm and gentle. Kind.

He narrowed his eyes upon the slight curve of her lips, drawing up to her eyes where he was met with a linger sense of calm, of peace, of reprieve. “Why don’t I remember you?”

She sighed, a cautious glance back at the guard behind her who seemed to be watching with the intent to overhear. Her eyes were downcast, a nervous brush of her tongue over her lower lip, and she pushed out a smile for him.

“You will, Bucky.”

He hoped that were true.

***

Bucky was barely tied together with string and tape, broken and bleeding and covered in bruises, and yet, a smile etched onto his broken lips as he turned to find Y/n stumbling into his cell. She shrugged off the grip of a guard with an aggravated huff before he slammed the door closed behind her.

She was no longer shocked by the state in which she often saw him. His accelerated healing made the brutal look of his mutilation a bit easier to swallow he supposed or perhaps he was getting used to it. It was like a mask he’d come to wear, fading in and out depending on the day, but always present. It didn’t seem to lessen the pain in her eyes as she sat down beside him, extending a hand towards his face to touch gently at the markings.

“I hate that they keep doing this to you,” she said softly, though there was a rage nestled into the crook of her tone. She shook her head, a tense breath exhaled as she reached into her bag. She pulled out a few swabs of gauze and alcohol wipes.

“M’alright,” Bucky slurred and it didn’t seem to help his case.

“They’re monsters.” Y/n dabbed at the gash on his forehead as gingerly as she could manage. Bucky didn’t mind the sting of it, not when she was touching him so tenderly, like she was handling something precious.

He’d figured out a while ago that she was just as much a part of Hydra as he was. He never dared to ask, but he’d seen the way she looked at Zola, how she despised him as an enemy. He’d seen the clothes she wore and how they were tattered on the seams, how they discolored with use, how she'd wear them over and over again while the men in the room wore pristine lab coats and freshly laundered suits. He’d seen the dark circles under her eyes, the knots in her hair, the way her collarbone began to protrude the longer he knew her.

She was a prisoner of Hydra, too.

“They’re monsters,” Y/n repeated, tears burning in her eyes and it warped deep into Bucky’s gut. He wanted to reach out and wipe them away. He wanted to make her smile again because she’d been nothing but a light for him and now, she was flickering and fading and he was certain it would destroy him completely until she uttered, “and... and so am I,” and his whole world fell apart.

“No,” Bucky shot back almost instantly. “Don’t say that. You’re not one of them.”

“I might as well be,” she said, brushing at the tears as they spilled down her cheeks. “I’m still complicit in what they’re doing to you – whatever that is. I’m still helping them.”

“They’d kill you,” Bucky argued. “They’d kill you if you tried to resist.”

“They’re practically killing you now! How is that any better?” She pressed her palms to her face, shielding herself from him and Bucky slid down onto the floor, kneeling on the concrete in front of her, and gently rested his hands on her knees. She struggled to catch her breath between the sobs. “I keep fixing you up just to send you back out there and—and—Bucky, I feel like I’m handing you over to slaughter and I can’t-- I can’t--”

“Stop, please,” Bucky begged. He could feel the splinter nestle into his heart, cracking at the edges as it tore a sliver down the center. It burned and ached and threatened to rip him to pieces worse than the foreign metal on his arm, worse than the guards on the other side of the door, worse than the chair that stole his name and his memories, because the woman who saved his life over and over again was crying and he simply couldn’t take it.

“Look at me,” he eased, drawing his hands up her thighs, along her arms, until he met her hands resting against her face. Gently, he pried his fingers under her palms and when he was met without resistance, he pulled them away from her face. “You are the only shred of good within this place. You are the only kindness I’ve known since they threw me on that table and remade me. You are the only thing keeping me going when they’re beating me within an inch of my life, the only thing I want to remember when they try to take away everything I know. Please, don’t think for a second that you’re one of them. You’re saving me, Y/n.”

Bucky wondered for a moment if he said too much as her lips parted into shock, her eyes staring at him shocked and wide. Her breaths were coming in slow and steady as she watched him, almost as if she were waiting for him to recant, but he held his ground.

“You are good, Y/n,” Bucky continued. He squeezed her hand in his right, letting his left fall down to his side to shield her from the evil from which it was born. “You're the reason I keep coming back.”

“I’m scared, Bucky,” she exhaled, voice so low, so shaken, he could barely hear it. She squeezed his hand back. “I’m scared of what they're going to do to you.”

“I’ll have you, won’t I?” he smiled, because it was all he had left. There were no guarantees, no promises he could make to ease her fears. “As long as I’ve got you with me, I’m okay.”

He just wanted her to smile again, to be the woman who fought against Zola in a crowded room of armed Hydra agents and won, who was fearless in the face of evil, and gentle and kind in her touch.

Bucky realized that the more time he spent with her, the more she’d grown to care for him, the more he’d found himself missing her— the more dangerous they were to one another. If Hydra knew...

“You have me,” she said suddenly, a stroke of confidence returning to her voice, drawing Bucky’s attention away from the door and the men that laid beyond it. Bucky met her eye and she raised a palm to his cheek, slow and steady, always giving him the time to prepare before she touched him even when it wasn’t necessary, even after he’d grown to trust her above anyone else. She cupped the side of his face, smiling sweetly for him, sadly, as she said, “as long as they’ll let me, Bucky. You’re not alone. You’ll have me.”

Her thumb traced over old scars she’d mended, over raised edges and dried blood from the mess left behind by the dozen Hydra agents he’d met earlier that day. The tenderness within her touch was unlike anything he knew how to quantify. It sat in such contrast to the hands of men who battered and beat him within an inch of his life, to the torture of the chair, to the scalpel in the hands of mad scientists with god complexes.

There was something in her touch. Something that felt a lot like love.

Bucky found himself leaning in closer, wanting to close the space between them because any space at all was simply too much. He wanted to engulf her into his arms, protect her from the evils that waited for them outside these walls, take her away to somewhere warm and safe, somewhere she didn’t have to check over her shoulder when she smiled. It terrified him how badly he wanted it because he knew there were no fantasies in Hydra, no dreams, no happy endings. He knew it would be taken from him eventually, she would be taken from him, but it didn’t stop him from clinging on as tight as he could.

His lips touched hers, broken and splintered, and still, beautiful. He could taste the salty tang of her tears against her lips, her fingers curling around his long, unkempt hair and twisting along his scalp, breathing him in. There was a sanctuary within her arms, under her touch, that seemed impossible within these walls, and yet, here she was.

Tangible. Real. Kissing him as if he could be ripped from her at any second.

And he was.

The door swung open and Bucky jolted away from her. Y/n jumped back against the bed frame, her head hitting the cement wall.

In the frame of the door stood a guard Bucky had become familiar with; blonde, broad, reminded him a bit of Steve if it weren’t for the cold, dead look in his eyes. The burn mark across his jawline helped to obstructed the similarities.

The guard’s eyes lingered a little longer on Y/n, focusing on the quick rise and fall of her chest, the slight swell in her lips, the mess in her hair, before he gritted his teeth and turned to Bucky.

“Times up, Soldat,” he grunted, wasting no time as he pulled a wand from his belt, flipped a switch at the end, and burned the jolts of electricity into Bucky’s side. He barely registered the desperate crack in Y/n’s voice as she begged for the guard to stop.

Then – darkness.

***

“We need to be more careful.”

“They’ll find out how I feel for you and they'll hurt you.”

“I can’t lose you, Bucky.”

He couldn’t get the words out of his head. Familiar voices: a man’s and a woman’s. He’d heard them spoken aloud; of that he was certain. But they were distant, far away, as if he’d heard them uttered on a film screen in passing. They couldn’t be his own memories. He was a blank slate. He was empty.

A woman stood across from him, approaching him slowly as the machine powered down. It was loud in his ears, echoing enough to pulse tremors into the back of his head. He didn’t dare show an ounce of the pain he felt. He’d come to know the consequences of that, even if he couldn’t quite remember what they were.

“I’m going to help you to the table, alright?” the woman said, gesturing to the metal desk to her left. There it was again— that familiarity.

She smiled kindly at him, as if looking into the face of a man she knew, but he did not know her. She must have sensed his hesitancy because she held up her hands out for him to see.

“I just want to examine you. Make sure you’re okay. Can I do that?”

He narrowed his eyes on the woman, listening intently to her heartbeat. It was a strange sound, one he shouldn’t be privileged to hear, but he found the skill useful. He could listen for the inflections in the rhythm, pulse points and skips that told him when a person was lying.

Hers was steady. Even. He nodded.

He was surprised at how easily he allowed her to guide him to the table, how he didn’t question as he let her place a hand on his inner wrist to check his pulse, how he didn’t flinch when she approached the scars on his shoulder. It was like he knew the routine, understood the subtle intricacies in her gestures warning him of what she was about to do before she even laid a hand on him.

A relief was evident in his muscles. He felt a calmness wash over him the longer she stood at his side, recording his vitals, running a hand soothingly along his arm. It seemed personal, the way she touched him, like she was preserving something – or guiding something home.

He wanted to ask her name, why she was treating him so kindly when all he knew within these walls was the cruelty of violent men, when the guard who stood at the back corner of the room cleared his throat.

“You almost done, sweetheart?” The guard spat the pet name like an insult and the kind woman standing beside the Soldier flinched. She tensed quickly after that, mustering out a brave face as she turned back to the armed guard defiantly.

“I’ll be done when I’m done, Bronski.”

The Soldier wanted to smile, though he wasn’t sure why. A swell of pride beamed in his chest as Bronski’s smirk dissipated, replaced with something colder, darker; a bruise to his ego. The woman turned back to the Soldier, exhaled a heavy breath and offered him a short smile; calming, reassuring. The edges of his lips started to curve in response until –

Bronski crossed the room in four long strides, grabbed a tight hold of her arm and yanked her swiftly away from the Soldier. She collided against his chest, caged against him under the firm hold of his grip.

“You think you can mouth off to me, bitch?” Bronski sneered, shoving her against the desks at the far side of the room. Viles of serums and chemicals spilled over at the impact, glass shattering, and the Soldier began to stand from his position across the room, his hand curling into fists.

“Stop looking at him! He’s not going to help you,” Bronski taunted as her eyes flashed back at the Soldier, pleading at some unknown force he couldn’t quite understand, though he listened to its call. Bronski towered over her, easily overpowering her frame, and pinned her to the wall.

The Soldier took another step forward, another inch closer to what he was sure were near fatal consequences, but there was a voice screaming in the back of his head, an instinct he couldn’t drown out, a desperate need to protect a woman he didn’t know.

“You think we didn’t notice, huh?” Bronski growled, his hand sliding down her side, tracing over the curves at her waist and the Soldier felt a sudden twist in his stomach, a dead weight sinking him into the ground at the sight. “You think we can’t tell you got it hot for the asset? He’s weak. Pathetic. Why don’t you try being with a real man instead? I’ll show you a good time, princess...”

Her eyes were on the Soldier, holding his gaze though she was shaking; trembling and afraid. He didn’t like that.

“Get away from her.”

Bronski froze. He managed a slow glance over his shoulder to find the Soldier standing just a few feet away, hands clenched at his sides, fuming as his eyes flickered between the Hydra agent and the woman he held pinned to the wall.

“Don’t be a fucking hero, Soldat,” Bronski spat back.

But the Soldier did not move.

“Get away from her,” he repeated, his voice low, mechanical. He could feel the rush of adrenaline building in his veins, the chaos of the rapid thumping of his pulse. He wasn’t used to such reactions, such intensity, when all he’d come to know was a crippling emptiness. It was unpleasant.

“What are you going to do about it?” Bronski taunted, a sick smirk upon his face. He dismissed the Soldier, didn’t dare to think he’d disobey direct orders, and turned back to the woman.

She tried to slither out of his hold, but his grip on her wrists was so tight his nails had dug puncture marks into her skin. She was shaking, tears burning into reflective lenses over the gentle hue of her eyes; kind eyes that should not bare such a weight.

Bronski leaned in closer, his mouth pressing against her neck, her whole body stiffening at the touch, and the Soldier snapped.

He rushed at them, his left hand clamping down around Bronski’s neck until he started to gag. Bronski released her wrists, allowing her to sink to the floor in a fallen heap. Bronski scratched at the hand at his neck, gasping for air as his skin turned bright red, then blue, but he was only met with metal. It could not feel. It could only maim.

There was a rage storming inside the Soldier, a mission he’d assigned for himself, as he threw Bronski across the room. It didn’t take much effort. The Soldier was stronger than most men. They underestimated him, believed him to be feeble and weak because he was submissive. But not now. Not when they threatened her.

“Soldat!” Bronski choked out, his voice damaged. Broken windpipe. The Soldier smiled.

Slowly, he took a knee at Bronski’s side, grabbed a firm hold of his collar for leverage, and barreled the closed end of his fist into the man’s face until he could no longer see the smirk that had pressed upon his mouth as he dared to touch his girl. He didn’t stop until Bronski was no longer begging, until he was silent, and blood caked between the panels of metal in his fist, until he heard a voice calling behind him—

“Bucky! Bucky, stop!”

He froze. There was that name again...

He blinked a few times, a sharp piercing in the back of his head painful enough to obscure his vision and he dropped Bronski from his hold. A hand slid down over his shoulders, guiding him away from the body on the floor. It was that same familiar touch; one he knew well.

“Bucky, look at me.”

He did.

Her hand pressed sweetly to the side of his face, like she was trying to memorize him. He leaned into the touch, something he was sure he hadn’t done in years, and yet, within her arms it felt like the most natural thing in the world, like maybe he’d done it a dozen times before.

When he met her eyes again, he understood why.

“Y/n?”

She nodded, tears spilling over her cheeks as she threw herself into his arms. She molded so perfectly against him, his healer, his savior. Bucky knew they wouldn’t have much time before the Hydra infantry arrived and discovered what he’d done. He didn’t dare spare a glance back at the body on the ground.

“Y/n... I—”

The doors swung open, slamming in echoing shocks against the walls, and chaos ensued. Swarms of armed Hydra agents ascended into the room and tore Y/n from his arms, separating them as they restrained Bucky back into the chair. It was the only thing that could hold him.

“Leave her alone!” Bucky roared, that same rage returning to him in fire as two guards pinned Y/n’s arms behind her back, holding her steady as she desperately fought against their hold. “Get your hands off of her!”

Zola appeared at the frame of the door, eyes narrowing on Bucky. The room fell silent.

“Impossible.” He followed Bucky’s eyes to where the guards were restraining Y/n. “The programming should not have failed so soon after he was wiped. How?”

“He’s got a crush on the doc, sir,” one of the guards reported snidely. Bucky recognized him from the many trips he spent dragged along the hallways smearing blood into the concrete before he was dropped off at Y/n’s door.

“Interesting.” Zola crossed the room, hands grasped behind his back as he paced. His eyes fell on Y/n, studying her. “And is it... mutual?”

She didn’t respond, though when her tear-filled eyes flashed over to Bucky, he had his answer.

“Wipe him,” Zola ordered.

The machine started to power up and Bucky found himself fighting against the restraints though he knew it would do no use. Tears were openly streaming down Y/n’s face as she watched him, his name on her lips as she desperately tried to break the guard’s hold on her.

Zola seemed unbothered by the scene. If anything, he was amused, like he was watching lab rats in a cage. “Separate them. I don’t want her interfering with his programming again. We’ll make use of her when the time is right.”

Bucky tried to call her name, but the electricity had already taken hold, submerging him into the darkness.

***

The Soldier was used to his routine. Breakfast at dawn. Then training. Dinner at sundown. Sleep. It was reliable. Simple. The Soldier found a peace in that.

It had been months since he’d seen anyone outside of the two guards at his cell, the parade of uncontrollable human experiments, and the short, stout scientist. It was better this way, they told him. Less stimulation. He was important, meant for incredible things to better humanity. They needed him focused and alert.

He had little room for anything else. Focus on the mission at hand. Complete the task. Reward will follow.

Something as trivial as memories got in the way of that. The Soldier could not afford such a distraction. He was not tied down by a name or a family, by relationships or desires. He was a weapon. Made to be used. He was not capable of more.

“I want to have you looked over before we send you out for your mission today, Soldat,” the scientist said as he examined the Soldier from across the room. The man carried power within Hydra but he was small, cowardly, and he would not dare enter a room with the Soldier without a guard in place. He gestured to the door and the guard with a thick burn down his jaw moved towards it. Blonde hair, blue eyes, broad. He seemed vaguely familiar, though it felt distasteful in his mouth.

A woman was pushed through the doors and into the baron room. She shook off the grip of a Hydra agent with a grunt before she realized where she was. Her eyes fell on the Soldier and he expected her to cower in fear; they all did upon seeing him. Word traveled fast of what he was capable of. And yet –

There was relief in her shoulders, a sigh. She almost smiled before Zola turned in her direction and she pushed it away into a tight frown. The Soldier narrowed his eyes.

“Get to work, Doctor,” he ordered, though it sounded more like a warning.

She nodded, stepping in closer to the Soldier though she was hesitant in her movements. She wore dark circles under her eyes, a redness within the whites. Her clothes were old, torn a little at the edges, and dirty with use. But still, she offered a kind smile as she approached.

“How are you feeling?”

The Soldier didn’t know how to respond to that. No one had ever bothered with his answer. He stayed silent.

“You can talk freely,” she encouraged gently as she approached his bedside. He sat on the edge of the cot, tension burning through his body as it always did when he wasn’t alone. One word out of turn resulted in punishment. He knew well enough not to tempt it.

She seemed to understand he would not fall into the trap, and she nodded in acceptance.

“I’m going to take your vitals, alright? I’ll start with your heart rate.” She held up two fingers, gesturing as she pressed them against her own neck. Seemed harmless enough, though he suspected he didn’t have much of a choice anyway. It was strange she acted as if he did.

Regardless, the Soldier nodded.

As she touched him, something seemed to break. She clenched her jaw tightly, trying to focus on the rhythm of his heartbeat, but he could hear the distress in her own. Quick, pounding, uneven, and she pulled her fingers away before he questioned the slight tremble in her touch.

He wanted to ask if she were alright because something about seeing her upset was unpleasant for him. She wanted to say something, that much he could tell, but she bit her tongue.

“You’re here for a reason, Doctor,” Zola taunted from his position in the corner of the room. The woman flinched though she kept her back to him. Her eyes flickered to the Soldier as if he were an anchor. Zola smirked. “Go on. Test our programming. Why else do you think we kept you around?”

Then, he exited the room. The guard followed behind him until the Soldier was alone with the woman.

She swallowed; eyes cast down as if she were afraid to speak. For a while, she continued to take his vitals – checking his blood pressure, his eye movement, examining the mess of scars on his shoulder as they attempted to heal. All the while, so impossibly gentle, so kind in her touch, that he started to wonder if he’d felt it before.

When she was finished, she took a step back. It was only then that the Soldier noticed the reflective marks on her cheeks. Had she been crying? Why did the thought alone make his stomach twist into knots painful enough to nauseate him?

“Bucky?”

He narrowed his eyes, confused. She reached out for his hand, though she stopped herself before she could touch him. It seemed agonizing; the restraint visible on her features.

“Bucky, please tell me there’s still a of piece of you in there,” she begged. He found himself wanting to lie, to pretend to be this man she craved, just to make her happy. He didn’t know why he cared so much, why it bothered him to see her cry. She was a stranger.

“You don’t recognize me at all, do you?” Her voice was so small, so broken. She was never afraid of him, he realized. No – it seemed she was more afraid of his answer. He did not respond. He didn’t know how.

She nodded, clenching her jaw as tears spilled from the corners of her eyes and the Soldier managed to break the heart of a woman he didn’t know. Another casualty in his wake.

“Excellent,” Zola sneered, appearing back in the doorway. The doctor took a step back and it surprised the Soldier when the space between them felt like an assault. Zola grinned as he moved closer to the woman. “Hydra thanks you for your service.”

“Fuck you,” she spat, just before she landed a closed fist against the bridge of the scientist’s nose.

The Soldier flinched, stunned by the woman’s brazen as she stared into the face of the mad scientist. The tears hadn’t yet dried and still – she was fearless. Zola laughed as the blood dripped down into his mouth. A guard wrapped a vicious hold around her wrist, beginning to drag her out of the room, but she turned back to the Soldier.

“Don’t give into them, Bucky! You have to fight this! You’re good, do you hear me? You’re not one of them!”

Her voice echoed in the room even as she was shoved through the door and down the hall. He listened for the last remaining vibrations of her voice, of her struggling, until it was silent. He wondered about this man she referred to, why she thought he was worth fighting for. He thought about whether he was the man she spoke of.

“Distractions, Soldat.” Zola tsked. “You are magnificent. You are the fist of Hydra. Do you understand?”

He nodded. It pleased the scientist.

Zola explained the mission he was about to embark on at dawn. He listened to the instructions, the details, the purpose – all the while wondering about what became of the kind doctor who called him by a name he didn’t recognize.

Then, when he was finished, the scientist left and the Soldier was alone— just as he always had been.

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