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mysoulshideaway · 5 months ago

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A Place to Land | Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: After a night out goes violently wrong, you call Bucky—without knowing what you’re even asking for. He shows up anyway, staying long after the worst of it, until you finally start to believe you’re safe.

MCU Timeline Placement: TFATWS

Master List: Find my other stuff here!

Warnings: Physical assault (not described presently), implied attempted sexual violence, PTSD symptoms, self-blame, trauma responses, dissociation, anxiety/panic attacks, aftermath of violence, survivor’s guilt, Bucky’s past trauma, and references to Hydra’s abuse.

Word Count: 11.3k

Author’s Note: hey everyone—this one is heavy. please take care of yourselves and read only if you're in the right headspace. i think a lot about the way bucky barnes carries things. how he holds guilt in his bones, how he grips onto the past like it's something he has to bear alone. he’s spent so much of his life being used, controlled, losing pieces of himself to people who never saw him as anything but a weapon. and i think, more than anything, he never wants anyone else to feel like that—like they’re alone in something they never asked for. if you need support, there are resources here!

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The alley reeked of rot. Garbage, piss, something acrid and chemical where a dumpster leaked sludge onto the pavement. A neon sign buzzed overhead, its flickering light cutting jagged shadows across the bricks. Your back was against the wall, knees drawn to your chest, breath tight and shuddering.

Adrenaline had carried you this far—past the street, past the indifferent glow of headlights, past the weight of hands that had no right to touch you. But it was wearing off now, leaving behind a raw, scraped-open awareness.

Your lip trembled. You tasted blood where your teeth had cut deep, where a hand had pressed too hard against your mouth. Your whole body ached, your ribs tight, a sickening soreness spreading through you like oil.

You closed your eyes.

Breathe.

The night pulsed around you—muffled laughter from the street, the wet slap of tires on pavement, a car horn blaring somewhere distant. Your back pressed against the alley wall, brick biting through the thin fabric of your jacket. You shivered, the damp seeping into your skin, your hands gripping your phone like a lifeline.

This was stupid. This was so fucking stupid.

You could call the police. You could call anyone else. A rideshare, a hotline, a number that isn’t buried under hesitation and something fragile that doesn’t have a name yet.

You shouldn’t. You really shouldn’t.

You could see him so clearly in your mind—arms crossed, mouth pressed into a thin line, that furrow between his brows that only deepened when he was worried. You knew how he’d look at you, how the shift in his expression would be subtle but absolute, how he wouldn’t say I’m sorry or what happened?

Because Bucky Barnes didn’t do empty words.

But you weren’t his problem. You weren’t anything to him, not really. Not more than someone he knew, someone who had sat next to him occasionally in briefings, who had made quiet conversation with him in coffee shops while Sam and Joaquin talked too much, who had sometimes caught his gaze lingering just a little too long before he looked away.

You were dialing before you had fully decided to.

It rang once. Twice.

You should hang up.

You should—

The thought barely had time to register before the line connected.

“Yeah?”

His voice was rough with sleep, and for a moment, you froze, paralyzed by the sheer wrongness of it. The normalcy. You’d heard Bucky’s voice like this before, low and edged with exhaustion, usually paired with a grumbled complaint about Sam waking him up at ungodly hours.

He sounded normal. But you were not.

You tried to wet your lips, but your mouth was bone-dry. You should say something. Anything. His name was on the tip of your tongue, but it won’t come out.

"Hello?" A pause. He exhaled sharply. “If this is some weird butt dial—”

Your breath hitched, a sharp, broken thing. Not quite a sob, but something close.

Bucky went silent.

The sound of traffic bled through the receiver—muffled tires slapping against wet pavement, the distant shriek of brakes, the hum of a streetlamp overhead.

You pressed a hand to your ribs, trying to steady yourself. Your fingers came away damp.

A pause. You could hear something in the background, maybe the creak of a bedframe, the rustle of sheets. He was awake now. You had done that.

“Doll?”

His voice was quieter now. You flinched.

“I—” You swallowed against the rawness in your throat. You didn’t know what you meant to say. Your head felt full of static. The alley stretched around you, too dark, too cold, too open. You curled in on yourself, tucking your knees in, pressing your back harder against the brick wall.

“You alright?”

The question sent something sharp and hot splintering through your chest.

Your mouth worked uselessly around the truth, but the words wouldn’t come. The reality of them felt too big. You couldn’t hold it in your hands, couldn’t press it into the space between you in a way that wouldn’t shatter you.

Bucky made a small noise, something halfway between a sigh and a groan. “You’re breathin’ weird.”

The observation was so blunt it nearly startled you into laughing. Your breath came fast and uneven, your pulse hammering against your skin like it wanted out. It was all wrong, wrong, wrong.

You exhaled shakily, pressed a hand against your chest like you could stop the way it was caving in.

"I—I didn’t know who else to call." The truth came out in a rasp, barely more than a whisper.

“You at home?”

You shook your head. Realized he couldn’t see you.

“Talk to me.”

You wet your lips. “I—” The words tumbled out before you could stop them. “I don’t—I don’t know.”

His pause was too long. You imagined him rubbing a hand down his face, narrowing his eyes at nothing in particular.

“You don’t know what?”

You squeezed your eyes shut. “Where I—where I am.”

Another silence, sharper this time. He shifted, the rustling of fabric barely audible through the phone.

“Have you been drinking?”

It punched the air from your lungs. Your fingers tightened around the phone.

“Jesus, Buck.”

Your voice cracked. His name sounded foreign coming from your lips, like it belonged to someone else. The edges of your vision wavered, the dark pressing in, the alley stretching and swallowing you whole.

Bucky must have caught something in your tone, because his own changed, dropping lower, softer.

"Are you hurt?"

The question landed too hard. You flinched.

Your fingers twitched against the fabric of your jeans, nails digging in. "I don't—" You stopped, sucked in a breath. "I'm not—"

The words wouldn’t settle. Wouldn’t come out right. You weren’t hurt the way he meant. Not bleeding out, not broken ribs or a knife to the gut. But that wasn’t the same as okay, was it?

“Okay,” he said, carefully. “Okay. Just—stay on the line, alright? Where are you?”

You didn’t answer.

“Sweetheart.” He exhaled slowly, as if trying to ground himself. “You gotta tell me where you are.”

Your breath rattled in your chest. Your hands ached from how hard you were gripping the phone, your nails biting into your palms. “I can’t.”

The alley suddenly felt too loud. The hum of the streetlamp. The hiss of the wind. The distant murmur of voices—normal, laughing, oblivious. You pressed a hand to your mouth, sucking in air through your nose. The smell of rot and stale water curled in your lungs.

Bucky was speaking again, but the words blurred together, just sound, just noise, the edges of your awareness fraying—

“Hey. Stay with me.”

You shuddered, eyes snapping open. The darkness loomed around you, but the phone in your hands was solid, real.

You didn’t know what to say. You didn’t know how to say it. There was only one thing you could say.

“I’m sorry.”

Bucky swore. A sharp, angry sound. “Don’t do that,” he snapped.

You flinched.

“Don’t—” He exhaled hard, like he was trying to rein himself in. “Don’t apologize.”

A pause.

“Look around,” Bucky said, voice too damn steady, like he was holding himself together for you. “Tell me what you see.”

The alley swam as you tried to look up, but your vision blurred at the edges, black spots creeping in. The neon flicker of a rundown bar sign hummed somewhere past the street entrance. The streetlamp overhead buzzed like an insect, barely illuminating the damp pavement.

“A—A bar,” you whispered. “Red sign. I think I ran past 52nd, but I—I don’t—” Your breath stuttered. You dug your fingers into your arms. The tremors wouldn’t stop.

He made a frustrated sound, mostly at himself. “That doesn’t help, sweetheart.” He softened almost immediately, exhaling through his nose like he was trying to ground himself. “Which bar? Can you check street signs?”

You twisted, wincing when your body protested. Everything hurt. You blinked against the blurriness creeping into your vision, forcing yourself to focus.

There. A rusted sign, barely legible beneath flickering yellow light.

You swallowed. “Holland’s. It says Holland’s.”

You heard him moving—quick, practiced. The unmistakable sound of keys, the sharp zip of a jacket.

“You safe where you are?”

You weren’t sure how to answer that.

It should have been an easy answer. A binary thing. Yes or no. But safe felt like a foreign concept, something loose and unfixed, something that had been stripped from you in the space of an instant. You could still taste blood, could still feel—

You pressed your knuckles to your mouth, stifling the sharp hitch in your breathing, nails biting into the raw skin of your palm. You had to keep breathing. Had to keep it together.

You didn't feel safe. But saying it would make it real. Would unravel something you weren’t sure you could put back together.

Bucky exhaled sharply. Not frustrated. Not impatient. Just… steadying himself. Like he already knew the answer but needed to hear it from you.

The roar of his bike igniting crackled through the speaker. Then, softly—“Okay.” A pause. “Okay, just stay on the line with me, alright?”

You nodded. Stupid. He couldn’t see you.

Your throat felt too tight when you forced out a whispered, “Yeah.”

Bucky hummed in acknowledgment. It was quiet, thoughtful. But his next words weren’t what you expected.

“What’s the last thing you ate?”

The question slid under your ribs, jarring you. Your brows knit together. Your brain felt slow, clogged with static and something thick, syrupy. “…What?”

“You heard me.” His voice was different now. Steady. Casual. Like he was dragging you into another conversation entirely. Like he could pull you out of this hole just by making you focus on something else.

It almost sounded normal.

Like you were back in that cramped coffee shop off 39th, knees brushing under the table, Bucky rolling his eyes while Sam went on about some protein shake that “tasted like a war crime.”

Normal.

“I—” You forced yourself to think. Pushed against the throbbing in your skull, the erratic way your heart hammered against your ribs. “I don’t know.”

“Bet you skipped lunch,” he said, voice still easy, controlled. “You do that a lot.”

Your throat tightened. It was such a simple observation. Such a small, stupid thing. But the weight of it pressed against your ribs like he had peeled back your skin and seen everything at once.

You wet your lips, voice barely there. “Not on purpose.”

Bucky made a quiet, amused sound, like a low snort. “Not on purpose, huh?”

A pause. Then, lighter—“Alright. What about breakfast?”

You focused on the weight of the phone in your hands. The solid feel of it. Something tangible, something real.

“…A bagel.”

He made a noise like he was considering that.

“Uh-huh.” A beat. “Dry?”

Your eyes fluttered, blinked. Confused. “What?”

He sighed, long-suffering. “Did you put anything on it, or did you just suffer through it like some kind of lunatic?”

A sharp, startled sound broke from your throat. Almost a laugh.

The moment it escaped, your breath caught, guilt slamming into your ribs. Like you had no right to that sound, not right now.

But Bucky only exhaled, relieved. “There she is.”

Your fingers clenched. Your lip trembled. God, you hated this. Hated feeling like this.

Bucky must have known, must have felt the shift in the silence, because his voice softened. “You still with me?”

You nodded again. “Yeah.”

He hummed. “Good. Stay with me a little longer.”

The distant purr of an engine rumbled through the receiver. You barely noticed. You swallowed, fingers gripping the phone so tightly your knuckles ached. Your other hand curled into the damp fabric of your jeans, grounding yourself.

“How’s your breathing?”

Your brows knit together. “What?”

“It’s fast.”

It wasn’t a question.

You blinked, only now aware of the way your chest rose and fell too sharply, too quick. The uneven pull of air, how your ribs felt too tight, like they might crack under the weight of your own lungs.

Bucky had heard it. Had felt it.

“Try to slow it down for me.”

You pressed your lips together, trying to exhale through your nose, but it shuddered on the way out. Your throat was too tight, your pulse a caged thing, erratic and unpredictable.

“I can’t,” you admitted, barely more than a whisper.

Bucky didn’t hesitate. “Yes, you can.”

A pause.

“Four seconds in, alright?”

You clenched your jaw.

“Doll.” A fraction softer. “Just try.”

You closed your eyes.

The night pulsed around you—humid, stale, thick with the stink of the alley. Your body ached from where you had curled in on yourself for too long, your legs stiff, your fingers tingling.

But you inhaled, forcing it slow. One. Two. Three—

Bucky was quiet, waiting.

“Good,” he murmured, once you exhaled.

You could hear the city moving around you—so normal, so indifferent. A car horn. The distant echo of laughter. Footsteps clicking down the sidewalk somewhere too far to be a threat, but your body still tensed, still braced for something unseen, unknown.

You swallowed hard. The nausea was creeping back up.

The engine was louder now. Closer. Not just bleeding through the phone speaker.

Your stomach twisted.

You had made a mistake.

Letting him come here—letting him see you like this—fuck. He would look at you differently. You didn’t want that. Couldn’t stand that.

But it was too late.

The hum of the bike cut out. A heavy pause.

Then—the scrape of a kickstand. The sharp click of a helmet being unfastened. The weight of boots hitting pavement.

Your pulse pounded against your ribs, every muscle in your body going tight, your hands curling into fists like some part of you still thought you had to fight, had to run.

Your heart slammed against your ribs, your hands curling into the damp fabric of your sleeves, trying to make yourself smaller. Your whole body locked up, muscles screaming, ready to—

"Hey."

Not loud. Not sharp. But firm.

You squeezed your eyes shut. Not him. Not him. It’s Bucky.

He was close now. Close enough to see you, to take in the shape of you curled against the brick, wedged behind a dumpster slick with something dark and rotting, knees pulled tight to your chest. Close enough to see the way you flinched at the sound of his voice.

His breathing slowed.

“Sweetheart.”

You could barely lift your head. Couldn’t force your body to cooperate. You pressed your forehead to your knees, your fingers digging into your arms, shaking too hard to stop. The air was wrong in your lungs, your chest too tight, like it wasn’t working right, like your body had forgotten how.

You heard him shift, the quiet creak of leather. He crouched down a few feet away, not touching, not moving.

“I need you to tell me if you’re hurt.” His voice was steady. Low. “If I need to be lookin’ for someone right now.”

The question knocked the air from your lungs. Your mouth opened, but nothing came out.

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to shake your head.

The silence stretched, humming and awful.

“Can I come closer?”

Your eyes squeezed shut even tighter. You weren’t scared of him. Not Bucky. Never Bucky. But your body didn’t understand the difference.

You forced yourself to nod.

The movement was barely there, but Bucky saw.

His boots scraped against the pavement as he moved, slow, deliberate, keeping himself low, non-threatening.

His voice softened. “Can I see you?”

It wasn’t a demand. It wasn’t a plea. Just gentle.

Your breath shuddered out of you. Your body was still wound tight, still trying to disappear into itself, but—this was Bucky.

Slowly, you raised your head.

His gaze locked onto yours instantly, searching, cataloging every detail. He didn’t try to hide the way his jaw tensed, the way his fingers flexed against his thighs. He took in the way your hands trembled, the way your body curled in on itself, the way your eyes were still too wide, still too far away.

But he didn’t press. Didn’t ask.

Instead, he exhaled, voice steady, grounding. “I’m gonna get you outta here. Can you stand?”

You barely knew. Your body felt hollowed out, boneless, nothing but exhaustion and too-tight skin.

You shifted, pressing your hands against the wall for leverage, but your knees buckled almost instantly.

Bucky caught you before you could hit the ground.

You flinched, but he didn’t pull away. Didn’t hold on too tight, didn’t move too fast, just—steady. One arm braced lightly under your own, the other hovering close without touching, waiting.

His voice was softer now. “I got you. You’re ok.”

Your breath hitched. You clenched your eyes shut.

You didn’t have it in you to argue.

Bucky adjusted his grip, careful, gentle, helping you up. Your body barely responded. Everything felt heavy, off. You leaned against him before you could stop yourself.

His fingers twitched against your arm, like he wanted to pull you in closer, but he didn’t.

��Alright,” he murmured. “Nice and easy.”

The bike was parked just outside the alley. It gleamed under the flickering streetlight, still warm from the ride over.

You didn’t remember moving toward it. Didn’t remember how you got there.

Bucky let go the second you were steady, reaching for his helmet and pressing it into your hands.

Your fingers barely worked. Your hands shook too much.

Bucky hesitated, watching you, then carefully reached forward. “Here, let me.”

You didn’t resist when he took the helmet from your fingers.

His hands were steady as he eased the helmet over your head, adjusting the strap with careful precision, his gloved fingers brushing against your jaw, light but firm. He didn’t rush it, didn’t fumble. Just secured it in place, making sure it fit snugly, his thumb lingering for the briefest second beneath your chin before he withdrew.

Something about the weight of it settled you, just a little. Not enough to stop the tremors in your hands, not enough to uncoil the tight knot in your chest, but enough to make the world feel a little less raw, a little more distant.

Bucky watched you for a beat longer. His gaze flickered to your hands, still trembling, then back to your face. His throat bobbed.

Then he climbed onto the bike, the leather of his jacket shifting as he swung a leg over, settling his weight against the frame. His boots scuffed against the pavement as he steadied it, one hand gripping the handlebar, the other resting loosely against his thigh.

“Come on.” His voice was quieter, but sure. “I’ll take you home.”

You hesitated.

Not because you didn’t trust him. You trusted Bucky with your life.

But the idea of leaving this alley, of peeling yourself off the cold pavement, of moving forward when every nerve in your body screamed for you to stay small, stay still, stay hidden—

He must have seen it.

He didn’t rush you.

Just reached back, offering his hand.

Your fingers hovered over his for half a second, then curled around them, small and unsteady in his grip. His palm was warm even through the leather, solid, unyielding. The second you made contact, he squeezed—not hard, not urgent, just there.

Bucky exhaled, something almost imperceptible in his expression.

Then, steady as ever—

“Atta girl.”

He guided you forward, slow, patient, letting you climb onto the bike behind him without comment, without urgency. The moment you settled, the moment your thighs bracketed his, he reached back, guiding your hands to where they needed to be—against him.

You stiffened.

“It’s okay,” he murmured, his head turning slightly, just enough that you could hear him through the helmet.

You barely registered the movement as he took your wrists, shifting them until your arms wrapped loosely around his middle. His jacket was cold beneath your fingertips, smooth and worn from years of use. The warmth of him bled through it, steady and solid beneath your touch.

Your hands curled into the fabric.

Bucky didn’t move until he felt you hold on.

His fingers brushed over yours once, grounding, before gripping the handlebars again. The bike rumbled beneath you as he kicked it into gear, the vibration sinking into your bones, thrumming through your ribs.

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The bathroom light was too bright. Too harsh.

It burned against your retinas, carving sharp edges into the room, making everything too real. The porcelain sink was cool beneath your palms, grounding, unyielding. Your fingers curled against the smooth surface, gripping hard enough to feel the press of bone against flesh.

The mirror—God.

You couldn’t look at it.

Your reflection sat just at the edge of your vision, waiting, blurred and warped in the periphery. The stained fabric of your jacket clung to your skin, the smell of stale beer seeping into your lungs, mixing with the damp of the alley, the cold of the night.

Not blood.

Your throat bobbed, nausea curling in your stomach.

In the other room, the couch creaked.

Bucky was still there.

You hadn’t told him to stay. Not really. But you hadn’t told him to leave, either.

And he must have known—must have felt it, must have understood, without you saying a single fucking word. Because he hadn’t asked. Hadn’t said anything. Just followed you upstairs, wordless, careful. Had stepped inside when you left the door open, had stood there while you toed off your shoes, while you locked every deadbolt behind you with trembling hands, while you disappeared down the hall without looking at him.

You squeezed your eyes shut.

Your skin felt wrong. Your clothes felt wrong.

You needed—Fuck, you needed this feeling off of you.

Your fingers moved on autopilot, stripping down, peeling away everything until there was nothing between you and the raw burn of the water.

The second you stepped under the spray, you flinched.

Too hot. Too much. But you didn’t move. Didn’t ease the temperature. Didn’t step away.

Just stood there, rigid, fingers curled into fists at your sides, breathing through the scalding heat as it seared everything away.

Your skin burned but you scrubbed at it anyway. Nails digging into your arms, over your ribs, dragging hard, like you could scrape it all off, like you could wash it out of you.

You weren’t sure how long you stayed like that, but at some point, the heat lost its bite. The water turned cold.

Steam curled around you as you reached for a towel, wrapping it around yourself, fingers weak, tired. You stepped onto the cold tile, the world tilting slightly as you braced a hand against the counter, water dripping from your hair, from your fingertips, pooling at your feet.

Breathe.

You dried off with slow movements, pulled on clean clothes that felt too soft, too fresh.

The hallway was too dark after the blinding sterility of the bathroom. The shift in light made the walls seem closer, the space too tight, your own breath too loud in your ears.

Your damp clothes clung to you as you padded barefoot down the hall, exhaustion dragging at your limbs, your stomach hollowed out by the kind of nausea that came from too much and not enough all at once.

And then you heard it.

The quiet clatter of cabinets opening. The slow scrape of something against a plate. The low, rhythmic sound of a knife against a cutting board.

You stopped short in the doorway.

Bucky was standing in your kitchen.

His jacket was off, draped carelessly over the back of a chair. His sleeves were pushed up to his forearms, the sharp contrast of flesh and metal catching in the dim light.

A pan sat on the stove, something sizzling faintly in its center. Your fridge was still cracked open from where he had pulled something out. A plate rested on the counter beside him, two slices of bread sitting bare, waiting.

Your stomach twisted.

You weren’t sure why. It wasn’t the smell—it should have been comforting, familiar, something simple and warm and safe. But your gut curled in on itself anyway, a tight knot winding deeper, like your body didn’t know what to do with this. With him here. With the quiet scrape of a knife against a plate, with the slow, practiced movement of his hands as he flipped whatever was in the pan.

Bucky moved like this was normal, like it was nothing, like he hadn’t just found you curled behind a dumpster, shaking so hard you could barely hold your phone. Like the smell of stale beer and sweat and something worse hadn’t clung to you so thick you thought it might choke you.

You swallowed. Cleared your throat.

“You know I have takeout in the fridge, right?” Your voice was thin, too light, like you could pretend this was just any other night. “I don’t really cook, but I can at least reheat something.”

“Takeout’s shit,” he muttered.

Your mouth parted, the first, stupid thing that came to mind slipping out before you could stop it. “You could’ve just ordered a pizza.”

Bucky snorted softly, the first real sound he’d made since you walked in. “You ever seen me order a pizza?”

A breath pushed from your nose, not quite a laugh, but something close. “No.”

Your fingers twitched against your sleeves. You exhaled, slow and sharp. “I’m sure you have better things to do than make me a sandwich, Bucky.”

He didn’t even pause. Didn’t look at you. Just picked up the knife, cut the sandwich clean down the middle, shifted one half to the side of the plate like this was any other night, like nothing was wrong, like you weren’t sitting there trying to claw your way out of your own fucking skin.

“I don’t.”

Something inside you twisted.

You stared at him, stomach curling tight, breath caught somewhere deep, somewhere painful. “You don’t have to—” Your teeth snapped together before you could say something stupid, something weak, something that would make this worse.

Bucky still didn’t look at you. Just carried the plate to the table, set it down, pulled out a chair, and sat.

You exhaled sharply through your nose, arms wrapped tight around yourself, fingers digging in like you could anchor yourself, like you could keep the shaking inside. “What are you doing?”

He finally looked at you then. And when he did, it hit you like a brick to the chest. Because it wasn’t pity. It wasn’t discomfort.

It was something else.

Something weighty, something heavy sitting behind his eyes, something familiar.

“I don’t think you should be alone right now,” he said, voice even, careful, one that didn’t make room for arguing.

The words knocked the air from your lungs. Your whole body went stiff, muscles locking up. You felt trapped, like a cornered animal, like something fragile about to snap. You should have expected him to say it. Should have been prepared. But somehow, hearing it out loud made it worse.

Your arms tightened around yourself, nails biting into fabric, into skin. “I’m fine.”

Bucky’s jaw flexed. His voice stayed level.

“Yeah?” A slow nod. “That why you’re still shaking?”

You curled your fingers deeper into your sleeves, willing them to still, to stop betraying you. But they wouldn’t. They never fucking would.

You swallowed hard, your throat burning. “I just took a shower.”

“I know.” His voice was softer now. Not gentle. Just real. “Did it help?”

A breath shuddered out of you. You pressed your tongue to the roof of your mouth, inhaled through your nose, tried to steady yourself. “No.”

Bucky exhaled, something measured, something controlled. His fingers curled around his knee. “It never does.”

Your stomach lurched. You blinked too hard, too fast, your breath catching. “Bucky—”

His hands flexed against his thighs, his metal fingers twitching before going still.

“You don’t have to tell me what happened,” he said, voice low. "But I need you to know—” He hesitated, just for a second, like the words were something he had to wrestle into existence, like he had to decide whether to let them out. Then, quieter, steadier—"I know what it feels like."

Something inside you fractured. Your breath hitched, sharp and uneven. You forced yourself to look at him, forced yourself to see him.

The tension in his jaw. The way his throat bobbed. The way his fingers curled into his palms, the way his left arm stayed just a little too rigid, like he was keeping himself contained.

Your nails dug into your arms. Your voice felt too small. “I hate this.”

Bucky nodded. “I know.”

“I don’t want to feel like this.”

“I know.”

You sucked in a sharp breath, shaking your head, pressing your palms over your face. “I can still—” Your voice broke. “I can still feel it.” Your hands trembled as you dragged them down your face, curling against your mouth. “I keep—I keep thinking about—” Your throat locked up. “I keep feeling—”

It was too much. Too much.

You gasped sharply, your lungs too tight, the air too thin, and suddenly your own skin wasn’t yours anymore. It was a prison, something foreign, something you couldn’t escape, couldn’t tear off, couldn’t get away from. Your arms wrapped around yourself, your nails pressing too deep into the meat of your arms, like if you could just press hard enough it would drown everything else out.

Your voice was wrecked when you choked out, “I shouldn’t have been there.”

Bucky moved. The chair scraped back against the floor, fast, sharp, like he hadn’t even thought about it.

His voice was rough. “Don’t.”

You didn’t listen.

Your throat burned as the words poured out of you, raw and ugly and desperate. “I should have left earlier. I should have—fuck, I should have known.” You sucked in a breath, chest tight, barely able to pull in enough air. “I was stupid. I—”

“Hey.”

A warm hand brushed against your wrist, light, barely there, as if asking.

You flinched, but Bucky didn’t pull away. Didn’t grip. Just let the warmth of his palm rest against you, unmoving. His voice came low, calm. “You didn’t let anything happen.”

Your whole body locked.

The air was too thick, the apartment walls too close. Your lungs wouldn’t expand right, your ribs clenching in on themselves. “I should’ve,” you whispered, the words barely escaping, your throat raw. “I should have done more. I should have—”

His fingers, warm and steady, curled over your sleeve. Not tight. Just there.

You sucked in a sharp breath, shuddering against the weight of it. The heat of his touch, the anchor of it, something solid and real in the middle of everything unmoored inside you.

His other hand rose, slow, deliberate. Not reaching, not pulling, just settling over your bicep.

“You were surviving,” he said, the words rough at the edges. “That’s what you did.”

A sharp sob twisted in your throat, but you swallowed it down, shaking your head violently. “That’s not—”

“It is.” His voice didn’t rise. Didn’t press. But something in it held.

Your breath was sharp, uneven, something jagged lodged in your throat. You shook your head again, harder this time, trying to break free of it, trying to force it out of your skin. “You don’t get it.”

Bucky’s fingers curled a little tighter around your sleeve, the pressure grounding, steady.

“I do.”

You swallowed hard. “You don’t.”

The silence stretched, thick, heavy. His hands didn’t move, didn’t waver. The apartment felt too small, too quiet, just the space between you and the way his breath was a little too measured, a little too controlled.

Then he exhaled, slow and careful.

“I remember everything they did to me.”

Your stomach twisted violently.

Bucky’s gaze flickered away, something shuttering behind his eyes, like he was somewhere else for a moment. “For a long time, I didn’t. But when it came back—” His throat bobbed.

Your hands curled against your ribs, your fingers digging into the fabric of your sleeves.

“Hydra didn’t just take my mind.” His voice didn’t waver, but it wasn’t steady, either. “They took my body. They made it theirs.” His jaw clenched, his breath uneven. “They could do whatever they wanted to me, and I couldn’t stop them. Couldn’t fight it.”

“I didn’t just wake up and remember it one day.” His voice had dipped, quiet but hard at the edges. “It came back in pieces at first. The way it felt. The way I—” He stopped, exhaled sharp through his nose. “The way I still felt them, even when no one was there.”

Your vision blurred, your throat tight.

Bucky swallowed hard, his jaw flexing. His fingers twitched against your arm, barely moving. “I don’t tell people this.” His voice was hoarse. “Not even Steve. Not Sam.” His breath stuttered. “Not anyone.”

You were still shaking. You couldn’t stop shaking. But Bucky was still here, still close, still holding you up when you didn’t know how to hold yourself together.

“I know what it feels like,” he said quietly. “To think you should’ve done something. That you should’ve fought harder. That it was somehow your fault.” His fingers pressed against your wrist, careful, deliberate. “But it wasn’t.”

Your breath hitched, sharp and broken, your fingers twitching. You felt like you were suffocating inside your own skin, like the air wasn’t getting in right, like nothing about you belonged to you anymore. Your hands clenched into fists, nails pressing into your palms, and before you could stop yourself—before you could think—

You reached for him.

It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t thought out. Your fingers curled weakly around the fabric of his shirt, barely gripping, like even now, you weren’t sure you were allowed to ask for this, for him, for something solid in the middle of everything slipping away.

But the second you touched him, the second your hands found him, Bucky moved.

His hands lifted, slow and careful, giving you time to pull away, to change your mind, but you didn’t. You couldn’t. You were already folding in, collapsing against him, pressing your forehead against his shoulder, your entire body shaking apart.

His arm came around you, warm and firm, pulling you in like it was instinct, like he’d been waiting for it. His other hand moved to your back, his palm pressing between your shoulder blades, grounding, anchoring. His warmth seeped into your skin, into your bones, pulling you back, keeping you here.

Your legs buckled.

Your knees hit the floor first, then his, and Bucky took you with him, not letting you go, not letting you fall alone. His hands tightened around you, one sliding up to cradle the back of your head, his fingers weaving gently into your damp hair. You clung to him, knuckles white against the fabric of his shirt, breath wrecked and uneven, the sob finally, finally tearing free from your throat.

Bucky exhaled, rough and shaking, his grip flexing like he wanted to hold you tighter, like he wasn’t sure how to keep you from breaking apart in his arms. He pressed his cheek against your temple, his breath warm against your hair, his voice low and hoarse.

“I got you,” he murmured. “I got you. You’re safe.”

His fingers flexed, just slightly, like he needed to feel you, to convince himself.

Your breath hitched, and you curled further into him, burying your face against the warmth of his shoulder, your nails pressing into his chest. You couldn’t speak, couldn’t do anything but breathe, but even that felt impossible, like your lungs weren’t working right, like nothing inside you fit anymore.

Bucky swallowed hard. His voice dipped even lower, a rough whisper against your hair.

“You’re here.” His arms curled around you, pulling you in, pressing you closer, like he was trying to shield you from something that had already happened. “You made it out. No one’s gonna touch you again.” His breath shook on the exhale. “Not while I’m still breathing.”

────────────────────────

The first thing you registered was warmth.

Not the heat of too-hot water scalding your skin. Not the raw burn of adrenaline still lingering at the edges of your nerves. This was different. Thicker. Real.

The second thing was breath. Slow. Steady. Not yours.

Your eyes flickered open, disoriented for a moment by the dim light filtering through the heavy curtains. Your apartment was quiet. Still. The silence wasn’t suffocating like before—wasn’t pressing in on you like a weight you couldn’t shake. It was something else now. Something… softer.

For a long moment, you just laid there, eyes open, staring at the slant of morning light cutting across the floor. Dust floating in the air. The sound of your own breath, slow, shallow. The sharp scent of coffee lingering from the kitchen, though no one was moving.

And then—

Another shift. A breath. The quiet rustle of fabric, so soft it could have been mistaken for your own.

Your stomach clenched.

Slowly, your gaze flickered downward.

Bucky.

He was on the floor, back propped against the base of the couch, arms folded across his chest. One leg bent, the other stretched out in front of him, socked foot flexing slightly in his sleep. His jaw was slack, breath even, though his fingers twitched every so often against his arm, like his body couldn’t fully trust rest, even now.

Your throat bobbed.

You didn’t remember falling asleep. You didn’t remember him staying. But he must have. He must have sat there, must have meant to sit there, just close enough to catch you if you fell apart again, just close enough to remind you that you weren’t alone.

Something in your chest curled tight.

Bucky stirred.

It was subtle—the kind of shift that wasn’t quite waking, but listening. The twitch of his fingers, the slow inhale, the way his shoulders tensed before his eyes even opened.

And then, slowly, blue met yours.

There was no confusion. No groggy disorientation. Just awareness. He had been awake enough times in unfamiliar places—awake enough times after nightmares, after fights, after worse—to know exactly where he was, to register immediately that you were watching him.

He didn’t speak right away. Just took you in, gaze sweeping over your face, searching. Cataloging.

You swallowed, throat dry. “Did you—” Your voice was hoarse, barely there. You cleared it, tried again. “Did you sleep?”

His jaw twitched.

Something close to a smirk—but not quite—ghosted over his face, too fleeting to hold on to. “Yeah.”

Liar.

Bucky shifted his weight, stretching out the stiffness in his back, his eyes scanning your face like he was looking for something, something only he could see. He wasn’t studying you so much as he was cataloging—committing this version of you to memory, the one he’d woken up beside, the one still holding themselves too tightly.

You watched him, fingers twitching where they rested on your blanket. You should say something. Should acknowledge the fact that he’d stayed, that you weren’t alone, that some part of you was grateful for that. But the words sat thick in your throat, unmoving.

Bucky had never been the type to force a conversation, never been the type to demand things you weren’t ready to say, but there was something sitting behind his eyes now—something careful, something measured.

“You talk in your sleep,” he said finally.

Your stomach twisted, hands clenching tighter at the blanket, breath pulling tight in your chest. He said it casually, like he was mentioning the weather, like it wasn’t something that could snap you in half.

Your throat felt thick when you swallowed. “Did I?”

Bucky’s jaw shifted. He didn’t look away. “Yeah.”

Something cold slipped down your spine.

You forced your hands to relax, fingers stretching and curling before settling in your lap. You could feel the rawness in your throat, the remnants of sleep that hadn’t done what it was supposed to do, that hadn’t really helped.

You wet your lips, voice scratchy. “What did I say?”

A beat.

Bucky exhaled slowly, running his tongue along his teeth, something measured in his gaze. “Didn’t catch much,” he admitted, his voice low, even. “Mumbled a lot.”

That was a lie.

Maybe not all of it, but enough.

Bucky wasn’t the kind of man who missed things. And even if he had, he wouldn’t have said anything at all unless there was something he thought you should know. Something he needed to know.

Bucky’s voice was careful when he spoke again. “Do you… remember anything?”

The question was soft, not hesitant but considered. Like he knew he had to ask but wasn’t sure how you’d react.

Your mouth went dry.

“I don’t—” Your voice cracked. You cleared your throat, forcing out the words. “I don’t know.”

His head tilted slightly, his eyes dark and unreadable. “You don’t have to force it.”

Bucky’s gaze didn’t waver. Didn’t drop from yours, didn’t flick away, didn’t give you the out you half-hoped for. He wasn’t just listening—he was waiting. For you to say more. To fill in the gaps he already knew were there.

And yet, something inside you twisted when he didn’t say anything.

The thing about Bucky Barnes was that he didn’t fill silence for the sake of filling it. He didn’t ask questions he wasn’t ready to hear the answers to. He wasn’t like Sam, who would have told you to talk about it, to get it out, to not let it fester. Bucky didn’t do that. He just… sat with things. Gave them space. Gave you space.

And it was too much.

Your throat worked around nothing. “You know—” The words snagged, caught, but you forced them out anyway. “You know what’s fucked?”

Bucky exhaled sharply, not in frustration, but like he was bracing himself. “What?”

You let out a quiet, humorless breath. “I keep thinking about how much worse it could’ve been.” Your voice wasn’t shaking yet, but it was close. “How many things had to go right for me to make it out of there.”

Bucky stiffened. His fingers flexed once, twice, his body going rigid, but he didn’t interrupt. He let you keep going.

“I was already outside,” you murmured. “What if I had stayed another minute? What if I had bought another drink? What if I was drunk? What if I hadn’t pulled away fast enough, or hard enough, or at all?” The breath you let out was barely there, brittle around the edges. “What if there hadn’t been a car coming down the street when I broke away? What if there wasn’t anyone around? What if he had gotten me into that fucking cab?”

Bucky swore under his breath.

Your stomach curled tight. You stared down at your hands, at the way your nails pressed too hard into the fabric of the blanket. “There’s a version of last night where I didn’t make it out.” The words felt thick in your mouth. “Where I never would’ve called you. Where I never—”

Your voice cracked. You swallowed it down.

Bucky’s breathing had changed—too careful, too measured. You could feel the tension rolling through him, how his body had locked up so tight it might snap, how his hands had curled into loose fists before he forced them open again.

His voice was rough when he finally spoke. “But you did.”

You blinked.

He was looking at you like that made all the difference. Like it had to. Like if he didn’t hold onto that, he might lose his mind.

Your chest ached. “Yeah.”

Bucky exhaled sharply, dragging a slow hand over his mouth, then through his hair. His jaw flexed, his throat bobbed, and when he finally spoke again, it sounded like the words had been ripped straight out of him.

“I should’ve come with you.”

Your breath caught. You blinked. You weren’t sure you heard him right.

“What?”

Bucky exhaled through his nose, a sharp, frustrated sound. Not at you. Never at you.

“You said I could,” he muttered, quieter this time. His fingers flexed once, twice. “Last week. We were sitting at that shitty café on 42nd, and you said you wanted to go out.”

Your stomach twisted. Your mind scrambled, flipping back through the last few days, weeks, and then—

Oh.

You had barely remembered it, had barely thought about it when you went out last night. It wasn’t anything significant. It hadn’t meant anything.

You had mentioned bar-hopping, maybe meeting some new people, making new friends.

Bucky had snorted at the idea of you actually enjoying a crowd like that, and you had laughed, rolling your eyes, nudging his boot beneath the table.

“You can come if you want,” you’d said. Casual. Thoughtless.

It hadn’t been a serious thing. Had it?

It had been one of those offhanded, casual comments. A joke, almost. You hadn’t really thought about it. You had forgotten.

But Bucky hadn’t.

Your lips parted, something cold and sick curling in your chest.

“Bucky—”

“I thought about it,” he interrupted, his voice too level, too controlled. “For like—half a second, I thought about it. But then I figured—” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head once. Angry. Not at you. At himself. “I figured you didn’t actually want me there.”

Your pulse kicked.

“That’s not true,” you rasped, the words pushing past your lips before you could think about them.

His eyes flickered to yours. Something dark sat behind them.

“Doesn’t really matter now, does it?”

You inhaled sharply. “Bucky.”

His jaw flexed, the muscle there tight, too tense. “When you called,” he said, voice rough, unsteady, “I thought—” He cut himself off, dragging a hand through his hair, then over his mouth, like he was physically trying to keep the words in.

“I thought you were drunk.”

The admission sat heavy in the space between you.

Bucky leaned forward, his elbows braced against his knees, his hands flexing against his thighs. “I thought—” He swallowed hard, his voice lowering. “I thought maybe you had too much, maybe you got turned around on your way home.” His fingers curled into loose fists before he forced them open again. “And then when I realized, that I wasn’t there. I wasn’t—” He exhaled hard, shaking his head. His whole body was rigid. “If I had been there, maybe—”

Your stomach lurched.

“No,” you cut in. Sharp. Immediate.

His head snapped up.

“This wasn’t—” You inhaled through your nose, your hands clenching into the fabric of the blanket. Holding. Grounding. “This wasn’t because of you. It wouldn’t have changed anything.”

The look in his eyes burned.

“I could’ve stopped it.”

Your breath stuttered.

Bucky’s shoulders were too stiff, too tight, like he was still trying to contain himself, to hold something in. His fingers flexed once against his knee before going still.

You swallowed hard, forcing air into your lungs, but it felt thin, felt hollow. The memory was there, waiting just beyond the edges of your vision, just beneath your skin. You had been holding it back, keeping it locked away, refusing to let it breathe. But now—now it was creeping in, threading its fingers around your ribs, settling heavy in your chest.

Your throat tightened.

“I—” Your voice cracked, and you had to clear it. “I wanted to go home.”

Bucky didn’t move. He didn’t say anything. He just stayed there, letting you get the words out, letting you decide how much you could say, how much you could handle.

“I was talking to some people,” you continued, your voice quiet, careful, like speaking too loudly would shatter something fragile. “Just—casual. A group of us. I don’t even know their names.” Your breath wavered. “I wasn’t even drinking that much. I—I had a beer, maybe two. I wasn’t drunk.”

Bucky’s jaw tensed, but he stayed silent.

You inhaled slowly, forcing yourself to keep going. “There was this guy,” you murmured. “Tall. Broad. He—he wasn’t much taller than me, but he had this… presence. Like he knew exactly how to take up space.” Your fingers twitched against the fabric, and your gaze drifted, unfocused, back to some distant point. “He, uh, had a scar. Right—” Your hand moved before you could stop it, your thumb ghosting over your lip. “Here.”

Bucky didn’t move but he was looking at you like he wanted to tear something apart. Like he didn’t know where to put his hands if it wasn’t around someone’s throat.

Your stomach twisted.

And then, just as quickly as it came, he exhaled, pressing his hands against his face, dragging them down, his fingers threading into his hair.

“And a tattoo,” you added, brow furrowing. “Something black, something small—on his arm. I think I saw it when he reached for his drink.”

The image was hazy, but it was there, sharpening around the edges the more you focused. You could see the curve of his mouth, the way he had smiled at you like he already knew you would say yes to whatever he wanted. The way he had leaned in, close enough that you could feel his breath against your skin, smell the bitter tang of whiskey on his tongue.

Your stomach twisted violently.

“I was thinking about going home,” you admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “And then he offered. Said he could call a cab. Said we could share it.”

Bucky’s fingers curled into fists, knuckles going stark white, grip tightening on the edge of the coffee table. But he still didn’t move. Didn’t interrupt.

“I almost said yes.” Your throat bobbed. “I think—I think I did say yes.”

A sharp breath pushed from Bucky’s nose, but you weren’t looking at him anymore. You were staring at nothing, at the memory twisting itself into something real, something tangible, something that settled thick and wrong against your skin.

“We didn’t even make it to the curb.” The words felt like acid. “I changed my mind. I backed away.” Your hands clenched, nails pressing into your palms. “I told him I wasn’t feeling well. That I’d get home on my own.”

Your heart slammed against your ribs, something sick curling deep in your gut.

His hand had been on your arm, fingers pressing into your skin like he was staking a claim.

You had pulled away.

He hadn’t let go.

Your breath stuttered, eyes going wide. “Fuck.” The memory hit like a brick, slamming into your ribs, knocking the air from your lungs. “I—I told him no.”

Your pulse thundered in your ears. The room was tilting, the details clicking into place with a horrifying clarity, each second stretching long and suffocating. “I told him no,” you whispered, horror creeping into your voice. “I remember—he—he laughed. He said something—I don’t—I don’t know what. And then—”

You shuddered, the feeling of hands on you, fingers digging into your waist, your arm, your wrist—

The crack of splintering wood snapped through the room like gunfire.

Your breath hitched, your entire body jerking as the coffee table groaned under the force of Bucky’s metal grip. A deep, jagged fissure split through the grain where his metal fingers had driven straight into the wood, the pressure warping it like wet paper.

Your stomach lurched, breath catching in your throat as you flinched back, muscles locking up before you could stop yourself. Your ribs cinched tight, your skin going cold, the instinctive recoil thrumming through your limbs before logic could catch up.

Bucky’s head snapped up. His fingers released the table instantly, jerking away like he’d been burned. His expression twisted—something sharp, something agonized, something breaking. “Shit.” His breath came hard, chest rising and falling too fast, his hands hovering midair, like he didn’t know what to do with them, where to put them, how to fix what had already happened. “Shit. I—I’m sorry.”

You barely heard him. Your pulse was a hammering thing against your ribs, rattling your bones, pressing against the raw edge of your mind. Your hands were shaking, fingers curled tight against your own skin, nails biting too deep into your palms.

Before you could pull back further, before you could brace for anything else, Bucky’s hands found yours.

He was gentle. So fucking careful.

The contrast nearly shattered you.

His fingers slid over your trembling ones, not forcing, not gripping, just settling there. Just waiting. A weight, something solid, something grounding when everything inside you was unraveling at the seams. His touch was featherlight, his thumbs brushing over your knuckles, an apology written into every movement.

His voice was wrecked when he spoke, hoarse and thick, the words straining through his throat. “I’m so sorry.” His fingers curled just slightly over yours, not pressing, not forcing, just feeling. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

You swallowed hard, the burn in your throat unbearable. You tried to shake your head, tried to tell him he didn’t need to apologize, but the words wouldn’t come.

Bucky exhaled, a slow, shuddering breath. “You don’t deserve that. You didn’t deserve any of it.” His eyes were dark, too full of things you didn’t have words for, things you didn’t know how to hold. “You hear me?”

Your breath stuttered, throat locking up, but you nodded. Small. Barely there. But enough.

His grip flexed, just once, then loosened, like he didn’t want to let go but knew he couldn’t keep holding you together forever.

And then the worst question in the world settled into the silence.

Bucky didn’t say it immediately. He didn’t rush it. He just—sat there, the tension in his body wound so tight it felt like it might snap. His jaw flexed. His fingers curled. His breath was too careful, too measured, like he was forcing it to stay steady.

And then—soft, raw, almost hesitant—

“Did he—”

The words barely made it out before they died in his throat. His gaze was on the floor, his breath came sharper now, uneven. He couldn’t say it. Couldn’t force it out. But you knew.

You knew exactly what he was asking.

You exhaled shakily, your fingers twitching beneath his, the smallest, weakest movement. You forced yourself to shake your head. “No,” you murmured. “No, it didn’t—” You swallowed, your throat raw. “It didn’t get that far.”

Bucky’s eyes squeezed shut for a fraction of a second. His breath left him in a rush, something like relief curling at the edges, but it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t even close to enough. Because his grip still trembled, jaw still locked, body still wound too tight, like he was bracing for something worse.

Your fingers twitched against his, curling slightly. “I—I remembered what you told me,” you murmured, something distant in your voice, something hollow. “When you—when you taught me.”

Bucky’s grip tightened, just a fraction.

It had been an offhand thing, something Bucky had offered once without pressure, like it didn’t matter if you took him up on it. But you had. Not because you expected to need it, but because it was him. He’d shown you how to break a grip, how to use surprise over strength, how to make someone let go long enough to run. You hadn’t thought about it since. Until last night.

Your eyes burned, but you kept going, because you needed to say it, needed to put it into the air, needed to remind yourself.

“He had my arms,” you whispered. “Pulled me close. He was—he was strong.” Your breath shook, fingers trembling in his. “I—I stomped on his foot first. Hard. As hard as I could. He got pissed,” you said, voice thinner now. “Called me a bitch. Grabbed my face.” Your nails pressed into Bucky’s skin, but he didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away, just kept holding, just kept listening.

“I—” Your throat bobbed. “I tried to go for his eyes, but I missed.” A sharp inhale. “I got his ear instead. I—I clawed at him. Hard.” Your breath rattled in your chest. “I think I ripped his earring out.”

Bucky’s grip twitched. He said nothing.

“He let go,” you murmured. “Just—just for a second. But it was enough.” Your stomach curled tight. “I kneed him in the stomach.”

The memories blurred at the edges, flickering between real and unreal, sharp and out of focus. You pressed your nails deeper into Bucky’s hands, forcing yourself to stay here, stay present.

“I don’t remember running,” you admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “But I did.” A hollow breath. “I just—I ran.”

Bucky was quiet for a long time. His grip stayed firm, solid around your hands, his thumb twitching once, just barely, like he wanted to move, wanted to do something, but couldn’t. His breathing was still too controlled, too measured, like he was forcing himself to stay still, to keep his hands from shaking.

“You did everything right,” he finally said, voice rough. “You got away.”

Your throat felt too tight. “Doesn’t feel like it.”

His hands tensed around yours, fingers flexing like he wanted to pull you closer, like he didn’t know how. “I know.”

Your vision blurred, everything pressing in too close, too tight. “I thought—I thought I was gonna die.”

Bucky inhaled sharply. His jaw clenched, his fingers twitching against your skin, like he wanted to shake you, to shake himself. “You didn’t.”

Your breath hitched. “But I could have.”

“I know,” he murmured.

You blinked, your throat burning. Your hands were still trapped in his, limp and shaking, but you couldn’t make yourself let go.

His grip tightened—just enough that you could feel the pressure, just enough that you knew it was real. “I should’ve been there.”

Your stomach twisted. “Bucky—”

“I should’ve been there,” he said again, firmer this time, voice cracking at the edges. “I would’ve killed him.”

The breath left your lungs in a sharp exhale.

Bucky’s fingers curled tighter against your skin. “I still want to.”

A shudder crawled up your spine. He meant it. God, he meant it. The raw promise in his voice was too heavy, too sharp. His hands flexed against yours, like he was barely holding himself together, barely keeping himself from getting up, from finding a way to track this bastard down, from—

You exhaled. You didn’t have the energy for this. Not right now. “It wouldn’t change anything.”

His eyes met yours. The blue was darker now, stormier, something barely contained beneath the surface.

“I know,” he murmured. “Doesn’t mean I don’t want to.”

A sharp inhale rattled your chest. You didn’t know what to say to that. Maybe there wasn’t anything to say.

The apartment was too quiet. Your own breath was too loud in your ears. Your fingers were still locked in his, knuckles white against his skin, his hands anchoring you, keeping you here, keeping you grounded.

Bucky exhaled through his nose, slow, deliberate. “Listen.” His voice was softer now, more measured. “I know you don’t want to talk about this anymore.”

Your pulse thrummed against your ribs. “I—”

“I get it,” he interrupted gently. “I do.” He swallowed hard, the muscle in his jaw flexing. “But I need to ask you something.”

Your fingers curled against his. “What?”

His grip twitched. He hesitated, his breath uneven, his gaze flickering over your face, like he was trying to gauge how much more you could take. “You need to see a doctor.”

Your stomach dropped. “Bucky.”

“I mean it.” His hands flexed. “I don’t—I don’t care if you feel okay. I don’t care if you think it doesn’t matter. I need you to be sure.”

Your pulse spiked. “Nothing—”

“That’s not the point.”

His voice was steady, but there was something barely restrained beneath it, something quiet and desperate.

“You were hurt,” he continued, his fingers curling, tightening. “And I know you don’t want to think about it anymore. But you need to make sure you’re okay.”

Your throat felt like it was closing.

His hands were still on you, warm and steady. “If something happened—if something’s wrong, mentally or physically—you need to know.”

The words sat heavy between you.

You sucked in a sharp breath, your fingers twitching. You could see it in his eyes—the way he wasn’t letting this go, the way he wasn’t going to let you brush it off. He wasn’t asking for himself. He wasn’t even asking for you.

He was asking because if something was wrong, if something had happened, and he didn’t make sure—you’d never forgive yourself.

Neither would he.

Your stomach curled tight. Your breath shuddered.

Bucky exhaled, slow, steady, his grip shifting just slightly. “I’ll go with you.”

You swallowed hard, your voice barely above a whisper. “Okay.”

Something in his face eased, just barely. His fingers curled a little tighter, his grip a little firmer.

He nodded, once. “Okay.”

The silence stretched between you, but it wasn’t suffocating—not anymore. Not with his hands still wrapped around yours, his grip firm, grounding. Not with the way his thumb brushed over your knuckles like he was memorizing the shape of you, like he was convincing himself you were still here.

You weren’t sure when you had started shaking again, but Bucky noticed. He always noticed.

He shifted forward, closer than before. The movement was slow, careful, like he was giving you the chance to stop him, to pull away—but you didn’t. You wouldn’t.

His hands moved, one slipping free from yours just long enough to settle against the side of your face, his thumb barely skimming the hollow beneath your cheekbone. You knew that look. Knew the weight of it. Knew what it meant. His jaw clenched, his throat bobbed, and for a second, it looked like he might say something—something else, something bigger, something heavier—but the words never came.

Instead, his thumb traced the edge of your jaw, barely there.

His voice was hoarse, wrecked when he finally spoke.

“I wish I'd been there.”

Your chest ached. “Bucky—”

“I should’ve been there,” he repeated, lower this time, rougher. His fingers curled just slightly, like he wanted to hold on tighter, like he wasn’t sure he had the right. “I could’ve—” He stopped, exhaled hard, like he was trying to force something back down.

You swallowed against the lump in your throat. Your hand lifted on its own, reaching for him, gripping the fabric of his shirt where it stretched over his shoulder, holding. “You’re here now.”

Something passed over his face, something raw and open, something unguarded. His fingers twitched against your cheek. His other hand lifted, settling carefully against the back of your neck, fingers curling at the base of your skull.

His breath was warm when he exhaled. His voice was even warmer when he spoke.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

Your chest hitched, something sharp and painful catching in your ribs, and before you could second guess it, before you could even think about what you were doing—

You leaned in, pulling him up and forward to the couch.

Bucky tensed for half a second, his grip tightening just a fraction—but then he pulled you in, one arm slipping around you, the other still cradling your face, pressing you closer, anchoring you against him. He was so warm. Too warm. Like he was trying to shield you from the cold, from everything that had happened, from the weight of it pressing against your ribs.

You buried your face in his shoulder, inhaled the scent of him—soap and leather and something distinctly, overwhelmingly Bucky. His arm curled tighter, his fingers pressing into the curve of your spine.

“I got you,” he murmured, voice rasping against your ear, wrecked and quiet. “I got you. You’re safe.”

The words cracked something open inside you. Bucky had always felt like this, somehow. Like something solid to press against when the world tilted too hard, when the ground threatened to give way. You had never questioned it before, never given it a name, never let yourself acknowledge the way he made everything feel quieter, steadier, safer.

And for the first time since last night, since the alley, since the neon buzz of the sign overhead and the cold bite of damp pavement against your skin—your body wasn’t bracing for the next blow, the next hand, the next shadow moving too close.

You weren’t anywhere but here.

The tension in your shoulders, the tight coil in your chest, the invisible thread that had kept you wound so painfully tight—it all loosened, just enough. Not completely. Not forever. But enough that you could breathe without counting the seconds between each inhale, without listening for footsteps that weren’t there.

Bucky shifted slightly, adjusting the hold he had on you, but he didn’t let go. Didn’t pull away. His grip was careful, deliberate, the quiet weight of it saying what he wouldn’t.

You were safe.

And for once, you believed it.

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