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barnesonly · 21 days ago

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˗ˏˋ ★ Little Dove ★ ˎˊ˗

winter soldier x empath!reader

summary: Hydra sends you — a broken empath — into the Winter Soldier’s cell to keep him calm. You’re supposed to soften him. Control him. But instead, something starts to unravel. In both of you.

word count: 7709

WARNINGS: 18+ explicit content, MDNI— disclaimer: contains dark themes. read at your own discretion! angst, slowburn, captivity, tortures, hydra, violence, brainwashing, non-consensual experimentation, hurt/comfort, trauma, possible smut in future chapters? we’ll see.

Chapter One | Next Chapter

The hallway reeks of metal and blood scrubbed too clean.

It’s quiet. Too quiet. The kind of silence that presses down on you, thick and heavy, until even your own breathing feels like a violation. Overhead lights flicker with a dull hum, casting a sterile white glow that drains every shadow of warmth. You walk barefoot. The concrete floor bites at your skin with every step.

You don’t remember much anymore.

Not your name. Not where you came from. Just scattered pieces — the way sunlight used to feel on your skin. A voice calling you something soft. A memory of warmth. It all slips away when you try to grab it. Hydra made sure of that.

Now, you’re just a number. A subject. A tool. A thing.

Two guards flank you, their boots echoing alongside yours. You can feel them watching you, not with interest, but suspicion — like you’re a bomb that hasn’t gone off yet. Their fear is sour, thick like rot in the air. You feel it pressing against your skin. Your abilities hum at the edges of your nerves, always waiting, always restrained. You’ve learned to keep them quiet. Hidden.

At the end of the hall waits a door. Heavy steel. No window.

They key in the code. The lock hisses open.

And then — they push you inside.

The cell is dim and cold. Shadows stretch long across the floor. You don’t see him at first, not clearly. But you feel him — that looming, quiet pressure of someone who doesn’t just take up space… someone who dominates it.

The Winter Soldier sits in the corner, chained, silent. His hands rest on his knees. One flesh, one metal. The restraints attached to the floor look thick enough to hold a monster, not a man. He doesn’t look up when you enter.

Your breath catches. He’s still. Too still. Like a statue. Like death itself, waiting.

The door seals behind you with a mechanical clang. You don’t bother trying it. You know better.

You’re locked in. Alone. With him.

They didn’t give you a name. Not for him. They just said: “Calm him. Please him. Be useful.”

You inch forward. Not because you want to — your body screams to run — but because that’s what they trained you to do. That’s what keeps you alive.

When your eyes finally adjust, you see his face.

He’s beautiful in a way that doesn’t make sense. All sharp edges and silence. Cheekbones like carved stone, a scar cutting across his jaw. His lips are parted slightly, like he’s caught mid-breath. But it’s his eyes that stop you — dark, distant, unreadable.

You meet them.

And for a moment, nothing else exists.

There’s no heat in his stare. No hunger. Just… observation. He watches you like you’re something foreign. Not a woman. Not a threat. Not prey. Just something strange and quiet.

Your heart pounds.

Your powers shift inside you, stirring without permission. You feel it — the heaviness radiating off him like gravity. Pain. Loneliness. A dull, aching emptiness buried beneath cold steel and tighter programming.

Your chest tightens.

Is that… him?

Is that what he feels?

A voice crackles over the speaker embedded in the wall.

“Subject 09. Proceed with Contact Protocol One.”

You don’t move.

“Proceed.”

You swallow hard.

Every part of you wants to scream. To lash out. But you kneel instead — slowly, careful not to appear like a threat. You lower yourself in front of him, your knees hitting the cold floor.

You’re wearing only the white shift they gave you. Thin. Useless. It barely covers your thighs. You hate it. You hate that they make you wear it. You hate how small it makes you feel.

But he doesn’t look at you like the guards do.

He doesn’t leer. He doesn’t reach for you. He just… watches.

You reach out slowly, your hand hovering over his — not the metal one, the human one. The skin there is rough. Calloused. Real. You hesitate, breath trembling.

He tenses.

Not a lot. Just the smallest shift in his posture. But you feel it. Like a ripple through still water. He’s waiting. Watching.

And then, he speaks — voice rough, low, like it hasn’t been used in days.

“…Don’t.”

It’s not a threat. It sounds almost… tired.

Your hand falls back to your lap. You don’t speak. You don’t ask questions. You don’t touch him again.

But you stay. You sit there on the cold floor, knees burning, pulse thudding in your ears.

And he doesn’t look away. He just… watches you. Like he’s trying to remember something.

You don’t know why you speak. Maybe it’s the silence. Maybe it’s the way he looks at you — not like an enemy, not like a target, but like something foreign. A strange shape in his world of chains and blood. Whatever the reason, your voice leaves you before you can stop it. Barely a whisper. Scraping at the edges of your throat like it forgot how to be used.

“They think I can calm you.”

He doesn’t move. The words feel too loud in the stillness, like they don’t belong here. You drop your gaze, ashamed, fingers tightening in the folds of your shift like they might anchor you to something real.

“They didn’t tell me much. Just… that I’m different. That I feel things I shouldn’t.”

You pause, trying to find the right words. They never come out right. Hydra never gave you language for what you are, what your powers are — there were only orders, injections, silence.

“It’s not just emotions. It’s deeper than that. When someone’s near, I feel everything. Fear. Pain. Anger. It crawls under my skin like static. Loud. Constant. Sometimes I can push back. Soothe it. Dull the sharp edges.” You hesitate. “It makes people easier to control.”

He’s still watching you. But his eyes narrow slightly, like he’s parsing your words. Measuring them.

You shift on the floor, your knees sore against the concrete. It’s freezing. But the cold is nothing compared to the way his presence settles around you. Heavy. Unmovable. Like gravity itself has chosen him as its anchor.

“They said if you ever lost control again… I could stop it. That I could make you come back.” Your voice falters. “That if your memories returned, and you remembered things you weren’t supposed to, you’d still come back. For me.”

You don’t say what they really meant. You don’t need to. You’re not here to comfort him. You’re not here to heal. You’re here to bind him. To become his chain.

A new silence falls. It’s different now — heavier, coiled. Not quite threatening. Not safe either. He hasn’t moved, hasn’t spoken. But the shift is undeniable. Like a breath held too long. Like a storm poised on the edge of the horizon.

And then his jaw tightens. Barely. A flicker of tension across his face, so quick you might’ve missed it if you weren’t looking right at him.

You feel it before you see it. The emotion that pulses beneath the surface. Fury.

Not at you. At them.

And buried deeper still — like something lost in a cave of ice — is a quieter, colder thought. One that brushes against your mind with the gentlest ache:

I don’t want to hurt her.

The realization settles over you like a shiver. You hadn’t expected that. Hadn’t expected anything beyond blankness. You’d been told he was a machine in a man’s body. Programmed to kill. Nothing else.

But machines don’t feel lonely.

And they don’t try to protect things.

You meet his eyes again, slower this time.

“I didn’t ask for this,” you say quietly. “I don’t even know who I am anymore. But they think… I’m the key to you.”

That lands.

Not visibly. He doesn’t lurch forward or speak or flinch. But something changes. A thread of something unspoken, strung tight between the two of you. Not trust. Not yet.

But not nothing.

There’s a shift in the air — slight, barely perceptible. Not warmth. Not invitation. Just the barest flicker of something that isn’t rejection.

You exhale, slow.

For the first time since they locked the door, your limbs start to unclench. Not because you feel safe. Just… less cornered. The danger is still here, still heavy in the room — but it’s no longer aimed at you.

You watch him. Not like the scientists do. Not like the guards. You’re not measuring him. You’re listening.

His head is tilted slightly, his eyes lowered now, the long shadows from the overhead light cutting across his face like prison bars. The metal of his arm reflects just enough to catch your attention — stark against his skin, against the concrete, against you.

He hasn’t said anything else. But his silence isn’t empty.

There’s thought behind it. Tension.

You wonder what they took from him. What they left behind.

And without meaning to, you open your mind to the weight of him — that fractured storm you felt earlier, still coiled tight in the pit of his chest. There’s no invitation. No trust. But emotions bleed even through walls when they’re strong enough.

And his are screaming.

Pain. Rage. Regret. A low, smoldering grief that hasn’t gone out in years. It lingers at the edge of your senses like smoke in your lungs.

Your mouth goes dry.

You don’t know what they’ve done to him. But whatever he used to be… it’s still in there. Deep. Buried. Gasping for air.

He doesn’t meet your eyes again, but his jaw tenses.

He knows you felt it. For a flicker of a second, you’re afraid he’ll shut down. Close himself off. But he doesn’t. He just… breathes.

And you realize this is the only thing you’ve both been allowed to do without permission.

Breathe.

You shift slightly on the cold floor. Your knees ache. The concrete has started to burn into your skin, but you don’t move far. Just enough that your shoulder touches the wall, spine curling, chin dropping to your chest.

A whisper escapes you before you can stop it. “I don’t think they know what they’ve locked in here with me.”

Still no response.

But the quiet deepens. Less hollow now. Almost like he’s listening.

You don’t need him to speak. You just need him not to leave you alone in this silence.

And he doesn’t.

You sit together in that strange, fragile stillness — not allies, not enemies. Just two ruined things in a room built for ghosts.

It isn’t peace.

But it’s something.

———

The door hisses open again.

Same hallway. Same guards. Same cold bite of the floor under your bare feet… But this time, your hands are trembling. You hate that.

You hate how they shake, how the silence between the guards feels sharper than it did before, how one of them keeps glancing at you like he’s hoping you won’t come back out. Like he already knows the Winter Soldier might snap your neck this time. Or worse.

You try not to think about it. Instead, you focus on your breathing. One inhale. One exhale. Keep your heart steady. Keep your power quiet. You know what they want from you. You know the routine. Be soft. Be calm. Be useful.

Be what he needs. Not what you are.

The steel door seals behind you before you can change your mind.

He’s already watching you.

You feel it before you see him — that cold, oppressive weight in the air, like the temperature has dropped just because he’s breathing it. He’s seated in the same corner. Shackled. Still. But his eyes are locked on you this time.

Last time, he didn’t move until you were in front of him.

This time, he was waiting.

Your stomach tightens. You take one step. Then another. The light above flickers, humming quietly.

He’s expressionless, unreadable — the same carved face, the same ghostlike silence. But his gaze doesn’t slide off you. It lingers. Follows.

There’s something new in his eyes. Barely there. A flicker. Recognition.

It hits you in a strange way. Not comfort. Not hope. Something sharper. Something heavier. Because if he remembers you — even just your presence — then it means something stayed. Something got through.

And if something got through… they’ll notice. They always notice.

You stop a few feet away.

He’s still watching.

You lower yourself again, carefully. Knees to concrete. Hands in your lap. Not too fast. Not too slow. Everything you do has to be measured in here — every movement choreographed like a dance you weren’t taught properly but still expected to survive.

He doesn’t speak.

Neither do you.

The silence stretches long between you. Not hostile, but not easy either. Just… thick.

You press your palms into your thighs to stop the shaking. It’s colder this time. Or maybe you’re just colder. More hollow.

He shifts. It’s so small, so subtle — a tilt of the head, a change in the rhythm of his breathing — but you catch it.

You don’t look at his metal hand, not yet. You don’t reach for him. But your powers stretch — gently, invisibly — reaching without permission toward that emotional gravity he carries like a second skin.

And this time, it’s different. There’s still pain. Still loneliness. But buried beneath the weight of programming and silence… is hesitation. Curiosity. Like he’s trying to understand what you are. Why you’re here. Why you’re not afraid of him.

You exhale slowly.

“Do… do you remember me from yesterday?” you ask quietly. “I told you how I feel… things. How they sent me here, do you remember that?”

His eyes don’t change. But he blinks. Once. A long silence follows. You don’t expect an answer. You don’t even know if he’s allowed to speak without orders. You’ve never seen him talk to anyone else. Just you, just once, just one word.

You shift slightly on your knees, the concrete unforgiving beneath you.

“They don’t know everything though,” you whisper. “They don’t know I can feel when you’re not angry. When you’re just… tired.”

His jaw clenches — almost imperceptibly. And for a second, you swear his gaze softens. Not much. Not warmth. Just… less frost.

But not nothing.

It’s enough to make your breath catch. Enough to make you feel like maybe, just maybe, you’re not invisible to him anymore.

You don’t reach for him. You don’t touch him. You just sit there, eyes on his, breathing the same still air, and wait.

Your knees start to ache.

The cold from the floor seeps into your bones, and still, you don’t move. You don’t dare. Movement feels like it might shatter whatever fragile thread is holding this moment together.

His gaze doesn’t leave you.

There’s no warmth in it — not yet. But there’s no command, either. No dismissal. Just that same silent pressure, like he’s trying to figure you out molecule by molecule. And beneath that, something raw. Ancient. Exhausted.

The kind of tired that lives in the marrow.

You lower your head, just slightly — not in submission, not entirely. More like… reverence. Or maybe you’re just trying not to cry. It’s hard to tell the difference these days.

You try explaining once more, “They think I can fix you,” you whisper, voice barely audible. “That I can get inside your head. Soften you. Make you easier to control.”

You don’t say again. But it hangs there. Between you. They’ve tried this before. You’re just the newest tool.

You lift your eyes, searching his face. You don’t know what you’re looking for. Mercy? Recognition? Maybe just proof that he’s still human under all that steel.

“But you don’t feel broken,” you add. “You feel… caged.”

His brow twitches — so small it could be imagined. But you don’t think it is.

The chains at his wrists groan as he moves, just barely, shifting his weight. He leans forward — not much, not enough to be threatening. But enough to remind you what he is.

Powerful.

Lethal.

Close.

Your heart skitters in your chest, too fast. He must hear it — you’re sure he can. But he doesn’t react.

Instead, he breathes in — deep and slow, like he’s pulling you into his lungs, dissecting you with every breath. His eyes scan your face, not with hunger, not even with hostility. Just a kind of quiet, deliberate observation.

Finally, he speaks. “…They sent others.” The words are gravel, unused and dry.

It takes you a second to realize he’s talking to you. That his voice — low and rough and scarred — is meant for you.

“They didn’t last.”

Your mouth goes dry. You swallow, hard. You nod, slowly. “I know.”

He looks at you a beat longer, then glances away. Just slightly. As if even that costs something.

You follow his gaze. It doesn’t land on anything in particular — just the far wall, the flicker of the light above, the slow drip of a pipe you hadn’t noticed before. But the shift in focus speaks volumes.

He doesn’t want to remember them. And maybe he doesn’t want to remember you, either.

But he does.

Something stirs in your chest. It’s not hope. Hope is too dangerous. Too delicate. You don’t let yourself have it anymore.

But it’s something close.

You fold your legs beneath you, careful, quiet. Not because you’re relaxing — you’re not. You never are in here. But because the kneeling was starting to feel too much like worship.

And he doesn’t want that.

“Do you want me to go?” you ask softly.

He doesn’t answer right away. The silence stretches so long, you start to think he won’t.

Then, finally — softly, without looking:

“…No.”

One word. Small. But not nothing.

Your breath catches at his answer. You don’t know what you expected — silence, maybe. Indifference. But not that. Not no.

You sit with it for a moment, staring at the floor between you, watching how the shadows stretch and shift with the flickering light.

“…Why?” you ask before you can stop yourself. It’s not defiance. Just… curiosity. Raw and unfiltered.

His eyes snap back to you. Not harsh, but sharp — a warning in their depth. Like you’ve stepped somewhere you shouldn’t.

But you don’t flinch. You hold his gaze, even though your pulse is skittering against your ribs.

“I mean,” you continue quietly, “you don’t need me here. You didn’t ask for this. And they’re not giving you a choice. So why no?”

Still, he doesn’t speak.

But he watches.

And that says something.

You shift forward slightly, hands on your knees, voice barely above a whisper. “Is it because I didn’t try to touch you today? Because I didn’t follow protocol?”

He doesn’t answer. His expression doesn’t change.

But something… cracks.

Barely.

His jaw flexes again, and he glances away — not toward the door, but toward the floor this time, like the concrete might give him better answers than you.

Your fingers twitch in your lap. You could reach for him. You could touch his hand, risk the consequence. But you don’t. Not yet. Not until it means something. Not until he chooses it.

Instead, you lean in — just enough that your voice lowers to something secret.

“I don’t care what they want me to do to you,” you murmur. “I care what you want.”

A silence follows — thicker than the rest. It hangs in the air like a held breath.

You think he won’t answer. You think you pushed too far. Then—

“I don’t know,” he says quietly.

Three words. Bare. Cracked.

And somehow heavier than anything he could have shouted.

Your chest aches. It’s not a confession. Not really. But it’s more than silence. And you can feel the weight behind it — the emptiness of someone who’s spent too long in someone else’s control. Who hasn’t had a choice in so long, he’s forgotten how to make one.

You nod, softly. “That’s okay,” you whisper. “You don’t have to know yet.”

He looks at you again. This time, slower. More deliberate.

You think — just for a second — that he might say something else.

But the speaker crackles above, sharp and sudden. “Subject 09. Session complete. Return to holding.”

You don’t move. You glance back at the door, then to him again.

“I’ll come back,” you say, standing carefully. Your knees sting, your body protests. But you force steadiness into your voice. “If they let me. I’ll come back.”

He doesn’t nod. Doesn’t answer… But his eyes follow you to the door.

And just before it seals shut behind you, you see it.

A flicker.

Not warmth.

But not frost, either.

Not indifference.

But not control.

Just… him.

Still buried. Still cold.

But not gone.

———

The room is colder than his cell.

Not physically — but it feels colder. Like something was scraped clean too many times. Like warmth doesn’t belong here.

You sit on a metal chair. No restraints this time — that’s supposed to be a kindness, you think — but the table between you and the door is bolted to the floor. There’s a camera in the corner. Watching. Recording. Always.

Across from you sits Agent Kern.

Late forties. Clean-cut. Buttoned-up. The kind of man who smells like antiseptic and control. He’s not one of the guards who escorted you. He’s not muscle. He’s something worse.

A voice with authority.

He glances at a tablet. Then at you.

You keep your face blank.

“I’ve reviewed the footage,” he says, voice crisp. Clinical. “The Soldier did not become aggressive.”

You say nothing.

“He spoke to you.”

Still nothing.

He tilts his head, watching you with a kind of sterile curiosity. “Do you know how many personnel have attempted verbal contact with him over the last year?”

You do.

Because they told you.

And you saw the aftermaths.

Kern continues anyway. “Twenty-three. Nineteen are dead. Two were crippled. One remains comatose. The last… was transferred. Quietly.”

You swallow.

He smiles. It doesn’t reach his eyes. “So you can understand our interest.”

You nod slightly. “Yes.”

“Good.” He taps something on the tablet. “Describe the interaction. From the moment you entered.”

You hesitate. Not long. But enough.

He notices.

“I sat,” you say quietly. “Same as before. He was watching me already.”

Kern doesn’t interrupt. He waits, stylus poised like he’s sketching your words into the tablet with each movement.

“I didn’t touch him. I didn’t speak right away. I just… waited.”

“And then?”

“I asked if he remembered me. From the day before.”

Kern taps the stylus once. “A violation of Contact Protocol One.”

You don’t flinch. “Yes.”

“But he didn’t react violently.”

“No.”

“Why do you think that is?”

You hesitate again. But this time, you answer.

“Because I didn’t treat him like a weapon.”

Kern blinks, expression unreadable. “Interesting.”

He writes that down. You shift in your seat, the metal groaning softly beneath you.

“I told him I could feel when he wasn’t angry. When he was tired,” you add. Quiet. Careful.

“And how did he respond?”

“He didn’t deny it.”

Kern leans back slightly. “He told you to leave.”

“No,” you say, voice firmer than you meant. “He said he didn’t know what he wanted.”

Kern’s eyes narrow. Not cruel. Just… focused. Like he’s trying to pin your soul under a microscope.

“You believe you’re making emotional progress.”

You say nothing.

He continues. “He remembers you. He hasn’t lashed out. He hasn’t shut down. That’s more than we’ve gotten in years. You’re aware of what that makes you.”

A tool.

A trigger.

A leash.

You meet his gaze. “It makes me useful.”

He smiles again. You hate that smile.

“Exactly.”

He taps the tablet again. “You’ll be sent back in tomorrow. Earlier this time. No medication. We want to see if the absence of suppressants alters your dynamic.”

You don’t move.

“Is that understood, Subject 09?”

You nod once. “Yes.”

“Good girl,” he says, already standing.

You clench your jaw. He doesn’t notice. Or maybe he does and just doesn’t care.

The door hisses open. Two guards step in.

Interview over.

———

You returned to your cell.

Your door slides open with its usual hiss — but tonight, it sounds sharper. Like a blade.

You step inside and don’t bother pretending. Not this time.

The moment it shuts behind you, your back hits the cold metal wall and you sink to the floor. The breath you’ve been holding since the interview comes out in one ragged exhale. Your knees draw up to your chest. Arms wrap tight around them. And for a second — just one — you let yourself feel everything.

Because there’s no one watching now.

Probably.

The cameras hum in the corners, but they don’t care if you break. They don’t care if you fall apart, as long as you’re whole enough to be put back together before morning.

Your fingers shake again. Not from fear. Not entirely.

It’s the feeling. The weight. The constant, crushing hum of emotions that don’t belong to you, pressing under your skin like trapped lightning.

You feel too much.

You always have.

It’s what made you a target. What made you a test subject. What made you useful.

Useful.

You choke on the word.

They don’t see you. Not really. You’re not a girl. Not a person. You’re a pressure valve. A chemical bond. An emotional sedative wrapped in skin. All they want is to know if you can keep him calm — if you can hold the leash without being bitten.

But you’re not a leash.

You’re not.

…Are you?

You press the heels of your palms into your eyes until your vision sparks white. You want to scream. To claw at the walls. To tear the shift from your body and burn it. But you don’t.

Because if you scream, someone might come.

And you’re not sure what would be worse — the punishment, or the fact that no one might come at all.

So instead… you whisper to the walls.

Your voice is hoarse. Quiet. But not empty.

“I don’t want to be useful.”

The words taste strange in your mouth. Unpracticed. Dangerous. Like you’re admitting something that was supposed to stay buried.

“I just want to be me again. Whoever that was.”

Silence answers you.

But your eyes drift to the wall behind you. Cold steel. Same as always. But you let your fingers rest on it — just for a second — as if you could feel through it. As if, somewhere on the other side, he’s there. Sitting in his corner. Watching the dark. Remembering you.

You wonder if he’s thinking.

If he’s feeling.

You wonder if he wants to.

A shiver runs through you, not from cold — from the sheer wrongness of this place, the things it turns you into just to survive. You press your forehead against the wall.

“Please don’t forget me,” you whisper.

Not because you’re afraid to disappear.

But because the more he remembers you…

…the more you remember you, too.

———

The guards don’t speak this time.

You almost prefer it that way. Silence is easier than pretending.

But there’s something off today. You feel it the moment you step into the hallway — the air heavier, tighter. Like the walls are listening harder. Like the building itself is holding its breath.

They didn’t give you the suppressant injection.

You noticed right away.

Your nerves are louder. Your power hums closer to the surface, like it’s tasting everything around you — the quiet fear from the new guard on your left, the sharp tension from the veteran on your right. You try to tamp it down, but it flickers regardless. Restless. Alive.

The door hisses open.

And he’s already watching you.

Same corner. Same chains. Same silence. But this time, the moment you step into the room, your skin prickles.

He feels… closer.

No one moves. No one speaks. The door seals shut behind you.

And then — slowly — you walk.

Every step is deliberate. You can feel his eyes on you, not just looking, but registering. Studying you like a puzzle someone threw against a wall and told him to rebuild with bloody hands.

You stop in front of him.

His shoulders are tense. Posture tight. But he isn’t recoiling. He’s not resisting either.

You kneel again, the concrete familiar under your knees now.

“I didn’t get the shot,” you whisper.

His brow barely twitches — the subtlest sign he’s listening. But you feel the flicker of something through him. Uncertainty. Caution.

“And now everything’s louder.”

You don’t mean your voice. He knows that.

“I can feel more of you,” you add, quiet. “Not the programming. Not the violence. Just… you.”

It feels like telling a secret. One you’re not supposed to know.

And still — he doesn’t speak.

But something shifts. You feel it before you see it. The weight inside him — that tangle of pain and silence — it stretches. Brushes up against your power like two ghosts testing the same room.

Your breath catches.

Because for the first time, he feels you back.

Not just your presence. Not just your voice.

You.

Your grief. Your loneliness. Your ache to be seen. It leaks through in threads — not enough to overwhelm, just enough to whisper. You don’t mean to let it out. But you’re raw. Wide open. And the moment your energy brushes against his mind, something inside him slows.

Not calm. Not peace. But stillness. Real stillness.

His head tilts slightly.

Like he doesn’t understand what he’s feeling. Like it doesn’t belong to him. And maybe it doesn’t. Not entirely. But you sit with it anyway. Breathing slow. Letting him adjust to the noise of another soul in the room.

Minutes pass.

Then — his voice. Rough. Like gravel scraping through silence. “You’re… different.”

You blink. Stare at him. Your throat tightens. “So are you,” you whisper.

Something flickers in his expression. Not emotion — not quite. But awareness. Like he knows what he just did. Like he knows it matters.

Your fingers twitch in your lap. You want to reach out. But you don’t.

Instead, you say the one thing you’ve never had the chance to say out loud — not to anyone in this place, not even yourself.

“I don’t want to be their weapon.”

His jaw tightens. You don’t expect an answer. But after a long moment, you hear him exhale.

Slow. Heavy. Almost human.

You sit with the echo of his words.

You’re different.

They’re not some words he’s spoken — they’re intentional. They’re not a reaction. Not a command. They’re his. Chosen. Given.

It feels like a fragile thing, sitting in the space between you. Not quite trust. Not yet. But maybe something like recognition. Like the first bloom of something trying to grow in soil that’s only ever known blood and control.

You lower your gaze to your hands, folding them in your lap. They’re still trembling slightly, but not from fear this time.

“You said ‘don’t’ the first time I tried to touch you,” you say softly, voice barely above a breath. “Not because you were angry. Not because I scared you.”

You look up at him again.

“You said it like someone who didn’t want to be felt.”

His eyes darken, but not cruelly. Not coldly. Just… deeper. More guarded.

“I get it,” you say, quieter now. “I wouldn’t want someone inside my head either.”

He doesn’t respond, but you feel it again — that shift. That pause. Like your words are brushing up against something sharp inside him, and he doesn’t know if he wants to pull away or lean into the pain.

“I try not to,” you add. “Feel too much. It’s hard, though. Sometimes it’s like standing in a storm with no shelter. Everyone else gets umbrellas, and I’m just there — skin to the sky.”

You don’t know why you’re telling him this. Maybe because no one’s ever let you. Maybe because he’s the only one in this place who looks at you like you’re not some experiment in a dress.

Or maybe it’s because he hasn’t looked away once.

You take a shaky breath.

“I don’t know if you feel anything. Not really. I know they rewired things in your head. I can feel the static where your thoughts should be. But there’s still… something there.”

Your power hums again, subtle, just beneath the surface. You’re not reaching for him — not directly. But your emotions leak regardless, and you know he can feel it too now. The raw edge of your hope. The dull throb of loneliness that never really leaves you. The exhausted ache of wanting something real in a place that’s never allowed it.

“I’m not trying to break you,” you whisper. “I just want to know if there’s still a person under all of it.”

His metal fingers twitch. It’s small — barely more than a flicker of movement — but you see it. You feel it. And when you lift your gaze again, his expression has changed.

It’s not soft. Nothing about him is soft.

But it’s not empty anymore either.

There’s something there. Flickering. Tense. Alive.

“You don’t talk to anyone else, do you?” you ask, quieter now. “Just me.”

He doesn’t nod. Doesn’t speak.

But his silence says enough.

Your throat tightens.

“I think that’s why they keep sending me back.”

He looks away for the first time. Not because he’s retreating — it doesn’t feel like that. It feels more like… shame. Like he doesn’t want to be seen in this moment. Not even by you.

And still — you stay.

You don’t try to move closer. You don’t beg him to meet your eyes again. You just sit there, grounded in your own stillness, and offer him the only thing you have left.

Time.

The silence lingers.

It’s not heavy, not hostile. It’s a watching kind of quiet. Like something is beginning to shift in the spaces between breath and heartbeat, like the air has thickened with something unspoken and uncertain.

He turns back toward you.

His head tilts, just slightly. You can feel his gaze press into you, not cold or clinical — just curious. Quietly human.

“What’s your name?” he asks.

His voice is rough but it’s gentle, too, in a way that surprises you. Not a demand. Not a test. Just a question. A real one.

Your breath catches. No one’s asked you that in… you don’t know how long. Not since they took it from you. Scrubbed it out of your mind like it didn’t matter. Like you didn’t matter.

“I… I don’t remember,” you say, and the words sting more than you expect. “They— I think I had one… But now it’s just… gone.”

You don’t realize your fingers are curling into the fabric of your shift until you feel your nails pressing into your palms. Your voice lowers.

“I forget everything, sometimes. Not just my name. Whole days. Faces. Sounds. Like I blink and pieces of me disappear.”

A beat of silence.

And then — he nods.

He doesn’t offer false comfort. Doesn’t pretend it’s okay. But he listens. He hears you. His eyes linger a second longer than they did before.

And something subtle shifts in his expression — just enough for you to catch it. The faintest crease of thought. A flicker of something almost… protective. Like he’s already started turning the idea of you over in his mind. Not as a weapon. Not as a tool. But as a person. As someone who needs a name now. Someone he needs to remember.

A soft one.

Small.

Fragile.

Like a dove. Little dove.

He’s thinking it.

He doesn’t know why. Maybe it’s the way you move — careful, quiet, a ghost in bare feet. Maybe it’s the way you look at him without fear. Maybe it’s because in all this silence and blood and concrete, you’re the only living thing that doesn’t flinch when he breathes.

He doesn’t say it out loud.

But it’s there now. A name. His name for you.

And you don’t even know it yet.

—

Behind reinforced glass, above the cell like a god in a cage — one of the guards — Agent Voss watches the live cameras footage in silence.

He doesn’t blink.

The screen before him flickers with muted color — cold concrete, dull light, two figures seated on the floor like ghosts caught in a snowfall. The Winter Soldier is motionless, as always. But his eyes tell a different story.

They linger.

They watch.

Not with disinterest. Not with mindless submission.

With intent.

Voss leans back in his chair, arms crossed, a fresh page of notes untouched on the desk beside him. His sharp eyes flick between monitors, cataloging every shift in posture, every microscopic glance. He zooms in. Watches your lips move. No audio in this room — only the feed. Hydra didn’t want unnecessary noise interfering with judgment.

But Voss doesn’t need sound to understand what’s changing.

You’re close again. Closer this time. His body is still, but engaged. No tension in the shoulders. No signs of impending violence. And when you lower your head slightly — defeated, perhaps — he doesn’t look away.

That’s new.

“Unscheduled bonding,” he murmurs.

He picks up a pen, jots it down:

Soldier maintains eye contact. No evident resistance. Psychological tether forming.

He taps the screen with the back of the pen, right where your face is frozen.

Always the same posture. Always kneeling.

But he notices something else this time.

Interesting.

“She’s adapting faster than projected,” he says aloud, mostly to himself. “Emotionally reactive. Possibly empathic imprinting.” Another pause. “Still obedient, though. Still compliant. Kern will be pleased.”

He doesn’t say it, but it’s there between the lines:

Useful.

One of the guards near the back shifts uncomfortably. “You think it’s working?”

Voss doesn’t turn around.

“I think he’s starting to recognize her as other. Not target. Not threat. That’s the first fracture. From there… he might begin to protect.”

The guard frowns. “Isn’t that dangerous?”

“Of course it’s dangerous.” Voss finally looks away from the screen, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. “But everything worthwhile is.”

He clicks the comms unit off.

“Schedule another session,” he says, already walking toward the door. “Give them twelve hours to reset.”

“And the girl?”

Voss pauses, glancing back at the monitor one last time. “She won’t break,” he says simply. “Not yet.”

He leaves without waiting for an answer.

—

Session ends. They drag you out. Back to your cell. The door hisses shut behind you with a mechanical sigh.

Same concrete. Same flickering light. Same walls that know more about you than you do.

But something’s different now.

You stand in the middle of your cell, barely breathing. Every inch of your body aches — not from injury, not from any visible wound — but from the kind of exhaustion that settles in the bones. The kind that crawls under your skin and wraps around your heart like a vice.

You feel everything.

Too much.

You should be used to it by now. The cold. The silence. The forced calm you’ve taught yourself to wear like armor. But tonight, it’s heavy. Suffocating.

You sink to the floor slowly, knees folding beneath you, your arms wrapping tight around your ribs like they might keep you from falling apart.

Your fingers twitch.

There’s a residual hum in your veins — leftover emotion that doesn’t belong to you. It clings to your skin like smoke: the Soldier’s weight, his silence, his eyes on you.

You felt him today.

Not just his pain. Not just his loneliness. But the way he looked at you. Not like a stranger. Not like an object. But like something familiar.

And it rattled you.

It still does.

You press your forehead to your knees and squeeze your eyes shut, willing the feeling away. You’re not supposed to care. You’re not supposed to let him reach you like this. That’s not what Hydra trained you for.

You were meant to calm him. Soften him. Be useful.

Not… curious.

Not afraid.

Not seen.

Your breath catches in your throat.

The worst part is — you’re not even sure if it’s you anymore. These feelings, this softness… is it yours? Or is it something you’re absorbing from him? Did Hydra put this in you when they put you in his room?

Did they make you feel this way on purpose?

Your fists curl in the fabric of your shift. It’s thin. You’re always cold. And no matter how long you sit here, how still you stay, it never feels like you belong to yourself.

You remember what he asked. The way his voice sounded—rough, uncertain.

“Your name.”

But you didn’t have one.

You still don’t.

And now, as the silence wraps around you again, you realize how badly you want one. Something to hold onto. Something that’s yours. Not a number. Not a protocol.

Just… something real.

You lean back against the wall, tilting your head to stare at the flickering light overhead. Your throat feels tight.

You wonder if he’s thinking about you.

You wonder if Hydra saw it. If they noticed the way he looked at you like a question he didn’t know how to ask.

You wonder what they’ll do if they did.

You close your eyes.

And for the first time since this nightmare began, you don’t try to forget him.

You try to remember him. Even if it hurts.

———

The door seals shut behind you with the same brutal finality.

But this time, you don’t freeze.

You walk.

Slower than before. More careful. But not afraid.

You don’t know what’s changed. You’re still in the same white shift. Still barefoot. Still a numbered tool in Hydra’s eyes. But something is different. Something in the air. In the way he’s already watching you from his corner like he’s been waiting.

Not out of duty. Not out of protocol.

Out of something else.

You don’t speak. You just lower yourself onto the cold floor again, knees screaming from too many hours on concrete, but you don’t let it show. You fold your hands in your lap and meet his gaze.

His eyes stay on you. Calm. Dark. Almost… alert.

You breathe in, slow. Let your nerves settle. “I wasn’t sure you’d still be here,” you whisper.

It’s a stupid thing to say. Of course he’s here. Of course he hasn’t moved. The shackles wouldn’t let him if he tried.

But you say it anyway.

He blinks. One slow movement.

“Where else would I be?” His voice is low — like a drum buried deep in the earth. It rumbles more than it speaks.

You shrug, just a little.

“I don’t know. Thought maybe they’d… move you. Or maybe they’d decide to end our sessions.”

He doesn’t answer.

You lean back slightly, shifting your weight off your knees. The chill of the floor soaks through your skin, but you don’t care. You’re tired. You’re always tired.

You watch his face. Still unreadable. Still stone. But there’s something just beneath it now — a flicker, a twitch of thought behind the eyes. He’s listening.

“They’re watching,” you murmur. “They’re probably expecting me to reach for your hand again. Or… say something sweet. Something useful.”

His jaw tightens.

“They want to see if I can control you.”

Silence. A beat. Then his voice again — quieter this time.

“Can you?”

Your lips twitch — not a smile, exactly. Just a break in the stillness.

“No,” you say simply. “I think they’re hoping you think I can.”

You glance down, fingers ghosting over the floor between you.

“I don’t know what they’re doing to you,” you say softly. “But whatever it is… it isn’t who you are. I can feel that much.”

His breath hitches. It’s small. Barely there. But you feel it. That same emotional current humming underneath his silence — low and bruised and buried under years of reprogramming.

Pain. Loneliness.

But this time — confusion, too.

Like he doesn’t know why he wants to believe you.

You don’t reach for him. You don’t touch him. You just sit there with him, sharing the cold. The silence.

And then — his voice again. Low. Almost a breath. Like it wasn’t meant to be said aloud.

“You can’t know that, little dove.”

Your head lifts slowly.

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

But he doesn’t repeat it. Doesn’t clarify. He just looks at you with that same unreadable gaze, as if surprised by himself. As if he hadn’t meant to speak at all.

A flicker passes behind his eyes. Regret? Confusion? You can’t tell.

You blink, throat tightening.

He doesn’t call you anything else.

Doesn’t say another word.

But the silence that follows feels different now. Heavier. Like something new has entered the room — not just a nickname, not really. More like a thought given shape. An instinct he didn’t fully understand. A name he gave without knowing he was naming anything at all.

Your heart beats faster. You don’t ask again. You don’t break the moment.

You just let it settle there between you — the weight of it, the meaning of it, the why of it. You don’t know what it means to him yet.

But you know what it means to you. You’re not a ghost to him anymore.

You’re something else now.

Something he sees.

And you have a name.

Next Chapter

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barnesonly · 19 days ago

Text

˗ˏˋ ★ Little Dove ★ ˎˊ˗

winter soldier x empath!reader

word count: 6301

Chapter Two | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

You still sit with him. You don’t break the silence.

You can’t.

Not when it feels like the air is finally holding something fragile between you — something that could crack open if you breathe too loud.

But then… it does crack.

Not from him.

From you.

Your voice comes quiet. Almost too quiet.

“…Can I touch you?”

The words surprise even you. Not because they’re sudden — they’ve been building, trapped behind your ribs for days — but because you said them out loud. Because you let the ache slip through.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink.

You press on, a little shakier now. “I just—” You swallow hard. “It’s hard to explain. But when I… when I touch people, I can feel more. It’s like something opens. And with you, it’s…” You hesitate, breath catching. “It’s pulling at me. Like it wants to happen. Like it’s already happening and I just — I need it to be real.”

Still no answer. But his breathing has shifted. Slower. Deeper. Not cold. Not distant. Listening.

“I’m not trying to hurt you,” you add. “I don’t want to take anything. I just… I need to feel something. I need to know I’m still me. That you’re still you. Even if it’s just for a second.”

A beat.

Two.

You think he’s going to say no. Or worse — nothing at all. But then… his metal hand shifts slightly on the chain. Just enough to give you space. Just enough to say if you want to, you can.

Your breath hitches. You inch forward, slowly — not rushing, not pushing. You lift your hand with care, like you’re holding a thread of glass.

And when your fingertips graze his palm —

The world quiets.

It doesn’t explode. It doesn’t burn.

It settles.

A warmth pulses through you, slow and deep — not from him, not from you, but something that lives between you. Something buried and broken and barely stitched together.

You close your eyes. Just for a moment. Let yourself feel it. Let yourself have it.

His hand stays still in yours. He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t pull away.

Your fingers rest lightly in his metal palm, and it’s not warm — not like human skin — but it’s solid. Real. The ridges and cool plates beneath your touch make your throat tighten.

You think you might cry.

But you don’t.

You can’t.

Not here.

So instead, you just stay like that — half-curled in front of him, knees aching, bones cold, but your hand held open against his. Like an offering. Like a prayer.

He could crush you. You know that. If he wanted to, he could break every bone in your hand before you had time to gasp.

But he doesn’t. He lets you touch him. Lets you stay.

And slowly — so slowly — the edge of tension in your body starts to ease. Not vanish. But soften. Settle. The way your power settles when you stop trying to contain it — humming low, like a second heartbeat in your spine.

His head tilts. Barely. Like he’s trying to understand you better. Like he’s watching your expression for something you haven’t said yet.

“Why do you want this?” he asks. His voice is quieter now. Not just low — gentle. Unfamiliar in his own mouth, like it hasn’t been used for softness in a long, long time.

You look at him. He’s beautiful in that terrifying way — all sharp lines and bruised silence and eyes that don’t know how to lie. But under it — under all the programming, under all the control — there’s a man. A soul. Hurt, maybe, but still there.

And for some reason… he’s letting you see it.

“I don’t know,” you admit. Your voice wavers. Your fingers tighten just a little in his hand. Not possessive — grounding.

“I think I’m just… tired. Of being nothing. Of pretending this doesn’t affect me.”

A pause. Then, even softer:

“When I’m near you, it’s like I can breathe again. Like something’s pulling at me, asking me to remember who I was before all this. Before them.”

You lower your gaze, suddenly unsure if you’ve said too much. If you’ve broken something sacred by naming it out loud.

But he doesn’t pull away.

Instead — unbelievably — he moves.

His thumb shifts slightly. Just enough to press against your knuckle. Not a squeeze. Not even pressure. Just presence.

Your breath shudders. And when you look up — his eyes are already on you.

Not blank.

Not empty.

Not the soldier they sent to kill.

But something else. Someone.

“You don’t feel like them,” he says quietly.

You blink. “What?”

He shakes his head once. A flicker of something — confusion, maybe. Vulnerability. The echo of a man trying to understand the light you carry into his darkness.

“You don’t feel like Hydra.”

Your lips part — not with a reply, but with the sharp pull of emotion in your chest. He felt that. He knows that. Somewhere deep inside, past all the noise, he knows you’re not like them.

You want to cry again. But instead — you whisper:

“Neither do you.”

A long silence stretches between you.

But this time, it’s not heavy.

It’s full.

And for the first time since you were thrown into this nightmare — you don’t feel alone.

Not completely.

Not while his hand is still in yours.

———

The lights are brighter in this room.

Not warm. Not comforting. Just clinical. Exposing.

You sit in the same chair as before, wrists folded neatly in your lap, trying not to show how badly your hands are shaking.

Agent Kern watches you across the metal table — same pristine uniform, same gloved fingers laced together, same sharp, unreadable stare. But there’s something different in him today. A tension. A stillness too exact to be casual.

He knows something.

You force yourself to keep breathing. One in. One out.

“You were with him for twenty-seven minutes,” Kern says calmly, reading off a clipboard like it’s scripture. “That’s longer than usual.”

You nod once. “He didn’t push me away.”

Kern doesn’t react. Just scribbles something. The scratch of his pen feels louder than it should.

“Did he speak?”

You hesitate. Just a second.

“Yes.”

Kern looks up at you. Not dramatically. Just a flick of his eyes — like a knife glinting in a dark hallway.

“And what did he say?”

Your throat tightens. “He asked why I touched him. I told him I needed it.”

Kern tilts his head. “Needed it?”

“Yes,” you say, a little too fast, “I can feel his emotions clearly this way. Being near him calms the noise. Makes me more stable.”

He watches you for another beat. You can almost hear the wheels turning behind his eyes.

“And what did he say to that?”

You hesitate again. Not for dramatic effect — just because you don’t know how much truth to offer before it becomes dangerous.

“He said I didn’t feel like them.”

Kern’s eyes narrow.

“That’s not an operational phrase.”

“No.”

“That’s not part of his language bank.”

You hold his gaze, heartbeat ticking hard against your ribs.

“I think it means he’s starting to… separate. Between who’s part of this and who isn’t. Between threat and non-threat.”

You expect a reaction — surprise, interest, anything… But Kern just leans back in his chair.

“Interesting,” he says finally. His voice is smooth. Too smooth. “And what do you think you are, exactly? Threat? Or tool?”

You blink. The words hit harder than you expect.

Tool. You’ve heard that one before. From the nurses. From the scientists. From your own mouth, whispering reminders to yourself in the cell when you forgot how to breathe.

Be useful. Be soft. Be what they need.

“I think,” you say quietly, “I’m the only one who sees him as a person.”

Kern’s expression doesn’t change.

But something shifts. His fingers twitch slightly — a restrained movement. A flash of something just below the surface. “You’re getting attached,” he says flatly.

“I’m doing my job.”

“Your job,” he echoes, eyes narrowing, “is to keep him stable. To soothe his aggression. Not to indulge your own need for connection.”

You flinch. Just slightly.

But it’s enough. He sees it.

“You were selected because you’re malleable,” Kern continues, voice colder now. “Not because he likes you. Not because you matter to him.”

You lower your gaze. The shame flares hot in your chest, but beneath it — quieter — there’s anger. A slow, steady ember.

You don’t answer.

He stands. “Session in two days. We’ll skip a day, let you reset.” he says. “We’ll be monitoring every heartbeat.”

You nod without looking up.

He leaves.

The door seals behind him. And once again, you’re alone. Alone with the weight of what you can’t say. With the memory of the Soldier’s hand in yours — unmoving, unreadable, but not rejecting.

You stay there for a while in the silence… And somewhere inside, beneath the shame and the exhaustion, you feel something curl in your chest and dig its claws in.

You matter.

You know you do.

Even if they don’t want you to.

Interview over.

———

They drag you back to your cell, drop you on the floor — the way they always do.

Your fingertips are digging into your palms now. Hard enough to leave half-moon shapes behind. You don’t even realize it until your vision starts to blur.

You’re not crying. Not exactly. It’s not tears. It’s… pressure. Like something behind your ribs is pressing too hard against the inside of your bones. Like if you exhale too much, you’ll break.

They want you calm.

They want you quiet.

They want you to walk back into that room in two days like nothing is wrong. Like it’s all working.

You rise stiffly and move to the sink in your corner cell. The water is cold, almost sharp, when you splash it on your face — but it doesn’t help. The shake in your hands doesn’t stop. Your reflection stares back, hollow-eyed and pale, like a ghost wearing your skin.

You shouldn’t go there.

The thought comes soft, unspoken.

You could say you’re sick. You could fake a fever, a tremor, anything. Kern wouldn’t risk losing control of his precious asset. They’d delay. They’d reschedule. You could buy yourself time.

Time to breathe.

Time to forget the weight of his hand in yours. The way his thumb moved — just slightly — like he was real. Like he was choosing to stay.

You grip the edge of the sink tighter.

Because the truth is… you’re not scared of him.

You’re scared of what you’re becoming.

You’re scared that the silence between you was the first time in months you’ve felt like a person. That the sound of his voice — low, cautious, gentle — has been playing on a loop in your mind ever since.

“Why do you want this?”

“You don’t feel like them.”

You press your fists to your chest like you can push the memory out.

You’re not supposed to feel this. You were meant to soothe him. Anchor him. Be a tether, not a mirror.

But something’s shifting now. You’re starting to see him. Not just the shell. Not just the Winter Soldier. The man underneath.

And worse — he’s starting to see you back.

You lean your forehead against the cold concrete wall, breath shallow.

Don’t go, you tell yourself. Just this once. Just rest. Tell them you’re unwell. Keep your distance. You don’t need him. You don’t need anyone.

But the truth slithers through you, dark and shameful.

You want to go back.

You want him to look at you again.

You want the silence. The stillness. The impossible safety of a man who could kill you in a heartbeat choosing not to.

You want to hear his voice again — not the blank voice they gave him, but the one that shook when he said your touch felt different.

Your knees give a little. You slide down the wall slowly, curl in on yourself.

And for the first time since you were dragged into this hell — you admit it.

You want him to choose you.

Not because he was ordered to. Not because you’re useful but because something inside him — something broken and forgotten — knows you.

You bury your face in your arms.

You won’t pretend to be sick.

You’ll go back.

Because you’re not afraid of the Soldier. You’re afraid of the way your heart beats quieter when he looks at you like you’re real.

And you don’t know if it’s love.

But it’s something.

And it’s already too late to stop it.

———

You step through like always — silent, steady, trained — but your heart is doing something wild behind your ribs. Like it’s trying to throw itself forward. Toward him.

He’s sitting exactly where he was all these times before. Ankles shackled, arms loose at his sides, head tilted slightly forward.

And again his eyes lift the moment you enter.

Not slowly. Not by accident. He waited.

Again.

You freeze for a half-second. Just long enough to catch it — the flicker in his face. The smallest change. A softening at the corner of his mouth. It’s not quite a smile.

But it’s close.

It’s gone in an instant — like he didn’t mean to let it slip.

But it happened.

And your breath catches like a wire pulled tight.

He saw you.

He sees you.

You sit across from him — slower than usual — not because you’re stalling, but because your body is listening now. Waiting to feel that strange stillness again. That hum between you. The one that doesn’t belong to Hydra.

For a few seconds, he just watches you. Not hostile. Not guarded. Just… present.

You wet your lips. Your voice is a whisper when it finally comes.

“Hi.”

His brow twitches. Not a reaction, not really — but not neutral, either. His head tilts just a little. “Why didn’t you come yesterday?” he asks.

You blink. You weren’t expecting that — for him to actually care this much about your presence. Or maybe you did?

I—” Your voice falters. You swallow. “Kern said so. Said we need time to reset”

“Kern?” His brow raised slightly.

“One of the agents.”

“Ah,” he nods, lightly. He’s quiet. Then, softly — softer than anything you’ve heard him say yet:

“I was waiting for you yesterday.”

The words hit you like a wave.

He missed you.

He doesn’t know it, maybe. Doesn’t have the language for it.

But his presence — his choice to say that — it’s everything.

Your hands fidget in your lap. You don’t reach for him this time. You don’t want to scare it off.

“You remembered I wasn’t there,” you say quietly, smiling softly at him, somehow with pride or maybe just pure happiness.

His eyes don’t leave yours.

“I remember you.”

The room tilts. You exhale shakily, eyes burning. You shouldn’t feel this much. You shouldn’t let it in. But the way he says it — like it costs him something — like every word is carved from stone and still he offers it to you. You nod. Just once. Like a vow.

He shifts slightly. The chains clink. Not threatening — just… movement. Adjustment. Like he’s trying to find where to put this feeling.

“I don’t know why I want you to come back,” he murmurs, eyes lowering. “But I do.”

You close your eyes. Just for a second. The pain in your chest is unbearable. Not because it hurts — but because it doesn’t. Because for the first time, you feel safe.

Not with the guards.

Not with the cameras.

Not with Kern.

With him. With the weapon they said could never be human again.

You don’t touch him this time, you don’t have to because when he looks up again — that not-quite-smile is back. Just a flicker. Just for you.

It stays there for half a breath longer this time before his face shutters again. There’s a thrum deep in your chest. Like something waking up. Something old and afraid and starved.

For connection.

For gentleness.

For someone who looks at you like you’re not a tool, not an asset, not a ghost in someone else’s war.

Just a girl.

Just a presence.

Your throat is dry, but you ask anyway — softly:

“What do you mean? About wanting me to come back.”

He doesn’t answer right away. His gaze drifts — down to your hands in your lap, to the floor, to the flicker of light overhead like it’s too bright now. Like he’s remembering something he’s not supposed to.

“I… don’t know,” he admits. “It’s easier when you’re here.”

The words are so quiet they could vanish. But they don’t. They land between you like a secret. You study him, unsure how to breathe around the ache blooming in your lungs.

“Easier?” you echo.

He nods, almost imperceptibly. His jaw tightens. You can tell it costs him something — not just to say it, but to feel it.

He shifts again. The metal chain tugs softly at his wrist, and his voice drops lower. “Everything else is loud. The missions. The resets. The voices.”

Your heart cracks.

“And me?”

He looks at you.

This time, really looks — not like a soldier cataloging a target, but like a man trying to remember what peace looks like.

“You’re quiet,” he says. “Not in your voice. Just… in here.” He taps a finger to his temple.

You blink. He means your mind. The place no one else ever touches without breaking something. You blink again, and tears threaten — hot, unwelcome, dangerous. You look away fast. You don’t want him to see.

But he already has. His metal hand shifts, inching forward on instinct — not close enough to touch, but almost. “I just… I don’t like when you’re gone,” he says, and it sounds raw. Unfiltered.

It cuts straight through you. You lift your eyes again. “Neither do I.”

There’s silence. Thick, heavy silence.

But it isn’t empty.

It means something now.

You feel it — like the gravity in the room changed. Like you could fall into him if you let yourself.

His eyes are still on you.

“You should touch me again,” he says suddenly.

It knocks the wind from you. Your lips part. “What?”

“Like last time,” he says, low. “When you asked.”

Your pulse spikes. You hadn’t thought he would ask you that. Not that.

“Did you like it?” you whisper, heart pounding.

He nods once. “Didn’t hurt,” he says.

Then, softer: “Felt real.”

Your hand moves without thinking — slow, careful — like you’re reaching for a wounded animal and when your fingertips brush his metal hand this time, he doesn’t flinch.

He watches the contact. Watches you.

And then — impossibly — he turns his hand over, offering the palm.

Letting you hold it.

Like he’s ready.

Like he wants it.

You curl your fingers into his and lets out a breath.

And that smile — that flicker — returns. Still small. Still almost nothing… But it’s there for you.

His hand is heavy in yours — cool metal, impossible strength — but it doesn’t scare you.

Because he gave it to you.

Because he chose.

And now he’s watching you again — not the way he did before, sharp and assessing — but like he’s trying to understand something. Something inside you he doesn’t have words for yet. You stroke your thumb gently across the metal. He glances down at the contact.

Then — his voice, low and strange:

“Do they hurt you?”

You freeze. Your breath catches. He doesn’t look up right away, like he’s afraid of the answer. Or what it’ll do to him and you don’t answer at first. You can’t. Because something in your chest is splintering. Not from fear. Not from pain. From being seen.

You swallow hard. Try to speak. “Why are you asking me that?”

He finally lifts his gaze… And his eyes — god — there’s something new in them now. A tension. A fury, quiet and coiled. Still buried deep beneath all the conditioning, but there.

Because you didn’t say no.

Because you hesitated.

His jaw works. “I know what it’s like. To be used.”

Your lips part, you want to say something but the words don’t come because he’s still speaking. Still unfolding.

“They hurt me,” he says, voice flat. “Strap me down. Run wires through my skull. Rip out what they don’t like and fill it with noise.” His jaw clenches. “I hate them,” he says. The words are soft. Final.

Then he glances at your hand still wrapped in his — as if realizing it’s the only gentle thing in the room. “I don’t want them to do that to you.”

Your throat is too tight to answer.

He leans forward slightly. Just an inch. Just enough for you to feel it — the weight of his concern. The shield forming where no one taught him to build one.

“Did they hurt you?” he asks again, quieter this time.

And you realize: he isn’t asking to know. He’s asking so he can remember. So he can stop them. So he can keep that one piece of you safe — whatever part they haven’t already broken.

You try to smile. It trembles. “Not the way they hurt you,” you say. “But… it’s not easy.”

His eyes narrow slightly. A flicker of emotion — one that doesn’t belong to Hydra. Not discipline. Not calculation.

Something almost… feral.

You squeeze his hand gently. “They tell me I’m here to help you,” you whisper. “But it doesn’t feel like that.”

He tilts his head. “What does it feel like?”

You don’t answer. You can’t.

Because what it feels like — right now — is this:

You, sitting across from a man who was turned into a ghost, who was stripped of everything soft — and still, somehow, he is trying to protect you.

And that makes you feel something so devastatingly human, you don’t know what to do with it. So instead, you whisper the only truth that doesn’t hurt:

“I like it better when it’s just us.”

His gaze lingers on your face.

“Me too.”

You’re still holding his hand when the door creaks open. You both flinch — not from fear. From instinct.

You don’t know how long you sat there, it didn’t feel real. You snap back to reality the moment you hear the door open.

The spell breaks.

Kern enters like he always does: clipboard in one hand, a pen tapping against his thigh. But this time, he doesn’t approach with tests or notes. He stays near the door. Watching.

You straighten slowly, tense. The soldier shifts too, eyes flicking from you to the intruder. His fingers tighten around yours.

And that’s when you know something’s wrong.

Kern’s expression is too calm. Too still. He tilts his head slightly, eyes narrowing.

“Let’s run a little test,” he says. “Shall we?”

You open your mouth. “Kern—”

But it’s already too late.

His voice is low. Deliberate. And Russian.

“Желание.”

Soldier jerks. His breath hitches — not a gasp, but close. Like something inside him just twitched.

You turn sharply. “Stop it—!”

Kern’s voice is louder now. Crisp. Measured. “Ржавый. Семнадцать. Рассвет.”

“No—!” You lurch to your feet, but Soldier doesn’t move. He can’t.

He’s shaking now — barely. Like his muscles are locked in a war you can’t see.

“Печь. Девять.”

His jaw clenches. The metal hand curls into a fist.

“Kern, please!” you snap.

But Kern doesn’t even blink. “Добросердечный. Возвращение на родину.”

Soldier lurches forward like he’s being pulled. His breath is ragged now — almost a growl.

You reach for him. You try, you so desperately try to stop this, whatever this is. You try to hold it together. You turn to The Soldier, you try to speak to him through it. “It’s okay. You’re okay—”

And then, softly, Kern finishes it:

“Один. Грузовой вагон.”

Silence.

He rises.

Like a shadow.

Like something unchained.

Your breath catches as you stumble backward.

He’s looking through you now. Like you’re not there. Not really. The Soldier’s breathing is fast now. His eyes dart — not to Kern. Not to you. To the floor. To the air. Like he’s somewhere else.

Kern watches like a scientist in a lab.

You know what this is — what he wants. He’s trying to break it. Break you. Wants to see if he will hurt you. Wants to prove you’re wrong to believe he’s something more than a weapon.

Your voice trembles. “Please…”

He steps forward. Slow. Measured. His eyes are wide but empty. Hollow.

“It’s me. Little Dove. You remember me.”

Nothing.

You don’t move. You don’t run. You just breathe — slow and steady — even though your body is screaming. “Please,” you whisper, “don’t let them take this from you.”

His metal arm lifts. You flinch—but don’t close your eyes.

He stops. His hand shakes. Hard. Like he’s fighting it. Like there’s something else screaming inside him, too.

And then everything snaps.

The Soldier grabs you by the throat. You don’t even have time to scream. The cold of his metal hand is the first thing you feel — the pressure second. He pins you back, not slamming but shoving, calculated and brutal. Your feet skid against the floor. Your hands claw at his wrist.

You can’t breathe.

Your vision starts to blur.

But you don’t fight him. You look at him and your lips move even without air. “Please.”

For a heartbeat, nothing happens.

Then — his expression cracks. His eyes widen. Blink. Blink again.

And then he sees you.

The Soldier’s grip falters.

He looks down at his hand.

At your throat.

At the bruises already forming.

And he stumbles back like he’s been shot.

He releases you so fast you hit the ground coughing, air burning in your lungs. His gaze is still fixed on his own hand.

Like he doesn’t understand how it got there.

Like it betrayed him.

He backs up. Shaking. Trembling. His mouth opens like he’s going to say something — but nothing comes out.

Kern, still standing by the door, clicks his pen.

“Interesting,” he says mildly.

You look up at him, eyes burning. “You did this,” you rasp.

But he’s not even looking at you anymore.

He’s watching the Soldier — who’s still staring at his metal arm, like it’s no longer a part of him. Like it’s a weapon that acted on its own.

And maybe it did.

Kern smiles faintly, glancing at you.

“Good to know the programming still works on you.”

You’re still gasping when the door bursts open again. Two guards sweep in like a storm — faceless, armored, efficient. You barely lift your head before they’re on you.

“Wait—” your voice is hoarse, broken. “Don’t—”

Gloved hands seize your arms.

You thrash, cough, try to hold onto the floor, something, but they’ve done this too many times. You’re yanked to your feet with such force your knees nearly buckle.

The Soldier jerks forward. Not far — the chains stop him. But his body reacts on instinct. Like he’s going to stop them.

And then he doesn’t.

He freezes.

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t reach. Doesn’t fight.

He just stands there, watching.

Frozen in horror.

Like if he moves again, he’ll hurt you worse.

Like he already believes he’s a monster.

“Let me go!” you cry, struggling hard now. “He didn’t mean to—”

The guards don’t care. They drag you out anyway.

Your feet scrape against the floor. You’re coughing and pulling and twisting, but the Soldier’s eyes never leave yours — not even when you disappear through the door, not even when Kern steps into his line of sight again.

That shattered look stays. Even when you’re gone.

And Kern?

He just laughs under his breath.

“Attachment,” he says casually. “Always the most fragile weakness.”

———

The cell door slams behind you like a gunshot.

You stumble forward, landing hard on your knees. The air still won’t come right — your throat burns, every breath a jagged edge.

You’re not crying.

You won’t.

Even if your hands are shaking, even if your neck is raw and purpled, even if your chest feels like something has been torn out — you refuse to give them that.

The heavy click of boots follows. You don’t need to look to know it’s him.

Kern.

He lets the silence stretch long, lets it crawl into the corners of the room like mold.

“I warned you,” he says at last, voice calm. Too calm. “You get too close to fire — you’ll get burned, little dove.” He lets out a dark chuckle. “Such a nickname he’s got you, huh?”

You press your palms into the floor. You want to rise. You want to scream.

But you’re still trying to breathe.

“Don’t look so surprised,” he continues. “That was always going to happen. It’s what he is. What he was made to be.”

Your voice is hoarse when it scrapes out. “You did it on purpose.”

He crouches beside you, one hand on his knee, the other tapping a cigarette against a silver case he hasn’t even opened.

“I reminded him,” Kern says with mock patience. “That’s all. A few simple words. And look how fast he remembered who he belongs to.”

You look up at him now — eyes burning.

“That wasn’t him.”

Kern grins, small and smug. “No? Then who was it choking the life out of you?”

You don’t blink. “You.”

That wipes the grin clean off his face for a second. But he recovers fast — steps back with a small exhale, like you’ve amused him instead of landed a blow.

“Sentimental attachment makes you sloppy,” he says. “We needed to reset expectations.”

You don’t answer. You can’t. Your voice is fraying.

But your glare says enough.

Kern taps his cigarette case once against the bars before turning for the exit.

“Rest up. You’ll see him again soon. Maybe next time he’ll finish the job.”

And then he’s gone.

The door slams shut again. This time it sounds like the end of something.

But you pull yourself up slowly, hands trembling, blood singing in your ears.

Because it’s not the end.

Not even close.

———

You step into the room like always.

But nothing feels like always.

Your throat still aches — not from the pressure, but from the silence that followed. From the sound of his voice gone flat. From the feel of cold metal where warmth had started to grow.

Your skin blooms with bruises — stark against your collarbone and the fragile stem of your neck. You tried to cover them. Kern didn’t bother. Maybe he wanted them seen.

Maybe he wanted to see them.

But the Winter Soldier doesn’t look at you.

He always did. Every time before, the second you crossed the threshold, his gaze found yours — sharp, searching, strange.

Now? His head is down. Eyes low. Shackled hands limp in his lap.

And the silence is unbearable.

You swallow — wincing at the pull. You take slow, careful steps towards him and sit down on the ground next to him without a word. You try not to flinch when the chains rattle. Try not to remember the sound of them dragging as he stood and reached for your throat.

His voice, when it finally comes, is hoarse.

“I told them I didn’t want you back.”

Your heart doesn’t break.

It sinks — cold and slow, like it’s being drowned.

You don’t answer right away. You don’t know how.

“I didn’t mean to,” he says next — quiet, broken. “I told them. I told them.”

His hands flex in the cuffs. Not violently. Like he’s checking they’re still there. That he’s still bound.

“I would never—” He cuts off. Shakes his head like the words don’t belong to him.

You sit still. You have to — not out of fear, but something deeper. Something aching. You see it on him. In him.

He’s afraid.

Not of you.

Of himself.

“It wasn’t you,” you say softly.

He flinches. “I hurt you,” he mutters, barely audible. “I saw the marks. I felt it.” He glances at your bruised neck. “I still see them.”

You want to reach for him — god, you do — but you don’t because you know — even your kindness could cut him now.

“I wasn’t afraid of you,” you whisper.

His head lifts just slightly — not all the way. Like he wants to look, but can’t bear what he’ll see.

“Then what were you afraid of?” he asks, voice splintering.

You meet his eyes — because someone has to.

“Of losing you to them.”

That gets him.

His jaw tightens, eyes burning with something he doesn’t have a name for. His whole body goes still, like if he breathes wrong, he’ll shatter.

“I don’t want to be theirs anymore,” he says, and it’s a confession. A plea. “But they live in me.”

“They don’t have to win,” you say. “Not if you fight.”

“And if I lose?”

“You won’t lose me.”

He looks at you now and there’s so much pain in it — but something else, too. Something like hope.

You sit in the quiet, watching him. His face is unreadable again — the stillness of a weapon, not a man.

But you know better now. Slowly — so slowly — you lift your hand. Just an inch off your thigh. Palm open. Gentle. Not demanding. Just offering.

He sees it.

And flinches.

“Don’t.”

It’s sharp. Not loud, but final. Like he’s choking on glass.

Your hand falls. Your throat closes and then — because you can’t just leave it there — your voice cracks open.

“Please.”

He shakes his head. Not at you. At himself.

“I can’t… I don’t trust what I’ll do.”

You blink through the burn in your eyes. You don’t look away.

“I do.”

He exhales through his nose, bitter and broken.

“You shouldn’t.”

You inch closer, your fingers trembling in your lap.

“They made you do it,” you whisper. “Not you. Not the man who waited for me. Who remembered me.”

He looks at you — and it’s unbearable. His eyes are wild with guilt. With panic.

“They’ll do it again,” he rasps. “You don’t understand. They live in me.”

“I don’t care,” you say, and the truth of it rocks through you. “They can live in you. They can whisper and push and break you in every way — but they don’t get this.”

He’s frozen.

“This thing we built?” you whisper. “They don’t get it. Not unless we give it to them.”

His breath is ragged now. Like he’s drowning. Like every word you speak is pulling him toward the surface and he doesn’t know how to breathe up here anymore.

“I don’t have anyone else,” you say. “It’s you. It’s always been you.” You reach for him again. Hand open. Shaking. “Please,” you whisper. “Let me remind you.”

And this time — this time — he doesn’t pull away. He doesn’t move, either. Doesn’t lean in or meet your touch. He just lets it happen.

Your fingers brush the back of his hand — barely there. Just skin against metal. Warmth against cold.

His eyes close like it hurts. Not the pain of impact. The pain of trust.

You just sit there, hand resting lightly over his. He just feels human and he lets you hold what little of him is left.

You don’t mean to say it.

Not here. Not like this.

But the words have been sitting in your chest too long, and they hurt more staying quiet.

“I’m not sure what I feel toward you,” you whisper.

His head shifts slightly. Just enough to show he’s listening — but he doesn’t look at you. Not yet.

Your fingers curl against your knees. You stare at them like they might hold the rest of the sentence.

“But it’s… something.”

He still doesn’t move.

“And I know I shouldn’t feel anything at all. Not for you. Not in this place.” You let out a dry, quiet breath. “But I do.”

The silence stretches — and for a second, it feels unbearable. Like you might shatter inside it.

“I don’t know what to call it,” you murmur. “But I keep thinking about you. Not just when I’m here.”

You glance up. His jaw is tight. Shoulders locked. Like he’s holding something back with all the force he has.

“And I know it’s stupid,” you go on, voice cracking. “I know they could rip it away at any second. But what we’ve built — this thing between us — it means something.”

He flinches like it hurts to hear that.

But you keep going. Because if you don’t say it now, you never will.

“You said you remembered me.” Your throat tightens. “Even when you weren’t supposed to. Even when you probably didn’t want to.”

You lift your eyes to him again. This time, he meets them.

And the look he gives you — it wrecks you.

Because it’s not blank. It’s not cold.

It’s grief.

“I don’t want to lose that,” you say softly. “I don’t want to lose you.”

And for the first time in too long — he reaches back.

Slowly, like he’s not sure if the moment is real — like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he touches you wrong — he leans forward.

You barely breathe.

His metal hand rises first. Hesitates midair.

Then it cups your cheek — careful, gentle, reverent.

You don’t move. You don’t flinch.

And when he leans in — when his lips brush yours — it’s not with hunger. It’s not control.

It’s longing. It’s fear. It’s hope.

And you kiss him back like it’s the only real thing in the world.

Because maybe it is.

Next Chapter 🕊️

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