wife, mom, equestrian, stoner, disabled 57 she/her

The man is a menace. A complete and utter disaster of a human being who somehow manages to fail half his classes while looking like he stepped out of a cologne ad. He doesn't give a single flying fuck about his GPA, shows up to lectures hungover more often than not, has this way of smirking at you that makes your blood pressure spike in more ways than one. 

Three days ago, everything changed. And by changed, you mean you fucked him in a club bathroom like some kind of feral animal in heat, and now you're sitting here trying to pretend it never happened while your pussy has the audacity to clench at the memory.

It went down like this. Steve and Nat had dragged you both to that overcrowded club downtown, sticky floors and watered-down drinks that cost twenty dollars. You'd volunteered to be the designated driver because you're a good friend, responsible, the kind of person who thinks ahead. What you didn't know — because why the fuck would you, since you and Bucky barely exchange civil words — was that he'd made the same decision.

So there you were. Stone-cold sober, watching Nat and Steve get progressively more handsy on the dance floor while nursing the same Coke you'd been working on for an hour. You were contemplating faking a family emergency just to escape when you noticed some guy sidling up to you at the bar.

He was fine. Decent smile, nice enough jawline, generically attractive. And you were bored, so you smiled back. Laughed at his mediocre joke. Let him lean in close enough that you could smell his cologne, woody and expensive that did absolutely nothing for you.

What you didn't notice, what you were too focused on Mr. Mediocre to catch, was Bucky watching from across the bar, jaw doing that tense thing it does when he's pissed, fingers drumming against his beer bottle.

The guy's hand landed on your lower back, and that's when Bucky materialized beside you like some kind of vengeful spirit. "We need to go."

You turned to look at him, ready to tell him exactly where he could shove his we, when you caught the look on his face. "Excuse me?"

"Steve's sick. We're leaving."

The guy next to you raised his eyebrows, clearly picking up on the tension, and Bucky's gaze slid to him with something that might have been a smile if smiles could draw blood.

"Bucky —" But he was gripping your elbow, steering you away from the bar, toward the bathroom hallway, and you were too stunned to resist.

The second you were out of earshot from the main crowd, you yanked your arm free. "What the actual fuck is your problem?"

"My problem?" He laughed, and it wasn't a nice sound. "My problem is you throwing yourself at some random dickhead when you're supposed to be here with us."

"I wasn't throwing myself at anyone, you absolute asshole. I was having a conversation. You know, that thing normal people do?"

"Looked like more than a conversation to me."

"Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't realize I needed your permission to talk to people." Your voice was getting louder, going shrill. "And Steve's not fucking sick, so what's the real issue here? Mad I'm not paying attention to you?"

Bucky's jaw clenched and unclenched before he spat his next words. "You're such a fucking brat."

"And you're a mean drunk. As usual."

"I'm not drunk."

"What? Then why the hell am I not drinking?" The words came out with frustration that had been building. "This whole time I could've been getting shitfaced instead of playing babysitter to —"

"I'm not taking care of your ass," Bucky cut in. His chest was rising and falling too fast, the way his eyes kept dropping to your mouth and then snapping back up like he was fighting himself.

"Fuck off, Barnes."

You turned on your heel and headed for the bathroom, needing space, needing air, needing to be anywhere but near him and the confusing mess of anger and heat that seemed to tangle in your stomach whenever you fought.

The bathroom was one of those single-occupancy ones with a lock on the door and a mirror that had seen better days. It was blessedly empty. You braced your hands on the sink and took a breath, trying to calm the frantic beating of your heart.

The door flew open behind you. Bucky filled the frame, broad shoulders and wild eyes, and before you could tell him to get out, to leave you the fuck alone, he was inside with the lock clicking home behind him.

"What are you —"

His mouth crashed into yours, and every coherent thought evaporated. The kiss was mean, biting, aggressive, tasting like the anger that had been simmering between you for months, since the first time you met maybe. His hand fisted in your hair, yanking your head back so he could devour your mouth properly, and you heard yourself moan before you could stop it.

"Shut up," he growled against your lips. You wanted to argue, push him away and knee him in the balls for being such a presumptuous prick, but his other hand was sliding up your thigh, shoving your skirt up around your hips.

"You're such an asshole," you did manage to gasp out when he moved to your neck, teeth scraping over your jugular.

"Yeah?" His fingers found the edge of your underwear, you felt him smirking against your skin. "Is that why you're soaked?"

God, you wished he was wrong, but your pussy had apparently missed the memo about hating him, embarrassingly wet and dripping down your thighs already. His thick fingers made filthy, wet squelching sounds as they slid through your slick folds, spreading your juices everywhere. "Bucky —"

"That's right. Say my name." He pushed two fingers inside you without warning, and your knees nearly buckled. "Let everyone in this shitty club know who's making you feel this good."

You bit down on your lip, trying to stay quiet out of pure spite, but he crooked his fingers just right and a whimper escaped before you could stop it. He was good at this, unfairly good. His thumb found your clit while his fingers worked inside you, and you could feel yourself getting close already, wound too tight from months of unresolved tension.

"Look at you," he murmured, wonder creeping into his voice even as his words stayed cruel. "So fucking desperate. How long have you been thinking about this, huh? How long have you been getting yourself off to the thought of me?"

"Fuck you," you spat. Spat might've been an exaggeration for it came out breathy and weak.

"Oh, I'm gonna fuck you, baby. Gonna fuck you so hard you forget that asshole's name. Forget your own name."

He pulled his fingers out. Before you could protest the loss, he was spinning you around and bending you over the sink. Your palms slapped against the porcelain, as you felt him behind, the hard length of his cock pressing against your ass through his jeans. The sound of his belt buckle alone made you wetter.

"You want this?" Voice rough, he tugged your hair to make you meet his eyes in the mirror. "Tell me you want this."

"Yes." It came out as a hiss. "Now stop talking and fuck me already."

"Needy little thing." Bucky shoved his thick cock inside you in one brutal thrust, stretching your open around his girth until you were gasping and clawing at the sink. Nothing could have prepared you for the stretch. He was big, bigger than you'd let yourself imagine in the privacy of your own room. The burn of it mixed with pleasure, had you gasping. "Tight," he gritted out, pupils blown so wide and face slack with pleasure as he gripped your hips, and thrusted into your weeping cunt. "Jesus Christ, you're squeezing me so fucking tight." Brutal, punishing strokes had you scrambling for purchase on the sink. Each thrust pushed you forward, and you had to brace yourself to keep from smacking into the mirror, heavy balls slapping against your clit with every snap.

"This what you wanted?" he panted, one hand gripping your hip hard enough to bruise while the other slid up to wrap around your throat. "Wanted me to ruin this greedy little cunt?"

"Yes — fuck — yes —"

"Who's making you feel good? Say it."

"You — Bucky — oh my god —" The bathroom filled with the obscene sound of skin slapping against skin, the wet slide of his cock pistoning in and out of you, and your moans that you couldn't control anymore. He felt incredible, impossibly good

"That's it, fuck." His grip on your throat tightened just enough to make your head spin. "Take it."

You could feel your orgasm building, coiling tight in your belly like a spring wound too far. His cock was dragging against your walls, thick and perfect, so much you were babbling now, words falling out of your mouth, uncontrolled. "Please — please — I need —"

"You need to cum?" His laugh was mean. "Look at you, begging so pretty for me. Such a good girl when you're getting fucked stupid." The hand on your hip slid around to your clit, pressing down hard, circling the swollen bundle of nerves in time with his thrusts. That was all it took. You came with a broken cry, clamping down around him so hard you felt him stagger.

"Fuck — fuck —" He pounded into you through it, chasing his own release, getting sloppy, losing his rhythm. "Gonna fill this pussy up. Gonna make you drip with my cum."

True to his word, he buried himself deep and came with a groan that you felt vibrate through your whole body. You could feel him pulsing inside you, spilling hot and thick, triggering another smaller aftershock that left you trembling. His forehead pressed between your shoulder blades, cock still buried inside you.

Reality started creeping back in. The uncomfortable reality that you'd just fucked Bucky Barnes in a club bathroom, smeared makeup and all. He pulled out slowly, his cum immediately starting to leak out of you in a thick, creamy trail down your thigh. You felt him watching it, possessive. "This is never happening again," you said, trying to inject some steel into your voice even though your legs felt like jelly.

Through the smudged mirror, you could see his expression, something like disappointment or hurt taking over his features, but it was gone so fast you couldn't be sure. "Yeah. Never again."

When you turned to face him, his face was carefully blank. Expecting a fight or at least some sarcastic comment, you stared at him, but he just looked at you with those blue eyes that gave nothing away. "Seriously? You agree?"

He shrugged, already tucking himself back into his jeans with an insulting efficiency. "You said it, not me. But yeah, probably a bad idea."

It shouldn't have stung. You were the one who said it first. But how quickly he agreed, how easily he dismissed what had just happened, made your chest feel tight. 

Of course he agreed. He hated you just as much as you hated him. This was just... what? Hate sex? Getting it out of your systems? It didn't mean anything. "Right. Bad idea," you echoed, trying to fix your skirt with shaking hands.

He watched you struggle with your appearance for a moment, then reached out and gently tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. The gesture was so at odds with everything that had just happened that you froze. "You good?" his voice was soft.

"Fine."

"Okay." He unlocked the door but paused with his hand on the handle. "Wait like five minutes before you come out. Don't want anyone getting ideas."

Now, he’s sitting right in front of you, hands flying over his phone, not one look to your face.

Nat's grip on your wrist is unrelenting, dragging you down the hallway toward Steve and Bucky's dorm like you're a toddler being hauled to the dentist.

"I don't know why I have to be here," you complain, but she's not listening. She never listens when she's on a mission. And tonight's mission involves you third-wheeling while she and Steve do whatever disgustingly domestic couple activity they have planned.

"You've been holed up in your room for two days and it's getting weird," Nat says, not breaking stride. "Besides, we're just watching a movie. It's not a big deal."

It shouldn't be a big deal. You've done this a thousand times before. You've crashed at their place, sprawled across their furniture, stolen their snacks. But that was before. Before you knew what Bucky looked like when he came, how his cum felt like dripping down your thighs. Before everything got weird and complicated in ways you're desperately trying to un-complicate. 

Steve opens the door, and you scan the room behind him automatically. The couch is empty. The kitchen is empty. No dark-haired asshole anywhere in sight. There's an annoying twist happening inside you. 

"Where's Barnes?" Nat asks, stepping inside and immediately gravitating toward Steve.

"Class ran late," Steve says, slinging an arm around her shoulders. "He texted like twenty minutes ago. Should be back soon."

You settle onto the couch and try to figure out why you're irritated. There's a prickling sensation under your skin, this restless energy that has nowhere to go. It doesn't make sense. Usually when Bucky's not around, it's a relief. A chance to breathe without his smirking presence taking up all the oxygen in the room. Since when do you care if he's here or not?

Since never. You don't care. You're just... noticing. That's all.

Nat and Steve are doing that thing where they're technically watching the movie but mostly just existing in each other's space. It's sweet. It's nauseating. It's making you feel like a massive third wheel, which is exactly what you told Nat would happen.

An hour creeps by. The movie's some action thing with explosions you're not paying attention to. You're checking your phone every thirty seconds like a psycho, which is ridiculous because you don't even text him, the chat is nonexistent. 

The door finally opens and Bucky looks like shit. Like he's been awake for seventy-two hours straight and spent most of that time getting hit by a truck. There are dark circles under his eyes, hair a mess. His usual sharp energy has been replaced by something dull and heavy.

"You good, man?" Steve asks, pausing the movie.

"Fine." Bucky's voice is rough. His eyes sweep the room and land on you for half a second before skittering away. "Long day. Gonna crash."

"There's pizza in the kitchen if you want —"

"Not hungry." He disappears into his room, door clicking shut with a finality. Steve and Nat exchange a look, shrug and go back to the movie. But you can't focus now, can't stop thinking about the way he couldn't quite look at you.

Before, he'd have said something. Some stupid comment designed to get under your skin, to start a fight, to make you snap at him. Before, he was always here, always present, finding new and creative ways to piss you off. Now he's not. It's wrong somehow. Off-balance.

You last another fifteen minutes before you can't take it anymore. "Bathroom," you mutter, standing abruptly.

The hallway to Bucky's room is short. The actual bathroom is to the left, and you don't care. You turn right and knock on his door before you can talk yourself out of it.

"Go away, Steve."

"It's not Steve."

Silence keeps you company before his voice comes. "What do you want?"

Without waiting for permission, you push the door open. Bucky's sitting on his bed, still fully dressed, looking up when you enter. His face slips for a fraction of a second, a raw, unguarded edge breaking through before he shuts it down like it never happened. "Can't you read a room? I said I was tired."

"You look like shit."

"Thanks. That why you're here? Give me a wellness check?" His voice comes out sharp, waking your frustration that was simmering beneath. 

"No, I'm here because you've been acting weird and I want to know why."

He laughs, but it's not a nice sound. "I'm acting weird? That's rich coming from you."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing. Forget it." He stands up, and you realize how small his room feels with both of you in it. "Seriously, go back to the movie. I'm not in the mood for whatever this is."

"Whatever this is? You're the one who's been avoiding me."

"I haven't been avoiding shit. I've had class and practice and a fucking life that doesn't revolve around you."

"Oh, so now I'm being self-centered? That's hilarious, Barnes, really. Because last I checked, you're the one who can't go five minutes without being a condescending asshole."

"And you can't go five minutes without starting a fight. What do you want from me? You said never again. I agreed. So what the fuck are you doing in my room?"

He's inside your bubble, closer, and you don't have a good answer. Don't have any answer that makes sense except for the truth, which is that you missed fighting with him. Missed the way he looks at you like you're the most infuriating person on the planet. Missed him, which is insane, stupid and absolutely cannot be true. "I don't know — I just... you weren't here and then you were and you looked like hell and I —"

"You what? Cared? Don't waste your energy. The only good thing about me is my dick, right?"

Oh. He's pissed about that. About how you treated him in the bathroom, one round of messy sex and immediately shutting down anything else.

"I didn't —"

"Yeah, you did." He's so close that you can smell him, the sweat of a hard day. "And you know what? You're right. That's all this is. All it's ever gonna be. So if you're here for round two, say it. But don't pretend it's anything else."

Your heartbeat stutters, starts hitting too fast, like it’s trying to climb out through your ribs. "Fuck you."

"That an offer?"

"You're such a prick."

"And you're a fucking brat who can't figure out what she wants." His hand comes up to grip your jaw, forcing you to look at him. "So let me make it simple for you. You want me to fuck you again? Is that what this little tantrum is about?"

Slapping him would make sense. Turning around, walking out, cutting him off completely. But your pussy is getting wet, he can probably see it in your eyes, the way you're leaning into him despite yourself. "That's not true." It sounds weak even to your own ears. "Your dick's not the only good thing about you."

His fingers press in harder, thumb digging into the skin just beneath your chin. "No? Then what else?"

"I don't know... your mouth?" It's a gamble. A stupid, reckless gamble that could blow up in your face. But his eyes darken, a dangerous smile curving his lips.

"My mouth," he repeats it syllable by syllable. "Wanna know what my mouth can do besides piss you off?"

Before you can answer, he's kissing you. More urgent, more hurried than the bathroom, but not any less filthier. His mouth moves over yours and then deeper, testing how far he can go before you pull away. The drag of his tongue lingers, presses, coaxes your mouth open wider until you’re reacting before you can think about it. A sound slips out, caught somewhere between your throat and his mouth, swallowed almost as soon as it happens. "Get on the bed."

"You can't —"

"I said get on the bed." The command goes straight to your cunt. "Unless you want Steve and Nat to hear me make you scream."

That gets you moving, climbing onto his bed, him immediately on trail, caging you in with his body. Hands slide up your thighs, pushing your skirt up. "These are cute," he says, fingers hooking into your underwear. Light pink with a little bow. "Be a shame to ruin them."

"Don't —"

He yanks them down your legs and dangles them in front of your face before shoving them into his pocket. "Too late."

"You're —"

His hand sliding between your thighs cuts you off, thick fingers spreading your soaked lips wide open, putting your dripping cunt on full display for him. He spits directly onto your exposed cunt, the warm, thick glob of saliva landing with a wet splat right on your swollen clit. He rubs it in, smearing the spit all over your slick folds until it mixes with your own juices and drips down your ass. Holding your pussy lips open even wider with both thumbs, his fingers dig into the soft flesh so nothing is hidden. He spits again, this time aiming straight into your twitching hole, watching the spit disappear inside you. "Look at this needy little pussy. Already soaked and I've barely touched her."

Humiliation and arousal both flood your system as he's inspecting you like you're something he owns, thumb dragging through your slick folds, smearing your juices everywhere before circling your swollen clit with just enough pressure to make you squirm and whine. "Bucky —"

"Shh. Let me look at what's mine."

His?? 

"It's not—"

"Whose cum was dripping out of this cunt two days ago?" He slides two thick fingers inside you, pumping them slow and deep, a moan slipping out, teeth clamping tight to pull it back. "Who fucked you so good you could barely walk straight?"

"That doesn't mean — oh fuck —"

"It does." Broad, rough fingers pump into you faster, your slick juices coating his knuckles and dripping down to his palm. "Got my cum all in this greedy pussy and you loved it. Loved being full of me. Bet you've been thinking about it, haven't you? Getting yourself off to the memory of my dick splitting you open."

What's worse is that he's not wrong. You have been thinking about it. Every night since it happened, fingers between your legs, trying to recreate the feeling of him inside you. "You're delusional," you lie through your teeth, and he laughs like he's caught you in it.

"Am I?" His fingers curl inside your walls, hitting that sweet spot that makes your vision blur. "Then why are you clenching around my fingers like you're trying to keep me inside you? Why's this pussy begging for more?"

Bucky pulls his fingers out abruptly, a filthy wet sound echoing as a whimper slips past your lips in the wake of the loss. Bringing them to his mouth, maintaining eye contact the whole time, he licks them clean, sucking every drop of your slick off with a groan. "Taste so fuckin' good."

Without wasting another breath, he moves down your body, shoving your thighs apart roughly and settling between them, mouth sealing over your throbbing clit like he's starving for it. Nothing is gentle about this. Calloused fingers dig into your thighs, holding you spread obscenely wide while his tongue works your clit in ruthless, sloppy circles, sucking hard enough to make your back arch off the bed. "Oh my god—"

"Let me hear how much you love my mouth. Thought it was only good for pissing you off?" The words against your cunt are muffled, but the vibration of it makes you writhe under him. 

"Shut up and — fuck — keep doing that —"

He slides his tongue deep inside you, fucking your dripping hole with it in long, filthy strokes while his nose grinds against your clit. You forget how to breathe. Forget your own name. One of his hands leaves your thigh to push two fingers back inside you. The combination of his tongue and fingers has you climbing toward orgasm embarrassingly fast. "Such a messy girl," he says, pulling back to look at you. His chin is wet with your arousal, the sight of it making your pussy clench around his fingers. "Making a mess all over my face. Getting my sheets wet. Think they can hear you whimpering in here?"

"Bucky, please —"

"Please what? Use your words."

"Make me cum, you asshole —"

"Nope, ask nicely." A sharp smack lands straight to your swollen clit, the sting shooting straight up your spine, making your pussy clench hard around nothing.

"Please, Bucky. Make me cum." The words leave you in record speed, the need for release much more than the desire to keep your self-respect. 

"Since you asked so nicely." His mouth goes back to your clit, sucking, while his fingers work inside you. You come with a strangled cry, thighs clamping around his head. The squeeze doesn't do anything to him, he continues his attack on your weeping hole, until you're pushing at his shoulders.

Looking entirely too pleased with himself, he pulls back to wipe his mouth with the back of his hand. "Still think the only good thing about me is my dick?"

You're still trying to remember how to form words, whole body feeling like jelly. There's a suspicious wet spot spreading beneath you on his sheets. "You're still an asshole."

"Mhmm, but I just made you come so hard you nearly broke my jaw with your thighs. So, be nice." The finger which was buried inside your cunt, still slick with your release, taps your nose once.

He's hard, painfully so, you can see that. You almost say 'fuck me', beg him to put his dick in you and make you forget your own name again. But then reality creeps back in. Steve and Nat are just down the hall, more than that, you two are supposed to hate each other, and this was supposed to be never again.

"This can't keep happening." Sitting up, you try to fix your skirt even though your underwear is currently in his pocket.

"Right. This again."

If you didn't know him better, you'd think his face was neutral. Unfortunately for both of you, you do know him better. "I'm serious. This was — this was the last time."

"You said that two days ago."

"Well, I mean it now."

For a second too long, he stares at you, an expression you can't read this time. Hurt or anger or frustration or all three. "Fine," he finally says. "Last time. Got it."

"I'm serious, Barnes. We can't — I don't want —"

"I said fine." He stands up, adjusting himself in his jeans. "You should probably get back out there before they notice you've been gone for twenty minutes."

On shaky legs, you stand, very aware that you're not wearing underwear and that your hair probably looks like a disaster. At the door, you pause. "Bucky—"

"It's fine. Really. We're good." His back is to you. 

Nothing about this feels good at all. You slip out of his room and head to the actual bathroom, taking a minute to clean yourself up and try to put yourself back together. When you look in the mirror, your lips are swollen, eyes too bright, and you look like exactly what you are — someone who just got eaten out within an inch of her life.

This was the last time. It has to be. Even if some traitorous part of you is already wondering when the next never again will happen.

Bucky Barnes never ignores you. He might annoy you to death, but ignoring you was beyond him. That is, until now. 

The coffee shop smells like burnt espresso. There's a crack in the table that keeps catching your pen, your notes are all haphazard, the result of you not paying enough attention in class. But none of that matters because Bucky is sitting across from you and acting like you don't exist.

Before, he'd make a show of it, intentionally looking past you, making little comments to Steve that were clearly designed to get a rise out of you. This is different. He's genuinely not paying attention. Eyes on his textbook, highlighter moving across the page in steady strokes, completely absorbed in whatever bullshit he's supposed to be learning.

It's infuriating.

Steve and Nat are comparing notes, discussing, you're supposed to be doing the same but you can't focus. Because Bucky's right there, close enough to touch, and he might as well be on another planet.

You stretch your leg out under the table, let your foot bump against his calf. Nothing. No reaction. He just shifts slightly and keeps reading.

Fine. Maybe that was too subtle.

You lean forward to grab your coffee, making sure to press your shoulder against his. He's warm, you can smell that soap he uses, the one that's been haunting you for days. He glances up, shifts to give you more room and goes back to his reading. 

What the actual fuck.

"Can you pass me that?" you ask, pointing to his highlighter even though you have three of your own sitting right in front of you.

He hands it over without looking at you.

There's a pressure building in your chest, hot and uncomfortable, anger or something much worse. You click the highlighter open and close, open and close, the sound obnoxiously loud, out of place.

Bucky doesn't say anything. Again. 

You highlight a random sentence in your notes. Then another. You're not even reading what you're marking. Neon yellow drags across the page while you watch him from the corner of your eye. But he's a statue. A really attractive statue that ate you out yesterday and is now acting like it never happened.

At this worst possible moment, you also remember what his mouth felt like between your legs, the filthy things he said, how he pocketed your underwear like some kind of trophy. Fuck him for being able to compartmentalize like this. Fuck him for sitting there looking all studious and put-together while you're falling apart.

'Accidentally', you knock your notebook off the table. With a soft thud, it lands on his foot. Bucky closes his eyes, takes a breath that looks like it's taking considerable effort, and leans down to pick it up. When he hands it back, his expression is carefully neutral.

"Thanks." The word is saccharine. 

"Mhmm." That's it. That's all you get. Not even a proper word.

You last another five minutes before you physically can't take it anymore. You nudge his leg again, harder this time, and he finally looks at you. Exhaustion in his eyes makes an ugly twist in your gut. 

"You done?" His words are simple. Calm, even. But they land like a slap, and suddenly you're furious. Furious at him for being so unaffected, at yourself for caring, at this entire fucked-up situation that you can't seem to escape.

"Yeah. I'm done."

It's been fifteen minutes and Bucky hasn't even acknowledged that you exist. 

The bar is crowded, loud, and you're three drinks deep, feeling pleasantly buzzed. The tall, dark haired, decent smile guy, has been buying you drinks.

His name is Mike or something with an M. You're just nodding while you scan the room. You spotted Bucky the second you walked in, sitting at a high-top with some guys from his team, nursing a beer and looking like he'd rather be literally anywhere else.

He hasn't looked at you once. Not when you walked in, not when M-name put his hand on your lower back, not when you threw your head back laughing at something that definitely wasn't that funny.

You don't care. Why would you care? He made it perfectly clear at the coffee shop that he's done with whatever game you two have been playing, agreeing oh-so readily that it was a mistake.

The alcohol makes this easier somehow, looser. That's how you let the guy pull you towards the mass of bodies near the speakers, when he says something about dancing. The music is too loud, bass thumping in your chest. His hands land on your hips, chest to chest. You press back against him, definitely more grinding than dancing.

Over his shoulder, you can see Bucky. Still at his table, still not looking.

Fuck him.

You roll your hips, let this random guy's hands wander, and pretend you're having the time of your life. The guy's mouth is at your neck, saying something you can't hear over the music, hands sliding too low but you don't stop him.

Three songs. That's how long you last before you can't take it anymore.

You extract yourself from his hands, with a smile and an excuse about needing another drink, and make a beeline for Bucky's table. His friends scatter like they can sense the incoming storm. Then it's just the two of you. "Having fun?" you ask.

Bucky takes a long pull from his beer. "Could ask you the same thing."

"I am, actually. Matt's a great dancer."

"It's Mark, actually. And that wasn't dancing."

You lean against the table, invading his space. "Oh, so you were watching? Thought you were too busy brooding over here to notice."

"Hard to miss when you're putting on a show."

"I'm not —" You cut yourself off, force a breath. "Why do you even care?"

"I don't." He clearly doesn't, what with you storming over here to make a point. But his knuckles are white around the bottle and there's a muscle jumping in his jaw that makes you look closer.

"Liar."

"Go back to your date." His voice is so cold it actually makes you flinch. "I'm sure he's missing you."

"What's your problem?" The words come out loud, but the music swallows most of it. "You've been acting like I don't exist. Like nothing happened."

"You said it couldn't happen again. I'm respecting that."

"By ignoring me completely? By acting like we're strangers?"

"What do you want from me?" He finally looks at you, a burn in his eyes. "You want me to what, pine after you? Beg you to change your mind? You made your choice. Multiple times, actually."

"You agreed!"

"What the fuck was I supposed to say? No, I won't respect your boundaries? Jesus Christ." He runs a hand through his hair. He looks tired, worn down. "Go dance with Mark. Go home with him. Do whatever you want. Just stop —"

"Stop what?"

"Stop looking at me like that."

"Like what?"

"Like you want me to do something about it."

The bass of the music has nothing on your heart, you can feel it in your throat. You do want him to do something. To fight for this, whatever this is, to care as much as you’re suddenly realizing you do.

Reckless with alcohol and frustration, the words get past you. "Maybe I want you to —"

He sets his beer down with a force. "Well I'm not going to. So go find someone who will."

The dismissal stings, the casual way you're written off, like you're an inconvenience he's tired of dealing with. You're drunk enough that your filter is nonexistent, angry enough that you don't care about the consequences. "You know what? Fuck you, Barnes. I was trying to —"

"Trying to what? Start another fight so we can fuck about it later? I'm not playing that game anymore."

"I'm not —" But you are. You came over here specifically to get a rise out of him, to make him react. "God, you're such a —"

"Watch it," he warns, but you're too far gone to stop now.

"Or what? You'll ignore me harder? Give me the silent treatment? Real mature, Bucky. Really —" His hand shoots out and catches your nipple through your flimsy top, pinching hard enough to make you gasp. Right there in the middle of the bar, where anyone could see.

"Mind your manners," his words are quiet, only to your ears, but there's nothing quiet about the look in his eyes.

The pain mixing with pleasure makes your brain go numb. The shock of him touching you after days of ignoring, shoots straight to your cunt. The way he's looking at you like he wants to devour you whole definitely helps. "Or what?" The words come out breathy, challenging.

His other hand comes up to your mouth, calloused fingers pressing against your lips, pulling your lower lip down, even as you try not to give in. "You really wanna find out?"

When your mouth opens — to say what, you're not sure, — his fingers slip inside. The taste of salt and skin floods your senses. And because you're you, because you can't help yourself, you bite down. Hard enough to make a point.

Saliva smeared fingers pull out, only to hold your cheeks, smushed together. "That's it. We're leaving."

"'m — ngh — n’goin’ any — wheh —" 

Bucky doesn't let you finish your pathetic excuse of a sentence, he's pulling you through the crowd, fingers wrapped around your wrist in a grip that's just shy of painful. You could fight him, dig in your heels and make a scene. But you do what lost causes do best, follow him. 

He drags you out a side door into an alley that smells like garbage and stale beer. The door slams shut behind you, muffling the music. It's just the two of you in the dim light from a flickering streetlamp.

"You're a real piece of work, you know that?" His voice is rough, angry, and he's backing you up against the brick wall.

"Takes one to know one."

"Can't go five minutes without running your mouth. Can't follow a single fucking boundary you set yourself. What am I supposed to do with you?"

His hand slides under your skirt, where you're already wet. You've been wet since he pinched your nipple in the bar, maybe since you saw him sitting there looking miserable.

"This what you wanted?" His hand yanks your soaked panties aside so his thick fingers can drag through your dripping folds. "Wanted me to lose my shit? To stop being nice?"

"You're never nice," you gasp as he pushes two fingers inside you.

"No, I'm not." He curls them viciously, battering that spongy spot inside you while his thumb grinds rough circles over your swollen clit. "I'm the guy who can't stay away from you even though I know I should. I'm the guy who gets hard every time you look at me like you hate me, who's so fucked up over you I can't think straight."

The confession should probably mean something, but you're too busy trying not to collapse as he fucks you with his fingers. Fast and rough, his thumb circling your clit, his other hand gripping your hip to hold you in place. "Bucky — please —"

"Please what? You want my cock?" He's grinding his rock-hard bulge against your thigh so you can feel every thick inch straining against his jeans. "Want me to fuck you against this wall where anyone could see?"

"Yes —"

"No." He emphasizes the word with a particularly brutal thrust of his fingers. "Bad girls don't get cock."

"That's not fair —"

"Life's not fair, darling'." His fingers are pistoning into you, three thick digits stretching your pussy open, the wet squelching sounds obscene in the quiet alley. "You cum on my fingers or not at all."

Whimpering, you're chasing your orgasm, feeling his hard length against your hip, but he's not giving you what you want. Won't give you what you need. "C'mon," he murmurs, almost gentle despite the way he's finger-fucking you. "Let me feel it. Let me feel this greedy pussy cum for me."

It crashes over you sudden and intense, your cunt clamping down hard around his fingers, gushing slick all over his hand as your legs shake. He works you through it, fingers gentling as you breathe hard against each other.

After the post orgasmic haze, you realise you you just let him finger you outside a bar. He just made you cum, now he's pulling his hand away and putting distance between you like he can't stand to be close anymore. "Bucky —"

"Go home." He won't look at you. "Go home and sleep it off."

"I'm not drunk."

"Then you've got no excuse for acting like this." His eyes finally meet yours, the look in them makes your chest ache. "We're done with this. Whatever this is, we're done." Walking away into the bar, he leaves you standing in the alley his fingerprints bruised into your skin.

The first thing you register is that your mouth tastes like something died in it. The second thing is that you're not in your bed. The third thing, the thing that makes your eyes snap open in pure panic, is that you're in his bed.

Bucky's bed. The same bed where he'd eaten you out two days ago, where you'd gripped his sheets and fallen apart on his tongue. The same room you'd stormed into and started a fight that ended with his hand between your legs. The mattress is firmer than yours, and there's this indent in the pillow that smells like him.

You sit up too fast and immediately regret it. The room spins, a pounding in your skull that suggests last night was a terrible series of decisions. You're wearing a t-shirt. Not yours though. Grey and soft from too many washes, hits mid-thigh, it's his. 

Your jeans are folded on his desk chair. Your top, the black one with the low cut, is there too, along with your bra. Which means you're bare under his shirt, which means —

The door opens and Bucky walks in holding a bottle of ibuprofen and a mug of what smells like coffee. He's already dressed in a jeans and a Henley, that looks ridiculously hot on him. Hair is slightly damp like he just showered, looking way too put together for whatever the fuck happened last night.

"Did we—" You can't even finish the sentence, mortification crawling up your throat. "Did we fuck?"

Bucky laughs, a sound you realise you've grown to miss these past few days. "We've fucked before," he says, setting the ibuprofen on the nightstand. "But no. Not last night."

The relief is immediate and confusing. "Then why am I wearing your shirt?"

"You don't remember?" His words are soft, so soft so as to not spook the skittish animal — you. 

"No?"

Something flickers across his face as he sighs, too quick to read. Could be frustration or concern or maybe just exhaustion with your bullshit. He sits on the edge of the bed, which feels weirdly intimate considering you're barely dressed, and runs a hand through his hair. "After the alley, you went back to the bar. Did a few more shots with Nat. Then you puked in the bathroom, I had to change your clothes because you'd gotten it all over yourself."

Oh god. Oh god. You want to sink through the mattress, disappear into the floor and maybe cease existing entirely. He had to change you. He had to see you messy and puking, had to strip off your clothes and put you to bed like you're some kind of disaster he's responsible for. Your voice is small when you ask, "why didn't Nat help me? You didn't have to do that."

"Nat was in the exact same condition as you." He hands you the coffee, your fingers brushing his when you take it. "Steve took care of her."

The parallel. Steve and Nat. You and Bucky. Like you're couples, like this is normal, like taking care of each other when you're shitfaced drunk is just what you do. Except you and Bucky aren't anything. You're just two people who can't stop fucking each other in semi-public places and then insisting it'll never happen again.

Panic starts crawling up your spine. This is too intimate and domestic.

"You can shower before you go," Bucky says, standing up. "I'll get you some clothes to wear home. Your stuff from last night is probably beyond saving."

He's being nice. That's what's so disorienting about this whole thing. He's being genuinely nice to you, and you don't know how to process it. Where's the smirk? Where's the condescending remark? Where's the Bucky who makes you want to simultaneously punch him and jump his bones? This version, the one who brought you coffee and pills and is offering you his shower, is uncharted territory. "Thanks." The word feels awkward in your mouth.

Bucky nods, closing the door behind him with a soft click. You sit there, holding the coffee mug and trying to organize your thoughts into something that makes sense. The coffee is exactly how you take it, meaning he's been paying attention. This is somehow worse than you thought.

The shower helps. There's something grounding about standing under the hot water, washing off last night's mistakes with his soap and shampoo. You're now going to smell like him all day, which is just another thing to add to the list of problems you're actively ignoring.

When you come out, there's a stack of clothes on the bed. Sweatpants with a drawstring, another t-shirt, a pair of boxers. Which you're definitely not going to wear. A lie to keep yourself sane.

The walk home is a blur. You spend the rest of the day aggressively not thinking about any of it. His hands steady while he dressed you when you were too drunk to manage it, the coffee fixed exactly how you take it, the way he didn't just drop you off, even though he could've. You wouldn't blame him. 

By evening, the guilt sets in. You need to return his clothes. That's what a decent human being would do. Definitely not because you want to see him, not because you can't stop replaying the morning in your head.

You fold the sweatpants and t-shirt neatly, walk to his dorm with a stomach full of nervous energy. The boxers you're keeping, because returning used underwear is a level of awkward you're not prepared to handle. That's what you tell yourself now, what you'll tell him if he asks. 

He answers on the second knock, surprise in his eyes.

"Hey," you hold out the clothes. "Wanted to return these."

"Could've kept them." But he takes them. There's this moment where you're both just standing, not knowing what to say.

He looks good. He always looks good, but right now he's in joggers and an old t-shirt, barefoot and relaxed, something you rarely see in him. Your stupid brain is reminding you of all the ways you know what's under those clothes, all the ways he's made you fall apart.

Bucky does what you're not expecting, he leans in slowly, giving you time to see it coming, time to stop him if you want. Close enough that you can feel his breath before it happens.

No, not again. You turn your head at the last second, his mouth missing yours, catches your cheek instead, the contact soft and wrong all at once. He goes still, not sure of what he just touched. "We can't do this anymore." The words taste like ash on your tongue.

His expression is carefully blank as he pulls back. "Right."

"I'm serious, Bucky." You're talking fast, words tumbling out before you can stop them. "Last night was — this morning was — we need to stop. This whole thing, whatever it is, it needs to stop."

"Okay."

"No offense, you're a great lay —" God, could you sound more like an asshole? "— but this is getting too complicated. And I just think it's better if we —"

"I said okay." His voice is flat, face carefully set, not to give anything away. The problem is, you don't want him to just agree. You want him to fight you on it, to argue, to do literally anything other than just accept it. But he's standing there looking at you with those blue eyes that give nothing away, and you're realizing that maybe he's relieved. Maybe he's been looking for an exit and you just handed him one.

The insecurity, the pain in your chest, doesn't reflect on your words. "Okay. So we're good?"

"Yeah. We're good."

There's nothing left to say after that. Walking away feels wrong, even though it was you who'd suggested it. 

The truth you're not ready to admit, the one that's been building since that first bathroom encounter is that Bucky's not really that much of an asshole. Or maybe he is, but you're starting to not find it annoying. You like the way he challenges you, pushes back, doesn't let you get away with your bullshit. You like the quiet moments too, the coffee this morning, the way he took care of you when you were a disaster, how he looks at you sometimes like you're more than just someone to fight with.

You can handle hating him. You can even handle wanting him. What you can't handle is this other thing, this softer thing that's taking root in your chest and making everything more complicated than it needs to be.

So yeah. It has to stop. It has to. Even if you're already missing him, and he's only been gone from your sight for thirty seconds.

The thing about trying not to think about someone is that the harder you try, the more they invade every corner of your brain like some kind of parasitic thought you can't evict. It's been three days since you handed back Bucky's clothes, since you told him it was over, did the mature, responsible thing and ended whatever fucked-up situationship you'd stumbled into.

It's also three days of failing spectacularly at not thinking about him.

You see him everywhere. In the guy at the coffee shop who orders black coffee, the way Bucky takes. In the dark-haired stranger at the crosswalk whose shoulders are just a little too broad. In every fucking corner you turn, there he is. 

Except he's not. He's never actually there.

Fourth afternoon you end up at Steve's dorm. Not on purpose — well, maybe a little on purpose. Nat wanted to pick up some textbook Steve borrowed, and you tagged along. With a thin, embarrassing hope inside your ribs that thinks Bucky would be there on the couch like always, smirking at you over his laptop.

He's not.

Steve's alone, doing dishes in his hideous yellow rubber gloves, and he barely looks up when you walk in. "Bucky's at practice," he says, like you asked. Like it's written all over your face that you're looking for him.

"Cool," you aim for casual and land near manic. "I wasn't — I didn't ask."

Steve gives you a look that says he's not buying it, but he's nice enough not to call you out.

The next day, you hit the cafe where you do study group. Your regular table is empty. The corner booth where Bucky always sits, is occupied by some freshman with headphones the size of dinner plates. You order your latte and sit in the wrong seat. Everything feels off-kilter.

Your phone sits on the table in front of you. You've opened his contact approximately sixty-seven times in the last three days. His name just sitting there, never texted him, never called. The message thread between you is completely blank, just a white screen full of possibility and cowardice.

What would you even say? Hey, remember when I said we should stop? Yeah, about that. Or maybe: I think I made a mistake. Or the truth, which is something closer to: I can't stop thinking about you and it's making me crazy and I don't know what to do.

Your thumb hovers over his name. You close the app. Open it again. Close it.

Next night you end up at the bar. Same one where he fingered you in the alley, where you drank too much and ended up in his bed wearing his shirt. The bar is busy, some kind of hockey watch party that you don't care about. You scan the crowd automatically. Looking for dark hair and blue eyes.

He's not here either.

You end up doing a shot with some girls from your class. They're nice alright, but you're barely listening to what they're saying. An exam, about a professor's office hours. Your brain is white noise and static, all Bucky all the time, and you hate it. Hate that he's taken up residence in your head without paying rent, and that you can't seem to function like a normal person anymore.

The group chat is the worst part. Steve posts a meme about a professor. Nat responds with crying-laughing emojis. Bucky texts back with 'lmao'. Your thumb swipes his text, ready to reply, or react. But what use is it? 

He's alive. He's fine. He's out there somewhere living his life like nothing happened, like you didn't happen, while you're spiraling in this pathetic tornado of your own making.

What do you say to someone you pushed away? What do you say when you're realising that maybe you made the biggest mistake of your life?

Next morning, Nat corners you in your dorm room.

She uses the key you gave her for emergencies. You're still in bed even though it's almost eleven, wrapped in your comforter like a burrito. She takes one look at you before sighing, sitting on the edge of your bed. "Okay. We're talking about it."

"Talking about what?"

"Don't play dumb. You've been weird. You're not eating, you're not sleeping —"

"I'm sleeping fine."

"— and you've been moping. So we're talking about it."

You could deny it, brush her off, change the subject, keep pretending everything's fine. But you're so tired of pretending, and it's Nat. Maybe if you say it out loud, it'll make more sense. "I slept with Bucky."

There's not an ounce of surprise in her face, she doesn't even blink. "I know."

"What? How —"

"Please. You two have been eye-fucking each other for months. It was only a matter of time. How many times?"

"Does it matter?"

"Humour me."

You count in your head. The bathroom at the club. His room when he ate you out. The alley. "Three. Ish."

"Ish?"

"It's complicated."

"It always is with you two. So what happened? Why do you look like someone kicked your puppy?"

You spill all of it. Nat listens without interrupting. By the time you're done, you feel wrung out and empty. "I told him it was too complicated. That we needed to stop. And he just... agreed. Like it was nothing. Like I was nothing."

"Did you want him to disagree?"

The question you don't know the answer to, or rather, gaslighting yourself into not knowing the answer. "I don't know. Maybe. Yes. I don't know."

"Babe." Nat reaches over and squeezes your hand. "Why did you tell him to stop?"

"It was getting messy. Because we were supposed to hate each other and instead we were —" The words gets caught in your throat.

"Instead you were what?"

"I don't know. Something else."

"Like what?"

You close your eyes, and try to find the words for this feeling that's been building in your chest for weeks. "He knows how I like my coffee. When I was drunk and disgusting, he took care of me. He gave me his clothes. He's an asshole but he's also... he's not. He's funny and smart when he's not trying to piss me off, and the way he looks at me sometimes —"

"You like him." Three words you were not ready to hear. 

"No. I don't — we hate each other. We fight constantly. He drives me crazy."

"Yeah, because you like him." Nat says it gently, like she's explaining something obvious to a child. "You like him, and it scares you, so you pushed him away before he could hurt you."

"That's not —"

But it is. The realization hits you like cold water. You like Bucky Barnes. Not just his dick — though, that too —, but him. The way he challenges you, the way he sees through your bullshit, the way he makes you feel alive in a way nothing else does. You like him, and you sent him away. "Oh my god. I'm so stupid."

"Little bit, yeah."

"What do I do?"

"Tell him."

"I can't just — he agreed it was a mistake. He was probably relieved when I ended it. He hasn't tried to contact me once in three days, Nat. Not once."

"Because you told him it was over. What's he supposed to do, ignore your boundaries?"

She's right. Of course. You set the boundary, and he respected it, he even said so. Now you're mad at him for doing exactly what you asked.

Your phone is in your hand before you fully decide to grab it. You don't let yourself think this time, thinking is what got you into this mess. It rings, and rings, and rings. 

After more ringing and more nothing, you're ready to give up, and he picks up. "What?" His voice is rough, annoyed, your courage almost failing you.

"I need to talk to you."

There's silence first, sigh second, and then, "I'm busy."

"It's important."

"I said I'm busy."

"Bucky, please."

Another pause, longer. You can hear noise in the background. Voices, music maybe. He's somewhere, anywhere but talking to you. "Fine," he finally says. "Library. Tomorrow. Two o'clock."

"Okay. Yeah. I'll be —"

He hangs up before you can finish.

Bucky is ten minutes late.

Not that you're counting.

Eleven minutes now.

You picked a table in the back corner, the one behind the stacks where people go to make out or cry during midterms. Private enough for this conversation, whatever this conversation is going to be. Your hands are shaking, like you're some kind of nervous wreck, which you are.

Twelve minutes.

Maybe he's not coming. Maybe this was his way of telling you to fuck off without actually saying the words. You pull out your phone, pull up his contact for the thousandth time, and that's when you see him.

He looks wrong. There's no better word to describe him right now. Bucky always carries himself like he owns whatever space he's in, loose, confident and just arrogant enough to be annoying. But right now he's tense, shoulders up near his ears, and he won't quite look at you as he drops into the chair across from you.

"Hey." Your voice comes out too soft.

"Hey." That's it. That's all you get. He's looking at the table, at his hands, at anything that isn't you. There's this wall between you that wasn't there before. Or maybe it was always there and you were busy being annoyed to fully notice it.

"Thanks for meeting me," you try again.

He shrugs. 

This is going great. Really stellar. You've had more productive conversations with your houseplant.

"I wanted to talk about — about what happened. About what I said."

"It's fine." His voice is flat, bored almost. "You were right. It was getting complicated."

"No, I wasn't right. I was —" You take a breath, try to organize the thoughts that have been ping-ponging around your skull for four days. "I was scared. And I said things I didn't mean because I didn't know how to —"

"Don't." The word cuts through your rambling, sharp enough that you stop mid-sentence.

"Don't what?"

"Don't do this." He's finally looking at you now, his eyes cold in a way you've never seen. "Don't come here and try to rewrite what happened. You said you didn't want this. I respected that. We're done."

"But I do want —"

"Want what? To fuck again? Is that what this is?" He leans back in his chair, arms crossed. "Because if you're just looking for a booty call, you could've just sent a text."

The casual cruelty of it makes you flinch, you try to hold yourself together. "That's not what I'm saying."

"Then what are you saying?"

Okay, here it is. The moment you've been building toward, the confession you practiced in your mirror this morning like some kind of lunatic. Your heart is trying to beat its way out of your chest. "I like you." The words feel clumsy and inadequate. "I know I said it was just sex, and I know I pushed you away, but I was wrong. I like you, Bucky. I want to — I don't know what I want, but I want to try. To see if this could be something."

The silence that follows is excruciating. He's just staring at you, face completely blank, you can't read anything even if you try so hard. 

"You're confused," he says finally.

"I'm not —"

"Yeah, you are. You're confusing good sex with feelings. It happens."

"Don't tell me what I'm feeling." There's an edge creeping into your voice now, frustration bleeding through. "I know the difference between —"

"Do you?" He leans forward, there's a meanness in his smile. "Because from where I'm sitting, this looks like buyer's remorse. You ended things, realized you miss getting fucked, and now you're trying to make it into something it's not."

"That's not fair."

"No? Then explain it to me. Explain how four days ago you couldn't get away from me fast enough, and now suddenly you're catching feelings."

"Because I was scared, okay? I was scared because it was starting to feel like more than just sex, and I didn't know how to handle that, so I —"

"So you ended it. Which was the right call."

You're getting angry now, the frustration boiling over. "Why are you like this?"

"Like what?"

"Like an asshole. Like you don't —" You take a breath. "You took care of me. When I was drunk and disgusting, you took care of me. You made my coffee the way I like it. You gave me your clothes. That wasn't nothing."

"That was basic human decency. Don't make it into more than it was."

"I'm not —"

"You are." He stands up, the sudden movement making you jerk back. "You're making up a story in your head where this was something it wasn't. We fucked. It was good. It's over. That's it."

"Bucky —"

"I don't like you that way." Each word lands on you like a physical blow, bruising your skin. "I liked fucking you. That's not the same thing."

Sitting feels wrong now, feels too vulnerable, too small compared to him, you stand too. "I don't believe you."

"I don't care what you believe."

"Then why did you take care of me? Why did you —"

"Because I'm not a complete monster. Leaving you to choke on your own vomit seemed like a dick move. Don't romanticize it."

You're too close now, in his space, you can see the tension in his jaw, the way his hands are clenched into fists at his sides. Under all that, there’s a raw, painful part of him he’s trying to hide behind cruelty. "You're lying."

"I'm really not."

"Then why are you so angry?"

"I'm not angry. I'm annoyed. There's a difference."

Without giving yourself time to think it through, you reach for him. Your palm lands against his chest, warm through the fabric, fingers curling like you can hold him there, keep him from slipping out of this moment. It comes out of you all at once, that need to make him stay, to make him understand what this is doing to you. You push up on your toes, closing the distance, tugging him closer as you go for his mouth like it might fix something, like it might make this real in a way words haven’t managed to.

He turns his face away, just a quiet shift, a small angle of his head at the last second. Your lips miss his mouth, drag across his cheek instead.

The contact is wrong. You feel it immediately, the way your mouth presses into skin that isn’t answering, isn’t meeting you halfway. Your hand is fisted in his shirt. You can feel the rise and fall of his breathing under your palm, steady, unchanged, like this isn’t cracking anything open for him the way it is for you. The rejection is clean, absolute, leaving a sharp burn behind your eyes you can’t blink away fast enough.

"I just wanted to fuck you. That's all this was. That's all it's ever going to be. So if you're looking for feelings, if you're looking for some kind of relationship, you're barking up the wrong tree."

"No — no — you're —" You choke on your own words, trying to get the word 'lying' out, but you cannot. 

"I'm not. You're just too caught up in your own bullshit to see it. You want the truth? You're too much drama. Too much back and forth, too much hot and cold. I don't have the energy for it. The sex was good, great even, but dealing with you? With all your shit? Not worth it."

Each word is a knife, precise, designed to cut you, gut you, you feel yourself bleeding out right there in the library.

"Fuck you." Your voice cracks on the words.

"Yeah, that's about all you're good for."

Whether you want them or not, the tears flow. But you're not going to cry in front of him and give him the satisfaction of breaking you. You just won't. Grabbing your bag, you run. Past the stacks and the reference desk, you don't stop until you're outside in the cold air that bites at your wet cheeks.

What use is knowing you like him when he doesn't like you back? When he never did? When all those moments you thought meant something were just your imagination filling in blanks that were never there to begin with?

You were stupid to come here. Stupid to think he felt the same way, to think you were anything more than a convenient fuck.

He wasn't respecting your boundaries. He was relieved when you ended it. The anger, the coldness, the cruelty, that was all him, telling you the truth. That was him showing you exactly what you meant to him.

Nothing.

You meant absolutely nothing.

Heartbreak is supposed to be metaphorical. That's what you always thought, anyway. Just a turn of phrase people use to describe feeling sad. But it turns out your body doesn't know the difference between metaphorical and literal, and it's staging a full-scale revolt against the fact that Bucky Barnes doesn't want you.

Day one, you can't eat. Your roommate makes you toast. It sits on your desk going cold and hard while you stare at the ceiling. Your stomach feels like someone filled it with concrete, and the thought of putting anything in your mouth makes your throat close up.

Nat texts. You don't answer. She texts again. You turn your phone face down and watch the light bleeding around the edges when it buzzes.

Sleep doesn't come. You lie there in the dark, and your brain plays the library scene on repeat like some kind of sadistic highlight reel. Too much drama. Not worth it. That's about all you're good for. The words have teeth, and they're chewing through your chest cavity, making a home in the empty space where your self-respect used to be.

Day two, your head starts pounding. It's this dull, persistent ache that sits right behind your eyes and pulses in time with your heartbeat. You take two ibuprofen and they sit in your empty stomach like rocks. Everything hurts. Your muscles, your joints, your skin when the blanket touches it, everything. You tell yourself it's just tension. Just stress manifesting physically. Just your body being dramatic because apparently you are, according to Bucky, too much of everything.

The crying comes in waves. You know how in the movies, a single tear rolls down your cheek? Yeah, it's not that. This is ugly, snotty, hiccupping, making your eyes swell up so bad you can barely open them. You cry so hard you throw up, and then you cry about that. The whole thing is so pathetic you almost laugh. 

Throat feels you swallowed glass. Every time you try to drink water it's a special kind of torture. You've got a fever. Skin too hot, too cold at the same time, thoughts getting fuzzy, everything feels like burning. 

Nat comes by. You pretend you're asleep. She leaves soup outside your door that you don't touch.

You're not heartbroken, you tell yourself. You're just sick. Getting sick right after emotional trauma is just a coincidence. People get colds all the time. This has nothing to do with the fact that you put yourself out there and got eviscerated for your trouble, nothing to do with the fact that you cried your eyes out. 

The room swims when you open your eyes. Everything's blurry and soft, like someone smeared Vaseline on your corneas. You try to blink, the ceiling fan is on, rotating slow because you're freezing even though you're pretty sure you're burning up. There's your hot water bottle on the nightstand, the one shaped like a box that Nat got you as a joke. There's your water glass. There's Bucky.

There's Bucky? 

Sitting in your desk chair like he belongs there, you must be hallucinating, delirious with fever because there's no way he's actually here, in your room, looking at you with something that might be concern if you didn't know better.

You reach out without thinking, hand stretching toward him like you could touch him if you tried. Your fingers are shaking. Everything's shaking. "Hey," you mumble, voice sounding like someone beat you up for days. "You're not real."

He leans forward, and dream-Bucky looks tired. Worried. Nothing like the cold, cruel version from the library. "What do you want?" Dream-Bucky asks, his voice soft. Softer than he's ever used with you, softer than you knew he could be.

"Not fair," you slur, coherent sentences are beyond you right now. "S'not fair of you to haunt my dreams."

"It's not a dream, baby."

Baby. He's never called you that. Not even when he was inside you, not even in the heat of the moment. You almost laugh, but it comes out as a cough that rattles your chest.

"Sure isn't," you speak when the coughing stops. "Dream-Bucky would hate me too. Just like real Bucky. Can't even have nice hallucinations."

You think dream-Bucky says something else, but the words blur together and you're already sliding back under, into the dark where nothing hurts quite as bad.

Hours later — could be three, could be ten, time is meaningless when you're this sick — you surface again. The room is dimmer now. Your mouth tastes like death, and your whole body aches like you got repeatedly hit.

And dream-Bucky is still there.

Still in your desk chair, but now he's got his elbows on his knees, head in his hands, hasn't realised you're awake yet. It's nice watching him, even if it's just a dream. He looks tired. "Can't you just leave me alone? I don't want to dream of you."

Your voice brings him to your room again, head snapping up, relief plastered on his face. "You're not dreaming."

He reaches out, hand cupping your face, palm cool against your too-hot skin. Real. Definitely not a fever dream. "You've still got a temperature."

You jerk back from his touch like it burns. "What the fuck are you doing here?"

"Nat told Steve you were sick —"

"Why the fuck do you care?"

Bucky flinches, like the words hit him physically. "Can we not do this right now?" he asks, tiredness in his voice prominent.

The audacity of this man, flinching like you hurt him and not the other way around. "Yeah, of course. Get out."

"I just want to help you. You're in no shape to take care of yourself."

"Better me than you. So get out." You try to sit up and the room tilts sideways. 

"I'm sorry. Please let me help you." His words are pleading, an act, you think. 

You're upright now, barely, using the wall for support. "Sorry for what? For saying I'm just a good fuck? For telling me I'm too much drama? For —"

"For everything. I'm sorry for everything." There's hurt in his eyes, but you're too angry to care about right now. 

"I don't fucking care, Bucky. Get out."

His jaw sets in that stubborn way you recognize. "No. I'm not doing this push and pull again."

"Oh, that's great. Because I'm just pushing you. There's no pull whatsoever."

He stands up, takes a step toward you. "Please. Let me just take care of you, help you, and then I'll be gone if that's what you want."

"What are you gonna possibly do that I can't do myself?"

"I made broth." He gestures toward your desk where there's a thermos you didn't notice before. "I'll heat it up. It's supposed to help with the cold. I also got aspirin for the fever, and some throat lozenges, and —"

"Fine. Leave that here." You swing your legs over the side of the bed, trying to stand, the floor immediately rushes up to meet you.

Bucky catches you, though you wish he didn't. His hands are on your arms, steadying you, you're too dizzy to push him away. "Did I say you can touch me?" you snap when the world stops spinning.

"Please. I just didn't want you to fall."

The irony is not lost on you. Didn't want you to fall. The audacity of that statement when he's the one who made you fall in the first place — metaphorically, emotionally, completely. Now he's worried about the literal fall? Fuck him. Fuck him for every mixed signal, every cruel word, every moment he made you think you might mean something.

You're too weak to fight his hands on you, the touch burns, even if you're the one running hot now. "You know," you say, and you hate how shaky your voice sounds, "I can't really fuck you right now. Since — you know — I'm sick and all."

The embrace of his touch leaves you like you'd slapped him, hands dropping to his sides. "That's not — I didn't come here for that."

"No? Then why are you here?" You're shuffling toward the bathroom because you desperately need to pee and also need to get away from him. "Come to finish the job? Make sure I'm completely destroyed?"

"I came because I was worried about you."

"Well, don't be. I'm fine."

"You're not fine. You can barely stand."

"Not your problem." You make it to the bathroom and shut the door in his face, leaning against it, legs shaking.

Through the door, you can hear him moving around. The sound of your microwave running. Cabinet doors opening and closing. He's still here, still in your space, you don't have the energy to keep fighting him.

You finally emerge, teeth brushed, face washed, feeling slightly more human. The smell hits you first, however slight they may be. Savory and warm that makes your stomach remember it exists. Bucky's set up your desk like a sick station: the bowl of broth with a spoon, aspirin, a fresh glass of water, those throat lozenges he mentioned. "Sit," he says, gesturing to your bed.

"I'm not a dog."

"Please sit down before you fall down."

You sit, mostly because standing is taking more effort than you have to give. He gently moves the bowl to sit in front of you. 

"I'm not hungry."

"You need to eat something."

"I said I'm not —"

"When's the last time you ate?" His voice is gentle but firm, and it pisses you off how much he sounds like he actually cares. If you didn't know what he's capable of, you'd trust this act. 

"Doesn't matter." Truth is, you can't remember. Day before yesterday, maybe? Time is soup.

"It matters. Drink the broth."

"You're not my mother."

"No, I'm the guy who made you soup at four in the morning because I've been losing my mind worrying about you. So please, for the love of god, just drink the fucking broth. "The words come out sharp, frustrated. 

You don't point out that he has no right to lose his mind worrying about you, and take the bowl mostly to shut him up. It tastes even better than it smells, rich and salty with actual vegetables and herbs you can't identify. Your stomach wakes up properly, growling, and before you know it you're halfway through the bowl.

Bucky sits back in the desk chair, watching you with what looks like relief.

"Happy now?" you ask between bites, because you can't let him think this means anything.

"Getting there."

You want to throw the bowl at his head and scream at him for showing up here, for being nice to you, for confusing everything when you were just starting to build up the walls you need to survive this. You want to ask him why he said all those horrible things if he was just going to show up at your door with homemade soup like some kind of reformed asshole.

But you're so tired. Tired of fighting, of hurting, of not understanding what he wants from you.

After the soup, your body decides it's had enough excitement for one day. Bucky helps you back to bed, his hand on your elbow, steadying you even though you don't ask for it. The sheets are cool against your fever-warm skin, and you're asleep before you can tell him to leave.

When you wake up, the room is bright with morning light. Your head feels clearer, the fever-fog lifted enough that you can think in actual sentences instead of fragmented thoughts. The chair where Bucky sat is empty.

Of course it is. He came, he did his good deed, checked the 'take care of sick girl' box off his list, and now he's gone. Probably relieved to escape before you woke up and made things awkward again. The thermos is still on your desk, the bowl washed and sitting in your dish rack. The whole thing feels like something you might have dreamed except for the physical evidence that he was here.

You sit up slowly, testing your body's response. Better. Definitely better than yesterday. Your throat doesn't feel like shredded glass anymore, the headache has downgraded from horrible to a dull throb. Progress.

Thing is, you can still feel where his hand was on your face. The ghost of his touch like a brand, and you're pathetic enough to wish it was still there. To wish he was still here, sitting in that stupid chair, looking at you like you're worth worrying about.

You're reaching for your phone, to do what, you don't know, maybe check the time, maybe torture yourself by looking at his contact, when your door opens.

Bucky walks in carrying another bowl, and you just stare at him. He's wearing different clothes than last night, so he definitely left and came back, which means this is intentional. A choice he's making. "Sorry. I went to my dorm to make this. You didn't have enough ingredients here."

You continue staring. Your brain is trying to process the fact that he left to make you soup. That he came back. That he's here, in your room, in the morning light, and he doesn't look like he's planning to run.

He sets the soup on your desk and crosses the room quickly, crouching beside your bed. "Are you feeling better?"

Words seem beyond you right now. You're too busy cataloging the worry in his eyes, the tension in his shoulders, how he looks at you like he's afraid you might shatter.

"Hey." His voice softens, warmth seeping through. "I'm gonna check for fever, okay? Is that alright?"

He's asking you permission to touch you. You want to trust this. The gentleness, the care, the softness he's showing you. But soft can turn sharp so quickly. You learned that in the library.

"People usually do that with a thermometer." Your voice is still rough but functional.

"I'm a college student. I don't own a thermometer." The corner of his mouth twitches, almost a smile, and you feel an answering pull in your own lips before you remember you're supposed to be mad at him, supposed to be protecting yourself.

When you nod, his hand comes to your forehead, gentle, soft. His palm is cool, and you fight the urge to lean into it. "Better. Still warm, but better."

The shower helps. Standing under hot water, letting it beat against your sore muscles, washing away two days of sick-sweat and misery. You take your time because the steam feels good, and also because you're half-convinced that when you come out, Bucky will be gone. This is a fever dream. An elaborate hallucination. He's not really here making you soup and checking your temperature and asking permission to touch you.

But when you open the bathroom door, wrapped in your towel, he's still there, still sitting in your chair. Very much real. You really should've brought a change of clothes inside. 

His eyes drop to the floor immediately, color creeping up his neck. "Uh. Uhm. I'll go — I'll step out. While you — you know — change."

The awkwardness is almost funny. This is the same guy who's been inside you, seen you fall apart on his tongue, who's had his hands all over your body. Now he can't look at you in a towel?

"Dude, you've seen me naked before. You don't have to be this awkward."

The memories hit you both at the same time, you can see it in the way his jaw tightens. All the ways he's touched you, all the sounds you've made for him, all the times you've been bare and vulnerable.

Maybe it's defiance or maybe you're just tired of this dance, but you reach for the edge of your towel and start to unwrap it. Bucky crosses the room in three strides, hand catching yours. "No."

You're backed against the wall. He's close enough that you can feel the heat coming off him, close enough to see the specks of gray in his blue eyes. "Yeah, sorry." The words tasted bitter in you head, tastes bitter when they come out too. "Forgot you can't keep it in your pants with me. That's all I'm good for, right?"

"Stop." His hand moves to your waist. His other hand catches both of yours, pins them gently above your head, no force in them. You could break free if you wanted. Except you don't want to.

"Bucky, what the fuck —" You twist against him, pushing at his hold, more stubborn than urgent, trying to get free more out of principle than actual desire to escape.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry, okay? I fucked up. Monumentally." His words are earnest, desperate. 

Your heart is trying to break out of your ribcage. He's so close, and he smells like coffee and that stupid soap he uses. This is too much, confusing, reminiscent of all the times you've been in this position, pinned, wanting and completely at his mercy.

"I was horrible to you that day," he continues. "In the library. I haven't been able to sleep since I fucked up."

You stop squirming inside his touch. Stop breathing, maybe. Because he's looking at you like you matter, like hurting you actually hurt him. "Then why did you — You don't get to simply apologize and be done with this."

"You know you're confusing, right?" He sighs as he says it, almost a fond exasperation. His thumb is tracing circles on your waist through the towel, probably without him realizing.

"What?"

"Baby, you fucking confuse me. All the fucking time."

Baby again. He keeps saying it like it's natural, like it belongs in his mouth when he's talking to you.

You're still very aware that you're in a towel. That his hand is on your waist, warm through the terry cloth, your hands still above your head, however light his hold is. "You know, if you don't want to see me naked, maybe don't put me in this position. The towel's gonna slide off my tits any second now."

He drops your hands like they burned him, steps back, putting distance between you that feels wrong now that it's there. "Sorry," he mutters.

You want to tell him to stop apologizing. Or maybe apologize more. Or maybe come back and put his hands on you again because the absence of his touch feels like a loss. Your thoughts are tangled up in themselves, a mess of want, hurt, anger and confusion that you can't sort through.

"I liked you." The words burst out of him like he's been holding them in too long. "Fuck it— I like you. I've liked you since the very start. Since Nat and Steve started dating. No, even before that."

Hope starts building in your chest, easing the pain, soothing the hurt, which is dangerous, which you can't afford right now.

"I saw you in class one day and I've liked you ever since." He's rambling now, words spilling out faster than he can organize them. You've never seen him like this. Bucky doesn't ramble. "That's how Steve got to know Nat, actually. Because Nat's your friend. I talked about you all the time to Steve and that's how Steve got to know Nat."

Wait.

"And then you're this firecracker who can't shut up, and we got off on the wrong foot —"

"What?" Your brain is trying to rewrite history, slot this new information into the narrative you've been carrying around forever.

"I didn't mean to pick a fight with you that day." He runs his hand through his hair, looking almost sheepish. "I didn't mean to pour coffee over your notes, I was — I was nervous. And we've been butting heads ever since, and it's my fault because I had this huge crush on you and I poured coffee all over your fucking notes. How dumb is that?"

The coffee incident. You remember it, the way your carefully highlighted notes had turned into a brown-stained disaster. You'd snapped at him, and he'd fired back instead of apologizing. That was the start of it. The first battle in a war you thought he wanted to fight. But he's saying it was an accident. An accident born from nerves, from liking you, from being so focused on trying to impress you that he'd fucked it up spectacularly.

You think about all the fights since then, all the barbed comments and intentional provocations. You'd convinced yourself he hated you when, this whole time, he was just trying to get your attention the only way he knew how.

"Ever since then, you've not let me know peace." He's pacing now, and you're still standing against the wall in your towel like an idiot. "I just wanted to get to know you, and then we started annoying each other, and I started liking it because it was kinda our thing. Our love language, you know?"

Love language. Like fighting with you was how he showed affection, like every argument was actually him trying to be close to you. 

"And then we — uh — had sex that day," he continues, "and you told me it wasn't happening again. I was crushed. Then it happens again, and you say the same thing."

"You agreed," you point out, because that part still stings.

"What was I supposed to say? No, I love you so much, please don't break my heart? I thought if I could just have you in whatever way you'd let me, that would be enough. Even if it was killing me."

Love. He said love. Did he notice? His face doesn't change, like the word slipped out without him registering it, and you're standing here holding this piece of information in your chest, this fragile thing, while he's still walking back and forth like standing at one place could kill him. 

"And then that night," he says, and his voice gets quieter. "The night you got drunk."

"What about it?"

"You told me you liked me."

Suddenly, the room starts spinning, like you're both drunk and hungover at the same time. "What?"

"We — uhh — I — I fingered you in that alley, and then we went inside, you got drunk, and you told me you liked me. Said you'd been thinking about me, that you couldn't stop thinking about me."

No, no, no. You don't remember that. You remember drinking, remember Bucky's hands on you in the alley, remember waking up in his bed. But confessing your feelings? That's a blank space in your memory. "I don't — I don't remember that."

"I know." He stops pacing, looks at you with what might be sadness. "The next morning, you didn't remember anything. Asked if we'd fucked like the idea horrified you. And I realized you had no idea what you'd said to me."

Oh god. Oh god, the morning after. You'd been so mortified, so convinced it was just another mistake, and he'd been hoping. He'd been carrying your drunken confession around like a promise, and you hadn't even known.

"I thought maybe — I don't know what I thought. That maybe on some level you meant it, even drunk. So I was hopeful. And then that evening, you came to return my clothes, and when I tried to —"

The way you'd turned your face, the way you'd said he was a great lay but it was too complicated. Fuck. 

"You pulled away, said I was — I was — Like that's all I was to you."

The hurt in his voice is tangible, the way he couldn't even repeat your words, and you're realizing how many ways you've wounded each other without meaning to. Or maybe meaning to, because hurting him felt safer than being vulnerable.

"That fucking destroyed me," he admits. "I'd just heard you say you liked me, and then hours later you're reducing me to a dick. So when you showed up at the library saying you liked me, I — I panicked. I thought you were confused, or trying to spare my feelings, or that you'd just had some realization about missing the sex. I couldn't go through that again. Couldn't let myself hope and then watch you take it back."

It's all clicking into place now. The cruelty in the library wasn't because he didn't care. It was because he cared too much, because you'd hurt him first, even if you didn't know you were doing it.

"So you decided to hurt me first," you say. 

The pain in his face is visible, pulling at your heartstrings even though he was the one that hurt you. "I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. That wasn't fair at all. I thought I was protecting myself, because I couldn't bear to be hurt like that again."

He's pacing like a caged animal now, three steps one way, pivot, three steps back. His hands are running through his hair, tugging at the ends, and he's still talking, apologizing, explaining, words tumbling out in this stream of consciousness that you can barely keep up with.

"Bucky," you call, but he's not listening. 

"— and I just kept fucking it up, kept saying the wrong thing, kept pushing you away when all I wanted —"

"Bucky." 

"— and in the library I was such a dick, I can't believe I said those things to you, I can't —"

You step into his path, hands on his chest, and physically push him backward until his the back of his knees hit your bed and he sits. The look of surprise on his face would be funny if this whole situation wasn't so fragile, so precarious, like one wrong move could shatter whatever's happening between you.

This position — him on your bed, you between his legs — feels intimate, maybe even more than those three times. His hands come to your hips automatically, looking up at you with eyes that are red-rimmed and devastated, pulling you closer, wrapping his arms around your waist, pressing his face against your stomach. The hug is tight, almost desperate, you can feel him shaking. "I'm sorry." His voice is muffled against the towel. "Please don't leave me."

His words pry you open from the inside. This is Bucky Barnes, the guy who struts through life, who never asks for anything, who'd rather die than show weakness. And he's holding onto you like you're the only thing keeping him anchored, like the thought of you leaving is unbearable.

Your hands find his hair without conscious thought, fingers threading through the dark strands. You've had your hands in his hair before, have pulled it while he was between your legs, gripped it while he fucked you. But this is gentle, tender, you offering comfort instead of taking pleasure.

There's wetness seeping through your towel. At first you think it's just water from your shower-damp skin, but then you feel his shoulders hitch, feel the way he's breathing in these controlled inhales like he's trying not to fall apart completely.

He's crying.

Bucky is crying, face pressed against your stomach, arms locked around you like you might disappear.

The realization hits you at the same moment you feel wetness on your hand. Your hand that's still in his hair, your own tears dripping onto your fingers. When did you start crying? You didn't notice, too focused on him, on the way he's holding you, on the impossible fact that this is happening.

You're both crying. Two people who've spent months hurting each other, finally breaking down.

"You hurt me." The words need to be said, need to exist in the space between you, even if he's not ready to hear it again. "What you said in the library — it hurt me so much I got physically sick."

His arms tighten against you, pulling you closer. "I'm so fucking sorry." The words are desperate, broken. "I will never hurt you. Ever again. I said those things and I couldn't breathe afterward — hurting you hurt me too, baby. I'm so fucking sorry."

Baby. This time it doesn't make you bristle or question. "I thought you hated me," you whisper. "I thought I was nothing to you."

He pulls back enough to look up at you, face wrecked, tears tracking down his cheeks, eyes swollen. Beautiful, broken and completely open in a way you've never seen. "You're everything to me. You've been everything to me for so long, and I've been too scared to say it. Too scared you'd walk away."

One of his hands leaves your waist to cup your face, thumb brushing away your tears even as his own keep falling. The gentleness of it makes you want to sob. How many times has he touched your face? But never like this. Never with this kind of reverence.

"I'm not walking away. I'm right here." You mirror his movement, your hand on his cheek. 

"You're right here," he repeats, like he can't quite believe it.

You're both a mess. Crying, shaking, holding onto each other, towel soaked through with tears. You're pretty sure you look like a disaster, and Bucky's face is blotchy, eyes red. But none of it matters.

None of it matters because he's looking at you like you hung the moon. "I love you." This time there's no mistaking it for a slip. "I'm in love with you. I don't even know how long. I love the way you argue with me. I love how you never back down. I love that you called me out on my bullshit from day one. I love —"

You kiss him. Soft, tentative almost, afraid of breaking whatever fragile thing is forming between you. His lips are salty with tears, so are yours, and you can feel him trembling as he kisses you back. He's pulling you closer while trying to be gentle about it. The towel is probably going to fall, but you can't bring yourself to care. This kiss feels like a promise. Like an apology, a confession and a beginning all wrapped into one.

Breathing hard, you pull back. His forehead drops to rest against your stomach again, his breath hot against your skin through the damp towel. "Say it back," he whispers. "Please. I need to hear you say it."

Maybe it's too soon, maybe you should make him work for it, make him prove he means all these pretty words he's saying. Maybe the smart thing would be to guard your heart a little longer, keep some walls up just in case.

But you're so tired of being smart, of protecting yourself, of pretending you don't feel what you feel. "I love you too." The words feel like jumping off a cliff. "I love you even though you're an idiot. I love you even though you hurt me. I love you even though — maybe because — you drive me completely insane."

His whole body sags with relief, like he was holding his breath waiting for your answer. "Thank god," he breathes.

No more pretending this is just physical when it's been emotional from the start.

He kisses your stomach through the towel, pulling you down onto the bed with him. You land in a tangle of limbs as he wraps himself around you like he's trying to merge your bodies into one.

He's quiet for a second, looking at you with those devastated blue eyes, "I'll never hurt you like that again." Unadorned, nothing poetic or flowery about the words. 

You're a realist even now, even in this moment. "You can't promise that. People hurt each other. It happens."

His hand caresses your face, thumb tracing your cheekbone. "Not like that. I'll never speak to you like that again, never make you feel like you're nothing to me. I promise. I promise, baby."

There's a desperate sincerity in his voice that makes you believe him. Or maybe you just want to believe him. Maybe it's the same thing. "Okay," you whisper.

"Okay?"

"I believe you."

His exhale is shaky, relieved, and he pulls you closer, the towel finally giving up its fight to stay in place and gaping open at the side.

"I'm gonna fuck this up sometimes," he says. "Probably a lot. I'm gonna say the wrong thing or do something stupid because I'm an idiot who doesn't know how to handle feelings."

"Yeah, probably. I'll fuck up too. I'll push you away when I get scared. I'll pick fights because it's easier than being vulnerable." You're tracing patterns on his chest through his shirt, random swirls and shapes that don't mean anything. 

"So we're both disasters."

"Seems like it."

His laugh is quiet, almost surprised, like he didn't expect to be laughing right now. "At least we're disasters together."

Together.

Your fingers find the hem of his shirt, slip underneath to touch warm skin, the need to feel him solid beneath your hands, maybe to tell yourself this is real. "Tell me something."

"Anything."

"That first day. When you spilled coffee on my notes. What were you actually trying to do?"

He groans, the vibration of it you feel against your cheek. "I was trying to ask you out. Had this whole speech planned. Then I got nervous and forgot I was holding coffee and — yeah. Disaster from the start."

"What was the speech?"

"Absolutely not. That's going to my grave."

"C'mon."

"Nope. Some secrets stay buried. All you need to know is I'd been watching you for weeks like a creep. Knew your coffee order, knew what corner of the library you liked, knew your schedule."

"That's actually kind of creepy."

His hand slides into your hair, fingers gentle against your scalp. "I know. I'm not proud. But then you yelled at me about the coffee and you were so pissed and so pretty, and I just... kept trying to talk to you. Even if it meant fighting with you."

You think about all those fights. The debate that got so heated the TA had to separate you. The time you fought about nothing at all, just because you could, because it meant you got to be in each other's space.

"I liked fighting with you," you admit.

"I know. I could tell."

"It was the only time you paid attention to me."

"Baby, I was always paying attention to you." His voice gets more serious. "Every single second you were in a room, I knew exactly where you were, who you were talking to, if you were smiling. I was so far gone for you it was pathetic."

All this time you thought he barely noticed you except to annoy you, he was cataloguing your every movement.

"The club. That first night. You got so mad. Was it — was it about that guy?"

There's no shame in his words. "I wanted to punch him, wanted to drag you away and tell him you were mine even though I had no right. I was jealous, pissed off and I followed you to the bathroom to yell at you about it."

"And then we fucked instead."

"Best decision of my life. Fuck, it was incredible. But, after that I couldn't pretend anymore, couldn't pretend I just wanted to annoy you. I was addicted."

You lift your head to look at him, there's a softness in his expression that makes him look vulnerable.

"Every time you said it was the last time, I died a little," he continues. "But I kept coming back for more because having you for a moment was better than not having you at all."

The words hurt in the best way. You did the same thing, kept saying never again while knowing you'd end up right back in his orbit. "I'm sorry," you say.

"For what?"

"For pushing you away. For not seeing it sooner. For — For making you think you were nothing to me."

"Hey." He sits up, brings you with him so you're straddling his lap, towel falling away completely now but neither of you caring enough to correct it. His hands cup your face, making you look at him. "We both fucked up. We both hurt each other. But we're here now, right? We're figuring it out."

"Yeah. We're here."

His lips brush yours, and you think about all the ways you've kissed before. It's nothing like before, it's a kiss that means something beyond want, that says I'm sorry and I love you and I'm not going anywhere.

There's a specific kind of torture in wanting someone you think you can't have. You'd lived in it for months — watching Bucky, fighting with Bucky, fucking Bucky, all while convinced it meant nothing. Convinced you were nothing to him beyond a convenient release. The torture was in the wanting, in the knowing it could never be more, the way your heart skipped when he walked in a room even as you told yourself you hated him.

You'd gotten good at that torture, had made a home in it, learned to navigate the ache of unrequited feelings dressed up as animosity.

Now it's gone. This is having Bucky, knowing he wants you back.

He is lying next to you now, your head on his chest, his heartbeat steady under your ear. Your towel is somewhere on the floor. You're still sick, still running a fever, but he's here. He stayed. 

He's going to keep staying, you realize. Through the sickness, fights and the moments when you both fuck up. 

It won't be easy. You're both too stubborn, too quick to anger, too used to hurting each other to suddenly become soft and gentle all the time. There will be fights. Real ones, not the foreplay kind. And there will be days when you drive each other crazy, and there will probably be moments when you wonder if this was a mistake.

But then he'll make you coffee exactly how you like it. Or you'll catch him watching you like you're precious. Or you'll patch him up after a game, or you'll fight about something stupid and end up laughing instead of crying.

His fingers are tracing patterns on your bare shoulder and you think about how touch can mean so many different things. All the times he's touched you in anger, in desperation, in hunger. And now this. Gentle, aimless touching, just because he can, because you're his and he's yours.

"What are you thinking about?" he murmurs.

"How we got here."

"Long fucking journey."

"Worth it?"

"Every second of it."

The torture of wanting someone you can't have is finally over. The torture of having someone you could lose is just beginning.

But as Bucky presses a kiss to the top of your head, as his breathing evens out and his heartbeat steadies under your ear, you think maybe this is the kind of torture you can live with.

Maybe this is the kind of torture that's actually called love.

MY MASTERLIST!

EXTRAS. first time writing smth where both of them are this toxic, please go easy on me! thank you for reading!

“It’s a trap!” Tony yelled the moment he saw the man standing in front of him. “Everybody out now.” He screamed through his comms.

He lifted his arm, pointing his hand toward the man. He shoot him with his blaster. The man fell down in a second as Tony raised himself in the air with the armour.

Too damn easy, he thought.

He heard some noise, people fighting and guns shooting.

He first saw Natasha, coming out from a metal door. Her face dirty and blood all over it. She gave him a look that said “it’s not mine”.

After some minutes, Sam with Steve and Y/N reappeared.

“Where’s Bucky?” Y/N asked immediately.

“Wasn’t he with you guys?” Tony replied, pointing at Captain America and Falcon.

They both shook their head.

Panic began to flow in her face when even Natasha didn’t know where Bucky was.

The billionaire flew down, feet on the ground, looking at Y/N.

He had always seen her as a daughter and knowing Bucky was her first official and real relationship, he panicked too but trying to keep his facade just for her.

“Okay kid, don’t worry…” he said calmly. “He’s somewhere here.”

“Where Tony? I don’t see him here!” Y/N yelled back. “I’m sorry…” she whispered almost immediately. “It’s not your fault Tony…”

Tony moved closer and engulfed her in a metal hug.

Around them Steve, Sam and Nat began to think.

Bucky was of course with them on the jet, precisely near Y/N with his arm on her shoulder, keeping her close. It was their own ritual before any mission. They sat together, his arm protecting her for absolutely no reason and her giving him little kisses on his cheek.

He was with then on the ground where they landed looking for the threat but then nowhere to be found after that.

“We should split,” Tony suggested. “I’m going north flying over the facility,” he pointed his finger toward the sky. “Nat will take the south sector,” he looked toward Nat, who nodded. “Steve and Sam you’re gonna be with Y/N. She has to download all the files and you’re gonna cover her.”

Both men nodded looking at Tony.

“Barnes,” he turned toward Bucky. “You knew this place?”

Bucky nodded looking down.

“Check the perimeter.”

He nodded again.

“Let’s do this.” Tony said clapping his hand flying high in the sky.

Nat slid out of sight like a cat, Sam and Steve patiently wait for Bucky to kiss Y/N.

They both smile seeing their friend so in love.

“Doll, be careful.”

“You too soldier.”

“Tony,” Y/N began to sob.

“No no no,” he rested his hand on her shoulder. “We’re not doing this.”

“But-“

“I said no. He’s here and we’re gonna find him and have a party all together at the tower.” He said, catching a tear on her face.

Minutes passed and panic began to build in all of the Avengers.

They all rose their head when they heard some noise. Heavy footsteps were approaching. They all stood up in a second.

Tony rose himself in the air. Steve lifted his shield. Sam and Nat swinged their fists in the air. Y/N’s hands immediately on the gun.

“Wait,” she yelled happily. “It’s Bucky! I saw his metal arm-“ words got stuck in your throat as pain was the only thing you felt.

Falling on the ground, she grabbed her shoulder and saw blood all over her hand.

Bucky shot her.

“That’s not Bucky,” Steve yelled.

“That’s the fucking Winter Soldier.” Tony shouted.

They all put themselves between her body on the ground and Bucky.

He kept walking toward her. His eyes never leaving her figure.

She tried to stand but the bullet inside her arm stung so bad.

Natasha threw herself on Bucky, trying to climb onto him but failed. Steve hit him with his shield, but the metal arm was stronger. Sam tried to fly up in the air but Bucky’s hand grabbed him by his ankle throwing him on the ground.

Tony was the only one still standing. He threw a look over Y/N’s body and then at the very angry Winter Soldier in front of him.

He blasted him, right in the middle of his chest.

Bucky barely moved.

“Damn it,” he whispered shout. “He’s stronger now!”

In a rush of adrenaline, Tony flew higher in the sky. Pointing his arm toward Bucky, he shot him a tranquilliser in his neck from his arm.

Bucky felt on his knees, gripping the gun and then facing down on the soil.

“Bucky!” Y/N yelled still fighting with the pain.

“Stay away!” Steve said, once he saw Y/N moving. “He’s not Bucky.”

“He is to me,” Y/N said crashing onto Steve.

Captain America looked down at her. Her tiny and defeated body against his muscular one.

He hated seeing her like this and hated more seeing his best friend lying down unconscious on the ground. “He’s gonna be alright… but we need to take him back to the tower. Alright?”

Y/N nodded sobbing.

At the tower, Steve and Sam brought Bucky’s still unconscious body in a cell.

“I hate doing this pal,” Steve whispered to his best friend. “But it’s for the best…”

“He’s gonna be okay, cap.” Sam promised.

Into another floor, Y/N began to fight everyone.

Nat tried to hold her down, something usually easy for her but her needs to be with Bucky was stronger.

“Y/N damn it! You need to calm down.”

“I NEED TO SEE HIM. WHERE IS HE?”

“Kid-“ Tony tried to explain. He held the rubbing alcohol and cloth in his hand, trying to calm her. “I need to wash and disinfect your shoulder.”

“SHUT UP! I WANNA SEE HIM.”

Y/N really fought hard, maybe too hard. Her shoulder began to shake and stung. Her yelling was heard even outside.

“Y/N,” Steve yelled entering. “HE’S LOCKED IN A CELL, SLEEPING. ONCE YOU’RE OKAY I’LL LET YOU SEE HIM. NOW SHUT UP AND LET US HELP YOU.” Steve’s tone made her cry but she laid on the table. “Thank you.” He said kindly.

Y/N closed her eyes, taking a deep breath. “Is he okay?”

No one spoke.

“Cap?” She asked again, opening her eyes.

She saw tears stains on Steve’s face.

“I don’t know… he was him again…”

Once Tony finished extracting the bullet and disinfecting the shoulder, he took a laser he created. After he finished, Y/N stood up.

“I’m gonna see him.” She didn’t asked, she told them.

“I don’t think-“ Tony began to argue.

She had already left the room.

In the lift, going down to the cell floor, she began to fiddle with her bracelet. It was a slim silver chain, with a small “B” as pendant.

Once the door opened, she remained in the elevator for a second staring the metal door. She took a deep breath and got in.

Concrete floor and wall, some dark cell except for the last one. She walked toward the occupied one.

She saw Bucky, her Bucky, lying on the floor. His chest moved up and down calmly. As he perceived her presence, he jolted up. He stared at her. His big blue sparkly eyes gone.

He stood there, she stood outside with just a glass dividing them.

Steve was right, that wasn’t Bucky. That was the Winter Soldier.

“Buck-“ she began talking, resting her hand on the glass in a mere way of letting him know she was there. She let him see the pendant on her wrist.

Bucky glared at her, she saw his lips twitching. She thought he was about to rest his palm on the glass too, but she was wrong.

Bucky began punching the glass with his metal hand.

Heavy punches on the glass made it trembling.

For the first time, she was scared of him. She rationally knew that wasn’t his Bucky, but she also knew that in that moment Bucky was hide in that mix of anger.

“Bucky please stop,” she cried, sliding away from the glass. “Bucky it’s me. I’m your girlfriend. It’s Y/N… your Y/N…”

“Who the hell is Bucky?” He grunted keeping punching the glass.

His smile, one of the things she loved most about him, made her blood boil. It was angry and evil and scaring.

He glared at her while she tried to talk to him.

“Bucky please stop… you have to fight it…”

He didn’t stop.

Panic really started when she noticed a crack in the glass. She lost balance trying to escape.

Her shoulder began to sting again but it was nothing like the panic when she heard the glass breaking.

Bucky’s fists were able to break the glass.

She was now alone.

Alone with the Winter Soldier.

Bucky’s breath was hitched and frantic. His eyes darker than ever. His fist closed, ready to fight. It was almost as he didn’t see her lying there, near his feet.

The bandage Tony applied on her arm, blocked her movements.

She spent the first months of relationship trying to calm Bucky when the Winter Soldier topic came out, but now she was alone with the most dangerous assassin on the planet.

She stood up and stared at him.

“Bucky you know me,” she pleaded.

“You’re my enemy.”

His words made you angry.

As he launched toward her in front of her, she slid on the other side. She hated how well she knew what he was going to do. He explained it to her one night, in their bed.

“I don’t always remember… but they always told me to move directly in front of my victim…”

In that moment she was his victim.

She knew damn well she wasn’t able to fight him alone because he was already stronger than her and, seeing how he easily broke the glass, she thought he was under some other type of serum.

He moved like a shadow, she tried to do the same. Moving with an arm attached to her body was impossible. She was a trained Avenger but he was the love of her life and that made her weak.

He grabbed her and pushed her down on the floor straddling her waist, then he lifted his flesh arm closing his fist. She rolled over just in time, but her legs were still under him. He caged her better and moved her upper body, sliding it on the ground. Her shoulder really hurt and some tears escaped from her eyes.

“You fucking know me Bucky!” She yelled. “Fucking fight it!”

“I don’t know shit.”

In a rush of fortune, she punched his chin. He rolled his eyes but he didn’t move remaining on her body, crushing her.

She lifted his knees kicking him in his crotch. He bent down a little, the tip of his nose touching hers. She felt his weight on her. He groaned as he stood with his upper body again.

Anger and tired of fighting, she caught a glimpse she didn’t like in his eyes. He moved his metal arm like it’s weighted nothing and crushed it on her neck. She felt her breath leaving her body.

His hand pressed more and her face began to shake.

“Buc-“

“Shut up!”

He pressed his thighs more on her, caging her on the floor. His flesh hand kept her arm up on her head while his metal one held her neck. She felt the air leaving her body as the time goes by.

“Y/N!”

Steve’s voice echoed in the room.

Bucky, visibly annoyed by Steve’s voice, removed his hand from her neck and stood up, ready to fight. A shot of air in her throat, breathing now properly. She remained on the floor, as the breath progressively came back.

Steve, followed by Sam and Nat and Tony, immediately launched themself on Bucky.

Nat hit him with an electric shock before kicking him in the shin. Bucky knelt on the floor while Steve and Sam fought to keep him still. Tony, running toward him, attached in his arm a little metal coin. After pushing some buttons in his tablet, Bucky was pulled down again on the floor.

“This disabled his arm… but it’s not permanently,” he looked at her still on the floor, now sitting. She nodded toward Tony.

“Thanks.” He said before completely detaching his arm from his body.

Bucky’s eyes opened shocked.

In those few seconds of calm, Tony shoot him again with another tranquilliser, a tougher one.

The Winter Soldier felt on the floor.

“Let’s leave him here,” Tony said. “He can’t escape the metal door.” He added, pointing at the door.

Everyone gathered around Y/N. She stood, touching her neck feeling Bucky’s hand still on her skin.

“Y/N,” Sam started.

She remained silent, watching Bucky lying on the floor unconscious.

She spent the remaining day in her room, as she didn’t want to get back in her and Bucky’s room.

A knock on her door, around eleven o’clock woke her from his thinking.

“Come in.”

“Hey,” Steve said entering.

“If he’s awake… I don’t want to see him Steve.”

Bucky was indeed awake.

He woke up on the floor, without his left arm. His head banging and his muscles completely sore. A fog in his mind except for one thing.

The absolute horror in her eyes.

The horror he caused.

He knelt on the floor, heavy breath and tears free on his face. He took a look around himself noticing all the cells. His eyes locked on a cell without the glass. Thousand of shattered glass around him, cracking under his knees.

He didn’t remember precisely what he did but he remembered who he attacked.

He heard a bip in the silence of the cells room.

After a couple of minutes the massive metal door opened and Tony, followed by Steve, appeared in front of him.

“Which Bucky am I talking to?” Steve asked.

“Your mom’s name was Sarah…” he looked down replying to his best friend. “What did I do?”

“What you fear the most… he attacked Y/N…”

Steve proceeded to explain everything the Winter Soldier did. He refused to say “you did that” choosing to say “he did that”.

“Pal,” Bucky whispered standing up, shaking from the last traces of the tranquilliser. “I did those things… you don’t need to sugar coating…”

“Right,” Steve said. “We found you getting toward us after the mission but…”

“But it wasn’t me… it was him.”

Tony circled him, he was angry but now with Bucky or at least not fully with Bucky.

He saw how he was avoiding his eyes. Bucky had always knew how much Y/N meant to Tony.

“Stop this bullshit, Barnes,” Tony said as he checked Bucky’s head. “It wasn’t your fault. So you can fucking look me in the eyes.”

“I attacked her… I can’t look at anyone right now… I don’t deserve any of your help.”

Steve finished telling her what Bucky told them in the cell room.

“I know if you don’t want to see him but you shouldn’t give up on him…”

“Do you think I’m giving up on him?” She yelled. “Do you think I’m giving up on bringing back the old Bucky? My boyfriend? The man I love?”

“You didn’t want to see him…”

She stood from her bed but immediately sat back. With her head in her hands, she began crying. “I’m scared Steve…scared for him,” she took a deep breath. “I know what he can do and… I know for a fact that Bucky would never forgive himself…”

Steve’s eyes changed immediately. In that moment he knew for sure she was the right woman for Bucky. She insisted of seeing him right after he shot her, she was with him in the cell and now she was worried about Bucky’s safety first before hers.

“Y/N,” Steve sat in the bed. “I’ve know Bucky since we were kids and I know Bucky suffered a lot but you… you are the only one who handle him… hell I don’t even know if I can’t handle him the way you did,” he stopped and a tear fell from his eye. “He needs you and you need him. I know you’re scared for him and I know he’ll try to avoid you but please… keep him safe.”

She hugged him tightly, crying on his shoulder.

“I wanna see him.”

They both got down to the med floor.

Bucky rested on the bed, an IV in his flesh arm to rehydrate him. Just outside his room Tony, with Sam and Nat, all turned hearing the elevator’s door opening.

Y/N and Steve, visibly still shocked, appeared.

“Is he okay?” She asked Tony.

“He is. Some fluids and his body already washed out the serum.” Tony looked at Y/N’s neck. She covered it with her hand. “You were right, Cap. He had a newer version of the serum through his veins.”

Y/N stared at the door separating them from Bucky. “Can you all leave please? I wanna be with Bucky alone.”

Everyone nodded.

Once she was alone in the corridor, she grabbed the knob and turned it.

The door opened and she entered in the room. First thing she saw was her boyfriend in the bed. He made Tony lowered the curtain, so the room was in a dim light. Once she got near him, he turned quickly his head. She looked down and saw something that made her cry.

Bucky didn’t have his left arm attached to his body. A quick scan in the room and she noticed it on the ground, near the bed.

“Bucky,”

“Don’t… I don’t want that thing ever again.” He said looking at the window.

“Look at me, Buck.” She pleaded him.

“Don’t do this to me. I can’t even imagine what you felt down there… why are you here?”

“Because my boyfriend is here,” she moved toward the bed. “Look at me…please…”

Bucky turned his head. His eyes red and puffy, his lower lips bleeding and his face pale. His eyes back at their colour, but it wasn’t the usually sparky nuance. It was a sad tone of blue, reflecting what he was feeling. His look immediately changed when he saw the handprint, his handprint, on her skin.

“I did that…”

“No you didn’t. He did it, not you.”

“Damn it Y/N… it’s the same thing…”

Bucky’s voice was low, a whisper barely coming out of his mouth. He sat on the bed, removing his IV from his arm.

“What are you doing?” She exclaimed, grabbing his shoulder as he sat too quickly. “Your body needs rest. Stay there.”

“I need to go far away from here,”

“From me? That’s what you meant? Away from me?” She said, pointing his feet on the ground in front of him.

He sat on the edge of the bed. His shirt off, showing bruises and cut. He still didn’t fully looked at her in her eyes, he couldn’t.

He tried to stand and fell on the ground.

She moved quickly to grab him by his flesh arm.

“Don’t touch me.” He yelled crying as human representation of a caged animals.

Bucky felt in a kinda of way like a caged animal.

He spent 70 years locked and used as a weapon, and now he felt like a weapon again seeing the mark on her skin.

She slid away of him, just a bit only to give him some space.

He remained on the floor, crying and sobbing.

“It’s pathetic I know,” he cried.

“It’s not Buck, please let me help you.”

She reached for his flesh arm, he let her do it. Pushing on his feet, he stood and sat back on the bed.

He looked down. She moved toward him and guided his head toward her chest. He rested his forehead on her skin.

She lifted her arm, circling his neck and playing with some locks on his head. Kissing his head, he let out a long and deep breath.

“How could you still want me?” He asked in a whisper.

“Because I love you Bucky Barnes. That’s why.”

That was the first time she said those three words to him. He took a deep breath and began to tremble.

“I love you so much doll. It consumes me and made me happy… so much happy,” he began to hiccup. “I want to be with you but… I don’t know if I can be with you after what I did…”

“You did nothing wrong,” she held his face between her hands, forcing him to look at her. It was the first time he looked at her, really looked. Her eyes were red and puffy like his. Her lower lips trembled a little. She was beautiful.

“That man,” she kissed his lips loving and tenderly. “He wasn’t my boyfriend. He wasn’t the man I love. He was the beast someone created.”

She kissed him more, he crumbled against her. “My boyfriend is the sweetest and kindest man on the planet. He’s brave and honest and gentle. He’s always putting everyone else’s needs in front of his own. He’s treating me like the most important person in the world,”

“It’s because you are…” he delicately interrupted her.

“He looks at me like I hung the moon and stars. He knows me better than anyone else and I know for sure he’d be fighting with his own life for me. That’s my boyfriend and I love him.”

Bucky now was actually crying. Y/N felt her shirt getting wet but she held him there, on her chest letting him hear her heartbeat.

“Stay there,” she kissed him another time.

She circled the bed, getting the arm thrown on the floor.

“Doll,”

“Shut up Buck.”

He snorted for a second.

Once she was again in front of him, she lifted the heavy arm and attached it back on his boyfriend’s shoulder.

“Now you’re complete.” She said as she pulled both of his arm around her waist.

“Tell me everything I,” he looked at her and she crocked her eyebrow. “Tell me everything he did…”

“He shot me after the mission and you already know what he did in the cell.”

“Can I see?”

She nodded.

Detaching herself from him arms, she lifted her shirt remaining with only her bra. On her shoulder there was a patch. She removed it and noticed that the skin was already healing due to a special surgical laser Tony used on you.

He moved closer, with his arm on her back, pulling her against him. He kissed the skin once then another time and again. She rested her chin on his head while he kept kissing her shoulder. His lips moved upward, on her neck. He traced first the handprint and then nipped gently against her.

“Buck,”

“Please I need it.”

“Okay.”

He kept kissing her skin, like his kisses could heal her faster and in a weird way they did.

His hands grabbed her by her thighs, lifting and pulling her on his lap. He groaned a little and she got worried.

“Buck probably it’s not the best time…”

“It’s always the best time if it’s with you on my lap.”

They stayed there, crushing against each other. His skin against his and their heartbeat beating together.

“I love you so much doll,”

“I love you too, Buck. Always and forever. I trust you.”

He cried more on her chest and she let him do it.

She never looked him differently.

He was her world and she kept protecting him from everyone.

Even from himself.

“This dress is gorgeous.” Nat said, slowly tightening the corset. Her fingers worked efficiently and the more she tightened the lace, the more you felt the oxygen leaving your lungs.

“It is.” You replied, looking down.

You stood there in front of the mirror. You looked at your reflection. The dress you chose was an absolute gem; full white, a corset that exalted your waistline. A round neckline leaving your neck and collarbone naked and exposed. The long gone completing the look.

“You’re beautiful.”

“Thanks Nat.” You said without emotions.

Nat stood behind you, hugging your waist lightly. “He’s gonna be…” She interrupted herself not knowing how to respond. She looked at you with soft eyes.

“Okay.” You finished for her.

Being an Avenger wasn’t easy. Saving the world, fighting aliens and Thanos.

Thanos… the one responsible for this.

You saw Bucky become dust right in front of you. You yelled as hard you could, lungs burning and throat dry. “NOOOO! BUCKYYY!”

You knelt right where he disappeared. “Bucky please…” you cried. “Come back to me…” You grabbed a fist of ashes, holding them closed in your hand above your heart.

“Y/N,” Steve said.

You felt a hand on your shoulder. You turned to see your boyfriend’s best friend. Both had glossy and teary eyes. Eyelashes did nothing to block the tears. “Steve, bring him back…”

“Y/N,” he knelt beside you. “I’m sorry… I can’t.”

“Nooo,” you hid your face in his chest. The other Avengers looking at you both. “Please, Steve…”

“Kid,” Tony tried to say, moving closer. Steve stopped him, with a gesture of his hand.

He cupped your head, cradling you. “I’m so sorry Y/N.”

When you all got back to the tower, the world looked very different. Thanos snapped his fingers and magically half of the population disappeared. Half of the world and Bucky.

Bucky, your boyfriend. The man you loved and loved even more when he came in your room the first time after a nightmare.

“I’m sorry I didn’t know where-“ he began to explain.

“Don’t worry,” you replied, smiling at him. “Come.” You moved to let him pass, welcoming him in your room.

You and Bucky weren’t a couple back then, but he found comfort in you. Your soft smile, your sweet eyes looking but not judging and most important your scent; the thing he captured more about you. He found himself sniffing the air once you passed by or walked near him. Steve brought him to the tower just a year ago and even if he was scared at first, your smile and heart convinced him to open with you.

“Do you want to…” you said, sitting on the bed.

Laying down? Standing there? Sit on the floor?

“Yeah…” he said, awkwardly.

He sat on the bed, the left arm far from you while you laid down on your bed that now felt weird.

“You can,” you moved your hand, pointing the mattress. “You know… lay down…”

“Oh yeah.” He laid down, eyes on the ceiling mirroring your pose. He was tense, so tense. He crossed his fingers on his stomach and you snorted. “What?” He asked you, smiling.

“You look like a mummy…” you laughed more, covering your mouth with your hand.

Bucky looked at you for a couple of seconds seriously and maybe even embarrassed but then he erupted in a laugh so hard and joyful, you could only laugh more with him.

You rolled a little and pressed involuntary against him. You both stopped laughing and looked in your eyes.

Bucky’s body moved faster than his brain. In a second he was kissing you. Not a peck on your lips, but a full of passion kiss. Lips against lips, tongue fighting for dominance and teeth almost clashing. You grabbed some locks of his hair and pulled slightly. He moaned into your mouth as he pressed more against your body.

Tilting, you guided him more on you. Now pressed between the bed and his body, you fully circled his neck with your arms.

You felt your lungs burning so you had, reluctantly, to stop. “God, Bucky…”

“I love how you say my name, Y/N.” He answered, peaking your lips again.

Then he abruptly pulled out from you, standing. “Oh my god,” he began walking back and forth near your bed. “I wasn’t here for this,” he pointed between him and you. “I really had a nightmare. I was so scarred…”

You knelt on the bed calmly. “Come here,” you said extending your arm. When he took your hand, you made him moving closer. You did it as well, noticing how he was still of course way much taller than you, so you rested your chin just under his pecs. “Bucky,” you said looking up at him, hugging his waist. “I didn’t stop you because I wanted it too.”

He grabbed your face with both of his hand. “You do?”

You nodded and then he kissed you more.

That was six months ago, now he was kneeling in front of you. With trembling hands, he held a little black velvet box. Inside the most beautiful yet simple engagement ring you ever saw.

He cried, you cried more.

When you told him that little word he was thrilled to hear, he slid the ring on your fingers and happily yelled. “I FUCKING LOVE YOU DOLL.” Then he kissed you, lifting up in his strong arms.

Your ring stayed there when he became dust. It stayed there when you got back to the tower. It didn’t stay there when five years later Tony was able to get everyone back. Yes, even Bucky.

Five years is a hell of a long time. People change, you changed. You spent the first months crying, angry with Thanos and with the universe. You snapped at Tony when he told you for the yet another time he still didn’t have anything new. You snapped too at Steve and Sam when he tried to encourage you to get your life back. God, you yelled at Nat when she tried to make you a sandwich other than your boring protein shakes you were consuming.

The rest of the Avengers stayed by your side. Always, no matter what or how you told them.

You began eating with them again. You remained with the team during movie nights. Nat found you one day crumbled on the living room’s floor. She reached you in an instant and hugged you. You cried even more, feeling her body against yours. Then Steve and Sam, fresh out of the shower post run, moved quickly and worried for you both. They hugged you and Nat. Tony was the last one to witness the scene. Huffing, but in the following days he confessed he was trying not to cry, he hugged you all standing and hoovering you.

“If you’re gonna tell anyone I’ll kill you all.” He minimised.

Three and half years later, you got back in the dating life. You were pretty sure you could never find someone resembling Bucky. Tony worked day and night but he was just a man and you needed a miracle.

So that’s why you were sitting in a nice restaurant with Agent Grant Ward. He was nice, kinda good looking and you accepted his invitation. You both spent a really nice dinner that night. Then some fantastic lunches back at SHIELD’s facility. When he kissed you, after one of your lunches, you froze but then quickly kissed him back.

A year later, almost five years after the snap, Grant knelt down asking you to marry him. You fought your brain when he decided to let you see Bucky’s face instead of Grant’s one. You began crying and he worried. You simply shook your hand in the air and smiled.

“Yes.” You softly said.

Grant stood up, and after sliding the ring on your finger, he kissed you sweetly.

After the proposal, the second one your brain made sure to remember you everyday, things got messy. You felt trapped by the amount of things you needed to do for the wedding.

Flowers, dress, rings and of course the location.

“Done. Done and done.” Tony said one night, finding you on the couch. You looked up at him with a questioning look. “Dress from the shop on the fifth. I’ll give you so many flowers you could fill Central Park and,” he opened the palm of his hand. Two rings shining in his hand. “I made you these… with a band of gold. I engraved your names too,” he coughed a little, voice cracking. “Not for… you know… him too…” he looked at you. You were on the verge of tears. “I thought I could help.”

“Tony,” you said lifting the two golden hoops with trembling fingers. “They’re beautiful.” You stood and circled the couch.

You hugged Tony and, as he sensed the tension, he tightened his arm more around you. “I would have done those even back then,” he whispered in your ear.

“You don’t know how much it means to me.”

“I’m sorry I couldn’t take him back…”

“It’s not your fault. You did your best.” You said, as you both remained hugged there. “You’re gonna walk me through the isle?”

“Of course kid.”

Truth to be told, Tony did his best but he missed something. The only things he really needed, and he found it in his dad’s old works.

“I CAN DO IT!” He yelled one day, emerging from the lab. “I CAN TAKE ALL BACK.”

“All?” Steve asked, looks already on you.

“All.” Tony confirmed.

The final battle with Thanos, the Avengers assembled and Grant’s voice in your head.

“It’s the right things to do bringing him back. Maybe it will be the closure you need.”

Grant didn’t say it with malice. He really loved you and he was perfectly aware of Bucky’s enormous presence. But he was still the man who wanted nothing more than wait for you at the altar.

When you saw all the people snapped getting back, the world stopped. Every sound got blur. Every figure disappeared.

Bucky was there.

In the same exact same point you saw him disappearing. He was real now.

“Doll,” he called you. He moved closer while you stood there, like the soil was trying to trapping you. You felt every worries disappearing when he hugged you. You felt the heat of his body, the warmth immediately arrived in your heart. You kept your arms straight at your sides.

“Doll?” He asked you. He took your face in his hands and tried to kiss you. In that moment you woke.

“No.”

“No?”

“I-I’m gonna get married Bucky.”

If he suffered in whatever place he was, you could also swore it couldn’t be that hard on him like your rejection.

After getting Bucky and some other people at the tower safely, you told Grant you wanted to explain everything to Bucky. He nodded and kissed your forehead.

You knocked at his door. The room he left five years ago, was the same. You kept cleaning it for months after the snap and when you stopped, the dust began to settle on the furniture.

“I know I have to give you an explanation, but I’m feeling like everything I could say wouldn’t be the right thing to say.”

He sat on the bed, now clean and ready as the entire room since Tony made it professionally cleaned, and looked at you. “You’re still the most gorgeous woman I’ve ever seen, doll.”

“Please don’t say that…” you said as you sat near him. Your shoulders touched.

“I can’t lie. I thought about you every time I was there.” He held your hand, you let him. “You’re the only thing I wanted to see again. Your smile, your eyes,” he moved closer and involuntarily you tilted open your neck at him. “Your scent. Still there…” he said sniffing your skin.

“You were conscious?” You asked him, when you felt the heat rising up your body and face.

“Kinda… but I knew I had to get back to you sooner or later.” He said looking down at your left hand.

The ring was there, a massive presence between you two. On your finger you began to feel an extremely weight. The weight of the promises you made to your dark room at night, talking to the ceiling saying you’d find Bucky no matter what. You tilted it with your other finger, hiding the gem, and closed your hand in a fist. Knuckles began to whitening.

“Are you happy with him?” You nodded. “Do you wanna marry him?” You stood there, unmoving.

Nat finished with your corset. Steve and Sam helped people to get a seat and Tony was at your side. Nat excused herself, leaving you two.

Tony Stark, genius playboy philanthropist and now wedding planner, was now silently crying hugging your arm. He wiped his eyes with care and stood. You remained seated, you trembling legs couldn’t help in that moment.

“I need you to see this,” he stood in front of you. He rummaged through his pocket and pulled out a pair of rings. Different from the first one pair he showed you months ago. “Silver,” he told you as you couldn’t see the ring in his hand. “Those are better.”

You immediately understood. “I like them better.” He smiled, a real smile, and helped you standing. “How do I look?”

“A vision,” he said immediately. “He’s a hella of lucky man.”

You both heard the music from the distance. “Showtime, Stark.”

“Be my guest, Y/L/N”

Once you entered the church, the isle was really filled with flowers. Lilies everywhere you looked, and a smell all around you.

“You did it for real Tony,” you whispered, as you walked toward the altar.

“I always keep my promises.”

You looked around the benches. Fury, Agent Coulson, Maria Hill with his plus one. You moved your look on the altar. Nat was there, your bridesmaid, beautiful in a chiffon dress. In front of her, on the other side, Steve and Sam stood proud and happy.

You arrived at the altar and Tony kissed your forehead again. You turned slightly to Maria seated near Grant, nothing less than Agent Grant Ward.

You explained to him, when you got back from Bucky’s room, how you felt. He really didn’t need too many words if you had to be honest. Grant wasn’t a bad man. He didn’t scream nor yelled at you. He sat on the desk, legs dangling. You were on the bed, in front of him.

“I won’t be the one breaking a couple so strong like yours.” He told you. He hugged you for the last time and left.

You remained alone, a promise of coming back left in Bucky’s room. You opened the first drawer of your nightstand and returned to Bucky’s room. When you opened the door he was still there, in the same position, waiting for you. Elbows on his knees and hands pressed against his head. He snapped his neck up hearing the door open. You left him when he asked you if you wanted to marry Grant, and a part of you really wanted to. Grant wasn’t the villain this story, he was just a man that helped you get through your pain. But he wasn’t Bucky.

“So?” He looked at you with pleading eyes.

“Ask me again.” You told him, extending your arm with the little black velvet box you always had kept in your nightstand.

He looked up at you, tears in his eyes. He knelt in a second, but not on one knee. He crashed down with both of them pinned on the ground. Still looking at you, he was ready to spend again his life with you.

“Doll,” he began. His arms wrapped around your thighs, hugging them so tightly he was scared you’d disappear. “I was so lost without you and when you told me you were getting married…” his voice cracked.

You took a deep breath and slid your fingers into his soft locks.

“I… I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“Bucky…” you said, as you caressed his cheeks.

“Y/N Y/L/N,” he said, lifting his head. “Will you marry me, please?” He whispered the last part.

“Yes, Bucky.”

He moved on one knee now, properly holding the ring. He slid the ring on your finger and kissed it gently. When he stood up, hoovering over you, the world stopped. You could had never possibly imagine having Bucky again in your life. He wasn’t angry or mad with Grant, he understood why you felt the need to do it. But now he was ready to take his place back again.

Now Bucky was on the altar, smiling and with a dark blue suit. A lily as a boutonnière, the same one you had in your hair. He extended his arm, the metal one, helping you get on the two little steps. He couldn’t resist and kissed the knuckles of your hand. Some people laughed softly.

The ceremony was sweet and short but you both said everything you needed to say to each other.

Tony gave you the two little bands. “Vibranium.” He said, smirking. 

That night when you entered the honeymoon suite, that Tony added to his infinite list of gifts, Bucky picked you up. “Tradition.”

You laughed a little into his arms. He gently throw you onto the bed, right in the middle. You thought he was about to crush you with his body, but instead he stayed there looking at you.

You felt yourself kneeling on the mattress, again as the first time he got into your room after the nightmare. He seemed to remember it too, and when you extended your arm he caught it and moved closer. You rested your chin in the same exact spot.

“I wanted this back then and I wanted it now still, Bucky.”

“Me too.”

He grabbed your face the way he did at first, and you wrapped your arms around his waist. You pressed your face in his chest and kissed him thought the fabric. When he held your face up, he stared at you and then kissed you. He poured the fear of not being able to see you again, of worrying about not being able to spend his life with you, of the thought of you marrying another man.

You felt it and kissed him harder. When you were forced to detached yourself from his to breathe, you grabbed his face. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Me too, doll. Me too.”

Another year passed and with it, the darkness that once clung to Y/N finally lifted.

The trauma was still a part of her, woven into her story but it no longer owned her.

Therapy, patience, time, and the unwavering presence of her team, and Bucky, had done their work. Now, the woman who walked through the halls of the Avengers Tower wasn’t a ghost or a broken soldier

She was loud and confident and playful and very fond of pranks.

The second anniversary? Best moment to prank.

That evening, the kitchen was warm with light and laughter.

Nat leaned against the counter, sipping coffee.

Steve was chopping something at the island while Tony talked Sam into trying one of his bizarre “protein-dense” culinary experiments

Then, without warning, the lights flickered.

A low mechanical click echoed in the dark.

From the shadows near the pantry, a figure emerged dressed in black tactical gear with hair pulled back tight and a rigid posture. Her voice was cold, clipped and eerily familiar.

“Compliance is the only way.”

Natasha spun around, mug shattering on the floor.

Steve instinctively reached for his shield.

Sam flinched and grabbed a frying pan like it might save his life. “SILVA?!”

Tony gasped, stumbling backward toward the counter.

Y/N stepped fully into the light, face grim and emotionless.

Then, just as their hearts seemed to stop, her lips twitched. “Gotcha.

The room exploded with overlapping expletives. “Y/N, are you kidding me?!” Nat snapped, clutching her chest.

“I hate you,” Tony declared dramatically, hand to his heart.

“You are a menace,” Steve said, though his relief was visible.

“Okay, that’s it. No more movie nights for you,” Sam huffed.

Just then, Bucky strolled in with two mugs of tea in hand. He raised an eyebrow at the chaos. “Did she pull the Silva’s voice again?”

Y/N smirked proudly, leaning against the doorway. “I was very convincing.”

“You almost got punched,” Steve muttered.

“Worth it,” she chirped, stealing one of Bucky’s mugs. “Also, your reactions? Priceless. I need to install security cameras in here.”

The kitchen, still recovering from Y/N’s prank, was filled with a mix of annoyed groans and incredulous laughter. Bits of shattered mug lay at Natasha’s feet, Sam was trying to look unbothered while discreetly checking his pulse and Steve kept shaking his head like he was reconsidering all his life choices. Tony had climbed halfway onto the counter in panic, and now sat there dramatically, arms folded, muttering something about “trust issues” and “demon spawn”.

Y/N, meanwhile, leaned comfortably against Bucky with the most self-satisfied smirk any of them had seen in a long time.

“Absolutely unhinged,” Natasha muttered, crouching to pick up the broken ceramic. “You can’t just do that to people who lived through Hydra.”

“I was gentle, come on,” Y/N said with a teasing shrug. “You all lived.”

“You almost gave Steve a heart attack,” Sam deadpanned, side eyeing the captain. “Man’s super soldier serum almost short circuited.”

“Not funny…” Steve grumbled, but there was a glint in his eye. The kind that had been missing during the hardest days of Y/N’s recovery.

Then Bucky, sipping from his mug beside her, said it like it was nothing. “Honestly? The Silva voice is kind of charming.”

Silence.

Y/N blinked up at him, clearly stunned.

Sam did a double take.

“What?” Tony practically choked on air. “You’re saying that creepy monotone is hot now?”

“I didn’t say hot,” Bucky replied smoothly. “I said charming. There’s a difference.”

“Wow,” Natasha muttered. “Brainwashing really did a number on you.”

Steve looked like he was reevaluating Bucky’s place on the team. “Please elaborate, Barnes.”

Y/N covered her mouth, trying and failing, not to burst into laughter.

Bucky leaned back against the counter, one arm still around Y/N’s waist. “I mean when it’s not accompanied by... you know... murder… it’s got a mysterious flair. The intensity. The tone. And come on, admit it, it’s kinda cool when she drops into that voice and owns the room.”

Tony pointed a finger. “You need therapy.”

“I have therapy,” Bucky replied dryly. “She’s standing right next to me.”

Y/N finally let out a loud laugh, dropping her head onto Bucky’s shoulder, eyes gleaming. “You’re a menace.”

“No, you’re the menace,” Steve muttered.

Bucky smirked. “We’re a team now.”

Sam leaned over to Natasha, whispering, “This is why we should never let two assassins date.”

But the bickering was light-hearted now. The heaviness that once haunted the tower had long since faded, replaced with moments like this, laughter echoing off the steel walls, coffee brewing in the background, and family found in the unlikeliest of places.

“You’re excused only because you’re healing from the bruises, Nat said. “Once you’re back fully, I’ll beat your ass.”

That was a promise.

Y/N looked around the room, her arms still looped loosely around Bucky’s.

The people she once feared she’d lose forever… they were there with her. 

The room was quiet, just the soft shuffle of Bucky’s footsteps, entering.

Y/N sat propped up on the bed, her leg bandaged and a light ache spreading through her muscles. She hated being sidelined, but when Bucky was the one taking care of her, it didn’t feel like weakness. After months of healing she had the opportunity to be herself again on a mission, and this time she smashed it like she sis in the past. A simple ankle swollen but she was herself again.

He came over with a warm compress in one hand. His red henley clung to his chest, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, metal fingers glinting softly under the dim lamp.

“You’re overdoing it,” he muttered, kneeling in front of her. “You’re supposed to be resting.”

“I am resting,” she shot back, but her tone was soft. She watched his fingers wrap the compress around her ankle, careful and tender, almost reverent.

“Barely.” His eyes flicked up, meeting hers, and there was something heated in the way he looked at her. Concern, affection, and something darker. “You scared me out there.”

Her voice caught in her throat. “I’m okay now.”

He nodded, but his jaw flexed. “You don’t get to scare me like that and act like nothing happened.”

She reached out, brushing her hand through his damp hair, tugging slightly so he looked at her again. “Then show me. Show me how much you care.”

The air changed.

“I care you, you know it…” 

“You know what I meant,” she said moving closer to him on the bed. He stood there while she kissed his clothed stomach. “I need to feel you again… raw and passionate… please Bucky…”

He surged up, mouth crashing into hers. His hands, one warm and flesh while the other cold and metal, gripped her thighs spreading them open so he could slot between.

“Tell me if anything hurts,” he rasped, lips ghosting over her neck.

“Just need you,” she whispered, tugging his shirt up over his head. Her nails ran down his chest, flesh over vibranium and he groaned at the sensation.

She leaned back, letting him push her against the mattress, legs wrapping around his waist. He dragged her shorts down slow, kissing every inch of newly bared skin. “You’re so soft like this,” he murmured, lips brushing over her inner thigh. “Still healing, but still so goddamn beautiful.”

He kissed every bruise. His fingers slid through her folds teasing and torturously slow.

“Bucky-” she moaned, hips rocking into his hand.

“I got you, baby,” he growled, slipping one finger inside her, then two. “Let me take care of you.”

And he did.

With his fingers, with his mouth, with every whispered “you’re safe now” against her skin. When he finally pushed into her, slow and deep, it was like something inside both of them broke open.

Not pain, not even lust. Just need. The kind that said you’re mine without ever needing words.

Y/N’s voice broke into a breathless plea against his shoulder. “Faster, Bucky… harder… like… like that first time.”

Bucky froze for a second. His body deep inside hers, trembling with restraint. He pulled back just enough to look at her, his hand cradling the side of her jaw. “You sure?” He murmured, thumb brushing her cheek. “That night, after the mission… I wasn’t gentle. I was-”

“I know.” Her eyes were wide, pupils blown. “You were rough. But you were so good to me, Bucky. You held me through it. I want that again.”

His jaw clenched. The memory hit him like a punch. That mission had nearly killed them both. And when they got to the house, she hadn’t wanted silence or comfort. She’d needed him. Needed to be claimed, reminded that she was alive. She made him anger with her reckless behaviour. And he gave her what she needs. The memory snapped through Bucky’s chest like lightning. His grip on her hips tightened, teeth gritting.

“You want that again?” He asked, voice raw. She nodded, eyes burning with want. “I want you. All of you. Don’t hold back.”

And just like that, he snapped.

He growled low in his throat, flipping her effortlessly onto her stomach. Her breath caught as he dragged her hips up, chest pressed into the bed while her ass arched for him.

Perfect, offered.

“Goddamn,” he hissed, lining himself up again. “Look at you. So fucking perfect.” He pushed into her hard, fast.

A single stroke that made her cry out into the sheets. Her fingers fisted the blankets, hips jerking as he bottomed out. “That what you wanted, baby?” He rasped, hand gripping the back of her neck as he pulled out and slammed back in. “You want me to fuck you like you’re mine?”

“Yes!” She sobbed. “Just like that, please! Don’t stop… I’m already yours, Bucky.”

He gave her everything. His rhythm turned brutal, hips snapping into hers with punishing force, the sound of skin against skin echoing through the room.

But even rough, even lost in her, he watched her. Tracked every gasp, every twitch, every hitch of breath. His vibranium hand slid around her belly, anchoring her and the contrast of cool metal against hot skin made her clench around him. “You take me so good,” he groaned, breath ragged. “Fucking made for me.”

Y/N moaned, nails scratching the sheets, drool on her lip as she shook under the force of his thrusts. “Don’t stop, Bucky, don’t-fuck-please-”

Her voice cracked, and something in him snapped again. He grabbed her shoulder, yanking her up so her back arched against his chest. Still inside her, fucking her hard, his other hand came to her throat.

Not choking, just holding, grounding her.

He bit her ear, breath hot. “You remember that first night? How wild I was for you? How couldn’t I stop?”

“I remember,” she gasped, body on fire.

“I still feel that way, Y/N. Every time I see you.” He slid his hand down, between her thighs, fingers finding her clit. “And now you’re healed. You’re mine again.” His fingers worked her with practiced pressure, matching his thrusts until she was bucking against him, frantic and completely undone.

“That’s it, baby. Come for me. Let go.”

She shattered. Her whole body locked up, back arching hard as the orgasm ripped through her. She sobbed out his name, legs shaking, nails digging into his forearm like he was the only thing keeping her tethered to this world.

“Fuck… you feel so fucking good-” Bucky slammed into her twice more before he groaned loud in her ear, hips stuttering. He came hard, spilling deep inside her, gasping against the back of her neck like it was the only place he ever wanted to breathe.

They collapsed together, tangled and breathless, bodies still twitching with aftershocks.

He gathered her into his arms, shifting them onto their sides, keeping her close, still inside her. He kissed her temple, her jaw, her shoulder. Reverent, gentle.

“You okay?” He asked, voice soft and raw now. Y/N nodded, eyes closed, lips curved into a weak smile. “More than okay.”

“Did I hurt you?”

“No.” She pulled his arm tighter around her. “You reminded me I’m alive.” He exhaled, burying his face in her hair.

They stayed that way for a long time skin to skin, heart to heart. As the room slowly cooled around them. When she turned her head to look at him, their eyes met. He didn’t say a word. Didn’t need to.

She nodded.

Bucky pulled out with a low grunt, he moved with quiet urgency. Large hands slid down her sides, gripping her hips, guiding her back up onto her knees. “Put your elbows down,” he said roughly. “Arch your back. Just like that.”

Y/N obeyed, breath shaky as she pressed her chest to the bed, knees wide, ass high. The air was cool on her slick, swollen pussy. She whimpered needy, exposed but completely open to him. Then she felt his hands spread her wider.

And then, his mouth.

“Fuck-Bucky!”

He growled low against her skin, tongue diving between her folds with obscene, messy intent. No teasing now. No build-up. Just filth. Worship.

He licked her like he was starving. Wide, wet licks that had her thighs shaking, his fingers digging bruises into her hips to keep her still. His nose pressed right against her as he moaned into her pussy like it was the only goddamn thing that mattered.

“Can still taste me,” he growled between licks. “All that cum dripping out of you-fuck, that’s so fucking hot.”

Y/N cried out into the sheets, fists bunching them tight. Her body had barely recovered from the first orgasm, from being fucked so deep and hard her bones still trembled, but the moment his tongue touched her again, it reignited everything.

“You gonna give me one more, baby?” He murmured, lips brushing her clit. “You got one more for me?”

She nodded desperately, back arching more.

“Use your words.”

“Yes…yes… Bucky… please… don’t stop… ”

That earned her a sharp slap to the ass, followed by his mouth locking onto her clit with relentless precision. He sucked, circled, teased her with the flat of his tongue until she was sobbing, begging, her thighs trembling so hard they nearly gave out.

“I love how you fall apart for me,” he muttered. “You’re fucking soaked. And this little pussy? Still so tight. Still fluttering around nothing.”

Y/N whined, her voice high and broken. “Please, Bucky… fuck-need it.”

He slid two fingers into her from behind, curling them just right while his tongue never left her clit. The pressure was too much, too perfect and when she came again, it tore through her violently, nearly painful in how deep it went. She screamed, back bowing, body convulsing around his fingers. He didn’t stop until her legs buckled. Didn’t stop until her body gave out, trembling and boneless on the bed.

Only then did he crawl up beside her, pulling her into his lap, cradling her against his chest. He kissed her hair, her shoulders, his hand stroking her damp spine as her breathing slowly returned to something human.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered after a long silence. “I didn’t mean to push too hard-”

She shook her head against his chest. “No,” she said hoarsely. “Don’t apologize.”

She looked up at him, eyes half-lidded but clear. “You didn’t break me, Bucky. You reminded me I’m still here.”

He held her tighter after that.

The kind of hold that says mine.

That says never again.

A full year since the kidnapping, since the screaming and the cell and the torture.

The doctor’s cold eyes.

The voice of Bucky twisted against her.

It was strange how time moved, sometimes achingly slow, sometimes so fast it blurred.

The mission that turned into a nightmare had started like any other, but Hydra was never just about brute force. They were clever and had patience. They had been watching Y/N, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

The days that followed her disappearance felt like a war the Avengers couldn’t win. The team had experienced loss before, death and betrayal but this was different.

Y/N wasn’t just a teammate.

She was family.

For Bucky, she was something more complicated and deeper but also unspoken.

When she was taken, it was like someone had reached inside him and ripped out the only part of himself he believed was still worth saving. The team spent weeks chasing trails that went cold before they ever began. Every lead led to a dead end, every whisper of intel ended in silence.

Bucky became a ghost, barely sleeping, barely speaking only tracking, only hunting. Steve watched his best friend unravel, and Nat kept her phone in her palm constantly, waiting for something. Tony tore through data like a machine, guilt gnawing at him for not securing the mission better. Sam tried to be the glue between them all, but even his optimism started to crack.

And then… the videos started arriving.

They came without warning. Each one was a punch to the gut.

Grainy, colourless recordings.

A room.

A chair.

A too-familiar face.

Y/N.

Silent.

Bleeding.

Not crying.

Not screaming.

Enduring.

Sometimes the videos came with messages. Sometimes just footage. When they finally did, she was still alive, but not whole.

Y/N wouldn’t speak and barely ate, she wouldn’t meet anyone’s eyes.

For days, there was no progress and then… something shifted.

She didn’t scream when Bucky entered the room. She let Nat braid her hair. She pointed at objects hesitant and shaky, learning again. She walked beside Bucky. She sat near the others during meals, even if she didn’t eat at first.

Then came the first word, his name.

Then another.

Now, a full year later, she was curled up next to Bucky during movie night. Clothes clean, hair brushed and breathing steadily.

She had returned to the gym first, slow and quiet. Just watching the others train at first, gripping Bucky’s hand tighter whenever the room got too loud or too hot or too much. Then she was on the mat again, her body remembering how to move or how to fight, how to defend, how to breathe without fear.

Natasha worked with her in the mornings.

Steve sparred with her on Fridays.

Sam ran laps with her to build her stamina back.

And Bucky? He never left her side.

By the time weeks had passed, she was back in the field. Smaller missions at first to support roles, tech extractions, controlled recoveries. The first mission she returned from unscathed, Bucky kissed her before the jet even touched down.

“You’re back,” he whispered against her mouth.

Now her mornings were calm and usually began with a quite naked super soldier.

“Hey, you’re doing that thing where you stare dramatically into the distance...” Bucky said, walking into the kitchen barefoot and shirtless, tugging on a grey hoodie but not bothering to zip it up.

Y/N smirked over her coffee. “I was having a moment, Barnes. Don’t ruin it with your chest.”

“You weren’t complaining last night when you-”

“Don’t finish that sentence if you want breakfast.”

He raised both hands innocently but smirked anyway, leaning against the counter beside her. “You want eggs?”

“I want you to admit I was right about the intel from yesterday.”

“You were lucky, not right.” She narrowed her eyes. “You gonna take that energy to the gym later?”

“Oh, we’re resolving this in the gym now?”

“Scarred, doll?” He asked her smirking

“Unless you’d rather settle it in the pool. Or… the kitchen island. I’m versatile.”

Bucky choked on air, glancing toward the hallway like someone might hear them. “Y/N.”

“What? No one’s here,” she said sweetly, sipping her coffee. “Stark’s in Tokyo. Steve’s on a nature retreat. Nat’s still pretending to be in Prague. And Sam… he doesn’t knock.”

Bucky groaned. “Okay, first, never say the words ‘Sam’ and ‘kitchen island’ in the same sentence again. Second… I still say the gym.”

“You’re stalling,” she sang, brushing past him.

Her hand trailed along his stomach as she walked away, heading toward the elevator. He watched her go, same way he always did now. Like she was his anchor and storm in one.

The girl who used to yell at him on missions was now the one he fell asleep with every night.

The one who teased him into letting go.

Who healed beside him.

The bickering never stopped, it just shifted into something that made them both stronger.

Sometimes they argued over strategy. Sometimes over who forgot to replace the coffee filters. Sometimes over who was more exhausted after sparring.

But the resolution? That always found them. In the stillness of their bed, where their limbs tangled and hearts calmed. In the gym, where sweat and adrenaline turned into kisses and apologies. In the Tower was quiet, and no one was around on the kitchen island.

Or in the pool, where their laughter echoed off the water, like the night where the Tower’s pool was just for them.

The city skyline glittering through the glass walls. The water reflected soft ripples of gold and blue, and the quiet hum of distant traffic filled the silence. Y/N stood at the edge of the pool, arms crossed, hair tied up, one eyebrow arched like a weapon. “I told you the safe house route through Madripoor was a trap,” she said, slowly.

Bucky floated lazily nearby, head tilted back, arms spread out in a half-drift. “And I said the extraction point wasn’t compromised until after we triggered it. Not the same thing.”

“You mean after I told you and you rolled your eyes.”

“Which I do lovingly now.”

“You nearly got us spotted!”

“But you looked hot climbing out that window.”

“Bucky...”

He swam toward her, smooth and unhurried, until he was close enough to rest his arms on the edge, chin tilted up toward her. Water beaded along his shoulders. His hair was slicked back and those eyes, the ones she used to hate (or pretend to), sparkled now full of smug affection.

“You’re mad at me again, huh?” He asked, smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Furious,” she replied.

“Then come in here and drown me.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Don’t tempt me.”

She kicked off her flip-flops anyway and slipped into the water with practiced ease. The chill of the pool was nothing compared to the heat simmering between them. The moment she reached him he moved, fast and easy, she found herself caught, arms around his neck, his hands sliding to her waist beneath the water.

“You’re impossible,” she murmured, trying not to let her smile win.

“You like impossible,” he whispered, eyes on her lips.

“Only when I win.”

“So never, basically.”

She gasped, mock offended and shoved him backward. He let her, laughing. His body disappearing under the surface for just a second before reemerging, hair dripping, water streaming down his face. He came back for her fast this time grabbing her waist, lifting her slightly, then spinning them both in a gentle whirl in the shallow end. She laughed, breathless, caught in his arms.

“You still mad?” He asked, voice soft and low, chest rising and falling close to hers.

“Always,” she whispered, leaning in. “But now I’m wet and half-naked with you, so I’m conflicted.”

“Let me help you with that.”

The kiss was slow, like surrender.

Familiar and warm.

His arms cradled her close in the water, like he always did when she felt adrift. She melted into it, letting herself be held. Letting herself want.

And later, when they both climbed out of the water breathless, dripping, and very much reconciled, Bucky slung a towel around her shoulders and whispered, “You still lost the Madripoor argument.”

“I’m telling Sam you said that.”

He smirked. “Only if I get to tell him about the shallow end.”

“Bucky!”

“Worth it.”

Their love wasn’t quiet. It was lived.

On the anniversary of the darkest chapter of her life, Y/N wasn’t defined by what had been done to her. She was defined by who she became after, and by who stood beside her as she rose again.

The lab was quiet, bathed in the soft bluish glow of monitors and low lighting.

The hum of machinery was the only sound, save for the gentle scratching of a marker across the whiteboard. Y/N stood in front of it barefoot, wearing one of Bucky’s hoodies that hung off her frame. Her hair was slightly messy, eyes heavy but focused. She had drawn a crude outline of the facility. Circled certain details and written phrases like “white mask”, “protein compound sequence”, “pre-trigger” and “waterboarding protocol delay.”

There was a small digital timer still running in the corner. She didn’t know why she kept it running, it had started the moment she was rescued. Maybe she needed to see time pass. Behind her, the lab doors hissed open. Tony walked in with a yawn, a tablet tucked under his arm and a cup of tea in his hand. His arc reactor dimly lit his shirt.

“Honey, what time is it?” he asked, his voice still rough with sleep.

Y/N didn’t turn around. “Time to understand, I want to say.”

Tony tilted his head, watching her from a distance. She stood so still. Too still. The only thing that moved was the marker in her fingers, spinning anxiously.

“But I don’t know where to begin,” she continued, finally glancing at him. Her eyes were red-rimmed, but dry. Tired, but clear. “I’m stuck, still. It’s been a year, goddamn.”

Tony didn’t say anything at first. He just walked forward slowly, setting the tea down on a side table. He stood beside her, looking up at the whiteboard. A messy mind-map of pain and survival. “You’re not stuck,” he said quietly. “You’re surviving. That looks messy. Messy is good.”

“I feel like if I could just figure out who he is… that doctor… what he is…” She swallowed hard. “Maybe I’ll stop hearing him under the mask breathing at night. Stop smelling the chemicals before I even wake up. Bucky doesn’t say it but... I know I wake him up. I know I scare him.”

Tony turned toward her, softening. “He isn’t scared of you. He’s scared for you. Big difference.”

Y/N finally dropped the marker, arms falling limp to her sides. “He wore a white mask. That’s all I know. German accent, no name and no scar. Just that thing covering his face and his voice.”

Tony nodded slowly. “I’ve seen masks like that. Surgical-grade, trauma designed. Some Hydra doctors used them to keep the patients from recognising them. Compartmentalised torture, dehumanising from both sides.”

“I wasn’t a person to him,” she whispered. “Just… a test subject.”

Tony’s jaw clenched. “Then we find out which twisted Hydra grave this bastard crawled out of. I can cross-reference the chemical compound in the shakes, the timing of your trauma, and security footage from the black site. I’ll need a blood marker sample again.”

“You already have five.”

“Then I’ll get six. Science is about obsession, sweetheart.”

She gave him a tired, grateful look. “Thanks, Tony.”

He nodded, then looked at her with something a little softer than usual. “Take care of your brain, alright? You’re allowed to heal and want answers. But don’t burn down the house looking for the match.”

She nodded quietly.

As Tony left the lab, she sat down at the worktable. The whiteboard still lit behind her. She took a breath, pulled a tablet forward, and opened a new file.

“Project White Mask: Start.”

It was well past midnight when Bucky padded softly into Tony’s lab, barefoot and quiet as a ghost. The tower was still, the world asleep. But the faint glow spilling out from under the glass doors told him exactly where she was.

He didn’t call her name or knock, he just stepped in gently like he always did now careful and measured, the way you approached something fragile not because it might break but because it had already been broken and stitched back together with aching hands.

Y/N sat hunched over the main table, her hair tied up messily, the sleeves of her hoodie pushed to her elbows.

One hand rested on her temple, the other scrolling slowly through lines of Hydra encryption Tony had decrypted earlier in the week.

Her eyes were glassy. Not tired. Just far away. The whiteboard still had “Project White Mask” scrawled across it.

Bucky didn’t speak until he was beside her. He didn’t need to. Her shoulders relaxed the moment she felt his presence. “You’re here again,” he said softly, pulling a stool beside her. “Couldn’t sleep?”

She shook her head. “I thought I was past this. But I keep dreaming of the mask. I keep thinking... what if he’s still out there? What if it wasn’t just me?”

Bucky reached out and gently placed a hand on her knee. “You’re not going backward,” he said. “You’re just not done yet. That’s not weakness. That’s persistence.”

She finally looked at him. “You think I’m chasing ghosts?”

“I think you’re chasing truth. You deserve it.” Her gaze dropped to the file on the screen.

Chemical breakdowns. CCTV stills from scattered bases. A faint silhouette of the man in the white mask all blurry, always just out of reach.

“I don’t know why it still matters this much,” she whispered. “I survived. I healed. You’re here. The team’s here. But this hole in my head… it won’t close until I know.”

Bucky didn’t argue. Instead, he took her hand. His metal fingers cold against her skin at first, but steady. Comforting. “I understand that feeling more than anyone,” he said quietly. “I lived years not knowing what they made me do. What they turned me into. I still have holes, doll. They don’t close easy. But they get easier to live with when someone’s there holding your hand.”

She blinked back tears, and he reached up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear.

“You’re not alone in this. You’ll never be alone again,” he said.

“Even if I obsess over a ghost?” She asked, voice cracking.

“I’ll help you hunt it down,” he said, fierce and soft all at once. “And when we find him, we end it.”

A beat passed between them, and then she leaned into him slowly and carefully. Her forehead pressing against his collarbone. His arms went around her like instinct. They sat there in silence, in his arms with the glow of the lab around them and the ghosts of her past still whispering but quieter now.

She wasn’t alone in the dark anymore and she wouldn’t be, not ever again.

Bucky glanced down at her as she melted against him, her body too tired to fight anymore.

Not him, not the exhaustion, not the memories.

Without a word, he slid one arm beneath her knees, the other steady at her back and lifted her into his arms like she weighed nothing. She didn’t protest. The lab door slid closed behind them with a quiet hiss as he padded barefoot through the silent tower. The hall lights dimmed low for night mode, casting soft gold across the walls. She curled closer to his chest, her nose tucked into the warm space between his neck and shoulder. His scent wrapped around her like a second blanket.

In their shared bedroom, the sheets were turned down, the room slightly chilled. Bucky set her down with care, as if placing something delicate on the edge of something too sharp. She blinked up at him sleepily.

“Now you sleep,” he said, brushing his thumb across her cheek. His voice was gentle, but firm. “Okay?”

She let out a quiet sigh. “Fine,” she murmured, her lips curling just slightly as she shifted under the covers.

Bucky chuckled low in his chest. “That sounded very convincing.”

As he sat down beside her, she reached for him without thinking, her fingers lightly catching the edge of his shirt. “Stay?” She whispered.

“Always.” He pulled off his shirt, climbed in behind her and wrapped his arms around her. Her back pressed into his chest, her legs tangling with his instinctively, her hand finding his in the dark. Within minutes, her breathing evened out. Bucky stayed awake a little longer, eyes on the ceiling, listening to the soft rise and fall of her breath. His fingers traced idle circles against the back of her hand. She was safe. Healing. Still searching, but not alone.

And for now, that was enough.

The stone walls of the coastal facility were damp with salt and time. The echo of waves crashing outside growing louder as the team descended further underground. It was supposed to be a simple mission.

Get in, secure the remaining data drives from Hydra’s ghost systems and out before the tide locked the bunker shut again.

Sam stayed topside to monitor communications. Steve and Nat cleared the far corridor. Bucky and Y/N moved through the central archive together as always. But then, Y/N rounded a corner and stopped.

Bucky didn’t notice at first. He was ahead, scanning with his rifle but the second he heard her breath catch, he turned instantly, weapon lowered, voice tight. “Doll?”

She didn’t answer.

Her body had gone still.

Her pupils wide.

There, in the far corner of the damp, dark room was a steel medical table. Long abandoned, rust staining the legs, straps still attached but it wasn’t the table.

It was the wall behind it.

A cluster of tools mounted in a perfect line.

Syringes, scalpels, surgical pliers and just above it… a single hook on the ceiling.

The kind that could hold chains.

Or water pipe.

Bucky was next to her in two long strides. His hand hovered, waiting for her to nod before touching her, she did and then dropped her weapon. Just like that. It fell from her fingers like they no longer worked.

A memory slammed into her then. A towel soaked in ice water, a shadow standing over her, a voice whispering. With Tony’s help, Y/N was now fully healed. His detox’s protocol allowed her to clean her body and her mind. But now, the memories came back. When she was only remembering the towel and the pipe on the doctor’s arms, now she was also remembering how the water dripped on her body and in her throat. She felt the chill wrap around her spine like a phantom hand.

She clutched at her chest, gasping. “I can’t-Bucky-I can’t-”

“You can,” he said instantly, catching her face in his hands. “You’re not there. You’re with me. Look at me, Y/N.”

“I thought I was past this-”

“You are,” he said, steady and sure, even as his own eyes flicked toward the hook on the ceiling like he wanted to rip it out with his bare hands. “This is just a scar getting tugged. You’re not broken.”

She was shaking now, knees threatening to give. Bucky pulled her into his chest, one hand on the back of her neck, shielding her from the room entirely.

“Breathe with me,” he whispered.

And she did slow, one breath at a time surrounded by the smell of his skin and the steady beat of his heart.

Minutes passed before she finally stepped back and nodded, steadying her shaking hands as she retrieved her weapon from the floor. When they regrouped, Steve noticed the tension and raised a brow.

Bucky simply answered, “We’re good.”

And they were. She walked out of that room. Not quickly, but forward.

That night back at the tower, she didn’t go to the lab. She climbed into bed with Bucky, curled against him, and whispered somethingthat made Bucky’s freezing. “It’s still in me.”

He kissed her hair and replied, “Then we fight it together.”

The next morning, sunlight filtered lazily through the Tower’s kitchen windows. The smell of eggs and burnt toast and Nat’s aggressively strong coffee filled the air.

Steve was already halfway through his second plate. Tony sat half-asleep with sunglasses on, pretending not to care but listening to every word. Sam was flipping pancakes, poorly, while Bucky stood silently behind Y/N like a watchful shadow. She was quiet but present. Tired but not disconnected like she used to be after a bad flashback. She looked like herself. Still, the silence didn’t last long.

“So…” Sam said casually, sliding a lopsided pancake onto her plate. “How you doing, girl?”

“Fine,” Y/N said, stirring her tea without really drinking it.

Sam tilted his head. “I mean... you froze yesterday. I saw the report Steve filed.”

At that, Bucky’s jaw ticked but Y/N just sighed and leaned back in her chair. “There was a water pipe,” she said after a moment.

Everyone went still. The only sound was the soft click of the toaster popping up two forgotten slices of bread.

“I didn’t even realize it at first,” she continued, voice steady but distant. “I turned the corner, and it was just… there. My legs locked. I couldn’t move. My mind was there again. I haven’t seen a water pipe in a year, so I guess that’s the reason I snapped.”

Tony pushed his sunglasses up into his hair, suddenly very awake. “The water pipe was connected to the wall?”

“Yes.”

His brow furrowed. “Huh. It could’ve been more than just torture then. Could’ve been part of the neural reprogramming. Trigger-response conditioning. If it was the exact same setup, it might’ve had tech involved we didn’t find.”

“Tony,” Steve said warningly.

Y/N lifted a hand. “No, it’s okay. He’s right to ask.” She took a breath.

“The memory hit so hard because it wasn’t just physical. It made me feel like I was still there. Like I had no control again.”

Sam set the spatula down and looked at her with unusual softness. “But you got out. You moved. You did it because your stronger. You didn’t shut down completely.”

“No,” she said. “Because of him.” She nodded toward Bucky, who was pretending to sip coffee, ears a little pink. “You think it’s all behind you, and then a damn water pipe knocks the air out of your chest,” she said. “But I didn’t run this time. I didn’t hide. I told him what I saw. I breathed. I kept going.”

Nat reached over and gently touched her hand. “That’s not nothing.”

“It’s not everything either,” Y/N added.

“No,” Steve agreed, “but it’s the kind of progress that sticks.”

Ever since that breakfast, since Y/N sat there calm and composed recounting how the mere sight of a water pipe had pulled her back into a mental hellscape, Tony had become obsessed. He wanted answers. Wanted to understand how the doctor had managed to break her so precisely, what tech had been involved, and why certain triggers still lingered, embedded in her like wires waiting to spark.

“Progress isn’t healing if there’s a landmine in her brain,” Tony had said bluntly during one of their private team meetings. “We’ve got to find the wire and cut it, or it’s going to explode when she least expects it.”

And so reluctantly and painfully, they came up with a plan. A brutal one.

Tony had turned one of the deep vault-like rooms into a controlled simulation chamber.

No actual pain, no harm, no drugs.

Just elements that mimicked what she had faced: the metal chair, the camera in the ceiling, the water pipe, the faint sound of dripping in the background from the spout. A recorded loop of Bucky’s voice, the one they’d taken from the Hydra footage Please, Y/N, answer me! would be played at intervals.

Tony refused to use the knife. The goal wasn’t to re-traumatize. The goal was also to deconstruct the trauma piece by piece and understand it unplugging the connection between fear and memory.

Bucky hated every second of it. He paced outside the glass-walled control room, arms crossed so tightly over his chest it looked like he was trying to hold himself together. His jaw clenched every time someone mentioned what would happen.

He looked like he wanted to tear the whole room apart. “I don’t like this,” he muttered again. “This is twisted.”

Steve placed a hand on his shoulder. “It’s her call.”

“That’s the only reason I’m not breaking the door down,” Bucky growled.

When Y/N walked in, dressed in black joggers and a tank top, hair pulled up, he moved toward her like gravity itself depended on her presence. “Are you sure?” He asked, eyes locking with hers. “You can still say no.”

She touched his chest gently. “Bucky, I need to understand why it still lives in me. I need to take the power back.”

He leaned down, kissed her forehead, and whispered, “I’m not leaving the room.”

“I know,” she said.

Bucky was a wreck. A composed, quiet, intensely protective wreck.

In one of Tony’s isolated lower level labs,stripped bare of anything remotely comforting, they reconstructed a simulation.

The pipe. The chair. A sterile, cold floor. And the phrase “Please Y/N, answer me” recorded in Bucky’s voice.

“I refused to touch you and use the knife,” Tony had said earlier, his voice unusually quiet. “But I’ll help you. I must help you.”

“Thank you, Tony,” Y/N had replied with steady eyes, but her voice was tight. Like she was holding herself together with both hands.

Now, inside the reconstructed lab space, Tony adjusted the mask over his face and slipped on a lab coat. Every movement he made was rehearsed, clinical not to frighten her more, but to recreate what needed to be remembered.

He had removed the scalpel from the table.

No instruments. No real danger. But the lighting was dimmed, the metal table cold under her fingertips. The sound of the water pipe’s hiss echoed in the distance. And Bucky stood just outside the room, in view, ready to call the whole thing off the second her lips parted in a way that didn’t feel right.

“Ready?” Tony’s voice came through a mic, modulated just slightly enough to distort it, like the recordings she had been forced to hear. Y/N nodded.

Her breath hitched immediately.

The mask.

The coat.

The lights.

The faint hiss.

It was all too close.

Tony raised both hands slowly, palms out, signalling no threat. He moved slowly, deliberately like someone handling a bomb. He connected the pipe to the spout, fingers steady, though his jaw was tight. A soft click echoed in the lab as the hose locked in place. Then the water began to flow into a sink.

A soft hiss filled the room, innocent to anyone else, but to Y/N, it was a thunderclap. She stiffened instantly in the chair. Her spine went rigid, her hands gripping the armrests so tightly her knuckles whitened. Her breath shortened. She wasn’t in the lab anymore, she was back there, strapped down, the hiss of the pipe the last thing she heard before the towel came down and darkness swallowed her.

“Doll,” Bucky’s voice came low and calm from behind the glass. “You’re here. With us. Look at me.”

She blinked rapidly, her eyes wet and distant but they found him. Through the fear, through the static, through the blur of memory, she saw him, her anchor.

Bucky pressed his palm flat to the glass, slow and steady. “You’re not strapped down. You can get up whenever you want. You say the word, it stops.”

“I… I want to keep going,” Y/N said hoarsely. “It’s awful but… I need to do this.”

Tony nodded, arms crossed but staying still letting her lead. “Okay,” he said gently. “I’ll just ask questions. You answer only if you want to.”

She nodded. Her eyes flicked to the water, then back to Bucky.

“Do you remember anything specific about the sound?” Tony asked, tapping a small control panel to cycle the flow rate.

Y/N flinched again. Then something shifted in her expression, focus. “It was louder… when the room was colder,” she whispered. “I remember. It echoed and… and I could hear his boots on the floor. I always knew when he was walking toward me.”

“Good,” Tony said, his voice soothing. “We can work with that.”

She inhaled shakily, her fists slowly unclenching. “The hiss came first. Then the towel. Then the recording.” She winced at the memory. “Your voice, Bucky... repeatedly like… like it was urgent... like if I didn’t speak, you’d suffer too.”

Bucky closed his eyes, pain flickering across his face. “They weaponised my voice. I’ll never forgive them for that.”

“But I will,” she said, surprising even herself. “You didn’t hurt me, Buck. You saved me.”

The water hissed, steady and soft, still running in the background. But now it didn’t drown her. It was just… water. Just a sound.

Tony looked over the monitors. “Your vitals are elevated, but not in a danger zone. You’re processing, not panicking. That’s huge, Y/N.”

She exhaled shakily, nodding again.

Then Bucky pushed open the door and walked inside, slow and quiet. He knelt beside her, metal hand resting on her thigh, grounding her. “Let’s kill this ghost together,” he said.

She didn’t flinch. Not once. And the water kept running. But it didn’t win this time.

Tony’s face was serious, none of his usual sarcasm or deflecting charm, just quiet, honest conflict. He held the dull replica knife loosely in his hand, letting it dangle harmlessly at his side.

“Tony, please,” Y/N said again, her voice soft but steady. “Didn’t you say the replica can’t cut me?”

He nodded once, lips tightening. “Yeah… it’s blunted. Totally harmless. Couldn’t slice butter if I tried.”

“Then I need you to use it. Not to hurt me. Just to mimic what he did. I need to feel it again, only this time. I’ll know I’m safe. I’ll know I’m in control.”

Tony exhaled through his nose and knelt in front of her, levelling his eyes with hers. “Y/N,” he said, gently, “I can’t even pretend to hurt you. Not after what you went through. That’s not in my toolbox. I build tech. I solve puzzles. But mimicking that monster? I don’t know if I can do that, even for you.”

“I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t the only way left,” she whispered, eyes glassy but burning with resolve. “It’s not pain I’m afraid of anymore. It’s not knowing what he did. Not remembering. That knife… it triggered something in my head when you lifted it before. There’s more buried. I know it.”

Tony looked over his shoulder at the lab at the machines, the screens, the clean, clinical walls. He ran a hand down his face, then looked up at her again. “You’re sure?” He asked quietly.

“I’m sure,” she replied. “And I trust you.”

Bucky stood off to the side, jaw tense and arms crossed over his chest. His stare could’ve melted steel. He didn’t say a word, he didn’t have to. Every muscle in his body screamed he was ready to tear apart anything that made her flinch.

Tony looked up at him, then back to Y/N. “We do this once. And if anything feels wrong, if I even see a blink of panic, it stops.”

She nodded.

Tony stood and walked around behind her slowly. Y/N sat straight backed in the chair they’d set in the center of the lab. Her hands were open, palms face down on her knees, breathing slow and deliberate. Bucky had taught her that. Inhale for four, hold for four, exhale for four.

Tony reached out, slowly placing a hand on her shoulder. “This is how he started, right?” He asked quietly.

“Yeah,” she whispered. “Then he’d speak. But it wasn’t words that scared me. It was the pause… like he enjoyed watching me freeze. The anticipation.”

Tony gently mimicked the motion, bringing the dull knife down slowly deliberately near her side, the way the footage had shown. He didn’t touch her skin. Just the air near her ribs. Y/N flinched slightly. Then stilled.

Her breath caught, and then something shifted. “I remember,” she gasped. “He pressed it there, always on the left side, just under my ribs.”

Bucky stepped forward instinctively, but Y/N held up a hand. “It’s okay,” she said, eyes still wide. “I can take it.”

Tony lowered the knife completely, stepping away, visibly shaken. “That’s enough,” he said. “That’s all I can do.”

“You did enough,” Y/N whispered, looking down at her side. Bucky moved to her side, kneeling beside her chair, resting his metal hand over her trembling fingers. “You’re done with that now,” he said, his voice warm and steady. “You remembered. That’s power. That’s taking it back.”

She let out a long breath, eyes softening as she looked at him. “I feel lighter,” she whispered. “Like something finally let go.”

“You didn’t just survive,” Bucky said. “You beat him.”

Tony nodded, wiping his palms on his pants. “You’ve got one hell of a spine, Y/N.”

She gave a small smile. “Thanks for holding the knife.”

Tony gave a half-chuckle. “You ever ask me for that again, I’m faking my own death.”

She laughed and it wasn’t nervous or strained, it was real.

Night had settled gently over the Tower. The lights in their room were low, just the golden hue of a bedside lamp casting warmth over the space.

Y/N sat on the bed, kneeling in one of Bucky’s oversized shirts, sleeves swallowing her hands. Her hair was still damp from the shower, and her expression was somewhere between anxious and resolved. Bucky was sitting across from her, cross-legged, flipping through a book he wasn’t really reading. He looked up the second she spoke.

“Buck,” she said quietly. “I want to try something else.”

His brows lifted a little, curious. “What’s in your mind, doll?” He asked, his voice naturally teasing, but soft.

“Not like that,” she added quickly, cheeks flushing. “It’s not about… us. I mean... it is... but not like that.”

Bucky put the book down immediately. “Alright,” he said, shifting so he was facing her fully. “What is it?”

She bit her lower lip, gathering her thoughts. “The doctor… the last thing he did to me, before the team found me… was touching me. My chest. Not medically. Not clinically. It was the worst kind of control... and he said the phrase, that phrase, while doing it and I froze.”

Bucky’s jaw tightened. His hands curled slightly on his knees. “I know,” he said. “You don’t have to go on.”

“But I want to.” Her voice didn’t waver this time. “Because I remembered almost everything else, with Tony’s help. But this… this one still lingers in the dark. It’s like a shadow on my skin and I hate that it still holds power over me.”

Bucky’s eyes didn’t leave hers. “What are you asking me to do, Y/N?”

“I want you to say the phrase. I want you to touch me there, but not for… anything else. Just as an act of reclaiming it. I need to overwrite what he did. With you. With safety. With love.”

Silence hung heavy between them for a beat. Not awkward, not distant just full.

Then Bucky reached out, slowly, carefully, and took her hand. “Are you sure?”

“I trust you more than anyone,” she said. “And I know you’d never hurt me. That’s exactly why it must be you.”

His fingers brushed a strand of hair behind her ear, his metal hand cool and gentle against her cheek. “I’ll do this,” he said finally, voice low and steady, “but we stop the second you want to stop. Even if it’s mid-breath, mid-touch, mid-word. You run the show. Not him. Not me. You.”

Her throat tightened with emotion, and she nodded. “I don’t want this to hurt,” she whispered. “I want to let it go.”

“Then we’ll do it together,” Bucky said. “And when we’re done, we’ll lay down here, and I’ll hold you like always. Like you’re mine. And safe.”

Bucky’s fingers traced along your collarbone, feather-light. His touch was reverent, almost hesitant, like he was memorizing the delicate slope of your skin. The pad of his thumb brushed against the hollow just beneath your throat, lingering there for a moment as he looked into your eyes.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, voice rough with something deeper than desire, something aching and tender. Your skin prickled under his touch, your breath catching as his fingers drifted lower. He cupped the side of your breast gently, thumb brushing over the soft curve as if he were afraid to press too hard. Not rushed, not greedy,just present. Like he was savouring every second.

She leaned into his touch, forehead against his. “Say it,” she whispered.

Bucky swallowed. His voice shook ever so slightly when he finally spoke the words that used to haunt her. “Please, Y/N… answer me.”

She flinched, her body reacting before her mind did. But then, instead of retreating, she took a breath. She opened her eyes. She was still in their room.

Still in Bucky’s arms. Still safe. He gently placed his hand, not possessive or rushed, over her heart.

She covered it with her own. “See?” She whispered, tears brimming. “It’s just you now.”

He nodded, eyes glassy. “No more ghosts,” he whispered.

She sank into his arms, curling against his chest. And for the first time in over a year, she didn’t feel claimed by what had happened to her. She felt free.

When Y/N appeared in the hallway, hair pulled back, jacket zipped, boots laced, it took a moment for Natasha to catch her breath. “Nat, can we go out?”

“Go out?” She repeated.

Y/N just nodded.

Nat didn’t question it. She just grinned.

Bucky, however, didn’t take it as easily. “You sure?” He asked, standing in front of the door with crossed arms as Nat pulled on her gloves. “I mean… what if something triggers her again? What if the crowds, or the noise, or-?”

“Bucky,” Nat interrupted, gentle but firm, “she’s okay, now.”

He looked past her at Y/N, who stood in the entryway looking down at her hands, thumbs nervously circling each other.

She wasn’t trembling. She wasn’t zoning out. She was just waiting.

“I won’t let anything happen to her. You know that. She needs this after the incident with the pipe.”

Bucky sighed, frustrated with himself more than anything. For so long he’d been her anchor, her shield, her quiet place. Letting go, even a little, scraped something raw inside him. But he nodded, slowly. Y/N stepped up beside him.

“I’m okay,” she whispered, eyes locked on his. “I’ll be okay.”

He swallowed the emotion clawing at his throat and gently tucked a piece of her hair behind her ear. “Then go,” he said softly. “But come back.”

She smiled. “Always.”

They didn’t do anything wild.

No clubs. No missions. No high adrenaline. Just a walk. Just city air. Just the world outside the tower. They sat on a bench with coffee, visited a bookstore. and walked through the park and fed birds.

Back at the tower, Bucky was pacing. “Relax,” Tony muttered from behind a tablet. “They’ve been gone for two hours, not a decade.”

But before Bucky could respond, the elevator chimed. Nat stepped out first, tossing her coat on the rack with a knowing smirk.

Y/N followed jacket open, wind in her hair, cheeks pink from the cold… and smiling. Really smiling.

Bucky froze.

She walked straight to him, handed him a second coffee cup, and leaned her head on his chest. “I brought you something,” she whispered.

He held her tight, burying his nose in her hair, and exhaled for the first time in hours. “I’m proud of you,” he said, voice thick.

She looked up at him and nodded. “Me too.”

The sound was harmless. Just a quiet bing from Y/N’s phone, the kind she barely noticed anymore. She reached for it automatically, still smiling as she leaned into Bucky, the city chill fading from her skin. But then her thumb hovered over the screen. The colour drained from her face.

Bucky noticed instantly. “Y/N?” He asked, voice tight. “What is it?”

She didn’t answer at first. Her eyes scanned the message again and again, as if somehow reading it differently would change its meaning. Her lips parted. The coffee cup slipped from her hand, hitting the hardwood floor with a dull thud.

“Y/N,” Bucky said again, firmer now, taking the phone gently from her hand.

Unknown Number: The park was really nice today…

Y/N backed away. Her body began.

“Oh my god,” she whispered. “It’s him.” Her knees buckled slightly. “It’s him. It’s still him. The doctor...he’s...he’s here.”

Bucky caught her before she fell. “No, no, no. You’re safe. You’re here with me, with us. He can’t touch you anymore.”

But her breathing turned ragged. “He saw me. At the park. He was there…”

Tony and Nat burst in from the hallway, Steve and Sam right behind. “What happened?” Tony asked sharply, eyes on Bucky. “Is it him?”

Bucky didn’t answer. He simply held the phone up.

Tony grabbed it, his face instantly shifting as he read the message. “FRIDAY,” he barked. “Trace this number. Immediate scan. Everything.”

Y/N’s hands clawed at her jacket. “He’s watching me again. He said they’d find me, he wanted them to, and now...now he’s still... he’s still...”

“Hey,” Nat said firmly, stepping forward, her hands gentle on Y/N’s shoulders. “Look at me. Right here. You’re safe. We’ll find him.”

Bucky cupped the side of her face, grounding her. “We’re not going back, doll. Not ever.”

But Y/N was shaking her head, panic still rising. “You don’t understand… if he’s here, if he’s watching… he’s not done. You were right, Buck. I shouldn’t go out.”

FRIDAY's voice echoed from the ceiling. “Trace in progress. Signal routed through multiple encrypted channels. This is a deliberate obfuscation. But not unbreakable.”

Tony growled. “I want every city camera, every surveillance feed from that park. I want traffic footage, drone data, pigeons with GoPro. EVERYTHING!” He shouted angry.

Bucky never let go of her. Not for a second. Y/N buried her face into his shoulder, breath starting to slow, but her words, barely audible, were enough to break them all.

“…he said I’d never be free.”

The moment FRIDAY confirmed the trace was active, Stark locked himself in the lab.

Coffee in one hand, holograms spinning in the other, his eyes scanned walls of data no normal person could keep up with.

The message Y/N had received wasn’t just a message.

It was a declaration. He was watching. He was near. And he wanted them to know it.

“FRIDAY,” Tony snapped, “...remind me what we’re up against.”

“The signal came from a modified relay node in Queens, bounced off three privately owned satellites, re-encoded via an AI protocol that is… disturbingly familiar.”

Tony’s jaw tightened. “Hydra-familiar?”

“No. Stark-familiar.”

His heart sank. “You’re saying he used something I built?”

“Not directly, sir but part of the routing system used old Stark Net firmware, possibly stolen during the Siberia infiltration.”

Tony muttered a string of curses under his breath, then grabbed another tool and began working furiously.

Holographic cables, AI pathways, encryption strands danced around him.

The bastard hadn’t just resurfaced, he’d come prepared.

An hour later, the footage from the park finally began processing. Tony paused when the first angle loaded. He magnified a bench. There she was Y/N walking with Nat, laughing. Then, nothing.

No man in a lab coat.

No obvious observer.

Just people.

Too many people, but something caught his eye in the reflection of a glass food cart parked nearby.

A figure standing still not looking at Y/N, but at the camera.

Face obscured with a hat.

But the posture? Very familiar.

“Son of a bitch…” Tony whispered.

He turned to FRIDAY. “We’ve got partial image capture. Feed this to facial reconstruction, pull gait analysis, ear geometry, shoulder width, everything.”

“Reconstruction in progress…” the AI spoke.

And then came the real kicker.

As Tony decrypted the metadata embedded in the message itself, something appeared.

Something chilling.

A phrase, hidden in the code.

An embedded checksum tag, written in a language only a few minds would notice. Only those that lived in the grey area between machinery and madness.

“She still listens. She still remembers and I still own a piece of her.”

Tony dropped the tool he was holding. and stared at the code. Then he turned to FRIDAY. “Send that to Bucky, now! Get me every scrap of hardware that Y/N came back with. The device we removed, the transmitter core, everything. I want it stripped to the atoms.” He leaned back in the chair, rubbing his temple. “This isn’t just about tracking her.” He said aloud.

Meanwhile, upstairs Bucky stood outside Y/N’s room, the message Tony sent now glowing on the tablet in his hand.

She still listens. She still remembers and I still own a piece of her.

Bucky’s metal fist curled tight. “No,” he said through his teeth. “Not again.”

The tower had returned to its rhythm silent concern wrapped in forced normality but something had shifted.

Every now and then, Y/N would pause mid-movement. Her gaze would drift. She’d blink, slowly as if waiting for a cue.

The team noticed but they didn’t say it aloud.

They all knew.

She was still listening to him, and the encounter in the park made something woke up again in her mind.

Every achievement she made that text ruined everything.

Not through a speaker.

Not through an implant.

Not even consciously.

The doctor’s voice, it had rooted itself in her psyche like a virus.

It was Bucky who saw it clearly. He was training alone in the gym when Y/N appeared at the door.

She stood still, one foot inside the room, arms limp by her side. Her head tilted slightly, as if reacting to a sound. “Doll?” He said gently.

No answer. Her lips moved, barely. He came closer. “Y/N?”

She flinched violently then blinked. Her eyes found his, wide and trembling and Bucky froze. Her hand moved to the spot just beneath her shoulder blade. The same place the implant had once been. There was nothing there anymore, nothing physical, at least but in her mind, it still buzzed.

“She’s responding to post-suggestion loops,” Tony said in the common room after Bucky informed the team, projecting brainwave patterns into the air. “She’s not hallucinating at this point, it’s deeper. He embedded reflex responses through repetition conditioning.”

Steve’s face tightened. “So, what do we do? It took only a text after a year?”

“We rebuild her brain’s reaction system from scratch,” Tony replied. “Create new loops. Override the old ones. Basically…”

“We teach her how to not obey,” Natasha finished.

Tony nodded grimly. “Our work all wiped out…”

Y/N sat curled in the window seat of her room, knees pulled tight to her chest while the rain tapped against the glass. She stopped sharing the room with Bucky, and that alone killed him.

He knocked once, then came in. He sat beside her quietly. Minutes passed. “I know you still hear him,” he finally said. “But every time you don’t obey, even if it’s tiny, you win.”

Her fingers twitched at that.

He looked at her. “And I’m here every time you fight back. No matter how many times.”

She turned her head slightly. Eyes red, but dry. Then, slowly, she nodded.

It happened so quietly no one noticed.

No alarms.

No broken locks.

No sign of distress.

Just an open window and an empty bed at 3:00 a.m.

Y/N left the Avengers Tower boots on, wearing a hoodie and leggings. Her steps silent and her expression blank. She didn’t leave because she wanted to. She left because something inside her had been waiting to obey but his voice, that impossible voice, hadn’t disappeared fully.

It simply waited for the right moment.

For an entire year.

The right hour.

Midnight.

“Come home, Silva.”

So, when everyone was sleeping, three hours later she was out of the tower and something in her snapped into place.

By sunrise, Bucky knew. The sheets in her room were cold. The closet door was ajar. Her boots gone. But it was the small slip of paper on the pillow that broke him.

‘I’m sorry. I tried. But he’s right’

Tony was in the lab within five minutes.

“FRIDAY, track her,” Bucky demanded, already halfway to the elevator. “I can’t Mr Barnes,” the AI stammered. “Her watch was disabled manually. She’s offline.”

“Can’t be,” Sam muttered. “She was doing better…”

“She was reprogrammed, Sam. We removed the device, not the wiring.” Tony’s voice was steel.

Steve stepped forward. “Then we go after her. Now.”ù

While the Avengers were panicking, she wandered across the city unnoticed, just another face among millions.

A taxi, then a bus.

She never spoke.

She just followed instructions, once buried so deep in her mind, even she didn’t realize they were still there.

By 7 a.m., she stood outside an abandoned Hydra bunker north of the city, surrounded by woods and silence.

The door was already open.

Inside, the air smelled like bleach and iron and he was there.

The doctor, smiling. “You came, Silva.” He said, stepping forward. “They’ll come for you, of course. But we’ll be gone by then. Won’t we?”

Y/N didn’t move. Her breath trembled, but her feet didn’t. Not yet. Not until he said, “Sit.”

She did.

Silva.

Her new name.

Tony stood, eyes already flicking toward the ceiling. “FRIDAY?”

“No signal,” the AI answered, uneasily. “Her trackers were deactivated. Everything was shut off manually.”

“Manually?” Nat echoed, stunned. “You mean, she knew what she was doing?”

“No,” Bucky growled, turning toward her. “She didn’t choose this. He still has her, in her head. She left… because he told her to.”

A thick beat of silence settled over the team. Steve ran a hand through his hair. Sam swore under his breath.

“Look,” Tony said, stepping toward the glass table and flicking up a digital map. “If she’s on the move, she left a trail. I don’t care how deep it’s buried. We’ll find it.”

“Do it fast,” Bucky muttered. His voice was low, barely more than a growl. “Because I swear, if he lays a finger on her again-”

“He won’t,” Nat cut in, calm but deadly. “We’re getting her back. This time, for good.”

And without another word, the team mobilized.

Because Y/N wasn’t just missing.

She was slipping away all over again, and this time they’d burn down the world to stop it.

The message came at dawn.

Encrypted.

Masked IP.

Routed through untraceable satellites.

Tony nearly smashed the screen when it arrived. He’d been running diagnostics all night, trying to ping Y/N’s last known locations after she vanished. There hadn’t been a trace, not a heat signature, not a pulse of energy.

The others had filed in slowly, one by one.

No one had spoken.

Even Natasha, usually the first to break tension with some dry comment, had only crossed her arms and kept her eyes fixed on the monitor.

The common room felt colder than usual. Shadows stretched along the walls despite the rising sun. Steve, Sam, Nat, Bucky, and Tony stood in a line behind the console like a firing squad awaiting orders. But it wasn’t bullets they were bracing for.

The screen flickered. A man appeared.

Face covered by a white mask, surgical cap tight over his hair. His eyes gleamed clinical, cold, and full of joyless calculation. Behind him concrete walls, dull grey. Industrial lights. A surgical chair in the background. Wires hung loosely from metal beams. It could have been a lab or a prison, or both. But it was the figure behind him that stole the breath from the room.

Y/N.

Her presence hit harder than any explosion.

She was standing motionless, spine straight, posture terrifyingly familiar. Her eyes didn’t roam. They didn’t flicker. They didn’t even seem to see. She was dressed in a black tactical gear, painfully familiar to Bucky. Her arms were by her sides, hands gloved. Her hair was tied back with military precision. And then, barely visible but unmistakable, the faint scar trailing from the base of her neck.

Tony stopped breathing.

Natasha let out a single, quiet, “No.”

Bucky stepped forward involuntarily, like gravity itself had snapped him toward the screen.

“You took something that belonged to us,” the doctor began, voice smooth, deliberate.

“You tried to fix her. You even loved her, didn’t you, Soldat?”

The word loved slammed into Bucky like a sledgehammer to the chest.

“But what you didn’t understand… is that she was always meant to be like you.” He turned slightly, revealing Y/N more clearly. “And now, she is.”

He stepped aside with a predator’s pride.

Y/N turned slowly and mechanically. Her right arm lifted just enough to show the crimson star branded into her sleeve.

The team staggered in different ways.

Steve clenched his fists.

Sam cursed under his breath.

Natasha’s eyes glazed like someone recalling a nightmare.

Bucky looked like he was falling apart in real time.

Still, Y/N didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t breathe any heavier. Until the doctor gave a command.

“Demonstrate, Silva.”

What followed happened in a single, horrifying moment.

Y/N raised her fist and drove it into a concrete support pillar beside her. The crack echoed through the speakers like a gunshot. Stone and dust exploded outward. The pillar split. The silence that followed was deafening.

Bucky took a half step back, his face hollow. “No…” he whispered. “No, no, no.”

Tony’s voice came from behind clenched teeth. “He rebuilt her protocols. That’s why we couldn’t stop her. She’s not just conditioned, she’s hardwired. Remote access enabled. We’re not dealing with trauma anymore. We’re dealing with a goddamn reprogrammed super-asset.”

The doctor leaned toward the camera now. His voice dropped an octave, his words slow and cold. “She doesn’t need to be reminded, Stark. She came willingly. She obeyed. We simply… refreshed her training.”

“She was healing. You let her heal. But you didn’t finish the job. You forgot to erase the code.”

The camera zoomed ever so slightly, catching Y/N’s face in the background. Her eyes were empty. Not just dissociated but vacant, like someone had turned off the lights behind them.

“You can come get her,” the doctor added, voice now bordering on a taunt. “But you’ll have to fight her. Let’s see how deep your love really runs… Soldat.”

The screen cut to black and the silence reigned.

The entire team stood frozen in place, the image of Y/N’s burning arm still burning into their minds.

“What are we up against, Tony?” Steve was the first to speak. “And why he called her Silva?”

Tony was already tapping furiously into his tablet, trying to reverse-engineer the signal, tracing possible coordinates. His voice was low and fast. “He’s not lying. It’s a neural reinforcement loop advanced as hell. She’s not just brainwashed. She’s… rebuilt. Like Bucky was. But newer. Cleaner. Custom-coded to her psychology. New name, new person.”

Sam’s voice trembled. “She was getting better.”

Natasha stayed silent, eyes locked on the blank screen, her own past clawing at her insides.

And Bucky looked broken. “They turned her into me,” he whispered, jaw trembling. “They knew what I was… and made her willingly choose it.”

Tony stopped typing. “No. They made her believe she did.”

The team fell quiet again. But something had shifted now.

“We find her,” Steve said. “And we don’t hurt her unless we have no choice.”

Nat’s eyes burned. “If I get my hands on that doctor-”

“We all will,” Tony muttered. “But first we get Y/N back.”

“She might not want to come back,” Sam added quietly.

Everyone turned to Bucky. He stood still, arms locked to his sides, eyes still fixed on the screen. “Then I’ll remind her who she is.”

The cold was back. Not the kind that touched the skin, but the kind that settled deep into the bones. The kind she thought she’d left behind in a sterile lab, on a steel table, with needles in her veins and a voice whispering in her ear.

Y/N sat, spine straight, in the center of a training cell.

White walls.

No windows.

A single red light blinking above the door.

Her hands were gloved.

Her movements exact.

Her breathing shallow.

She didn’t speak, she hadn’t for days.

Her memories were fractured, layered like old glass, shards of freedom and captivity spliced together until she couldn’t tell which ones were real.

She remembered the Tower.

Coffee in the morning.

Tony complaining.

Sam teasing her.

Steve’s protective warmth.

Nat brushing her hair.

Bucky’s arm around her shoulders during stormy nights.

The doctor told her those weren’t real, that they were a cover story like a simulation. “You were never their equal,” he whispered behind her, voice always gentle. “You were the project. I merely resumed it.”

Sometimes, she believed him especially at midnight when the lights dimmed and the audio loop returned.

“Please, Y/N. Answer me.”

“Please, Y/N. Answer me.”

“Please, Y/N. Answer me.”

She had screamed the first night.

Then she whispered.

Then she said nothing at all.

Until the doctor came in one morning, his gloves bright white and spotless, holding the chip he’d once embedded behind her shoulder. “You left a door open,” he said, smiling down at her. “You let them back in. But I’ve closed it now. The only voice left is mine.”

That was the day she stopped crying.

“Execute sequence 27,” he said.

Y/N stood in front of the mirror in a different room.

Concrete, again. Cold light. Wires hanging from the ceiling. Click. The collar on her neck locked. Her eyes went blank.

She wasn’t aware of the camera above her. Or the panel of observers in the room behind the glass.

“Y/N,” the doctor said softly, stepping into the room behind her. “You were born out of pain. But forged into something unstoppable.” He ran a finger gently over the branded star on her upper arm. She didn’t flinch. “You’re not broken. You’re rebuilt.” Then he looked her in the mirror. “Now, say the line.”

She stared forward, unmoving. Silent.

“Say it.” Silence. “Say it.”

“I am not Y/N,” she said. Her voice monotone, hollow, detached. “I am Silva.”

The team watching from the other side of the glass burst into applause. But the doctor didn’t smile. He leaned close, whispered directly into her ear.

“Good girl. They’ll come for you. And when they do… you’ll show them exactly how much they failed.”

The cell wasn’t empty, but it was silent.

Y/N sat in the corner, knees drawn up, face blank. The white suit she wore reflected the sterile fluorescence of the walls, making her look like a ghost present, but already gone.

Then came the voices.

Bucky’s first. “She’s not the same,” he said coldly. “I don’t know if we can fix her.”

Y/N’s head twitched barely, but her eyes remained fixed ahead.

Tony’s voice followed, sharp and analytical. “She’s a liability. We can’t just let her walk around the Tower like she didn’t almost lose her damn mind. She could turn on us.”

Natasha’s voice came next. This one cracked something inside her. “She’s not my best friend anymore. That person died in the lab.”

Each phrase hit like a scalpel.

Y/N didn’t scream. She didn’t cry but her body leaned ever so slightly away from the speaker, as if her soul were retreating.

The recordings had been masterfully constructed, pieced together from real voice samples lifted from Tower security footage and mission comms.

“They turned their backs on you,” the doctor’s voice said calmly, as he entered the room behind her. “They fear what you’ve become. And they should.” He crouched beside her, placing a hand lightly on her shoulder. “But I don’t fear you.”

She didn’t respond.

“Because I built you.”

He pressed a button on the tablet in his other hand and the room darkened slightly.

Another voice played, Steve’s. “If it comes down to it… we put her down.”

Y/N flinched, finally. That was the moment. That was when the last thread tethering her to the outside world began to unravel.

“You see?” the doctor whispered. “You went home and they never saw you again. They saw a problem. And problems get solved.”

The lights never turned off in her new cell.

The voices kept returning, always from the ceiling.

Steve about her being a threat.

Natasha saying she wasn't the best friend Y/N always thought.

Sam declaring his fear.

Tony saying she could be killed if they worked together.

Bucky admitting he stopped loving her after the first rescue.

The worst was Bucky. His voice lingered in her mind like ash. He had once been her anchor, her mirror. Now, he was the phantom holding the blade.

“You’re weak, Y/N. You were always weak. I do not care about you...”

“We only saved you because we pitied you.”

“The mission should have ended you.”

A voice in her head, not one from the speakers, kept whispering.

You’re not one of them anymore.

They threw you away.

But we rebuilt you.

Now you are something else.

And slowly, she believed it.

They didn’t call her Y/N anymore.

That name was erased from the files. It remained in the archives of her old life, in the Tower’s dusty database but here, under the doctor’s rule, she was something else now.

They gave her a suit, matte black nearly identical to Bucky’s old one.

A red symbol where her heart once was.

Her eyes were empty, but never without focus.

One of the guards said she looked like a machine pretending to be a woman. He didn’t say it again. She broke his arm in five places during a routine sparring test and smiled.

The rain didn’t stop.

It slicked the rooftops of the city in sheets of silver, washing the neon signs into streaks across the city skyline. In the shadows of a satellite tower, a figure crouched silently motionless, a silhouette against the storm.

Silva was waiting.

A soft voice crackled in her earpiece. “Subject is thirty meters north. Three guards. No cameras. No witnesses. Confirm the target, Silva.”

She didn’t reply with words, just the soft click of her boot shifting forward. Down below, the informant lit a cigarette with trembling hands, speaking into a burner phone. His contact would be gone in ten minutes. He had no idea she was there watching.

No one saw her fall from the rooftop.

No sound touched the street but the snap of bone and the thud of a body hitting wet concrete.

The cigarette rolled into a puddle.

Three guards never even got their safeties off.

The target turned, eyes wide. He opened his mouth to scream. She slammed his head into the brick wall with precision. “Extraction complete,” she muttered flatly into the comm. Her voice was flatter than the rain.

“Good girl,” the doctor whispered. He said it every time like she was a pet.

The Avengers’ Tower felt colder that night. Everything felt more fragile.

FRIDAY'S voice cut through the silence. “Y/N’s biometrics just matched combat readiness data. Full red alert. Combined oxidative stress, adrenaline pulse. She’s in active mission mode.”

Tony looked up from the holographic console, eyes dark. The waveform she’d once struggled to speak, now pulsed with precision filled with life again but strutted by someone else.

Nat put her hand on his shoulder. “She’s following the same neural pattern every mission log shows. We thought we broke it.”

Sam’s voice came static. “We read movement in Brooklyn. Silhouette movement pattern matches protocol 17. Female, tactical input masked. It’s Y/N.”

Bucky closed his eyes, breathing shallow. “It’s her,” he said. “God help us… it’s her.”

In the lab, Tony engaged the encryption scanner and pulled up mission logs from within Hydra’s network. A collapsed map of compromised files, all tagged with Y/N’s codename, Silva, popped up.

Next to it, an image fragment. A blurry shot of someone lean. “It’s definitely her,” he whispered.

Nat slammed her fist lightly onto the glass surface. “That bastard didn’t just reprogram her. He weaponized what was left of her. Armed her with precision.”

Sam swallowed. “So… do we intercept? Do we warn her? Or do we stop her?”

Steve lifted his shield decisively. “We go. We intercept. No answer comes from that contact chain. This is field op, not negotiation.”

They suited up in silence.

Nat whispered to Bucky, “She might still be in there. Not just that thing he made.”

Bucky nodded quietly.

Steve slid out with Sam in tow. Tony lingered, inputting override codes into the Tower’s defence systems.

Natasha strapped on Kevlar. Bucky took a breath. “I’ll find her.”

“We will,” Steve replied. “All of us.”

The elevator doors opened beyond. The city waited and somewhere, out there following orders she didn’t remember agreeing to, Y/N walked again faster.

The city’s shadows swallowed the figures moving in silence. The rain had started to fall in thin, cold sheets, mist curling in alleys, pooling in broken concrete. The industrial district loomed like a graveyard of iron bones, towering structures rusting into decay.

Every step echoed beneath them, muffled by the wet gravel underfoot.

Natasha, Tony, Sam, and Steve moved like ghosts between collapsed scaffolding and shattered glass.

The air was dense, thick with the hum of something wrong.

Tony’s voice broke the stillness, low in their comms. “FRIDAY picked up her heat signature five minutes ago. Two clicks north. Still moving.”

“Copy that,” Steve replied, eyes narrowing beneath his helmet.

Crouched behind the husk of an old supply truck, Natasha’s voice cut in. “She’s here. I can feel it.” She was tense, every muscle coiled, not from fear but familiarity. She knew this kind of silence, the kind that came before a kill.

Sam adjusted the scope on his visor, scanning the shadows ahead. “There.” He pointed. “Twelve o’clock. Moving fast.”

Tony’s HUD zoomed in. The figure moved with fluid precision. A blur of black against the steel-grey ruins. “Visual match confirmed. That’s her.”

Y/N.

But not the Y/N they knew. The Y/N who had started laughing again, who would shadow Bucky like a heartbeat, who had whispered her first words after months of silence.

No.

This was something else.

Sam’s jaw clenched. “We move in. Quiet and quick.”

They fanned out in practiced formation, weapons raised, not to kill but to save.

The rain intensified, clinging to skin and metal, slicking the cracked cement underfoot. Then, someone dropped from above.

Silva.

Y/N, if there was any of her left inside, landed in front of them like a shadow split from the night. Her stance was perfect and balanced.

Her eyes dead.

No words.

No hesitation.

She moved first.

A flash of movement, too fast. Tony fired a stun blast, bright blue light split the darkness. She twisted sideways mid-air, the bolt sailing past her head.

Nat barely had time to react before Y/N closed the distance. A single, brutal kick clean, sharp. Natasha flew back, crashing through a rotted doorframe and disappearing.

“Nat!” Steve shouted, raising his shield and charging forward. He swung.

Y/N ducked. Her fist connected with his ribs, spinning him. She used his own momentum to slam him into the ground. The clang of vibranium echoed across the alleyway.

Sam was next, wings flaring as he dropped from above, fists ready. Y/N caught him mid-lunge, her knee driving into his stomach, elbow clipping his temple. He hit the pavement hard, gasping for air. “Jesus, she’s faster than before-”

Tony called out, ducking as Y/N hurled a steel pipe in his direction. It embedded itself in the wall beside him with a shriek of metal. “She’s too strong,” he muttered, fingers tightening around the repulsor. “Too precise.”

Every move was calculated.

Every step planned.

This wasn’t just combat.

This was programming. This was someone unleashed. And then, he arrived.

Bucky.

Soaked from the rain, his chest heaving, hair plastered to his face. He slowed when he saw her.

Not her stance.

Not her weapon.

Her eyes.

They were blank and empty but still hers.

He stepped forward, unarmed and unafraid.

A soldier.

A ghost.

A man trying to remember how to breathe.

A boyfriend trying to save his girlfriend.

“Y/N…”

His voice cracked around her name, raw and breaking.

It wasn’t a call. It wasn’t a command. It was a plea.

She turned toward him, head tilting with eerie calm.

And for the tiniest moment, something changed.

Her posture slipped.

Her fingers twitched.

Her breathing faltered.

The brutal mask wavered.

The former Winter Soldier stilled.

Her eyes, so hollow a second before, flickered.

“Y/N,” Bucky said again, softer now, stepping closer. “You don’t have to do this. I’m right here.”

She blinked. The world stopped turning.

One second.

Two.

A breath.

Then her jaw clenched and her body re-engaged, like a machine rebooting.

Bucky didn’t move. Didn’t run. He just stood there, hand outstretched, his voice trembling as he whispered. “Come back to me…”

From the wreckage, Steve slowly rose to his feet.

Sam was pushing himself up, blood at his temple.

Natasha limped back into view, one arm held tight to her side.

Tony’s arc reactor glowed in the rain, his repulsors humming low.

They all watched the scene unfold, knowing this wasn’t a battle they could win by force.

This was a war for her soul and it had only just begun.

Y/N turned fully toward him.

The flicker of recognition, of her, was gone now replaced by something colder. Her jaw tightened again. She stepped forward in silence, fists at her sides, her breath calm.

Bucky didn’t move. Didn’t raise his fists. “I’m not fighting you,” he said, voice low but steady.

She didn’t answer. Instead, she charged.

Faster than a thought. Bucky barely brought his arm up in time, her fist slammed into his metal forearm with a crack, the force reverberating down to his bones. He stumbled back a step, panic flashing across his face. “Y/N,” he said again, more urgent now, “you don’t want to do this-”

Her leg swept beneath him. He hit the pavement with a grunt, rolling just in time to avoid a crushing stomp meant to shatter his ribs. She came down again, relentless.

A punch.

A knee.

Another strike.

He blocked each one, but barely not retaliating nor hitting back. “I know you’re in there,” he panted, pushing himself to his feet. “I know you are.”

A scream tore from her lips wordless and mechanical, like metal grinding on metal. She threw a spinning kick, connecting with his shoulder. The sound of his bones protesting echoed in the narrow alley.

Still, Bucky didn’t fight back.

“Hey,” he said gently. “You’re not still mad I let you tackle me through a glass wall, are you?”

No answer but her shoulders tensed. He smirked, just a little. “Because for the record, I let you win.”

Still nothing.

She didn’t look at him so, he walked closer cautious like she was still half wild not from fear, but from pain. “You remember that one sparring match?” He asked, in front of her. “Where you said and I quote... don’t go easy on me just ‘cause you’re old... I’ve never been so offended in my life.”

He stopped for a second.

“You decked me, Y/N. I landed so hard I almost asked Steve what year it was.”

Y/N stopped.

He went closer, touching her hands. “I missed you,” he said softly, brushing her gloved knuckles with his fingers.

“Missed the way you used to glare at me during breakfast. Missed how you’d roll your eyes when I tried to be charming.”

Her eyes shimmered, he thought she was coming back in some ways but he was wrong.

Silva grabbed him by his collar and crushed her head on his forehead. Bucky shook his head and blinked a couple of time. He starred at her once she left his collar.

“Baby?” He spoke, arms streached in the air in front of her. “You hurt me, doll.”

His eyes soft and bright, still with a hint oh hopeness. He walked again toward her. He leaned forward slightly. “I missed you. Not the weapon. Not the soldier. Just the pain-in-my-ass sparring partner who used to steal my coffee and kick my ass for fun.”

Silva looked at him, this time really looked at him.

“Hit me if you need to,” he rasped. “Break me if that’s what it takes, but you’re not gone. You are not this.”

She grabbed his collar again and slammed him into the wall. The impact split the concrete behind him. Her hand hovered at his throat, trembling not from weakness, but restraint. Their faces were inches apart.

Her eyes… cracked.

Tears mingled with rain. “I see you,” he whispered. “Even now.”

Her fist stayed raised quivering. Her lips parted as a broken breath escaped.

Not a word. Just sound.

For the first time, her expression twisted, not into rage but into confusion.

The program and the girl fighting inside one body.

“You’re not a weapon,” Bucky whispered, slowly raising his metal hand and laying it gently over hers. “Not to me.”

Her fingers flexed against his neck, like a threat she didn’t know how to follow through on anymore. She pressed it on his skin, not strong enought to choke him but still and steady to made him gulped.

“I chose you,” he breathed. “Not what they made you. You.”

For a heartbeat, her hand dropped.

She staggered back, clutching her head with both hands.

Her breath came out ragged now, gasping.

Knees buckling.

Bucky reached forward, and this time she didn’t strike. She collapsed into him.

It wasn’t a prison.

The glass walls were transparent, the lights soft and clinical. The bed had a real mattress and the door was unlocked but closed.

Monitors blinked quietly, tracking vitals with sterile indifference.

She woke with a gasp, bolting upright in the bed like she’d been shot out of sleep. Her eyes wild and unfocused, scanned the room.

No shadows.

No doctor.

No command.

Just silence.

Then came the realization.

She was alone.

She stumbled out of bed and moved straight toward the far wall, toward the one surface she knew was a barrier. She slammed her fist into the glass. It didn’t even ripple.

The monitors behind her chirped.

Another punch.

Then two more.

By the time the Avengers reached the observation room, she was in full panic.

Her fists pounded the glass relentlessly, breathing shallow, hair wild and mouth opening in a soundless scream. Her eyes locked on the mirror, on them, as though she could see right through.

“Shit,” Sam breathed. “She’s not just scared. She thinks she’s back.”

Tony stood tense, arms crossed, watching her form hit the wall again and again. “She’s not out of it. She’s fighting to get to something. Or away from something in her head.”

“She’s triggered,” Nat said softly.

“The glass, it’s too familiar.” Steve pressed a hand to the panel. “Let me go in.”

“No,” Bucky’s voice was hard, unshakable. “Let me.”

Inside the room, Y/N was slipping. The bruises from the previous fight hadn’t healed. Her knuckles were bleeding now, but she kept hitting. Her mouth moved again, that same phrase, repeatedly. “Please, Y/N, answer me.”

“Override the door,” Bucky said.

“Are you crazy?” Tony snapped. “She’s not stable, Barnes. You go in there, she might-”

“She already did.” His voice cracked. “She already hurt me. But if anyone’s gonna get through to her, it’s me. She could open the door from the inside but she don't know because she thinks she's there again. She's gonna hurt herself if I don't go in there...”

Nat hesitated then nodded.

The hiss of the pressure seal disengaging filled the hallway. The glass door slid open and Y/N froze.

Her body trembled like static electricity was running through her bones. Then she turned, slowly, mechanically toward Bucky. They dressed her with an hospital gown, no shoes but no matter what she stood there fists in the air, ready to fight.

He didn’t raise his hands. He just stood there. “I’m here,” he whispered. “And you’re safe. You’re not in the bunker. You’re not in his chair. You’re not a weapon.”

Her jaw clenched.

“I’m not going to fight you,” he said.

One step, then another and then, she launched at him.

He barely had time to react before her fist whipped toward his face. He ducked, the punch cutting through empty air, but her spinning backfist caught his shoulder and sent him stumbling across the room.

“Hear me!” He shouted.

She answered with a sharp front kick. He twisted aside. Her naked foot slammed into the wall hard enough to made her whine. Before he could recover, she was already on him again. Two quick jabs, a hook, then an elbow aimed at his jaw.

He blocked the first two. The elbow slipped through. His vision flashed white as he staggered backward.

“It's me!” he gasped.

He caught her wrist this time, trying to hold her still.

“Look at me.”

She drove her knee toward his ribs. He released her just in time, the strike grazing his side instead of breaking it. She spun free, sweeping his legs from under him.

He hit the floor hard. She was already above him, fist raised. He rolled away just as it crashed into the floor.

“You'd never try to kill me,” he said, climbing to his feet.

She tilted her head. “I have no memory of you.” Then she attacked again.

A blur of punches forced him across the warehouse. He blocked, dodged, and retreated, refusing every opening to strike back. Every time she overextended, he simply stepped away instead of countering.

His restraint cost him. A hook slammed into his ribs. Another clipped his chin. Blood touched the corner of his mouth.

“Fight me!” she demanded.

“I won't.”

He caught her ankle at the last second. For one brief moment they froze, eyes locked.

“Please,” he whispered.

Something changed.

A flicker.

Her brow tightened.

Her breathing hitched.

His name almost formed on her lips.

Hope surged through him.

She collapsed into him like her bones had given out, fists clutching the fabric of his shirt, her entire frame shaking against his chest.

Later that night, the humming of security fields had been lowered to a near whisper and the medical monitors glowed gently, casting pale shadows across the room.

Y/N lay curled on the hospital style bed, wrapped in one of Bucky’s old sweatshirts, her fingers still trembling faintly even in sleep.

Bucky sat beside her on the floor, back against the glass wall with his knees up. His head resting lightly against the frame of her bed.

The rest of the team watched through the two-way mirror. No one spoke.

“She didn’t scream this time,” Natasha finally said, her voice low and careful.

“Not once.” Tony nodded, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “That’s something. Her vitals stabilized once he held her.”

“She didn’t even flinch when he walked in,” Steve added.

“She could’ve attacked again. But she didn’t.”

“She still thinks she’s broken,” Sam said softly. “That’s the worst part. Even when she’s safe, she doesn’t believe it.”

Tony sighed. “He didn’t just program her body. He rewired her fear. Every quiet moment? That’s when the trigger loop resets.”

Nat stepped closer to the glass, her expression unreadable. “What if the trigger isn’t just audio or code?”

“You think it’s emotional?” Tony asked.

“No,” she said. “I think it’s shame.”

Behind the glass, Bucky reached up with his free hand and gently brushed a strand of hair from Y/N’s face. She didn’t stir, but she leaned a little closer in her sleep.

“I’ve seen this before,” Nat murmured. “In myself. In him.” She nodded toward Bucky. “It’s not the memory that traps you. It’s believing you were meant to be that way. That you’re still dangerous, even now.”

“So how do we help her?” Steve asked.

There was a long pause.

Then Tony, quiet but certain. “We keep showing her she’s not alone. Even if it takes years. I’m pretty sure her programming works like the Winter Soldier’s one. Once she woke up, she will be okay.”

“Do you mean like a switch?” Sam asked.

Tony nodded.

Hours later, the sky over New York was just beginning to turn a dull shade of blue, the kind of color that only crept in when the city was still asleep and the world was quiet enough to remember it was still spinning.

Inside the Tower, the soft pulse of medical monitors was the only sound that broke the silence.

Bucky hadn’t moved in hours.

He now sat slouched against the transparent glass wall of Y/N’s recovery room, one knee drawn up, one hand resting on the edge of the bed. His fingers loosely curled around hers. He didn’t care that the floor was cold. He didn’t care that his back was stiff or that he hadn’t slept.

She was breathing. That was all that mattered.

Then, she stirred.

It wasn’t much, just a twitch, a slow inhale. Her fingers adjusting their grip like her mind had finally caught up with her body. Bucky’s head snapped up instantly, eyes locking onto her hand as her thumb brushed over the back of his. Her lips parted, cracked and dry, and for a moment he thought maybe she was just shifting in sleep again, but then her voice broke through the silence like a knife slipping into his ribs.

“…You stayed.”

The whisper was so quiet, so impossibly fragile, that he almost thought he imagined it.

His breath hitched.

She still wasn’t looking at him, her cheek was pressed into the mattress, her eyes fixed somewhere far away but her head had tilted ever so slightly in his direction, like she’d been waiting for confirmation that he was still there.

“I’m here,” he said, barely above a breath. “I’m not going anywhere.” He leaned in a little closer, afraid to move too quickly. Her skin looked so pale in the early light.

There were still faded bruises along her jaw, faint shadows beneath her eyes, and that fresh, angry scar peeking out from her neckline where the implant had once been.

But her voice, it had been hers.

Not Silva’s.

Hers.

Y/N’s fingers twitched again, then curled tighter around his hand like a reflex. “Don’t let them lock me up again, please.” She whispered.

Her voice was hoarse, raw, like it hadn’t been used in weeks. She didn’t cry. She didn’t plead. It wasn’t fear in her voice. It was shame.

A deep, aching fear that she had become what they said she would.

Bucky swallowed hard. His throat felt like it had been scraped raw. “It’s not a cell,” he said gently, reaching up to rest his metal hand on the mattress beside her. “It’s just a room. A safe one. It’s where we keep the people we love when they’re hurting.”

She didn’t speak.

Her eyes, dulled by exhaustion but no longer vacant, slid toward his. They didn’t widen in fear or dart away in panic. “…Promise?” She asked.

The word barely made it out of her throat. It was more breath than sound, and it trembled as it fell from her lips. Bucky leaned closer until his forehead almost touched the edge of the bed, and he looked up at her like she was the only thing in the universe that mattered.

“I promise,” he said.

A long silence followed.

She didn’t nod.

She didn’t speak again.

Her fingers never let go of his.

For the first time in a long time, she closed her eyes not from exhaustion, but from rest.

The soft morning light spilled through the Tower’s huge windows as Bucky gently helped Y/N sit up, brushing stray strands of hair from her face. Her eyes, still heavy with the residue of restless sleep, flickered with uncertainty.

“I-I’m not sure,” she whispered, voice fragile. “What if they hate me? What if they don’t want me here anymore?”

Bucky’s gaze softened. “They don’t hate you. Nobody does.”

After days of silence and isolation, Bucky was determined to help her take one small step back into the world. “Come on. Breakfast with the team. You don’t have to say a word if you don’t want to.”

Y/N’s breath hitched, her heart pounding with nervous hesitation.

The last time she’d been with them, she was broken. A weapon twisted beyond repair. The thought they might resent her felt like another weight on her chest. But Bucky’s hand was warm, steady, and impossible to refuse. When they reached the common room, the team was already gathered, casual and calm, cups of coffee in hand. But when their eyes met Y/N’s, everything changed.

Tony was the first to rise, a soft smile breaking across his face. Without hesitation, he crossed the room and wrapped her in a careful, fierce hug. “Hey, kiddo,” he murmured, voice thick. “We missed you.”

Steve, Sam and Natasha moved closer, arms open and faces full of relief and something like love.

No accusations.

No cold shoulders.

Natasha’s fingers brushed Y/N’s hair gently, eyes bright with unshed tears. “You’re home,” she said simply.

Sam grinned, clapping her lightly on the back. “Took your sweet time, but you made it.”

Y/N’s chest tightened. She hadn’t expected this.

Not this warmth.

Not this acceptance.

Bucky stood beside her, feeling the way her body trembled, not from fear but from a fragile hope beginning to bloom. “I thought… you’d hate me,” she whispered to him later, her voice barely audible.

He shook his head, the barest hint of a smile tugging at his lips. “No. We don’t hate you. We never stopped fighting for you. And we never will.”

For the first time in a long time, Y/N felt the heavy armour of loneliness slip just a little. She was still broken. But she wasn’t alone.

The days that followed were nothing like the darkness Y/N had known. The Tower was alive with quiet determination, patience, and a gentle persistence that slowly chipped away at the walls she had built around herself.

Rehabilitation wasn’t easy.

Every step forward was met with memories clawing at her mind, every small victory shadowed by the echoes of the doctor’s control. But this time, she wasn’t alone in the fight. Tony designed personalized therapy sessions, blending technology with compassion. His AI programs encouraged her to keep speaking, to regain the words stolen by trauma. He never pushed too hard, always reading her cues, ready to pause when the fear flickered in her eyes.

Natasha became her shadow, a silent guardian and steady presence. She helped Y/N move through her days with quiet routines. Cooking meals together, sparring lightly in the training room when Y/N was ready, and simply sitting nearby when words failed them both. Steve and Sam joined in, bringing laughter and lightness. Steve’s calm reassurance helped Y/N rebuild trust in her body, while Sam’s easy-going nature coaxed shy smiles and even soft laughter. They reminded her there was a life beyond survival,a life worth reclaiming.

Bucky was her anchor. Every morning, he was there beside her, steady and unshakable. His quiet patience gave her the courage to try again when her own strength faltered. When she trembled with doubt or pain, his hand found hers, squeezing gently with the promise that he wouldn’t let go. Gradually, the silence between them softened.

One afternoon, after a particularly tough therapy session, Y/N surprised them all. As Bucky helped her up from the couch, she looked him square in the eyes and said, “Thank you.”

It was a small phrase, but in that moment, it carried the weight of a thousand unspoken feelings. The team exchanged glances, relief and hope shining in their tired eyes. This was only the beginning. But it was proof, the real healing had begun.

Weeks turned into months, and the team watched a remarkable change unfold. The dark grip the doctor once held over Y/N was finally slipping away. The dreaded trigger, once a cruel switch that transformed her into Silva, the weaponized soldier no longer had power. They all used the same method they had to use for Bucky after he was rescued from HYDRA.

One afternoon, Tony gathered the team in the lab, the results of his latest neural scans glowing on the monitors. “It’s official,” he announced, a rare smile breaking through his usual intensity. “The implant is finally gone, and the neural pathways that responded to the trigger have been rewired or suppressed. Y/N is no longer under Silva’s control.”

The weight in the room lifted.

Sam exhaled deeply, Natasha allowed herself a rare grin and Steve nodded approvingly.

Bucky stood closest to Y/N, who sat quietly nearby, eyes clear, body relaxed.

When Tony finished, Bucky reached for her hand.

She looked up, meeting his gaze without hesitation. The familiar flicker of steel was gone, replaced by something softer. Her own self returning.

Later, during a training session, a sudden loud noise echoed through the tower. It was a noise that once would have unleashed Silva’s fury.

Y/N froze, her eyes wide.

For a tense moment, everyone held their breath.

Then, with no sign of aggression, she blinked and relaxed shaking her head slightly as if to clear it.

Bucky smiled, pulling her into a gentle embrace. “You’re free,” he whispered and for the first time in a long time, Y/N believed it.

Y/N stayed behind in the common room, curled up on the window seat, staring out at the glittering city below.

Bucky, Steve and Sam outside running, Nat in her room relaxing.

Her posture was loosened, but her eyes carried that familiar depth, a storm quieted but never forgotten. She didn’t turn when Tony entered, though she knew it was him from the sound of his steps. Not the click of Bucky’s boots, or the quiet pads of Steve’s steady stride. Tony had his own rhythm hesitant tonight. He stood for a moment by the door, holding a glass of something dark and amber that he hadn’t even sipped from yet.

Then, slowly, he crossed the room and sat down in the chair opposite her. “Nice night,” he said softly.

“Mm-hmm.” Y/N nodded but didn’t look away from the window.

They sat in silence for a while.

Tony shifted, leaning forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “I should’ve seen it,” he said finally. “The way he slipped past my scans. The tech, the implants, the layers of conditioning… I thought I’d gotten it all.”

Y/N blinked slowly, listening.

“I was so sure I’d taken every last piece of that programming out of your head,” Tony continued, voice lower now. “I built the safest cell I could think of and somehow still left a back door open. A command line buried too deep. And when you disappeared, when you, when he used you again…” He stopped himself, swallowing hard. “I failed you,” he said simply.

Y/N finally turned her head to look at him. Her eyes weren’t angry. “You didn’t fail me,” she said. Her voice wasn’t loud, but it was steady. Clear. “You brought me back.”

Tony let out a breath that sounded like it had been trapped in his lungs for months. “Not fast enough.”

“But you did,” she insisted gently. “And I know you didn’t give up on me. Not once. Not when I couldn’t talk. Not when I couldn’t be me. You and the others kept fighting for me. And I’m here because of that.”

Tony looked at her, brow furrowed, guilt still flickering behind his eyes. “I just…” he exhaled. “I thought I was fixing you. But you didn’t need fixing, did you? You needed time. You needed to heal. I should’ve listened.”

“You listened more than anyone else,” she said, a soft smile ghosting her lips. “You treated me like a person, not a problem.”

He blinked, eyes stinging unexpectedly. “Well,” he mumbled, rubbing a hand over his face, “...you are a problem. Just a lovable one.”

Y/N snorted. “I’ll take it.”

Tony glanced down at his untouched drink, then back at her. “You really okay, kid?”

“I’m getting there,” she said. “But yeah. I’m okay.”

She didn’t say anything at first just stood, leaned down and wrapped her arms around him from behind, holding him tightly.

Tony froze in surprise.

“Thanks, Tony,” she whispered, her voice a soft breath against his shoulder.

He blinked, barely able to react before she leaned in a little further and pressed a kiss to his forehead gentle, grateful and warm.

It wasn’t playful. It wasn’t dramatic. It was sincere.

His throat tightened as she pulled back, and for once, Tony Stark was speechless. “Damn it,” he mumbled, swallowing hard as he stared ahead. “You’re gonna make me cry in my favourite hoodie.”

Y/N just smiled, stepping back with a glint in her eye. “Good. You owe me a few.”

Tony chuckled, blinking quickly. Then he reached up and kissed her hand where it had rested on his shoulder. “You’re something else, you know that?”

“Yeah,” she said, still smiling. “But now I finally get to be me again.”

And for Tony, felt like the greatest success of all.

The cold hum of the lab’s machinery filled the dim room, an eerie soundtrack to the doctor’s mounting frustration. His fingers drummed impatiently on the metallic surface of his cluttered desk. The sterile white walls seemed to close in on him, suffocating. All his plans, every carefully orchestrated move , now teetered on the edge of collapse.

His eyes, sharp and calculating moments before, now burned with a storm of fury. The screen in front of him flickered once, then died, leaving a black void that mirrored the emptiness clawing at his control. He reached for the phone and dialed again, his voice low but edged with venom.

“Silva, come to me.”

Silence.

No crackle, no response.

Just cold silence.

Y/N hung up the phone.

He slammed the receiver down, his breath coming fast and shallow. The doctor paced the length of the room, his lab coat swishing sharply against the cold floor. His mind replayed every moment of their captivity, every data point, every experiment and now, it was unraveling. The one weapon he had forged, the sleeper agent he molded from flesh and will, had slipped beyond his grasp.

“She was mine,” he muttered to himself, voice cracking with rage and disbelief. “Mine to command, mine to break, mine to remake.”

But now she refused to obey. His hands trembled as he clenched his fists so tightly his nails dug into his palms. A sudden, vicious knock echoed from the door , one of his operatives entering with fresh intel, but he barely registered it. “Why won’t she respond?!” He growled, his eyes wild.

“She’s clean,” the operative said cautiously. “The trigger’s dead. She’s resisting the programming. Her signal won’t respond anymore.”

The doctor’s jaw tightened. “No,” he hissed. “She can’t be free. She’s a weapon, better than any soldier you’ve ever seen. And now she thinks she’s just a person.”

He slammed a fist on the desk again, causing scattered papers to flutter to the floor. His voice dropped to a dangerous whisper.

“They took her from me. From us. And I won’t lose her. Not like this.”

He moved toward a cabinet, unlocking it with shaky hands. Inside, rows of vials glimmered in the sterile light.

Serums, drugs, chemical agents. His final tools, his last failsafe. “If she won’t come willingly,” he snarled, pulling one vial free, “I will drag her back into the shadows myself.”

Outside the lab, far from his reach, Y/N’s steady breathing filled the quiet room unaware that the man who once controlled her was plotting in darkness, furious at his failure and ready to fight to reclaim what he believed was his.

The battle was far from over.

The sun hung low behind a bank of heavy clouds as the Avengers’ jet touched down near the abandoned outpost. A forgotten relic swallowed by overgrowth and rust. The air was thick with damp earth and the faint scent of decay. Here, where silence had settled like dust, the echoes of past horrors still lingered.

Bucky stood at the forefront, his jaw tight, eyes scanning the crumbling structure.

Beside him, Y/N’s hand found his, her grip steady and warm like a stark contrast to the cold memories this place held.

She was herself again.

Clear-eyed.

Present.

No longer Silva’s puppet.

Natasha led the way, moving with the quiet confidence of someone who had walked this shadowed path before. Tony’s tech hummed softly, scanning for any traps or hidden threats. Steve’s shield was strapped firmly to his back, his gaze sharp and ready. The group approached the heavy steel door, its surface scarred with rust and old bullet holes.

Y/N paused, her breath catching ever so slightly. “This is it,” Bucky said softly. “Where they kept me… and where they kept you.”

Her eyes flickered with something unspoken, a mix of fear, anger, and something like closure.

Tony knelt by the access panel, fingers flying over the controls. “If this thing still works, we’ll get inside.” With a hiss of released pressure and a shudder, the door creaked open, revealing the dark interior: cold concrete walls, flickering lights, and the faint remnants of medical equipment long abandoned.

It was a tomb of broken dreams and forgotten cruelty. Y/N stepped forward, her gaze sharp and unyielding. “They thought this place could hold me,” she said, voice steady. “But I’m not that person anymore.”

Bucky squeezed her hand, a silent vow passing between them. Together, the Avengers moved deeper into the shadows, ready to confront the past, and finally bring the nightmare to an end.

The quiet of the abandoned outpost shattered like glass. Without warning, from the shadows and hidden corners, a dozen Hydra agents emerged, their faces masked, weapons drawn, and eyes cold with calculated intent.

“AMBUSH!” Natasha shouted, diving behind a rusted metal crate as bullets ripped through the stale air. Bucky was immediately on his feet, shield raised, muscles coiled. His movements were fluid and precise, a deadly dance honed through years of war. He caught a bullet in mid-air, snapping it away before launching himself forward, taking down two agents with brutal efficiency.

Y/N’s eyes hardened.

Though still recovering, she moved with a speed and strength that shocked even the team, years of Hydra conditioning still lurking beneath the surface, now wielded on their side. Her fists flew, striking with calculated force, disabling enemies before they could react. Steve threw his shield, sending one enemy sprawling, then ducked a hail of gunfire to sweep another with a powerful punch.

Tony’s repulsors flared, sending bursts of energy that knocked back three Hydra agents, his voice crackling over comms.

“They came prepared, but so did we.” Sam soared above, firing precise shots from his sniper, picking off enemies trying to flank.

The battle was fierce, every second a test of skill and will. But the Avengers fought as one, a seamless unit moulded by trust and shared history. As the last Hydra agent fell, silence reclaimed the outpost.

Bucky looked to Y/N, breathing hard but eyes shining. “You’re stronger than they ever imagined.”

Y/N nodded, determination blazing. “And I’m not going back.”

The adrenaline from the fight still pulsed through Y/N’s veins, but beneath it simmered something darker, a rising storm of anger and defiance. Her fists clenched tightly, knuckles white, eyes blazing with a fire the team hadn’t seen in a long time. With a voice sharp and fierce, she bellowed across the empty outpost, “IF YOU’RE NOT A COWARD, GET OUT HERE!”

Her shout echoed off the cracked walls, carrying the weight of every betrayal, every torment she endured at his hands. The silence that followed was thick, oppressive, but Y/N didn’t waver. She stood tall, chest heaving, ready to face the ghost of her past head-on. Tony stepped closer, hand steady on his repulsors, but said nothing.

Natasha tightened her grip on her weapon, eyes scanning the shadows. Steve and Sam stood alert, prepared for whatever might emerge.

Bucky’s voice was low but firm beside her, “You’re not alone in this.”

And for the first time in a long while, Y/N allowed herself to believe it. The silence after Y/N’s challenge stretched, thick and suffocating, until it was shattered by the distant echo of footsteps, slow, deliberate, unmistakably human.

From the shadows of the abandoned outpost, a figure emerged, stepping into the harsh, flickering light of a broken overhead lamp. The man was lean, his movements calculated and cold, the same mask still concealing most of his face, but his eyes burning with a cruel, mocking satisfaction.

“Impressive,” the doctor said, voice smooth but dripping with venom. “You’ve grown stronger… more defiant than I expected.”

Y/N’s glare never wavered. Her body tensed, every muscle coiled like a spring ready to snap. “I’m not your weapon,” she spat. “And I’m not afraid of you.”

He smiled, an ugly, twisted thing that didn’t reach his eyes. “Oh, my dear, you misunderstand. You are mine. And you always will be. You just don’t know it yet.”

The Avengers shifted, weapons raised ready to strike, but Bucky held up a hand, steady and calm. “Let her speak,” he said quietly.

The doctor’s eyes flicked to Bucky, a flicker of recognition flashing across his face. “Ah, the Soldier,” he murmured. “Still playing the hero. But you’re powerless here.”

Y/N took a slow, deliberate step forward, voice steady despite the storm inside her. “I’m no one’s weapon anymore. You lost me. You lost control.”

The doctor’s lips curled into a sneer. “Control is an illusion. But don’t worry, I have other ways to remind you who you belong to.” He reached into his coat, fingers curling around something small and metallic.

A cold chill ran through the room. Y/N’s eyes flashed with fury and fear, but she stood her ground. “This ends now,” she said, voice low and fierce.

And with that, the standoff began, each side waiting and watching, knowing the next move could decide everything. The tension snapped like a wire. Out of the shadows, more Hydra agents surged forward, their movements swift and coordinated. Before anyone could react, Tony, Natasha, Sam, Steve, and even Bucky were pushed back, blocked by a wall of enemies. The odds shifted instantly, and Y/N found herself standing alone, free, but surrounded by danger.

The doctor, still leaning casually against the cold concrete wall, pressed a small button on a remote clipped to his hand. Suddenly, the room filled with that haunting, distorted voice, Bucky’s desperate recording playing on a relentless loop, the echo bouncing off the steel walls.

“Please, Y/N! Answer me! Please, Y/N! Answer me!”

A chill ran down Y/N’s spine. But beneath the psychological assault, something else stirred. Through the noise, a real, raw voice cut through. “Y/N! Fight it! Remember who you are! Fight!” Bucky’s voice was fierce, pleading, a lifeline in the storm. Her heart slammed in her chest.

For a moment, her eyes flickered with hesitation, old programming clawing at the edges of her mind. Then, something snapped. Her body tensed and coiled like a spring. She clenched her fists, fighting back the trigger that tried to control her. Her voice rang out, sharp and clear despite the chaos.

“I am not yours!” She yelled. She charged forward, moving with the strength and determination of the woman she’d fought to become. The agents faltered, taken aback by her sudden ferocity.

The agents faltered, their confidence shaken by the unexpected surge of power radiating from Y/N. Their eyes widened as she moved, not with the cold precision of a programmed soldier, but with fierce, raw determination fuelled by something far stronger, the will to reclaim her own soul. Her fists connected with bone and steel alike. Each strike fuelled by years of pain and fear and captivity.

Her movements were fluid, fierce and unyielding. She wasn’t just fighting for survival; she was fighting for her identity, for every stolen moment of her past, for every whispered hope of a future she dared to dream about. The distorted voice from the remote still echoed in the background, an insidious soundtrack trying desperately to pull her back into darkness.

Y/N’s eyes burned brighter than the twisted commands filling the air. With every blow, every desperate grunt, she pushed further from the shadow the doctor had cast over her. Behind her, the Avengers rallied, inspired by her defiance.

Natasha’s kicks dismantled two attackers with ruthless precision.

Sam soared overhead, using his shield to block incoming fire while landing calculated blows.

Steve’s shield crashed through enemy lines, opening a path.

Tony blasted with his armour.

Bucky, despite being held back by several agents, fought with a quiet fury. His eyes never leaving Y/N’s fierce silhouette. The team’s combined efforts began to turn the tide.

Slowly, the blockade broke apart like shattered glass, scattering Hydra agents retreating before the storm of resistance. Y/N’s breathing was ragged, sweat mingling with dirt and blood streaked across her face, but she stood taller than ever. For the first time in what felt like forever, she wasn’t just a broken weapon to be controlled. She was a woman reclaiming her body, her mind, and her life. One heartbeat, one breath, one powerful strike at a time.

As the last of the agents fled into the shadows, Y/N’s eyes locked with Bucky’s across the battlefield. There was no programmed obedience in her gaze now, only a fierce and unbreakable spirit.

She was free and nothing, not even the darkest parts of her past, could take that away.

The doctor’s eyes widened in disbelief as the tide turned against him. His carefully constructed plan unravelling faster than he ever anticipated. The last vestiges of control over Y/N slipping like sand through his fingers.

Without hesitation, he turned on his heel and bolted through the maze of the outpost, his footsteps pounding on the cold concrete. Panic flickered across his face, years of arrogance now replaced by raw fear. He knew better than anyone that capture meant the end of everything he had built.

Behind him, Y/N’s heavy breaths cut through the chaos as she surged forward, every muscle coiled, every step charged with vengeance and resolve.

“Stop him!” Bucky shouted, breaking free from his attackers, his own fury ignited by the sight of the doctor fleeing.

Natasha and Sam quickly flanked the doctor’s path, cutting off escape routes while Steve covered the rear, shield raised and ready to strike.

But the doctor was fast, desperate. He darted through narrow corridors and slammed open doors, his mind racing for a way out, for a hidden exit, for any chance at survival.

Y/N’s voice echoed after him, raw and defiant. “You won’t get away this time.”

The doctor’s breath came ragged, his heart pounding like a war drum. But no matter how fast he ran, the reckoning he’d evaded for so long was closing in, unyielding, relentless, and finally ready to bring him to justice.

Y/N’s legs burned as she sprinted after the doctor, the rage inside her fuelling every step. Her breath came hard, but she didn’t falter. The corridors twisted and turned, but she knew this place like the back of her hand now, every shadow, every exit.

The doctor skidded around a corner, panic making him reckless. Y/N closed the distance in a heartbeat, grabbing his arm with iron strength. He stumbled, trying to wrench free, but her grip was unbreakable. “I’m done running,” she hissed, voice low and cold as steel. Her eyes, once vacant, now blazed with fierce clarity. She removed his mask. Under she found a normal face. She didn’t know what expect. “You’re just a man.” She hissed.

He tried to speak, to beg but the words caught in his throat. There was no mercy left for him, not after everything he had done. Behind her, footsteps thundered closing in. The doctor’s fate was sealed.

Y/N tightened her grip. “You made me a weapon. But I’m taking back my life. Starting with you.” Y/N’s knuckles ached bloodied and raw but she stood over the doctor, chest heaving and sweat and rain streaking down her face, hair clinging to her cheeks.

The others had arrived, surrounding the ruined hallway in silence, but none dared interrupt her. The doctor coughed, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. His once-imposing figure now looked pitiful, crumpled beneath her, stripped of his power. And still, he laughed. “You still couldn’t do it,” he rasped. “You had the chance.”

Y/N’s jaw clenched. Her fists tightened at her sides. But she didn’t raise them again. “I’m not what you made me,” she said, voice steady, calmer than any of them had heard before. “I’m not Silva. I’m not your weapon. I’m me. I’m Y/N.”

Bucky stepped forward quietly, keeping behind her, watching her silhouette tremble just slightly. “You don’t need to prove anything,” he said softly. “You already won.”

Y/N gave one last glance down at the man who tried to break her. Then she turned her back. Natasha and Sam moved in, restraining the doctor, even as he sputtered more hollow taunts. Steve contacted the Raft authorities. Tony stared hard at the man, rage barely under his surface, but he said nothing.

Hours later, as the jet lifted into the air, the doctor, bruised and broken but alive, was locked in reinforced restraints. Y/N sat by the window, her arms wrapped around her knees. “You didn’t kill him,” Steve said quietly beside her. “That was your choice.”

“I wanted to,” she admitted. “But I wanted more to be free.”

Bucky slid into the seat across from her. “You are.”

She nodded.

The jet doors slammed shut behind them, the sound echoing like thunder in Bucky’s ears. It was over. Not completely over, but she was here. She was with them. With him. Y/N was trembling in his arms, her body far too light, far too cold. Cuts still raw. Skin clammy. Her breath came in weak, uneven bursts against his shoulder, as if each one took more strength than the last.

Bucky didn’t speak, only nodded, murmured softly against her temple. “It’s okay. You’re safe. I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

Her heartbeat slowed. The tremors faded gradually, like a retreating tide. Her body went limp in his arms, head nestled beneath his chin, and Bucky held her tighter. Not too tight, never, but just enough to feel her breathing, to remind himself she was real. Natasha and Steve moved through the cabin, checking their weapons, bruised and bloodied themselves. Sam sat nearby, watching the horizon through the jet window, silent for once. No one dared break the moment.

Tony sat opposite Bucky, a rare stillness in his posture. His eyes flicked to Y/N’s limp form and softened just for a heartbeat. “She’s gonna need time,” Tony said, voice low.

“I know,” Bucky whispered.

“You’re gonna need time.”

“I don’t care,” Bucky said. “As long as she’s here.”

He looked down at her face. Her cheeks still streaked with dirt, dried blood crusted on her lip, lashes dark and damp. Even unconscious, her expression was tight, like she was still bracing for pain. He’d kill that doctor a thousand times over if he could.

“Bucky…” Steve’s voice came gently. “She’s safe now. Focus on that.”

“I left her,” he said hoarsely, eyes never leaving her.

“No,” Natasha said. “You brought her back. That’s what matters.”

The jet hummed quietly as it lifted higher, cutting across the sky toward New York. Y/N shifted slightly in his arms, her brow twitching.

Bucky leaned closer. “It’s me. You don’t have to run anymore.”

She didn’t wake. But this time, when she breathed out, it wasn’t with panic. It was peace distant, bruised, fragile, but peace all the same. And Bucky held her like she was the only thing tethering him to the earth. Because in a way, she was.

The jet landed in the dead of night, silent beneath the tower’s shielding as if even the machines understood what kind of moment this was. No one said a word when the ramp lowered. No one needed to. Bucky still carried her. Her frame rested limp in his arms, one of her hands loosely clutching the fabric of his gear without realizing it. That touch, that smallest gesture, felt like a thread wrapped around his chest, holding him together. He didn’t speak as they crossed the landing platform.

Didn’t look at anyone.

Not even Steve. Not even Nat.

He just walked.

The team followed, silent shadows in his wake. They watched as he entered the elevator, Y/N still cradled against his chest like glass that had already cracked once too many times. When the doors shut, they didn’t follow. Not yet. This part was his.

Up on her floor, Bucky stepped into her room.

It looked the same.

Clean. Neat. Untouched like time had been frozen the moment she was taken, waiting to start again only when she returned.

He moved to the bed and slowly, carefully, lowered her down onto the mattress. Her hand fell from his gear with a faint rustle of fabric. For a moment he didn’t move just looked at her. She was still breathing. Calmer now. The injection Tony gave her still doing its work. But her skin was too pale, her features too sharp with exhaustion. Her knuckles were bruised. Her jaw had a fresh cut along the line. Bucky swallowed hard. Her collarbone filled with a long cut. Her ribs, cut too. Her thigh red where the knife cut her. They had decided not to change her clothes. Not yet. Not without her consent. Too much had already been taken from her without permission. She deserved that choice. All of them agreed. He just removed her boots. He pulled the blanket gently up over her shoulders, tucking it around her. Then, slowly, like he was afraid she’d wake and pull away, he leaned down and pressed his lips to her forehead. It was the lightest touch he’d given her since that night in the safe house. And it burned. When he pulled back, he lingered. Just for a second. Just to see her breathing one more time. When he saw her cheat moving, he turned and walked out of her room closing the door softly behind him.

The common room was silent when he returned. Steve sat at the bar, elbows on his knees, hands clasped together so tightly the knuckles had gone white. Natasha stood by the windows, staring out over the dark skyline. Sam leaned against the wall, jaw set tight. Tony sat in opposite corners of the room, unusually quiet. No one looked at him. No one needed to. He walked to the center of the room and stood there, staring at the floor like it might break open and swallow him whole.

Tony finally spoke. “She’s sleeping?”

Bucky nodded once. “Yeah.”

And then silence again. No snarky comment. No jokes. No plans. Just a room full of heroes and not one of them knew how to fix what had just been broken.

Bucky didn’t sit. He couldn’t. He stood in the center of the common room like a ghost, eyes burning into the floor beneath his boots. His fists clenched and unclenched slowly at his sides, as if letting go of anything might cause him to fall apart entirely. No one filled the silence. Tony stared into the middle distance, his arc reactor humming quietly. He looked older than usual. Tired. Steve sat with his forearms on his knees, brows furrowed, lips tight. He hadn’t said a word since the jet landed.

Not one.

Nat leaned now against the wall near the kitchen, arms crossed, her expression unreadable but her gaze never once left Bucky. Sam was pacing. And still, no one said it. Because they all knew. They’d watched the videos. Heard the doctor’s voice. Saw what she had been reduced to. Her silence. Her stillness. And her final, broken look into the camera lens before it all cut out. They’d all seen Bucky drop to his knees. And none of them could unsee it.

Eventually, Sam broke the silence, voice low. “We’re back. She’s here. But something in her… it didn’t come back with us.”

“She’ll fight,” Steve finally said. But it didn’t sound like certainty. More like a prayer.

Tony rubbed a hand over his face. “Yeah, well… that’s assuming she wants to.”

Bucky’s jaw tightened. He still hadn’t looked at any of them. “She will.”

Natasha finally moved. She stepped away from the wall, slow and measured, and came to stand in front of him. She didn’t say anything. She just looked at him. “You’re going to have to earn her back,” she said after a long beat. “Not just because of the doctor. Because of what you did before.”

“I know,” Bucky said, finally lifting his eyes. “You think I don’t know I broke her before they ever laid a hand on her?” Silence. “You should’ve seen her,” he whispered. “She was fire. Before all this. Before me. Before the mission. That night… she let her walls down. And I-” He stopped himself, blinking hard. “I crushed it. I mocked it.”

Sam exhaled through his nose, his pacing stopped. “Then you’ve got work to do, Barnes. If you’re not gonna leave, then you better be ready to show up.”

Tony stood slowly, stretching like someone who’d aged five years in one day. “She’ll need space. And time. And control. Everything taken from her, she’ll need it back.”

Bucky nodded once. “I won’t leave her.”

“You can’t force it either,” Steve added quietly.

“I know.” And then finally Bucky sat. Not on the couch. Not in a chair.

On the floor, back against the wall beneath the window, eyes locked on the hallway that led to her room. As if he could guard her with presence alone. As if that would be enough. No one moved to stop him. Because maybe, for now, this was the only way he knew how to stay close to her without breaking her further.

The sun barely touched the tower through the tall windows. Morning didn’t feel real not with the air so still and the team gathered around the kitchen counter like shadows of themselves. No one had slept. They didn’t say it, but each of them had taken turns, passing by her room in silence during the night. Just to listen. Just to make sure she was still breathing.

Now they sat, coffee cups in hand, none of them drinking. The mugs were just something to hold. Something to keep their hands from shaking or clenching into fists. Steve stared into his black coffee like it held answers. Nat sat beside him, back straight, her legs crossed, one hand curled loosely around her cup but never lifting it. Sam leaned on the counter with his elbows, brows knit, eyes distant. Tony sat apart, one knee bouncing under the island, the hum of his arc reactor barely a whisper in the silence.

Bucky hadn’t moved from the stool. His knuckles were white around his mug. His eyes didn’t leave the hall. No one spoke. The tension wasn’t just grief it was anticipation and then footsteps, soft and uneven.

Every head turned at once.

Y/N appeared in the kitchen doorway. She looked like a ghost. Still in the same dirty clothes. Stains on the sleeves. Smudges of blood. Her hair was matted in places, her skin pale and marked. Eyes dull, distant and hollow but she stood barefoot on the cool floor, one hand lightly gripping the doorframe like her body still wasn’t convinced it could carry her weight.

No one dared move.

She looked at them all of them. Slowly. One by one. Eyes drifting from Steve, to Tony, to Sam, to Nat… and then finally to Bucky. Her gaze stopped there. She didn’t speak. Then Natasha stood. The team turned to her instinctively, and Steve opened his mouth to ask but Nat already knew.

“I’ll do it,” she said. No one argued.

Y/N followed Nat in her room. She sat on the edge of her bed, legs drawn up, hands clasped around her knees. Like the room wasn’t really hers. Like she was a guest. Her head turned slowly toward Nat, but there was no recognition. Just… waiting.

Nat closed the door behind her. “I thought you might want to change, she said softly. “It’s been a few hours.”

No reply.

“Come on,” she added, and crossed the room without waiting for a response.

She moved slowly cautious, considerate.

Nat opened the closet, took out a clean set of soft clothes. Something simple and comfortable, a large shirt and a pair of sweatpants. Then walked into the bathroom, ran warm water into the tub. Y/N still hadn’t moved. The bathroom was filled with soft steam, the air warm and calming. Natasha had taken her time adjusting the water temperature, making sure everything was just right. Not too hot just warm enough to comfort, to soothe without overwhelming. Nat came back into the room, Y/N stood on the bed silent and unmoving. Her eyes were unfocused, her shoulders drawn tight. Still in the same clothes from her time in captivity. Still bearing faint bruises, dried blood, and the weight of a hundred unspoken memories.

“Come,” Nat said softly, gently guiding her toward the bathroom.

Every room in the avengers’ tower were the same. A big space with a king size bed, a ceiling to floor window with electric curtains and a desk. A big wardrobe completed the room. Every avenger changed the room, based on their own taste. Y/N decided to have a big bookshelf, with ton of books. Now they were just piece of furniture. A bathroom completed the room. Essential but luxury at the same time. Y/N didn’t resist, she just moved like she wasn’t quite in her body yet. Nat helped her remove her clothes. Still inked with blood. She took extremely care, looking to not touch her. She moved efficiently. Unbuttoned her pants and gently sliding down her legs. The cut on her thigh, lightly bleeding.

“I’ll clean the cut and the patch it up.” She was talking more to herself.

Y/N clearly heard but didn’t react. She then removed her t-shirt and bra.

Once she was bare, Nat helped her lower herself into the water.

Y/N flinched slightly when the warmth touched her skin. Just like she flinched when she heard the water running but Nat said nothing but lower the jet. Just stared ahead, eyes glossy, lips pressed into a line. She kneeled beside her on the bathroom floor, rolled up her sleeves and reached for the soft sponge.

She started with Y/N’s arms, letting the water wash away the filth from the past days. The sponge moved in slow, circular motions patient, careful. A quiet intimacy without demand. Y/N’s breathing trembled.

Not a sob. Not a cry.

Just the body remembering how to feel. Nat said nothing. She didn’t push. She didn’t ask questions. She simply washed her the dirt, the dried blood, the sweat. She rinsed Y/N’s hair gently, running warm water down her scalp, careful not to tug or press too hard. This time Y/N didn’t flinch. When Y/N finally closed her eyes, a single tear escaped. Nat caught the tear with her finger and continued. Nat helped her rinse the hair, then let her step out and dried her with soft, slow hands. Wrapped her in a clean robe and guided her to sit on a stool in front of the mirror. Nat glanced briefly at Y/N’s body. She recognised at once the bruises from the explosion. She saw the redness around her wrists and ankles.

“I’ll patch the cut. It might sting…” Nat said, worried about the pain she could sense. When she applied the disinfectant, Y/N remain steady. “Let me brush your hair, now.” She said.

Y/N remain still, again. She didn’t flinch. With each gentle stroke of the brush, something in Y/N seemed to loosen just a little. Her breathing steadied. Her shoulders relaxed. The mask she’d been holding so tightly cracked. And when Natasha finally looked at her through the mirror, Y/N met her eyes. For a long, still moment they just looked at each other. No words. Just understanding. Nat smiled faintly and tucked a loose strand behind her ear.

“There you are.” Y/N swallowed hard. Her lips parted. She tried to speak but the words stuck. Still, that look said enough. She was still here. Pieces of her were returning. And Nat would stay until all of her did. She led her back into the bedroom.

“Sit here,” Nat said, pointing at a chair. “I’ll change your sheets.” Nat remove the old sheets. The one where she slept in last night. She left blood stains and Nat tried so hard to fight the tears back. She made the bed quietly and quickly, while Y/N remain on the chair like she didn’t have the permission to move.

“You can rest again, if you want.” Y/N stood and took Nat’s hand. To Nat it seemed to touch a statue.

Natasha stormed into the common room like a thunderclap. Fists clenched, jaw set tight, the fire in her eyes unmistakable. The others barely had time to look up before her voice cut through the silence like a blade.

“That’s not my best friend!” She snapped, the crack in her tone making everyone sit up straighter. “That-” she struggled for words, shaking her head as if trying to push back the wave of emotion rising in her throat. “That monster needs to die!”

Tony froze, coffee halfway to his mouth. Sam’s eyes narrowed. Steve leaned forward slowly, his face tightening with concern. And Bucky, didn’t move. He sat in the corner of the room like a statue, hands wrapped tightly around his mug, knuckles white.

Nat took a few steps into the room, pacing like a caged animal. “You didn’t see her. You didn’t see the way she flinched when I opened the water jet in the tub.”

“She’s been through hell,” Steve said quietly.

“No,” Natasha snapped, rounding on him. Tears were now free to slid down her face. “This isn’t just trauma, Steve. This is personal. This was surgical. That sick bastard made it about her. About Bucky. And he knew exactly how to break her. He used him.” A heavy silence settled like dust.

Sam shifted in his seat. “Nat, we’re all hurting. But you saw the videos-”

“I felt her shaking in my hands!” She shouted, her voice cracking with fury. “She didn’t even know she was safe. She didn’t believe she was back. She kept looking over her shoulder, waiting for someone to drag her away again.”

Tony exhaled slowly, setting down his coffee. “We’ll find him.”

“I want to do more than find him,” she growled. “I want to bury him.”

No one tried to talk her down. No one told her to calm down. They all wanted the same thing, vengeance. But in Natasha’s voice was something more. This wasn’t just about justice. It was personal.

Bucky finally spoke, his voice hoarse. “I should’ve been faster.” Nat’s head snapped toward him. “Don’t.”

“I should’ve been the one taken,” he said. “Not her.”

“Don’t do that, Barnes,” she said, stepping closer. “Don’t turn this into your guilt parade. She doesn’t need your regret. She needs that monster dead. So, you want to help? Then get ready to kill him.”

Bucky nodded, slowly. “I’m ready.” Natasha stared at him a moment longer, then turned to the others.

“We’re not waiting anymore. We find him. We end him. And we remind every sick bastard left in Hydra why they never touch one of ours.” Everyone nodded. The room had turned from mourning into a war council. And war was coming.

Days passed like heavy clouds, slow and unmoving. The tower was never truly quiet. Humming tech, distant city traffic, doors opening and closing but around Y/N, silence had built its own kind of atmosphere. She hadn’t spoken once since her return. She moved like a shadow in the halls, a ghost of herself.

Hair clean, skin mended, but eyes empty.

She ate when Natasha coaxed her, sometimes only a few bites. She sat in the living room occasionally, wrapped in a blanket, unmoving while the others tried to create some sense of normal. Bucky passed her once in the hallway. Her eyes flicked up for a second. Their gazes met. He opened his mouth, hopeful. She looked away. Didn’t stop. Didn’t speak. He stood there long after she disappeared around the corner, heart sinking lower into his chest.

Steve had tried, gently. “I’m not asking for details. You can just nod, okay?” He said one morning, crouched beside the chair she curled up in. “Are you… in pain?”

Y/N blinked slowly. No response.

Tony once brought her coffee. “You used to like it with two sugars. I guessed…” he muttered, awkwardly placing it on the table beside her.

She didn’t reach for it.

Sam tried humour. “You ignoring me is unfair. I had the best joke about Bucky and a toaster.” He smiled.

She didn’t.

Even Natasha had grown quiet. The only time they saw any kind of emotion from her was during sleep or what passed for it. Some nights, she’d cry out in the dark. Sometimes softly, sometimes loud enough that Sam or Steve would burst into her room only to find her trembling in sweat, staring at the wall. Bucky sat outside her door a few times. Once, all night. Just waiting. He never knocked. He didn’t think he had the right.

It had been ten days since she’d been rescued. Ten days of silence. Ten days of Bucky counting everything he should’ve done differently. And yet, still, she hadn’t said a word. But she was alive. And that was something. Even if the part of her that used to smile, snap back, joke, argue, tease, command was still locked behind glass. Somewhere inside her. Waiting. And all they could do, was waiting too. But there was something else. Something wrong. Not broken. Not fragile. Just… wrong. She moved like a person half-possessed. No tremors in her hands. No startled flinches. No tears. No confusion. Her eyes were wide open, but there was nothing behind them. Natasha noticed it first.

“She’s not blinking,” Nat said in a whisper to Steve and Sam as they watched Y/N from the hallway outside her room.

Steve frowned. “What do you mean, not blinking?”

“I mean she sat on the edge of the bed for fifteen minutes and blinked once. Who does that?”

Tony had been watching her on the surveillance feeds. “She paces the same path every night between 2:10 and 2:30 a.m. Exact steps. Same direction. Every time.”

Bucky hadn’t left her side for long stretches but even he started to feel it. That the silence wasn’t grief anymore. Or shock. It was colder. Focused. At times, mechanical. “I tried to hold her hand,” he admitted quietly. “She didn’t pull away. But… she didn’t do anything. Just looked at it like it wasn’t even hers.”

Then came the worst moment. It happened that afternoon. Sam offered her a drink just water and Y/N reached for it with her right hand. But her movement was off. Slightly delayed, like her brain had to think about what her arm was supposed to do. And then, her hand missed the glass entirely by about an inch.

“She was the most coordinated agent we had,” Sam muttered. “That wasn’t clumsy. That was… like she didn’t know where her own hand was.”

The tower was quiet, too quiet, when the scream tore through it.

“PLEASE, Y/N! ANSWER ME!”

The voice wasn’t Bucky’s this time. It was hers, repeting what she heard for days. Y/N shot up in bed, soaked in sweat, breath ragged as the memory clawed its way up from the depths. Her hands trembled, nails digging into her palms as she cried out again, choked and panicked.

“PLEASE, Y/N! ANSWER ME!”

It was her voice now but it was his too.

The recording. The doctor had looped it for days that broken, desperate plea. The sound of Bucky’s words begging for her to answer, when she couldn’t, when she was gagged, when she was alone. And now it was in her head. Stuck. On repeat.

“PLEASE, Y/N! ANSWER ME!”

Again.

“PLEASE, Y/N! ANSWER ME!”

She clutched her head, fists in her hair, curling into herself on the mattress.

Then the door slammed open, first came Steve shield already up, scanning for a threat. Bucky frantic, breath caught in his throat the moment he saw her curled shape. Natasha, eyes sharp, gun ready. Tony and Sam trailing in, silent, hearts racing but no attacker was there. Only

Y/N, rocking gently on the bed, eyes wide and glassy, lips trembling. “PLEASE, Y/N! ANSWER ME!” she whispered, again and again. “PLEASE, Y/N! ANSWER ME!”

Bucky froze.

That voice, his voice, in her mouth. The loop he had screamed into the void was now burned into her like a scar. Sam swallowed hard.

“She’s repeating the recording.” Tony’s jaw tightened.

“He played it for her. Used it on her.” Nat took a step forward but stopped. Y/N didn’t register any of them. She was caught somewhere else some dark place far from the bed, far from the tower. Bucky moved first. No words. He crossed the room and sat on the edge of the bed, lowering himself slowly, carefully. Her eyes twitched at the motion. Her breathing hitched. He reached out, barely grazing the blanket.

“I’m here,” he whispered. No answer. He tried again, voice breaking. “I’m here, doll. You’re safe. It’s not real anymore. He’s gone. You’re home.”

But still, she only rocked. Her voice, hoarse and broken, whispered it again.

“PLEASE, Y/N! ANSWER ME!”

As if she wasn’t just reliving his voice but blaming herself for never answering. For not saving him. When he had tried so hard to save her. And still… she spoke no other words.

The same routine unfolded every single day like clockwork. A hollow ritual none of them dared to interrupt too forcefully, scared it might shatter her even further.

Y/N woke up early, but never really present. Her eyes were glassy, movements sluggish, like her soul hadn’t caught up to her body. Natasha would gently coax her to eat a piece of fruit, maybe a slice of toast but often she just moved food around the plate, barely touching it. They tried to talk. All of them. Tony, with sarcastic jokes that fell flat in the silence. Steve, with steady, calming words about healing and strength. Sam, trying to get her to walk with him on the rooftop for air. Natasha, who didn’t say much but always stayed closest, brushing Y/N’s hair, changing her sheets, sitting beside her in silence. Bucky tried harder than all of them. Quietly at first. Then desperately.

Some days, he sat beside her for hours, not saying a word just waiting. Other days he whispered apologies or memories from missions. Once, he even read her a book from her shelf, his voice shaking but steady. Her movement still controlled and mechanical. Then the night would fall. Always the worst part. She’d slip into bed like a ghost folding into a casket. And then at midnight on the dot, her voice would tear through the halls.

“PLEASE, Y/N! ANSWER ME!”

The same line. Again, and again. The voice wasn’t quite her own. It was strained. Off-pitch. It was almost like a recording now as if her trauma had memorized the words as some twisted mantra and now forced her to repeat it. Every night the same thing. And every night the team would be there in seconds still hoping this time might be different. But it never was. She never saw them. Never heard them. Only that voice in her head his voice echoing in the space where she used to be. And Bucky, every single time, stood frozen at the doorway. Hating himself. Because somewhere deep down, he wondered if she wasn’t just echoing his voice but blaming him with it. And he didn’t know how to fix that.

One night, things changed. It started the same way it always did; the shriek tore through the quiet corridors of the tower like a blade, cutting the team’s hearts clean open.

“PLEASE, Y/N! ANSWER ME!”

“PLEASE, Y/N! ANSWER ME!”

The recording, that damned recording, echoed in her head and out of her mouth like it was branded into her mind. Just like every other night. The team rushed in, just like they always did. Bucky first, then Steve, Tony, Sam, and Natasha, every face worn thin from days of helplessness.

Their bodies moved on muscle memory now.

Y/N sat up in her bed, her scream collapsing into that same choked whisper of a sentence, over and over again. But this time… her hands weren’t just clenched at her sides. This time, her body moved differently. She was scratching. Jerky, panicked movements. Reaching back over her shoulder, fingers clawing at a spot just beneath her left shoulder blade.

“She’s trying to…” Bucky froze.

“…Get to something,” Steve said, stepping forward.

Y/N kept struggling, her arm straining, teeth clenched now. The whispered repetition didn’t stop but her hand dragged against her back again and again, desperate, like something under her skin was burning, like it didn’t belong.

“Y/N…” Natasha crouched next to the bed, speaking gently but firmly. “What is it? What’s on your back?”

No response, only that panicked reach.

Over and over.

Scratching.

Trembling.

“She’s not trying to hurt herself,” Sam said suddenly. “She’s trying to show us something.”

Tony moved to the foot of the bed, his expression darkening.

“Is there a wound?” Bucky was already beside her. He dropped to one knee and tried to still her hand gently, carefully catching her wrist. She didn’t fight. Her fingers flexed, but her eyes didn’t focus. Her lips kept moving.

“PLEASE, Y/N! ANSWER ME!”

But her free hand went right back to the same spot.

“She’s telling us something,” Bucky whispered.

“I’m going to lift your shirt,” Nat said, voice steady.

Bucky nodded once. Natasha’s hands were careful slow. She peeled the fabric up, revealing a pale, trembling back. Her breath caught in her throat. There. Just below her shoulder blade. A thin line silver, too perfect to be a scar. Surgical. Recent.

“Holy shit,” Sam breathed.

“A tracker?” Steve asked.

“Or a neural implant,” Tony muttered.

Y/N’s body began to still like something inside her recognized she’d finally been heard. Her head tilted, lips still moving, but the volume of her whispered torment began to fade. The words were still there. But now there was something else behind them. Relief. And exhaustion. Her hand twitched one last time before falling limp. Her head dropped onto Bucky’s shoulder. He didn’t move. Just wrapped his arms around her like she’d break if he let go. Tony’s scanner beeped, then blinked red.

“Something’s in there,” he confirmed grimly.

Natasha swallowed hard. “Then we cut it out.”

Bucky didn’t speak. He just looked down at Y/N, eyes glassy, holding her tighter. She still hadn’t said a word to them. But tonight, her silence had finally begun to speak.

The lab was quiet and sterile.

The low hum of machinery and flickering monitors barely masked the tension in the room. Y/N sat on the stool in the center of Tony’s workspace, small and pale in the sharp overhead lights. She wasn’t restrained. They’d refused to treat her like a prisoner. Her stillness was more powerful than any set of cuffs. Her head hung slightly forward, hair limp against her cheek. Eyes unfocused.

“Y/N,” Tony said softly, stepping forward but staying out of her immediate space. “We’re just going to take a look. We think something’s under your skin. We’re not going to hurt you.” Still no answer. He looked to Natasha and nodded.

Nat crouched gently beside the stool. “It’s me, alright? Just me.” Her hands reached forward slowly. “I’m going to lift your shirt, only a little. Just to see.”

Y/N didn’t resist. But the moment Natasha’s fingers touched the hem of her shirt, the very instant the fabric moved, it started.

She began to tremble. At first, they thought it was cold. Bucky even reached for a blanket he surely wouldn’t find in Tony’s lab. But then he paused.

“No…” he murmured.

Her legs began to shake, heel tapping against the metal stool. Then her shoulders jerked, once twice like a wire had been crossed. Her spine arched slightly, chin twitching, fingers clenching the edges of the stool. The tremble wasn’t fear. It wasn’t trauma. It was wrong.

“Tony,” Natasha snapped, letting go of the shirt. “It’s neurological.”

Tony was already scanning her again, the device buzzing and flashing. “She’s reacting to stimulus… That’s a feedback loop. Someone connected the damn implant to her nervous system.”

“You’re saying she’s wired to react?” Sam asked, tense.

“Wired like a puppet,” Tony growled. “It’s not just a tracker. It’s a failsafe. Like a tripwire set in her spine. The second she tries to expose it…”

“She gets shocked,” Steve finished grimly.

Bucky was next to her in a blink. “Hey,” he whispered, kneeling again, gently taking one of her trembling hands. “It’s okay. We’re here. We’re going to figure this out.”

Y/N didn’t respond, but her trembling slowed just slightly.

Tony backed away from the scanner, his jaw tight. “We can’t risk triggering it further without disabling the node first,” he muttered.

“She needs surgery. Precision. Not trial and error.”

“Then do it,” Bucky said.

“I will,” Tony replied, looking at Y/N with a softness rarely seen in his eyes. “But we need her calm. If she seizes, this goes from delicate to lethal really quick.”

Bucky looked up. “I’ll stay with her.” No one argued.

Natasha brushed a hand down Y/N’s arm. “We’ll be right outside.”

The others cleared the room quietly, giving them space. Y/N still hadn’t spoken. But her eyes just barely began to follow Bucky as he sat beside her.

“Whatever they did,” he murmured, thumb stroking over the back of her hand, “we’ll undo it. You’re not alone anymore. I promise.” Her lips didn’t move. But a tear slid down her cheek.

Y/N lay on the surgical table, her back exposed. The scars were fresh. The bruises darker than they should be. But the real wound, the one buried under skin, was yet to be seen.

Beyond the reinforced glass, Sam, Nat, and Steve stood frozen, their faces shadowed with worry. They watched every movement inside like it might collapse her completely. Inside the room, Tony moved with a rare tension. Not his usual confidence, not today. His gloves were already stained with antiseptic, the scalpel trembling just slightly before he steadied it. Bucky stood at Y/N’s side, gloved hand gently resting on hers. He didn’t speak. He didn’t flinch.

Tony gave Y/N an injection of anesthetic. “She will be awake but won’t feel anything. Kinda unconscious.”

She hadn’t said a word since she was rescued, but she hadn’t screamed when Bucky took her hand. That was something. More than they’d had for days. Tony looked up for a second, catching the scene the way the former assassin stood over her like a shield. The pain in his eyes was loud enough to drown out everything else.

“I’m starting,” Tony said, voice hushed. “You sure you wanna stay in here?”

Bucky didn’t even glance up. That was the answer. Final. Tony gave a slight nod and made the first incision.

Y/N flinched just slightly. Reflexes, even slightly unconscious. Her grip on Bucky’s hand tensed a little.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured instantly, kneeling beside the table so he could stay at her eye level. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Outside the glass, Steve’s jaw clenched. Sam lowered his eyes. And Natasha, stoic and fierce, gripped the edge of the console until her knuckles turned white. Beneath the surface of Y/N’s skin, Tony found it.

“Jesus,” he muttered.

“What is it?” Steve asked through the intercom.

Tony leaned closer, examining the grotesque device. “It’s buried deep. Like they wanted it to fuse with her nerves. Whoever designed this wasn’t just tracking her. They were controlling what she felt.”

“Controlling her?” Sam’s voice cracked slightly.

Tony gave a tight nod. “Pain triggers. Voice imprint conditioning. This wasn’t a chip. It was a weapon made out of her.”

“Oh my god,” Steve whispered. “She was really controlled…”

And Bucky knew that.

He knew it the moment she screamed his words every night like it was a brand on her skin. He’d blamed himself. Hated himself. But now, seeing it, he wanted to kill whoever put that thing in her. Twice. Tony worked slowly, removing the micro-filaments one by one, speaking in low tones as he cauterized the nerves. Y/N’s body twitched, her breath stuttering. But Bucky never let go. Every time she moved, he whispered something soft and steady.

“You’re stronger than this.”

“They won’t win.”

“I’m here, doll. Just breathe.”

And then, finally the device was out. Tony held the dark, twitching device with a pair of forceps, sealed in a jar of lead-lined glass. It gave one last flicker of life before fading. “It’s over.”

Bucky exhaled for the first time in what felt like hours. He leaned down, pressed a kiss against her temple, and whispered “Come back to me.”

FLASHBACK

It was cold. That was the first thing she remembered. The kind of cold that wrapped around her bones, indifferent and consuming. The metal of the table beneath her bare skin was colder than the air, and the straps held her tighter than any chains ever could. Y/N blinked slowly, the haze in her mind too thick to piece time together. The walls were white. Or maybe grey. The light above her flickered like it was struggling to stay awake, just like her. Then the sound came and leather gloves snapping into place. Deliberate. Calm. Clinical. Him.

His voice slid into the room like poison in water. “You’ve been very strong,” the doctor said, stepping behind her. “But strength, my dear, has little meaning without purpose. And you’ve been wasting yours on them.” Y/N tried to move, but her limbs didn’t respond. Sedation and restraints.

She could feel her body but couldn’t control it. Like drowning under her own skin. She heard the tray roll forward. The clang of steel. The hum of machinery. Then, a sharp sting at the base of her spine.

“Do not worry,” he said, soothingly, mockingly. “This is the last time you’ll feel anything that doesn’t belong to me.”

Something pressed against her lower back cold metal, sharp and foreign. Then a deeper pain, piercing into the muscle between her vertebrae. Slow. Twisting. Oh god. She would have screamed if her mouth wasn’t gagged. She wasn’t in the same cell. No window, no spout, no chair. Just a table under her.

“This implant,” the doctor continued, voice now right by her ear, “was designed from our work with the Soldier. Nerve-mapping, pain-conditioning, and suggestion response. We made improvements.”

She trembled. Tears slid sideways from the corner of her eyes, lost into the hollow light.

“You’ll hear his voice. Again, and again. Begging you. Blaming you even. And one day, you’ll stop knowing if it’s memory or programming.” He leaned closer, and she could smell the sterilized rot of his breath. “You’ll come to hate him, just like he hates himself.”

Click. The device locked in.

Her back arched from the surgeon, last jolt before unconsciousness took her. The doctor stood and wiped his gloves. “We’ve created something better than a weapon this time,” he said. “We’ve created a wound.” His voice calm. “I know the Avengers and your precious boyfriend are coming to get you,” the doctor muttered, voice low and almost amused. He leaned close, breath ghosting against her ear.

Y/N was barely conscious, her head tilted to the side, chin resting weakly against her chest. Her breathing was shallow. Her eyes fluttered but did not focus. “I’ll let them.” He said it like a promise. Wheeling her silently down the sterile corridor, his gloved hands gripped the handles of the wheelchair. The rubber wheels made soft clicking sounds over the old tile. The lights above buzzed faintly, the kind of hum that was always there like a reminder that you were never really alone.

He had planned it all.

Fifteen days.

Fifteen carefully constructed days of recordings, psychological slicing, not just of her but of them. They thought they were watching her break but that was only part of the plan. This wasn’t about punishment. This was performance. This was the final act. He glanced down at her slumped form, still smeared with dust, bruises fading into yellow, lips cracked. The newest implant small, almost invisible sat beneath the skin of her shoulder. A failsafe. His thumb brushed her collarbone with clinical detachment, checking her pulse. Still alive. The doctor brought her back in the room. The room she was forced to call home for the last days.

In the meanwhile, the avengers almost reached the structure. With the one room they saw in the last transmission. Stark would recognize it. The chair sat in the center, the restraints loosened just enough to look believable. The lighting was timed perfectly. The background audio already cued. He lifted her gently. Too gently. Strapped her in. Her head lolled. Then he pressed a button. Bucky’s voice began to echo again through the room.

Please, Y/N… Answer me

Looped. It was always looped. He stepped back, adjusted her chin to make it seem like she might have just fallen unconscious a few seconds earlier.

Then he turned toward the exit. “They’re going to find you right here,” he said, not looking back. “Just as the video let them believe.” His hand paused on the doorframe. The corner of his mouth lifted into something like a smile cruel, detached, victorious. “We’ll see each other again.”

The door closed behind him with a hiss of hydraulics. The room was silent, except for the voice of James Buchanan Barnes, echoing like a broken record. The voice that once brought her comfort now twisted into a weapon.

“Please, Y/N…”

And outside, far off in the mountains, the incoming rumble of a quinjet.

END OF FLASHBACK

The implant was finally out.

Tony had spent hours in the lab sweating, calculating, checking every neural connection to make sure it was safe to remove. Sam, Steve, and Nat watched from behind the glass, tense and silent, while Bucky never left Y/N’s side, holding her hand through the entire procedure. Now, the room was quiet. The implant, a small metallic device no larger than a coin, sat sealed in a container on Tony’s bench. It pulsed faintly with dying power whatever it had been feeding off was gone. Y/N was lying in the med bay, hooked up to monitoring equipment. Still breathing. Still alive. But still… silent. Her lips hadn’t parted since they carried her off the jet. Not a word. Not even a sound except the scream.

Every night. Like clockwork. At exactly midnight, her eyes would shoot open, her body frozen in a cold sweat. And she’d cry out the same desperate phrase in Bucky’s words, over and over again, until her throat went hoarse.

It wasn’t her speakink, not really.

The doctor made sure of it.

The worst part? Bucky was in the room every night, helpless. He’d sit on the floor beside her bed, knees drawn up, head against the wall, listening to himself echo from her lips like a cruel recording. The team took shifts. Tony tried to analyse her neural scans. Steve tried to strategize ways to reach her. Nat and Sam tried to talk to her like before with soft words, familiar memories but nothing worked. And Y/N… she just drifted. Like her soul was somewhere else. Trapped between worlds. The implant was gone, but whatever damage it left behind remained like ashes after fire.

“She’s in there,” Bucky whispered one night, gently adjusting her blanket as she finally fell silent after another midnight scream. “I know she is.”

Sam placed a hand on his shoulder. “Then we’ll wait. However long it takes.” Because this time, they weren’t just saving Y/N’s body.

They were trying to bring her mind back home. Tony didn’t look up from the data stream on his screen. The faint blue glow lit his tired eyes, sharp with frustration. His fingers danced over the holographic interface, trying to make sense of the patterns in Y/N’s neural scans.

Sam leaned against the counter, arms crossed tightly across his chest. “If you removed the implant, why is she still waking up screaming at the same damn time every night?”

Tony finally turned to face him. “I don’t know.” He admited on the verge of tears.

The room went still. Steve stood by the window, silent as ever, but his jaw was clenched hard enough to crack. Nat, sitting on the couch with a mug gone cold in her hands, glanced up. She didn’t need to say anything, the exhaustion was in her eyes. “I neutralized the neural stimulator embedded in the implant,” Tony continued, more to himself than to the room. “There’s no signal anymore, no active frequency. Nothing’s getting in or out.”

“Then why the hell is she still…” Sam paused, searching for the words. “Reliving it?”

“Because maybe…” Tony took a breath. “Maybe it’s not just about the implant. Whatever he did, whoever this doctor is…he knew exactly what he was doing. This wasn’t just tech. This was psychological warfare.”

Steve finally spoke. “So, what do we do now?” Tony’s voice dropped low.

“We find out what he did to her at midnight. Every night. For fifteen days.”

Nat’s eyes met his. “Torture. Repetition. A pattern. He was conditioning her.”

Tony nodded grimly. “Exactly. That’s why the same phrase, the same time, the same reaction. It’s been burned into her neural memory. The implant may have triggered it, but the damage…” He tapped his temple. “The damage is in here now.”

Bucky, who had been silent in the doorway, finally stepped in. “She’s still fighting,” he said quietly. “Even if it doesn’t look like it. She hasn’t stopped.”

“And neither will we,” Tony replied, more firm now. “We’ll find out what he did at midnight. I’ll cross-reference security footage timestamps, biometric spikes in her scans, everything.” He looked around the room. “But whatever it was… it wasn’t just to hurt her. It was to break her trust. In us. In him.”

Everyone looked at Bucky. And Bucky, haunted but steady, met their gaze.

“Then we fix it,” Steve said finally, voice like steel.

FLASHBACK - 11:57 PM

The room was still. Too still. Y/N sat strapped to the chair, head low, shoulders trembling from exhaustion. Her throat burned, her lips were cracked. The recording had played for hours already Bucky’s voice, over and over. “Please, Y/N. Answer me.” But something changed when the clock hit midnight.

11:59… 12:00 AM.

A mechanical click echoed from the ceiling. Somewhere behind the walls, an unseen mechanism whirred to life. The camera’s red light blinked faster.

“PLEASEY/NANSWERMEPLEASEY/NANSWERMEPLEASEY/NANSWERME”

She gasped. Her head jerked up. The voice, Bucky’s voice, was now speeding up like a record spun too fast. High-pitched. Distorted. Warped. Her heartbeat spiked instantly. It felt like it was slamming against her ribs. The words bled together, no longer human. Like a scream in mechanical form. Over and over. Faster. Louder. She tried to squeeze her eyes shut, but even the silence behind her eyelids was filled with him, his voice mutilated, turned into a weapon. A plea transformed into punishment. She writhed against the straps.

The doctor’s voice came from a speaker in the corner, soft, almost kind. “This is the hour your soldier calls for you. But he’s not coming, is he?”

She didn’t answer. “He begged for you. And now he watches you. Over. And over. And over.”

The lights above her flickered slightly as the sound continued. Her pulse couldn’t slow. Her breathing turned shallow. The faster the voice got, the more her mind splintered. Until there was no voice. Just noise. Just the terror of it. Midnight became a ritual. Every night. On the dot. The speed increasing slightly each time. By the tenth day, she no longer heard the words only chaos. Panic. Guilt. Shame. And the distant belief that maybe he wasn’t coming. That maybe she was really just a tool. A piece. She bit down on her tongue. Hard. Just to stay grounded. And the doctor watched through the screen. Smiling. “She’s breaking beautifully.”

END OF FLASHBACK

The tower was eerily quiet after another long night. The hour had passed, but the team remained awake, strung out by a relentless pattern none of them could break. Every night, like a metronome, Y/N’s scream tore through the silence at exactly midnight. Every night, she shouted the same plea. Not her own words, but Bucky’s words, echoed back like a scratched recording.

“Please, Y/N! Answer me!”

Again, and again. The same sentence. The same tone. The same heartbreak. And still, she wouldn’t speak during the day. Wouldn’t respond. Just an empty stare and twitching fingers that sometimes clawed at the same spot behind her back. Her silence had become a language of its own one they were desperately trying to translate.

That night, they gathered in the common room again. None of them had eaten. Mugs of coffee sat untouched. Tony stood in front of a screen, blue light washing over his face as he stared at waveforms and data logs pulled from Y/N’s vitals.

“She’s on a loop,” Tony said flatly, not turning away from the screen.

Steve frowned. “A loop?”

Tony exhaled. “Like her brain was trained. Reprogrammed. I thought the implant was the root, but it was just a piece. A conduit.”

“So what the hell is triggering her?” Sam asked.

Tony zoomed in on a file. An audio pattern, flat and repetitive. “It’s not just the voice. It’s when the voice hits. Midnight. Exact. Every night.”

Nat leaned forward, arms crossed. “Conditioning?”

“Exactly,” Tony replied. “The implant didn’t control her like a puppet. It taught her what to fear and then used fear like a remote control. Midnight wasn’t arbitrary. It was calibrated.”

Bucky had gone pale. “But the implant’s gone. You said she’s free.”

“The hardware’s gone,” Tony said. “But the damage? The associations? The software? That’s still inside her.”

Nat’s voice dropped low, grim. “She reacts like clockwork. It’s not instinct. It’s programming.”

Sam nodded. “I asked her who she talk to. She didn’t say a word. But every night… she repeats Bucky’s words.”

All eyes turned to Bucky. His hands trembled against his knees, jaw clenched so tightly the muscle twitched.

“He used your voice,” Steve said. “Not just to hurt her. To make you the trigger.”

Silence fell again, heavier than before. Tony swivelled toward the team, eyes flicking between the screen and Y/N’s medical readouts.

“Alright, here’s what I’m thinking.” He tapped the waveform on the screen. “This whole setup isn’t just torture it’s a methodical psychological attack. The doctor used what’s called auditory conditioning. Basically, he trained her brain to associate Bucky’s voice with pain and fear.”

Steve frowned. “Like Pavlov’s dogs?”

“Exactly,” Tony nodded. “Classical conditioning. But this guy cranked it up a notch with auditory overstimulation bombarding her senses, repeated phrase to overload her brain’s processing.”

Nat chimed in, “So it’s not just what he said, but how he said it. Messed with her feeling.”

“Right,” Tony said, crossing his arms. “I’m calling it temporal audio desensitization. The doc distorted the timing and frequency of the sound to create a subconscious trigger. It’s like he rewired her emotional response.”

Sam shook his head. “So even without the implant, her brain still reacts?”

Tony’s gaze was sharp. “Exactly. The implant was just a conduit. The real weapon is the psychological programming embedded deep in her neural pathways.”

Bucky swallowed hard. “How do we fix that?”

Tony grimaced. “That’s the tricky part. We must essentially retrain her and replace fear with safety, erase the triggers. But it’s going to take time… and patience.”

Steve nodded. “Then we start now.”

The morning sun filtered softly through the curtains, casting a pale glow across Y/N’s room. She sat quietly on the edge of the bed, still wrapped in the same clothes from days past. Her eyes, heavy with exhaustion and guarded pain, flicked toward the door as Bucky stepped in. He closed the door gently behind him, carrying a small tablet with the recording Tony had prepared Bucky’s voice, clear and calm, without distortion.

“Hey,” Bucky said softly, pulling up a chair beside her. His voice was slow but steady, careful not to rush her. Y/N didn’t say anything, but she didn’t pull away either. Tony’s plan had been clear. Slow exposure to the sound of his voice, associating it with safety and calm no triggers, no pain.

Bucky pressed play on the tablet. His voice filled the room, steady and gentle. “Please, Y/N. Answer me.”

At first, the room was still, the calm tone of Bucky’s voice settling over Y/N like a fragile thread. But then, a flicker of fear crossed her eyes, growing rapidly.

Her breath hitched. Her fingers tightened into fists. Suddenly, she jolted back, eyes wide with terror, and a piercing scream tore from her throat. The tablet slipped from Bucky’s hand as he instinctively reached to steady her, but Y/N pushed him away, panic overwhelming her.

From outside, Tony’s voice called through the door, urgent but controlled. “Bucky, get back! We’re coming!” Within seconds, the door swung open and Tony, Nat, Sam, and Steve flooded in, moving swiftly to surround Y/N with calm, practiced presence. Bucky stepped back, his heart pounding, eyes fixed on Y/N’s shaking form.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, voice tight, and quietly exited the room, leaving the team to ease her through the panic.

FLASHBACK

The dim light flickered overhead as the doctor hovered over Y/N, her body limp and fragile in the chair. He adjusted the small device nestled beneath her skin, fingers steady despite the faint pulse of her racing heart.

“You won’t survive this, you know,” he murmured, voice cold but oddly clinical. “Not in one piece. But it’s the only way to dismantle the trigger that controls you.” He leaned closer, watching her pale face, eyes fluttering beneath closed lids. “This implant will force your mind to associate pain with his voice,” he explained, “breaking down every defence you’ve built. Your screams, your memories they’ll become fragments, scattered.” His gloves brushed lightly against her shoulder, almost gentle. “You will learn to obey, not resist. And when it’s done, you’ll be ours completely.” He straightened, a twisted satisfaction flickering in his eyes. “But don’t worry… I’ll make sure your handlers believe you’re lost forever.”

A sudden sharp jolt raced through Y/N’s spine, ripping through her nerves like electricity. Her eyes snapped open, wild and desperate, as the pain blossomed beneath her skin. It was unlike anything she’d ever felt raw, invasive, relentless. Her breath came in ragged gasps, and every muscle in her body tensed as the implant pulsed rhythmically, sending waves of discomfort coursing through her. It was as if her own body had turned traitor, a prisoner to this foreign device. Memories flashed unbidden Bucky’s voice, the cruel recordings, the suffocating fear and with each pulse, the implant seemed to tear at the edges of her mind, forcing her to fracture. Tears streamed down her face as the overwhelming sensation drowned out reason. Her mind screamed to resist, but the implant’s influence was merciless, breaking her down piece by piece. In the haze of pain, one thought anchored her: survive. Somehow, survive.

END OF FLASHBACK

Days passed with the same heavy silence hanging between them. Bucky kept trying, softly, patiently, never pushing too hard. Every time he spoke, Y/N’s reaction was a scream raw, terrified, a wall he couldn’t breach. But then, one quiet afternoon, everything shifted.

Bucky entered the room with the familiar tablet in hand, ready to play his voice once more. He settled beside her gently, voice low and steady. “Hey, Y/N. It’s me. No pressure.”

He pressed play.

The room filled with his voice calm, steady, familiar. At first, her eyes darted nervously, her breath catching in her throat like always. But this time… no scream followed.

She stayed still. She didn’t say a word. But she looked at him. Really looked. For a long moment, her eyes held his. That silence broken only by the soft hum of the machine felt like a crack in the fortress she’d built. It was fragile, uncertain… but it was something. Bucky’s heart clenched. Hope stirred where there had only been despair.

Tony, watching from the doorway alongside Steve and Sam, let out a low breath and said. “She’s beginning to understand he won’t hurt her.”

Nat nodded silently, eyes never leaving Y/N. Bucky glanced up, meeting Tony’s gaze. A flicker of relief softened his usually guarded expression. For the first time in weeks, the tension in the room eased fragile but real.

Tony crossed his arms. “It’s a start. We just must keep building on it.” And maybe, just maybe, they were finally turning a corner.

Days turned into weeks, and though Y/N’s voice remained silent, the changes were unmistakable.

She no longer flinched at Bucky’s presence, no longer screamed when his voice played through the recordings. Instead, she began to respond with small, subtle gestures. A tentative glance, a brief touch of his hand, a faint nod. The team watched with cautious hope as Y/N’s body grew stronger, her movements less mechanical and more her own. She ate slowly but steadily, resting peacefully without the nightly terrors that once plagued her sleep. Each morning, she sat quietly with Bucky nearby, their shared silence slowly weaving a new connection between them. Though words had yet to return, the healing was happening in the spaces between in the softened gaze, the easing tension, the silent understanding that some wounds take time to mend. Bucky never left her side, his presence a steady anchor as Y/N navigated the fragile path back to herself.

The Avengers’ common room was dimly lit, the glow of the large screen casting flickers of light across the group.

Tony, Nat, Steve, Sam, and Bucky were sprawled on the enormous couch, bowls of popcorn scattered between them. Y/N sat in the armchair nearby, wrapped in a soft blanket, eyes glued to the screen but distant. Outside, thunder rumbled low, the storm rolling over the city. Rain tapped lightly against the windows, adding a quiet rhythm to the evening. Suddenly, a sharp crack of thunder broke through the calm, louder than before. Instinctively, Y/N stiffened.

Her eyes darted toward the window, then she quickly stood and crossed the room to Bucky, slipping down beside him on the couch. Without a word, she reached out and wrapped her arms around his, clutching him tightly. Bucky froze for a heartbeat, then slowly relaxed, letting her lean into him. He gave a soft, reassuring squeeze in return. The others glanced over, exchanging small smiles. Tony raised his popcorn bowl in a silent toast, while Nat’s eyes glimmered with something almost like relief.

Steve shifted on the couch, his voice low. “Looks like she’s finding her way back.”

Sam nodded. “Sometimes, it’s the little things.”

The movie continued playing, but the room was quieter now.

Tony, breaking the quiet, chuckled and said, “I kinda miss when she’d throw you on the mat during sparring.”

Nat snorted softly, “Yeah, Bucky, you looked pretty defeated.”

Steve grinned, “She never held back.”

Sam added with a grin, “Guess it’s a different kind of strength now.”

Bucky glanced down at Y/N, who still clung to him silently, and shook his head with a soft laugh. “She’s tougher than any of us, no matter what.”

Y/N looked up briefly, eyes meeting his, a flicker of something unreadable passing between them a quiet acknowledgment in the middle of the storm.

In the days that followed, Y/N grew more and more attached to Bucky.

The sharp edge of their old rivalry softened into something unspoken, like a quiet dependency that surprised them both. Where once she’d snap and spar with him, now she clung to him like an anchor, seeking comfort in his steady presence. Bucky noticed the change with a mix of relief and something deeper. A bittersweet tug in his chest.

He liked being her safe place, the one constant in the chaos of her recovery. But beneath it all, he missed the fire they used to share. The fierce debates, the brutal sparring sessions those moments felt like pieces of Y/N he hadn’t yet seen again. He found himself wondering if, in this new fragile peace, something essential had slipped away. But for now, he stayed patient, holding her steady, waiting for her to find her own way back whatever that might look like.

Bucky remained calm and steady in the days that followed, becoming a quiet constant in Y/N’s recovery. No matter how many times she flinched, stared blankly at the wall, or woke up in the middle of the night with haunted eyes, he was there not asking for words, not demanding progress. Just… there. He didn’t hover. He didn’t smother. He simply sat beside her, sometimes with a book, sometimes just watching the window, always within reach but never pressing.

Y/N didn’t speak. Couldn’t, maybe. Her voice was buried somewhere too deep for even her to reach. But the smallest signs began to surface.

She started accepting warm drinks without prompting. She began brushing her hair. One morning, she lingered at the edge of the kitchen while the others had coffee her eyes still distant, her presence quiet, but she was there. Bucky never acknowledged these moments out loud. He feared breaking the fragile thread holding them. Instead, he offered small nods and soft smiles, letting her know he noticed, letting her know it was enough. And every night, when the team dimmed the lights and Y/N curled up near the far end of the couch or armchair, Bucky stayed on the other side steady and silent just in case she reached for him again. Because he could be patient. Because her silence, though agonizing, was still better than losing her completely.

It happened one quiet afternoon in the Tower.

The rain drummed lightly against the windows, the kind of gentle sound that almost made the world feel clean again. Y/N sat at the kitchen counter, wrapped in the oversized sweater Nat had given her. Bucky sat a few stools away, flipping through a tablet, careful not to draw too much attention to her even though he noticed every tiny move she made. Tony was across the room, tinkering with something minor, pretending he wasn’t watching her.

Then it happened.

Y/N opened her mouth. It was small. Almost imperceptible. Her lips parted like she was about to say something, and her fingers twitched against the mug she held. Everyone in the room stilled. Bucky looked up immediately, hopeful but careful. Tony lifted his eyes from the device, his face suddenly severe. She tried again. The breath came out broken, a dry scrape of air, no sound behind it. Her lips shaped the start of a word, but her throat clamped shut. Her body went rigid. Her eyes filled with frustration and panic.

“Hey, hey,” Tony said quickly, setting his tools down and approaching with both palms lifted. “Don’t force it. Don’t push too hard.”

Y/N looked at him, eyes wide and glistening. He exchanged a quiet glance with Bucky, the same unspoken thought settling over both of them: this wasn’t just trauma anymore. Something deeper was tangled inside her now. Something that wouldn’t let her speak.

“She’s trying,” Bucky murmured. “She wants to.”

“I know,” Tony said softly, frowning. “But if the implant’s out and she still can’t… We might be dealing with more than programming. This might be… neurological reboot. Or psychological conditioning we haven’t fully decoded.”

Y/N stared between them, breathing quick now, on the verge of hyperventilating.

Bucky reached out instinctively, laying a gentle hand over hers. “You don’t have to say anything yet. You’re safe.”

Tony sighed, rubbing a hand over his jaw as he stepped back. “We’ll figure it out. But we might need more than tech this time.”

And from the way Y/N’s shoulders sagged, the way her eyes fell to the countertop a part of her had already known that.

Tony sat alone in the lab hours later, eyes bloodshot from too much screen time and not enough sleep.

The Tower was quieter now Sam had turned in, Nat was out on the balcony like she did when her mind needed silence and Bucky…

Bucky hadn’t left Y/N’s side all day.

The implant was out. That part, Tony was certain of. They’d scanned every inch of her spine twice after surgery, every frequency, every signal. There was no longer anything mechanical inside her. So why couldn’t she speak? He pulled up her brain scans again, dragging windows side by side on the screen before the mission, after extraction, after the implant removal.

There were small differences. Minor activity spikes at certain frequencies but nothing that screamed this is the problem. No obvious block, no physical damage to her speech centres. His fingers drummed anxiously on the desk.

“Come on,” he muttered once he was alone in his lab. “What did that bastard do to you?” He reached for his coffee, then realized it was cold, and tossed it into the bin.

“Stark.” He turned. Steve stood in the doorway, arms crossed. His expression was tired, but grounded. “You’re pushing too hard again.”

Tony shrugged. “Welcome to my life. You want to tell me how else I’m supposed to figure out what’s got her locked inside her own damn mind?”

“She tried to speak today.”

“I know.”

“And that means we’re closer than we were last week.” Tony ran both hands through his hair and leaned back in the chair. “It’s not just trauma, Steve. It’s not just fear. Her mind has been tampered with this, it goes beyond anything standard. That lunatic used Bucky’s voice like a scalpel. Every night at midnight, he sped it up, rewired her reactions like clockwork. That’s surgical-grade conditioning.”

Steve said nothing for a long moment. Then, quietly, “So how do we undo it? For real this time?”

Tony glanced at the silent screen in front of him. “I don’t know yet. But if she tried to speak, that means part of her still wants to come out. We follow that. We follow her.” He tapped the edge of the keyboard thoughtfully. “Maybe it’s not about how we break the pattern,” he said at last, almost to himself. “Maybe it’s about reminding her she’s not in it anymore.”

Steve nodded. “Then we keep showing her that. Over and over. Until she starts to believe it.”

Tony’s jaw tightened slightly. “And until then?”

Steve answered simply. “We stay.”

Bright lights had started to agitate her.

Y/N sat quietly on the medical bench, her hands folded tightly in her lap. She still hadn’t spoken or even tried again since the strained effort days before. Bucky stood just behind her, quiet and still like a shadow.

The others watched through the observation glass. Nat with her arms folded tight across her chest, Steve unmoving, Sam tense but hopeful. Tony stood in front of Y/N, holding a small handheld device, something between a neural stabilizer and a sound modulator. He had taken precautions, not wanting to overwhelm her. “Okay, Kid,” he said softly, kneeling a bit so he was closer to eye level. “We’re not gonna poke anything. Just… listen.”

She didn’t react, but her eyes stayed on him. That was already something.

“I’ve been thinking,” he continued, adjusting the settings on the device. “The doctor played with patterns. Pavlovian-level conditioning. But he didn’t erase you. He bent your brain’s responses until the only voice you heard meant danger.” He glanced up at her carefully. “And it wasn’t just Bucky’s voice. It was the manipulation of it. Speed, timing, repetition. He didn’t trigger a memory he built a cage.”

Bucky’s jaw twitched slightly at those words. Y/N didn’t move.

“So now,” Tony said, lifting the device, “we’re going to try something small. No loud sounds, no echo. Just… disruption. I’m going to play a slowed-down version of the same message he used. Then, a few neutral words. Let your brain feel the difference. You don’t have to do anything. Just listen.” He tapped a button. A soft, almost water-like murmur spilled from the speaker. The warped and reversed version of

Bucky’s old desperate call wasn’t there anymore. “Please, Y/N. Answer me.”

Now it sounded like a ripple in time, not a command, just a sound. Safe. Y/N’s hands twitched. Her breath caught slightly, but she didn’t scream. She didn’t flinch.

Tony held still. “Okay,” he said gently. “Next one.”

He pressed another switch. Neutral words, carefully selected and spoken by a computer voice. Slow, steady, emotionless. Her fingers gripped her pants, knuckles whitening but still, she didn’t panic.

Tony nodded to himself. “This isn’t about flipping a switch,” he said quietly. “It’s teaching her brain that she’s the one in control now.” He looked up at Bucky. “Keep talking to her. Quiet. Honest. Unpatterned. Nothing repeated.”

Bucky nodded once, solemn. He moved forward as Tony stepped away and gently sat on the bench beside her. For a moment, he just looked at her no pity, no pressure. “You’re safe, doll,” he whispered. “We’re all here. Every day if you need.”

She didn’t speak. But her eyes closed and for the first time in weeks, her shoulders dropped. The tension, just slightly, released.

Behind the glass, Tony exhaled. “We might be getting somewhere.”

The lab had quieted again. Tony’s soft clicks on a console, and the occasional creak of a stool were the only sounds. Bucky stayed seated beside Y/N, elbows on his knees, hands clasped tightly between them.

His voice, when it came, was low not meant for anyone but her. “You know,” he said slowly, watching the floor more than her, “I never hated you.”

The silence between them deepened.

“I know he told you I did. I saw the tapes. Heard his voice, that bastard saying I thought you were nothing. Just a mission. Just a weapon.” Bucky’s jaw clenched. “But I never hated you. Not even when we fought. Especially not after that night.”

He chanced a glance at her. She wasn’t looking at him directly, but her head had tilted just slightly in his direction. Her eyes were no longer hard or distant. They were wide. Soft. Listening.

“I think I hated myself more. For not being fast enough. For letting him take you. For letting him get in your head.” He swallowed. “But not you. Never you.”

That was when it happened, subtle but unmistakable. Her shoulders, once drawn in like armour, lowered a fraction. Her lips parted as if she might speak but nothing came.

Still, her eyes found his. Not sharp. Not distant. There was something… gentle in them. A flicker of light dulled but still alive. And for the first time in what felt like forever, Bucky felt her see him. Not the echo of the voice that had haunted her nights. Not the ghost from the recordings. Just him. It wasn’t a spoken answer. But it was the first truth she’d let herself show.

And Bucky, eyes stinging slightly, whispered. “That’s enough for now.”

Behind the glass, Tony saw it too. And for once, he didn’t say a word. He just smiled.

It started the morning after Bucky’s quiet confession. Nothing big. Nothing loud. Just… presence. When Bucky entered the kitchen, sleep still clinging to his shoulders, he didn’t expect to find Y/N already there. She didn’t say anything, of course hadn’t yet found her voice but her eyes tracked his every step. When he poured coffee, she silently moved to his side. Her forehead gently rested against his upper arm, as if the warmth of his skin tethered her to the moment. He didn’t pull away.

Later, in the training room, Bucky went through his usual routine; jabs into the heavy bag, boots shifting across the mat and when he looked over, she was sitting against the mirrored wall. Legs drawn to her chest, watching him.

Not like a soldier, not like a fighter.

Just like someone who needed to be where he was. His shadow. The others noticed. Sam quirked an eyebrow when Y/N followed Bucky down the hallway, a half-step behind him. Steve watched her trail him around the common room like a tethered ghost, her hand brushing his arm whenever he paused. Even Tony, half-buried in tech on the couch, muttered quietly. “She’s anchoring herself.” No one questioned it. No one interrupted. Because Y/N wasn’t just following Bucky, she was trusting him. In a way words couldn’t convey.

In the lab, if he stood by the screen, she would take a place just behind his shoulder. In the quiet moments of the day, when he leaned on the counter or stretched out on the couch, she’d be there too not touching, unless she had to but always nearby. Like a quiet gravitational pull had taken hold. Bucky didn’t know what to say at first. But slowly, steadily, he adjusted. Made space for her. Moved slower, gentler. Kept one arm close enough for her to lean on if she needed it. She rarely looked him in the eyes, but she always seemed to know where he was. It was like she was learning safety again not in the tower, not in the team… but in him. And Bucky, watching her silently drift closer each day, understood the weight of it. She had no words, no smiles yet but her presence was a kind of apology, a quiet plea, and a fragile promise all in one. He was her anchor now. And he didn’t plan to let go.

FLASHBACK

The room was washed in the cold glow of surveillance monitors. The grainy feed from the ceiling camera cast Y/N’s hunched figure in flickering black-and-white. She was curled up in the corner, unmoving, her eyes vacant and distant but open. Always open. Two men stood behind the screens. One, tall and severe in a white coat stained with age and cruelty, the doctor.

The other, more silent, wearing the insignia of HYDRA partially hidden beneath a tactical vest. “She’s responding to the trigger now,” the doctor said, almost amused. He leaned on the edge of the console, fingers tapping thoughtfully. “Just as expected.” The man folded his arms, his gaze fixed on the monitor. “And you’re sure this is permanent?”

A slow, thin smile spread across the doctor’s face. “When the time comes and the Avengers burst through that door thinking they’ve saved her she won’t talk anymore.” He sounded satisfied. Triumphant. “If she even survives…”

“She looks like she’s barely breathing.”

“That’s the point. Psychological collapse, laced with neural interference. The implant wasn’t the real weapon. The audio conditioning was. Words reshaped her brain, rewired her reactions. Now she hears him,” the doctor gestured to the monitor, “and she fights, breaks, panics. The mind is delicate when you know how to press it.”

The HYDRA agent narrowed his eyes. “So, what? She just becomes a ghost?” The doctor chuckled. “Oh, she’s far worse than a ghost. Either they teach her how to speak again from scratch, or they don’t get her back at all. Just a shell. A useless body walking.” He turned away from the screen, satisfied. The other man lingered a moment longer, watching Y/N blink slowly, her body shivering from some invisible storm inside her mind. “And if they do teach her again?” he asked quietly. The doctor’s grin widened without turning back. “Then they’ve made her theirs. Not ours. But do you think the Avengers have the time to make her speak again? Teach them everything like a toddler?”

END OF FLASHBACK

Y/N stood in the kitchen, barefoot and silent, her eyes flicking between the mug in Bucky’s hand and the teapot on the counter. Then she lifted her hand and slowly pointed at it. It was something she used before, but she couldn’t name it.

Tony, watching from the stool across the island, paused mid-sip. “The… teapot?” He asked gently. Y/N didn’t blink, but her finger stayed in place. Slowly, she nodded.

“Teapot.” Tony repeated, a little softer. “That’s a teapot.”

From that moment, it began.

Each day, she would point.

The door. The ceiling. A fork. A spoon. Sometimes at someone’s face, her gaze curious, insistent. And they would answer.

Sometimes she pointed at something and pressed her lips together, as if the word hovered somewhere at the back of her throat. But it never came. Not yet.

She wasn’t a child. That was obvious in the way she moved. Alert, graceful, almost the old strong and fiery posture. She showered on her own now. Made coffee. Walked the tower’s halls like she remembered every inch of them. She understood every word said to her. She drank a glass of wine at dinner every now and then, like she used to. But she didn’t speak. A functional adult, but a mind locked behind silence. Natasha had called it ‘word shock’. Like her brain had tucked speech away in a box she couldn’t find the key for.

Or maybe wouldn’t let her find. Still, they didn’t give up. If she pointed, they named it. If she furrowed her brow, they guessed. If she stared too long, they tried not to push. Sometimes Bucky sat with her at the window in the late afternoon light, a book opened in his lap. She would tap on the page a picture or a word and he would say it softly. Sometimes, she would tap it again. They were starting over. Like she was learning the language of the world again and this time, she wasn’t doing it alone.

It was late afternoon again. Bucky sat cross-legged on the floor, his back leaning against the couch. Y/N was next to him, her head resting lightly on his shoulder, eyes on the book in his lap. They weren’t reading, not really. Just… being there.

Tony had left a few cue cards in the room with pictures and words on them. Basic stuff. Flashcards, since they were all agreed that dignity didn’t matter right now.

Recovery did.

Bucky reached into the small box and pulled out a card. He showed it to her without a word. It was simple; an image of a mug with the word printed below it.

“Do you remember?” He asked gently.

His voice was never loud around her. It was careful. and gentle. Like talking to an animal he didn’t want to scare off. Y/N blinked at the card. Her hand reached up slowly and tapped it once.

“Mug.” Bucky said. He reached for the next one. It showed a picture of the tower.

“Tower.” he said.

Y/N didn’t move. But she was watching. Her eyes were bright with something.

Struggle. Curiosity. Frustration.

Then he pulled the last card from the small pile. It wasn’t part of the original deck. He’d made it himself. It showed a cartoon drawing of a soldier and underneath, just one word.

Bucky.

Her hand froze. She stared at it like it hurt to look at. “That’s me,” he whispered. “You know that. You knew me even when you were hurting.”

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat. She looked at the card again. Her lips parted. A breath. A tremble. Then “Bu…”

Bucky stilled. “Y/N?” He asked, softly, not moving. “Did you say…”

She closed her eyes, took a shaky breath, then again softer this time, but more certain. “Bu…cky.”

Her voice was hoarse. Raspy. Barely above a whisper. But it was hers. He turned to her, eyes wide with quiet awe, and reached for her hand. She was crying. Tears slipped soundlessly down her cheeks not of pain, not this time but of release. From the hallway, Natasha had paused. Sam had frozen halfway down the steps.

And Bucky, still holding her trembling fingers, whispered back. “Yeah… that’s me.”

A stunned silence held the room like a breath no one dared to release.

Sam, frozen on the third step down from the hallway, blinked slowly. He had been carrying a blanket in case she got cold again. Now, it hung limp from his hand, forgotten. “Did she…” he murmured, barely audible.

Natasha, standing at the edge of the corridor, leaned slightly around the doorframe. Her eyes locked on the sight of Y/N’s lips still parted, the way Bucky was holding her hand like something sacred. Nat’s fingers tightened around the edge of the wall, knuckles white.

Steve was the first to move. He stepped quietly into the room, careful not to draw attention, as if afraid any sudden noise would shatter the fragile moment. He stopped just a few feet away from them, his voice low and warm. “She said your name.”

Bucky didn’t look away from her. “Yeah,” he whispered. “She did.”

Tony entered last, no quip and no sarcasm. Just a man whose defences had melted the moment he saw the tears on Y/N’s cheeks and the sound of that broken, perfect word in her voice. He looked at her like she was something impossible made real again. “Well,” he cleared his throat, then ran a hand over his face, “I was gonna suggest upgrading her implant monitor system, but…” He looked down, eyes suddenly glassy, “…I think she just beat me to it.”

Sam let out a breath, shaky. “That’s not just speech. That’s trust.”

Nat finally stepped into the room and sat on the floor a few feet from Y/N, close but not too close. Her eyes never left the girl’s face.

“We got you,” she said, voice steady but raw. “You hear me? You’re coming back. Bit by bit, we’ll take it.”

Y/N didn’t say anything more her vocal cords weren’t ready for that but she didn’t need to. Her hand was still holding Bucky’s. She didn’t flinch when Steve stepped closer. She didn’t recoil when Sam offered her the blanket again. And that, that was the beginning.

The gym was quiet, the hum of machinery soft beneath the storm of thoughts running through Bucky’s mind. He sat on a bench near the treadmill, arms resting on his knees, watching her. Just as he had every day since she’d started walking again. Y/N was on the treadmill, slow and steady.

She wore a simple tank top, Bucky’s sweatpants and hair tied back. Her yes focused straight ahead.

No earbuds, no music. Just silence and movement. Her breathing was even, but her fingers clenched the side bars tighter than needed. It wasn’t about the workout it was about control. About reclaiming her body.

Bucky noticed the faintest hitch in her pace half a second of hesitation and leaned forward, alert. “You, okay?” He asked softly, not wanting to startle her.

She didn’t respond, just kept walking.

He sighed and leaned back again, guilt gnawing at him. He didn’t know if she could hear his words, if she trusted them, if they reached past the echo of that room. But he said them anyway. “You don’t have to talk,” he murmured. “But I’ll be here every day, even if you never say another word.”

Suddenly, the machine gave a sharp beep. She had increased the speed. His eyes lifted. Her brows were furrowed now. Determined. Fierce. Almost angry. And then without warning, she spoke. “Faster.”

The word was hoarse. Fragile. Barely there.

Bucky froze. His head snapped toward her. “What… what did you say?” She turned her head just slightly. Their eyes met.

Her mouth opened again this time more clearly. “Faster.” For a second, all he could do was stare.

Then he stood, hands trembling with something between awe and fear, and reached for the controls. He upped the speed just a bit, watching her closely. But Y/N didn’t falter. Her steps adjusted. Her eyes narrowed. She wanted it. From the doorway, Natasha had stopped mid-step, having heard it too. Her expression softened with something close to hope.

Sam appeared beside her, whispering, “Was that?”

“Yeah.” Nat replied, almost crying.

“Second word.” Tony would hear about it in less than two minutes. Steve would be in the gym within five. But for now, it was just Bucky and Y/N. And her voice.

The Avengers had left in a rush, since Fury’s call had been firm. Something urgent, something off-book. There was no time to argue, even for Bucky, who had paced the hallway like a caged animal, jaw tight, refusing to even glance at the Quinjet.

“She’s not ready to be alone,” he muttered, fists clenched.

“Bucky,” Tony said calmly, his voice a little gentler than usual, “FRIDAY’s monitoring her. If anything happens, the tower locks down. No one in or out. You know that.”

Steve placed a hand on Bucky’s shoulder. “We’ll be back in twelve hours.” But Bucky didn’t answer. He just boarded the Quinjet last, eyes scanning the tower windows like he could still see her from the sky.

The tower was silent. Too silent. Y/N wandered the empty halls barefoot, the pads of her feet brushing quietly against polished floors. It had been a few hours since they left. She remembered that. She could feel the absence, like static pressing against her skin. No laughter. No footsteps. No coffee brewing. Just absence. She moved slowly, one hand grazing the walls as if to anchor herself. Her body moved on instinct now. Still no words, but steps that knew where to go. Past the living room where she had started speaking again. Past the common room where she’d once clung to Bucky’s arm during that thunderstorm. Past where Steve’s shield usually hanged on the wall. It was too quiet. Too big. Too empty. She paused in front of the metal elevator. Her reflection stared back. Fragile, hollow-eyed, but upright. Alive. She pressed a button and descended to the tech floor. The lab door slid open with a soft hiss.

“Good evening, Miss Y/N,” FRIDAY greeted gently.

Y/N didn’t respond, only moved inside. She walked past the counter where Tony ran diagnostics on her spine, past the scanner that beeped every time she sat still enough to be read. She stood in front of the large glass panel that showed the city. The lights flickered in the distance, neon and soft, like a thousand little eyes watching her. Her hand pressed to the glass. Cold. She breathed out slowly.

“Hi, FRIDAY.” She parted her lips, voice cracked and barely audible, “Friday…”

The AI’s gentle tone responded instantly, “Yes, Miss Y/N?”

Y/N’s breath hitched. She blinked, uncertain. “Night, Friday,” she whispered again, clearer this time, as if testing the sound, the feel of it.

“Goodnight, Miss Y/N,” FRIDAY replied warmly. “I’m here whenever you need me, Miss Y/N.”

A tiny smile touched Y/N’s lips before she melted back into the shadows, the soft hum of the tower her lullaby once more. Y/N gasped. Her hands shot up to cover her mouth as the tears came without permission. She began to sob, not from fear or pain, but joy. Confusion. Relief. Her shoulders shook. The kind of crying that felt like letting go after holding your breath for too long.

“You talked to me,” she whispered between sobs. “And… I talked to you.”

“You did, Miss Y/N.” FRIDAY said gently, as if smiling.

Y/N’s voice was fragile, barely above a whisper as she asked, “How many days… I’ve been silent, Friday?”

The AI’s calm, familiar voice replied softly, “It’s been twenty-three days, Miss Y/N. But every day, you’ve made progress. Even if it doesn’t always feel that way.”

Y/N’s voice trembled as she spoke, a mix of hesitation and hope weaving through her words. “Where’s the jet now?”

“Soon to arrive, Miss Y/N,” FRIDAY replied promptly, her tone steady and reassuring.

A pause filled the quiet room before Y/N whispered, “Can you… call them for me?”

The soft hum of the tower filled the silence as FRIDAY responded, “I’m alerting the team now. They’re on their way, Miss Y/N.”

For the first time in weeks, a spark of determination flickered in Y/N’s eyes a sign she was beginning to reach out, to trust again, to fight back.

Tony’s voice crackled over the comms, tinged with confusion and surprise. “FRIDAY? Why’re you calling?” There was a brief pause, no immediate reply. “FRIDAY?” Tony repeated, a little sharper this time.

Then, clear and unexpected, came a soft, shaky voice from the other side. “Tony?”

Everyone in the jet froze. The sound was fragile but unmistakably Y/N’s.

Tony’s breath caught. “Y/N? Is that you?” A wave of hope swept through the team as the first real sign of her voice pierced the silence. “We’re coming, kid.” Tony said, on the verge of tears.

The team burst into the room, their faces a mix of relief and urgency. Y/N was still softly talking with FRIDAY, her voice trembling but steady. “I quite remember what he did to me, FRIDAY,” she said, eyes distant yet resolute.

“We’re gonna find him, Miss Y/N,” FRIDAY assured her calmly. “They’re back, Miss Y/N.”

Suddenly, heavy footsteps echoed sharply across the floor. Bucky rushed in. His duffel bag abandoned in the hallway, boots pounding with determination. “Y/N,” he breathed out, his gaze locking onto her.

A small, wry smile curved her lips as she replied with a familiar spark, “Ehy, old man.”

For a moment, the weight of everything lifted the fractured bond beginning to mend with a simple, genuine exchange.

Bucky didn’t hesitate.

In one swift motion, he closed the distance between them and wrapped his arms tightly around her. Y/N stiffened for a heartbeat, then melted into the embrace, clutching him back like she’d been holding onto that moment all along. The room seemed to exhale with them two broken souls finding their way back through the chaos. She winced, a small sound escaping her lips. He immediately set her down, panic flashing through his eyes. “Shit-sorry. I didn’t mean to-”

“Just hug me less thigh,” Y/N whispered again, voice barely there, raspy from disuse, but real.

The room fell silent as Y/N stood there, voice unsteady but growing stronger with each word. The team gathered close, hanging on every sentence she spoke, the weight of her confession filling the space.

“He… he kept me there,” Y/N began, her eyes flickering with memories she’d tried so hard to bury. “That man, the doctor…he tortured me. I could barely breathe, felt like drowning every time. I saw the knife… the cold steel pressed against my skin. He made those videos. Using Bucky’s voice over and over, like it was a weapon against me.”

Her voice cracked, but she pressed on, the frustration and pain undeniable.

“They wanted the Winter Soldier back. They thought if they broke me, if they made me just a tool, they could control him through me. Through those recordings, the implant in my back… all lies and manipulation.”

Steve’s jaw tightened. Sam’s fists clenched. Even Tony looked away, the guilt and anger mixing in his eyes.

“He told me Bucky didn’t care and that I was nothing but a stranger for him. But I… I knew it wasn’t true. That’s why I kept fighting inside, even when my body wouldn’t listen. Because somewhere, deep down, I still believed in him.”

Bucky stepped forward slowly, voice barely above a whisper.

“I’m sorry if I almost believe him, Bucky.” Y/N said.

“We’re gonna fix this, Y/N. I promise. You’re not alone anymore. Never asked me sorry again.”

Y/N looked at him, a flicker of hope breaking through the darkness in her eyes. “I’m not a weapon. I’m still me. And I’m coming back.”

The team exchanged looks, battered but unbroken. Together, they would fight for her healing. For her voice. For their family.

Tony’s eyes softened, searching hers carefully. “Y/N… did that doctor ever hurt you like that? Abuse you?”

Y/N shook her head slowly, voice quiet but firm. “No. Not like that. He wanted control, but not… that.” Y/N paused. “I think he just touched my breast for his reaction.” She said, turning to Bucky.

Tony nodded, relieved but unsettled. “That doesn’t make what he did any less wrong.” He swallowed hard, then clenched his jaw.

“That bastard needs to pay.” Bucky stepped forward, voice low but firm. “We’ll make sure he does. But right now, Y/N, you’re safe. No one’s touching you like that ever again.” His hand found hers, gripping gently steady, protective. Y/N squeezed back, a silent thank you passing between them. The road ahead was long, but she wasn’t walking it alone anymore.

The room was heavy with silence as Y/N finished recounting the nightmare she’d endured. Everyone was still, the weight of her words settling deep into their bones. The Avengers sat in their gear, emotionally drained.

Then, breaking the tension, Y/N’s soft laugh cut through the room like a beam of light. “Guys, you stink,” she teased, voice barely above a whisper but filled with warmth.

Tony’s eyes glistened, a tear threatening to escape. He quickly looked away, not wanting the others to notice. The joke, simple and small, was a reminder of the Y/N they knew fierce, sharp, and still fighting.

Steve cracked a rare smile. Sam nudged Bucky gently, who just watched Y/N with a steady, proud gaze. Nat gave a subtle nod, her eyes glossy but shining with relief. For the first time in a long while, the room felt a little lighter.

Tony wiped at his eyes quickly, trying to hide the emotion. “Yeah,” he said, grinning despite himself, “you stank too when we found you. Could’ve called in a biohazard team.”

And in that moment, surrounded by the team, Y/N felt a flicker of hope ignite inside her. It wasn’t the end. It was the beginning.

Tony bent down gently and kissed Y/N’s forehead, a rare tenderness in his eyes. “Okay, Avengers…” he declared with his usual blend of authority and humour, “…shower time. Everybody here in an hour.”

A chorus of groans and chuckles followed as the team reluctantly rose from their seats. Even Y/N managed a small smile, feeling maybe for the first time in a long while a fragile sense of normalcy returning. Bucky stayed close, offering a steady presence as they all moved toward the bathrooms, ready to wash away the grime of captivity and start the slow process of healing together.

The Avengers, freshly showered and dressed, gradually filtered back into the common room. The tension that had hung thickly all day seemed to lighten as they took their places. Y/N sat curled up on the couch, a soft glow from the tablet in her hands illuminating her face as she talked quietly with FRIDAY. For the team, her voice finally breaking through the silence was the sweetest sound they’d heard in weeks. Natasha moved silently into the kitchen, deciding to prepare something warm and simple for everyone. The soft clatter of pots and pans was oddly comforting. Bucky settled beside Y/N, who instinctively leaned into him, her head resting lightly against his arm. The way she clung to him was subtle but clear a silent tether to the only constant she’d had through everything.

Sam broke the silence with a teasing grin, nudging Steve gently. “Do you remember? She used to hate him, right?”

Steve chuckled quietly. “Yeah, I don’t think anyone believes it.”

Tony raised an eyebrow from across the room. “Guess those old rivalries don’t mean much when you’re fighting for your life.”

Y/N glanced up, her eyes shining faintly with something like amusement. She looked at Bucky and, without words, said everything she couldn’t put into speech yet.

Natasha returned with plates of food, setting them down carefully on the low table. “Alright, heroes. Eat up. We’ve got a long road ahead.”

As they all settled in, the room was filled not just with the smell of warm food but with something far more precious hope. Around the kitchen island, the team gathered to eat. Plates full of warm, hearty food sat before them, but Y/N’s portion was noticeably smaller. Some cautious bite here, a nibble there. She was still adjusting, her body unused to real meals after days of surviving on the doctor’s protein shakes.

Steve, breaking the silence that had settled comfortably between them, cleared his throat gently. “Y/N, how did you begin to talk again?” All eyes turned to her, waiting. Y/N hesitated, looking down at her plate for a moment before meeting their gazes.

Her voice was soft, tentative. “I… I don’t know. I was just wandering around the tower, and FRIDAY said ‘good night’ to me. It was instinct to say ‘night’ back.”

A quiet ripple passed through the group, some exchanging looks, others nodding slowly. It wasn’t a grand explanation or a breakthrough, but it was something real something that felt like the first fragile step back toward her.

Tony gave a small, approving smile. “Sometimes, it’s the little things that start the biggest changes. FRIDAY’s voice is calm and controlled, maybe that’s why... no human...”

Bucky reached over, gently brushing a stray lock of hair behind Y/N’s ear. She leaned into the gesture, her fingers lightly curling around his wrist.

Sam smirked, teasing, “Look at that.”

Y/N smiled faintly, her eyes brighter now than they had been in days. In that moment, surrounded by friends who had become her family, she allowed herself to hope.

Dinner had been… quieter than usual.

Everyone was walking on careful ground, tiptoeing around the raw edges that still clung to Y/N like smoke. But they were trying, and that effort meant something.

As plates were cleared and conversations thinned, Tony stood and stretched with a groan. “Well, I don’t know about the rest of you, but it’s definitely bedtime.” Everyone looked up, a few eyebrows raised.

Steve smirked. “You mean lab time.”

Tony gave a mock-offended gasp. “I would never” He winked at Y/N on his way out, softer than usual. “Get some rest, kid.”

“Well,” she said, raising an eyebrow, “Black Widow here didn’t kill us with the dinner.”

The woman who could freeze time with a glare and take down an army without breaking a sweat, dropped the sponge and pressed her hands to her face. She wiped her face, trying to steady her breath. “You… you’re back,” She whispered, hugging her.

“Yeah,” smiled smiled gently. “I’m back.

And just like that, the silence was gone, replaced by laughter and the quiet music of friendship healing. Natasha’s tears had dried, replaced by laughter and warmth. After the emotional gathering, the others followed suit one by one, leaving only Bucky and Y/N. He leaned over and murmured. “Wanna get some air?”

She nodded silently.

The rooftop was quiet, the city buzzing softly below like white noise. The breeze carried a light chill, and without hesitation, Bucky slipped off his jacket and wrapped it around her shoulders.

“You’re gonna freeze,” she murmured.

“I run hot,” he smirked. “Super soldier perks.”

She smiled faintly, hugging the worn fabric tighter. He stepped beside her, not crowding, just close enough. When she shivered again, he gently pulled her into his side, his arm wrapping around her shoulders with a familiarity that surprised them both. For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

Then she broke the silence. “We really hated each other, huh?” Her voice was low, almost amused.

Bucky let out a short laugh. “We were professionals at it. Mutual loathing with a splash of sarcasm.”

“You used to call me ice queen.”

“You called me murder Barbie.”

She snorted despite herself. “You did earn it with that leather jacket and scowl combo.”

He chuckled, then fell quiet again.

“But that mission,” she said more seriously. “The house. That post-op downtime.” Her voice dropped. “I thought it was just sex that night, Bucky.”

He didn’t move. She kept talking, fingers curling around the edge of his jacket like a tether.

“I want to be completely honest with you. At the time, I thought it was just a way to release tension. We survived, we were angry, full of adrenaline. I figured it was the same for you.” She paused. “But… the way you touched me. Roughly yeah but, also like… you cared, in your own messed-up, soldier way.”

She shook her head, eyes fixed on the skyline.

“Afterward, I realized maybe it wasn’t just wild sex. Maybe it could’ve been something more.”

Bucky turned slightly toward her, but she didn’t look at him.

“And then you made that stupid joke,” she said quietly, pain flickering across her features. “About pushing down my ego. And something in me just… snapped.”

The silence stretched again, heavier this time, wrapped in grief and things left unsaid.

Finally, Bucky spoke soft, slower than usual. “I’ve replayed that moment a thousand times in my head.” Her lips pressed into a thin line.

“I never meant to make you feel small. Not you,” he said. “Especially not after what we shared. That night meant something to me too, more than I was ready to admit.”

He took a breath, reaching out carefully, brushing her hand.

“You were the one person who saw through all the Winter Soldier crap. You never let me hide behind it. You called me out, challenged me. It pissed me off and saved me at the same time.”

She turned to him slowly, eyes glossy but defiant. “I’m still angry,” she whispered. “At what happened. At Hydra. At you. At myself.”

“I know,” he said. “And I’ll carry that. However long it takes. I just want you to know… I’m not running anymore. Not from what I feel. Not from you.” Her lower lip trembled. She let out a shaky exhale and leaned her head against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

“Okay,” she whispered.

“Okay?”

“We start over. Slowly. No running. No jokes about my ego.”

“Deal,” he said, smiling into her hair.

The city lights shimmered around them as they stood there two battle-worn souls finding warmth in the cold, healing in the quiet. Together.

FLASHBACK – That Night after the mission

The mission had left them bruised, bloody, and an undercurrent of adrenaline still crackling beneath their skin as they stumbled through the door of the safehouse. His mouth was on hers.

Fierce. Demanding.

She tasted blood. His, hers, she didn’t care. He devoured her like a man starved. He was dominant, rough but not careless. Every thrust, every touch, every low growl in her ear was deliberate. She challenged him with her body, pushed back, met him and he responded like a soldier used to war and ready to win. It was release.

Rage. Lust. Power. Control. Letting go.

Afterward, was different.

They lay tangled in worn sheets, skin damp and limbs heavy. The cold crept back into the house through the thin walls, and Y/N instinctively curled in on herself, reaching for warmth that wasn’t there. Until Bucky moved closer behind her. No words. Just an arm strong and steady wrapping around her waist. His body curved to hers, the hard lines of muscle and scar a shield against the chill.

A kiss, barely there, pressed to the curve of her shoulder.

A pause.

Another kiss. Y/N closed her eyes. Her throat tightened not from the aftermath of sex, but from the quiet truth blooming between them.

Something deeper than tension. Something scarier. She didn’t move. Just let herself be held. He didn’t speak. He didn’t pull away. That was the part that stayed with her. Not the fire, not the dominance. The way he held her like he didn’t want her to leave. The way it felt like protection, not possession. Even then, even in silence he had started to mean something more.

END OF FLASHBACK

Soft light filtered through the curtains, painting the room in gentle gold. Y/N’s eyes fluttered open, heavy but calm, her body still curled against something steady and warm.

“Hey,” came a low, familiar voice. She turned her head slightly and met Bucky’s gaze, his eyes kind and just a little amused.

“Hey,” she whispered back, her voice still rough from the night.

He smiled softly. “Hope you don’t mind… you fell asleep on the rooftop, and I brought you here. You were clinging to me like I was a lifeline.” Y/N shifted just enough to glance down at herself half resting on his chest, one arm draped around his waist, her leg thrown over his.

“Yeah… basically like this,” Bucky said with a chuckle, his breath warm against her hair.

She let out a small laugh, the first real sound of lightness she’d made in days. “No complaints,” she murmured.

He tightened his hold gently, as if promising she was safe for now, and maybe for a long time after. Bucky’s voice was low and steady as he brushed a strand of hair from her face. “How did you sleep?”

Y/N blinked slowly, the weight of exhaustion still lingering in her limbs but softened by the warmth surrounding her. She hesitated for a moment, then whispered. “Better than I thought I would.”

He nodded, relief flickering in his eyes. “That’s good. You need all the rest you can get.”

She shifted slightly to look at him, a fragile smile tugging at her lips. “Thanks… for bringing me here. For staying.”

Bucky’s smile deepened, his fingers tracing small circles on her back. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Bucky and Y/N walked into the kitchen together, still wrapped in the quiet intimacy of the morning. The house smelled faintly of coffee and toasted bread. Sam, Nat, and Steve were already there, sharing knowing smirks and exchanged glances. Tony was noticeably absent, likely still in the lab, chasing down whatever it was that made Friday’s voice hit something deep inside Y/N’s mind.

“Sit,” Bucky said softly, guiding Y/N to the chair with a gentle kiss to the top of her head. A few soft giggles bubbled up from Nat and Y/N, breaking the tension that had been hanging thickly around them all.

Steve gave a small grin. “Looks like someone’s got their groove back.”

Sam chuckled. “And Bucky’s playing the gentleman. Who would’ve thought?” Y/N shot Bucky a mock glare, but the smile on her face was genuine. For the first time in a long while, the team felt like family again not just soldiers and survivors.

Y/N’s eyes widened as Bucky held out a tall glass filled with a thick, creamy liquid.

“What’s that?” She asked cautiously.

“A protein shake,” Bucky answered, though the certainty in his voice wavered. “You always had a shake in the morning. Since you began to eat again, I thought…” he added softly, trying to sound reassuring but clearly uncertain now.

Suddenly, a sharp flash sliced through Y/N’s mind the sterile, cold room where she was held captive. The kidnapper’s voice echoing, the doctor’s calculated smile. The same protein shakes, handed to her every two days. “To keep you alive.” he’d said.

Her voice trembled as she whispered. “H-he gave me a protein shake every two days… to keep me alive, I guess.” Bucky’s expression shifted immediately, a flicker of anger and protectiveness flashing across his face.

Without hesitation, he turned and dumped the shake down the sink, the sound loud in the quiet kitchen. “No more of that,” he said firmly, eyes locking on hers. “Not here. Not ever.” Y/N nodded, swallowing the lump in her throat, grateful for the moment of safety but the shadows of Hydra’s control still lurking just beneath the surface.

Suddenly the door hissed open, and Tony practically burst into the kitchen, waving his arms like a man who’d just cracked the biggest case of the century. “IT’S THE PROTEIN SHAKE!” He yelled, making everyone jump.

“Tony, what” Steve started, but Tony cut him off, pacing fast now, excitement mixed with frustration.

“I ran some scans and cross-checked the blood samples Y/N gave me. The protein shakes. They weren’t just nutrition.” He pointed a finger dramatically, at Y/N’s head. “They were laced with psychoactive mixtures designed to weaken her mental defences, make the implant’s control stronger.”

Bucky’s jaw clenched. Nat’s eyes narrowed.

Tony continued, speaking rapidly but clearly. “They used the drugs in the shake as a kind of gateway slowly breaking down her brain’s resistance. That, combined with the implant, made it easier to manipulate her, erase her will.”

He turned to Y/N gently. “Do you feel like you’re missing some pieces? Moments, memories?”

Y/N swallowed hard, thinking carefully. “Y-yeah… If I have to be honest,” she began slowly, “I remember the doctor holding the water pipe and the towel… but it’s like he didn’t use them on me… wait.” Her eyes widened. “He gave me the shake right before.” The room went still, the weight of that revelation sinking in. Tony nodded grimly.

“That’s how they primed her drugs first, then psychological torture. It’s a sick method. But now we know what we’re up against.”

Bucky reached for Y/N’s hand, squeezing it softly. “We’ll get through this. Piece by piece.”

Y/N looked around at the team her family and a flicker of hope sparked in her chest.

Steve’s brow furrowed with concern as he looked between Y/N and Tony. “So, how do we clean her body from that?”

Tony rubbed his chin thoughtfully, then nodded decisively. “We’re dealing with some potent neurotoxins and psychoactive drugs here, plus the implant’s effects. It’s going to be a multi-step process.” He turned to Nat and Sam, who had been quietly listening. “First, we flush out the toxins with a specialized detox protocol, IV infusions tailored to break down the drugs safely without stressing her system.”

“And the implant’s neurological effects?” Steve asked.

“That’s trickier,” Tony said, tapping his finger on the table. “We’ll have to pair the detox with targeted neurotherapy stimulating her brain to rewire itself, undo some of the mental damage.” He looked at Y/N gently. “It’ll take time, and you’ll have good days and bad days. But we’re all here for you.”

Bucky gave her hand another reassuring squeeze. “You’re not alone in this.”

Y/N nodded slowly, steeling herself. “Okay… I’m ready.”

The detox process began in the sterile hum of Tony’s lab, where sleek machines lined the walls and soft lights pulsed with quiet energy. Y/N lay reclined in a specialized chair, an IV drip slowly administering a carefully designed cocktail to flush the neurotoxins and psychoactive drugs from her system. The sterile scent mingled with the faint aroma of freshly brewed coffee as Tony monitored the data streams with sharp, focused eyes. They came to the idea of using all the senses. If she smell coffee in the lab, her brain could associated it with something she loved.

“This will take about a week,” Tony explained to the gathered team, his voice steady but tinged with urgency. “The detox flushes out the compounds that weakened your mind, but the implant’s effects will require neurotherapy afterward to help the brain rewire itself.”

Bucky sat close, his hand resting firmly on Y/N’s, grounding her through the fatigue and confusion that clouded her thoughts. Nat and Sam flanked them, ready to help. Their calm presence a steady anchor in the storm of recovery.

Meal times became a blend of nourishment and small victories. Tony, ever the perfectionist, whipped up smoothies rich with nutrients, soft steamed vegetables, and carefully prepared lean proteins tailored to aid Y/N’s healing body. He let her watch every steps he took to make them.

“Want you to try something, kid.” Tony said, giving her a protein shake. “I’ll do it for me too and we’ll drink them together. You see me. I see you.”

She almost had to fight the tears back. She picked at the food cautiously, hesitant but determined, each bite a quiet rebellion against the trauma that still haunted her.

Bucky’s gentle reminders to eat came wrapped in soft smiles and touches, the simple acts of care slowly rebuilding trust and comfort. Afternoons were reserved for neurotherapy sessions in the lab. Y/N wore a lightweight headset designed to send precise neural impulses to the damaged regions of her brain. The stimulation was at times uncomfortable, sometimes triggering flashes of memory or panic, but each session nudged her closer to reclaiming her mind from Hydra’s grip. Tony’s voice was calm and encouraging as he adjusted the machine, while Nat whispered grounding words nearby, and Sam’s light hearted jokes floated through the room, piercing the tension like rays of sunshine. Evenings found Y/N and Bucky retreating to the balcony overlooking the city skyline. The sky often blazed with hues of purple and orange as day melted into night.

Here, away from machines and monitors, she allowed herself to admit the weight she carried. “Some days feel heavier than others,” she confessed, voice barely above a whisper.

Bucky’s reply was unwavering. “But every step forward counts. And you’re not walking this path alone.” His steady presence was an unspoken promise, a shield against the darkness. In this cocoon of care, Y/N began to rediscover herself. Her voice, her identity, and the trust she had once thought lost. And with every small victory, the scars Hydra left behind grew just a little less defining.

Amid the quiet hum of the tower and the constant bustle of the Avengers team, Y/N and Bucky found themselves carving out a space that was theirs alone a fragile sanctuary from the world’s chaos and the shadows of her past. In the early days of recovery, Bucky was a steady presence at her side, patient and gentle. When panic attacks struck in the dead of night, his strong arms would wrap around her trembling body, his voice a low murmur that chased away the nightmares. He never pushed, never demanded words she wasn’t ready to give. Instead, he listened in silence, his touch a silent vow that she was safe.

Slowly, as Y/N began to reclaim her voice, the old rivalry that once defined them softened into something deeper. Their conversations started small shared smiles over coffee, teasing banter during training sessions, quiet moments watching the city lights from the rooftop. Bucky learned to read the subtle shifts in her mood, offering support without overwhelming her.

One evening, after a particularly exhausting therapy session, they found themselves alone in the common room. Y/N sat curled up on the couch, eyes tired but alert.

Bucky sank down beside her, their shoulders brushing. “You don’t have to be strong all the time,” he said quietly. “It’s okay to lean on someone.”

She looked at him, the vulnerability in her gaze mingling with gratitude. “I want to, but it’s hard.”

“I know,” he admitted. “But I’m here. For everything.”

That night marked a turning point. The walls Y/N had built around herself began to crumble, brick by brick. She started reaching outholding his hand during difficult moments, leaning into his warmth when the past threatened to pull her under. Their bond wasn’t perfect. There were stumbles, misunderstandings, and silent fears. But beneath it all was a shared determination to heal, to trust, and to move forward together. In Bucky, Y/N found more than an anchor; she found a partner willing to fight beside her, not just against their enemies, but for the fragile hope of a future they both deserved.

One afternoon, as the team gathered in the common room, Y/N hesitated for a moment before speaking up. “I… I miss walking in a park. Just wandering the streets, feeling normal…” she said quietly. “Can I go out? Even just for a little while?” She asked Bucky.

Bucky’s brow furrowed, concern flashing in his eyes as he took a step closer. “Doll, you sure about this?”

Y/N met his gaze steadily. “Yeah, I’m sure.”

Steve chimed in, his voice calm but firm. “Y/N, we don’t know if they’re still out there. It’s dangerous.”

Y/N blinked, then glanced at Bucky, batting her long eyelashes teasingly. “But now I have a big strong guard dog...”

The room burst into playful laughter, the team’s mood lightening as Bucky’s cheeks flushed a deep red.

“At the cost of repeating myself,” Sam said with a grin, “I miss when you two yelled at each other.”

Bucky just stood there, stunned, while the others giggled.

“Well, I’m taking the jacket,” Y/N declared with a confident smile, slipping her arms into Bucky’s familiar leather jacket.

Bucky’s eyes softened as he shrugged. “Fine. But I’m walking right beside you.”

The team exchanged knowing looks, hearts warmed by the small but meaningful step toward normalcy and the unmistakable bond growing back between Y/N and Bucky.

During their walk through the park, Y/N couldn’t help but smile as she thought back on how silly it was to say she hated Bucky. He was clearly her soulmate in every way steady, protective and somehow always there when she needed him most. Still, that stubborn joke about pushing down her ego lingered in the back of her mind, and a mischievous idea took root.

“Hey, Bucky,” she called out, tugging gently on his arm. “Buy me a balloon.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow but played along. “A balloon? Seriously?”

“Yes! Just one,” she insisted, eyes sparkling.

Bucky led her to a vendor, and soon Y/N was holding a bright red balloon, its cord wrapped around her wrist. As they walked a bit further, Y/N suddenly stopped and looked down at the cord. “Oh no,” she whined, her voice exaggerated. “I think I lost the cord!”

Bucky frowned. “You mean you let it go?”

She pouted, batting her eyelashes. “I didn’t mean to!”

Bucky sighed but smiled, turning back to buy her another balloon. Y/N beamed, clutching the new balloon tightly. “Now… ice cream,” she added, pointing to a nearby stand.

Bucky chuckled, shaking his head. “You’re impossible.”

“But you love it,” she teased, slipping her arm through his. And as they continued their stroll, laughter and teasing filling the air, the old rivalry was replaced with something warm, light, and beautifully real.

A group of noisy children tore down the sidewalk, chasing bubbles and laughter, their shrieks high and happy. To anyone else it was harmless chaos, but Y/N slightly flinched, her body tensing just slightly at the sudden noise, the fast motion, the crowding energy. Bucky noticed instantly. Without a word, he adjusted his stance beside her, stepping in just enough to make himself bigger, broader. A wall of quiet protection. The kids didn’t shy away in fact, a few looked up at him with wide, fascinated eyes.

One little boy gasped, “He’s got a robot arm!” He said with more awe than fear. But one girl, small and hesitant, lingered behind the others.

Her eyes flicked between Y/N and Bucky, unsure. Y/N saw her too. Gently, she crouched, untied the spare balloon from her wrist. She held it out. The girl hesitated, then slowly reached forward.

Bucky crouched too, offering a soft smile, and held the string out with his metal hand. “It’s yours, sweetheart.”

The girl’s eyes widened in wonder. She smiled shyly at him, then took the balloon. With a little wave, she scampered off to rejoin the others. Bucky stood and looked down at Y/N, who gave him a small, grateful smile. He tightened his arm around her, just.

They kept walking.

At one point, Y/N’s steps faltered on a rough patch of pavement, uneven and cracked. Before she could stumble, Bucky caught her hand, steadying her with a soft, “Got you.”

She didn’t say anything. She just nodded once, eyes shining a little. Because in that small, quiet way Bucky’s care, spoke louder than words ever could. He didn’t try to fix her. He didn’t ask her to smile or be brave. He simply stayed beside her. And for now, that was enough.

As they wandered down a quiet street, Y/N’s eyes caught sight of a small, cozy bookshop nestled between a café and a flower shop. It was a simple storefront, its windows lined with colourful spines that beckoned softly. It had been months. Back in the tower, before Nat had helped her wash away the grime and trauma, Y/N had glanced at her bookshelf in the room, a simple piece of furniture that once held so much comfort. It felt like a distant world.

Bucky noticed the way her gaze lingered on the bookshop. He stepped closer, a teasing smile playing on his lips. “Wanna get in?”

Y/N’s eyes lit up, and without hesitation, she nodded enthusiastically. The bell above the door jingled softly as they stepped inside, the scent of aged paper and fresh ink wrapping around them like a warm hug. For a moment, the noise and weight of everything else slipped away. Y/N’s fingers brushed over the spines, a small, genuine smile curving her lips.

Bucky watched her with quiet affection, knowing that this simple act touching a book again was a small but powerful step in reclaiming herself. “Looks like someone missed this world,” he murmured.

She glanced up, eyes shining. “More than I realized.”

Together, they lost themselves in the quiet magic of the bookshop, the past’s shadows softening under the gentle light of new beginnings.

It was well past sunset when Y/N and Bucky returned to the Tower.

The elevator doors slid open with a quiet ding, revealing the familiar comfort of the common room. Y/N stepped out first, cheeks flushed from the evening air. Her right hand was tucked snugly into the pocket of Bucky’s jacket. Her small way of holding onto him without making it a big deal. Behind her, Bucky followed, juggling three overstuffed tote bags filled with books. He looked mildly exasperated, but anyone paying attention could see the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

On the couch, Sam and Tony were mid-banter over something on the TV. Nat stood by the bar counter with a glass of water, her sharp eyes flicking toward Y/N with a knowing warmth.

Steve sat cross-legged in the corner chair, a book opened in his lap.

“It went well, right, Bucky?” Y/N said, pausing just inside the room. Her voice was light, teasing, but laced with the quiet kind of joy that hadn’t been there for months.

Bucky let out a soft scoff, glancing at her with feigned irritation. “Yeah. If carrying thirty pounds of fantasy novels and romance paperbacks counts as well.”

The others glanced up, watching the interaction unfold with interest.

“I’m so tired,” Y/N sighed dramatically, flopping onto a stool beside Natasha.

“And Stark,” Bucky added, dropping the bags with a gentle thud near the coffee table, “you paid, by the way. I used your card.”

Tony didn’t even blink. “If it makes her happy, don’t worry, metal man.”

Sam raised an eyebrow. “Man, she really got you wrapped around her finger now, huh?”

“Shut it,” Bucky mumbled, his ears tinged pink.

Nat smirked and handed Y/N a glass of water. “Glad you made it back with all your limbs. And books.”

Y/N smiled down at the bags, her expression soft. “I forgot what it felt like… to just wander around and choose something for myself. That wasn’t taken from me. That wasn’t forced.”

Bucky’s gaze flicked to her then, his features softening. “You earned it.”

By the end of the week, the change in Y/N was undeniable.

Her bloodwork came back clean, no trace of the suppressants or chemicals Hydra had laced into those awful shakes. The scans Tony ran twice (okay, maybe four times) confirmed that her brain was healing. No lingering feedback from the implant. No more shadowy interference hijacking her thoughts. And most important of all Bucky’s voice, once a weapon used against her, was hers again.

“Doll… you sure?” Y/N nodded, steady and strong. “Do it. Let’s be sure.”

He drew in a breath.

Even now, after all they’d been through, it was hard to say the words. His voice once forced into cruelty by a monster now trembled only with care.

“Please, Y/N, answer me.”

Silence fell.

For a moment, no one breathed. Y/N blinked once. Twice. Then smiled. “That’s not going to work on me anymore, Barnes.”

From behind the glass, Steve grinned. Sam let out a relieved sigh. Tony fist-pumped like he’d won an award. Bucky, stunned for half a beat, broke into a slow, disbelieving smile.

“You did it,” he said quietly.

“No,” she corrected, stepping forward. “We did it.” She placed a hand gently on his chest, right over where his heart beat steady and strong. His hand covered hers in response.

“You’re free now,” he said. “From all of it.”

“And I’m not scared of your voice anymore,” she whispered. “In fact… I kind of like hearing it.”

A beat.

“Even when you say stupid things,” she added with a smirk.

Bucky chuckled, relieved laughter spilling out of him. “You’re never gonna let that ego joke go, are you?”

“Never,” she confirmed.

He pulled her into a hug then tight, grounding, safe. And for the first time in what felt like forever, there were no ghosts standing between them.

No implanted echoes.

No weight of Hydra.

Just warmth.

Just now.

And just them.

The evening air was warm, soft with the fading light of golden hour. Y/N stood in front of her mirror, adjusting the strap of her dress. A deep wine-red that hugged her just right and shimmered subtly in the light. It had been so long since she felt this way about herself powerful.

In the common room, Bucky waited.

He tugged nervously at the cuffs of his black shirt, fitted enough to make Sam whistle when he passed earlier. “You sure this isn’t a mission?”

Bucky had grumbled. “Yeah.”

Sam had smirked. “A heart mission.”

When Y/N walked in, time hiccupped.

Bucky’s mouth parted, but no sound came. He just stared genuinely stunned.

“You’re staring,” she teased stepping closer, her heels echoing lightly on the Tower floor.

“You’re glowing,” he breathed, before he could stop himself.

Y/N’s smile curled with warmth, a bit smug. “You clean up well yourself, Barnes.”

His smirk returned. “Ready for our first actual date? No ice cream bribes, no smuggled books, no rooftop angst?”

“Sounds boring,” she teased.

“Give it time,” he said, offering his arm.

Dinner was perfect.

A quiet place tucked away, where Tony had pulled strings to make sure they had privacy. There was laughter, so much laughter. They talked about the ridiculousness of their earlier bickering days, the first mission where they nearly killed each other over who got to hotwire the enemy’s car, and how far they’d come since.

“I think Nat had a bet going about us,” Y/N said, sipping her wine.

“She won,” Bucky replied dryly.

“Steve owes her fifty.”

Later, under a low-lit streetlamp outside the restaurant, Bucky stepped in front of her, nerves flickering under the surface of his calm. “Hey,” he said, voice softer now. “Can I say something?”

“Only if you stop looking at me like I’m gonna float away.”

He smiled. “I’ve waited to take you out like this for longer than I want to admit. Back then… before everything… I didn’t know if I deserved to.”

Y/N reached for his hand. “You do. You always did. I just wasn’t ready to see it.”

“I want more of this,” he said. “Not just dates. All of it.”

Her hand squeezed his. “Then stop asking and kiss me.”

And he did slow and deep and reverent. Not like the rushed, rough kisses of before.

This one was different.

Like they’d both finally arrived.

One month later, the gym smelled of sweat and aggression. Y/N had Bucky in a chokehold that would have made any other man tap out three moves earlier. He didn’t. Instead, he twisted, rolled, and threw her flat on her back.

She let out a grunt, glaring up at him from the mat. “You’re slipping, Grandpa.”

He smirked, panting slightly. “Still put you on your ass.” There wasn’t any venom in her voice anymore, not like there used to be.

And he noticed especially during the quiet mornings, when they ended up grabbing breakfast at the same time in the compound’s shared kitchen.

No snarky comment, no sass. Just… talking. Even if she’d let him take control that night, breathless and aching and entirely his, they hadn’t crossed that line again.

Not physically, just the memory of that night was enough.

Until he messed up.

It was a Friday, late afternoon, and the common area was crowded. Sam, Natasha, and even Steve was lounging around, enjoying the rare lull between missions. Laughter echoed off the walls, a movie played softly in the background, and the scent of popcorn lingered in the air. Bucky strolled in, smug as ever, a faint swagger in his step. He looked freshly showered, hair still damp, a towel slung casually over his shoulder. Y/N walked in just behind him, sipping coffee, cheeks still flushed from the treadmill. She wore a loose tank and joggers, earbuds hanging around her neck, completely unaware of the shift that was about to happen.

“You and Y/N still playing rough in the gym, huh?” Sam teased, nudging Bucky with an elbow, his grin wide and playful. Bucky smirked, cocky and careless, barely glancing back at her.

“Yeah, well… some things we’re good at keeping physical. Someone’s gotta keep her ego in check.”

The room went dead quiet.

Y/N froze mid step. Her cup lowered slightly, hand tightening around the ceramic mug as if it grounded her. Sam’s smile dropped. He gave Bucky a sharp look.

“Dude.” Bucky’s smirk faltered a beat too late. His brow creased.

“What? I meant sparring. Jesus.”

But it was already too late.

The implication had settled into the air like smoke. Natasha raised an eyebrow, unreadable but clearly unimpressed. Steve glanced down, lips pressed in a thin line, avoiding eye contact. Sam muttered something under his breath and walked out of the room without another word. Y/N’s jaw clenched. She didn’t speak, didn’t lash out, didn’t correct him. She just turned on her heel and walked away silent, controlled, but burning from the inside out. And Bucky felt it. Every step she took away from him stung more than he expected.

“Great,” Natasha muttered.

“You really nailed that one, Barnes.” Bucky opened his mouth. Closed it. The smirk was gone, evaporated like it had never been there.

Later that night, she found him in the training room again, punching the heavy bag like it had personally insulted him. His fists thudded against the leather, repeatedly, until he sensed her presence. He stopped when she entered, chest rising and falling with laboured breath.

“Y/N,” he started, guilt already flickering in his eyes. “I didn’t mean…”

“You think this is funny?” Her voice was low and sharp, cutting through the silence. “You screw me once and think that gives you the right to turn it into a joke for the whole team?”

His eyes darkened. “That’s not what I was doing.”

“Then what were you doing, Barnes? Because from where I stood, it looked a hell of a lot like you threw me under the bus for a cheap laugh.”

“It wasn’t like that,” he said, stepping toward her.

“I panicked. They were teasing me and I… I didn’t mean to make you feel used.”

She let out a bitter laugh. “That’s the thing. You didn’t even think about how I’d feel, did you?”

“Jeez. You’re so sensitive, Y/N,” Bucky said, words spilling out fast and defensive like they might shield him from the damage already done. He regretted them the moment they left his mouth. Her expression didn’t shift right away. That was the worst part. She just blinked, like the words had hit her midbreath. Then something in her eyes changed subtly, but completely. It wasn’t anger. It was colder. Detached.

“You know what, Barnes?” Her voice was quiet and level, too calm. “That’s low. Even for you.”

Bucky’s stomach dropped. “Wait, Y/N”

“No.” She cut him off with a raised hand. “Don’t. Don’t walk it back now. You said what you said. You meant it enough to say it in front of the team, and now you’re doubling down?”

His jaw clenched. He wanted to tell her he didn’t mean it. That he was lashing out. That vulnerability sat on his chest like a loaded gun and sometimes he said stupid things because it scared him how much she mattered. But that would have been too honest. And Bucky Barnes hadn’t figured out how to be honest with her yet. So, he said nothing. And she stepped back like he’d physically shoved her.

“Whatever this was,” she gestured vaguely between them, “It’s done. You can go back to your brooding and your locker room jokes. I’ll go back to not giving a damn.”

“That’s not fair,” he finally said. She gave a short, humourless laugh.

“You know what’s not fair? Trusting you with something real. Letting my guard down when I never do. Not for anyone I work with. Not even for people I like, let alone-” She stopped herself, swallowed hard. “Forget it.”

He took a step forward, desperation starting to crack through the silence. “Just let me explain.”

“To what end?” Her voice shook, but only slightly. Her eyes were glassy now. “So you can call me sensitive again when I expect basic respect from someone, I was stupid enough to trust?”

“Damn it Y/N,” he snapped, frustration bleeding through. “I messed up. I know I did. But I wasn’t trying to hurt you”

“Too bad. You did hurt me,” she said quietly, but with a steely certainty that left no room for argument. “So, congratulations. Go win your next sparring match. Or whatever the hell helps you sleep at night.” She turned and walked away without looking back.

That night between them changed everything.

They pretended to hate each other again, sharp words, careless teasing, brutal sparring matches, as if nothing had shifted. As if the walls had never come down. But beneath the surface, the memory of that night lingered, raw and unburied. That night, he had taken her body, and she had let him.

For the first time in a long while, she had let her defences fall. And he hadn’t just been rough or passionate, he had been present, focused entirely on her in a way that both unsettled and awakened something deep inside her. Tonight, the distance between them felt heavier than ever.

She wanted to snap back, to joke like she always did. To play it cool and pretend none of it mattered. But all she could do was sit with that sting in her chest and wonder.

Was she just sensitive? Or had it meant something more?

Two weeks after, Bucky noticed it immediately.

Y/N wasn’t mean to him, not anymore.

He missed even her snarky comments. They started being enemies, then had one of the best night of their life and now they were almost as strangers. Y/N stopped showing up at the gym during their usual time.

No more shared breakfasts. No more sarcastic jabs tossed over shoulder pads or sparring gear. She was still going on missions still sharp, still efficient, still deadly. But now, she was cold. Clinical. Like he was just another operative on the roster. And it ate him alive. Because once you’ve had someone, truly had them, felt their skin under your hands, heard the sounds they only made for you, seen their eyes go soft in the dark when they thought no one else was watching, it was impossible to go back. Impossible to pretend they didn’t exist. But she was trying. Every time he walked into a room, she found a reason to leave.

During briefings, she addressed Steve or Sam, never him. If she had to acknowledge him, it was with a curt nod, a clipped word, a strictly professional tone that left no room for anything else. It hurt. More than he expected it to. Because she wasn’t yelling. She wasn’t rolling her eyes or throwing barbs at him like she used to. No, this wasn’t anger, it was absence. An emptiness that wrapped around her like armour, one he had helped weld into place with his own damn hands. And Bucky couldn’t stop thinking about how her mocking laugh used to sound before all of this. Before he messed everything up.

On a thursady, everyone was gathered in the conference room. Y/N sat at the far end of the table, well away from the seat Bucky instinctively dropped into. She didn’t glance his way once. Halfway through the meeting, Bucky cracked. Just a little.

“Y/N,” he said, after Tony finished rattling off the next mission assignment. “Can we talk?”

Her eyes flicked to him. Calm. Blank. “We’re in a briefing, Barnes.”

“I know,” he said, ignoring the eyes on them. “But after?” She didn’t answer. Just stood when the meeting ended and left the room without a word. Steve gave him a pointed look on the way out.

“Whatever this is. Fix it before it ruins your teamwork.” Like Bucky didn’t already know that.

That night, in the gym she was there again alone, or so she thought. Running drills, sweat glistening on her skin, focus sharp and unrelenting. Bucky stepped into the doorway.

“Y/N.”

She didn’t stop moving. “You are stalking me now?”

“No. I just… I needed to see you.”

“You already did enough of that,” she muttered, throwing a vicious punch at the bag. It swung hard, the chain groaning under the impact.

He winced. “I didn’t mean to cheapen what happened. I just… I get scared when things start to matter.” She stopped. Turned to face him. And God, the look on her face.

“You’re scared?” She said, her voice trembling, though her posture remained strong. “I gave you a piece of me I don’t give to anyone. I gave you control over me. And you turned it into a joke because you’re scared?”

Bucky had no answer. He stood frozen, silent.

She stepped closer. “I let you in. Do you get that? How many man do you think can handle me like you did? I let you see me. Not the soldier, not the assassin, not the one who always has her shit together. Me. I let all that go, for one goddamn night, and you ruined it.” Her hands were shaking now, and Bucky felt like he couldn’t breathe. “I know we used to pretend to hate each other…” she continued, voice cracking, “…or maybe we actually did. Maybe that hate was real once. But then came that mission. The house. That night.”

He still wouldn’t meet her eyes.

“I couldn’t stand you. You couldn’t stand me. We were both too angry, too stubborn. But that night… that fucking night changed something.”

The silence that followed felt like a scream.

“You touched me like I was something you needed,” she whispered, eyes burning. “Like I was the only thing anchoring you to this world. You looked at me like I mattered. And it was rough and raw, let alone messy as hell, but it meant something.”

Bucky’s jaw tightened. Still, he said nothing.

“That joke in front of everyone,” she spat, her voice splintering, “like it was a throwaway line like none of it meant a damn thing? It broke something in me.”

Finally, he looked at her. “I’m sorry,” Bucky said quietly. And this time, he meant it. But she shook her head.

“That’s not good enough.” She brushed past him, her shoulder grazing his chest, and walked out with her eyes forward, heart locked down.

Days later, the tension was no longer subtle. Whenever Y/N and Bucky shared a space, the air seemed to drop ten degrees. And the rest of the team? Yeah, they noticed.

Natasha was the first to say it out loud. “You two broke up or just trying to kill each other with silence?”

They were mid mission planning when she said it, and the room went dead quiet. Y/N didn’t even blink. Bucky clenched his jaw.

“We weren’t together,” Y/N said flatly, eyes on the mission report.

Natasha glanced at Bucky. “Barnes?” He didn’t look up.

“Doesn’t matter.” Steve sighed, rubbing his face like he was reconsidering his entire life.

“Okay, seriously. What the hell is going on?” Sam leaned back in his chair. “Normally I’d enjoy the drama, but this is getting painful. You two are a walking HR violation. Either make out again or start throwing punches. Just do something.”

Y/N stood abruptly. “If this is how you run debriefs now, I’ll pass.” She walked out, leaving Bucky staring after her.

Tony, coffee in hand and smirking like the devil, shook his head. “So… that night wasn’t just tactical?”

“Tony,” Steve warned.

“What?” Tony shrugged. “The body language is screaming ex-enemies with unresolved tension and catastrophic emotional baggage.”

Sam raised a brow. “That’s oddly specific, man.”

Tony sipped. “I watch a lot of HBO.”

Later that night, Steve corned Bucky. “Buck,” Steve said, leaning against the wall outside the gym.

“I’m not in the mood, Steve.”

“Too bad. You and Y/N are bleeding all over this team, and it’s killing our cohesion. You’re distracted. She’s gone ice cold. It’s like watching two magnets trying to rip themselves apart.” Bucky let out a long breath, rubbing the back of his neck. Steve stepped closer. “What’s going on?” Bucky didn’t respond right away. His fists, especially the metal one, twitched at his sides. “At least before, you two yelled,” Steve said. “Now she won’t even look at you. And you walk around like she’s destroying you.”

“She is,” Bucky muttered. “I screwed it up. Said the wrong thing. She shut down. Started avoiding me.”

“Then fix it.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“It is,” Steve said firmly. “If you care, you fight. Not on the mat. For her.”

Bucky looked away. “What if I already lost her?”

Steve’s gaze softened. “Then remind her what she meant to you that night, and every damn day after.”

He didn’t press further. He didn’t need to. He already knew the truth. The “hate” Bucky felt for Y/N? He saw fake money well designed.

Meanwhile, Natasha and Y/N had the same encounter. “Barnes is moping,” Natasha said casually, leaning in Y/N’s doorway like she hadn’t been keeping tabs the entire time.

Y/N didn’t look up from cleaning her sidearm. “Not my problem.”

“Oh, please. You’re walking around here like someone carved your heart out with a vibranium spoon. Something changed between you two. And now you’re pretending like he’s a stranger.”

Y/N’s hands stilled. “He made me feel like I was just something to scratch an itch.”

Nat moved into the room, sitting beside her. “And yet you’re the one doing the avoiding.”

Silence.

“Y/N,” she said gently, “I’ve seen a lot of guys fall for you. None of them looked the way Bucky did when you walked out of that kitchen.”

Y/N swallowed hard. “I really thought he could be different. He broke something in me. And i don’t even know what…”

She stood there, silent. “Then tell him,” Nat said quietly. “Let him earn fixing it.”

Steve and Natasha, the next morning, exchanged a subtle nod as they handed out assignments. “Y/N, you’re with Bucky on recon,” Steve said.

Y/N immediately looked up. “There’s no one else?”

“Nope,” Steve replied with a straight face. “Only one who matches his range and combat profile.”

It wasn’t completely a lie.

Bucky and Y/N clearly demonstrate to operate excellently together, but now there was another reason. Bucky glanced at her, and for a second, just a flicker, she met his eyes.

No anger. No hate. Just something haunted. And maybe, just maybe, something left to fight for.

“It’s an easy one, guys. Recon and download file on this USB.” Steve said, sliding the pen drive on the table. Y/N and Bucky nodded.

So, they were again together.

A mission, two person, one brain.

Rocks crunched under their boots as Y/N and Bucky climbed the ridge toward the outpost perimeter. Visibility was low due to the fog. Winds were brutal, radios off and just a hand of signals now. 

She didn’t look at him once. Bucky watched her through the flurry. Same sure steps. Same sharp posture. Same silence as a wall he couldn’t scale. Every now and then, she motioned a command but never spoke. It drove him mad. They had been moving together for over two hours. Perfect sync. Their bodies remembered each other, even if their hearts pretended not to. She slipped through the trees like a shadow, scoped out patrols, gestured for him to flank. He obeyed without hesitation, covering her with a sniper shot when she silently took down two guards. Flawless teamwork. Just like before. But when the last sentry dropped and they ducked behind a rock outcropping, waiting for the patrol rotation to change.

Bucky cracked. “Y/N,” he whispered. “Say something. Anything.” She didn’t turn. He edged closer. “I know you’re still angry. You should be. But you’re in my head every second of the day and you won’t even look at me.”

Y/N in front of him, back facing him, winced slightly but didn’t stop.

The cold wind howled between them, but he barely felt it anymore. Just the ache in his chest.

“I miss you,” he said, quieter now. “I miss how you used to roll your eyes when I said something stupid. I miss you punching me too hard in sparring. I even miss you stealing the last of the damn strawberries in the fridge.”

At that point, Bucky didn’t care about the power games anymore.

The sarcasm.

The battles of will.

It all felt meaningless now. He would’ve begged. Hell, he would beg, if it would make her look at him even like she did in the past.

“Steve I would prefer her as an enemy again, rather than her not talking to me.” Bucky said to Steve one night, during a sparring.

Not like a teammate. Not like an obligation. Her shoulders shifted, almost imperceptibly.

“And I know I made you feel like it meant nothing,” he went on, voice catching, “but that night, it wrecked me. It still does. I’ve been trying to protect something I already lost.”

She finally turned. Looked at him. Just for a second. Before she could speak, a sharp crack rang through the trees. A gunshot. Bucky tackled her to the ground as a bullet shattered the rock behind where her head had been. They rolled. He shielded her with his body, heart pounding. She shoved him off once they hit cover behind a fallen tree.

“I had it,” she hissed, eyes blazing.

“Yeah? Well, I wasn’t taking any chances.”

Another round whizzed past. A sniper. Hidden. Y/N peered through her scope. “Northwest ridge, forty meters. You flank. I’ll draw fire.”

“No,” Bucky said. “I draw fire. You end it.”

This time, she didn’t argue.

Minutes later, they stood over the body, breathing hard and with the snow falling like ash around them. Still, she didn’t say anything else.

Bucky stared at her. “You’re shutting me out, but I’m still right here.” Her jaw clenched. She turned away, brushing past him and heading toward the outpost. They entered through the west wall breach, silent as ghosts. Inside, the corridors were dim and flickering with backup power. Alarms hadn’t gone off yet. But it was only a matter of time. Y/N took point, slipping through the shadows with the same grace he remembered fire and silk wrapped in skin. Deadly. Beautiful. Unreachable.

Her body brushed his as they squeezed into a narrow passage. Too tight. Too close. He inhaled sharply and caught the scent of her sweat, snow, gunmetal, and something softer beneath it. The memory of her fingers digging into his back, her voice breathless, her legs around his waist, it hit him like a punch to the ribs. That night lived between them now. But so did something else. Not lust. Not just anger. Something aching. They reached the server door. Keypad sealed. Y/N crouched to override it, fingers flying over the panel.

“Cover me,” she whispered.

Her voice wasn’t cold this time. It curled into his chest like smoke. He stood above her, gun raised, eyes on her. She was focused. Locked in. But she was trembling. Not much. Not enough anyone else would notice. But he did. Because he knew her body now. Knew what it looked like when she was pretending not to feel. The door clicked. Unlocked. She stood, brushing past him again. Her breath hitched when her arm grazed his.

Inside the server room, it was cramped and hot from the machines. Y/N inserted the USB and began the download. Bucky stood by the door, but his focus wasn’t on the mission anymore. It was on her tight jaw. Her shoulders. The way she refused to face him. The silence pressed in. Too much. He broke it.

“Y/N,” he said. “That night,”

“Don’t,” she snapped. But her voice cracked.

“You’re pretending it didn’t happen, but I know you feel it. Every second.”

“I can’t afford to feel it. Not when-” She turned then, eyes burning.

“Not when, what?” He asked, stepping closer.

She didn’t answer. The download finished. She yanked the USB out and turned away again. But he caught her wrist. She froze.

“It wasn’t just about your body,” he said, voice raw. “I should’ve told you sooner. But I can’t stand this silence, like I didn’t see you fall apart in my hands and beg me not to stop. You weren’t just a night. You’re the only thing that’s made me feel in years. Punch me. Shoot me. But don’t ignore me.”

She didn’t look at him. But she didn’t pull away. Their breathing matched again. And then footsteps echoed in the corridor. They snapped back into mission mode. 

“Time’s up,” she muttered, voice hard but shaken. They ran.

They moved side by side through the narrow corridor, sweat sticking to their backs, adrenaline pounding. The palace shook. Someone must’ve triggered a failsafe. Lights flickered. Sirens wailed. Without thinking, Bucky grabbed her hand. Not romantic. Instinct. The instinct that told him he couldn’t lose her. She didn’t pull away. She gripped his hand as they sprinted down the tunnel, green exit lights pulsing like a distant promise. Then, a sharp noise.

BOOM.

The tunnel exploded behind them. Concrete cracked. Smoke surged forward. “Y/N!” Bucky shouted. Her hand ripped from his. Gone. His hand closed on air.

“Y/N!” He roared, spinning in the smoke. Nothing. He stumbled through the haze, coughing, heart racing. Rubble rained from the ceiling.

“Y/N!” He yelled again, desperate.

Still nothing. He shoved debris aside. Pipes. Dust. Chunks of metal.

“Please, Y/N! Answer me!”

Then he saw it. Her comms earpiece, half buried in ash.

“No no, no Y/N, come on,” he whispered, grabbing it with shaking fingers. Then a voice. Male. Calm. Cold.

“We will take care of her, Soldat.” Bucky froze. The blood drained from his face. That voice. German. Precise. Familiar. HYDRA.

“No…” he whispered. “No, no…”

The walls tilted. His mind slid into memory, metal restraints and commands, pain, drills, Russian echoing in the dark.

Soldat.

His vision blurred. They had her. They knew what she meant to him. And they took her anyway.

The quinjet landed with only one onboard. Bucky stormed off the ramp before it fully lowered, eyes wild, hair tangled with ash and blood. Steve ran to meet him. Sam was right behind.

“Where’s Y/N?” Steve asked immediately. Bucky didn’t answer. He dropped her comms piece into Steve’s hand. His jaw locked. His chest heaved. Sam’s eyes narrowed.

“What the hell happened?” Bucky looked up, face pale and cold.

“They took her,” he said, dropping to his knees.

“Who?” Steve demanded.

“Bucky, who took her?” Bucky’s lips parted, but for a moment, nothing came out. Then he said it. One word. One name.

“HYDRA.”

Hours after detonation, the air was thick with urgency. Bucky paced back and forth, every step echoing the turmoil inside him. His metal arm swung by his side, fingers twitching in frustration. Sam, Tony, Natasha, and Steve stood in a loose circle, eyes fixed on him, waiting for answers.

Sam broke the silence, voice steady but sharp. “What do you mean HYDRA took her? When did this happen?” Bucky stopped mid step, jaw tight. His voice was low, strained, almost brittle.

“During the explosion. We were running out of that compound, and then she was gone. One moment I had her hand… the next, nothing. Like she vanished.”

Tony frowned, arms crossed, stepping forward. His gaze flickered over Bucky’s as he processed the weight of the confession. “You lost her? On your watch? How the hell does that happen during a mission like that?” Bucky’s eyes snapped to Tony’s, cold and sharp.

“It wasn’t my fault. HYDRA planned this. They were watching me, waiting for the perfect moment. They knew what Y/N means to me. Knew I’d do anything to protect her.”

Sam’s brow furrowed, disbelief clear in his voice. “Wait, what do you mean they know how much Y/N means to you? Don’t you guys hate each other?”

Steve chuckled, shaking his head. “Yeah, and you never explained that whole joke about being all ‘physical’ and Y/N giving you the silent treatment. We knew something happened on that mission.”

Bucky froze for a beat, then let out a slow breath. The room went quiet, all eyes on him. He looked down, jaw tightening as memories rushed back. “Yeah… we hate each other. At least, we used to.” His voice was rough, vulnerable in a way the team rarely heard. “We couldn’t stand each other. Mocking, sparring… brutal fights that never really ended. But then…” He hesitated, then finally said the words that still caught him off guard. “That night, in that little house… everything changed.”

Sam raised an eyebrow. “Go on.”

Bucky’s eyes darkened, a flicker of something more tender slipping through. He ran a hand through his hair, looking uncomfortable under the team’s curious and slightly amused stares.

“Some kind of dominance show of mine…”

Everyone blinked.

Steve’s eyebrows shot up. Natasha raised an amused brow. Sam smirked. Bucky held up his hands quickly, as if warding off their silent judgments. “Guys, it was all consensual, okay?”

Tony snorted quietly, trying not to laugh.

Bucky pressed on, his voice softer now, a bit more vulnerable. “I used to say I couldn’t stand her yelling orders at me, but it wasn’t the truth.” He looked down, then back at the group. “In that house… something hit us. Something shifted.”

Sam nodded, eyes thoughtful. “Sounds like it wasn’t just a fight for control. It was real.”

Steve gave a small smile. “Sometimes the hardest walls are the ones you build yourself.”

Bucky’s gaze hardened, determination returning. “I thought I was past all that. But now… I realize how much I screwed up. And I won’t let her down again.”

Natasha clapped her hands together quietly. “Good. Because right now, you’ve got a team ready to bring her back.”

Tony grinned. “And no more dominance games, metal man. This is a rescue mission.” Everyone laughed softly, easing the tension. Bucky allowed himself a brief, tired smile, but the situation was anything but funny.

Natasha’s tone was calm, but sharp as a blade. “So, it was a trap. They used her as bait.”

Steve nodded grimly, stepping closer. “They’re counting on that. Using her to break you. And if they succeed with her, they’ll break you too.”

Bucky’s fist slammed onto the table, making the room jump. “I won’t let that happen. I swear I’ll burn every single one of them to ashes if it means getting her back.”

Tony’s expression softened suddenly. He took a step closer, voice quieter, more understanding. “Buck… it’s not your fault.”

Bucky blinked, confusion flickering in his eyes.

Tony shook his head. “You were caught in an ambush. HYDRA are experts at this kind of psychological warfare. Anyone could’ve lost her there.” He paused, running a hand through his hair. “We all know what you’re dealing with. And none of us blame you.”

Sam nodded in agreement. “We’ve seen how far you’ll go for the people you care about. We’re not here to judge. We’re here to help.”

Natasha’s gaze was steady.

“The important thing is our next move.” Steve’s voice was calm but resolute. “We don’t have time to waste. We need to find where they’re holding her. HYDRA’s not just going to sit on this.”

Bucky’s eyes burned with renewed determination. “I want a full tactical sweep on every HYDRA facility within reach. I want every available asset. We’re pulling every string, whatever it takes.”

Tony gave a curt nod. “Alright. Consider it done. We’re going to find her. And we’re bringing her home.”

While the Avengers were looking for a plan, Y/N woke up. Everything was cold. Her body felt heavy. Numb. Y/N’s mind surfaced slowly, like being dragged from deep water. Her throat was raw, her head pounded like she’d been hit with a sledgehammer. She tried to move. Her arms wouldn’t budge. Neither would her legs.

Restraints. Metal. Tight.

Her eyes snapped open. The room was shadowy and sterile. A single light buzzed overhead, flickering. There were no windows, except for a small one high on the wall. White tile floor. Steel walls. The stink of bleach lingered, with something sour beneath it. She knew that smell.

HYDRA.

The realization sank into her like ice in her lungs. She looked down. Boots and pants still on. No knife, no gun, no strap. Just black pants. On her upper body, the plain white t-shirt she always wore under the tactical gear. Her bra was still on.

Thank god, she though

A mechanical hiss sounded behind her. A door opening. She didn’t turn, couldn’t, but she listened. Soft footsteps. Measured. A voice followed. Familiar in a distant, sickening way. “You’re awake. Good.” She twisted her head toward the sound. A man stepped into view. Lab coat. Surgical gloves. His hair was slicked back, and his German accent was faint but unmistakable. A white mask on.

“Who the hell are you?” She rasped.

He smiled gently, like a teacher humouring a student. “You don’t need to know my name. Just know that you are important. To us. To him.” Y/N’s jaw clenched.

Bucky. 

Her heart twisted. “What do you want from me?”

The man walked slowly around her, his gaze clinical behind the mask.

“Leverage. Pain is fleeting. But memory?” He leaned close. “Memory is what makes the Winter Soldier obedient.”

Y/N’s blood ran cold.

“You think hurting me is going to bring him back?” She spat. “You don’t know him.” His eyes twinkled. Not with malice. With certainty. “He hates me. If he could he would strap me on this chair too.”

“Don’t I?” He held up a small remote, and pressed a button.

Behind her, machinery stirred. She couldn’t see it, but she could feel the energy shift in the room. A low humming. Mechanical clicks. Electrodes charging. And then, a recording.

Audio only.

A voice.

His voice.

“Please, Y/N! Answer me!”

Bucky’s voice.

Shouting.

Frantic.

It pierced through the cold metal, the restraints, the haze in her mind. Her heart broke in two. She closed her eyes, trembling.

He was calling her. “In case you forget…” the doctor muttered, turning up the volume. A mechanical click. A slight crackle in the speakers. Then Bucky’s voice broken, panicked filled the room like a scream from another world.

“Please, Y/N! Answer me!”

Y/N flinched, her whole body tensing against the restraints. She knew that tone. The rawness of it. She could still feel the echo of it from the moment the explosion went off. The moment he lost her hand in the smoke and called her name like he was losing his mind. And now it was looping.

“Please, Y/N! Answer me!”

Over. And over. And over again.

The cruel realization sank in like ice. HYDRA was using Bucky’s voice as a weapon, a form of torture meant to break her mind. They wanted her to hear his desperation, his fear, repeatedly, amplifying her isolation and guilt.

“They’re going to leave it on,” she realized, muttering as she was alone in the room. Her stomach twisted. Her pulse quickened. The doctor didn’t need to say it, she could see the sick pleasure in his eyes. This wasn’t just about hurting her. It was about breaking her with him.

“You recognize that voice, don’t you?” He asked, falsely gentle. “That desperation. That pathetic loyalty.” He leaned down next to her, whispering like it was a secret between friends. “He will come for you. But not fast enough.” He said, getting out of the room. The audio looped again. The doctor exited the room. Leaving her and Bucky’s voice alone.

“Please, Y/N! Answer me!”

Tears stung her eyes. Not from fear. Not from the pain in her ribs or the ache in her wrists where the restraints bit into her skin. But from the way Bucky’s voice sounded so real, like he was right there, just inches out of reach. She remembered that night. How he whispered her name with reverence, not panic after consuming her body.

And now? Now that same voice was being weaponized against her.

“Please, Y/N! Answer me!”

The tape looped like a knife scraping bone.

Y/N swallowed hard and forced herself to sit up straighter, despite the screaming pain.

No.

She wouldn’t let them use him to break her. Not like this. She bit the inside of her cheek until she tasted blood, a tether to herself. To whom she was. To whom she’d always been.

She whispered under her breath, barely audible beneath the recording. “I’m still here, Bucky.”

And as the tape played on, she began to count the seconds between each repetition. She would survive this. She had to.

There were no clocks. No voices, except for the ones they played to torment her but Y/N found something else, the small window.

It sat high above the concrete floor, too small to escape through, too distant to touch. But it gave her something far more precious, light. It became her calendar, her tether to reality.

Every morning, pale gold spilled through it, cutting through the sterile gloom. Every evening, shadows crept in and let her know the sun had set.

She started counting.

One sunset.

Two.

Five.

Seven.

Each one was a mark of survival.

By the eighth day she began to understand.

Sunrise. Sunset. Sunrise. Food.

Every 36 hours, a full day and half of the following, the doctor brought her something.

It wasn’t real food, something resembling a protein shake. Enough to keep her alive but not enough to keep her fully awake. She spent this first eight days like this. Barely sleeping, eating every two days, Bucky’s voice now a background noise, four protein shakes.

The light, however, reminded her that the world was still turning. That somewhere beyond the cement and steel, the sun still touched the earth. Maybe even touched him. And though HYDRA’s psychological warfare continued.

Bucky’s voice echoing relentlessly in the chamber, twisted into torment, but they never took the window away.Some days, it took everything just to breathe. Her muscles ached, her limbs were still bound, or numb, or weak. Her mind frayed at the edges. But she never stopped looking up.

Sometimes, when the pale light struck the wall just right, she imagined what Bucky would say.

“That all you got, sweetheart?”

“Sunsets don’t mean a damn thing unless you’re standing in them.”

“Come home. I love you.”

She would close her eyes and whisper back, not to the speakers, not to the ghosts but to the sky itself.

“I’m trying Bucky.”

She didn’t know how long it had been. But she would keep counting.

9 days without Y/N

The room was not bright, just lit by the glow of holographic projections and scattered monitors. HYDRA bases. Communications logs. Grainy footage of the explosion that stole Y/N from them. Bucky stood rigid, arms crossed, jaw clenched so hard it looked like it hurt. He hadn’t slept. Not really. Not since the explosion.

“There’s nothing here,” Tony muttered, flipping through surveillance feeds again. “Whoever took her covered their tracks. No digital trail. No comms chatter.”

“Someone always talks,” Natasha said quietly, eyes sharp. “No one gets taken like that without a whisper somewhere.”

Steve looked over at Bucky. “Any detail you remember? Anything different about the area before the explosion?”

Bucky barely blinked. His voice was low and hoarse. “We were running. Hand in hand. I lost her for two seconds in the smoke. Then she was gone.” He slammed his metal fist on the table. The wood cracked under the force, coffee sloshing from a forgotten mug nearby. “Damn it. It’s been nine days!” Bucky barked, voice rough and ragged. “I can’t imagine what they’re doing to her…”

The room fell silent. Steve stood by the window, jaw clenched, but even he flinched at the rawness in Bucky’s voice. Natasha leaned forward, fingers steepled, eyes locked on him. Calm, but not cold. “She’s strong.”

“Yeah, she’s strong,” Bucky snapped, pacing now. “But she’s not invincible. And she’s alone.”

No one corrected him. Because they all knew, if Y/N had been taken, there was no comfort in empty reassurances.

Sam finally spoke, quietly. “We’ll find her.”

“When?” Bucky spun, eyes wild. “When there’s a body? When it’s too late to.”

His voice cracked, the words choking off.

He turned away, running a hand through his hair, flesh fingers trembling, the metal hand still clenched so tight it groaned.

Natasha rose slowly from her chair. “She wasn’t on a solo op. No one saw this coming.”

Bucky didn’t respond.

Because he did. He saw her pulling away.

Saw the mornings grow colder. Saw her mask slip just enough to know she was angry, maybe even hurt. And he hadn’t fixed it. Hadn’t said the thing she probably needed to hear. Now she was gone. And all he had left was nine days of silence, and the sound of his own voice screaming inside his head.

He began pacing, fists clenched, the buzz of failed leads and HYDRA’s silence pounding in his head. Each second that passed without news felt like another nail in her coffin. His breathing quickened. They took her.

A flicker of her face smudged with dirt, lips trembling, eyes searching for him in the smoke flashed behind his eyes.

And his voice.

“Please, Y/N. Answer me.”

It was his last begging before the voice. That bloody voice that took her away from him. 

His knees buckled. He braced a hand against the wall, the cool metal of his vibranium arm trembling violently. His other hand fisted into his shirt, as if he could claw the guilt out of his chest.

His breath hitched.

Once. Then again.

Rapid, shallow gasps.

The world tilted.

“Bucky?” Steve’s voice came from behind him, concerned. But Bucky didn’t hear it. Not clearly. The walls were closing in.