It surged through you in an instant, stealing the air from your lungs, making your knees nearly buckle under the weight of it. The sharp bite of a knife slicing through flesh. The suffocating grip of restraints against metal wrists. The echo of voices shouting commands in Russian, the chilling sensation of being stripped down to nothing but a weapon. The screams. The red star. Blood, so much blood—on his hands, on his soul, dripping onto snow-covered ground. The sensation of metal replacing flesh. Terror. Rage. Regret. The unbearable weight of loss.

You ripped your hand away, eyes wide, heart hammering. Bucky was staring at you, brow furrowed in confusion.

"You okay?" His voice was rough, but his concern was genuine.

You force a smile. A lie. “Yeah. Just—just got a little dizzy.”

It’s the first of many lies.

You avoided touching him after that. It was difficult. Bucky's a tactile person, more than he realized. A hand on your back when guiding you through a crowded space. Sitting beside him on mission briefings, careful not to let your knees brush. You handed him files with your sleeves pulled over your fingers. You trained in the same room but always kept your distance. It was exhausting, this careful, deliberate avoidance, but you had no choice.

He was kind, in a quiet, unassuming way. He made you coffee in the mornings when you were both in the compound kitchen too early for anyone else to be awake. He told you about the books he had been reading when sleep didn't come. He listened when you talked, really listened, like what you were saying was the most important thing in the world.

He made you want things you shouldn’t.

But you knew what was inside him. You felt it. You felt him break, over and over again, and you didn't know how to hold that without breaking too.

Bucky wasn't just the things Hydra made him do. He wasn't just the broken memories and the pain. The way he always waited for you to enter a room first. The way he softened when he talked to Sam’s nephews. The way he looked at you sometimes, like he wanted to say something but didn't know how.

He remembered things about you, little things you barely noticed about yourself. And it terrified you because you were falling for him.

And worse? He was falling for you, too.

“You don’t like touching me.”

You froze, coffee cup halfway to your lips. You were both sitting in the compound’s common area, the glow of the city outside casting long shadows across the floor.

“I don’t like touching anyone,” you corrected.

Bucky didn’t look convinced.

"Steve told me you have some kind of.. gift or whatever he called it." He huffed.

"A gift," you shook your head. It was all but a gift. "i can see.. and feel... memories of a person, whenever I touch them."

“What did you see, when you shook my hand that first time?” Bucky questioned, not knowing if he really wanted to hear the answer.

You hesitated. He deserved an explanation, an answer, but how could you explain something like this? How could you tell him that touching him had nearly broken you? That you’d spent weeks trying to separate your own thoughts from the pain you’d absorbed? That even now, sometimes, you woke up gasping, ice spreading through your veins, memories that weren’t yours pressing against your skull? He didn't deserve that. After all he'd been through.

"You were quite a skirt-chaser back in the day." You shrugged, hoping he'd let go of the topic.

Bucky let out a short laugh, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “That’s what you saw?”

You forced a smile, lifting your cup to your lips. “That’s what I’m telling you I saw.”

You weren’t sure if he was buying it, but either way, he didn’t push. Instead, he leaned back against the couch, stretching his metal arm along the back of it, close but not touching.

“You know,” he said after a beat, “I might’ve been a flirt, but I was always a gentleman.”

You raised a brow. “That so?”

“Absolutely.” He smirked. “Always asked for a dance first.”

You huffed, shaking your head. “How chivalrous.”

Bucky chuckled, but you could feel the shift in the air. He hadn’t forgotten your deflection. The momentary ease between you wasn’t enough to erase the unspoken weight of his question.

What did you see?

What did you feel?

You didn’t have the heart to tell him the truth.

The ice-cold metal of an operating table. The burn of a shock collar. The sting of a fresh wound being ignored, a voice barking orders in Russian. The absolute, gut-wrenching terror of realizing—over and over—that you weren’t in control of your own body.

And beneath it all, buried so deep it nearly went unnoticed—loneliness. A yearning for something, someone, anyone to remind him he wasn’t just a weapon.

You couldn’t tell him that.

So instead, you clung to the lighter pieces, the moments before the pain, before the war. The golden haze of 1940s Brooklyn, the warmth of laughter, the way the air used to hum with the promise of something better.

“Steve always said I was a pain in the ass back then,” Bucky mused, snapping you back to the present.

You glanced at him, offering a small smile. “Some things never change.”

That made him laugh, real and genuine this time, and for a moment, the weight in your chest lightened.

The next few days were a blur of subtle moments, quiet exchanges, and the uncomfortable tension that lingered between you and Bucky. You tried to keep your distance, pretending that everything was fine, but the truth was far harder to swallow.

Every time Bucky walked into the room, the pull was undeniable. You’d find your gaze drawn to him, and when he caught your eye, you’d quickly look away, as if your body was betraying you, desperate for something you couldn’t have.

And then there were the little things—the way his presence seemed to fill the space around him, the way his voice softened when he spoke to you, like he was trying to break through some invisible barrier that you’d put up.

You didn’t want to feel that pull. You couldn’t afford to. Because no matter how much your heart ached to close the distance between you and him, you knew the consequences.

That afternoon, when you were leaving the training room, you almost collided with Bucky in the hallway. He stepped back just in time, his eyes flashing with surprise as you tried to regain your balance.

“Easy there,” he said, his voice low but steady, his hand brushing your arm to steady you.

You froze. The moment his fingers made contact with your skin, everything came rushing back. The sharp pain of a bullet slicing through muscle, the flash of a bomb exploding too close, the heartache of losing everything that had ever mattered. The memories of the wars he’d fought, of the things he’d been forced to do, filled your mind so quickly you barely had time to breathe.

You pulled away instinctively, your body trembling, your chest tightening as you fought to keep it together.

“I—I’m sorry,” you gasped, avoiding his eyes, your heart hammering in your chest. You didn’t want to look at him. You couldn’t. Because if you did, you might just break, and you couldn’t do that. Not with him. Not when you already knew the kind of pain he carried inside him.

Bucky took a step forward, his expression softening as he reached out, his hand hovering just shy of yours. “You’re not okay,” he said quietly, his voice full of concern. “What’s going on?”

You shook your head, willing the storm inside you to settle. “I’m fine,” you lied, forcing a smile. “Just… tired. Long day.”

Before either of you could say anything more Steve appeared at the end of the hallway, calling out to Bucky.

“You coming, Barnes?”

Bucky hesitated, his gaze lingering on you for just a moment longer, as if he was torn between walking away and staying.

Finally, he exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “I’ll catch up with you later,” he said to Steve, before turning back to you. “We’ll talk soon, yeah?”

You noded and you couldn’t breathe until he was gone.

The next day, Bucky found you in the courtyard, sitting by yourself, your eyes distant as you stared at the horizon. He walked up slowly, as though unsure of how to approach you.

“Mind if I join you?” he asked quietly.

You didn’t look up. “It’s a free country.”

Bucky settled next to you anyway, the quiet between you comfortable for a moment, but not for long. He was too aware of everything. Too aware of you.

“Did I do something wrong?” he asked, his voice low.

You shifted uncomfortably. “No, it’s not that.”

“Then what?” His tone softened, and you finally turned to meet his eyes.

“I told you, I don’t like touch. And it’s not something I can just turn off. And it's hard to be around you... when all I want to do is touch you, for you to touch me, kiss me..”

You got up on your feet but before you could turn, you felt the weight of his hand on your arm, gentle, but firm. Your breath caught, heart pounding in your chest. His touch was warm, steady, nothing like the icy remnants of war that had scarred him, but you still felt the sharpness of his past pressing against you like a shadow.

You looked down at his hand, at the way his fingers barely brushed your sleeve. It was a simple gesture, but to you, it was more than that. It was the invitation. The risk. The question you both had been dancing around.

You swallowed hard, fighting the sudden wave of emotion threatening to overwhelm you. But when you met his eyes, the vulnerability there, the honest want for connection, it nearly broke you.

You wanted to pull away. You wanted to stop, to keep him at arm’s length, but something inside you shifted, and you found yourself taking a step closer, just enough for your fingers to brush against his.

The world tilted.

The memories flooded you—faster, sharper this time. The face of a man who wasn’t quite Bucky anymore, wasn’t quite the soldier he’d been. The ache of betrayal, the desperate longing for redemption. The faces of people he’d loved and lost, the quiet rage of a man who had been turned into a weapon and was still trying to find his humanity.

Your chest tightened as the memories crashed over you, and you gasped, pulling your hand away, stumbling back like you’d been burned.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, your voice ragged. “I—I can’t…”

Bucky’s face twisted, a flash of pain crossing his features “I’m sorry if I—”

You stood in the center of the room, chin high, hands clasped behind your back like you've done this a thousand times. Like you belonged there.

Bucky, on his knees before you, head bowed, muscles coiled tight beneath the tactical gear he’s been forced into. He looked the part. Cold. Controlled. Empty.

But he wasn't. He was acting. He had to be.

To gain trust, to secure access and prove your control over The Soldat, you had to do something you swore you never would. Watching Bucky clenching his jaw every time you had to call him Soldat in front of the enemy was heartbreaking enough. But then you had to give the order—to tell the Winter Soldier to kill. And you had to do it without hesitation, just as he had to follow through without a question.

The lead scientist, an older man with a sharp smile, stepped forward. "He hesitated on the last command," he said in a voice thick with condescension. "A good soldier should never hesitate. Perhaps he needs a reminder of who he belongs to."

Your stomach twisted, but you kept your expression still. "He’s mine,"

The scientist gestured. One of the guards moved forward, striking Bucky hard across the face with the butt of his rifle. He barely flinched, but a muscle in his jaw ticked. Blood at his temple.

"Say it," the scientist ordered. "Make him believe it."

You turned to Bucky, forcing yourself to meet his eyes. This was just a mission. This was not real. But when he looked up at you, something in your chest caved.

Because for the first time since this started, he wasn't just acting.

There was no recognition in his gaze, no flicker of the man you knew. His blue eyes were blank, waiting, expectant. Like you really were his handler.

Your throat tightened, but you kept your voice steady. "You belong to me, Soldat."

The words tasted like poison.

He gave a short mechanical nod once and lowered his head again. Submission. Like he had done this a hundred times before. Like it’s second nature.

The scientist hummed in approval. "Much better."

You stepped forward, fingers barely brushing Bucky’s jaw as you tilted his face up again. His skin was warm under your touch, but his eyes stayed empty.

"Good boy," you whispered, because you had to.

Your hand was still on his jaw, fingers trembling just enough that only Bucky would notice. But he didn't react, didn't pull away, didn't give you anything to hold onto. Just blank obedience, the perfect soldier carved out of the man you once knew.

A knot tightened in your throat. This is a mission. A role. He was playing the part. He had to be.

And then Bucky shifted ever so slightly, leaning into your touch. The breath you were holding escaped your lips before you pulled back, before anybody could notice.

The air was thick with tension, the kind that always settled in when Bucky had to become the Winter Soldier again.

This mission felt endless, stretching on for months with no finish line in sight.

You watched as Bucky grabbed a beer bottle and stepped onto the back porch, his broad shoulders tense under the dim light.

At least the safe house was nice—a wraparound porch, a quiet garden. Sometimes, you caught yourself wondering if it could be a home, a real one. But you shoved those thoughts away the moment they crept in.

You had no right to feel the way you did—no right to be angry at Bucky for shutting you out.

His hands were the ones that wrapped around that man's throat and twisted it. You had just stood there, cold and composed, playing the part of the handler—the pretty little princess giving orders to the Winter Soldier.

Bucky—the man you'd spent the last five years building a life with—would do anything you asked. Even kill. In another context, that might have sounded romantic. If only it was hypothetical. But this was real.

You could have pushed back, could have said something—argued that you didn’t need to prove your control over him, that a less lethal command would have sufficed. But the words hadn’t come. Your mind had blanked, and the order had left your lips faster than you’d have liked.

The man wasn't an innocent, nor saint, but it didn’t make any of it easier. Not for you. Not for Bucky.

It wasn’t until you were out of the HYDRA facility that you noticed the way his hands trembled, the silence that stretched thick between you on the drive back. He hadn’t said a word.

Now, with your eyes closed, the scene replayed in perfect clarity—the way Bucky moved, his hands tightening around the target’s throat the second you gave the order. The way the life drained from the man’s eyes. The way Bucky—no, the Soldat—stood still, composed, empty. A machine, not the man you loved.

The sharp ring of the phone on the table cut through the memory, yanking you back to the present.

"We're in, Sam." You answered before he even had the chance to ask.

"That's good. Finally. I was starting to think you and Barnes were on vacation, not working," Sam chuckled. His usual humor. Right now, you could strangle him for it.

Any other time, you would have fired back with something sharp and witty, but not tonight. Instead, you just nodded, as if he could somehow see you through the phone.

The silence must have tipped him off. "Everything alright?" His tone had shifted now, more serious.

"Yeah... yeah. It’s just—" You exhaled, voice barely above a mumble. "You know how it is for him."

You weren’t sure if you should tell Sam everything now, let Bucky do it himself later, or just leave it for the mission report.

"It's not like he's that brainless killing machine anymore." Sam quiped.

You squeezed your eyes shut. Yeah. That’s the problem. He wasn’t the Winter Soldier. He was Bucky. And tonight, he’d been forced to kill someone anyway.

"Yeah. Yeah," you muttered, trying to mask the knot tightening in your chest. "Still brings back a lot of memories... and shit."

Your eyes flicked toward the back door—toward the spot where Bucky had disappeared minutes ago.

"We’ll keep you updated when we have something, Sam," you added quickly, cutting the conversation short before it could go any deeper.

Sam muttered something in agreement, tossing in another one of his not-so-funny jokes before hanging up.

With a quiet thud, the phone hit the counter. You rubbed your face with both hands, trying to push away the weight pressing down on you.

With a sigh, you pushed away from the counter and made your way to the back door. The night air hit you as soon as you stepped outside, cool against your skin. Bucky was exactly where you expected him to be—sitting on the steps of the porch, elbows on his knees, beer bottle dangling loosely from his fingers.

You hesitated in the doorway. He hadn’t noticed you yet, or maybe he had and just didn’t care. His gaze was locked on something in the distance, but whatever it was, you knew he wasn’t really seeing it.

“Bucky.”

He didn’t turn, just lifted the bottle to his lips and took a slow sip.

You stepped closer. “You gonna sit out here all night?”

He exhaled through his nose, something close to a humorless laugh.

You sat down beside him, not touching, but close enough that he could feel your presence.

"Look… babe." You exhaled quietly, the weight of your own words pressing down on you. "I should've told them to go fuck themselves. I shouldn’t have—shouldn’t have ordered you to do it." You ran your fingers through your hair, aching to touch him but something kept you back.

Bucky let out a breath that was almost a laugh, but there was no warmth in it. He took another sip from the bottle and gave you one of those hollow smiles—the kind that never reached his eyes.

"Let’s not talk about it, yeah?" His voice was even, controlled. Too controlled. "We both did what we had to for the mission."

It was meant to sound reassuring, but something was missing. Something you couldn’t quite name.

"Buck-"

"You can go inside." He interrupted you. "I'll be there soon. Don't worry." and he stil wouldn't look at you.

You stayed seated for a brief minute before nodding and walking back inside.

That night, he never came to bed. You weren’t even sure if he’d come inside at all—until the morning, when you found the blankets and pillows on the living room floor.

The coffee maker hummed as you leaned against the kitchen counter, fingers tapping against the surface.

A soft creak of floorboards behind you made you turn.

"Morning," you said, testing the waters.

He gave a slight nod. No smile. No teasing remark. Just walked past you, reaching for the coffee pot.

You watched as he poured himself a cup, his movements precise but mechanical, like he was going through the motions just to do something.

"You didn’t come to bed," you said softly.

"Didn’t think I deserved to."

"Bucky…"

He shook his head. It was dismissive. Distant. Like you were just another agent. Just another person in the long list of people he’s lost.

You swallowed hard. "We should talk."

His laugh was humorless. A sharp exhale through his nose. "Talk?" He finally turned his head, but not enough to meet your gaze. "About what?"

You moved closer, "About what happened back there."

He raised his head, his eyes met yours. But wasn't the look you remembered, the one that used to tether you together in the chaos. There was no warmth, no trust—just something fractured, something raw.

"You mean about how you stood over me while I was on my knees?" His voice was quiet, but it cut deeper than a scream. "Or how you ordered me around like I was your fucking weapon?"

You flinched. "You know I didn’t—"

"Didn’t what?" He pushed himsepf to move forward and suddenly he was too close, towering over you, blue eyes burning. "Didn’t mean it? Didn’t want to?" His jaw clenched. "Didn’t enjoy it?"

Your breath catched. "Bucky—"

He shook his head, stepping back like he couldn't stand being near you. "I heard your voice, day and night. It was the only thing keeping me grounded." His throat bobbed. "But then you started giving orders, and I—" He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "I obeyed."

"You were pretending. We both were."

"Were we?" His voice was almost a whisper. "Because it sure as hell didn’t feel like it by the end."

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out.

What could you say? That you didn’t mean it? That you didn’t want to? It wouldn’t matter. Not when the damage had already been done.

Bucky exhaled, a slow, bitter thing. "I used to look at you and see my way out." His gaze dropped, fingers flexing at his sides. "Now all I see is the person who made me go back in."

The words landed like a killing blow.

Bucky used to bring you roses.

Not a whole bouquet, never something grand. Just one, every year. Sometimes stolen from a florist’s display, sometimes plucked from a neighbor’s garden, sometimes purchased with a sheepish smirk like he didn’t quite know what to do with it.

“I know it’s dumb,” he used to say, rubbing the back of his neck. “But, y’know… you deserve something pretty.”

You’d laugh, every time. Because it wasn’t dumb. It was never dumb. It was the kind of thing that made your heart ache in the best way.

This year, though, the day had a weight to it that neither of you could ignore.

Because this was the first time in five years that Bucky wasn’t spending Valentine’s Day with you.

The apartment still smelled like you. He shouldn’t have come here, but he didn’t know where else to go. His name was still on the lease, though he had stopped calling it home the day you told him you couldn’t do this anymore.

He hadn’t fought you on it. He should have, but what could he say? That he loved you too much to let you go? That he wanted to stay but didn’t know how to be the man you deserved?

The answer had been there all along, staring back at him in your tired, heartbroken eyes.

His gloved fingers trailed over the stack of unopened letters on the counter. He recognized your handwriting instantly.

He never read them.

The front door opened behind him.

Bucky turned, already knowing what he’d see.

You stood in the doorway, frozen like you weren’t sure if you should be angry, sad, or relieved. He could see the effort it took for you to school your expression into something unreadable.

“Why are you here, Bucky?”

His throat felt tight. The words didn’t come easily.

Because I miss you. Because I don’t know how to exist without you. Because I ruined the only good thing I ever had.

Instead, he said, “I don’t know.”

You exhaled sharply, something breaking in your gaze, and for a moment—just a moment—he thought you might tell him to stay.

But then you squared your shoulders.

“Please don’t come back here,” you whispered, voice shaking. “It hurts too much.”

Bucky swallowed hard and nodded. He had lost you long before this moment, but it still felt like his heart was being ripped out of his chest.