For your Yelena prompt request:
“i have to believe death is the end. because all that waits for me in the afterlife is a debt of sin i don’t think could ever be paid off.”
😘
The sky over the compound is washed-out gray. Not quite night, not quite morning.
Bucky finds her sitting on the back steps, knees drawn up, a cigarette hanging from her fingers. She doesn’t look over when he approaches.
“You know those’ll kill you,” he says.
“Good,” Yelena replies. “I’m running out of ideas.”
He huffs and sits beside her. She doesn’t shift or make room. They’ve fought shoulder to shoulder enough times that proximity doesn’t feel like a question.
She offers the cigarette.
He shakes his head. “Quit.”
“Typical,” she mutters. “You and your heroic self-control.”
Bucky doesn’t answer. Neither of them is in the mood to pretend tonight.
They sit for a while. No words. Just the hum of the wind scraping the fences and the low thrum of power from somewhere deep in the compound.
Then she speaks.
“Do you think there’s anything after all this?”
He glances at her.
“After life,” she clarifies. “After we die.”
Bucky rests his elbows on his knees. “Used to think about it. Don’t anymore.”
“Why not?”
“Didn’t help.”
She nods. “I have to believe death is the end,” she says, voice quiet but steady. “Because all that waits for me in the afterlife is a debt of sin I don’t think could ever be paid off.”
The words fall flat into the dark. No drama, no ceremony. Just truth.
Bucky doesn’t look at her, but he’s listening.
“Yeah,” he says after a moment. “I know that feeling.”
Yelena stubs the cigarette out on the concrete. She doesn’t say anything right away.
“I thought killing Dreykov would fix something. Or at least balance the scale a little. But it didn’t. It just... ended a name. Not the weight.”
Bucky nods slowly.
“I tried making amends,” he says. “Names in a book. Faces I couldn’t forget. People I hurt. Some I never knew.”
“Did it help?”
He’s quiet.
“No,” he says finally. “But it made it harder to lie to myself.”
She watches him. “I used to think Natasha believed in redemption. She always talked like there was a way out. A clean slate.”
“She did,” Bucky says. “Or she wanted to.”
“I didn’t believe it then. I still don’t.”
He turns to her. “Then why are you here?”
She gives a half-shrug. “Because Val pays well. Because I don’t know how to live like a civilian. Because if someone has to pull the trigger, I’d rather it be me than someone who doesn’t care where the bullet lands.”
Bucky nods.
“That’s reason enough.”
A pause. Then she asks, “You ever wish you hadn’t survived?”
He exhales slowly. “Yeah. Plenty of times.”
Yelena pulls her knees closer.
“Same.”
It doesn’t hang between them like a threat. More like weather. Something you live through.
“People say it’s not our fault,” she says. “That we were controlled. Used.”
“We still did it,” Bucky says.
“Yeah.”
They let that sit.
Eventually she breaks the silence. “You think Natasha’s out there? Somewhere peaceful?”
“I hope so.”
“I don’t think she’d want to see me again.”
“She would.”
“You don’t know that.”
“She saw the worst in people and still stuck around,” Bucky says. “That’s who she was.”
Yelena’s jaw tightens. She doesn’t respond, but she doesn’t argue again.
They sit in silence, long enough for the wind to pick up, cool against their faces.
“You sleep after missions?” she asks.
He shakes his head. “Not really.”
“Me neither. It’s like the noise doesn’t stop.”
“Nope.”
They both know it never really goes away.
“Sometimes I think I’m just running out the clock,” Yelena says. “Keeping busy until I finally stop breathing.”
Bucky tilts his head. “And if that happens tomorrow?”
“Then I hope it’s quick,” she says. “I don’t want to sit around waiting for judgment.”
He considers that. Then says, “Maybe there’s no judgment. Maybe it just ends.”
“That would be nice,” she mutters.
Bucky stands. His knees pop.
She glances up.
“You’re not the only one with blood on your hands,” he says. “You’re not alone in this.”
Yelena studies his face. It’s not sympathy. It’s not pity. It’s recognition.
She nods.
“Thanks.”
He heads inside without another word.
She stays a little longer, letting the cold settle in.
There’s no forgiveness coming. No cosmic balance. But maybe she doesn’t need it. Maybe all that matters is someone who understands. Someone who doesn’t flinch.
She lights another cigarette. Just one more. Then maybe she’ll sleep.
Maybe not.
