#madripoor

He comes back from Madripoor like a ghost wearing Bucky Barnes’ face.

You hear him before you see him—the careful way the door opens, the pause like he’s bracing for something. Usually when he comes home from a mission there’s relief in him, a hunger. He’d drop his bag, cross the room in three long strides, kiss you like the world might end if he didn’t. Half the time you never even made it to the bedroom.

Tonight, he doesn’t touch you at all.

“Hey,” you say softly, already standing, already searching his face.

He gives you a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Hey.”

You step closer. He smells like rain and smoke and something unfamiliar underneath. He lets you hug him, but his arms come around you a second too late, too loose. When you pull back, your hands linger on his chest out of habit.

He gently moves them away.

That’s when your stomach drops.

“Bucky,” you say, frowning. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he answers too quickly. Then he exhales and looks past you, toward the window. “Just tired.”

You’ve seen him tired. You’ve seen him wrecked, half-broken, stitched together by stubbornness alone. This isn’t that. This is distance. This is guilt.

You sit together on the couch, the space between you loud and wrong. Normally his knee would be pressed to yours, his thumb tracing absent patterns on your hand. Instead, his hands are clasped tight like he’s holding himself together by force.

“You didn’t text much,” you say.

“Couldn’t,” he murmurs. “Madripoor’s… complicated.”

That word again. You swallow. “Did something happen?”

His jaw tightens. For a long moment, he says nothing. Then, like he’s ripping off a bandage, he says, “Sharon’s there.”

Your heart stutters. “Sharon?”

He nods once. “She’s been living there.”

The way he says it—careful, weighted—tells you more than the words. Your chest feels tight, like there’s not enough air in the room.

“And?” you ask, even though part of you doesn’t want to hear the answer.

He finally looks at you then. His eyes are full of something raw and ashamed.

“It was a mess,” he says quietly. “Everything there is.”

You shake your head, a bitter laugh slipping out before you can stop it. “Bucky… did something happen between you two?”

Silence.

It stretches, heavy and cruel.

Your throat burns. “Did you—” You stop, swallow hard, then force the words out. “Did you fuck her?”

He doesn’t answer.

He doesn’t have to.

His shoulders sag just a fraction, like he’s been waiting for the question and doesn’t have the strength to lie. His eyes drop to the floor. That’s it. That’s everything.

You feel it settle in your chest, sharp and final.

“Okay,” you whisper.

“I didn’t mean for it to—” He scrubs a hand over his face, metal fingers catching the light. “I was alone and drunk. I wasn’t thinking straight. That’s not an excuse, I know. I just—”

You stand, needing space before you break. “So that’s why you won’t touch me.”

He looks up, panic flashing across his face. “It’s not that I don’t want you.”

“But you don’t feel like you deserve me,” you finish, voice trembling.

He nods once, miserable. “I feel like I already ruined everything.”

You wrap your arms around yourself. The room feels colder now. “I knew the second you walked in,” you say quietly. “You’ve never looked at me like I was something fragile you might shatter just by wanting.”

“I hate that I hurt you,” he says, voice rough. “You’re the best thing in my life.”

You meet his eyes, tears finally spilling over. “Then why does it feel like I’m the one paying for a mistake I didn’t make?”

He has no answer. He just sits there, broken open, watching the distance grow between you—this time, not because of a mission or a war, but because of a choice.

And for the first time since you’ve known him, you don’t reach for him to make it better.

He flinches when you say, “Explain it. All of it.”

Not because he doesn’t want to—but because he knows there’s no version of this that doesn’t hurt you.

You don’t sit back down. You stay standing, arms crossed tight over your chest like you’re holding yourself together by force. “How did it even happen?” you ask. “One minute you’re on a mission and the next—what? You just fall into bed with her?”

Bucky drags his hands down his face. “It wasn’t like that.”

“Then tell me how it was.”

He swallows. “Madripoor messes with your head. Everything’s blurred there—right and wrong, past and present. Sharon and I… we were working together. A lot. She knew the place. She knew parts of me I don’t like remembering.”

You laugh, sharp and broken. “So that makes it okay?”

“No,” he says immediately. “Nothing about it was okay.”

Your voice drops, trembling. “Was she better than me?”

That one finally makes him look up, eyes wide and pained. “No. God, no. It wasn’t about that.”

“Then what was it about?” you demand. “Did you want her?”

He hesitates. That hesitation is another cut. “I wanted to disappear,” he admits quietly. “I wanted to feel like the mess in my head matched the mess around me.”

You wipe at your face angrily. “Did you at least think about me?”

“Yes,” he says, voice cracking. “That’s the worst part. I thought about you the whole time.”

The room feels like it’s tilting. You ask the rest of the questions anyway, because not knowing feels worse than knowing.

“Were Sam and Zemo just… gone?”

“They weren’t there,” he answers.

“Were you drunk?”

“Yes”

Each answer lands like a stone in your chest.

When he finishes, there’s nothing left in the air but the truth and the sound of your breathing coming apart.

Tears spill down your face before you can stop them. You laugh again, this time hysterical and soaked in pain. “You know what I was doing?” you choke out. “I was here. I was feeding your fucking cat. I was sleeping on your side of the bed. I was telling myself you’d come home safe.”

Your voice breaks completely. “And you were off in Madripoor fucking her.”

He stands, instinctively reaching for you, then stopping himself like he’s afraid to contaminate you with his touch. “I hate myself for it,” he says hoarsely. “I would take it back if I could.”

You shake your head, tears falling freely now. “That’s the problem, Bucky. You can’t.”

And for the first time, the distance between you feels like something neither of you knows how to cross.

You shove at his chest before he can say another word.

“Don’t,” you snap, hands shaking as they make contact. He stumbles back a step, more from shock than force, eyes wide. “You don’t get to look at me like that. Like you’re the one bleeding here.”

He opens his mouth. “I—”

“You’re a fucking asshole,” you cut in, tears streaming freely now, voice cracking with fury. “Some fucking hero you are. You’re just like every other guy who swears he’s different.”

“That’s not—”

“It is,” you say sharply. “You promised me. You looked me in the eyes and promised me you’d never do anything like that, that you loved me and would never look at another woman the same was you look at me.”

He looks wrecked, like the words are physically tearing him apart, but you don’t care anymore. Hurt has curdled into something hard and protective.

You turn away before he can reach for you again. You grab your bag from where it’s been sitting by the door—half-packed from the last time you stayed over, half like you always knew you might need it.

“I was here,” you say, not even looking at him now. “Holding your life together while you were gone. And you threw us away like it was nothing.”

“It wasn’t nothing,” he says desperately.

You pause at the door, hand on the handle. “It was everything to me.”

For a moment, it feels like the world holds its breath. Like if he says the right thing, maybe time will rewind.

He doesn’t.

You open the door and step out, the apartment—your apartment with him—falling silent behind you.

The door closes with a final, hollow click.