#partner!bucky

You had joined their ranks a couple of years later than the original Winter Soldier programme in the 40s. It was 1967, you listened to the Beatles on the brand-new record player your mother had bought for your birthday, and you went to the movies with your friends. Life was perfect, until it was not.

Your father had fought in World War Two, actually managing to achieve quite a high rank in the Army. Somewhere along those battles, he had angered a few HYDRA officers.

Twenty years later, they were seeking for an individual to turn into their newest asset—this time, a woman. Someone not too tall, and agile enough to complete missions. You just so happened to meet most of their requirements—and could prove to be the ideal way to get retribution from an old enemy.

It was a quiet summer evening, you carried inside the bag that you cheerfully carried a brand-new dress. One you had been dying to buy for months now—the neck was heart-shaped, coloured a beautiful red. All those days spent working at your local dinner had finally paid off.

The blink of an eye was all it took to vanish you from the streets. One moment you were taking a turn through a less concurred street, and the next one you weren’t anywhere to be seen. Out, stripped away from your world in broad daylight.

The year that followed was a blur of electricity and medical cots, procedures held under the guidance of men who were far from licensed medics. They injected you with something, that much you knew. It wasn’t the traditional serum, it was something different, new, developed.

They didn’t need you to gain superhuman strength—no, you were meant to stay small, unnoticeable. The mental methods they had used on you were sharper, too. Twenty years had made them learn and evolve.

You were easily triggered than the Winter Soldiers, completely and utterly subservient. If HYDRA was against any action that you did, they could very easily shut you down. The pinnacle of the project was, however, your union with the Asset.

A perfect partner, soft where he was rough, weak where he was strong. An almost natural connection, deeply programmed into the most obscure corners of your minds. A union never meant to be broken. The missions you got dispatched to together were the ones with the upmost significance. Every blow, every shot, was intricately calculated.

You moved in sync, you shot, he covered your back, he attacked, you waited to defend his weaker spots. Even now, when fighting had taken a more domestic outlook. It had been some time since the pair of you had managed to escape HYDRA—physically escape, that is. Their mental grip was still very much there.

Bucharest was nice. Nicer than anything you could remember. Despite having to constantly be on the look for potential HYDRA agents trying their mightiest to bring you back into their facilities, life in Romania felt good, it felt domestic. You scrambled the bits of your brain that still knew how to proceed with daily tasks, and started to slowly build a life together with Bucky.

The flat was small, one bedroom, one area that held the kitchen, the living room, and the dining room, and a bathroom. Though the average person would consider the building a terrible deal, it was luxurious compared to the icy-cold cells you were accustomed to.

It didn’t have much furniture, just a table, a couple of chairs, a small TV that only displayed three channels, a microwave, a ripped couch, a wooden coffee table, and a bed. Despite there being enough space for both of you, Bucky only seldom slept besides you. His nights were haunted by nightmares—and as were yours.

Generally, he chose to lie on the floor beside you, with a pillow and a blanket to work as a makeshift bed. The mattress was uncomfortably soft, and that often was something that troubled your sleep.

Neither of you talked much, words had been something forbidden for far too long. After being stripped of a liberty as simple as talking, one forgot how to articulate sentences. You didn’t need reassuring words and heartfelt conversations, both your eyes told everything you needed to know. Yours were softer than his, deep and warm, a blanket that comforted Bucky through the worst of nightmares.

The minute he unlocked the door, stepping into the flat and allowing himself to breathe in the scent of food and something so distinctively yours, his shoulder eased.

You were there, just a few steps away, right where he could watch you. If anything were to happen, if anyone were to attack, it wouldn’t matter quite as much, because you were there. As long as you remained together, you would survive.

Some vulnerable moments had flourished. You still remembered the night Bucky had told you his name. Before that, you didn’t really call him anything. You addressed him with hums, nudges and attention-calling words; he wasn’t the Winter Soldier, he wasn’t the Asset, he was someone else, and from that night on, you knew who.

He had been sitting on the couch, hugging his legs, and hiding his face. Memories were slowly starting to flow back into his mind. Flashes, brief voices. Fair lights, mud, the voice of a girl with his eyes and shorter stature, Boy Scout medals, a cliff, jazz music, books, and an observatory.

Some other day, brief scenes had come to your mind. Vinyls, a group of girls, pencils, a dog, hair curlers, a notebook, a shop in the corner of a street, a melody, and a hand.

However, the memories that flowed were not always pleasant ones. There were nights in which your mind would be invaded by guilt and sorrow. The eyes of everyone you had killed, the horror as you had pressed the trigger. No matter how much you tried to bury it, it always came back.

Winter was around the corner, which meant the heating system in the building did little to keep cold away. That exactly might have been the last draw leading to Bucky's breakdown. Over the last few days, he had been quiet, grumpier than usual. Waking up several times in the same night, cold sweat, and trembling.

He shut the TV down any time they mentioned the Avengers, especially Captain America, and he flinched at the mention of any word of his list of triggers.

You knocked on the door three times, your personal signal to let Bucky know you were going to enter the building. You found him sitting in a corner, curled up, hair falling over his face.

“Bucky?” you called out, taking slow and steady steps in his directions. He didn't move at the mention of his name, nor with the vibration of your feet in the floor.

“Bad day, hm?” you carefully sat down next to him, tilting your body weight in his direction, yet not completely stepping into his personal space. “It's cold.” The first words you had managed to hear from him in days. “It is kind of cold, yeah. Maybe I could make some tea.”

And just as you started to get up, his fingers wrapped around your wrist, pulling you back down. “Stay here,” Bucky huffed, barely lifting his head up. You nodded, leaning more comfortably against him.

His eyes were strained on the floor, sporadically, they would shut close. You knew what it meant, the darkest memories of his past hell were grazing his mind. “Don't do that, don't blame yourself like that,” you told him with a sigh.

“Why not? I deserve it. After everything I did--I don't deserve this quiet,” he choked out, meeting your gaze. Just then, your heart broke. You knew him, you understood him, and that only made it more painful.

You moved some hairs away from his face, your fingers brushing his skin. His eyes fluttered close. Not only was he allowing you to touch him, he was leaning into it. “Maybe neither of us does. But… we can still try. Build a life and everything, we get to decide now.”