Archive of Our Own

The universe must have a sick sense of humor, Bucky decided. Cruel and vindictive and almost certainly biased against him. It was the only explanation for why he was currently strapped to a cold, unforgiving table at the heart of a Hydra base; arms restrained to his sides, bars pressed down over his chest, shackles on his ankles. Old, rusted metal cutting into his skin.

A faceless scientist casually slipped around the room, carrying a clipboard in hand as if he didn’t have the Winter Soldier himself rendered helpless on a table no different than the one Hydra had used to force the super soldier serum into his veins decades earlier.

An IV was embedded in Bucky’s right forearm, the tube slithering up a silver pole where a bag of pale blue dripped an unknown substance into his bloodstream. Bucky tried to stretch the aching pinch on the left of his neck from where the scientist sedated him, but found no relief. His eyes were growing heavier with every breath. His body working against him. Urging him to the comfort, the destruction, of his own mind.

“Welcome back, Sergeant Barnes,” the scientist hissed. He leaned over the edge of the table, intrigued by Bucky’s fight against his desperate need to slip to the unconscious. The mask over the man’s face gave no indicator of what lied beneath – whether his grin curved up as sinister and unnerving as the men who had ripped Bucky’s body to shreds and bore the scars on his shoulder that would never heal – but he could sense the evil lying in wait.

Where the hell is Steve? Bucky thought desperately, his gaze flickering to the open hallway. Begging for a shadow, a scuffle of footsteps, anything, but all that remained was silence. Cold, mocking silence.

“No one is coming for you,” the man snickered, catching Bucky’s hopeful glance at the door. “And I have such wonderful plans in store.”

The last remnants of hope fading from Bucky’s grip as the door sealed shut; locking him inside the room as his body betrayed him once again, as his mind sank deeper into the dark embrace of the unknown. As the scientist inched closer to him, holding a syringe high in the air while Bucky was helpless in its path.

Helpless. Helpless. Always so fucking helpless.

He didn’t even remember how he got caught. Didn’t remember the blow to the back of the head that knocked him out or the needle that sedated him long enough to be strapped to the hard press of a metal table. But he could feel the matted mess of blood at the nape of his neck, could feel the dull ache of a sedative in his bloodstream.

He knew Steve would come for him. The reckless kid from Brooklyn and Captain America himself – he’d come for his friend. Eventually. Bucky only hoped it wasn’t long after his body had grown cold and silent.

Because for once, Bucky had something he was hoping to get back to. A reason to come home. A cause to fight for each sunrise, to get through each tough day in search of a better one, to shut out the demons as they dug their claws into his chest in an attempt to drag him back to the shadows.

But his eyes were too heavy, the scientist snickering under his breath, and Bucky knew the second he gave in, he’d be done for. This man held no affection for the Winter Soldier. No interest in using Hydra’s greatest asset for his own gain. No – he sought to punish the man behind the soldier, to destroy what little was left of what Bucky had become in the wake of Hydra’s downfall. Bucky didn’t know whether it was vengeance or jealousy that motivated the scientist, but he knew it would spell his end.

There would be no mercy for the Winter Soldier. No forgiveness. No kindness in his death.

So, he held on as long as he could.

He held onto the memory of your face, of sunlight dancing over your features and the bright lines by your eyes while you smiled; to the gentle sweep of your hair over your nose and the slight huffed of an annoyed breath as you blew it away.

He clung to the first glimpse of a tender touch on his forearm, patient, asking, and how easily he’d accepted it, craved it, when it was your hand lingering so sweetly over him. Unafraid of the horrors his hands had caused, unafraid of him.

He drew on the comfort, the wash of relief, for each night he crept into your bedroom in the dead of night and you had simply pulled the covers down for him. No questions of the cold sweat on his skin or the skittish terror in his veins. You had allowed him to crawl in beside you without so much as a word and he’d count your breaths until sleep took him again. Safe. Always safe when he was with you.

He imagined a world where he might have told you how much he ached for you, how badly his heart beat when you walked in a room. He hoped that you might smile at him, that you might throw yourself to his arms and he might kiss you the way he’d so often dreamt of.

He held onto you as long as he could.

And then, Bucky fell prey to his nightmares.

***

You woke with a sharp breath – violent, painful, like the air had been ripped from your lungs. Sheets pooled around your waist, the cool touch of the air conditioner chilling the line of sweat on your skin. You set a shaking hand over your heart, nestling against the rapid pulsing underneath. Thunderous, aching beats. It was a struggle to draw in a full breath.

It hadn’t been this bad in a long time, not since Bucky had started seeing the therapist Sam had begged him to talk to, not since he’d learned to lean on his friends and the people who cared for him, not since he learned to sleep through the night from the comfort of your bed. Close enough to feel the dip of the mattress, but still – out of your reach.

You hadn’t even felt a glimmer of his nightmares in months, much less anything like this. It was like were on the verge of a panic attack, something worse than terror projecting under your skin. Not even in the early days of Bucky’s recovery before he’d learned to put up mental shields to spare you as much as he could from the demons in his sleep did they slither this deep into your psyche, grabbing such a vicious hold you could hardly tell the difference between his fear and your own.

But Bucky was supposed to be on a mission with Steve across the Atlantic. The lingering aftermath of his nightmares shouldn’t be able to reach you here. It shouldn’t be able to cross an ocean to you. Your power wasn’t strong enough for that.

It could always be someone else in the tower, you considered. Natasha, maybe. She always held such stoic grace in the face of her trauma, no one would be the wiser if she was plagued with nightmares when she slept.

But you could feel Bucky’s imprint in each shallow breath, could feel his presence in every shattered heartbeat. Too familiar. Too aching; infested with a terrible, devastating acceptance. Acknowledgement that this fear and this torture was deserved. This panic was his.

You’d spent enough nights restless with his nightmares, woken only by the stuttering pounding of your own heartbeat, to recognize Bucky’s pain when you felt it. You’d never managed a glimpse inside the horrors that plagued him, unwilling to cross a boundary he was not eager for you to witness. But you felt his fear within the dead of night worse than anyone else within the tower. Perhaps because he’d endured more than anyone else you knew. Or perhaps, because your connection to him ran deeper than either of you allowed yourselves to consider.

You swung your legs off the side of the mattress. If Bucky couldn’t find his way to you on his own, you’d go to him. All it would take would be a gentle coax of your hand along his spine, a glimmer of golden reflection under your palm to soothe the burden in his mind. Never seeking more than to ease the symptoms of the nightmare, to draw him into a gentle, dreamless sleep.

Just as your feet hit the ground, your bedroom door creaked open.

Steve appeared in the framing, a painstaking lack of surprise on his features to find you awake with the sheen of cold sweat on your skin and a trembling in your hands. Steve – with his pale blue eyes coated in ghosts of shame and remorse, with moonlight dripping over the lines of exposed muscle and open wounds where his tac suit had been shredded in combat. The aching question lingering within his silence.

“What happened?” you dared to ask, hands clutching to the edge of the bed. The thin straps of your nightgown slipped over your shoulders as your heart began to cleave in two. Blood dripped from the open cuts on Steve’s chest. “Where is he?”

“Here,” Steve was quick to respond, though it did nothing to lessen the panic rustling through your veins. There was no need to clarify who you spoke of. There was only one man who could cause such tremors in your grip, the slight waver of fear in your own that was entirely your own.

“He’s alive,” Steve added, brushing a tired hand through the short strands of unkempt blonde hair. There was no relief in his reassurance. His gaze fell to the damp stains of sweat on your gown, the sweat beaded on your forehead. “I know you can feel him, Y/n. The nightmares. I… I found him like this in Berlin. They put something in his blood; something to… induce it. He won’t wake up.”

Dread coiled deep into your stomach. “How long?”

“Hours. He should have woken up by now. His heart…” Steve exhaled a tense breath and whatever restraint, whatever energy held you paralyzed to stone upon your bed, shattered.

You lunged for your robe, wasting no time as you sprinted out into the hallway. Bare feet scrambling over the cold, hardwood floors as you raced to the med wing. You barely registered Steve following closely behind if not for the reflection of the shield still strapped to his back catching the florescent lights in the empty hallway. His shadow appeared on the wall beside yours.

When you got close enough to hear the faint echo of a whimper around the bend of the hallway, you nearly stumbled over your own feet. You caught yourself against the wall, devastation rattling deep into your bones. You’d nearly forgotten the sound – the cry that slipped past Bucky’s lips with nothing but the comfort of darkness surrounding him. It was worse than you remembered.

Steve set a hand on your shoulder, urging you to slow down, but your adrenaline was racing too much for that. You could hardly tell whether it was Bucky’s or your own.

You skidded to a stop in front of the only occupied room in the medical floor, hands catching on the hinges of the door.

Bucky was laid under the thin cover of cotton sheets, the fabric bunching around his waist with every movement. His hands were curled to fists, trembling. His legs shifting under the sheets, as if the stillness physically pained him. Muffled whimpers escaped his lips. The features that often rendered him years younger in his sleep were contorted – lower lip quivering, brows pinched tight, eyes squeezed shut. He tossed and turned; his breaths so shallow you were surprised he was able to draw in any air at all.

Your legs might have given out at the sight if you let them.

“We’ve tried everything.” You jumped at the sound of Sam’s voice, not having noticed him standing in the corner of the room, still dressed in his pajama pants and a faded white t-shirt. His arms were folded tight over his chest, his jaw clenched tight. He didn’t tear his eyes away from his friend as he spoke. “Super soldier or not, his heart’s gonna give out if he keeps going like this.”

It was a struggle to suffocate the lump building in your throat, to swallow back the stone that threatened nothing but tears and agony. Your fingertips grazed over Bucky’s hand, trying to relax his grip. He wouldn’t budge. Still, you let yourself slid a hand along his arm in long, soothing strokes. Gentle as you could manage.

“I’ve never seen him like this before,” you said, though it was barely a whisper. You glanced up to the heart monitor hanging over Bucky’s head, the frequent peaks of each beat pinched close together on the screen. You turned back to Steve. “I’ll do what I can.”

A warm, ambered glow lit under your palm as you eased your hand along Bucky’s tense muscles. It sank down deep into his body, soothed every piece of him from rapid course of adrenaline in his bloodstream to the restlessness in his limbs. Gentle and kind and soft in its path. It usually took a few seconds before the murmuring stopped, before his breathing evened out again, and he stilled into a dreamless sleep. Just a few seconds.

But those few seconds turned into a minute. And then two. Three, as Bucky shifted franticly under your touch, his shaking only worsening with each passing moment. You concentrated the energy around his chest, both hands pressed above his heart, desperately willing his mind to release the hold it had over his body, to allow him just a moment of rest. Just rest. An ounce of peace. Please.

A tear slipped down Bucky’s cheek and your heart lurched at the sight of it, trailing over flushed skin, dampening into the sweat in his pillow. The amber light faded from your palms and you brushed your fingertips along his cheek – so impossibly soft he would not have awoken even if he were able. The ends of your fingers were wet when you curled your hand back against your chest.

“I don’t understand…” you murmured, voice trembling. There hadn’t once been a time you were not able to draw him gently away from his demons, to ease him back to sleep. It was the gift of your power – the kinder side of a psychic ability you never asked for. This ability to soothe such dangerous emotion.

“Whatever they injected him with must be keeping him trapped inside his head,” Steve said, the heaviness laced in his tone sinking with confirmation he’d been hoping to avoid. “I brought Dr. Cho a sample of it when we returned, but it could take hours – days, even – to break it down enough to find a stabilizing agent. Bucky won’t last that long.”

Your gaze shifted to the heart monitor and the mountainous peaks inching closer and closer together. That terrible, bright green line pulsing across the pitch-black screen – mocking you. You were grateful only for the beeping to be silenced. Sam must have turned it off before you arrived. It would have been relentless.

“Y/n,” Steve called, an aching plea in his voice.

You turned to him, to Sam. They were both watching you, barely able to meet your eye. Guilt sank into their features, tugged into the lines on Steve’s forehead, wrung as Sam’s hands as he shoved them into his pockets.

You knew what they were asking – the silent desperation behind it.

“No,” you managed to choke out, wiping tears from your eyes. “I can’t. I—I promised him.”

Steve swallowed, giving a short nod as he looked to his friend. He chewed at the edge of his lips, rendering them a raw and swollen pink. “I don’t think we have a choice.”

“He’ll never forgive me,” you whispered, tears slipping over your jawline, spilling onto the edge of the mattress. You gripped at Bucky’s wrist, unable to open his fist to hold his hand. This simple gesture of comfort and you could not even offer him that.

It would be a violation beyond trust – to enter Bucky’s mind like this. At his most vulnerable, plagued by the very nightmares he’d spent years shielding you from to keep his demons from spilling out from behind the shadows and stealing him from the light – unwilling to allow his burdens to touch the little good he’d managed to hold onto. It was unforgiveable to bear witness to his greatest fears, to expose the darkest parts of him.

“Maybe,” Sam sighed, “but he’ll be alive.”

It was all that mattered to you – that he was safe. You wondered if Bucky would feel the same way.

“Okay.”

Steve pulled the simple folding chair up along the side of Bucky’s bed and gently ushered you to take a seat. You gave him a graceful smile, one that did little to hide the guilt quickly seeping into your pores. Steve barely returned it at all.

Bucky whined in his sleep, his lower lip trembling with every hollow breath he was able to draw in. His hands shook against the thin sheets, sweat beading on his forehead. Shivering and burning warm. You leaned forward, gently laying your right hand along the side of his face. Your thumb centered on his temple, his ear in your palm. The ends of your fingertips brushed into the short strands of hair behind his head and between the pillow.

“I’ve got you,” you whispered quiet enough only he might be able to hear you, if he even could.

With a deep breath, you allowed the warm amber glow to circulate through your veins – brightening the lines under your skin as it traveled from your heart to the ends of your fingertips. Spider-lines sprang from where your thumb met Bucky’s temple. Golden webs glistened under his skin. You glanced briefly at Sam, who only settled himself into the chair at the edge of the room, waiting, and then to Steve, who stood with one hand rested on his hip, the other on the edge of the desk, his body tense.

Then, you closed your eyes and gave into the pull of Bucky’s nightmare. You followed the rush of adrenaline, the panic. You walked the pathways lined in fear and distress. They led you closer to him, deeper into his subconscious until slow, a picture began to form. The endless comfort of darkness molding into something new.

Voices echoed from the abyss in a language you did not speak. When you looked around the darkness had subsided in favor of a long stretch of hallway with beige wallpaper peeling from the corners and cobwebs hanging from the ceiling.

It had been years since you dared to step foot in someone else’s dreams. You didn’t care to use this side of your power for a reason – it was disorienting, unnerving. Because the hallway led to nowhere but the crushing cold void, the only other space within existence was the room to your left. A room, you noticed with horrific realization, held a long metal table and operating tools.

The voices were getting closer. Their quiet mumbling in what you believed to be German grew louder with every step. But there was a low, dragging sound at their feet you couldn’t place. It was only as the first of the men came into view – the short, round face of a scientist you’d seen a dozen times in the federal archives – that your stomach began to drop.

Arnim Zola led the soldiers behind him with a clipboard in hand and terribly smug look upon his face. He adjusted the brim of his glasses as he turned past you without so much as a glance. He couldn’t see you, couldn’t even acknowledge your existence. He was only a figment of Bucky’s memory, of his own imagination. It would have to be Bucky’s attention you gained and his only in order to wake him up.

The soldiers filed in line into the room, but the dragging sound remained. You knew – deep down – what it was. The only thing that could make that terrible sound and the low, pained sounds that followed. Tears were already in your eyes before you saw him.

Barely conscious, his head lulled to the side as two soldiers dragged him by the straps of his jacket along the floor, a Bucky decades-younger than the one you knew left a trail of blood in his wake. His arm was freshly severed from the fall, his skin still blue from the snow. Blood soaked into his jacket, his pants, and left behind an awful stream of glistening red. Thick and oozing. You could smell the metallic sheen from where you stood.

“Bucky,” you whimpered his name, hardly able to use your voice at all.

The soldiers dragged him into the operating room, giving little kindness to his body as his right shoulder caught on the doorframe. They yanked him onto the table as if he were little more than a ragdoll and strapped him down. What remained of his left arm hung over the edge of the table.

You were shaking in the doorway, forgetting briefly why you were bearing witness to such a horrific memory to begin with. But when Bucky’s pained cries broke through his unconscious haze, you snapped yourself out of your paralyzed trance.

You rushed to him, sprinting through the soldiers who broke apart to clouded mist before reforming again. Ghosts. Memories. Dreams. They weren’t real. As you glanced over at Arnim Zola, the man who caused Bucky so much pain throughout his long enough, it was difficult to remember that. He bore so many details upon his face from the wrinkle along his brow, to the sharp tug of pink on his cheeks. Even the brim of his glasses was slightly uneven, unbalanced over his nose. The tiniest details Bucky’s mind held onto – details that made his nightmares so impossibly real.

“Bucky,” you called, hovering over the side of the table. You reached out for him, trying to slide your hand over his hair – the short strands of a 1940s haircut – but your fingers slipped through him as if you were a ghost, as well.

“Bucky, can you hear me?” you tried again, hovering your hands along his cheeks. It was agonizing not being able to touch him, to ground him to something safe. His eyes were fluttering closed, the pain sinking him back into the cold comfort of unconsciousness.

Tears slipped over your eyes as the room began to fade as he did. Darkness swept in and before you could utter his name again, the scene changed.

When your eyes adjusted to the dim light, you found yourself now standing in a concrete room. Bucky was no longer laid upon the metal table, left arm exposed and bleeding into a bucket on the floor, but instead, sitting stiffly on the edge of a worn-down cot. His gaze was fixed on the wall, as if he was seeing straight through you. His eyes red and puffy, bruising marking much of his skin. His hair had grown out somewhat, the ends only brushing over the tips of his ears.

You looked up to find no ceiling hanging over you. Only darkness. You suspected more of the same beyond these walls. The dreamworld held no need for completed blueprints – only what was necessary. You shivered, struck with derealization.

“Bucky, listen to me,” you started, crossing the room to him. You knelt to his right, not allowing your gaze to slip over the stains of faded red on the floor or the loose springs in the mattress that likely cut his body as he slept. “You have to wake up, okay? You’re safe. You’re home at the compound. I’m there with you. So is Steve and Sam. You’re safe, Bucky. It’s okay to wake up.”

He didn’t so much as glance at you. A lump burned in your throat.

“Don’t do this. Come on,” you said to yourself, desperate to keep from crying again. You tried to set your hand on his knee, to draw him any kind of comfort because footsteps were beginning to approach from down the non-existent hall and his hands curled into the edge of the mattress in anticipation. You hand slipped right through his thigh but this time, he narrowed his eyes, his gaze turning to where you had touched him.

He’d felt something.

You moved to try it again when suddenly the door to his cell slammed open. Bucky flinched as if he’d been struck and then quickly scrambled to his feet. He inched backward as the men approached carrying long batons in their hands, the ends flickering with electricity. They wore little more than malice and greedy excitement on their faces.

“Bucky, if you can hear me, I promise I’ll get you out of this,” you said to his ear. He didn’t acknowledge whether he could hear you, not over the pounding in his heart that seemed to echo throughout the room. You ran your hand down his right arm, if only to offer him a semblance of comfort amongst this horrific room though it could not touch him at all. Still, a shiver slid up his spine.

“You’re okay.” You eased your hand along his arm again. “You’re dreaming, Bucky. It’s only a memory, I promise. You’re safe. You’re okay.”

But Bucky was trembling despite his efforts, a frantic look at the men and then to the corner he was backing into. There was nowhere for him to go. No one that would come to save him. He knew what was going to happen – he’d lived it enough times. He still bore the burn marks on the sides of his face to prove it.

“It’s only a memory,” you told him more urgently as the men approached, the electric ends of their batons sparking to life. “It can’t hurt you. It can’t–”

You choked back a scream as they plunged the tasers directly into Bucky’s ribs. He collapsed to the ground, his knees giving out easily under his weight and the uneven balance of metal on his left side. He shook with violent tremors as the men began to laugh, snickering to one another as they jammed the tasers against his body again and again. Laughter echoed into the room and drowned away Bucky’s muffled whimpers.

“Stop,” you cried, though you knew it was no use. “Stop!”

But the nightmare did not yield to you. These men were not real. Nor were the tasers in their hands. Bucky’s pain was imagined. A memory. And you could not save him from it.

“Enough games gentlemen,” Zola smirked from the edge of the room. “It is time.”

“No,” you whimpered. You knew what was coming. You knew, as they grabbed Bucky by the arms and dragged him from the room, exactly where they were going. Blood and infection oozed from the edges of metal where Bucky’s left arm met his shoulder – big angry scars swollen under the thin fabric of his t-shirt. He barely resisted as they threw him into the chair.

You’d never seen it before, never had the heart to imagine such a machine that stole away Bucky’s memories and his access to free will. Somehow, it was crueler than you’d expected. Cold. Unkind. As if a piece of machinery could have intention and feeling.

Bars strapped down over Bucky’s wrists and chest to hold him still. Zola approached slowly as if to corner a frightened animal. He held a mouthguard in his hand. Bucky tried to resist it at first but ultimately opened his mouth for his captor and bit down on the plastic. The shame coursing through the faded blue in his eyes was enough to shatter you.

You walked up to him, standing close enough that he would have felt the heat of your body beside him if it were not a dream. Setting a gentle hand along the side of his face, you moved to brush the hair from his eyes. Through your tears, you did not notice as a strand moved at the will of your thumb.

“I’m so sorry, Bucky,” you whispered, your heart cleaving down the center as Zola readied the machine. “I don’t know how to stop this. But I’m here, okay? I’m right here with you. I’m not going anywhere. You’re going to be okay. I promise. I’m here.”

You gasped as the clamps lowered to the sides of his face, the machine moving straight through your translucent hands. You jumped back, startled with the loud whirring of the mechanisms. Sparks lit along the wiring, rushing through the cords until – Bucky began to scream.

It only lasted a few seconds before it faded into the darkness again. But those seconds would stay with you the rest of your life. You’d carry them for an eternity.

You could barely stand when the scene began to change.

Slowly, the familiar pale blue walls of a hallway came into view; a door with a slight squeak in the hinges and a photograph hanging on the wall from a reluctant team building activity at a rundown bowling alley that turned into one of your favorite memories.

You were back in the compound.

Bucky was pacing at the end of the hall, winging his hands with every step. A sheen of sweat lined his forehead, pink coated into his cheeks. His t-shirt was damp along his spine, his chest rising quickly with each breath.

His hair was longer than it was in the last memory, hanging loose over his shoulders and despite the panic nestled to his features, he looked healthier. Stronger. His body had filled out with proper nutrition and he walked with bare feet along the hardwood floors – no trace of a weapon tucked to his body. Despite his fear, he still felt safe enough to wander the compound halls in only his pajamas, unarmed.

He paused at your door, staring at the wood frame.

You followed him, trying to place the memory as he began to pace outside your room. You stood beside him, watching the nervous shaking in his hand as he rose to knock on the door. Before you could call his name, to try to draw him away from whatever nightmare laid in store, the door swung open.

It was disorienting to see yourself like this, from someone else’s gaze. It wasn’t like staring into a mirror. It was as if she was an entirely different person. Her hair was still messy with sleep, pillow marks on her cheeks as the dream-you looked at Bucky with narrowed eyes.

Could it only be a dream? Perhaps this was how you were going to wake him up, by interspersing kinder memories amongst the nightmares. You’d seen this play out a dozen times – Bucky standing reluctantly at your door, a quiet shamed request to sleep by your side. You’d draw him into your arms without question, rubbing your hands along his back until the tension began to fade. He’d start at the furthest edge of your bed until you carefully eased him into your arms and he found sleep resting over your heartbeat.

Relief swelled in your chest as you waited for the dream-you to do the same, to offer him her hand and tell him that he was safe in this room, that he was always safe with you. But instead, her lips curved to a tight frown.

“What is it, Bucky? It’s the middle of the night,” she sighed, impatience lingering in her tone as she tapped her fingers on the doorknob. Short nails clicked against the cold metal. Your heart began to pound in your chest – the sudden uncertainty crippling.

“I know. I’m sorry to wake you,” he murmured, his voice still hoarse as if he’d woken up screaming. He shifted in his stance, his right hand was growing red as he tugged and twisted at his fingers. “I… I couldn’t sleep and… I just needed to see you.”

The dream-you took a less than subtle glance over her shoulder to the clock sitting by the bed. The bright red numbers indicated it was close to three in the morning. When she turned back to Bucky her jaw was clenched tight, her nails still incessantly tapping on the doorknob as if to count away the offensive seconds.

“Okay, so you see me,” she replied flatly. “Is that all?”

You didn’t miss Bucky’s sharp intake of breath, not even as your stomach plunged to the depths of the compound; covered in cobwebs and dirt, sinking to the foundation below.

“I… um…” Bucky could barely string his words together.

Once, you’d gathered his shaking hands in your own and led him inside without him having to say anything at all. He’d simply tucked his face to the crook of your neck as you ran your nails gently along his spine in slow, deliberate strokes. The memory of his tears on your skin stayed with you long after he fell asleep, even months later.

You’d have taken him into your arms in a heartbeat. You’d have let him through the door before he so much as said a word.

But she hadn’t even offered her hand.

“Ask,” you encouraged him gently, watching as he drew the inside of his cheek between his teeth and bit. Perhaps it was blind hope – a desperate need to know that Bucky trusted you, that he didn’t have an underlying fear that plagued his dreams that you would reject him like this. He couldn’t.

“Just ask, sweetheart,” you pressed. “She’ll say yes. You know she will. I always have.”

Bucky nodded to himself, almost as if he might have heard your words. Slowly, he pulled in a heavy breath, enough to quell the shaking in his hands. His lifted his gaze. “Can I… Can I stay with you tonight?”

You smiled at him, moving to rub his back in gentle circles in exchange for the strength of his vulnerability. Your fingertips slipped through the soft fabric of his t-shirt as if you hadn’t touched him at all, but he straightened his back as your hand ran although his spine like it had drawn new energy to his bones.

The dream-you sighed, her lips puckering to a frown. “Look, I’m sorry that you get bad dreams, but I have an early morning tomorrow.”

The trembling returned to Bucky’s hands. “I can sleep on the floor,” he offered quickly. “You won’t know I’m there.”

“I need to be able to sleep, Bucky. I can’t do that if you’re waking up screaming every ten minutes,” she replied as though it wasn’t cleaving a knife through his chest, through yours too as you stared at a vision of your own reflection you hardly recognized at all.

“Please,” Bucky whispered, his voice breaking. “The dream… it was about you. Something happened and I—” He swallowed though it looked near painful to do so. “I can’t convince myself you’re safe. I can’t get myself to calm down. I feel like I’m crawling out of my skin.” The cold metal of his left hand rubbed along his right forearm until the skin was worn and red. “I hate asking this of you. I know I shouldn’t put this on you but I… I can’t keep myself together on my own. I need you.”

While the dream-you stood there silently, you crept out in front of him, standing between you and the false mirror behind you. The gentle blue of Bucky’s eyes did not meet yours, staring straight through you unfocused, and still, you reached for the sides of his face, soothing your fingers along his cheeks. For a moment, you swore you felt the stubble on his jaw.

“You can always ask me, Bucky,” you told him sternly. “You don’t have a say a single word and I will let you in the door. I will always let you in. You know that, don’t you? You know I’d do anything to take this burden off your shoulders?”

But your voice came from the ghosted figment of Bucky’s dream instead. “Then don’t put it on me, Barnes. We all have shit we’re dealing with. I can’t take on yours, too. You’ll drown me in it.”

You had never wanted to throttle someone more in your life. If your hands were corporal in this state, you would have strangled your mirror image without a second thought. Disbelief was not enough to quell the rage boiling inside of you, steam burning through your ears.

This was not a memory, not one that you’d ever had any part in. But it was still a nightmare, still a fear of his. Your heart cleaved in the knowledge that Bucky – on some level – feared you would turn him away like this, that he believed you could be cruel and unkind to him when he so desperately needed you.

“You’re right,” Bucky muttered defeatedly, taking a step back. “I’m sorry I woke you.”

No other words were exchanged before she closed the door. You could hear her steps back to the bed and the squeak of the mattress as she curled up under the blankets again, ambivalent to Bucky’s panic standing just outside her door. He kept his gaze focused intently on the door, his nose only inches from the wood.

“Bucky,” you started as his hands began to curl into fists, his breathing picking up in pace, “this isn’t real. You know this isn’t real. You’re dreaming, sweetheart. You know me. You know I’d never turn you away. Don’t you?” Tears burned your eyes as you asked again, “don’t you?”

“Stop it,” Bucky whispered to himself, unable to hear you. “Come on, Barnes. Don’t fucking do this right now. Pull it together. Stop. Stop.”

He only made it a few steps before he sank to the floor. Bare feet on the hardwood floors, knees curled tight to his chest. He could hardly draw in a full breath, his gasps becoming shorter and shorter. Cheeks flushed pink, reflective marks just under his eyes. His hands were trembling so violently, he gripped into the excess fabric on his sweatpants for support.

“I’m here,” you soothed, kneeling down in front of him. “You’re not alone, sweetheart. Just breathe, okay? That’s all you have to do. Just breathe for me.“

You exaggerated your breaths, trying to get Bucky to follow in suit. He hadn’t been able to acknowledge you the entire time you’ve been in his dreams, but you couldn’t just sit there and watch him suffer like this. Even if the odds were stacked against you, you’d fight for him at every turn.

Slowly, Bucky’s breaths began to lift in time with yours.

“Good,” you soothed, setting your hand against his knee. “That’s it, sweetheart. Good. Keep breathing. Just like that. Deep breaths.”

Bucky paused for a moment then, his attention turning slowly to where your hand laid over his knee. Sweat beaded on his forehead, his eyes struggling to focus, but you were certain his gaze had centered where your hand rested over his leg.

“Bucky?” you called, stunned. “Can you hear me?”

He narrowed his eyes as if he’d heard something muffled through the walls – distant, like a voice calling to him from above the water. Still, his eyes never met yours, never so much as looked in your direction. You were a ghost to him.

Carefully, Bucky stood and brushed the lingering dust from his pajamas, ridding himself the evidence of the panic attack that rendered him to the unforgiving floors. He wouldn’t attempt to sleep again for the rest of the night. No – he’d keep the lights on in his room and stare at the ceiling until his eyes burned. There would be no comfort in the silence. He’d flinch at every sound. It didn’t matter that the scene began to darken around you as he retreated back to his room, that he’d only be made to endure this particular brand of panic for a few seconds longer. It still broke your heart.

When the dreamworld pieced itself back together again, you were standing in the middle of a warzone.

Well, not a warzone per se – the middle of downtown Manhattan. Bullets were raining from all directions, the violent echo of gunfire rattling in your ears. The metal passed straight through your body, gold shimmering amongst the translucence as it moved through you without impasse.

To your left were those you recognized – your team, your family. To your right, was a faceless enemy you could not name; horrific in shape, with a vague blur where their facial features should be. Bucky’s mind was growing tired of inventing new enemies. You supposed these faceless creatures served the same purpose.

“Bucky!”

You recognized your own voice as it shouted through the chaos. Whipping your head around in search of the owner, you quickly caught sight of another dream induced version of you sprinting around the barriers, wielding a gun in her right hand, a machete in the other. She was racing in search of Bucky and you were determined to follow her.

“Dammit, Bucky! Where are you?” she screamed, desperation breaking the edges in her voice.

The scene around you was not one you recognized, was not a memory that Bucky was drawing off of. No – this must be another fear of his. Maybe, if you could somehow stop the nightmare before the crux began, you could wake him up. It was the only plan you had. Nothing else had worked this far.

“Here!” Bucky finally called back. He was limping as he made his way to the dream-you. Blood trailed down his forehead from where he’d taken a nasty hit and his pant leg was ripped along the thigh as if a knife had sliced directly through the fabric and several layers of skin and muscle. He was winded with every step.

Still, he did not stop the dream-you as she raced towards him – her arms thrown around his shoulders, face burrowed into the crook of his neck. The momentum knocked him back a few unsteady paces but he didn’t seem to mind, not as his right arm curled protectively around her waist and he held her tightly. Fingertips pressing into the small of her back, curling into the tough fabric of her suit.

It was a strange thing to watch from the outside – how you could recognize pieces of yourself in her, knowing you’d held him like that once, that’d he’d held you just as desperately, and to still feel a sliver of a jealous ache in response.

Bucky breathed her in, lingering in the embrace as long as he could even amongst the violence around them. “Are you okay?” he muttered quietly to her ear.

She nodded, pulling back only enough to hold the sides of his face, to brush her thumb against his eyebrow and steer the blood dripping from his hairline away from his eyes. She touched him so lovingly, with such unbridled affection. You longed to give that to him beyond the walls of your room, beyond the frantic relief in the middle of missions – to grant him this kindness, this love in the light of day where everyone could see how cherished he was. You wondered if perhaps that was what he wanted, too.

For a moment, you hesitated to try and wake him. Only a moment, because a smile gently lifted the edges of Bucky’s lips. Even amongst the crusted blood on his skin and the slash of an open wound against his cheekbone, Bucky Barnes was smiling.

He didn’t take his eyes off the dream version of you, not even as he lifted his rifle and shot down one of the faceless creatures jumping over the barricade.

“How much longer is she going to be in there?” a disembodied voice echoed softly behind you. Sam’s voice, you realized, back in the compound. “We’re running out of time.”

“Five minutes, Sam,” Steve pressed. You could hear his quiet steps as he paced the tile floors, could picture how tight his arms folded over his chest. “Give her five more minutes.”

“Then what?” Sam shot back, the concern in his voice pushing you another step forward. “We have no other options, Steve. Bucky’s heart is going to give out. He’s going to die if she can’t–”

“Stop it,” you warned, the vibration in your throat aching. “I can do this. Five minutes.”

Whether they heard you or not, you didn’t know. But you did not hear another word as you moved to close the distance between you and Bucky.

Before you could reach him, the nightmare reared its ugly head in the shape of a faceless man sprinting beyond SHIELD’s foreground, a rallying cry of “Hail Hydra!” shrieked from a horrific void where his mouth should have been. It pierced through the chaos – shattering the gunfire to muted silence.

The dream-you reacted before Bucky ever had a chance, shoving him hard enough in his injured thigh to push him from the line of fire. Even as Bucky lost his balance and collapsed to the pavement, disbelief wrung through his features – shock, betrayal, agony worse than you’d ever seen twisted to the beautiful lines of his face.

It happened in slow motion, as if the dream itself had warped time and space to dig its knife deeper into Bucky’s chest and twist the serrated blade until the muscle was little more than shredded tissue.

“No!”

His scream was worse than you could have imagined – raw and broken. Shattered. As if the entirety of his soul escape through his lips as the bullet tore through the chest of your mirror image, blood spewing from her back where the bullet passed clean through her lung. She collapsed – hard – onto the ground and you could hear the nauseating snap of bone as her wrist caught the wrong angle.

You gasped, halting firm in your place.

Bucky crawled toward her the moment she hit the pavement, his whole body shaking so violently he could hardly move himself at all. His leg dragged behind him, leaving a trail of blood in his path.

When you turned to look at the monster responsible, it had vanished. As had the rest of the warzone around you. All that remained was a stretch of pavement a few yards in every direction. The chaos dulled to a white noise until it was nothing at all. Bucky’s labored breathing was all that remained as the dream world began to close in around him.

“I’m here. I’ve got you, doll,” Bucky soothed, his voice breaking on every word as he gathered the mirror image of you into his arms. Blood soaked through her suit, spilling onto his skin as he sat in the pool slowly expanding along the ground. Thick and crimson against the grey stone. Her eyes were already unfocused, lids barely able to stay open.

“You’re okay,” Bucky cried, a sob fracturing through his spine. Tears slid along his cheeks, cleaning uneven lines from the blood on his face. As gently as he could, he slid his left hand over her forehead, brushing the sweat-damp hair from her eyes. She hardly reacted at all. He pulled her tight to his chest, holding her though she could not return his embrace.

“You’re okay,” he said again, this time against her neck, against her hair. Breath hot to her chilling skin. He said it until his voice gave out completely and her hand had fallen still – limp as it laid against the pavement. Bucky’s breath hitched as he felt the small movement cease – so impossibly still as he held her, as he realized she’d already taken her last breath in his arms.

Horror drew to his features, panic unlike anything you’d ever seen.

“No…” he murmured so quietly you could hardly hear it at all. “No. No, please. Please, don’t… don’t leave me. I can’t… I can’t…”

Darkness began to sink in from the sky, replacing the cool morning blue with the unsettling weight of the void. Behind you, you could no longer see the barricade or the swarm of faceless men beyond it. The dreamworld was falling to the emptiness again and you weren’t sure whether Bucky’s heart would make it through another nightmare.

“Bucky,” you called gently, kneeling down at his side. You tried not to look at the body in his arms, tried not to recognize your own face staring blankly through unseeing eyes. Bucky held her so tightly, you wondered if his strength might fracture one of her ribs.

“I’m sorry,” he cried, rocking back and forth. He buried his face into her neck. “I’m so sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so—”

“Sweetheart, look at me,” you begged, tears blurring your eyes as Bucky kept repeating the same apology over and over again. It was an endless tape, a broken record stuck on the most heart wrenching notes. Guilt laced with shame and he could not rid himself from the words.

You set a hand on Bucky’s shoulder and he froze. “You’re dreaming, Bucky. Everything’s okay. You’re only dreaming.”

Slowly, Bucky began to pull back. The void had consumed the entirety of the world around you – leaving only you, Bucky, and the unmoving body in his arms behind. Darkness inched closer until there was little more than a few feet of pavement around you. He didn’t seem to notice, not as his gaze carefully lifted to yours. Confusion pressed onto his features, his brows knitting together.

Then, quicker than Bucky could prepare himself, the dream-you vanished from his arms. Weight lifted from his lap, a ghosted mist remaining until there was nothing at all. Bucky scrambled along the ground, panicked.

“It’s okay,” you rushed to assure him. “Bucky, it’s okay. I’m right here. It’s only a dream.”

He stilled, though his chest was rapidly rising with every breath. He looked down at his hands to find them coated in blood – oozing between the plates of metal and staining to his flesh. Dripping onto the floor.

“I don’t– I don’t understand.” His voice was small, frightened – like a child’s. “What’s happening? What—What is this?”

You moved to step forward, but Bucky retreated a step back. A rock lodged in your chest, but you held still for him, watching the panic morph into fear.

“You were on a mission when you were captured,” you explained slowly, hands raising defensively in the air to show you did not mean him harm. “Steve and Sam found you like this – trapped inside your head. You’d been injected with something to induce an endless stream of nightmares. Your heart can’t take it, Bucky. But you’re safe, I promise. You’re back in the compound. You’re not alone.”

Blue eyes shifted to the darkness below as he began to put the pieces together. He moved to brush his hands through his hair but stopped abruptly as he remembered the fresh blood on his palms – your blood. He let out a shaky breath.

“You’re in my head.” It was not a question. He still had not looked at you.

You swallowed, cheeks burning hot with shame. “Yes. I— I didn’t have a choice. It was the only way. I’m… I’m sorry.”

Bucky drew the inside of his cheek between his teeth and bit. You were certain he could taste the blood of it as a muscle twitched on his lip.

“How do I—” He let out a pained sign, as though the words were too exhausting to speak. “How do I wake up?”

There was nothing he needed to do now. The rest would happen on its own; the simple acknowledgement enough to draw him consciousness back to the surface. His image had already begun to fade from the dreamscape, even as he waited on your answer.

“Just breathe, Bucky,” you told him gently, giving him something to focus on. He nodded, content with your answer. Neither of you said another word as he watched his own hands begin to fade.

You waited until he had disappeared from the dreamscape before you let go of his mind, unwilling to leave him on his own for even a moment longer than necessary. There was no relief as you allowed yourself to come back to your body.

***

You woke with sharp breath.

Steve rushed across the room to you, a steadying hand on your spine as you pulled back from your position draped against the bed. Your temple ached from where you had laid your head against Bucky’s shoulder. Your spine throbbed. A quick glance up at the heart monitor told you enough as the frantic line as soothed out to long, even peaks. Bucky was going to survive.

“He should wake up any second now,” you told Steve quietly, unable to say much more under the weight of your exhaustion. You could feel Sam’s eyes watching you as you stumbled out of Steve’s concerned hold.

Your legs were weak under your weight as you dragged yourself to the door. It was too far away – like the tiles has somehow stretched to an endless hallway and dumbbells had been strapped to your ankles. Tears threatened behind your eyes as you leaned against the wall for support, demanding your body to move.

“Where are you going?” Sam asked, though there was a slight bite in his tone. It was only made of concern; you knew that. He’d seen the way you looked at his friend, how much you cared for him. And though Sam prided himself on how easily he could push Bucky’s buttons, he did not enjoy seeing him hurt. He believed Bucky would look for you when he woke up, would search for you as a means to ease his own fears. He was wrong.

“I told you, Sam. He won’t forgive me for invading his mind like that,” you said quietly, gaze fixated on the floor near his feet. “I shouldn’t… I shouldn’t be here when he wakes up. He won’t want to see me.”

Sam looked as though he was about to argue when Bucky began to shift on the bed, a low moan slipping through his lips. Steve eased a hand on Bucky’s shoulder in an attempt to ground him as his eyes fluttered open. Sam held his arms by his sides, fists curled, as if he was ready for Bucky to react defensively. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d woken from his nightmares and swung a right hook at his friends without realizing where he was.

Within their moment of distraction, you slipped from the room unnoticed.

***

Bucky was almost certain an anvil was sitting on his chest. He hadn’t seen Thor in quite some time, but perhaps the god of thunder had decided to pull a prank on him and leave that blasted hammer sitting over his heart. It was an effort to draw in a full breath.

When he finally managed to open his eyes, Steve and Sam were hanging over his bedside, staring at him as if he might snap at any second. Sam’s defensive stance did not go unnoticed, nor did Steve’s cautious glance at Bucky’s left arm as he began to stretch his sore shoulder.

“Shit,” he groaned, wincing under the pounding thumping in his head. “What happened?”

Sam’s hands relaxed, a tense laugh escaping. “You were a few feet away from the shiny light at end of the tunnel, buddy.”

Steve shot a glare in Sam’s direction, though Sam only offered a shrug in return. He was right, after all. Bucky could feel the truth of it in his chest, in the lingering ache left behind from the strained muscle. The cold touch of his left hand massaged at his chest, pressing deep into the throbbing though it did little to alleviate it.

“What do you remember?” Steve prompted carefully.

Bucky let his hand fall back to his side, his head sinking to the pillow. Fractured images flashed through his memory – the sharp pain at the back of his head that rendered him unconscious, the straps securing him to a table in that Hydra warehouse, the mask worn by the disgruntled Hydra doctor who injected something into his veins.

Then – the nightmares.

Bucky always remembered his dreams. It was part of his curse. The universe couldn’t allow him a moment of peace, couldn’t grant him the kindness of forgetting the horrific images the moment he opened his eyes. Of course, it couldn’t. There had been so little good in Bucky’s life since the day he was drafted. Why would he expect anything different?

But that wasn’t true completely true, was it? No – he found a family again after decades of torture and a resignation to the darkness. He’d escaped Hydra and started to make amends for all he’d done under the hand of vile men. He’d met you.

“Fuck.” Bucky jolted up on the bed, sheets falling to his waist. It was only then that he noticed the folding chair pulled up to the side of his bed, noticed the faint scent of a floral conditioner he’d grown to find comfort in through every breath.

“Where is she?” Bucky asked. There was no need to clarify who he spoke of, not when he could still feel the lingering trace of you in his mind – the gentle, comforting hold of your powers that had eased his nightmares for as long as he’d known you.

Sam and Steve exchanged a look, though neither said a word.

“I know she was here,” Bucky pressed. The image of you following him around in his dreams – his nightmares – left an awful feeling behind in his stomach, a stone threatening to pull him below the tiles of the floor.

It was a promise you’d sworn to uphold. A promise you’d made the first night Bucky had found himself in your arms, tears wet on his cheeks, his body shaking in your arms. He’d begged you to never look inside his mind, to not bear witness to the horrors he’d dreamt of.

You’d soothed his fears, taken his panic more times than he could count. He’d burdened you enough. He did not wish for you know of the trauma he’d endured under Hydra, of the fears he carried for his future, of his desperation to be loved by a woman he could never deserve.

You’d broken that promise. He could still feel your presence in his mind – soothing him. Lingering aftermath of your psychic abilities. He could still picture the shock in your eyes, the pain, as you watched all of his fears come to life. Bucky swallowed back the shame burning hot into his throat.

“She did it to save your life,” Sam said slowly as if to defend you, as if Bucky could be angry at you for even one second. As if he were capable of it.

Bucky nodded. He knew it would be the only reason you went back on your word to him. He knew you would not enter his mind for anything less, and still – the ache of it hurt worse than he thought.

How could you possibly look at him now? How could you ever want a man so irrevocably ruined by his past? A man, whose greatest fear is losing the woman he would give his life for?

It was too much; he was certain of it. Too much weight on your shoulders. Too much baggage for you to carry. It was the sole reason he begged to keep you from his mind – to shield you from realizing how truly broken he was.

“I have to go,” Bucky muttered to himself, swinging his legs over the side of the mattress. Before he could stand, Steve jolted out in front of him, pressing a cautious hand on his shoulder.

“Easy, Buck,” Steve warned, the stern drop in his captain’s voice rising to the surface. “You’ve been out for hours. Your body has got to be exhausted. You need to rest.”

“What I need is to find Y/n.” To do what, he wasn’t sure. Apologize, maybe? Get on his knees and beg her to forget what she’d seen?

Bucky’s hands gripped into the edge of the mattress, sheets gathering in his grip. Slowly, he lifted his gaze to meet Steve’s, who only shared a sad look of understanding upon his face. Then, he stepped out of Bucky’s way.

The entire walk to your room was nothing short of a marathon. Bucky could hardly remember the last time he struggled to catch his breath on the stairs, if he ever had at all. His body was screaming at him to rest; he’d practically been tachycardic for the last twelve hours. But there wasn’t a chance in hell Bucky was going to find sleep again. Not until he made things right with you.

A dim crack of light was visible through the small opening of your bedroom door. It slipped out into the dark of the living room, touching yellow light to the hallway. Bucky paused before he walked into the light, settling himself in the darkness. He could make out your figure pacing inside your bedroom, the constant gentle thump of footsteps his confirmation. You mumbled to yourself words he could not discern.

Bucky forced a breath to his lungs. The sooner he got this over with, the better. Maybe he could convince you his baggage wasn’t all that heavy, that Steve and Sam had started picking up some of the load. Maybe he could promise you he’d never put that weight on you again. Maybe, if he could just reverse time to before you saw all the ugly parts of him, you’d stay.

When he reached the edge of your door, your pacing stopped. You exhaled a heavy sigh and slumped onto your bed. Hands pressed over your eyes, your body sinking into the mattress.

Bucky tried not to notice the slight hitch in your breath as he knocked on the door. Surprise, perhaps. Dread? He couldn’t tell and it made his knees weak. Still, you sat up slowly and removed the heels of your palms from your eyes.

“Bucky?”

He shivered at the sound of your voice, of his name called so gently from your lips. It wrapped around him in such warmth, he might have mistaken it for an embrace. How your voice alone managed to soothe him like this, he wasn’t sure. But it was still a comfort.

He steadied himself on his breath and pushed open the door. There hadn’t been such weight there before – this resistance, as if he were willing a mountain to move. Bucky could not get himself to step past the frame, holding himself on the very edge of your room.

“How are you feeling?” you asked slowly. There was a nervousness in your voice Bucky didn’t recognize and he wondered whether you might be trying to find a kind way to cut him out of your life. His stomach sank – made of lead and metal heavier than his own arm.

“Better, I think,” he replied. A hand raked through his scalp, scratching painfully down into his neck. “I thought you’d be there when I woke up.”

Your gaze swiftly dropped to the floor. Hands wringing in your lap, breaths drawing in heavier within your chest. “I thought I was best if I wasn’t.”

“Right,” Bucky nodded, the bitter taste of copper on his tongue.

Of course, you wouldn’t want to be around him after witnessing what you did – the horrific memories of what he’d endured under Hydra, his pathetic desperation to hold you, how easily he crumbled at the thought of losing you. You were distancing yourself from him. This was the start of it. He could already feel you slipping from him, his fingertips barely clinging to yours as your hand pulled further from his reach.

“I know what I did was unforgivable,” you muttered quietly and Bucky’s heart nearly stopped beating entirely. His stunned eyes shot to yours, though you still had not managed the strength to look at him again. “I’m sure you must hate me for what I did, but… Bucky, you have to know I would never betray your trust like that willingly. You were going die. I—I was watching your heart give out. I couldn’t just stand there and wait for—for your heart to stop when I knew I could do something. I had to, Bucky. Please, believe that. Please believe I’d never intentionally cross that line with you unless I absolutely had to.”

Tears were in your eyes as you looked up at him – sliding down your cheeks and trailing down your neck. Your lower lip was trembling and you dug your teeth into it to keep yourself steady. He recognized the guilt as it sank into each line upon your face, burrowed into every crevice, because he’d seen it enough times in the mirror to know the demon by its name.

You thought he’d be angry at you for invading his mind, for violating a promise he’d begged you to swear years earlier. The thought alone that he could feel anything but relief around you burrowed hollowed shells into his stomach.

“Do you know why I asked you to never look inside my head?” Bucky started gently as he sat on the mattress beside you. “It wasn’t because I didn’t trust you, Y/n. It wasn’t because I was afraid of your power or because I was clinging to some desperate sense of control that had once been taken from me.”

He drew in a shallow breath – uneasy in the inhale, barely enough to fill his lungs. “I— I was trying to shield you from all the awful shit in my head. The things I’ve done, things I’ve been through… no one should have to see that. Especially you.”

Bucky didn’t dare to steal a glance at you, not as his cheeks started to warm under the shame of his confession. “You’ve done so much for me. More than I deserve. And it’s more than just easing my emotions when it feels like I’m drowning under the weight of them all. It’s you, Y/n. Just being near you is enough. Powers or not. I thought that if I could keep you from seeing just how incredibly fucked up I am, if you never saw the horrors inside my head, then maybe you… you wouldn’t leave.”

Bucky tried not to notice how incredibly still you’d become, how you’d hardly taken in another breath since he started speaking. He could feel your gaze on him – warm and comforting despite the adrenaline pumping through the veins.

Then, before he could prepare himself, your hands closed around his, drawing them gently into your lap. So impossibly gentle as you stroked his skin, as you grazed against metal and flesh– gingered touch on such violent history.

“I see you, Bucky,” you whispered, so soft it nestled deep into his chest. Slow enough he could have stopped them if he wanted, your hands slid up along his arms and nestled against his cheeks. Holding the Hydra-made assassin so tenderly in your arms, you stroked his cheekbone with your thumb until he found the courage to meet your eye.

“I see you and I’m not afraid. I see every piece of you, all the darkest corners and the light you carry. I see all of it and I’m still here with you. I’m still here.” You held him even as his jaw began to quicker, even as his body grew weak in your arms. You held him and told him sweetly, “I’m not going to leave you, sweetheart.”

Something cracked in Bucky’s chest; not his heart, but a wall he’d constructed decades earlier of all the broken pieces left behind over his many years. Born of necessity, to protect what Hydra sought to destroy, and it crumbled under your vow, shattered as your hands cupped the sides of his face, tears catching against your thumbs. His fragile, beating heart remained exposed beyond the rubble and for the first time in his life, he did not fear the hands that carried it.